Full voice

Because sometimes one does things backward and higgledy piggledy, I wrote chapter one of my Master of Fine Arts writing project sixth in line. This made sense to me because I wasn’t sure how to launch this baby properly, and I may not have actually figured that out yet. But I did have a sense at times when I was writing it that I was in “the groove” and writing in the right direction. I’ve had this rare and  beautiful feeling a few times in my writing life, and it is a welcome respite from agony.

I received the chapter back from my writing mentor, and in one little corner of it, at one passage in particular, he wrote:  “I think this is a wonderful passage, you are in full voice here.” This gave me such joy. And at the risk of sounding not humble, I think he might have been right.  I could see that the passage he was commenting on really did sound like me, and not like me pretending to be someone else. And that means knowing what I’m knowing, and being honest and saying what I think to be true in the way that I want to say it and that I think it needs to be said. It’s not yelling, but I guess  full voice could be loud.

The next day, I sat around a dining room table in Toronto at a friend’s 60th birthday party. She is in full bloom (I think she is, but maybe not, maybe I don’t know what full bloom looks like. Maybe we just keep blooming and blooming). My friend is a priest and a professor, a writer and a mother and wife. She is fully engaged in her work. My dad has a funny little saying, about bosses or systems that were good to work in for him, he will say: “They used me well.” I think my friend is being used well right now, appreciated and maybe even applauded for all she has become.

I think she is in full voice. I shared with the table, that included her two daughters and ranged upward in age and stage from there, this idea of full voice. And of course because women don’t always speak in their full voice, (because they don’t want to be too loud, or  hurt feelings, or be pushy, or they preface their fabulous idea with self-deprecation) they understood the concept immediately. We all agreed we know when we are not speaking in full voice.

So, I’m going to be thinking about this more these days. What is my full voice? And if I’m not using it, why not?




I just finished — for now — a  chapter for my MFA, this one on forgiveness. I usually begin a chapter throwing a whole bunch of stuff into a fresh, clean word document. All my stories that I think will fit, my research, great quotes from experts that I think will spruce things up at the right moments.

As I write, I usually have a teetering pile of books by my side, my authority figures who remind me that I don’t need to have it all figured out myself. My corner of the dining room table will be a creative mess for days as I inch my way through my chapter.

I’m so glad we bought a long table years ago. Back then we were mostly picturing big dinner parties with loud conversations. We do that. But it’s a also a lovely writing home for me, when my basement office is more stifling than life-giving. There’s room for me to stay set up in one corner, and we can all eat at the other end.

As I  narrowed in on the ending for this piece, I remembered my mentor’s advice this summer: when it’s done, it’s done. Let the piece end itself, he said, instead of legalistically trying to wring 5000 words out of every topic. As it turns out, all I know about forgiveness fits into 3600 words, so I wrapped it up.

Then, I gathered up all the material I did not use from the document, and brought them over to my Leftovers File, in a big cut and paste sweep. It’s my guess they will remain there forever. But knowing they are in what is more of a compost bin than a garbage can makes them easier to let go of in the first place, and you never know, they may show up somewhere else someday.

The story behind The Walrus story

I was in New York City in January, for my week long residency of the Master of Fine Arts in Creative Nonfiction that I’m completing through the University of King’s College in Halifax. So was an editor from The Walrus. There were five blank spots on a sign-up page to meet with her one-on-one to pitch stories in the hallway outside our classroom.

I’m normally not aggressive about these things, being schooled in the art of letting other people go first to pick out all the black jujubes for themselves. But this time I shot out of the room and scribbled my name in one of those coveted spots. Then I spent a few hours trying to come up with One Great Idea, which later that afternoon made her eyes glaze over in boredom. I hadn’t actually seen that happen before, but I can assure you now that it really is a thing. I stammered to a close. We stared at each other for a moment, blinking.

Then she said, “Tell me about your MFA project.” So, I did. And she was pleasantly interested in my current work of digging around in my life as a minister’s wife. We chatted about what a Walrus piece could look like and exchanged emails.

Thus began the writer’s delicate journey of not bothering the editor too much, but just enough to stay on her radar. You want to lightly knock on the door and catch the editor at the precise right moment (and be a pleasant interlude in her busy day) not jump around waving your arms, yelling, every time she is headed out for a coffee (and be a crazy stalker). Anyway, she was lovely and we went through a few drafts with her deft edits and good questions to draw out the right things.

Then, came the fact-checking stage which involved me explaining to the new neighbours who invited us for dinner that this was SO newsworthy an event that I had written about it in an essay and now they needed to confirm it with a nice fellow from The Walrus. One funny friend told me that my neighbours might have the priest over for dinner again, but maybe not the writer. It took me over a week to work up the nerve to connect neighbours with fact checker, but in the circle of pleasantness that was this entire experience, this was just another roadstop. Everybody talked to everybody who needed to talk to anybody, and the piece was done.

And I realized as I read it in print, that I was finally, at this stage in my writing life, actually doing that thing they encourage you to do all along: write what you know. A few priests and pastors and people married to them have said to me, “Yeah, that’s it.” Because when we write what we know, we’re almost always telling the truth about what other people know too. That’s pretty cool.

The man on the plane

I flew home from Winnipeg recently, and sat beside an older gentleman who was making careful notes in a red spiral notebook. It’s the same kind of notebook I had in my knapsack at that very moment, where I keep notes for the MFA chapter I’m working on. Because I’m nosey, and I thought maybe he was a writer, I asked him.

He hold me he was actually sketching out plans for an upcoming sailing trip he was taking from Florida, a very long list of things to check and double-check before he sets sail for the Bahamas. But, as it turns out, he was a writer too. He told me about the short story collection of incredible but true stories he had independently published recently. He asked what I did for a living, and I told him that I too was a writer. He replied that he had thought this when I first sat down. I was inwardly pleased, thinking maybe I exuded a hip writer vibe after all,  that my cat eye glasses and careless bohemian chic (crumpled look) offset those long moments of being tangled in my own jacket, backpack and purse as I removed items from my carry-on bag so I could finally jam it into the overhead compartment above our row.  But no. It was because of the Casey and Finnigan illustration that I bought from the gift shop at the Human Rights Museum which I was carrying with me in the clear plastic bag now resting at my feet, along with my overflow items. He had assumed they were the pictures from the children’s book I’m not writing. I told him what kind of a writer I really am and we talked for the entire flight home.

He shared his discouragement at the difficulties of finding agents and publishers. I suggested he join a writer’s group for support and encouragement. He recounted the scene from “Midnight in Paris” when Ernest Hemingway tells Owen Wilson to avoid other writers because they are so competitive. I handed him  the “Humans Write” pen I had also bought at the Human Rights gift shop (no, I did not purchase a single item that had anything to do with the theme of the museum, just silly stuff) and told him I wanted him to have it. When I returned from the teeny tiny washroom at the back of the plane he had dug out his favourite pen to give to me. And so we departed, row mates and fellow writers, just a little bit encouraged, each of us with a new pen.

My longest running friendship is turning 50

I have friends who are older, but I don’t have a friend I have held so close to my heart for so long.  Crackly home movie footage shows me, six months older, trying to give Janet a good swat from my carriage, parked next to hers.

Our mothers were sisters, but we would have found each other anyway. I would have skipped up to her at recess, and said, “You look like someone who might enjoy fake swimming in your furnace room.” And she would have said “Yes. Absolutely. Let’s do that.”

We always knew we were lucky to be cousins who were friends, the same family dinners in dining rooms either blue or orange, depending on which sister was hosting, the same loud reunions, the same weddings in awful peach dresses and yes, the same funerals.

To laugh at the same absurdities in them and in us, and oh, those crazy mothers of ours.

It hasn’t all been enough giggling to have an entire Via-Rail train car turn on us, of course. There were the days of cautious measuring out of red kool-aid in her kitchen, crouched down at eye level to make sure not one of us got a single drop more, its own kind of oppression when you are young and thirsty. There were my bully days when I made her be Ken to my bossy Barbie, no matter what. Clearly, Mrs. Harriet liked her better. I became a teenage hooligan long before she did, and she’s always been nicer.  And she has given me grace upon grace.

We have lived in different cities for years, but we wander the same inner streets often, tripping over the curbs and walking into telephone poles. We share a landscape, and that map of where we have come from. We overanalyze and overlaugh, and that last one not really enough.

So now I know what it is like to have a friendship that is 50 years old, thick trunked and strong as anything. It grows in the yard of that nutty family farm we share, but it is its own sturdy tree. I hang a swing from it, and find shelter and shade, always, beneath its leaves.

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