Beth Kaplan's Blog, page 126
May 21, 2018
"She Loves You" at Miles Nadal Thursday May 24
Reminder: my talk is this week! There will be music and video and me yammering about being there at the beginning and loving right through to now. Paul McCartney and peanut butter - outside of my family, the two great longterm loves of my life.
the sweetness of the garden and yet another T@#$#mp rant
Body aches, top to toe, but especially the legs, after two solid days of gardening. My haunches, knees, arms - all hurt. It's delicious. All in aid of the miracle called the garden.
Where I am right now, drinking a cold beer and meaning to read - am plowing through Leslie Jamison's book of essays "The Empathy Exams," and what a powerful, interesting writer she is. But I keep getting up to go check on things, clip a little more here and there, despite my aches and pains.
Yesterday, John and I staked the raspberries and I gave them a talking-to: if they don't produce substantial fruit this year, they're outta here. Hours of pruning and staking the whole garden, filling two garbage cans with clippings.
Today, I planted the deck boxes: two types of lettuce, two types of basil and chives, some parsley and dill, and fertilized the gardenia which is ready to bloom, the jasmine, diplodenia, geraniums - all spent the winter in my office and are glad to be released. My new garden helper Richard did the veg garden: eggplant, kale, cukes, cherry tomatoes. Beans and maybe spinach to follow. And then two planter boxes of impatiens, for colour in dark corners.
I do not think of myself as a gardener. I don't know theory - as I don't know music theory either, come to think of it. But somehow, this nourishing, heavenly place keeps going, year after year. A young man from the Kim's plant store on the corner helped me home with heavy bags of fertilizer the other day. We walked through the condo courtyard and up the stairs to the garden door. When he stepped inside, he stopped and blinked. "Wow," he said. "Wow."
It's just not what you expect in the inner city - the length of it, the quiet, the greenness.
Wayson did come yesterday, and so did Sam; he grilled us a meal on the barbie, salmon, many veggies, and pears - he said grilled pears go well with salmon, and we happily took his word for it. Then we watched the end of the "Little Women" series, where I got to weep at the death of Beth all over again - first did so in 1960. Unlike every one of my artsy friends, I did not want to be Jo, the rebel who grew up to be a writer. I wanted to be sweet, loving, self-sacrificial, beautifully dead, and much missed Beth.
Today I took my aching bod to the Y, to sit in the hot tub and the sauna. On the way, I noticed how rude people are, even on a blissfully tranquil national holiday - horns honking, people swearing, not the staid Toronto we used to know. And as ever, I blame Trump for the increasingly rude nastiness of the entire planet. Imagine - people see that you can be an unabashed crook, a despicable human being without a shred of decency or honesty or even sense, and yet not only wheel and deal successfully but assume the most powerful office on earth. Why should we continue to obey social rules, when he has flaunted them all and been rewarded for it?
More beer.
Where I am right now, drinking a cold beer and meaning to read - am plowing through Leslie Jamison's book of essays "The Empathy Exams," and what a powerful, interesting writer she is. But I keep getting up to go check on things, clip a little more here and there, despite my aches and pains.
Yesterday, John and I staked the raspberries and I gave them a talking-to: if they don't produce substantial fruit this year, they're outta here. Hours of pruning and staking the whole garden, filling two garbage cans with clippings.
Today, I planted the deck boxes: two types of lettuce, two types of basil and chives, some parsley and dill, and fertilized the gardenia which is ready to bloom, the jasmine, diplodenia, geraniums - all spent the winter in my office and are glad to be released. My new garden helper Richard did the veg garden: eggplant, kale, cukes, cherry tomatoes. Beans and maybe spinach to follow. And then two planter boxes of impatiens, for colour in dark corners.
I do not think of myself as a gardener. I don't know theory - as I don't know music theory either, come to think of it. But somehow, this nourishing, heavenly place keeps going, year after year. A young man from the Kim's plant store on the corner helped me home with heavy bags of fertilizer the other day. We walked through the condo courtyard and up the stairs to the garden door. When he stepped inside, he stopped and blinked. "Wow," he said. "Wow."
It's just not what you expect in the inner city - the length of it, the quiet, the greenness.
Wayson did come yesterday, and so did Sam; he grilled us a meal on the barbie, salmon, many veggies, and pears - he said grilled pears go well with salmon, and we happily took his word for it. Then we watched the end of the "Little Women" series, where I got to weep at the death of Beth all over again - first did so in 1960. Unlike every one of my artsy friends, I did not want to be Jo, the rebel who grew up to be a writer. I wanted to be sweet, loving, self-sacrificial, beautifully dead, and much missed Beth.
Today I took my aching bod to the Y, to sit in the hot tub and the sauna. On the way, I noticed how rude people are, even on a blissfully tranquil national holiday - horns honking, people swearing, not the staid Toronto we used to know. And as ever, I blame Trump for the increasingly rude nastiness of the entire planet. Imagine - people see that you can be an unabashed crook, a despicable human being without a shred of decency or honesty or even sense, and yet not only wheel and deal successfully but assume the most powerful office on earth. Why should we continue to obey social rules, when he has flaunted them all and been rewarded for it?
More beer.
May 20, 2018
the man with the bag of books
It's the middle of a long quiet Victoria Day weekend - drizzly yesterday, mild and sunny today. Just spent an hour pruning, then I'll do the soil, and then, today or tomorrow, planting. My new basement tenant, a young man from Quebec, moved in yesterday, and there were visitors. My doorbell rang; a big man, a stranger, was at the door. When I opened it, I saw he had a big bag of books. I assumed they were his and started thanking him.
"I'm a garbageman," he said, "an industrial garbageman, and I found these. I think it's criminal to throw books away, so I brought them to you."
I have renewed faith in humanity. Thanks to this kind man, the Little Free Library is full of nearly new books. Can you imagine the person who threw them away? It's just unthinkable. The activity at the library is ceaseless - including at least one person who, I suspect, regularly takes out every book., who knows why? But then it gradually - or quickly, as yesterday - fills again.
I was in an emotional wedding fog much of the day, reading news reports, pleased that the bride switched to a Stella McCartney gown in the evening. Because I spent the evening working on my next week's talk about her father, the McCartneys were on my mind. And then Jean-Marc and Richard came by for a glass of wine. Richard, a protocol expert who runs every special event at City Hall, is now famous for his CTV appearances any time there's a royal event; he'd had an exhausting weekend of nearly non-stop commentary. I'm always fascinated to know what he thinks. He is fiercely defensive of the royal family, some of whom he knows well, and the most savvy man I know politically, constantly attuned to his Twitter feed. He thought Minister Curry's speech was too long and rambling, and that it was not the young couple but Prince Charles who chose most of the music. And if Richard says it, it must - almost all the time - be true.
Today, planting, sitting, reading, cooking perhaps for Wayson, perhaps my son might drop by, perhaps not. Nothing, nothing on the agenda. The air is still because the city has stopped.
Love is all you need.
"I'm a garbageman," he said, "an industrial garbageman, and I found these. I think it's criminal to throw books away, so I brought them to you."
I have renewed faith in humanity. Thanks to this kind man, the Little Free Library is full of nearly new books. Can you imagine the person who threw them away? It's just unthinkable. The activity at the library is ceaseless - including at least one person who, I suspect, regularly takes out every book., who knows why? But then it gradually - or quickly, as yesterday - fills again.
I was in an emotional wedding fog much of the day, reading news reports, pleased that the bride switched to a Stella McCartney gown in the evening. Because I spent the evening working on my next week's talk about her father, the McCartneys were on my mind. And then Jean-Marc and Richard came by for a glass of wine. Richard, a protocol expert who runs every special event at City Hall, is now famous for his CTV appearances any time there's a royal event; he'd had an exhausting weekend of nearly non-stop commentary. I'm always fascinated to know what he thinks. He is fiercely defensive of the royal family, some of whom he knows well, and the most savvy man I know politically, constantly attuned to his Twitter feed. He thought Minister Curry's speech was too long and rambling, and that it was not the young couple but Prince Charles who chose most of the music. And if Richard says it, it must - almost all the time - be true.
Today, planting, sitting, reading, cooking perhaps for Wayson, perhaps my son might drop by, perhaps not. Nothing, nothing on the agenda. The air is still because the city has stopped.
Love is all you need.
May 19, 2018
okay, yes, I watched it
By complete chance, I woke at 6.45 a.m. and at 7.15 was in the kitchen drinking coffee. And I thought, oh well, I guess I'll find out about the wedding. I thought it would be over. So I checked the computer and THERE IT WAS, still going on. I came in just as Reverend Curry was finishing his sermon, and I thought, I'm in the wrong place, what is this?? It was amazing, shockingly direct and casual in such a formal place. And then after the vows, a black choir sang a beautiful rendition of Stand by Me, a black cellist played, and it was not at all what I - the world - was expecting.
I turned on the TV and watched till they drove out of sight in their landau, the horses freaking out at the noise, that gorgeous young woman with her bright natural smile that did not fade, that nice young man who looks not unlike another nice young reddish-haired man the same age and closely related to me. Despite my complete indifference to this occasion, I fell under the spell. They do these things well, the Brits, up to and including the weather, the perfect day. The absurd hats, the stuffy royals, and there, with tears in her eyes, was a divorced African-American woman of great dignity, the bride's mother. They all won me over.
The only negative, for me, was that the camera angle kept showing the bride's friends, foremost among them Ben Mulroney, son of an unfortunate Canadian prime minister. Otherwise, it was beautiful to watch, an absurd fairytale brought to theatrical life. Call me a sucker, but there was a tear or two, remembering my own wedding day. Which was in the Vancouver registry office two weeks after the birth of our daughter, attended by the sleeping baby in a borrowed christening robe along with my mother and a dear friend, and that's all. So - not quite the same. But the love and the hope were the same.
This morning, to the plant store on the corner, usually extremely crowded on the May 24 weekend - today, in the rain, empty. I bought basil, lettuce, cherry tomatoes, chives (mine died this winter), parsley, eggplant (trying again), cukes and more. TO LIFE!
'I'm ready for a drink now': What Harry said to Meghan (according to a lip reader). As the carriage pulled away from the crowds into the gated grounds of Windsor Castle, Ms Markle seemed to be in awe of the scenes, lifting her hand to her chest and saying "wow". Harry also seemed to need some help... according to lip reader Tina Lannin, he said to his bride: "I'm ready for a drink now."My kind of guy.
"Dr. King was right. We must discover love. The redemptive power of love and when we do that, we will make of this old world a new world. My brother, my sister, god love you, god bless you, and may god hold us all in those almighty hands of love."
I turned on the TV and watched till they drove out of sight in their landau, the horses freaking out at the noise, that gorgeous young woman with her bright natural smile that did not fade, that nice young man who looks not unlike another nice young reddish-haired man the same age and closely related to me. Despite my complete indifference to this occasion, I fell under the spell. They do these things well, the Brits, up to and including the weather, the perfect day. The absurd hats, the stuffy royals, and there, with tears in her eyes, was a divorced African-American woman of great dignity, the bride's mother. They all won me over.
The only negative, for me, was that the camera angle kept showing the bride's friends, foremost among them Ben Mulroney, son of an unfortunate Canadian prime minister. Otherwise, it was beautiful to watch, an absurd fairytale brought to theatrical life. Call me a sucker, but there was a tear or two, remembering my own wedding day. Which was in the Vancouver registry office two weeks after the birth of our daughter, attended by the sleeping baby in a borrowed christening robe along with my mother and a dear friend, and that's all. So - not quite the same. But the love and the hope were the same.
This morning, to the plant store on the corner, usually extremely crowded on the May 24 weekend - today, in the rain, empty. I bought basil, lettuce, cherry tomatoes, chives (mine died this winter), parsley, eggplant (trying again), cukes and more. TO LIFE!
'I'm ready for a drink now': What Harry said to Meghan (according to a lip reader). As the carriage pulled away from the crowds into the gated grounds of Windsor Castle, Ms Markle seemed to be in awe of the scenes, lifting her hand to her chest and saying "wow". Harry also seemed to need some help... according to lip reader Tina Lannin, he said to his bride: "I'm ready for a drink now."My kind of guy.
"Dr. King was right. We must discover love. The redemptive power of love and when we do that, we will make of this old world a new world. My brother, my sister, god love you, god bless you, and may god hold us all in those almighty hands of love."
May 18, 2018
Now we are six
Often, to get to my daughter's across town, I cycle south to King Street, lock up the bike, and get the King streetcar. I did that this morning at 11.30, on my way to help her prepare for Eli's sixth birthday party. At 7.45 p.m., as I hauled my bones off the streetcar and unlocked my bike, I was about to moan about how tiring it is to go all that way. And then I thought of my friends Lynn and Denis, who recently were needed to babysit three of their grandchildren for a week, and to do so, they had to fly to Nairobi.
A long streetcar ride I can take.
Anna the event producer, as usual, whipped up a phenomenal extravaganza for a ridiculous number of children - maybe 15, ranging from about 9 to Ben at 2. She had huge plates of snacks ready, and, most importantly, buckets of water and sponges to wash the car, their favourite pastime, and chalk paint to paint the pavement and then each other. There was mud and so much noise, it was beyond deafening. Then they found Eli's extensive gun collection and there was war, racing about shooting, pew pew! And spying and rushing up and down the slide and jumping in the mud (Ben). There was teasing about Eli's "girlfriend" Stacey, who is lovely and who scolds him in a voice just like his mother's - "Elijah!" I thought, it's a good sign he's choosing so well, at just six. I heard another girl, when asked if she had a boyfriend, say, "It's not legal for me to have a boyfriend. I'm only eight."
Right on, sister.
At one point, one muddy savage with a huge green and red water gun rushed by shouting, "Let's kill the pig!" At least, I think that's what he said, and I thought, It's getting a little too Lord of the Flies out here. But no, the most amazingly good time was had by all. The downstairs neighbour appeared with superhero capes and ninja headbands he had made out of old t-shirts. After the snacks Thomas grilled piles of hot dogs and hamburgers, and then, best of all, CAKE. The only time they were still - five minutes of devouring cake. And then on their feet and all over the place.
In the midst of this, my daughter finds time to help a small person find something she's lost, help another choose something to eat when he doesn't like what he sees - I don't know how she keeps her calm, but she sails serenely through. The adults were provided with a crockpot of delicious pulled pork and a mere six salads.
I am in awe.
I abandoned ship and rode home, exhausted, on the streetcar, looking out at my city on a Friday night, marvelling at the cultures on display - people from every country on earth strolling the downtown streets. Especially thrilling, the mixed couples producing the cappucino babies who will save the world.
On Wednesday, after teaching, I went to a neighbourhood party featuring oysters from the MW fish shop on Parliament Street. Mark the owner was there to shuck and give us much oyster lore. There was also lobster and other goodness from the sea. So, with 3 classes and beginning to get the garden underway, it's been a busy week. I'm bushed.
But at least it didn't require flying to Nairobi.
PS. Thank God, that @#$#@ wedding will soon be over. Let's talk about something else, for God's sake.
A long streetcar ride I can take.
Anna the event producer, as usual, whipped up a phenomenal extravaganza for a ridiculous number of children - maybe 15, ranging from about 9 to Ben at 2. She had huge plates of snacks ready, and, most importantly, buckets of water and sponges to wash the car, their favourite pastime, and chalk paint to paint the pavement and then each other. There was mud and so much noise, it was beyond deafening. Then they found Eli's extensive gun collection and there was war, racing about shooting, pew pew! And spying and rushing up and down the slide and jumping in the mud (Ben). There was teasing about Eli's "girlfriend" Stacey, who is lovely and who scolds him in a voice just like his mother's - "Elijah!" I thought, it's a good sign he's choosing so well, at just six. I heard another girl, when asked if she had a boyfriend, say, "It's not legal for me to have a boyfriend. I'm only eight."
Right on, sister.
At one point, one muddy savage with a huge green and red water gun rushed by shouting, "Let's kill the pig!" At least, I think that's what he said, and I thought, It's getting a little too Lord of the Flies out here. But no, the most amazingly good time was had by all. The downstairs neighbour appeared with superhero capes and ninja headbands he had made out of old t-shirts. After the snacks Thomas grilled piles of hot dogs and hamburgers, and then, best of all, CAKE. The only time they were still - five minutes of devouring cake. And then on their feet and all over the place.
In the midst of this, my daughter finds time to help a small person find something she's lost, help another choose something to eat when he doesn't like what he sees - I don't know how she keeps her calm, but she sails serenely through. The adults were provided with a crockpot of delicious pulled pork and a mere six salads.
I am in awe.
I abandoned ship and rode home, exhausted, on the streetcar, looking out at my city on a Friday night, marvelling at the cultures on display - people from every country on earth strolling the downtown streets. Especially thrilling, the mixed couples producing the cappucino babies who will save the world.On Wednesday, after teaching, I went to a neighbourhood party featuring oysters from the MW fish shop on Parliament Street. Mark the owner was there to shuck and give us much oyster lore. There was also lobster and other goodness from the sea. So, with 3 classes and beginning to get the garden underway, it's been a busy week. I'm bushed.
But at least it didn't require flying to Nairobi.
PS. Thank God, that @#$#@ wedding will soon be over. Let's talk about something else, for God's sake.
May 15, 2018
horror in the news
Heartbreaking. Our planet is in flames. The vicious and unnecessary provocation going on in Jerusalem right now is appalling, and the result, the anger of the Palestinians and the violence of the Israeli forces, devastating. Every day, you think that Trump cannot sink any lower, that he has gone as low as he can go. But he keeps surprising. 55 dead at last count, 2500 wounded so far, thanks to his incendiary decision. Not a single Israeli hurt.
My daughter told me she's ashamed of her 1/4 Jewish blood, and I had to remind her, it's not Jews who are the enemy here, it's the state of Israel, more specifically, Israel's far right leaders; plenty of Jews are as affronted as we are. Later, I Skyped with an old friend whose sister-in-law is Palestinian; her parents were exiled and lost their home in 1948 when the Israelis arrived in their village and threw them out. And yes, they hate, not Israelis, but Jews. My friend said recently she was visiting during a festive event, and children were letting balloons loose into the sky. She asked where the balloons were going. The children had fanciful answers, and then one small child said, They're flying to Israel, to kill Jews.
How fundamental that hatred is on both sides, how intractable. In what universe did they think in 1948 that throwing an entire people off their land was a good idea? That there would not be repercussions for decades if not forever? Now, as a result of Trump's embassy, there will be fresh waves of terrorism and violence. To tell you the truth, I feel violent myself. I'd throw rocks if I were there. And get shot.
And all this is going on while spring is blossoming in the most beautiful way, so glorious, the fresh greenness of it all, the scent of life opening up - it's hard to be gloomy with such beauty. And yet it's also hard to be cheerful when so much is going so very wrong all around us.
However, one sight always cheers me up:
They came to visit today and we went to the farm. They love spring too. We saw lambs, kids, even 3 baby turkeys. Or gobblegobbles, as Ben calls them.
May some semblance of sanity return, please God. May the electorate learn the facts and begin to make informed decisions. May my grandsons grow up in a world where there is at least a shred of hope for peace.
My daughter told me she's ashamed of her 1/4 Jewish blood, and I had to remind her, it's not Jews who are the enemy here, it's the state of Israel, more specifically, Israel's far right leaders; plenty of Jews are as affronted as we are. Later, I Skyped with an old friend whose sister-in-law is Palestinian; her parents were exiled and lost their home in 1948 when the Israelis arrived in their village and threw them out. And yes, they hate, not Israelis, but Jews. My friend said recently she was visiting during a festive event, and children were letting balloons loose into the sky. She asked where the balloons were going. The children had fanciful answers, and then one small child said, They're flying to Israel, to kill Jews.
How fundamental that hatred is on both sides, how intractable. In what universe did they think in 1948 that throwing an entire people off their land was a good idea? That there would not be repercussions for decades if not forever? Now, as a result of Trump's embassy, there will be fresh waves of terrorism and violence. To tell you the truth, I feel violent myself. I'd throw rocks if I were there. And get shot.
And all this is going on while spring is blossoming in the most beautiful way, so glorious, the fresh greenness of it all, the scent of life opening up - it's hard to be gloomy with such beauty. And yet it's also hard to be cheerful when so much is going so very wrong all around us.
However, one sight always cheers me up:
They came to visit today and we went to the farm. They love spring too. We saw lambs, kids, even 3 baby turkeys. Or gobblegobbles, as Ben calls them.May some semblance of sanity return, please God. May the electorate learn the facts and begin to make informed decisions. May my grandsons grow up in a world where there is at least a shred of hope for peace.
May 13, 2018
the superb "Sutra" - and mothers
My beautiful mum in early 1985, at 61: musical, generous, and soft, also manipulative, difficult, and demanding. Thank God for mothers, so writers always have something to write about.
And thank God for little boys. Just because.
Spent the day on the playground with them yesterday while their mother signed up her soccer team. Constant motion and activity, and with Ben, constant talking and questions. Glammglammaglammaglamma! He's obsessed with transit: busses, subways, trains, trucks, and best of all, streetcars. And also with his uncle Sam, who played foozball with his nephews at his restaurant last night, while we waited for a grand repast.
And then I dashed off, through the choked madness of downtown after a Blue Jays game, to see "Sutra," a dance event featuring 19 Buddhist monks flinging their bodies about on top of 16 huge rectangular boxes. Haunting images - the boxes like coffins, piled like Stonehenge, lined up like sentry boxes, stacked again like shelves for bodies, reminiscent of concentration camps - and the men, all phenomenal at kung fu as part of their religious practice, like Olympic gymnasts mixed with daring parcour kids, doing flips and leaps - amazing.
And now - happy day to all of you who are mothers and all who had mothers. The sun is shining. I'm going out for a bike ride.
And thank God for little boys. Just because.
Spent the day on the playground with them yesterday while their mother signed up her soccer team. Constant motion and activity, and with Ben, constant talking and questions. Glammglammaglammaglamma! He's obsessed with transit: busses, subways, trains, trucks, and best of all, streetcars. And also with his uncle Sam, who played foozball with his nephews at his restaurant last night, while we waited for a grand repast.
And then I dashed off, through the choked madness of downtown after a Blue Jays game, to see "Sutra," a dance event featuring 19 Buddhist monks flinging their bodies about on top of 16 huge rectangular boxes. Haunting images - the boxes like coffins, piled like Stonehenge, lined up like sentry boxes, stacked again like shelves for bodies, reminiscent of concentration camps - and the men, all phenomenal at kung fu as part of their religious practice, like Olympic gymnasts mixed with daring parcour kids, doing flips and leaps - amazing.And now - happy day to all of you who are mothers and all who had mothers. The sun is shining. I'm going out for a bike ride.
May 12, 2018
Beth analyzes her one and only flaw
A grey drizzly sky this morning but lush green below, lilac tightly closed but getting ready, daffs and tulips nodding, birds rushing about with grass in their beaks - sat in my office yesterday watching sparrows nesting in my downspout. Anna has volunteered to be a soccer coach; today is "Meet the Coach" so I'm going across town to keep Ben busy while she meets her charges. We FaceTimed this morning, Eli telling me about Monopoly with his dad, Ben shouting Glamma glamma glamma! until he got his turn, to exclaim that his dad's cup fell down this morning and made a mess. Everything is exciting to Ben. We are spending the day together, and then all of them and I are going to Sam's restaurant for an early Mother's Day dinner. My celebration today, so Anna can enjoy her celebration tomorrow.
Yesterday, went to see my dear bank manager, who has just become a father at the age of 52, about how I'll pay for the renovation and my next year's salary-less sabbatical. He showed me how we'll manage and then showed me many pictures of his 3-month old daughter. He is very in love. I know how he feels.
So - I mentioned a few days ago that I'd tell you what the CNFC conference taught me about my own work. The irony is that as a writing teacher, I've been saying "Show don't tell" to my students for decades, yet not doing it well myself, at least, in this latest memoir. I already knew that:
- I'm an analytical person, most comfortable standing at a distance, commenting, teaching, expounding, pointing out, rather than plunging into vivid scenes.
- Scenes are hard to write, said Dinty Moore, no wonder we avoid them. And it's true. Scenes usually require dialogue, at which I am extremely bad. I try to listen hard and remember what people say, their rhythms and vocabulary, and forget. My attempts at dialogue, to me, feel clunky and inauthentic. So I avoid it.
- Sensory detail, said Dinty, pulls people into the scene. Something I say all the time to my students, and yet, again, am not good at writing in my own books.
But at the conference I realized - I myself have a poor sense of smell, and I don't have a particularly acute sense of taste either, at least, unless I force myself to concentrate on what's in my mouth. So I thought - no wonder my books don't have much sensory detail, when I don't have much myself.
But here's the key - I realized that my impatience, which has always been a flaw, gets in my way in both life and work. As a writer, I rush into the story and then don't take the time to slow down and unpack - that is, to go deeper, to ponder and explore, to bring the scenes, bit by bit, to life. And I don't do that much in life either. I've always wondered why I don't know the names of trees, why I often don't know the words of pop songs I love, don't even know which wines I really like and why - and I think it's because I'm in a hurry, not stopping to - yes - smell the roses, learn the names, focus on tastes, really listen.
I'm not beating myself up over this, it's just the way I've always been. People exclaim about how much I do, and it's because I'm always doing two or three things at once. I eat reading the newspaper, and taste is the last thing on my mind. I listen to music doing something else. I have a great deal to do running a complicated, busy life, and many things get done in an efficient manner. But there's a depth of experience missing.
Not bad for a writing conference, eh?
So somehow, at the age of 67, I need to learn to slow down, not just for my life but for my work. Slow down and go deep. To really taste and feel and see, to touch and listen and smell for the first time. I don't know how to do this, how to change a lifetime's speedy way of being. But at least I know what I need to change.
Thank you, Dinty Moore, for your wise and powerful words, and to the conference itself, for so much stimulation.
If one day soon you see a grey-haired writer looking like Ferdinand the peaceful bull, sitting in a field gazing at the flowers and sky, I hope that'll be me. If I'm trying to read a newspaper at the same time, please, take it away.
Yesterday, went to see my dear bank manager, who has just become a father at the age of 52, about how I'll pay for the renovation and my next year's salary-less sabbatical. He showed me how we'll manage and then showed me many pictures of his 3-month old daughter. He is very in love. I know how he feels.
So - I mentioned a few days ago that I'd tell you what the CNFC conference taught me about my own work. The irony is that as a writing teacher, I've been saying "Show don't tell" to my students for decades, yet not doing it well myself, at least, in this latest memoir. I already knew that:
- I'm an analytical person, most comfortable standing at a distance, commenting, teaching, expounding, pointing out, rather than plunging into vivid scenes.
- Scenes are hard to write, said Dinty Moore, no wonder we avoid them. And it's true. Scenes usually require dialogue, at which I am extremely bad. I try to listen hard and remember what people say, their rhythms and vocabulary, and forget. My attempts at dialogue, to me, feel clunky and inauthentic. So I avoid it.
- Sensory detail, said Dinty, pulls people into the scene. Something I say all the time to my students, and yet, again, am not good at writing in my own books.
But at the conference I realized - I myself have a poor sense of smell, and I don't have a particularly acute sense of taste either, at least, unless I force myself to concentrate on what's in my mouth. So I thought - no wonder my books don't have much sensory detail, when I don't have much myself.
But here's the key - I realized that my impatience, which has always been a flaw, gets in my way in both life and work. As a writer, I rush into the story and then don't take the time to slow down and unpack - that is, to go deeper, to ponder and explore, to bring the scenes, bit by bit, to life. And I don't do that much in life either. I've always wondered why I don't know the names of trees, why I often don't know the words of pop songs I love, don't even know which wines I really like and why - and I think it's because I'm in a hurry, not stopping to - yes - smell the roses, learn the names, focus on tastes, really listen.
I'm not beating myself up over this, it's just the way I've always been. People exclaim about how much I do, and it's because I'm always doing two or three things at once. I eat reading the newspaper, and taste is the last thing on my mind. I listen to music doing something else. I have a great deal to do running a complicated, busy life, and many things get done in an efficient manner. But there's a depth of experience missing.
Not bad for a writing conference, eh?
So somehow, at the age of 67, I need to learn to slow down, not just for my life but for my work. Slow down and go deep. To really taste and feel and see, to touch and listen and smell for the first time. I don't know how to do this, how to change a lifetime's speedy way of being. But at least I know what I need to change.
Thank you, Dinty Moore, for your wise and powerful words, and to the conference itself, for so much stimulation.
If one day soon you see a grey-haired writer looking like Ferdinand the peaceful bull, sitting in a field gazing at the flowers and sky, I hope that'll be me. If I'm trying to read a newspaper at the same time, please, take it away.
May 10, 2018
Confessions of a Lifelong Beatlemaniac May 24
My Macca has received another award from Her Majesty:
This is what 76 looks like when you live a good life. (Some of us are thrilled he's finally allowing his rich brown locks to go grey. Looks great on you, Paul. Onward.)
Loving daughter Stella tweeted:
Stella McCartneyVerified account @StellaMcCartney May 4
MoreDad, a proud daughter on every level. What you have achieved as a creative soul on this earth has inspired so many millions and touches your baby girls heart with love and hope. Love is all you need and you got it from all your family today... x Stella
And what I have to say is this:
If you are in need of a major Beatles infusion in your life, and you KNOW you are, then please consider attending this event. A good time guaranteed!
This is what 76 looks like when you live a good life. (Some of us are thrilled he's finally allowing his rich brown locks to go grey. Looks great on you, Paul. Onward.)Loving daughter Stella tweeted:
Stella McCartneyVerified account @StellaMcCartney May 4
MoreDad, a proud daughter on every level. What you have achieved as a creative soul on this earth has inspired so many millions and touches your baby girls heart with love and hope. Love is all you need and you got it from all your family today... x Stella
And what I have to say is this:
If you are in need of a major Beatles infusion in your life, and you KNOW you are, then please consider attending this event. A good time guaranteed!
May 8, 2018
Lee Maracle: walking everyone home
Sitting on the deck, sheltered from the late afternoon sun by the umbrella, thinking, This is why we have gardens, for days like today, when the growth, the vivid green, the sudden appearance of buds and flowers and shoots, is astounding. From grey-brown to bursting with verdant life overnight - miraculous.
Not perfection in the garden - renovation season has begun, and the people next door are doing something noisy to their walls (when they were drilling on our linked wall inside, one of my wine glasses fell off its holder and smashed - thus the reality of semi-detached houses). But still, the loudest noise, when the work next door stops, is birdsong. And the sound of nature waking up and stretching and beginning her work in earnest.
What's missing here? A non-smashed wine glass. Must go rectify that; it's 5 p.m.
The U of T class began today, the Ryerson one tomorrow; I'm back at work, have scraped my mind back from the conference to daily life, though it is still very much with me, in my bones, what was said and what happened. That conference was one of the richest experiences of my life, and you know I am not given to hyperbole. (LOL.) It was so much better than any of us expected.
Here are a few of the sentences I liked best, and next post, I'll tell you the vital truth that I learned about my own work.
"Writing the truth does more good than keeping secrets. Tell the hard truth. The reader always senses when you're holding back."
"In your first pages, what kind of world are you presenting to the reader, so they want to become your narrative voice and live in your shoes?"
"When the brain encounters action words, our vision system in the brain recreates the movement, and our motor system too. Our muscles respond to words. Using vivid description triggers something on the radar. Give them the experience, not just the language. Touch, smell, taste, hearing, sight - make their brains light up."
"Write as if you're talking to someone."
"Don't be kind."
"For your second draft, walk away and then come back and read as if you didn't write it."
Liz Renzetti: "Don't be ashamed of having a commercial impulse. Be practical. It's a job. Writers have to eat."
And so much more, that's just a taste.
But finally, I think the panel that affected us all the most was the conversation between Lee Maracle and Tanya Talaga, two wonderful indigenous writers, one an elder and one a younger reporter. Lee spoke about the horror of residential schools - "taking children from their families and from the land is an act of genocide." She said that because First Nations children were severed from their language, they were cut off from their bodies - that we native English-speakers have the use of our full bodies, but people who are separated from their native tongues, their first language, have their bodies cut in two. A powerful image. "The forever memory is in the body. You need to communicate with that body."
"When you write," she said, "you're talking to a tree. It took one small pine to make that page." And "When you write, you are looking backward and forward at the same time."
My favourite sentence of hers: "A grandmother's job is to walk everyone home. The more grandmothers you have, the more history you have. Then you can be whole."
"There are 167 nations living in this city," she said to us at the end. "You need to get over your British selves."
Will do my best with that, Lee. But in the meantime, this grandmother sure does want to help walk everyone home.
Not perfection in the garden - renovation season has begun, and the people next door are doing something noisy to their walls (when they were drilling on our linked wall inside, one of my wine glasses fell off its holder and smashed - thus the reality of semi-detached houses). But still, the loudest noise, when the work next door stops, is birdsong. And the sound of nature waking up and stretching and beginning her work in earnest.
What's missing here? A non-smashed wine glass. Must go rectify that; it's 5 p.m.The U of T class began today, the Ryerson one tomorrow; I'm back at work, have scraped my mind back from the conference to daily life, though it is still very much with me, in my bones, what was said and what happened. That conference was one of the richest experiences of my life, and you know I am not given to hyperbole. (LOL.) It was so much better than any of us expected.
Here are a few of the sentences I liked best, and next post, I'll tell you the vital truth that I learned about my own work.
"Writing the truth does more good than keeping secrets. Tell the hard truth. The reader always senses when you're holding back."
"In your first pages, what kind of world are you presenting to the reader, so they want to become your narrative voice and live in your shoes?"
"When the brain encounters action words, our vision system in the brain recreates the movement, and our motor system too. Our muscles respond to words. Using vivid description triggers something on the radar. Give them the experience, not just the language. Touch, smell, taste, hearing, sight - make their brains light up."
"Write as if you're talking to someone."
"Don't be kind."
"For your second draft, walk away and then come back and read as if you didn't write it."
Liz Renzetti: "Don't be ashamed of having a commercial impulse. Be practical. It's a job. Writers have to eat."
And so much more, that's just a taste.
But finally, I think the panel that affected us all the most was the conversation between Lee Maracle and Tanya Talaga, two wonderful indigenous writers, one an elder and one a younger reporter. Lee spoke about the horror of residential schools - "taking children from their families and from the land is an act of genocide." She said that because First Nations children were severed from their language, they were cut off from their bodies - that we native English-speakers have the use of our full bodies, but people who are separated from their native tongues, their first language, have their bodies cut in two. A powerful image. "The forever memory is in the body. You need to communicate with that body."
"When you write," she said, "you're talking to a tree. It took one small pine to make that page." And "When you write, you are looking backward and forward at the same time."
My favourite sentence of hers: "A grandmother's job is to walk everyone home. The more grandmothers you have, the more history you have. Then you can be whole."
"There are 167 nations living in this city," she said to us at the end. "You need to get over your British selves."
Will do my best with that, Lee. But in the meantime, this grandmother sure does want to help walk everyone home.
