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POV


A woman in my revision class is writing a book about her experiences in Cuba. Her family spent two and a half years there for her husband’s job and she kept a journal to document their adventures. Her novel will be about the changes that occur in one’s perspective when one does more than merely vacation in another country but lives there life a native.

She was talking about the differences between Canada and Cuba and the subject of health care came up. She explained that Cuban’s have the best health care in Latin America but that it was years behind what we have in Canada. Facilities are antiquated and dirty by comparison.

I was telling this to Rob at dinner.

“What did you say?”

“I just listened.” And I did because the last thing I should do is get started on how horrifying I find Canadian medicentres and hosptials compared to the Cadillac health care I had through my employer back in the States.

My doctor, just as an example, places the instruments he uses for my (close your eyes if you are squeamish) pap test on a paper towel on top of a foot rest. When I go to the doctor – either mine or the at the walk-in clinic, I am not weighed nor are any of my vitals collected for comparison on future visits. There are, as far as I can tell, no real nurses outside of hospitals and even in hospitals, I can’t say for certain there are many nurses.

The hospitals are, um, not like anything I can recall experiencing in person. The closest comparison I can make are those old movies of English hospital wards. There is no such thing as a private room for the average Canadian. No one shows up if you press the call button and if someone does, likely they will have to go find someone else to take care of your problem.

And nothing would pass a white glove test.

Canadians should be proud of the access that everyone has because in the States, my health care and my access were not the norm by any stretch, but what they have here is a far cry from good. It’s bare bones and I understand perfectly why so many people I run into opt for natural medicine and holistic healers rather than brave the “system”.

Revision Boot Camp


Upon arrival, I assisted the instructor in the room set up, moving tables and chairs to facilitate the workshop atmosphere. Set up is very important. I spent a lot of time staring at desks and tables in my day, knowing that the feng shui could make or break me.

Boot Camp is a cross between straight lecture and the writer’s workshop style I was weaned on as an undergrad at Iowa. I have experienced writing courses both ways and prefer the semi-open to the lecture or the free-for -all that a workshop can become under a less than prepared instructor (or just a simply sadistic one). I don’t believe in the competition theory. A writer’s only competition is him/herself when it gets down to it. There is no need for winnowing.

We deconstructed first lines. I went back and forth as far as my interest in the exercise went. At one point I was keenly aware that what makes me a very good teacher impedes me from truly losing myself in the whole “grasshopper” experience. I will blame most of my weariness with the first exercises on actual weariness. I am still living amid reconstruction in my own home as the upstairs is still asunder, and I will own up to not having patience enough to truly listen to others when I am chomping to get going on a project. I wanted to dive in and I forget that I might be the only other person in the room with the English know-of to skip to the more challenging routines.

A plus note here, as an aside, I was affirmed in my suspicions that I have outgrown the generic writing group. Every person in the Boot Camp has a project and is committed to the pursuit of publication. There were no poets. I almost laughed when one woman introduced herself and mentioned as an afterthought that she’d had some poetry published and then literally waved it aside with her hand as if it hardly mattered at all. 

I also realized that I don’t just “think” I am a writer. I am a writer. Being among others of my kind and having discussions about structure, layer, texture and words confirms it and lifts me up spiritually. 

I tried to sit back and absorb but find myself jumping into the conversation though I am curbing my tendency to interrupt (I am like a man sometimes). I worry that when I am expounding I am exposing myself as a fraud. I remember feeling that way all the time when I was teaching. Almost right up until I quit two years ago although by then I didn’t care enough to worry if I was showing my idiot side (I wasn’t. I was good which is sad because being good kept me in the profession too long.)

On the second day, I spoke up even more. I apologized just once for jumping in to clarify a point of the teaching of the subjunctive in the writing process. The instructor graciously let it pass saying it “was okay” and that she wanted the discussions to evolve. Perhaps it was. She is a multi-published author who has sat on literary panels, but we are all just writers around the table. I am grateful she is not the “shut up and listen while I impart my vast wisdom to you” type.

We shared our first lines and put them through paces. Despite what my blogging looks like at times, I do enjoy revision and I have an instinct for editing that, while it isn’t as exacting as Rob’s or Silver’s, is usually right on.

Writing isn’t a carved in stone thing. Even God only did that once as the various holy books of the world are a testament to the fact that he allowed a substantial amount of reworking of his ideas.

Generally the feedback on the novel has been good , but I see now that there is more work to be done than I had originally thought if I want it to be more than just a horror/thriller. Surface novels are fine, but after the third day – when we discussed theme – I realized that I have layered that into the work without realizing. Now that it is clear to me I should capitalize on it.

I am think about changing the titles from Night Dogs to Sundogs at Night or something like that. The first was only ever a working title and I like the imagery of the second.

Anyway, work to be done. I have a rant to send off to the Edmonton Journal about Bill 44. It’s like I woke up back in the States yesterday with its thought police and religious right.

Edmonton LRT


Park N Ride is a clever idea that in no way overestimates its own success. After 10 minutes of circling and a quick plea to the universal creator, I found the only parking space left in the Clareview lot and proceeded with haste to the terminal. The speed was due to my need of a washroom rather than a lateness issue. I was going to be anally early as is my wont when I do anything for the first time.

But the ladies’ washroom was “out of order” and a quick survey revealed that in typical Canadian fashion there was but one single washroom per gender in the entire station. Canadians continue to astound me with their bladder control. It’s ninja-like. Public washrooms are almost considered sissy up here because Canucks possess infinite capacity – unless there is alcohol involved and then their lack of modesty allows them to whip it out or drop trou and squat nearly anywhere.

Realizing the Men’s was the only game going (because a bouncy train and a full bladder equals a bad idea), I hopped in line behind an older gentleman with a backpack.

“Ladies first,” he told me when I explained the situation. “Ladies are always first.”

This was not my first encounter with the homeless on mass transit, but I have always found them more helpful, generous, and polite than the average commuter.

Fifteen minutes from Clareview Station to Enterprise/Bay, providing too little a frame for my nemesis “motion sickness” to set in, and I found myself in the heart of ugliness known as Jasper Ave, the heart of the city. There is absolutely nothing attractive about downtown Edmonton. It’s pre-SkyNet wasteland waiting for the apocalypse. I found a Second Cup (Canadian answer to Starbucks) with ease and passed a bit of time (chronic time anal syndrome side-effect) sipping chai and finishing the new Star Trek novelization, admiring the clever way that all previous canon was so neatly swept away for the new branch of the franchise to reinvent itself. And yes, I should wait to see the film before reading the book, but I have a fondness for Alan Dean Foster, and in the way of the anniegirl nothing is spoiled by spoilers. It merely provides more food for thought and comparison. I read the ends of novels first, always have, and find myself none the worse for my oddity.

On the way to the university, I had another homeless encounter.  A woman, I think, this time turned to me as we waited for the crossing signal at an intersection. Smiling and chuckling a bit, she motioned towards the traffic and said something rather quickly. It was lost in a combination of construction din and tires gripping asphalt. I smiled and chuckled back, as it seemed polite to do so, and this seemed to please her.

I ran the smokers’ gauntlet before entering the building and was immediately sucked into the campus bookstore to the right where I purchased two pocket-sized notebooks to replace the one in my purse that is nearly full and two novels, one of which was written by my instructor.

“Brown noser,” Rob teased when I spoke to him right before class. He wanted to know when I got into the city to be sure I was okay, no problems.

“I just want to know her writing style,” I said. ” See if she is any good. I’m not going to tell her I read it unless I like it. I can’t fake praise for crappy writing.”

“I’ve noticed that about you.”

While I was browsing and lounging in the break-room after our conversation, I noted several middle-aged women with notebooks and pens flying. It’s not fair to presume but Women’s Writing Week seems aimed at the dilettante housewife with delusions of novelist. I got the impression initially from the course selection which highlighted mostly poetry, journaling and memoir courses, the “arts and crafts” section of the writing world. It’s like “mommy-blogging” which I mostly avoid. The majority of women (and men) I read blog more about themselves than any fruit o’ the womb they might have.

When I got to class, the instructor, Lynn Coady, confessed that she titled her course a “bootcamp” to attract the serious about publishing crowd and I noted that two of the ten of us were younger than Mick (formerly MK).

More about the class tomorrow.