I’ve just put the finishing touches on the introduction for my newest non-fiction book. I usually avoid writing introductions for as long as possible. In fact, they’re often the last thing I write. (Because how the heck am I supposed to introduce a book before I know what the book is going to say?) But this one came together like a perfect cupcake recipe.

Now let’s hope the batter for the rest of the book is just as good…

With my writing goals accomplished, I’m off to buy a Father’s Day gift. Which, like the topic of the non-fiction book, shall remain secret for a little while longer.

After that, it’s real cupcake baking. My son’s class is holding a bake sale tomorrow to raise money for victims of the earthquake in Nepal. And I think chocolate cupcakes might be just the thing to solve all the problems in the world. Don’t you?

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.

The soccer camp my son was supposed to attend this week was cancelled (who knew soccer players were less reliable than writers?), so I ended up at Hillcrest Pool yesterday. Which was not a bad alternative to working, really.

Here are some thoughts from the pool:

The Old Men Diving
From the whirlpool
at public swim
I watch the old men dive.
Each climbs the stairs with care,
hand on the rail,
then steps to the edge
and waits.

One man bows slightly before each dive,
as if a line of invisible judges
watches, perfect tens in hand.
Then he plummets into the water
with a world-class splash.

One man has six-pack abs beneath
his wrinkles.

I wish I were an Olympic diver.
I could climb the stairs
and slice through the air,
slide into my reflection
and emerge to their amazement.

But maybe they would be disappointed
as their own perfect images —
bouncing slighty on their heels,
poised to slip into remembered lives —
were shattered by my splash-free dive.