Friday, October 31, 2014

In Pain We Write

Happy Halloween.

This post was inspired by a devotion by Charles Swindoll on October 18, 2014, called Writing With Thorns.

We've all known pain, all known grief, to one extent or another. Some of the most enduring art, be it picture or words, is born from sorrow.

C.S. Lewis wrote so poignantly in A Grief Observed regarding the loss of his wife:
No one ever told me that grief felt so like fear. I am not afraid, but the sensation is like being afraid. The same fluttering in the stomach, the same restlessness, the yawning . . . . Her absence is like the sky, spread out over everything.

Ada Campbell Rose, author and editor, wrote:
The mantle of grief falls on every hour of the day and covers me while I sleep. Will it ever go away?

And George Matheson, Scottish minister and hymn writer, wrote:

Show me that my tears have made my rainbow.

Lord, I wish I'd written that.

Lord, I wish I could grasp the truth of it.

But I feel my tears -- so ever present these days -- are nothing more than a release for the pain, regret, dashed hopes, anxiety, sorrow, and all I carry inside. I'm thankful, so thankful. for that release, because, as it is written in The Color of Sorrow Isn't Blue:
". . . there are so many [tears] inside I slosh when I walk."

But do I see them as my rainbow-maker? Never. Not once.

The six of us here have all written from our pain. I know many of you have too. We draw from the well of affliction, and amazingly we throw the light of hope and of humor on situations that seem so hopeless, so humorless. We, like you, do it as therapy for ourselves and encouragement for those who read our words.

So, I don't know, maybe I should reconsider my tears, maybe I should look for the rainbow. I just might see

What? What have you learned, shared, written in that dark night of the soul?

Wednesday, October 29, 2014


I spent the last two days tromping through nature with my daughter and a classroom of children. Their teacher informed me that 3/4 of the children hadn't--ever--been camping before, and most hadn't spent anytime outside of the city.

The teachers and staff at the camp facility lauded the children for their respect of the land, how they were quiet and careful hikers. I, too, was glad for the children's good behaviour. About halfway through our time, though, I realized that at least a portion of it could be chalked up to the newness of it all.

Of course they didn't stray from the groomed paths. They'd never walked on one before. Of course they were quiet when they were told to be. They had no idea what they were listening for and needed minute by minute instruction.

I began to hope they wouldn't always act this way. I don't want them marching over protected species and bulldozing through native prairie, but I hope that the newness wears off for them and they can begin to take joy in the unnatural setting of nature. Not the blasé of I've already seen the muskrat, why are you calling me back to look at it again? But the take-root exuberance of knowing a place so well you can relax enough to enjoy it.

I didn't want the kids to act up, but to act out.

Act out of the expectations of a school system that commends you for parroting back the right answer. Act out of character and be curious about a thin trail that leads to parts unknown. Act out bravery and walk alone in the dark, listening for clues, not about how safe, how close to civilization they are, but for how wild, how still connected they are to a lost eden.

Experience is the only way to learn which rules you can bend, and which should--must--break. Not because you can, but because you know the land intimately and you can hear its heart cry and are powerless to do anything but respond.

Monday, October 27, 2014

Interview with Susan Fish

Susan Fish, author of the new novel Ithaca 

Every once in awhile, Novel Matters will highlight a writer we enjoy. Susan Fish is one of those writers. She's penned a lovely, moving novel called Ithaca that hit shelves in early October. We think you'll want to get your hands on this book. Spend some time today getting to know this writer.

Susan Fish is a writer and editor who lives in Waterloo, Ontario, Canada.  She’s a mother of three and wife of one. She also has an energetic dog although she is a cat person. The author of two published novels, she operates Storywell, an editing company that helps clients tell their stories well. She does not like sweating.

Novel Matters: Susan, welcome to Novel Matters! Tell us about your latest novel, Ithaca.

Susan Fish: For 39 years, Daisy Turner has been a professor’s wife, typing his notes and helping out. The centrepiece of her life is a weekly community dinner she hosts—one that always features soup.  The sudden death of her husband leaves her unmoored. Then, suddenly, Daisy finds herself entangled with a man whose wife is disabled, mothering a young activist-farmer, and swept into the controversy about fracking that has begun to concern their small Ivy League town. Ithaca explores what happens when a quiet, almost sedimentary life meets the high-pressure forces of a small town. How do you rebuild after life as you know it is suddenly turned upside down—or is fracked?

NM: Fracking. Uh. . . help us out here.

SF: Fracking or hydraulic fracturing is a new method for drilling for natural gas and oil. Rather than digging a well and getting a gusher (à la Beverly Hillbillies), fracking involves an intense injection of water, sand and chemicals into shale rock in such a way that the rock gets fractured and then all the tiny deposits of natural gas that were trapped between layers of rock are sucked out.

NM: Oh, that sounds simple and clean, and couldn’t possibly have any adverse effects on the environment. I’ve read the novel, Susan, and I know this isn’t an “issues” novel—

SF: Whew. That was obviously my hope, too. I didn’t want this to be an afterschool special type of book.

NM: And it totally isn’t! If I were pressed to classify the story, I’d say it’s a literary novel examining complex relationships between people, roles, and expectations about life. Two thumbs up for avoiding the soapbox! In fact, you don’t serve up easy answers about any of the issues you tackle in Ithaca. Still, the idea came from somewhere, what was the inspiration?

SF: I visited Ithaca, New York in the summer of 2011 and saw all sorts of signs up that said “No Fracking.” I had no idea what fracking was, and it was months later that I looked the word up.

NM: A summer trip to NY, and signs about fracking. How did that meld into story form for you?

SF: When I found out about fracking, I was already in the early stages of a novel about two older women who lived together, creating a sort of family. I knew that one was widowed and the other was recently retired. When I started thinking about fracking, it felt like in many ways fracking paralleled my characters’ experiences—their lives had been suddenly and potentially dangerously been fractured from all that had been settled and good.

NM: I think many people can relate to that. To having something happen in their life that breaks apart the solid foundation.

SF: I think because fracking became a metaphor for sudden loss and change, balancing the story with the issues of fracking came easily.

NM: Oh, please don’t tell me writing for you is easy! Pretty please! Tell me there were hard parts about writing this lovely novel.

SF: Oh, don’t worry. There were hard parts. What I found most challenging with this book was figuring out how my character would respond to the issue in a way that was true to who she was. I spent a lot of time with index cards figuring out the process.

NM: Your main character goes through a kind of growing up—maturing—even though she’s past middle aged. Was she one of those characters that arrive in the writer’s mind fully formed, or did she come at you in bits and pieces?

SF: I knew a lot about Daisy very early on and her voice was really clear to me. I knew that she hosted a weekly soup supper and that her husband had died suddenly. I knew that she had collections. It took me quite a while to settle on a name for her. A lot of this story came to me while walking my dog around our neighbourhood in the early evenings of autumn 2011. People had their lights on but had left their curtains open, and so I could see the stuff of people’s lives, the small domestic dramas being lived out faithfully.

NM: Yes! Novel writing via Peeping Tommery! Awesome!

SF: OK, no need to panic—I didn’t stop and watch, but it was hard not to be drawn to the scenes, as if they were small tableaux. I started imagining a woman whose house was filled with stuff that told her story, but whose life had been fractured. I should also say that I once knew a woman whose professor husband did die of a massive heart attack in a faculty meeting, but I don’t know how her story went, so it was not based on more than the facts.

NM: You and I have talked about this, Susan, and I’m dying to know what you decided: who would you want to play Daisy in the movie version?

SF: Oh, that’s a tough one. At first I thought Annette Bening and then Blythe Danner or Emma Thompson. I’m still not sure. Someone shortish and blonde and middle aged and able to be quiet, but with passion at the core. I’d love to hear who others see as Daisy.

NM: You took some risks: the novel is introspective, the main character is 58 years old, the whole issue/story balancing act. What drove you to create the novel this way?

SF: On September 11, 2001, my eldest child started kindergarten and the world blew up. That afternoon, I took my kids to a local farmers’ market and we bought corn—and then when the kids were asleep, we devoured the news of what was going on, and we shook. My actions were really deliberate because I did not want my kids to be shaped by fear. Someone later told me that this was a political act, as much as anything else I could have done. I believe in small actions making a difference, and I love reading and telling small, intimate, human stories. I really like that Daisy is a bit older and ordinary—because I think it challenges all of us as readers to see ourselves and our lives as stories, and to ask why we make the choices we do, and how we might think differently about our lives.

NM: Thinking about our lives. Let’s talk a bit about your life. How did you get sucked into the writing game?

SF: It got me early! There are two key points that mark the start of my writing history. The first was when I was in grade three and wrote a Christmas themed story about two sisters named Charlotte and Holly. My teacher liked it so much she had me write it out on Gestetner paper and illustrate it (this latter was a bad idea) and made copies for the school library.

NM: I know what Gestetner paper is, and I’m taking a moment to celebrate this fact. Woo Hoo! Okay. I’m good. What was the second point?

SF: Do you remember what the ink smelled like? I do! The second pivotal point came when I was working for Inter-Varsity Christian Fellowship and I realized that one of my favourite parts of my job was writing letters to my supporters. No one else liked doing that. It led me to apply for work where my job was to tell stories.

NM: And you like stories that include food! Soup plays an important role in Ithaca. Here at Novel Matters, we love so many novels that include recipes as part of the story. The School of Essential Ingredients by Erica Bauermeister, and Jan Karon’s Mitford Series come to mind – though Jan Karon published a complete recipe book with recipes mentioned in the series. Do you plan to include your soup recipes in the novel? Or would you consider a supplemental recipe book to go with Ithaca?

SF: I so enjoyed The School of Essential Ingredients and all Jan Karon’s books! Yum! After I finished writing this book, I decided I really should develop recipes to correspond with the chapter titles (all of which are indeed soup names). My poor family ate a lot of soup last year. I decided not to include the recipes in the book but I am releasing a recipe a week on my blog ( this fall.

NM: Can you share one of your favourite soup recipes with us?

SF: One of my favourites is the soup Daisy serves at Thanksgiving, which is Three Sisters Soup, based on the First Nations practice of growing beans, squash and corn together. Here’s the recipe for this soup:

Three Sisters Soup
In 1 Tbsp olive oil, sauté 1 stalk celery, chopped, 4 cloves garlic 1 onion, chopped, 1 tsp thyme. Add 2 cups cooked pumpkin or winter squash, 2 cups corn (2 cobs), 1 cup black beans, cooked (or other legume), 4 cups vegetable stock. Bring to a boil, reduce heat and let simmer. Add a dash of Sriracha sauce (or other hot sauce) and a splash of lime juice, salt and pepper.

NM: Along with homey soup, beekeeping is also part of the storyline of Ithaca. Seriously! Bees and honey. It felt so easy and natural to the story, that it makes me wonder if you knew lots about beekeeping prior to writing the novel, or did that require research?

SF: I spent an afternoon at a retreat talking with a beekeeper about beekeeping a few years ago. Bees are utterly fascinating to me. The small community where we have spent summers (on Quebec’s Gaspe peninsula) is home to an amazing beekeeping family who sell delicious varieties of honey. I think that played an influential role too. Beyond that, I did some Googling of bee facts. My favourite bee fact is that bees only live six weeks and so they never actually consume the honey they participate in making—they eat what others have made, and leave honey behind for those who come afterwards. That seems profound.

NM: Love it. I’ll be thinking about bees all day now. We know you run an editing business, tell us about your writing schedule.

SF: I write every day and a lot but a lot of that is for my editing company or for clients. It’s easy for fiction to get shoved to the side. I decided I was going to prioritize fiction writing on Fridays, which I call Fiction First Friday. I don’t think I have a preferred time to write, or at least, I don’t necessarily have that luxury. I’m no good for anything right after lunch, but other than that, I feel like the show must go on. Planning to write fiction on Fridays, though, means that I’m ready to sit down and write when Friday comes around.

NM: With all that going on, how long did it take you to write Ithaca?

SF: It took me about a year and a half in total to write Ithaca. Toward the end of the writing process, it was winter and my paid work was slow and I wrote and wrote and wrote this book pretty much every day.

NM: After reading Ithaca, readers are going to want a new novel from you as soon as possible. What are you working on now?

SF: I actually have two other unpublished novels so maybe those will be next. I’m about to embark on writing a cookbook about our local farmers’ market. I’m also slowly working on a novel about a fascinating woman who built a castle in the 1920s.

NM: Susan, thanks for stopping by, thanks for sharing, and thanks for writing such a smart, homely, lovely novel. How do we get a copy of Ithaca?

SF: Thanks so much for having me! Ithaca is available in all the usual places—the links are below. It can also be available in your local bookstore: all they need to know is the title and my name, and they can order it in.

Grab a copy of Ithaca online at one of these links:

Friday, October 24, 2014

Jesus In the Details

I play it over and over again, this particular segment of Searching for Sugarman.

For background, it's a true story about a folk-singer, contemporary of Bob Dylan - whose star fell as fast as Dylan's rose.

In this country.

In South Africa, it was a very different story, but for decades, he had no idea. In that country, he was off-the-charts huge. He could have been wealthy, but he didn't know.

Yes, watch the film.

But before you do, for the sake of this post, watch the segment from 49.31 to 50.47, and listen to what he says.

Would his life have been better? He doesn't know. How to respond?

"Nothing beats reality."

I remember a time when I both hoped and feared my life would change, and I found myself clinging for dear life to the ordinary. I took extravagant comfort in the morning ritual of filling the coffee pot with water, pouring it in the reservoir, scooping out three heaping spoons of coffee - and a fourth if they didn't heap tall enough.

The coldness of the water. The smell when I opened the bag.

I can think of moments that have made me think with gratitude of the tedium and even the pain of the past. I once read a book where the main character, in her time of crisis was asked by a wise person, "Where is Jesus right now?" I have read that I can never find Him anywhere but in this moment, in this place - in reality.  My experience seems to bear that out.

Whatever that reality is. "The mind is its own place, and in itself can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven..." Milton was right. It all depends on...

Wednesday, October 22, 2014

That Look

My son is taking a literature class - The Filmed Novel - that sounds like a hoot.  They read an assigned novel, discuss it and watch the movie together.  So far they've read The Maltese Falcon, High Fidelity and True Grit.  It's been interesting to hear his take on how closely the movies follow the books. He has definite opinions about the movies made of some of his favorites.  I have to agree with him on the Harry Potter finale being anticlimactic but I am totally satisfied with the treatment of The Hobbit.  I like to think that Tolkien would be, too.

Why didn't they have classes like that when I was in college?

This may border on heresy for some, but in my opinion the book is not always better than the movie. Here is my list:
  • The African Queen - My edition of this book ends poorly. The odd couple who fought together for something that mattered and found love in the film do not accomplish their goal in the book and simply...separate.  What a downer.  We need heroes and hope.
  • The Painted Veil - Again, the movie ending was more satisfying.
  • The Ghost and Mrs. Muir - the book was a snoozer. The script writers got it right.
  • Remains of the Day 
  • Chocolat
  • The Accidental Tourist
  • Out of Africa
Some of my preferences must be attributed to the great performances of talented actors and actresses who breathed life into two-dimensional characters. Other preferences were in regard to story. 

This is my partial list.  I wonder if you would add

Monday, October 20, 2014

The strengths in Weakness

Malcolm Gladwell recently published a book called David and Goliath: Underdogs, Misfits, and the Art of Battling Giants. In it, he explores the ways that people who might be thought of as underdogs (think the shepherd boy confronting the giant) who succeed not in spite of their perceived weaknesses—but rather because of those weaknesses. In the biblical David’s case, says Gladwell, the younger and smaller young man felled the man as big as a tree precisely because David refused to fight the way Goliath wanted him to.

Later in his book, Gladwell showed how the repeated “rejection slips” received by the impressionists Edgar Degas, Paul Cézanne, Claude Monet, Pierre August-Renoir, and Camille Pissaro. They were constantly excluded from the great marketplace of the art of their time, the Salon.

They, too, decided to pull a surprise attack and rented their own gallery—where they were “discovered” by an adoring public that made their iconoclastic art famous.

Gladwell also relates how some of the most successful people in business, music, and other careers succeed as dyslexics who had to overcome their obstacles and turn them into strengths.

Gladwell, while looking deeply into a biblical story and later into Paul’s thorn in the flesh, sees only the weaknesses and how strong-minded people turned strengths into weaknesses. A Christian, of course, would see human will and persistence as only part of the solution. The sovereignty of God, who delights in using the weak and powerless so that He can demonstrate His power, is the key.

Nonetheless, I’ve been thinking about those Impressionists. What is the novelist’s equivalent of the Salon? What would a group of novelists do today in a correlative situation? And the will of God. . . 

Friday, October 17, 2014

Too Many Showers and Not Enough Writing

While in the shower I realized my hero committed to jogging daily with her friend, and she never breaks a sweat again in the story. Note to self: Revise jogging scene. Maybe the two girls could go to the bar and tip back some tequila shooters. 

Scratch that. 

Readers will kill me on Amazon. 

Better idea: Have hero come back from the run only to throw up on her friend's shoes. Hence, no more jogging invitations. Besides, jogging is so passe. 

Wait! There are Segways! Modern. Intriguing. No sweating. No throwing up. No struggle. No Segways. 


But jogging is a chestnut, no doubt about it. Let's see, the two characters have talked in quite a few situations: over coffee, at a restaurant, while drinking wine, and they've even done some crying in a closet. 

What's left? 

I'm feeling a little sweaty. My heart is bruising my ribs. I have a potassium tablet stuck in my throat. 
Could this be writer's block? 

Is this what happens when one idea is so married to my brain that only a divorce decree can free me?

But I don't believe in writer's block. I'm going to sit here until my characters find something else to do under my brilliant dialogue that represents and precipitates change.

Possible ideas:

1. Dance the polka? (The band is too loud for meaningful dialogue.)

2. Shop for flip flops? (Really? Flip flops are an impulse buy.)

3. Make clover chains in a meadow? (No meadows, sorry.)

4. Trim each other's bangs? (Real friends would never.)

5. Fish from a pier? (Ew.)

6. Paint a room? (The fumes!)

But something has to happen outside of the character's head to bring an outer and inner change. Yes, the dialogue does that, but in the original scene my hero's lack of physicality makes her more open to romance with a man she considers "older."

I'm heading back to the shower. Where else?

Writer's block is a convenient excuse for an art that is incredibly...

Incredibly what? Do you believe in writer's block? How do you combat the beast?