Posted on

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

Posted on

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

Posted on

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

Posted on

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.

Posted on

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.

Posted on

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.

Posted on

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.

Posted on

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.

Posted on

Lessons from a clothesline

My basement clothesline now sags with dripping wet clothes. The forecast said thunder showers; I was swayed by the brilliant blue sky. So who do I blame: nature, myself, or this bloody Nova Scotia weather that changes literally in the blink of an eye?

The answer depends on where you are in your healing process. A year ago, I would have blamed the weather, railed at my ancestors who chose this forsaken ocean frontier over the Caribbean, fumed at the forecaster who was for once completely accurate and thus throwing off my plan, global warming, the sale of Star Wars to Disney, anything that provided a villain for my loss of productivity. A month ago, I would have blamed myself for being so stupid and naive. I’ve lived in Nova Scoria all my life, I should know that blue sky could mean rain, snow, hail or a windstorm in five minutes’ time. I should have listened to the radio. I should have been writing/exercising/sorting receipts/saving the whales instead of doing laundry during prime working hours.

Today, 26 days into my 30-day exploration, I watched the rain fall from a clear blue sky and said: oh, well, at least I tried. Clothes can only get so wet. There was nothing I needed to wear tonight. Good on the forecaster for finally getting something right. I thought not about the soaking mass of laundry that had to be hauled downstairs and hung. I thought about the warm sunshine on my deck as I hung them on the line, and the conversation I had with a young friend while doing it. I took a chance and hoped by nightfall I would have two loads of dry, folded fresh-smelling clothes. Instead, I have limp laundry draped and dripping over every surface imaginable in my laundry room. Oh, well, at least I tried.

Thanks for reading. See you soon.

Posted on

The Dark Side of the creative process

My lesson yesterday? The things that anger, frighten and frustrate are not minefields but diamond mines full of unruly bits that can be polished into a gem of a story.

I left Monday for an overnighter in the city, a work trip, wondering in part if I was well enough to take on the additional responsibility. I didn’t sleep Monday night, unless a few catnaps adding to a grand total of 1.5 hours counts, so I wasn’t off to a good start. However, the hotel was lovely. the pool even lovelier and after a soothing early morning swim and a picnic breakfast, I was good to go. Halfway through the meeting, however, the gnawing in my stomach gained fire. Clearly I was not healed, in fact, I seemed to be regressing, tuning out and fuming when I should be open and engaging. It was a gorgeous day outside and I was stuck inside listening to facts that I already knew from folks who were not on the same page I or the organizers were on. That’s a boardroom standard, is it not? By the break, I was ready to ditch. Instead, I breathed, pulled out my iPad and began working on a related project. that move diverted my frustration into accomplishment and gave me space to calm down. With the fire cooled, I could understand why I was so frustrated.

The volume of speakers, limited time and lack of rules of order meant that me and others like me had no opportunity to share their opinions. I could not speak my authentic voice. This realization helped melt the frustration, and showed that instead of regressing I have moved forward. I have found my voice, or I wouldn’t have been upset at not sharing it.

I looked up and saw the guest speaker standing alone, unusual because at the start of the break he had been surrounded, and for good reason. He was an excellent communicator – enthusiastic, knowledgeable, and efficient in connecting his world with others. I asked him a question I had wanted to discuss before the break. We had an enlightening conversation, at least for me. The break ended. I soldiered on. By the end of the day I was exhausted and still unsure whether the event was productive at all. This morning, however, after a night of actually sleeping and some processing, several good things came from my initial frustration. I looked at the day as a sign my organization could do more to promote its worth, and we are taking steps to do that. I am inspired now to refresh the promo materials and work plan.

The exhaustion is a sign I still have to be very careful and in fact, tonight, I will be enjoying an early supper and movie with my family, so we can all get a good night’s sleep. The frustration I felt, though, is gone after a day, when before it might have clung and simmered for weeks or months. That is a step forward. Bring on the water and carrots.

Thanks for listening. See you tomorrow.