So True recap

There must be a producer gene in our family. My ex is of course a lifelong successful producer of theatre. My kids are producers, in their own way, Sam the performer of warm experiences for his customers, Anna of massive parties and demonstrations, perfectly planned and executed. And I guess I too am a producer, now no longer, after many years, of the Christmas pageant at Riverdale Farm, but as part of the team for the CNFC conferences, and, especially, of So True.

Yesterday was definitely a high point in the five-year history of this event. Every single one of the eight stories we heard resonated and worked, both the writing and the reading, one powerful truth after another. We wept, we laughed. I always speak and read at the end and do not enjoy having to follow this stellar bunch, but I do my best - and yesterday, I ended by asking everyone in the room to shout "Happy Birthday Ken!" to my dear friend in the audience, who has missed only one So True since the beginning. We made a joyful noise.

The room was packed, standing room only - so much so that we might have to look for another space, though I don't want to, I love the Social Capital. Its only drawback is that it's not accessible for wheelchairs or anyone who can't climb a steep flight of stairs. But otherwise - east side, near the subway, warm and dark, a bar at one end and a stage at the other - I love it.

A few notes from today, from the readers to each other:

What a privilege to have this experience with you all today. You all are great writers and I am a more full person for having shared in the experience with you. 

Sincerely thank you for giving me the courage to share my story today, and be my true self. Thanks Beth for all you do! 

It was a MAGICAL day! I loved all of it, especially the supportive, fun atmosphere. I was so incredibly moved and humbled by your words, your delivery, your stories.

One writer told the crowd she gives nicknames to everyone who matters to her, and that her nickname for me is "The Master." LOL. Makes me feel like I need a twirly moustache and big biceps. But anyway, something to be proud of - and also to be relieved it's over for another six months. I once did this four times a year! Then three, and now two. That's plenty. 

Went across town for dinner on Saturday; Thomas's relatives are no longer living there and calm has returned, or at least, as much calm as is possible with these two high octane boychiks. 

Eli told me he was doing alphabet work with his teacher and he told her "G is for Glamma." Be still my beating heart. 

It's a grey gloomy day today but my heart is light; one more class on Thursday and my teaching responsibilities are over till January. Christmas looms, but first a few bits of travel. Time to sit at my desk. Time to focus on that neglected part of my life, the part that produces, not other people's words, but my own. It's time. 

So True - eight stars coming up

We had our rehearsal for the 16th So True last night, and Jason, our MC since the beginning, declared it one of the very best. It's especially exciting because five of the eight readers have never done this before, hence the importance of rehearsal. Hope to see you there, Toronto friends! We will celebrate the power of story - and also the fact that it's mild outside again and the snow has melted. That patch of terrible weather was all a dream. It will stay like this, mild and snowless, till next May. For sure.

Sigh.

the sun, and Margaret Atwood

My friend Isobel wrote to point out that I'd titled the last post "anals of aging." If you look up 'anal,' you'll know what a mistake that was. Thanks for your editing eye, Isobel! Especially embarrassing for me, because I am keeping a file of absurd spelling mistakes.

As I am finally able to pour through my Abbey Road super deluxe Anniversary Edition …

2 of these groups pray on week and the vulnerable with no ability to communicate ...

Sheesh.

The weather is beautiful, a little gift for us, warm and sunny - well, relatively warm, enough to melt the snow and allow us to wear light coats and shoes, not boots. Very welcome.

On Monday night, the last class of the Ryerson terms, a terrific bunch. As usual, we had a party with food and drink, though we also worked, of course. When I left at the end of class, no one noticed, they were busy eating and drinking and talking about setting up an ongoing writing group. Now that felt like success.

Ran home to watch the Gillers but only caught the end. It's great to catch glimpses of people I know; loved watching Anne Collins, one of Canada's best editors and publishers, erupt into tears when her author, Ian Williams, won. And what an amazing story that guy has. It's too bad I don't have time to read much fiction. Maybe one day.

And then a documentary about Margaret Atwood, A word after a word after a word is power. This must be the week for docs on Canadian artistic celebrities. It shows what a focussed woman she has always been, winning a GG award with her very first book of poetry and then continuing with novels, polemics, a children's book, more poetry, more activism, countless novels - historical fiction, dystopian fiction - an extraordinary talent.

I was shocked to realize, however, that I don't think I have read a single of her novels straight through. To me, there was always something sour about them, at least the early ones. Reading, I felt my mouth pucker as if I was sucking lemons. Maybe it's just a reaction to her way of speaking, the way her dry voice seems to come through her nose. But I do admire her enormously, her limitless drive and sense of humour, the spotlight she has never stopped shining on some of the world's intractable problems.

I met her once at a party at the home of an acquaintance who was very well connected. She and her husband Graeme Gibson were there along with other famous Canadians including the then current governor general and her husband - a stellar assembly. I ended up in a circle with Peggy - if I may be so bold - and others talking about childhood, and Brownies came up. She told her Brownies story, and then I told mine.

That's all, but it felt huge to be telling a story next to one of the world's great storytellers. Incidentally, I was never invited to another of this man's parties again.

Today, a big CNFC meeting and raking leaves in the sun. Tonight, the film McCabe and Mrs. Miller is on. It was shot in B.C., some actor friends are in it, and I've never seen it. Perhaps tonight I'll rectify that. Can you go wrong with Julie Christie, Warren Beatty, and the mountains of British Columbia?

annals of aging # 643, Lightfoot, Verlyn Klinkenborg

One of those days - rain turning the snow to slush - that we dread in February. But - may I remind you, Powers That Be - it's November! A little early for all this weatherly misery, don't you think? Though, to cheer me up, the gardenia Wayson bought me years ago that's parked in my bright upstairs hall until next spring has just produced its third bloom, perfuming the whole upstairs. So - we who are prematurely winter-bound take what blessings we can.

Went to the massage therapist last week with a few specific spots to work on: a sore shoulder and foot. I didn't even know what a rotator cuff was before; now I do. Somehow I have pulled it, or one of them - are there several rotator cuffs, like on pants? - and if I lift my right arm, it hurts. There's a constant pain in my left foot under the bunion. My knees crack like branches in the wind. Yesterday, after riding my bike to the Y through bitter cold, I had a sparkling halo dominating my right eyeball for hours.

But you know, when you consider how many moving parts make up this machine which has been running steadily for nearly 70 years, the thing is pretty miraculous. How many washing machines last 70 years? And yet here I am, going sort of strong.

Though the brain concerns me sometimes. I can laboriously learn a piece by heart on the piano, but if I don't play it for a few weeks, it vanishes. Pouf, gone from the overcrowded, shrinking grey matter. Discouraging.

But the good news is, I don't have to wade outside till Ryerson tonight - last class of term. We'll have a party to celebrate. They've been a stellar bunch.

Watched If You Could Read My Mind, a doc on Gordon Lightfoot on the Doc channel last night, and soon will get out my scratched, beloved Lightfoot albums from the sixties and put them on. Steve Earle thinks Lightfoot is the most important singer/songwriter ever to come out of Canada - fighting words, Joni! - and I agree, one powerful, lyrical song after another. He had a happy childhood in Orillia, was a choirboy, grew up to be a hard-drinking womanizer which he now regrets - he won't sing his misogynist That's what you get for loving me any more - an interesting man who was in youth extremely handsome, gifted, and hardworking. His idol: Bob Dylan. But Dylan admires him too. A great Canadian story, with great great music.

To inspire me for the weeks of unemployment, aka holiday, ahead - 6 weeks with no income so free to do my own thing - I have a new library book, Several short sentences about writing, by a writer with the unlikely name Verlyn Klinkenborg. He sounds like a character from a comedy about Nazis, but in fact, he's a marvellous writer and this is a very interesting book - a lot admonishing young people about how badly they've been taught to write, but much aimed at someone like me. He writes about the importance of each sentence. The book is condensed, like poetry:

Your job as a writer is making sentences.
Most of your time will be spent making sentences in your head.
In your head.
Did no one ever tell you this?
That is the writer's life.
Never imagine you've left the level of the sentence behind.

Most of the sentences you make will need to be killed.
The rest will need to be fixed.
This will be true for a long time.
The hard part now is deciding which to kill and which to fix and how to fix them.
This will get much, much easier, but the decision making will never end.

A writer's real work is the endless winnowing of sentences,
The relentless exploration of possibilities,
The effort, over and over again, to see in what you started out to say
The possibility of saying something you didn't know you could.

Beautiful, no? I just looked him up - he's a modern day E. B. White, writing about rural life in the New York Times, and he's two years younger than I am. I hope his machine is running well. A long happy life to you, Verlyn.

So True next Sunday

Eight superb stories, and moi. For the low low price of $10. Can't be beat.