Ahhhh, it’s my favourite time of the year, when the sweltering summer slowly crisps to a fresh autumn air. The gorgeous colours of green, orange, red, yellow and the darkness of night. I know, as usual, I have not been around but as always have been reading. My reading has changed and yet stayed pretty much the same. I have been reading with a different eye. Instead of being just a reader looking for an escape, I have been looking at it as a writer. Taking in all that stands out, resonates and things I know I don’t work for me. I used to do this before even without knowing what it was I was doing. Then the fears and doubts set roots.
I am not sure why but the thought of putting all my effort in something and it not working out scares me. It’s not only the failure, but that I wanted something and was not able to achieve it. My confidence in myself died the longer I was in school. It seemed like no one believed in me. They wanted me to be smart in a certain way and when I proved not to be, I was left to drift. Things were not all that pessimistic though. In grade seven to my second year of college, I did get that little shove that maybe I was meant to be a writer. It was my grade seven teacher that believed in me, and even now as I submit something I think of her. I have been very lucky to have people in my life that always see the best in me, especially when I don’t see it. I don’t need naysayers to hurt my feelings as my intrusive thoughts have the vicious bullies spot all covered.
All of that baggage still sits in my chest like a lump in my throat. I now just refuse to choke on it. I don’t want to be a write anymore, I am a writer. Maybe my grammar isn’t always proper, I trip on my words verbally, and my voice is not everyone’s cup of tea, but storytelling is in my blood. I used to wonder where my obsession with words, storytelling and reading came from. I would make up stories about my late grandfathers being connoisseurs of literature. Honestly though, I don’t even know if they could read or write in Punjabi. I was free writing for a prompt, and I wrote down how my Bibi was a great storyteller. She would often tell us bedtime tales, ghost stories, etc. There it was. That was my origin story of sorts. I am sure being an only child that was allergic to the outside helped a lot with my imagination too.
Right now I am embracing my poet voice where a lot my heart and some of the festering rot lies. I want to see more than my words in print, but reach those that need to feel less alone and feel seen and heard. So basically, I will probably be continuing this MIA shit for awhile. Although it might be nice to spill myself into this blog as a way to clean out my brain.
On September 30, in Canada we will be observing Truth and Reconciliation Day. I am lucky to get the day off and get to take time to educate and reflect. If you are interested in learning more about Indigenous (so-called) “Canada” poets, please take a look at my latest article, 5 Poems to “Read on Truth and Reconciliation Day“, for The Poetry Lab. If you like the article, I have several more that I have written about poetry. One is my own journey to doing a do-it-yourself MFA.
And in this amazing journey, this August I was selected as a mentee (developing writer) to work with a poet that I greatly admire, Jónína Kirton for the Writer’s Trust of Canada Mentorship program. (More on this later). Being selected in the poetry category was a great honour but to then read Jónína’s words, really blew me away:
“There is tender tension in Kris Kaila’s poetry. We feel the pull and the love of her Ancestors as she awakens to a new vision for herself as queer woman of colour. Her poetry speaks of skin scorched by the white male gaze and all that follows when their ‘desire’ supersedes her longing for autonomy. Kaila’s words linger just as the aftereffects of sexual violence do. She is not afraid to ask the questions many women hold in their bodies. In a world where gaslighting and disinformation are a daily occurrence, I felt held by the power of her words and her honesty.”
The past two years of learning, and year of submitting to programs and publications, I am happy how far I have come. I am going to try and get back into my book reviews, but if I fall off again, please know it’s because I’m in another realm of my imagination.
My Novelesque Life 