It’s funny but I used to write all the time. Well, before marriage and kids and stuff and…life. Not that I didn’t have a life before nor do I think that anyone who isn’t married and doesn’t have kids has no life, it’s just that the life I had previous is such a blur that its mostly been forgotten.
I used to write a lot. I mostly wrote poetry. There’s something about poetry that seems to just release something deep within me. Maybe it’s that the rhyming or the meter (which is like a song) or the ability of a poet to say in a few lines what a novelist says in a few pages that brings out the beauty of the written word. I find that I am brought to tears more often by good poetry than by a good novel.
A friend of mine posted something about Robert W. Service the other day. It was in relation to “The Creation of Sam McGee”. Now that is a funny poem but there is so much more to Services talent. Poems like “The Spell of the Yukon”, “The Rhyme of the Restless Ones”, “The Pines”, “The Men That Don’t Fit In” were all poems read to me by my father when I was too little to read them myself. I grew up with these poems of the far north never realising that for my father they were probably as close to home as Scotland was.
My Dad came to Canada when he was about sixteen and, with a friend, travelled Northern Ontario selling fruit to the First Nations people and others who lived in remote areas. Now I’m not naive enough to believe he wasn’t selling moonshine along with the apples but there is a picture of him standing in front of an old truck that has “Fruit” lettered along the side so I have to believe that there was some legal trade going on. He mentioned it to me once or twice but I have no real knowledge of that period of his life just the poems of Robert W. Service that describe what my Dad was probably feeling. My Dad also loved Keats and Browning, Robert Frost, Emily Dickinson, Edgar Allen Poe and, of course, Robbie Burns.
My Mum loved Henry Wordsworth Longfellow, Tennyson, Coleridge, Alfred Noyes and Joyce Kilmer. We had a framed print of Kilmers famous poem, “Trees”, on the wall leading out the door. It was the last thing you would see before leaving the house. That and a picture of Stirling Castle. That was where my father grew up, Stirling. But anyway. I always thought that reading that poem before you went on your way was a great way to start the day. I have it here at my house but I haven’t hung it. That will wait until I find a place of my own. My husband is not a sentimentalist.
All of that really doesn’t have anything to do with the point of this post but it just crossed my mind as I was trying to find out what I wanted to write about. I decided I wasn’t going to censor myself and just let my mind, and fingers, take me where they wanted to go. So there you have it, an off topic paragraph or two about my parents. The mind works in mysterious ways.
Anyway. I do love to write. I had been told by more than a few people that I should write for a living but my fears always prevented me from sitting down and writing the Great Canadian Novel. I’m hoping NaBloPoMo will get me back in the habit of thinking like a writer. And after the end of November, who knows?