Archive for category: The Blog

From the CBC CANADA WRITES website

19 Jul 2015 / Comments Off / in The Blog/by Susan Glickman

Susan Glickman: How I Wrote Safe as Houses

http://www.cbc.ca/books/canadawrites/2015/05/susan-glickman-how-i-wrote-safe-as-houses.html

On May 22, 2015 7:05 AM

In most mystery novels, the person who finds the body falls off the radar as soon as the police arrive. But not in Susan Glickman’s Safe as Houses. For her first mystery, Glickman wanted to explore how it would feel for someone to find a dead body in the place they go for their daily dose of tranquillity.

We spoke to Susan Glickman about how she wrote Safe As Houses, from the inspiration of her dog Toby to finding her setting, literally, in her own backyard.

IMPENDING DOOM

The idea for Safe as Houses came from walking my dog around my neighbourhood. He took off on me in this beautiful enclave in Toronto called Wychwood Park, which has a private tennis court and a beautiful duck pond and is surrounded by elegant Arts and Crafts houses. For some bizarre reason, I thought of my dog finding a dead body in the bushes. This wasn’t prompted by any evil associations with the neighbourhood. It just has to do with my own sense of impending doom and having read too many murder mysteries.

DEADLY PROFESSION

Wychwood Park is a beautiful neighbourhood. You can’t imagine anything more bucolic. There are giant oak trees and naturalized lawns full of bluebells and daffodils. It looks like a little piece of England. The phrase “safe as houses” came into my mind. It’s an old English expression. I thought it had to do with one’s feeling of safety when in a solid structure like a house, but actually it has to do with real estate being the least volatile of investments. When I investigated this saying I decided the dead man had to be a real estate agent.

NEW YORKER

Maxime Bertrand is Liz Ryerson’s sidekick. He is a retired classics professor, originally from Montreal, who is lovingly based on an old friend of mine who I miss very much. He was a retired English professor and my doctoral dissertation supervisor. People who knew Sheldon Zitner might recognize him a bit in Maxime—although Maxime is much less acerbic than my friend, who was a New Yorker and had a very wry sense of humour… It’s not so much him as a character, but it’s the relationship that Maxime has with Liz. They have an almost father/daughter relationship.

FOR THE LOVE OF TOBY

One of the things that happens when you write fiction is you get to fill in missing pieces of your own life. I love my neighbourhood, but we don’t have a bookstore. So I made my protagonist, Liz Ryerson, own the store that I wish existed in my neighbourhood… I also made her dog a cross between a border collie and a lab—other than that, he has all the qualities of my own little dog Toby, who’s small and can’t fetch a Frisbee. So I decided if I was going to give myself a bookstore I was also going to give my dog the body he wanted so he could catch a Frisbee.

Equal Temperament

03 Aug 2014 / Comments Off / in The Blog/by Susan Glickman

Notes Cut from The Violin Lover

The rustling of leaves is rated at ten decibels, a whisper at twenty, an ordinary conversation at sixty-five, a moving train at one hundred. Any sound over one hundred and twenty decibels is experienced as pain, not sound. Too much of anything, even something beautiful, is experienced as pain.

The decibel is one tenth of a bel, a measurement of amplitude named in honour of Alexander Graham Bell, who also invented the phonograph, and taught the deaf. Like Beethoven, only in reverse. Beethoven wrote music he couldn’t hear for the pleasure of others. Bell, who could hear, made a language for those who couldn’t. Translating sounds to signs, or electrical impulses, in the ear or along a wire, into voices, into music. Vibration—simple vibration—is what makes all bodies sound. And at the lowest register, sound waves are felt on the skin, the body itself resonating like a drum.

To sing you need to breathe deeply and hold your breath for longer than the ordinary four-second speech interval, then generate as much power as you can. The human voice is a more efficient transformer than a musical instrument, yet only one per cent of the energy a singer puts out is transmitted as sound waves. On the other hand, ordinary conversation is so weak that it would take two million people talking at the same time to run a fifty-watt light bulb.

The first public concert in England did not take place until 1672, organised by a violinist named John Banister who wanted to offer the public an experience previously reserved for the aristocracy: music outside the walls of a church, music for its own sake. Music as art, not as a practical aid to everyday life. Not to lull an infant to sleep, or inspire soldiers on the march, or set the tempo for oarsmen or labourers; music unconnected to public spectacles of dancing or feasting. A separate world.

Unaccustomed to their role, early audiences were appreciative but noisy, treating the concert hall no differently than they did the theatre. They talked and ate and shouted to their acquaintance; clapped or booed or hissed spontaneously and frequently; demanded favourite encores. Not until the late nineteenth century did concerts become decorous affairs. Wagner was the first conductor to turn off the lights, sheltering each listener in private reverie; Mahler the first to lock out late-comers and forbid applause between movements. Now we have come to rely on these conventions to help us listen. In a world saturated with sensory information, we require an absence of all other distractions to focus on sound.

There are those who contend that musical tones, like mathematical symbols, have no reference to anything outside themselves. They inhabit a platonic dimension of ideal forms: there is no way of representing them except through themselves, no shortcut to understanding their meaning. They simply are, B flat or the square root of fifteen, π or a minor seventh. They do not signify toothbrush or rhododendron; they cannot evoke the Napoleonic Wars or the Birth of Venus.

Others insist that musical tones participate in the patterning – the relationship of part to part and parts to whole – that is innate in human consciousness. For example, whether their local musical scale consists of three notes or five or eight or more, every person on this planet can hear and recognize the intervals of the fifth and the octave. Mean-tone tuning derives from this innate human ability. A frequency is selected and given a name: let’s call it “A”. It is doubled to form an octave, then halved to form a fifth, which we call “E”. The process is repeated with “E” and its fifth, “B,” and so on, all around the circle of fifths, the rainbow of sound that makes up the “Pythagorean” scale.

This mathematically generated scale dominated Western music for two thousand years, in part because philosophers cherished its implication that music simply made audible humanity’s innate perfection. But every system has its limitations; the limitations are what make it a system. And the limitation of mean-tone tuning is perplexing both philosophically and practically: it only works in one scale at a time. Beyond that scale lies dissonance or, if you will, chaos.

This is a minor difficulty for the solitary musician but a disaster for the ensemble, constrained to retune a whole flock of discordant strings every time they play a new piece. Luckily, around 1700, a method was invented according to which this built-in dissonance could be distributed evenly – almost inaudibly – throughout every scale. In The Well-Tempered Clavier, Bach demonstrated the versatility of the new tuning, known as “equal temperament”, by composing two pieces in each of the twelve major and twelve minor keys, all of which are to be played consecutively, without re-tuning the instrument. There was no looking back.

The “gravicembalo col piano e forte” – keyboard instrument with soft and loud – was presented by Bartolommeo Cristofori of Padua to Prince Ferdinando dei Medici in 1709. It replaced the quiet plucked-quill action of the harpsichord with a hammer action, allowing for much greater control. The first instruments had four-and- a-half octaves; over time, both their range and volume increased until, by 1800, the very loud, seven-and-a half octave forte-piano we still use today had supplanted its more modest ancestors.

When the pianist’s finger touches a key, the far end tilts up, raising a lever that, in turn, hits a felt-tipped hammer. This hammer lifts a damper, allowing the string beneath it to vibrate. As the key is released, the lever lowers the hammer so that the damper touches the string and impedes the vibration. Unless, of course, his foot hits the sustaining pedal, which lifts all the dampers off the strings, leaving them free to resonate to infinity (or at least far beyond human apprehension).

Both the piano and the violin make music by causing strings to vibrate. Perhaps an ancient archer heard the thrumming of the string after his arrow had taken flight. Perhaps he duplicated this phenomenon while idly plucking his bow. Was it because of such inadvertent discoveries that Apollo, god of music, is twinned with his sister Artemis, goddess of the hunt?

The piano uses more than 200 strings to play its 88 notes. The long, thick bass strings run singly; the shorter, thinner tenor strings doubly; the slender trebles in threes, like schoolgirls arm-in-arm on a busy street. Piano strings are wire lashed to an iron frame; their tension can be adjusted by a series of pins. It is a laborious job, requiring the services of a professional. By contrast, all violinists tune their instruments often, even compulsively, by themselves. Another contrast: the violin has only four strings and yet can attain a seven-octave range. The pull on each violin string is 70 pounds, 280 pounds in total. The combined pull of the strings on an upright piano is 16 tons; a concert grand will be closer to 23 tons.

Some musicians remain haunted by nostalgia for the Pythagorean scale with its concurrence of divine and earthly mathematics, and resent the modern insistence on compromise for the sake of the ensemble. They try to discriminate between a C sharp and a D flat; a B sharp and a C natural. Theoretically, this should be possible, especially on a fretless instrument like the violin from which one can coax many fractions of a tone. But in practice, our ears have grown too lazy for such fine discriminations.

The ear collects sound as a flower does dew; channels it along the auditory canal to brew a secret honey. The air flutters, the air is alive with wings; sound waves drum against the ear and set its architecture humming. Sensation is transformed into energy like dew into nectar. And then (but this is no explanation, this is just the map of a mystery) the mind gives meaning to what it hears.

BLOG TOUR

16 Jul 2014 / Comments Off / in The Blog/by Susan Glickman

I was invited to participate in this blog tour by the wonderful novelist Martha Baillie.

1. What am I working on?

Final revisions to three entirely different manuscripts: 1) Safe as Houses, a “mystery” set in contemporary Toronto which is really an inquiry into the notion of personal safety, and will be published by Cormorant Books in the spring of 2015; 2) The Discovery of Flight, “YA” fiction in the voices of two sisters, one of whom is writing a journal, the other a fantasy novel; and 3) What We Carry, a collection of poems based largely on transcriptions of Mozart’s “24 Preludes” for solo piano.

And also a completely new project, which – because it is still at the angelic stage of inhabiting my imagination – is more extravagant and perfectly realized than anything I’ve yet accomplished!

2. How does my work differ from other work in its genre?

Genre is a convenience of academics, a useful way of organizing thoughts and bookshelves, and of describing the influence of tradition upon a writer’s work. I don’t pay attention to it when writing (see the quotation marks around the terms “mystery” and “YA” in my answer to the first question) because life is never just tragedy, comedy, farce, satire, or romance; it’s everything all at once. Thus: the smell of grapefruit and burnt toast + horrifying news about foreign atrocities on the radio + your kid making a profound observation before farting loudly + your husband kissing the back of your neck in that way that still makes you tingle = breakfast.

Still, I have to admit that my reluctance to squeeze into a single category has sometimes proved problematic. Editors and agents usually try to get me to simplify the polyphonic and intertextual elements of my work, and I have capitulated too often in the past in order to get published. I regret this now. My first novel, The Violin Lover, was written in sonata form but I suppressed that fact, and also the many interpolated comments in the voice of Music itself throughout the book (little intermezzi on topics like the difference between the operatic voice and the speaking voice, or different kinds of scales, or the invention of the public concert) because publishing folk felt no one would be interested. And I had a really hard time getting my last novel, The Tale- Teller, published, because it is generically heterogeneous and probably best described as feminist picaresque.

But much to my astonishment, the French translation of The Tale-Teller by Christiane Duchesnes, Les Aventures étranges et surprenantes d’Esther Brandeau, moussaillon, was greeted enthusiastically by critics in Quebec, who welcomed its fusion of history and fantasy in the context of 18^thcentury enlightenment philosophy. Their response has made me hopeful that if I keep writing on the edge of genre, I may eventually be accepted in the ROC as well.

3. Why do I write what I do?

If I don’t write this stuff, who else will? Or, as American poet Mary Oliver put it, “Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?”

4. How does my writing process work

(Please note: the following is a description of the process for fiction. I’m not even sure I can describe the process for poetry. It’s too much like watching paint dry.

For at least a year, I read around the subject in an improvisatory way. I take random notes, which give me the illusion that I know what I’m doing. I go for a lot of long walks with my dog, Toby, who is a very distractible muse.

Once I find myself intuiting some kind of narrative, I write a cursory outline. Then I start writing what I think is the beginning, though it may not prove to be so once I reach the end. Early on, I go back to the beginning every day and edit my way forward to where I left off before continuing to write new stuff. When I get stuck, or bored, or lose faith in what I’m doing, I abandon chronology and just write something compelling; some scene I know will be in the book somewhere, and then write back and forth from that. When I can no longer sleep because all I want to do is keep writing, I use a trick my friend Helen Dunmore taught me: I force myself to stop while I still know what’s coming next, and leave myself a bunch of notes at the end of the page to pick up when I resume.

Taking into account the fact that I am employed as a freelance editor and a creative writing instructor at two different universities and therefore don’t often get unobstructed time to write, I would say that the first draft unfolds pretty quickly (if you don’t count interruptions for research, to which I’m prone). Then comes revision, for which I must rely on the advice of others more astute than I. If I were less of a hermit, I might know more people to ask for such advice. I see the list of acknowledgements at the back of some writers’ books and am astounded: I don’t have many friends because I’m always either working or walking the dog!

If only the dog could read. I’ve sent far too many manuscripts off to publishers before they were ready because I was desperate for meaningful dialogue.

somehow missed these remarks by Richard Lemm on The Tale-Teller

07 Jul 2014 / Comments Off / in Reviews, The Blog/by Susan Glickman

Richard Lemm wrote a new note: Susan Glickman’s “The Tale-Teller”.

Jan 20 ·

I strongly recommend Susan Glickman’s historical novel The Tale-Teller. Esther, the main character, is one of my new heroes and inspirations, along with Katniss. (Is Jennifer Lawrence too old to play her?) Esther is a young Jewish woman (we’d call her a teen-ager today) who disguises herself as a male and gains passage on a ship sailing from France to New France, at a time when a female could not travel to New France without official permission, and Jews were not allowed.

It’s a beautiful story, beautifully written, with magical and revelatory micro-tales. So many memorable characters, which Susan manages to bring to richly-hued and multi-faceted life in such a relatively short space. Susan has been one of Canada’s finest poets for many years, and her poetic chops complement the narrative, never interfering. The story is replete with despicable villains, benevolent helpmates, and ambivalent types in whom empathy and a sense of justice wars with fear and self-interest — all of them thoroughly believable and convincing.

This is a novel I’d readily recommend to young people as well as those of us who know who Justin Trudeau’s father was.

I can’t remember if I linked to this delightful article from the Mount Allison student newspaper, The Argosy, or not ..

27 Jun 2014 / Comments Off / in The Blog/by Susan Glickman

Canadian poets discuss creative writing

Julie Bruck and Susan Glickman speak at Mt. A

by Daniel Marcotte

October 9, 2013

The Centre for Canadian Studies held their third event in their fall lineup last Thursday, with award-winning Canadian poets Julie Bruck and Susan Glickman leading a discussion after reading selections from their respective poetry collections. Hosted by Professor Christl Verduyn in the Owens Art Gallery foyer, the event served dually as the writers’ second-last stop in their two-week tour of Maritime universities.

Both writers published major, critically-acclaimed works last year: Bruck’s third collection of poems, entitled Monkey Ranch, earned her the Governor General’s Award for Poetry, and Glickman’s historically-inspired novel, The Tale Teller, as well as her poetry collection The Smooth Yarrow, continue to receive positive reviews throughout Canada since their release in 2012.

Bruck was born and raised in Montreal, Quebec, and now lives in California where she continues to write and teach classes at the University of San Francisco and The Writing Salon, an independent school of creative writing for adults based in San Francisco and Berkeley. Her poetry has been featured in popular publications such as The Walrus and The New Yorker, among others. She is currently in the process of writing her fourth poetry collection.

Bruck cites the home as a frequent source of information and inspiration. “Our family relationships are our most intimate ones, and often our most fraught,” she explained. She believes this is often where people bear their true selves, giving a truer sense of being and living: “We reveal ourselves at our most human, whatever that may be.”

Although unbeknownst to her at the time, Susan Glickman went to the same high school as Bruck in Montreal, and went on to study dramatic arts and English literature in Boston, Massachusetts and at Oxford University in England. She has taught at the University of Toronto, and continues to live in the city where she works as a freelance editor for academic journals, in addition to pursuing her own creative projects.

Because of their extensive experience as educators, particularly in the fields of creative writing, both Glickman and Bruck offered advice regarding the composition process. They described their best inspirations as coming from extended contemplation and metaphoric extrapolation, rather than an instant eureka moment. “It’s usually a thought that won’t go away, like a grain of sand in your shoe,” speculated Glickman.

Due to Glickman’s success in both prose and poetry, she could attest to the varying challenges provided by each medium. “People who read novels like everything to be explained, and I’m still not used to that,” she elaborated, praising the concise and “compressed” nature of poetry. She also views poetry as a genre that is more perfectible and capable of expressing a complete idea or thought: “there’s a possibility of getting every word right, but that never happens with fiction,” she said.

Both poets also agreed that the process of writing must change the writer as much as it aims to change the reader. They explained that the role of a poet is to describe or conceptualize a common idea or feeling in ways that have not yet been used by either the writer or their audience. “If you’re not surprising yourself in the process,” Bruck commented, “then the work will be very flat.”

Despite their acclaim and success, both writers were refreshingly humble and eager to share their stories and advice with their audience during the discussion. Although not all students may go on to publish award-winning poems or prose, the pleasure of meeting excellent writers with the help of the Centre for Canadian Studies is a rewarding experience nonetheless.

– See more at: http://www.argosy.ca/article/canadian-poets-discuss-creative-writing#sthash.ukWyb0ON.dpuf