Finding Voice

Heart in Cheese Bread (accidental composition by Eleanor Checketts)

Stacey D’Erasmo: Well, it’s like a coming-of-middle-age novel. I think the idea of finding one’s voice is something that’s very much on your mind when you’re in your twenties and your early thirties, but that struggle lasts throughout your life. How do you figure out how to be forty? How do you figure out how to be fifty? Later, how do you figure out how to be seventy? The good news and the bad news is these transitional moments keep happening.

Lyrical Impulse, Naima Coster interviews Stacey D’Erasmo, August 1, 2014

I have been meaning to write something here for a long time, but as always seems to be the case, never have enough consecutive moments to gather my scattered wits to actually string the right words together.  But I want to try.  Because this summer is proving to be very different from the last, which led me into some sad and scary times.  And because, well, because attention must be paid!  Bills must be paid too; but attention – to art, to nature, to friendships, and to the way life keeps rolling and sliding and catapulting onwards – paying attention satisfies a different kind of debt.

It has occurred to me lately that so much of feeling well and empowered has to do with finding voice.  And this seems silly, because – of course!  But having a voice and finding an authentic voice in which to speak and sing and write are very different things.  And that we can lose our own voice, or lose access to it, for periods of time, however short or long, seems counterintuitive and unfair.  But, sister, it happens.

Maybe this is why when we hear an authentic voice, when we dare to be authentic – we get that shiver of recognition, that zing of potential and truth and strength.  So here, in no particular order are some people and things and experiences that have helped me to celebrate voice lately:

1.  I’m taking singing lessons.  I love singing.  I went to a Baptist church camp, because my parents, apparently slipshod atheists, liked the fact that it was cheap and situated on beautiful Beausoleil Island.  My dad loved singing too, mostly Scottish folk songs and rousing labour anthems.  So I know a lot of songs about Jesus and the blood of the lamb and a few songs about picket lines and some songs about Bonnie Prince Charlie.  I am also a pretty good whistler.  But I have never taken myself very seriously as a singer.  I am trying to change that.

2.  Miriam Toews’ All My Puny Sorrows.  Ooh boy, this is a book that made me want to puke with sadness and recognition – and that is an endorsement.  The novel is about sisters – one trying to convince the other to live, despite the fact that her mental illness is causing her unbearable anguish.  It hit pretty close to home for me.  But it is also lovely and funny and fierce and true.  I wrote the writer a note to say as much – because we should thank the truth tellers in the world whenever we can!  One thing I loved about the novel was that the characters – who are experiencing such horrible heartache – do not shy away from the words, ‘I love you’ and the author is not afraid of what some might deem sentimentality, but I deem emotional courage.  Here is a great interview with Toews where she gives advice for writing:  ‘Ignore all advice about writing!  Leave your blood on every page!  Every page!’  AMPS is a gut-wrenching, beautiful read because Toews is such a gutsy writer.  And by that I mean that it feels like she has torn out some of her most vital organs and smacked them down for the world to see.  Sounds grim and gory, right?  But her voice is also hilarious – wry and self-deprecating and witty and warm and wise (What? What?  You think I overdo the alliteration?).  Read the book, y’all.

3.  My husband has taught himself to play the ukulele.  And he’s really good.

4.  I got to teach a group of adults about creative writing this summer.  They were all such smart, accomplished people, and I wondered, at the outset, what I might have to show them.  What I forgot was that giving yourself license to create is really hard (perhaps especially if you have spent many years becoming an expert or authority in another field) and having someone give you that permission is pretty powerful.  It was such a rush to see my students discover that sitting down to write is not the province of garret dwellers or lone madwomen or lauded salt ‘n’ peppah haired (mostly male) Authors – that everyone has a story, or maybe everyone has pretty much the same stories, but we all have different ways of telling them.  And that is what makes the telling/writing a worthwhile enterprise.

5.  Neko Case.  Because she’s another truth teller and because she wins the prize for long-ass, ballsy album title:  The Worse Things Get The Harder I Fight The Harder I Fight The More I Love You.  And the lines below from ‘Where Did I Leave That Fire?’ (so plaintive and powerful when she sings) which pretty much sum up how it felt for me to find myself lost in my own brain’s chemical swampland.

I saw my shadow looking lost/Checking its pockets for some lost receipt/Where did I leave that fire?/Where did I leave that fire?

6.  Pippi Longstocking.  In June I did an event at Parentbooks in celebration of The M Word, where I got to talk about mothers in children’s books.  I chose Pippi Longstocking by Astrid Lindgren because we learn in the first couple of pages that her mother is dead and looking down from the clouds at her wayward, fantastically strange and weirdly competent daughter.  Who is more interesting, more prone to accident and awesome antics?  Pippi, or her clean, law-abiding, next door neighbours, Tommy and Annika?

Tommy would never think of biting his nails, and he always did exactly what his mother told him to do.  Annika never fussed when she didn’t get her own way, and she always looked so pretty in her little well-ironed cotton dresses; she took the greatest care not to get them dirty.

(I wonder:  Who is ironing those dresses?)  Pippi, on the other hand, sails with her father on the high seas, makes her own clothes, straps scrub brushes on her feet to mop the floor, has a pet monkey, puts bullies in their place, and is so strong she can lift her horse down — one-handed — from the porch.  Proof that sometimes a writer needs to get the mother out of the way for her protagonist to thrive.  And, for a parent, proof that sometimes the mother needs to get herself out of the way for the child to forge her own way.

7.  The Old School Concert series at South in Milford.  I have some friends who up and sold their house in the city to buy and live in an abandoned school in the country.  A school.  Not a school house, all one-room and quaint, a one-storey, 1960s sprawler of a school.  They are renting part of it out to tourists, and the rest they are using as a backdrop for some of their long held fantasies.  Last week, they held the first in a series of concerts in their gym.  It was like a cross between a grade eight dance and a town hall meeting and a basement bar show.   Jenny Whitely and her husband Joey Wright played many of their wonderful originals – and a gorgeous cover of this song by Jesse Winchester, which is all about how our vulnerability is our strength.  Right on.

8.  My youngest daughter says No all the time.  When I ask her if No is her favourite word, she says No.  This is intensely annoying but I admire her endurance and consistency.

Oh, summer time.  When a person who usually spends a lot of time in a (real) school has time to think about such things.