I've been told Canadians say Sorry way too much and we are just too happy and too polite. Well, we have a whole lot to be happy about. We live in a beautiful country and we are very fortunate to have the freedom we do. But come to think of it there are a bunch of things that set Canadians apart. So I just want to say Sorry, but most Canadian stereotypes are true and it's these very stereotypes that have shaped into the person I am today.
First of all the Beaver.
Yes, the Beaver is our national symbol and their pelts were once a lucrative trade in the 1600s. I've had several encounters with this little chap. Our buck-toothed hero always slaps his tale on the water when we get too close to his den while fishing at our cottage. Besides being proud of our Beaver and featuring him on our nickel, Canadians also love Beavertails. Beavertails are gooey pastries that resembles, what else but a beaver's tail. Covered in sugar and icing and cinnamon, it's just just plain addictive.
We say 'Eh' a lot.
I would have to agree with this one. I say it all of the time when what I really mean is 'I know, right?' or 'Ya, I totally agree!' or 'Isn't that correct?' I think every country has their own version of 'Eh' and in Canada, where we like to simplfy things, it's a whole lot easier to condense four or five words into 'Eh'.
We have no Phones in the great white north.
Really? That's pretty funny but the sad fact is this actually hits home with me. When I was a kid we lived on a farm that lay right on a boundary line between two phone companies. This meant the difference between having a Phone number that connected to everyone else for free and having a long distance number. Of course our house lay just north of the boundary so we had to pay a fee to call just about everyone. With four kids to feed and Scots blood running through her veins, Mom was a bit miserly. She politely asked that we be given the same kind of Phone number as all of our neighbours. The Phone company wouldn't budge but after many battles, Mom won. Kind of. We got our free Phone line. In the middle of our field. Yes - the middle of a pasture field. Only in Canada you say? Probably. Dad built a Phone booth just south of the boundary line. So if my friends wanted to call they had to schedule a time. Then I'd sit in the booth, wait for the Phone to ring and hope they didn't forget about me. They usually did. I was kind of jealous of my little brother. He seemed to be pretty popular and was always heading out to the Phone booth. Then I found his magazines. So forever more we were known as 'the Denbys with the Phone booth in the field' and we were scarred for life. Even now, random people will say, 'Ha, ha, ha, you guys used to have that Phone booth in the field. Ha ha ha. Is it still there?' As a matter of fact it is, ha ha ha and Sorry, but what's so funny about that?
Our mode of transportation is via polar bear, dog sled, snowshoes and Moose.
I guess it depends what part of Canada you live in but I've never ridden a polar bear or sat in a dog sled. I have snowshoed with my dad though and it's very cool, quietly slooshing through the wintery woods, looking for animal tracks and listening to blue jays and white-throated sparrows. And I haven't ridden a Moose but I almost ran one down with my car. As I headed home from a week at our cottage in northern Ontario, my car loaded to the rafters with kids, suitcases and cottage souvenirs like birch bark andsticks with Beaver tooth marks, I crested a hill and had to jam on the brakes. I'm not sure who was more surprised, me or the Moose. But I definitely got up close and personal and it was an amazing sight. I stared at him. He stared at me. The kids were silent. Then this majestic beast turned and galloped off into the trees.
Hockey is a way of life.
True. True. And True. I think you are kind of shunned in Canada if you don't love Hockey. I grew up playing pond Hockey with my brother, whom I ruled by the way. My boys used to skate circles around me on our backyard rink. We played Hockey in the street and just like on 'Wayne's World', Game On could be heard in our neighbourhood every day. I play ball Hockey in the house with my twins now and have scarred walls to prove it. The Toronto Maple Leafs are our national heros and we never miss a game. I've been to a few live games and there's nothing quite like the atmosphere of Leafs fans at the Air Canada Centre. I am a lousy player on skates but give me a pair of running shoes, a stick and a ball and I might even score a hat trick. Yes, Hockey is as essential as breathing to many Canadians.
All Canadians drink Beer.
Canada produces fantastic Beer so it is only natural to consume something this fantastic. I personally don't drink beer but we also drink liquor and wine and they are pretty fantastic too. It's cold up here in Canada. We only have two weeks of summer so we have to stay warm somehow and a frothing glass of Beer or an ice cold rum and coke definitely warms the belly. So that one is true as well.
We put Maple Syrup on everything.
We are surrounded by Maple trees in Canada and everything tastes better with maple syrup on it so why not? Back on the farm I helped my dad collect sap in the spring then couldn't wait to boil it down and taste that sticky sweetness. There is nothing like Canadian Maple Syrup. Except maybe poutine. Ya, poutine is pretty delicious. And back bacon. Mmmm. Back bacon with Maple Syrup.
Everyone wears Toques in Canada.
It is a matter of self-preservation. Body heat is lost through the top of our heads and with an average temperature of -70, forgetting to wear a Toque is like forgetting your long underwear. With so many beautiful colours and styles, we still manage to look great.
Well, there are far too many stereotypes to mention but one thing is certain, I am not Sorry to be Canadian. I am thankful and proud. Like any country we have our quirks and peculiar habits. With a population of thirty-five million people, we don't all know each other. The likelihood of knowing Dave Smith is pretty slim. Actually, though, I do know Dave Smith. Small world. No, we don't all know each other, but we do stand united.
As a writer, I feel the need to incorporate kindness into my favourite characters. But I also don't forget to weave the feistiness of a true Canadian into all of my stories. And so, as a proud Canadian, I leave you with this:
If you would like to see more of my writing, my novel, A Thistle in the Mist, is free today and tomorrow, March 8th and March 9th. Sorry, but Canadians are shameless opportunists too :) http://www.amazon.com/A-Thistle-Mist-ebook/dp/B00B2XML88 Thanks for reading!
‘Carry on my wayward
son. There’ll be peace when you are done.’ My ghost obviously never heard this song. No one told him he should
just carry on. He never knew there was peace beyond his earthly connection. And
so he stayed to haunt me.
Ghost stories are the best. Sleepovers at my girlfriend,
Christine’s, house were always charged with excitement. In between giggling
about boys and choreographing dance moves to Olivia Newton John’s Physical, we exchanged stories that made
our thirteen-year-old voices squeal with delight and fear. Gathered in our shadowy
backyard, with flames from the bonfire reflecting on their eager faces, my boys
never tired of, Who Took My Golden
Hand. And scaring them with The Monkey’s Paw or imagining the
shrieks of Moaning Myrtle, while
cuddled in sleeping bags around a sputtering kerosene lamp at the cottage, will
forever be one of my favourite memories.
Ghosts and creepy dreams have always plagued my sleep.
Whether waking in the dark to see the red light of my VCR moving across the room
to murder me or cowering from the person standing next to my bed, these
nightmares used to recede as I blinked myself awake. Until the night the figure
beside my bed refused to leave - refused to leave for months.
My ghost was the Supernatural
kind, the menacing kind Dean and Sam annihilate while Wayward Son plays in the background.
The first night he woke me, my heart did the familiar race,
the familiar thump as it tried to hammer its way out of my chest. The trembling
took hold and my skin was soon slick with sweat. A figure curved over my bed. Slightly
bent and completely motionless, he stared down at me. He wore a long, dark cloak with a hood that
shadowed his face. I closed my eyes and opened them again, as I usually did to
chase away my uninvited guests. But he stayed and as I watched, he backed
away from my bed. Fully awake now and literally paralyzed with fear, I watched
him methodically back across the floor and out of the room. On the wall outside
my door hung a three-tiered shelf, lined with homemade mementos made by my boys.
My ghost backed out my bedroom door, backed up the wall and sat on the top shelf
where, in eerie silence, he watched me.
I remember the first time, as I opened and closed my eyes,
trying to rid myself of the apparition. But he would not disappear. And my
heart would not stop racing. Each time he appeared, the
ritual was repeated. I would wake to find him watching me. He would back away from my bed.
He would back right up the wall (the most disturbing part of all) then he would
sit on my shelf and watch me. I would watch him back, until eventually, after one of my long, sleep-deprived blinks, he would be gone.
Truly, it was terrifying. Fearing that people would think I
was a lunatic, I told no one but my family.
Until the night I invited my ball team back for a little
postgame party on my deck. After a few pink grapefruit Woody’s I spilled my
ghost story to the team. Instead of the skepticism I expected, a few of the
girls shared their stories and I instantly got that warm and fuzzy feeling you
get when you realize you’re not alone. One of the girls, a long time resident
of our little village, told me an old house had stood where mine stood now and
it had been taken by fire. Another teammate suggested an exorcism was in order.
After months of broken sleep, I was game for anything. So I rifled through my
kitchen cupboards and found my salt shaker. Debbie, Jen and I poured a trail of
salt around the perimeter of the house as Deb firmly ordered my ghost to leave,
to quit haunting me.
Well, many would think I am
a lunatic. Many would think it was just the power of suggestion and I’m okay
with that because, after that night, my ghost never came back. But he made an impression on me I will never forget. One of my sons told me recently that when he was
about ten years old, he sat on the swing, facing our backyard when a girl ran
past him. She ran straight through the wire fence and disappeared into the field
behind our house. My son is twenty-two
now and I believe. I believe we were haunted. I believe we lived amongst unsettled spirits. We no longer live
there and at the risk of jinxing myself - the Scottish are notoriously superstitious - I no longer have a ghost standing over
my bed.
I still love ghost stories and I infuse the supernatural
into my own writing. But my ghosts are not the menacing kind. Yet.
I think it's inevitable when I'm writing to incorporate some of my quirks into my
characters. In 'Thistle in the Mist', Meara MacDonald, my feisty Scottish protagonist, has the good fortune
of sharing my flaws and like me, she sometimes has trouble suppressing her inner
dork.
To begin with, Meara's lovely smile is marred by an annoying eye tooth
that sticks out farther than the rest. I am fortunate to work for an orthodontist who thinks that my lower
lip catching under my crooked upper tooth, so I have the appearance of a snarling dog, is counterproductive to the 'straight teeth are beautiful' message we were trying to send. My dog,
Brian, has the same problem so when I see him discreetly holding his paw over his mouth and wiggling his lip to ‘uncatch’ his tooth, I politely look away. I know how embarrassing it can be.
Despite Meara's flowing red locks and moss green eyes, she is as flat as a board. When I was in grade ten I
stuffed my bra and man did I look good. But after months of waiting for my 'growth spurt', and sick of rescuing displaced pads from under my arms, I stopped wearing them. My first mistake was thinking no one would notice. My second mistake was thinking my best friend would never try to embarrass me. As I walked down the hall with my boyfriend, my bestie passed
and said to him, ‘Hey, so what’s it like dating the Great American Flatlands?' Nice.
Meara has a goofy way of laughing and as her beloved, Duncan
points out, “Do ye ken,
Meara MacDonald, that yer nose crinkles up verra prettily whenever ye open yer
mouth wide to howl?” Well, that describes me to a T. I’ve always been
consciousof the way my nose scrunches up
and of my howling laughter. Meara is just lucky that I didn’t make her pee her drawers when she laughs – umm, not that I ever do.
My unfortunate heroine also has a tendency to obsess and overthink just about everything. I too have that nasty habit
and no amount of Yoga, meditating or slow breathing can shut off this brain.
Speaking of breathing exercises, is anyone else distracted by that odd whistle that accompanies deep breathing in the middle of the night? No? Me neither.
Well, my poor Meara is probably going to have a few stretch marks and maybe even some morning breath in my sequel, 'Lost to the Mist' and if she has any more children I won't be responsible if she occasionally pees when she laughs...or sneezes.
In my opinion it's much more interesting to read about someone who wakes up looking like they slept in a ditch then the well-endowed, raven-haired beauty with eyes the colour of the ocean, who wakes up with minty breath and dewy skin.
A child of the 60s, I was well aware of my dad's adherence to the old adage, 'Children should be seen and not heard.'
An old english proverb, the phrase came from a time when men were regarded as the only ones qualified to speak, a time when women and children were expected to respect men and remain silent.
In its original form this proverb was directed at young women who were expected to keep quiet. This opinion was recorded in the 15th century by an
Augustinian clergyman called John, Mirk's Festial, circa 1450:
Hyt ys old Englysch sawe: A mayde schuld be seen, but not herd.
A 'sawe', or 'saw' as we would spell it now,
was a mediaeval term for saying or proverb.
While the expression was aimed at women, the
Old English names denoting gender are now somewhat altered. A 'mayde' usually referred to a young female, though the
term simply meant young child.
Well in our home there was no question, we revered my dad. My sisters and brother and I were careful to show respect, follow his preference that we be 'seen, not heard.' We did not talk back, we did not argue and we did not swear.
Until the day I did...swear that is.
My first time was thirty-five years ago. I came home from school to an empty house and decided to make a snack of toast and peanut butter. A quick search of the kitchen produced no bread so I headed down to the freezer in the basement, where Mom kept the extra loaves. I shoved the frozen hamburger and frosted cans of orange juice aside then quickly realized we had no bread left. And I really wanted that toast.
"F * * K!"
Until that moment I had never dropped the forbidden f-bomb. Hollering that f-word in the muted still of my cinder block basement felt pretty damn good - kind of exhilarating - like the sensation of a cool wind billowing through my hair.
But of course I'm not the girl with the flowing hair, standing on a mountain, in the peppermint patty commercial. In that instant I noticed the flourescent light above my head, blinking and twitching - dark and light, dark and light - and I knew I hadn't turned that light on. Heat crawled up my back.
Very slowly - very slowly - I turned and peered over my shoulder.
"Yes, I'm here," my dad said, from the comfort of his lazyboy chair, where he had been reading a book.
In the silence of the basement, his words seemed to exit his mouth in slow motion, " Yessss, I'm heeeeere."
My face burned. "Oh, oh, sorry, I...I....I'm sorry," I mutterd, before tucking my tail between my legs and hightailing it up the stairs.
I was twelve years old and the bottom fell out of my world in that split second. To his credit, Dad never mentioned it. He never gave me trouble. He didn't need to and he knew it.
No matter how many times this little anecdote is repeated in our family, or how many waysit is embellished, we all have a good laugh though I do still feel a remnant of the horror and mortification I felt that day.
A few weeks ago Dad told me he was reading my book.
Now, 'A Thistle in the Mist' is liberally sprinkled with sex, violence and cuss words so I said, "Oh, Dad, now you are going to know exactly what goes on inside my head."
He smiled and said, "You're a big girl now, you can say whatever you want."
All you have to do is come up with a good idea, write the beginning, write the middle, write the ending, write a little filler in between and make sure it sounds good.
Oh, if it were that easy.
Here is a small taste of some very good advice from some pretty great writers that got it right.
'The best time for planning a book is while you are doing the dishes.'Agatha Christie
A little sexist and dated but Agatha had the right idea. When my house is silent and I am running around getting a little housework done, my mind is churning out ideas so that I must keep pen and paper close by to trap those slippery thoughts before they escape back into my head.
'Never use a long word where a short one will do.' George Orwell
I am guilty of this - checking my thesaurus for a better word - and I am trying to curb this loathesome habit. Getting too wordy drags a story down and the reader quickly loses interest. Years ago, someone in my critiquing class suggested, "Your writing is sweet, but like a Krispy Kreme donut it may be a little too sweet." Words of wisdom I will never forget.
'If you want to be a writer you must do two things above all others; read a lot and write a lot.' Stephen King
Brilliant and obvious. Doesn't every writer have a stack of books, ready to topple, beside their bed?
'Substitute 'damn' every time you're inclined to write 'very'; your editor will delete it and the writing will be just as it should be.' Mark Twain
Sound advice from one of the best storytellers of all time. Although I don't substitue with 'damn', I am conscious of this word - an adverb sorely overused.
'If you are using dialogue - say it aloud as you write it. Only then will it have the sound of speech.' John Steinbeck
More of us should try this. At the risk of sounding a little crazy to my family, I do it all the time. In fact, I read all my work aloud, not just the dialogue.
'You never have to change anything you got up in the middle of the night to write.' Saul Bellow
How many of us feel the pull of a great story at 2am? Maybe it's the shadows that beckon, but I've created some of my nastiest work in the middle of the night. This creative curse is not great for the dark circles and squinty eyes, but the best ideas refuse to let me sleep.
'Cut out all those exclamation marks. An exclamation mark is like laughing at your own joke.' F. Scott Fitzgerald
This tip made me smile. I am so guilty of overusing this punctuation.(!) Sometimes it is necessary to get your point across, but there are other ways to build urgency.
'Start writing, no matter what. The water does not flow until the faucet is turned on.' Louis L'Amour
My son's favourite author is spot on. I think I can speak for many of us when I say that we are an easily distracted and procrastinating lot. I can't count how many times my good intentions are interrupted by Facebook, Amazon or housework. Shame on me. Write, write, write.
'When someone is mean to me, I just make them a victim in my book.' Mary Higgins Clark
Why get mad when you can get even? I do it all the time. Revenge is sweet, Mary.
'Hearing voices no one else can hear isn't a good sign, even in the wizarding world.' J.K. Rowling
To the average person, voices in your head may be worrisome, especially if you answer them out loud, but to a writer, these voices are what direct you to create the most wonderful tales.
So many quotes, by so many greats. How many of us will be fortunate enough to have our words quoted?
It is my own fault that I did not fully comprehend that my dream of being a published author would include taking a huge step out of my comfort zone and into the alien world of SELF PROMOTION.
I firmly believe in my book but the idea of PROMOTE, PROMOTE, PROMOTE is a concept I am more than a little uncomfortable with.
My two hour window of opportunity, when my twins 'nap', used to be my quiet time; my opportunity to slip into another world and furiously channel my thoughts into a chapter, a story. Now, instead of spitting out pages of suspense, drama and romance, I am reading, researching, learning and attempting to promote my story (without being obnoxious).
Becoming an e-book techie includes learning the intricacies of social media, designing cover art, determining my novel's price point, accepting why I should give my book - my baby - away for free, finding websites to promote my ebook, researching successful indie authors, building my website, tweeting, blogging and facebooking.
Now, I am not complaining but I have come to the realisation that being an indie author means spending as much time on the business and promoting end as it does on the writing end which means my two hour window is no longer adequate, which means frequent forays into the wee hours of the morning are becoming commonplace.
But to me, all of this is worth it. My goal was to get my novel published and find people to share it with. So far I am on track. I am getting some great feedback. I am home enjoying my children and for the most part doing what I love.
So I will continue to find those golden moments of silence when stories take shape in my mind and words cascade from my fingertips. And I will continue to promote my work, learn the business of being an indie author and be grateful for this opportunity I've been given.
Inspired by my great-grandmother, Janet Sherriffs Ross, my debut novel, "A Thistle in the Mist" infuses bits and pieces of Grandma's life as a lass in Scotland. From the abuse she suffered at the hands of her stepmother to the loss of her younger sister and her first-born child to her life in Canada as an indentured servant, my great-grandmother endured more than she ever let on. I remember her as a feisty, small, white-haired woman who had a great sense of humour and a huge laugh.
Surrounded by her great-granddaughters, (that's me in the red) her eternal spirit is evident in her twinkling eyes.
Meara MacDonald took shape in my mind ten years ago and evolved and grew into the feisty protagonist featured in my novel.
Packed with passion, mystery, romance, history, lies, deception and a touch of the supernatural, "A Thistle in the Mist" will transport you from the Isle of Skye in Scotland to Nova Scotia, Canada...
Meara isn’t thinking about death,
that morning, when she kisses her mother good-bye, but hours later she is, as
her fingers slide into the back of Mother’s shattered skull. Empty eyes – the
empty eyes of her mother – stare back
at her and Meara thinks her world has ended. She has no idea.
Ebullient and feisty,
eighteen-year-old Meara MacDonald lives an idyllic life with her family,
frisking about the mist-enfolded Isle of Skye atop her horse, dreaming of the
day when she will wed her heart, the gallant Duncan MacLeod. But fate has other
plans and when Aunt Deirdre and Uncle Sloan seep into their midst, Meara’s
family is taken, one-by-one, for reasons she discovers are both personal and
nefarious.Mother is found dead, Da
disappears, Duncan is taken by the Napoleonic Wars, Meara’s younger sister,
Hannah – with child by Uncle Sloan – takes her own life and while Meara sleeps,
her newborn son is snatched from her arms. Unable to reign in her spirit or her
tongue, Meara finds herself catapulted from Scotland to a household steeped in
mystery in Nova Scotia where, guided by her strength of will, she will fight
her way back to the remains of her family; her heart and soul.
