tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-67564918153044431422024-02-02T05:08:29.623-08:00The Reading ListLiterature, Love, and Back AgainLeslie Shimotakaharahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03876376938826990379noreply@blogger.comBlogger93125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6756491815304443142.post-36992238119628462642016-09-15T11:04:00.002-07:002016-09-28T12:21:33.905-07:00My New Novel Will Be Available in April 2017I'm excited that my debut novel <i>After the Bloom</i> will be released by Dundurn Press this spring! For more information about my novel, please visit me at my new website <a href="http://www.leslieshimotakahara.com/">here</a>.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ1KDSvM3_HEc-ZAzaB0Ep7n3ITTntSRBa6Qf0_bkZHsoPYZzuaVUtUlvopQm_PXvmVRLAZMYGuqzwKy_OIIkkOYC27g429tTl9-_RGPdCKnWNmNrB_vFlLg_xGnv3dgRvIpHRddI1xmAm/s1600/AfterTheBloom1+%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ1KDSvM3_HEc-ZAzaB0Ep7n3ITTntSRBa6Qf0_bkZHsoPYZzuaVUtUlvopQm_PXvmVRLAZMYGuqzwKy_OIIkkOYC27g429tTl9-_RGPdCKnWNmNrB_vFlLg_xGnv3dgRvIpHRddI1xmAm/s320/AfterTheBloom1+%25282%2529.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
Leslie Shimotakaharahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03876376938826990379noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6756491815304443142.post-14195375143204463162012-10-29T08:27:00.001-07:002012-10-29T08:31:33.339-07:00Winner of the 2012 Canada-Japan Literary Award<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNIfxbBeFJygSuQ25yVJxWH6lat1OhDrnEM0fdUpL38zqJL4n0dZIbpNP7KQmm3W02wnhLjY0aZ6Q5iSxqhlUgnfFOKcvggYOkeRBoHWFna-cULqyhcBTY4A5xwDpBY__MqMfkIHw3LyMR/s1600/cover.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNIfxbBeFJygSuQ25yVJxWH6lat1OhDrnEM0fdUpL38zqJL4n0dZIbpNP7KQmm3W02wnhLjY0aZ6Q5iSxqhlUgnfFOKcvggYOkeRBoHWFna-cULqyhcBTY4A5xwDpBY__MqMfkIHw3LyMR/s1600/cover.png" /></a></div>
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I was delighted to hear that my memoir <a href="http://shimosreadinglist.blogspot.ca/p/book.html"><i>The Reading List</i></a> has won the Canada Council for the Arts <a href="http://www.canadacouncil.ca/prizes/canada_japan_literary/tk127223739840312500.htm">Canada-Japan Literary Prize</a>! The news release and jury's comments can be read <a href="http://canadacouncil.ca/news/releases/2012/ko129959924938220274.htm">here</a>. As a fourth-generation Japanese-Canadian (<i>Yonsei</i>), this award means a lot to me because it recognizes the hybrid nature of my cultural experience, growing up Canadian, but with Japan always present as that body of ancestral stories, collective memories and fantasies ... my imaginary homeland.<br />
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To celebrate, we have made my memoir available as an e-book. For the kindle version, click <a href="http://www.amazon.com/The-Reading-List-Literature-ebook/dp/B009WTQ0RW/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1351524292&sr=8-1&keywords=leslie+shimotakahara">here</a>, and for the kobo version, click <a href="http://www.kobobooks.com/ebook/The-Reading-List/book-nnaqjz4U10-q_PyKcynchg/page1.html">here</a>. Leslie Shimotakaharahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03876376938826990379noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6756491815304443142.post-49488088027768777382012-06-23T05:21:00.000-07:002012-06-23T05:21:24.894-07:00Book #66: What Draws Me to My Favourite Authors<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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“He felt unable to urge the unbuckling of the
trunk. He felt as though he was prying, and as though he was being
uselessly urged on by some violent emotion of curiosity – not greed,
curiosity, more fundamental even than sex, the desire
for knowledge.” -A.S. Byatt, <i>Possession</i></div>
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Ever since a week ago I completed the second draft
of my novel and handed it over to my agent, I’ve been feeling out of
sorts. I always feel this way when my writing project goes on hold
again … kind of melancholy, on pins and needles,
unsure of what I even feel like reading. Over the past month while I
was hibernating in my head and writing for glorious chunks of time every
day, the down side was that I did very little reading. So in a way
it’s nice to come out of the cave for a while
and breathe and read again.</div>
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<a href="http://www.theparisreview.org/interviews/481/the-art-of-fiction-no-168-a-s-byatt">A.S. Byatt’s</a> mammoth Man Booker prize-winning novel <a href="http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/booksblog/2009/jun/18/book-club-possession-as-byatt"><i>Possession</i></a>
has been sitting on my bedside table for some time, but I’d been
putting off reading it because the topic – a simmering romance between
two literary scholars, who bond
over discovering an illicit romance between their respective authors of
study – struck me as a tad all too reminiscent of my own former life as
an English prof, burrowing myself away in dusty rare books libraries.
Once I got used to Byatt’s longwinded descriptions
of clothing, gestures and the interiors of houses, to name just a few
instances (perhaps meant as a kind of parody or luxuriant love affair
with the conventions of the Victorian novel, depending on how you look
at it), I found myself settling into the rhythm
of her prose and getting immersed in the inner lives of the central
characters. Currently two hundred and fifty pages in, what’s most
striking to me is the way the novel is bringing back fond memories of
the life of the mind, but memories I could never acknowledge
having while I was caught up in climbing the ladder of the Ivory
Tower. These disavowed memories, which I suspect most academics
have, are brilliantly illuminated by this novel. When Roland, our
unlikely hero, a mild-mannered postdoc trying to eke
a living studying the Victorian poetry of Randolph Ash, unearths from
an archive a couple of thinly veiled love letters that Ash appears to
have penned to the poet Christabel La Motte, his pulse quickens; his
interest is deeply personal, prurient. Seeking
the advice of Maud Bailey, a scholar who specializes in La Motte,
Roland is drawn on increasingly obsessive journey. Compelled to go on a
trip together to La Motte’s country home, the two discover a full set
of letters that sparkle with a vibrant interchange
of ideas about faith, crisis of faith, art, poetry and desire. Most
importantly, it appears that Roland and Maud are the first scholars to
lay eyes on the letters and gain such insight into Ash’s illicit
relationship with La Motte (Ash was married to another
woman, not a poet, with whom he exchanged some comparatively drab
letters).
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It's precisely this kind of rare connection with
the private life of a favourite author that I lusted after during my
short-lived career as an academic, even though I could never admit it at
the time; in order to have any cred as a scholar,
you’re forced to pretend that your perspective is far more serious,
aloof and remote – couched in the interests of the latest “ism.” And
yet, what inspired me to keep poring over the papers of <a href="http://shimosreadinglist.blogspot.ca/2010/05/going-way-of-lily-bart-teary-musings.html">Edith Wharton</a>
and <a href="http://shimosreadinglist.blogspot.ca/2010/07/book-18-elusive-life-of-inspiration.html">Willa Cather</a> was this more primal desire to
get inside the author’s unconscious and discover something secret,
illicit maybe, deeply personal always, giving me some special private
insight into why that author wrote the way she did. This would be, as
Byatt’s title suggests, absolute
<i>possession</i>.</div>
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I’ll be interested to see where the plot goes in
the second half. I’m tucking this novel into my overnight bag as I get
ready to leave for the <a href="http://www.nlaf.jigsy.com/">Niagara Literary Arts Festival</a>, where I’ll be
giving a reading from my memoir
<a href="http://shimosreadinglist.blogspot.ca/p/book.html"><i>The Reading List</i></a> at 2:00 pm later today, at the Niagara on the Lake Library, before seeing a play (<i>Misalliance</i>)
with my mother at the <a href="http://www.shawfest.com/?gclid=COW7zLCp5LACFUgQNAodIRbEHg">Shaw Festival</a>. Niagara on the Lake is so
picturesque I feel it could almost be out of Byatt’s novel. Hope to
see you there!</div>
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Photo from: <a href="http://www.oaktreefinepress.com/site/fcs_booker_vol_eight.asp">here</a> </div>
Leslie Shimotakaharahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03876376938826990379noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6756491815304443142.post-38897013250991473632012-05-30T05:27:00.000-07:002012-05-30T05:27:35.679-07:00The Challenge of MemoirOver the past couple weeks, I've been taking time off from my day job to indulge in the life of a full-time writer. I've been loving it, I have to say, though it's been surprisingly busy. Not as many days of pure contemplation as I'd expected. I've been working around the clock to make revisions to my novel in progress, based on my agent's feedback, and taking breaks by giving a series of readings from my recently published memoir, <a href="http://shimosreadinglist.blogspot.ca/p/book.html"><i>The Reading List</i></a>, as part of <a href="http://www.cic.gc.ca/english/multiculturalism/asian/index.asp">Asian Heritage Month</a>. Last night, I read for a very warm audience in the gallery of the <a href="http://www.jccc.on.ca/en/">Japanese Canadian Cultural Centre</a>, while earlier in the week I read at two of the <a href="http://www.torontopubliclibrary.ca/search.jsp?Ntt=leslie+shimotakahara">Toronto Public Library's</a> branches and at the Plasticine Poetry Series at Paupers Pub. (Unfortunately, I seem to have left my camera at one of the events ... so no photos for now).<br />
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One of the most interesting, invigorating aspects of giving readings, I've discovered, is taking questions from the audience afterward. Many people asked insightful questions ranging from the writing process to my personal life and I was intrigued to find out that one audience member, who lives in the vicinity of my parents' neighbourhood, had even gone on a stroll to check out my childhood house. One question that came up repeatedly was: how have people depicted in your memoir responded, after reading your book? I think this is a question that a lot of readers probably have not only about my memoir, but memoirs in general, yet memoirists may find difficult to address, because the truth in my experience is that most people depicted feel varying levels of ambivalence. While my family is proud that they now have a writer among them, some family members have expressed a certain degree of disenchantment about the exposure my book brings to our family and family secrets in particular, while others seem terrified that in a future book I'll turn my pen to them. It might seem obvious that a memoir like mine - one that explores a turbulent period in my life, as it intersects with my father's own struggle with his mother's imminent death - would create some ripples. But while I was writing it, I tried to bracket the whole question of audience response and simply focus on telling the most honest and authentic story, from my perspective. Although I initially struggled with feelings of self-consciousness (that sinking sense of <i>I can't write this ... for what would my family and friends think?</i>), the deeper I got into the project, the more I found that feeling had vanished and my writing or creative process had taken on a life of its own. <br />
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One nice, unexpected thing is that I've managed to reconnect with "Josh" (my ex-boyfriend from undergrad days, who plays a central role in my book). When he was in Toronto on business, we had brunch at a place on Ossington and caught up on the past decade. Of course, he did let me know that he had read my book and it had disrupted his sleep patterns a bit. He took issue with a certain scene where he is depicted sipping cognac (apparently scotch is his drink), while perusing the internet, wearing a wifebeater (this inspired him to go get some new undershirts). He was his usual entertaining, eccentric self and we reflected on the passage of time. Glad we've become friends again, which I didn't think would happen through my memoir. <br />
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If you're interested in reading more about it, you can click <a href="http://www.openbooktoronto.com/therapy_writing_with_leslie_shimotakahara">here</a> to read my interview with Open Book Toronto earlier this month.<br />
Leslie Shimotakaharahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03876376938826990379noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6756491815304443142.post-63823563327447219182012-05-12T08:22:00.001-07:002012-05-12T08:22:55.139-07:00Review of My Book on CBC<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglfSWoUYV0D3W4VPoQuizuip17KL3ZUpD4m23JNGcLyTIb2PdgLgtWTcycwgoXp4x0hDuaC9gzV1c5bkbtKmwLsRctpLc4YK0lrpNyPuoDzCeJdtd9lubB5DjHqd0bqHxzZgURJDbn9aCb/s1600/uppal.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglfSWoUYV0D3W4VPoQuizuip17KL3ZUpD4m23JNGcLyTIb2PdgLgtWTcycwgoXp4x0hDuaC9gzV1c5bkbtKmwLsRctpLc4YK0lrpNyPuoDzCeJdtd9lubB5DjHqd0bqHxzZgURJDbn9aCb/s1600/uppal.jpg" /></a></div>
I just found out that <a href="http://priscilauppal.ca/">Priscila Uppal</a>, whose own writing I greatly admire, gave my memoir <a href="http://shimosreadinglist.blogspot.ca/p/book.html"><i>The Reading List</i></a> a really insightful review on CBC. The podcast can be listened to <a href="http://www.rcinet.ca/english/program/the-link/home/date/02-05-2012/">here</a> (it starts at about the 33:40 minute mark).<br />
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May is Asian Heritage Month! I will be quite busy over the next couple weeks giving a series of readings from my memoir. If you live in the Toronto area, I hope you will be able to come out to some of the following events:<br />
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Tuesday, May 22, 2012 at 2:00 pm at George F. Locke Library (3083 Yonge Street, Toronto, ON)<br />
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Thursday, May 24, 2012 at 2:00 pm at College/Shaw Library (766 College Street, Toronto, ON)<br />
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Sunday, May 27, 2012 at 6:00 pm at Plasticine Poetry Series (Pauper's Pub, 539 Bloor Street West, Toronto, ON)<br />
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Tuesday, May 29, 2012 at 7:00 pm at the Japanese Canadian Cultural Centre (6 Garamond Court, Toronto, ON)<br />
Leslie Shimotakaharahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03876376938826990379noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6756491815304443142.post-65401994494702540622012-05-06T17:35:00.000-07:002012-05-30T05:30:21.390-07:00Book #65: China DiaryApologies for my blogging hiatus . . . just got back to Toronto. For the past couple weeks, I've been travelling with my boyfriend in China. Although I wasn't able to blog during my trip (limited computer access), here are a few excerpts from my photo diary.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9qmS_ZmHRYQOkEd1VtfrxnJxC3PzK7xhEjrOdIuTbuTfUijWYmJ14Omda4Ds0P4kupb4ZXql6Plaq82kcVzkH-5fsbTqFo9VvPVHrdFNHcjpwaIhnaVx0Pm-iKZzJXUDJy26Licl0x-1h/s1600/001.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9qmS_ZmHRYQOkEd1VtfrxnJxC3PzK7xhEjrOdIuTbuTfUijWYmJ14Omda4Ds0P4kupb4ZXql6Plaq82kcVzkH-5fsbTqFo9VvPVHrdFNHcjpwaIhnaVx0Pm-iKZzJXUDJy26Licl0x-1h/s320/001.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
This is a picture of me hanging out in Soho, the neighbourhood in Hong Kong where my boyfriend grew up. The picture was taken right after I'd gotten off the plane, after twenty-four hours without sleep, so everything is kind of swimming before my bleary eyes: the fluorescent yellow leggings that many of the girls in this fashionista city are wearing, the multi-tiered escalators cut into the mountainous terrain carrying people past the colourful cafes, bars and shops (one upper level boutique reputedly used to be the apartment where part of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chungking_Express"><i>Chung King Express</i></a> was filmed, bringing the area to life all the more vividly in my mind's eye).<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0IZk2aAdDVZrLZeEHTrrxLqC5by7LUZTW0WMkUFnLW_1jYnMe3yxOk1oM5JbxtPSX4QnLzP9If9GFTCEYsaKe0lwWyDETd7aRRVhfm8xo3Ux_Ie9OEqAx4H2mXxzBWzCydm1uxHaBqMiI/s1600/101.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0IZk2aAdDVZrLZeEHTrrxLqC5by7LUZTW0WMkUFnLW_1jYnMe3yxOk1oM5JbxtPSX4QnLzP9If9GFTCEYsaKe0lwWyDETd7aRRVhfm8xo3Ux_Ie9OEqAx4H2mXxzBWzCydm1uxHaBqMiI/s320/101.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
A few days later, we have tea at the elegant <a href="http://www.travelchinaguide.com/attraction/hongkong/island/bay.htm">Repulse Bay</a> Hotel, which is of particular interest to me because I'm currently reading <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Eileen_Chang">Eileen Chang's</a> <i><a href="http://www.nybooks.com/books/imprints/classics/love-in-a-fallen-city/">Love in a Fallen City</a>.</i> This novella by one of China's preeminent writers of the early twentieth century is partly set at this very hotel, during the Second World War. It tells the story of Bai Liusu, a beautiful but disgraced divorcee in her late twenties, who has been forced to live on the charity of her Shanghainese family. As money becomes tight during the war, her family makes clear that they'd just as soon send her back to her loathesome in-laws or let her beg in the street. But when the matchmaker Mrs. Xu takes an unexpected interest in her situation, Liusu agrees to be offered up to one of the biggest playboys in China, Fan Liuyan, the orphaned son of a wealthy, property owning family - gambling that she'll be able to snare him into marriage. Travelling with Mrs. Xu to the Repulse Bay Hotel where she is set to meet Liuyan, Liusu's first impression of the hotel still holds true today: "Soon cliffs of yellow-and-red soil flanked the road, while ravines opened up on either side to reveal dense green forest or aquamarine sea. As they approached Repulse Bay, the cliffs and trees grew gentler and more inviting. Returning picnickers swept past them in cars filled with flowers, the sound of scattered laughter fading in the wind."<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIfc5r_jgqDcW5nXPfpCyUJo-0B7aGnsptFyAYnxI329yIu33Fyrkip9AOtgEsPsmyEqjxXPbZCCE1N_8VqIl53zzY6w8Jt10XpM_ZzLmLyn6CrANyuSwxMeB3cFCNknIIU-rSM2paaXeR/s1600/422.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIfc5r_jgqDcW5nXPfpCyUJo-0B7aGnsptFyAYnxI329yIu33Fyrkip9AOtgEsPsmyEqjxXPbZCCE1N_8VqIl53zzY6w8Jt10XpM_ZzLmLyn6CrANyuSwxMeB3cFCNknIIU-rSM2paaXeR/s320/422.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
Liusu and Liuyan soon become caught up in an intense game of dangerous liaisons, he trying to seduce her and compromise her reputation, she trying to discern whatever feelings may be forming beneath his slick exterior. But in the end, it's the war - Japan's invasion of Hong Kong, along with Pearl Harbor - that forces the couple to confront their true feelings. Struggling to find enough to eat, Liusu and Liuyan find themselves taking care of each other, as they return to the Repulse Bay Hotel, this time to seek refuge. By the time they arrive, however, the hotel is under siege: "By this time, Liusu wished that Liuyan wasn't there: when one person seems to have two bodies, danger is only doubled. If she wasn't hit, he still might be, and if he died, or was badly wounded, it would be worse than anything she could imagine. If she got wounded, she'd have to die, so as not to be a burden to him. Even if she did die, it wouldn't be as clean and simple as dying alone. She knew Liuyan felt the same way. Now all she had was him; all he had was her." <br />
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Wandering along the beach, staring at the vanishing horizon, brought these characters to life all the more immediately in my imagination.<br />
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The following week, we departed for Shanghai where we spent the next few days eating, drinking and touring the galleries of Shanghai's truly impressive art scene.<br />
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One of the more interesting exhibits we visited reconceptualizes what it means to read and write a book. Artist <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Xu_Bing">Xu Bing</a> puts on display his rough drafts and process work that went into writing a book comprised entirely of icons common in our contemporary experience - no alphabet, no complex grammar required at all. According to the artist, "<a href="http://review.redboxstudio.cn/2012/05/xu-bing-solo-exhibition-book-from-the-ground-at-shanghai-gallery-of-art/">Book from the Ground</a> is a novel written in a ‘language of icons’ that I
have been collecting and organizing over the last few years. Regardless
of cultural background, one should be able understand the text as long
as one is thoroughly entangled in modern life." The project makes you think about what it means to inhabit a fluid, cosmopolitan universe, where so much of our time - particularly when we're travelling and don't speak the language - is spent looking for universal icons, like the stick figure of a woman on the washroom door. To think that a whole novel could be written using these icons is indeed a provocative idea. I spent much time staring at the pages on display, delighting as I managed to piece together - or construct - the narrative. <br />
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From Shanghai, we took the train to <a href="http://www.classicsuzhou.com/">Suzhou</a>, a smaller city known historically as a centre of poetry and the arts, landscape architecture in particular. The gardens of Suzhou are delightful for strolling, contemplation and just letting your imagination wander. I can't think of a better form of rejuvenation.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEif6Rif46bk5oxqpi9HKM6VwTsxqdpHk4w1gll1uKtXcis368RBCDDmFyL9rTyvSgcQT6DAKBSpzqaatq8oX5OxPXeGHBjQiGD8u_bpcSbaOFJJFY57yLIMzYfnCKAo5N1fN6xRde35WK4k/s1600/366.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEif6Rif46bk5oxqpi9HKM6VwTsxqdpHk4w1gll1uKtXcis368RBCDDmFyL9rTyvSgcQT6DAKBSpzqaatq8oX5OxPXeGHBjQiGD8u_bpcSbaOFJJFY57yLIMzYfnCKAo5N1fN6xRde35WK4k/s320/366.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>Leslie Shimotakaharahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03876376938826990379noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6756491815304443142.post-82683103238401690192012-04-16T06:55:00.000-07:002012-04-16T06:55:21.682-07:00My Grandmother's One Hundredth Birthday<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqdzAh460fIScORqxIqRTZAHTQWAYjcVGrT1MIgjgM6PluOXmjf0nQxfQpTrkZM6Pk2abQ2CTYRBm5Oaj0oGAj0pJy1Rijd7St0SPXBQ1XeatWvoiQyJo-vyr4aRSzZsPcJJFB5svCYYoO/s1600/008.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqdzAh460fIScORqxIqRTZAHTQWAYjcVGrT1MIgjgM6PluOXmjf0nQxfQpTrkZM6Pk2abQ2CTYRBm5Oaj0oGAj0pJy1Rijd7St0SPXBQ1XeatWvoiQyJo-vyr4aRSzZsPcJJFB5svCYYoO/s320/008.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>The past couple weeks have been eventful. I finished writing my novel and delivered it to my agent, who is currently reading it to provide feedback. So now, I've been feeling kind of on pins and needles, with no project to keep my mind company when I wake up at four in the morning, unable to fall back to sleep ... To distract myself, I've started reading a hodgepodge of books, not so much novels as much as history books on China, since I'll be travelling to Shanghai and Hong Kong at the end of the week on a long awaited trip to visit my boyfriend's family. It's my first trip to China - very excited! More on this later ...<br />
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And speaking of family, yesterday we celebrated my grandmother Esther Kayaco Kuwabara's one hundredth birthday at a luncheon for one hundred of our relatives from across Canada at the <a href="http://www.jccc.on.ca/en/">Japanese Canadian Cultural Centre</a>. "I have no idea why I am still alive ... I was the weakest one in my family - why am I the last one living?" my grandmother kept saying, her eyes filled with wonder and amazement. I have fond memories of my grandmother who has always been a great storyteller and, as the stories told by her children about her at the birthday party attest, has succeeded in creating something of a mythology about herself. Named after Kayaks River, a tributary of the Skeena in northern BC, close to where she was born, my grandmother Kayaco has often struck me as very much a child of the Canadian wilderness, despite her surface appearance, in some of the black and white photos I've seen, as a Japanese doll with large eyes and a too serious smile. When she was a young child, a wild cat crept into their house and jumped on her face while she was sleeping, clawing her cheeks, barely missing her eye, leaving her so scarred that she became convinced she would never marry. Of course, over time, the scars did heal, but her self-image had been forever shaped, not, strangely enough, in terms of a loss of self-esteem, but just the opposite. Among her six sisters, she would be The Capable One, the one who would be entrusted to run her father's businesses, the logging camp in Prince Rupert and later the two pie shops and restaurant in Vancouver. In short, she would become the son he never had (though it later turned out that he did have a son, who had been raised in Japan ...) <br />
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During the Second World War, when the Japanese-Canadians were interned, my grandmother says that the first thing that went through her mind was, "I have only fifteen dollars in my purse." In the camp, which was situated in the ghost town Sandon, Kayaco used her prodigious cooking skills to earn money, cooking for (as she tells it) lines of people who went on for as far as the eye could see ... At the birthday luncheon, the stories that my mother told chronicling their childhood with Kayaco in the 1950s, when she spent a summer as the cook at another kind of camp, a children's overnight camp, brought tears of nostalgia to my eyes because I had been hearing these stories about her chopping wood and killing bats and scaring away drunken old priests who stumbled into the camp kitchen late at night for as long as I could remember. As my uncle Bruce said in his speech, she is a woman who exemplifies the word "gumption." In addition to listening to these reminiscences, we had musical entertainment provided by several musicians in the family, one of whom is renowned flutist and composer <a href="http://www.ronkorb.com/">Ron Korb</a>, who performed some stunning pieces from his new compositions.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzE61NmcDeWm7PmDYsSDYqwGzcDfnqQjZNsNCzu8wMG8VD1pIBeNIdCwhNHdfdZFPy_2sSLzU2WtbPs8XcguZUGrglp6dsUx_OP_cbeG6xDGP_hQxnIXgH-YTr6TkHRiugods4xgqOZ4Gg/s1600/004.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzE61NmcDeWm7PmDYsSDYqwGzcDfnqQjZNsNCzu8wMG8VD1pIBeNIdCwhNHdfdZFPy_2sSLzU2WtbPs8XcguZUGrglp6dsUx_OP_cbeG6xDGP_hQxnIXgH-YTr6TkHRiugods4xgqOZ4Gg/s320/004.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>I was asked to read a poem. I chose one that may, in retrospect, have been overly symbolic for the occasion, but it is a serious poem about life, death, art and solitude that in some strange way seems to suit my grandmother perfectly. The poem is called <a href="http://www.tumblr.com/tagged/dorothy-livesay">"On Looking into Henry Moore"</a> by Canadian modernist poet, <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dorothy_Livesay">Dorothy Livesay</a>. Here is the middle verse, which is my favourite:<br />
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<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">The message of the tree is this:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">Aloneness is the only bliss</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">Self-adoration is not in it</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">(Narcissus tried, but could not win it)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">Rather, to extend the root</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">Tombwards, be at home with death</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">But in the upper branches know</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">A green eternity of fire and snow. </span>Leslie Shimotakaharahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03876376938826990379noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6756491815304443142.post-91877956910026856872012-04-04T17:16:00.002-07:002012-04-04T17:49:13.326-07:00Book #64: Mixed Feelings<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAPWyg89PrBSafXr-34eDJfToe3Ygg5lxMIMfOBB1TeTFZl4hpHGznU5q1UuLqYdM3aSSgGBCAKKdTZvQkswNyrrUIqW4P4-APae2bcTTkZM_KotAylhX9Qzh-TCOyuiDPrjNlBJnzqIWB/s1600/Liz+Hay.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAPWyg89PrBSafXr-34eDJfToe3Ygg5lxMIMfOBB1TeTFZl4hpHGznU5q1UuLqYdM3aSSgGBCAKKdTZvQkswNyrrUIqW4P4-APae2bcTTkZM_KotAylhX9Qzh-TCOyuiDPrjNlBJnzqIWB/s320/Liz+Hay.jpg" width="203" /></a></div>"To tell you the truth," he said, running his hand through his hair, "I've always had mixed feelings about you." His smile was rueful. "I think you've aroused more mixed feelings in me than anybody else I know." -Elizabeth Hay, <i>A Student of Weather</i><br />
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<div class="MsoNormal">Over the past couple weeks while I've been off work, taking time off to finish my novel (fingers crossed), I've indulged in some reading as well. One of the novels I read was <a href="http://www.elizabethhay.com/blog/">Elizabeth Hay’s</a> first novel, <i><a href="http://www.mcclelland.com/catalog/display.pperl?isbn=9780771037900">A Student of Weather</a>.</i> After reading and loving Hay’s Giller-winning <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2008/06/01/books/review/Wolitzer-t.html"><i>Late Nights on Air</i></a> a few years ago, I was curious about how her writing evolved (I often find myself drawn to reading first novels of authors I admire, perhaps because I’m working on my first novel). Here, in Hay’s first novel, we get a smaller cast than in <i>Late Nights on Air</i>, but one that is comprised of characters no less eccentric and fascinating. The novel opens in 1930s Saskatchewan, where two sisters living on a farm in the sultry prairies fall for the same newcomer, Maurice Dove, a meteorologist from Ontario, or student of weather, who is doing research in the region. While Lucinda is the fair, beautiful, older sister who is good to a fault, it is the younger sister, Norma Joyce, who is secretive and deceptive and dark, almost foreign looking, that will go to no ends to snare him.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">What is disturbing and riveting about Norma Joyce’s desire is that she feels it at such a young age. She is only nine the summer she becomes besotted with Maurice, while he is well into his twenties: "She memorizes every inch of him. Every inch of floppy, thick, brown hair, blue eyes and milky neckline, slender hips and slippered feet, and long, flat, clever fingers. No matter whether riffling through papers or pulling things out of his knapsack, he holds his fingers the way a piano player isn't supposed to." While the novel appears at first glance to be a classic love story centred on a love triangle, it ends up veering into much more interesting territory by turning into a kind of love story in reverse. Neither sister ends up with Maurice, but as their entanglements with him continue over some forty years – through Norma Joyce’s birth of their child out of wedlock, his rise to fame as a writer of popular books about weather, and his marriage to two other women – Maurice Dove’s character is gradually revealed to be anything other than good husband material. But what I found most compelling about the novel’s portrayal of this relationship is the way that despite seeing all his foibles, Norma Joyce’s desire persists – stubborn and irrational as desire is, like the weather itself. And when she confronts Maurice about the genuine nature of his feelings for her, years later, when they run into each other at an art gallery in Ottawa, he responds that no one has ever evoked in him more mixed feelings. Mixed feelings, rather than the more straightforward polarities of love and hatred, are what Hay seems to most enjoy putting under the microscope in this novel no less than in <i>Late Nights on Air.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div>As I was thinking about how mixed feelings play out in <i>A Student of Weather</i>, I came to realize that many of the novels that stay with me and continually tease my mind are centred on love relationships similarly stymied. Lily Bart’s and Selden Lawrence’s interminable mind games in <a href="http://shimosreadinglist.blogspot.ca/2010/05/going-way-of-lily-bart-teary-musings.html"><i>The House of Mirth</i></a>, for instance. In the end, it isn’t getting together that matters, for they recognize they would be miserable together (Lily craves a level of luxury that he can’t offer her, while Selden treasures his independence), and yet, until the very end, their desire for each other persists, mixed with something bleaker because they know their feelings will always be thwarted. Mixed feelings, indeed. In a way, aren’t these the relationships that linger most vividly in our memories, whether we like it or not?<span style="color: #1f497d;"> </span>As those of you who have read my <a href="http://shimosreadinglist.blogspot.ca/p/book.html">memoir</a> will know, I’ve had a few mixed feelings myself over the years and, like Elizabeth Hay, I seem to find them more creatively productive to write about than the simple feeling of being in love. <br />
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Photo from: <a href="http://www.elizabethhay.com/bio/">here</a><i><br />
</i>Leslie Shimotakaharahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03876376938826990379noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6756491815304443142.post-60460687842756127332012-03-21T10:28:00.000-07:002012-03-21T10:28:59.072-07:00Canadian BookshelfBalmy, blue skies outside my window, and I'm still in my bathrobe at 1:30 in the afternoon. I'm currently taking time off from my day job in order to hibernate and finish writing my historical novel ... So I shan't get distracted from the task at hand by launching into a blog post. But if you feel like reading something I've written recently on my escape from academia and the process of writing my memoir, here is a short piece that was published in Canadian Bookshelf's <a href="http://49thshelf.com/Blog/2012/03/19/Reading-Like-a-Reader-Leslie-Shimotakahara-on-journeying-away-from-academia-learning-to-read-again">blog</a>. Leslie Shimotakaharahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03876376938826990379noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6756491815304443142.post-23025573838120202362012-03-16T10:31:00.002-07:002012-03-16T10:35:26.991-07:00Book #63: Novel or Short Story?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBjvdocPAQWnsdYD0aI9mR2LSrittE-pjNN7lcMLUDDKdtnen_hKPNwdDB5OA7RAtXG_uk_9Zlz_b1JpbzMTQzwXQ5fShod3HLT15aUow4Q8N8U0i_TBtq4taJpftzzNJKH20AoHoomdUn/s1600/Egan.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBjvdocPAQWnsdYD0aI9mR2LSrittE-pjNN7lcMLUDDKdtnen_hKPNwdDB5OA7RAtXG_uk_9Zlz_b1JpbzMTQzwXQ5fShod3HLT15aUow4Q8N8U0i_TBtq4taJpftzzNJKH20AoHoomdUn/s1600/Egan.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“It had a beautiful screwdriver in it, the orange translucent handle gleaming like a lollipop in its worn leather loop, the silvery shaft sculpted, sparkling. Sasha felt herself contract around the object in a single yawn of appetite; she needed to hold the screwdriver, just for a minute.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> -Jennifer Egan, <i>A Visit from the Goon Squad</i><o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">A few days ago, I wandered to my neighbourhood bookstore. I’d spent the morning writing, but that slightly disoriented feeling of coming out of somewhere and blinking in the sun, not knowing which way to turn, had hit me, a sign that my writing might be on the verge of taking a wayward turn … So I decided to put it aside and stroll to the bookstore. I was searching for that <i>one perfect novel</i> that would inspire me. I was craving a novel as tried and true as Edith Wharton’s <i><a href="http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/284">TheHouse of Mirth</a></i> – <a href="http://shimosreadinglist.blogspot.com/2010/05/going-way-of-lily-bart-teary-musings.html">a longtime favourite on my bookshelf</a> – and yet I wanted it to be set in the contemporary moment (not that I don’t love Wharton’s fin-de-siecle New York, of course). <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I flipped through <a href="http://jenniferegan.com/">Jennifer Egan’s</a> <i><a href="http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/2011/mar/13/jennifer-egan-visit-goon-squad">A Visit from the GoonSquad</a></i> somewhat randomly. I had a vague memory of reading a review of the novel when it came out a couple years ago and picked up the Pulitzer Prize. My eyes skimmed over the epigraph by Proust and launched into chapter one. And speaking of Wharton’s Old New York … Here it was, transported to the present. What luck. Our heroine, Sasha, a beautiful kleptomaniac, who snatches a wallet from the washroom of a hotel bar near the former World Trade Centre in the opening scene, has distinct hints of Wharton’s Lily Bart, a woman no less fragile and neurotic and unsure of what she really wants. Not five pages in, I found myself engrossed in Sasha’s world, a place where the possessions of strangers suddenly beckon, throbbing with seemingly animate properties: the coveted wallet is described as “tender and overripe as a peach.” The scene expertly cuts back and forth between Sasha’s recollection of stealing the wallet and her therapy session, where she lounges on the couch of her therapist, Coz, as they try to make sense of her peculiar predilection for thievery. Not for money, not because she wants any of the random objects she steals for money. Something more primal drives her desire to snatch these things – a treasured pen, a screwdriver, a lost mitten – which she displays in a shrine-like way on a table in her flat. Her psychology struck me as reminiscent of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Walter_Benjamin">Walter Benjamin’s</a> theory about the Collector, a figure who tries to “rescue” objects from the world of commerce to imbue them with a more unique, sentimental value. <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I wanted to know where the novel would go. I wanted to know where life and love would take this deeply troubled, isolated young woman. But although the book was nicely packaged to look like a novel – with a blurb on the back that makes it appear that the story is about Sasha – I should have detected that our author is subtly poking fun at the predictable conventions of the novel genre, with all its focus on forward-moving momentum and predetermined endings: “She and Coz were collaborators writing a story whose end had already been determined: she would get well. She would stop stealing from people and start caring again about the things that had once guided her: music; the network of friends she’d made when she first came to New York; a set of goals she’d scrawled on a big sheet of newsprint and taped to the walls of her early apartments: <o:p></o:p></span></div><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Find a band to manage<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Understand the news<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Study Japanese<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Practice the harp”<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">It turns out that this very sense of “writing a story whose end had already been determined” is what Egan is subverting by telling a story – or series of stories – that do anything but that. After standing in the bookstore and reading the first story, which reads so beautifully like chapter one of a long, lush novel, I bought the book and reclined on my sofa, only to realize that it isn’t a novel at all. The stories fan out following the random, fortuitous connections of modern life, with a minor character in the first story (Sasha’s music producer boss, who’s known for sprinkling gold flakes in his coffee, an unusual drug of choice) turning into the main character of the next story, and so on. Much as I enjoyed the sheer diversity of voices and experimental form that some of the stories take, there was a part of me, I have to admit, that still craved to know more about Sasha’s journey and fate. My mind kept wandering back to her … <i>I wanted the novel. </i>My desire was not entirely thwarted, as a few of the later stories loop back to Sasha, illuminating a past or future moment in her life, now told from other characters’ perspectives. It was just enough for my imagination to provide a shadow sketch of how own heroine’s life would have unfolded, were we reading a novel. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Photo from: <a href="http://blogs.wsj.com/speakeasy/tag/jennifer-egan/">here</a></span></div>Leslie Shimotakaharahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03876376938826990379noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6756491815304443142.post-89424372537403197492012-03-01T19:28:00.000-08:002012-03-01T19:28:57.619-08:00Book #62: Intimacy & Locality<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjykUOM14yDI14TxtiyVf_wxEEOLL54cvOXuFhH0tpTFfx5HPyfg67Cw1di80Rut2LLwnimxNacgMeKReNIx907Q-iREB3xMYXAaV7bUouCzkWBtZG7c-KwXipdYpdsWqZAO6DkIicaduFT/s1600/girls-fall-down-one-book-toronto-cover_medium.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjykUOM14yDI14TxtiyVf_wxEEOLL54cvOXuFhH0tpTFfx5HPyfg67Cw1di80Rut2LLwnimxNacgMeKReNIx907Q-iREB3xMYXAaV7bUouCzkWBtZG7c-KwXipdYpdsWqZAO6DkIicaduFT/s320/girls-fall-down-one-book-toronto-cover_medium.jpg" width="224" /></a></div>"After one girl has fallen, the rest are explicable; they have a template, a precedent. But before that, it is hard to understand. At the beginning of this problem, then, is a single girl, the first to fall." -Maggie Helwig, <i>Girls Fall Down</i><br />
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Over the weekend, I read <a href="http://www.maggiehelwig.com/">Maggie Helwig's</a> <i><a href="http://www.chbooks.com/catalogue/girls-fall-down">Girls Fall Down</a></i>, which was recently named the Toronto Public Library's <a href="http://www.torontopubliclibrary.ca/ktr/one-book.jsp">One Book</a>, a city-wide initiative to encourage Torontonians to read the same book in April. Although I don't particularly like the idea of going with the herd in terms of my reading, I heard Helwig being interviewed on CBC and was so intrigued that I couldn't resist picking up her novel.<br />
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It's set in Toronto, shortly after the 9/11 terrorist attacks. One of its central themes is clearly the culture of fear that 9/11 initiated, yet I found Helwig's narrative technique of conveying this sense of mass hysteria to be unusual, delicate. Although the novel is largely told from the perspective of her main character, Alex - a medical photographer who takes pictures of open heart surgery by day, while taking pictures of the grittier side of life at night - many of the chapters begin and end in an omniscient voice that pans over the city and goes into momentary close-ups on the lives of random inhabitants. "Across the river, among the towers of St. Jamestown, a Somali girl tightened her head scarf, zipped up her red jacket and set out on her hike to deliver newspapers, and on the street an Iranian man who had once been a doctor cleaned vomit from the backseat of his taxi. A woman put a pan of milk on the burner of her stove, and stared at the creamy ripples on the surface." It's as though the city itself is a main character, replete with emotions and misery.<br />
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This misery takes many forms. In the opening scene, we see a pretty, glossy haired girl at the centre of a clique of high school girls suddenly fall down on the subway, her skin erupting in a strange, vicious rash, while smelling something like roses. The incident precipitates a mass panic that sweeps through Toronto, as other girls mysteriously collapse in the days that follow, while the same paranoia plays out in the mind of our protagonist, Alex, who suffers from diabetes and becomes convinced he's on the verge of going blind. But it soon becomes clear that Alex's physical state is inextricably tied to a deeper turbulence. An old flame (or fling, to be precise) named Suzanne has wandered back into his life, a girl he used to be secretly in love with, back during his misspent youth in the louche establishments of 1980s Kensington Market. He's all too familiar with the feeling of having watched Suzanne for years - Susie-Paul, as she was known back then - flirting, seducing and discarding men at whim, when they used to work together at a small newspaper, and all the while he tried to convince himself that "there was something different between them, sharper and more actual. But he was probably wrong."<br />
<br />
The novel beautifully illustrates the past and all his unresolved feelings refracted through the present story, as she seeks Alex's help in finding her schizophrenic twin brother, who has gone missing in the ravines of the city. For the first time, Alex comes to understand why she was so messed up all those years ago and he is brought face to face with all her fears, secrets and vulnerabilities that persist even now, well into her thirties. In this sense, I found the novel deliciously revealing and close to the bone, and I found that the characters drew me into their peculiar circle of intimacy so well, perhaps partly because many of the scenes are set in my own neighbourhood (Little Italy) and other adjacent neighbourhoods, like Kensington, where I've also lived and idled away much time during my wayward youth ... The perfect stimulant to my own writing and emotions, as I embark on writing the final section of my own novel, part of which is also set in Toronto.<br />
<br />
And speaking of Toronto writing, the cultural organization <a href="http://diasporadialogues.com/">Diaspora Dialogues</a> recently interviewed me about the role of Toronto in my own fiction ... If you wish, you can listen to the podcast <a href="http://diasporadialogues.com/writers/profiles/leslie-shimotakahara/">here</a>.<br />
<br />
Photo from: <a href="http://49thshelf.com/Books/G/Girls-Fall-Down">here</a>Leslie Shimotakaharahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03876376938826990379noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6756491815304443142.post-87008261608998773322012-02-15T17:54:00.000-08:002012-02-16T19:22:41.726-08:00My Book LaunchNormally, I'm not the sort of person who likes being the centre of attention, so I was wondering about how I would perform at my first book launch. Although I'd been jittery and plagued by insomnia a few days before, on the day of the event, a calm came over me, and when I was suddenly there, immersed in all the people who'd come to celebrate and hear me read, it suddenly dawned on me, <i>I'm really enjoying myself!</i> In a strange way, it felt as though my whole life had been leading to this moment (and I suppose it had, since I've been wanting to be a writer since age six). Here are a few photos.... A big thank you to all of you who came out to celebrate and to <a href="http://www.jftor.org/">The Japan Foundation</a> for providing a beautiful venue, as well as to my publisher and agent for hosting the event.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8ctf-uWOD5ubQ8TTFjqCKqDe90Lg5ulla2-zdlBpJdd0RtW-LSdtoxu3E3v5-tw_XEmioOlQoFoTZvXbSVFR8dMawiFAFZ4-ADJgwGLYLppzvMW8LNxqqUtEIAjI2a1pf3lPO3-sRamYl/s1600/bl1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8ctf-uWOD5ubQ8TTFjqCKqDe90Lg5ulla2-zdlBpJdd0RtW-LSdtoxu3E3v5-tw_XEmioOlQoFoTZvXbSVFR8dMawiFAFZ4-ADJgwGLYLppzvMW8LNxqqUtEIAjI2a1pf3lPO3-sRamYl/s320/bl1.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A warm hug from my publisher, Sandra Huh</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQRcuZDkfYdfmI0rF4leED-qel-PyK5S_WFtB-UPJ3DB4fGu79qz1x5yyyGYjFhwXN8k52_Gu_g4o89FVoJw9-YAXFZEHj89ZWbp0aqAfj8cPFB5ftIej9Nfu-1KTvD1cGCbiF9eAX3qhx/s1600/bl3.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQRcuZDkfYdfmI0rF4leED-qel-PyK5S_WFtB-UPJ3DB4fGu79qz1x5yyyGYjFhwXN8k52_Gu_g4o89FVoJw9-YAXFZEHj89ZWbp0aqAfj8cPFB5ftIej9Nfu-1KTvD1cGCbiF9eAX3qhx/s320/bl3.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Having some pink bubbly with my agent, Sam Hiyate</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg48ydD2UuKCsYNlktpTSKjV6mBIcPo_QPlG75DuL2R5IBAZ_CGQOSu0UPP-DJXd49w6-NvUZ0GJLfl-dqSakn966t3lMn3kSAY-OA7aZW4K7T0fwBWHwNGM8fNv_Qx49ao1qqTF00_MByz/s1600/bl2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg48ydD2UuKCsYNlktpTSKjV6mBIcPo_QPlG75DuL2R5IBAZ_CGQOSu0UPP-DJXd49w6-NvUZ0GJLfl-dqSakn966t3lMn3kSAY-OA7aZW4K7T0fwBWHwNGM8fNv_Qx49ao1qqTF00_MByz/s320/bl2.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Signing books for some old high school friends</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3HYTF2Qt-Z_DzVvYngASYpeQq2rDXFv68gM2JfXHR9p2o-EPkloCOmpMWyyTFVz24VpjymAmUrY1RZXi9nUbO3O1bBtSmYMkDFjYWMuTaYQsoQ5iv59m5fdGVWcyHvbfF_3nE-bHxo9uT/s1600/bl4.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3HYTF2Qt-Z_DzVvYngASYpeQq2rDXFv68gM2JfXHR9p2o-EPkloCOmpMWyyTFVz24VpjymAmUrY1RZXi9nUbO3O1bBtSmYMkDFjYWMuTaYQsoQ5iv59m5fdGVWcyHvbfF_3nE-bHxo9uT/s320/bl4.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Signing a book for my uncle, Bruce Kuwabara</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRv0My4mV49Wf2qRX269MO7iAJ187e6f9JrVSIfXcOJ_RBv-BQX7pzKTdf-Dyr4IpLfqBFCOxzXiuZaQ1gc5QZHjRqnK6KDuVr8iaWvzZEZgO2geFBoYlK67gFAAl-G4fhRwbiETDklTfs/s1600/bl7.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRv0My4mV49Wf2qRX269MO7iAJ187e6f9JrVSIfXcOJ_RBv-BQX7pzKTdf-Dyr4IpLfqBFCOxzXiuZaQ1gc5QZHjRqnK6KDuVr8iaWvzZEZgO2geFBoYlK67gFAAl-G4fhRwbiETDklTfs/s320/bl7.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Reading from my book</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHZ_cjv3vJApMpEo9c0lwdzVzGpZS0pRJ-XcjLe_2ifhTPk5rwoKsjt_C6FzsbRMeplGj4wbgOoAULGL0XKwfRchG95ObPIsVdbhQd590kIldrg2YN0MZkH1QnNp-G9N-OYlR_bRn0LKKd/s1600/daddy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHZ_cjv3vJApMpEo9c0lwdzVzGpZS0pRJ-XcjLe_2ifhTPk5rwoKsjt_C6FzsbRMeplGj4wbgOoAULGL0XKwfRchG95ObPIsVdbhQd590kIldrg2YN0MZkH1QnNp-G9N-OYlR_bRn0LKKd/s320/daddy.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">With my parents</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNTne6VTI6zFIZdzvBTAfpKIEvR2cgQTYyC8jSO-gjwOE6vVheecHH-yPOIfFZxsk-i_G84euFEDKwdPMXLVd_W8Eb2c9wC1sTiswSF7C-syxbjinYapa-qs6ag1W6s-0ownfZFtxghGJh/s1600/leslie+signing.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNTne6VTI6zFIZdzvBTAfpKIEvR2cgQTYyC8jSO-gjwOE6vVheecHH-yPOIfFZxsk-i_G84euFEDKwdPMXLVd_W8Eb2c9wC1sTiswSF7C-syxbjinYapa-qs6ag1W6s-0ownfZFtxghGJh/s320/leslie+signing.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>My boyfriend and I ended the evening by wandering with a couple friends over to the bar on the eighteenth floor of the Park Hyatt and got splendidly drunk. (They felt it was an appropriate venue because the bartender is known to have served drinks to Margaret Atwood and Mordecai Richler and many other Toronto writers, and I was just tipsy enough not to feel like a complete ingenue). We enjoyed the view from the balcony of a skyline ethereal and fading, before joining my agent and his friends for a nightcap around the corner. A memorable evening.<br />
Leslie Shimotakaharahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03876376938826990379noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6756491815304443142.post-4122383745936308222012-02-07T13:53:00.000-08:002012-02-15T16:29:46.146-08:00Book #61: One More Week ...Just one week until my book launch ... These past few weeks, my mind has been oscillating wildly. I have consulted my doctor, my naturopath and meditation coach about various sleep remedies, with varying results (in the end, listening to the sound of thunderstorms and ocean waves on my iPod seems to work the best).<br />
<br />
Of course, I knew this day would come. And I am excited. And yet, there is an unnerving side to the self-exposure of having your memoir published, I've discovered, somewhat belatedly. While having dinner with some friends who are now reading my book, it has, not surprisingly come up as a topic of conversation - particularly, the racier sections. "Which old boyfriend was that?" one friend asked with an arch smile, trying to decode the changed names. She'd heard bits and pieces over the years, over boozy dinners, but never as uncut as this.<br />
<br />
I heaved a sigh of relief when she reassured me how much she was enjoying it and didn't object to when I changed the topic of conversation. I guess that's what old friends are for.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDC77LkQxW2g6KSdYfDtD4yS3s763eQYH_o17LunbFFOldMqXITg_rkUuKzmJmF7x_ghrhWBssnWJWUs2yAg0HKB-A__0dWVUoEg8Dv3WcCdDBX4LFLtOFRGPuiMB9UFYXUdJAsLXrtm-I/s1600/murakami.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDC77LkQxW2g6KSdYfDtD4yS3s763eQYH_o17LunbFFOldMqXITg_rkUuKzmJmF7x_ghrhWBssnWJWUs2yAg0HKB-A__0dWVUoEg8Dv3WcCdDBX4LFLtOFRGPuiMB9UFYXUdJAsLXrtm-I/s200/murakami.png" width="145" /></a></div><br />
Perhaps my insomnia hasn't been helped by what's on my bedside table. When I haven't been writing, I have been reading <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Haruki_Murakami">Haruki Murakami's</a> tome-like novel <i><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/1Q84">1Q84</a></i> and I am now nearing the midpoint. Although this novel feels experimental and meandering in structure, and may not be among Murakami's finest works, it is nevertheless strangely addictive to read. It takes the reader on an epic journey through a world, which, on the face of it, is 1984 Japan, but turns out to open outward into a world of double reality. As one of the main characters, a serial killer named Aomame, reflects: "The streets had fewer passersby. The number of cars declined, and a hush fell over the city. She sometimes felt she was on the verge of losing track of her location. <i>Is this actually the real world?</i> she asked herself. <i>If it's not, then where should I look for reality?</i>" Characteristic of Murakami, the world of reality bleeds into another world that is surreal and disturbing and possibly is contained within his protagonists' minds and fantasies, but just as possibly might actually exist. Similarly, it occurred to me, my own perceptions have been feeling weightless and off centre lately ... Perhaps this is what the writing life does to you: it dissolves the world into pure, malleable representation, which can quickly take on a life of its own. <br />
<br />
Equally compelling about this strange double world is the quest of the other main character, a writer named Tengo, who has been retained to ghostwrite a novel based on the experiences of a mysterious, almost autistic high school girl, Fuka-Eri, who has lived through some unspeakable childhood in a cult. But who are these strangely mystical beings called the "Little People" that haunt Fuka-Eri's narrative? Don't expect this novel to provide a little soothing bedtime reading ... More likely you'll find yourself up reading until three in the morning, unable to sleep, like me.<br />
<br />
Hope to see you next Tuesday at my book launch!<br />
<br />
Photo from: <a href="http://www.mediabistro.com/galleycat/haruki-murakami-1q84-cover-revealed-by-chip-kidd_b26440">here</a>Leslie Shimotakaharahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03876376938826990379noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6756491815304443142.post-74386815256525323592012-01-10T16:54:00.000-08:002012-01-24T08:20:56.375-08:00My Book Launch & Book Giveaway<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhv8c4v4uh1PDF45wBYwsCH_U5ePWpKtIyh7WUTxjysMJMBW9165Aadl-uQY_Jrt1gQf2dGpMhzVmT7Vzfg05k6TCjjrJwAfYtebWV3UH7wjKq6ETRL_NMX9FbEMwVBBANhjYc4HouuXwcS/s1600/pink-champagne.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="background-color: purple;"></span><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhv8c4v4uh1PDF45wBYwsCH_U5ePWpKtIyh7WUTxjysMJMBW9165Aadl-uQY_Jrt1gQf2dGpMhzVmT7Vzfg05k6TCjjrJwAfYtebWV3UH7wjKq6ETRL_NMX9FbEMwVBBANhjYc4HouuXwcS/s200/pink-champagne.jpg" width="178" /></a></div>The book launch for <i>The Reading List</i> is just a month away - I hope that many of you who live in Toronto will be able to make it!<br />
<br />
The event will be held:<br />
<div style="color: purple;">February 14, 2012 </div><div style="color: purple;">at <a href="http://www.jftor.org/">THE JAPAN FOUNDATION</a></div><div style="color: purple;">131 Bloor Street West</div><span style="color: purple;">5:30-8:00 pm</span><br />
<span style="color: purple;">RSVP: info@jftor.org or (416)966-1600, ex. 103</span><br />
<br />
Yes, I know it's Valentines Day... Drop by for a glass of wine before heading to dinner with your significant other or spend the whole evening with us luxuriating in literary chitchat. Who knows? Those of you who are single might even meet someone scintillating and well read...<br />
<br />
I also want to announce that I will be raffling off two copies of my book to those who wish to participate in this <b>giveaway</b>. To be entered in the draw, you can do one of the following:<br />
<br />
1. Become a Follower of my blog;<br />
2. Leave a comment; or<br />
3. Email me at leslieshimotakahara@gmail.com<br />
<br />
The deadline for entry is <b>February 11, 2012</b>.<br />
<br />
Here is a brief summary of what <i>The Reading List</i> is about:<br />
<div style="color: magenta;">Leslie Shimotakahara is a young, disench<span style="background-color: white;"></span>anted English professor struggling to revive her childhood love of reading. Her father Jack, recently retired from a high-powered corporate job, finally has time to take up reading books for pleasure. <i>The Reading List</i> tells the story of Leslie’s return home to Toronto to rethink her life and decide what to do next. At the same time, she bonds with her dad over discussions about the lives, loves and works of the novelists on their reading list – Wharton, Joyce, Woolf and Atwood, to name a few. But when their conversations about literature unearth some heartbreaking, deeply buried family secrets surrounding Jack’s own childhood – growing up Japanese-Canadian in the aftermath of World War II – Leslie’s world is changed forever. Could discovering the truth about her father’s past hold the key to her finally being happy in love, life and career? </div><br />
Btw, some friends have recently asked me which novels are included on the reading list that the main character (me) discusses with her father over the course of the book. Not surprisingly, they're some of my all-time favourites. Here is the list:<br />
<br />
1. <i>Walden</i> by Henry David Thoreau<br />
2. <i>The House of Mirth</i> by Edith Wharton<br />
3. <i>Dubliners</i> by James Joyce<br />
4. <i>Mrs. Dalloway</i> by Virginia Woolf<br />
5. <i>Lolita</i> by Vladimir Nabokov<br />
6. <i>The Maltese Falcon</i> by Dashiell Hammett<br />
7. <i>As I Lay Dying</i> by William Faulkner<br />
8. <i>The Sun Also Rises </i>by Ernest Hemingway<br />
9. <i>The Professor's House </i>by Willa Cather<br />
10. <i>Surfacing</i> by Margaret Atwood<br />
11. <i>Invisible Man </i>by Ralph Ellison<br />
12. <i>Obasan</i> by Joy Kogawa<br />
13. <i>Running in the Family</i> by Michael Ondaatje<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: purple;">"An engrossing and charming memoir about getting back to basics: home truths, family, and the life-altering, life-saving power of books."</div><span style="color: purple;"> -Emma Donoghue, author of </span><i style="color: purple;">Room</i><span style="color: purple;"> </span>Leslie Shimotakaharahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03876376938826990379noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6756491815304443142.post-14764926747413760152011-12-29T15:30:00.000-08:002011-12-29T15:30:13.122-08:00Book #60: My Holiday Reading<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYO81Y4JASeR4vfBWfDtSMynlxL08WIJXNEaCV97vcwPskbwO2bFHeDZgrMaz38T36A8vyqZsChvVFkV_uRBp_NO32Gyg8-Hes7GXWyt3RNTqvoA5FRC9pjgus-3JfoCYm39UVO6cRac0s/s1600/esi.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="223" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYO81Y4JASeR4vfBWfDtSMynlxL08WIJXNEaCV97vcwPskbwO2bFHeDZgrMaz38T36A8vyqZsChvVFkV_uRBp_NO32Gyg8-Hes7GXWyt3RNTqvoA5FRC9pjgus-3JfoCYm39UVO6cRac0s/s320/esi.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="im"><div class="MsoNormal">“For weeks the kid been going on and on about how dreadful we sound. He kept snatching up the discs, scratching the lacquer with a pocket knife, wrecking them. Yelling how there wasn’t nothing there. But there <i>was</i> something. Some seed of twisted beauty.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"> <wbr></wbr> <wbr></wbr> -Esi Edugyan, <i>Half-Blood Blues</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div></div><div class="MsoNormal">Ever since childhood, my favourite thing about the Christmas holidays has been the lazy, languid days of curling up in my bathrobe and doing nothing but reading all day. And this year has been no exception. Right now, as I write, I’m wearing my favourite black terry cloth robe, a stack of books teetering on the sofa beside me.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Not surprisingly, I got a lot of gift certificates for bookstores for Christmas. The first book I bought was <a href="http://www.esiedugyan.com/the-author.html">Esi Edugyan’s</a> Giller-winning <a href="http://www.theglobeandmail.com/news/arts/books/half-blood-blues-by-esi-edugyan/article2159312/"><i>Half-Blood Blues</i></a>. I read this novel in just a couple days, unable to put it down. What a pleasure to become immersed in the strange, delicious world of this novel, the underground jazz scene of Berlin and Paris during the Second World War, as seen through the eyes of Sid Griffiths, a “half-blood” musician from Baltimore, whose skin is so light he can almost pass for white. But just the opposite is true for others in the band, most notably Hieronymus Falk, who, despite being the youngest, is the genius of the group. Hieronymus – “Hiero,” as he’s known – is a “Rhineland bastard.” He’s of mixed German and African parentage, fathered by a Senegalese soldier who was serving as part of the French colonial troops occupying the Rhineland after World War One. Despite growing up being reviled for his skin and relegated to a stateless identity, Hiero has musical talents that win him the name “Little Louis.” Sid and the others take him under their wing, as a little brother at first, but as Hiero develops as a musician and artist, his remarkable abilities lead to tensions and rivalry. Particularly where a certain singer, Delilah Brown, is concerned. Sid becomes enamoured from the moment he first glimpses her strangely glamorous turban and thin, stark body and mesmerizing, pale green eyes. Although she returns his affections, to an extent, she appears far more enticed by Hiero’s musical brilliance.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">This is what I found so compelling about this novel: Edugyan brings to life a slice of history that until now, I’d known very little about, yet she does so through the lens of a set of characters and relationships that are so rich they’re constantly drawing me in. Who among us can’t relate to the predicament of being jealous of a more talented friend? Yet what under normal circumstances would simply be clashing egos and rivalries over art and women lead to much larger, tragic events in Nazi-occupied Germany. Sid’s guilt and tormented conscience over whether he could have done something to prevent Hiero’s capture by Nazi police, in the riveting opening scene, lays the ground for his emotional journey in the rest of the novel.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div>And now, I've just started reading <a href="http://www.guardian.co.uk/society/2010/may/30/louise-stern-deaf-chattering-interview">Chattering by Louise Stern</a>, a slim, elegant collection of stories that I stumbled upon quite randomly a few days ago at a <a href="http://www.blogto.com/bookstores/franticcity">used bookstore on Ossington</a>. The best $4 I’ve spent in a long time. Narrated from the perspectives of different deaf characters, drawing upon the author’s own experience, these stories give an intriguing glimpse of what it feels like to be constantly struggling to express oneself through sign language, body language and scribbled notes – heightening the ways in which we all feel estranged from language at times. Young and surprisingly adventurous, these characters hitchhike with strange men, sleep on the beach, wake up in weird, risky places. In between stories, I’ve turned my attention back to Haruki Murakami’s tome-like latest novel <a href="http://www.guardian.co.uk/commentisfree/2011/oct/30/iq84-proof-literature-hari-murakami"><i>1Q84</i></a>, which is gradually drawing me in…. So much holiday reading to do….<br />
<br />
Photo from: <a href="http://dana.deathe.net/?p=1323">here </a>Leslie Shimotakaharahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03876376938826990379noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6756491815304443142.post-34416724472293745902011-12-17T05:34:00.000-08:002011-12-17T05:35:32.396-08:00My Book ... & Postcards from Kaslo<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDEVTLqUWZkM54ddPHckOD4Hrj1cHDTmHtSABoXXHa6I8dymk2HoBa9nrPjXOZ-Kc4DfwnpTe8HOaNmWWpWHkTTfUiXKC74U2uKTaLbmZ_l2a1yPRLwzYOiDz1RThyphenhyphenGeVYA25ppps6VzYb/s1600/books.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDEVTLqUWZkM54ddPHckOD4Hrj1cHDTmHtSABoXXHa6I8dymk2HoBa9nrPjXOZ-Kc4DfwnpTe8HOaNmWWpWHkTTfUiXKC74U2uKTaLbmZ_l2a1yPRLwzYOiDz1RThyphenhyphenGeVYA25ppps6VzYb/s320/books.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">On Thursday night, I had dinner with my publisher to celebrate that my memoir <a href="http://www.amazon.ca/Reading-List-Literature-love-again/dp/0981227937/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1324128470&sr=8-1"><i>The Reading List</i></a> is now in print. We toasted and reminisced about the past year we’ve spent working together and schemed about how to make the book launch<span style="color: #1f497d;"> </span>a fun event. (It will be at the <a href="http://www.jftor.org/">Japan Foundation</a> mid-February <span style="color: #1f497d;">– </span>details soon to follow – you are all invited!) She gave me my author’s copies, some of which I’ll raffle off on my blog in January. The books are now perched on a shelf near my desk to give me inspiration as I immerse myself in writing<span style="color: #1f497d;"> </span>my second book<span style="color: #1f497d;">…</span>.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Speaking of which, I was very excited to receive a package in the mail last week. I’d been eagerly awaiting it for some time, this package from the <a href="http://www.klhs.bc.ca/klhs.htm">Kootenay Lake Historical Society</a>. It’s an archive that I stumbled upon on-line when googling “Kaslo, BC,” the site of a <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Japanese_Canadian_internment">Japanese-Canadian Internment</a> camp during the Second World War. My great grandfather, Kozo Shimotakahara, was the doctor assigned to provide medical services at the camp and he has long captured my imagination; one of the<span style="color: #1f497d;"> </span>characters in the historical novel I’m currently writing is loosely inspired by Kozo and he also has a cameo in my memoir. So when I discovered that the Kootenay Lake Historical Society has volunteer archivists who could send me old photographs and newspaper articles, I jumped at the chance – even for just a first taste. One day in the not too distant future I would love to visit Kaslo and wander through Kozo’s hospital and get my fingers dusty perusing the archive myself….</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWqDUCMdX_VgRhgXv7aPwjRyI0DcV6X0sCFE70RjO23Yx2tipYy8JfQe6cuTGiuwpTl_JNa6a12OF8sl8zafvxVKoVOBY3v_6MZNJ0X1OD20N9duYS9F4fVpjYl-36gVhWqLZxF-Apm1r1/s1600/Victorian+Hospital.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWqDUCMdX_VgRhgXv7aPwjRyI0DcV6X0sCFE70RjO23Yx2tipYy8JfQe6cuTGiuwpTl_JNa6a12OF8sl8zafvxVKoVOBY3v_6MZNJ0X1OD20N9duYS9F4fVpjYl-36gVhWqLZxF-Apm1r1/s320/Victorian+Hospital.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I feel as though doing historical research is a bit like wandering through an antique/junk shop, where you never can predict what you might find and suddenly desire. The set of pictures and clippings I received in the mail contain such a range of ingredients, most of which I have no idea how they could fit into my novel. If at all. Nevertheless, these facts and images beckon to me and maybe it’s not a bad thing if I just let them tease my brain for months or years to come and let them half-consciously work their way into a future novel<span style="color: #1f497d;">, </span>perhaps. For instance, I found my eyes lingering on an article written in <i>The New Canadian </i>about Kozo’s trailblazing efforts to treat tuberculosis, which had reached near epidemic levels in the Japanese-Canadian community before the war. The prevalence was six times that of the normal population, largely because the Japanese farming folk in BC were ill-informed about prevention measures, didn’t speak English and were distrustful of doctors. All too aware of this problem, in 1930, Kozo joined forces with a certain reverend to start a tuberculosis clinic that he staffed by lobbying to have “one Japanese girl” accepted into the nurse training program at Vancouver General Hospital<span style="color: #1f497d;"> </span>(I wonder who she was and what was her story?). They even managed to have an X-ray machine donated and sent over from Japan. “Every Japanese doctor cooperated to the utmost, but among them Dr. K. Shimotakahara, a pioneer medical men, did much to aid in the important steps against tuberculosis,” writes the author of the article. Those must have been heady days, when the community was in its infancy, and I can only imagine what Kozo must have felt being at the centre of it all. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div>But then the war broke out and the Japanese became seen as traitors overnight, ushering in darker days…. I wonder what became of the clinic or whether it was ever revived after the war. Probably not, since the Japanese-Canadian community was forcibly dispersed and assimilated in the post-war years. The clinic had likely outlived its purpose … a fascinating blip, a glorious footnote, swallowed up by history.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-CdpZho86bger33mFzxPIXGwa78oz7E67IO12QOwWzu5laUZ6l7aB5drkZRx45-qzhzmlhv10o6rcbwEM_RLGfcY1s-6q5pVHPp3cF3LmKoU-HBn9AhTTMpKNHu8WEVZFlwss1wuZvPbn/s1600/kozo2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-CdpZho86bger33mFzxPIXGwa78oz7E67IO12QOwWzu5laUZ6l7aB5drkZRx45-qzhzmlhv10o6rcbwEM_RLGfcY1s-6q5pVHPp3cF3LmKoU-HBn9AhTTMpKNHu8WEVZFlwss1wuZvPbn/s320/kozo2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div> <br />
Photos courtesy of Kootenay Lake Historical SocietyLeslie Shimotakaharahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03876376938826990379noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6756491815304443142.post-23749754602523350352011-11-30T15:42:00.000-08:002011-11-30T15:42:13.469-08:00Book #59: The Other Murakami<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN34tGLj2OXzGvcbMvFZd0Fcfx2rFenWVQjwAcJdsaxfoTopqlNIOd1s06RKDKPHgrX1ZrNZiZqSNpYv-eMQQFawwJLGLnV1yA1h9VGMYqktFi7Kd0a6PXAyhpn7eUveYCmgBaA46aTA-O/s1600/in_the_miso_soup.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN34tGLj2OXzGvcbMvFZd0Fcfx2rFenWVQjwAcJdsaxfoTopqlNIOd1s06RKDKPHgrX1ZrNZiZqSNpYv-eMQQFawwJLGLnV1yA1h9VGMYqktFi7Kd0a6PXAyhpn7eUveYCmgBaA46aTA-O/s320/in_the_miso_soup.jpg" width="212" /></a></div>"They don't have compensated dating in America," Jun said. "I wonder what these geniuses would say if an American newspaper asked them to explain <i>why</i> Japanese high-school girls sell it."<br />
-Ryu Murakami, <i>In the Miso Soup</i><br />
<br />
I recently went book shopping and bought Haruki Murakami's latest novel <a href="http://www.theglobeandmail.com/news/arts/books/1q84-by-haruki-murakami/article2217384/"><i>1Q84</i></a>, a tome-like brick of a book with a close-up of a pale, beautiful, slightly melancholy Japanese woman on the cover, and <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ry%C5%AB_Murakami">Ryu Murakami's</a> much slimmer and lighter <a href="http://www.popmatters.com/pm/review/in-the-miso-soup"><i>In the Miso Soup</i></a> sporting a photo of a woman in black lingerie, her head cropped off, her skin aglow in eerie red light. <br />
<br />
Much as I love Haruki Murakami, there's something a bit daunting about starting a 925-page novel while immersed in my own writing.... I decided to save it for the Christmas holidays and dove into the other Murakami instead.<br />
<br />
I have vague, pleasurable memories of reading Ryu Murakami's cult classic <i><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Almost_Transparent_Blue">Almost Transparent Blue</a> </i>as a teenager and being particularly fascinated by the character named Reiko (perhaps partly because Reiko is my middle name). <i>In the Miso Soup</i>, his more recent novel, provides the same kind of gritty look at Japan's underworld through the lens of the sex trade, yet this novel provides more reflection and commentary, on the part of the narrator, than I recall in his previous work. It closely follows the relationship between two characters: Frank, a slovenly, balding American tourist, freshly arrived in Tokyo to indulge his appetite for the sex trade, and Kenji, the twenty-year-old drifter whom Frank hires to be his guide in navigating the peepshows, lingerie pubs, bars and brothels. While the premise of this novel may not sound overly promising - it could quickly lapse into nothing more than a prurient thrill - Murakami's art lies in his ability to provide an almost anthropological look at the two cultures, Japan and America, which the two protagonists and their strange encounter represent. One of the most interesting concepts central to the Japanese sex trade, we learn, is known as "compensated dating," where school girls go on paid dates with businessmen - but their activities may go no further than singing karaoke. Or they may go further; the line isn't clear. And it isn't only school girls. Middle-aged, frumpy women trying to pass themselves off as college students frequent the same bars where hookers hang out, vaguely entertaining the possibility of selling themselves, too, should Mr. Right walk in. What emerges, as Kenji takes Frank through this bizarre, highly stratified underworld, is a picture of a society where the lines between intimacy, sex and prostitution have utterly blurred and money is the only currency of desire. <br />
<br />
I lived in downtown Osaka one summer several years ago, during my undergrad days, and I recall being both baffled and intrigued. Perhaps it was just the area where I ended up living, but the sex trade seemed to be absolutely everywhere - hostess bars tucked between the flashing lights of Pachinko parlours, swarms of garishly made-up girls in stilettos and mini-dress uniforms running into the streets accosting the men. It perplexed (and saddened) me because I guess I held some naive, stereotypical views of Japan as a fairly traditional society. Instead, I found myself immersed in a place where selling sex and sexuality seemed very much in your face and integrated in everyday life.<br />
<br />
I don't know whether I ever quite came to terms with that summer in Japan, but Murakami's critique of the extreme loneliness and hollowed out existence that seem to be driving both his Japanese and American protagonists (the latter turns out to be a psychopath) made for a fascinating read. In the end, the novel suggests that Frank and Kenji, though they come from very different cultures, may be equally screwed up. In one of the final scenes, after Frank has gone on a killing rampage, Kenji searches his memory trying to explain what the word <i>bonno </i>means in Buddhism: "I think it's usually translated as 'worldly desires.' It's more complicated than that, but the first thing you need to know is that it's something everybody suffers from."<br />
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Photo from: <a href="http://www.hanamiweb.com/in_the_miso_soup.html">here</a><br />
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Leslie Shimotakaharahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03876376938826990379noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6756491815304443142.post-52305179742778456662011-11-16T19:36:00.000-08:002011-11-16T19:36:53.294-08:00Book #58: Writing Unrest<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfbs4I4vUTvhqfjZ27Y7RTvCkFz8zLr4cDrsBf-QoDciY0inQZV9axrKcpxy0qeW5mPKlTaAVyV84Vp6vorZH9okc75AAbb1YGc56-qFzvbn_6VI9ASvRusEcT6Y8qYwXIm7NyIBDlDDNx/s1600/the-sense-of-an-ending-by-julian-barnes-L-gVw0tX.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="230" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfbs4I4vUTvhqfjZ27Y7RTvCkFz8zLr4cDrsBf-QoDciY0inQZV9axrKcpxy0qeW5mPKlTaAVyV84Vp6vorZH9okc75AAbb1YGc56-qFzvbn_6VI9ASvRusEcT6Y8qYwXIm7NyIBDlDDNx/s320/the-sense-of-an-ending-by-julian-barnes-L-gVw0tX.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: black;">“My younger self had come back to shock my older self with what that self had been, or was, or was sometimes capable of being. And only recently I’d been going on about how the witnesses to our lives decrease, and with them our essential corroboration. Now I had some all too unwelcome corroboration of what I was, or had been.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: black;"> <wbr></wbr> <wbr></wbr> <wbr></wbr> -Julian Barnes, <i>The Sense of an Ending</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: black;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: black;"><a href="http://www.julianbarnes.com/">Julian Barnes’</a> <a href="http://www.theglobeandmail.com/news/arts/books/the-sense-of-an-ending-by-julian-barnes/article2128119/"><i>The Sense of an Ending</i></a> is replete with all the ingredients I’ve always loved in novels: intrigue, sexual secrets, and a complex matrix of desire kicked into gear by a missing piece of writing. No wonder that it recently won the <a href="http://www.themanbookerprize.com/">Man Booker</a> prize. This elegant, 150-page novella opens with the main character, Tony Webster’s glance backward at his high school days in 1960s England, a place where he and his admittedly pretentious clique of friends got high on Baudelaire and Dostoevsky and debated grand questions like the origins of war. “History is that certainty produced at the point where the imperfections of memory meet the inadequacies of documentation,” says Adrian Finn, the genius of the group. Thus, early on, the novel establishes its fascination with the limitations of history and memory and writing – themes that Tony obsesses over, particularly as he gets older.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: black;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: black;">But “history” in this novel means personal history. Personal history of the most intimate kind. When the boys grow up and go off to university, Tony gets a girlfriend, an elusive beauty named Veronica who strings him along for several months until he dumps her – only to discover that she’s hooked up with his old pal Adrian. Incensed, Tony has a vague recollection of penning a nasty letter. Shortly after, Adrian kills himself for reasons that aren’t at all clear. Through a strange turn of events, decades later, Tony comes in contact with Veronica when it turns out that her mother has in her possession the late Adrian’s diary – again, for reasons that aren’t at all clear – and she has left it in her will to Tony. It might contain the key to the secret of why Adrian couldn’t bear to go on living. Yet Veronica has stolen the diary, setting the stage for a bizarre series of emails whereby Tony attempts to wrest the diary from her. Instead, what she sends him is his old letter – replete with his callow, biting (yet hilarious and sardonic) words. He is brought face to face with the cruelty of his younger self and the disastrous consequences his writing unleashed. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: black;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: black;">While the ending delivers a perverse twist, the most interesting aspect for me is Tony’s unraveling upon confronting his own former words. It is as though he repressed all memory of his writing; the letter seems as alien as if another person penned it, yet his writing is unmistakable. Fear of confronting and despising but nevertheless being forced to take responsibility for a former piece of your own writing strikes me as a fear that is especially resonant with writers. It certainly is with me. Here we are in November, a few months before my first book is set to be released, and I find myself waking up in cold sweats, tormented not so much by the possibility that readers won’t like my book, but rather by the possibility that two, five, ten years down the road, I may not like the book. Like Tony, I might barely even recognize my writing … or who knows? Perhaps a disastrous train of events is about to be kicked into gear in my personal life, as a result of its publication. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: black;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: black;">Paranoid? Me?</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: black;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: black;">But what’s written is written.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: black;"><br />
</div><span style="color: black;">So as Barnes says in the final sentence of his novel, “There is great unrest,” yet what can a writer do except keep on writing?</span><br />
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<span style="color: black;">Photo from: <a href="http://en.paperblog.com/the-sense-of-an-ending-by-julian-barnes-47218/">here </a></span>Leslie Shimotakaharahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03876376938826990379noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6756491815304443142.post-18050041316895063782011-11-02T17:49:00.000-07:002011-11-02T17:49:08.894-07:00Addicted to House Hunting<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-y6kbtGP64fW9BT7aNpYUMiUYkTLbfTiwpYw4qHcK_c7mX7um9fCcx0Ux5xxprtikmRw_E3aLyIGOVjqwUff8R7FFBqUwz7Gvh1ERRKiQbvE03WFBPZpAb7x3tbAe49hZi6irhkh8fuI-/s1600/house.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-y6kbtGP64fW9BT7aNpYUMiUYkTLbfTiwpYw4qHcK_c7mX7um9fCcx0Ux5xxprtikmRw_E3aLyIGOVjqwUff8R7FFBqUwz7Gvh1ERRKiQbvE03WFBPZpAb7x3tbAe49hZi6irhkh8fuI-/s320/house.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal">Over the past six weeks, my boyfriend and I have been shopping for a house. I’ve come to realize that I take a strange pleasure in wandering through these houses of varying styles and levels of decrepitude – some still inhabited, others hauntingly empty, others carefully accented with generic furniture brought in by a stager giving the house the feel of a theatrical stage set. The houses that still shows signs of authentic habitation are by far the most interesting. There’s something quite delicious about running my fingertips over a stranger’s bookshelf and pulling down a novel I’ve been longing to read and finding a hand-written message inside, or opening a closet and finding a pair of beat-up ballet slippers or a tangled bathrobe. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>Yes, I could imagine myself living here</i>. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Back in my moribund grad student days, I wrote a good deal of my dissertation on the relationship between novels and houses. Although I no longer speak that academic language (thank God!), there’s a part of me that remains fascinated by how novels use houses to tell the story of a protagonist’s state of mind, status and relationship to place. It’s a sad fate indeed for those characters who can’t find a home – think of Lily Bart, the wayward heroine of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Edith_Wharton">Edith Wharton’s</a> <a href="http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/284"><i>The House of Mirth</i></a>, for instance. An impoverished socialite, Lily sponges off her wealthy friends who have decadent country houses, yet it’s the comfort of Selden Lawrence’s more modest home that catches her fancy, the bookshelves in particular: “She began to saunter about the room, examining the bookshelves between the puffs of her cigarette-smoke. Some of the volumes had the ripe tints of good tooling and old morocco, and her eyes lingered on them caressingly, not with the appreciation of the expert, but with the pleasure of agreeable tones and textures that was one of her inmost susceptibilities.” As Lily sinks down the social hierarchy, the novel charts her decline in terms of her increasingly tasteless and dreary surroundings, until she is finally left in a sparsely furnished tenement room: “The shabby chest of drawers was spread with a lace cover, and set out with a few gold-topped boxes and bottles, a rose-coloured pin-cushion, a glass tray with tortoise-shell hair-pins…. These were the only traces of luxury.” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">In light of my love of this novel, perhaps it isn’t surprising that the most evocative houses I toured during our house hunt were places that I wouldn’t want to live in. They’re places that give me glimpses into other people’s lives – lives on the “other side of the social tapestry,” as Wharton puts it. On a whim, we visited a dilapidated white clapboard house at Bloor and Lansdowne that turned out to be an illegal rooming house. I know from my father that after the war, my grandparents ran a boarding house in this part of Toronto, and so I felt that in a curious way, I was getting a glimpse of that other world and time while peering into these cramped, dingy quarters and gingerly walking up precarious staircases and knocking on bedroom doors (or at least, the real estate agent did, while I cowered behind). Many of the boarders didn’t want to let us in, and it made me sad to think about how this was their last-ditch effort to claim a kind of squatter’s sovereignty. Yet even as they shut the door in our faces, I found myself peering over their shoulders, entranced by the curious shrines some of these people had set up on their dressers, candles and incense burning all round, the hint of earthier substances in the air, and one woman had a string strung around the entire perimeter of her room, from which dangled hundreds of pairs of colourful sunglasses.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Although we weren’t serious about buying houses of this sort, I remained eager to keep touring them as a kind of research for my historical novel, part of which takes place in the Bloor Lansdowne neighbourhood in the 1950s, in a boarding house similar to my grandparents’…. So for me, the house hunt was doubling as a sort of field expedition, but I think our real estate agent was getting tired of our dithering. Alas.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div>Yesterday evening, we purchased a fairly decrepit, but structurally sound Victorian house full of architectural possibilities (Chris is an architect, so we are looking to take on a “project” house). The house is at the slightly more gentrified end of the Lansdowne neighbourhood, but close enough that I will be able to walk past my grandparents’ old house every day, communing with ghosts of my family past.<br />
<br />
Photo from: <a href="http://arcticory.blogspot.com/2009_04_01_archive.html">here</a>Leslie Shimotakaharahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03876376938826990379noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6756491815304443142.post-35914937348355444832011-10-20T19:24:00.000-07:002011-10-20T19:39:12.841-07:00A Fortuitous Connection<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVnHfJleTvDDh1ysuh6Xf-Q-GIzKJzoZiEJ5476ugtaRbHz7k9MSjPgykYfzjSwnUy-TyCBrYbM7tP6m3kV6L9eFfr0s8sS4n6SH1zL4yqoEY-Fuyqw9Gvvt4mkY5ZoQA17By28XR_4qli/s1600/Shimotakahara+wedding.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="242" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVnHfJleTvDDh1ysuh6Xf-Q-GIzKJzoZiEJ5476ugtaRbHz7k9MSjPgykYfzjSwnUy-TyCBrYbM7tP6m3kV6L9eFfr0s8sS4n6SH1zL4yqoEY-Fuyqw9Gvvt4mkY5ZoQA17By28XR_4qli/s320/Shimotakahara+wedding.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="ii gt" id=":gu"><div id=":h1"><div lang="EN-US"><div><div class="MsoNormal">When I first started this blog a year and a half ago, I was just experimenting with another form of writing.... I had no idea it was going to lead me to an invaluable source for my new novel. As I've mentioned before, I’m currently writing an historical novel partly inspired by my great grandfather, Dr. Kozo Shimotakahara’s life as a doctor at a Japanese-Canadian internment camp during the Second World War. But never did it occur to me that someone with a connection to Kozo would stumble across one of my <a href="http://shimosreadinglist.blogspot.com/2011_05_01_archive.html">blog posts</a> and contact me to send me this photograph of my great grandparents taken on their wedding day.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Over the past month, I’ve learned a lot about Kozo’s life from my new online friend, Todd. Todd came across my blog when he did a Google search on Kozo Shimotakahara’s name – not knowing exactly who the man was. He’d become intrigued by Kozo upon noticing his signature upon his great grandmother’s and her cousin’s death certificates, so he gathered that Kozo had been a Vancouver doctor before the war. When he found the above wedding picture in his parents' possession, he figured that the Shimotakaharas might have been old friends of his great grandparents from the old days of Japantown. It seems that when Kozo first arrived in Canada he stayed at a Japanese Christian Missionary in Victoria, BC, where Todd's great grandfather was a preacher. The original photo was mottled with dirt and dust specks, so Todd skillfully photoshopped it (thanks Todd!)</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">As we discussed in our flurry of emails, Kozo and his wife Shin don’t look terribly happy on their wedding day. Perhaps this is simply due to the limitations of photographic technology at the time: the poser had to remain perfectly still and hold the same expression for a long time, which could be cumbersome. But I can’t help but read a certain hardness in both their faces – their stone-chiseled lips send chills down my spine. Clearly, these are two incredibly willful people, as one might expect of a Christian missionary (Shin was one of the first in Japan) and a pioneering doctor (Kozo was the first Japanese-Canadian doctor and also a highly religious man).</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Despite all the mythologizing in my family, discrepancies and lacunae about their lives abound. My grandmother, who was our family historian, used to write <a href="http://www.ourroots.ca/f/page.aspx?id=901034">hortatory essays</a> based on the stories Kozo had told her. According to her, Kozo left Kagoshima-ken, Japan at age fourteen with a mere 5 yen, which his mother had earned by selling eggs, and immigrated to Vancouver where he worked as a houseboy and enrolled in elementary school to learn his ABCs. Later, he went on to graduate from University of Chicago medical school. I could never understand how Kozo became a doctor just like that. Yet Todd has discovered a more textured narrative through some fascinating genealogical research. He has sent me a border crossing record, photocopied from Vancouver Public Library, stating in the registrar’s slanted, slightly smudged writing that Kozo entered the United States on September 24, 1911, to attend Valparaiso University in Indiana. He had $50 on him and was 5 feet, 2 inches tall. A bit of online research reveals that <a href="http://www.valpo.edu/about_valpo/history.php">Valparaiso</a> was a Methodist, no frills institute of higher learning that did not have a med school. So I wonder if Kozo enrolled there and then proceeded to University of Chicago, or whether his journey took a more circuitous route? And why did he never tell anyone in our family about this interlude in his life? Although I may never know for certain, these periods of struggle and self-formation when he was a young man tease at my imagination and after a while he ceases to feel like my ancestor – he becomes a character alive in my head. </div></div></div></div></div><table cellpadding="0" class="cf gz" id=":i0"><tbody>
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</tbody></table>Leslie Shimotakaharahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03876376938826990379noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6756491815304443142.post-14725526620348827782011-10-10T08:01:00.000-07:002011-10-10T08:07:08.416-07:00Book #57: Writing Memory<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8LNDFFZB0RrQTsDQdVDSldpf2rF4AKoC91KbMrxbK4Oxb5RiKIpjl3Sf_7HROaz2gFlkjtr78hMHKNK-ARbBaViUEtx7PYQyobA_4H1yUdfozYw7V9S_a7RuODB6Ch7C1aHYZYCwhw0a9/s1600/LisaMoore-7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8LNDFFZB0RrQTsDQdVDSldpf2rF4AKoC91KbMrxbK4Oxb5RiKIpjl3Sf_7HROaz2gFlkjtr78hMHKNK-ARbBaViUEtx7PYQyobA_4H1yUdfozYw7V9S_a7RuODB6Ch7C1aHYZYCwhw0a9/s320/LisaMoore-7.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>"His skin was warm-toned and Mediterranean and he made her think of Paris when she was twenty-one. Her honeymoon with Marty, and it was Marty she was thinking about, really, and she didn't want to be thinking about him. Marty had remarried and had a child on the way and he called her every night when his wife conked out with exhaustion." -Lisa Moore, <i>Alligator</i><br />
<br />
A few years ago, I took a creative writing seminar and I recall the instructor talking about how important it is for a young writer to read and learn from the early works of the writers she admires. "Pay attention to how the sentences move," I recall her saying. "Passages that you find moving you should copy out by hand and always use a pen you really like writing with. I recommend fountain pen."<br />
<i> </i><br />
In recent days, as I've been pressing on with writing my historical novel, approaching page 130, as of this morning, I've found myself reading and rereading <a href="http://www.quillandquire.com/authors/profile.cfm?article_id=6953">Lisa Moore</a>. I loved her second novel <a href="http://www.theglobeandmail.com/news/arts/a-tragedy-at-sea-a-miracle-on-paper/article1198641/"><i>February</i></a> when I read it last year (and blogged about it <a href="http://shimosreadinglist.blogspot.com/2010/09/book-27-better-than-therapy.html">here</a>), so I eagerly went out to buy her first novel <a href="http://www.independent.co.uk/arts-entertainment/books/reviews/alligator-by-lisa-moore-416430.html"><i>Alligator</i></a>, which I've been luxuriating over for the past couple weeks. This novel is peculiarly structured for a novel; it reads more like a set of interweaving short stories, where there are no minor characters. Every character - from Frank, the hot dog vendor, to Colleen, the teenage delinquent and environmental activist - is compellingly rendered and given a unique interior voice and past. And Moore's imagery is nothing short of stunning, even, especially, in rendering the minute details of everyday life: "The egg white stretched itself into opaque skeins and transparent veils and broke away from the yolk and frothed over the sides of the pot and settled back down." But more than the sheer lyricism of her images, it's the way that her characters relate to these lyrical moments that makes her writing so memorable and true to life. Their awareness of the sensuous details of the world around them are constantly taking them on detours into memory, unearthing before the reader all kinds of idiosyncratic facets of their pasts. <br />
<br />
In this respect, Madeleine, the aging film director, is perhaps the character who speaks to me most vividly. Her aspiration to make an historical film about Archbishop Fleming becomes the driving force of her life. Although it's never all that clear what the film is about, it's clear that Madeleine envisions her film as something far greater than a local colour documentary about her hometown, St. John's, Newfoundland (Moore's hometown and the setting of her novel). In Madeleine's mind, "The film was about the desolate, violent landscape and human triumph over nature, but it was also, in a much quieter, private way, about evil. A community in the grip of some religious fervour that had sprung out of the tyranny of mild, constant hunger and giving over." But the irony of Madeleine's grand gesture is that her emotions are constantly pulling her away from her historical project and into the recesses of her own memory. In the end, her film fades into the background compared to her continual reliving of the wreckage of her marriage to Marty and her endless, ineluctable struggle to recapture the early days of their passionate affair, in Paris, at twenty-one. While her film may never see the light of day, her own life and the intimate details of all the characters whose lives revolve around the making of her film are elevated to near cinematic proportions. And yet, they always remain wonderfully prosaic and down to earth. <br />
<br />
If <i>Alligator</i> is in some ways a novel about the impossibility of telling a straight story about history, in favour of indulging in the digressive pleasures of storytelling and memory, it certainly sparked some thoughts in my mind about how <i>not</i> to write an historical novel.<br />
<br />
Photo from: <a href="http://bojanfurst.com/?p=917">here</a>Leslie Shimotakaharahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03876376938826990379noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6756491815304443142.post-80304905502607008702011-10-02T09:36:00.000-07:002011-10-02T17:40:51.130-07:00Read an Excerpt<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtLfwab2GTlWvPJFVoveVgzhhdZ9jU0mnn0fJ96Qq9tsmZJlH7Kij5uT_ZOk2026AHV9RgPu2jNin6w0KmuxrbqfDeKqlWlQoOIN00LwQc5XiatKAmAZAKX9vWM2TwziSUEjk5XY62rfzt/s1600/cover.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtLfwab2GTlWvPJFVoveVgzhhdZ9jU0mnn0fJ96Qq9tsmZJlH7Kij5uT_ZOk2026AHV9RgPu2jNin6w0KmuxrbqfDeKqlWlQoOIN00LwQc5XiatKAmAZAKX9vWM2TwziSUEjk5XY62rfzt/s200/cover.png" width="131" /></a></div>I thought it might be fun to give you a little sneak peak of my memoir, <i>The Reading List: Literature, Love and Back Again</i>, before it's released in February. Click <a href="http://shimosreadinglist.blogspot.com/p/read-excerpt.html">here</a> to read an excerpt.<i> </i>An overview of the book as a whole can be found <a href="http://shimosreadinglist.blogspot.com/p/book.html">here</a>.Leslie Shimotakaharahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03876376938826990379noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6756491815304443142.post-32966499541076039292011-09-22T17:51:00.000-07:002011-09-22T17:51:19.443-07:00Book #56: My Return Trip<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipdrvE1-_UzTPm9DBxHzUpagZHx4EHel0DXPVsB-RJlQZMMm5WmAJs269mRpEJtdw_gj7OlKKAln5ZRgzbNQ2tNHOB1hTJ-QqOoBWXWimO1tTNN-9sbMTh9zXxt1R7vRAmlvJCGHo0s8w1/s1600/return+trips.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipdrvE1-_UzTPm9DBxHzUpagZHx4EHel0DXPVsB-RJlQZMMm5WmAJs269mRpEJtdw_gj7OlKKAln5ZRgzbNQ2tNHOB1hTJ-QqOoBWXWimO1tTNN-9sbMTh9zXxt1R7vRAmlvJCGHo0s8w1/s1600/return+trips.jpg" /></a></div><br />
“And sometimes in this fantasy I buy the house we used to live in, the rambling house down the highway, in the valley. I have imagined it as neglected, needing paint, new gutters, perhaps even falling apart, everything around it overgrown and gone to seed.”<br />
-Alice Adams, <i>Return Trips</i><br />
<br />
Monday night was a cool, rainy night, and that seemed fitting. I attended my great aunt Sachi’s funeral, where the pianist played her favourite song, <a href="http://kokomo.ca/pop_standards/heres_that_rainy_day_lyrics.htm">“Here’s That Rainy Day.”</a> I came home, exhausted from seeing everyone, made myself a cup of tea and stared at my bookshelf for a long time. I was thinking about her house as I remembered it from my youth: a fascinating, slightly decrepit, rambling house on Gladstone Avenue, with built-in bookshelves jam-packed with books, and more books in teetering piles on the dusty floor. Although most people probably remember Sachi for her paintings (she used to be a high school art teacher and had several striking watercolours she’d painted, hanging on her walls), I would always remember her first and foremost for her tastes in literature. She had been a huge influence on me during my teen years, introducing me to authors as diverse as <a href="http://www.murakami.ch/main_7.html">Haruki Murakami</a> and Alice Adams. In fact, as my eyes swept back and forth along my bookshelf, they settled on a book that had once belonged to Aunt Sachi. I would like to say that she gave it to me, but I’m pretty sure she lent it to me some two decades ago, and I’d conveniently forgotten to return it. And now I never would; tears filled my eyes. The book was<i> <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/1985/09/01/books/women-who-do-know-better.html?pagewanted=all">Return Trips</a></i>, a subtle, evocative collection of stories by <a href="http://www.salon.com/people/obit/1999/06/09/adams">Alice Adams</a>.<br />
<br />
I curled up on the sofa and began reading the title story and was surprised to discover that I remembered everything about it vividly. It is a story about the cryptic nature of memory and first passion. The narrator, a middle-aged history professor, looks back on her youthful love affair with a man named Paul, who was fatally ill with a heart condition, so that “Even love . . . was for Paul a form of torture, although we kept at it – for him suicidally, I guess – during those endless, sultry yellow afternoons, on our awful bed, between our harsh, coarse sheets.” While their affair appears luminous – the love of her life – compared to her troubled two marriages, she comes to realize that her continual desire to remember their affair is more about a desire to revisit a certain moment, or place, within herself. In the same way that she obsessively circles back in her memory to Paul, she indulges in imaginative returns to Hilton, the southern town where she lived for a short while during her adolescence and found a surprising, enchanting happiness that stands out in sharp contrast to her otherwise troubled youth. So much so that she often fantasizes about returning to their old house in Hilton and perhaps even staying there, leaving her husband for good. But when the narrator finally enacts her dream of going back, she finds that the house has lost its magical quality: far from being in a state of romantic decay, it has been modernized and retrofitted to house a bunch of transient students.<br />
<br />
These fantasies of return, however alluring, the book seems to suggest, are best kept as fantasies. Upon being probed too closely, the past yields nothing more than that it is no longer as you imagined.<br />
<br />
I found it strangely moving to read this story, while thinking about Aunt Sachi. You see, for the past few years, ever since I began writing again, I’ve been harbouring an almost obsessive wish to ask her about our family past. There were certain family secrets to which she’d alluded when I was a child, and I knew she was the one person who’d remained close to my grandfather right up to the time he died tragically, before I was born (I address some of this material in my memoir <a href="http://shimosreadinglist.blogspot.com/p/book.html"><i>The Reading List</i></a>, being published in the spring). And besides, Aunt Sachi must have known things about my great grandfather, her father, the illustrious <a href="http://www.ourroots.ca/f/page.aspx?id=901034">Dr. Kozo Shimotakahara</a>. After all, she’d lived with him at the internment camp in British Columbia, where he was the camp doctor during the Second World War; she had been <i>right there</i> at the scene that has for so long enticed my imagination. So I often pictured myself going over to her house for tea one afternoon, and perhaps slyly turning on a small digital recorder, while she would tell me everything that I yearned to know. <br />
<br />
But I never went to see her, because I knew that in reality things would not play out this way.<br />
<br />
My father had already tried to talk to her – confronting her about some of the demons in our family closet – and she had completely shut down. Her face blanched; she excused herself. It had taken them a few years to repair their relationship.<br />
<br />
Rereading<i> Return Trips</i> made me feel that I now understood why; the past is best confronted imaginatively and from a distance.<br />
<br />
Photo from: <a href="http://www.reverebooksonline.com/advSearchResults.php?action=search&mTitle=Everything+Signed&category_id=0&signed=on">here</a>Leslie Shimotakaharahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03876376938826990379noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6756491815304443142.post-24961248477873098512011-09-12T16:06:00.000-07:002011-09-12T16:06:03.052-07:00Book #55: My Book Delayed (& other things making me antsy...)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgI5smUprzBRYIb6QFvS0_et60Ot8P5_AnLxwX3ONtbjH8V9hqhLp57cq9b6gdcN4BFqwb7MX8D0zJhPl9ddrZXooIa2J9DMvxzgmbZ9b7WR0Jbr83s9O6BzFyJBpYRjt1gBuv446D4Mn21/s1600/girls_in_white_dresses_by_curlytops.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="223" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgI5smUprzBRYIb6QFvS0_et60Ot8P5_AnLxwX3ONtbjH8V9hqhLp57cq9b6gdcN4BFqwb7MX8D0zJhPl9ddrZXooIa2J9DMvxzgmbZ9b7WR0Jbr83s9O6BzFyJBpYRjt1gBuv446D4Mn21/s320/girls_in_white_dresses_by_curlytops.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
"It was October and Isabella felt like she should be going somewhere. Fall always did that to her. It made her restless, like she was late getting back to school; like she should be registering for classes, and buying pencils and notebooks and folders that matched."<br />
-Jennifer Close, <i>Girls in White Dresses</i><br />
<br />
Over the past week, three people have asked me when they'll be receiving invitations to my book launch. Sadly, I've had to tell them that it's now official: my book's publication is being delayed until the spring (February 2012). I won't bore you with the reasons for the delay - suffice it to say that my publisher promises my memoir <i>The Reading List: Literature, Love and Back Again</i> will be out this spring, which she sees as a better time to have the book launch anyway. I can't deny feeling a pang of disappointment when I first heard the news, followed by a whirlwind of anxiety (if publishing a book is a bit like giving birth, the thought of carrying this baby around for an extra few months is disconcerting, to say the least). But now that I've gotten used to the idea of a spring launch, I'm feeling better and, to be perfectly honest, I'm awash with something strangely akin to relief.<br />
<i> </i><br />
Very few people have read my book yet (my agent, my publisher, my boyfriend and the sweet authors who wrote endorsement blurbs - thanks Emma, Kerri and Micah!) and I suspect that when my book is out in the world, I'll go through a period of feeling awkward around everyone, even those people who have no interest in reading, much less any interest in my book. But knowing myself, that's how I'll probably feel. So there's a part of me that relishes the idea of a few more months of mental peace, allowing me to just immerse myself in writing my next book.<br />
<br />
In any case, I've been soothing my frazzled nerves by reading something on the lighter side. I just finished <i><a href="http://arts.nationalpost.com/2011/08/23/jennifer-close/">Girls in White Dresses</a>, </i><a href="http://www.randomhouse.ca/author/results.pperl?authorid=130826">Jennifer Close's</a> delightful, humorous debut collection of linked stories. It's hard to pinpoint what I liked so much about this book, but I have to say it captures a certain mood very well and allowed me to see versions of my earlier selves. These stories focus on the interlocking lives of a group of friends who move to New York in their early twenties, after graduating from university, but instead of realizing their dreams, they embark on a decade of just kind of stumbling through life, mired in anxiety and self-doubts, while drowning in late-night martinis. Isabella, the main character, is "surprised to find that she could do her job in a constantly hungover state," unsure whether to be grateful or to take it as a sign of being understimulated in her entry level position at a mailing list company. Startled by her friend Mary's ability to come up with a "life plan" and apply to law school, Isabella takes the scenic route in searching for her dream job and dream guy - always feeling as if she's somehow falling behind, late at doing everything, like getting married and having kids, envying her friends who seem so much more on track. But as the author skillfully reveals, these friends who seem on track are actually besieged by other pressures, the fissures all too visible in their seemingly perfect lives.<br />
<br />
Ironically, when Isabella finally does come up with a life plan, and claws her way up in the publishing industry, she finds that industry unravelling at her feet. And worse yet, her boyfriend Harrison - whom she worries she's been dating too long to end up with - is forced to take a job in Boston, presenting Isabella with the dilemma of whether to leave her beloved New York and go with him. Life in this book is full of these kinks. In the end, coming up with a "life plan" appears highly overrated; far better to just try to adapt to whatever unexpected turns life throws your way, and wash it down with something strong. Which is what I'm trying to do (with varying degrees of success) by not over-stressing about my book delay.... <br />
<br />
Photo from: <a href="http://curlytops.deviantart.com/art/girls-in-white-dresses-103544263?moodonly=1">here</a> Leslie Shimotakaharahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03876376938826990379noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6756491815304443142.post-16893946602212904452011-09-05T15:49:00.000-07:002011-09-05T15:53:07.186-07:00A Writer's Death<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqmSyaHbB9BaCOrceGm-LGlRNCRw5q8hvUWbY0PbEhMX0fMh1vzktLNX-_VmHh7V7pVLwIG8wR_LHPzw-ylfr8OwmB8-PogTMtfjVHMGPqQXDruoYUtUrrFteqEsobSomdAzW8jjlGSILT/s1600/babcock.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqmSyaHbB9BaCOrceGm-LGlRNCRw5q8hvUWbY0PbEhMX0fMh1vzktLNX-_VmHh7V7pVLwIG8wR_LHPzw-ylfr8OwmB8-PogTMtfjVHMGPqQXDruoYUtUrrFteqEsobSomdAzW8jjlGSILT/s200/babcock.jpeg" width="116" /></a></div>Feeling a bit melancholy this Labour Day weekend. The weekend got off to a sad start, when I had drinks with some of the other writers in my writing circle at a pub in the queer village. Normally, when I see them it's to workshop our writing or clink glasses at a book launch. But this time, we were having drinks because one of the writers in our group recently died in what appears to have been suicide. <br />
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<a href="http://www.xtra.ca/public/Toronto/Wendy_Babcock_found_dead-10619.aspx">Wendy</a> was a fascinating woman - warm, funny, anxious, vulnerable, fragile. I recall her sexy librarian glasses and dimpled smile and insistence that she "wasn't a writer," even though we all insisted her writing was improving greatly; she was well on her way to finding her voice. But what made Wendy particularly fascinating was that despite her fairly normal exterior, she came from a troubled past, to say the least: she'd been a child sex worker. And she talked very openly about it. After escaping an abusive home, she aged out of the foster care system and found herself on the street working as a sex worker (Wendy was always careful to use the word "sex worker," rather than "prostitute" - she'd made a career for herself as an activist working to advocate for sex worker protection and child protection, and was even pursuing her law degree at Osgoode, when she died).<br />
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The memoir that she was working on chronicled parts of her painful past, which, however turbulent, she captured with a good shot of humour. I recall her reading aloud scenes of sex and violence that made my own life feel incredibly tame (one scene involved a hermaphrodite), yet the overriding feeling that came through in her writing, I would say, was a sense of horrible loneliness and searching. Here was a woman who desperately wanted to be loved - because she'd never felt loved - and that made her susceptible to being exploited by a certain man, who occupied a central part of her memoir.<br />
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Yet it seemed to all of us that Wendy was at a really positive place in her life, despite the fact that she'd missed the past few workshops, and maybe been languishing in depression. I was stunned by the news of her death.<br />
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One of the writers draped a bright pink feather boa over the chair at the head of the table, and we toasted to Wendy's life.<br />
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Although her memoir will probably never be shared with the world, I'm glad she wrote what she did. Her words will stay with me.<br />
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Photo from: <a href="http://www.thestar.com/news/article/1037824--prostitute-turned-osgoode-law-student-found-dead">here</a>Leslie Shimotakaharahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03876376938826990379noreply@blogger.com2