The many guises of Aganetha Smart, Girl Runner
I just received the cover art for the Polish version of Girl Runner (titled “Biegaczka”; any Polish-speakers out there? does it translate as Girl Runner?), and thought it might be fun to line up the covers so far, and see all these versions of Aganetha Smart running, flying, leaping, winning, or standing pensive and strong, as in the Dutch version, which will have the title “The Rosebud Athletics Club for Women.”
Because the images appear on the screen in a different order depending on your browser, it doesn’t work to tell you what cover comes from where by going around clockwise, but included here are covers from: Poland, the United States, the UK & Australia, Spain & Latin America, Canada, and the Netherlands. (I should run a contest–which cover comes from where!)
I also just got off the phone with Owlkids, the publisher of my first children’s book, The Candy Conspiracy, and will take this opportunity to note that although the official pub date isn’t until April, 2015, it’s already available for pre-order on various book-selling websites in Canada and the US. Here’s what it looks like.
Will it be different to be a children’s author than an adult author? I guess I’ll find out soon enough. And I will let you know, but of course … One difference will be the launch party: way more gummy worms. (This launch party basically plans itself.)
xo, Carrie
Snapshot, briefly
One child home sick since Tuesday. Ginger ale, tea with honey, boredom, sleep.
One child about to lose his first tooth! “Is it still there? Is it still there? Is it still there?” “Yes. You’ll know when it’s gone. There will be a little hole for your tongue to go through.” Brief pause. “Is it still there?”
One child knitting a pink leg warmer for a dog using four small double-sided needles purchased with birthday money. “That’s amazing. How did you figure out how to do that?” “Oh, Mom. You’re underestimating yourself. All you’d need is half an hour looking at instructions on the internet and you could do it too!”
One child practicing the violin. “I’ll only play when you listen.” “I’m listening.”
One woman lying on a yoga mat in the living-room, doing her physio exercises. Opens her eyes, sees her daughters hanging over the back of the couch to peer at her from close range. “What are you doing?” “Nothing.” Dogs arrive on scene, one begins licking woman’s face, the other sits on her foot. A game with a balloon is being played, solo, with every move narrated out loud. “Mom, you have to see this great play this guy just did! Who are you cheering for? Fire or Fireplace? Or wait, no, the teams are Happy or Fire. Remember, you cheered for Happy last time. Happy’s the best.” “Okay, I’ll cheer for Happy.” “Dad’s cheering for Happy.” “Ok, I’ll cheer for the other one.” “Fire? They’re okay, Mom, but they’re probably not going to win.” “I like underdogs.” “So you’re cheering for Fire? Sorry, Mom, they just got scored on. You have to see what the guy just did!” Dog continues frantic licking of woman’s face.
One daughter begins timing physio exercises with digital watch. Other daughter begins practicing the recorder. “I’ll start from the first song I learned.”
Woman calls out to husband: “I need a snapshot of this moment!”
Husband can’t hear. Husband is playing his favourite songs in the kitchen while washing up the dishes after supper.
And that’s all she wrote.
xo, Carrie
The cure for November or “Christmas-cookie Sunday” #CCS
I’m putting a timer on everything I do today, in an effort to maintain a disciplined schedule. Blogging was not on my to-do list, but I have to report that I found a cure for November, at least a temporary one. It’s called December. Yesterday, we started December a day early and dragged the tree out of the attic, which the kids decorated (the younger ones with greatest enthusiasm). AppleApple and I also decided, impulsively, to start a new advent tradition: Christmas-cookie Sunday, or, as her big brother said, as he dashed through the kitchen, “Hashtag CCS!”
Other cures for November included cooking a big supper while the older kids were at soccer practice, and the younger ones played games together (and then watched the Pokemon cartoon on YouTube): an Indian-themed feast. Just because I wanted to. While listening to the radio. I also did my physio exercises while listening to the radio (#projecthamstring). I love the radio.
It was quite late in the day when we started our baking project, and I had my doubts about the five-ingredient, flour-less, oil-free cookies chosen by my daughter (and in truth, our version looked only sort of like the polished shining cookies in the cookbook’s photograph), but it all came together smoothly; moreover, I highly recommend these cookies. They are crunchy and chewy and lemony. Plus you can tell yourself that eating one is almost like eating a tiny little protein bar. That’s what I told myself when I ate one after coming home from spin class this morning.
Now, to return to my disciplined day. Timer just went.
Zimtsterne, or lemon cinnamon stars
Grate the zest from one lemon into a small bowl. Sift 2 and 1/2 cups icing sugar into a large mixing bowl. Add 3 cups ground almonds, the lemon zest, and 2 teaspoons cinnamon. Mix together. In a separate bowl, beat two egg whites until stiff. Fold the beaten egg whites into the almond mixture, and stir until the batter comes together. It will make a stiff dough. If it’s sticky, add more ground almonds.
Divide the dough in two to make it easier to roll out on a lightly floured surface. Cut out cookies (we used a tiny star cookie cutter from the Bulk Barn), and lay onto baking tray lined with parchment paper. Bake for 5 minutes in a 400 degree preheated oven. Use up all the scraps by gathering and re-rolling.
Let cool on rack. Ice with a lemon glaze made from 1 and 1/2 teaspoons freshly squeezed lemon juice mixed with 1/4 cup of icing sugar (or more). We used three batches of glaze to ice our cookies.
xo, Carrie
PS Next week we plan to try Pfeffernusse for #CCS. If you have suggestions for favourite Christmas cookie recipes, please post them or email them.
PS#2 I’ve opened shop. Signed and personalized copies of my book are now available for order on the sidebar. Optionally, for a better price on Girl Runner, my Canadian publisher, House of Anansi, is offering a one-day deal, 50% off (TODAY! DECEMBER 1!).
There is no First Prize
It’s been a week of busyness with little opportunity for reflection. It’s been an up and down week, emotionally, and it’s just struck me that I’m finishing my November, as I often do, in a bit of funk. Is it the shortened days, the vanishing light, the overhanging clouds, the chilly winds, the general gloom of a world stripped bare and not yet blanketed in bright snow? Probably, yes.
But it’s also an existential Novemberness that alights every year. A wondering what it is I’ve accomplished this year, and what’s left to complete, as if I am a list of tasks done or undone. And maybe I am? But maybe, maybe I’m not, in truth.
As Kevin tells me, Life is not going to give you First Prize. There is no First Prize that can assure you you’ve written a good book. There is no First Prize that can assure you you’re a good parent. There is no First Prize that can assure you you’re a good person.
I’ve fallen to pieces on a few occasions this past week. I’ve been filled with unaccountable shame. This is not the face or person I present to the world, but my kids have to stumble over it. They’ve seen me crying and have found ways to comfort me, with compassion and rationality; and I worry that I’m harming them by not being as solid as rock, as rooted as an oak tree, as strong as diamonds.
I suspect that this feeling of vulnerability and exposure is cumulative. It’s been a fall of presenting my book in public to audiences interested and sometimes not so much; that’s the reality and necessity of publishing books. One must promote one’s work. One must speak on behalf of the work in hopes that the work gets found and adopted and championed by others. I have many many wonderful memories from events this fall, and in truth, very few that are even mildly distressing. So I suspect this feeling of vulnerability and exposure has little to do with the quality and worthiness of the events themselves, but rather with a sustained public stance that has been more difficult for me to participate in than I’ve allowed myself to recognize.
After all, I enjoy reading from my work. I enjoy meeting other writers, and readers. I enjoy sharing my thoughts, and appreciate immensely being invited to participate. These are enormous blessings. I am enormously grateful.
But the shadow side is that I don’t think the human character is designed to absorb even the modest amount of attention that’s come to me this fall. I don’t think we’re particularly good at it. It doesn’t tend to make us into better people. It tends to make us think we’re something special. And even while we’re thinking that, we know we’re not special at all, and the disconnect and disharmony of having to sustain and project the confidence of having something worth saying, while fearing one doesn’t, creates a cognitive dissonance.
I’ve felt kind of hollow this last little while. Hollow, and, in truth, lonely. Removed from myself.
Restoring an interior balance and sense of location and groundedness seems the answer. Advent starts tomorrow, a season of waiting, and I like that metaphor. I don’t mind waiting. I’ll never arrive, not really, because I’ll never cease changing. I want to inhabit deliberate patience. I want to discipline my mind away from its taste for quick hits of attention, and return it to the slow and steady onward pace of life in its daily ritual and routine, a life of small adventures, private successes, and strength through connection.
How I fit in the public work that is necessary to my job — and important (teaching is important, for example!) — is a question I’m not entirely able to answer at the moment, but I think it relates directly to maintaining disciplined habits and routines. Maybe too — this has just come to me, just now — it relates to forgiveness. Maybe it is mainly in my own mind that I’m falling short. Maybe, secretly, I really do believe in a First Prize for anything and everything, and as long as I cling to my imaginary scale of external validation, I’ll exist in a kind of permanent November of the spirit. And I would rather not.
xo, Carrie
Singing happy birthday to Margaret Atwood
This photo, taken in the hotel room before last night’s party, represents my evening well. Black dress, red tights, relaxed. I had fun at the Writers’ Trust Gala.
But.
There shouldn’t be buts when at a party where one is happy, surrounded by friendly faces, wearing a medal (all of the writers wear medals, which does give one an odd feeling of having won something), enjoying smart conversation, and singing happy birthday to Margaret Atwood. It’s lovely. We were even entertained by a “ukulele orchestra” of young people, near the ages of my older kids.
So.
Is there a but?
There isn’t, in terms of the evening itself. But there is, in terms of the larger concerns of the larger world outside of this sheltered glittering large and fancy and exclusive room. I am thinking of Ferguson, MO, most immediately. I am thinking of a conversation in which I feel strongly that I should be listening, not talking. Here’s an article I read this evening on Salon. Listening, not talking.
This is short post. I’m off to teach the last class of the term. It’s a fine evening, chilly, frosty, flecks of sharp snow falling.
xo, Carrie
P.S. A friend pointed out this afternoon that I’ve been to very few parties in the last year, in my own neighbourhood; parties to which I’ve been invited, I mean. This is true, and the truth makes me a bit sad. I’m not sure why I’ve failed to find myself in party mode when among friends, yet I can lift myself to party mode when among colleagues and strangers. This is for thinking on, I think.