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Releasing the Story Within

If you let out that breath you would change the world.

A professor said this to my son, but he could have been talking to me. Maybe to you, too. As a writer I spend a lot of time managing the swirling thoughts and phrases in my head but struggle to get them on paper. I work with fellow writers who long to hold their story in a manuscript but feel like they’re drowning. I know the feeling well.

So what can we do? Whether you are writing, composing, developing a business plan or envisioning a new organization, here are five steps to release your creativity you can start right now:

  1. Breathe. This is no joke. That drowning feeling comes from holding your breath unaware. We hold our breath for many reasons: to keep quiet, to hold back, to tune out, to forget that we are made to shine instead of hide. I held my breath for most of my life. Still do when I lose myself in the chaos of old habits. My first conversation with astute women called me on this simple yet crucial point. You didn’t breathe the entire weekend, one participant later confided in me. Breath held can shut us down in an instant. Breath released is the flow we seek.
  2. Own that the world will be better with what you create. Our minds race with stories that keep us quiet. There are lots of people doing this better than me. Is my story any good, anyway? What I do doesn’t really matter. I don’t really matter. In the grip of these thoughts and beliefs, there is no right or wrong, only choice. Do you choose to be that person who believes the talent they have is of no use to anyone? Or do you choose to listen to that tiny voice inside that tells you to pick up your pen or brush or guitar and give substance to the light you carry?
  3. Break the Cycle. My son is a trumpet player, is young and healthy, and is doing what he loves: playing music and studying to be a teacher. But he’s struggling with endurance. As beautifully as he plays, he can only maintain his strength for half the time he needs to complete his first solo recital. His professor, observing his rehearsal, heard the majestic flow of notes … and saw zero flow of air. My son is literally playing against himself, taking in sufficient breath to fuel his creation then fighting against each note he releases. That’s so me, he sighs. No, my son, that is so your family tree, twisted with pain and blocks from ancestors and experiences long before he or I were born. Bodies have long and intense memories that can manifest in tension, aches or illness. We may never know the exact episode or moment that caused the original block, but we can be mindful moving forward to not let past hurts be our current reality. What we can choose for certain: we are worth it and will learn, practice, and be open to what it takes to do what we feel called to create.
  4. Invite and Nurture your Team. Alone, there is no one to challenge our swirling thoughts or hold a lantern to the way out. Inviting and allowing people into your life who support you through shared beliefs and journeys, challenge you because they know and care, enjoy a good time and stay calm in the storms can help your creative flow as the tide nurtures the ocean: you receive what you need and give what you can. Like my son and his professor. Like he and I sharing our stories with each other. Like you and I right now.
  5. Allow space to create. A river is a pond if it has nowhere to travel, and it soon dries out if there is no source of new water. From a distance a river may not seem to do much, but it is feeding, touching and supporting more forms of life than we can imagine. Our own creativity needs the same space, sources and respect as a river to keep flowing, feeding and supporting, whether for work, income, joy, goals, enjoyment, curiosity, connections or no conscious reason at all.

Fame, fortune, praise, promotion, or a quiet night immersed in pure contentment: it all begins with a single breath. Take one now, gently in, then release. You’re on your way.

Jennifer Hatt is a professional writer, publisher and author of the Finding Maria series.

UNLOCK YOUR STORY in HAWAII WITH 7 DAYS TO CREATE
https://www.retreatinhawaii.com/writing-retreat

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Five questions that keep me writing

I am called to be a writer, but I was not born into the writer’s life. My past is a vista of gently rolling hills of a life on cruise control, precharted and unengaged. Very safe, highly productive, but a world away from the wild roller coaster plunging into the darkness and around corners unexplored, riding on faith, hope and the fantastic joy of adventure. As writers we create stories. Sometimes, the biggest story is the one we feed ourselves to keep us ‘in line’, on a route serving the narrow agenda of others rather than our authentic selves. After decades of chipping at the mind’s prison with the verbal equivalent of a bobby pin, my spirit is emerging, squinting, and slowly expanding into this vast new universe of a life free from ‘I can’ts’, “I shouldn’t” and ‘You aren’ts’. Sitting with five questions is helping me do that.

The Five Questions

These five questions are not true/false or multiple choice; they cannot be answered, checked off, and filed. For me, they serve as lampposts on a journey still coated in the fog of my past, giving comfort in moments of isolation, guidance in those times where I’m wondering where, or if, to move on. I’m still using them. Now, I’m moved to share them.

  1. Why do I want to write? This may seem like a no-brainer, but sitting with this question was like taking a long look at the suitcase I’d been carrying unaware for so long, I’d forgotten why. Writing was something I always did, it got me through school and into a job, I had never made writing a conscious choice. Reflecting on the why allowed me to dumping that suitcase I’d been dragging for so long. I am sorting out what no longer served me: outgrown beliefs, dirty laundry, other people’s ideas …and make room for dreams and goals of my own.
  2. What am I called to write? I started with a story for a friend. I am now on a journey within myself to places I didn’t know existed. For a time, I turned off my writing in the hopes of ending the journey. Getting honest about what I was doing allowed me to make the choice to keep going. it had nothing to do with knowing how to write, everything to do with aligning my desire with my actions.
  3. How does fear manifest in my life? We all have fears, and thank God we do. Fear can be a powerful messenger and motivator, if we don’t let it take charge. Medicine can be a cure or a poison, depending on how we use it. Meeting our fears, getting to know them, then putting them in our place is part of what makes the roller coaster so exhilarating.
  4. How do I nourish my creative spirit? For years, I didn’t even acknowledge I had a creative spirit. When its presence would not be denied, I fed it Doritos and margarita, not to nourish it, but to keep it distracted and quiet. I still love my Doritos (Zesty Cheese is my favourite) and a good margarita, but only in times when I am celebrating – the end of a chapter, a great conversation, the company of good friends – for it is these things that feed my creativity.
  5. Who make me feel like a writer? Our world of commerce and tangible outcomes is rarely kind to the artistic soul. How many words did you write? How many books did you sell? These can be well-meaning from the curious or important in a business meeting but they can also be draining to a soul called to imagine, explore and discover new paths of expression. Writing is solitary but starves in isolation. Connecting with others, building relationships that feed and flow … that plugs you in to the limitless energy flowing through and around all of us.

It doesn’t matter what you’re writing…

… it matters THAT you’re writing. I have tried not being a writer, and it’s like turning off the pump to stop it from raining. My mind and body still generate ideas and stories; without writing they accumulate, overwhelm, and churn, until they leak out at the most inopportune times. Like 2 am. Or in the middle of a finance meeting. So, I keep the conversation going. Here, on my blog. And in January, in person on the island of Oahu in Hawaii. You can ready more about the Hawaiian retreat here. New voices always welcome.

About the Author

Jennifer Hatt is author of the Finding Maria series and works with other authors realizing their goals for writing. See more at OwnYourStoryNow.com

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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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Writer’s Block: One Reason Why, The Three Things that Fuel It

I have an output ratio of 100:1. That means for every word, idea or story I manage to force into words and out of my pen, there are 100 backed up in my body, getting restless and bored and clamouring to get out. It’s exhausting and at some point it will be dangerous. Why risk exploding like a vowel-laden balloon when i could just sit down and open the tap?

Because I can’t just open the tap. The one reason? Fear.

What am I afraid of? As a child, nothing. As a body in the throes of puberty, everything. As an adult, too many things to count, so I sorted them and it turns out, fuel for my fear fals into one of three categories: fear of being eaten, fear of being ostracized, and fear of being wrong.

Fear of Being Eaten

I blame the food chain and survival instinct for Fear #1. Fear of being eaten is what kept our ancestors alive to see another day in the cave. Even today, as human settlements spread into what was once wilderness, there is a chance of encountering predators that value humans not for their superior intellect, but for the quality of their meat. In my world, I may at some point encounter a hungry bear or wolf, but I am more likely to be consumed by beliefs, values and attitudes – mine and others. We are told over and over to ‘be ourselves’, yet praised when ignoring ourselves for the good of others, be they individuals, institutions or corporations. We know it as guilt, conscience, instinct, or signal, but that gnawing weighted feeling in the gut when a decision goes against something we’ve been taught to believe can literally eat us from the inside out. Depending on what we’ve been taught, what we choose to believe, or whether we feel we have a choice at all, every decision and action may come with this gnawing feeling. maybe you’ve heard the voices: I’m working late, I should be home with the kids; I’m playing Barbies with the kids, but i should be reviewing that report; I’m buying takeout for supper, I should be cooking; I’m working my 9-5 but I should be writing; I’m writing but I should be doing something that actually contributes to society … That is what increasingly consumes me each time I sit down to write: first on my novel, then my blog, then anything that had to do wth promotion or creation of my own work. For clients? Not a problem. To open the tap for my work, I have to treat myself like my best client. That means getting curious about the gnawing sensation, standing my ground, learning from it, and releasing the energy for writing rather than consuming it to beat myself up. Eat or be eaten. Yes! And I’m done being my own dinner.

Fear of Being Ostracized

This again came from our hardy ancestors, I believe. There is safetyy in numbers when fending off hungry prowlers or enemy tribes. Being cast out of the cave or village to fend for yourself meant certain death, most likely from Fear #1. In modern times, being ostracized is not as dramatic but just as devastating. losing a job is terrifying not only because of the financial stress, but the social judgement: only losers lose a job. What will my partner/children/parents/neighbours/guy in the grocery store who knew my manager’s wife’s uncle think?
How many times do we nearly bite our tongues in half for fear of losing a relationship that in reality brings us way more grief than joy, anyway? Or go along with the committee even though we believe they’re on the wrong track? Peer pressure is often described as a childhood angst but for most adults I know, it remains a thickened concrete influence in their lives, and rarely for the better. Being alone is ‘bad’; being ‘with someone’ is good, even if that someone threatens to smother your signal or keep you small. Whether or not I was taught that, it is something I came to hold as true. Opening up enough to learn something new will open the tap to my words as well. We are each individuals, and we are never alone unless we tell ourselves otherwise or listen to people who spin those stories for their own benefit.

Fear of Being Wrong

This is the biggest brute of all in my bully pen. As a very young child, I had no limits or blocks. I laughed, embraced, sang, talked, danced, and entertained anyone and anything that would stand still and listen. I shared completely and instinctively. That was who I was. But for parents raised with strict codes of privacy and silence, my behaviour was overwhelming and appalling. A young child approaching strangers at random requires immediate supervision, patience, and a comfort level of self that the parents can smile and own their child’s behaviour on her behalf rather than be humiliated and afraid of being judged for raising a wild child, which is how I think my parents felt. They only wanted to keep me safe, but the price of that safety was my spontaneity, and the lessons were both swift and effective. Keep quiet, and there is reward. Act out and there is punishment. I wasn’t physically harmed, but the sting of a glare or shouted lecture on how i have to start behaving myself has lasted 40 years or more. The occasional spanking I received has been long forgotten. Then I started school, and call out the wrong answer, get in the wrong line, step on the wrong playground and retribution again is swift: shame and humiliation. Some of us learn to laugh it off. I thought I did, until years later I began excavating the landfill blocking my inner signal and discovered mountains of memories oozing their zaps of ridicule, name-calling and calling-out. As an adult, I was called to work in the printed word but also realized how seriously each word committed to paper was taken. Words in a contract could cost you plenty. The wrong words in a news article could cost you a lawsuit or your reputation. Not writing it down seemed the safest place to be. Safety created by others. An illusion. Safety created by me: no word is stronger than that.

Finding these three triggers has helped me built a world of safety, of my own creation. Threatened by one of these I can treat it as I would any bully; look it in the eye, learn what I can, then release and move to a space where my signal is safe and waiting for me. This wil be a constant process of repetition to rewire decades, generations even, of learned and shared behaviours. So what. I don’t know how long it will take, either. Not much of a business plan, but a definitive plan for how I want to live my life.

The tap is now open to a trickle. Here’s to keeping it that way, and seeing what else is to come.

Thanks for being here.

– Jennifer

Jennifer Hatt is a publisher, consultant, and author of the Finding Maria series.
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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Camera vs writer’s block

Writing about myself was always a challenge, which is why I became a journalist and then a fiction writer. But like a river clogged with the silt of memories and ill-disposed junk, the flow of all my words became slower and more painful over time. The more space and opportunity I was given to write, publish and build my business, the more jammed I became. By this past spring, four books into our Nova Scotia love story, with two new authors in our stable and a fifth book on the brink, I was buried to the point where composing a tweet could be a daylong affair. School excuses took 30 minutes and three rewrites. Where there was once ease and confidence in my work, there was a suffocating pall of gloom. Writing was all I knew how to do, and now, I couldn’t even do that.

Then light appeared, first as a spark that encouraged me to drop everything and go to Hawaii in April, at a time when the dollar was tanking and my credit card was spiralling. Thank God I listened to myself. Ten days immersed in the energies and stories of more than a dozen amazing women coalesced into a pull forward and a beacon within. A month later, when I saw a blog post from fellow Hawaii traveller and awesome photographer Tanya Petraglia inviting photo shoots of ‘creative collaborations,’ the spark ignited into a flame of possibility. Creative collaboration: a perfect phrase for the creation of the Finding Maria series and the publishing company behind it. I had a business partner, but the partnership was far from being easily defined. He was generous with his story, which I gladly wrote as a gift for him, but then his presence seemed to fade like a shadow at midday when we formed a company and began the arduous task of selling our creations. You got this, he would call reassuringly over his shoulder as he dashed back to his own life, one he packed way too full for the new responsibilities of entrepreneurship, creativity, and, God forbid, friendship.  This 2-3 dance: one step forward, one step back, round and round, has gone on for more than a decade, ever since Finding Maria was first conceived. Yet, through the fog of fury I felt the distinct pull of a clear connection, that we were collaborators for a reason. Could images capture the words I needed to find? Several messages, an affirmative from my business partner and a few weeks later Tanya was in our presence, on our turf, with camera in hand ready to document this ‘thing’ of two people creating … what? Stories? Books? Life?

See Tanya’s blog of our adventure here.

As you can see, it was a picture-perfect day. What you may not see at first is that it accomplished exactly what it needed to do. It rolled over boulders of fear and frustration that had been in place for years, and tossed about stones that were newly planted, sharp and slashing. That was what I felt every time I sat down to write, a stone wall biting into my skin, threatening to crush me, while a stagnant trickle of festered fears hissed: forget all this, go back to where you were. Life needs to be defined, contained, controlled. Be safe, stay small, go back. And I blamed all of it on him, the person I call my business partner because I as a writer cannot find another phrase. In our actions and choices we appear more like strangers than friends, yet there remains this pull that brings us together and a conduit of knowledge flowing through us both that neither of us can define. I blamed him for blocking this knowledge, for his obstacle course of hoops and rules that he carefully crafted to keep his world safe while keeping our work, and by extension, me, at arm’s length. The truth is, the photos revealed something very different, that I needed to see.

It is not him. It is me.

I was given a chance to be an author and publisher, and I took it. I have the choice to remain in the partnership or leave. I choose to stay, because I continue to see an invitation to a life of enlightenment and adventure. If I want to get anywhere, though, I have to stop blaming others for how I feel and stop listening to the lurid hiss of fear. Does my business partner divert and avoid? Sure he does. But he also stepped up to be part of this photo shoot, knowing he was stepping into an earthhquake of soulful proportions. What did I do? What I always do: set it all up, fill my head with stories, then detach and cut the power. I have energy and insight to share, to break the 2-3 dance, to create the life I have envisioned. I have a voice.

Do I use it?

No. I used the books as a shield rather than a map, created them as a means for him to explore his life, while completely shutting down to the fact that they also existed to help me explore mine. The stone wall I slammed into time and again was my yearning for authenticity, as chapter outlines and business plans for the creation and sale of fiction became confused with my vision of life itself. I was allowing life to unfold, the fear assured me, and when life didn’t follow the script I conveniently hadn’t written yet, another boulder of frustration rolled over what few words I could find. It was a nifty scenario that kept me small, sheltered, and safe, but increasingly miserable and isolated from my words, my voice, my essence. And I had only myself to blame. Bloody hell.

The photos showed it all, and through tears, blackness and emptiness I forced myself to feel everything they brought up: the distance between us, the isolation, the failure to thrive in a a decade of opportunity, the gratitude grown bitter from lack of sharing. I had to completely reframe how I approach our collaboration and our partnership. No more could I blame him for his choices. I have to take ownership of mine. No more could I hide behind the concepts of books and commerce. I have to rediscover and define myself, for me. And dammit, I can’t even torment him about being short any more. A photo of the two of us, backs to the lens, eyes to the water, shows clearly he is just a shade taller than me. On another day, revisiting that photo, I noticed that the distance between us was not the unbreachable chasm as it had first appeared. We were closer than we were apart. Our stance, exactly the same. We even dressed alike. There is a connection, without a doubt, but not one I will label with carefully-chosen words. It is one I will identify by stepping into myself.

Only these photos could show me that.

As the boulders continue to shift and the concrete ramparts crack, the fears ooze away and words begin to flow. There will be much, much more written about these photos, this day, this experience.

Where will it go from here? I have to say, for the first time since the writing of these books began, I really don’t know. I only know there will be no going back.

Thank you, Tanya Petraglia, for sharing your talent and essence with the world. A picture is worth so much more than 1,000 words.

Thank you all for reading. I hope to see you again soon.

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The Pen is Mightier Than the Drumstick, said I

Then I spent a week at the Ontario School of Piping, where my name tag distinctly said DRUMMER. Not mother, not writer, but DRUMMER. To be honest,  I started drumming with our pipe band  a few years ago to hang with my children. I ended up at this school  in large part to chaperone my teenaged piper (and carry her instrument, according to her), then signed up for classes to avert the temptation of gadding about Toronto spending money having fun while she worked her butt off realizing her dream. Worlds collided in a skirl of drones, snares and clinking bottles as musical callings clad in Highland traditions waged war on my introvert’s soul. And it was perfect. Here’s why:

In addition to awesome instruction that revealed the can-do’s for my drumming, I discovered this sparkler of a gem: week-long  immersion in Highland pipes and drums literally drowns out the rest of the world, giving my brain on one level a rest from routine while allowing other levels to explore and create new connections.  Among those connections are these little nuggets that work not only for drumming, but writing as well.

1. Ego. Check it at the door if you want to learn or accomplish anything. There is always someone better, and when you become the best, someone is working like crazy to take it away from you. Don’t worry about them, but about you: develop your talent to YOUR goals. That’s truly being the best.

2. Give yourself permission to suck. Because on some level you do. As does the little phenom sitting across from you, and the gold medal winner instructing you. We all have something we’re good at and something we need to do better. Criticism is like ye olde haggis – sounds frightening and looks God-awful, but nourishes in a way like no other.

3. We learn better with wine. Or Scotch. Or Diet Coke. Or an herbal tea. Whatever can be shared during Happy Hour, room chats, or pre-dinner mixers, enabling conversations that tell us we’re not the only ones feeling awkward or overwhelmed, that offer advice for how to navigate a complex tune, or give a safe space to perform and share. Writing and music practice are solitary pursuits, but they don’t have to be solos all the time.

4. Let it flow. The pen, like a drumstick, is an extension of our arm and our personality. If we’re tense or afraid, nothing moves. Relax. Open. Trust. Relax some more. Dropping the stick every now and then is good. It’s better than holding on too tightly.

5. Practice. Remember those grammar exercises from school?  Spelling tests? Hated then, but appreciated now. Same with drumming. Three minutes is an eternity when repeating rolls, taps, buzzes… but over time, the connections are made and the notes meld, the words blend … and music is made.

6. Build up to it. Going from zero to eight hours of writing a day is going to cause aches and strains, just like suddenly drumming for an afternoon non-stop when you’ve barely touched the sticks in months is going to make your muscles and brain feel like road kill in a matter of hours. Start with small measurable daily steps, and when those become comfortable, add more time, speed, or another challenge.

7. Good food. Recharging from a hard day of work, be it learning left-handed flams or fleshing out a new character, is much easier with a quick tasty filling meal to ease the tummy rumbles. Fresh premade meals or a trusted soul who can whip up some comfort food? They are as valuable as instructors in ensuring the success of any creation.

8. Be brave. My drumming instructor told me this in an effort to loosen my grip on the sticks. In reality, courage was needed to step into the room at all, with some  of the best musicians in their field in the world. I could have said I wasn’t good enough to be there. But because I went, I learned from them, and now I’m better. Same with writing. Stand in the presence of the greats; if they truly deserve your adoration, they’ll welcome the opportunity to share a teachable moment, or two, or 10 …

9. Record the experience. Have your camera or phone fully charged and the memory clear. Use audio and/or video to store lessons and performances. Take photos. Write a funny song or poem. Journal. Message others about what you’ve learned and experienced. Lessons continue long after the schooling ends.

10. Believe in yourself. Own your talent and choose what to do with it. If it’s to improve the quality of your work, then invest the time and sweat equity, wholeheartedly. Workshops and lessons to impart wisdom, a few minutes a day, every day to keep the momentum going. You’re worth it.

I will never be a champion musician, but I can be a drummer good enough to enjoy and share the experience.
I may never win a major award, but I can be a writer skilled enough to enjoy and share a good story.
That is what those five days of school taught me.
And, that I should drink more, since relaxation is good for the flow.

You bet I’m going back next year.

Thanks for reading.

Jennifer Hatt is author of the Finding Maria series.
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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The Need To Get Dirty

When one does not know what to write, it is a time to get dirty.

I mean gardening, folks. At least for today.

Me writing anything on gardening gives life to the saying: ‘those who can, do; those’ who can’t, write about it.’ A green thumb I have not. My photo is on the wall of every gardening centre within 100 miles, under the caption: Do Not Sell To This Woman Without Proof of Supervision. My garden isn’t a wellspot of new life; it’s palliative care for the flora and fauna set. Comments on my garden bypass the usual niceties of “My, how your hydrandgea is blooming,” straight to the ‘Wow, it’s not dead yet. How did you manage that?” My garden is not the place, you would think, to spark any kind of creative flow.

But it does. For one thing, gardening is best done outdoors. There is warmth from the sun, cool from the breeze or, for the more hardy, the wet kiss of rain or chilling boot to the arse of a northeast gale. But there is sensation, temperature change, a tingling on the skin just from standing there. Breathe in, and there are scents: earthy, flowery, and yes, manmade, too, and while your neighbour’s incinerated offerings of barbecue may not be the most delightful of aromas, there is still an engagement of brain, a spurring of thought. What is that charred carcass on his plate? What if this mild-mannered manager by day becomes a pet-chomping carnivore by the light of the grill? And there you have it: a story idea, just like that.

Now for the really good stuff. On your knees, amid weeds and rocks and clumps of soil are tiny sprouts reaching skyward despite the odds. Feel it through your fingertips and up your arm, earth warm from the sun, damp from the rain. Poke a hole, drop a seed or a tiny clumping of roots, cover, repeat. orderly, fragrant, backbreaking, but necessary if the dirt is to bloom, if the tomatoes on your summer salad are to be sun-kissed rather than factory-sprayed.

You rise stiffly, joints creaking, hands caked in mud, and look down at something you have accomplished staring back at you. For the two minutes or two hours you’ve been in the garden, you haven’t thought once about the blank page  on your screen, the missing word that taunts you, the hackneyed sentence begging for an edit. But you have been writing. After soap suds chase the mud down the drain and beverage suds rehydrate body and spirit, you’ll see them. Words begging to be planted, the blank screen a garden ready for its gardener.

How do the seasons influence your writing? Happy Spring!

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Think, Work, Stop. Honouring your Creative Cycle.

I heard this weekend that playwright Neil Simon wrote for seven months of the year, rested for five. Why? He was honouring his Cycle of Creativity.

Now, we can, too. You have time for this. Repeat after me. Think. Work. Stop. Repeat. Think. Work. Stop.

I’m fresh from a screenwriting workshop with the amazing Cynthia Whitcomb. Fresh is not the term often attached to a Saturday and Sunday spent in a boardroom but in this case, the word fits. I see my writing and my options in bright new ways thanks to Cynthia’s ability to share her passion for writing, talent for bringing words to life in pictures and experience of 40 years in the movie/TV business. Of the thousands of bytes of information I took from this weekend, her description of the Cycle of Creativity stands highest. Imagine a pie divided in three equal pieces. One piece is Brahma, what Cynthia calls the BAM! moment, the ‘cool! I’m so inspired’ idea that grabs hold and urges you to put pen to paper or finger to key. The next piece is Vishnu, a pretty word for work. Hard work. Lots of work that make the idea a reality. Finished your creation?  Next is Shiva, the stop and rest piece. It all makes so much sense it sounds simplistic. Yet seeing the pie, reading the words and best of all hearing the affirmation from a sucessful writer has done much to alleviate the guilt attached to ‘not working hard enough’ while silencing that cranky inner voice insisting that I drop this writing act and get a real job. “Our culture does not honour shiva,” Cynthia told us point blank, and it is true. Workplace heroes are the ones who give up vacations and work night after night of overtime, not those who back away from their desks to take their loved ones on a much-needed getaway. Artists are lauded for volume and frequency of product more often than quality of same. Work is necessary and can be fulfilling in itself. But without ideas, and without time to recharge, how substantial and sustainable can the output be?

You know the answer. We all do.

Cynthia shared the Neil Simon example to make the point. Being able to honour his cycle clearly worked for him and for the millions who enjoy his plays and their screen incarnations. Say it with me. Yes, I can honour our creative cycle, and I will. Avoid the pitfall of the Brahma junkie, take the high generated by your idea and plunge into Vishnu, emerging when the project is done or at a resting place to honour shiva. Take two months to see Australia, or take an afternoon to clean up your desk, whatever works that isn’t work to you.

Think. Work. Stop. I feel better already. How about you?