Cora Siré : Flight

If there’s a process to my writing, it involves transcendence. Gravity must be resisted and therein lays the suspense. The lift-off, when smooth, is magical, but often there’s turbulence and a struggle ensues. Either way, it usually starts two coffees into my early morning at my L-shaped desk when I face my screen and the window looking out onto the low-rise buildings of my Montréal neighbourhood. I fire-up the laptop and gauge the dials, among them the crucial Self-Doubt Index – its needle quivers at medium, high or off the dial, but never low or zero.

There are many variables, SDI among them, to this writing life, so much uncertainty and risk, so few absolutes. I’ve trained myself to be consistent in one simple action: sitting down to write every possible day. Of course it’s not always possible or, as a colleague in the corporate world used to say, “Only dead people are consistent.”

That’s where my discipline took shape, in the corporate world. Straight out of university, at the age of 20, I landed a desk job because on the day the company interviewed, there was a massive snow storm and I was the only person who showed up. They needed someone fast and there I was. For almost two decades, I sat at desks in open offices and in various cubicles, writing with a gun to my head. Ok, it wasn’t loaded, but I felt the relentless pressure of producing while stressed-out bosses hovered within earshot or paced outside my cubicle. The only one with a liberal arts background, I became the target for any piece of writing needed yesterday, within the hour, by noon tomorrow. What saved me was my spare-time writing, the poems and stories I wrote on weekends and holidays. Just before I turned 40, I understood that my spare-time writing had become my real work so I walked away from a decent-paying job with solid benefits.

I took little with me except my discipline, perhaps the most redeeming by-product of the capitalist endeavour. Also, the ability to focus even when city workers are jack-hammering the sidewalk outside my apartment building and the immense privilege of writing what I want to write about, in the form I choose – poetry, fiction, whatever. No unloaded gun to my head, just the internal pressure of wanting to produce writing that’s meaningful and authentic. Of course it turned out to be much harder than anticipated, the total financial uncertainty of this life and the soul-sucking quest for publication and readership. Three books in, I’m never sure I have the necessary mental toughness to endure.

Yet almost every day I manage to sit at my L-shaped surface formed by two tables, roughly door-sized. To my left is what I call the “analog desk” stacked with files containing half-baked stories, incomplete poems, essays-in-progress, notebooks with ideas scribbled on the pages, spreadsheets tracking my submissions and articles on writing. Also, critically, the books, dictionaries and notes I’ll be consulting as I write. Facing me is the “digital desk” – the laptop, big screen, keyboard, a back-up device and printer. Here I do the writing – from first draft to final – except for poetry which I always write longhand at the analog desk for at least two to three drafts. But social media, no...that’s reserved for my phone, sequestered in a separate room to limit the ever-beckoning temptation to ramp-up dopamine.

So here I am writing this very essay about writing. The space is warm with a solid roof. Nobody is shooting at me. Nor is it likely I’ll ever be arrested for my words. Self-censorship is the greater problem. Outside, a gentle snowfall blurs the low-rise Montréal buildings as I contemplate the burden of my privilege, or what the freedom to write really means.

To tame the self-doubt, I invoke my heroes. Many of them writers in prison who managed to overcome their ungentle realities and find the wherewithal to break with silence, to demand pencil and paper, to resist and write: Rubin Carter who spent decades in solitary confinement for a double murder he didn’t commit; Ken Saro-Wiwa, the environmental activist arrested and then executed in Nigeria; and Vaclav Havel, the Czech dissident imprisoned for his writings. The list remains long – last year, PEN International recorded 78 writers in prison around the world.

Outrage is a powerful creative fuel. Siphoning an iota of my heroes’ determination and courage, I unfold the margins of mind to get at that sacred liminal space, to find some flow and transcend my fears. I don’t like writing directly about myself but, of course, my Self is in everything I write. I think it was Nadine Gordimer who said, “Write as if you’re dead.” Her words are liberating. Although I rarely feel more alive than when I’m airborne, writing.

Cora Siré is the author of a collection of poetry and two novels, including Behold Things Beautiful (Signature Editions, 2016) which was a finalist for QWF’s Paragraphe Hugh MacLennan Prize for Fiction in 2017. For details, please visit her website, www.quena.ca.

Maia Elgin : My Writing Day

My writing “day” begins on hurried pieces of paper during moments stolen between classes, at the grocery store, or while out with friends and colleagues. I jot down ideas while I watch movies or tv, when I go to plays or art exhibits, when I drink wine or netflix ‘n chill. Delicious lines come to me at night, and I struggle to wake myself in time to write them down. Sometimes, I make the words form into semi-coherent letters on scraps of paper that exist only in my subconscious, where language is cloudy, and words don’t form. No matter how hard I concentrate, I can’t make those precious scraps manifest in waking life. As far as I know, those ideas are lost forever.

I have journals and notebooks, napkins, posts its, receipts, ticket stubs, the notes app on my phone, and an ongoing text cycle with myself full of disparate thoughts to work from when, I tell myself, I finally will get the time to write.

Teaching full time and all that comes with a tenure-track university gig, exercising (at least a little), keeping up relationships, caring for my two cats and dog, eating healthy (some of the time), and self care leave little time for writing. But to be honest, all that leaves more time than I take advantage of. I’m still scared of the blank screen, even when I have all my scraps and jottings to gird myself with.

Today, with this essay in mind, I decided to devote the whole day to writing. I am writing now. It is 6:57 pm, central time. I just started. Before I could write, I needed to organize my inbox and fill out my calendar for spring semester, which came up after I sat down at my desk (about two hours ago) to practice a lesson or two of French on Rosetta Stone (a Christmas gift to my partner and I from my partner and I in anticipation of a trip-of-a-lifetime we will take this summer). To be honest, it’s a bit of a triumph that I didn’t start working on last semester’s reports or start writing next semester’s syllabi instead of opening google docs and starting this when I did.

Obviously, once it was nearly four, I had to eat dinner before I could really concentrate on work. And in order to eat, we had to cook something. Eating got us talking about the trip to Europe (which prompted the studying, the first I have done yet, though we’ve known about the trip for a few months now). Before dinner, there was a load of laundry to put in the dryer and the litter boxes to clean while Andrew fed the animals and took the dog out.

Of course, I could have started writing this afternoon, but it’s been a long semester and the house was showing it. We try to balance the workload of keeping up the place, carefully mindful of the fact that the majority of this labor is done by women. When it comes down to it, we both work 80 hours a week, a number, I’ve found, that is not unusual for the true workload of academics, and we can’t afford to hire a maid service. So, we tend to let things slide. An option that works.

Until I have a day to write. Yesterday, I dusted the blinds and polished the floorboards. I just felt compelled to have it done. I tidied and hyggeed as a mindful practice. It was lovely, but this afternoon, when I finally was about to sit down to write, I couldn’t find my desk under the pile of papers I had relocated in my efforts to declutter elsewhere.

One wall in my office is made up of thin cross-slices of trees. It was here when we moved in—the man we bought the place from made the wall for his grand-daughter...and, we just found out that someone charged $80 to our account on iTunes, which interrupts this session.

It’s about a week later as I start this next paragraph. The $80 turned out to be $280, which iTunes immediately refunded. I haven’t written a word since I ended that last sentence. We are in La Crosse now, where I did most of my growing up, to celebrate Christmas with my family. Travelling from our small, Mississippi town involves a two hour drive to Memphis. Getting to my parent’s small, Wisconsin town involves a connection in Minneapolis/St. Paul and an hour long drive across the Mississippi River. Since then, we have been eating and drinking and catching up and Christmassing and running after toddlers.

We came to Jules Coffee Shop, scene of much high school angst, this morning to work. I spent $25 at the adjacent used book store on poetry collections I’d never heard of. But now, the old crowd is here, and the old feelings creep back at me like a fog rising up in my sternum. The unmanaged depression of a decade ago hovers around me, close enough to touch. This is why I don’t like to leave my parent’s house when I’m in town.

The old crowd plays a game, like we always used to do, but after friendly hellos, I have safely retreated to a table with Andrew and my laptop. I’m trying to focus on the writing process again, but I realize that this erratic description is probably the best representation of my writing day. I’ve never worked well with a strict schedule, Flannery O'Connor's three hours a day.  I guess I still believe in inspiration, though I’m told it’s a myth. When it hits, I drop everything.            

A few weeks ago, inspiration hit while I was grading research argument papers. Suddenly, I realized that my two manuscripts were actually one--a collection of two related poem-plays. The papers were pushed aside, sleep was pushed aside, eating and socializing, too. I still held class, but I went immediately to my office after to work. This lasted for three manic days, until the project was done.

Now, across the coffee shop, my friends are bundling up their baby in a thick, wool star-suit to brave the -20 degree windchill. The feeling of being trapped, however briefly, in a dark moment rising up from the past is gone. They don’t say goodbye as they pass by on their way to the door. The chill from outside lingers for a few minutes. I get up to order some soup.

Maia Elgin’s hybrid poetry has been seen in journals including Tarpaulin Sky, InDigest, Ghost Town, and Glitter Pony. Her chapbook The Jennifer was published in 2012 by Birds of Lace Press. An assistant professor at Delta State University, she earned her MFA at LSU under Lara Glenum and Laura Mullen. She lives in the Mississippi Delta with her partner, two cats, and a dog.

Doris Fiszer : My Typical Writing Day

There have been no typical writing days since I retired. While I was working, I squeezed in whatever writing time I could in between raising kids, working full-time as a college teacher and taking courses part-time in the evening.

Though every day is different, I try to plan each day in a way that inspires my writing practice. When I wake, I note any dream images from the night before. This is something I’ve done since childhood. Day dream images are also recorded in my journals. As well, I write down unusual bits of conversation I hear, interesting phrases or words from movies, the radio and books I am reading.  Even a snippet of a remembered dream scenario, or an interesting remark I noted can spark a poem.

After journaling, I eat a hearty breakfast of porridge and meditate for twenty minutes to quiet my active mind. Three mornings a week I head to the gym. Many beginnings of poems, or revisions happen when I am working out on the elliptical or bicycle.

If I am not going to the gym or to a poetry gathering, I try to spend the morning writing. Presently, I am revising a manuscript of poems I have recently completed and am writing poems for a chapbook that will be published next year. I usually read my poems aloud listening for words or lines that don’t work.  I also spend time sending poems out to different publications.

My poems usually take time to write. I write the first few drafts of an emerging poem in my journal while listening to classical music on CBC Radio 2. I believe that I censor my first few drafts less when they are written in long hand. This way I keep everything even if I think it may be mundane or irrelevant at the time.

After lunch, I transfer my hand-written drafts to the computer. I typically write multiple drafts. Sometimes I can write a poem quickly, but this is an exception. As well, I also spend time reading other poets.  I usually have several poetry books on the go. Reading work by other poets exposes me to different styles of poetry and shows me how these writers approach complex and difficult issues.

When I get tired of writing or feel my writing is not productive, I take a break and go for a walk. Other strategies I use when my writing is stalled is to reread my earlier journals, read other poets’ work, or just to keep writing until my writing flows again.

I generally play the piano for about an hour in late afternoon. Weekly lessons require that I set time aside for regular practice.  Playing classical and pop music is rewarding, challenging and restorative. Even while playing, ideas for a poem or a revision can sometimes jump into my head.

After supper, if I am home, I often read or sometimes rework a poem.  I end my day by watching a television series or a movie on Netflix with my husband.

Being a member of two poetry writing groups offers writing and revising opportunities as well as friendships with like-minded poets. Attending poetry readings and participating in workshops also help broaden my knowledge of poetry.

There are days I sometimes choose to stay home especially when I start feeling I am getting too busy with outside activities or feeling tired. I may spend that day writing poetry, reading or not doing much of anything. It is in this unstructured space that a new poem often starts to surface.

Recently, I treated myself to a new desk and computer. I sit at my desk facing a window which overlooks my backyard where a sprawling crab-apple tree and two large cedars grow. I never tire of watching the antics of black and red squirrels and the variety of birds that visit our feeders throughout the day.

Retirement has given me the chance to establish a satisfying writing routine and to develop my poetry in ways I could never have envisioned. I am still celebrating my new-found freedom.

Doris Fiszer is a Canadian poet whose poems have appeared in a variety of publications including Bywords Quarterly Journal, bywords.ca and the Voice. She has a poem forthcoming (April 2018) in the anthology When All Else Fails: Motherhood in Precarious Times (Demeter Press).  Her chapbook, The Binders, was the 2016 winner of Tree Press’s chapbook contest. Her poem, “Zen Garden,” won the 2017 John Newlove Poetry Award. As the recipient of this award, she has been offered the opportunity to publish a chapbook in 2018 through Bywords. The Binders was also shortlisted for the 2017 bpNichol Chapbook Award. As well, she is an associate member of The League of Canadian Poets. Doris has recently completed a full-length poetry collection and is currently writing poems about her mother.

Ronna Bloom : Writing Day

Because rob mclennan asked about my writing day I need a writing day. Today. Books on my bed. Piles of books and my upside-down pen, this one in my hand that I've had for 15 years. Otherwise, it's pencils–– lying on my back, book in air.

I've not written in months because of a recent wave of extroverted energy –– readings, workshops, a new book out, and people –– so the thought of dropping down writing is scary. But this new thing has been bubbling up for a while. Venice I'm talking about you.

My default for a writing day is to take my favourite poetry books and put them beside me on the bed. I lie on top of the covers in sweatpants and read and read and read until I start to write. Even a few lines are fine. There's no pressure –– though I call it a writing day –– to actually write. The intention is to make the space, the bed, the books, this raft for writing. Sometimes I just lie there for a while and cry.

More than "a writing day" what I crave every few months is a retreat in my house, where I put autoreply on everything, and tell my close people I'm not available. I get food, and go to Book City in anticipation and buy one new poetry book for special. A retreat means at least 3 days together. Three nights and three days. It really shouldn't be less, but more is good. I'm greedy and selfish. I mean I already live alone so what's the deal? But it's something psychological as well as physical to retreat even in one's own space consciously. To say no to certain things means I am saying yes to something else.

Three days with three nights is important for two reasons: one is that I don't want to be able to see the end of the retreat from the start. If it ends 'the day after tomorrow' that is too close. I can see it. But three days from now is a different language away. The second reason is that when Virginia Woolf had three days to herself she wrote in her diary, "I have three days, three round and perfect pearls."

I take my favourite poetry books onto the bed with me. Or I get a new one to add to the pile. But it's not just my favourite poetry books I want this time. In truth, (why say, 'in truth' it's all truth. This is just hedging now,) I want to bring the Venice notes and books and flyers, and put them here beside me. They've been sitting on a chair in a corner of the kitchen as though I'm scared of them.

This writing project is different from the way I've written before. It is floating up out of a place and a swirling formless want. It feels like love before I have any right to call it love because I barely know the beloved. Like I'm stepping one delicate toe on a boat on water and I don't know how to swim. Oh, bed, raft, poetry books, home base for writing: be refuge and catapult.

Ronna Bloom, 2017 (the last 4 words here come from my poem, "What I Want from Art" in The More.)

Ronna Bloom has published six books of poetry, most recently The More (Pedlar Press, 2017). Her poems have been translated into Spanish and Bengali, recorded by the CNIB, and used in films, by architects, in education and health care. She is currently Poet in Community at the University of Toronto and Poet in Residence in the Sinai Health System in Toronto. www.ronnabloom.com