I’m still in the process of finding my voice. I think part of it is just needing to write more. When I’m journaling it tends to be really informal, with fragmentary sentences, but somehow I don’t think sentence fragments will work so well with a blog.

OK Jeff - you asked us to submit pieces as part of this section, and invited us to put them in the forum. So here it goes. A (relatively) short (under 700 words) piece written in the first person, without an edit button.

I’d love everyone’s feedback on this - and I will happily critique any of your pieces too. It’s no problem. Thanks so much everyone.
“Life is like writing”

I’ve written for so long, it’s almost become second nature to me. I love the art, the craft of writing - but the thought of writing is always what daunts me. The idea of having to work hours and hours crafting a piece without any guarantee of getting a positive response.

In many ways, I find writing to be much like life.

You put all the effort in, you put time, energy and money, and invest yourself in it. But at the end of the day, there’s no guarantee you will get the outcome you wanted.

Me? I’d always wanted to write loads of books, get invited to speak, and have a hugely successful blog. There is a little child inside of me which simply wanted to be the best. Growing up I was always the last at everything worth having, and first with all the circumstances no one chose.

First to be in a broken home, first to have an very unwell parent with a disability, first to get bullied and not be able to do anything.

First to lose a parent.

When all this happens at a young age it marks you. The scars it leaves cast a long shadow.

You see I know writing won’t satisfy. It won’t complete me. It won’t make my life fulfilled. Neither will success or achievement. These are just lies fed to us by consumerism, in a secular culture.

Being a successful writer and speaker would be awesome - but not because I’d somehow ‘be the best’. But simply because it would mean I’m getting the chance to have a positive impact on someone else’s life. To share something I believe needs to be shared with the world.

It’s such a privilege, being able to impact someone else’s life. To have something you’ve created be able to change someone’s life for the better, and hear about it - it’s an amazing feeling.

It’s humbling, because most of the time I either feel like I’m screwing up or like my writing isn’t going to have an impact on anyone.

I wrote a guest post for another blog on my experience of grief, the lessons I learned and the way it’s impacted me. Now to me this was simply telling my story and sharing it - in the (vain) hope someone would be impacted.

The response I got was amazing. People tweeting and commenting on how much the story moved them, how it was perfect timing for circumstances in their lives at the current time, and how they could ‘feel my heartbeat’ in my writing.

It really took me aback. You’d think I’d be all blown away and satisfied, my ego boosted and feeling all proud of myself.

I wasn’t.

I couldn’t quite deal with it. It was genuinely disconcerting.

As I pondered this, I began to understand one simple truth.

Whatever success we have - we’re still going to be the same person at the end of the day.

I could sell a million books and get one hundred thousand readers on my blog - but I’m still going to be me when I go to bed in the evening.

I’m still going to get up in the morning and have to shower and clean my teeth. I’m still going to have all the same insecurities, doubts and fears as I had the day before.

I still occasionally go to the unhealthy fantasy career. But you know what, I’m starting to visit this world less and less. Because the reality of my story, with all it’s twists and turns, with all the unexpected events I encounter, is much more interesting.

I write now not because I want to be better than anyone else. I write because I love writing, and because I have a message I want to share. I have experiences which I can use to serve and encourage others in their journeys, and I love that process.

Life is like writing. Like this very piece, you can plan it to go one way and then it goes off in a way which is different - and usually better, than you ever expected or imagined.

Don’t you think?

Okay - time for your feedback. Be totally honest. I can take it.

What makes this piece unique?

What could I do more/less of?

How can I improve?

I posted this on my blog last week - pretty raw. It’s from a free write template. I’m cringing at where I’ve mixed up my Cdn and Amn spellings, typos, repetitive phrases… (also playing with the html tags so hopefully that works)

Where I’m From
I am from family dinners at the table each night where sarcasm was humor, from Coca-Cola and drive-in movie theatres in daddy’s pick-up truck, salt & vinegar potato chips that left your mouth numb, and a zoo-worthy collection of pets including Booger the Cockatiel.

I am from the old brick house dated 1890 with the ancient oak that watched over half the street built, from star-filled nights where the crickets kept you up at night, and a nose buried in the thick slightly-matted dark fur of my only friend and favorite dog who followed me down any path, protected me from strays and coyotes, and always smelled a bit like popcorn.

I am from maple trees overhanging quiet streets that still look exactly the same after twenty years, abandoned train tracks, and jumping into piles of brittle colored leaves that crackled and crunched and got stuck in your hair when you jumped in them, from where the gravel crunched under your shoes and it was so quiet you could hear yourself think.

I am from Christmas at the farm with turkey a little too dry, stuffing that stuck to the roof of your mouth and Christmas pudding that took two days to make, from singing out loud to the radio even if you got the words wrong, from Charlie who said the only church he’d ever attend was a round one – so the Devil couldn’t corner him, from Doris and the smell of her fresh baked bread that filled the farmhouse with memories and had the patience to listen to a lonely teen every time she called, and Anne who knew the words and could pick out the tune on a guitar to every country song ever played on the radio.

I am from stubborn til it’s stupid and loyalty that’s thicker than blood even when it shouldn’t be. I’m from ‘that’ll put hair on your chest’ and be home when the streetlights come on, never ask a boy out, and always leave with the guy you came with. I am from Tommy Hunter every Sunday night and Patsy Cline on the record player, and dancing to the fiddle and guitar. I’m from pony-tails, go hard or go home, and playin with the boys.

I am from Bibles tucked away in closets, from saying Grace at meal times and bedtime prayers, and never cussing in front of Grandma.

I’m from farmers who valued growing enough food for your family and anyone else who came to the door willing to work for a meal, from day-in-day-out hard work and honest sweat, where your animals got fed before you did, from potatoes and corn on the cob and homemade pudding with milk straight from the cow or goat.

I’m from a crazy grandfather who sold us a half-wild sheep for a penny and pocket lint (whatever happened to that sheep?), from lawn darts and wood-burning kits and trucks without seatbelts, from a band-aid wrapped so tight you felt your heart beat at the tip of your finger but you never said a word to the always-practical grandfather who tended a wound he couldn’t see.

I’m from faded yellow scrapbooks of old report cards and school photos, from the boxes of school books in the attic no one could throw away, from one-day-wonder vacations where you took enough photos so it looked like you’d been gone a week, Sunday drives for local creamery ice cream that always tasted better than the store-bought kind but never as good as Grandma’s hand-churned vanilla, and evenings alone with a cat kneading my thighs and the clock clicking each minute to remind me I had school the next day as I turned another page.

I’m from great Canadian authors from (i)Margaret Goes To The Farm and Bookie, to Walter Farley’s Lost in the Barrens, W.O. Mitchell, Stephen Leacock, Michael Ondaatje, Timothy Findley, Margaret Laurence, Lawrence Hill, Mordecai Richler, and Margaret Atwood. I am from every story ever written about The Black Stallion, and the pony express.

I’m the adult who held back her tears until she was alone, wondering who she would talk to now that her grandmother was gone, and after almost thirteen years the questions have piled up so high she wouldn’t know where to start except with a hug and to say, “I’ve missed you.”

It’s a moving, honest and vulnerable piece - very tender and initmate, very truthful and personal. The way you describe everything is so real, so authentic, it really fires up the imagination and describes things in a way which makes them feel real - both physically and emotionally. The only criticism I would say is that it doesn’t point outwards or make a connection with the readers story - but in some ways that’s not so bad because it’s not about us - it’s about you. It’s an amazing piece, thank you so much for sharing it.

Do you have a link to your blog?

James, I thought you did a great job on that piece. Your honesty was definitely appreciated and it gets me interested in what you have to say. I agree with Lisa that you did start rambling a little bit and it would help to paint a clearer picture with more description, examples or something along those lines. I hope that helps!

Robbie - thanks for your feedback. I’ve taken some of the constructive criticism on board and done some minor rewrites to the piece. It’s essentially the same piece, with some minor differences. I will post it on my blog soon…and let you all know when it goes live. I actually posted a new post there today, you’re welcome to read it (www.jamesprescott.co.uk)

I am submitting a little write I am doing as part of my legacy writing.

Special Places

Throughout my life there have been a few places that I have called special because they answered my ongoing silent prayer – “I need peace in my life.”

When in my teens, it was a city park, just a few short blocks from home. Whenever I felt like I needed time to be alone with my thoughts, I’d go there, hop on a swing and get my feet to pump me higher and higher until, on legs outstretched, they eventually blocked out the city view on the horizon. Or, I’d sit on the swing with one toe pointed straight down into the red shale and rock from side to side, a metronome rhythm soothing away my stress. The park is on a little hill, in North Haven, and, the view that I love to this day is of the downtown Calgary skyline. I thought of this park with its view as my little secret.

As a young mother, my special place was at the Ghost Lake cabin. There is a place on the blue couch at the east end of the living area and from there, I could, and still can, look west to the Rocky Mountains and south to the lake with the rolling hills beyond. I regret mentioning it to anyone, as more often than not, when I come around the corner with my journal and pen in hand, there is already someone sitting in “my” spot. There was a day when my little family would have the cabin to ourselves and Paul would take the kids to the park or out in the boat to “give Mom a break.” I would relish the quiet to read or write and appreciate every moment of “me” time. But, those times seemed few and far between as we usually shared the space with the rightful owners – my in-laws - Bob and Liz.

Good thing we bought our land at Duck Lake, Montana in 2000. This spot is the true getaway. With no cell phone service, no Internet, and no TV, there are so many places around our property where I can take my introspective self to sort out life. Often, I am alone on the deck and if not, I can step over the bank down to the lake where the presence of the mighty Chief Mountain makes one’s worries and cares seem miniscule. All that can be heard anywhere is the voice of a fisherman, the song of a bird, the buzz of bee and the true hum of quiet.

And then there is my all time favourite, the vast and mysterious ocean that expands out as far as the eye can see. The waves crashing in and folding back out, turning sand and rocks into castanets and snare drums. It’s the whole package; the briny smell, the changing tide, perpetual motion and a splendid sun rising or setting. We holidayed on the west coast often as kids and when I don’t get to out that way for long periods of time, I crave it. The ocean fills me up and sends me back to meet the world with gladness.

Last year, I searched Fort McMurray for such place. I asked around for the best peaceful spot with a view and found myself spending an afternoon on the edge of the Clearwater River. In Borealis Park, I wrote, observed passersby and enjoyed the fall colours. I have fond memories of that time last September but I didn’t have this beautiful view of the Clearwater River from our condo then. Now, by Fort McMurray standards, my special place is right here, off the edge of our deck.

In living this temporary lifestyle, my challenge will be finding the ideal spot at each stop on the journey. A beautiful view, for me, has a calming effect. My focus is redirected to appreciation and gratitude, giving me new perspective. The beat of my heart changes to a slower pace and my life is infused with forgotten joy. When I inhabit my special place, all is good with my world.

Any thoughts would be appreciated. Thanks, Kathi