Giving Thanks

Gratitude and the writer

                                                                                             Photo by Jon Tyson on Unsplash

I set out to write this piece, and first had to find the cloth to clean the grapefruit squirts off my eyeglasses; every morning I have a grapefruit. Every morning it squirts all over the place and makes a mess. If I don’t wear the glasses, then it gets me in the eye.

Such small things get in our way.

Thanksgiving

This weekend is Canadian Thanksgiving—yes, I know—it’s so early. But it’s got me thinking.

I think a lot about what it is to be an artist. Then I think about Rita Mae Brown’s words to “never dream more than you write.” And I get back to work.

But it’s still easy to say that it is tough to be an artist. Easy to think about the negatives. Often, the measurements by which others hold their lives do not work with what is of value for us. But it’s hard to take the value of creating to the grocery store and the bank—it’s hard to use for rent and mortgage.

Losses

Through this covid time, I’ve had one book contract evaporate last minute, with the virus cited as the reason—one book contract to work with a publisher who truly understood and shared the vision for a rather odd manuscript that seems to be unable to find a home elsewhere. She and I spoke for well over an hour about how she would approach it, and I was thrilled she was taking it.

Then weeks passed, we were locked down into all the ugliness of this, and I received an email “no.” They were pulling back on their list.

I’ve had too many manuscripts turned down over the years, not by editors or publishers, but by marketing people. I once had a writer friend tell me that if she’d had as many rejections as I’ve had, she would have quit long ago.

Wins

But in spite of the manuscripts that have never found homes (and now live with me in the orphanage of my mind, eating their gruel and crawling under moth-bitten wool blankets each night), I’ve somehow managed to publish almost a dozen. I’ve done a couple Canadian Children’s Book Centre Book Week tours, and had the joy of sharing work with young people, which is the most amazing thing. Every so often I get an email or a facebook message from someone whose life has been touched by my memoir of my time caregiving—usually someone going through the throes of caregiving themselves. Or even, astonishingly, on the receiving end of the caregiving. Such messages reinforce the why of writing that story, and sharing.

“Do not spoil what you have by desiring what you have not; remember that what you now have was once among the things you only hoped for.” Epicurus

Read that second sentence a couple times more… There was a time when all I wanted was to publish something. I craved that sense of communicating… as opposed to the standing-in-a-phone-booth-without-a-quarter feeling that is “pre-published” writer-life. (With apologies for the pre-cellular reference!)

Then I was published.

Then I wanted to be published with a publisher with more status and better distribution. I wanted a prize. I wanted… all sorts of the pieces of this life. Piece after piece (after hard hard work), they came.

Mostly, I wanted to make just enough money to continue to do this thing I loved to do. Because hours spent doing other things feel like so much time away from what I most want to be doing.

But… all those hours doing other things give me something to write about. Even the hardest things, those that break my heart, or seem so very removed from this work.

Because everything in the writer’s life has value for writing.

That may be one of the biggest gifts of this work.

“‘Thank you’ is the best prayer that anyone could say. I say that one a lot. Thank you expresses extreme gratitude, humility, understanding.” Alice Walker

Without humility, it is nigh impossible to have understanding. And God knows, there is little so humbling as writing. Anyone who has struggled with a page of words, only to toss the whole at the end of the day, or week, knows this. The simple scratching out of letters on paper, learned in our first year of school… and we can’t even get it right, it feels.

But there is always the hope that we can. Because when we do, we don’t need publishing or prizes to tell us what that inner feeling is about. There’s that moment of knowing, of understanding, that what we have written will communicate. To someone. In a meaningful way. Or it will grow our very selves in some necessary way.

“Cultivate the habit of being grateful for every good thing that comes to you, and to give thanks continuously. And because all things have contributed to your advancement, you should include all things in your gratitude.” Ralph Waldo Emerson

Again, re-read the second half of that quote.

Yes, even the “tough.”

The little pieces that elicit gratitude:

Being more observant. What distinguishes a writer from “normal”people (yes, I just said that!) We see things others miss. I won’t point out the negatives of this… because it really is a good way to live. I love to take a walk and find things—especially if it’s a street I’ve been down hundreds of times—to find something surprising is a gift. It was a peculiar joy to discover, when I first met my partner, that he appreciates such comments: “Wow! Look at that bird sitting like he’s just so p’o’d up there, feathers standing out in clumps.” “Look at how those leaves are still green, but every one is edged in brown after the hot summer. Do they always do that? Have I never noticed?” “Look at the late afternoon sun on the snow geese in flight! They’re silver!” So the observation reveals the appreciation, which translates to me thinking he’s someone I want in my life… the rewards are off the page and exponential.

Enjoying really small things. Like how four or seven words fit together. You know this—you know the joy this brings! What about when you’re writing something funny—have you ever cracked yourself up to the point of almost falling out of your chair, all by yourself? Try it.

Appreciating aloneness and togetherness. The nature of writing is—for the most part—being alone. Even if you write in a group (which many are now doing), there’s the bottom line— that you are still alone in your head. Solitudes together. I can spend hours alone—the writer in me has to be more than okay with that. But it’s exactly that alone state that drives me out my door to go hear music, meet up with a friend, throw an anecdote out to a stranger, and see what story they might share. (This is fairly routine in my neighbourhood—Strathcona.)

Creating story. Fiction, nonfiction, poetry. It’s all story. Primal campfire stuff. Imagine the world without story.

You can’t.

It’s that fundamental. And we get to hold it in our hands.

“IF YOU CARE ABOUT SOMETHING, YOU HAVE TO PROTECT IT. IF YOU’RE LUCKY ENOUGH TO FIND A WAY OF LIFE YOU LOVE, YOU HAVE TO FIND THE COURAGE TO LIVE IT.” John Irving, A Prayer for Owen Meany (who speaks in uppercase… before it was shouting!)

Again, re-read the second half of the second sentence… If you habitually remind yourself of all the good—gratitude—then the courage will come with more ease.

And a tweet (yes!) from Maya Angelou:

This is a wonderful day. I’ve never seen this one before.

You know: read the second half… !

Ah, grateful fruit. Gets in the eye. Changes things.

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Thank you, all, for subscribing to The Unschool for Writers! I am grateful for each of you, your writing and sharing, and your support.

Wishing you a most Happy Thanksgiving!

Alison