Writer’s Block: Elizabeth Ruth

All Lit Up: Is there one stand-out moment or experience you had that helped you realize you wanted to become a writer?

Elizabeth Ruth: Being a writer is a way of relating to the world, of noticing and feeling and then documenting. It’s like breathing, we can’t not do it. Hard to say when it began or if it was always there. On the other hand, I can pinpoint the moment: I was in grade five and there was an announcement at school about a writing contest open to students in grades five and six. I hurried home and told my mother that I would be entering the competition. She was encouraging, although I had no story idea.

I loved horses so I decided to write about the Canadian equestrian champion, Norm Elder. Or perhaps it was his brother Jim, I don’t remember which. Mom thought I’d better do some research. There was no internet or google, of course. An interview was the way to go. Mom must’ve looked him up in the phone book because soon after we called him. I was incredibly nervous speaking to someone “famous” and the phone conversation was awkward. It’s now unclear in my mind.

What I do remember vividly is the following: I was certain that I was going to win the writing competition, though I’d never written a start-to-finish story. I’d been writing poems. I composed a few paragraphs and showed them to my mother, at which point she said something like, “Don’t you think you’d better work on this some more?” But no, I felt I had effectively shown my brilliance. She insisted, “I think it needs more editing.” I shrugged her off. I was, after all, about to win a writing competition so what did she know!

At school on Monday, I handed in my story. A month or so later, the students in grades 5 and 6 were gathered in the school gymnasium for the awards announcement. I was excited as I sat cross-legged on the floor beside my classmates. When they announced the third-place name, and it wasn’t me I was unphased. When they announced the second-place winner and my name wasn’t called, I was practically jumping out of my skin, because I knew I had won. Then, they announced the first-place winner, and again it wasn’t me! I was incredulous. How could this happen? It was clearly a mistake. Couldn’t they see who I was a writer? In that moment I determined that I would one day write something people would agree had merit.

So, apparently, I’ve been writing all these years out of spite!

ALU: Why do you write?

ER: The answer to this question is not simple and has changed over time. I expect my answer would be different five years from now. I probably started writing to make order out of chaos in my mind, and to create the world the way I needed it to be. Now, I would add to that motivation, that I write to connect with myself and with others, through the magical and powerful experience of imagination. Mine to yours, and in that way, feel we both less alone.

ALU: Describe your perfect writing day.

ER: My perfect writing day (as opposed to my actual writing day) would look like an early fall morning, sunny with a cool breeze blowing in through open windows. No domestic or family obligations. There would be no money worries, and nothing to think about except the story or moment I’m trying to put onto the page. Someone would have made me breakfast and handed it to me without speaking, (pure fantasy) then left me alone, door closed, to work. The words would flow freely from my fingertips, and after a few hours I would step away from my computer satisfied, and head outside to the barn (I don’t have one.) I would ride my palomino or black stallion (neither a remote possibility) into a wide-open field, beside a sparkling creek, in an old growth forest, where the air is pure. I’d eventually sit up against a giant cedar and visit with a friend who knew me well. Upon returning home, I would find the daily mail on the dining room table, and a letter from some granting body notifying me that I have been awarded a large sum of money. I would eat, planning international travel, then return to my office feeling extra motivated to edit what I’d written that morning. At the end of the workday, I would join my family at a small dinner party peopled by sexy artists. There would be good music and candlelight. We would talk openly about writing and politics and our greatest intimacies. There would be lots of laughter and cheese. After, guests would disperse, with the promise of another get together on the horizon. Later, I would fall into bed next to my partner, who would not snore, not once all night, and I’d sleep solidly, before waking to do it all again.

Barring this perfect day, I write as much as I can, when I can, anywhere I can. It’s not mysterious or romantic. Done is better than perfect.

ALU: Do you have any rituals that you abide by when you’re writing?

ER: Hmmm…there have been different rituals over time. For many years I had to fall out of bed in my pjs, not allow anyone to speak with me so that the first and only voice in my head was my own. I drank pink grapefruit juice when I sat down to write. Now, years on, I must do exercise before sitting down to write. I do one hour of intense cardio either on my elliptical machine or outside, speedwalking. I listen to podcasts while exercising. Then a quick shower and I land in my writing chair, a recliner. Years of sitting too much has given me back problems, so for the past eight years I have written in a somewhat anti-gravity position, to take pressure off my spine. (If I could afford one, and had the space, I would set up a treadmill and walk while I worked.) My dog, Daisy, sleeps curled between my legs when I’m writing. I have my laptop set up for typewriter sound. That sound makes me happy. I prefer to write in a room with a window facing the street, so I can feel connected to the world at large, while I disappear onto the page. My current office has a window that lets in a lovely diffuse light, but I look out at a sliver of sky.

ALU: What’s the most surprising thing about being a writer?

ER: The best surprise about being a writer is that we get to live many more lives than just our own. In a sense, I’ve been a bullfighter, a psychic, a real estate agent, a brick worker, a tobacco grower, a fifteen-year-old boy, a transman and more. I’ve inhabited bodies that are different from my own, lived in the past and the future, and abroad, in my imagination. I’ve cultivated many interests for my writing, and acted on the page in ways I would or could not in “real” life. It took years before I understood that through writing, I was experiencing the world as a kaleidoscope of possibility via multiple selves. How lucky! On the practical side, it never fails to surprise me how much more has been added to a writer’s ‘things to do list’ even since I began to publish. Writers assume more and more unpaid labour in the form of promotional duties, marketing strategy, curating events, managing social media platforms, writing copy, and the list goes on. Timothy Findley once told me to remember that it takes more than being a good writer to be a successful one. How right he was.

ALU: Do you have a book that you’ve gone back and read several times?

ER: Yes, these have included: Viktor Frankl’s, Man’s Search for Meaning, the children’s book about social & economic revolution, Hope for The Flowers by Trina Paulus, Rilke’s poems, and Grace Paley’s short stories.

ALU: What’s the toughest part about being a writer?

ER: Never having enough time to write because paid work, domestic duties, and health maintenance eat up the bulk of my time. And never having enough money to travel or take trips with my family.

ALU: What question do you wish someone would ask you about your book?

ER: Because my new book, This Report Is Strictly Confidential is a collection of poems, and I’d previously published novels, the obvious question would have to be…what feels different about writing and publishing poems compared to novels?

The answer: in terms of the act of creation, nothing feels different. All writing, to my mind, is poetry in the brain and to the ear. But for me writing a poem is far more immediately gratifying than writing a novel. A poem is like a one-night stand, or a dangerous, illicit affair, whereas a novel is a committed marriage. You’re in a novel over the long-term for better or worse, whether you love it or hate it. The satisfaction comes far, far off in the future, when the project is finally completed and matches your original vision or impulse. A poem can also be worked on long-term of course, (this collection of mine took years) but the initial draft of individual poems is usually done faster, in a quick release rather than a slow build. In my experience, satisfaction can come in increments with poetry, and rarely does with long-form prose. I love that about poetry.

In terms of publishing, poetry feels far more vulnerable a thing to do than my novels ever have. Even though readers and reviewers sometimes assume novels are biographical, (they often are at a psychological level, the subtext) my poetry in This Report Is Strictly Confidential is entirely spun from my life, and the lives of those I’ve loved. It is a raw distillation of certain aspects of lived experience. Putting that out into the world is a new kind of nakedness.

ALU: What are you working on now?

ER: I’m currently writing a middle grade novel. I’ve wanted to write for children for decades. What could be better than fuelling the imagination of a new generation? I’m also going to turn my attention back to a creative non-fiction project and start a second collection of poetry.

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Elizabeth Ruth’s debut poetry collection is, This Report Is Strictly Confidential. Her novels are Semi-Detached, Matadora, Smoke, and Ten Good Seconds of Silence. Elizabeth’s work has been recognized by the Writers’ Trust of Canada Fiction Prize, City of Toronto Book Award, Amazon.ca Best First Novel Award, and One Book One Community. CBC named her “One of the Ten Canadian Women Writers You Must Read.” Insta: elizabethruthauthor. Website: elizabethruth.com