A couple of weeks ago, Ottawa poet Sylvia Adams and I got together for lunch to discuss writing, and I gave her a copy of my new young adult novel, The Songcatcher and Me (Ottawa, Baico, baico@bellnet.ca) Later, Sylvia emailed me and wrote, "I'm enjoying your book immensely, seeing the hand of a pro here, with just the right amount of tension between characters and the constant motivation to keep turning the pages."
Praise from any reader is wonderful, and it is especially gratifying when it comes from a wordsmith and master of her craft like Sylvia.
Saturday, July 26, 2014
Saturday, June 28, 2014
review of Elizabeth Gilbert's The Signature of All Things
My review of The Signature of All Things , by Elizabeth Gilbert, published a few days ago in Compulsive Reader, may be read at:
http://www.compulsivereader.co
Also, my review of Moon of the Goddess, a young adult novel by Cathy Hird, appeared in Canadian Materials (an online magazine) on Friday, June 20, 2014
http://www.compulsivereader.co
Also, my review of Moon of the Goddess, a young adult novel by Cathy Hird, appeared in Canadian Materials (an online magazine) on Friday, June 20, 2014
Tuesday, June 3, 2014
The Strangeness of Strangers
Recently my husband and I had experiences which made us feel annoyed, yet well-mannered and well-organized.
The other day we were part of a group which goes out to lunch a couple of times a month, and, after lunch, listens to a guest speaker. We are new to the group, and the people in it whom we had met before were at the far end of a long table. Four men were present among seventeen or eighteen women. We were introducing ourselves to the people around us when a woman and her husband seated themselves and she proclaimed loudly, "I'm so glad to see all the men here!"
My jaw dropped. While I love my husband, I have never been one of these women who thinks that she is nothing without a man, nor do I find men's conversation necessarily more interesting than women's. I recognize that this group exists because a lot of older women who are widowed or single like to get out for an interesting lunch, and I felt that her comment was disrespectful of them. I wanted to say, "But didn't you come in here with a date? How many men do you want?" (Her husband was beside her, large as life) But I refrained.
A few days later, my husband and I went to a City of Ottawa building to pay the taxes. I browsed in the Friends of the Library bookshop while he went across the hall and joined the queue. About twenty minutes later he joined me, with steam coming out of his ears.
Two clerks were serving clients, and one was occupied with a woman who couldn't speak either official language. She appeared to be paying taxes on more than one house and wanted to pay with small bills. She was in the process of counting out her money, and then the clerk had to count the bills again. There appeared to be a disagreement about the count. Also, she kept waving pieces of paper at him and talking at him, which threw him off the count and made him have to start over.
The other clerk was occupied by a man who was also there to pay his taxes. He received a number of phone calls on his cell, which required that proceedings had to grind to a halt while he had his conversations. After his taxes were paid he had a question about a fax he had sent to City Hall. He didn't know if it had come to this particular office or not, but he wanted them to check. After about ten minutes they found his fax, which was many pages long. Then he wanted the clerk to check the pages to see that they were all there.
A third clerk opened a new line for my husband. The one dealing with the fax couldn't handle the man's questions about it so he brought it to the third clerk and they managed to mix the fax pages with my husband's tax bill pages.
At that point my husband indicated his displeasure by praying aloud. The clerk he was dealing with looked sympathetic and urged my husband to make a complaint to the City.The trouble is, a complaint to the City would do no good, because the problem lay, not in the clerks, who were doing their best, but in these members of the public who were behaving in a peculiar way.
We left, marvelling over the strangeness of strangers.
The other day we were part of a group which goes out to lunch a couple of times a month, and, after lunch, listens to a guest speaker. We are new to the group, and the people in it whom we had met before were at the far end of a long table. Four men were present among seventeen or eighteen women. We were introducing ourselves to the people around us when a woman and her husband seated themselves and she proclaimed loudly, "I'm so glad to see all the men here!"
My jaw dropped. While I love my husband, I have never been one of these women who thinks that she is nothing without a man, nor do I find men's conversation necessarily more interesting than women's. I recognize that this group exists because a lot of older women who are widowed or single like to get out for an interesting lunch, and I felt that her comment was disrespectful of them. I wanted to say, "But didn't you come in here with a date? How many men do you want?" (Her husband was beside her, large as life) But I refrained.
A few days later, my husband and I went to a City of Ottawa building to pay the taxes. I browsed in the Friends of the Library bookshop while he went across the hall and joined the queue. About twenty minutes later he joined me, with steam coming out of his ears.
Two clerks were serving clients, and one was occupied with a woman who couldn't speak either official language. She appeared to be paying taxes on more than one house and wanted to pay with small bills. She was in the process of counting out her money, and then the clerk had to count the bills again. There appeared to be a disagreement about the count. Also, she kept waving pieces of paper at him and talking at him, which threw him off the count and made him have to start over.
The other clerk was occupied by a man who was also there to pay his taxes. He received a number of phone calls on his cell, which required that proceedings had to grind to a halt while he had his conversations. After his taxes were paid he had a question about a fax he had sent to City Hall. He didn't know if it had come to this particular office or not, but he wanted them to check. After about ten minutes they found his fax, which was many pages long. Then he wanted the clerk to check the pages to see that they were all there.
A third clerk opened a new line for my husband. The one dealing with the fax couldn't handle the man's questions about it so he brought it to the third clerk and they managed to mix the fax pages with my husband's tax bill pages.
At that point my husband indicated his displeasure by praying aloud. The clerk he was dealing with looked sympathetic and urged my husband to make a complaint to the City.The trouble is, a complaint to the City would do no good, because the problem lay, not in the clerks, who were doing their best, but in these members of the public who were behaving in a peculiar way.
We left, marvelling over the strangeness of strangers.
Saturday, April 26, 2014
Acrostic Stories
Earier this year, The Brucedale Press of Port Elgin, ON, held an acrostic story contest. The story was to be 26 sentences long. Each sentence was to begin with a letter of the alphabet; that is, the first sentence with A, the second with B, and so on. The first sentence had to begin, "Airborne at last..."
I was runner up in this contest with a story called "A Lovely Family Visit" which is soon to be published in The Brucedale Press's magazine, The Leaf. Because it is as yet unpublished, but promised to them, I don't think I can legally publish it on my blog. However, I can publish the other story I entered, which I thought was better, but which did not make it into the finals. Below is this second, unsuccessful entry, "How We Fell in Love."
HOW WE FELL IN LOVE
(c) Ruth Latta
Airborne at last, the flu virus gleefully looked for a warm, moist target. Belinda walked through the fast food restaurant into the cough of an elderly man who had a sore throat and felt stuffed-up, but had decided that a morning stroll in the crisp air and a coffee and an English muffin might clear his head.
Characteristically, Belinda had good intentions about getting the flu shot, but just hadn't gotten around to it, and kept telling herself, "I'm young and healthy, so I won't catch it." Down her nasal passages and throat the virus penetrated and latched on. Expertly, Belinda balanced her coffee as she walked the block to the TV station where she was a receptionist, hoping anchorman Zach Carter would pause at her desk and chat. Formal and ultra-efficient on the outside, she turned to marshmallow whenever he walked by.
"Got something for you," announced the UPS man, presenting her with a cardboard box addressed to Zach. Heart pumping, she signed for it, and after stashing it in her foot well, she resolved to bring it to Zach's dressing room after he had finished the noon hour news broadcast.
In his dressing room, Zach was applying his make-up and feeling hung-over and exhausted. Just as Mom used to say, too many late nights in the bars would wreck his looks and his health.
"Kind of bloodshot," he murmured, squirting drops into his eyes. Looking for someone special wasn't as much fun as it used to be. Mom would say that bars were the wrong place to look.
Now, heading to the anchor desk, he stole a glance at the lovely ice-maiden in Reception, and wished - he wasn't quite sure what. Overall, the noon news program went smoothly, but left him drained. Plopping down on the sofa in his dressing room for a nap might be a good idea.
Quickly and silently, Belinda stepped into Zach's office with the parcel, and, finding him snoring on his sofa, she was seized with frustrated desire. Risking awakening him and looking like a fool, she bent and kissed his half-open mouth.
Since Zach was moving in and out of sleep, he thought at first that he was just dreaming that a goddess was in his dressing room kissing him. Though he'd been scared to approach Belinda, worried that she'd turn him down, he realized, as he lay there feigning sleep, that she was attracted to him, and he would have reached up and embraced her, had he not been so tired and had she not darted out of the room so quickly.
"Utterly irresponsible not to get the flu shot!" muttered Belinda's mother as she nursed her penitent daughter with aspirin, echinacea, chicken soup and every other remedy she could think of. Vitamin-C-stuffed and feeling better, Belinda returned to work the morning of the first big snowstorm of the winter, which Zach, looking wan, covered in detail on the news.
When she was back home that evening and was heating some soup for supper, she started feeling lonely and sorry for herself. Xylophone sounds, however, made her pick up her ringing phone, and who should be on the line but Zach Carter, asking her to let him crash on her sofa, because he was too sick to brave the drifts and drive back to his apartment.
Young love bloomed over the next few days, as Zach received tender nursing care in a bed so soft, yet so exciting, that he never wanted to leave it.
"Zach," Belinda would say in years to come, "tell the story of how we fell in love, the year we both forgot the flu shot."
I was runner up in this contest with a story called "A Lovely Family Visit" which is soon to be published in The Brucedale Press's magazine, The Leaf. Because it is as yet unpublished, but promised to them, I don't think I can legally publish it on my blog. However, I can publish the other story I entered, which I thought was better, but which did not make it into the finals. Below is this second, unsuccessful entry, "How We Fell in Love."
HOW WE FELL IN LOVE
(c) Ruth Latta
Airborne at last, the flu virus gleefully looked for a warm, moist target. Belinda walked through the fast food restaurant into the cough of an elderly man who had a sore throat and felt stuffed-up, but had decided that a morning stroll in the crisp air and a coffee and an English muffin might clear his head.
Characteristically, Belinda had good intentions about getting the flu shot, but just hadn't gotten around to it, and kept telling herself, "I'm young and healthy, so I won't catch it." Down her nasal passages and throat the virus penetrated and latched on. Expertly, Belinda balanced her coffee as she walked the block to the TV station where she was a receptionist, hoping anchorman Zach Carter would pause at her desk and chat. Formal and ultra-efficient on the outside, she turned to marshmallow whenever he walked by.
"Got something for you," announced the UPS man, presenting her with a cardboard box addressed to Zach. Heart pumping, she signed for it, and after stashing it in her foot well, she resolved to bring it to Zach's dressing room after he had finished the noon hour news broadcast.
In his dressing room, Zach was applying his make-up and feeling hung-over and exhausted. Just as Mom used to say, too many late nights in the bars would wreck his looks and his health.
"Kind of bloodshot," he murmured, squirting drops into his eyes. Looking for someone special wasn't as much fun as it used to be. Mom would say that bars were the wrong place to look.
Now, heading to the anchor desk, he stole a glance at the lovely ice-maiden in Reception, and wished - he wasn't quite sure what. Overall, the noon news program went smoothly, but left him drained. Plopping down on the sofa in his dressing room for a nap might be a good idea.
Quickly and silently, Belinda stepped into Zach's office with the parcel, and, finding him snoring on his sofa, she was seized with frustrated desire. Risking awakening him and looking like a fool, she bent and kissed his half-open mouth.
Since Zach was moving in and out of sleep, he thought at first that he was just dreaming that a goddess was in his dressing room kissing him. Though he'd been scared to approach Belinda, worried that she'd turn him down, he realized, as he lay there feigning sleep, that she was attracted to him, and he would have reached up and embraced her, had he not been so tired and had she not darted out of the room so quickly.
"Utterly irresponsible not to get the flu shot!" muttered Belinda's mother as she nursed her penitent daughter with aspirin, echinacea, chicken soup and every other remedy she could think of. Vitamin-C-stuffed and feeling better, Belinda returned to work the morning of the first big snowstorm of the winter, which Zach, looking wan, covered in detail on the news.
When she was back home that evening and was heating some soup for supper, she started feeling lonely and sorry for herself. Xylophone sounds, however, made her pick up her ringing phone, and who should be on the line but Zach Carter, asking her to let him crash on her sofa, because he was too sick to brave the drifts and drive back to his apartment.
Young love bloomed over the next few days, as Zach received tender nursing care in a bed so soft, yet so exciting, that he never wanted to leave it.
"Zach," Belinda would say in years to come, "tell the story of how we fell in love, the year we both forgot the flu shot."
Tuesday, April 1, 2014
Kim Goldberg's "The Sacred Cow of Editing."
British Columbia author Kim Goldberg has written a must-read article in the Winter 2014 issue of Write, the publication of The Writers' Union of Canada. To be honest, I had not heard of Kim Goldberg until I read this article, and as soon as I did, I used a search engine to find her contact information and wrote to her to congratulate her.
"The Sacred Cow of Editing" is the title of her article. Goldberg points out that, out of all the creative arts, only in the literary arts are creators made to feel that they need a second opinion (that of an editor) before going public with their creation. She writes, "I would far rather look back on and live with my own weaknesses in my work than with someone else's poor choices that I allowed to be imposed..."
Goldberg believes writers should do whatever they feels comfortable doing to achieve and realize their vision. In some cases, that may mean hiring a proofreader. In other instances, it may mean going for a walk and musing about what one wants to achieve.
Goldberg concludes with some thoughts about becoming philosophically at ease with one's work, and having a sense of wholeness or completeness within oneself without needing to seek the opinion of others as to whether one's work is good. She expresses it better than I have and I urge you to read her article.
I have thirty-five years of experience in getting published and being paid for my writing. Recently I offered to do some book reviewing free of charge in order to publicize my latest novel, The Songcatcher and Me, in the byline. I had a book review column for Forever Young Ottawa for fifteen years (before it folded) and now have reviews published frequently in Compulsive Reader, Canadian Materials, and the CCPA Monitor - evidence that I am not ignorant of the art of reviewing. I found that the editors of the two new publications who had "accepted" me as a reviewer were fond of futzing around with writers' work for no good reason. Consequently, I qui, and at present am reviewing for the three publications mentioned above.
I receive the newsletter of a writers' organization (not TWUC) which is offering a course on editing. For $75, aspiring authors are invited to a workshop in which, according to the leader, "we are going to hack each other's work apart."
Buyer, beware!
"The Sacred Cow of Editing" is the title of her article. Goldberg points out that, out of all the creative arts, only in the literary arts are creators made to feel that they need a second opinion (that of an editor) before going public with their creation. She writes, "I would far rather look back on and live with my own weaknesses in my work than with someone else's poor choices that I allowed to be imposed..."
Goldberg believes writers should do whatever they feels comfortable doing to achieve and realize their vision. In some cases, that may mean hiring a proofreader. In other instances, it may mean going for a walk and musing about what one wants to achieve.
Goldberg concludes with some thoughts about becoming philosophically at ease with one's work, and having a sense of wholeness or completeness within oneself without needing to seek the opinion of others as to whether one's work is good. She expresses it better than I have and I urge you to read her article.
I have thirty-five years of experience in getting published and being paid for my writing. Recently I offered to do some book reviewing free of charge in order to publicize my latest novel, The Songcatcher and Me, in the byline. I had a book review column for Forever Young Ottawa for fifteen years (before it folded) and now have reviews published frequently in Compulsive Reader, Canadian Materials, and the CCPA Monitor - evidence that I am not ignorant of the art of reviewing. I found that the editors of the two new publications who had "accepted" me as a reviewer were fond of futzing around with writers' work for no good reason. Consequently, I qui, and at present am reviewing for the three publications mentioned above.
I receive the newsletter of a writers' organization (not TWUC) which is offering a course on editing. For $75, aspiring authors are invited to a workshop in which, according to the leader, "we are going to hack each other's work apart."
Buyer, beware!
Friday, March 21, 2014
My review of Olivia Chow's "My Journey"
Today my review of Olivia Chow's memoir My Journey, appeared in Compulsive Reader. The link is below:
http://www.compulsivereader.com/2014/03/21/a-review-of-my-journey-by-olivia-chow/
http://www.compulsivereader.com/2014/03/21/a-review-of-my-journey-by-olivia-chow/
Tuesday, March 11, 2014
my book club and other things
Winter and flu have been keeping me busy, and here it is March. Yesterday was an exciting day for me. I pulled myself together and attended my book club at the library where we discussed Alice Munro's Dear Life. Generally, the other attendees liked the collection of short stories, which I had recommended, though we all agreed that we didn't much like the "postmodern" stories. In these, the reader is led to focus on an interesting character and situation, and then moves on to another, with the emotional and intellectual commitment we made to the first interesting character/situation subordinate in importance to another plot twist.
But only two of the stories were like that. Most of the stories were about women who felt so desperate to break out of their situation that they did dangerous things, like falling in love with a cold, nasty man, or running away from a domestic situation, out of the frying pan, into the fire, or putting up with dishonesty in a lover. My favourite was "Dolly", about an older couple whose relationship is threatened, or seems to be, by a door-to- door cosmetics saleswoman who turns out to be an old acquaintance. It is a hoot.
Since Alice Munro recently won the Nobel Prize for Literature, it was timely that we read her latest book. Let's hope it's not her last.
While ill, I read several good books, including Olivia Chow's My Journey, Sue Monk Kidd's The Invention of Wings, and Isabelle Allende's Maya's Notebook.
A poem of mine was published in Open Heart 8: Anthology of Canadian Poetry (Beret Days Press), 2014 ISBN 978-1-897497-94-4 Here it is:
Vincent Comes to the National Gallery
by Ruth Latta
We stroll past meadows, lavender,
white almonds on a turquoise sky,
sunflowers - close and personal -
and poppies graced by butterflies.
A workman's pair of beat-up boots,
two lovers on a forest stroll,
a large old woman in a field
and sheaves of wheat in yellow gold.
In this exhibit, no cafe,
no cornfield crows, no "Starry Night" -
too valuable to go on loan -
but we, in awe, say, "That's all right."
But only two of the stories were like that. Most of the stories were about women who felt so desperate to break out of their situation that they did dangerous things, like falling in love with a cold, nasty man, or running away from a domestic situation, out of the frying pan, into the fire, or putting up with dishonesty in a lover. My favourite was "Dolly", about an older couple whose relationship is threatened, or seems to be, by a door-to- door cosmetics saleswoman who turns out to be an old acquaintance. It is a hoot.
Since Alice Munro recently won the Nobel Prize for Literature, it was timely that we read her latest book. Let's hope it's not her last.
While ill, I read several good books, including Olivia Chow's My Journey, Sue Monk Kidd's The Invention of Wings, and Isabelle Allende's Maya's Notebook.
A poem of mine was published in Open Heart 8: Anthology of Canadian Poetry (Beret Days Press), 2014 ISBN 978-1-897497-94-4 Here it is:
Vincent Comes to the National Gallery
by Ruth Latta
We stroll past meadows, lavender,
white almonds on a turquoise sky,
sunflowers - close and personal -
and poppies graced by butterflies.
A workman's pair of beat-up boots,
two lovers on a forest stroll,
a large old woman in a field
and sheaves of wheat in yellow gold.
In this exhibit, no cafe,
no cornfield crows, no "Starry Night" -
too valuable to go on loan -
but we, in awe, say, "That's all right."
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)