LATE ED WILDMAN - HWG HISTORY

Even after five and a half years since Ed Wildman died, it’s still difficult for me to write about him and how he inspired me. I miss him and his mentoring.

In the Hills, a local magazine, included an article about Ed’s writing workshops. In the article, Ed spoke about writing poetry even though he wanted to write a novel. At the time, I was writing poetry although I’d always dreamed of writing novels. I cut out his telephone number and pasted it in my journal.

When I tell that story, people asked me, if I thought he would fix me. I didn’t consider it a problem, but I thought Ed would understand the way I wrote.

Since my second near-death experience, I’ve related to incidents in my life differently. I realized that if it weren’t for a bad review of my poetry, I wouldn’t have taken Ed’s workshops. What seemed bad at the time turned into something I consider miraculous. I would never have wanted to miss knowing Ed.

On October 25, 2001, I awoke with a bad migraine. The rain pelted my windows and I wanted to stay home. Only having dial-up, I called my husband and he faxed me directions. I asked the Universe for a sign that I should attend these workshops hosted by the Dufferin Arts Council.

While driving there, when I reached the building, the rain stopped, the sun shone, and a rainbow hung over the structure. Everybody at the workshop commented about it. Like the rainbow, Ed was magical. He could always find something good to say about everybody’s writing.

The first writing prompt inspired by his attendance at the Natalie Goldberg workshop that he took in Taos, New Mexico, was What I remember . . .

The next one was What I don’t remember . . .

If writer’s block has become your enemy, why not try these writing prompts?

He insisted that if you followed Natalie Goldberg’s writing practice as defined in Writing Down the Bones, that you would never be blocked again. He also read from Wild Mind another Natalie Goldberg book about the power of reading aloud your writing.

When I started to write the prompt, what I remember, I clenched my fingers. I knew I’d have to read my writing and I couldn’t believe it. Instead of writing poetry, I switched to writing horrible memories about my family. I could hear my mother’s voice scream in my head, “What happens in the family, stays in the family. If you tell, Children’s Aid will take you away.”

After fighting the urge not to write, I wrote about my family. I thought if I block it, I 'd experience writer’s block.

When we wrote the What I don’t remember is prompt, again my family history appeared on the page. When I read both these stories, people averted their heads and I felt ashamed.

Ed thanked me for sharing these stories. Later, he would tell everybody that once Nancy wrote her stories, it opened everybody. They felt free to go where the pen took them.

To be continued . . .