Well if you want to write, you should hang around with writers. It only stands to reason, It isn't rocket science ( what is rocket science,one wonders?). As a sometimes resident of this small city, I thought maybe the writing group would be terribly inconvenient for my peripatetic existence. You know I didn't want to commit to a full semester course in writing, or to pay any money for it. No , I just went out looking for a writing group. And being new to said small city, I thought " oh well , they probably meet in some obscure location - RATS! they meet right here in my neighborhood, in a community centre between my office and my home. It's like they are slapping me in the face and saying WE ARE HERE FOR YOU.) So sometimes you just have to follow the signs and pay attention, and show up. If course, no one likes to be the new one in the group, no ones wants to bear their soul and their writing ( or their soul through their writing) but we all show up. And oddly, there is some relatively painless baring of words and souls, and the world does not come to an end. The writing is good, there is very little of the large ego pissing contest variety ( not a lot of performance/spoken word rants, as exemplified by my friend AB's "pigeons poo as pigeons do"), but there is some, which keeps me on my toes.
The world is so convenient that they meet weekly - bi weekly and monthly for whatever writing needs you might have. They are an all purpose muti-service writing emporium. They have subgroups and sub woofers for every permutation known to writingdom. They even have afternoon writers groups ( for those who have the leisure/preference to ponder writing by daylight - a luxury some of us poor sods can only dream of)
So I'll go to their meetings, IK'll even read the draft textx in advance and offer my critiques. But they can't make me write if I don't want to. They can write and read and rant and write all they want. But they can't make me write - .....yet.
This week my friend DEB passed away after a short but serious illness. It wasn't fair to lose her so soon after recently reconnecting, there was supposed to be lots of time while she recuperated.
I have reflected on the privilege it is to be part of DEB's circle for so many years. She never lost track of me, even after years and miles had separated us. She mentored me in many ways, most definitely in our shared profession of archives, but also as a reader and a writer. When I wrestled about career choices, she was emphatic in affirming instincts, giving advice, and encouraging bold directions. This past spring she told me to just get myself to BC -
"we'll figure the rest out once you're here."
In the late 1980s when we were both trying to make Toronto our new home, we'd meet for tea and journalling and her endless supply of homemade meringues at her apt near what Toronto called The Beaches; it was imperative for
DEB to live by Lake Ontario, one of the more picturesque neighborhoods. DEB's focus on you as an individual was intoxicating; she listened with rapt attention, she followed circuitous lines of association, she was always right there no matter where you went. She was the most present in all conversations; you had the sense that there was nothing more important in that moment than the conversation you were sharing. DEB was a companion of gentle spirit and
infectious laughter; she could tease with great affection.
DEB spoiled us all with this gift of completely genuine friendship and love, and I miss her dearly. I think the standard she lived her life by was her richest legacy - honest, true, real, present, full, and above all so selfless.
