Info-veganism

Mundane through Thursday, going through routine I pause this evening to question my next move.
"Watch TV? Another egregious Sarah Jessica Parker movie embodying every cliched grievance uttered by its target female demographic?" Insert shudder here.

It's the New Year, and aside from endeavouring to be more vulnerable in my relationships, I have become  acutely aware of my need -- not desire, mind you -- but profound need to write. And, perhaps arguably more importantly, my need to read.

My head is a flurry of activity of the most lucrative nature these days. Driving for my dad over the past few months, I haven't had to worry about where my rent or groceries would be coming from. It's been hard, time consuming work, but it's paid off -- both monetarily and personally.

With a bit of financial freedom, my headspace has been cleared of the usual questions: "What will I do for work? Why can't I ever find satisfaction in my job? What am I going to do with my life? What should I be writing right now?" With all that wide open real estate within my rather large polish cranium, more productive seeds have been pushing their roots deep within the fissures of my brain.

A recent guest on CBC's Q -- hosted by this country's finest radio personality, Jian Ghomeshi -- has helped crystallize my epiphany, and here it is: I waste too much time consuming a high-fat info-diet.

According to his guest, Clay A. Johnson, we are constantly digesting information, whether online or on our drive to work. Much in the way vegans choose to maintain a pure diet, Johnson argues in his new book, The Information Diet, we ought to turn away from the unhealthy temptations of our info-diet, instead pursuing leaner options. Seek information out at its source, he argues, rather than listening to the news outlets that tell us what we want to here. In so doing, feel the benefits of a healthier, more balanced approach to engaging with the information around us. Kind of like giving up McDonald's for garden fresh veggies.

The gut-truck I drive in Edmonton.

I'm paraphrasing here, and this may not be exactly Johnson's point, but it's what I gleaned from Jian's interview as I worked a highly interactive job, interspersed with moments of solitude as I drove from one stop to the next (A brief explanation: I drive a lunch truck -- or a gut-truck, as it's affectionately been dubbed by guys and gals on worksites and yards across the country).

I've been rolling this idea around my mellowed brain since the interview aired earlier this week, and it's been resonating like a pebble plopping in a cave pond. "If I want to write, I have to read. I have to write, I want to read." Simple logic, right? Thanks, LSAT prep course, for helping me see it so clearly.

So tonight, I chose info-veganism instead of defaulting to another horrible movie or endless hours clicking on Facebook and Twitter (not creeping though, I swear...). I picked up a copy of the book I've been loving but overlooking as of late in favour of a greasy rom-com. I lay on the ground in a comfortable, hip-opening stretch, and I read. But that wasn't it. I -- wait for it -- turned off my cell phone's ringer (also inspired by a Q segment this week).

I burned through a sizeable chunk of my book, and loved every word. Each turn of the page rustling under my fingertips was infinitely more delectable than yet another SJP sex scene in New York.

And then, a miracle: I felt like writing. I'm sure yogis around the world broke out their harmoniums in celebration, and my fingers kept time, pulsing over my keyboard as I wrote and wrote. Why didn't I do this last night? Not to create a Full House moment here, but it really feels now like all is right in my heart and head, and it's thanks to choosing to trim the fat from my info intake in lieu of doing what I need to.

As Johnson is quoted on CBC.ca, "Everyone's already on an information diet. The question is, is that information diet healthy for you and is it providing a good outcome for you?"

TENSE

Too soft, the letter
S steals stress from
my tense pen. It
lends itself not to
the protective T
of tension, to
which I cling so
tightly. Tooth on
tooth grinding, tense.
Turmoil. Tumultuous,
intangible goals tip-toe
away from me because
of this T in my writing.
So tense, so tense
each line a bullet
racing for its
destination -- until
S slices said race,
languorous S
seductively meanders
across my page. "See?"
S says, somewhat smug.
"Slow down. Enjoy the
journey that you
start in T, end in
S."

Published by Troy Media

Writing about natural gas, as this story demanded of me, was a tall order. With no experience in the oil and gas industry, I had my doubts about how well I'd be able to pull off this freelance gig for TroyMedia.com.

Applying my inquisitive nature and donning my best listening hat, I set out to interview everyone from industry executives and scholars, to a restauranteur and unexpected sources in the agriculture industry. After hours of research and weeks spent waiting for callbacks, the story took shape in my mind and became clear as a blue flame burning at midnight.

The client said the story is "solid," and it was used to launch Troy Media's 19-part series. 

Check it out here, and thanks for celebrating this with me.

- Tannis

Open letter to myself

Why haven’t I been able to find myself as a writer? Why does it seem like everyone has what it takes to be a beautiful writer but me? Am I not an artist of the word? And how pretentious does that sound: An artist of the word. Try “writer,” Tannis. Keep it simple, avoid adjectives, no passive voice; trust the reader’s intelligence. And practice: practice writing, practice patience, practice varying your sentence structure. 

Read like a writer: it might not be fun, but it must be done. Every word matters – weight each equally. You are used to pounding out a story for a newspaper without considering the artfulness of your craft. You are only starting out as a creative, artistic writer and you must be patient with yourself. If this is what you really want to do, expect to face hurdles and force yourself to learn from them as you overcome them. 

Write, write, write. Don’t distract yourself from writing: tell others’ stories with creativity, artfulness, accuracy, and attention to detail. Above all – and as Richard has told you time and time again – forgive yourself; give yourself permission to fail, for it is only then you will succeed. For the record, the definition of success is this: the privilege of being able to continue doing what you love, and that is to write.

Jasmine's funeral

Her funeral is tomorrow, and I can’t go. Her funeral: Jasmine, the strongest person I knew for some of the most important years of my life. Her eyes were so dark they were black holes that revealed, in their most intimate depths, cosmic fire. I sit here now, twenty-eight years old, and look at my reflection in my darkened computer monitor – I do that when I’m writing so as not to be distracted by the words on my screen – and study my face. Young, rosy cheeks and a pink nose, freshly peeled from the burn I received vacationing in Costa Rica only days ago. Sunkissed bangs pulled lazily into my hazel eyes, and the necklace my mom bought me from China twinkles around my neck. Everything makes me think of my best friend though my teenage years. 

China: where her mom is from; where Jasmine went after high school to be with Jeff, the man who would become her husband a decade later, only five months before she died; Costa Rica: Where I received the news via fucking Facebook that Jasmine had finally given into the cancer the doctors told her six years ago would kill her in five. Stubborn thing: she held on long enough to marry her sweetheart, and with nothing left to hope for, she gave into her fate. She wasn’t happy about it, though. She wasn’t filled with the cliché sense of peace and acceptance one might hope graces those about to die. 

I visited Jasmine in the hospital in January — flew out to Vancouver and spent a week by her bedside. We hadn’t seen each other in years, and she knew why I was there, but I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t say my final goodbye to her, instead choosing to try to make her laugh at all the old memories we shared in our teenage years: That time we were fourteen and decided to steal my mom’s car to go to a party; the time in Grade 8 she let me learn to kiss with her boyfriend (even though I didn’t know, at the time, that he was her boyfriend – she was keeping it secret); tipping hay bails – cinnahays, we named them – in farmers’ fields at night so we could look at the stars while we lay on them, planning our lives together; talking about how we want to die, unaware in our innocence that death would one day actually claim us. I forget what my answer to that question was – how we wanted to die – but hers remains indelible: “Riding on spaceship, listening to Stairway to Heaven, and eating pancakes.”

La mode

Today was easily the most boring day I've endured in a very, very long time. A good thing, I'd say, since it gave me time to unwind and let my thoughts settle.

After spending some quality time enjoying the silence a la Depeche Mode, little Archie and I went for a long, frigid walk. Chilled to the bone, I needed an activity that would enjoyably pass the time and warm me up.

"What's warmer than apple pie?!" I exclaimed silently in a thought bubble. That was it: I would while away the afternoon and warm my bones by baking an apple pie.

Having never done this before, my expectations were quite low. Armed with a dream and a recipe harvested from the Internet, I bustled down to my neighborhood Safeway to gather my needed supplies: apples, and lots of 'em.

I didn't have to make my shell afresh as I still had some frozen, left over from Thanksgiving, but everything else was prepared today. It wasn't too hard, and I had bushels of fun imagining myself an old granny as I peeled and cored the Granny Smiths.

Here's the pie, pre-oven:

Lots of sugar and a couple hours later, the pie emerged -- and just in time for my roommate, Amber,  and her lovely friend, Bryan, who just so happened to walk through the door as I was pulling the pie from the oven. 

Here's me with my craggy masterpiece:

And here are a few of Amber, Bryan, and little Archie:

Now, the pie cools and we await my handsome boyfriend's arrival before we devour it, a la mode!

Ennui go

Boredom breeds baking:
Apple pie, slice of challenge,
Sweet activity.