tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-55192599483917809862024-03-13T21:56:22.618-05:00Fighting wordsStuff, fluff and poems.kerryanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04744243245746230400noreply@blogger.comBlogger43125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5519259948391780986.post-18959294373550292442012-06-19T19:53:00.001-05:002012-06-19T19:54:33.415-05:00Hooray for Hams<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Plastered Hams. The name came from one of the poems we were looking at one evening (I think it was a Beatrix Potter reference (oh those two bad mice!)), and it stuck because it's wonderful.<br />
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As are The Hams. For the past year, the four of us have met once a monthish to share and talk poetry. We get together on perfect-early-summer-green-evening porches and in gorgeous grown-uppy living rooms (<i>and sometimes at my house</i>). We sip tea and wine and sometimes there's pie (never pork) and always it's lovely. <br />
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For me, it's like being surrounded by a dream team of poets. (I keep hoping they won't notice I don't belong among them. But, in addition to being superb writers, they're also kind and generous people, which is probably why they let me stay.)<br />
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It's so heartening to have three people in the world who are eager to think about poetry, who invest time in reading and caring about my work. Who push and poke and prod and pep-talk. Who can turn a poem on its head or help find its feet.<br />
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And who trust me with <i>their</i> work -- it's a huge honour. <br />
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(Of course, I can't think of Plastered Hams without <i>this</i> plastered ham coming to mind. OK, I think it was papier mache. <i>Still</i>.)<br />
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<br />kerryanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04744243245746230400noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5519259948391780986.post-36469377941574506792012-06-12T23:36:00.000-05:002012-06-12T23:36:28.346-05:00Home (in) body<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
Yep, it was wah, wah, wah (not whee! whee! whee!) that I cried all the way home from Spain.<br />
<br />
It's been a tough transition after three months away. Not going home, per se, but returning to a world ruled by an alarm clock. It's a losing battle; I'm grudgingly getting used to it. <br />
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On the plus side, there's my new creative project: the garden (the beans are already up!), which I've combined with my ongoing creative project: the MS, and I've had a few little stretches of time out in the yard tinkering with the MS, soil still under my fingernails. (Though it's killing me to think those days are probably already done for the season. If the rain ever stops, the mosquitoes will be vicious.)<br />
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I'm just getting reacquainted with the MS after putting it away for a month while J and I gallivanted around Europe on our pizza, wine and stair-climbing tour. After the huge mistake of looking at the poems while blearily jet-lagged and tearily out-of-sorts (when nothing could ever, possibly seem acceptable), I've been sanding and sanding and sanding them down.<br />
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It kind of coincides with how I've felt about re-encountering our house. I was immediately struck by how much stuff we have and how little of it we really need. After living a pretty simple life for the last little while, I'm now also editing our house: tossing, sending to Goodwill and amassing boxes in the basement for the next giveaway weekend. Sure, there are some sentimental attachments that survive my ruthless mood -- both in terms of knick knacks and poems.<br />
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Which brings me back around to the garden, which I'm also editing: weeding (even plants that aren't technically weeds, just in the way), moving existing plants to spots where they might work better, and finally accepting the fact that we just don't get enough sun for peonies and digging out the duds. <br />
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Makes me think that all of life is writing. Or revising, anyway.kerryanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04744243245746230400noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5519259948391780986.post-65190634568005597732012-04-28T11:29:00.003-05:002012-04-28T11:30:15.845-05:00Travel writing<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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It's pretty fitting that I spent my first weeks here, writing furiously, feverishly at a place called La Fragua (the forge).<br />
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Looking back on it, I wrote like a fuse had been lit, like pages were burning behind me. I had no thought of editing, did no second-guessing or fiddling, just amassed raw material. I piled all my files into folders and never lifted the lid. I was a little afraid it was a seething pit of sun-stroked mumbo jumbo. I kept shoving poems in, eyes closed.<br />
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I arrived in Granada set to begin editing, but was soon distracted by the city, its tapas bars, its cheap wine and my new colleagues. So, I didn't rush back to the manuscript, just poked around in it once in a while. Tested it the way you gingerly toe onto ice to see if it'll hold. It felt pretty solid, but at the same time, I knew there was work to do.<br />
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I've spent my five lovely days at Can Serrat editing and assembling and immersing myself in the project as a manuscript. And it feels good to see it coming together as a tangible thing. But it's funny re-encountering the poems, even after just a few weeks under wraps. With some I can remember very specifically where in the garden I sat as I wrote. Others are completely foreign, like finding someone else's work among my own. "Where did that <i>come</i> from?"<br />
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It's what's kind of great about writing in a new place. You get to be a foreigner even to yourself. And it's fun to explore a place you thought you knew so well.<br />
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<br />kerryanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04744243245746230400noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5519259948391780986.post-89622362027812355462012-04-25T17:12:00.001-05:002012-04-25T17:12:54.492-05:00Work: the space time continuum<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
I wouldn't <i>exactly</i> call my current situation a holiday. But since I've vacated my home and my job for three months, I guess that does make it a
vacation. I've worked every day, to some degree, even though that work has ranged from moments of vague thinking about my manuscript to hours upon hours of butt-in-chair, pen-in-notebook/fingers-on-keyboard writing. <br />
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It's a very different kind of work than my regular, for-money gig. I get to decide what I do, when. (Except for the days when the project bosses me around.) I can go for a walk when I get antsy or drink a glass of wine at my desk. My days fly. And, the very best part: I almost never have to set an alarm. (Then again, I do work evenings and weekends.)<br />
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In all of those ways, it does seem very much like a holiday. (Not to mention the gorgeous backdrops!)<br />
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But I've been thinking of it simply as time and space to write. Days and days of time; gorgeous spaces. <br />
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The real holiday begins in a few days when J. joins me in Barcelona for four weeks of adventure. (Not that I feel the <i>need</i> for a holiday. This is the sweetest work life imaginable!) I'll still be scratching in my notebook during that time, but the project that brought me here will sleep for a month until I'm home. <br />
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In the mean time, I am: editing, assembling, bits-and-bites writing and general fuss-budgeting on the first draft of the MS. Plus, suddenly, Spain poems are niggling.<br />
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So much work to do! So few days left!<br />
<br />kerryanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04744243245746230400noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5519259948391780986.post-78306889110563277242012-04-14T05:56:00.000-05:002012-04-14T05:56:42.917-05:00Voice overA couple of months after I started running, I decided to sign up for a race. A little 5k? No. A leisurely, sensible 10k? No. A half marathon. (Ten years later, this is still as far as I've run. I plateaued very early in my running career.)<br />
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When I decide to step out of my comfort zone, I tend not to tiptoe.<br />
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Which is why I find myself feeling a bit in-over-my-head on this project. I've never before written poems from any other perspective than my own. So, why not build a manuscript based on not one, but three, other voices -- especially when there is very little information available about these folks? <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmiJEoHmAXcBBtrhBMdixOL-2cgmYzhrf4bhGlYDkw_H_1Q6_zQjU_bLjR1n5KDc64VqdBdMOeOBMeUFFKIc5S7xa_eILYeDrCWw2cGQtTO8FLR6-YcZ9hL01dczYaxIQ3oltDwgExbJJl/s1600/tn_edouardbeaupre+%282%29.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="338" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmiJEoHmAXcBBtrhBMdixOL-2cgmYzhrf4bhGlYDkw_H_1Q6_zQjU_bLjR1n5KDc64VqdBdMOeOBMeUFFKIc5S7xa_eILYeDrCWw2cGQtTO8FLR6-YcZ9hL01dczYaxIQ3oltDwgExbJJl/s400/tn_edouardbeaupre+%282%29.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><i>(That's then-little Edouard on the right. His father (Gaspard) and mother (Florestine) are -- at least so far -- also present in the manuscript.)</i><br />
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I've never written about anything more historical than my own childhood. So, why not wind back 130-some years to places I've only briefly visited?<br />
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And I've never written about subjects I don't know intimately. So, why not take on a world of cowboys, parenthood, freak shows and death?<br />
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Because all the crazy, far-fetched ideas I've had, the ones that have scared me most, seemed ridiculous and impossible, have consistently been the most full-filling experiences, the ones that have made me most proud.kerryanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04744243245746230400noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5519259948391780986.post-79856058822677314432012-04-06T12:24:00.000-05:002012-04-06T12:24:57.078-05:00Changing time/comfort zones<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrNKIC5RMuf5ObACegme2GZ50_gDxgcMsx0fz3SP-VpPX-TOR3-AlAjlY2EL63okmRsiMqcZeW0eF6_J1lywsqRhdpJkxtpj6Oerf5YCzyA6sv4SpxR4w93vkMEfrvuV0ADS0UylxOuIGn/s1600/wall.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrNKIC5RMuf5ObACegme2GZ50_gDxgcMsx0fz3SP-VpPX-TOR3-AlAjlY2EL63okmRsiMqcZeW0eF6_J1lywsqRhdpJkxtpj6Oerf5YCzyA6sv4SpxR4w93vkMEfrvuV0ADS0UylxOuIGn/s320/wall.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Today, during one of our manic and frequent gmail chats, J. pointed out how my current writing adventure parallels Edouard's own fish-out-of-water experience.<br />
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He was a confirmed country mouse, thrust into the hustle and bustle of cities, travel and crowds. Sure, he would have been used to being stared at, but Willow Bunch wasn't home to nearly as many pairs of eyes as Winnipeg, or Montreal or St. Louis, where he ended up. Plus, he was making his living being looked at.<br />
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Here, though my friendly "¡Hola!" (defying my well-practiced downtown Winnipeg detachment) is usually returned with a smile or a greeting, I'm well aware of being a foreigner in a close-knit town. The kids, especially, are on to me, pinching each other until one yells a mocking "hell-LO" at me.<br />
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I'm also on metaphorically foreign ground, writing for the first time in voices that aren't my own, of a history I don't know except from reading, and a landscape I've only visited once. It helps me feel more credible in telling his story -- during this writing I am keenly aware of what it is not to belong. <br />
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However, I'm reasonably sure my stranger-in-a-strange-land experience will end better than Edouard's.<br />
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(This despite the fact that I let a bird in the house last week. You know what looks a LOT bigger inside than out in the wild? A swallow, that's what.)kerryanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04744243245746230400noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5519259948391780986.post-10101468173529667952012-04-02T14:35:00.001-05:002012-04-02T14:36:37.533-05:00Unplugging away<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzeyfU71eK9DFbvqdyQBjgCfXi9Ak1ruXIw80xIx6HsvseR2cLEZa9xoH10CfGMAGAl5-CtUtIleTRQVbYEyBeLdWvvVEZETauuOKbZpoMzuFbkBAmGKostGOzlOY2dUamtcGcjoKDo4jW/s1600/grab.tiff" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="116" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzeyfU71eK9DFbvqdyQBjgCfXi9Ak1ruXIw80xIx6HsvseR2cLEZa9xoH10CfGMAGAl5-CtUtIleTRQVbYEyBeLdWvvVEZETauuOKbZpoMzuFbkBAmGKostGOzlOY2dUamtcGcjoKDo4jW/s400/grab.tiff" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br />
Sure, it's a challenge being in a country and not knowing the language. I can pick out the odd word here and there (thanks to my rudimentary French) and, thankfully, grocery shopping is pretty easy since most packaging has pictures of the contents. (If there were No Name brand here, I'd be sunk. And starving.) Unfortunately, the way I say <i>salmon</i>, must sound like <i>jamon</i>. I was pretty disappointed to find out I'd ordered a ham sandwich in Seville. Two ham sandwiches, actually, but that was a different issue.<br />
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So, in a lot of ways it's quite isolating. (Everyone in the house speaks English, though, so that's great for me.) I had been thinking that, compared to Canada, there's a real lack of media here but then I realized, it's just that it's all over my head. No radio, no TV -- not that I could understand them anyway. There's a guy who drives up and down every street with a loudspeaker making announcements. The first time I heard it I was hoping it wasn't some sort of emergency warning system, but since no one seemed to pay any attention to it, I ignored it. When I asked later I found out that people hire him to go around announcing when someone has died and when the mass will be. (Or if there is a sale on fruit. He will announce anything you like for 30 euros.) Apparently, back in the day, this service was performed on foot, opening every front door and yelling the announcement inside. Hmmm.<br />
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But what it means for me is that I'm not really distracted by the outside world so much. Especially since, after a month, I'm getting used to the views. (Still swoon over every sheep, though.) And, unless I seek it out, I really don't know what's going on in the world. Yes, I look at the Free Press website. But I always, always regret it. (How about something less than gruesome on the home page, for a change?) And yes, I can't stay away from Facebook and gmail chat. <br />
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But living in this state of haze is, I think, helping the writing. Most days it feels like the world is just me, my notebook and a some birds in the garden. No to do list. Nothing I <i>should</i> be doing instead (or even <i>can</i> be, really). No office hours to work around. It's a pretty sweet kind of fog.kerryanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04744243245746230400noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5519259948391780986.post-89677200654612719052012-03-26T15:12:00.000-05:002012-03-26T15:12:20.663-05:00Shift work.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIQwtmfQpTF4YJwBqkysnz_aH_9AeFZxHkeacIZSz7_5QqXbN-IqldJbpKsKrPQiS00ILBbAzQfOWlw8ZffPC5REbobcynkUiSErD2_UcQf8wh2RTGRUQlqC1roa-MS6bNqldH5qKcpTsw/s1600/chair.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIQwtmfQpTF4YJwBqkysnz_aH_9AeFZxHkeacIZSz7_5QqXbN-IqldJbpKsKrPQiS00ILBbAzQfOWlw8ZffPC5REbobcynkUiSErD2_UcQf8wh2RTGRUQlqC1roa-MS6bNqldH5qKcpTsw/s320/chair.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>(Sometimes I write on my sunny little balcony, wispy curtains swirling around me.)<br />
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For me, writing isn't exactly a sedentary activity. I can't imagine spending a day with my butt in a chair, pen in hand. If I get stuck on a word or an idea, I like to walk around a bit, figuratively jog it out. (At home, this takes the form of going to the kitchen for a cookie, or a cup of tea, or another cookie.) At the convent, it means walking around the garden, moving my chair to a sunnier/shadier spot or watching the birds flit and flicker in the almond trees.<br />
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The other day someone said to me that most writers here have found a spot inside the convent, tucked themselves away where there aren't distractions. Besides the fact that it's literally stone cold inside, I can't imagine anything worse than that -- only a blank wall to distract me from a blank page. <br />
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Sure, it feels great when a poem is really cooking and I'm so immersed in it I don't even think of cookies. But I also love to dip in and out of a piece -- even for seconds or minutes -- because every time I come back to it the light hits it from a different angle and I see some new possibility that wasn't there before. <br />
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I like to feel I'm part of the world -- not removed from it -- when I write. And I hope that makes my poems feel that way too. <br />
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Of course, this might all be a way of rationalizing lazy work habits. Or just a luxury of the poet's life. (I can't fathom the focus it would take to write fiction. I'm certain that novelists couldn't get away with roaming around after every few words.)<br />
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Still, I've always felt a connection between movement of the body and the mind. (At work-work it takes the form of trips to the bathroom. In school it was pacing the house while I wrote essays.) I do some of my best writing and thinking while I'm running or walking, even moving in/out of sleep. (Never while driving though -- safety first!)<br />
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What can I say? I've got stanzas in my pants!kerryanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04744243245746230400noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5519259948391780986.post-81058720180104268712012-03-22T14:08:00.000-05:002012-03-22T14:08:11.376-05:00At home on the range.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi83iQOF0egSZZW5c6Hko6NOUfVFyowCvyqcjzefJwMtem9FfopGIj31KGPGzjv9smVG5ggJVAp-qyjHj6iznksz86tgsljIo7kb-HFulc_ZM-pMk5ur3tWD3BILlb6ONfY0Bj8ZuxpEBA1/s1600/goats.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi83iQOF0egSZZW5c6Hko6NOUfVFyowCvyqcjzefJwMtem9FfopGIj31KGPGzjv9smVG5ggJVAp-qyjHj6iznksz86tgsljIo7kb-HFulc_ZM-pMk5ur3tWD3BILlb6ONfY0Bj8ZuxpEBA1/s320/goats.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<br />
My Edouard was, for a time, a cowboy. (Until he grew so tall his legs dragged on the ground when he rode. Tragic, yes?) So, I find myself -- a person who has never even ridden a horse (though I did feed a donkey once... does that count?) -- writing cowboy poems. <br />
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Sure, it helps that I'm currently in a rural setting, where horses clip-clop by my balcony from time to time (and the most swayed back horse ever grazes at the stream below the house), where I pass sheep and goats and chickens every time I head to the convent to write, and where I hear cattle mooing from beyond the walls of the garden.<br />
<br />
But what helps even more is Google. I can't think of a better invention for a writer, except maybe the alphabet. In the past few days I've Googled: "treating lump jaw in cattle," "how to castrate a calf," "how to stop a horse from rearing," "how to start a fire in the rain," and so many other oddball things I can't even remember. (Side note: as I start to type "How to" into Google, the option that pops to the top of the list is How to Tie a Tie. Maybe there's a poem in that too.) I've also become a big fan of eHow.<br />
<br />
I don't expect the poems will ever sound like they were written by a cowboy, but I hope they might have some moments of authenticity. And, in the meantime, I'm learning about all kinds of interesting things. (Just like I'm learning how to light a gas stove, how to perk coffee, how to navigate this hive of a town, and how to sit with my head in the shade and body in the sun.)kerryanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04744243245746230400noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5519259948391780986.post-47728209921512310872012-03-18T14:28:00.000-05:002012-03-18T14:28:43.342-05:00The writing life<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8hnxfBm1JSI3YNT00o6E3dJ52i0cV7bSqnb6k43_xHl1K9C7WzXNWCjawG3bwmUWvxEt7xHP8-qFbKQZNQxxTXxrzCzCjoFB5vFGCE8nw1VmpXkLXq3DcrF0x-Z1MvOX_RLXNrVE9JLnn/s1600/desk.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8hnxfBm1JSI3YNT00o6E3dJ52i0cV7bSqnb6k43_xHl1K9C7WzXNWCjawG3bwmUWvxEt7xHP8-qFbKQZNQxxTXxrzCzCjoFB5vFGCE8nw1VmpXkLXq3DcrF0x-Z1MvOX_RLXNrVE9JLnn/s320/desk.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>It seems sort of crazy now, but among the many items on my To Worry About list before leaving home was "what if I'm not able to write?". I've never had writer's block, but then again I've never had time devoted just to writing. At home, if I don't feel like writing or don't have anything I want to write about, or am at a crisis point in whatever I'm working on, I just don't. I bake cookies or watch Modern Family.<br />
<br />
Or, I'd find some other writing-type work to do. Actually writing new material makes up a smaller percentage of my "writing" time than you'd probably think. So much is spent on editing -- the big life-altering changes and the tiny picks to line breaks and commas. And then there's submissions and researching markets and all those other business-end parts of writing.<br />
<br />
So, even though I've long craved such an expanse of time just to write, I wasn't exactly sure how I'd end up spending my time.<br />
<br />
But, other than my first day sitting here, sitting down, opening my notebook and thinking: "OK, now what?" none of that has been an issue. And sure, it's only been two weeks -- plenty of time for things to go awry -- but so far my time has been remarkably productive. It's really amazing what you can do with a whole day sprawling before you.<br />
<br />
Most mornings have started with a leisurely sleep in and reading myself awake, followed by some puttering and possible exercise, and breakfast. (I'm so thankful yogurt is the Esperanto of food.) Then I make my way to the convent, where I spend 5 or 6 hours writing and following the sun (or shade) around the garden.<br />
<br />
Then it's home for Facebook scrabble, whatever Internet research is required for the next day, dinner, wine, some more writing. And then it's a bedtime gmail chat with J. before he leaves work* and, perhaps, an episode of Mad Men. (* some variations on weekends.)<br />
<br />
So far, it's working.kerryanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04744243245746230400noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5519259948391780986.post-79467187103486728392012-03-14T13:46:00.000-05:002012-03-14T13:46:28.085-05:00Convent/ion<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqFSFUAybVr3D8JdKbufUeZElDn5zSUAUBntnuVzLkkjL_48P2p20lVudhUX5sy1kvx04p809WidKctOGBO4ekGvOfVVY9r6-j2QoDRrFt-cipiZ2UmstFJP-LIIUuFpAEEsl0Hx1I1td2/s1600/castle+birds.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqFSFUAybVr3D8JdKbufUeZElDn5zSUAUBntnuVzLkkjL_48P2p20lVudhUX5sy1kvx04p809WidKctOGBO4ekGvOfVVY9r6-j2QoDRrFt-cipiZ2UmstFJP-LIIUuFpAEEsl0Hx1I1td2/s320/castle+birds.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<br />
Someone asked me the other day if the setting for this part of my writing adventure, a convent, had any relation to my current project.<br />
<br />
I didn't think it did, other than the sense of isolation I imagine prairie pioneers -- and anyone measuring 8'3" -- must have experienced.<br />
<br />
I thought the rural surrounding was a stronger tie, the agricultural life that is so evident here (every day I pass cows, goats, horses and chickens, which seem to be more or less in people's lawns) and particularly at the convent, where the large garden is currently producing spinach and chard (in March... a miracle to a Canadian!), and where they've just finished planting chick peas and will soon start on potatoes, everything sown according to the moon calendar. (Andalucia, it's the Saskatchewan of Spain.)<br />
<br />
But then J. reminded me that the Willow Bunch museum, which has a room dedicated to my giant (complete with giant bed, giant sock, giant ring), is in a convent. And then I remembered that Edouard's sister was a nun. So, there are ties.<br />
<br />
And, working outside helps me imagine a life that was lived much more out of doors. Birds and plants are finding their ways in to so many of the poems. I've been here only a week but already I'm noticing buds on trees that weren't there when I arrived. And every day the garden is raucous with spring.<br />
<br />
I just have to make sure the olive trees and the amazing hoopoe I saw the other day don't make their way into Willow Bunch.kerryanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04744243245746230400noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5519259948391780986.post-8674536279452187022012-03-10T15:33:00.000-06:002012-03-10T15:33:50.760-06:00Under the Andalucian Sun<div style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKuBUvpR4IGeAnqid3TAP26Lfp9ba36SUDuDiEp_nHcPe2OqCgVqCXbjiHzR-iqv28nWsonbr4DVzyiB4hsSJ0FTOLl0lqe_icpOBXiaPvY4_mtHaKU8vgTLFSSfO4NCn09Bbo3DZIvPan/s1600/castle.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a>As you might imagine, the life of a writer in the Spanish countryside is pretty damn sweet.</div><br />
Here's my house:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSritJ3cFtPI5pt6LE2g4hL2UHGMBIx7-fgIBs4Fu2DjXR2HXmiPbd1ClCbxR7c9lYurNCC1B-ZExaFSuHvjEidXvZW8JeyU4NiN610H_kvJcRUUuoh57hq4fU4GpQOpR4TrwWgrvWIqXx/s1600/house.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSritJ3cFtPI5pt6LE2g4hL2UHGMBIx7-fgIBs4Fu2DjXR2HXmiPbd1ClCbxR7c9lYurNCC1B-ZExaFSuHvjEidXvZW8JeyU4NiN610H_kvJcRUUuoh57hq4fU4GpQOpR4TrwWgrvWIqXx/s320/house.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>(with mimosa tree!)<br />
<br />
Here's my castle:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKuBUvpR4IGeAnqid3TAP26Lfp9ba36SUDuDiEp_nHcPe2OqCgVqCXbjiHzR-iqv28nWsonbr4DVzyiB4hsSJ0FTOLl0lqe_icpOBXiaPvY4_mtHaKU8vgTLFSSfO4NCn09Bbo3DZIvPan/s1600/castle.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKuBUvpR4IGeAnqid3TAP26Lfp9ba36SUDuDiEp_nHcPe2OqCgVqCXbjiHzR-iqv28nWsonbr4DVzyiB4hsSJ0FTOLl0lqe_icpOBXiaPvY4_mtHaKU8vgTLFSSfO4NCn09Bbo3DZIvPan/s320/castle.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>(with storks!)<br />
<br />
And here's where I go to work every day:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjONmMXehKx9YEakVq4HBjyedXiXsxad4NkVLIlvYCS3N3Z2ss9gb5yskw_PULVN20L0V1LlUCCbPofZurSbcAnLgLExvtgGrsA0F1_SGgepgtQyoFoyp-PjtMl1kghIW8H4CqAHvfTKujD/s1600/convent.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjONmMXehKx9YEakVq4HBjyedXiXsxad4NkVLIlvYCS3N3Z2ss9gb5yskw_PULVN20L0V1LlUCCbPofZurSbcAnLgLExvtgGrsA0F1_SGgepgtQyoFoyp-PjtMl1kghIW8H4CqAHvfTKujD/s320/convent.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
(with sweet-baking, basketball-playing nuns... on the other side of the wall) <br />
<br />
But, god help this hardy Canadian, it gets cccccold here when the sun goes down. (Aside from a certain fellow, I'm most homesick for my green hoodie.)kerryanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04744243245746230400noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5519259948391780986.post-76429712395096452212012-01-01T18:20:00.000-06:002012-01-01T18:20:34.738-06:00recap in hand<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-LT4-vlNtAls/TwD1Z4PPpPI/AAAAAAAAAFE/cTdpXCkxdcA/s1600/270395_10150695474845401_836785400_19024192_4262927_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="228" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-LT4-vlNtAls/TwD1Z4PPpPI/AAAAAAAAAFE/cTdpXCkxdcA/s320/270395_10150695474845401_836785400_19024192_4262927_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<br />
I do so love a year-end list, even one that's a little late.<br />
<br />
But when I started thinking back on 2011 in terms of writing, it seemed at first like there weren't many milestones. In a lot of ways, it wasn't a very productive year for me, other than 20 poems toward the <a href="http://kerry-ryan.blogspot.com/2011/08/tall-order.html">Beaupre manuscript</a> during May Day (a leisurely pace for me) and a handful of random one-off pieces (some of which please me very much!) later in the year. But not every year can be filled with launches, touring, media interviews, etc.. So, I have to look a little deeper for the highlights of 2011. And it turns out there are lots.<br />
<br />
I came within sniffing distance of the <a href="http://www.prairiefire.ca/news.html">Bliss Carman Prize </a>that I so covet. And, as a result had a poem in the summer issue of <i>Prairie Fire</i>, the second time I've appeared in their pages (other than as a donor or board member). And, the MASH poems (well, four of them), found a home in the <i>Antigonish Review</i>. <br />
<br />
I did a few readings in 2011, but my favourite was in Spring Green, WI. Nope, it wasn't my finest reading this year, nor most lucrative, but it was the funnest -- and I remember the warm reception and beautiful space very fondly.<br />
<br />
I squealed with delight when I found out I was a finalist for the Acorn-Plantos Award. And didn't cry that I wasn't the winner, which I think is an important sign of maturity and personal growth! <br />
<br />
I joined a writing group, with three other poets whose work I admire, feedback I relish and company I savour. Our time together is inspiring, encouraging and delightful in every way. I look forward to our meetings in 2012. <br />
<br />
Probably the biggest writing-related coup of 2011 won't actually be realized until early 2012, when I head to Spain and Italy for back-to-back writing residencies, thanks to a grant from the Manitoba Arts Council and a sympathetic employer, to focus on my next project. (More to come on that!) It also represents the first time in my life I've Visualized A Goal and Planned For The Future. Crazy!<br />
<br />
Plus, it was a great year for reading (<a href="http://www.harpercollins.ca/books/The-Lacuna-Barbara-Kingsolver/?isbn=9781554684755">The Lacuna</a>, <a href="http://www.mcclelland.com/catalog/display.pperl?isbn=9780771068645">The Cat's Table</a>, <a href="http://www.thousandautumns.com/">The Thousand Autumns of Jacob de Zoet</a>, <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bossypants">Bossypants</a>, <a href="http://www.chapters.indigo.ca/books/Biggest-Modern-Woman-World-Novel-Susan-Swan/9780886194345-item.html?cookieCheck=1">The Biggest Modern Woman of the World</a>, and so many others) and for going to readings (Patrick Friesen, Bren Simmers, Jen Still, Joanna Skibsrud, etc, etc.).<br />
<br />
But probably the greatest delight in my 2011 writing life was al fresco scribbling in the backyard during a hot, dry, mosquito-less, and perfect-in-every-way summer. (Of course my most successful creative endeavor of last year was our garden, a delicious delight.) And here's the view from notebook:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-77Pzb_WKu-c/TwDzvv4fQjI/AAAAAAAAAE4/f7fdgljHXqQ/s1600/264851_10150695474590401_836785400_19024185_2370361_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="228" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-77Pzb_WKu-c/TwDzvv4fQjI/AAAAAAAAAE4/f7fdgljHXqQ/s320/264851_10150695474590401_836785400_19024185_2370361_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>kerryanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04744243245746230400noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5519259948391780986.post-59172932549339601702011-11-07T19:09:00.000-06:002011-11-07T19:09:42.863-06:00Bridesmaid revisted<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSqcqzQmVjJtxzNNvkkyXhDH-MDBdp30mtBPvy1Lg_z7G1dx7S_aiOgthnRde5kIOb-4zdQyiIOCnmlXGX6GVfxnOwf7nJvAF3lN501ME_0coQoMw-ShIImqCEuDPD9VzEzRjjnmq6o8NK/s1600/ph_tour.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSqcqzQmVjJtxzNNvkkyXhDH-MDBdp30mtBPvy1Lg_z7G1dx7S_aiOgthnRde5kIOb-4zdQyiIOCnmlXGX6GVfxnOwf7nJvAF3lN501ME_0coQoMw-ShIImqCEuDPD9VzEzRjjnmq6o8NK/s320/ph_tour.gif" width="216" /></a></div><br />
There's only one bridesmaid dress hanging in my closet. A wedding dress*, too, though it's neither white nor floofy.<br />
<br />
But literarily (not the same as literally) it seems I'm always a bridesmaid, never a bride -- at least where awards are concerned. Today, I didn't win the Acorn-Plantos Award for Peoples Poetry, for which <i>Vs.</i> was short-listed. That wasn't a surprise (It <i>was</i> a surprise to be short-listed, though. After all, it's A National Award), but <i>still</i>.<br />
<br />
A couple of weeks ago, Leonard Cohen made a <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VIR5ps8usuo&feature=player_embedded">beautiful, gracious acceptance speech</a> as he received the Prince of Asturias Award in Spain. A little bit of it really stuck with me, probably because the ceremony was the same day I found out about my short-listing: "<span style="color: black;">I’ve always felt some ambiguity about an award for poetry. Poetry comes from a place that no one commands, that no one conquers. So I feel somewhat like a charlatan to accept an award for an activity which I do not command."</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: black;">The small, petulant part of me thought: "Sure, L. Cohen, it's easy to be ambiguous about poetry awards when you've won a bunch." </span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: black;">But, since I'm pretty sure he doesn't do or say anything flippantly, I thought about his words a little more. Specifically: "If Leonard Cohen's a charlatan, what does that make me?" </span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: black;">Lucky to be a bridesmaid (and luckier still that I don't have the actual dresses). </span><br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">*which, by the way, I wore to Mr. Cohen's Winnipeg concert in 2009. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"> </span>kerryanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04744243245746230400noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5519259948391780986.post-38070554361182117592011-10-18T20:14:00.000-05:002011-10-18T20:14:24.933-05:00Going green<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMrsZZOId_KP0xfm-jUTpw4p19Qad7GTBm4r-nzuBDTRbYOrgCsXh7NXYQJg8Bli4bG6p5WkwfwRStL41yLnvvlgZlV5BDc6Znvjtfz7ogexZkLuxVSnbYpPZ4B9k9IHXvtMDnKKiHDaYO/s1600/arcadia.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="228" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMrsZZOId_KP0xfm-jUTpw4p19Qad7GTBm4r-nzuBDTRbYOrgCsXh7NXYQJg8Bli4bG6p5WkwfwRStL41yLnvvlgZlV5BDc6Znvjtfz7ogexZkLuxVSnbYpPZ4B9k9IHXvtMDnKKiHDaYO/s320/arcadia.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
You show up in Spring Green, Wisconsin and the entire town comes out for the party. They arrange a perfect sunset followed by a beautiful evening for sitting outside. They give you dinner. And free beer. (And then they come around with a pitcher of More Free Beer.) They time a shooting star just perfectly. <br />
<br />
(You'll find out later that none of this has anything to do with you, that it's just fluky good timing, but it doesn't matter. You're already smitten by the friendliest, most adorable, place on Earth.) <br />
<br />
My reading at Arcadia Books in Spring Green was just one of many highlights of a recent roadtrip through the US midwest. Arcadia is a comfy hardwood-floored, giant-windowed, high-ceilinged bookstore and it was a pleasure to read there in the company of all the people I know in Wisconsin. (Which, until 24 hours earlier, was zero.) <br />
<br />
Earlier that day, we visited the Circus World Museum in nearby Baraboo (don't you have to go there, just for the name alone?) as research for My Giant Project. The next day we got an insider tour of Frank Lloyd Wright's Taliesin, which now has me thinking about the intersection of poetry and architecture. So, even though I don't really write on the road, it was a productive and inspiring holiday. (Also Wisconsin is unrelentingly gorgeous. Go there in the fall, I recommend it.)<br />
<br />
So here's to the good people of Spring Green and Madison. (And their wonderful, wonderful beer.)kerryanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04744243245746230400noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5519259948391780986.post-40484149697146096292011-09-29T21:07:00.000-05:002011-09-29T21:07:28.257-05:00In praise of distractionsIt seems the bigger and more important the task at hand, the more likely it is that something entirely unrelated needs my undivided attention. And I don't mean the TV or the bottom of my wine glass. I mean useful, productive, even <i>choresy</i> kinds of things. When I was in school, looming exams always caused an urgent need to clean my room. (Also cut my own hair -- surprisingly successful.)<br />
<br />
So now that I have a Giant Project on the go, one in which all Manitobans have invested their faith and tax dollars (under the auspices of the Manitoba Arts Council), I've been spending a lot of time writing the wrong poems. Not bad poems, just not the poems I Should Be Writing. Instead of buckling down and delving in to 1880s dustbowl Saskatchewan or turn-of-the-last-century circus culture (all of which involves research, reading and, <i>gulp</i>, serious work) I've been whiling away my writing time on non sequitur type one-offs. An autumn poem wistful about summer. A piece about sheep shearing. I feel naughty, guilty and, secretly, thrilled. It's the writing equivalent of calling in sick and going to the beach for the day. (Lovely, but it causes moments of panic in a conscientious gal like me.)<br />
<br />
I have to remind myself that all those exams were eventually written and passed. In the meantime, there are clean rooms and days at the beach to enjoy. After all, my giant is as patient as I decide he'll be.kerryanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04744243245746230400noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5519259948391780986.post-3111221483235775272011-08-23T21:16:00.000-05:002011-08-23T21:16:53.342-05:00Aqua vitae<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbnqzwcpr9pnXcOuAtP8gjqqDi3KmdNPc2u50se4eTYvJ7Ju9ztFTiqL_9mkeVzJcVlYnlHcV3aSkobfBXZgAthUC_DBACMlKldPMg_1uKepnL-tqT5jPzxX9ZAGC5o8ECnhm3yNVtN2ie/s1600/k-aqua.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="228" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbnqzwcpr9pnXcOuAtP8gjqqDi3KmdNPc2u50se4eTYvJ7Ju9ztFTiqL_9mkeVzJcVlYnlHcV3aSkobfBXZgAthUC_DBACMlKldPMg_1uKepnL-tqT5jPzxX9ZAGC5o8ECnhm3yNVtN2ie/s320/k-aqua.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
Here I am, reading last week at <a href="http://aquabooks.ca/">Aqua Books</a>, aka Winnipeg's Cultural City Hall, as part of an evening of readings, talks, performances and reminiscences related to the store's writers- and artists- and songwriters- and etc.- in residence program.<br />
<br />
I was writer-in-res at Aqua last fall, the idea of which -- though incredibly flattering -- initially made my stomach hurt. I didn't actually spend any time "in residence" but the opportunity to work with a merry band of emerging writers (so various and intriguing the group could not have been better chosen by a sitcom casting agent) was my first foray into the world of mentoring, leading, or otherwise Being In Charge of writers.<br />
<br />
Turns out, I was one of 27 such folks-in-residence at Aqua since they started the program in 2008ish. It was a long night. <br />
<br />
And, unfortunately, it looks like it'll be the last reading I do from that stage, with the plaster Stone Angel replica looking on. Unless Bookstore Owner Kelly Hughes can figure out an alternate plan (and if anyone can, it's Kelly), the store will be closing sometime this fall. It's sad news for writers in Winnipeg.<br />
<br />
When I was thinking, last week, about what I would read and what I would say, I realized how many milestones and highlights of my recent writing life have been Aqua-related. It's where I read my boxing poems to an audience for the first time. Where Ariel and I launched our Night Owls and Newborns tour in 2008. Where I met Jeanette Lynes, who I would later work with in Banff. Where I got to read as part of the Speaking Crow, Soapbox and Lansdowne series. Where I read from Seed Catalogue as part of Mondo Kroetsch. And that's not even touching on all the fantastic readings I've attended there over the years, or the soup I've eaten at EAT!.<br />
<br />
It's a wonderful place and we've been lucky to have it. Fingers crossed that Aqua will find a way to stay afloat.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
kerryanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04744243245746230400noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5519259948391780986.post-32481181471864271512011-08-08T21:32:00.000-05:002011-08-08T21:32:26.229-05:00Tall order<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTnkGCCKxpFfcmjNwHv8P9kXF1WLcZ1hsmmNNAJ2IPqS3_IPo2vnvJFwzFfHpX17hyFYCZt5fH8WyNLzjZBffpv3UbNaLapm2VqR2thPuueXsDCt5o_9_tpmUvEU5GcgoqF1AqKu7GW_HX/s1600/kerry-giant.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTnkGCCKxpFfcmjNwHv8P9kXF1WLcZ1hsmmNNAJ2IPqS3_IPo2vnvJFwzFfHpX17hyFYCZt5fH8WyNLzjZBffpv3UbNaLapm2VqR2thPuueXsDCt5o_9_tpmUvEU5GcgoqF1AqKu7GW_HX/s320/kerry-giant.jpg" width="214" /></a></div><i>July 2010, I measure up against Edouard Beaupre (life-size photo).</i><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6TENQcKkMQ_JrPYwU92BvuKX-sdIrrUjaYQ4MtxqF4CcuJkJokQVbDmN9W7Sr154E7TgYVc97ox79FwRqPw2uoWrtcE4dCYJxLVfSG6v1LS322sigrzRIjAqeVh2IKcYavBf9DFTb-dO2/s1600/220px-My_giant_poster.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6TENQcKkMQ_JrPYwU92BvuKX-sdIrrUjaYQ4MtxqF4CcuJkJokQVbDmN9W7Sr154E7TgYVc97ox79FwRqPw2uoWrtcE4dCYJxLVfSG6v1LS322sigrzRIjAqeVh2IKcYavBf9DFTb-dO2/s320/220px-My_giant_poster.jpg" width="215" /></a></div><i>Hmmm... Eerie similarity...</i><br />
<br />
<br />
This time last year, hot on the heels of a vacation packed with Saskatchewan oddities, I was newly infatuated with the story of Edouard Beaupre, aka the <a href="http://www.willowbunch.ca/wb/history/BeaupreEdouard/index.php">Giant of Willow Bunch</a>. I found his story relentlessly tragic and, therefore, ideal poetic material.<br />
<br />
The year that has followed has been filled with at-times-productive Googling (I highly recommend a visit to thetallestman.com, even if you have only a passing interest in things height-related. And highly do not recommend a visit to thehumanmarvels.com too close to bed time); wading through the two volume, 1,000-plus-page history of the town of Willow Bunch; May Day attempts at poems in Edouard's voice and, throughout it all, a series of grant applications requesting support for this, my current/next project: a series of poems about Edouard Beaupre.<br />
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A couple of weeks ago, just before leaving for this year's summer holiday, success! A grant from the Manitoba Arts Council will help me as I work through the first draft of a manuscript. And now my job begins in earnest. It's equally exciting and daunting: the opportunity to tell a great story; the responsibility to get it right. <br />
<br />
kerryanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04744243245746230400noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5519259948391780986.post-35468827139363100042011-06-22T21:41:00.000-05:002011-06-22T21:41:54.202-05:00Mackerel, holy.I've never felt so nervous -- or so <i>inexplicably</i> nervous -- typing an e-mail as I did last summer when asking Robert Kroetsch if he would blurb my collection, <i>Vs.</i> <i>What</i>, I asked myself as I pressed send, <i>is the worst case scenario?</i> It was a toss-up:<br />
<br />
1) A reply of "no." <br />
2) No reply.<br />
3) A reply of "who are you and why are you bothering me?"<br />
<br />
But, as is almost always the case, my fear was unwarranted. His response was as swift as it was enthusiastic. I mailed off the manuscript and within a few weeks had a beautiful quote for the back cover of the book. It still makes me beam every time I read it.<br />
<br />
I met Robert the year before, at the Banff Centre where I was part of the Writing with Style program. He was there as a Visiting Fellow, writing and reading and listening to students read. I was star-struck by his presence, but too shy to approach him.<br />
<br />
One afternoon he gave a beautiful reading of his recent work. As he read, one of his hands trembled. I know it was likely age-related, but it looked like he was writing, always, with an invisible pen. <br />
<br />
Later that week, I read too -- one of the first times I'd read the boxing poems to an audience. I felt strong and powerful and I could tell that the little audience was engaged. After the reading, Robert came up to me and, unfortunately, I've forgotten everything he said after "Holy mackerel."<br />
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I've rolled those two words, in his voice, around in my brain so many times, they've been tumbled smooth. I'll relish them forever. And more, now that he's gone.kerryanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04744243245746230400noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5519259948391780986.post-48166866561442173862011-06-14T21:32:00.000-05:002011-06-14T21:32:14.826-05:00Title-worthy<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlwZjy0B_38YshatVHOFXQ173EH7W4LCnOzlGeLaQkPOtIueMd9i8vEzhyNh0gLWjfYZ6b-_st3_IcxafIFLphNf_6E7Oy3FZ2trAir1-o4nujGGrTPqtVArVWs5DOS8CYg11KINb7hdTG/s1600/This_can%2527t_be_happening%2521.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlwZjy0B_38YshatVHOFXQ173EH7W4LCnOzlGeLaQkPOtIueMd9i8vEzhyNh0gLWjfYZ6b-_st3_IcxafIFLphNf_6E7Oy3FZ2trAir1-o4nujGGrTPqtVArVWs5DOS8CYg11KINb7hdTG/s1600/This_can%2527t_be_happening%2521.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<br />
I was thrilled, then immediately terrified, when Kerry Clare asked me to contribute a reading list to <a href="http://canadianbookshelf.com/">Canadian Bookshelf</a>. And, later, when I asked for an extension -- something I've never, ever done, even in <i>school</i> -- she upped the anxiety ante by saying she'd await my list with "gleeful expectation." Gulp.<br />
<br />
The rules were pretty simple: 5-10 Canadian-authored, currently in-print, books on any theme I chose. Easy, right? Well, as it turns out:<br />
<br />
A) I'm not as well-read as I like to think I am, <br />
B) I mostly read pretty conservative, mainstream stuff, and almost exclusively fiction (wha?),<br />
C) I don't have a great memory for books I've read, even ones I've loved,<br />
D) I'm not very good at choosing.<br />
<br />
So, the assignment proved to be a challenge, though a fun challenge. After many trial run lists on a variety of themes, I settled on the easiest one of all (not far-off from my sister's suggestion: "Canadian-authored, currently in-print books I like"), one where anything could fit. (OK, not quite everything. The list is sadly lacking in Leonard Cohen. I also wanted to work in <i>This Can't Be Happening at MacDonald Hall</i>*, but just couldn't swing it.) Regardless, <a href="http://canadianbookshelf.com/Lists/Guest-Contributors/Heavyweight-Titles-by-Kerry-Ryan">here it is. </a><br />
<br />
("Heavyweight titles" is much less clunky than "mostly novels about the prairies and/or war and/or kids." Wouldn't you agree?)<br />
<br />
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* I googled the title, to get an image for the top of this post, only to discover that the Gordon Korman classic is now called <i>This Can't Be Happening</i> and was re-released in 2003 "with a new look and updated text (updated to match today's economy and slang)." kerryanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04744243245746230400noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5519259948391780986.post-11161732178531171662011-06-06T22:15:00.000-05:002011-06-06T22:15:02.786-05:00Writing on the Wall<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhY6dWFRzo_-We0fp5r_cbKDTfIJtO_79gFefX4Fr7R8KO3CRbkGTu1Mwy7HOWBbp6h76MFE6QMJnh34XBVCxqViM7HGfwncGlqHA96Uw9Qmt-S3wxUgs0ntz_yUjvJ7hyphenhyphenZLb5JAgeHZ_sb/s1600/IMG_0028.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="228" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhY6dWFRzo_-We0fp5r_cbKDTfIJtO_79gFefX4Fr7R8KO3CRbkGTu1Mwy7HOWBbp6h76MFE6QMJnh34XBVCxqViM7HGfwncGlqHA96Uw9Qmt-S3wxUgs0ntz_yUjvJ7hyphenhyphenZLb5JAgeHZ_sb/s320/IMG_0028.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>It's not every day I get an e-mail from someone saying: "Hey, I want to put your poems, ginormously sized, on the exterior of a building in an area with tons of summertime foot traffic, and highly visible from the cafe patio right across the street. Is that all right?" My reply: "um, YES!"<br />
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It's even sweeter that the building in question is the one that houses Pan Am Boxing, where I'm incredibly proud to be a member. To have my poems on those particular walls is a huge honour.<br />
<br />
I knew the panels were coming, but I was still surprised to see them when I headed into class last week. For one, they're much larger and more eye-catching than I'd envisioned. There are also more of them: seven panels (when, for some reason, I thought there would be four) covering the ground floor and second floor windows.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSPjL_dERkZXWFzaTYMNBRrgV1zcXpQgxuf1DTMjSgxy2eAQ3w0UVl9IXD5PuEnZtpPhk0wI1_JjDaAOGqyLRBSphRCAgulW1GYUsOBwVSX_Rm82vKk5lcYNnU0RHvZz794rSZ5W3Osj2e/s1600/IMG_0023.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSPjL_dERkZXWFzaTYMNBRrgV1zcXpQgxuf1DTMjSgxy2eAQ3w0UVl9IXD5PuEnZtpPhk0wI1_JjDaAOGqyLRBSphRCAgulW1GYUsOBwVSX_Rm82vKk5lcYNnU0RHvZz794rSZ5W3Osj2e/s320/IMG_0023.JPG" width="274" /></a></div><br />
I can't think of more prominent, or appropriate place for, promotion for my book and I'm thrilled with how great they look (especially pretty with the flower baskets on a beautiful June day) and I'm hoping it will encourage more people to consider poetry-scaping.<br />
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Check them out next time you're in the Exchange District: Arthur at McDermot, across from Cake-ology. (And while you're there, why not check out <a href="http://www.panamboxing.com/">the club</a>? I can't recommend it more highly.) <br />
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Now, here's hoping they don't tagged.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8uKjxoSnB-juFW7m9LcyZyP_vCDM6tAlSV8AeLjadCfu8g4qpVOkDctPr6SJgN4SaDNuicu-IneIQ-h1EyMfeEztkloE4pVAgq3tpVsoHPMKk7Fc9LgF8_74zFu0c6RA_FvlRpAQbeRZp/s1600/IMG_0025.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="228" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8uKjxoSnB-juFW7m9LcyZyP_vCDM6tAlSV8AeLjadCfu8g4qpVOkDctPr6SJgN4SaDNuicu-IneIQ-h1EyMfeEztkloE4pVAgq3tpVsoHPMKk7Fc9LgF8_74zFu0c6RA_FvlRpAQbeRZp/s320/IMG_0025.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>kerryanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04744243245746230400noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5519259948391780986.post-7010205001250818202011-06-06T21:46:00.001-05:002011-06-06T21:51:52.950-05:00Merry merry month of MayMay has come and gone, and with it: <a href="http://kerry-ryan.blogspot.com/2011/05/may-as-well.html">May Day</a>.<br />
<br />
As usual it was a busy and productive month of writing (minus a 6-day business/pleasure jaunt to Vancouver) and of loving/hating May Day. But, for the first time I didn't beat myself up when I didn't write a new poem every friggin' day. (Which I have managed to do before, but under self-imposed conditions that I can only describe as inhumane.) I met my own goal of 20 new pieces, all about Edouard Beaupre. (You remember <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKTs5Oq71xVaju5DMOSkgPv0s3NcQeUzAYHUnpGQFJU77NdzDKG219rqx4936UFDvchCcKZob0sdIKXPybu6RKieX4XGaJvMQDjBMJm_Cr6D4_uKRmcLIsPkR8IpF7VbRk34fD7LKVzz0w/s1600/19775333_118132910274.jpg">him</a>, the tall guy.) And I didn't even cheat by posting stuff I'd already written, which I'd kind of planned to do.<br />
<br />
Where I failed was keeping up with, and commenting on, other poets' work. Gone are those early May Days of hitting post at 11:59 pm, then cruising everyone's work into the wee hours where we'd agonize over line breaks together. Or, at least that's the romanticized version I choose to remember.<br />
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I still don't know where exactly the Beaupre poems are going -- but they're tending toward prose (?!?), cowboyism and what I hope will be a dark, wry, intriguing character. After spending a month with Edouard, I feel like I'm getting a sense of his voice. (And a sense of how much research is likely warranted, which I find vaguely frightening.)<br />
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But, I'm off to a kind of start, and for that I'm thankful. I'm thankful too, to the May Day crew, for another year of thoughtful writing, reading and solidarity.kerryanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04744243245746230400noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5519259948391780986.post-34392006033121423892011-05-03T22:17:00.000-05:002011-05-03T22:17:27.670-05:00May as well.Snow's gone (again). Sun's back. It's <a href="http://maydaypoems.blogspot.com/">May Day</a> in these parts. Let the grueling writing schedule begin! <br />
<br />
This is my sixth year taking part in the blog-based poetry project spearheaded by Ariel Gordon. Three days in and I'm already tired, struggling to find subjects to write about, and wriggling under self-applied pressure. All that said, it's always a great, productive time. Everyone working away diligently on their own projects and connecting online to share fresh work, perspectives, feedback. We've a healthy group of 16 poets this year and I'm already inspired by what I've seen. <br />
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Although I have, a few times, completed 31 poems during May Days past, due to some mid-month travel, that won't happen this year. But, I'm using May Day 2011 to dive into my newest project: this guy.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKTs5Oq71xVaju5DMOSkgPv0s3NcQeUzAYHUnpGQFJU77NdzDKG219rqx4936UFDvchCcKZob0sdIKXPybu6RKieX4XGaJvMQDjBMJm_Cr6D4_uKRmcLIsPkR8IpF7VbRk34fD7LKVzz0w/s1600/19775333_118132910274.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKTs5Oq71xVaju5DMOSkgPv0s3NcQeUzAYHUnpGQFJU77NdzDKG219rqx4936UFDvchCcKZob0sdIKXPybu6RKieX4XGaJvMQDjBMJm_Cr6D4_uKRmcLIsPkR8IpF7VbRk34fD7LKVzz0w/s320/19775333_118132910274.jpg" width="219" /></a></div><br />
Edouard Beaupre, giant of Willow Bunch, Saskatchewan. More on him to come. Much more, hopefully.kerryanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04744243245746230400noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5519259948391780986.post-6500791482985706522011-04-13T21:52:00.000-05:002011-04-13T21:52:41.113-05:00shelf-ishI know, <i>in theory</i>, that my little books are out in the world, being read, or waiting shyly on shelves somewhere. I know because once in awhile I get a royalty payment or whathaveyou. The cheques are small (though nonetheless welcome!) so I know that sales are drib-drabby at best. <br />
<br />
And I know my books are in libraries because I get a little cheque every year from the Public Lending Right Commission. Payments are based on an annual survey of a handful of libraries across the country; the amount of your payment is based on how many of those libraries have your book in their catalogue. But still, even though I've been cashing those cheques for a couple of years, I didn't ever stop and think: hey, my books are actually IN libraries. Being checked out (hopefully), or thumbed through, or -- gasp -- stolen. And by people I don't know in places I've never been.<br />
<br />
Then I heard about worldcat.org, the world's largest library catalogue, and decided to take a look-see for my books. And it kind of blew me away. Both of my books are all over North America, mostly in university libraries. (Including Ivy League ones!) <i>Vs.</i> can be borrowed in Santa Cruz, CA; from the Library of Congress in Washington; Princeton; Harvard; and a whole wodge of Canadian universities. (<i>The Sleeping Life</i> gets even more hits.) Sure, I don't know how often these copies actually circulate, but I'm pretty chuffed at the thought of all places my books get to go, all the people who might be reading it.<br />
<br />
So, thanks, libraries, for supporting small press poetry, and offering it up to all of us for free... as long as we return our loans on time...kerryanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04744243245746230400noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5519259948391780986.post-5780269305339270392011-04-04T18:48:00.000-05:002011-04-04T18:48:56.064-05:00Running up.No cigars for me, lately, though I've been close a couple of times. There was the second place in TNQ's Nick Blatchford Occasional Verse contest, honourable mention (IE 4th place) in PF's Bliss Carman, 4th place among the women who took part an 8-week fitness program/contest at my boxing club. Then today, I learned that I'd placed somewhere among the top FIFTY in the Summer Literary Seminar contest. (To keep that in perspective, there were 900-something entries, so the ranking is still sort of encouraging.)<br />
<br />
So, you can find me, pretty consistently, just over from the podium, within smelling distance of victory. (Which is especially pungent in the case of the boxing thing.) Not that I mean this as a complaint. It's pretty great just to be in proximity of winners.<br />
<br />
But it has me thinking: when did writing -- and everything -- start feeling like a contest to be one or lost? And then I realize: it was when I started entering contests. Duh. Or maybe when I started publishing -- having a lit mag take a poem or a publisher accept a manuscript is exactly the same kind of competition, but your name ends up on a table of contents or better yet, a title page, instead of a shortlist. Prizes seem more prestigious because they come with bigger cheques and because they get more media attention than, say, a new issue of a journal.<br />
<br />
But really, it's all completely subjective, we're all beholden to the whims of editors and juries, so why even spend precious writing time thinking about it? Besides, my Mom thinks I'm pretty hot stuff. And so, I hereby celebrate my recent experiences adjacent to glory.kerryanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04744243245746230400noreply@blogger.com1