Campie in Three Easy Parts — guest blog by Barbara Stewart

What it was like:

The card­board box sat on the floor beside the kit­chen table for four years. I walked around it, passed food over it and occa­sion­ally shoved it around with the Dirt Devil.

Inside the box, the guts and soul of a book: a length of house­hold string; a pack­age of matches; a 2003 Telus cal­en­dar; a BC Interior road map; the Fall 2002 issue of GUSHER; hand­writ­ten pages torn from a Mead note­book; the first typed chapter of Campie. I’d star­ted writ­ing with­in days of leav­ing the oil­rig camp in January 2003, open­ing with the declar­at­ive: “The job star­ted with a fraud and ended with a lie.” (I loved that sen­tence.)

Oh, and one more thing was in the box: from the Saturday Post, April 19, 2003, an essay by Don Gillmore titled, “On Saturday Nights, I Dreamt of Saturday Nights.” Gillmore had writ­ten about his exper­i­ence as a rough­neck on an oil­rig. I tucked it into the box to pun­ish myself for not fin­ish­ing the book.

What happened:

When I turned 50, I made a decision to stop feel­ing bad about my past. This meant retir­ing an aging inner blues trio called The Ambitions, Hopes and Dreams. “Sorry gals,” I said, “You gotta go. Momma needs a new tune … some­thing like ‘Goodbye Alibi.’”

Six years later, I gradu­ated from the University of Victoria with a BA and a book con­tract with Heritage House Publishers for Campie. The prot­ag­on­ist had become a Barbara per­sona dis­tanced by a nar­rat­ive arc in chapters.

I wasn’t me. Campie didn’t become a real book and my private story wasn’t pub­lic until I pressed SEND to the pub­lish­er. Not many nights later, I woke up in a sweat to a comeback chor­al per­form­ance of that sen­ti­ment­al oldie “Who’s Sorry Now?”

What it’s like now:

I came to real­ize that it wasn’t pub­lic expos­ure I feared at all. My motive for writ­ing Campie was to tell a story about fail­ure and hope. The under­belly served a pur­pose. Although it took a few deep breaths to own the intro­duc­tion, “a sober cel­ib­ate bank­rupt veget­ari­an …”

No, it was the reac­tion of fam­ily and friends — those per­son­ally impacted by what I had written­ — whose love mattered the most. Unconditional accept­ance by and for strangers was an easy grace.

When my sis­ter said the book was so won­der­ful she couldn’t put it down, when my moth­er said she loved it and we talked about where it made her cry, when my daugh­ter organ­ized my first read­ing and invited her closest friends, when my son sup­por­ted me for three months while I wrote and thanked me for all that I’d gone through, that’s when I knew I had pro­jec­ted judg­ments only with­in myself.

These Bessie Smith lyr­ics said it so well:

Now all the crazy things I had to try, Well I tried them all and then some, But if you’re lucky one day you find out, Where it is you’re really com­ing from.”

Campie gave that luck to me.

Paula’s note: Barbara Stewart’s Campie, a new release by Heritage House Publishing, is the best book I’ve read in a long time. It’s funny, scary and brave. The writ­ing is fresh and ori­gin­al; there’s no arti­fice or fancy man­euv­er­ing, just a great story told straight from the heart.


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2 Responses to Campie in Three Easy Parts — guest blog by Barbara Stewart

  1. K.B. Yeadon says:

    What a great write up. I could not have said it bet­ter myself. The bare naked truth is always far more amaz­ing and inspir­ing than any fic­tion.

  2. This is so hon­est and funny, the real deal. Some of us hide behind con­vo­luted fic­tion for this very reas­on: to avoid get­ting closely related noses out of joint for real or ima­gined sins and espe­cially to steer clear of maudlin, dumb-as-a-sack-of-ham­mers con­fes­sion­al crap about one’s own mis­spent youth, the stuff you don’t want your long-suf­fer­ing moth­er or adoles­cent chil­dren to read about. It takes real guts to write about your life like this. I’ve now added Campie to my must-read list, and wish my late sis­ter, who was a long-time oil and gas rig camp cook, was still alive to enjoy a gift copy. Congratulations, Barbara!

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