Author and Inspired Writer

If you read my previous post you’ll know I was struggling last week with whether to continue with The Magdalene Poems, or chuck it and stick to safer topics for my writing. The Charlie Hebdot massacre scared me, badly. And I was lost in a swirl of questions: in a time when words (or pictures) can cost people their lives, where does the responsibility of the writer lie? If someone is so offended by an article, book, or poem that they are moved to violence, how should the writer respond? Does public safety trump freedom of speech? Should it? If the writer is willing to die for their work, what about the innocents who could be caught in the crossfire?

I still haven’t figured out all the answers yet, but a string of remarkable coincidences and the words of wise and generous souls convinced me to take up my pen again, even if my hand is still shaking. This is a miraculous example of FaceBook at its best, so many of my FB friends holding up their lights of kindness and courage to show me the way.

First on the scene was one of my Yaya sisters, Kim Barry, who I suspect is a poet herself, urging me to continue writing and not let the terrorists “scare us all into the quiet abyss.” Another Yaya, Heather Ferdinand, reminded me that I cannot be responsible for another’s actions, but if I stop writing, “then that would be on you.”

Less than an hour after I’d posted a notice of my blog update on FaceBook, Heidy Vazques Sutphin posted a picture of seven books she had in her purse the day before. I don’t think she had read my blog or knew what questions I was wrestling with, but right in the middle of the pile of books she had carried with her that day was “holy cards: dead women talking.” I caught my breath and swallowed hard against the lump in my throat.

Ron Lawrence, my beloved Brother Loon, sent me several glorious messages in his inimitable style that were like a hand reaching down to pull me from the torrents threatening to close over my head. His last admonition was to “Let the Magdalene dance!” I joined in a robust discussion going on at Ian MacAgy’s FB page and he linked me with two memorable quotes, the first from New York Times editor, Ross Douthat – “If a large enough group of someones is willing to kill you for saying something, then it’s something that almost certainly needs to be said…” And the other from writer/philosopher and champion of free speech, Christopher Hitchens – “We cannot possibly adjust enough to please the fanatics.” I started to understand that giving up our rights and freedoms in an effort to keep ourselves safe will ultimately fail and at best will leave us slaves of terror.

Michelle Harris, a peace worker, agrees. She urged me to finish my manuscript because “to deny it would be to deny your very self, and that is another form of violence that humanity cannot allow to grow.” My dear sister Chris encouraged me with her big sister pride in me and told me to keep my writer’s voice loud and strong. Kathleen Knott, a sister choir member made me realize terrorists will find a reason for violence. If it isn’t the cartoons, it would be something else. And Valerie Hess showed me how any form of creativity, even baking a red velvet cake, can be a stand against the madness.

But the Universe wasn’t finished with me yet. An hour after I posted my notice on FB, Vanessa Shields, sister writer and dear friend took time from writing her novel to post an audio clip on my timeline. Again, I don’t think she’d read my blog prior to doing so. It was, like Heidy’s picture, just a wonderful stroke of timing. The clip was from the CBC radio show Tapestry, and it featured an interview with K. D. Miller on the link between spirituality and sexuality. I listened with half an ear while I did other things, but when K. D. said that writing fiction was how she prayed, I stopped and gave her my full attention. She said spirituality and fiction writing were the same thing to her, and the way she told her truth. Oh that’s what I so needed to hear, I thought, but there was one more word coming. At the end of the interview, K. D. suggested her listeners do a writing exercise and finish the sentence “The sky I was born under…” A woman called in and finished the sentence thusly, and that’s when my heart tore open in a great flood of tears – “The sky I was born under,” she said, “whispered ‘Persevere.'”

Persevere. OK. Message received.

My deepest thanks to everyone who placed their hand over mine and helped me pick up my pen.

The Paris massacre has left me badly shaken and asking myself some difficult questions – if art has the power to incite violence and even murder, where does the artist’s responsibility lie? If we know the pursuit of our art could lead to the death of innocents, are we honour-bound to self-censor? If we’re among the few who know what they were put on this planet to do, and we don’t do it because someone might get hurt, are we noble or cowards? And if we tame down our art, keep it safe, inoffensive, what are the consequences for our world and our souls?

In the middle of a vigorous discussion yesterday, my husband asked, “Why do you write such controversial stuff? What good does it do?”

That took me aback.

“I don’t know that it does any good,” I replied. “It’s just what I do.”

“Does it do any harm?” he asked.

“Don’t know that either. But now I’m wondering.”

I’ve been writing dark since grade school. Not all the time, of course. In fact, I like to think of myself as quite an amusing storyteller upon occasion. But in the main, my writing comes from a dark place full of dark characters. And I love them – the broken, the lost, the terrified – all my shadow children. Up ’til now the struggle has been to be true to my inspiration and write it as I see it regardless of what anyone thinks. Damn the torpedoes! Buckle up! And if you can’t stand the heat, well…

But now it’s something more. Now it’s life or death. And I’m not sure I’m up to the responsibility.

“holy cards: dead women talking” was angry and gritty. The Magdalene Poems is not so angry (I’ve worked out a few of my issues since then) but gritty times a hundred, even shocking in places. My Christ is a man replete with weaknesses, doubts and fears, who finds redemption in the powerful, passionate love and faithfulness of the Magdalene. The characters of Mary, the mother of Jesus, and Peter are given free rein to show their humanity, and Judas is not the Judas you’ll find in the Scriptures. Do I want readers to believe that these characters were like this in real life? Uh, no. I don’t believe it. I’m not out to convert or convince anyone. Neither am I trying to portray the historical Jesus. I’m telling a story. A story I made up.

That many wouldn’t like this type of book never bothered me…until now. What if someone finds it such a desecration they feel they must defend God’s honour by killing me? I’m not the bravest person in the world, but I might be able to risk it if it were just me. But what if they go after my husband, or some poor schmo who happened to have the book under their arm when they left the bookstore or showed up at a reading? “Not your fault,” you say. “You didn’t pull the trigger. You’re not to blame for someone else’s actions.” But what if my writing so incensed them, or maybe just gave them that last little nudge over the edge? Am I not in some way responsible for what happens?

The Magdalene Poems is nearly done. Three years of my life. And I’m seriously thinking of chucking it. Not taking the risk. Someone suggested I finish it but not publish. That would be the safest avenue, I think. I can give free expression to my creative impulses, and no one gets hurt.

Never had to think about this before, but then, it’s never been a matter of life or death.

I had forgotten the Candlelight and Carol Service would include Communion, so we ditched the ride after church and headed straight home. We hung up our coats and I turned on the tree lights and sat myself down on the couch right in front of the box. The Mister stood admiring the tree for a moment.

“Mighty fine tree there, Missus.”

“Uh-huh,” I replied nudging the box with my toe.

“You do such a good job every year.”

“Thanks for saying so.” I gave the box a little push in his direction.

“You coulda been a decorator with talent like this.”

“Pa, and I say this with all love and devotion, if you don’t open that box right this minute there will be chalk lines on the living room floor in the morning just about your size.”

He looked at me, his head tilted to one side. “Ya know, I wouldn’t have thought that was something you could say with all love and devotion.”

I gave the box a sturdy kick.

“Fine.” The corners of his mouth were turned down. It’s what he does when he’s trying to suppress a smile.

He opened the flaps, pulled out a ton of brown filler paper, and then a large blue bag decorated with a gold ribbon and card.

“Well nertz!” I said. “We could have put it under the tree after all. When I saw the fabric, I thought that was the gift, unwrapped. I should have known the kids wouldn’t have sent a present unwrapped.”

He undid the ties, and carefully pulled out a heavy wooden disc.

“Is it a picture frame?” I asked.

“Oh no,” he said in a strange tone of voice. “Better. Much better.” He turned it over to show me. And I caught my breath. It was an exquisitely hand-carved rosewood table top with brass inlay. I’ve never seen anything so beautiful. He reached in again and pulled out the legs, also beautifully carved.

“We gotta call the kids right now and thank them.”

He nodded, then asked, “Where are we gonna put it?”

I put my hand on his shoulder and looked straight into his eyes.

“Pa, if we have to move the bookcase into the kitchen and the piano into the bathroom, we’ll find room for it.”

There was no suppressing that smile.

The kids were so excited when we called and delighted that they had selected a gift that gave us such joy. Not in a million years would we have guessed what it was.

And I’m not one bit disappointed it wasn’t puppies.

The Mister and I do not exchange gifts at Christmas. We did it once, the first year we were married, but it felt strange, like we were kinda missing the point somehow. Don’t get us wrong – we enjoy receiving gifts and love giving them, but between us our gift-giving is the keeping of traditions – watching A Charlie Brown Christmas, attending Christmas Eve services, and afterward going for a drive through the neighbourhood to look at the lights. Once home, we open whatever presents are under the tree, listen to a little Christmas music, and turn in. The next day we sleep late, have gummy bear pancakes for breakfast (of late, we’ve been substituting fruit for the gummy bears), and watch schmaltzy movies until suppertime when we enjoy Cornish hens with all the fixin’s. Very quiet, low key, and restful.

This last week though, we’ve been deluged with presents and mysteries. First came a gorgeous picture jasper necklace from one of my Yaya sisters. I belong to an online group of five women dedicated to spiritual growth, positive thought and action, and mutual encouragement. And it just so happens, we love each other to bits. Our official name is The Positive Revolution Group, but early on, we started calling ourselves the Yaya Sisters and it’s stuck. This group of women is one of the greatest joys of my life and I am so grateful for whatever convoluted path brought me to them. Anyhoo, our dear sister Cinda took two months to make us all necklaces, each with a different stone which she thought mirrored our spirit. As I said, mine is the picture jasper, and there couldn’t be a better choice for me. (More on that in a later post.) I looked across the table to The Mister, held it out to him and said, “I wish she were here in person so I could thank her properly.”

At that exact moment, there was a knock at the front door.

The Mister and I stared at each other, frozen. Knowing she lives in Nova Scotia, The Mister did some quick cipherin’ and said, “Well, if she left on Monday, that could be her.”

“Don’t just sit there! Go answer the door and find out!”

It was the florist with a beautiful Christmas centrepiece – a first for us. Our table is so small, we had to clear off a shelf and relocate the toaster just to make room. Come to find out, it was from my youngest sister and her husband. We’re still delighted every time we enter the kitchen.

It was Thursday, and we were giving a performance of our Christmas Cantata at 7 pm. so we sat down to an early supper when there’s another knock on the front door.

“We haven’t had this many visitors since…well…we’ve NEVER had this many visitors!”

The Mister opened the door again, and there was the UPS man with a HUGE box. He apologized for interrupting our meal.

“Oh no, don’t worry,” I assured him. “Santa’s Little Helpers can interrupt us anytime!” He smiled at that, wished us a Merry Christmas and went on his way to spread some more yuletide cheer.

“Who’s it from?” I asked getting up from the table as The Mister awkwardly eased the box to the floor in front of the tree. It was too large to fit under.

“Doesn’t say,” he replied.

“There’s no return address?”

“Nope.”

“Huh. Who’s it to?”

He checked the label.

“Me.”

“Oh. Let’s open it!”

He turned his head slowly in my direction and raised an eyebrow as if I’d just questioned the existence of Santa Claus…which I don’t, by the way.

“No. We’ll open it Christmas Eve, like we always do.”

“But Pa,” I said, reaching my arms across the box in supplication, “that’s six days from now!”

“The way you calculated that in your head, hard to believe you failed Grade 10 math…twice.”

I could tell this tack wasn’t getting me where I wanted to go, so I grabbed his arm with great urgency and cried, “But what if it’s puppies!”

His jaw moved sideways.

“What?” he asked.

“Puppies, Pa! What if someone sent us puppies for Christmas?”

He shook his head.

“It’s probably from Don and Rumi (his son and daughter-in-law in British Columbia), and they would never send us puppies knowing your allergies.”

“I am not allergic to puppies!”

The eyebrow arched again. “Oh please! An extra hairy caterpillar can give you a reaction. Besides, you can’t send puppies UPS.”

“You can’t?”

“Well, you shouldn’t. Now, let’s finish up supper and get on down to the church.”

“Wait! Did you hear that?”

“What?”

I pressed my ear to the box. “It sounds like breathing. Or maybe whimpering.” I traced circles on the top of the box while I slowly raised my eyes to his. “You know, that ‘hmm, hmm’ whiney kinda sound little baby puppies make when they’re in distress…”

“Not buying it. And we’re not opening the box ’til Christmas Eve.”

“Oh fine!”

We finished our supper, performed a great Cantata which I understand will soon be coming to a YouTube near you, and returned home. When we walked in, The Mister turned on the lights and said, “All’s quiet.”

“Well, of course it is. The puppies are all dead by now.”

“Missus…come on!”

“Tell you what, Pa. Let me just open the box. If I see wrapping paper, we’ll put the gifts under the tree. If not, I’ll close the box after the briefest peek, and not bug you about it ’til Christmas Eve.”

“Weeelll…OK. But, the briefest of peeks.”

“Yay!” I slit open the tape, opened up the flaps and…

“Any Christmas wrapping paper?”

“No,” I said, folding it over again.

“Did you see what it is?”

“Some colour, but nothing more.”

“That’s it, then.”

Later that night, I was almost asleep when The Mister suddenly sat bolt upright beside me.

“Did you hear that?”

“What!” I said in a fierce whisper, heart pounding.

“Sounded like…whimpering!”

“Whim…”

“Like a ‘hmm hmm’ whiney kind of sound.”

“One more word and you are SO sleeping on the couch.”

“No, I mean it. I think there’s a puppy in distress.”

“Forget the couch. You’re sleeping outside.”

“Oh Missus! Don’t make this poor puppy sleep outside!”

The wait comes to an end tomorrow night, but the teasing?

I’m not hopeful.