Someone just reminded me the other night, I got published in 2 books this year, which seems impossible, but it’s true.
One is linked here. My pal Lana Grant wanted to put out a book where musicians wax foodie (you know me) and it also raises awareness around mental illness. I kicked in my story about my love affair with tacos, and the recipe for perhaps my greatest creation ever, the haddock ceviche taco. I should sell these little suckers at my merch table. Check the book out. They did a really great job on it.
The other book is an anthology, of writers-on-writing. It’s a benefit for the Writers’ Federation of NS, of called Saltlines.
Here’s what I wrote:
Writing. You buy a drafty old house, just to live in, turns out to be a goldmine. Or you discover you’re the goose that lays Ugly Ducklings.
I hatched as a journeyman Musician. Words were for ‘words’ people (whatever they were on about). In the process, began journaling. To call oneself a ‘Singer Songwriter’ might’ve been seen as laughably precious, but the songs came, and it was fun. I never had any intention to sing them. One night, noodling with a guitar after dinner, was cajoled into singing, and embarrassingly, knew only my own stuff. The listener, a writer herself, asked for another, then another, and told me that if I never sang those for anyone else, I was an idiot.
I sent them out into the world, among friends mostly, and was taken aback at the response. In what I’d seen as silly navelgazings, people saw echoes of their own lives. They compared me to artists they liked, or that I liked. I was interviewed on CBC, got letters, was invited to play, to mentor, heard what people say in the Hype aisle of the Music Market (which I try to avoid: synthetic ingredients, irresponsible packaging – give me my garden!).
I didn’t totally get it, but decided to respect it nonetheless. There is a magic in it, and it never fails to amaze me, especially when I doubt it.
It ebbs and flows. The well dried up, for a while. I thought I was done. I took a break, and now I have things to write about again. Art can be a petulant child, often says, You’re Not The Boss Of Me, as if you didn’t already know. But as you may have gleaned, uncertainty and solitude are dear friends of mine.