SelfBinding Retrospect

I Swim in the Power of the Banks

2023-07-28T09:41:00.009-04:00

A ridiculous title, isn't it?

When my alarm went off at 6:30 this morning, this was on repeat. Not in my head. It was in my gut. I am only retaining remnants of the dream. A smoky bookstore, a monk (who may have been my bald UPS guy in a brown robe), a pair of amazing brown linen overalls, and this—I swim in the power of the banks—which he offered me on the palm of his hand and I took it.

I've been experimenting this entire week with early mornings. I recently interviewed BC author Ace Baker for my podcast and he told me he wakes at 4:30 a.m. every day. I was at once inspired and mortified. As a true blood night owl, early mornings are the seed of evil. And yet, something about the way he described the quiet and the productivity spoke to me.

On the heels of our 10th annual barn party (read: late nights and excessive extroverting) I set my alarm for 6:30 a.m. Baker may hold the Ace at 4:30, but I am a Queen (or maybe a Joker?) and I can't bring myself to stray that far from my nature.

Here are the benefits as I see them:

I gain daylight, which translates into productivity
I suddenly have a need and desire for breakfast, which means I'm eating three meals a day rather than lunch, supper, and an embarrassing amount of snacks
I am primed to fall asleep quickly and then I sleep deeply
Routine makes space for rest, rest makes space for dreams

Monday was okay. Tuesday was a little tougher. Wednesday, I almost convinced myself to go back to sleep. Thursday was okay. Today I was groggy and disoriented (but that was probably the UPS guy who stuck a psalm in my belly).

I've had a few dreams that have stayed with me through the years, but I'm not normally one to read too much into them. I often write them off as the overactive workings of a writer's brain. But in the spring, I edited Inger Kenobi's book (UK author, life coach, super human/beautiful soul) and she described a dream in which Margaret Atwood appeared to her, propelling her writing forward.

“I also brought three horses with me.” I looked outside the window and there they were, three shiny, beautiful horses. “They are allowed to run free,” Margaret Atwood continued, “because their names are Wisdom, Creativity, and Humour.”—Everything, All the Time, Is Constantly Up to Me: the journal of an aspiring writer, Inger D. Kenobi

Her retelling of the dream was powerful and compelling. And left me feeling deep envy for her connection with a universe that would tell her what she needed to hear in order to take another step forward.

So I asked for the same.

And this is what I got.

I swim in the power of the banks.

It felt profound. It feels profound, the way it is rattling through my body, and I haven't done much today except allow its repetition to bring some meaning.

It has been 573 days since I launched into my publishing business full time, and while I've never felt like I am drowning, I have often felt like I am on the cusp of overwhelm. The water is up to my neck, sometimes the current is so strong my feet are lifting from the riverbed and I'm pushed forward, putting all my energy into keeping my head above water. Sometimes the rapids trip me. Sometimes I wish I had a motorboat so I can skip this part. Little fish dart about me while big fish watch me from the mud. I am being baptized into entrepreneurship without water wings.

And yet, rising up on either side of me and the river are tall banks, firm against erosion, holding me in the river, guiding my path, not allowing me to emerge, but offering an outcropping every so often where I can stop and rest for a moment. The banks hold me. The water is not the power. The banks are.

This river is taking me somewhere and the banks will protect me along the way.

After 150 Days, I'm Still Here

2022-07-01T05:00:00.001-04:00

Here I am. Six months into this self-employment journey. Twenty-six weeks since I could rely on a steady pay cheque. 150 days since I've had someone telling me what to do.

It's been hard. It's been exhausting. It's been worth it.

My desk is NEVER actually this clean. 😏

I am still 100% confident that I did the right thing. Yes, I almost burst into tears in the middle of the Walmart meat aisle because groceries are expensive and I'M SELF EMPLOYED but the riches I've gained by betting on myself are priceless.

I'm still scared. But I'm stubbornly confident and that's why I'm going to make this keep working for me.

There's an episode of The Office where Oscar tells Michael that most people who start a business go five years before they can afford to pay themselves a salary.

"Most new businesses, they don't make a profit 'til at least two years. And then your margins will be razor thin. Best case scenario, you don't cut yourself a salary for at least five years. Can you go five years without a salary, Michael?"

Aaron Shure was thinking about people like me when he wrote that episode, weaving in a cautionary tale for those of us with stars in our eyes - the divers who refuse to wade first - the dreamers who stand before the man and say, "You have no idea how high I can fly."

Michael Scott The Office GIFfrom Michael Scott GIFs

Before you start worrying about me, I have been able to replace the income I lost by leaving my job. But like Oscar says, margins are "razor thin" and there is no excess for my big plans. Yet.

I'm in the grinding hustle. I'm building my cathedral brick by brick and it's all sweat and blood right now. It's thrilling and exciting and fulfilling and I know that once the walls are built and the gates swing open, I'll look down from the highest peak (because I can fly, remember) and know that these hard days were worth it.

Truth is, I'm actually six years into this business, having started it as a little side hustle back in 2016, so I can absolutely vouch for everything Oscar said - though he probably should have gone into a little more detail and revealed that "paying yourself a salary" doesn't mean you're suddenly making $84K - it means you're keeping the lights on.

On January 1, 2022, I don't remember thinking about where I would be six months down the line expect that I would still be chasing after what I want: growing this dream inch by inch... even though some days it feels like millimeter by millimeter.

I had some real worries:

That I would get bored with myself.
That I would realize how lonely working alone was and decide I couldn't take it.
That I wouldn't be able to secure new clients and make enough money to keep the doors open.
That my computer would die before I could afford a new one.
That the industry would make a dramatic shift after COVID and I wouldn't know how to keep up.
That the hustle and grind would kill my passion.
That I wouldn't be bold enough to get loud about my work.
That things would start to feel stagnant.
That I wouldn't actually be happy.

I'm pleased to report that so far, all these worries were just silly things the devil on my shoulder was whispering in my ear to make me doubt myself.

I enjoy my own company to a point that might actually be problematic. I don't mind long hours without people - they prime me to be pleased to see my family when I finally close the Chicken House door and return to the house. I've been more available to my kids and my husband because I have so few distractions throughout the day that I'm actually knocking things off the list instead of constantly falling behind. Sure, I'll still work the odd evening and weekend, but it's nothing like before I left my day-job. I still feel like my days are incredibly full but they are full in the way I have designed them - they are full to serve me so I can serve others.

I know I've grown since January. I've learned a lot and am committed to keep on learning and asking questions. I am getting bolder at reaching into new territory, I am being unapologetic about who I want to be, I feel excited to go to work every morning.

Before the pandemic, I 'went to the office' four days a week. 10 a.m. - 4 p.m. Towards the end of 2019 I began each morning in the bathtub watching Netflix after everyone left for school. I'd stew through a couple episodes of something (probably The Office) until the water started to get cool and then I'd rush to get ready and drive to work for 10. I would arrive frazzled and annoyed and deeply dissatisfied. I remember wondering if I was depressed as I sat on the side of the tub, waiting for it to fill. Who starts their days like that? I felt like a zombie.

In March 2020 I was given the gift of working from home and that changed everything. I rediscovered a sparkle of myself. I started pouring into personal projects. I stopped filling the tub each morning. I liked how the challenge of COVID forced creative thinking at my job again and then realized that not everyone there felt the same way. I started planning my escape and I haven't looked back.

Now it's not unusual for me to be at my desk by 8:05. I love the rhythm of making the coffee and getting dressed while it brews. I love walking through the dew-soaked grass to my little office sanctuary where I feel like I am actually doing some good in the world. I feel like I am fulfilling a purpose. I feel like I am setting an example of good work ethic for my children. I feel like I am more completely myself than I've ever been allowed to be. I feel incredibly privileged and lucky to have family and friends that support me and I KNOW if I can keep pushing forward, I will reach the goals I've set for myself.

I still have so much to learn and I have some big plans in the works. One of the beautiful things about this life is that things are constantly in motion. The plans I have today may not be where I end up in another 150 days but I'm excited for the journey and open to whatever opportunity comes my way. ❤️

If you want to know how you can help my small business thrive here are four easy ways:

Help me build my online platform by following me on Instagram and liking and sharing my content.

Contribute to the digital subscription campaign for my indie magazine or make a direct donation to Chicken House Press.

Direct any of your writing friends to Chicken House Press if they're looking for writing support or publishing opportunities.

Purchase books at the Chicken House Press online bookstore.

What I've Learned After One Month of Self-Employment

2022-02-01T15:22:00.006-05:00

People leave secure jobs for many reasons. My experience is no different; but rather than list them all (and that list would be long), I will tell you the one that matters most: I was uninspired.

Showing up to a job that doesn't move you or challenge you or encourage growth or empower you to do better is not a job; it's a chore. I gave almost two decades (my entire adult life!) to one place. Throughout those years there were indeed times that I was inspired, but it wasn't sustained and I couldn't give anything more when I knew I could show up to serve in other ways and in other spaces that didn't make me feel like my soul was dying.

It has now been an entire month of being self-employed. A few people have reached out to ask if I miss my old 'chore'. No, I don't.

Do I miss knowing there's a guaranteed pay cheque coming? Sure. Do I miss the human connection I got to make with some of my co-workers? Okay, a little bit. Do I miss the gossip? Yeah... that was kind of fun.

But do I miss invisibility? No. Do I miss the commute? No. Do I miss serving a database of over 500 people and being acknowledged by four? No. Do I miss the ghost who lived in the basement? No.

I am afraid to be out on my own. It's terrifying to think that my success relies on my showing up for myself, because showing up is hard. It is work.

But it's not a chore.

I have found a way to focus my passion for igniting creative fires in others into a full time publishing career. No, it's not paying all the bills yet, but it is replacing the income I gave up, and that's enough motivation to find me sitting at my desk each and every day.

I made a couple commitments to myself when I decided to launch off on my own:

I will not sleep in even though there's no boss to mark my punctuality.
I will take a lunch break.
I will allow (most) evenings to be consumed by family and not by work.
I will keep my weekends work-free.
I will be unapologetic and loud in my pursuit of the life I want to create.
I will say no to the projects that don't move me.

3 and 4 have been the hardest challenges for me. I have worked on some weekends and I have spent some evenings pouring over manuscripts—but despite that, I feel like I am showing up for my family much more now than I ever was before. Balancing a day job and my publishing side-hustle meant that nearly every evening and weekend was packed full of projects. I was on the road to burn-out. Letting the thing go that was holding me back from the life I really wanted was the powerful step I needed to take in claiming control over my whole world.

So, what have I learned after one month of self-employment?

I've learned that my work is sacred, boundaries are essential, systems change everything, I am a brand, you have to spend money to make money, I keep showing up because I know my why, funnels matter, and my voice is not free.

Let me unpack those things a little bit...

My work is sacred

I am showing up to something that matters. It matters to me and it matters to the people I am serving. It has validated my existence in a way that makes me excited to wake up in the morning. I don't have to go to work; I get to. I get to be a change-maker. I get to light people up. I get the read between the lines and draw out the thing that someone doesn't have words for. I get to make dreams come true. I get to tap into the creative energies that make me most truly myself and see that mirrored in others who trust me to guide them on their journeys.

Boundaries are essential

When I said I wasn't going to work evenings and weekends I didn't understand that my work is sacred. It took going back on that promise to myself and then asking why I didn't feel guilty. Work CAN be soul-feeding. Sabbath matters but it doesn’t have to fit any mould but the one you need in the moment.

I do take breaks when I need them and I do make a point of having at least a 24 hour period when I don't step into my office.

Systems change everything

I am a strategic thinker. I like to envision the end goal and then work backwards, marking the steps I'll need to take to reach that goal. Last summer (when I made the decision I was going to leave my day job at the end of the year) I began building systems that would help me keep on track.

I have a calendar system so I can see my whole year in one large view.
I have a monthly system which helps me gauge how many new projects or clients I have space to take on.
I have a weekly system which focuses in on immediate deadlines (and a weekly meal plan so I don't have to spend mental energy on that each night - I'm not very consistent at that one yet, but at least I have the system in place and am working towards making it part of my routine).
I have a daily system that breaks that weekly one down into even more detail.
I have a financial tracker that lets me know how far off target I am on a daily basis based on the net income I have to make in order to replace the job I left.

I need lists to keep me on track—to know what I've completed and to know what is still to come. Having everything laid out systematically frees my brain from trying to juggle and remember. It means I'm not missing deadlines and it means I'm showing up organized for my clients so I can serve them best.

Tracking finances is SO important. There is nothing that lights a fire like a zero income day and in January, I had 14/31 of those. But I also had other days of 300%, 400% even 700% above what I needed. Being able to see that in real time keeps me on my toes and always pushing.

I am a brand

One of my priorities in this new lifestyle I've chosen is to carve out intentional time for reading. For the last four or five years my reading time has been limited to submissions. I did very little reading for pleasure because I was pulled too thin between all the things I had to accomplish. Now I make a point to start every day with my coffee and a non-fiction book that will inform my business in some way. And when I take my lunch break, you'll often find me at the table with a fiction novel that I am reading for (*gasp) pleasure. (I'm currently re-reading Interview with the Vampire for the gajillionth time and it's holding up as one of my all time favourite pieces of art.) Such a simple addition to my life, but it's really having a positive impact on me.

My morning read has currently been You Are a Brand by Catherine Caputa. It's teaching me the importance of establishing a personal brand and it has encouraged me to zero in on my approach, being much more vocal about my journey on social media as a method of building trust. And now, new potential clients are coming to me not just because I am a publisher looking for submissions, but because they already feel like they know me. I've named authenticity as one of the core values of my business. Showing up raw and giving a glimpse inside my world—both the things I am celebrating and the things that I'm struggling with—has opened some doors that would have remained closed otherwise.

You have to spend money to make money

I hate this lesson, but I also know it to be one hundred percent true. If I'm not willing to invest in my own business, it's never going to grow. Yes, everything costs money, but most investments will yield more than they cost. I'm still at the penny-pinching stage of this journey and every time I have to spend money—even if it's just for shipping supplies or Sharpies—I feel annoyed and afraid. I am learning to push past this discomfort and trust the reward on the other side.

I'm showing up because I know my WHY

I have a vision and a mission and I'm being pretty loud about it. I have some experience being on a rudderless boat and it is not fun. There's no direction. You're at the mercy of the wind. Not anymore! I am very clear on who I am and what I want and why I want it. To do anything without a why just makes you a wh and that's not even a thing...

If you don't believe in the funnel, you're just holding a megaphone and yelling into an empty room

While away on a two day visioning retreat in January (investing in myself!) (that's where the photo above was taken) I cracked my sales funnel. It was a true light bulb moment (arriving fully formed in one big brain drop to which I exclaimed out loud: HOLY CRAP! paused the marketing training I was participating in, and filled a few sheets of a legal pad with the scribbly plan). That has resulted in an aggressive amount of work as I build it and get it ready to launch next month.

I've been seeing things about 'the funnel' for as long as I've had this little business on the side, but I always thought it was for big-timers who wanted $10K clients.

It's not. It's for me. I need it. It and another one and another one and another one.

Conversion rates are terrifying. 2%? I have a lot of work ahead of me, but bit by bit, brick by brick, I am building the framework for passive income.

My voice is not for free

One of my greatest weaknesses is generosity of time. You may think that's a nice thing, and it is, but it's detrimental if you want to scale your business. It's uncomfortable to ask people to pay me for my time, but it's also weird not to. Everyone is paid for their time. Anyone who has a job shows up in exchange for money—that's how an economy works.

The first time I charged for my time, I felt like an imposter. The second time was less foreign. The third time seemed almost normal. And when I increased those prices by more than 30% and people still said yes, I realized my hesitancy had nothing to do with the people I wanted to serve, but everything to do with me.

I have to constantly remind myself that I am worth it. And I have to constantly remind myself that the value I have to offer is absolutely worthy of a price tag. My first instinct is still to offer it for free, and there are cases where that is appropriate, but on the whole, I need to keep fighting that instinct and to project my worth so that when someone asks what I charge I can tell them with confidence and know that I deserve it.

Was my first month a success?

I don't hate myself.
I don't regret leaving my day job.
I wanted to sign one new client and I signed two.

So yes. Yes, it was a success. I can't afford to travel three months of the year yet, but that's on my long-tern goal board.

In 2022 I want twelve new publishing clients. I want ten new mentoring clients. I want 800 people to step through the first level of my funnel. I want to double my social media platform. I want to take four weeks of holiday. That's it. That's all. I have eleven months left to make it happen!

Here we go!

Thinking of publishing a book this year? Come check out Chicken House Press. My coop might be just the place you want to lay your eggs.

Links to the books I've mentioned in this post 👇 (Any sales generated by clicking on these links will put a few ad dollars in my pocket which I get to invest right back into my small business. 😘)

A New Year's Letter to Myself

2022-01-01T11:15:00.008-05:00

2021 brought so much change. It opened the door to creating my own space for my business and the push I needed to finally leave my day job and pursue a full time career in publishing. As I sat and reflected on how far the last year has brought me, I began to turn my focus to where this new year will take me. No, it won't be easy. But I am ready. Bring it on 2022.

I've got big things brewing! Happy New Year to each and every one of you. 🥂🥳 I hope it is a year of focus and growth! 💕

Video transcript:

If you want something — if you really want something — you don't let anything stand in your way.

You have to stop asking the questions that make you say no: Do you know how? Have you ever done this before? Are you trained for this? Can you afford it?

You have to break down walls and build new ones.

You have to know your why before you know your how. You have to know your why before the how appears. You have to believe in your why.

You have to believe in yourself. You have to believe in magic.

This isn't your destiny. This is your journey.

This is where you get broken. This is where you are rebuilt.

This is where you find yourself and it is where you are reborn.

It's where the reflection of your past differs from your future but informs your path because you've learned so much.

It's grabbing life by the balls.

It's being afraid but trying anyway.

It's failing. It's hurting. It's doubting. It's persevering. It's breaking free.

It's falling in love with who you see yourself becoming. It's deciding you're not a shadow; you're a fricking sunbeam and you're ready to ignite the passion that's laid dormant in the souls of the people you meet.

You are strong. You are confident. You are afraid but you don't care.

You are ready. This is your time. You earned this. You built this. You are this. You are going to knock this year flat on its face.

Now go.

Want to see the whole renovation project that resulted in my new workspace? Check it all out HERE.

A New Home For My Small Business?

2021-04-03T13:27:00.000-04:00

In 2016, out of frustration over (what I believed to be) the unfair state of the publishing industry and my stubborn confidence in my own abilities, I registered with the government as an official Canadian publisher. Yes, it was a bit of a middle finger to Harper Collins and other members of the BIG FIVE, but it was also a move towards embracing the future I wanted to create for myself.

✔️I wanted full creative control over my own work.

✔️I wanted to be a lighthouse of encouragement for other writers expereiencing the same kind of frustration I was feeling.

✔️I wanted to be my own boss, design my own workday, take on the projects I wanted, and ignore the things I didn't feel passionate about.

2016 feels like a lifetime ago. So much living has happened since then. I've written three books, I launched a Canadian literary arts magazine, I've taken on publishing clients and am now beginning to produce books by other Canadian authors. And now, after five years, I am ready to expand.

When the library dream fell flat like a bird that flew into a window, I had some energy that needed to be directed somewhere new. I spent (wasted) HOURS on realtor.ca looking for alternative buildings or potential storefront rental properties, but nothing matched what I wanted.

When I found a local storefront quietly listed on Facebook marketplace for just $600/month, we zipped into town and pulled up against the curb to jump out of the car and peek in the windows only the discover that it was the size of a closet. Seriously. Not even room for a table, let alone my HUGE dreams of a creative community hub.

The experience forced me to take honest stock of where I'm at and what I actually have at my disposal.

The main motivation for my search was space. My teeny, tiny home office has produced some MAJOR things over the last five years, but I have outgrown it.

Could I continue forward in my current space? Sure.

I could decide to be content and maintain the status quo.

But you know how they say a goldfish in a bowl will remain small, but if you place that little goldfish into a pond, it will grow?

I am a goldfish.

Perhaps the library fell through because it was an ocean. It forced me to look for a pond.

And I found one. Right on the property I already own.

The 'Chicken House' has always been that extra building down by the apple tree. It collects junk and looks kind of cute, but it's underutilized. It's wasted space.

And I think it's time to change that.

No, it won't be the community hub I imagine, but it is one step closer, and I'm excited to see the opportunities a new space will open up for me!

Stay tuned. I plan to share the whole journey.

Saying Goodbye: A Eulogy to Orange Brick and Heritage Columns

2021-03-15T12:20:00.004-04:00

Early Saturday morning I went to say goodbye. The rapid snow melt left behind a mess of dirt and the landscaping looked like my feelings: a little sad, a little rejected, but hanging on to that promise of springtime.

The sold sign winked at me as I walked around front to snap a picture, and then, like a child clambering onto Santa's lap, I climbed the cement steps and sat down beside the iron railing. I whispered my apology like a wish... it just wasn't meant to be.

[Don't know what I'm talking about? Catch up HERE.]

The truth is, I'd let go the moment I sent my proposal off to the mayor. I'd put it in the hands of the universe and already decided to trust the outcome.

My realtor told me that nine offers came in. Someone else told me they heard the winning bid was a whopping $100K over asking. Rumours are that a daycare centre is going in.

And I'm... okay. I'm sad that this beautiful piece of literary history won't be used as I envisioned it. I know children aren't going to appreciate the wooden mouldings or the built-in bookshelves, but some little person will likely draw on the wall, so it's kind of like it IS going to the arts...

***sigh***

I want to thank everyone for the support of my vision. I was surprised and delighted by the number of people who reached out with encouragement, who stood behind me, and who petitioned the town council on my behalf. Thank you. The dream isn't dead. Knowing there's so much local support for my idea has lit a fire under me that isn't going to be easily extinguished. So watch out! I am on a mission!

* * *

As I write this, I'm sitting in my tiny office that is currently bursting at the seams. I'm running an online children's writing workshop in a hour and I barely have room for the little whiteboard I need. I know I'm at a point where I have to find a bigger space because the frustration of getting things done in this closet is hindering my progress. (Please don't misconstrue this as me being ungrateful — I know how privileged I am I have a dedication workspace in my own home!)

So, if you're sitting on a commercial property, or have office/shop space to rent in my locale, we should talk. I am ready.

Historical Buildings and Reality Checks

2021-02-28T12:58:00.014-05:00

Eyes closed, breathing even, space heater purring (because we're missing a section of our chimney — a story for another day), but I can't sleep. My brain is buzzing with the scent of Pine-Sol as I pour it directly on a rag, using it to polish the heritage trim of my mind's eye. I am high up. Ten feet? Fifteen? "Cathedral ceilings" the listing said. The ladder is steady and I'm not afraid and the wood is gleaming and I can't wait to tackle those cobwebs at the transom windows...

I may never sleep again.

My sister sent me the link and I nearly lost my head. I was in the kitchen beginning supper when my phone buzzed with a new notification.

—You saw this, right?

(One of the things I love about my sister is that she almost always uses correct punctuation in her text messages.)

It was a real estate listing for the old town library building.

And I had not seen it.

photo from realtor.ca

In less than ten minutes, the whole family had congregated. Dinner preparations were put on hold while I cast a vision that, somehow, didn't seem to scare anyone.

I have wanted this building since I was a child.
Anyone who has ever had to listen to me talk about an eventual home for my publishing company/magazine knows this building has always been at the top of my list.
Yes, it is bigger than what I need but that means MORE ROOM FOR ACTIVITIES!

"But can you afford it?"

Ah... my dream-crushing, reality bringing, heart-stomping, pragmatic nineteen-year old.

No. I can't afford it, you monster!

Truth is, the building is listed far below where I expected to ever see it and that's the only reason this family meeting is actually happening: because I CAN SEE IT HAPPENING!

My brain works fast when it knows what it wants. I had a few proposals ready:

We sell our house and live in the library basement and all we have to do is get it rezoned.
We sell our house and live in the van and all we have to do is get rid of a few kids.
We cash in our retirement savings for a down payment and carry two mortgages and everything will be okay because dreams come true every day.
We ask if the town would be willing to lease and then I offer to run a town museum out of part of it for a break on the lease and then we can keep our house and leave our savings alone.

Each plan had its merits. (Okay, maybe not the 'get rid of a few kids' one.) And even though I love where we currently live, I was 100% ready to leave it behind. Because DREAMS!!!

"Let's go see it," my husband said.

I don't need flowers or jewelry or trips to Europe. If you want to love me, I just need you to see me. I just need you to indulge my dreams, encourage my heart, and come along for the ride with a little touch of wisdom and grace.

We are in the middle of a pandemic. I haven't had a date night in eleven months. I texted back and forth with an agent and we booked a showing. This is the sexiest thing I've put on the calendar since March 2020!

I crunched numbers. I sketched floor plans. I tried to figure out what our current home is worth. I freaked the freak out when I found out that all offers had to be in by noon on Thursday — just five days after I saw the listing. This brought two things to the forefront:

1. Someone definitely wants a bidding war

and

2. I am a lover, not a fighter

On Tuesday night, we stepped through those old doors, the musty waft of thousands of stories hitting us through our face masks as if the books still lined the shelves. Windowsills held years of dust, dead flies resting in their dark corners like tiny soldiers that got tired on their watch. Filthy carpet muted our footsteps and I peeled it back to check the damaged hardwood underneath. Blue Ethernet cables followed the centre arch and stole some of the magic, while the old library desk stood empty and sad with one section hanging loosely. Bookcases stood affixed to the walls, romantic and grand, and I remember losing myself in those stacks as an eighth grader, finally migrated from the children's section in the basement. Huge windows framed in heavy trim, tall ceilings where cobwebs danced as we disturbed the air, the old fire alarm that dinged when you flicked it, the crank pencil sharpener attached to the wall in the librarian's office.

I saw it all at once and one bit at a time. I knew where I'd host workshops and where I'd meet with clients. I saw the best spot for the coffee bar and that the light from the east window would inspire amazing new stories. I saw my children leading class field trips through this shiny hub of publishing glory. I imagined my nieces playing hide and seek around the corners and my nephews reading comic books on a leather couch. I felt the ache in my muscles after hours of freshening up the white paint. I envisioned a gallery of original work by local artists, and how my typewriter collection could continue to grow and grow and grow.

I saw it all.

I saw the water damage on the ceiling, the damp smell of the basement, and the critter with a million legs who approached my boot with little fear. I saw the "kitchen" that was really just a closet with a sink and a hot water tank. I saw the bathrooms which were... shall we say "less than desirable"? I saw the single pane windows that would never stop a brisk wind, and the limitations of taking on a designated historical heritage building. I saw dollar signs where accessibility ramps and chair lifts would have to be installed. I saw the outdoor space which was little more than a few parking spaces in the back.

Yes, I saw it all. Every nitty, gritty, painful, expensive detail.

But I was also Belle in the bookshop in Beauty and the Beast, pushing off on that library ladder as if I could fly. I was Belle in the castle when the Beast opened the curtains and showed her shelf upon shelf of stories to keep her company. I was Belle at the table when the candlestick invited her to be their guest...

Every romantic bone in my body said "yes!"

But my brain said, "Whoa, girl!"

The moon shone down between the south wall and the next door church steeple as we returned to our car. "It was really important for me to do this," I told my husband.

I needed the reality check to bring my brain and heart in line.

I asked our agent to find out if the town would be willing the lease the building. The town said no, they want to sell. They planned to take the top two offers to the council meeting and make their choice. More confirmation that they were setting up a bidding war.

I decided to take their 'no' as a 'come at us' invitation, and I wrote a letter to the mayor. (See a brief excerpt of my letter posted below.) I shared my heart for the building, the importance I feel it holds to the history of our town and the vibrant arts community that has become such an ingrained part of our local culture. I talked of my own vision for the space, but more than that, pleaded that the council (should their end goal be to unload the property) to consider mission over money — not to sell it to a developer without a personal tie to our town — but to consider bids that will contribute to the arts. (Oh, and p.s. if nothing like that comes across the desk, maybe you'll think of me and my big plans and reconsider that option to lease.)

With readings, book signings, author events, workshops, mentoring, and more, I see that old building being a vibrant hub of creative activity. In partnership with other organizations (Words Aloud festival or Ontario Culture Days for example) it could be a venue for various cultural events year round. With a keen eye for local engagement and a mission of being a champion for creative living, it could also be a powerful tool in the mental health crisis - giving like-minded artists/authors/poets and anyone curious a community hub: a place to share their work and journey.

I love my little town. I love it's quirky arts community and I want to be a more visible part of it. And if that means wearing my heart on my sleeve and putting all my cards on the table then I'm willing to do it.

I believe in seeing what you want and then chasing after it. I believe that if things don't fall into place then it wasn't meant to be. I also believe that if one thing doesn't work, the dream is not dead. I may never hear back from the mayor. That's okay. I move on to fight another day. But for now (and I just checked) the listing is still active. So who knows... anything is possible in this strange shared experience we call life.

UPDATE: Less than an hour after pushing 'publish' on this post, the mayor responded to my letter, thanked me for my vision, and assured me that she would get it in front of the entire council. And if nothing else, it's so empowering to feel seen and heard. ❤️

Tick Tock: A Writer's Guide to a Writer's Timeline

2020-04-29T12:31:00.000-04:00

When it comes down to it, I think what I really want to be known as is prolific. I am wildly jealous of the authors who can line shelves with title after title. I revere a few of them and every day as I walk through my living room, I see their names lined up on my bookshelf and I wonder if someday somewhere there will be a shelf lined with my name too.

But the truth is, being prolific doesn't necessarily mean you're producing great work. There are 'authors' who are pushing out something new monthly and I refuse to believe there is much substance to such a practice. I want a story that is deep and nuanced and pushes me to think in new ways. I want an author who lets the characters drive the story, who understands the subtitles of humanity, who lets their passion leak off the page, who understands when a story is finished and doesn't let it go until then. I want an author who is the kind of author I'm trying to be.

So, in truth, maybe I want to be known as the author that 'writes well' as opposed to the author that 'writes so much.' I don't just want to tell stories, I want to tell stories that matter.

I knew I wanted to be an author from a young age. I didn't know what that would involve. I naively thought that since I liked to write stories, it would be just as easy to write books. Ernest Hemingway said it best when he said: There's nothing to writing, all you do it sit down at your typewriter and bleed.

Easy peasy, right?!

Comparison is my greatest hindrance.

Competition is my great motivator.

Compassion is the key to my timeline.

Comparison

Dear Anne Rice/Ted Dekker/James Rollins/etc.
You are you. I am me. What you are capable of is not what I am capable of. What I am capable of is not what you are capable of. My life situation is different than your life situation and we're all just doing our best with what we've got. Amen.

Competition

There is so much value in striking up relationships with other authors who are in a similar situation as your own. For me that means authors who are independently publishing (or running their own publishing company), working 'regular' jobs outside their home, and raising families all while trying to put their writing out into the world. Whether these people realize it or not, I am in healthy competition with them. Watching them overcome real-life struggles to keep their writing a priority is massive motivation and I push myself to keep up. It's not about winning, it's about keeping pace in order to support one another.

Compassion

Rejecting comparison and embracing friendly competition allows me to set realistic goals with a compassionate eye towards attainability. Being an independent author means I am my own boss: I set the rules, I set the goals, and I'm the only one allowed to break those. Leaving room for deviations leaves room to breathe. Sure, I deal with guilt when I feel like I-just-can't-write-another-word today/this week/this month, but I've also allowed myself the space to take that break. I never want writing to be a chore or a job. When that happens, I've sold out. I want to love it. Forever.

My second novel is currently in the beta reading stage. You probably think that means I have written a complete manuscript since the release of The Church in the Wildwood back in 2017, but you would be wrong. I wrote the first words of Black Bird in November of 2011, almost three years to the day before I wrote the first words of Wildwood. Black Bird has fought me every single step of the way.

There are many reasons a book refuses to be written and almost every reason has to do with the author, not the book.

I was afraid. There were scenes the characters dictated that terrified me. There was one particular scene—the main conflict climax of the whole story—that I knew backwards and forwards in my mind but I couldn't make myself write it. I spent months trying to sit down and pull it from my head, but I just couldn't. My fingers were frozen. This wasn't writer's block. I knew exactly what I needed to type. This was resistance to what our dear friend Hemingway tells us: I didn't want to bleed all over the page.

And so, instead of writing what had to be written, I started writing a new book, a YA post-apocalyptic saga (because seriously, people keep buying those and I might as well have a title for pop culture as well as the literary fiction junkies, right?).

Timelines are messy and painful and defeatist, but looking back on it, I'm not sure I would change a thing. The old adage tells us that things happen for a reason, and I know that to be true. Had I not allowed Black Bird to simmer gently on the back burner, I would never have discovered the town of Fallmoore or the cult commune of Harridan Bluffs. I would have never learned that Bird's story happened in the same town. The richness of the story cross-over would have been lost—and though each is a story that can stand on its own, it holds so much more weight when paired up.

Just as my narratives are not revealed to the reader in chronological order, so too is my approach to writing.

November 2011 - began Black Bird
November 2014 - began The Church in the Wildwood
November 2015 - revisited Black Bird for the NaNoWriMo challenge
November 2016 - began The Path That Takes Us Home (working title - YA Post-Apocalyptic)
July 2017 - released The Church in the Wildwood
September 2017 - began The Ghost of Iris Carver (novella)
May 2018 - released The Ghost of Iris Carver
May 2019 - refocused on Black Bird
January 2020 - re-refocused on Black Bird

November 2020 - RELEASE BLACK BIRD

It will be nine years from first words to release. Nine years. That's 22% of my life; 75% of my daughter's life; 40% of my marriage...

And that's okay.

Everything in its own time.

To rush a thing is to cheat it. To let a thing unfold on its own is poetry.

So the moral of the story is, just go with it. Let your story guide you. Take the breaks you need. Give yourself permission to step away. Days, months, years. When the time is right, you will write.

My Feelings are a Rainbow [or Jennifer Lopez, Please Sing Me a Lullaby]

2020-04-19T12:40:00.001-04:00

Welcome to the world. It's not the world you remember and it's probably not the world you want, but it's all we've got so we'd better hang on.

Every day feels like Thursday. We're bouncing between sunshine and snow. Gas is cheap but we have nowhere to go. Numbers matter, but not like they used to. We're counting down to something, but no one is sure what that is...

It has been 40 days since the last baseball practice; 39 days since we learned Tom Hanks was sick; 38 days since it was announced that schools wouldn't open after March Break; 37 days since the June conference I was booked to speak at was cancelled; 36 days since I held my breath, waiting to learn if my sister was able to get back into Canada from Seattle; 35 days since my first Zoom staff meeting; 34 days since Ontario declared a state of emergency and started enforcing social distancing; 33 days since my husband has been able to play pool; 27 days since I sobbed in the car; 21 days since parks and trails were closed; 19 days since we pulled our van out of winter storage and then realized we couldn't take her anywhere because everything is shut down; 17 days since God sent us a rainbow to remind us He was still there...somewhere; 14 days since we started online home-school; 13 days since our septic system flooded our basement with sewage water; 10 days since my mother knocked on our patio door and then stood back six feet while I collected the bag of Easter treats she'd set down on the deck; 9 days since we got to watch a recovered Tom Hanks host a weird SNL episode from his kitchen; 4 days since my son's summer trip to Europe was cancelled; 3 days since we dug up our backyard to find the root of the problem in our sewer pipe (pun intended!); 1 day since Jennifer Lopez made me believe in humanity's capacity to survive.

There have been memes circulating about how introverts were made for times such as these—how we've been training for this our whole life. And it's true. To a point. I've been watching my fellow introverts posting about their free time and productivity and the wealth of creativity they've been able to tap into. And I'm just sitting here in my home office with my CORONA typewriters 😳, trying to catch my breath, and what even is free time?

I am lucky to be wildly busy with work. We are lucky that my husband signed a full-time contract with the Catholic school board just before the world shut down. You are lucky that my son works at the grocery store and is keeping the shelves stocked so your pantry doesn't go bare.

But I'm also jealous of the free time I'm seeing people brag (or complain) about. I want a chance to be bored. I want to write and read. I want to sit in the sunshine. I want Michelle Obama to take the reins for our floundering neighbours and I want to appreciate Justin Trudeau's quirky little eye squint he does when he answers a question. I want to watch all the Toy Story movies because suddenly it means more that Woody has a voice; and I want to listen to The Gambler because Kenny Rogers will never sing it again.

The new normal is anything but.

There have been beautiful moments in all of this. I have laughed so hard that tears streamed down my face—I adore my family and can't believe how lucky we are to be stuck together—but I've also experienced real moments of grief and anger. I'm worried about rebuilding. I have deadlines I don't feel motivated to reach. I put on jeans once a week to make sure this body is still my body. Yesterday, I drove my son to work in my pajamas and flip flops.

Last night I watched 'One World: Together at Home' and Jennifer Lopez's version of People knocked on the door of my heart. Because that's the whole truth. People need people. We're in this together. And we will see the other side.

I have no answers and that's frustrating. But I do have hope and faith and love and ideas. I've been surviving for forty days and forty nights.

I think it's time to start living.

Stay safe out there friends.

* * *

If you'd like to read something a little less 'poor me' and a little more inspiring, pop over to this post I made on the Blank Spaces website: ART IS THE ANTIDOTE: FINDING PEACE THROUGH CREATIVITY.

If you're interested in learning about where I'm at with my latest novel, you can track with updates on the Black Bird website: WWW.BLACKBIRD.ALANNARUSNAK.COM

Saying Yes to What Scares Me

2019-06-20T22:12:00.001-04:00

My creative journey only began its forward trajectory when I started saying yes to things that scared me.

It's easy and safe to live life in a bubble, and some people can be happy there. Who can blame them, really? Have you ever watched the way the light dances off a bubble? It's like an oily prism of gorgeousness. I could get behind someone settling into that for the long haul. But me? I was made for more than that. Not because I'm better or more ambitious, but because I'm personally fulfilled by the chase.

If you're in the race, you have to be ready for the baton.

Fact: I hate running with the passion of a thousand flaming spears aimed at the likeness of a certain politician I have a lot of not-so-shiny things to say about. (But I won't mar this sacred space of mine by giving them any air time.) I hate running the way a rabid dog hates water or like how my sister feels about sugar in her tea. But for the sake of the imagery, come along with me, won't you...?

(To be perfectly clear, the included photo of me is not one snapped as I'm 'out for a run'. I never have, nor do I ever anticipate, 'going for a run'. Instead I've started this new thing where I go for a morning walk, tackling the Hell Hill along the road by my house as a way to combat my slothy writer lifestyle. Each morning, I snap a picture of myself for a photo journal I like to call: Kill That Hill, Girl. You're a Warrior at 3km/hour! or How the Smell of That Raccoon Roadkill has Changed Since May 7th. Watch for it on Kindle in 2020. 😉)

So, I'm in the race. I'm wearing a pair of those cute little running shorts along with a pair of those socks that go halfway up my calves because the 70s called and they're really disappointed I didn't get to grow up there (even though it's obviously where I've always belonged). I'm carving my own path because the track is boring and I know what it's like to fall on that gravel and have to pick pebbles from my legs. There are stones in my way and I skip over them by starting my blog. There are twigs and I swipe past them. Sure, I get a few scratches, but through the brambles I'm able to write my first novel. I hop, skip, and jump across a stream or two and my sneakers get wet but there's something musical about the way they make that squeaky-squish noise and that propels the launch of my publishing company. And the farther I go, the bigger the hurdles get, and it's scary every time but I keep running because I know the moment I stop for air I'll just want to become one of the bubble people and bask in the bliss of a colourful blur.

Last weekend I faced the most uncomfortable hurdle to date: I led a workshop on being creatively reckless at a writer's conference in Hamilton.

When this baton was first placed into my hands I passed it right back. Because nope! I wasn't about to stand up in front of a room of strangers and play-act my knowledge before them like I was some expert on the other side of the chasm. I said no. A big fat not-in-a-million-years no.

Because I was afraid.

But then I said yes.

Because doing hard things is what helps us grow.

I have things to share and I believe part of my purpose here is to inspire others by sharing my own journey. I can be the 'if I can do it, anyone can do it' spokesperson. Anyone can be that person. Every journey has its lessons that are worthy of sharing. When I finally said yes it was because I decided it was okay to own my path and to share it. The passion of one can ignite passion in another.

My insights aren't because I'm smart. They're because I tried and tripped and dusted myself off and tried again. They're because I said yes.

This is not a picture of me giving my presentation. Don't be fooled! I completed forgot about asking someone to snap a 'to prove I did it' picture. This is a picture of the room I presented in, photo-shopped together with the 'I'm really nervous' selfie I took that morning as I was leaving my accommodations to make my way to the conference hall, combined with the title slide of my Recklessly Creative workshop - which I really did show on that screen in the picture - it just wasn't there when I took the picture of the room. Isn't technology awesome!?

One of my favourite things about this race I'm in is the community I've built up around myself because of it. By allowing people to follow my journey, I've invited them to speak into my life, and that's an enormous gift.

I lamented my nervousness across all my social media platforms, calling on my circle to send out their positive vibes at 10 a.m. on Saturday morning. I was inundated with emails, texts, Facebook messages, Instagram comments, and Twitter DMs wishing me luck and assuring me I could do it, and every single one of those messages meant the world to me! Knowing there's a community that believes in me is one of the greatest gifts this journey has ever given me and it propels me forward every day.

So I hiked up my socks and I faced my fear. When there were technical difficulties getting my Mac to connect to the University's Windows system, I powered through and started without my slides. When it took a crew of three (or was it four?) staff members to figure it out, fumbling around beside me while I directed the attendees to write down a list of all the things that take up their time in an exercise that led to the identification of passions, I was (mostly) able to ignore them. When they finally figured it out and everyone applauded their techy help, I was able to keep on going with my slides as my allies.

I started shaky, but I finished boldly. The point is I did it and I feel pretty darn good about that.

It's hard to measure the success of a workshop like I did. Much of it called for personal reflection and for the first half it was a struggle to get anyone to participate by answering the questions I put forth. But at the end, one woman stood to her feet and, with tears in her eyes and a voice heavy with emotion, she publicly declared her creative goal (which is what I'd challenged everyone to do). Hearing her embrace that and spill it out with such fire was so powerful and I feel privileged to have given her a platform where she felt safe to do that. The same woman sought me out afterwards to hug me - not a 'hey friend' kind of hug. This was a heart hug. It felt like the kind of hug you'd give someone who just lost a loved one, like you're trying to give all of yourself: your condolences, your gratitude, your love. The kind of hug that lasts longer than social norms but feels like the whole world is nodding at you. Others shared their goals with me too, but that hug is what made the whole thing the right choice for me. It is what has fueled me up for the next big thing, whatever it may be.

I'm still sitting in that space of Writer's Conference Hangover (it's a real thing, trust me!), but I have ideas coming out of this experience to propel me onward. Would I do it again? Yes. Does it still scare me? Yes. Will I let that stop me? No. I feel good about how I look in these running shoes!

So, here's to the risk takers and the dreamers, the doers and the shakers, and the people like me who are trying to be just a little bit like them every single day.

Why the 'Me Too' Movement is Making me a Bad Writer

2019-05-14T15:40:00.001-04:00

This is an OLD post. My draft screen says I wrote it on October 18, 2018. It's been sitting there because I am afraid of it. I had intentions of formulating the message of this into a letter from the author when my book is finally ready for print (I touched on that in my last post) — and I think I'll still do that — but, in the interest of transparency, and because I think it's important to share my process because maybe someone else is actually struggling with the same thing, I'm going to post this post even if it makes me uncomfortable...

__________

October 18, 2018

I've been lying awake at night working through plot struggles, excited that I'm actually thinking about writing, but not able to bring myself to actually do it. I am writing. Other things. Things for Blank Spaces and things for work. But my own stuff? The beat of my heart and the tale that rests just below my skin? Not a word. The truth is, I haven't given that a fair shake since my writing retreat last May. It hurts me to say that. And it leaves me feeling like a fraud.

A woman came into my day-job office last week; she interrupted an informal meeting to ask me how she could get my next book, to tell me how much she loved my first one.

I told her about The Ghost of Iris Carver. About how it was short. Just a little tease. I saw the disappointment on her face and I felt it in my gut. "Another novel is coming," I promised. "I'm just struggling right now to find the time to write it."

LIES!

UGLY, EMBARRASSING LIES!

I have time. I have loads of time. Sure, I'm experiencing some health things that make me tired, but I do have time. Sure, I pour tons of energy into the magazine and into my publishing business and into my home and my family and my day job. But seriously—true confession time—most evenings lately I'm crawling into bed around 9:30, putting on some senseless Netflix show, and doing jigsaw puzzles on my iPad until 11:30. That's two hours of golden writing time that I'm just turning my back on. If I'd been using that time to work on my novel instead of distracting myself with bad television and pretty pictures, I would have a complete draft by now.

But I can't do it. I just can't.

I am frozen where I stand. Er...sitting in my pyjamas...under the covers...with a bowl of yogurt covered raisins and a cup of tea...

Frozen.

Because Alyssa Milano started something that SCARES ME TO DEATH!

#MeToo empowers women to speak up against the men who take advantage of them. I am all for the protection and empowerment of women; I celebrate the freedom this movement has brought to many, how it's fostered community and solidarity. I believe no one—woman or man—should be forced into a situation they're uncomfortable with, that no means no, and that for too long people have gotten away with loose morals and disrespecting behaviour. The thing is, it has expanded into a creature that has the whole world walking on eggshells. It started the conversation—and that's good and healthy and yes, let's build a future for our children where our daughters won't be afraid to walk down the street at night—but it also stopped the conversation.

I never want to minimize anyone's experience, but the rose-coloured glasses through which I observe the world tell me that there's always another side to any story. There is history and circumstance and mental health and misunderstanding. Rape is never okay. Assault is never okay. Bullying is never okay. Coercion is never okay. But the story of the offender is a powerful bridge, not to excusing the offense, but to understanding it.

Yet, I'm afraid to tell that story because #MeToo means the only voice that matters is that of the victim. #MeToo never calls for redemption. It never looks deeper than an accusation. It assumes the worst and it applies labels. It wants to return hurt for hurt.

And there-in lies the rub.

Black Bird, the next novel in The Fallmoore Chronicles, tells the story of an unwanted sexual encounter and how it created a ripple that crossed generations. As you should expect from me, especially if you've read The Church in the Wildwood, my goal with the story is to bring a message of redemption.

Redemption does not exist without sin and sin cannot exist without a perpetrator and a perpetrator can't tell their story if culture refuses to hear it.

I am not looking to excuse any behaviour. Excuses aren't necessary for redemption, but an honest examination of the situation is. I believe the story I'm telling in Black Bird is important. I think it will challenge people to rethink the way they respond to certain situations. I'm going to trust that this is the story that's coming out of me because someone needs to read it in order to heal themselves.

So much focus is on justice and public shaming. Justice is important, but it's not the same as finding personal freedom.

If you are a victim of sexual violence, my heart breaks for you. I don't want to minimize your experience or your feelings. They are yours and they are valid and important, just as you are valid and important. No one deserves the kind of treatment you've experienced. It is my hope that you're being equipped with the proper tools to continue your life in a positive way, not to live as a victim, but as a victor. Everyone deserves the opportunity to move forward—not necessarily to forgive, but to leave behind.

The challenge I want to present is this: avoid the mob mentality. Put down your pitch fork and focus on your own well being. If the world was in a place where self-care was more celebrated than protesting, I would venture to say we'd all be a little bit healthier.

All this to say, I'm afraid of the response #MeToo advocates will have towards this book I'm trying to write. I think it will offend some people. I think it might stir up some angry conversation.

But maybe that's okay. Maybe in the conversation we find a common ground.

I recently saw a clip of Jonah Hill on the Ellen show, discussing his writing/directing debut, "mid90s". Ellen brought up the fact that the film is full of offensive language, language that today would be considered hate-speech, but in the 90s, it was just part of the culture. Jonah's response was brilliant. He said, "My job is to present a palette and not to judge it, that's for the audience to do."

What a powerful, freeing statement!

My job as a writer is not to tell you what to think, it is to present a very real situation and allow you to navigate it in your own way. Understanding that gives me permission to tell this story.

p.s. It's taken me two weeks to write this post because I'm afraid of the fallout. But I'm also coming to the point where I have to push past this block and write the story I know I have to write, culture be damned. I've learned from experience that the fear that stands in our way can often be overcome if we name it. So that's what I'm doing. Let's get this book written!

__________

(present day) p.s.s. I am writing! I am working! I am getting things done. 177 days!

Help Me, Joni Mitchell. You're My Only Hope.

2019-05-07T21:25:00.000-04:00

We sat around a campfire pit, sun bright and winking, spring finally feeling real, laughing, catching up, sharing stories. A fire didn't burn in the centre where flat stones were stacked in a neat circle, but I've learned it's not about the fire, it's about the people who gather there.

"So you're writing lots?" she asked. "You have a new book coming?"

Embarrassment tinged my cheeks. One: because her pink hair made me feel ordinary. And Two: because I didn't want to tell the truth.

It's my personal Groundhog Day cycle. Meet up with an old friend-acquaintance-stranger and they ask me the same thing: when is the next book coming?

And I want to stick my head in the sand and cry.

I am the Queen of Excuses. I feel like winter beat me up. Like motivation took a back seat to cuddly blankets and late sleeps. Like I forgot who I was for a long, frosty moment.

Last week, I'd had enough. I pushed the mess aside on my desk and got back to work. I called myself out on Instagram and promised anyone there who cared that I was finally ready.

And then I found myself at this campfire that wasn't a campfire. "You have a new book coming?"

"What I really wanted was to release Black Bird on Joni Mitchell's birthday," I said. "But that's November. I don't think I can do it. But she'll have other birthdays, I guess..."

Later, as I reflected on it, a hot bloom of shame pulsed through me. I'd completely lost touch of who I am.

I am the idiot (visionary?) who launched the inaugural issue of a new literary magazine less than four months after putting out a call for nationwide submissions.
I am the maniac who wrote the entire first draft of my first novel in THIRTY DAYS!
I am the introverted scaredy-cat who visited book clubs and knocked on indie book store owners doors and stood on a stage and read my own work at a standing room only event.

I did all those things because they scared me, because I wanted to grow, because I had a dream, and because I believed in myself.

For a moment, I forgot...

In 183 days, Joni Mitchell will turn 76.

183 days.

So here's the scary question: WHY NOT?

Why couldn't I have my book done in time? I wrote the first one in 30 days, for Pete's sake!

The horrible truth is, I've been plugging away at this novel since 2011. That's far too long. I became jaded to the story. Bored. Then the whole Me Too movement swept the nation and I became scared. (You'll have to wait for the Author's Letter I'll include with the book when it's published to learn why.) Excuses. Excuses. Excuses.

183 days.

183 days to finish the draft. Edit. Send to beta-readers. Edit. Send to second round beta-readers. Edit. Layout. Proof. Print. Launch.

(I had to make a 3D image of it just to remind me that it could be real — that it will be real — and that it will be beautiful!)

Joni Mitchell is a pivotal cornerstone to the entire narrative of Black Bird. I won't tell you why, but I've fallen madly in love with her lyrics over the course of this project and nothing would be more fitting than to celebrate the birth of Black Bird with a birthday party for Joni.

All winter I wished I had a river to skate away on, but now I need to lean on something new.

And Joni said:

     If you can fill the journey of a minute
     With sixty seconds worth of wonder and delight
     Then the Earth is yours
     And Everything that's in it
     But more than that
     I know you'll be alright*

And I will.

See you in 183 days!

*If by Joni Mitchell from her 2007 album "Shine" an adaptation of Rudyard Kipling's poem If.

How To Tell Your Children You've Lost Your Job

2019-04-13T11:27:00.001-04:00

Tuesday. The sun rose and a pit settled in my belly, a low fist that made my cereal seem drier than usual, slowly twisting, just enough to make me feel off centre and a little disoriented. Like every step I took pulled a little to the left.

We'd been living in limbo for a few days, ever since the announcement about The Meeting. Rumours flew but we chose to rest our heads on the pillow of optimism. Maybe they're giving everyone raises, we joked. But it was only half-hearted. Sometimes, no matter how 'glass-half-full' you see the world, you know the truth before it's actually laid out before you.

I kissed him goodbye and wished him luck. I went to work and pretended things were okay. I watched the clock. I sent him a kissy-face emoji and he sent one back. The Meeting was at noon.

Tick tock.

When my phone finally rang, I left my shared office and sat on the couch in the empty foyer. "Hello?"

"They're shutting it down," he said.

And suddenly, the pit was gone. It's the unknowing that really rocks me.

When there's a sure thing, you can make a plan. If everything's up in the air, you're just a kite dipping around on the whimsy of the wind.

My husband has been a child and youth worker at a residential mental health facility for more than sixteen years. It has been his career, and though there have been many times he's complained about management or a frustrating staff member, it is his heart. He is good at what he does and has been the catalyst for change in the lives of countless kids rocked by a system that doesn't always help. He has invested his whole self into the program. He's had his heart broken by the stories of these kids, with tough love he's talked them off suicidal ledges, he's cleaned up their blood and tears. More than once he's expressed an abstract desire to bring certain kids home to live with us because the life waiting for them in their own home was devastating and hopeless. He has poured every bit of his empathy, his problem-solving skills, his belief in a better world, and his faith that every child is worth saving, into this place.

And now it's over.

Just like that. In a blink.

Like sixteen years doesn't matter.

But it does. It matters more than I have words for. How many kids left his care with a real chance at a successful life? For sixteen years, he made a difference. For sixteen years he allowed himself to grow and learn along with those kids and we've reaped the benefits of that learning in our own home. He is a master communicator - I am not (though I continue to learn from him) - and he utilizes those skills built up at work to keep our family communication lines open, to work through tough things with our kids and with each other. What a gift that is!

On Tuesday evening, he called us together in our basement family room to tell the kids. He spoke matter-of-factly, but positively. "Things are going to change. We're all used to my schedule, but that's going to look different. I might be doing some little weird jobs until I find something permanent. Maybe I'll be cutting people's grass. We don't know what it's going to look like, but the important thing for you all to know is that you don't have to worry. Our plans aren't changing."

And they're not. We just have to add some new plans to the old ones.

Old Plans:

Baseball (our middle son is playing on TWO teams this year)
Skills Canada (our eldest has been selected to represent the school in the robotics competition)
Van (we're in the process of purchasing a decommissioned ambulance to convert into a mini home to take on the road this summer)
August Road Trip (New Brunswick, PEI, and Nova Scotia)

— yes, they all cost money, but they all matter, and we believe in our new plan —

New Plan:

Continue with old plans.
Get a new job.

The kids expressed some sadness, recognizing that this loss hurts their father, but they fully trust in his ability to start again. "You don't have to worry." That's the most important thing he told them as we sat there together. Worry is not their job. It's not ours either. Our job is to look ahead and seek out opportunity. It's not going to be easy — change is always hard, no matter how pliable you think you might be — but it is possible.

You. Don't. Have. To. Worry.

This is what it means to be alive. You roll with the punches and you turn hardship into opportunity. If we can keep our outlook bright, if we can take forward steps and turn those sixteen years into a golden selling point, there's nothing that can stand in our way.

I am hopeful. I am looking ahead. We are okay.

You don't have to worry.

Would You Join Me At The Lake?

2019-01-26T20:43:00.000-05:00

Life is busy and there never seems to be enough time to do the things we really want to do. That's the great tragedy of responsibility. I recently complained to my husband about the burden of 'adulting'. "Don't you ever wish you could just be sixteen again? No bills, no responsibility, no stupid minivan that can't handle Canadian winters?"

"No," he said. "I don't want to be sixteen again. I'd rather be the age I am with a hundred million dollars. That's how I want to stop worrying about bills."

But it's not just the bills, is it? It's the day-job that eats up our time, it's our home and family that eats up our attention, it's the new shows on Netflix that we watch because everyone's talking about them and then we wallow in the disappointment of unmet expectations and wish we hadn't just wasted those two hours that could have been better spent creating something of our own. (Bird Box, anyone? 🙄)

Time management is my greatest struggle as a creative and it's one of the reasons I've made it a priority to treat myself to writing retreats at least twice a year.

Gaining some inspiration from Julia Cameron's book 'The Artist's Way' at last winter's retreat.

Retreats can take many forms. They can be huge conferences with hundreds of people, where you listen to keynote speakers and cry quietly in your seat because you're so inspired by the words of a respected authority. They can be small seminars where you workshop your pieces around a table with others who are just as nervous as you are. And they can be quiet and humble and removed from distractions, designed solely to give you a space to zero in and focus on that project that's been neglected for far too long.

It is so important to give yourself permission to invest in your passions.

It took me far too long to embrace the need to get away, and now that I understand the great value it adds to my own life, I feel compelled to share it.

I attended a panel discussion on fundraising at last September's Word on the Street where the topic of event hosting came up. I came away from that seminar inspired to explore the possibility of events for Blank Spaces - not as a method of fundraising, but as a way to continue to build that community outside the binding of a print magazine or social media interactions. As ideas began to brew, so too did the idea that I want to design space for that creative community to create together. (A big part of where my last post came from.)

As I began putting out feelers, asking people what they'd want from an event, the idea of hosting a writer's retreat took root. It's something I feel capable of. It's also a great jumping off point as we look at building bigger events. By starting small, I'll gain the courage to go big!

So that's what I'm doing. Along with one of my Blank Spaces team mates I will be facilitating a creative weekend retreat at a small cottage along the shores of Lake Huron.

Who should register?

Are you a woman?
Are there projects you wish you could do but you just can't find the time?
Are you constantly making excuses instead of chasing after what you really want?
Are you distracted by your home and work life and unable to concentrate on the creative project you dream of doing?
Have you ever thought, 'Gee, I really wish I could just get away for a couple days and focus'?
Are you motivated by the company of other creatives?
Do you crave productivity and quiet?
Do you believe in yourself enough to invest in your passion?

If you answered yes to any of these examples then this retreat should be right up your alley!

Who should not register?

Are you a man*?
Are you looking for a party weekend?
Does nature freak you out?
Are you afraid of the quiet?
Are you grumpy or mean?
Do you expect gourmet cooking**?
Do you sleep naked***?

If you answered yes to any of these questions then this retreat is not for you.

*Sorry guys! I'll be brainstorming ways to host gender-inclusive events with my team.
**I am not a chef but I can throw a good meal together.
***No judgement! A lot of us do it 😉 Just don't do it at this retreat. Make sure you pack pajamas in your suitcase! Sure, we're creatives, we've got a little poetry and 'hippyness' inside us, but that doesn't make us nudists. There are other retreats for that...

Be sure to read through all the information provided in the payment portal below before you sign up. I want to create a safe, positive, accepting, motivating space - make sure you're willing and able to be an active participant in that before you register.

(Does the box below annoy you? Click here to go directly to the dedicated payment page.)

If you have any questions, be sure to utilize the 'Ask Question' feature within the payment portal. Those questions come right to me and I'll do my best to answer them quickly.

I'm excited by the possibilities of this weekend and the creativity it will foster. I can't wait to meet you at the lake!

I Have a Dream [or That Time my Son Burst my Bubble]

2019-01-14T10:14:00.001-05:00

I am a dreamer. That may seem flighty and romantic, but it's really the only way I get anything done. An idea plants itself in my head and I live with it in all its various evolutions until it pops out as a physical thing. You know, just like having a baby. Only with less consumption of sour cream mixed with chopped up dill pickles*.

I dreamed I'd write a book. So I did.

I dreamed I'd start a magazine. So I did.

I dreamed I'd climb a mountain... just kidding! Yuck**. Who said that?

Last week I had a vision while getting ready for work. I dreamed of a creative space that would serve the creative minds of my community. Stay with me. Let me paint you a picture...

Envision a brick building. It's got some history. Maybe it's an old Post Office or Library or coffee shop. Maybe it's got one of those concrete bricks embedded in the side that says its was built in 1897. It's got strong bones and is full of character. Inside is a large open space. There's a platform in one corner and a sales counter along one wall. Open shelves hold French presses, a grinder, coffee beans, and mugs. There are mason jars of loose leaf tea and a chalkboard sign that says 'Caffeine for Creatives'. There's a tip jar. It's a help yourself kind of establishment. Another corner is wrapped in bookshelves and cozy seating forms a lazy place to flip through magazines and novels (all published by my own imprint, of course). There's a fireplace, and sure, let's put a piano up on the stage for good measure. There's a great sound system and stage lights for author readings, poetry slams, and open mic nights. A long harvest table owns a huge bit of real estate, with electrical access in its centre for all the laptops that will fill that table when I host writer's groups, seminars, and anyone who wants to use the space to work on their various projects. Small café tables are scattered around for those more comfortable working alone. The wifi password will be 'myspace' —not because that platform was ever a good idea, but because this one is and it belongs to everyone who uses it. Upstairs will be a fully furnished apartment with amazing natural light that can be rented out to anyone looking for a personal writing retreat location. I will have a big office that is open to the main area. It will be the official headquarters of my publishing house and my storage solutions for all the ugly necessities of such an endeavor will be gorgeous and catalogue ready.

Are you still with me? Are you ready to drop everything and come be part of this thing I built in the span of a few minutes one weekday morning?

Sigh.

This felt so real to me, I actually set up an account with an online real estate site and started looking at what was available in my area. Yes. I'm that invested!

At dinner that night, I spilled my dream out on the table like some giddy five-year-old emptying their Christmas stocking.

"Yes," said my son. "That's nice. But how will it make money? How will you pay for it?"

Way to take the wind out of my sails, man! So rude!

And the answer is, I don't know. The retreat apartment wouldn't rent out until it was established and I wouldn't want to charge much anyway because writers are poor and I want the space to be a gift—cheaper and prettier than a motel.

"Maybe I could charge a monthly membership fee," I suggested. "Like a gym. It could be like a members-only creative club."

"Who would actually pay for something like that?"

"And I'd want it to be like a storefront to sell books and magazines so that wouldn't work anyway..."

"I think you need to think about this more."

Always the practical one. Who died and made you a seventeen-year-old know-it-all?

So, I called him a dream-killer and vowed I'd prove him wrong and looked at more real estate listings. I figure if someone dropped half a million in my lap I could really make a go of it, so... whadoya got?***

* True story. With regular potato chips. No wonder I gained sixty pounds that time around! (See what I did there?? 😜)
** I'd like the view without the work.
*** I mean, if you ever win the lottery or something and feel like 'what in the world am I going to do with all this money?' I'd be like, 'don't worry, I can totally lighten your load!' I'd even put up a plaque thanking your for your generous donation and that kind of recognition is just a gift that keeps on giving!

Flash Christmas Sale on the Fallmoore Chronicles!

2018-12-13T11:10:00.000-05:00

UPDATE: this sale is now over, but books are still available at the regular price.

Have you been holding off on purchasing the first two books in the Fallmoore Chronicles? Stop waiting! Grab them now at a deep discount. Purchase before December 17 and you should find them in your mailbox before Christmas! (Sale will run until January 4, 2019)

P.S. If you want to know the best way to bless an author this Christmas, leave a book review on Amazon or Goodreads and wait for the indie author angels to rain down showers of thanksgiving on your head!

That Time I Considered Pulling a Jesus-in-the-Temple in Central Park

2018-10-30T17:23:00.001-04:00

As we planned our 20th Anniversary road trip to New York City I knew one thing for sure: it was incredibly important to me that we take time to visit Strawberry Fields in Central Park, to take a moment at the 'Imagine' mosaic, a beautiful tribute placed in honour of John Lennon.

Strawberry Fields was a revitalization project commissioned by Yoko Ono after John's tragic death. The area is gorgeous, a designated 'quiet zone' with huge trees, benches, and the mosaic. Situated in the park across the street from The Dakota, the apartment where John and Yoko made their home, and the location of his shooting, I had no doubt I would feel a bit emotional standing on such hallowed ground.

John Lennon is a person of great import in my life. Though I was but a baby when Mark David Chapman gunned John down in the archway of his apartment building, I feel like a bit of his spirit has been kept alive in my adoration of him. There are people across history who have a way of getting under your skin and staying there. We all have them, those larger-than-life glowing beacons who inform our journey with or without our permission. That is who John is for me. From his message of peace to his brilliant song-writing talent to the obvious adoration of his wife (despite what the Beatle-loving public thought about it), I embraced all of him. And though he made mistakes, he could do no real wrong in my eyes.

The air was crisp, though the sun reached beyond the clouds just enough to make us wonder if our heavy jackets were a little too much. Fallen leaves crunched beneath our feet and our calves ached as we climbed the rolling paths of Central Park. We had already seen some of the iconic bridges. We'd been to the carousel (very anti-climactic!). We walked the Promenade and visited the Bethesda Fountain (though the water had already been drained in anticipation of winter). We ate a hotdog from a cart and marvelled that people would even consider paying a rickshaw driver $5.99 A MINUTE for a ride around the park. We laughed when we heard a group of ladies burst into the Friends theme song while they sat around the edge of the fountain rumoured to have inspired the one used in the opening credits of the show.

And then we came to Strawberry Fields.

The way before us opened to reveal a small clearing, in the centre of which lay the circular mosaic. Imagine. People crowded around it, pushing their way through for photos, sitting in the centre and giving the peace sign for whoever was nice enough to snap a picture for them, grinning ear to ear, laughing, playing, having a good time. A man and his guitar hollered Beatle lyrics from a south facing bench. Vendors stood at folding tables, selling Lennon pins and Imagine postcards. I squeezed through the crowd and timed a photo in the brief millisecond when there was no one sitting there because it meant something to me to mark that I had been there.

But inside I was seething with rage.

All I wanted was an honest moment with my grief. Instead, these hoolligans had turned this sacred space into a marketplace of tourism. I felt disrespected. I felt like John was being disrespected. I wanted to stand up on a bench and scream at them. "DON'T YOU EVEN CARE THAT THIS IS WHERE HIS ASHES WERE SCATTERED??!" I wanted to knock over tables and wield a whip like Jesus did when he cleared the temple.

We didn't stay long because being there didn't mean what I wanted it to mean. We took the western path and walked to The Dakota where I stood in the spot Mark 'Demon' Chapman shot John. I wanted to find some kind of ongoing tribute there. There was nothing. I wanted to be able to light a candle in his memory. I also wanted to set a copy of The Catcher in the Rye on fire right there in the archway of the apartment building—not because Holden Caufield is to blame, or that J.D. Salinger ever knew his book would play a role in one of the most (personally) devastating assassinations in history, (and truth be told, I actually really liked the book)—but because I thought the gesture would properly enact the pain I was feeling in my gut.

We reentered the park and I swallowed the lump of my emotions as we passed the mosaic again—a whole new crowd of people there who could never love him like I love him—on our way to explore The Ramble. Hot fire burned behind my eyes and I blinked hard against it as I paused on the path to take a picture of the Strawberry Fields plaque.

I reflected as we continued to walk. And walk. And walk. (We got a little bit lost.) I felt righteous in my anger, but I also felt annoyed that it was casting a shadow over what should have been a perfectly enjoyable adventure with the guy I married twenty years ago (who just happens to look like John Lennon—coincidence? No! I knew exactly what I was doing!).

John was a harbinger of peace. He believed in humanity, that we were better than war, that love is love and conquers all, and that everyone—even the man who meets you outside your apartment for an autograph, only to return hours later to murder you—deserves attention. If John visited the memorial of Lewis Carroll, one of his favourite writers, how would he react if people were behaving as I witnessed the tourists behaving at his memorial?

I could hear his voice, whispering to me through the Central Park trees, "Peace sister. Don't waste your time worrying about silly things. Relax. Soak in the beauty. Life is very short, and there’s no time for fussing and fighting."

I thought of the glowing woman in the denim jacket who sat on the mosaic and gave two peace signs to her husband as he took her picture, joy radiating from her face, thrilled to be in the moment, and I had a realization. Different people mean different things to different people. To me, John is a three-dimensional being to whom I feel very closely connected in a very real way. He has a piece (a peace!) of my heart and in this place of remembrance, I felt rich grief. But to others, he was a mythical pop star and they like his music because it made them happy. And it still makes them happy. And that manifests itself in goofy grins and peace symbols in Central Park.

And I need to be okay with that. That's what John would want from me if I am to truly honour his memory.

But the vendors and annoying man with the guitar? Well!

I am thankful I didn't go full Jesus on them—though the YouTube fame that would surely come out of it might have been fun. It wouldn't have accomplished anything. In fact, it would have only added to the hubbub I was so offended by in the first place. I do wonder if Jesus regretted his outburst in the temple. Righteous anger has its place, but seriously, some behaviour is just embarrassing, and after all, when it comes down to it, all I need to worry about is whether I'm doing a good job of giving peace a chance.

At the end of the day, I'm glad for the experience, and thankful that it provided an opportunity for John to teach me another lesson about living life well. I'll never be able to forgive those jerks selling his face for profit—right there in the shadow of the building that cast a shadow on him as his life drained away on the sidewalk—but I'm happy to know I rose above it. Sure, it took me a little while, but I got there and that's got to be worth something.

You may say I'm a dreamer, but I'm not the only one. I hope someday you'll join me, and the world will live as one.

Your Life and its Dashboard Lights: Why You Should Care

2018-10-01T22:28:00.002-04:00

Have you ever had a vehicle with an engine light that just won't go out no matter what you do? Of course, 'no matter you do' should include taking it to someone wiser and trained in the ways of 'what do the funny lights mean'; but if we're being honest, don't we sometimes just keep driving in the hopes that it's a glitch and it will work itself out without intervention?

Someone once told me the lights are there for our protection. That in being proactive, we may face a bill, but it will be a lot less than if we continue to drive, perpetuating the problem, making it bigger (and more expensive) than it had to be.

Yet, here I am, still driving our (hated!) minivan with all the lights on. Not only that, but the exhaust is pretty much busted, so it sounds like I'm driving a grungy motorcycle. It makes me angry every time I get in it, but we've also decided it's really not worth dumping a bunch of money into it because its best years are behind it. There's a point where something crosses from salvageable to disposable. Sometimes it's better to just drive a thing into the ground. Then you can invest in a new something that's shiny and reliable and not a minivan! Something that is not the roaring sound of ugly hell on wheels.

But what about me?

Is there a point where I'll go from salvageable to disposable? At what point are the best years behind me?

(Ugh! I'm depressing myself.)

But think about this: what if we had dashboard lights that lit up when something was a little off? How long would we wait before getting our keister into the shop? At what point do we realize that light isn't going off on its own and it's time to bring in the mechanic?

Probably a little later than we should.

In a life of incredible busyness, it's easy to ignore our bodies. We skip meals, we drink too much coffee, we stay up late, we miss the signs that anything has changed. "I'm fine. I'm just tired." That same old mantra.

Is it true?

I recently went for a physical and my doctor asked me if I've been more tired than usual. I laughed. She sent me for blood work which came back with markers for anemia.

I looked up the symptoms of one afflicted with anemia and it was as if every dashboard light in my body lit up with the power of a thousand suns*:

tiredness
insomnia
thinning hair
dizziness
leg cramps

check - check - check - check - check

I immediately felt like an idiot. But then I felt kind of great. I'd been blaming my weariness on ALL THE THINGS, and though they certainly add to how I'm feeling, they're not fully to blame. And if how I'm feeling is a diagnosable thing with a simple cure, I could be doing ALL THE THINGS and feeling good in my head, my heart, AND my body! And that's the dream right there.

I have to go back for more testing. In fact, I'm going to the hospital first thing tomorrow morning. But I'm hopeful, that with the proper attention by the people who 'know what the funny lights mean', the dashboard of my life will be clear, and the only light ahead of me will be a big green GO that means my best years are still to come!

It's time to stop being a grumbling, yawning minivan. I'm ready to see a fully restored 1979 Volkswagen Beetle** when I look in the mirror!

* Too much? Whatever. I'm tired...

** Were you thinking of something more along the lines of a Maserati or a Porsche Boxster? Yeah. You obviosuly don't know me at all! 😉

Thirty Days Without a Break (Is Not Okay)

2018-08-27T14:14:00.001-04:00

There are consequences to much work and little rest. There are also rewards. But ultimately, thirty days without a break can lead to about thirty cracks in my good nature and mental health.

Before today — which I booked off work intentionally because I NEED TO NOT LEAVE MY HOUSE FOR ONE STINKING DAY! — the last time without obligations outside my own home hasn't been since July 30.

Rhythm is important in my life and my happiness is quite dependent on a weekly sabbath in which I can confidently and without guilt, enjoy twenty-four hours within my own space.

August has been a wonderful month of great things. My family served as ministry staff at Stayner Camp, where we helped with twice daily worship sets for ten days. It was a beautiful time for us spent with lovely people. The opportunity to make music with talented people is a true gift. But it's still ten days of being a charming 'face of camp life' and for an introvert, this is a bit of a challenge, made more so because I knew we were coming home to dive right into our church's Summer Slam VBS program in which I helped with registration, my eldest as a volunteer leader, and the other two children as participants. Throw in my day-job, baseball playoffs, meetings about a potential investment/small business opportunity, and a publication deadline for the second anniversary issue of my literary magazine, Blank Spaces, and you get thirty days with no time to breathe.

A few nights ago, I crawled into bed, turned on the television to unwind and watch something before bed, and I woke up at 5:30 a.m. still in a half-sitting position against a pile of pillows, the blue screen of the TV lighting the room up since the Apple-TV had shut itself off hours before. That's a good indication that I've been pushing myself too hard.

Still, there's much to do, and even though today is a 'day off', I'm still catching up on publishing business, returning emails, pretending I can't hear the noise of the children in the other room as my son babysits his cousins, and telling myself it's okay I didn't get the clothes off the line before the rain came. (I've also been researching the cost of flights to Iceland, because my twentieth anniversary is coming up in October and it would be fun to go somewhere atypical.)

September will be here before we know it, and strangely, I find myself craving the regularity of school days and slow weekends. While I loathe the idea that days will get shorter and the air will begin to carry the hateful promise of winter, I do look forward to a little bit of order returning to our lives.

Life is crazy. It's busy and chaotic. But never boring. And I'm so thankful I have these weirdos to share it with:

A family shot from our trip to Hamilton last weekend ❤️

I'm setting up shop at the Durham Fall Fair this weekend. If you're in the area, stop by and say hi and enjoy some discounted titles from my growing collection! If I sell out of everything, I might actually be able to afford a 'real' break! 😉

The Kobo Awards: How To Be a Winner When You're a Loser

2018-06-22T15:41:00.000-04:00

[aka You Can Take a Country Girl to the City but You Can't Put Her in a Pair of Pantyhose]

When the notification came that my debut novel had been shortlisted for the Kobo Emerging Writer Prize I found myself overwhelmed with excitement-disbelief-exhilaration—and every other word from the thesaurus that describes the feeling a dog gets when it hangs its head out a car window.

When I realized this meant my presence was requested at a snazzy ceremony at a Toronto museum I found myself overwhelmed with terror-dread-trembling-drop my phone in the toilet-horror—and every other word from the thesaurus that describes the feeling a puppy has when it makes "a deposit" on its owner's white carpet.

Two things were very clear to me:

This was a huge deal.
I wasn't going to miss it for the world.

I felt a deep-rooted passion for The Church in the Wildwood from the moment I sat down and wrote the first scene. I believed in it, and decided from the beginning that I would see it through to the end, whatever that meant. After being rejected (or completely ignored) by all the Canadian literary agents I could find, and then being rejected (or completely ignored) by all the Canadian publishing houses I reached out to, I took their 'screw you', turned it back on them, and started my own publishing company.

Going it alone has not been easy or cheap, but it makes it that much more incredible to know that I earned my place on the Kobo Awards Shortlist—not because of the marketing genius of a knowledgeable and wealthy publishing house, but because I poured out my blood, sweat, and tears. This nomination means I did good work. Me, myself, and I. And to every person and place who rejected me, I can say:

"I believed in myself and it was enough."

I was allowed only one plus-one and so, because he is my hugest support and cheerleader, I made my husband take time off work and join me on the trek to the city.

We arrived downtown a little early, so we parked and went for a walk before sitting across the street from the venue to watch the fancy people going in. When we finally made our way to the entrance for the obligatory photo-by-the-sign (see above), I looked down to discover runs in my nylons.

First of all, I almost never wear nylons, so why I thought they were a necessity for such an event as this, I can't tell you. Secondly...GAH! Thanks to the friendly security man running the front desk at the museum, we were directed to the basement washrooms where I could discreetly slip out of them and hide the evidence of my stupidity in a garbage can.

It was then, following the signs to the upper level, that we were welcomed into a reception hall decorated with fresh flowers, catered treats, and an open bar. I was greeted with a lovely gift bag (new Kobo reader!), offered champagne, and I tracked the room nervously for the other authors in my category (Yes, of course I Googled them all so I'd know what they looked like!) while my name and book cover appeared on a screen at the front of the room every five minutes.

Though wildly out of my comfort zone, standing in that room with other debut writers, with agents and publishers (yup, some of the very same who rejected me!), and members of the press, it was such a thrill to be part of it all.

There were celebratory toasts and awkward conversations with people who were wonderfully kind. When the time came to announce the awards, it actually felt like a ceremony you would watch on television. "And the nominees for best Literary Fiction are..." Hearing my name during that time was a whole lot of WOW!

I wasn't surprised when Omar El Akkad was called as the winner for my category. His book has done tremendously well and has received many prestigious accolades. Plus he was super nice to me, so cheers to him.

Obviously I would have been thrilled to win, but I'm so proud to have gotten as far as I did. The shortlist was whittled down from hundreds of Canadian debuts and I'm excited to be counted among the other five incredible authors in my category. (I'll post links to their books at the bottom of this post.)

Following the ceremony, we walked down Bloor Street to Fionn MacCool's for some steak and mushroom pie that would have knocked my socks off if I hadn't dumped them in the ladies bathroom back at the museum. (I'd been too nervous to eat any of the fancy catered food at the event.)

When I posted to social media that I hadn't won, I received a resounding kickback of "yes, you did!" And all things considered, I do feel like a winner.

On the way home, we stopped at IKEA so I could visit all the things I'd placed in my online shopping cart (after I decided I deserved a newly decorated office if I went home with the $10K). I ran my fingers along the surface of the desk I want so badly and I heard its evil whisper, "Keep dreaming, Loser."

And I was like, "Whatever, IKEA! You use an Allen key to build a bookshelf? I used just my brain to create a whole world!"

p.s. Amazon gives me a little kickback if you follow one of these links and make a purchase

Seven Questions: My Interview with Liv Archer

2018-06-15T13:45:00.000-04:00

I recently took some time to work through seven questions posed to me by a young writer who reached out to me on Twitter. Liv Archer has started a new website where she is celebrating indie writers by purchasing and reviewing their books, (The Church in the Wildwood was her third indie review) as well as interviewing authors with thoughtfully crafted, spoiler-free questions.

Her questions impressed me and they were a pleasure to answer as most of them had me go a little deeper than a cliché response. I appreciate that so much. I know how hard it is to put together good, meaty questions!

So thank you, Liv, for inviting me into your indie celebration. Thank you for being a champion and encourager of indie authors. So often it can feel like we're screaming into an empty room. It's nice to be heard once in a while. ❤️

Check out her questions below and then pop over to her website to read my answers.

1. There are a lot of religious elements that your story is wrapped around. What kind of research did you do to capture the spiritualism accurately?

2. What did you find to be the best method for keeping track of your timeline with your dual perspectives?

3. How long did it take you to write The Church in the Wildwood?

4. Did you visit any locations specifically to set the scenes?

5. Were there any particular authors or books/stories that kept you inspired throughout?

6. In moments when The Church in the Wildwood refused to cooperate, what encouraged you to keep writing to the end?

7. How do you want this story to affect people?

[Click HERE for my answers]

Iris Carver is a Monster (Said the Peppy & Opinionated Eighty-Four-Year-Old Woman)

2018-05-23T20:28:00.000-04:00

Our washing machine died. It was like any sudden death. Unexpected and uninvited. It croaked and I stood in front of it like the left-behind spouse: lost, grieved, desperately sad as I pulled the sopping wet clothing from its guts and dumped them in the bathtub.

We called in the repairman with hope he could shock it back into being. As he worked, he told my husband that his mother had read The Church in the Wildwood and she hated Iris Carver so much that she'd been waking up angry in the middle of the night.

This might be my favourite reaction to my book EVER! I'm counting it a high compliment that a character created from my imagination could raise such an emotional reaction in a person—I mean, such power I have *she says as she wickedly taps her fingers together and cackles with glee...*

I don't share this same opinion, and though I do accept and respect it, I love Iris with the kind of love that can cross oceans and scale mountains and fix washing machines.

So the repairman replaced the belt and voila! Good as new! Turns out that old sudsy beast was only mostly-dead...

...Until a week later when smoke began pouring out of the top during the spin cycle. (😭)

So the man with the feisty mother returned. "You know what would be really funny?" he said. "If you called my mom and told her you were going to put her in one of your books."

"No no," I said. Because leave the poor woman alone!

But then he called her anyway and told her: "I'm at Alanna Rusnak's house and she wants to put you in one of her books!" And then he handed me the phone.

"Hello dear," she said, and I immediately pictured myself sitting across the table from Marilla Cuthbert.

"Oh, that Iris Carver! She's such a hateful woman! How could she do that to that poor boy? Lock him in his room like that! And how stupid does he have to be to let her lock him in there? And what's wrong with that minister? So stupid! A stupid man! I don't understand why everyone is so in love with her—hateful woman! How did you even come up with such ideas?"

She went on to make me promise to never put her or any of her family members into one of my books. "If you promise to never use my name, I promise to read your next book. And if I don't like it, I'll be sure to let you know!"

It's nice that I got to enjoy a good laugh because the official word of the day was: Washing Machine = Dead. Mostly-dead was only good for eight loads. I put that thing through the ringer and it kicked the bucket for the final time.

The ~~repair~~man left with a signed copy of The Ghost of Iris Carver, joking(?) that he was going to take it to his mother's house and read it to her, replacing every mention of Iris' name with her own.

Mother's have a name for people like him and it's spelled B * R * A * T *

If you want to decide for yourself what kind of monster Iris Carver is, pop over to Amazon or buy directly through me by clicking here.

In other news, the fine folks at Kobo (those same darlings who shortlisted The Church in the Wildwood for their $10,000 Emerging Writer Prize) invited me to write an article for their blog—an encouragement for aspiring writers and it goes a little something like this...

[Click here to read the rest]

Now, if any of you know how to wish a washing machine into existence...?

A Craft Fair Does Not a Successful Book Launch Make

2018-05-07T12:04:00.000-04:00

Before you think I'm complaining, let me stop you right there—Saturday's craft fair was not a waste of time, nor do I wish I hadn't signed up. (Nor did I question my decision to also book myself into the Fall show. CHRISTMAS SHOPPERS!) I didn't plan a big launch party for The Ghost of Iris Carver because it's really just a place-holder - a bridge to get from The Church in the Wildwood to the next novel, Black Bird (for which I plan to have a mostly finished first draft by the end of next weekend's writing retreat along the shores of Lake Huron - after I write the article Kobo has asked for. Don't know why Kobo is a big deal in my life these days? Check out my last post!).

What makes a book launch successful?

1. Having a book to launch.

BAM! SUCCESS!

Just kidding. There are a million ways to quantify a successful launch and all of them are relative.

Did I sell books? Yes! Can I quit my day job? No. Am I a failure? No. Was it a success? Meh.

People don't attend a craft fair because they want to buy books—they come for the crafts. Of course, there were the people who bee-lined to my table, telling me the only reason they came was because they knew I'd be there with the new book (what a compliment!) but they were they exception, not the rule.

What I did do was make my display attractive, and that alone got people to stop and look things over. It didn't lead to sales in most cases, but at least it wasn't a long day of people rushing by, avoiding eye contact because they felt sorry for me. It was great exposure for my publishing company, and led to some conversations that could potentially lead to some new clients, so that's a positive right there! (There was an adorable hippy woman who told me she felt God had led her to the fair just so she could meet me and I could encourage her to finish that book about the talking piano. There was also the quirky lady who told me a psychic had told her she was going to write a book. I handed her my card and told her I could help her with that. We'll see what happens...)

In speaking to other vendors who were veterans of this particular show, I learned this was a particularly low traffic year. Many of them were disappointed by the trickling turn-out, but we determined, with the very slow beginning of spring this year, and Saturday being one of the actually nice days we've had so far, hanging out in a cold rollerskating arena is not the way most people want to spend their day when there's sunshine to be had elsewhere.

All this to say, The Ghost of Iris Carver is officially out in the world and I would love to get a copy into your hands! If you're an Amazon shopper, add it to your cart and check out when you've passed the free shipping threshold. If you read on a Kindle device, you can grab it for 99¢ (for a limited time only!) - later this week it will be available through Kobo and Chapters/Indigo, and of course, you can purchase directly through me.

THE GHOST OF IRIS CARVER, PAPERBACK

ATTENTION INTERNATIONAL SHOPPERS: because Canada Post doesn't love me, I can't afford to pay their RIDICULOUS international shipping fees. What I can do is send the books directly from my print company, but they won't be signed - sorry. If you still want a signed copy, I'm certainly willing to work that out with you. Send me an email and we'll discuss cost.

Wildwood Shortlisted for Kobo Emerging Writer Prize

2018-05-02T13:46:00.002-04:00

On May 2, 2017, The Church in the Wildwood went live on Amazon, and yesterday, May 1, I received notice via email that it has been shortlisted for the Fourth Annual Kobo Emerging Writer Prize in the literary fiction category. I can't think of a better book birthday present! One of the other finalists said he was 'stunned and delighted' and there's no better way to say it, so I'll say it too:

STUNNED AND DELIGHTED!

When I opened the email I ~~told my co-worker~~ yelled across the office (and scared her half to death) that my book was shortlisted for a literary award. I'm pretty sure I had both hands over my head, punching the sky like a complete dork, but I don't even care. Crown me the Queen of Dorktown*.

It wasn't until about twenty minutes later that I read through the entire press release they sent me and realized I was invited to attend the fancy awards event in Toronto next month. GAH! What do you call it when something is thrilling and terrifying at the same time? And what does one even wear to an event such as this? And why oh why didn't I buy that great pair of boots when I was shopping with my sister on Sunday???!!

I'm sharing space on the list with five other Canadian authors and their debut novels. I'm up against some tough competition, and I tip my crown** to them and their incredible talent. (I've since ordered copies of each of their books, so that if I meet them in June, I'll have something intelligent to say to them instead of, "So this is super cool, eh?') No matter the outcome, I'll be able to say I made the shortlist for a major competition and that is prize enough!

Come back at the end of June. I promise to tell you every socially awkward moment of the awards ceremony 😜

Also, if you haven't read my book yet, order it now. If the honour of this listing tells you anything, it should be that it's worth your time 😉 If you're still not convinced, read this new review that was posted last week.

If you're local and you want a SUPER GOOD DEAL - come and visit me at the Neustadt Craft Show this Saturday ($2 at the door). A heavy box of The Ghost of Iris Carver arrived yesterday for that very occasion. I'll also have (limited) copies of Wildwood as well as other titles for sale - most of which will have at least a couple dollars knocked off the regular price.

To each and every one of you who have been following my publishing journey since the beginning: without your support I'd just be a weirdo tossing words into the ether; you've kept me from invisibility, picked me up when I've felt inadequate, and offered the right encouragement at the right moment. Thank you. Thank you for being here and putting up with me. I am forever in your debt.

*Send crowns to Alanna Rusnak, RR3 Durham, ON

** Seriously... where are my crowns?

An Update (Since it's #WorldBookDay and all)

2018-04-23T21:37:00.000-04:00

I didn't even know it was World Book Day (because really, shouldn't that be EVERY day?!). I didn't know until I was tagged on Twitter by my author friend Zev from Georgia. He started a love party that got me so distracted, I found myself leaning against the kitchen counter half an hour after I'd planned to start the dishes, taking part in a joyful orgy of indie author love.

Sigh.

There is nothing like the global community of writers. We're all total weirdos, and if you put us in a room together it would likely be the most awkward party ever witnessed, BUT we're heck'a'good at patting each other on the back and handing out encouragement. It's a great time to be a writer.

Anyway... this is supposed to be an update. (But if you want to see some of that Twitter love fest, follow this thread and this thread.)

[Can't see the video? Pop over to YouTube to hear my thirty second chat about getting Iris Carver ready.]

These last couple weeks have been a whirlwind of work as I got The Ghost of Iris Carver ready. Thankfully I have a team of reliable helpers who were willing to drop everything and give the proof a final read-thru; and, with their help, I'm feeling confident in the files I signed off on and sent to the printers.

Yesterday, I ordered finalized copies of The Ghost of Iris Carver—which, for those of you who haven't heard me whine yet, is the WORST moment, because you shell out a stupid amount of money for books that you hope will sell (therefore giving you that money back), with zero guarantee of return. It's a recipe for a stomach ache.

So books are on their way to me - a lot of books - and it would really help me out if you came to the Neustadt craft show and bought one or two 😉 I'll even sign them for you!

Of course, copies are always available through this website or through Amazon—going live on May 5! (Pre-order the Kindle version for just 99¢)