In the Mouth of Canon

After a morning of writing the other day and frustrated by how my efforts feel so far below the level of skill I aim for, I was huffing up Fort Henry’s steep grass slope towards its eastern defensive wall. I was grumbly and hot and completely in my head, stomping my way up, arguing with myself about the necessity of practicing, the only way to learn, improve and trying to quell the taunting little voice that floated the idea I might never get there. Despite the punishing heat and humidity, I refused to pause (I’m trying to improve my slope stamina…just ‘cause)^[1]. I was quite out of breath and I’m sure quite fuchsia when I reached the hilltop where it faces the dry ditch separating the slope from the outer defensive wall.  There was a man standing on the inner side of the fort’s limestone, taking in the view of Lake Ontario, the St Lawrence River and Deadman’s Bay (indeed, the almost dead in addition to the dead were dropped by boat to a clapboard sided hospital and temporary morgue on the eastern shore, outbuildings that burned down long long ago). 

“Have you ever been to Fort Henry?” said the man. He had a Brooklyn accent but explained he was from Toronto.    

What an odd question, I thought, I’m standing here directly in front of you^[2]. But of course, he mistook me for a tourist, I mean, why else would I be on the scorched grass, facing the mouths of cannons? I explained I walked the perimeter frequently and often swim off the point between Deadman’s Bay and Navy Bay^[3]. I was heading there next. I was struggling to catch my breath, but I was proud I hadn’t had to stop and rest on my ascent. I turned around to take in the spectacular water view and, I’m not kidding, there was a woman carrying a full-sized wooden canoe on her shoulders stepping her way up the hill’s spine. Her gait didn’t even slow when she removed one hand from the gunnels to check her heartrate on her smartwatch.

I burst out laughing. I mean, what better sign from the gods to let me know there will always be people who write better, who write faster, who write more elegantly or lyrically or intellectually or comedically. There will always be people who run faster, who are fitter, who accessorize with canoes. I still made it to the top of the hill with my persistent plodding.

Just. Keep. Going. 

My stamina for the long project improves. The writing is slower than I had anticipated…much slower^[4]. I’m finding long form writing feels texturally different compared with writing short stories, essays or poetry. There are a lot more spinning plates to keep in the air^[5]. Even though I get frustrated, I’m also really enjoying this time of immersion in creative practice. 

A quote from Annie Dillard that I copied down in a notebook in 2017, from The Writing Life, captures the exact sentiment I’m feeling, “[a book] is sufficiently difficult and complex that it engages all your intelligence. It is life at its most free.” 

And in case, due to frustrations, I forget, the quote continues: “It is life at its most free, if you are fortunate enough to be able to try it, because you select your materials, invent your task, and pace yourself. In the democracies, you may even write and publish anything you please about governments or institutions…”

Thank you for reading, I hope it makes you smile; your belief keeps me singing. 

Oh, and I’ve kinda been dipping into reading a few classical works, coming at them slantways, having my hand held by others to lead me through their difficulties: Mark Scarbrough’s podcast about Divine Comedy, Walking with Dante, Emily Wilson’s translation of the Odyssey, and Don Quixote through Douglas Glover’s essays in The Enamoured Knight.

In a weird way, these classical works make me feel my own composition of mixed voices, digressions, associations, text forms, structure, tonal ….chaos my gawd, is okay, at least to try^[6]. 

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^[1] Well…not ‘just because’… In the spring, when I first started to climb that slope (and I must interject and explain that for friends who live in the mountains, this hill is but a trifling speedbump compared with hiking jagged, cloud-hugged peaks, so, some grace please), I wasn’t able to make the summit (ha ha) all in one go. Because my heart kicked up such a fuss with the effort, my neurophysiological system rang the “Hey! You’re having an anxiety attack!” alarm and I had to stop mid-grade once or twice and talk myself down. This sometimes happens in the cycling workout I subject myself to once a week…there, the coach talks me down and he kindly leaves the door to the studio open so I feel like I can run out of the room when I feel like ripping my cleats from the foot stops and screaming out of there whenever my heart rate climbs to the point of punching my tonsils…I haven’t left the stationary bike (yet). All this to say, I have pretty good cardio; it’s just my body catapults my brain to panic mode. Cause yeah, I’m an anxious freak (can be…it’s episodic not chronic…though I can hear the chorus of friends and family griping). Anyways, back to my point: I am climbing the hill a few times a week to train myself to calm my body when my heart rate spikes. Why? So that when I read my creative writing in public, as I plan to later this month, I won’t asphyxiate myself at paragraph one. 

^[2] I do suffer from extreme literal interpretations at times…an odd affliction given my own writing and communications can be obtuse and vague. 

^[3] Less swim…more of a cooling dip. 

^[4] I’m also trying not to freak out about time, how quickly the weeks of sabbatical fly by. I have maintained my commitment to attending to long project work five days a week…consistent effort is what I’m trying to focus on instead of time…a better measure for creative work. 

^[5] I’ll write about spinning plates in my next blog post. 

^[6] Just in case this is misinterpreted as my having the extreme arrogance to place myself on equal footing with the classical works, that is NOT what I mean. I’m very humbled by them…I’m interested in their structures, forms and techniques.