DKWrites

Funny when I'm drawn here. When I have a good dream, or I'm stuck in my house, apparently.

Thing is, we're in the midst of a key conundrum. It's probably to do with my own aversion to keys -- how can something that important be so small, so lose-able? But it also has to do with our two-month-long effort to find suitable doggie care, a poorly-designed house, and a busy, irregular schedule.

The key worked to get me in, but it doesn't work to lock up. Sound like something from Alice in Wonderland? That's how it's been with our key conundrum. Last week I stayed in and read about Tiger Woods until Alex returned from school with a key and I could go to work.

And tonight, instead of going to capoiera while Alex is at wrestling, I'm stuck inside my house. My silent, messy house.

And what do I do: clean? sleep? cook? All logical choices. But not for me, not tonight. Tonight, I read.

I read Elizabeth Hay's Late Night's on Air. I choose it because my boss lent it to me and I'm scared that I will ruin it with spilled coffee or doggie something. Turns out, it was perfect for this evening. That's because it's February 9th, and just today I was marveling that it is February 9th and I haven't really broken down crying because my father died in February (16th, 2004). And Hay's book is perfect because it is filled with sadness and father moments, yet it's set somewhere I only dream of (Yellowknife). So it has a way of transporting me to a place that is both strange and familiar. And I love that.

Alex is home now, puttering in the kitchen because I asked him for some time to write. And I love that.

An interesting article in Psychology Today brought back memories of graduation, specifically the morning after a rousing party with some of my peers in J-school.

The hangover had firmly set in, and a friend popped by to pick up ... okay, here's where the hangover-cloud comes in ... a cake? Yes, I believe it was the tray on which a celebratory cake of some sort had been consumed from the night before.

This friend, who shall remain nameless, always held a very esteemed place in my mind. The go-getter, the organizer, the one with lofty goals. AND she was NICE. (One time I even revealed my envy -- I mean, esteem -- for her to one of my teachers, who kindly said that this student had a lot of support from family in the city and we're not all that lucky. I've tried to hold on to that consolation in the years that followed, but as I watch her Skype location dart from one exotic locale to the next, it sometimes feels like just that: a consolation.)

So, in my alcohol-induced half-day depression, and with a bright-faced go-getter at my door, I collapsed. I let this girl hear my sad story about how I don't think I'll actually make it out there in journalism 'cause I"m just not... her. Not willing to file innumerable forms and put in countless years for a permanent position with a national media company. Not willing to volunteer my summers away in the hopes that I outshine the other unpaid interns. Not willing to trust that the future will all be fine if I just buy a pantsuit and keep my nose to the grindstone.

I can't remember what she said but it really didn't matter. She was nice, the hangover wore off, and I continued on with my own, unique career path. It hasn't been completely boring, but it's not a bio that would rock anyone's world, either.

But Psychology Today came at me today with some good news: the bad economy doesn't foster skyrocketing success, so we should just lay back and enjoy ourselves!

In A Vacation From Your Dreams, Judith Sills, PhD. argues: There's a hidden bonus in our mass loss of net worth ... It's a respite from ambition.

For Sills, the news her own competitor (well, a slacker she knew in high school) had lost his job meant a relief from the rat race:

"My own practice has felt the sting of this economic downturn and, if Marty has it worse, maybe I don't have to scramble so hard. Maybe I can just be grateful to be where I am."

She also points to an increase in the barter system and a genera 'giving up' when it comes to meeting annual sales. All of which sidelines the sideways glances. Sure, it's being replaced by communal fear -- but at least we're in this together.

Of course, it can't all be R&R, especially if you're the type to read Psychology Today. Use the extra mental space to do some big-picture planning. Go back to school. Or just step up to plan the Christmas party.

I do love the way she finishes this advice:

"Being forced to stand still can help you figure out if your ambitions truly coincide with your strengths and passions, or if they represent a younger, different you -- a restless you who will always want more.

Now, I've already changed career tracks once in this decade, so I'll stick with journalism (for now ;). But within these slow(er) afternoons, there's definitely room for cogitation.

Is it possible? I used to be able to take the ebbs and flows of freelance life with ease, trotting off to the coffee shop for a session of reading and window-gazing on days like today.

The work keeps coming, this I know. But I haven't pitched a solid story in months, it seems, and I'm out of practice so I should be boning up on the cold emails and the perfectly crafted pitch. And the coffee shop doesn't feel appealing.

Maybe it's my new status as wife and dog-owner? I do feel a twinge of guilt when I spend money on myself, knowing my guy carefully calculates how many colour copies he can make with the bit of change in his pocket. And the guilt upon leaving Foster for anything that doesn't directly relate to filling his bowl (or meeting his vet appointments) ... well, that's a given.

Maybe it's just this new office. What's different? For one, I can't stare out the window at passersby. I thought that was a good thing, an attention-saver.

And another thing: we don't have a kettle, which means tea time is a confusing task of boiling water, standing by the stove (dont' want another *accident*), and then re-heating said water after the first cup is done. Might as well have taken the dog for another walk, with all the walking and impatient looks.

Lastly, the house is a mess. The last house was also often a mess, but this room is smaller. Fewer places to look.

That's it. This afternoon, I'll clean. It's the only way to justifiably use my time and energy in an act that will benefit all -- and hopefully feed my writing life.

As mentioned in an earlier post, I'm writing more about health issues these days. Weird how these things turn out: I wanted to diversify, and I like tackling complex problems and making them accessible to a general audience, so I thought I'd start contributing to this small health publication.

That should get my health chops working, then I'll pitch to larger, better-paying mags, I thought.

But then, about a month before I got my first official letter of assignment I got TWO health-related assignments from one of my regular editors. Coincidence? Maybe they knew I was ready for a change and open to doing the extra research the beat demands?

Either way, proud to say two article appeared in this weekend's new Life section!

Tellher2 -- about a new website that aims to help young cancer patients connect

and

Shake it -- about a fitness device that claims you'll lose inches in weeks (but it's not an all-in-one, or a weight loss regime, or..)

OK, so my party of coincidence and celebration about getting into a new beat is over. This beat holds plenty of important stories, like the state of smoking in Nunavut. This guys' face broke my heart this morning.

With my roommate's mom here tending to my spunky pal's broken bones and bed-ridden blues, I'm getting an extra dose of mothering -- a kind of parenting that includes more opinions and boy talk. Over wine and pizza at 3 in the afternoon yesterday she gave me her two cents about my plans to move to the U.S. in support of my fiance's education plans.

"American's are different"
"You know what they say about when one partner moves to be near the other, with no social network"
"What about your career?"

I finally stopped her relentless critique, yet something stirred inside. Perhaps it was the wine or the white-flour pizza, but I was feeling uneasy about the status of our plan. We hadn't fully explored the options within Canada -- a country that would offer us health care and interest relief on my substantial student loan.

I hemed and hawed over this notion for the rest of the day, looking for signs. There were signals that the U.S. market would be fertile ground for my journalism career -- like the environmental blog I'm about to start contributing to, based in NYC -- but there were also signs I should stay here in Ottawa. Assignment letters. Responses from new editors. Neighbourhoods blossoming with community spirit (that make Ottawa less like a city and more like a bunch of towns and a stable #1 employer).

I broached the subject with my fiance and it turned into a bit of a squabble, but I didn't tell him where the subject initiated from and I ended the conversation surprising him with the news that I'd be down for Valentines Day. As with all our plan-making, we're taking baby steps and keeping our options open.

In any case, with my career on the line and the love-or-money question raised, I settled down to write about what it is that keeps me tapping away at a keyboard, scrawling in the dark, composing poems on long runs. It came down to a fundamental feeling that I had a right to write. That I would feel somehow less human, less myself, less connected to the world, were I to give up the ghost on writing (and making a living by it).

And then I slept, and dreamt like never before. At one point, on the verge of tears, I shut my eyes and saw a book, it's pages urging me to write.

I woke, recalling my dream for pages in the half-light of dawn.

In the end, I found that writing is a right, as fundamental to my existence as water or air. Take it away and I falter, grasping at straws for who I am and what I am here for.

So I left the iPod at home on my run today. I'd already cleared the R3-30 podcasts (hit-and-miss for running beats) and took on some DJ Miles tracks for the road, but then I remembered ... from previous posts (not to mention weird chest rashes from electronic cables) ... that my mind sort of shuts down when I listen to music on the go.

And I really do want to get back to you, blog. (Only upon returning did I realize I'd been gone for a month! Egad!)

In any case, after I started trotting down Lyon Street, eyes focused on the semi-plowed sidewalk and cheeks puckered against the wind, I realized I I would have to take it slow on this run. Winter running is an entirely different sport, involving a testy game of layering (one which I'm losing via over-bundling these days) and a final product that, in my case, looks nothing more graceful than a power-suited lade rushing the morning bus in heels and a briefcase.

Take it slow, I told myself. You're out here, you're taking a stab at it. Slow -- baby steps. (Though in this weather babies would be wheeled around or cozily strapped to mom's chest).

And then, the aha moment. I can take it slow with the blog. I can write in spurts, I can leave it alone for a week of heavy deadlines (or a time when I doubt it's role in helping be get a paying gig).

So I took my own advice a couple times here. But I also want to get better at this, I want to improve and I DO believe it can help me get paying gigs.

So, in the bleak mid-winter, when times are tough all over and neither running nor writing looks appealing, I'm going to read more blogs, research and link, and take baby steps to a new online life.

OK, so I'm late reacting virally to this manifesto. But my delay can be directly related to one of the points in the article.

And, because the piece was so choc full of reflections on the state of, and projections for the future of, all things bloggy, I'll stick to this one point.

It came at the end, when Sullivan was wrapping up his argument for blogging and it's place within literature. It came when I, having slipped off for a wee sunset-hour nap, stood up, said hello to the home-from-work fam, and returned to the comfort of my couch to finish the article. (It's no dis to the piece, I swear I have narcolepsy).

Throughout the piece, Sullivan defended the blogosphere, comparing (good) blogs to Pascal's Pensees, deconstructed his own development as a blogger, etc. And throughout the piece he insisted on the potential for the peaceful co-existence between conventional journalism and blogging. But it wasn't until his conclusion that it really hit home.

You see, I'm blogging -- and living, for the month -- at my to-be in-laws, at the top of a hill in a small town in northwestern Connecticut. Occasionally I attempt to make real-life connections with the people of this town, but I generally live in this one corner of the house (where I've found a one-to-two-bar wireless connection!)

Day after day I plan my reading, researching, pitching, etc., unable to live without a deadline (see previous post). Yesterday I decided to take a different approach and embrace this temporary state. I would read (picked up back issues of New York Mag,Psychology Today, Atlantic Monthly and Self -- Thomaston does have a library, thanks goodness).

Sure enough, as soon as I cast off the boxes of which magazine, which issue, which editor, which angle, which department -- in general, as soon as I stopped compartmentalising my whole approach to reading and researching, the ideas came. (When will the incandescent light bulb be replaced by the compact fluorescent as the symbol of a good idea? And is this delay a symbol in itself?)

OK, OK, I'm rambling ... but such is the way my playful mind works when my drill sergeant mind lets loose it's grip. I pause and look around and make connections -- sometimes days after reading the piece.

Feeling frugal (who isn't?) and limited by back issues, I've been trying to read online. Almost made it through this Walrus article on beards. (Maybe it's in their blog section, but it's long and 'full' enough to be an article). I did get through a short story by Claire Gibson on Joyland.

But after a few hours of scrolling, interrupted by the occasional tweet/email/chat I decided to head to the couch. And that's where I met Sullivan.

I had tried to read this a month ago, when the listservs were all abuzz with it. I made it to page three -- and I was proud of myself for that.

So how justified was I feeling when, having made it through the whole piece, Sullivan closes by comparing the act of reading online (using a "querulous, impatient,a distracted attitude") to the experience of "opening a novel or a favourite magazine on the couch. Reading on paper evokes a more relaxed and meditative medium."

Of course, Sullivan wasn't arguing one is better than the other. But for me, for this month sans deadlines, I think I'll risk narcolepsy and stay on the couch.

(Until I get an idea I want to bounce off the blogosphere, or find a person I want to track, or a new publication I want to write for, or ...)

Yes, that's me. I'm a freelance journalist sans assignment.

To be fair, it's mostly out of choice. Having completed my contract with the Ottawa Writers Festival, and with the holidays around the corner, I opted to do the 'quality time' thing with my fiance, his fam, and my mom on the west coast. I vowed that if I received a stellar assignment that required me to stay in Ottawa I would, but I didn't really go after said job.

And so I find myself without assignment -- in small town Connecticut, no less -- for the first time in ... many months.

How many times I wished for such freedom ... and now I'm finding the situation empty, scary, and completely foreign. Sort of like a uber-clean showroom of designer clothes.

Now, I like to nest. I like to putter around the house and get things done; these include spontaneous bouts of creativity, but they also include 'mundane' stuff like cooking and cleaning. (O damn! tofu! phew. all good). To me, these things build security and comfort, as well as allowing my mind to play around with ideas in the comfort and budget of my own home.

As a natural nester, taking on the housewife role comes pretty naturally. Someone popped by this afternoon, and I was quite happy to serve tea and chat the hours away.

So you'd think that, looking at the next year and all it's wifey duties, I'd be pretty stoked. But the thing is, the nesting seems so much fun that I'm afraid I'll lose myself in it, become adrift in a sea of colour palettes and crudites, until I wake up one day ... in my apron.

But today offered some nibbles of comfort. I was afforded quite a few hours of alone time; I tried to get CBC online but failed technologically. Instead, after washing up my poached egg and rye toast, I fell into the coach and wrote. I thought to write in le blog and I did.

It's very quiet in this house on the hill and I already know it's a great place to read. Writing? So far, so good. (Especially since I found wireless in our new (wrap-around-porch-turned) apartment!)

And what is a deadline, anyway? : The end of a job, all too often arriving too soon for what the assignment truly requires. : Someone else's constraints forcing themselves on you. : A goal. : A way to frame your writing, place restrictions on your writing, give excuses to your writing and/ or it's shortcomings.

Writing without a deadline ... there may be something to it. For now, I'm taking the advice of journalist Fateema Sayani and poet Gillian Wigmore. On writing after marriage/ kids: do it in spurts.

Yes, I'm working from home today. My wonderful boss at the Ottawa Writers Festival gave us the day off (given the fact that we did 12-hour days for ten days in a row, I suppose it should be expected, but I was still surprised!)

And because I am a bit of a work-aholic, love my work, and am trying to inject new life into my freelance career, I'm working on my 'day off.' And it's great!

The sun filters in as I watch the day outside turn from sunny to wet-snowy, to grey with patches of vibrant blue. A tiny boxer puppy seems to smell something interesting on my patch of grass ... his owner tugs him along. The phone rings; I take diligent messages for my roommates.

And the mail comes!

All my life I've loved the mail. I procrastinated on the whole email thing because I knew it would be one more reason to avoid snail mail. In the late 90s I was still writing letters, pasting together photo collages and sneaking in little stickers and ticket stubs to more tangibly share memories with friends. Some snail mail allies would even write back, and I have tons of colourful, sentimental scrawlings in basement boxes.

But email came, and letters went. Or did they?

As a freelancer, I still get cheques in the mail. I know a lot of freelancers complain about the inconsistency of the invoicing system, but I sort of like it. Yes, I've had to hound editors who've had to hound accounts payable who maybe never even got the invoice, and I guess I'm luck because my rent is low and my bills even lower.

But there's something in the NOT knowing. Something in the limbo -- a sense that it could all be taken out from underneath you -- that keeps me working hard and prevents me from taking anything for granted. When I do month-by-month projections (ok, these are more like passing thoughts will running than Excel spreadsheets), I just kind of hope and visualize library trips, hours at the local coffee shop, frugal meals and quiet afternoons.

Yes, I'm on a contract now that gives me a regular paycheque. And yet I welcome the return to full-time freelance.

Maybe my hopeful tone is just because I got mail today, but it's worth noting that I did not receive a cheque. No, I got a stack of Ottawa Citizen Style Magazine, sent to me by my editor, who seems to think there's more work to be had and that I might just succeed in this game.

I also received the journal that my fiance and I correspond in. He's in Connecticut, and he gave me this hard cover book in Hawaii when we first parted in December 2007. Back and forth it goes, filled with hope and love and scrawling... looks like I have another ally in the snail mail underworld.

Me and my blog haven't spent too much time together lately. I've been busy with stuff in the 'real' world, most recently the Ottawa International Writers Festival.

So with all those writers around, my boyfriend asked me today 'have you thought about your blog? are you going to write in it again?'

My answer was yes, but first I have to run ...

Ahh. Much better. I"m hot under the collar but my senses are heightened after a 40 minute run to the canal and back home through the Glebe. Even found a patch of park I never knew aobut before.

Soon after I started I felt the baggage sway. My tummy, that is, up and down and up and down with every step, every bounce reminding me of late night beers and baked good mornings, of the Writers Fest that did a number on my usual, somewhat healthy, routine.

I was reminded of the physicality of writing in one of the sessions. Sonnet L'Abbe and Stephen Heighten, I believe. Anyway I know it was Sonnet -- who could forget a poet with a name like that -- who spoke of meditating, of bringing the words from a deep place within, of always trying to go, for lack of a better word, deeper.

My deep insides are hurting right now. I still have to do abs, and while the run felt good I have to admit I was using my iPod for extra motivation today so maybe I wasn't hearing my body cry out 'what's this? it's not beer or baked goods! you mean we [my legs, my gut, my will, etc.] still RUN?'

So I have to go attend to those parts and drink water and generally fuel the machine I plan on putting to good use over the next few months and years. 'Cause I do believe n the physicality of writing, but I can't expect much from a physical self existing off of beer and baked goods.

Fishwife:
a coarse-mannered woman who is prone to shouting.

I was looking up fishy words for a piece I'm writing on Whalesbone Oyster House. I had oysters there this morning at 10 a.m. and they put me in a right snappy mood.

And I think I have now found the fishiest word of 'em all...
I found this interpretation at www.phrases.org.uk, and it really made me wish I shrieked like a fishwife more often:

In London, fish mongers were also known as "The wives of Billingsgate". according to Ackroyd, it is thought that they were descendants of devotees of the God, Belin who was worshipped there at one time. "They dressed in strong 'stuff'gowns and quilted petticoats; their hair, caps and bonnets were flattened into one in distinguishable mass upon their heads." They were also called 'fish fags'. "They smoked small pipes of tobacco, took snuff, drank gin and were known for their colourful language... A dictionary from 1736 defined a 'Billingsgate' as a scolding, impudent slut." You can almost imagine how they must have smelled.

...but it pours. That's what they say about freelance journalism and I'm currently experiencing a dry spell.
From actually considering turning down work just a week ago (of course I didn't), to firing off pitches like a Ritallin-induced paint-baller, I have officially experienced the fearful, changing seasons of freelance life.
For now, it seems like a right of passage. I'm living the life I've heard so much about, and that includes spending time in the trenches. My rent is cheap, my needs simple. The library, I'm finding, is a great place to escape the walls of a home office...though now that the main branch has wireless I'm sure it will become a second place of work.
But I am wondering how long I should roam this assignment-less desert, waiting for an oasis of satisfying, well-paying features to show up. Is a mirage (read: blog) enough to sustain me another few weeks?
Could it be that the entire magazine world is on hiatus? Perhaps adjusting to the onset of spring and simply going through their spring wardrobe?

I can help! I know the colour wheel off by heart! And I know both American and Canadian spellings of words like colour (color)!

Sigh. Patience, D, patience.

From my beloved library I found 'Steering the Craft,' by Ursula K. Le Guin. In it she emphasizes the need to work the words -- that writing may be a gift, but we need to work the craft of it, so that we can deserve it.
"There's luck in art. There's the gift. You can't earn that. You can't deserve it. But you can learn skill, you can earn it. You can learn to deserve your gift."
--Ursula K. Le Guin, Steering the Craft.

With that, I take a new outlook on my days devoid of deadlines. Rather than a desert, I'll see it as a chance to explore new waters, to play in the boat that carries me though life.
And as I look back to my last entry, where I questioned the place of writing in my life -- and wondered if I was giving it adequate room to roam -- I feel blind to what the world is trying to tell me.
Just write.

...this was the instruction of one of my first writing teachers Mr. Krisak.
That, and 'Let's Talk' were often scrawled across pages of my required journal entries, poems, short stories, and even the final 'Magnum Opus.'
Krisak introduced me to a lot of aspects of writing, like the notion that you'll never be absolutely satisfied with a piece and the idea that crap should not be tolerated.
So I often see those words in my minds' eye, when I'm washing the floors and am struck with a story, or find myself gazing out my front window, wondering what to blog about.
But lately, those two words have taken on a new meaning.
What if I 'Just Wrote?'
As in, didn't wash the floors or balance other people's interests into life's equations? What if I gave up the idea of physical fitness and social ties and...just write my days away??
I've always loved it. I can't imagine my life without it. And yet, I've never really let it take over my world, let myself become soley a vehicle for words, with no sister or mother, boyfriend or brother calling me out to play.

Could I take over the world if the words took over me??

I'm thinking of it today because I had a bizarre, disturbing dream last night. Really just a vision: I came up with a kick-ass, brilliant idea for a fiction novel.
Now, I dream often, and in vivid colour, action, and depth. The other day, after describing a literal roller-coaster of a dream to a friend, I tried to comfort him by saying that perhaps I dream so much because my life is sort of lame.
(This isn't true, but I sometimes feel bad about being happy. When 'no complaints' really means no complaints, and I can only say 'happy, health and fun,' I feel the need to recoil into apology mode. Weird?)
In any case, I told my buddy that perhaps my brain compensates, 'tops up' if you will, if the there's a lack of creative stimuli in my life...through dreams.

Now I'm scared. Do I need to be writing fiction?