November Nesting – Make a warm drink, grab a book, settle in . . .
November 28, 2009
The snow is coming and accompanying it, with any luck, is some truly nasty weather. Why the ill sounding wish? Wet, white and wind create the perfect excuse (as if you need one!) to do nothing but snuggle into the couch with a book.
If you aren’t nodding your head excitedly at the above scenario, it’s because you’ve forgotten a deep truth. Everyone loves to read. No, seriously, they do. Even if they don’t know it’s true yet. There is, literally, a book or magazine to catch anyone and everyone’s fancy.
Too many people associate books with drudgery: lists of vocab words, pages of comprehension questions, blathering discussions . . . Still others—the horror!—have linked books with feelings of failure, of “not getting it,” of feeling stupid. Some of us have forgotten—or not yet experienced—that reading is a deep pleasure, the silliest form of fun, the most intense, intimate form of personal connection—and the best dang source of practical, factual information out there.
Read widely, read unashamedly, and read what you want. A “fantastic” book is always a matter of personal preference, whether it’s a history of war, a romance, a mystery, or a How-To-Fix-Your-Motorbike manual.
In no particular order, here are a few recommendations—lots of non-fiction, which is weird for me, since I’m a fiction addict, but like I said, good is good.
Searching for the April Moon by Nancy Robertson, a Prince Rupert writer. This stick-with-you collection of personal essays shows the beauty and deep value of relationships, especially within family, even as it explores the damage and confusion we cause accidentally (and sometimes not). We laugh at childhood recollections—and shake our heads with dismay and recognition of life’s harder elements. We ride our bikes in Baja and scurry along rainy Rupert streets. Our hearts break, but we find love again. We disappoint our kids—and are disappointed. We mourn parents as they age and pass away . . . Most of all, we grow to accept and celebrate that relationships don’t have to perfect, or fixed, or even fully understood to be exactly what they’re meant and needed to be.
The Practice of Poetry – Writing Exercises From Poets Who Teach, edited by Robin Behn and Chase Twichell. If you, or anyone you know, expert or novice, dabbles in the form (or wishes to), this is the perfect book. Its short essays inspire thought, and its practical, specific exercises (if completed) give that lovely thrill: I’ve written a poem!
28 Stories of Aids in Africa by Stephanie Nolen. I confess that I recommend this book, newly added to my own to-read pile, on the beset of my friend, Sarah Zimmerman. She couldn’t say enough good things about it, calling it “powerful, insightful and a little heart wrenching.” What really swayed me to decide to read it though was her comment—“It makes you understand why we should care about a place so far away.” It’s not that I don’t care; it’s that sometimes, wrapped up in my own secure life, I can become shamefully insulated against the realities so many other people live.
On a similar note, my husband is still, years later, affected by Shake Hands With the Devil – The Failure of Humanity in Rwanda by Romeo Dallaire. I find such unflinching accounts of the horrible things humans do to each other hard to read, but valuable. Perhaps one day (soon, please) we will know enough to say, It must stop, and make it thus.
Blankets by Craig Thompson is a graphic novel that convinced me that the phrase graphic novel isn’t an oxymoron. Not for children by any stretch, I was (still am) awed by the intensity of emotion and the depth-of-content such “simple” illustrations and text can render. Some folks will hate it, but especially for people with any kind of fundamentalist church background, it’s a deeply moving, thought-provoking book—as sensitive and lovely as it is sharp-fingered poking at a bruise.
And last but not least—I recommend Peter Abrahams. Yes, the whole author, not just one book. I just discovered him this year and thought, “Hey, where have you been all of my life?” If you like crime novels/thrillers, he’s for you—and is, regardless of genre preferences, a stinking good writer. A master.
Here’s to a deliciously cold season of good reading. May you never run out of books—and if you have to venture off the couch, make sure it’s for a truly important reason: a trip to the bookstore. A jaunt to the library.
First published in The Terrace Standard, Nov. 25, 2009
Pen Caving
September 17, 2009
Sometimes in the middle of a moment or event, I find myself slightly removed, watching with my psychic pen in hand, wondering even as I experience something how I will write about it.
This strange, constantly penning side of my brain often draws parallels between adventures I’m having and my writing life. One of the latest examples of such analogy occurred this summer, when I was caving in Horne Lake. Yes, caving. As in burrowing deep into the earth via rocky tunnels and winding, blacker-than-black channels into surprisingly wide caverns and the like.
My obsession with caves (and writing) started when I was young; I blame Mark Twain. While I loved Tom Sawyer (of course) and could never understand his passion for insipid Becky Thatcher, I adored Huck Finn. And the descriptions of the caves he got to explore (where Injun Joe lived for a long while) always threw me into paroxysms of jealousy. Why couldn’t I live in a cave? Why couldn’t I at least live near caves? Second only to sunken treasure, caves were the top of my romantic-things list.
Fast forward to holiday planning 2009. As I investigated interesting things we could if we got tired of Rathtrevor Beach or jumping off small cliffs into Englishman River (which would never happen, but it was fun to see all the Island offers), I came across ads promoting Horne Lake caves. Real caves. Twisty, freaky, creepy, awesome ones.
We knew we were leaving the surface before we even entered the cave; the change in temperature is immediate and complete, even just at the mouth. Squeezing through crevices that put off the claustrophobic, we ended up in strange room after strange room, filled with nooks and crannies and platformed layers that would’ve made perfect sleeping quarters!
I was almost giddy with the knowledge of how much there was to explore (so much that I suspect no one could ever get through all of it). It didn’t matter that other people were doing the same thing, sometimes in the same area–caves are unique through each person’s eyes, imagination, fears, and purpose. I felt completely alone and cut off–in a delicious, adventuresome way at times. In a slightly awed, fearful way at others–what have I got myself into? Can I get myself out?
The light from our headlamps (and from any others in the caves, though for the most part my son and I were alone and even went our own separate ways a few times) shone in single narrow beams, the inside of the earth being so dark, so void of light that it seemed to devour the rays we tried to cast. I could see only as far ahead as I could shine the light directly. But it was enough.
For fun, we turned off our lights and tried to figure out where to go next, how to get out of a particular spot, by feel. Worms of panic squirmed occasionally–what would we do if our lamps went out? Or if we turned them off and they wouldn’t turn back on? The answer was simple and obvious: we would get out the same way we came in. Step by step, hand-over-hand. We’d close our eyes, so the dark would feel like a choice, and move by thoughtful gut, prodding the air ahead with hand and foot, making sure a steady hold waited for us. Eventually we’d make it through.
The terrain of the caves was captivating and varied: by turns rough and jagged, alternatively smooth and rounded, like mounds of mud rolled down in layers. Deceptively soft looking. Bone dry in parts, sweating beads of moisture in others–and in still others, crystal clear pools glimmered with reflections when your light happened to touch upon them. Often, but no less delightful for the frequency, the glow from my headlamp would bounce against seemingly black, dense stone only to have it light up and sparkle like it was dusted in stars.
Yes, I find writing like exploring caves in every way. Exhilarating. Intimidating. Sometimes fear-invoking. Challenging. Revealing. Often I can see no further in a story than to the end of a line. I know I have to accept the necessity of feeling my way around in the dark. I am continually amazed by the depths and diversity I discover. And just like I can’t wait to do more spelunking, I’m always excited to climb through the gnarl of passageways, dead ends, and mysterious spaces that make up my writing. And my head.
I hope you had a great summer–and whatever they are, I hope you’re feeling inspired and itchy to explore your own passions this fall.
First published in The Terrace Standard, Sept. 16, 2009
Author’s note: This column is a condensed form of a post I published on my blog, Write here, write now.
Good Reads
November 25, 2008
First published in the Terrace Standard, November 25th, 2008
“You can never get a cup of tea large enough or a book long enough to suit me,” said C.S. Lewis, and oh, how I agree!
It’s that glorious time of the year again—the sky opens up and pours regularly; ever-dropping temperatures chase us inside for warm, comforting mugs of cocoa, tea, and coffee; long dark evenings call us to the couch. It’s also time for my annual book recommendation column.
I have fond childhood memories involving overflowing bowls of popcorn, orange juice and long stories read over the darkest, coldest months of the years. To name a few:
Laura Ingalls Wilder’s famous Little House series (especially Little House in the Big Woods and Farmer Boy).
James Herriot’s All Things Bright and Beautiful featuring often hilarious, occasionally bittersweet, anecdotes from the author’s experiences as a country vet in England (and if you have small children, look for his picture books).
The Wind in the Willows by Kenneth Grahame is another grand read. Adventure and danger, friendship and betrayal (or perceived betrayal), fast cars and old mansions (I want a huge house I call Toad Hall!), this story has it all. There is nothing cuter (or more pathetic) than Toad in his leg irons. I think there are versions written in “updated” English, but I have to admit, I love the flavour the older language provides.
The Several Lives of Orphan Jack by Sarah Ellis is from my son’s youth, not mine. We’ve devoured it several times. Constant word play and every literary device imaginable make it a read-aloud treat—very fun!).
More currently, I’m excited to report the discovery of three great reads by new-to-me authors. Yay!
The French Executioner by C.C. Humphreys. It’s 1536 and Jean Rombaud, French executioner and expert swordsman, has just been brought to England out of the kindness of King Henry VIII’s heart—a final gift to his soon to be ex-wife, Anne Boleyn. Death by sword was cleaner and quicker, than death by axe. Just prior to her beheading, Anne asks Jean to lop off her six-fingered hand as well, and to take it and bury it at a certain crossroads in France. He accepts the mission and is off and running, literally, as he’s pursued by people who will do anything to get Anne’s legendary hand.
Packed with well-researched history, the invented plot gallops at breakneck speed, carrying characters you adore. Full of the gruesome details of a bloody, treacherous time, Humphreys doesn’t blink at the greed, corruption and cruelty of the Church and other authorities. However, he also celebrates the indomitable power of friendship, loyalty and love, and the importance of staying true to your beliefs, despite personal cost.
The Art of Racing in the Rain by Garth Stein. If you told me that I’d speed through a novel about a racecar driver (jammed with racing facts and trivia and how-to’s) written from a dog’s point-of-view, I wouldn’t have believed you. If you added that not only would I enjoy the car stuff, but I would laugh out loud, cry, and spend time thinking through philosophical ponderings put forth by a canine (Enzo wants to be reincarnated as a human), I would’ve shaken my head and said, “Riiiiight.” But you would have been. It’s a fantastic story, wistful and wrenching, but joyful and optimistic too. And if you have a four-legged friend? Well, the book will be that much sweeter.
The Mephisto Club by Tess Gerritsen. I can’t say enough good things about Gerritsen’s grisly thriller. My biggest praise is how well this book worked as a standalone. Usually books from later in a series are at best, okay, when you haven’t read prior novels. With this one, I loved the characters, realized half-way through that little dangled details about their back stories were probably whole novels (yay!), and felt only excitement, no info dump fatigue or out-of-the-loop angst.
I know you have your own ever-growing to-read list; perhaps you’ve even added some of the books I’ve mentioned here to it. Go pour a big mug of tea (add honey and a shot of real lemon to make it a perfect cold weather treat) and settle in for the evening with a good book. Better yet? Get the whole family to do the same. Ahhh…. So many books, so little time. Cheers to a long, cold winter!
