I’m in the research stage of a new project, which means:
1. I’m reading masses of interesting but also mind-boggling info.
2. I’m taking such strange books out of the library, and searching such odd things, that CSIS is probably tracking me.
3. I’m spending every breakfast and dinner saying, “Did you know this?” and “Can you believe this?” until everyone’s eyes glaze over.
This is probably why I have to write books. My family won’t spend enough time listening to my factoids.
When I was in Ottawa a couple weeks ago, I noticed something in the hotel breakfast room. There were a lot of women there who knew how to dress appropriately for work. They wore nicely creased pants or pencil skirts, blouses that had obviously been ironed and/or dry cleaned, blazers, and lovely shoes. So many lovely pairs of shoes!
I, on the other hand, wore one of my two pairs of somewhat presentable dress pants (though one pair is a little short), usually with a top I had tried and failed to iron properly, and shoes that fit my orthotics.
How did I manage to hit 40 without learning to dress myself?
I’ve pinpointed a few problems:
1. I can wear the same clothes over and over again while typing, and when dropping my kids at school, or while grocery shopping, and no one cares. This is not motivating.
2. I like having clothes, but I don’t like buying clothes. After a few minutes in a store, I usually start thinking about sweatshops. (Damn you, Blue Jean Book. Why did I write you?) But ethically made clothes all seem to be (a) ridiculously expensive and (b) designed for long and lean people. Are all environmentalists/social activists tall, and fond of draping?
3. My one arthritic toe. Probably this entire clothing crisis can be traced to my big toe.
So, these are the problems. I have yet to think of solutions. Probably, I will slide back into my typing/school drop-off/grocery shopping routines, wearing the same pair of cut-offs and the same rotation of tops, and gradually forget there is a world where people own blazers and lovely shoes.
Until then, if you see me in a clothing store, feel free to offer advice. Or call search and rescue. Whichever seems appropriate.
I came across The Story Board’s list of “Freelance Funnies” this morning, and I’ve been giggling to myself ever since.
In my own list:
1. The time I misused the property of the government office where I was working in order to fax my edits on a newspaper piece. The piece happened to be about female genital mutilation, and — unbeknownst to me — one of the pages didn’t go through. Remember how when a fax failed, the machine would print just the first few lines of the page? Well, those lines weren’t the best ones to have excerpted. The executive director found the partial page, assumed someone was dealing in child porn, and went on a manhunt among the law students in the office. Until I realized, in horror, what she’d found and what she’d thought. I had to ‘fess up. It was rather excruciating.
2. The time a Vancouver Sun photographer came to snap my portrait. He asked if he could shoot me in my studio. (Do people really have studios?) Then he asked if he could take my picture surrounded by my reference books. (Do people really keep their own stock of reference books?) Eventually he snapped me with my baby in the background, and I appeared in the Sun holding my new book, smiling, and appearing to completely ignore the crying child in the bouncy seat.
3. The time I was talking oh-so-professionally on the phone to my publisher when my son started projectile vomiting in the living room. I shouted “got to go!” and hung up on her. I’m pretty sure that’s not in the “how to land a contract” guide book.
The way my life goes, I’ll have more to add to this list very soon.
I arrived in Vancouver on Saturday night, but it’s taken me this long to put my introverted brain back together after all of that travel.
It was a VERY fun trip, and there’s something to be said for having groups of people applaud for you every two to three hours. (Do you think I could convince my family to do the same?)
I’m wrapping up a few remaining tasks — expense sheets and invoices and FAN MAIL! How awesome is that? It’s like applause that I get to keep.
Soon, I’d better get back to the grind. I have a sneaky suspicion there’s a book I’m supposed to be writing…
I saw a blog suggestion this week that we should all buy our moms a copy of I’ll Love You Forever for Mother’s Day.
Now I like a good Robert Munsch tale as much as the next girl, and admittedly, the book is very sweet. But do NOT buy your mom a copy unless you want her to (a) cry and (b) throw up in her mouth before even tasting her first bite of her Mother’s Day French-toast-in-bed.
I spent all week travelling Ontario and talking to kids — hundreds of kids — about people who have taken risks and overcome obstacles to change the world. Some of those people were explosion-obsessed scientists. Some of them were teen activists. Some of them were moms.
None of them climbed through their children’s windows late at night. They had other things to do!
So if you’re going to buy your mother a book, buy her a biography of Lois Gibbs or Emily Jennings Stowe or Elizabeth May. Buy her a novel by Lynn Coady or Margaret Atwood or Angie Abdou.
At the very least, write her a card that says:
Thank you, Mom, for showing me how to run a business, how to make great friends, how to offer help to a neighbour in need, how to build community, balance a cheque book, adhere to a budget and a schedule, work hard, drink wine, bake muffins, build a mean campfire, and yes… take care of children.
Thank you for NOT crawling through my bedroom window.
I’ll love you forever not only for being a great mom, but also for being a great woman.
And let’s hope our kids will love us for the same.
I visited the Parliament Buildings today, and the Canadian War Museum. But as I’ve followed my GPS from one part of Ottawa to the next for various school presentations, I’ve also ended up wandering through all sorts of interesting neighborhoods.
I had lunch in the sort of place that would happen if Vancouver’s Fraser Street hooked up with Commercial and had a baby: phô and iced coffee right next door to a trattoria. Nearby was this place:
It was a juxtaposition of gourmet pizzeria, nail spa, and tactical defence base. I was a little worried that I might get shot while taking this photo, but I couldn’t resist.
I’ve learned that there are many more bilingual people in Ottawa than in Vancouver. This has put a damper on my eavesdropping habits. I tried all through lunch, and all I got was that the people next to me were talking about something red. (I’ve retained words like “porquois” and “avec” but no nouns, apparently.)
I’ve also learned that Ottawa folk are abnormally patient. I’ve been driving around all week like a confused snail, and not a single person has honked at me.
Overall, for its combination of cultural mash-ups and extreme patience, with a lot of lovely green space thrown in (I’m writing this in a corner park), I have to give Ottawa two big thumbs up.
The good news: last week’s presentation to my daughter’s class went very well. I forgot to wear my giving-a-presentation-deodorant instead of my mineral salts, so the teacher now thinks I’m an abnormally sweaty person, but other than that, I was very happy.
Now, onto the next stage of my TD Children’s Book Week preparations: panic.
I hemmed a pair of pants last night. I counted to make sure I have eight presentable shirts. (I do, barely.) I’ve printed all my presentations and gathered most of my props. I now have to:
* buy a supply of energy bars
* find some stick-on moustaches (apparently these are a seasonal item?)
* organize one more afternoon of childcare for while I’m gone
And…
* finish a big edit, half of which arrived on Friday and half of which lands today
It was all the fault of last night’s stinky fish. I went to take the garbage out early this morning, but I had to turn off our alarm before opening the front door.
I tried to turn it off. It didn’t work. I tried again. It didn’t work. It seems I was punching the buttons downstairs at exactly the same time Min was punching them upstairs.
We eventually got the alarm off and proceeded to shower.
And then the police turned up.
The first line of my novel, Truth, is “The police are at my door at 3 a.m.”
Well, two plainclothes police officers were at my door at 7 a.m. this morning. Apparently, in all our button fumbling, we managed to type a duress code into our alarm. So they thought we might have been held at gunpoint or something.
But no, we were just idiots.
So embarrassing.
The police refrained from calling us bad names, they went along their way to fight actual crime, and Min and I took our red faces upstairs to make breakfast.
I think next, we’ll build a safe room.
And then lock ourselves in.
I was watching my son’s soccer game yesterday. He plays on some afternoons with a coach whose website says simply “I am the best coach in Vancouver.”
He is certainly the most entertaining coach in Vancouver. He has a strong Eastern European accent, and he’s read none of this decade’s child-rearing manuals. So he yells things like, “Push, boys. Push. He is not going to break. Use your elbows. Oooh… penalty shot. But good job. Next time, little push.”
At the end, he gives out cookies. But only to the winners.
Strangely, my son loves these soccer games. He leaves the field red-cheeked and exhausted, and recounting every one of his moves and passes and goals. And he’s certainly improving under the onslaught.
Which is all making me think that maybe I need a Slovakian writing coach. Someone to stand behind my desk and yell, “Get going, Tanya. Vat are you doing, vasting time vith zis Tvitter? Focus!”
Min’s quite good at accents. Maybe I’ll have him make me a recording.
I just scrolled through my last month of Twitter posts to make sure I haven’t been sounding like an embittered wench.
Well, yes, now that you’ve asked. I am an embittered wench. But I’m pretty sure the Twitter rules for children’s writers read: “Wench-ish-ness must be kept to a minimum at all times.”
Thankfully, there are no such rules for blogs.
(Just kidding.)
(Sort of.)
Prompting my wench-ish-ness: the delays, delays, and more delays to school seismic upgrades in Vancouver. What kind of society puts its most vulnerable citizens in its least safe buildings? As I may have mentioned here before, I’m the chair of the seismic committee at my kids’ school, but lately that position has felt a lot like shouting into a black hole.
I am going to take up meditation, so the frustration doesn’t kill me. I’m also going to drink lots of peppermint tea, say long prayers, and read books with happy endings, before writing any more blog posts. As my mom used to say: “Come back once you’ve had an attitude adjustment, young lady.”
Hmmm… I could think of a few politicians who could take that advice.
Oops. Peppermint tea. STAT.