The question is not whether we will die, but how we will live. —Dr. Joan Borysenko

I've contemplated death a lot this week. Not in a morbid way, but in terms of its role in life and, more specifically, in this writer's life. Without a doubt it is prompted by the unexpected loss of two icons, famously brilliant in their fields and quietly generous in their private lives. Why is it that I mourn their loss? Why celebrate that they lived at all? Why does it feel so personal when I've never met them? And, while I've greatly admired them, I'm not sure when I last saw Rickman on screen or listened to one of Bowie's songs.

I think, for me, they exemplify my life's ideal: to pursue what you love with great stubbornness and passion. They didn't listen to naysayers. Nor did they try to conform to trending types. They were, in all of their incarnations, true to themselves and their art. Both were chameleons who challenged themselves repeatedly through change—that ever-constant thing that so many of us fight, when embracing change is what makes us fly. It is why they soared high enough for all of us to take note.

So what is the role of death in this writer's life? It is the reminder that there is only so much time in which to do the things I want to do. That finiteness is a powerful motivator. I will not leave my dreams standing at the threshold. I'll continue to invite each one in. Get to know them. And when I am satiated by those dreams, I will open that door again and see what else is waiting.

I have not and will not live complacently on the sidelines of my life. And, hopefully, when I step off this planet, I will have left some worthy words behind. If not, know that I died happily trying.

The Psychology of Writing

The psychology of writing would have made an interesting doctoral thesis. I read of writer's frustration, writer's block and writer's angst. And writers subject themselves to this daily, yearly…willingly. All for that illusive moment of euphoria, when they know they've chosen the perfect words and wrapped them around an engaging plot. But it is a rare moment, and it is fleeting. It is followed closely by worry about the next words or, worse, doubt about those words that only days ago seemed like gems. Anxiety leads to rearrangement of those perfect words like they were flowers in a vase that just might look a little more balanced if the gerbera were shifted a little here or the baby's breath there.

I confess to being guilty of all of the above. It feels quite inexplicable at times. I mean, I don't have to write. I certainly get to choose what I write. So, why subject myself to the internal anguish? I have no answer to that except that "I must" and that feeling is as baffling as the subjugation to the pleasure/pain process.

This week I have been working on Mags' story, a character I met in Lizzy's world. I started with enthusiasm and then stalled. I have written the first two chapters and several scenes that occur further on. But, as I stare at the computer, I find myself looking for something else to write, something else to do. Scenes for other stories I am writing infiltrate and I grab onto them, getting them down, patting myself on the back because, hey, I'm writing, right?

Finally, I realized what was happening. I like Mags—a lot. She's already had a hard go of it and deserves a little happiness. However, that's not what's coming. I know this. I see this. And, I hurt for her before her pain even begins. As long as I don't write, she stays in a pseudo-happy limbo land. The moment I begin, there is no turning back. She will never again be the same sweet Mags I met in Lizzy's story.

On the other hand, nobody is truly happy living in limbo, including an author. So, I pushed through the reticence and wielded my pen, metaphorically slaying a seventeen year old. Undoing her world. Burying her deep enough in the ugly hole that life can be sometimes, that it will take her the whole novel to dig her way out…if she can. I don't know. I can't see that yet. Perhaps, if I could, I wouldn't have been so hung up on flinging her into it in the first place.

I've changed my mind. I don't think the doctoral thesis should focus on the psychology of writing but the psychology of the writer. Speaking for myself, it is one busy mixed-up world inside of my head. It might make for an interesting study. Here's hoping it makes for interesting stories.  J

2015: Shaken, Not Stirred

Wow. 2015 is gone. Done. Finished. Never to return again. Kaboom!!!...and, fireworks and all of that. For me, it truly was an explosive year, a rollercoaster ride with lots of flash and splash and dips and turns. Absolutely exhilarating.

I am uncomfortable with complacency, always have been. My head lives in the world of "What if?" It has led me through so many wonderful and disastrous life decisions. From my fragile foray into performing with Newfoundland and Labrador Theatre to puppeteering for kids, from waitressing and bartending to ushering folks around the world as a tour escort, I have had so many incredible experiences. My creative heart discovered a home with our theatre troupe, Madcap Players, and my drive to know more, do more, be more, found its place in education as a teacher, a consultant, a post-secondary educator and an administrator. I thank all of you who have been a part of those experiences that challenged, enriched and fulfilled me. I am blessed, blessed, beyond blessed.

Still, it was not enough. It is no secret to those who know me that stumbling across Diana Gabaldon's Outlander series ignited, in me, a renewed passion for reading and writing. In 2008, I began my writing journey with Raven's Path. What a buzz! It is a high so addictive that DH and I sat down and made a plan that would allow me to sniff the sweet blossoms of fresh words on a regular basis. It made no sense to give up a career I loved, a lucrative one to boot, to chase dreams across the page. Yet, that is exactly what I did because, you know, what if?

2015 was our first full year of embracing the new "us". We snowbirded it (that really should be a verb considering the number of Canadians who head south each winter), breaking from the mainstream who head to Florida and, instead, went to Texas—because we met in The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas in 1985. We were ecstatic with the unfamiliar freedom, yet plummeted as we grappled with the lives and the careers we left behind. The rollercoaster had left the platform.

A bitter ice storm and an eight-hour drive that turned into fourteen hours, with many cars—including police cruisers—off the road, changed the trajectory of our lives. DH looked at me the day after that intense drive and told me that I needed to find a house that I wanted…in British Columbia.

Our path has been clear since that proclamation, but it has not been without its peaks and valleys. Goodbyes are hard. Really hard. Hellos come with challenges too. Yet, as we embraced new friends, we also discovered that we have not said goodbye to old ones. In some ways we are more connected than we were when we lived amongst those we love. You make that special effort to reach out. You recognize that it is no longer sitting and waiting for you because you live around the corner. Some of those friendships are glowing brighter because of the distance, some in spite of it.

It's the end of the year, and our roller coaster seems to have eased into the station. Let's step into the bar, pull up a chair and choose a beverage. We'll lift a libation to celebrate the moment, the year, our lives. I'll begin with champagne, but I think it needs to be followed by something a little more complex. Something that reflects the choices we have made. Perhaps something shaken, not stirred.

How about you? What toast reflects the year you have left behind? The year that lies ahead? Whatever it is friends, old and new, I lift my glass to you and wish you the strength to pursue all of the what ifs in your life.

Cheers!

My Christmas Wish

Many things have changed over the past year. Yet my Christmas wish is the same and, in light of world events, remains pertinent. Please click the link below to revisit my post. May the generosity that abounds during the holiday season infuse and sustain us all throughout the year ahead. Merry Christmas!

My Christmas Wish

A Few of My Favourite Things

During this season of love and joy, I thought I'd contribute a little to commercialism and share a few of my favourite things...for those looking for last-minute gift ideas.




A wonderful new Christmas CD to get you in that festive mood.

Or, how about tickets to see a favourite artist? Yep, that's Jann Arden again. Can you tell I just love her? DH surprised me with tickets to go see her in concert this March. He didn't get them because it's Christmas but because she is actually coming to the island, performing 12 minutes away from us and she is so stinkin' good. We've both wanted to see her perform live. I will now be able to put the final check on my Canadian fab three list, since I've seen Diana Krall and Holly Cole.

 I saw this yummy group of guys on Tout le monde en parle. Their voices are even more delicious. Okay, there are some spectacular female voices on it too. Treat yourself. Mikie and Bobbie, I'm looking at you. 

How about a gift certificate to your favourite restaurant? If it has a view like one of our favourite haunts, and sea lions to boot, all the better.

 

A book. Or two. Or three. I bought this one to feed my Outlander addiction. And then I bought another twenty or so to feed more of my addictions...Susanna Kearsley, Genevieve Graham, C.C. Humphries, Terry Fallis, Elizabeth Hoyt, Anna Campbell... J



Consumables. You cannot go wrong, particularly with sparkling wines. This is the absolute best from our local winery Unsworth...also one of our favourite restaurants. You might not all be so lucky as to get your hands on a bottle of bubbly from them...and I'm sorry for that. I'm sure you'll manage to find something comparable...maybe.

I know you want one, but you can't have either of these. If you already have one, snuggle the stuffing out of the wee beastie and tell her/him how much you appreciate the joy and love brought to each day, just by their very existence. They are far too fleeting in our lives, my friends, but their purity of spirit and the memories of faithful companionship last forever.

 

Merry Christmas!

 

Brigadoon

Rain-drizzled windows, swaying trees and awnings creaking in the gusts that sweep across the land—I am in heaven. I arrived here in July and plan on staying here until I am in, well, heaven? The vista is magnificent and the feelings it stirs as the forces of nature wash the canvas anew are indescribable. I yearn, I long and, yet, I am fulfilled.

I was blessed with an amazing school in my last years as an educator. I called it Brigadoon, for surely it rose from the mist just for me each morning; nothing that wonderful could exist in this world, could it?

Well, it seems that I lead a blessed life. I have exchanged one Brigadoon for another. And, if you look at the pictures, you can see not only how spectacular my backyard view is, but can also appreciate how the mists create such a rich image of the impossible, the magical. Of course, if you are not into musicals, you won't even know what I'm talking about…and that's okay too. J Just enjoy the photos. I certainly do. Each and every day, framed by a window while I write.

It is my muse and my escape. It is my home.

Today's rain-swept landscape.

Brigadoon

From Brigadoon to our back view in one hour.

My good luck writing charms...'cause I know some of you look for
 their pictures and because they really are. Each day, as I write, they sit
 beside me and support me, while enjoying the view too.

Writing counts.—Allyson Dickey

November was a busy month for me as a writer. For the first time in a few years I committed to NaNo...sorta. For the uninitiated, NaNo is the short-form term used by writers in reference to National Novel Writing Month. Writers commit to getting 50,000 words down in 30 days. Now, I must confess that I did not officially sign up this year. I love the inspiration but, realistically, I felt I could only produce 30,000 words. So, in my writers' forum, we set an accountability corner where we each established what we felt was our own achievable goal. I set mine:

Goal: 30,000
Goal: 40,000
Goal: 50,000

Nano was freeing. Through the discipline of its daily routine, I have once again found my writing mojo. I didn't make it to 50,000. I made it to 48,437 three days before the end of the month. And, I stopped—not remotely disappointed. I finished because I'd come to the end of my story. Lizzy murmured in my ear every day, and I furiously scribbled down her story. But she was done. I was done. We were both spent.

It is on the low side for a young adult novel count but I am fine with that. I will not need to cut my darlings but embellish them, enhance them, colour around their outlines until their scenes glow. I have left many a […] in the story, indicating that I need to go back and fill in detail, to paint with richer tones than I was able as I chased the plot. For that is what I did in November. I ran, I fumbled, I grabbed it in my hands and slam dunked it. The story.

 

I chose to write this young adult story, not only because it was unencumbered by research, but because Lizzy would not let me be. She wanted to be heard. I listened. I cried. I wrote her from the heart.

This month will be spent on revision—sorting the wheat from the chaff and seeing just how close I am to actually having a finished novel. That's the practical side of this thing we call writing. But, I know what really happened November 2015. The voice that whispered is a compilation of too many I heard in my years of education and, for once, I had the power to make a difference.