The Perfect Writing Day

After weeks of interruptions, including a mind-numbing cold, I’ve realized my desire to just sit and write is based on an illusion that has just enough reality to be enticing.

Every now and then I have days when I do just write and write, when I push everything else aside, ignore the phone, and simply write. But no matter how much I long for those days, how much I strive for them, they come when they come, and mostly, they don’t.

Now, after a week away from my stories because of a bug, with all kinds of bits to integrate from Wordfest writing moments, I’m once again longing. Except that I’m longing to nap again, too, as I try to will my cold away just as I try to will perfect writing days.

Sadly, neither works. So, to nap, and then to write, in bits. And to wait for that perfect writing day.

Maureen

Winter

Winter has arrived, in a sudden shift from a lovely fall. It came with a little warning, so I was able to take a few last flower photos, before cutting the flowers for indoor bouquets.

Maureen

About Wordfest

Most of the time, being a writer means being alone in a room. I don’t feel lonely, because I’m hanging out with my characters, but it is a delight to hang out with real people, sometimes.

Wordfest is all about hanging out, with people who love books and writing and story. First, the audiences: the kids in the sessions in Calgary, the grade 12 creative writing class that drove to Banff from Kamloops, the 10 year old girl at the Mentoring session who came up from Calgary with her dad, because she wants to be a writer.

And after five Wordfest days in Calgary and another five in Banff, I’ve gotta say, it’s such a pleasure to hang out with writers. To talk about books and writing, and to discover I’m not the only idiot-writer who manages to be without a pen far too often.

I’ve met writers of every kind of book, from all over. Most are Canadians, but I met Anne Perry (mystery writer) and became good friends with her biographer, Joanne Drayton (from New Zealand). Joanne and I drove out to Lake Louise with another new friend, Julie Wilson (author of Seen Reading, voyeur of what other people read). They were thrilled by the lake, the rock slide, the snow and hot drinks after our chilly walk, and the little squeaky animal that followed us along the rocks.

I brought home a stack of new books; I had to restrain myself to buy only seven.

And, once again, I realized how special the Banff Centre is. It’s a remarkable setting for writers, a writerly place, somehow, and it inspired us all to write and to talk about books and story and the act of writing. It’s brilliant, and it was a delight to be there again.

Maureen

From the Banff Centre