Last week, I had the honour of giving an author talk in Thornbury, Ontario. During the interview, I was asked how I came up with the idea for the novel, whether the stories in the novel were inspired by my own family (yes!) and what surprised me while creating the characters. I talked about my interest in historical research and the pitfalls of travelling into too many directions at once. It was a fantastic afternoon.
And then came the questions from the audience.
Read MoreIn the Spring of 1945, a starving Europe welcomed the news of Nazi surrender after more than five years of brutal occupation. Somehow, amidst the desolation, the tulips still burst into bloom foreshadowing better days to come.
Victory in Europe. Millions of people dancing in the streets. Allied soldiers handing out chocolates to children, strangers kissing in the boulevards, royalty and exiled heads of state returning to their parliaments and castles. We’ve heard the stories so many times. We love a narrative of liberation.
Read MoreIn her debut novel, Lena Scholman brings us a tale of unlikely allies who must choose between following the patterns of the past or stitching together a future of their own making.
Read MoreThe first day of school has always been so full of emotion for me. As a teacher, the night before meeting my new students, my stomach would be in knots that would not release until the last person filed out of the classroom and I could lay my head on the desk for a moment and breathe. Thank you God, we all survived. I was never a fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants teacher. Extreme preparedness was my armour, because somehow in the back of my mind I must have believed the classroom was some kind of battleground. In the evening after the first day, I’d always crave KFC; fried food is good for an unsettled stomach, right? It was an unapologetic indulgence I’d earned having survived that first day of teenagers, whom, to my knowledge, didn’t hate me. And, as much as it is embarrassing to admit, no matter what lofty ambitions I might have had about what I was going to teach, I was still very much like a child who just wanted to live through the day, hoping to make a connection and not an enemy. I wanted to be liked.
Years later, without a classroom of my own, the first day of school is still kind of painful.
Read More1.) There is no one way.
How could there be? This is so obvious I’m going to skip ahead to number two.
2.) There is no timeline.
I hardly dare to write this post because what wisdom could I possibly have to share given the limited time I’ve spent on earth? Pre-Covid I spent many beautiful afternoons with a ninety-eight year old woman and drank in her ten decades of wisdom. So let me say a few things as someone who has taken voracious notes, and hopes to live long enough to test these theories in the future.
There is no timeline for learning how to be a woman. I mean, we are born female and we die female and figuring out what that means isn’t a 100 metre dash towards a clear finish line. You may think you have the answer at 35 only to completely revise your stance at 55. Who you are at 18 may not be who you are at 88.
So take your time becoming. I know some love to speak of the maiden, mother and crone trichotomy, but I also know women whose hair is white and whose eyes sparkle like a child’s with the delight of having discovered something new and amazing.
Take your time learning all the ways to be a woman.
Read MoreDear B,
Yesterday we went for a long walk together through your neighbourhood, admiring the panoramic view of the city below, moving swiftly to keep warm and talking even faster – we had nine months of news to catch up on.
And then you told me a secret.
All these months of hibernation and contemplation had germinated a seed within you. A whole world took shape in your imagination. At first, you didn’t know what it was or what to do with this flickering flame of an idea. You had imagined a world wherein an epic series of stories unfolded in layers that would roll out over many years. I listened quietly, envious of that giddy feeling one gets when the muse visits and ideas are fresh, unblemished by editing or writer’s block, nebulous and not yet fully formed, like a tightly furled dandelion, something pure, unadulterated by doubt, despair or the unsolicited opinions of others; not yet a threat to your energy, your soul or your relationships. Ah, the sweetness of a new idea!
I wanted to share with you right then and there everything I’ve learned in almost ten years of writing, but our bodies were freezing and darkness was descending. So, in case we don’t have the chance to walk again anytime soon, here’s everything I know about writing so far, in a top ten list my friend Cat and I compiled last winter for a speech we gave to the Niagara-on-the-Lake Writer’s Circle. I hope it gives you a bit of encouragement for the adventure ahead.
Read MoreIn the late 1930’s, the Dutch government built Camp Westerbork to house thousands of German Jews fleeing National Socialism in Germany. When the Nazis occupied Holland in May 1940, they took over the camp, enlisting Dutch police servicemen as guards. Rients Dijkstra was one of such police officers, and when he reported for duty, he couldn’t do what the Nazis demanded. He lasted one day and never returned to Westerbork. Like thousands of other Dutch citizens, he went underground, hiding in the chicken coop of his girlfriend’s parents’ home, where for a time he was safe. However, as supplies dwindled, it became difficult for citizens to feed the thousands of onderduikers, those who had gone underground. Meanwhile, the Germans paid informants fifty guilders to track down runaways. Rients’ luck ran out when someone took the money. Though the house was searched, they skipped the chicken coop. Frustrated, the Germans grabbed Rients’ girlfriend’s father instead.
Read More
