Clean and Elegant

Clean and Elegant

Thursday, 30 August 2012

Keira Knightley's High Vagina

My friend “Cassandra”was lying topless on a beach on one of those tropical, paradise kind of islands somewhere in the Caribbean.  Although Cassandra looks excellent topless, she was having horrible suicidal, I-hate-myself-and-want-to-die thoughts.  Million-dollar luxury sailing yachts were drifting past her.  On each yacht there was a 22-year-old topless woman whose boyfriend had bought her the yacht.  Each 22-year-old woman looked excellent topless.  They looked excellent, and they owned a yacht and they got to keep it.

Cassandra was thirty and she didn’t have a yacht that she got to keep.  She started to cry because she felt like a failure.   Big, sad, suicidal tears.

“I will never ever be a twenty-two year old with a yacht,” she wailed.  “Ever.”  It was true.  She was right.  It would never happen. There was nothing she could do.  
“I will never ever be a twenty-two year old with a yacht.”
At first glance, this seems like the sorriest excuse for a human tragedy in the whole world.  Probably it is, but I can relate.  I have been on that beach, topless and sad.  I have spent hours, if not days, staring at topless women on yachts.  I was staring at the women and the yachts last night at 11 P.M.

The Boatman and I had just finished watching a movie called “A Dangerous Method.”  It was about Sigmund Freud and Carl Jung in their early days.  One of Carl Jung’s first patients was a woman named Sabina, played by Keira Knightley.  Keira Knightley put on a brilliant performance.  When she had her shirt on, and when she didn’t. 

After the movie was finished the Boatman and I googled Kiera Knightley to see what other movies she had been in.  There were dozens.  Atonement, Pride and Prejudice, Bend it Like Beckham, Never Let Me Go.  All this was fine with me until I saw Kiera Knightley’s birthdate:  March 26, 1985.  1985.  Same year I was born.  Kiera Knightley was 27 years old and already she had been in more movies than I will ever be in in my whole life.  What a useful thing to think about. Then I did something even more useful.  I looked up Kiera Knightley’s height and weight.  Kiera Knightley is 5 foot 7 and 100-110 pounds.  I am five foot eight and I haven’t been 100 or 110 pounds since I was in grade five.

Alas. 

No being a movie star for me.

No 100 or 110 pounds for me. 

Plus Kiera Knightley does charity work and I do not.

Keira Knightley. So thin and so talented and so charitable.

I grumpily went on Facebook where I saw I’d received a message from a lovely friend of mine who I hadn’t heard from in a long time.  Like me and Keira Knightley, she was born in 1985.  At just 26 years old, my friend has a great job in an awesome city and she just bought a new condo by herself, and she’s practicing part of the third series of Ashtanga Yoga.  I looked up her last posture.  Urdhva Kukkutasana C.  It’s like the 11th posture of third series. 
 
Urdhva Kukkutasana C, the 11th posture of Ashtanga Yoga's third impossible series. The Yoga Sutras recommend that we cultivate friendliness towards this man's success. This man's and my friend's and all the Third Series People's.


I have never been able to do more than four postures of third series for much more than four weeks.  After four weeks, my pelvis starts to disjoint and complain.  But my friend could do it.  She could rock it.  And her pelvis never complained.  I was jealous of her pelvis.  I am still jealous. My friend has had to deal with anorexia for over a decade, and still, I am jealous of her and her job and her pelvis and her yoga postures. 
 
Last night with tears in my eyes, I announced to the Boatman that I felt upset and unworthy because Kiera Knightley had been in way more movies than me, and my anorexic friend had a better pelvis.

He turned off the television  for two seconds.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” he said.  Then he turned the television back on.

I think that he felt about the same way Cassandra’s husband felt while she was mourning her twenty-two year old yachtless topless self.  Moderately to severely disgusted. 

Yoga Sutra 1.33 recommends that we cultivate friendliness towards success.  This is wonderful advice, but last night I was pouty and miserable instead.  I made the Boatman turn the TV off again.  I waited for him to feel sorry for me.   He didn’t. 

I sat on the couch and I pressed the flesh around my navel together.  The space between the flesh made a crease and the crease looked like a High Vagina.  Although I am not one of those gluten free people, and sometimes I even eat corn chips, I do not have a Big Fat Wheat Belly.  There is hardly any flesh around my navel. 

And yet, I am capable of making a High Vagina. 

As I stared at my High Vagina, I realized that my goals were strange and perverse and dumb.  Wanting to be Keira Knightley or my anorexic friend with the awesome pelvis or a topless twenty-two year old on a yacht was dumb.  As dumb as aspiring to eradicate your High Vagina.

The whole world has a High Vagina.  Even the gluten-free people.  Even Kiera Knightley.

Keira Knightley has a High Vagina, and it is almost as ugly as mine.

The End.
 
My High Vagina. Thanks to the Boatman for the photo.
The Keira Knightley Charitable Foundation encourages you to please cultivate Friendliness towards:
 
My High Vagina (see above), 
My Very first Self-help e-book, I Let Go,
My Twitter Account:  @mypelvicfloor.
And my Facebook Fan Page:  Ecstatic Adventures



Wednesday, 29 August 2012

Cameroned

Pulling a Quickie here.  Here I go.

Pulling a Quickie is the opposite of Cameroning.

Pulling a Quickie can also be a crucial step in Cameroning.

Paradoxical isn't it?
The infinitive of Cameroning is "to Cameron."

Cameroning has probably been taking place for centuries, but no one is quite as good at it as R.B. Cameron, the Boatman's Dad. R.B. is so good at it that Luke Freeman, the Boatman's brother-in-law invented the verb "to Cameron" in his honour.  Thank you Mr. Freeman.

The Boatman is also very excellent at Cameroning.

Typically, the act of Cameroning begins with the Cameroner making you a very excellent proposition.  This proposition may involve eating something that is very high in gluten and very delicious.  Or maybe the Cameroner would like to take you to a beach, or on a boat ride, or on a ferris wheel.
Whatever it is, it is good enough for you to drop everything you're doing and say, Why Yes.  That would be wonderful.
 
So you get in the car and off you go for your gluten-rich snack, or your boat ride.  Today, let's pretend it's a boat ride.  You're very excited.  Then the Cameroner looks out the window and sees that there is Canadian Tire.  And doesn't he need clothespins?  Why yes he does.
And so the Cameroner and everyone on the way to the boat ride get out of the car.

And the Cameroner buys clothespins.  While he's at, it he remembers he also needs a strange appliance that will keep the cauliflower from clogging the kitchen sink, and a multi-directional miter saw, and adjustable shelving units.  The shelving units are mesmerizing and so are the barbecues. Barbecues, lawnmowers, storage solutions.  The Cameroner might need to pull a quickie in the fishing gear aisle while he's trying to decide.  Deciding takes a very long time, but finally the Cameroner walks out of the store with the cauliflower appliance, the saw, the shelving units and a rainbow fishing lure.

The Boatride is just around the corner. Except so is the office.  Actually, it's not.  The office is all the way across a bridge.   But the Cameroner looks out the window and remembers.  He has to scan his passport for some form he forgot to fill out last Wednesday.  Scan it and print it.  It is all of utmost importance, so you cross the long, long bridge to the office.  Like Canadian Tire, the office is a sensuous and captivating place.  There are filing cabinets, fax machines and a wide-screen monitor.  It's wonderful to see what the company website looks like on the wide screen.  The Cameroner shows you, and you get to see.  Lucky you.

Your luck continues after you leave the office, and the Cameroner stops under the bridge to show you the wall of concrete panels that the company made last July.
And if you're very lucky, you might also get to go to the Art Supply Store.

Or to the the Drugstore, where the Cameroner can buy brand-name q-tips, renew his prescription against Oyster-shaped cold sores, and you can take your blood pressure.

All this is called Being Cameroned.
Incidentally, I just Cameroned you, since I promised you a quickie, but instead went on and on.

I hope you don't feel too violated.
While I'm at it, here's a clip from Cheers, featuring Tim Miller performing Titthibhasana at the end.


How did Tim Miller end up on Cheers?

Here's the whole story at The Confluence Countdown.

While I'm still at it, here I am in Titibhasana A.


I will omit self-scrutiny from the Cameroning process.  But I will say that once I wrote a post called This is my snatch, and Titibhasana.  Somehow this became one of my most popular posts of all time.  My father thought this would be terrible for my reputation and employability.

He was right:  my reputation and employment level are both terrible.
But in better news, my groundbreaking post on Ashtanga Yoga and Oral Sex has 169 views.  Why not ruin the fun and make yourself the 170th? I ruined all the fun in 2016 when I reverted This is my snatch et. al. and Ashtanga Yoga and Oral Sex to draft. It is 2016 now.
See you on Twitter @mypelvicfloor
Or find ecstasy on facebook.
And that's it.  I Let Go.  The Cameroning is Finished.
The End. 

Me and the Boatman on a Boatride. Post-Cameroning. 
 

Monday, 27 August 2012

Forever on the Lips

"Why do I always get the runs when I'm on the rag?"
 
We all have similarly compelling sentences and phrases that we hear or read once and that, like goodness and mercy, end up following us all the days of our lives.  I was eleven years old when I read the above sentence in the “ Ask Anything” column of Seventeen magazine.  At the time, I had never been on the rag.  But I had gotten the runs.  It was just a matter of time before I would get both at the same time.  Peanut Butter and Jam, my friend Fern calls this.  Every month, when the Peanut Butter and Jam comes, I ask, “Why do I always get the runs when I’m on the rag?”  I can’t remember the answer.  Only the question.
Another soul-permeating phrase of mine is, “A moment on the lips, forever on the hips.”  The first time I encountered this one was in Marya Hornbacher’s anorexia and bulimia memoir Wasted.  I read this just as I was beginning my anorexia and bulimia career and the pages, though excellently written served more as a how-to manual than offer any hope for healing or recovery.  And to this day, that lovely sentence about lips and hips remains with me.  It came from the lips of Marya Hornbacher’s teacher.  Marya had been kept after school for some reason.  Alone in the classroom, Marya ate a bag of Doritos, the only thing she had eaten for some time. 

That’s when her teacher uttered her magic hips and lips phrase.  So Marya went to the bathroom and puked up the Doritos. 
 


Wasted, by Marya Hornbacher I do believe that Marya Hornbacher had done very well in throwing her eating disorder away.  She is also a very talented writer, and in the many years since Wasted was published, she has written a number of riveting and Doritos-free books.   

I was never a big chips person.  Since meeting the Boatman, however, I’ve taken up corn chips.  And pita chips.  I prefer the broken ones at the bottom of the bag because then I don’t pay attention to how many I am eating.  That said, I’m allowed to eat as many as I want.  Sometimes there are chips are on my lips for very many moments.  I never ever throw them up and so far my hips have stayed exactly same size.  There is no Big-Fat-Chip-Belly either. But sometimes my hips complain of seething pain.  I do not think it is from the chips.  It has something to do with my pelvis, which everyone is tired of hearing about.  Still, when my hips hurt, I never stop talking about it.  Now we have a new catch-phrase:
“A moment on the hips, forever on the lips.”
And once my lips take hold of something, they shelter it for a long, long time.  Another phrase:
 “A moment on the lips, forever on the lips.” 
I’m sure you’ll get the idea and derive thousands of your own happy catch-phrases that you’ll be able to luxuriate in at any given moment.  I would love to hear what your lips come up with.  
The Day that Dr. Seuss died seems like only yesterday.
Hips, Lips, Chips.
Kino has Very Open Hips:



This Panda Bear is made out of Lips:

And the Boatman drew a Chip with Ruffles.



"Very Refreshing"  featuring Chip with Ruffles.  More Drawings by the Boatman at verysatisfied.com
He's Refreshing.  He's on Vacation.  And he never gets the runs when he's on the rag.
The Chip doesn't and neither does the Boatman.
I was going to go on a contractions diet, but then I decided I wouldn't
I wouldn't and I couldn't
I won't.

The End.

The High Vagina, Coming Soon

Exuberant Bodhisattva on Facebook
Twitter: @mypelvicfloor
I Let Go, by Erica J. Schmidt


Exalted
The O's in the Totos have Hats
My name is Erica, I love coffee
 
 

Saturday, 4 August 2012

The Boatman Transforms Himself into a Marvellous Paradox

Section WWW of my famous and life-changing self-help book contains some life-changing advice.

Here it is:
Section WWW:  Transform yourself into a marvelous paradox. 

“How?”  you are asking.

Folks, this is how you do it:
Step 1:   Designate an inanimate object to represent you and refer to yourself as this inanimate object as often as possible.

For instance, while I was writing “I Let Go,” the Boatman and I  designated me as “the clock.”  Because I am impeccable at telling time. 

Me, the Clock.

Here is the Boatman:  

In this photo, he has an oyster-shaped coldsore and he has the dream that he and his coldsore will go viral thanks to his pretty face and his coldsore`s unique shape and intricate design.

Recently, the Boatman had another dream.  He dreamt that he too wanted to become a marvelous paradox. And so we picked an object for him.  The Boatman’s inanimate object is:

The Android Phone.

The Boatman, the Android Phone.
 The Android Phone is known for competently accomplishing multiple tasks without becoming overwrought and overcome with angst and emotion. 
 
Thus, these are our inanimate objects.  I , the clock, and the Boatman, the Android,  We are ready for Step 2.
Step 2:  Add human characteristics to your inanimate object.  For optimal catchiness, I would choose three.  As a clock, my human characteristics are: Emotional, Judgmental, and Fuckable.  Almost all humans can choose fuckable as one of their characteristics.  Being Fuckable is almost universal.  Since I thought of that for you, you really only need to choose two human characteristics to go along with your inanimate object. Such is the case for the Boatman, the Android.  Besides Fuckable, his human android characteristics are: Nonchalant and Artistic.

In conclusion, the Boatman is a Nonchalant, Artistic, Fuckable Android Phone.
Check out the Boatman`s Very Artistic Drawings at Verysatisfied.com.
Here is one of the Boatman`s Artistic Drawings about Salmon Pants:

Salmon Pants
When I was in art school I knew this guy named Radislov. He was from
Eastern Europe and would often would wear a pair of salmon coloured pants. Once my friend Felice painted the walls of an art gallery pink for a show. When Radislov came to the show his legs disappeared.
I am very satisfied with all of the Boatman`s drawings.  And I am very satisfied by the marvelous paradoxical transformation that has just taken place.
The Boatman is now a Nonchalant, Artistic, Fuckable Android while I remain an Emotional Judgmental, Fuckable clock.  We are marvellous paradoxes.  I am a marvelous, timetelling paradox.  And he is a marvelous, multi-functional paradox. What a satisfying Saturday. I wish you a similarly satisfying Saturday, filled with marvellous and satisfying  paradoxical transformations.
The End.
Exuberant Bodhisattva on Facebook
Twitter: @mypelvicfloor
I Let Go, self-help book by Erica J. Schmidt


The Big Black Dog Followed Suit and Transformed Himself into a Marvellous Paradox, but I reverted the post to draft.

Performative Grilled Cheese
Jujubes
Performative Text Messages
 

Wednesday, 23 May 2012

My Life's Purpose

I had dill on my hands when Robbie (the Boatman) told me to write this down.  When I lived and worked at L'Arche, a house for five adults with intellectual disabilities, me and the other people who worked there were always planning for the future.  How long are you staying here?  What are you going to do next?  Where are you going to go?  What are your dreams, your goals?

Each of us was looking for our "Life's Purpose."
Meanwhile, we were doing this pretty cool thing.  Our days were full, washing floors, changing diapers, cooking for ten mouths or more, getting the people with disabilities ready for their days at work.  We went to community events, church, music festivals.  Sometimes after bedtime we'd take Isabelle to a bar for margueritas.  Isabelle uses a wheelchair, and can't walk, talk, or eat by herself.  But she loves music, and she loves people, so we took her out as much as we could.

The first few months at L'Arche were like a honeymoon.  I fell in love with the core members, the L'Arche term for people with disabilities.  I felt so useful, filling Isabelle's plastic feeding bag with Peptamen, her meal replacement formula, giving baths, going for walks by the river.
Isabelle, and all the other folks I lived with at L'Arche became my family.  Every day, I continued to love them, but  my sense of usefulness and life purpose wore off rapidly.  After about six months, at least once a week, I desperately wanted to leave.

I hated the cooking, the cleaning, the going to church.  The team meetings were long and tedious.  All the other assistants were also tired and stressed out too and so inevitably, there were nauseating conflicts. I never had any time to myself.  I forgot how to read.  It seemed like I'd regressed intellectually and that all I cared about was food, sleep, eating and sex.  Though I exercised consistently, my yoga practice was erratic, like my moods and my energy levels.  My eating disorder was tamed to a functional level, but most days after every meal and snack, I still puked in my mouth and reswallowed, over and over again, until whatever I was eating became so acidic that the rumination session would have to end. 
I stayed because I loved the people.  I stayed because I felt guilty abandoning them.  So many assistants came and went and these core members would have to welcome them into their home and adapt to yet another person's personality and idiosyncracies and cooking.  Then the assistant would leave and they'd begin this process once again. 

Many assistants came to L'Arche, and stayed because of their faith.  They saw Jesus in the people with disabilities, whose hearts were so open, so healing.  I had already worked a great deal with people with disabilities, and I had also seen their beauty.  That said, it was never clear to me that what I was seeing in them was Jesus. 
I came to L'Arche two years into my university career at McGill.  I was studying English Literature and Religion, in the hopes of becoming a writer and finding God.  Neither endeavour was going very well.    Every essay and assignment seemed like an enormous catastrophe and tribulation.  I spent night after caffeinated night pacing around my tiny Plateau apartment, taking breaks to stare a computer screen that was either completely blank or else full of unacceptably uneloquent paragraphs.  My average was something tragically mediocre like a B+.  God was not being very helpful.

One night in the midst of an uninspired literary essay about William Blake's poem, The Chimney Sweep, I sat on my warped balcony and watched men walk in and out of the Coloniale Bath House next store.

"Weep, weep, weep, weep," said the Chimney Sweep in the poem.
I was crying too.  This was not my life purpose.  I was going to quit.  I needed to do something else. Anything else.  So I left one Life Purpose to try out another. 

I'm not sure what was harder, the Blake essay, or L'Arche.
At least at L'Arche, I wasn`t alone, and I got to go to lots of parties.  Every June, at Isabelle's school for blind children, there was a party.  The students got up on stage to read poetry, or sing or dance.  If they were in wheelchairs, teachers helped them sing and dance on the floor at the front of the stage.

I remember the first year I went to the party, the principal made a speech.  He said, "In life, it's easy to do things.  What's really hard, is to be a person."

So quickly and so often doing things becomes another competition, another performance, another burden.  Finding your life's purpose becomes another achievement.  And life is nothing but a checklist.  It`s really hard to be a person.

Hearing what Isabelle's principal said, I decided to stay at L'Arche a second year.  There were thousands of other things that I could do, but nothing would help to be fully human more than living day to day with people like Isabelle, whose greatest gifts are to know how to truly be themselves.
Sometimes I say that I hit my humanitarian peak was at age twenty.  I couldn't stay at L'Arche forever.

For the last five months I was there, at the end of every day I would draw a big X on my calendar.  The day was finished.  There were 149 more.
149, 148, 147...

I was bored, I was tired of cooking, I hated church, there was puke in my mouth. I was horny.

117, 116...
I am making it sound much more miserable than it was.  It wasn't all miserable; I just wanted it to be over.

66, 65, 64...
Weep, weep, weep, weep. 

For my last fourteen days at L'Arche I went on a trip with Isabelle, 8 hours north of Montreal to Amos Quebec.  There was nothing to do there but push Isabelle up and down the cracked sidewalks and take Isabelle to the beach. We left her wheelchair at the edge of the beach and I carried her over the sand to the water. I never felt so strong in my whole life.
In the water Isabelle would smile and laugh and look up with her eyes.  That meant yes.

When we got back from Amos, I filled in all the X's from when we were away.  There were only two days left on the calendar.  Then none.
Now it is 7:30 A.M five years later on a Wednesday morning.  I woke up without an alarm, after cuddling with the Boatman for the better part of an hour.  I have nowhere pressing to go, nothing pressing to do.  No one else's teeth to brush, no diaper to change.  There is time to ruminate over the best way to conclude this blog post.  After that there will be more time, to bend and twist my various spines for two hours, then walk the dog leisurely, with no deadline  These days I have been thinking a lot about service, and whether or not my life has a Great Purpose.  So often I feel desperate to fill up my life so I won't have to think about it anymore.  People ask me what I'm doing in Halifax, how it's going.  To try and justify my existence, I give them a frantic list: this and this and this and this.  All this.  Please tell me it's enough.

Perhaps it isn't enough. Maybe God wants me to be more useful and productive, to accomplish a hundred million things before 7:30 A.M.  Maybe God wants me to become an enormous success, with an astounding and memorable life purpose.  I`m not ruling these things out, but for now, my path is uncertain and I must wait, unimpressed by my to-do list, unconvinced by my day`s contributions.
I want to give to the world, people say.  I say this too.  We want to make grandiose gestures and immeasurable differences.  But sometimes it`s more about us than the world.

I know I'll give to the world again.  My life`s purpose will be clear and concrete.  I'll be so busy and inspired that the whole world will disappear. 
In the meantime, it might be a good day to call Isabelle.  She never asks me what I`m doing.  No matter what I say, she laughs and squeals.  I'll hear her smiling and I'll know she`s looking up with her eyes.  Yes, she`s saying, to everything I`m doing, to everything I am.

 The End.

Wednesday, 21 March 2012

What Writing Feels Like, A Couple More Excuses for Bailing on Lent, Plus How the Equinox Brought the Resurrection of the Mouth Guard

I am having more dreams about losing my teeth.  First they become very loose and then they fall out one by one and my gums bleed and I wake up distraught because I have no dental insurance, and no money.  Time to start wearing my mouth guard again. 

There are now 18 more days left of Lent.  As I already mentioned, the Boatman and I bailed on our Lent sacrifices.  To our credit, I wanted to say that the Boatman and I already make stoic sacrifices all throughout the year.  Each time one of us gets a cold-sore, oyster-shaped or otherwise, we have to give up kissing and oral sex, sometimes for weeks at a time.  It requires an exorbitant amount of self-control, which I’m sure Jesus would appreciate. 

In other news, Suzanne Robicheau wants to feature me in her column St. Mary’s Writes, affiliated with St. Mary’s University where I work as a part-time writing tutor.  The column profiles St. Mary’s staff and students with recent publications.  Lucky for me, my self-published e-book, I Let Go counts as a publication.  Suzanne sent me a couple of interview questions which she will use to write her article.  I found the questions to be quite thought-provoking and I’d like to share my answers with you. 

Erica visits in 2016: Ultimately, the article was never published, perhaps because in answer to my first question, I mention a worm whose name is strangely close to Cunnilingus. I used to think the word for Cunnilingus was Cunningulus. I also thought Camel Toe was Camel Tongue. And that spooning actually involved spoons. I guess it was an information transmission issue.
How does it feel to publish your first book?

In my book, “I Let Go,” I forbid public self-deprecation unless you are a stand-up comic.  Hence, I cannot undermine myself by stating that anyone in the world can publish an e-book on Amazon.  As long as you don’t swear too much and stay away from pornography, they’ll take you.  You can even make spelling mistakes.  That said, I am very happy to have seen a project from start to finish.  If people read it, that’ll be even better.  My illustrator Sara Enquist and I have been talking about putting together a book for some time.  It was supposed to be about a worm named Cunningulus, who used to be a Very Powerful King in a different lifetime, but then we changed our minds. 
Why self-publish?

Publishing with a publishing house can take centuries, if not forever.  I am actually going through the traditional publishing process for the epistolary novel that I wrote with my ex-boyfriend Simon Girard. 

We found a publisher (Bookland Press, Toronto) in a miraculously short amount of time.  Maybe it’s because I’m an excellent speller.  Likely Simon’s previous novels also had a bit to do with it.  I’m delighted, but it’ll probably be another year before The Little Savage and the Hermit is released.  When you self-publish, you can theoretically get your stuff out there in less than a week.  And there is less rejection, although you still risk rejection and devastation if nobody buys your book.

Another perk is the royalties.  On Amazon, they start at 35% for a book under $2.99.  For books $2.99 and up, you get 70%, but you might have to pay for delivery costs.  Sara and I opted for the 35% royalties so that our book would cost even less than a Starbucks coffee. 
(Update from 2016: Alas, Bookland Press went out of business before they could publish, The Little Savage and the Hermit. Simon Girard jumped off his apartment building on January 4, 2015. I have tried to resurrect the redeemable parts of our epistolary novel in various blog entries.)
Why an e-book?

This is a first edition and we didn’t really have a budget.  Eventually, we would love to put out another print version with more illustrations.  You can put a print-by-demand book out on Createspace for fairly cheap; however, this raises the minimum costs for consumers.  Since we’re not yet that famous and we still want tons of people to read our book, for now, we have put out an accessible version than anyone can afford.  So it’s an e-book and it’s only two dollars.  If you can’t afford it, let me know and I’ll hook you up. (ericaschmidt85@gmail.com)

What do you write about?

I don’t usually write self-help books.  “I Let Go” is my first.  In section (OO), I grant myself and my readers the permission to indulge in our obsessions, regardless of what everyone else thinks.  Here it is: 

(OO)  Feel free to have motifs and repeat them.  I am forever going on about Margaret Atwood and humping duvets and 1008 details involving my pelvis.  I keep telling myself that everyone is tired of hearing about my pelvis when in truth, hardly anyone has heard anything about it.  If I don’t know you, which will be the case for about 999 900 of my dear readers, this is probably your first time reading about it - my pelvis.  And so I’m allowed to go on and on.  You are too.  Whether your motif is your pelvis or your heart chakra or your favourite Nanaimo Bar recipe.  Own it and go on and on.

Therefore, I am free to go on and on about Margaret Atwood and the lime green duvet with turquoise daisies on it, and humping this duvet and the sensations in my pelvis, and the crookedness of my pelvis, and anything I want about my pelvis depending on the day.  On and on I go.  Me and Margaret Atwood and my pelvis thrusting on the duvet.  I own all of it.  I also feel very compelled to write about yoga, food, bodily functions and dysfunctions, Jesus, eating disorders, sex, and people with disabilities.  A lot of this comes from my own experience.  I had a writing professor who warned us “not to just write what you know, or you’ll never know anything else, and then you’ll be in trouble.”  I think you’ll be in trouble if you don’t write what you’re compelled to write.

What is the writing process like for you?

It can be a bit of a crapshoot, but no matter what, I show up to the page every morning.  I used to be a religious practitioner of “Morning Pages,” designed by Julia Cameron, author of The Artist Way.  Morning Pages entail 3 pages of uninhibited stream-of-consciousness writing to be done upon waking.   Julia Cameron views this practice as a sort of Active Meditation that is meant to bring you in touch with your Higher Creative Self.  Very often it also brings you in touch with your angst and frustration, and everything in the world that you have to do besides writing.  For around five years, I woke up every morning, drank a wackload of coffee and wrote my morning pages.  I have no regrets.  Sometimes my morning pages led to creative insight and artistic breakthroughs and my Higher Creative Self.  Many other times, however, it simply led to excessive rumination and self-absorption and creative paralysis.  Plus my stream-of-consciousness rarely became very coherent or legible.  Thus, for me morning pages are no longer a daily requirement.  That said, I still like to warm up to writing with a bit of a scrawled out journal-type entry first thing in the morning.  But I don’t force myself to write three pages and if I feel like working on something more concrete (such as answering these questions), I’ll do that.

Once the coffee is finished, my writer’s warm-up continues with two hours of Ashtanga Yoga.  I am a very physical person and I really need that outlet or else the angst is unbearable.  For the rest of the day, I write wherever and whenever I can.  I work in cafes, or on the bus, or at home with the dog.  I always carry my notebook with me in my purse.  No matter what I’m doing, writing is always at the back of my mind.  Everything else is preparation, inspiration. 

What are the rewards of writing?

For me, writing is the best way to get over the crappiest things that happen to you.  If you don’t write it down, then you suffer for nothing.  But when you write it down, that embarrassing and horrific situation is just a story.  And if you can make other people laugh, that’s even better. 

What impact does it have on your role as a writing tutor when you model professional writing?

I am very relieved to have switched from academic and professional writing to writing pretty much whatever I want.  Having made that transition, I have vast empathy for anyone who has to write an essay, particularly a literary essay, which to me seems about as challenging as performing brain surgery.  I hope that I am able to exude this compassion when students come to me at the writing centre.  I am also an expert on writer’s block, a common affliction for the students I see. 

Who are your mentors??

When I was seventeen, I corresponded a little bit with Carol Shields (author of The Stone Diaries, and Unless, among many other books).  She told me that I would never be bored because I seemed like one of those lucky people who could live in the moment.  She also said that all the excitement lay in words, literature, and in the life of the mind, and that these gifts would never desert me.  Every time I feel discouraged about my writing endeavours, I think of Carol.

That’s all for Suzanne’s questions.  Hope you enjoyed them.  Feel free to come up with your own answers.  

Happy Spring to All!  It’s a great day for a biodegradable poem.  And a toenail fungus appointment, for that matter.

Hope to see you in my dreams.  I’ll smile at you with a mouthful of teeth. 

The End.

Exuberant Bodhisattva on Facebook.
Twitter: @mypelvicfloor
I Let Go by Erica J. Schmidt


Why I am different from Margaret Atwood and what I don't gain from humping duvets.
Five Days of Creative Recovery
Simon's Genies, Creative Practice and the Exuberant Bodhisattva's Big Exciting Blog News