the Bermuda Triangle of publishing

Here's one thing I'm grateful for re the Vanier revelations: my book is not yet published. Imagine if it was on its way to publication or already out, with its fulsome praise of the charismatic, warm, quasi-saint Jean Vanier. Which, of course, he was, for legions of admirers; no one knew about his secret life except the women he assaulted.  I do detail in the book the lack of guidance around sexual feelings at L'Arche, sections which I will now go back to and look at again. Rewrites needed.

The op-ed piece about this I sent to the Star remains unacknowledged, so I have sent it somewhere else. Publishing is like the Bermuda Triangle - you send stuff out and it vanishes into a black hole. As I've told you, my manuscript went out in July to six publishers and I have heard back, a no, from exactly one. From the others, not even an acknowledgement of receipt of the material. Maybe the stuff I send out is sucked instantly into oblivion.

Maybe I do not exist.

No no, I know I do, because I can feel my stomach telling me it's lunchtime. Just had a long bike ride, as I did yesterday, which was mild and sunny, like spring. But they tell us a snowstorm is coming. Still, it's been an easy winter so far, no complaints. Though a week in Mexico helped. Speaking of which, I spent an hour yesterday with my new media assistant Sophie sending a long, complicated application to teach two workshops at the 2021 San Miguel Writers' Conference. May that not be a black hole too.

Sunday night, the end of Sanditon, which was a huge disappointment, many fans furious, I read online. A lovely young woman with two admirable and very handsome men to choose from and she ends up with neither? Jane Austen would not approve. Mind you, though almost all the casting was perfect, I thought the adorable actress playing the heroine Charlotte was too uni-dimensional, dewy, and young. The Vienna Blood finale was awkward and flawed yet very enjoyable. Followed by John Oliver with an exposé of the authoritarian and racist Modi, Prime Minister of India, much loved by Trump.

Speaking of which - I do not envy our Prime Minister this impossible situation of the Indigenous blockades and the hereditary chiefs — on the one hand screamed at from the right for being too weak, on the other, by the left for being too harsh, from the middle for being too slow. A cartoon yesterday showed him crushed between a rock and a hard place: the environment and indigenous rights, and the economy. I can no longer speak to my daughter about these things, we are so far apart. It's the first time, and it makes me sad.

Monday night, a first rate class at Ryerson; the depth and quality of the listening, not to mention the writing, was thrilling.

And today, an hour with my friend Kathleen Trotter, a fitness guru, to find out what I'm doing right and wrong to keep my limbs limber. I left realizing I do not focus enough on my butt. Focus on engaging the butt, and you will spare your knees. That's what I learned today. Invaluable.

And now, lunch then rewrites. Onward.