The Last Blog of the Year

Hello friends and readers! During all the Christmas craziness, and a house full of sick people, it was hard to find time to blog. The new year is set to hold many exciting adventures for my new book, Turnstiles. I have managed to line up a number of publications willing to review my book, a pending reading date at Shelf Life Books in Calgary (possibly April), and a post-launch of Turnstiles at Planet Earth Poetry (PEP) in Victoria on May 2nd. The magnitude of these events are slowly beginning to sink in, along with the responsibility of being prepared to rise to each challenge. After years and years of attending/participating in the open mike at PEP, you would think I was a seasoned public speaker... well, not necessarily. I always get butterflies, but I think I would be more worried if those butterflies stopped showing up, too. I am eagerly awaiting the arrival of my ten complimentary copies of Turnstiles from Inkwater Press... any day, now! Once I have them, I'll start sending out copies to publications that have requested them to review. These publications are as follows: The Pacific Rim Review of Books (https://www.facebook.com/pages/The-Pacific-Rim-Review-of-Books/116842465028072?ref=br_tf), The Coastal Spectator (https://www.facebook.com/pages/The-Coastal-Spectator/229100360506758), Focus magazine (http://www.focusonline.ca/), The Book Ends - Reviews (http://thebookendsreviews.com/). In the first week of January, Nick Wale will also post a review of Turnstiles and author interview at Novel Reads by Novel Ideas (https://www.facebook.com/pages/Novel-Reads-By-Novel-Ideas/209293455905630). I am very excited about these opportunities to spread the word -- please stay tuned! It is also wonderful to hear that my novel is already creating a small buzz. My girlfriend told me that her mom was discussing books with someone, and mentioned my book. The person she was talking to was already 'in the know' about my book. Wow. We really are fortunate to be in the Internet age! On that note, thank you to everyone who has ordered my book, considered ordering my book, shared any of my book-related posts, and/or told another person about Turnstiles. You don't know how much I appreciate your contributions in helping to get my book more visible in the book world. I will keep you all posted about the unfolding events. I am working hard to stay active in the plethora of literary communities, for my book and as an author. Recently, I listed Turnstiles and my poetry book A Mother's String on https://www.goodreads.com/review/list/25336171?shelf=published. Please check it out! As well, for those of you who are interested and have the time, you may like to peruse my former writing blog Author, author! @ http://mcauthor.blogspot.ca/. Cheers and Happy New Year to you all! I hope to see you and chat with you in 2014. Andrea McKenzie Raine xo

My Old "Author, author" Blog -- Please Read

http://mcauthor.blogspot.ca/

Chapter One of Turnstiles

Chapter 1
Martin
Martin opened his eyes. He squinted between his zippered lashes,
stuck together with sleep. A small army of shoes marched past his
face, which was half-hidden inside a dingy blue sleeping bag. His
first instinct was to place a limp, protective hand on his red knapsack.
He was inside a short tunnel that lay beneath a busy London
street beside Hyde Park. He didn’t look up. He knew w...hat their
faces would convey, their cowardly faces. He was experiencing the
real Europe, instead of peering out at it through heated hotel windows
or hostel bunk beds or tour buses. He didn’t have to pay
anyone for his space of concrete bedding. He was free. He closed
his eyes. Martin was free.
He ignored his growling stomach as he smelled the subtle waft
of fries from the nearby Hard Rock Café. Tourists, he thought. They
were all missing the local colour. Except Joe the hotdog vendor,
who was from the north, a Scot, an outsider. Hot dogs in London
were a foreign idea, but it seemed to catch on like every other American phenomenon. London was a metropolis with people
from every race sounding their thick British accents. It didn’t really
matter who you were or what you were, only where you happened
to become that person. Still, people could tell if you were from
somewhere else, and Martin stuck out like a wounded hitch-hiker’s
thumb. He had a quiet bond with Joe the Outsider and, on most
occasions, received his hotdogs for free. Then he would usually lie
under a tree in the park and watch tourists get charged two pounds
by security for using the lawn chairs. The grass was free. Martin
felt as though mindless sheep surrounded him. He had it all figured
out.
A year before he had bought a cheap ticket to London and
decided to depend on the day to see him through. Martin cherished
every consequence. He held on to every face that examined
him with curiosity or disgust. He always kept a plain expression.
He had no reason to indulge anyone with his emotions. In fact, he
barely spoke. Except to people like Joe.
When he opened his eyes again, a different army of shoes were
marching past. The tunnel was never quiet, and he had long been
used to the intrusion of echoing sounds and rustling pavement. It
was a small sacrifice. He wriggled out of his bed and began to pack
up. He would return later that night. Martin had become a familiar
sight, and some of the locals knew this tunnel was his home. So did
some of the other shoestring backpackers. Martin marched alongside
the army and out of the tunnel. The sun was out, and again,
he squinted. He ran a hand over his stubbled head and rubbed his
eyes. He turned left.
The sun was already seated royally in the sky as Martin strolled
down the wide, crowded sidewalk. He could see the faint shape of
an umbrella a few blocks away, and as he came closer, he recognized
Joe. Martin’s stomach began to growl again.
“Get your hotdogs here! Hello, sir, what a gorgeous day. Would
you like a hotdog? Get your hotdogs here! Good day, love! Can I get
you a hotdog? Would you like the works?” Joe called to the passing public all day long. He set up his stand on the same corner every
day, and everyone who frequented that spot knew him. Some just
by his ruddy, round face, and others knew him well enough to have
a word or two. Martin felt he could relate to Joe, because it seemed
they were both stuck in London making a living on the sidewalks,
and most of the people bustling by chose to ignore them.
“Hey, Joe.” Martin showed a couple of teeth and then retracted
his smile. Even though he liked Joe, he was still careful not to let
anyone get too close. “Catering to the North American public, eh?
It’s amazing you are able to sell hotdogs here. I guess if you had
your way, you’d be selling cans of haggis.”
“Marty, my boy!” Joe’s face opened wide with good-natured
eyes. “How was your night? Those bloody bed bugs didn’t bite ya,
aye, lad?” he boomed in his rich, Scottish accent, completely disregarding
Martin’s offhand remarks.
“Nah, Joe. No rats, neither. Just the bloody tourists waking me
up in the morning.” Martin grimaced.
“Bloody tourists?” Joe raised his eyebrows so high they looked
comical. “You better button your tongue, Marty. If there were no
tourists, there’d be no hotdogs! Besides, what the devil do you
think you are … a member of the general voting public? You’re the
worst kind of tourist, Marty. You don’t pay taxes and you don’t
leave!” Joe chuckled and flung a hotdog with ketchup and mustard
into Martin’s waiting hand.
“See ya tomorrow, Joe,” said Martin without looking at his
friend, and he began to walk away.
“See ya, Marty,” Joe said quietly and to himself, because Martin
was already out of earshot. And they both knew they meant it.
Tomorrow. Chances were they would find themselves in the same
skin and doing the same thing. The two of them were like hamsters
trapped in transparent, plastic balls looking out at the world, unable
to break free of their bubbles and constantly bumping into walls.

Willis
The radio alarm clock began to hum in Willis Hancocks’ hotel
room, which he rented in downtown London. He groaned, rolled
over, and slapped his hand on the off button without looking. He
rolled back and stared groggily at the dented pillow beside him.
She was already gone, and he was trying to recollect the night
before. He rolled his eyes towards the dresser. There was his wallet,
open and most likely empty. His pants lay crumpled beside the
dresser. He rubbed his hands over his face and gave a self-deprecating
chuckle. Then he began to rise. He was anything but happy.
She had definitely served her purpose, but the others had been
more professional, and much more discreet. When this happened,
he usually didn’t realize he had been robbed until hours later, when
he found himself at a store counter fumbling for his credit cards.
“You cheeky little bitch,” Willis mumbled to himself as he
flipped through his wallet. She hadn’t been discreet, but she had
been thorough. Even his lucky franc coin from his trip to Paris was
gone. It must have caught her eye. Ignorant street kid.
“She’ll never use it,” he mumbled. “Never in a million years.”
And, suddenly, he felt vulnerable without it. He was used to having
small charms in his pockets. They were little reminders that there
was some luck in the universe, good or bad. Later that morning he
was going to the courthouse to hear his father’s will. His father. He
sure as hell had never been a dad. He hadn’t earned the title. Dads
taught you how to play cricket on summer days. Fathers called
from foreign cities to say, again, that they wouldn’t make it to the
biggest day of your life.
Willis was tempted to throw the wallet in the wastebasket, but
he gently placed it back on the dresser with an air of defeat.
An hour later, he was showered, sharply dressed, and hurriedly
locking the hotel room behind him. He strolled with purpose through
the chic lobby and out onto the pavement. He was not rushing to
his appointment with excitement or even mild anticipation. He was rushing to get it all over with. He desired the whole matter to be
dead and buried. There was a shameful question repeating itself
over and over again in his head, and he tried desperately to ignore
it … What did the bastard leave me? His only son. What did the bastard
leave me? Bastard … bastard … bast— He began walking faster.
As he rounded the corner, the large, impersonal, grey building
loomed before him, with its long, stone steps. He vaguely imagined
guillotines. Willis couldn’t remember the streets he had walked, as
though something else had brought him to this place without his
knowing or consent. In many ways, it had. He did not want this part
of his life to exist. Where was Occam’s razor for moments like these?
How wonderful it would be to splice out all the undesirable bits.
Willis threw these encroaching thoughts from his mind and
scurried up the stone steps. The engraved wooden doors looked
large and imposing, but were surprisingly light and swung open
with ease. Willis couldn’t help thinking that perhaps these doors
were much like his father. If only he had taken the time to turn the
doorknob. Once again he banished his useless mind chatter. None
of it could be helped now. His father’s barrister, and friend, was
waiting for him, perched on one of the many benches placed along
the sides of the grand hallway. The white marble floor was immaculate.
Almost so that, if he desired, he could see his reflection near
his feet, but few dared to look at themselves in a courthouse.
The man rose to meet Willis. Willis knew this man well—too
well. Sometimes the disappointing calls from his father would be
telegrammed through this man’s voice.
“I’m sorry, son …” the voice would say, “your father has been
held up in a meeting.” Even this man knew his father well enough
to know he was only that. A father. A sperm donor. An absent
male figure. The dictionary was far too generous with the word.
Father. A male parent. God. One who originates, makes possible, or
inspires something. The word dad was merely listed as a colloquial
term or a shortcut for father. It was all so backwards.
“Hello, Willis,” the man said as he extended his hand, which was taken without hesitation. However, Willis shook hands limply.
He was still overwhelmed by this place and these people and papers
and things. They were all just things. Was he grieving? He didn’t
know. It was all packed somewhere inside his big toe. Everything
would take a very long time to reach his mouth and then his brain.
“Hi, Sam,” he answered in a voice that was barely audible. Sam
motioned him into another room nearby. There were too many
thresholds that day. The room was small and dimly lit. The blinds
were down and the large desk and tall bookshelves seemed to judge
Willis from their standpoints. Willis loosened his tie, feeling the
musty tone of the heavy, dark brown books and neglected carpets.
It was a furnished closet where many unsaid things happened.
“Would you like some coffee?” Sam offered. Willis thought he
could use something a bit stronger, but he politely raised his hand
in decline. Sam poured himself a cup and settled in behind the
large oak desk. He folded and unfolded his hands and then laid
them flat before him. There was no real sense of sorrow in the
room, but the situation was delicate and Sam wasn’t sure where to
begin. He didn’t want to touch a raw nerve.
“I have your father’s papers,” he began. He pulled an envelope
out of a large, squeaky drawer in his desk and deftly handed it over.
Willis didn’t make any move to accept it.
“Shouldn’t mother be here?” Willis stalled.
“Your mother conveyed point-blank that she isn’t interested in
what he had to say.”
Willis nodded solemnly. She was still his widow, but he had been
less than a husband to her. She had known the truth behind his
unscheduled business trips years ago. However, she had kept quiet
and continued to pack his lunch every morning and make pork chops
every Tuesday night. It had been a different era then, and she probably
made herself believe there was nowhere else for her to go. Maybe
it would have been easier if he had run off and left her for good.
Besides, she had to stay. She had Willis to think about. And now
Hancocks Sr. was dead. The freedom of it was suffocating. “Heart attack, was it?” Willis asked. He tried to sound casual.
Sam didn’t answer right away. Instead, he let out a long sigh
through his nostrils.
“Yes, I believe his heart simply gave out. Strange that it wasn’t
his lungs instead. He certainly liked his tobacco, didn’t he?” Sam
attempted to be warm, almost nostalgic. Willis squirmed in his
seat. He felt his own heart tense.
Sam noticed his anxiety and decided to move things along.
He was starting to feel uncomfortable too. He jerked the envelope
impatiently towards Willis. The younger man glanced at him
sharply, warily, as though he’d been wakened from a deep sleep.
He didn’t want anything from his father. Not like this. Feeling cornered,
he accepted the envelope and toyed with the seal.
“Do I have to open this now?” he asked, sounding like a child
who didn’t want to do a chore. “Here?”
“I must be a witness to make sure you understand all the implications
of your father’s last wishes,” Sam answered in a distant
voice. Willis began to peel open the seal. The package felt quite
heavy to be from a man who had been so empty. He pulled out a
stack of papers attached with a clip. There was too much print—
large blocks of ink that Willis didn’t want to swim through. He
passed the document back to Sam with a plea in his eyes for some
comprehension. Sam put his reading glasses on with an air of formality
and began to read:
“Here states the last will and testament of myself, Willis Hancocks
Sr., to be read upon my time of death. To my faithful wife I leave my
property estate …” Faithful! How the bastard could even constitute the
word and never know the meaning. Willis felt his innards turn and was
relieved about his mother’s absence in this obscene mockery.
“… and to my only son I leave a portion of myself that I hope
will fill the gaps I have left behind. …” The remainder of the document
contained instructions for the dividing of his assets, including
a generous portion granted to Sam for both his personal and professional
services through the years. Willis barely heard the rest of it.
“How much?” he interrupted. Sam stopped in midsentence
and removed the ominous glasses. His dusty blue eyes were small
and beady. His lukewarm glance took on a cooler slant.
Sam had been a dutiful friend, even when it had gone against
his better judgment. He was trying to be discreet, even now, by
sounding vague and assuming his authoritative business voice, but
the younger man knew him too well. Sam’s voice began to trail off,
losing its facade.
“It’s quite a sum, Willis,” he replied in a serious tone.
“How much?”
“Your father wasn’t very good with his feelings. He didn’t really
know how to express—”
“How much?” Willis was becoming irritable.
“Fifty million pounds, son.” His voice was like a dull thud in the
room. Then he added, “Your father set up a trust fund for you when
he found out he was dying from his clogged arteries. I’ve already
taken the liberty of depositing the funds directly into your account.”
Willis felt immobilized in his chair. The cushion on the chair
had suddenly become quicksand. He was a millionaire, just like
his father. Just like his father. Willis wanted no part of his father’s
impersonal, hard cash world.
His father was made of money, it seemed; still, he couldn’t take
it with him.
“What about my mother, Sam? What did she get?”
“Your father made sure she would be comfortable. Hopefully,
your mother was also given some closure.” Sam seemed uncomfortable
and avoided eye contact.
“What if I don’t accept?” Willis said, but he thought, brilliant.
“Then the money will be given to the city,” Sam said with
urgency. His loyalty still lay with his friend, and the last thing
Hancocks Sr. ever wanted was to invest one cent in the government.
He never trusted the politicians to do the right thing with
their liberties.
If Willis had known, he would have marched down to City Hall and delivered the boodle himself, but the unreturned affections
he carried for his father lay like silt in his stomach. He also
didn’t want his father’s money to go into a new McDonald’s or a
city parking lot. The two men stood up abruptly and shook hands.
Willis just wanted to escape. When he emerged from the ominous
courthouse doors, he took a long pause on the entrance steps. He
drew everything in, and the world looked stranger. Even the clouds
appeared to be moving faster across an otherwise pleasant sky. The
voices around him slowed down. The tempo in the atmosphere
was out of step. The mechanics in his brain had been reduced to a
hamster in a wheel, overworked. What had just happened?
Martin
Martin had been wandering the streets all morning. The sidewalks
were wide and crowded. The streets had a smaller ratio of traffic,
and he was tempted to walk along the painted dotted lines in the
middle of the road and dodge the cars. At least he would get paid
if some careless driver bumped into him. The mob on the sidewalk
lived by the rule of every man for himself. He unsuccessfully
tried to avoid the shoving and gave it back where he could without
making eye contact. He had grown sour and didn’t want to admit
his thoughts, even to himself. The truth was that he was young and
ready to accept his creature comforts again. He began to miss pillows,
basic warmth, and friendly conversation. The problem was,
he had delved so deep into his notions of the world being dictated
by the evils of money, politics, and fads that he didn’t know how to
slip back into the norm undetected. His rebellious nature had won
him a reputation in the spreading vicinity of his tunnel life.
His thoughts pushed behind his eyes as he walked recklessly.
What could he do now? He had no money. Suddenly, the colourful
printed paper and accumulative clinking coins he once detested seemed essential. He kicked the pavement in defeat. There was
no use fighting the greedy gods. Could he work? Would anyone
hire him? Here? His appearance was almost frightening. He prayed
for rain on the days between using the public showers, which cost
two pounds. Martin didn’t want to admit that he had failed in his
attempts to move against the grain, to not be a sheep. He always
returned to his home in the underground walkway. After all, home
was a place you could escape to after your legs grew weary and your
head swelled with the pressure of people and words and laborious
tasks, wasn’t it? Perhaps Martin’s home didn’t provide the best
comfort, but it did provide him with shelter and a place to submerge
from the busy streets. The hum of cars and shoes clanking on
the grates above him provided company in the night when only a
few stray souls, also hiding from the moonlight or police car beams,
might join him or pass through, stealth-like. Martin wandered the
streets of London by day and hid from them in the late, dark hours.
As he headed back to Hyde Park, he would often see the homeless
people cluster together in alleys. They were prohibited from
seeking soft grass beds in the parks, even in the warmer season.
So, in alleys, they lit each other’s cigarettes and spat on the sidewalks.
They swayed from the drink and huddled together to keep
warm and upright. They cajoled with each other and laughed with
smoker’s lungs. Martin didn’t know them, and he avoided them.
Whatever choices those poor, fading souls had ever made in their
lives, they had not chosen to live on the streets with every door
closed against them. At least, he was sure the choice had not been a
conscious one. How the warmly lit windows in every flat on every
block must have appeared to them.
Martin was painfully aware of his free will. Still, he wasn’t
ready to surrender. He had chosen the broadness of the streets
over being confined in those brightly lit boxes of windows, looking
down. Now his smug feelings had slowly turned to jealousy. He
suddenly hated the working locals and carefree tourists, brushing by him cheerfully with their groceries and Harrods bags, for a different
reason. They had something he didn’t have. They were free.
Martin sat down and occupied a piece of concrete.
Willis
As Willis rounded the corner, he almost tripped over a grungy
looking young man sitting on the pavement. The man looked as
though he had walked across the continent. The blue of his startled
eyes as he glanced up looked lost and old. The young man’s
expectant hand emerged from his jacket sheepishly and wavered
open before him. Willis hesitated for half a second and then pulled
out an executive-looking leather booklet from his inside pocket.
He then pulled a pen out of his shirt pocket and began scribbling
furiously inside the booklet.
“Here, chap, here’s a big fat cheque, and all you have to do is
authorize it. I hand you the keys to my palace,” Willis said. He
roughly stuffed the piece of paper into the other man’s waiting
hand and hurried off, jamming both of his empty hands into deep
pockets.

My novel Turnstiles is in the world!

Okay everyone... here it is! http://inkwaterbooks.com/shop/index.php?route=product%2Fproduct&product_id=1100

Update for my novel Turnstiles

Turnstiles is now published, and will be available for purchasing through http://inkwaterbooks.com/shop/ by the end of this week!

Press Release for my novel Turnstiles

https://www.facebook.com/ARainewriter#!/andrea.raine.77/posts/10151939240671847

Here is my press release for Turnstiles:

Contact | John Williams | john@inkwaterpress.com | 503.968.6777
The Tension Between Societal Expectation and the Individual Collide in the Dramatic New Novel Turnstiles by Novelist/Poet Andrea McKenzie Raine
...
Martin Sourdough is a homeless person who has chosen to turn his back on the corporate, material world; Willis Hancocks Jr. is a barrister, an alcoholic philanderer, and a misogynist; and Evelyn (aka Yvonne) is a prostitute. Turnstiles speaks to these social problems through the smaller scope of each character’s individual trials. There is a struggle that exists between the need to serve one’s own needs and the expectation to participate in the larger social scheme. Martin and Willis are both trying to fit into the world, but on their own terms. They are naïve, searching for an Eden-like state of being. Through a broader experience of personal fortune, misfortune, travel, and social interactions, they each learn to accept their paths and take control of their own destinies.
An empathetic and honest portrayal of human beings attempting to redefine themselves against the friction of idealism’s clash with societal expectations, Turnstiles is perfect for readers seeking a stirring, dramatic depiction of love, loss, impulse, and consequence.
—
—
About the Author
Andrea McKenzie Raine earned a B.A. in English Literature at the University of Victoria. She has attended the successful Planet Earth Poetry reading series (formerly known as Mocambopo) in Victoria, BC since 1997, and participated in the Glenairley writing retreats led by Canadian poet and novelist Patrick Lane in Sooke, BC. In 2005, she published her first book of poetry, titled A Mother’s String, through Ekstasis Editions. Andrea lives in Victoria, BC with her husband and two young sons. Turnstiles is her debut novel.
Title: Turnstiles
Author: Andrea McKenzie Raine
ISBN: 978-1-62901-013-7
Publisher: Inkwater Press
Pub date: 2014
Price: $16.95 Kindle: $6.99
Pages: 302
Availability: Amazon.com, BarnesandNoble.com, Powells.com, Inkwaterbooks.com
Distribution: Ingram and Baker & Taylor

Book cover reveal for Turnstiles -- available soon on bookshelves and in web bookstores!

https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=671477376217920&set=a.631011896931135.1073741829.623330987699226&type=1&relevant_count=1

Sneak Peek: A brief excerpt from Turnstiles

Chapter 1

Martin

Martin opened his eyes. He squinted between his zippered lashes, stuck together with sleep. A small army of shoes marched past his face, which was half-hidden inside a dingy blue sleeping bag. His first instinct was to place a limp, protective hand on his red knapsack. He was inside a short tunnel that lay beneath a busy London street beside Hyde Park. He didn’t look up. He knew what their faces would convey, their cowardly faces. He was experiencing the real Europe, instead of peering out at it through heated hotel windows or hostel bunk beds or tour buses. He didn’t have to pay anyone for his space of concrete bedding. He was free. He closed his eyes. Martin was free.

He ignored his growling stomach as he smelled the subtle waft of fries from the nearby Hard Rock Café. Tourists, he thought. They were all missing the local colour. Except Joe the hotdog vendor, who was from the north, a Scot, an outsider. Hot dogs in London were a foreign idea, but it seemed to catch on like every other American phenomenon. London was a metropolis with people from every race sounding their thick British accents. It didn’t really matter who you were or what you were, only where you happened to become that person. Still, people could tell if you were from somewhere else, and Martin stuck out like a wounded hitch-hiker’s thumb. He had a quiet bond with Joe the Outsider and, on most occasions, received his hotdogs for free. Then he would usually lie under a tree in the park and watch tourists get charged two pounds by security for using the lawn chairs. The grass was free. Martin felt as though mindless sheep surrounded him. He had it all figured out.

A year before he had bought a cheap ticket to London and decided to depend on the day to see him through. Martin cherished every consequence. He held on to every face that examined him with curiosity or disgust. He always kept a plain expression. He had no reason to indulge anyone with emotion. In fact, he barely spoke. Except to people like Joe.

When he opened his eyes again, a different army of shoes were marching past. The tunnel was never quiet, and he had long been used to the intrusion of echoing sounds and rustling pavement. It was a small sacrifice. He wriggled out of his bed and began to pack up. He would return later that night. Martin had become a familiar sight, and some of the locals knew this tunnel was his home. So did some of the other shoestring backpackers. Martin marched alongside the army and out of the tunnel. The sun was out, and again, he squinted. He ran a hand over his stubbled head and rubbed his eyes. He turned left.

The sun was already seated royally in the sky as Martin strolled down the wide, crowded sidewalk. He could see the faint shape of an umbrella a few blocks away, and as he came closer, he recognized Joe. Martin’s stomach began to growl again.

“Get your hotdogs here! Hello, sir, what a gorgeous day. Would you like a hotdog? Get your hotdogs here! Good day, love! Can I get you a hotdog? Would you like the works?” Joe called to the passing public all day long. He set up his stand on the same corner every day, and everyone who frequented that spot knew him. Some just by his ruddy, round face, and others knew him well enough to have a word or two. Martin felt he could relate to Joe, because it seemed they were both stuck in London making a living on the sidewalks, and most of the people bustling by chose to ignore them.

“Hey, Joe.” Martin showed a couple of teeth and then retracted his smile. Even though he liked Joe, he was still careful not to let anyone get too close. “Catering to the North American public, eh? It’s amazing you are able to sell hotdogs here. I guess if you had your way, you’d be selling cans of haggis.”

“Marty, my boy!” Joe’s face opened wide with good-natured eyes. “How was your night? Those bloody bed bugs didn’t bite ya, aye, lad?” he boomed in his rich, Scottish accent, completely disregarding Martin’s offhand remarks.

“Nah, Joe. No rats, neither. Just the bloody tourists waking me up in the morning.” Martin grimaced.

“Bloody tourists?” Joe raised his eyebrows so high they looked comical. “You better button your tongue, Marty. If there were no tourists, there’d be no hotdogs! Besides, what the devil do you think you are … a member of the general voting public? You’re the worst kind of tourist, Marty. You don’t pay taxes and you don’t leave!” Joe chuckled and flung a hotdog with ketchup and mustard into Martin’s waiting hand.

“See ya tomorrow, Joe,” said Martin without looking at his friend, and he began to walk away.

“See ya, Marty,” Joe said quietly and to himself, because Martin was already out of earshot. And they both knew they meant it. Tomorrow. Chances were they would find themselves in the same skin and doing the same thing. The two of them were like hamsters trapped in transparent, plastic balls looking out at the world, unable to break free of their bubbles and constantly bumping into walls.

Okay, I am officially freaking out (in a good way!)... I have decided on a book cover for my novel, Turnstiles, which means it is now in the final design stage and will be available in a matter of weeks! I am starting to plan my book launch in January and 2014 book tour. As usual, I am wrestling with my 'mommy guilt' about the idea of leaving my husband and two small boys as I venture off on short trips to... well, wherever I can... to promote my book. It will be spanned over 6 to 12 months, for mere days at a time, and I know none of them will shrivel up or starve to death... but, still, the idea of it is surreal and a little nerve-wracking. Needless to say, I am very excited to be chasing down my dream. My sweet husband asked me, point-blank, "Well, when are you going to do it? When the boys are teenagers?" In other words, just get out there and do it! I started writing Turnstiles many years before I met him, but he has seen me spend late, late nights revising, reworking, grappling with the characters and plot, and tacking on 100+ pages to what became a final manuscript worthy of submission. He's been on this journey with me for many years, too.

On the sidelines, I am striving to publish my second full-length book of poetry titled Spectrums & Apertures. I have sent my poetry manuscript out again, hoping it will find a home. I also hope to publish a book of ghazals titled A Year of Mornings and self publish a chapbook of ghazals titled Impetus. My childhood friend, Christina, who lives in Norway, is a professional illustrator and has enthusiastically agreed to collaborate with me on Impetus.

I am also eager to begin reading more work from my peers and writing book reviews. This goal is still near the top of my list -- so, if I have said I would review your book, and I haven't yet, my apologies. I am sincerely trying to get there, amidst the flurries of life! I have a raging fire in my belly.

My next fiction project will be revising the first draft of a novella, which is a prequel to Turnstiles. So many writing ideas, so much to do, and so few hours in the day!

First week -- Author Insights

I haven't been interpersonal in this blog. I've been hiding behind the curtain; behind the published poems and reviews... works already completed, somehow lending credentials or validity to my status as a writer. Daily life tends to eat away at my time, and my brain, but I realize the importance of sharing my writing process and struggles, amidst work and family. This is a dynamic time:  maybe I am biting off slightly more than I can chew, but I can see the doors opening. I am producing, moving forward, making new connections, and witnessing another world opening; another chapter beginning. I am now working through the initial edits from Inkwater Press for my debut novel, Turnstiles. The process is daunting, and exhilarating. The notion of publishing my novel this winter, and launching a book tour is also more than a little overwhelming -- life altering, self-actualizing. After fifteen years of quietly living with fictional characters, seemingly real. They are soon going to emerge into the world. Meanwhile, the author takes care of her kids, rides the bus to and from work, and tries to delve further into the global literary community. I find time to put stamps on my poems, as well; button up their little coats and send them off to literary journals. Through the beauty of Facebook, I am making meaningful connections with other writers:  some I have since been fortunate enough to connect with in person, others I may never actually meet; but we are engaging and supporting each other: poets, novelists, and readers uniting. I am grateful, hopeful, excited, nervous and soaring!

Creative Magic Casts Words To Inspire

Take a group of highly creative people sharing their art for the first time, a keen supportive audience, and an array of literary genres and you have a recipe for Creative Magic.

 

On Friday, October 13^th, Creative Magic weaved its spell over an anticipating audience. This event was the successful vision of organizer Cindy Shantz, a teacher and writer, who believed that all those with a creative talent should have a venue to showcase their work – and what better venue than the Nanaimo Art Gallery? The chosen venue was adorned with artwork by a couple of the participants and lent a cozy space with a proper stage-like area for the presenters. Shantz’s vision began in February during the course of her morning pages ritual and has taken flight since that time, through her efforts and support from participants, creating an energetic network of familiar and unfamiliar faces to build the project. All proceeds for the evening’s events go towards a scholarship for one of the presenters to attend the Victoria School of Writing (VSW) 5-day intensive workshop, and VSW will select the winning participant based on their talent.

 

The evening’s risk-takers were Fran Thiessen (Storytelling), Andrew Brown (Poetry), Eliza Gardiner (Musical Drama), Lorna McNeil (dramatic monologue), Rebecca Friesen (Novel Excerpt), HawkOwl (Myth), and Cindy Shantz (Personal Essay).

 

“The Creative Magic event is made possible by our first-timers and, essentially, risk-takers presenting their work in public,” said Shantz. “The presenters will aim to evoke the audience with their courageous, outrageous and, hopefully, contagious inspiration for the art of the written word.”

 

Creative Magic was designed to encourage aspiring writers in all genres to step out of their closeted comfort zones to test their projects on a live audience, which was an intimate gathering, yet large enough to gather a valuable response for the presenters.

 

“The main goal for the evening is supporting these artists and writers. We are encouraging the artist to make connections and establish support,” said Shantz. “We also hope when people see the show they may be inspired to do their own works.”

 

 The performances included storytelling, dramatic monologue, a novel excerpt, a drama piece with musical accompaniment, commentary on myth, and a personal essay. During the intermission, audience members were encouraged to mingle with the presenters to give feedback and support on their performances – essentially the second part of the goal to create a supportive environment.

 

Writing is a solitary act and, in keeping with any artist, those who subject themselves to this craft find the process as highly personal and experience certain vulnerability in sharing the results of their labour. Shantz emphasized the importance of “following your bliss and your passions.” As Shantz described in her personal essay ‘On Writing: The Work, the pain, and the Magic’ of writing – despite the sometimes agonizing pain of writing and, sigh, rewriting – there is great satisfaction in knowing “the most joyful part of writing is writing.” The rewards of writing are taken to an even greater level when the words are shared.

 

Mocambo Coffee Poetry Series Moves to the Black Stilt Cafe

The Black Stilt Cafe lends a relaxing and creative atmosphere with comforting sounds of the usual coffee ground buzz. The cafe will have more lyrical sounds, as a new poetry series titled Planet Earth Poetry, formerly known as the Mocambo Coffee poetry series (Mocambopo), moves in September 15th.

 

This has been a supportive environment where long-time poets encourage up-and-coming scribes – a safe place to try new tricks and give the written word small wings for great distances. Dave Crothall, owner of the Black Stilt Cafe, is thrilled about the opportunity to inherit a well-established poetry series.

 

Over the past decade, the Mocambopo series has been treated to readings by local and national well-established and aspiring writers, which began in 1995. Wendy Morton, the host of Mocambopo, will continue to host the poetry series in its new venue.

 

“I’ve been the host and organizer [of Mocambopo] since 1999. It looked as though the series might end, so I stepped in,” said Morton. “The Friday poetry nights have been a source of delight and given me a chance to befriend many of the best poets in Canada.”

 

“I had been hunting for a poetry group for some time, even prodding friends to try and put something together,” said Crothall. “So when Wendy [Morton] approached me, I was definitely interested.”

 

The Black Stilt is strategically located in the neighbourhood of Hillside and Shelbourne, as it is teeming with students attending the nearby University of Victoria (UVic) and Camosun College campuses.

 

“We have hosted the UVic Writing Group for a poetry night before, and are frequented by students during evening hours,” said Crothall. “The proximity to the university and college campuses was definitely a contributing factor in locating here. I am hoping to have a very popular poetry group that attracts people and contributes to our evening lounge ambience; allowing people to enjoy The Black Stilt’s amazing space.

 

The Mocambopo series ended due to an inability to reach an agreement of terms between the venue owner and poetry host. Eric Mun is the last owner to take on this creative facet of the Mocambo Coffee legacy and business.

 

“I really am proud of the poetry series at Mocambo Coffee,” said Mun. “I would like to try and start another poetry night here and to have another host, if possible.”

 

“The Black Stilt was necessary because the current owner of Mocambo was not happy with the arrangement,” said Morton. “The Black Stilt welcomed us with open arms, as the owner already wanted a poetry venue. The new space is elegant with beautiful light and a proper stage.”

 

The new name, Planet Earth Poetry, was given out of necessity and ensures the poetry series will be welcomed as both universal and portable. Planet Earth Poetry makes the poetry series a venue for the world.

 

As writers must take brave risks with their key strokes and pens, they must also greet change with an open perspective. Here is the opening of a new stanza and a new paragraph in a long series of great works-in-progress.

 

Contact:

#103 – 1633 Hillside Avenue
Victoria, BC V8T 2C4
Phone: (250) 370-2077
Fax: 1-866-417-7543
Email: info@theblackstilt.com

www.theblackstilt.com

 

 

 

Late Bloomers Are Never Too Late To Write

A person whose life is well-lived is someone who both recognized and fulfilled their personal goals and didn’t allow age, time or circumstance to hinder their opportunities for happiness.

 

Naomi Wakan, a poet, author, journalist, editor, publisher and artist, is a living example of this philosophy. She shares her honest and often humorous teachings in her new book, Late Bloomer: on writing later in life, which is directed toward an age 50+ audience who have always sensed a creative streak but haven’t yet tapped into their powerful, dormant energy. After many years of being immersed in the creative lives of both her ex and current spouse, she also began to reawaken to her own creative needs from childhood. She embraced fully the importance of play.

 

Naomi resides on Gabriola Island with her sculptor husband, Elias Wakan, in a studio/home setting called Drumbeg House Studio, where she draws on inspiration from her surroundings. Elias makes wood sculpture and Naomi writes, paints, and does fabric art. For 12 years the couple ran a small publishing house called Pacific-Rim Publishers, which focused on educational resource materials for teaching English, inspired from their time spent in Japan. 

 

Naomi yearned to be writing full time and Eli wanted to see what his ‘paper sculpture’ would look like in wood, so they breathed in deeply and jumped from downtown Vancouver to Island living. She counts herself fortunate to be able to cultivate such a creative and open life, but it took her awhile to realize her needs and bring them to fruition.

 

“My first husband was an artist; my present husband is a sculptor, Elias Wakan www.eliaswakan.com, so I have been living with others' creative lives for a long while.  The creative process has always been a mystery to me, but I did come to realize how much hard work has to be put in to make the inspirational moment a reality in three dimensions,” said Wakan.

 

After years of supporting the creativity of others, and then honoring her own artistic pursuits, she felt it was a natural step to encourage the same creativity through workshops. The classes she gives for ‘Late Bloomers’ are crammed with ideas to ‘jump-start’ creativity.

 

“When I started exploring forms for my creativity it seemed natural to go on supporting and encouraging others. As for myself, I had written verse as a child, but then had turned to university, motherhood, etc. and what creativity I had came out in those channels.  I started writing somewhat intensely in my fifties, but didn't devote myself to it full-time until my mid-sixties,” said Wakan.

 

Every artist has their own creative process, and Naomi is no stranger to the fear, doubt and exhilaration felt in taking the first steps towards completing a literary project of any size. Whether it is a poem or a book, there is a need for it and a craft to be learned.

 

When asked about creating the spark for people who want to explore their creativity later in life, Wakan replied, “My advice to 'Late Bloomers' is to realize that time is passing and that if you are ever going to write, there is a certain urgency that you do. Also discard all non-supportive friends and family members - that doesn't mean stay with folks who praise you, but folks who help you with their criticism.”

 

Naomi is a prolific writer and has published books in fiction, non-fiction and poetry. She embraces many interests, including cooking, gardening, books of quotes (7): Artworks, Gardenworks, Designworks, Bookworks, Foodworks, Loveworks and Musicworks, art, music, love, travel, design, and health – evident in her works Healing Bag and Memory Bag.

 

“I love reading in public and sharing my writing.  My publisher said I would 'Wow' any audience that didn't have body piercing and I try to stick to that,” said Wakan.  “I go to other writers’ book launches knowing how much we all need a supportive public and also just how much energy goes into the production of a book; that energy should be acknowledged, even if one doesn't particularly appreciate the form the writing has taken.”

 

Naomi Wakan read from her latest collection Late Bloomer: on writing later in life on Sunday, October 15^th at the Oak Bay Library, and is taking registrations for her Late Bloomers workshops held on Gabriola Island. Information about her workshops can be found at http://www.naomiwakan.com/nw_workshops.html.

 

Her book launch was held in a small breakout room, yet packed with a keen audience. This was telling of the need for a book to encourage people to discover their creativity later in life. Her reading was sprinkled with humorous anecdotes about the process of writing and getting published. Writers must be armed with a sense of humor and thick skin to survive rejection letters and persevere with the act of more writing and submitting their work.

 

Wakan’s new book introduces the reader into the world of a writer and the interviews in the second half frankly show the process that 13 folk went through before they started writing.  These open and wise interviews provide a supportive atmosphere so that the reader can say “Well, if they can do it, I can.”

 

Late Bloomer was well-received, as she struck a chord with an appropriate audience. I am not a member of her targeted audience, being in my thirties and at the beginning of my writing career, but I was equally appreciative of her efforts to spark an older generation with the magic of writing – a joyful challenge at any age.

 

 

 

 

New Chapbook Press Launch for Global Community of Writers

Hear ye, hear ye! There is a new publishing house in town called Rubicon Press (www.rubiconpress.org), which is accepting manuscripts from writers worldwide. Jenna Butler (founding Editor), who resides in Edmonton, Alberta and Victoria-based writer Yvonne Blomer (assistant Editor) are the masterminds behind the new press. The two met while pursuing their Master of Creative Writing degrees at the University of East Anglia in the U.K. in 2004/05. The points of distribution for the press, so far, are East Anglia, Edmonton (where Butler is currently teaching full-time) and Victoria.

 

The two friends decided to showcase a book of their classmates’ accomplishments in a chapbook because “Norwich is very supportive of its university's Creative Writing program, but there hadn't been a big push in the past to have its poets present their work to the community,” said Butler. “To date, we've had two readings in the city for the launches of two different Rubicon chapbooks.”

 

After earning their Master degrees and returning to their respective homes, the two managed to further collaborate on the project by sending work and ideas back and forth via email and snail mail.

 

“Yes, it does make things challenging sometimes in the sense that we can't just meet over
coffee to review the latest pile of manuscripts; I'm at the post office
several times a month, sending her photocopied batches of the newest work so
she can review it,” said Butler. “We are excellent (read, fanatic) e-mailers, though, so we
have no trouble keeping in touch about the manuscripts we're considering.”

 

Rubicon is based on the idea of creating a global community of writers by publishing the work of poets world-wide, as Blomer says, “Most presses in Canada will only publish Canadian work, but we want to publish international poetry.”

 

“I feel that Yvonne and I really are doing what we set out to do, in the sense that we reach out to writers from around the world, whereas most independent poetry publishers are very focused on a local market,” said Butler.

 

Rubicon Press is built on the labour of love from both the author and publisher, which means that the publisher understands the joy, sweat and tears that is an integral part of the writing process and the finished product. Therefore, Rubicon provides a book with the professional design and care that it deserves.

 

“Right from the press's inception, I envisioned a strong independent poetry
publisher founded on the hard work of its volunteer members -- people who
loved poetry, who read poetry widely, and who wanted to reach international
as well as local authors,” said Butler. “I am all about very tactile, beautifully-designed
books, and I feel that a small press has better access to this kind of work
because it is dealing with limited print runs.”

 

This means that there is not a mass-production for the book where the quality of individual care and craftsmanship may be jeopardized. Butler’s main vision for the press is that of  “a publishing company that works one-on-one with its authors during the editing and design process to create a book that really reflects the author's original vision
for his/her completed manuscript.”

 

As for deciding what to call the Press, “I've always been a little attached to the name Rubicon (crossing the Rubicon!). I love the idea of pushing borders and striving for change -- in a positive sense, of course,” said Butler.

 

The press is focused on accepting manuscripts for individual chapbooks, but their first edition Tempus is a compilation of poets both local and abroad. Rubicon press has already received submissions from Japan and Italy, in addition to Canada, the U.S. and the U.K.

 

“For the inaugural chap book we did a collection, poems chosen by Jenna. I was concerned that I didn't want to have competing interests as many of the Victoria poets are people I know well.  We have just released our first single collection by writer Todd Swift - he is a Montreal born Canadian living in London, England.  Also we have plans to publish a collection by Lorri Neilsen Glenn in the winter,” says Blomer. 

 

The first collection Tempus was launched in East Anglia and Edmonton in summer 2006, and will have its inauguration in Victoria on October 20, 2006 at the Black Stilt Cafe Planet Earth Poetry series.

 

“Tongues of Fire” Launches Chapbook, Celebrates the Spoken Word

A Victoria-based poetry series called “Tongues of Fire” is celebrating its second year of success, and steadily attracting attention. The series began with a group of three writers who met at a Sheri-D Wilson workshop at the Victoria School of Writing (VSW) in summer 2005. The troupe wanted to start a poetry series as an extension of their found love of spoken word art, performance poetry, and a means to stay connected in the writing community.

 

The group created “Tongues of Fire”, which occurs at the Solstice Cafe on the 2nd and 4th Thursday of every month at 7:30 p.m. The original three members, Steven J. Thompson, Julia Day Flagg and Genevieve Robichaud, grew to include three more keen ‘tongues’ – Kory Jeffrey Klassen, Graham Kelly, and Janice Thompson.  

 

“We were all interested in the art of spoken word as it was a fresh and raw version of poetry, and more or less, some of us had been heading in that direction with the work that we were doing. As for the show, we wanted to have an outlet for this newly discovered energy,” said Thompson.

 

Shortly after Julia moved to Vancouver, “the universe aligned in our favor once again.  Shayne avec i grec approached us.  We knew Shayne from the general poetry scene, as he was also running a short lived poetry series in Cook Street Village around the time when we were getting our show up and running.  Shayne joined the group in September of this year.  So we are now seven.”

 

“Tongues of Fire” posters can be found around town and at the Universities, highlighting each event. There is also a growing mailing list, as the troupe relies on word of mouth and/or passing out hand bills advertising the shows. Featured readers often also come with their own group of supporters, which helps to increase the profile of shows.

 

“Tongues of Fire” has begun launching chapbooks, showcasing the Tongues’ diverse poetic voices.

 

“The chapbook is something that we've wanted to do since shortly after the group was formed.  Now after almost a year and a half, the show is starting to run like a well-oiled bicycle.  So now we have more energy to do it,” said Thompson.

 

There is always a challenge involved in transferring spoken word performance poetry to the printed page, as the same impact may not be conveyed. The spoken word takes on a different energy.

 

“That's the challenge. If the content and the subject matter are relevant, and expressed in a fresh idea and fresh language, [the poem] will make an impression [on stage or in print].  I believe every poet faces that challenge,” said Thompson.

 

“Tongues of Fire” is created for “Lovers of poetry, lovers of lit, lovers of life, and people that want to be entertained,” said Thompson. “In our feature performers we try to bring in poets that can connect with an audience, and a diverse one at that.  We want poetry to be a place where you don't have to have a tweed jacket with patches on the elbows to fit in.”

 

“Tongues of Fire” happens at the Solstice Cafe, 529 Pandora Ave. 7:30 pm. The admission cost is $3.00.

 

 

 

 

 

Nanaimo Takes Literary Readings by Storm

The literary wave is sweeping across Western Canada and Vancouver Island like a hurricane, picking up speed and moving north to Nanaimo, The Harbour City, which is growing as a hotspot for tourism and culture. Organizers David Fraser, a regional representative for the Federation of BC Writers, Cindy Shantz, Pat Smekal, Fran Thiessen, and Andrew Brown are the brainstormers for the new open mike spoken word series called WordStorm.

 

“The name came through a brainstorming - no pun intended - session at the Black Bear Pub where we all played on our suggestions until Pat Smekal came out with it. We liked the inherent energy and the sustained metaphor which included lightning, raw energy, and the unpredictable nature of the open mike event,” said Fraser.

 

David Fraser met Cindy Shantz at the Victoria School of Writing and, as Fraser recalls, Shantz was “a natural link to partner with since she also was looking to form a writing group and was interested in reading events for the area.”

 

“I had been mulling over the idea of having a reading event for over a year, but had procrastinated getting one started as I spent time developing a sense of the culture of the area and the culture of the Federation of BC Writers as their regional representative,” said Fraser. “After attending the Victoria School of Writing and taking workshops with Sheri-D Wilson, I became inspired to get a group together to host an on-going event that would be inclusive and performance-based in any genre.”

 

During this time, he found that there were very few opportunities for writers on the islands to highlight their efforts with the exception of a few local festivals and some on-going Victoria events. The goal of WordStorm is to provide a venue for new and emerging writers of prose, poetry, dramatic presentations, song, and music; to experiment and workshop new material; to develop spoken word skills; and to entertain, have fun and share ideas. The poetry series aims to recognize and celebrate all demographics, writing styles and skill levels of participating writers. The WordStorm poetry series will also be a creative catalyst to assist placing Nanaimo on the map for spoken word events comparable to Victoria, Vancouver, Calgary and Toronto, while promoting the talent of local island writers and providing a new form of entertainment for Nanaimo residents.

 

“Basically we wanted to have two main components to the event. One would be a slate of readers that would be organized in advance of each event, and scheduled two or three months ahead. Some readers would be featured readers, reading for 15 minutes (one or two) and the other would be "lightning" readers and they would read for 5 minutes,” said Fraser. “The other component would be an open mike competition involving two prizes generated from the small entrance fee, one for poetry and one for prose.”

 

The evening starts off with live music, followed by a featured reader and lightning readers before the open mike competitions, and finishes with one of the slated readers returning at the end to read for five minutes while the judging results are tabulated.

 

The WordStorm launch was held on January 25^th, entertaining a sold-out crowd at the Bombay Lounge, downstairs in the Acme Food Co. 14 Commercial Street, Nanaimo, and will continue to entertain on the last Thursday of each month.  There will be a $3.00 cover for everyone except the readers and organizers. The cover will go toward prize money for the evening with some accumulating for the Super WordStorm event. 

 

The Bombay Lounge has a capacity of 40 people, so don't be disappointed, reserve ahead through the PayPal link below or take your chances at the door.  All reservations must be picked up before 6:30 pm or they will become void, and spaces will be given out on a first come, first served basis.  Reservations can be made via paypal on the web site: www.ascentaspirations.ca/WordStorm.htm

 

“We are hoping to always have variety with a blend of poetry, prose, improv, song, dramatic monologue with the slated readings, and we hope to attract all writers, aspiring, emerging and established to be our slated readers and to be involved in the open mike competition,” said Fraser.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Empress Letters by Linda Rogers – A Book Review

Linda Rogers’ novel, The Empress Letters, is a tale abstractly woven into the historical setting of Victoria, BC during the early 20^th century.  The story is told through current, intimate letters written by the mother and narrator, Poppy, to her daughter who is lost in China.  The word ‘lost’ holds multiple meanings, and sets a tone or an understanding for what is occurring in the narrator’s mind.  There are many lost or buried pieces.  With the assistance of her travelling companion, Tony, Poppy is on a quest to reclaim her daughter as well as her own truths.    The unfiltered letters reveal a strange and hard truth about the unfolding events of the mother’s life.  They are also an attempt to explain a family history and rekindle a strained relationship, which has not been reconciled.

 

The narrator’s experiences of growing into adolescence are somewhat shielded in a proverbial snow-globe of luxury, which is inevitably shattered by the larger, grittier world as she witnesses the human reality of the Chinese slaves “Coolies”, the emergence of World War I, the facades of social hierarchy, and her own confusing desires of coming into womanhood.  Her perspective is quickly moved from the smaller scope of her privileged existence to a larger, more philosophical, political and sexually-charged coming of age.  Sexual boundaries are crossed, as well as geographical and imaginary ones, which are often skewed by the narrator’s younger, innocent recollections while trying to associate worlds.

 

Poppy uses art, particularly painting, to define her world through the mentorship of the historical Emily Carr’s free-thinking ideas and committed lifestyle.  The historical figures, such as Emily Carr and the Chinese slaves, ‘paint the scenery’ for both social and political events in a turbulent era.  For instance, the novel delves into the mysterious underground world of Chinatown during the turn of the century.  There is a lesson of place and identity, ritual rhythms, and being safe with your own kind.

 

There is also constancy in fighting for independence, which resonates through the narrator and her childhood companions.  At the same time, they are each in desperate need of support, affection and stability.  Poppy revisits her important rites of passage, as she literally journeys across the Pacific Ocean on a cruise ship, The Empress of Asia, to rescue her daughter from the strange, mystical holds of China.

 

Throughout the letters, there are currents of disruptive change, which are personal, historical or both.  The ground shifts underneath like the San Andreas Fault, as Poppy rides the moving earth and adapts to new surroundings in her childhood home, or learns to accept what will not change such as the cruel effects of her distant relationship with her own mother.

 

The Blackbird’s Song by Pauline Holdstock

The Blackbird’s Song is a story about the challenges of faith.  The reader is introduced to a group of three Christian missionaries who are chosen and sent to China to ‘spread the word’ by holy instruction. 

 

The story is told through the eyes of one of the missionaries, Emily, who watches as her companions, one being her husband, William, struggle along with her in China’s harsh and unpredictable environment.  The group also has the obstacle of not starting off strong and united, as a woman, Martha, exhibits extremist behaviour in the group and rails against the intent of the group for adaptation and survival in the strange country. Their struggles deepen as horrible mishaps befall them, and Emily begins to lose her sense of faith.  A division begins to take place within the group, as conflicting ideals either real or perceived are brought to the surface, which in turn bring about internal conflicts and suppression of true feelings. 

 

The language is poetic.  For instance, “Tsechow was spread below them like a wasp’s nest broken open in the sun.”  Holdstock also uses strong, descriptive images to evoke the emotions in the characters and the impact of their new environment.  As well, the frequent use of short, fragment sentences echoes the abruptness and urgency of changing scenery, quick action, and sharp, violent thoughts. 

 

The undercurrents carry the tense vibe of changing ideas, while there are increasing overtones of religious strife.  Emily is steadily drifting from the group, into herself and questioning her faith and reasons for being there, while Martha is drifting away further into the dangers of the country and her own madness.  Emily becomes disillusioned with the idea of God, and feels abandoned.  There are also children included in the journey, those of Emily and her husband, who are suffering alongside the adults through the elements and trials of the failing mission. 

 

There is a division of purpose in the group that emerges, displayed in the notions of Christian beliefs, religious extremism, and paganism threatening their united ability to infiltrate the society and assist the Chinese people.  Still, there is a silence in the group, as the members don’t wish to communicate these changing dynamics.  The mission is falling apart, as the each of the members begin to succumb, in their own way, to the unrelenting landscape and people.  New demons arise to test the foreigners, and the group begins to collapse within itself as a result of mind-trickery, obsession, fear and suspicion.

 

The foreigners face an upward battle, and a constant threat of death, in a land that doesn't want them. Eventually, their stead-fast and narrow views about fortune, faith and god become inverted in the culture they were once trying to save. 

Pauline Holdstock's Beyond Measure - A Book Review

Pauline Holdstock's novel, Beyond Measure, takes place in Italy in the 1500s, and spirals around the main characters Paolo, Orazio, his daughter and assistant Sofonisba, Ceccio the land lord, Matteo Tassi, Alessandro and Caterina, the slave girl.  Each character has a desire to be appreciated, if not seen.

                  

Paolo, an artist, treats human subjects like objects; he searches for the inanimate flesh to make it come alive once again in his art.  He cannot see beyond his own flesh and, therefore, has a compulsive need to capture the beauty of the human form in his paintings.  He is calculating, methodical and manipulative in the way he obtains these objects.  Paolo attempts to move past the emotional element of his subjects to get to the purpose of his art, as illustrated in the following passage: 

 

"...The skin of a hanged man is as the skin of any other.  It is its own miracle, a paragon of suppleness and strength and exquisite sensitivity and, when hairless and smooth as in youth and in the female form, a thing of beauty beyond compare."

 

When Caterina, the slave girl, is presented to Paolo, he becomes obsessed with the living quality of her female form and her strange markings.  Caterina is an unwitting gift or pawn, passed around between the characters for the benefit of monetary, artistic and personal status.  Paolo insists on painting her in the nude, as he says "a muse clothed is against Nature.  The muse must be naked.  She is naked truth.  The naked flame of inspiration."

 

The novel examines the existing classes, and relationships between master and slave.  The need each character has to interact with the other characters, in their varying positions, is modeled on hierarchy, obedience, responsibility and human value.  Paolo reserves the right to manipulate human beings to dissect and exploit them, for the sake of art.  Still, for his livelihood and art, he must answer to his landlord, Ceccio.

 

The circling relationships between the characters are interconnected and dependent, with different agendas revolving around their individual needs for the slave girl, Caterina.  She will win them esteem, power, love, or artistic pursuit.  Art and people are for bartering, and a means of ownership.  Nothing is sacred in terms of art or human life, as each are subject to revisions.

 

Art is the central theme, and the characters are tied to it either physically or intrinsically.  Holdstock's writing is thorough and painstakingly descriptive.  She leaves out no detail of the work involved.  For instance:

 

"Carefully he sticks pins into the anima and, in a process of trial and error, positions it securely in the mould, closing the two halves round it.  The protruding pins keep it away from the inner walls; it hangs inside, clear of the shell of the mould, trapped and at the same time free, the way, Maestro Paolo once remarked, the rough unfinished soul hangs inside the body, a disparate element, longing for fire.  So the artist's work, said Maestro Paolo, was the mirror of God's creation, Man."

 

The language used is clinical and instructive, and yet poetic and transcendent.  Beyond Measure is, essentially, a commentary on art:  how one's work is viewed by outsiders, other artists and critics, and the lengths that artists will go to come close to divinity.  As well, the sacrifices people will make to achieve their desires.