Summer’s Embers: On Getting A Book Deal

Summer’s embers. What does that mean? It means summer is burning down, petering out, ending (it’s done)—but what do we know about embers?  Embers smolder, they keep burning even when the fire is mostly out. Embers glow in the night, in darkness, hot coals in relief. Embers hold on to their fire.

This summer, I had my ember moment.

For ten years, I have been writing a book in one form or another. Ten years of lighting the pages and then burning myself down. Ten years that resulted in the completion of an unpublished memoir and a second memoir, I DON’T DO DISABILITY AND OTHER LIES I’VE TOLD MYSELF, a complete new book, in the form of a collection of essays. Art feeds on art, and so fanned the flames.

In the dying days of my summer vacation in Greece I knew this: my manuscript of essays was complete. I read the book twice over before I left, having written and polished the individual essays over years. I spent two weeks prior to the trip feverishly sending out queries to desirable publishers. Their responses could take months, years even. I wasn’t sure if I could wait. But of course I could wait; I’ve been waiting for ten years.

The email came in Greece as I was sitting in a chaise lounge on the beach reading a book, the day late, the sun winding down, the waves calm and rhythmically lapping the shore. I reached for my phone, opened my emails, and saw the new message at the top, the one from the publisher. I read the first two sentences and burst into tears. I could barely contain my emotion to read through the rest of that email. What did it say? It wasn’t a book deal, no, not yet—but the editor’s words held the real promise of one. And I knew, full stop inside of my being, that I DON’T DO DISABILITY AND OTHER LIES I’VE TOLD MYSELF was going to be published. I felt this truth burn inside me.

Several months prior, I was talking to a literary journal editor about my book. I was so certain about the need for my work on disability parenting and motherhood and being a woman, and my determination to make myself and my daughter seen, that when I paused, the editor looked me in the eye and said, “It’s already done.” I didn’t have a book deal or a connection or anything tangible to know for certain that publication would happen, but I believed in the work. I believed fiercely in my work.

What that email on the beach said was I SEE YOU. Not in those words, but in how the publishing editor described my book, in how she wanted to take my project on, in how she wrote, “Can we talk?” And isn’t that what everybody wants? To be seen and heard for their ideas and who they are? To be understood?

And so in this quiet and intimate way, I am sharing with you the story of how I came to get my first book deal. I DON’T DO DISABILITY AND OTHER LIES I’VE TOLD MYSELF has found a home with Dundurn Press, a Toronto based publisher I deeply admire. Release date to come, stay tuned.

I am no longer that ember, close to burning out.

I am pure celebration; fireworks, shooting across the sky.

Magic Tokens

I‘m writing this in Toronto, sitting at a picnic table bench, on a patio behind a modern café. Two magic tokens are tucked somewhere in my bag. Last night, I stood on a stage in front of a room full of people and read from my essay “Navel-Gazing, a Revolution & a Love Story: The Importance of the Self and Stories of the Marginalized” recently published in the Humber Literary Review where I argue for the importance of personal narratives. I point out that the dismissal of those narratives by the literary community, with insults such as “navel-gazer!”, is just another way of silencing marginalized groups. In the piece, I weave in the narrative of witnessing a female friend fall in love with another woman, and I mistakenly insert myself into their narrative. This is perhaps my way of saying just because you don’t identify or see yourself in a story doesn’t mean the story isn’t of value. Quite the opposite. The morning of the reading, I was paddling the 5 km perimeter of my cottage lake, my writing friend a distant paddle board dot. We spent two glorious days together writing, and during that time my friend received some difficult news.

The cottage lake was still. The air held its breath. And paddling in my kayak, I could see the rows upon rows of trees layering the hills, and I could see a specific cluster of towering white pines reflected in the water in front of me. That reflection, I thought, it’s real. The reflection in my computer screen less so. Real in the sense of nature; nature that is true and good and right and calming. No artifice. No tricks. Yet, infinitely more magical. I could see the benefit our surroundings were having on my friend. I could see that being together, when receiving difficult news, is better than being apart.

I believe in the magic of the natural world, but I also believe in other forms of magic, too. I believe in magical thinking. I believe in the magic of each other.

A long-time friend of mine showed up to my reading, along with her three kids—her youngest being three. When I posted the event and invited the world to attend, it somehow didn’t occur to me that I’d be reading in a bar. Bars generally being unwelcoming places for small children of which my friend has three. When she asked me if she could bring them beforehand I didn’t hesitate, “Looking forward to seeing you!” I texted back, oblivious. The alternative being that she didn’t come. My own kids wouldn’t be there. The bartender is thankfully gracious and inviting, the literary crowd friendly, the kids well-behaved, my friend a trooper.

Right before my reading, her youngest, hair combed and pulled into several adorable buns, gives me a thumbs up and an eye wink. “Is this the show?” she asks me. “Yes,” I tell her with a smile as the land acknowledgement is read. “She’s going to be so disappointed,” I whisper laugh with my friend.

But as it turns out, my friend will text me the next day that they had a great time and “even the kiddos enjoyed themselves.” As it turns out, you can will an experience to bring you joy, even when it risks not being so, just by being together. As it turns out, there can be magic in a room, on the stage, and I’m talking about the magic of other people and their willingness to love you.

I read alongside a Giller Prize-nominated writer and spent a long time later talking to another writer whose short story collection was nominated for the Danuda Gleed Award. Both prestigious literary prizes in Canada. Maybe their sparkle will rub off on me? Does literary magic work that way? I hope so. Later, on my Uber ride home back to my friend’s where I will stay the night, I tell the driver all about the evening. I will then recall that I talk quite a bit, and that my writing friend and I had laughed about this at the cottage on our drive home. The driver will encourage me, “It’s okay, writers should talk a lot.” And that, in itself, will be a sort of magic. “Yes,” I agree, “writers need to have an opinion, something to say.” I recognize the difference between talking too much and having something to say.

And perhaps the thing I have to say is that when I’m done writing this post, I will be heading to the hospital with my daughter—again. This time, planned. This time, welcome. As much as a hospital trip can ever be. Dental surgery overdue. Dental surgery that we hope will bring her and us much needed relief. And there is a magic in the doctors who are magicians of life and there is a magic in relieving my daughter’s pain, which is real, as real as my own that transpires on her behalf. Because she is a part of me.

Before the reading, at my writer friend’s gorgeously renovated high park home, she will descend the staircase in a flurry and hold two tokens up in front of me. “These are for you,” she says. I am awestruck by the gift of these good luck talismans whose dulled shine have passed many hands. How thoughtful. I look to her, grateful. “For my reading?” I say in earnest, “for good luck?”

“No,” she says, “for the subway!”

My magic tokens, I will call them, clutching them both in my hand. Talismans of good luck. And when we arrive at the subway gates, on the way to my reading, the tokens are no longer accepted and the security guard magically opens the gates and lets me pass for free with a wave of his hand.

The night is a success; the reading goes off without a hitch. The children are mesmerized. The crowd a delight.

Simply by believing they would, the magic tokens hold their promise

Curiosity Over Fear

What is it that your heart desires? I think about this question often. I check in with myself to see what are my goals and am I on track to reach those goals with how I’m living my life?

I am convinced that saying what we want for ourselves out loud is one of the hardest things to do because then we have to decide whether to follow up on those desires. We have to act to lead ourselves toward the life we want. To follow up on our own dreams can mean to risk disappointing the people we care about. But if we don’t follow up, we risk disappointing ourselves. To act can also mean to risk failure. We might not make it. Nobody likes to experience failure. The alternative is to do nothing, say nothing, and live the life that comes not necessarily easily, but the life that already stretches out before us. The life we have curated for ourselves, either deliberately or by default. It’s easier to continue moving forward on the set path than it is to admit the life we really want, and risk failure. But in the same breath, if we continue on the set path then aren’t we also risking growth? Self-fulfillment? A meaningful life?

After a late night spent watching an episode of The Last of Us, Dan and I jog Atlas on the nearby cinder trail. On these runs and dog walks, we talk about our family life and our children, but more often we find ourselves discussing our professional lives, conflicts, aspirations, and fears. On this particular morning, I was talking about job prospects with him. I’m a teacher and a writer, but how to hold space for both of these work identities? Which opportunity is the right one to pursue? Which way is the right way to be, I am perhaps really asking. “I know what I want,” I suddenly say to Dan. And I pronounce the words out loud. He nods his head; he already knows.

That afternoon, I’m running late taking my kid to a friend’s kid’s birthday party. We burst through the gymnasium doors hand-in-hand, her and I, my hair soaking wet and dripping onto my florescent pink sweatshirt. I squeezed in a quick shower after the run and was predictably running a few minutes behind. My daughter runs off to play with the other six-year-olds. I squeeze my friend tight, mother to the birthday girl, and she introduces me to another parent, a mom of four kids whose daughter attends ballet class with mine. The mom and I fall into easy conversation, and she tells me she’s an employment counsellor. She helps people find jobs. “I’m talking to someone about a job this week,” I tell her, and we talk about building careers after motherhood and stay at home parenting, and the sacrifices and the getting to what it is you really want. “I basically had to shut out my family life for two years to do my Masters,” I admit. Building a career does not come without sacrifice, and I’m striving for balance. I tell her how I know, from talking to hiring managers and listening to TED talks, that men often apply for jobs for which they are underqualified, and women often won’t apply at all unless they have every qualification listed. “But why not just go for it?” I offer.

“My uncle once told me,” she says, “that you should apply for jobs where you only have 50% of the qualifications listed. That way, you leave yourself room for growth.” Wow, yes. Room for growth. I find this to be true of myself. I’m rarely interested in jobs I already know how to do easily; I seek a challenge. Leave room for growth.

That day, I come across a reel posted by novelist Gwen Tuinman who says, “Creative living is any life that you live where your decisions are based more strongly on your curiosity than your fear.” As she arranges stripped-down, windswept sticks and feathers in an interesting pattern to be photographed, Gwen suggests that when we make decisions “based on curiosity rather than fear, you will be engaging with creativity; your life itself will become a work of art.” I do want to live my life guided by my curiosity, that which I do not yet know how to do, rather than by my fear. The fear of getting it wrong, of losing what I have, of not being enough. The fear of failure. And it’s a decision and commitment I have to make over and over; curiosity over fear.

What is it that my heart desires? A creative life.

What Did She Say?

two kids wrapped in blue towels wearing sunglasses sitting in lounger chairs

WHAT did she say?
I will preface these stories only by saying that Penelope is a six-year-old with doe eyes and a mop of curls.

The other day, I notice Penelope’s on her way to the basement.
“What are you doing?” I ask her, friendly-like.
“You don’t need to know that.” She answers in a way that stuns me into silence—then laughter.

Atlas is our male dog. Out of the blue, Penelope asks me, “When is Atlas going to have babies?”

We’re in a period of deep learning.

While I was attending Kelly Thompson’s book launch in Toronto for her newest memoir, STILL I CANNOT SAVE YOU, Dan was home with our three girls, running the show, as one does. I want to take a second to acknowledge the dads who do the work of childrearing in the same way mothers are expected to do the work, which is to say, without expecting any praise or accolades. Of course, gratitude is always welcome and appreciated by either sex. All to say, Dan does the work because the work needs doing. And, as a mother manager, I’m learning (unlearning) that whatever that work looks like, however the job gets done, when I’m away, that’s not my concern. I do not need to micromanage my children’s father’s parenting, and I certainly would not appreciate him micromanaging mine. Who has time for that? We consult with one another, but whoever is in charge ultimately takes responsibility.
After Kelly’s event, I got in my car feeling satisfied from a fun, busy evening with friends and writers. I checked my phone.
This is the text Dan sent me. A candid exchange between him and Penelope:
Penelope: can I go for a walk by myself?
Dan: Sure. Have fun.
Penelope: I’ll walk to bus stop and back.
Dan: Sounds good. Don’t cross any streets.
She leaves and returns shortly.
Dan: That was quick!
Penelope: I turned the corner from our street and it was creepy. It scared the fuck out of me, so I came home.

Now, there’s a lot to unpack here, but I think the first most important piece of information to point out is that Penelope knows that the “F-word” is a “bad” word. But she does not know that the F-word is “Fuck”. Now she does.
Dan had a nice, civil, follow-up conversation with her about language and what’s appropriate for a grade one to say.
Penelope suggested she heard the word from kids at school—perhaps.
We’ll never know.

On Carrying Grief

Let me tell you a story. Once, there was a writer who gave birth to a daughter with Down syndrome. Wait. That’s not how the story goes. Let’s begin again.
Once, there was a woman who wanted to write a book. She gave birth to a daughter with Down syndrome and that experience was the catalyst that led her to write with a purpose. Furthermore, the writer now understood the book she wanted to write. For the writer, there is no point in writing without passion at the centre. Her love for her daughter filled that hole.
One day, the writer was journaling on her bed when an eerie blue light filtered through the blinds. The writer transformed into a mother cast in a shadow of sadness and she cried for seven days and seven nights. Her tears flowed and formed a river, which we will call “de-nile.” The mother wrote about the curse of the blue light, but she couldn’t free herself from the sadness. Not completely. The story and grief stayed inside her. For years, she carried the curse of the blue light, unable to free herself of its burden. The writer in her wrote, but the mother in her kept her from telling the full truth.
Nine years passed. The writer produced a book and was in the thick mire of writing another. And it was during the writing of that second book that the story of the blue light came back to her. She’d been carrying it deep inside of her all these years. She had no idea the story would save her.
The writer’s second book was a collection of essays. One of the essays she was editing was lengthy, unruly and in need of…something. She took the essay with her to a retreat in France searching for answers. There, she met and received guidance from a scribing sage: “I don’t usually do this,” the scribing sage cautioned about being prescriptive “but what you have here is two essays.” Now the writer could see what was obvious to an outsider. And so, the words were cleaved and a new essay in its infancy was born.
Later, at home, pondering the new essay and what it could become, the writer recalled the story of the blue light. With time and experience, she understood more fully where the sadness had come from and why. She had carried the weight of the blue light on her back and she was ready to fling it aside, like a pack that had once served her, but was now empty of reserves. But it’s true that the grief may never subside in its entirety, and the writer and the mother are okay with that. They will greet grief, upon its return, as though welcoming a long lost friend.
To research the ancient story, the writer dug through old journals, fished open old documents to accurately recreate the tale. Ultimately, she searched her own heart. And the pieces fit. The essay was complete. The writer smiled at the mother she once was, the person who needed to guard her truth. In the end, the blue light served her well. And only by releasing the truth of that experience could the blue light also serve others.
The process only took nine years.

On Finishing

No story is ever truly finished. We live out our lives in waves, and sometimes we stop telling our tale, suspended, at the height of crests, and other times, we find ourselves holding our breath underwater somewhere near the bottom, left in the trough until the next rising wave comes along. Life has these peaks and valleys. Books, on the other hand, are different. Books do have an ending. Books must come to an end due to the limits of physical space, attention spans, and because for readers, endings are incredibly satisfying.

            Seven years ago, I wrote a memoir about my journey as a mother receiving a prenatal diagnosis of Down syndrome when my second child was born. Over years, I wrote a complete draft, followed by two subsequent drafts. I sought feedback from experts and comments from beta readers and wrote the fourth and final draft incorporating those responses. With the help of a trusted professional editor, I had a final copy edit done. By 2019, I had a completed manuscript. Or so I thought.

For writers, endings can be incredibly hard to write. Not so for every writer, but what is true for every writer is that the ending needs to land and deliver—this is your final impression!—in a similar way that the beginning must draw readers in.

            One of the most difficult endings that a writer must contend with is completing the first draft, which is, of course, not an ending at all, but a place for the next stage of beginnings. Following a draft, revision and editing happen, and this is the bulk of the work. In his craft book On Writing, Stephen King wrote that writing is rewriting.

            Before rewriting, a first draft must exist. Next, comes multiple rounds of finessing. And this is where I find myself in the writing process of my second book, head ducked beneath the waves.

            I am writing a collection of essays. Essay writing is unique in that huge swaths of text (complete essays) may be finished before another section of the book has even begun. I find myself with essays in varying stages of completion. I have essays from my book that are published and a few more I want to write from the ground up.

            As we come to the end of 2022, I’m reflecting on what it means to “finish” the current book I’m writing. I have an admission: finishing a book or project is the absolute hardest bit for me. I am spectacular at beginnings. I have new ideas a plenty. Several other books exist partially on the page and in my head that I want to write. A chapbook, two books of poetry, a collection of short stories and in the past few weeks, I’ve been developing an idea for a novel—a novel! Meanwhile, my collection of essays sits patiently to the side, at risk of becoming an abandoned child. I, the mother, guilty of neglect. The truth of the matter is that my essays are close, but the ending, wrapping up what I have, is a challenge. Finishing a project requires discipline and putting in the time. Finishing becomes more methodical, and while creative thinking is paramount infinitum, to finish requires curtailing any wild flares or fancies. I must work within the confines of what I have begun, of what has already been laid down and round out what is lacking. Finishing, tying up loose ends and editing and rewriting essays, is work. Arguably the most important work to be done. My mind loves to jump to the glittery rock at the bottom of the pond of my thoughts. That new shiny thing, yes, my brain says. Pick it up! Pick it up! Let’s write about that! I have to swat away those impulses, or better yet, write them down in my daily process journal for another day when the essays are done. Nothing is ever wasted. I resist the stone’s temptation and strengthen my resolve. I finished writing a book once, and I will do it again, I remind myself.

            This finishing business is no easy task. The Down syndrome memoir I began writing seven years ago I no longer consider a completed work. I no longer think of that book as “done”, but as something that I’ll come back to. And in many ways, I already have. In many ways, I have never not been working on that book. Stories from my memoir have found their way into my essays. While I once found an end to that book, the stories continue. Sometimes, you must write the first book in order to get to the second, truer story.

2023 is the year I finish writing my collection of essays. If I had a vision board, it would also say, “2023 is the year I find a publisher.” I have been working on the pursuit of my publication dream for ten years. These stories I’ve been keeping, they were never really mine to hold onto. They are for you. Capturing the stories, writing them down, sustains me, but putting those stories out into the world and having others receive them is, for me, one of the most satisfying endings.

The Writer’s Wheel of Fortune

I’m on a date with another more experienced writer. This is what writers sometimes do. We connect and compare notes, we tell stories and celebrate the triumphs while acknowledging the defeats. The many many defeats. And the wins! My new friend tells me the story of her winning poem, the one that took top prize in a prestigious poetry contest.

“That poem was rejected 138 times before it won.” I look at her, gobsmacked. How is that even possible? I ask. She shrugs. Okay, it might have been sent out 136 times.

I have read and heard many times that all it takes is one reader, the right reader. The topic of my friend’s poem was somewhat obscure and required the right set of eyes with the mind to match to capture the poem’s essence and appreciate its beauty. Talent, timing, luck and…perseverance. That’s what it takes to get published or win that award or grant or application. And something else that I will call—cue booming God-like voice—engaging in THE WRITER’S WHEEL OF FORTUNE.

Let me explain how the wheel works.

Simply put: what comes back to you, you must send back out into the universe.

How about a fine example from my own writing life. Recently, I received an email rejection for a well-regarded residency I was hoping to get into.

A writing residency is a set amount of time away to work, say two to four weeks, that sometimes involves a stipend, often room and board is covered and, occasionally, you get to work with a mentor or two. The main attraction for me is time and space to write, everything else is bonus. These residencies are hard to earn, competition is fierce.

 “We reject to inform you…” the five words writers never want to hear. I immediately did what I encourage every writer to do. I was already in the process of finishing another writing residency application. I swallowed my disappointment in one blink, and then was able to add the finishing touching to said new application and WHOOSH, off it went into the wild wide world. And I could breathe a huge sigh of relief. The trick is to take the energy that comes attached to a rejection and put it to positive use, i.e. my next submission. This sounds suspiciously like reframing the rejection as a new opportunity. Another writer, Barbara Harris Leonhard, reframes the rejection by saying the piece was “returned.” In this way, through the writer’s wheel of fortune, like the ups and downs of life, I end up on the crest of the hill, instead of deep in the valley of depression.

And why am I sharing this with you? Because hard work comes with its rewards. Two days before that residency rejection I had a lengthy essay accepted into a literary journal I highly respect. And that essay had already been “returned” more than once. The right eyes, the right mind will connect with your pages, your application, your submission. You and your work will find a home.

 Admittedly, I’m still relatively new to all of this, but I’m learning that once you’ve accrued a body of work and received feedback and made substantial edits to that work, that THEN the key is to submit and keep the wheel of fortune moving. Take your masterpieces and push them out and through the world. The publishing world moves at a snail’s pace, so I try to make my turn arounds sharp by already knowing the next place or contest I might send a piece of work, or be writing several grants or residency applications at once.

My sharpest turn? Once I received a rejection for a literary anthology for an essay that I knew wasn’t quite the right fit, but I didn’t want to miss the deadline or opportunity. In the meantime, I was working on the just-right essay somewhat by chance. When the rejection letter came in, I thanked the editor profusely and said, “… but actually, this new essay I’ve been working on will fit perfectly with your collection.” Now, this is not always going to end happily, but for me it did. The essay was accepted, and the book received high praise.

The thing about the writer’s wheel of fortune is that you can’t win if you don’t play the game.

The Beast of Longing

I wake early, six a.m., squinting against the bathroom light. Outside is a dark bruise. I rally the troupes—Dan, the dog—come on, I say, let’s go for a run. The trail near our home where the dog runs off-leash is closed, but perhaps, in the early hours and cloaked by darkness we can jog along the path unencumbered and free. I want to run that way, released, feel the burn in my lungs, the lash to my legs, the pumping of my heart, you are you are you are here. But also, to unleash the feeling that’s grown deep and restless inside me, the beast of longing. Ah, yes. The beast of longing. Her. We are well acquainted. I hold myself fixed to a certain goal and the beast of longing grows and grows, alongside my ambition. She can be monstrous, dangerous. Do not poke her or provoke, she will devour you whole.

Only our front porch light torches the way, the sidewalk ahead is encased in a shrouded mist of black. We move, the three of us, into the morning night. I lead the way, loosening, my muscles adjusting, arms tucked close weighted by fists, one foot falling in front of the other, a light determined step. We find our way down paved roads lamp-lit to arrive at the opening of the forest. The opening is a tunnel of darkness, black turned in on itself. I flick on my phone flashlight. Stay close. Cedar roots jut out from forest floor, mud patches, stumps, loose stones and boulders litter the way as we make our way down the steep incline to the cinder path, my companions trailing behind disappear outside my light. We arrive, and the cinder path lights up reflected in the mist and I switch my phone flashlight off. Total black save for the star stream of bright at our feet.

We make our way easily down the now flat trail, hop hop hop hop; our feet little rabbits. The forest on either side of us holds unknowns, threatening mystery. I recall the man encamped within, illegally, who wouldn’t—couldn’t?—stop screaming one morning. A jogger passing by called 9-1-1, but the camper refused help, howled and howled, and sent the ambulance away when it arrived. I don’t know the camper’s wider story, but I do know what it is to howl. And how it is when the howling inside will not abate.

Footsteps, ours, stones scraping, heavy breathing, the distant whoosh of passing cars, the only sounds. The morning night is spooky, but our trio is at ease in each other’s company. I unwittingly call to mind the coyotes who leave the entrails of their meals littered across the trail. Safety in numbers. We hit the halfway mark and turn around.

As our eyes adjust to the night, our footfall to each other’s cadence, so too does the dawn break and the light creeps back in. Barely perceptible, then all at once, undeniable. Where once my foot fell into an abyss of black, now roughly defined features of craggy earth reveal themselves below. A large pile of dirt from the trail workers, we were lucky not to have tripped over on the way out, rises before us. Piles of excrement, as well, we are quite pleased to have dodged. And perhaps the most surprising, the metallic jaws of a dinosaur, an entire excavator, sitting alongside the trail, bucket raised with sharp teeth.

My mind churns, and I dig into my own short-comings, feelings of perceived failures arrive at this early hour unbidden. The beast of longing. She has found me, even here. I can’t stop my thoughts from rising up, howling, but I don’t stop running, never stop running. One foot in front of the other, we press on. I don’t say a word.

We reach the base of the hill leading back to home. Up we climb, up and up and out of the forest. And it’s brighter still. A matte sky. The street lamps look silly casting their glow in the brightening day as the mist fades away.

And I know, running back down the road towards home, that I will write about this moment. I can already grasp the metaphor of moving through darkness, tucking into the forest, and re-emerging into the light, but I don’t yet know what it means.

Sick with the monster of my own longing, that weighty beast, I can do nothing but finish the run. See it through. Feel a measure of comfort from the company of my companions. I don’t understand what it means to wander in the dark and keep moving until the light. Keep moving until the light. Keep moving toward the light. Toward the light. Persevere. I write my way there.

Star Sleep

I woke up outside shy of 4:00 a.m., cold and in the dark, to a chorus of wolves yipping, barking and howling far off in the distance.

I decided to rekindle the fire I lit before going to sleep. I pushed back my warm covers to a barrage of cool air hitting my face. I poked at the embers, seasoned their glow with leaves and twigs, then threw on three more logs and breathed life back into the fire that sparked, snarled and snapped back at me. Dan slid off his side of our air mattress to take a leak. Climbing back into bed, I pulled our flannel comforter over my head, peaking out enough to allow a breath of cold air in, and a small window out to see the flames, which roared sideways in my direction like a woman’s fiery orange hair come alive. An owl in the trees nearby who whooed and the loon’s wails echoed, haunting the lake until dawn. When I awoke a few hours later, the birds were chirping, a few Blue Jays squawking, but it was the sound of the busy bees buzzing to and fro, choosing their flower, buzzing off into the trees surrounding me, that filled my ears. I spotted their hive high up in a birch tree.

We were at our cottage, and the night before was calm and serene. I raked out our fire pit to create a flat surface, then laid two logs down parallel, filling the space between them with leaves, twigs and bark, arranging my kindling down across the two logs like a bridge. The fire caught beautifully. Dan fished off the dock with Penelope and Elyse, and I swam with Ariel and a neighbour as the sun sunk into the shadowed hills. By the time the swimming was done and the stars were out, one log laid nestled against the other like a burning work of art. We sat with the girls, working on a crossword together by the fire, roasting oversized maple marshmallows. Finally, bedtime for the kids, but I wasn’t ready to leave the perfect fire and still night, not yet. Dan ushered the girls into their beds, and I sent him a text.

Dan. I’m super excited. Tonight’s the night.

I looked up from the fire to find him standing at the window of our screened-in porch above me.

“I know what you want to do,” he called down, and I saw him roll his eyes, a slight shake of his head with a smile across his lips. Dan has an uncanny ability to read my mind. He knew EXACTLY what I wanted to do that night.

In the few days before, I had one of my BIG Ideas. The last time I had a big idea, we ended up selling our home and traveling around the world as a family. This new big idea revolved around a potential future book project for which I was compiling a list of experiences that intrigued me. Not a bucket list—exactly—more of a loving living life list. One of the experiences was to sleep under the stars.

Once I get an idea in my head, I have a strong desire to carry it out. Dan barely resisted the idea of sleeping outside the cottage all-night, though his initial text reply was: I don’t care to. With the temperature dropping to twelve degrees Celsius overnight, I would need his warmth and feel safer tucked into his side. I was relieved it wasn’t that much work to convince him. The last thing Penelope said to me before falling asleep was, “Don’t get eaten by a bear.”

With our plans for the night in place, we set to work.

“You get the tarp, I’ll blow up the air mattress,” Dan said. We set the air mattress on top of the tarp, and Dan emerged from the cottage with an armful of bedding. We layered up, I added a few more logs to the fire and the two of us laid side by side looking up through a window of trees at a bowl of stars. “Did you see that?” I asked him. We both had. The distinct glow of a shooting star pulsed and then faded across the sky, an astral firework. We kissed goodnight and rolled into each other for warmth, me in my hoodie, socks and flannel PJ bottoms, him in shorts and a long-sleeved tee. Dan’s light snores cast out into the night, while I laid on my side, gazing serenely at the fire until nodding off into an easy sleep.

So how did the night go? Dan slept somewhat fitfully, waking around two, three, and four a.m., while I fell asleep somewhere close to midnight and got up closer to four to mess with the fire, which, I learned, does not provide much warmth unless you nestle up fire-hazard close. While my body didn’t benefit from the fire’s warmth, my face turned toward it did, and I basked in its warm glow.

At one point, at some ungodly hour, the distinct sound of a twig snapped nearby—quite close to us. Dan tensed beside me, waking us both up. I slid down further underneath the comforter while Dan lifted his head. I thought of the mink that lives by the water’s edge in front of our cottage, and the large fisher, a bear-like creature with claws that our neighbour saw passing by the top of his driveway the other day; as well as the porcupines the Madawaska Valley is named after, skunks, racoons and of course, the bears, which I have only seen forty-five minutes away in Algonquin Park. No further sound. Within a few minutes, Dan’s breathing slowed again, and I fell back asleep to the rhythm of his easy snores and the comfort of the fire. The sound was likely a chipmunk scurrying in the rock pile above our heads where they live. In the night, every sound is amplified.

When the sun rose, I assumed I’d wake and slide right into the lake for an early morning dip, but it didn’t happen that way. The stars subsided, giving way to a cyan sky. Dan left the warmth of our nest to go fishing and I pulled the comforter back over my head until way, way after the sun came up. I sank further into daytime sleep. I wanted to hold onto the dream of the wolves howling in the night with my eyes closed a little bit longer, a little bit longer, listening to the bees and the birds, knowing it had all been real.

 

New Beginnings

From every ending comes a new beginning.

This phrase is tired, overused, cliched, but I can’t help but see a red sun sinking deep into the earth, the black of night, the moon a pearl in a quilt of stars; and then as though a God were fishing, the sun hooked and reeled back up into its perch in the sky, dressed in muted yellows and luminescent golds. Something new, ready to begin.

My MFA program has ended. I spent two pandemic years immersed in earning a Master of Fine Arts in Creative Nonfiction Writing.  “We’re masters now!” my peers and I joked at graduation. Yet every master knows that only a fool would consider themselves to have mastered a subject to a point of completion. The learning has just begun, and will begin again tomorrow, and the next day, if we’re lucky. Still, the intensity of the program, the degree to which we immersed ourselves in that learning, focused in on honing our craft, applied critical thought to ideas, worked to deadlines, received feedback and tried again. And again. And again. To improve and get better. This is worth an oversized piece of paper and a pat on the back. That the learning should and will continue does not diminish the accomplishment. But, maybe, just maybe, if you’re like me, before you dress in that graduation gown and plop the cap askew on your head, tassel waving in your eyes; before you strut across that stage to fanfare and applause, smile plastered across your face; before all of that will sit a question high on your list of priorities to attend to. A big question, the one that’s constantly at my throat, clawing my insides, pushing me further into the deep thick of this life’s offerings: What’s Next?

I really, truly, like to know where I am going. Not everyone does.

From every ending comes a new beginning.

A month or so ago, on a day when I may have been pondering that question of what’s next, an email jumped to my attention on the screen from Alison Wearing whose newsletter I subscribe to. Alison is a writer who runs Memoir Writing Ink (an online memoir course) and facilitates writing retreats around the world in addition to the many other hats she wears. I have read her books which are enthused with life and humour and seen her animated readings. She has a charismatic theatrical personality that only the dullest of person would not find charming. I know others who’ve attended her workshops and retreats and I have long since known I have something to learn from this woman. I just didn’t know when exactly that would be or how. Other paths have bumped into each other peripherally the past few years, with her name poking up for me here and there, and about a year ago, I seriously considered attending her writing retreat in France. I looked through photos, reviewed packages. But the timing was wrong. I already had residencies to attend where I would be engaged and working with other writers, and the MFA was intensive and consuming. France would have to wait.

But the email that came into my inbox from Alison was about two magical spots that had opened up in the France retreat in June. These were truly last-minute spots due to cancellations. An end for someone else meant a possible new beginning for me. Alison was seeking out published writers to fit in with the group, and I could sense this retreat would be a good fit for where I’m currently at in my writing process. I have essays to edit. The timing was right. The exact week of the France retreat, I had planned to be on a self-imposed writing residency with a friend anyway. My writing friend is a world traveller. Literally, she has been to every continent and over a hundred countries. We had planned to meet in Barry’s Bay, Ontario, where my cottage is located to get some work done. “How do you feel about going to a writing retreat with me in the South of France instead?” Reader, there was no hesitation. I reached out and applied to Alison Wearing’s retreat right away, and by some stroke of magic, within hours of receiving the invitation (because that is exactly what that email was, an invitation from the universe) I had a confirmed spot, and my friend too! And we were on our way to France.

What’s next?

You could argue that a trip to France is nothing but an elaborate distraction; that travel, in general, is simply a way to pull yourself away from the responsibilities of real life. But if I’m going to keep writing and moving on to the next thing, I need to recharge, to feel invigorated in my life and have things to look forward to. I need space and time to myself and with other creatives. I need to experience the world outside of my office window. Why not surround myself with beauty and do this in the wide open air countryside of southern France?

What’s next is a writing vacation, the rest of summer, and the business of real life. Trying to find an agent, secure a teaching job as a writing instructor, finish editing my essays, continue writing and running my own retreats and believing in myself. What’s next is more family life and visits and house cleaning and cottage maintenance and the plethora of usual adult responsibilities.

But first, we celebrate.

How many trips across that stage does one get to make? Visiting my in-laws, my brother-in-law asked me, “So when are you going to get your PhD? He was partly joking, goading me on, knowing it’s an avenue I’ve considered. What’s next? I have no plans to pursue another degree as of now, but who knows? What’s next is clearing the space in my mind for future plans. What’s next is being pulled by the tides, not adrift, but not fully in control of my final destination either.

But for this moment, I see myself holding a glass of something red, the sun a slow melt into distant hills, sinking deep into the earth, eventually folding into the black of night; the moon ever a pearl in a quilt of stars.