January 2009, Calgary: Neighbourly.

There is a middle-aged woman in the building behind mine who I relate to. She has a big comfy chair by the window, and she likes to sit in that chair with her computer or a book or a crossword. There’s a lamp right next to the chair and a desk across the room, but she forsakes the desk for her comfort zone. I like her style.

In the apartment above her, a cat often sits in the window and it hasn’t waved back at me quite yet.

Two apartments above the cat, a man doesn’t know that his low-placed light casts his silhouette against the blinds.

November 2008, Calgary.

The boy crosses the street towards the School for Bad Children. It is cold but his jacket is unzipped and hangs from his shoulders. He calls cheerfully to his waiting teacher, “I just saw some of my old friends but I walked right by them!” And I think of all the worlds of meaning in this scene and that sentence.

I am going to recycle the following:

Some kids from the elementary school near my workplace have been installed as crossing guards. They stand at each side of the road in their bright yellow reflective vests, blow a whistle and hold out stop signs. They’re so serious, their arms straight and strong, looking directly ahead, sternly. I say thank you to each one and smile, and they just flicked their eyes toward me and away again. They are little Buckingham Palace guards.

Where I’ve been

writing-in-bed

So. Things have been quiet here lately! After 20 years, it feels weird not keeping up a blog on a regular basis, not thinking about it. I wonder these days if blogs are fading in favour of other channels. Or maybe that’s just how it’s been with me.

I’m not saying I’m going away forever – this blog is a great place for me to share things I’m thinking, or little bits of creative writing that don’t really make sense on Instagram or Twitter. But I wanted to share some of the other places where I’ve been more active lately:

The Quiet is Loud – My TinyLetter
I’ve been writing here about once a month, sharing longer thoughts on writing and life stuff. Many of my letters are made public, but some aren’t – so please subscribe if you’re interested!

YouTube
I started a little channel to talk about writing things, and sometimes books. I’ve also been doing  a fun YouTube Book Club with my friend Suzen – Slam Book Fever – reviewing the first 12 Sweet Valley High books from a distance of ~30 years.

Pinterest – Novel research
Now that the first draft of my novel is finished, I thought it would be fun to share the Pinterest research board I’d been adding to periodically as I wrote. It’s interesting to see the earliest pins, the things I thought would be part of my novel over a year ago. It’s changed, but it’s also gratifying to see how close it remained to that initial vision!

And of course, I’m still posting on Instagram and Twitter quite a bit!

Doris Lessing and wool-gathering

writing 2010

My grandmother and Doris Lessing presiding over my writing desk, 2010.

I found an old post from a different blog (called “Wordscience” – not to be confused with another, more talented Samantha!), written in 2010 as I was reading the second volume of Doris Lessing’s autobiography. This excerpt has always stuck with me, and I thought it worthy to share here too:

Impossible to describe a writer’s life, for the real part of it cannot be written down. How did my day go in those early days in London, in Church Street? I woke at five, when the child did. He came into my bed, and I told or read him stories or rhymes. We got dressed, he ate, and then I took him to the school up the street . . . I shopped a little, and then my real day began. The feverish need to get this or that done . . . had to be subdued to the flat, dull state one needs to write in . . .

And now, on the little table that has been cleared of breakfast things, replaced by scattered sheets of paper, is the typewriter, waiting for me. Work begins. I do not sit down but wander around the room. I think on my feet . . . I find myself in the chair by the machine. I write a sentence . . . will it stand? But never mind, look at it later, just get on with it, get the flow started. And so it goes on. I walk and I prowl, my hands busy with this and that . . . I walk, I write. If the telephone rings I try to answer it without breaking the concentration. And so it goes on, all day, until it is time to fetch the child from school or until he arrives at the door . . .

So that’s the outline of a day. But nowhere in it is there the truth of the process of writing. I fall back on that useful word ‘wool-gathering.’ And this goes on when you are shopping, cooking, anything. You are reading but find the book has lowered itself: you are wool-gathering. The creative dark. Incommunicable.

– Doris Lessing, in Volume Two of her autobiography, Walking in the Shade

Novel draft finished!

So, I did it! I finished the first draft of my novel!

novel draft

I finished it a couple of weeks earlier than anticipated, and I’m still not really feeling like it happened, despite the printed-out evidence above. Evidence, by the way, that looks way more daunting as a thing I can hold in my hand than it did as something I could scroll through on my computer.

If you like, you can read more about finishing the draft in my most recent TinyLetter.

And now – on to editing this thing!

Some girls wander by mistake.

Recently I went down a Sisters of Mercy-induced nostalgia spiral, and this particular nostalgia spiral was of a different sort than usual, because it led me to a time period I’m not used to feeling nostalgic for.

In high school I used to listen to Sisters of Mercy, but I also listened to all kinds of things. I used to look forward to ’80s “Retro Night” on the radio each Sunday, but I also dove headfirst into the short-lived swing revival of the ’90s, and my favourite band in the whole world was Moist. I wore a trenchcoat from the army surplus store, polyester “old-man pants,” and a KMFDM patch on my backpack. I was kind of all over the place. I didn’t know how to be one kind of way. I didn’t look down on it, as a concept – it just didn’t cross my mind as something I should do. And you can tell, when you look at old photos of me from high school and my early twenties.


(There’s also a photo of me dressed all in black and wearing a Nine Inch Nails t-shirt, but I also look like I’m about to burst into tears – unrelated to the shirt – and my ego won’t allow that to go on the internet, even 21 years later.)

My late high school and post high school life was similarly all over the place. My big dream was to study poetry at a certain university in San Francisco, work in publishing, and have my first novel out by 23. Instead, I didn’t go to university at all anywhere. I created a play in Toronto with my friends. I made lino prints and zines on my bedroom floor. I used to drive home from my restaurant closing shift, listening to Sisters of Mercy and New Order to stay awake. I got on a Greyhound bus to move to Calgary at age 21.

I used to feel irritated about certain things I did with that time of my life, even though the play and the zines were among the most wonderful things I’ve ever worked on. However, lately I have been spending the past few days remembering how nice that entire time was – all of it. I did good, fun, useful, growing-up things. It was better that they weren’t the things I thought I should be doing. It was the time in my life that led to this online journal entry, from 2001:

It’s been six days since last I updated. It feels like two. Or ten, I haven’t decided yet. Working sixteen-hour days on a play has completely messed with my sense of linear time. If I didn’t have the date strapped to my wrist I’d be lost. But I’m fine. I don’t have to be anywhere until 3 today, which is something new and exciting for me, and I’m actually eating something that’s not Futures coffee or sushi takeaway (much as I love sushi). Tonight I don’t have to build any tables or trawl thrift shops for costumes or drive all over creation picking up set pieces. My hands are covered in theatre filth. I spent the night in a beanbag chair.

Last night was our opening and overall it went well. It just doesn’t feel like anything happened. I wasn’t nervous, I wasn’t excited. I was hovering somewhere in between. I was concentrating so much on making everything Work that I forgot to relax.

Relax. Wow. I still remember that word.

I’m going to go now and make a sacrifice to some god so that my cellphone will just stop ringing.

Every single part of that feels so removed from my life now. And where I used to feel annoyed at that, now I think it’s great. I think she’s great. And for the first time I want to write about that weird, messy, hopeful sort of person I was. That strange turn-of-the-century world that seems longer ago than I realize. Perhaps the distance, the loss of the prickliness I used to feel about everything, will help.

Productive nostalgia, for a change!