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Lessons from the London Underground: finding the buried treasures

Was there a reason I went to England, I was asked? I suppose there was. At the time, it was a vacation promised my 12-year-old, who as the youngest of three spent a great deal of time the past few years in airports seeing her siblings and/or mother off on trips, never to take one herself. “I like airplanes,” she reminded me plainly this past spring after yet another person’s travel plans were finalized. So, I promised her a trip, initially someplace in our home country of Canada. When a quick search had me utter in my outside voice that London was cheaper than most domestic destinations, my little Harry Potter fan launched her flight plan and within an hour had a complete itinerary of HP hotspots (with a Downton Abbey tour thrown in for her old mom) if we were to travel to England. So in Hawaii 5-0 fashion I booked it, Dano, and we prepared for five days and nights of London (and Oxford/Bampton/Highclere) in early August.

Was it a work trip, I was asked? A writer’s getaway?
Initially, no. I did pack a journal and pen. This was just five days of being open to all the firsts – new country, new city, and new role – that of leader rather than follower where travel was concerned. I’ve been a few places, foreign and domestic, but always as part of a family, group or partnership in which I was the least experienced. Never did I have sole responsiblity for myself, let alone my child, in a place where we knew nothing and no one. It turned out this trip was a most powerful invitation to that part of myself too long hidden, the part I needed to not only have a safe and awesome trip, but to write the stories I’m called to write, the live the authentic life I’m called to live, the part of ownership and trust in my decisions and actions, faith in the unknown, power where powerlessness too often festers and consumes.

Life is not a spectator sport, yet for much of my life I have been doing just that: observing, imagining … but rarely doing. I learned that from my parents, and they from theirs. Stay safe. Engaging in just about anything carries a risk. Be content with where you are and what you have. No need for more.

In a city such as London, however, there is more with every step: history, connections, awareness, invitations to delve into the past or create the future, all while committing the present to immortal memories. To stand in  the shadow of a building that has weathered a thousand winters, to watch a street poet create an original artwork before your eyes, to meet people from all over the world who share the same interests as you – it’s all there, but you have to walk there and be open when you arrive. I had two choices: stay safe and stick to the street near our hotel, or trust that I can do what millions of people do every day, get on the tube and allow it to take me.  Once the decision to leave the comfort zone was made, there was no going back. There were moments I was too exhausted to take another step, but what else can you do? There was no one to come fetch us, no way to get out of the station except up that massive flight of stairs. At one low point I am staring at a map of the stops, not recognizing a single name and saying out loud, ‘what are we going to do?’ The choices, no matter how unappealing, were simple. We either find a way home or stay the night right there in front of the map. We did the unthinkable. We reached out to a stranger. With their hints we figured it out, we as in my daughter and I, she at 12 with the wisdom of an ancient, me pushing 50 but in the moment going on 5. As fearful and frrustrated as those low moments were, her brilliance continued to warm my darkness and call me out. When I looked around, I realized we were far from alone and in fact, often knew more than many of the folks huddled over their maps, appearing desperately lost. The world is made up of all ages and abilities, reisdents and tourists, each a blend of lost and brilliant; the London Underground is a perfect slice of that to be examined and savoured, if you alliow yourself the space and time to abosrb the journey as well as the destinations.

The cashless ticket that gets you on London’s extensive transit network is an Oyster Card. Theories vary as to the origin of the name. As an oyster protects its pearl, the loadable card protects your cash and access. Hong Kong has the Octopus, so London kept with the marine theme. A play on the phrase “the world is your oyster.” Interesting that an oyster produces a pearl out of sheer irritation; that damn grain of sand that it cannot expel or ignore. London’s underground was the sand in my shell: each day began with ‘how will we get there’ and the gut-churning invited by the unknown. After five days, I did not have a pearl, but I did have a piece of my life back.

And I can’t wait to go back for more.

And I can’t wait to write about it.

Why London? It was what I needed. To show my daughter things are possible if you allow space to imagine, create and do. To prove to myself I am enough. And to let her show me children are far more aware than adults, that invitations are all around me if I choose to listen.

That may have nothiong to do with writing for some. For me, that has everything to do with my writing. Space. Listen. Do.

Thanks for being here.

Jennifer Hatt is author of the Finding Maria series and a partner in Marechal Media Inc.

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Put numbers in their place

My Resolution for 2017.

Why? Because it’s just a number, this New Year’s Day included. Being another year older and wiser, I have come to realize that my stress with the approaching new year has been not my lack of accomplishment, but the setup of Jan. 1 as an unwinnable ideal, a shining magical starting line for a new life. Yet year after year, we wake up and discover it is just another day. No cheering section, no confetti, and the brass band I hear is my son practising his trumpet, achieving his dream not because of the date, but because he’s working at it every day.

I remember oh so clearly the Y2K craze, except at the time it was unfolding, it was a very real fear. We were told over and over by a range of experts that the world’s computers were not equipped for dates beyond the year 1999. As a result, on Jan. 1, 2000, computers would crash, power stations would cease to function, automated systems would go dark … technical Armageddon. In our house we installed an alternate heat source, stockpiled food, backed up our computers, then on New Years Eve we kissed out infant son in his crib and prayed we would see morning light. As we all know, the day dawned with not a bloody thing different. Everything worked, includding my aged fax machine. The date was just a number: a concrete place for our fears, but far from an accurate picture of things to come.

It is said numbers don’t lie, but they sure as hell fib by omission and fuel decisions with the compassion and insight of a sack of stones. The real conflict each New Year’s? Humans crave the safety of numbers, yet are designed to think, feel and act ‘outside the box.’ A fresh year promises a new world where the human spirit can soar, yet it is hemmed in by promises built on numbers that don’t move, see, feel, think or provide anything other than cold, hard judgement, such as:

a person’s health and beauty by their weight

an author’s talent by number of books sold

a human’s worth by their bank balance

a job’s quality by the salary

the depth of love by the number of presents, or the size of the diamond

Well, screw that, is my resolution number one this year. Numbers have their place. We need quantity to make sound decisions. But, we need context, too, and the ability to know, feel, own and act on what is good for us beyond the numerical scale. A 2,000 calorie a day diet may remove some pounds, but without the context of body type, metabolism, personal goals and type of food, it could turn a plump healthy body into a ravaged unbalanced vessel. Some of the world’s best storytellers and harbingers of history have never made the bestseller list. And some of the best resolutions have not started on Jan. 1, which in itself is just a number, and a cultural variant at that. Chinese New Year is Jan. 28 in 2017. Rosh Hashana, the Jewish New Year, is in September. In some Christian faiths, Christmas isn’t over until Epiphany, celebrated the first Sunday in January after New Years Day.

So, Jan. 1 for me is another day – a great day of opportunity, choice, and action. But so will be Jan. 2, Jan 24, Feb 8, and every day before, between and after. Each day is a gift. Treat it as such, rather than a deadline. That is where the magic lies, in our choices, and knowing who we are and what we want, beyond the numbers.

Here’s to an awesome 2017, one day at a time.

Jennifer Hatt is author of the Finding Maria series and a partner in Marechal Media Inc. See more at www.FindingMaria.com.

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The Path Less Travelled

I looked down over a cliff and with only a belief, a calling and a trusty pair of flipflops, I started down. This was the beach calling me, not one with tidy boardwalks and crowded with tourists, but shards of sandstone around me and underfoot, and not a soul around.

It is not unlike the writing life, this trail less travelled. Our ability to spot paths few others can see, then craft a map of words to follow draws us into a life much craved by those watching, but lonely in its midst. It requires us to spend vast amounts of time in places no one else sees, imagines, or wants to be. Loneliness is not just a side effect, it is a catalyst to dive in, discover, finish, and connect. In this moment, however, I didn’t recognized any of this. I only knew I felt inside as awash and submerged as the rocks below, a day beautiful above but churning within.

It wasn’t nearly as tough as I thought, the descent. For the first time in hours, I thought of nothing: my fears as a writer, my failures as a friend, my irritation that seemed to rise like the tide to a frenzied pitch then recede leaving me dark, empty, confused. With that energy diverted to muscle and focus, each movement found solid footing, each step inched me closer to my goal. Seated on a throne carved by centuries of the sea, surrounded by surf, warmed by sun, I had arrived. I was whole in that moment: body and spirit. I could do anything I was called to do.

Then I looked up. The path I had seen on my descent was gone. The gravity that was my ally was now my adversary, working against my every step. And who the hell was I kidding? I was a fat old lady in a dress and flipflops, which were now wet in my dance with the sea, not a rock climber. I had followed my impulse without any thought to getting myself out. And my companions were off looking at historical plaques and fishing boats. I wasn’t even missed. Or so I thought. How quickly the powerful woman of moments ago was washed away by that one word: thought. I know I can. I think I can’t. Why does thought win?

Because it’s safer that way. Think it through, we are taught. Don’t act without thinking. There is merit to the advice, but only as a reinforcement, not as a decision. Our bodies know our capacity, which is often far greater than our brains give us credit for. You got yourself down here, you can get yourself back. That wasn’t thought. That was knowledge. A fact. So, I stood, stretched toward the sun, breathed, and found a new path, one foothold at a time. Just like writing, one word at a time. If it’s too dark to see, write another word or another scene. If there is no way out, keep inching forward. Write your name, gibberish, anything to keep the blank screen from having the last laugh. It’s in you. Keep moving.

I did. Rock by rock. Foot by foot. I was at the top. And I was not alone. I never was. Tanya was taking pictures the entire time, a witness then and giving me a continued reminder for shadowy times like today. She asked how I got down there. The path and the call I followed were clear only to me. In those moments of descent, of feeling the spray from untamed waves, of rising again with no skill, training or equipment, I was more myself than I had been all day. No strategies, no calibration, no predicting or judging or worrying: just a belief, an impulse and my trusty wet flipflops. And now, a lesson and reminder I can carry with me when I think I’m incapable, overwhelmed, unworthy. I know now what I can do with my thoughts. Use them to shine, not to hide. And wear sneakers. A little preparation doesn’t hurt.

Photos by Tanya Petraglia. Used here with much love and gratitude.

Jennifer Hatt is author of the Finding Maria series and partner in publisher Marechal Media Inc.
www.FindingMaria.com

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Getting to the roots, Engaging to the core

Two weeks ago my beloved 50-foot silver maple tree succumbed to high winds and uprooted my lawn and my world. I’ve just spent five days taking my world back, not replanting to replace or duplicate, but embracing the opportunity to reach deeper, higher, differently.

The seed: a five-day program called Engaging and Awakening Others. That is what authors do and why they do it. However, some of us called to write have heard and heeded the spark of creativity, but have way too many layers of self-doubt, fear, anxiety, conditioning, and others’ values and beliefs to allow that creativity to take form and shine. This program is not just for writers; in fact, in my few years of connecting with Wel-Systems programs I have met everyone but those who make their living from the printed word. But spending these five days exploring who I am, who I am called to be and why the hell I’m not doing it will not only make me a more whole and happy person, it has given me the skills to tackle those classic writing blocks and excuses that keep my words hidden and my creativity hostage.

Here are three excuses that have locked my words and ideas in the dungeon, and what I’m doing to release them:

1. I don’t have time.
Classic strategy, and one easily sold to those who observe a busy mother of three, an author, publisher, freelance writer, communications consultant, friend … yes, I am and do all of those things, but I still have time to write. An hour, 15 minutes, a day here and there. I make time to eat, nap, pick up my children (when someone esle could do it), meet with clients, flop on the couch for reruns and linger over laundry as if it were prized artwork. I make time to do what I feel is important. Me saying I don’t have time to write is me saying writing isn’t important to me. Why would I say that and be called to do it at the same time? Because to feel its importance would be to admit that I love it, and past experience with myself and observing others is that you should love nothing or no one that much, let alone show it. You’ll be teased, you’ll be used, you’ll have your heart broken. That’s what I was telling myself every time I thought about writing. But no more. Writing is what I do. It is part of who I am. That’s why I wrote the Finding Maria series. Yes, it was to give someone I love their life back. It turns out the stories and their process of creation were also to give me back my own life.

2. My writing sucks.
The only voice to tell me that is the one inside my head, the voice of my intellect which in its bid to keep me safe needs to keep my world small and all external influences out. Quite frankly, all writing sucks and all writing is brilliant. The only thing writing can never be is perfect, which is the unrealistic ideal I set up to keep everything shut down. ‘This isn’t perfect, so it must suck … quit wasting your time and go do something useful.’ I still hear that voice. Yet as I write this, my body is absorbing the anxiety and using it to slide words from my cells to my fingers. Yes, I own it, my writing sucks. It is also brilliant. It is up to the reader, not me, which description they choose.

3. Everyone will hate me.
This is my eight-year-old voice, the one who craved attention on the playground, standing among kids bigger and older because she was moved ahead a grade, teased and avoided because she was the ‘smart one.’ Success brought ridicule, I learned early on. Fitting in, now, that was a safe place. It just wasn’t a place to be creative, innovative, or shiny, which is what writing can do. Writing can also give insight into one’s essence: hopes and dreams, fears and doubts, opinions and vision. To have someone criticize, demean, or attack anything in there is like having a chainsaw loosed on your insides. However, in finding my adult voice I realize I don’t need playground attention from those seeking the small and weak. I crave attention from those who own and love themselves, share that love and respect with others and acknowedge that when they shine, the whole world becomes brighter. To attract that attention, I have to start within, embracing the dark,light, and grey that is me, owning it all. In the past five days I’ve learned that the ‘everyone’ I was giving my power to was actually myself. No one hated me, except me. Inviting myself to love myself allows me to love the words I create. Will these words be a commercial success? Maybe. What is guaranteed is that they will be authentic, which will serve mne long after the promotion fades and the royalties dry up.

This is by no means an easy process, or over and done with in five days. This is the start of a new way of living, with thoughts fed by feelings, rather than the other way around. Like my tree uprooted, my life is now upside down. But like my tree, which has found renewed purpose in new form, so will my life, if I let my spirit and body lead my once-overwrought mind.

Have a good week!

Jennifer Hatt is author of the Finding Maria series and a partner in the publishing company Marechal Media Inc.
www.FindingMaria.com

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Owning my Inner Unruly Child, One Word at a Time

Quick-tempered, then withdrawn, reactive, close to the chest, stumbling over the sound of her own voice, like a toddler and a teenager all in one, so powerfully entwined like a garden untended, choking out the adult that gets only rare opportunities to poke through. How have I survived? Apparent success in life has been due to two things :

1. Those brief visits by adulthood

2. The relative immaturity of much of the human race

That’s not disparaging, but it is a comment on how we’ve been raised through the generations: emotions dismissed, cursed, quashed; intellects bolstered to swollen, spirit left to atrophy. Grow up! We’re told later, as if we had a magical formula to bridge childhood  and adulthood. Instruction and support on learning to read or drive a car we had, but on embracing and using one’s emotional power? Nada.

Is it too late? I’ve decided it isn’t, if I:

1. Own my immaturity

2. Work with it

3. Grow

Not everybody has to, nor should they. We’d be just plain boring if we were all the same. But I’ve decided my inner child is denying me entry into the life I want. So, then, it is time to evolve. Here’s where to start.

1. Strengthen your body. Something has to channel all that energy.
Muscles. Nourishment. Make sure you have enough.

2. Own your life. All of it. Memories, actions, choices, those horrid checkered pants you wore in fourth grade, the time you slipped on the ice and missed a goal in the peewee playoffs (and got shunned in the locker room), the time the teacher sneered you’d never make it through high school, the time you punched him in return. We’ve done stupid things. We’ve hurt people. We’ve hurt ourselves. That can’t be changed. Our futures can.

3. Do something every day that’s uncomfortable. Make a cold call. Run 500 meters. Post a blog with your photos in it. (Done!) Offer to meet with someone who bugs you at work. Don’t deny your instincts or common sense and play chicken with a train,  but tackle something your anxiety is telling you is dangerous, when in fact, it will help you grow. You do know the difference.

4. Do something every day that is pleasurable. A glass of wine after work. A glass of wine with work (if you’re writing safely at home.) Chocolate. A walk. Good music. A reward that won’t undermine you, hence the giant bag of Doritos is out if physical training is on the list, but something that gets the happy hormones flowing and tells you – Hey! Great job today!

5. Build a team. Not yes folks, but those who emulate the qualities you’re trying to achieve and who are solid enough to challenge you, remain detached from your crap and love you for who you are now, and who you will become.

6. Hang in there. This will take years. The rest of your life, perhaps. But guaranteed, you will end in a better place than you started.

Today, I’m seizing the moment. Tonight, I’ll no doubt slack off but I’ll be honest about it, and keep at it again in the morning.
How about you?

Jennifer Hatt is author of the Finding Maria series and a partner in Marechal Media Inc.
See more at www.FindingMaria.com.

Photos by Tanya Petraglia.
Used here with much love and gratitude.

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Resolutions We Can Keep

It’s fresh start time, but I have the attention span of a flea and am by necessity, cheap. Can I commit to anything workable? Here are my thoughts.

As I stared at the piles in my office it occurred to me that I have spent hundreds of dollars and countless hours on organizing things with files, baskets, shelves, cabinets and those cute crafty inventions on Pinterest (which I nail, by the way … NOT). Yet as small business owners, our most valuable assets are not the papers on our desk or files on our hard drive, but the things carried in our hearts, souls and bodies: our memories, experiences, ideas, and feelings. How much do we invest in processing and sorting all of that?

In my case, not nearly enough, which is why for years I have felt like I’ve been pitched overboard into a sea that some days is calm enough to almost let me reach my tropical island, before a wave sucks me under, rakes me across the coral and bounces me offshore. Regimens to fix me are numerous, it would seem, but as mentioned, routine is my sworn enemy and to survive on a writer’s budget, I’m cheap. As a result, I need resolutions that are super easy, cost next to nothing, and give me results NOW. Here are my Top 5 resolutions for staying organized and energized this year.

1. Breathing. I know, obvious and overstated. Yet, when I’m overwhelmed or jabbed by a spear of self-doubt, my breathing becomes so constricted and uncommitted that the air I take in could barely keep a bird alive, let alone fuel the brain and body cells I need to do soemthing constructive. Deep breaths: a gift we can give ourselves anytime we need it.

2. Water. Again, I heard this so much I tuned it out, until I tried it. I added five glasses of water to my day: one when I got up, one with each meal, and one before I went to bed. Some days, I found I drank more but even on those days when I didn’t want any, I was glad I drank them. I could actually make decisions about what to recycle and what to keep, when I had the liquid fuel I needed on board.

3. Art. A favourite song. Better yet, a whole list of go-to songs for every occasion and mood: for reflecting, for planning, for jumping in and tackling that bloody overstuffed closet once and for all. Add to that a photograph or painting that inspires or transports you to another place, a mini vacation before stepping back into the fray. That quirky little statue on my shelf is there not because it’s valuable or even beautiful, but because it reminds me of the tacky Florida gift shop shaped like a wizard where our family had a blast two years ago. We all have these things in our home, our office, our car even, but sometimes forget to let them in and absorb their goodness.

4. Plants. For anyone who knows me, this is hilarious. I’ve killed everything in the garden, including the plastic stuff. But I’m finding as I become more mindful, I am keeping a plant or two alive, and that’s a great feeling. So much of small business ownership is intangible, where you can’t see or touch that which you are building, that it’s encouraging to witness progress of any kind, whether its a seed sprouting roots or an herb producing enough leaves for dinner. And, if it doesn’t work out, compost it, learn from it and start again.

5. Time. 15 minutes. One-quarter of an hour, once a day, all to me, to snuggle in a blanket, meditate, read a chapter, colour a page, or nap. Fifteen minutes is nothing to to the folks out there needing our energy, expertise, and services, but it is an eternity to us: time enough to rest, be thankful, and to dream.

These are simple, which works for me. Self care is not something that I was taught or had modelled for me in my formative years, and as we know, learning things with an adult body and brain has its own set of challenges. I may never graduate from remedial self-help, but after my glass of water this morning I’m pretty sure I can get one more pile in my office sorted. Then who knows? Maybe tomorrow I’ll be back to writing Book Five.

Wishing a terrific year to each of you, full of what works for you.

Jennifer Hatt is author of the Finding Maria series.
Read more of her blogs, and about her books, at www.FindingMaria.com
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Five things my father’s life teaches me about writing

I am my father’s daughter, a fact that both enriches and terrifies me. This will, however, make me a better writer. Here’s how.

First, though, a bit about my dad. He wasn’t a writer, he was an electrician by trade, both of us in the business of connecting: his medium was electricity, mine was words. We also didn’t realize then, but it is apparent now, that we shared something else: battles with ourselves,  defining our lives from the time we both could remember. For him, it was being born a gentle, loving soul into a sandpaper world, a determined spirit in a body plagued by childhood illness and chronic pain, a  life lived, as a result, in the protection of intellect while the spirit starved. On rare days his spirit won, and in those moments anyone in his presence, ever so brief, was made to feel part of something special, warm, aware, trusting in the great potential and unseen of the universe, until intellect would slam shut the door and begin the lockdown anew. His battle ended, I pray, with his passing on Dec. 13, 2015.
Reflecting on his life and death, however, has kicked my battle into high gear. I possess that same intellect, that same ability to talk myself out of things or even shut myself down rather than risk anything: stage fright as a child so severe that I quit the music I loved altogether at 16, and that by 30 was creeping into my writing as well. Shyness, self-doubt, fear of one’s own voice are all butterfly kisses of death to any form of success as a writer.
Life is choice.
So, should I ignore my spirit’s desire to connect through writing and save myself a lifetime of combat? Or, do I take a breath and dive into the memories, risking pain and drowning to find treasures of knowledge my time with my father has created?
I choose memories. There are thousands upon thousands, so for this first attempt I didn’t dive too deeply, and found these five. They came from our epic father-daughter battles, and from the quiet of just sitting together, saying nothing, knowing everything. Some things he taught me about what to do. Some are things I wished could have taught him.
Here they are, five things my father’s life teaches me about writing.

1. Be fastidious.
This was an endless source of amusement when I was younger, and annoyance in my later years. He would check, recheck, and check again, every little step along the way: burners on the stove, door locks, keys in hand, wallet in pocket … turning his computer on required the plugging in of two power bars and his monitor, plus the flipping of two switches. therer would be no power getting in or out of there without his say-so. Yet, it was this same attention to detail that saved me on grad night from driving to the wilds of cottage country without a drop of oil in the car, or from overpaying the government three years in a row on my taxes.
In the context of writing, attention to detail can lead to a better quality of product, more efficient service, and benefits to both author and reader: good relationship, more sales, solid reputation … all great stuff.

2. Trust YOU.
This is something I wish my father could have learned, but he was raised in an era when trust was to be placed only in the ‘professionals’: scientists and doctors, for example. As he aged and his health issues multiplied, he placed more and more expectation on the medical system, but didn’t realize that in doing so, he was giving away more and more of himself. YOU do not need a degree, certificate, or acceptance letter to tell you who YOU are or what YOU are worth. In the writing world, where there is no clear-cut credential or formula to success, being true to YOU is the first and foremost unique quality YOU bring to the field. Once clear about YOU, then you as writer, publisher, or marketer can get out there and share your authentic story.

3. Know your numbers
Okay, chalk another one up to dear old Dad. He spent hours, and I mean hours, at his desk, examining every bill and bank statement, checking his investments and account balances, writing budgets, and managing schedules. If a penny was amiss, he was on the phone or, in recent months, on the computer to identify and remedy the discrepancy. He spent more time in a month on his finances than I did in a year, and since I am a small business owner, that was not overzealousness on his part, but slackness on mine. His being on top of his finances brought he and my mom the simple yet comfortable retirement they wanted,  a mere pipe dream for most people their age.
Know Your Numbers is the mantra of every marketing course I have taken, even those course supporting a business model based on personal goals rather than cold hard profits. Numbers are needed for good business decisions. Good decisions lead to success, yes, for writers, too.

4. Build your community.
Another lesson I had little time to impart. My dad was brilliant, charming, and loved, but rarely shared this with the larger world. His comfort zone was doing things completely on his own. Writing may be solitary, but words freeze on the page without support of family and friends, beta readers, editors, mentors, investors, and word of mouth, blog and social media. It’s a dangerous world out there, but silence inside is deadly.

5. Believe
In what? Something.
Marriage is tough, but my parents did it with love for 49 years, because they believed it was their life, the best they could do for their family and each other. We kids and grandkids have to agree: our parents gave us what they could for a good life, and gave us the tools to get what they couldn’t – or shouldn’t – give us themselves. Throughout the hard work and pain that his life often included, my father always believed in the Golden Rule – Do Unto Others as your would have them Do Unto You. He encouraged his children to be independent, respectful and honest. He challenged institutions to be more humane. He clung to the belief that we as humans could create a better society, even though his intellect churned it into frustration. On a personal note, he always dreamed of visiting the Egyptian pyramids. Hope he’s there right now, soaking up all the wonder and energy they represent.
As writers, we believe we have something to say. As published authors we believe what we write is of interest to others. To be successful, we must believe in what we do, absorbing the fear and setbacks and criticism and rejection as energy to move forward rather than recoiling from it. We have to believe the hour spent polishing a sentence, the months spent doing a business plan, the week spent recharging on vacation will pay off.

It has taken me nearly a week to write this. In these hazy days after my father’s death I wanted to write, needed to write, but my intellect would have none of it. I have napped, snacked, paced, tidied, deleted emails, scrolled my timelines back to early fall, and cried. I am still doing all of the above. But one word after another, I have finished this. I am my father’s daughter, the light and the dark of him, and I will make the most of the new lives ahead for both of us.

Thanks for reading,

– Jennifer

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A novelist, not a poet? Think again

I never considered myself to be a poet, but a chance encounter wth a poem I scribbled years ago revealed a future that a decade later is now my present. Poetry was the medium I needed at that moment to preserve something that would be meangingful only after I matured another 10 years. So, why am I not a poet? What is our relationship with poetry, anyway?
The great poet Maya Angelou has been quoted as saying, and I paraphrase, we rarely remember what people do, but always remember how they made us feel.
Poetry does much the same thing. The songs we cherish and sing by heart: words by poets. Princess Diana’s funeral: Elton John’s haunting melody, but his words – ‘Goodbye, English Rose,’ haunt us more, much more powerful than ‘Goodbye, Princess Diana.’ Think of John MacCrae and his vision of Flanders Fields. We all have our favourite or inspoirational poems, whether we realize it daily or not.
And the feeling is not always good.
Among my favourite poems – and it feels strange to use the word favourite – is Alden Nowlan’s The Bull Moose. Haunting and gruesome is how I would describe it, the story of the senseless torture and death of an animal at the hands of hunters. Many describe it as an analogy of the crucifixion of Christ.
Whatever the interpretation, it is an unmistakeable reminder of the human capacity for darkness, something we cannot afford to forget. Because of the vision it took to write it, the skill it took to narrow the message to an arrow that has pierced my memory since childhood, and the courage it takes me to read it even today, I list this as a favourite, even though I find it difficult to think of it, let alone read. Things that are good for you are not always pleasant, but there is a sense of satisfaction in partaking of them. It is for our own good.
But in the commercial world poetry is too easily dismissed. Its message can require a bit of peeling and simmering in a society that increasingly cooks by opening a can and pushing the start button. Its form is so laden with meaning that it can say in 10 words what it may take us 1000 words to share, and that can reduce its credibility in a society that values quantity over quality, where more is more, and less is just one letter away from lose. Those who know of the challenge shy away, as do those who show it little respect.
A special few hear the call and pursue the craft, putting in hours to play with a single word, but elevating our vision as a result.
A little tidbit about poetry, from BookRiot, a forum and news site for all things books:
Poetry makes up less than 1% of print sales in the United States, but has held steady in the past five years and posted increases in the past two years.

I wrote poetry in school as did most of us, when pushed by teachers to explore what they knew we would value later in life, butthat we just couldn’t see at the time. By high school, my poetic tomes had been reduced to contests between us bratty kids on variations of There Once Was A Man From Venus. Or Nantucket. Or … You get the idea. The one saving grace of this rather colorful time of life was that writing was still fun, and that element should always be present, or at least no more than an arms reach away.
But the last poetry I wrote, I did in the midst of an overwhelming life change.
Poetry suddenly became for me a funnel, providing a focus to channel the swirl of thoughts and energy, dark and light, into images, and then into words. These words were written for me, then put away and forgotten. In the years following, I would continue unchanged on my track of writing nonfiction for hire, until a few years ago the siren call of creative non-fiction returned, bringing with it a chorus of desire to explore fiction.
Recently I uncovered the poems I had written long ago. Their message held a surprise. They foretold the writing of the book series in which I am now immersed. Those few words, so long forgotten, held fast, and connected two very important chapters in my life.
I’ll share one with you now.

Western Sky on the East River

We share a Hollywood story in the comfort of upholstery and popcorn
Then we drive to nature’s screen by the riverbank
Cocooned in new car smell and promise
For the greatest show on Earth

We curl up, absorbed in the other as the sun slips away.
The river, now dark, still sings as sweetly.
Wise with years of constant toil,
brimming with news to share

We are born filled to our banks with innocence, trust, wonder
Made to flow as freely as time
Yet our early gifts are rules, fears, orders
And our flow slowly trickles away

Love is the key that gently but firmly
Turns back the clock
To the age of innocence
Releasing the optimism, the courage, the will to stretch for the highest of dreams

Where is this love?
Ask the river. It knows.

We turn to the sunset
And then to the other
Tracing with eyes our silhouettes
Outline of black and a shimmer of colour, outside the lines, just a little.

A gift of the river. It knows.
For like love, it is always here, always flowing.
Beauty, for no cost but a pause, a gaze, an ear.
It knows. Just ask.

—

My book series is a Nova Scotia love story, about one man’s search for love. His story takes him across North America and Asia, but always back to Nova Scotia, like the tide, seeking ultimately the love that will unlock his age of innocence, and bring him out of the darkness so he can trust, love and again absorb the beauty of the world.
Sound familiar?
Poetry for me provided the forum to capture, retain, and process my early ideas when, firmly in nonfiction,  I had little capacity to process them otherwise. And as it turns out, the unleashing of words was also prophetic … I didn’t know I would go on to write a book series, and be a publisher …
But the poem, like the river, did.

What could poetry do for you? What has it done for you? I’d love to hear your story.
Thanks for reading, and keep writing.

Jennifer Hatt is author of the Finding Maria series
and a partner in Marechal Media Inc.
www.FindingMaria.com

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Writing Rose, the character I didn’t want to know

Writers control the story. So why choose a main character I didn’t like? Simple answer: he did, my male lead Jack, years ago, when I wrote my first book, Finding Maria. Rose was his love, his choice, and ultimately, his source of heartbreak when suddenly she was gone. To love Jack, which I do, hence the series of books to explore his life, I had to at least acknowledge the woman who made him a husband and father, and over two decades evolved to be the centre of his world. His heart had made its choice. To do justice to his story, I had to share hers, and that meant getting past the prickly habits and annoying weaknesses to the heart and soul of this woman. I didn’t have to like her, but I did have to understand her.

There is a deeper answer, though, on why I resisted engaging with this character. I detested her, I told myself, yet that was to protect myself. In reality, I knew the opposite to be true. My heart would be engaged by this character, and it would be devastating. I could see it, and I could feel it: the more I came to know about her, the more I would admire her, appreciate her, perhaps, even, be fond of her. I would get to know her. I would bring her to life. Then I would kill her. Because that is the path the story needed to follow. As much as she and Jack loved each other in life, it would be her death that would elevate them both to a higher form of love, one where she released him to finish his life on Earth, and he released her from the pain and limits her earthly body placed upon her.

I pretended to dislike her so I wouldn’t fall into the same agonizing ritual Jack did: to learn to love her, only to have her taken.

I returned this past week from the Toronto International Book Fair, where among the gems of the weekend was a discussion by Margaret Atwood in which she told an aspiring writer to ‘go to the dark, write from the pain.’  I did that two years ago, when I started committing Rose’s story to paper. Now that the book is finished and in hand, I am thinking of Rose not as a dark spot or a character I disliked, but a woman who did what she had to do for someone she loved – get her story on paper, so his story could move toward completion

Floating atop her grave, she lifted to the heavens the only power she seemed to have left. How do I reach him? she prayed. How do I put his heart back together?Her answer appeared as a memory, the harbour of her childhood, fishing boats lining the wharf, an island in the harbour’s centre, a finger of boulders jutting toward it but faltering partway there. Jack’s life, a link partially finished. As the memory took form so, too, did a bridge, completing the link not with boulders, but with words.

Enter Song of the Lilacs. The next chapter in Jack’s story, from his wife’s point of view, for there are things he would never realize, let alone tell, without her. And ultimately that is why I came to love her, too. I hope you will find the time to get to know her, too, and be glad for it.

Thanks for reading.

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Seed, Feed ‘n’ Weed: using stress to strengthen my spirit

In May, stress was winning I came close to giving up. Instead, I hit pause, and tried something new. And it worked.

My Keep It Super Simple plan evolved on the spot. Starting May 28, I pledged to complete a 30-day experiment on incorporating tiny actions and lifestyle changes that over time would help my body heal physically and rebuild mentally from years of accumulated stress. I was sliding into stage 3 of burnout, just two stages away from complete physical and mental meltdown. Would a few little things like an extra glass of water or listing a favourite song be able to counteract the toll a life of many drains and few recharges could take on body, mind, and spirit?

(If you aren’t familiar with my 30-day plan, my previous blog posts will fill you in. If you have been following my plan and progress, thank you! Your support has been a welcome addition to my process.)

Seeing as my challenge ended more than two weeks ago, with nary a peep on my blog about the results, it would appear as if this process didn’t work for me at all. I’m still not blogging regularly. I haven’t finished my book. I haven’t lost several inches or a dozen pounds from my well-padded frame. I can’t walk 10k, let alone run it. One by one, the list grows of the things in my life that have not improved or changed.

But you know what? KISS did work for me. The fact that I am still here, out of bed and unmedicated, is the most obvious proof. The fact that the list of negatives now wash through and away rather than stagnating and drowning me is Exhibit 2. The extra water, vitamins, exercise and rest certainly gave my body some things it desperately needed. The real power, however, comes from the mindfulness – the realization in the throes of panic or the grip of restlessness that I can do something to help myself, not only for the moment but for the long term. I had to face the fact that not only was I not getting as much fresh air or down time as I should have been, but that I was reacting to everything out of fear. I was afraid to be good to myself lest that made me selfish or unfeeling toward others. I was afraid to speak lest I be challenged for my opinions and choices, which could well be wrong. I was afraid to see myself as a person with the privilege of a brain and talent and spirit lest I be held accountable for the responsibility of sharing those gifts with the world. As a result, I was forcing myself to stay awake beyond sleepiness, ignoring my thirst, and allowing self-doubt to erase every bit of joy from any decision I made or action I took.

To be clear, I am still afraid. I still slip back into the habits that leave me drained and exhausted. But now, I have a means to bounce back. KISS is no longer an experiment or a 30-days-and-you’re-done treatment, it is a part of my life. It is a work in progress, as am I.

Now, as a sidebar, I have never been much of a gardener. I have killed everything listed as hardy, low-maintenance, and trouble-free. Even dandelions have died in my presence. However, I  secretly admired those lucky folks who could blend home and horticulture. A tiny kitchen garden, window boxes, beds of perennials lining a walkway – all look so inviting and calming. So during the past few years, I have been trying to inject some green into my black thumb and slowly, there have been results. I do have a substantial perennial collection now, lining my walkway and foundation, every plant a testament to survival of the fittest. I also have container gardens on my front and back decks. Now, whether it is our hot sunny summer so far, or the fact that I have been watering them faithfully twice a day since I planted them, my containers have flourished beyond imagination. Giant cucumber vines, abundant tomato blossoms, blooming flowers, thriving garden greens … all of them are spilling out of containers and delighting the senses. And I did that. I planted the seeds, covered them in soil, watered them, watched over them, plucked any errant growth that could overtake them, and letthem do their thing. They are yielding an eclectic path of beauty.

I am doing the same now with my feelings. I feel the stab of a seed in my gut – fear, panic, self-doubt, excitement, pride, anger, whatever it is. I hold it close, cover it with my presence, nurture it with my energy. Over time, I have an insight, or a renewed interest, or a desire to do something, or the innate knowledge to choose where I need to be and what I need to do. I take a breath, drink some water, pluck the distractions and negative thoughts, and get it done. Repeat as needed.

I love my garden, and it is what it is. My radishes will never be strawberries. My geraniums will never be roses. In the same way, I will never be one to adhere to a strict schedule. I cannot blog daily. I cannot do things by rote. I can, however, find a balance between conformity and chaos. I can connect the outcomes I seek with the discipline needed to attain them.

So maybe, just maybe, I can do this writing thing after all.

Thanks for your patience, and for listening.

We’ll talk again soon.