Life in progress

Tag Archives: writing


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Yet Again

It’s Thanksgiving here in Canada today, so I have my mother visiting for an extra day; normally she only spends Saturday night at my house. There are many changes going on with her, in her advancing age, though for an octogenarian she’s not doing too bad. Her memory is going, she has a harder time getting around, and her skin is thin, so she tends to cut herself quite easily. But the change I see in her that bothers me, personally, the most is her increase in being judgmental. It affects the way I feel I must do things, even in my own home.

Take last night for example. After the kids go to bed I must sit in the room with her while she watches TV. If I don’t, I don’t hear the end of it. If I decide to stay up, she stays up. If I go to bed, no matter how early, so does she. So last night I wanted to get some homework done for my course. I couldn’t concentrate on the story I was reading from my textbook with the TV going, so I thought I’d read in bed. With a glass of wine. I know that this is unacceptable behaviour, in her eyes, so I waited until she was brushing her teeth and I snuck upstairs with my glass of wine and my book and pretended I was going to sleep.

I’m almost 50 years old, and I’m still sneaking booze – just like when I was a teenager, except now it’s in my own house. Why don’t I just put my foot down? It’s not worth the aggravation of having to explain to her over and over that just because I have a glass of wine before bed doesn’t mean I’m an alcoholic, nor does staying up for an extra half an hour mean I’m going to be tired all day.

Just one of the many reasons my mother won’t be living with me any time soon.


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A Minor Dilemma concerning my Short Story Course

A first world problem has arisen. It was bound to happen. Because I have some experience in writing short stories, I’m kinda ahead of the class. We’re learning, at the moment, terminology such as character, setting, conflict, theme, point of view, and narrative unity. Not to toot my own horn, but most of this stuff I already manage without thinking about it.

So our first major assignment is to write a first draft of a short story. We’ll be marked on the above points. Fine, no problem so far. I am, however, having a problem with the second major assignment. Why, you ask? Because we have yet to learn about ‘style.’ In the second assignment we must fix what the professor tells us we need fixing – which is the first half of the mark – but then we need to apply to our story what we have yet to learn about style and writing in our own voice. The problem is, I don’t know how to write, not using my own voice and style in the first place, so that I have something to be marked.

I’ve thought about trying to write the first draft in someone else’s style, but I know I’ll be so unhappy with it I won’t be able to hand it in.

What to do…what to do…?


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Home is Where the Heart Is

I consider myself lucky to live here in Canada; far enough away from the east coast not to experience the dreadful weather that comes off the Atlantic, and with plenty of distance between me and the west coast to worry about major earthquakes.  Of course it’s nice as well that I don’t need to survive through winters with no sunlight. Such a vast country… Yet, I’ve always lived within the same 300 mile stretch of Ontario and Quebec, at varying distances from Highway 401.

I’m glad to have had the opportunity to travel a little. I realise my view of the world would be quite narrow, otherwise.

When I started writing this post, I had no idea where I was going with it. But I have a picture. This is part of the walk I take every day on my paper route:

walk

Looking at this picture I get a profound sense of where I am, and the circumstances that brought me here. I didn’t aspire to live in this town. I was guided here by the needs of my son. I’m not sure that I will stay here – there is not much here for me that feels like home. But then, I don’t know that any place along the 300 mile stretch of land in which I’ve lived feels that way.

What is home? My extended family lives in the U.K.; there is only my immediate family here, and they have followed me everywhere I’ve chosen to settle. There are places I’m familiar with. But are they home? I hold no attachment to the places I’ve lived. Home is most definitely where my children are.

I’m blessed to have been born in Canada, and consider it a wise decision to have stayed to bear my children here. But if I did decide to leave, where ever I go will be home, as long as my family comes with me.


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Silence

Silence is the loudest sound on earth.

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From every thing that exists, when affected by another element, there comes the potential for vibration; energy transformed into sound. Consider the leaf hanging from a branch on still day. It is alive and in all its glory is a a source of energy that can be sensed by any who are sensitive to it. In its existence is potential. When a breeze picks up and the leaf brushes against another, it is able to sing. Energies clash in a song so fine, so perfect – it is nature’s own harmony.

Silence holds potential. Silence is energy, energy produces vibration, vibration is sound, silence is the loudest sound on earth.


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Field Trip

covered bridge

I had to drive and hour out of town to feed my youngest son his lunch today – the teachers aren’t allowed (according to school board rules) to give him a gastric-tube feeding.

Normally I get pissed off when I have to do this, but today, as you can see from the picture I took with my phone, it was worth it for the scenery.


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Putting it Out There

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Kurashiki, October, 2005

 

A flight to Tokyo on December 27th and coming back January 9th would cost me $1148.73.

Just sayin’.


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Does the Irony Never End?

As you may know by now, I have a seventeen year old son who is severely autistic. Occasionally he has violent outbursts at school. He goes to a regular high school and is, for the most part, integrated into regular classes, though he does have a one-on-one EA with him at all times.

Today, when he had one of his outbursts, the school called to let me know. To their credit, this year (it’s new) they have an “in-school suspension room,” where he goes when he misbehaves. Up until this year, I’ve had to pick him up and bring him home for the remainder of the day. The exception this time was that he had pinched his EA, and apparently they don’t put up with physical contact. So they sent him home.

Apparently there are many things the high schools don’t put up with. The “in-school suspension room” is reserved for special needs students. In the case of infractions carried out by mainstream students, such as skipping school, the usual punishment is a three day “at home” suspension.

Yeah.

Maybe it’s the new method of teaching irony in English class.


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Paralyzing Perfectionism

I’m too hard on myself. I know this. I think it’s a common condition in artists of all disciplines – of course, we want to put our best foot forward. What is the use, after all, of showcasing mediocre work?

Even in blogging – maybe especially here on my blog – I tend to wait until I have the best idea before I post. It has to be not only interesting, but worth at least a hundred words (more if possible, but not so many that no one will open it in their reader), and it has to be something that other people can relate to. The grammar and spelling must be as close to perfect as I can achieve, the wording has to be right and with any luck it will evoke at least one emotional response from my readers.

So many requirements! So many, in fact, that often my posts never see the light of day because I don’t deem them good enough. In essence, I paralyze myself with my self-imposed need for perfection.

What is the alternative? Write articles and blog posts that no one wants to read? Put out such drivel that I lose followers?

I think I need to find a happy medium somewhere. There must be one, right? Maybe I should stop proofreading fifteen times – that would certainly cut down on the hours I spend writing only a few lines. It would also allow me more time to work on my course, edit my novel, and – hey, here’s an idea – do housework! Ha!

Nah!

So here’s a question or two: How many times do you proofread your posts? And are you, like me, a perfectionist? Is it a thing artists do, do you think?

Okay, that’s three questions. Maybe I’m not that much of a perfectionist after all. 😉


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Adventures on my Paper Route – Xs of Doom

One day last week, two of my neighbour’s trees were marked by the city with bright orange Xs.

X of doom

I’ve come to know these marks as the Xs of Doom. Within the next few weeks these trees will be drying in some lot, waiting to be bagged for firewood.

At least the one closest to the street is going out in a blaze of glory.


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Caution: Distracted Driving Ahead

The following sign is on a route which has little pedestrian traffic and is written to target drivers:

DDM

All two sentences of it.

DDM2

…. Seriously?

Or perhaps they should just save energy and put the target on the bumper of the car you’re tailgating while you’re trying to read the stupid sign!