Appreciate the Weird Stuff (It's All Weird Stuff)

One of the things I love about going to the Cornwall and Area Pop Expo (CAPE) is the weirdness of it. People with wildly eclectic interests find each other here. This weekend, there to celebrate CAPE's second year, I had the strange and wonderful fortune to meet or spend time with not only fellow authors, but comic book artists and sellers, jewelry designers, an entire roller derby team, fabulous steampunk milliner Elaine (of ES Essentials & Co), characters from what seemed like nearly every science fiction show film ever made--from the X-Men's Storm to Indiana Jones--and even a dalek or two. (On a side note, I learned to never again get into a war of words with a dalek.) 

If your imagination ever needs a booster, go to one of these events. It's enriching to see people's passion for their interests made manifest, all the more so when those interests aren't a perfect match with your own, so you can see them through the lens of perspective. 

Meanwhile, I'm grateful I managed to sell a few copies of the Triangulation: Lost Voices (Parsec Ink, 2015) anthology, in which I have a speculative fiction story, "Pacific Standard." Those who didn't buy it nonetheless very patiently listened to my spiel before they meandered away to find a photo op with Chewie or hunt down a deal on Pokemon. 

The weekend was bridged with the Saturday night wedding of the two organizers, Carol and Randy, in true geek style. The bride wore a Wonder Woman costume, the groom was a dapper Spider-Man. Darth Vader gave the bride away. R2D2 was a ring-bearer. Agent Carter officiated. I have honestly never seen anything like it. I admit I teared up. Seems I'm a sucker for super heroes in love.

The entire weekend was a reminder that it's a strange, strange world out there. And that fact is, somehow, very reassuring.

The And/Or of Inspiration and Obstacle

As the final weeks of my writing sabbatical dwindle to ever-shorter days, I find myself thinking more and more about balance. How do we find it? And what does it even look like?

It seems to me that finding any balance as a person and a writer has to involve making peace with the fact that the elements of my life that inspire my writing are often the exact same ones that seem to keep me from my keyboard for days or even months at a time (there was also that one year I didn't write at all, after I had a child, although some people--okay, male people--suggested this would be the easiest time of all for me to write, since I would have so much time on my hands while "not working").

On the note of embracing--or, at least, identifying--the chaos between the pages, here is a piece I wrote for rob mclennan's Ottawa Poetry Newsletter a few years ago:

On Writing #1: A little less inspiration, please
(Or, What ever happened to patrons, anyway?)

Published in 2013, my ramblings had the privilege of marking the first essay in mclennan's On Writing series. Three years later, the series is quickly approaching the 100-essay mark, and has included a huge array of writers saying some very smart things on nearly every subject related to writing, editing, publishing, and how to live with such tragic afflictions.

I highly suggest you check it out. If, of course, you can find the time.

Lessons from Chaos

I am very lucky, I know. After 10 years in government, I built up enough grants, courage, and emotional support of friends and family to take a three-month sabbatical to focus on writing poetry. I managed to edge a bit of fiction in there, too, not to mention some reviewing, some volunteering for CWILA, Arc Poetry Magazine and our son's school, and, of course, a stack of reading. I also spent more time focusing on the business side of of my writing career, including promotion, event-planning and setting up this very blog.

The sabbatical is almost over. But I'm hopeful that what it has taught me will last forever:

First, never think that the warm April weather in Ottawa, Canada, is going to be a "nice finish" to anything, other than to the idea that April will be warm and have nice weather.

Second, nature may abhor a vacuum, but a writer abhors the vacuum, the duster, the dish rag, the broom, the scrub brush and the mop, especially when all of them are now only mere feet away from her all day, every day. I am simultaneously deeply ashamed and deviously proud that my house has never been dirtier than it has been in these past three months when I was not commuting, not out of the house at work, and only a block away from the grocery store where we buy our cleaning supplies. The amount of dust I became capable of walking right past became a measure of my productivity. Okay, the sneezing fits may have lost me some time along the way, but every system is bound to have a downside.

Third, children will not, by will or by wonder, appear to understand the difference between "not working" and "working at home," no matter how many times you try to explain that you are not actually on vacation.

Fourth, the compulsion to volunteer one's time is directly inverse to the amount of time one has to volunteer.

Fifth, there really is a mental "muscle" you need to build up to increase how long and how well you can focus on your art, and, as a result, increase your output. It takes time to build that muscle, and it is completely pointless to berate yourself for having to start slowly.

Sixth, writers as a whole are sometimes painted as self-centred and competitive. These kind of paintings are usually done by the handful of writers who are self-centred and competitive. I have learned, yet again, that fellow writers make for an enormously supportive community. Everyone here has been there, and most of us actually want others to succeed. In fact, we really like it when they do. My thanks to everyone--near or distant, longtime supporter or brand new friend--who helped prop me back up whenever I started to slide through the floorboards of self-pity after being flattened yet again under the enormous business end of the arts.

My thanks again to the Ontario Arts Council for their support, and to everyone who helped me, in one way or another, make the most of it.

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