Beth Kaplan's Blog, page 23

Good days and not so good days

This is it, the postpartum slump has hit. I’m feeling sad and stuck. There are distribution problems with the book, which is not yet available on Amazon, for some reason, (we may hate it, but it does make book buying easier and quicker) and is held up at the bookstore. The few weeks after a launch is the crucial time for a new book, and people are having trouble finding mine. I advise to go through Mosaic Press, for now. https://mosaicpress.ca/products/midlife-solo

I know, not war. Not cancer. I’m in my warm kitchen with a cat on my lap, a roof, food in the fridge. So shut up.

This is when a nice person who loves me would be good, though. It’ll be okay, sweetheart, perhaps. Or, let me make you a sandwich. Or, I’ll rake the leaves, clean up this mess in the kitchen, get in some groceries, give you a hug. Here’s a fresh cup of coffee.

Swimming in self-pity, yes.

And yet, I know, I have nothing, nothing, to complain about. The friend of a friend, someone I hardly know, emailed after the launch, “Thank you for sharing the special evening with me. You are a rich woman – in friends, support, community, expression, humour … ”

I am extremely lucky in so many ways. Yesterday friends kept coming by out of the blue – my oldest friend Ron appeared at my door for tea, Monique and I sat outside on her porch (on Nov. 10!) having aperitif, and then Jean-Marc rang the doorbell, just in time for a bit of dinner.

Esteemed actor RH Thomson invited me to HIS book launch Tuesday, which turned out to be expensive but with a free copy of the book By the Ghost Light and an interesting discussion between him and fellow esteemed actor Eric Peterson. RH and I were the two Canadians to be accepted to the British theatre school LAMDA in 1971, and I’ve known Eric since Vancouver in the mid-seventies. It was fun to watch two great actors banter. But RH’s book is serious, about family lost in war and the importance of remembering and naming the lost.

And I finished two library books, well, I skimmed the Richard Grant one; an entertaining writer about the many famous people he knows in the biz, but perhaps a bit too much about his adored wife, who died of cancer. The other, Ordinary Wonder Tales, is a book of essays by Emily Urquhart, a very good writer who’s a scholar of folk tales and delves into her personal life a bit but has a restrained academic side that’s a bit less engaging.

Okay. So, a plan. Though I don’t want to move, because Tig is sleeping so sweetly on my lap  – my little grey visitor. I will go to the Cabbagetown Memorial Day event at 10.30. Then to the bookstore to make contact. Need to buy some food and do some cooking. More winterizing and clean up. Raking the front yard drowning in maple leaves will be good exercise. Get in gear.

Because although a little bit sad and stuck today, I am rich.

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Book launch recap: hooray!

If there’s one thing my kids and I know how to do, it’s throw a party. Even in a bookstore. So last night, a dark and stormy night, we did.

And according to all reports, despite the pouring rain, thunder, and hail an hour before, it was a smash. Sam prepared trays of meat, cheese, crackers, and fruit, that we loaded into Monique’s car along with a giant poster of the cover, a music stand to prop it up on, and boxes of Prosecco and soft drinks, glasses and napkins (all of which, incidentally, I paid for.) I had seven thick-nibbed signing pens and my speech notes and was dressed entirely in Goodwill, a silk jacket, a vintage top, a MiuMiu skirt. Monique insisted I wear a skirt. “Show those legs!” she said.

We set up and waited in the empty bookstore with Ben McNally and Danielle, his lovely daughter; people began to trickle in and then came the avalanche, eventually about fifty people or more from all avenues of my life: family, neighbours, students from recently and from long ago, old friends, Y friends, writer friends, even friends of friends. Sam and Diana greeted; Monique kept filling the glasses which made sure the conviviality did not flag. Holly had to dash out to buy more glasses at one point, but we did not run out of food or drink, though nearly. I signed, with student and friend Sam nearby to help me. And then I gave a talk, starting by telling them about the Japanese movie After Life, in which the recently deceased are asked to choose a favourite moment from their lives; that would be the moment they’d live in for eternity.

“If I’m hit by a bus on the way home,” I said, “I will choose this moment: in this lovely warm room with many of my most favourite people, with wine and cheese and surrounded by books. We could spend eternity just reading what’s in this room.”

I didn’t cry but I could have, looking out at the crowd — at my kids and grandsons, who’d made me a card, “Congratulations Glamma” with a picture of people holding a book; two Rons, one known since childhood in Halifax, the other a new 90-year-old writer friend; the group from the Y, women I hardly know but like so much; students from two decades ago. A surprise visit from Isabel Huggan who was unexpectedly in town, with her cousin Ken who’s the dearest … Many blessings.

I thought, the people in this room are the nicest people in the world. So much chatter, people meeting, talking, laughing.

Midlife Solo caused a great deal of trouble being born, but it’s here and looking good, and I’m proud of it. I quoted Wayson: You don’t have to read the book, just buy it! Ben was pleased; we sold 44 books, and I urged people to buy other books from him besides mine.

Today it’s like I’ve indeed been hit by a bus, except that I’m still alive. Tomorrow life will begin again but today, I’m in a daze. What matters is that people are emailing that they’ve started to read and are enjoying what they’re reading. May that continue.

May that continue.

And what’s crazy is that when this all dies down, when I’ve done what I can for this book, it will be time to start on the next one. And this tortuous, thrilling, absurd cycle will begin all over again.

So, my friends, only one word to say: Onward.

Oh – and before bed, I did the Wordle puzzle for the first time in months, and got it in two! What a day.

With Diana, who’s in my home class chronicling her extraordinary journey of transition, and with Christopher Moore, historian and writer, both of whom gave glowing blurbs that are in the book.

Thanks to everyone who helped make it all possible.

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How to buy Midlife Solo

Dear friends, several people have written to ask how to actually buy the book. Since marketing is my least marketable skill, of course, I didn’t think of this.

You can order from the wonderful Ben McNally Books in downtown Toronto: https://shop.benmcnallybooks.com/item/AUgNRER1yUoMfT8DsuPs2A

or from the publisher, Mosaic Press, https://mosaicpress.ca/products/midlife-solo

and they will be mailed to you. Soon, I assume you can order it from your local independent bookstore. And of course from the behemoth that shall not be named. But if possible, patronize a real live bookstore. The e-book will be out in a few weeks, and soon the library will stock it. Soon.

If you like the book, I ask that you please consider being on the Midlife Solo PR Team to help me spread the word. Word of mouth is one of the best ways to help a book thrive – could you find a way to tell a few friends how much you enjoyed the book? I love discussions with book club members, and this book is great book club material; do you have or know one? And PLEASE, reviews — review on Goodreads or Amazon (the book not listed yet but it will be soon) or send your words to me.

And if you don’t like it, please also let me know. Seriously — I want to learn what works and what doesn’t for my readers. I’ve never forgotten Mr. Mann, my Grade 13 English teacher at Lisgar Collegiate in Ottawa, scrawling across the top of an essay I was proud of, “A wordy concoction of pseudo-philosophy.” Worst review ever, at fifteen. But I sure was more careful with words and thought after that.

And remember, Christmas is coming! I will happily go in to sign books at Ben McNally’s if you want to send someone a dedicated, signed book.

It’s a chilly drizzly grey day. But my fridge is full of Prosecco, cheese, fruit, and meats for tonight; Sam, with his many years of expertise, is coming later to “plate” it all and then to greet arrivals at the bookstore door. Others – Monique, Anne-Marie, Diana, other Sam, Holly, and my Anna – are coming to help. This morning I actually had a manicure, thanks to the $30 gift certificate I won for third place in the Senior Women’s category of the Cabbagetown Mini-Marathon. I never get manicures because you can’t read while they’re happening. But for once, tonight, I will have shiny nails and pretend to be a grownup lady.

Just listed the book on Goodreads, though it’ll take a few days to be official. Here’s my page. (When switching publishers a few years ago, I tried to change the subtitle of All My Loving to one I thought is better, but it was too complicated. Even so, GR will not remove that never-published book.) Five books. Not Joyce Carol Oates, who has published 58 novels and much more, but then, my first book wasn’t published till I was 56. I’m just getting going.

Can’t wait for tonight. Stay tuned; I’m expecting postpartum depression tomorrow.

Or maybe euphoria.

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She’s here!

I don’t want to let her go. I’ll carry her around for a bit, like a newborn.

My books are here. The publisher was having trouble with the delivery service so delivered them this morning himself, and to Ben McNally’s too. So there will be books for the launch, which was looking dubious until today.

It looks great, though there are a few things I’d change. Aren’t there always?

Lesia, a former student, is the first reader of the actual book and has already posted a review on FB: “I preordered the book and read it in a day: That’s how engaging the essays are, and how interesting a life Beth looks back on from her current vantage point.” She says it should be a textbook for essay writers. Yes, thank you, fine with me.

I’m listening to the new Stones album on Spotify. Impossible to believe they’re in their eighties. Woo hoo!

I won’t be posting so much in a bit, but these are exciting times, hope you don’t mind. In the meantime, a few laughs. Once again, here I am.

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Now and Then: my Beatle boys are back!

I will not write about the world today. Can’t. I will try not to think about all that is going on out there, hard as that is. Because it feels as if hell in a handbasket is just around the corner.

Anna and family went out together at Hallowe’en, the boys as a movie murderer and an animé character, Anna as Snow White, and six foot tall Thomas as a hotdog, with a wiggly smear of mustard down his front. Perfect! There was the usual chaos here, many hundreds on Sackville Street, but I was teaching on Zoom, hiding in the kitchen. Perfect.

So the big news is: Here and Now, a new Beatle song! It’s wonderful, especially considering what they went through to produce it – Macca filling in John’s vocals and harmonizing with his old pal, re-inventing George’s slide guitar licks, and even writing new stuff to fill it out. So really, it’s a new Macca song with input from John, George, and Ringo, as was common toward the end of the Beatles – or even earlier, viz, Yesterday, or Blackbird, which he just wrote and sang without them. Atsa my boy, who, at 81, is currently on tour, filling Australia’s biggest stadiums.

Paul Simon also has a new album, as do the Stones. Hooray for the ageless octogenarian rockers! What follows was on FB and I loved it: apparently, Jeopardy questions that are Shakespearean versions of famous Beatle songs. Can you get them? I got every one instantly.

Brucie and I watched Hitchcock’s The Birds on Hallowe’en night. Its image of angry nature pecking humans to death made sense, more now than then. What didn’t is that Tippy Hedren and Jessica Tandy had stiffly lacquered, perfectly coiffed hair in nearly every shot, even after being savagely attacked by crows. The miracle of the early sixties, those stiff unmoving ‘do’s.

Just got my sixth vaccine — trying not to get sick before Monday’s launch. Still have not seen the book, but apparently my shipment will arrive tmw, and I hope the bookstore’s will too. Talk about down to the wire, producing a tiny bit of tension. But, as my wise, chill daughter said to me, Nothing you can do about it, Mum, so just relax. Easy for her to say.

Here is what Anna has to say about Buffy Ste. Marie: This is an Indigenous issue and none of our business as settlers. If Buffy was accepted into and adopted by the Cree nation, then that’s that.

Makes sense to me. As she almost always does, except when she goes off the deep end. Which I of course never do.

Admired this bicycle today. I need more messages on mine. Peace now. All you need is love.

Save our planet, burn fat not fuel. Love it.

Answers to Beatle quiz: She loves you, yeah yeah yeah. Will you still need me, will you still feed me, when I’m sixty-four? Help me if you can, I’m feeling down, and I do appreciate you being round. Dear sir or lady, will you read my book? Took me years to write it, will you take a look? I think I’m gonna be sad, I think it’s today; the girl that’s driving me mad is going away…”

Love those boys. At Monday’s launch, I’ll be quoting them. Perhaps I should sing it: Dear sir or lady, will you read my book, took me years to write it, will you take a look?

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reassurance

Busy days on Sackville Street — ten minutes after Shari left, Bruce arrived, is here till tomorrow. Bruce was my invaluable tour guide on our trips to Italy: Rome and environs, Florence and environs, Cinque Terre, the Amalfi Coast — and to Madrid and Barcelona and Nice. He booked the airbnbs and the trains, planned our itineraries, and guided me to the greatest art. I was a lucky tourist. After his stroke a few years ago and then of course the pandemic, our travels have been curtailed; we had booked a trip from Venice to Vienna and Budapest for early April 2020, cancelled, not rebooked. Sigh.

It’s cold. Cold cold cold. And we are all resentful, because though it’s the normal temperature for this time of year, two days ago it was warm warm warm. Winter. Phooey.

And the world is too much with us. I don’t know anyone who’s not preoccupied with the horrors going on over there. The great fear is that the hideous atrocities now being committed by Israel – so much greater in proportion than the hideous atrocities committed by Hamas – will lead to renewed antisemitism around the world. Islamophobia too. My daughter reports that a Muslim friend is afraid to wear her hijab now because she has been verbally attacked, twice.

It does feel like the end of days, that we are drowning in ugliness. How insane of the human animal to spend limited time on this earth hating and murdering. Must remember the other side, kindness, generosity, openheartedness. It’s there too. The media is a lot to blame here, focussed always on the nightmare.

And I am focussed on my book launch next Monday; with various impediments visible at the moment, I hope for the best. I woke in the night to fret and fume, and then, through the darkness as I flailed about, a voice came, saying clearly: Everything will be all right. I felt it as warm arms encircling me. And then I heard Bob Marley singing it. It may be a cliché, but it helps to keep positive, like that. So I will do my best to obey the voice and focus on the positive.

Everything will be all right. Hard to believe right now. But let’s give it a try.

PS. Your Daily Smile: my latest reel on Instagram.

IMG_6741

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Heroes of the Fourth Turning, and Frankenstein, Revived: bravo!

This day is as blessed as they get – it’s 22 degrees out there! Mid-autumn with the trees in full glory, but so warm, people are out in tank tops. Not for long, but for today.

So much to tell so will be brief – I’ve seen two great pieces of theatre and one meh. Heroes of the Fourth Turning, at Crow’s Theatre, and Frankenstein Revived at Stratford – could not be more different, and both brilliant. Heroes very wordy – a reunion at the religious Wyoming college they attended seven years ago of young very right-wing Catholics and their mentor. They talk about their faith, where they are now in their lives, about left-wing “baby murderers” and the wonders of Steve Bannon. The older woman is an old school conservative who hates differently: Communists and Obama. There were moments as I watched this superb production that I thought I’d have to rush home and shower, so loathsome did I find their POV. But that was the point – these are human beings who believe they’re right and we’re wrong and are trying to live good lives, but they suffer and doubt and struggle, as do we. I never meet people like that, but I did on Wednesday, and felt my tiny mind expand. Glad, however, to cycle home and leave them behind.

Frankenstein, written and directed by old friend Morris Panych and designed by his longtime partner Ken MacDonald, is stupendous, told entirely in powerful movement, dance, and music, no words at all. Morris puts Mary Shelley front and centre, writing, developing her plot, as the action weaves around her. The creature is unbearably ugly and pathetic, with the most moving moment at the end: desperate for love but rejected by everyone except a blind man, he reaches for the one person who loves him, his creator Mary Shelley, and they hold each other for a moment. And then he dies. Beautiful. The audience at the matinee was full of high school kids and I was dreading the noise, but they were spellbound – not a peep.

Unfortunately, the evening was a great disappointment – Les Belles Soeurs, a play from the sixties by Michel Tremblay. I saw it in its first production in joual, unforgettable, the audience hearing their own Quebecois language on stage for the first time. The joy and pride in the theatre was palpable. But the play has not aged well; its unhappy working class women bitching at each other grow tiresome, not amusing as they once were, and the creative team made a number of huge mistakes, the first being putting this play in the giant Festival Theatre with its thrust stage. For a play where a bunch of women mostly sit at a table talking, that meant they were yammering upstage half the time and incomprehensible. There were many different styles of acting, including straight out stand up comedy, completely out of place. A dated play, badly directed. We left at intermission.

But not a problem, Monique and I got to walk back to my friend Big Anna’s where we were staying along the Avon River with a nearly full moon above. Stratford is a lovely town. I went to my favourite store, Rheo Thompson Chocolates, for a half pound box of my favourite dark chocolate treats that should last me a week or two. This morning, brunch with beloved Lani, one of my oldest friends who lives in nearby Ingersoll. Both she and her husband Maurice have serious health issues, but Lani still spends a great deal of time taking care of friends. A good good soul. I brought her books and some clothes for Maurice, and she brought me, as she always does, a pound of aged Ontario cheddar.

It was so beautiful out when we got home, impossible to stay inside so I walked around the ‘hood, including the Necropolis, where again, I saw gravestones couples erected for their dead babies and toddlers, one who lost three young ones on one side of the stone and two on the other, and the second who lost young Thomas, Cyrus, and George. Could not be more grateful for the health of our children in this day and age, on this sweet, mild day.

I know countless others, in this day and age, are not so lucky.

Speaking of which: before the age of twenty-five, Mary Shelley had four children and a miscarriage that almost killed her. Only one of her children, Percy Florence, survived to adulthood and outlived her.

The first shot right outside Big Anna’s house, the second from the car window as Monique drove home, the last two from the Necropolis Cemetery.

 

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Ron Rosenes

My friend Ron Rosenes died on Saturday. He was a medical miracle – had contracted HIV in the late seventies and spent the next four plus decades, despite a few health issues, advocating for fellow survivors. A kind, generous man. We were in a play together in 1969; in this damaged shot, we’re arm in arm in front of a gesticulating Peter Blais, also still a dear friend. Thank you for all you did for the world, Ron. A great loss for us all.

It’s bizarrely mild for the end of October – 19 degrees! Saw a woman out yesterday in jogging bra and shorts. Amazing. Weird. Worrying. The bulbs are planted, the furnace checked, the bird-feeders filled; I’m getting ready for winter, if it ever comes.

Brevity Blog published my piece about the journey to Midlife Solo yesterday. I’m a huge fan of the great Dinty Moore, one of the godfathers of creative nonfiction and founder of the online mag Brevity. Very happy to be on his site.

https://brevity.wordpress.com/2023/10/24/bright-fragments/

Participants and audience members have been sending lovely messages about So True. Mary wrote, It is a unique and deeply powerful event that always leaves me and the people I bring along in awe and feeling enriched. So much appreciation for our fearless, talented and funny leader and guide, Beth, and for wonderful Jason, who shares his energy and positivity so generously.

Thank you, Mary! About Jason, so true. About moi, fearless most definitely not; funny, I try; talented, who knows. It’s a family trait, though, to be an animator, to know how to keep an audience engaged. Dad knew, I know, Sam knows, Anna too, in a different, less show-offy way. It’s genetic. The animator gene. Glad to have it.

PS Just got a royalty report for last month from Findaway Voices, one of the sites that lists my audiobook of Loose Woman. I am to receive a royalty of $.67. US. Woo hoo. On the other hand, a royalty report from Iguana, which has three of my books: in six months, 74 print and e-books sold. Royalties of $205.79 CDN. All that talent, humour, and fearlessness pays off big time. I’m rich!

PPS The trees too are almost ready for winter, in all their scarlet, puce, tangerine,  and golden glory.

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So True; The Quiet Girl

Too much going on in the world. The hounds of hell have been unleashed; angry, heartless men rule. I am going to try to shut it out today. I will close down the garden and plant bulbs and walk and work on the plan for the book. Hunker down. It’s getting colder out there, and the glowing trees are magnificent. To the best of their ability, they ignore us. As they should.

The So True reading event went very well on Saturday — fewer people this time, about 45 as opposed to about 70 in February. But those 45 were wildly warm and appreciative as seven readers read moving, powerful stories, and then yours truly. This work puts listeners in other people’s shoes, I said. If only world leaders were able to do the same. Have to say, I’m proud of producing a successful two-hour show — selecting readers, editing their pieces, rehearsing them, preparing the venue, publicizing the event (not well enough, obviously), shepherding the team through it all, and then speaking and reading myself. I’m hugely proud of the readers, who were all confident and skilful, and grateful for our bubbly, indispensable MC Jason. Monique was at the door taking money; she and I went to Ruth’s after — Ruth’s piece a hilarious meditation about getting hearing aids, inspiring several audience members to resolve to do the same — for a glass of wine and a recap. And then, at home, I collapsed.

Watched The Quiet Girl that evening, the perfect film for someone worn out. Based on Claire Keegan’s novella and almost entirely in Gaelic, it’s a haunting depiction of a sensitive girlchild with a brutish father, a drained, heedless mother, and too many siblings, who spends a summer with relatives who cherish and nurture her. How she blooms. And then, to our dismay, she is sent home. The film, like the book, showcases both the plus and the minus of rural Irish life — the generosity of neighbours who help without question but also gossip and condemn. The lack of birth control for a family without means, saddling the mother with yet another baby when she can’t cope with the last one. And yet – beautiful serene countryside, kind, giving people. A gorgeous film.

Anna became the face of protests about the bombing of Palestinian women and children when a photo of her at a recent rally was broadcast on several TV channels. She has fought for the underdog since childhood. Here she is at fifteen, advertising a car wash to raise funds for her uncle Don’s group home in Vernon. Nothing quiet about this girl.

All right, moving gingerly into Monday. A crazy busy week ahead: teaching Tuesday, seeing a play at Crow’s Theatre Wednesday afternoon, driving to Stratford on Thursday with Monique to see two more plays and stay overnight with Big Anna and Tom, seeing old friend Lani Friday morning then driving back. On Saturday another old friend, the divine Shari Ulrich from Bowen Island, is playing a gig at the new Hugh’s Room, which has moved from way across town to close by. She’s spending the night here. And on Sunday, a third old friend, Bruce, arrives to stay. On Wednesday, a piece about writing Midlife Solo appears on the Brevity Blog. All week, gearing up for the book launch November 6. Excitement.

Good excitement, for a change.

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Peace cannot exist where justice is not served: John Lewis

I love cycling, as regular readers might possibly have gathered. It is a wonderful thing to get from A to B using muscles outside in the (sort of) fresh air. Sailing past a line of furious cars doesn’t hurt either. But more and more, I breathe a sigh of relief when I actually get home safely. The city is madder than ever with speeding autos and trucks, but now, there are heavy e-bikes and scooters zipping along the few bike lanes. Yesterday a heedless Uber Eats e-bike careened by so close to me, he nearly knocked me over. Then a driver in an expensive sports car accelerated and wove in and out as if he was in a grand prix race. No police anywhere, of course.

The Star reported yesterday that the second busiest city for construction in North America, Seattle, has 45 construction cranes in place, while Los Angeles, the third, has 30.

Toronto has 240. It’s first. Six times more construction than Seattle.

The chaos everywhere makes drivers even angrier and endangers cyclists even more, with blocked bike lanes and heavy trucks. And do any of those massive towers going up contain affordable, geared-to-income units? You know the answer. Profit all the way, baby.

Okay. First world problems. It’s hard to listen to the news, but there’s been a ray of light: Joe Biden, the grownup in the room, a voice of reason calling for restraint. Let’s hope those in power on both sides are listening. Almost surely, they are not. Those insisting on the annihilation of Hamas don’t seem to understand that those terrorist fighters have sons who will grow up with violent hatred in their hearts. As will the sons of those murdered in Israel. And so on we go. How can this possibly end, ever?

Okay. Devastating problems, but nothing I can do.

U of T class Tuesday evening, a great group with students Zooming in from Winnipeg, Edmonton, and Bogata, Colombia, as well as TO. Last night, my home class, mostly a rehearsal for So True coming up on Saturday afternoon. Such good writing and good readers. I’m proud to have helped these writers not only hone their pieces but be comfortable, clear, and direct on a stage. It’s not a reading. It’s a show.

Yesterday, my annual mammogram, needed because my mother had breast cancer. I left on my bike at 11.55 for a 12.20 appointment and was out of the hospital by 12.45. Extraordinary efficiency! Let’s hope all is well. Had the results of blood tests, too — all in the normal range. Grateful they’re keeping an eye on this old bird.

It’s dark and wet out there today. But that didn’t stop Anna from taking Ben to a protest at Chrystia Freeland’s office to demand a ceasefire. My grandsons learned to write making placards and signs. They, I pray, will continue to grow up in a relatively peaceful country in a relatively stable home. And that is the greatest blessing of all.

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