ruthwalker's posterous

In a Phony War, you can't voice your deepest preoccupations because they sound like hysteria -- author Stephen Henighan, in Geist 77

I read those words by author Stephen Henighan last summer and they unnerved me so much that I had second thoughts about flying to my son's wedding in Texas.

No, Henighan wasn't offering an exposé on terrorists plots, though there was a mention of war there. His "Phony War" instead, recalled September 1939 to early winter 1940 in England, when WWII was a lot of talk but not much fighting action. That changed soon enough and the UK endured horrific bombing during the Blitz.

Henighan's point is that we are in a phony war of our own: the war on climate change. His argument is cogent and compelling. What now seems do-able with swirly light bulbs and turning off our computers and printers at night will be seen as ridiculous thirty years hence. Of course, it will only be seen as such by those who survive what he suggests will be cataclysmic climate change. Of course, he couldn't predict the earthquake and tsunami in Japan, anymore than he could predict the subsequent nuclear crisis there. But the words in his opinion piece in Geist took on even greater weight when you realize those nuclear stations were built on a known active fault line to satisfy an ever-increasing need to power up the things we think are so essential in modern society. Japan. The United States. Canada. Everywhere, we need our power. Or do we?

The irony is not lost to me of writing this on a computer and posting it on the Internet so other computer-users can access it.

And yes, I still flew to my son's wedding. Walking was ridiculous. A car or bus ride were ruled out. But as I enjoyed the celebrations surrounded by my family and my son's new family, I couldn't avoid seeing the massive infrastructure of Texan air conditioners and water irrigation systems in a whole new light. And I looked at my chubby cheeked grandson, all suited up in his tux and dancing at his parents' reception then wondered: What happens when the water disappears? I recommend you read what Stephen Henighan has to say at http://www.geist.com/opinion/phony-war.

Then think about turning off more than a few lights and your printer. I'll try for less in my life but know in my heart, my efforts will still be far too little and likely, too late.

Follow Ruth on Twitter: @imruthwalker
Send Ruth a message: walkwrite@sympatico
Book a workshop or retreat with Ruth at: www.writecape.ca

I've been waiting for spring like an adoring dog waits for the family to return home. This year's winter had me firm in its frigid grip and lately, I've found myself mournful about this relentless, never-ending season of snow and chill and damp. Three days a week, I walk for about 30 minutes from Union Station in Toronto up University Avenue to where I work at Queen's Park. At the end of my work day, I take the opposite route.

I've been doing this walk for a couple of years now; it's invigorating and it's healthy.

But I have to say I was getting discouraged. Why on earth should I even expect to see spring in early March in southern Ontario? It makes no sense. Nonetheless, I was resenting more and more each cold, snowy and miserable morning.

Today, however, I saw two inches of tiger lily leaves poking up like nervous fingers in one of the Queen's Park garden beds. And the birds were singing wild things from inside the evergreens. Overnight, the rain has washed out most of the heavy snowfall from the day before. There be grass, barely green but grass, nonetheless. It was, to my eyes, hopeful. I could even ignore the cold wet; after all, it was a light rain and not snow.

My need for spring has been around for a while. Here's a poem inspired by a winter a few years back that I was clearly in need of getting through.

Celebration Found In The Gutters

A late winter runoff

licks the curb and races under

rock-hard snow crusts

cold enough to be frozen inside

a sun warm enough to melt the surface.

 

Ah, it’s relentless

spring’s coming and winter will just retreat

gather her icy skirts and step off

tiptoeing through mud and a season’s

tired garbage turned to cardboard muck.

 

We won’t miss her.

Not one bit.

 

She’s like that once-a-year relation

obligation dripping from her bloodless

hands as she grips your cheeks

pulls you close

for a mandatory kiss that never seems to end.

Best just to take it

knowing that seasons always change.

I had a lovely visit with my grandson Kai last night. For many grandparents, that's not really a big deal. But for this grandparent, it was spectacular.

First, he asked to talk with me. Second, he lives 2,695 kilometres away.

Oh the wonders of the Internet-connected world and the joys of Skype. Just two-and-a-half years old, Kai knows to point at the computer screen, call out to his dad or mom "Granmaw" and something amazing might happen. If either of his grandparents are at home, the computer screen will turn into a two-way video shot and we can see and hear each other.  Such a wonder.

I remember going to see Stanley Kubrick's 2001 A Space Odyssey at the Glendale Theatre in Toronto. It was all so thrilling -- the trick camera shots, the special effects of "outer space" that still hold up fairly well. But I clearly remember watching the videophone scenes and thinking to my teen-aged self how neat that will be one day...in the future.

Oh my god. I have lived to see the future. And given the apocalyptic vision of many of those other films from the past, I am a  bit worried. If videophones could come to pass, so to could the wastelands and horrors, and...

But then I have the face of my grandson Kai. Round-cheeked little cherub, his favourite book right now is the one we got for him that has a Canadian icon for every letter of the alphabet. And his favourite letter last night? 

Z. For Zamboni. 

And I don't even care if he pronounces it zee. It is just such a lovely treat to hear his voice and see his face. So, about this future thing? I may be worried but I am also an optimist. It must be the grandparent thing. I can see the future and it's looking really good. And it blows the most amazing kisses over Skype.

What is it that entices people to not follow guidelines? I am referencing submissions guidelines, and in particular, writing contest guidelines. I have some experience here;  I've administered, judged and entered writing contests for over a decade. International contests, some of them. Some with prestige and publication on offer, and some with some significant financial reward for winners.

As a contest administrator, I cannot tell you how disappointing it is to receive a well-crafted and brilliant piece of writing that I must eliminate because it did not meet the rules and guidelines. A maximum of 70 lines of poetry does not mean 73. Likewise, if the contest is a prose competition, your 73-line poem will not get seen by any judges.

As a final judge, I appreciate that I receive only those finalists whose entries, at a minimum, adhere to the basic rules and guidelines. Before I see them, others may have determined the quality of those finalists, eliminating ones that kept to the word count or submitted work in the appropriate form or genre but were not as compelling or well-crafted as the 10 or 20 I have to review and choose a winner from.

So clearly, following the guidelines is not enough to guarantee you make it to the finalist list. But NOT following them will almost certainly get your entry relegated to the NO list.

Two Most Important Tips for entering contests:

1.            Follow the rules and guidelines. If you are not sure, ask the contest administrators.

2.            Review your entry at least twice before you send it and make sure it is as close to perfect as you can make it.

Oh yes. One more thing. Enter contests. They have deadlines and deadlines are uber-fuel for most writers. And let me know when you win one. I always like to celebrate other writers' success.

There is something delicious in the air when the unexpected happens in the world of writing.

The Best Laid Plans by Terry Fallis is a hilarious political satire set in Canada. It won the Stephen Leacock Medal for Humour in 2008 and just today, was proclaimed the winner of Canada Reads, the CBC program that pits Canadian novels against each other to vie for THE book that all of Canada should read in 2010. Canada Reads is a nail-biting, five finalist, head-to-head and page-to-page debate by five champions for each novel. His book was up against some incredible competition, including Ami McKay's The Birth House, another favourite of mine.

Strangely, he could not sell the manuscript to a publisher or agent for love or money. I can just imagine what they said to him back then: "Who wants to read about Canadian politics?" (Too bad they didn't learn from the many publishers who said to J. K. Rowling about her first manuscript "Who wants to read about a boy wizard?")

Fallis eventually gave up on the traditional route and podcast his novel in weekly segments. He had listeners all over the world who loved the story about political happenstance and hilarity (with a nice dose of sweet and tender loss to keep it real). He started getting fan mail. Encouraged, he paid for a press to publish his book. And in 2008, with only 10 copies remaining of his self-published book, he packed them off to be considered for the Leacock Medal competition.

When he was shortlisted for the Leacock award, he had agents and publishers taking notice. He was, putting it mildly, surprised. I've met Terry Fallis a couple of times, as a breakfast speaker at The Writers' Community of Durham Region and as a seminar leader at the Ontario Writers' Conference. And he is a true gentleman; approachable, engaging and rather amazed by the journey his novel has taken him on. I have no doubt that he is pinching himself this evening. And I suspect one day, he will be walking a red carpet somewhere for the movie premiere, still in a state of wonder and delight.

Terry's success is a beacon to us all, as we writers struggle to be published. In this new age of digital books and downsizing publishers, here is a writer who took his marketing savvy and showed the rest of us how it can be done.

So you see, nice guys do not finish last. They are first-class in every way. Bravo Terry Fallis. And encore!

---------- Forwarded message ----------
From: Ruth Walker <rwwalkwrite@gmail.com>
Date: Mon, Feb 7, 2011 at 11:23 PM
Subject: The Simple Joy of Being with Writers
To: ruthwalker@posterous.com

Playing with Words is my 6-week writing workshop. It is open to writers at all levels -- from beginners to advanced. Today is week five and I am already feeling a bit wistful about our last class next week.

I am passionate about teaching -- I get charged by the energy of the people in the room, by watching the pens move on the page, by noticing when the writer shifts from the conscious act of writing to complete absorption in the creative act. Sounds rather squishy, I know, but it is quite remarkable to observe. Frankly, it is a bit like a sacred moment.

I am humbled by the tremendous support shown by the writers for their peers in my Playing with Words class. They are true colleagues and their careful and active listening and feedback for one another is pure gold -- writers at any workshop would be thrilled to receive the insights and observations made by this group. I have taught at dozens of workshops, some extending over several years. I've been at college-level classes where I had to assign marks. I've run week-long residential writing retreats. I've visited high school classes and worked with senior citizen groups. I've enjoyed them all. I've been challenged by most. And I always learn wonderful and valuable things about my craft when leading creative writing workshops.

But I must say there is something quite special about the Winter 2011 Playing with Words group at the Whitby Public Library.

Week Six looms on the horizon. I will celebrate their success in all that they've accomplished. For some, it has been a considerable shift in how they view their craft. For others, it has been affirmation. But for this creative writing instructor, it has been 100% pleasure.

And that, for me, is part of the simple joy of being with writers.

May the muse be generous, always.
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