Marion Agnew

Here are five things I'd like to remember from February. Not all pleasant, but notable. One. Sometimes it’s worth going into rooms you don’t go into often, just to make sure there’s no dead bird lying in the floor. It apparently fell down the chimney of a long-unused woodstove. I mean, if it had actually happened, which it did, hypothetically. And I guess come spring it’s worth looking into what happened to the screen over that chimney. Roy says it was an owl. I didn’t look too closely. Two. There may come a day when I don’t enjoy shoveling snow—and for sure if I had to do it more often and for longer sessions than I do, I’d be less enthusiastic—but there’s also something reassuring about accepting snowfall in SOME places (grass, trees, rocks, lake ice) but not HERE or HERE (sidewalk, back deck, front porch). Control, but really an illusion of it, because we all know that the snow’s really in charge here. Three. Two words: finishing sugar. I get it now. I don’t understand why pe...

Back in the Days of Yore (pre-lockdowns—actually, more than a decade ago, wow, what even is time) I’d periodically get four-hour coffees with a specific writer-friend who is also a musician.   One of the questions we’d mull over is “What is the writer equivalent of scales?” Another was its related idea, “What is a practice session for writers?”   Obviously, the questions don’t have a 1:1 answer. Musicians perform, and although writers can perform also, it’s rarer. Perhaps. For me, anyway. As a writer of things on paper (vs. writing works for performance), I don’t focus on a performance element of my work, though I’ve grown to enjoy the more performative opportunities for readings and conversations. An accident, but I like it!   But! Back to a scale—a form that musicians can practice to gain muscle memory and general mastery.   For me, the equivalent is a daily writing practice. My practice varies, in terms of form, result, and effectiveness (and even ...

I’ve seen several references to the practice of writing “five things” in various places, but I most recently saw it in Medea Lee Patel’s Substack, Dear Somebody. She logs and five things each week! That’s ambitious.   So here are five things I want to remember from January, 2025.   One. Narratives still have the power to settle my brain. I was grateful to re-learn this after several fragmented days early in the month—days that included the mixed gratitude, reverence, and sorrow from the funeral of President Jimmy Carter. A story, a beginning middle end, whether it’s an episode of a cop or lawyer or medical show, a home renovation, a couple looking to Escape to the Country—that cycle brings things to a satisfying conclusion. My brain likes that, especially at 2 a.m.   Two. Speaking of death: from experiencing the death of several friends and acquaintances in the past six months, I’ve gained a new understanding of and appreciation for obituaries. How on eart...

I didn't celebrate the turn from 2024 to 2025 with champagne at midnight (or anything at midnight beyond snoozing). I'm not against traditional celebrations. They can be fun--I've been to several different kinds of parties and observations of the new year.  Yet some rituals of the new year are always available to me, and I find I'm observing and enjoying them. Paperblanks, ordered from my local bookstore,  along with a well-loved Filofax Folio. For example:  I’ve pulled out folders and written 2025 on them, moving the 2024 information to the “tax stuff” spot Making hard choices from among the plethora of opportunities, I’ve added some events to my calendar for January I’m writing in the new nice notebooks  We’re seeing Christmas cards in our mailbox, which is nice—since the postal strike ended, we’ve received mostly junk, and that’s not nearly as fun I’ve watched (several times a brief video (or several) of someone painting with watercolours That last one is less abo...

Earlier this year I mentioned my gratitude practice, explained (more or less) how it works (more or less), and shared some of the recent specific things that had appeared on my gratitude list at that time.   Six months later, it’s time for more gratitudes. At present, I’m grateful for many of the big-picture items I mentioned in June, plus these specifics, in no particular order: Enough snow that our well is not frozen and may hold its own when spring arrives Life in the country, where we marvel at small birds at the feeder and big birds in the sky, and we watch deer grow from fawns to adulthood People who drive the speed limit (or slower!) in neighbourhoods when they’re driving on ice, even if they’re driving a ginormous truck and think they don’t have to slow down; I doubt that they’re doing it to keep from frightening walkers but that’s a happy side effect Our local bookstore, Entershine Bookshop, which has become an integral part of the local writing and reading community ...

My sister worked, for a while, as an editor at an engineering firm. Once she went to her boss because there was too much to do and she wasn't sure where even to begin. He told her, "Do something." As in, pick something, anything, and do it.  It sounds really simple, as in TOO simple, but it's turned out to be helpful advice.  Clouds probably don't feel overwhelmed. For one thing, action always helps. Standing frozen with too many competing priorities whirring in your (my) head isn't useful. If nothing else, doing something breaks the power of those non-helpful thoughts. Mine generally include, "Whatever I do will be wrong" or "I'm really going to mess up" or "When will they find out I don't know what I'm doing?" And for another, getting my hands dirty in a project reminds me of that specific project's needs.  As in, "Oh yeah, I remember now--this scene was really difficult and I couldn't figure it out and ...

I didn't sleep well last night. Not uncommon, when one has things on her mind. And when do I not? Also, the top of my left foot itched, which (I learned from midnight online searches) is a common phenomenon. Not so much the specificity of my own itch, but the fact that we humans are bombarded with sensory stimuli all day and the brain frantically filters out what's less important. So sometimes when all that calms down and you're lying in a darkened room breathing regularly, the brain's like, "Oh yeah, and BTW, your foot's been itching."  Somehow I pictured that scenario as an assistant handing her boss a stack of those pink "While You Were Out" message slips. Recently, Canadians' sleep habits were in the news--someone released a report--and I caught a news item about it. Toward the end of the item, it listed what constitutes "good sleep," as a way to say "If you don't get this, maybe talk to someone about your sleep habits....

My courage with both hands, mostly. In September, I’m traveling for the first time since October 2, 2019. (I found a receipt in my US wallet.) I’m not sure it’s the right thing to do. But much of it is. So, a risk. Manitoba Maple starting to change Quantifiably reduced expectations. It’s really helpful to specify how many pages of an interminable project I aspire to finish in a month (and then cut that by a third), as opposed to hoping that somehow I’ll magically finish the whole thing and being disappointed when I don’t. I think this green plant is a lupin; it's spread farther in the ditch where they grew this year. Readying for next year? Wild blueberries, enjoyed this year and stored for next. I made a couple of awesome desserts, and we’ve got a stash of berries in the freezer. Since we had zero local blueberries last summer, a freezer full feels both magical and mundane.  Is the world, ever so slowly, righting itself again? Stabilizing? So, so slowly?  And if not -- or ...

A Note That’s an Introduction and an Apology: this turned out longer than I’d anticipated. I hope it’s still helpful. Let there be light! I’ve written recently about three lenses through which one could revise a piece of writing. Today, I’m thinking about them again as writing contest season ramps up. A full blog post about those three lenses is here. Here’s a brief recap. The subject of your piece is what your draft is about. Your ambition for the piece is the final form you want it to take. The execution is how close to your ambition you come and how well you convey your subject. A Note about Contests: Most contests (and literary journals) rely on volunteer and/or anonymous readers—sometimes one, sometimes a team—for the first round of reading. (An administrator might have already tossed out entries or submissions that don’t meet the stated criteria—for example, word count or formatting.) These readers select the top entries--sometimes the top 6, 10, 12, maybe even 20 or m...

My mother, and hers, enjoyed Mrs. Miniver --the book, rather than the movie (which was also fine). A new furnace, heading to installation in the basement,  has a red-carpet moment. Meanwhile, the old furnace went out the back way. Yes, I feel sorry for the old furnace.   And as a result, Mrs. Miniver became one of my book-companions in early high school.  Mrs. Miniver is an upper-middle-class woman in her thirties in the thirties, who lives in London with her three children and her architect husband. They also own a summer house in Kent. She's an observer of life, rather like myself (and my mother and grandmother). I know I've written before about "eternity framed in domesticity," and how a parent has a different relationship with each child--not more or less loving, just different.  Note that the full text of the book, along with publication notes and commentary, is available here.  It's also a pleasant book to look for if you need a reason to browse used books...

What is it about writers, that they can be sooooo ooooooover the things that are good for them?  Just me? Oh.  Back in early August,  I wrote about #1000wordsofsummer , which I found surprisingly helpful in getting words down for a couple of projects and thinking through problems therein.  Today, let's talk prompts in a more general way. Last June, at the conference for the Creative Nonfiction Collective (insert standard "back when conferences/travel/gatherings were things" poignant aside here), I took a workshop with S. Lesley Buxton.* She gave the room full of writers a couple of writing exercises to do, and I found them extremely helpful, even with the performance anxiety of "freewriting in a room with other people." I thought, "Yes, people should do these things." Then I thought, "Hey. I'm a person. I should do stuff like this more often." Here's another example. In February, I wrote a Writer's Block column at All Lit Up , an ...

I like linear, predictable processes.  I'm not generally the kind of person who proclaims, "I'm the kind of person who" (because honestly, beware), but if I were, I'd say, "I'm the kind of person who likes linear, predictable processes, with a side of outlines and spreadsheets." And yet. I have come to see that my writing process doesn't necessarily work that way. I once scoffed at those who said, "you don't know what you think about something until you write it," but now I enjoy scoffing at my own preconceived notions. Because I often don't know what I mean until I write it, and sometimes not until I've revised that writing several times.  Not edited. Revised. Like re-envisioning.  I really don't have enough experience to comment knowledgeably about The Writing Process (although I still try), but here's a couple of things I've learned: a. mine usually isn't as linear as I'd like and b. I'm never sure...