What's a Girl to Read?

I am an avid reader. Always have been. My first recollection is one of horror, comfortably spent on our couch with pots of tea, spending an entire weekend as a pre-teen discovering The Diary of Anne Frank. My world changed that weekend.

I average about 3 fiction novels per month, that's 36 novels a year, alongside other sundry diversions. For guidance, I scour lists - for nominees, finalists and winners, and keep a journal of those books who's author, place in time or geography, subject matter and plot line appeal to me. From the Governor General Awards to the IMPAC DUBLIN Literary Award, the Booker to the Nobel, the PEN/Faulkner to the Commonwealth Writer's Prize - all these juried by readers more knowledgeable than I.

Of all these testaments though, the Pulitzer attracts me most, my Oscar of reading. Perhaps because of its history - initiated as an award for journalism, letters, drama and music - or perhaps because of its founder - a rags to riches story where literacy for the masses mattered. Awarded since its inception in 1917, the Pulitzer seems to me to embody the art of writing.

Some winners I've read, others I've passed over, but I've always toyed with making my way through THE LIST. I've been spurred on by finding John Steinbeck's The Winter of Our Discontent, 1961, not a Pulitzer book but a Pulitzer writer. It's title seemed to aptly describe how the cold has affected me this January! I am thoroughly enjoying the quality, particularly this tidbit: "To be alive at all is to have scars."

So in the interests of literary fulfillment, and to stave off the prospect of reading bad writing, I intend to make my way through the list of Pulitzer Prize Winning Novels. There just may be a writing opportunity here.

Quotes

On teenagers:

"It's a generation, perhaps the first, of writers. If you're one of the 33 million Americans between the ages of 13 and 19, you are a writer. It's how you conduct your friendships, get to know people, break a heart, manage your family, flirt, lie, make plans, cancel them, announce big news, and, most important, present yourself to the rest of the world. You're fluent in texting, emailing, and IM'ing. You're blogging and constantly amending your profile on sites like Facebook and MySpace (which on average, 30 of your friends will visit every day). Regularly, often late at night, you're generating a body of intimate written work. You're used to writing about yourself. In fact, you choose to write about yourself, on your own time, rather than it being a forced labour when a paper's due in school. You're a reporter embedded in your parents' home, your school, your own head."

Excerpt from Red: Teenage Girls in America Write on What Fires Up Their Lives Today, edited by Amy Goldwasser, Plume Publishers, 2007
Related website: http://redthebook.com/

Helping the Little Old Lady

10 Nov 2006

My annual doctor's appointment two days ago registered my first significant weight gain in all my years, and I now carry 2 sets of glasses with me to complement my contact lenses. My brow is furrowed, to say the least.

So I'm at work yesterday and I go out for my little walkabout during lunch (will that take care of the extra pounds?). Stopping in at all my favourite haunts to browse, consider, wander, I decide to go to my soup shop to get the selection of the day to bring back to my desk. While I love this little soup shop, the lighting at the cash register is very 'moody', meaning that it's not very bright. With 2 sets of glasses now, I'm beginning to not appreciate ambience.

So my soup is listed on the chalkboard as $2.99, having gone up 25 cents since the last time I purchased it, and yes, there's tax, so now I don't know ahead of time what my total will be. "$3.17, ma'am", says the teenager (I'm sure) behind the cash register. (And yes, I note being addressed as "ma'am" with mild irritation, but of late, have accepted that, along with my rounding middle.) I have 3 loonies in my hand because I never pay more than $3.00 for lunch, cheapskate that I am.

So, in the moody light, I'm forced to retrieve my wallet from my purse and I begin rummaging for 17 cents, rummaging being a family trait that I’m proud of. I don't know about you, but I'm a bit fixated on my change. I don't like to carry heaps and heaps of it around. If I can give a cashier exact change, it's one of my small pleasures in life, emoting a tiny, triumphal "Aha!", each time I can do it.

So I get flustered with the teenage cashier and the moody lighting and which glasses should I wear and the growing lunch line-up behind me, and end up pulling out all of my change. I can find a dime easily enough, (it's the smallest) and 2 pennies easily enough, (color contrasts work for me) but damn if I can tell a quarter from a nickel any more. In being flustered, I flatten my palm to make the most of my ambient lighting sans glasses, and lo and behold, the cashier takes this as a signal that permission has been granted to dig through my palmed coin collection. He finds the blessed nickel while I'm murmuring something about "poor lighting", "I can never tell...", ravings, really, of a pending senior.

I grab my soup, and actually chuckle, with a deeper furrow in my brow, all the way back to my desk, soup in hand, thinking, "when did that happen?" I've been behind many a little old lady just like that, and I hope those behind me are as patient and sympathetic as I used to be.

Piano Memories

09 Jan 2006

Hello CBC!

My mind flooded with memories listening to your program this morning, and the request for piano anecdotes.

I grew up in Scarboro in the 60's and 70's, and like many of my peers, attended weekly piano lessons in the basement of a church, being taught by an ex-nun. She opened my eyes to the beauty of learning to play an instrument. This ability eventually took me learning and teaching across Canada.

I remember, as a teen, proudly riding the subway alone into downtown Toronto to take my exams, making sure other riders could see the books I was carrying, letting them know I was studying music. My success at these exams eventually had me get up the nerve to apply to the Queen's Bachelor of Music program, and was astounded when I was accepted. It was there that I met the most influential teacher in my life, music or otherwise, Sophie Bristow.

Sophie taught us out of her home, an old stone building down near the waterfront. My weekly lessons were not only about piano - they were about life, friendship, shared confidences, and the beauty of listening to yourself, to others, to recordings at full volume. Many wonderful hours were spent in her company, and I would return there often as her friend. I even named my first child after her, remembering what an impact she'd had on my life.

In order to graduate, we had to perform a public recital, attended by many Departmental professors, my entire family drove in from Toronto, and about 200 members of the public. Daunting to say the least! While it was not the most professional performance one would ever hear, it was, and remains, the biggest challenge I've ever faced in my life, having prepared for a year for this evening of 40 minutes of my finest playing.

After my first set of selections, I remember having to leave the stage to still my nerves. My eldest brother, now deceased and probably the person least familiar with classical piano, thought I was done, and whacked a bouquet of roses into my stomach as I passed his aisle seat. That broke my nerves, and I returned to the stage determined to give my family, and Sophie, the performance of my life. It was truly fun, and couldn't have been accomplished without the love, knowledge and dedication of that teacher, Sophie Bristow.

Thanks for letting me share that - it's been years!
Sheila