Beth Kaplan's Blog, page 73
September 2, 2020
reports from "Loose Woman" readers begin to arrive
JOY! First, there's NO NOISE. Could they be finished the reno? Or just torturing me, taking a brief break before returning to drill and slice and blast once more? For today - a cloudy day with rain to come - the air is soft and damp, there's silence, and it's heaven.
But also - I just returned to Doubletake, my favourite second-hand store, for the first time since February. You have to line up outside, they only let in a limited number of masked people, but I got in, saw my friends there, all the ladies from Sri Lanka who've been working there since forever, and meandered. It's not nearly as interesting as it used to be, but still, it's fun for a quick visit; I bought a Uniqlo top for $5.
It felt good to go back to a familiar place. Maybe now I'll venture to the Y. Though I can't imagine the Y in a mask and without the familiar classes, just the machines, or my friends. I miss my Y friends.
The taping of the audiobook finished yesterday with the last two chapters and a repeat of the first, a better job the second time around, I hope, as I'm comfortable with the process now. Still, I was listening to it last night and wrote to Jason, "It's not badly read but it's BORING!" To which he replied, "Lol my friend. You wrote it. You know it. You know what’s coming next. Are you as enthralled with a movie you’ve watched 35 times? Be easier on yourself. xo"
Good point. I forgot how vital it is that someone hold the hand of the nervous writer, even on the release of her fourth book.
Nick is reading it and wrote, "Beth, this book is fabulous! I’m just reading about your parents, and kind of aching to have known them. I can barely tear myself away from the photo of the two of them playing Mozart. À suivre."
Yes, they were something.
And Ken wrote, "I feel very privileged to have a friend who writes with such honesty and gentle kindness."
Thank you, dear friends. A week to go before this baby is officially born. The work isn't over - the job of getting it to readers never ends - but I hope I can begin to clear my desk of 1979 and think about what's next.
In the meantime - busy with writing the press release, going to the post office with stacks of books to mail, and cucumbers.
But also - I just returned to Doubletake, my favourite second-hand store, for the first time since February. You have to line up outside, they only let in a limited number of masked people, but I got in, saw my friends there, all the ladies from Sri Lanka who've been working there since forever, and meandered. It's not nearly as interesting as it used to be, but still, it's fun for a quick visit; I bought a Uniqlo top for $5.
It felt good to go back to a familiar place. Maybe now I'll venture to the Y. Though I can't imagine the Y in a mask and without the familiar classes, just the machines, or my friends. I miss my Y friends.
The taping of the audiobook finished yesterday with the last two chapters and a repeat of the first, a better job the second time around, I hope, as I'm comfortable with the process now. Still, I was listening to it last night and wrote to Jason, "It's not badly read but it's BORING!" To which he replied, "Lol my friend. You wrote it. You know it. You know what’s coming next. Are you as enthralled with a movie you’ve watched 35 times? Be easier on yourself. xo"
Good point. I forgot how vital it is that someone hold the hand of the nervous writer, even on the release of her fourth book.
Nick is reading it and wrote, "Beth, this book is fabulous! I’m just reading about your parents, and kind of aching to have known them. I can barely tear myself away from the photo of the two of them playing Mozart. À suivre."
Yes, they were something.And Ken wrote, "I feel very privileged to have a friend who writes with such honesty and gentle kindness."
Thank you, dear friends. A week to go before this baby is officially born. The work isn't over - the job of getting it to readers never ends - but I hope I can begin to clear my desk of 1979 and think about what's next.
In the meantime - busy with writing the press release, going to the post office with stacks of books to mail, and cucumbers.
August 31, 2020
Write like a motherf*cker
I know, it's become an obsession - but the deafening noise continues from Spruce Street. Could I hate these people more? I had to go over on Sunday with my TO noise ordinance - no construction noise allowed on Sunday, which they conveniently ignore. Just a few more minutes, they said, which meant an hour. But then it stopped. The silence is like - like sweet fresh water, like the smell of roses, something blessed and fine. But this morning, here we go again. And now the bellowing boyfriend is there too. Noise cancelling headphones help a bit but only a bit.
I know, this is the price I pay for living in this wonderful 'hood, where many others want to live. There's apparently a ton of renovation going on this summer, because everyone's at home. Enjoying each other's noise and dust.
Jason is coming soon to continue plans for the launch. So far, I've been receiving positive reports from those reading the memoir now. Monique's boyfriend Ron says he's glad I survived my youthful indiscretions. I'm glad too, but I hastened to tell him that my indiscretions were relatively benign compared to those of many of my friends. It was a wild time, the late seventies - feminism, the pill, and tons of drugs had liberated us, and there was no AIDS to slow anyone down.
It's a beautiful day, warm and sunny with a breeze. This ridiculous cat is next to me sleeping all over my work -
and I just received a card from the kids in Nova Scotia and a present from Judy in Vancouver, with a very important message:
Point taken. I promise to start, as soon as this one is out in the world and I can breathe again.
I just got some essential reading from the library and Shopper's Drug Mart:
and am just finishing a fascinating book called Philosophy in the Garden, by Damon Young - how various writers and philosophers, from Jane Austen to Voltaire, think of nature and gardens and how that influences their work. Not sure what my philosophy of the garden is - perhaps, "Whatever can survive my carelessness and lack of skill deserves to survive."
Luckily this was not my philosophy of parenting. Wait - no, maybe it was.
I know, this is the price I pay for living in this wonderful 'hood, where many others want to live. There's apparently a ton of renovation going on this summer, because everyone's at home. Enjoying each other's noise and dust.
Jason is coming soon to continue plans for the launch. So far, I've been receiving positive reports from those reading the memoir now. Monique's boyfriend Ron says he's glad I survived my youthful indiscretions. I'm glad too, but I hastened to tell him that my indiscretions were relatively benign compared to those of many of my friends. It was a wild time, the late seventies - feminism, the pill, and tons of drugs had liberated us, and there was no AIDS to slow anyone down.
It's a beautiful day, warm and sunny with a breeze. This ridiculous cat is next to me sleeping all over my work -
and I just received a card from the kids in Nova Scotia and a present from Judy in Vancouver, with a very important message:
Point taken. I promise to start, as soon as this one is out in the world and I can breathe again.I just got some essential reading from the library and Shopper's Drug Mart:
and am just finishing a fascinating book called Philosophy in the Garden, by Damon Young - how various writers and philosophers, from Jane Austen to Voltaire, think of nature and gardens and how that influences their work. Not sure what my philosophy of the garden is - perhaps, "Whatever can survive my carelessness and lack of skill deserves to survive."Luckily this was not my philosophy of parenting. Wait - no, maybe it was.
August 29, 2020
Summertime, and the livin' is ... pretty damn weird
Some days I'm terrified for our world. Yes, things were worse during WW1, the Depression, WW2. And maybe even the Cold War, not to mention the Dark Ages and plague times. But this is another kind of dark age. Perhaps it was happening anyway, the rise of the foul dinosaurs, and Trump simply gave permission for it all to get much, much worse, but watching the rise of neo-fascist authoritarianism is appalling. Turkey - Russia - Brazil - Hungary - led by angry, greedy, heartless men angling for war. And then there's the most greedy and heartless of them all - not just him but his whole disgusting party on display this week, petrifying their follower sheep with lurid tales of violent gangs and lawless mobs and the "destruction of the suburbs" ...
Okay, enough, nothing I can do about it. Bill Maher last night begged his audience not to use the post office in October so as not to impede the flow of ballots through the possibly fatally damaged US postal service. Mind-boggling, as was his interview with a vicious Republican attack dog who went after Hillary relentlessly for Benghazi and yet had nothing to say about Trump's endless law-breaking.
Okay, I'll stop now.
Several nice things to report: one is that - bliss! - I've had a good haircut for the first time since February. My hair had become a wild and lawless mob; Ingrid, my hairdresser for decades, won't come back to work until there's a vaccine, and the nice young woman who did an interim job didn't understand my hair AT ALL. But Ruth's hairdresser Kathleen did, perfectly. What a difference; I feel light-headed and human again. And then another gift from Ruth: the Musical Stage Company offers Porch Concerts; you can book two singers to come to your house for an outdoor, distanced concert. A group of about twenty-five of us brought our own chairs and gathered in the courtyard in front of Ruth's house on a beautiful summer night, and as the light faded and the cicadas kept tune, we listened to a gorgeous young woman, six months pregnant, and her partner sing to us. Thank you, Ruthie!
The nicest thing of all: I sent a hesitant email to my ex-husband, telling him the memoir is now out, that it ends with the ecstatic beginning of our love affair and marriage. There are hints that all might not be well at some point, but mostly we were madly in love. He's a very private person and I was concerned about what he'd say, but he wrote back a warm, generous note supporting my work as a writer and asking me to send him the book. It's always an issue when you're writing about living people, as we memoir writers do - how will they take it? I could not ask for better from him.
My kids, however, have said maybe they won't read this one, dealing as it does with their mother's sex life, among many other things - and in fact, their grandmother's - my own mother's - sex life too! I understand if they don't. But I hope they do.
Summer is fading, but it's still hot, and the market this morning was full of peaches and corn - tho' the first apples have appeared too. I've nearly finished the audiobook - another few hours this coming week - and am sending out invitations to the book launch. I do think, with the number of friends, neighbours, and former students I have, that there might be a nice number of book sales when the book is released on September 9.
It's September 10 I'm worried about.
Okay, enough, nothing I can do about it. Bill Maher last night begged his audience not to use the post office in October so as not to impede the flow of ballots through the possibly fatally damaged US postal service. Mind-boggling, as was his interview with a vicious Republican attack dog who went after Hillary relentlessly for Benghazi and yet had nothing to say about Trump's endless law-breaking.
Okay, I'll stop now.
Several nice things to report: one is that - bliss! - I've had a good haircut for the first time since February. My hair had become a wild and lawless mob; Ingrid, my hairdresser for decades, won't come back to work until there's a vaccine, and the nice young woman who did an interim job didn't understand my hair AT ALL. But Ruth's hairdresser Kathleen did, perfectly. What a difference; I feel light-headed and human again. And then another gift from Ruth: the Musical Stage Company offers Porch Concerts; you can book two singers to come to your house for an outdoor, distanced concert. A group of about twenty-five of us brought our own chairs and gathered in the courtyard in front of Ruth's house on a beautiful summer night, and as the light faded and the cicadas kept tune, we listened to a gorgeous young woman, six months pregnant, and her partner sing to us. Thank you, Ruthie!
The nicest thing of all: I sent a hesitant email to my ex-husband, telling him the memoir is now out, that it ends with the ecstatic beginning of our love affair and marriage. There are hints that all might not be well at some point, but mostly we were madly in love. He's a very private person and I was concerned about what he'd say, but he wrote back a warm, generous note supporting my work as a writer and asking me to send him the book. It's always an issue when you're writing about living people, as we memoir writers do - how will they take it? I could not ask for better from him.
My kids, however, have said maybe they won't read this one, dealing as it does with their mother's sex life, among many other things - and in fact, their grandmother's - my own mother's - sex life too! I understand if they don't. But I hope they do.
Summer is fading, but it's still hot, and the market this morning was full of peaches and corn - tho' the first apples have appeared too. I've nearly finished the audiobook - another few hours this coming week - and am sending out invitations to the book launch. I do think, with the number of friends, neighbours, and former students I have, that there might be a nice number of book sales when the book is released on September 9.
It's September 10 I'm worried about.
August 26, 2020
killing a garden
Yesterday, the noise from the reno on Spruce Street was so unbearable, I went over to see what was going on. Are they building the @#$#@ Taj Mahal? There was a lone man, covered in stone dust, with a large machine, and I saw: the owners have a nice-sized south-facing backyard, and they have covered it entirely in dark grey slate. Slate slabs from one end to the other, the cutting of which is what I've been listening to all @#$#@ summer. But, said the nice old man who barely spoke English and could barely see out of his dusty eyeglasses, the slate cutting is nearly done. Today, a radio blaring as more work continues, but only hammering and shouting.
I am just glad that Dorothy, my British gardening guru who lived on Spruce two houses east, who inspired me, a total non-gardener, to get started here, who had made her own south- facing yard a gorgeous lush oasis of scent and bloom, is not alive to see - and hear - this. She'd be apoplectic.
Last night, over to Lynn's in Forest Hill, to her sublime pool like a lake - we support ourselves on pool noodles as we float up and down, jabbering the while. And then dinner in her garden, with a beautiful rosé she'd been saving for my birthday, and fresh corn. Happiness is.
But our neighbours to the south are more murderously insane than ever. Here, on the subway yesterday, almost every single person I could see was in the mandatory mask, and the new leader of the Cons, who courted the social conservatives to win, has just said he's pro-choice. More grateful than ever that my father left New York for a life in Canada.
Today, more taping at the studio. Two weeks till launch! Much planning to do.
Some random photographs that make me - and I hope you - glad.
At Ruth's, dining in the drizzle
Happy muddy boys at low tide in Nova Scotia - check out the lower half -
From the beginning to the end, in only six years - incredible how far they went, how much they changed -
The very beginning! Babies. With Stu and Pete Best.
And so, on into Wednesday - right now, Gina's line dancing class.
I am just glad that Dorothy, my British gardening guru who lived on Spruce two houses east, who inspired me, a total non-gardener, to get started here, who had made her own south- facing yard a gorgeous lush oasis of scent and bloom, is not alive to see - and hear - this. She'd be apoplectic.
Last night, over to Lynn's in Forest Hill, to her sublime pool like a lake - we support ourselves on pool noodles as we float up and down, jabbering the while. And then dinner in her garden, with a beautiful rosé she'd been saving for my birthday, and fresh corn. Happiness is.
But our neighbours to the south are more murderously insane than ever. Here, on the subway yesterday, almost every single person I could see was in the mandatory mask, and the new leader of the Cons, who courted the social conservatives to win, has just said he's pro-choice. More grateful than ever that my father left New York for a life in Canada.
Today, more taping at the studio. Two weeks till launch! Much planning to do.
Some random photographs that make me - and I hope you - glad.
At Ruth's, dining in the drizzle
Happy muddy boys at low tide in Nova Scotia - check out the lower half -
From the beginning to the end, in only six years - incredible how far they went, how much they changed -
The very beginning! Babies. With Stu and Pete Best.And so, on into Wednesday - right now, Gina's line dancing class.
August 24, 2020
home in the heat
Home to a heat warning - 33 degrees feeling like 37. Where's the lake?!
Ruth and I had a wonderful few days. We fell into a rhythm that worked for us both - coffee in the morning sun, reading, discussing politics, reading, internet, swimming, making and eating lunch, reading, aperitif, making and eating dinner, internet, Netflix = perfect. Going down to the lake last night to look at the quarter moon and the electric storm flashing through the clouds on the horizon.
Last night, the last episode of Unbelievable - a terrific Netflix drama, highly recommended. And then I persuaded Ruth to watch the last episode of this season's Endeavour on PBS, a sensible, interesting British cop show which for some reason turned into a gothic melodrama, ending with various shootings in a Venice graveyard with an opera soundtrack. Who hijacked the series? This ridiculous episode was full of events that made no sense. Poor Ruth did not understand my enthusiasm.
We had a leisurely drive back down this morning, stopping, of course, to buy corn and peaches. We drove for many, many miles through farmland, all dedicated to corn. Wondered - is that healthy for the soil? I got back to find my house in great shape thanks to Nicole, but the cat not so much - she has puked twice since my return. As she pukes, she moves steadily backwards so as to leave a nice long trail on the rug. I feel for her. Perhaps it's the heat.
Speaking of puking, I gather some horrible man has been chosen to head the Tories, and he has immediately sworn to kill the CBC. As I just wrote on FB: to those who love to dump on Justin Trudeau and the Liberals, just wait until you find out what the Cons have in mind. Terrifying. And of course, I'm ignoring every moment of the Republican convention. Give me strength.
A long list of things to do, including stuff with the many cucumbers that sprang forth in my absence. But for now - rosé.
Ruth and I had a wonderful few days. We fell into a rhythm that worked for us both - coffee in the morning sun, reading, discussing politics, reading, internet, swimming, making and eating lunch, reading, aperitif, making and eating dinner, internet, Netflix = perfect. Going down to the lake last night to look at the quarter moon and the electric storm flashing through the clouds on the horizon.
Last night, the last episode of Unbelievable - a terrific Netflix drama, highly recommended. And then I persuaded Ruth to watch the last episode of this season's Endeavour on PBS, a sensible, interesting British cop show which for some reason turned into a gothic melodrama, ending with various shootings in a Venice graveyard with an opera soundtrack. Who hijacked the series? This ridiculous episode was full of events that made no sense. Poor Ruth did not understand my enthusiasm.
We had a leisurely drive back down this morning, stopping, of course, to buy corn and peaches. We drove for many, many miles through farmland, all dedicated to corn. Wondered - is that healthy for the soil? I got back to find my house in great shape thanks to Nicole, but the cat not so much - she has puked twice since my return. As she pukes, she moves steadily backwards so as to leave a nice long trail on the rug. I feel for her. Perhaps it's the heat.
Speaking of puking, I gather some horrible man has been chosen to head the Tories, and he has immediately sworn to kill the CBC. As I just wrote on FB: to those who love to dump on Justin Trudeau and the Liberals, just wait until you find out what the Cons have in mind. Terrifying. And of course, I'm ignoring every moment of the Republican convention. Give me strength.
A long list of things to do, including stuff with the many cucumbers that sprang forth in my absence. But for now - rosé.
August 22, 2020
heaven in Muskoka
Reporting in from paradise: Birch Island in Muskoka. Ruth and I have settled into a gruelling regime of reading by the lake, swimming, preparing simple, delicious meals and eating a great deal, drinking also, and then watching terrific TV at night. It's a tough life but someone's ... etc.
We have a companion - Ruth's grand-dog Coco, a beagle with a very busy nose, also enduring this difficult life.
But the greatest treat of all is listening to Ruth read Loose Woman. She laughs and laughs, yesterday, putting down the book and wiping her eyes with laughter. Nothing could give me greater pleasure (except of course world peace, a cure for cancer, and the total disappearance of the orange blowhole). And then she asks questions - what happened to this character? And she reminisces about her own trips to France, her own young love life ... I'm sitting beside her, near the lake, as she delves into my memoir. It's a huge privilege. This feels like the first time I've actually been able to process the fact that the book exists in the world. It has finally been born.
Today, after swimming and reading all day, we kayaked around the island. It's not as tranquil as it was before - it's Saturday and the weekend people are here, zapping back and forth on loud machines. Imagine, you come to one of the most tranquil places on earth, and you spend your time roaring crazily across the water. But it's still heaven. How lucky are we Canucks, to have these incredibly beautiful retreats of water and forest not far from our cities. So many shades of green. The smell of pine. Many creatures, including a heron stalking the water close by, the haunting loons, and apparently a beaver too.
I spent the morning, however, working - sending out emails to friends and colleagues about the book and its launch. And what lovely replies I've been receiving, words of support and encouragement, truly heartening for a person as insecure - as now you know - as I.
Right now, we're having aperitif - rosé and smoked mussels on the deck, with the lapping of waves and the occasional loud marine vessel going by. Tonight, we'll watch more episodes of Unbelievable, a true life murder mystery. And maybe go look at the sunset. Like yesterday's.
Grateful.
We have a companion - Ruth's grand-dog Coco, a beagle with a very busy nose, also enduring this difficult life.
But the greatest treat of all is listening to Ruth read Loose Woman. She laughs and laughs, yesterday, putting down the book and wiping her eyes with laughter. Nothing could give me greater pleasure (except of course world peace, a cure for cancer, and the total disappearance of the orange blowhole). And then she asks questions - what happened to this character? And she reminisces about her own trips to France, her own young love life ... I'm sitting beside her, near the lake, as she delves into my memoir. It's a huge privilege. This feels like the first time I've actually been able to process the fact that the book exists in the world. It has finally been born.
Today, after swimming and reading all day, we kayaked around the island. It's not as tranquil as it was before - it's Saturday and the weekend people are here, zapping back and forth on loud machines. Imagine, you come to one of the most tranquil places on earth, and you spend your time roaring crazily across the water. But it's still heaven. How lucky are we Canucks, to have these incredibly beautiful retreats of water and forest not far from our cities. So many shades of green. The smell of pine. Many creatures, including a heron stalking the water close by, the haunting loons, and apparently a beaver too.I spent the morning, however, working - sending out emails to friends and colleagues about the book and its launch. And what lovely replies I've been receiving, words of support and encouragement, truly heartening for a person as insecure - as now you know - as I.
Right now, we're having aperitif - rosé and smoked mussels on the deck, with the lapping of waves and the occasional loud marine vessel going by. Tonight, we'll watch more episodes of Unbelievable, a true life murder mystery. And maybe go look at the sunset. Like yesterday's.
Grateful.
August 21, 2020
The Democrats nail it
A surreal moment last night - sitting in a rustic living-room in Muskoka, surrounded by woods and water, watching Joe Biden and the Dems save the world. Or at least give it a damn good try. I have hope.
One powerfully moving moment after another, all done on video in isolation yet full of impact. Young Brayden Harrington, daring to appear on screen with his stutter; historian Jon Meacham delivering a heartfelt, eloquent analysis of our current moment; Julia Louis-Dreyfus pulling no punches, as scathing and vicious as her opponent but with a ton more wit. And on and on.
But mostly, it was about Joe - or Joey, as he was often called throughout, and for me, the most moving segment was his four granddaughters saying he called them every day, always took their calls even in the middle of important political events. We learned that despite the tragedies the man suffered, he emerged, not hardened, but full of empathy and kindness. How could he be more different from that loathsome orange-faced troll?
In the meantime, there are woods and lakes on all sides. Ruth and her family have owned this cottage for 50 years, and it's a beauty. And yet, as I wrote last time, with high-speed wifi and flat-screen TV. We have enough food to last us into next year. Perhaps we should just hunker down here until after November, when the world changes for good. For the good.
One powerfully moving moment after another, all done on video in isolation yet full of impact. Young Brayden Harrington, daring to appear on screen with his stutter; historian Jon Meacham delivering a heartfelt, eloquent analysis of our current moment; Julia Louis-Dreyfus pulling no punches, as scathing and vicious as her opponent but with a ton more wit. And on and on.
But mostly, it was about Joe - or Joey, as he was often called throughout, and for me, the most moving segment was his four granddaughters saying he called them every day, always took their calls even in the middle of important political events. We learned that despite the tragedies the man suffered, he emerged, not hardened, but full of empathy and kindness. How could he be more different from that loathsome orange-faced troll?
In the meantime, there are woods and lakes on all sides. Ruth and her family have owned this cottage for 50 years, and it's a beauty. And yet, as I wrote last time, with high-speed wifi and flat-screen TV. We have enough food to last us into next year. Perhaps we should just hunker down here until after November, when the world changes for good. For the good.
August 19, 2020
Goodreads, Amazon, MailChimp, Zoom
Dear blogees, thank you for indulging me. I needed to air my insecurities yesterday and do a bit of moaning; the gremlin of self-pity jumps out every so often. As I say to my students, a certain amount of insecurity is necessary to an artist; it means you'll struggle to improve, to push higher. It's just important that the critical voice isn't so harsh, it shuts you down. As Wayson used to say, "Do not be silenced!"
Yes sir. Wish you were here. You'd have loved all this prep for the book launch.
It was a beautiful summer day, and there was no renovation on any side - just breezes, birdsong, the regular city hum. I did Gina's line dancing class for the first time in ages - good for the brain as well as the bod, where DO these feet go? And then Jason came, we set ourselves up outside and got to work. These are the things a writer needs to do these days: set up a Goodreads page for the new book. Set up an Amazon author page. Discuss how to revise this website and what the Zoom launch will entail. Prepare the email blasts to go out soon. Send out a MailChimp newsletter about the book to nearly 400 former students. And more.
The online planet is more important than ever. Even so, I just can't get the hang of posting constantly on social media. So be it. But if readers want to find me or my work, we made it easier today.
And then I went to buy rosé and groceries for my trip tomorrow with Ruth to her cottage near Gravenhurst. Oh I can't wait to be in that tranquil house on an island, surrounded by trees and water, with my dear friend. I'm bringing a bit of work, yes. But mostly I want to read and sit and digest where I am now and what's next. Last time I was there, I sat under an umbrella by the water and read Middlemarch; it was heaven. Must find a weighty tome to bring this time, along with the usual New Yorkers.
The Democratic convention is barrelling on; the little I've seen feels perfect. The question is - why is it necessary to work so @#$# hard to convince people? As David Sedaris said with his usual humorous brilliance, this election is like a stewardess asking if you want the chicken or the plate of shit filled with ground glass, and some have to take time to decide, hmm, which should I choose? Let me ponder.
While I'm gone, Nicole will be here, taking care of Anna's cat and the house. Here's what my new friend Naan thinks of my busy days, as she flops on my daytimer. I love having a cat around again. She yowls piteously, just like me.
Yes sir. Wish you were here. You'd have loved all this prep for the book launch.
It was a beautiful summer day, and there was no renovation on any side - just breezes, birdsong, the regular city hum. I did Gina's line dancing class for the first time in ages - good for the brain as well as the bod, where DO these feet go? And then Jason came, we set ourselves up outside and got to work. These are the things a writer needs to do these days: set up a Goodreads page for the new book. Set up an Amazon author page. Discuss how to revise this website and what the Zoom launch will entail. Prepare the email blasts to go out soon. Send out a MailChimp newsletter about the book to nearly 400 former students. And more.
The online planet is more important than ever. Even so, I just can't get the hang of posting constantly on social media. So be it. But if readers want to find me or my work, we made it easier today.
And then I went to buy rosé and groceries for my trip tomorrow with Ruth to her cottage near Gravenhurst. Oh I can't wait to be in that tranquil house on an island, surrounded by trees and water, with my dear friend. I'm bringing a bit of work, yes. But mostly I want to read and sit and digest where I am now and what's next. Last time I was there, I sat under an umbrella by the water and read Middlemarch; it was heaven. Must find a weighty tome to bring this time, along with the usual New Yorkers.
The Democratic convention is barrelling on; the little I've seen feels perfect. The question is - why is it necessary to work so @#$# hard to convince people? As David Sedaris said with his usual humorous brilliance, this election is like a stewardess asking if you want the chicken or the plate of shit filled with ground glass, and some have to take time to decide, hmm, which should I choose? Let me ponder.
While I'm gone, Nicole will be here, taking care of Anna's cat and the house. Here's what my new friend Naan thinks of my busy days, as she flops on my daytimer. I love having a cat around again. She yowls piteously, just like me.
August 18, 2020
grappling with the demons of doubt
I do not have Covid-19. Found out in 24 hours, thank you very much. Suddenly, when I heard "negative," I felt better. But not a whole lot better.
These last days, as I prepared to sit in a recording studio taping the audiobook of my memoir, I unearthed my inner neurotic actress. Suddenly I felt fragile and unwell. My throat hurt. All I thought about was my voice, my strength - how to prepare? I did vocal exercises all morning, limbering up throat and lips and tongue, as we learned to do in theatre school. I found it hard work, reading into a microphone for 3 hours, then editing the tapes we did the day before. Satisfying, but also scary. I'm recounting my own very personal story, and one of the voices, the negative voice I know so well, kept saying, "Who's going to want to listen to THIS? What a waste of time and money. YOUR time and money."
I'm insecure about my voice and also about my writing. Yes, I get good feedback about my writing from friends and students. But I contacted a publicist in Vancouver who was charming and friendly, willing to take me on. And then she read excerpts from the memoir, and now she's ghosting me. All publishers but one turned me down. I've never won a prose writing competition, never been included in an anthology. There's something about my work that doesn't work for the industry. Too much telling, Wayson used to say, not enough showing. Whatever it is - it's what I do, it's what the book is. What if it's disappointing readers right now?
Etcetera.
And yet - I've taped 145 pages of my book so far, acting my buns off, trying to do the voices, the accents, convey the mood swings of this young woman as she sets off on her odyssey. If no one wants to listen to it, I'll be disappointed, but I won't be surprised. That's our business.
Monique who's reading it said tonight, I thought I knew you but I don't at all! I said, Well for one things, you've never known me to have a sex life. Now she's reading about a time when I had a very active sex life. Not to mention the booze and drugs. Cu, the young technician doing the taping, mostly doesn't listen as I read, but after yesterday's reading, he wanted me to discuss something I knew about that he, cool young dude that he is, did not: cocaine. What an interesting world.
In the meantime, Trudeau is struggling at a bad time, and the Democrats seem to be doing a good job at their convention. Please God.
These last days, as I prepared to sit in a recording studio taping the audiobook of my memoir, I unearthed my inner neurotic actress. Suddenly I felt fragile and unwell. My throat hurt. All I thought about was my voice, my strength - how to prepare? I did vocal exercises all morning, limbering up throat and lips and tongue, as we learned to do in theatre school. I found it hard work, reading into a microphone for 3 hours, then editing the tapes we did the day before. Satisfying, but also scary. I'm recounting my own very personal story, and one of the voices, the negative voice I know so well, kept saying, "Who's going to want to listen to THIS? What a waste of time and money. YOUR time and money."
I'm insecure about my voice and also about my writing. Yes, I get good feedback about my writing from friends and students. But I contacted a publicist in Vancouver who was charming and friendly, willing to take me on. And then she read excerpts from the memoir, and now she's ghosting me. All publishers but one turned me down. I've never won a prose writing competition, never been included in an anthology. There's something about my work that doesn't work for the industry. Too much telling, Wayson used to say, not enough showing. Whatever it is - it's what I do, it's what the book is. What if it's disappointing readers right now?
Etcetera.
And yet - I've taped 145 pages of my book so far, acting my buns off, trying to do the voices, the accents, convey the mood swings of this young woman as she sets off on her odyssey. If no one wants to listen to it, I'll be disappointed, but I won't be surprised. That's our business.
Monique who's reading it said tonight, I thought I knew you but I don't at all! I said, Well for one things, you've never known me to have a sex life. Now she's reading about a time when I had a very active sex life. Not to mention the booze and drugs. Cu, the young technician doing the taping, mostly doesn't listen as I read, but after yesterday's reading, he wanted me to discuss something I knew about that he, cool young dude that he is, did not: cocaine. What an interesting world.
In the meantime, Trudeau is struggling at a bad time, and the Democrats seem to be doing a good job at their convention. Please God.
August 16, 2020
Covid test
I went for a Covid test today. Yes, have a bit of a sore throat and headache, but mostly because I'm invited to go with Ruth to her cottage on Thursday and she sensibly wants to be sure I'm safe. As do I. What an amazing experience. How glad I am to live in Canada. They've taken over a whole separate section of St. Mike's - across the street from the actual hospital, everything white, sterile, enclosed. A short lineup, then registering, being questioned and given instruction, then finally the test itself - half an hour, beginning to end. As I waited to see the doctor, I saw a whiteboard nearby with a list of personnel and names: Greeters, registrars, screeners, scribes, runners, testers, and more, with an exhortation scrawled above: "Tough times don't last, tough people do!"
And then the doctor, who had nice dark eyes above his mask and under his shield, shoved the swab up my nose and I was done. I thanked them all profusely. The results will be emailed in a few days.
However, on the ride there and back along Shuter Street, I was ashamed of my city, province, and country. The army of the homeless has increased enormously over these last months; there are tents and tarp enclosures all over, particularly near the Safe Injection site on Queen which is the bane of my dear John's existence - he lives across the street. It's a difficult situation; the homeless and drug addicted need a place to go, but there is certainly an increase in crime and danger where they are.
At home, I filled in the form to complete my online registration; it gave me a bunch of choices for "Sex: female/male/other/undifferentiated/unknown." Really, is there anyone who has no idea what sex they are? Perhaps. We live in strange times.
The shock of today, though, was listening to the recording we made yesterday. OMG, who is that woman talking so slowly and laboriously? The first half hour, at least, will have to be redone. I realize I was working too hard, overthinking as I always do, and also that the writer had overcome the actor and was insisting on each precious word being heard. NYET. Keep it moving, chatty, and fun, princess. Will have to retape. This will take time and may end up being yet another sinkhole for my money. But it's something I have to do.
Cheery tidings from the Guardian: Literary world overwhelmed by 600 books to be published on one day. That day: Sept. 3, a week before the release of my own tome. Ha!
The good news: the other day my son posted on FB about the murder a year ago of the restauranteur next door, how Sam held the wounded man as he died, how hard he took it, how he was diagnosed with PTSD, and how his community (and his parents) supported him through it. It was eloquent, moving, deeply honest. He has had almost 300 Likes and many kind, loving messages. FB is good for some things.
And then the doctor, who had nice dark eyes above his mask and under his shield, shoved the swab up my nose and I was done. I thanked them all profusely. The results will be emailed in a few days.
However, on the ride there and back along Shuter Street, I was ashamed of my city, province, and country. The army of the homeless has increased enormously over these last months; there are tents and tarp enclosures all over, particularly near the Safe Injection site on Queen which is the bane of my dear John's existence - he lives across the street. It's a difficult situation; the homeless and drug addicted need a place to go, but there is certainly an increase in crime and danger where they are.
At home, I filled in the form to complete my online registration; it gave me a bunch of choices for "Sex: female/male/other/undifferentiated/unknown." Really, is there anyone who has no idea what sex they are? Perhaps. We live in strange times.
The shock of today, though, was listening to the recording we made yesterday. OMG, who is that woman talking so slowly and laboriously? The first half hour, at least, will have to be redone. I realize I was working too hard, overthinking as I always do, and also that the writer had overcome the actor and was insisting on each precious word being heard. NYET. Keep it moving, chatty, and fun, princess. Will have to retape. This will take time and may end up being yet another sinkhole for my money. But it's something I have to do.
Cheery tidings from the Guardian: Literary world overwhelmed by 600 books to be published on one day. That day: Sept. 3, a week before the release of my own tome. Ha!
The good news: the other day my son posted on FB about the murder a year ago of the restauranteur next door, how Sam held the wounded man as he died, how hard he took it, how he was diagnosed with PTSD, and how his community (and his parents) supported him through it. It was eloquent, moving, deeply honest. He has had almost 300 Likes and many kind, loving messages. FB is good for some things.
