Sometimes Ya Just Gotta Feel The Feels

I’m not writing these days —

And I miss it.

For the first time in what seems like forever, summer passed without hours of frantic typing and a constant glance at the clock to see how many hours I had left each day to pound out a new book or screenplay.

Why?

I started the summer with Covid, which wasn’t a huge surprise since I took a chance and travelled to the Banff World Media Festival in June. A few thousand delegates hollering in each other’s ears in close quarters did the trick. I hope it was worth it — the jury’s still out. A lot of delegates went home with Covid, then got busy with projects and vacations, so I have yet to sign any new contracts. I pitched five projects and will continue to seek production partners and financing to get some made.

I spent my summer nurturing those projects and relationships and trying to find ways to create some stable income in the meantime. Film is feast or famine, in case you thought it was glamourous. And it ain’t easy to make your books visible on Amazon when yours are just a few of the seven or so million out there.

There are days

I wish I could just write. What I would give to go back to scrawling out the Drifters books. Unequalled joy and bliss, disappearing into another world with friends ‘from another town.’ These days, mired in the pandemic headspace as countries wage a war that feels not-so-distant, and friends suffer with loss, it can be hard to find joy.

I try

to keep things in perspective. Will I ever be one of my country’s best authors? Will I become a renowned and remembered figure in Canadian literature? Am I a known Prince Edward Island writer and filmmaker? Do those things matter? Nope. I’m healthy. My man is well and kind and good. My son loves spending his days studying design and practising his skills with his business, Humble Hound. My parents are doing fabulous.

But something’s amiss. I can’t find my mojo.

It went wherever the writing went. It’s hidden between the faded, discoloured keys of my old MacBook Pro. It got buried at my summer camper, where I used to write with reckless abandon, a Twin Shores Campground cinnamon roll and a grocery-store Starbucks cold brew coffee sweetened with maple latte creamer at my side. Neighbours mowing lawns nearby, cats cuddled up on chairs, their adorable fur alight with the morning sun. A bumpy bike ride to Sacred Beach to watch the fishing boats before settling down to write. Twinkling stars at night — and sometimes a falling star , a wishing star — to stir up fantasies of dreams that should come true. Campfires, sunsets, friends. A view that never quite feels real — picturesque and lovely, the sparkling water of the Darnley Basin, fishing boats dotting the waves, red sandstone cliffs and emerald green fields, a quaint white church steeple poking up in the distance. The kind of beauty that reminds me that I am but a pffft of dust in the great scheme that is the universe.

I sank a little further

into the abyss after my beloved camper flooded. It was the last straw. I was struggling to find an editor for the proof of concept I shot in May, Steve got Covid, family visited, life got derailed. Then the flood came. At first a glistening puddle on the kitchen floor, seemingly unattached to anything obvious, like a leaky fridge. A camper friend and Steve put their heads together and identified a deteriorated fitting on the hot water heater. The entire underbelly of the camper, insulation and all, was flooded. About twenty feet of it.

It didn’t take long

for the heated summer days to swell the moisture into a soaking wet mass of smelly chipboard. My lungs protested. After three weeks, a month early, I gave up and abandoned ship. We cleared out the camper and it was hauled yesterday to be poked and prodded and investigated. We’ve been told black mold will set in, that the camper should be written off.

That camper is a dream.

Its best feature was the panoramic windows I stared out of every day as I wrote, my head bent over ‘my spot’ at the kitchen table. We looked for years to find the right camper. There is no other like it. It was old (2009) but it was good.

So now

I am back home, away from our plot in the community garden that is abundant with the fresh vegetables we planted and weeded, away from dipping my toes in the warm water at the beach, away from lazy weekends of reading with my toes buried in the sand and a cool beverage at my side. My view of the outdoors is now relegated to leafy trees. That’s not so bad, I adore trees and am grateful to breathe in their healthy goodness. But I need water, and it was a shock to suddenly be forced FROM water BY water. The sun is still shining and the air outside is fresh but I am indoors. The cozy lawnmowers have been replaced by sirens and trucks and construction saws and a motorcycle a neighbour seems to run for an hour straight every morning. Noise. SO. MUCH. NOISE. I stare at a screen and have never felt so trapped.

So enclosed. So utterly, entirely enclosed.

All along I have been saying, “It’s okay, my problems are nothing. Others are TRULY suffering.” And they are, and their suffering hurts my soul because I am unable to help. I AM HELPLESS. I feel like the water that destroyed my oasis is all the unshed tears I have yet to cry while I scream to the heavens. I want to ask WHY WHY WHY — WHY the pandemic, WHY the pain my friends are going through, WHY the war, WHY the suffocation of being forced indoors when there is so much light and open sky and freshness left outside?

And WHY can’t I disappear into another story, because that was always my safe place, my place to hide, my place to disappear from the things that hurt?

But mostly — WHY am I glossing over the truth and pretending everything is okay when it isn’t?

How many of us continue along on our journeys with our truths buried — how many of us are afraid to let go? How many of us allow ourselves to truly ‘feel the feels?’

A favourite line from an old fave film, The Horse Whisperer, came to mind the other day — “I know where he goes.” Look it up. I always thought how lucky I was to go there while I was writing. But now I know the truth.

I need to be strong — no more hiding. No more asking Jessie and the other characters in my stories to feel the feels for me. I gotta feel them myself. Not bury them. Not let the trailer’s flood be my tears.

I gotta shed my own tears.

And maybe then I’ll be able to sit down and write.

What's In A Name, Anyway?

SOME of you know that I like to use family names in my books. Back when I wrote my first (as yet unpublished) novel, A Certain Kind Of Freedom, I decided, almost on a whim, to select family names for different characters.  But, until recently, I didn’t realize the impact this seemingly haphazard choice would have - on me, and on my family members. Maybe this was because I didn’t think family would take any interest in the books – the Drifters series is, after all, women’s fiction with an angsty romantic flair, which isn’t, let’s face it, everyone’s chosen genre.  Or maybe the decision to use family names was such a casual thing at the time that I didn’t think much beyond the obvious, which was, ‘oh let’s have fun and throw some family names in there.’

Let me explain further.

My dad moved our family to Prince Edward Island when I was four months old. He was a teacher, and he came in search of a job. We were Mahoneys then; a motley crew of four rambunctious, creative kids and two dedicated parents who carved ourselves a place on our beloved island of red mud and patchwork fields. Our parents came from New Brunswick (I was born in Perth-Andover, a hamlet on the Tobique River that generally floods around the time of my birthday, which explains SO much). My dad spent his childhood in Johnville (near Florenceville, the home of the famous McCains); as a child, my mom raised a passel of soft white bunnies in the rural landscape of Norton, between Sussex and St. John.

As kids, us Mahoneys cherished occasional trips ‘over across’ to the mainland, to hang out in the lands of our parents…in Johnville, where we picked out tunes on the piano, where the old green screen door slammed shut behind us with a springy country twang, where we roamed the fields, went swimming in the pool in nearby Bath,  where we went to the white church up the hill on Sundays (it once got hit by lightning while I was in it – that, too, explains a lot, lol). Where I won my very own doll in a raffle at the Johnville Picnic, where we patted the little black dog (what was his name?). In Norton, where we learned about ponies and horses, where we pretended the hay wagon was the saloon, where we cuddled kittens and ate full meals of farm fresh veggies, where we rode atop the hay wagon when it was loaded - nestled amongst cousins while trying to choose bales that weren’t too unstable, lest one fall over, taking a cousin or two with it - where we ran around with Tippy, Grammie’s collie, and where we played hide-and-seek in the hayloft.

So many wonderful memories, about a time of innocence and hope. About places that I don’t think I realized how much I missed until last week, when my sister Kathy and I jumped into her small Mazda and pointed it towards the Confederation Bridge (in the old days, we took the ferry…) so we could make the drive to Norton to attend my aunt’s wake.

It hit me, when I was standing amongst cousins and aunts and uncles I haven’t seen in ages (some I have not seen for decades) that we missed a lot when we grew up isolated on our island, passing holidays with board games and quiet evenings of reading, while our country relatives got together for fiddling concerts (in Johnville) or nights watching Elvis entertain from the TV in my grandparents’ cozy living room (in Norton), with grandkids / cousins flopped around the room on crocheted cushions or leaning happily against the warm oil stove.

I always felt accepted during our visits over across, then, like I belonged somewhere. I was chatty and dreamy, probably annoying and sometimes underfoot. But I was amongst people who kinda had to like me, 'cuz they were family. And they were good family. I still remember Grammie Kelly scooping ice cream for the grandkids out of the big freezer in the sunny porch. Somehow, that ice cream tasted unbelievably good. I think it had to do with the happy light in Grammie Kelly’s eyes as she handed it to me – this woman who wore thick 1940’s stockings and who taught me that kittens really love to be scratched behind the ears (my cat Oliver thanks her daily).

Cousins! So many awesome cousins :) Norton, at the Kelly farm.

These days, I admit, I feel incredibly disconnected. From everyone. I’ve written about this before, and I think a lot of it has to do with our world today, with this constant stress and preoccupation with ourselves, with our own busy lives, with technology’s insistent demand for our attention. And maybe a lot of it is my fault. But I just don’t feel like any conversations ever go beyond the surface. Even with Steve. We just don’t go there. Life has become surface level and it makes me lonely.

Back to the family names in my books. There was a moment at the wake that crushed me, that made me want to grab my sister’s arm and sink to my knees. It hit me how much I need those roots, those old family roots, so I can feel like I belong somewhere again. It hit me that using those family names in my books was never really a casual thing, will never be a casual thing, and will, forevermore, be something I commit to that receives the respect those names deserve.

We were going through the line of cousins and had stopped in front of my aunt’s coffin. Judy was my mother’s younger brother’s wife. To me, she was strong, kind, caring, tolerant of a constant myriad of busy children nipping at her ankles, and nice to me - that dreamy, probably annoying kid. The kid who had hope that she would one day have a family like Judy’s – a loving husband, four or five kids. Grandkids.

Mike and Judy had each other for 49 years. Take a moment to give that number the respect it deserves. My marriage lasted less than three years. The large family I dreamed about became me as a single mom of one amazing kid. In the Drifters books, Jessie and Josh have kids. They have a network of close friends. I long for what they have. For what my aunt and uncle had. I long for what I missed.

I’m being brutally honest here because, at the moment I turned to my uncle, who was always a quiet man amongst a boisterous crowd of many, I took this in. Their longevity and what it meant, over good times and bad. At the time, I wasn’t making it about me, for what I lost, although obviously I’ve let myself dwell on this since. No, I was seeing his trembling hand on the polished wood of his wife’s coffin. I was seeing the passage of time – I was feeling the scratchy hay under my butt on a wagon being pulled along a country trail by my grampie, whose tired shoulders slumped over his old white plodding David Brown tractor as the hot August sun tanned my outdoor-kid skin.

And what do you suppose my uncle said to me, after I hugged him and mumbled some probably incoherent version of ‘I’m sorry’?

He said, “I read your first book. I hear there’s a Michael Kelly in the books.”

This was after he had to take a moment. After he turned away and more firmly gripped the edge of the coffin. After he looked upon his wife of 49 years as his four children, and some grandchildren, and many loving friends and relatives, buzzed around behind us.

I was humbled. Touched. Floored. He, of course, is named Michael Kelly. And yes, there is a Michael Kelly in my books. In book five, if you haven’t gotten that far yet. The storyline with Michael Kelly and Kelly Reilly came to me in a dream. They were going to star in their own book, but somehow they just fit into Jessie’s story. The dream was the rare kind, where I could see and feel them, as if they were real. I think in the dream I may have been Kelly – I remember sitting in an airplane, on an aisle, and looking back over my shoulder to spy Michael, sitting in the aisle opposite, a few rows back. I recall his hair – the look, the style, the texture. And I remember the feeling that washed over me. The feeling that I loved this man. So lucid, so real. In the dream, he was my manager. Whatever it meant in the dream is not of consequence now, I suppose. Kelly and Michael became fictional characters in book five.

And Michael Kelly, as readers know, is a good man. A man who survived tragedy. A man who found love, who may just get his own book someday because he is an intriguing character who captivates me.

I think he is a man who deserves his own book. And when I write it, I will give him the respect he deserves. The respect the real Michael Kelly deserves.

I pray I get to reconnect with my cousins again. I’m planning to extend an open invitation to the Kelly side to come to Prince Edward Island over a weekend this summer. I need the connection, so I hope they come because, I am guessing, perhaps some of them need the connection too. We need to find our roots again, to plant ourselves more firmly in the here and now, via the past.

Via a time of innocence and childhood wonder and hope, before life took over and left some of us lonely.

I’ll tell you what’s in a name.

 

Heartache, joy, laughter, love, sadness. Defeat, despair, agony, hope, ecstasy, warmth, kindness. Family. The human experience, with all of its awe and pain.

A soul.

That’s what’s in a name.

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I Heard. I Hear.

So I went to a pop concert last Friday night. I couldn't help myself. I'm a music junkie. I need music in my life.

A few summers ago, I had the great pleasure of discovering one of the most entertaining, quirky bands on the planet, Walk Off The Earth (WOTE). My guy (Steve) and I had popped down to a free night of music in Charlottetown in celebration of Canada's Sesquicentennial (I'll do the math for you - that's 150 years). From the opening hum that completely energized the rambunctious crowd, til the last note died away, we were both held captive by the harmonies and on-stage antics (y'all know about the viral video featuring five band members playing one guitar). I vowed to try to see WOTE again whenever possible, so when Steve and I started planning a trip to Vancouver to visit my son, Christopher, I was happily surprised to find that Walk Off The Earth was playing in the city a few days after my birthday. The trip got booked the second we knew we could get concert tickets.

Walk Off The Earth is an incredible stage act. Their music is fun, intense - a bit poppy, I suppose. Their stage presence is choreographed the way Shakespeare focused on the use of words. Every step is weighted and sure; every movement is precise and intentional. Add the music and you've got some sweet entertainment on your hands.

Walk Off The Earth (WOTE)

The band was not the headliner. Vancouver's Marianas Trench was. Now that's a pop band, although I see they bill themselves as Emo-pop-punk (there's a handle...). I've heard many of their tunes and I like the band okay. But I was there to see Walk Off The Earth, to celebrate my birthday with music I cherish and a stage act I love; a band whose songs often inspired certain sections of my Drifters books, in fact (the Seattle concert in book eight? Rule The World. Hold On (the break)). 

Kieran Mercer

I knew what to expect from WOTE but I was humbled and surprised at the impact Marianas Trench had on me. It was unexpected and actually left me somewhat suspended.

The second surprise of the evening was a young artist by the name of Kieran Mercer. To my knowledge he wasn't on the bill when we booked the tix but I enjoyed his music and was happy to hear some new tunes by an up and comer, as a sort-of added bonus, I guess you could say. My son's comment about Kieran's act was that he liked his voice. As a drummer, Christopher speculated that the guy behind the skins likely had some serious jazz training, which was evident in some cool riff the guy played near the end.

"That guy has talent," Christopher said. 

There was some real musicianship on the stage that night. WOTE blew us away. Marianas Trench actually left us speechless at times. MT lead singer (and writer) Josh Ramsay even left Steve humbled. Josh gave everything he had to give. And by this I mean a raw energy that I know everyone in attendance appreciated on a surface level, but I'm not sure the young girls in the crowd (yep, lotsa those) had a clue that what they were witnessing on stage was some guy pretty much bleeding on stage. 

Think about it - pop music is, in many cases, swept under the rug as superficial fluff. Surely Josh Ramsay (and Kieran Mercer and Gianni and Sarah and the rest of WOTE) are not putting the poetry of Leonard Cohen on stage. Hallelujah? Don't kid yourself. I can't compare the three acts I saw Friday night to Cohen or to any other artists. But I don't need to. Each was its own special act. Everyone poured their soul onto the stage and shared, with an arena full of appreciative fans, what hurt the most. What made them tick, what made them bleed, what made them suffer.

What gave them hope.

WOTE's Home We'll Go ("You've seen the darkest skies I know") breaks my heart every time I hear it. ("Let your soul shine bright like diamonds in the sky"). If you've read my books, you can guess that when I hear this song I think of Jessie singing to Josh. I can see her reaching a hand out to him, begging him to trust her, to let her care for him. To give in, to just let himself be loved by her. So...I can't help but wonder who WOTE is singing about. Who wrote the lyrics? Who are these poignant words meant for?

I want to reach into the heart of the song and spread light and hope to whoever needs it.

Marianas Trench

Marianas Trench...well. Personally, I don't know a lot of artists who pour such angst into their music. And by this, I mean the lead singer, Josh Ramsay. Apparently he's the main writer - the other guys in the band add the icing and trim to the music Josh sends their way. And it's Josh who bleeds all over the stage. So...at the concert I sat back and soaked up the 'pop' songs I knew, but as MT continued to perform tune after tune, I found myself squinting in curiosity. And cocking my head to better hear the lyrics (no easy feat in a big open arena like Pacific Coliseum). A wave of energy swept over me when I was finally able to settle down enough to realize that Josh (and the band) were more than your average pop band. Disguised (?) in their lyrics were depths of pain and angst communicated via music that, on some levels, actually had me concerned for the singer. Sure, he was all over the stage putting on a show that included more than a few F-bombs (I cringed - my characters swear, I occasionally curse, but there were young kids present), and he did that whole 'take off his shirt and run around in leather pants' thing.

But he was revealing a nakedness that went beyond merely removing clothing. 

The thing is, we need to pay attention to art, no matter how it's disguised or communicated to us. In a painting, in a book, in music. We expect to see pain in art, in the lyrics of artists who make no pretense about sharing a deeply seeded angst in their music. But we don't always look at popular music in quite that light. We bring our thirteen-year-old daughters to these pop concerts and watch them sing along. They know every word to every song. But do they get what they're seeing and hearing? Do they know this guy - the lead singer in MT - was on his knees in the dark in a Downtown Vancouver apartment for two months because his mother got sick and his mood decayed and his wedding got called off and, well, he hurt so deeply he couldn't even find the wherewithal to write songs for a while? Which, by the way, are his salvation? His creative outlet? His way of releasing his pain? 

Josh Ramsay

I'm not romanticizing the music of a band I didn't expect to touch me on any deep level. I'm just telling you to pay attention. Don't discount music you might think is fluff until you consider what may be behind it. Don't allow your children to listen to lyrics without teaching them to think about what they are hearing.

I get that I see and feel things on a very deep level, especially when it comes to music. As I said, I'm a music junkie, and I'm a sucker for pain. Maybe I look for it, I don't know. But I left that concert Friday night feeling suspended, changed. Concerned. Worried for an artist who, it's clear, suffers, and yet has the guts to open himself up to arenas filled with fans who love the tunes but likely rarely think beyond surface level about what's behind them. What fuels them. It brings to mind The Beatles. John Lennon apparently wanted to stop performing in large venues because 'nobody was really listening.' 

Go forth. Go to concerts, big and small. But do me a favour. Pay attention. Listen. 

To Kieran Mercer, Walk Off The Earth, and Marianas Trench...Thank you for having the guts to share your hurts with us. You're letting us know it's okay to hurt too, and that we don't always have to keep our pain inside. You're teaching us that our 'art' is valuable far beyond its creation. That our vulnerabilities are real, can be acknowledged through our chosen art without fear of rejection, criticism or reprisal, and that no matter which medium, genre or discipline in which we choose to create, it's okay to just be authentic.

It's up to us to choose to listen to others. To look beyond the outermost layers. If we don't, it's our loss. I was humbled by the show the other night. So let me just give you musicians a great big hug, and let you know that I heard.

I hear.

Vancouver, April 9th, 2016

The Lost Art of Listening

This little guy's on high alert. I'm standing nearby, but he's not afraid. Instead, he's just...paying attention. It would appear he is super tuned in to his surroundings. 

We could learn from him.

Has anyone else noticed lately that, in our increasingly tech-busy world, many of us have forgotten how to stop and listen? I can't tell you how many times I've given up on trying to converse with people - friends and family included - who are so keyed up and lost in their own worlds that it seems they are incapable of actually just listening to anyone else.

I take some of the responsibility. It's fair that eyes glaze over when I start to talk about my books or the screenplay I'm trying to figure out what to do with. But I give myself some credit. When I see this start to happen, I steer the conversation elsewhere. But a part of me feels lost, like an essential part of my soul has just been, well, washed over. 

I get that. I get that not all of us are interested in everything others have to say. But I want to raise a call to those whose busy lives have them on such high levels of stress and anxiety that they simply can't listen at all. These are the folks who cut you off in mid-sentence with a comment that's entirely off topic. These are the folks who can't seem to make eye contact, whose minds are anxiously rhyming off the grocery list, in silence, while your voice fades into oblivion.

This is the thing. It's okay if folks are not interested in what others have to say. But I'm worried about that constant detachment, that loss of personal connection that I see happening all around me. That endless me-me-me-life-is-all-about-me vibe that many of us (yes, I'm as guilty as anyone) constantly project. I challenge you to take an active stance. Stop and really listen - to your partner, to your friend, to your children. To nature. To the wind in the trees, to the leaves crunching under your toes, to your cat when he purrs. To yourself - but not to the endless to-do list. To your soul.

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I am listening to the ocean here. I swear.

I had the great pleasure of sitting down with an old high-school friend about a month ago. I got in trouble when I got home because my old friend and I met for coffee and three hours zipped by in what seemed like an instant. My guy was less than impressed. I should have texted, he said. He was right, I should have. My bad. At the same time, I was so touched that my friend (I'm talking about you, Crystal!) seemed genuinely interested in me and my story - about the way my life had gone since high school, about the Drifters books, about life - that I actually did not want to break the spell and pick up my phone. She actually tilted her head in and focused her gaze on me. She listened, actively, in a way that it seemed nobody has listened to me for a very long time. (Although it was pretty awesome to have Steve's sister around last summer - that was a special time - I miss you and Mike, Wendy!). 

My point is that listening is an active pursuit. It's a practised art that is quickly becoming lost and forgotten. I hope I gave Crystal the same focus and attention she honoured me with. She deserved it.

I work part-time at the local performing arts theatre in town, the Harbourfront Theatre. I am one of those folks who helps you select seats and sells you tickets to your favorite shows. Box office. Yup. I took the job to help give me the freedom to write. It allows me gas and coffee money while the Drifters books work their magic (and they are. It's surreal). In the two years I've been there, I've realized some very key points. One, regardless of the low pay, I LOVE working there. Two, it's because of the people. The folks I work with rock. Management lets me see shows I would not otherwise be able to see. And the clients who purchase tickets? Read on...

Last Saturday a sweet, lovely woman came by. She was likely in her late seventies or early eighties, white hair, a gentle countenance, a smile that lit up the room. For whatever reason, she stayed to chat for a few moments. She told us (Sarah, my box office crony that day, is a wonderful listener) about a time when she was not yet nineteen, pregnant and married only for about nine months, when her husband was in a devastating car accident. This gal, with $ 2 in her pocket, found herself miscarrying her baby during a flight to Halifax on a service plane while her husband fought for his life alongside. The story was tragic - two other occupants of the car were killed. The woman told Sarah and I that she has never forgotten those boys. 

Why did this story emerge after the woman bought tickets at a box office? To two strangers? I don't know. But I get those stories from clients all the time. Some stay until the next person comes along to purchase tickets, and their lives unfold before me. Some are tragic and some are tender and loving. They even come through the phone. One lady a few summers ago broke down in tears when I confirmed her account by saying her husband's name. He had passed away three weeks earlier. She told me all about him. She needed to. The woman in the first story lost her husband two years ago. He survived that long-ago accident, spent thirteen days in a coma and three months in the Halifax hospital. They went on to have a large family, and she misses him every day.

I cherish my box office job because it is a gateway to people I would otherwise never get to meet, whose lives are infinitely interesting. Who sometimes need a stranger with kind eyes to let them tell their story. To listen.

The next time you find yourself face to face with someone who needs to talk - let them. Do away with that grocery list for now, and what tomorrow may bring. Make yourself be present in the moment - in the moment! - and focus your eyes on the person who is speaking. Quiet your mind. Be present.

Listen.

And you will be rewarded, because your heart will be full. You are being given a gift - someone's trust.

I no longer take good listeners for granted. And I promise to try harder to be a good listener myself.

Now it's your turn.

Should I Walk Into the Sunset - Or Should I Run?

My favorite beach…Twin Shores, Darnley, P.E.I.

Easy answer. 

Run.

Before you panic and think I'm ready to shuffle off this mortal coil, let me just say I've had days when I kinda felt ready to go. I was tired and disillusioned, and (let's blame this on hormones), my PMS was getting the best of me (may as well tell it like it is, eh girls?).

But these days, nah, I'm good. What I mean by running into the sunset is that I realize time is marching on and the days left for me to accomplish my goals are becoming limited, or, shall I say, more limited. Does that scare me? You bet your girdle it does! But that awareness has actually, of late, been serving as one great big push. And I think that's a good thing. So I'm running, with my head held high and my biggest dreams still on the bucket list.

Today's been a weird day so far. I had to go to Chartlottetown (about an hour from my home in Summerside) to see my eye doc. On the way home I passed two sandstone inukshuks and a big sign that read something like, 'You're never too old to follow your dreams.' Of course, me being me, I was listening to sad iTunes songs as I drove, yet my heart was filling with a growing excitement. I will also add that, me being me, I felt that both of the inukshuks as well as the sign were, of course, placed by that particular stretch of earth-shattering gorgeous Prince Edward Island highway for me to see. For one, I never drive home on Hwy One, yet today I did, for a change (lots of eye appointments equals lots of driving time, and I get bored), and for two, I've been thinking a lot about ageing lately. 

I think when a person spends their entire adult life driven by an all-consuming passion to fulfill one's dreams, one tends to start some sort of countdown as the years tick by. Lately though, like today, I feel like I'm being handed a number of messages telling me that it's okay, life's not over yet, I can stop counting and just enjoy each moment, and it's not too late to make the rest of those dreams come true. (If it is too late? Well, what's the point of worrying? Enjoy today!)

I sooooo want one of these antique ladies' writing desks. This one has GORGEOUS handmade dovetailed joints in the drawers.

I've been working on a museum contract at the Wyatt Heritage Properties these last few months, and, let me tell you, you begin to appreciate how sacred life is when you run your fingers over a magnificent dovetail-jointed writing desk lovingly created by a nineteenth century craftsman. Suddenly life becomes this whirlwind vortex that you can't begin to wrap your mind around because your days are peopled by folks who no longer exist (well, maybe they do, in spirit). You read journals and notes left in cubbyholes that were meant for you to find. These have messages like this one - that a particular Windsor style chair was handmade by the rather famous Barnett Wilt from Fortune, P.E.I., who made it around 1850. 

You realize that the person who left the notes was once breathing in and out the same way you are. And that she was surrounded by family who also roamed the beautiful old Victorian home where you are now so carefully and lovingly studying the furniture left behind, the tangible proofs of their existence, where they stored their things, where they snacked on cucumber sandwiches, where they played the piano and entertained lonely airmen training for war at the local flying school.

Working in the museum world is incredibly humbling.

But working amongst ghosts has also given me a rush of energy to get out there and get moving on my next creative project. Will my name be left in cubbies for future generations to find? Perhaps my books will live on and some young gal will pull one out of a dusty drawer and wonder who Susan Rodgers was. Will she blow off the dust and give it a read? Will Jessie Wheeler, Josh Sawyer and Jacob Ryan live on? And what about the folks y'all have yet to meet - Jordie MacAulay and Abby Ryan? (Yeah, Ryan is a family name, guess that's why it shows up in a few of my books! And why do so many of my characters have names that start with J? I dunno, that just happened. Worked out great for my new wrist tattoo, lol!).

The J is for Jessie…she's kinda my hero, I guess…the three music notes are for Jessie, Josh and Jacob :)

The point is…thinking about the past can make speculating about the future much more relevant. It's interesting to look behind me and see how what I've done before has informed the present. My life is seriously a bunch of big puzzle pieces that are only now starting to fit together and make sense.

My Ophthalmologist, Doc O'H, I call him, put it quite succinctly. (Yeah, we rarely discuss my eye, that's almost an afterthought after years of seeing the guy for the same eye issue - instead he's like a wise sage whose advice and thoughts I've come to cherish). Anyways, Doc O'H once said I needed to do other things in my life in order to get me to where I am now, and to feed the knowledge and experience I need now. I tend to agree. During those 'down' times, I got discouraged as hell. Damn straight I did. We all do when things don't seem to be going the way we want them to. But suddenly now it's like a big 'ole rainbow is opening up. A friend of my mother's told me, when I was seventeen, that I would be a late bloomer (yeah, she was talking about my boobs, but I ate lots of red smarties and they came around…ha ha…). These days I am giving her thoughts another perspective. I am saying in terms of dreams, I'm blooming late.

But whatever. We're all on our own path. Who says life has to be sorted by the time you're twenty-five, thirty, forty, fifty, or even sixty? I am forty-nine, and not afraid to admit it. I'm in the best shape of my life thanks to tons of Yoga, Pilates, and Zumba, mostly. My guy is even older and he looks amazing (trust me, yum). I just finished an eight novel series that is exploding in popularity (scary in its own way), and I am blessed beyond belief to have been accepted into the 2015 PEI Screenwriters' Bootcamp, which starts this Saturday.

I am not making any predictions as to how things will go for me. There are too many factors beyond my control to even consider. But I hope I travel safely to and from the bootcamp, and I intend to work my new Yoga butt off to make the next dream happen. The dream is my feature film, Atlantic Blue, which I will be fine-tuning as a screenplay at the bootcamp, and will also be writing as a novel this summer.

Mucho work is about to begin again - seeking investors, financing, a team to help make the film happen…you name it. But I'm disciplined and beyond excited, because there is nothing in this world that, to me, equals the simple MAGIC of matching story to image and image to music. I've accomplished that in the books, to a certain degree, but now I want to give Drifters fans (and new fans) the next level of what I know I am capable of in terms of evoking passion and inspiration. (Y'all know my stories are about down on their luck folks who find ways to believe in themselves…right?).

Getting older? Pshaw. I'm becoming wiser and more at peace every day. I hope you are too. 'Cuz you reading this blog is my kick in yer everlasting pants to get out there and make your own dreams come true. Ain't nobody gonna do it for you. So stop whining. Stop looking for others to blame. Just - make - it - happen.

I'm gonna try.

Whatever happens, happens. I've got the time this summer, I've got the support, and I've got the desire. 

Atlantic Blue, it's time. You are NOW.

Where's that stunning Prince Edward Island sunset? I'm running towards it, with my arms outstretched, with a wide and joyful smile, and with music in my heart.