recap in hand

I do so love a year-end list, even one that's a little late.

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 Beaupre manuscript 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.

I came within sniffing distance of the Bliss Carman Prize that I so covet. And, as a result had a poem in the summer issue of Prairie Fire, 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 Antigonish Review.

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.

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!

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.

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!

Plus, it was a great year for reading (The Lacuna, The Cat's Table, The Thousand Autumns of Jacob de Zoet, Bossypants, The Biggest Modern Woman of the World, and so many others) and for going to readings (Patrick Friesen, Bren Simmers, Jen Still, Joanna Skibsrud, etc, etc.).

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:

Bridesmaid revisted

There's only one bridesmaid dress hanging in my closet. A wedding dress*, too, though it's neither white nor floofy.

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 Vs. was short-listed. That wasn't a surprise (It was a surprise to be short-listed, though. After all, it's A National Award), but still.

A couple of weeks ago, Leonard Cohen made a beautiful, gracious acceptance speech 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: "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."

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." 

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?" 

Lucky to be a bridesmaid (and luckier still that I don't have the actual dresses). 




*which, by the way, I wore to Mr. Cohen's Winnipeg concert in 2009.

Going green

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. 

(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.)

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.)

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.)

So here's to the good people of Spring Green and Madison. (And their wonderful, wonderful beer.)

In praise of distractions

It 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 choresy 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.)

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, gulp, 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.)

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.

Aqua vitae

Here I am, reading last week at Aqua Books, 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.

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.

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.

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.

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!.

It's a wonderful place and we've been lucky to have it. Fingers crossed that Aqua will find a way to stay afloat.

Tall order

July 2010, I measure up against Edouard Beaupre (life-size photo).

Hmmm... Eerie similarity...


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 Giant of Willow Bunch. I found his story  relentlessly tragic and, therefore, ideal poetic material.

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.

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.

Mackerel, holy.

I've never felt so nervous -- or so inexplicably nervous -- typing an e-mail as I did last summer when asking Robert Kroetsch if he would blurb my collection, Vs. What, I asked myself as I pressed send, is the worst case scenario? It was a toss-up:

1) A reply of "no."
2) No reply.
3) A reply of "who are you and why are you bothering me?"

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.

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.

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.

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."

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.