writing

diary of a room (with a view, a pen, and a book)

~ carin ~ 5 Comments

—Writing from a garret in London, Ontario. 

8a.m.— Gorgeous golden day. Huge trees outside the window. Blue boxes line the street. Yesterday when I arrived, I shoved two arm-less arm chairs together to make a sort of chaise lounge in the 3rd floor bay window alcove, then wrote like mad. It’s quiet here, the only sound an occasional car, glass and tin cans being dumped, and there’s very good food in the restaurant downstairs (I recommend the mixed greens with dried cranberry and pistachio, and goat cheese/yoghurt dressing), a porch also for contemplating, which I did some of after lunch. Mostly on the colour grey. Surprising results.

Today I’m devoting time to reading Emma Donoghue’s  Room, which I brought with me not knowing that Ms. Donoghue lives in London, Ontario. Possibly in a garret?? It doesn’t say on the  jacket.  Anyway, I found that a strangely lovely coincidence.

So because I’m out of my usual routine, and am using a keyboard that is driving me slightly bonkers, I decided that instead of trying to write one coherent post I’ll write several small incoherent ones throughout the day—a sort of real time account of reading progress and life in the garret generally.

Have only just begun the book and, although the rhythm takes a minute to get used to, I’m thoroughly enjoying the narration by a five year old as he introduces us to his world and to his mother.

“I still don’t tell her about the web. It’s weird to have something that’s mine-not-Ma’s. Everything else is both of ours. I guess my body is mine and the ideas that happen in my head. But my cells are made out of her cells so I’m kind of hers. Also when I tell her what I’m thinking and she tells me what she’s thinking, our each ideas jump into our other’s head, like colouring blue crayon on top of yellow that makes green.” (—from p.10 of Room)

While this perhaps should leave me doubting that a five year old can put things into terms that involve cells, it doesn’t— it just leaves me looking forward to finding out how he can.

“Bunnies are TV, carrots are real…” (p.17, Room)

9:15 a.m.— A man walking three dogs on three leads passes a woman walking two children on two leads. Honest to god.

11 a.m.— On the street opposite my window a black cat and an orange cat have been playing together for hours. They cross the road together, jump on stone walls together, stand around the sidewalk, then run off and disappear for a while, together, then reappear, at first just the black and then seconds later, the orange. Seems there’s never one without the other. It’s a very nice little vibe watching them. When do you see anyone, kids even, so consistently, without argument, for this long, enjoy each other’s company? Must take a walk later, have a closer look, maybe say hello.

1:30 p.m.— Smoothed out some wrinkles in the final chapters of the WIP. Celebrated with perfectly cooked Arctic char in mustard and cider reduction, and arugula salad. Am enjoying this garret life.

2:30p.m.— For Jack, the boy narrator of Room, having a grasp of what cells are is the least of his accomplishments (see 8a.m. entry). He’s a little genius who, literally, lives in a world ofhis own making and with the help of his twenty-six year old mother, who’s spent the past seven years living in the trumped-up and sound-proofed garden shed of her abductor, Old Nick. Because of her, Jack has a better grasp of reality, however unreal, than most people. She has, it seems, taken enormous strength from the need to protect and nurture and teach him, in turn, to be strong. Together they’ve invented dozens of games using ordinary objects or just their senses and words. They have rituals and traditions and rhythms to their days. He trusts her completely and is shocked and frightened when he learns that she’s hidden some chocolate to keep as a surprise for his birthday. If there are “hidey places”, he thinks, then there are places for vampires and bogey men. In such a confined space that would be a very bad thing indeed. Secrets are equally not tolerated.

Because he was born in the room (a stain on the carpet marks the spot), and has seen nothing else (other than TV, which he believes is a two-dimensional ‘unreal’ place) this tiny universe makes perfect sense to him. His mother, on the other hand, is becoming increasingly unhappy, concerned that Old Nick will eventually leave them to die, and begins to tell Jack about the ‘real’ world, about her parents and her life as a child. At this point I’m not sure if she’s doing it as a gift to him, some new exciting thought to fill his mind, or a way of consoling her own grieving self.  

“Stories are a different kind of true.” (p.71, Room)

5:45p.m. A few weeks ago there was some flap about how writing in the present tense was a cheap trick employed by three of the six Man Booker finalists, of which Room is one. It struck me as an absurd discussion at the time, even moreso now that I’m reading Room. The reason—for Philip Pullman’s and Philip Hensher’s information—that Room is written in the present tense is because if it were written any other way it wouldn’t have the same brilliantly creepy effect of drawing us into that place in real time, which is a place we don’t want to go but can’t stop peering into. Perhaps I’m in the minority but I enjoy first person, present. Like anything, it has to be done well, and unlike some possibly ‘easier’ POVs, it’s very hard to do well. I’m guessing Donoghue chose it for a few reasons: 1) the story itself demanded that form, 2) the feeling of being there in ‘real time’ works exceedingly well in unsettling the reader, and 3) there is something almost subliminal about present tense, a kind of tacit reminder that what you are reading did not happen then… but is happening still. And for this book, that’s exactly what you need to feel. For many reasons.

6:15p.m.  The orange cat is across the street; I run over expecting to find the black one nearby, maybe capture their extraordinary relationship on film. But the orange is on his own (orange tabbys are always boys). Where’s your friend? I say, and he rubs against my leg, looks up at me and purrs What friend? 

So much for my brilliant cat loyalty theory.

10:30p.m. At about the exact middle of Room the thing I expected to happen at the end happens, and I’m left stunned and thinking: how the bleep will the author sustain the next 150 pages?? Well, sir, she does in the most surprising and amazing way, turning our perceptions about ‘freedom’ upside down and having us look at ourselves in the process. And I don’t care if you hold your breath, gnash your teeth or utter vile words, I will not divulge even one more tiny piece of the story, except to say I loved it so very very much—one of those books that begs to be read again, not necessarily to understand better—because the story is simple and clear—but to benefit from its truth. 

~

this is how it happens…

~ carin ~ 8 Comments

I’m in love with Nikolai Gogol. I say this based on one story in a recently purchased four by five inch book, published by Penguin in 1995—a Penguin 60s—part of Penguin’s 60th anniversary celebrations. The book contains two stories: ‘The Overcoat’ and ‘The Nose’. It was ‘The Overcoat’ I read Sunday morning. And it was then that I fell in love.

Here is a chap with a mighty sense of humour. And that’s always irresistible. Plus control and subtlety and things that really aren’t at all what they seem. The story centres around Akaky Akakievich, a titular councillor—essentially a lowly civil servant in early 19th century Russia—(a whole beautiful long riff is done on how he got his unfortunate name, which culminates in…”The child was christened and during the ceremony he burst into tears and made such a face it was plain that he knew there and then that he was fated to be a titular councillor.”)

In a nutshell, the piece is about a man who needs a new overcoat to survive the winter; he doesn’t ask for much in life and gets even less. But in his way, he’s happy. Though he lives an extremely simple life (the list of his possessions include two buttons that have fallen off some clothing) and has been a devoted employee to his ‘company’ for many years, he has to scrimp and practically starve to save money for the coat and then when he has it, it’s stolen. And no one cares. When he dies he returns as a ghost to steal the overcoats of others.

But of course that’s not what it’s about at all. It’s actually a brilliant political statement that (sadly) still resonates today…

Here is my favourite sentence—

“Even at that time of day when the light has completely faded from the grey St. Petersburg sky and the whole clerical brotherhood has eaten its fill, according to salary and palate; when everyone has rested from departmental pen-pushing and running around; when his own and everyone else’s absolutely indispensable labours have been forgotten–as well as all those other things that restless man sets himself to do of his own free will–sometimes even more than is really necessary; when the civil servant dashes off to enjoy his remaining hours of freedom as much as he can (one showing a more daring spirit by careering off to the theatre; another sauntering down the street to spend his time looking at cheap little hats in the shop windows; another going off to a party to waste his time flattering a pretty girl, the shining light of some small circle of civil servants; while another–and this happens more often than not–goes off to visit a friend from the office living on the third or second floor, in two small rooms with a hall and kitchen, and with some pretensions to fashion in the form of a lamp or some little trifle which has cost a great many sacrifices, refusals to invitations to dinner or country outings; in short, at that time of day when all the civil servants have dispersed to their friends’  little flats for a game of whist, sipping tea from glasses and nibbling little biscuits, drawing on their long pipes, and giving an account while dealing out the cards of the latest scandal which has wafted down from high society–a Russian can never resist stories; or when there is nothing new to talk about, bringing out once again the old anecdote about the Commandant who was told that the tail of the horse in Falconet’s statue of Peter the Great had been cut off; briefly, when everyone was doing his best to amuse himself, Akaky Akakievich did not abandon himself to any such pleasures.”  (—from ‘The Overcoat’ by Nikolai Gogol)

And this in 1842.

And you wonder why I’m in love?

~

welcome to my achy breaky world

~ carin ~ 4 Comments

I’m kneeling on a kneeling chair as I write, but I keep sliding off. The chair was recommended to me by my massage therapist, Beth, whom I haven’t seen in almost a year—ever since I got the chair, which I got because I slightly screwed up my hip and back from bad sitting habits in my previous chair whose pricey, ergodynamically correct engineering is completely wasted on me given that I sit cross-legged, or with alternating feet tucked under my bottom.

I remember the instructions for the kneeling chair said something like…  this chair is not made for extensive kneeling; try to keep most of your weight off your knees and on your butt. Maybe it said derierre.

In any case I’ve never really understood how to work it and am pretty sure I’m doing it wrong because my back and hip still hurt. Also my knees now. Makes me long for the days when my only complaint was excruciatingly tight shoulder and neck muscles that even Beth found shocking.

I’m guessing that a certain amount of ache is part of the territory, that anyone who sits for long periods obsessing about semi colons or whether to use the word ‘car’ or ‘vehicle’ is eventually the beneficiary of a few sore parts and maybe also the owner of a few gadgets to help ease the soreness (heat packs, massage thingies, roller wotsits, cedar blocks for yoga stretches, Theraband bands for other stretches—all of which only work, I’ve discovered, if you use them).

Or maybe it’s just me. Maybe I’m a wimp, or have some unique structural problems. (Actually, least said about structural problems right now the better…)

So I got the kneeling chair and what I’ve been doing is alternating between it, the original chair, and a medium sized Theraband ball, which, when I told a physiotherapist I sat on while working, she laughed, called an associate into the room and had me repeat the story so they could share a professional chuckle.

Despite its apparent effect on physiotherapists, the ball works rather well for me. Furthermore, my chiropractor, whom I also haven’t seen since winter, said it should be fine.

Anyway, moving between these three seats I’ve noticed that—in addition to giving me much needed breaks in my position (because it rarely occurs to me to do anything as simple as stand up and stretch)—I’ve developed a preference for sitting differently for different tasks. For instance, revising is best done on the bouncy Theraband and almost impossible to do effectively on the kneeling chair (which I prefer for composing). Emails are more cheerfully answered, and less often misunderstood, if I write from one of various contortions on the ergo chair, whereas, for on-line reading, I go back to the Theraband. And so on.

Here’s what worries me: at some point will I need a fourth chair?

If so, I’m thinking lawn chair (one of the most brilliantly designed chairs of all time). I’m also thinking spiral notebook instead of screen, pen instead of keyboard… seagull voice, negative ions, beach glass, stones for skipping. Lunch in a paper sack.

In fact that may be exactly what my achy self needs. Not ergo wotsits.

And it just occurred to me—that’s twice in less than two weeks my rambling has led to the same place.

Right. Enough kneeling and bouncing and moaning. I’m off.

vive l’ete indeed

~ carin ~ 3 Comments

Before the whole summer gets away from me and people start talking about how it’s over the minute the #&@*ing CNE opens, I am printing this and taping it above my desk where its job will be to inspire me often to stand up, find a bucket and spade, head outside in any direction and—for much longer than I think reasonable—let my toes and mind wander where they may.

Thanks for the reminder, Carol…

red earth reptile, brackley beach

ode to the power and pleasure of ‘retreat’

~ carin ~ Leave a comment

I’m depressed.

Okay, I’m not depressed, I’m glum. Or do I mean gloomy? Or is it just that I’m pissed off that I can’t go to Charlottetown next month to attend what I believe may be one of the best-kept-secret writing retreats in the whole blinking country (and why am I even telling you this ‘secret’??).

Two years ago I went to the first ever ‘Seawords’ on lovely red-earthed, bucolic, gorgeously peaceful and truly inspiring Prince Edward Island. A province we don’t think nearly enough about, and probably the islanders like it that way.

The retreat that year was held at Shaw’s Hotel on Brackley Beach where my days began with a short walk from hotel to ocean—an ocean which I was the only person visiting at that time of day. I mean, I had a whole ocean to myself. Sort of.

If the waves were big and the surf noisy, I simply sat and stared, took pictures, wrote I-like-it-even-if-no-one-else-ever-will poetry, made notes on the novel, collected flat red stones in geometric shapes.

If the waves were small, or non-existent, I swam and marvelled at the buoyancy of salt water vs the lake brine I’m used to.

After that it was breakfast in a sunny, large-windowed dining room, sometimes with other ‘retreaters’, sometimes alone with a copy of Geist, or TNQ and a large pot of tea.

The workshop facilitators were two writers I didn’t know: Anne Simpson and Carol Bruneau. What an idiot I must have been for not having known them. Anne is a poet who also writes extraordinary fiction and has won or been shortlisted for too many prizes to mention here. Carol (also of the multiple awards) writes extraordinary fiction, as well as a fabulous blog (in the most poetic of ways). Apart from all that, they are lovely lovely people — something you can’t pretend for a whole week in fairly close quarters. That’s the thing about retreats: if you’re not lovely, everyone soon knows it.

Also present was Jackie Kaiser. Yes, that Jackie Kaiser. From Westwood Creative Artists. (It’s like everyone was screened for loveliness and only the genuinely lovely were allowed.) So generous was she with her industry info and her time, whether in a session or when bumping into one another over dinner, readings, on the way back from the beach. Casual conversations, questions, everything simple and easy. No pressure. No scary stuff.

Ann-Marie MacDonald was also there. As was Lynn Henry (at the time, still with Anansi).

It rained once, maybe twice. Who cares? It was perfect. The beach, the hotel, the workshops, the seminars, the one-on-one time with Anne and Carol. The time alone to think and write in my tiny flowery-papered room; my makeshift desk set up in front of a tiny window overlooking the lawns, where I wrote and re-wrote whole chapters I’d been stuck on for ages, and then later, spending time with some terrific people who’d spent their time thinking and writing and re-writing too.

So, yeah. I’m a little cranky that I can’t go this year. Obligations at home prevent hopping a plane or, even better, a car, and heading east for what I know will be one grand week.

I haven’t even mentioned the oysters. 

Fortunately, I do know someone who’ll be attending– so I have at least the vicarious thing to look forward to.

Are you listening, Steve? 

Please take notes.

changing thoughts

~ carin ~ Leave a comment

I don’t know why Rona Maynard’s post on pilates and writing should make me think of something I read the other day about Marina Abramovic—the performance artist who recently closed what sounded like a most bizarre and amazing show in NYC, and is known for her ‘experiments’ in art through human nature—but it did. It reminded me of how she said: “We don’t change when we do things we like…”

I love that. I love the idea of how change works and how inherently resistant we are to it and how maybe that’s why it’s so difficult to do what’s good for us. Because change will follow, growth of the right kind. And maybe—what?—we’re a little nervous about the right kind? Maybe we prefer the kind that insulates us and keeps us where we are—gormlessly and endlessly questioning the whole why of exactly that.

Just wondering.

one way to avoid an existential crisis

to list IS divine

~ carin ~ 2 Comments

The New Quarterly’s List Issue has arrived on my doorstep and it’s completely gorgeous. (True, my own listy piece is included, but even so, and even if it weren’t, it has to be said: the thing is a work of art—the cover, layout, design.)

And, yes, the contents. Who knew (Diane Schoemperlen, that’s who) that lists could evoke so much and in so many ways?

There are found poems from lists, lists written on the backs of things—regrets on a black and white snapshot from the 50’s—and on a Good & Fruity box, the contents of a pocket enroute to jail. There’s a list of things taken to a nursing home to visit a mother (so simple and stark and perfect it made my eyes water).

A collection of lists found in a large purse; drawings and random jottings; glossy pages of collage, photographs, observations— things that otherwise get missed because they’re tiny and ordinary, seemingly insignificant and therefore don’t merit a whole story—but fashion them into a list and you realize they are a whole story.

The cover art and collage pages inside are done by Diane Schoemperlen (who also guest edited the issue), as is a piece titled ‘A Nervous Race: 22 Brief Notes on the Study of Nature, Human and Otherwise’— which begins:

“This is not exactly a story. It is a construction or a deconstruction or a reconstruction (or maybe all three). I did not exactly write these lines. I discovered them (like a continent), mined them (like gold or coal or potash), unearthed them (like bones), excavated them (like archaeological artifacts), solved them (like a crossword puzzle), deciphered them (like a secret code), erected them (like a building or a flag), organized them (like a filing cabinet or a clothes closet), choreographed them (like a ballet or maybe a barn dance), arranged them (like a symphony or a bouquet of flowers). Let me explain.”

And then she does.  And, frankly, if there were nothing else between the covers but this and the collage, it would still be an amazing and beautiful issue.   

The launch is tomorrow in Kingston. (Oh to be in Kingston in the Spring!)

poetry lesson at pablo’s

~ carin ~ Leave a comment

 

It’s just about noticing, isn’t it? Sunrise, food, insects on a windowsill; temperature, skin before lovemaking, and after. Cloud shapes, stones, the texture of floor, sheets, wine glass against lips. Neruda says something or other is “abandoned like a wharf at dawn”—and maybe because I’m standing in his house when for some reason I think of it, I realize this is how it starts—seeing the wharf, abandoned, or just imagining, finding, comparing, word  painting; noticing the shade of blue in the centre of an iris and giving that to a part of the body, a vein maybe; now I look for eyes and hollows in throats among twists of driftwood at certain times of day, in light, then in shadow.

It’s like the the A-Z of butterfly wings; seeing what’s there and naming it something that until that moment doesn’t exist—all of that, in order to see it.