Last week, I did a reading at Glad Day Bookshop for Brockton Writers Series(click the link for pics). I read from two of my books, The Camino Club and Pride Must Be A Place.
I thought I would share the blog post I contributed to the Brockton Writers Series blog prior to my appearance. Here it is in its entirety.
Walking My Way into Creativity
One thing you should know about me is that I perform feats of magic simply by walking.
One of the novels I plan to read from at the upcoming Brockton Writers Series at Glad Day Bookshop is The Camino Club. It’s the story of a group of delinquent teens who literally walk across Spain as participants in a youth diversion program. Think The Breakfast Club, only with a much more diverse cast. And instead of spending one Saturday in the school library, my characters spend weeks walking across Spain together.
There’s been a number of studies in recent years looking into the link between walking and creativity. This is something I have always sensed intuitively, but never really thought all that much about. Until, that is, the day I brought my backpack to Spain and walked across the country on the Camino de Santiago pilgrimage route.
When I set out on the Camino in May of 2014, I did so with the intention of brainstorming The Camino Club. I put faith in the concept of the link between walking and creativity. While I walked, I gathered all the ingredients needed for a novel—characters, scenarios, plot, everything. Essentially, I walked the story into existence one footstep at a time.
Michael and I waving our tubed compostela certificates in the air in front of the Cathedral in September, 2019. Victory!
As I walked, my creativity took on a life of its own. It felt as though I was in some kind of hyper-intense creative mode for the entire duration of the trip. In the quiet moments on the path—when I wasn’t meeting and getting to know people from all over the world—I walked and talked my way through the entire novel. I didn’t write much down. I was certain the movie-in-progress that played out in my mind’s eye would remain intact for later. I created a tapestry and I carried it with me until the walk was complete, confident the ideas that formed would come back to me once I sat down in front of my laptop back home in Toronto. I was certain of it.
The walking worked! By the time I was ready to write the novel, I knew exactly what it would look like. Every step I had taken on the Camino de Santiago was another word, another sentence, another paragraph, another chapter. All I had to do was type it out.
Two years after Spain, I would once again resort to walking to help me complete a novel. I wrote most of Pride Must Be A Place at that year’s Muskoka Novel Marathon. As this 72-hour novel writing marathon is a sit-down event, I was left with some creative struggles with the story. I knew exactly what would cure the problem. Having incorporated walking into the creation of The Camino Club, I was ready to explore this device again.
Once the marathon was over, my partner Michael and I spent a week at his sister’s cottage. Together, we walked mile after mile after mile as we discussed Pride’s plot problems and worked out all the kinks. By the end of the week, the novel was completed. Walking had once again propelled my creativity. This experiment was even better, as I had someone beside me every step of the way. I bounced ideas off of Michael and he bounced them off of me. While walking, we both had some amazing creative moments that eventually took the novel in new and exciting directions.
With this full week of walks behind me I had confirmed that, for me, foot-meets-earth is the creative path to novel writing I require. Whether I’m struggling or just working out my next novel idea, I take to the streets or the trails and I walk my way through. I find it doesn’t matter if I’m in nature or surrounded by concrete and glass… the walking stimulates creativity.
What I discovered about the link between walking and creativity is that freeing myself up from the impetus to write everything down actually helps with the creative flow. I can sense the ideas swarming in my head as I walk. It’s like I leave the desk with an empty glass, and the further away I get from the keyboard, the more the glass fills. Soon, it’s overflowing and I’m ready to write again.
A photo of my desk at the Muskoka Novel Marathon, where Pride Must Be A Place was mostly written.
The best part of walking with creative intent is that it promotes divergent thinking. This means I’m free to go madly off in all directions. I can generate copious different concepts and explore each one while walking. For me, walking promotes the “what if” of creativity. Whether I do it alone or with someone else, I find that the more my feet take me away into a walking adventure, the more my think-tank fills with ideas.
From the Creativity Walk at the annual Muskoka Novel Marathon…
Last year, Michael and I walked all of Paris. I carried with me the kernel of an idea for a young adult novel set in Paris. As I walked the streets of Paris, the novel was the ghost at my side, willing itself into existence by the power of my own two feet. I’m getting that novel down on paper now. If I ever get to the point where I’m not sure how to continue, I’ll just take a step outside and go for a walk. I might even bring Michael along with me. He’s my perfect “what if” walking companion.
The city of Paris percolates…weaves its way into my fiction.
Do me a favour and bookmark the BROCKTON WRITERS SERIESwebsite. Support them by attending their bi-monthly events at Glad Day Bookshop. And support Glad Day Bookshop while you’re there.
I’m sharing a short story today that originally appeared in an anthology called LOVE IS LOVE. All proceeds from the anthology went to the Trevor Project. I was so honoured to be asked to contribute to it.
My story, THIS IS ME IN GRADE NINE, is the story of a transitioning teen’s preparation for and first moments of grade nine.
You can read the short story below…
(Book cover photo courtesy of Emma Eden Ramos.)
THIS IS ME IN GRADE NINE – by Kevin Craig
The first day is always the worst day. My brother Dillon told me this, but I already had my suspicions. I’m kind of good at coming to conclusions on my own. The first day is the day you’re forced to let go of all the confidence and royalty you gained in being in the highest grade in elementary school. Eighth Grade rules. In grade nine, however, you start all over again at the bottom. Grade nine is the kindergarten of high school. I’m the new kid again, stripped of the glory of my former elementary school standing. Minor-Niner.
I blindly reach for my phone with my eyes closed. After a failed swipe to turn off my alarm, I give up and open my eyes. I need to shut off the noise. I set it twenty minutes ahead. Last night’s me knew I would need a few minutes in bed to contemplate the hugeness of this day. The first day of the rest of my life.
I told my parents when I was ten. I thought they’d be okay with it. They even mostly convinced me they were okay with it. Until Dad came up with the plan for me to fake it until I was older. He thought it would be best if I didn’t rock the boat.
I’m pretty sure he was talking more about his boat than mine.
I don’t really blame him. (Yes I do). He was only trying to protect me. (Protect himself).
Today is the day. I worked up to this all summer. Mom’s on board and Dad pretends to be. I can see him coming apart at the seams, though. I sometimes imagine how difficult it must be for him. The least I can do is cut him some slack. I know he’s trying. I know he loves me.
He did allow me to redo my bedroom almost right away. My ten-year-old self went to town on Barbie pink decor. Something I have slightly regretted ever since. But what ten-year-old doesn’t see pink as the exact opposite of boy? Dad was also okay with me making subtle changes along the way, like growing my hair out. But there has always been the public me and the private family me. He’s been very protective of that barrier, even though it’s been eroding the entire time. I watched it slip away between his fingers. But I won’t feel bad for him. This isn’t about him.
Mom’s my rock. Our shopping trips to the city were the best part of my summer. If it makes me pathetic to enjoy shopping with my mother, oh well. Mom gets me. She even seems to know the kind of girl I want to be. By the end of the summer, I even let her choose the outfits while I stood in the change-room pacing back and forth waiting for the next dress or sweater or tights to come swinging up over the door-frame of the stall. It was a summer of preparation and today is the day we prepared for…it’s here.
My first official day.
I glance over to the hook on the back of my bedroom door and see the outfit I picked out for today. The clothes I’ll wear to meet the student body of Hubert B Larson Secondary School. A butter yellow blouse with exaggerated double-bell sleeves and jeans with slight bedazzled embellishments on the pockets. Not a dress, not yet.
I imagine myself in the swishy blouse with the fun sleeves. I’m utterly in love with those sleeves. Before I drag myself out of bed, though, there’s a soft knock on my door. I pull the duvet over my head, but say, “Come in.”
I hear the door open and sense someone approach. They sit down gently on the side of the bed.
I pull back the covers, expecting it to be Mom. Seems like an excellent time for a Mom Talk. But it’s Dillon. His back is to me. I can tell he’s ready for school. He smells of Axe spray and cleanliness. And his dirty blonde skater hair is perfection, as usual.
Without turning around, he says, “You know I’m here for you, right.”
I don’t answer. He’s not finished. There wasn’t quite enough of a question to his question.
“Whatever you want or need, you come see me. I don’t care if I’m in class, in gym, with friends, in the can, or whatever. You come see me, Kristy. You got me?” His resolve almost comes across as anger, but I know better. It’s fierce sibling loyalty. Fierce loyalty, period.
The way he slipped my name in there—just like that—brings a tear to my eye. I swipe at it and take a deep breath. I remain quiet. Maybe this is my Mom Talk. Maybe Mom sent in Dill to pinch-hit for her.
“Remember that day in Paris. The summer before I started high school? Three years ago. Wow. Time flies, Kristy. I was so scared. I even thought about running away. In Paris, I thought about running away to avoid high school. How crazy is that?”
I sit up. It’s time for me to enter this conversation. I swing my legs over the other side of the bed and come around and stand in front of him in my Wonder Woman pajamas. He offers up that amazing Dill smile he has. I smile back.
“You did run away, loser,” I say as I sit down beside him. A little laugh escapes me and Dillon chuckles in return. “You texted my cell when I was with Mom and Dad in Shakespeare & Company. Mom couldn’t get Dad to leave the upstairs part, where all the dusty old books are. The ones you can look at but not buy. You texted that you loved me and told me, keep being you.”
“Yeah. I’m such a loser. You’re right.”
“Because Dad made us all share our locations on Google in case someone got lost and because you were too stupid to turn your share off before you texted, I knew exactly where you were.”
“And you came across the river to talk me down from the ledge,” Dillon says. He puts an arm around my shoulder and looks me in the eye. “And everything turned out okay. I survived Grade Nine. It wasn’t nearly as bad as I imagined it would be.”
“You do know there’s more to it with me, though, right?” I ask. “I mean, it’s not the same.”
“You think I don’t know that?” Dillon says with exaggerated annoyance. “Come on. I just mean, you know…”
“I get it, Dill. Really. Grade nine is scary. But honestly, I’m not even thinking about that right now. I know I’ve been preparing for this for forever, but it doesn’t make it any less scary. Today, I’m becoming myself. It just so happens I’m doing it on the first day of Grade Nine.”
“No,” he says. Now he holds both of my cheeks in a too-tight grip. He gives me his laser Dillon eyes. “You’ve always been who you are. You have to remember that part, Kristy. Dad was wrong to make you wait. You’ve always been you.”
“Yeah, I know, Dill,” I say. “Thank you.”
“I’m here. That’s all I want you to know. I know you didn’t text me or nothing. You weren’t throwing out a life-line hoping I would save you from yourself. That’s because you’re way braver than I ever was. You’d never run away. But I’m here. I need you to know that. If you ever need talking down from the ledge, I’m your man. We got this. Together.”
Though he’s holding my cheeks in a death grip, I break free and hug him. For a big brother, he’s pretty great.
After a moment, I let go.
“Okay,” I say. “That was nice and all, loser, but I have to get ready for school. This magic isn’t going to happen all by itself, you know.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Dills says. “See you downstairs, sis.”
The sis comment hits me in the feels in a way I don’t expect, so I usher Dillon out of my room as quick as I can. I will not cry, I will not cry.
That top is waiting for me. I can’t wait to have those sleeves to shake around. First, however? Shower, hair, and make-up.
***
Four. That’s how many kids from my Grade Eight class are going to the same high school as me. All four of them, along with their parents, came over to our house this past long weekend. Mom orchestrated the meeting. I have no idea what she said to get them to come. My preparation was her summer project. This was The Summer of Becoming Kristy Mason. Mom thought of everything. Even one-on-one make-up application classes. I didn’t even know they existed.
Titan Banks, Emily Jackson, Rob Denison, and Sarah Parker. I have never walked in their circles. Sure, we had classes together. We know each other fine. We just never hung out together. I wondered what it would be like to be Emily’s friend. I’ve had a crush on Titan Banks since the first day of kindergarten when he shared a red plastic boat with me at the water station. He was really nice about it. That gesture was enough to cement a life-long attraction that will never go anywhere. We have ricocheted noiselessly in and out of each other’s orbits ever since.
Emily and Titan are going to Larson Secondary because they’re moving across town. The other two are probably going there for the same reason as me…a fresh start. If anyone needs to reinvent themselves, it’s Sarah Parker. Kids can be so mean when they weaponize social media. Sarah explored the Grade Eight boys of Piedmont Elementary a little too freely and she has seriously paid for it over the past year.
Everyone seemed okay with Mom’s announcement, initially. They were polite and smiled at all the right places. They attempted airs of casualness. Everyone but Rob, that is. His mouth hung open from the second he set eyes on me. The mere presence of my clothes, hair and make-up was clearly more than he could bear. But the façade the others had managed to momentarily hold onto slowly began to show cracks. It was Emily who finally broke the spell.
“I mean, it’s cool and everything,” she had said. “But you’re crazy if you think for one minute I’m going to call him Kristy. His name’s Chris.”
The hardest part of hearing that statement had nothing to do with her intentional misgendering or the way it made me feel. What broke my heart was the way her words completely and utterly deflated Mom. I watched as her carefully maintained smile drooped at the corners and then faded completely away. It was immediately replaced with a pained expression that made me want to punch Emily in the throat. I think Mom finally realized, in that moment, how difficult this new reality was going to be. Not only for me, but for all of us.
How could she not have known?
After a moment of silence where my entire family buried their well-intentioned hopes that everything would run smoothly, my father brought the conversation back to life.
“Yes, well…” That was all he had. The extent of his contribution.
“Emily, dear,” her mother had said, clearly feigning outrage with her daughter. She then turned to Mom and said, “I’m so sorry. This must be so difficult for you. I’ll talk to Emily. I’ll make sure she calls him—“
“Her! Calls her,” Dillon had said, the sheer volume of his voice made me jump. Dillon got up from where he sat, came within an inch of my face, grabbed my cheeks and said, “You’re my sister. You’re a she. Do you hear me? I don’t want you to hear any of the bullshit. Don’t listen to it. Do you understand?” His eyes bore into mine and I could see he was waiting for me to actually answer his question.
“Yes,” I had said, feeling the tears forming but pleading with them not to fall.
“You’re wrong,” Mom finally said, turning to Mrs. Jackson. “It’s not difficult for me. This,” she continued, waving a hand to encompass me, “This is not difficult for me. My daughter is not difficult. Accepting her and loving her has never been difficult. The only thing that is difficult for me right now is that I counted on the kindness of strangers and hoped for some understanding. It’s difficult to see how much I misjudged this.”
“It was nice of you all to invite us over to discuss this…situation,” Titan’s father said, ignoring the flow of the conversation. “But really. This doesn’t involve us. We have no reason to force our kids to help you in whatever it is you want their help in. They went to the same school as him. They don’t owe him anything. If we’re done here, I think we’ll head out. I’m sure the rest of you have better things to do with our Labour Day Saturday. I know I do. Come on, Titan. We’re leaving.”
“Dad,” Titan had said. “No. Don’t be a douche.” He had turned to Mom and offered her a slight smile. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Mason. I’ll look out for Kristy at Larson. I’ll look out for her. I promise.”
I’m sure Titan wasn’t expecting the smothering hug he received from Mom, but he allowed it to happen all the same.
“Thank you so much, Titan,” Mom had said. She even tousled his perfectly messy black mop of hair.
“No problem,” Titan had said. His perfect smile quickly faded to a menacing dirty look as he glanced over at Emily. Once he was certain the look had hit its mark and Emily had recoiled herself away from it with a flinch, Titan had turned to me and my brother. “See you at school, Kristy. You look great.”
Sitting here at the breakfast bar, eating a banana with my dry Cheerios, I can feel my cheeks burn with the memory of that compliment. Dillon had made a huge point of thanking Titan. He had been the only truly supportive person in the entire group. After that, everyone decided en masse that the meeting was over. They made an exodus to the front door. There were promises and apologies and awkward goodbyes and it was over.
I finish my cereal and bring the bowl to the sink. Seeing my arms move in my double-bell sleeves makes me lighter. Seeing Friday’s manicure on my outstretched fingers as I toss my banana peel into the compost gives me power. Another thing Mom and I did together over the weekend. Matching manicures. And I somehow made mine last.
“Sweetie,” Mom says as she comes up behind me. “You look so beautiful. Did you eat enough? You have your cell phone? You sure you don’t want me to drive you? I’m sorry Daddy’s not here. He had to go in early for a meeting. He told me to tell you—”
“Mom, stop. Slow down. Please.”
“I’m sorry, dear. I’m just nervous.”
I place a hand on her shoulder and make her look me in the eye. “It’s the first day of high school, Mom. I’m not going off to war.”
“After this weekend, I’m not so sure that’s true,” she says. “What if everyone is like those people?”
“Mom, please,” I say. “It’ll be fine. You don’t have to drive me. Dillon said he would. He’s going there anyway, right. I’ll be okay. I promise. You know Dill.”
“I honestly don’t know what I would do without him, sweetie.”
“Yeah, well. Me too.”
I’m glad Dill and I had our conversation earlier. I’m guessing he’s gonna be a bit all-over-the-place during the ride to school. If Mom’s any indication.
“Please don’t be angry with your father, Kristy. He’s trying. He’s doing his be—”
“Mom, no,” Dillon says as he comes down the stairs. “Don’t put this on her. Don’t tell her how to feel. And don’t protect him. He’s doing shit.”
“Language. And he is trying. I promise you, he’s trying.”
“Mom,” Dillon says. “There is no trying. Don’t you get it? He shouldn’t have to try. Are you trying? No. You’re just doing. Don’t stick up for him. He has work to do and we all know it.”
“Just…it’s okay, Dill. Could we just go?” I make my way to the front door, grab my school bag and purse. “I’m ready. Let’s go.”
I’m not the least bit ready, but I’m more not ready for this conversation than I’m not ready for school. The closer I get to who I am the farther away from Dad I become and it’s really freaking me out.
Mom catches up to me as I reach the door. I find myself smothered in a last minute hug I’m not sure I’ll survive.
“Baby, I hope I did everything right. I did, right? I did everything right?” She mumbles into my neck, choking back sobs as she speaks. “I just want my girl to be happy. I don’t know how to protect you. I can’t protect you if I’m not there.”
Dillon steps in to save me, prying Mom away from me. It’s taking everything in me not to break down and join her. And Dillon can see how close I am.
“We love you, Mom. I’ll text you later. Kristy’s golden. Okay. We got this.”
We escape to the car. I am mere moments away from high school. Surprisingly, we drive in silence for the most part. We’re about three minutes away from school when we simultaneously burst into laughter. I look over and Dillon has his head back and his mouth open and he’s totally lost in it for a split second that seems to last forever. As he looks back at the road, he says, “She’s your mother.” This only makes us laugh harder.
We pull into the parking lot and it gets real. I can’t do this. After Dill parks, he gets out and runs around to my side of the car. When he opens the door for me, I say the first thing that comes to mind. “Loser.”
“I know, right,” he says, chuckling. “Who the hell am I?”
“Chivalry is alive and well and living inside the zombie that invaded my big brother’s body.”
“I deserved that,” he says. “Let’s go.”
Dillon heads toward the school, feigning a casualness I can see right through. My protector. He’s having last minute nerves. I catch up and we turn the corner to the front of the school together. I’d have to be blind to miss the looks I get as we proceed, the whispers, the nods, the gasps. I think Dill can hear them too, though I’m not certain.
“Oh,” Dillon says, surprise in his tone. We’re walking up the front steps and I look around to see what caused his shock. Titan Banks leans against the building, just off to the side of the entrance. He doesn’t see us. His head is buried in his phone and there’s a smile on his face. It kind of erases some of the effects of the other crap that’s happening around me.
He finally looks away from his screen and the smile becomes more.
Dillon gets to him first. “Thanks, bro,” Dill says. “You’re kind of awesome. Thank you.”
“Hey, Dillon,” Titan says. They actually bump fists. It’s weird.
Dillon moves towards the entrance after a moment’s hesitation. He turns back and gives me his Dill smile one last time. “Remember Paris,” he says.
“Loser,” I reply. We share a look that is everything I need in this moment. It tells me he’ll be there for me at a second’s notice, that he’s just a text away.
“I’m sorry for my Dad,” Titan says once we’re alone. “He’s a bit of a prick.”
“I’m mostly sorry for mine, too. But we shouldn’t apologize for other people.”
“Come on, Kristy,” he says, leaving our fathers in the dust. “I’ll show you where your locker is.”
“Huh,” I say, ignoring the whispers about us. “How would you even know?”
He puts a hand out. “Come on.” I’m nervous at first, afraid to reach out for the offered hand. “I talked to the office. Arranged it. Made sure our lockers are together. Side by side.”
“I didn’t know you could do that.”
“That’s why we need to be friends. There’s lots you don’t know about me. I get things done.”
The fear’s still there. The uncertainty bubbles just under the surface. But I’ve been waiting my whole life for this. We enter the building. All it takes is one more plea and I accept Titan’s hand, allow him to walk me to my locker. I catch our reflection in a trophy cabinet along the way. This is me. Finally. I look down at these amazing sleeves, the color of sunshine, and I realize I made it. This is me in Grade Nine. Kristy Mason. I’ve waited so long for this.
It is time for the Winter 2022 edition of THE WESTCHESTER REVIEW! I’m so thrilled to announce that my play, THE HISTORY OF US, is featured in this issue!
First, a little background on the play. This was born in the library at Trafalgar Castle in Whitby, Ontario, Canada.
Trafalgar Castle (Whitby, Ontario, Canada). The castle was built by Nelson Gilbert Reynolds, Sheriff of Ontario County, as a private residence in 1859. Reynolds was named after Lord Nelson and named his castle Trafalgar in honour of the Battle of Trafalgar. The castle is now a private school for girls.
Every year (during March break while the school is closed), Driftwood Theatre has a 24-hour play creation festival within the castle. Here’s a rundown of the creation:
Playwrights enter the building
Each playwright is assigned pictures of their actor(s) and a room in which the play is to be performed
Each playwright spends the next 8 hours inside their rooms writing plays (They are to use only what is in the rooms…no additional props are allowed. They are also given a line they must insert somewhere in their individual plays)
In the morning, the playwrights go home (they write overnight for 8 hours) and the actors and directors arrive at the castle
Actors and directors rehearse the plays throughout the day
Evening – all plays are performed in their individual rooms to rotating audiences who each watch a performance of each play
I believe I was a playwright for this festival 7 times. I can’t even remember if that number is accurate. I wrote THE HISTORY OF US for Trafalgar24 2014. I was given the school library both to write and to set my play in. I was given pictures of two actors (Christopher Kelk and Adriano Sobretodo Jr.). So I was locked into the library with two pictures and I had 8 hours to create a play that would be performed 6 times the following evening to 6 full houses!
Knowing the works of these actors, I was IMMEDIATELY intimidated. I sat down and I got to work! I had to write SOMETHING worthy of these incredible actors!
THE HISTORY OF US is what came out. A ten minute play written in about an hour and then worried over for the next seven hours. I enacted it myself right there in the library…performing both roles over and over and over and over. Changing a word here, adding a word there, deleting a word there…until I was ready to let it go. From 10pm to 6am it was mine. After that, I had nothing more to do with it and I could only hope it was good enough to pass as a 10-minute play.
One of the many unmissable sights of Trafalgar Castle, Whitby…
That’s the history of The History of Us. Now, it appears in the WINTER ISSUE of THE WESTCHESTER REVIEW and I could not be happier about its coming into print! Here’s links where you can read the play.
KEVIN CRAIG 