I am a Writer

I am a writer. I have words inside that want to be shared. Words that deserve to be allowed outside in the fresh air. Words that should exist as something at least a little separate from their author, though they will still always be part of me even after they develop a life of their own.

I am a writer and one person's lack of care and respect for the words I had entrusted to them does not mean that everyone else on the planet will trample the pieces of my heart that are exposed in the words I write. I know that the words I write have the ability to change the world into a better place, whether they are read by many or only a few, or even if I am the only person who ever sees them on the page. I know this to be true because writing them down rather than holding those same words hostage inside me changes me for the better. The process of writing allows me to more fully be who I was created to be and transforms me word by word into the person I long to be.

Being a writer does not mean that I must earn my living from my words. I am still a writer even when I spend my daytime hours in cubicle land. I am still a writer if no one ever reads a word that I write. I am still a writer whether I write free flowing, stumbling, non-rhyming poetry or speculative fiction or children's stories or personal essays or even just in my journal that no one else sees.

I am a writer. It's not just what I do in my spare time, when the urge hits. It is an integral part of what makes me who I am. Writing brings me joy and peace and contentment in ways I can't find words to express. Even when writing makes me cry because the process has exposed those tender, damaged places I keep hidden from others and, most of the time, from my conscious self, I am a writer and I am stronger and braver and more whole after the words have been created on the page in front of me.

Other interests and passions may ebb and flow, but somewhere inside the need to put pen to paper ... or fingers, and lately thumbs, to keyboard ... is a constant in my life. I am a writer because that is who I am. While it feels nice ... Okay a lot better than nice, try fabulous ... when others, strangers or those I hold dear, acknowledge that I have words worth sharing and call me a writer, it doesn't actually make a difference in whether or not I am a writer. I am a writer even if I am the only one who knows that to be true.

Whether I write long hand using pen and paper in a bedraggled notebook carried every where I go, or whether words follow more smoothly typing on my netbook, or even if I’ve gone mobile and discovered that my smartphone keyboard is, for me, a perfect balance of the two at this moment in time, I am a writer.  The method, or the subject matter, or the style, or the size of audience … all of these things may make it harder or easier on ay given day for me to see myself as a writer, but none of these external things change the one simple, straightforward fact.  My name is Karen and I am a writer.

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Two extra bits …

Thanks Pace & Kyeli!  You were right.  I needed to say that out loud. 

I tried this last night but it got all "I should be a poem. That would be the RIGHT thing to be, if you’re really a writer." Foolishly, I listened. Then, the words got all tied up in trying to be what they thought they should be rather than what I needed to write for myself. While I got words on paper that may have been some of the "write" words, they weren't really what was in my heart. I didn’t throw them out, maybe there is a poem hiding in them somewhere, but they need some space to think. Once they’re willing to behave, and not try to be something they’re not, I’ll let them out of the corner and take a look. I’ll keep you posted if anything interesting happens…

A Deer Feeder?

I may know why the deer was so obliging the other morning when I stopped to take its picture.  It appears we may have been unknowingly feeding it for several weeks.

We got a new bird feeder a few weeks back, and the seeds have been disappearing but we’ve never actually seen any birds around it.

We stopped our TV viewing tonight to watch as a deer wandered across the front lawn, but imagine our surprise when we realized the deer had stopped to feed, not on the hosta garden which regularly gets a few nibbles but at the bird feeder! The feeder might be squirrel-proof, but apparently it’s not deer-proof. 

There was a lot of laughter as we imagined what my Grandma would have said.  As much as she loved animals of all sorts, she used to get really annoyed by the squirrels when they would eat from her bird feeder.  They’d scare away the birds she loved to watch, but more importantly, they'd dig up her tulip bulbs and eat them, or plant them in the middle of the grass in the neighbour’s yard. While I don’t think Grandma would have gone with the method a fellow blogger with a similar dislike for squirrels chose, she might have if she found the product. She did happily have Grandpa set up a squirrel relocation program more than once with squirrels moved to more forest-like locations she was sure they would like better than her yard.  I used to tease her all the time about the poor, displaced squirrels who must be missing their families.  Somewhere I have a postcard that I sent her from university with a photo of a grey squirrel and a story about his missing family.

Grandma had no patience with squirrels at her bird feeder, but I think she’d have made an exception for a deer … as long as they didn’t start snacking on her garden. Good thing Grandpa didn’t have to figure out how to relocate a deer.

Deer in the city

There’s something pretty amazing about living in a city where deer wander around and are practically tame.

I'd been busy sticking my earbuds in my ear and fiddling with my mp3 player, only keeping half paying attention to whether there were any cars on the dead end street off a dead end street where I live. I looked up and there was a doe standing in a neighbour's driveway, quiet and still as could be, just staring at me.

I stopped in my tracks and stared back, enjoying the moment. As I pulled out my phone, I actually said out loud, "Can I take your picture?" Okay, maybe that was a little silly, but somehow it seemed polite and I guess the answer was yes since she stayed perfectly still. I took my picture and started to walk on. She turned her head to follow me with her eyes and as long as I could still see her she was still watching.

It made me wonder what would happen if she followed me to the bus stop. I don't think they'd let her on the bus, and she definitely wouldn't like it downtown. But it did make a fun picture for my morning, the deer commuter. Or maybe ... "Hey boss, look what followed me to work. Can we keep it?"

World Changing Writing Workshop

Dear Heartfull Karen-
Do you want to write and share what's in your heart?

I'd barely opened my email before my heart shouted a resounding YES! The words opened an email from SARK about a new online workshop that she was teaching in. I've had the privilege of listening to SARK speak before and it truly was inspiring but that wasn't actually what made me jump at those words. It went deeper and broader than that.

I investigated the link and felt myself getting excited in a way that has only happened a few times in my life. Times when the thing I was encountering was so just perfectly me that I dared not turn away.

The thing was it scared me a little. I've never felt that in regards to my writing. Writing is a very personal journey for me and as much as I'd love to have my voice heard, it's really pretty rare that I'm willing to share what I've written with even my closest friends...notice how sparse and generally far between posts in this blog tend to be. The choice to create Karen's Cake Adventures was a conscious choice to stop being intimidated and write about something I enjoy doing. The reality is that for the most part, it's still a very safe choice. Yes, a lot of who I am goes into every cake I design, but really it's safe to talk about the funny and silly stuff that happens when I make a cake and the things I learn during the process. It's things I learn about stuff I do not really about who I am as a person. But even there I haven't written all that often or consistently.

Don't get me wrong. Decorating cakes is actually important to me. It's definitely an expression of my creativity. I'm not great at creating visual art with a pen and paper, but I can say with pride that the things I create with cake, buttercream and fondant are beautiful. And beauty in anything does make the world a better place.

I have a love-hate relationship with writing. I love the physical experience of putting pen to paper and watching words flow into life. But at the same time the vulnerability of that process can terrify me into silence, procrastination and self-sabotage so I don't have to face the fear and take the risk.

Writing is like taking a little piece of your soul and leaving it out there for someone to stomp on or ridicule. I've been in that place and cried more tears than the person who did the stomping was worth but that experience leaves a mark and makes me want to avoid the possibility of it happening ever again.

I'm a glass half full kind of person and in most areas of my life that's exactly how I choose to live my life. Very rarely have I made that same choice recently in regards to what I write. But I know that there are more words that I need to write and that at some point they need to move beyond just being words on a page for me. So I've made a conscious choice and signing up for the World Changing Writing Workshop is part of that. It's time to take that step of faith and remember that while I've had that piece stomped on, others pieces have been put out there and been valued and have made the world a better place. It's time to focus on those pieces and remember that the stomping is part of what has made me who I am today and that's stronger than I was back then. Sometimes growth hurts but it doesn't mean you stop growing.

As another traveler on the journey to world changing writing described it, it's time to stop letting those "personal historical snaggles ... grab my ankles as I run by." It's time for me to determine how I live my life and share my words. I'm not going to make any sweeping promises about how much or how often I'm going to post here because that's more likely to cause me to sabotage myself rather than motivate me. Instead I'm going to use M-P-Q for exactly the reason I originally created it, as a place to post things that make me wonder and think. I'm just not going to avoid posting things here or decide that things have to be more important or profound or whatever other excuse I've told myself so that I'd stay silent and safe.

As it said on the Starbucks cup wrappers all winter …

Rembering and Celebrating

I was trying to figure out what to put as my status on Facebook this morning.  Many of my friends have something about the fact it's Remembrance Day.  There's no question that's important.  My Dad's brother was killed in Italy during World War II. The thing is, it's also my brother's birthday.  We may not always, or even often, see eye to eye on many things, but it's still his birthday and that's worth celebrating. 

The two things always seem to stand in stark contrast. 

My birthday is close to Christmas and, though I'm forty ... at least for another month ... people still ask me if I dislike having my birthday close to Christmas.  Our family Christmas tree still doesn't usually go up until after my birthday, so the two celebrations remain separate. 

That can't really happen for my brother's birthday.  It's the same day.  The day of somber remembrance for those who have been willing to pay the ultimate price to make peace a reality in our world, that day is also his birthday, a day to celebrate life. 

Maybe they're not really such opposite things.  Yes, we need to remember the sacrifices that have been made on our behalf, but our actions also need to show we value those sacrifices by not forgetting to celebrating the life and freedom we have.

I guess that decides it.  Remember and Celebrating, that's what I'm doing today.

A Name Is a Name Is a … Or Is It?

“What's in a name? that which we call a rose
By any other name would smell as sweet;”

Thus wrote Shakespeare, but a silly thing at work the other day made me wonder.

One of my tasks is processing applications, and late in a very busy day, I picked up an application for a company whose name was Gardening Gnomes Landscaping.  I’ll admit, I like garden gnomes … at least the cute ones … and probably because there are still two in my parents’ yard that had previously been in my grandma’s garden almost as long as I can remember, garden gnomes make me smile.

I loved the company’s name and kind of wished that there would be something wrong with their application so that I needed to contact them.  There wasn’t, but I just wanted to tell them how awesome their name was.

I mentioned the name to a couple of colleagues.  One got it and was just as tickled as I was, but the other one looked at me perplexed and said, “Why would they do that to themselves?”

The answer seemed blatantly obvious to me.  I’d hire a landscaping company called Gardening Gnomes Landscaping in a heartbeat. If I’m being honest with myself, I’d probably be tempted to be completely irresponsible and hire them without any research or references or any of the things a responsible adult should do before paying a company money to do something.  The name gives me such a warm, fuzzy, trusting feeling, all because of the association with one of the most important people in my life, my grandma, who also happens to have been a fabulous and passionate gardener. 

Fortunately, or maybe unfortunately, I don’t need any landscaping done, and the company is based in a different city, but it did make me think.  How much weight do I put in how things … or people … are named?  I’d like to think that I’m not really influenced by things like that but my reaction makes me wonder. 

Would a rose called by another name, really smell just as sweet if the name made me think of something stinky?  Could I be objective enough to know? Or would my senses be misled by old memories? 

Out of the mouths of babes ...

Nothing much to write, but after a day spent taking the ferry to Vancouver, shopping at IKEA, hanging out on Granville Islands at my favourite shops, and seeing a production of Don Quixote at the Arts Club Theatre, I just overheard the best question and answer between a dad and his son as they were coming out of the video arcade on the ferry.

Son, with a perplexed look on his scrunched up little face, "Dad, how come there isn't any more money?"

Dad, quietly shaking his head, "Sometimes that's just the way it is, buddy."

They were too far away to hear if the boy made any further inquiries, but it seems likely given his age that "Why?" was the next step in that conversation.  I wonder what the dad's response was to that one.