Under the Floorboards

If you’ve been around here for long enough, you know the story about how my grandma went to an auction sale to buy a buggy and accidentally bought a whole house for $500 instead. Or, as well, rather. You know that she was 80 at the time and didn’t know what to do with the house, which was a 1000 square foot, 100-year-old Eaton’s catalogue Foursquare farmhouse and a real fixer-upper. You know that she sent my mom a text that said, Oh! I just bought a house! And you know that my mom drove to Gravelbourg to see the house, fell in love with it, and promptly began the arduous, painstaking process of renovating it, top to bottom. 

You can read that whole story here, and see progress pics here.

I realized recently that I haven’t added newer progress pictures here in a long time—like, since 2018! I’ve done a little updating on Instagram, but not here. I’ll rectify this, I will, but FIRST. 

First.

Ask me what my mom found under the floorboards in the attic.

…

I’m so tempted to just end this blog post here and wait for a few days so you don’t get to know the answer to the question right away. I’m a sucker for a good cliff-hanger. I love making people wait, letting them wonder. I’m doing it right now! Isn’t it fun? 

(I’m getting the vibe from you, all the way from the other side of the computer screen and from back here in the past while I’m writing this to you, who will read it later today, that the whole making you wait and wonder is more fun for me than it is for you, and I’m sorry.) 

Okay, I'll tell you; I'll start at the beginning:

As I said, my mom and dad have been hard at work over the course of the past decade, fully renovating the first and second floors of the house. They've done the basement too, and they’ve landscaped the yard and planted a massive garden and built a garage. It is gorgeous. It is almost finished. There's just the attic left, which is going to become the master bedroom. 

So, it's often true, especially when it comes to very old houses, that before you can construct something, you have to take stuff apart a little. And it's also true, especially when it comes to very old houses, that when you take stuff apart, you might uncover...secrets. You might find things very purposefully tucked under floorboards. You might find, as my parents did, a letter from 1929, which begins, "Dear Ethel, I was so glad to hear from you and also to know that you arrived safely from prison to your home. We are all very well except that Lena Scottie is in the hospital sick with Diptheria."

The letter, which I will link to below, is five pages long, and in it, the sender implores Ethel to become a Catholic, and tells her that "all the Mothers and Children" miss her and talk about her a lot. The return address on the letter is St Agnes Priory School in Manitoba, a place where 'delinquent girls' were sent to be reformed (delinquent in the 1920s could mean anything from "has engaged in criminal activity" to "is a single mother" or "is neurodivergent"). It's not an overly juicy letter, other than the mention of prison or the fact that it was sent by one of the other "delinquent girls" at St. Agnes, but that almost makes it more interesting, doesn't it? Why hide a letter like that? Or, if you didn't want it to be discovered, why not rip it up, or burn it? 

My mom is not the kind of person to say, "Oh, a letter addressed to someone else; not my circus! Not my monkeys!" Which is good, because I'm really nosy and would like to know why Ethel hid the letter, and why Ethel was in jail, and also what happened to Ethel, period. 

So Mom called up one of the family members of the original person who built the house. She said, "Hey, I've got a letter here for the person who lived in this house who went to prison." 

And they were like, "Prison?!"

And she was like, "Yeah, the letter was hidden."

And they were like, "Much like the fact that we had a relative who went to prison!"

Luckily, this person is kind of like my mom and me; they are also not a not-my-circus-not-my-monkeys type. They immediately launched into a full-scale investigation, interviewing other family members, driving to grave yards, even calling the office of St. Agnes, asking for intake records. You can read all of their findings, as well as the full letter, here and an update here. 

It's wild, isn't it, to think about old houses, about how some secrets stay hidden and some make themselves known? It's wild to think about this woman, Ethel, who hid this letter instead of destroying it. Did it cross her mind that someday someone might find it and care enough to uncover her story, that members of her family might get to know her that way where previously she was kept a secret? I always think about how important it is to us, as humans, to be known and understood, and in reading Ethel's story, I don't get the sense that she was (I mean, one of the things this family member dug up was a newspaper clipping that told the story about how the Phillipsons came to Canada from England. It talked about all seven of their children, where they ended up, who they married, where they worked, but when it got to Ethel, all it said was, "Ethel, died young").

So, I don't know, I guess I'm glad for all of this, is what I'm saying. Glad for Ethel and her family. Glad for my mom, too—who among us has not dreamed of the day we might find a secret letter hidden under the floorboards in the attic of a 100-year-old house?

Just me? I think not.

One Year!

Today marks one year since I Think We've Been Here Before was published in Canada.

And what a year it's been.

I'm a reflective person by nature, the kind of person who talks about a party the whole way home from the party, who possibly enjoys analyzing things after the fact as much as [or more than] I enjoy the initial experience of them. Maybe it's because I'm so anxious? I find that when I'm living through something, I'm very distracted by my anxieties, by the pressure to do it, whatever it is, right, to have fun, to not say something stupid, to, ironically, enjoy it to the fullest. But in reflection, the pressure is off. I'm just observing. Reliving the nice things without the possibility of disaster or embarrassment or failure. And maybe there's something to be learned there—is this what people talk about when they say they want to be more present?—but I haven't learned it yet. 

The experience of releasing a book is no different; there is so much to reflect on after the fact, and people are constantly asking questions that provoke even more reflection. Questions like, "How did the book do?" And, "Was it successful?" 

Great questions. Surprisingly hard questions! Let me try to answer them.

Something I didn't understand before getting into Publishing World was that there are a million metrics for deciding if a book did well or not. There are sales numbers, obviously. There's reader feedback. Trade reviews and Goodreads reviews and other various internet places where people talk about your book. There are the experiences that come out of publishing said book, both private and communal. Did you earn back your advance? Are the reviews generally positive or negative? And so on, and so forth. There are a LOT of metrics. 

To start, I Think We've Been Here Before has the lowest number of sales out of all of my books—which is funny to me, because I think it's my best. But as of right now, it has sold more than 100,000 fewer copies than Sorry I Missed You, which is (don't tell Sorry I Missed You) my least favorite of my three novels. So by that metric, it didn't do very well. It also didn't get as many trade reviews as V&V or SIMY, nothing in Kirkus or Booklist or Library Journal. It doesn't have nearly as many Goodreads reviews as either of my other books. It didn't sit at the top of any important bestsellers lists.

But! 

This book took me to Toronto and Denver and Evergreen and Saskatoon. It introduced me, through the process of asking for blurbs, to Marissa Stapley, who then invited me into her glorious circle of author friends (and honestly, if this was the only thing that came out of this book's publication, I'd call it a win, because these people are the best and I get to keep them even after the book stuff goes away). It was optioned for television by the incredible Paul Davidson, and found its way into the hands of people I would never have imagined, in my wildest dreams, would ever read my work. It was nominated for four Saskatchewan Book Awards, and won in one category, and that was a completely magical experience, from the longlist announcement to the awards gala, where I sat at a table full of new and extremely talented friends. And it opened up the coolest conversations with strangers in my email inbox; I heard from people who'd recently lost loved ones, palliative care nurses, a very sweet family of Jehovah's Witnesses, and so on (and on and on), and we talked about death and life and quantum entanglement and deja vu and Berlin and music and grief and writing. The reviews, though fewer, were overwhelmingly positive. I even credit this book with helping me get over my fear of public speaking, because it brought about so many podcast interviews and book events.

So, how did the book do? Not well. But was it successful? YES.

So. What's next?

Something I love almost as much as reflecting is daydreaming. However, reflecting is easier, because the material is all there; you just have to, like I said earlier, observe it. Daydreaming in the publishing realm is not quite so easy, especially now that I've been in it for so long. I feel very aware of the fact that nothing is guaranteed, that just because you managed to get a book or two published, that definitely does not mean the journey ahead will be all downhill. 

Or downhill at all. 

Or that there will continue to be a journey. 

It's been an interesting year behind the scenes. I'm not going to go into the whole story just yet, because it feels like a foolish one to tell before it's finished, but I will say that I recently sent a new book to my agent. It's weird, definitely the weirdest one I've ever written. It starts out with a farmer standing in his field looking at a big empty place where not five minutes ago, there was a farm. At first, he thinks the problem is that he's losing his mind, but then he realizes that he's not losing his mind, a whole farm really has vanished in front of his eyes, and that's actually a much bigger problem. 

So my agent is reading it, and hopefully she decides it's something we can sell together. It's is a very nerve-racking thing, sending off a book that has thus far only lived in my head. I mostly trust myself to know when something's worth writing, but sometimes I wonder, yikes, what if this was a really bad idea? What if I just spent two years working on a really bad idea?

I guess we'll see! And I promise, you'll be the first to know if that book becomes, you know, a book. 

Straight to Zebras

So I'm one of those "adults" who really, strongly dislikes being alone at night. Leave me alone during the day, fine—great, even! I love you!—night? No. My imagination is too good. The dark is too dark. And what if something like this were to happen again, when I was home alone with the kids? It wouldn't be good for my wussy nerves.

But sometimes, inevitably, I do find myself alone at night. It happened again recently, when Barclay went away for a few days for work. Obviously, the kids were here with me, but they're smaller than me, and likely smaller than any intruder is going to be, and they do very little to put my mind at ease, no offense to them. 

So I was suffering, is what I'm saying, I was laying in bed at midnight, and the dark was encroaching, as it does, and my imagination was going, and I was watching Gilmore Girls, trying to distract myself from being alone. It worked. I drifted off to sleep...

...and woke up only a few hours later to this...sound.

This unrecognizable, unfathomable, unreasonable sound. 

I had no idea what it was. I felt sure, as much as anyone can feel sure about anything at three in the morning, that I had never heard this sound before in my whole life. It was completely new. It was not the sound of someone breaking in, or of one of the kids falling out of bed—it was too loud, and too weird. It was not a real sound, I decided, not something from this realm, if you know what I mean. 

(I don't even know what I mean.) 

I will try to describe it for you:

It was a crash, so loud I could feel it in my chest. But it was...strangely musical? But not nice music: it was dissonant and ugly. And it just kept going. It was a sound that echoed and reverberated. It was hollow and frightening and otherworldly. I thought, I am dying! This is what dying sounds like! 

Because it didn't sound like anything else. 

Then it was just over, and I was sitting straight up in my bed, having sat all the way up before I even woke all the way up, and I began to second guess myself. Had I heard anything at all? Was it a dream? Could you dream a sound like that?

I sat there and listened for probably ten minutes. Nothing. Nothing at all. Not even a peep from the kids' rooms—and that made me doubt myself even more. Surely, if this noise was even half of what I thought it was, they'd be up and screaming bloody murder. 

But my heart was pounding, and my brain was fizzing, and I knew I could not fall back asleep without at least walking through the house and making sure everything was okay. I was not relishing the thought of walking through the dark rooms, hoping something wouldn't jump out at me, hoping I wouldn't hear that awful sound again. 

I went and looked at the kids first—fast asleep, both of them. Nothing amiss in either room. 

Okay.

I looked in the bathroom, in the shower. 

Nothing. 

I tip-toed into the kitchen, where everything was fine, and then down into the basement—nope; I stopped halfway down the stairs. Too scary. If there was something down there, it would have to meet me upstairs because I was not confronting it in what is objectively the scariest place in the house.

The last room left unexplored was the living room. It was quiet, and mostly normal, except for one thing: my acoustic guitar was lying on the floor in the middle of the room. 

I stared at it. This was weird. I was still much too tired to work it out. How had it gotten here? 

I know, I know. When you hear hoofbeats, think horses, not zebras. Look around, use logic. I know. But I went straight to zebras; I always go straight to zebras. I thought, THERE IS A GHOST IN HERE AND IT THREW MY GUITAR ON THE FLOOR.

Like, I only thought that for a few terrifying seconds, but I did think it. 

But okay. Here's what actually happened:

My guitar hangs on a holder above the piano. 

Need I say more? 

Probably not, but I'll say more anyway: the anchor for the guitar holder came right out of the wall. 

At three in the morning, on one of the five nights of the whole year that Barclay was not home with me. 

Unlucky timing at its very finest. 

It came out of the wall, and fell, along with the guitar, directly onto the piano keys. The guitar then bounced off of the piano and onto the piano bench. It bounced off of the piano bench and onto the floor, and then it bounced across the floor, where it skittered to a stop in the middle of the living room, amidst the din of piano hammers striking piano strings and guitar strings striking the floor, echoing through both instruments and through the floorboards and through the thin wall into my bedroom on the other side, where I had been sleeping the fitful sleep of someone who just KNEW that Something was going to happen, purely because Barclay had gone away for work. 

My question is: how am I supposed to grow into a well-adjusted adult who can be left alone at night if things like this keep going on? 

A Quiet Month

I'm sitting in a quiet kitchen, listening to the sound of the dishwasher and fifty birds yelling at each other outside my window. I've turned all of the lights off and opened only the blinds on the south side of the house. I'm thinking about making a latte, but dreading the sound of the coffee grinder.

I am...overstimulated?

May was a lot—which is funny, because I had been telling people it was going to be a quiet month. Releasing a book comes with a lot of social things, mostly concentrated in the month of the actual launch and then tapering off as people forget you exist and move onto the shinier, newer releases (such a relief, such a blessing, but it hurts your feelings every time anyway). ITWBHB had two launch months, because it had two different pub days, so it took up the entire fall and most of the winter. There was a trickle of events after Christmas, but one day in March I looked at the calendar and realized that there was only one thing left: my friend Adelle's launch party in April. She would fly in from Ontario, we'd do a little in-conversation thing at Everyday Kitchen, and I would be officially off the hook. There was nothing left on the calendar, not professionally, not personally. May was for working on my next book, taking naps and recharging my social battery which I worried, at that point, was permanently dead. 

But then.

Okay, what was the first thing? Right. I found out, happily, that ITWBHB was shortlisted for some Saskatchewan Book Awards. There would be a gala in Saskatoon on May 9 where they'd announce the winners. Okay! That sounded fun, and I hadn't been to a gala since 2013. I was going to need to buy a fancy dress. Barclay would need a suit. This was so out of the ordinary for us; we're not fancy people. So I put that on the calendar, and it was The Only Thing in May. One big, fancy thing. Sweet. We asked my parents to take the kids for the whole weekend—after all, we didn't have anything else going on that month, and it had been a solid half a year since we had a night away from the kids. Might as well make it a little vacation, right?  

Oh, but then my mom texted to let me know that we were having a family reunion in Medicine Hat. When? May 17-19. Okay. Doable. The very next week. 

Oh, but then Barclay came home from work and said, "Hey, we've been invited to a gala!" And I said, "I know! It's on the calendar!" And he said, "No, a different gala. This one is on May third!" And I said, "Well, at least that's not on the same day as the other gala, or the family reunion!" And he said, "True!" And I said, "And we can get double the use out of our gala clothes!" And he said, "Awesome!"

Oh, but then Barclay texted me a few days later and said, "Haha, so what do you think about going to another gala?" It was a charity gala for Bring 'Em Up and the Open Door Society, and he was thinking about buying a table. I said, "Hey, we've got the gala clothes, we might as well." I put that one on the calendar too. May 23. 

Oh, but then my friend Ashley invited me to her wedding vow renewal on May 24! Which was very cool; I had never been to one of those before. And if I curled my hair on the 23, I wouldn't have to do it again for the renewal. Perfect. I put it on the calendar. 

Oh! But then I got another very nice email, telling me that I was a runner-up for the City of Regina Writing Award, for my next [as yet unfinished] novel, You Won't Believe Your Eyes. There would be an awards ceremony at the Hotel Sask on May 29! PUT IT ON THE CALENDAR. 

Okay, and there were more things but you're like, Suzy, we don't need a play by play. We all have calendars, and they are all very full. Yes, yes, I get it. I'm sorry. I'm not trying to imply that my calendar is more overwhelming than yours, I'm just saying that this month was supposed to be empty, like a Saskatchewan wheat field on a clear, cloudless summer day, but somehow it ended up being more like a bustling Toronto street with bikes and cars and pedestrians and a the-end-is-near guy. Because by the time May finally arrived, the calendar also contained a book reading, and a friend's book fair, and a second family reunion, and Sully's first public musical performance with his band (which ended up feeling like the most important thing of the whole month). 

I bought the dress, Barclay bought the suit. I wore the dress three times, and Barclay got five wears out of the suit. I did two readings, one from each book. I gave two acceptance speeches, got a plaque and a certificate and a nice little cheque. I caught up with maybe (actually) a hundred relatives and made a bunch of new friends. We spent a total of 22 hours in the car. I signed books, and bought books (namely I Hate Parties by Jes Battis, A Simple Carpenter by Dave Margoshes, and Everything Is Fine Here by Iryn Tushabe). 

Sadly, near the end of the month, I also said goodbye to a very dear old friend. Because even when life is very busy and moving along at an amazing pace, it stops, too. Even when life is very vibrant and beautiful and exciting, it is sad, too.

So.

This morning, my kids went off to school, Barclay went to the office, and here I am, thinking about maybe making coffee. Thankful for the quiet. Processing. 

And I know better than to say that June will be a quiet month.

A Letter

 Hey J,

I didn't get to say goodbye to you before you left. You kept coming to mind all week, more than usual. I meant to send a quick text to see how you were doing and tell you how much I was thinking about you, but then I got a text instead, saying you were gone. I missed my chance. I didn't realize how little time there was. I keep saying to people that I was so surprised, and that I feel a little ridiculous for how surprised I was. I probably should've known better. 

Is this weird: I've thought about texting you to say goodbye. Like, after. Even though I knew it wouldn't be you who read the text message. Like, I know this is ridiculous, me sitting there trying to figure out how to get a message to you when I have already recognized the impossibility of that. 

But, okay, here's one last story for you, J:

I'm working on this short story right now, and it's set in Scotland. So yesterday I was sitting in my kitchen, looking at old blog posts from when I went there with Barclay in 2011. As I scrolled down to the bottom of the first one, your name jumped out at me—you'd left a comment that said, simply, "And this is why I love you." It was a strange moment; I smiled to myself and thought, Of all the days I could stumble across this comment from fourteen years ago... It's the kind of funny little nothing-but-everything story I'd specifically save to tell you, because you always loved stories about synchronicities. 

A light clicked on in my head at that moment: you are maybe the only person in the world who has read every single blog post I've ever written. You actually made a point of reminding me of that quite often, including in the last email you ever sent me. So if I wanted to say goodbye to you, maybe this is the place to do it? Is that silly? Maybe other people would think it's silly, but I actually think you'd like it.

So, okay. Goodbye, J. You meant a lot to me. You were a listener, a talker, an encourager, a friend, a motivator, an example, a cheerleader. You were one of the first people I told when I found out Sully was coming, one of the first friends to meet him after he was born. You were so open with me about your life, and I learned from you that openness is good and important and helpful and beautiful. You were the first person to "publish" something I'd written. You were funny, and you made me feel special and safe. And this is why I love you. 

I really, really wish I would've been able to say these things to you in time. I guess that's the last thing you taught me: next time, don't wait too long to say what you need to say. I don't think I'll soon forget this lesson.

Thanks, J. Goodbye. 

The Ghost in the Central Branch

I always walk around really conscious of my past self—is this weird? Do you know what I mean though? Like, Barclay and I went for a walk yesterday, in the east end by the golf course, and we were talking about something and at the same time we both went, hey, we were walking down this EXACT same path the last time we talked about this thing; we were right in this exact spot. And it was like our past selves were ghosts walking along beside us and we were laughing at them, at how little they knew about the future (to be fair, Barclay and I have never claimed to be fortune tellers). 

But I love moments like that, where you can see your past self, totally oblivious to your present self, maybe worrying about something, or planning something, or working on something, and they have no idea how it's going to turn out but you do. 

(Or at least, you know a little bit more than they do. Because someday, your future self is going to laugh at your present self for not knowing now what you will then.)

Anyway.

I had a moment like this today. 

My ghosts are all over this place—that's one of the cool things about living in the same city for such a long time—and one of them lives in the Central Branch of the Regina Public Library. She went to see the Writer in Residence there about a decade ago, clutching a half-baked manuscript that needed two more years of edits before an agent would take it seriously, basically to ask if she was any good at this writing thing or if she should quit. 

I don't know if you remember this, but you might: I wrote this blog post about the moment I pulled the trigger and send off that terrifying email to the WIR, and this blog post about the day I went in and met with her.

Today, I went to that same library for the Saskatchewan Book Awards shortlist announcement, and found out my book was shortlisted in four categories(!). As the SBA members stood at the podium and read the names of the nominees, I watched my shaky little ghost walk behind them, up the stairs and into the WIR office, manuscript in hand, heart pounding so hard I can hear it ten years later. My ghost went into the office worried that she was being silly, that this whole book thing was a bad idea, that the Writer in Residence was going to give her a few pity compliments and then drop kick her heart right out the window onto Smith Street. 

She didn't, by the way. That woman, Dr. Nilofar, was one of the first professional people who told my ghost that she wasn't being silly, and that she should try to publish a book. It's one of those Really Important Moments in my life, which is why my ghost haunts that library still, walking from the sliding doors at the library entrance, through the stacks and up the stairs, trying to be brave because this thing was really, really important to her even though she felt kind of ridiculous saying that out loud to anyone. 

The sad thing about these ghosts is that you can't talk to them. I always wish I could. I wish I could just yell back in time, like, even something vague and encouraging, just give them a glimpse into the future so they could know that what they're doing is working or that such-and-such a thing is going to be okay or, at the very least, just isn't going to matter in a few years. 

But you don't get to. You have to live your life in order and find out how it's going by going there. And you have to be oblivious to the future versions of yourself doing the things you dream about doing someday. And I think maybe this is the key to being a person with big dreams: being aware of all of your ghosts. Knowing that no matter where you are in your journey, there are more versions of you ahead, so excited for you to catch up and see what's going to happen next.

 

An Icon

There's this place here in Regina that does an open mic night every Monday. I've been to a few; it's a very nice time. 

I have to be in the right headspace for them, because they can be a little heavy on the second-hand embarrassment, for which I have a very low threshold. Like, that moment when a person is up there doing stand-up and they deliver this joke you can tell they're really proud of, and the room just collectively stares at them, unblinking...? I can't handle it. 

Even worse is when they wait a beat, like they think, oh, any moment now this joke is going to land; it's just taking a second. They know that if a joke takes a second and then lands, the payoff is sometimes even better, so they look out into the dark room, hopeful, searching so hard for that laugh. But there is no laugh and that pause only serves to amplify the fact that the joke was not something that was ever going to land—and maybe it's just this audience, this night, these vibes, but also: maybe the joke wasn't that good. And you can see these thoughts on their face; it's awful, watching someone recognize their own failure in front of an audience.

And it can get even worse! Because when people are embarrassed they get defensive and angry, and they might say something like, "Well people usually love that joke," or, "Whoa, tough audience." And you know they know, deep down, that it's not the audience's fault. You imagine them going home, walking into their apartment, sitting on the couch, staring at the wall. You imagine their sadness. And then you feel sad, when what you came for in the first place was the exact opposite of sadness. And that seems a little unfair! 

ANYWAY. 

All I really meant to say here was that I went to an open mic night on Monday with my friend Sarah, and it was lovely, and there was cheesecake and a little bit of secondhand sadness, but there was also a lot of secondhand triumph, and genuine laughter, and it was all very beautiful because it was all so human. And! A pleasant little surprise was that I ran into this guy again. I haven't seen him in years, but apparently he's a regular at open mic night now. He did two Bon Jovi songs; he danced, he got the audience to join in, he ran around the room during the instrumentals. 

And when he spotted me in the crowd afterward, he came over. 

He looked at me curiously; I wondered if he recognized me, and maybe he did but maybe he didn't. He said, "Hey, what did you think of my songs?"

I said, "You did great. It was so good. The audience loved you."

He said, "Yes, I know. I'm an icon."

A Kind of Nothing Post

The other day, I went into a coffee shop and ordered, "a caffeinated coffee, please." As though caffeine were an extra ingredient that wouldn't otherwise be included. The barista squinted at me, thinking insults at me probably, but didn't say anything. 

I took my caffeinated coffee to the bar by the window, looking out onto Victoria Ave. It had snowed, and warmed up, and cooled down, and snowed again, and warmed up again. The road was full of slush. The cars swerved and slid down the street and I tried to imagine summer. Clear, hot pavement and heat soaking into your back through your t-shirt and feeling the sun in your bones. Inconceivable! My bones were cold and the pavement was cold and even the caffeinated coffee didn't hold its heat for very long.

I got my iPad out, clicked around the internet a little. Tried not to look at the news, because I have a time and a place carved out for that right now, because if you don't have a time and a place carved out for the news right now, you might as well just throw whole weeks into a black hole. There is SO MUCH NEWS. We are going to drown in the news. Has there ever been so much news?

I sent a proposal to a magazine, half-heartedly added 700 words to my novel, and replied to some emails. Two guys came into the shop dressed in business suits. They sat at the table next to me and talked to each other for a few minutes. Then the first guy got out his phone and started watching a video with the volume up. Then the other guy got out his phone and called somebody, had a whole conversation at the top of his lungs, like the person on the other end of the phone had no ears. 

And I was like, cool. 

And I went home.

And watched the news for four hours.

A Breakdown

I’ve just crossed the 50,000 word count mark on book 4/5*! 

This is probably different for everyone, but for me, the 50,000 word count mark is a giant sigh of relief—actually, let me break it down for you, because I have a minute, and you have a minute (I bet), and I like writing about writing:

10,000 words: Barely acknowledgeable, easily doable. Can be achieved in a few days on a wave of caffeine and naïveté and the slightly misplaced confidence that this is your best idea yet and that the last 70k will fall out of you as easily as the first ten. Any old idea has the legs needed to make it to the 10,000 word mark, truly. You don’t mention it to anyone because you know how fragile it is and it would be embarrassing if you told people about every single first 10,000 words you ever wrote. 

20,000 words: Okay, a little better than 10,000 words, but all you’ve really done is raise the stakes and made the idea harder to throw in the trash because now you’ve spent more time on it. Killing your darlings becomes harder the more darlings there are to kill.

30,000 words: Feels like the halfway point but it’s [probably] not. This is where things start to slow down and you start to reexamine not only the project but also your ability to write and sell and talk about books. You start to feel a bit silly as the adrenaline and false sense of confidence you once had wears off all at once. You think to yourself, “Maybe this is a novella?” But you know that no one’s going to want a novella from you, and you know it’s not a novella, and everything feels daunting and you start scrolling social media a lot. Despair, but still somewhat hopeful despair.

40,000 words: The actual halfway point! Just sheer panic, now! You have put a lot of time and effort into this book; you have told your agent and editor that it exists, maybe even sent along the synopsis and first three chapters, even though you don’t really know how you’re going to land the plane yet. What were you thinking? Cry a lot! Less hopeful despair, much less!

50,000 words: This is where you might realize, in a moment of sudden and undeniable clarity that feels, honestly, a little trippy, what your book is actually about. You notice all of the little Easter eggs your subconscious has planted all along the way that point to the larger themes and which kind of make you feel like a genius even though they weren’t intentional, but you also notice all of the red herrings and useless characters and plot points that have wandered into your book and don’t belong there at all and which are now congregating in all the chapters looking lost and awkward. You are going to have to ask them to leave, and it is going to be unpleasant. You think to yourself, that’s a problem for Future Me, and you ignore it. You experience a shot of adrenaline similar to the one you had when you first had this idea. You write faster again. You start daydreaming about the book again. You realize that, at some point, this went from being a thing you should probably quit to being a thing you can’t quit.

60,000 words: This milestone doesn’t even exist. You sail straight past it to 70k without acknowledging it.

70,000 words: This is where you get a little more clarity, maybe one last panic attack, one last shot of self-doubt (important clarification: I don’t mean you get the last shot of self-doubt ever, I just mean…okay, maybe I shouldn’t have said ‘last.’ There will never be a last shot of self-doubt if you are a writer). Maybe the first draft is done at this point, and you realize that when you go back to edit, the book is going to swell. Surprise! Celebration! You get to put it in a drawer for two weeks and reclaim some valuable brain real estate! OR you realize that your first draft is actually going to end up being 120k because you’ve overwritten it and you are not even close to being done. Agony! Anguish! WHY HAVE YOU DONE THIS TO YOURSELF?!

80, 90, 100, 110, 120k: More of the same, repeat until done. 

So, now you have a bit more context for, “I’ve just crossed the 50,000 word count mark on book 4/5!” I’ve just had that moment of clarity (it happened last week at the Mackenzie Art Gallery, in the foyer); I’ve just realized that there are a solid five chapters that need to be cut, and I’ve just understood, for the first time, how this thing needs to end (but I don’t really know how to make it happen just yet. I need to do some research). It feels less like something I’m making up and more like something I’m uncovering, and it has crossed the line from “should I abandon this?” to “it’s too late to turn back now,” which feels like a terrifying relief. 

Okay! Onward! TTYL!

*(I say 4/5 because it’s one of two books I’m working on right now and they’re kind of racing each other to see the light of day. The other book 4/5 is technically a complete first draft but needs a lot of work.)

My Year of Live Music

I made New Year's resolutions this year! Two of them! And I've already forgotten what one of them was! 

BUT, I for sure remember the other one: go to more shows (quantifiably, I'm thinking at least one per month, as a bare minimum). 

I used to go to so many shows—it was at least a weekly thing. I mean, there was a time where it was part of my job to go to shows, and it is much easier to do something when you're paid to do it than it is to do something you have to pay to do. But also, there are the kids I have to look after. You can't just go to shows all the time when there are kids you have to look after. And there is also the matter of getting older and being so tired all the time, which might also have something to do with the kids (but who knows; maybe I'd be tired either way). Then there's COVID, which kind of wrecked the music scene for a while there, and, saddest of all, there's the fact that I'm getting to that age where I have a hard time accepting that there are still new bands coming into existence and I can't keep up with the constant onslaught of NEW BANDS TO KNOW ABOUT AND LISTEN TO and I'm tired and I just want to go to shows where I know all the songs, and the bands dress and look and banter the way I'm used to bands dressing and looking and bantering. 

Like, I kind of look forward to being 60, you know? That magical age where all of the bands of your teen and young adult years start playing yearly shows at the Casino Show Lounge and it doesn't cost an arm and a leg and the crowd size is not overwhelming and there are nice plushy seats to sit in when you get tired. I know this is a thing that is going to happen because I have been to these shows; I have seen Nazareth and Honeymoon Suite and George Thorogood, and I have seen the 60-year-olds up at the front dancing and being so thrilled to be there and I have thought, that is absolutely something to look forward to. I'm ready. Death Cab, Jimmy Eat World, come on. And hey! I'm about as far from 60 as I am from 20! So. This is the meantime, I guess. 

And the meantime is what I'm talking about right now. In the meantime, I want to get reacquainted with the music scene as it is, not as what I remember it to be or what I hope it one day will be, but as it is right now. I want to see the local bands and also the touring ones that may deign to stop in Regina, Saskatchewan if, in the first place, they deign to travel north of the American border. I've missed the venues, and the regulars, and the pleasant ringing in my ears the morning after a night out that means I have hurt my long-term hearing just a little bit. A kind of self-destructive souvenir I'll regret in about twenty years.

So! On Saturday, I went to the Mercury with my friend Ashley to see a lineup of acoustic sets by artists who referred to themselves, collectively, as The Disgruntled Poet's Union. It was lovely, and in a little twist of serendipity, John and Debra were there too, and we got to have a completely unplanned little one-year reunion (almost to the day, but not quite) of this meeting in the exact spot where it had originally happened. 

I also appreciated this man who sat in front of us who brought with him a veritable library of books and a milkshake and read through the whole show by the light of his cell phone. Maybe, along with being a 60-year-old who goes to see my old favorite bands at the casino, I will also be a 60-year-old who brings six books to acoustic sets at the Mercury and reads in a booth with a milkshake. 

The future is bright!

THE ABCS OF 2024

Well there's another year gone. It flew past, a racecar. 

Or am I the racecar? Or maybe time is the car and the year is the track and I'm in the car? No, I think time is the track. The year is the vehicle that carries us through time. Right? Or is time the vehicle that carries us through the year?

This metaphor is not great. I'm spending too much time on it. 

No, that's it, actually: time is the fuel in the vehicle. The track is the year and the time is the fuel and I'm the bobblehead figure on the dashboard. Who's driving? It seems to be one of those autonomous cars. Terrifying concept, but probably safer than having me behind the wheel.

Anyway.

Once again it's time for the annual ABCs of post. I love writing these; I have done it for many years (since 2016, to be exact). You should do it too. They're fun to read at the end of each year—and helpful. I find that the years have started to literally blur together and I can't always remember which important things belong to which years. 

So! Ahem:

A - Arlo! My sister had another adorable baby. It feels like you should get used to babies, the more of them you meet. You should get used to how tiny and perfect they are, to their impractically-sized nostrils and hilariously small toes, to the way they look like all these other people you know but still manage to be a brand new special-edition never-seen-before human being. But somehow they just get more miraculous, the more of them you meet. 

B - Birthday filling. I went to the dentist on my birthday for a filling. I asked him, before he froze my mouth, if I'd be able to eat right after and he said, "Yes, why?" And I said, "Because I'm a dummy and I made plans for a birthday lunch right after this." And he was like, "It's your birthday?!" And I was like, "Yup!" The hygienist said she thought it was ridiculous that anyone would schedule a filling for their birthday, and I was like, "Well, I was just hoping this place had one of those deals like at Starbucks or Dairy Queen where you get a free filling on your birthday. And she laughed and I laughed but then when I went to pay at the end I found that the dentist had discounted me $300 off the price of the bill (I do not have dental insurance) and the receptionist said, "He said to tell you it's your free birthday filling." And the hygienist said, "Well good, because no one ever comes in here on their birthday." And I said, "Well from now on I am ONLY coming in here on my birthday."

C - Conferences: I got to take part in the Saskatchewan Writers' Guild's annual conference, on a panel with my friends Iryn Tushabe, Rhea McFarlane, and Peace Akintade-Oluwagbeye. I also went to a literary conference at the RPL and Talking Fresh in the spring. 

D - Did a lot of interviews—podcasts, TV, radio, internet, in person, and newspaper. I tried to count them up, and I can think of almost 20 but feel like I'm missing some. 

E - Enjoyed my summer. For the most part, this year, I was able to just hang out with the kids and have a real summer (with a few stolen hours here and there to get work done). The summer of 2023, my edits schedules destroyed any semblance of relaxation, so this was loooovely. 

F - First Reads. I Think We've Been Here Before was selected for Amazon's First Reads program in the States, which means that it was available one month early, as an ebook, for anyone who subscribes to Amazon Prime. This was my third time in the program, and it's always such an honor (and a rush).

G - Grant! I got my first ever arts grant from SK Arts to take a book-related trip in 2025—to Denver, Colorado! More on that in next year's ABCs Of post, hopefully.

H - Hiking. People from mountainy places would maybe take issue with this one and say I should move it down to W and just call it walking. But I already have one for W and we did find a few places to "hike" in Saskatchewan this year. Our hills may be tiny but shut up; they count.

I - I Think We've Been Here Before was published, first in Canada in September, and then in the rest of the places in December. I had a party in November and so many wonderful people came out. 

J - Just taught one writing workshop. The people I met that day were so lovely. I don't think teaching is for me, but I'm glad I did it.

K - Kept on doodling on sticky notes to try to keep my brain fresh.

L - Live music: This year, the only live music I saw was at festivals! Cathedral Village Arts Festival (Marissa Burwell, Andy Shauf, Natural Sympathies, lots of other sweet bands), Regina Jazz Festival (my mom's cousin's husband's jazz quartet played a set in a park on a rainy day and that was lovely), Shake the Lake (Steven Page, George Thorogood and the Destroyers). I continue to be sad about how scarce live music has been in my life since about 2020. This year! This is the one! Bring back the music!

M - Met so many author friends IRL—such a treat, for a person who lives in the actual middle of nowhere. Amber Cowie came to Regina in the spring, and then when I went to Toronto I met Samantha Bailey, Marissa Stapley, Kerry Clare, Sherri Vanderveen, and Vikki VanSickle. Robert Penner flew in from Winnipeg to go on tour with me, and I know she's from Weyburn, which isn't very far away, but I met Victoria Koops this year too! 

N - News! My most exciting news in 2024 was probably the thing about my book being optioned. It was very fun to announce that and be excited with everyone. I reeeeealllly hope to have more exciting news on that front in next year's post.

O - On TV! Was pleasantly surprised a few times to hear that my book went on TV without me. This is my preference—not being the one on the screen, but still getting the publicity.

P - Public speaking. Dare I say that this is the year I finally conquered my fear of talking in front of people? This has been on every single ABCs list I've written since V&V first came out and I recognized both my intense fear of public speaking and also the frequency with which I would have to do it if I were to hang out in the author sphere. I had, for a while, begun to believe that my lot in life was just to be perpetually in panic attack mode, but I had an event just the other night and at one point I picked up my book to read from it and realized, with shock and awe and excitement, that it wasn't shaking in my hands. Like, at all. This is a huge deal for me! 

Q - Quantum Entanglement! This was the year of it. And hopefully every year from here on in also is.

R - Read lots of books. I don't know how many. Lots! Not lots compared to some people, but so many compared to others.

Or!

R - Russian copies of Valencia and Valentine landed in my mailbox.

S - Started working, EXTREMELY part time, for Barclay's landscaping company. 

T - Toronto! I still need to do a whole blog post about that trip. What a daydream come true. 

U - UM! The lovely people at Indigo put my books at the front of the store by the cash register. Thrilling, truly.

V - Voted! It felt like there were a lot of elections this year. Three, I guess? We voted in the ones we could vote in and tuned in to hear the results. 

W - Worked on three books. Finished none of them. That's okay! I was busy doing other things.

X - XXXVII (I turned 37) 

and 

 

X - XV (Barclay and I celebrated our 15th anniversary!)

Y - Yes! We started doing Fart Walks with the kids. I saw a lady on Tik-Tok talking about the benefits of a post-supper walk, including steady blood sugar, better mood, increased circulation, and smoother digestion. She and her husband go every night and they call them Fart Walks, because of the digestion thing, I guess. I don't know about noticeable benefits, but I'm sure they're good for us. And like, one time, it was raining when we left and Sully said, "Well. I guess tonight we're going for a wet fart walk," and that was gross and funny and we all laughed and I've heard that laughter is the best medicine. 

Therefore, fart walks are the best medicine.

Z - Zapped my friends in lazer tag, competed against them at that live video game place (the name of which escapes me right now), did an escape room, went to a dance party, and went to the arcade SEVERAL times. Apparently this was the year of acting like a preteen? Wonderful.

Okay! I'm sure there were other notable things about this year, but those are the ones that I thought of today. Tag, you're IT.