Once Upon an Egg-cup

"When the past is recaptured by the imagination, breath is put back into life."
- Margaret Duras

Occasionally the Business Guy catches me staring at small things. By small, I mean things that don't take up a lot of space in the general landscape: not necessarily small in size, but perceived overall as insignificant, therefore not worthy of much space in one's focus. When the BG asks what I'm looking at, I'm not always able to supply a reasonable answer. Such was the case on a recent Sunday morning:

"Um, an egg-cup. It's got a brown egg in it."

Sounds unimpressive, but if the light is hitting it from a certain angle, and it's the Gmunden ceramic egg-cup I bought last time I visited Vienna, and the egg has lovely speckles at one end and not the other, then I figure it's worth catching the details and drawing out the story behind it.

Once upon a time, many years ago, I lived for a year in that most beautiful of European cities, Vienna. For a serious music student, this was mecca. At least twice a week I attended the opera, an orchestral concert, a recital, or the weekly organ concert at St Stephens Cathedral. I learned to speak German, and although I didn't pay too much attention to the specifics of grammar (those word endings, jeez!), I could get around and make myself understood well enough to attend the Musik Hochschule. It took little effort to take in the art and history, as it kind of absorbed through the skin just by walking along the Ringstrasse. It was a fantastic and in some ways difficult year. But mostly it was fantastic.

We lived in a rented apartment in the district of Meidling, where I learned dialect from the kindly shop owners, and in winter I conversed with chestnut vendors who kept warm by their heated oil drums on street corners. I could never resist the sweet, nutty fragrance emanating from those drums, and always purchased a handful of perfect chestnuts, split down the middle and wrapped hot in a paper cone. The vendors and I chatted in our equally fractured German, joking and laughing, and their uninhibited wide smiles under handlebar moustaches provided a lovely contrast to the grimness of the Viennese winter.

Our furnished apartment included old and well-used ceramic dishes, an Austrian specialty from the town of Gmunden. I loved the hand-painted aqua swirls on stern white glaze, which added a touch of whimsy to the meal.

In recent years I've returned to Vienna to visit old friends and re-learn the city, which, with its sophisticated environmental policies, is cleaner and even more beautiful than it was those years ago. The music and art and history remain as vivid and spectacular as ever, and over time I've come to appreciate the finer details of Austrian culture.

What hasn't much changed is the Flohmarkt, a weekly antiques and collectibles flea market where on a recent visit I came across six Gmunden salad plates. Nothing would do but I had to bring them home, so I purchased them for a song and packed them in my carry-on bag. At a department store I found a new Gmunden egg-cup, and nothing would do but... Well.
Which accounts for my gazing at an egg-cup on a recent Sunday morning.

There's a story behind everything. Sometimes you just have to slow down and wait for it to make itself known.

Birdsong, Submissions, and a Sock.

"Get five rejections in a day... Making rejection a goal also takes some of the sting out of it."
- Carolyn Cutler

Someone needs to tell the songbirds it's still winter, but it won't be me. I'm enjoying their arias too much. They accompanied me on my way to the gym today, pealing and burbling through the crisp, -8 Celcius air. I walked on and off the sidewalk, nipping around the four-foot-high frozen-solid snowbanks lining the roads, in my efforts to avoid the one icy patch I'm destined to fall upon. I'm pleased to report I haven't yet found it. Maybe I won't this year.

I finished knitting Sock the First, and am inordinately pleased with myself. It's a fine sock, red and brown stripes not of my doing, but of the clever yarn manufacturer's. The ribbing is a bit loose and there are a few mystery holes, but it seems to fit. Sock the Second is well under way, and is turning out to be rather more svelte, which means I must be finding my groove with the business of knitting with four needles. And it may well mean Sock One becomes also Sock Three, if I can stand to rip it out and knit it all over again, following the philosophy of Writing is Rewriting, ie Knitting is Reknitting.

Or not.

This week's submissions have been most interesting, including a couple of stories sent to an anthology looking for stories written about the sea. Given that the working title of my short story collection is - ahem - Harbour View, this one grabbed my attention. Another story went off to the UK to a print publication that supplies London Underground commuters with reading material - a considerable readership, I should think, looking for a literary diversion to brighten up the ride to work. What a great idea.

It feels good to get my hands on my stories and push them out the door to the ring of birdsong in the cold. They're quite good, I think. The stories, that is. As is the sock.

The Yarn-Whisper

"I don't believe in writing every day though I'm at my desk every day. So much of writing is thinking before you write, reading, or simply brooding."
- Stanley Kunitz

There's snow drifting down. Earlier it was rain, then as the mercury headed towards zero, it turned into thick rain, and now it's that wet, sloppy variety of snow - snowdrops, really.
It all points to knitting.

After spending most of last week compiling and editing Part I, Draft I of my novel, I found myself curiously inert. I needed to do something, but Part II was not forthcoming. So I fussed around the house, cleaning dog-hair-bunnies (created by this fine creature) and baking cookies. I tried all manner of procrastination techniques, but drew the line at scrubbing the toilet for the third time in as many days, and got to work preparing story submissions to journals and contests. Then, drawn by the deepening cold, I pulled out the knitting needles and some scraps of yarn, and started what I thought was going to be a cowl. But when I listened to what the knitting was telling me, I realised it was actually not a cowl, but a hat. In no time I was finished. The thrill!

After admiring my newly-knitted hat for a day, and deciding on the spot that everyone's getting hats for Christmas, I climbed back up to the writer's garret and listened to what Part II was trying to tell me. And then I got back to work.

And no, the metaphor of knitting words together is not lost on me.

High Anxiety

Though an angel should write, still 'tis devils must print."
- Thomas Moore

You would not believe the dreams flying around inside my sleeping head lately.

When I'm hot on the trail of a story, my subconscious flits about in a lively manner, bringing the strangest things to the surface. Of late there have been a couple of dreams involving tragic little girls in ordinary situations made unbearably painful simply by dint of their being tragic little girls. Then there was the dream about a fork. Nothing more to it than that: a fork.

I try not to think about the meaning of my dreams; for one thing I feel they ought to be respected for what they are and left alone, and for another, let's face it: I'm not too deep.

However, during one particularly busy night this week I was visited by two rather classic anxiety dreams, one after another, reflecting two large elements of my life, music and writing.
In Dream #1, I arrived backstage to play a concert ten minutes before the downbeat only to discover that, while I was suitably attired from the waist down in a long black skirt and heels, from the waist up I wore a bright green blouse and - here's the kicker - no lipstick! I raced around backstage like a headless chicken while MJ, our eminently sensible, prepared-for-anything stage manager, found me a black T-shirt. However, neither of us was prepared for the discovery that the black T-shirt had somehow been tie-dyed in brilliant colours reminiscent of the Land of Oz, and would be no more suitable in a sea of orchestra blacks than my bright green blouse. Downbeat was now seconds away, and still no lipstick. Crisis.

In Dream #2, I found myself approaching Page 100 of my novel manuscript, typing like a fury, story flowing from my fingers in the white heat of a creative moment. When I went to save the file, no matter how I approached it, it would not save, would not print. Crisis, mayhem, disaster! I awoke in a cold sweat, gnashing and flailing.

Regarding Dream #1, there are no words (apart from M.A.C. "Captive").

As for Dream #2, I welcome any suggestions on how to manage my growing manuscript before I have a nervous breakdown and lose the whole thing. Immediately would be perfect. Thank you.

Culture Vulture

"Art is life seen through a temperament."
- Emile Zola

For years I've been telling the Business Guy I need to quit my job and start getting some culture. My usual schedule of playing the viola full-time in a symphony orchestra, raising a family, and squeezing in time to write fiction just doesn't lend itself to making time for sitting in the audience at someone else's performance.

I haven't exactly quit my job, but my sabbatical from this year's Symphony Season is certainly giving me ample opportunity to soak up the culture around here. In my own living room I've been devouring great works of fiction, to the tune of a novel or two per week, supplemented by nightly readings of the great Alistair MacLeod's short stories (for the fourth time, if you want to know). There was the Symphonic Art Auction gala fundraiser I attended last week, where I ogled some fantastic artwork. And a couple of weeks ago I attended the Season Opener of the very orchestra from which I am taking my sabbatical.

Most recently I attended a recital where two fine young musicians, a cellist and a pianist, gave an elegant and powerful performance of mostly French music. As it happens, I am acquainted with the cellist, a strapping young guy with fire in his eyes and an intensity to his playing that I saw coming when he was a wee thing in diapers, playing Mississippi Hot Dog on my viola while I babysat him (for three hours at a time; it was the easiest babysitting gig of my life). He knew as a toddler that he wanted to play the cello, and with its C-string and much smaller size, my viola made a good substitute. And now he and his colleague are on the Eastern Canada touring circuit, wowing lucky audiences. It was inspiring to see these young men, the next generation of Canadian musicians, well on their way.

I'm delighted to tell the Business Guy that I'm finally getting some culture. Next week it'll be a pops concert tribute to Ol' Blue Eyes. And who knows, for the first time in 33 years I might actually see the front end of the Messiah soloists! It's all grist for the writing mill, and I didn't have to quit my job to find it.

Violin Lesson

"Writing is not necessarily something to be ashamed of, but do it in private and wash your hands afterwards." - Robert Heinlein

In an earlier chapter of my life I was a violin teacher. I had forty young students, each of whom was positively edible. I adored them all. One of them was a cherubic five-year-old named Stephanie, whose name suited her perfectly, with her cornflower eyes, honey-coloured curls, pink cheeks, and rosebud lips which arranged themselves in a dreamy smile whenever she played her violin. She had a Zen-like approach that was unusual in a five-year-old. I loved that little girl, and would gladly have made her my own if her parents had only seen reason, but I guess they liked her well enough, so I let them keep her. I looked forward to her lesson every week.

One day Stephanie arrived looking sweet enough to eat with a spoon. She unpacked her violin and stood before me, pleased in her Zen manner that she'd mastered Go Tell Aunt Rhody. Her mother sat nearby, bursting with pride over her little Paganini's achievement.

Just before putting her violin on her shoulder, Stephanie stuck a chubby finger up her nose, blessed me with that smile of hers, and proceeded to wipe the contents on her shirt. Then she got on with the business of Go Tell Aunt Rhody.

Resting on her tummy not twelve inches from my face was a peanut-sized booger.
Paralyzed except for my gag reflex, which worked overtime for the next half-hour, I somehow got through the rest of the lesson. Her mother, unaware of the situation, brimmed with aforementioned pride.

My association with Go Tell Aunt Rhody was forever changed by Stephanie's booger. But still I would have made that little girl my own, if her parents hadn't been so unreasonable.

(Somehow placing "booger" and "edible" within picking distance of each other only adds to the grossout factor, doesn't it? Writing tip for the day.)

Ordinary People/Extraordinary Giving

"With ordinary talents and extraordinary perseverance all things are attainable."
- Thomas Baxton

I recently attended a gala arts event. It was a fundraiser for a symphony orchestra; or to be more precise, the orchestra's Education and Outreach program, which strives to enrich the lives of our city's children through exposure to music.

At least two hundred people dolled themselves up; there were suits and ties, dresses and heels, blue jeans and silk shirts; there were frosty glasses of wine and canapes nearly too pretty to eat. In a corner, dressed in tuxedo blacks, a quintet performed music ranging from serenades to tangos. There were name tags for the artists who had donated their talents and time by transforming old instruments into works of art, and then readily given these art pieces to the orchestra to auction at the fundraiser.

It was a show of one sector of our arts community giving support to another, without an agenda, without question, and with great enthusiasm. The artists stretched their own boundaries and artistic vision by trying new things with new media, and they surprised themselves with their artistic growth.

We all admired the flattened, bowl-shaped french horn, wishing more than one of us might take it home and load it up with crisp, red apples. Who among us didn't covet the framed art photo of the insides of a hundred-year-old piano, with its lines and curves reminiscent of an Inuit painting? There were seascapes and cherries painted on old violins and cellos, and a brace of crows perched on the panel of an old piano, surrounded by floral collage. A single hand, fashioned from clay, danced across a section of a keyboard, while nearby daylilies grew alongside torn manuscript, the canvas representing the fleetingness of music in time. It was inspiring to see how far the imaginations of the artists reached, given the opportunity to step outside the norm.
And it was inspiring to see how generous these artists were in their gifts; also the guests who didn't think twice about reaching into their wallets for the orchestra's Education and Outreach program. The artists were happy to be there, pulled from the solitude of their studios and their work. The musicians were glad of the night out and to thank the artists for their kindness. And the guests were happy to be part of this opportunity to help enrich the lives of children through exposure to music.

Gala? Yes. Stuffy? Hardly.

Extraordinary.

Paper Clips

"Writing is easy. All you do is stare at a blank sheet of paper until drops of blood form on your forehead." - Gene Fowler

I've just finished dusting the paper clips. Not individual clips, of course - that would be an exercise in procrastination, wouldn't it?

It started with a blank page; to be precise, the blank page where I left off writing yesterday. While I was staring at it, waiting for the words to come, I noticed some suspicious looking dried-up drip marks freckling the page. Kind of gross, and the source didn't warrant vigorous thought, but I wondered how anyone could be expected to write the Great Canadian Novel in the face of such diversion? So I grabbed a damp cloth and started to clean.

Perhaps a clean page would be more forthcoming with new words, I rationalized; however, the absence of grunge on the screen only served to enhance the layer of dust which remained elsewhere on my desk. Idly I carved with my finger on the dusty monitor the message B hearts BG before attacking it with the cloth.

I would not call this procrastination. One needs a clean workspace from which to produce one's best work, so I dusted happily, and before long the speakers, the monitor, the printer, the keyboard, and the dictionary (OED, if you want to know) were sparkling. The page on the screen was pristine, an inviting, snowy white. With fingers poised over the keyboard, I took a deep breath.

Then I noticed the paper clips, at least the plastic container with the magnetic hole that keeps the paper clips from falling out. It was very, very dusty. So I picked up the cloth and gave it a good doing over.

The blank page waited.

My fingers dangled over the keyboard.

I peered inside the paper clip holder, where I saw a mote of dust.
Shaking my head, I put down the paper clips and got to work writing. Dusting individual paper clips would definitely be an exercise in procrastination. And anyway, my dust cloth won't fit in the magnetic hole.

More on Margaret

"Either the bloody thing will get published or it won't."
- Margaret Laurence (re. The Diviners)

I've had a number of responses to last Thursday's blog, deeply felt emails about Margaret Laurence's work. One was from a writer who felt Laurence's presence during the writing of her own novel, with the reminder to be true to her own voice throughout. Another came from an artist who recalled reading The Diviners years ago, and reacting so powerfully to a dialogue section that she could actually hear the voices speaking. Another reader wrote simply that The Stone Angel and The Diviners are her two favourite books. Period.

I was moved to pull my worn copy of The Diviners off the shelf for the first time in many years. It's seen better days; the pages are yellowing and the inscription bears the confident and slightly curlicue signature "Binnie Brennan, 13J", written when I was Morag Gunn's daughter Pique's age. With a nod to the nearby stack of newer Canadian novels awaiting my gaze, I sat in my reading chair and began.

The opening lines drew me in (see my Writing page), and I haven't stopped reading since. Where I was Pique's age when I read The Diviners in high school, for this reading I am exactly Morag's. Through adult eyes it's a whole new story, and yet it is as familiar as an old friend. What thrills me is that I CANNOT PUT IT DOWN - The Diviners remains one of the finest and most absorbing novels I have ever read. There is no doubt in my mind that it laid the foundation for subsequent Canadian novels, a number of which sit piled by my reading chair, and who knows, perhaps one or two I haven't yet had the chance to write.

Field Trip

"What is written without effort is in general read without pleasure."
- Samuel Johnson

I've been tackling the story whose guts I recently decided I hate. It took some time and a lot of nerve, but last week I completely pulled it apart and started over, adding more new elements than keeping old ones. It was a bloodbath, a ruthless pruning session that left me panting and sweating bullets, but with an entirely new version of a story I need to keep in my collection.
It needed an extra pair of eyes, so I called upon my great friend S., who is both a discriminating reader and a nurse. Where the setting of my collection is a nursing home, I've been throwing stories at her left and right, begging for her expertise. Indeed, S. has been invaluable in keeping me from falling flat on my face out of ignorance on nursing-related matters.

Yesterday S. arrived at the door with her copy of the rewrite, and announced we were going on a field trip to look at the diaper room. The diaper room - how fantastic! Accuracy in writing is so important, and clearly S. felt I needed to get it right about the diapers. I grabbed my notebook, and we were off to the hospital. Within minutes of S.'s poking around the supply room, we had the matter sorted out.

While S. had a few words with her colleagues in the nurses' lounge, I stood in the empty hallway and noted the waiting gurneys, the towel cart, the nose-pinching scent of antiseptic that hung in the air along with a brittle, momentary sense of calm. I thought about the people resting behind drawn curtains, the nurses whose cheerful chatter was making its way to me from the lounge, and I hoped I would be able to do them all justice.

Back at my desk I made the necessary changes about diapers, and realised that I had finally divined the story I wanted to tell. I think.

Submission

"I'm not a very good writer, but I'm an excellent rewriter."
- James Michener

This week I'm preparing a submission for a manuscript competition. It's a first for me, and it's a big deal.

For some time now I've been submitting stories one at a time to literary journals, steadily collecting rejection letters, and a few acceptances. Over the past four years I've been writing my story collection in the same manner: one at a time, and revising as such, each story falling under careful scrutiny as I pick it apart and put it back together in a slightly, or sometimes vastly, different way.

Toward the end of my recent mentorship at the Humber School for Writers, I suspected I had a solid first draft of the story collection. My mentor confirmed my suspicion, and he gave me advice and encouragement about the revising job I had ahead of me. Soon after, I printed all twelve stories and put them in a blue binder. It was a big moment for me to see them as a whole; I went about the rest of the morning with a daft grin on my face, hugging the blue binder. Then I came to my senses and got to work editing. I've been at it ever since.

Rewriting is an exercise fraught with choices. As I prepare the collection for submission, I am making decisions left and right about what to keep, what to omit, and what to develop. For example, late last week I decided I hated one of the stories' guts, and would have been happy to run it through the shredder and line the kitty box with it. Alas, the story is crucial to the collection, so I'll have to find another way of telling it, and use something else to line the kitty box, necessity being the mother of invention in both cases.

Deciding on the order is a whole other matter, as one story links to the next and causes a ripple effect on how the larger picture unfolds. It's a big responsibility, and an even bigger thrill. This submission is the culmination of four years of writing and rewriting, and further rewriting on top of more rewriting. You get the idea. It's a big deal.

(Incidentally, The Oxford English Dictionary gives several definitions of "Submission". Here are two of my favourites:

1. humility, meekness, obedience, submissiveness.

2. (in wrestling) the surrender of the participant yielding to the pain of a hold.
Ouch.)

Sabbatical

“You can’t wait for inspiration. You have to go after it with a club.”- Jack London


The launch of my website coincides with the beginning of a long-held dream of mine, which is to take a year and write full-time. It’s not that I have any complaints about my day-job, or should I say night-job, as a musician in a symphony orchestra. For thirty-five years I have played the viola, twenty of which have found me luxuriating in the viola section of Canada’s finest chamber orchestra, working full-time as a professional musician. I’d be hard-pressed to improve on the job of playing with outstanding musicians under the direction of the late Maestro Georg Tintner, and currently, Bernhardt Gueller, bringing musical masterpieces to enthusiastic Maritime audiences on a weekly basis.

And yet… and yet. For as long as I’ve been obsessed with playing the viola, there has been a compulsion in me to write. Just as I love the physical act of having rich and beautiful sounds pour out of my viola, of feeling the vibrations of the music right down to my toes, so do I love the physical act of writing, whether the words are flying from pen to paper, or from under the keys at my fingertips. I love the triumph over the blank page, of filling notebooks and sheets of paper with prose. Making stuff up brings me joy.

The hard part, where the art lies, is in the rewriting. It takes time, and I have happily put in what spare time a working musician and mother-of-two can find. To my delight, three of my short stories have been recognized by literary journals*, and one of my children’s stories has been blessed with a stage production. “Blow in my ear,” as my mother would say. Give a writer a little encouragement, and watch out. This is where my sabbatical year comes in.

I plan to keep a blog account of my writing efforts over the coming months. My hope is to update it twice a week on Tuesdays and Thursdays. If you hear from me less often, it could mean good news, I’m on a roll with my fiction writing. Or maybe I’m off playing my viola, which I can’t imagine completely abandoning. Then again, there could be an onslaught of blog posts, which might be symptomatic of writer’s block.

Writing isn’t easy. Inspiration isn’t handed to anyone on a plate, and rewriting is hard, hard work. It all needs time, and right now, for the first time in my adult life, I have time to write. Wish me luck.

*Links: The Adirondack Review, Glossolalia (Iss 1:1), Existere (Fall 2007)

The Reluctant Blogger

"I love being a writer. What I can’t stand is the paperwork.”- Peter De Vries

“You need a website.”
“No, I don’t."
“Yes, you do.”
“No, I don’t."
“Yes, you do. You need a website and you need a blog.”

Thus began the supper conversation between me and my husband, the Business Guy. We’d had this chat before. I’d resisted. He’d persisted. I’d resisted again. Now he was persisting, yet again. I paused to chew my broccoli. Swallowed. Picked up the conversation where it left off.

“No, I don’t.”
“Yes, you do.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Yes, you do.”

The Business Guy has the persistence of a drill, which accounts for his success in business. I chewed on a piece of carrot, slowly, so as to arm myself with just the right words to strengthen my argument. This wasn’t going to be easy.

My husband jumped in, which was hardly fair, as I was still chewing.

“You’re a writer. You need to promote yourself and your work if you want your writing to be read.”

The Business Guy is right. I know this, but still I cringe at the thought of putting my words Out There.

Most writers I know are shy and private people. These personality traits are enormously helpful in fostering the rich inner life that nurtures small thoughts and inspirations into something interesting for the world to read. Therein lies the paradox: Writers need readers. Readers means people. And there you are, Dear Reader, out there in the public space known as the Internet (or “Interweb,” as a behind-the-times character in the excellent Eugene Levy/Christopher Guest film “For Your Consideration” calls it). And here I am, hiding behind my computer, about to press “Post” on my first-ever blog, which will appear on my first-ever website, http://www.binniebrennan.com/.

Gulp.

I am the reluctant blogger.

Truly, I am paralysed by the thought that a solitary web-surfer might stumble across this and actually read it. But as a writer I do want my words to be read. And the Interweb – pardon, Internet – seems a good way of helping things along.

Thus it is with considerable trepidation that I breathe deeply and say, “Yes, I do.”

Welcome to my blog.