The business of being a writer

Well, this week so far has been a washout, literally, gloomy with major rain day after day. And for an additional treat, last night my heart stopped when I heard a shrieking alarm, which turned out to be the sump pump warning signal in the basement suite; it goes off when the pump stops working. I unplugged the alarm but didn’t know what to do next. Did it mean that, just as the heavens opened, the sump wasn’t pumping? That would mean flooding in Olga’s apartment. I arranged for my handyman to come first thing this morning, but could barely sleep with nightmare images of floods. The basement did flood, years ago, and the tenant then threatened to sue me. Last night I kept saying to myself, it’s not cancer, it’s only water. But still.

To my great relief, there was no flood. The sump was motionless, obviously broken, so Doug and I went to Home Depot to buy a new one. When we got back, Doug began to install it, but then the old one sprang to pumping life. Not broken after all, just resting, I guess, after all that rain.

I’m keeping the new one. It will be needed. Nothing matters more, in this house, than a healthy sump pump. Again, I end up thinking – how long will I be able to cope with this @#$@# house? But right now, I’m coping. New furnace, AC, and hot water tank went in on Tuesday. Let’s hope they last until I croak.

I wrote and sent another letter to the Editor of the Star yesterday, in response to a really nasty, petty column by Martin Regg Cohen about Nate Erskine-Smith, a terrific Torontonian who was briefly housing minister, very knowledgeable and keen about the portfolio, so understandably frustrated to be bypassed by Carney as housing minister in favour of a Vancouver mayor with a very spotty record in that regard. The Star has not run my letter. Phooey. Carney’s first big mistake, as far as I’m concerned. Worrying.

But from the Nice Things department: heard from a young woman from another country who hired me last fall to help her craft essays and letters for admission to Ph.D. programs here and in the States. I had to convince her that her stories were fascinating; that the universities would be looking for authenticity so to use her own voice, not ChatGPT. She aced it and has had several great offers. She wrote, “Your mentorship has changed me as a person. I feel like I have a voice of my own that then makes me feel like my existence is worthy and makes me look forward to life. I appreciate you so much, Beth! I hope to celebrate with you in person this summer!”

So happy for you! Another writer, who hired me to edit his novel and who’s now working on the third draft, wrote,  “How encouraging it is to have you check in on me. You are the only person who supports the work. I don’t need more. Your questions, your comments, and your admonitions have been a compass. You’ve really given me a spark.”

Glad to have been of service to you and literature, my friend.

I’m reading a book from the library by the marvellous Jane Friedman called The Business of Being a Writer. Should have read it many years ago. Jane is sensible and knowledgeable about all aspects of this crazy business. As the least businesslike person on the planet, I could have saved myself a lot of grief if I’d known some of this stuff before. May have to buy my own copy.

I was thrilled to see this beautiful work of art appearing recently on FB. That face means a great deal to me. When I was at theatre school in London in 1971, I was looking at an art book one day, saw this face, saw the painting was hanging in the National Gallery, got on a bus, and went to see the real thing. Every time I’m in London, I go to visit him. “Portrait of a Young Man” was painted by Botticelli in about 1480, around 550 years ago, and yet he could be walking down Parliament Street today. Apparently groundbreaking because an ordinary person is looking straight out, a pose until then reserved for portraits of Christ. I love this solemn young man.

You notice I am not talking about the state of the world, which is unbearable. Today I had an eye test, with drops that blurred my eyes. The lovely optometrist, who’s six foot two, said I wouldn’t be able to read for a bit, and then she said, “Maybe that’s a good thing. I don’t want to read the news these days, it’s all so horrible.”

I agreed. I told her she’s magnificent — tall and beautiful. Especially as she told me I do not have glaucoma — my dad had it — and my eyes are pretty good. I’m lucky, so far — good eyes and good teeth. I do not take those things for granted. I don’t take anything for granted. Especially my lovely old basement-saving sump pump, that I’ve decided to call Charley.

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