Blog Mea Culpa (already)

I know, I know. I swore up and down my blog last week that come hell or high water (or both), I was going to stick to three topics only in my blog. After reading article after article from blog experts telling me that a good blog should really focus on one topic only, rather than the 62 different topics I had covered in just about as many days, I decided I would listen to them.

Since I knew that focusing on only one topic was just about out of the question for a brain like mine, I listed three topics I would blog about – only.  I would write about my journey into the world of publishing with my new memoir, Love, Complicated. I’d share some excerpts from the book from time to time and the many writing tips I learned over the years while writing it. And lastly, because it’s so important to me, I’d write about Fetal Alcohol Spectrum Disorder, the cluster of disabilities, including brain damage, caused by the use of alcohol during pregnancy. My adopted-at-birth son was diagnosed with FASD when he was six. Not surprisingly, FASD figures highly in my book.

Those three topics kinda related to one another, I thought.

Yet here I am, only one week later, and all I want to talk about are the movies my husband and I just saw at the Toronto International Film Festivall (tiff) in the last two days. I should have known better than to make idle promises. But I’ll be right back on course with tomorrow’s blog. Honest.

The first movie we saw was In Darkness, a movie that Sony Classics will be releasing in both Canada and the U.S. in the next few weeks. It’s a Canadian, Polish and German co-production, a story about a petty thief who hides a group of Jews in the sewers of Poland during WWII, to save them from the Nazis. It’s beautifully made, with gripping realism. A four hanky movie with enough redemptive scenes to make it all bearable. Superb acting, cinematography, art design and directing. Agnieska Hollander, a well-known Polish director whose movie credits include Academy Award winner Europa, Europa, has a firm hand on every scene.  I can’t recommend it enough. Just don’t forget the hankies.

The lesser, more indie, art-house type films we saw were Behold the Lamb from Northern Ireland, and Footnote from Israel. It’s fun to take your chances at tiff with unknown movies, and if you’re lucky, you get to see little gems like both these well-acted, thoughtful films. There are Q&As with the directors after the Tiff films, so it’s great to get behind the scenes info and ‘the making of’ background, kinda like the Features sections on rented DVD.  

It was fun being out on King Street tonight, feeling the buzz of the tiff scene with the hundreds of other movie-goers. Sure, it’s a pain-in-the-ass to get tickets, wait in rush lines and spend $22 a ticket (!), but Toronto is really lucky to have this cultural event take over the town once a year. Why not be part of it. Next year, if I decide I can part with the money, and that’s a big if, I’m going to buy myself a pass (maybe $400 or something like that) and just go see dozens and dozens of movies in a week, and maybe even take in a gala party or two.

If I’m lucky, I’ll get to see, OMG, really OMG, real live movie stars. Tonight, I only got to clap my eyes on Atom Egoyan walking around the block with his cell phone pressed to his ear making dinner plans, and three goofy-looking guys from Corner Gas talking to a camera. Next year I’m setting my sites a little higher. Maybe Brad and Angie. 

Take it from me. Be Safe: have an alcohol-free pregnancy

Every year, 3000 children in Canada are born with Fetal Alcohol Spectrum Disorder (FASD).  FASD affects over 300,000 Canadians at an estimated cost of $2 million dollars per person over the lifetime.

FASD is an umbrella term used to describe the range of disabilities caused ONLY by the use of alcohol during a pregnancy. The most serious disability is brain damage.  My son, adopted at birth, was diagnosed with FASD at age six, and yes, he's brain damaged.

FASD is irreversible. It’s a lifelong disability. There is no cure, but it IS preventable.

That’s the message a group of parents and professionals, including myself, were spreading this morning to honour international FASD Awareness day. Around the world, people like us were doing the same, as we’ll do every year on September 9, the ninth day of the ninth month.

Dozens of us assembled in the Great Hall of Toronto’s Union Station to greet commuters on their way to work. Looking a little silly with our t-shirts stuffed with balloons to emulate pregnant women, we passed out brochures, rang bells and gave speeches to reach the hordes of incoming commuters rushing through the train station.

At 9:09, we stood in silence for a pregnant pause. During my silence, I could feel tears well up, thinking about my son and the hardships his disability have brought both him and our family. Our son’s brain damage affects his ability to learn, concentrate, remember things, interact socially, and understand cause and effect. He has a sweet and kind spirit, but dropped out of school and is unable to hold a job. At 24, we're still helping him find his place in the world.

This is not what you  want this for your child. Or anyone’s child. Trust me.

There is no known safe level of alcohol use during pregnancy, and there is NO safe time to drink. Many people think that it’s okay to have a drink or two after a few months when the baby’s brain has stopped growing. Not true. A baby’s brain is developing throughout pregnancy, so the safest choice is no alcohol at all.

One kind of alcohol is no different from another. All alcohol harms, whether it’s beer, coolers, wine or spirits.

Many women understandably worry about the few drinks they may have had before they knew they were pregnant. Having a small amount of alcohol before you knew is not likely to harm your baby, but it’s essential to stop drinking as soon as you know.

My son’s birthmother was a binge drinker. We didn’t know, though, until he was diagnosed with FASD and we went back to her with the diagnosis. She then admitted her drinking habits. This is not an uncommon story. Few people ever heard of FASD when my son was born 24 years ago, and most people, including doctors, didn’t have a clue how dangerous it was to drink during pregnancy.

But now we DO KNOW. The message is clear. Don’t drink while pregnant.

So pass on this recipe for a  tasty ‘mocktail’ to any pregnant woman you might know:

                                   Backyard Caesar Mocktail

1. Rim a tall glass with fresh lime and celery salt
2. Fill the glas with ice and add 2 tp spicy BBQ sauce, ¼ oz. lime juice and 4 oz. Clamato.
3. Stir to mix. Garnish with a beef pepperette
   

For more non-alcoholic recipes:  www.lcbo.com/socialresponsibility/mocktails.shtml

To learn more about FASD, ask questions or share concerns, call:

Motherisk 1-877-FAS-INFO (I-877-327-4636

Your healthcare provider

Your local health unit

Telehealth Ontario 1-866-797-0000

For more information:

www.alcoholfreepregnancy.ca

Writers (and everyone else) need friends and critics, not trolls

Writers need thick skins. We’re not the only ones of course, but shopping a book around for a publisher is tough, and it’s the rare writer who doesn’t meet with a stack of rejection notices along the way. So until I take the seriously good advice from Catherine Ryan Howard’s delightful and helpful blog, Catherine Caffeinated, and choose the self-publishing route, I’m trying to toughen up.

I’ve learned from the book editors I’ve used for my memoir Love, Complicated, that criticism can be highly constructive. Yet, I still bristle with hurt sometimes when my book or writing is criticized. I’m not sure why since overall, good solid constructive criticism has only served to improve my writing. I’ve had to ask myself why then, do I sometimes lose perspective and get all defensive with some people.

I found the answer this morning when I read a passage in a blog by Michael Hyatt, the Chair of Thomas Nelson Publishers.

“You have to distinguish between friends, critics and trolls,”  Hyatt says:

     * Friends love you and are willing to share with you the truth, even if it hurts a little bit.

     * Critics don’t have anything personal against you; they simply disagree with you.

     * Trolls are spoiling for a fight. They attack you because something is wrong with their heart. My best advice is to ignore them. If you engage them, it only strengthens their resolve.

Okay friends and critics, sock it to me if you must. Notice to all trolls: just stay away. And not just when you're talking about my book. I don't need trolls in my life for anything. I'm hard enough on myself. I don't need any help.

The experts agree: no more than three blog topics

I’m not a highly focused person.

I probably don’t need to tell my readers this. All we need to do is take a look at the subjects of my blogs to see what I’m talking about:mandel bread, the Jewish biscotti; a new photography app for smartphones; spring returns to my garden; doctors say grumpiness helps us live longer; Fetal Alcohol Spectrum Disorder, my son’s disability; completing my new book; the beauty of collective nouns; one minute memoirs; hiking the Appalachian Trail; Rihanna and Neil Young. Whew! What didn’t I talk about?

Sometimes my highly unfocused mind serves me well. I’m curious. I take in a lot. I’m interested in just about everything except numbers and machines, therefore have a lot of information and knowledge at my fingertips.  I’m able to make order and connections out of seemingly disparate ideas and thoughts. I have a good photographic eye because I see so much.  At the best of times, my writing reflects all that I see, smell, taste, hear and feel. And because I’m not a linear thinker, I don’t see the world from one point of view. I can bring fresh, new ways of looking at things to any discussion. I’m a godsend at parties.

But sometimes my lack of focus does not serve me well. While I’ve always known this, it really hit home this week when I started browsing the web about what makes a good blog. Besides getting repeatedly lost during my search because everything that popped up fascinated me, I learned this. The experts agree. If you want to attract a good following, a blog should be focused. At most, it should not cover more than three topics. Better one or two. That’s it. One is good, two okay and three if you must.

Well, blow me down.  I’ve written 62 separate blogs, and guess what. Except for one or two repeated themes about writing, photography and food, all my other blogs were on different topics.

According to the experts, I’m everywhere and nowhere. I’ve been fortunate though. My blog readers seem to enjoy the all-over-the-place approach I’ve taken, They see my entries as good reads. They’re not particularly concerned that whatever it is I’m going on about one day will be different from what I blather on about the next. They, like me, probably lack focus.

But I can see that this approach has its shortcomings. My blog is not a go-to stop for people interested in learning about a particular topic or subject matter of interest to them.

Though I might write an entry about housecleaning, aficionados of bacteria-free zones aren’t going to come back to me again and again. They’re not interested in my next day’s entry about making the perfect chicken soup (the secret, by the way, is parsnips in the stock). They’ll go to a blog they know will provide the inside scoop on getting rid of mildew on bathroom tiles, or recommends green alternatives to Mr. Clean.

I might write about the glories of baking soda too, but there’s no guarantee when, and of course if, I’ll ever get around to it.

Note to self:  find more green alternative to Mr. Clean for cleaning tile mildew. Then blog.

I’m too hit and miss. No one has a clue what’s coming next in my blog, so they’re hardly breathless waiting for next installment. I understand that. I don’t have a clue what’s coming in my next blog, either. Not good when you’re looking for followers.

Well, all this is about to change. Wish me good luck, because I’m about to make a big about turn with my blog based on the experts’ advice . Knowing myself, however, there is absolutely no way on earth I’ll be able to blog about one, or even two topics. I might as well be in prison.

So I’m bound and determined to try to focus my blog on three subject matters only.

It hasn’t been easy narrowing down what these three will be, but I’ve done it. I’ve come up with three.  Three rather B-R-O-A-D subjects, I might add. I need all the leeway I can get.

So here it goes. Since I’ve recently completed writing my memoir and the next step is getting the book published, I’ll be blogging about my real life experience of getting my book published. It will include a good hard look at the pros and cons about self-publishing as well as going the traditional publishing route, which involves finding an agent or submitting manuscripts directly to a publisher.

Both looking for an agent and/or a mainstream publisher is more complicated than most people realize.  I will have no problem filling up blog entries about the process. It’s going to be one bumpy roller coaster ride for me considering the state of the publishing industry these days, and my plan is to take my readers along for company. It may be enlightening.

Topic #2 will be about the book itself. I’ll include excerpts and things I learned during the six years it took to write it, including writing tips editors taught me along the way.

I’m up to Topic # 3. Much, though not all of my memoir is about raising our adopted son Michael, who at age six was diagnosed with Fetal Alcohol Syndrome. He is permanently brain damaged by the alcohol his birth mother consumed when pregnant with him. Though Michael is 24, much of my life is devoted to helping him find a place in the world. I’d like to write about Michael, FAS and one of its major symptoms, ADD. I’ll also write about the struggles raising a special needs child, and how, as a mother, I try to live my life with as much joy an courage as I can muster in the face of our family’s struggles.

There you have it. I’m sure blog experts would be taken aback by the long-winded paragraphs I’ve created to tell you what Topics #1 – 3 are. They were probably thinking of subject matters that could be described a little more succinctly, like skydiving, perfect picnics fare or how to become a billionaire, for instance.

Clearly, they have no idea what it’s like to be unfocussed. I’m not only proud of coming up with three blog topics for myself, but being able to describe them in a mere 260 words.

Now, all that’s left is sticking to my plan. I know it won’t be easy. What do I do with all the other thoughts and ideas swirling around in my grey matter?

You know what’s going to be the hardest thing about staying within bounds of these three topics?  Sticking to one of the topics in each blog rather than infusing a little of topic one two and three in each posting.

You have no idea how hard it is to stay focused when it doesn’t come naturally.

Never mind. Honest and truly, I’m going to give it a few months and see how it goes. All thoughts, comments and suggestions from readers are welcome, even encouraged. I’m going to need all the help I can get.

Just don’t get me off topic, okay?

Freeing Your Inner Writing Voice

Some of my blog readers already know that I have just completed writing a memoir. It’s taken years to write, rewrite and finish my manuscript to the point I can) say, “I’m done.”  At least for now. I’m proud of the book, think it’s good read, and feel it’s ready to enter the world. It wasn’t easy getting here. 

I'll talk more about the book content in another blog.

I didn’t write this book alone, which is one of the reasons I have the confidence to say finito. Along the way, I have been blessed with wonderful editors who guided me and forced me to look scrupulously at everything that goes into making a good story. 

Note to all serious writers: if you're working alone, invest in a good editor. Find one you like and trust. It may cost, but it's worth every penny. An experienced editor can turn good into great. And in this tight publishing market, good isn't good enough.

When I began writing my book,  I not only had to figure out what it was I wanted to say, but once I did, I then had to decide how to turn that into a story with a beginning middle and end, complete with denouement and climax.  Lives aren’t built on structures like that, unless you want to cover birth, middle-age and then death. I had to craft the bits and pieces from my life that I wanted to talk about into a coherent story. I can’t tell you the number of times I had to rejig the structure, rewrite a different beginning and construct a new ending. Unforrtunately, the  material I could work with wais limited. Go ahead, try talking about your life in one cohesive story.

Describing a series of events, no matter how interesting each might be, would not create a story that someone other than my mother would want to read. So besides creating an ongoing  and engaging story, I had to find my own style and way of connecting to readers who don’t know me.

To do that, I had to find my ‘voice’, which all writers know is no easy thing. I had to write and sound like the authentic ‘me’. It took the first year, at least, to find who that me was, in a style that would flow through my words and dialogue so the reader could get to know me.  Voice , essentially, becomes Character Development 101.

A lot of what I wrote in my manuscript during the first years ended up, rightly so, in the trash heap. Though I liked some, if not much of what I wrote early on, I realized, through the help of editors, much of it didn’t move the story along. Interesting stuff, maybe, but how does it advance the story, I had to ask.  If it doesn’t, kill it.

These charming, delightful, witty and clever bon mots are ften referred to as our  “little darlings,”We love them to pieces. But I was forced to be ruthless with the babes. They weren't easy to let go. They were so tremendously satisfying when I first wrote them. Yet out they eventually went, with me kicking and screaming as I pressed delete.

It was the same lesson I had to learn in my garden. Purge! Be ruthless! All those pretty little runners and seedlings and flowering weeds just take away from the overall look. They rob glory from the major plants that give backbone and coherence.

Life is so unfair.

Finding my voice has aided me tremendously in writing this blog, by the way. It took time, but I finally learned to write the way I speak. Though I’m forever editing what I write, I don’t censor myself. I don’t look for big words or try to sound smart. I write what I think and feel. Though the conversation is one way, I try to talk to people  not at them.

I encourage other people to find their writing voice, too. It takes time, but once you do, it really frees up your writing. Finding your voice will make you sound like you, no one else.

Here’s a little exercise I suggest to help you find your voice. Think of what you did last weekend, this morning, yesterday or last week. When you choose or what you did doesn’t matter. Then, write a 350 word (real or imaginary) letter to a good friend about your experiences. You may include how you feel about everything, what experiences meant to you, what you learned, what you liked, what you didn’t. You can describe people you were with, your feelings about them, etc.

Just make sure it’s a letter to a good friend, not a letter to your mother (you might censor yourself). Not to a lover (you might try to impress). Not to your child (you might want to come off looking ‘good’). A letter to a good friend you can tell anything to and who will accept what you did, think and feel. 

Ready, set, go. Let ‘er rip.

Keep going until your letter writing starts to flow  naturally. You may have to write and rewrite until you find an honesty in your words. You’ll know when you get there.

Let me know how it goes. 

Good By Jack

Lifelong politician and NDP leader Jack Layton died this week. He was taken away from the Canadian people long before he should have been. We will never know the heights this once-brash social democratic and “man of the people” could have reached. Many people think the role of Prime Minister was in the cards for our beloved Jack.

They could have been right. As Shirley Douglas, daughter of Tommy Douglas, the father of the NDP and Canadian Medicare said, “Nothing could stop Jack but death.” And as one chalk-written grafffitti tribute to the man on Toronto City Hall’s walls said, “You were the greatest Prime Minister we never had.” 

I knew Jack in his early years as a Toronto politician. He was an appealing but mildly cocky firebrand at the time, but I couldn’t help but love him for the zeal with which he championed the community on Toronto island I live in. When the Metropolitan government of Toronto was determined to tear down our houses to make way for more lucrative development on the land here, Jack’s voice was loud and clear. Keep your hands off! He appreciated that we’re an historical and vibrant community that should be saved from the hands of the bulldozer.

Jack had such a fondness for the Toronto island community, that he and his wife were married in the meadow near our Algonquin Island clubhouse, the place my husband and I were married. The difference between their wedding and mine however were the number of political speeches. Ours had none, theirs had too many to count. Jack’s lifeblood was politics as was/is his wife’s Olivia Chow. A match made in heaven. Some of Jack’s ashes are to be spread here, by the tree he and Olivia planted on their wedding day.

I needed to pay my respects to Jack by being physically present at the monumental tribute planned by Torontonians. As much as I would have liked to be inside Roy Thompson Hall for the state funeral, I knew that could never happen considering the number of people lining up the night before to get a seat. So instead, I joined the thousands of people who marched down University Avenue as part of the cortege that left city hall to Roy Thomson, following Olivia, Jack’s children, and his casket.  Once we reached the grounds outside Roy Thomson, large video screens and sound systems were set up so that we could all see and hear the funeral proceedings.

Former NDP leader Stephen Lewis' speech, not surprisingly, was eloquent and moving. The Barenaked Ladies’ Stephen Page sang Leonard Cohen’s Hallelujah beautifully, though how anyone has the guts to sing that song after K.D.Laing did it so perfectly is amazing to me.  She’s a pretty tough act to follow. He did it in his own way though, and had everyone in tears. It must have been a highlight of his career to be chosen to sing, and every ounce of that man went into the song.

What was special about the funeral and procession (and the whole city hall chalk graffitti tribute) is the remarkable optimism, hope, belief and idealism that people brought with them in Jack's  honour, whether they were NDP or Jack supporters (which I am only to a degree).

The belief that permeated everything was that this is a remarkable, special and wonderful country, but we can do better, and we must and can. The outpouring of love and respect from people from such varied cultural and racial backgrounds was staggering. Every message was of love, inclusivity, respect and goodness. Really and truly. Not an ounce of cynicism, negativism, divisive politics, guile or self-interest in any message or tribute. it was really something to behold.

It was the best crowd in the world to be in. Civility was in the air.

The whole proceedings were inclusive to such a degree, a la Jack's wishes, there were many messages and songs in French; Christian, Muslim and Jewish religious leaders gave opening prayers; a eulogy by a First Nations spokesperson kicked off the proceedings; the presence of women and people of colour was  everywhere.  And if that wasn’t enough, as per Jack’s style,  the funeral even included an Innuit, one-legged francophone singer.  The whole thing made me proud to be a (near) Canadian (next month, I sign the dotted line!).

Jack's children spoke beautifully and really showed a lovely human side to the man, besides his politics. Olivia was stoic, as is her style. Daughter Sarah let it be known she is expecting. She didn't have to say it, and didn't. Jack will not see his newest grandchild.

The proceedings for Jack were all so very, well, uh...Jack!  Can you imagine talking about Prime Minister Stephen Harper and referring to him as Stephen, Steve or Steve-O?

Jack was Jack, and to his credit, I believe he went from brash to confident in his years in politics and grew as a person along the way.  The minister who was with him near his death said Jack talked a lot about the mistakes he made in his life and his regret that he would not live long enough to make it up to the people he had wronged. This regret seemed very important to him, and he asked the minister to speak to this in his eulogy. 

Jack had his own style, and it sure rubbed a lot of people the wrong way, but he was led by his convictions through and through, no doubt about it. His  joy for life was contagious. That counts for a lot. More than a lot, actually.

Good by dear Jack.

Garden Mifwifery

I’d say over 300 people, all in sensible shoes, traipsed through my garden this weekend during the biennial Toronto Island Garden Tour. Not long after the 50^th or so visitor walked up my fieldstone path in a Tilley hat and deeply cushioned soles, it became evident. Gardeners have their own way of dressing, even on a day off. Crocs, Nike, Hush Puppies and Merrill definitely trump Choo and Blahnik.

I wasn’t looking forward to the weekend. As tour weekend approached, I entered into a beehive frenzy of activity (just ask my family members), spiffing up the joint. After pulling the millionth weed, trimming hedges, sweeping cottonwood fluff off screen windows, raking every blade of grass, fighting with my pond’s pump, praying to the nature gods to make the roses bloom in time, and sweeping the sidewalk (seeping the sidewalk?), I rightfully asked myself  “Why am I doing this?”

With the time and energy I put into the garden, I could have harvested a small, developing nation’s entire coffee crop.

So why was I doing all this? The answer was simple. I love the beauty of my garden and I want other people to see it.

I carefully chose the words ‘see it’ because studiously avoiding  the words “I wanted to show the garden off.”  I don’t.

While I’m proud as can be about my garden(s), I feel more like a midwife delivering beauty than I am the creator of. Who’s really doing the work here?  I’ll tell you. It’s not only me. The main labourers are the lush and fragrant magenta roses, drifts of violet-coloured catmint winding themselves through the Solomon Seal and pink coreopsis, and the deep purple and white clematis twisting skyward on their metal spires.

Several years ago, with the help of a good friend and a moment of sheer mania, I turned a jungle-like backyard into a formal garden. I went all out, building brick and stone walkways, a cobblestone-bordered pond, stone stairs to a raised bed, and a beautiful eating area with patterned brickwork for a  harvest table to sit on. 

While this hardscape creates magnificent bones for the garden, it’s not what makes it so beautiful. The lavender borders, apple and cherry trees, climbing roses, clematis, deep green ferns and lilacs do.

One of the visitors to my garden during the tour asked me about a clematis that had just come into bloom. I didn’t know the name for her, unfortunately. But we both stood there and marveled at the delicate muted green stripe that ran through the white petals of each flower. There was something subtly extraordinary about the pattern.

“It takes my breath away,” I said to my guest, also an avid gardener.

“Me too,” she said. “Everytime I look closely at a flower, I notice how intricate the designs and patterns are. I am overwhelmed by the beauty.”

“I know,” I said. “Breathtaking, isn’t it?” I said, realizing I had just repeated myself.

As much as I loved all the compliments my garden and I garnered over the weekend, I was fully aware. My hardscapes and design are creative, beautiful, and yes, special. But they'll never be breathtaking. The Gods of Nature have a monopoloy on that.