Tag: Writing

writing life

Tell Your Stories

Sue

“…What if you wake up some day, and you’re 65, or 75, and you never got your memoir or novel written; or you didn’t go swimming in warm pools or oceans all those years because your thighs were jiggly and you had a nice big comfortable tummy; or you were just so strung out on perfectionism and people-pleasing that you forgot to have a big juicy creative life, of imagination and radical silliness and staring off into space like when you were a kid? It’s going to break your heart. Don’t let this happen.” ~ Anne Lamott

I rediscovered this quote recently while I was working through some hard decisions. I’m happy that I did because I’ve long admired Anne Lamott’s work and it was something I needed to see at just right the time. It’s interesting the way that happens sometimes. One moment you’re minding your own business, just trying to work through a nagging problem, then out of the blue someone or something speaks directly to your heart and it helps to prompt change.

The first book I read of hers, Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life, was recommended to me years ago by a writing instructor. Every creative person should read this book. Anne has a way of cutting through the murk and mess we create as humans to help uncover the hard truth of what’s really holding us back from doing what we want to do. I’m sure the reasons are different for every person.

I decided right there in the middle of a stressful time that I had to read Bird by Bird again. Not surprising, I couldn’t find my old dog-eared copy from the early 90’s so I ordered a new one. Rereading it I discovered that while many references are outdated, I still find it to be profoundly inspiring, and that some thirty years later one of my reasons isn’t the same because I no longer fear telling my truth.

When I was younger and I wrote a lot, at the far back row in my mind sat the audience. I could even visualize them; some had blurred faces because I didn’t know them well, while others came sharply into focus because I knew them too well. I was careful to the point of rewriting myself into a corner whenever I plotted fictional stories, just on the off chance someone close to me might catch glimpses of themselves in my characters. To this day I’m not exactly sure what I was worried about. Perhaps that I might inadvertently hurt or offend someone I love with the sharp edges of my writing? It seems rather silly now, as do most fears, given time and maturity.

Maybe it’s my age or maybe it’s life experience, but I’ve come to understand that the truth as I see it will never perfectly match someone else’s recollection. With that knowledge also comes the freedom to unfold my version the way I believe it happened. It’s impossible to create without adding the flavourful seasonings of thoughts and experiences collected, bottled and stored in our minds every day. It doesn’t matter if the “audience” is kind or not, or even if they wag a finger in disapproval from the back row. It only matters that we take what we need from storage, all the messy bits and pieces, and shape them exactly as we wish. Recently I’ve started writing a novel. It’s not a memoir, it’s purely fiction. But yes, some parts of the characters do resemble someone I know well: me.

I’ll leave you with a photo of “radical silliness” taken by my daughter in January 2020 while we were swimming in the ocean at Turtle Bay, Oahu. And another favourite Anne Lamott quote: “You own everything that happened to you. Tell your stories. If people wanted you to write warmly about them, they should have behaved better”.

life

The Merriam-Webster Definition of Yarn

Sue

 1: a continuous often plied strand composed of either natural or man-made fibers or filaments and used in weaving and knitting to form cloth.

2: [from the idiom spin a yarn “to tell a tale”] : a narrative of adventure: a tall tale, a roaring good yarn.

Well, hello. Welcome to my first blog post. Glad you found your way here. Truthfully I’m not sure what I’m even doing here, but it’s not unusual for me to jump into something and figure it out as I go. So here goes….

I should probably start by telling you a little about myself. I won’t get into the entire history of my life thus far because I’m a woman of few words unless I’m comfortable chatting with you or I’ve enjoyed a few sips of wine or approximately half a beer. Since it’s early morning as I write this, one or two cups of coffee is as strong as it gets.

My name is Susan and I’m known mostly as Sue. I used to be a writer, a book reviewer, a bookseller, and until about a month ago a yarn shop owner. Yes, somewhere along the way I got off the track of books and tangled up in the wonderful world of wool. As mentioned earlier I’ve been known to jump in and out of interests. Only this time my business owner preoccupation stuck around for a solid fourteen years.

I’ve had many other paying jobs since the first babysitting gig. Most of them were terrible and just a means to pay the bills. None of them are worth mentioning. I was really never good at working for other people. I suspect that growing up the youngest of seven children gave me a strong dislike of being told what to do. It’s also the reason I discovered early on that books, paper and pencils can provide a comforting escape from the chaos and conflicts within large families.

I attribute my early love of reading to my literary-loving paternal grandmother who lived with us until I started school. Mostly she was there to help take care of me because I came along later in my parents’ lives when they both had full-time jobs and all the other kids were many years into school. Some were even senior high students. I was definitely a surprise baby, but fortunately a welcomed one.

Childhood favourites shared with Grandma

My British-born grandmother read with me children’s classics only and my parents didn’t care much about what I read, as long as I wasn’t out in the neighbourhood causing trouble. My mom, however, read almost everything I wrote from an early age and fully accepted my fictional friends as being as important to me as the real ones. She was my first captive audience and she died far too soon. I lost the creative drive to write along with her, but that’s a long story for another day.

Now I’m the grandmother. Which, of course, means that I’ve raised children of my own. Not alone, thankfully. I’ve managed to muddle through all of that married to their dad for over thirty years. There comes a time in your life when you realize you’ve actually done the most growing up right along with your children. Being completely responsible for human lives keeps you standing on high alert at all times, ready to slay dragons with a spatula if necessary. It can be exhausting and frightening and exhilarating all at the same time.

Becoming a grandparent is the blessing for those years of heavy lifting. I know that sounds greeting-card corny, but I can imagine all of you grandparents nodding because it’s true. In my mind I don’t look like my grandparents did. Dare I say old? Certainly all of mine were well into their senior years by the time I made my late debut.

Fifty-something is not old. Still, I don’t seem to know as much as my grandparents did. Or maybe that was an illusion and all along they were just like me: curious enough to keep learning. That thought provides the perfect segue to why I’m attempting to write this blog.

I’m here to find my writing muse again. I feel that I have much to say about being creative and curious. Recently I’ve been closing one chapter of my life and starting another, so it seems like as good a time as any to jump into something new, yet old and familiar. I’ll probably talk too much about books I’m reading and projects I’m knitting. There may even be some waffling about the trials and tribulations of finding my elusive writing voice while I try to plot a novel. Eventually I’ll figure out how to properly add photos.

If you’re still here reading this to the end–thank you and I hope you’ll visit again. If I lost your interest way back at the start, well, that’s fine too. No hard feelings.