Tag Archives: Margaret Atwood

legends and inspirations


Well… I almost missed my date with greatness. My alarm was set to ring early; I awoke with a start at 8:40 (late, late, late) realizing that I hadn’t reset the alarm to ring on a weekend day. So alarmed, I threw clothes on and ran out the door. Traffic cooperated and I made it into town in record time (I had intended to take transit – oh well).

I met Colleen near the office and we drove to Granville Island with enough time to spare for an inhaled cup of some JJ Bean dark roast and a chocolate almond croissant from L’Échalotte et al. Breakfast of champions (you know… sumo wrestlers).

Hundreds of people are packed into the theatre, many no doubt like me waiting to be in awe by the grande dame of Canadian literature. Peggy (as she is many times addressed by her writing peers during the panel but whom most of the world knows as Margaret) is to Canadian literature (or literature in general) what Judi Dench is to the theatre. Resplendent. And incredibly funny.

All of the panel participants are wonderful and provide great Insight both into the historical aspect of Canadian literature throughout the latter half of the twentieth century and into this one. Savvy. Something I am (perhaps obstinately) not. The arts are a fickle realm to operate in – we all wish to indulge the creative genie living in each of us but we are seldom able to make a living doing only that (because, as was mentioned during the discussions, there is a popular notion that the results of our endeavours should be free because why should people pay for something that we had so much fun in creating?).

At the end of the panel they pulled a name out of a hat – let me correct that to Margaret Atwood pulled Colleen’s name out of a hat… a brilliant stroke of luck since their original method for awarding the prize (which was from the publishing house Anansi and included a gorgeous black leather bag stuffed full of their ten newly released A-List titles, and an A-List Roots t-shirt) was a bust when they realized many people had chucked their feedback forms into the recycle bin – we never even got one. Since Colleen purchased both of our tickets she had the grace to share some of the spoils, and I’m looking forward to reading (for the first time, I’m ashamed to admit) Graeme Gibson’s Five Legs.


Recently (at one of the north by northwest studio 2 book club recordings I attended), one of the audience members asked the eternal question of the unpublished wannabe published author: what do I need to do to be published? In response one expects to receive concise directions (a formula, really) and names (preferably with a “hey, I’ll hook you up”). I remember because I was that person, asking that question (and hoping for that response) some time ago. Until I had an ah-ha moment. I’m still unpublished but I realize now that that is the wrong question. It’s not about the deal or the money or the contact name – it’s about writing and the craft of writing, loving to do it so much that the process is in itself the reward, and because not doing it would break your heart and leave you somehow incomplete. Not that writing things like Twilight or 50 Shades of Gray don’t bring huge monetary reward (though they are flukes of the highest kind) but because the kinds of things I wish to write I wish them to crawl under your skin and settle into your heart and psyche, and maybe, just maybe, you will want to read them again. And I still have so much to learn on how to achieve that, but at least I am now asking the right questions.

Winter Wren’s Sisters of the Soul Journal

Sisters of the Soul Journal Round Robin
Pen & Ink and watercolor
(Click to see enlarged view in separate window)

I received Wren’s book last week and was inspired to work in it right away. Not only was the book a journal that appeared to be hand made by my very good friend, Kelly Kilmer, but Wren’s sub-theme was women writers and their worlds/words. How could I not be inspired?

Writing has been an important part of my life, too. I’ve been reading and writing for as long as I can remember. I chose to share and illustrate one of my favorite Margaret Atwood’s poems, Corpse Song, from her collection of poems entitled You Are Happy circa 1974. There are several more of my favorites among them. Margaret was a great influence on me stylistically, and remains one of my favorite writers.

Many years ago I read Nathalie Goldberg’s Writing Down the Bones which had inspired me to use writing as a spiritual practice. Although I’ve since become rather sloppy in this practice, writing from the soul, whether in a journal or more publicly (like on my blog or incorporated into a piece intended for public consumption), has brought me closer to myself, and made me aware of my soul on a level I would not have otherwise achieved.

Another whose work I admire is Jim Morrison, whose better known by some as the lead singer of the Doors. His lyrics (and the poetry from which the lyrics are derived) are haunting and surreal, no doubt influenced by the hallucogenic drug, LSD, which he consumed copious amounts of for a time. Inspired by Timothy Leary and the Aldous Huxley book Through the Doors of Perception (from which the band found its name), Jim was attempting to use the drug as a mind expanding tool, much like the Mexican indians used peyote to travel to the underworld.

As writers, we all write down the bones… the stories of our lives and of those around us, disguised or shamelessly exposed, so that they are not forgotten… so that the people in them live on forever, and we achieve a sort of immortality long after our mortal bodies have turned to dust.

Corpse Song
by Margaret Atwood

I enter your night
like a darkened boat, a smuggler

These lanterns, my eyes
and heart are out

I bring you something
you do not want:

news of the country
I am trapped in,

news of your future:
soon you will have no voice

(I resent your skin, I resent
your lungs, your glib assumptions

Therefore sing now
while you have the choice

(My body turned against me
too soon, it was not a tragedy

(I did not become
a tree or a constellation

(I became a winter coat the children
thought they saw on the street corner

(I became this illusion,
this trick of ventriloquism

this blind noun, this bandage
crumpled at your dream’s edge

or you will drift as I do
from head to head

swollen with words you never said,
swollen with hoarded love.

I exist in two places,
here and where you are.

Pray for me
not as I am but as I am.