One Week In November

As a child, I experienced unexpected surges of joy. My mother called them love thrills. Overcome by happiness, I would ball up my fists, scrunch my eyes, and tremble in the throes of surfeiting euphoria. Decades on, love thrills are a rare delight, but they still happen. I had one last September when an email arrived from the Banff Centre for Arts & Creativity.

Your submission has been accepted for the Emerging Writers Intensive program. For an aspiring writer in Canada this was a maple-syrup sweet opportunity, and in a spare bedroom-cum-office I danced around my stationary troupe of printer, computer, and framed graduation photos of my daughters. In springtime I had sent my application, paid a small fee, and then promptly filed the attempt under probably won’t happen. Getting into the program was so entirely unanticipated, I had to whip to the Banff Centre website and review the facilitators to find out whose writerly guidance would benefit us, we who had been selected, thirty-two writers across four disciplines: poetry, creative non-fiction, short story, and my group of eight aspiring first-chapter novelists.

Madeleine Thien. The first-chapter novelists would be mentored by Madeleine descriptive participle Thien. She hadn’t been on my famous-Canadian-author radar prior to applying to the Banff Centre program, but I’d heard of her since. Her most recent novel, Do Not Say We Have Nothing, was in the running for the Man Booker, Giller, and Governor General’s prizes for fiction. I snatched up my Kindle, downloaded Do Not Say We Have Nothing, and read it. Twice. The first time through, my mind couldn’t encompass it all, compelling and appalling Chinese history, twisting and turning of a family through time and trials to Tiananmen Square, and music, oh the music!

Who was Madeleine Thien, and how did she come to write so gorgeously, heartbreakingly, and meaningfully about music? I’m a music teacher and performer, and I had never read anything like it. The words were singing on the page, arranging and rearranging themselves like, well, like variations on an aria. Which, it turns out, was what the author intended. And I was going to learn from her, listen to her, ask her about her process. It was a dream come true. Then Do Not Say We Have Nothing won both the Giller and the GG. She won’t come, I thought, pricking my own balloon with a pin before anyone else could. She’ll be inundated with invitations, swamped with interviews. I convinced myself the Banff Centre would be forced to find a last-minute replacement to run the first-chapter-novel portion of the program.

After my second exhilarating time through Thien’s novel, I read works by all the other facilitators, Wayne Grady’s Emancipation Day, Saleema Nawaz’s Mother Superior, and Elizabeth Phillips’ The Afterlife of Birds, and I can recommend them all as great reads. We were in good hands, poised to be exposed to the thoughts and experiences of deft writers. Here, I acknowledge a debt to Devyani Saltzman, director of Literary Arts at the Banff Centre, for her leadership and vision in providing this program. In mid-November I packed a bag and flew to Calgary, then bussed to Banff.

The first thing about the Banff Centre is that whatever you have landed there to accomplish, whatever creative pursuit or project, you are plopped in the midst of some of the most jaw-dropping, heart-thudding, eye-popping, soul-expanding scenery on this planet. So that’s your starting point. The second thing is your baseline physical needs, those quotidian detractors from and irritants to art-making, like sleeping and eating, are managed for you, handily, with grace and style. And the third thing about the Banff Centre is the people. Musicians and mathematicians and costumers and sculptors and writers et cetera et cetera all dashing about with firework-crackling-synapses, creative hearts and minds aflame. This is palpable, like strolling through the heart of a university campus and sensing all the elevated thought. Meanwhile, the staff are stoked. I challenge you to find another workforce as genuinely thrilled to be doing their jobs as the employees of the Banff Centre.

All of the above is in place before your program even begins. And then. Madeleine Thien honoured her commitment to the Emerging Writers Intensive program. You came – I didn’t think you would come, was the first thing I said to her, already literary starstruck, (it got worse as the week went on), when she arrived at the opening night reception. She laughed, a music so pure and genuine I was instantly hooked on hearing it.

The next morning, a picture of calm in the eye of her success hurricane, Madeleine Thien launched our week – from space. She started us out in orbit, considering the eight planets of our potential books from far outside, above, and around them. What is an imagined world made of? Forests of words arranged in chapters, growing on a continent of story. A novelist must hold in their mind a grand trajectory, while at the same time remaining mindful of minutiae: word, clause, sentence, paragraph. Madeleine Thien began by taking us somewhere astonishing in our imaginations, to the structure of story itself, somewhere I had never travelled…

But then, I remembered, I had. As an undergraduate at the University of Toronto, I took a course called The Mythological Framework of Western Culture, taught by Northrop Frye, the year before he died. It was his signature course on the Bible as literature, centred around his masterpiece on the subject, The Great Code. In one of the first lectures, Professor Frye drew a gigantic sea snake on the whiteboard. This was a schematic, he said, of the narrative structure of the Bible, the triumphant rises and cataclysmic plummets of the Israelites. But such grand imaginings as the architecture of story couldn’t possibly apply to anything I wrote, could they? I had another recollection, this one from high school, of an inverted swoosh: action, climbing to a crisis, then a sharp denouement to The End, the basic, predictable shape of a story. There were endless ways to approach this shape. One could intersect its timeline, run backwards from the end, write along two or three or more parallel swooshes… Like the twelve semitones of the chromatic scale, the melodic and harmonic permutations were endless.

Back at the Banff Centre on that first day, Madeleine Thien encouraged our octet to be courageous, have confidence, and dare to see the big picture right from the beginning. I went to bed that night with the back of my skull blown off, and didn’t sleep particularly well, woken up as I was every hour or so by rushes of intellectual adrenaline. Over the course of the week, we telescoped in and out of each other’s work, now peering in close at point-of-view, now pulling back to appreciate panoramas of historical context, cultural implications, and broad themes. My co-participants were impressive writers, and several of them were already accomplished writers. I learned a great deal from them, from their boldness, from the mighty imaginings erupting from their minds onto their pages. More directly, I learned from their incisive comments and constructive criticism of my pages.

Thanks to the above-and-beyond efforts of Saskatchewan poet Elizabeth Phillips, (especially the night the wine was late and a Banff Centre staff member caught the mighty edge of Liz’s tongue-pen-sword and blood or was it wine spattered the walls and windows and we all ducked so our clothes wouldn’t get stained), I heard everyone’s work at evening readings in the Writer’s Lounge. Gobsmacked, every night, by the talent crammed into that room. Sitting on my hands to keep from punching in the air and calling out yeah, go man go, word, truth, preach, like some latter-day Ginsberg acolyte.

From Madeleine Thien, I received a treasure trove of wisdom and insight with respect to the art and craft of writing. She is a true and passionate pedagogue. Her desire to inform, inspire, and build confidence in her students comes directly from her heart, by way of her impressive intellect. Never have I met a person so concurrently fierce and gentle. As testament to her teaching, three months have passed since I sailed home wing-on-wing from the Banff Centre, the canvas of my determination puffed out and thrumming. I’ve been riffling through pages of handwritten notes, tripping to the library and then home to pile stacks of books on every flat surface. And I’ve been writing, ever-present percussion of my fingers tapping out uneven rhythms on this laptop. Soaking my keyboard-sore hands in hot soapy dishwater at the end of the afternoon to limber them for evening piano practice.

Love thrills don’t come as often these days, but this one is lasting a long time.

Links to works by a few other writers who participated in the Emerging Writers Intensive program in November 2016:

http://www.saramarinelli.com/about/

https://www.kingstonwritersfest.ca/festival-author/armand-garnet-ruffo/

http://houseofanansi.com/products/barrelling-forward

Emerging Writers Intensive at the Banff Centre

 

Katie Welch will be attending the Emerging Writers Intensive program at the Banff Centre, November 19-27, 2016. Eight emerging writers will attend workshops and get individual feedback from four distinguished Canadian writers. Katie is overjoyed and grateful to have this unique opportunity to work on her current adult fiction manuscript, and develop her writing skills.

Preface to Ursocrypha: The Book of Bear

Reading from Ursocrypha: The Book of Bear at WORD Vancouver, September 25, 2016

Preface to Ursocrypha: The Book of Bear, previously published as The Bears

At a time of great upheaval in my personal life, when the Pacific Northwest coast of British Columbia was under direct and imminent environmental threat, I decided to do something I had always wanted to do: write a book. Impatient to hold a physical book that I had written, after a cursory, impersonal editorial process, I self-published The Bears in December, 2012.

Any musician will tell you not to practice in public, and as a music teacher I might have carried this advice across artistic disciplines. In spite of rushing to publish The Bears, and doing the bare minimum of marketing with limited distribution channels, the book gathered a small but enthusiastic audience.

Other writing projects followed The Bears. I completed a young adult adventure manuscript, and another work of adult fiction. I hired a phenomenal editor who taught and is still teaching me a great deal about the craft of writing. I met other writers, attended a writer’s circle, and studied the bones of writing.

In the summer of 2016 I was invited to read from The Bears at WORD Vancouver, a festival of writing in all forms, promoting literacy and reading. I hadn’t picked up a copy of The Bears and examined it since the year it was published. When I read my own book, I recognized the story, but it was as though a stranger had written it. I revised the manuscript. The title had always been problematic – everyone thought it was a children’s book. Friend and poet Suzanne M. Steele fused some title ideas I had into Ursocrypha: The Book of Bear.

I send this story back out into the world, and hope it makes more friends.

Cacti & Cobblestones

I’m stretched out on a divan in a tile-and-adobe house, on a hillside overlooking San Miguel de Allende, writing. Several handbuilt stone staircases below me, my husband plays with paints and textures in a brick studio, perched beside solar panels on the roof of the main house. Outside the ten-foot-tall windows, cacti swell and bristle on an arid hillside. Mexican music carries up from the farms below us, tuba and accordion, trumpet and a medley of male voices. Roosters crow, donkeys bray, a fusillade of fireworks explodes, celebrating the name-day of one Catholic saint or another. Nisha has given my husband exuberant, impassioned artistic direction and he’s off and running, with three canvases at various stages of completion.

Nisha Ferguson, née Edelson, went to my high school. She wore a brown leather hippie jacket with long fringes, or an authentic-looking Peruvian poncho, swirling skirts, faded jeans. She was an artist and a dancer and a gymnast and oh my gawd she was cool. Yesterday I told her how, back in the halls of Fisher Park High School in Ottawa all those years ago, I admired her confidence and panache from behind my thick, plastic-framed glasses.

“I was faking it,” she told me. “The whole time.”

Today Nisha lives on a rancho on the outskirts of San Miguel de Allende, Mexico. She and her husband Dan run a highly successful ceramics studio. Also, she has a circus school, GravityWorks, where she teaches acrobatic circus acts, trapeze and silks. She and Dan have two sons, both whipsmart, athletic, and gracious. When Nisha isn’t making bold, bright, and beautiful ceramic sculptures, or teaching ceramics or circus or painting, or cooking scrumptious feasts for a table full of family and friends, she’s painting and sketching and sewing, following a muse that seems to bellow at her every waking moment of every single day.

She’s still the epitome of cool, minus the bold fakery of youth, plus the accumulated years of experience.

I found Nisha on facebook, in a moment of whatever-happened-to-her curiosity. After high school, she moved to Toronto to attend art school, and I went to the University of Toronto. In Toronto I sometimes visited Nisha and her then-boyfriend, in the cavernous abandoned warehouse on Hanna Street where they roller skated or cycled through empty hallways, ambitiously enormous pieces of installation art suspended from the fifty-foot ceilings.

Then life accelerated, and I didn’t see Nisha for a quarter of a century. I married, had two daughters, divorced, remarried a wonderful man who has dabbled in sketching, sculpting and painting his whole life. He’s good, and he wanted to push his painting up a level. A quick internet investigation revealed that San Miguel de Allende is an artist and writer’s mecca, its world-heritage-site downtown cobblestone streets packed with studios, galleries and garrets. I contacted Nisha online, curious, tentative, and asked if she could recommend an airbnb in this funky, central-Mexican locale.

“WHY would you stay in town? WE have casas you can rent!”

I wander in and around Nisha and Dan’s house. There’s a planter in the shape of a sheep, plinths here and there, perched on the edge of the roof and squatting in the rocky garden. The ceramic face of a chubby man wearing spectacles stares up the outdoor chimney, painted clouds float by on the kitchen’s high ceiling. Bullhorns over doorways, a cityscape painting of NYC, an old fashioned porcelain doll propped in a corner. Gauzy curtains in bright colours sigh in the cool breeze of this high plateau.

A few years ago Nisha wanted a way to paint as she travelled, without the inconvenience and bulk of stretched canvases. She shows me the big fabric sketchbooks she has created, unique backdrops painted on fabric, bound and sewn into thematic books, filled with startling images rendered in oil pastels, pen and ink, and other media. She has shown these books at galleries. We imagine them reproduced as art books, and a project opens up, bright purple and promising, like the blooms on the jacaranda trees.

Feast your eyes on Dan & Nisha’s gorgeous sculptures here:

http://www.danishasculpture.com

 

Eco-Fiction Author Interview

Eco-Fiction, a website promoting environmental fiction, talked to me about The Bears! This is part of a series of interviews, Women Working in Nature and the Arts.
EcoFiction Interview with Author Katie Welch

Sunday Drive Through Love Canal

Contemplating human history is peering into a rear-view mirror. People, things and events are distorted, closer or more distant, wider or narrower than they really were. In the 1950’s and 1960’s in North America, industrial growth allowed everyone to own a refrigerator, a car, a washing machine. As these new domestic conveniences became commonplace, we had more of a rare and precious commodity – time. How delicious! The prospect of ever-increasing hours of amusement in our sparkling blue-and-green playground! What would the freshly emancipated populace do with all its free time? Picnics and camping trips, mountaineering and paddling, days by the seaside, cycling excursions, rambling walks in the woods?

My grandmother was a mother of two teenage boys in the 1950’s. She used her scads of free time to shop. By the time I was ten years old, my grandmother had officially declared her favourite form of exercise to be walking through shopping malls. She knew the length in quarter miles of every floor of every mall within a 50 mile radius of Niagara Falls, N.Y., where she and my grandfather lived. She calculated how many circuits of a given mall she should complete to benefit her health. The output of factories had given her freedom, and it was the former she valued. If something was new, manmade, and labour-saving, it was wonderful. She fell in love with the thing that gave her freedom, instead of the freedom itself.

“Look!” my grandmother crowed at lunchtime one day. “Spray cheese! I don’t even have to slice it to make your sandwiches!”

My brother and sister and I, exchanging glances of dread, watched Grandma gleefully press a white plastic pump and squirt a crazy orange-coloured mess onto limp pieces of white bread.

Going for a drive was considered an activity, and given equal or greater weight than walking in a park or playing frisbee. “What are we doing today?” we kids would ask our grandparents. “Going for a drive!” Grandpa would answer. I would get the same sinking feeling I used to get before going to church, sentenced to hours of boredom, repetition, bad smells and nausea. First Grandpa would put on his ‘driving coat’ – a special outer garment for sitting behind the wheel of a vehicle – then remove his leather gloves from said compartment and pull them on slowly, finger by finger. Finally, he would place The Hat on his thin, white hair. The Hat is rare these days, but you can still spot it. The next time someone is inexplicably driving like they’re in a funeral cortege, look for The Hat. We kids would press into the back seat, resigned, and jostling each other impatiently.

In the summer of 1978 Grandpa announced that we were going for a drive “with the windows up”. This was code for ‘the place we’ll be driving is dangerous’. Sometimes we would drive through downtown Buffalo, with its poverty and black neighbourhoods. “Roll up the windows,” Grandpa would say, “and lock the doors.”

We didn’t drive into downtown Buffalo, but through Love Canal, a community near Niagara Falls. Love Canal was – intentionally, to save money – built on 22,000 tons of toxic waste dumped by the Hooker Chemical Company. Here’s what I remember: The day was sunny and beautiful, the sky a perfect blue and every plant chlorophyll green. I was hating the fact that we were once again about to waste a glorious afternoon crammed into the back seat of a car. We didn’t dicuss the gross misnomer, but I thought about it. Love Canal, Grandpa said, was a river of poison. He should know – he worked for the Hooker Chemical Company for much of his adult life.

“Here we are,” Grandpa said. “Love Canal.” Grandma was uncharacteristically quiet.

At first it looked like any other low to middle-class neighbourhood in upstate New York, straight streets of more or less identical bungalow houses, each with its requisite tree in the front yard. On closer inspection, our noses smearing the car window glass, all the doors and windows of the houses had been boarded up. Some of this plywood was defaced with spray paint, angry words emblazoned over the polluted dreams of hundreds of families. Grandpa drove to the parking lot of the elementary school, where puddles of discoloured water were full, he said, of chemicals that could kill families slowly. Tears stood in his eyes as he told us about how the Hooker Chemical Company had sold this land to the Niagara Falls School Board for a dollar.

Because of Love Canal, and other environmental tragedies involving the Hooker Chemical Company, something major happened to my grandfather’s psychology. Just over a decade later, while planting trees, I received the only letter I ever got from Grandpa, urging me to plant some trees for him. He begged me to do everything I could to protect and nurture the environment, to help him leave a better legacy, through his offspring.

Staring at our computer screens, we press our “like” buttons for images of friends enjoying themselves in the great outdoors. Maybe we’re finally learning to love the time itself, instead of the things that buy us that time.

Well, That Escalated Quickly!

My daughters were nine and eleven when Al Gore’s An Inconvenient Truth was released, and we were in the midst of the camping, ice skating, stargazing, flower arranging, leaf pressing, and pumpkin carving phase. There was no time for news about the end of the world, there was barely time to pack sandwiches and apples for lunch.

My experience of finding out about climate change followed the grieving process, more or less. First shock. What? The planet is warming up – what are the implications of that? They were catastrophic, and we were doomed. Next, I hung out for a while in disbelief, which took the form of minimizing. The science behind this whole theory might be flawed, It will pass, like the Cold War. They’ll figure out how to fix it, before it can affect me, my children, or my grandchildren.

Then anger, where I would argue many of us latter-day hippies are stuck. We could use some ecological counselling. Earth rapists! They can take their fucking profits and shove them up their collective ass.

2006 and An Inconvenient Truth was over a decade ago. Things have escalated quickly, particularly quickly if you set ten years against the history of the planet, or even the history of the modern world. At first there were jokes about how we could happily anticipate palm trees in every yard, bananas and mangoes in Canada. That was before the hurricanes, the flooding, the superstorms, the freak weather incidents.

Time to move on to bargaining, where there’s room for human ingenuity and creativity. The optimists are already at bargaining. They’re developing hybrid and electric cars, installing wind turbines, harnessing tidal power. They’re living zero-waste lifestyles, engineering public transportation, building eco-homes and Earth Ships, planting trees and starting up community gardens. The more of us stuck at bargaining, the better, because the final phase of grief is acceptance.

If We Loved This Planet

You might have the impression that I wasn’t worried about the fate of Planet Earth, because I had my nose in a book. That impression would be erroneous. I was scared for our planet. I lived in abject terror that at any moment, Life As We Knew It would explode, and anything left alive would wither and melt in clouds of radioactive poison. It was the Cold War, and teenagers like me wondered when those heartless, power-hungry fingers would press those shiny red buttons of destruction.

Dr. Helen Caldicott galvanized our collective fear for us in the short film If You Love This Planet. The film included footage from the aftermath of the atomic bombing of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Nothing was left to the imagination. Melting skin, body parts fused together, gaping facial holes, piles of discoloured bodies. Caldicott neatly encapsulated the political climate of the day, and we understood that it was “three minutes to midnight”, and we were on the Eve of Destruction.

I don’t remember when I stopped being afraid of nuclear war. Caught up in the tender, youthful years of hope and optimism, I planted trees, attended university, played guitar. I got married, had children. Many years of busy naiveté followed. The earth would continue to spin around the sun, flowers blossom in fertile green fields, and birds would twitter merrily, winging their way across blue blue skies. My daughters would frolic in the bosom of nature, examine caterpillars, eat grass, get stung by an ant or a wasp.  And they would never own a Bug Catcher. We would examine insects in their natural habitat, respecting the life force in everything.

A pleasant hiatus of ignorance, which came to an abrupt and permanent halt with the publication of An Inconvenient Truth.