I’ve been writing since 1993, and got my first terrible poems published by the excellent people at filling Station in 1995. So, since it’s nearly 2020, let’s call that twenty-five years of writing professionally.

By some standards, I’ve amassed a good body of work in that time, and I think so too. Occasionally it was a long time between books (six years between my fourth and fifth books, for instance), but I’m happy with my output.

I just turned fifty-five, and I know some people like to set goals when they hit milestones like that. Me: not so much. Life is too unpredictable to be able to live up to them, sometimes, and I won’t set myself up for failure. I have no plans to have written the next Great Canadian Novel™ by the time I turn sixty, say.

I took the picture above when I was having A Moment™. When I felt like I hadn’t accomplished much, and that all I did was read other people’s words (editing or for pleasure). What I didn’t pull off the shelf is the two dozen or so journals I’ve been published in as well. It’s an impressive stack, but I wanted to highlight the books and anthologies. This picture (and all its likes on social media) buoyed me, and reminded me that I’m not just an editor. I’m also a writer. First and foremost, I am a writer.

But, we all know that unless your initials are Stephen King or J.K. Rowling, writing doesn’t pay the bills. Let’s not pretend it does. It’s all the stuff around writing that pays mine: writer in residence gigs when I can get them, workshops and seminars when they present themselves, mentorships, publisher work, online job sites, and editing for private clients. That’s what puts food on my table.

I’d love to make a living at writing. I’d also love to beat my mom at Scrabble twice in a row. Pipe dreams, Beach. As soon as I let go of the idea that writing could make ends meet, I became a lot freer in my work, and I think it shows. My latest book, Nuala: A Fable (UAP, 2017), took five years from idea to holding the book. That’s longer than it normally takes me to get a book ready. But this one demanded that I spend that time, and I had a lot of editing work while I was writing that book.

I continued to work while that book was working its slow way to publication at the UofA Press. Their process is tricky and there are several hoops to jump through on the way to having a book. I was willing to do it all (I still am).

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This is not to say that I don’t love my profession as an editor. I do, and even if I were wildly wealthy (haw haw), I’d still edit. I’m good at it, and I know that I help people find their voices and their best work. That’s extremely gratifying to me. I want to help, and I want authors to recognize that they have power and a voice in this industry. I’m a staunch believer in authors understanding their rights when it comes to publishing in Canada. I think part of my job on earth is to help authors understand the system, one writer at a time.

But then I need to step back and look at my own work. Because I’ve been so focussed on building up my editing career, my own work can languish for months without me looking at it. I’m writing a book of personal essays about not writing for a year. In 2016, my husband had two rounds of emergency heart surgery, and my priorities shifted (as they do in the face of this kind of thing). He’s healthy as anything now, and I no longer have to worry about him. But in 2017, I wasn’t focussed on writing, or even editing, though I still did a lot of the latter.

That year, I learned about who I was when I wasn’t writing. Was I blocked? Nope. Did I yearn for the keyboard? Not even once. Do I regret not writing that year? Not for a hot second.

Now that a couple of years have passed, I’m 17,000 words into a shitty first draft that I hope will be a book in a few years. I’m in no hurry. I’ve set myself no deadlines. I’d like to have a serviceable draft of submission quality by September of next year, but I’m not holding myself to that.

Title? Ten-Thousand Steps at the Heart Attack Grill. I think. Mebbe. I dunno. Right now, that’s what it’s telling me it wants to be called, and there is an essay about a 2017 family visit to that esteemed Las Vegas landmark of lard and thousand-calorie milkshakes.

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I don’t have the balance down correctly all the time, but who does? What helped me immensely was an article that appeared in the Guardian in 2014, and to which I refer frequently. We see this dude:

… under a headline reading: “Everyone is totally just winging it, all the time.” Under Obama’s photo, it reads, “Even this man is essentially just winging it.”

I found this so heartening. Yes! We’re all totally winging it, including me. And we have to be kind to ourselves when life gets in the way of our writing. It always has and it always will get in the way. For me, the key is to listen to what’s calling me in order of importance. In 2017, writing was not important.

You know how I feel about the old “write every day” saw: bullshit. Go for it, I say, if that’s an author’s process. It sure the fuck isn’t mine, and I don’t think our practice is what defines us. I think what defines us is our level of grace and acceptance when the writing has to take a backseat for whatever reason. The world will always be in the way of writing. Editing will be alongside my writing in one form or another, probably, until the day I kick it. While I have these sources of pleasure and income, I try my best to keep my promise to myself: It happens when it happens, and I can’t force it. The book will be when the book will be. In the meantime, I have a book or two to edit.

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If you’re interested in my e-course on editing your own prose, click here and see what you think.

Living the writer's life... as an editor