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Alma Talbot

Word Count: Friends, Family, Editing Sponges

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I love my mom and dad. I love my best ladies. I love my best fellas. But I don’t love them as editors. I mean, I like them alright and I appreciate their presence in my life, but I don’t know if I’d recommend them on Yelp. Everyone has a different kind of personal support system, whether it’s a fan base to rival J. Beib’s or a group of nitpicky individuals who are never satisfied with what they’ve just read. Regardless of what camp your editors lean towards; there is one universal truth about your friends and family: it is impossible for them to read your work without bias.

Humans look for patterns. That is science. That means that regardless of whether they say so, or whether they’re even aware that they’re doing it, they will look for you in your work. Also, they will look for themselves. I have a dear friend who I asked to edit a story once, and he ended up taking the entire thing personally because one of the characters had the same name as him. Case in point: find editors who don’t know you.

Not only do workshops with complete strangers allow you to get real unbiased feedback, but it changes the way you write too. Not that I’ve ever refrained from writing a piece because I’m afraid of what my mom will think, but getting truly constructive feedback is so rewarding. Being able to give your work to a group of people from different backgrounds and assorted walks of life will make a difference in how you see yourself as a writer. Existing inside a bubble is not conducive to change. An audience who doesn’t know your life also doesn’t care enough to psychoanalyze your work is strangely freeing.

Word Count: Hello and Welcome to My Brain

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Dear new friends and old enemies,

Welcome to the first instalment of Word Count, a regular series of posts by a young writer for other young writers. My life story is as follows: I moved to a new city when I was seventeen so that I could do what I’m doing now, which is make my way through university as a Creative Writing major at a Canadian institution. When I say “make my way,” that includes floundering, wandering aimlessly, staggering and striding with the ease and confidence of a majestic gazelle in its natural habitat.

I’ve had a lot of people—friends and the friends thereof, recent high school graduates, and the generally inquisitive—ask me about my experience so far. Studying creative writing has been about a lot of things, not just learning practical skills in an academic environment. I’m hoping to share some of my experiences and vague expertise. When I first received my letter of acceptance back in grade twelve, I was pretty sure there must have been some mistake. That ominous feeling only swelled as I walked into my first workshop, and sat down in one of the fifteen seats in the room, next to a man who looked old enough to be my uncle’s uncle. And he wasn’t even my professor.

“Alma’s first class; a tale of confusion and nervous sweat” is a story for another post, and I’m not claiming to be the authority on what it’s like to be a young writer. But nervous sweat has been a big part of my university experience, and I haven’t dropped out yet so I think there’s something to be said for that.

Close to the End

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I was in a shell boat,
in one transient wave of ooze;
the ooze of spinal fluids, hands, feet and fingers of
my brothers and sisters and
their brothers and sisters.

I had a slotted spoon for an oar,
a lifejacket 
and my ship,
my Nina, Pinta, or Santa Maria
dumped me in the pool,
the pool of my family.
                                                               
I front-floated to shore,
o the end of my driveway, my
family home on garbage night and
I cried for the mothers and fathers of my 
brothers and sisters who floated in the street,
no one to write a eulogy but me.

Two Years

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I can hear the black flies,
the campfire,
the light.

At the chapel—
the one with
the green roof—
my grandfather’s name is fading

At night inside,
the moths trapped
inside the walls are dead
and the book where I read:
The men who moil for gold
is misplaced.

I can feel it
every day
I miss it.
Come home, come home.
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