Aren’t they beautiful? That’s the only words for these fresh veggies.
Yesterday, after months of writing and editing, writing and editing … I allowed myself some social time. A meal with some friends and then a visit with one of my dearest friends who was visiting from out of town. It felt wonderful. It was as if I was a desert, parched and cracked. I had written all the creativity out of me.
And then after some socialization – human, social contact! – all of the story ideas flooded back. It was great. One of my favorite stories has to do with this picture.
I dropped by the agency I used to work at to have lunch with some former co-workers and there were dozens of bags of veggies being loaded from a truck into the elevator.
What’s this? I asked.
A pilot project, they answered. Refugee families get a bag of veggies (the picture is only one THIRD of the bag) delivered to the agency for only ten dollars. Wowwee. They were beautiful.
The Good Food Project offers a convenient way for families to buy local food. And, it’s healthy!
It was a six-week project for the summer. If you’re not low income, the price is more (obviously)but what a great idea. Just seeing the fresh veggies made me want to eat healthy forever (or close to it).
Follow along as I document my writing journey ! Or is it a life journey? Or like everything else that writing is to me – is it all just interwoven together. I’m not sure. Maybe your comments can help me decide …
Summertime was starting to roll in and I was excited.
I got on a plane and travelled Eastwards – I had a road trip planned for the breathtaking Maritime coast of Canada. I had successfully lost all of the weight I needed to for my own reality-show healthy living competition with my nine relatives, and I intended to enjoy all the lobster I could over the next 18 days. When was the last time I had a real holiday, I asked myself?
June 26, 2009 – I checked my blackberry.
My two friends, Eileen and Billie, emailed me. We collaborated on “Seven Deadly Sins” together, our anthology of flash fiction, and we had just pitched another project to our publisher, Brian. An anthology of four novellas around the theme of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. We asked another writer, Ryan, to join us in this venture and the plan was for each of us to write a novella.
“We are in.” Eileen wrote.
Our publisher, Brian, not only wanted to publish the project, he wanted to publish it and launch it at the next World Fantasy Conference. Incredible exposure to publishers, editors, agents. October 31.
WHAT?
It meant the stories had be in perfect order by September 1 to be sent to the printers.
It meant I had to write the complete draft of the novella by August 1.
It meant that since I had written all of ZERO words, I had to start writing the moment I got that email.
But … I was on holidays!
And I didn’t have a laptop with me!
And I had never written a novella before. Ever.
… and hence this is why I have not posted an update in a very long time …
I was in Grade Eleven, hoping to become a medical doctor one day, when a news story broke about a man in Montreal who entered an engineering faculty, his former school, and went on a shooting rampage, deliberately killing fourteen women.
The story shook me. I had been inspired by stories of women who broke the boundaries of stereotyping and unfair restrictions to fully participate in society – whether it was voting, writing novels, sharp shooting, or being a doctor. Pioneers to their fullest. But, as a teenager, I thought the days of women having to overcome barriers were over. Until that news story.
It raised an awareness for me early in my life. I took courses on media and the portrayal of women. I studied gender roles in sociology. And, I joined a group at the University that commemorated the loss of those 14 lives every year on December 6. Strangely enough, it was my mother who was concerned about my involvement in this group. Despite the fact she was a pioneer herself – leaving her home town at the age of 22 to go work in a foreign country – she was worried about what this “extra-curricular” activity might portray on my resume.
I forgot about this time in my life until I recently watched the TED speech of Isabelle Allende. There was nothing new in the speech – she only repeated what Stephen Lewis has been saying for years … if you want to improve the well-being in lower-income countries, then raise the knowledge and education of the women in those countries. What surprised me were the comments left by individuals in response to her speech.
It reminded me of my university years, when I would tell people I was a feminist.
It was mostly women who objected to the label.
“No, you’re not,” they would say.
Once I picked my jaw off the floor, I replied, “Feminism has a certain set of ideals and I ascribe to those ideals.”
“You’re not like that.” Like what? I thought. They continued, “You’re not a feminist.”
The response infuriated me. Here I was, professing a fundamental belief — that a woman has a right to define who she is and what she wants to become, unfettered by restrictions that might be put on her by her gender — and my friends were telling me that I was not what I believed.
Where was the fear coming from, I wondered. More importantly, why were they not also calling themselves a feminist?
Over the years, instead of getting angry, I would reply (where it was applicable). “You’re also a feminist, you just don’t know it.” That didn’t exactly win them over to feminism. What ensued instead was an emotionally charged discussion, with a strange conclusion that *my* feminism, wasn’t in sync with the feminism *out there*. I didn’t understand that either, for wasn’t I part of society? Is there any kind of unified agreement on what a certain belief is, when the belief is held by a number of diverse individuals who bring meaning to that ideal, depending on who they are?
And then, one night, someone taught me a new way to discuss the issue. A group of my close friends were having a conversation over dinner, talking about how on first dates, it’s difficult to come out and describe yourself fully as you are.
I said, “how could I explain to someone that I’m a left-wing, Catholic, Filipina, Zen, feminist with strong family values? He would think I have an identiy crisis,” I lamented.
One of my male friends raised his eyebrows in surprise. “You’re a feminist?”
I bristled, but was used to the response to the word by now. “Yes,” I said. “Knowing who I am, how could you NOT know that?”
He tilted his head towards me. “Well, maybe I should ask how you define a feminist?”
I explained what I believed and he nodded. “Yes,” he said. “You are a feminist. And by those terms, I guess I am too.”
I appreciated his openness to the debate. To the definition. To the dialogue. And it taught me, that the next time someone says “you’re a what?”, I need to ask more questions, not answer them. What do you think feminism is? Why don’t you think I am a feminist? What do you associate feminism with?
It’s the right questions that bring us closer to resolution. And an approach that works for any kind of discussion, I think.
At least, for any kind of discussion that really matters.
as of late, inspired by this poem by Goethe … thought I would share
The Holy Longing by Goethe
Tell a wise person, or else keep silent, Because the massman will mock it right away. I praise what is truly alive, What longs to be burned to death.
In the calm water of love nights, Where you were begotten, where you have begotten, A strange feeling comes over you When you see the silent candle burning.
Now you are no longer caught In the obsession with darkness, And a desire for higher lovemaking Sweeps you forward.
Distance does not make you falter Now, arriving in magic, flying And finally insane for the light, You are the butterfly, and you are gone.
And so long as you haven’t experienced this: To die, and so to grow, You are only a troubled guest On the dark earth.
I was going to post pictures of the fire, but decided against it. Instead, I am posting these pictures. Flowers fill me with gratitude and joy – so they get the spotlight. This one was given to me by my friend, Wendy, who moved to Laos. It didn’t bloom for the first six months and then there were a couple of small blooms. I took the picture about six weeks ago.
The pictures above are my most recent additions. Hydrangeas are my most favorite flower … and you can see how the african violets are now dripping with blossoms.
It had been a great Saturday: a heart-pumping kickboxing session, incredible progress on both my novella and next novel, topped off with a laughter-filled night out for drinks with one of my closest friends (and cousin). I went to bed feeling satisfied, looking forward to a full day of writing on Sunday.
But, something disturbed my sleep and I woke up in the middle of the night. Someone was yelling. Strange, my neighborhood is usually quiet. In my old apartment, I’d be subjected to the occasional drunken rant outside the window, but not here in my condominium. The yells continued. As I struggled to make out the words, I heard sirens. Lots of them.
And there was another sound in the background. A familiar rhythm of noises, but not something I would regularly hear. What was it now? In my foggy brain, the sound finally matched to the appropriate image – the crackling sounds of a fire burning.
Suddenly, I could make the words out, “Get out, everybody, get out of the building.” I jumped up, put on my glasses and opened my blinds.
I live on the main floor of my condominium apartment. My place is usually sheltered from noise, because it backs onto the yard of another condominium building. A condominium building that was now on fire. The bright orange flames hurt my eyes in the darkness, and I blinked rapidly. Was I really seeing what I was seeing? The sirens grew louder.
From my viewpoint, one apartment on the top floor was on fire, the flames completely engulfing its balcony. A trail of orange crept along the ceiling of the adjacent suite, also starting to be enveloped by its brightness.
It would be cold outside, I thought. Put on some pants and a sweater.
“Get out, get out, everyone out of the building!”
Had the flames jumped onto our building? Had the fire started in our building and jumped to their building? It hit me that this was real. Not a frozen pipe that had burst or a prank from some kids, like on other nights when we’ve been awoken from our beds. It was real … for where else came that eerie orange light that allowed me to discern shape from shadow? Real, as my heart began to pound. Very real.
What do I not want to burn down? I asked myself. What would I be devastated if I lost?
Think quickly, I thought. I don’t want to get caught in a burning building.
My writing. It was the only thing that came to mind. I couldn’t find my backup USB stick that had all of my writing. So, I pulled all the cords out of my laptop and dropped it into a bag. Wallet. Phone. That’s it. I decided to take the extra five seconds to lock my door. Or maybe it was longer, for my hands were shaking.
By the time I got outside, the flames had seemed to spread across the top floor of the building next door. The firetrucks had arrived, they hadn’t even started to spray water. We huddled in the parking lot, watching how quickly the fire spread. We held our breath as we anxiously followed the path of smoke and ash. Please, we thought. Please let it not spread to our building.
And the people. Were the people out of the other building? We weren’t sure. They were all seniors. We hoped they were safe. But, we also hoped that our residence would stay safe too. The smoke was black and it seemed to billow with intent and anger. Once in a while, parts of the building would collapse and you’d hear the wood groan and an ensuing gasp from everyone who had gathered. Look at all my neighbors, I thought. I didn’t know we had this many people in the neighborhood.
Two hours we watched it, before they let us back in … our feet were cold and we smelled like smoke. But, it was safe. And, apparently everyone was safe in the other building too.
When I shuffled back into my condo at around 5:30am, my place was smoky and the lights on my smoke alarms blinked red and green. And in the early morning light, while I ate my cereal watched the firefighters climb in and out of my backyard into the charred yard of my neighbors, I was grateful. Grateful for whomever invented the fire hydrant, grateful for taxes that pay these firefighters, grateful for the endless water supply that we accessed so quickly to put out the fire, grateful for all of it.
I was tired, to be sure. But not too tired to be filled – overflowing – with gratitude. For all of it.
“Unless you’re living on the edge, you’re taking up too much space.”
My friend’s husband said that. Maybe he heard it somewhere else, I’m not sure. But I think there’s wisdom in it, no matter who said it.
Somehow, our society has conjured up a strange idea of what makes for a “good life”.
We wish each other joy, laughter, and peace.
Rarely, do we get a card from a loved one that says, “Happy Birthday, may this year bring you a good dose of nausea and that empty pit feeling in your stomach.”
Fear.
Nothing’s wrong with fear, though it has a bad reputation. It’s often touted in pop psychology (right out of my own mouth even!) as the all-encompassing evil doer. Never do things from a place of fear, we’re told. Fear – it’s why people don’t take risks. It’s what makes people stay in bad jobs and bad marriages. It’s like communism in the 1950s and terrorism in the 21st century. It’s the cause of everything that’s bad.
But I don’t believe that. Instead, perhaps we should say search for our fears and hold them close. Use them as our own personal divining rod to help us uncover those things we really want, the steps we really should take, the questions we really should be asking.
And then once we’ve found them, we step into those fears fully. Letting that unpredictable sense of chaos rush over you. When we were younger, it was easier to access that. When we played tag or hide and go seek, we were scared. Our heart beat in our throats and it was hard to breathe. The risks were real. And when you walk through the fear, it’s liberating. Whether it’s going on a roller-coaster ride or quitting a stable, full-time job (both ex-fears of mine, by the way).
And, after we’ve conquered our fears, does it mean we are fearless? Just because I’ve had a tooth removed, does it mean that I now view root canals with anticipation? Because I’ve had the courage to send one piece to a magazine and have it published, does it mean I know I will always be published?
Of course not.
But fear reminds us of that we can’t predict and control life. And, that’s a good thing. For that’s what life is about. There’s things to be discovered that we can never imagine. And, I think I would take fear over inevitability any day.
So, every year I try to do one thing that scares me. Sometimes, a little bit, sometimes a lot.
This year has been a scary year. I started my own business. I hired an accountant to do my taxes. I had a book launch. I bet two hundred dollars that I would lose weight. Risky year, even without the financial crisis. So, I think I’m going to take it easy over the summer.
Whitewater rafting. That’s what I have planned for the summer. Just a tiny fear to carry me into the fall.
Ingredients: - 4 inspiring and collaborative co-writers - 1 talented illustrator - 1 supportive and insightful publisher
Sift these and mix slowly with: - 8 quirky stories - an eye-catching cover - a network of interested speculative fiction fans
Let mixture stand in a pleasant, sunny room above the library, near the neighborhood farmer’s market.
Throw in an assortment of deliciously home-baked goods, coffee and refreshments; beautiful flower arrangements (generously donated by friends); a selection of excellent illustrations and art; and a display of Canada’s leading speculative fiction magazine, On Spec.
A dash of good media coverage including a videographer whose camera and microphone allow the rising of profiles.
Invite friends, family, colleagues and people off the street.
Don’t forget a generous dose of gratitude for friends, family and spouses who helped with set-up and clean-up.
Warm mixture for three hours on a Saturday afternoon, and you will have a successful book launch!
***
In a nutshell, it was a fantastic book launch. Thanks to those who were able to come out. And for those who couldn’t, I hope you’ll buy the book online and perhaps, even write a review on the website!
Check out the video coverage (a ten part series) by D. Jeffrey Buchanan, an exceptional documentarian and host of a radio show on CJSR here in Edmonton. He does great work and you should check out some of his other pieces too.
It was loads of fun to have people from different corners of my universe (i.e. work, family, university friends) gather — for writing is the one thing that crosses all of my different “worlds”.
I guess you could say writing is my wormhole. It’s what brings my worlds together.
And for all the 180 minutes of networking and visiting, I thought I did very well for an introvert (not liking to be the centre of attention) and a Pisces (always worried about how everyone else is doing).
I have to admit, I was tired after it all. But it was a satisfying tiring. Satisfying and surreal. I don’t think the impact of this whole thing has really hit me until I posted this piece.
Isn’t that funny – my book launch isn’t a reality for me until I write about it.
September 5, 2009 | Posted by admin 
Categories: Uncategorized | 
Tags: food, refugee | 
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