Yesterday marked the autumn equinox, the first day of fall, and today the rains are forecast, reinforcing the fact that the colder season is just around the corner. Thanks to a neighbor who dropped off a generous box of purple grapes, I’m about to make a batch of jelly. When that’s done, I’ll tackle the Asian pears and turn them into chutney. Hopefully, the rain will ease long enough for me to pull the last of the tomatoes from the garden and clean up the basil bed too. In the meantime, I’m curling up with a good book. Here’s what I’m reading this month.
With Malice by Eileen Cook
One More Croissant for the Road by Felicity Cloake
Last week brought to mind the words of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow:
Be still, sad heart! And cease repining;
Behind the clouds is the sun still shining;
Thy fate is the common fate of all,
Into each life some rain must fall . . .
Here on the west coast, the ‘rain’ we experienced was the ash fallout from the horrendous wildfires in California, Oregon and Washington. We’re still living with smoky skies and poor air quality as I write these words, but we’re far luckier than those who are living in the line of fire. Fires on the west coast, hurricanes out east and a worldwide pandemic. No wonder the world seems on edge.
I was on edge this week too. I lost a full day of writing because of a massive Windows update. Yes, I’d saved, or at least I thought my computer had, but it turns out the computer save function goes to a temporary file. In the past, I’d always been able to recover temporary files but not anymore. Not with Windows 10. A little rain must fall . . .
As Longfellow said, however, behind the clouds the sun is still shining. And in my case that sun came in the form of an interview by the editor of Second Opinion QB. It was lovely to chat with Lois Sampson. If you’re interested in our conversation, you’ll find it here: https://secondopinionqb.ca/qb-author-taps-into-young-adult-scene/
Since I opened with a somewhat bleak Longfellow quote, here’s something to remember when life seems especially dark:
I think of
the dog days of summer as covering all of August – that time when life seems to
slow down. In years past, people often left town in August, though that’s not
so much the case these days with Covid. But August remains a month when life
seems more leisurely . . . work recedes . . . meals are simpler (popsicles for
lunch, anyone?) and even clothing is lighter.
Well, depending
on who you want to believe, the dog days of summer may end next week (I’m not
impressed; that reminds me of fall and I’m not ready for sweaters and slippers).
In ancient
times, the Romans associated the dog days with the Dog Star, Sirius, which happens
to be the brightest star in the night sky.
It’s so bright the Romans thought the earth received heat from it. In
the summer, Sirius rises and sets with the sun and at one point in July, it actually
conjuncts the sun. Considered a
particularly potent time, the Roman’s deemed the 20 days before this
conjunction and the 20 days after as ‘the dog days of summer.’ That meant the dog days could run anywhere
from late July to late August, and that’s still the belief in many European
cultures today.
However,
nothing stays the same, including the constellations in our sky. Given the
precession of the equinoxes (basically the drift of our nighttime
constellations) the conjunction of Sirius to our sun takes place earlier. So, these days the Farmer’s Almanac lists the
dog days as beginning July 3rd and ending August 11th.
Personally,
I’m backing the Romans. Mind you, they also thought the dog days of August was
an evil period of time when “the sea boiled, the wine turned sour, dogs grew
mad and men were plagued with hysteria.”
They were so fearful they generally sacrificed a dog to appease the
Gods.
There’s no need for that around here. In my little world, the sea is calm, the wine is crisp and the dogs are happy. Yes, we’re still dealing with Covid and all that the pandemic entails, but somehow during the dog days of August even that doesn’t feel quite as bad as it did a few months ago. Happy August everybody.
Summer has finally arrived in the Pacific Northwest, bringing sunshine, warmer temperatures and garden happiness. Our veggies have stopped pouting and are galloping to catch up to where they normally would be at this time of year. It’s been an odd gardening year though. Summer started out cool and wet; we’ve been dealing with Covid restrictions and stock limitations at many garden centres; and we’ve been in observation mode in our new garden – watching what flowers when, checking out the light levels and exposure patterns, and planning for next year. It’s left me more time to read . . . and I have a lovely patio where I can enjoy a good book. Here’s what I’m reading this month.
The word influencer is used these days to describe a
person with the ability to influence public buying habits by promoting or
recommending products or services on social media. People make entire careers out
of being influencers.
In truth, we’re all influencers in one way or another. Life is an interactive gig. We can’t help but be touched and impacted by people, often for as long as a relationship lasts and sometimes even after. But occasionally, a single brief encounter can influence a life. Or a career.
Decades ago, when I was starting out as a journalist,
I was lucky enough to interview Dr. Elisabeth Kubler-Ross. This was probably
fifteen years after she published her classic book ‘On Death and Dying’, but before
she was inducted into the National Women’s Hall of Fame. She was in the prime of her career at the time
and landing the interview was something of a coup. I can’t remember how it came
about but I remember the interview itself quite clearly.
She was humble and unassuming, but strongly committed to erasing the taboos around death, and more than willing to deviate from the traditional questions I was expected to ask. I had a deep personal interest in the spiritual side of death, and while that was covered in many of her books, she was also becoming known for exploring more mystical elements like near-death and out-of-body experiences, even mediumship, all elements that didn’t go over well in the traditional medical sphere she operated in.
We spoke for several hours, much longer than she’d originally agreed to. I remember the passion she had for her subject, and how engaged she was with me, a young newbie journalist starting out. She was intensely encouraging, suggesting other books I could read, places I could go to explore further (this was pre-internet) my interest in the spiritual side of death and dying.
Her influence has stayed with me, both in my personal life
as I’ve witnessed people I love passing on, and also in my work. I relied on
Kubler-Ross’s five stages of grief when Cate, the heroine in No Right Thing,
had to say goodbye to someone she loved. I turned to Kubler-Ross’s work when I
wrote The Art of Getting Stared At, utilizing the five stages of grief
when Sloane loses all her hair because of alopecia. And I’m using the mystical,
spiritual side of Kubler Ross’s research in my work-in-progress, Something
About Julian.
A brief encounter in my life but an influential one. Elisabeth Kubler-Ross would have been 93 today. I leave you with one of her many wonderful quotes.
July 1st will be different this year without the concerts, large street parties and especially without the fireworks (Team Sheltie is quite happy the latter are cancelled). I hope you get a chance to celebrate somehow. I’ll be away from my desk, aiming to catch the sunrise and hopefully the sunset too. We aren’t a perfect country by any stretch, but I’m proud to call myself a Canadian. Enjoy the holiday everybody!
I had an interesting lesson in perspective last week
when I received my second review for No Right Thing.
Perspective is all about our individual reality. A luscious, triple decker ice cream cone
viewed through the eyes of a hungry five-year-old will elicit a far different
reaction than the same ice cream cone viewed through the eyes of a diabetic adult
who also has a heart condition.
On an intellectual level I understand that my taste in
movies, restaurants, shoes, art, politicians or books may not be your taste.
That’s a good thing. Diversity is healthy.
Intellectually, I also understand that reviewers have different
tastes too. The key word in that sentence is intellectually. Because even
with over 20 books published, I still have the ability to be emotionally impacted
by a less than stellar review.
Same book, two different readers. One found the plot
predictable and the main character one dimensional. The other found the plot richly
layered and the main character fascinating.
The Kirkus review upset me. I’d be lying if I said otherwise.
I had a few rough days wondering if I’d failed in what I set out to achieve in
the novel. Kirkus and CM reviews are read by the bookstore owners, librarians and
educators who are trying to decide where to allocate their book buying funds. A
bad review in that kind of publication can make a major difference to a writer’s
bottom line.
I had to remind myself that reviews are, as one writer
friend used to say, out of my sphere of influence. There is nothing I can do to
influence them. All I can do is write the books, send them out into the world,
and hope they are well-received.
My lesson for the week was the reminder that
perspective is subjective. Perspective comes from personal taste, life experiences
and expectations, among other things. It varies from moment to moment, day to day,
mood to mood. And it certainly varies from person to person.
Not only should I remember that but I should celebrate
it too. Because what kind of world would it be if we all thought and believed
the same thing?
As I write
this, summer is only four days away. It’s been a different spring. We’ve had
wetter, cooler weather than normal for this time of year; we’re still spending more
time at home because of Covid precautions; and we’re dealing with more wildlife
than we’re used to in our new garden too. Specifically, rabbits. Mom and Dad are
regular visitors to the front lawn, and we’re (mildly) content to let them nibble
on the grass. It’s less for us to cut. However, Mom and Dad are clearly using
our back garden, where we grow vegetables, as a day care. And an all-you-can-eat
buffet. We’ve chased four babies out so far and Mr. Petrol Head continues to
string chicken wire to prevent access. But those little guys are smaller than a
pound of butter and can squeeze through the tiniest of holes. We’ve seeded
beans three times, zucchini twice and lettuce more times than I can count. Between
the rabbits and their partners in crime, the slugs, we aren’t faring all that
well in the food growing department.
The neighbors are properly sympathetic. They loaned us their live catch rabbit trap, so we baited and waited. But before we could catch a single rabbit, they needed their trap back. They had a hungry critter in their back yard too. We called the hardware store. There’d been a run on live traps; they were out. We bought more chicken wire and continued with our patch job until chicken wire became scarce. Another neighbor has suggested we borrow his leaf blower to tackle the problem. “Herd them out with fear,” he suggested.
We aren’t that desperate. At least not yet. But it might come to that. We’re seeding more beans and zucchini tonight. We’ll see how it goes. Meantime, to lower my blood pressure and keep me sane, I’m doing a lot of reading. Here’s what I’m reading this month.
When we Believed in Mermaids by Barbara O’Neal
Boy Giant: Son of Gulliver by Michael Morpurgo
Renewal: How Nature Awakens Our
Creativity, Compassion and Joy by Andres R. Edward
Today happens to be my anniversary and though the news of the world is grim, I’m choosing to focus on happiness. Here’s a blog post I wrote five years ago in honor of my husband. It’s as true now as it was back then.
Happy anniversary to my better half . . . a guy who wears a variety of hats: Mr. Petrol Head, Dad, son and lord & master over Team Sheltie (and thank God someone is in control of those two).
The phrase
‘better half’ is something of a cliché these days. While it’s come to mean the
superior half of a married couple, it originally referred to a person so dear
that he or she was more than half of a person’s being. Whatever way you look at
it, the intent is clear: someone who is good and true and holds a place of deep
importance in one’s life.
That would
be my better half. Much has been written about the wealth of support writers
receive from editors and readers and critique partners and writing friends. It’s
support we depend on and appreciate. But a writer’s better half is rarely
mentioned. It’s too bad. They’re a silent (and sometimes not so silent) yet
intimate companion on this crazy publishing journey, a journey they didn’t
always expect when they took their vows. In our case, there were signs but I’m
pretty sure Mr. Petrol Head chose to ignore them.
Over the years, he has offered advice and solace, he has paid the bills when my writing didn’t, he has brainstormed plots and character arcs, he’s made too many dinners to count and he spent as much time as I did with our children so I could have this career. He built a sluice box for my gold rush book, designed business cards and websites, and he gave me innumerable hugs when the journey seemed too tough to manage. He has helped me make sense of royalty statements, understand the business side of publishing better than some publishers could and he has pulled me back from the brink when I’ve been ready to press send on an irate email that needed a more tempered response.
He accepted
without reservation my decision to trade a lucrative and successful job as a
journalist for the uncertain and low paying job of a novelist. He has believed
in me and loved me and never once complained that things didn’t turn out quite
the way he expected on the career front. He is the wisdom and calm in my world.
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