Words will be wanted

I was so ready for this. For this weekend. A festival of women writers called “Growing Room,” put on by the ROOM journal collective.

I’ve been happy in our move, I can certainly count the ways I like Tsawwassen, but I was unusually excited about the opportunity to be in the middle of writers again. Never mind that I wouldn’t know anyone. Or would have to plan and plot my getting there on a map. I was reading at the launch of ROOM’s latest issue (below) on Saturday evening, since it contains a creative non-fiction piece of mine (“Notes Toward an Autobiography”). Why not spend the day at panels and workshops? Why not spend the next day too? Just to hear the familiar vocabulary of writers’ talk. Just to hear them read, even complain, about their work.

Why not indeed? And a rich two days they were. A highlight: a panel on writing about trauma with Evelyn Lau, Christine Lowther, and Sonnet L’Abbe. Another: a panel on “rewriting the stories we tell about our bodies” with Lorna Crozier, Francine Cunningham, Nilofar Shidmehr, and Juliane Okot Bitek.

And a workshop with Betsy Warland, author most recently of Oscar of Between–a Memoir of Identity and Ideas, and earlier, Breathing the Page: Reading the Act of Writing, which I bought and began “breathing” on the train and bus ride home. (Betsy Warland was as lovely in her teaching as I was warned she would be.)

Two days in the public air of writing. Which I don’t need a lot of, but sometimes need desperately. There I was, among some of the tribe, and I felt at home.

Not insider though. And I mean this less as a but than in addition to, for everything good about the weekend is secure. But every person, a new acquaintance. And me on the edge of many of the issues and/or controversies current in Canadian literature, some brought to the fore in a panel on literary gatekeeping and accountability, for example. I simply know too little about them.

“I have felt on the outside since being a very young child, for a number of reasons….Being an outsider inspired me to create new options for myself as well as others.” Betsy Warland, interview ROOM 39.4

Lately I’ve been bumping into this notion of the writer as outsider–on the edge of things, more observer than participant–in the autobiographical statements of various writers. I can relate. Outsider, of course, may be true for many people; perhaps everyone has their “at home” and their “out of place.” But especially artists and writers, it seems, often have this sense of themselves. Often it’s the motivation to produce something that reaches toward others.

“I’m feeling ‘old’ at the festival,” I told my Vancouver daughter, who put me up for the night. Old as in age, but also oldly different in the world of experiences I’ve inhabited. A world which seems, on the surface at least, to not have that much currency.

Daughter took the role of comforter, as she sometimes has to. “Just write from what you know and who you are, Mom,” she said. And Betsy Warland, who understands outsider, and “between,” reminded us to sustain ourselves by tenacity, to make “lack” (whatever it may be) “a generative force.”


It came together for me when Lorna Crozier quoted the Irish poet Eavan Boland:

“I want a poem/ I can grow old in.”

Oh me too!

I looked up the Boland poem. The line goes on. “I want a poem/ I can grow old in. I want a poem I can die in.”

Whatever the outsider place, this said to me, others too are in that place. Others growing old(er). And words will be wanted. I’ll keep looking for them as a reader. I’ll keep on writing them.  

In praise of my sisters

A few words in praise of my sisters, two in particular, who have recently given me a great gift.

At first I was the only girl child among brothers, four of them by the time I was eight. The longed-for sister arrived at last, followed by two more. The girls were cute and lively and I loved them. Because of the years between us, however, they were not the sisterly confidantes I’d wished for. They were more likely to be getting into my precious things. I learned later that they weren’t always thrilled with me either, especially when I bossed them as if I were their extra mother. We all grew up, however, the differences in age collapsed, and we’ve enjoyed warm relations as peers. We added four sisters-in-law as well, all of us bonded within a shared extended family.

And now, an unexpected gift. The two sisters who live near one another in Saskatchewan approached my husband and me last spring with the suggestion that we move our 93-year-old mother from her nursing home in Winnipeg to a nursing home in Saskatchewan where one of them works. It was their turn, they said. It would be a privilege, they said. Continue reading

The M Word

I’ve just spent a couple of days with a collection of essays about motherhood. About life with a uterus, as Kerry Clare puts it. It was like slipping into this wonderful story circle, 25 articulate women speaking honestly of being–or not being–a mother. Choices or surprises. Twins. Abortion. Miscarriage. Child death. Step-parenting. Single mothering. Infertility. Delightful children. Difficult children. Now and then, when the children were especially demanding and the writer felt herself turning into someone, as Deanna McFadden puts it, “crammed into the corners of her own life,” I longed to put my hand through the page with a pat and say, It gets better. Usually it does, I think. But such a typically maternal gesture, isn’t it? Coming from the stage I’m in now, which is post-Mother in a way, easier on every level but with some terrific adults in my life who happen to be my children. Me still, and again, in Heidi Reimer’s words, “gobsmacked and humbled”by their existence. Continue reading