"All art constantly aspires towards the condition of music."
Walter Pater 1839-1894 "The School of Gerogione"
A specific piece of music can conjur many memories and set you in the mood for the Muse to speak. I often call on Euterpe the Muse of lyric poetry, or Polyhymnia, the Muse of songs for the gods to inspire me while I am writing.
Sometimes, when I'm beginning a new piece of writing I prefer to work in silence. But often, if I play the right music, something that sets me in the 'mood' and 'place' of the piece I am working on, the words flow more easily.
The music that's played in the Iatlian coffee shop where I often go to relax and jot down notes is always Italian music, sometimes popular songs or folk music and often opera. When I was writing my play The Street which is set in the '50's in Vancouver's East End, I would write lines of dialogue while at the Calabria, because the family in the play were Italian immigrants and being there seemed to give me the right 'flavour'. I used music to evoke memories of that time and as the play is partly autobiographical, I had clear images of events and personal experiences associated with the music we used to listen to.
Some of these songs, a lot of them jazz tunes by Chet Baker, Billy Holiday and Rosemary Clooney, were actually played during the performance or at the intermissions. One song in particular brought me back immediately to my youth and still does. To this day I recall clearly how my boyfriend Jimmy (about whom the play was written) loved to sing "Sweet Lorraine" The memory used to be so strong that often it made me cry as I remembered my first love and those tender years when I was so strongly affected by the tragic events that occured when he became a heroin addict. That song, and other, such as Angel Eyes evoke strong memories of that time in my life.
I am very particular what I listen to while I'm writing my historical fiction novel. In the beginning, when the setting was in Babylon I used to play Persian music. Now I prefer some music from movies, or classical pieces such as those by Yo Yo Ma. If I'm not careful what I'm listening to it can be distracting rather than inspiring.
I found an excellent CD in Greece which I play when I am working on my w.i.p. drama,
House of the Muses, which is about the life of the lyric poet Sappho who Plato described as
"The Tenth Muse." The music is by a Greek composer, Angelique Ionatos, who write it to accompany Sappho's lyric poetry (because Sappho sang her poems accompanied by the lyre.)
"Sappho de Mytilene" is one of my favorite CD's. The songs are sung by the composer
and another well-known Greek singer, Nena Venetsanou accompanied by instruments such as the guitar, our, tabor and oboe.
In the writing classes I teach, I often use music as a prompt and we write whatever imagry that particular music conjurs. And music is also a good way to relax and allow your creativity to take you into other worlds in particular if you are suffering from the dreaded 'writer's block'.
What kind of music do you like to listen to when you are writing? Or do you prefer silence?
A peculiar thing is, if I happen to be on a 'roll' with my writing, I can go to my favorite bistro where there's either jazz or Latino music playing, and will be able to jot down notes that may come into my head completely oblivious to what is going on around me. I guess if the Muse is there, she's going to prompt you no matter what.
"And Music's power obey
From harmony, from heavenly harmony,
This universal frame began:
From harmony to hamony
Through all the compass of the notes it ran..."
John Dryden 1631-1700 A Song for Saint Cecilia's Day 1687 st. 1
"De la musique avant toute chose,
Et pour cela prefere l"Impair.
Music above all, and for this
Choose the irregular."
Paul Verlaine 1844-1896 "Jardins Et Naguere 1884 L'Art Poetique"
Tuesday, January 31, 2006
Monday, January 23, 2006
POLITICS Greek: POLITIKA
POLITICS: The art or science of government; the art or science concerned with guiding or influencing governmental policy; the art or science concerned with winning and holding control over a government.
"Politics are almost as exciting as war, and quite as dangerous. In war you can only be killed once, but in politics many times."
Sir Winston Spencer Churchill 1874-1965 Remark: 1920
Federal Election Day in Canada. I'm writing this with the background sound of the winning party (our new Prime Minister) making his victory speech, interspersed with the cheers of the crowd. No, I didn't vote for this Party because their leader is a right-wing Conservative who opposes a lot of rights such as gay marriages, "Pro Choice" for abortions, and is inclined to favour policies of our Southern neighbour in regards to the war in Iraq and other issues. (See how long it takes before he's in Bush's pocket like Tony Blair.) At least the Party I voted for got 10 new representatives elected who include a fine woman from my district who is always there acting on behalf of the poor, elderly and working-class people.
It so happens that while all these weeks of Campaigning have been going on, I've been delving into the politics of ancient times. While I listened to the political rhetoric, watched the politicians posturiing, making promises that may or may not be kept (likely not); and slamming each other I couldn't help but make a few comparisons. Things don't really change. There's always corruption. Good men get taken down when the populace turns against them.
In the case of my novel, one of the victims of the citizen's fickleness was the military governor of Athens, Phokion, a man of great integrity, elected as stageiros many times, and one who always tried to put the good of the people first. In the end, he became another victim in the power struggle between Alexander's Successors.
In this scene, which takes place in Athens, the City Councillors have just received news that the Macedonian army is approaching the city. They had been issued an edict by Polyperchon, the Macedonian Regent, offering them a return to democratic rule and allowing a number of exiles to return to their homes. (The exiles, mostly democrats, had been driven off their land by the aristocrats who favoured the oligarchies and supported the occupation of Athens by the Macedonian garrison.) The Councillors accuse Phokion of not acting by refusing to accept the edict and insisting the garrison be removed.
"You see!" shrilled an elder Councilman, wagging a finger in Phokion's face. "It is your fault this has happened. You should have made it clear to Polyperchon that the terms of the edict are unacceptable to us."
"Yes!" shouted Chares, a stout balding man, one of his most vocal opponents. "It seems the Macedonians have deployed more troops to increase their military power here. We have demanded that the garrison be removed but you, Phokion, seem to be sided with the aristocrats who are friends of Macedon. Are you a coward, Phokion? Have you lost your spirit?"
Phokion responded to the insult in his usual terse and dignified manner. He peered at them sternly under his thick brows and retorted. "You may call me a coward, Chares, and a man of no spirit because I have refused to act irrationally on these important issues. You can not make me bold, and I cannot make you cowards. But we kow very well what each of us really is."
Charles laughed at his reply. "You lower your brows, Phokion, and put on airs as though you were above us and you show us this by ignoring our demands."
"At least this brow of mine has never caused you any harm, Chares, but the laughter of those who are now sneering at me has given the city plenty to regret. Do not forget that Athena, our city's Patron Goddess, presides over the arts of both war and peace. I have sought to find a peaceful solution, one that will benefit Athens and satisfy Macedon."
One of the staunch democrat senators stood to speak. "We have had enough of Macedonian domination. We want to rule our city by our own democratic laws."
"My friend," Phokion replied. "First, make sure of your own safety. It is better to intercede with the Macedonians than to fight them. It is my recommendation that the Athenians fight using words, in which we have an advantage, not weapons, in which we are inferior."
The Hall burst into a hostile cacophony of hisses and cat-calls.
"You can make me act against my wishes," Phokion said, his voice loud and formidable as a general addressing his troops. "You will never make me speak against my judgement. I will not allow my fellow citizens to destroy themselves even if you wish it so."
He leaves the Council Hall and makes his way up to the Pnyx Hill where a huge crowd has gathered. The General in charge of the Pireaus and the district of Munychia where the garrison is located is about to make a speech.
General Dercyllus height and brawn made him an imposing figure. His booming voice rang out over the Assembly.
"In the past weeks, I have observed a steady deployment of troops from the garrison at Munychia to the island of Salamis. Even as I speak, the harbour at Zea is full of Macedonian warships. It is rumoured that Kassandros will soon return from his mission to Asia Minor with more naval reinforcements. I saw we should seize the port and make it secure before we are surrounded on both land and sea."
The crowd roared their support in a cheer that resounded from the heights of the Acropolis rock.
Dercyllus continues his speech and reveals a plan to arrest the garrison commander and seize the garrison. Phokion protests, reminding the Athenians of how the Thebans and their city were destroyed when they had tried to overthrow the Macedonians.
"I warn you, it will be hubris to overstep your authority, Dercyllus. In the past I have always dealt fairly with Philip, and Alexander. And when Alexander was away on campaign, Antipater. I will also negotiate peacefully with Polyperchon. I will not agree to make war on Macedon or to seize the garrison. Remember what happened to the Thebans? They were destroyed when they tried to rebel." He was aware he was trembling, and sweat trickled from his brow in spite of the coolness of the day.
Dercyllus refuses to listen and the crowd backs him up.
Amid their hostile insults and jeers, Phokion stepped down and made his way along the stony path from the Pnyx toward the sanctuary of his home on the Hill of the Nymphs. He felt angry, but reminded himself of his duty. What should he do to combat Dercyllus' threats? He was friends of both men, and it was not in his nature to turn traitor. But he must warn Nikanor of the dangers he faced if he addressed the Council in Pireaus.
When he arrived home, he ordered a messenger to be sent to the garrison with an invitation to Nikanor of Strageira to dine with him that night.
During the course of the dinner, Phokion conveys a warning to the garrison commander.
He spoke slolwy, measuring each word. "I am an Athenian, and you are not. I have lived long enough to know this: nothing is stronger in the Athenians than their will to possess their own city. When Macedon put the garrison here, they made themselves enemies who are only biding their time before they revolt. You can see this now -- that the City is about to erupt. Beware, Nikanor, of malice at your back. The demos is like a pack of wolves ready to take anyone down who opposes them."
"I will keep my guard, Sir, "Nikanor said. "I do not wish to work against the Athenians. We were posted here to protect them."
"Protect them? Against whom?"
"Against themselves, Sir. You know their history. And you remember well what befell the Thebens when they rebelled against Alexander."
Phokion raised his brows. " Is that a veiled threat, my dear boy?"
Nikanor shifted uneasilty. "No, Sir. Just a reminder."
Phokion's gaze met his eye-to-eye. "Then call your Council tomorrow if you must. But let me warn you again. There are many who will not agree to your terms, no matter how beneficial to the City you might believe them to be." He put out his hand to shake Nikanor's. "You know I have always been a friend of Macedon. Both Philip and Alexander treated me with honour and respect. But times have changed, my boy, and I am not so old and foolish to know how the tide can turn even on those we have counted as our friends. Heed my warnings. Do not underestimate your enemies or the civic pride of the Athenians."
They walked together to the gate, then stopped. Nikanor turned to him with a wrinkled forehead. "Are you sure? About my enemies?"
"My boy, I have been a general for as long as you have lived. I know when the adversary is about to strike. " He put his hand on Nikanor's shoulder. "When I was young I studied at Plato's school. I was a friend of the philosophers. Your adopted father, Aristotle and I had a common kindredship. I regard you almost as a son and I do not wish harm to befall you. Nor do I want my people to open the gates to another holcaust such as befell Thebes."
The half-moon had risen late, shining faintly over the olive groves and pine forested slopes of the mountains. It was a mild evening with just a hint of Spring dampness in the air. Phokion looked across toward the steep western scarps of the Rock, Athens' stronghold, and could see a faint glimmer of light glowing from the sacred fire in the Goddess' temple.
The two men exchanged formal courtesies. Phokion shook the Commander's hand and bade him farewell. He watched Nikanor until he disappeared down the darkened path, then he turned and went back into his house.
His wife, Arete, was kneading dough at the wooden table preparing tomorrow's bread. He put a new log on the fire and stood awhile watching as the flames ignited the dry bark His mind slipped back, recalling his conversation with the garrison commander. He had done what he had thought best to do -- given Nikanor a subtle warning, because he knew that General Dercyllus planned to arrest him at the Council meeting tomorrow. Was he wrong to betray one friend for the sake of another so as not to put his city in further jeopardy?
"Oligarchy: A government resting on a valuation of property, in which the rich have power and the poor man is deprived of it." The Republic VIII 550C
"Democracy, which is a charming form of government, full of varieity and disorder, and dispensing a sort of equality to equals and unequal alike." Ibid 558C
"When the tyrant has disposed of foreign enemies by conquest or treaty, and there is nothing to fear from them, then he is always stirring up some war or other, in order that the people may require a leader." Plato 428-348 B.C. The Republic bk VIII, 566E.
"Politics are almost as exciting as war, and quite as dangerous. In war you can only be killed once, but in politics many times."
Sir Winston Spencer Churchill 1874-1965 Remark: 1920
Federal Election Day in Canada. I'm writing this with the background sound of the winning party (our new Prime Minister) making his victory speech, interspersed with the cheers of the crowd. No, I didn't vote for this Party because their leader is a right-wing Conservative who opposes a lot of rights such as gay marriages, "Pro Choice" for abortions, and is inclined to favour policies of our Southern neighbour in regards to the war in Iraq and other issues. (See how long it takes before he's in Bush's pocket like Tony Blair.) At least the Party I voted for got 10 new representatives elected who include a fine woman from my district who is always there acting on behalf of the poor, elderly and working-class people.
It so happens that while all these weeks of Campaigning have been going on, I've been delving into the politics of ancient times. While I listened to the political rhetoric, watched the politicians posturiing, making promises that may or may not be kept (likely not); and slamming each other I couldn't help but make a few comparisons. Things don't really change. There's always corruption. Good men get taken down when the populace turns against them.
In the case of my novel, one of the victims of the citizen's fickleness was the military governor of Athens, Phokion, a man of great integrity, elected as stageiros many times, and one who always tried to put the good of the people first. In the end, he became another victim in the power struggle between Alexander's Successors.
In this scene, which takes place in Athens, the City Councillors have just received news that the Macedonian army is approaching the city. They had been issued an edict by Polyperchon, the Macedonian Regent, offering them a return to democratic rule and allowing a number of exiles to return to their homes. (The exiles, mostly democrats, had been driven off their land by the aristocrats who favoured the oligarchies and supported the occupation of Athens by the Macedonian garrison.) The Councillors accuse Phokion of not acting by refusing to accept the edict and insisting the garrison be removed.
"You see!" shrilled an elder Councilman, wagging a finger in Phokion's face. "It is your fault this has happened. You should have made it clear to Polyperchon that the terms of the edict are unacceptable to us."
"Yes!" shouted Chares, a stout balding man, one of his most vocal opponents. "It seems the Macedonians have deployed more troops to increase their military power here. We have demanded that the garrison be removed but you, Phokion, seem to be sided with the aristocrats who are friends of Macedon. Are you a coward, Phokion? Have you lost your spirit?"
Phokion responded to the insult in his usual terse and dignified manner. He peered at them sternly under his thick brows and retorted. "You may call me a coward, Chares, and a man of no spirit because I have refused to act irrationally on these important issues. You can not make me bold, and I cannot make you cowards. But we kow very well what each of us really is."
Charles laughed at his reply. "You lower your brows, Phokion, and put on airs as though you were above us and you show us this by ignoring our demands."
"At least this brow of mine has never caused you any harm, Chares, but the laughter of those who are now sneering at me has given the city plenty to regret. Do not forget that Athena, our city's Patron Goddess, presides over the arts of both war and peace. I have sought to find a peaceful solution, one that will benefit Athens and satisfy Macedon."
One of the staunch democrat senators stood to speak. "We have had enough of Macedonian domination. We want to rule our city by our own democratic laws."
"My friend," Phokion replied. "First, make sure of your own safety. It is better to intercede with the Macedonians than to fight them. It is my recommendation that the Athenians fight using words, in which we have an advantage, not weapons, in which we are inferior."
The Hall burst into a hostile cacophony of hisses and cat-calls.
"You can make me act against my wishes," Phokion said, his voice loud and formidable as a general addressing his troops. "You will never make me speak against my judgement. I will not allow my fellow citizens to destroy themselves even if you wish it so."
He leaves the Council Hall and makes his way up to the Pnyx Hill where a huge crowd has gathered. The General in charge of the Pireaus and the district of Munychia where the garrison is located is about to make a speech.
General Dercyllus height and brawn made him an imposing figure. His booming voice rang out over the Assembly.
"In the past weeks, I have observed a steady deployment of troops from the garrison at Munychia to the island of Salamis. Even as I speak, the harbour at Zea is full of Macedonian warships. It is rumoured that Kassandros will soon return from his mission to Asia Minor with more naval reinforcements. I saw we should seize the port and make it secure before we are surrounded on both land and sea."
The crowd roared their support in a cheer that resounded from the heights of the Acropolis rock.
Dercyllus continues his speech and reveals a plan to arrest the garrison commander and seize the garrison. Phokion protests, reminding the Athenians of how the Thebans and their city were destroyed when they had tried to overthrow the Macedonians.
"I warn you, it will be hubris to overstep your authority, Dercyllus. In the past I have always dealt fairly with Philip, and Alexander. And when Alexander was away on campaign, Antipater. I will also negotiate peacefully with Polyperchon. I will not agree to make war on Macedon or to seize the garrison. Remember what happened to the Thebans? They were destroyed when they tried to rebel." He was aware he was trembling, and sweat trickled from his brow in spite of the coolness of the day.
Dercyllus refuses to listen and the crowd backs him up.
Amid their hostile insults and jeers, Phokion stepped down and made his way along the stony path from the Pnyx toward the sanctuary of his home on the Hill of the Nymphs. He felt angry, but reminded himself of his duty. What should he do to combat Dercyllus' threats? He was friends of both men, and it was not in his nature to turn traitor. But he must warn Nikanor of the dangers he faced if he addressed the Council in Pireaus.
When he arrived home, he ordered a messenger to be sent to the garrison with an invitation to Nikanor of Strageira to dine with him that night.
During the course of the dinner, Phokion conveys a warning to the garrison commander.
He spoke slolwy, measuring each word. "I am an Athenian, and you are not. I have lived long enough to know this: nothing is stronger in the Athenians than their will to possess their own city. When Macedon put the garrison here, they made themselves enemies who are only biding their time before they revolt. You can see this now -- that the City is about to erupt. Beware, Nikanor, of malice at your back. The demos is like a pack of wolves ready to take anyone down who opposes them."
"I will keep my guard, Sir, "Nikanor said. "I do not wish to work against the Athenians. We were posted here to protect them."
"Protect them? Against whom?"
"Against themselves, Sir. You know their history. And you remember well what befell the Thebens when they rebelled against Alexander."
Phokion raised his brows. " Is that a veiled threat, my dear boy?"
Nikanor shifted uneasilty. "No, Sir. Just a reminder."
Phokion's gaze met his eye-to-eye. "Then call your Council tomorrow if you must. But let me warn you again. There are many who will not agree to your terms, no matter how beneficial to the City you might believe them to be." He put out his hand to shake Nikanor's. "You know I have always been a friend of Macedon. Both Philip and Alexander treated me with honour and respect. But times have changed, my boy, and I am not so old and foolish to know how the tide can turn even on those we have counted as our friends. Heed my warnings. Do not underestimate your enemies or the civic pride of the Athenians."
They walked together to the gate, then stopped. Nikanor turned to him with a wrinkled forehead. "Are you sure? About my enemies?"
"My boy, I have been a general for as long as you have lived. I know when the adversary is about to strike. " He put his hand on Nikanor's shoulder. "When I was young I studied at Plato's school. I was a friend of the philosophers. Your adopted father, Aristotle and I had a common kindredship. I regard you almost as a son and I do not wish harm to befall you. Nor do I want my people to open the gates to another holcaust such as befell Thebes."
The half-moon had risen late, shining faintly over the olive groves and pine forested slopes of the mountains. It was a mild evening with just a hint of Spring dampness in the air. Phokion looked across toward the steep western scarps of the Rock, Athens' stronghold, and could see a faint glimmer of light glowing from the sacred fire in the Goddess' temple.
The two men exchanged formal courtesies. Phokion shook the Commander's hand and bade him farewell. He watched Nikanor until he disappeared down the darkened path, then he turned and went back into his house.
His wife, Arete, was kneading dough at the wooden table preparing tomorrow's bread. He put a new log on the fire and stood awhile watching as the flames ignited the dry bark His mind slipped back, recalling his conversation with the garrison commander. He had done what he had thought best to do -- given Nikanor a subtle warning, because he knew that General Dercyllus planned to arrest him at the Council meeting tomorrow. Was he wrong to betray one friend for the sake of another so as not to put his city in further jeopardy?
"Oligarchy: A government resting on a valuation of property, in which the rich have power and the poor man is deprived of it." The Republic VIII 550C
"Democracy, which is a charming form of government, full of varieity and disorder, and dispensing a sort of equality to equals and unequal alike." Ibid 558C
"When the tyrant has disposed of foreign enemies by conquest or treaty, and there is nothing to fear from them, then he is always stirring up some war or other, in order that the people may require a leader." Plato 428-348 B.C. The Republic bk VIII, 566E.
Monday, January 16, 2006
WHERE IS NOAH WHEN YOU NEED HIM?
"Make thee an ark of gopher wood." The Holy Bible, Genesis 6:14
"And the rain was upon the earth for forty days and forty nights." Genesis 7: 12
"Oh it rained, rained rained, forty days and forty nights
And the animals in the ark walked to and fro..." lalala....(a song I used to listen to when I was a kid.)
This entry is going to be nothing but sheer whimsy because my brain is soggy, my feet are now webbed and I've been quacking angrily at my bird all day today!
Yesterday the city had hoped to exceed the 28 day record set in 1953 for incessant rainfall. However Saturday and Sunday the sun peeked out shyly from behind the clouds. It did shower briefly yesterday just as I started my long-awaited walk on the sea wall, but as it didn't rain at the airport, we were not able to count that for the recrod. For us, it was 27 days of straight downpour. And guess what? Today it is pouring again and forecast to last another week.
I was reminded of that wet year of 1953. It must have continued through the Spring, because on the first day of summer that year it was raining buckets. I was a young teen working as a copy-runner for the newspaper. They dolled me up in a homely-looking bathing suit and fur jacket and posed me down on the beach holding an umbrella. I still have that picture and if I knew how to post it, I would.
So this past week, aside from staying in out of the cold, wet weather, what do penniless writers do for entertainment at times like this? I did, in fact, make some notes and a first draft of a new chapter segment for my novel. I even made notes as I walked the sea-wall yesterday, and today have completed a 'rough' draft of the chapter to workshop at my critique group tonight.
The rest of the weekend was spent listening to good music, dancing and hanging out with friends. In spite of being broke I needed some respite on Friday night so after two days of work I went to the L.Q. I'd been absent for over a week and decided I should make an appearance. The kind bar girl always lets me run a tab but in this case a friend paid so that was a bonus. Then Saturday, my girlfriends and I met at the Cottage Bistro where my son hosts the Blues jam. They were treating poor-little-penniless-writer-me. These are gals from my past (you don't know about the Shipping News stories) and one is a long-time work colleague from daycare days. We have been getting together at least once a month for the past year or so. We have such a wicked time together.
On Saturday we were enjoying the excellent music and especially the tastey young musicians, in particular this sax player who was like a young Greek god. My oh my! I suggested we could have been charged for lusting after a youth, but the joke was on us as he admitted to us he was actually 35! (maybe he was lying!) I have this thing for percussionists and sax players so it certainly made my day as there was also a drummer playing who is mighty sexy! Needless to say, fun was had by all.
Then, as if that wasn't enough, I couldn't resist passing by the LQ on the way home. After all those pints of beer I switched to ouzo. Well, two would have been enough. However one does get 'carried away' at this moments and as I was having a swell time dancing with one of A's friends and chatting to other acquaintances who were there, I'm afraid I slightly overdid it. Will I ever learn? In all, it was quite a magic evening.
Anyway, when the sun came out yesterday (though briefly) I made my way to the Park for a long, brisk walk and along the way stopped to make notes for my novel. I tend to be a 'walking writer' and get some of my best ideas while I'm walking, especially walking on the sea wall. So today I had a good start to finish this chapter. It's kind of rough but I'll see what the critique group says tonight.
I'm writing political stuff and it's complicated. Last night I watched a very good docu titled "The Fall of Fujimoro" (Peru's president) and it was quite interesting to see how politics today is just as corrupt as it was back in Alexander's time. Things don't change, it seems.
And on this subject, I see there was a woman elected to office in Chile. I am almost certain A. would have known her and her family so I'm sure he'd be pleased with their choice.
We're in the midst of an election campaign here and to tell the truth it's mighty boring. I'm not impressed with either of the two top contenders and will not vote for them. At least I hope my minority party will pick up a few more seats.
Well, that's my mindless ramblings for this blog. I'll try to compose something more brilliant next time when I'm feeling less water-logged and we see the sun again.
"He that has and a little tiny wit,
With hey, ho, the wind and rain,
Must make content with his fortunes fit,
Though the rain it raineth every day."
William Shakespeare 1564-1616 King Lear III, ii 76
"And the rain was upon the earth for forty days and forty nights." Genesis 7: 12
"Oh it rained, rained rained, forty days and forty nights
And the animals in the ark walked to and fro..." lalala....(a song I used to listen to when I was a kid.)
This entry is going to be nothing but sheer whimsy because my brain is soggy, my feet are now webbed and I've been quacking angrily at my bird all day today!
Yesterday the city had hoped to exceed the 28 day record set in 1953 for incessant rainfall. However Saturday and Sunday the sun peeked out shyly from behind the clouds. It did shower briefly yesterday just as I started my long-awaited walk on the sea wall, but as it didn't rain at the airport, we were not able to count that for the recrod. For us, it was 27 days of straight downpour. And guess what? Today it is pouring again and forecast to last another week.
I was reminded of that wet year of 1953. It must have continued through the Spring, because on the first day of summer that year it was raining buckets. I was a young teen working as a copy-runner for the newspaper. They dolled me up in a homely-looking bathing suit and fur jacket and posed me down on the beach holding an umbrella. I still have that picture and if I knew how to post it, I would.
So this past week, aside from staying in out of the cold, wet weather, what do penniless writers do for entertainment at times like this? I did, in fact, make some notes and a first draft of a new chapter segment for my novel. I even made notes as I walked the sea-wall yesterday, and today have completed a 'rough' draft of the chapter to workshop at my critique group tonight.
The rest of the weekend was spent listening to good music, dancing and hanging out with friends. In spite of being broke I needed some respite on Friday night so after two days of work I went to the L.Q. I'd been absent for over a week and decided I should make an appearance. The kind bar girl always lets me run a tab but in this case a friend paid so that was a bonus. Then Saturday, my girlfriends and I met at the Cottage Bistro where my son hosts the Blues jam. They were treating poor-little-penniless-writer-me. These are gals from my past (you don't know about the Shipping News stories) and one is a long-time work colleague from daycare days. We have been getting together at least once a month for the past year or so. We have such a wicked time together.
On Saturday we were enjoying the excellent music and especially the tastey young musicians, in particular this sax player who was like a young Greek god. My oh my! I suggested we could have been charged for lusting after a youth, but the joke was on us as he admitted to us he was actually 35! (maybe he was lying!) I have this thing for percussionists and sax players so it certainly made my day as there was also a drummer playing who is mighty sexy! Needless to say, fun was had by all.
Then, as if that wasn't enough, I couldn't resist passing by the LQ on the way home. After all those pints of beer I switched to ouzo. Well, two would have been enough. However one does get 'carried away' at this moments and as I was having a swell time dancing with one of A's friends and chatting to other acquaintances who were there, I'm afraid I slightly overdid it. Will I ever learn? In all, it was quite a magic evening.
Anyway, when the sun came out yesterday (though briefly) I made my way to the Park for a long, brisk walk and along the way stopped to make notes for my novel. I tend to be a 'walking writer' and get some of my best ideas while I'm walking, especially walking on the sea wall. So today I had a good start to finish this chapter. It's kind of rough but I'll see what the critique group says tonight.
I'm writing political stuff and it's complicated. Last night I watched a very good docu titled "The Fall of Fujimoro" (Peru's president) and it was quite interesting to see how politics today is just as corrupt as it was back in Alexander's time. Things don't change, it seems.
And on this subject, I see there was a woman elected to office in Chile. I am almost certain A. would have known her and her family so I'm sure he'd be pleased with their choice.
We're in the midst of an election campaign here and to tell the truth it's mighty boring. I'm not impressed with either of the two top contenders and will not vote for them. At least I hope my minority party will pick up a few more seats.
Well, that's my mindless ramblings for this blog. I'll try to compose something more brilliant next time when I'm feeling less water-logged and we see the sun again.
"He that has and a little tiny wit,
With hey, ho, the wind and rain,
Must make content with his fortunes fit,
Though the rain it raineth every day."
William Shakespeare 1564-1616 King Lear III, ii 76
Sunday, January 08, 2006
WHERE DO YOU FIND YOUR CHARACTERS?
"When I find a well-drawn character in fiction or biography, I generally take a warm peronal interest in him, for the reason that I have known him before -- met him on the river."
Mark Twain (Samuel Langhorne Clemes) 1835- 1910
Who are these characters who occupy every day of my life? Characters, even though 'fictional' (or, in my case, from ancient history) are people, human beings and it's up to the writer to make them live like real people so our readers will come to know them and care for them as well as they know themselves. Even dispicable characters have to have some aspect of them that interests the reader. (Nobody is 'born bad'. How did they get that way?).
Part of what fiction is about is to give a better understanding of human nature and human behavior and the characters we choose to populate our stories with must be interesting and believable. Even minor characters have an important role by advancing the story line, relieving tension or conveying information before they fade into the wings.
There's various ways to find these characters. Some of them may be drawn from real life, people you've met or read about, or perhaps they are composites of several characters. Writers need to hone their observation skills, because just by observing strangers (on the street, on buses or in coffee shops) you can build ideas for your characters and put a 'real' face on them, having them act and move like living people, so they will come alive in your story.
Some authors have been known to use friends or family as models in their stories. I've done it myself. But be careful because this can sometimes lead to bad feelings. Remember, what 'actually' happened doesn't always work in fiction. It's what likely would have happened that makes a better story. So, if you do use 'real' people you must discard many details.
Whatever method you use, make sure your readers get to know your characters as well as you've grown to know them. Most importantly, imagine yourself as your characters. Draw on your own experiences. (Even if your characters is a cold-blooded killer you need to be able to imagine what it would be like to behave that way.)
How to I find my characters? My two-act play The Street: A Modern Tragedy is somewhat autobiographical. I wrote the original script when I was 18 as a cautionary tale for my peers after my boyfriend and his two pals became addicted to heroin. Of course, as I was still involved in the situation, I drastically changed the story. Besides, my parents censored what I wrote so I had to make it a tale of redemption which wasn't, in truth, the case.
So when I rewrote it in the late '90's I wrote it with far more truth, right from my heart. I still changed some things: Johnny (Giovanni) Festa, the male protagonist's family became Italian immigrants (the real person had a Scottish father and French Canadian mother). There were many new immigrants in the area where the play takes place at that time so the change worked well. The character of Sally Verstatt the street kid, was based on my former foster sister who, at age 14 been in the original cast as a party goer. She had left the security of our home shortly after that and died in prison, age 17 because of heroin. The role of Angela, was based on myself. And although I changed some things I did use some lines of dialogue that only I would remember had been actually spoken.
The play ran successfully for three weeks and each night in the audience there were people who had known some of the real characters. And the most interesting thing was, the young man who played Johnny looked so much like the real person that, after many discussion with me and expert character development he made the character really live. (note: The real person unfortunately had died two years previously as a result of his years of addiction.)
For my w.i.p. Dragons in the Sky: A Celtic Tale, the narrator, Olwen, speaks through me so I almost get the sense that she is an incarnation of me from another time. (This novel, a first-person narrative, takes place in Celtic Britain 4th C. B.C.) Teag, the young silversmith who she loves is based on a friend of mine. Sholto, the renegade chieftain's son is also based on someone I knew. And Elidi, the sailor from Byzantium is roughly drawn from life as well. Her Auntie Essylt is a composite of a couple of wise women I knew. That story is pure fiction but I feel so close to the characters, it's almost as if it really happened.
The novel I am finishing now, Shadow of the Lion follows a historical plot so most of the characters are non-fictional. However, how I interpret them, based on research and what I have observed, is fiction. I have managed to put a real face on most of the characters. I met Alexander's General Perdikkas one day when I went to the post office in the northern town of Asprovalto. It was him. I knew it! I made several trips back there to observe him and my character became alive. I caught a glimpse of Alexander one day too, in the train station at Thessaloniki. I worked for a time with a young woman from Afghanistan and met her sisters. They became my composite models for Roxana, Alexander's Soghdian wife. For his little son Iskander, I have observed many children but in particular one 4 year old gifted boy at the Chinese daycare where I used to work. He became my model for this exceptional royal child.
I had to invent a couple of fictional characters for this novel in order to balance good-guys/bad-guys. So I created the Magus, a Chaldean priest, patterened in some ways after my own father. And Nabarzanes, the Persian Court Advisor, Royal Cousin of Roxana. What a surprise I got one evening when I saw him walk into the Latin Quarter, the bistro that I frequent. I observed this tall, atttractive man for a few nights, figured out that he most likely was Persian. Got introduced, and was amazed to learn he is an Iraqi -- Sumerian, he says, from Baghdad (near ancient Babylon where Nabarzanes lived.) We have become great friends, the Babylonian and I. He's an artist and an exceptionally gracious man, just like my Nabarzanes.
So, where do you find your characters?
A character study:
"Her feet beneath her petticoat
Like little mice, stole in and out,
As if they feared the light;
But oh, she dances such a way!
No sun upon an Easter-day
Is half so fine a sight.
st. 8
Her lips were red, and one was thin,
Compared to that was next her chin,
Some bee had stung it newly."
st. 11
Sir John Suckling 1609-1642 "A Ballad Upon a Wedding" 1641
Mark Twain (Samuel Langhorne Clemes) 1835- 1910
Who are these characters who occupy every day of my life? Characters, even though 'fictional' (or, in my case, from ancient history) are people, human beings and it's up to the writer to make them live like real people so our readers will come to know them and care for them as well as they know themselves. Even dispicable characters have to have some aspect of them that interests the reader. (Nobody is 'born bad'. How did they get that way?).
Part of what fiction is about is to give a better understanding of human nature and human behavior and the characters we choose to populate our stories with must be interesting and believable. Even minor characters have an important role by advancing the story line, relieving tension or conveying information before they fade into the wings.
There's various ways to find these characters. Some of them may be drawn from real life, people you've met or read about, or perhaps they are composites of several characters. Writers need to hone their observation skills, because just by observing strangers (on the street, on buses or in coffee shops) you can build ideas for your characters and put a 'real' face on them, having them act and move like living people, so they will come alive in your story.
Some authors have been known to use friends or family as models in their stories. I've done it myself. But be careful because this can sometimes lead to bad feelings. Remember, what 'actually' happened doesn't always work in fiction. It's what likely would have happened that makes a better story. So, if you do use 'real' people you must discard many details.
Whatever method you use, make sure your readers get to know your characters as well as you've grown to know them. Most importantly, imagine yourself as your characters. Draw on your own experiences. (Even if your characters is a cold-blooded killer you need to be able to imagine what it would be like to behave that way.)
How to I find my characters? My two-act play The Street: A Modern Tragedy is somewhat autobiographical. I wrote the original script when I was 18 as a cautionary tale for my peers after my boyfriend and his two pals became addicted to heroin. Of course, as I was still involved in the situation, I drastically changed the story. Besides, my parents censored what I wrote so I had to make it a tale of redemption which wasn't, in truth, the case.
So when I rewrote it in the late '90's I wrote it with far more truth, right from my heart. I still changed some things: Johnny (Giovanni) Festa, the male protagonist's family became Italian immigrants (the real person had a Scottish father and French Canadian mother). There were many new immigrants in the area where the play takes place at that time so the change worked well. The character of Sally Verstatt the street kid, was based on my former foster sister who, at age 14 been in the original cast as a party goer. She had left the security of our home shortly after that and died in prison, age 17 because of heroin. The role of Angela, was based on myself. And although I changed some things I did use some lines of dialogue that only I would remember had been actually spoken.
The play ran successfully for three weeks and each night in the audience there were people who had known some of the real characters. And the most interesting thing was, the young man who played Johnny looked so much like the real person that, after many discussion with me and expert character development he made the character really live. (note: The real person unfortunately had died two years previously as a result of his years of addiction.)
For my w.i.p. Dragons in the Sky: A Celtic Tale, the narrator, Olwen, speaks through me so I almost get the sense that she is an incarnation of me from another time. (This novel, a first-person narrative, takes place in Celtic Britain 4th C. B.C.) Teag, the young silversmith who she loves is based on a friend of mine. Sholto, the renegade chieftain's son is also based on someone I knew. And Elidi, the sailor from Byzantium is roughly drawn from life as well. Her Auntie Essylt is a composite of a couple of wise women I knew. That story is pure fiction but I feel so close to the characters, it's almost as if it really happened.
The novel I am finishing now, Shadow of the Lion follows a historical plot so most of the characters are non-fictional. However, how I interpret them, based on research and what I have observed, is fiction. I have managed to put a real face on most of the characters. I met Alexander's General Perdikkas one day when I went to the post office in the northern town of Asprovalto. It was him. I knew it! I made several trips back there to observe him and my character became alive. I caught a glimpse of Alexander one day too, in the train station at Thessaloniki. I worked for a time with a young woman from Afghanistan and met her sisters. They became my composite models for Roxana, Alexander's Soghdian wife. For his little son Iskander, I have observed many children but in particular one 4 year old gifted boy at the Chinese daycare where I used to work. He became my model for this exceptional royal child.
I had to invent a couple of fictional characters for this novel in order to balance good-guys/bad-guys. So I created the Magus, a Chaldean priest, patterened in some ways after my own father. And Nabarzanes, the Persian Court Advisor, Royal Cousin of Roxana. What a surprise I got one evening when I saw him walk into the Latin Quarter, the bistro that I frequent. I observed this tall, atttractive man for a few nights, figured out that he most likely was Persian. Got introduced, and was amazed to learn he is an Iraqi -- Sumerian, he says, from Baghdad (near ancient Babylon where Nabarzanes lived.) We have become great friends, the Babylonian and I. He's an artist and an exceptionally gracious man, just like my Nabarzanes.
So, where do you find your characters?
A character study:
"Her feet beneath her petticoat
Like little mice, stole in and out,
As if they feared the light;
But oh, she dances such a way!
No sun upon an Easter-day
Is half so fine a sight.
st. 8
Her lips were red, and one was thin,
Compared to that was next her chin,
Some bee had stung it newly."
st. 11
Sir John Suckling 1609-1642 "A Ballad Upon a Wedding" 1641
Tuesday, January 03, 2006
BRINGING IN THE NEW YEAR WITH TAMBOURINE AND DRUMS
"Hey! Mister Tambourine Man play a song for me,
I'm not sleeping and there is no place I'm goin' to..."
Bob Dylan (Robert Zimmerman) 1941 -
"Mister Tambourine Man" 1964
I'm going to begin this blog by cheating a little. The following story was written previously by me, but it pretty well explains a lot of what made my New Year's Eve special.
HEY, MISS TAMBOURINE GIRL,
PLAY A SONG FOR ME!
Before she married Dad, my mother was a nurse in a Salvation Army hospital. She played the tambourine in the Salvation Army band.
Perhaps that’s what inspired her that Christmas when I was four years old, to teach me to play the tambourine. We were living in Lloyminster Saskachewan where my Dad was the pastor of a Baptist church. Because it was then a small railroad community, all the local churches went together at Christmas to produce a Christmas concert. That year, Mom decided she would dress me up in her Salvation Army bonnet and show me how to play the tambourine. She also taught me a verse to recite for the concert. It was to be my debut on stage.
I don’t remember my exact role in this Christmas pageant, or what other children would perform. I do remember, very clearly, being coaxed onto a stage in front of what seemed like an audience of hundreds of strangers (probably just twenty or thirty.) I was absolutely terrified.
I stood there, dressed in mom’s oversized S.A. bonnet, my hair coiled in Shirley Temple ringlets (a procedure done the night before by Mom, each hank of hair wrapped carefully in rags). I was probably wearing one of the lovely hand-smocked dresses Mom made me, and those horrid brown ribbed tights (because it was a freezing Prairie winter day). I was carrying a large, jangling tambourine - the same tambourine Mom used to play with the S.A. band.
As I stepped (or was gently pushed) onto the stage, I heard a long, audible gasp from the audience.
“Ah...” and “Oh...”
Bewildered, I stared down at that vast sea of faces, frozen with stage fright. Someone from the wings prompted me, or possibly it was Mom herself coaxing me to perform.
I gave the tambourine a few tentative shakes and sputtered out my lines. “I will shake my tambourine for the Lord.”
To this day I remember those exact words and how I felt at that moment. Mortified and scared stiff!
A titter from the audience; another loud chorous of : “Ah...” And, whispered audibly behind hands. “Isn’t she cute...”
I could have died on the spot of embarrassment. Instantly I burst into tears and ran off the stage into my Mom’s arms.
Segue ahead four years. I’m eight years old and it’s Christmas Concert time at school. By now we are living in Brantford, Ontario.
I suppose because of my ‘experience’ I am chosen to play the tambourine in the class rhythm band for the Christmas concert.
We are dressed in red pill-box hats and capes and paraded onto the stage.
In the photograph taken of this performance, I am crowded, tiny and shy, in behind the bigger kids. I am not smiling. I probably had stage fright. I do not look happy to be playing the tambourine. Possibly I had hoped to be a drummer or triangle player.
Why then, did my career as tambourine player follow me all the way into my adult life?
Segue again, many years into the future, the 1970’s. I am living in a communal house with my kids and a renegade band of hippies. There is always music in our house. My son, age 14, has become an ardent guitarist. There are always musical instruments at our communal gatherings, including a tambourine.
Inspired by the beat of the music, one day I picked the tambourine up and began to tap and shake it to the rhythm of the rock beat. The tambourine player in me was resurrected. From then on, I practiced and always played the tambourine at parties.
Eventually, one Saturday afternoon at the jam session at the American Hotel, I got brave enough to get on stage with the band and play. I was good, so good in fact there was one particular drummer who would always request me to accompany him.
By now, my son was an accomplished Blues musician. He said he was going to play at the American Hotel jam session.
“I play the tambourine there on Saturdays,” I announced.
He looked at me aghast.
“You mean you get up on the stage and play the tambourine?“Yes!” I said proudly. “And I’m good at it too!”
“But you’re my Mom!” he sputtered.
I don’t think he knew it was my Mom who had taught me how to play
the tambourine in the first place, at that Christmas concert so long ago.
* * *
Okay, so this is what happened on New Year's Eve. I went to a party at my friend the Babylonian's house. He's my Iraqi artist friend and he always has interesting people, including his room-mates, attending his parties. This was no exception. There's always music at these parties and this time there was also a selection of percussion instruments: bongs, congas, maracas, a tambourine, triangle, shakers and flutes. The music they had taped was exceptional, everything from exotic Afro to Middle Eastern to hot dance numbers. You could jam along using any of the instruments provided.
I started out with the maracas then tried the triangle. Except for kid's rythmn bands I'd never played a triangle before and it was interesting to really get into the music and make the dings and tinkles at the correct time. I got right into it! Then, the tambourine ....
Well, it's been twenty-five years since I last played the tambourine and I wasn't sure if I could still do it. It's not just a matter of standing or sitting and rattling it, but you have to get your whole body into it, dancing while you play. It only took me a few minutes to get over my inhibitions. I kept thinking of that absent chileno percussionist who was looking on (A. knew I used to play the tambourine but he never saw me do it) so I dedicated every piece I accompanied to him. I played with all my heart and soul. I greeted the New Year joyously, playing the tambourine. It was an amazing night, vibrant, happy, full of good cheer.
The next day I got up early to catch a ferry to the Island where I spent New Year's day with my three wonderful cousins and their families. It was an excellent New Years celebration. I truly believe that in spite of still trying to cope with my emotions over the loss of my chileno friend, and the usual stressing over finances ((I'm virtually penniless at the moment) there is a lot to look forward to and I'm sure 2006 is going to be a highlight year in many good ways. For starters, when I got home today, there was a call from A's daughter inviting me to dinner. This is one of the blessings -- that I am now included as a friend of his family. And maybe, if I'm lucky, I'll get a call in to work this week or next at the daycare.
"So there are no more words and all is ended:
The timbrel is stilled, the clarion laid away:
And Love with streaming hair goes unattended
Back to the loneliness of yesterday."
Joseph Auslander 1897-1965 "So There are No More Words." 1924
This seems a sad verse to end this blog on, but I was thinking of him...and how his musical instruments are stilled now...but we can carry on making music like I did on New Year's Eve and somewhere I'm sure he's smiling and dancing to the rythmns he loved so much.
I'm not sleeping and there is no place I'm goin' to..."
Bob Dylan (Robert Zimmerman) 1941 -
"Mister Tambourine Man" 1964
I'm going to begin this blog by cheating a little. The following story was written previously by me, but it pretty well explains a lot of what made my New Year's Eve special.
HEY, MISS TAMBOURINE GIRL,
PLAY A SONG FOR ME!
Before she married Dad, my mother was a nurse in a Salvation Army hospital. She played the tambourine in the Salvation Army band.
Perhaps that’s what inspired her that Christmas when I was four years old, to teach me to play the tambourine. We were living in Lloyminster Saskachewan where my Dad was the pastor of a Baptist church. Because it was then a small railroad community, all the local churches went together at Christmas to produce a Christmas concert. That year, Mom decided she would dress me up in her Salvation Army bonnet and show me how to play the tambourine. She also taught me a verse to recite for the concert. It was to be my debut on stage.
I don’t remember my exact role in this Christmas pageant, or what other children would perform. I do remember, very clearly, being coaxed onto a stage in front of what seemed like an audience of hundreds of strangers (probably just twenty or thirty.) I was absolutely terrified.
I stood there, dressed in mom’s oversized S.A. bonnet, my hair coiled in Shirley Temple ringlets (a procedure done the night before by Mom, each hank of hair wrapped carefully in rags). I was probably wearing one of the lovely hand-smocked dresses Mom made me, and those horrid brown ribbed tights (because it was a freezing Prairie winter day). I was carrying a large, jangling tambourine - the same tambourine Mom used to play with the S.A. band.
As I stepped (or was gently pushed) onto the stage, I heard a long, audible gasp from the audience.
“Ah...” and “Oh...”
Bewildered, I stared down at that vast sea of faces, frozen with stage fright. Someone from the wings prompted me, or possibly it was Mom herself coaxing me to perform.
I gave the tambourine a few tentative shakes and sputtered out my lines. “I will shake my tambourine for the Lord.”
To this day I remember those exact words and how I felt at that moment. Mortified and scared stiff!
A titter from the audience; another loud chorous of : “Ah...” And, whispered audibly behind hands. “Isn’t she cute...”
I could have died on the spot of embarrassment. Instantly I burst into tears and ran off the stage into my Mom’s arms.
Segue ahead four years. I’m eight years old and it’s Christmas Concert time at school. By now we are living in Brantford, Ontario.
I suppose because of my ‘experience’ I am chosen to play the tambourine in the class rhythm band for the Christmas concert.
We are dressed in red pill-box hats and capes and paraded onto the stage.
In the photograph taken of this performance, I am crowded, tiny and shy, in behind the bigger kids. I am not smiling. I probably had stage fright. I do not look happy to be playing the tambourine. Possibly I had hoped to be a drummer or triangle player.
Why then, did my career as tambourine player follow me all the way into my adult life?
Segue again, many years into the future, the 1970’s. I am living in a communal house with my kids and a renegade band of hippies. There is always music in our house. My son, age 14, has become an ardent guitarist. There are always musical instruments at our communal gatherings, including a tambourine.
Inspired by the beat of the music, one day I picked the tambourine up and began to tap and shake it to the rhythm of the rock beat. The tambourine player in me was resurrected. From then on, I practiced and always played the tambourine at parties.
Eventually, one Saturday afternoon at the jam session at the American Hotel, I got brave enough to get on stage with the band and play. I was good, so good in fact there was one particular drummer who would always request me to accompany him.
By now, my son was an accomplished Blues musician. He said he was going to play at the American Hotel jam session.
“I play the tambourine there on Saturdays,” I announced.
He looked at me aghast.
“You mean you get up on the stage and play the tambourine?“Yes!” I said proudly. “And I’m good at it too!”
“But you’re my Mom!” he sputtered.
I don’t think he knew it was my Mom who had taught me how to play
the tambourine in the first place, at that Christmas concert so long ago.
* * *
Okay, so this is what happened on New Year's Eve. I went to a party at my friend the Babylonian's house. He's my Iraqi artist friend and he always has interesting people, including his room-mates, attending his parties. This was no exception. There's always music at these parties and this time there was also a selection of percussion instruments: bongs, congas, maracas, a tambourine, triangle, shakers and flutes. The music they had taped was exceptional, everything from exotic Afro to Middle Eastern to hot dance numbers. You could jam along using any of the instruments provided.
I started out with the maracas then tried the triangle. Except for kid's rythmn bands I'd never played a triangle before and it was interesting to really get into the music and make the dings and tinkles at the correct time. I got right into it! Then, the tambourine ....
Well, it's been twenty-five years since I last played the tambourine and I wasn't sure if I could still do it. It's not just a matter of standing or sitting and rattling it, but you have to get your whole body into it, dancing while you play. It only took me a few minutes to get over my inhibitions. I kept thinking of that absent chileno percussionist who was looking on (A. knew I used to play the tambourine but he never saw me do it) so I dedicated every piece I accompanied to him. I played with all my heart and soul. I greeted the New Year joyously, playing the tambourine. It was an amazing night, vibrant, happy, full of good cheer.
The next day I got up early to catch a ferry to the Island where I spent New Year's day with my three wonderful cousins and their families. It was an excellent New Years celebration. I truly believe that in spite of still trying to cope with my emotions over the loss of my chileno friend, and the usual stressing over finances ((I'm virtually penniless at the moment) there is a lot to look forward to and I'm sure 2006 is going to be a highlight year in many good ways. For starters, when I got home today, there was a call from A's daughter inviting me to dinner. This is one of the blessings -- that I am now included as a friend of his family. And maybe, if I'm lucky, I'll get a call in to work this week or next at the daycare.
"So there are no more words and all is ended:
The timbrel is stilled, the clarion laid away:
And Love with streaming hair goes unattended
Back to the loneliness of yesterday."
Joseph Auslander 1897-1965 "So There are No More Words." 1924
This seems a sad verse to end this blog on, but I was thinking of him...and how his musical instruments are stilled now...but we can carry on making music like I did on New Year's Eve and somewhere I'm sure he's smiling and dancing to the rythmns he loved so much.
Saturday, December 31, 2005
A BACKWARD GLANCE O'ER TRAVEL'D ROADS
"So here I sit in the early candle-light of old age -- I and my book -- casting backward glances over our travel'd road." Walt Whitman 1819-1892
"November Boughs (1888) A Backward Glance O'er Travel'd Roads."
Here we are at the end of another year, 2005, and one last chance to look backwards before we step into the New Year, 2006, and look forward again.
A lot of catastrophic and tragic events have happened this year, including my own private tragedy. But some good things happened too, and the benefits of one (my good fortune at winning an all-expense paid trip to Malaysia) are still to come. Besides losing someone dear to my heart, I also made new friends and for everyone's kindness and generosity I am truly grateful. I travelled, too, and had the pleasure of showing my pal Ingrid the beauties of Greece, my second home as well as introducing her to my Welsh cousins while we were in the U.K.
If there was anything I could have done better in the past year, it would have been to have completed my novel. I really had hoped this would happen by the end of the year, but the upsets of the past months have intefered somewhat with my creativity, though I did have some success in publishing this year with my travel articles. I was thinking about this yesterday, realizing how many more stories I have yet to write, and why do I keep detouring instead of focusing on catching up before the next round of trips begin? 2006 already looks like a year I'm going to make some fantastic new travels. First, to Malaysia in March, and hopefully to Chile later in the year. So I better make a firm resolution to get those old stories written!
I've always been a historical fiction writer, but twenty-four years ago, while taking a Creative Writing class, I realized that in order to get a novel published I should first try to get some publishing experience. That is when I decided to put my journalism skills to work and try writing travel articles. I sold the first one I sent out. That set me on the course to be a travel journalist, and whenever I could, to combine my historical research trips with travel writing.
Okay, the next part of this 'essay' is cheating because it's already been published on-line and in a small press publication. But it goes along with the theme of Travel and time-travel, looking back in time and looking forward to the future.
"The use of travelling is to regulate imagination by reality, and instead of thinking how things may be, to see them as they are. " Samuel Johson 1709-1784
WRITING AWAY
The journey of a thousand miles starts from beneath your feet.
Tao te Ching, Verse 64
There is a similarity between historical writing and travel writing. Both are about journeys: one is a journey back in time, the other a journey of the present. Where the difference lies is in the style of the writing. Historical fiction is a lengthy prose style, historical non-fiction can be more documentary or essay. Travel writing is either journalism or the less formal style of creative non-fiction, a story-telling style where creative embellishments are allowed. I am both a historical and a travel writer. I write about my travels because of what I write in my historical fiction.
The historical fiction writer in me was born when I was twelve years old. Our family traveled across Canada by train, a long journey from the gentle hills and maple forests of Ontario, across the wide expanse of sun-dried flat lands an d yellow wheat fields of the Prairies, through the densely forested wilderness of the majestic Rocky Mountains to the lush green shores of the Pacific Ocean. My was transformed on that journey. I imagined how it must have been to be a pioneer, and I became one of them, an explorer who forever after wanted to know what was over the next mountain.
I began to write about the pioneers’ lives. Everything I wrote came out of my imagination, sparked by that train trip across Canada. Later, encouraged by my father who was a Baptist minister, I began writing stories with a Biblical theme, set in the Holy Land and ancient Rome. At sixteen, I was introduced to a historical character who would have a profound influence on my future as a historical-fiction writer. The legendary life of Alexander the Great caught my interest. Before graduation, I had a written novel with an Alexander theme. Thus began my quest in search of Alexander that continues to this day.
My keen interest in Celtic and Greek history eventually took me to Europe. I wanted to see the places I was writing about and try to get in touch with the ‘spirits’ of my characters. When I graduated from high school I had worked in the editorial department of a newspaper, and had some journalism background so I used these skills to write about my travels. The first travel article I submitted was published. This gave me the incentive to launch a new ‘career’ as a travel writer which has led to me teaching classes in Travel Writing and Novel Writing.
My journey in Alexander’s footsteps has taken me around Greece and Asia Minor and I return there often for research trips, living there while I write. I have been privileged to research at libraries in Athens and have visited many sites, making contact with Classical Scholars and archaeologists. While traveling for research I always look for angle for a travel article. Two years ago I visited Bodrum (ancient Halicarnassus) and Fetiye, Turkey (site of the fabled Lycian tombs). In Greece I visited, for the first time, Aristotles’ school, the Nymphaion, near Naoussa, where Alexander and his Companions spent two years studying philosophy and the sciences. In 2005 I once again explored the ancient agora in Athens, this time paying particular interest in the various public buildings where political affairs were held, to correct setting details for my novel.
While visiting the locations for my novel, I try to capture the essence of the countryside, use sensory details, and attempt to get in touch with the spirits. This helps place the reader at the scene, makes the characters more dimensional, and draws the arm-chair traveler into the scene.
To be a writer, you have to write. To be a travel writer, you have to travel. But to be a historical writer, you have to do both. Not only does it take imagination, but discipline, and a great deal of planning and research. Accuracy is important. Write about what you know. Spend some quite time to let the Muse speak, to absorb the essence of each place you visit as your recreate the world you are writing about.
"A traveller has a right to relate and embellish his adventures as he pleases..."
Rudolph Erich Raspe 1737-1794 "Travels of Baron Munchausan."
"November Boughs (1888) A Backward Glance O'er Travel'd Roads."
Here we are at the end of another year, 2005, and one last chance to look backwards before we step into the New Year, 2006, and look forward again.
A lot of catastrophic and tragic events have happened this year, including my own private tragedy. But some good things happened too, and the benefits of one (my good fortune at winning an all-expense paid trip to Malaysia) are still to come. Besides losing someone dear to my heart, I also made new friends and for everyone's kindness and generosity I am truly grateful. I travelled, too, and had the pleasure of showing my pal Ingrid the beauties of Greece, my second home as well as introducing her to my Welsh cousins while we were in the U.K.
If there was anything I could have done better in the past year, it would have been to have completed my novel. I really had hoped this would happen by the end of the year, but the upsets of the past months have intefered somewhat with my creativity, though I did have some success in publishing this year with my travel articles. I was thinking about this yesterday, realizing how many more stories I have yet to write, and why do I keep detouring instead of focusing on catching up before the next round of trips begin? 2006 already looks like a year I'm going to make some fantastic new travels. First, to Malaysia in March, and hopefully to Chile later in the year. So I better make a firm resolution to get those old stories written!
I've always been a historical fiction writer, but twenty-four years ago, while taking a Creative Writing class, I realized that in order to get a novel published I should first try to get some publishing experience. That is when I decided to put my journalism skills to work and try writing travel articles. I sold the first one I sent out. That set me on the course to be a travel journalist, and whenever I could, to combine my historical research trips with travel writing.
Okay, the next part of this 'essay' is cheating because it's already been published on-line and in a small press publication. But it goes along with the theme of Travel and time-travel, looking back in time and looking forward to the future.
"The use of travelling is to regulate imagination by reality, and instead of thinking how things may be, to see them as they are. " Samuel Johson 1709-1784
WRITING AWAY
The journey of a thousand miles starts from beneath your feet.
Tao te Ching, Verse 64
There is a similarity between historical writing and travel writing. Both are about journeys: one is a journey back in time, the other a journey of the present. Where the difference lies is in the style of the writing. Historical fiction is a lengthy prose style, historical non-fiction can be more documentary or essay. Travel writing is either journalism or the less formal style of creative non-fiction, a story-telling style where creative embellishments are allowed. I am both a historical and a travel writer. I write about my travels because of what I write in my historical fiction.
The historical fiction writer in me was born when I was twelve years old. Our family traveled across Canada by train, a long journey from the gentle hills and maple forests of Ontario, across the wide expanse of sun-dried flat lands an d yellow wheat fields of the Prairies, through the densely forested wilderness of the majestic Rocky Mountains to the lush green shores of the Pacific Ocean. My was transformed on that journey. I imagined how it must have been to be a pioneer, and I became one of them, an explorer who forever after wanted to know what was over the next mountain.
I began to write about the pioneers’ lives. Everything I wrote came out of my imagination, sparked by that train trip across Canada. Later, encouraged by my father who was a Baptist minister, I began writing stories with a Biblical theme, set in the Holy Land and ancient Rome. At sixteen, I was introduced to a historical character who would have a profound influence on my future as a historical-fiction writer. The legendary life of Alexander the Great caught my interest. Before graduation, I had a written novel with an Alexander theme. Thus began my quest in search of Alexander that continues to this day.
My keen interest in Celtic and Greek history eventually took me to Europe. I wanted to see the places I was writing about and try to get in touch with the ‘spirits’ of my characters. When I graduated from high school I had worked in the editorial department of a newspaper, and had some journalism background so I used these skills to write about my travels. The first travel article I submitted was published. This gave me the incentive to launch a new ‘career’ as a travel writer which has led to me teaching classes in Travel Writing and Novel Writing.
My journey in Alexander’s footsteps has taken me around Greece and Asia Minor and I return there often for research trips, living there while I write. I have been privileged to research at libraries in Athens and have visited many sites, making contact with Classical Scholars and archaeologists. While traveling for research I always look for angle for a travel article. Two years ago I visited Bodrum (ancient Halicarnassus) and Fetiye, Turkey (site of the fabled Lycian tombs). In Greece I visited, for the first time, Aristotles’ school, the Nymphaion, near Naoussa, where Alexander and his Companions spent two years studying philosophy and the sciences. In 2005 I once again explored the ancient agora in Athens, this time paying particular interest in the various public buildings where political affairs were held, to correct setting details for my novel.
While visiting the locations for my novel, I try to capture the essence of the countryside, use sensory details, and attempt to get in touch with the spirits. This helps place the reader at the scene, makes the characters more dimensional, and draws the arm-chair traveler into the scene.
To be a writer, you have to write. To be a travel writer, you have to travel. But to be a historical writer, you have to do both. Not only does it take imagination, but discipline, and a great deal of planning and research. Accuracy is important. Write about what you know. Spend some quite time to let the Muse speak, to absorb the essence of each place you visit as your recreate the world you are writing about.
"A traveller has a right to relate and embellish his adventures as he pleases..."
Rudolph Erich Raspe 1737-1794 "Travels of Baron Munchausan."
So, in 2006 I look forward to my new adventures in Malaysia. Winning this trip was one of the special 'gifts' I received in 2005 (from the B.C. Travel Writer's Association and Malaysian Tourism). My other 'gift' is the invitation by his ex-wife, to visit Chile and see the country through Anibal's eyes. You can read about my old and new adventures on my travel blog:
http://travelthroughhistory.blogspot.com
HAPPY NEW YEAR TO EVERYONE IN BLOGLAND. I WISH YOU GOOD FORTUNE, GOOD HEALTH, SUCCESSFUL WRITING & PUBLISHING AND HAPPY TRAVELS!
Monday, December 26, 2005
FIFTEEN GREAT WAYS TO PROCRASTINATE
"Never do today what you can
Put off till tomorrow."
William Brighty Rands (Matthew Browne) 1823- 1882 "Lilliput Levee"
PROCRASTINATE: To put off intentionally and habitually
To put off intentionally the doing of something that should be done.
Before beginning this tried and proven list of procrastinations you'd better set yourself a time limit or suddenly the day will have slipped away. My general rule (providing I'm up by at least 9 a.m.) is to begin writing by 11 a.m. and try to carry on til at least 3 or 4. It doesn't always work, but if you have allowed yourself time to 'play' a little before getting down to the task, once the Muse starts speaking you might find yourself on a non-stop writing jag.
1. If you know you have writing to do, take your time getting out of bed in the morning. Make
yourself some coffee. Eventually get dressed. (Well, at least by noon!)
2. Check your e-mail while you drink your coffee. In fact, check your email at least a dozen
times a day. While you're at it, check your blog site, maybe read a few of your friend's blogs.
Perhaps even write (or plan) a new one. If you also keep a journal (on-line or written), spend
some time writing in that too.
3. Stop checking the internet and play a few games of Free Cell and Solitaire. (To be fair,
I limit myself to five games each and quit once I've won.)
4. If you don't have a computer, play a few games of Solitaire with real playing cards.
(I limit myself to ten games, or it will go on all day.)
5. In between, make a few phone calls.
6. Check your email again. If you have no new mail, write a couple to friends.
7. Play with your pet (my bird loves this attention).
8. Google yourself. You'll be amazed!
9. Wash dishes, tidy up the mess you've left from the night before.
10. Make another cup of tea/coffee and prepare something to eat.
11. Read the newspaper. Do the newspaper cross-word puzzle(s). If you're using a cross- word book, you might have to limit how many you do) This is an excellent exercise for
writers. You learn lots of neat new words!
12. Maybe you need to take the garbage out or go for a little walk or do some stretching
exercises just to get the blood flowing to the brain before you start your day's writing.
13. How about taking the dog for a walk, or change the cat box, or clean the bird's cage?
14. Tidy up the piles of papers and books in your work space. How can you think with
all that clutter? While you're at it, you might notice things need dusting.
15. Make your week's/day's grocery list. This will make you hungry so take time out for a
snack.
Okay. Enough already! Now it's time to get down to work!
That, folks, is how I've perfected the art of procrastinating. And that's why my novel still isn't finished!
Okay, I'm exaggerating. However I do allow myself a bit of time to play around before I sit down to do serious writing or editing. It's a routine that seems to work for me though some days I really have to 'force' myself to get those first few lines written. Then, once I do I find myself propelled into it soon I'm in that 'other world' oblivious to anything that's around me. (Unless of course the bird is making a nest in my hair or climbing up and down my arm as I type.)
"Procrastination is the thief of time."
Edward Young 1683-1765 "The Statesman's Creed" st 1 - 393
"It is only a moment here and a moment there that the greatest writer has."
Robert Frost 1874-1963 "Comment"
Put off till tomorrow."
William Brighty Rands (Matthew Browne) 1823- 1882 "Lilliput Levee"
PROCRASTINATE: To put off intentionally and habitually
To put off intentionally the doing of something that should be done.
Before beginning this tried and proven list of procrastinations you'd better set yourself a time limit or suddenly the day will have slipped away. My general rule (providing I'm up by at least 9 a.m.) is to begin writing by 11 a.m. and try to carry on til at least 3 or 4. It doesn't always work, but if you have allowed yourself time to 'play' a little before getting down to the task, once the Muse starts speaking you might find yourself on a non-stop writing jag.
1. If you know you have writing to do, take your time getting out of bed in the morning. Make
yourself some coffee. Eventually get dressed. (Well, at least by noon!)
2. Check your e-mail while you drink your coffee. In fact, check your email at least a dozen
times a day. While you're at it, check your blog site, maybe read a few of your friend's blogs.
Perhaps even write (or plan) a new one. If you also keep a journal (on-line or written), spend
some time writing in that too.
3. Stop checking the internet and play a few games of Free Cell and Solitaire. (To be fair,
I limit myself to five games each and quit once I've won.)
4. If you don't have a computer, play a few games of Solitaire with real playing cards.
(I limit myself to ten games, or it will go on all day.)
5. In between, make a few phone calls.
6. Check your email again. If you have no new mail, write a couple to friends.
7. Play with your pet (my bird loves this attention).
8. Google yourself. You'll be amazed!
9. Wash dishes, tidy up the mess you've left from the night before.
10. Make another cup of tea/coffee and prepare something to eat.
11. Read the newspaper. Do the newspaper cross-word puzzle(s). If you're using a cross- word book, you might have to limit how many you do) This is an excellent exercise for
writers. You learn lots of neat new words!
12. Maybe you need to take the garbage out or go for a little walk or do some stretching
exercises just to get the blood flowing to the brain before you start your day's writing.
13. How about taking the dog for a walk, or change the cat box, or clean the bird's cage?
14. Tidy up the piles of papers and books in your work space. How can you think with
all that clutter? While you're at it, you might notice things need dusting.
15. Make your week's/day's grocery list. This will make you hungry so take time out for a
snack.
Okay. Enough already! Now it's time to get down to work!
That, folks, is how I've perfected the art of procrastinating. And that's why my novel still isn't finished!
Okay, I'm exaggerating. However I do allow myself a bit of time to play around before I sit down to do serious writing or editing. It's a routine that seems to work for me though some days I really have to 'force' myself to get those first few lines written. Then, once I do I find myself propelled into it soon I'm in that 'other world' oblivious to anything that's around me. (Unless of course the bird is making a nest in my hair or climbing up and down my arm as I type.)
"Procrastination is the thief of time."
Edward Young 1683-1765 "The Statesman's Creed" st 1 - 393
"It is only a moment here and a moment there that the greatest writer has."
Robert Frost 1874-1963 "Comment"
Saturday, December 24, 2005
NOTHING LIKE SALSA DANCING TO MAKE THE SEASON MERRY
"...On with the dance! let joy be unconfined;
No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet
To chase the glowing hours with flying feet."
George Noel Gordon, Lord Byron 1788-1824 "Chile Harold's Pilgrimage" st 22
One thing I love doing almost as much as writing, is dancing. I was brought up in a rather old-fashioned house with Victorian thinking, so when I was younger dancing was a forbidden pleasure which might lead to heaven knows what! So during high school, in order to attend dances I'd have to make up stories such as "It's only a Square Dance" in order to get permission to go.
By the time I had graduated and started working for the newspaper, I was fully in love with dancing, both classical and jive. I got free passes to see jazz musicians and attend concerts and ballets. I bought myself ballet lessons and later flamenco dancing lessons. I hid my ballet shoes and tights, and flameco shoes and castanets in my bottom drawer so Mom wouldn't find out. But one day she did, and asked me what they were for, so I told her. Surprisingly, she accepted that I was taking ballet lessons. Perhaps because my younger sister was taking figure skating (dancing on ice) which was apparantly OK in my parent's eyes.
Of course, I was too old to ever become a ballerina and after practicing my zapadeados in the marble hallway of the newspaper building while waiting for the elevator, I eventually gave up that idea as well. It was fun though and I never lost my love of dancing or the music that goes with it.
When I was married, my husband and I used to socialize at a private club. Rumba and chacha lessons were offered and we enrolled. So when there were dances, we were able to participate in the latest dance craze from Latin America.
Now it's salsa dancing. I love any kind of Latin American music. It always takes me back to those days past, especially my first trip to California back in '53 when Tito Puente was popular and everyone was dancing the Mambo. I had never heard anything so exciting as that music and I recall my friend and I bouncing in our seats to Tito's music (humming it as we heard it in our heads) all the way home on the Greyhound bus. Who would have guess then that many years later (last year) I'd be in Havana for the Jazz Festival, listening to some of Cuba's finest musicians.
My favourite place to go weekends is the Latin Quarter. That's where my friend Anibal played percussion with an excellent Latino group called Sumalao. I never get tired of listening to them play and dancing to the Latino rythmn even though there's only a small space in front of the band for dancing and we're only allowed after the first dinner seating is finished at 10.30 pm
For weeks now I've had a struggle going there and seeing that vacant spot by the band where Anibal used to sit. Sometimes, when they play songs I know he loved, I have to go outside and cry. I know everyone else there misses him too, especially the band members
Last night, even though I'd had a rather sad day thinking about him, I went with my friends to the L.Q. to dance and it turned out to be an excellent evening. Everyone was hugging everyone and saying "Feliz Navidad" and the band played and sang it too. I danced and danced and let the music flow through me. Anibal always said the music was his therapy. And I think it's mine too. I came home feeling joyful and grateful to have so many loving friends around me.
And today, as I walked to the Drive for my last-minute shopping, what a pleasant surprise!
There were Angels about -- specifically my own Guardian Angel, that lovely Frenchman J.P.
We always seem to meet on the street and it's always big hugs, big smiles, and kisses. Truly magical!
That set the tone for the rest of my day and I am certain that tonight's festivities will be jolly and great fun. He's a 5***** chef and when I told him what was on my menu tonight: "Life's Great Dinners: with cornish hens in sherry sauce, pate, rice and baby peas. Crab bisque for starters, he was impressed.
We hugged again, and off he went to the French restaurant where he works.
I was feeling so happy when I walked up the Drive, but coming past the coffee shop guess who was sitting there holding court -- my nemesis -- so I turned my face and walked by, ignoring her, then took the opposite side of the road back. No way was that person going to be allowed to enter my space on such a special day!
Now it's time to relax before the big cook-in starts and the guests arrive for an evening of merriment. There are loads of gayly wrapped gifts under my little gold tree. I bought a pretty poinsettia and more red led lights for my big plant, so the room looks very festive.
There's pomegranates and ginger ale and a plate of home baked goodies donated by a friend, so Santa will have a some treats too. (That's traditional in our house!)
Oh yes...and another Christmas surprise came yesterday in the mail -- a cheque for a Christmas story I'd submitted to a Christmas anthology. I didn't even know they'd published it! What a lovely surprise. The story was titled Christmas at Grandpa's and was about one special family Christmas when I was nine years old and bought everyone paper dragons for gifts.
So, light the candles (I'll light one for Anibal) and put on the Christmas music (or some salsa and jazz if you like!) pour a glass of ruby red wine and enjoy Christmas Eve with me.
MERRY CHRISTMAS AND HAPPY HANNUKA TO ALL YOU BLOGGER FRIENDS.
"Praise him with the sound of the trumpet:
Praise him with the psaltry and harp.
Praise him with the timbrel and dance:
Praise him with stringed instruments and organs.
Praise him upon the loud drums;
Praise him upon the high sounding cymbals.
Let every thing that hath breath praise the Lord."
The Holy Bible Psalms 150: 3-6
No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet
To chase the glowing hours with flying feet."
George Noel Gordon, Lord Byron 1788-1824 "Chile Harold's Pilgrimage" st 22
One thing I love doing almost as much as writing, is dancing. I was brought up in a rather old-fashioned house with Victorian thinking, so when I was younger dancing was a forbidden pleasure which might lead to heaven knows what! So during high school, in order to attend dances I'd have to make up stories such as "It's only a Square Dance" in order to get permission to go.
By the time I had graduated and started working for the newspaper, I was fully in love with dancing, both classical and jive. I got free passes to see jazz musicians and attend concerts and ballets. I bought myself ballet lessons and later flamenco dancing lessons. I hid my ballet shoes and tights, and flameco shoes and castanets in my bottom drawer so Mom wouldn't find out. But one day she did, and asked me what they were for, so I told her. Surprisingly, she accepted that I was taking ballet lessons. Perhaps because my younger sister was taking figure skating (dancing on ice) which was apparantly OK in my parent's eyes.
Of course, I was too old to ever become a ballerina and after practicing my zapadeados in the marble hallway of the newspaper building while waiting for the elevator, I eventually gave up that idea as well. It was fun though and I never lost my love of dancing or the music that goes with it.
When I was married, my husband and I used to socialize at a private club. Rumba and chacha lessons were offered and we enrolled. So when there were dances, we were able to participate in the latest dance craze from Latin America.
Now it's salsa dancing. I love any kind of Latin American music. It always takes me back to those days past, especially my first trip to California back in '53 when Tito Puente was popular and everyone was dancing the Mambo. I had never heard anything so exciting as that music and I recall my friend and I bouncing in our seats to Tito's music (humming it as we heard it in our heads) all the way home on the Greyhound bus. Who would have guess then that many years later (last year) I'd be in Havana for the Jazz Festival, listening to some of Cuba's finest musicians.
My favourite place to go weekends is the Latin Quarter. That's where my friend Anibal played percussion with an excellent Latino group called Sumalao. I never get tired of listening to them play and dancing to the Latino rythmn even though there's only a small space in front of the band for dancing and we're only allowed after the first dinner seating is finished at 10.30 pm
For weeks now I've had a struggle going there and seeing that vacant spot by the band where Anibal used to sit. Sometimes, when they play songs I know he loved, I have to go outside and cry. I know everyone else there misses him too, especially the band members
Last night, even though I'd had a rather sad day thinking about him, I went with my friends to the L.Q. to dance and it turned out to be an excellent evening. Everyone was hugging everyone and saying "Feliz Navidad" and the band played and sang it too. I danced and danced and let the music flow through me. Anibal always said the music was his therapy. And I think it's mine too. I came home feeling joyful and grateful to have so many loving friends around me.
And today, as I walked to the Drive for my last-minute shopping, what a pleasant surprise!
There were Angels about -- specifically my own Guardian Angel, that lovely Frenchman J.P.
We always seem to meet on the street and it's always big hugs, big smiles, and kisses. Truly magical!
That set the tone for the rest of my day and I am certain that tonight's festivities will be jolly and great fun. He's a 5***** chef and when I told him what was on my menu tonight: "Life's Great Dinners: with cornish hens in sherry sauce, pate, rice and baby peas. Crab bisque for starters, he was impressed.
We hugged again, and off he went to the French restaurant where he works.
I was feeling so happy when I walked up the Drive, but coming past the coffee shop guess who was sitting there holding court -- my nemesis -- so I turned my face and walked by, ignoring her, then took the opposite side of the road back. No way was that person going to be allowed to enter my space on such a special day!
Now it's time to relax before the big cook-in starts and the guests arrive for an evening of merriment. There are loads of gayly wrapped gifts under my little gold tree. I bought a pretty poinsettia and more red led lights for my big plant, so the room looks very festive.
There's pomegranates and ginger ale and a plate of home baked goodies donated by a friend, so Santa will have a some treats too. (That's traditional in our house!)
Oh yes...and another Christmas surprise came yesterday in the mail -- a cheque for a Christmas story I'd submitted to a Christmas anthology. I didn't even know they'd published it! What a lovely surprise. The story was titled Christmas at Grandpa's and was about one special family Christmas when I was nine years old and bought everyone paper dragons for gifts.
So, light the candles (I'll light one for Anibal) and put on the Christmas music (or some salsa and jazz if you like!) pour a glass of ruby red wine and enjoy Christmas Eve with me.
MERRY CHRISTMAS AND HAPPY HANNUKA TO ALL YOU BLOGGER FRIENDS.
"Praise him with the sound of the trumpet:
Praise him with the psaltry and harp.
Praise him with the timbrel and dance:
Praise him with stringed instruments and organs.
Praise him upon the loud drums;
Praise him upon the high sounding cymbals.
Let every thing that hath breath praise the Lord."
The Holy Bible Psalms 150: 3-6
Thursday, December 22, 2005
SOME THOUGHTS ON A SOLSTICE NIGHT
"If we had no winter, the spring would not be so pleasant:
If we did not sometimes taste of adversity, prosperity would not be so welcome."
Anne Bradstreet 1612- 1672 "Meditations Divine and MOral" l 14
This was going to be "Musings on a Full Moon Night" but I never got around to writing the blog last week due to a number of disturbances and distractions (pleasant and otherwise).
I have been in the mood to hibernate the last two weeks, partly because I've been fighting colds and coping with sadness. Last week I chose to stay indoors for several days, except for short walks. I focused on my writing and did a new chapter segment for my novel. I was on a roll, I t hought, and by Wednesday night decided I needed a bit of socialiazing, so I went out.
"With how sad steps, O Moon, thou climb'st the skies!
How silently, and with how wan a face!"
Sir Philip Sidney 1554 - 1586
Unfortunately, my quiet reflective state of mind as I sat enjoying a beer at my favorite hang-out, was interrupted by the arrival of a person who was clearly looking for a confrontation and I was her target. A very upsetting scenario resulted with said person heaping verbal abuse on me to the point that I actually felt as if she'd physically abused me. Needless to say the unexpected drama created by this lunatic drama queen upset my evening, brought a load of negativity in to my space which carried over to the next day.
"Demonaic frenzy, moping melancholy,
And moon-struck madness."
John Milton 1608 - 1674 "Paradise Lost" XI l. 485
I'd hoped to carry on with my writing the rest of that week but it felt like I'd been smothered with black sludge. Things only improved when I took a friend's advice and did a smudge ceremony to clean my aura. I used some sage from my village in Greece and swept the sage smoke over me with a macaw feather (didn't have an eagle feather handy). Felt a lot better afterwards and then spent the evening with two good friends eating pizza and popcorn and watching one of my favourite Christmas movies "A Child's Christmas in Wales."
The weekend was an improvement and I had some fun but didn't get back to the writing. I spent the weekend out in the town where A's daughter's live. They invited me for a sleep-over to celebrate his birthday which would have been Sunday. So it was a bitter-sweet time, lots of talking and reminiscing and providing positive support for the girls who are really missing their Dad. He was much more of a family man than I had guessed and spent a lot of time with them being Dad and Grandpa, only coming into town weekends when he played with the band at the L.Q. And being the first Christmas without him, it's a very difficult time for his family. Still, we ate nachos, dranks some Chilean wine and made a toast to him with his favourite Napoleon brandy. I'm sure he was there with us, smiling, and pleased that I have made this connection with his daughters.
This week I wanted to write but somehow have felt a lack of energy and spirit. I wish I'd feel inspired, but I'm not. I spent a whole day Monday putting together a photo album for my son for Christmas. Only went out to attend my writer's group that night. Tuesday made an attempt to go to waterfit, could hardly drag myself out of bed and got there late, but I did swim an extra couple of lengths to make up for it. I vegged out on the settee last night watching TV: an Ed Sullivan Christmas show and a special with Barbara Walters about "Heaven" which was very good and somehow seemed appropriate for me to watch under the circumstances.
So here it is Wednesday, Winter Solstice, and I am still uninspired and haven't written a word except e-mails, journals and this blog. Today I went for lunch with a very interesting woman from my Memoir group who paints amazing portraits. She's involved in spiritual healing and her paintings reflect this. It was something I needed, to sit and talk with her and I felt better afterwards. I was set to stay in tonight but another friend called and suggested we go out so we could talk so it turned into a pleasant night, with some fine jazz playing at the LQ and good conversation. (I find Ihave to keep occupied these days, even when I'm at home alone -- and I do enjoy my solitude -- but somehow when there's a lapse in activity I find myself in tears.)
I searched for an excerpt from my Celtic story to post here because it seemed appropriate for this Solstice night, but it must be buried somewhere in my files.
So here's all I can write just now. I'm feeling exhausted, sick and still very sad but the weekend's coming and it's Christmas. I'm sure, in the end, everything's gong to be alright!
"See, Winter comes to rule the varied year,
Sullen and sad."
James Thomson 1700-1748 "The Seasons, Winter (1726)" l. 1
If we did not sometimes taste of adversity, prosperity would not be so welcome."
Anne Bradstreet 1612- 1672 "Meditations Divine and MOral" l 14
This was going to be "Musings on a Full Moon Night" but I never got around to writing the blog last week due to a number of disturbances and distractions (pleasant and otherwise).
I have been in the mood to hibernate the last two weeks, partly because I've been fighting colds and coping with sadness. Last week I chose to stay indoors for several days, except for short walks. I focused on my writing and did a new chapter segment for my novel. I was on a roll, I t hought, and by Wednesday night decided I needed a bit of socialiazing, so I went out.
"With how sad steps, O Moon, thou climb'st the skies!
How silently, and with how wan a face!"
Sir Philip Sidney 1554 - 1586
Unfortunately, my quiet reflective state of mind as I sat enjoying a beer at my favorite hang-out, was interrupted by the arrival of a person who was clearly looking for a confrontation and I was her target. A very upsetting scenario resulted with said person heaping verbal abuse on me to the point that I actually felt as if she'd physically abused me. Needless to say the unexpected drama created by this lunatic drama queen upset my evening, brought a load of negativity in to my space which carried over to the next day.
"Demonaic frenzy, moping melancholy,
And moon-struck madness."
John Milton 1608 - 1674 "Paradise Lost" XI l. 485
I'd hoped to carry on with my writing the rest of that week but it felt like I'd been smothered with black sludge. Things only improved when I took a friend's advice and did a smudge ceremony to clean my aura. I used some sage from my village in Greece and swept the sage smoke over me with a macaw feather (didn't have an eagle feather handy). Felt a lot better afterwards and then spent the evening with two good friends eating pizza and popcorn and watching one of my favourite Christmas movies "A Child's Christmas in Wales."
The weekend was an improvement and I had some fun but didn't get back to the writing. I spent the weekend out in the town where A's daughter's live. They invited me for a sleep-over to celebrate his birthday which would have been Sunday. So it was a bitter-sweet time, lots of talking and reminiscing and providing positive support for the girls who are really missing their Dad. He was much more of a family man than I had guessed and spent a lot of time with them being Dad and Grandpa, only coming into town weekends when he played with the band at the L.Q. And being the first Christmas without him, it's a very difficult time for his family. Still, we ate nachos, dranks some Chilean wine and made a toast to him with his favourite Napoleon brandy. I'm sure he was there with us, smiling, and pleased that I have made this connection with his daughters.
This week I wanted to write but somehow have felt a lack of energy and spirit. I wish I'd feel inspired, but I'm not. I spent a whole day Monday putting together a photo album for my son for Christmas. Only went out to attend my writer's group that night. Tuesday made an attempt to go to waterfit, could hardly drag myself out of bed and got there late, but I did swim an extra couple of lengths to make up for it. I vegged out on the settee last night watching TV: an Ed Sullivan Christmas show and a special with Barbara Walters about "Heaven" which was very good and somehow seemed appropriate for me to watch under the circumstances.
So here it is Wednesday, Winter Solstice, and I am still uninspired and haven't written a word except e-mails, journals and this blog. Today I went for lunch with a very interesting woman from my Memoir group who paints amazing portraits. She's involved in spiritual healing and her paintings reflect this. It was something I needed, to sit and talk with her and I felt better afterwards. I was set to stay in tonight but another friend called and suggested we go out so we could talk so it turned into a pleasant night, with some fine jazz playing at the LQ and good conversation. (I find Ihave to keep occupied these days, even when I'm at home alone -- and I do enjoy my solitude -- but somehow when there's a lapse in activity I find myself in tears.)
I searched for an excerpt from my Celtic story to post here because it seemed appropriate for this Solstice night, but it must be buried somewhere in my files.
So here's all I can write just now. I'm feeling exhausted, sick and still very sad but the weekend's coming and it's Christmas. I'm sure, in the end, everything's gong to be alright!
"See, Winter comes to rule the varied year,
Sullen and sad."
James Thomson 1700-1748 "The Seasons, Winter (1726)" l. 1
Monday, December 12, 2005
HOW DO WRITERS CELEBRATE THE FESTIVE SEASON?
"Heap on more wood! -- the wind is chill;
But let it whistle as it will,
We'll keep our Christmas merry still." Sir Walter Scott 1771-1832 "Lochinvar" VI - intro.st 1
"I will honour Christmas in my heart, and try to keep it all the year."
Charles Dickens 1812 - 1870 "A Christmas Carol." 1843
Dickens wrote "A Christmas Carol" as a serialized story for a newspaper, probably not realizing it would become a world classic. Dylan Thomas' "A Child's Christmas in Wales" is another all-time favorite. (I love the little movie they made of it and I watch it every year.) Louisa May Alcott begins chapter one of "Little Women" with the famous line "Christmas won't be Christmas without any present." And Clement Clarke Moore's beloved "Visit from St. Nicholas" is recited every year. "'Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the house not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse..."
A lot of famous writers have written about this Festive Seasaon, and many songs lyrics have been written about Christmas too, besides the traditional Carols. "I'm dreaming of a white Christmas..." Irving Berlin 1888 - 1989 "Holiday Inn (1942) White Christmas"
And the well-known children's songs such as "Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer" and
"Frosty the Snow Man."
How do other writer's celebrate Christmas?
I was pleased last week to get a few shifts at the daycare. It's always fun this time of year being with the little ones, singing the Christmas songs, and watching their excitement as the Big Day arrives. Christmas has always been a special time for my family and we keep a lot of the old traditions handed down from my English/Welsh grandparents and great-grandparents. It disturbs me now to see how those 'politically correct' folk want to take the "Christmas" out of Christmas, even to changing it to a 'holiday tree'. What nonsense. First thing you know they'll abolish Santa Claus as well. These are old traditions passed down in our culture for hundreds of years and I see no reason to change them. Christmas is Christmas. Hannuka is Hannuka. Just as other cultures (Indo-Canadian, Buddist, Muslim) have their own Festive holidays we have Christmas.
Last night our Scribblers writer's group had our annual Christmas party. As usual, a delicious pot-luck dinner, an amusing exchange of gifts and guessing who wrote the anonymous Christmas stories. The tradition of writing the Christmas stories began several years ago so some of us have quite a collection now. These stories can be Christmas memoirs or short fiction with a festive theme. There was a good variety of stories read last night. S. wrote one that was patterned after Dylan Thomas' "A Child's Christmas in Wales". K. brought a poem about a Prairie Christmas, D. wrote a dailogue of someone being interviewed for a Santa job and I wrote "Christmas with the In-laws." (How I, an innocent girl from a tee-totalling family who celebrated traditional English family Christmases was introduced to the hard-drinking, rowdy Christmases celebrated by my new husband's Ukranian family.) There was much merriment and good-will. The Scribblers' parties are always a highlight of the holiday season.
And there's more to come...dinner with friends, a party to honour my friend Anibal's birthday which would have been next Sunday, (Too bad I'll miss Santa's arrival at the daycare but I might try and drop in for that. I love watching the reactions of the little ones when Santa appears.)For my own family, I'll have the Christmas Eve gourmet dinner which I've prepared for a number of years: Cornish hens with sherry sauce and other goodies. The only family members who will be able to attend are my son and his wife (daughter and grandson go to the mountains to ski). And I've invited a few special friends, a couple of them writers. After dinner we'll sit around the pretend fireplace (my TV with the fireplace video) drink wine, get silly and have jolly good fun.There'll be presents for everyone. And for sure " the stockings will be hung by the chimney with care in hopes that Saint Nicholas soon will be there..."
" 'Most all the time, the whole year round, there
ain't no flies on me,
But jest 'fore Christmas I'm as good as I kin be."
Eugene Field 1850 -1895 'Jest 'Fore Christmas" st 1
"God bless us every one!" said Tiny Tim, the last of all.
Charles Dickens (1812-1870) "A Christmas Carol." 1843
But let it whistle as it will,
We'll keep our Christmas merry still." Sir Walter Scott 1771-1832 "Lochinvar" VI - intro.st 1
"I will honour Christmas in my heart, and try to keep it all the year."
Charles Dickens 1812 - 1870 "A Christmas Carol." 1843
Dickens wrote "A Christmas Carol" as a serialized story for a newspaper, probably not realizing it would become a world classic. Dylan Thomas' "A Child's Christmas in Wales" is another all-time favorite. (I love the little movie they made of it and I watch it every year.) Louisa May Alcott begins chapter one of "Little Women" with the famous line "Christmas won't be Christmas without any present." And Clement Clarke Moore's beloved "Visit from St. Nicholas" is recited every year. "'Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the house not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse..."
A lot of famous writers have written about this Festive Seasaon, and many songs lyrics have been written about Christmas too, besides the traditional Carols. "I'm dreaming of a white Christmas..." Irving Berlin 1888 - 1989 "Holiday Inn (1942) White Christmas"
And the well-known children's songs such as "Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer" and
"Frosty the Snow Man."
How do other writer's celebrate Christmas?
I was pleased last week to get a few shifts at the daycare. It's always fun this time of year being with the little ones, singing the Christmas songs, and watching their excitement as the Big Day arrives. Christmas has always been a special time for my family and we keep a lot of the old traditions handed down from my English/Welsh grandparents and great-grandparents. It disturbs me now to see how those 'politically correct' folk want to take the "Christmas" out of Christmas, even to changing it to a 'holiday tree'. What nonsense. First thing you know they'll abolish Santa Claus as well. These are old traditions passed down in our culture for hundreds of years and I see no reason to change them. Christmas is Christmas. Hannuka is Hannuka. Just as other cultures (Indo-Canadian, Buddist, Muslim) have their own Festive holidays we have Christmas.
Last night our Scribblers writer's group had our annual Christmas party. As usual, a delicious pot-luck dinner, an amusing exchange of gifts and guessing who wrote the anonymous Christmas stories. The tradition of writing the Christmas stories began several years ago so some of us have quite a collection now. These stories can be Christmas memoirs or short fiction with a festive theme. There was a good variety of stories read last night. S. wrote one that was patterned after Dylan Thomas' "A Child's Christmas in Wales". K. brought a poem about a Prairie Christmas, D. wrote a dailogue of someone being interviewed for a Santa job and I wrote "Christmas with the In-laws." (How I, an innocent girl from a tee-totalling family who celebrated traditional English family Christmases was introduced to the hard-drinking, rowdy Christmases celebrated by my new husband's Ukranian family.) There was much merriment and good-will. The Scribblers' parties are always a highlight of the holiday season.
And there's more to come...dinner with friends, a party to honour my friend Anibal's birthday which would have been next Sunday, (Too bad I'll miss Santa's arrival at the daycare but I might try and drop in for that. I love watching the reactions of the little ones when Santa appears.)For my own family, I'll have the Christmas Eve gourmet dinner which I've prepared for a number of years: Cornish hens with sherry sauce and other goodies. The only family members who will be able to attend are my son and his wife (daughter and grandson go to the mountains to ski). And I've invited a few special friends, a couple of them writers. After dinner we'll sit around the pretend fireplace (my TV with the fireplace video) drink wine, get silly and have jolly good fun.There'll be presents for everyone. And for sure " the stockings will be hung by the chimney with care in hopes that Saint Nicholas soon will be there..."
" 'Most all the time, the whole year round, there
ain't no flies on me,
But jest 'fore Christmas I'm as good as I kin be."
Eugene Field 1850 -1895 'Jest 'Fore Christmas" st 1
"God bless us every one!" said Tiny Tim, the last of all.
Charles Dickens (1812-1870) "A Christmas Carol." 1843
Thursday, December 08, 2005
WRITING IN CAFES
THE CALABRIA ON A WINTER DAY
Outside, the rain has turned the snow to slush
but in here where
plump fruit-filled cakes hang from the rafters
I am surrounded by works of art
Aphrodite rises from her sea-shell, Caesar holds court,
painted walls are bright with Michaelangelo’s murals,
A curly-haired Adonis serves frothy latte in tall glass mugs,
while a blonde, beautiful Eros waits on tables.
Andreas Boccelli’s sweet tenor soars
above the cacophony of clattering crockery
and the mix of Italian and English voices.
The warmth of the Mediterranean fills the room.
It could be a cafe in Venice or Rome,
but outside the steamy windows of the Calabria
on this wintry day,
the west coast drizzle
has melted the snow
and bright-coloured umbrellas bob on the crowded sidewalk.
Written at the Calabria Coffee Shop, December, 2003
There has been some disccusion by other bloggers lately about favourite locations in which to compose and create, namely writing in cafes and/or coffee shops. Perhaps this idea has been made popular by the fact that J.P. Rowlings wrote her first highly successful Harry Potter book while hanging out in a coffee shop. However, writers have long been known to choose taverns, pubs and cafes as venues where they either write, generate ideas for their literary work, or perform (as in the case of many well-known poets). Writes such as Anais Nin, Henry Miller, Lawrence Durell, and Ernest Hemingway once hung out at the side-walk cafes of Paris imbibing wine while discussing (or writing) their latest literary work. In London there are various pubs where writers (especially poets) loved to congregate.
Last summer I visited the famous Fitzroy Tavern in Fitzrovia where Dylan Thomas and Brendan Behan notoriously swilled pints of Guiness and recited their poetry. It's a veritable writers' den of a pub, with pictures on the walls of the various literarai who hung out there. ( Virginia Woolf and George B. Shaw lived right around the corner.) That entire area of London, spilling over into Bloomsbury, was the haunt of writers and there are other pubs in the area that were popular with writers.
It seems nowdays there is a revival of coffee houses where poetry and prose readings are held. At least, in my city there are several excellent venues where you can take advantage of the open mike and rub shoulders with the local literary crowd. It has become a popular occupation these days to hang out with a notebook or a lap-top at a small (smoke free) cafe and even if it's crowded somehow you can feel like you're an island unto yurself as you write. (Perhaps the non-writers are in in awe of us?)
Usually when I'm working on new writing, I prefer the solitude of my apartment. Sometimes I don't even want background music, and certainly no interruptions by conversation or other noises. But often if I'm working out new ideas I'll write at the coffee shop.
My favorite place on the Drive is the Calabria. It has the ambience that seems condusive to conjuring the Muse. It's run by an Italian family - the handsome father and his 3 attractive sons. (One of them has been in the movies and there are photos of Italian movie stars and entertainers on the wall). The place is decorated with Italian kitch: plaster models of David and Aphrodite, copies of Michaelangelo's murals on ceilings and walls, larger than life Roman centurians in full armour, one jousting on horse-back. (These were purchased from Caesar's Palace in Los Vegas!) Only Italian music is played, often the language is spoken and they serve the best Italian sandwiches, biscotti and lattes on the Drive.
At any time of day or night you'll find people lounging at the tables, occupied intently with laptops or, like me, scribbling notes or editing scripts. It's a favourite haunt of screen-play writers. One of my friends has written most of her novel on her palm pilot while relaxing in the friendly cameraderie there. It's a place where writers congregate.
Usually I drop in to drink a latte and relax or visit with friends, but sometimes I go there to write. When I was working on the script for my play "The Street" I wrote pages and pages of dialogue while at the Calabria. It was a perfect atmosphere for this play, which is about an Italian immigrant family in the '50's.
Once in awhile I've had the spontaneous urge to write poetry there. And last week I spent part of the afternoon brainstorming the next few chapters of my novel. Often I've jotted down memoirs, journal notes, story ideas, lines of narrative for my works-in-progress.
A lot of writer's critique groups like to meet a cafes these days. Members of the Travel Writer's Association which I belong to sometimes get together at the art gallery restaurant downtown to workshop new stories. There's a group of literatis called The Shebeen Club who meet monthly at an Irish pub in Gastown for literary evenings. Sometimes writing (or hanging out with) the company of like minds is a good alternative to the solitude most of us writers experience , alone in our rooms staring at a computer screen. And there's something about writing in coffee shops that adds to the mystique of the lone writer. Where do you like to write?
"Some writers take to drink, others take to audiences."
Gore Vidal, 1925 - Interview in Paris Review 1981
Outside, the rain has turned the snow to slush
but in here where
plump fruit-filled cakes hang from the rafters
I am surrounded by works of art
Aphrodite rises from her sea-shell, Caesar holds court,
painted walls are bright with Michaelangelo’s murals,
A curly-haired Adonis serves frothy latte in tall glass mugs,
while a blonde, beautiful Eros waits on tables.
Andreas Boccelli’s sweet tenor soars
above the cacophony of clattering crockery
and the mix of Italian and English voices.
The warmth of the Mediterranean fills the room.
It could be a cafe in Venice or Rome,
but outside the steamy windows of the Calabria
on this wintry day,
the west coast drizzle
has melted the snow
and bright-coloured umbrellas bob on the crowded sidewalk.
Written at the Calabria Coffee Shop, December, 2003
There has been some disccusion by other bloggers lately about favourite locations in which to compose and create, namely writing in cafes and/or coffee shops. Perhaps this idea has been made popular by the fact that J.P. Rowlings wrote her first highly successful Harry Potter book while hanging out in a coffee shop. However, writers have long been known to choose taverns, pubs and cafes as venues where they either write, generate ideas for their literary work, or perform (as in the case of many well-known poets). Writes such as Anais Nin, Henry Miller, Lawrence Durell, and Ernest Hemingway once hung out at the side-walk cafes of Paris imbibing wine while discussing (or writing) their latest literary work. In London there are various pubs where writers (especially poets) loved to congregate.
Last summer I visited the famous Fitzroy Tavern in Fitzrovia where Dylan Thomas and Brendan Behan notoriously swilled pints of Guiness and recited their poetry. It's a veritable writers' den of a pub, with pictures on the walls of the various literarai who hung out there. ( Virginia Woolf and George B. Shaw lived right around the corner.) That entire area of London, spilling over into Bloomsbury, was the haunt of writers and there are other pubs in the area that were popular with writers.
It seems nowdays there is a revival of coffee houses where poetry and prose readings are held. At least, in my city there are several excellent venues where you can take advantage of the open mike and rub shoulders with the local literary crowd. It has become a popular occupation these days to hang out with a notebook or a lap-top at a small (smoke free) cafe and even if it's crowded somehow you can feel like you're an island unto yurself as you write. (Perhaps the non-writers are in in awe of us?)
Usually when I'm working on new writing, I prefer the solitude of my apartment. Sometimes I don't even want background music, and certainly no interruptions by conversation or other noises. But often if I'm working out new ideas I'll write at the coffee shop.
My favorite place on the Drive is the Calabria. It has the ambience that seems condusive to conjuring the Muse. It's run by an Italian family - the handsome father and his 3 attractive sons. (One of them has been in the movies and there are photos of Italian movie stars and entertainers on the wall). The place is decorated with Italian kitch: plaster models of David and Aphrodite, copies of Michaelangelo's murals on ceilings and walls, larger than life Roman centurians in full armour, one jousting on horse-back. (These were purchased from Caesar's Palace in Los Vegas!) Only Italian music is played, often the language is spoken and they serve the best Italian sandwiches, biscotti and lattes on the Drive.
At any time of day or night you'll find people lounging at the tables, occupied intently with laptops or, like me, scribbling notes or editing scripts. It's a favourite haunt of screen-play writers. One of my friends has written most of her novel on her palm pilot while relaxing in the friendly cameraderie there. It's a place where writers congregate.
Usually I drop in to drink a latte and relax or visit with friends, but sometimes I go there to write. When I was working on the script for my play "The Street" I wrote pages and pages of dialogue while at the Calabria. It was a perfect atmosphere for this play, which is about an Italian immigrant family in the '50's.
Once in awhile I've had the spontaneous urge to write poetry there. And last week I spent part of the afternoon brainstorming the next few chapters of my novel. Often I've jotted down memoirs, journal notes, story ideas, lines of narrative for my works-in-progress.
A lot of writer's critique groups like to meet a cafes these days. Members of the Travel Writer's Association which I belong to sometimes get together at the art gallery restaurant downtown to workshop new stories. There's a group of literatis called The Shebeen Club who meet monthly at an Irish pub in Gastown for literary evenings. Sometimes writing (or hanging out with) the company of like minds is a good alternative to the solitude most of us writers experience , alone in our rooms staring at a computer screen. And there's something about writing in coffee shops that adds to the mystique of the lone writer. Where do you like to write?
"Some writers take to drink, others take to audiences."
Gore Vidal, 1925 - Interview in Paris Review 1981
Sunday, December 04, 2005
IN THE COMPANY OF FRIENDS
"The endearing elegance of female friendship."
Samuel Johnson 1709-1784 "Rasselas" 1759 ibid 46
It's been a busy week, much of it spent in the company of good friends, mainly women friends and a good many of them writers like myself.
Thursday there was lunch at a Mexican restaurant with my lovely Memoir ladies. Thursday evening, an Italian dinner with a some women who used to have a little writer's group. We always meet for dinner during the Festive season, about the only time we see each other.
Last night, Friday, was the gala sixth annual Christmas Blues Party. I had given up my quest to find the red blouse, instead, I searched through my closet and found the scarlet embroidered Chinese jacket I had bought a few years ago to wear when attending the performances of my play. As the playwright I had to be present and on stage after every show for the panel discussions they held. So I had a different costume each night. Nothing like living it up for my moment of fame!
I don't think I've worn the Chinese jacket more than a couple of times since then, and almost forgot I had it. Anyway, I wore my black silky slacks and a black silky high-neck shirt under the jacket and dug out a pair of gold dragon earrings with fake jade beads that I hadn't worn for years. Put all together it made quite an elegant outfit. And with the copper streaked hairdo I fetched a lot of compliments.
There was a long table reserved for my friends. The interesting thing was, they were nearly all writers. There were also a couple of my very long-time girlfriends there which made it even cozier. We had a grand time. The music, provided by my son's excellent Blues band, kept us dancing all night. They served delicious food at the Bistro too, so there was plenty to eat and drink. We writers (and musicians) sure know how to party!
It was good to be in the company of my friends. For the first time in weeks, I managed not to sink into a sad mood or dwell on missing A. I actually had fun, dancing and laughing and enjoying great conversation with people I hadn't seen in awhile. (There were even a couple of my son's long-time buddies who used to hang at our house when the kids were in high school.)
Today I had another delightful day with my women friends. Ingrid and MJ and I went to see that wonderful Indian movie "Water" which was so touchingly beautiful. Then we had a fantastic dinner at a Greek restaurant. (Oh ,so good hearing that Greek music! That always lifts my spirits.) The only time today I felt sad was when we walked by the hospital -- remembering all those weeks that I visited A. in Palliative Care.
I stayed home tonight and did very little, but Sunday I am determined to start work on the novel again. I have a few days without anything written on my calendar and then the merriment starts and there's lots to look forward to, even decorating my apartment.
And plans are already underway for the annual Christmas Eve dinner at my place.
"I fall back dazzled at beholding myself all rosy red."
Edmond Rostand 1868-1918 "Chantecler" 1910 - Act II, scene iii
"Keep your sunny side up." Buddy De Sylva (George Gard) 1895-1950
"Sunny Side Up" 1929 - title song
Samuel Johnson 1709-1784 "Rasselas" 1759 ibid 46
It's been a busy week, much of it spent in the company of good friends, mainly women friends and a good many of them writers like myself.
Thursday there was lunch at a Mexican restaurant with my lovely Memoir ladies. Thursday evening, an Italian dinner with a some women who used to have a little writer's group. We always meet for dinner during the Festive season, about the only time we see each other.
Last night, Friday, was the gala sixth annual Christmas Blues Party. I had given up my quest to find the red blouse, instead, I searched through my closet and found the scarlet embroidered Chinese jacket I had bought a few years ago to wear when attending the performances of my play. As the playwright I had to be present and on stage after every show for the panel discussions they held. So I had a different costume each night. Nothing like living it up for my moment of fame!
I don't think I've worn the Chinese jacket more than a couple of times since then, and almost forgot I had it. Anyway, I wore my black silky slacks and a black silky high-neck shirt under the jacket and dug out a pair of gold dragon earrings with fake jade beads that I hadn't worn for years. Put all together it made quite an elegant outfit. And with the copper streaked hairdo I fetched a lot of compliments.
There was a long table reserved for my friends. The interesting thing was, they were nearly all writers. There were also a couple of my very long-time girlfriends there which made it even cozier. We had a grand time. The music, provided by my son's excellent Blues band, kept us dancing all night. They served delicious food at the Bistro too, so there was plenty to eat and drink. We writers (and musicians) sure know how to party!
It was good to be in the company of my friends. For the first time in weeks, I managed not to sink into a sad mood or dwell on missing A. I actually had fun, dancing and laughing and enjoying great conversation with people I hadn't seen in awhile. (There were even a couple of my son's long-time buddies who used to hang at our house when the kids were in high school.)
Today I had another delightful day with my women friends. Ingrid and MJ and I went to see that wonderful Indian movie "Water" which was so touchingly beautiful. Then we had a fantastic dinner at a Greek restaurant. (Oh ,so good hearing that Greek music! That always lifts my spirits.) The only time today I felt sad was when we walked by the hospital -- remembering all those weeks that I visited A. in Palliative Care.
I stayed home tonight and did very little, but Sunday I am determined to start work on the novel again. I have a few days without anything written on my calendar and then the merriment starts and there's lots to look forward to, even decorating my apartment.
And plans are already underway for the annual Christmas Eve dinner at my place.
"I fall back dazzled at beholding myself all rosy red."
Edmond Rostand 1868-1918 "Chantecler" 1910 - Act II, scene iii
"Keep your sunny side up." Buddy De Sylva (George Gard) 1895-1950
"Sunny Side Up" 1929 - title song
Thursday, December 01, 2005
'TIS THE SEASON TO BE JOLLY
"At Christmas play and make good cheer,
For Christmas comes but once a year."
Thomas Tusser 1524-1580 "A Hundred Good Points of Husbandry" 1557
"The Farmer's Daily Diet."
Well, here it is December. Kala Mena, as the Greeks say at the first day of a new month.
"Good Month!" What do writers do when they aren't writing? Well, now that the holiday season seems rapidly upon us, my social calendar is quickly filling up with all sorts of
luncheons, dinners, parties and other festivities. I have been spending some time at home these days, between shopping sprees and visits with friends, so I didn't do a lot of writing this week other than in blogs and journals. I felt I needed a bit of time to 'regroup'. It's time for some changes.
So...today I went to my stylist's in the suburbs (a long sky-train and bus journey) and had my hair done -- a new style, something more 'gamin' and a new colour, bright and attractive for the festive season -- had some copper (red) streaks put in the blonde, so now my hair has a definite apricot glow which looks quite nice, a change from the platinum of the summer.
On my way home I decided to go Mall shopping. I haven't been to this particular Mall for several months and since my last visit they've renovated and changed things so it was a bit overwhelming. I was wandering around trying to relocate the Food Fair (because I was starving!) and who should I bump into my my son. What a nice surprise! He pointed me in the right direction for some souvlaki and Greek salad, and then I started my quest to find a new top for my Christmas wardrobe.
I'd had my eye on a red India-type shirt I'd seen at a small shop on the Drive, but when I'd gone back to look at it yesterday, decided it was a bit cheesy looking and too expensive. So I started to search at the Mall and I believe I went into every clothing store in the place, all three shopping tiers. Couldn't find anything that I liked. Saw a lot of ugly stuff and weird colours and found the music annoying in the shops -- talk about retail hype!!! -- and eventually gave up. Didn't spend a coin! And when I came out of the Mall it was already dark.
I'm in the mood for a total make-over and that includes wardrobe. But I don't want to spend money needlessly. So tonight I excavated my closet and found a couple of very nice tops that I'd totally forgotten I had. Trouble is, I have a lot of black stuff and I really have my heart set on red for the holidays. I guess partly because the last few months have been a very sad time for me, and I really want to get out of the doldrums and cheer up. RED to go with my RED streaked hair.
By the time I got home tonight the bird was beside himself with loneliness and flew right out into the hall way in his excitement to greet me. He then proceeded to act crazy for awhile, flying around the whole apartment from room-to-room. Later he settled down on my shoulder. He did make one attempt to nest in my new hair-do but I discouraged that pretty fast.
I was supposed to go and meet some writers from my Prompts class tonight, but as it was very late, and it appeared they might have decided to cancel, I decided not to go across town and instead stayed home and had an enjoyable evening doing absolutely nothing. Do I feel guilty for not writing the last couple of days? Not really, because I do write in my journals/blogs and I have been thinking over things about my novel. It's good to take a break now and then, regroup, and revitalize.
By the end of this week I should have some fresh ideas for the next chapter segment, and a good grip on my diet, hopefully my exercise program, and try to get myself in better shape for the festive season. Friday night is the sixth annual Christmas Blues Bash that my son, his wife and I always have at the Cottage Bistro. That sort of kicks off the holiday season and gets us in the mood for Christmas cheer. After that I'll think about hauling out the decorations. I've already almost finished the Christmas shopping. Now, if only I could find that red blouse I want!
"Haste thee, Nymph, and bring with thee
Jest, and y outhful jollity,
Quips and cranks and wanton wiles,
Nods and becks and wreathed smiles."
John Milton 1608-1674 "L'Allegro" (1631) 1.25
For Christmas comes but once a year."
Thomas Tusser 1524-1580 "A Hundred Good Points of Husbandry" 1557
"The Farmer's Daily Diet."
Well, here it is December. Kala Mena, as the Greeks say at the first day of a new month.
"Good Month!" What do writers do when they aren't writing? Well, now that the holiday season seems rapidly upon us, my social calendar is quickly filling up with all sorts of
luncheons, dinners, parties and other festivities. I have been spending some time at home these days, between shopping sprees and visits with friends, so I didn't do a lot of writing this week other than in blogs and journals. I felt I needed a bit of time to 'regroup'. It's time for some changes.
So...today I went to my stylist's in the suburbs (a long sky-train and bus journey) and had my hair done -- a new style, something more 'gamin' and a new colour, bright and attractive for the festive season -- had some copper (red) streaks put in the blonde, so now my hair has a definite apricot glow which looks quite nice, a change from the platinum of the summer.
On my way home I decided to go Mall shopping. I haven't been to this particular Mall for several months and since my last visit they've renovated and changed things so it was a bit overwhelming. I was wandering around trying to relocate the Food Fair (because I was starving!) and who should I bump into my my son. What a nice surprise! He pointed me in the right direction for some souvlaki and Greek salad, and then I started my quest to find a new top for my Christmas wardrobe.
I'd had my eye on a red India-type shirt I'd seen at a small shop on the Drive, but when I'd gone back to look at it yesterday, decided it was a bit cheesy looking and too expensive. So I started to search at the Mall and I believe I went into every clothing store in the place, all three shopping tiers. Couldn't find anything that I liked. Saw a lot of ugly stuff and weird colours and found the music annoying in the shops -- talk about retail hype!!! -- and eventually gave up. Didn't spend a coin! And when I came out of the Mall it was already dark.
I'm in the mood for a total make-over and that includes wardrobe. But I don't want to spend money needlessly. So tonight I excavated my closet and found a couple of very nice tops that I'd totally forgotten I had. Trouble is, I have a lot of black stuff and I really have my heart set on red for the holidays. I guess partly because the last few months have been a very sad time for me, and I really want to get out of the doldrums and cheer up. RED to go with my RED streaked hair.
By the time I got home tonight the bird was beside himself with loneliness and flew right out into the hall way in his excitement to greet me. He then proceeded to act crazy for awhile, flying around the whole apartment from room-to-room. Later he settled down on my shoulder. He did make one attempt to nest in my new hair-do but I discouraged that pretty fast.
I was supposed to go and meet some writers from my Prompts class tonight, but as it was very late, and it appeared they might have decided to cancel, I decided not to go across town and instead stayed home and had an enjoyable evening doing absolutely nothing. Do I feel guilty for not writing the last couple of days? Not really, because I do write in my journals/blogs and I have been thinking over things about my novel. It's good to take a break now and then, regroup, and revitalize.
By the end of this week I should have some fresh ideas for the next chapter segment, and a good grip on my diet, hopefully my exercise program, and try to get myself in better shape for the festive season. Friday night is the sixth annual Christmas Blues Bash that my son, his wife and I always have at the Cottage Bistro. That sort of kicks off the holiday season and gets us in the mood for Christmas cheer. After that I'll think about hauling out the decorations. I've already almost finished the Christmas shopping. Now, if only I could find that red blouse I want!
"Haste thee, Nymph, and bring with thee
Jest, and y outhful jollity,
Quips and cranks and wanton wiles,
Nods and becks and wreathed smiles."
John Milton 1608-1674 "L'Allegro" (1631) 1.25
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