What the 'S' stands for... by Leanne Dyck

(from Google images)

There’s something wrong with my brain—or at least that’s what I thought, for too many years. Turns out I was wrong. It turns out my brain is my super power. You know like Superman. If you saw Superman’s large ‘S’ you might think it stood for stupid. That is until you saw his abilities. Then you’d know that ‘S’ stood for super. Then you’d know that he wasn’t stupid; he was Superman. My ‘S’ has fooled a lot of people—a lot, even me. It took me many years to find my super powers. I didn't know that I had the ability to conjure people, places, things--entire worlds. Back then, I didn't know I had the power to entertain you with my mind. But now that I recognize my talent, using it brings me great joy. I love to entertain you. And I like having you peek over my shoulder when I work. That's what I'd like you to do again--as I start yet another project.

Christmas Angels on Salt Spring Island (short story) by Leanne Dyck

This short story was recently published in the literary journal Canadian Stories...

I'd like to offer it to you today with a little Christmas cheer...

Another Christmas Eve quickly approached and I knew my entire extend family would gather—as they did every year. They’d talk, laugh, exchange gifts and enjoy delicious food. They would—I wouldn’t, not any longer. My husband and I had moved from Manitoba three provinces away to British Columbia.

That first year I thought I’d be okay until I started hearing Christmas tunes everywhere. I’ll phone my cousin Susan, I thought. After all she’s alone too.

“Why don’t you and Brad come and have Christmas here on the Island?” she suggested. And I was determined to stick to this plan.

A few days later I heard the weatherman’s prediction. “We’re guaranteed to have a white Christmas this year.” He pointed to a low-pressure system that was sweeping across our province. “Tons of snow will make traveling hazardous.”

Unfortunately, Brad saw the weather report too. “I think we should postpone our trip to Salt Spring. Our sports car isn’t equipped for driving up snow-covered hills. We can always visit Susan later when the weather’s better.”

Clearly he doesn’t understand, I thought. “No we have to…” My voice choked up. “It’s Christmas. We need to be with family.”

Not wishing to disappoint me, he said, “We’ll try.”

We made reservations with the ferry that would take us from the Mainland to the Island. I packed my bags and started the count down.

The day came and proved the weatherman’s prediction was accurate. It began snowing early in the morning and grew worse with each passing hour.

“I think we should phone Susan and cancel,” Brad said.

“No, we can’t. It’s Christmas. It’ll ease up. I know it will.”

So grumbling to himself, against his better judgment and led only by his selfless desire to see me happy, Brad drove us to the ferry.

There was hardly anyone in the ferry terminal. The BC Ferries workers kept asking, “Are you sure you…”

           

Not allowing them even to finish their sentence, I defended my plan. “Yes, we’re sure.” We can’t be alone. It’s Christmas. We need to be with family.

We boarded the ferry. A routine two-hour trip ended up taking eight hours as we were diverted and re-diverted. But eventually we docked at Salt Spring Island.

“You see we made it,” I said feeling triumphant.

Brad turned to me with steel eyes. “The ferry was only half the battle. The other half is that steep hill.” He pointed with his chin. “And it’s not going anywhere.”

“But…but you said we would try.”

“Yes, Shelley. I did.” By the way he said my name I knew he wasn’t filled with the Christmas spirit.

“And you’re a good driver. I have faith in you.”

He did try. He tried three times, in fact, but the farthest he got was halfway up the hill. I visualized my three brothers pushing us up that hill.

“This time you’ll make it,” I heard them promise—I forced back tears.

But they weren’t there; Brad and I were alone. And I feared we would remain alone.

“You got any more brilliant ideas?” He asked after driving backwards over a three-mile steep, curving hill. “We could be safe and warm in our apartment. But no you had to drag us all the way out here. And now… And now… It’s pitch black. We’re stuck in a blizzard. And we don’t know anyone who can help us. Happy?”

No, I’m not happy. But I got us into this mess. And I have to get us out. I know I’ll phone Susan. She’ll know what to do. I punched her number into my cellphone.

“I’d go and get you myself but my Toyota doesn’t like the snow. I’m afraid I’d only end up stranded too. Try a tow truck or a taxi?” She gave me the numbers. The tow truck driver’s voicemail message wished me a Merry Christmas. The taxi driver laughed in my ear.

           

Brad was beginning to swear which I didn’t think was very Christmassy but had to admit was justified.

Desperate, I phoned Susan again. After all, she was older and wiser. I knew she’d have a solution. And she did.

“Hitchhike,” she said.

I couldn’t believe my ears. “What?”

“Ask for a ride. Someone will help you.”

By the tone of her voice I knew she was serious. She wanted me to ask a complete stranger for help. Clearly she hadn’t watched enough horror movies. But I had. And I knew what would happen if I followed her advice—Brad and I would end up dead or worse.

What’s that noise? I looked for the source. It was Brad. His teeth were chattering. I have to do something. Now. But what? We’re a steep hill away from Susan, a hotel, a restaurant and almost everything. I looked across the street. Everything but that grocery store. I saw three large trucks with snow tires parked in front of the store. One of those drivers will give us a ride.

“I’ll be right back.” I opened the car door.

“Wait. Where are you going?”

“To the grocery store.” I climbed out of the bucket seat.

“Why? We have chocolate bars.” He found his backpack behind his seat. With frozen fingers, he fumbled with the zipper but finally won. He pulled out the bars.

           

“I’m going to ask for a ride.”

“What? You can’t. We don’t know any—“

I closed the door on the rest of his sentence. I have no choice.

Large sleigh bells hung on the store’s door, they jiggled as the door closed behind me. It made me think of Christmas angels. I said a silent prayer, “Please, this has to work.”

I surveyed the store not for groceries but for an angel. A few aisles away a mother was talking with her teenage daughter. If anyone will help me, she will. 

“Please you have to help. My cousin is expecting me for Christmas but my car won’t climb the hill.” I was embarrassed that tears were rolling down my cheeks.

She didn’t know me. She’d never even seen me before. But it didn’t matter. It was Christmas. She made room in her truck for our luggage, my husband and me. And she drove us right to my cousin’s door.

***

Work in progress

No, Smoke the Other End

(mystery/comedy)

Goal:  12 - 20 k words

Current word count:  7,066 words

Excuse:  I'm slowing down to enjoy time with family and friends. : ) 

To write (well) you have to live.

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Next post:  Please welcome Author Sharon A. Crawford

How I write by Leanne Dyck

(photo taken by Byron Dyck)

I think one of the best pieces of advice I’ve received regarding creating is to remain open to inspiration. On Monday, my friend and artist Terrill Welch wrote a blog post she entitled:  Sold! Art and other adventures... After recounting her full-time painting and photography adventure since March 17, 2010, she asked, what is your personnel practice when engaging on a new creative learning curve?

I set out to write a reply but discovered I was writing a blog post. Here it is…

Thank you for the wonderful account of your adventure—in words and paintings.

To answer, I begin to write a story by focusing on the beginning and end. I then develop a point-by-point plot outline. With my tightrope constructed, I start my death-defying journey.

My muse calls to me, from the ground below, “Do a leap.”

“Really? Here? I don’t think I…”

“Come on. You can do it. It’s fun.” Or, more forcefully, “Do it. Now. It’ll be much more interesting. Don’t bore me or I’ll leave and you’ll be on your own. You don’t want to be on your own. Do you?”

I don’t—so I do. And, I find, to my delight, I gain more confidence and my writing skills are sharpened. Soon, I find, to my amazement, that I’m doing jumps, flips, somersaults—all without looking down.

Sure, occasionally I do fall. But the net catches me and I climb back up the ladder.

Even though I’ve crossed the tightrope many times, in many ways, each crossing feels much like the first. Each holds its own challenges and triumphs. I still get goose bumps. I still wonder if I’ll ever get safely to the other side.

“Look at me. Look at me.” I call, waving my arms. “I’m crossing now.”

Author J.L. Murray wrote about her writing process in a post titled Ode to Writing

selling short stories

When you visit my farmers' market booth you'll see a collection of coffee mug cozies. These handy cozies keep your coffee (hot chocolate/hot water) warm while you sip. Tucked into the pocket is a short story I've penned. These stories are written in a variety of genres and have been inspired by Mayne Island, Icelandic folklore, my writing life and my spiritual relationship with nature. Which one will you choose?
I'm very appreciative to those people who have purchased my stories. If you have, thank you and I hope you enjoyed your read.

(August 7:  News regarding these short stories:  They are now available on Saltspring Island at ArtCraft--in Mahon Hall. )
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Oh, yes and my correspondence courses arrived on Friday. : )
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Another beautiful poem by Manolis
Find it here

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This week circumstances stood in the way of my spending time with my muse.  I didn't choose this separation and so was annoyed by it. However, at times like these it is helpful to remind myself that I'm not writing for sped--I'm writing for quality. Spending this time away from my pen allowed me to resolve plot issues and develop more well rounded characters.

Word count: 19, 737 words

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Next post:  Please welcome Author Tamara Linse

To Any Reader by Robert Louis Stevenson reviewed by Leanne Willetts

To Any Reader

by Robert Louis Stevenson

As from the house your mother sees

You playing round the garden trees,

So you may see, if you will look

Through the windows of this book,

Another child, far, far, away,

And in another garden, play.

But do not think you can at all,

By knocking on window, call

That child to hear you. He intent

Is all on his play-business bent.

He does not hear; he will not look,

Nor yet be lured out of his book.

For, long ago, the truth to say,

He has grown up and gone away,

And it is but a child of air

That lingers in the garden there.

I wrote this review on September 24, 1987, for a children's literature course at the University of Winnipeg. The professor, whose name has unfortunately been lost to history, awarded me an A- and commented, "Interesting, as always." I will include her other comments at the end of this post.

I have resisted the desire to re-write--and will quote the entire review as it appeared when submitted, long ago.

(me in the 80's)

Stevenson's talent as a poet seems to be his ability to write from a child's point of view. This talent may stem from a chance lost, this chance being his ability to enjoy a healthy childhood.

Stevenson captures this sad longing in the poem To Any Reader.

The line, 'a child of air' seems to me to be expressing the idea of further strengthened by these lines, 'For, long ago, the truth to say,/ He has grown up and gone away.'

Stevenson has, in fact, found in his poems a safe place for his memories to remain. Writing may, in fact, act as a type of therapy to release him of the sad longing for a chance lost.

Most children, if read this poem, would, of course, not be impressed by Stevenson's sad longing. The poem holds for children the possibility of making a new friend, the new friend being the 'child of air' or, in fact, poetry.

The professor's additional comments...

Nice observation. The adult nostalgia for childhood can be seen over and over again in children's literature. It might, in fact, be an interesting topic for a critical article. If you're interested, I could start you on some books.

My reply (too many years later--I fear)

Yes, I am interested. Please direct me to them.

Sharing my author journey... 

I tried to force one of my characters to react in a way that made 

Hockey (short story) by Leanne Dyck

I don't know much about these women but what I do I offer to you--a gift from my muse.

Thandie:  Devils or Kings?
Vonda:  What?
Thandie:  Who do you think will win the Stanley Cup?
Vonda:  Oh, that. I don't follow basketball.
Thandie:  Hockey.
Vonda:  Oh, don't even go there... Although, I did try to fake an interest once--but that was a long time ago. I thought it would get me a guy.
Thandie:  Did it work?
Vonda:  I guess. But, now, I'm divorcing a goalie.