Helen Humphreys and “Followed by the Lark”
Gorgeous summer weather over for now, it’s damp and gloomy out, though still mild. I am officially clear of Covid, have tested negative twice. Woo hoo! Life returns to these old bones. Just a quick word today.
My friend and former student Pearl took this during the WOTS webinar. 
Lovely sunset. Jabbering woman.
Rode to the Toronto International Festival of Authors — love that name — at Harbourfront on sunny Sunday, to hear Kyle Wyatt interview one of my favourite writers, Helen Humphreys. She has the most diverse subjects and styles of any writer I know — heavily researched nonfiction, memoir, novels. The talk was about her new novel, Followed by the Lark, which imagines the life of Henry David Thoreau, American naturalist of Walden Pond fame. She spoke about reading the million words of his diaries, and the words of others at that time, including his neighbour and mentor Emerson. I asked her during the question period how she discovers, from such an eclectic range, the subjects she’s going to devote countless hours of research to, and if she’d ever started on one and abandoned it. The answers were obvious: yes, occasionally, and – something sparks her imagination and won’t let go until she does something about it. Like all writers.
She told us her next book is about her grandfather, who wanted to become a novelist but did not, and how she wonders if she inherited his trauma — his deep need to write that was never fulfilled. It’s about epigenetics, she said. Since I too will be writing about a family member and inherited traits, I found that fascinating. Am very much enjoying the book. She’s a beautiful writer, and she models the most important lesson for writers: pay attention to everything.
Yesterday my dear friend Tara, one of the most interesting, accomplished women on earth, came to lunch. Her husband was in New York at a meeting of the “Planetary Guardians,” a vitally important group that sounds like something out of a sci-fi novel. She came at 12.30 and we didn’t stop talking until 5.30. I apologized for the spaghetti sauce, made on Sunday out of my tomatoes but which I wasn’t sure tasted very good, since on Sunday I couldn’t taste much. And still can’t. She said it was good, to my relief. We covered just about every world and personal issue in five hours, including being mothers to daughters and Alice Munro. The fate of feminism. World affairs. Much much more. Loved it.
I want to go to St. John’s Bakery, am desperate for their bread after a week without, but it’s raining. Phooey. The one disadvantage of bike riding – it’s hard to do in bad weather.
I just counted. So far, from now till mid-December, I have tickets already for five plays, a film, and a concert (Angela Hewitt at Hugh’s Room, ten minutes away. Yay!) I’m going to two book launches, one memorial event, and three birthday parties, including my son’s fortieth here. I’m speaking and MCing at an anniversary event at the Y, attending three book club discussions of my book in person or on Zoom, and producing my So True reading event on Oct. 27 with eight edited and rehearsed readers and myself. Plus teaching the U of T and home classes, editing privately including a 350-page document that just arrived, trying occasionally to practice the piano and get to the Y, to read many books, magazines, newspapers, and online sites, to produce a Substack essay every two weeks, and to put out a chronicle every few days to you. Oh, and every so often, to eat. Oh, and at some point — when oh when?? — to start my own new heavily researched book.
It’s enough.
I said this to my son after this year’s successful crop, and he decided to turn it into a meme, or whatever this is, for Instagram. Beware what you say to the media savvy with a sense of humour!
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