I was in my early teens when I read Oliver Twist for the first time. It was such a dark novel that I swore off reading any other Dickens novels. When I saw Great Expectations on the syllabus for my first-year university English course, I figured I was in for a tough, boring read. Instead, as we read the novel and discussed it in class, I became convinced that Dickens was a brilliant writer. I even signed up for an upper-year class just on his novels.
Recently, in my poetry class, I thought back to that experience. A few poems I thought were "good" when I first read them turned into "great" poems as the prof showed us what the poet did to create various effects in the poem. We looked at line breaks and how cleverly they were used to emphasize certain words and give the reader a message beyond the words. We read a poem with a strict structure and discussed how that fit the theme of the poem.
Yet even as some of these poetic devices began to make sense to me, I felt despair. These were poetic devices in the hands of a master. How could I, an amateur not-even-sure-I-wanna-be-one poet, learn to do that? In my English courses and in my own personal reading, I've read novels, poems, and other pieces that have left me feeling both "wow" and "drat." "Wow" because the writer is so good at what they did—and "drat" because I don't have a hope of ever measuring up.
And yet... maybe I do. In another class, my prof told us that there will always be voices in our heads (or outside) telling us (for whatever reason) that we can't do [insert dream here]. If we want to do the things that we dream of doing, we have to silence those voices and chase our dreams. He talked of the voices who told him no and how he overcame them through hard work and determination. And I thought "yes." I won't write the next bestselling novel tomorrow... but maybe, someday, as I keep working at my craft, I will write a bestseller or award-winner.
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
Monday, March 28, 2011
One Day She Can Do It
The other day, as I was sweeping the floor, Lily caught sight of my dust pile. Immediately she went into warp-speed crawling, and I quickly put one foot out to stop her and swept the pile further away, then relocated her while I went to get the dustpan. Yet I had to smile. In the last two months, I've watched her go from not crawling at all to being able to get from point A to point B in record time.
I expected her to start crawling around 8 months, when Sunshine did. There were a few attempts at pushing herself off the floor; then a little bit of army crawling, but she seemed to think that was too much work. As I watched her try to coordinate things, I realized just how hard it is to do a motion that I take for granted. So many muscles have to work together to move our bodies forward.
Watching Lily learning all the little "milestones," I've been amazed at how quickly she does learn. There's so much for her little body to do. And each time—whether the milestone was sitting up, crawling, or climbing the stairs—it seemed like one day she couldn't do it and the next day, magically, something had clicked and she could do it. It makes me think of the Psalmist's comment that we are "fearfully and wonderfully made."
I expected her to start crawling around 8 months, when Sunshine did. There were a few attempts at pushing herself off the floor; then a little bit of army crawling, but she seemed to think that was too much work. As I watched her try to coordinate things, I realized just how hard it is to do a motion that I take for granted. So many muscles have to work together to move our bodies forward.
Watching Lily learning all the little "milestones," I've been amazed at how quickly she does learn. There's so much for her little body to do. And each time—whether the milestone was sitting up, crawling, or climbing the stairs—it seemed like one day she couldn't do it and the next day, magically, something had clicked and she could do it. It makes me think of the Psalmist's comment that we are "fearfully and wonderfully made."
Friday, March 25, 2011
Book Review: Bound by Guilt
Last year, I had the privilege of reviewing C.J. Darlington's debut novel Thicker than Blood and chatting with C.J. about writing it. This year, she released the long-anticipated sequel, Bound by Guilt. The novel continues the story of Christy and Hunter, the main characters in Thicker than Blood, though they are secondary characters now. Roxi Gold is the new heroine, a sixteen-year-old homeless girl who steals the hearts of Jan and Keith Mercer—and the readers.
Roxi became a ward of social services when she was eight, and she's seen enough of foster and group homes to know a good thing when she finds it. So when her mother's cousin Irene takes her in, Roxi will do anything to make Irene love her—even help Irene steal priceless books. Irene plans the heists, while her son Diego and Roxi help her carry them off. Then one day, Irene decides it's time not just to sneak a few books out of the store, but to break in and steal a lot.
When the robbery goes bad, they hit the road, hoping no one finds them. Burdened by guilt, Roxi decides that her only choice is to run. Taking a few of the valuable books with her, she hits the road, hitchhiking as far from Irene as she can get. She ends up in Elk Valley, Colorado, hungry and broke and trying to find a job. When Jan Mercer catches her stealing protein bars at the Safeway, Roxi is sure she's going to juvenile prison... until Jan offers Roxi a job on her ranch.
Hunter's sister Abby is a cop who, along with Christy, is determined to find out who robbed her father's Book Barn. When Roxi and Diego each try to sell some of the books they stole, Abby finds their trail. As she catches up with them, Roxi and Diego must deal with the choices they've made... and Abby must decide to put justice before revenge.
I liked the way that the characters from Thicker than Blood played roles in this book, even though it's about a completely new character. When Roxi ran into Jan, I was just waiting for Christy's sister May to show up, knowing that she was also a rancher, and I wasn't disappointed. I also liked the way that ranches and rare used books were part of the plot and setting in this book, as in the first.
I really found myself pulled into Roxi's story, wanting to know what happened to her next. Her character shone in the novel as a young girl trying to make the right choices, desperately wanting to be loved, yet so hurt by her mother and how her life has been thus far. While faith plays a strong role in the novel, it didn't seem false. Both Roxi and Abby struggle with questions about God and why bad things happen in our life, and there are no easy answers.
If you haven't read Thicker than Blood, don't worry—Bound by Guilt stands on its own, with enough explanations of what happened before for the reader to understand the story (yet not get bore). Every page in the novel kept me turning to the next one, thinking Bravo!, C.J. I can't wait to see what she writes next.
Drop by C.J.'s website for more information, including the first chapter and other reviews, or watch the book trailer:
Roxi became a ward of social services when she was eight, and she's seen enough of foster and group homes to know a good thing when she finds it. So when her mother's cousin Irene takes her in, Roxi will do anything to make Irene love her—even help Irene steal priceless books. Irene plans the heists, while her son Diego and Roxi help her carry them off. Then one day, Irene decides it's time not just to sneak a few books out of the store, but to break in and steal a lot.
When the robbery goes bad, they hit the road, hoping no one finds them. Burdened by guilt, Roxi decides that her only choice is to run. Taking a few of the valuable books with her, she hits the road, hitchhiking as far from Irene as she can get. She ends up in Elk Valley, Colorado, hungry and broke and trying to find a job. When Jan Mercer catches her stealing protein bars at the Safeway, Roxi is sure she's going to juvenile prison... until Jan offers Roxi a job on her ranch.
Hunter's sister Abby is a cop who, along with Christy, is determined to find out who robbed her father's Book Barn. When Roxi and Diego each try to sell some of the books they stole, Abby finds their trail. As she catches up with them, Roxi and Diego must deal with the choices they've made... and Abby must decide to put justice before revenge.
I liked the way that the characters from Thicker than Blood played roles in this book, even though it's about a completely new character. When Roxi ran into Jan, I was just waiting for Christy's sister May to show up, knowing that she was also a rancher, and I wasn't disappointed. I also liked the way that ranches and rare used books were part of the plot and setting in this book, as in the first.
I really found myself pulled into Roxi's story, wanting to know what happened to her next. Her character shone in the novel as a young girl trying to make the right choices, desperately wanting to be loved, yet so hurt by her mother and how her life has been thus far. While faith plays a strong role in the novel, it didn't seem false. Both Roxi and Abby struggle with questions about God and why bad things happen in our life, and there are no easy answers.
If you haven't read Thicker than Blood, don't worry—Bound by Guilt stands on its own, with enough explanations of what happened before for the reader to understand the story (yet not get bore). Every page in the novel kept me turning to the next one, thinking Bravo!, C.J. I can't wait to see what she writes next.
Drop by C.J.'s website for more information, including the first chapter and other reviews, or watch the book trailer:
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
Lessons from Poetry
Classes wrap up next week and I have to say I'll be glad to be done. I have one last big project to write and two poems to revise before next Thursday. Writing those poems felt like swimming in mud, yet it was good to receive feedback from my classmates and professor. I won't say they are the last poems I'll ever write, because I might, maybe, someday have an urge to write more. At this point, however, I'd probably channel that urge into something else—like fiction.
Despite our six-week crash course in writing poetry, I'm not sure I understand it any better—or appreciate it any more—than I did before. Some of the poems we read this class were really good; others left me thinking that they were just prose with line breaks.
There have been a couple of nuggets that I've gleaned from the course. One is a poet's emphasis on word choice. It's gotten me thinking about the words that I use in my fiction—and nonfiction and other writing. Our prof told us to assume that every word in a poem is carefully chosen for effect. Why twilight instead of another time of day? Why this location? Why swan instead of flamingo? Of course, in a short poem it's easier to look at each and every word and consider its connotations and meaning, but it's still worth asking as I'm writing (or revising).
The other "nugget" is in writing emotion. We've read a couple very emotionally charged poems, and then analyzed how that emotion is conveyed. Our prof keeps warning us to use understatement and restraint to talk about emotion. "Gushy" poems are usually greeted with laughter or detachment. So, how should scenes of high emotion in fiction or nonfiction be conveyed? Sometimes, as in poetry, the emotion can be left to the reader. A simple description of the scene will leave them feeling [insert emotion] more than a statement of emotion. Readers are smart; they know how to respond to what they read.
As with our study of drama, I see how studying poetry can improve my other writing. I'm still happy to be done these sections of the course, so that next year, I can focus on the genres I want to write—fiction and nonfiction.
Despite our six-week crash course in writing poetry, I'm not sure I understand it any better—or appreciate it any more—than I did before. Some of the poems we read this class were really good; others left me thinking that they were just prose with line breaks.
There have been a couple of nuggets that I've gleaned from the course. One is a poet's emphasis on word choice. It's gotten me thinking about the words that I use in my fiction—and nonfiction and other writing. Our prof told us to assume that every word in a poem is carefully chosen for effect. Why twilight instead of another time of day? Why this location? Why swan instead of flamingo? Of course, in a short poem it's easier to look at each and every word and consider its connotations and meaning, but it's still worth asking as I'm writing (or revising).
The other "nugget" is in writing emotion. We've read a couple very emotionally charged poems, and then analyzed how that emotion is conveyed. Our prof keeps warning us to use understatement and restraint to talk about emotion. "Gushy" poems are usually greeted with laughter or detachment. So, how should scenes of high emotion in fiction or nonfiction be conveyed? Sometimes, as in poetry, the emotion can be left to the reader. A simple description of the scene will leave them feeling [insert emotion] more than a statement of emotion. Readers are smart; they know how to respond to what they read.
As with our study of drama, I see how studying poetry can improve my other writing. I'm still happy to be done these sections of the course, so that next year, I can focus on the genres I want to write—fiction and nonfiction.
Monday, March 21, 2011
My Modern Dance Class
Last semester, when I was looking at my extracurricular options, I noticed the modern dance class. I've always enjoyed watching dance and had fun doing ballroom dancing with my husband while we were dating. However, he found it vastly amusing that I wanted to try a modern dance class. He said, "Do you know what modern dance is?"
A few weeks later, he found a local recreational modern dance class for me to try. I wasn't going to pass up on his offer to watch the girls for one night a week while I went out, so I enrolled. The class billed itself as "no experience required," but only two of us had no previous dancing experience; two girls seemed very experienced, and the other three had danced most of the way through high school.
We spent most of the class learning choreography for "The Garden." I felt a little bit behind for the first few weeks as I tried to figure out jumps and turns that everyone else seemed to know. The choreography went very fast; I'd barely learned a section before we jumped into the next part. When the instructor mentioned the dance showcase at the end of the year, I was sure I'd never be ready. The others, who knew how to dance, could do that.
I kept thinking about the showcase, though. It'd be fun to do, a nice finale to all the work that we'd put into the class. On a good week, I'd think, "Sure, I'll do it." The next week, we'd move on to a confusing part of the song or I'd be really tired and I'd think, "Never mind." Two weeks before the last class, I was still undecided. At that class, though, we finished learning all the choreography and went over the song several times. It felt good. I was having fun. I said I'd do it.
We had one more rehearsal, a quick dress rehearsal in the auditorium, and then it was the night of the performance. I told Sunshine, who'd been asking to go to my dance class with me for weeks, that tonight she could watch me dance. As I walked over to get ready for the dance, I was calm. No butterflies. I can count the number of times I've performed in public on one hand, but I felt ready for this.
We had a group warm-up session and then retreated to the dressing room to get ready. Our instructor back-brushed everyone's hair into a wild mess and installed bright flowers. A fellow classmate and make-up artist painted our faces to look like porcelain dolls. Then we found a quiet corner to rehearse in. And rehearse. When girls admitted to butterflies, our instructor kept telling us we were awesome, we knew the dance, it would be great.
Our dance was third from last. Another girl admitted that she was getting calmer the longer we waited, but I was getting more nervous. Then the backstage crew called us to get ready. Lined up in the wings, we tried to see what was going on while our instructor continued to back brush our hair and assure us we'd do fine. Then the MCs announced us and we ran out onto the dark stage. The music started and we did what we'd rehearsed so many times.
It went by so quick. Never before had the dance seemed to short. I got distracted once and messed up a bit, but we kept going. After, we laughed and congratulated each other, then grabbed our stuff and ran up to the wings to watch the last two dances. Peering over the balcony, I could see Sunshine leaning on the chair in front of her, completely engrossed in the dances. Now I have some new moves to show her when we're dancing in the living room.
In the email inviting us to perform, the dance coordinator said, "If you believe Eleanor Roosevelt, we should all 'do one thing everyday that scares' us." As always when I've stepped a bit out of my comfort zone, and done something that I initially thought I couldn't, I had fun. While I'm not sure whether I'll do another modern dance class, I enjoyed this one, including the opportunity to present what I learned. Knowing that I can push myself in that way is a good feeling.
A few weeks later, he found a local recreational modern dance class for me to try. I wasn't going to pass up on his offer to watch the girls for one night a week while I went out, so I enrolled. The class billed itself as "no experience required," but only two of us had no previous dancing experience; two girls seemed very experienced, and the other three had danced most of the way through high school.
We spent most of the class learning choreography for "The Garden." I felt a little bit behind for the first few weeks as I tried to figure out jumps and turns that everyone else seemed to know. The choreography went very fast; I'd barely learned a section before we jumped into the next part. When the instructor mentioned the dance showcase at the end of the year, I was sure I'd never be ready. The others, who knew how to dance, could do that.
I kept thinking about the showcase, though. It'd be fun to do, a nice finale to all the work that we'd put into the class. On a good week, I'd think, "Sure, I'll do it." The next week, we'd move on to a confusing part of the song or I'd be really tired and I'd think, "Never mind." Two weeks before the last class, I was still undecided. At that class, though, we finished learning all the choreography and went over the song several times. It felt good. I was having fun. I said I'd do it.
We had one more rehearsal, a quick dress rehearsal in the auditorium, and then it was the night of the performance. I told Sunshine, who'd been asking to go to my dance class with me for weeks, that tonight she could watch me dance. As I walked over to get ready for the dance, I was calm. No butterflies. I can count the number of times I've performed in public on one hand, but I felt ready for this.
We had a group warm-up session and then retreated to the dressing room to get ready. Our instructor back-brushed everyone's hair into a wild mess and installed bright flowers. A fellow classmate and make-up artist painted our faces to look like porcelain dolls. Then we found a quiet corner to rehearse in. And rehearse. When girls admitted to butterflies, our instructor kept telling us we were awesome, we knew the dance, it would be great.
Our dance was third from last. Another girl admitted that she was getting calmer the longer we waited, but I was getting more nervous. Then the backstage crew called us to get ready. Lined up in the wings, we tried to see what was going on while our instructor continued to back brush our hair and assure us we'd do fine. Then the MCs announced us and we ran out onto the dark stage. The music started and we did what we'd rehearsed so many times.
It went by so quick. Never before had the dance seemed to short. I got distracted once and messed up a bit, but we kept going. After, we laughed and congratulated each other, then grabbed our stuff and ran up to the wings to watch the last two dances. Peering over the balcony, I could see Sunshine leaning on the chair in front of her, completely engrossed in the dances. Now I have some new moves to show her when we're dancing in the living room.
In the email inviting us to perform, the dance coordinator said, "If you believe Eleanor Roosevelt, we should all 'do one thing everyday that scares' us." As always when I've stepped a bit out of my comfort zone, and done something that I initially thought I couldn't, I had fun. While I'm not sure whether I'll do another modern dance class, I enjoyed this one, including the opportunity to present what I learned. Knowing that I can push myself in that way is a good feeling.
Friday, March 18, 2011
Explore: Victoria Butterfly Gardens
When Sunshine was about the age that Lily is, my mother and I took her to the Butterfly Conservatory in Ontario. She was fascinated by the butterflies sitting still and oblivious to those winging past her. So when I saw a coupon for the Butterfly Gardens here, I grabbed it.
We took the girls and their grandparents for Sunshine's birthday. Lily was engrossed by the koi and flamingos; she would have sat watching them for the whole visit (or rather, not "sat"—I had to hold her back from climbing over the railing to see them). Sunshine enjoyed seeing the butterflies and following the path around the hothouse.
I found it interesting that the butterflies are imported from "Eco-friendly" farms in Mexico. I guess with their short lifespan, it's hard for such a small place to raise enough butterflies for the tourists to watch. It was neat to see the butterflies in various stages of their development, though without the guided tour I wouldn't have noticed most of the eggs dotting the plants.
This morning, we went with my aunt to the gardens. My aunt has an annual pass for escaping to the tropics when Victoria has too many dreary grey days. It was neat to see what had changed in the month since our last visit. What had been a patch of dirt before was now full of spiky, colourful plants. An orchid was in full bloom. A patch of white flowers now had red centers. There seemed to be fewer butterflies, however, and my aunt said their population seems to fluctuate (these pictures are from our first visit; on this visit, I mostly saw blue morpho butterflies, and none of these two).
We bought our own annual pass this visit. Perhaps next time we go, we'll see more butterflies again. Or maybe the turtle will have arrived in his new home. Either way, it's a fun way to spend an hour with Sunshine and Lily.
We took the girls and their grandparents for Sunshine's birthday. Lily was engrossed by the koi and flamingos; she would have sat watching them for the whole visit (or rather, not "sat"—I had to hold her back from climbing over the railing to see them). Sunshine enjoyed seeing the butterflies and following the path around the hothouse.
I found it interesting that the butterflies are imported from "Eco-friendly" farms in Mexico. I guess with their short lifespan, it's hard for such a small place to raise enough butterflies for the tourists to watch. It was neat to see the butterflies in various stages of their development, though without the guided tour I wouldn't have noticed most of the eggs dotting the plants.
This morning, we went with my aunt to the gardens. My aunt has an annual pass for escaping to the tropics when Victoria has too many dreary grey days. It was neat to see what had changed in the month since our last visit. What had been a patch of dirt before was now full of spiky, colourful plants. An orchid was in full bloom. A patch of white flowers now had red centers. There seemed to be fewer butterflies, however, and my aunt said their population seems to fluctuate (these pictures are from our first visit; on this visit, I mostly saw blue morpho butterflies, and none of these two).
We bought our own annual pass this visit. Perhaps next time we go, we'll see more butterflies again. Or maybe the turtle will have arrived in his new home. Either way, it's a fun way to spend an hour with Sunshine and Lily.
Wednesday, March 16, 2011
For the Love of Theatre
I found it a bit amusing that our Writing 100 drama professor required us to attend a play (or documentary or independent film) for class, because the very first play I saw was for my introductory drama class at university, eight years ago. I went with a friend of mine to a Vern Thiessen play (funny that I can remember the playwright's name and not the play's name) and got hooked on theatre. In the spring, I bought the student subscription for the upcoming theatre season... just before my husband (then "just a friend") did the same thing.
We waved to each other during shows, or said hello and introduced our respective dates (I always brought a girlfriend; so did he, leaving me wondering if he was dating any of them or "just friends" like we were). The next year, I wasn't very impressed with the theatre's lineup of plays, so I wasn't going to renew my subscription. Then he emailed me in Australia, saying that the theatre was offering him a six-pack; did I want to share it? There were three plays I did want to see, so I said sure. Then I shook my head for agreeing to three "dates" with a guy I was "just friends" with.
As it turned out, we started dating officially before we saw any of those plays. In December, we even convinced my twin brother to come along to the theatre for his very first play—A Christmas Carol. We learned about rush tickets and attended fringe festivals and continued to enjoy theatre together.
Last week, we attended a new Janet Munsil play together. I found myself viewing the play differently, now that I had a bit more information about writing the play—much as I've found myself becoming a more critical fiction reader with the more that I learn about fiction. For example, stageplays are mostly dialogue—what the actors have to say to each other. What they do while saying that is largely determined by the actors and the director, with a few "stage directions" from the playwright. (This is why Shakespeare's plays are sometimes hard to read; we're used to more exposition around the dialogue to help us understand the dialogue).
During the play, Munsil poked a bit of fun at the art of theatre. Haydon, one of the main characters and an artist, accused another character (whom he thought was a famous actress) that her work wasn't really art. How could it be, when it didn't last? For a day, for a week, her work was there—then it was gone. Another actress, in another place or another time, might recreate the playwright's words... but the magic created by that actress (or actor) is short-lived.
Modern technology, of course, has enabled us to capture the work of actors and actresses for future generations and wider audiences. Movies may "last" longer than theatre, but I wouldn't say that makes them more "art" than theatre is. So must art be something that lasts? Or is it enough that it leaves an impression upon a person, such as that very first play I attended, which has brought me back to theatres again and again?
We waved to each other during shows, or said hello and introduced our respective dates (I always brought a girlfriend; so did he, leaving me wondering if he was dating any of them or "just friends" like we were). The next year, I wasn't very impressed with the theatre's lineup of plays, so I wasn't going to renew my subscription. Then he emailed me in Australia, saying that the theatre was offering him a six-pack; did I want to share it? There were three plays I did want to see, so I said sure. Then I shook my head for agreeing to three "dates" with a guy I was "just friends" with.
As it turned out, we started dating officially before we saw any of those plays. In December, we even convinced my twin brother to come along to the theatre for his very first play—A Christmas Carol. We learned about rush tickets and attended fringe festivals and continued to enjoy theatre together.
During the play, Munsil poked a bit of fun at the art of theatre. Haydon, one of the main characters and an artist, accused another character (whom he thought was a famous actress) that her work wasn't really art. How could it be, when it didn't last? For a day, for a week, her work was there—then it was gone. Another actress, in another place or another time, might recreate the playwright's words... but the magic created by that actress (or actor) is short-lived.
Modern technology, of course, has enabled us to capture the work of actors and actresses for future generations and wider audiences. Movies may "last" longer than theatre, but I wouldn't say that makes them more "art" than theatre is. So must art be something that lasts? Or is it enough that it leaves an impression upon a person, such as that very first play I attended, which has brought me back to theatres again and again?
Friday, March 11, 2011
Seven Quick Takes of Victoria, BC
One of the things I've noticed with moving out to Victoria is the stores that are different here than in Alberta (or even mainland BC). For example, if we go grocery shopping, we can pick from Safeway, Thrifty's, Fairway Markets, Country Grocer, or Pepper's. To fill up the Jeep with gas, we could stop at Shell or Esso—or go to Chevron. Coffee drinkers can choose between Starbucks or Serious Coffee (no, I haven't tried it yet). There's one huge Chapters here, one Coles, and one Smithbooks, and a whole lot of other bookstores. The only Joey's Only is an hour or two up island. The closest Superstore is out in the suburbs.
* * *
There's a big focus here on "locally owned and operated" (Peppers and Serious Coffee are both such), which I think is cool. However, when I can choose between the $2/dozen imported white eggs or the $7/dozen local brown organic eggs... well, I'm a student with a budget. I've also noticed a larger selection of organic produce out here, as well as alternative foods (like gluten-free pastas and mixes).
* * *
I haven't been able to find a good country radio station here in Victoria; there's one I can pick up from Seattle, but then I have to put up with a lot of American commercials (and commercials are bad enough to begin with, much less when they're about stores I've never heard of and can't get to). When we used to drive around northern Alberta, my husband would flip through radio stations trying to find one that wasn't country.
* * *
Roads out here have much slower speed limits than in Alberta. For example, Highway 2 through Calgary has a speed limit of 110 km/hr; drivers on Highway 16 through Edmonton can do 70-80; and Highway 1 through Victoria goes at 50. Driving up island, the speed limit goes from 70 to 90 to 80 to 60 to 90 to 70... so you can never set the cruise control. I commented on that to a friend of mine in Comox and she said, "Isn't it 110?" Only for about the last half hour before Comox, where the road gets straight and I actually whooped because that's the fastest I've driven since we got here.
* * *
I must mention the rubber boots here. In Alberta, you can find rubber boots at any Canadian Tire or UFA; they come in basic black, with red soles. If you are under ten, you might be able to find pink or green boots. Out here, the sky is the limit with rubber boots and people wear them every day (not just in the mud or on the farm). I've seen black and white checked boots, purple boots, striped boots, flowered boots, plaid boots, polka-dot boots... you name it, you can probably find it out here. Sometime before we go back to Alberta, I'll have to buy myself a pair of nice rubber boots.
* * *
Oh, the weather. It's been a pretty nice winter so far, I think, though one lady who's lived here for seven years commented that this was the coldest winter she's seen. We had two weeks of snow (one in November, one in February) and a few weeks of rain and more days of sun. Even the days when it rains are cold, though. I still wear my big down jacket and bundle the girls up in their winter coats. Last week, we had one day that felt like spring—almost didn't need a jacket on. It was so nice to take the girls outside to play for longer than a few minutes without getting chilly.
* * *
One time when my cousin (from here) visited me in Alberta, she commented that it seemed strange to her to think that there wasn't water anywhere close. Being here, I can say the opposite: it seems strange to me to think that if I drive more than a few kilometers in any direction (other than up island), I'll hit a beach. On a nice day, we can see the mountains in Washington. But unlike the mountains in Alberta, I couldn't just drive straight there if I wanted to go. We're stuck here, subject the whims of the ferries.
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
Lenten Resolutions
When I first started blogging, I was hesitant to mention my faith. It was like being at a conference or in a new place, where until you figure out where everyone else might stand, you don't want to mention something that might make you unpopular. Then I decided that this was part of who I was and I shouldn't be hiding my light under a bushel basket, so to speak. I tried to blog honestly.
Lately, well, lately I haven't had much of a faith life to blog about. I can't remember a time in my life when I've felt further from God. Looking back, I can see the slow road that brought me here. Maybe it began in those months of newlywed bliss, when spending time together took precedence over being alone with God. Maybe it happened in the early days of motherhood, when finding a routine and juggling the needs of a little one interrupted quiet times.
However it happened, I find myself here, feeling empty and dry. During high school, I noticed that my writing output was directly proportional to my devotional time. The more time I spent reading my Bible and praying, the more my creative juices flowed. One of my profs spoke of this spiritual connection to writng, leading us through an example of his own daily spiritual routine and urging us to find something similar to get us going.
Today is Ash Wednesday, the start of Lent within the Catholic Church (and Lutheran and other traditions). It seems like a good time to try to focus on my faith once again, to revive that relationship with God that I once had. I've made a few "resolutions" for this season, which will hopefully stick better than those typically made in January.
Years ago, I heard a speaker make an interesting comparison about the value of reading your Bible every day. At first, he said, it's like taking vitamins—you do it because it's good for you. Then it becomes more like eating oatmeal—filling and nutricious, but hard to get down sometimes. Finally, as you persist and keep reading, it becomes like having peaches and ice cream—rich and delicious. I've seen myself go through each of those stages at various times in my life. Right now, I'm back to vitamins, but I'm going to try taking them every day.
Lately, well, lately I haven't had much of a faith life to blog about. I can't remember a time in my life when I've felt further from God. Looking back, I can see the slow road that brought me here. Maybe it began in those months of newlywed bliss, when spending time together took precedence over being alone with God. Maybe it happened in the early days of motherhood, when finding a routine and juggling the needs of a little one interrupted quiet times.
However it happened, I find myself here, feeling empty and dry. During high school, I noticed that my writing output was directly proportional to my devotional time. The more time I spent reading my Bible and praying, the more my creative juices flowed. One of my profs spoke of this spiritual connection to writng, leading us through an example of his own daily spiritual routine and urging us to find something similar to get us going.
Today is Ash Wednesday, the start of Lent within the Catholic Church (and Lutheran and other traditions). It seems like a good time to try to focus on my faith once again, to revive that relationship with God that I once had. I've made a few "resolutions" for this season, which will hopefully stick better than those typically made in January.
Years ago, I heard a speaker make an interesting comparison about the value of reading your Bible every day. At first, he said, it's like taking vitamins—you do it because it's good for you. Then it becomes more like eating oatmeal—filling and nutricious, but hard to get down sometimes. Finally, as you persist and keep reading, it becomes like having peaches and ice cream—rich and delicious. I've seen myself go through each of those stages at various times in my life. Right now, I'm back to vitamins, but I'm going to try taking them every day.
Monday, March 7, 2011
March Write Mama
Mothering
DebB presents Kids Play In Dirt – Boost Immune System posted at Increase Metabolism & Live Healthy, saying, "Regardless of what parents think, a child needs the dirt to play in."
Bonnie Way presents Three Inspiration Nonfiction Books for Moms posted at The Untrained Housewife, saying, "These are some of my favourite mommy books, the ones I turn to when I'm having a rough day or need some encouragement."
Debbie Cluff presents Desperate Housewives Influence... posted at The Cluff Family Files, saying, "While this season of Desperate Housewifes started out horrible, I think the series is kicking it into full gear with the latest hilarious quotes and laughable moments. Seriously, carving out some time with BFF's is such a stress reliever and I think is overall healthy for my kids and my marriage."
Erin Pavlina presents Spiritual Parenting posted at Erin Pavlina - Spiritual Wisdom for Conscious People, saying, "People often ask me how I raise my children without religion, as I’ve written in the past that I was not raised with a religion nor do I plan on raising my own children religiously. Basically I plan to raise them spiritually."
Rosa Wilson presents some helpful advice for moms in Change of Address: 10 Tips for Organizing Your Mail posted at Change of Address.
Writing
Nicole Adams presents Why Book to Film Adaptations Often Fail to Impress posted at Law Degree.
Erica Vernon presents 5 Tips for Writers to Improve Productivity posted at Online Marketing Degree.
Moms and Writers
Bonnie Way presents Writing Assignment posted at The Koala Bear Writer, saying, "This is a semi-fictional account of life as a writing mom."
That concludes this edition. Submit your blog article to the next edition of Write Mama using our carnival submission form. Past posts can be found on our blog carnival index page.
Saturday, March 5, 2011
A Day in Vancouver
Yesterday, we ventured off the island and into the big city of Vancouver. I don't think I've ever stopped there before; I've always been travelling through the city on my way to somewhere else. Just that short visit made my husband and I both glad that we didn't choose to move there last year.
The day started out somewhat of a disaster. Lily wanted to eat just when the alarm clock went off. Then we got everyone packed up and out the door, only to get to the ferry and find out it was full. We watched them load the last cars on and wished we'd been about 15 cars further up the line. So Lily and my husband napped while Sunshine played in the park until the next ferry arrived. Then, when we finally reached Vancouver, the drive that took 40 minutes on Google maps took an hour in real life.
After dropping my husband off, I made my way to the Vancouver Aquarium with the girls. Because of the ferry delay and the traffic, we only had a couple hours to wander around there, rather than most of the day as we'd planned. While I enjoyed watching all the marine life, it was stressful doing so by myself—Lily didn't want to ride the stroller and Sunshine dashed from exhibit to exhibit. We enjoyed watching the sea otter and belugas and several of the fish aquariums, and even caught part of the dolphin show (from behind other spectators).
One thing I noticed at the aquarium was the conservation theme. The dolphins were doing tricks for treats because they'd gotten stuck in fishing nets and been rescued. The frogs were suffering from pesticides, pollution, and people's garbage. And the belugas were having troubles in the Arctic because of huge climate changes up there. It was neat to see all the birds, fish, and animals, but also sad to think that our lifestyle is hurting theirs.
Then it was back to pick up my husband, which was easy... until there was no parking by Chapters and I had to go around the block which turned into around ten blocks because of the one-way streets and seemed to take forever because of bumper-to-bumper rush-hour traffic and the thousands of pedestrians at every corner. When we did make it back to Chapters, he was waiting for us and jumped in the Jeep with books for girls and a frappucino for me (goodbye, stress!). We toured quickly through Granville Island, then headed for the ferry... or so we thought.
When we went over a bridge we didn't recognize, we realized we were going the wrong way and stopped to look at the map, then turned around and drove back the other way. Now we were watching the clock again, anticipating another two-hour wait because we just missed the ferry. This time, we were in luck—we got to the terminal and drove straight onto the ferry, the second last car to get loaded up. We had supper on board (despite the disappointment that, the time we wanted to try the buffet, we were on a boat without a buffet), watched Sunshine and Lily play in the kids' area, and then arrived safely back at home, glad to see a familiar city once again.
The day started out somewhat of a disaster. Lily wanted to eat just when the alarm clock went off. Then we got everyone packed up and out the door, only to get to the ferry and find out it was full. We watched them load the last cars on and wished we'd been about 15 cars further up the line. So Lily and my husband napped while Sunshine played in the park until the next ferry arrived. Then, when we finally reached Vancouver, the drive that took 40 minutes on Google maps took an hour in real life.
 |
| Sunshine watching the sharks and sting rays in the aquarium |
One thing I noticed at the aquarium was the conservation theme. The dolphins were doing tricks for treats because they'd gotten stuck in fishing nets and been rescued. The frogs were suffering from pesticides, pollution, and people's garbage. And the belugas were having troubles in the Arctic because of huge climate changes up there. It was neat to see all the birds, fish, and animals, but also sad to think that our lifestyle is hurting theirs.
Then it was back to pick up my husband, which was easy... until there was no parking by Chapters and I had to go around the block which turned into around ten blocks because of the one-way streets and seemed to take forever because of bumper-to-bumper rush-hour traffic and the thousands of pedestrians at every corner. When we did make it back to Chapters, he was waiting for us and jumped in the Jeep with books for girls and a frappucino for me (goodbye, stress!). We toured quickly through Granville Island, then headed for the ferry... or so we thought.
When we went over a bridge we didn't recognize, we realized we were going the wrong way and stopped to look at the map, then turned around and drove back the other way. Now we were watching the clock again, anticipating another two-hour wait because we just missed the ferry. This time, we were in luck—we got to the terminal and drove straight onto the ferry, the second last car to get loaded up. We had supper on board (despite the disappointment that, the time we wanted to try the buffet, we were on a boat without a buffet), watched Sunshine and Lily play in the kids' area, and then arrived safely back at home, glad to see a familiar city once again.
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
I'm Not a Poet and I Know It
My introductory writing class has moved onto the last genre we'll study this year—poetry. I've rather been dreading this section. While I've written some poetry, I know I'm nowhere close to being a poet and this probably isn't a genre I'll pursue (unless the right mood strikes me). Drama was interesting because I'd never done it before; fiction was easy because I've done so much; nonfiction was a good look at current standards; but poetry feels like it will be really tough.
Having a BA in English means that I studied the classic canon of English literature, and much of that was poetry. Shakespeare, Blake, Wordsworth—all those "dead white guys" whom modern poets eschew. My favourite poets are John Donne and Robert Browning, mostly because I find much of their poetry shocking and bold. In the works of any of those poets, I prefer the poems with a strong rhyme and rhythm, such as
Comrades, leave me here a little, while as yet 'tis early morn:
Leave me here, and when you want me, sound upon the bugle-horn.
That poem just seems to canter off the page. Tennyson had an ear for rhythm that I certainly lack. He makes poetry seem easy; my own attempts at it have shown me just how hard that is.
One of my fellow students asked our professor if she could write rhymed poetry. The prof responded that the student certainly could if she wanted to—but that writing poetry with rhyme was like setting out to run a 10-km marathon, with hurdles and crocodile pits and people shooting at you from the sidelines. I thought, "Aha! You've admitted that nobody writes rhymed poetry anymore because it's hard to write."
Yet given the freedom to write free verse, I still found our first poetry assignment difficult. I had an idea that seemed like a good idea, until I tried to write it down. I tried another idea. Still nothing. A third idea. It seemed as stupid as the first two. Finally, I hashed out something—anything—to submit to my workshop group. Still, I ask myself, as I asked of one poem we read during class, "What makes this poetry, beyond the line breaks? If I took those breaks out, would it just be a postcard story?"
In class, we've read some poems by Seamus Heaney that I've really enjoyed. The poems have strong images and emotion and use poetic devices other than rhyme. I want to read them again and again, to explore deeper what the poet is expressing. Our prof calls them "dense" or "muscular" poems. Reading those poems, I will agree that they are great poetry and that poems don't need a rhyme scheme. Yet his poetry is just as daunting as Tennyson's, for I still look at it and think, "Okay, that's great—how do I do that?"
Someone I know commented she likes writing poetry because it's challenging. It sure is. I can understand that, just as there were aspects of drama that can make my fiction stronger, there are poetic techniques I can use in my other writing as well. So I'll continue to grapple with what makes good poetry and hopefully expand my canon of "favourite poets."
Two lines quoted are from "Locksley Hall" by Alfred Lord Tennyson. Heaney picture from www.seamusheaney.org/gallery.html; Tennyson picture from www.victorianweb.org/authors/tennyson/tennybio.html.
Having a BA in English means that I studied the classic canon of English literature, and much of that was poetry. Shakespeare, Blake, Wordsworth—all those "dead white guys" whom modern poets eschew. My favourite poets are John Donne and Robert Browning, mostly because I find much of their poetry shocking and bold. In the works of any of those poets, I prefer the poems with a strong rhyme and rhythm, such as
Comrades, leave me here a little, while as yet 'tis early morn:
Leave me here, and when you want me, sound upon the bugle-horn.
 |
| Alfred Lord Tennyson |
One of my fellow students asked our professor if she could write rhymed poetry. The prof responded that the student certainly could if she wanted to—but that writing poetry with rhyme was like setting out to run a 10-km marathon, with hurdles and crocodile pits and people shooting at you from the sidelines. I thought, "Aha! You've admitted that nobody writes rhymed poetry anymore because it's hard to write."
Yet given the freedom to write free verse, I still found our first poetry assignment difficult. I had an idea that seemed like a good idea, until I tried to write it down. I tried another idea. Still nothing. A third idea. It seemed as stupid as the first two. Finally, I hashed out something—anything—to submit to my workshop group. Still, I ask myself, as I asked of one poem we read during class, "What makes this poetry, beyond the line breaks? If I took those breaks out, would it just be a postcard story?"
 |
| Seamus Heaney |
Someone I know commented she likes writing poetry because it's challenging. It sure is. I can understand that, just as there were aspects of drama that can make my fiction stronger, there are poetic techniques I can use in my other writing as well. So I'll continue to grapple with what makes good poetry and hopefully expand my canon of "favourite poets."
Two lines quoted are from "Locksley Hall" by Alfred Lord Tennyson. Heaney picture from www.seamusheaney.org/gallery.html; Tennyson picture from www.victorianweb.org/authors/tennyson/tennybio.html.
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