Beth Kaplan's Blog, page 80
May 13, 2020
Wednesday's thrilling report
A gorgeous day - you can hear the leaves growing. What day is this? I only know it's Wednesday because I do Jane Ellison's Zoom movement class Wednesday and Sunday, and I know it's not Sunday.
Monday morning, the heart-pounding excitement of a trip to the big Loblaws to buy my special peanut butter and lemon yogurt and other things I can't get at No Frills, including Girl Guide cookies. Yesterday, as the weather improved, gardening to the point of pain, scattering fertilizer under the growing plants and digging up the veg patch, ready for planting in a few weeks. Anna's Thomas told me he put out some seedlings a few days ago - and they all froze.
Last night, watched The Miracle Worker again - what an amazing story and performance by Patty Duke. When she learns the word 'teacher', I - guess what - teared up.
This morning, a huge treat - Thomas and Eli rode over for a visit. Anna packed them a picnic and I had my own, so we sat and had lunch on the deck in the hot sun - distanced, except for this picture. No hugging, which was hard. Girl Guide cookies for dessert and the rest went back with them.
Glamma is hairier than she has been in a long time. I like it.
Tonight, a special treat - I've bought a ticket to a Zoom Moth storytelling event. Jane's class and the Moth are two things I love and cannot usually attend. One plus of this pandemic.
And so - another day, another not a dollar.
Monday morning, the heart-pounding excitement of a trip to the big Loblaws to buy my special peanut butter and lemon yogurt and other things I can't get at No Frills, including Girl Guide cookies. Yesterday, as the weather improved, gardening to the point of pain, scattering fertilizer under the growing plants and digging up the veg patch, ready for planting in a few weeks. Anna's Thomas told me he put out some seedlings a few days ago - and they all froze.
Last night, watched The Miracle Worker again - what an amazing story and performance by Patty Duke. When she learns the word 'teacher', I - guess what - teared up.
This morning, a huge treat - Thomas and Eli rode over for a visit. Anna packed them a picnic and I had my own, so we sat and had lunch on the deck in the hot sun - distanced, except for this picture. No hugging, which was hard. Girl Guide cookies for dessert and the rest went back with them.
Glamma is hairier than she has been in a long time. I like it.Tonight, a special treat - I've bought a ticket to a Zoom Moth storytelling event. Jane's class and the Moth are two things I love and cannot usually attend. One plus of this pandemic.
And so - another day, another not a dollar.
May 11, 2020
TRUE TO LIFE: Chapter 22
22
Unpack your suitcases_
A student began to read her piece. Excited about the prospect of going away to camp, I ran around getting my gear ready. As I searched for my sleeping bag, I wished that Mum hadn’t left us and that she was there to help me. When the camp bus pulled up, I was first in line, eager for adventure …Wait a minute … what did you say? We’re listening to a tale about going to camp and then suddenly there’s a mother who has disappeared. Which is the more interesting story? Right there, in the middle of the paragraph, is a closed suitcase, a giant mystery waiting to be unpacked. We want to hear about Mum and won’t be satisfied with zooming right by her off to camp.The writer will have to unpack that suitcase right now, which means opening up the hugely important subject of a mother’s disappearance and writing about it—if not in depth, because you don’t want her to take over the camp story, then enough to explain. The reader needs to be enlightened and will fuss until you explain. Or else you had better leave your vanished and intriguing mother out of this story altogether. She probably deserves one of her own.Sometimes we’re so accustomed to lugging our suitcases around that we don’t even recognize them. This writer was so used to missing her mother, it was natural for her to bring up that loss when recalling her childhood. She didn’t realize how curious we’d be about such a tantalizing subject. Often, in fact, the whole point of the essay or story is the suitcase; the writer has that topic pressing on mind and heart but, because it’s so fraught, prefers to put it down, unopened, and rush on by. Perhaps secretly hoping that we’ll notice it and ask. Perhaps not.But if we’re reading with any kind of attentiveness, we will notice. So you’d better have an explanation. (See Step 37.)Good personal writing is about the process of discovery. The narrator is grappling with a problem, a pain, a life-changing moment, something that needs to be explored and understood before the journey can continue or end. That’s why we read: to find out how the issue is resolved.If you are busy hiding a key part of your story, you’re not telling us the truth. And if you don’t think enough of your readers to go deeply into the truth, why should we stay with you?What are your suitcases? Are you trying to conceal them in the middle of your essays? Your readers are pointing at them and saying, “Open that! Now!”Unpack. When I start something and an instinct in me is saying don’t go there, don’t go there—that’s where I know I have to go.wayson choy
Your own winning literary style must begin with interesting ideas in your head. Find a subject you care about and which you in your heart feel others should care about. It is this genuine caring, and not your games with language, which will be the most compelling and seductive element of your style. kurt vonnegut
Unpack your suitcases_
A student began to read her piece. Excited about the prospect of going away to camp, I ran around getting my gear ready. As I searched for my sleeping bag, I wished that Mum hadn’t left us and that she was there to help me. When the camp bus pulled up, I was first in line, eager for adventure …Wait a minute … what did you say? We’re listening to a tale about going to camp and then suddenly there’s a mother who has disappeared. Which is the more interesting story? Right there, in the middle of the paragraph, is a closed suitcase, a giant mystery waiting to be unpacked. We want to hear about Mum and won’t be satisfied with zooming right by her off to camp.The writer will have to unpack that suitcase right now, which means opening up the hugely important subject of a mother’s disappearance and writing about it—if not in depth, because you don’t want her to take over the camp story, then enough to explain. The reader needs to be enlightened and will fuss until you explain. Or else you had better leave your vanished and intriguing mother out of this story altogether. She probably deserves one of her own.Sometimes we’re so accustomed to lugging our suitcases around that we don’t even recognize them. This writer was so used to missing her mother, it was natural for her to bring up that loss when recalling her childhood. She didn’t realize how curious we’d be about such a tantalizing subject. Often, in fact, the whole point of the essay or story is the suitcase; the writer has that topic pressing on mind and heart but, because it’s so fraught, prefers to put it down, unopened, and rush on by. Perhaps secretly hoping that we’ll notice it and ask. Perhaps not.But if we’re reading with any kind of attentiveness, we will notice. So you’d better have an explanation. (See Step 37.)Good personal writing is about the process of discovery. The narrator is grappling with a problem, a pain, a life-changing moment, something that needs to be explored and understood before the journey can continue or end. That’s why we read: to find out how the issue is resolved.If you are busy hiding a key part of your story, you’re not telling us the truth. And if you don’t think enough of your readers to go deeply into the truth, why should we stay with you?What are your suitcases? Are you trying to conceal them in the middle of your essays? Your readers are pointing at them and saying, “Open that! Now!”Unpack. When I start something and an instinct in me is saying don’t go there, don’t go there—that’s where I know I have to go.wayson choy
Your own winning literary style must begin with interesting ideas in your head. Find a subject you care about and which you in your heart feel others should care about. It is this genuine caring, and not your games with language, which will be the most compelling and seductive element of your style. kurt vonnegut
May 10, 2020
Happy Mother's Day
Thinking of my mother today - gone more than seven years - and Auntie Do. Sending love to my daughter today, who's been at home nonstop with her two fireballs for almost two months. Sending love to all mothers, grandmothers, daughters, sons.
Visiting Mum in July 2012. She died that Christmas, at 89. Do - two years ago, aged 98. This year I will be 70. Anna just turned 39, Eli is about to turn 8. Moving right along.
Visiting Mum in July 2012. She died that Christmas, at 89. Do - two years ago, aged 98. This year I will be 70. Anna just turned 39, Eli is about to turn 8. Moving right along.
saving the day
Yesterday morning there was a Rogers bill in my Inbox. The charge was surprisingly low, so, thinking that nice old Rogers was giving us a break this month (LOL!!!) I entered my password and tried to log into my account. Couldn't get in. Tried twice, and then, ten minutes later, my tiny brain clicked and I checked the return address: some guy@rogers.com. OMG - I'd been hacked. Immediately my email stopped working.
Usually it's easy to tell the fake ones because they're so badly done with poor, often hilarious grammar. This one was a perfect replica, except for the return address.
Total panic. If there is one thing that is keeping me, all of us, sane right now, as we sit in isolation at home, it's the internet - email, social media, our links to the planet. Yes, it's also making us all crazy with an excess of information, though better too much than too little.
I deployed my secret weapon: Matt Shorter, my tech guy, who answered my panicked phone call in five minutes, had me immediately change my password, deleted and reloaded email on both computer and phone - and that was that. Saved from destruction. Beyond grateful. So here I am.
Friday night, Bill Maher had as one of his guests Justin Amash, a Libertarian candidate for President. I had to mute him. How is it possible for Americans to go on and on about the evils of government at a time like this? Their quest for individual liberty as the greatest good will kill them all, with their millions of free-ranging guns and the virus they're determined to ignore. They have no curiosity about how any other country in the world works - and works better than they. Nonsensical.
But then, my dear friend John, who came over to repair something the other day, is an anti-vaxxer who thinks the search for a Covid vaccine is a plot by Bill Gates to further enrich himself. Makes me sad.
Plus it's the polar vortex here - yesterday a sprinkling of snow, then hail twice, all of it vanishing instantly when the sun came out. But Jay's garden centre down the street has started to open and I was able to buy three bags of fertilizer; that felt like spring.
Just to cheer myself up some more, I received Viktor Frankl's Man's Search for Meaning and am now reading about daily life in Auschwitz.
Usually it's easy to tell the fake ones because they're so badly done with poor, often hilarious grammar. This one was a perfect replica, except for the return address.
Total panic. If there is one thing that is keeping me, all of us, sane right now, as we sit in isolation at home, it's the internet - email, social media, our links to the planet. Yes, it's also making us all crazy with an excess of information, though better too much than too little.
I deployed my secret weapon: Matt Shorter, my tech guy, who answered my panicked phone call in five minutes, had me immediately change my password, deleted and reloaded email on both computer and phone - and that was that. Saved from destruction. Beyond grateful. So here I am.
Friday night, Bill Maher had as one of his guests Justin Amash, a Libertarian candidate for President. I had to mute him. How is it possible for Americans to go on and on about the evils of government at a time like this? Their quest for individual liberty as the greatest good will kill them all, with their millions of free-ranging guns and the virus they're determined to ignore. They have no curiosity about how any other country in the world works - and works better than they. Nonsensical.
But then, my dear friend John, who came over to repair something the other day, is an anti-vaxxer who thinks the search for a Covid vaccine is a plot by Bill Gates to further enrich himself. Makes me sad.
Plus it's the polar vortex here - yesterday a sprinkling of snow, then hail twice, all of it vanishing instantly when the sun came out. But Jay's garden centre down the street has started to open and I was able to buy three bags of fertilizer; that felt like spring.
Just to cheer myself up some more, I received Viktor Frankl's Man's Search for Meaning and am now reading about daily life in Auschwitz.
May 8, 2020
WISEST and Bletchley Park on VE Day
Both my parents are with me today. An Ottawa man who has spent a great deal of time chronicling the history of the codebreakers of Bletchley Park, who interviewed my mother and made sure she received the Bletchley medal, sent me this today, dedicated to the veterans of Bletchley in honour of V.E. Day:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=frh1tp2a2bo&list=PLlMw4gquXIGtQ_UBlC8M_n-tkL0mwrJ2Q
I look for Mum among the photos of young women inputting code and imagine her listening to these VE Day letters. Weeping for joy, for sure, a habit she passed on to me, though it meant the imminent end of her job. I wonder if she was thinking at all of my dad, perhaps the favourite of her wartime boyfriends, stationed with an American army MASH unit somewhere in eastern France. What a glorious day for them all. Thanks and all praise to the coalition, including so many Canadians, whose bravery defeated the very definition of evil.
And then the man who was President of the University of Alberta when my dad was the Vice-President Research through the eighties sent me this, about WISEST, Women in Scholarship, Engineering, Science, and Technology, founded by my father in 1982 to encourage women and girls to enter these male-dominated fields. It has just won a citizenship award.
Nothing much to report, which is wonderful for a change. Lost pounds are coming back. The difficult situation is not resolved but looks like it will definitely get there, all I ask at this point. Yesterday, during aperitif, Monique invited Deborah to join us; she's a lawyer who has lived right across the street since 2004 and to whom I've never spoken. So thanks to Covid we're getting to know our neighbours. Today, line-dancing with Gina and my Friday Zoom chat with Judy in Vancouver, who was cruel enough to swivel her camera so I could see her phenomenal view of ocean and mountains and spring. Here they're talking about a polar vortex with possible snow, though so far, it's just chilly. We can live with chilly. Though it is indeed really, really chilly.
I did some writing work. I ate, drank, and read, stayed alive for another day and thought and wrote about my extraordinary parents. That will do.
And now, 7.30, time to go bang my tambourine in the street with Monique and Deborah and other neighbours. It doesn't signal the end of a war, but it is a joyful noise.
And now to Google "How to cut your own bangs."
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=frh1tp2a2bo&list=PLlMw4gquXIGtQ_UBlC8M_n-tkL0mwrJ2Q
I look for Mum among the photos of young women inputting code and imagine her listening to these VE Day letters. Weeping for joy, for sure, a habit she passed on to me, though it meant the imminent end of her job. I wonder if she was thinking at all of my dad, perhaps the favourite of her wartime boyfriends, stationed with an American army MASH unit somewhere in eastern France. What a glorious day for them all. Thanks and all praise to the coalition, including so many Canadians, whose bravery defeated the very definition of evil.
And then the man who was President of the University of Alberta when my dad was the Vice-President Research through the eighties sent me this, about WISEST, Women in Scholarship, Engineering, Science, and Technology, founded by my father in 1982 to encourage women and girls to enter these male-dominated fields. It has just won a citizenship award.
https://www.folio.ca/wisest-wins-recognition-for-breaking-barriers/Dad came late to feminism, but then he jumped right in. Very proud of them both.
Nothing much to report, which is wonderful for a change. Lost pounds are coming back. The difficult situation is not resolved but looks like it will definitely get there, all I ask at this point. Yesterday, during aperitif, Monique invited Deborah to join us; she's a lawyer who has lived right across the street since 2004 and to whom I've never spoken. So thanks to Covid we're getting to know our neighbours. Today, line-dancing with Gina and my Friday Zoom chat with Judy in Vancouver, who was cruel enough to swivel her camera so I could see her phenomenal view of ocean and mountains and spring. Here they're talking about a polar vortex with possible snow, though so far, it's just chilly. We can live with chilly. Though it is indeed really, really chilly.
I did some writing work. I ate, drank, and read, stayed alive for another day and thought and wrote about my extraordinary parents. That will do.
And now, 7.30, time to go bang my tambourine in the street with Monique and Deborah and other neighbours. It doesn't signal the end of a war, but it is a joyful noise.
And now to Google "How to cut your own bangs."
TRUE TO LIFE: Chapter 15
Last year I learned a simple way to express the vital truth written below: every good piece of writing is about the thing, and then it's about the other thing. There's the story on the surface, and the deeper, more universal story below. My students have heard it a million times: What is this story REALLY ABOUT?
15
Make it matter_ One of the most common sentiments of beginning memoir writers is, “Who’ll be interested in MY story? I’m not famous or interesting.” That was the attitude of Grace in Step 1, presenting what she thought was a boring, mundane saga of adoption, which I heard years ago and have never forgotten. Think of high school teacher Frank McCourt, who decided to write a memoir of his Irish childhood. He didn’t know if his story would interest anyone, but he had a moving tale and told it well, with detail, dialogue, humour, and skill—and also, considering what a painful story it was, with great compassion for his hapless parents. Angela’s Ashes became a huge bestseller (suggestion—read it).The beautiful irony of our work is that the more honest, direct, and passionate we are in telling our own stories, the more our readers will connect to us. This is hard to believe, but it’s true, no matter how specific your story is to you, how quirky and unusual. My parents were not alcoholic or Irish, but because McCourt wrote with truth, wit, and daring, I connected on a deep level with the rich humanity in his tale. I don’t have a sister, but because Grace told her story with such genuine emotion, I understood something new about the power of the loyalty and concern we feel for our own flesh and blood.This kind of writing means telling the small story so well, with such focus and heart and skill, that the big story inside it will shine through, though sometimes we don’t even know what the big story is. If what you choose to write doesn’t matter to you, the writer, it won’t matter to your readers. Trust your important stories and trust your voice to tell them.To become better writers, we must work on two fronts. On the one front, we need to summon the courage, depth, and honesty to dig up and recount our most important stories. On the other, we must develop the patience, humility, and dedication to learn the craft and technique of good writing, so that we tell those vital stories well. Craft and courage—that’s all you need. If you have lots of courage but no craft, people will be eager to read your honest tales but won’t be able to penetrate your prose. If you have lots of craft but no courage, your stories will flow beautifully with rich vocabulary and good structure but may not find readers, because nothing is at risk.Risk is key. Something must be at stake. Otherwise, why should we care? (Risk is an important topic; see Step 37 and on.) No tears in the writer, no tears in the reader. No surprise for the writer, no surprise for the reader.robert frost
The literary non-fiction writer recreates the narrative so that it becomes resonant. She uses her imagination, but the story is based in fact and emotional truth. She tells her own truth so fully that she enables her readers to remember theirs. An honest story opens others to the possibility of their own humanity. It opens us up, teaches the heart how to manoeuvre and think. We touch a human, visible part of each other when the story rings true.
from wayson choy’s notebook
15
Make it matter_ One of the most common sentiments of beginning memoir writers is, “Who’ll be interested in MY story? I’m not famous or interesting.” That was the attitude of Grace in Step 1, presenting what she thought was a boring, mundane saga of adoption, which I heard years ago and have never forgotten. Think of high school teacher Frank McCourt, who decided to write a memoir of his Irish childhood. He didn’t know if his story would interest anyone, but he had a moving tale and told it well, with detail, dialogue, humour, and skill—and also, considering what a painful story it was, with great compassion for his hapless parents. Angela’s Ashes became a huge bestseller (suggestion—read it).The beautiful irony of our work is that the more honest, direct, and passionate we are in telling our own stories, the more our readers will connect to us. This is hard to believe, but it’s true, no matter how specific your story is to you, how quirky and unusual. My parents were not alcoholic or Irish, but because McCourt wrote with truth, wit, and daring, I connected on a deep level with the rich humanity in his tale. I don’t have a sister, but because Grace told her story with such genuine emotion, I understood something new about the power of the loyalty and concern we feel for our own flesh and blood.This kind of writing means telling the small story so well, with such focus and heart and skill, that the big story inside it will shine through, though sometimes we don’t even know what the big story is. If what you choose to write doesn’t matter to you, the writer, it won’t matter to your readers. Trust your important stories and trust your voice to tell them.To become better writers, we must work on two fronts. On the one front, we need to summon the courage, depth, and honesty to dig up and recount our most important stories. On the other, we must develop the patience, humility, and dedication to learn the craft and technique of good writing, so that we tell those vital stories well. Craft and courage—that’s all you need. If you have lots of courage but no craft, people will be eager to read your honest tales but won’t be able to penetrate your prose. If you have lots of craft but no courage, your stories will flow beautifully with rich vocabulary and good structure but may not find readers, because nothing is at risk.Risk is key. Something must be at stake. Otherwise, why should we care? (Risk is an important topic; see Step 37 and on.) No tears in the writer, no tears in the reader. No surprise for the writer, no surprise for the reader.robert frost
The literary non-fiction writer recreates the narrative so that it becomes resonant. She uses her imagination, but the story is based in fact and emotional truth. She tells her own truth so fully that she enables her readers to remember theirs. An honest story opens others to the possibility of their own humanity. It opens us up, teaches the heart how to manoeuvre and think. We touch a human, visible part of each other when the story rings true.
from wayson choy’s notebook
May 7, 2020
joyful noise: Once Were Brothers and banging pots
I may be one of the only people who has actually lost weight during the pandemic. Four or five pounds shed, so far. But I'm happy to tell you that the major stress is over, and so the appetite will return. My son came over yesterday; as a bartender, he has dealt with all kinds of difficult situations and is the most street-smart, savvy person I know. He gave me the best advice, and I felt instantly calmer.
So then we ordered steak/frites from our favourite local resto the House on Parliament - they're doing take-out - and had a feast with a glass of red wine. A true celebration. And then Anna texted that she's coming over tmw. It's not over, but it's ending, and by next week all will be calm. I think. But even if it's not, my team is on the case, and a finer team you could not ask for.
So this little sailboat is on smoother waters. Bring out the cheese and chocolate.
There are lessons here. I overreact, I act impulsively without enough thought, I want to fix things that I cannot fix, and I also accept blame where there is none. You'd think, by age 69, I'd be smarter. But I guess we go on learning about our flaws until the day we die. Hooray!
Tuesday - Once Were Brothers, a doc about The Band. The name says it all. Canadian Robbie Robertson, half-Indigenous and all talent, found out as a teenager that his birth father was a Jewish gangster who'd been murdered on a Toronto street but whose family encouraged his musical ambitions. It's a moving story of the flowering of an extraordinary group of men, what happened in that pink house in Woodstock, and how it all eventually turned sour, as these things so often do. But their unique music lives forever. Up on Cripple Creek ... Time to get out the record and put it on the player.
Last night, with Sam, Spy in the Wild: they put cameras into clever replicas of animals and birds, even fish - a baby bear that actually turns its head and grunts, a fake stork, a fake hummingbird, a fake beaver - so the camera can get close to the action. And what incredible footage we get. Sam was hilarious - George, have you noticed there's something strange about your friend? - as we watch a weird bird with glassy eyes that doesn't move its wings. But there we are, in the middle of the flock.
Tonight, after aperitif at 5, the next treat is at 7.30 - Monique and I go out into the street with our neighbours and bang pots - I the boys' tambourine - to give thanks to the frontline workers. There's not much else we can do to show our appreciation, and I doubt any frontline workers are walking by at 7.30, but we are together making joyful noise, and it feels good.
CN Rail just cancelled the exciting, much anticipated trip Anna and the boys were to take on the overnight train from Montreal to Moncton in July, in preparation for my 70th birthday gathering there. Some rethinking of the summer is in order. Careful, calm thinking. My new modus vivendi. Stay tuned.
So then we ordered steak/frites from our favourite local resto the House on Parliament - they're doing take-out - and had a feast with a glass of red wine. A true celebration. And then Anna texted that she's coming over tmw. It's not over, but it's ending, and by next week all will be calm. I think. But even if it's not, my team is on the case, and a finer team you could not ask for.
So this little sailboat is on smoother waters. Bring out the cheese and chocolate.
There are lessons here. I overreact, I act impulsively without enough thought, I want to fix things that I cannot fix, and I also accept blame where there is none. You'd think, by age 69, I'd be smarter. But I guess we go on learning about our flaws until the day we die. Hooray!
Tuesday - Once Were Brothers, a doc about The Band. The name says it all. Canadian Robbie Robertson, half-Indigenous and all talent, found out as a teenager that his birth father was a Jewish gangster who'd been murdered on a Toronto street but whose family encouraged his musical ambitions. It's a moving story of the flowering of an extraordinary group of men, what happened in that pink house in Woodstock, and how it all eventually turned sour, as these things so often do. But their unique music lives forever. Up on Cripple Creek ... Time to get out the record and put it on the player.
Last night, with Sam, Spy in the Wild: they put cameras into clever replicas of animals and birds, even fish - a baby bear that actually turns its head and grunts, a fake stork, a fake hummingbird, a fake beaver - so the camera can get close to the action. And what incredible footage we get. Sam was hilarious - George, have you noticed there's something strange about your friend? - as we watch a weird bird with glassy eyes that doesn't move its wings. But there we are, in the middle of the flock.
Tonight, after aperitif at 5, the next treat is at 7.30 - Monique and I go out into the street with our neighbours and bang pots - I the boys' tambourine - to give thanks to the frontline workers. There's not much else we can do to show our appreciation, and I doubt any frontline workers are walking by at 7.30, but we are together making joyful noise, and it feels good.
CN Rail just cancelled the exciting, much anticipated trip Anna and the boys were to take on the overnight train from Montreal to Moncton in July, in preparation for my 70th birthday gathering there. Some rethinking of the summer is in order. Careful, calm thinking. My new modus vivendi. Stay tuned.
May 6, 2020
in the storm
I thought my difficult issue was being resolved but in fact, I feel like I'm in a sailboat in a hurricane. However. It's a sturdy boat, and I have faith we'll get through. At some point. I do have friends who are aware of the situation and are giving support and counsel. Thank the very good lord for wise, solid, caring friends.
Otherwise - it's spring, the world is stunningly beautiful, I don't think it has ever been lovelier because we need it so much - flowers, green, buds, birds. Birds. Green. Magnolia trees. I walk the same route in the 'hood every day, just looking and breathing.
Monday night, two superb programs - one on CRISPR which I began, barely, to understand - the genetic sequence they've discovered will repair itself when damaged, and so they're hoping they can use CRISPR to repair genetic flaws like sickle cell anemia and Huntington's. Again, I wish my dad were here to watch these incredible genetic innovations. And also to debate the scary, risky side of all this - the selection of characteristics for babies, the end of Down's Syndrome, where is it all headed?
And then the finale of My Brilliant Friend, ending with Lila - spoiler alert! - in a version of hell, a salami factory with dead pigs and a river of blood on the floor. A shock for Lenu and for us all. But also a loving friendship with a kind man, a healthy happy son, a bright tidy apartment - she has created her own life. Such superb drama. Can't wait for Season Three, though - can they top this, or even keep up?
So, another day. A Zoom stretching class at 1, a talk at 3 with my tech guy about an important issue, aperitif at 5, and my son coming for supper. In between, what? No idea. My little boat and I sail on.
Otherwise - it's spring, the world is stunningly beautiful, I don't think it has ever been lovelier because we need it so much - flowers, green, buds, birds. Birds. Green. Magnolia trees. I walk the same route in the 'hood every day, just looking and breathing.
Monday night, two superb programs - one on CRISPR which I began, barely, to understand - the genetic sequence they've discovered will repair itself when damaged, and so they're hoping they can use CRISPR to repair genetic flaws like sickle cell anemia and Huntington's. Again, I wish my dad were here to watch these incredible genetic innovations. And also to debate the scary, risky side of all this - the selection of characteristics for babies, the end of Down's Syndrome, where is it all headed?
And then the finale of My Brilliant Friend, ending with Lila - spoiler alert! - in a version of hell, a salami factory with dead pigs and a river of blood on the floor. A shock for Lenu and for us all. But also a loving friendship with a kind man, a healthy happy son, a bright tidy apartment - she has created her own life. Such superb drama. Can't wait for Season Three, though - can they top this, or even keep up?
So, another day. A Zoom stretching class at 1, a talk at 3 with my tech guy about an important issue, aperitif at 5, and my son coming for supper. In between, what? No idea. My little boat and I sail on.
May 5, 2020
TRUE TO LIFE: Chapter 14
14
Complete your baggyfirst draft_ You sit staring at the page or the screen and, finally, an idea comes. You begin to write tentatively, then with more confidence. The words start to flow, and the pages take shape. Then you stop and read what you’ve written, and you want to throw up.Congratulations! You’ve done exactly what you’re supposed to do. You have written a big fat baggy first draft.Inexperienced writers think that writing is like laying an egg. You begin by gathering your thoughts, fashioning a nice warm nest. You sit in it, gestate, strain—and voilà, you produce a perfect, shining, egg-shaped piece of writing, a gift to the world all set to go.But that is the furthest thing from what writing really is: a process, a journey, endless stumbling along a confusing trail. Beginning somewhere, figuring out where you want to go, trying to get there, trying again this way, trying again that way, finishing somewhere and then starting again. This messy, frustrating process is what writing really looks like.A first draft can and indeed should be awful. In her diary, Virginia Woolf spoke of her first draft as a chaotic handbag into which she threw everything. Try not to edit or stop as your first draft emerges. Let the ideas, thoughts, and scenes pour out until that bag is bulging. You are writing a big fat baggy first draft, wearing your writer’s hat (throw all the ideas in) not your editor’s hat (weed many ideas out). You can’t work with a few tentative lines; you need pages filled with words. When you stop and read your draft, it’ll be too terse and constrained or, more likely, way too rambling and long. It’ll be full of bad grammar, digressions, and clichés. “All over the place!” you’ll say. “So dull. Abysmal.”Forgive yourself. Because now the next part of the work begins: editing, shaping, and improving the baggy first draft.My first drafts are turgid, unfocused, and lacklustre; they make me think I’m a lousy writer. But I am, I like to think, a good REwriter. Once the first draft is down, I work it over and over into something better—as I’m doing right now, over and over, in this book for you. Some believe getting the first draft out is the hardest part of writing; others love the initial burst of creation and hate the fiddly editing that comes next. Use different techniques to help launch yourself—perhaps drawing or creating mind maps, talking out loud, or making lists and pinning them on the wall.Writing is more like working with clay than we realize at first; when you’ve got a lump of raw material, you have to figure out what to do with it, what its final shape should be, and how to get it there. But first, unlike potters or sculptors, you have to produce the raw material yourself, unearthing it onto the page from your own memory, heart, gut, mind, soul.Delve into your topic, let yourself go, and write a clumsy, bulky, meandering, lousy first draft. Keep writing, keep your writer’s hat on, and keep putting in what comes to you until you have enough content to really rewrite. Only then should you put on your editor’s hat and begin to redraft, polish, and cut. When I used to write more at The New Yorker, there were two or three Polish cleaning women who came in late at night, and I was always afraid that they would find my early drafts and read them to each other, howling with laughter, slapping their brooms against the desks like hockey players do: Ha! He calls himself a writer!calvin trillin
The first words down are like a block of marble for the sculptor: raw material. The content, or much of it, comes blurting out in the first draft. (Kurt Vonnegut once wrote that this appalling stuff sounds as if it were written by someone named Philboyd Studge.)junot diaz
Let it pour out. Surrender to the story. Write too much so you have something to work with. Don’t worry about who will see it; write for yourself. Don’t hold back and be discreet. Don’t cut yourself off from the story.wayson choy
Complete your baggyfirst draft_ You sit staring at the page or the screen and, finally, an idea comes. You begin to write tentatively, then with more confidence. The words start to flow, and the pages take shape. Then you stop and read what you’ve written, and you want to throw up.Congratulations! You’ve done exactly what you’re supposed to do. You have written a big fat baggy first draft.Inexperienced writers think that writing is like laying an egg. You begin by gathering your thoughts, fashioning a nice warm nest. You sit in it, gestate, strain—and voilà, you produce a perfect, shining, egg-shaped piece of writing, a gift to the world all set to go.But that is the furthest thing from what writing really is: a process, a journey, endless stumbling along a confusing trail. Beginning somewhere, figuring out where you want to go, trying to get there, trying again this way, trying again that way, finishing somewhere and then starting again. This messy, frustrating process is what writing really looks like.A first draft can and indeed should be awful. In her diary, Virginia Woolf spoke of her first draft as a chaotic handbag into which she threw everything. Try not to edit or stop as your first draft emerges. Let the ideas, thoughts, and scenes pour out until that bag is bulging. You are writing a big fat baggy first draft, wearing your writer’s hat (throw all the ideas in) not your editor’s hat (weed many ideas out). You can’t work with a few tentative lines; you need pages filled with words. When you stop and read your draft, it’ll be too terse and constrained or, more likely, way too rambling and long. It’ll be full of bad grammar, digressions, and clichés. “All over the place!” you’ll say. “So dull. Abysmal.”Forgive yourself. Because now the next part of the work begins: editing, shaping, and improving the baggy first draft.My first drafts are turgid, unfocused, and lacklustre; they make me think I’m a lousy writer. But I am, I like to think, a good REwriter. Once the first draft is down, I work it over and over into something better—as I’m doing right now, over and over, in this book for you. Some believe getting the first draft out is the hardest part of writing; others love the initial burst of creation and hate the fiddly editing that comes next. Use different techniques to help launch yourself—perhaps drawing or creating mind maps, talking out loud, or making lists and pinning them on the wall.Writing is more like working with clay than we realize at first; when you’ve got a lump of raw material, you have to figure out what to do with it, what its final shape should be, and how to get it there. But first, unlike potters or sculptors, you have to produce the raw material yourself, unearthing it onto the page from your own memory, heart, gut, mind, soul.Delve into your topic, let yourself go, and write a clumsy, bulky, meandering, lousy first draft. Keep writing, keep your writer’s hat on, and keep putting in what comes to you until you have enough content to really rewrite. Only then should you put on your editor’s hat and begin to redraft, polish, and cut. When I used to write more at The New Yorker, there were two or three Polish cleaning women who came in late at night, and I was always afraid that they would find my early drafts and read them to each other, howling with laughter, slapping their brooms against the desks like hockey players do: Ha! He calls himself a writer!calvin trillin
The first words down are like a block of marble for the sculptor: raw material. The content, or much of it, comes blurting out in the first draft. (Kurt Vonnegut once wrote that this appalling stuff sounds as if it were written by someone named Philboyd Studge.)junot diaz
Let it pour out. Surrender to the story. Write too much so you have something to work with. Don’t worry about who will see it; write for yourself. Don’t hold back and be discreet. Don’t cut yourself off from the story.wayson choy
May 4, 2020
Call the Midwife: sob! And Shelter.
It's possible the stressful tenant situation has begun to be resolved. My stomach was heaving again today, until about an hour ago. But I won't hold my breath until I'm sure.
Let it be so.
Last night, Call the Midwife - and as usual, I wept. I mean, they showed us a baby born with a terminal heart condition, not to mention the on-going plot points, the good-hearted handyman with his Down's Syndrome son who's one of the stars, the sweet nun midwives and the sweet not nun midwives, the final tableau of all the recently delivered babies arrayed on a blanket, and in the middle, placed carefully in a pot of flowers, a picture of the dead baby.
It's not maudlin, though it may sound so, just very real. But still, every week, Heidi Thomas the writer makes me - makes all of us, I'm sure - cry.
And then the second season of the terrific TVO show, First Contact, about a group of ordinary Canadians who have prejudices and preconceptions about Indigenous people being taken into First Nations homes and communities to meet individuals and hear their stories. It's superb.
It's destination television, at 9 on Sundays. My tech guru Brad wrote to say, why don't I show you how to access the shows you want to watch on HBO and Crave so you can watch them whenever you want? But I don't want to watch them whenever. With a few exceptions, like a few things on Netflix, if a show I want to see is on Sunday at 9, that's when I'll sit down and watch it. I won't sit down at 3 on Monday afternoon, it just doesn't occur to me, and so I just won't get to it. That's the kind of dinosaur I am.
I think things are different for couples; they need to find things they can do together, like watching shows whenever. But I am happier reading - these days, too much online rather than books or mags, but still, the solitary act of reading - than tuning in to something that aired 6 weeks ago.
Tonight, the finale of My Brilliant Friend, which has been renewed for another season. On Mondays at 10.
My friend Julia sent me this: Shelter. Beautiful. Dancers. She's a former student who just had a great piece in the Globe about the importance, especially now, of birds.
https://vimeo.com/413660247/2c1378a80c
Today, I finally started work. That is, not editing and teaching, not running this complicated house and garden, not keeping up with friends and family and the world, but writing work. IT'S ABOUT TIME, a mere 7 weeks into this thing. But everyone is saying, cut yourself some slack. It's stressful. Yes, it is, and I the lucky landlady had a little bit extra just to keep me on my toes.
But it's spring, and today another heavenly day. Here, from today's walk by the Necropolis, an amazing magnolia:
And here, Anna's 39th birthday party, the usual feast only with a small, select crowd, including Sam and friend Nicole. It's Eli's birthday in 3 weeks, and I want to be there. I need to hug those boys. Or at least sit 6 feet away and gaze. A destination birthday.
Let it be so.
Last night, Call the Midwife - and as usual, I wept. I mean, they showed us a baby born with a terminal heart condition, not to mention the on-going plot points, the good-hearted handyman with his Down's Syndrome son who's one of the stars, the sweet nun midwives and the sweet not nun midwives, the final tableau of all the recently delivered babies arrayed on a blanket, and in the middle, placed carefully in a pot of flowers, a picture of the dead baby.
It's not maudlin, though it may sound so, just very real. But still, every week, Heidi Thomas the writer makes me - makes all of us, I'm sure - cry.
And then the second season of the terrific TVO show, First Contact, about a group of ordinary Canadians who have prejudices and preconceptions about Indigenous people being taken into First Nations homes and communities to meet individuals and hear their stories. It's superb.
It's destination television, at 9 on Sundays. My tech guru Brad wrote to say, why don't I show you how to access the shows you want to watch on HBO and Crave so you can watch them whenever you want? But I don't want to watch them whenever. With a few exceptions, like a few things on Netflix, if a show I want to see is on Sunday at 9, that's when I'll sit down and watch it. I won't sit down at 3 on Monday afternoon, it just doesn't occur to me, and so I just won't get to it. That's the kind of dinosaur I am.
I think things are different for couples; they need to find things they can do together, like watching shows whenever. But I am happier reading - these days, too much online rather than books or mags, but still, the solitary act of reading - than tuning in to something that aired 6 weeks ago.
Tonight, the finale of My Brilliant Friend, which has been renewed for another season. On Mondays at 10.
My friend Julia sent me this: Shelter. Beautiful. Dancers. She's a former student who just had a great piece in the Globe about the importance, especially now, of birds.
https://vimeo.com/413660247/2c1378a80c
Today, I finally started work. That is, not editing and teaching, not running this complicated house and garden, not keeping up with friends and family and the world, but writing work. IT'S ABOUT TIME, a mere 7 weeks into this thing. But everyone is saying, cut yourself some slack. It's stressful. Yes, it is, and I the lucky landlady had a little bit extra just to keep me on my toes.
But it's spring, and today another heavenly day. Here, from today's walk by the Necropolis, an amazing magnolia:
And here, Anna's 39th birthday party, the usual feast only with a small, select crowd, including Sam and friend Nicole. It's Eli's birthday in 3 weeks, and I want to be there. I need to hug those boys. Or at least sit 6 feet away and gaze. A destination birthday.
