Bodies at the Pool
The changing room at my local pool is a busy place. Mums scrub toddlers dry with faded, worn towels, the sort we all hesitate to throw away because they come in so handy for times like these. Little girls stand under forced-air hand dryers mounted high enough on the wall to act as hair dryers, their faces scrunched up against the warm rush of air. They remind me of when I was a kid and would wait my turn to do the same after swimming lessons, reaching up when my turn came to push the big, silver button to start the machine. When it stopped, I’d always wonder if I could get away with pushing it one more time before I relinquished my spot to the next kid in line, my head hot but my hair still wet. Teenagers shower quickly in their suits and disappear into the handful of private cubicles to change behind locked doors. Women my age, having long ago perfected the junior high gym strip dance, manage to change from clothes to bathing suit and back again afterwards without ever revealing much skin. By unspoken agreement, we ignore each other, girls and women, except for the occasional smile exchanged when the little kids do something funny. We are mindful of some of the patrons’ need for privacy where it is scarce. This is not the hockey locker room of my husband’s experience, guys showering naked without giving it a thought, laughing, ribbing each other, and talking while they change. Except for the old ladies. There are a lot of them at my pool. Always have been, my whole life. I have never been to the pool when they have not been there, unselfconsciously walking around naked in the changing room. I am new again to swimming lengths after years away from it, and some of these ladies pass me in the slow lane, their muscles well accustomed to swimming several times a week. They shower joyfully, letting the warm water run freely over their soap-lathered skin, while the rest of us hold our bathing suit tops a little away from our bodies to allow some water in to rinse us off. And then they stand around naked, gossiping with friends. Most of them speak in languages I don’t understand, but I have learned that girl talk sounds much the same in any tongue. They never rush, unwilling to interrupt their conversation by getting dressed. What is most noticeable about them is not their loose skin or sagging breasts, not their wrinkles or soft bellies. In fact, I had to think about the appearance aspect of their nudity when I sat down to write this. What is most noticeable about them is their laughter. They exercise their bodies and then they stand, utterly comfortable in their own skins, and laugh. They are wise. Share...
Sunday afternoon Twitter talk
I don’t purport to be an expert on social media. But I do pay attention, and I think I’ve learned a few things along the way, one of the fringe benefits of knowing a lot of very smart people. Today, I received twitter spam from an author I’ve never met or heard of, linking to his short story available on Amazon. Like pretty much every writer I know (every person, for that matter), I hate spam. Nothing is better designed to keep me from buying any product than the uninvited attempts of a stranger to sell it to me. But it’s a lazy, sunny Sunday here, and I’m sitting on my patio drinking tea, and it appeared he was an actual human being, so I decided, knowing it was likely unwise, to reply. I said pretty much what I’ve already described here: “Twitter spam? Great way to alienate potential readers.” I expected to either get no response or to get slammed for the comment. What I didn’t expect was for the writer to come back and ask me what he should do to attract readers. I told him what I know, even if I fail as often as I succeed in keeping up with the first two: engage. Be interesting. Talk about things other than your work. Build relationships. The conversation that followed showed he’s become frustrated enough with that approach to decide the pay-off for the spam is worth the cost to his reputation. Fair enough. For him, annoying those of us who hate spam enough to write off anyone who sends it is worth the reader engagement that comes from those who click through and buy his story.(He claims it’s connecting with readers, not sales, that drives him. I’ll give him the benefit of the doubt.) Building a following can be a frustrating, time-consuming, and sometimes disheartening exercise. So I wonder: other than what I said, what else would you have told him to do, assuming he’s genuinely interested in attracting readers without spam? How do you keep pushing through when it seems like nothing is working? Please share in the comments. Apart from encountering a spammer who was actually willing to have a reasonable conversation about what he was doing, the best part of it for me was meeting a fellow writer who joined in and was on the same page as I am. One of my favourite things about social media is the chance to connect with colleagues while I’m working alone on my back patio. What’re yours? Happy Sunday! Share...
The Weight of Disorganization
Awhile back, I had great intentions of writing a blog post about the weight of disorganization. The irony of the fact that I still haven’t posted it hasn’t escaped me. It was a day when the accumulation of receipts, notes, meeting agendas, tickets to events, and whatever other random detritus had taken up residence on my desk had me overwhelmed, and my goal was to clear it all off, piece by piece, until I had a clean, clear surface to work with. But first, I decided to take a “before” picture to use in this blog post. And IT BROKE MY PHONE. You may think I’m kidding, but no sooner had it taken the picture than it crashed, first to the standard “oops, I’ve crashed” black screen with the white apple, and then to a solid blue screen (Apple’s own BSOD?). Apparently I’m not the only one who finds the disorganization too much to take. Maybe it’s a coincidence that my not-quite-two-year-old iPhone died – truly dead; it had to be replaced – at that particular moment, the instant I snapped that picture, but I tend to think not. If I’d needed a sign other than my own stress level that it was time for clean surfaces, surely that was it. By the end of the day, after I’d spent a couple of hours at the Apple store dealing with the phone replacement, I sorted through and dealt with every bit of paper on the desk, dusted the surfaces, including the top edges of the books, and even sorted and tidied the desk drawers. It was glorious when it was done. I’m not a stickler for tidiness. I would far rather write or read or spend time with people I love than clean. I’m not going to look back on my life and regret that I didn’t spend time I could have been doing the things I love cleaning my house instead. As long as it’s hygienic and not too piled up, I’m fine with it. But every once in awhile, I’m reminded of how much more clearly I can think when my space is truly tidy. It’s like the neat spaces allow my mind to get busy creating instead of being slowed down by the visual clutter from a mess. Or something. Whatever the reason, I like the result. Maybe not enough to tidy instead of doing other things I love every time. But maybe once in awhile. I’ll just be sure to avoid taking a before picture first. Share...
Of Officers and Blogs and Books that Make Me Cry
A few random things for a Monday… I grew up with cops. My mum worked as a public servant for the RCMP for twenty-six years, so her co-worker friends included police officers and other people whose work lives, like hers, involved behind-the-scenes stuff that made police work possible. These were the people by whom I was surrounded, and all of them, every single one I knew, was in it for the right reasons. And now, we have our own friends who are cops, and they, too, go to work every day to try to make the world a little safer, a little better, sometimes at the expense of their own safety. And I know that when one of their number is killed in the line of duty, it’s like losing a family member, whether that person sits next to you at coffee or is a stranger from across the country. My thoughts are with the entire police family and everyone else affected by the senseless deaths of Const. Fabrice Georges Gevaudan, Const. Dave Joseph Ross and Const. Douglas James Larche in Moncton last week. I’m not sure who linked to this post, but it’s a good list of things it’s far too easy for most of us to end up regretting in our writing careers, easily avoided if we’re aware and willing: http://thewriteconversation.blogspot.ca/2014/05/9-things-youll-regret-when-you-look.html I just read Maddie Dawson’s The Opposite of Maybe. I was delighted to stumble across it on the shelf at my local bookstore, because I enjoyed what I thought was her first book, The Stuff That Never Happened, and I didn’t know she had a newer one. I’ve since found out (to my great delight), that she has earlier books under a different name, which I intend to check out. I like that Maddie explores territory I love exploring in my own work: the shades of grey between the absolutes of right and wrong, black and white, in which most of life seems to happen, and the nature of relationships of all sorts. Her characters are real and flawed and they make mistakes and don’t always know what’s right for them. There’d be spoilers in the bits that made me cry, so I won’t tell you what they are, but they made me cry not only for the characters, but for the way they resonated with me and spoke to truths and things – love, family, our history and stories, connections – that are important in my own life. If you like introspective women’s fiction, as I do, I recommend it. Share...
Perspective and Inspiration
I’ve been sick this week, with the sort of chesty, sinus-y, feverish bug that knocks you flat and makes simply breathing enough of a challenge that working is out of the question. By yesterday, five days into this thing, I was feeling pretty sorry for myself, sick of being housebound and of not being able to write as much as a coherent email. Woe is me. *cue tiny violins* We all have those moments, I know when whatever is holding us back gets us down. But if we’re lucky, before those blues can burrow too deeply into our souls, the universe hands us a little perspective. It did that for me yesterday. First, I read my good friend Laura Bradbury’s excellent blog. It speaks for itself, so go read it. And then, if that wasn’t enough to make me grateful to be able to feel sorry for myself about a bad cold, the point was hammered home by one of Eileen Cook’s tweets: Needed shot with javelin sized needle. Felt sorry for myself then remembered kids at the camp where I will volunteer have cancer #wussy — Eileen Cook (@Eileenwriter) May 29, 2014 Perspective, eh? I’m going to take mine and go put some stuffy-headed, incoherent words on paper. I can always edit them later. Share...
Ballads and Love Songs
My current favourite playlist on my iPod is one I’ve labelled “mellow”. It’s a wide-ranging list in terms of styles and genres of music, but all the songs have in common that they are neither loud nor quick-tempoed. Many of them are love songs of one sort and another, though not all. It’s got pop and jazz and folk and standards and ballads by rockers and more. It’s pretty much the antithesis of my “workout” playlist. Because it is my favourite playlist, everything on it is getting a little too familiar and overplayed. I know there are lots of songs out there I’ve forgotten about and many, many more I’ve never heard. So I thought I’d ask about your favourite mellow music to see if I can discover something new or be reminded of something old I should add. I’ve done some exploring, but I imagine you know of things I’d never find on my own. I don’t care what decade it comes from – my current mellow list includes everything from Ella Fitzgerald to the Eagles to Ed Sheeran – or whether it’s obscure or so mainstream you’re embarrassed to admit to liking it. I grew up in the 70s and 80s, so there are more than a few potentially embarrassing names in my own collection, and I’m not the least bit averse to things that are/were popular just because they’re popular. Please share if you’re willing. I’d love to read about your favourite song titles/artists to the comments. Thank you! Share...
Taking Time Out
Last week, a rare opportunity arose for me to get away by myself for a few days. It was perfect timing for a change of scene, so I grabbed it, leaving the city behind for the lovely Gulf Islands, leaving the pile of work on my desk behind with the intention of spending a few days focusing exclusively on writing. I didn’t expect to spend it offline. The place I stayed has wifi, and I assumed I’d be connected as usual. But on the first day, I realized that if I stayed online on email and social media, I may as well have stayed home, because I wouldn’t get the change of mindset I needed to go with the change of location. So I turned it off. Almost. I checked email once and I looked up a couple of research items when I was working. The social media break was an unexpected facet of the time away, but one of the ones I liked best. The lack of internet noise combined with the quiet of the island itself made space, as my friend Mary once said to me, “for the muses to speak.”It was a good feeling, being alone with my own thoughts for awhile. In the mornings, my dog and I would head out for some sort of adventure and a little exercise. One day, we climbed a mountain for the view. Another, we walked on the beach and sat on a log, watching the local residents – a seal, an otter, seagulls, birds, a deer, and even a visiting sea lion – go about their business. We wandered streets and trails, beaches and forests. And then we’d return to the cabin, and I’d spend the rest of the day working. It even warmed up enough for me to spend a little time writing outside on the deck. It was the first time I’ve had in a very long time to immerse myself in story to the exclusion of all else, and it was wonderful. Freed of the usual pressures and time constraints of workdays, not attempting to juggle anything but the stories clamouring for attention in my thoughts, my mind was free to explore and mull and plan and plot and write. It was rejuvenating and satisfying and absolutely worth the overwhelming inbox and long list of regular life stuff I have to catch up on now that I’m home. I can’t wait to do it again. Share...
Recent Comments