October 15th, 2014

Hello, friends. It seems like every autumn, my family experiences a maelstrom of work- and school-related insanity. Things are INTENSE. This year, we made some strategic choices to minimize negative stress (for example, we didn’t sign up the children for any after-school activities. No team sports. No music lessons. No nature camp. What on earth do we do after school? We read books, draw pictures, garden, ride bikes and cook dinner. It’s really nice.) but even so, the Thanksgiving long weekend couldn’t come at a better time.

The garden haul, 2014. Clockwise from top right: oxheart carrots, butternut squash, bean seeds, late-ripening cherry tomatoes, leeks, chioggia beets

This past weekend, we had a breakfast toast marathon, drove out to a farm to pick up our Thanksgiving turkey, had friends over for the celebratory dinner, basked in the sunshine on our patio, rode our bikes along the waterfront path, and harvested the last root vegetables from our garden. (It’s weird, though: there are still half-ripe tomatoes clinging to their vines, so we may get a few more of those AFTER the beets and carrots have all come in.) We also did some cleaning and organizing around the house. Oh, and Nick and I each did about three hours’ work yesterday, to get a jump on the week. And here’s the magical part: the whole weekend felt pleasantly productive, not pressured and frantic. It was amazing. (It may never happen again, which is why I’m memorializing it here.)

And I had lots of time to step back and think, I am so outrageously privileged. Here is a very partial list of things for which I am thankful, this autumn of 2014:

– My spouse is my best friend and my ally in all things

– I feel lucky to be the mother of my children

– I have some genuinely exciting things happening with recent and new writing projects

– I feel strongly connected to my local community

– I feel strongly connected to my family, despite the geographical distance between us

– I have dear and brilliant and generous friends

– Every year, I care less about what other people think of me

– I have the time and good health to be thankful for my enormous good fortune

What about you, friends? How is your autumn going, and what are you thankful for?

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Alaska, Kingston, Bath

October 8th, 2014

Hello, friends. I’ve got my head down this week, working on revisions to my forthcoming short story, “The Legendary Garrett Girls”. It’ll be part of a Candlewick Press anthology called Petticoats and Pistols, edited by Jessica Spotswood. I can’t tell you how much fun it’s been! I loved the research, as always. I used this short story as a chance to experiment with a first-person narrator, which I found both liberating and satisfying. And for the first time, I wrote about a pair of sisters. Yes, yes, there’s that old adage about writing what you know. I confess: I have a sibling, but not a sister. But the Garrett girls’ sibling relationship felt very real to me, and Jessica (who knows from sisters) found it believable, too. Hurray for the dark art of fiction!

Kingston Penitentiary, c. 1901 (image via wikipedia)

Kingston Penitentiary, c. 1901 (image via wikipedia)

In other news, I posted at the History Girls about historic Kingston Penitentiary. (I’ve blogged before about my tour of the Pen – Part 1 and Part 2 are here – but this is a separate post about KP’s past.) Dickens toured Kingston Penitentiary in 1842 and called it “an admirable jail… well and wisely governed, and excellently regulated, in every respect”. Can you picture the frantic scrubbing, sprinting, and general fluffing that went on before the great man’s arrival? He was much ruder about the rest of Kingston. The rest of the post is here.

I also want to draw your attention to Stephanie Burgis’s post on approaching Chronic Illness as a Reader and a Writer. It’s a personal response to a novel that uses chronic illness as a way of building sympathy for other characters – ie, the ones who live with the chronically ill. More importantly, though, Steph uses this moment to talk about stereotypes of chronic illness in fiction and confesses that she has, in her own fiction, drawn “on nineteenth-century comic tropes [of the manipulative invalid] from Jane Austen onward - even though I had a chronic illness myself”. This is where Steph’s post goes from being brave and compassionate to being extraordinarily courageous and insightful.

Steph talks about rewriting her manipulative invalid – but not as a reformed character or a misunderstood heroine: “Instead, I left in every line where she wielded her health issues – and the effects of stress upon them – like a sword over her son’s head. I wasn’t writing an unthinking stereotype anymore – I was writing my own personal nightmare of the mother I was terrified to become. Mrs. Carlyle gives in to every temptation to seize power where she can, in a situation where her son is the one with all the legal and financial power and she lives on his sufferance. She listens to that dark voice inside her that I’ve heard, too, and she lets it take charge of her mouth.”

It’s an amazing post, and one that reminds me of the urgent necessity of looking at my own comfortable assumptions very carefully indeed. Thank you, Steph. As Tricia said, you’re a lion-hearted woman.

How about you, friends? What are you writing, reading, and thinking about this week?

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The Tear Thief

October 1st, 2014

Hello, friends. It’s been only a few months since I last blogged about bookish serendipity, but it’s something that seems to happen fairly often at our house. In our most recent instance, Nick came downstairs one weekend morning with a slightly dazed expression and said, “Have I been a while? I got sucked into a really great poem by Carol Ann Duffy.” I was going to ask him about it, but then life (children, house guest, the inarguable necessity of producing breakfast immediately) intervened.

Later that day, however, we went to a bookstore. Nick’s mum wanted to buy each of the children a gift, and I plucked this one from the shelf: The Tear Thief by Carol Ann Duffy, with illustrations by Nicoletta Ceccoli. It seemed like it was meant to be.

The Tear Thief, Carol Ann Duffy

I’ll state my reservations right up front. I didn’t love the cover, although the glowing lights are very compelling. And I’m still a bit squeamish about the super-sentimental, lollipop-model-girl illustrations. Here’s an example:

detail from The Tear Thief

It’s all a bit airbrushed for me. Maybe that’s okay because it creates a tension within the book: Duffy’s words don’t idealize the existence of tears, although she offers a lyrical explanation as to where they all go. Still, I’d prefer images that don’t present small children as Bratz Lite.

But the words! Don’t listen to me; listen to Duffy. “A light rain began to fall, orange under the street lights. The Tear Thief worked hard. She stole the oddly long tears of a boy who had trapped his finger in a flute. She stole the tiny tears of a baby having her nappy changed. Into the sack: the tears shed by a pair of twins fighting over an orange teddy bear. Into the sack: two pear-shaped tears from the sly cheeks of a boy who’d been caught telling a lie about a big hole in his trousers.” I love the way the passage begins slowly, dreamily, then accelerates. I love the deft choice of details.

And I adore this description of moonlight: “The girl saw the light of the moon in her garden, turning the leaves on the trees to silver. Beyond that, she saw the light of the moon on the rooftops of all the houses, like honey. A midnight cat walked along a wall and the light of the moon made its eyes burn gold. The whole town moon-bathed as it slept. The river lay on its back and gazed up at the moon, dazzled and lovesick.”

When I read a passage like that, I uncurl with satisfaction (and feel a stab of envy). It’s absolutely thrilling to share language like that with my children. I hope that one day, they too will get sucked into great poems and wander downstairs, slightly dazed, to tell me about them.

How about you, readers? Are there particular books or passages that make you sigh with pleasure (or writhe with envy, or both)?

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Fashion Victims, with Sarah Albee

September 24th, 2014

“You know,” said Sarah Albee, “this is a very strange thing to do.”

It was a gorgeous Sunday afternoon in Toronto and we were at the Bata Shoe Museum, about to tour their special exhibition, Fashion Victims: The Perils and Pleasures of Dress in the Nineteenth Century. Sarah and I share a lively interest in the gritty real-life details of history: disease, poison, food contamination and, of course, filth. (Especially in Sarah’s case: she loves insects and poop. She’ll make you love them, too.) There was absolutely nothing unusual about our being at an exhibition about Victorian craziness… unless you count the fact that we’d never before met in real life. Call it a Writer’s Blind Date. It worked beautifully.

Sarah knows a lot more about fashion than I do, so I felt privileged to see the exhibition through her eyes. One of the first items was this pair of impossibly small satin shoes.


You can’t get a sense of scale from my photo but trust me when I say they’re maybe 8 inches long, and proportionately narrow. Sarah explained that they’re called “straights” – there is neither a left nor right shoe, and the wearer must alternate feet in order to preserve their delicate shape.


Here’s another pair of “straights”, which were the standard even for bespoke (custom-made) shoes until the second half of the nineteenth century. The museum plaque explains: “This pair of almost impossibly narrow boots and gloves belonged to Elisabeth, the Empress of Austria. The boots were gifted to Colonel Louis de Schweiger, one of the countless men who had fallen under her spell, by the Empress’s maid Marie Doré as a ‘tendre souvenir’.” I love this story! I picture a moustachioed colonel sitting all alone in a first-class rail carriage, cuddling a pair of boots. But I want to know more about the maid, Marie Doré. Why is she named? Did she take pity on the colonel and slip him the boots and gloves on her own initiative? Did giving them away save her the labour of having to clean the boots? They’re slightly scuffed…

Here’s a terrific example of a corset and crinoline combination, from the back 3/4 angle. We don’t often get to see the underpinnings so clearly.


Again, this example is tiny – so narrow that I felt a little breathless just looking at it – and the plaque speculated that it was made to fit a young girl.

Here’s the other end of the spectrum: black shoes with a beaded butterfly detail, made in 1888 to fit the century’s most famous widow: Queen Victoria herself.


I love these French boots, which were the height of 1860s fashion. I would absolutely, unhesitatingly wear them myself on a regular basis.


…Except, of course, that the dyes used to create these screaming-bright colours often gave the wearers chemical burns. Ahem.

Speaking of chemical innovation, I was astounded to read that the tortoiseshell-looking comb in the next photo was actually made of celluloid. Celluloid, a kind of plastic, being mass-produced in the 1880s!


(As I stood in front of this display, muttering “Celluloid!” to myself, Sarah kept saying, “Where? I don’t see it. Where are you reading this?” Dear reader, she thought hoped I was saying “cyanide”.)

Near the very end of the exhibit, we finally saw these plain shoes and we both sighed, “Finally! Working-class shoes!”


We agreed that the men’s shoes (with the buckles) were the first sturdy, practical shoes we’d seen thus far. The women’s pair, although made of leather, was still straight and rather delicate-looking. I suspect that it’s harder to preserve everyday working shoes because they’re so much more likely to be (literally) worn to pieces. Or do you think working women simply wore men’s shoes when they really needed to get around out-of-doors?

With Victorian fashions dancing in our heads, Sarah and I spent the rest of the afternoon walking, lunching, and talking pretty much nonstop. It was an immense treat, talking to another writer about work-in-progress, agents and editors, proofreading angst (Sarah’s tip: hire a super-literate college student to be your extra pair of proofreading eyes) and balancing work with family craziness.

Here are the happy faces of a pair of writers who’ve been talking cholera and intestinal worms for much of the day:


(She ducked down to my level for this shot. In real life, we look like a racehorse beside a Shetland pony.)

Sarah’s right: it was probably a very strange thing to do. But I think it’s the kind of strange thing that should happen more often. Don’t you?

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Cover reveal: Rivals in the City

September 16th, 2014

Hello, friends. I’m posting a day early this week, because I’m having trouble controlling my excitement. Today, I am absolutely delighted to share with you the cover for Rivals in the City. This is the Candlewick Press edition, to be published in the US and Canada in February 2015.

Rivals in the City, by Y S Lee

Isn’t it perfect? Every time I see it (which is quite frequently), I smile and sigh with satisfaction.

You can read the first chapter for free, right here.

But that’s not all! Today, I am also the guest of the Booksmugglers. Over there, I share some behind-the-scenes images from the cover photo shoot and talk about the making of the Agency covers. AND Candlewick Press is very generously giving away a whole bunch of Rivals ARCs! Go on, click click click!

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Research thrills

September 10th, 2014

Hello, friends. I’ve been reading Nicholas Shakespeare’s Priscilla: The Hidden Life of an Englishwoman in Wartime France. It’s a hard thing to categorize: a book encompassing fragments of a memoir, many elements of biography, and a tightly focused history of France during the Nazi Occupation. It’s completely gripping and extremely well told.

Priscilla, by Nicholas Shakespeare

The aspect that I want to focus on this week, however, is how so much of Shakespeare’s insight into his aunt’s life is the result of a series of happy coincidences. He begins the book with his childhood memories of Priscilla, his glamorous aunt with a mysterious past. She’d been married to a minor French aristocrat, lived in France under the Vichy government, and spent time in an internment camp. She was clearly scarred by those years, and nobody in the family spoke of them or questioned her directly.

After she died in 1982, Shakespeare continued asking questions but received few answers. There was a box of intriguing but inconclusive photographs and letters. It revealed that Priscilla had been adored by many men, but not who these men were or what kind of role they’d played in her life – and the larger history through which they’d all lived.

Years, and then decades, passed. One day at the Bodleian Library, writes Shakespeare, “I was in the final stage of putting to bed an edition of Bruce Chatwin’s letters, a project which had occupied me intermittently since 1991, when I noticed a reference to a Sutro Collection, recently catalogued and stored in the same building. In no real spirit of expectation, I pulled out the catalogue and saw that the Sutro archive had been bequeathed by Gillian [Sutro, Priscilla’s lifelong best friend]; further, three specific boxes related to my aunt.”

Do you see the extraordinary string of coincidence and happenstance at play, here? Nicholas Shakespeare happened to be working on the Chatwin letters. He happened to notice (how?) a reference to a Sutro Collection (a distinctive name, especially in England). The Sutro Collection happened to have been recently catalogued. It happened to be stored in the same building (the Special Collections Room of the Bodleian Library) in which Shakespeare was presently at work.

But the gifts of fortune continue! Shakespeare ordered up the boxes and found more harmless letters and photographs from before and after the war. “Interesting, I thought, but nothing more, and opened the second box, which was full of red and yellow notebooks. Then I read my name.”

Did your hair just stand on end? Mine did! Shakespeare explains that he’d mentioned his aunt’s wartime history in a magazine article in 1992. Gillian Sutro had read the article. In it, a factual error on Shakespeare’s part acted like a detonator on Sutro’s memory and emotions. It forced her to rethink her entire relationship with her lifelong best friend; made her re-sift the evidence of their conversations after 1941; and impelled her to interview others in their circle, to uncover what had really happened.

Shakespeare says, “For three months, I read and transcribed Gillian’s notebooks. Again and again, I had the freakish impression of being taken by the wrist and led down, through a procession of unlocking doors, into the cellars beneath one of the most fascinating and yet, in spite of all the literature on it, incompletely explored moments of the twentieth century – a period over which France continues to draw firm bolts: ‘Four years to strike from our history,” is how the French still refer to it. Because what Gillian had written down was the other half of the key.”

I love this analogy of “being taken by the wrist and led down… into the cellars”. It inspires the precise blend of excitement, helplessness, and foreboding that I recognize from my own (considerably less deus ex machina) research work. It’s one of the best things I know.

How about you, readers? Have you had comparable – or wildly different – moments in your own research?

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One Match

September 3rd, 2014

Hello friends, and happy September! I hope it’s begun well for you.

I have two blog posts for you today. The first is my debut post with The History Girls. My essay, “Ahistorical Fiction”, is up on our group blog now. I hope you enjoy it! From now on, I’ll be blogging over at the History Girls on the 3rd of each month.

Over here, I’m stepping away from reading and writing and gardening to talk about stem cell donation. Until recently, I’d never given much thought to stem cells. But a couple of years ago our acquaintance, B, was diagnosed with cancer. He is doing fairly well, all things considered, and has recently been matched with an appropriate stem cell donor. This is critical to his treatment and potential cure.

Things I didn’t know about stem cells, but now do, thanks to the Canadian Blood Services website:

  • Stem cells are important because they are “blood-forming cells”. They can develop into any of the elements normally present in the bloodstream: red blood cells, white blood cells, platelets, and other blood components.
  • You can donate stem cells either from bone marrow (which involves surgery under general anaesthetic) or from peripheral blood (like a basic blood donation).
  • You are more likely to find a stem cell match with someone from your own ethnic group.
  • Fewer than 30% of patients find stem cell matches within their own families. The rest rely on the generosity of strangers.

B’s family is now working with Queen’s University’s Engineering Society to recruit potential stem cell donors for other patients. They explain, “Only about 50% of people needing a donor find one in time. For a non-family donor, the best results for the patient post-transplant are from young donors (specifically males).” They’re looking for people between 17 and 35 years of age, and especially hoping to reach young men of all ethnicities.

Why ethnic diversity?

As mentioned above, you are more likely to find a stem cell match with someone who shares your ethnic background. In 2009, the Canadian Network was 83% Caucasian – not a great reflection of our national diversity. Canadians of colour, we are under-represented!

Why men, and why the age cap of 35?

Young donors are associated with better long-term survival rates for patients. As B’s family says, “Young males are chosen as donors 75% of the time, but represent only 15% of registered potential donors.”

I might be interested. What’s involved?

5 minutes of your time, and a cheek swab (“no pricks, needles, blood or money required”, in B’s family’s words.) Then your name goes onto a list of potential donors. Anything after that is at your discretion.

Okay, then. When and where?

Sunday, September 7, from 3-5 pm, at Grant Hall. As a (literal) sweetener, there will also be Baked Goods.

I’m nowhere near Kingston. What can I do?

So glad you asked. You can go to and request a kit. You’ll swab your cheek and mail the kit back to Canadian Blood Services.

If, like me, you are too old to be a donor, I hope you’ll help spread the word. And if you’re in the magical 17-35 age bracket, I hope you’ll seriously consider stepping up. Thanks for listening.


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Secret beach

August 27th, 2014

Hello, friends. Early this week, I got a last-minute email from our neighbour, Bridget, saying she was heading up to a local beach for the day. Did we want to come along?

Let’s see:

a perfect sunny day

+ 2 children

+ cleaning and groceries on the agenda

+ the last week of summer holidays.


OF COURSE we were coming along.

I asked for directions. She said, “Well, you go north on Montreal St but it’s hard to explain. There are no signs, or anything. We’ll stop by your house and we can drive up together.” And so we did: cars loaded with children (ours and other people’s), picnics, swimsuits, fishing rods, and, in my case, a potty (not for me, personally!). We were three vehicles, four adults and nine children.

This is what we found:


And we stopped for ice cream on the way home. It was the best possible way to spend the last Monday of summer holidays.

Also, this is totally unrelated but look at this amazing dragonfly laying eggs on one of our tomato plants!

Screen Shot 2014-08-26 at 2.05.20 PM

How about you, friends? What are you up to, in these last precious days of August?

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Unsung heroes

August 20th, 2014

Hello, friends. I am here today to sing of unsung heroes.

We’re back in Kingston, and I’m applying myself to a final proofread of Rivals in the City. I have an ARC in hand! (The cover is gorgeous. I say that not to taunt, but to tantalize: the Booksmugglers and I are planning a big cover reveal in September, with an ARC giveaway. Stay tuned for details!)

The terrible thing about having drafted, polished, repeatedly edited, and proofread a book is that it’s impossible to read it anew. Authors are the worst possible proofreaders of their own work because every phrase follows one of two scenarios:

1. We’re perplexed by the phrase because we’re haunted by several alternative versions, OR

2. We struggle actually to process what’s on the page, because we think we already know how it goes.

This kind of readerly short-circuit means that we’re well-intentioned but patchy proofreaders, at best.

You want proof? Today, I will confess to you the clunkiest sentence my terrific editor at Candlewick Press, novelist Deborah Noyes, turned up last week. Remember, this sentence has passed before many pairs of eyes, and is actually published in the UK edition. Oh, the shame! But here goes:

“Even if she were actually here now, in town, we’d never find each another unless we actually ran into one another in the street.”

As Deb politely points out, “‘one another’ is used for more than two, so technically we should change this to “each other,” which introduces a rep[etition]”. She also observes that we already have a repetition of the word “actually”. Do you see what I mean? I really should have noticed these problems. Yet I didn’t. Repeatedly.

Happily, a Candlewick proofreader (a person whose name I don’t know, but who has clearly worked with such care on this book) suggested an alternative: “unless we actually collided in the street.” So here’s the new version of the sentence above:

“Even if she were here now, in town, we’d never find each other unless we actually collided in the street.”

It’s shorter. Cleaner. SO MUCH BETTER. And I had nothing to do with it.

But oh, I am grateful. It is a terrific privilege to work with such talented and experienced readers, and to benefit from their care. Thank you, proofreaders of the world! And of Candlewick Press, in particular.

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Love You Forever

August 13th, 2014

Hello, friends. My mother has a huge collection of Robert Munsch picture books leftover from her teaching days. For the past couple of weeks, my children have been reading them. I’m ambivalent about Munsch’s work. I’ve always loved The Paper Bag Princess but find a lot of the other books (Mortimer, Thomas’ Snowsuit) far too shouty and obnoxious. I stand by those judgements. But there’s one about which I was completely wrong.

Love You Forever, Robert Munsch & Sheila McGraw

Before I had children of my own, I really failed to understand Love You Forever. I thought it was syrupy and excessive, and downright creepy at one point. If you’re unfamiliar with it, it’s about a mother who sings to her sleeping son, at various ages:

I’ll love you forever,

I’ll like you for always.

As long as I’m living,

My baby you’ll be.

This happens when he’s a baby, a toddler, a boy, and a teenager. When he’s an adult, there’s a scene in which the mother drives across town, breaks into his house, and rocks him in his sleep, singing the same words. My response as a childless person: low-level nausea compounded by mild derision.

Now that I have children? I get it. I get it. I get it. It resonates so profoundly for me that I can’t get through the book without choking up. Now, I find the scene with the little old lady rocking her sleeping adult child really funny. It’s Munsch at his best: wacky and surreal and emotionally pitch-perfect. And while I don’t see any lullaby B&Es in my future, I completely understand the impulse.

Robert Munsch, I take it all back. How about you, readers? What do you think of Love You Forever, and other Munsch books?

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