Music and Musicians

I remember watching my dad and a friend haul the piano up the steps into our home. We had bought it from friends who were moving. It was a small “apartment” size upright, brown wood, nothing fancy. For years, it sat in our house, occasionally plunked by my brothers or I or visiting guests, dusted once a week, otherwise unused.

Finally, when I was twelve, Dad decided that since we had a piano, someone should be playing it. My brothers and I stared lessons with our church pianist. She lived half an hour away, so we’d all drive out there, and two of us would play or read while the third had the half-hour lesson. The next year, a local farmer married a piano teacher and moved into a house just down the road from us, and so we started walking to our lessons.

Several years passed as we plunked away at the old piano. Mom had to remind us to practice. Dad said that when we passed our Grade 1 piano, we could either quit playing, switch instruments, or keep going. My brothers quit playing. I decided that since I’d gotten that far, I’d keep going. But I also wanted to learn violin, an instrument that I’d loved for years. So when I was fourteen or fifteen, I bought myself a violin with my babysitting money and began lessons with another neighbour.

At eighteen, I quit playing when I started university. Dad told tales of how hard university was, so I wasn’t sure that I would be able to keep up my music lessons. In my third year, I tried to take piano lessons again, but found that because I could only practice a couple days a week (I’d managed to arrange my schedule so that all my classes were MWF), I wasn’t doing very well. The lessons weren’t worth it. Once again, I quit.

I picked up my violin once a year, for our church Christmas Eve service. That began the year that we had no organist, and several of us decided that we could make music together. We had so much fun the first year we kept it up for the next several years, even when we had an organist. It was a strange combination—violin, flute, tenor sax, and organ, but it worked. I found the Christmas carols easier to learn because I knew the tunes.

When we moved here, I dug out my violin once again. The church is small and they were happy to have an addition to their choir. But I was rusty. I needed a week or two to learn the songs, and the pianist didn’t often plan songs that far in advance. Once again, my violin went out of tune. However, people knew I played, particularly one older gentleman who kept asking me when I’d get my fiddle out.

Last weekend, we were over at their place for dinner again. I haven’t played my violin since shortly after we moved here. He soon had the violin and some music out, getting me to play a piece that he was trying to learn by ear because he doesn’t read notes. I stumbled through it a few times. It was a pretty waltz. When I moved the put the violin away, he protested, saying he liked listening to me play.

I’ve been in awe of his talent, for he plays by ear and plays multiple instruments—accordion, mandolin, violin, and lately, banjo. He loves music and often plays for local jamborees here. Yet he’s a student, too, willing to try and practice and keep learning. And so, even though I stumbled through the piece, it was music to his ears, and I was a fellow musician whom he could discuss music with. It made me want to go home, get out my violin and my music stand, and get to work.

Blog Tag Photo

Steena over at Chocolate Reality tagged me in blog tag, so here's my photo:


This picture is from April 2005, on the last day of classes for our third year of university. All five of us met in our first year (2002), though none of us can quite remember how that happened. I do remember meeting B (on the left) in chapel and chatting with her; she says she talked with me then because we'd been in the same student orientation group a few days earlier. C (third from the left) was in my first-year religion class, and walked up to me one day when I was eating lunch by myself (because I was too shy to talk to anyone else) and asked me about the religion assignment we'd been given (yes, in the first week of class!). And somehow those two (or K, with us but not in this picture) introduced me to S (second from the left) and D (on the right).

By the time of this picture, these four had all transferred to other universities, and only K and I were left at the place we all started. We all got together back there for an end-of-the-year bash, and went for a walk in the river valley, where I took this picture. K and I had started going for a walk there three days a week in our second year of classes; it was a great stress-break in the middle of the day. She got me through some very stressful times just by being there to listen during those walks.

I like this picture because we look so happy and carefree—and glamourous. Hey, it was university, and all we had to worry about was our final exams and summer jobs. Now we're scattered around the province, but still get together when we can—and sometimes, we go back to this river-valley path to relive the memories we've shared there.

Now I'm tagging Loren, Karrie, Jen, and Nat.

The rules are:
1) Go to your photo files… Select the 6th photo folder or album.
2) Select the 6th photo in that folder/album.
3) Post that photo along with the story behind it.
4) Then challenge some blog friends to do the same!

Book Review: The Vanishing Sculptor

When I picked up The Vanishing Sculptor by Donita K. Paul, I was expecting an action-packed fantasy novel. Something like Outriders by Kathryn Mackel or the Pern series by Anne McCaffrey. Instead, The Vanishing Sculptor started slowly, with Tipper selling her father’s statues while her guardian, a giant parrot named Beccaroon, looked on disapprovingly. I kept waiting for the danger to hit and the action to start, but it didn’t happen.

As I got further into the novel, though, I began to appreciate Donita K. Paul’s style. The novel is the story of a quest, almost like a Pilgrim’s Progress or a parable. Paul carries us through her fantasy land with light, brief descriptions, focusing more on the characters and their interactions with each other. She has a gift for creating unique, humorous characters, from the wizard Fenworth who is always shaking lizards and leaves from his cloak to the Lady Peg whose scatter-brained comments somehow make more sense than the logical speech of other characters.

Tipper’s father, Verrin Schope, is a famous artist who has been gone for the past fifteen years. Lady Peg is absentminded at best, so running the family estate falls to Tipper. As their fortunes fall, she begins selling pieces of her father’s art to make ends meet. The problem is that three of Verrin’s statues were carved from the same piece of marble—and that piece of marble is the foundation for a gateway between their world and another world.

The quest begins when Verrin Schope returns with two new friends, Wizard Fenworth and his librarian Librettowit. Because the three statues are scattered around the country, the gateway’s foundations are wobbly and Verrin keeps getting pulled back and forth between the two worlds. To fix the problem, they must find all three statues and put them together again. With the help of Bealomondore, an aspiring artist who has long admired Verrin’s work and has connections to the last known owners of the statues, Tipper, Verrin, Beccaroon, Fenworth and Librettowit set off on their quest.

The questing party travel first to the mountains to find riding dragons to speed their quest. Along with four of his dragons, Prince Jayrus, the dragonkeeper, joins their quest. As they visit each of the art collectors who owns the statues, they encounter various reactions—and finally some action. Prince Jayrus must use his sword, kidnapped party members must be rescued, and all the healing dragons’ power is needed to keep Verrin in one piece as they search for the statues.

In the end, I enjoyed The Vanishing Sculptor, especially the author’s unique way of storytelling. Donita K. Paul brings a fresh voice to the world of fantasy. Many of her readers will already be familiar with the setting of the novel from the DragonKeeper Chronicles. When my reading list gets a bit shorter, I’ll have to go searching for those books.


Chance to WIN!!! Leave a comment telling me about your favourite fantasy novel for your chance to win a copy of The Vanishing Sculptor. I'll draw one lucky name next week Wednesday.

This book was provided for review courtesty of the publisher or publicist.

Great Writers Are Made

There seems to be a perception that great writers are born, not made. We picture our favourite author sitting at the computer—or at their desk, if they come from an earlier era—effortlessly transferring brilliant sentences and paragraphs from their mind to the screen or page. Their editor or publisher stands by, hanging on every word, eager to present it to the thousands of adoring fans who can’t wait to read it.

For those of us who are aspiring writers, it’s a depressing picture. We stare at our own messy prose and wonder why we think we can call ourselves “writers.” We see the rejection letters that pile up in our inboxes—if we manage to muster the courage to submit our stumbling prose to an editor’s harsh eye—and think that we’re utter failures who should really just give up, because we won’t ever be like ______ (insert your favourite author’s name).

But then we hear stories of writers who received rejection letters, took the suggestions to heart, kept working and learning and polishing, and finally, became published, best-selling authors. Authors who were clearly made, not born. And we think that maybe there’s hope for us too.

One author who inspires me in such a way is Lisa Samson. I’ve read only her first book and her most recent book. And the difference between those two is astounding. She’s clearly a writer who has worked hard at her craft. One who proves that you can learn how to write. She’ll admit that words don’t come easily to her, that she’d rather do almost anything else than write—and yet, she writes. She does the hard work to produce books that reach her readers.

So on the days you don’t want to write because you think your work will never be like _____’s, or the days when your writing seems to drag, think of that story you’ve heard about the writer (and I know you’ve heard the stories like I have) who got hundreds of rejections or the author who kept learning and improving. Maybe you have a few to share with us here, to inspire us to keep writing as you keep writing.

Returning to Charlotte Small

One thing I’ve been trying to learn about is the circumstances surrounding Charlotte’s and David’s marriage. Most marriages among the Indians were arranged by the parents or close relations. Van Kirk notes that “fur-trade observers thought there was a curious lack of romantic involvement between Indian husbands and wives. Individual romantic inclination was not the operative factor in choosing a marriage partner.” Charlotte thus probably expected to have an arranged marriage. But since her father was gone, who arranged her marriage?

I’ve returned to researching David Thompson’s wife, Charlotte Small. One of the books in my reading pile is Many Tender Ties: Women in Fur Trade Society, 1670-1870 by Sylvia van Kirk. Although van Kirk mentions Charlotte a few times, they are brief references that don’t tell me much more about her than I already knew. What the book does provide is an overview of the era and circumstances Charlotte lived in.

Many fur trade marriages were also temporary, ending when the fur traders returned to either England or Canada. That seemed to follow the custom of the country, as “Most Indian tribes did not hold the marriage bond to be indissoluble” (van Kirk).

Of particular interest to me was David Thompson’s observation that “if ‘they cannot live peaceably together, they separate with as little ceremony as they came together, and both parties are free to attach themselves to whom they will, without any stain on their character.’” Since both Charlotte and David were aware of the custom of divorce or separation, it makes it even more remarkable that they stayed together for their whole lives.

I also wondered why Charlotte accompanied David on some of his voyages, but not on others. At times, it was obvious that pregnancy gave her ample reason not to embark on a strenuous expedition. Other times, no reason was given. Van Kirk explains that many times, the canoes were loaded so heavily that there was no room for wives or children. The fur traders’ families were thus often left behind at the forts until the men returned. Thus it seems that when it was possible, David took his family with him, but when that was not possible, he arranged for them to stay at a fort, often with Charlotte’s sister’s family.

I’ve got a lot more research to do, but some pieces of the puzzle of Charlotte Small are beginning to fall into place. What I read just makes me more interested in this incredible woman and her story.

Summer with a Jeep

The summer after I finished university, I worked a research job. After work, I’d put my hair in a pony tail, roll down both windows in my truck, crank up the volume of my favourite country radio station, and push the speed limit just a little bit. I’d pretend that I was driving a Jeep with the top down.

The real thing is way better.

For his birthday in April, my husband switched the hard top on the Jeep for the soft top. I thought it was perhaps a bit early to do so—the weather had scarcely warmed up here—but he was gung-ho about it. A few weeks later, we tried going for a drive with the top down. We liked it. Sunshine didn’t. The top went back up.

This weekend, it was hot and sunny, so we took the top off again. I put Sunshine’s hat and sunglasses on, tucked a blanket around her, and sat in the back with her. She smiled at me through blue glasses and seemed not to care that there wasn’t a window beside her. The wind whipped my pony tail about my face. I stuck my arm out to wave a friends of ours at a red light.

As we sped home that afternoon over a gravel road, the wind in our faces and a cloud of dust behind us, green fields spreading out around us and the sun shining on our heads, I thought, “This is freedom.” It didn’t matter right then that we don’t know what this summer—or next year—holds for us. We had a Jeep and everything was grand.

Then yesterday, somebody slashed a hole in our soft top. It was sitting right in our driveway, in the middle of the afternoon. My husband was on the phone, and Sunshine and I had gone to get the mail. None of our neighbours saw it happen. Likely, it was a kid at the school where my husband teaches, because they know where he lives and our bright green Jeep does stand out just a little bit.

So once again, we’re filing a police report for vehicle vandalism. We lived on the edge of a bad area of the city for one and a half years, with hookers on the corner and bums in the alley, and never had a problem. Then we move to a small town and get vandalized twice in two months. Our welcome to town was a smashed window; our goodbye to town is a slashed window.

Book Review: The Passion of Mary-Margaret

Publishers Weekly review of Lisa Samson’s novel The Passion of Mary-Margaret said, “A talented novelist who isn’t afraid to take risks.” They got that right. At one time, certain topics were “taboo” in Christian fiction. Either that’s changed or Lisa has broken all the taboos. The Passion of Mary-Margaret delves into abuse, prostitution, STIs, out-of-wedlock pregnancies, Catholicism, and drug use, among other things. It’s a book that makes you think and think hard.

Mary-Margaret is the only daughter of a woman who, just before she took her final vows as a religious sister, was raped by a seminarian. Because her mother died at her birth and was unable to follow her dream, Mary-Margaret’s only desire is to become a religious sister. She’s raised by religious sisters on Locust Island, studies at the convent school and, like her mother, is about to take her final vows when Jesus makes a strange request of her.

Jude Keller is Mary-Margaret’s childhood friend—a handsome, troubled boy who runs away from the island and searched for fulfillment in drugs and sex. He keeps coming back to Mary-Margaret and the attraction they feel for each other—one so dirty, the other so pure. Their lives revolved around the lighthouse; a beautiful, attractive thing to Mary-Margaret, a dark, terrifying thing to Jude.

Slowly, as Mary-Margaret writes down her memories of her past and works through the events of the present, the story unravels. Just when you’re about to find something out, Mary-Margaret’s reminiscing gets interrupted—or she moves from the present back to the past. Yet in this circular fashion, everything is revealed at just the right time. Nothing is as it seems on the surface in the novel, and the ending was both surprising and delighting.

I love Mary-Margaret’s conversations with Jesus, the way He pops up unexpectedly and is so human and yet also so divine and mysterious. He demonstrated how God knows everything and works in our lives for our good, yet He only tells us what we need to know when we need to know it. Mary-Margaret’s trust was inspiring, yet at the same time, she faced doubts too, like anyone else.

The only thing I found unnecessary in the book was the epilogue, written by one of Mary-Margaret’s friends. To me, it detracted from the power of Mary-Margaret’s words and added nothing to the story that we didn’t really already know.

As I mentioned in Monday’s post, The Passion of Mary-Margaret makes me want to write, to put words together with the beauty that Lisa does, to touch readers the way this book has and will. And I find hope in the way that Lisa has grown and learned as a writer. When I first heard that she was to be the keynote speaker at Spring WorDshop, I went looking for one of her books in our local library. They just happened to have the very first book that she ever wrote.

When I told Lisa that I read her first book, she was embarrassed. She admitted it’s not a great book. (I can only be grateful that my first efforts at being an author aren’t published as hers are!) At the same time, I find it a great encouragement to have read her first book and her latest book. To see that it does take time and effort to become a great writer. Sure, there are a few one-book wonder authors (like Margaret Mitchell, Harper Lee, Emily Bronte), but most of writers gain skill and ability as they keep writing, as Lisa Samson clearly has.

Seven Quick Takes

Sunshine is finally sleeping through the night. She was down to waking up once, around 3 am, when I decided about two weeks ago that was enough of that. When she woke up, I changed her diaper, gave her the soother, wrapped her the blanket, and put her back in her crib. She howled at me for about two minutes and then zonked out. The next night, she slept from 9 pm until 6 am. Mommy liked it. :) Since then, she's had a few nights when she wakes up around 3 am, but most of the time, she's sleeping all night.

* * *

I am attempting to dry my bouquet from my best friend's wedding. The bouquets were lovely cream roses and it just looked too nice to throw out. I've had limited success with drying flowers in the past, so we'll see how drying a whole bouquet goes. Of course, with my decluttering tendencies, it won't last forever even dried...

* * *

Speaking of the wedding, it went well. Other than the three inches of wet, sticky snow that we got the night before. Yes, it snowed in June in Waterton. Made it just a bit complicated getting the bride from hotel to church and back to hotel without her dress getting wet. It also interferred with picture plans. However, the bride did look very sharp in a white fur stole over her dress.

* * *

One of my articles for Suite 101, "How to Write Book Reviews," received an Editor's Choice award. I figured since I was doing so much book reviewing, I could share some of what I've learned with other reviewers. Writing for Suite 101 is also paying a bit better as I get more articles up. I received my second paycheque from them at the beginning of this month, and expect another one next month.

* * *

I've got a very long list of books to review right now. I'm working on a Christian fantasy, The Vanishing Sculptor, by Donita K. Paul. Since I'm writing a YA Christian fantasy myself, I was very excited about this book, but so far, I'm having troubles getting into it. Waiting in my book stack is Talking to the Dead by Bonnie Grove (which I've heard rave reviews about) and It Happened in Italy by Elizabeth Bettina.

* * *

I'm working on my portfolio to apply to grad school again this year. I was actually a bit surprised at how much I'd written in the two years since I first applied. I've been very productive! I'm more confident about my portfolio this time, and now have a couple critique groups to run my writing past. Plus I met a lady who completed her MFA through UBC and is willing to look at some of my work as well. And this year I'm not trying to get it all ready last-minute: the first deadline isn't until September.

* * *

Sunshine just brought me her sweater, then yelled because her shoes were up high on a shelf where she couldn't reach them, and then found my shoes. She's been upset at me for quite a while this morning because I wouldn't let her play with a little jeweled music box that I got from my grandma years ago. Since it's actually sunny and nice today, I think I'll grab one of those books I need to read (or maybe the research that I'm doing on Charlotte Small) and take her over to the park for a bit.

Orson Scott Card on Writing

My husband and I discovered audio books a little while ago, and now a road trip isn't complete without a book on CD to entertain us while the kilometers pass under our tires. For our trip to my best friend's wedding, he grabbed Orson Scott Card's novel Ender's Game. He'd heard that it was really good and had won several awards. I glanced at the cover and said, "Eleven hours? Good thing we've got a lot of driving this weekend!"

We waited until my mom joined us to start the story (she was also invited to the wedding, so we carpooled). At first, she was dubious about Ender's Game—she doesn't read much sci-fi and found it weird. By the time we reached Waterton, we were a few CDs into the story. I knew Mom was enjoying the story when, as soon as we got into the Jeep, she said, "Turn on the book!"

It was good. In all eleven hours of reading, there wasn't a sentence that wasn't necessary. Card created interesting, unique characters and a strange yet believable world. Ender is a six-year-old boy taken to Battle School as earth's last chance to have a commander able to take on the Buggers—aliens who have invaded earth twice and almost destroyed it. Yet all Ender wants is to go home to his sister, the one person who loves him. Through Battle School, he struggles with loneliness and exhaustion, fighting those who hate him for his brilliance and success, and wishing desperately for a friend.

The last CD was actually an interview with Orson Scott Card. It was interesting to hear the story behind the novel, how the idea came to him, starting with a short story and then expanding into a novel. He also discussed the process of selling movie rights, and finding a producer who was adapt the book for the big screen without turning Ender into a sixteen-year-old with a girlfriend (sells movies to the dating audience, but wrecks the premise of the story).

Near the beginning of the interview, as Card talked about becoming a writer, he said there are two reasons to do so. One is because you read a really good book and aspire to someday write something that good. The other is that you read a really bad book and know that you can write better than that. I laughed, because that's so true. Those are the reasons I want to write. Books like Ender's Game, Daisy Chain and The Passion of Mary-Margaret (which I'm reading right now, after seeing rave reviews of it on several blogs) make me hope the someday I can write like that. And other books (which I won't name!!!) leave me thinking that if that can get published, then so can I.

Card also talked about the difference between fantasy and sci-fi, because one editor thought his story was more fantasy than sci-fi. There's a fine line between the two that I've wondered about, but Card had a great differentiation. The genres are similar, but the "strange" elements of fantasy are magical, while the "strange" elements of sci-fi are technical. As Card said, look at the book covers: fantasy will have trees, sci-fi will have rivets.

As he talked about selling the movie rights, Card brought up the way that many people say, "This is such a good book! It should be made into a movie!" He pointed out that people consider movies to be today's pinnacle art form. I disagree. Lately, I haven't wanted to watch movies based on books I've read, because I know I won't like it. There are a few movies—like Hoot and the Keirah Knightly version of Pride & Prejudice—that capture the book, but most leave me wishing I hadn't watched them. Card ended the interview by saying that to him, the best way to get a story was to hear it—as we just had.

My Best Friend's Wedding

Tomorrow, my best friend is getting married. It's been two years coming—she was shopping for shoes for her first date while I was shopping for shoes for my wedding—but it still seems a little unreal. I think back years ago, to the hours we spent playing "house" with our imaginary husbands and favourite dolls for babies, and smile to think that now it's not a game anymore.

We grew up just down the road from each other. My house was the top of one hill, he rhouse just over the top of the next. If not for the three-quarters of a mile and the row of trees that separated us, we could have waved to each other from our front doors. The rule was that if we were done our schoolwork by 2:00 (we were both homeschooled), we could call each other. The phone conversation usually went something like, "Can you come play? Okay, I'll meet you halfway."

Her place was my second home, and I was often there for supper or a sleepover. One night, a friend of her dad's was supposed to drop by to pick something up. Her dad thought it would be fun to pretend that I was another daughter, and see if the friend figured it out. (My best friend had three older sisters who'd already moved out.) The ruse was going well until bedtime, when I realized that I'd forgotten my toothbrush. What should I do? My best friend came up with the perfect plan. I ventured back into the kitchen, bounced on the mini-trampoline in the corner, and, trying very hard to keep a straight face, said, "Mom, I've lost my toothbrush." She found a solution, and the friend was never the wiser about the fact that I wasn't really a daughter.

In high school, my best friend got busy completing several correspondence courses and taking sciences courses at the local high school. We lost touch for a few years—lonely years for me, as my other homeschooling friend move to Colorado. I started university and she worked at a greenhouse. Then, when I started dating my husband, we reconnected again, because she was a Catholic and I was dating a Catholic and had a lot of questions. By then, she'd become a cytotechnologist and moved to another city, so we squeezed in visits whenever she was home.

Even the first time she talked about the man she'll marry tomorrow, her face lit up. They both helped with the youth group at their church, but he was several years older than her and she'd never expected him to notice her. While I was trying to find flat wedding shoes because my husband is a tiny bit shorter than I am, she was trying to find heels because her date was several inches taller than she is.

She was ready to say "yes" long before he was ready to ask, just as my husband was ready before I was. Last summer, when we dropped in to visit them after camping in Waterton, they announced their engagement. My shriek rivalled the one she gave when I announced my news (even though I'd had the thought that a trip to Australia for World Youth Day was a great time to propose). I looked at him and thought, "He's finally fallen in love." They both had a glow, something in the way they looked at each other and talked to each other, that was special to see.

And now, just as she stood up for me at my wedding (and promised that she'd stand up for me any other time I needed it), I'll be in her wedding party. Maybe it's a good thing I bought waterproof mascera for my wedding—I think I might need it tomorrow.