Everything Sparks

On bingo halls, the pull of the past, and keeping a notebook

I was supposed to be volunteering at a community bingo barbeque this morning. There’s a lot to unpack there, but I’m not going to bother unpacking it because I ended up getting sent home before it even began—on account of a scheduling mix-up, and not because of anything I might have said or done. The bingo hall turned out to be one that my grandparents used to go to when I was a kid. I went inside this morning and looked around. It was early, but there were already dozens of people in there sipping coffee and setting up their dabbers and game cards. The hall itself was a big old high-ceilinged room with dozens of tables and chairs, a small canteen off to the side—and not much else. It probably hasn’t changed a lot since those days my grandparents drove across town to play the beautiful game. I wouldn’t know because I never went with them back then—ostensibly because it was no place for a kid, but I think it was really because I would have been a distraction. They weren’t there to babysit; they were there to—well, I don’t exactly know because I never went with them.

The other thing about this particular bingo hall is that it was where my grandparents were the night my aunt and uncle got in a serious motorcycle accident back in the 80s. I was at my grandparents’ house that night with my mom, another one of my aunts, and two of my cousins when we got the phone call from the police. I remember the look on my aunt’s face when she was told there’d been an accident. I assumed the call was about my grandparents—but they pulled into the driveway at that very moment. My aunt handed my grandmother the phone the second she walked into the house—and I remember the look on her face as she took in what she was being told. I started crying before I even knew what had happened. My aunt and uncle survived the accident, but it would change them forever. I think it changed us all.

I’ve written about this in at least one short story of mine. But rather obliquely. I’ve done my best over the years to disguise the sources of my material within my fiction. So much so that I sometimes forget where some image or scene might have originated. I started writing this Substack as an exercise in reflecting on the craft of writing—but also to share and connect in a more straightforward way than I do through fiction. I like the safety of hiding behind fiction in my writing. It feels comfortable back there. And so to lift that veil and write (just a little) more openly about my life feels dangerous and nerve-wracking—but necessary… in that way that challenging yourself to be uncomfortable is necessary, I guess. As I lean into writing non-fiction for my most recent project, I feel I’ve become a lightning rod for memories. That is to say, everything sparks a memory these days. A drive down a certain street, a turn of phrase, a photograph, a bingo hall. It’s exhausting. But fruitful. Like so many things in life. Like life itself!

I made a couple rules for myself when I started this Substack: I was going to write one post a week... unless I was busy with another writing project—which is why my posts here have been somewhat intermittent lately—and I wasn’t going to spend a lot of time fussing over each post. (I’m sure that is abundantly clear!) In most cases, I write these in the morning and send them out in the afternoon—unlike, for example, a story of the same length that I might spend weeks or even months working on. (Not that it shows. Not that it should show! Artlessness!) I’ve been busy the last little while with a few projects. And I’m gearing up for a research trip at the end of next month. There are deadlines, both real and self-imposed. All these things get in the way of writing here each week. That’s largely why I don’t charge for a paid subscription: I want to keep it casual. (I got married when I was 24; I think this is the first time I’ve ever used the phrase “keep it casual”.)

This week’s post was originally supposed to be about keeping a notebook. I reread Joan Didion’s Slouching Towards Bethlehem recently. It’s not my favourite Didion book, but I love her writing so much that I’ll often revisit all of her books just to see how she did what she did so well. One of the reasons I picked up and reread Slouching Towards Bethlehem was because I have two stories in this collection of stories I’m trying to finish up that are called “Mere Anarchy” and “Loosed Upon the World”. Both titles are borrowed from the W. B. Yeats’ poem “The Second Coming”, the same poem from which Didion borrowed the title Slouching Towards Bethlehem. (Also where Chinua Achebe borrowed his title Things Fall Apart: a great book and one of my favourite titles.) I reread the poem and then I reread the Didion book. (I’m still trying to find my copy of Things Fall Apart…) I like rereading with that kind of purposefullness; it feels like a job, but in a good way. It makes it easier to lie around and read in the middle of a work-day afternoon because I can so easily justify it: Shh. I’m working!

After reading Joan Didion’s Slouching Towards Bethlehem, I spoke to a friend about the essay “On Keeping A Notebook”. We talked about those things we record in our notebooks, and how sometimes we do it for no other reason but to record it, to mark it down. Many of my notebooks are filled with things I’ll never use—they’re just things that were interesting to me at the time. But just as many of them are filled with material that I will use or already have used: an image, a scene, a piece of dialogue, the name of a bird.

I got out my notebook as soon as I got home from the bingo hall this morning. I wrote about how the manager of the bingo hall told me that he started working there at twelve years old. He said he considers it a second home; he considers the people there family. And I could see that in the rapport he had with some of the regulars. Judging by his age, it’s very likely that he was working there back when my grandparents were frequenting the place. That felt special somehow, interesting, worth writing down in my notebook.