Last Thursday night (Oct. 29, 2009) I launched Delivery to a packed house at the Memorial Park Library. Reading with me and adding immensely to a fine evening, my long time friend and mentor, Dave Margoshes, launching his new book of poetry, The Horse Knows the Way.

It occurred to me that night, as it did three years ago when Running Toward Home was finally out in the world, that the story no longer belongs to me. For better or worse, my characters have fledged. Out of the nest and gone for good—unlike my three children who, thank goodness, do keep coming home.

I’ve had the pleasure of speaking to many book clubs about Running Toward Home and A Crack in the Wall, and it amazes me how often other people view these characters of my conjuring so differently from how I perceived them in the telling of the story. I’m sure reaction to Lynn and Heather will surprise me too. I’ve wondered throughout the writing of the story how it will feel to anyone who has adopted children. One of the first to come back with a short review was my good friend, Sue Plett: “I want to make it required reading for everyone who has ever said ‘Well good for you!’ in response to ‘My children are adopted.’ … I so strongly appreciated the fact that you make it clear that there are no easy answers.”
That’s all I need by way of review.

Last night, I had the pleasure of reading to about fifty people at the launch of my Writer in Residence term with the Calgary Public Library. September thru to the end of November, I have an office, a computer, and the fine company of the library staff at Memorial Park, our venerable Carnegie library.  And even more; the company of writers who will bring me manuscripts and come in to talk about their work, and visits to some of the other CPL branches to do presentations to writing groups, book clubs and seniors groups. Surely this must be, as past Memorial Park WIR Rona Altrows told me last night, the very best gig in town.

While I was preparing for last night’s reading and a couple of upcoming events for Alberta Arts Days, Sept. 18-20, thinking about how to promote the arts in Alberta without painful cliche, I came up with what will be my manifesto through these months as WIR.
The reasons for supporting local art and culture are perfectly obvious from an economic perspective and out of a sense of regional pride. I don’t, however, like to ever sound as though I’m suggesting narrow provincialism in our tastes, so always feel the need to qualify; we must embrace art globally, read internationally. If we only ever read Canadian or North American fiction, we would be sadly deprived. We need a balance. But in our typically Canadian way, it seems to me that while we bleat every now and again about Canadian content and preserving a distinct Canadian culture, we get caught up in thinking that art of real value comes from exotic places, or wins major awards, or is reviewed in the New York Times. So my message will be to treat what is being produced under our noses with the same respect as we treat art from away, and celebrate resonance and familiarity rather than assuming it makes the work somehow less exciting.
If you have read any of my writing, you likely know where I’m coming from with this and where I’m going. I write domestic fiction. The OED definition: 1. of the home, household, or family affairs. 2. Of one’s own country, not foreign or international. This is what I know best. I don’t apologize for domesticity in my writing, or feel particularly humble about it. I believe that home, whether it’s a house in the suburbs, or a cardboard box in a back alley, or a tent in a desert, is where life plays out. For better or for worse.
We are a province rich in artists: writers, visual artists, musicians, dramatists. Whether they write, sing, make music, paint, take to the stage, on subjects as familiar as your own street or as far away as Jupiter, embrace the work. Take pleasure and pride in knowing that you may, in a small way, have helped fund this art, and throw your support behind even greater appreciation and support. That’s all we need to do.

A string of readings for the fall:

September 10, Memorial Park Library, Calgary: 7:00 PM WIR launch

September 19, Chestermere Lake Public Library: 2:00 PM Alberta Arts Days, author talk

October 22, McNally Robinson Bookstore, Saskatoon  SK:  reading from Delivery

October 29, Memorial Park Library, Calgary: 7:00 PM Calgary launch of Delivery and delighted to be reading with Dave Margoshes, launching his new book of poetry, The Horse Knows the Way

November 9, Regina, SK: Vertigo Reading Series  http://vertigoreadingseries.wordpress.com/nov-9-2009/

November 12, Memorial Park Library, Calgary: 7:00 PM Joint reading with Markin/Flanagan WIR, Marcello Di Cintio

November 19, Audrey’s Books, Edmonton: 7:30 PM Reading from Delivery and delighted to be sharing the event with Barb Howard, reading from her new novella,  Notes For Monday

For as long as I’ve been seriously working away at fiction, I’ve said that my expectations were modest; to learn the craft insofar as anyone can learn to make “art”, to let go of my work when I know I’ve taken it as far as I can go and the next step is up to the world of editors and publishers, to appreciate an audience wherever I find it. One of my more specific dreams has been to sit down in a public place—a train, a boat, a plane, a park bench—next to someone who is reading one of my books. (Initially, this dream involved one of my stories in a magazine, but now that I have books, it’s expanded in a glorious way.) Hasn’t happened yet, but yesterday, I was at my local library, and there on the “New and Notable” stand, was a copy of A Crack in the Wall, the collection of stories published last spring. I noticed a short while back, that the Calgary Public Library had ordered 15 additional copies of this book. This has to do, I’m sure, with my being their Writer in Residence from September thru November this fall. But for whatever reason, I’m thrilled. So back to standing there gazing at my book on full public display. A woman was browsing next to me. I scooped up A Crack in the Wall, turned to her with one of those you-know-what-sort-I-mean grins, and said, “Here’s one you might like. Stories set in Alberta, many of them in Calgary, local author, easy reading for summer.” She, non-committal, daresay I say even disinterested, took the book from my eager little hand and began to riffle pages. I scooted down to the other end of the display— really, I didn’t want to appear too pushy—but when she looked as though she might be about to put the book back on the shelf, I sidled up. “I wrote it,” says I, with a wink. And she, with a wink back at me, “All right then.” And she slid it onto the top of the pile in her arms and off she went to the circulation desk.
Okay, so it doesn’t take much to satisfy my author-needs. Some publications, and an audience wherever I can find it. But I freely admit to watching the Giller Gala every fall, and imagining what I’d wear to the party.

Or at least one of the aspects of writing with far too much potential for hand-wringing or chuffing.  Just before my first novel was published, a writer friend told me she never ever ever reads reviews of her work. Never. Not ever. Sounded like a good plan. Could I imagine myself with that kind of resolve? Nope. Fortunately, my two books have not suffered at the hands of reviewers, but not to be left without fodder for at least a bit of drang I’ve done my bit of fretting over books that seemed to go to pasture far too quickly. But then every now and again, a review pops up in an unexpected place and is the more gratifying because it comes without the slightest bit of bidding. Such a one from Bonnie Way, who was in a break-out session I did for the Inscribe Christian Writers Conference a couple of weeks ago.  http://thekoalabearwriter.blogspot.com/2009/04/book-review-running-toward-home.html

Also this week, in the latest issue of FreeFall, a review by Kristen Ingram of A Crack in the Wall. A very fine review. With a lovely bit of connection to the new novel set to emerge from Oolichan this fall:

“The moments that resonate strongest for me are those between mother and daughter. ‘These are her mother’s hands, her grandmother’s hands. Always stitching. Christening gown, plaid jumper for first day of school, red velvet Christmas frock, graduation dress, wedding gown, christening gown. Sewing the lives of daughters.’

Sneak preview of a blurb on the up-coming  Delivery:

A “domestic” novel in the tradition of Carol Shields, Delivery is a story with a large theme painted on a small canvas. Betty Jane Hegerat delivers an elegantly written mother-daughter story most mothers and daughters will adore – and plenty of dads and sons too. – Dave Margoshes

Mothers and daughters. What else would I write about? The project currently bedevilling me is all about mothers and sons.

I’ve been ruminating on short fiction. Teaching introductory creative writing this past fall, winter and another class pending in spring, the template I use for the course – the elements of short story – seems to superimpose itself, not only on my writing, but on everyday life. To everything, there is a beginning, a trajectory, a pivotal moment, and a resolution. Well, maybe not a resolution, and maybe life is one long middle with a lot of bumps and hinges, but the yearning for the perfect ending never goes away.

And that will be the focus of a weekend fiction workshop I’m scheduled to teach at the Alexandra Writers Centre in June. http://www.alexandrawriters.org/saturday.html

Teaching seems to have become as big a part of my writing life as the time spent in the chair pounding my own words onto the page. I’m approaching the end of a ten week class with a particularly fine group of new writers, and have been thinking to myself how lucky I am that someone will pay me to spend time with people whose excitement just keeps re-kindling my own passion for the wondrous possibilities of fiction. The more I’m allowed to spend time talking about craft, the more sure I become that no matter how many tools we acquire, they are only as sharp and as useful as the intuitive hand that guides them. And there’s the pleasure in teaching – discussing the possibilities of a story, and watching the writer’s vision and intuition guide them through the process.

One more CWI course at the U of C in spring session, the AWCS fiction workshop, and then I plan to spend the summer on my knees in my garden.( If you saw the depth of snow in my yard – must be a record for March – you’d be in awe of my optimism.) There is no better metaphor in my life for writing than the short cycle of a prairie garden, and nothing that comes as close to (sometimes exceeds) my pleasure in writing.

Fall 2009 – back to teaching, a three month WIR position at the Memorial Park Library, the launch of Delivery. Time to start thinking about a reading tour. As soon as the garden is in bloom, I’ll get on that.

I’ll be facilitating a weekend of fiction at the Alexandra Writers Centre June 5-7, 2009.  Hoping to see at least a few familiar faces, and looking forward to reading wonderful prose.

Jun 5-7 Fiction Weekend with Betty Jane Hegerat
Fee: Members $110, Non-members $130
For short story writers and novelists who have work in progress and are ready for feedback. Through critiquing one piece from each participant we will examine the slippery shape of story, and the many vantage points from which to enter a novel. Emphasis will be on motivation/desire/want – the energy that drives fiction. Critiquing guidelines will be provided, and participants will be expected to read work in advance of the workshop.
Workshop will include Friday 7-9 PM, Saturday 9 AM – 4 PM, Sunday 10 AM – 1 PM.

Check the link under “teaching venues”.

My first novel, Running Toward Home, was published under NeWest’s Nunatuk imprint, a series for first books. This year is the twentieth anniversary of the Nunatuk series and this very fine publishing house is celebrating with website features including audios of  readings and discussion by the authors.

And I’m delighted that Running Toward Home is getting another round of promotion.

Go listen!  http://www.newestpress.com/catalog/nunatuk-20th/nunatuk-20th.html

And buy books!  Discounted price!

I am as pleased as any writer has the right to be (giddy, in fact) over having just signed a contract for a new novel to be published by Oolichan Books in the fall of 2009. This story, tentatively titled Delivery had about four years of musing and scribbling and was in a lumpen rough draft when I began the UBC MFA program in fall of 2007. Though I had planned to focus on a non-fiction project as a thesis, I made an eleventh hour decision to at least get some input on the novel by taking Catherine Bush’s novel course. After two semesters of workshopping and feverish writing, I decided to go with the novel. So a tremendous push through the fall and winter of 2007/2008, and in May 2008 I graduated with a novel in hand. Ooolichan had published my short story collection in May 2008, so I cautiously asked if they’d be interested in looking at another manuscript. Interested, and as enthusiastic and warm in their response as they’d been all through the work on A Crack in the Wall and back to me in a matter of weeks with the offer of a contract.

So next fall Lynn, the sardonic grandmother who has been shouting around inside my head for at least six years, will come to life in the pages of this new book. Delivery is the story of a woman with too much loss in her recent life to come to terms with what she thinks is an ill-thought adoption decision on her daughter’s part. So she does what any distraught grandmother would do — packs the baby into a laundry basket, straps her securely in place on the back seat of the car and runs away to an island. A story told in two voices; mother and daughter, Lynn, and Heather, the prickly daughter who decided perfunctorily at the age of twelve that from thereon she would call her mom and dad “Lynn” and “Jack”. Short sample of each:

In the night Lynn wakens to the sound of dripping rain. The sheets are clammy with a faint tinge of male musk. Lynn turns her face to Beegee’s soft hair. The primal newborn smell, growing fainter day by day, still takes Lynn back twenty years. She’s sure she inhales a memory of Heather from this child. Even farther back, Lynn knows she carries the memory of Marty’s newborn scent even though she only held him for a fleeting few seconds before he was whisked away. Two weeks later, when she finally pressed her nose to his skin once more, the smell was lost.

All she wants is sleep, a few more hours of forgetfulness, but her brain has returned to the road, remembering every curve and stop, reversing all the way back to Calgary. When sleep finally returns, she dreams she’s never left, never gone farther than the car, baby and laundry basket in her arms. There she sits waiting for Heather to come to her senses. To realize that asking a woman to deliver her granddaughter to the permanent care of strangers is too much. In the dream, Lynn chooses fight instead of flight and is on her way back to the house when she wakens again, her heart banging against her breastbone. The dog stands beside the bed, watching her across the towel-bundled baby.

“Oh jeez.” Lynn takes a deep breath then another. “I think I was going into the house to shake some sense into her, Loki,” she whispers.

…

It takes Heather until well into the evening to track Marty, and he doesn’t want to come over. He’s meeting his latest woman and some of her friends at a martini bar. Martini bar? Normally, she would roll her eyes and say goodbye. Good luck. But there is this freakin’ baseball in her throat even though she keeps telling herself Beegee is safe – she’s with Lynn, isn’t she? She can’t shake the thought that something terrible has happened to both of them.

“Dump her. There is no way you’re going to last with someone who drinks martinis so you may as well save yourself time and money. Go pick up someone at a sports bar. But first come over here. I need to talk to you.”

“No, you’re gonna love Kaylee. Meet us down there.”

“I can’t meet you in a bar, you moron. The front of my shirt is soaked with milk every hour on the hour.”

He groans. “Damn, Heather! I’m sorry. I forgot about you having to feed the baby.” She imagines him hitting his forehead with his fist. “Of course you can’t bring the baby to a bar. Hey, maybe Lynn would watch her for while.”

What does Marty know about looking after a three-week-old baby? What did she know until three weeks ago? She cuts to the chase. “Lynn’s not here. Neither is Beegee.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean they’re missing.”

“Since when? What’s going on?”

She fights to keep from screaming. Hysteria is not the way to deal with Marty. Scares him spitless. “Since Friday.”

“Holy shit! Have you called the cops? What about Dad?”

“Just come. I’ll tell you about it when you get here. And don’t bring any Krissy or Kylie or Karri with you.”

I read at the Lethbridge Public Library in September, and had the pleasure the next day of doing a reading and interview for Voiceprint, a non-profit broadcast service for the visually impaired. The woman who did the interview was Marlene Dean, a writer I’d met in February at Banff — another good reason to take advantage of retreats, all those fine contacts we make. Marlene and her husband are Voiceprint volunteers, and I believe Stone Soup, the program for which this reading was done, was their initiative.

http://www.voiceprintcanada.com/media/audio/VoicePrint%20Stone%20Soup%20Anthology%20October%2024.mp3