Writing from the bottom of the lake. And — author evening tomorrow night.
The sun peeking warmly over a cold body of water, with snow on the ground and a cedar tree leaning into the frame.
I almost didn’t write this newsletter.
I started 8 or 9 times and walked away. I’ve been sad this month, which makes my writing slow and muddy, like the sludge on the bottom of a lake. Or maybe I’m the sludge on the bottom of the lake? I’m not sure if there’s a difference, I just know that over and over, my ideas soar away out of my hands like bright blue birds, leaving me motionless and gravitational.
But then I thought about Rachel Phan. Rachel is coming to talk to us in a (rare) author evening online, tomorrow night. It will have been a year minus a day since Rachel published her memoir, Restaurant Kid, and I’m excited to celebrate that milestone, but even more excited to have her share the humanity of her writing and publishing story with us.
Like a lot of us, Rachel never imagined writing a memoir.
She signed up for a Firefly writing workshop, and got an idea for an essay about growing up in her family’s Chinese restaurant in small-town Ontario. She wrote a draft and thought, “Maybe I’ll send it to Modern Love.” It got rejected, she felt terrible and put it in a drawer.
Does this sound familiar to anyone?
But then, about six months later, Rachel found it, and decided to send it to CBC First Person. This time, the right editor got it. He liked it, published it, and told her, “You should write more.” He also happened to know an agent. Rachel kept writing, the agent sent her work to a publisher, and a week after publication, it was a bestseller.
I’m making this sound easy, but Rachel is far too honest to let that be the story she shares. Writing is never a confident, linear march towards glory, and even the most celebrated books have long, messy backstories that we can all find parts of ourselves in.
Rachel wasn’t filled with confidence, a burning drive towards bestsellerhood. She didn’t even believe she had anything to say, until she said it. She just followed the words as far as they wanted to go, and she made something beautiful that spoke to many, many people.
I’m telling you this because I need to remember it myself today.
Writing can come from slow and muddy places.
Writing can come even when we don’t believe we can do it yet.
Writing can come on the 9th or 109th try.
Writing can come from the rhythm of a single sentence that leads to the next one.
Writing can come (and this is one of Rachel’s) from the desire to see the people we most love in print, and to honour their stories.
Writing can come from a tiny ray of curiosity that says “What if I try one more time?”
We’d love to see you at the event!
Tickets are sliding scale, and all proceeds go to creativity grants for Indigenous Youths, part of our year-long fundraising project with Indigenous Youth Roots. Rachel is great. Kim will be interviewing her. They’ll take questions from the audience, give away a copy. It’ll be a place to show up and feed your inner writer, in good company.
We have some spring workshops coming up, right where Rachel started.
Some even have discounts available because time is getting tight. We have a seat for you at the table, no matter how much confidence and clarity you have right now.
Spring Writing Workshops starting soon, with discounts
We have some slow-fill workshops starting in April, and we’re offering 30% off in — Keep Your Pen Moving, Deeper Waters, Stranger Horizons, Hearts on Paper, and Focus and Flow. Here’s the discount code: SPRINGSD30%
More workshops galore
Not discounted, but still full of inspiration and momentum, here are the rest of our spring workshops.
I’m especially excited about the chance to write in-person with Mari, and make the messiest first drafts imaginable (also in-person!) with Kim.
And, a poem.
The spring equinox slipped by without me noticing it this year, but realizing it had passed with a reminder to revisit this gorgeous gift of a poem.
Here’s “Equinox” by Tamiko Beyer.
Friends — I salute you from my lake sludge.
There are poems to be found in all of our heart’s weather systems, stories that we would never think to write, but we can.
Here’s to coming back and back and back and back to the tiny, patient voice in us that says “Let’s try again.”
In it with you,
