My typical writing day starts with
watching the birds outside my windows while I sip a strong cup of coffee. Most
of what I see is pigeons, chickadees, sparrows, robins and magpies, but every
now and then, I see something different. In February, I saw a migrating flock
of Bohemian Waxwings in the crabapple tree outside my kitchen window. In summer,
Northern Flickers build nests in my willow tree. Western Tanagers and Blue jays
perch in the evergreens. Two ducks have recently moved into the green space beside
my townhouse to lay their eggs for the summer. As I watch what I call my
‘morning birds,’ I think about how almost fifty percent of migrating birds die during
their journey. For some reason, I find this prospect both gloomy and
motivating.
My best time for writing is either
in the morning (I consider myself to be an unproductive blob after about one
in the afternoon) or late at night when I get a sudden surge of productivity
and can’t sleep. I work full time during the week, so I fit in what writing I
can during my lunch breaks and in the evenings. Weekends are my quiet days for
writing and recharging after a week full of social interaction. Saturdays are
my absolute favorite writing day. Most Saturdays start with an indulgent walk
to the bookstore, ten minutes from my house, for a new read and a cup of coffee.
If I’m feeling particularly smart, I’ll leave my wallet at home and remind
myself that my bookshelves are already overflowing.
In winter, I normally have to
wrestle my cats for some table space, as I clean off the paper scraps, novels,
journals, and poetry collections that have accumulated over the week. I open
the curtains even if all I can see is white and grey to reconnect myself with
everything around me. In summer, I take advantage of the weather and sit in my backyard
to watch birds and bees that float by like blimps. Some mornings, a robin sits
on the edge of my planters and the wind blows the smell of rosemary and
lavender in my direction. I bring a shawl, a pile of books, journals, a big cup
of coffee and my laptop outside with me and settle in.
Whenever I start a new project, I
decide which works and which writers I want to learn from and emulate. Lately,
I’ve been combining my love of poetry and podcasts into one giant time
consuming project. I can listen to podcasts while I’m at work or out for a run
and generate ideas for what I want to do with them. I have a running list of
lines and words in my phone and a few journals I jot my ideas down in. I feel a
bit like a magpie, gathering scraps of information and history here and there.
When I finally sit down and start writing, I have to sort through the messy
nest I’ve built over the week.
Some days, that nest feels like a
big tangled piece of yarn. It’s all connected and everything that I need to
write is there, but it’s knotted and it takes some work to get it out the way I
want it to be. When I’m really struggling, I take myself for a walk and leave
my headphones at home. While I’m walking, I remind myself that this is all part
of writing. I don’t have to be stuck behind my computer screen for hours to
consider myself a writer.
I constantly have to remind myself
that I’m always a writer when and not just when I’m writing. This past year has
been a challenging experiment in adaptability. I finished my English and
creative writing degree and began a degree in Education. In my undergrad, I was
encouraged to write everyday and was surrounded by peers and mentors who were as
hungry for words as I was. I also had deadlines to write to. Now, I set my own
deadlines for writing and no one holds me accountable but me. I’ve felt a huge
disconnect from other writers, even while I ran a small literary journal and
went to readings, because I wasn’t steeped in writing every day anymore. In
short, I stopped feeling like a writer.
Now, I have a post-it note on my
laptop that simply says Write something
good today. It doesn’t matter if I write ten pages or half of a poem or one
sentence that I am fiercely proud of. In the words of Kyo MacLear, “I like
smallness. I like the perverse audacity of someone aiming tiny”. I’ve broadened
my understanding of what it means to write and to be a writer. You’re always a writer and not just when
you’re writing. You’re a writer when you’re washing the dishes, or running
for the train, or noticing the way someone says a certain word, or watering
plants in the garden, or organizing rejection letters in your sock drawer.
Writers are always like magpies, searching for glittering bits in everything we
see, hear and feel. It’s no wonder that each writer’s writing day is different.
It all depends on what we’ve gathered to make our nests with.
Amy LeBlanc holds a BA (Hons.) in English Literature and creative writing from the University of Calgary where she was Editor-in-Chief of NōD Magazine. She is currently non-fiction editor at Filling Station magazine in Calgary. Her work has appeared, or is scheduled to appear in Room, Prairie Fire, Contemporary Verse 2, and EVENT among others. Amy won the 2018 BrainStorm Poetry Contest for her poem "Swell". Her collection Ladybird, Ladybird is forthcoming from Anstruther Press in fall 2018.
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