Lynn Jatania's Blog, page 3

Flash Fiction – Planting

This is another in the series of Flash Fiction Challenges put together by photographer Dani over at Postcards from the Mothership and author Christine Hennebury. A few of us write a short piece each week(ish) based on a photo sent to us by Dani. Here’s my entry from this week.

Planting

Photo credit: School Bus by Dani Donders, Mothership Photography

I’ve set a timer on my watch. Every afternoon at 3:35, it beeps.

I’m usually out in the garden. There’s always something to work on out there. Not like at the old employee barracks, where the mine’s tailing ponds came almost up your backyard, and nothing would grow. Now that Luke and I have moved out here, closer to head office, I’m putting in marigolds and some petunias out front, and maybe a vegetable garden out back. There’s so much space – I’ll have to plan for some larger bushes, maybe some lilacs, to fill in the acreage, and there’s plenty of room for a butterfly garden down along the road. When I sent Terry the pictures I knew she’d be green with envy, but I only meant to show her what was possible if she managed to get Mike off his ass every now and again and earn himself a promotion, too. Clean air, country living, fresh starts.

I like to make sure I’m out front when the timer goes, and I raise my head from the flower beds to look. It’s a ways down to the road – not sure what we’ll do with such a long laneway in the winter – but I can still see the dark yellow as the school bus rumbles by. It’s warm enough now that sometimes the kids have the windows open, and it’s a mad cacophony, a burst of laughter and singing and squealing. The road still full of potholes from the winter’s snow and ice, and the bus shakes slowly over them, giving me a good long minute to look, and wonder.

The oldest would have been on there, I often think. Lost at just ten weeks along. Certainly well into grade school by now, if things had been different.

The second one too, by now. Made it eleven weeks with that one. After that, Luke wanted to stop trying but what he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. There’d be a few other babies at my feet by now, if only.

My watch beeps but I’ve already heard the engine coming down the road, the sound of the tires in the ruts. I look up, hands dirty, a marigold pulled from its pot but not yet in the ground dangling with roots and dirt from my hand. Some of the children are waiving out the window today – I doubt they can see me. They just want to wave at the world. It’s a beautiful place, sometimes.

When the bus passes I turn back to my garden, shifting carefully when I feel a little twinge. It’s been four months now, and that’s the longest I’ve ever made it. I noticed yesterday that my gardening pants – the big wide ones, the ones that are too baggy to wear into town – are getting a little snug. It’s too early to think of the school bus coming to a stop at the end of the lane, someone skipping down past the butterfly garden, up the laneway to the house with the marigolds. It’s too early, I tell myself.

But somewhere inside, hope is growing anyway.

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Flash Fiction – Pebbles

One thing I always intended to do on this blog was post some Flash Fiction – small stories, less than 1000 words, inspired by a quote or a photo or even just a keyword. I even have a list of ideas to share with you.

And then I got busy. So goes the way of good intentions, right?

The good news is that my friend, fellow blogger, and totally awesome photographer Dani of Postcards from the Mothership, along with her friend, author Christine Hennebury, are hosting a new Flash Fiction collective. Dani hands around a photo to Christine and a few other interested writers about once a week, and we’re all invited to contribute a story.

I don’t know if I’ll be able to play every week. But I dove in on this first week. Here’s the result.

Pebbles

Photo credit: The Gate by Dani Donders, Mothership Photography

I like the way pebbles sound on the concrete steps. I bring a handful with me most nights, scooped up from the edges of the dirt road. We sit at the top, Jackie and me, and I ping them. It’s all in the wrist – hit the top step just right and they ping down, step by step.

The steps are cut into the side of the road that leads away from Jackie’s place – not towards Town, but away, deeper into the fringes. We found them one night while we were stumbling around in the dark, walking off the couple inches of vodka that had been left in the bottle Jackie pinched from her grandma’s freezer. I can never tell if the steps are going down into the ravine, or going up out of it. Now we sit here on Fridays and talk or drink or just ping.

Often Jackie can swipe a bit of weed from her dad, if he’s around, because he’s always too wasted to notice. One time I dared to take one of my mom’s little white pills, while she was on night shift, and I cut it carefully in half for Jackie and me to share. I fell down the steps that night, totally wrecked my elbow, but the high was so sweet that it has become a legendary story, one of our funniest go-to tales. My mom counted the pills the next morning and it was hard to deny anything, what with my elbow still oozing and my bloodshot eyes. Now she has a little lock on the medicine cabinet, which isn’t much of a security system if you ask me, but I’m too lazy to try.

Sometimes Jackie brings Ben, her boyfriend from Town, and I have to concentrate extra hard on the pebbles, ping, ping, ping, while they mess around in the woods at the bottom of the ravine. I’d rather he not be about, but when he first showed up, I just shrugged and said, it’s a public place, ain’t it, and now he thinks he’s welcome whenever. Once he even brought his younger brother — for me, I guess, but that kid was a full two years younger than Jackie and me so I had to step up and say no thank you, keep your kid at home. Town boys never quite seem to know the rules.

Tonight, it’s just me and Jackie and we’ve only got one bottle of beer that Jackie sweet-talked from a guy at the gas station about a mile back. I’ve got a good set of pebbles tonight and I’m in the zone, pinging them step after step. I’ve never actually been able to get one to go the full distance, all the way down to the eighth step where it should, if done right, ping right into the ravine with a nice splash, if it has been raining. Tonight feels like it could be the night.

We’re passing the bottle back and forth and she says, I’m moving up.

I shrug at Jackie. She’s said this before. What about school, I say. We’ve only got a year left, don’t you want to graduate?

She shakes her head. I’ve got a job at the Subway, Ben hooked me up, his cousin works there. High school ain’t gonna make no difference to the Subway.

I frown at her. Ping, ping, ping.

She can sense my frown even in the dark, always could. Maybe I’ll get my GED after a few years, she says. But I can’t stay here any more. Ben says we can get a place.

I know where that leads, I think, but don’t say it. Maybe it’s too late and she’s knocked up already, but I think she’d tell me. Ping, ping, ping, ping, ping – that one came close.

I get it, I say. I know what it’s like here. Maybe I should come too.

She snorts. You gotta finish, she says. You could even get a scholarship or something.

Or something, I nod, letting her believe.

She takes the last swing from the bottle, throws it down in the ravine, and stands. I’m moving up on Saturday, she says. I better go and pack up. You coming?

I say, I’m going to stay here a while, and she nods and heads down the dark road.

I feel my way down the steps to the bottom, reach out my hands into the muddy ravine, gathering my pebbles. When I have a handful, I climb back up and try again.

Ping.

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Fan Of Your Own Work

A band I love, the Trashcan Sinatras, are coming to town this summer. It’s the first time they’ve played here in more than a decade and I’m going, despite the fact that it’s probably been at least that long since I went to a club gig. I’m sure I can blend in with the university crowd still, right?

Since I bought my ticket I’ve been listening to their stuff non-stop, both old and new. I got to thinking – I wonder if I know their work now better than they do. I know all the lyrics, all the riffs, when the piano comes in and how the backup vocals go. Songs from two decades ago are just as fresh in my mind as the day they were released. Like any superfan, I’m obsessed.

So does this mean that I know their work better than they do? I’ve been thinking about my own writing – I actually find it hard to read it when it’s “done.” Once I stop pouring over it and editing it and making it as close to perfect as I can, I can’t stand to read it over for fear of finding something I’m unhappy with or wish I’d done differently.

Most of my writing is also a product of a specific time, place, and age as well. The thoughts I had when I was 20 aren’t the same as those at age 40. I’m betting Salinger didn’t re-read Catcher in the Rye once after it was published, let alone yearly. I’m guessing J.K. Rowling has moved on to new projects, and can’t quote from the first Harry Potter anymore.

So while it’s unlikely at this moment in time, maybe someday I’ll have my own superfan who actually knows my own work better than I do. Here’s my thanks in advance. It’s the superfans that keep art alive, who let you know that what you’ve done really mattered to someone. I can only dream of having someone who loves my work so much, they know it better than I do.

Until then, do you think it’s worth it to spend a little time re-reading your own stuff? Can you be your own superfan, and is it worth it to relive the past – or should you always keep driving to the future? I think for me, it’ll be continuing to focus on the new. But maybe the occasional re-read of my own book is worth it.

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It’s the Writing that Matters

I’ve been watching Comedians in Cars Getting Coffee on Netflix. It’s a show where Jerry Seinfeld picks up some other famous comedian in one of many super cool classic cars, and takes them out for coffee. I’m not sure why I’m watching it, really; it’s just two people chatting, and sometimes something weird happens, but frankly, I’d probably laugh more and have more weird things happen just by getting coffee myself with one of my sisters. I think it’s the cars the bring me back.

In any case, there was an interesting episode featuring . Unlike the other guests – people like Chris Rock, Tina Fey, or Jim Carrey – he’s not really known as a comedian, per se. But Seinfeld invited him on the show because his Oscar-winning role in the film Inglourious Basterds, as Nazi Hans Landa, is both horrifying and really, really funny. It’s an amazing performance that walks a tightrope between cruelty and delight, and well worth watching (it’s one of my all-time favourite films, too).

There’s a part during the Comedians in Cars show when Seinfeld brings up this role, and asks Christoph Waltz all about how he managed to pull it off. Christoph says something really interesting about acting:

“I think it’s a very practical thing. It’s more of a craft than an art. The art is in the writing.”

And then he says:

“I don’t believe that there are good actors and bad actors. I think there’s appropriate casting and wrong casting. So if you are right for the part, you will be good. And if you’re wrong, you can be the best actor in the world, and you will be bad. The rest is…showing off.”

I think this is pretty revolutionary. This idea, that a movie or a play or a TV show is built on the writing, not the acting, is contrary to what a lot of people think. People idolize actors; they are the faces they want to take selfies with, they are the ones they want to see on the red carpets. I bet I could put a dozen pictures here of top writers and you wouldn’t even recognize them; maybe you don’t even know their names, even the Academy Award winning ones. You’d probably recognize Woody Allen, but that’s because he gets in front of the camera. Maybe you could point out Aaron Sorkin or Quentin Tarantino. But could you pick Billy Wilder or Ingmar Bergman out of a lineup? Have you ever even heard of Charles Brackett or Paddy Chayefsky, each of whom have won three Oscars for screenwriting?

I’m not upset or anything – maybe it’s a good thing that writers are free to toil away in quiet rooms and the dark back corners of pubs, rather than being mobbed by admirers whenever they go out. Maybe that’s how they can turn what they do into an art, instead of poor actors who, apparently only have a craft.

But I do think, maybe, there’s a marriage between writing and acting that can elevate either into something special. The right combination can create magic – and the wrong combination can mean disaster. I’ve definitely seen actors in some parts where they seemed terrible, and then in other places where they were brilliant. It’s interesting to think that the problem isn’t the writing or the acting, but just the fit between the two.

(Maybe “Best Casting” should be an Academy category – hm.)

I’m pretty pleased, in any case, to see an actor I admire give the real credit to writing. I’ve never much been interested in writing a screenplay, but maybe if Christoph Waltz is interested, I’ll give it a shot.

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A Woman of Letters

A friend of mine recently inherited a box of her mother’s letters. Her mother was an avid letter writer – sometimes three letters a day – and she kept carbon copies of all the correspondence she sent. Since she also kept all responses, the box contains a fascinating, two-sided story of her life.

There’s something about putting pen to paper that is saved for the most important moments, it seems. The letters are full of emotion – passionate notes to lovers, angry diatribes to disgruntled relatives, gossipy discussions of the merits and faults of those marrying into the family. They’re full of insight into how she, and her correspondents, really felt about the big things that were happening in their lives.

Hearing about these letters has made me feel sad for the loss of letter writing. It’s just not the same in today’s digital age. Sure, Google is saving a copy of every single email I ever send and receive, for ever and ever. But who is going to sort through hundreds of thousands of emails after my death? It’s not like it would even be worthy of the pursuit – you’d be looking at thousands of notes to my husband about items on sale this week, or recipes sent to my mother, or pictures of soccer shoes sent to my sister that I think my nephew could use. They are mundane; they are missives, not letters.

And there’s my blog, which I cherish, especially for the stories of when the kids were little. They are charming memories, and they do occasionally capture my one-sided view of how it felt to be a wife and mother. But they are for public consumption, and thus are only part of the picture; the rosy side, the shareable side, the funny and lighthearted side. I don’t blog about really deep personal things, and you’re never going to see a story there dressing down a relative or getting intimate with my husband. It’s not really a diary – more of a magazine column I write.

So where are the stories that mean something? The painful, the passionate, the tender, the angry? I suppose even in my mother’s day, not everyone was taking note of every little moment and writing it all down. But some were, and now I feel like no one is. Generations to come will be swamped at the amount of writing that was done during our lifetime, and it will all be accessible with an instant search – but will it actually tell you how someone felt? Will it accurately reflect what it was like to really live in this age and time?

I’m not sure what the answer is. One thing current times have taught us is that whatever you write down can one day be used against you, proof of hypocrisy or crimes or just being obnoxious. We warn our kids to be careful online, not to post anything embarrassing or rude, nothing that could hurt someone or affect their employability.

So what is left to the romantic, the fervent, the impassioned? What avenues do we have to speak our mind, and preserve it for the future? What is left to share with an audience of one – or even an audience of none – and have it mean something?

Perhaps it is time to resolve to all become Women of Letters once again. To put pen to paper and let it all flow out. Maybe it will turn into the source of a memoir, or a fiction piece. Maybe it will just be tucked away for your children to read when you are gone, and marvel at the wonderful, strong, poignant person you were.

Guess I’ll put some writing paper on my wish list.

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The Ten At The Wedding Playlist

One thing I’ve been trying to do with my writing lately is to set a playlist. It’s a trick I picked up from my friend Tudor Robins, who listened to Taylor Swift’s early stuff while writing her first big book, Appaloosa Summer. If you’ve read it, you’ll see how it’s a perfect fit – dreamy pop country, all about young love, as if it had been written to provide the soundtrack of the movie version that plays in your head when reading.

(Don’t you always have a movie version playing in your head while reading? I even like to cast my books with popular actors. But that’s a post for another time.)

When I was writing Ten at the Wedding, I tried to have just one song in mind for each story. It didn’t always work out, but some stories do have a strong song association. I would have loved to use some lyrics from these songs in the book, and originally I even did have a couple of quotes in there, but unfortunately lyrics are copyrighted and can’t be used without permission, and I didn’t have the heart to start chasing down record company executives. (Many thanks to my editor, by the way, for knowing all about this and catching it!)

For example, my story Claire at the Wedding, about Claire and her French husband Etienne, is absolutely set to the song Runaway Train by Soul Asylum. In fact, I heard that song playing on the radio once while driving home from the grocery store, and while the germ of the characters were already in place, the song made the whole story just pop right out.

Henry, the pastor, has a sweet moment when he thinks about a special song to him and his wife – God Only Knows by the Beach Boys. It’s what I was listening to while writing that one.

It didn’t make the final cut of the book, but Lisa’s story – the photographer from the first tale – used to mention that the couple’s first dance was to Marry You by Bruno Mars.

And of course, the song Easter Parade brings together Tim and the mysterious, chatty, stylish lady who is seated next to him.

It’s kind of an eclectic mix – probably the only place you’re going to find all of these is on my own iPod. But it fits, I think, with the odd mix of characters featured in the book.

Now that I’m working on a new project – a longer story, maybe even a novel – getting the soundtrack right is a high priority. Do you set a soundtrack to your own writing?

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Audiobooks Saved My Marriage

Okay, that may be overstating it a bit.

But seriously, my husband has discovered audiobooks, and it’s been an exciting thing. I know, I know, we are a little behind the times. Better late than never!

I’m not an audio person myself. I find it really hard to concentrate just by listening. I’m best at it in the car, when I have nothing else to do but drive and listen. At other times, though, I find it hard to listen to an audio track or even watch a YouTube video for more than five minutes at time. My mind wanders, either thinking over what I’ve heard, or getting distracted by other to-do items. Suddenly I find I haven’t been paying attention for the past 15 minutes and I’ve lost the thread of the story or the thing I was trying to learn about.

(This results in a lot of attempts at home repair after watching only the first three minutes of a YouTube video, which has led to a lot of Tales of Woe around here, but that’s another story.)

My husband is much better at listening, though, especially when the book is good. He’s a tech guy too, so he was able to figure out how to get some app on his phone that lets him get audiobooks from the library, which seems like pure witchcraft to me, no matter how many times he tries to explain it (and my mind goes wandering off three minutes in).

Recently he listened to The Blind Side by Michael Lewis, read by Stephen Hoye, who does such an amazing job. I heard snippets during our long drive to visit family over the holidays – that book kept us happy and engrossed in the car, and gave us oodles to talk about during stretch breaks. I also caught bits when he’d put it on while doing the dishes after dinner – hours of dish doing, plus entertainment, all set to the dulcet tones of Stephen Hoye. Delightful and productive! It’s been good times.

Now that he’s done with that one, it’s on to Moneyball, also by Micheal Lewis – and again, we have much to discuss, plus associated reading to do, and a movie version to watch. Even though he’s technically the one listening, it’s given us a whole new world of shared subjects and interesting talks.

I never thought I’d want one of my books to be made into an audiobook, given my complete inability to actually listen to one. But now I kind of see the appeal – and I have to admit, having someone awesome like say, Cate Blanchett read your novel (a girl can dream, right?) would be so amazing. Let’s put that on the pipe dream list, shall we?

Do you like audiobooks? Do you go back and forth between print and audio, or do you strongly prefer one or the other? I’m curious now to see how much of a mass audience they have.

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In Praise of Magazines

I love a magazine. At one point – just after my first child was born – I think I subscribed to about 10 different titles. As you can imagine, with a newborn in the house, things did start to pile up.

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Happily, before we got to hoarder levels, I discovered that I could nurse and/or hold a sleeping baby with one hand, while flipping through a magazine on a well-placed side table with the other. Unlike novels, magazines will nicely lay open for you; they don’t weigh much either, if you do need to pick them up for a closer look. And they have nice, short articles, perfect for picking up and putting down a dozen times a day.

Since then, my love affair with magazines has waxed and waned, but it never goes away. Every now and then – more so, recently – a favourite title has folded (farewell, Mental Floss!). It does seem like the magazine business – and the newspaper business, for that matter – is a bad business to be in these days. Just as self-publishing and blogging and free online sites full of pretty images and informative, searchable titles rise in prominence, so the written word begins to fade.

But a few of my faves are still going – well, I was going to say “going strong,” but that’s probably not accurate. Still, I’d like to gently recommend a few titles, if you’re the kind of person who likes to keep a magazine at your bedside table or in a rack in the bathroom.

My favourite magazine at the moment is Geist. It’s a Canadian publication and is chock full of cool stuff you didn’t know about Canada. It’s a literary magazine, so there’s always poetry and some short stories, but it never, ever takes itself too seriously – creative writing entries are fun and thoughtful and always totally accessible. There’s non-fiction here too, reports of unusual stuff happening in Canada on the literary scene, bits and pieces that will fire up your writer brain. I’ve had many subscriptions to literary magazines thoughout the years, and Geist is the only one I stick with – it’s fun, it’s easy, and it’s delightful.

(Also, if you do happen to be a writer – they have one or two postcard contests per year that just very, very fun.)

I also subscribe to literary magazine Taddle Creek, which is almost as much fun as Geist. Like Geist, it’s full of poetry, stories, and non-fiction reports, all completely accessible. It only publishes twice a year but I always squeal when I find it in my inbox. I take my time poring over it and I think I always read everything. One thing Taddle Creek is good for is ideas – every article gets your mind crackling with fresh, funky, offbeat ideas.

Taddle Creek is the only magazine I’ve ever subscribed to after receiving a cold-call request in letter form. I wish I’d kept it, because it was totally hilarious. Deliberately meandering, chatty, and self-deprecating, it made me want to reach through the mail and give the editors a warm hug and all my money. Turns out the magazine has the same sense of humour and is well worth it.

Now, we can’t be literary all the time, so I also have a subscription to Entertainment Weekly, because I am a total pop culture junkie. It’s my specialty on my trivia night team and although most of their articles can be found for free on their website, there’s something about the thrill of getting movie, TV, and book news in my mailbox each week. The book reviews are a special treasure – I’m sure they aren’t recommending The Important Books Of Our Age, but this is where I get most of my Wish List books. I’m always surprised at how I can get the gist of a book from just a 200 word, well-written review; 9 times out of 10 I love the books I choose from this magazine, and when I share them around, my friends have never heard of them. So, be the most cutting-edge reader in your circle, and get yourself an EW subscription.

Lastly, as I’ve mentioned before, my kids have lots of subscriptions to various magazines, and I personally have taken a shine to Muse, a science magazine with all sorts of cool science-based stories from around the world. It’s for kids 9-14 but it makes perfect bathroom reading for the tech-minded adult, too. And lately, I’ve become obsessed with Kayak, a Canadian kids’ history magazine, from which I have learned SO MUCH about my own country. I’m not sure what age they are aimed at – perhaps 9-12? – but they are fun, and fascinating. These I keep, and am considering investing in a library of their back issues, unless reason and budget interfere.

A subscription makes an excellent gift, and it keeps on giving all year long, which is really nice. (Also – shameless plug – Ten at the Wedding makes a lovely gift, if it’s not too late for you to get delivery.)

What magazines would you recommend?

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Come and Meet Me!

My apologies for the last minute notice on this, but I’ll be doing a public reading tomorrow, Wednesday, December 6, 2017. Come hear me read one of the stories from my book, Ten at the Wedding, and you can pick up a copy there, too, if you don’t have one yet.

It’s in the west end of Ottawa, Ontario, where I live. It’s at the Kanata Seniors’ Centre and it’s nominally a Christmas reading for all who take writing classes there (of all ages, not just seniors) – many students will be reading from their work from this past term. Anyone interested in writing is welcome to drop by, though. The celebration is from 1 p.m. to 3 p.m.

I am super, super nervous – I have a real history of bursting into tears when reading in public. You wouldn’t want to miss that, would you?

Hope to see you there!

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On Not Writing

It’s been a while since I wrote anything of substance. It’s been a busy fall, and what little time I have for writing has been focused on getting the book out, promoting the book, doing events with the book. There hasn’t been a lot of time to just sit down with a pen and a notebook and dream.

That’s why I was so heartened to read this lovely essay by author Elisa Gabbert, Am I Still a Real Writing If I Don’t Feel Compelled To Write?.

You should really pop over there and read the whole thing, because it’s sensible and reassuring and also has some really elegant language (I’m a sucker for great words!). But if you don’t want to, I’ll just sum up by saying that Elisa says that being a writer is about more than putting words on page. She asserts that the “write daily” rule that many authors swear by just doesn’t work for a lot of people, but that isn’t any reason to feel like a failure.

Instead, she suggests that there’s lots of things you can do to promote your craft without actually writing anything down: you can read, you can get out in the world have have new experiences, and you can just take some time to think. I just love these ideas – they are all things I love to do, all things I do believe are part of The Writing Life, and all things that I can always seem to make time for, even when the muse hasn’t been around in a while.

It’s the last one that I think is the most important. My writing fellows – Jen and Lee Ann – convinced me long ago that “simmering time” is just as important as the actual act of writing. If you have a story on the go, it’s in there, and some part of your brain is working away at it, even if it is unconsciously. One day, it’ll break free and burst forward like a firework and you’ll run to your computer and write and write and write. Until then, the embers are glowing, the fuse is lit, and it’s happening. You just have to trust it.

It is quite reassuring in today’s busy times that writers are still writers even when they’re not actively churning out word count. But eventually, you do have to actually put pen to paper, and I’m hoping to get around to that real soon.

In the meantime – ideas are simmering.

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