Paula Wild's blog | Paula Wild

October 14, 2012April 18, 2013

On the Edge

A couple of years ago I worked on a photo-documentary project with photographer Barry Peterson. We interviewed and photographed people who were homeless, had been homeless or were in danger of becoming homeless.

The stories were moving in a way I never expected. I learned that no matter where or how a person lived, they still had hopes and dreams, just like I do. They experienced joy, sadness, fear. They did whatever was necessary to survive.

Every October I post one of the stories and photos from that project on my blog. I do this to honour the people I met, to recognize their strength in the face of adversity and their ability to find humour in the bleakest of moments.

Below is Jessica’s story. I got an email from her last year. She’d had her operation, was doing some volunteer work and was dating. There were still challenges in her life but she was happy.

Jessica, age 45

Jessica had it all: a spouse, a car, a job and a house in Europe. But every time her life seemed perfect, it fell apart. At 28, divorced and unemployed, a friend stuck a needle in her arm to make her feel better. That was the beginning of a 12-year cycle of drug addiction, rehab, building a life and then disappearing into the streets and drugs again.

As a homeless person Jessica has been beaten unconscious and urinated on in Victoria, witnessed murders in Vancouver’s Downtown Eastside and gotten food poisoning from dumpster diving. She’s been pronounced DOA three times and, while living in a Courtenay tent city, bulldozers flattened her tent and belongings. “When you’re homeless people look at you like you’re not worthy of breathing the same air,” she says. “But I’ve met lots of intelligent, articulate people on the street. Heroin and cocaine don’t discriminate.”

Two years ago Jessica realized the only way to beat her drug addiction was to deal with the fact that she was a female stuck in a man’s body. She’d grown up in Ontario and Victoria and was a jock in high school. But when she was 17 her mother discovered her hidden girl clothes. After that traumatic scene, Jessica did everything she could to hide her sexuality. But 25 years later she knew she had two choices: live her life as a woman or commit suicide. A street nurse helped her obtain hormone therapy and Jessica moved to Courtenay to make a clean start. She currently lives in a small basement room, is drug-free and eagerly awaiting her vaginoplasty. Once her transition is complete she wants to become an esthetician.

Jessica’s grateful to be off the street but life’s a struggle. After rent, there’s less than $100 for groceries and with “38D boobs and a voice like Joe Cocker,” she’s often faced with cruel and even violent behaviour when out in public. “It’s sad that people fear and ridicule transgendered people,” she says. “It’s something that happens at birth, not a matter of choice. I’m happy now; I wish people could accept that.”

September 2, 2012September 3, 2012

The Dark Sources of Creativity — guest blog by Susan Ketchen

Readers of my novels often shake their heads when they finally meet me and say, “Where do you get your crazy ideas?”

I usually brush them off with jokes about my over-active imagination, and about how ideas come easily when I’m lost in thought (something that happens more and more these days) in the shower or in the pasture with my horses, though of course never while house cleaning.

These responses are diversions from a darker truth.

I am inspired by mistakes, misdeeds and transgressions.

Sometimes the mistakes are my own. I seem to feel that I can redeem myself by disguising my own ridiculous behaviour in the deeds of a character. For example, in a piece about the perils of self-delusion, I fictionalized an interaction I had with a neighbour. His lovely garden was being decimated by deer so he installed an ultra-sonic deer repeller.

Unfortunately I could hear it. I was reluctant to complain, but found I could not ignore the noise and after a few days tromped next-door for a chat. Perhaps he could turn it down? He thought he might try, or he would just return it to the store.

Two nights later I was again at my bedroom window, steamingly indignant because I could still hear that awful high-pitched noise. I really didn’t want to complain again, but that night I needed earplugs to sleep, and how fair was that?

deer — The source of creativity — and all the twisted turns it takes — will forever remain a mystery. Photo by Susan Ketchen

So the next day I returned to my neighbour. I wasn’t sure what to say. What if he didn’t believe me? Or thought I was being a pest? I muttered something nonsensical to him. And he told me he’d returned the unit two days before, generously adding that I must have been kept awake by something else.

This dark event has so inspired my creativity that not only did I devote several chapters of my novel to the puzzle of self-delusion, but I am still writing about it here. I fear I may never sort it out.

I have also used the transgressions of others to inspire my writing. And it seems that my memory is very long when someone wrongs me. From grade one through three, I was socially secure at school. In fourth grade two new girls arrived. They were exotic because they were twins. They had lovely clothes, were smart and socially gregarious, and one of them pushed me down in fun on the playfield and hurt my back! I also toppled from the social scene. I felt as though I’d become invisible overnight.

Several decades passed before my wounded pride was repaired by creating Amber and Topaz in my novel Born That Way. I made the twins into a couple of stuck-up little girls who bullied my protagonist, Sylvia, but never really got her down. Through Sylvia I experienced success managing a more difficult situation than I had faced originally. Apparently it’s never too late to grow up.

For my next project I am considering writing about how we rationalize our treatment and training of animals. Controversy is everywhere: there are trainers and whisperers and behavior modifiers all over the place, and mostly they disagree with each other. Plus they all have loyal followings, and people get quite heated when it comes to defending their pets: advising someone that their dog needs better training is never met with gratitude. Bad behavior abounds. Indeed, there are mistakes, misdeeds and transgressions everywhere. It is a goldmine of creative inspiration.

All I need is a decent pseudonym.

Susan Ketchen is the author of the novels Born That Way (2009), Made That Way (2010) and Grows That Way (2012), all published by Oolichan Books. Find out more about Susan on her website www.susanketchen.ca

July 30, 2012

Where I write

It’s true, a person can write anywhere. On the bus, at a park bench or even in the bathtub. I believe each person writes best when they’re in a place that is perfect for them.

Some like the background buzz of a cappuccino bar while others thrive on the clatter of keyboard keys as they pound out story after story in a newspaper newsroom. Personally, I prefer the quiet ambiance of my home office. And, as the oldest room in our 96-year old house, the room definitely has ambiance.

To begin with, its ample size provides plenty of room for two desks, built-in and portable bookcases, a filing cabinet (there are more in the basement) and two tables to pile things on. (Despite the best of intentions, I’m a piler, not a filer.)

But it’s the transom windows that I love best. At 1.6 metres tall by one metre wide (or 5 feet, 3 inches and 3 feet, one inch for the metrically challenged) the natural light provides a welcome respite from the glow of the computer screen.

And to tell the truth, they also present ample opportunities for distraction. In the spring my eyes are drawn to a snowstorm of white plum blossoms, a miniature forest of daffodils and a two-storey tall mock orange. Fall storms bring a rust coloured carpet of plate-sized maple leaves.

The view from my window one day this May.

But it’s the wildlife that lures me out of my computer chair. Over the years I’ve watched deer, raccoons, mink and squirrels, as well as feral cats and rabbits outside my writing room window.

Then there’s the cawing of crows and ravens and the high pitched screech of an eagle. Or the cacophony of sound an army of small birds made the day a Barred owl perched in a Douglas fir. I watched as a hummingbird darted forward to stab the enemy in the chest with a tiny beak. Despite his or her bravery, the owl didn’t budge.

The most surprising disturbance though, was the day my fingers paused on the keyboard as I wondered why I thought I heard a turkey gobbling. We do live in a rural area but there aren’t any domestic fowl in the neighbourhood.

But when I peered out the window there was a full grown tom, tail feathers fanned out in an impressive display, dancing around a flock of female turkeys on the lawn next door. I don’t know where these domestic birds escaped from or how they went wild, but they hung around for a month or so, until one by one, they all disappeared.

After 22 years of enjoying a great view and having a ringside seat to nature’s drama, I’m totally addicted. If we ever move, at the top of my criteria list for a new house will be a writing space with big windows and a view.

July 30, 2012August 5, 2012

Where I write

It’s true, a person can write anywhere. On the bus, at a park bench or even in the bathtub. I believe each person writes best when they’re in a place that is perfect for them.

But it’s the wildlife that lures me out of my computer chair. Over the years I’ve watched deer, raccoons, mink and squirrels, as well as feral cats and rabbits outside my writing room window.