Bound by truth

Last September, I joined a group of 12 strangers for a 10-week, creative non-fiction, writing workshop called “True To Life Writing” at Ryerson University. We all seemed to share two things in common: a desire to write and the fear of calling ourselves writers.

We were an eclectic bunch, bringing life to a classically bland classroom and bound by a code of silence that asked that we didn't share our writing with anyone (partners and confidants included). At least part of the rationale for the latter was to save our still fragile writers' egos.

Every week we would write, our imagination sparked by a word or scene painted by our instructor, Beth Kaplan. Then the following week, one by one, we would share our unedited, uncensored interpretations. The “feedback sandwich” would be passed around the room, with full critiquing license left for Beth who would edit for grammar, technique, flow and other such important writing things.

While using literary devices such as "suitcases" (or hidden nuggets that when revealed tell the real story, as Beth called them) remain top of my mind since we went our separate ways in December, the greatest reward was experiencing the level of trust we all placed in each other. The class was our safety net where judgement was left at the door. I shared more of myself with the group than most people I've known my entire life.

While still trying to grasp the reality of mummy's death, I reached out to the class, remembering the stories I had shared of my relationship with her and knowing instantly that they would understand the depth of my loss.

The end of the workshop was bittersweet. I was proud to have made it to the end, though some days I dragged myself there after work. But I was also fearful that I would not be able to keep up the momentum of writing as I allowed life to get in the way.

Thankfully, our relationships did not end with the class. We are now meeting once a month for “True To Life Writing Beyond Ryerson” at a little coffee shop and I feel fortunate to be a part of these writers' journeys and to have them be part of mine.

No April's Fool, just a writer

Two days ago, I told a dear friend that I think I may need to talk to someone – a professional. The night before my 10:20 a.m. revelation to her over a Google chat I was standing in the shower in a mad fit, flip-flopping between crying and composure. A montage of the events of the past four months flashed before my eyes. Hearing my father say, “mummy died.” Viewing her body at the funeral home. Delivering my point-form eulogy. Touching her face in the coffin at the cemetery. Forgetting to say “I love you” at the end of our last conversation.

As our virtual conversation continued, she asked why I didn't express what I've been feeling through my writing. I know I have a history of burying my emotions. What I didn't know was that I have been using sleep and drivel on the TV (Say Yes to the Dress, Jersey Shore, Real Housewives – need I say more!) as drugs to tune out.

Sometimes my thoughts scare me. I'm afraid to see them on paper, on the screen. Sometimes I feel the inside is just too ugly to share with others or for me to even read to myself. Sometimes I think I need a F-bucket to purge my thoughts out into.

But (aye-aye moment alert!), her final piece of advice during our chat made me rethink the way I've been censoring myself.

“You know you're in control right?” she asked. “If you want to write and burn it when you're done, then do that; if you want to write and file it away to never return to it, then do that; if you want to write and post, then do that.”

I decided to run with choice #3, for today.

This blog is about my journey of becoming, experiencing, stumbling, loving, living, but first to begin...