Tag: anxiety

Writing After A Concussion—By Pearl Pirie

The first year after I had a concussion was a blur. I was dead to the world for three months, going in and out of sleep, exhausted. I had vertigo and difficulties with light, sound, and language. No reading. No computers. No writing. Definitely no multitasking. I had to rest for far more hours than seemed viable and consequently had to suddenly quit a few organizations I led, with no succession plan in place. I closed my small press, or as it turned out, put it on hiatus. I simply had no choice.

As with a stroke or cancer, a traumatic brain injury can be an opportunity to reexamine one’s life and priorities.

The concussion encourages me to do fewer things better, to slow down, to spend more time in nature and quiet and with friends.

I had been heading towards burnout, and my concussion forced me to adopt a more balanced life, once I’d recovered enough. Now, when I overdo it, I go on concussion protocol: no screens, no concentration, less activity. The concussion encouraged me to do fewer things better, to slow down, to spend more time in nature and quiet and with friends. To go deeper, not further.

I stopped attending so many activities. I moved out of the city and started working on editing more, writing deeper. This concussion changed my capacities. I still can’t concentrate for those fourteen-hour editing and writing days like I used to. After one or two hours I need a full break. But I can go deeper because of the slowness and the focus needed to keep on a track.

You probably had a concussion as a kid. About six out of a thousand people per year get one. After a light bump you may see stars but not black out and feel fine within fifteen minutes. That’s a mild, or Grade 1, concussion. If you’re knocked out and lose memory from the time around the impact, it’s severe, or grade three.

The kicker is, each time you get a concussion, the next will be worse. I think I’ve had four or five of them, with two at a grade-three level. The one that tipped me over was a Grade 2 concussion.

I now know of a dozen poets with lasting effects from concussions. Some struggle with physical balance, some with emotional balance, others with energy. Laura Stanfill writes eloquently of how her concussion brought aphasia. A.H. Reaume describes how brain trauma affects her writing. As she makes her way through the brain fog and frustrations of not “getting it,” there are days with spoons and days when she says: “there is no way I can push myself past my capacity even though I desperately want to.” Jane Cawthorne has been compiling interviews which will come out as a book in mid-2021: Impact: The Lives of Women After Concussion.

The brain is a complicated thing. It follows that traumatic brain injury is as well. Some patients with severe injuries rapidly recover from symptoms, while some with mild injuries have severe, long-term post-concussion symptoms that disrupt daily functioning for weeks or months. When it’s longer, it’s called post-concussion syndrome, which is what I have. (If you’re curious, there’s a scale here.) I’ve always been called out for persistence. I guess sticking to things is on a cellular level.

I compose by rolling things around in my mind, editing there first.

My reading rate is slower. I’m impatient for speed, but because life feels more fragile, I have to balance being present with resting enough. I can’t do extended concentration like I used to, and I have to switch up my routine more since extended reading or writing or editing isn’t given carte blanche bodily clearance anymore. So, I compose in my head. Instead of moving ideas visually or digitally, I compose by rolling things around in my mind, editing there first. And by letting things go, instead of making precious and publishable the minutiae. My memory is short, and my working memory is small.

I try to treat myself as I would a pet. Soft voice, kind acts, clean water, good food. It takes more energy to do things, so I am more conscious of investing or calling it a waste and cutting losses. I prioritize a few people more because I have fewer spoons to go around or to do All The Events. I give myself permission to leave early, to show up late or to not show up, instead of being the first one to come and the last one to go. I socialize mostly though my computer since outings are more taxing. During outings, I take more breaks, pressure myself less. I float and accept catching less than I did.

Perhaps in combination with anxiety meds, the concussion means I’m better at being methodical and tracking deadlines and calls. Who knows? I may write less, but I get published more. My writing is different, at least. I’m a different person, and so I can resonate with different people. But would I opt to get a concussion? A big no to that.

Pearl Pirie’s fourth collection, footlights, comes out in fall 2020 from Radiant Press. Her newest chapbooks are Call Down the Walls (Frog Hollow Press, February 2019) and a haibun collection, Eldon, letters (above/ground, August 2019). Her next chapbook will be Not Quite Dawn, out from Éditions des petits nuages in the spring of 2020. Her next epistolary haibun chapbook, Water loves its bridges: Letters to the dead, is due out in December 2020 from The Alfred Gustav Press, by subscription.

Photo credits: Pearl Pirie (header banner); Brian Pirie (headshot)

February 28, 2020
The Honeymoon Phase—By Ann Cavlovic

Someone with two decades of experience getting critiques of their writing shouldn’t curl into a ball after an editor’s comments, right?

Then why, after receiving a developmental edit on my first attempt at a novel, did I find myself in such a pit of despair? (Yes, that pit, that ball; I was every cliché imaginable.)

The simplest explanation involves basic math: a novel is about twenty times the length of a short story, so you have twenty times the problems to fix. On top of this, the stakes for me were especially high: I’d taken a year off work to complete the draft on a small grant, and circumstances left me a single mother, all of which necessitated a weekly budget of $330. Just my son’s weekly piano lessons cost $50.

After taking this big leap and working so hard, I wanted accolades. Instead, the editor posed neutral questions that my anxious mind could easily un-neutralize: ‘What governed your decision to include character X?’ became ‘Why did you even write this useless asshole?’ She didn’t trust the perceptions of the character whose purpose was to explore the nature of human perception, which sent me into an epistemological head explosion about my own perceptions. Sure, many of us ignore positive feedback and focus on the negative (and I hold a PhD in Catastrophizing). This cognitive distortion comes readily when the things working well are described in one page, and the things that aren’t take up fifteen.

It wasn’t so much like I felt this editor had seen me naked. It was as if she’d seen me naked upon return from a ten-day backwoods camping trip and offered logical and helpful observations like: ‘Have you considered taking a shower?’ and ‘But first perhaps another go with some toilet paper?

It wasn’t so much like I felt this editor had seen me naked. It was as if she’d seen me naked upon return from a ten-day backwoods camping trip.

Naturally, my first inclination was to troll the editor on the internet to find evidence of her incompetence. Instead, I rediscovered her facility for insight, nuance, and skilful prose. Dammit.

Yet as I followed the advice of friends and allowed myself a break, ideas started popping up in my mind. How to fix this. How I really could cut that. Yes of course that part was misleading. And I really have no idea how to deal with that subplot but perhaps it will become clear after I fix fifty other problems. These were the kind of blind spots my critique circle might have pointed out on a short story too. Maybe, after such a long period of isolation, I was out of the feedback-receiving habit?

Now my draft manuscript sits on my desk in a neat pile, with dozens of paperclips—all red, I have my standards!—holding together scenes that have literally been cut and collated over months of arduous writing, reworking, and organizing. The day I got back to work, I glanced at my manuscript, and realized the little bubble of joy I’d cradled in my bosom during the brief honeymoon between completion and feedback had popped.

But it probably had to. When I initiated my de-catastrophization protocol and mulled over places to begin, I saw how the editor’s interventions saved me from spending more energy in fruitless directions. I need that energy, because there is a lot, a whole lot, of work still to be done. Instead of resentment or embarrassment, I’m starting to feel appreciation and even something close to affection for this woman I’ve never even met in person. A stranger who’s seen my work, by necessity, at an earlier stage than I’d ever shared work before. There’s a strange intimacy to this.

Speaking of intimacy, I met a wonderful man when finalizing the draft (which is, by the way, not ideal timing for a wannabe novelist, but I’ll take it). Months in, we are still in our honeymoon phase and I am enjoying it fully. Surprisingly, I see that phase more positively than ever, whether it’s for a manuscript or a partner. You need it. You need to build up a reserve of good feelings to get you through the work to come.

Looking at my manuscript now, I realize maybe it was okay how stupidly in love I was.

Looking at my manuscript now, I realize maybe it was okay how stupidly in love I was. Maybe my delusional vision that my first draft would turn out like a fifth draft wasn’t all bad. Maybe, in part, I needed my delusion to get me through.

Some relationships break down. Some manuscripts never get published. Don’t even try to tell me it’s the journey, not the destination; to deny the cost of failure is to deny the courage involved in trying. But with both my manuscript and my new relationship, deep down I have a strong sense of potential. So I will again pour my heart into both, with all the attendant hard work and brutal vulnerability.

Ann Cavlovic’s fiction and creative non-fiction have appeared in Event, The Fiddlehead, The Globe and Mail, Little Bird Stories, PRISM international, Room, SubTerrain, the anthology This Place a Stranger (Caitlin Press), and elsewhere. She wrote Emissions: A Climate Comedy, which won “Best in Fest” at the 2013 Ottawa Fringe theatre festival. If the heart-pouring works, her novel Count on Me will one day see the light of day. Find her in the Gatineau Hills and at: anncavlovic.com.

Photo credits: Ann Cavlovic (header image); David Irvine (headshot)

November 22, 2019
Why I Loved Editing a Small Canadian Online Magazine, and Why I’m Leaving—by Laurence Miall

Before I ever joined a magazine, or published a novel, for that matter, here’s how I imagined people who had responsibility over publishing texts. They were working in fancy university offices or in stylishly decorated apartments in artsier parts of town than my own, smoking cigarettes and drinking wine, sporadically casting a disdainful eye toward the “slush pile” (in my mind’s eye, the slush pile was either physically manifested, or online, it didn’t make a difference insofar as the disdain goes). And here’s what would happen if ever they came across my submission. They’d read a line, chortle to themselves, and say, “This poor, desperate bastard. Why does he waste our time?” Then all the editors would say in unison, “Let’s publish one of our friends, instead!”

That’s how I imagined it.

Maybe some literary journals are nepotism-only zones, I don’t know. I’ve only ever worked for carte blanche. I joined as fiction editor in 2014 and the first issue I worked on was Issue 20. Our most recent issue is #29, so that’s ten issues in total. As of Issue 23, I took on more responsibility for the magazine, taking over from our illustrious founder, Maria Turner, first in partnership with Ben Spencer, then with Gregory McCormick.

Though the years, I have come to enjoy my vexed relationship with the slush pile. Every time I sit down to read, I want to love the next piece I’m going to discover. One of the very first stories I ever picked was Matthew di Paoli’s “Other Forms of Life,” and I found it so funny and quirky that I immediately started reading it aloud to Monika, my partner. I invited Matthew to read his story at a carte blanche event we were doing at the Blue Metropolis Literary Festival in Montreal, and he couldn’t come, so I read out parts of his story in his place. I loved the texture of someone else’s sentences coming from my lips, and the rhythm—almost like a form of breathing that was not my own.

So yeah, the slush pile wasn’t like I’d imagined it, not at all. It was sometimes a source of some frustration, but also of great excitement and pleasure.

Over the years, the comradeship of the entire carte blanche crew, and the support of the Quebec Writers’ Federation, was constant, making me realize that one of the biggest benefits of the literary life is not the writing itself but the community of other writers, editors, publishers, curators, and do-it-all’ers who keep culture humming along and livening up lives that would otherwise be lived in dank, solitary darkness.

“I loved the texture of someone else’s sentences coming from my lips, and the rhythm—almost like a form of breathing that was not my own.”

Chalsley Taylor, above all, has made the magazine the beautiful online presence it is today, and so it’s to her I would like to express my biggest THANK YOU. We started this journey at pretty much the same time. It’s no overstatement to say that this magazine would not be in the fine shape it is without her. With Cason Sharp now on the team, I believe carte blanche is going to keep on kicking ass in its cool, classy way. How can it not, with Nicola, Georgia, Bronwyn and the two Gregs bringing their brilliance to each and every issue?

I am shortly going to be leaving the team in my official capacity as editor. I do so with mixed feelings. Once upon a time, I honestly felt I could tackle any amount of work that was thrown at me. The days seemed elastic. I could stretch them at either end, conjuring up just enough minutes or hours to always get things done. But I don’t feel that way anymore. I am trying to figure out how big each relative part of me is, and how to accommodate all those parts within a finite body. What’s the size of the editor in me, compared to the writer? And more importantly, the loving husband? The communications director? The friend? The son? The cooker and eater of meals, and the drinker of ales, and the sporadic watcher of Liverpool FC, and everything else?

A few weeks ago, my second oldest friend disappeared from social media. In recent years, we hadn’t established any other form of communication except for Twitter and in-person visits. I had no phone number or email address for him. I started to wonder, nervously, if he was still alive. In 2016, I lost a dear friend to suicide. Another of my friends has struggled with brain cancer. These experiences and many others made me think dark and fearful thoughts.

Day after day, my friend didn’t reappear. There was an envelope icon lit up in Twitter, indicating a message from him, but the message was an old one, and because his account was deactivated, the message itself had ghosted away. I tried to figure out what was the best course of action. Should I just show up at his house to check on him? No, I told myself. It wasn’t time for that. He’s not dead, I said to myself. He’s just taking a break from Twitter. Who can blame him? Donald Trump is president.

My friend eventually reappeared, thank God. He found my email address and wrote to me. I was relieved, and felt a little foolish for my quiet panic.

“I am trying to figure out how big each relative part of me is, and how to accommodate all those parts within a finite body. What’s the size of the editor in me, compared to the writer? And more importantly, the loving husband?”

Realizing just how agitated I had become gave me yet another confirmation that I need to reappear—to myself. Working sixty- to seventy-hour weeks means you’re obliged to run on adrenaline and anxiety half the time. I get bent out of shape easily. I sometimes get inordinately fearful about small things. It’s time to slow down a little. Time won’t be warped and woven into shapes that better accommodate me. I must accommodate to time.

Whatever happens, I am going to remain a friend to the carte blanche crew. I became an editor at approximately the same time as I had my first novel accepted for publication, so the two experiences effectively took me from zero to one as a literary person, according to my own weird binary measurement. I am enormously grateful to have had such opportunities.

I still send stories to magazines sometimes, and I get my share of rejections, but I don’t get resentful about them. I am pretty sure that the people at the magazines are just that: people. Maybe some of them have similar traits to me. Maybe they’re a bit fucked up. Maybe they’re anxious, maybe overworked, maybe worrying about a loved one—like us all.

Laurence Miall is a Montreal-based writer and communications expert. His first novel, Blind Spot, was published by NeWest Press in 2014.

Photo credits: Ben Brooksbrank; Owen Egan (author headshot)

Apply to be carte blanche’s new editor.

March 13, 2017
Hello Baby, Bye Bye Books by Mike Steeves

My daughter was born on August 25, 2014, and during the interminable lead-up to her birth I was, like all new parents, subject to a deluge of unsolicited advice, warnings and thinly-veiled threats from family, friends and complete strangers about what I could expect as a new parent. One of the warnings I heard most often was that the time I had for reading was going to be severely curtailed.

Maybe my friends didn’t appreciate how dedicated I was to my routine, because I soon discovered that it was actually pretty easy to carve out the three hours I needed in order to stay on top of the steady stream of books that I had begun purchasing early on in my wife’s pregnancy as a way of offsetting my anxiety over not reading enough.

For starters, I used to bike to work. But once I realized that I could eke out at least forty minutes of reading on my daily commute, I started taking the metro to work, thereby forgoing the last form of physical activity I practiced with any sort of regularity.

Another threat to my reading habit was the immense amount of time required to help my daughter sleep. Newborns spend a lot of time sleeping, but they are notoriously bad at it and require assistance (referred to as ‘soothing’). This basically amounts to walking the streets of your neighbourhood with your baby stuffed into one of those obnoxiously priced “carriers.” Once I was over the new-dad jitters and was no longer trying to impress passersby with the baby I had strapped to my chest, I got into the habit of doing laps around the pond at Parc Outremont while reading from a book that I held in front of me. I made my way through Michael Hamburger’s translations of Paul Celan this way, and while I typically have little memory for poetry, many lines from this work are now frozen in place, triggered every time I pass a fountain or leafless tree. And one of the most memorable reading experiences of the last few years is the time I spent on a cold bench at Parc Saint-Viateur with my daughter sleeping in the carrier as I read the final pages of Peter Handke’s A Sorrow Beyond Dreams while kids dressed up as penises made their way to Halloween parties.

” …the time I spent on a cold bench at Parc Saint-Viateur with my daughter sleeping in the carrier as I read the final pages of Peter Handke’s A Sorrow Beyond Dreams while kids dressed up as penises made their way to Halloween parties.”

My aforementioned friends, the ones who warned that I would have to sacrifice my love of reading to my role as a new dad, were also an enormous tax on the time I had for reading. By refusing dinner invitations, birthday party invites, brunch for babies, etc., typically blaming my absence on my daughter, I was not only able to keep up my reading schedule, but, after I had refused enough of these kind invitations, they no longer came in with any regularity, which also spared me the enormous time-suck of responding in a considerate manner something to the effect that “I would love to! But…”

While it turns out that my friends were wrong about finding the time to read, there is one aspect of parenthood they were right about, but that I’d never taken very seriously: I may still manage to find a comparable quantity of time, but the quality of that time has been seriously degraded. I can sit for hours with Knut Hamsun’s Pan in front of my face, but I regularly find myself rereading the same line over and over again. Or an hour passes and I don’t even make it to the bottom of the page I started on. I’ve managed to read an impressive number of excellent and difficult works, but I’ve hardly retained anything. Within a week or so of finishing a book, I even struggle to remember what I had just read (except for the Celan). So while I have plenty of time to read, I can’t maintain the level of focus and attention I had in my pre-paternal reading sessions.

Which brings me to the final obstacle to my reading habit – writing. Before my daughter was born I used to try to write at least a few lines every night, but even this small commitment now seems to take an inordinate amount of time away from doing the thing that I really enjoy (it would be quite a stretch to say that I enjoy writing). On account of the soul-wearying exhaustion I feel at the end of every day, I find it pretty easy to excuse myself from writing for the night and to settle into a good book. And by “settle into a good book” I mean “read the same line over and over again until I eventually pass out on the couch.” My friends say that it’s perfectly natural to neglect my writing for the next year or so, and that eventually I will find the time and energy to start up again. I hope they’re right. Goodnight moon.

Mike Steeves lives with his wife and child in Montreal, and works at Concordia University. Giving Up is his first full-length book of fiction. Connect with Steeves on Twitter @SteevesMike.

Photos: Via Flickr; no changes made (top); Mike Steeves (Halloween); Nikki Tummon (headshot)

December 18, 2015