Beth Kaplan's Blog, page 112
January 25, 2019
student success story, Russell Baker, Diana Athill
I just had a welcome call from a student who took my course about ten years ago. She phoned to say how much the course meant to her - that it helped her find her voice. She also took my garden workshop where she met Wayson who influenced her greatly. She entered a short story she wrote for class in the Writer’s Union of Canada competition and was a finalist, and eventually received a big Ontario Arts Council grant for a work in progress.
Her book Philipovna: Daughter of Sorrow, about her mother’s survival of the Ukrainian famine, is being published by Guernica Editions and will be out in a few months. One more thing: Valentina accomplished all this despite being blind.
How nice of her to call so I can celebrate her success. Brava! Heartening news for a frozen day.
Last night was heartening too - my home class, seven superb writers reading, listening, supporting, helping. So fine. And more great news: the shutdown has ended in the U.S. with the defeat of the giant orange blowhole and another arrest of an associate. It's as if he's trembling inside the shelter of a stockade, while gradually the enemy, circling outside with flaming arrows, is poking holes big enough to enter. Have at him, gentlemen. And Nancy. And Alexandra.
Had a welcome lunch with friend and neighbour Gretchen, whose house is also being rehabilitated, albeit for a more sinister reason too long to go into here. Much commiseration. Drywall still going up, still many decisions to be made and many, many disagreements to be had.
I've just spent twenty minutes trying to get wonderful quotes from writers Russell Baker and Diana Athill, who both died recently, he at 93 and she at 101, to fit in the blog, which for some reason did not work. So I can't share them with you. Suffice to say that both were marvellous, witty writers who left a grand legacy and will be missed.
As Baker so wisely said once, "Writing a book is quite different from telling amusing anecdotes over the second bottle of Bordeaux, as I discovered."
Unfortunately.
Last bit of heartening news for today: Non-fiction seems to be good for longevity.
Her book Philipovna: Daughter of Sorrow, about her mother’s survival of the Ukrainian famine, is being published by Guernica Editions and will be out in a few months. One more thing: Valentina accomplished all this despite being blind.
How nice of her to call so I can celebrate her success. Brava! Heartening news for a frozen day.
Last night was heartening too - my home class, seven superb writers reading, listening, supporting, helping. So fine. And more great news: the shutdown has ended in the U.S. with the defeat of the giant orange blowhole and another arrest of an associate. It's as if he's trembling inside the shelter of a stockade, while gradually the enemy, circling outside with flaming arrows, is poking holes big enough to enter. Have at him, gentlemen. And Nancy. And Alexandra.
Had a welcome lunch with friend and neighbour Gretchen, whose house is also being rehabilitated, albeit for a more sinister reason too long to go into here. Much commiseration. Drywall still going up, still many decisions to be made and many, many disagreements to be had.
I've just spent twenty minutes trying to get wonderful quotes from writers Russell Baker and Diana Athill, who both died recently, he at 93 and she at 101, to fit in the blog, which for some reason did not work. So I can't share them with you. Suffice to say that both were marvellous, witty writers who left a grand legacy and will be missed.
As Baker so wisely said once, "Writing a book is quite different from telling amusing anecdotes over the second bottle of Bordeaux, as I discovered."
Unfortunately.
Last bit of heartening news for today: Non-fiction seems to be good for longevity.
January 23, 2019
Esi Edugyan and her editors
Last night, a really interesting event produced by the Editors Association and the writing department of U of T: hugely successful novelist Esi Edugyan and four - count them, four - of her editors, with another piping up from the audience, discussing what went into the preparation of her two Giller prize-winning books. What a terrific, if depressing woman Esi is: she's 41, has various degrees, published her first novel in her twenties and is now the only writer to have won back-to-back Gillers, plus being nominated twice for the Man Booker. PLUS she's married with two small children, is pretty and trim and judging by last night, an extremely nice person! Honestly. The nerve.
What we learned, though I'm sure most of us in the sold-out room knew, was how incredibly much behind the scenes thought and care goes into a successful book. We heard from two substantive editors and two copy-editors about things they caught and changed or fixed - one, for example, told us that a scene took place in the 1840's with the sound of clacking typewriters. But, she said, typewriters weren't popularized until the 1870's. Not to mention the substantive stuff, including changing one ending from a character's death to his happy reappearance. And then the rights were sold to London and New York - more big-time editors chiming in. Esi said she welcomed all this input.
She apparently does a huge amount of research on era and place, reading many books. When asked if she had advice for writers starting out, she said, "Try to find a regular time to write. Despite whatever else is going on, I try to keep the five and a half hours when the children are in school as sacred writing time."
Sigh. I have to say that though she was inspirational, I left feeling like a giant slug. I also had two children but did not carve out five and a half hours to write prize-winning books. Mind you, I was a single mother. But to tell you the truth, though my children are long gone, I still don't carve out five and a half hours to write. Most days. A few days, yes, particularly when there's a real deadline or I invent one. But many other things usually take precedence. Which is why I am a giant slug.
Well, it doesn't help to be negative, does it, Beth?
A lull in the reno - Kevin still working somewhere else. It's nice to be alone in the house for a few days but also there's a sense of entropy - the chaotic ruin upstairs and nothing happening. I'll be glad to welcome them back tomorrow and get this thing on the road, so I can one day move out of the basement and clean the dust from my office and begin carving out many many hours at my desk.
Yes we can.
A hideous day - snow yesterday and rain today, so slush and muck. And many arguments online with friends about Covington Catholic schoolboys. Tonight the sharp-tongued Sam Bee is back after a hiatus of a few months; Bill Maher was back last Friday. Perhaps I'm reaching a point where I have to stop reading papers and watching sharp-tongued comedians. Maybe I need to retreat to the page.
What we learned, though I'm sure most of us in the sold-out room knew, was how incredibly much behind the scenes thought and care goes into a successful book. We heard from two substantive editors and two copy-editors about things they caught and changed or fixed - one, for example, told us that a scene took place in the 1840's with the sound of clacking typewriters. But, she said, typewriters weren't popularized until the 1870's. Not to mention the substantive stuff, including changing one ending from a character's death to his happy reappearance. And then the rights were sold to London and New York - more big-time editors chiming in. Esi said she welcomed all this input.
She apparently does a huge amount of research on era and place, reading many books. When asked if she had advice for writers starting out, she said, "Try to find a regular time to write. Despite whatever else is going on, I try to keep the five and a half hours when the children are in school as sacred writing time."
Sigh. I have to say that though she was inspirational, I left feeling like a giant slug. I also had two children but did not carve out five and a half hours to write prize-winning books. Mind you, I was a single mother. But to tell you the truth, though my children are long gone, I still don't carve out five and a half hours to write. Most days. A few days, yes, particularly when there's a real deadline or I invent one. But many other things usually take precedence. Which is why I am a giant slug.
Well, it doesn't help to be negative, does it, Beth?
A lull in the reno - Kevin still working somewhere else. It's nice to be alone in the house for a few days but also there's a sense of entropy - the chaotic ruin upstairs and nothing happening. I'll be glad to welcome them back tomorrow and get this thing on the road, so I can one day move out of the basement and clean the dust from my office and begin carving out many many hours at my desk.
Yes we can.
A hideous day - snow yesterday and rain today, so slush and muck. And many arguments online with friends about Covington Catholic schoolboys. Tonight the sharp-tongued Sam Bee is back after a hiatus of a few months; Bill Maher was back last Friday. Perhaps I'm reaching a point where I have to stop reading papers and watching sharp-tongued comedians. Maybe I need to retreat to the page.
January 22, 2019
The Bruce McMouse Show at 20 below
Bitter cold outside. I'm sitting in the unbelievable jumble of my office, until yesterday the desk covered with tablecloths to keep off the dust, which is all over the floor. So much for needing tidy tranquillity to work. What I do need, though, is the heater blasting at my feet. It's cold in here too.
Seven more weeks until we're done here, they say.
The bird feeder is full. That's my most important job - to keep the birds alive till spring.
You'll laugh at me. Yesterday I went to an important cultural event, a special one-time only screening of The Bruce McMouse Show, a goofy film made from clips of live concerts of Paul McCartney and Wings in the early seventies, with a bit of animation, the McMouse stuff, added. My young friend Holly came with me, and we met Jessica there, a friend of Anna's, one of the few people I know as mad about Macca as I am, and she's 32! Yay! The film was silly fun, the music was fabulous, and the fashion was insane - mullets, overalls, hideous clumpy two-toned shoes, pants ending three inches above the ankles - even Macca couldn't carry off those looks. But the music! Maybe I'm amazed.
Went to visit Anna and family on Sunday, where little Ben found he could fit in one of their laundry hampers. Then Eli and I came back here for Beer Batter fish and chips, two of the only things he eats.
As I was leaving Anna's later, after bringing Eli home, a woman and her young son were arriving to spend the night. Anna told me in passing that the woman's husband is abusive, she and her son have to find a new place to live, and so will be sleeping at Anna's for now. In her crowded two-bedroom apartment, my daughter made this distressed family welcome. She'd be embarrassed and even angry if she knew I'm telling you this, but she has never read my blog and never will, so she won't know. As I've written, she is far to the left of me, and we argue about various issues, especially pipelines. But she doesn't just talk the talk, she lives her principles. My dad, a left-wing political animal who spent his life fighting for his principles, would be very proud of her fierce spirit, her huge heart and kindness. As am I.
Want to share with you another great richness: my Holds list at my local library. At some point, these luscious books will arrive and be mine for 3 whole weeks. Does life get better than that?
All things consoled : a daughter's storyHay, Elizabeth, 1951- author.BookParliament Street#85 of 283
(68 copies)13 Nov 2020ACTIVEEdit
The art of the wasted dayHampl, Patricia, 1946- author.BookParliament Street#10 of 10
(12 copies)21 Jan 2021ACTIVEEdit
Dear EvelynPage, Kathy, 1958- author.BookParliament Street#184 of 360
(70 copies)2 Dec 2020ACTIVEEdit
How to live : or, A life of Montaigne in one question and twenty attempts at an answerBakewell, Sarah.BookParliament Street#7 of 7
(6 copies)21 Jan 2021ACTIVEEdit
Human voicesFitzgerald, Penelope.BookParliament Street#5 of 35
(5 copies)8 Oct 2020ACTIVEEdit
Kitchen yarns : notes on life, love, and foodHood, Ann, 1956- author.BookParliament Street#34 of 66
(14 copies)6 Jan 2021ACTIVEEdit
Normal PeopleRooney, SallyParliament Street
Seven more weeks until we're done here, they say.
The bird feeder is full. That's my most important job - to keep the birds alive till spring.
You'll laugh at me. Yesterday I went to an important cultural event, a special one-time only screening of The Bruce McMouse Show, a goofy film made from clips of live concerts of Paul McCartney and Wings in the early seventies, with a bit of animation, the McMouse stuff, added. My young friend Holly came with me, and we met Jessica there, a friend of Anna's, one of the few people I know as mad about Macca as I am, and she's 32! Yay! The film was silly fun, the music was fabulous, and the fashion was insane - mullets, overalls, hideous clumpy two-toned shoes, pants ending three inches above the ankles - even Macca couldn't carry off those looks. But the music! Maybe I'm amazed.
Went to visit Anna and family on Sunday, where little Ben found he could fit in one of their laundry hampers. Then Eli and I came back here for Beer Batter fish and chips, two of the only things he eats.
As I was leaving Anna's later, after bringing Eli home, a woman and her young son were arriving to spend the night. Anna told me in passing that the woman's husband is abusive, she and her son have to find a new place to live, and so will be sleeping at Anna's for now. In her crowded two-bedroom apartment, my daughter made this distressed family welcome. She'd be embarrassed and even angry if she knew I'm telling you this, but she has never read my blog and never will, so she won't know. As I've written, she is far to the left of me, and we argue about various issues, especially pipelines. But she doesn't just talk the talk, she lives her principles. My dad, a left-wing political animal who spent his life fighting for his principles, would be very proud of her fierce spirit, her huge heart and kindness. As am I.Want to share with you another great richness: my Holds list at my local library. At some point, these luscious books will arrive and be mine for 3 whole weeks. Does life get better than that?
All things consoled : a daughter's storyHay, Elizabeth, 1951- author.BookParliament Street#85 of 283
(68 copies)13 Nov 2020ACTIVEEdit
The art of the wasted dayHampl, Patricia, 1946- author.BookParliament Street#10 of 10(12 copies)21 Jan 2021ACTIVEEdit
Dear EvelynPage, Kathy, 1958- author.BookParliament Street#184 of 360(70 copies)2 Dec 2020ACTIVEEdit
How to live : or, A life of Montaigne in one question and twenty attempts at an answerBakewell, Sarah.BookParliament Street#7 of 7(6 copies)21 Jan 2021ACTIVEEdit
Human voicesFitzgerald, Penelope.BookParliament Street#5 of 35(5 copies)8 Oct 2020ACTIVEEdit
Kitchen yarns : notes on life, love, and foodHood, Ann, 1956- author.BookParliament Street#34 of 66(14 copies)6 Jan 2021ACTIVEEdit
Normal PeopleRooney, SallyParliament Street
January 20, 2019
still life with insulation
Winter is finally here.
January 19, 2019
1979 in the snow
My idea of heaven: listening to Randy Bachman in my warm kitchen on a cold snowy Saturday night, with good TV coming up and an interesting library book waiting. No electricians, no Kevin or Ed or JM, just me in my beat-up house with its new electric lights and its new electric doorbell that's so faint I can hardly hear it, but it's there. At least 3 things on TV coming up at 9. Just had to get up and dance to "Operator" by Manhattan Transfer, an old fave.
This afternoon, I went to see a play called 1979, by Michael Healey. I knew it was about Joe Clark's brief government, but since my memoir takes place mostly in 1979, I thought it might have insights about that time. Well, it was about Joe Clark's brief time in government, and most upsettingly, it features an actor portraying a politician for whom I have a particular loathing, Stephen Harper, as a young man. The play wants to show us that Clark, in some ways, is our Jimmy Carter, a man almost too good to be a politician, with too much decency and integrity to survive the venal corridors of power. It brings back Flora MacDonald, John Crosbie, and Pierre Trudeau and mourns the end of the red Tories, Progressive Conservatives who were probably to the left of many Liberals today. With discussion about the huge recent victory of Margaret Thatcher and the rise of the far-right looming in the distance. Poor Joe - so untelegenic. Remember Diefenbaker? Imagine him being elected these days? I don't think so.
Anyway, rather depressing, especially because even hearing the name of S. Harper makes me want to take a shower. But I walked home in the falling snow, going via the library to return the disappointing Beatles book and getting out one I'd ordered, Out on the Wire: the storytelling secrets of the new masters of radio, by Jessica Abel.
So much to do, so little time. Did not go to the women's march, did no work today at all, just enjoyed being alone in my house in the snow. And that's enough.
This afternoon, I went to see a play called 1979, by Michael Healey. I knew it was about Joe Clark's brief government, but since my memoir takes place mostly in 1979, I thought it might have insights about that time. Well, it was about Joe Clark's brief time in government, and most upsettingly, it features an actor portraying a politician for whom I have a particular loathing, Stephen Harper, as a young man. The play wants to show us that Clark, in some ways, is our Jimmy Carter, a man almost too good to be a politician, with too much decency and integrity to survive the venal corridors of power. It brings back Flora MacDonald, John Crosbie, and Pierre Trudeau and mourns the end of the red Tories, Progressive Conservatives who were probably to the left of many Liberals today. With discussion about the huge recent victory of Margaret Thatcher and the rise of the far-right looming in the distance. Poor Joe - so untelegenic. Remember Diefenbaker? Imagine him being elected these days? I don't think so.
Anyway, rather depressing, especially because even hearing the name of S. Harper makes me want to take a shower. But I walked home in the falling snow, going via the library to return the disappointing Beatles book and getting out one I'd ordered, Out on the Wire: the storytelling secrets of the new masters of radio, by Jessica Abel.
So much to do, so little time. Did not go to the women's march, did no work today at all, just enjoyed being alone in my house in the snow. And that's enough.
January 18, 2019
protesting the NYT Book Review on behalf of Leonard Cohen
You know I am a kind and serene person. But on Monday I wrote an angry note to the editor of the NYT Book Review, Pamela Paul. They recently printed an appallingly personal and mean-spirited review of a posthumous collection by Leonard Cohen. My note to her:
I’m sending this protest as a Canadian, but also as a music lover, a poetry lover, a writer, and a decades-long reader of the NYT Book Review.
I’ve rarely read a review that made me as angry as the one by William Logan of a posthumous collection of the work of Leonard Cohen. It was vicious, and it was unforgivable.
I have not read the book in question, and it may be that this posthumous collection of scribblings is weak. But Logan makes a point of denigrating every facet of the man’s talent. Most of Leonard Cohen’s songs are glorious, musically and lyrically. He was a superb performer; his concerts were unforgettable, magical. He was generous and wise. It's no wonder women adored him, which also is something Logan holds against him.
I’m surprised you would assign this book to a critic known to be petty and vindictive. But perhaps that was the point?
Today she sent a nice note in reply: Beth, thank you for feedback, even if critical. I will pass along your note to the editor who handled this assignment. Know that you are not alone in your happiness with Logan's review.
Now that's impressive!
You know I'm a good-natured and generous writer. God forbid I say something negative about another writer or her work. Except for this: I heard about a novel published this year called "She Loves You Yeah Yeah Yeah," about a girl's obsession with the Beatles, specifically Macca, in 1966. So, since this sounds a teeny tiny bit like a certain memoir I know and love, I got it out of the library.
I submitted my memoir "All My Loving: Coming of age with Paul McCartney in Paris" (which is not specifically YA, perhaps to its detriment) to several small publishers and was turned down. This YA novel was published by Penguin Young Readers Group. Penguin! And I have to say, I hated it. Well, I guess I would, wouldn't I? Is it just jealousy? The narrator is annoyingly blinkered, limited, whiny, and the whole scene about American high school and BFFs and cheerleaders and the laboured setup and the denouement - she and her friends meet George Harrison and Paul McCartney outside the hotel where the Beatles are staying in Boston after a concert - oh sure. Paul signs a picture for her that urges her distant father to cherish her. Oh sure.
Okay, yes, I'm jealous. Penguin. My memoir I think is more real and more gritty and more immediate and a hell of a lot funnier, plus you get to go to Paris! It was published by BPS Books, partly paid for by one Beth Kaplan.
Sigh.
Moving right along.
The usual chaos here. The electricians still have not finished, a week after they were supposed to be done. Kevin wants to get to drywall today but all kinds of other things are in the way.
Kevin in my bedroom
The spare bedroom
JM and I are constantly renegotiating our marital relationship. I am at the moment in the sun in my office, though my desk is covered with dropcloths and dust and soon I will be pushed out. But all this is not making me sick, as it did in December. I'm listening to Bach through my headphones. I'm sitting in the sun. I finished an essay yesterday. May you live in interesting times. Onward.
I’m sending this protest as a Canadian, but also as a music lover, a poetry lover, a writer, and a decades-long reader of the NYT Book Review.
I’ve rarely read a review that made me as angry as the one by William Logan of a posthumous collection of the work of Leonard Cohen. It was vicious, and it was unforgivable.
I have not read the book in question, and it may be that this posthumous collection of scribblings is weak. But Logan makes a point of denigrating every facet of the man’s talent. Most of Leonard Cohen’s songs are glorious, musically and lyrically. He was a superb performer; his concerts were unforgettable, magical. He was generous and wise. It's no wonder women adored him, which also is something Logan holds against him.
I’m surprised you would assign this book to a critic known to be petty and vindictive. But perhaps that was the point?
Today she sent a nice note in reply: Beth, thank you for feedback, even if critical. I will pass along your note to the editor who handled this assignment. Know that you are not alone in your happiness with Logan's review.
Now that's impressive!
You know I'm a good-natured and generous writer. God forbid I say something negative about another writer or her work. Except for this: I heard about a novel published this year called "She Loves You Yeah Yeah Yeah," about a girl's obsession with the Beatles, specifically Macca, in 1966. So, since this sounds a teeny tiny bit like a certain memoir I know and love, I got it out of the library.
I submitted my memoir "All My Loving: Coming of age with Paul McCartney in Paris" (which is not specifically YA, perhaps to its detriment) to several small publishers and was turned down. This YA novel was published by Penguin Young Readers Group. Penguin! And I have to say, I hated it. Well, I guess I would, wouldn't I? Is it just jealousy? The narrator is annoyingly blinkered, limited, whiny, and the whole scene about American high school and BFFs and cheerleaders and the laboured setup and the denouement - she and her friends meet George Harrison and Paul McCartney outside the hotel where the Beatles are staying in Boston after a concert - oh sure. Paul signs a picture for her that urges her distant father to cherish her. Oh sure.
Okay, yes, I'm jealous. Penguin. My memoir I think is more real and more gritty and more immediate and a hell of a lot funnier, plus you get to go to Paris! It was published by BPS Books, partly paid for by one Beth Kaplan.
Sigh.
Moving right along.
The usual chaos here. The electricians still have not finished, a week after they were supposed to be done. Kevin wants to get to drywall today but all kinds of other things are in the way.
Kevin in my bedroom
The spare bedroomJM and I are constantly renegotiating our marital relationship. I am at the moment in the sun in my office, though my desk is covered with dropcloths and dust and soon I will be pushed out. But all this is not making me sick, as it did in December. I'm listening to Bach through my headphones. I'm sitting in the sun. I finished an essay yesterday. May you live in interesting times. Onward.
January 16, 2019
working in chaos: it's fun!
Electricians still here, poor souls - I think they're afraid they'll never get out. Always some new complication. That's my house for you.
It's almost comical, the scene here - the chaos upstairs, the shouts and drilling and hammering - today, Kevin and Ed putting in insulation and sound-proofing around the 4 electricians on ladders, JM dashing in and out, and in the middle of it all, two huge boxes from Wayfair with bedside lights I'd ordered a few days ago and hated on sight, needed to be repacked to be returned.
Somehow in the midst of all this, I sit in the kitchen wearing my noise-cancelling headphones, as I am now, and work. I've almost finished one essay and will soon finish another. For some reason, the noise and mess has spurred me on - perhaps because there's nothing else I can do here, not even take a nap, so there's no choice but to work. Hooray!
My bedroom
Office
The second floor landing. Nice furry stuff in the walls, and next, drywall. Oh the excitement of drywall. Can't wait.
And now - 4.55 p.m. - my reward for being alive: Wine Time.
PS Is it POSSIBLE Trump does not know what those things McDonalds sells are actually called? He tweeted about serving "hamberders." Why are we surprised? I have one word for you: covfefe.
It's almost comical, the scene here - the chaos upstairs, the shouts and drilling and hammering - today, Kevin and Ed putting in insulation and sound-proofing around the 4 electricians on ladders, JM dashing in and out, and in the middle of it all, two huge boxes from Wayfair with bedside lights I'd ordered a few days ago and hated on sight, needed to be repacked to be returned.
Somehow in the midst of all this, I sit in the kitchen wearing my noise-cancelling headphones, as I am now, and work. I've almost finished one essay and will soon finish another. For some reason, the noise and mess has spurred me on - perhaps because there's nothing else I can do here, not even take a nap, so there's no choice but to work. Hooray!
My bedroom
Office
The second floor landing. Nice furry stuff in the walls, and next, drywall. Oh the excitement of drywall. Can't wait.And now - 4.55 p.m. - my reward for being alive: Wine Time.
PS Is it POSSIBLE Trump does not know what those things McDonalds sells are actually called? He tweeted about serving "hamberders." Why are we surprised? I have one word for you: covfefe.
January 15, 2019
"The Good Place"
Last night was a Monday in January, and I was not teaching. I've been teaching on Monday nights January through March for many years. This term, my course is being taught by the estimable Sarah Sheard. It felt good but odd to be taking a break. I'm back in May.
Still, upstairs, shouts in Cantonese. The job of rewiring my house is, of course, taking much longer than the electricians expected. It's 5 p.m. on the third day and they're still wrestling upstairs, pounding and drilling, with more tomorrow. However, soon I will have the perkiest, prettiest wires of any house in town.
I'm getting used to it now - the disruption, noise, mess, teams of men hither and yon. C'est la vie. C'est la renovation. It'll go on and on - and then, as my friend Valerie assures me, like childbirth, once it's over, I'll forget the pain.
Finished "The Business of Being a Writer," by Jane Friedman. Intimidating. I wonder when younger writers, who are busy building a platform and being visible on social media and being "good literary citizens," have time to write. This is a problem. But I've taken notes and will do my best to be a good literary citizen, ancient scribbler though I am.
On Sunday, I heard an interview on CBC radio's "Tapestry" with Michael Schur, creator of a TV series called "The Good Place," which I'd never heard of. He talked about being positive and uncynical, and the show sounded interesting. Wayson came for dinner, and after, we watched FIVE episodes of "The Good Place" on Netflix. Entertaining and even important - it takes place in heaven (or, I gather, not) and though absurd, it's about what it takes to be a good person, among other things, while making us laugh.
https://www.theguardian.com/tv-and-radio/2018/may/26/forking-hell-is-the-good-place-the-ultimate-tv-show-for-our-times
Today - a special treat, my friends. I went to see my beloved psychiatrist, the one person in the world who is always, 100%, on my side. Yes, I pay her for it, but still, she listens and she's there and I thank the great lord in the skies above that she's still practicing and I can see her once or twice a year. A check up. Yes, still sane, relatively. Still functioning, more or less. Onward.
My backyard is surreal - full of insulation. My grandsons would like to bounce on it, I'm sure. See how green, in January?! An amazing winter so far.
The electricians discovered this in the floorboards - part of an Ontario license plate from 1925.
Still, upstairs, shouts in Cantonese. The job of rewiring my house is, of course, taking much longer than the electricians expected. It's 5 p.m. on the third day and they're still wrestling upstairs, pounding and drilling, with more tomorrow. However, soon I will have the perkiest, prettiest wires of any house in town.
I'm getting used to it now - the disruption, noise, mess, teams of men hither and yon. C'est la vie. C'est la renovation. It'll go on and on - and then, as my friend Valerie assures me, like childbirth, once it's over, I'll forget the pain.Finished "The Business of Being a Writer," by Jane Friedman. Intimidating. I wonder when younger writers, who are busy building a platform and being visible on social media and being "good literary citizens," have time to write. This is a problem. But I've taken notes and will do my best to be a good literary citizen, ancient scribbler though I am.
On Sunday, I heard an interview on CBC radio's "Tapestry" with Michael Schur, creator of a TV series called "The Good Place," which I'd never heard of. He talked about being positive and uncynical, and the show sounded interesting. Wayson came for dinner, and after, we watched FIVE episodes of "The Good Place" on Netflix. Entertaining and even important - it takes place in heaven (or, I gather, not) and though absurd, it's about what it takes to be a good person, among other things, while making us laugh.
https://www.theguardian.com/tv-and-radio/2018/may/26/forking-hell-is-the-good-place-the-ultimate-tv-show-for-our-times
Today - a special treat, my friends. I went to see my beloved psychiatrist, the one person in the world who is always, 100%, on my side. Yes, I pay her for it, but still, she listens and she's there and I thank the great lord in the skies above that she's still practicing and I can see her once or twice a year. A check up. Yes, still sane, relatively. Still functioning, more or less. Onward.
My backyard is surreal - full of insulation. My grandsons would like to bounce on it, I'm sure. See how green, in January?! An amazing winter so far.
The electricians discovered this in the floorboards - part of an Ontario license plate from 1925.
January 13, 2019
Hannah Gadsby
Have you watched the Australian comedienne Hannah Gadsby's "Nanette" on Netflix? I'd started some months ago, found her amusing but light and a bit one-note, was interrupted after about 15 minutes and didn't think it worth going back to. But friends insisted and so I did - and wow, what a knockout punch she delivers, suddenly veering from amusing anecdotes about being gay in rural New Zealand to telling the truth about how heartrendingly hard it was, and is, to be different in a nasty, judgemental world - and then to find a way to make her story funny. Truth - that's my business, and I loved, just loved watching this brave, intelligent woman deliver hard, honest truths after making us laugh. "I need to tell my story properly," she says. "Stories hold our cure."
Gotcha, Hannah. Highly recommended.
It's Sunday, so there are no men in my house, thank God. The last few days - a horde of electricians chattering, sometimes shouting, in Cantonese, as they attempted to figure out the arcane wiring of this house. I just went upstairs, a bare skeleton with tangles of wires everywhere and holes in the outside walls; at this stage, it's hard to believe anyone will ever live up there again. But Kevin is ordering drywall, and next week, apparently, it'll start to go up.
My bedroom yesterday
A few of the wires
The second floor looking west
I've been reading this "The business of being a writer" book - and though I am attempting to take it seriously, am putting in sticky notes to go back to, still, I wonder if it's a generational divide. What are Influencers? People with blogs or websites with lots of Likes, I gather. Content strategies? I think that means what you write about. Yes? No? No idea. But I'll try to develop some Content Strategies, though my days of being an Influencer are long gone, now that my children, whom I desperately attempted to influence, have left home.
My current Content Strategy: I am rewriting two essays for literary competitions. Though I was long-listed for one a few times, I've only ever in my writing career won one prize, was co-winner one year, in a not-too-crowded field, of the Canadian Jewish Playwriting Competition. I stopped entering competitions years ago, focussing on books but also thinking that my writing was not the kind that shines in competition. Well, that is undoubtedly still true, but a competition provides a deadline and a word count, so I'm off. Yesterday, I took a piece written years ago and cut more than 700 words so it'll fit the 3000 word limit. It hurt and yet was surprisingly satisfying to see how much the piece could lose and still stand. At the moment, it's 2995 juicy, delicious words.
One problem these days, as I join more websites connecting writers and about writing, is that I could spend my entire life reading about writing. And that's not books and articles, just what's pouring out online. Some limits needed.
More coffee and toast and a fried egg needed.
From my little life to yours - Happy Sunday.
Gotcha, Hannah. Highly recommended.
It's Sunday, so there are no men in my house, thank God. The last few days - a horde of electricians chattering, sometimes shouting, in Cantonese, as they attempted to figure out the arcane wiring of this house. I just went upstairs, a bare skeleton with tangles of wires everywhere and holes in the outside walls; at this stage, it's hard to believe anyone will ever live up there again. But Kevin is ordering drywall, and next week, apparently, it'll start to go up.
My bedroom yesterday
A few of the wires
The second floor looking westI've been reading this "The business of being a writer" book - and though I am attempting to take it seriously, am putting in sticky notes to go back to, still, I wonder if it's a generational divide. What are Influencers? People with blogs or websites with lots of Likes, I gather. Content strategies? I think that means what you write about. Yes? No? No idea. But I'll try to develop some Content Strategies, though my days of being an Influencer are long gone, now that my children, whom I desperately attempted to influence, have left home.
My current Content Strategy: I am rewriting two essays for literary competitions. Though I was long-listed for one a few times, I've only ever in my writing career won one prize, was co-winner one year, in a not-too-crowded field, of the Canadian Jewish Playwriting Competition. I stopped entering competitions years ago, focussing on books but also thinking that my writing was not the kind that shines in competition. Well, that is undoubtedly still true, but a competition provides a deadline and a word count, so I'm off. Yesterday, I took a piece written years ago and cut more than 700 words so it'll fit the 3000 word limit. It hurt and yet was surprisingly satisfying to see how much the piece could lose and still stand. At the moment, it's 2995 juicy, delicious words.
One problem these days, as I join more websites connecting writers and about writing, is that I could spend my entire life reading about writing. And that's not books and articles, just what's pouring out online. Some limits needed.
More coffee and toast and a fried egg needed.
From my little life to yours - Happy Sunday.
January 11, 2019
men in my bedroom
I'm squeezed into a corner of my sunny office, which is packed to the rafters with stuff. Outside, much going on - four Chinese electricians are here today and will be here tomorrow. Much noise, chatter, drilling, pounding, explaining.
Here is JM explaining the many charts he has posted on every wall:
And yes, this is more men in my bedroom than have been there for many years.
Today, a surreal moment - I asked my neighbour Monique if she would keep my ballgown safe. Years ago, in a transcendent moment I'll never forget, I found a Balenciaga ballgown at Goodwill. It cost $18.50, and it's magnificent, simply and beautifully cut in heavy maroon silk with a long train and a huge detachable bow at the back. It fits me nearly perfectly - a bit big. The occasions to wear a Balenciaga ballgown are few, and so I have never worn it. And now, there is absolutely nowhere safe in my house to keep it; every closet is jammed, and every surface is covered with dust. So today I took it next door where it will be dust-free, until my house is fixed, and then until the Oscars calls. Or perhaps, more realistically, until my 70th birthday, which will be a picnic in the garden. Perhaps I will wear the Balenciaga then.
Can you imagine the person who gave this ballgown to Goodwill?
Last night, I managed to tidy the living room and my home class gathered. Normally I'd be preparing for the term to begin at Ryerson and U of T, but this term, nyet. So it was wonderful to gear up my editing/coaching chops for a class of dear friends and colleagues.
My God, that sun feels good.
Here is JM explaining the many charts he has posted on every wall:
And yes, this is more men in my bedroom than have been there for many years.Today, a surreal moment - I asked my neighbour Monique if she would keep my ballgown safe. Years ago, in a transcendent moment I'll never forget, I found a Balenciaga ballgown at Goodwill. It cost $18.50, and it's magnificent, simply and beautifully cut in heavy maroon silk with a long train and a huge detachable bow at the back. It fits me nearly perfectly - a bit big. The occasions to wear a Balenciaga ballgown are few, and so I have never worn it. And now, there is absolutely nowhere safe in my house to keep it; every closet is jammed, and every surface is covered with dust. So today I took it next door where it will be dust-free, until my house is fixed, and then until the Oscars calls. Or perhaps, more realistically, until my 70th birthday, which will be a picnic in the garden. Perhaps I will wear the Balenciaga then.
Can you imagine the person who gave this ballgown to Goodwill?
Last night, I managed to tidy the living room and my home class gathered. Normally I'd be preparing for the term to begin at Ryerson and U of T, but this term, nyet. So it was wonderful to gear up my editing/coaching chops for a class of dear friends and colleagues.
My God, that sun feels good.
