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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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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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What Martin Short and I have in common

Well, not a lot. I adore him. He has never even heard of me. But there are three things we share …

First, the not-a-lot part. Martin Short is rich, famous, and funny. I pay for coffee with change scoured from the couch, have people in my own house ask what my name is again and the last time I told a joke, I heard crickets from as far away as Maine (and I’m in Nova Scotia.)
Yet the awesome Mr. Short and I have three very important things in common.
1. We are both proud Canadians
2. We are both proud parents, each with three children without whom life would not have been near as complete
3. We have seen the power of a story, a life story, to vanquish the shadows of grief and turn a final chapter into the NEXT chapter.
I just finished reading I Must Say, his life story written in collaboration with David Kamp and I must say … it was fascinating. His trail from middle class Hamilton, Ontario to zany star of the stage, television and silver screens was both blessed and bungled. Sometimes he landed the joke, part or project; sometimes he didn’t, usually because of those great mysterious forces that govern studio decisions or audience preferences. There is no explaining it, just dealing with it. And deal he did, hanging in there after every surprise turn and carving both a professional and personal niche in Hollywood society. But amid all the marquis lights and name dropping, one stood out: his wife Nancy, who was by his side for every step, decision, doubt, failure, anxious moment, and gloried award. So much was she a part of his story that … and spoiler alert if you’re like me and don’t keep up on celebrity news … it was impossible to believe that she was actually going to die. In fact, on live TV a couple of years later he was quizzed on the secrets to their successful marriage, and what keeps them together.  The interviewer then, as I was while reading it, was oblivious to the fact that Nancy passed, in 2010. Always the gentleman, he didn’t correct the host on air, and went on to say the slip wasn’t her fault: he still felt married, and still felt his wife’s presence in his life. Then in 2014, he released this book, which in its final chapter outlines his plans for shows, tours and other things he will do as he navigates this new phase of life: single again at 60.
Now, I’m not a man of middle age or a widower, but this is where his path and mine align, at least for a time.
The year he lost his wife and the light went out on his life, I was finishing Finding Maria, and turning the light back on for someone who, like Martin, had a life full of work, family, and a wife who kept him grounded and gave him wings.
Until she died, taken suddenly by cancer, just like Nancy.
Years would go by with him functioning but missing something, a part of him in perpetual darkness, until by some circumstance we met, he shared his story, and I became the named writer to get it to print, even though we had worked together for more than a year before I realized the wife he referred to so casually, as a routine part of his life, had passed away years before. As Martin did with the interviewer, this gentleman did with me: held me not responsible for the slip, choosing instead to see that I was reacting to the obvious. His wife was still very much alive in his heart, and a part of his life. So we forged on and five years later, we are business partners and creators of a book series, in which the fourth book – Song of the Lilacs – contains his beloved wife’s story.
So often I have asked as our books took form, and again I ask as I finished reading Martin’s story:
Why did these two men survive their devoted partners, when so much of their success and joy was entwined with them? The answer is in the writing.
With each memory shared, a piece of a path was revealed; with each sentiment spoken aloud, a glimmer of light emerged. Simply put,  life turned out to be not a random series of events and mistakes, but a journey, with much left for them to explore and share: talent, experience, compassion, wisdom, a sense of fun, and an inner strength revealed only by their survival of a loss so deep. The world needs them, and the process of sharing their stories has helped  pull them from the depths and back, blinking, into the light.
As I said, I don’t have a lot in common with the humble legend Martin Short.
But we do have one connection. The power of the written word.

Thanks for reading.

– Jennifer

Jennifer Hatt is author of the Finding Maria series.
Song of the Lilacs, Books Four, is now available. www.FindingMaria.com.

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To Boldly Go: 5 lessons on book promotion

My love of Star Trek is not pure escape any more. It has taught me about the great unknown that is book marketing. For example:

1. Look big, especially if you’re small
Think of wee Clint Howard’s character in The Corbomite Manoeuvre. For those of you who haven’t had the pelasure, the Enterprise crew face destruction from a stern, imposing alien. Meeting face-to-face, the crew discover a tiny childlike creature who only wanted some company, using a giant puppet to appear more fearsome. It certainly got their attention.
For authors and publishers promotiong books, our ‘imposing alien’ is a professional storefront: engaging and efficient website, impressive social media presence, professionally designed and produced print materials, consistent and relevant blog posts … you get the idea. Today’s technology and range of services means our imposing appearance is limited only by our imagination and courage.

2. There is no such thing as no-win
This lesson is courtesy of James T. Kirk and the Kobayashi Maru. To recap, the Kobayashi Maru was a training simulation mandatory for all Starfleet command cadets, programmed to be ‘no-win’ to gauge their ability to handle inevitable destruction. Kirk was the only cadet to ‘beat’ the simulation. He tampered with the simulation computer program, offering up as his defence the simple statement: “I don’t believe in no-win scenarios.”
In the fierce, sometimes all-consuming world of book promotion, we need to be reminded that there is no such thing as no-win. If something looks dire, reprogram the parameters.

3. The Prime Directive is sacred, except when it isn’t.
The Prime Directive is the strict Starfleet regulation of non-interference with the evolution of other cultures, a regulation to be upheld at all cost. However, episodes abound in which the Prime Directive is broken, bent, or shaved just a little, because the greater good depended upon it. In other words, sometimes rules are guidelines, or need to be broken altogether. Instinct and circumstance are truly what count.

4. Beware the colour green.
In the Star Trek universe, the green-skinned women are nothing but trouble, the green disrupter fire is deadly and green on your Vulcan officer’s tunic means he is bleeding to death. In the universe of book writing and selling, green emerges in the form of jealousy, and that is one monster that needs to be transported off your ship or at least caged where it can do no harm. Being bitter over authors selling more or getting better reviews will set you on your arse faster than a phaser set on stun.

5. Boldly go where no one has gone before.
That mantra has sustained generations of television franchises, movies, books, and fans. Even if you have never heard of Star Trek or have little desire to engage in the fandom, that’s what your book does, too: Boldly Go Where No One Has Gone Before. Your voice is unique. So is your story. That’s why you wrote it. Don’t stop now.

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To boldly go into book promotion: 5 valuable lessons

From our collection…

My love of Star Trek is not pure escape any more. It has taught me about the great unknown that is book marketing. For example:
1. Look big, especially if you’re small
Think of wee Clint Howard’s character in The Corbomite Manoeuvre. For those of you who haven’t had the pelasure, the Enterprise crew face destruction from a stern, imposing alien. Meeting face-to-face, the crew discover a tiny childlike creature who only wanted some company, using a giant puppet to appear more fearsome. It certainly got their attention.
For authors and publishers promotiong books, our ‘imposing alien’ is a professional storefront: engaging and efficient website, impressive social media presence, professionally designed and produced print materials, consistent and relevant blog posts … you get the idea. Today’s technology and range of services means our imposing appearance is limited only by our imagination and courage.

2. There is no such thing as no-win
This lesson is courtesy of James T. Kirk and the Kobayashi Maru. To recap, the Kobayashi Maru was a training simulation mandatory for all Starfleet command cadets, programmed to be ‘no-win’ to gauge their ability to handle inevitable destruction. Kirk was the only cadet to ‘beat’ the simulation. He tampered with the simulation computer program, offering up as his defence the simple statement: “I don’t believe in no-win scenarios.”
In the fierce, sometimes all-consuming world of book promotion, we need to be reminded that there is no such thing as no-win. If something looks dire, reprogram the parameters.

3. The Prime Directive is sacred, except when it isn’t.
The Prime Directive is the strict Starfleet regulation of non-interference with the evolution of other cultures, a regulation to be upheld at all cost. However, episodes abound in which the Prime Directive is broken, bent, or shaved just a little, because the greater good depended upon it. In other words, sometimes rules are guidelines, or need to be broken altogether. Instinct and circumstance are truly what count.

4. Beware the colour green.
In the Star Trek universe, the green-skinned women are nothing but trouble, the green disrupter fire is deadly and green on your Vulcan officer’s tunic means he is bleeding to death. In the universe of book writing and selling, green emerges in the form of jealousy, and that is one monster that needs to be transported off your ship or at least caged where it can do no harm. Being bitter over authors selling more or getting better reviews will set you on your arse faster than a phaser set on stun.

5. Boldly go where no one has gone before.
That mantra has sustained generations of television franchises, movies, books, and fans. Even if you have never heard of Star Trek or have little desire to engage in the fandom, that’s what your book does, too: Boldly Go Where No One Has Gone Before. Your voice is unique. So is your story. That’s why you wrote it. Don’t stop now.

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The healing power of a loving legacy

It feels like barbed wire across the heart to say goodbye to someone we love. What’s stronger than the pain? The memory of how this person made us feel.
Anyone connected to our Nova Scotia town or East Coast music needs no introduction to Fleur Mainville. But explain her to those who never had the privilege? That’s tough. Fiddler, singer, composer, recording artist, teacher, manager of our Farmer’s Market … her CV is pages long, without even touching on her role as wife, mother, daughter, sister, friend, mentor, role model, community advocate, and divine spirit. She was all of these things and more, not just the sum of her parts but the energy that brought them all to bear. To meet her was to marvel at how she did so many things at once and still managed a kind word, a thoughtful gesture, or one more gig.
And now that her body has been taken by a rare and virulent cancer, we are left with the barbed wire, grinding into us the awareness of what will be no more – her voice that carried notes of crystal across a background of velvet scores, her ability to coax from four simple strings a tidal wave of delights – knee-slapping reels, fierce stories of battle, winsome laments, intricate sonatas. Her squeals of delight that preceded her all-consuming hugs, her fierce pride in community and passion for the stage, and her investment in the future by passing on her knowledge and her enthusiasm to anyone of any age open to the message.
As we wade, gasping, through the grief, we are reminded that what made Fleur such a brilliant part of our lives was not her body or her deeds: it was how she made us feel. She had a way of making each of us in her presence feel talented, beautiful, and optimistic, just as she was. We loved her; she loved us first. And now, as we mourn a life gone too soon, we are reminded that throughout our time with her it was much the same. Every gig, meeting, lunch date or evening with her ended with a hint of sadness that begged for one more hour, five more minutes, just a few more words. Now, with her spirit set free, we have all the time in the world with those feelings she evoked in us. We have the memories of our lessons with her, the conversations, the teasing grin, and the warmth she spread from the inside out.
As I write this my son is preparing for his fiddle lesson – not to take, but to give. His student is age 8, the same age he himself was when he first picked up the fiddle. For half his life Fleur stood over him, then beside him as he grew to her height and then some, imparting her wisdom on trills and rests, then strathspeys and concertos, and finally lesson plans and drills as she nudged him out of her safe harbour and toward his own stage. As he coaches his young student, I hear more than his voice. I hear Fleur’s legacy.
We could not stop the disease that took her in body, but there is no stopping the spirit that will outlast and continue to live us all. The pain will ease for us as it has vanished for her. As  the barbed wire tightens its grip, we can remember this and for me, for a moment, I smile with all my heart.

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True love story: The Tulips

It was a day I was tempted to erase from the calendar. Then a trip to the grocery store changed everything.
My dad had just been taken to hospital, again, in a city just far enough away to be beyond reach. I had just returned home only a few days before, had rescheduled appointments, needed to try and put in a few hours for pay …. and on and on. I attempted to forge on while I awaited news from Emergency, and checked my list., Buy a thank-you bouquet for a local merchant who went above and beyond in supporting our author and her book sales. I scooted into the supermarket, scanned the floral arrays, and settled on a pot of tulips, just barely beginning to open. I hustled to the checkout, one ear to my phone, a hand on my wallet, as if moving quickly would somehow get this chaotic day over with faster.
“Aren’t these lovely!”  the cashier enthused. Alice, her name tag said. A pleasant lady somewhere between my age and my mom’s, I’m guessing.
Drawn in my her warmth, I smiled and agreed.
“My husband loved tulips. When he passed away, oh, about 12 years ago now,” she paused, bag in midair, then tucked the plant inside, “we had tulips at the funeral home. All kinds of them.” She tapped the register keys. “Our best man officiated … he wasn’t a full minister when he married us,” she chatted as we waited for my debit card to be approved. “There was one big tulip that wasn’t open. But when the minister started the service, it opened. Right then. Just like that.”
I swallowed against the lump in my throat. “That was a beautiful story,” I whispered. “What an amazing thing.’
“Yes, it was,” she beamed, handing me my bag. “You have a good day.”
I was now. Even the lump in my throat suddenly became beautiful, a sign that I could be touched by another’s words, that I could feel more than resentment and exhaustion.
That is why we need to share our stories. That is love.

Thanks for reading.

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Embracing my inner hermit to be a better marketer

I come from a long line of hermits. But there are five ways that can work in my favour.

Like my ancestors, I would rather stick needles in my eyes than step into a crowded room. Then, after years of fighting this to try and market my books – and by extension, myself –  I discovered that my inner hermit could become an ally in the arena of self-promotion. Here are five examples:

1. Seeing and hearing things many others do not notice. At a party, in a classroom, in a lineup at the grocery store: all are great places to hear what folks are chatting about, interested in, and excited by. Without the constant need to talk and interact, a hermit becomes the proverbial fly on the wall, not deliberately eavesdropping but floating on the constant stream of auditory data that, when processed, can give hints for messaging, positioning, and other must-know marketing details.

2. Reading more. To avoid outside contact we will often retreat into the world of books, which is why so many writers are introverts and therefore struggle with this self-promotion thing. However, that avoidance also leads us to study brochures, menus and posters with intense interest, giving clues for phrasing, design, and details that can make a marketing program shine. Better readers make better writers, and better marketers.

3. A quiet social life. Marketing takes time. Lots of it. Very little of it fun or in keeping with what you would do in leisure hours, like hanging with family, having drinks with friends, etc etc. Without the craving for girls’ night out every week or daily phone chats with Sis, we hermits have more time to develop our marketing plans, brainstorm our campaigns, flesh out the details, and put ourselves out there to the target audience crowd. There is stress with all that interaction, but no guilt or remorse for missing something ‘fun.’

4. Deep feelings. Authenticity is not just a buzzword, it is the cornerstone of our existence, and of sustainable marketing. Hermits often isolate themserlves to avoid being drained by the constant superficial banter, bells and whistles of the world. When we do emerge or share something, the exchange is heartfelt and our audiences come to respect, and then to trust us.

5. Independence. A hermit has no need for outside validation. We are perfetly positioned to do our own thing, be original, and be unique. We do, however, need motivation to engage with a population that most days we would rather hide from, but hey, no one is perfect.

In short, no matter your personality, if you are true to yourself and share yourself authentically, you can be a successful marketer. And after a day of spreading the word you choose to lock the door and curl up with your cat and a good book, you are indeed a person after my own heart.

Thanks for reading.

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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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One nurse’s journey: now available

What a proud day! In hand is our first title published for a new author: she’s sweet and scrappy, courageous and honest, just like her story. I can’t wait to introduce them both.

When Freddie Gardner Played is a memoir of Mary Sheehan’s three years in nursing school, 1951-1954. It’s smooth with nostalgia and romance, yet gritty with the harsh realities of the healing professions – the injured children, the patients who did not survive, and the personal challenges that befell the close-knit group of girls who toiled over books and on their feet in a quest for the coveted white cap and black band. The story takes us through the hallways and into the wards of Aberdeen Hospital and its nursing school, but also on trips to downtown New Glasgow, Nova Scotia, for shopping and cherry Cokes, on a hitchhiking journey to the shore for swimming, and back to the farmland of the author’s childhood and her early dreams of becoming a doctor. Why did she become a nurse instead? Did she regret her choice? The author shares plainly and simply the knowledge she gained in medicine, and of herself, and the special conversation with a patient that inspired her journey and the title of her book.

Now, about Mary. She was Mary Foote, 19, when she began her nursing training in 1951. She is now Mary Sheehan, married to her high school sweetheart, mother of five, and grandmother of five. She served in the nursing profession for more than 30 years, until a diagnosis of non-malignant brain tumours ended her nursing career. She underwent four brain surgeries in the early 1990s and began writing in her recovery, dwtermined to preserve her memories in case subsequent surgeries or tumours erased them. As it turns out, her condition is now stable and her notes have become a book. She is delighted and, quite frankly, so am I. After publishing three titles of my own, this is our copany’s first forray into the publishing of another and I have to say, the only excitement that can match seeing your own book emerge from the box is making that happen for someone else.

When Freddie Gardner Played is a snapshot of a bygone era, a tribute to nurses, and a labour of love. It is now available for purchase through my website. And it remains an affirmation of why my 30-day KISS last month was so important, and a reminder of why I can never again let myself come last in my life. By stepping back and cooling the burnout, I had the energy to get this book to print, and have the enthusiasm now to help Mary share it with her audience. I am now, just a little, looking forward to doing the same thing soon with my own book.

Thanks for sharing! Talk to you soon.