Red Cedar

I’ve been quiet here lately, mostly owing to the fact that when I’m in Ottawa I don’t tend to blog. Not inspired to, and usually don’t have the time for it either. I did some other writing while I was there, but everytime I sat with this screen open I couldn’t find what I wanted to say came at all easily. And so I didn’t bother. Suffice to say it was a shitty week for our collective bargaining team, and I was glad to come home on Thursday night (even if it was with a slight cold).

I had a lovely gathering last night at my home for Thanksgiving with lots of great friends, and even my brother in attendance, but found myself anxious throughout the evening. As I have been anxious over the last couple of weeks. Although it hasn’t been front and center, I’ve realized in the last couple of days that my overall stress levels have been rising in response to both the coming elections and the current economic crisis and my ability to cope has eluded me at the oddest times.

At the SuperStore on Saturday (a place I normally refuse to go but needed cheaper groceries for Thanksgiving meal) I came perilously close to a full-blown anxiety attack. Yesterday afternoon on the phone with Darren I found myself cursing loudly, yelling about a situation I know I have little ability to change. Last night after dinner I went home to Brian’s and found myself worried that the dinner wasn’t fun, that my parents life savings have been lost, that my brother is drinking too much, that Brian and I will never be able to move in with each other. And on, and on. Sober as hell, but neurotic as a drunk, these recent days I find myself in tears over nothing that is happening to me.

What’s remarkable about it is that until very recently (like until the last week) I have been really very confident, unshakable even as I have been working out, eating healthy, writing lots, engaged in a fantastic relationship – generally living a charmed life in many ways. But the current state of things has reminded me in some way that no matter how much you build your life, get it together, do the right thing – this system still finds ways to eat up everything you have worked for. And what worries me the most is that rather than pull together, humans can so often be grabby and pushy and so self-interested that the current crisis is more likely to pull everything apart.

But I suppose what the anxiety is really based on is my failure to remember, and internalize, how little control any of us have over it. That I can not change or stop the impacts of these things on the lives of people around me. I can not single-handedly force my employer to bargain fairly for our union members; I can not restock my parents’ life savings; I can not direct the US immigration system to work faster for Darren’s return home. All I can do is take care of my own health, my partner and his daughter, extend my love and support to those in my circle. And hope for the best, while accepting that the worst may still be yet to come.

It’s not without recognizing my own privilege that I type these words. I am lucky to have a secure job, no investments in the tumbling markets, and a riding that boasts a NDP seat as a given in tomorrow’s election. I am in love with a remarkable man, who has a beautiful daughter, and who I plan to spend my life with. I exist in one of the safest corners of the world, with an incredible community of people, and a support network that most people would celebrate. And so if I am feeling anxious, what is the rest of the world going through right now?

As Brian reminded me last night, no matter what happens, we can celebrate the fact that even in this teetering time there is still a feast to be had, a bottle of wine, a place to come home to. And so I know that I must refocus right now to put this anxiety at bay. Exercise, good food, writing, friends, my family. These things demand my attention, especially as the rest of the world spins out of my control.

Managed to write 1500 words before breakfast this morning and still can’t think of a thing to say here. 1500 words in 45 minutes. No wonder all the writing experts tell you to start with your family. This particular exercise suggested re-invention, which in the case of my kin is a nice way to fill in all the information gaps, by creating it. Do I know what port my great-grandfather left Europe from? No, but if I look at a map I can see that the closest major sea port was Genoa, so I might as well have him leave from there. And on it goes. I suppose that’s how people write fiction.

Normally I despise every writing exercise except free writing, and yet I find myself drawn over and over to books that promise a hundred ways to spark creativity and get you going. If I’m lucky, there is one exercise that sparks my interest and the rest just feel contrived. I suppose that I’m really hoping one day I am going to find a book which makes writing super easy for me, so it’s never work again. You know, clearly, if I had the right set of exercises I would be able to write voluminously.

Of course, what I am really discovering is that dedicating an hour every day to writing (no internet, no email, no distractions) is the only exercise that really does make writing easier for me. It’s been two weeks of this so far and I feel improvements already – not in the sense that my quality is better, but that my output is increasing and my brain is shaping around the work differently than it was before. Increased output ultimately means lots of raw material to winnow down, and ultimately I find freewriting an interest process of discovery and the most effective use of that time.

Over beer last night I told a friend about this, how I learned to free write in a high school creative writing class, and did loads of it in my late teens and early twenties. Got some poems out of it that I still consider quite good (and apparently are still used as examples in a teacher’s classroom). And then I stopped because I had this great desire to be super abstract that in the end just got silly. I’m pretty sure the amount of hallucinogens I was taking at the time didn’t help.

Since then I’ve had trouble coming back to it, trouble with the concept that not everything has to be finished by the time it hits the page. It is this kind of thinking that really is the antithesis of creativity, the editor brain getting in the way of the words before they even have a chance to get out and be heard. But because I have been trying to break my writer’s block and get motivated, I have returned to the technique with dedication in the last two weeks – using the process to flesh out an essay, take notes for poems, start a family story that may end up fiction. No doubt, writing at six in the morning feels like a bit of a chore no matter what you do, but I wake up wanting it, and that surprises me. A month ago I could barely eke out a blog post, and today I have stories and poems lurking about, awaiting exposure.

Next is the shaping of things, the cutting, finessing, forming from the words I have spilled already. This is not work for six in the morning I am sure, but for more hours, half days, which I will find as I arrange my life to accomodate these bursts of editorial activity. I am worried that after all I won’t be able to finish anything, but determined this time to try. To produce consistently enough that I have items for submission, that I have things to read aloud and share with writer’s groups. Enough that I can feel myself a writer, at least momentarily, instead of someone who “just blogs”.

I know this is the lament of every writer, except for those who get down to doing it – but even them – we could always be more disciplined, more rigorous, less self-indulgent with our mornings, evenings, lunch breaks. We could always decide too that torturing ourselves over not doing it is just silly. Ridiculous even. We’re just not that important. And yet, for me it’s not about self-importance, but self-identity. It’s an identity I want and have always wanted. Perhaps because a celebrity to me is a great author. Perhaps because I’m secretly starved for attention.

But it is easier to just get down and do it. To rehearse the words rather than wallow in the lack of them. To commit those mornings to paper before someone else beats you to that perfect punch line. The only other option is to give up and stop fussing about it. But that wouldn’t be nearly as much fun.

I wish I could write something as lovely as what Brian said yesterday, but it’s Monday morning and I’m feeling slightly queasy (which I suspect is a byproduct of the multivitamin I’ve been taking) so it’s almost impossible for me to conjure anything even slightly romantic at the moment. Suffice to say that Brian and I made it to a year as of yesterday, and I’m pretty certain we will make it to many more. That feels really damned good to say outloud. Yes, people, he *is* the one.

That said, I had a weekend packed full of folks – not only the family events that Brian wrote about (my family, his family, a wedding – all in two days) – but I heard from a friend who has moved back to town, saw two good friends who were working at Word on the Street yesterday, and found myself in a long phone conversation last night with another old friend who is considering a career in government. Besides which, I interacted with a lot of random people at WOTS yesterday since it’s a crowd of book people, and I like book people. Yesterday felt very good to me for many reasons; fabulous September day, happy people, anniversary, books. Too bad Monday had to come along, really.

I struggled this morning to wake up early enough to write, but as Brian was perched on the edge of the bed with a cup of coffee at quarter after six, I felt that I had some responsibility to him at least. I mean, if he is willing to get up and support me like that, I need to hold up my end of the bargain and actually write. It’s not like I even have to come up with something cogent in that time. And since I was late rising today, I just allowed myself 30 minutes of free writing which gave me 1200 words that I didn’t have yesterday. Good right? Eventually these bits and pieces will add up to something I’m sure – but for now I think it’s just important to practice the ritual of discipline. Or at least that’s what I’m telling myself at six am.

I feel woozy at the moment, frustrated by my inability to fully wake up, and I’m pretty sure that more coffee will only make my stomach worse. How strange, this. I’m don’t believe it’s an actual “illness” but more something to do with restless sleep, and perhaps the fact I was dreaming about customs agents when I woke up this morning.

I have a week of people and events before heading to Ottawa on Friday for the first round of collective bargaining since last May. But I am feeling well-equipped – schedule organized with Brian, time for packing set aside, and a friend to housesit while I’m gone. It works, this life, if I time-manage effectively – and I feel like I am just figuring that out now. The addition of a partner and a child to my life has made it somewhat of a neccessity – to find time for all my responsibilities and loves, including my own work and process.

Fuzzy head aside, I am actually feeling pretty “on” these days in terms of making what I need happen – and I’m feeling really supported in doing so by my partner and my friends. I am trying my damndest to let my privileged life spill over and reciprocate that support back out in full measure. It’s not always that I get times of such riches as this in my life and I’m determined to make the most of what it is I have managed to gather in my arms.