Vivian Heather

Tag: Story (Page 2 of 3)

The Art of Sitting Down

November 16, 2020 /

By Vivian Heather

Photo Scrabble Tiles

It is 7am , I pour tea into myself and smash out half a dozen scrabble words for the 10 games I’m playing with a pal. She’s 1000 km away but part of my morning ritual. To the right of me is a list, also part of the ritual. It a long busy one, decorated with words like:

  • Topsoil
  • Cement
  • Power Wash
  • Dig
  • Locate

 There are more verbs than nouns and that is how I like my day, my life too when I pause to think about it. What is not on the paper is any notion of writing. No admonition to ‘complete 4000 words’ or ‘spend the day editing’.

Those are for a different list, right under ‘saw off own head and place on pike’.

No one has ever paid me to sit in front of a computer or a desk or just sit for any reason that I recall. 

It is a problem. The list must be completed before my neurons are permitted to release writerly thoughts through my calloused fingers and onto the page. My body requires a nebulous level of energy to be expended before allowing my butt to stay seated.

Get the equation wrong and I’m up and down all day like the target in a Wack-a-Mole game.

The consistent battle between brain and biomechanics often leaves the former bulging with plot , dialogue and over -arching themes. Eventually some sort of coup takes place and I’m forced  to the couch. Large note pad on lap, foot bouncing I purge myself onto paper. Empty once again, the body seizes it’s opportunity to paint the deck.

Talented authors urge newbies like myself to ‘ sit down and work at the key board as though it is a job!’

Bile rises in my throat at the thought.

Surely I’m not alone in my torture, with a head full of story and body unable to perfect the art of sitting?

Perhaps I’ll try Poetry…

Floating In and Out

July 20, 2020 /

by Vivian Heather

We swing at anchor, light breezes and tide pointing us north, with our stern to shore.

“You should be writing,” scolds my inner critic.

Defiantly I crack open a well thumbed space opera recently acquired from my favourite used book store. Across the bay a woman’s voice balances atop the comforting strains of a banjo. Two people appear to be practicing in the afternoon sun. I fold my book, as doing both listening and reading feels dishonest.

Our day, which began hazy and overcast, is now hot by my standards. My husband lies below on the settee, also reading. A draft from our forward port light soldiers through the salon to escape up the companionway, probably cooling him as it passes. Sluggishly I consider my sticky situation and ponder the value of erecting our sunshade. Weighing benefit against activity I select to shift instead to the other side of the open cockpit. This effort is rewarded by better exposure to the music and a fresher breeze.

Too soon the wind and music turn off. We are left to spin idly as the boats point every which way in the absence of tide and breeze. This is my favourite time of day at anchor. When the neighbours cease to point in the same direction as though in rush hour traffic and appear to stop and chat about a day well done.

From high in the southwest corner of the bay, strains of bagpipe music curl down to me and my heart rises to meet it. I can’t help but wonder if I am the only one appreciating this gift of raw sound. As it passes through me the hair rises on my arms.

I am now small, holding my dad’s hand at the parade. His large freckled one squeezes mine completing a circuit of excitement. He grins down at me, face flushed red and bouncing slightly, “ the pipers are coming,” he says. Indeed they are. The first few impossible notes reach my ears and penetrate my young bones transforming me in to a person who runs forward rather than back.

Silently I thank the anonymous piper for fine memories of my dead father and reach for my pen and notebook.

True Lies

May 25, 2020 /

by Vivian Heather

“Maybe this will help.” She offers me a small bound book with one hand and pours hot water from the kettle into the teapot with the other.

The brown leather cover is embossed with gold lettering in the top left corner.

I squeak with anticipation.

Collins Paragon Diary No. 181

A quick glance at the inner leaf reveals my mother’s beautiful script in what must be fountain pen. The elegant curls of her full name followed by Invermere B.C., on the opposite leaf in blue ballpoint is noted 1941-1942. Quick mental math lets me know it holds a peek at age 16, in her own words.

”I doubt there’s much there, “ she says.

A practiced mother of three she won’t offer up the jugular lightly. She fills our mugs with tea.

I wrench it open at no particular page and read aloud the adolescent observations of my seemingly shy mother.

“Gee Bud is swell, I hope he comes over and listens to the radio again tonight!”

THE COLLINS PARAGON DIARY NO. 181

I’ve never in all the long years of tea-stained afternoons heard of this boy. While I howl with laughter, my hand clapping the table hard enough to slop tea from my mug, my mother says, “I don’t recall liking him that much.” 

“Well he gets three exclamation points on Saturday the 17th of May.” I snort and continue mining for gold.

“Perhaps I’ve made a mistake…” her words linger between us.

She makes no effort to claw back the tiny compendium of angst. I imagine her wrestling me for it and know who would lose.

At seventy-five the woman still has the reflexes of a mongoose. I simmer down and start to read from the beginning. This is the year her first love grows up, joins up, and comes back to town a Casanova. It is a year of measles, death, heartbreak and LEARNING TO DRIVE A CAR!? (Something she never did in my lifetime). We drink tea and I wonder at her absolute trust in me.

“How do you like the name Jane?” I ask. Like her it is practical and unadorned. Perfect for fictionalizing the early ups and downs of her life.

“That should do nicely.” 

« Older posts Newer posts »
Vivian Heather Photo

© 2024 Vivian Heather

Theme by Anders Noren — Up ↑