{"id":978,"date":"2012-04-29T14:04:43","date_gmt":"2012-04-29T14:04:43","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/lindaholeman.com\/?page_id=978"},"modified":"2025-05-26T11:55:18","modified_gmt":"2025-05-26T11:55:18","slug":"biography","status":"publish","type":"page","link":"https:\/\/lindaholeman.com\/?page_id=978","title":{"rendered":"A Writer’s Life"},"content":{"rendered":"

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The Why of It<\/h3>\n
I had a childhood that went from colour to black-and-white. My first eleven years were spent in Winnipeg\u2019s North End, at that time a haven for people from Eastern Europe looking for a new life. I loved it all: my parents and four siblings and Russian grandmother and my father\u2019s television repair business in the basement of that old cramped house beside Rosenblatt\u2019s Grocery. I thought the sounds \u2013 television music and chatter echoing through the floorboards, delivery trucks outside, unknown languages spoken all around me – were normal. But at one point my mother declared she\u2019d had enough of the chaos and noise and growing safety issues in our turbulent neighbourhood, and we moved to a new and antiseptic suburb.<\/div>\n
With the move, all the sounds and color leached out of my life. My beloved grandmother remained in the North End, as did the televisions: my father opened his own repair shop in the old neighbourhood. There was a big picture window in the L-shaped living-dining room of our new 1960s ranch house. It looked out on the quiet, empty, curve of the new suburban crescent. Where were the trees? Where were the friendly shouting neighbours on the narrow sidewalks, the busyness of the corner grocery store? I had my books, and the old piano came with us, but that was all that felt right. I had a lost feeling that I later recognized as homesickness. And with all that emptiness around me I was somehow suffocating.<\/div>\n
It\u2019s such a clich\u00e9 to say that books saved me, from the move and also from what was to follow, and yet\u2026there you have it. I read voraciously, and found solace and understanding in fictional lives that I couldn\u2019t seem to find in my own world. With adolescence came the need to record my life in great detail, right down to what I dreamt each night. I didn\u2019t know why I had this desire, but later it made sense. Catherine Drinker Bowen says, \u201cWriting, I think, is not apart from living. Writing is a kind of double living. The writer experiences everything twice, once in reality and once in that mirror which waits always before or behind.\u201d Without any real comprehension of what I was doing, while writing the physical, intellectual, emotional and spiritual aspects of what was happening in my life, I was figuring it out. I learned that even when living through the darkest times, it was like I was watching from afar all that was happening \u2013 with me a part of it \u2013 taking mental notes and pictures so I could pull them out and study them when I felt more in control. Unlike my parents\u2019 generation and mindset, believing in what they saw as the wisdom of \u201cless said, sooner forgotten\u201d, we now realize things just don\u2019t become \u201cforgotten\u201d if they\u2019re traumatic or distressing. They need to be dealt with. And that\u2019s what the writer\u2019s mind does: it deals with important issues through the writing, even if it becomes fictionalized. For many writers, that issue becomes their theme.<\/div>\n
At thirteen, my fifteen-year old brother Greg died of cancer, and all was cloaked in silence and mystery and sorrow. I even remember a floating sense of disgrace. It was a well-meaning desire of my parents that their other children be protected from the unpleasantness of it. We did not speak of unpleasant things. But all that the silence produced in me was confusion and unspoken outrage, and, as I\u2019ve said, something close to shame. The small bits and pieces I put together about my brother\u2019s illness and subsequent death I learned by watching very, very carefully, waiting for the fleeting expression that conveyed a deep thought, and listening to the weighted silences between simple sentences. It was a hard-won lesson: the rewards of being an observer, of being quiet enough that you\u2019re forgotten.<\/div>\n
Through adolescence I looked for the answer to every question I had about life by writing about it, and by reading what others had written. I put myself into those other lives, imagining I was the character, and wrote new endings for those stories. Suddenly it was my story. It felt right. And so the writer emerged.<\/div>\n

The How of It<\/h3>\n

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I have been a bibliophile from the first book I ever bought: a used copy of Greyfriers Bobby, when I was eight years old. Sad books about faithful dogs were my favourites at that age; maybe some of that darker side of life has stayed with me, later apparent in my own work. I bought that little tattered book at a church jumble sale, and it cost five cents. Since then, I\u2019ve been collecting books.<\/p>\n

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At ten years old I vowed, when I had my first story \u2013 sent in by my teacher – read aloud on a CBC school program, that I would be a writer. My best friend and I gravely made the promise we\u2019d write together, in a castle in England, because it seemed all the books we were reading about adventurous, interesting young people were written by British authors. A childish proclamation, true, but I believed in my dream with an adult fierceness.<\/div>\n
Of course reality intrudes into dreams. The decades slipped by, and there I was, with three little kids \u2013 the last a newborn \u2013 and I hadn\u2019t started writing. I\u2019d had a full and satisfying time of it until then: to make a living I\u2019d done everything from being an A&W carhop to picking apples in Switzerland to milking cows on a moshav in Israel to making pizza at Pizza-To-Go-Go – white boots and all – to actually giving blood weekly during a prolonged stint in Greece (how horrifying that sounds now)! to filing endlessly in a dusty, dreary and windowless closet to being a receptionist at a shady money-lending establishment to teaching in classrooms and with Special Needs kids. I\u2019d lived in Athens and on Crete and in Amsterdam and Switzerland and Israel and in an isolated northern First Nations community, traveled a lot and seen many parts of the world. I\u2019d had my share of joy and heartache, of disappointment and of surprising good news. But to be a writer\u2026! It remained my secret dream. My desire. My fantasy. I recognized my conflicting fears: I might live out my life without attempting to be a published writer, but at the same time I was more afraid I might try and fail. But it was time. Up with the baby in those early morning hours, and then after all three children were asleep at night, I started to write. It\u2019s easy to write without telling anyone; it\u2019s not like taking tuba lessons.<\/div>\n
While I have an undergraduate degree in Psychology, an undergraduate degree in Special Education and a master\u2019s degree in Educational Psychology, the only writing courses I ever took were a one-day and a weekend workshop. My life had grown chaotic; there was no time for the luxury of writing courses. Instead, I learned the elements of writing by studying the craft on my own, and by the continued act \u2013 I\u2019d never stopped keeping journals – of writing itself.<\/div>\n
I was never directed in my reading, apart from my formal education, which involved psychology and education, not literature. For my whole life I had simply read what I could get my hands on, from the library and remainder tables in bookstores, what someone else had liked and passed on to me. Those randomly chosen books were my teachers. I studied how they made me feel, the rhythm of the sentences, and why an image, perfectly described, can remain with one forever.<\/div>\n
There was a pleasurable loneliness to it all in the beginning, the secret writing, carried out in stolen, late night or early morning hours. I have a vivid imagination, a deep curiosity about human nature, and a vague notion of the flow and timing of telling a good tale. I had to keep the faith that what I understood about people \u2013 the on-going result of my early-learned habit of watching and listening – could be translated into interesting human stories.<\/div>\n

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I first sent out short pieces and poems \u2013 regular postal service in those days \u2013 with the required self-addressed stamped envelope. For a few years the mailbox was full of rejections, and my own endless self-doubt and questioning why I was so driven. But eventually my first little pieces were published in small journals. I wasn\u2019t paid except in copies of the journals, and in the hope these tiny triumphs brought. And then came a break. One of my short stories won a national contest. It was published in a big glossy magazine that was (and still is) in every supermarket and newsstand across Canada. It gave me faith, as well as a word processor as the prize. I understood that I had a certain young adult voice that surfaced with more ease than other voices. Not long after that I got my first book, a collection of young adult short stories, accepted for publication by a well-respected Canadian publisher. I was on my way. Getting the first book published is the hardest, but the door had been opened. My following publications were adult short story collections and novels for young adults. After a decade of writing and publishing in those genres I moved into writing historic fiction. I wanted the challenge of sinking my teeth into intensive research, and of combining my two passions: writing and exploring the world.<\/div>\n

Travel and Writing<\/h3>\n

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The emptiness I felt after my childhood move never left completely. All that wide, open space and the big sky of my home in the Canadian prairies proved claustrophobic for me. I always wanted out, away from the safety of what was a sure thing, and as often as I could, plunged into the busy loneliness of foreign cities and incomprehensible languages and unidentifiable food. I ended up living on the prairies far longer than I intended, but it was all about family and commitment. When those commitments ended, I left.<\/div>\n
Now, I travel as often as I can, to as many places as possible. I look forward to the tilting, slightly off-balance sense of unfamiliarity that comes with finding oneself in new surroundings. It\u2019s hard work to travel – I\u2019m talking about being a traveler, not a tourist, which can mean eating the kueh chap – main ingredient: pork \u201cparts\u201d – for four days straight in the steamy jungles of Borneo when dreaming of a crisp apple; sleeping in a frigid ger in Outer Mongolia and not in a climate-controlled hotel room (although hey, I\u2019m not knocking that), or riding a rocking old train with minimal creature comforts \u2013 although always vodka – across Siberia for so long that days and nights blend into each other. Real travel requires patience and energy and perseverance and the ability to accept whatever unexpected events occur and, at times, to let go of any hope of control. To not be concerned about going without a shower for days, of eating questionable foods, of discovering that being sleep-deprived won\u2019t kill you, and understanding the wisdom of your own instincts and the ability to openly put all your faith in complete strangers. In being brave. Believe me, the romance is all in remembering it once you\u2019re home; as Paul Theroux says, Travel is glamorous only in retrospect. He\u2019s right, but nevertheless, the sound of a distant train whistle never fails to start my imagination. I actually like airports, and no matter how many times I experience the rush of the plane lifting off, I still feel a surge of excitement: it\u2019s happening. I\u2019m going somewhere I\u2019ve never been, and I have no idea what I\u2019ll find. I\u2019m never more alive than when facing the challenge of a new experience. Henry David Thoreau, in his journal of 1851, states: \u201cHow vain it is to sit down to write when you have not stood up to live.\u201d I like that; a lot of writers don\u2019t find their stride until they\u2019ve got a lot of life under their belts. And for me, part of writing \u2013 especially my historic fiction \u2013 is the travel where I\u2019m forced to stand up to live which gives me insight into the country I\u2019m writing about.<\/div>\n
Travel is also a bit like starting a new book. There is the d\u00e9j\u00e0 vu of willing your luggage to appear on the airport carousel or hoping for a glimpse of an evasive plot weave. There is the knowledge that what lies ahead will require endless energy, sleepless nights, nagging anxiety that can slip into terror if you give in to it, and definitely the unexpected highs that fill you with wonder. There will be a lot of waiting around, sometimes boredom with your choices, and retracing steps when you realize you haven\u2019t read the map properly. Whether travelling for an extended period of time or working alone for the years it takes to produce a novel, you choose to give up things you love. There\u2019s a lot of thinking how wonderful it would be to watch a good movie and eat popcorn with your family instead of sitting alone in the grey wash of light from the computer screen, or floating in a warm pool instead of shivering in cold, salty spray on a stomach-churning ferry taking you to a questionable island with no one awaiting you. There\u2019s wondering how it is you once again find yourself in a bit of a mess that allows no time for easy pleasures.<\/div>\n
I question any writer who says he or she enjoys writing day in and out. I\u2019m not saying there isn\u2019t pleasure in unexpectedly seeing a good sentence emerge on the screen in front of you, or the quiet satisfaction of finding the imagery you feel works the best. But on the whole, writing creatively is a long, hard slog, and the self-doubt and insecurity that plague the artist can make the writing life \u2013 like adventure travel \u2013 not recommended for the faint-of-heart.<\/div>\n

In Case You’re Interested<\/h3>\n

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My three amazing children \u2013 two daughters and a son – fill my life in glorious ways. In spite of the unexpected stuff that happens down those rabbit holes as a family grows and changes and moves through situations and circumstances \u2013 or maybe because of it all \u2013 my three emerged as interesting and curious adults, each possessing a kind heart, steely determination, and a delightful sense of humour. They\u2019re all travelers and all storytellers, bless their hearts, and we make the opportunities to share experiences of either a grand or a smaller but nevertheless intriguing nature whenever we get together. And now there’s another generation – three beautiful new little souls who inspire me in entirely unexpected ways, and have made my life infinitely richer.<\/div>\n
I live in Toronto, and spend a lot of my time in Vancouver. While I\u2019m most creative and productive at my own desk in my own quiet space, all I really need is a view of the sky, a few good books, my passport, and my laptop.<\/div>\n
A lot has changed. But a lot remains the same. I still love books – to read and to collect. I\u2019m more curious than ever about the human condition. And I still dream of what lies beyond the borders of my life\u2026<\/div>\n
That’s it. Thanks for reading.<\/div>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"The Why of It I had a childhood that went from colour to black-and-white. My first eleven years were spent in Winnipeg\u2019s North End, at that time a haven for people from Eastern Europe looking for a new life. I loved it all: my parents and four siblings and Russian grandmother and my father\u2019s television […]","protected":false},"author":5,"featured_media":981,"parent":22,"menu_order":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"open","template":"info.php","meta":{"_coblocks_attr":"","_coblocks_dimensions":"","_coblocks_responsive_height":"","_coblocks_accordion_ie_support":"","footnotes":""},"class_list":["post-978","page","type-page","status-publish","has-post-thumbnail","hentry"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/lindaholeman.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages\/978","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/lindaholeman.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/lindaholeman.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/page"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lindaholeman.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/5"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lindaholeman.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=978"}],"version-history":[{"count":35,"href":"https:\/\/lindaholeman.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages\/978\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":4042,"href":"https:\/\/lindaholeman.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages\/978\/revisions\/4042"}],"up":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lindaholeman.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages\/22"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lindaholeman.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/media\/981"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/lindaholeman.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=978"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}