The I put on the page, not as round as the I writing

“I have already lost touch with a couple of people I used to be.” – Joan Didion

I am writing. Daily. Not publicly and I’ve been conflicted about this.

Inhibited by guilt, especially now that I have more time. My devices distract me, I blame the scrolling — a pseudo connection.

There’s advice in my program around building platform, the importance of newsletters or blogs. Identifying with your community.

All of this feels inauthentic and strange.

A little gross and imposed and unnatural.

Yet, I think about writing to you. The you that is out there peeking into another’s life, as I do on occasion, to try to find some guidance or solace or assurance that I’m not alone in my wandering.

This is whom I’m writing to here. Or, at least, trying to.

There’s conflicting opinions, around the publishing industry asking if you have a blog, which tells all there is to tell, then why write a book at all? There’s no mystery left, you’ve given away the content for free.

So which one is it? Write publically to generate a platform? Or don’t write and hope someone likes your work enough to publish it?

This worries me and it doesn’t. Ultimately I believe writing to be an intimate and personal choice. The medium where the words are put down, influences the words themselves. For instance, when I write in my journal, I write with pen and paper, to express and feel my way through the world, unfiltered. Liberated. I write without hindrance or concern, as it’s a place to help me sift through the mire. As I’m working on this manuscript, I am writing, yes for myself, but also with an audience in mind and about a particular time period. For this I type on my laptop. There’s a lens that I use with this technology that forms the words differently. I am trying to articulate something, craft it. Revising early drafts with an editor’s eye. Filling in gaps. Mending and patching where there are holes. The diction and syntax changes when I handwrite and when I type or thumb around on my phone. When writing an article for a deadline, it alters too. I become more calculated. Often driven by word count and subject. Focused. Sometimes I like this kind of writing, as it’s clear and direct, no room for meandering or steering off track. My sentences are precise. I say it how it is.

Blogging though, or writing here to you could take many forms. It could be instructive or silly or casual glimpses into my life. It could be story or poem or image. It will always be only a piece of me. The I put on the page, not as round as the I writing. I ask myself why do this?

I don’t have an answer other than, I enjoy the generosity of others when they allow me into their consciousness.

I’ve had many iterations of blogs over the years and all of them have crumbled or gone up in flames or I’ve taken them down because that version of my past self is embarrassing, disappointing or both. Or in some cases it was time for an end. I’d like to try again here. I don’t know how often I’ll write or exactly what I’ll talk about. Most likely I’ll share a recipe, a poem, a book I’m reading, an excerpt that struck me, a gardening tip, a movie I liked, a TV show I’m devouring, a creature I saw on a walk or some flowers. Probably some writing tips or craft notes. If you like to geek out about writing and reading, you can do that here with me.

Social media has become a place where flash blogging happens. I miss the longform though and I miss a place that’s mine to put it.

Today after coffee and reading a couple essays in Ross Gay’s Book of Delights (my friend mailed me her copy of this book and it’s even more delightful reading it with the moon postcard she scribbled in as bookmark. Her handwriting joy.), I went for a hike in Point Pleasant Park. This is my regular route now that I live in Halifax near the northwest arm. I try to visit the ocean as much as possible, one consistent pleasure during this time. The ground is slippery now. Snow is melting and patted down by walker’s feet, more ice than powder. Glossy trails. I walked slowly and as I passed the break in the woods where trees part and the ocean opens up, a crowd of dogs scampered past me. Tails wagging, tongues out, smiling and sniffing and friendly. I found myself grinning, took a picture for my sister and sent it off, “thinking of you.”

I eat a lot of small oranges and toast with peanut butter lately. Winter comforts. The first thing I made for myself when I got in the door was sourdough toast slathered in butter, peanut butter and topped with blueberries. Then went to work on a piece I’m writing for a friend’s podcast. It’s short and a challenge and something different from the writing I’m doing in my MFA program at University of King’s College.

Before all this, I ran a flower business. My life was beautiful, fraught, abundant, exhausting, breathtaking, stressful and one of the most memorable seasons of my life. After this seven-year stint of growing flowers, working in events, a divorce, family crisis, throw in some other tumultuous experiences, travel, and soul searching, I decided to stop working as a florist and pursue writing.

I kept telling myself that one day, after my business was sustainable and stable, then I would let myself take time to write. Until I realized that energy doesn’t die, it just shifts form. I could take all the energy and resources I’d been pouring into my business and put it towards my interest in literature. This wasn’t easy. It was terrifying to leave the farming community I’d come to think of as family and to stop bringing joy to my neighbourhood through flowers. It wasn’t a smooth transition. I went backwards for a while before I could move forward. Took up bartending to pay the bills and ward off my credit, but something else began to happen too. An opening.

A poet friend of mine introduced me to a professor who allowed me to audit his English Lit classes. I learned for free, practiced my craft and built a portfolio. I did this while waiting tables and shaking cocktails. A year later, I moved across the country. We did not know that we’d be moving in a pandemic when we settled on an apartment (we signed the lease on our last trip, from an artist retreat in Oaxaca). This new unknown, a city we weren’t familiar with, plus the added stress of an international crisis, was very much like our drive out here. Long. Arduous. A dark iron cloudy night. The fog, a haze around us. Thick rain pelting the windows. Only able to see a few feet in front.

It’s scary to willingly enter into uncertainty. It’s even more scary to have it thrust upon you. To realize that all the norms, structures and societal rules can crumble away in an instant.

Things that have helped me through these unknowns:

Making the bed: I do this every morning. I know some of you are wondering so what, but there was a time in my life when I didn’t give a fuck about bed making.

Meal planning: Only a few a week but still, cooking helps me feel in control of my life. Cooking happens more often when I have the ingredients in my fridge. Hence, planning.

Walking:  I walk for short stints between writing. Or one long brisk walk in the morning before I dig into a few hours work

Phone calls: I call my friends and we talk for hours. We do this while I’m on one of my long walks, or prepping dinner or cleaning the house. The voices of those who are dearest to me are solace in this distance.

Incense and lighting a candle: The fragrance of something soothing and woodsy calms my mind. Sandalwood and frankincense a favourite. Or the latest vanilla my sister gave me. The flicker of a flame (a tealight even) animates the room in cold months, making it less lonely.

Humour: Specifically Schitt’s Creek, then the documentary on Schitt’s Creek and youtube videos of the entire cast

Poetry: When I can’t sleep I read poetry. I also like to read it when I wake. Poetry is read slowly, like a meditation. On my bedside table right now I have Adrienne Rich’s Dream of a Common Language and David Whyte’s Pilgrim

Watering Herbs: I brought a few of my garden herbs in for the winter. Some have died. I still can’t believe basil has outlived thyme. They sit in my kitchen window and I water them before I make a second French press in the morning.  

Medication: I suffered a bad bout of anxiety and depression in the fall. This is a personal story for another time. I take medication now. Please don’t let stigma or fear prevent you from asking for extra help if you need it. Send me an email if you are struggling too and have no one to talk to, happy to share part of my path.

Peanut Butter Toast with Blueberries:

Sourdough from a bakery is ideal but really any bread you like will do

Toast it, slather with butter

Top with Adams All Natural Peanut butter, smooth (it has the perfect amount of salt)

Scatter blueberries

Eat with steaming coffee or tea.