Heather Conn Blogs

Anna Karenina to combat compulsive behavior? Wuthering Heights to ease depression and promote hope of romance? Treasure Island to encourage extroversion?

More and more readers might soon be receiving prescriptions of “two sonnets by Shakespeare, read daily until condition improves” or “five love poems by Pablo Neruda, read morning and night, for two weeks or until symptoms subside.” 

Reading and writing have always been therapeutic for me, but I’ve never thought of assigning books for emotional and medical conditions. That’s part of a relatively new practice called bibliotherapy, which is growing popular among psychologists, doctors, librarians, and teachers. (I read about this in the October 2010 issue of Ode, a magazine that I love.) It involves reading specific texts in response to certain situations or conditions.

According to Ode, ancient Egyptians called libraries psyches iatreion or “sanatoriums of the soul.” In the early 1800s, psychiatrists in the U.S.  were discussing reading as a therapeutic tool. Today, doctors or therapists are writing literary prescriptions — prose, not pills — to help with physical discomfort, disability, emotional conflict or other suffering.

The therapy involves either writing or reading or both, drawing on texts from fiction to self-help books. Whether they’re medical or not, bibliotherapists give their clients reading suggestions based on their individual situations. “Reading can change and improve how we feel and behave,” says Joseph Gold, a former English professor and author of  The Story Species: Our Life-Literature Connection.

Brain imaging studies at the University of Washington in St. Louis, Missouri reveal that some areas of the brain, active while someone reads a story, duplicate the same areas involved when people “perform, imagine or observe similar real-world activities.” Apparently, while reading, our brains simulate what happens in a tale, using the same circuits as if the same things were happening to us. Neurologically, we become part of the action.

I find this fascinating. Obviously, any good book engages us and inspires our imagination, but I hadn’t thought of the physiological impact of reading. I’ve experienced first-hand the therapeutic impact of writing, not to mention its healing results in countless writing students I’ve had. (I taught creative writing to adults with mental illness for five years, and to regular students.)

However, within the broad writing community in North America, there are those who view “therapeutic writing” as a somehow lesser genre, something beneath the purity of “true” prose or poetry. They imply that it’s self-indulgent and therefore, doesn’t rise to the universal value of literature.

Well, let them keep their snobbery. I advocate reading and writing in any form to create greater self-awareness and healing. It works. Let’s make it official. Hurry for bibliotherapy.

(For this post, I drew on Ursula Sautter’s Ode article “Reading, writing and revelation: How the written word helps refresh body, mind and soul.”)

Gracie: top left and right (in blue) with her brother Freddie (top right), dad (bottom left) and mom (bottom right)                — illustrations by Lillian Lai

What a joy it is working with illustrator Lillian Lai as she produces thumbnail sketches for my upcoming children’s book Gracie’s Got a Secret. I love the process of seeing how she translates my words into images. She’ll email me and the publisher roughly nine rough drawings or scenarios for each page, and we’ll select the ones that we like best. (Lillian took 2D and 3D animation at Capilano University in North Vancouver.)

She started with multiple drawings of each character and then the publisher, William Gelbart, and I suggested changes regarding facial expressions, body shape, colours and so on. It feels like participating in a magic show: you make comments, then see the results come back to you quickly. Voila — there’s the character, looking like a real creature with a personality all its own.

This reminds me of a playwriting course I took years ago. There were several professional actors in the class and when they read one of the students’ lines, within a minute, they truly inhabited that character.  It was like witnessing on the spot the embodiment of a new person who previously existed only on the page. I love witnessing such creative talent — it’s a gift that no one can put a price on.

As a first-time children’s author, having such direct, ongoing access to, and feedback regarding, the illustration process as it unfolds is indeed a privilege. I have a poet friend who has had dozens of books published and he often never even saw the cover of his book until it was already out. In most cases, he hated it.

Therefore, I am very grateful to William Gelbart, publisher of MW Books Publishing, for giving me this insider’s opportunity to shape the visual look of the characters and backgrounds of my story. It feels a bit like playing God — and I love it.

Last night, three female friends came over to my place to watch the 1971 classic film Harold and Maude. In previous conversation, we had discovered that this movie was an all-time favourite for all of us, so I invited them for a group screening.

What a hoot. As my husband would say, this movie “has legs” even four decades after it was made. It was wonderful to watch this much-loved flick again and savour its irreverence. This movie is a tremendous affirmation to live life to its fullest, follow your heart, and embrace both life and death as an ongoing continuum. Ironically, without my realizing it until later, this informal screening  took place four months to the day that my dad died.

I don’t want to spoil plot specifics for those who haven’t seen it, but the film follows the coming together of a death-obsessed young man and an almost-80-year-old woman who share hilarious antics to the consternation of police, Harold’s wealthy, uptight mother, his shrink, priest, and wacky military uncle. The characters and dialogue are truly delightful. Stars Ruth Gordon and Bud Cort capture the perfect blend of rebellious eccentricity, gutsy imagination, go-for-it spirit, and refusal to conform to mind-numbing routine. They’re great role models for anyone who’s a creative anarchist at heart.

I was surprised at some of the scenes that I had forgotten and relished again; to avoid a spoiler alert, I won’t recount them. Several times, the movie makes a point of mentioning that what Harold and Maude are drinking or eating is “organic”; this was 4o years ago — the mainstream world is just waking up to such choices now.

Director Hal Ashby, who also directed another irreverent classic, Being There, has a cameo in the film as a scruffy, bearded guy in a midway complex. Screenwriter Colin Higgins unfortunately died of AIDS in 1988 at the age of 47. The screenplay for Harold and Maude came out of his MFA screenwriting thesis at UCLA. He also wrote and directed Nine to Five in 1980 and The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas in 1982. Before he died, he set up the Colin Higgins Foundation to further his humanitarian goals.

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Another intriguing film that tackles fearlessness towards death is the National Film Board documentary Griefwalker. Made in 2008 by Tim Wilson, it follows the spiritual activist Stephen Jenkinson as he counsels dying people, their loved ones, clinicians, and “people of the cloth” to befriend death, rather than try and avoid or deny it. This Harvard-trained theologian, who canoes, traps animals, and shares a deep reverence for life, death, and the  earth, says there’s “a hole inside most of us and it’s in the approximate shape of a soul.”

The filmmaker felt prompted to explore his own relationship with death after he wound up on life support and almost succumbed to a sudden post-surgery infection. The tone and visual impact of this movie are like a moving Zen koan with captivating nature close-ups and Jenkinson’s wise, inspirational words.

You can watch the film on the National Film Board website. For true Harold and Maude fans, check out the unofficial website full of trivia about the film.

In the recent furor over the use of the word “faggot” in the Dire Straits song Money For Nothing, I find it ironic that no accounts have mentioned the song’s phrase  “your chicks for free.” The lyrics also include this sentence: “Look at that mama, she got it stickin’ in the camera Man we could have some.”

As a woman, I could certainly say that I find such words and concepts exploitative, sexist, demeaning, and objectifying. Yet, I wouldn’t call up a radio station and request that the song not be played because of them. Firstly, I believe in artistic licence and freedom of speech.

Secondly, Mark Knopfler and Sting, who co-wrote the song in 1985, are using the voice of a working stiff who’s watching music videos and resenting how easy it appears to be to find sex, fame, and glory as a musician, rather than doing his grunt work of moving heavy appliances all day (see the song lyrics below).  Therefore, the use of the word “faggot” is in keeping with this man’s character and perspective. That doesn’t mean that we have to agree with it.  

(For those who don’t know the story, someone recently complained to radio station CHOZ-FM in St. John’s, Nfld., Canada about its airing of an unedited version of the song. The complainant said that the song’s lyrics were “extremely offensive” to gay, lesbian, bisexual, and transgender people. As a result, the Canadian Broadcast Standards Council, an independent body, has ruled that the song should not be played on Canadian airwaves. The council concluded that the word “faggot” . . . even if entirely or marginally acceptable in earlier days, is no longer so.”

The council also stated, according to The Vancouver Sun:  “The societal values at issue a quarter century later have shifted and the broadcast of the song in 2010 must reflect those values, rather than those of 1985.”)

I would not use the word “faggot” and agree that it is offensive, but I would not advocate the banning of this song. In contrast, it is truly sad that western society has become so inured to calling and representing women as “chicks” and portraying them as temptresses freely available for sex, that no one has even drawn attention to this aspect of the lyrics during the Dire Straits song controversy.

Here are the lyrics to Money for Nothing:

Well, on this issue, I agree with director Spike Lee, who calls this whitewashing of historical language “ridiculous.” Yes, language is fluid and does change with the times,  but if that term, however despicable, was accurately used in a historical context, to alter it is to fictionalize reality.

How far will political correctness go? To relabel history based on present-day standards and ideology is unwarranted revisionism. Such repackaging of the past is among the first steps that dictators and power-mongers, from Hitler to Chairman Mao, took to reinvent themselves and their regimes. George Orwell warned about such twisting of language and words and their meaning, seeing it as an integral tool of fascism.

Let the past remain intact, true to its offensiveness. I like the comments of Daniel James on the blog Good Culture: “Naturally I deplore the “N” word and would never use it myself. However, in a piece of literature like Huckleberry Finn it stands as an important reminder of the way the world was and why we are the way we are today. Huck Finn is written within a specific time and place and we should be reminded of the way things were in the south no matter how distasteful aspects of the piece are to 21st century eyes.”

I was going to say “Amen,” but gee, some might construe that as unnecessarily biased towards a certain religion, not inclusive enough, and not non-denominational. Hell, I’ll use it anyway.

In 2010, I ended up editing three memoirs written by three different men in their eighties. They were all intriguing stories:

• On Love and War by Avivi I. Yavin, to be published in 2011 by MW Book Publishers in Garden Bay, BC. This semi-autobiographical story focuses on the moral and political dilemmas of a young soldier fighting in the elite Israeli underground forces in the late 1940s.

•  A Labour of Love: Fond memories of family, friends, and medical feats, to be self-published by Sid Effer. This retired pediatrician recounts delightful adventures from his youth in Cuba and Brazil to his global travels in adulthood. Many decades after he helped countless women through challenging and sometimes life-threatening childbirths, he remains friends with former patients and their children around the world.

• The Magical Playhouse: A conscious exploration of one’s dream reality, self-published by artist Bodhi Drope of Gibsons, BC. This nonfiction limited edition, accompanied by original four-colour digital art, covers the author’s spiritual journey and the powerful role that dreams and dream journalling played in his life. The book offers practical tips on how to use dreams to gain insights into your behaviour patterns and self-defeating beliefs.

I feel honoured that these men have entrusted me to shape the written accounts of their lives, fears, and private thoughts. As a university history grad and a former oral historian, I highly value the anecdotes that our elders carry, embodying the heritage of families, regions, cultures, and nations. That’s why I always encourage people to listen to the stories of the old folks in their lives, and tape them if possible, so that these tales will live on after their loved ones are gone.

This year, I continue to edit Sid Effer’s book, which reveals many parallels to the life and medical career of my father, who died in October at age eighty-five. Some of the similarities between both men are uncanny, especially considering that Sid lives in Guelph, Ont., like my dad did until he died. Editing Sid’s book is like sharing in the tale of my own father’s life, one that he never recorded.

I feel grateful for the opportunity to read Sid’s poignant words about heartache, love lost, and the joy he experienced at the birth of his children. His memoir is not just a string of medical achievements; it’s a tender account of fond times with family and friends. If my dad had written a similar memoir, I think that it would have weighed far more heavily on his medical career. A brief diary he kept in the mid-1960s, for instance, focuses primarily on his work, with only occasional references to his children and wife. Thanks, Sid, for presenting a balance between your work at the hospital and your life with your loved ones. 

(To find out more about my editing services, click here.)

The blog She Writes, aimed at female writers, recently asked members what inspired them to write. I wrote a post on their site called “Inspire the future — a book on inner change for children.” In it, I discuss my inspiration to write my children’s book, Gracie’s Got a Secret, which MW Books Publishing will publish in the spring of 2011. I love to inspire others. I always encourage people to go after a dream, take a chance, and let their creative, intuitive self out.

Spirituality — a sense of interconnectedness or soulfulness beyond mere ego identity — has been my salvation. In writing Gracie’s Got a Secret, I wanted to pass on spiritual concepts to children. But after many drafts and trying out the story with kids of different ages, I realized that I was targeting too young an age group (five and six) and that I needed to make the story more concrete, rather than try to convey abstract philosophies like “letting go” and “surrender”.  As one adult reader said about my manuscript early on: “It’s hard enough for adults to grasp these concepts, let alone children.”  She was right.

Therefore, I aimed the book at older kids, aged seven to nine. I shifted the book’s message to suggest behaviour changes such as learning to slow down and relax into the moment, rather than forcing events to unfold. I do address the notion of “stillness” at the end of my story. I like to think that my playful tale still offers a subtext of spiritual connection. What I try to show obliquely in the book is that if you take time to open to your Higher Self, and plug into a greater life force, however you perceive it to be (some might call it Source, others intuition), you invite your True Self to emerge, drawing on a vast array of possibilities and creative power.  Any creative soul — artist, musician, writer — knows this, either consciously or unconsciously.

Young children start out naturally in this state of creative wonder and openness — until many adults hammer it out of them. Maybe children aren’t the ones who need the message in my book after all — perhaps I unwittingly targeted it to the adults in their life. Maybe, ultimately, I’ve written it as my own reminder to have patience and trust what comes my way. Life is its own lesson. I’m still learning.

Who knew that spontaneous combustion was a topic of discussion in 1840s England? Last night, while participating  in an inaugural group reading of A Christmas Carol at the home of friends in Vancouver, I found out that Charles Dickens used this term in his book.  

After hot cider, homemade black bean soup, and lots of tasty cheeses and snacks at a delicious pot luck dinner, my husband Frank and I joined thirteen others on chairs in an informal circle in the living room of our friends Randy and Vicki. Vicki provided two large, modern, hardcover copies of the 1843 Dickens classic; this version, written in the author’s original prose, offered period illustrations by Arthur Rackham, and was published by Arcturus Publishing Ltd in London, Eng., 2009.

Vicki had marked off the text in roughly three-page segments in both books. She began the evening as the first reader, drawing on her theatrical training to emphasize words with her hand in the air, her ever-shifting intonation bringing narration and characters to life. While one person read, the next followed along with the second book, ready to jump in and continue  as soon as the previous reader was through. This two-book approached ensured a seamless transition between every reader.

It was fun to hear how four male voices and ten female voices each added their own spirit and character to Dickens’ self-described “Ghostly little book.” I had never fully appreciated the author’s humour until I heard a roomful of people laughing frequently at his colourful diction and descriptions. I noticed that he used the word “capacious” (roomy) three times. One reader stumbled over the word “execrable,” which is a fancy way of saying “shitty.” As someone said after the reading: “Wordy old bugger, wasn’t he?” Yes, he certainly didn’t follow George Orwell’s much-later rule of not using a ten-dollar word when a five-dollar one will do.

I was surprised at some of Dickens’ phrases, ones that we still use today and might dismiss as cliches, such as “dead as a doornail” and “kith and kin.” He used the word “ain’t” throughout but spelled it without an “i.” Even now, his language still felt vibrant and relevant  — the mark of great literature.

A reading of A Christmas Carol was reportedly Dickens’ farewell performance on March 15, 1870 in London. He died soon after at age 58.

For the love of books . . .

Fines for overdue library books are one thing, but facing arrest and jail time are indeed another. Just ask my husband: a Massachusetts lawyer who had a librarian in Gloucester, Mass. threaten him with a subpoena for a late book.

First, the law. Back in 1990, Massachusetts adopted a law that imposed a maximum fine of $500 for an overdue book. Non-payment of the fine could result in arrest and imprisonment. The state brought in this law, under Democrat Michael Dukakis, after  librarians lobbied for a change. (The previous law, dating from 1883, provided a fine of only $25 for an overdue book.) Communities across the state were collectively losing roughly $1.1 million a year in library materials. The small town of Shrewsbury, with a population of 23,000, was losing $12,000 a year from non-returned books and materials.

Today, a police officer in Massachusetts can arrest without warrant anyone that he or she has probable cause to believe has violated this law. What’s worse, a librarian or any library employee, as long as they’re 18 or over,  just has to say that a certain person has violated this law, and this will constitute probable cause for arrest.  That’s a lot of power in a state that has banned and burned books in the past. (If you’re into legalese, check out the law under Massachusetts General Laws, chapter 266, section 100.) 

My husband Frank’s related “crime” began in the City of Gloucester. In its library, he found a copy of a manual, published in the 1960s by the U.S. Interior, which gave the proper protocols for replacing, duplicating, preserving, and repairing various architectural elements. He needed it as a member of the OId and Historic Marblehead District Commission, whose mandate is to preserve the historic part of Marblehead, Mass., a coastal town northeast of Boston, incorporated in 1624.

This paperback, roughly 120 pages, was in horrible condition with a torn cover and handwriting in the margins, and had obviously suffered much abuse. Since it was the only copy that Frank could find north of New York City Public Library, he decided that it was a book worth preserving.

He opted to have it repaired and bound according to library binding standards and approached a professional bookbinding shop in Lynn, Mass. This seventh- or eighth-generation operation was dusty and dark with huge iron machines and stacks of large manuscripts. Frank notified the librarian in Gloucester of his plan, who requested red binding and gave him the correct library numbers to appear on the book’s new binding.

The bookbinder was “notoriously slow,” says Frank, who figured that the job would take about six months. At least a year later, Frank received a note from the Gloucester Public Library asking him to return the book. Frank ignored the letter; he figured that a computer or underling had automatically produced it, unaware of his discussion with the librarian.

He called the bookbinder, who did not return his call. A few months later, Frank received another request from the Gloucester library. When he called them, a new librarian told him: “I don’t know anything about that. You better go get it (the book).” When Frank talked to the bookbinder, the man said that it was in the loop and would be done when he got to it.

After waiting a few more months, Frank received a letter from the librarian’s office, threatening to issue a subpoena for his arrest if he didn’t return the book. In the meantime, the new librarian was imposing a fine on Frank for the overdue book, which was now up to about $300. Frank was aware of the Massachusetts law and realized that he could end up having to appear before the state’s Board of Bar Overseers, their version of  the B.C. Law Society.

He called the bookbinder, who interrupted a massive job to finally get to the book, and stitched the book back together, reviving it with a bright red canvas binder, acid-free board and end papers. “It was beautiful,” says Frank.

Newly bound book in hand, my husband returned to the Gloucester Library, walked into the librarian’s office and said to him: “You’re going to wipe out my fine and not issue a subpoena.” The librarian agreed, without a thank you. “He had the power of subpoena and thought he was a king.”

Nowadays, the term “snail mail” implies some ancient form of communication left for those too inept or unfortunate to use much-faster email. Sure, I appreciate the number of trees that emails save, but bemoan the loss of hand-written letters. What impact will today’s digital fixation (and I don’t mean finger fetishes) have on future archivists, not to mention modern lovers?

How can a staid email remotely compete with a  billet-doux that comes in a scented envelope, complete with rose petals or pressed flowers? Staring at on-screen type is far more dull than viewing someone’s unique handwriting with loopy vowels and long, slanted consonants. I treasure my cards, letters, and notes from loved ones far more than any email I’ve received from them. 

Finding a stack of emails in the bottom of someone’s cupboard or attic trunk doesn’t bear the same cachet or  mystery as discovering a pile of faded letters postmarked from countless places, squeezed together by an elastic. Clicking on one’s inbox loses allure compared to having letters squeezed through your front door or running outside to a rural mailbox to see what’s inside.

Over decades, I’ve received letters from a number of writers or artists I admire, including Benjamin Hoff, author of The Tao of Pooh, Canadian children’s writer Dennis Lee, sci fi maven Ursula LeGuin, and Mort Drucker, a long-time Mad magazine cartoonist. Each one of these felt like a special gift, almost a warm chat across a coffee table, not patchy, stilted dialogue that took place on delayed time via the computer.

Many years ago, I was horrifed to discover that my parents and I actually liked the same movie, one that reveals the power and delight of letters and romance. It’s 84 Charing Cross Road, which stars Anne Bancroft and Anthony Hopkins. Bancroft plays a writer and passionate reader in 1949 New York who answers an ad from a rare-books shop in London, Eng. at 84 Charing Cross Road. The resulting heartfelt letters between Bancroft and Hopkins, the book store rep, prompt a two-decade romance.

(I won’t tell you how the movie ends. I love its assessment by Vincent Canby of The New York Times, even though I don’t fully agree: “The result of this high-powered collaboration is a movie of such unrelieved genteelness that it makes one long to head for Schrafft’s for a double-gin martini, straight up, and a stack of cinnamon toast from which the crusts have been removed.”)

In the future, how many lives of celebrated authors will remain only partially documented because they never saved their emails? What will their public archives contain? As an author, historian, and keen researcher, I love coming across original, turn-of-the-century letters or handwritten documents from another era. They certainly more richly reveal the essence of a period than rows of email type. I fear that today, while we’re so busy Skyping and tweeting and emailing, we will lose to the maw of email the basic charm  and sentimental weight of letters as touchstones. From our family histories to cultural records, our romantic hearts need letters as more personalized markers of a time and place.

I’m delighted to announce that this winter, MW Book Publishing of Garden Bay, BC will be releasing my first children’s book, Gracie’s Got a Secret.

In this picture book, an impatient and feisty little goldfish named Gracie escapes her fishbowl and leaves her family, determined to share a secret with the outside world. Along the way, she befriends a weepy alligator who’s stuck in the sewer and a circus elephant with dreams of freedom. By helping her new pals, Gracie learns to slow down and go with the flow, gaining remarkable results and a clear way back to a loving home.

I never do reveal what the secret is, but leave it to the reader’s imagination. This uplifting story, which comes with engaging questions to prompt discussion, invites children to believe in themselves, dream big, support others, and find their inner stillness.

Unbelievably, this book was twenty years in the making. I first got the idea for it while travelling in India. The book started out all in rhyme, but after a number of drafts, I dropped that. The first woman who ever gave me feedback produced a scathing, 10-page , single-spaced critique and ended with”I wouldn’t read it again to my nine-year-old.” Ouch.

Still, I didn’t give up. I researched markets and perused picture books and sent the manuscript to publishers. Besides the usual generic, impersonal rejection slips, I got comments like “We don’t do talking animals.” (So much for Dr. Seuss, Dr. Doolittle, and every Disney movie ever made.) One twenty-something reader told me that using alliteration was the sign of an amateur. Double ouch.

Tired of rejections, I put the manuscript away. Over the years, I would pull it out, do another few drafts, and send it out again. More rejections. I got feedback from friends. Some read it to kids. I got their views. Overall, most people seemed to really like it. Various friends, who are published authors, thought it was ready for publication years ago. But no publisher seemed to want to take a chance with it.

Once, when I was in a pet store,  a goldfish ended up on the floor at my feet, having somehow escaped from its aquarium. I took that as a sign.

I found out that children’s picture books are a more competitive market than even adult publishing, especially since they require costly, four-colour printing. I did more drafts. Got more rejections. Time to put it away again. I figured that it was probably going to be one of those learning projects that would sit in my drawer. I was too cheap to publish it myself.

I grew more encouraged after sending the manuscript to Dennis Lee, author of popular Canadian children’s books like Alligator Pie.  He said that my book was better than most that crossed his desk and added that he would be delighted to see Gracie “swimming into print.”

That was years ago. I did more drafts. Got more rejections. Then recently, I attended a literary function in Gibsons, and happened to share a table with MW Book publisher William Gelbart. When I heard that he published a variety of genres, including children’s books, I thought: Hmmm, maybe it’s time to revive Gracie. I hauled her out, did some more fine-tuning, and sent off my story. He liked it,  calling it “cute.”

Gee, that last part of this long process seemed so effortless. Success at last. I look forward to having Gracie out in the world and sharing her with audiences, young and old.