Saving the World (In Sensible Shoes)

Earth Day 2011 Playlist

2011-04-21T20:09:00.000-07:00

Yes, I know David Suzuki already did an Earth Day playlist. But I have PROOF that I did one last year. Meaning it was my idea. (Oh yes, I invented the concept of playlists. Somebody tell Steve Jobs. He'll probably want to hire me.)

However, given that everyone probably already knows how I feel about David Suzuki by now (not-so-secret intellectual crush, strangely compelled to ogle his nude Suzuki-as-Atlas publicty still from The Nature of Things, circa 2009) I'm obviously cool with him borrowing my idea. Hell, he could borrow my favourite pair of shoes if he asked.

Here's my Earth Day 2011 Playlist. (Not to be confused with David Suzuki's Playlist for the Planet(http://www.davidsuzuki.org/what-you-can-do/playlist-for-the-planet/), which you can and should purchase on iTunes, partly because it's really good, and partly because the money goes towards saving the world.)

1. Ani DiFranco, Joyful Girl

I'm starting strong: It might be impossible to get any more granola crunch-crunch than good old Ani. But this song is the only DiFranco tune that doesn't make me want to grow my armpit hair. It's about her mom, as unsentimentally as she introduces it in this concert footage. ("I'm actually not shitting you, but this song, I wrote for my mom.") And it contains a very compellling lyric: "Because the world owes me nothing, and we owe each other the world." Not a bad Earth Day sentiment.

2. Let's Stay Together, Al Greenhttp://www.youtube.com/watch?v=COiIC3A0ROM

When you've done something really bad to someone you love, and you want them to forgive you, this is a good song to play. (I know. I've tried it. It works.) I think we probably owe more than a few songs like this (plus back rubs, flowers, policy changes and environmental legislation) to the earth.

3. Pulling on a Line, Great Lakes Swimmershttp://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H-0HgSHYu2Y

Because this song makes me think about fishing, and overfishing--and also, because it's just really pretty.

4. Furr, Blitzen Trapperhttp://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H-0HgSHYu2Y

I think this song is about becoming a wolf, and then going back to being a human, but never forgetting how it felt to run wild. But I'm not a songwriter, so maybe it actually has nothing to do with becoming a wolf and I'm just being literal and obtuse. Regardless, I like it because it makes me think of being part of nature, and also because of the line, "I'm a rattlesnake babe, I''m like fuel on fire". (Which, for the record is NOT very earth-friendly; perhaps he needs to say, "I''m a rattlesnake babe, I'm like a hot solar panel" ha. ha.) I also like it because he sounds like Bob Dylan. So it made the list.

5. Seeing Stars, Meg Hutchinsonhttp://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xODb39DFudE

This song always makes me think of my best friend and the many summer nights we've spent at her cottage in Muskoka, watching the stars. Oh, if that dock could talk--well, then we'd have to kill it to preserve our secrets. This song made the list because stars are one of my favourite things about the universe--they're so far away and mysterious and awesome and just generally inexplicable. (Well, yes, I know scientists can and have explained stars, but when I stare at them and think about how what I'm actually seeing is a zillion lightyears away, and how I could travel a trillion lifetimes and still never reach a star, it all feels inexplicable to me. Which makes me feel small, in a very good way.)

6. Big Yellow Taxi, Joni Mitchell

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HTQubWecuv8&feature=BFa&list=PL2FD156B5E0813AE5&index=30

I had to. I love Joni almost as much as I love David Suzuki. I wanted to make my Joni Mitchell playlist song Carey (From the first line, "The wind is in from Africa, last night I couldn't sleep", to the part about her going "down to the Mermaid Cafe and I will buy you a bottle of wine, and we'll laugh and toast to nothing and smash our empty glasses down", I feel like I'm reading a short story, and I can picture every scene. I love it when music does that.) I couldn't find a good YouTube link to Carey, though. So here's Big Yellow Taxi instead. "Don't it always seem to go that you don't know what you've got til it's gone?" (Not to be confused with the uber-crappy Counting Crows version, by the way. Bleck.)

7. This Charming Man, Starshttp://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Yle6ZZmUQxg

"I would go out tonight, but I haven't got a stitch to wear ..." (This IS a cover, of a Smiths song, but it's a worthy cover, so I'm allowing it.) This song always makes me think about going out and buying clothes. And, conversely, especially these days, about how important it is not to buy cheap, shoddily constructed clothes made using unsustainable and morally repugnant practices. I truly believe ethical fashion can change the world. And I'm not just saying that because I want an excuse to go shopping.

8. The Passenger, Iggy Pophttp://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QEY6_jcrzI8

I think this song should be played at every party. So Happy Earth Day, everyone! Party on!

xo, Marissa

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Quote of the Week

2010-10-27T17:37:00.000-07:00

"Fern was up at daylight, trying to rid the world of injustice." --Mr. Arable, from Charlotte's Web

Autumn Reading, Ottawa Eating

2010-10-14T13:12:00.000-07:00

I just finished reading Superdad: A Memoir of Rebellion, Drugs, and Fatherhood, by Christopher Shulgan (he's an award-winning Toronto writer, and fellow Key Porter author). Shulgan`s memoir is the anti-thesis of any daddy and mommy memoirs and blogs you may have read that make perfect parenthood seem not only attainable but required. (These perfect people terrify me, naturally. I admire Jackie O greatly, for example, but she once said, `If you bungle raising your children, I don`t think anything else you do matters very much`. Reading that statement in a magazine article when I was pregnant with my first child made me break into a cold sweat.)

And although Shulgan admittedly was not always the perfect parent--there was the small matter of the crack-- it was from his book that I learned a very valuable lesson about parenting. He wrote about how it took his son an hour to traverse about a half block of sidewalk. Instead of being impatient and hustling his son along, Shulgan saw the value in allowing his son to explore things the little boy had never experienced before in his life. As adults, we travel through the world with a very been-there-done-that-seen-it (and if I haven't, there's always the internet.) attitude. But to babies, everything is new. And this passage in Superdad made me realize that I need to appreciate this. I am always guilty of rushing my kids down the sidewalk, but this week I have consciously slowed down, and the beautiful moments that have ensued (ecstatic leaf fights, the reverent discovery of a snail on the bottom of a blousy late fall sunflower, the two of them joining hands spontaneously and then walking, slowly and carefully towards no destination at all.) have been worth all the waiting. And also, it's not really waiting. It's almost like meditation, just standing on the sidewalk, watching them be.

And speaking of my babies, this is what's number one on their autumn reading list: This is Silly, by Gary Taxali. I'm currently being asked to read it about six times a day, which is fine with me, because Gary Taxali is a great artist and all around nice guy, and this book has definitely tapped into exactly what toddlers and pre-schoolers want. (Namely: silliness. A lot of it. As much as possible. Maximum silliness, please. With a tickle on the side.)

I'm also being asked to read Oh, The Places You'll Go every night. (I think this might have something to do with the fact that it's an extremely long book and thus an excellent component of the Stall Tactic repertoire.) For a Dr. Seuss book, it's not that silly. It's almost like a cautionary tale.

Example:
You won't lag behind, because you'll have the speed.
You'll pass the whole gang and you'll soon take the lead.
Wherever you fly, you'll be best of the best.
Wherever you go, you will top all the rest.

Except when you don't.
Because, sometimes, you won't.

I'm sorry to say so
but, sadly, it's true
that Bang-ups
and Hang-ups
can happen to you.

And while part of me wants to protect my children from the knowledge that Bang Ups and Hang Ups can indeed happen to them, I figure Dr. Seuss is probably doing a good job of breaking it to them fairly gently.

And speaking of hang ups ... (and no, I'm not reaidng Growing Up Jung to my kids. This one is firmly on Mommy's Reading List. For now, at least) here's something else I've been reading this autumn, and this is a photo I took of the book, whilst dining out during a recent trip to Ottawa. It was a business-related trip, and I was on my own, and just before I left, my mother called, very concerned. "Men will try to approach you," she cautioned. "A woman alone on a business trip is like shark bait." (I don't think she actually said 'shark bait', but she did say something to that effect.) Her final words of advice: "Always have a book with you when you're dining out." Her tone was so ominous, I complied, even though I actually don't mind dining out alone at all, and almost never feel the need to hide behind a book. But, to make my mom feel better, I took Growing Up Jung with me to every restaurant I went to during my two days in Ottawa. (The one above happens to be the best dim sum I have ever had in my life. It's just that I lost the receipt and can't remember the name of the restaurant. I also can't expense it. Darn it! All I recall is that there was a picture of Jack Layton at the front door. Apparently it's his favourite dim sum resto, too. I can't figure out if that's a good thing or a bad thing.)

And speaking of food, and my trip to Ottawa, this is the only other picture I took, of another meal I enjoyed alone--well, me and Jung--at a restaurant near Byward Market called Mezzo Note. Yes, I definitely felt like a geek taking a picture of my food. And I don't have a phone that takes subtle pictures, my cell phone is about ten years old and I'm lucky I can even send text messages, so took this photo with my giant Nikon with mega flash and everyone stared. I just tucked my nose back into Growing Up Jung, and tucked back into my pasta--garlic everything, as I remember, including mushrooms, shrimp, and scallops--and even ate the edible orchid on top (while hoping fervently it was pesticide free.)

Mmmmm.

xo, M.

The Wedding Gift

2010-09-11T07:47:00.000-07:00

Autumn always makes me feel a bit melancholy, in a way that isn't all bad: sometimes I think writers enjoy feeling just a little heartsick at all times. Grist for the word mill. Something like that.

Also, autumn makes me clean and purge, something I do not do in spring, because in spring, I want to be outdoors, delighting in the feel of the sun on my skin after a winter spent cowering away from the cold. (I despise winter. Abhor it. Yes, I will ski. Yes, I will skate. Yes, I will toboggan. But during all those activities, I will be cold. And I do not like to be cold.)

This autumn, my purge has purpose, because it also involves procrastinating. I'm meant to be finishing the line edits for my novel. When the process becomes too arduous, I go into the cold cellar and start going through boxes.

Today, I found a candle in a red box covered in cloth inscribed with Chinese characters. The candle was constructed in two pieces, each with a wick, one side red, one side black. Yin yang. The pieces fit together.

I remembered the candle had been given to us as a wedding present, by the mother of my husband's childhood friend, and her artist husband, along with two place mats from our gift registry. Strange, I'd thought to myself at the time, to give someone two place mats from a set. And I'd thought the candle pretty, almost too pretty to burn, so I'd put it away.

This morning, as I looked at the candle for the first time in years and thought of those two place mats, I blinked back tears, sudden and insistent. She died, that woman who gave us the wedding gift, a few years ago, after a battle with breast cancer that no one believed she'd lose. At our wedding, her head had been wrapped in a scarf but she'd seemed so strong, and the scarf almost like an accessory.

I didn't know her well, but she was my kind of person: I could tell that after meeting her only a few times. She was the kind of woman Carly Simon sang about in the song Touched by the Sun, which she wrote about Jackie O, after she died of cancer. This woman was vibrant and kind. Thoughtful. She had depth.

When we were presented with this wedding gift, I never stopped to consider the thought behind it. This morning, it hit me. The gift of a beautiful, yin yang candle from Thailand, and two place mats. A gift meant especially for us as a young couple coming together in marriage, a gift given with the hope that it would bring us together over a meal, or maybe many meals, and also make us realize our differences as we burned the candle between us. Yin yang are complementary opposites within a greater whole. Yin yang constantly interact, never existing in complete stasis.

As I thought about this gift, I also thought of the sad husband, left behind. We see him sometimes, and he seems like half of this candle, incomplete without his other half, always a little lost.

I wish I'd said thank you for this gift properly, not by simply saying, 'We appreciated the place mats and the candle', but also, 'We appreciated and understood the thought, your wish that we would dine, together, for always, the two of us so different but also so necessary to the existence of each other.'

Perhaps I'm reading too much into it. Bittersweet autumn has that effect on me.

Dog Day Blogging (As in, Lazy. Regretful. Wishing for More.)

2010-08-27T09:24:00.001-07:00

Summer afternoon, summer afternoon. The two most beautiful words in the English language. -- Henry James.

And oh, Summer Afternoon, how I wish I had appreciated you more when it seemed there would be enough of you to sustain me through the long winter I can now sense a sinisiter hint of on the breeze... -- Me

Then, I found this Albert Camus quote: 'In the depth of winter, I finally learned that within me there lay an invincible summer.'
-- Albert Camus

So that's my goal for this winter: to find within me an invincible summer.

And in the meantime, I'm embracing the end of the non-invincible summer by going to The Ex.

xo, MSP

Simple Pleasures

2010-08-21T11:15:00.001-07:00

Parenting-related guilt (if you're a parent, you know what I mean. It kicks in the moment a child is born and is as relentless as mosquitoes in Manitoba) always drives me to justify myself when discussing my enjoyment of the time I spend without my kids by employing the caveat that I of course of course very much do enjoy the time I spend with my kids, too. Which I do. (Am I protesting too much?) I love my children. So much that it hurts, in a way that is at times a frighteningly physical feeling. For example, yesterday, when I was walking with my son and reached for him to cross the street, I grasped his little fingers in mine and tried to command my mind to remember exactly the way it felt to hold his small but rapidly growing. I nearly cried then and there at the thought of him being too big to need me to hold hands with him when we cross the street. And when my daughter hugs me (she gives, hands down, the best hugs in the world—ask anyone who has ever been on the receiving end of one: she puts her entire body into it, and you suddenly feel like you're special and cherished and are never going to be alone again) I do the same. Because I know one day those tiny hands will be full-sized, and those full body hugs won't be doled out with such guileless frequency. (Or maybe, never. Excuse me, I just need to go grab the tissues.)

Ahem. But my love for my babies doesn't make spending my days caring for a 2 year old and a 3 year old any easier. Alas. I am not one of those Wonder Moms who bakes (cookies that do not come from pre-made dough) and cleans (on the weeks when the cleaning lady is not coming) and thinks up crafts (other than gluing painted pieces of paper to other pieces of paper and calling it art) and never loses her patience and says that motherhood has fulfilled her every wish and dream. (To be honest, I don't know any moms like this. Good thing, or the guilt would likely become unbearable. Also, I probably would have told one of the Wonder Moms where to go by now, cuing up even more guilt and potentially getting me kicked out of Play Group.)

I'm enjoying their baby-ness, because I realize this time is fleeting. One day, they're going to be Grown Up. One day, they'll be Off To University (like my kid brother, fourteen years my junior, is doing this fall; I did the same trying-to-remember thing with him, holding him in my arms and willing myself, even though I was only fourteen and could hardly comprehend why it mattered so much, to never forget what he was like as a baby. It worked: I still have that memory, of his olive skin and navy eyes and us in the dark near his crib, on the same rocker I've now nursed and rocked my own babies on. But it doesn't make it any less shocking that he recently climbed out his window to attend a party or that he'll be heading to London in the fall to live it up, and possibly drink beer from a bong, with the rest of the frosh-men. Or that one day, my babies are going to be just as tall and out of my grasp.)

But I digress. (Quel surprise. Yeah, yeah, I know. I need to start leaving trails of bread crumbs so I can find my thought paths.) As I was saying, there is going to come a day when my own babies go off to school, or do whatever it is that they choose to do, which may not necessarily be ascribing to mine and my husband's admittedly bourgeois and conformist university-job-family-and-all-in-that-order hopes and dreams for them. My son may very well say "Eff university, Ma, I'm going to be a rock star." (In which case, I will say to him, "Fine, I support you, but I'm not lending you money. Okay, fine, I will lend you money, but for the love of god, don't call me Ma. It makes me feel ancient.") And my daughter ... well, I can't even think about the ways in which she may stray from the path I envision for her, given that she is my daughter and already showing signs of having my wayfaring personality. Yes, it all turned out in the end for me (so far, at least) but I truly hope her path towards getting to Where She Needs To Be--as Rhiannon, the main character in my book would call it--is a little less circuitous than mine.

When my children have wandered off into the great big world, I'm still going to be me. I'm determined to be a good mother, a great one even, the kind of mother that my kids will talk about long after I'm gone, and say things like, "Wasn't it great how she always read us a story or ten before bed, and sang us the Sly Old Gentleman?" and "Remember how she always took us on those REALLY cool outings, and that time we went to Paris instead of Disney World?" (I also get that the fact that I want to take my kids to Paris instead of Disney World may make them hate me instead of adore me. I'll cross that bridge when I come to it.) But I'm also determined not to lose myself in the act of parenting. I enjoy being with my brood, but I also, truly, enjoy being alone, and reading, and writing, and walking, and engaging in simple pleasures that can make a morning special.

Like today, when the kids and my husband went off for a swim at the inlaws, and my husband said, "Why don't you stay home and write?" He can't possibly know, every time he offers me a few hours to write, how much it means to me. Or maybe he does, which is why he offers it so often. I did write, and then I went for a walk, to get a coffee from my favourite coffee shop (Crema), and to visit a cheese shop that recently opened in my neighbourhood (Junction Fromagerie). I was inordinately excited about visiting the new cheese shop, and I spent way too much time there and had more fun than it seems normal to have in a cheese purveying establishment. (Don't tell my husband, but I also spent more money than I should have. The cheese samples went to my head. Guess I'll just take the money out of the kid's university fund, ha ha. I mean, considering they might not go anyway. Faulty logic, what?)

I walked home with the small hunks of cheese and artisanal baguette tucked in my canvas shopping bag (and also some olives and feta stuffed, brined peppers), the coffee from my favourite coffee shop (iced cappuccino in summer) in my hand, and I felt really, really good. (Kind of jittery because it was my third coffee of the day, but good no less.) I was happy to know my children and husband were on their way home to me, but also very happy to have spent a few hours on my own engaging in the simple pleasures that give my life even more zest than it already has. (As in writing. And cheese. And caffeine. Hmm, I wonder what this says about me?)

The truth: at times I do look forward to the days when a few hours spent alone won't be quite as hard won as they are when raising toddlers. However, I'm already aware of what a bittersweet experience it will be when my children are officially grown—even thinking about it makes my throat ache and my heart feel leaden. But that's a good long time away yet. For now, I'll work on enjoying all the facets of my life—the days that are full of tiny hand holding and super tight hugs and spills and thrills and mundanities that sometimes make me want to cry--and the mornings when it's just me, myself, a simple pleasure or two, and the pleasure of the knowledge that I'll see my darlings soon.

Happy Weekend! Xo MSP

p.s. Speaking of simple pleasures, this has been a banner week for them: I also spent a day at the Radisson Hotel's rooftop pool with my dear friend and fellow novelist Chantel Simmons. We brought our brand new mini laptops and wrote all day. Okay, we didn't actually get very much work done at all. We talked, about life, and love, and handbags. This is a photo of us working hard/hardly working. Best. Day. Ever.

Rage, rage against the dying of the light ...

2010-08-11T08:01:00.000-07:00

I'm doing more Food Network guest blogging. This week's post is about making the most of late summer's harvest bounty, and I try my hardest to be both literary and food-y ....
You can read the blog here.
xo, M.

A Golden Afternoon

2010-08-02T07:08:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, I went to see Legally Blonde: The Musical, with my mom. I'm no theatre reviewer, and also, I did actually enjoy the movie. (My first novel even has a few shades of Legally Blonde in it, I'd say, and I'm certainly no arts snob: I appreciated Hamlet as much as I appreciated The Hangover.) But if I were Elle Woods, the main character, I would say something like this of the stage play: "Omigod, you guys, it like TOTALLY sucked." Then, I'd break into a song called, 'Omigod, You Guys' that would be stuck in your head for so long you'd eventually grow to hate me.

(And guess what? There really is a song in the play thus named. I really do fear it's going to be stuck in my head forever. Omigod. You. Guys. )

However, this isn't a blog entry about the play or high brow art vs. low brow art or why it seems they're making anything and everything into a stage production that almost always, even if it isn't directed by Mel Brooks, seems to have an over the top ending reminiscent of the final scene in Blazing Saddles. It's really about how much I got out of spending the afternoon with my mom, and how much I value our time together. We go to plays together a few times a year--she and my stepdad have a Mirvish subscription, so it's mostly the girlie things we end up at together, the ones my stepdad, in all his inherent manliness, simply can't stomach. Legally Blonde: The Musical being one of those.

I think the more terrible the play is, the more fun we have. Dynasty really sticks out in my mind. We were laughing hysterically through the entire thing, even though it wasn't funny at all. We stayed just long enough for the infamous male stripper scene, then tumbled out onto King St. sucking desperately for air and laughing so hard passersby stared at us, which just made us laugh harder. This also happened to us more recently, in the middle of Little House on the Prairie, during what was supposed to be a very serious scene. The song was called Wind Sickness and a certain line struck us as just too ridiculous. We burst into tearful laughter at the exact same moment; the people beside us were less than impressed; we almost had to leave. (Maybe we're just not play people. But I don't think we're going to stop going.)

I say this without a hint of exaggeration or wishful thinking: my beautiful mom is one of my best friends in the world. I'm so proud to introduce her to people. I'm so glad she's my mom. She's the first person I think of to call, other than my husband, when something goes wrong, or when something goes right. Sure, it hasn't always been this way--after I had my daughter, she clapped her hands delightedly and said, "This is so wonderful, you have a daughter! You'll be able to have the same amazing relationship with her that we have!" Then she paused and raised an eyebrow. "And it only took us twenty-one years!"

But truly, all growing pains aside, I am unbelievably blessed by our closeness. As I grow (marginally) older I sense our relationship changing and growing in a profound way. I'm still the daughter, and she's still the mom, but we are also both mothers, and wives, and complex women in our own rights. We are similar in so many ways, and different in so many others, yet we never (okay, almost never) judge each other and we are always (absolutely always) there for each other.

Yesterday, before the play, we wandered along Queen St. West, thinking we'd grab a quick veggie dog for lunch so we'd definitely get to the play on time and also, impress our husbands with our frugality. But we ended up at a dim sum restaurant, drinking a Chinese beer each and nibbling on dumplings and lettuce wraps and knowing we were probably going to be late for the play but not really caring. Because omigod, you guys, it was so not about the play. It was, as we both knew, about our time together, and the conversations we were having, and the relaxed sense of well-being we were feeling.

When we're together, absolutely everything is funny, because we have the exact same (slightly twisted) sense of humour. Yesterday, we were at the same dim sum restaurant we used to sneak off to years ago, back when I lived at Queen and Spadina and my mom worked downtown and one night a week we'd attend a yoga class together (of course, we were the ones at the back of the room, giggling when we couldn't get ourselves into pigeon pose and probably ruining everyone else's sense of zen-like calm). Every few classes, on our way down Queen, we'd share a glance, and without words, cross the street, heading away from the studio to have dinner together instead of attending our class. They say yoga is good for the soul, but it was true then and it's still true today: our time spent together is also good for the soul, and yesterday's mom/daughter date left me feeling refreshed and lucky.

Even if I am doomed to be humming, "Omigod, You Guys" for the next month.

Love you, mom.
xo, M.

(One of my favourite pictures of us, taken on the day I got married; my grandma is also in the picture, and she's fabulous, too, but that's a story for another day ...)

'She is too fond of books, and it has turned her brain.' --Louisa May Alcott

2010-07-27T10:23:00.000-07:00

This is what I'm reading right now, during this long, hot summer, when it seems the only thing pertinent to do is curl up under the shade of a tree or the porch with an iced tea, a sunhat, and a book. Such luxury, when it can be managed!

"To feel most beautifully alive means to be reading something beautiful, ready always to apprehend in the flow of language the sudden flash of poetry." --Gaston Bachelard

My August reading list:

And the Heart Says Whatever, by Emily Gould

Curtis Sittenfeld's cover blurb attracted me to this one: "These smart poignant essays about being young and literary in New York City are like a 21st century version of The Bell Jar, but with more pot, sex, technology, and (thank goodness) a different ending." I almost bought it then and there, but thought I should check the back flap. "For anyone who has ever had a job she wishes she didn't, felt inchoate ambition sour into resentment, regretted a decision, or told a secret to exactly the wrong person, these stories will be achingly familiar. At once a road map of what not to do and a document of what's possible, this book heralds the arrival of a writer who decodes the new challenges of our post-private lives, and the age old intricacies of the human heart." Yes, definitely. I'm in.

Art Lover: A Biography of Peggy Guggenheim, by Anton Gill

I love a juicy biography, and Peggy Guggenheim has always been a fascinating character to me. Also, I'm a sucker for books that contain both art and sex. Call it a guilty pleasure. It could be worse. From Booklist: After her father died aboard the Titanic when she was 14, Guggenheim evolved into a lonely, rebellious young woman painfully self-conscious about her less than perfect appearance and therefore burdened with low self-esteem. She preferred Europe to America, loved to read but never attended college, sought validation in men who didn't love her but who were eager to spend her money, and insisted on a woman's right to shape her own destiny. Gill patiently records every battle in her two violently contentious marriages (one to artist Max Ernst), her compulsive promiscuity, miserable failure at motherhood, and peripatetic lifestyle, then, with a sigh of relief, concentrates on her vision and generosity in supporting avant-garde writers and artists and her influential role as gallery owner and pioneering modern art collector. In spite of much chaos and unhappiness, Guggenheim--flamboyant and audacious, a magnet for gossip and a champion of artistic freedom--did move culture forward in the face of fascism, virulent anti-Semitism, and pervasive sexism.

Prime Green: Remembering the Sixties, by Robert Stone

Counterculture. Peyote. Hanging with Ken Kesey. It's a long strange trip, and I think I'm going to like it, in part because I have the soul of a flower child (but with high heels, and not as hirsute)and in part because I like Robert Stone. I actually picked this one up because of the technicolour magic looking bus on the cover (I have admitted this before, and feel no shame: I judge books by their covers. When a book doesn't live up to its cover, I become bitterly resentful and always wonder who the right person to send a letter to would be. You know, rather than blaming myself for the inaccurate cover-judging.) but novelist Robert Stone (Dog Soldiers) had me at the start of the memoir. It begins with him as a young man, dreaming of becoming a writer and boarding a Navy ship to cover an environmental mission to the Antarctic with a copy of On the Road in his satchel. What better time than summer to read about the sixties, an era I sometimes wish I'd lived in, for the music, and the idealism (right or wrong), and all those freak flags flying about. Prime Green is already proving to be just as much fun as the cover suggested it would be, without any shades of psychedelic cliche.

Peace out. Gone reading.

xo, M.

Mix Tape Musings

2010-07-07T11:55:00.000-07:00

This year, I decided to bring my iPod docking station up to our annual cottage sojourn in Prince Edward County, near the Sandbanks, with my dad, stepmom, and younger brothers. I thought it was a good idea. At this point, we all have iPods, so my teen brothers could put theirs in and enjoy some of their own music once in a while, too (providing it wasn't crap), and it would be easier than having to change tapes and CD's all the time (we're the kind of family who likes background noise and we're constantly listening to music and sharing new songs or expounding on the merits of old ones whilst having about twelve different conversations).

But when I brought out the device and plugged it in, I saw my dad's face fall a little. "Oh, sure, okay, put your iPod in, let's have a listen," he said jovially, turning off the mix tape he'd been playing. "I don't have to, dad," I said to him. "No, no, it's fine," he said bravely, sliding his tape back into its case and putting it in a drawer along with the others.

About halfway through the first day at the cottage, I noticed something was missing. It was the mix tapes, I realized. Listening to the clunky old things, with their awkward transitions, and strange song combinations, had become as much a part of our cottage tradition as the before-dinner Bloody Caesars on the dock, the late night games of (rude) slangteasers, the collaborative and indulgent meals, and the day trips to the dunes. So I told my dad I was tired of listening to iPods and wanted to hear one of his tapes. "Really?" He asked me, as though he could scarcely believe I wasn't about to follow it up with a juvenile "Not! Your mix tapes are shite!"

So he put in his "best" mix tape (I know it's his best one because later in the week it got lost and he freaked out and said his "best" mix tape was missing, and we had to tear about the cottage looking for it, making off-c0lour Alzheimer's jokes all the while).

As the songs played, each one jumbling into the next, often punctuated by snippets of voiceovers by long retired or even long dead DJs (Don Daynard, anyone?) I felt like I was a teenager again. And, I remembered why I was such a lucky teenage girl: I had (and have) a dad who is very cool, in a very geeky way. Which, in my books, is the best way to be cool.

Bruce's "best" mix tape goes something like this: Stay, by Shakespeare's Sister (remember this one? And the wacky video? http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_eXw47qb4U0 It made me think of a grade nine breakup, my first heartbreak. I'd listen to this song, most likely on that very mix tape, over and over again in my room, until my dad banged on the door and said, "What have you done with my best mix tape?"). Then, Night Moves, by Bob Seger (I'm not a Seger fan, but my dad LOVES him; if you've never listened to this song, it's worth it for Seger's creepster line about the tight pants he used to wear when he was a teenager).

Next: Damn, I Wish I Was Your Lover, by Sophie B. Hawkins (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RQQpbRN1FrE, yet another song that encapsulates all my hormone-fuelled teenage yearnings, and one that I still find all these years later to be an incredibly romantic, evocative tune). Then Have I Told You Lately That I Love You, by Van Morrison, followed by Lay, Lady Lay by Bob Dylan (which is one of my favourite songs ever, and also, my dad told me it reminds him of my mom, which may seem weird, since they're no longer together, but to me is very meaningful; they loved each other once, and that's an important thing for me to know), then Dock of the Bay by Otis Redding.

Then a small interuption where I taped over part of the "best" mix tape ever with the song People Everyday by Arrested Development http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dgtcTVDcjH0 as a thirteen year old, and my dad left it in, possibly to remind himself of what a brat I was. (Or maybe because he was secretly into hip hop/reggae/roots )

A wierd scratching, clicking sound, a dj's voice (Alan Cross, I think) and then, Feed the Tree by Belly. Belly is an obscure band I used to listen to in high school, back when The Edge was still CFNY. My dad determinedly tuned in, too, so we'd have something to talk about other than why the hell I couldn't just make my bed and pick up my clothes and stop scowling at him. After a while, he found he actually enjoyed alternative rock, and especially girl-bands like Belly. (He also liked James, and Crash Vegas, and Mazzy Star, and The Sundays. See what I mean? Pretty damn cool.) He worked from home as a freelance writer, and would keep CFNY on all day, and call in every time there was a contest.

Quite often, I'd come home from school and he'd excitedly tell me he'd won me a pair of tickets to Ned's Atomic Dustbin, or Beck, or the Lemonheads, or Edgefest, or Frente. And he'd always drive me downtown to see the show. How cool is that?

Next up was Vox by Sarah McLachlan. I must have spent a lot of time falling in and out of love during the days of my misspent youth because the line "You're gone and I'm lost inside this tangled web in which I'm lain entwined." was still as bittersweet as ever.

And then, just when the mood was getting too heavy, on came Arlo Guthrie's Alice's Restaurant.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JmyXTOHC3w8

"Great tape, dad!" I said. "The best." He smiled and put on another. It was almost dinner time, so I made him a Caesar and gave him a kiss. The song, I Don't Know Much But I Know I Love You by Aaron Neville and Linda Rondstandt came on. I gagged and fled the cottage.

I guess if he were too cool all the rest of the dads in the world would start to feel threatened.
xo, Marissa

Giveaway Alert!

2010-06-15T19:10:00.000-07:00

Hey everyone! This week I'm guest blogging over at Canadian Family. Follow me there! Come on!

You can see my first two posts here and I'll keep posting links as the blogs go live.

If you like the blog, and enjoy Canadian Family, send me a note at marissastapleypon@gmail.com and I'll hook you up with a free subscription, 'cause I have five to give away!

xo, M.

Summer Ennui

2010-06-12T12:02:00.000-07:00

I'm lazy! It must be the fact that it's June now, which means it's officially summer (yes, I KNOW it's not officially summer until the 21st, but in my world, June = summer), and summer always makes me feel just a little languid, like I'm a southern belle who should be sipping mint juleps and threatening to expire from heat exhaustion rather than actually getting anything accomplished. I haven't blogged in weeks, because I have very little to say. So, rather than launch into some inane account of what I've been doing (pretending to expire, revising my novels, looking forward to my upcoming vacation, painting my toes to match my shoes, teaching the children the meaning of ennui: i.e. "No, kids, we can't have ice cream every single time the ice cream truck passes, because then it wouldn't be a special treat, it would just be a regular old occurrence, and if there were no special treats in life, you'd suffer from ennui. The world would become interminable. Don't look at me like that.") I'm simply going to link to a few other blogs I'm doing over the course of this week. First, I can be found over at Food Network Canada, pretending to be a domestic goddess: http://www.foodnetwork.ca/guides/story.html?id=3131815

In a few more days, I'll post links to me guest blogging as a green mama for Canadian Family. Stay tuned for details on your chance to win a free subscription to the mag, simply for reading my blog entries all about my eco-related family foibles!

Happy weekend!
xo, M.

p.s. incidentally, while I'm being lazy and not providing anything interesting of my own to regale you with, check out this Globe & Mail editorial about the reality of drilling for oil in the arctic, which is what Saving the World (in Sensible Shoes) is all about. (Okay, it's also about shoes and best friends and boys and bad bosses, but the perils of offshore drilling play a central role in the drama. And all joking aside, this is an important article to read--we should all be fully cognizant of the risks offshore drilling presents for such a valuable part of our country.)
http://www.theglobeandmail.com/news/opinions/an-arctic-spill-would-be-even-worse/article1599718/

SAVE THE WHALES!

The Things That Really Matter

2010-05-27T05:49:00.001-07:00

The day before yesterday, both my children woke up from their nap at the same time, and my three-year-old son asked if he could go downstairs first, and play while I changed the baby's diaper. "Of course," I said. "Meet you down there."

Five minutes later, I carried my daughter down the stairs, and called something out to him, probably a snack or game suggestion. No answer. I went into the living room, but he wasn't there. I checked the basement. The lights were off. Not there, either. I looked in the cold cellar, and the laundry room, and the little alcove under the basement stairs. I started calling his name.
I run upstairs, back into the living room, and looked behind the couch. My daughter started shouting his name, too, in her endearing baby way. "Are you?" She called. "Are yoooouuuuuu?" I ran upstairs and checked his room, our room, the bathroom, my office. I called his name again and again.

I ran into the backyard. The gate was open and the yard was empty. I sprinted around to the front and looked up and down the sidewalk, hoping to see a beautiful little boy with unruly blond hair, wandering down the street, back home towards me. There were already tears on my cheeks. My writer's imagination was going wild. My son, my cautious little son who would never venture more than a few feet away from the house without thinking better of it and coming back home again, was gone. Gone. Just like that. It was as though he'd disappeared off the face of the earth.

I have never been more terrified.

I ran inside to get the portable phone, but before I did, I took one last look up and down the street. I felt like I was standing at the edge of a precipice, with my life before this happened behind me, and my life after this happened a gaping and horrifying chasm I was going to have to dive into. (I told you, I have a wild imagination.) Is this really happening? I asked myself. Where is he? What do I do?

I remembered something I'd read once about the first 20 minutes a child is missing being the most crucial. I called 911. The operator asked my address, then my name, and how to spell it. I couldn't remember. I couldn't breathe. "Please," he said to me. "Please understand that these things almost always turn out fine. The faster you answer my questions, the faster we can help you find your son." Find your son. Oh my god, I think my son is missing.

I answered all his questions, continuing to run around the house as we talked, up the stairs, down the stairs, into the yard, out onto the sidewalk again, over and over until I was dripping with sweat and my daughter was bumping and giggling on my hip, thinking we were playing a game. Then I had to describe his clothes, his body type, his hair, and his eyes. It was too much like a made-for-TV movie. I sat down on the stairs and started to cry. I was describing my son to the police. Because I couldn't find him. He was with me one moment, and then he was gone.

I've been writing a lot lately about how fragile and uncertain life is, but I never really thought my life could be fragile and uncertain. I was writing about other people, not me and my family. I was safe.

How arrogant of me. What made me think nothing bad could ever happen to me? I cried while the operator assured me emergency services would be arriving momentarily. I wondered what I could have done, if anything, to prevent this from happening. I blamed myself entirely.

Just then, I heard a voice. "Mummy, why are you crying? Who are you talking to?"

He had chocolate and crumbs all over his face. "The police," I said. "Mummy called the police." I was already feeling like an idiot. My son's latest misdemeanour is to sneak cookies from the kitchen and then hide somewhere and eat them. How had I not thought of this? I glanced into the kitchen and saw the stool pushed close to the counter and the empty cookie jar sitting open at the edge of it. I'd make a terrible detective. I'd missed all the clues, and panicked instead. Clearly, high pressure situations are not my forte.

"Hello?" Said the operator.

"I found my son," I said sheepishly.

"Is he okay? Do you need medical help?"

"No. He was just hiding behind the easy chair in the living room, eating cookies. I'm so sorry to have bothered you."

The operator laughed and assured me I was not the first mother who had called him in a panicked state about a child who wasn't really missing. He cancelled the police cars, firetrucks, and ambulances. I hung up and hugged my son so hard he wriggled away.

"Why are you crying, Mummy?"

"Because I thought I lost you," I said, wiping the chocolate from his little mouth.

"Don't cry, Mummy, I'm not lost."

So what lessons did I learn here? First, that I'm awful in a crisis. I couldn't even remember my own name. I'm too embarassed to fully reveal the extent of my hyperventilating, but suffice it to say the operator could possibly now qualify as my therapist. Second, I need to keep the cookies somewhere else.

And third, everything really can change within the confines of a minute or two. Catastrophes like the earthquake in Haiti and the oil spill in the Gulf are testament to this. None of us, no matter how careful we are, or how much we have, or how smart we are, or how nice we are, are immune.

This is what I learned, during ten terrifying minutes, one hot afternoon: life is full of valuable things. Some of them matter more than others. It's up to us to figure out the things that really matter, and stop worrying about the things that don't. Our existence really is too short and uncertain to waste a single second.

xo, M.

Revision Blocked

2010-05-22T10:45:00.000-07:00

I'm supposed to be revising my second novel right now. (I wrote it while waiting for my first novel to sell, instead of, for example, chewing off my hands from the anticipation and angst of it all, or, for another example, screaming obscenities at people while walking down the street wearing shoes three sizes too big with rolled up newspapers stuffed in them, and allowing birds to nest in my hair. Um, yeah, the waiting may have driven me a bit crazy. er. than I already am.)

Now that my first novel has sold, there's more waiting involved -- so rather than get all foot tappy and annoying, I'm continuing to work on the second novel. It's kind of win-win, because it means I still get to write. Given that writing is my passion, and waiting my pet peeve, I should be in heaven right now. I have an entire day set aside to revise, hours available to work with the suggestions my amazing and generous readers have given me, precious time to shape this manuscript into something fabulous and perfect.

Except I can't do it. I'm frittering. I'm Googling. I'm Facebooking. I'm IMing people, and I'm not an IM'er. I'm emailing friends, relatives, everyone, anyone, who will reach out and virtually touch me. I even considered replying to Manjeet Daprizingoderry, a man who just emailed with a one time offer for me to help him wire ten zillion dollars from Uganda into my own bank account in exchange for a tidy profit.

What's wrong with me?!

It's like writer's block, but more sinister and slothy. (Slothy? Wow, I even made up a word. A really crappy one.) What I have is Revision Block. Ack! And it's even worse than writer's block, because I ought to be ashamed of myself. It's not as though I'm staring down a blank document, with its mocking, blinking, winking cursor. It's not as though I'm sitting here wondering what the hell, if anything, I'm going to write, then giving into my Fear of the Blank Page, shutting down Word, and surfing the net for gladiator-style stiletto sandals instead.

I have no excuse for the fact that I may or may not have just bought shoes online. This should be easy. I have my lists of comments, questions, and suggestions, simply waiting for me to act on them. I have all the tools I need. I'm like Luke Skywalker after his Jedi Knight training. (My light sabre is pink. Obviously.)

Why then, instead of gaining literary higher ground, would I rather read an article about how Justin Bieber smacked his forehead on a revolving door this morning (HA! Loser.) or watch the Harvard Sailing Team's Boys Will Be Girls video for the dozenth time? (It really is hilarious, though. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gspaoaecNAg. Fave line: “Hey honey, how’s it going, what are you doing, who are you with, where are you, are you doing something cool? I want to know what you’re doing and who you’re talking to and I want to know everything that you’re doing and I don’t want you to act like I’m being annoying, I just want you to answer all my questions.” Second fave line. "Tell me. You love me. Rebecca." It seriously kills me. Come on, join the time wasting Dark Side and watch it, too! *Cue Darth Vader breathing*.)

Anyway.

The truth is, I don't know why I'm being so slothy today. But now that I've blogged about it, I can add yet another thing to my list of things I've done this afternoon that doesn't include working on my revision. Which feels kind of like productivity, in a weird way. (And oh my goodness, what was WITH that sentence about adding a thing to the list of things I've done that doesn't include working on my revision. Good lord, I think I need to step AWAY from the keyboard.)

Ta ta, I'm off to paint my toes!

xo, M.

I see London, I see France ...

2010-05-11T05:07:00.000-07:00

Recently, I was in my yard, chatting over the fence with my neighbour. She was hanging her clothes on her line, and I was trying not to stare at her bloomers. Then, she casually said to me, "So, do you ever plan to use your clothesline?" (Yes, there was slight judgement in her tone. Slight. But present.)

"Um, what? I have a clothesline?"

She pointed up. Way up. At this thing in my yard that runs across our property line, nearly at roof level.

I'd always wondered what it was, but the people who lived in our house before us were a little eccentric, so there was a chance it could have been anything. Like, maybe a tightrope. (I'd chosen to ignore it, and had planned to deal with it when Joseph got older, invested in a unicycle and told me he was joining the circus and needed to practice.)

"That's a clothesline?" I said. My neighbour explained that the previous owners used it all the time. And not as a tightrope. Alas.

(Okay, time to be honest here. I didn't really think it was a tightrope. I always kind of suspected it was a clothesline, but a) had no idea how to use it aside from climbing the roof and risking life and limb to dry my clothes in the sun and b) it was so high up that the idea of hoisting my gitch and brassieres for the entire neighbourhood to see kind of freaked me out. Instead, I chose to plaster my basement with clothes in one of my many misguided and guilt-driven attempts to reduce my carbon footprint, and then, finally, when I realized they were never going to dry without starting to smell like feet first, I'd put the clothes in the dryer and turn off all the lights as penance. I know. It's a glamorous life I lead. Being a soon-to-be-published author is not all champs and party dresses.)

"I just have no idea how I would ever use it," I said to my neighbour. "And I should probably run. I think one of the children has set something on fire." (Not really. Obviously. My children are angels. Or, at least don't have access to matches.)

Then my neighbour reached across the fence and pointed to a metal handle thingie against the wall. "You just pull that and it comes down," she said. "Easy peasy."

"Great, thanks," I said.

"I'm so happy to help out," she replied, and went back to hanging her bloomers to dry below eye level.

Now that I know I have a working clothesline in my backyard (it's big enough to fit my entire wardrobe at one time, and that's saying a lot) I cannot, in good conscience, refrain from using it. I tried the metal handle thingie, and it really is easy frigging peasy. So, I'm officially turning off my dryer. Even if the moment I raise my underpants up the pole, I'm going to have a summer camp-related post-panty raid flashback, and envision my undies (white, with Friday emblazoned on them in pink; I was that kind of kid), flapping in the breeze at the top of the flagpole. Shudder.
With all the carbon I'll save, perhaps I'll fly to London. Or France.

xo, M.

Earth Day Party; Location: My Blog

2010-04-22T05:18:00.000-07:00

I’ve been pondering all week how best to commemorate Earth Day on my blog. Actually, I’ve been pondering Earth Day for a while now: what it means, what it should mean, whether it means anything …

My verdict is that it does mean something. Hey, some people say Mother’s Day doesn’t mean anything, but you still go buy your mom some flowers and a cheesy card and tell her you love her on Mother’s Day right? (If you don’t, you should. Just saying.)

Eco-preach alert: Ultimately, we owe a debt to the earth. And it's a debt we'll likely never be able to pay off. (Kind of like with our moms. Having gone through it, I can honestly say there’s really no way to make up for the whole actually giving birth thing. Beautiful experience, yes. But, I quote Lorelai Gilmore: "And while some have called it the most meaningful experience of your life, to me, it was something more akin to doing the splits over a crate of dynamite.")

So on this day, here's what I propose: pause for just a moment, or a few moments, to think about, and be grateful for, what a beautiful planet we inhabit. It's a planet that's very worthy of stewardship and respect. Which is why I’m having a blog party! To get everyone in a festive mood, here's my Earth Day Blog Party playlist. Each song comes with an Earth Day fact. (Yes, I know it’s not sustainable champers, local organic canapés, and a fair-trade fashion show; I'll save that for the fabulous book launch. This is cyberspace. I’m doing my best.)

Happy Earth Day, fellow earthlings!

1. Don't Panic; Coldplay
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jpei22c3SDM&feature=fvst

Earth Day Fact: (Courtesy of Davidsuzuki.org. Obviously, DS is totally invited to my pretend Earth Day fete. As long as he wears his maple leaf.) "Canada is the largest consumer of energy in the world on a per capita basis, and the second largest producer of greenhouse gases (after the United States). We have just over 30 million people, but we use as much energy as the entire continent of Africa, home to 700 million."
Earth Day Solution: Learn about four ways to cut your carbon here.

2. Is it Like Today? World Party
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=suCRHReHFns
Earth Day Fact: We already have a Great Pacific Garbage Pile, which consists of a floating island of plastic and crap that's the size of Texas. Freaking TEXAS. And now, they found a new one, in the Atlantic, just in time for Earth Day. Obviously, this is a huge problem.
Earth Day Solution: It's a big one to tackle, but it must be tackled. Rather than getting overwhelmed, shutting our eyes, and pretending the big mid-ocean garbage piles don't exist, we need to stop buying so much disposable crap and also, pick up plastic garbage when we see it flying around on the streets so it doesn't end up in the closest body of water. I carry gloves in my handbag for that very purpose. Yes I do. In fact, the kids and I are going out garbage picking this afternoon. Yes we are. Currently, my children think I'm the coolest mom ever. Later in life, when they're in therapy, they'll probably say something like, "She made us wear gross old gloves and pick up GARBAGE." Well, whatever.

3. California Stars; Billy Bragg and Wilco
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nhm27uXG6bg
(Sorry about the kind of wierd video, it was the only one I could find.)
Earth Day Fact: Pommery now makes a sustainable champagne called Pop Earth.
Earth Day Solution: Go get some! (Or, alternately, any other organic, sustainable, or biodynamic wine will do. Lifford Wine Agency represents some great ones; check out their site and search organic, biodynamic, or sustainable in their mini engine. Most are available at the LCBO.) A few other fabulous vintners worth checking out: Yealands, Benziger, Arboleda, and Caliterra.

4. Santa Monica; Bedouin Soundclash
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x9_FKHzMF3w
I've included this band because they're from Toronto. They're local and organic. (Even if the song's called Santa Monica, and not Toronto.)
Earth Day Fact: Courtesy of Local Foods Plus and Third Eye Media. If 10,000 people shifted $10 of their weekly food budget to local sustainable food, in one year it would be the equivalent in greenhouse gas reductions of taking almost 1000 cars off the road. It would also pump enough money into Ontario’s economy to create 100 new local jobs,” says Lori Stahlbrand, founder and President of Local Food Plus.
Earth Day Solution: Do what the lady says!

5. Noah and the Whale; Five Years Time
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T8YCSJpF4g4
Earth Day (Sobering) Fact: Courtesy of Greenpeace. "Populations of top predators, a key indicator of ecosystem health, are disappearing at a frightening rate, and 90 percent of the large fish that many of us love to eat, such as tuna, swordfish, marlin, cod, halibut, skate, and flounder, have been fished out since large scale industrial fishing began in the 1950s. The depletion of these top predator species can cause a shift in entire oceans ecosystems where commercially valuable fish are replaced by smaller, plankton-feeding fish. This century may even see bumper crops of jellyfish replacing the fish consumed by humans. These changes endanger the structure and functioning of marine ecosystems, and hence threaten the livelihoods of those dependent on the oceans, both now and in the future.
Earth Day Solution: Support sustainable seafood programs, like Sea Choice in North America. They're a great resource for making sustainable and healthy seafood choices.

6. Feel it in My Bones; Tiesto featuring Tegan & Sara
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y0LO6v43YCo
Earth Day Fact: We're toxic. And the products we use are making us even more toxic.
Earth Day Solution: Learn about the cosmetic chemicals to avoid, and stop using them. They're carcinogenic. http://www.davidsuzuki.org/issues/health/science/toxics/dirty-dozen-cosmetic-chemicals/

7. Little Red Corvette; Prince
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=v5mgRFSCDO8
Mint Car; The Cure
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3m3NihIxthA
(Sorry, I have two favourite car songs. Even though cars aren't my favourite ...)
Earth Day Fact: It's not just driving cars that's the problem. The making and shipping of an automobile is a massive eco bomb. A car causes more pollution before it's ever driven than in its entire lifetime of driving. (Cradle to the Grave, Umweltund Prognose-Institut Heidelberg, 1993. )
Earth Day Solution: Learn about ways to go car free here, at the World Carfree Network.

8. Hard Sun; Eddie Veder
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jpkeJWXY4ZA
Earth Day Fact: Sustainable, renewable energy dependence is not just a hippie dream.
Earth Day Solution: Read this article.

9. Jailer; Asa
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HIobCyXn2_o&feature=fvst
Earth Day Fact: (Because people are a renewable resource, too!) Courtesy of Unicef: More than 80 per cent of the world’s 35 million refugees and displaced people are women and children. (And as the earth's climate grows more uncertain, environmental refugee levels are expected to reach epic proportions.)
Earth Day Solution: Support organizations like Unicef. Learn more about their emergency response programs here.

10. When We Fall In; Sean Hayes

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dtZy4bZf4J8
It’s not all doom and gloom at my earth day party. No sobering factoid here. Just go on, grab a partner, and celebrate earth day with a bit of a love in …. ;-) I’m dedicating this one to Mother Earth. “She’s in every little bird, forever rising, forever dying, picking petals from the stars ..."

xo, Marissa

Green Evolution 2010: Green is the new Malbec

2010-04-18T06:40:00.000-07:00

Recently, ultimate eco-fashionista Kelly Drennan of Third Eye Media and Fashion Takes Action (I’ve blogged about her before; you can learn more about her, and her sustainably minded causes, here) alerted me to the approach of the following event: Green Evolution 2010.

It’s an eco-friendly wine tasting dinner, commemorating 40 years of Earth Day celebrations. There are two events: one in Toronto on April 20th, at Globe Earth Restaurant, and one in Ottawa the next day at ARC The Hotel. Both evenings will feature eight leading sustainable wineries, all of whom will match their biodynamic or sustainable wines to each component of an eight course (local, sustainable) meal.

I’m in, obviously. Kelly had me at eco-friendly wine. (Okay, fine, so she had me at wine. Even though I’ve just come down from two weeks of drinking so much champagne I should probably consider a detox. Speaking of which, Pommery, one of the oldest and most respected Champagne houses in the world, have created the world’s first sustainable Champagne. It’s called “POP EARTH” and will be featured at the Green Revolution dinner. I'll say it again: I'm in!)

My clear weakness for cocktails aside, attention should be paid to the greening of the wine industry, regardless of how bah-humbug-ish you may feel about Earth Day. I really don't want to sound eco-smug or eco-preachy (If I ever do sound eco-smug or eco-preachy, you have permission, as I said to a friend the other night, to slap me with my book. If my book isn't out yet, slap me with something else.) but I do think the eight wineries offering up their wares at the Green Evolution dinners in Toronto and Ottawa are making true strides in improving processes in an industry with the potential (a potential too often realized) to take a serious chunk out of the earth via soil erosion, pesticide contamination, and more. To make an attempt to change these practices isn't just green-washing, in my books, something so many other industries are currently engaging in as eco and organic and sustainable claims attach themselves to everything, from automobiles to dish soap. As always, I feel that making a mindful choice is an important step on the path towards sustainable enlightenment, and am thrilled that these wineries, and others, are giving the world the option to do so. I hope that one day, every glass we raise will be biodynamic, sustainable, or both. Definitely something to toast to! So come enjoy Green Evolution 2010, too!

Event & Ticket Information for Green Evolution 2010: $150 per person; call 416-365-5767 or 1-800-266-4764, Monday to Saturday, 9am to 6pm.

xo, Marissa

The Waiting is Over

2010-04-15T07:41:00.000-07:00

Some of you may remember my entry several months ago, back when I was pining for a publisher, and bemoaning the fact that the waiting to hear was the hardest part, a la Tom Petty.

Since then, I have continued to wait, in an uncharacteristically patient manner. (Understatement alert: patience is not my strong suit.)

Last Tuesday, I reached the proverbial end of my rope. It was an unexpected and emotional experience. I was like a single girl who says to her best friend, after several cocktails, in a very heartfelt way, that she does not need a boyfriend (damn it! why hasn't he called?!), that she’s perfectly happy on her own, that she's going to channel Whitney Houston (in her pre-crack-is-whack era) and find the greatest love of all, by learning to love herself, because children are the future, can we get another bottle over here, please? No, just one glass, thanks.

I really meant it. I decided that even if my first book didn’t get published, no matter how worthy I believed it to be, I would Move On. I would put my (insane amount of) energy into my second book. I would not give up on my dream, even if it felt a little tarnished, and I felt a little tired. (I may or may not have sent a desperate, last ditch-ish email to my uber agent, Sam Hiyate of The Rights Factory, who promptly phoned to see if I needed to be talked off a ledge. And I then may or may not have phoned my mom and cried a few slightly bitter tears. Look, I didn't say coming to this calm and come-what-may place was easy. I'm just saying, I got there.)

Afterwards, I took a deep breath, and turned to face the world, sans sensible shoes.

The phone rang five minutes later.

It was my uber-agent again, this time with the best news ever.

Saving the World in Sensible Shoes (see sidebar for synopsis) is going to be published (tentative pub date: Spring 2011) by the illustrious Key Porter Books.

Further details forthcoming.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to get back to drinking champs at all hours of the day and night, and using cartwheels as my primary mode of transportation.

I’ll keep you posted, of course.

xo, MSP, Author ;-)

Treehugger Tuesday Returns

2009-11-03T05:26:00.000-08:00

Last Thursday I went to the Women in Leadership Ontario Women in Business luncheon at the Design Exchange.

I was feeling intimidated before I even got there.

Women in leadership? Am I one of those? Doubtful. If anyone sees me as a leader, he or she is in deep trouble. (Uh oh. I have two children who follow me everywhere. Well, they're in deep trouble. Maybe I need to get them bracelets engraved with the letters DDWMWD: Don't Do What Mommy Would Do.)

Also, the whole Ontario Women in Business thing had me feeling a little cowed. I mean, sure, I'm a woman, and yes, I do business. But I do it in front of my laptop in my pajamas, drinking coffee until my hands shake and typing like the wind. I don't even have a briefcase.

Or business cards. But I'll get to that later.

I was also feeling edgy about the fact that it was a networking opportunity -- and I'm so bad at networking. I tend to babble, especially when I meet new, fabulously professional people. My M.O. is to gravitate towards other people in the room who obviously also hate networking, and we usually end up talking about things like why we don't like grilled eggplant or who loves Gossip Girl and why.

(Exhibit A in the case for why I am not a good networker: When we moved, two and a half years ago, I had a pile of business cards with our old phone number on them. I never had time/bothered to get new cards with our NEW number on them, so now I don't have valid business cards. My excuse is two babies and a novel in that two-and-a-half year span, but it's not a good one and I know it. Also, the week before last, I taught a class about corporate freelancing at Centennial college, and very piously told all the students that one of the most important things to do when trying to be a Person in Business is carry business cards and hand them out at every opportunity. While avoiding being obnoxious about it, of course. I don't have business cards, so am officially a hypocrite. At the networking event last week, whenever someone asked me for my card, I just mumbled nervously until they gave me theirs. The lesson here: business cards are important. Not having one is like not having a ... nose.)

What does all this have to do with the long absent Treehugger Tuesday, you might be wondering?

Well. The theme of this year's WIL Ontario Women in Business Luncheon was Managing Change & Sustainability. As in, treehugger type sustainability.

Although all the speakers in the extremely astute panel of women were amazing that day, I kind of fell in love with one of them: Kelly Drennan, the founder of Fashion Takes Action.

My novel features a main character who struggles to maintain some sort of sense of balance between her hippie-chic self and the side of her who has a pet name for her Chloe Paddington. And the reason I created a story with such greenish sensibilities is precisely because, when I started to write the novel, I was pregnant with my second child and all I could think was, "How can I write a story that's funny and engaging and that people will want to read, but that will also, maybe, just maybe help make the world a better place for my two children and all the other children who are going to have to deal with climate change and other hardships?"

That's how Rhiannon was born (and, shortly thereafter, my beautiful Maia was born, too, and the world actually became a better place. Ahem. Sorry. But she's really sweet.).

So when Kelly Drennan stood up last week at the WIL luncheon and said she founded Fashion Takes Action and the Green Gala because she has two daughters and wanted to make the world a better place for them, I was pretty sure I, and Rhiannon, had found a kindred spirit. (Or, at least, someone who will want to buy my book when it comes out.)

Later in the speech, Kelly stepped out from behind the podium and did a tiny pirouette in her sexy-professional LBD (Little Black Dress), which was off one shoulder and had peekaboo cut-outs down one arm. "It's organic cotton and organic wool," she said. Inside my head, Rhiannon swooned. (Now you can swoon over fashionable, pretty Kelly, below:)

Kelly loves fashion. But fashion can be bad for the planet. The woman speaks the truth. The thing about clothes and shoes and bags is that they involve chemical-laden crops, toxic dyes and processing processes (processing processes? yikes. I must still be on my first coffee), manufacturing practices that are unsavory to say the least and often involve exploitation and sometimes abuse, shipping and handling from one end of the globe to the other ... it's enough to make you want to screw fashion and just wear a locally grown hemp tunic from now on, right?

WRONG.

Even though most of us know our cute baby-tees and non-organic LBD's are potential eco-bombs, we still put them on and turn a blind eye to the impact they might be having on the planet. Not because we are bad people, but for a myriad of reasons - we don't know where to buy eco-friendly fashion, we don't have the extra money, we are impulsive, we want a bargain, we aren't armed with enough information, et cetera, et cetera.

Which is why people like Kelly Drennan are so amazing. Kelly, who also runs PR biz Third Eye Media from Toronto, and is raising two little girls (who are probably adorably dressed in organic cotton and Peace Silk at all times), founded FTA a few years ago, and immediately launched the first annual Green Gala, an eco-minded fashion show dedicated to showcasing the best in sustainable couture (yes, there really is such a thing).

And the show goes on while not using unnecessary electricity (i.e. no flat irons or blow dryers backstage, can you imagine?), or plastic water bottles, or excess paper ... or a lot of other things most other people wouldn't even think twice about when putting on a gala.

I was so impressed I wanted to stand up and say, "I love you Kelly!" from my bad-kid, didn't-bring-my-business-cards seat at the back of the room.

I didn't, though. I just took a lot of notes.

Oh, and my favourite part? During the Q&A period at the end of the panel discussion, someone stood up and asked poor Kelly if she uses flat irons and blow dryers at home. (Kelly has perfectly straight, shiny, champagne blond hair.) "Um. Um. Um." She said. And then she giggled nervously and diverted attention away from the fact that she obviously does use hair appliances - and that's okay! We can't all be perfect. - at home by telling the entire room that she is currently in the process of trying to go back to her natural hair colour, since dying her hair with chemical dyes isn't part of who she is anymore. Inside my head, Rhiannon tried to shout at Kelly from the back of the room to avoid using henna at all costs. I think they're having (fair-trade) coffee together next Tuesday, in the parallel univierse that exists in my head where fictional characters can befriend real people.

xoMarissa

True Confessions: Update

2009-10-15T12:20:00.000-07:00

My husband read my blog post last night and informed me that, no, actually, we weren't going to pay $15.98 for a CD we didn't really wreck in order to re-balance my karma. (Apparently, he wants me to come back as a slug in my next life.)

So this afternoon, I phoned the library and timidly explained my situation to the very kind sounding lady on the phone. (She sounded, in fact, the very way you'd imagine a Very Kindly Librarian with Grey Hair to sound, the kind of librarian you might remember from your childhood. She made me think of the Very Kindly Librarian with Grey Hair who worked in my hometown, whose name was Aunt Sheila. She really was my aunt, actually - well, my great aunt. And she had a Scottish accent so didn't really sound anything like this lady on the phone today, but I could tell they were cut from the same cloth. As in, the Kindly Librarian cloth. It's probably a tartan cloth.)

Anyway, the Kindly Librarian (not the one I yelled at, by the way) kindly checked both my son's card and my card and could not find a damage fee of any sort. "If you could kindly bring in the notice the next time you're here, I'll sort this out for you. And don't worry, you don't have to pay the fee."

Hmmm. I guess the Other, Not-So-Kindly Librarian was just trying to scare me by sending me a notice in the mail, and then, poof, eradicating the fine, since, let's face it, it never would have stood up in court. (Or where ever it is one takes one's library fine grievances.) Either that, or God and the Universe have a great sense of humour (and the ability to send fake library notices. Interesting.)

xo M.

True Confessions of a Library Vandal

2009-10-14T11:19:00.000-07:00

I have a confession to make.

I behaved badly last week.

Okay, so I probably behaved badly more than once last week, but this time was particularly bad. And also, it had consequences. My bad behaviour is going to cost me money. Not a lot of money, but money no less.

The other upshot of my uppity actions: I have besmirched a local establishment I and my children frequent often, and hold in high regard. Besmirched, I say.

The place I have besmirched is the library.

Here’s what happened:

You may recall there were a few rainy, windy, crappy days last week. And while I know in my last post I preached the benefits of gratefulness and not making a big deal out of the small stuff when the alternative is being buried under a pile of rubble, on this particular windy, stormy day, I wasn’t feeling especially grateful. The kids had runny noses (and have had runny noses, it seems, for the past month, with no end to the snot storm in sight), the wind was buffeting us down the street at an alarming rate, I feared an errant tree branch was going to be the end of us all, we were freezing, some of us were crying, and we had one last errand to run before we’d finally be able to return to the safety of home for a nice, warm lunch.

Our final task on this blustery day: We had library items to return. Books and a CD.
I pulled up to the library, scooted the stroller up the ramp, and attempted to open the book-return drop box on the lower level of the building. But the box was locked.

I jiggled it, annoyed. Definitely locked.

Which is when I noticed the cloth bag I was holding, containing said (already late) library items slated for return, was dripping.

I reached inside. Everything was soaked. An errant sippy cup had made it’s way into the bag and leaked its water contents all over everything.

Damn it.

"Poop," I said aloud.

"Poop," my son repeated with a laugh. (We recently had an f-word incident so are working very hard around our house to clean up our potty mouths so my son will stop, for the love of God, saying at every possible opportunity, "We CAN'T say FUCK, Mama. FUCK is a bad word.")

While the wind continued to howl and rage, I removed all items from the bag and wiped them with my coat. They were just a little damp, nothing a few wipes wouldn’t cure.
Except for the CD -- which was called Healthy Kidz, by the way, and was so lame we’d nixed it as a family in favour of some Pretenders (Maia’s new favourite band; you should see her kick it to Back on the Chain Gang). The water had leaked into the case and soaked the liner notes. Although the CD itself was fine (still lame, but fine) no amount of wiping could hide the fact that someone had wet the CD case. Besmirched it, if you will, with an unknown substance.

Oh how I wished the drop box wasn’t locked.

Oh how I didn’t want to have to plunk my pathetic wet CD case in front of the librarian and see the judgement in her eyes.

Another gust of wind blew off my son’s hat. I ran down the ramp to retrive it while he laughed and shouted "Poop!" into the wind.

By this time I was feeling annoyed. Okay, not just annoyed. I was feeling downright indignant. I’m a taxpayer, dammit, I was thinking. I pay taxes – and, if I’m being honest, far too many library late fees -- so that things like book return drop boxes will be bloody well open when I need them to be open, in order to avoid pulling my unwieldy stroller all the way into the library, loading it and the kids onto the elevator, going up the elevator and handing my (wet, damn it, damn it, damn it) books and CD to the librarian! Why the hell isn’t the drop box open?! Why, I beseech you?!

(When I'm angry, my inner voice tends to become extremely wordy and drama-queeny.)
So I parked the stroller and ran through the glass doors of the library, then shouted up at the librarian, who was at the top of the stairs behind her counter.

“Why,” I shouted, my hair flying out everywhere, an angry expression on my red face, “isn’t the drop box open?!”
“Because,” she replied coolly. “It’s only open when the library is closed. And the library is open right now."

Like I was stupid or something.

And I wasn't the stupid one. The library was the stupid one!

“Well, that’s stupid,” I shouted. “Even Blockbuster keeps their drop-box open all day and taxpayers aren’t even paying for that drop box.” (Listen, I told you: I behaved badly. I didn’t say I was proud of myself.)

The librarian didn’t respond. She gave me a very judgmental look. It made me angrier.
I stormed out the door, grabbed my library books, pulled the kids inside the library – making a big show about how difficult it was to pull the stroller through the doors with all the wind – parked them at the bottom of the stairs, stomped up the stairs, and dumped my books and (wet) CD in front of the librarian.

Then I ran away before she noticed that everything was damp.

Heading for home, I felt ashamed already. I mean, the librarian herself probably hadn’t made the decision that the drop box was to stay closed during library hours. And it probably wasn’t a calculated attempt to burn idiots like me who spill their kids’ water all over their stuff.

What was I thinking, being such a cow? I let my temper get the better of me. I yelled at the librarian. I stomped around the library. Library's are quiet, nice places. Quiet, nice places with books.

I probably shouldn’t have been surprised today when I got a notice in the mail from the library informing me (or, more accurately, informing my son, whose library card the items were taken out on, for shame) that I owe $15.98. For the damage of the Healthy Kidz CD, natch.

Part of me wanted to stomp over to the library and say, “Come on, people, the CD wasn’t damaged, the liner notes were wet, that's all! Geez! Half the stuff we take out of the library looks like it's been chewed by a pit bull before we even get a chance to chew on it ourselves!"

But another part of me knew this notice probably never would have arrived if I hadn’t behaved so badly.

If I'd been nice, if I'd explained to the librarian what had happened, if I'd apologized for wetting something that wasn't mine, things probably would have turned out differently. Even if the CD was damaged -- which I am SO sure it wasn’t by the way (and yes, I do have a thing about being right even when I know I’m wrong) -- the librarian might have decided to go easy on me and not make me pay for the lame CD that probably came free with a box of cereal.

Instead, I stomped, I yelled, I potentially wrecked her morning.

I have to pay the $15.98.

While I’m not saying I’m never going to let my temper get the better of me again - I'm me, after all, and not always the cooleset customer on the block - I am saying I learned a lesson. It's a pretty basic one: It's always nice to be nice. In the immortal words of the Stone Roses, Love Spreads. Plus, if I had been nice, I would have been setting a better example for my children, too. Because they are (the f-word incident being a case in point) watching and listening.

Poop.

xoMarissa

I'm Thankful For ...

2009-10-04T07:56:00.000-07:00

Gratitude is the key to happiness. There, I said it. You can stop wondering, quit going to therapy and return all those self help books, because that's the key, right there.

According to a recent study by a prof named Todd Kashdan, women are statistically happier than men because they are more grateful. (And here I thought we members of the fairer sex were happier because of the unabashed shoe shopping, playful accessorizing, and not having to deal with having a penis.) But no, says Kashdan. It's thankfulness and joy, the essential elements for living a good life.

There's a group dedicated to gratefulness called The Grateful Nation, and they insist people who are grateful are happier in general, whether they're male or female. Being thankful is good for your health, these full-of-gratitude people say.

But how can this be achieved? What if you just don't feel like you have anything to be grateful for? What if you screwed up at work, got stuck in traffic on the way home, flipped another driver the bird and felt like an idiot, got dinner going late, burned it, became hangry* at your loved one and said something mean, then went to bed annoyed with the world?

What if you forgot to pay the hydro bill and your power got turned off and you're cold and pissy, or you misplaced the novel you were reading right when you were at the exciting climax, or you lost your cell phone while drunk and have descended into a feeling of alcohol fuelled paranoid fear that none of your friends are ever going to be able to reach you again or that someone is stealing your identity as you speak?

Or, worse, truly worse, what if you lost your job and don't know how you're going to pay the mortgage, or someone you love is sick, or you feel alone, or anxious, or simply blue, for any number of very valid reasons?

I wish I could give a pat answer, something like, Hey, channel Pollyanna, because it could be worse, my friend, you could be living in Sumatra right now.

I'm not going to do that, though. I, too, have days when the little things, like household chores, or kids with colds, or not enough time in the day to read or rest, or not enough money for this season's so-cool thigh-high boots (where would I wear them anyway, I think, and that fosters even more petty ungratefulness ...) or a million other things toss me towards a sulky, thankless pit that not even the happy prospect of not being buried under a pile of rubble can pull me up from. It's human nature to be unhappy, I suppose.

Except that maybe it isn't. Maybe we all just need to be more grateful for what we do have, instead of focusing so determinedly on the things we don't.

My Seasonal Resolution (I like to make resolutions - and get a facial - every time the seasons change, not just in January) is to be more grateful. And what better time to make that resolution than autumn, the very season of giving thanks, a concept as old as pioneers, pumpkin pie, and possibly Stonehenge?

My plan is to focus on the small things this fall. Because, as they say, God is in the details. Or is it 'The devil is in the details'? Either way, I like details.

Here are a few of life's details that I rather enjoy: sitting by my son's bedroom window, looking at the full moon with him and feeling like we're sharing a secret ("Wow," he breathed last night, his eyes as wide as the celestial orb itself. "Is it a big flash light?"); when my daughter cuddles into my chest, nestles her head under my chin, sticks her thumb in her mouth and emits a coo that says, "Ah, this is the place, the place I belong"; the way my husband's cold feet always find mine in bed on these chilly fall nights; an extra duvet; spending a day at a fall fair; the flash of pleasure the comes from reading, in a poem, story, or any other written work, something that is beautiful. Even when it's about something sad. Like this: “My sorrow, when she's here with me, thinks these dark days of autumn rain are beautiful as days can be; she loves the bare, the withered tree; she walks the sodden pasture lane.” -- Robert Frost.

Happy autumn, everyone!
xo Marissa

* - Hangry is a term bandied about in our house, meaning one who hasn't eaten in several hours, has low blood sugar, and is feeling irritable. This person must be fed immediately or they will say or do something they will regret later.

Boldface Names, and What I Did on My Summer Vacation

2009-09-17T05:39:00.000-07:00

Fall has sprung, and it's officially time to become an upstanding member of society again. Which means I will be blogging more frequently, I promise. No more cottage sojourns (okay, one more, but only because the weather is so fab), no more camping trips (ever again. in my life. never, ever, ever, unless I can be guaranteed perfect weather and a non-leaky tent.), and no more lazy, hazy slacking off. My son started nursery school this week (I cried; he didn't.), the nanny is back part-time (my daughter cried; I didn't.), and I have a list of things to do and write as long as my arm. (I'm also two-thirds of the way through the first-ish draft of my second novel, and have been hearing noises about my first one being picked up, too, so life, writing-wise, is looking good indeed.)

Speaking of life, writing-wise, being good, I went to the launch of National Post columnist Shinan Govani's novel, Boldface Names, this week. The party was held at the Holt's Cafe during the film festival, so it couldn't be anything but fantastic. Also, and probably more importantly, it was in honour of Shinan, who simply is fantastic, especially in his Prada suit. ("Tweet it baby, tweet.") So it was double fab.

Overheard at the party: "What can be wrong about a party with free champagne?" Nothing. Nothing at all.

Me with my friends, Chantel Simmons and Alisha Sevigny, vainly attempting to fend off the paparazzi. (Thanks to photog extraordinaire Stephen Edgar for the image...)

xo Marissa

Twilight Summer

2009-08-20T06:29:00.000-07:00

It's official: I am a Twilight addict.

I know. This is probably not the groundbreaking admission I think it is, considering the Twilight books have been out for so long they've already started taping the third movie in Vancouver, and almost everyone has already read the entire saga. (A bonus for me; I don't have to shell out for hardcover.) But I have an excuse: over the past few years, I have been a little busy, what with having two kids and writing one and a half books and a slew of freelance articles, while trying to have a life and make sure the house doesn't disappear under a layer of filth. Thus, I haven't had much time to read. (Which is profoundly sad. Almost as sad as falling in love with a painfully beautiful vampire you can never be with. Because I really love to read.)

Having a life is going to have to wait, though. For the next month or so, I'll be neglecting my domestic duties (more than usual) and staying up far later than I should reading the next three books in the saga. (Which is as it should be. Vampire books should always be read at night, while everyone else in the house is asleep, and the house is full of dust and cobwebs, yes?)

I must know what happens with Edward and Bella. (Oh, and I totally get the Robert Pattinson thing now. When I first started seeing pictures of him in the tabloids, I alternated between thinking, "What on earth is Twilight?" and "Hmmm, that guy is kind of odd looking. What's the appeal?" But now I understand. Were I not happily married, I, too, would meet him for dangerous trysts in dark forests. I am NOT on Team Jacob. No way, no day.)

Edward, Edward, rah rah rah!

Ahem. Sorry.

As a writer, it's difficult for me not to read a book and edit it in my head as I go along. I'm sure that sounds terribly literary-snobbish of me, and I don't mean to. I know I'm no Martha Gellhorn (or John Irving, or Audrey Niffeneger, or Emily Giffin for that matter). However, I have been writing for newspapers and magazines for almost a decade, so editing and rewriting are as natural to me as breathing. (Ooh, or if I were a vampire, I might say as natural to me as craving human blood! Shiver.)

When I can become so absorbed in a story I forget all about critiquing the writing and plot, or thinking in a high minded way, "Ugh! I could do better than this!", that's big.

That's what's happening to me with Twilight. I know it's not Pulitzer Prize-winning stuff, but who cares? It's a bloody good story - pun intended. I feel like Meyer has succeeded in capturing every fantasy I ever had as a ripped jean, Doc Marten-wearing, Jane's Addiction and Cure-obsessed teenage girl.

.

Of course, now that I have a new obsession, I've spent a great deal of time Googling Twilight and catching up on what I've been missing the past few years. And I've been reading about Stephenie Meyer, the Twilight author. I especially liked this section of the Twilight website, where she does a Q&A.

http://www.stepheniemeyer.com/twilight.html

I once heard another writer critique Meyer, saying she's an average writer who doesn't deserve the fame she's enjoying. I strongly disagree. Anyone can have a great idea, but actually writing a book is hard. Writing a book while taking care of kids is quite another matter. Writing a bestseller that becomes an international phenomenon ... I'm in awe.

Go Stephenie! Rah rah rah!

I'd love to write more, but I have to go now. Edward is waiting for me. Swoon.

xoMarissa

Tell Me a Story

2009-08-06T06:02:00.000-07:00

I'm back from the wilds of Muskoka. And boy, was it a long drive.

On the way home, my husband screeched to a stop on the 404, where we sat throwing snacks into the back seat and singing to the kids at the top of our lungs as we waited for the gridlock to clear. "I hate driving," he said. "I hate it. Let's get rid of the car. Let's never drive again." Which would be nice, for lots of reasons. And also not nice, for lots of other reasons. (Having to take the bus when we want to go to Muskoka, for one.)

On the way up north, however, despite the fact that it took five plus hours when it should have taken three and we got lost a mere ten minutes away from our destination and drove in circles for an hour, we did, as a family, experience a brief time of calm solidarity. It came in the form of Stuart McLean.

We'd forgotten our iPod adaptor so we had to listen to the radio. (Gasp. I know. A friend forgot his iPod enroute to the same cottage and turned around and drove all the way back to the city to get it, rather than suffer through hours of long weekend traffic while forced to listen to DJ drivel and ads. He got to the cottage around midnight, but he was happy.)

I had my secret weapon, though: CBC Radio 2. It used to just be classical, but now they have the contemporary urban (I don't know what that means but I like it) Live Drive in the morning with Tom Allen, and in the afternoon, after the classical sojourn, it's Rich Terfry (by night, he's contemporary urban rapper/musician Buck 65 and I think he's a great DJ. He plays lots of funky, folksy, rootsy, rocky, and cool-in-general-music, and also, he's funny, in an unassuming way. When introducing Haydn's "Let's Break Up" last week, he said, "This is a breakup song. But you can dance to it. If you know what I mean." I don't know why I found that so endearing.)

But when I clicked to 94.1 it wasn't Tom or Rich. It was Stuart McLean's Vinyl Cafe hour. My husband rolled his eyes, but really, it was either McLean, BTO on Q107, or Nickleback on every other station.

In his halting voice - there's something about the way McLean talks that makes you want to listen in rapt silence (or, in my husband's case, change the channel immediately) - he discussed a man from Texas he'd learned of who had apparently never been on vacation in his life and, for his first ever road trip, decided to go to Montreal with a pal to see McLean live. What a wildman.

Wilder still, McLean's plan was to phone this man and surprise him on live radio. Ooooh, crazy. But as hokey as it was - and believe you me, it was as hokey as they come - the segment was cute. The Texan man - Don - was beside himself. His day, if not his life, had obviously been made. And when Stuart informed Don that, should he ever decide to drive thousands of miles to Canada again to see a Vinyl Cafe show, the tickets would be on the house, I thought the old Texan was going to cry.

Everyone else on the highway look panicked and pissed off, but not us - we were listening to McLean and smiling.

Then McLean told one of his Vinyl Cafe stories. (The Vinyl Cafe is what he's famous for - he tells stories about bumbling Dave, the owner of a second hand record store. The motto of Dave's store, and the entire show, is "We may not be big but we're small". That sums it up well. Hokey, pokey, and totally adorable.)

The story was called Cat in the Car, and was a rather apropos family road trip tale.

The kids stopped crying and listened in silence as the cat hid in the car and scratched at Dave's ankles all the way to Tobermory and beyond. At intervals, Maia giggled and cooed, Joseph laughed and said, "That's silly!" (when the family took a wrong turn and ended up in a parade) and my husband stopped swearing under his breath at passing motorists. Who doesn't like being told a story? It's reminiscent of cozy bedtime and evenings or afternoons spent snuggled on an adult's lap, just listening. And what better way to suffer through a traffic jam than by becoming absorbed in a funny tale which serves no purpose other than to warm the heart and entertain?

As far as road trips with traffic and toddlers go, it was a nirvana moment. By the end of the story, both children had fallen asleep and Joe and I were calm.

The traffic was still there, though. While we weren't paying attention it had regrouped and intensified.

And we still had three more hours ahead of us.

I'm not saying things didn't get hairy again, I'm just saying our Vinyl Cafe break was a brief moment of calm solidarity.

I think I might need to buy a Vinyl Cafe CD for our next family road trip.
Either that or sell the car and never go anywhere ever again.

Happy summer, everyone! Drive carefully!

xo Marissa

Sensible Shoes

2009-07-21T12:09:00.000-07:00

I am incapable of buying sensible shoes.

I believe this is why - or at least one of the reasons why - I have so very many shoes. I go shopping - frequently - on a quest for sensible shoes. Comfy shoes. Shoes that will carry me through a long day of walking uphill while pushing a stroller, grocery shopping while bribing with treats, playing at the park in all its dirty, sandy, glory, and simply being me: a woman who might be a mother, but still likes to think she has a little style.

That's the problem: as soon as I get to the store, the sensible shoes look so frumpy compared to the stylish ones. And the sensible ones always seem to be more expensive! So I end up getting the cute metallic pumps, or the fun white heels with the floral embellishment, on sale, of course, and coming home sans sensible footwear.

Also, I really don't look good in flats. They make my legs look like tree stumps. There I said it. I try them on, stand in front of the mirror, and lumberjacks everywhere salivate.

Yesterday, I noticed Trove, one of my all time favourite stores, is having a sale.

All footwear and handbags 50% off.

You have no idea. The panic/excitement/must shop must shop/shop or perish shop or perish refrain was almost unbearable. I made a promise to myself to bypass all the pumps and pretty handbags and only look at their collection of sensible, eco-friendly footwear. They have tons, and I've had my eye on a few flat (ish) pairs.

In I went, squeezing through the aisles with my double stroller, both children placated with goldfish crackers and promises of a trip to the park.

I tried on every single pair of sensible shoes in the place. Ask the salesgirl.

I also tried on a pair that seemed to be a compromise between sensible and stylish.

What do you think?

I hope you like them, because these are the ones that followed me home. (Who doesn't adore that commercial?)

They're called El Natura Lista and they're made of eco-friendly materials, recycled when possible and sustainable, too. The company also runs and contributes to humanitarian efforts, which I think is nifty. Also, they make funky shoes. Check out the site. http://elnaturalista.ca/

The ones I bought have a tiny heel, so I suppose they're not exactly suitable for long hikes on wilderness paths, but I'm not really the wilderness path type. I like to stick to the sidewalks so I can still look in the shop windows.

Also, they're red. (The photo doesn't quite reflect the fabulousness of the red. In person, they're deeper, more black cherry than apple.) So I suppose they won't go with everything. Then again, Stacey on What Not to Wear is always insisting red is a neutral, and saying things like "Shut up! I love a red shoe."

So, shut up, I suppose! I love a red shoe, too.

xo Marissa

Nautical Disaster

2009-07-15T11:18:00.001-07:00

So, I have a friend whose husband is actually in the navy (the navy? the seaman's club? see, I'm really dumb about all things nautical, and you'll see just how dumb in a moment ...) and she was kind enough to point out that in my last post, I mention that I was on a boat and everyone was asked to go "starbird". Which is how it's pronounced. But really, it's starboard.
I stand corrected! If I were the captain of the ship, I would have a very confused crew, indeed. (Or would I? Because I would say starbird and it would sound like starboard so everyone would know where they're supposed to go. Hmmm. I guess I'd be the only confused one. Which is why I'm not in the navy. Or the seaman's club. Or even a yacht club member.)
Ahoy!

Treehugger Tuesday and the Importance of Being Earnest

2009-07-14T10:31:00.000-07:00

This past weekend, I read in Margaret Wente's Globe column that if the entire world switches to organic produce, it would be a catastrophe.

And here I thought going organic was going to save the world! Sheesh.

This article gave me something to think about. And this is what I think:

The organic movement is getting commercialized to the point that it might be costing consumers more than it's worth, in certain cases. (For example, who really cares if your cookies are organic? White sugar will kill you. The pesticides will probably just help you not know what hit you when you go.)

Also, if what Wente says in her article is true, organic farming in its current form is not necessarily the most sustainable practice in the world, in every single case. Damn it.

But what Wente's article isn't taking into account is that there's a potential we're heading for global catastrophe anyway. (I apologize that a blog entry with a title as cute as Treehugger Tuesday is getting so morbid, but it has to be done.)

So which way do you want to go down - while aerially spraying fields with pesticides and having your apples radiated and shipped from Chile, or while buying food from the farmer's market down the road and eating veggies and fruit that have been grown with local love? (Come on, let's all start singing kumbaya.)

I think our choices should all be earnest ones. I think we need to think about what we do and why we do it - and, perhaps most importantly, how we do it - rather than just accepting what's lumped on our plates. I think if we all thought a little more about our actions - from where we get our veggies to where our garbage goes when we throw it "away" - the world would be a few steps farther away from imploding.

That said, I do think we need to take a balanced approach when it comes to the organic movement.

When everyone starts doing something at once, it can be a bit alarming. I was once on a whale watching boat and the captain announced there was a group of minke whales cavorting at starbird (at the time, I knew what that meant) and everyone ran starbird and the boat nearly capsized.

The same goes for organic, and everything eco-friendly, I suppose. We need to be balanced in our choices. Is local more important than organic? Is fair trade more important than either of those? (I don't know about you, but the fair trade chocolate square I nibbled on earlier tonight did not seem to make its way immediately to my hips the way un-fair trade chocolate seems to ...)

Either way, if you're making a choice between local and organic, organic and fair trade, at least you're making a mindful choice, rather than grabbing strawberries from California when they're at their peak right here in Ontario and not thinking twice about why that might be a bad move.

Or picking up a chocolate bar that may or may not contain some decidely unchocolatey ingredients. Like, for example, melamine. (Honestly, I don't think I'll ever get over that one.)
Enough said.

Happy Tuesday! Hug a tree!

xo Marissa

What Makes a Good Book a Good Book?

2009-07-12T11:15:00.000-07:00

I think about books pretty much all the time. (Okay, so, that’s not quite true. I think about my family and the feeding, watering, and care they require pretty much all the time. Also, I think about the mortgage. The economy. An Enbridge ad I saw last week that detailed the potential practice of blowing CO2 emissions into the earth’s crust, where they may or may not stay for a thousand years, instead of actually making an effort to reduce carbon emissions. I also think about how I can act all high and mighty about carbon emissions if I want, but the reality is I make consumer choices every day that contribute to those emissions, from turning on my AC to boiling my kettle for my Earl Grey tea. And then I think about putting solar panels on my roof, and it goes from there.)

But I digress. (What else is new, right?) When I’m not thinking about or doing other things, I am thinking about books – both the book I've written and am waiting to hear from publishers about, or the books I want to write. I also think the about the books I've read, or the books I want to read.

What makes a good book good? That's been on my mind a lot lately.

I just read Lolly Winston’s Good Grief, a book I had previously avoided because it has to do with the death of a husband and I really don’t like thinking about stuff like that because I have a wild imagination and my husband doesn’t like it when I suddenly start frantically phoning him when he’s five minutes late getting home from a trip to the office.

Despite the somewhat depressing subject matter, I was surprised to find Good Grief is not a depressing book. In fact, in many spots, it’s very funny. (In other spots, I cried. I think that's a good thing, though. If a book makes me cry, it gets a special spot on my giant book shelf.) Sometimes, I suppose, bad things happen to funny people. And just because bad things happen to them doesn’t mean they aren’t funny people any more. Good Grief is a good example of that. It’s not trite, it doesn’t gloss over the heartbreaking reality that must be losing a spouse. It’s just that Winston is a good enough writer to be able to find tender, subtle humour in the death of a loved one. It’s a kind of writing I aspire to. Not that I plan to write about the death of a loved one. I’m just saying – not all women’s fiction has to be about foofy subjects. And not all women’s fiction that isn’t about foofy subjects has to be completely, soul-suckingly depressing.

I read a lot of male writers, too, like John Irving. A Prayer For Owen Meany is a great book, and is the one that turned me onto him in the first place. I also like A Son of the Circus, A Widow for One Year and Until I Find You. John Irving books are strange – If you've read them, you know what I mean. I’ve read all of them, and some of them are stranger than others. But they are all compelling. He is a great writer. Again, I aspire to one day be that great (but have not yet managed to fool myself into thinking that could be possible!).

The Time Traveler’s Wife. (I think I just heard a few sighs. Female ones, alas. Even though it's about time travel, which did, for a moment, pique my husband’s and another male friend's interest, I think this book is most popular among members of the fairer sex.)

Again: I’ve you’ve read it, you know what I mean. It is a painfully beautiful story; it is a love story. I can’t embellish it any more than that: a love story. A story about two people who loved each other. Boring? No. It’s one of the most exciting books I’ve ever read. To be frank, I dread seeing the movie because I can’t imagine it's possible to do such a book justice, cinematically.

I friend who read the book years ago, just before I did– it was mine, but I’d left it on the shelf for months because the cover put me off. Yes, I can admit it, I all too often judge a book by its cover – phoned me, breathless and tearful, when she was done. Then I read it, and phoned her, breathless and tearful, too. We've spent much time since discussing ad nauseum who would be perfect in the silver screen roles of Claire and Henry. (We’re okay with the current choices of Rachel McAdams and Eric Bana. But just okay. I always pictured Claire as Claire Danes, and my friend … well, she has a thing for Daniel Craig. Who doesn't?)

Another reason I know this is a great book: the author, Audrey Niffenegger, recently got a five million dollar advance for her second book, all these years later. Five million. A huge advance. Huge is not even the right word. Enormous. Ginormous. In the publishing world, a right anomaly.

Anyway. Back to good books.

I recently read a collection of short stories by Jhumpa Lahiri called the Interpreter of Maladies. I don’t tend to love short stories – I’m nosy, so I always want more, not just a brief snippet of a life or a situation – but these stories were great. What made them great? I think it was the way Lahiri dealt with the concept of being foreign in a way that made me – a member of the majority and a person who never has to feel the fragility of being foreign, unless you count my ultimate weirdness, but most people don’t get to see that – understand what it would be like to live somewhere other than where I was born. (Oh. She won a Pulitzer. Apparently other people thought the book was great, too.)

I also love to laugh, which is why Bridget Jones – both the first and the second - will always hold fast – along with Fiona Walker’s Lucy Talk - on my list of funniest books I've ever read. I’m also adding another one to that list, and it’s written by a man: I just finished Slam, by Nick Hornby. Hilarious. But also, in its way, suspenseful. He told a story that was ultimately extremely simple (don’t worry, no spoilers) in a manner that had me gripped from page one.

I think I know the answer to my question, what makes a book great: characters. All the aforementioned books have that in common. Story is important, yes, but if a character is sub par, it doesn’t really matter what incredible things happen to that person, does it? Great books are about great characters, and the secret to creating great characters is …

Sorry, I have no idea. Great characters are like great people. They’re born. They come into being. There is no formula for becoming a great or particularly interesting person, and nor is there one for creating a great or particularly interesting character. I think, though, that when trying to create great characters, one can think about the things they admire in great, or even just good, or even flawed people, who are still interesting. Like depth – even if that depth reveals something nasty. Honesty – even if that honesty reveals something no one really wants to know. Brains - not necessarily book smarts, but street smarts, and emotional intelligence, too.

Let’s face it: we’re all characters. The trick is, as a writer, to convey the nature of an individual onto paper. If we can do that, even if the character we create isn't someone everyone is going to love, then we're doing okay.

For good measure, here is a list of a few other books I think are great, because of the story but also because of the greatness of the characters (both central and otherwise):

Eleanor Rigby, Douglas Coupland (also, The Gum Thief)
Jitterbug Perfume, Tom Robbins
Les Miserables, Victor Hugo
All the books in Alexander McCall Smith's Isabel Dalhousie Series (Also, I think these books have great titles: The Right Attitude to Rain, The Comforts of a Muddy Saturday, and so on)
Charlotte's Web, EB White
Hothouse Flower and the Nine Plants of Desire, Margot Berwin
Three Junes, Julia Glass
Jane Eyre, Charlotte Bronte
The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society (I cried when I learned this author had died and we'll never read another one of her books.)
A Sport and a Pastime, James Salter
Harry Potter, JK Rowling
Anne of Green Gables, LM Montgomery (possibly my favourite character ever ...)
The Poisonwood Bible, Barbara Kingsolver (and Prodigal Summer)

I could go on and on ... But I won't. (Really, no one has that kind of time.)
What are your favourites?
xo Marissa

Thunder From Down Under

2009-07-07T19:13:00.000-07:00

Treehugger Tuesday seems the perfect spot to talk about John Butler, who I saw perform at the Phoenix last night.

John Butler makes me feel like being a hippie isn't lame. (Even though I am kind of alarmed by his super long fingernails, which my husband explained he uses as guitar picks. And he is a really good guitar player. But still.)

Anyway, any man who can sing as passionately about his wife and daughter as he does about treating mother earth with respect is alright with me. Last night's version of my fave song, Peaches and Cream, was even better than this, but it was the only one I could find on You Tube.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B5p-05HvAhc

So here he is, the man who inspired the Riley character in my book because, well, as my lovely gal pal Lisa once put it, who wouldn't go for the cute Australian musician guy? (Not me, of course. I go for the cute computer nerd type with the rockstar alter ego. Much safer in the long term. Also, no wierd long fingernails, because you don't need those for playing air guitar.)

xo Marissa

Waste Not, Want Not

2009-07-04T06:50:00.000-07:00

I missed Treehugger Tuesday this week because I was away in Bloomfield. (I saw Gord Downie walking down the dunes at Sandbanks with his three kids, which made me feel like I made a pretty cool vacation-spot choice. Unless, of course, Gord isn't cool anymore. He was at a beach with his three kids, not partying like a rock star. Then again, I was sitting on the beach with my two kids and not partying like a rock star either, so there you go. Sandbanks must be the vacation spot of choice for people who used to be cool. But aren't anymore.)

We spent the week in a small cottage with my dad, stepmom, and two of my brothers (the youngsters, they're 13 and 16, and they don't think I'm cool either). Then there was my husband, myself, my two-year-old son and my one-year-old daughter. It was a little tight, but we made it work. In fact, I never once felt cramped.

This is my dad's style. Why rent a huge cottage when you can rent a small one and be just as happy? As the week progressed, I noticed some of my dad's other waste-not-want-not habits I'd forgotten about, since it's been a while since I lived with my old man. (Or partied like a rock star, for that matter.)

He throws nothing away. Nothing. They should ship him to Toronto to teach us how to deal with the garbage strike. There'd be no need for park dumps and pesticide blow outs if he were around. The man saves leftover tablespoons of homemade dressing in teeny jars to use the next day or add to a new dressing. (He makes his own, since preservative laden store bought stuff doesn't taste as good as throwing some olive oil, rice vinegar, garlic, and basil together in a jar. Obviously.)

I saw him save an inch of tortilla wrap with a smidge of grated cheese inside that my son didn't finish for lunch. He later had it as a snack. (My son, not my dad. Although my dad probably would have eventually consumed it rather than see it go to waste.) Every morning, he made me a bowl of fresh fruit. Every morning, I suddenly decided I was back to being a teenager and left in on the table, untouched, in favour of a cinnamon waffle. He'd doggedly put the bowl in the fridge, and I'd always eat it later.

If we didn't finish a bottle of wine, he'd funnel it into a smaller bottle so it wouldn't oxidize over night. (Admittedly, this wasn't often a problem.) Seriously, he saves everything. At first, I looked on in bemused wonder. But as the days passed, I began to realize my dad is probably the most sustainable person I know. Some might call him cheap. He is part-Scottish, after all. But from now on, I'm going to call him eco-friendly. (I have to admit, watching him in all his item saving glory made me feel a little nostalgic. I still remember visiting my grandpa's apartment as a little girl and there being a clothesline across the kitchen, hung with rinsed out paper towels.)

I think the rest of the world is starting to catch on to the fact that being eco-friendly saves money. In the face of economic crisis, big companies like Walmart (they installed motion detector lights in their freezer section and saved millions) and Home Depot (switching to energy efficient light bulbs proved to be a huge money saving boon) are making environmentally minded choices because of the bottom line. Sure, it would be nice if we all decided to be eco-citizens because it's the right thing to do, but there's really no point in arguing about sizable reductions in carbon emissions, is there?

Last year, a good friend of mine, who works as a project manager for the Humber River Watershed, asked me to be her date to the Charles Sauriol Environmental dinner. The keynote speaker was Ray Anderson, whom I looked up on Google and discovered was the CEO of a company called Interface. Interface is the largest carpet manufacturer in the world. Definitely wasn't enough to give me goosebumps. I was sure the dinner was going to be fun, but listening to the owner of a carpet company in Georgia speak ... well, I was going to drink a few extra cups of coffee after dinner just in case.

But from the moment Ray opened his mouth and began to speak in his Georgia peach accent (can you call a man a peach? Trust me, this man is one.) I was riveted.

He spoke of reading in Paul Hawken's The Ecology of Commerce that industry leaders had the power to change the world, environmentally speaking, and deciding that he was going to. Change the world, I mean.

At first he started small, but none of his changes proved to be thus. Recycling carpet trimmings into new carpets instead of sending them to the landfill saved hundreds of thousands of tons of waste, for example. Since 1995 he has reduced the waste his company produces by a third, and his plan is to produce no waste by 2020. (I don't have enough room to wax ecstatic about all the things he does, so if you want, you can learn about him here.)

He relayed what people always tell him: "What you're trying to accomplish can't be done". His response: "It has been done. And if it has been done, it can be done."

I almost swooned. (Yes. This is what it takes to get me all hot and bothered these days. I'm definitely no longer cool.)

As I walk around the city, watching the garbage fester and wondering what kind of person simply throws bags of garbage on the ground beside taped shut bins (seriously, what is that??) I've been thinking of my dad, and Ray Anderson, too.

It's been done: my dad saves everything, and, in his own words, that's helped him pay off his mortgage faster - and also, reduce his impact on the planet.

And, on a bit of a grander scale, Ray Anderson saves everything, too, and the business model he's operating on is one of the most cost efficient ones in the world. He saves money, while saving the world.

So there is hope. Because if it has been done, it can be done.

xo Marissa

Protagonists and Playlists

2009-06-25T07:52:00.001-07:00

A week or so ago I was out for dinner with two friends and they were asking about my book and how I felt now that it was out in the world.

“It?” I said. “You mean she.” Then I explained that I had actually grown so close to my protagonist, Rhiannon, that the fact that she was out there, all alone, being judged by people I’d never even met, made me nervous. And then ... my eyes filled with tears.

“You know you seem crazy right now, right?” Said one of my friends, as gently as possible. I nodded mutely. Then I tried to explain.

When I was writing my book, Rhiannon had a playlist. (There’s really a playlist on my iPod called Rhiannon’s Playlist.) I guess I used it to feel close to her, to try to get to know her better. There are certain songs that remind me of her, certain things I know she would do or say. Sometimes when I'm shopping, I see items I know she'd like. But I know she’s not a real person. I really do. I’m not crazy.

Now that I’ve started another novel, I’ve started a playlist for my new character.

Here’s what’s on it so far:

Weighty Ghost, Wintersleep
Sand in My Shoes, Dido
Playboy Mommy, Tori Amos
Boy in the Bubble, Paul Simon
Africa, Toto
5 Years Time, Noah and the Whale
The Wrong Girl, Missy Higgins
California Stars, Billy Bragg and Wilco

And, for good measure, here’s a sample of what Rhiannon used to listen to. (Well, I suppose she still listens to it, wherever she is. I’m sounding crazy again, aren’t I?)

Rhiannon, Fleetwood Mac (obviously)
Don’t Panic, Coldplay
Brother Down, Sam Roberts
See the World, Gomez
Country Pie, Bob Dylan
If I Were a Carpenter, Tim Hardin
Sundown, Gordon Lightfoot
Carey, Joni Mitchell
Funky Tonight, John Butler Trio
Rollercoaster, Major Maker
Six Underground, Sneaker Pimps
Baby Driver, Simon & Garfunkel
Is it Like Today, World Party
Trying to Throw Your Arms Around the World, U2
Dirty World, The Travelling Wilburys (What can I say? She has eclectic taste.)
I Feel it All, Feist
House of Cards, Radiohead
On a Beach, Richard Ashcroft
Going to California, Led Zeppelin

xo Marissa

Treehugger Tuesday meets Meat Free Monday

2009-06-23T10:46:00.000-07:00

(Treehugger Tuesday is much catchier than Eco-friendly Tuesday, don't you think?)

Today I'm pressed for time. That's because I'm writing that outline I was procrastinating yesterday. But I do have time to post this link, which is about Meat Free Mondays, a phenomenon I think may just overtake Treehugger Tuesday in terms of global popularity.

http://meatfreemondays.co.uk/

The Meat Free Mondays site is about going meat free on Mondays. Obviously. But it also provides a lot of useful information, such as why opting out of the huge-carbon-footprint-inducing meat industry for one day a week is a good idea, and how to go meat free and still enjoy your meals. Oh, and there are wine pairings. And a list of cool (and a few sort of uncool, depending on who you ask) veggie celebs. Like Paul McCartney. Who I at least think is cool. How could Paul McCartney be wrong, I ask you?

(Okay, so he was wrong about Heather Mills. And that My Brave Face song, which my dad has affectionately dubbed My Brain Hurts. But otherwise ... well, he's Paul. If I were a Beatle, I think I'd probably be Paul. I know it's more hipster cool to say you'd be Ringo, or George, but I'm going to be honest: I'd be Paul. I would not marry Heather Mills, but I would be a vegetarian. At least on Mondays.)

xo Marissa

I feel lucky

2009-06-22T11:00:00.000-07:00

I'm in the process of writing the outline for my next novel. (Actually, I'm delaying the process by writing a blog post. But the blog post is about writing an outline, which makes me feel like I'm actually doing something.)

I've written several outlines for this project, but I keep scrapping them and starting over. At one point, I had my protagonist being chased by a band of murderous marauders. Then I realized I didn't want to write a book with murderous marauders in it -- even though I do like saying "murderous marauders".

In the next version, my protagonist had sex with, or fantasized about having sex with, or it seemed she was probably going to have sex with, four or five different male characters, ranging in age from 23 to 55. Fine for some people, but, as a friend who read the outline over for me pointed out, not everyone may relate to a main character who is, and I quote, a "hippie sexer".

I realized I needed to rein this baby in. (The outline, not my hippie sexer main character.) So I did what I always do: I turned to Google. I typed in "writing an outline for a novel" and hit the "I'm feeling lucky" button. (I love hitting the "I'm feeling lucky" button. It makes me feel like Clint Eastwood. I narrow my eyes, and say to my computer, "Do you feel lucky, punk? Well, do ya?" And then I hit the button. Oh, the fun one can have while procrastinating.)

The first hit I got was entitled, "How to Write a Novel: The Snowflake Method" and it did indeed have tips on writing outlines. The main premise is this: you start small -- with an outline -- and build and build until you have a great story. Kind of like how a snowflake starts out as a drop of plain old water and then crystallizes into something beautiful.

So, I got down to work immediately on my simple outline. Okay, not really. Instead, I Googled "pictures of snowflakes" and stared at this picture of a snowflake until I had my "Eureka!" moment.

I've been trying to make my story a perfectly formed snowflake right from the start, rather than starting with the basics and building on them. My outline is so complicated, it actually includes dialogue, and there are So. Many. Details. (I once sent an outline to my agent to look over, and he wrote back and said he needed another pot of Kicking Horse coffee before he could finish it, and then used a profanity. Not in a mean way, just in a "holy geez, this is a detailed outline, do I really need to know the protagonist drinks Kicking Horse?!" kind of way.)

A detailed outline probably isn't a bad thing, but I should also allow my novel time to crystallize as I write. What my new protagonist needs is a road map. Not detailed directions with mix tapes and a scrap book, like what Kirsten Dunst made for Orlando Bloom in Elizabethtown. (Not my favourite movie but a good example of giving too many directions. Also the Freebird moment was compelling. Any moment involving Freebird always is, as far as I'm concerned.)

I'm off to write my outline. I really am. No more Googling. No more blogging. I'm getting to work.
xo Marissa

Update: I'm not the world's leading slattern, and happy father's day to all

2009-06-19T11:12:00.000-07:00

My dad just emailed to say he's been trying to leave a comment about my last post, but he can't figure out how. So here it is: (Since it's father's day on the weekend, I thought I'd do the old guy a favour and allow his voice to be heard ...)

Issa, I love your blogs! Being a moron, tho, I can't figure out how to post a comment. It's the ID thing that keeps messing me up. I was trying to post a comment saying how "even the great Bruce Stapley sent samples of columns to 50 papers in Southern Ontario before finally being taken on as a full time freelancer by the Stouffville Tribune while unemployed and STILL having Molly Maid come in to clean his sister's house where he was living! So you aren't the world's leading slattern afterall! Ha!"

Keep your chin up, Iss! We think you are a great, yet to be discovered writer!

Love, Dad

And there, in a nutshell, is my dad. He's the world's greatest, and I really mean it - the moron thing aside. He's also a great writer, and I can only hope I've inherited an iota of his talent.

Happy father's day, Dad -- and happy father's day to all the other great dad's out there, my husband included.

Have a great weekend!

xo Marissa

Not So Good Housekeeping

2009-06-18T06:56:00.000-07:00

The kids are napping. I just made spaghetti sauce for dinner, cleaned the kitchen (halfheartedly), and folded laundry. (I'll be honest: my mom was over this morning and she folded about three quarters of the laundry, which I had artfully scattered around the living room in a pitiful attempt to get her to feel sorry for me and do it. It worked.)

I don't mind cooking, but I'm not great with housework.

I have an excuse, though! I'm a writer, and a freelance one at that. In the time it takes me to clean the house, I always tell my husband, I could write an entire article. It just doesn't make sense for me to clean for hours when we can hire someone to do the entire house for a fraction of what I charge for an article. (Sadly, that theory didn't really wash when I was writing the novel and we were paying someone to clean the house and take care of the kids a few mornings a week while I sat and wrote something I wasn't getting paid for. I unsucessfully tried to sell it as one of those Mastercard commercial vignette's:
A clean house: $60 plus tip
Occupied children: $13 per hour
A happy writer working on her first novel, unshowered and still in her pajamas .... priceless.)

I do wish I had a clean house, even if, as L.M. Montgomery might have written, clean houses provide less scope for the imagination. I also wish I were a perfect housekeeper, mother, and wife. I wish I could be the kind of mom who is more than happy, when her little darlings go off to dreamland, to scour the floor of harmful bacteria they might pick up as they crawl, bake them organic, whole grain, carob chip goodies, and plan a craft for when they wake up that's more inventive than slopping glue on a piece of paper and dumping dried chickpeas on top of the glue. (It's bean art! Lovely!)

Instead, the second the kids go to sleep, I throw the lunch dishes in the dishwasher, turn on CBC Radio 2, power up my laptop, and start to write.

Sometimes, I write emails. Sometimes, like today, I write blog posts. Sometimes, I write fiction. And sometimes, I actually write those paid articles I use as the excuse for being such a slattern.

I wondered if there were other writers out there like me, so I typed "writers don't clean the house" into Google.

On the first hit, a writer's blog, the writer was talking about how fabulously clean her house is when she has writer's block. "I know I'm not the only writer," writes Merrilee Faber, "who rushes to do the dishes and mop the floor when their subconscious is conspiring against them."

Um, uh oh.

Am I the only writer who, when I have writer's block, makes a cup of tea and reads a really good book? Or emails a friend a longwinded missive she doesn't bother to spell check? Merrilee was making me feel bad, until I continued reading her post: "Today my house is a vile pit of filth and disease, suitable only as a rancor den (but without the tastefully scattered bones)."

Ah, that's better. Mine, too.

xo Marissa

Welcome to Eco-Friendly Tuesday

2009-06-16T10:56:00.000-07:00

Hi everyone! It’s Eco Friendly Tuesday! (There’s an Eco Friendly Tuesday, you might be asking yourself? Oh yes. On this very website. And you’re lucky enough to have arrived just in time for the festivities.)

Today, I’m talking about Non Nasty Skincare and Beauty Products.

The reason choosing products free of nasty chemicals is such an eco-friendly move is because it sends a message to cosmetics corporations that we as savvy consumers deserve not to have to contend with carcinogens and eco-hazards when we’re powdering our noses or slathering on shaving cream. (And it’s not just the ladies this applies to – products for men are rife with all things nasty, from parabens to sulfates, the chemical that gives that heavy duty body wash it’s foamy zing and turns cleaning into an extreme sport. I know men adore this -- but sulfates also go down the drain and into the water supply and are absorbed into the body and are just unsavory in general).

Speaking of unsavory, did you know that what you use on your skin absorbs right in through the dermis? You might as well be slathering your hand lotion on your toast. Not kidding. Oh, and you do literally eat your lipstick and gloss, pounds of it in a lifetime. If that's not a good enough argument for choosing a natural lippie formula, I don't know what is. (And again, this applies to boys, because they, too, eat a certain amount of secondhand lipstick and lipgloss via kissing. Oh yes. Even while hugging a tree.)

I think the give-me-natural-or-give-me-nothing (which is exactly what down-to-earth green-writer Vanessa Farquharson uses, by the way, as recounted on her blog last week) message is being heard, which is making it a lot easier for me to find products I can use at mainstream stores. (I'm afraid I'm just not the Use Nothing type, which I know would be the ultimate eco-hero move. But I'm a bit of a product junkie. Some might call me a product hussy.)

Now that natural products are becoming mainstream, people like Kristen Ma, who runs Pure + Simple Spa Inc (Pure + Simple spas can be found all around Toronto) are writing books like Beauty 2.0, and getting great acclaim. A few years ago, a holistic beauty handbook may have fallen by the wayside in favour of something about how to get the best value from your Botox. But not so in 2009. We're going back to basics, I think (I hope), and that's what Kristen's book is about: Ayurvedic principles (Ayurveda is a system of traditional alternative medicine native to India) blended with more modern concepts and perfect for today's consumers, who are looking for meaning and sustainability in everything, from breakfast cereal to skincare.

Beauty 2.0 even includes a chapter on at-home facials and treatments, which I think is pretty nice of someone who runs a spa and obviously wants everyone to come to her for their facials and treatments. (Kristen was voted Best Facialist in the City by Toronto Life and gives a seriously good facial, by the way.)

I attended the Beauty 2.0 book launch last week at the King & Bathurst spa location and enjoyed myself immensely. The book launch reflected the teachings of the book perfectly. Since a big part of Ayurveda is discerning your Dosha through a series of questions and a pulse analysis (I’m a Pitta. That means I’m full of hot air, which isn’t surprising.) the food served at the launch was separated into Dosha types. The idea was for guests to sample food from the table labelled with their Dosha -- but I of course ate from all three tables and felt unbalanced for days after. (Kidding. I didn’t really. Or maybe I did. Unbalance seems to be a pretty constant state for me.)

You can also read about the book and launch on Chantel Simmons' Sweetspot.ca blog (where she also mentions a friend who leads her astray in the form of spicy fries and shiraz after the event. That friend is not me. I would never encourage someone to eat foods not meant for their Dosha type. Never!)

One of the first products I found on my quest for less chemically skincare (I made the switch a few years ago) was the Dermaglow Sensitive Rx line. It's available at Shoppers and isn't made from hemp. The line – which features everything from cleanser to anti-aging cream - contains active and safe healing ingredients such as chamomile, zinc and horse chestnut. It doesn’t contain alcohol, parabens and fragrance.

So go for it: the next time you're shopping for a lotion, make an informed choice. Read the ingredients list. Check out the company's website. Just because a product says “natural” or “made with natural ingredients” doesn’t mean it is. (I even saw a bottle of “organic” shampoo at No Frills last week with an ingredient list resembling what I think it must take to make napalm. Organic napalm, but still.) If there is no ingredient list on the product you've picked up, that company doesn’t deserve your money because they aren't being transparent and are probably hiding something nasty. So there. Finicky? Yes. But since my skin’s not so fussy anymore, the rest of me is picking up the slack.

Are you there, God? It's me, Marissa.

2009-06-14T08:58:00.000-07:00

My head has been full of platitudes and cliches lately. As in, I'll cross that bridge when I come to it. (I don't ever want to cross the bridge though, because it's the bridge in which my first novel doesn't sell and I have to write another one and another one until I finally attain publishing success. Frankly, I'd rather burn that bridge. Ha. Another cliche. When writing novels, you're not supposed to use cliches. I must be in some kind of withdrawal.)

Don't put all your eggs in one basket. (Except that I have. All of my eggs are firmly ensconced in a single basket.)

Hold your cards. (Something else I don't do. Case in point: telling the world I've written a book before my agent has managed to sell the thing. He might be reading this and shaking his head. More probably, he's in New York, for the fabulous launch of Hothouse Flower and the Nine Plants of Desire, a book he sold to several publishers and Julia Roberts.)

A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush. (Actually, this one hasn't been in my head. I just wanted to throw it in, because for some reason saying it always makes me giggle.)

Obviously, I'm thinking about my book, and the potential that in this tough market, it might not find a home immediately, despite the substantial interest in it, and - if I do say so myself - its inherent quality.

J.K Rowling was rejected by almost every large publishing house, including Penguin and Harper Collins, before an editor's eight-year-old daughter begged for the story to be published. (This might be an urban legend, but I do enjoy it, and all things Harry Potter. I wish I could go to Hogwart's.)

Madeleine L'Engle's A Wrinkle in Time, another one of my faves, was cast aside no fewer than 29 times.

Somebody told George Orwell, "It is impossible to sell animal stories in the USA."

Someone wrote to William Faulkner, "Good good, I can't publish this!" (I actually wish someone would write me a rejection letter like that, just for the posterity of it.)

Remember The Wind in the Willows? A publisher once called it "an irresponsible holiday story". (What on earth, I ask you, could possibly be wrong about an irresponsible holiday story?)

How about this? "I'm sorry, Mr. Kipling, but you just don't know how to use the English language."

And Anne Frank? A publisher once pronounced her perception of her experiences as not "special" enough. (Don't believe me? Check out this site.)

Women's fiction queen Emily Giffen wrote a first novel that was rejected across the board. And her first agent (who I'm sure is still kicking him or herself repeatedly, on a daily, if not momentary basis -- and well he or she should be) was rude to her about it. (Emily's "rudest letter from an agent ever" is here.)

Even Dr. Seuss got rejections, most of which dismissed his work as "too different" for the current market. (Hand, Hand, Fingers, Thumb might be different, but it's probably because of that that both my kids are entranced by its strange rhythm.)

As I researched for this post, I browsed endless author rejection sites. On one hand, it gave me hope. When I do get rejections, I won't take them personally. (Okay, I won't take them as personally.) How can I, when an editor once called Lust for Life "long and dull"?

On the other, this foray into famed rejections made me realize that if truly great books can narrowly escape falling by the wayside, mine just might slip through the cracks altogether. Panic ensued. There are probably many incredible books out there that have never been published and never will be, even though it's possible the world would be a better place because of them. (Or, at the very least, we'd have more pointless holiday novels, right?)

Then I came across this article -- entitled, 30 famous authors whose works were rejected (repeatedly and sometimes rudely). It included an insight from Judy Blume, who said she received “nothing but rejections” for two years:

"I would go to sleep at night feeling that I’d never be published. But I’d wake up in the morning convinced I would be. Each time I sent a story or book off to a publisher, I would sit down and begin something new. I was learning more with each effort. I was determined. Determination and hard work are as important as talent."

So I've started something new. Not in case the current book I've sent out in the world doesn't sell -- I still firmly believe Saving the World will see the light of day, because I firmly believe it is a story that needs to be told in the way I have told it -- but because I love to write and the experience of writing a novel was one of the richest I've ever had. This time around things might be different (my two children currently holding fast as my top priority, since they're only going to be little for a painfully short time, and I don't want to blink and miss it) but I'll get it done no less.

No one ever said I wasn't determined.

In the meantime, I'm going to keep blogging. Just so I know that every day (or every other day. or every week.) it's possible someone is reading a little bit about Rhiannon and her quest to make the world a better place, while wearing a cute outfit, and experiencing frequent lapses in judgement, or me, and my quest to get published. (While wearing a cute outfit. And experiencing even more frequent lapses in judgement.)

xo Marissa

Holding the Baggie

2009-06-11T11:22:00.001-07:00

Even though I penned a novel about an ecojustice lawyer who travels to Canada's Western Arctic to fight against offshore drilling and protect a beluga whale habitat, I have a long way to go before I can wear the What Would Suzuki Do? baby tee I just bought (in organic fair trade cotton, and dyed with vegetables) in public without feeling like a poser. (As it stands now, I usually just wear it at home, and my two-year-old points and says "Who's that man?")

I'm going to come out and say it before my book comes out and everyone just assumes I'm a valiant eco-warrior: I'm not the greenest person in the world. True, I don't drive -- but as much as I'd like to say that's because I'm trying to reduce my carbon emissions, the truth is, I just can't . I've tried. Taken lessons. Failed tests. Taken more lessons. I'm one of those People Who Don't Drive. Much to my husband, aka The Chauffeur's, chagrin. He didn't think it was funny when I asked him if he'd start wearing a cap and letting me call him Jeeves. (Side note: my Grannie didn't drive either, and she was a great writer, so maybe it's just one of the things I have to give up for my trade.)

Sure, I turn out lights, use those new lightbulbs even though I detest their greeny-blue glare, carry cloth bags when I buy mostly local and organic food, use natural household cleaners and cosmetics. I'm not going kid myself, though. Those things are easy. And the natural cosmetics thing is even fun, since it involves shopping.

I also take long, hot showers, even though I recently read that the amount of water a Westerner uses in his or her morning shower is the same amount a person in the Third World uses all day long. I impulsively purchase cheap clothes and shoes shipped from developing countries, the ecological implications of which I'm sure I don't fully comprehend. I buy imported wine, and lots of it. The list goes on. I'm no saint.

For a while, I thought I was alone in this world. I thought the green movement was all or nothing. Then I read Vanessa Farquharson's new book, Sleeping Naked Is Green.

Now I’ve decided to give up plastic baggies. (If Vanessa reads this, she's probably not going to be impressed. She made 366 green-minded changes over the course of a leap year that blow my little baggie project way out of the water, as it were.)

It's about more than baggies, though. I often ponder the legacy I'm going to leave behind for my children -- and I don't want that legacy to be hundreds of thousands of little plastic bags, languishing in landfills, bogging up waterways, choking water fowl and turtles, and otherwise wreaking all manner of havoc long after I've shuffled off the mortal coil.

So as of last week, I decided to store all my food and snacks and sandwiches and such in reusable containers from now until the end of time (or until my voice as a consumer is heard, and Ziploc comes up with a biodegradable baggie alternative, which is just one of the advantages of taking small steps towards sustainability. I learned this from Rob Grand, who owns and operates The Grassroots Store, and who I interviewed for an article last week.)

In characteristic form, I’ve been trying to find an easy way out of this thing, though. What I really want is to buy a brand new, full set of these.

But I can’t, because, of the promise I made my driver. Er, I mean, husband. He’s been so supportive of me this past year, and of my quest to become a published novelist - even as I've allowed my freelance writing career to take a back seat and focused on a project that has yet to earn us a dime - so I feel I should probably be more supportive of him, and his quest to Stop Spending Money So We Can Still Afford to Eat and Pay the Mortgage. (Also, he's probably going to read this, which means I really do need to tow the party line. Hi, honey. No, I did not buy anything new this week. I've had those red espadrilles for several seasons.)

The problem is, we still have some baggies leftover from a pre-baggie-embargo trip to the grocery store. And those teeny tiny plastic baggies are always peering temptingly at me from their oh-so-convenient open-top box, begging me to use them. “I'm right here, just a flick of the wrist away. And I’m so little,” they tell me in their sing-song siren voices. “What impact could I possibly have on the planet?”

How many baggies am I going to use in a lifetime? (I have no idea, you're saying, and nor do I care. Whoever this girl is, her blog is boring, and I am definitely not going to read her book when it comes out. But wait, I beseech you! I promise, I'm getting somewhere. Ahem.) So, let’s say I use two baggies every day for the rest of my life. And, let’s say, I live to be 85. (Yes, I’m being generous in terms of lifespan, but this is supposed to be a positive-thought provoking type blog, or at the very least not a depressing oh-my-gosh am I really going to die at 65, there are so many things I have left to do, questioning-one's-mortality type of blog.)

Right. So, plastic baggies. (And I promise, after I'm done here, I will never, ever, say the word baggie on this blog again.)

If I use two baggies a day and live to be 85, that’s 36,500 baggies. (Don't ask me how I got that total. Just trust me. I'm right. Or maybe don't trust me. I am a writer after all, not a mathematician.) And if I convince my husband to give up baggies (and promise him not to replace said baggies with an investment in a whole set of cute stainless steel containers, but instead use the storage receptacles we already have in the kitchen, i.e. glass pyrex bowls with lids and plastic food tubs for stuff I don't plan to reheat) I can double the number. (This is kind of like a fun game, isn't it? Um no, you're thinking.)

If my kids don’t use baggies anymore (and kids tend to use an awful lot of almost everything, so I think for a kid the number can be quadrupled, especially if I purge my home of all baggies until the little darlings move out… ) then that’s a damn lot of baggies. I'm not even going to try to calculate the number, lest my right brain and my left brain get in a fight and my head implodes.

The point is - and I really do have a point - two baggies, or even a temptingly convenient box of a hundred, is not a lot. But 100, 000 bags is. Giving up baggies means I’m not leaving all those plastic bags behind to not biodegrade, and instead off-gas toxically for hundreds of years. It's a small step, but it's getting me somewhere. Small steps tend to have that effect. Which I think was one of Vanessa's points, and an admirable one indeed.

(An added bonus: worrying about baggies is keeping me from checking email and voicemail every five minutes - which saves on carbon!)

xo Marissa

The Waiting

2009-06-10T11:04:00.001-07:00

I wrote a book.

It's called Saving the World (In Sensible Shoes) and it's currently being shopped to publishers by my fantastic agent.

Which means, I'm going crazy.

Tom Petty said it best: "The waiting is the hardest part." It really, really is. Every morning, I tell myself, this might be the day a publisher calls my agent and says, "I must have this book, immediately, if not sooner! Get Marissa Staple-Poni-whatever-her-last-name-is on the phone now. We need to lock this deal down." (I have no idea if that's actually the way publishers talk. Somehow, I doubt it. But at the moment, I have no frame of reference, so the publishers in my head all talk like Texan businessmen.)

Every time the phone rings, my heart races, because I think it might be said agent calling to tell me of the aforementioned enthusiastic phone call from The Best Publishing House in the World. (That's what I'll call them, after they call.)

I check my email (constantly), and yet the dread of receiving a rejection is almost too much for me. The seconds that elapse between hitting send/receive and loading my messages seem like an eternity fraught with anxiety. I check voicemail endlessly, too. It's like waiting for the boy I like to call. Except that he hasn't called yet. Sigh.

(I'm not actually waiting for a boy to call. I'm happily married to a man who always calls when he's supposed to and says he doesn't mind playing second fiddle to my publishing dreams, or my talking constantly about my future book deal, or having to read endless drafts of my novel when he'd rather be watching Sports Line.)

I'm obsessing. An easy thing to do, I suppose, when the project I've worked on for almost two years and revised no fewer than eight times has finally been sent out into the world, all alone, without her mummy. I need distraction. Possibly, I need professional help. "What you need," said a friend, who is also a writer (but a published one -- she wrote this, and has another equally exceptional work coming out in the spring.)"is to start your blog, novel sold, or not sold. Who cares? Go for it!" (Or something to that effect. She probably didn't say "go for it". She probably said something much cuter.)

So I'm taking her advice. I'm going to use this space to chronicle my novel's journey from pre-published, to post-published, and beyond -- because frankly, this is the exciting part, even if I'm functioning these days on far too few nerves and far too much adrenaline. Maybe Tom Petty's wrong. Maybe the waiting is actually the exciting part. Maybe I should be embracing the heart palpitations and enjoying the dreaming and creative visualizations another novelist-to-be pal has encouraged me to practice. As in, I lie in bed at night and picture myself a renowned, accomplished author, and then one day -- poof! -- I am one. Right, so it probably doesn't work that way, but it's still fun. I bet David Suzuki always hoped to one day pose practically nude for the CBC. And then, one day -- poof! -- he was standing there with a maple leaf over his unmentionables.

(The protagonist of my novel has a small crush on David Suzuki. More of an intellectual one, really, but this photo definitely fans the flames. I, of course, do not. The only unrequited crush I have is on the publisher from whom I am desperately awaiting a call. Sigh.)

So that's me. A finished work of comedic women's fiction with an eco-twist waiting to be sold, and some extra time on my hands.

I'll keep you posted!

xo Marissa

Contact Marissa

2009-06-09T15:56:00.000-07:00

E-mail: marissa@marincommunications.com

Twitter: http://twitter.com/marissastapley