Scribbles

Do I believe that the Internet is the last resort for desperate writers? Perhaps. Sometimes. Maybe. Not really. I’m not sure what I think about it now. There was a time, and not long ago, that I figured the only way I’d ever see my writing in print (other than on my trusty Deskjet) was to post it on my website.

This page used to be a gateway to those short stories and poems that I thought nobody in their right mind would even want to read, much less publish.

In 2002 I found an on-line writer’s group called Gridders (a.k.a. Boot Camp). Led by a writer of some renown, Alex Keegan, the group was an excellent training ground for would-be word wielders. It wasn’t easy having my stories skewered, seeing paragraphs that I stayed up all night to write kicked into hackneyed heaven along with ho-hum plots and trite themes. But I must have learned something because I’ve begun to have some luck – and so far I refuse to call it anything else.

Keegan Boot Camp has had some illustrious alumni, among them the British writer Monica Ali whose novel Brick Lane was short-listed for the Man Booker Prize. Boot Camp is still going strong if the hits I get on Google are any indication.

My list of published accomplishments is still very short but it’s a start. And if it’s all right with you, I’ve removed access to my stories and poems for now. They still need work. I can’t imagine what I was thinking to have posted them in the first place.

Poet? Who me?

Me? Write Poetry?

As a youngster, I loved poetry – the kind of poetry that rhymed, of course, that one sang, and bopped along to. The kind that made you tap your foot and feel happy.

Then, in high school, we were introduced to real poetry. The kind that you had to scan to figure out what form it took. The kind that sounded like it was written by someone who looked up every word in the dictionary and selected the one that was most archaic. The kind that sounded like its words escaped from a scrabble bag and landed on a page. The kind that you had to read a gazillion times to figure out what it was saying, at which point you didn’t care anymore.

By the time I got to university, I was prepared to be a little more forgiving but secretly, I still wanted to scream, “If you’ve got something to say, heave it out of ya. Don’t make me stand on my head to figure out what’s on your mind.”

And that about did it for me and poetry. For years. For maybe even thirty years, until I ran across a moose on Route 417 between Ottawa and Montreal. He unleashed something in me that found its outlet in a poem that composed itself. I just held the pen.

Being the good child of the Internet that I am, I found Usenet, specifically alt.arts.poetry.comments, where poets met and discussed each other’s work. (Aside: that group still exists.) I was so struck by the poetry of several people in that group – in particular, Julie Carter, Karen Tellefsen, and someone who used the handle Bindi – that I just had to know more. I timidly posted a copy of my moose poem and, to my amazement, I was thoroughly and soundly encouraged.

I saw a notice for a local poetry workshop given by Candis Graham. She was encouraging too, although I began to bump up against my own limitations. Surely this couldn’t be a good sign. She told me to work through or around them or just ignore them. They would take care of themselves. She gave me tips and tricks for pulling a poem out of thin air.

The moose poem found a receptive audience at Bywords, an online poetry publication. It was also selected to be included in their quarterly journal, a paper publication that is actually sold in stores. Yahoo!

Then out of the blue in September 2004, I was informed that the moose poem had been chosen as the recipient of the John Newlove Poetry Award. Say what? If only I could repay my debt to Mr. Moose, whom I surely can call nothing else now.

Part of the John Newlove Award was the opportunity to produce a chapbook under the guidance and auspices of the Bywords team. I jumped at the chance. It was for sale in September 2005 at the Ottawa International Writers’ Festival. I was given 10 copies of which I still have a few. The rest were sold to persons unknown. I am flattered.

My very own ISBN#

My first (and only, as it has turned out) published book of poetry was launched at the International Writers Festival in Ottawa on October 5th, 2005.

This was the culmination of a year of hard work. Well, okay, maybe not hard work because I can truly say I enjoyed it from start to finish. Who would have believed that I could write twenty plus poems in a few months with no blood on my forehead or on the floor? Looks like what was true for me as an computer application developer is also true for me as a poet. With a deadline, anything is possible.

The team of mentors assigned to work with me dwindled to a few faithful souls who managed to stifle their laughter and boredom long enough to provide me with some essential feedback.

Amanda and Charles, the Bywords team, guided me effortlessly through the process to the finished product, encouraging me when I had doubts, reigning me in when I was full of myself.

And that’s a good thing because as it turned out, I wasn’t able to make it to the launch party at the Ottawa International Writers Festival due to the side-effects of chemotherapy which I had undergone just a few weeks prior to the date. My step-daughter, Tarryn, filled in for me admirably though, and I know the poems were read well, probably better than I could have done it, truth be known. I am still indebted to you, Tarryn.

So. Now I have my very own ISBN number. My husband also takes some pride in the book as well for it was his photographs that I used for the cover and section breaks.

The chapbook is no longer available for sale from Bywords. It sold out. Imagine! Of course, I have a few copies left out of the ten that were gifted to me.

Milestones

Alden Nowlan
(25 Jan 1933 – 27 June 1983)

Amongst a bunch of books that I found at a half-off sale in December 2004, was Selected Poems by Alden Nowlan. I had never heard of him, but did recognize the name of the editors, Lorna Crozier and Patrick Lane. The price was $4.50 (originally $19.95) so even if I read only a few poems before putting it down, I wouldn’t have paid much for the privilege. Ha! Little did I know.

The first poem in the book was “Hens” and it blew me away. I had to check the cover to make sure I wasn’t reading work by Gwendolyn McEwen. Nope. Alden Nowlan. I rushed on to the next poem. “All Down the Morning”. Whoa! Who was this Alden Nowlan? And why was he writing the things I wanted to write?

And so it went. “Weakness”, “Pussywillows in March”, “God Sour the Milk of the Knacking Wench”. Every one was better than the last.

By the time I was half-way through, I had to slow down. I was going through the book way too fast. At this rate, it would be all read in one evening. These poems needed to be tasted gently, savoured for as long as possible. Stretched out. Made to last, like an all-day sucker.

Long story shorter. I scoured the library for everything he’d written. Found out that most of his books are out of print and scraped my pennies together to purchase my very own copy of Early Poems, soon to be accompanied by An Exchange of Gifts and I Might Not Tell Everybody This if they are anywhere to be had.

For reasons known and understood by no one, not even me, I have made a list of all Nowlan’s poems, showing the names of the books in which each was published. They are stored in a spreadsheet. This way I can sort them alphabetically (see link above), or by book in which they appeared. I can make my own alphabetical list of poems for the books, only a few of which, so far, have alphabetical indexes. I have no idea why this is important to me, but it is. I want to know everything about this man and his work. I want to know it inside out.

2019 Update

I still have not been able to find An Exchange of Gifts nor I Might Not Tell Everybody This. However in December 2011 I found a copy of What Happened When He Went to the Store for Bread and Bread, Wine and Salt. A couple of years ago, I found Between Tears and Laughter. I am a happy woman. I will update the poem list as soon as I can to reflect the latter addition.

2022 Update

In June 2022, I was recreating my website outside of WordPress and in the process, fell into the Alden Nowlan trap - where I go down the rabbit hole for days, obsessed with reading his work, especially my favourites.

While I was at this, I was also tidying up my corner of our apartment that holds anything important to me and came across the March 1982 issue of the Atlantic Advocate that my father had kept. Browsing through it, I found a column entitled "Alden Nowlan's Notebook: Our Memories are what we are".

It was like reading one of his long poems. Whoa. Were there more columns? Why did I not know this? I had to find out.

I got lucky and found that Alden Nowlan's personal papers had been purchased by the University of Calgary. Browsing through their indices, I found out that Nowlan had written a monthly column for the Atlantic Advocate for many years before he died.

A short correspondence with the University of Calgary Archives revealed that I could obtain copies of all Nowlan’s columns. So said, so done. I now have enough reading material for many months. Alas, I am not permitted to post or otherwise distribute the contents of these columns, but they are available to anyone who cares to do what I did.

In the interim while I was waiting to receive the scans of the columns, I found a link to an audio recording of a 1967 session at Sir George Williams University where Margaret Atwood and Alden Nowlan read their work. It is almost like eavesdropping to hear the voice of someone I have admired for so long. His Nova Scotia accent was a surprise. I don’t know why because I know where he was born and raised. Those interested in listening to this material, go to Audio Recording

Hopefully in the next little while, I will have a few other things to add to this page. I shall probably change the format to make accessing the various things easier. Stay tuned.