The Life of Words

The Garden Gate -West Saanich, BC

Gillian Cornwall, c. 2015

Some days it comes more easily than others, this business of writing. There are days when the pages fill as though the lines of the story are forming queues in my mind, awaiting their turn to travel from my brain down my neck, across my shoulder and down my arm and through my hand where they travel down a river of black ink in my eco-friendly pen and out through the minuscule opening onto the pages of my notebook. Imagine them as workers awaiting the subway at rush hour or as foot passengers, anxiously awaiting the opening of the single lane gate to board the BC ferry to the mainland. They are players on the sideline at the football match: ready, trained and poised to do their part to bring the game to an acceptable result. I'm sure you get the drift. 

Conversely, there are times aplenty when the story plays a game of hide and seek: the words, the plot, the reason is out there, or in here, somewhere, evading my search. Perhaps I wasn't clear about the boundaries for the game and the words have run over hill and dale, escaped across a border for which I do not hold a current passport. Just as easily, there is a chance they are around the next corner, down the hall, giggling under a pile of coats in the hall closet, holding back a sneeze born on a whiff of mothballs and dust. 

This week has held both experiences for me, as is often the case; nonetheless, I will write. I write. I have written. This is my path, my need, my feed, my breath. It is not choice. Whether parading the queue out in orderly fashion or letting it spill out in chaos, whether stumbling over hidden roots, far from home in a forest previously uncharted and unknown as darkness gathers, this is what I do. 

I love it. It is my closest companion and the conduit between me and the world. It is possibility and passion, fear and triumph. It is Peter Pan and Captain Hook, wine and water. It matters to me and I hope you can tell.

I am grateful to you for playing alongside me. Thank you for reading and expressing your thoughts. I hope it brings you something: inspiration, thought or learning. You are integral in this process. Thank you for sharing your time with me here, for walking beside me each week. 

If you have ever wanted to write, I hope you do it. Pick up a pen and scratch the surface. Keep digging - the treasure is there. If you require a nudge or an all-out shove, consider a course offered at a community centre or a school. Pick up one or two of the many books available. I turn to courses and books as often as I can when I need a push back to my desk. Here are a few of the guides that help me reset my bearings:

Bird by Bird - Some Instructions on Writing and Life by Anne Lamott

A Passion for Narrative - A Guide for Writing Fiction by Jack Hodgins

Writing Down the Bones - Freeing the Writer Within by Natalie Goldberg

 Happy reading and writing. Enjoy the journey.

***Please sign up for the RSS feed if you would like notification of my posts sent to your email. See "Subscribe - Posts" at the bottom of this page. Thanks.***

-Gillian Cornwall, re-posted April 9, 2017

Originally posted, c. April 6, 2014

Russell's Rare Books

Gillian Cornwall, c. 2015

On Writing

Russell's Books

Gillian Cornwall, c. 2015

"Show me!" I beg the page. I coax it forth with my pen, massaging word upon word unto the paper or, hands hovering over the keys as though it were some mystical Ouija Board, spiriting the truth from the world beyond. 

"I believe you!" This is what I say to the universal energy, for whom I am made the conduit of my stories. For it cannot be me, can it, that writes this stuff, when the rare gems issue forth? I am not swathed with approval from an institution issuing degrees of ability and confidence. I have a diploma in recreation from a community college and a life's worth of books travel through me, intertwined with the path I have walked through this life. From this, I learn and write.

I have decided my way must be baccalaureate enough for me. The late Richard Wagamese, who passed on March 11, 2017 - just yesterday, as I write this - spoke of his life as a writer when receiving the 2015 Matt Cohen Award. Watch it here. He captures it perfectly. He speaks of his formal education ending at Grade 9, but says this: 

"The only thing I have taken is the open opportunity that lay between the covers of a book." 

We read and we read more and we live our lives and we reflect upon our experiences and we engage with the artistry of the writers we admire and we learn and our writing grows and we create our own way of storytelling combined with the gift that flows through us. I must only be willing and present and open to that aspect of the process. 

To me, books are hope and connection. They are solace and friendship. They are meditation and encouragement. My novel is very close to completion. I suppose I will begin the task of contacting agents. I really have no idea how one goes about all of this but I will wade into the water and keep swimming. 

I dedicate this post to the late Richard Wagamese. It is not just his books that inspire me - I am quite new to his work, though they do inspire me, especially now as I read through Embers, but it is the man himself, as well, for not stopping his work at the absence of formal education, for not making excuses, for his ability to lift up all of those around him as he does so well in his Matt Cohen Awards speech. He wrote and he wrote well and his stories live inside us all.  

Rest well, Richard. May the next chapter fill you up the way you have filled us and brought us together through your stories. Thank you for your many gifts. 

-Gillian Cornwall, c. March 12, 2017

The Heavens

Gillian Cornwall, c. 2015.

Creation

Inside the cave

Shark Cove - Lana'i, Hawaii

Ink Drawing by Gillian Cornwall

4"x 6" - $50

...And my soul said, "Let there be art"

...And behold, there was art.

It was everywhere. Nature made it and I translated her beauty through my perception. My very being spoke through my hand and heart and rendered words into poetry, fiction, non-fiction, pen and ink, oil pastel, watercolour pencil drawings and three dimensional sculpture. I was moved to sing and to dance and to play an instrument. I sought out the places where the greatest of all of these pursuits were housed and I sat among friends and made crafts. 

All of it - I wanted all of it. I do it because I must in order to be whole and alive. 

When I was young, I had no external push to create; although, I was exceedingly fortunate in my exposure to the arts,including: consumption of the culinary arts from all over the world to ballet and symphony, popular music concerts, art galleries and education in the arts. It was clearly stated that it would not have been a course by which to achieve employment - my parents said so. I was raised to obey. Now, I sit here, without a permanent job at 54 as a result of lay off and I am still writing, drawing, singing and dancing and laughing at myself for my stint as a stand up comedian.

The point is, I likely could have made a career of it - I loved it enough and worked hard enough at it, but, no, I was told I must take on a career to support myself. Wise advise on the one hand while lacking in support of my abilities and passion on the other. 

This week, my brilliant cousin pointed me in the direction of this article, The Third Self,  by Mary Oliver on the Brain Pickings blog by Maria Popova - winner in the blogger category at the 7th annual Shorty Awards.

In her essay, Mary Oliver states:

“The most regretful people on earth are those who felt the call to creative work, who felt their own creative power restive and uprising, and gave to it neither power nor time.”

When I read this, I thought to myself, "You bloody idiot, Gillian. Why did you believe anyone? Why did you not just go to school for it and do it?"

While I let my counselor help me with those questions now, I will say, indeed, I did give it power and time. Would the amount of time ever have felt like enough? I doubt it. The point is, I have improved, I have studied, I have read, I have performed. Hell, I have even sold my art and published a few bits of writing. What does success look like? There is also my blog. I am damn proud of the engagement I have with all of you over the years. There is my novel which is now in its second draft and must be handed over to someone to read at some point ...particularly, if I would like to have it published ...and I would very much like to have it published.

I create because I don't know how to not create. I would not be me if I did not create. We all create. Each of us does it in small ways daily, even if those creations never reach fruition on page or into voice - our imaginations are unstoppable - percolating and pumping - completely out of our control. 

To each person who participates in the arts through reading books, going to the ballet or concerts, attending gallery openings and purchasing the works of artists of all kinds: You are essential to the equation of growth in the lives of both the artist and yourself. Creation is meant to elicit response - from boos and balks to cheers and bravas. I grow as an artist by attending the arts of others, from reading books and attending performance and shows. 

I keep saying, "The point is..." and you are probably wondering, "Really, what is your bloody point?"

Soooo, the point is:

Creation is essential.

Do it.

Allow yourself the beauty and pleasure of a doodle or a line of verse. Do it for you because no-one will create what you have created. Do it because it feels good. Rip it up after if you need to do so. Take a photo today on your way to get groceries or on your way home from work. Stop. Look. Listen. Smell. Touch. Feel yourself in a moment and see what comes to you. 

The rarity of stopping has dulled our senses to the beauty of the heaven in which we live. For a moment, put down your phone and look around. Rest and feel. In the brilliant words of Nana Veary, "Seek to enjoy; not to possess." Time will speed as you age. Do not let your youth slip away unnoticed. 

Presence is the first step in creation. The universal flow of energy, when allowed to pass through you without impediment, will lead your imagination to lands beyond your day to day world. This is how creators create. At least, it is the way in which I begin to create. Sometimes, I have no idea from where the work has had its well-spring. I look down at the page of my novel and think, "Wow - who thought of this?" The same can occur when I am in the zone with a drawing. It's magic; yet, as simple as a breath - which is also quite magical when you think about it. 

Allow the magic of your very existence take you on unfathomable adventures. This is your life to create. 

-Gillian Cornwall, c. October 23, 2016

North Shore of Maui and West Maui Mountains

Oil pastel and mineral oil on watercolour paper 

Approx. 8"x 10" - $100

Rendered by Gillian Cornwall

Wounded In Action

Wounded In Action

Gillian Cornwall, c. 2013

More than anything, I wish I were a great writer. It would be wonderful to be a great anything, but I really want to be a great and successful writer.

I am feeling incessantly mediocre as I work and work and never win a single writing contest. I have had two publishing successes with the same local magazine. I am grateful for their willingness to publish my work. Writing is what I want to do above all else and I will continue to do it, but I must work a day job everyday in order to keep a door between me and the streets.

All day, every Sunday, I work on these blog posts for the week: writing, editing, publishing and promoting. I haven't monetized it yet but I may do some very specific advertising on it that relates to the literature that inspires some of the posts. I could give it up and focus solely on submissions to literary magazines to see if my skill and luck improve with respect to writing contests and publication. Some people have told me that the blog is of value to them and that, in my estimation, makes it a worthy enough undertaking; however, if the writing is crap to mediocre and remains so despite my best efforts, then perhaps it is of no use and I should stop.

I still have no regular job following my layoff in the spring and that wears me down though I try not to worry. I'm 54 and, financially, just getting by with massive credit card debt. I try to stay positive but sometimes that is the hardest thing in the world and it takes all of my energy.

I never want to be homeless again. I couldn't go to my home when I lived with a violent alcoholic in my twenties. I spent my time wandering the streets before anyone caught on to what was happening. I have written about it. Did anyone read it? Did it make a difference or was it self-serving tripe?  I don't have a writing degree though I study daily. I will never get a university degree now. I hated post-secondary school because I was closeted and desperately lonely in my difference. I was assaulted and made to feel "less than" because of my difference. That has continued throughout my life courtesy of misogyny and hetero-normative dismissal (at best) and hate and physical/sexual attacks (at worst).

I read more books than you could imagine. I think I am getting better at writing though I will likely never make any money at it. Perhaps my work is too harsh, too honest or not cheerful enough. Perhaps it is not in the style that a publisher desires. I have no idea. I am working on the second draft of my first novel though I have no idea how to get it in front of anyone. I doubt any of you know, save the few who are writers or published authors. To you, I admire your skill, your tenacity and your good fortune. Seeing your success allows me to believe that some writers get published once in a while. Like Van Gogh, will my eventual demise guarantee me appreciation of my work in the afterlife? Seems so cruel to gain fame after a lifetime of work and not even know it because you are dead. What a torture - like screaming, unheard, into a storm. I am nothing like Van Gogh in my skill, though perhaps so in temperament. I know I am absurd in my hope and penitent in my sulking.

To those of you who have purchased visual art from me recently, thank you deeply for your patronage and appreciation of the work.

To those of you who have taken the time to read my writing and let me know that my work was of value and meant something to you, thank you - I hope I have expressed my gratitude to you, for it is massive.

To those of you who have no desire to be artists above all else, count your blessings. It is an unfortunate thing to know your love and not be able to pursue it in every waking hour, until it is the best it can be, because you must do something else in order to survive. Those of you who get paid to do what you love are fortunate to be paid for following your heart.  I like the paid work I do right now very much. I am of service and I am grateful for the kindness with which I am treated in my temporary job. I complete my duties with a good heart and do my best to go above and beyond expectations. I am cautiously grateful for the door remaining between me and what has proved itself to be a cold and brutal world at times. The loss of my permanent position has reminded me of how tenuous that state of protection is, how close I am to the street again, but this time as a middle-aged woman faced with extraordinary and seemingly impossible circumstances. The entire process to find this mangy old dog another permanent position is cruel and unusual for one whose position was made redundant having served diligently and with a good heart for twenty years. What a surprise: middle-aged, barren, spinster is deemed worthless by white, hetero-normative society. Hey, look, it's still 1950!

I am a good old soul with not so much hope left and I want to be honest about how this feels. I know it is not pretty and not empowering, but if any woman reads this who feels she is the only woman left holding the shitty end of the stick as she enters her senior years, if she thinks it is she who has failed, if she believes she is not good enough - well, if enough of us women actually speak our truth, maybe people will see that something is systemically wrong, that patriarchy and misogyny are still tearing women down and that we are still being treated as valueless - particularly if we are not attached to a man as his chattels - and we do not appear or identify as female in a way that pleases men. Gender attachment to physical sex organs is a misogynist trap to make women meet the desires of men. It is a set up and it is BS. Many of us women still feel compelled to do this to survive and it makes me sad. Every time I see myself trying to prove myself worthy to a man for ANYTHING, my level of self hate escalates; It is cumulative and as heavy as a plague upon me. It is branded into my skin:

YOU ARE NOT MAN;THEREFORE, YOU ARE LESS THAN.
YOU ARE NOT APPEALING TO MAN; THEREFORE, YOU ARE USELESS.
YOU DO NOT DESIRE SEX WITH A MAN; THEREFORE, YOU ARE CRIMINAL.

I doubt every woman feels this way; hell, maybe no one does, but there you have it. Another week and, if nothing else, another honest post that I should or should not have kept to myself. Marching on through another week with wishes for light, love and laughter and a sense of peaceful well-being to each of you. Many things are good. I have a home. I have food to eat. I have work to do that serves well. I have the capacity to keep going. I have technology to reach out and share. Perhaps, after all, this will be enough and, for these things, and the love I have from those in my life, I am grateful. 

-Gillian Cornwall, c. August 27, 2016

Once upon a time, Cape Cod, Mass. USA

Gillian Cornwall, c. 2014

Photographed from home movies shot by Brian F Cornwall, c. 1966

The Life of Words

Oil Pastel on Paper - Part of Subjugation Series

Gillian Cornwall, c. 2009

I am re-posting this piece from 2014 as I am feeling a bit wrung out this week. I have a need to conserve my depleted energy cells and I have been working on my book and several other works this week so this post is a sentient explanation of my feelings for the act of writing and it has held up well over two years. If you have thought of writing or enjoy writing, I hope this resonates with you in some way. 

Some days it comes more easily than others, this business of writing. There are days when the pages fill as though the lines of the story are forming queues in my mind, awaiting their turn to travel from my brain down my neck, across my shoulder and down my arm and through my hand where they travel down a river of black ink in my eco-friendly pen and out through the minuscule opening onto the pages of my notebook. Imagine them as workers awaiting the subway at rush hour or as foot passengers, anxiously awaiting the opening of the single lane gate to board the BC ferry to the mainland. They are players on the sideline at the football match: ready, trained and poised to do their part to bring the game to an acceptable result. I'm sure you get the drift. 

Conversely, there are times aplenty when the story plays a game of hide and seek: the words, the plot, the reason is out there, or in here, somewhere, evading my search. Perhaps I wasn't clear about the boundaries for the game and the words have run over hill and dale, escaped across a border for which I do not hold a current passport. Just as easily, there is a chance they are around the next corner, down the hall, giggling under a pile of coats in the hall closet, holding back a sneeze born on a whiff of mothballs and dust. 

This week has held both experiences for me, as is often the case; nonetheless, I will write. I write. I have written. This is my path, my need, my feed, my breath. It is not choice. Whether parading the queue out in orderly fashion or letting it spill out in chaos, whether stumbling over hidden roots, far from home in a forest previously uncharted and unknown as darkness gathers, this is what I do. 

If I had no need of cash, it is all I would do. I love it. It is my closest companion and the conduit between me and the world. It is possibility and passion, fear and triumph. It is Peter Pan and Captain Hook, wine and water. It matters to me and I hope you can tell.

I am grateful to you for playing alongside me. Thank you for reading and expressing your thoughts. I hope it brings you something: inspiration, thought or learning. You are integral in this process. Thank you for sharing your time with me here, for walking beside me each week. 

If you have ever wanted to write, I hope you do it. Pick up a pen and scratch the surface. Keep digging - the treasure is there. If you require a nudge or an all-out shove, consider a course offered at a community centre or a school. Pick up one or two of the many books available. I turn to courses and books as often as I can when I need a push back to my desk (which is actually a dining room table). Here are a few of the guides that help me reset my bearings:

Bird by Bird - Some Instructions on Writing and Life by Anne Lamott

A Passion for Narrative - A Guide for Writing Fiction by Jack Hodgins

Writing Down the Bones - Freeing the Writer Within by Natalie Goldberg

 Happy reading and writing. Enjoy the journey.

***Please sign up for the RSS feed if you would like notification of my posts sent to your email. See "Subscribe - Posts" at the bottom of this page. Tweets will no longer be sent individually. Thanks.***

-Gillian Cornwall, re-posted May 1,2016

Originally posted, c. April 6, 2014

Russell's Rare Books

Gillian Cornwall, c. 2015

I Write

 

"Time for Sale" at Charmaine's Past and Present

Gillian Cornwall, c. 2014

I write. It's more than what I do; it is who I am on a cellular level. I am a transmitter of stories and poetry. At times, it is as though they already exist and I am simply capturing them from the ether and containing them on the page - unsure as to how much I actually have to do with the process. The characters tell me who they are rather than it being the other way around. They unfold themselves and their lives before me - through my pen on the page or my fingers on the keys. I am a conduit, just as I am in the rest of my life. I am a passage connecting people to people and stories to people. I hear the voices and stories of the many and weave them into another upon the page. I listen to the wind and share the voices I hear upon it. The stories pour from my fingers, unwittingly at times, and I polish and shine them. I understand the sculptor who sees the work within the rock and releases it for the world to see. I cannot explain the how of it all. It just is.

My biggest rival is time and the need to put food on the table and a roof over my head - for it does not matter to the world that I am conduit, a writer. I am a dime a dozen in the eyes of most. 

"Yeah, you write - blah, blah, blah. How is that of any use to me? How will that line my pockets?" 

I have no answer for you. I write. It's what I do. It's who I am, yet I must work at something else for I must eat and and clothe and house myself. I could not do so, I suppose, and continue to write - it only requires pen and paper, but I have softened in my older years and homelessness no longer suits me. I have done it - it's cold and hard and frightening. 

So I wish for more time to write. I have stories to tell you. My writing and my drawings and my love for people are the only inheritance I can leave. I want the ripples to be wonderful when the drop of water that is my life joins the ocean of all. 

I write this today to try to be understood, to let you know that I am here and I write because I must - as I breathe, I must. I hope it warms you, enlivens you, enrages you or sets you free in some small way. I hope it brings you joy and laughter at times and, yes, my ego says that I hope it makes you remember me when I am gone. I hope that, in some way, the words will warm your heart when you feel alone and you can turn to this blog, or my book when it is done, and find a friend there - in a word, a phrase or an image conjured. 

Today, I suppose, I write this for me, hoping you understand. Thank you for indulging me. I am grateful. 

-Gillian Cornwall, c. March 6, 2016

Water to the Shore

Gillian Cornwall, c. 2014

Word by Word

Sea Lions - Bamfield Marine Science Centre

Gillian Cornwall, c. September 2014

Word by word, I tend the tale of the earth to the sowing of each story. What else can I do? I could tell myself, "It's all been done" but I haven't done it. I haven't tried to show you through my eyes and it is a different tale with each person's telling. 

Another year has all but wrapped and I haven't written anywhere near what I had hoped. I am pleased that I have been able to maintain posts for 51 out of 52 weeks this year and I sure hope you have enjoyed them. To each of you who read the works week after week, I am grateful to you. I am grateful for your time, your thoughts and your kindness in commenting on the work. 

I am a bit closer to finishing the first draft of my first novel and I am underway with the screenplay of my mum's life, focusing on her time at Biggin Hill Fighter Station. I look forward to a trip to England and France in 2015 to walk the path of those who have gone before me in the hopes of understanding this past on a truly cellular level. 

I am grateful for my life - through hardships and all. I am eternally grateful for each day I have in this body, on this earth, with those in my life. I want this gratitude to fill my stories. We create our lives - every day, with each footfall on this tender earth. This is our time to shine, to love, to share. Don't give up - create. Through the lightness and the darkness, record it - in words, in drawings, in music - in all the ways you live and love. We are all artists of a sort, creating the best life we can, carving our own unique paths, our inheritance in the footprint we leave behind. Our words and our ways are threads woven into the fabric of the universe.

Let us weave our way well. Let us love, be kind and create space for our stories and those of others. Let us use our gifts to weave a universal fabric of love. 

I wish each of you happiness in the new year and the opportunity to breathe fresh breath as we open a new chapter in our book of life, savouring that which has passed and alighting on that which is uncharted ground with the excitement of an explorer. I look forward to the stories each of you bring and I set my course with the wind of the past at my back, giving me the strength I know I have always had to continue and to do my best. 

I look forward to continuing to share what I have with you. I learn from each of you when you share your stories and experiences with me and I am grateful. Let us continue to weave our beautiful fabric together. 

Health. Happiness. Wealth of spirit. Love. May these be created and shared throughout the world.

-Gillian Cornwall, c. December 28, 2014.

 

The Life of Words

Shovel - Victoria BC

Gillian Cornwall, c. 2014

Some days it comes more easily than others, this business of writing. There are days when the pages fill as though the lines of the story are forming queues in my mind, awaiting their turn to travel from my brain down my neck, across my shoulder and down my arm and through my hand where they travel down a river of black ink in my eco-friendly pen and out through the minuscule opening onto the pages of my notebook. Imagine them as workers awaiting the subway at rush hour or as foot passengers, anxiously awaiting the opening of the single lane gate to board the BC ferry to the mainland. They are players on the sideline at the football match: ready, trained and poised to do their part to bring the game to an acceptable result. I'm sure you get the drift. 

Conversely, there are times aplenty when the story plays a game of hide and seek: the words, the plot, the reason is out there, or in here, somewhere, evading my search. Perhaps I wasn't clear about the boundaries for the game and the words have run over hill and dale, escaped across a border for which I do not hold a current passport. Just as easily, there is a chance they are around the next corner, down the hall, giggling under a pile of coats in the hall closet, holding back a sneeze born on a whiff of mothballs and dust. 

This week has held both experiences for me, as is often the case; nonetheless, I will write. I write. I have written. This is my path, my need, my feed, my breath. It is not choice. Whether parading the queue out in orderly fashion or letting it spill out in chaos, whether stumbling over hidden roots, far from home in a forest previously uncharted and unknown as darkness gathers, this is what I do. 

If I had no need of cash, it is all I would do. I love it. It is my closest companion and the conduit between me and the world. It is possibility and passion, fear and triumph. It is Peter Pan and Captain Hook, wine and water. It matters to me and I hope you can tell.

I am grateful to you for playing alongside me. Thank you for reading and expressing your thoughts. I hope it brings you something: inspiration, thought or learning. You are integral in this process. Thank you for sharing your time with me here, for walking beside me each week. 

If you have ever wanted to write, I hope you do it. Pick up a pen and scratch the surface. Keep digging - the treasure is there. If you require a nudge or an all-out shove, consider a course offered at a community centre or a school. Pick up one or two of the many books available. I turn to courses and books as often as I can when I need a push back to my desk (which is actually a dining room table). Here are a few of the guides that help me reset my bearings:

Bird by Bird - Some Instructions on Writing and Life by Anne Lamott

A Passion for Narrative - A Guide for Writing Fiction by Jack Hodgins

Writing Down the Bones - Freeing the Writer Within by Natalie Goldberg

 Happy reading and writing. Enjoy the journey.

-Gillian Cornwall, c. April 6, 2014.

The Day of the Mink

A piece of super-short fiction - wacky, super-short fiction.

I was walkin' to work, whistlin' away down that windin' north end road, hopin' to git picked up and drove to the harbour in time for work when, around a sharp bend, four baby minks, cute as Star Wars ewoks, come flowin' like a tide from outta the woods and I thought to myself, "Well, this ain't gonna be the first time I'll be givin' some crazy-ass excuse as to why I'm late for work!"

"Well, you see boss, I was walkin' down the road when these baby minks..." 

Yeah. This weren't gonna go well but what could I do? Gotta tell ya, them minks gotta strange smell about 'em, somethin' like a polecat but not as strong and they make a sound like a squeeze toy and I couldn't just leave 'em to git runned over. I figured their mama must be waitin' on 'em in the woods, so I start to wavin' my arms in the air like a dang fool, tryin' to git them babies off the road. I heard a car comin' far off but I just couldn't leave 'em their to git smucked. Just wouldn't be right but dang that car were gettin' close.

Them newspaper folk had a field day with my demise. The headline in the paper read, "Man versus Mink - Fur Real" on how the mama mink done hissed and chased the police down as I lay there dead on that road, them babies off safe in the woods, squeakin' their fool heads off.

Oh well, didn't like my job much anyway....

-Gillian Cornwall, c. 2013.

The Silent Hero

Trial Island Lighthouse - Trial Island, BC

Gillian Cornwall, c. 2013

As those of you who read my work or keep my company know, I'm not exactly the kind who keeps her cards close to her chest. If you want to know something about what is going on for me, I'll generally tell you. At times, if you don't want to know, I'm compelled to tell you anyway...

On the flip-side of this equation, there are those who are less forthcoming, those who tend to walk their paths quietly, regardless of how great or poorly things are going for them. Today, I look to those of you who choose the quiet path.

I have people in my life like this. There is one person in particular who meets her commitments as a priority, who fights the good fight everyday no matter how hard it gets. If she said she would, she does. If she is given a responsibility, she meets it, whether or not it makes her unpopular with others who may not understand the circumstances. 

At times, she has suffered greatly but gets up every morning, stepping into life without complaint. She is tough, kind, caring, strong and willing. She is self-aware and a loving mother, daughter, sister, aunt and partner. 

She is the Silent Hero. Do you know one?

Today, I salute my silent hero and all of the silent heroes who get up everyday and do what they do without asking to be noticed and without asking for gratitude. They do what they do because of who they are and because it needs doing. 

You teach me through your silent splendour and I am grateful.

-Gillian Cornwall, c. October 27, 2013

The Cobble Beach at Parry Bay - Metchosin BC

Gillian Cornwall, c. 2013

Writing on Writing

Thanks for stopping by my blog today. I appreciate you taking the time. As I look toward the horizon of November 1st and, there, upon the two major writing competition deadlines before me, I think about this piece. 

I want to share it with you as a micro-insight into how I think about the words, the story, and how I shape the writing and stretch myself beyond my comfort to create something of me and beyond me, all at once. Each time I remind myself that I am worthy of the blank page, that we each have stories to tell and the right to craft them. After which, I put it forth with the hope, but not the expectation, that it will provoke a shift in the senses of the reader. 

  

Hulopo'e Beach - Lana'i HI

c. Gillian Cornwall, December 2012

Smell - evocative of palpable fogs, repugnant and dirty; it's my word for nasty odours. I've given it bad press. Scent is good, pretty, indicative of delightful perfumes. It often starts with a word dropped into a placid pool, the vision rippling out with endless and, at times, terrifying possibilities. What to feature; what to type? I remind myself why I can't care what you will think. I lay myself bare. This is what I have for you; this is who I am. Take my story to your heart or hide it in a shopping bag under the basement stairs. 

Armed with words and pen, I sail forth. I harbour a mad and secret desire to claim the Golden Fleece while the dragon sleeps. I empty my mind of the work-a-day trash and dig deep, chasing the tail of the tale, knowing it is waiting on the other side of sense, in the silt, across time and tide, past the singing sirens and the myth, the lie, the no.

-Gillian Cornwall, c. September 2013

 Me - flying on the winds

in The Garden of the Gods

Lana'i, HI

Here is a link to an interview I had with CBC Books - Canada Writes, as a result of winning their wonderful Twisting Titles Twitter Challenge.

From the Mud

Oil Pastel on Paper

Gillian Cornwall, c. 2011.

This week I am offering up a very short work of fiction. It is one of the pieces I prepared recently in light of a local competition which allowed only 250 words and six of them dictated to the writers as compulsory. I hope you enjoy it.

From the Mud

You pressed your finger to a live barnacle, watching it clench under the pressure. You mastered childhood delights as you mastered painting, an explorer of life and light. I loved you though you terrified me. It is true that a wondrous mind armed with an ocean of knowledge suffers ebb tides of confusion, depression and madness. There were times when your demons, released from the harbour of your salty seas, lay exposed, grappling and gasping, drowning in oxygen on your dishevelled shores. 

Shortly after your paintings were featured at the Vancouver Art Gallery, the stimuli and attention overloaded your sensory processors. Your psyche misaligned and your thoughts became a jumble. The loss and the gain, like inhaling and exhaling broken glass, left you derelict and remote.

When last I saw you, in the institution, you were painting again, great canvasses, four feet by six. To the eye of the unacquainted, these paintings appeared mud black and flat but, as I sat with you, guided by your eyes staring into the work, the clarity of the image arose through the texture of the paint. I saw the layers of life held within, an excavation of your ocean floor, exposed, for all to see should they care to look. It is only chaos when we don't understand.

-Gillian Cornwall, October 6, 2013.

 Vancouver, December 2010.

c. Gillian Cornwall