When I started writing at eight, poems
were precious treasures, like the starfish and sand dollars that I would dry on
the balcony. At eight, I carefully wrote out my poem about a lizard with my
recently learned penmanship on thick creamy paper. Then, I trimmed the paper
edges into rounded shapes. Then, I glued the poem into my scrapbook. That I
read the poem on a local radio show is a fact; my lived experience of this
significant event? Forgotten.
Is a poem a treasure I carefully collect
(and kill by my handling) and put on a shelf? Or, are poems grimy creatures,
scratched, barely visible through the trees, words on a wild romp, scarily leaping
and dashing, silhouetted against the twilight? Those are the poems that I want
to meet, anyway.
Like many Canadian writers, I work in fits
and starts, in and around work, family, and community. Sure, I write in my home
office sometimes, but also fulfill tasks of my regular teaching job there. Sure, I write in cafes, shoulder to shoulder
with other writers, members of the gig economy, and students of all kinds. Home
life can be distracting. (This very morning, I already made the salad for
dinner to get it off my mind.) Sure, I jot notes on my Memo application on my
phone at odd moments and then email them to myself. I ignore my own emails
because I am itching to do some other apparently better writing project of
great scope and political importance that will require research (research is
easier than writing). Sure, I even book
into hotels where there is nothing else to do but meet myself trying to write,
in the glow of a boring hotel lamp with its boring cylindrical white shade.
To be honest, I frequently and successfully
write on the train, while commuting. Is it a sacred, hallowed writing space, encouraging
reflection with its soft light, its view of nature out the window, a source of
hot tea nearby, paper so beautiful, and a computer so magical and powerful that
the words write themselves while I rest? No, no, and no.
But, I feel like an intrepid adventurer:
stimulated, observant, and out in the dirt and gore of life. With the lurching
and shunting of the train and the overlay of much racket, writing is difficult.
I can barely hold onto my bag! I can’t hear myself think! But, at least I am
agitated. Then, I am awake, alive, writing well and editing ruthlessly.
Yes, I yearn for a hallowed space and
ample hours to be there, living the life of the mind. Who doesn’t want to be
pampered with biscuits and Oolong tea while they ponder the very best word, the
word that will hurt us and heal us? Why shouldn’t there be foxes gamboling
across my meadow? I could turn them into a short, orange-tinged poem, a daily
ode to wildlife.
But, the sacred writing space sounds like
a privileged place. Though I relish it, it makes me uneasy. Who on this earth
gets the peace and quiet and protected free speech to write what they want? I
want to use my skewed, queered words like firebrands to make wild statements. I
want to suffer the tension of urban life and the indignities of public
transport. Let me honour, in my small ways, those writers the world over, who
have nowhere special to go, but write nonetheless.
Deirdre
Maultsaid has been published or has work upcoming in Canthius, CV2, Filling Station, Pif, Prairie
Fire, the Puritan, and others. A lyrical biography of her father is available at White Wall Review.
Deirdre Maultsaid (she/her) is a queer writer
living in Vancouver, Canada on the unceded territory of the Coast Salish
People. She teaches at Kwantlen Polytechnic University. More information
at www.deirdremaultsaid.com and @deirdmaultsaid
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