Every Second Thursday

Yesterday was a big day for me. First off it was Sunday and I had Chinese food for dinner, which meant I didn’t have to cook. Secondly I worked my way through about half of my laundry pile which meant the boys were all able to wear clean, matched socks to school this morning.

And maybe most importantly...I read some of my fiction for the first time in public. Only three minutes or so and as part of a group of other, better writers. But still...I read. Out loud. With a microphone and everything.

And I didn’t die.

My favourite book store on the planet, The Downtown Bookstore right here in Owen Sound, produced an anthology of short stories called Every Second Thursday to celebrate their third anniversary. (http://owensoundsuntimes.com/ArticleDisplay.aspx?e=1917565) And they let little old me write a story for them. Even though the likes of Joseph Boyden (Giller winner and general fancy pants) and Anthony De Sa (Giller runner-up so less of a fancy pants) wrote stories for them. Brilliant stories, cleverly written and everything. They still let me in.

I used to have visions of what it would be like to do an official reading. Back before anyone let me call myself a writer without smirking or rolling their eyes or saying ‘No really, what do you do?’ Elaborate pictures of what I’d do when I ‘made it’. Fooling myself into thinking that there would ever be a definitive moment when I realized I’d made it.

I was planning on wearing some sort of pencil skirt/fitted sweater/stilettos combination. My hair swept up in a gorgeous chignon and maybe I would even need cool reading glasses. Like those cat-eye reading glasses. So a sexy secretary look....I’m always alot prettier in my imagination. And my wardrobe is significantly better. Also, I wouldn’t be nervous. There would be scads of people there. And I would have driven up in my Mercedes or something, my life a perfect cocoon I carry with me that no one else needs to see.

Well- the beat up second hand Pathfinder isn’t quite a Mercedes. My jeans and sweater, not so much sexy secretary as good old mom. And nerves...Jesus. I was a maniac. I realized my story was ridiculous, not funny and whimsical like I intended. It sounded like a feature in Teen Beat circa 1984. I realized it made me sound like a dumb ass. I realized I probably am a dumb ass.
Luckily for me, I have beautiful friends. Who haven’t quite figured out I am, indeed, a dumb ass. Who are smarter than I am, who are better writers (Wendi from this very website being a notable mention...I had to read my story after hers. Her beautiful, haunting, gorgeous story that reads like pure poetry. Bitch.) Friends who make sure to sit at the front of the pack, who listen and laugh even when I’m not that funny.

And I’m lucky to live where I do. To have a column people seem to like and an editor who tries not to edit out my quirks...I’ve had the other kind before so I know how precious that is. Editors trying to de-quirk me...it sucked. Even though the money was marginally better.

Finally, after seven years or so, I don’t want to move. I am precisely happy where I am, shitty winters and all. I am glad to have a place to write, to have people who think I’m better than I am and shout me down if I’m too hard on myself. Lucky that someone wants to read anything I write, no matter how bad. Happy to just be drinking a coffee with my friends and fellow writers, all of us able to say without a hint of a smirk ‘I’m a writer.’

I’ve made it