Wednesday, September 29, 2010

In which I tell the tale of getting lost on a mountain...

Just got back from a lovely trip to Vermont. It's as pretty as they claim, maybe prettier, and very hilly.

I have a gouge on my left shin. I got it on a hike. We took the easy way up and came down a trail called "The Precipice".

"Why do you think they call it THAT," I asked my fearless husband. I'm not fond of exposure to open expanses of air. I like the idea of having at least two steps to regain my balance. This is not what "The Precipice" is about. "The Precipice" is about balancing on little edges, clinging to a line of heavy gauge wire put in place to prevent hikers from plummeting to their deaths.

We used the wire. We did not die.

Yay.

After the dangerous part was done, we got lost. Not serious lost...just confounded by the absence of trail. I'm sure the trail was there, under the blanket of bright leaves. Apparently they take their Fall pretty seriously in Vermont. They even go to the trouble of making it smell amazing.

As we wandered about we met a fellow from Boston - at least that's where he told us he was from. He was also lost. He was talking on his cellphone. I think his wife was trying to give him directions down.

Vermont has a lot of trees. You can't see through them for any distance. I kind of like that. The man from Boston did not share our enthusiasm for the fullness of the forest. He was afraid.

He was concerned that he hadn't worn any insect repellant. He was convinced the cellphone coverage would diminish as we descended. It became clear to Ken and I that he was feeling that he might die.

It was equally clear to us that if we simply headed down hill, by whatever route, we would come to the river and the river would lead us back to town. We told this to the man from Boston, but I think he had issues with the theory. His voice quavered, "Does this mean we're not really on a trail anymore?"

I laughed and I told him, "It's OK. We've been lost in places that count way more than this."

My husband is a gracious man, sometimes beyond measure, and so he was on this day. He calmly explained to Mr. Boston that we were from Canada, that once, on a three day backpack, we miscalculated a route through the Palliser Valley in the Rocky Mountains. He recounted our grizzly bear sightings and told the man how we'd been forced to spend the night in a tiny alpine meadow with a young moose outside the tent.

Oddly, this seemed to bring cheer to our companion.

You can tell, by my writing, that we survived. There was a little bushwhacking, a few small curses, and a scratch or two before we finally emerged from the forest and into the expansive back yard of a really lovely home. The yard had a pond...with ducks. I like ponds with ducks.

The three of us crept sheepishly though the immaculate yard. We walked toward town, amazed at how disoriented we had become on our short trek. Oddly, we emerged from the forest very close to Mr. Boston's hotel, no more than 500 meters. Our car was parked a good distance away.

I could tell, as we parted company, that the Bostonian wanted to give us something more than a thank-you, but his hands and pockets were empty save the cellphone. He was half way across the street when he turned and shouted back, "my wife and I are having dinner at the Simon Pearce tonight. It's supposed to be really good. It fills up quickly, so you need to make a reservation."

Here is what I learned from this experience:

Getting lost is easier than you think.
Our experiences define how we perceive danger.
Even if you've nothing else to give, you can always recommend a good restaurant.

Finally, I believe that somewhere, perhaps as I type this, there is a man in Boston telling the tale I have just told. He's telling it very differently because it is his story. It did not begin at "The Precipice" and it ended in a restaurant we did not visit. I'm sad I can't be there to hear it. I think I would like his version.

That is the glory of story.

Wandering, but not lost...
Kari









Tuesday, September 21, 2010

What if THIS is as famous as I ever get?

I've got a daughter who's cutting her social teeth in the era where everyone expects notoriety, in one form or another, at some point in their lives. Two years ago she was wearing shoes that fastened with Velcro and now she's convinced she's due her "Warhol's 15"... her moment on the stage.

"Famous? You mean like Justin Beiber?" I ask. The world's most famous teen is front page news as he tours Alberta, so he's top of my head.

"Yes, but not for singing."

"What do you want to be famous for?"

"Dunno." The little one skips off to do her hair (a talent she's cultivated with no guidance from me).

I follow her to the bathroom. "Maybe you could be a famous writer?"

She giggles as she stares at herself in the mirror. "Writers don't get famous, Mom."

"Some do." I open the door wide and watch her organize her locks with a selection of color co-ordinated clips. Damn, she's good.

"J.K. Rowling is famous."

"What book did he write?"

"She. She wrote all the Harry Potter books." The child puts down the last hair clip, gives me a look I didn't expect for another seven years.

"Harry Potter is movies, Mom. The movie is famous. TV stars are famous, and singers."

So, that's that.

As I watch my girl make order of her last errant strands my thoughts return to young Mr. Beiber. I recently watched a documentary on his rise to prominence. It included footage of an early concert where many of the Moms present were crying and screaming nearly as passionately as their daughters.

I kind of get it. I mean most of these women, in their thirties now, were deprived of decent boys to scream at during adolescence. They missed Donny Osmond, David Cassidy, the Bay City Rollers and all those lesser known yester-cuties currently making the rehab reality show circuit. Women, I feel your loss, but let me say this clearly - save your tears for a your pillow. Adult women screaming, swooning and weeping over a barely pubescent boy is just creepy.

But back to the subject of fame. In a later conversation, the little one asks what I want to be famous for.

I tell her I don't think that I want to be famous.

She looks at me as though I've just confessed that I eat fairies for breakfast. "Then what do you want to do?"

"My best," I tell her. Her gaze doesn't shift and I can feel my eyes brimming with tears, the way they do when I tell the myself an absolute truth. She shakes her head.

"That's not the same as famous."

"You're right, it's not. And I'm totally fine with that."

She grabs my hand. "Oh, don't cry, Mom."

"It's OK," I tell her. I want to explain that there are a thousand things more important than famous. Instead I kiss her head and murmur into her well-managed hair, "these are happy tears."

Happily flying under the radar,
Kari

Thursday, September 16, 2010

No blog this week...most of what I had to say would have ended badly...for all of us.


Wednesday, September 8, 2010

Sippin' @ Starbucks: A Tragedy (Not Really)

I'm not a coffee snob. Seriously, I drink instant. Every day.

My glorious husband designates me "caffeine Philistine". He likes how that rolls off his tongue. I do too. My coffee habits drive him nuts. I do too.

On a given morning, I take my instant coffee with three ounces of that Hazelnut creamer that comes in vaguely phallic containers that you pick up in the dairy department at Safeway despite the fact that, as near as I can tell, they contain no dairy. None. Not a whiff.

I drink my instant coffee at my house.

Alone.

Except yesterday.

Yesterday there was work going on at the house. Noisy work. I had writing to do. I needed internet accesss, relative calm, and coffee.

So, may Tim Horton forgive me, I did it.

I went to the Chapters on McLeod, the one with the Starbucks, and the WiFi... Make no mistake, I'm not proud, but it was soooo easy. I abandoned my home office, my Taster's Choice, my Hazelnut in a penile decanter. I sat at a high table.

I don't really speak Starbucks - but I've discovered that if you order a "large chai latte", nothing bad happens. They don't make you order your size in code (tea people don't need to get it), they don't ask for a temperature, and there is no foam to contend with ("with which to contend" for you sticklers).

I picked a nice table by the window, opened my laptop, took a sip and before I knew it I was deep into the work. I was IN THE ZONE. I dropped quickly into that deep spot where all that exists is the stuff in my head and the way it starts to appear on the screen for me to read...only it's not so much reading as watching the story unfold in real time (well - sort of real time - I'm a pretty crappy typist).

Yesterday the writer in my head was cranked on a large shot of chai. She was on fire.

I had planned a few pages of comic interlude but the "chai lady" in my head made it clear that this was the day my main character, Chuck, would contend with the death of his family while he floated in a fishing boat with his best friend.

It's 9:30 a.m. I'm probably a bit crazy looking on account of "did I really leave the house without brushing my hair?" Oh yeah, I did. I'm typing madly, sitting alone, at Starbucks...and I'm crying.

Oh yes...I'm crying.

At Starbucks.

I can actually see people watching me as I type. I could stop writing to tell them that "it's...just a book...just a scene" but I don't. Chai Lady's on a roll. Besides, if I don't dry for my characters, who will?

So I type and type until, damn, I'm outta Chai. When I finally stop I note that the piped-in music is Cat Stevens singing "Wind of My Soul". My eyelids are swollen, I'm still leaking tears, and a guy in Armani who ordered "skinny" coffee is giving me the hairy eye. It just doesn't get any better than this.

I sit back and reread. I cry again.

There are a thousand ways in which writing is hard. Sometimes it's hard to imagine that I'm fully responsible for the tragedies that bend or break sweet boys like Chuck. I think of his parents and twin sisters, how I put them in a rusty ice fishing buggy and plunged them into the icy cold of Lake Manitoba. The girls were so young. I didn't even give them a chance.

Sometimes it makes me wonder if I...

Anyway, today I'm back in my office. I could cry if I wanted, and no one would see me.

But it's not that day. The Taster's Choice is going down smooth and I've written this.

Not so hard.

Don't text and drive,
Kari

Monday, September 6, 2010

AWCS 30th Anniversary Anthology, Call for Submissions

To celebrate its 30th anniversary, the Alexandra Writers Centre Society and Recliner Books will publish an anthology showcasing work by individuals with connections to the society. There will be a print edition and possibly an e-book. Submissions from current and past members, instructors, sponsors or others connected to AWCS are welcome.

1. Genre: Short stories, novel excerpts, poetry and creative non-fiction. We define creative nonfiction as "literary" or involving imaginative use of language. No academic papers or reports. No multiple submissions. Please submit work in one genre only.2. Maximum Length: Prose: 3000 words, Poetry: up to 5 poems (max. 100 lines)

3. How to Submit: E-mail submissions only as attachments in .rtf or .doc (please no .docx) File name must indicate your name, title and genre. Eg. steinbeckjselectedpoems.doc/.rtf or smith_summer_cnf.doc/.rtf. E-mail to pearlsanthology@gmail.com Do not submit work to the Alexandra Writers Centre Society. Any submissions received at the centre or its e-mail address will not be considered.

4. Submission Response: All submissions will receive a confirmation that work was received. Also, work will be accepted or declined by e-mail.

5. Work Chosen for Publication: You will be e-mailed a contract to be signed that has been agreed upon by AWCS and Recliner Books and stipulates details. Authors of selected material will receive a one-time payment of $75 plus 1 copy of the anthology. This covers the printed anthology and inclusion in a digital version.

6. Submissions Format:

- All Submissions: Include a cover page as first page or in body of e-mail with your name, full contact information, e-mail address, association with AWCS, bio of 50 words or less and title(s) of work. Simultaneous submissions are welcome, just let us know and notify us immediately if your piece is accepted elsewhere.
- Prose Submissions: double spaced, 1 inch margins, Courier or Times New Roman 12pt font only, use a header with your name/title/ and page number on each page. Eg. Munroe/Lives/46 or similar.
- Poetry Submissions: Single spaced, Courier or Times New Roman 12pt font only. Poems should appear in one document but on separate page(s). Use a header with your name, title and page number since one or two poem from your submission may be selected for publication. Eg. Winter by Jill Smith. Subsequent page header: Smith/Winter/p.2. or similar.

7. Rights: By submitting work, you agree that AWCS and Recliner Books may publish it in the upcoming anthology and has the right to publish it in digital format for up to three years after which all rights revert back to author.

8. Deadline: Submissions must be received by December 15, 2010.

Submission guidelines and other information available online. Please visit www.alexandrawriters.org

Wednesday, September 1, 2010

Catch

If nothing else, I could always play catch with my Dad.

It was never an easy time between he and I. Me and he...we had few ideas that either could really understand...but "catch" - a ball tossed back and forth - was an easy reminder that I was his daughter - for he to remember that I was his child.

He passed on a craft he knew well. I would never throw like a girl...and I was a good catcher. More than once I've fielded line drives that dislocated my knuckles or sprained a thumb, and I could always make a play from centre field to second base without strain.

Catch was a mark my Dad etched into me. I was happy to receive it. He offered many other lessons I did not so readily adopt. That is the way it is, I think, with daughters and Dads.

Catch is a beautiful pass-time. It has no purpose. No one ever lived or died for throwing and catching, and yet this game has the rhythm of passive pleasure, like waves on a lakeshore. Every throw an advance, every catch a victory. Unlike the games that employ catching to other ends - baseball, football, rugby...the simple act of throw and catch is civilizing, mesmerizing...complete.

This weekend I played catcher to tired bodies as they crossed the finish line at Ironman 2010 (Can THIS body catch THAT body comin' through the tape?). The Ironman people actually call it "Catching".

As the beaten bodies came at me I remembered my Dad's words:

Open your eyes - if you can't see it, you won't catch it.
Plant your feet. Don't get knocked down.
Stay still...put the glove up and trust yourself.

Those bodies at the finish line at Ironman, they are crusty with salt sweat, they smell of urine or puke, or worse. The minds atop the fit bodies are exhausted and incapable of completing the simplest of tasks. They are spent. The job is to lead them, catch by catch (here is your medal, here is your shirt, throw me your timing ship, catch this water, grab some food), to the place where a loved will carry them away.

If my Dad ever read a piece of fiction, I was not there to see it. He could read, I know, but he had no time for anything that was not instructive. It's unlikely he would have read anything I've written to date. If he had, it's unlikely that he would have enjoyed it.

But when I write he is always in my head. Writing is a game of catch I play with myself. I pelt words back and forth, from one side of my head to the other. I try to throw the words so that they travel in a smooth arc, not a wasteful lob. I try to be crisp. Accurate. When I am warmed up, I let fly with the hard shit, huck it. I pick a target, always aim carefully. I try to keep good form.

I plant my feet.

No one will knock me down.

When I'm tired, I trust someone will be there to catch me, guide me toward the thing I need.

I am a body, comin' though the rye.

Catch.

Keep catching as catch can...

Kari