20 years ago, Quarter
Moon Quarterly, a short-lived periodical from the Lower Mainland of BC,
asked me to fill out a "Day in Your Life" scenario (see photo). At
the time I was in my early 20s, on my second marriage, had 2 youngsters born
when I was a teenager, was going to college, and was just at the beginning of
"learning how to make literary stuff happen."
So I thought it would be amusing to repeat the 4 times I
listed in this nascent report and see what I now do in relation to my writing
life during those same segments of the day.
Here goes:
Midnight: I am DEFINITELY sleeping. If I'm not attending
some drug-crazed sex fest film party that is. I NEVER write or send submissions
at this time of night anymore. My mind is utterly kaput by 10. Or earlier. I
may be watching Suits or some such drama, sporting a onesie and a few
cleverly-placed cats while drinking vino. That is all.
8 pm: My home is the picture of orderly sanity while being
riddled with nostalgic tchotches. It's just me and my kitties now. No men, kids
or other intrusions into whatever the hell I want to do. I still never write at
this hour. I read novels in the evening. If not engaging in the above
activities that is. Or sometimes jamming with a tribute band. Or surfing
Facebook for some hoped-for fascinating engagement and usually coming up empty
but for a few cute elephant memes.
3 pm: I have no idea what I'm doing. O wait, I could be in
the middle of slogging through an extensive film shift in Props land. Or if I'm
at home (and I do try to make this happen at least a few times a week), I could
be sending off poems to periodicals (though this mostly bores me now),
rehearsing my one-woman play, writing Marrow Reviews, editing pieces for my
grief anthology, proofing manuscripts and finding performers for my Bed Lecture
series. Or setting up yet another cross-Canada sojourn to bumpf a poetry book
that would likely otherwise receive scant attention. Alas. The energy surges.
And wanes.
10 am: I NEVER sleep in anymore. The male cat, aka Mr
Flumpalot Torturehead, has usually hounded me out of bed with a swat or a nip
by 7. IF I'm not up even earlier for work. If it's an at-home day, well the
morning is when I get everything truly essential accomplished in my life now. I
feed the furry bastards and brew a whole pot of black java. And then I read
poetry. I'm obsessed with John Ashbery and chow down on his ironic surrealisms
every day while glancing out at the river. After that it's writing time.
Mostly, I compose poems. Sometimes stories or essays arrive. Or a performance
piece. Or songs. Nope, mainly poems. Following this, I read criticism and
reviews. Then I am allowed to eat breakfast (always toast and fruit with
biographies) and do a weights and pilates workout, shower, water the plants on
my inspiringly morbid patio and thenceforth carry on my engrained habits of being
a liminal writer in Canada
Catherine Owen is the
author of ten trade collections of poetry (and a bunch of chapbooks), along
with two of non-fiction, including her compendium of interviews and theory
called The Other 23 and a Half Hours, or Everything you Wanted to Know That your MFA didn't Teach You, and one of
short stories, The Day of the Dead.
Her most recent book is Dear Ghost,
(Buckrider Books, 2017). Her last (only?) award was the Alberta Book
Prize for Frenzy in 2010. She also writes Marrow Reviews, runs the Bed Lecture series, offers an annual Community Creator
Award, performs one-woman shows, and collaborates with photographers.
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