A Review of Nicolai’s Daughters, and Interview with author Stella Leventoyannis Harvey ~ by Rebecca Wood Barrett

In Stella Leventoyannis Harvey’s first novel, Nicolai’s Daughters, she explores the legacy of a terrible secret, and how the ripples of anger and shame pass through generations to result in three families lost to each other. She begins with Nicolai, who leaves his eight year old daughter Alexia behind in Vancouver, to return to his family in the village of Diakofto, Greece. Having lost his wife to cancer, Nicolai recognizes what a poor father he is in his angry, grieving state. The last thing he wants to do is treat his young daughter like his own father treated him, with ill-will and bitterness. Nicolai’s mother blames his father’s long-held resentments on the war, in which he bore witness to the massacre of an entire village of men, including his own father, in Kalavyrta. She says, “Something very bad happened to him. None of us can understand.” Frustrated by his father’s rejection, Nicolai begins a brief romance with Dimitria, a friend from childhood. After several months, Nicolai leaves her and his family behind, to return permanently to his life and daughter in Canada.

Many years later, when Alexia is grown and a successful lawyer, her father reveals a secret on his deathbed: she has a half-sister in Greece. In his will, he asks her to return a box of letters to the young woman, Theodora. Alexia can’t help feeling betrayed, as though she and her mother weren’t her father’s true loves. However, she decides to travel to Greece to meet her father’s family for the first time, and carry out his wish. Once in Diakofto, she is overwhelmed by the family’s raucous, generous, gossipy nature. She also learns that they shun Theodora and her family.

After a few weeks, Alexia surprisingly finds herself shifting away from her workaholic persona into a more relaxed state. She warms to her new family, their hospitality and gatherings laden with traditional Greek food and wine. She grows especially close to one of her aunts, Christina. Not yet ready to reveal herself to her half-sister Theodora—Alexia orchestrates a chance meeting with her, and pretends to be a stranger. She and Theodora become friends, and Alexia learns of the difficult life Theodora had, growing up without a father. She has lived with the constant shame of being an illegitimate child, and now, as an adult and mother of a small child herself, still suffers under her mother-in-law’s constant verbal jabs.

As Harvey deftly weaves together the three stories of Nicolai, Alexia and Theodora, she skillfully unravels the secrets of the family. Through Alexia’s relentless pursuit of her grandfather’s secret—which grew out of the Kalavryta massacre—she recognizes her own capability for keeping a secret. Despite her disgust at the gossip and lies-of-omission her family perpetuates, she continues to keep her true identity from her half-sister Theodora; she has no wish to cause her more pain.

In Nicolai’s Daughters, Harvey tells us that the insidious virus of secrets and the damage they inflict, infects not only one person and one family, but all those down the line. Her characters are not bad people. In fact, they are good people, loveable people. The reason they’re not telling the truth is because they want to protect those they love. With wisdom, patience, and a great affection for her characters, Harvey investigates the theme of what it means to confront a family’s prejudices and hidden stories, in order to move away from the horrors of a long-ago past.

Interview

RWB: When did the seed of Nicolai’s Daughters take root?

Harvey: I started this book with a few images, thoughts really, mostly about loss. It tends to be a theme for me as a writer. I have some ideas about why that is, but I’ll save that for a psychoanalyst’s couch. I have visited Greece on many occasions since I was a child. I love the hospitality, the openness, the generosity of Greeks and at the same time I also felt that there was some fear of happiness, something inherently sad and complacent, something at the root of all the superstitions I grew up with. I wanted to explore this contradiction. Greece has been a nation that has been conquered many times in its history, has fought many battles and yet somehow Greeks have maintained their culture. I didn’t know how any of these thoughts fit or even what I wanted to write about until I visited Kalavryta. The novel found its soul when I visited this small mountain village. I listened to the testimonials of the victims recorded in the Kalavryta museum and climbed Kappi Hill myself and realized I wanted to tell the Kalavryta story and at the same time explore the compromises made and secrets kept in order to survive war and what all this does to a family, not only at the time of the tragedy, but also the impact on the family’s subsequent generations.
RWB: Nicolai’s Daughters is told from several points of view. How did that come about?

Harvey: Slowly. First I began to explore Alexia and her story of loss. Her mother dies when she is only eight and then her father abandons her. I wanted to find out why a father would do such a thing. With that question, Nicolai entered my head, forcing me to understand him and his actions. I couldn’t help but empathize with him. And when Nicolai admits to having fathered another child, Alexia knew nothing about, I found myself wondering how this other child grew up, how she would be different and yet the same as Alexia. And I heard her voice too. More timid, accented, yet persistent. Now you’ll really feel like I need a shrink. But I’m happiest as a writer when my characters are talking to me, when I hear their voices, see their expressions and somehow find the words to put what I hear and see on the page.

RWB: How did the village of Diakofto come alive in your mind and on the page?

Harvey: I knew I wanted a place in Greece that was not frequented by a lot of tourists. I wanted Alexia to be plopped there and to find a place completely foreign to her, a place not in the tourist guides, a place very different from her home in Vancouver. Also, Diakofto is close to Kalavryta and it has its own story line.  Bounded by water on one side and mountains on the other, Diakofto is an ancient Greek word meaning cut in two, similar to the mountains that loom over this village with the deep Vikos Gorge winding its way between them. I thought that worked well with some of the themes in the novel.

When I read about Diakofto, I also had an image of it similar to how Alexia first views it, a pretty seaside community but in fact, it wasn’t as attractive as I had pictured it myself before I finally visited there. But I’ve gone back a few times and like Alexia, and I’ve come to love it too.

RWB: Most of the characters in the novel are holding a secret, and this is one of the strongest themes in the book. How do you go about building a character? Are they based on people you know? Or are they pure invention?

Harvey: They are pure invention, although I must say the accents some of my characters have are accents I grew up with. What we all feel when we are rejected, experience loss, are angry, afraid etc., are really universal. What I hope to do through the story is show who my characters are and why they react the way they do in different situations.  I love them all even the most dastardly ones, like the cad, Achilles in the novel. He was meant to be a “walk on, walk off” character, without the slightest hint of even a minor role but, like his character, he walked on and stayed, refusing to walk off, and became an integral part of both Nicolai’s story, and Alexia’s, years later in the novel.

RWB: How long did it take you to write Nicolai’s Daughters, and what’s your typical writing day like?

Harvey: My first draft is dated 2006. God! Where has the time gone. I completed a full draft in late 2010. I tinkered with the first three chapters for about two years, fixing, changing, amending, and rewriting those first three chapters about a million times. Then I was lucky to be accepted into the Banff Centre’s Wired Studio which included a two week residency at the Banff Centre. My mentor was The Book of Negroes author, Lawrence Hill. The best advice he gave me was: Stop fixing, just keep writing. Those who keep fixing never finish a novel. You can fix it later. And so that’s what I did, I spent most of 2008 and 2009 finishing the novel. Then most of 2010 rewriting it about a million times. Then of course when Signature Editions accepted the manuscript in late 2011, there were more edits to be made.

My typical writing day starts at about 5 a.m. I love the quiet and the dark and being alone with my thoughts. Because I tend to be asocial person who likes to have a ton of things on the go, it’s very hard for me to get quiet enough to sit down and concentrate. I do that best in the morning when the rest of the world is asleep. I typically write until 11 if I’m having a good day and then I go on with the rest of my life. Sometimes I come back to it in the afternoon but mostly I don’t. When I’m on a roll, everything else stops, everything else goes on the back burner. Eat? Who needs to eat? But this happens very, very rarely. It’s usually a struggle and I never think what I write is good enough or really finished. I tinker stuff to death and only stop when I realize I’m putting back the same words I deleted only the other day.

RWB: How much of your own experience is reflected in the novel?

Harvey: Good question. Alexia missed her extended family her whole life. I have to say that comes from my own longing. My family emigrated to Canada when I was six and I felt as though I missed my aunts and uncles and cousins my whole life. My parents missed our extended family also, so as a result there were always extra people sitting around the kitchen table at Christmas or Easter. Anyone without a home was always invited into my parent’s home. I think that comes from generosity but it also comes for a deep-seated longing for a larger family. When I return to Greece (even though I never lived there), it feels like going home. It’s a culture and a people I absolutely love.

Nicolai and some of his fears and superstitions are things I grew up with and still believe. So my superstitions are the butt of many a joke. And that’s another way, the book reflects my experiences.

RWB: In Nicolai’s Daughters, the speech of Alexia’s extended Greek family is humourous, sharp, humble, wise and at times, cocky–what’s your trick to capturing their vernacular?

Harvey: I grew up with it. My parents spoke this way and anytime we went to Greece, this is how my relatives spoke. I love voices, I love hearing how people express themselves, love seeing their expressions, love making up stories in the absence of knowing what is really going on. I love trying to understand why people do what they do.

RWB: What authors, mentors or ideas have influenced the novel?

Harvey: I love books that make a bigger statement, say something about our world that we need to pay attention to, whether it be how we treat each other, or how we treat the environment. I love books that make you feel and empathize and understand situations, people, places outside my comfort zone. This insight usually helps me see me more clearly too. So I want to write stories that do all this.  I have tried to do this with Nicolai’s Daughters.

I love everything written by Nikos Kazantzakis (Zorba the Greek, The Last Temptation of Christ), just about anything written by Cormac McCarthy (The Road, No Country for Old Men), Margaret Atwood (The Year of the Flood), and Barbara Kingsolver (The Lacuna). I hold the best up as my light and if nothing else, aspire to do my best.

End Note:

Stella L. Harvey is the founder of the Whistler Writers’ Group and director of the Whistler Readers and Writers Festival. The book launch for Nicolai’s Daughters will be held at the Squamish Lil-wat Cultural Centre in Whistler at 6:30pm on Friday, October 12^th, 2012.

Here’s what they’re saying about new novel Nicolai’s Daughters by local author.

Stella Leventoyannis Harvey read from her book Nicolai’s Daughters at Thin Air, Winnipeg’s International Writers Festival. The story takes place in both Canada and Greece and deals with family relationships from the perspective of Nicolai and his daughter Alexia. Even though I’m not Greek, the passages that Harvey reads are relatable on multiple levels. The themes are both universal and yet very Canadian at the same time. Family secrets, multigenerational conflict, and the struggle to understand a culture you’ve never had the opportunity to be part of, make this book a must read for so many people.

From a Blog by Jeannette Bodnar, posted by THINAIR Publicist

The Strangeness of Writing by Miranda Hill

Let’s face it: writing is an odd act to engage in. A ridiculous bit of alchemy, turning ideas in one’s head into words on a page, in order to put ideas into someone else’s head. And within it, there is a lot that can be explained, and a lot that can be practiced, and then some elements that can only be accepted, with gratitude.

One of my favourite characters to write in Sleeping Funny was Mrs. Knox, an aged Sunday school teacher with a gift for predictions. When I described her preference for certain bible stories, I said, “Mrs. Knox’s God was a God of mystery and muscle.” And that’s kind of what I think about stories—how they begin and how they are built.

The act of writing requires so little movement, that sometimes my body goes coma-cold (as I sit rigidly still, moving only my fingers and a few, connecting, marionette-like tendons) that I have to wear outdoor winter clothes—toques and shawls and work socks—even in my well-heated little office. And yet, there are times when I emerge from my chair feeling physically exhausted, as if I have had to wrestle my own characters and situations to the mat.

Wherever do you get your ideas, people want to know? And I don’t know what to tell them. Because to say that it’s beyond even me is a dangerous thing to admit and still sound professional. Most writers will roll their eyes at the whiff of a suggestion that their stories write themselves. And so they should. It’s a convenient little myth that makes the work of writing sound like taking advanced dictation. But there have to be moments of insight and flashes of inspiration, and to greet these things with anything other than wonder also seems wrong.

For me, it begins like this: a dream, an image, a string of words, some little kernel of possibility pops into my head. One night, brushing my teeth and staring out the bathroom window onto the street, I heard the line, “It was all because of Geraldine.” Where did it come from? That’s the mystery, because I just don’t know. It was as if someone had left a gift on my doorstep, and disappeared into the night. “What was all because of Geraldine?” I asked. But there wasn’t an answer. That, I’d have to find out. Which was where the muscle, the heavy lifting, the sweat and the struggle, came in.

It’s a mix of these—the elements that we can get to know, and learn to practice, and the parts that will always be strangers, that enter and exit our minds without warning, leaving fragments of themselves behind. I don’t know when these strangers will arrive, or by what means the mystery will come, but I’ve learned that I must always leave the door open, so that I may greet them or confront them, embrace them, chase them or do battle, when they do.

—————————————–

Author Miranda Hill will be appearing at the Whistler Readers and Writers Festival October 12 -14, 2012

Strange Hours By Claire Piech

It is never at the practical hours of 8 am, noon or even 5 pm when my brain is fit for writing. Those time slots fit too conveniently into my life.

Instead it is almost strictly at the stroke of midnight that the creative centres of my brain click on and my imagination is set free. I’m often lying on the couch, laptop emitting heat onto my belly, surfing the internet like junk food, when I’m pulled relentlessly into an idea.

At that moment, I have no choice. I am captive; I must write.

My ideas don’t enter my brain softly. They thunder in with the tenacity of soldiers, demanding full attention, lest there be bloody vengeance. They ride with swords held high along the folds of my cerebellum, forcing their way into the groves of my parietal lobe, and finally, launching their attack on my frontal lobe.

The coup d’etat is painful and quick – the right side of my brain lights up and won’t shut off.

Even if I go to bed, this portion of my brain refuses to move into a restful state. In the darkness, I stare at the black ceiling while my mind circles around plot,

  characters,

                    sentences,

                                  themes,

                                              symbols,

                                                            dialogue,

                                                                          must do research…

making me nauseous with insomnia.

I wish I could report that these moments of onslaught occurred on weekends – after a night out with friends, perhaps, with alcohol spinning through my veins. Then, I’d at least be able to justify this unkempt habit, knowing that tomorrow I could sleep late into the morning while my sleep bank replenishes.

Unfortunately – my ideas are not so kind hearted.

They almost exclusively prefer midnights when I must be up early the next day, and when the tasks ahead of me are NUMBER ONE big and NUMBER TWO daunting. Those days when I must function at my most-alert to tackle everything as effectively as possible so I don’t drown under the weight of adult responsibility.

Lately, though, I have made peace with my strange hours.

I am starting to realize that these moments are an attempt of my creative side to regain control over my practical side – for my right brain to assert some level of dominance over my left.

They are my unconsciousness telling me to stop focusing all my energy on logical tasks like deadlines, finances, chores, to-do lists and commitments. To briefly let go of responsibility. And to allow my imagination the permission to play like when I was a child – with no limitations.

Professor Histoire and His Fanciful Machines, by Mary MacDonald

“Are you all in?” Professor Histoire clapped his hands like a crazed person. Maybe all scientists are a little off.  But this was for a good cause. So I’d said yes.

“All in?” I asked.

“Ready’s what I mean.” He adjusted the clip on the end of my finder. Wiggled the electrodes attached to my head.  “Just checking the glue’s on good and tight. I’m trying to improve the system. Tune it up. A to Z. Find out what happens when you listen to a story. Now sit back and close your eyes.”

I did just as he said. Closed my eyes.

“Once upon a time,”he said.

Then the boat began moving. Propeller fired up and spinning. How cool was this? Summertime. Like a slide-show. On the riverbank there were people dancing. Then someone threw me a ukulele.

“Hey kid, play something.”

I watched the footsteps of the people dancing. 123-123-123. I could hear myself humming do re mi. I stopped being afraid and tried to follow the beat. The strings sounded rattily at first. And then I surprised myself. What a glorious feeling. As the boat approached the shore, the people were dancing and singing and I was performing. Rockin’ and poppin’. Super Linda made her way to the front of the group.  Everyone grew hushed and whispery waiting for her to begin. She started moving like she was in a dance hall. Closed her eyes and her arms started swinging wild.  The crowd was singing. I was playing the ukulele like I was fearless.

 

 

“Then the pilot spun the boat around and headed home. Open your eyes,” the professor said. “The story’s over. It’s time to go.”

“What? But I don’t know what happened to Super Linda. And my ukulele playing was filthy good.”

Professor Histoire removed the little plugs from my head and the clip from my finger. He turned his back and started spinning dials. “When someone is listening to a story their beta waves start oscillating at a frequency of 15 to 20 hertz.  Yours were 8 to 10. Good steady flow. The study’s going great,” he said. “I’ve analyzed the transcranial magnetic stimulation in the frontal cortex. Transgenic relaxation is very good. Optical stimulation robust. Your neurons were constantly moving. I think what I’m going to find here is that you were forming new synapses. Anyway, the story’s over. We’re all done. You can go now.”

I sat back down in the chair. Pulled the little metal clip back onto my finger. Pushed the electrodes back onto my head. “Finish the story,” I said. “I’m not leaving until I find out what happens to Super Linda.”

 

~ Mary MacDonald

Better Living Through Plastic Explosives by Zsuzsi Gartner. Review by Penny Buswell

Gartner’s latest book is a loud, colourful – and often exuberant – collection of short stories. The stories stand individually, connected just by Gartner’s zany sense of humour and their Vancouver setting.

Every story is packed with action, as dramatic as a headline news story and full of gossipy gory details. Gartner tackles themes of religion, terrorism, homelessness, science, tragedy and child rearing with her wry wit. The pace of everything is fast, a tight whirlwind of action and crisis, with a little magical realism thrown in.

Gartner is a master of description: she delights in the absurd, the grotesque and of course the macabre. The garden of a Harley driving neighbour has vines with “ropy tendons like the neck muscles of dehydrated bodybuilders.”

Gartner isn’t afraid to experiment grammatically, she deftly uses the first person plural in Summer of the Flesh Eater – a story about a group of male friends. The whole story has a populous feel, as if hearing a story told at a lively dinner party. “We had prided ourselves on raising children with a high emotional IQ, but these little creature had become alien to us, and we could only watch them from an increasing distance as if from the reverse end of a telescope.”

The stories are sometimes melancholic, in The Adopted Chinese Daughters’ Rebellion, the daughters abandon their parents. “The lights on our houses are of the insistent blinking variety. The bulbs don’t wink on and off at random, but blink in unison day and night. Come back, come back, them whimper. S.O.S.” But Gartner’s poetic license never lets you forget that these tales are fiction, not fact. The murders, bodies in garbage bags and homeless drug addicts are sketched playfully.

In short, Gartner takes her readers on an action-packed ride through urban Vancouver; she mixes truths and absurdities, never allowing her drama to become too serious, or the flights of fancy to become fairy tales – it’s not surprising the book was a finalist for the Scotiabank Giller Prize.

Gartner will appear at the 2012 Whistler Readers and Writers Festival, Oct 12 – 14th.

The Strange and wonderful world of writing. By Sue Oakey.

The Strange and wonderful world of writing

Do You have To Be Weird To Be A Writer?

Full of BBQ and beer, I listened to the conversation of the six people I had just met around the fire pit.
“Did you hear Jane and Roland split?”
“Really? Though I’m not surprised. He is a bit odd.”
“What do you expect? He’s an artist.”
Laughter all around, except for me and my husband.
I turned to my wanna be rock star husband and said, “Awkward moment.” Then we laughed.
The fellow who was laughing the loudest said,
“What? Are you guys artists?”

“I write and paint and Joe plays guitar.”

We moved on to a different topic of conversation.

When I was in grade twelve, I wanted to be a writer and a painter but I became a teacher. In my 30’s, I put pen to paper again. Ten years later, I have signed my first book contract, but I still pause when people ask me what I do. It is so much easier to say that I am a teacher rather than I am a writer.

I don’t want to be odd. I’ve spent my life trying to fit in.

Some writers sleep all day and write all night.  Others use a special pen or create in a special place. Some, such as Hemmingway, have a crazed look in their eyes.

I use a laptop, wear ear protectors and hope for the best. Sometimes I work at the kitchen table, other times I go downstairs to my studio (wherever my six year old is not!). To get anything done, I need at least 2 hours and no interruptions. I am motivated by deadlines. Not very weird or abnormal.

Would my creative juices flow more freely if I allowed myself my eccentricities?

I fantasize of dressing up in flowing silks, dancing to music by Edith Piaf and tracing words in the air with my finger, to create my next best seller. I drink from an elegant martini glass and tap my desk with my French manicured nails. Each session, I dress as a different character from my novel. Sometimes I get tipsy and words I didn’t think I knew appear on the page.

I am more vivacious, more daring and I socialize with exotic people who give me ideas for my books. I stay out late, need way less than eight hours of sleep and rev myself to life in the morning with 4 cups of coffee. It is crazy.

I fantasize.

In reality, I try to be disciplined and write as much as I can in between being a mom, a guide, a teacher, a painter, a wife and a friend.

Next time I write, I think I will try dressing up.

Let’s get Poetical

The Whistler Museum, in partnership with The Vicious Circle, is excited to announce a bonus event to coincide with the upcoming Whistler Writer’s Festival. On October 14th, from 6-7pm (doors 5:30) come visit the Whistler Museum as four passionate, informed wordsmiths debate the statement “Whistler believes the internet is killing literature.” 

Arrive with an opinion, an open mind, and a desire to engage with the contentious relationship between the World Wide Web and the written word. This will be the first in an ongoing series of events, inspired by the Doha Debates, simply titled Whistler Debates. More details on this and future Whistler Debates coming soon!

Let’s get Poetical

In order to commemorate our partnership with the Museum, museum staff have agreed to share some of their poetry on this blog.  They have written many blog posts about historical characters and events from their archives, posted crazy photos, and told other Whistler stories. One thing they haven’t done is poetry.  Until now. I’m sure you’ve been thinking the same thing. I can almost hear you thinking, “‘H – E – double hockey sticks’, when will Sarah, Jeff, Robyn, Allyn, and Myles write some goddamn poetry? A limerick maybe? A Haiku? Is that really too much to ask?”

Well, patient reader, the wait is over. Without further delay, here is a selection of poetry (mostly haiku) composed by the Museum staff (with a special guest appearance):

Two mountains, strung with
cable- rise above this town,
this valley of dreams.

- Robyn

Seppo Makinen:
The mighty man among us.
His spirit rests here.

- Robyn

Stillness on Alta -
Alex Philip falls in drunk,
Myrtle shakes her head.

- Sarah

We love history.
We love Whistler’s Whistory!
Whistler is awesome.

-Myles

Extreme sports paired with
endless good times, paradise
is Whistler-Blackcomb.

- Robyn

 

Silently gliding
Through deep, endless white powder –
Another Whistler day.

- Robyn

Truth Hurts

Rainbow Lodge, Seppo,
Crazy Canucks, HISTORY!
Kids just want lego.

- Jeff

On hot afternoons
Molly and McGee nap on
While Freckles watches.

-Allyn

 

Outside is too hot?
Museum has two words for you:
Air conditioning.

-Allyn

There once was a Texan named Millar
Whose life was something of a thriller.
He first was a cook,
But two lives he took,
So he fled here where life was much stiller.

-Allyn

There once was a pub called the Boot
Just next to the highway’s main route.
It had dancing girls
And drinkers who twirled
In a “ballet” of well known repute.

-Allyn

 

An Ode to the Archives

Last night I dreamt of a magical place,
Dreamers, doers and icons all shared one space.
Oh, to visit this land where our legends can thrive.
Why, it already exists, our almighty archives!

Our collections are vast, rich with ripe tales,
From diaries and drawings to bent, rusted nails.
All with the ineffable scent of the past,
A real-life time machine that’s built to last.

Archival documents in acid-free boxes,
Fight group amnesia from acid-induced memory losses.
Our fifty thousand pictures are worth fifty million words.
Fishing rods, ice axes, taxidermied birds!

We record more than elections, wheelings and dealings,
Our shelves carry facts, dates, but also a feeling.
Whistler’s free spirit – it’s impossible to fake it,
Live here long enough you’ll end up in here naked!

Cynics deride Whistler’s history as short,
But we prove that the truth is none of the sort,
Our peaks, trees, and tales are all very tall,
And we’ve done some big things for a town that’s so small.

Next time you’re curious of Whistler’s glorious past lives
Stop in (appointments only) at the Whistler Archives!
Thus concludes these haiku, limericks and jingles,
From the only folks in town still selling Boot Pub shingles!

-Jeff

Postscript:

All night long (all night)
All night (all night) All night long,
All night long (Ooh yeah)
 

- Lionel Ritchie

Enlist Me – By Katherine Fawcett

I love lists.

• Writing them
• Reading them
• Discovering them
• Inventing them

But: does list-writing make one a writer?

• No.
• Yes.
• Maybe.
• Who’s asking?
• What kind of list?
• B-list at best.

If writing is writing is writing, then list-making must count. And if it counts, I must be prolific. Why, I write every day

• Shopping lists
• to-do lists goals
• wish lists
• lists of things I want to do
• places I plan to go lists
• lists of possible baby names
• resolutions
• resolutions I have broken thus far
• daily calorie lists
• lists of two-letter words and q-without-u words, for Scrabble

My lists appear on

• envelopes
• napkins
• the backs of receipts
• school newsletters
• inside book jackets
• phone bills

Although my lists are not clever top-10 lists like David Letterman’s, or fascinating fact-filled lists like Harpers Index, or quirky but useless lists like “the top 10 currencies no longer in circulation,” I don’t just make lists listlessly. Creating them is like quilting my life. And discovering other people’s lists is a secret joy. Like the faded list, in loopy handwriting, of “Appetizer Ideas” I found in my grandmother’s cookbook:

1. Broiled grapefruit
2. Melon ball cocktail
3. Sea food cocktail
4. Pastry snails
5. Dried beef rolls
6. Silver dollar hambugers
7. Bacon wrap-arounds
8. Herring-Appleteaser
9. Savory mushroom dip
10. Hot cheese puffs

Or the:

• Halloween costume ideas list in my brother’s yearbook.
• “Boys I’d kiss” list in the back of my sister’s drawer.
• “Super-powers I Want” list in my son’s math book.
• Anniversary Gift List in my husband’s wallet

Making a list is not only one way of organizing one’s thoughts—it also stimulates the imagination. The vertical nature of a list draws the reader’s (and the writer’s) eye down, rather than across the page. I believe this encourages reading between the lines.

simply
because
there
are
more
lines
to
read
between.

I found lots of reading between the lines in this fictional “List of Chores”:

Daily:

1. Make bed.
2. Pick up clothes.
3. Feed bird.
4. Take fresh water and scraps to Dad.
5. Unload dishwasher.
6. Sweep kitchen floor.
7. Do homework.

Weekly:

1. Vacuum bedroom.
2. Clean bathroom (yes, scrub toilet!)
3. Shovel attic floor.
4. Check status of Missing Person’s Report (on-line is fine).
5. Mow lawn.
6. Change Dad’s bandages.
7. Recycling.
8. Clean bird cage.

Lists of all kinds stimulate my imagination, give shape and order to random thoughts, and help me cut through writers’ block.

Lets face it: what writer doesn’t secretly hope she might one day see her own name on a Best-Seller List?

Being strange and writing by Penny Buswell

I likea challenge when reading or writing. When I was nine I read the whole of Dahl’s Matilda in one weekend, standing on my head. It’s a great book – even upside down with a headrush (and couch textiles imprinted on your face). Ever since then I’ve been contrived with my literary habits. I went through a phase of writing with a purple feather quill and after that I wrote only in intricate calligraphy – until my grade 5 teacher vetoed it.

These days I write on my laptop, initially with the screen turned off, to avoid censuring what I write. My most personal thoughts are freewritten in a journal. There I can dispose of overly emotional or petty thoughts without bothering anyone else. I write the very worst parts in Teeline shorthand.

I have some writing rituals that help me concentrate. The main ones are that I need headphones (no music), I like to be alone and I have to chew Stride Spark B6 B12 vitamin Kinetic Fruit gum. I start with two pieces and then pop another in when the flavour fades. The gum ball gets bigger and bigger and it gets easier to blow bigger and bigger gum bubbles. I like the SNAP noise when they pop and the suction sounds when I chew them in my molars. After a couple of hours the gum chewing gets furious and so does the typing. The faster I type, the faster I chew, SNAP-ing bubbles as I reflect on the next sentence. SNAP SNAP. I thunder on through.

A good bubble is satisfying, it fills out evenly, then tears and slowly expires. During a productive morning I’ll have seven or eight pieces of gum in my mouth, which blow such large bubbles they grow as big as a baseball. A beautiful petally peach baseball that looks like a deflated jellyfish when it pops.

Sometimes the bubble pops badly and sticks to the skin all around my mouth and I gurn wildly as I try to scrape it all back into my mouth. My skin feels sticky. Then chomp chomp chomp, I’m writing again and the pile of gum papers is growing.