For the last six months I've been participating in a book club. I have great respect for the background knowledge and analytical powers of several of the members. I feel kindly disposed to all of them; I like people who read.
On a couple of occasions only a few people have shown up and we have veered away from the book of the day towards a more general discussion. One participant, K (not her real initial) likes to complain about the sad state of literacy among young people today. Although I suspect that there is truth in her rants, I get contrary and start thinking of exceptions to her generalization, such as the twenty-year old from a working class family whose emails to me are well-composed, grammatically correct, and show a way with words.
Recently, the group discussed a biography of a famous deceased Canadian author, written by a well-known novelist of today. As the discussion went on, it became apparent that K and others had skimmed the book and had come to conclusions that were not substantiated by the text on the page. She and others also skipped the bibliography which listed the biographer's sources. K complained that the biographer's take on the late great author had destroyed her (K's) illusions and spoiled her enjoyment of the famous author's classic works. I and others pointed out that the biographer had consulted source materials; she hadn't fabricated the life story out of thin air.
The young are not the only ones with poor reading habits. One need not have a degree in English or a knowledge of research methods to read carefully what is printed on the page and to examine all parts of the book in one's hand, including the bibliography, the introduction, the author's bio note and so on.
Now, not all members of the group are of the "head in the sand" school of literary criticism. No one has actually said, "I don't know anything about art [in this case, literary art] but I know what I like," or "I know what I think, don't confuse me with facts." So I think I'll continue with the group, for now, and make nice. I'm learning from being there, though not learning what I anticipated.
Thursday, December 16, 2010
Saturday, November 27, 2010
The colour red
This Christmas, Santa is giving me the colour red.
Ever since childhood I've enjoyed wearing this bright colour, but recently I've become aware of its connotations. Of course, red always had connotations. When I was a young child, words and phrases like "Red menace" and "Red China", and "Reds under the beds", were commonly used, but I was oblivious to what was meant, and certainly wasn't making a political statement when I wore my red T-shirt.
Currently, red is associated with the political right in the United States. I believe this association began during election coverage some years ago, when a TV network assigned the colour red to designate the states where the Republicans won, and blue for states where the Democrats won.
This assignment of colours was jarring to me at first, because here in Canada, blue has been the Conservative Party's colour for many years, and red, the colour of the Liberal. I realized that this association has become deeply ingrained one Friday night when my husband and I were invited by some senior friends to have dinner with them at their retirement residence. On entering the main door, I was startled to see that most of the older adults in the main foyer were wearing red. What was the occasion? A Liberal Party fundraiser? Somehow I doubted it, since the M.P. and M.P.P. who serve that part of the city are both Conservatives.
It wasn't Valentine's Day or Canada Day either. Nor had Christmas taken me by surprise. The seniors in the residence made it a practice to wear red on Fridays to "support our troops." And there I was in my frequently-worn black T-shirt and black slacks. I murmured to my husband that I looked out of place in my Johnny Cash outfit.
Later, thinking about the evening, I recalled some of the words to Johnny Cash's song "The Man in Black". One line is, "I wear the black in mourning for the lives that could have been," and although I wore black just by chance that evening, I fit right in, for, like all Canadians, I support our troops and grieve for those who have died or have been injured, and hope that the time will come when our costly mission in Afghanistan will end.
The festive season brings with it much symbolism. Santa Claus, for instance, comes from the story of St. Nicholas, who is legendary for his generosity to the poor, and who is usually depicted in the robes of a bishop - red. So during this season I can feel good about wearing red - in honour of Santa.
Ever since childhood I've enjoyed wearing this bright colour, but recently I've become aware of its connotations. Of course, red always had connotations. When I was a young child, words and phrases like "Red menace" and "Red China", and "Reds under the beds", were commonly used, but I was oblivious to what was meant, and certainly wasn't making a political statement when I wore my red T-shirt.
Currently, red is associated with the political right in the United States. I believe this association began during election coverage some years ago, when a TV network assigned the colour red to designate the states where the Republicans won, and blue for states where the Democrats won.
This assignment of colours was jarring to me at first, because here in Canada, blue has been the Conservative Party's colour for many years, and red, the colour of the Liberal. I realized that this association has become deeply ingrained one Friday night when my husband and I were invited by some senior friends to have dinner with them at their retirement residence. On entering the main door, I was startled to see that most of the older adults in the main foyer were wearing red. What was the occasion? A Liberal Party fundraiser? Somehow I doubted it, since the M.P. and M.P.P. who serve that part of the city are both Conservatives.
It wasn't Valentine's Day or Canada Day either. Nor had Christmas taken me by surprise. The seniors in the residence made it a practice to wear red on Fridays to "support our troops." And there I was in my frequently-worn black T-shirt and black slacks. I murmured to my husband that I looked out of place in my Johnny Cash outfit.
Later, thinking about the evening, I recalled some of the words to Johnny Cash's song "The Man in Black". One line is, "I wear the black in mourning for the lives that could have been," and although I wore black just by chance that evening, I fit right in, for, like all Canadians, I support our troops and grieve for those who have died or have been injured, and hope that the time will come when our costly mission in Afghanistan will end.
The festive season brings with it much symbolism. Santa Claus, for instance, comes from the story of St. Nicholas, who is legendary for his generosity to the poor, and who is usually depicted in the robes of a bishop - red. So during this season I can feel good about wearing red - in honour of Santa.
Thursday, November 11, 2010
Remembering Friends
Like many Canadians, what I know about World War II is from history books,film, and first hand information from those older than myself. Today I wear a poppy in honour of my uncles, George and Joe, who served in the Canadian army in World War II. Both went overseas. Joe was a prisoner of war. Both survived the war,came home to their wives and raised families.
More recently, in teaching writing courses, I've met many people who have shared their memories of World War II with me. Today I think of the women who contributed memoir excerpts to my 1992 book, The Memory of All That: Canadian Women Remember World War II (Renfew, General Store Publishing House) Some of these women were in the armed forces; others were civilians; all of them were profoundly affected by the Second World War.
Among my writer friends were Lorne, who served as a mechanic in the R.C.A.F. and wrote of test-flying large aircraft on airfields in England, Glenn, a navigator in the R.C.A.F, and Ray, who was in the wartime Canadian Navy. They have passed on now.
Still alive and currently revising his memoirs, is Ernest, who was in the Canadian army in Europe.
Valerie, who was with the British Women's Auxiliary Air Force and served in the Middle East, has written of her wartime experiences for the Memory Project, and today is reading "For the Fallen" as part of the Remembrance Day observances at the retirement residence where she lives.
I have learned so much from all of them!
To quote John Lennon's In my Life: "Some are dead and some are living. In my life, I've loved them all,"
More recently, in teaching writing courses, I've met many people who have shared their memories of World War II with me. Today I think of the women who contributed memoir excerpts to my 1992 book, The Memory of All That: Canadian Women Remember World War II (Renfew, General Store Publishing House) Some of these women were in the armed forces; others were civilians; all of them were profoundly affected by the Second World War.
Among my writer friends were Lorne, who served as a mechanic in the R.C.A.F. and wrote of test-flying large aircraft on airfields in England, Glenn, a navigator in the R.C.A.F, and Ray, who was in the wartime Canadian Navy. They have passed on now.
Still alive and currently revising his memoirs, is Ernest, who was in the Canadian army in Europe.
Valerie, who was with the British Women's Auxiliary Air Force and served in the Middle East, has written of her wartime experiences for the Memory Project, and today is reading "For the Fallen" as part of the Remembrance Day observances at the retirement residence where she lives.
I have learned so much from all of them!
To quote John Lennon's In my Life: "Some are dead and some are living. In my life, I've loved them all,"
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
Excerpt from "Keeping Faith."
My new book, Winter Moon, (Ottawa, Baico, 2010, $18.95 ISBN 1-926596-92-1), a collection of my short stories, has just been published.
Some ideas are big enough for novels. Others can be developed in 2,000 to 3500 words. I take time out from working on a novel to write a short story when I get a suitable idea.
I'm always pleased when a story gets published, or wins a prize, but the thrill is temporary, as all too soon the magazine publishes the next issue, or the organization invites submissions to the next year's contest. Stories and poems are like autumn leaves, noticed in all their glory for a moment, but quickly turning into compost. Collecting the best into book form is one way of making them available to prospective readers for as long as the book is kept in the National Library.
Here is the first paragraph of one of the stories: "Keeping Faith."
"He kept a picture of his first wife, Faith, in a silver frame on a chest of drawers. For a long time I refused to admit even to myself that it bothered me. After all, Faith was dead. She wasn't an ex, always on the telephone nagging about child support payments and repairs to the house. As Wife Number Two, I should have considered myself lucky, judging from my colleagues' stories at work. Faith was out of the picture - at least, in one sense."
Some ideas are big enough for novels. Others can be developed in 2,000 to 3500 words. I take time out from working on a novel to write a short story when I get a suitable idea.
I'm always pleased when a story gets published, or wins a prize, but the thrill is temporary, as all too soon the magazine publishes the next issue, or the organization invites submissions to the next year's contest. Stories and poems are like autumn leaves, noticed in all their glory for a moment, but quickly turning into compost. Collecting the best into book form is one way of making them available to prospective readers for as long as the book is kept in the National Library.
Here is the first paragraph of one of the stories: "Keeping Faith."
"He kept a picture of his first wife, Faith, in a silver frame on a chest of drawers. For a long time I refused to admit even to myself that it bothered me. After all, Faith was dead. She wasn't an ex, always on the telephone nagging about child support payments and repairs to the house. As Wife Number Two, I should have considered myself lucky, judging from my colleagues' stories at work. Faith was out of the picture - at least, in one sense."
Saturday, October 23, 2010
Forgive, yes. Forget? Maybe
The other day at the library I picked up a free seniors' magazine, not the one I write for. I read it for a specific column by a writer I know. I sought that column first, skipping the many ads for retirement residences and avoiding the illness-related articles. But as I leafed through, I happened to glance at the editorial. The editor, who looks young in her photo, gave readers seven tips on how to have a good life as an oldster. Much of the advice was sound, but one item jarred: "Judge others less harshly."
In my experience (fifteen to twenty years) working with people older than myself, I have found that seniors don't judge others harshly. They are usually willing to make allowances and to look for extenuating circumstances. They remember the the rough edges they had when they were younger, and are generally tolerant, kind, and appreciative when treated kindly.
But life experience has also taught older people to recognize what's worthwhile and what's not. As a Reiki master once said to me, "We're too old to put up with things that aren't right."
Another article urged older adults to "let go of grudges, jealousy, guilt and regret" and not to be "stuck in negativity." On the surface, this advice seems sound. Reacting negatively sucks up energy that would be better spent on something enjoyable. Mulling over this advice, though, I concluded that it is glib. It glosses over the reality and the complexity of life. Few of us can say, "Je regrette rien," like Edith Piaf in her famous song. Moi? Je regrette beaucoup.
And, can you will a feeling away? Feelings in a particular situation may fade as one moves forward in life. Feelings change when we observe something or learn something that makes us feel differently.
I believe in forgiveness, sure, but should an older adult forgive someone who ripped him or her off in a serious way (or tried to) and then accept that person into his/her life as a bosom friend? Sometimes a little wariness is a healthy thing. Sheould a senior put himself or herself in close proximity to someone who deals in put-downs and passes them off as banter? ("Oh, you're just tooooo sensitive!")
The best predictor of future behaviour is past behaviour. Sure, some people grow and become better people. Some undergo transformative experiences that change the way they act toward others. And sometimes the change doesn't last.
All of us, including older adults, must look after our own well-being, and if that means keeping at arm's length certain people who have wronged you in the past (even by eroding your self-esteem) then so be it.
In my experience (fifteen to twenty years) working with people older than myself, I have found that seniors don't judge others harshly. They are usually willing to make allowances and to look for extenuating circumstances. They remember the the rough edges they had when they were younger, and are generally tolerant, kind, and appreciative when treated kindly.
But life experience has also taught older people to recognize what's worthwhile and what's not. As a Reiki master once said to me, "We're too old to put up with things that aren't right."
Another article urged older adults to "let go of grudges, jealousy, guilt and regret" and not to be "stuck in negativity." On the surface, this advice seems sound. Reacting negatively sucks up energy that would be better spent on something enjoyable. Mulling over this advice, though, I concluded that it is glib. It glosses over the reality and the complexity of life. Few of us can say, "Je regrette rien," like Edith Piaf in her famous song. Moi? Je regrette beaucoup.
And, can you will a feeling away? Feelings in a particular situation may fade as one moves forward in life. Feelings change when we observe something or learn something that makes us feel differently.
I believe in forgiveness, sure, but should an older adult forgive someone who ripped him or her off in a serious way (or tried to) and then accept that person into his/her life as a bosom friend? Sometimes a little wariness is a healthy thing. Sheould a senior put himself or herself in close proximity to someone who deals in put-downs and passes them off as banter? ("Oh, you're just tooooo sensitive!")
The best predictor of future behaviour is past behaviour. Sure, some people grow and become better people. Some undergo transformative experiences that change the way they act toward others. And sometimes the change doesn't last.
All of us, including older adults, must look after our own well-being, and if that means keeping at arm's length certain people who have wronged you in the past (even by eroding your self-esteem) then so be it.
Friday, October 15, 2010
Poor Relation
An old friend of mine once remarked that creative writing class is the poor relation of any program, whether it be at a community centre, continuing education facility or library. This remark arose when she, as a participant in one of my classes, and I, the instructor, were informed of a room change at the last minute. We had to tote all our books and papers to another location and were expected to set up heavy tables before other members of the group arose.
Generally I enjoy teaching writing classes, but it's because of the people I meet and the stories I hear, not because of the venues in which I have to teach. True, I remember one location which seemed ideal, a pleasant board room containing a large oblong table with plenty of space for everyone. It was the ideal democratic arrangement, once I got the door open. It was always a hassle to get the key, as the program administrator was never around when I arrived to teach.
I remember one centre where I never knew from one week to another where we would be meeting. At some point I complained that a space we had been assigned had no table, just chairs scattered randomly. "You mean you need a TABLE???" demanded the person in charge. When I said, "Yes, we need one to write on," she rolled her eyes. Imagine, people actually wanted to write - in a class called "Creative Writing!
My elderly friend who made the "poor relation" remark eventually moved from her condo to a retirement residence. As a volunteer, I led a class at this residence for a number of years and met many wonderful senior citizens there. Creative Writing was held either in the Activities Room or the Craft Room, whichever happened to be free, and usually the activities director had a "round table" arrangement set up for us.
Oddly, enough, though, it was at this well-run retirement residence that my students and I had a uncomfortable experience. On the designated day, the Activities Room was occupied by bridge players, so we were assigned to the Craft Room. The activities director told us that an all-women "barbershop" singing group (perhaps a branch of the "Sweet Adelines" - I can't remember for sure) was coming to entertain in the great room of the residence. They would need to leave their coats in the Craft Room closet before our class started, but that otherwise they wouldn't bother us. "Fine," I said.
My class included about ten women and three men, polite gentlemen in their eighties. They had been educated in the etiquette of bygone days - to rise when a woman entered the room, to hold a lady's chair when being seated at the dinner table, etc. No singers were around at 2:00 when our class began, so we settled at the table and I introduced the writing topic/challenge of the day.
At 2:30, when my writers were applying pens to paper, the door opened and in trooped a group of attractive middle aged women. They looked a bit startled to see us. They took off their coats - to start with. Some were carrying gorgeous green satin blouses on hangers. The singers had a costume for performances - dark skirts or slacks and identical blouses. Some came wearing the outfits; others intended to change into them on site.
In the Craft Room there was a one-person-at-a-time washroom. A few dove in there. Others, after some hesitation, stripped off their sweaters and T shirts and changed into their satin blouses. Meanwhile, the men in my group blushed and kept their heads down, their eyes firmly fixed on their pens and paper.
The activities director had mistaken the singers' time of arrival and hadn't realized they would need to change clothes.
Nothing quite so awkward has happened since in any of my classes. I still have to set up tables, though, or bring my husband along to help me. Also, it seems that just when a class gets underway, someone has to come into the room for a stack of chairs, a cardboard box, or the like. They can never wait until my class is over.
Why is creative writing the poor relation, the class that is imposed upon or shoved into a corner? Don't think I'm not assertive. I've ordered "movers" to come back later. I've complained about locations and demanded that a more suitable place be found. On one occasion, I took it upon myself to postpone a class for a week, informing the admnistrator by email that we would be back when there was a proper place for us to meet.
I think the problem lies with a general disrespect for writers and writing. Since most people learn the rudiments of writing in school, they think it's something anyone can do well - nothing special. They read articles in newspapers and magazines which flow simply and clearly and imagine that this simplicity and clarity is easily achieved. They don't realize that it is the product of talents honed over a lifetime, and of painstaking revision.
Program administrators don't like creative writing because it isn't flashy. Fifty people singing along and clapping in time to a musical entertainment is the sort of thing administrators like, because everyone seems engaged and happy. It makes for good photographs or videos. (Never mind that it's a passive type of activity and that people may be present for want of better alternatives.) Creative writing isn't flashy. People sit around a table writing, quietly discussing, reading to each other, occasionally laughing, and working home alone. It's too solitary and introspective to appeal widely in a world where it's more popular to exercise your body than your mind.
Meanwhile, I'll continue to assert myself on behalf of our "craft and sullen art."
Generally I enjoy teaching writing classes, but it's because of the people I meet and the stories I hear, not because of the venues in which I have to teach. True, I remember one location which seemed ideal, a pleasant board room containing a large oblong table with plenty of space for everyone. It was the ideal democratic arrangement, once I got the door open. It was always a hassle to get the key, as the program administrator was never around when I arrived to teach.
I remember one centre where I never knew from one week to another where we would be meeting. At some point I complained that a space we had been assigned had no table, just chairs scattered randomly. "You mean you need a TABLE???" demanded the person in charge. When I said, "Yes, we need one to write on," she rolled her eyes. Imagine, people actually wanted to write - in a class called "Creative Writing!
My elderly friend who made the "poor relation" remark eventually moved from her condo to a retirement residence. As a volunteer, I led a class at this residence for a number of years and met many wonderful senior citizens there. Creative Writing was held either in the Activities Room or the Craft Room, whichever happened to be free, and usually the activities director had a "round table" arrangement set up for us.
Oddly, enough, though, it was at this well-run retirement residence that my students and I had a uncomfortable experience. On the designated day, the Activities Room was occupied by bridge players, so we were assigned to the Craft Room. The activities director told us that an all-women "barbershop" singing group (perhaps a branch of the "Sweet Adelines" - I can't remember for sure) was coming to entertain in the great room of the residence. They would need to leave their coats in the Craft Room closet before our class started, but that otherwise they wouldn't bother us. "Fine," I said.
My class included about ten women and three men, polite gentlemen in their eighties. They had been educated in the etiquette of bygone days - to rise when a woman entered the room, to hold a lady's chair when being seated at the dinner table, etc. No singers were around at 2:00 when our class began, so we settled at the table and I introduced the writing topic/challenge of the day.
At 2:30, when my writers were applying pens to paper, the door opened and in trooped a group of attractive middle aged women. They looked a bit startled to see us. They took off their coats - to start with. Some were carrying gorgeous green satin blouses on hangers. The singers had a costume for performances - dark skirts or slacks and identical blouses. Some came wearing the outfits; others intended to change into them on site.
In the Craft Room there was a one-person-at-a-time washroom. A few dove in there. Others, after some hesitation, stripped off their sweaters and T shirts and changed into their satin blouses. Meanwhile, the men in my group blushed and kept their heads down, their eyes firmly fixed on their pens and paper.
The activities director had mistaken the singers' time of arrival and hadn't realized they would need to change clothes.
Nothing quite so awkward has happened since in any of my classes. I still have to set up tables, though, or bring my husband along to help me. Also, it seems that just when a class gets underway, someone has to come into the room for a stack of chairs, a cardboard box, or the like. They can never wait until my class is over.
Why is creative writing the poor relation, the class that is imposed upon or shoved into a corner? Don't think I'm not assertive. I've ordered "movers" to come back later. I've complained about locations and demanded that a more suitable place be found. On one occasion, I took it upon myself to postpone a class for a week, informing the admnistrator by email that we would be back when there was a proper place for us to meet.
I think the problem lies with a general disrespect for writers and writing. Since most people learn the rudiments of writing in school, they think it's something anyone can do well - nothing special. They read articles in newspapers and magazines which flow simply and clearly and imagine that this simplicity and clarity is easily achieved. They don't realize that it is the product of talents honed over a lifetime, and of painstaking revision.
Program administrators don't like creative writing because it isn't flashy. Fifty people singing along and clapping in time to a musical entertainment is the sort of thing administrators like, because everyone seems engaged and happy. It makes for good photographs or videos. (Never mind that it's a passive type of activity and that people may be present for want of better alternatives.) Creative writing isn't flashy. People sit around a table writing, quietly discussing, reading to each other, occasionally laughing, and working home alone. It's too solitary and introspective to appeal widely in a world where it's more popular to exercise your body than your mind.
Meanwhile, I'll continue to assert myself on behalf of our "craft and sullen art."
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)