one hundred and twenty six days

On January 1st of this year, I gave myself a task; a mission, if you will.

In trying to challenge myself creatively, I made a pact to take a photo a day. The subject and content doesn't matter. Even the quality doesn't really matter, as long as I have captured an image.
To this date, I have captured 126, and since this is the 126th day of 2013, I have managed to maintain the goal.
126 days, and I am already aware of the benefits of this project.

Even as a child, I saw everything in frames, as pictures, but it is even more so now.
My view changes angles, composition happens before my eyes. I feel more focused on what is around me.

But it also makes me complete a task, and these days, that is a task in itself.

When you see everything as a photograph, the next step is to find the next shot. I'm always looking. But more importantly, I'm always seeing. I'm seeing more.
It's also fun and interesting to go back from time to time, to the very first shot on New Year's Day, and follow the journey, day by day, for all one hundred and twenty six.
Some shots are funny, some quirky, some mundane.
Others are random, accidental, or taken with someone in mind.
But they all invoke a memory. They all return a piece of that day.

Sometimes I have something in mind, and sometimes, out of the clear blue, they are presented to me.
That was the story of today's shot.

While driving with friends through Grand Pre, in search of the Bay of Funday mud flats, I spotted these doors on the top of a hill.
It all felt a little Alice in Wonderland.
But I do love the shot.

It looked like a scene from one of my dreams.. or a Tim Burton movie. 

Be Nice

jussayin'

Margaret Atwood Says To Write Like it is Your Job

I'm trying Margaret.
Lawd knows, I'm trying.

oh my love, my darling, I've hungered for your touch

Sometimes you don't realize how noisy it is until you finally find the silence.
Sometimes you don't know how much you miss something until you get it back.
Or in my case, stand beside it again.


It has been months since I have been to the beach and I miss it.
I don't think I realized how much until I stood there yesterday.
Despite the rainy snow and snowy rain, it was glorious.


There is a certain smell of the air, and a certain feel on my skin that I cannot describe, but it brings me very close to tears.
It's as like  every pore, every cell has been thirsting, and you don't even know until you take a drink.

And so I stood, at the edge of the ocean, drinking it in through sight, smell, skin.
This is my center, my prayer, my church, my meditation.
This is my home.

All is right with the world.

Conrad Beach, Nova Scotia on March 2, 2013

if the only thing between you and everbody else is a thin layer of gabardine...

It must be laundry day.

and I was like, hell yeah!

evolution

I've always written.
There are dairies from childhood and journals of teen angst and volumes that chronicle my journey.

There are articles that have been commissioned, sold and published. It has been a part of making a living.

There are so many files, folders, scraps of paper, note books of unfinished works. An entire book of short stories splintered off from an unfinished novel with too many points of view. 

In the past, when someone asked me what I do, I have often struggled with the label. I had it down to "I work in the arts and entertainment industry", which seemed a broad enough umbrella. Depending on the context or capacity in which I was working at the time,  I have confidently broken it down to "actor", "singer",  "director" or  even, at times "I write".  But have never said the words "I am a writer"

It always seemed rather fraudulent to wear that mantle when I didn't spend all my time working on it. I know writers, I know the dedication they have to the craft. In my case writing, or creative writing at least, was a hobby.

But yesterday, yesterday I felt like a writer. I remember the exact moment.

I was standing in the post office. I had just asked to have my envelope visibly post-marked. For the first time in my life, I entered a writing competition.

The submission date was yesterday, and I wasn't sure I could work those 1200-1500 words in just a couple of days. But I took one of the unfinished stories and whittled away at words, to craft my piece of creative nonfiction.
The feeling of actually finishing a story was close to euphoric. That helped with the shift, for sure. It inspired me to want to do more, to spend all my time giving life to the rest of my narratives. I felt excited by the possibilities.

I printed it off and filled out the entry form. At the post office I turned my twenty-five dollars into a money order entry fee. At that moment, when the postal clerk asked "Who should I make it out to?" and I said CBC Nonfiction Prize, I felt a surge. It was like something was pushed into the right place.

At that moment, if anyone asked me what I do, I would have confidently said "I'm a writer".