Kate Inglis's Blog, page 4
March 16, 2020
Sneak peek
This is me on-stage at the Labrador Creative Arts Festival in 2013, reading the first scratchings of a story that felt important to an auditorium filled with hundreds of kids and parents. Thinking all the while This may never exist and Why am I sharing a rough draft? but hoping that performing it — the only time I ever have, that scribbled, raw first version — might have the effect of wishing it into being. And look! Seven years later, it’s coming to life.
A GREAT BIG NIGHT will hit the shelves in September 2020! I’m swinging back again from adult non-fiction on the ever-expanding mysteries of life after loss to a sweet, bouncing story for our littlest readers: a rollicking woodland tale about the value of tomfoolery and music in our lives.
Award-winning illustrator Josée Bisaillon is working her magic now — follow her on Instagram for a look inside her marvellous studio! In the meantime, I’ll be over here gazing adoringly at her pages as they come in, and listening to the recording that inspired this book — Bach Meets Cape Breton by Puirt A Baroque.
The title track is the creative purpose of the album — to chart the threads connecting the high courts of 18th-century Europe and the ceilidhs of Cape Breton. It starts out soft and sweet, perhaps in Vienna, before it crosses the ocean and our coastal highlands appear on the horizon at around 3:20. By 4:50, we have moved from concert hall to barn, and a foot-stompin’ ceilidh brings down the roof. It’s one of the most glorious, perfect albums I’ve ever heard. It’s what made me write this book.
That’s right, loves. We listen to classical music loud in this house. There’s no other way. When I take this book to schools, there’s gonna be dancing: bears and deers and porcupines alike, and three little frogs at centre stage, playing their little hearts out. Josée’s art is making me so excited to see it all come to life. See you in September, and bring your dancing shoes!
Sneak peek!
This is me on-stage at the Labrador Creative Arts Festival in 2013, reading the first scratchings of a story that felt important to an auditorium filled with hundreds of kids and parents. Thinking all the while This may never exist and Why am I sharing a rough draft? but hoping that performing it — the only time I ever have, that scribbled, raw first version — might have the effect of wishing it into being. And look! Seven years later, it’s coming to life.
A GREAT BIG NIGHT will hit the shelves in September 2020! I’m swinging back again from adult non-fiction on the ever-expanding mysteries of life after loss to a sweet, bouncing story for our littlest readers: a rollicking woodland tale about the value of tomfoolery and music in our lives.
Award-winning illustrator Josée Bisaillon is working her magic now — follow her on Instagram for a look inside her marvellous studio! In the meantime, I’ll be over here gazing adoringly at her pages as they come in, and listening to the recording that inspired this book — Bach Meets Cape Breton by Puirt A Baroque.
The title track is the creative purpose of the album — to chart the threads connecting the high courts of 18th-century Europe and the ceilidhs of Cape Breton. The title track starts out soft and sweet, perhaps in Vienna, before it crosses the ocean and our coastal highlands appear on the horizon at around 3:20. By 4:20, we have fully transitioned from concert hall to barn, and the foot-stompin’ ceilidh brings down the roof. It’s one of the most glorious, perfect albums of any genres I’ve ever heard. It’s what made me write this book.
That’s right, loves. We listen to classical music loud in this house. There’s no other way. When I take this book to schools, there’s gonna be dancing: bears and deers and porcupines alike, and three little frogs at centre stage, playing their little hearts out. Josée’s art is making me so excited to see it all come to life. See you in September, and bring your dancing shoes!
March 14, 2020
Kate @ Lion's Roar
I was thrilled to be featured — with Ben’s beautiful, technicolour-painted three year-old face — in Lion’s Roar Magazine earlier this winter. It’s now online, a reflection on the emotional shock of supporting a loved one through death, and coping with the fallout in all the life that continues on, after:
“Don’t panic. Just love. Never mind fussing about answers or a lack of them. All we know and will ever know is this: here we are. We may as well love as well as we can.
Try to take care, because all we know for certain is we don’t know much.
Try to be kind, because all we know for certain is we don’t know much.
Try to keep trying, because all we know for certain is we don’t know much.(Not knowing much is the only certainty there is.)
Randomness is not bleak, unpromising, or the domain of pessimists. It’s empty soil that waits for you to see dirt as the blank slate it is. Seeking meaning? Bah. You’ll turn yourself inside out trying to make sense of why we’re here or why we leave. Our lack of innate preciousness or ordained purpose makes us all the more precious, more purposeful. The profound rarity that you ever came to be at all! That you are you as opposed to any other billion permutations of this microscopic lottery, that I am me. That despite the randomness—here you are, as you are.”
Read the feature in its entirety over at Lion’s Roar:
The Final Truth
March 9, 2020
The dead house
I’ve spent the past couple of years writing my first adult novel and holding it very, very close. Nobody has seen a paragraph of it—not even Nick. Not until after I’ve sent it to my editor Penelope for her confirmation (‘Yes, this is a novel’ or ‘Yes, this is the kind of thing Roman child-kings used to thumbs-down, sending prospective novelists to have their skulls chewed-on by tigers’). And after her architectural advice. After I do some high-level work with her fresh-eye guidance. Then on to my agent for her confirmation (OR THUMB-DOWN, TIGERS ETC., THIS ENDEAVOUR IS WHOLLY SPECULATIVE). Then perhaps to some early readers. Then to many rounds of edits, and then to query publishers, if it even makes it that far.
It’s a long road, but this is the first very scary, very vulnerable hurdle. Someone else is reading it. She is gathering her thoughts—the first thoughts. I trust her completely. I am also completely terrified of her. Even though she is very excellent.
It’s a story about female friendship, self-determination, the courage required by love, and the resistance we encounter in ourselves and in others as we all try to make it, share it, receive it, and gift it.
The locational and thematic heart of the book is a dead house, those many we see around the south shore that have been forgotten and gone beyond rescue, reclaimed by their own brambles. Here’s one of my favourites, a sad poem every time I pass it.
This house was last for sale perhaps a decade ago, as far as I know—I’ve seen photos of the interior. It has a gigantic, floor-to-ceiling hearth, and Canada’s oldest enclosed wooden circular staircase. I’d give anything to get inside and shoot there. If you’re local, you might pass it every few days like I do—it’s near the four-way stop in Blockhouse. Quite grand, quite special, and quite thoroughly lost. Let me know if you know someone who’s got the key in their pocket.
A dead house and a curiosity. That’s how this novel begins. I hope someday it will be something.
February 3, 2020
Podcast: Primalosophy
This was such a great conversation with Nick Holderbaum, a firefighter and enthusiast of great conversations. We talked about the personal practice of openness, 'muscle-building' for grace through chaos, and how all the inner fires that generate heat for us in tough times — whether creative or physical outlets — can be the source that gets us back to health again.
Nick Holderbaum is a firefighter and 'street-level philosopher' whose podcast, Primalosophy, explores vital questions on how to live a life that is useful, virtuous, moral, and spiritually meaningful. Listen on iTunes, Spotify, Stitcher, or where ever you get your podcasts. Or listen below for the complete episode. Thanks, Nick!
November 19, 2019
Kate @ Modern Loss
“By putting all our energy into pretending we’re unaffected by the worst, we block ourselves from the best. So let’s quit pretending. Let’s face the pain encamped in all of us and ask what it needs without flinching.
This is animal husbandry for dragons.”
I am once again thrilled to have an essay featured at the beautiful Modern Loss community:
Animal Husbandry for DragonsWhat if we try caring for our pain, instead of trying to control it?It’s been on my mind since writing Notes for the Everlost: how radical it is to not turn away from pain, but toward it. Why should we do this? What’s that look like? What if taking care of pain is the way we take care of our future selves? And what you might be wondering, if you’re still new to grief: How — and when — will I stop either spitting or swallowing fire every time someone asks me how I’m doing?
Here’s to heat, loves. Heat is where fortitude grows.
Want to help the Modern Loss community stick around and grow? Consider becoming a Modern Loss Patreon with a monthly donation, starting at the cost of a cup of coffee. A nurtured community is a community with staying power. — Kate
Animal Husbandry for Dragons
“By putting all our energy into pretending we’re unaffected by the worst, we block ourselves from the best. So let’s quit pretending. Let’s face the pain encamped in all of us and ask what it needs without flinching.
This is animal husbandry for dragons.”
I am once again thrilled to have an essay featured at the beautiful Modern Loss community:
Animal Husbandry for DragonsWhat if we try caring for our pain, instead of trying to control it?It’s been on my mind since writing Notes for the Everlost: how radical it is to not turn away from pain, but toward it. Why should we do this? What’s that look like? What if taking care of pain is the way we take care of our future selves? And what you might be wondering, if you’re still new to grief: How — and when — will I stop either spitting or swallowing fire every time someone asks me how I’m doing?
Here’s to heat, loves. Heat is where fortitude grows.
Want to help the Modern Loss community stick around and grow? Consider becoming a Modern Loss Patreon with a monthly donation, starting at the cost of a cup of coffee. A nurtured community is a community with staying power. — Kate
August 30, 2019
The Good Life Project
Just before I knocked on the door of Jonathan Field’s Manhattan studio, I did one last Google to refresh my sense of who he was; the feel and intention of his podcast The Good Life Project; the reason I’d travelled to New York City. What I saw was a stunning array of fascinating people in conversation, and me about to join their ranks. Huzzah!
Every week, we share inspirational, intimate and disarmingly-unfiltered conversations about living a fully-engaged, fiercely-connected and purpose-drenched life. From iconic world-shakers like Elizabeth Gilbert, Brene Brown, Sir Ken Robinson, Seth Godin and Gretchen Rubin to everyday guests, every story matters.
In this wide-ranging chat, we cover a lot of ground. Writing and creativity; pirates and Al Capone’s favourite hiding spot; the rich humility in how much we don’t understand; the significance of a perfect bowl of French onion soup on a chilly day, enjoyed solo, while listening to the hum of people all around. As I did moments before knocking on that door, vibrating with the gravity of the formidable company I’d be in.
Even in the biggest darkness, there are small joys. As we learn to tame the dragons of grief and trauma, we find more and more joy. I walked away from this conversation wondering if it was too much to say I love the heat of my anger — my dragon — but I do. We all may as well. There’s no way around it. Only through.
There was a lovely moment in our conversation as we swam in what felt like bottomless water, talking about the mystery of being alive. Of love, loss, and the wonderful and important deliciousness of darkness. He said, “People can’t see you, but it’s so interesting that you’re smiling.” We had a laugh. And a big exhale. It’s one of my biggest hopes. That in my writing, you can sense it. That I’m smiling. Thanks for seeing that, Jonathan.
Please listen, and share! This one’s a big hit for the book, and Jonathan’s voice and thoughtfulness and spark are such a delight. Love love love!
Podcast: The Good Life Project
Just before I knocked on the door of Jonathan Field’s Manhattan studio, I did one last Google to refresh my sense of who he was; the feel and intention of his podcast The Good Life Project; the reason I’d travelled to New York City. What I saw was a stunning array of fascinating people in conversation, and me about to join their ranks. Huzzah!
Every week, we share inspirational, intimate and disarmingly-unfiltered conversations about living a fully-engaged, fiercely-connected and purpose-drenched life. From iconic world-shakers like Elizabeth Gilbert, Brene Brown, Sir Ken Robinson, Seth Godin and Gretchen Rubin to everyday guests, every story matters.
In this wide-ranging chat, we cover a lot of ground. Writing and creativity; pirates and Al Capone’s favourite hiding spot; the rich humility in how much we don’t understand; the significance of a perfect bowl of French onion soup on a chilly day, enjoyed solo, while listening to the hum of people all around. As I did moments before knocking on that door, vibrating with the gravity of the formidable company I’d be in.
Even in the biggest darkness, there are small joys. As we learn to tame the dragons of grief and trauma, we find more and more joy. I walked away from this conversation wondering if it was too much to say I love the heat of my anger — my dragon — but I do. We all may as well. There’s no way around it. Only through.
There was a lovely moment in our conversation as we swam in what felt like bottomless water, talking about the mystery of being alive. Of love, loss, and the wonderful and important deliciousness of darkness. He said, “People can’t see you, but it’s so interesting that you’re smiling.” We had a laugh. And a big exhale. It’s one of my biggest hopes. That in my writing, you can sense it. That I’m smiling. Thanks for seeing that, Jonathan.
Please listen, and share! This one’s a big hit for the book, and Jonathan’s voice and thoughtfulness and spark are such a delight. Love love love!
June 12, 2019
Award-winning!
The Evelyn Richardson Non-Fiction Award was first presented in 1978. It is named in honour of Evelyn Richardson, who in 1945 won the Governor General’s Non-Fiction Award for We Keep A Light, her memoir of life in a family of lighthouse keepers in Shelburne County.
Last week the incredibly kind and brilliant team and mystery-jury of the Atlantic Book Awards recognized Notes for the Everlost with the Evelyn Richardson Non-Fiction Award, in a category with two incredibly talented authors.
Through the porthole in St. John’s, facing the odd sensation of my book being shortlisted and assessed by a jury.
The ceremony—a room full of some of our Atlantic region’s most enduringly funny, poignant, and deeply talented novelists, poets, and book-creators. They call my name!
Happy with fellow nominee Leslie Lowe, author of No Place To Go, and bookseller Alice Burdick of Lunenburg’s Lexicon Books.
The south shore was well-represented! With fellow nominee and winner Alison Smith, whose book This Kind Of Thinking Does No Good won the J.M. Abraham Poetry Award.
What a group! Atlantic Book Awards winners, surrounded by a vibrant circle of mentors and peers in our incredible region.
The after-party party, walking through the St. John’s mist to an excellent brewpub for shop talk about the lonely, wonderful, challenging slog of being a writer with fellow authors and nominees Lezlie Lowe (No Place To Go) and Ryan Shaw (Louisbourg or Bust: A Surfer’s Wild Ride Down Nova Scotia’s Drowned Coast).
It only took one day to fall in love with Newfoundland fog. The North Atlantic as seen from Signal Hill, after the bank rolled in to the ringing of the horn.
On behalf of Nova Scotia, Newfoundland is kind of a show-off. huh? Two-hundred year-old ruins of a British garrison pub as baby icebergs float by. Big heart for this wild northern land. Thank you, St. John’s!
Best of all was to spend two days in Newfoundland, heads-together with poets and novelists and mentors, figuring out the trick of making art. Sharing space with these people is an award in itself, and the recognition is the cherry. It made me feel so grateful for everyone who made this book possible—my agent Amy Tompkins at Transatlantic, and my beloved Shambhala Publications team—including editor-in-chief Sara Bercholz and editor Beth Frankl in faraway Colorado!
Thanks so much to the Atlantic Book Awards and the Writers Federation of Nova Scotia for all their hard work bringing us together, and many cheers for all the nominees and winners! Our region is ridiculously overflowing with creative talent. I’m thrilled to be a part of it, and to walk among some of the people I admire so much. In the fog.
