Ponga and Pohutukowa

The first words I remember are the names of the trees.

Pōhutukawa, a gorgeous tree, which is in glorious, odiferous red flower when I arrive at the airport. Rimu and kauri, giant, shaggy conifers with scraggy silhouettes I can see from the highway. Cabbage trees in household gardens, and ponga, or silver ferns, lining the pathways. And who can forget the crazy wheki, those giant prehistoric tree ferns used to fabricate Gilligan Island-style ashtrays and vases for sale in the local tourist shops?

I suppose the trees were the first names I remembered because their Seuss-like shapes are so very distinctive from the Canadian maples and silver birches at home. Such impressive fauna demands to be known by its proper name. It’s like one of my daughter’s schoolteachers who had a uniquely African name few could pronounce. The children spent many hours mastering the multi-syllabic challenge of his surname because, as my daughter explained, it was a matter of respect. 

To speak someone’s (or something’s) true name is truly a form of magic.

I’ve since picked up Keri Hulme’s Stonefish, a compilation of the master New Zealand author’s writing.  In the back is a glossary of Maori phrases used throughout the book, from kō
(a digging tool) to whakatauki-waina (a wine proverb, or one that doesn’t make too much sense sober). She is a master of diction, stretching and expanding her English as much as her Maori:

“you smile at my rocks

but I murmur opals; you

say ancestors and I breath,

Bones—“

What I admire most about Hulme’s writing is the way she uses the most precise noun at her disposal whenever possible.  The true name, be it Maori or English.

According to the Oxford Dictionary site, there are almost 230,000 English words listed in the Oxford second edition, and over half of these are nouns. And still, every day we discover new species, new phenomena, new things, all of which demand to be known and named.

This ever-growing repository of words is part of the reason why plain language is gaining ground. For the most part, I agree with the principles of the movement—we don’t want our readers running off to check the Oxford in the middle of an important scene just to find out that an extrapolation is a guess. But in our desire to simplify, it would be a shame to ignore the glorious richness  of our languages, which have been built over centuries by people consumed with the desire and need to capture in words that which is unique in this world.

It is this precision, this myriad of meanings captured in syllables that makes language so powerful, or (as Keri Hulme might prefer) gives it is mana.

For a great listing of New Zealand trees, click here.

For the ’100 Maori words every New Zealander should know’, click here.

Kia ora!

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Unstable Ground

Craters of the Moon, Taupo, NZ 2011

Craters of the Moon has changed. You used to navigate the steam holes along a well-trod foot path known only to Taupo locals, but now the town’s erected a proper boardwalk complete with plasticized signs depicting geothermal phenomena, flora and fauna.  There’s also the “shocker” of a $50 sticker price for a family pass to remind one and all that this Taupo hot spot has entered the touristic big leagues.

But once past the kiwi aprons and Maori bookmarks for sale at the entryway, I am back in the surreal landscape I remember. The bubbling, belching mud pools and primordial kanuka scrub are as otherworldly as ever, although the craters have sunk meters deeper, and new fumaroles have poked through everywhere, blanketing the land in so much sulphurous smoke that, from a distance, it appears as though the valley is on fire.

For the first time since my return, I feelit.  The weight of the decade that has passed, the unrecoverable years of work and worry and waiting that have, like the proverbial lead blanket, sedimented together, trapping a few perfect, fossilized moments between the layers of birthdays and school years and taxes.  The time passed presses down on me with all the solidity of rock and it’s hard to breathe.

Craters of the Moon, Taupo, NZ 2011

As silly as it sounds, I imagined returning to New Zealand would be like going back in time; everything would be just as I remembered it when I left. The monkey trees and feijoa fruit and crumbling cliffs of pumice.  The friends, the farms, the afternoons by a lake with water so crystal clear you can drink it straight.

But even here, at the edge of the world (as I always thought of it) change is unavoidable. Pumpkins, food once deemed only fit for pigs, cost $14 at the supermarket. Meanwhile, Taupo’s built an ice rink that is operable on the hottest summer days, and erected a new aerial park and climbing wall to get the most of the dwindling tourist dollars. The increased traffic made my mother-in-law’s house tremble last night, reminding me of Christchurch. Today, the same day we are here admiring the green and pink lace-like mineral deposits imprints on the largest of the craters, the city has suffered yet another aftershock. On the boardwalk around us, there is also talk of more flooding in Nelson, and weeks of unseasonable rain.

To think I once referred to Craters of the Moon as “the land before time”, because of its primordial ferns and ancient bush. In hindsight, I had it backwards: as part of the ring of fire, this land is on the edge of the ever shifting, quaking and shaking world, a constant reminder of how fragile and temporal these places and people we love really are. It is then that I decide on my new year’s resolution: to enjoy the moments I can, when I can, before they disappear.

I turn to go back the car. On the way, I  pass a sign: DANGEROUS GROUND, it reads, THE CRATER EDGE IS UNSTABLE AND LIKELY TO SLIP AT ANY TIME.

Craters of the Moon, Taupo, NZ 2011

Happy New Year everyone!

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How to Pack Like a Writer

Countdown: only two days until I leave for my nine-week family tour of Australasia. It’s five am, and I’m nursing a cold I caught during an endless week of inebriated socializing at Christmas parties. I sip a cup of Organic Cold 911 and stare out into my living room full of sleeping bags, camping gear and other miscellany still to be stuffed into what my kiwi husband endearingly calls “rucksacks”.  Less than 48 hours to go and I haven’t packed so much as a pair of panties.  What to do?

As I say to my more organized friends, it doesn’t matter what I forget to pack (and I will forget something) so long as I don’t forget my VISA.  Believe it or not, they do sell shoes in New Zealand—even if they rarely wear them.

But there is one thing that cannot be reclaimed by plastic if left behind: that fifth wheel my family are always forbearing–my writing. My poor fledgling novel in all it ungainly and gangly versions, the random notes scattered in files all over my laptop desktop, the half-finished notebooks replete with barely legible scrawl that have fallen behind couches, taking with them as-yet un-mined gems of wisdom (or so I imagine). Not to mention all the crazy voices in my head yet to be exorcised to the page.  How am I going to stuff all that brain drain into the pocket of my carry-on?

So, in last minute panic and procrastination mode, I wrote a list of the five things no writer should ever leave behind before going on an adventure:

  1. Laptop and cabling.  Obvious I know, but I’m the kind of person who arrives at an airport on my way to a week’s stay in Hay River near the Arctic Circle only to discover I’ve left my credit card behind and have only $2 in my pocket. I won’t tell you how that all ended, but suffice it to say, I have been known sometimes to miss the obvious and I suspect I may not be alone.
  2. Virtual back-ups of current work: Although I should do this on a regular basis, I confess to being a crisis queen who rarely does anything until it becomes absolutely necessary. And so, with visions of my laptop falling overboard on Lake Taupo dancing in my head, I will spend this morning sending all my key files to my yahoo, gmail and work accounts. I trust these virtual monoliths will survive the next nine weeks even if my aging Mac does not.
  3. A notebook and pen: Old school, I know, but my laptop’s battery life is much shorter than the plane ride or the Abel Tasman trail, so I will have to retrain my fingers to write by hand, even if it hurts.  Some thoughts just need to be captured immediately, and then there’s the issue of boredom—I suspect the in-flight movie selection available on December 24th will not compete for my attention during the 12-hour flight to Auckland. There are only so many times you can see Tim Allen in a Santa suit.
  4. Electronic passwords: I don’t know about you, but between my BlueHost and Nings and the labyrinth of Dr. Who-like portals I must navigate to remotely access my work email, there’s a whole prose poem of passwords I need to remember to stay connected. Even a week away from the computer can delete these from my consciousness—there are just too many permutations. Unfortunately, these electronic equivalents of secret handshakes are scattered in post-it notes all over the three monitors I visit daily, or scribbled inside binders, or stuck in some folder (pick any) in my yahoo account. If there’s one thing to do before I leave, it’s to transcribe these electronic keys into the first page of my paper notebook, as well as into an electronic file I will send to my mother, just in case the notebook falls overboard with my laptop.
  5. Rose-coloured glasses: Even the most cynical and depressed writer must have a pair of these stashed somewhere, or else how do we survive? I will need to dig my slightly battered pair out from under the pile of overwhelming and all-consuming practical matters that I’ve been trying to get through this past month.  They may be a bit scratched, but they should do.

 

Merry Christmas all and happy New Year!

 

 

 

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Straddling the divides: fact, fiction and Freedomites

For those who attended several of my readings, you will recognize Koozma Tarasoff.  His work inspired much of my understanding of the Doukhobor culture when writing Man & Other Natural Disasters.

Nerys Parry and Koozma Tarasoff at Collected Works, Ottawa

Koozma has dedicated his life to documenting and recording the doukhobor tradition in Canada. Born in 1932 on a farm near the Doukhobor community of Pekrovka in Saskatchewan, Koozma went on to receive formal training in psychology, anthropology and sociology. He’s published several books on the Doukhobors, the latest of which I am holding in my hands in the above photo: Spirit Wrestlers: Doukhobor Pioneer’s Strategies for Living

“…it must be acknowledged that Strategies for Living is a first-class example of a personal, subjective approach by a leading ethnographer to a comprehensive description in words and pictures of a particular people…” Iskra Book Review

Koozma makes it a point to read and review everything being published on the Doukhobor and Freedomites today, and has kindly posted a book review of my novel.

“Obviously Nerys enjoys straddling the divide between science and fiction,” Koozma writes. “This is real talent — and she is very good at it.”

Koozma, who has spent 50 years trying “to correct the misinformed damage that has been done by the team Simma [Holt] and Fred [Davidoff]“, found much good to say about my novel, if not about the misconceptions that we continue to nurture when trying to understand religious extremism.

 “A Troubled Personality Revealed” can be read here.

For those readers who want to know more about the Doukhobors, I encourage you to visit Koozma’s website, Spirit Wrestlers, as well as the Doukhobor Geneology website.

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This phenomenon could surprise even Simon

Ice disks in the Rideau River

As my character Simon said, “sometimes the most unimaginable things happen”, and sure enough, today ,while my friend Cate and I were walking the dogs, we came upon a spinning pocket of snow disks pooling on the riverbank near our house.  You have to see it to believe it!

My friend's son poking the disks

Watch Ice Ballet video on YouTube here.

Kath, this one is for you!  Keep the faith, there’s a lot of good in the universe.

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The “Three” hit CBC (and Loosen Tongues at Mother T)

It was a crazy Friday night for the 3 Women 3 Book crew.  Interview on All in a Day at 5:45, reading in Old Ottawa South’s Mother Tongue Bookstore at 6:30 pm.  Of course we would have stood on our heads and done the hokey pokey naked if it meant getting to sit in the CBC studio with Alan Neil for ten minutes.  (Well, Jasmine would at least.) Here we are outside the studio before the interview:

Sandra, Jasmine and I at CBC studies

Alan is a brilliant interviewer, and just as wonderful to watch in person as to hear on the radio. He leads the conversation like an orchestral conductor, cuing each of us at just the right time so we all get airtime and don’t speak over each other.  And trust me, with 3 Women, that’s no mean feat.  For those who missed the show, I’ll be posting a clip as soon as I get a copy from CBC.

While still on a CBC-high, we hit one of Ottawa’s best independents, Mother Tongue.  It was so great to be back in the “hood” and to finish up my fall Ottawa tour at my favourite neighbourhood bookstore. The wine was pouring and knitting needles were clicking as we let loose our tongues and tackled sex, politics and religion in writing. The Friday night audience was fantastic, one of the most engaged I’ve seen, and shared some great insights on their own views of taboos in writing.  A fun evening all around.

The 3 Women and their 3 Books at Mother Tongue

 

We at the 3 Women / 3 Books are busy working on our next project…soon to be announced.  Meanwhile check out the upcoming OSCAR for a short Q&A on Friday night’s event.

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Hot off the presses…

My ears are burning.

Not one, but two–count them two–big papers had my name in them this weekend: the Ottawa Citizen mentioned me as one of the hot Ottawa thirty-somethings chasing my dreams, and the Winnipeg Free Press gave the novel a fine, balanced review that called the book “…an engaging and thoughtful piece of Canadian literature…Parry’s prose is enjoyable and elegant and spiced with clever metaphors.”

Of course, I’ve only given you the good parts.  For the full review, click here to check out “Engaging Debut“.  Certainly some criticisms to ponder, but overall it was nice to be noticed in a circulation larger than my Facebook Friend List.

Early on, my publicist told me that people had to see or hear of a book at least eight times before they usually bought it.  How’s that possible in today’s world, where most people’s morning news consists of three paragraph rehashes in Yahoo News, with at least two of those paragraphs focused on either weight loss or Branjolina or both?  Eight mentions of a Canadian historical literary fiction seems an impossible mission given these odds.

Then there are all the other numbers pessimists throw at you. Here’s some of the “usual suspects”, not all of which are verified, that I have heard most on my journey:

•                95% of all manuscripts are rejected,

•                it’s as hard to get an agent as a publisher,

•                no one in Canada reads fiction,

•                and fiction hardcover? forget it.

If I had a dollar for every reason why my book wouldn’t ever succeed, I might not be rich but I would be earning some good pocket change.

But what is this “success” everyone talks about anyway? An international bestseller in 19 languages and a movie deal? Is that truly the only gauge of success for a writer?

Me, Jasmine and Sandra at the book fair

We forget there are a lot of small trumphs to count along the way: the completion of the manuscript, the call from the agent, the publication of that first book, and—especially for me–the discovery of new friends and readers who are touched by your message and what your story has to say.

I won’t lie.  The publicity so far has been hard at times, but also joyous and uplifting.  The greatest gifts I’ve received as part of the “Ottawa tour” was the unwavering support of my friends, family, readers and press, as well as the new and encouraging friendship of the 3 Women 3 Books crew: Jasmine and Sandra.  Writing may be a lonely journey at times, but these women sure do make great traveling partners.

Speaking of nibbles…we’re banding together again at 6:30 this Friday for a last hoorah before Christmas at Mother Tongue Books for Tackling Taboos: 3 Women Talk Sex, Politics and Religion in Writing.   The info can be found below, or in Upcoming Events.  Hope to see you there!

FRIDAY, DECEMBER 9th 2011 

3 Women, 3 Books Reunite!

For Tackling Taboos: 3 Woman Talk Sex, Politics & Religion in Writing

6:30 – 8:30 pm

Mother Tongue Books

1067 Bank Street, Ottawa, Ontario

Click here for map

Three women reunite two months later to talk about those topics “one doesn’t discuss at dinner” and how they have influenced our writing.  Join Sandra Nicholls, Jasmine Aziz and me at the fantastic Mother Tongue Books Store in Ottawa for a night sure to make you laugh and think.  We will be sharing our views on what it is like being a woman writer tackling taboo subjects, and reading some of the juicier sections of our books.  The discussion is sure to be lively, and Jasmine has promised treats.  Everyone welcome!

Download the poster here: Three Women_Mother Tongue-1

 

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Finding Simon

The question I most often receive at my events and in interviews is this: what inspired you to write this book?  It’s a tale I’ve told many times, but for those who haven’t heard it, I wanted to share with you the personal story as to how I found Simon, and how he drove me to tell the Freedomite story.

The idea for Man & Other Natural Disasters came to me all at once, while I was living in New Zealand, pregnant with my second child and hanging my first child’s diapers on the line.  I was thinking about the book I was reading at the time, Supernature by Lyall Watson, when seemingly out of nowhere, Simon’s voice came to me: “I know how I’m going to die”.  Simon, still nothing more than a disembodied voice, then went on to dictate most of the prologue while I waddled to find a pen to write it down, and within minutes, I knew the construct of the novel: a man, suffering from fugue memory, had lost each of his family members in a terrible natural disaster—or at least that’s what he believed, until one girl forced him to face the truth, a truth which was, of course, so much worse than the original tale.

The only problem was I didn’t know what Simon’s truth was, and the effort to seek it out would take me over a decade. I had written my first attempt at the novel within nine months of first hearing Simon enter my head, but even five years and several drafts later, I was no closer to what had actually happened to the man. He was still lying to me.  For the life of me, I couldn’t figure out what had really set him off into a fugue state that summer in 1962, and so I gave up and put the book aside.

Then, as I was researching information at the National Archives for my next novel, Those Things We Cannot See, I stumbled upon a photo.  It featured a heavy-set Freedomite woman standing outside of a house she’d set on fire. She had her sizable back to the camera, her arms crossed on her chest, and was stark naked, wearing nothing but black socks and laced-up shoes.  There was something about the violence of her act of arson against the naivety of her nakedness that caught my interest, and so, even though it had nothing to do with my current project, I sought out the only significant Freedomite collection at the National Archives, the Fred Davidoff papers. Davidoff was one of the Freedomites active during the Kootenay bombings and his collection contains, among other things, notebooks he filled with his hand-written autobiography/manifesto. Right from his first sentence, there was something eerily familiar with his story, and after a few pages, I suddenly realized I knew him.  It was positively uncanny, but there, after more than five years, I had found Simon’s true identity.

It took me longer than I expected to get the book to print, partly because of bad luck, but also because I had another novel to finish and also because the Freedomite story proved a challenge to unearth after all these years of being buried.  Meanwhile, fears of increasing natural disasters and terrorist movements was growing, and it was becoming more and more important to get Simon’s story out. The novel, begun in 2000, was finally birthed in 2011, and Simon’s cautionary tale of extremism and memory saw the light of day.

While I relied a great deal on inspiration for this novel, the true stories covered in both this novel and my as-yet unpublished second novel are important to me.  I love hidden histories, especially complex ones, and am driven to re-tell these true stories of the past in such a way so as to try to shed some light on our present confusion. After all, we are not so different people than those who created and survived the Holocaust, or the French Revolution—and certainly not the bombings in the Kootenays and the institutionalization of the New Denver children. While cliché, it is something I believe, that only by understanding the past will we be able to envision a better future.  If nothing else, at least “things might be done differently if we were to do them today,” as the B.C. Ombudsman report states, and that alone is something worth writing for.

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Arrivederci Almont-ay!

Six degrees in Almonte

It was a beautiful night in Almonte at Palms Coffee Shop. There was art on the walls, a light snow on the ground, the shush of cappiccinos pouring.  The town’s Christmas lights were on, illuminating a picture-perfect small-town main street, while across the street an amazing Italian restaurant Cafe Postino, which had set up in the renovated post office,  displayed a dinner plate signed by none other than the Leonard Cohen. When had he come to town, and what had happened to the stone-walled country town of my childhood?  Somehow, when I wasn’t paying attention, Almonte became a ‘destination’–and what a destination at that.  As Phil Jenkins writes in his article A Soothing walk through Almontein the Ottawa Citizen, “…in Almonte there is an unforced friendliness, more than enough second-hand stores to keep me in browser mode all afternoon, enough tea pit stops to quench my addiction, and a knowledgeable book store assistant to compare good literary finds with.”

Here I am with Mary and Terry from Mill Street Books

The book store assistant, although not named, must come from the wonderful Mill Street Books, who organized last night’s event with the support of Palms. I got a sneak peak at their shop, which smells exactly how a book store is supposed to–not the new-glue smell of Chapters, but that inky papery scent of old libraries.  I can see many afternoons spent in Mary and Terry’s shop in the future, especially if the kids don’t take that comfy reading chair in the back before I do.

As for Palms, their coffee is superb and they even sell flavoured San Peligrinos, my favourite.  Now that is arrived!

To all the great friends and strangers who came out to talk books, history and degrees of separation with me last night, thank you! I had a wonderful time, and congratulations to the historically-savy who won door prizes.  To those that couldn’t make it, I highly recommend a night in Almonte, or Almont-ay, as it once was known, being the only town (as far as anyone I’ve met or read knows) to be named after a Mexican general who never, as far as I know, ever stepped foot in the Ottawa Valley.

Click for full-size image

And, while I thought Almonte would be my last stop, I have good news.  There is another 3 Women, 3 Book reunion coming up December 9th, 2011 at 6:30 pm at Mother Tongue Books.  Tacking Taboos: 3 Women Talk Sex, Politics and Religion in writing.

Check out the Upcoming Events Page for more information.

 

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Cracked.com lists 6 man-made disasters about to happen

The comic e-zine Cracked.com has a great read on 6 man-made natural disasters waiting to happen.  Scrolling down the comments, there appears to be some science in question, but the story still opened my eyes.

Is this the new “ghost story” of the 21st century?  Apocolypse tales?

Check it out here.

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