In Other Words

My writing muse visits!!

This is the beginning of a story that even I find exciting. It’s just a draft, mind, but my heart was pounding while I wrote it; it feels like something big. I think it will be a fairy tale kind of story, in the style of John Connolly’s Book of Lost Things. But then, who knows.

It has been common knowledge since the beginning, back when two young people ate a certain fruit, that when something is forbidden it only invites more attention. This is why authors love when their books make the list of the damned: there is nothing better for sales. For counter to its purpose, forbidding breeds curiosity. And curiosity very often breeds action, most of the time large enough to change the course of things for all time.

This is the story of two children named Adam and Eve (their parents—who had heard The Story countless times in church and school and who had long ago left behind its morals—thought it was funny), who one day came across something forbidden. And like their predecessors long ago, they did not heed the warning but instead let curiosity rule them. It was in this way our world was changed forever.

Once upon a time…

Boy, I was poisonous yesterday in my Self-Help Sucks post.

I feel immature about it. But we all have those days and I purposely allowed it because it would make me even crabbier to pretend or be dishonest with myself. Honesty makes me feel good. Yes, I can be immature and whiny and feeling sorry for myself. I have pity parties. I rage. I say the f-word a lot on those days. I’m not at my best. It’s shameful.

But it’s okay, I think, so long as I realize where I’m at and get out. So long as I don’t stay in that state. Frankly, it’s too ugly a state to remain in. Even I can’t stand me.

So this morning I’m on a different path. Possibly I feel better because I have today and tomorrow off as well as Thursday and another long weekend after. Possibly this time off makes me feel as though I have some breathing room, finally.

This morning, coincidentally the first day of March, I’m thinking spring. Hop on over to Sirius to see what I mean in today’s guest post.

Since last week we’ve been hearing cardinals and robins, and right now, one such robin is belting his little heart out outside our living room window in the birch tree. Such a juxtaposition to my recent thoughts! It’s music to my ears.

What is making him so happy? I want to know so I can sing too.

You know that feeling you get when you’re angry with your life and the world? The one that makes you sick of everything, that makes you feel like simultaneously roaring with your entire being and crying with what little is left of your sapped energy?

You know that feeling, the one that makes you want to fiercely, viciously rip the skin suit from your body, like unzipping a snowsuit, and step out of it, makes you want to rent the fabric of this world and leap into another, desperate to escape the endless cycle, anxious for something different?

At the same time you feel contradictorily spent, as though all the energy you have would be to simply pop the bubble that is your little life, the one that sometimes joins and sticks to other bubbles but ultimately feels as though it’s your very own and that either you don’t have the power to control its path, or you do and you’re not doing a very good job of it.

You know that feeling? That one that makes you want to flip the finger to the sickeningly repetitive upbeat self-help encouragement? The one that tells you you can change your life if only you forget yourself and change your thinking? The kind that tells you “all you have to do is…”? The kind that says “you can do it too if only…”? The kind that seems to say it’s all your fault, this life, it’s all you, and if it sucks, you have only yourself to blame? The kind that tells you no matter how earnest, how innocently expectant, how visualizing, optimistic, and positive you are, if there’s still no change, you must not want it badly enough, or else there is something in your subconscious that is screwing with you?

You know that feeling you get when you hear all that shit? That’s how I feel today. I know, I know, I know, I say. I know what I’m supposed to do. But. And it’s that but that makes me want to erase this post. That but can be used against me to explain my cyclical life. I know. But I won’t erase this post, because it’s okay to have a bad day.

And then suddenly I think, I was so much better off when I didn’t know any of this crap. I’m supposed to feel empowered. But now all I feel is anxious, guilty, stressed, responsible, anguished, frustrated, and ultimately angry. Why did things have to get so complicated? Now everything bad is all my fault.

Self-help sucks. It sucks because it’s hard, because I can’t do it, and because now I feel like a failure and hyperaware of everything I do and think. It sucks because I like to be good at everything and I’m not good at any of it. It sucks because I feel like it’s my fault that we’re in our situation, because I can’t think right. It sucks because ironically it makes me feel more a victim than I ever have before, makes me feel as though everything is unfair. How come some people can just do it and others struggle at it forever? And it sucks because I can’t find God in the quagmire of my “self-help journey.” But I also can’t find him when I’m believing he’s the one in charge and not me. Where the hell is the in between?

Self-help sucks because it’s telling me that I’m having all these never-ending same issues because part of me is perpetuating them, for all I think of what I want instead. But I’m tired of this cliché crap! And I am tired of feeling hopeful only to have hopes dashed, optimistic only to see the cynical side of things, expectant only to be disappointed. I’m tired of happily visualizing what I want but then seeing nothing change. I’m tired of trying to relinquish control or, contrarily, trying to take it. I.am.tired.of.the.same.old.shit. I am having panic attacks about it, about being trapped and powerless.

I don’t know how to be anything other than me the way I am. I’m the kind of person who sees what she wants and then thinks she has to do something to get it. I have to take control. But it doesn’t often work, and apparently this is because most of the struggle is in the mind. In other words, I can do all I want but if my mind isn’t a 100% on board (even if I feel it is, it probably isn’t. There’s some furtive, elusive thought in there telling me something negative), things aren’t going to work out. At least, this is what self-help tells me.

If it’s stubborness that’s my issue, I don’t know how to give it up. If it’s years of bad influence, I don’t know how to unlearn it. If it’s wrong thinking, I don’t know how to think any other way. I thought I was an intelligent kid, but this kind of enlightenment makes me immature, whiny, and frustrated, not more adept at life. Whatever the problem is, self-help teaches me that nothing will change unless I fix it: unless I think a certain way and don’t give up.

I know I’m whining. I know I’m being negative. I know this is not helping me. Honestly, I don’t want to be stuck. I want quite the opposite, and always have. I’m just so tired of trying to get things right and failing, of expecting and being hopeful only to be disappointed.

My life has been made so much easier by the Internet. I can’t even count the ways.

The Internet is two-headed, though, and unfortunately it’s made my life a shipwreck of sorts, as well—like any addiction. Not that I’m a victim; I let this happen, as powerless as I’ve felt to fight it.

Hi, my name is Steph, and I’m addicted to the Internet.

I’m certain I’ve realized my issue in the past, but never have I noticed it so acutely as this week. I have been procrastinating as though my life depends on it, which is ironic, because—if we are using extremes, and we are since I am an extremist—to a certain extent my life depends on my not procrastinating, especially when it comes to work.

I’m the type of person who needs to get things done, get the obligatory stuff over quickly, before I can do anything else, before I can allow myself free time. Yet I am not getting things done: I am not editing the papers I should have finished long ago (even though their deadline is not for a while). I am not, I realized with a shock last night while brushing my teeth, actively pursuing my dream of setting up Biblio, aside from having bought the domain. I am not asking my boss when indeed I may go to England this year (afraid of what her answer will be), and I am not getting exercise although I’m noticing the repercussions of that. I am not doing anything that might benefit me. Instead, I am vacuously courting the Internet.

That is to say, I can’t get off my stupid laptop. I mindlessly clickclickclick, without even reading half the time, even though I want to stop. I Stumble while my eyes close and my head nods and I feel nauseated from being up too late and from the acknowledgement that I’ve spent the last four hours surfing. Still, I clickclickclick. I obsessively check my blogs, especially Bella’s Bookshelves, every few minutes, not because I want to see who’s reading or how many are reading but because I—because I…well, I’m not sure why. I just want to keep looking at them, at the details, the different pages. I am obsessed with my personal space online. I want to tinker, tweak, post, interact.

Whatever I’m doing online, as I said, it’s keeping me from being productive, from reading and doing other things I enjoy, from spending time with my family and friends (what few I have left, that is), from getting to bed on time, from focusing on moving forward. There are other things I do to procrastinate, say flip through magazines, but surfing is thenumber one culprit.

I admit I am not a tech junkie. I don’t swoon over Blackberries and the like or drool over the latest gadgets. I will never own an e-reader and I don’t even know what my cell phone number is, let alone what the ringer sounds like. But I love computers, their shiny screens, the designs of websites, the look of type, the clarity of excellent photography, the ingenuity of ideas, the overwhelming and unlimited range of information and distraction. Whatever I want, the Internet gives it to me with a simple click or two. Needless to say, it’s exacerbated (at least I still have my vocabulary) my tendency toward instant gratification and created a certain laziness.

The irony of this of course is that I’m whining about this online, but when I say it aloud, no one seems concerned. After all, this isn’t alcohol or drugs or porn. It’s only technology and the Internet, and if that’s your biggest problem, you should be grateful.

Humbug. I want and need my life back. And I honestly don’t know how to take charge. Being online makes me feel somewhat participatory, connected, even if I’m not directly interacting with anyone. When I’m away from the computer I actually feel cut off.

Lately I’ve been lamenting that I know so much. Over the past five years I’ve learned more about how I’m supposed to live my life than I ever accumulated while growing up. And you know what? I regret the information. I wish I didn’t know. Things were much easier when I didn’t know. Ignorance is bliss, they say. In the same way, I kind of wish I didn’t know the Internet existed. Even though things weren’t as accessible or convenient, life was somehow simpler, even easier, before I got a computer, in a funny kind of way. At least I did what I should, and most of all what I valued as important.

I posted this on Bella’s Bookshelves but it’s so interesting to me I thought I’d share it here as well.

Martel and Harper. Photo: nationalpost.com

Yann Martel, author of the brilliant novel Life of Pi, has a very interesting and extraordinary project on the go. It’s called What is Stephen Harper Reading? Every two weeks, for as long as Harper is prime minister, Martel will send him a new book to read, accompanied by a letter. (I’m extremely jealous!) He’s sent 74 books so far and had about six responses, not one of them from the prime minister himself.

You really should check out this site. It’s simultaneously humorous and not at all funny. You’ll see what I mean. It’s quite thought-provoking, in fact.

I’m thinking this would be a very cool project to take on myself, actually—to read the books Harper’s been sent and Martel’s letters with them, and then actually respond. (I feel all these gratis books (what an ideal gift, yes?) are wasted on Harper, unfortunately, but who knows: maybe he secretly reads them before bed and in between sessions and waits with bated breath for the next package?)

My main point for this post, however late I’m getting to it, is this. I just read the About page, and it made me think of the post I wrote only last night. While it is a very interesting and provoking About page, and the entire script made me feel somewhat perturbed (ironically: it’s about being still but I felt moved to do something, though I don’t know what), here is the paragraph that spoke to me most at this particular time.

On March 28th, 2007, at 3 pm, I was sitting in the Visitors’ Gallery of the House of Commons, I and forty-nine other artists from across Canada, fifty in all, and I got to thinking about stillness. To read a book, one must be still. To watch a concert, a play, a movie, to look at a painting, one must be still. Religion, too, makes use of stillness, notably with prayer and meditation. Just gazing upon a still lake, upon a quiet winter scene—doesn’t that lull us into contemplation? Life, it seems, favours moments of stillness to appear on the edges of our perception and whisper to us, “Here I am. What do you think?” Then we become busy and the stillness vanishes, yet we hardly notice because we fall so easily for the delusion of busyness, whereby what keeps us busy must be important, and the busier we are with it, the more important it must be. And so we work, work, work, rush, rush, rush. On occasion we say to ourselves, panting, “Gosh, life is racing by.” But that’s not it at all, it’s the contrary: life is still. It is we who are racing by.

Be still and think about that for a while.

Working on Bella’s Bookshelves has made me read more about the publishing world in general. All I read these days are the incredibly copious obits of indie bookshops and the constant proclamations of how ereaders and ebooks are revolutionizing our reading habits and bookselling trends. One of the pros of ereaders, apparently, is that they are nice and light and thin, whereas books are cumbersome and too heavy to take for a ride on the subway.

And then I read about the supposed “death of blogging”; with the viral popularity of twitter and texting, what do we need blog posts for? Tweeting is faster, thus saving you more time to do…whatever.

In all this I see a certain kind of laziness. As I commented on Quill & Quire recently, books are not inconvenient and too heavy. We are the problem, not the books. If we find them too burdensome, it’s not that which is the issue but rather our fitness. I mean, really, we lug around bags of crap all the time and now we’re going to whine that a novel is too weighty? The novels these days aren’t even that long, for several reasons.

And are we becoming so lazy that it’s not even worth our time to thoughtfully produce meaningful content longer than several lines? Why are we truncating everything, from posts to sentences to individual words themselves? Why are we incapable of concentrating on longer paragraphs or thicker books? Why are we living such abbreviated lives? What is this general trend that is making us, especially the younger generations, increasingly impatient and lazy? It seems to me the only thing we’re not downsizing in some way in the name of “efficiency” and convenience is our diets.

I’m not saying we shouldn’t simplify things. I’m all about simplifying, in fact. And it is conceivable that perhaps the above is not what is happening at all and this is just my perception. The thing is, I’m finding myself inexplicably affected. I am definitely becoming increasingly lazy, and I find it insufferable when I observe it. I’ve always thought of myself as a doer, a go-getter, a motivated or inspired person who gets whatever needs to be done, done, a person who takes the time to be creative and who, while doing things in the easiest but most effective way possible, still doesn’t take shortcuts.

Truly, that’s me—or, rather, that was me. But it’s exactly the opposite of how I am now. I live my life in contradiction: I do almost everything (but mostly stupid stuff) as though it’s my last day on earth and the hours are short, and yet I daily put off things as though I have all the time in the world, things that are important, like exercising, cooking dinner, playing with the dog, cleaning, thinking things through, reading important literature, planning Biblio, getting to bed on time, taking vitamins, filling my water bottle, proofing my posts before I publish them, spending time with my friends, working on editing jobs. It’s become worse in the last couple of years. As the saying goes, laziness pays off now: I’ve become so lazy that I pretty much do whatever I want and grumble about and resent the stuff I must do, like get up and leave for work every morning.

If I let this get out of hand, I will soon find myself likely quite unhealthy, the way things are going. Although I’m certain I’ll never whine that the novel I’m reading is too heavy to carry around (because I love books as much as I love the content in them), I’m really starting to worry.

Thus, I looked up several ways to drag myself out of this mortifying laziness rut. The problem is, the Just Do It approach, or the “Do what I need to so I can do what I want to” approach, doesn’t work for me. I can be the opposite of lazy, too, in some things, and because I’m a person of extremes, I can tend to not allow myself to relax until everything is done. An unbalance results, leaving me possessive of every second of free time, reluctant to leave the house, and wholly overwhelmed and distracted. Hence the laziness to counter that. The more stressed I become, the more work I must do, the more I balk and often, worse, give up altogether (if it’s not something to do with work—though I’m writing this post now instead of editing an article).

So I’m no closer, it seems, to solving this conundrum, this growing personality flaw that was once happily uncharacteristic of me. But if I don’t force myself to act now, it might be that something catastrophic will. And by then, it’s often almost too late. The time I so wish for in which to do all I need and want feels as though it’s running out.

Elderly women, both dead and alive, are haunting me.

Not in a bad way, mind you. Lately I’ve been on about Margaret Atwood, one of my favourite authors—and women. So it makes sense, then, that last night I dreamed of her, and her partner, too, Graeme Gibson. And I’m sitting here now still feeling the camaraderie of our excellent friendship. Lots of laughing and books and warmth. It was a good dream.

On Thursday morning, Colin called me to let me know his grandmother Catherine, who was 91, had finally passed away. I say “finally” because she’d been waiting for it for a long time. She was really ready to go; she felt she’d lived all she could live and had lost interest in pretty much everything, so it was her time.

Obviously, however, it wasn’t, and she lingered for a couple more years. Till she was about 89, she was relatively healthy. She walked, she drove, she had her hair done every week or so, she always dressed impeccably. And she baked fruit pies every weekend, golden, flaky, and temptingly crusted with sugar crystals, which she would take to Colin’s parents’ house to go with coffee after church. She had a heavy Dutch accent, and a sense of humour that slayed me, but that others didn’t seem to notice much. Perhaps they didn’t get it, or thought she was being too blunt. But that was one of the things I enjoyed: she was a woman who unabashedly spoke her mind, as elderly people are wont to do (after all, a lifetime of being tactful becomes wholly tiresome), but what some didn’t notice was the sparkle in her eye. Every time I saw her I gave her a kiss on the cheek, and she me, and she would hold onto my hand as though I was the last person standing. I loved her.

Best of all, she called me Jeff. This was actually for a couple of years at least, out loud and in cards, and perhaps people didn’t really notice because of her accent, or they couldn’t tell because of her flowery writing (I’ve been labelled Steff, rather than Steph, quite often), but one day someone else did hear and corrected her. Maybe Colin’s mom. I never wanted to say anything because I thought it was hilarious and very endearing. I wanted her to have a nickname for me, whether she knew it was a nickname or not. We had a good laugh, when she was told, but I said to her later that she could call me whatever she wanted.

When she ended up in the hospital after breaking her hip and a few other bones in a fall, Colin and I went to visit her. Again, she held onto my hand the entire time we were there, her pale, papery, cool skin soft in my palm. She was very happy to see us but very tired and uninterested in most everything—except bacon and eggs. That’s what she really wanted. Bacon and eggs or “egg toast.” Otherwise, though, she really was finished, ready to give up the ghost then and there.

She wasn’t unhappy or depressing or threatening, she was simply calm and tired. How she felt rubbed off on me and I’ll never forget my realization that if she had closed her eyes and stopped living that very moment, I would have been all right with it. She was so calm and so ready. But it wasn’t her time, I guess. And besides, it wasn’t up to me to give her permission.

This Christmas, the family held an auction (just within the family) of Catherine’s things; the money went to something like World Vision. I chose two of her teacups. The thought of sipping tea from these them, with their history, was really appealing to me.

So this morning, as we wait to go to the visitation, I am sipping Earl Grey in one of her cups, toasting an amazing matriarch and the formidable legacy she left behind. Her family is really huge, and she’s been the head of it alone for nigh on thirty years.

As I drink my tea and since we heard the news, I can’t say I’ve been very sad. More than anything, I feel happy because I have only good memories of this woman. Knowing she’ll no longer be present in body has touched me briefly, but for the most part, I feel very much as though she’s still with us.

Rather than mourn her death, I feel like celebrating her life. Somehow, she seems more tangible to me now than ever.

I just finished watching a rather disappointing movie called Meet Bill, with Aaron Eckhart. Both C and I like Eckhart; he usually makes acting look effortless, but this film left something to be desired. Aside from the not-so-great acting, I’m mainly talking about the story, which left me wanting much more from it than I got.

In a nutshell, it’s yet another story about a man who finds himself in a mid-life slump, in a life that sucks. He’s overweight, hates his job and his boss, is walked all over, his wife cheats on him, ad nauseum. The thing is, I’m attracted to these kinds of stories because I want the character to find redemption, and when they do I find it inspiring.

At the same time, the whole thing made me want to cry because it’s all too real, isn’t it? I mean, it’s the story of too many people’s lives, or at least they live some variation of it. Which is what makes us empathize and ultimately want more from the story. We want the character to ditch his current situation and find direction. We want to see him or her grab the reigns and take charge. In the end, in this movie, he sort of does, but it’s a very gradual and sometimes frustratingly (for the viewer) backward path getting there.

Yet this is also not unlike most of our lives. We take steps forward and then back all the time. We grab hold of an idea but let go all too soon for fear of failure, success, because of discouragment, or because we discover it’s only a quick fix and not really what we want. I’ve wandered through my life up to now never being certain of what I wanted. I couldn’t decide in high school and I graduated from university after five years and a degree still not knowing where I wanted to go or what I wanted to do. I’ve gone from quick fix to quick fix trying to figure that out. I’ve stared in the mirror at bad hair and a less than taut body. I’ve sat on the bed and cried in frustration because “my life sucks and everything is always the same.” This type of thing is all especially hard, I think, for a passionate person.

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about death, and about wasting my life before death. I don’t want to pass my existence on this planet insignificantly stumbling along without direction, questioning what my purpose is, wondering where the time went and lamenting that it was filled with the same meaningless shite day after day after day, and waiting for some catalyst to change that may never arrive. I don’t want to be forty, sixty, eighty, wishing my life was different.

There are actually few things I would change, however, when I look back on my life and the choices I’ve made. I don’t regret going to university, even though it caused so much debt we were forced to go bankrupt. I don’t regret my first marriage, even though it caused terrific heartache and deep emotional damage I still struggle with, even ten years later. I don’t regret many of the jobs I’ve had, either, even though I’ve never been able to stick to one for longer than a couple of years. But I do regret one major thing, and that is letting a fear of success or commitment have an effect on many of the decisions I’ve mad, or, rather, on the ability to make decisions. I regret choosing (even unwittingly) to interpret events, things people have said, experiences I’ve had, in such a way that I became a victim of circumstance, and thus making my thinking cynical and negative.

If there’s one thing I’ve learned so far it’s that my life is really up to me. i know it. It’s probably the toughest thing to acknowledge when you think your life sucks, that it is the way it is because of how you think or the choices you’ve made. It makes you accountable. Everything is a mirror: what happens is a reflection of you. How you think, present yourself, and act determines how people react to you and how events play themselves out.

People may try, but no one can really tell me how to live my life. No one can make my choices for me. If happiness to me means finding purpose in this life and being in my element, and fulfilling that purpose every day as my occupation, then if I want to be happy I’ve got to discern the direction I need to take. Life is not shit and then you die. Happiness isn’t something that either happens to you or doesn’t. It’s something you decide to have.

Some people are happy regardless of their situation. I admire that, but it’s never been me for whatever reason. My definition of happiness is different. It’s being in control. It’s marrying what I’m passionate about with what I do every day. It’s being where my spirit feels at home. I’ve had a taste of that already: I’m happiest making others happy with things I love and know well, especially books and tea. The key is discovering how to create that my own way and make it my full-time occupation. I’m working on it.

I haven’t posted here in a while because of time constraints but also because what free time I have managed to squeeze out of a day (like blood from a stone, it seems!) has been put toward a new project.

While I plan on implementing Brett’s idea of making Biblio real online before I can do the bricks and mortar version, I had another idea as well. Perhaps the two will be melded one day, perhaps not.

Anyway, one late night, or early morning, I can’t remember, I created Bella’s Bookshelves. Bella is short for Isabelle, which some of you may know is my middle name. Steph’s Bookshelves just didn’t have the same ring.

I hope to update it more or less regularly, and I really hope it will force me to prioritize my reading, not only because I want to get back to reading as I used to but also, even mainly, in preparation for when I am the proud proprietress of Biblio. The place occupies my mind now constantly, and a notebook I started on it in 2007 is back out and being scribbled in, along with a copy of Become a Bookstore Owner, complete with CD. It’s a FabJob Guide, no less. And who doesn’t want a fab job? I have to say I was thrilled they chose this as one of their topics!

If you have a favourite bookshop or have a personal library you want to send a photo of, I’ll gladly post it!