My Little Book

I often forget how inspiration can come from irritation.

I waited a while before contemplating this particular challenge. I had the annual trip home to see the folks and other wondrous sites of my hometown (irony detected), and then, two days after my return, caught a very bad cold and had to spend most of a weekend indoors imbibing soup and tea (if I am ever reincarnated, it will have to be with the name Campbell or Twining). And then, on wobbly legs and with less than a hundred percent stamina rating, I went in to the college to begin another semester of teaching.

Now, usually, it is the usual nonsense in January with scheduling. I have to try to figure out a way to budget with fewer classes than in the previous semester. That is common enough. But this year felt different.

First, I had no classroom.

I noted this on the first day our class schedules became available. They had forgotten to assign me a classroom. To be fair, they did the same thing to someone in my department, and the head of the room assignments noted that she had “completely let the importance of ESL slip from her mind” (a direct quote). Now, that was unusual.

But that was not all that stood out.

I look at the wall that held copies of our schedules and had to do a double-take.

I had the fewest amount of classes compared to all of my other colleagues.

This was, once again, not unusual, but some of my colleagues had classes that I could have easily handled, including courses that I had requested in the previous semester (I had been told that they would “look into the matter” – translation: not a chance).

So, only two classes in this particular semester.

And one big ambition.

I am going to publish a book online.

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This will not be the first time that I have published my own work. Teachers often shared pieces I worked on with their colleagues when I was in elementary school (I still remember Mr. M. taking me to see someone and sharing a poem I wrote that he admired; I was only about seven or eight, so this became a key memory). Then, there was the teacher who took a painting I made, and put it up in the main hallway of our school as an example of experimental art that she wanted us all to admire and see (there was text in it, so I think this counts). And in university, I contributed to various journals and newspapers, eventually becoming a co-editor on many of these same publications and seeing just how tricky the process of choosing and excluding can be.

What can I say? By the time I had graduated, the bug bit me hard.

In Tokyo, I decided to publish my own book of poems and other pieces. This was not anything too special. I spent one long afternoon sitting on tatami with my electric typewriter – yes, I still had one – typing out my pieces and putting them in order in a collection called “Ripe”. And it was off to Kinko’s to get a few copies made. Some friends bought them, but I do remember having plenty of copies left over when I arrived back in Canada and attempted to sell them on consignment (not one copy shifted from that bookstore).

But as I said, the bug had bitten.

So, why didn’t I try to get out another copy of work?

There was too much going on in my life to make me think that I wanted to make this much effort on what would probably be another project that would not pay out. I had seen work published by other grad students that deserved their obscurity. I had also seen other work that was very well done that never gained an audience. There were also the contests with various national publishers and broadcasters. With the lack of success there, I felt that this was all over for me (only one successful inclusion on a longlist of potential winners gave me any hope). I would work, write for myself when I could, and then hope I could move on to something more promising.

Needless to say, this never happened.

But I have not had a moment like this in my life for a very long time.

It is now Tuesday night, with me sitting up in bed staring at this screen and considering the amount of time I have available to write. My cold has managed to still leave its fingerprints over my day. Students have not noticed that I am running on a low battery rate; some teachers seem to have created a cordon sanitaire around me. My other teaching duties this week include online work. And that is really all I have to do. To have a book with my name on it, available to you and yours, or any of the readers out there who still manage to seek out new talent and voices, is the dream. And dreams can come true.

This also means that I will have to have more of a consistent schedule than before. I have noticed and read many of the routines of authors I admired, but I am not sure I should adopt any of their particular plans. In the middle of my fatigue due to medication and sickness, I still find myself sitting here planning and hoping.

Now, what will I include in that book?

Poetry and short stories seem to be the material that I can handle well and feel as being prepared and ready for readers. Maybe I will experiment with nonfiction forms - personal essays; sketches; biographies - but I have to start with my strengths.

That seems to be the best plan for now.

And, you must excuse me. I have to take a bit of a break and consider what other stories need to told and what other lines I can bring to the page.

2025 will be a very interesting ride.

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You can find more poems, stories, and articles by Kendall Defoe on my Vocal profile. I complain, argue, provoke and create...just like everybody else.

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