Good Afternoon Readers and Writers! I found myself unable to come up with a topic last week when I sat down to write my Monday blog post. I just couldn’t figure out what to write. Now, I admit that I left the post to the last minute. I’ve been working on my novel and special side projects, and time got away from me. But ideas wouldn’t come. I stared at my blank word document with my fingers poised over my typewriter keyboard keys and…nothing. Absolutely nothing. I tried doing Natalie Goldberg writing practices to get the writing flowing. I chose a topic, started my ten-minute timer, and put pen to paper. But the words that flowed out were not blog friendly. They exposed too much of myself, and I’m not ready to share those things. I need more time (and confidence) to post those words. After doing a couple of writing practices, I found myself drawn to rereading past writing practice journals. I fell into the patterns of my mind, and I realized I haven’t been sinking into myself when I meet with my writing practice group. I skim the surface with the chosen topics and refuse to enter deeply. I don’t want to get my feet wet, but that’s the whole point of Natalie’s practice. You’ve got to trust yourself and your process. You’ve got to dive in. Sometimes we need to step back and return to our centre. We need to remember why we started in the first place, and why we continue. Natalie’s practice has built (and continues to build) my writing spine. As I’m working on my novel, it’s become clear that I have a lot of world building to do. And it’s scary, but it’s exciting. There are so many possibilities, but I’m afraid that some of these new directions are taking my novel down a different path that doesn’t hold true to the story that’s there. At the same time, my novel has gone down this path before. Draft seven is only possible because I took a chance and followed it. I trust my process and where my mind goes with my writing practice, yet there’s a difference when it comes to my creative work. And I’m uncertain right now, and that uncertainty scares me. But it also makes me creep forward in anticipation because I know that I’m hitting something that’s waiting to be uncovered. ~ Mady P.S. Happy Valentine's Day!
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I’ve always wondered how writers come up with ideas if it wasn’t through dreaming. Whenever my high school creative writing teacher asked us to write to a prompt, I was never quite sure how to begin. How could I make it work if I didn’t have dream material? And when readers have the opportunity to ask their favourite authors/ writers where their story material come from, the answer is always different. Margaret Atwood, in her MasterClass, mentions that most of her stories are inspired by events that historically occurred in the real world. Her statement makes her famous novel, The Handmaid’s Tale, even more disturbing. As for myself, well, most of my ideas do come from dreams. I remember a lot of them because they are ripe with story material. Of course, I don’t remember all of my dreams, but the ones I do seem to hang on. It’s why I keep a dream journal! The moment I wake up, I madly write out what happened in my dream since the details are still fresh. Time is of the essence because those details recede quickly. My novel is actually based on one of my dreams. It’s gone through multiple revisions and drafts (on #5 now! Or is it #7…), but the original dream material—the characters, the plot, the idea—has remained the same since I was ten years old. Don’t you hate it when you have a good dream, but you wake up before it’s finished? Yeah, well, my novel dream didn’t finish. I don’t know how it ended. But, it’s like the Muse of Creativity gave me a taste of this idea to see if I would follow through with it, and I have ever since. I may have told this story already, but I started writing my novel on my iPod immediately after having this dream. I would stay up really late typing on that small touch screen in the notes section. I can tell you the first draft was long. It scrolled on and on and on and on and on. And then, one fateful day, I accidentally deleted it. I couldn’t retrieve it, either. Of course, I was crushed, but I didn’t let this blip stop me from finally going to my computer, opening a word document, and writing my novel. I had a general idea of how I did it on my iPod, so typing on my computer shouldn’t be as hard, right? Let me tell you, the writer’s block came on strong. Honestly, I should have started creating my novel on my computer in the first place, but I didn’t think much would come of it at the time. I wrote out my dreams, yet this one stuck. I’m glad it has because I’m going to publish it. Soon. Anyone who knows me hears this regularly, but I mean it. I am. No matter what, I will get my novel published. And I have other ideas—so many ideas that have come from dreams. It might be a bit concerning, but whatever we dream about, we’ve seen through TV shows, movies, ads, people we pass on the street, and what we envision as we read. As I mentioned at the beginning of this post, I always found it hard to create ideas if they weren’t from dreams. But, I challenged myself in all of my creative writing classes. The more I practiced, the more I learned that ideas are everywhere: in music, people, costumes, dreams, and prompts. Anything can give you an idea, including personal experience. I recently had a story published by YEGWrites Press in the YEGWrites Volume 1: A COVID Year Anthology. I crafted the story in this anthology from a personal experience because it helped me process what I was going through at the time. My editors challenged me, and with their help, this story reached its full potential. I go back and read it often because I surprised myself, which doesn’t happen often, but I like to linger in that feeling when it does. ~ Mady *Note: The words highlighted in red (MasterClass and YEGWrites Press) are links that take you to their respective websites. I am not receiving payment for linking them.
Good evening Readers and Writers! I am on a week-long break, and I am taking advantage of some well-deserved R&R. Was I planning on catching up on some fun books? Yes, I was. But I still have a fair bit of university work to do, so I'm reading books for class instead. The nice thing about reading books for class is that they still count towards my GoodReads 2021 Reading Challenge! This is my fourth year participating, and as much as I am an avid reader, sometimes meeting the challenge can be hard. I created my GoodReads account in 2018 and for that year I met my challenge: 31/30. (Heehee, yes I may be a little bit of an over-achiever). Then, in 2019 I did 51/50, and in 2020 I was at 37/75. I pushed myself harder in 2020 because I thought I could do it, and then COVID happened. My motivation for everything went down, and I did what I could to keep going. So, when planning my challenge for this year, I decided to back it off a bit. Plus, I'm in my last term, so I'm trying to maintain my courses and finish on a good note! Right now, I'm at 17/45 books. It's November. I have some books on my list, but I might be taking my challenge number down. If you have any book recommendations, pop them in the comment section down below! I'd love to hear what you're reading these days! And, have you participated in a reading challenge before? ~ Mady
Good Evening Readers and Writers! As important as writing is to me, sometimes I need a break. I have quite a few hobbies, but the one I'm going to share with you today is called Bullet Journaling! Bullet Journaling can be anything the creator wants it to be. The name "Bullet Journal" comes from the dots on each page. It allows the user to craft and design spreads similar to an agenda/ planner but with your own creative twist! I like to use my bullet journal in two ways. The picture above shows what is known as Art Journaling. I took scraps of paper, magazine clippings, washi tape, pictures, and stamps to create this page. I let my mind flow and placed everything in a spot I found pleasing. Then, I glued everything in! Below, you will see the more structured type of bullet journaling. As you can probably tell, I haven't been making sure to track my daily meditations or Natalie Goldberg Writing Practices, but the intention is there. It's been a while since I've taken the time to crack open my bullet journal and create something fun. I was in art class throughout high school, and since I started University in 2017, I haven't taken anything art related. Bullet Journaling offered me the chance to still be creative and have fun—that didn't involve writing! And, sometimes within the blank places of the spreads I will do a writing practice that fits the topic of the images, the colours, and design. Even though my mind may not being flowing mindlessly, the writing practice grounds me and adds another layer to the journal. ~ Mady
Note: Today's piece, Readers and Writers, is based on Natalie Goldberg's form of writing practice. I hope you enjoy. “Our memories are like a river cut off from the ocean. With time they will slowly dry out in the sun, and so we drink and drink and drink and we can never have our fill.” —Dinaw Mengestu, The Beautiful Things That Heaven Bears I have many memories, and I have many memories I do not fully remember. They have been cut off from the ocean, never to flow with water again. I can tell you I remember these delicious sweets I would eat for dessert—Baklava—at this delicious Lebanese restaurant. They liked us, these Canadian tourists visiting London for a week. They treated us like family there. I don’t remember the taste of the Baklava, but if I were to go back and try it, I could say yes, I remember this now. Just like the fresh orange juice in Venice. As the best orange juice I have ever had, I can’t go into detail about its many layers and smoothness because I can’t recall the way it lit up my tongue. I have memories of those moments, but they don’t go very deep; they’re quite shallow.
Our memories do not do our experiences justice. We see, hear, feel, taste, and with every passing moment we lose a piece of the vibrant puzzle. The picture begins to blur, lose shape, until only wisps of thought and what we call memory remain. It’s sad, really, that we don’t remember so much. I’d love to live twice, taste each experience again to say I do remember, truly. We can only go as far as the river allows, yet I want to go further. I want dive into those pools of memory and drown in details as the marrow of my being soaks with effervescent love. ~ Mady
What I am about to share with you all today is taking a lot of courage and bravery. When I say I am scared to share this, I mean I am scared to be this vulnerable and open with you. I've debated on whether or not this is something I should blog about, but as a writer this experience is something that has been at the forefront of my mind for a while. I want you, dear Readers and Writers, to get to know me better. I hope this post will deepen your understanding and connection with me as a person and a writer. And, what better way to begin the relaunch of my blog than starting off with a bang! One experiences different wavelengths of affect throughout their inner and outer world whenever there is a life altering event. For myself, this life altering event occurred April 13th, 2020. It was shortly after my sister’s birthday. I woke up with my hairless cat, Pushik (a.k.a. Fluffy), sitting on my chest. I noticed he struggled to breath. Each time he inhaled or exhaled, it was a short wheezing puff. That day my family and I had to say goodbye after ten years of love and companionship. After that, I found myself in a slump. In the in-between of figuring out how to live life without him while wishing he was still here. I had watched Pushie decline in health for about a year, doing everything I could to ease his pain and promote his comfort. Without doubt this was one of the worst parts about his passing. The inevitability and certainty that death loomed over him terrified me because there was nothing I could do to stop it. I knew it was coming, but I didn’t expect it to be the week before my end of term finals, or after my sister’s birthday. I didn’t expect it to happen during a global pandemic. Regardless, I am grateful I was home with him for a little over a month before he died. I am also grateful I was given the chance to say goodbye. I tried to make myself feel better by anticipating those feelings when someone dies, but that’s just the thing: the suddenness of death means we can’t anticipate it. We can only feel it as it truly begins to happen. To have someone so thoroughly involved in your daily routine suddenly disappear as if they never existed, yet you have the memories and photos to prove they did indeed live and love and breathe, tore me apart. As hard as I tried, he was what consumed me. Rather, his death consumed me because I was so hurt at losing something I loved so much, and the grief of having that love taken from me so easily scared the absolute hell out of me. I got so depressed. I sank into this state of not wanting to love. I refused to love the other two cats in my household belonging to my mom and sister. I couldn’t let them cuddle with me. I couldn’t kiss them. It got to the point I didn’t want to be around people because I couldn’t face the pain. My reaction to the grief interwoven in my being caused me to catastrophize the death of my 83-year-old Oma. My parents, my sister. Everyone. And I convinced myself that I couldn’t love because the pain was too much to deal with. Yes, all of this was over a cat. I’m not ashamed of that. We all have our own paths and we deal with things differently. Pushie was my catalyst. When one doesn’t experience a lot of death in their early years, as I never did, it really hits hard later on. And it took a year for me to come to terms with his death and fully realize that a life without love is not a life worth living. There has been so much fear and so much death throughout Covid-19. Because it’s been a year of isolation, and then some, I’ve had a lot of time to myself to work through my love and loss for Pushie. It’s been a long journey, but one I had to walk alone during certain parts and with my family for others. ~ As I continued to search and heal, I found a book. Lissa Rankin, M.D. in her novel The Fear Cure, propelled me into a state of realization with this quote: We have to give those we love permission to break our hearts. Essentially, we must be willing to break ourselves open to grow. I didn’t want to break open. I wanted things to stay the same and not change. I thought I was doing the right thing for myself at the time by staying closed. But I realized I couldn’t close myself off to protect my heart. My heart had to be open, and it was the only way I could grow and move forward. I had to grow around my grief and give Pushie permission to break my heart. ~ At the time of Pushie’s death and the year after, I entwined my writing with him. I convinced myself I couldn’t write because I was too broken to do anything. I convinced myself I couldn’t create. In reality, the muse never left. I closed my ears to her sweet voice and the words that so desperately wanted to flow from my mind to my fingertips as they tapped on each black key. The letter’s wanted to morph and form into something greater, bigger than me, but I wouldn’t let them. I forced the faucet shut, but it flows again. It took time and healing, but part of my healing process is to write. Whenever I did write, it was through Natalie Goldberg’s teachings of writing practice. No matter the topic, I always wrote about one thing: Pushie. And just because I couldn’t stop writing about him didn’t mean I had to. I thought it needed to stop because that’s what I told myself. It was time to get over him, so why couldn’t I? The answer is pretty simple: I wasn’t ready. But my readiness had no say in the matter. I needed to do what was right for him, and that was to let him go. I needed to free him. I needed to free myself. I don’t know why I tied the two together. I didn’t need to enmesh their beings, but I did. The effect he had on my life created such a ripple through the things that once brought me joy. Of course my writing would be impacted, which is why I struggled with it so much. Even though I wrote about Pushie, I could still tap into the muse and the words that desperately wanted out so I could say what I needed to say. I tried to write a murder mystery story for a fiction creative writing class, but the second draft turned into a memoir-fiction fused piece about love, loss, and the pain of my grief. The characters hold very large pieces of me in them, and as I wrote, I made it into the story I needed at the time. I had to write it myself. I had to show others through my words what I was feeling, how I was feeling it, and how I was seeing it. Even my poems for a poetry class were about him. Tracing my journey and voicing my experience shows the progress I have made. I feel such love and compassion for myself because I was lost. I lost myself in grief and longing. But that’s the thing: Over time we just become big enough to grow around our grief as we heal. I’m sure if I didn’t stop meditating, I might have healed faster. It took me a while to acknowledge why I stopped in the first place, but the truth is I didn’t want to face the memories and loss sitting within the darkness of my mind. Now, I know better. ~ I have learned many things about myself throughout my process of grieving, but the most important lesson I learned centres around time. It frustrated me to no end when some said, “Just give it time.” How much time? I thought I need to get over Pushie sooner rather than later. By rushing myself, I lengthened the space (and time) I needed to heal and grieve. At first it bugged me, knowing I unintentionally extended my suffering, but when you don’t know, you don’t know. I needed to do to reach where I’m at now, and I’m okay with that. I know when death strikes again it’s going to be damn hard. I know the pain will drag me down. I know I will grow around my grief again with as much time as I need, and I will always find myself again. Thank you for taking the time to read this. It means more than you know.
~ Mady |
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In the end, we'll all become stories. ~ Margaret Atwood
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