A Writing Life (Part 10)

And becoming a writer? It was not even a real option. The few people I mentioned it to, usually other students, laughed and wondered how I could be so naïve. At the time, I had only written the poem I mentioned and attempted a few other stories (most of them remain either incomplete or, mercifully, lost and forgotten). I was also told that the only thing I could do with an English degree was teach in grade school. This was a great incentive for avoiding any thought of teachers’ college. As well, the English teachers that I did have provided me with another reason not to write: frustration. One teacher told us, without any sort of set up, that he had written a novel and had not been able to publish it. He also told us about the time he worked on a ship during a severe storm and how another crew member begged him to kill him. He also walked with a limp, which made us all wonder about other parts of his past he had not shared in class. Apart from this man, there was the teacher who told us that a novel with coarse language in it could not be literature (goodbye James Joyce, J.D. Salinger, and so forth), and another teacher who thought that most “female writing in Canada” (his words) was the product of mental disturbance. It was not a healthy environment for any student with a growing love of literature.


The reason why the idea of a writing life lingered in my mind was because of a kind woman in my high school who decided to organize its first writing club. Her name now escapes me (I do not have any of my high school yearbooks with me as I write), but I remember her as a heavy woman in glasses who always smiled. The rest of the group were students I had never met, except for one friend who came and told stories about being in the cadets and having to hike with a full kit for hours in the wilderness. Soon, this group dwindled down to just me and this woman. She was the one who got me into the habit of carrying around a pen and paper to save whatever thoughts came to me (she gave each of us a cheap spiral notepad at our first meeting). Because I was the only one left, I became the president of the club. I did not always have stories written down, but the meetings gave me an opportunity to share what had happened in my life with a stranger (this is what the best writing should do). This club lasted for the length of my final year at school and I won an award for leadership because of it. I do not know if the club continued after I graduated.