Fiction and Politics

In Canada an election is heating up... if heat is the right adjective. Where I’m living, it has been raining and foggy for 4 days straight. And I am only now starting to give a crap about an election that is 4 days away. 

Let me explain myself: I am proud of my country, I care about the democratic process, and I will vote. Despite all this, I’m freaking tired of elections, I’m tired of the sound bites, and I’m tired of feeling as though nothing may change. 

The one saving grace in this entire situation is that I have had the pleasure of reading two authors weigh in on our current Prime Minister, Steven Harper. On April 20, 2011, Margaret Atwood wrote an opinion piece for the Globe and Mail in which she compared our current Prime Minister to a vacuum sales man who uses rhetoric and bullying to avoid answering any questions the potential vacuum buyer may have (http://www.theglobeandmail.com/news/opinions/opinion/election-2011-a-dark-fiction/article1991748). The fictional story becomes startling realistic as Atwood’s words echo Harper’s rhetoric on fiscal accountability and transparency and relates it to the potential this has to further undermine Canada’s economic stability and social institutions. Atwood’s piece paints a picture of the reality we do have and one we may soon have if Harper’s rhetoric and actions are allowed to continue unchallenged.

While Atwood’s piece is presented as fiction, Nino Ricci has posted an open letter on his website applauding Harper’s use of fiction as a political strategy (http://ninoricci.com/news/an-open-letter-to-stephen-harper). Ricci notes that Harper uses this creative medium for a number of purposes including taking credit for the results of policies he didn’t create and, as a conservative, wouldn’t support. Ricci then applauds Harper for using fiction, thus sparing us from reality. Isn’t it neat that Ricci exposes truth by unraveling Harper’s fiction.

Each author uses his or her own writing-and specifically the notion of fiction- to illustrate his or her understanding of the political reality. And after all the fiction I’ve been hearing, a bit of truth is going a long way to revitalizing my confidence in the democratic process. In fact, perhaps Ms. Atwood and Mr. Ricci would consider entering politics. 

I think they’d both have a good shot at winning. As Ricci so astutely  points out, “Politics is nothing if not the art of making others believe.” 

Stories in Pictures

I read once that you should start every day doing something that you love. So, every morning I write. It is ingrained. I reach for my pen and journal before I’ve fully opened my eyes. My morning journal entries could be anything. It could be a broken narrative of a dream with some profound analysis or deeply emotional memories or what happened yesterday that is still bugging me. Sometimes I write things that are charming in the same way that a 5 year old’s writing is charming: simple thoughts, in big letters, with occasional incoherence. The content isn’t important, but the act of writing is. Eventually I make a cup of tea, eat breakfast, and get ready for my day. 

This past week I was hosting a friend I knew from my undergrad and who lives in Toronto. I didn’t follow my routine. Despite proselytizing the benefits of this writing ritual and living the practice, I didn’t miss it. Maybe because I didn’t start the day writing, I found I simply didn’t have the same types of thoughts in my mind, the types of thoughts that would typically jump from my pen to a journal. Instead I slept in, I had conversations over breakfast, and I tried to get an early start on the first day of a road trip.
 
For the entire week, I hardly wrote at all. I wrote a page one morning on the red living room couch while my friend sent a few emails, and I wrote a page in our cabin in Cape Breton as I sipped a glass of wine while my friend was out smoking a cigar and drinking a glass of whiskey on the porch. 
 
I wasn’t writing but I was still creative; I took pictures. 


I don’t claim to be a professional photographer. Some of my photos were complete crap. But the pictures do tell stories. Because I took pictures, I have a story of walking on the road to Taylor Head Provincial Park and finding the most beautiful white sand beach. I have a story of the changing landscape as my friend and I drove from Halifax to Ingonish in Cape Breton. I have a story of a hike on a snowy mountain in April, the rivers of melting snow, and of enjoying a gorgeous view of the bay before losing the trail and eventually turning back. I have a story of reading in a rocking chair while my friend played his mandolin in the low light.

I didn’t write this past week because I didn’t need to write then. I needed to enjoy the moment and take quick shots to remind me of things I want to write now. 

(Im)mobility

Today I am sitting in bed, unable to move due to a spasmed back. I am taking a lot of pain killers (doctor’s orders), using a heating pad, and waiting for my muscles to relax. I am lucky. I live in a country with medicare, skilled doctors, and access to medical resources.

In this state of immobility, I’ve been thinking about moving. I have obviously taken it for granted. I’ve never considered the possibility that I might not be able to bound out of bed in the morning. I also never imagined that I’d have to ask my brother to help me get my jeans on (for the record, we decided that wearing pj pants to the walk-in clinic was an acceptable choice).

I’ve also thought about all the moving I have done: I walk all over my city because I don’t have a car, I’ve canoed and portaged all over Northern Ontario primarily because it was fun and secondarily because it was my job, and I’ve moved from the west coast to the east coast a few times now. When I move I see new things, I have new ideas, and I learn about places, and I learn about myself.

2 years ago I wrote a personal essay about a day long road trip I took with a friend around the southern half of Vancouver Island. I had lived in Victoria before, but it was always an uneasy relationship. I never felt grounded or at ease. This time I was determined. I wanted to find something that I loved. But even after 12 hours on the road, and despite all the places we went and all the neat things we saw (an eagle, jelly fish, goats on the roof of the country market), Vancouver Island still didn’t feel like home.

However,  a few days after the road trip, I was walking on the University of Victoria Campus and found myself on a trail through a forest. I wrote, “like a shimmer I’m walking in Ontario. Ok. Not really. The trees here are too tall and ivy covered. But I know the colours and the smell of the leaves and the shifting patterns of dark and light.” And because I knew what it was to walk in Ontario, I knew what it was to walk in Victoria.

I moved my body down the path in the forest and I moved my memories of Ontario into the forefront of my mind to finally connect with an unfamiliar place.

It’s a good thing I can do intellectual acrobatics. With the way my body feels right now, I think the physical activities will be on hold for at least a while.

Writing in France

            I started writing in France. I was there on a three month exchange. Everyone told me to write down everything that happened. On my 4^th day there I turned 16 years old. I wrote about missing my family, about the restaurant my exchange family took me to for dinner, about the strange translation of menu items. Although I ordered coq-au-vin, “cow brain in peaches sauce” still comes to mind when I think of that day. I also think of the beautiful chocolate pear cake the waiters brought to our table, everyone singing in the candle light.

            In France I would write when I was sitting in a class as the teacher yelled at one of my friends and told him he would never amount to anything (this friend and I lost touch, so I can’t confirm or deny the teacher’s predictions). I wrote in the guest bedroom of my extended exchange family on a trip to Paris, feeling desperately homesick for the first time in my life. I wrote while I waited for the bus, while I sat in art galleries, in the city, next to the sea, every night, and every morning.

            A few years after I got back from France, I picked up one of the France journals. It depressed me. I had catalogued almost every agonizing moment. My journal entries were in chronological order and labeled not only with the date, but also the specific time at which I was writing. I had been aware of every second in that strange land.

            I’m not sure this journal writing was a healthy preoccupation. I wonder if my amazing last three weeks in France could have been an amazing eleven weeks if only I had broken out of my shell, slammed my culture shock straight-on, and put the journal down. But maybe all the writing was necessary. I’ve always needed time to process the world around me. Writing gave me that space to figure things out, or at least it gave me the chance to chronicle the very little that did make sense and the many things that made no sense at all.

While I was recording funny names of food, crying my heart out in Paris, and trying to survive the classroom, I now see that I was cultivating a beautiful gift. I am now a writer.