Brian Henry Workshops and Clinging to Undoubtedly

A couple of weeks ago a friend and I made the drive out to Kingston, Ontario to partake in a workshop led by Brian Henry on writing for children. Can I just say that if you have to travel 170kms each way for anything, its best done with a great friend, a fully charged i-pod and a driver with a lead foot. Oh! And the ability to understand freeway numbers according to Google maps might also prove helpful.

Brian took us through many aspects of children”s publishing. Explaining the different styles of juvenile fiction, when its worth getting an agent – and when its not! – and all manner of other helpful hints. With 25 years experience in editing and teaching creative writing, you get the impression that Brian Henry knows what he is talking about. In manner and appearance, Brian resembles a teddy bear. Quietly spoken,  its quite obvious the pleasure and pride he takes in encouraging and discovering new talent. Graciously, over the course of the workshop he spent time with each of the 16+ participants going through sample chapters and completed picture  book manuscripts.

The beginnings of a story book began to form in my mind back in 2007. It sat on my computer hard drive for years. Years in which I thought that my dream of ever writing a book and having it published seemed more impossible than finding a pot of gold a the end of the rainbow. If you have every done any research on writing for children, you know that it’s apparently even harder than it is writing fiction for adults. So the idea of ever producing a story good enough for a published picture book was put away in the ‘nevah gunna happen’ file I have in my mind.

Over the past year as I grown in confidence in my abilities from being involved in my writing group (Publish or Die – PoD) I started working on the piece again. Edit after edit after edit happened until I got to the point of being brave enough to share the draft with the other PoD members. With their encouragement I kept working the piece and took a copy to the workshop to show Brian. I can still recall Brian’s face as he read my piece several times, smiling with enjoyment. I also recall his words;

“You should enter this in the children’s competition with the Writers Union of  Canada .  Undoubtedly when you make the top ten of the competition it will be sent to three different publishers…”

“Uh…sorry… what did you say?”

“Undoubtedly when you make top ten. UNDOUBTEDLY.” He repeated the word, tapping the table with each syllable  as he took in my look of confusion and disbelief.

Truly I hope that I don’t disappoint Brian and bomb out, not even making the second round of cuts by the judges, because on average there are 500 to 600 entries every year. Truly I hope that this isn’t the year to have the most brilliant writers for children come out of the woodwork and enter their new works. Truly I hope that Brian will be able to gloat that he picked another great book in my piece. I’m not sure when the top ten is even announced.  Perhaps as I write this blog piece the top ten are already receiving phone calls and I will make a total fool of myself even putting this ‘out there’ when I don’t receive a call. But I entered the competition despite my nerves. I entered my first ever serious competition for writing. If I got nothing else from the workshop from Brian Henry, it was the confidence to  put my work out there and have a go. And that in itself made the workshop invaluable to me.

And the other great piece of news?

Brian Henry and PoD are working on creating a writing workshop for writers here in Ottawa, Canada later in the year.  More news as the pieces of the workshop fall into place. And it goes without saying, if I get a phone call from the Writers Union you will be the first to know.

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Just Who Is Going Through a Growth Spurt?

Ottawa bookmobile

Today the Ottawa library van comes to our suburbs. It’s a day of excitement and  the unspoken expectations when we go to the huge van and think about the unexpected treasures that reveal themselves as we comb through the oddly slanted book shelves.

All too often I get side tracked before we leave by wanting to check the email or I get a phone call or some such other reason and Bronwen will skitter around the house in a mad rush to get things organised for me so that we can leave already!

Today I was on the phone to Matthew and I was checking out some incredibly edifying website like facebook when Bronwen went to organise the shoes we were to wear.  Call ended and updates  almost fully read, I spun the office chair around to slip my feet into the shoes neatly lined up right where my feet would spin to with my head still turned away.

I did a double take as suddenly I felt like I had been transported to Lilliput – my huge feet wouldn’t fit into the shoes set out for me. What on earth….?   Until I looked down at the floor when Bronwen’s giggles became all the more audible and the realisation that Bronwen had my shoes on and had put her shoes on the floor for me to put on.

So what’s a Mummah to do? Well she shoves her oversized toes in as far as she can get them (which isn’t really too far at all) and starts to totter off to the hallway in a feeble attempt to chase her little girl who is laughing hysterically at this point at her own cleverness through the house to gain as reward a huge hug and kiss.

And she orders a book on Gulliver’s Travels from the Library which should be here next week.

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A Desk of One’s Own


I’ve been complaining (somewhat bitterly at times) that I have not have a space of my own in this ‘new again’ home in Ottawa. Not that I had my own space in Melbourne – far from it in fact, but here I feel I am allowed to crave somewhere for my own peace of mind. To have an area that is mine, a place that my creativity can rest in.

 But there is precious little space in a two bedroom apartment for private space. Having a space to call ones own is a luxury that until now, I have not been allowed. Bronwen takes over the master bedroom because the only working TV is there and heaven help us if we miss an episode of Mr Maker; she will be an artist of some sort one day, of that I’m sure. Matthew is in the second bedroom with his computer, and I have, until now, been relegated to sitting at the kitchen table, spreading out my work and scraping back up everything I deem important in the goal of creativity for every family meal. It has been an issue of frustration and of loneliness for me. I think, I if I am honest with myself, I’ve been yearning for space of my own for years.

The other day Matthew lugged up from the basement and set up a small desk for me in the family room. The desk is made of redwood polished to a high gleam. The top opens up to reveal a green leather writing base that is embossed with beautiful gold filigree work. There are small compartments that can hide any number of notes or books. A single pen drawer has a solid brass button handle to hide away pens and tubes of glue. I find my hand gliding over the top of the desk, feeling the silky wood and the earthy grain of the leather. On the inside of the desk, there are criss-crosses of elastic that have been nailed in with brass tacks, to slide in postcards, or words of wisdom and encouragement. The hardware of the desk is brass, giving it an old world look that stands somewhat formally, but not unpleasantly against the dark stained wooden IKEA bookshelves that groan under the weight of my embroidery book collection.

The view from the other side of the kitchen table was much more pleasant, with the distant hills covered in trees. The only view afforded me here at my new desk is of the freeway in the distance, the other apartment building and the rooftops of homes. I confess that its not so pretty, the smooth geometrical brown roof tiles and the creamy brown bricks with flashes of white balcony edges and a swirling ribbon of black that carries scurrying multi-coloured beetles along the busy journey of their days. But even this view offers its own inspiration in that there is nothing to distract me as I sit and work on my story writing, or type up blog entries. I have more than enough daylight to work comfortably, but nothing to draw my eyes away from the work at hand.

OK. It’s not a room that I can close the door on and be alone. It’s not a place I can pile well read and loved or soon to be loved books around me, with baskets of embroidery materials, skeins of thread and several UFO’s (Un Finished Objects) projects scattered safely around. Buts it’s a desk, with a top that I can close. It’s a place I can put my notebooks on and write without staring at the crumbs left over from Bronwen’s morning breakfast toast. It’s a place that I can learn to love as my small space of serenity, or poetry or manic energy. It’s my small space in this small space of life.

 And I think, when I become better acquainted with this space that hold my small desk, I may well just fall completely and utterly in love with it.

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