Easing into the New Year, reflecting on the last one.
2023 was quite the year and now we’re into 2024. Seems like I slipped over the line more than crossed it. Somewhere in the night with ice on the ground, there was a light dust of snow and the moon was a waning gibbous. People cheered in their houses, muffled screams and muted shouts of glee. When we passed the houses with parties there were people standing around their television sets. Some jumping, others still, but they were all hovering close to celebrate this illuminated new year. People stood in front of the glow of TV sets holding drinks. Kissing.
We stood under the glow of the moon. Kissing. We walked and laughed and talked about how we loved the muted sound of shouting.
January is a month I tend to post a blog. Last year I wrote a few after January but not many. The year was full of flowers. Full of standing on ladders and twisting bind wire. Full of processing and stripping stems and processing our lives while we did it. Full of filling buckets and organizing and quickbooks invoices and all sorts.
I didn’t read or write as much as I would have liked to. The year was one of living more than thinking about living. The manuscript I began in my MFA evolved slightly. It’s all very slow. I’ve written another chapter and revised older ones. I’m not sure I like what I have anymore. I’m a year older and a bit different from the woman I was when I began. A writing instructor said to me recently take the idea as far as you can take it. Weeks later I was talking to Dianna at her gallery and she told me a story about her daughter. How her daughter made a short film and by the end she hated it because she was looking at it too closely. Editing it all the time. She gave it to her friend to get rid of and her friend entered it into a contest and they won. Dianna went on, if you want to burn it pass it off to a friend first. Tell them to burn it for you. They won’t. You might even win.
I passed a short story to a writing friend. He didn’t burn it.
The manuscript will be read by someone else this year. I won’t burn it.
A winter with rain. So much rain. Water spills from the eaves now and we have no snow. Only a few days of snow in the city. In Dundas on Tuesday, at Hannah and James’ new house, there were piles and piles of snow entering their gardens and the forest. We sat by the fire and talked for hours. We walked through the pines together mid-day between work. Hannah said James says staring at the green instead of a screen is good for the brain and he’s right. I felt tree bark and looked up at the pines swaying. Roo ran on ahead of us and then in circles. This was the clearest and best part of my week. City life is all hustle and rushing. It was always this way but it’s even more so now that groceries are triple what they were a few years ago. Loblaws steals.
Walking through the pines, Hannah and I talked about the pandemic and how it likely affected us more than we admit to ourselves. We gaslight ourselves and say keep going, you’re fine, don’t be a baby about it all. We talked about how our mid-thirties are the cusp of mid-life and in these years, we were supposed to be building towards something, taking all the energy of our youth, and harnessing it towards our great success so we could feel somewhat settled in the forties. A nice fit body we can live into. Great hair. A career we love and make good money from. Status. Respect. We were supposed to feel ahead of Sisyphus’ boulder. So far ahead that we wouldn’t feel the weight of it crushing our backs. Instead, I am in physio for nerve pain in my neck and back. I injured my rotator cuff after my RMT told me to start physio. This forced me to spend last Saturday in a clinic waiting room instead of yoga. I put a heating pad on and use volteran and do small exercises daily that seem like nothing. The slightest movements to strengthen my core, my neck, my arm, they’re all connected says my physiotherapist. He showed me a diagram of the human anatomy on my phone. The nerves were between the spaces in the neck bone and showed up in orange, the orange moved from there to the clavicle down the shoulder and arm. See.
My body is stiffer with age. I’m trying to loosen.
I blame these years of international unrest and confusion and loss. I blame the way I type lying down, neck cranked. Back hunched. My middle thirties were meant to propel me forward, now they are a blip. I find myself forgetting they even happened. Of course, they did happen, but three years are like one in my mind marked by a time of border patrol and vaccines and fear and isolation. Many days on the couch. I don’t like blabbing on about this because no one wants to talk about it anymore and I understand. I’d rather press on into the future too, but I had to put this down. This failure feeling.
When I walk outside alone, I heal a little from all the times I thought I was unsafe. The earth is there beside me.
In 2023, I went headlong into many jobs and rarely thought about the past and couldn’t really write because my mind was only on whatever was directly in front of me in the present. I know the present is supposed to be good, but it was bad for writing. My therapist says I like to look in my rearview mirror a lot and it’s true, I do. I’m a writer. Is there a world where stories are more joyful than tragedy? Just something I’m thinking about. Last year my life extended outward beyond the reaches of the house. Beyond my desk and garden. The places I became most accustomed. I went from unemployed MFA student to four jobs, acting president of the CNFC and teaching writing workshops. Some days I have no idea if there will be any room for my writing. I am by nature at my best late afternoon into early evening, writing into the sunset hours. This doesn’t work now so I am training myself to be a morning person. I write from 8-10am with a group online with our cameras off. I don’t know the other writers at all. I see their pictures or names in squares and then I’m off and typing away. So far, I’m undecided if it’s working. I’m going to keep it up though, like the exercises for small unused muscles. Like telling my nerves I’m safe and can keep going.
My life was surrounded by seasonal flowers again and I forgot how rich I feel with flowers on the table each week. I took a job working for The Local Flower Collective. I missed the world of flowers and my friends within it. I freelanced on the side and made strange botanical creatures. I sculpted arrangements with calla lilies drooping towards the floor, anthuriums as black as night, and jasmine garlands draped over moss. I brought more colour into my wardrobe and sported green clogs. My poem F I R E W E E D was in my friend Rebecca’s art show. There were visits with family and friends out east. Oysters and ocean, sunsets and marsh trails. My parents visited me in Toronto. We ate everything on the menu at Dotty’s. Train rides to see my sister. Negronis and reading side-by-side. The feeling of being known and liked by a sibling. Morning runs by the lake and a quick swim to cool down. Dinners with Brooks at Gio’s and sharing crespelle or pappardelle. Always the meatball with foccacia. Rose (my cat) curled up on my lap as I try to type something good. Something worth sharing.
In winter, my season with flowers came to a close and I started at Queen Books where I work as a bookseller and events coordinator. I help people find authors they might like based on books they’ve enjoyed. I talk about new releases and give short reviews of staff picks. I curate and highlight writers I love and talk about literature all day. I stock shelves and make sure books are in the right order. I learn what kids are reading in middle-grade and flip through board books with pretty illustrations. I help writers promote their work. I listen to authors discuss process. I take notes. The job is joy and I often leave feeling full after a shift, not empty.
At the end of winter, I will teach a course to MFA students in the fiction and nonfiction cohorts at King’s with one of my writing mentors Jane Silcott. We are teaching about creating atmosphere. Jane lives in BC so we share excerpts we like through email.
I do not want to be so exhausted this year that by the time I reach my laptop to write all I can do is answer emails. But with shifting between many jobs, I imagine this will be difficult.
Some notes to live by then:
Write first thing instead and do not check emails.
Become a morning writer even if it takes thirty minutes to warm up. It’s like this with exercise too, or else you injure your rotator cuff.
Do one or two things for yourself before the day begins, before other people need you because the needs of others never end and it’s easier to see another’s needs sometimes more than it is to see your own.
Incorporate more colour into your wardrobe. You loved those incandescent green clogs.
Spend less time on screen, more time in green.
Don’t burn it.
Some Books that made my pick list in 2023:
Stoner by John Williams
Tonight I’m Someone Else by Chelsea Hodson
Really, Good Actually by Monica Heisey
Daughter by Claudia Dey
Thirst for Salt by Madelaine Lucas
Couplets: A Love Story by Maggie Milner
Outline by Rachel Cusk (almost done trilogy but this one stands out)
The Little Virtues by Natalia Ginzburg
300 Arguments by Sarah Manguso
One of the perks of working at a bookstore is access to ARCs (advanced reader copies). I have a stack beside my desk and have already started First Love by Lilly Dancyger. She makes me want to hold my friends tight and reminds me they’re the great loves of my life.
Most Anticipated Books for 2024 so far:
All Fours — Miranda July
Alphabetical Diaries - Sheila Heti
Banal Nightmare — Halle Butler
Beautyland — Marie-Helene Bertino
Good Material — Dolly Alderton
Liars — Sarah Manguso
Martyr – Kaveh Akbar
The Princess of 72nd Street— Elaine Kraf