Beth Kaplan's Blog, page 157

Book report

Today I took back to the library a wonderful book I'd barely begun: Commonwealth, by Ann Patchett. When I went to hear her talk at the library a few months ago, she said this is the most autobiographical of her books so far. So I got it out and started to read. She's a terrific writer, vivid and imaginative, and I marvelled as I read the few pages I read about the depth of her research, how she came to know all those arcane facts - the jargon of policemen in L.A., for example. And how richly she inhabits the inner lives of her characters.

But then I realized - I am just not interested in a fictionalization of her true life experience. In how a writer takes her own life and transforms it, weaves it fancifully into fiction. Life is too short; there isn't time for me to follow the made-up journey of her made-up characters, no matter how well they're written. I want to read the truth, written as the truth.

So I took it back and instead got out the two books the library was holding for me: All the single ladies, by Rebecca Traister, and So Sad Today, essays by Melissa Broder. I don't know if I'll finish these either, but they're my speed. My thing. A voice speaking directly to me, as herself, about her life and thoughts. If I don't finish these, and even if I do, I'll also finish The Hidden Life of Trees and wait for two more compilations of essays I've ordered from the library that are on their way - Upstream, by the wonderful Mary Oliver, and a Christmas book by Jeanette Winterson - plus the others below.

OUTSTANDING HOLDS TitlePositionPickup atExpiresStatusSelect All
300 reasons to love New York1 of 6Parliament Street1/12/2018ActiveFrantumaglia : a writer's journey123 of 131Parliament Street1/12/2018ActiveHot milk46 of 74Parliament Street1/12/2018ActiveThe lonely city : adventures in the art of being alone85 of 121Parliament Street11/12/2018ActiveMedical medium life-changing foods : save yourself and the ones you love with the hidden healing powers of fruits and vegetables58 of 63Parliament Street12/12/2018ActiveMoonglow100 of 334Par
Treasure, no?

Spent my morning delving into my diaries for material for my own truth. As I've written before, it's a kind of horrifying gift to be able to hear and see your own very young self so clearly. When I was 16, I was raging because I hated how my father, whom I called Generalissimo, ordered me around and was condescending and authoritarian. And then I read how, at 24, I hate the director I'm working for because he orders me around and is condescending and authoritarian.

Could it be any clearer?

Very cold and icy here. Hunkering is called for, and hunkering I shall do. With books.

Doing the dishes two Christmasses ago:
P.S. I just opened today's mail, to find that one of my oldest friends, Patsy, just sent me an article from the Guardian, "Fiction v non: an English affliction?" - about how there is no division between fiction and non-fiction,  for example, in Bosnian. In German, book are classified according to style: literary work - belles lettres - and work to convey information, fact-based. 
Why does such an arbitrary division between true and imagined matter so much to me? I don't know. But I read once a non-fiction aficionado (say that quickly!) like myself diving into a novel, reading a line like, "Charles smiled to himself as he jogged down the road," and thinking, "No he didn't! There's no Charles, no smile, no road. You made that up." And that's how I feel about fiction. Though I know there's always an element of fiction in memoir. 
This is confusing. More wine is needed.

the election, torpedoing us all

Another theory - it's the election that has upended my writing and that of many others. A great piece I just read in LitHub confirmed this. Ever since that horrible November day, I've had a sinking feeling that creative work is pointless, we're all doomed, the bad guys won, and the rest of us should give up. I won't continue to believe that, for sure. But it will take a while for the despair to wear off.

As writer Lauren Groff wrote:
I haven’t been writing well, at all. I’ve been deeply depressed, probably because you have to be a bit of a utopian to be a writer and we can hear all around us the sound of our most deeply held ideals crashing down. The narratives we used to tell ourselves in hard time have been proven false—that people are essentially good, that Americans are deeply generous, that truth matters and liars get what is coming for them, that democracy matters and the arc of history is toward progress, that morality and kindness are rewarded, that our elections are fair and un-stealable—on and on, these have all been proven wrong. When you make your living in narrative, to see that false, incoherent, deeply destructive and cynical narratives are winning out makes you feel as though your faith in the essential goodness of humans has been obliterated.

These wise words are from this article: http://lithub.com/how-writers-are-getting-back-to-work/

However! Life goes on. Wayson is here on a bitterly cold night; I made chicken stew, we ate and laughed about his memory impairment and mine; we watched Episode Eight of "The Crown," SO INCREDIBLY GOOD, and now we're about to watch, on my actual TV, the next episode of "The Hollow Crown" which stars the divine Benedict Cumberbatch. Life goes on, and realizing just how profound an impact that election had on me has been a strange kind of comfort.

In other news: Anna put a little video of Eli's first Christmas concert on-line. Five kindergarten classes all singing at the top of their lungs, and, as she points out, my grandson not participating. He sang the song to her over and over at home, but on the night, decided to keep his mouth closed. Interesting. She said he was surrounded by his best friends: Pema, Yontin, Jahzavion, and Stacy, the girl he intends to marry. How happy that list of names makes me. Except - I still need to check out Stacy.

And ... still feeling the sting from the negative comments on my teacher assessment a few weeks ago, I was very glad to receive a note from a former student whose memoir I've edited over several years. Now it's at the copy editor's, ready for publication. "You have been the best coach a tentative writer could wish for," she wrote. Okay then. Good to hear.

I have tried not to think about Aleppo - it's too unbearable. But two young people arrived at my door last night, soliciting donations. There are so many at this time of year, I was about to say a gentle no, but they were from the U.N. Refugee Association, so I couldn't wait to sign up. Not only to do my minuscule bit to help refugees, but because my mother worked for UNRA after the war. So, as we head to the anniversary of her death on Christmas Day, I hope I'm honouring her, too.

P.S. Two hours later: Just had to turn off "The Hollow Crown" - watched Henry VI, part I but not part II. It was even worse in terms of slaughter and horror than last week. The rivers of blood certainly put the slaughter in "King Lear" and "Hamlet" into perspective. Funny, that tonight we watched the modern crown and then the barbarism that led to it. Enough crowns for now, thank you very much.

Nicole Breit's advice

Lots and lots of snow. There's a particular kind of silence in a snowy Toronto - you can hardly hear the cars, the sirens, everything is muffled. Even at night, with the lights off, the house is illuminated through the windows by all that silver white. Very pretty. For now.

Gifts. Yesterday I wrote to Nicole Breit, whom I met at the Canadian Creative Non-fiction Conference at Banff this spring. She took my workshop on public speaking for writers and did a great job, and then I learned that she'd won our writing prize for this year. She has since won several other prizes - a fantastic writer, focussed, powerful, haunting.

I wrote to her yesterday after reading her interview for "Room" magazine that I posted on my writing Facebook page, Borntoblogbybethkaplan. It was inspiring, and I wanted to read the essay that won the prize. She wrote back and sent me the essay, which I can't wait to read. We also discussed writing blocks - I confessed I'm still struggling to get back to work on the memoir. She gave me a great suggestion: write down what is blocking you.

So I did. For those of you interested in the writing process of a scattered writer, here it is:

2016-12-17
Why I’m stuck
1.    Because Act One needs more intimate family material, which means figuring out what it should be, which means going back to diaries and letters to dredge up what should be included. The necessity for research paralyses me always. I look at the stack of material, don't know where to start, give up, find something else to do.
What to do about it: Give yourself a set time to go through the material – a week or two. Keep moving through the pages  – and then pick something and go with it.
2.    Because this latest round of edits makes me feel like a lousy writer. I know it doesn’t help, I always nag my students who say generic self-deprecating things like that, but when I feel this negative, it also paralyses me. I feel – as usual – that I’m shallow and hasty, rushing through, not giving the story and the writing the depth of thought it requires. So what’s the point of doing more?
Putting yourself and your work down doesn’t help anyone, certainly not you. You are who you are as a person and a writer. You have not accomplished great things but you’ve accomplished a hell of a lot more than many. Stop dwelling on defeat and get on with the work. It’s the only way forward. You’ve done so much work on this book already; people who’ve read it say they’ve enjoyed it, and that’s just an early draft. There’s great potential there. Listen to that voice, not the other.
3.    Because the work still to be done requires the unpacking of family unhappiness. That’s what’s needed to give the book context – the dysfunction that created the young woman who’s narrating, i.e. me. It’s a positive story in the end, redemptive, but it needs to start in a dark place, and I’m resisting going there.
Do your job. It’s your job to go there, because your readers can’t and don’t. What to do with what you’ve been given: write about it.
4.    Because Facebook, email, reading, Christmas, the house, the Y, reading, the family, even this blog and now Netflix and, always, reading - all these feel more important, immediate, satisfying, compelling.
Do your job. First thing after breakfast as many mornings in the week as you can. Use the pomidoro method if you need to – set the timer for 25 minutes to start. This is your key writing time, between teaching terms. Go.

Okay, let's see if that works. And if that doesn't, this might:

The Crown

Last night this old bag officially entered the 21st century - I spent the snowy evening sitting in my living room with the computer on my lap, watching Netflix. For the first time. My kids have been watching Netflix most of their lives, it seems to me, and I'm just getting to it now. And even so, it took me an hour on the phone with Rogers and then with Netflix itself before I could access anything.

But what a treat when it finally worked - two episodes of "The Crown," on my lap. This is so great, I thought, I may never read again. It was a joke, but it did scare me to realize how easy it is to be entertained that way. Reading is harder. Will we lose all readers and writers? Eli loves to look at books, but after a bit, he asks to see "a show." I usually say no, except if he has worn me out and I need a break. So at four, he knows what's easy and what's harder, and he likes easy. Can't blame him.

"The Crown" is exceptional - the one disadvantage of seeing it on such a small screen is that the sets are glorious, much more spectacular than "Downton." Amazing script, acting, everything, such a moving evocation of the youth of the world's most famous woman, an imagining of her vulnerability and learning curve, her struggle, as she says in Episode Four, to be a woman, a wife and mother, as well as a queen. That episode was centered around the deadly London Fog of 1952, which killed thousands of people. I wondered about my grandparents Percy and Marion in their little flat in Baron's Court, how they got through, stumbling to the high street in the murk to do the shopping. Wish I could ask.

A long quiet day punctuated by the Y, Doubletake, shopping on Cabbagetown's high street. Editing a student's manuscript, poking disconsolately at my own - I'm still stuck but will be back in the saddle soon, I'm sure. Tomorrow. Get to work, slug. Apparently another big storm is on its way - a great opportunity to sit your @#$#@ down and start again. @#$#@ Facebook!

I can feel a big pimple bursting out on my chin. How is it possible to be 66 years old with wrinkles and also pimples? Where is justice?

Most importantly, the day brought me this stellar bit of truth, and I share it with you. Happy weekend, everyone.

snowstorm

Supposed to be gearing up for the big U of T instructors' Christmas party - Wychwood Barns, lovely food, wine flowing, colleagues to catch up with. But there's a blizzard out there, and with the wind chill, they say it's minus 21. Here's what I'm looking at right now:
I have the feeling I'll be staying right here. I hate to miss a good party, and God knows I'm not invited to many - but trying to get northwest right now, perhaps not. A good time to hunker down.

So I'm hunkering.

Sad. No, just quiet, withdrawing. It's only 4.10, too early for wine. Only one thing will heal this savage breast: music. Either Johann Sebastian Bach or Paul McCartney, or both.

I just visited my dentist Rolf, where he and I, friends for decades, discussed getting old. "I'm not what I was," he said, this fine Quaker in his fifties. "The canoe feels heavier and the portages longer." If that's not the most Canadian thing to say, I don't know what is.

There's the cardinal! A flash of bright red through the blinding snow. A blessing. O Canada.

Greenery: Colour of the Year, 2017

Sitting here with my binoculars, watching a young sparrow hawk rest in the garden. He's perched on a fence right next to the bird feeder, and for some strange reason, there are no sparrows pecking grain nearby. He's magnificent, with a huge downy chest of brown stripy feathers and a very small head which can turn nearly 180 degrees around and sideways. It's minus one out there; I hope all those feathers keep him warm.

Great news: a student has had a Christmas piece I edited for her accepted by the Globe's Facts and Arguments. It's the perfect place to start as an essay writer - national, daily, with a nice picture. Good for you, Rita.

But - I had my teacher assessments back recently from the U of T, and was perturbed, as was my boss; usually the comments are overwhelmingly positive, but last class, some of them had complaints. Not enough feedback, they said, more critiquing. One wanted me to give a written assessment to each student of his or her progress in our eight weeks together, a little project that would take hours. Needless to say, there was some dwelling from this teacher at 3 a.m. last night, and an interesting discussion with my boss. Perhaps I have become a bit too lax with class structure. But perhaps students are expecting a bit too much. So after some fretting, I'm putting it all away.

I'm also fretting about the memoir, which is going nowhere fast right now. Any excuse not to do the work, and there are lots of excuses in the weeks before Xmas. So - in a bit of a slump in the deep freeze, not to mention more depressed every time I look at a newspaper and see the orange-faced demon. At the same time, I'm grateful for every blessing, and there are lots of those too.

Here, sent by friend and former student Jason, who first told me about the important colour pundit Leatrice Eiseman - is that not a great name? - is what we all need to know for next year. Sorry, the ends of the sentence are cut off, but I hope you get the gist. And now, off to have my hair cut. THAT will certainly perk me up.
When the question of what will define 2017 comes up, the response most often includes words like “Trump” and “populism” and “division” and “anger.” “Green” — not so much.Yet if you believe the team at the Pantone Color Institute, which calls itself the “global color authority,” green will be everywhere in 2017. Not just any old green, of course: Pantone 15-0343, colloquially known as greenery, which is to say a “yellow-green shade that evokes the first days of spring."
Photo
“Greenery,” which is Pantone’s Color of the Year for 2017. (It’s also known as Pantone 15-0343.)
That is, the Color of the Year for 2017.Because, though you may not realize it, it turns out that green has everything to do with all of those other things. Not literally. (Despite the fact that President-elect Donald J. Trump clearly loves green, at least when it comes to dollars, he rarely wears it, and it doesn’t figure much in his decorating sense or what we know of his diet.) But emotionally and imaginatively.“We know what kind of world we are living in: one that is very stressful and very tense,“ said Leatrice Eiseman, the executive director of the Pantone Color Institute. “This is the color of hopefulness, and of our connection to nature. It speaks to what we call the ‘re’ words: regenerate, refresh, revitalize, renew. Every spring we enter a new cycle and new shoots come from the ground. It is something life affirming to look forward to.”In other words, if 2016 was your annus horribilis, as 1992 was for Queen Elizabeth II, whether because of elections or market forces or because you were suckered by fake news on Facebook, this suggests the possibility of something different in 2017. It contains within it the promise that we can all start afresh, with a healthier attitude unfurling like a pea shoot and our feet firmly planted on the earth, as opposed to that isolated, alienating place known as cyberspace.

The Hollow Crown and Trump's America

I guess we're all in the same boat these days, except for those who voted for him - waiting, with revulsion and disbelief, for the next outrage to hit the headlines. Will we grow tired of being outraged and just not notice any more? I wonder about the young idealists, how are they coping with the horror of this man and his heedless, conscienceless, moral-free ways, will they give up on us? I wake in the night and think about that. About the fact that the election showed, though deep down we all knew, that human beings are violent, cruel, narrow-minded, irrational, vindictive, deadly. As the hero of the new Harry Potter movie says when he arrives in New York, paraphrased: Here I am, surrounded by millions of the most destructive animal on earth - man.

However. There is goodness and kindness too, even as winter descends and encases us all in snow and ice. There is shovelling; I shovel sometimes for my neighbour and he shovels for me. Great journalists continue their vital work; the Toronto Star is leading a campaign for greater road safety including reduced speed limits, yes! This morning, I sat drinking my coffee looking out at the snowscape of the garden, and there at the feeder, surrounded by sparrows and finches, was a cardinal, cherry red, a welcome flash of colour in the white and grey landscape. How much joy they bring, the birds at the feeder, as they chatter and peck.

Saturday I spent with Eli while his mother took care of his baby brother who was sick. I have to up my game, though; he wants to play soccer almost all the time, while I want to sit and read books. We found a compromise - after reading a book about exotic animals, I Googled some of them and we read and watched videos online. Aardvarks, what an amazing armoured beast. Anteaters. So much to learn!

Speaking of armour, on Sunday night I watched The Hollow Crown, BBC's stunning streamlined Shakespeare, last night a version of Henry VI, with two more to come on subsequent Sundays including Benedict Cumberbatch as Richard III, be still my beating heart. A starry cast, of course, including the Earl of Grantham, Downton's Hugh Bonneville, as the hapless, honest, doomed Gloucester. I confess I could hardly watch, it was so violent - I turned the sound or even the picture off several times. Could not watch Joan being burned and the various bloody battles. Almost everyone in the story is horrible, venal, plotting, conscienceless, greedy. Which brings me right back to where I started - Trumpland, Britain in the 1400's - not that different. Man.

Here's a cogent explanation of how we got to this dismal pass: neoliberalism. Worth your time.
https://www.theguardian.com/books/2016/apr/15/neoliberalism-ideology-problem-george-monbiot

Before that, I watched a colourized version of the Dick Van Dyke Show from the Sixties. Such good writing, acting, production - what a treat for now, since I didn't watch it back then. Almost everyone involved, I could not help but notice, except the two stars, was Jewish. Way to go, chosen people. This year, Hanukah and Christmas come at almost the same time; I'll be lighting the menorah as we sing Silent Night. You can never have too many religions up your sleeve.

Mystical Landscapes and London Road - double wow!

It was one of those days when I'm especially grateful to live in this great city - going from one cultural and social event to another, all day long. This morning, to the Art Gallery of Ontario for the Mystical Landscapes exhibition, about spirituality in art, done in conjunction with the Musee d'Orsay in Paris where it'll go next. What an honour to have myriad masterpieces by Van Gogh, Monet, Gaugin and many others just down the road. Breathtaking. And in the midst of all those French impressionists, the Group of Seven and, even better, our Emily Carr. What a groundbreaking artist she was, camping alone in the coastal forests, communing with First Nations villages, producing a stream of extraordinary and visionary work. No photos allowed, so you'll have to Google to see for yourself.

After going through, I had a cappuccino in the airy canoe-shaped space on the north end, and then wandered through other galleries, where almost every painting, suddenly, had a spiritual dimension and could have been in the exhibition. Soul-stirring.

North to have lunch with Anne-Marie, one of my dearest friends, who works with the Jesuit Forum and is bound up with social issues around the world. I was surprised and glad that she, too, is ambivalent about the Kinder Morgan pipeline - of course against tankers and oil, yet aware that Trudeau needs to be realistic about all the citizens of the country. She is moved and impressed by him. And by her Pope.

Further north to meet a couple who own a compact apartment in Paris which they rent to friends and, luckily for me, friends of friends. And if all works out, they will rent the place to me, not next year because they'll be there, but in April of 2018. It's on the right bank near the Rue des Martyrs which recently, in a new book, was called "The only street in Paris." Sounds merveilleux to me.

Out again in the evening with Jean-Marc and Richard to see the film version of the musical play London Road, which had a fabulous production here - was it last year or the year before? Anyway, it was glorious, so when I heard it was going to be featured on National Theatre Live, I decided to see it again as a film. It's utterly brilliant, unlike anything you've ever seen - the script is entirely from transcripts made in conversation with the residents of London Road in Ipswich, who were dealing with the murder of five local prostitutes, the subsequent arrest of a neighbour and the invasion of the press. Their words were then set to extremely complex and beautiful music. It's a story of redemption, showing how a community can come together and heal, but also highlighting humanity's ghoulish curiosity and selfishness. Absolutely first rate.

When we got out, it was snowing and cold and beautiful in my town.

However, I have to confess that in the middle of all this gallivanting, I did a stupid thing. Early for lunch with Annie, I killed time - danger! - by going into David's, an expensive shoe store where I have occasionally bought a fine pair of shoes on sale. And there, on sale, was the pair of boots I needed to replace the old, battered pair I had on (the ones that had just marched through the Ottawa snowbanks). I was so glad to find them, I didn't look too closely - though I did say to the salesman, "They look so big!" and he said, "No, they're a size 10." And showed me inside - yes, it said 10. So I thought, well, nice and roomy, and bought them.

At home I can see more clearly - they're HUGE. They're not remotely a 10, more like 11 1/2, maybe 12. What was I thinking? And I left the box there! I have to go back to David's and show them my tiny little feet inside these massive boots and hope they'll refund my money. And then put on my battered boots again. What a silly woman.

But otherwise, a sublime day.

open letter to Mayor John Tory

Mayor Tory, I voted for you and I approve 100% of your plan for tolls on the DVP and other roads. A longterm Cabbagetowner, I sold my car a few years ago and get around on my bike and TTC. 

Today's Star article on the shocking number of pedestrians struck yesterday by cars - "22 pedestrians hit in city on Tuesday" - contains this absurd statement from Const. Craig Brister: “I have no idea why it’s happening,” he says. "It could be the weather, darkness ... anything."
I know why it’s happening; it’s simple. Of course the weather and careless walkers are a small part of the equation, but mostly, pedestrians and cyclists are being hit because Toronto drivers feel free to drive too fast. That’s all. I see it every single day as I make my way around the city - people speeding through red lights, down quiet streets, along busy roads. Especially now that there’s so much construction and road work, and so getting around the city is even slower and more frustrating, impatient drivers feel they have the right to zoom whenever possible. And they do. I am amazed, not at the number of people hit and even killed by drivers, but at the fact that there aren’t more.
The speed limit in the city needs to be lowered. Traffic cameras are needed to enforce regulations. Drivers need to know that they cannot speed or they will pay a penalty. If that happened - if you reduced the speed limit and made sure the limits were enforced, and drivers KNEW they were being enforced - you would solve the great mystery of pedestrian casualties. Suddenly there would be far fewer. I guarantee it. 
With best wishes,Beth Kaplan

P.S. This was just sent to me by friend Richard, a tweet from Toronto's fabulous city planner:
jennifer keesmaat (@jen_keesmaat)
2016-12-07, 8:25 PMSlowing down when driving is the #1 way to reduce pedestrian fatalities. The number one way. Pic @Visionzeronet pic.twitter.com/7FHnszjt2d

British radio interview

Did a phone interview today long-distance, with a British radio personality called Pete Mitchell who's doing a documentary on the Beatles; he'd heard of my book and wanted to ask me about seeing them in 1965 and again in '66. As you can imagine, I waxed eloquent. I also told him about listening to Sgt. Pepper's for the first time in 1967 while smoking my first joint, and how when the disc got to that grand orchestral sweep at the end, I thought I was going to blast right up through the ceiling. He loved that story. At the end, he told me he'd interviewed Paul several times and would be able to get my book to one of his people.

Not holding my breath. But having friends in high places is certainly a help.

Further to this matter, I've been asked by Lisa Roy at the Miles Nadal JCC, who I guess liked my talk about my great-grandfather, to do a talk on the Beatles, in conjunction with my book, and have agreed. There will be music and probably film clips. I can hear your excitement from here, and luckily, you'll have time to prepare, as will I: it's slotted for May or June 2018.

As always, I am overjoyed to be home. No snow in Toronto and my very own bed. Where this is what happens:
Story of my life.
And this too:
Going now to get groceries and check in with my 'hood. It's not warm out there, but it's not that cold, and it's not Ottawa. Though at the end of our visit, my aunt and I had a most moving exchange of love. This never happened when my mother was alive, as Do was completely overshadowed. So these years are a gift. It's just too bad that gift has to be given in Ottawa.
Here's your joy for the day: