road trip

Every now and then I think I should take a workshop. Sometimes this is a good idea, and sometimes it's not. And sometimes, it's a mixed result. This weekend has been a mixed result.

I hit the road on Friday morning, for Salmon Arm, to take part in the International Writers Festival there. (This is a somewhat grandiose title, as I don't think there were any internationals in attendance, but then, the organizers are thinking ahead.) Sometimes you need a road trip, and it's good to have a destination, and this seemed a good one. I was drawn to Salmon Arm because I had lived there, briefly, before memory. My first birthday would have been celebrated there. No one is left from that group; father, mother, older brother, gone. (I have a younger brother, as well as a step- and a half-sister, not to mention children, so don't feel too sorry for me.) I obviously don't remember living there, but I have pictures that prove it, and remember where the house was, vaguely, because my Dad pointed it out once, on a camping trip. It was more a cabin in the woods, and there may be a Macdonald's where it used to sit, but there's no one left to ask. Anyway, after this weekend I feel less drawn to Salmon Arm. Been there, kind of thing.

The festival was the same idea as the Surrey Writers Conference, if you know about that, but in miniature: designed for newbies. I sort of figured that, but was lulled a bit by the status of a couple of the names. I hoped to pick up some useful information, even though I've kind of graduated from this level of workshop. Encouragement. Or a reminder that what I should be doing, rather than sitting around listening to people talk, is get to the writing. That's what I got. Maybe the best thing I heard was from Brian Brett, who gave the 'keynote' speech. He talked about how writing and publishing are two different things. I wrestle with this identification as writer, because I don't have books published, and in fact I don't even have much writing finished. But I write, and I think about writing. All the time. And I read. Both: write, read. Ergo, writer.

Publishing is a different issue, and getting murkier all the time. I mean, really, this is a form of publishing. Any less valid because I set it up myself? Probably, in most of our heads, but maybe occasionally I'm brilliant, and this way I get to share it. I like to think so (that I'm brilliant). Anyway, all these workshops about getting published are getting ahead of myself, because the writing needs to be done first. I think that may be true for a lot of the attendees, but what do I know?

In a fit of that feeling of brilliance, I signed up for a Blue Pencil session, which is where you show something you've written to someone else, who doesn't know you, so they can give you some feedback. I picked a writer/poet I admire, and showed him some poems. This is akin to stripping off your clothes in front of someone you like, before he (or she) has said he's interested. It turned out well, though some flabbiness in my writing was apparent. But I was encouraged that, with some work, there is something there. My blue penciler was late, as he was knocking back some wine with another alpha male, if I'm not mistaken, and so my session was a bit short. It happens. Bad form (a bit of flabbiness in his behaviour) even if you do find yourself in a little town far from the metropolis. I was feeling it myself.

But I know what to do, and really, I already knew it. Write, rewrite, and keep working on these poems, and all the other stuff too, because it needs to be written. I need to write it. I get good enough, maybe I'll get 'published', ie chosen by a publisher, and then maybe my blue penciler'll invite me along for the booze, next time. And maybe I'll decline. Meow.

It's a very beautiful place, Salmon Arm, but unfortunately this weekend was also all about clouds and rain. I get enough of that at home, and finally this morning, after some bad coffee and pastries for breakfast (bleah) I lost interest in listening to someone talk and talk about things I either know or could google. So I checked out early and started home. I had intended to stay an extra day in Salmon Arm, to do some writing, away from the distractions of home. But the clouds were pulling my mood down, so I hopped in the car instead. My car has a way of following different roads, so I took longer to get to Merritt than I might have. I find I have aging joints which object to sitting in one position for hours at a time. I don't think I would have been able to get out of the car, had I continued home today. But, the sun is shining here, and I can hear birds. I can hear traffic too, but I'm off the highway, I have a bit of a view, and the air is warm. I'll finish my trip home tomorrow. But tonight, I'm going to pull out those poems, and have another look.