Let’s
welcome another newcomer to the Scribbler.
Susan was introduced to me by a mutual friend
and we are more than happy to have her as our guest this week.
She
is sharing the SBTS of her novel and is treating us to an excerpt.
Read
on my friends.
Finalist for the 2024 Canadian Book Club
Awards and Winner of The 2016 Writer’s Union of Canada’s Prose Contest, Susan
Wadds’ work has appeared in carteblanche, The Blood Pudding, Room, Waterwheel
Review, and many more. The first two chapters of her debut novel, What The
Living Do, (Regal House Publishing, 2024), won the Lazuli Group’s Prose
Contest, and were published in Azure Magazine. A graduate of the Humber School
for Writers and a proud member of The Writers Union of Canada, Susan is a
certified Amherst Writers and Artists (AWA) workshop facilitator. She lives on
a quiet river on Williams Treaty land in traditional Anishinaabe territory with
an odd assortment of humans and cats.
Title: WHAT
THE LIVING DO (Regal House Publishing, 2024)
Synopsis:
Sex and death consume much of
thirty-seven-year-old Brett Catlin’s life. Cole, ten years her junior, takes
care of the former while her job disposing of roadkill addresses the latter.
When a cancer diagnosis makes her question her worth, suspecting the illness is
payback for the deaths of her father and baby sister, she begins a challenging
journey of healing and self-discovery. Encounters with animals, both living and
dead, help her answer the question, who is worth saving?
The Story Behind the Story:
There’s a pervasive belief in many cultures
that illness is somehow deserved. We ask, Why is this happening to me? What
did I do wrong? Is this God’s punishment? Or even, I don’t deserve this.
As though the body has betrayed us by falling ill.
But what if we are carrying a guilt so deep
that a cancer diagnosis confirms our suspicions that we don’t deserve to live?
I came face to face with this belief with my
own 1991 cancer diagnosis; that some meanness in my past had caused cells to
mutate. As I worked through aspects of my past and psyche through various forms
of therapy to uncover the source, it began to dawn on me that my illness might
not actually be my fault.
In this novel I intended to illustrate this
arc in a more dramatic way than being selfish or inconsiderate, so I gave my
character an early tragedy. The deaths of her father and sister are burdens of
guilt that created a barrier to anyone getting too close. Instead of a power
position such as lawyer or doctor, I wanted her in a genuinely tough work role,
so I put her on a roads’ crew side-by-side with misogynistic men. To further
boost her need for distance, I gave her a much younger partner.
As for where the images and ideas spring from—I lived for years on and off in the Slocan Valley in the Kootenay Mountains, where a sweet Doukhobor cabin I first lived in burned to the ground. Luckily no one was at home when it happened, but having that experience gave me the idea to dramatize such a thing.
The aspects concerning Brett’s work partner, Mel, come from my years with Chippewa, or Ojibwe, and Cree people, including my former husband and son. So much of what that character imparts to Brett is what was directly said and taught to me. I wanted to honour my son’s family and ancestors.
A question before you go, Susan:
Scribbler: Where is your favourite spot to write? Are you messy or neat? Your beverage of choice?
Susan: I’m messy as hell. I often write along with others from visual or situational prompts. I facilitate several workshops a week in the Amherst Writers & Artists method, which requires me to take the same risks. In other words, even if I don’t “feel” like writing, I’m bound to do it. In that way, most of my first draft scenes get written. The rest of the slog through the editing and revision processes are done at a messy desk that also needs revision. And when it comes down to the final push, I take myself far away from distraction or responsibility. A retreat or artist residency to devote myself only to the manuscript. One of my devices is to send the manuscript to my Kindle and read it as though it isn’t mine. I can pause to make notes directly onto the Kindle and then take it back to a messy desk to do the final edits.
I drink coffee in the morning and water throughout the day. I do not listen to music when I write. I need quiet—too much noise already in my head. Once my writing day is done, I do love my red wine.
Excerpt from What the Living Do (pages 78-80.)
What
Norah told me was that she was an only child because her mother had MS, and
that all she longed for was a swarm of children laughing and fighting and
scrambling around in the dirt. She’d gladly give up her consultant job for a
shot at being a mother, a housewife—anything for a family. I spewed my usual,
“The world’s going to shit. How can you justify bringing another human into
this hellhole with no future?” And she’d laughed, poured me another drink, and
fast-forwarded through the credits to start the next episode. “Don’t be an
idiot, Brett,” she said. “Children are what make it all worth saving.”
I
have to tell her. Right now.
I
motion to the server. “Bring us two margaritas. Shaken, not frozen. No ice.
Lots of salt.” The server nods and slinks off, her hips too narrow to bear
children.
I
will tell her when the drinks come. Maybe after we’ve finished the first one.
“So,”
Norah says, happy now, forearms supporting her as she leans toward me. “Bring
me up to speed. What’s new?”
“I
have cancer.”
She
doesn’t know. Josh didn’t tell her because Cole didn’t tell him. Men are so
mystifying. Of course she’s pissed off that I didn’t tell her sooner, but she
won’t abandon me. It’s easier to support someone when the thing that’s wrong
isn’t their fault.
“I’ve
been thinking about leaving,” I say. “Maybe it would be better for everyone if
I get my sorry ass out of here.”
“Leave?
For where?” Norah’s tongue slides along the glass of her margarita. “You mean
after you have the surgery?”
“You
know I’ve always wanted to go to Bali.”
“Yeah,
yeah, but that scumbag Mark didn’t want to go, right?”
A
crumb of salt lodges in my throat. “Right,” I say, coughing a little.
“Oh,
right,” she says, looking down. “I am sorry, you know. I was hurting. I
shouldn’t have—”
“It’s
all right,” I say. “Really.” Indicating her glass, I say, “Should we do this
again?”
She’s
grateful, I can tell. Which makes me feel grateful. I order another round.
“So,
you won’t go? You’ll stay, right?”
I
shake my head too vigorously and the plasma screens distort the way a
fairground distorts from the Zipper ride. Blinking, I whisper, “Cole loves me.
I’m trying to let him.”
“Let
him?”
I
continue to whisper. “Yes, let him. And between you and me,” I say, tipping my
body over the table, “it scares the crap right out of me.”
“Well,
for heaven’s sake,” she says, meeting me there at the center of the table. “You
love him, don’t you?”
“Love
is a scary, scary thing, Norah. A very scary thing.”
She
laughs, that high tinkling sound I’ve missed so much.
Pushing
myself back against the seat, I raise my frosty glass. “This may be the last
time I get drunk as a real woman,” I declare.
“Oh,
Brett, you mustn’t say that!” Her glass stalls in the air. “You’ll still be
able to have sex, won’t you?” Her voice drops low. “You can still have sex now,
right?”
“I
can since I’ve healed from the LOOP or LEEP or whatever. And apparently even if
I have the works taken out my husband won’t even know!”
We
clink. “You got married and didn’t invite me?” Her eyes have lost their focus.
I follow the path of her fingers as she pinches up some salt and pitches it
over her left shoulder. I lift my glass again. “You’re drunk, Norah. Plain and
simple. Like a skunk.”
“Look,”
she exclaims, pointing with her knuckle at a forty-something guy in a ball cap
at the bar. “He’s into you. He knows you’re a real woman.”
The
guy has a three-day beard and a pretty sweet profile, a Keanu Reeves
look-alike.
“He’s
not even looking this way,” I say, although I’m aware that he has been.
“Are
we going to talk about it?” says Norah, suddenly sober and dead serious.
Over
her head well-padded men in blue and white and red and black chase each other
with sticks up and down a wide, slick surface. The sound system blasts a batch
of singers singing about being really happy. “Happy!” they insist.
“I
think we need another round.” When I speak again it isn’t quite a mumble. “It’s
not right to bring children into this world, Norah. It’s not safe.”
Pinching
up more salt that’s fallen from my drink, she casts it over her shoulder, her
lips mouthing some habitual incantation, gestures so automatic she doesn’t
notice my amusement. “We can keep them safe. We just have to watch for signs.
You can’t stop the wheels of life because some bad things happen to some people
some of the time.”
Happy.
“Signs?
Bad things happen in this world. Bad things happen to children. Children get
hurt, Norah. No rabbit’s foot or horseshoe or rain dance is going to prevent
that.”
She
swats at the air. “It’s not like that here. We have things in place.
Safeguards. We’re civilized.”
My
laugh is harsh. “Those safeguards are illusions. Wake up, Norah. Bad shit
happens. It happens here, there, and everywhere. This world is a barbed-wire
maze of bad shit.”
Happy.
“Aren’t
you just a ray of sunshine? We don’t live in a third-world country, Brett.”
I
fall back against the hard wood of the booth. “It can happen. In a heartbeat.”
She
waves her empty glass. “I don’t believe you. I think you are afraid for
different reasons. But if you don’t want to talk about it, that’s okay; I still
want a family. I don’t care what you say, I’m not giving up.” These last words
quaver at the end. As she tips the oversized glass to her mouth, she tilts her
head as if to pour back tears as well.
“I
need a cigarette.”
“That’s
the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard,” she says after guzzling her drink. “You
hate smoking.” She sends a knuckle out toward Keanu. “Maybe he smokes.”
This
sounds like a wonderful story, Susan. Thank you for being our guest. We wish
you continued success with your writing.
And
another BIG thank you to all our readers and visitors.
Feel
free to tell us what’s on your mind.
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