Happy Nowruz!

 

Happy Nowruz to all our Persian friends.

May this be the year that Iran is finally freed.

And to everyone, happy first day of spring!

Happy Lunar New Year!

May the Year of the Fire Horse bring you exciting changes, good luck and good fortune!

恭禧發財

Gong Xi Fa Cai!

 

Gong Hey Fat Choy!

(Mandarin and Cantonese, if you're wondering, 
written with the same characters in both, I'm told.)

Shana Tova ~ Happy New Year for 5786

On Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, we blow the shofar (which is made of a ram's horn) to call the people to repentance. But the shofar doesn't call only to men and women. In the prayer book for Rosh Hashanah, the shofar is said to create angels who carry our message of repentance to the heavenly throne. 

God himself also uses the shofar. At Mount Sinai, God spoke to all Jews alive at the time and all generations of Jews to come through the sound of the shofar. Likewise, it is said, at the coming of the Messiah, a great shofar will sound that will free all who are in bondage and gather all Jews to Jerusalem.

We could use such a powerful shofar blast today to free the hostages that Hamas has held – and beaten and starved and abused – for the past two years. But the theologians say (or some of them) that the time of miracles is past because God has made space for us to make our own miracles. And so we shall. Because we must.

For all of us, may this year be much sweeter than last year.

Happy Canada Day!

 

Happy Lunar New Year!

Time to shed bad habits

and to renew yourself.

May the Year of the Snake bring you good luck and good fortune!

恭禧發財

Gong Xi Fa Cai!

 

Gong Hey Fat Choy!

(Mandarin and Cantonese, if you're wondering, 
written with the same characters in both, I'm told.)

“Now is the worst time of the year to query an agent or publisher” by Brian Henry

Now is the worst time of the year to query an agent or publisher

~ But it’s the best time to plan your strategy

So, it’s Christmas break and you plan to finish your novel, polish your query letter, and with New Year’s coming up fast, you’re full of resolution to land yourself an agent this year. Wonderful. But hold up. Right now is the worst time of the year to query an agent.

You want to avoid querying an agent when:

      -         She’s not in the office

      -         She is in the office but not working

      -         She’s trying to get work out of the way before going on holiday

      -         She’s crazy busy 

So, forget sending queries during the holiday season. Starting near the beginning of December, the publishing world begins shutting down. Yes, agents and editors are still in the office, but they’re trying to clear their desks before the holidays start. The last thing they want is to look at queries.  

As Christmas gets closer, less and less work gets done, and agents are disinclined to pitch your manuscript anyway, because they know that editors at publishing houses are doing just as little work; they’re more likely to be sipping eggnog than looking at new manuscripts.

Then from Christmas to New Year’s, odds are no one’s even in the office. Come January 2 (or the first Monday after New Year’s), agents are back in the office and discovering that the work hasn’t gone away. They have 967 emails cluttering their In Boxes, a pile of manuscripts they should really have read a couple weeks ago, and in general so much work that they (almost) regret taking time off.

Do they want to read queries now? Hardly. Give them a week (or maybe two) to get things under control again. But then! January is maybe one of the best times to query. Everyone's trying to turn over a new leaf – and for agents and editors that includes getting through their queries or slush pile and finding that fabulous new author who they're going to fall in love with.

And right now – during the Christmas lull – this is a great time to plan your campaign, to comb through the postings about agents on Quick Brown Fox {and there are other sites}, to make your lists of possible agents and preferred agents, or to decide which publishers you want to pitch, and to write targeted queries. 

You'll find all sorts of agents who are actively looking for authors here {and scroll down}; agents who are looking for kid lit, picture books to young adult, plus usually all sorts of other things here; and Canadian agents looking for authors here. (And see much more about finding agents looking for particular kinds of books here.) 

For information about publishers accepting unagented manuscripts see here {and scroll down}.

If you haven’t done so yet, trash your generic query and make a New Year’s resolution to write only personalized queries from now on – at least to those agents you’re particularly interested in. Because once the holidays are out of the way, this is an excellent time of year to query agents or submit to editors. Better than the fall, I think, which tends to be crazy busy in the publishing world. 

The very best time of the year to query is probably the summer, particularly August, when agents and editors aren't working so much to deadline. They may be on vacation, but for agents and editors, "vacation" means time to read queries and manuscripts, preferably with her feet up and a cool drink to hand. 

But do you want to wait six months before you start querying? I hope not. Also make plans to sharpen your writing skills. We have two writing retreats coming up in the new year: April 25 – 28 at Elm Hurst Inn & Spa (see here), and June 13 – 16  at Arowhon Pines Resort in Algonquin Park (see here).

On Saturday, March 1, I'll be leading a fabulous workshop: “Writing for Children & for Young Adults” with Patricia Ocampo senior editor at Kids Can Press and a former literary agent, so she understands the publishing industry from a few angles. Details to come, but if you want to reserve a seat, email me at: brianhenry@sympatico.ca

But the best thing you can do for yourself as a writer might be to sign up for a weekly course. Check out all upcoming classes, workshops, and retreats here.

But what if you've been so busy sending out a flurry of queries that you haven't gotten around to reading this posting till New Year's Day?

Well, Don’t worry, be happy. A few agents and editors will have used the dead time in the publishing world to catch up on things – like reading queries. Some are extra dutiful and will get to your query eventually even if you sent it in December 24. As for the rest, give it a reasonable amount of time and re-query all agents and editors who haven’t sent you a reject. At least, that’s what I’d do.  –Brian

P.S. Still looking for the ideal present for yourself? Check out this list of 77+ Gifts for Writers here.

Chag Pesach Sameach ~ Happy Passover!

 

At every Passover Seder, we put out an extra cup of wine for Elijah, just in case he should happen by, bringing with him hope and redemption ~ which this year, we need more than ever. This year also we have an extra place setting at the Seder table for the 133 hostages still held in bondage. We can’t fully celebrate a festival of freedom until they, too, are free.

Merry Christmas!

“The carollers who brought joy and music to Mum’s last Christmas” by Valerie McCall

Brian,

I hope all is well. I was wondering if you wanted to post this. It is the story of my mum that was written during your class and then revamped. I tried very hard to read the original version on the last day of your class a few months ago but couldn’t make it past the first sentence. Lucky for me someone stepped in and finished reading it for me. It went online today at The Globe and Mail First Person Section.

Regards,

Valerie McCall (Clark)

P.S. – Your classes have given me the confidence to believe that someone is actually interested in my writing, so I thank you for that.

***

“The carollers who brought joy and music to Mum’s last Christmas”

It was 16 days before Christmas and my mother was dying from a brain tumour. Having survived a stroke and two bouts of esophageal cancer, how could it be that an aggressive brain tumour would kill our mother?

She had little time left and kept asking, “Where are all the singing children?” My siblings and I had no idea what she meant.

While growing up, our kitchen table had seen many heated and sometimes livid arguments over politics, religion, sports or who had more roast beef on their plate. My parents would always finish with a cup of tea. Here we were, all these years later, gazing lovingly at a mother who was now very childlike. The tumour had affected the part of the brain that holds memory and imagination.

Although she was not in pain, her visions sometimes terrorized and, in some cases, amused her. One afternoon, she turned to me with a smile on her face, and told me she was going to let me in on a secret, that baby Jesus was a girl and not a boy. This, coming from an agnostic mother, made me smile as well. On other days, she was frightened by shadows on the wall.

I felt helpless as I watched her slip further toward death and decided that, somehow, I needed to find those singing children. When we were young, our family always sang carols after dinner on Christmas Day. Could this be the reason she was looking for singing children?

A few days later, I was driving to my mother’s house and suddenly saw my answer. I quickly swerved into the coffee shop parking lot and stopped the car in front of a group of Christmas carollers trying to keep warm. They were dressed in Victorian clothing and had just finished going from store to store in downtown Streetsville, singing Christmas carols as they had done for years.

I approached the group and gave them a rather rambling history of my mum, her close approach to death and most importantly her vision of singing children. I asked them to come back to my mother’s house and sing carols for her. They might not be children, but I knew they would touch a part of her that was longing to hear this music. 

Mum

They politely listened but said they were finished for the day and would happily come the following Saturday. After giving them the address, I silently prayed my mother would last the week and hoped they would be true to their word.

The week had many ups and downs for my mother. Her body was slowly shutting down and food was going right through her. My younger sister and I were on duty that Saturday morning and worked hard at getting her ready for visitors. Shortbread cookies and tea were waiting in the kitchen and a comfortable chair was positioned facing the front door with my mother securely in place.

Just after 10 a.m., singing could be heard in the distance.

I will always cherish the moment I saw my mother’s head lift and the dullness in her eyes disappear. Her lips began moving, and the softest whisper of a song could be heard. My sister and I looked at each other with the realization that Mum was trying to sing Christmas carols.

The inside front door had been left open, as well as the curtains, so she could see the carollers coming up the driveway. There were five of them, and they came through the front door without hesitation and a glorious sound erupted in her small house. It felt like angels had descended just for her. My mum tried singing along with them like she was part of the group. She had a smile and a knowing look on her face, as if to say, “What took you so long?”

My sister and I were so overwhelmed with emotion that we had to move into the kitchen so she wouldn’t see us cry. These were tears of sadness, of joy and, most importantly, tears of love. Composing ourselves, we walked back to enjoy our mother’s happiness. We both agreed that this was one of those shared moments in life that would never be forgotten.

The choir sang four more songs along with Mum, who tapped her foot. I could see she tried hard to remember the words. When the carollers finished, they enjoyed some hot tea and went on their way with our heartfelt thanks. After the joyous sounds had died away, I looked over at my mum. She was still smiling, and my heart was at peace.

My mother made it through that Christmas and enjoyed a wee dram on Scottish Hogmanay, Dec. 31, the biggest night of the year for Scots.

This Christmas, I’ll be looking for my mother’s singing angels, and when I find them, I know they will once again bring peace to my heart.

***

Valerie McCall (Clark) lives in Mississauga.

Note: For information about submitting a First Person essay to the Globe and Mail (and to 21 other places), see here.

See Brian’s upcoming weekly writing classes, one-day workshops, and weekend retreats here.

"Jews and Arabs both have a place in Israel" by Brian Henry

“No Xmas as usual,” protesters vow,

planning to bring chaos to malls again after Christmas

Last weekend, the pro-Hamas protesters in Canada hit a new low. They brought their disruption to the Santa's Village at Bayshore Mall in Ottawa – as if little kids control Israel's policies.

They also protested at the Eaton’s Centre in Toronto, many of them masked (the better to look like the thugs they are). Video from that protest shows a protester threatening to put some hapless shopper “six feet under” – threatening him repeatedly, while Toronto police look on…. Read the rest on Canadian Zionist Forum here.

“My COVID Christmas: a Guilty Pleasure” by Kathryn Hazlewood

 

My Christmas as a precocious, wide-eyed, five-year-old in the 1940s seems quite magical now. I still experience a Proust moment when the aroma of mincemeat fills the air, triggering childhood memories of my mother making this holiday treat.

I remember the mischief I instigated too. After mom stashed her vacuum-packed jars of mincemeat in our musty, bone-chilling fruit cellar, my impish three-year old brother and I crept down there, popped the lid of a jar of that luscious goo and began digging a well from the centre to leave the appearance of a full jar. When too cold to continue, we licked our fingers, replaced the lid, and anticipated the shrieks of “Who did this?” days later when mom opened the jars to start baking Christmas tarts and pies. We giggled, knowing full well that all would soon be forgiven under our protestations to mom that her mincemeat was better than anyone else could make.

Intensely evocative memories always seem to focus on baking and eating in my family. My mother’s kitchen was a joyful anchor throughout my life and her recipes continue to take centre stage at all our Christmas gatherings.

Guiltily, though, I admit that I associate being mischievous to those times past as well. Mom was a determined woman and very proud of her baking, with talent gleaned from her mother who our family believes was chef to Emmeline Pankhurst, champion of women’s suffrage in the early 1900s London. Channelling that strong, competitive spirit, Mom sculpted spectacular gingerbread families — mothers, fathers, and children outfitted in fancy jackets, trousers, hats, boots and gloves. Wrapped in cellophane and tied with ribbon, they were hung on our Christmas tree — a ready target for two naughty children.

We waited till the house was quiet, then crept into the living room and snapped off every last head we could reach. The beheadings were discovered next morning, but undaunted, mom carefully applied a thick, colourful icing scarf to the headless bodies and glued each head back on. We, on the other hand, were sentenced to time in our rooms with threats of coal in our Christmas stockings.

Dylan Thomas’s A Child’s Christmas in Wales had nothing on our Christmas celebrations. My five-year-old self singlehandedly made sure of that. A mammoth carved oak table awaited our Christmas dinner with the best china, silver and crystal at each place. 

When all fourteen of us sat down to eat, attention was drawn to me when dad expected me to recite a Christmas blessing. I had learned it at school and shown off to my parents by parroting it at home, but I became shy and tongue-tied with all those adult faces looming toward me in expectation. Stalling for time, I snatched up a crystal water goblet intending to take a sip, but, panic-stricken, I crunched down on the rim and came up with a tongue full of crystal shards.

I was rushed to the kitchen by two old aunts all flapping and fussing. Someone ran for tweezers and the arduous task of fetching bits of crystal from my tongue began amidst salty tears mixed with rivulets of blood. Emergency surgery completed, someone remembered that dinner was getting cold, so we all slid back into our places and my dad said the blessing. If looks could kill…I sat feeling very alone and remorseful.

Fast forward now to Christmas 2022. My expectations for our annual Christmas celebrations were shattered just days before December 25 when double lines appeared on my COVID tester. I had COVID!

The plan, as always, had been to revive my mother’s traditions but that year there were to be no aromas of roast turkey and mincemeat pies, no gingerbread families on the tree and no grandchildren’s childish antics. I was as alone on Christmas morning as if I were that five-year-old sitting humiliated and solitary at the dining room table, now with only my thermometer and a dose of Paxlovid.

But wait! The first surprise of the day began at 8:00 a.m. when my friend Bill shouted through the front door to put a mug outside so he could fill it with fresh-brewed java. As I bent to retrieve it, he called out, “Merry Christmas” from twenty feet away, pointing out a loot bag at my feet.

I recalled a line from Little Women when Jo says “Christmas won’t be Christmas without any presents” but there was one for me.  Maybe this day wouldn’t be so bad after all, I thought. In my loot bag were shortbreads, Nanaimo bars and other little goodies. Not mom’s cooking, but a close second.

I had settled down to read a book, sip my coffee and nibble on shortbread for breakfast when my younger daughter, her husband and my two overly excited grandsons called on Facetime so I could virtually visit their living room where gifts had been torn open and the kids paraded across the screen with loot from Santa. They were to have been with me for Christmas dinner, but what a turnaround to be invited into their home on Christmas morning.

Two more sips of coffee later, and my sister and her family called on Facetime too, so I joined them at their festive brunch complete with a new puppy in a knitted sweater embossed with Ho Ho Ho from scruff to rump. We all toasted to a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year.

A rap on the door another half hour later and I opened it to find that a thoughtful neighbour had left a plate of homemade cookies, a little battery-powered candle, and a pretty red poinsettia. The accompanying note wished me a Merry Christmas and a quick recovery. Not soon enough, I thought.

As lunchtime approached, my older daughter texted to say she had deposited frozen homemade soups and a full tin of, yes, more cookies on my doorstep. I loaded up the freezer, guiltily thinking, I kind of like this.  

That afternoon, two masked and cautious family members arrived to pick up all the gifts from under my tree to take to their hastily organized replacement Christmas, sans moi. (Was I happy not to be there? Well, I’ll bite my tongue on that one.) Off they went, playing Santa and leaving me a bit guilty yet relieved that everyone would receive their gifts.

Two hours later, my reading was interrupted by another virtual call, transporting me to the replacement Christmas with everyone gathered round the screen as their dinner cooked, ripping into the gifts from me to them. I felt present as the adults chatted and my grandsons ran in circles with their aunt’s two bouncy, antlered Jack Russells. I was really getting into this Christmas-at-a-distance thing.

Then, the moment I signed off, I heard insistent knocking, opened the door and beheld a full Christmas dinner and a Christmas cracker too. I placed the dinner tray before me, snapped the cracker, and became a queen in a red tissue crown, dining contentedly alone. And best of all? I didn’t have to cook!

By the last bite of dessert, I was becoming drowsy. Being waited on and Facetimed throughout the day had tired me right out. I texted my thanks to all the family, saying how sorry I was not to have hosted Christmas, but was I?

When my head hit the pillow, I mulled over the day which had defied my Christmas traditions yet had been one of the most satisfying Christmases I’d ever had. It held its own kind of magic that I could never have imagined – family, friends, screen time, sweets, lunch and dinner had all come my way. I yawned and thought, I wonder if I can get COVID again next year?

***

Kathryn Hazlewood is a retired educator. Her career spans elementary and secondary teaching to PR for a major bank, a sabbatical in France, executive producer of youth TV programs and finally, executive director of a not-for-profit. 

In her retirement she is a busy widow taking conversational French, volunteering in long-term care, traveling, hosting a book club, mentoring high school students in English, serving on a tenant association and spending lots of time entertaining and cooking for grandchildren and close family. 

During COVID she self-published a children’s book I’m Done! and wrote an unpublished, as yet, biography Twisted Twins as a favour for grown twins with Cerebral Palsy. She lives in Burlington.

***

See Brian Henry’s upcoming weekly writing classes, one-day workshops, and weekend retreats here.

“The Crystal Swan,” a Christmas story by Evena Gottschalk

Many years ago at Christmas, I received a tiny crystal swan, a mirror on which to place it and a hand-drawn card with lovely crayon work, saying, For you, Auntie. The gift came from my best friend’s six-year-old son, Peter.

The sights and smells of that Christmas morning at Ann’s house have been indelibly inscribed in my brain. I remember looking through the window at the trees, the rooftops and the sidewalks brushed with a fresh layer of snow.  Inside, the fireplace crackled, and the smell of freshly baked ham permeated the air.

On Christmas Eve we decorated the tree, baked cookies, drank egg nog. Afterwards, we bundled up and walked through the crunchy snow to attend the Festival of the Nine Lessons and Carols at a nearby church.  We returned home, cold, tired but joyful. Eventually, sleep called and we retired to our rooms.

“Auntie,” Peter whispered. “May I come in? I want to tell you something.” 

“Sure,” I said. Peter came over to my bed.  To have a better view of his round, angelic face, I turned on the bedside light.

“I bought a gift for you Auntie. I chose it myself. Before I could reply, Peter turned around and ran up the hallway to his room. 

After breakfast, we gathered around the tree to exchange gifts.  But Peter pre-empted the ritual of him handing out the Christmas stockings.  Rather he planted himself in front of the tree.  In his outstretched hand, he held a small box topped with an oversized red bow. “Open it, open it,” he said, rushing towards me. “I wrapped it myself.” He leaned on my lap; elbows on chin gazing at me as I lifted a miniature crystal swan out of the box. 

“Auntie, do you like it?”

“Of course, it’s beautiful,” I said.”

 “Auntie, take good care of it, forever and forever.” 

I did.

Peter’s mother and I are first generation Canadians.  Our parents immigrated to Canada to study and never returned. They were not escaping from a life of poverty. Rather they enjoyed the freedom of anonymity, a difficult thing to achieve on a small island. 

Our two families lived in the same neighbourhood, vacationed together. Peter’s mother, and I attended the same university. We considered ourselves sisters, just not bonded by DNA.  She had been my biggest supporter when my husband unexpectedly died.

Peter grew up, went off to university.  I remember the Christmas morning when he presented his fiancée with a pair of crystal lovebirds. How he repeated the exact words when he gave me my crystal swan, but with a twist.  He said, “Take good care of them, because my love for you is forever and forever.” Then he turned to me and asked like he had done so many Christmases before. “Auntie how is my swan doing? Is she safe?” 

“Of course. Auntie loves you and your swan, forever and forever.” 

One summer’s evening I heard a tinkling sound. I ran to my room to discover the swan lying on its side, its wings broken. My heart leapt.  Why did it break, I asked myself. Because there was no one else around and the windows were closed. I dismissed it all, went to the kitchen to prepare dinner.

About half of an hour later my cell phone rang. “He’s gone, he’s gone,” Ann screamed. Her cries pierced my ears, my soul, my body.

“Who? I asked.

“Peter, Peter, my only son, he’s gone.” The phone went dead. I ran to the bedroom, held that broken bird. Sobbed.

Later I learned that he died in a car crash, on his way home from a business trip. 

After his death, I carried that broken swan in my handbag. The swan has traveled to all the countries Peter promised to visit. Until one day, I realized my tears no longer flowed when I uttered his name or look fixedly at his photos. A quietness had settled within me. I thought it was time for Peter to be made whole again. To fly away. And Ann and I had decided it was time to start celebrating Christmas again. However muted.

At our first holiday get together I visited the shop where Peter had originally bought the bird when he was just a little boy. 

“Do you have this one?” I asked the sales associate. I softly unravelled the tissue paper and showed her the broken swan.

 “Let me go look,” she said. She opened the display case and searched. “You’re lucky. This is my last one.”

She placed it in the palm of my hand. And memories of a little boy, in another place, in another time, flooded my heart. I smiled and swallowed my tears.

“Is it a gift?” she asked. “Shall I wrap it?”

“Yes, please,” I said.

***

Evena Gottschalk grew up on the island of Barbados listening to stories told by her grandmother. Now free to pursue her passion for storytelling, she spends time reading and writing. When not working on her novel, she watches British detective shows. She has spent most of her adult life in Canada with a brief stint in Uppsala, Sweden.

See Brian Henry’s upcoming weekly writing classes, one-day workshops, and weekend retreats here.