Charlottetown, P.E.I.
My forthcoming novel, “Charlottetown”, was inspired by two things – a well-known painting, and a somewhat off-putting writer’s seminar.
The painting is called “The Grand Ball” by Nova Scotia artist Dusan Kadlec. “The Grand Ball” is a sweeping depiction of the crowded dance floor during the party held for delegates attending the Charlottetown Conference in 1864. I saw it hanging in Province House, home to P.E.I.’s Provincial Legislature, the first time I visited the building after moving there in 1994, one hundred and thirty years after the big party.
Not long after moving to the Island, I also took part in a writer’s seminar in Charlottetown. I remember glancing around the room as I sat down at my little desk, excitedly thinking about the day ahead. Hours of writing and learning with other like-minded people, each of us focused on our own dreams and inspirations. 
I eagerly picked up my pen as the instructor issued the first writing challenge of the day: “Write for ten minutes about anything that inspires you.”
Being a lover of all things historic and having just visited Province House, I had all the inspiration I needed. I put pen to paper and the words flowed out of me as I visualized “The Grand Ball”. I thought about the people in that painting, dressed in all the finery of the day, dancing to the band playing in the balcony above them. I put myself there, hearing the music of the violins wafting dreamily out the open windows to those who may have been standing near the gas lamps on the streets, watching the figures moving back and forth, raising glasses and chatting about the future of Canada. I sat in a velvet bench seat on the way home from the celebration, hearing the clatter of hooves on cobblestone, feeling the carriage bumping along in the night as I glanced over at an elegantly-dressed woman who stared wistfully out the small window beside her. It was 1864, and I was there.
When the instructor told us to stop, I set down my pen and glanced at my notepad. I’d written about three-quarters of a page. It wasn’t really very much for ten minutes, I thought to myself. Perhaps I’d spent more time daydreaming then writing. I remember feeling nervous as the instructor went around the room and asked each of us to read what we’d written. My nerves were eased a little as one by one, each writer revealed their thoughts, their inspiration, and I was glad I was the last to read my own creation. I’d had time to realize that we were all nervous, stumbling through hastily-written words in front of a group of strangers, though at least we were united in our love of writing.
I took a deep breath and read aloud, “Her cheeks flushed vermillion as she waited for him in the study. Explanations rushed through her head like a million stars falling over Charlottetown Harbour. Perhaps she would tell him that her youthful lips had not fully touched those of the strapping young coachman who had earlier so artfully helped her from the coach when they arrived at the Province House gala. Their short stroll later had brought them together in an unexpected way, but she had not wanted to attend the silly frolic in the first place, and her father knew it well. She leaned forward and let out a great nervous sigh as she reached down and slowly removed first one, then the other silken glove with slightly shaking hands. Why had he promised her to Charles Rowbotham anyhow? Such a thing never would have happened had her mother still been alive. A tear slipped onto the lap of Regina’s rich brocaded gown and she quickly used a glove to pat her eyes. She wouldn’t let her father see her cry, for she knew it would only serve to further inflame him.”
I set down the paper and glanced up at the instructor, trying to hide my smile. I was so proud of what I’d written. I loved it. I loved the character I’d created. I couldn’t wait to write more, to reveal more of who Regina was. It would be as much a discovery for me as it would be for the reader.
There was silence in the room. The instructor stared at me, thinking. I’m not sure what I expected him to say, but it certainly wasn’t close to what he ended up announcing to the class.
“Now sometimes, there will be someone in a class like this,” he began, “Who can sit and write something very good in a very short period of time, but that’s not what this seminar is about.”
He went on to his next point, then another, without offering me any feedback as he had with the others. I felt shunned, scolded, out of place.
I couldn’t wait to get out of that room, but I saved that page I’d written, and it became the beginning of my forthcoming novel, “Charlottetown”.
So I suppose the moral of this story could be that a writer may at first feel discouraged by all manner of discouragements…bad reviews, snide comments from ex-boyfriends who don’t understand “why you would waste your time writing if it’s not going to ever make you any money?”, (thus, part of the reason they are now EX-boyfriends), and writing instructors who worry that acknowledging a participant with at least a “well-done!” might upset the rest of the class.
However, I believe that a good writer takes it all in, the positives and the negatives, chalking it all up to life experience. A REALLY good writer uses it as fodder for their story telling, as I’ve just done.
Enjoy your day, and make it historic!