Musing on a Quote

Here's a quote I want to remember.

"This is how novels are nourished—on their authors' passions and obsessions, all those things that cannot be exposed overtly to the outside world for fear of appearing insane...fragments of truth and fantasy." (page 207)

It's from Tatiana deRosnay's biography Manderley Forever about Daphne du Maurier—a book that had mixed reviews but leaves me wanting to read more about this fascinating author.  I've very much enjoyed deRosnay's other books and, of course, du Maurier's Rebecca—which I read in German since it was in my dad's collection.  A 1938 international best seller and still in print.

TOK - a rehash

I attended TOK Winnipeg on Saturday. Held at the Manitoba Museum Auditorium, the free, public symposium was surprisingly not well attended. Is that because ‘free’ is too good to be true, or because it was poorly advertised? It’s unfortunate because the speakers were engaging and dynamic—the topics relevant and important.

What is TOK? From the handout: “TOK, the digital magazine of Diaspora Dialogues, publishes fiercely honest, freshly original writing from our cities, and from around the world.”  

Stories reflect a search for identity. I can relate. Much of CanLit, when I was growing up was about isolation on the prairies and the weather. There were no stories of immigrant girls like me. I tried hard to be invisible by fitting in. It worked. . . sort of.   But as I continued to search for my stories, I realized I had to write them myself.

The TOK speakers included David A Robertston (DAR), Sheena Kamal (SK), Minister Faust (MF), Marilyn Biederman (MB), Deborah Sun de la Cruz (DS), John Toews (JT), Niigaanwewidam James Sinclair (NJS), and Ify Chiwetelu (IC). 

Here’s a mishmash rehash of my notes—(the ones I can read).

Young people today are more city-based and want to read about their experiences. (MF) 

We reflect ourselves in our stories. (DAR)  

Independent presses are important to these new voices. Winnipeg is a hub for publishing these new stories. (NJS) 

CanLit is a dusty, old castle, while others are out in the meadow enjoying sunshine and new growth. (SK) I love that metaphor! Our home is in our art. 

There’s an international demand for Canadian settings. 2020 Frankfurt Book Fair will highlight Canadian authors, exposing them to eighty thousand new publishers. (MB)

Stop hiding like there’s something wrong with you. (MF) 

Audio books are a big growth industry and there’s a new course at Ryerson specializing in this. (MB)

What does ‘literary’ fiction really mean? What is ‘genre’ fiction? (DAR, SK)

What is CanLit? Answer is in “Refuse.” Stop succumbing to someone else’s definition. (NJS, MB)

When pitching her logline, SK bypassed the Canadian publishing scene and went straight to a pitch-fest in NYC. Learn by doing. (SK)

Always ask writers how they make their money. (MF)

DAR didn't know who he was until he was older. Inspired by the things that were absent. Intergenerational trauma must be healed by reconciling with fathers. Graphic novels show, don’t tell. (DAR)

Believe in yourself. Do the work. Be excited about yourself. (SK)

“Unless the lion learns to write, the tales of the hunt will always reflect the truths of the hunter.” MF

Interview your relatives. Get their authentic stories. (MF)

Do people really have conversations about balsamic vinegar?” (IC)

Canada: founded on oppression and genocide. (MF)

Connection between hip hop and country music: both tell stories. (MF)

It’s ‘story’ that makes us different from other life forms. We learn history through story. (MF)

Robert Sawyer said, “You can’t punch your way to Utopia.” Self-determination begins with self-description. Fiction can show us a better way.  (MF)

Just a brief summary of a day of thought-provoking presentations.  I'm feeling empowered knowing that the next generation is telling their stories with energy and conviction. 

Trails of Summer

It’s been a great summer here in Winnipeg—one of the best. (But then, my memory’s spotty and every precious summer is the best.) No mosquitoes—except the one that got me on the ankle the other day. No forest fires—although we had a couple of hazy days from eastern fires. No tornadoes—although Alonsa, only an hour west of here, had a bad one with a fatality. But here, in my southwest corner of the city, summer’s been near perfect. 

I’ve enjoyed every moment of it and spent happy hours biking the Harte and Grand Trunk Trails. Great summer for berries and I’ve stashed away containers of saskatoons and chokecherries. 

If there was one word to describe this summer for me, it would ‘biking.’  I’ve been trying to convince myself that I can do a more ambitious bike trip along the Baltic next summer and have discovered that I love it. It’s so much faster than walking, but slow enough to experience nature. . . like flowers and clouds.

Now if only I had a dog's nose...

Lessons from Mom

Mom was tiny…under five feet…but she had a big life. After all, her father was once a landowner with a windmill back before collectives and kulaks. He dreamed big…until the liquidation of kulaks crushed his windmill, his family and finally his life during the Great Terror.

Mom reached her tiny adult height at the age of twelve. The orphaned kids moved from Siberian exile to the prosperous Third Reich. But life under Hitler was no better than life under Stalin. Mom worked long hours in a munitions factory in East Prussia, then spent the winter months of 1945 trying to flee the Red Army. She failed. After spending two and a half years in a forced labour camp in the Ural Mountains, she kept putting one foot in front of the other until she ended up here in Winnipeg. Winnipeg in the mid-50s welcomed big dreamers—even little women—and Mom had enough life savvy to prosper.

While she never became fluent in English, she understood finances. Interest payments were evil. Mom never owned a credit card—never understood their purpose. All those years of powerlessness gave her a steely determination to never be poor or hungry again. Within twelve years of arriving in Canada my parents owned a mortgage-free, new house; soon after that, a cottage. We always had a car and a truck—later, a boat and a snowmobile. Zero debt. My parents traveled back to Europe, down to Florida and often to BC.  Mom worked hard for those material things. They were important to her. But she could never regain the family that she’d lost.

As a child, I resented her workaholic attitude and miserly ways. After all, there’s more to success than just material goods. In many ways, I was under pressure to also have material success. To study literature and strive for an artistic career was beyond Mom’s comprehension. I let her down. She once complained, “I never survived Siberia so that my daughter could freeze on the streets of Winnipeg.” (I worked as a mail carrier to pay the bills that my literary ambition could not.)

I never knew how hard it would be to achieve my writing goals. But my mom taught me to never give up. And on this, the seventh anniversary of her death, I remind myself to keep going—to keep chasing that dream—step by step, word by word, book by book. And for that determination, I thank her.

Is it really dead?

Gardening teaches us many things that we can apply to other areas—especially in a writer’s life. One thing I’ve noted of late is that dead things are sometimes not really dead.  

We humans can determine death by listening for a heartbeat, but what about with plants? When a potted plant doesn’t get enough water and shrivels up, is it really dead? Maybe or maybe not. Sometimes a bit of TLC will revive it. But when it’s really dead, no amount of water or care will help.  

Some of my manuscripts hide, comatose, in rarely opened drawers or computer files. Maybe words, once written, also die without light...or should I say...without readers. 

On the other hand, maybe the comatose stories…like Sleeping Beauty…just need someone who believes in them. Some of these stories just might respond to some TLC.  A bit of revision—some cutting, some new scenes—maybe there’s still some life in them. Maybe they’ll still grow into a story worth sharing. 

As for my neglected hanging basket. I think it’s dead. 

Genealogy and Story

I attended a genealogy conference in Calgary on the weekend. It was great to connect (and re-connect) with people who share a similar history and interest in their immigrant families. I met up with several people from my 2004 roots tour of Ukraine. It had been life-changing to walk the land of my grandparents, to imagine my mother playing near their windmill and to admire the industrious storks who still prefer the highest points for their huge nests.

Many conference attendees families lived in similar scattered villages of Eastern Europe—including the present-day countries of Russia, Ukraine, Poland, the Czech Republic and Hungary. These ethnic German families endured expropriation, collectivization, famine, war, exile, homelessness—often through Stalin’s terror and/or Hitler’s ambition.  Others left earlier and were able to avoid the hellhole that Eastern Europe became in the  twentieth century.

Some of these people, like my parents, chose to suppress their memories when they came to Canada. Others, lost touch with extended family members because of the extreme chaos of war. Documents and photographs were destroyed or lost. Family history could not be passed down to the next generation. 

Now I have a confession to make. I haven't been overly interested in genealogy. All those dates and the impossible-to-decipher handwriting of old or foreign languages blurs my eyes and mind.  I’m more interested in story and in what makes people tick. Genealogy is an incredibly useful tool for exploring the past—but for me, it's not an end in itself.

I very much appreciate the effort that genealogists put into gathering, organizing and translating the documents of the past. The old maps and maze of online data sources shine light on yesterdays otherwise swallowed up by the force of time. Family history is like a puzzle and finding all the pieces is one thing...but putting them into a complete picture...well that's the fun part. 

          While in Calgary, I attended workshops about East Prussia, about the EWZ files, about the 1930 purges and more. Dave Obee's talk about the Great Terror was especially engaging because my grandfather was arrested and shot in 1937. With enough research, and hopefully some travel, I'll continue to try and morph those dates and names into story. I'm grateful for groups like SGGEE who help me on my journey. These are my people. 

Reserve Visit

I had an opportunity to visit a reserve here in Manitoba this past week and found the experience quite interesting and a tad terrifying. The terrifying part refers to the hoard of horse flies—the locals call them bull flies—that swarmed my vehicle as I slowed down to park. I felt like I was in a Hitchcock movie. While I did get used to the constant hum of the flying brutes, I never got used to their size or their number. 

Once I put a cover on my head, I was braver about checking out my surroundings. An acquaintance of mine, teaching at the modern, handsome Lawrence Sinclair Memorial School, had invited me up to do a science lesson and a book reading. Her suite in the recently-built teacher residence included a spare bedroom.  

About three hours north of the city, on the western shores of Lake Winnipeg, Jackhead is a tiny community of about two hundred people. There are no stores or commercial businesses on the reserve—just a nursing station and a K to 9 school. There’s a mix of new and old buildings and construction dominated my impression of the community.

It’s a beautiful location. I visited the beach area twice during my stay to watch the pelicans. Of course, I had to collect a stone or two. After all, stones tell stories, and there are stories in Jackhead that need telling. I told the children, that those are their stones—their stories—and that they need to ask questions and listen to the answers. 

It was curious that while my friend's front window looked out over the school and a new structure being built to specialize in counselling for traumatized children—the back window faced a crumbling church, St. James Anglican, leftover from a bygone era. An overgrown cemetery looked beautiful in the June evening light as a crow posed, like only crows can, on one of the crosses. 

       

The students themselves were a delight—and as bright or as needy—as any I’ve encountered in my classes here in the city over the past few years. In spite of the bugs and the long gravel road, this was a fun and educational adventure. Kudos to the hard-working staff at the Jackhead school. Summer holidays well-deserved for everyone.