Beth Kaplan's Blog, page 22

Rave review: “written with tremendous heart, insight, and humour”

Oh my; on this gloomy Sunday, my heart is light. I woke to a friend’s email congratulating me on the rave review in The Bridge, a local newspaper that goes out to the entire downtown core. I haven’t received my copy yet but found it online. Thank you, Glenda MacFarlane, thank you for saying such lovely things. Especially “an extraordinary life written with tremendous heart, insight, and humour … A compelling read, the perfect gift for the holiday season.”

“Each piece is a beautifully crafted glimpse into a particular moment, providing an episodic but engaging journey through the author’s life.”

It’s the first review in print. Papers barely print reviews any more, so this one means so much!

Yesterday it was 12 degrees. Like spring. Today colder but still mild. As a young woman said to me on the streetcar the other day, “I don’t know whether to be happy about the weather or terrified.” All of us.

The Nutcracker by the National Ballet was quite something — incredible costumes and sets. The story was tenuous, and the first act confusing if lively, but the second act was spectacular and of course that famous, delicious music. A once-in-a-lifetime thing — I would not go again.

Yesterday, the CNFC Zoom webinar for members to read from their recently published books. What a diversity: a war correspondent reading about such atrocities that I turned off my sound; about the Camino, a son’s death from a drug overdose, an academic struggle, and more. I love this group, so glad to be part of it.

My list of things to do is very long. Tomorrow I have to go to Ben McNally Books to sign six books for my friend Tara in Vancouver, who’ll receive them I hope before Xmas. Must start thinking about Xmas myself. Though at least the house is lit at the front, more Christmassy than in years. At the back — still green. Welcome welcome green.

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dancing through the darkness

Busy days. Winterizing, still recovering, trying to keep up with it all. Second last U of T class Tuesday — spectacular, a great group. Before class, my handyman came to fix some plumbing and had to drive to Home Depot, so I went along gladly, thrilled to stock up on bulky, heavy things hard to carry on the bike. Including a lot of multi-coloured Xmas lights that Doug and I strung in the forsythia. We’re looking mighty Xmassy at 308, for once. Colour and light especially needed this year.

On Wednesday, to see Assembly Hall, the latest dance/drama from Vancouver’s brilliant Crystal Pite and Jonathon Young. A few technical glitches, but mostly — the best dancers anywhere in the world, in a strange, hilarious story with soundtrack of taped voices, a meeting in a school gym that evolves into role-play and God knows what else. Hard to follow but who cares, the dancing was phenomenal and the minds and talents behind it all unbeatable.

Last night, my home class Xmas potluck party, eight wonderful writers who have become more than friends, they’re family. Feasting, drinking, reading and critiquing stories by the fire — could an evening be better spent?

Tonight, seeing The Nutcracker as a guest of my friend Eleanor. I’ve never seen it, or perhaps I did as a child but not in decades. Looking forward to the music. Two dance events this week, more than in the entire rest of the year.

On Saturday I’m reading in the yearly CNFC webinar that helps writers who’ve published that year celebrate their work. I’ll get to share a story from Midlife Solo and hear what my colleagues have put out into the world.

And then things settle a bit. Well, not that much, with Xmas looming. Next Wednesday afternoon I’m teaching a free memoir writing workshop at my beloved YMCA.

On Thursday my dear ex-husband arrives to spend five days staying here at the house, and we’ll set off that night to watch the boys’ Xmas concert at their school. Imagine, over three decades since our divorce, and we’ll have the great pleasure of sitting together to watch our grandsons sing. A blessing.

And then, almost nothing on the agenda except Xmas. Thank God. Well, “except Xmas” — as we know, actually a ton of work.

Sometimes it feels wrong to be comfortable and warm with so many suffering, not just on the other side of the planet, but here. I give what I can and try to be kind. At this particularly dark time on earth, may we, with our spirit of the season, help bring warmth and light to our own small corner of the world. Keep on, my friends.

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Anatomy of a Fall: whodunit?

Anatomy of a Fall: wow. A friend was at the cinema too, by chance, and at the end, we turned to each other and just said, Wow! A propulsive murder mystery, but so much more, an analysis of a marriage, of writers, of the way we manipulate truth in courtrooms and our own minds and everywhere else.

Sandra is a German writer living in the French alps with her French husband and son. When the man is found dead in the snow, the question is: was he pushed from a high window by his enraged wife, or did he commit suicide? Sandra’s trial hinges on many factors. But for me, the horror was in the scene where the court plays a recording the husband made secretly of an argument the couple had the day before his death, that turned into a physical fight. What we see — at least, what I saw — is a petulant, self-pitying man blaming his confident, successful wife for the problems of his life. But we all hear the way an argument devolves into recrimination and senseless violence.

I remembered one argument my ex and I had, some months before we separated, in which he, a quiet and controlled man, picked up a heavy armchair and hurled it at the wall. What happens in those moments is like nothing else. If a tape had been made of us at that moment, one of the worst of our marriage, what would a courtroom have concluded?

The performances are brilliant, the script so tight and tense you can barely breathe, not a moment of release granted — and at the end, the enigma remains. One important question: will Sandra’s son grow up to be a successful writer too? Possibly.

I’m a bit better each day, enough to go to a film, at least. Next week is really busy, I have to get my lungs back!

Yesterday, the last episode of Beckham. I loved this doc, loved the man and his wife and his kids, the relentless trajectory, the extreme ups and downs of his life, the way he allows the camera to witness his OCD — his absurdly meticulous closets and drawers, the way he scrubs and shines the barbecue after using it. And yet the main thing, the important thing, is his work ethic. The scenes where he’s being excluded for some unknown reason from practicing with his team Real Madrid but comes every day, on time, to practice, and works out by himself on the edge of the field. Until finally he’s allowed back into the fold — and scores, of course.

He’s also impossible, full of macho ambition and drive, Posh left on her own with the kids over and over again — well, on her own with the kids and, I assume, her extensive household staff. Her sense of humour saves the day, and the fact that they love each other a lot, and that he’s a genuinely good man who allows himself to be vulnerable. Beautifully made and powerful.

I wonder if one reason I’ve been so sick is this strange limbo in the life of a writer. My book — two years of my life — is out in the world, and the silence is deafening. Yes, I’ve heard lovely things from a few friends, but – the book is not on Amazon, there’s no ebook, and it’s available in only one bookstore. A month after its launch, for a reason not known to me, you can still only buy the book from Mosaic Press or Ben McNally Books.

So I ask you — if you’re interested, please make the effort to order it from the bookstore or the press. I think you’ll find it’s worth your while. And if you like it — tell somebody.

It’s a dark December, the world’s falling apart, but artists keep on keeping on. Blessings upon them.

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The Crown, Beckham, For All Mankind

I’m better, but not nearly enough. Have managed to do laundry and some tidying, teach another Zoom class and do some editing work, but that’s about it – still weak and aching, little appetite. A good weight loss scheme, this bug; I’m down a kilo, at least. But joy: there’s the television, and there’s Netflix, and there goes two days.

The Crown: I kept thinking, I’ve already seen this bit dramatized, how many times can they go over the same scenes? And yet I watched till the end. Elizabeth Debicki is simply astounding as Diana, inhabiting the princess to her seductive, lonely core; Dominic West provides an ever more sympathetic portrait of fumbling unloved-except-by-Camilla Charles, and Khalid Abdalla is haunting as Dodi Fayed, in thrall to his monstrously ambitious father. A Greek tragedy. Yes, I cried. Harry asks, as he walks behind his mother’s coffin, why people are crying for someone they didn’t know. “They’re crying for you,” he is told. And they are.

An unexpectedly thrilling documentary I’m only partway through: Beckham. For someone with no interest in soccer – football, as it’s called in England – I was kept on the edge of my seat by this brilliantly assembled doc about the scrappy Cockney son of a father obsessed with the Manchester United team who grows up to become the most famous player in the world. He’s stunningly beautiful, extremely talented, and yet down to earth and nice, and then he hooks up with Posh Spice and the world explodes.

What I didn’t know is that he was perhaps unfairly ejected from a game that resulted in England losing the World Cup, and was for years subjected to the most vile abuse by just about everyone in England – unforgivable, brutal, incessant, people screaming obscenities at him in the street, spitting at him, hanging him in effigy. And yet he puts his head down and plays, as the crowd boos and then sings an obscene song about his wife. Human nature at its worst.

He comes through, stronger than ever. We discover he’s a neat freak and that he would not have got through any of this without the support of his parents and his wife. It’s about the fraying bond between fathers and sons, about leadership, teamwork, the power of friendships between men, the insanity of what a sports win means to a nation. It’s a portrait, too, of a marriage, a family, that somehow survives in a relentless media hailstorm nearly as destructive as the one that murdered Diana. Riveting.

And finally, something else I never thought I’d enjoy: For All Mankind, a documentary about the Apollo II moon landing; I watched only from lift off through to the landing itself, there was still the docking and return, but what I saw was, again, riveting – the infinite skill and expertise necessary to get those men there and back boggles the mind. What emerges is the humanity of three guys floating around up there thousands of miles from home, especially Neil Armstrong, the definition of heroic, quietly competent, brave and accomplished, simply getting it done.

I read a book someone left in my Little Library – In-Between Days, by Teva Harrison, about at the age of 37 being diagnosed with Stage IV breast cancer that had spread – how to live with a death sentence. A heartbreaking book, honest and profound.

It’s dark and wet out there. The news gets worse; the war has resumed, Putin is winning, the lunatics are in control. Terrifying. Forgive me if as my lungs gradually clear, I go into the living-room, turn on the gas fire, and watch a gorgeous British sports star and his gorgeous, unfortunately now Botoxed wife live their crazy, distressed, ridiculously wealthy lives.

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moving right along

Amazing what a night’s sleep will do. I arranged my pillows so I was nearly sitting up to make sure I could breathe, took a sleeping pill, and whammo. Now in the hot sun in my office in my pjs and dressing-gown, head floating somewhere high above my shoulders, nose feeling as if it was recently punched, throat sore – but I’m sitting in my office, in the sun. And Sam is on his way over with soup and to do chores – take out the recycling, feed the birds, water the plants that need a ladder for me, not for him.

Things are looking up.

And so I’d like to share some of the lovely words readers have sent this week about Midlife Solo. If anything will knock this bug out of my system, these fine accolades will.

From my blog friend Theresa – I’ve quoted this before, but here it is again: It’s really a wonderful collection. Your voice is engaging and bright, your sense of how to shape an anecdote sharp and clear, and I love how your life builds as the pages accumulate, how stories are revisited and rewoven — your childhood relationships, your marriage, divorce, etc — so that the result is something rich and fine. The structure is intriguing too. I love the postscripts in particular.

From old friend, musician Louise: What a good writer you are, especially of essays. They have depth. They have humour. They have poignancy. Several made me cry, especially the one about your kids’ school. Those teachers are lucky to have someone like you to point out to the rest of us how important they are. The one about your childhood friend Penny made me angry. Angry at her dad that he allowed her mother to torture her throughout her childhood. You wrote so hauntingly about her.

I love what Curtis Barlow says about you in the blurbs. “She writes about a huge diversity of experiences with such intelligence, compassion and humour that the specific becomes universal.”

From Linda, a former student: I love the structure of the book — the preface  parachutes us  into the gut-wrenching scene of telling your children about your divorce, then we follow your whirlwind struggle with and adaptation to solo parenthood. Throughout these essays your hilarious descriptions and  sense of humour are ever-present. Through vivid scenes laced with self-deprecating humour, we observe as from your initial self-doubt emerges gradual self-confidence; we are aware of your growth and development over the years. The short clean post-scripts remind us that you are now reflecting on the impact of key people in  your life.

From current student Joan: I spent a good part of my weekend absorbed in your book. I am enjoying it very much. It’s very carefully and creatively pieced together, which gives the reader a beautiful overview of your entire life, not just mid-life although that is the primary emphasis. It was moving to read how you moved through forgiving your parents for their various inadequacies. There are so many walking wounded among us. People need to hear that parents are people, with their good and bad qualities, and at the end of the day, we are responsible for our own happiness. Lots of wisdom in this book.

And finally, from writer Thelma, a word about the audiobook of Loose Woman: I did listen to your audiobook and thought it was exceptionally well done. Your skills as an actress really added a lot. Having read hundreds of audiobooks I tend to be fussy, so it is great when the reader is good. Michelle Obama was a surprisingly remarkable reader. I think it is unusual for the average writer of a book to be so skillful at the reading.

Thank you, all! The book at the moment is still only available from Ben McNally Books and Mosaic Press, although I hope soon it will be listed in other places. Christmas is coming. And please — if you like the book, would you consider reviewing it on Goodreads, or posting about it on your social media, or recommending it to friends? It’s the only way a book finds its way in the world. I’m deeply grateful for all the help Midlife Solo and I can get.

Everything has ground to a halt – marketing the book, fitness, even basic cleaning. Just lying around wheezing. But the sun, both the actual shining on my face and the metaphorical pouring from these kind words, is a great help.

I’ve been wondering – where does the expression “sick as a dog” come from? “Right as rain”? In any case, I’ve been one and will soon be the other. Cheers. And here’s a picture that is pure cheer. God knows who that is inserted into the background, but the front three? Scruffy kids about to change the world. Nothing solo there.

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revisiting the visit

First thing this morning, as soon as I got up, I rewrote my blog post of yesterday, but it had already gone out to subscribers. It’s a bit self-indulgent and petty. Lesson: do not write a blog post while tired and very sick. I’m in bed, still aching head to foot, have been through an entire box of Kleenex since yesterday.

What comes up when I think about these past days is the issue, yet again, of doing this on my own. Maybe I should write a book about being solo, LOL! I take entertaining and hosting seriously and want things to be right, especially, as I’ve said, for friends as discerning as these. But every single detail of the visit is up to me – what happens, how it happens, when it happens, the food, drink, house, ambience. I can’t turn to someone and say, Could you dash out and get some bread? Or help plan the menu, or take them to do something interesting somewhere, or help greet guests, or set the table, or keep the conversation going. On a one off, it’s not a problem at all; I enjoy it. But I guess over three days it wore me out.

The important thing is my friends and I spent time together in the warmth of my house; they ate well and slept well and saw lots of dear friends. I loved it all. They are both extraordinary people who’ve travelled to many countries and have five accomplished children. I was at their wedding in a village in northern France in 1971, and they were at mine in Vancouver in 1981. I knew their parents; they knew mine. That bond is priceless.

I must learn not to get so tense and overwrought. But then, I’ve been saying that to myself all my life.

Lesson learned? I doubt it. But I will be more careful with blog posts from now on.

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the visit

A quick word, as I know it’s been a long time. I’ve been in the tunnel of houseguests, and now am in the tunnel of sickness – flu or a bad cold, which hit just as my friends’ visit was drawing to a close. It was wonderful, exhausting – they were only here for 3 1/2 days, and many people wanted to see them, so we had a constant stream of guests for lunch or dinner. And as I’ve written, since my guests are French, with the critical spirit endemic to the French, there’s an added pressure to provide good food well served.

The trip started strangely; I am sure I heard that their train from Montreal arrived at 2, so I was there, eager and waiting, as crowds disembarked. No Lynn and Denis. Had something happened to them on the train? No answer to phone calls or What’sApp. Finally I called Lynn’s sister in Montreal; their train was supposed to get in at 4.30. Then they let me know it was delayed and urged me to go home, so I did.

That evening I’d pre-made a pork roast in a delicious sauce, but it turned out they don’t eat cold meat in a warm sauce. Okay. But they were fed satisfactorily. Next day, we were supposed to go across town to have dinner with Anna and her boys, but the boys were sick, so Anna and Sam came here for a visit, and luckily I had a big bolognese in the fridge that had cooked for five hours. Which met with approval.

Friday we had aperitif with Jean-Marc and Monique and dinner with Suzette and Pierre – the conversation switching effortlessly from French to English and back again. And Saturday, old friend Ken and new friend Anne-Marie for lunch – much discussion with all eight about the Catholic religion they all share – and Eleanor and Sherry for dinner.

All those meals had to be planned, bought, prepared. Plus hors d’oeuvres to have with drinks beforehand. I needed a spreadsheet. By the end I was buying prepared food. As he ate a delicious berry tart from the Sri Lankan bakery, Denis asked why I had heated it up. It turns out that the French eat fruit desserts cold, with a spoon, and we eat them warm, with a fork. Who knew?

They slept in my bed; I was in the spare room except on Thursday, when Tom sleeps in the spare room, so I was on a mattress in my office. That night there were seven people in the house, including my downstairs tenant and her boyfriend and Robin upstairs.

And then unfortunately the flu that was hovering in the background blasted in, and it’s a doozy. I am pretty sure a tiny bit of stress had something to do with it. Last night I barely slept because my nose was plugged; I ache in head and bones. I know it’s ridiculous to feel stress; these are my dearest friends. But I did feel an obligation to get things right. They had a great visit and saw lots of people, though they saw very little of the city because November.

Here we are in 2012. Friends since 1967. She has not changed!

And now I have to get well. There’s a book waiting for me to get her out into the world. Dear friend Theresa, a blog friend in B.C. whom I’ve never met, just wrote, “It’s really a wonderful collection. Your voice is engaging and bright, your sense of how to shape an anecdote sharp and clear, and I love how your life builds as the pages accumulate, how stories are revisited and rewoven — your childhood relationships, your marriage, divorce, etc — so that the result is something rich and fine. The structure is intriguing too. I love the postscripts in particular.”

Thank you, Theresa. “Rich and fine” sounds good to me. As soon as I get my brain and body back, I’ll return to work. But for now – misery.

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Thoughts on testosterone, and war

Winter has hit; almost overnight it’s really chilly, – 3 right now. I’m proud to say that yesterday I rode my bike across town to the Tarragon Theatre, over half an hour ride in the cold. I will do my best with warm clothes, but my cycling days will soon be drawing to a close for this year.

People are writing to me in frustration about not finding Midlife Solo on Amazon or at Indigo. I’m sorry, but there’s nothing I can do about that, distribution and listing are up to the publisher, and I guess it just takes time. In the meantime, Ben McNally Books would be happy to ship you copies; I went in to sign and dedicate three this past week. Mosaic Press will ship too. And again, if you like the book, please review it on Goodreads or on your social media. Send me your thoughts, whether you like it or not. I’d love to hear from you.

On my bike ride yesterday, I went to visit my friend Gretchen, who a few months ago moved from a house in Cabbagetown to a condo in the Annex. I understand — she’s relieved she no longer has to shovel snow or garden or fix anything. And from the roof, she has a spectacular view down to the lake.

I myself am a barnacle stuck to a rock in Cabbagetown.

She lives two minutes from Tarragon, where we saw Morris Panych’s latest play, Withrow Park. It’s a good production with four great performances, especially the fabulous Corrine Koslo, one of my favourite actors ever, doing a brilliant job as a very funny eccentric. I was a huge fan of Morris’s Frankenstein at Stratford, but am less sure about this play, which was highly entertaining but I didn’t quite understand what it was getting at, except ruminations about midlife crises and being stuck and not knowing what your life has meant. But entertaining.

A great deal of my time these days goes to reading pundit accounts of what is happening in Israel and Gaza, trying to figure out a sane way to understand and deal. My daughter is as you know on the far left, so the situation is black and white for her, as it so often is. But it’s not, it is a hugely complex issue with no easy answers. Including a ceasefire. All I know is that what seem like the heedless and brutal actions of the Israeli army toward civilians, especially children, are creating a tsunami of antisemitism that will target Jews around the world. Once again. It is to weep.

I hate to use a cliché, but I think our world these days is afflicted, much more than a few years ago, with toxic masculinity. In a confusing, unsettled time of change, people want violent authoritarian strongmen — Trump, Orban, Putin — or vitriolic wannabe’s like Poilievre — to tell them what to do and think, who to blame and hate and target for their problems. And pathetic little men like Netanyahu lash out savagely to show how strong they are.

One of my favourite quotes is from the TV show Thirtysomething, many years ago. One of the characters said, “What the world needs is a good antidote to testosterone.” To be fair, testosterone drive and energy has given us countless wonders, like Beethoven’s music and Shakespeare’s plays and the paintings of great artists, scientific advances, world exploration, so much more. But testosterone also gives us continual havoc and war.

Okay. As I sit looking at the garden, yellow and red leaves are showering down like snow. They’ve given up the ghost. Since I do not live in a condo, there will be raking. But today is about cooking. My friends Lynn and Denis arrive on Wednesday to stay till Sunday. They are French, with French expectations. Much good food will be needed, which I will do my best to provide. Plus I have invited many of their old friends anxious to see them for lunch or dinner or apéritif. Food! Cheese! Wine!

Time to cook. And rake. And feed the birds. My view of the city:

Cheers to you all, on this bright, breezy Monday.

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a moment of joyful calm

You’ll be glad to hear I’m my cheerful self again, more or less, despite the horrors of the world and my own turmoil. I’d expected a bit of postpartum slump but wasn’t prepared for how hard it hit. What’s it all about, Alfie? The book still is not that easy to find – not on Amazon, not in bookstores except for Ben McNally Books and the publisher Mosaic Press. But at least it’s available to order from there, and readers are I hope receiving their copies. I’m going in to Ben’s tomorrow for the second time to dedicate and sign books before they send them out.

It amazes me how long it takes people to read books. Once I find one I like, I usually just slam my way through. Friends who were at the launch are in some cases only a few pages in. Of course, I interpret that as them not enjoying the book, rather than their being busy.

I sent an excerpt from Midlife Solo, a piece about my dad, to his dear friend David Suzuki, and David wrote back, “Read it and wept. I loved Gordin who was always bigger than life to me, an inspiring man …” And Dad loved David. What a spectacular pair.

Most of my time is spent marketing these days – posting on social media, sending queries to podcasters and literary festivals, setting up speaking engagements. It’s a big job to try to let people know your book exists, and I’m not very good at it, but better this time than last. It’s simply necessary, that’s all, so get on with it and shut up.

Watched the Giller Prize awards on TV on Monday, feeling as usual like Cinderella watching fiction writers dancing at the ball. How I wish there were such an event for nonfiction. Are we and our books simply not as sexy and interesting? I don’t understand. But I’m very glad to see Canadian writing celebrated, although this year several of the writers, like Eleanor Catton and the winner Sarah Bernstein (with what sounds like a really difficult book), might have been born here but have lived elsewhere for a long time. The show itself was far better this year than last, despite protestors shouting about the bank sponsor of the event and Israel.

The days have been beautiful – crisp, yes, but sunny and mild for November. Sam came over today and we raked many piles of leaves and made a big stew together; he took a pot of it home. Cooking with my son – what a pleasure. In fact, I was awake last night, counting my many blessings, realizing that this is a wondrous plateau of calm, for once. The book is safely out, my kids and grandkids are okay, I think, my health is okay, I think, my friends’ health is okay, I hope, and my country is not at war or run, yet, by wannabe fascists. Does it get luckier than that? I take none of it for granted; we all know something is always coming down the pike. But right now, today, I feel I’ve climbed a mountain and am standing at the top, surveying a beautiful vista.

Hello out there! Hope you are well too.

Out for a walk, met my neighbour Joe’s little black dog Bessie and the most beautiful Japanese maple in the world.

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update on buying Midlife Solo, and an apology

Dear all, first, I apologize. Biking home from Ben McNally Books, I came upon a man lying in the bike lane on Shuter Street, his shoes scattered on the road and his needles and drug paraphernalia beside him. Three bike cops cycled up, polite, suggesting he rest not on the street but on the grass of the park behind us, where a local mosque had set up a table to distribute free hot food. Dirty, ragged, he scrambled to his feet and put on his shoes.

I wept. There is so much misery and need in this city, let alone in this world, especially right now. And I was drizzling on about people not finding my book. I’m sorry.

Rupert McNally told me the store has books; the website is marked On Order due to some accounting glitch, but if you order from them, they’ll send to you. And I can easily go in and dedicate it to you or a friend, if you want.

https://shop.benmcnallybooks.com/item/AUgNRER1yUoMfT8DsuPs2A

Robin my upstairs tenant just brought me a blueberry scone.

Below: Remembrance Day in Cabbagetown. And your truly in the bookstore near her good friend, Charles Dickens. Who was also a flawed person who meant well.

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