Beth Kaplan's Blog, page 199
August 15, 2015
gold medals
A quiet, solitary day - it's 6.30 p.m. and I have not talked to a single person except the vendors at the market this morning. Riding home with a backpack full of peaches, strawberries, corn, ham and tomatoes, I saw a joyful sight: a large group of people, most of them in wheelchairs, which turned out to be the Colombian team for the Para-Panam games that are ending today. The thrill - that people with disabilities are being celebrated in our city. Ken's great-niece - a "little person," as he calls her, once called a dwarf - has won three gold medals in swimming! What a world.
But on the same ride home, I passed several women wearing the niqab - covered except for a slit for their eyes - and then, for the first time, a woman pushing a stroller, completely covered from head to foot, eyes included, in a floor-length black veil. The strange disconnect - our city celebrating people with disabilities, yesterday drinks with a newly-married gay couple, and here, a woman who looked like a walking black garbage bag. Of course, it's her right to wear what she wants. But I cannot see it as a positive thing that she is faceless, shrouded like a black cloud, as she walks the August streets of a big western city. I cannot.
Tonight the Para-Panam closing ceremonies - the streets are closed, much excitement downtown. There's also the Asian night market near Cherry Beach that Jean-Marc and Richard visited yesterday and came to tell me about - full of street food, fish, exotic Asian dishes including a very stinky tofu. Tomorrow there's Open Streets, several of the biggest main streets closed to cars all morning, bringing out bikes and walkers. Toronto has recently been voted by Metropolis magazine the most liveable city in the world, beating out Helsinki, Tokyo, and others. And I believe it. The richness and diversity of life here is extraordinary. And that includes women cloaked head to foot in black.
Yesterday I made my favourite summer dish, ratatouille, with my own tomatoes and a huge zucchini from my daughter's garden. Today I downloaded a yoga class and tried to do it - ye gods it was hard, I'm not as in shape as I'd thought. But mostly I sat in the garden and worked, deeply grateful to that young woman who wrote long letters to her parents in 1979 and to her mother who kept those letters. An incredible resource for a writer.
As you can see, I have given up my attempt not to write here. I need to write here. How could I not tell you these riveting things? Thank you for your patience and for your attention - and please check out friend Juliet's blog, to the left, about the possible narcissism of "lifeblogging." Here's my life: there's a scarlet cardinal on the lilac bush a few metres away, Randy Bachman's show starts at 7 and while I make dinner, I'll be dancing around the kitchen, and here's a new photo of three of my four greatest loves. It does not get better than this. Over and out, for now.
But on the same ride home, I passed several women wearing the niqab - covered except for a slit for their eyes - and then, for the first time, a woman pushing a stroller, completely covered from head to foot, eyes included, in a floor-length black veil. The strange disconnect - our city celebrating people with disabilities, yesterday drinks with a newly-married gay couple, and here, a woman who looked like a walking black garbage bag. Of course, it's her right to wear what she wants. But I cannot see it as a positive thing that she is faceless, shrouded like a black cloud, as she walks the August streets of a big western city. I cannot.
Tonight the Para-Panam closing ceremonies - the streets are closed, much excitement downtown. There's also the Asian night market near Cherry Beach that Jean-Marc and Richard visited yesterday and came to tell me about - full of street food, fish, exotic Asian dishes including a very stinky tofu. Tomorrow there's Open Streets, several of the biggest main streets closed to cars all morning, bringing out bikes and walkers. Toronto has recently been voted by Metropolis magazine the most liveable city in the world, beating out Helsinki, Tokyo, and others. And I believe it. The richness and diversity of life here is extraordinary. And that includes women cloaked head to foot in black.
Yesterday I made my favourite summer dish, ratatouille, with my own tomatoes and a huge zucchini from my daughter's garden. Today I downloaded a yoga class and tried to do it - ye gods it was hard, I'm not as in shape as I'd thought. But mostly I sat in the garden and worked, deeply grateful to that young woman who wrote long letters to her parents in 1979 and to her mother who kept those letters. An incredible resource for a writer.
As you can see, I have given up my attempt not to write here. I need to write here. How could I not tell you these riveting things? Thank you for your patience and for your attention - and please check out friend Juliet's blog, to the left, about the possible narcissism of "lifeblogging." Here's my life: there's a scarlet cardinal on the lilac bush a few metres away, Randy Bachman's show starts at 7 and while I make dinner, I'll be dancing around the kitchen, and here's a new photo of three of my four greatest loves. It does not get better than this. Over and out, for now.
August 14, 2015
The NYT takes down Harper! And I see "Amy"
So much for giving blogging a rest - two in one day today! But this is too important not to post - an article in the NYT about our vile PM and what he has done to our country. Please read it and also the comments afterward, which are nearly as good.
http://www.nytimes.com/2015/08/16/opinion/sunday/the-closing-of-the-canadian-mind.html?_r=1
I just saw a devastating film, Amy, about the life and far too early death of Amy Winehouse. It was research for me because I'm writing about my twenties, my years of sexual excess and substance abuse, so it hurt to watch this extraordinarily talented young woman, bulimic, alcoholic and sometimes drug-addicted, adrift with a callow enabler of a husband and a feckless father, starving and drinking herself to death. Her greatest support, at the end, and one of the most decent people in the film, is her bodyguard. A great tragedy, a haunting film that makes you hate conscienceless paparazzi and merciless late night comedians who have no shame. She was sweet, brilliantly talented and troubled, and dead at 27. As Tony Bennett says, sadly, in the film, "Life teaches you how to live if you can only live long enough." This beautiful soul did not.
But this beautiful soul did. My daughter once dressed as Amy for Hallowe'en.
http://www.nytimes.com/2015/08/16/opinion/sunday/the-closing-of-the-canadian-mind.html?_r=1
I just saw a devastating film, Amy, about the life and far too early death of Amy Winehouse. It was research for me because I'm writing about my twenties, my years of sexual excess and substance abuse, so it hurt to watch this extraordinarily talented young woman, bulimic, alcoholic and sometimes drug-addicted, adrift with a callow enabler of a husband and a feckless father, starving and drinking herself to death. Her greatest support, at the end, and one of the most decent people in the film, is her bodyguard. A great tragedy, a haunting film that makes you hate conscienceless paparazzi and merciless late night comedians who have no shame. She was sweet, brilliantly talented and troubled, and dead at 27. As Tony Bennett says, sadly, in the film, "Life teaches you how to live if you can only live long enough." This beautiful soul did not.
But this beautiful soul did. My daughter once dressed as Amy for Hallowe'en.
encounter
A strange day - heavy, muggy, rain on and off. A few minutes ago, I was sitting as usual by the back door when there was a rustling in the bushes on the north side of my property - I thought perhaps a giant raccoon, not abed yet. A young man with a shaved head, naked except for a kind of loincloth made from a garbage bag, stepped out from my plants and walked across my grass to the gate. "Excuse me!" was all I could think, stupidly, to say to this apparition only a few metres away.
"Sorry," he said. "No one will help me." And he was gone.
Did he come in earlier and hide there? It's been pouring all day. Did he climb over my neighbour's fence? Did he use the bushes as a toilet? How can someone dressed only in a diaper made from a garbage bag walk around downtown Toronto all day? My heart hurts for him, for the many many lost and damaged souls we city dwellers encounter every day.
My heart no longer hurts, though, for Bill, the nearly toothless long-haired once-homeless guy who makes a living in the 'hood washing windows and doing odd jobs. He makes good steady money from me, and came the other day to do a clean up in the yard, raking and sweeping. Eli was here and rushed out to work with Bill, following him around, jabbering non-stop; it was a wonderful sight, and I think gave Bill, too, a gift - the trust and friendship of a small boy. It's hard to understand a word Bill says, but that didn't bother a 3-year old. Later, after he'd gone and Eli and I discovered that I couldn't get the TV to work, he said, "Glamma, call Bill. Bill will know."
Somehow, I doubt that Bill could advise me on the intricacies of Roger's cable. But Eli has faith.
Last night, after drinks on the deck with neighbours Rob and Alex, who brought a bottle of Veuve Cliquot to celebrate their recent wedding and my birthday, Jean-Marc and Richard and I rode our bikes to Harbourfront. I've wanted for ages to go to Dance on the Pier, which runs every Thursday through the summer, a big band or a Latin band playing outside and people dancing. It was wonderful; we chacha'd and salsa'd and shimmied. There were huge white tents down there, all kinds of music and activities in what is now called Ontario Square, which used to be a parking lot. Sometimes government gets it so very very right. On the way home, we stopped in the Distillery to get ice cream. Mine was lemon meringue.
Went this morning to a dermatologist to get my 65-year old skin checked out - all those moles and skin tags and age spots, but so far, nothing dangerous. I asked about sun - that I want to get vitamin D with a certain amount of sun exposure - and he told me that any sun increases effects of aging and risk of skin cancer, that it's better to get D from supplements and food and to always use sunscreen. That I did not know. I am brown now because I rarely bother to use it. Mistake.
My heart is still pounding from my encounter in the garden. I hope someone helps him.
"Sorry," he said. "No one will help me." And he was gone.
Did he come in earlier and hide there? It's been pouring all day. Did he climb over my neighbour's fence? Did he use the bushes as a toilet? How can someone dressed only in a diaper made from a garbage bag walk around downtown Toronto all day? My heart hurts for him, for the many many lost and damaged souls we city dwellers encounter every day.
My heart no longer hurts, though, for Bill, the nearly toothless long-haired once-homeless guy who makes a living in the 'hood washing windows and doing odd jobs. He makes good steady money from me, and came the other day to do a clean up in the yard, raking and sweeping. Eli was here and rushed out to work with Bill, following him around, jabbering non-stop; it was a wonderful sight, and I think gave Bill, too, a gift - the trust and friendship of a small boy. It's hard to understand a word Bill says, but that didn't bother a 3-year old. Later, after he'd gone and Eli and I discovered that I couldn't get the TV to work, he said, "Glamma, call Bill. Bill will know."
Somehow, I doubt that Bill could advise me on the intricacies of Roger's cable. But Eli has faith.
Last night, after drinks on the deck with neighbours Rob and Alex, who brought a bottle of Veuve Cliquot to celebrate their recent wedding and my birthday, Jean-Marc and Richard and I rode our bikes to Harbourfront. I've wanted for ages to go to Dance on the Pier, which runs every Thursday through the summer, a big band or a Latin band playing outside and people dancing. It was wonderful; we chacha'd and salsa'd and shimmied. There were huge white tents down there, all kinds of music and activities in what is now called Ontario Square, which used to be a parking lot. Sometimes government gets it so very very right. On the way home, we stopped in the Distillery to get ice cream. Mine was lemon meringue.
Went this morning to a dermatologist to get my 65-year old skin checked out - all those moles and skin tags and age spots, but so far, nothing dangerous. I asked about sun - that I want to get vitamin D with a certain amount of sun exposure - and he told me that any sun increases effects of aging and risk of skin cancer, that it's better to get D from supplements and food and to always use sunscreen. That I did not know. I am brown now because I rarely bother to use it. Mistake.
My heart is still pounding from my encounter in the garden. I hope someone helps him.
August 13, 2015
the woodpecker posts
Okay, okay, I'm still blogging, just not as often. Suits me, hope it's okay with you. A former student now friend, treating me for my birthday to a sublime meal at Sassafraz, said my blog inspires her because I often write about gratefulness. Despite myriad difficulties, she is trying to be grateful.
Good to hear. Because I am always grateful for the breath in my lungs and need to say so. But then, I have lots to be grateful for, I've been lucky so far in life. It would be much harder were things different; were I not, right now, sitting in my kitchen with the back door open to the flowers and birds and insects, all of us busy on August 13 2015. I was just at the back of the garden with my notebook, thinking of topics, when I saw a small woodpecker - white with magnificent black stripes on the wings and black bands across the head - in a nearby tree, hammering decisively at a branch. And I thought - I'm doing that too. Writers are woodpeckers, drilling for material, for sustenance.
I'm grateful to be a writing woodpecker, with an actual woodpecker exploring her garden.
By the end of yesterday, I was beyond exhaustion. The little family stayed again Tuesday night, with the usual explosion of energy that entails. Wednesday morning, up at 7 - Anna and Ben were off to Sick Kids for Ben's weekly cast change appointment, and Eli and I had the morning to ourselves. Much watering of the already wet garden, much much watering. I even turned on the TV at one point to give myself a break, to discover that it did not work. Despair. The energy of the boy is phenomenal.
Took him to the Y and got him his very own membership, so now we can go together. We messed around and then he had a great time exhausting the people in the babysitting room while I did a bit of a class. Across town a great surprise - his grandfather, my ex, was visiting. He was a very good friend of Robin Phillips, the legendary Stratford director who died a few weeks ago, had gone to the funeral and came to town for an afternoon with us. We played and had dinner and then Grandpa left for the airport and Glamma to collapse at home. And Eli to play with his dad who was arriving. What a day that boy had.
Ben is thriving, now weighs over 8 pounds and his leg is doing better than expected. All systems go.
Back to my own life. Pecking.
Good to hear. Because I am always grateful for the breath in my lungs and need to say so. But then, I have lots to be grateful for, I've been lucky so far in life. It would be much harder were things different; were I not, right now, sitting in my kitchen with the back door open to the flowers and birds and insects, all of us busy on August 13 2015. I was just at the back of the garden with my notebook, thinking of topics, when I saw a small woodpecker - white with magnificent black stripes on the wings and black bands across the head - in a nearby tree, hammering decisively at a branch. And I thought - I'm doing that too. Writers are woodpeckers, drilling for material, for sustenance.
I'm grateful to be a writing woodpecker, with an actual woodpecker exploring her garden.
By the end of yesterday, I was beyond exhaustion. The little family stayed again Tuesday night, with the usual explosion of energy that entails. Wednesday morning, up at 7 - Anna and Ben were off to Sick Kids for Ben's weekly cast change appointment, and Eli and I had the morning to ourselves. Much watering of the already wet garden, much much watering. I even turned on the TV at one point to give myself a break, to discover that it did not work. Despair. The energy of the boy is phenomenal.
Took him to the Y and got him his very own membership, so now we can go together. We messed around and then he had a great time exhausting the people in the babysitting room while I did a bit of a class. Across town a great surprise - his grandfather, my ex, was visiting. He was a very good friend of Robin Phillips, the legendary Stratford director who died a few weeks ago, had gone to the funeral and came to town for an afternoon with us. We played and had dinner and then Grandpa left for the airport and Glamma to collapse at home. And Eli to play with his dad who was arriving. What a day that boy had.
Ben is thriving, now weighs over 8 pounds and his leg is doing better than expected. All systems go.
Back to my own life. Pecking.
August 10, 2015
acutely missing Jon
It's Monday, but at 11 tonight, there will be no Jon. No Jon, poking holes in absurd people and political parties, giving his all. He was the lynchpin of my evening most nights, except the few times I just couldn't make it till 11 and watched the next day on my computer. Maybe at 11 tonight, I'll log into thecomedynetwork.ca and just watch anything, as long as there's a Jon in it. Otherwise withdrawal will be too painful.
Loss. Life is made of loss. And now it's cold, dark and raining, as if the world agrees with me.
Loss. Life is made of loss. And now it's cold, dark and raining, as if the world agrees with me.
APARTMENT TO RENT
I seem to be sitting here in front of a blank page from blogger.com. But there's not much to say except that it's a beautiful summer day, fresh and breezy, the garden is bursting with colour, there's fresh fruit in the fridge, friends and family are well. (A conFLUence of F's.) I am getting lots of work done, enjoying every minute of my precious solitude, the pleasure of working on this book. Have meant to go to all kinds of events - Dusk Dances in Withrow Park, for example, what could be more delightful than watching dancers in a nearby park as the light fades? Could not bring myself to leave the house. Just sat and looked at flowers and bees and worked and drank a glass or two of rosé.
Sublime.
Last night, I watched "Borgen" - one of the best television shows I've ever seen. Visited, briefly, the Regent's Park Fair yesterday, marvelling as ever at the mind-boggling ethnic diversity of my neighbours. Went to Jason's birthday party on Saturday and met all kinds of very interesting people, including a cheerful man who had a very happy childhood. Yes, though my jaw dropped - these people do exist. Spent Saturday day across town with Anna and family; Eli has woken up to the fact that this little visitor is not going away, and the stubbornness and strength he inherited from his mother are more in evidence. It will not be easy. But with ice cream, anything is possible.
Anna is going to buy me a tote bag that says "I'm ashamed of my prime minister." Can't wait. But we are at peace, even if our country is being destroyed by this loathsome government. And it's summer. And it's very very good to be sniffing the air.
My lovely downstairs tenant, a Ryerson student from Quebec City whom I met through one of my students, has told me her school year ends soon and, sadly, she will be moving out in December or January. So: here's the pitch:
FURNISHED BASEMENT APARTMENT TO RENT from DECEMBER OR JANUARY. GREAT LOCATION, CLOSE TO TTC, SHOPPING AND DOWNTOWN. PRIVATE ENTRANCE THROUGH BEAUTIFUL GARDEN. HI-SPEED WIFI AND CABLE. $950.
If you know a nice quiet person coming to Toronto at the end of the year, please let me know, or ask them to get in touch. Thanks.
Sublime.
Last night, I watched "Borgen" - one of the best television shows I've ever seen. Visited, briefly, the Regent's Park Fair yesterday, marvelling as ever at the mind-boggling ethnic diversity of my neighbours. Went to Jason's birthday party on Saturday and met all kinds of very interesting people, including a cheerful man who had a very happy childhood. Yes, though my jaw dropped - these people do exist. Spent Saturday day across town with Anna and family; Eli has woken up to the fact that this little visitor is not going away, and the stubbornness and strength he inherited from his mother are more in evidence. It will not be easy. But with ice cream, anything is possible.
Anna is going to buy me a tote bag that says "I'm ashamed of my prime minister." Can't wait. But we are at peace, even if our country is being destroyed by this loathsome government. And it's summer. And it's very very good to be sniffing the air.My lovely downstairs tenant, a Ryerson student from Quebec City whom I met through one of my students, has told me her school year ends soon and, sadly, she will be moving out in December or January. So: here's the pitch:
FURNISHED BASEMENT APARTMENT TO RENT from DECEMBER OR JANUARY. GREAT LOCATION, CLOSE TO TTC, SHOPPING AND DOWNTOWN. PRIVATE ENTRANCE THROUGH BEAUTIFUL GARDEN. HI-SPEED WIFI AND CABLE. $950.
If you know a nice quiet person coming to Toronto at the end of the year, please let me know, or ask them to get in touch. Thanks.
August 7, 2015
sad
It was fun to say goodbye to Jon in a crowded cinema full of like-minded people. I was interviewed by CTV news beforehand, because my friend Ken, always an early bird, was first in line when I got there.
We all had popcorn and some had beer and we laughed a lot and mourned even more. It was great to see the assembled brilliance of Jon's team, especially the beloved and brilliant John Oliver and Stephen Colbert - wonderful human beings who care deeply about this crazy planet and can still be funny. A rare skill.
I did feel bereft as I left. How we need him.
Managed to avoid both the Canadian and American debates. I gather, devastatingly, that Harper is still a viable candidate, and, even worse, that Elizabeth May of the Greens did well. It's criminal that the Greens, with their ONE seat in Parliament, have not combined with either of the other parties, thereby further splintering the vote on the left. It all makes me feel sick. On this beautiful shiny morning, sick. Must get out into the day.
Oh God, I forgot that I wasn't going to blog. Well, here I am. Had to tell you I had a meeting with a very nice Bell guy, who said the wires would be moved though it might take up to a year. But still, very slowly, in one department at least, progress is being made.
But despite the garden, the sun, the clear fresh air and light, I am sad today.e alcoholic drinks.
We all had popcorn and some had beer and we laughed a lot and mourned even more. It was great to see the assembled brilliance of Jon's team, especially the beloved and brilliant John Oliver and Stephen Colbert - wonderful human beings who care deeply about this crazy planet and can still be funny. A rare skill.I did feel bereft as I left. How we need him.
Managed to avoid both the Canadian and American debates. I gather, devastatingly, that Harper is still a viable candidate, and, even worse, that Elizabeth May of the Greens did well. It's criminal that the Greens, with their ONE seat in Parliament, have not combined with either of the other parties, thereby further splintering the vote on the left. It all makes me feel sick. On this beautiful shiny morning, sick. Must get out into the day.
Oh God, I forgot that I wasn't going to blog. Well, here I am. Had to tell you I had a meeting with a very nice Bell guy, who said the wires would be moved though it might take up to a year. But still, very slowly, in one department at least, progress is being made.
But despite the garden, the sun, the clear fresh air and light, I am sad today.e alcoholic drinks.
August 6, 2015
Carrie Snyder on the writing life
Carrie Snyder, whose blog is linked to mine, has just started to answer questions, and here's her first reply. It's a doozie, beautifully written, as always, something I urge anyone interested in writing to read.
Q: How do I find a publisher? (a.k.a. How do I make money as a writer?)
Dear writer,You want to know how to get published. I could answer you with the traditional find-an-agent + agent-finds-publisher = publish your book. This is what worked (and continues to work) for me. But with the rapid rise of self-publishing, about which I know nothing, my experience has come to seem quaint, old-fashioned, and possibly irrelevant. Will the traditional model work for you? I don’t know.Also, I suspect it’s not the question you’re really asking. The question inside your question is: how do I make money as a writer?It’s assumed that publishing a book is the surefire way to make money as a writer, but here’s an unscientific breakdown of what happens when we drill down into the esker of being-a-writer and examine the striations: very few writers make a good living by publishing their books; some writers make a modest living by publishing their books; many writers make a token amount of money by publishing their books; and a number of writers make nothing, or indeed spend their own money, publishing their books.So, I’m going to ask you to put aside the money question, and the publishing question, just for now. The only thing I can tell you about with any authority, or usefulness, is how to be a writer.There are a variety of ways to develop your craft. Read, read, read. Write, write, write. Write in a journal, sit in a public place and write observational notes, compose essays, short stories, poems. Earn a degree in literature, if you can. Ask others, whom you respect, admire and most of all trust, to read and critique your work. This is imperative! Be brave. Critique your own work after letting it sit quietly untouched for at least a week, or a month, or even a year. Revise what you’ve written. Read, read, read some more to study how your favourite writers shape their sentences, find music and harmony in language, and develop narrative. Remember you are learning a craft. Writing is not like thinking or like speaking. It is its own medium. You can’t dictate a great idea onto a page; don’t worry, no one else can either.Send your stories and poems to literary magazines. Do not be flummoxed by rejection. Hope for helpful critique that will serve you as you write with ever-greater clarity, toward a purpose you alone can achieve. What do you want to say? What do you want to make people feel and think? What are the stories you want to tell — that you feel compelled to tell? If you pursue a creative writing MFA, do it not with the goal of getting published, but as a means of deepening your craft in a concentrated, challenging, and hopefully supportive environment. Learn how to defend your choices; learn how to be open to criticism. There is always more to learn. You are a writer because you are curious, and open, and never done with learning.Okay, Carrie, enough already, this is completely impractical, you’re saying: How will I have time to read, read, read, and write, write, write, when I’m trying to finish my degree and working two jobs and looking after my family and struggling just to get by?Yes. I say to you. Yes, dammit, yes!I wish I had an answer to your question. There’s a gap between being an aspiring writer and becoming a published writer, and then there’s another gap between becoming a published writer and being recognized as an established writer, and there’s yet another gap, which no one ever tells you about, between being an established writer and feeling like an established writer. Complicating all of this, there’s no single direct path to follow, as any published writer will tell you — but what makes it all the more difficult is that supports along the way are few and far between, especially in the early years of developing your craft, but even in the middle years, even in the latter years. (This is also a really old problem that never seems to go away: how to support and develop artistic talent? Especially difficult because art doesn’t make money in a straightforward way, like, say, drilling for oil does; although it could be argued that both are equally speculative ventures, with uncertain outcomes.)This brings us to grants. The first grant I ever earned as an aspiring writer was from the Ontario Arts Council: it’s called the Writers’ Works in Progress Grant. If you’re from Ontario, look into it. If not, there may be equivalent grants for artists and writers in your community. When I received this grant, I was 27 years old, I’d earned a BA and MA in literature, had worked full-time for several years at a newspaper, and along with publishing a handful of poems and stories in literary magazines, had completed a novel (never published) and a volume of short stories, and had acquired an agent. In other words, I was already quite a long way down the path of aspiring writer. I applied for this particular grant at least three or four times before earning it: selection is by blind jury. I could apply now and not receive it. The point is, grants can fill a gap, but applying takes time, energy, and is something of a crapshoot. (Prizes are a more glamorous subset of grants, but are an even greater crapshoot.)The other point is, you can be an aspiring writer for what may seem like a very long time; a ridiculously long time; even a foolishly long time. When I go to literary festivals, I sometimes feel like we’re sizing each other up back-stage, sussing out with mutual pity and secret sympathy the heartbreak and delusional determination that each of us must be carrying to be in this vaguely humiliating position of professional, published writer.But then, I read a really fine book by a completely brilliant writer that fills me with love and joy and admiration and awe, and I think: Who cares! Who cares if it’s pitiful and foolish to want to be a writer, to continue after all these years to write, write, write, and read, read, read. Because this is possible, after all. It is possible, maybe, to write something that will fill someone else with love and joy — or even simply divert someone, entertain someone, amuse someone.Which brings me around to why anyone would want to be a writer. You might tell yourself that you’re writing for yourself, to please yourself alone, and in some ways, yes, you must do that. But that’s not the only reason, or even the most important reason. You’re writing also outwardly, to reach out, to connect with an ongoing and continuing conversation, out of a long tradition of written work, trying to speak to your moment, which is cast here in time. You’re writing to be read, you hope. We all hope, all of us writers. And maybe we will be, and maybe we won’t be. But please, please, I urge you: don’t write just for yourself. Think about how what you’re writing can reach out — think beyond yourself.Think of writing as a gift. It’s a gift you’ve been given, if you have a talent for it. And it’s a gift you can offer, if you have a talent for it. A gift is something that resides beyond you. You don’t get to decide how it’s received. And you don’t get to choose what you’re given. This is where grace enters in and takes this whole answer of mine to a place that has nothing to do with money, or success, or any practical, useful measure, socially or culturally or otherwise, and which may explain why making art is not like drilling for oil and never can be: you’re writing for reasons that have nothing to do with money or success. We’d like to connect the two and say that if you are deserving, you will be rewarded; but we also like to define what a reward is: money, success, fame, a fat publishing contract, The New York Times bestseller list, a movie deal.And so it may be. And so we may wish.But if it’s not, that doesn’t mean you’re not a writer. You’re a writer because you chase the words, you polish the sentences, you seek out the core of the story, and you never seem to tire of it. You may never be entirely comfortable. You may never be entirely satisfied. You may always believe you could do better. You could rightly call this restlessness, anxiety, obsession; but you could equally name it urgency, hopefulness, and openness. Don’t worry about what it is: it’s what fires you to do the work. No matter the reward.So that’s my admittedly impractical, useless, absolutely-no-money-back-guarantee formula. Read, read, read. Write, write, write. Do the work. It’s a gift.Respectfully yours, Carrie
Q: How do I find a publisher? (a.k.a. How do I make money as a writer?)
Dear writer,You want to know how to get published. I could answer you with the traditional find-an-agent + agent-finds-publisher = publish your book. This is what worked (and continues to work) for me. But with the rapid rise of self-publishing, about which I know nothing, my experience has come to seem quaint, old-fashioned, and possibly irrelevant. Will the traditional model work for you? I don’t know.Also, I suspect it’s not the question you’re really asking. The question inside your question is: how do I make money as a writer?It’s assumed that publishing a book is the surefire way to make money as a writer, but here’s an unscientific breakdown of what happens when we drill down into the esker of being-a-writer and examine the striations: very few writers make a good living by publishing their books; some writers make a modest living by publishing their books; many writers make a token amount of money by publishing their books; and a number of writers make nothing, or indeed spend their own money, publishing their books.So, I’m going to ask you to put aside the money question, and the publishing question, just for now. The only thing I can tell you about with any authority, or usefulness, is how to be a writer.There are a variety of ways to develop your craft. Read, read, read. Write, write, write. Write in a journal, sit in a public place and write observational notes, compose essays, short stories, poems. Earn a degree in literature, if you can. Ask others, whom you respect, admire and most of all trust, to read and critique your work. This is imperative! Be brave. Critique your own work after letting it sit quietly untouched for at least a week, or a month, or even a year. Revise what you’ve written. Read, read, read some more to study how your favourite writers shape their sentences, find music and harmony in language, and develop narrative. Remember you are learning a craft. Writing is not like thinking or like speaking. It is its own medium. You can’t dictate a great idea onto a page; don’t worry, no one else can either.Send your stories and poems to literary magazines. Do not be flummoxed by rejection. Hope for helpful critique that will serve you as you write with ever-greater clarity, toward a purpose you alone can achieve. What do you want to say? What do you want to make people feel and think? What are the stories you want to tell — that you feel compelled to tell? If you pursue a creative writing MFA, do it not with the goal of getting published, but as a means of deepening your craft in a concentrated, challenging, and hopefully supportive environment. Learn how to defend your choices; learn how to be open to criticism. There is always more to learn. You are a writer because you are curious, and open, and never done with learning.Okay, Carrie, enough already, this is completely impractical, you’re saying: How will I have time to read, read, read, and write, write, write, when I’m trying to finish my degree and working two jobs and looking after my family and struggling just to get by?Yes. I say to you. Yes, dammit, yes!I wish I had an answer to your question. There’s a gap between being an aspiring writer and becoming a published writer, and then there’s another gap between becoming a published writer and being recognized as an established writer, and there’s yet another gap, which no one ever tells you about, between being an established writer and feeling like an established writer. Complicating all of this, there’s no single direct path to follow, as any published writer will tell you — but what makes it all the more difficult is that supports along the way are few and far between, especially in the early years of developing your craft, but even in the middle years, even in the latter years. (This is also a really old problem that never seems to go away: how to support and develop artistic talent? Especially difficult because art doesn’t make money in a straightforward way, like, say, drilling for oil does; although it could be argued that both are equally speculative ventures, with uncertain outcomes.)This brings us to grants. The first grant I ever earned as an aspiring writer was from the Ontario Arts Council: it’s called the Writers’ Works in Progress Grant. If you’re from Ontario, look into it. If not, there may be equivalent grants for artists and writers in your community. When I received this grant, I was 27 years old, I’d earned a BA and MA in literature, had worked full-time for several years at a newspaper, and along with publishing a handful of poems and stories in literary magazines, had completed a novel (never published) and a volume of short stories, and had acquired an agent. In other words, I was already quite a long way down the path of aspiring writer. I applied for this particular grant at least three or four times before earning it: selection is by blind jury. I could apply now and not receive it. The point is, grants can fill a gap, but applying takes time, energy, and is something of a crapshoot. (Prizes are a more glamorous subset of grants, but are an even greater crapshoot.)The other point is, you can be an aspiring writer for what may seem like a very long time; a ridiculously long time; even a foolishly long time. When I go to literary festivals, I sometimes feel like we’re sizing each other up back-stage, sussing out with mutual pity and secret sympathy the heartbreak and delusional determination that each of us must be carrying to be in this vaguely humiliating position of professional, published writer.But then, I read a really fine book by a completely brilliant writer that fills me with love and joy and admiration and awe, and I think: Who cares! Who cares if it’s pitiful and foolish to want to be a writer, to continue after all these years to write, write, write, and read, read, read. Because this is possible, after all. It is possible, maybe, to write something that will fill someone else with love and joy — or even simply divert someone, entertain someone, amuse someone.Which brings me around to why anyone would want to be a writer. You might tell yourself that you’re writing for yourself, to please yourself alone, and in some ways, yes, you must do that. But that’s not the only reason, or even the most important reason. You’re writing also outwardly, to reach out, to connect with an ongoing and continuing conversation, out of a long tradition of written work, trying to speak to your moment, which is cast here in time. You’re writing to be read, you hope. We all hope, all of us writers. And maybe we will be, and maybe we won’t be. But please, please, I urge you: don’t write just for yourself. Think about how what you’re writing can reach out — think beyond yourself.Think of writing as a gift. It’s a gift you’ve been given, if you have a talent for it. And it’s a gift you can offer, if you have a talent for it. A gift is something that resides beyond you. You don’t get to decide how it’s received. And you don’t get to choose what you’re given. This is where grace enters in and takes this whole answer of mine to a place that has nothing to do with money, or success, or any practical, useful measure, socially or culturally or otherwise, and which may explain why making art is not like drilling for oil and never can be: you’re writing for reasons that have nothing to do with money or success. We’d like to connect the two and say that if you are deserving, you will be rewarded; but we also like to define what a reward is: money, success, fame, a fat publishing contract, The New York Times bestseller list, a movie deal.And so it may be. And so we may wish.But if it’s not, that doesn’t mean you’re not a writer. You’re a writer because you chase the words, you polish the sentences, you seek out the core of the story, and you never seem to tire of it. You may never be entirely comfortable. You may never be entirely satisfied. You may always believe you could do better. You could rightly call this restlessness, anxiety, obsession; but you could equally name it urgency, hopefulness, and openness. Don’t worry about what it is: it’s what fires you to do the work. No matter the reward.So that’s my admittedly impractical, useless, absolutely-no-money-back-guarantee formula. Read, read, read. Write, write, write. Do the work. It’s a gift.Respectfully yours, Carrie
preparing to mourn our lost Jon
I'm going to Hot Docs tonight with Ken, to watch Jon's last show on the big screen with hundreds of other mourners - the place is sold out. SOB! I am going to walk there, which means I will not be able to watch the leader's debate on TV tonight. Oh, who am I kidding? I couldn't bear to watch it if it were the last show on earth - just hearing that man's voice makes me want to puke. I pray I pray I pray that Mulcair and Trudeau, or one of them, knocks Stephen Harper clean out of the park. Please. It's not that much to ask. I know the Republican candidates - or at the New Yorker puts it, the clown car - are having a debate tonight too. Now that would be fun. But I will be busy sobbing for Jon.
OMG. I said I wouldn't write and here I am only a few days later. Sigh. Maybe I just can't live without you.
OMG. I said I wouldn't write and here I am only a few days later. Sigh. Maybe I just can't live without you.
Babies
I know I said I wouldn't write, but these are pictures.
Tuesday: Ben wakes up.
Tuesday: Eli waits for the rain to go away.
Wednesday: Ben now has a tiny cast to correct his club foot. It will be changed every week for a few months, then there are shoes attached in the middle by what looks like a little skateboard that he will wear for years, and eventually a simple operation. When I expressed sympathy, not just for him but for his mother, she reminded me that the second son of her best friend from childhood has life-threatening kidney problems; another friend's child has a serious genetic condition. "This is nothing," she said. "A foot that's easily fixed."
Like I said, she's magnificent. And so, in their very different ways, are her boys.
And so, if I may say so, is MY boy.
Tuesday: Ben wakes up.
Tuesday: Eli waits for the rain to go away.
Wednesday: Ben now has a tiny cast to correct his club foot. It will be changed every week for a few months, then there are shoes attached in the middle by what looks like a little skateboard that he will wear for years, and eventually a simple operation. When I expressed sympathy, not just for him but for his mother, she reminded me that the second son of her best friend from childhood has life-threatening kidney problems; another friend's child has a serious genetic condition. "This is nothing," she said. "A foot that's easily fixed."Like I said, she's magnificent. And so, in their very different ways, are her boys.
And so, if I may say so, is MY boy.
