Let the Silence Speak

Early January can be dreary – it starts to get dark almost as soon as we’re up, the wind howls past our windows and snow piles up outside, making travel hazardous.

Not that I can complain this winter. Once more, Montreal is being spared. Another storm raging in NY State (south of here) shifts eastwards to the Maritimes and leaves us alone.

Still, the holidays are behind us and spring nowhere in sight. It’s a quiet time, a period when creatures hibernate and even party goers lose their steam.

Needing a diversion, I head downtown. For months, a mammoth Christmas tree filled the center of an indoor mall at Place Montreal Trust. All the decorations have now been stripped away. I hoped that the giant fountain beneath the artificial tree would again be visible and it is.

Bone dry.

I can almost hear the rush of water as it gushes twenty feet into the air only to cascade down like the musical notes on a harp. Is that the echo of children's laughter as they splash coins into the fountain? Soon the water will flow once more and these ghostly sounds will be real.

Right now, a pool of silence fills my inner landscape. It’s the perfect time for me as a writer to let new characters populate my mind and fill it with their voices. In the stillness I can become inspired.

The world of imagination never sleeps; all I have to do is tune in.

Seeing Patterns in the Rain

Yellow leaves slide underfoot as my body falls into a natural rhythm. I forgot how good this feels – walking in the rain as moisture trickles down my face.

I drink in the brilliance of foliage still clinging to trees and the tranquility of empty streets as night settles into the neighborhood. Villeray is an older section of the city where narrow staircases wind outside brick buildings, leading to flats on upper floors, and corner stores offer beer, cigarettes and a chance at this week’s lottery.

I just visited an 89-year-old aunt who survived two strokes and is almost blind. As we sat in her kitchen, a canary dozed in a cage. He has surpassed his normal life span and is also blind. When my aunt recovered from her strokes, the bird grew back all his feathers after a complete molt. Interesting, isn’t it, how the world can reflect our experiences?

I notice these connections more often these days.

After an argument with a friend, I hear a song on the air about the pain of breaking up. Or I leave the mall in frustration because of not finding what I need and a car suddenly careens around the bend and races down the street, tires screeching. It seems to echo my feelings.

I believe our outer reality often mirrors not only our experiences but our state of mind. It’s worth paying attention, even on a rainy night like this.

Drumming for a Better World

Twenty of us sit in a circle with Indian drums at the foot of Mount Royal. Middle-aged or young, black or white – none of that matters. We are here to participate in a world event. Our facilitator, Sabrina, is a vision in white, her long, blond hair flying around her. She leads us through a meditation and a few powerful Earth songs, including:

“We are the ancestors of the ones yet to be
And we are the paper of the previous tree
May everything we think and do
Make it all come out right, for we…” (repeat)

We are at a crucial moment in our history, she says and must choose what we want to see in the world – more fear and upheaval or a future based on love. We will put out our intentions as we drum.

I focus on peace and harmony. Others choose respect and equality for all, enough food for the planet’s inhabitants, kindness to animals… or alternative energy sources instead of fossil fuel.

At 2:00 p.m. EST, we join drum circles around the globe. For 8 full minutes, we replicate the “heart beat” of Mother Earth, which is also our own. Under Sabrina’s guidance we visualize a green ribbon linking all our hearts and also connect to the earth and to the heavens. As we drum, our vision for a new planet is channeled through our hands.

I shut my eyes and get into the rhythm. Ba-boom, Ba-boom. The beat is strong, constant. I feel the Oneness, the peace and harmony which I call upon. When I finally make my way home, the beat still echoes in my mind.

A Writer's Retreat in the Woods

We trade stories around the fireplace as darkness swiftly gathers – a group of six women writers in a log cabin far from home.

There is NO electricity in the cabin and NO roads around this starkly beautiful lake atop Mont Tremblant, a well known mountainous resort area in Quebec. We arrived here by boat, meandering our way around the twists and turns of the 32-mile lake.

Yesterday I went swimming in the lake, mindful of the rocks below the surface. They remind me of the obstacles we all face as writers. The rocks were never a problem, I realize, it’s finding the will and ways to get around them.

As logs crackle and shoot up flames, we talk about works in progress, books we read and loved (or hated), even movies. And trade whatever we feel like passing along – tips on storytelling, inside information on agents, publishers and the marketplace or conferences we enjoyed.

Some of us are farther on the novelist’s path – multi-published or recently agented. Others still struggle with their stories and are taking different courses to address their weaknesses in writing. Our different experiences don't seem to matter; there is a spirit of camaraderie and sharing here, a feeling of wanting each other's success.

“Congratulations on finishing!” one woman says, referring to the novel I finally sent off to an interested publisher after months of revisions. “It’s a great accomplishment.”

Yes, I suppose it is. In the writer’s organization to which we all belong (Romance Writers of America), only 15% of members actually complete their novels and send them off to reputable agents or publishers. When they do this, they achieve “professional” status in the organization’s ranks and can network with others with similar skills and knowledge. It's great to now be part of such a dedicated group.

Writing can be a solitary occupation but here in this cabin, as we share our triumphs and challenges, I no longer feel alone. And as I look around the room, the glow on the other women’s faces tells me they feel the same way.

Living on the Edge

A seagull ruffles its feathers and nestles on the grass, preparing to nap in the July sunshine. What strikes me is where the bird has chosen to hunker down – right next to a busy bike path. It’s a popular route that follows the twists and turns of the St. Lawrence River. On such a fine Sunday, it will be crowded with skaters and cyclists; there are always a few who veer off the pavement on occasion. That gull has put himself in a potentially dangerous situation.

I think of all the people who live on the edge. They may face financial crises, marital woes or even trouble with the law. No one likes to be in difficulty for too long – it’s stressful – but there’s no denying the aliveness we feel as we try to regain control over our lives. It has to do with using all our resources to survive. Do these situations happen to us or do we, like the seagull, put ourselves at risk by our choices?

Maybe we get involved with unstable partners or friends or must deal with the consequences of our own reckless acts. It’s exciting on the edge but it’s not sustainable. Eventually we want peace and calm in our lives.

The seagull can always move. We, too, can decide to seek safer ground.

Fast Track to Nowhere

April in Montreal this year is unusually warm. I take advantage of the mild weather by jogging around a high school track, counting laps. Other people join me, some running, some walking. The more adventurous are bare-legged and short-sleeved. We all go in circles as we tally minutes or kilometers.

My completed laps remind me of some of the milestones in my life - getting married and then divorced, buying my first house, selling stories and articles to magazines, learning to speak in public and giving motivational talks. Years rushed by as I squeezed more activities into less time.

Now my pace has slowed, enough for me to notice the crows watching from the top of lamp posts and see the rays of sunshine shrink behind a row of trees.

Going around this track, there's no destination, no purpose except to appreciate my feelings of well-being and breathe in the cool evening air.

The journey is all that matters.

When Opportunity Knocks

Back from a writer's conference, I sit in my home office surrounded by piles of paper. I just completed the second draft of my novel and have a stack of changes to make. I have three months to get it into shape and send it off to New York.

Why?

When I attended the New Jersey Romance Writers Conference, a two-day event with 350 participants, I didn't intend to pitch my novel to anyone. I knew it wasn't finished. Several writers booked appointments with literary agents and editors. At the eleventh hour, there were cancellations; a slot came free to pitch to an editor at NAL, a major New York publisher that takes paranormal. I took it.

At the very most, I expected to find out if there was any interest in the general lines of my story. I pitched, the editor asked pertinent questions and then she asked for the complete manuscript by email. Just like that.

NAL doesn't normally consider unagented material so this IS a rare opportunity.

Before the request, I had a self-imposed deadline and worked on and off on the writing. Now I am knee-deep in manuscript pages (400 in total), in the midst of cutting, revising and polishing. It's what fiction writers do. The editor's request gave me a welcome push.

When we believe in our dreams and actively pursue them, a momentum is created - an energy that taps into the field of possibilities. Then we are more likely to have opportunity knock.

Be prepared - it could happen to you!