Beth Kaplan's Blog, page 89
January 14, 2020
in which Beth feels briefly sorry for herself - again
Burst into tears earlier tonight, and, this time, not from joy at music or books. An email I'd long awaited finally came in, from an editor at a big publishing house who'd agreed to read the manuscript. Another editor at the same house had already turned it down, but irrationally, very irrationally, I had hope.
The fantasy: the editor says yes, how we love this book! The machine begins to turn - meetings with editors, designers, publicists. Rewrites, plans. I begin my own publicity. The book is launched. It's beautiful. Readers find it moving and truthful.
She said no. She said the publicity department didn't think it'd have a big enough audience.
So I had a cry. I've spent three or four years on this book, though of course while doing many other things. I sent it out to some smaller publishers in July - July - and have heard back from one. No.
In 2014, after a few no's for the Beatles memoir, I contacted a hybrid publisher, who does a solid edit and handles ISBN and much else but requires the author to pay for the publishing. I loved everything about the process: the incredible speed - in only a few weeks I was holding my lovely book; the control over design and final decisions - everything.
Until it came time to get it out into the world. A person like me, who's hopeless at sales and social media, is at a huge disadvantage with no house behind her. Publishers don't have publicity budgets like they used to, but they do have some. I had none. I threw my own book launch and did my best to let people know about that book and the one that followed, the writing textbook. The textbook has sold well because my students buy it, and they buy more copies to give to friends. Those who've read my other two books - and articles, and blog - seem to like them. They say nice things. But my readers are a hardy and very small bunch.
Ah well. I'm sure you've heard quite enough whining about this, over time. I'll wait a few more weeks for the other publishers, and then do it myself, again. Finally, what matters is to birth the book and move on. I can't do any more for this one.
The weather is amazingly mild for January. Teaching last night - a big and very diverse crowd at Ryerson will be a challenge and a lot of fun. Tomorrow, a student is coming to rehearse a piece she'll be reading at an event for women who've survived terrible things. Which she has - the sudden heart attack death of her young husband when their first son was two and she was six months pregnant with their second - and she has written beautifully about it. I'm proud to have helped her.
I have nothing to complain about. The world is burning. We writers do what we do; we do what we can. That's all.
Maybe a little bit more chocolate right now, however. No, peanut butter. Peanut butter fixes anything.
The fantasy: the editor says yes, how we love this book! The machine begins to turn - meetings with editors, designers, publicists. Rewrites, plans. I begin my own publicity. The book is launched. It's beautiful. Readers find it moving and truthful.
She said no. She said the publicity department didn't think it'd have a big enough audience.
So I had a cry. I've spent three or four years on this book, though of course while doing many other things. I sent it out to some smaller publishers in July - July - and have heard back from one. No.
In 2014, after a few no's for the Beatles memoir, I contacted a hybrid publisher, who does a solid edit and handles ISBN and much else but requires the author to pay for the publishing. I loved everything about the process: the incredible speed - in only a few weeks I was holding my lovely book; the control over design and final decisions - everything.
Until it came time to get it out into the world. A person like me, who's hopeless at sales and social media, is at a huge disadvantage with no house behind her. Publishers don't have publicity budgets like they used to, but they do have some. I had none. I threw my own book launch and did my best to let people know about that book and the one that followed, the writing textbook. The textbook has sold well because my students buy it, and they buy more copies to give to friends. Those who've read my other two books - and articles, and blog - seem to like them. They say nice things. But my readers are a hardy and very small bunch.
Ah well. I'm sure you've heard quite enough whining about this, over time. I'll wait a few more weeks for the other publishers, and then do it myself, again. Finally, what matters is to birth the book and move on. I can't do any more for this one.
The weather is amazingly mild for January. Teaching last night - a big and very diverse crowd at Ryerson will be a challenge and a lot of fun. Tomorrow, a student is coming to rehearse a piece she'll be reading at an event for women who've survived terrible things. Which she has - the sudden heart attack death of her young husband when their first son was two and she was six months pregnant with their second - and she has written beautifully about it. I'm proud to have helped her.
I have nothing to complain about. The world is burning. We writers do what we do; we do what we can. That's all.
Maybe a little bit more chocolate right now, however. No, peanut butter. Peanut butter fixes anything.
January 11, 2020
The Grizzlies and the Two Popes
Apocalypse: at 4 p.m. it's pitch dark and has been pouring all day. Apparently we'll get more rain today than is common for the whole month of January. I worry, as usual, about the basement which used to flood, now an apartment occupied by a family of four including a sick five-year old and a newborn. So, fingers crossed for the hardy new sump pump.
Extremely glad I don't have to go anywhere. Unlike yesterday, I did get dressed, barely, in sweats and slippers, tho' will still take it very easy. But I think I've defeated whatever bug it is that was trying to get in.
In fact, it was wonderful to have all yesterday to do almost nothing except read and watch things. I finished the Carrère and started a book by Henry Nouwen, made a vat of chicken soup from Thursday's carcasses and watched not one but two good movies: The Two Popes on Netflix, and The Grizzlies, later, on TV. In the Popes, it's a treat to watch two lions of the British stage grapple with each other, in a film which involves us in an abstruse crisis in the Catholic church. Who the @##@ cares? But by the end, we do, because of the skill of these actors and a good script. Not to mention lots of glimpses of the heavenly Sistine Chapel.
The Grizzlies is set in Kugluktuk, Nunavut, with an almost entirely young, marvellous, Indigenous cast. The film is an appalling indictment of governmental neglect of Inuit communities in the far north, where teen suicide, alcohol and drug abuse and violence are epidemic. All this in a film that's uplifting and even funny, in a "Jamaican bobsled team" kind of way - the "redemption from sports" trope. But it's based on a true story, a teacher who started a lacrosse team and brought teamwork and hope to the community. Highly recommended, not just for the story and acting, but for the stunning icy vistas and exploration of a hidden, dark, Canadian truth.
In between, I actually wrote 500 words, the start of something new that I liked, inspired by Emmanuel Carrère and his kind of truth-telling. Wrote another 1000 today. We'll see. Today, Skyped with Chris in B.C. and Lynn in Montpellier; she ranted about the state of the country - though she emphasizes the huge benefits of French life, including free university, the protest strikes about pension reform have continued, paralyzing Paris and much of France; it took her many hours to make a usually short journey by train. She and I are supposed to meet up in Paris at the end of March; the strikes may still be on. "Good thing we're walkers," she said, because there may be no busses and only the automatic metro lines. Chaos.
The only problem with this sedate life of reading, writing, and Skyping is my legs, twitching from inactivity, two days of sitting here or in the living room, wrapped in a blanket. But this is not a day to go anywhere. When I wrote to my friend Eleanor about Carrère, she sent me her interview with him. So now I'll listen. Please join me. Happiness is.
https://www.cbc.ca/player/play/2440778459
Extremely glad I don't have to go anywhere. Unlike yesterday, I did get dressed, barely, in sweats and slippers, tho' will still take it very easy. But I think I've defeated whatever bug it is that was trying to get in.
In fact, it was wonderful to have all yesterday to do almost nothing except read and watch things. I finished the Carrère and started a book by Henry Nouwen, made a vat of chicken soup from Thursday's carcasses and watched not one but two good movies: The Two Popes on Netflix, and The Grizzlies, later, on TV. In the Popes, it's a treat to watch two lions of the British stage grapple with each other, in a film which involves us in an abstruse crisis in the Catholic church. Who the @##@ cares? But by the end, we do, because of the skill of these actors and a good script. Not to mention lots of glimpses of the heavenly Sistine Chapel.
The Grizzlies is set in Kugluktuk, Nunavut, with an almost entirely young, marvellous, Indigenous cast. The film is an appalling indictment of governmental neglect of Inuit communities in the far north, where teen suicide, alcohol and drug abuse and violence are epidemic. All this in a film that's uplifting and even funny, in a "Jamaican bobsled team" kind of way - the "redemption from sports" trope. But it's based on a true story, a teacher who started a lacrosse team and brought teamwork and hope to the community. Highly recommended, not just for the story and acting, but for the stunning icy vistas and exploration of a hidden, dark, Canadian truth.
In between, I actually wrote 500 words, the start of something new that I liked, inspired by Emmanuel Carrère and his kind of truth-telling. Wrote another 1000 today. We'll see. Today, Skyped with Chris in B.C. and Lynn in Montpellier; she ranted about the state of the country - though she emphasizes the huge benefits of French life, including free university, the protest strikes about pension reform have continued, paralyzing Paris and much of France; it took her many hours to make a usually short journey by train. She and I are supposed to meet up in Paris at the end of March; the strikes may still be on. "Good thing we're walkers," she said, because there may be no busses and only the automatic metro lines. Chaos.
The only problem with this sedate life of reading, writing, and Skyping is my legs, twitching from inactivity, two days of sitting here or in the living room, wrapped in a blanket. But this is not a day to go anywhere. When I wrote to my friend Eleanor about Carrère, she sent me her interview with him. So now I'll listen. Please join me. Happiness is.
https://www.cbc.ca/player/play/2440778459
January 10, 2020
the brilliant Emmanuel Carrere's "Lives Other Than My Own"
<!-- /* Font Definitions */ @font-face {font-family:"Cambria Math"; panose-1:2 4 5 3 5 4 6 3 2 4; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:roman; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:3 0 0 0 1 0;} @font-face {font-family:Calibri; panose-1:2 15 5 2 2 2 4 3 2 4; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:swiss; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:-536859905 -1073697537 9 0 511 0;} @font-face {font-family:georgia; panose-1:2 4 5 2 5 4 5 2 3 3; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:roman; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:647 0 0 0 159 0;} /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-unhide:no; mso-style-qformat:yes; mso-style-parent:""; margin:0cm; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Calibri",sans-serif; mso-ascii-font-family:Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:Calibri; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family:Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi; mso-ansi-language:EN-US;} p.css-exrw3m, li.css-exrw3m, div.css-exrw3m {mso-style-name:css-exrw3m; mso-style-unhide:no; mso-margin-top-alt:auto; margin-right:0cm; mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto; margin-left:0cm; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman",serif; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";} p.css-ma92ss, li.css-ma92ss, div.css-ma92ss {mso-style-name:css-ma92ss; mso-style-unhide:no; mso-margin-top-alt:auto; margin-right:0cm; mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto; margin-left:0cm; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman",serif; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";} .MsoChpDefault {mso-style-type:export-only; mso-default-props:yes; font-family:"Calibri",sans-serif; mso-ascii-font-family:Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:Calibri; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family:Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi; mso-ansi-language:EN-US;} @page WordSection1 {size:612.0pt 792.0pt; margin:72.0pt 72.0pt 72.0pt 72.0pt; mso-header-margin:35.4pt; mso-footer-margin:35.4pt; mso-paper-source:0;} div.WordSection1 {page:WordSection1;} </style><br /><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Just wiping away tears, yet again – </span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">I just finished the book </span><i style="font-size: 12pt;">Lives Other Than My Own, </i>translated by Linda Coverdale,<i style="font-size: 12pt;"> </i><span style="font-size: 12pt;">by</span><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> a stunning writer, Emmanuel Carrère, considered France’s greatest writer of nonfiction</span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">. Essential reading. Extraordinary how he is both there and not there on the pages as an authorial presence. It’s personal, the “I” is constantly present, and yet his work is an extreme act of generous exploration of, as the title says, other lives, small lives, yet as big as the world. Wise even as he details his own weakness, blindness, and depression, humble even as he forces himself into others’ worlds to expose them, supremely honest – the book is also about the writing of the book. </span><br /><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">The narrative starts in Indonesia, where he was witness to the tragedies of the tsunami; the reader is pulled in to his story by the force of his skill and purpose as he moves on to the death by cancer of his young sister-in-law. Says a NYT article about him:</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: "georgia" , serif;">Profoundly intimate, historically and philosophically serious but able to cast compulsive narrative spells, Carrère’s books are hybrids, marrying deep reporting to scholarly explorations of theology, philosophy, psychology, personal history and historiography.</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The article tells how he could not figure out how to write a story that obsessed him, of a Frenchman who pretended to be a doctor, and who, when his lies were about to be exposed, murdered his entire family to safeguard his secret.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="css-exrw3m" style="background: white; vertical-align: baseline;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "georgia" , serif;"><br /></span></i></div><div class="css-exrw3m" style="background: white; vertical-align: baseline;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "georgia" , serif;">But six years passed, “six years,” Carrère has said, “of my life circling this story like a hyena,” six years during which this very productive writer published only 150 pages. He just couldn’t figure out how to finish the Romand story. Before he put it aside, he wrote himself what he calls a memo about what he tried to do, as a way of getting some closure on the wreck that the project had made of his life and his career. The memo began:<o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div class="css-ma92ss" style="background: white; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: 1.75rem; margin: 0cm; vertical-align: baseline;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: #555555; font-family: "georgia" , serif;"><br /></span></i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: #555555; font-family: "georgia" , serif;">On the Saturday morning of January 9, 1993, while Jean-Claude Romand was killing his wife and children, I was with mine in a parent-teacher meeting at the school attended by Gabriel, our eldest son. He was 5 years old, the same age as Antoine Romand. Then we went to have lunch with my parents, as Jean-Claude Romand did with his, whom he killed after their meal.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div class="css-exrw3m" style="background: white; font-stretch: inherit; line-height: 1.875rem; margin: 0.9375rem; max-width: 100%; vertical-align: baseline; word-spacing: 0px;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "georgia" , serif;">“I’m not an idiot,” Carrère has said about the moment after he wrote those lines. “I very quickly realized that this impossible book to write was now becoming possible, that it was practically writing itself, now that I had accepted writing it in the first person. ... Others are a black box, especially someone as enigmatic as Romand. I understood that the only way to approach it was to consent to go into the only black box I do have access to, which is me.”<span style="font-size: 1.25rem;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></i></div><div class="css-exrw3m" style="background: white; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "georgia" , serif;">What a wonderful way to describe the persona of creative nonfiction writer, especially the memoirist: going into the black box which is me. </span><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "georgia" , serif;">Have ordered his latest book from the library, </span><i style="color: #333333; font-family: georgia, serif;">97,196 Words: Essays</i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "georgia" , serif;">.</span></div><div class="css-exrw3m" style="background: white; vertical-align: baseline;"><br /></div><div class="css-exrw3m" style="background: white; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "georgia" , serif;">I’m in bed today, not actually sick but not well, with a bug of some kind hanging around, am doing my best to head it off. Last night was triumphant, a joyful gathering of writers eating, drinking, reading, telling the truth with skill and commitment. Delving into the black box that is them. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="css-exrw3m" style="background: white; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "georgia" , serif;"><br /></span></div><div class="css-exrw3m" style="background: white; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "georgia" , serif;">And there are leftovers for lunch.</span></div>
January 9, 2020
Beth's classes
Tears pouring - just listened to Dvorak's Cello Concerto on CBC, played by Rostropovich: the swoops and flourishes, the haunting melancholy, the soaring finale - a magnificent piece of music, which I'm lucky enough to be going to see in a few weeks; my upstairs tenant works for the Toronto Symphony and has given me tickets for the Dvorak and before that, for Mozart's Requiem. There will be many tears. Music like this almost makes me believe in humanity again, which is not easy these days, with potential war, catastrophic fires, vile politicians worldwide. Except New Zealand, Portugal and Spain, France, and Canada. Yay.
It's finally full on winter here, cold and white, and I'm fighting a bug, the first of the winter, so far doing okay at keeping the encroaching aches at bay.
BUT - work starts tonight with my home class, ten writers coming for a potluck dinner and, of course, reading and editing. The table is set, the kitchen is clean, I just have to cook chickens and potatoes. And take a nap, so I'm alert.
Monday night, the Ryerson class starts, 12 registered so far, just the right number. I'm looking forward to meeting them all. U of T starts Thursday afternoon Jan. 23; it's the advanced class, for those who've taken my class before, and it's a go. The new work year begins.
The house is warm, the bird feeder has just been filled and so has my belly - pork from the Mennonites at the market in a leek and apple sauce, mmm - and the CBC is now playing Bach: does it get better than this?
It's finally full on winter here, cold and white, and I'm fighting a bug, the first of the winter, so far doing okay at keeping the encroaching aches at bay.
BUT - work starts tonight with my home class, ten writers coming for a potluck dinner and, of course, reading and editing. The table is set, the kitchen is clean, I just have to cook chickens and potatoes. And take a nap, so I'm alert.
Monday night, the Ryerson class starts, 12 registered so far, just the right number. I'm looking forward to meeting them all. U of T starts Thursday afternoon Jan. 23; it's the advanced class, for those who've taken my class before, and it's a go. The new work year begins.
The house is warm, the bird feeder has just been filled and so has my belly - pork from the Mennonites at the market in a leek and apple sauce, mmm - and the CBC is now playing Bach: does it get better than this?
January 7, 2020
Little Women - five stars
OH so delicious! There is nothing like a good movie, one you carry home with you like something warm and nourishing on a winter day.
I just saw Little Women.
It seems to me not long ago I wrote about another version. This one is so lovely, I can't imagine why it wasn't nominated for a Golden Globe, except, of course, that it's about women, written by, directed by, and starring women. A little woman's story about coming of age, discovering your life's purpose, courage, generosity, death, art, and, yes, being a woman at a time which disparaged and limited almost everything about womanhood. It's very cleverly done, flashing back and forth in time, and turning Jo March into not just the heroine but the author of the book. Jo March becomes Louisa May Alcott. As, in fact, she was.
I read the book when I was eleven and will never forget the devastation of Beth's dying. All women writers apparently have in common that they all identified with rebellious Jo. But that never occurred to me; I wanted to be patient, selfless Beth, loved by everyone. Another book at the time had profoundly influenced me - What Katy Did, about a wild, tempestuous girl who falls off a swing, breaks her back, and learns, while paralyzed, to be patient and good. Why would I fall so hard for these impossible role models? But I did. I wanted to be paralyzed, like Katy, or dead like Beth, and good.
A gorgeous film. I'd see it again. A few flaws - does Marmee have to be so suffocatingly noble? I preferred Laura Dern as the vicious divorce attorney in Marriage Story. Timothee Chalumet is very beautiful but too young and too thin; I never believed in the possibility of him and Jo - absurd. But the sisters are wonderful and so are the supporting actors - Meryl, of course, and the heavenly James Norton and the rest. And the sets, the lighting, exquisite. Thank you, Greta Gerwig.
And now for something completely different: Last night, I watched a PBS documentary about Joe McCarthy, the man who drove my American father out of the States. What a vile, pathetic human being, who used lies and paranoia to manipulate the press and his stupid Republican base and lead a campaign of vicious intimidation that destroyed many lives. Sound familiar? I'm sure PBS made sure the comparisons with now were clear. Thank heavens my father moved to Canada.
On my way to the cinema, I bought a graphic book recommended by my cousin: The Boy, the Mole, the Fox, and the Horse. A beauty. And now for Doc Martin and other good stuff on TV. The banquet!
I spent the morning at my desk trying to figure out what I'm writing now. Because I didn't die or become patient and good, like Beth. I became a writer, like Jo.
I just saw Little Women.
It seems to me not long ago I wrote about another version. This one is so lovely, I can't imagine why it wasn't nominated for a Golden Globe, except, of course, that it's about women, written by, directed by, and starring women. A little woman's story about coming of age, discovering your life's purpose, courage, generosity, death, art, and, yes, being a woman at a time which disparaged and limited almost everything about womanhood. It's very cleverly done, flashing back and forth in time, and turning Jo March into not just the heroine but the author of the book. Jo March becomes Louisa May Alcott. As, in fact, she was.
I read the book when I was eleven and will never forget the devastation of Beth's dying. All women writers apparently have in common that they all identified with rebellious Jo. But that never occurred to me; I wanted to be patient, selfless Beth, loved by everyone. Another book at the time had profoundly influenced me - What Katy Did, about a wild, tempestuous girl who falls off a swing, breaks her back, and learns, while paralyzed, to be patient and good. Why would I fall so hard for these impossible role models? But I did. I wanted to be paralyzed, like Katy, or dead like Beth, and good.
A gorgeous film. I'd see it again. A few flaws - does Marmee have to be so suffocatingly noble? I preferred Laura Dern as the vicious divorce attorney in Marriage Story. Timothee Chalumet is very beautiful but too young and too thin; I never believed in the possibility of him and Jo - absurd. But the sisters are wonderful and so are the supporting actors - Meryl, of course, and the heavenly James Norton and the rest. And the sets, the lighting, exquisite. Thank you, Greta Gerwig.
And now for something completely different: Last night, I watched a PBS documentary about Joe McCarthy, the man who drove my American father out of the States. What a vile, pathetic human being, who used lies and paranoia to manipulate the press and his stupid Republican base and lead a campaign of vicious intimidation that destroyed many lives. Sound familiar? I'm sure PBS made sure the comparisons with now were clear. Thank heavens my father moved to Canada.
On my way to the cinema, I bought a graphic book recommended by my cousin: The Boy, the Mole, the Fox, and the Horse. A beauty. And now for Doc Martin and other good stuff on TV. The banquet!
I spent the morning at my desk trying to figure out what I'm writing now. Because I didn't die or become patient and good, like Beth. I became a writer, like Jo.
January 4, 2020
the cartoonist sees all
This horrible New Yorker cartoonist has been spying on me! How does he know? Though the thing is, I suspect I'm not alone in my guilty time-wasting ways. At least I don't have cats.
I rode my bike to the market this morning - it's January! So mild, very strange, not like winter at all. Mind you, it's also that I have this VERY WARM COAT, which makes all the difference, especially on the bike.
Today's excitement was actually making a sale, not of books or a manuscript, unfortunately, but of fur coats I've had for years - a vintage mink bought from the local shoemender, who always had interesting stuff hanging around his shop, and the other a sheared something or other bought by a friend at an estate sale. There's a pop up vintage clothing store now on Parliament Street, so I trundled up there with these heavy coats in a suitcase, and he bought them for the vast sum of $90. The world has now discovered the advantages of second hand and vintage, it seems; the store is full of the kind of stuff I've been buying for decades. Tragically, I offloaded a ton for almost nothing before the renovation. Ah well. Making money, selling, any kind of business venture, is by definition a losing proposition for me. But most of my wardrobe, and much of my household stuff, is second hand. Annie came over today for wine and a catch up, and asked to go to Doubletake to look for a sweater. We didn't find one, but she did find something she needed even more: a rare big lightbulb with a wide base that's apparently very hard to find. So - treasure! We hunt for treasure.
Today I made a special trip to the framing shop on Parliament; Mohammed, a kind interesting man, does all my framing, and the other day wanted to discuss the murder in Iran, since he's Iranian. When he found out I'm a writer, he told me he wants to read books in English, could I lend him some? So today I took him a memoir by Kamal al Solaylee. How I love my 'hood.
My Anna is in mourning; an acquaintance, not a close friend but a guy whose wife and 3 young children she knew well, just died of an opioid overdose. She says 12 Canadians a day are dying from these vile drugs. And instead of fixing what needs fixing, we're being set up for WW3. Hard to get through the day, sometimes, for rage and grief at the stupidity of humankind. But then again, on such a mild day, it's hard to be sad.
I rode my bike to the market this morning - it's January! So mild, very strange, not like winter at all. Mind you, it's also that I have this VERY WARM COAT, which makes all the difference, especially on the bike.Today's excitement was actually making a sale, not of books or a manuscript, unfortunately, but of fur coats I've had for years - a vintage mink bought from the local shoemender, who always had interesting stuff hanging around his shop, and the other a sheared something or other bought by a friend at an estate sale. There's a pop up vintage clothing store now on Parliament Street, so I trundled up there with these heavy coats in a suitcase, and he bought them for the vast sum of $90. The world has now discovered the advantages of second hand and vintage, it seems; the store is full of the kind of stuff I've been buying for decades. Tragically, I offloaded a ton for almost nothing before the renovation. Ah well. Making money, selling, any kind of business venture, is by definition a losing proposition for me. But most of my wardrobe, and much of my household stuff, is second hand. Annie came over today for wine and a catch up, and asked to go to Doubletake to look for a sweater. We didn't find one, but she did find something she needed even more: a rare big lightbulb with a wide base that's apparently very hard to find. So - treasure! We hunt for treasure.
Today I made a special trip to the framing shop on Parliament; Mohammed, a kind interesting man, does all my framing, and the other day wanted to discuss the murder in Iran, since he's Iranian. When he found out I'm a writer, he told me he wants to read books in English, could I lend him some? So today I took him a memoir by Kamal al Solaylee. How I love my 'hood.
My Anna is in mourning; an acquaintance, not a close friend but a guy whose wife and 3 young children she knew well, just died of an opioid overdose. She says 12 Canadians a day are dying from these vile drugs. And instead of fixing what needs fixing, we're being set up for WW3. Hard to get through the day, sometimes, for rage and grief at the stupidity of humankind. But then again, on such a mild day, it's hard to be sad.
January 2, 2020
Marriage Story
It's like riding a bicycle, I guess - performing. I stand on stage, open my mouth, and know what I'm doing, know how to reach out and touch the audience. It's both an innate talent I've had since childhood - I started acting at the age of 8 - and a skill honed in many years in the theatre. And it's something that brings me enormous pleasure.
There were not many people who came to the Yiddish Vinkl at the Free Times Café today - maybe 12 or 15 intrepid souls who paid $23 for a generous buffet lunch and then a talk, which today was me on the subject of my great-grandfather and my book about him. I wasn't paid but I got lunch, which was terrific, only I couldn't eat much because I was about to speak. Friends Nick, Edward, and Ellen came to support me.
I loved every minute. I spent 25 years researching and writing a book that not many people read, so any chance I get to tell its powerful, moving story is fine by me. Amazingly for such a small audience, afterward I sold the 3 copies of the book I'd brought, one to a Holocaust survivor, another to Bill Gladstone, who gave a great review of the book when it came out in 2007. And then I got on my bicycle in the mild sunshine and rode home.
Was jazzed but tired, as one is after a performance, so after a nap, I watched Marriage Story on Netflix. Devastating. It's a remarkably even-handed depiction of a divorce, where we see, equally from both sides, how pointless and yet how necessary the split is. Anyone who has been through a divorce will relive every excruciating moment; I did as I watched. What's especially tragic is that it's clear the two still love each other - as my ex and I did, and still do. But the need for freedom is great. The more important tragedy is the child in the middle. But luckily, because there's lots of money and success - unrealistic success, let's be frank, a small show going to Broadway, an enormous Genius grant, a T.V. series in L.A., nothing but success here - and many loving family members, their boy is going to be fine. Most divorces are not so photogenic, though some ugliness is portrayed too. The actors are marvellous, especially Adam Driver, and Laura Dern as a vicious divorce attorney who reminds me of the first one I had, until I couldn't bear her combativeness any more and found a nicer human being. The film brought it all back. Thank God it was a long time ago; it all happened to another person.
So - a day plunged into the past, in the story of my ancestor and his extraordinary life, and then a reliving of one unhappy chapter of my own. And in between, a happy bike ride in the sun in my new winter coat that kept me extremely warm.
The new year has begun.
There were not many people who came to the Yiddish Vinkl at the Free Times Café today - maybe 12 or 15 intrepid souls who paid $23 for a generous buffet lunch and then a talk, which today was me on the subject of my great-grandfather and my book about him. I wasn't paid but I got lunch, which was terrific, only I couldn't eat much because I was about to speak. Friends Nick, Edward, and Ellen came to support me.
I loved every minute. I spent 25 years researching and writing a book that not many people read, so any chance I get to tell its powerful, moving story is fine by me. Amazingly for such a small audience, afterward I sold the 3 copies of the book I'd brought, one to a Holocaust survivor, another to Bill Gladstone, who gave a great review of the book when it came out in 2007. And then I got on my bicycle in the mild sunshine and rode home.
Was jazzed but tired, as one is after a performance, so after a nap, I watched Marriage Story on Netflix. Devastating. It's a remarkably even-handed depiction of a divorce, where we see, equally from both sides, how pointless and yet how necessary the split is. Anyone who has been through a divorce will relive every excruciating moment; I did as I watched. What's especially tragic is that it's clear the two still love each other - as my ex and I did, and still do. But the need for freedom is great. The more important tragedy is the child in the middle. But luckily, because there's lots of money and success - unrealistic success, let's be frank, a small show going to Broadway, an enormous Genius grant, a T.V. series in L.A., nothing but success here - and many loving family members, their boy is going to be fine. Most divorces are not so photogenic, though some ugliness is portrayed too. The actors are marvellous, especially Adam Driver, and Laura Dern as a vicious divorce attorney who reminds me of the first one I had, until I couldn't bear her combativeness any more and found a nicer human being. The film brought it all back. Thank God it was a long time ago; it all happened to another person.
So - a day plunged into the past, in the story of my ancestor and his extraordinary life, and then a reliving of one unhappy chapter of my own. And in between, a happy bike ride in the sun in my new winter coat that kept me extremely warm.
The new year has begun.
January 1, 2020
Beth speaking tomorrow at the Free Times Café
The next meeting will take place on
Thursday January 2nd at 12 Noon At Free Times Cafe, 320 College St.
We invite you to hear Beth Kaplan speak about Jacob Gordin, The Jewish Shakespeare. Beth Kaplan, MFA in creative writing, is the author of three nonfiction books: Finding The Jewish Shakespeare: The Life and Legacy of Jacob Gordin, the biography of her great-grandfather; All My Loving, a memoir of the sixties; and True to Life, a guide to writing a memoir and the textbook for her courses.She has taught memoir and personal essay writing at Ryerson University for 25 years and for 12 years at U of T as well, where in 2012 she was given the Excellence in Teaching Award. A former actress, Beth produces So True, a curated reading series for her long-term students and herself twice a year at the Black Swan in Toronto. Her website and blog are at bethkaplan.ca.Beth will speak about her journey of many years in search of her great-grandfather’s extraordinary story: his idealistic early life in Russia, his flight to the Lower East Side, the rapid start of his career in the Yiddish Theatre, his worldwide success, and the tragedy of the last years before his untimely death in 1909. And she will speak about her bond with him - the power of his on-going genetic legacy through family members and her own theatrical and literary calling.
Please go to the website do more information yiddishvinkl.com
Cost: $23.00.
Includes buffet lunch (brisket, latkes, blintzes, salads, non alcoholic beverage and dessert); Includes tax, tip, and program.
We are unable to reserve seating. However, it would be appreciated if you RSVP to yiddishvinkl@yahoo.ca so that we can prepare for the appropriate size of the audience.
December 31, 2019
Onward to 2020
Dear friends, the decade ends in a few hours. Some crazy people I gather are out insisting on wild times. This bird is at home, watching Lincoln Centre Live on PBS, a celebration of Sondheim, other shows coming on later. I will not be watching the ball fall. My oldest friend Ron, from Halifax days, came for dinner; he has had a very tough year, I was glad to host him and listen. He asked me out in 1965 and I said no.
Not an easy decade. My mother gone in 2012, my aunt in 2018, dear Wayson this year. But still, these deaths were not unnatural - Mum 89, Do 98, Way relatively young at 80. But now I fear unnatural deaths begin - friends my age or just a little older, at risk. Loss. Loss. Loss.
Not to mention the planet. Let's not mention the planet, not tonight. Except - Greta. Miracles do happen.
Now watching a documentary about the sex educator Dr. Ruth. Adorable, the quintessential Yiddishe mama. Last week I watched a doc called What is it about the Jews? about why the Jewish people have achieved unparalleled success - many interesting thoughts, which I will elucidate at some point, but one of them is that Jews, unlike Catholics, embrace sex as a natural and vital part of life, meaning that rabbis marry and reproduce, whereas priests ... say no more. And here Ruth is, a Holocaust survivor aged 90 with limitless energy and a fabulous sense of humour, telling Americans how to enjoy sex. A fine way to bring in the new year.
Yesterday was a first - not one but two little boys for the night. And it was wonderful, if like being under seige. Luckily the weather was lovely and mild, so we burned off some steam at the farm and the playground. Big bowls of pasta, a bath with a great deal of splashing and water everywhere, into jammies, stories, lights out by 8.30. Unbelievable! Eli was on the mattress on the floor and Ben in the bed, but when I got up to check on them, they were squished together on the floor. The sweetest thing I've ever seen. And then those faces at my bedroom door at a very late 7.45 a.m.
I'm still watching Dr. Ruth and feeling like a slug. What an amazing woman, a tiny powerhouse.
Today we went briefly to the Y and then home for pancakes, throwing a ball endlessly, reading Spock's beautiful Oh the places you'll go and finally, meeting their mother for the end of the stay.
A late Xmas present - Kawhi Leonard of the Raptors jerseys. Ecstasy. Their Uncle Sam now wants one too, and their dad.
At the Y. The image of my father.
Nicole came to help me clean up from kids and Christmas; it took both of us some time. But now the house is more or less back to rights. Until next time. "Are you going to die soon?" asked Ben.
"I don't think so," I said. I hope not.
Dr. Ruth! Laughing out loud. She keeps asking people - her drivers, strangers, friends - "Did you eat?" I remember my grandmother, always with the food: "Ess ess, mein kind!" She loves everything. Inspiring. I'm only going to be seventy in seven months - that's nothing. Someone just asked her, "Why keep publishing books at 89?"
"What a stupid question," she said.
Happy New Year to you all. May you flourish, may you find joy and laughter, may you be healthy and doing work you love, may friends and family keep you company sometimes but not too often. May our world survive the cretins.
Happy New Year, friends. On we go.
Not an easy decade. My mother gone in 2012, my aunt in 2018, dear Wayson this year. But still, these deaths were not unnatural - Mum 89, Do 98, Way relatively young at 80. But now I fear unnatural deaths begin - friends my age or just a little older, at risk. Loss. Loss. Loss.
Not to mention the planet. Let's not mention the planet, not tonight. Except - Greta. Miracles do happen.
Now watching a documentary about the sex educator Dr. Ruth. Adorable, the quintessential Yiddishe mama. Last week I watched a doc called What is it about the Jews? about why the Jewish people have achieved unparalleled success - many interesting thoughts, which I will elucidate at some point, but one of them is that Jews, unlike Catholics, embrace sex as a natural and vital part of life, meaning that rabbis marry and reproduce, whereas priests ... say no more. And here Ruth is, a Holocaust survivor aged 90 with limitless energy and a fabulous sense of humour, telling Americans how to enjoy sex. A fine way to bring in the new year.
Yesterday was a first - not one but two little boys for the night. And it was wonderful, if like being under seige. Luckily the weather was lovely and mild, so we burned off some steam at the farm and the playground. Big bowls of pasta, a bath with a great deal of splashing and water everywhere, into jammies, stories, lights out by 8.30. Unbelievable! Eli was on the mattress on the floor and Ben in the bed, but when I got up to check on them, they were squished together on the floor. The sweetest thing I've ever seen. And then those faces at my bedroom door at a very late 7.45 a.m.
I'm still watching Dr. Ruth and feeling like a slug. What an amazing woman, a tiny powerhouse.
Today we went briefly to the Y and then home for pancakes, throwing a ball endlessly, reading Spock's beautiful Oh the places you'll go and finally, meeting their mother for the end of the stay.
A late Xmas present - Kawhi Leonard of the Raptors jerseys. Ecstasy. Their Uncle Sam now wants one too, and their dad.
At the Y. The image of my father.Nicole came to help me clean up from kids and Christmas; it took both of us some time. But now the house is more or less back to rights. Until next time. "Are you going to die soon?" asked Ben.
"I don't think so," I said. I hope not.
Dr. Ruth! Laughing out loud. She keeps asking people - her drivers, strangers, friends - "Did you eat?" I remember my grandmother, always with the food: "Ess ess, mein kind!" She loves everything. Inspiring. I'm only going to be seventy in seven months - that's nothing. Someone just asked her, "Why keep publishing books at 89?"
"What a stupid question," she said.
Happy New Year to you all. May you flourish, may you find joy and laughter, may you be healthy and doing work you love, may friends and family keep you company sometimes but not too often. May our world survive the cretins.
Happy New Year, friends. On we go.
December 30, 2019
63 Up: the subject tonight is Love.
Calm before the storm - tonight I'm hosting both my grandsons for a sleepover for the first time. Till now, I've not felt ready to handle both bouncing-off-the-wall energizer bunnies on my own - and didn't even have another bed. But yesterday I bought a mattress and squeezed it into the small spare room, and there they will be tonight, wreaking, undoubtedly, havoc.
On Friday to the Hot Docs cinema to meet Ken, Anne-Marie, and Jim, for 63 Up. It's a unique and phenomenal experience to follow the lives of these British people from age 7, every 7 years to now. All of us in the audience were I'm sure considering our own lives in light of theirs. They've suffered divorce, ill health, estrangements, the death of parents, and one of them has actually died. But they're all fine human beings now, extremely likeable, so much wiser than they were. Perhaps many of us are that way? Even Neil, the adorable sparkling 7-year old who was a scabby penniless recluse by 21 and ended up homeless, struggling with mental illness, is now a civic politician and lay preacher who, amazingly, owns a house in France! I loved them all.
We hope for 70 Up, though Michael Apted the director is in his eighties and may not be up for it. I could watch this series forever. A magnificent achievement.
And then to a pub for dinner with three of my dearest friends, where we discovered the Friday special deal of a bottle of wine for $21. Couldn't pass that up.
Saturday, I happily dispensed with Christmas - took down the tree, put away the wreath and the table coverings and the hooha. Done and done.
Yesterday, to old friend David Rothberg's end of Hanukkah party. A friend from university days, David became a successful businessman; we lost touch during the busy years but have reconnected with pleasure recently. His house in the Annex is impressive, vast rooms with modern art and unusual furniture, including a fabulous very long wooden table that someone said David made himself. I'm not used to such splendour - a young woman greeting us at the door to take our coats, then inside, caterers carving real Montreal smoked meat for sandwiches, platters of other goodies being passed around including latkes, a bartender serving drinks. And the most interesting people in Toronto - David is connected to the film business, writers, everyone. I ran into Ian Pearson who was an editor at Banff when I was there, then David Macfarlane, the superb writer, and his wife Janice Lindsay. Rick Salutin of the gloomy face wandered in, David Young the playwright appeared with a tray of oysters - it was that kind of party. I felt lucky to be there.
Today my Christmas present to myself arrived. Perhaps you remember the winter coat I wanted to buy at Bloomingdales but the last size Large was snatched from under my nose. Well, I found the same coat in a Boxing Day sale online, and it arrived today. I can give away my second-hand coats; with this one, I will never be cold again. In fact, I'm sorry the weather is so mild right now, I want to try it out and it's too warm outside! Never did I think I'd be saying that.
Ken gave me a book of poems by the 14th century poet Hafiz and asked me particularly to read this one.
The subject tonight is Love
And for tomorrow night as well,
As a matter of fact
I know of no better topic
For us to discuss
Until we all
Die!
Agreed.
On Friday to the Hot Docs cinema to meet Ken, Anne-Marie, and Jim, for 63 Up. It's a unique and phenomenal experience to follow the lives of these British people from age 7, every 7 years to now. All of us in the audience were I'm sure considering our own lives in light of theirs. They've suffered divorce, ill health, estrangements, the death of parents, and one of them has actually died. But they're all fine human beings now, extremely likeable, so much wiser than they were. Perhaps many of us are that way? Even Neil, the adorable sparkling 7-year old who was a scabby penniless recluse by 21 and ended up homeless, struggling with mental illness, is now a civic politician and lay preacher who, amazingly, owns a house in France! I loved them all.
We hope for 70 Up, though Michael Apted the director is in his eighties and may not be up for it. I could watch this series forever. A magnificent achievement.
And then to a pub for dinner with three of my dearest friends, where we discovered the Friday special deal of a bottle of wine for $21. Couldn't pass that up.
Saturday, I happily dispensed with Christmas - took down the tree, put away the wreath and the table coverings and the hooha. Done and done.
Yesterday, to old friend David Rothberg's end of Hanukkah party. A friend from university days, David became a successful businessman; we lost touch during the busy years but have reconnected with pleasure recently. His house in the Annex is impressive, vast rooms with modern art and unusual furniture, including a fabulous very long wooden table that someone said David made himself. I'm not used to such splendour - a young woman greeting us at the door to take our coats, then inside, caterers carving real Montreal smoked meat for sandwiches, platters of other goodies being passed around including latkes, a bartender serving drinks. And the most interesting people in Toronto - David is connected to the film business, writers, everyone. I ran into Ian Pearson who was an editor at Banff when I was there, then David Macfarlane, the superb writer, and his wife Janice Lindsay. Rick Salutin of the gloomy face wandered in, David Young the playwright appeared with a tray of oysters - it was that kind of party. I felt lucky to be there.
Today my Christmas present to myself arrived. Perhaps you remember the winter coat I wanted to buy at Bloomingdales but the last size Large was snatched from under my nose. Well, I found the same coat in a Boxing Day sale online, and it arrived today. I can give away my second-hand coats; with this one, I will never be cold again. In fact, I'm sorry the weather is so mild right now, I want to try it out and it's too warm outside! Never did I think I'd be saying that.
Ken gave me a book of poems by the 14th century poet Hafiz and asked me particularly to read this one.
The subject tonight is Love
And for tomorrow night as well,
As a matter of fact
I know of no better topic
For us to discuss
Until we all
Die!
Agreed.
