the reject pile

Just received these emails from two readers who enjoyed "All My Loving": I just finished your lovely memoir. Its beautifully told and evocative of a time and place. Young Beth is so poignant and yet so powerful, though of course she has no idea. Also, quite beautiful despite her own uncertainty about that. I’m sure it strikes a chord among many who have read it.  

And another: I loved it. I couldn't put it down and it is remarkable in how it absolutely transports you back to adolescence--I am so glad to be past that stage! How amazing to have all the things you wrote at the time.

Heartening to hear these kind words. At the same time,  my good friend Ellen Roseman was just here for dinner. Ellen writes a column at the Star, and told me there's a table at the Star where they pile all the books they've received that aren't going to be reviewed. "I'm sorry to say," she told me, "I saw your book on that pile." 

I asked her to rescue it. It hurts to think of my dear book lying there forlorn, unwanted, ignored. 

I'd planned to be at Hot Docs tonight, seeing a film about Vermeer, but had dinner with Ellen instead. It was the most perfect mild, sunny summer day today, even as the schoolchildren march past my door with their heavy backpacks. Summer is over, and yet it feels like it's just beginning. Confusing and wonderful. Hope the Vermeer film comes back on some rainy cold day.

Last night I watched bits and pieces of two different versions of "The Jazz Singer," one with Eddie Cantor and the other made decades later with Danny Thomas. A powerful story about how you're born to be what you are, whether your parents approve or not. A hard lesson, and much harder for some.