Nanowrimo: Can I?

November is National Novel Writing Month. Hence the acronym Nanowrimo. The challenge to draft out a novel is described as a “fun, seat of your pants, creative approach to writing”.

50,000 words in 30 days!

I’m actually considering joining the cue of writer/procrastinators who need some serious motivation to get their first (or second) novel drafted. The contest is a personal challenge to write every day for the month of November in order to churn out that first draft.

I know a few bloggers here on WP that have joined Nanowrimo. Who bore the unbearable heaviness of having to write 1666.66 words. Every day. For a month. And string them all together to tell an interesting, wanna-read story. I read each of their experiences as they journeyed through the challenge. And felt their fear. Their joy. Their frustration. Their heartwrenching pain at failure. And their ridiculosly wonderful giddiness at crossing the perverbial finish line. However, they all agreed it was worth the effort. Each one learned valuable lessons about themselves as writers. And whether or not they had what it took.

It’s a lot to consider.

Requires serious commitment.

And discipline.

Both areas I woefully lack.

Ya. I own it.

And, what if at the end, I discover I don’t have what it takes? The prospect is daunting to say the least. It’s one thing to blog my unedited, unscripted and unparametered ramblings here but quite another to finally attempt to craft a novel!

But, Nanowrimo has been beckoning me since I first learned of its existence and the inspiring organization behind the fervor, four years ago.


I’m thinking.

I’m thinking.

Are you for me?


K made a keen observation last night: If I can commit and dedicate myself to a thing that is not good for me and stick with it through thick or thin, then why can’t I commit and dedicate myself to a thing that is good for me?

We were talking about writing. But I know there was a deeper question brewing there.

She has a valid point.


Fear Belly is back.

I don’t know what else to call it. It’s the strangest phenomenon and I think it’s time to have it medically explored.

About 6 months ago, maybe longer now, I began waking up with it. A deep sensation akin to having butterflies in my stomach. A kind of nervousness that radiated in my solar plexus within 10 seconds upon waking. No matter if I slept for 20 minutes or the entire night. It was there when I woke. It lasted for about 2 minutes, then slowly dissapated. Then disappeared completely. Until I fell asleep and woke again. Every day. Without fail.

At first I thought it was a quirky symptom of the very real energetic and emotional imbalance beset upon me when I moved to Barrie. I was so torn emotionally. So sad. Deeply grieving my greatest loss in years. Sick inside with the hurt and unable to make sense of the rejection. Slowly the grip of this pain lessened and moved into something that didn’t cripple me everyday. But still, it persisted. I really couldn’t fully wrap my mind around this strange sensation of what feels like fear in my belly. Or what it was connected to.

I still can’t.

It started to ease for a short time. And I had hoped that this was a sign that I was managing my life and all its unexpected circumstance, in a better, healthier and calmer way. But it never fully disappeared. And now it’s back. Stronger then before. And has been clutching my solar plexus for over a month now like a giant fist squeezing eerily close to my heart. Radiating in my body almost painfully. I don’t understand this affliction at all. Or how to treat it. But I can no longer ignore the fact that something very real and very physical is happening inside my body.

I know that Stress can cause the most bizarre and dangerous symptoms. That it can literally kill you. And these past two and a half years have pushed me far beyond my limits emotionally, mentally and spiritually. I have suffered in ways my body and mind have barely tolerated and I feel the toll. Physically, I have never been in poorer health. The pain that courses thru my body daily now is new to me. Decidedly a warning. Something is failing.

After all I’ve been thru in this lifetime, I’ll be damned if a broken heart is gonna be the thing that kills me! That would too cruel and unusual a punishment.

Time to see a doctor.

Motown in My Town

Last night I went to the Princess of Wales Theater in Toronto to see the musical production of Motown. It was amazing! Quite possibly the best live theater production I have ever seen. The singers were phenomenal. The costumes brilliant in color and adaptation. The character representations stunningly portrayed with sensitivity and humor. And the reality of how Berry Gordy fought for the equality of Black recording artists at a time when war, revolution and discrimination was at its Zenith was not only educational and charming, but powerfully stirring. History is so poignantly and gracefully strung together with all its death and violence, and its beauty and majesty. I can not say enough about the quality of this performance and urge anyone with the slightest interest in the music, the times and the history of Motown to go and see it! It’s in Toronto until November 1st and then I have no idea where they perform next. But it’s worth the price of admission!

However. Some deep shit got stirred.

Just before entering the theater, I was accosted by a Black Enthusiast looking for donations towards dispelling the myth that black youths are no more then their violent stereotyped depictions. He spoke quick. Precise. With a “sister” reference to me here and there, surely meant to consolidate our mutual beliefs and affiliation with the Black community. I didn’t have the heart to tell him he was preaching to the wrong Colored woman. That I have never felt any mutual anything with Black folk. Except once. In 1969. A red Chevy pick up carrying a load of white blue collar workers on their way to the GM plant felt the need to yell out “Nigger” as they drove past me on my way to school. I was eight years old. Living in a white community. With a white family. Attending a white school. My knowledge of color had been absent. Until that day.

The next time I was to face such blatant and ugly discrimination was when Canada relaxed it’s immigration laws in the late 70’s early 80’s and the line between Canadian Blacks and all the other Blacks become dangerously blurred.  First generation Jamaicans, Trinidadians, Guyanese and Africans set a precedent that we Canadian Blacks are still rebounding from. The girls hated me because I was lighter skinned and pretty. And knew the boys would crave the different-ness. The boys…well they just proved them right. Growing up in this somewhat hostile and negative environment, sadly, bred my own prejudice. I felt like I and my Canadian counterparts had been all but obliterated in our own country. I can’t remember the last time I was asked where I was from and the query ended with me saying Canada. The inquisitor, no matter their color or race, inevitably tags on, “No. Before that…where are your people from?” Seriously? I was born in Canada. My people were born in Canada. I am half Ojibwa. The other half traveled through the Underground Railway. So ya! I am CANADIAN mother fucker!

But, like the Europeans invading our Motherland, when these “sisters and brothers from another mother” landed, there was no melding of culture. No gentle compromise. And no acceptance. Nope. Most of my experience of racism and discrimination came from people in the 50 shades of my very own color. And it was horribly cruel and demeaning. It was also during this time of the Carib/Island/Afro influx, that I was personally affected by a strong example of how thin the veneer of professionalism is in the Black business community. Showcasing how money quickly dispossesses solidarity. How Blacks do not support or encourage the success of their own. I do not claim that all Blacks are “in it for themselves” but to date, having witnessed this personally and professionally, in business, this is the mentality I have come to expect. And sadly, to date, I have not been proven wrong. But would be happy to be so.

So, while I admired this Black Panthers Enthusiast’s enthusiasm and commitment to his cause, I truly felt no desire to support it. I have been burned by supporting these zealots in the past. And like many citizens of thriving metropolises, feel abused by the askings of zealots and advocates of the disenfranchised – especially if we have acquiesced and offered money, only to witness the abuse of our gifts. Eventually we all grow tired of this prey on our emotions and our pocketbooks and simply give no more. Which is such a sad commentary on our society. And even sadder for the zealots and advocates who are genuine in their pursuit of change. Plus, admittedly, I was more than a bit peeved by the fact that this hair-slicked, white suited, ebony-skinned, quick talking, Black-culture-fact-spewing man had centered his attention on the only Black person visible within a sea of White theater goers. Ya. I had a slight problem with that too. Grrrr. But, having said that, know that I am deeply offended by the atrocities set upon the Black male youth of today, but have my own opinions on the root of that particular problem. Well documented are my feelings in the many papers I have written on the subject of Racism, Sexism and Discrimination. I can and will always validate my argument, so please do not take offence or consider this post an attack on the Black community, to which I do belong. And even though facts do speak for themselves, I am always happy to amicably debate my hypothesis. ;)

But I digress lol …back to Motown in My Town.

The show was powerful! And a promising example of an almost all black cast’s ability to come together as one to create brilliance. I would like to think that as artists, the show was bigger then the ego but, people are people. And Diana did leave the Supremes. So there is that. I was also hoping that the power/producer/money behind the making of this amazing musical was Black, but alas. Even though Berry Gordy wrote the play and “assembled the perfect team to execute his vision”, the perfect power/producer/money team he chose – Doug Morris and Kevin McCollum – are White. Which, in my mind, begs the question, “If Motown had been produced by Black folk, would it be such a success? Or have even seen the light of day?” I’d like to think yes, but Berry Gordy’s choices reflect otherwise. Don’t they? I will step down from my podium now, lol. But I could go on. And on.

Many things got stirred up in me last night. Some race related. Some memory related. Mixed feelings about being in Toronto again as I traveled through well worn routes and familiar neighborhoods. The Village. The Danforth. My Tree. And the last time I stood in front of it. Gamble Ave, where my life was affected in so many ways. Even the very people who extended the invite to attend the musical are part of a somewhat rocky and emotional history I have with Toronto. My relationship with them circling the black-white conundrum. Bordering on Sally and Tom. Me being Sally, the corporate heads being Tom.

Did I mention I was one of only five Blacks in the audience! I can’t tell you how surreal that was.

And how telling.


Lots happened last night when I went to see Motown in my town. However, all personal expostula aside, the Motown Musical, and all the shades of love that brought it to life, is truly a masterpiece! A perfect example of what can happen when you believe in your dreams.

You should go see it!!!

For real.


I ask again.
Was life always this ridiculous?
Or has living in it for so long granted me a sight previously blinded?

I’m frustrated beyond belief by people’s ability to complicate meaning and look for hidden agenda in the simplest gesture.

Don’t phil-oss-so-fize the duck!

Sometimes a duck is just a fucking duck!


Hurt. And vent. Released.

Om mani padme um.


My “eX”

I’ve never liked the term “my eX” when referring to a person who was once, but is no longer, the center of your universe. I’m not sure how this catch phrase became such an easy breezy part of our vernacular, but it seems everyone is breathing in this contagion.

I don’t like being someone’s “my eX”.

It’s an oxymoron. MY denotes belonging while eX denotes loss. How can someone you have lost belong to you in any way? So, saying “my eX” is wrong on so many levels. They are not YOUR anything.

I don’t like being part of this heartless epidemic. I like being a person with a name. I like being a person with an identity. I like being recognized as having feelings. A heartbeat. Significance. Being labeled an eX just feels dehumanizing. And I don’t like it. At all.

Recently, my husband M – and yes we are still married tho separated and yes he is my best friend – just started seeing a woman seriously for the first time, since I left him for P, 7 years ago. He’s excited. Floating in the euphoria of heady romantic newness. Glorifying in the honeymoon phase. She’s all he talks about and as his best friend, I listen. It’s difficult sometimes. Not because he’s involved. No. I was never in love with M the way I was with P. But I did and still do love him deeply. We have a unique relationship. A history. And this is the first time I’ve had to confront a serious shift in our dynamic in 20 years. It’s that change that’s a little difficult to navigate, not the circumstance. I’m actually very happy for him. He deserves some real joy again in his life.

It was during one of the many conversations we’ve had of late, which center around his new relationship and the effect it’s having on him, that I noticed how often he called me his eX. And each time he said it, I felt myself disappearing. Slowly. Being relegated to that emotionless vortex of eX-ile invisibility. It wasn’t painful so much as surprisingly surprising to hear how it fell so naturally from his lips when once he tripped and stumbled over it. But in all fairness, he’s been saying it out loud for nearly 7 years. It’s me who is really hearing it out loud for the first time.

So. It’s official. I am an eX. Twice renamed so. His. And Hers. And while I still think of them both as M and P and never as my eX’s because to me they both have identities. Feelings. And heartbeats. I suppose I have to wear this label, as uncomfortable as it is. And be their “my eX”. For to them, that’s who I am now.

I’m not sure how to do that exactly. I don’t how to be unaffected by the swirling fragments of fallout. Whether the end was amiable or explosive, there is always emotional debris that tags along if the relationship continues past its eX-piry date. And you move into friendship. Or some other unformed, less intimate connection.

And now. Another dimension has been added to the multifaceted layers that are me. To the list of Mother, Friend, Lover, Wife, Survivor, Orphan, Crusader, Champion of the Impoverished, Healer, Reiki Master, Intuitive Crystal Jewelry Artist, Teacher and Wounded Butterfly Warrior, eX has been added.


I never wanted to be anybody’s eX. Crossed out like a wrong answer.

I just want to be, and always remain, Trish.


Last night I watched the Blood Moon, or the eclipse of the moon, and it was amazing. We really do all too often, take this incredible universe for granted. But I thanked the Moon and the Universe and charged one of my favorite crystals in that wonderful energy. Felt good. And a little sad. I couldn’t lay my mind on the reason for the latter, but I felt it just the same. Seems to have attached itself to me like a soft shadow. But today is not for me to lament. Today I’m merely aspiring to limp through. Maybe tomorrow I will shoot for the stars…

Later, while perusing Facebook, I found this quoted picture and connected with that sadness…


Sometimes I totally get Facebook <3

Thank you Universe.