No matter how tardy I am about updating, eventually there's that little pull that brings me back here. I'm just a journaly, bloggy person - sooner or later.
In all fairness, I have been writing. My program is more intense this semester than last and I'm still writing the article. I've reduced it to two-three articles a week now, so I can keep up with my school work, but it's still happening. I'm trying to crystallize the plans for my pipe-dream which is a novel. I talk to my husband about it. I try to pick his English PhD brain apart for ideas that make a good story. Even if it never happens, I like the conversations we have about it. I get enthusiastic, he smiles. It's nice.
Life after SSHRC - Fella and I spend our days together - he reads, I write, we make tea. I ask him for help with grammar structure. He reads out the interesting passages in the work he's reading. Wee man is still in daycare four days a week, though we usually pick him up early (I think he has a little girlfriend there. It's very cute). It's like another world. We don't have to worry about making payments, buying groceries, flying home. We aren't rich, but it's just - easier. We can start to save for the house we've never let ourselves think about just yet. I think we're both still holding our breaths in hope that the other shoe doesn't drop. The first few months here were so hard.
But no errand shoes yet.
Ottawa gets so much sun. Would you hate me if I complained that it was too much sun? We've gone through two canisters of sunscreen this year already and it's only halfway through June. In Newfoundland, I'd buy a can of sunscreen and it'd rust past its expiry date in my medicine cabinet. Our entire little family gets up every morning to coat ourselves in SPF 60, but we still show the evidence of exposure. My makeup doesn't match my face anymore -- I'm going to have to buy new stuff. I put foundation on this morning (I don't wear makeup every day) and I looked like a geisha. I have more freckles on my arms than I have since I was a kid.
I complain now, but I'm sure I'll miss it. I do like the walks. I walk at least an hour every day. 20 minutes to daycare, 20 minutes home. Usually 10 minutes to the store and back. Yesterday I put wee man in his red wagon and we walked for two hours. I bought him a fruit bar and he picked a dandelion for the ride. I'm sure I could walk to China and he would sit in that wagon without a peep. He loves it.
I understand now why a lot of people have their second baby when their first child is two (no,we're still not having another). At two, they're sleeping through the night (probably), they're feeding themselves for the most part, they walk, they climb, they communicate a little and, by and large, they're really frigging adorable. Wee man is going through a "hugging" phase. He wants to hug everyone. He hugs me and his father a dozen times a day. He tries to hug the cats. He hugs his stuffed animals. It's just - love. He can really show you love in a meaningful, independent way. He climbs onto my lap, I tell him he's a good boy and the contented cuddled smile he gives me is enough to make my heart explode. I caught him singing a tender song to his stuffed animal the other night. Everyone talks about how awesome and amazing a baby's first smiles are - but I was never really convinced. How things are now, this is it for me. This is the why.
You spend the first year of a baby's life giving so much - hoping you're doing it right, never really knowing if you are. And they start the blossum so much - it's a flash. And they love you and you love them and it's all so much easier.
I'm sure this is all coming to me now because A) it's Father's Day and B) wee man's birthday was 10 days ago. His first birthday, it was like "Yay! We survived!" but at two, he's not a baby anymore - and I'm getting some major nostalgia. Can you get nostalgia for two years ago? Well, I do.
The day before wee man's second birthday, I saw a very pregnant lady at the grocery store and I filled up with tears. At that moment, I missed being pregnant more than anything, and I SWEAR I almost ran up and hugged that woman (thank God I didn't, eh? Probably the last thing she needed). You think you'll remember what it feels like forever; the little kicks and baby stretches and hiccups. It becomes so ingrained in your body -- it literally leaves marks, but you start to forget. You lose the shape, your stomach shrinks, the marks fade and your body goes back to ignoring that part of your physiology.
The first night after he was born I found it hard to sleep without feeling him there. It might sound crazy, but after having constant contact and feedback from a wiggly little being, it's lonely without them. For about a week, I'd wake up in a panic because I couldn't feel him before I'd remember that he had been born. Now he curls up on my lap and I worry about what I'll do when he's too big for cuddles. I whisper "you know, you still have to give your mother hugs, even when you're all grown up." My husband assures me that he will, but I worry.
Anyway, this entry has gotten rather lengthy and there's no real, um, point. I guess. I just felt like writing something that wasn't an article or a technical writing proposal.
We're coming back to Newfoundland for two weeks next month. A month from today, actually. That will be nice. Very nice. We're looking forward to it.
Sunday, June 17, 2012
Wednesday, May 9, 2012
Flowers
When I was little, my Grandmother kept hanging flowers -- 5 or 6 baskets, in a row, every summer in front of the windows of her dining room. They didn't smell like much, but the hummingbirds fought over the red ones. Tiny, squeaking, angry hummingbirds dive-bombing and racing in front of the glass. We'd watch them for hours. By the end of summer her entire yard was covered in petals. Red speckles on grass and concrete.
I've never had live flowers in or around my place. Between the basement apartments, struggling university lifestyle and general short-seasoned-ness of Newfoundland, it's just never happened.
A few months ago I noticed a hook outside our balcony door. "We're getting a basket of flowers", I said.
As soon as the closest garden center opened, the Fella, Wee man and I walked down to investigate. The store was still unloading inventory, so their hanging plants were tucked away in a corner. I saw the same familiar red petals, slightly wilted, behind a tall pylon. In an attempt to move said pylon, I looped my fingers into its top hole and immediately pierced my hand on something.
"Ow!"
Blood ran down from left middle finger.
"Are you okay?", my husband asked.
"Yes. I'll get it, let's go." and I kicked the pylon aside.
I told the boy at the counter to "never mind the blood." He looked at me, but didn't say anything. The basket's handle was stained the same colour as the flowers it supported.
For the first few days, our little plant continued its sad appearance. I'd go out, water it with an old wine bottle and prune its dying blooms to make way for the buds. I wondered if hummingbirds would fly up to the fifth floor of an apartment building. And, little by little, our flowers recovered.
Last night, while we were watching t.v., I looked through our living room window and noticed an eruption of extra petals. The foliage must have started growing, as well, because the greenery began to really hang over the edge of the bowl.
"Hey", I said to my husband.
"Yeah?" he responded
"I'd like to have flowers for the rest of my life. Okay?"
He looked up at me and smiled "Sure. Flowers. We can do that."
I've never had live flowers in or around my place. Between the basement apartments, struggling university lifestyle and general short-seasoned-ness of Newfoundland, it's just never happened.
A few months ago I noticed a hook outside our balcony door. "We're getting a basket of flowers", I said.
As soon as the closest garden center opened, the Fella, Wee man and I walked down to investigate. The store was still unloading inventory, so their hanging plants were tucked away in a corner. I saw the same familiar red petals, slightly wilted, behind a tall pylon. In an attempt to move said pylon, I looped my fingers into its top hole and immediately pierced my hand on something.
"Ow!"
Blood ran down from left middle finger.
"Are you okay?", my husband asked.
"Yes. I'll get it, let's go." and I kicked the pylon aside.
I told the boy at the counter to "never mind the blood." He looked at me, but didn't say anything. The basket's handle was stained the same colour as the flowers it supported.
For the first few days, our little plant continued its sad appearance. I'd go out, water it with an old wine bottle and prune its dying blooms to make way for the buds. I wondered if hummingbirds would fly up to the fifth floor of an apartment building. And, little by little, our flowers recovered.
Last night, while we were watching t.v., I looked through our living room window and noticed an eruption of extra petals. The foliage must have started growing, as well, because the greenery began to really hang over the edge of the bowl.
"Hey", I said to my husband.
"Yeah?" he responded
"I'd like to have flowers for the rest of my life. Okay?"
He looked up at me and smiled "Sure. Flowers. We can do that."
Monday, May 7, 2012
Breaks
Week two of writing articles every day. The words are easier coming now. I guess, like anything, it's a matter of practice and habit. Deadlines help to motivate my sorry ass, haha.
I don't know if I mentioned this before, but Mr.Fella had applied to a pretty sizeable SHRCC grant a few months back. The past several months of our lives were consistently framed with "well, IF we get a SHRCC... IF we get one..."
Well, he got it. It's $35,000 a year for three years - not including the funding he already gets for his TAship. So, given our current status, it's pretty life-changing. The letter came while he was finishing up with a meeting and he had me read it out to him on the phone. We both cried, we couldn't believe it. The little guy was confused by our hysterics.
But it takes the pressure off the both of us - we don't have to worry so much about being able to keep up with daycare costs, trips back home for Christmas, that sort of thing. I can focus on the writing projects that I really like, and that'll really help me go where I want to go. I've been thinking about a novel for some time and I might give it a go, or at least get it started. I ordered some research material for it yesterday.
It'll be about Newfoundland. And being brave (don't worry, it won't be autobiographical - a blog is where I draw the line for my ego-centrism.) Things are happening.
I don't know if I mentioned this before, but Mr.Fella had applied to a pretty sizeable SHRCC grant a few months back. The past several months of our lives were consistently framed with "well, IF we get a SHRCC... IF we get one..."
Well, he got it. It's $35,000 a year for three years - not including the funding he already gets for his TAship. So, given our current status, it's pretty life-changing. The letter came while he was finishing up with a meeting and he had me read it out to him on the phone. We both cried, we couldn't believe it. The little guy was confused by our hysterics.
But it takes the pressure off the both of us - we don't have to worry so much about being able to keep up with daycare costs, trips back home for Christmas, that sort of thing. I can focus on the writing projects that I really like, and that'll really help me go where I want to go. I've been thinking about a novel for some time and I might give it a go, or at least get it started. I ordered some research material for it yesterday.
It'll be about Newfoundland. And being brave (don't worry, it won't be autobiographical - a blog is where I draw the line for my ego-centrism.) Things are happening.
Tuesday, May 1, 2012
I think I've reached my first ethical dilemma as a writer.
I've been taken on to write daily(ish) articles on various industry sectors. One of the sectors is energy and it's becoming difficult to find energy companies that I feel comfortable writing about. The impression that I get from my editor is that these are supposed to be business oriented columns. As in, "what can we learn from these businesses," sort of thing.
Well, I'm not sure that I really want to present a "what can we learn" piece on BP (remember that giant oil disaster in the Gulf of Mexico? Wasn't that fun?)
And as I delve into the biggest energy companies, I'm finding similarly unsavory histories. I feel like I'm supposed to ignore the social/environmental context for everything I'm talking about and focus on the rich white guy who was able to create an empire because, surprise surprise, he was a rich white guy. And I'm supposed to pretend it was due to some romanticized notion of entrepreneurial "captain of industry" type stuff. It leaves a bit of a bad taste in my mouth.
Soooooo. I'm still going to write. I have other projects. I just think I might need to change this particular arrangement.
- P.S. This is why I'm going to school to write manuals! Unless someone tries to hire me to write a guide on "how to torture puppies", I'll probably be clear of this sort of stuff!
I've been taken on to write daily(ish) articles on various industry sectors. One of the sectors is energy and it's becoming difficult to find energy companies that I feel comfortable writing about. The impression that I get from my editor is that these are supposed to be business oriented columns. As in, "what can we learn from these businesses," sort of thing.
Well, I'm not sure that I really want to present a "what can we learn" piece on BP (remember that giant oil disaster in the Gulf of Mexico? Wasn't that fun?)
And as I delve into the biggest energy companies, I'm finding similarly unsavory histories. I feel like I'm supposed to ignore the social/environmental context for everything I'm talking about and focus on the rich white guy who was able to create an empire because, surprise surprise, he was a rich white guy. And I'm supposed to pretend it was due to some romanticized notion of entrepreneurial "captain of industry" type stuff. It leaves a bit of a bad taste in my mouth.
Soooooo. I'm still going to write. I have other projects. I just think I might need to change this particular arrangement.
- P.S. This is why I'm going to school to write manuals! Unless someone tries to hire me to write a guide on "how to torture puppies", I'll probably be clear of this sort of stuff!
Saturday, April 28, 2012
Visits
April, it would seem, has become the month of visits in our little apartment.
Parents, friends. My cousin, the comedian and film maker, six years younger than I am.. I hadn't spoken to him, really, in years. He's all grown up now with wild woolly red hair.
My husband's best friend - highschool friend, was here last week. We hadn't seen him in a year before that.
He spent 8 months in Ghana, but they talked about their high school calculus. Throwing them back, back to nostalgia.
Sometimes, when you talk to someone from your past, you look across the cavern of time and experiences and strangers that make up their life and you still see them there - standing on the other side - across a great stretch of change, but still, in essence, who you remember.
And you smile at each other.
Wave.
Send smoke signals.
And maybe you'll never stand on the same ground again, but it's nice to see them there and remember.
And sometimes you look across the abyss and they're gone. The horizon has taken them.
And it's sad.
They could be sitting right across from you: in a chair at a coffee shop, or at a bar.
But they're lost.
And you both wonder when the other finally slipped from view.
I think a lot about these things. I have a lot of figures lost away.
Houses in towns that neither of us live in anymore.
Basements where teenagers hang out; on couches claimed from damp sidewalks.
Shag carpet.
VHS movies.
Collectives that will always exist, but don't seem to bridge the gaps anymore. Little gaps in our brains. Our lives are filled with gaps. And some of them swallow people.
Parents, friends. My cousin, the comedian and film maker, six years younger than I am.. I hadn't spoken to him, really, in years. He's all grown up now with wild woolly red hair.
My husband's best friend - highschool friend, was here last week. We hadn't seen him in a year before that.
He spent 8 months in Ghana, but they talked about their high school calculus. Throwing them back, back to nostalgia.
Sometimes, when you talk to someone from your past, you look across the cavern of time and experiences and strangers that make up their life and you still see them there - standing on the other side - across a great stretch of change, but still, in essence, who you remember.
And you smile at each other.
Wave.
Send smoke signals.
And maybe you'll never stand on the same ground again, but it's nice to see them there and remember.
And sometimes you look across the abyss and they're gone. The horizon has taken them.
And it's sad.
They could be sitting right across from you: in a chair at a coffee shop, or at a bar.
But they're lost.
And you both wonder when the other finally slipped from view.
I think a lot about these things. I have a lot of figures lost away.
Houses in towns that neither of us live in anymore.
Basements where teenagers hang out; on couches claimed from damp sidewalks.
Shag carpet.
VHS movies.
Collectives that will always exist, but don't seem to bridge the gaps anymore. Little gaps in our brains. Our lives are filled with gaps. And some of them swallow people.
Tuesday, April 17, 2012
something old, something new, something (maybe) overdue.
So I did that thing that you're not supposed to do. Whatsit? Right. Quit my day job.
Oops.
Remember that lull in my work that I spoke about a few weeks ago? And that article contract? Well, apparently, when you have enough free time and energy and motivation (read: dislike for structured office work), apparently, sometimes, something can happen.
I wrote my beauty article and got really encouraging feedback. They want me to write three more articles. I also got signed on to do some course content/editing for a company that specializes in mortgage licensing prep.
Then another (trial) article for men's health blog. All paid. Not spectacular pay, but nothing criminal or slave-wage. Paid to write. And, more importantly, paid to build a portfolio.
Then, on Friday, I got a voice-mail from my old research firm. They had a new contract lined up and they wanted me to start coming in again. They were looking at starting me Tuesday (today) and they wanted to know by Monday (yesterday) if I was interested in coming back in.
Pretty short notice, but it always is; causal position.
I hummed and hawed and looked at our calendar. I asked Mr.Fella what he thought I should do. He said we could use some (somewhat) steady income, but that the decision was up to me. Hum - haw- what to do.
And then I said "Fuck it". If I'm going to do this, I might as well do this. I'm going to school to write. I need the practice. I need to be able to manage clients and contracts and my own shit in some semblance of on-going professionalism. So many times, I have writing projects that I want to do, but I have to squeeze them in between a day job, my family and school. I only have a finite amount of energy.
So, I called the research firm and told them that, I was sorry for the short notice, but I wasn't coming in again. Ever. And they could mail me my last cheque that I had failed to pick up last week.
They called me back and said that my cheque was in the mail.
Done.
So. Here I am. I woke up this morning and worked for two hours on mortgage law in New York. I had my lunch and I'm thinking about the research I'd like to do for the men's health article that's due tomorrow (on Botox - ha!).
It's scary, because if this doesn't turn into something, I don't know that it ever will. And it's all on me. I can't blame a shitty office, or a shitty boss or any other shitty limitations. I'm on my own now and I'm responsible for what happens. I need to find a way to harness my flighty, random, spazzy focus into something productive on an on-going basis. I've stopped talking about what I'm going to do, and I'm trying to do it. Scary stuff.
So, in the back of my whirly brain I'm also planning on starting a professional writing blog at some point. It'll have a different tone from this one, obviously (less swearing and slandering). I'm not sure what's going to happen to ol' Ottawish. I'll keep you posted.
Well, well, here we go.
Oops.
Remember that lull in my work that I spoke about a few weeks ago? And that article contract? Well, apparently, when you have enough free time and energy and motivation (read: dislike for structured office work), apparently, sometimes, something can happen.
I wrote my beauty article and got really encouraging feedback. They want me to write three more articles. I also got signed on to do some course content/editing for a company that specializes in mortgage licensing prep.
Then another (trial) article for men's health blog. All paid. Not spectacular pay, but nothing criminal or slave-wage. Paid to write. And, more importantly, paid to build a portfolio.
Then, on Friday, I got a voice-mail from my old research firm. They had a new contract lined up and they wanted me to start coming in again. They were looking at starting me Tuesday (today) and they wanted to know by Monday (yesterday) if I was interested in coming back in.
Pretty short notice, but it always is; causal position.
I hummed and hawed and looked at our calendar. I asked Mr.Fella what he thought I should do. He said we could use some (somewhat) steady income, but that the decision was up to me. Hum - haw- what to do.
And then I said "Fuck it". If I'm going to do this, I might as well do this. I'm going to school to write. I need the practice. I need to be able to manage clients and contracts and my own shit in some semblance of on-going professionalism. So many times, I have writing projects that I want to do, but I have to squeeze them in between a day job, my family and school. I only have a finite amount of energy.
So, I called the research firm and told them that, I was sorry for the short notice, but I wasn't coming in again. Ever. And they could mail me my last cheque that I had failed to pick up last week.
They called me back and said that my cheque was in the mail.
Done.
So. Here I am. I woke up this morning and worked for two hours on mortgage law in New York. I had my lunch and I'm thinking about the research I'd like to do for the men's health article that's due tomorrow (on Botox - ha!).
It's scary, because if this doesn't turn into something, I don't know that it ever will. And it's all on me. I can't blame a shitty office, or a shitty boss or any other shitty limitations. I'm on my own now and I'm responsible for what happens. I need to find a way to harness my flighty, random, spazzy focus into something productive on an on-going basis. I've stopped talking about what I'm going to do, and I'm trying to do it. Scary stuff.
So, in the back of my whirly brain I'm also planning on starting a professional writing blog at some point. It'll have a different tone from this one, obviously (less swearing and slandering). I'm not sure what's going to happen to ol' Ottawish. I'll keep you posted.
Well, well, here we go.
Tuesday, April 10, 2012
Steps
I've secured my first freelance writing contract today! It's not much (a 400 word article), but it feels like a pretty big accomplishment to me. I've been writing and putting things "out there" for ages with little result.
I see glimmers of a future I like.
The article is on beauty/fashion and I get to write pretty much whatever I want, so that'll be fun. I'm excited. And determined. I have to keep up this persistence.
:)
I see glimmers of a future I like.
The article is on beauty/fashion and I get to write pretty much whatever I want, so that'll be fun. I'm excited. And determined. I have to keep up this persistence.
:)
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