From David Frum:
You'll never know who will turn up in Washington to talk politics. On Wednesday, the city was graced by actress Eva Longoria, the sultry star of ABC's Desperate Housewives. Addressing an audience of Latino business leaders, she explained the wide appeal of her show: "Everyone on Wisteria Lane has the money of a Republican, but the sex life of a Democrat."
It's a pretty good joke — but very poor sociology.
Over the past 15 years, it is the Democrats, not the Republicans, who have emerged as the party of upper-income America. In 2000, Al Gore beat George Bush among the 4% of voters who described themselves to exit pollsters as "upper class." In 2004, John Kerry won nine of the 10 richest zip codes in the United States.
As for sex — well, it turns out that it's Republican (and especially Republican women) who have it more often and better. The two strongest predictors of Republican affiliation in America are (1) marriage and (2) church attendance. These are also the strongest predictors of female sexual satisfaction. The authoritative 1995 University of Chicago survey Sex in America found that conservative Protestant married women were the group most likely to report that they "nearly always" orgasmed during sex. Married women of all religions were almost twice as likely as unmarried women to describe their sex lives as "extremely satisfying."
So if offered the choice, reader, you'd be wiser to choose Democratic money and Republican sex.
And yet, somehow the joke would not be very funny that way would it? Stereotypes overwhelm even the strongest facts.
Read more ...
Wednesday, November 22, 2006
Monday, November 20, 2006
Letter to the Editor of The Walrus
Dear Editor,
When I picked up the November issue of The Walrus, I opened it eagerly to the editorial on page 16. What I read there shocked me so much I had difficulty getting through the rest of the article. In a vitriolic slur against a large portion of Canadian society, Alexander wrote, “The International AIDS Conference was partially upstaged by Stephen Harper’s non-attendance, a likely sop to Christian evangelicals who want little to do with homosexuals, pre-marital copulation (with or without a condom), or, for that matter, Africa’s real needs.”
I am appalled to see such blatant bigotry in one of Canada’s leading publications, and it makes me wonder if Alexander has ever met an evangelical Christian. Although his first two points are certainly misleading (I think in particular of the thousands of Christians who volunteer at crisis pregnancy centres across the country, donating their time, money, and everything from maternity clothes to diapers to help those in desperate need due to “pre-marital copulation”), it is the last point which is so completely false it is ludicrous.
The suggestion that Christians want little to do with Africa’s real needs has no basis in reality. Thousands of Canadian Christians have given up the comforts of the Western world and are spilling their blood, sweat, and tears on African soil in the fight against AIDS, malaria, and other killers. Hundreds of thousands are active here on the home front, donating millions of dollars, lobbying the government, and setting up charities and foundations to address issues like education, the environment, and health in a land upon which they will never set foot.
The CBC’s Brian Stewart, one of Canada’s most prominent foreign correspondents, railed against the grievous myth promoted in your editorial in his convocation address at Knox College in Toronto.
Let us hope The Walrus stops espousing such narrow-minded and false claims about a group of Canadians it so obviously despises. The truth about Christians may not fit within your editorial viewpoint, but that is a paltry excuse for replacing it with destructive fabrications.
When I picked up the November issue of The Walrus, I opened it eagerly to the editorial on page 16. What I read there shocked me so much I had difficulty getting through the rest of the article. In a vitriolic slur against a large portion of Canadian society, Alexander wrote, “The International AIDS Conference was partially upstaged by Stephen Harper’s non-attendance, a likely sop to Christian evangelicals who want little to do with homosexuals, pre-marital copulation (with or without a condom), or, for that matter, Africa’s real needs.”
I am appalled to see such blatant bigotry in one of Canada’s leading publications, and it makes me wonder if Alexander has ever met an evangelical Christian. Although his first two points are certainly misleading (I think in particular of the thousands of Christians who volunteer at crisis pregnancy centres across the country, donating their time, money, and everything from maternity clothes to diapers to help those in desperate need due to “pre-marital copulation”), it is the last point which is so completely false it is ludicrous.
The suggestion that Christians want little to do with Africa’s real needs has no basis in reality. Thousands of Canadian Christians have given up the comforts of the Western world and are spilling their blood, sweat, and tears on African soil in the fight against AIDS, malaria, and other killers. Hundreds of thousands are active here on the home front, donating millions of dollars, lobbying the government, and setting up charities and foundations to address issues like education, the environment, and health in a land upon which they will never set foot.
The CBC’s Brian Stewart, one of Canada’s most prominent foreign correspondents, railed against the grievous myth promoted in your editorial in his convocation address at Knox College in Toronto.
“For many years, I’ve been struck by the rather blithe notion, spread in many circles including the media) and taken up by a large section of our younger population, that organized, mainstream Christianity has been reduced to a musty, dimly lit backwater of contemporary life. … Well, I’m here to tell you, from what I’ve seen in my ringside seat at events over the decades, there is nothing further from the truth. The notion is a serious distortion of reality. I have found there is NO other movement or force closer to the raw truth of wards, famines, crises and the vast human predicament than organized Christianity in action. And there is no alliance more determined and dogged in action than church workers, ordained and laity, when mobilized for a common good. These Christians are right on the front lines of committed humanity today and, when I want to find that front, I follow their trail. … It is a vast front, stretching to the most impoverished reaches of the developing world to the hectic struggle to preserve caring values in our own towns and cities. I have never been able to reach these front lines without finding Christian volunteers already in the thick of it. … I repeat: I’ve never reached a war zone, famine group or crisis anywhere that some church organization was not there long before me.”
Let us hope The Walrus stops espousing such narrow-minded and false claims about a group of Canadians it so obviously despises. The truth about Christians may not fit within your editorial viewpoint, but that is a paltry excuse for replacing it with destructive fabrications.
Friday, November 10, 2006
Procrastination and the Poppy
Ironically enough, I'm reading a book called "A Writer's Time: Finding the Time to Write." It's by far the most justifiable procrastination technique I've stumbled across. Anyway, I promised myself I'd hammer out this "diary" of the writers' conference (Day 3 still to come), then I'll be back to more interesting topics. And yes, Kim and Liam, I'll go easy on the left.
I was at a refugee meeting last night and one of the pastors from a Mennonite church was wearing - in place of a poppy - a button that said "To remember is to work for peace." While I understand that Mennonites (including my husband's family) are pacifists, I think that this kind of message does a disservice to our veterans. It's not like veterans are warmongers and that wearing a poppy means that you are pro-war. On the contrary - our vets fought the wars so that we don't have to; so that we can have the luxury of living in peace. Vets know better than any of us what war is really like, and because of that I'm sure that they fervently pray that all wars would end. There's a good editorial to this effect in the Toronto Sun. Anyway, whether you wear a poppy tomorrow or not, may we not forget the tragedies of the past and present and may we increase our work for a peaceful future.
I was at a refugee meeting last night and one of the pastors from a Mennonite church was wearing - in place of a poppy - a button that said "To remember is to work for peace." While I understand that Mennonites (including my husband's family) are pacifists, I think that this kind of message does a disservice to our veterans. It's not like veterans are warmongers and that wearing a poppy means that you are pro-war. On the contrary - our vets fought the wars so that we don't have to; so that we can have the luxury of living in peace. Vets know better than any of us what war is really like, and because of that I'm sure that they fervently pray that all wars would end. There's a good editorial to this effect in the Toronto Sun. Anyway, whether you wear a poppy tomorrow or not, may we not forget the tragedies of the past and present and may we increase our work for a peaceful future.
Comfortable in my own skin: Day 2, Part 2 at the SiWC
I am keenly interested in the topic of the first workshop, again by Frothing David, “Breaking into Magazine Writing.” However, I’m more than a little distracted by a large loud woman in the front row wearing giant bumblebee earrings, complete with rhinestone-studded wings. She completes the bumblebee ensemble with a yellow tank top, black spandex leggings, and white sneakers. Maybe she’s friends with Electric Cat Brooch Lady. As I tear my astonished eyes away from the Bumblebee Lady, David is asking for example topics for magazine articles. I throw out my favourite – kidnap insurance. Apparently, there are insurance agencies who offer such a thing for people traveling or working in dangerous countries. In the event that you are kidnapped, they will pay the ransom and/or send some special agent type to rescue you. Who wouldn’t want to read an article about that? According to the murmur of interest in the room, I’m not the only one who thinks this way. Afterwards, a lady comes up to me and tells me about three oil workers from Edmonton who were kidnapped and released in South America, and another gentleman tells me I should pitch it to Forbes magazine. I make a mental note to tell my more confident self that someday.
At lunch I browse the bookshop (and the free coffee) and strike up a conversation with a guy about my age and height with dark tightly-curled hair. Once again I am humbled and ashamed at my presuppositions about the kinds of people attending these writing conferences (Bumblebee Lady aside). His name is Ari Goldman and he has a PhD and post-doc in city planning or something equally impressive. He’s Jewish and from Philly but married a woman from Surrey and so is making the adjustment to the west coast. While working on his dissertation he found the time to write two young adult fantasy novels. “It was my escape,” he tells me. “When the pressure started to get overwhelming I could just shut off the academic part of my brain and be completely creative.”
Ari gives me some recommendations for fantasy authors (Phillip Pullman and Stephen Brost) and then we dash off to the next workshop. For me, I take a break from non-fiction and slip into Dan McQuinn’s class on Dialogue. Dan has two rules: Rule #1 is “if it works for you, it’s good.” Rule #2 is “if it doesn’t work for you, it’s bad.” He has a drawling accent from South Carolina and looks like he could be the grandfather of anyone in the room, complete with snow-white hair and bushy eyebrows. When he laughs at something he’s said, which is often, he purses his lips as if he’s trying to hold it in. He sprinkles his conversation with exclamations like “damn” and “doggone.” He has no outline, no handouts, no projector – and, apparently, no real plan on how to teach dialogue. Nevertheless, his rambling anecdotes are interesting, especially when preceded by the cautioning statement, “You can ask me anything you like, just don’t ask me about my career – I destroyed it.” Hmmm.
Enough about fiction, I think, I need to find out how to make some money. Ghostwriting it is, then! Jill Armadillo is the professional ghost leading this session and she is just chock-full of information. The first question someone asks her is “Is there anything you won’t write about?” She fires back, “I wont’ write horror because I’d scare myself silly and I won’t write smut because I’d get too horny.” Then off we go on a wild ride through the unexpected whirlwind of ghostwriting. Jill is full of hilarious anecdotes about her clients – one of whom hired her to write a novel. The client wasn’t picky about the topic and didn’t bother to read any of the drafts Jill sent her – she just wanted to be a published author and this seemed the quickest and most painless route to take. So Jill happily obliged, charged her an exorbitant rate (including an all-expenses paid trip to Scotland to research Scottish wineries), and then blended in with the crowd at the Beverley Hills booksigning. If you love to write and can jettison your ego, she says, this is the job for you.
I’m still grinning as I walk out into the parking lot at the end of the day. I can’t deny that I learned a great many things about magazine writing, ghostwriting, and even a tidbit or two about writing dialogue – but the greatest pleasure of the day came from the accidental meetings of fellow writers like Holly, Sharron and Ari. I’m starting to get over my fear of sounding presumptuous – or deluded – when I say “I’m a writer.” Instead, my writer’s skin is feeling a bit more comfortable, and I know I’m in good company.
At lunch I browse the bookshop (and the free coffee) and strike up a conversation with a guy about my age and height with dark tightly-curled hair. Once again I am humbled and ashamed at my presuppositions about the kinds of people attending these writing conferences (Bumblebee Lady aside). His name is Ari Goldman and he has a PhD and post-doc in city planning or something equally impressive. He’s Jewish and from Philly but married a woman from Surrey and so is making the adjustment to the west coast. While working on his dissertation he found the time to write two young adult fantasy novels. “It was my escape,” he tells me. “When the pressure started to get overwhelming I could just shut off the academic part of my brain and be completely creative.”
Ari gives me some recommendations for fantasy authors (Phillip Pullman and Stephen Brost) and then we dash off to the next workshop. For me, I take a break from non-fiction and slip into Dan McQuinn’s class on Dialogue. Dan has two rules: Rule #1 is “if it works for you, it’s good.” Rule #2 is “if it doesn’t work for you, it’s bad.” He has a drawling accent from South Carolina and looks like he could be the grandfather of anyone in the room, complete with snow-white hair and bushy eyebrows. When he laughs at something he’s said, which is often, he purses his lips as if he’s trying to hold it in. He sprinkles his conversation with exclamations like “damn” and “doggone.” He has no outline, no handouts, no projector – and, apparently, no real plan on how to teach dialogue. Nevertheless, his rambling anecdotes are interesting, especially when preceded by the cautioning statement, “You can ask me anything you like, just don’t ask me about my career – I destroyed it.” Hmmm.
Enough about fiction, I think, I need to find out how to make some money. Ghostwriting it is, then! Jill Armadillo is the professional ghost leading this session and she is just chock-full of information. The first question someone asks her is “Is there anything you won’t write about?” She fires back, “I wont’ write horror because I’d scare myself silly and I won’t write smut because I’d get too horny.” Then off we go on a wild ride through the unexpected whirlwind of ghostwriting. Jill is full of hilarious anecdotes about her clients – one of whom hired her to write a novel. The client wasn’t picky about the topic and didn’t bother to read any of the drafts Jill sent her – she just wanted to be a published author and this seemed the quickest and most painless route to take. So Jill happily obliged, charged her an exorbitant rate (including an all-expenses paid trip to Scotland to research Scottish wineries), and then blended in with the crowd at the Beverley Hills booksigning. If you love to write and can jettison your ego, she says, this is the job for you.
I’m still grinning as I walk out into the parking lot at the end of the day. I can’t deny that I learned a great many things about magazine writing, ghostwriting, and even a tidbit or two about writing dialogue – but the greatest pleasure of the day came from the accidental meetings of fellow writers like Holly, Sharron and Ari. I’m starting to get over my fear of sounding presumptuous – or deluded – when I say “I’m a writer.” Instead, my writer’s skin is feeling a bit more comfortable, and I know I’m in good company.
Tuesday, October 31, 2006
Pride and Prejudice: Day 2, Part 1 at the SiWC
Saturday morning I make up for my tardiness the day before by arriving early – an hour and a half early, to be exact – and head to the lounge for breakfast. All around me, the early risers are hashing over yesterday’s workshops and comparing notes on their meetings with editors and agents. A few are – like I am – buried in today’s paper, although I seem to be alone in my preference for the National Post. I wonder if I am the only conservative here amid the enlightened Bush-hating masses. But then I see a friendly face and I know I am not alone – Holly, the wife of one of the members of the Conservative Party board in Russ’ riding, approaches me from the booth where she had been ensconced with another woman whose back is to me. Holly, to my great surprise, is writing a fantasy novel, a fact which immediately intrigues me both because of my growing love of that genre but also because of my admitted prejudice that most people at this conference – middle-aged fantasy writers in particular – are mildly delusional. Holly, however, is far from delusional – in fact, she is remarkably levelheaded, an excellent host and conversationalist, and a dedicated wife, mother, worker and volunteer. To prove to myself that it is actually possible to simultaneously be a fantasy writer and, well, normal, I pepper her with questions about her writing. As it turns out she’s been writing the book for a number of years and has been coming to the conference for the past four – for motivational purposes as much as for developing her craft, she admits. “It’s hard to stay motivated,” she says. “I mean, I work full-time, and when I get home the last thing I want to do is write.” Despite this, she’s written over 400 pages, mostly on her coffee and lunch breaks at work. “I have to get away from distractions,” she says. “So I go out to my car on my breaks and write. I can usually get three or four pages done at a time.” She writes longhand because when she’s on the computer she gets distracted by email or the Internet. But then she pauses. “Maybe if I get an old computer that just has Microsoft Word on it, then I could use that … I bet that would be faster.” That idea would have come in handy 400 pages ago, I think, but then I smile and wish her luck, envying her dedication.
Later in the day I run into Holly in the lineup for the women’s washroom. She says, “I should have just gone up to my room but I can’t find my key.” “Holly!” I exclaim, surprised. “You live 10 minutes away and you’re staying in the hotel?” She shrugs and looks a little sheepish – “Well, things aren’t that great at home right now, with my dad being sick and all … it was a nice excuse to get away.” I nod sympathetically, although this is the first I’ve heard of her even having a father, let alone one who is sick and apparently living with her and her husband. Then I launch into a tirade of how my husband was supposed to be looking after our daughter today but didn’t make arrangements for a meeting he has to go to. In retrospect, I wish instead I had asked her about her dad, asked her if there was anything I could do to help. There a limited number of words in a day, and too often we use them up to complain rather than encourage or comfort others. But the words were gone and Holly disappeared into the next available stall.
After breakfast I head to the banquet room for the opening session and find a table near the front so I can avoid the claustrophobic’s nightmare I was in yesterday. The only other person at the table is – surprise – a plump middle aged woman with feathered hair. She is typing on a white Apple notebook which blends into the white tablecloth so at first I don’t even notice it. Thinking she wants to be left to her work in peace, I make a vague comment about finding a good seat this morning and open my conference guide to preview the upcoming workshops. But, as I’m discovering, most writers – at least those of the middle aged female variety – are also talkers. And for the second time this morning, I am ashamed of my prejudices and vow to no longer judge a writer by her cover, so to speak. Sharron doesn’t fall quite so far onto the “normal” scale as does Holly, but she has to be one of the most fascinating people I’ve had the pleasure to talk to for under 10 minutes. But in that short time span I discover that she has completed her first draft of a historical fantasy novel about a sympathetic banshee. She explains the difference between pure fantasy, historical fiction, and historical fantasy: historical fantasy takes place in a specific time period but with fantastical people, creatures, and usually magic; pure fantasy exists in a completely made-up world and time; and historical fiction is just like historical fantasy but without the magic.
Sharron says that she started out as a storyteller and got her idea from an ancient Celtic story about a banshee. I am delighted to learn that she speaks Gaelic, teaches it at UVic, and sings in a Gaelic choir in Victoria. I tell her how my family Bible has notes in Gaelic from my ancestor James, and she asks me what my maiden name is. When I tell her “McIsaac”, she exclaims, “Oh, I know all about your people!” and then proceeds to name all the places in Scotland our clan used to live before moving to Ireland several centuries ago.
I’m disappointed when the opening session begins and our conversation ends. As the organizers sort out technical difficulties, another woman at the table strikes up a conversation with me. She spent four months in a camper in Mexico writing a book about an alcoholic wife and mother. Across the table from me is an amusing picture of opposites: a large, loud and heavily made-up woman with an electric flashing brooch in the shape of a cat and a lovely, delicate redhead with a cream-coloured complexion, wearing a chocolate brown crushed velvet jacket. As the session closes I reflect on how already this day has been better than the last, and I head to the first workshop with high hopes.
Later in the day I run into Holly in the lineup for the women’s washroom. She says, “I should have just gone up to my room but I can’t find my key.” “Holly!” I exclaim, surprised. “You live 10 minutes away and you’re staying in the hotel?” She shrugs and looks a little sheepish – “Well, things aren’t that great at home right now, with my dad being sick and all … it was a nice excuse to get away.” I nod sympathetically, although this is the first I’ve heard of her even having a father, let alone one who is sick and apparently living with her and her husband. Then I launch into a tirade of how my husband was supposed to be looking after our daughter today but didn’t make arrangements for a meeting he has to go to. In retrospect, I wish instead I had asked her about her dad, asked her if there was anything I could do to help. There a limited number of words in a day, and too often we use them up to complain rather than encourage or comfort others. But the words were gone and Holly disappeared into the next available stall.
After breakfast I head to the banquet room for the opening session and find a table near the front so I can avoid the claustrophobic’s nightmare I was in yesterday. The only other person at the table is – surprise – a plump middle aged woman with feathered hair. She is typing on a white Apple notebook which blends into the white tablecloth so at first I don’t even notice it. Thinking she wants to be left to her work in peace, I make a vague comment about finding a good seat this morning and open my conference guide to preview the upcoming workshops. But, as I’m discovering, most writers – at least those of the middle aged female variety – are also talkers. And for the second time this morning, I am ashamed of my prejudices and vow to no longer judge a writer by her cover, so to speak. Sharron doesn’t fall quite so far onto the “normal” scale as does Holly, but she has to be one of the most fascinating people I’ve had the pleasure to talk to for under 10 minutes. But in that short time span I discover that she has completed her first draft of a historical fantasy novel about a sympathetic banshee. She explains the difference between pure fantasy, historical fiction, and historical fantasy: historical fantasy takes place in a specific time period but with fantastical people, creatures, and usually magic; pure fantasy exists in a completely made-up world and time; and historical fiction is just like historical fantasy but without the magic.
Sharron says that she started out as a storyteller and got her idea from an ancient Celtic story about a banshee. I am delighted to learn that she speaks Gaelic, teaches it at UVic, and sings in a Gaelic choir in Victoria. I tell her how my family Bible has notes in Gaelic from my ancestor James, and she asks me what my maiden name is. When I tell her “McIsaac”, she exclaims, “Oh, I know all about your people!” and then proceeds to name all the places in Scotland our clan used to live before moving to Ireland several centuries ago.
I’m disappointed when the opening session begins and our conversation ends. As the organizers sort out technical difficulties, another woman at the table strikes up a conversation with me. She spent four months in a camper in Mexico writing a book about an alcoholic wife and mother. Across the table from me is an amusing picture of opposites: a large, loud and heavily made-up woman with an electric flashing brooch in the shape of a cat and a lovely, delicate redhead with a cream-coloured complexion, wearing a chocolate brown crushed velvet jacket. As the session closes I reflect on how already this day has been better than the last, and I head to the first workshop with high hopes.
Sunday, October 29, 2006
The Surrey International Writers' Conference Diaries ... Day 1
I arrive at the Surrey International Writer’s Conference a little flustered and very distracted. I had hoped to be early but am running late as usual. Today is the first day I’m leaving Lauren for a full day and I worry that I didn’t pack enough diapers and did I pack her favourite toy, the firefly with the crinkly wings? I slip into the banquet hall where the opening session is being held and find a seat along the back wall.
Maybe it’s because of my crumpled state of mind, but my first impression is somewhat jaded. There are 800 people crammed into this room, and I wonder how many of them are certifiable or at least a little delusional. Everyone looks just a little too eager, just a little too desperate to be a great writer. The demographics consist mostly of middle-aged women, either the plump short-haired variety or thin with long grey hair and dangly earrings. Romance novels and self-help/New Age, I presume. There are a few women my age and I wonder what it is they write. As for the men, there’s a good mix of young, dark and artsy (science fiction); middle-aged and socially-awkward (tax guides); and older, white-haired men with cardigans and sport jackets (memoir). These are the ones I expect to be both great writers and also just a little bit crazy. There’s also a guy in a fedora and trenchcoat, and that’s just scary.
Where do I fit in here? I wonder. Am I just a wannabe like everyone else? Immediately I’m ashamed of my thoughts, not for doubting myself but for being an insufferable snob, judging these 800 people in the span of 10 minutes. Insecurity and condescension, the Siamese twins of the Arts.
The room quickly becomes standing room only and apparently the hot real estate is right in front of me. Since I can no longer see past the army of red-vested volunteers crowding into the back of the room, I thumb through my registration package, making mental notes of the workshops I want to attend. Soon weary of obsequious speeches, I offer my seat to the lady standing on top of me and head out into the hallway in search of free coffee. I also want to find the Fraser Room, where my Blue Pencil Café meeting is taking place right after the opening session. Might as well be early for something.
My appointment is with David Leap, a magazine writer and editor. He’s tall and young and easy-going, which is good because I don’t really know what to say or ask and I only have 10 minutes. After fumbling over some small talk I show him my sample article and ask for his critique. He’s quite enthusiastic about it and goes through it with me pointing out all the things I did right. He says he wishes his journalism students wrote this well. He then tells me that it’s very newspaper-oriented and if I wish to sell it to a magazine I’ll need to add a bit more “story” to it. He thinks the Walrus might be interested in it, and we bat around a few more ideas as to where I could sell it. As we’re talking, I notice that he gets white flecks of foam on his lips when he speaks, a distraction to be sure, especially when you’re worried that one of those little flecks of foam might fly off and hit you. A volunteer comes and tells us that our time is up, it’s onward and upward to the next aspiring freelance journalist.
Checking the schedule, I find the Trillium room and Julie Fergus’ workshop on “Marketing Out Loud – Your Non-fiction Idea.” She’s taking us through the process of making a verbal pitch to an editor or agent. It’s both very interesting and completely useless, seeing as how I don’t have a book or even a book idea to pitch. I look through the schedule and realize that most of the non-fiction workshops are like this: how to sell your work, not how to write it. I resolve to spend time in some fiction workshops instead, figuring it won’t do me any good to know how to sell my work if I don’t have any worth selling. But Julie tells us all to prepare a one-line “zinger” sentence describing our book, so I make one up based on the article I had written: “Cheating the Poor exposes the appalling truth that the Canadian foreign aid system wastes our tax dollars and betrays the world’s poor.” Who wouldn’t want to read a book about that?
I didn’t buy the full conference package, which includes meals, so I’m on my own for lunch. Mike packed a sandwich for me so I hunker down with more free coffee and the book I’m currently reading, The Secret Lives of Bees. To be honest, I’m having trouble getting into it and so after I’ve finished my sandwich I spend the rest of the lunch time wandering around the hotel, eavesdropping on conversations.
“So, how did it go?”
“Really well, I think. I mean, she didn’t read the whole thing but she
seemed interested …”
“I’m on my fifth novel, now … no, I haven’t sold any of them yet but that’s
what I’m hoping to do here …”
“It’s about these aliens, right? But they don’t know that they’re aliens –
kinda like how Harry Potter didn’t know he was magic. Except the aliens
aren’t kids, and their magic comes from this stone …”
After lunch I end up in another non-fiction workshop, despite my best efforts. The presenter is Mr. Leap of the Foaming Mouth, and he’s talking about the difference between travel journalism and travel memoir. It’s an interesting subject, and he has a detailed handout, but there are so many questions and stories about people’s travel experiences that we only get through the first three points. The stories are interesting, so I don’t mind. One lady tells of dining in South Africa during apartheid, and the little black server boy had to run four miles and back to get a tomato for her hamburger. “Would that make a good story?” she asks.
At this point I duck out for my meeting with an agent, Anne Hawking. I chose her because her profile looked the most prestigious – she’s worked at every major literary agency in New York and is now at the oldest literary agency in the country. Since I don’t have a pitch to make, I chat with her about the world of the literary agent – what she does, where she travels, how the foreign rights industry works. I bring up the idea of platform, explaining that if I were to write a book it would be about international development but that I’ve only been working in the industry for a couple of years and would anyone take me seriously? “Hmm. Probably not”, she says, and I nod and pretend that it doesn’t matter. But then she tilts her head and says, “But if you could find someone really, really prestigious to do the forward for your book, you might stand a chance.” Great, I think. I’ll just call up … I don’t know who I would call up. I start to get depressed until I remember that I don’t have any intentions of writing a book anyway.
My next meeting is with the Editor-in-Chief at Knopf Canada, one of only two Canadian editors at the conference. From the back, Diane looks … well, old. She’s wearing dark slacks and a sweater, has shoulder-length grey hair, and walks with a cane. But then she turns around, and I am caught completely off-guard by the florescent pink bangs that frame her face. I ask her some of the same questions I asked Anne, but I’m not really listening to her answers. Instead I’m wondering, Could I get away with pink hair at that age? Could I get away with it at any age? Maybe if you work in publishing you’re allowed to be outrageous … maybe I should work in publishing and then I’d be outrageous … I zone back in and give her my “zinger” sentence for practice. She says, “Well, that certainly tells me what the book is about.” Great, it’s a dud. She reads the first few pages of my article, nodding and exclaiming in all the right places. “Do you think a book about this could sell more than … I don’t know, 10 copies?” I ask. “I mean, I’d love to read it, but I don’t know anyone else that would.” Good thing this isn’t a real pitch. “Well, I’d love to read it too,” she says, surprisingly, “But you’re right, it would probably have a very limited audience.” How diplomatic.
There’s only an hour left in the last workshop so I head to “Re-creating History,” by the historical fiction writer Bernard Cornwall. I enjoy reading historical fiction, so listening to a bestselling author of that genre will be fascinating, right? Wrong. Cornwall is proud, pretentious, and far too used to standing in the front of a room, answer softball questions from his fawning fans, and calling that a workshop. I leave early but am disappointed to find that the free coffee has been taken away. My disappointment runs slightly deeper than the lack of coffee; while not a total wash, I’ve failed to take away anything of real importance from Day 1 at the SiWC.
Maybe it’s because of my crumpled state of mind, but my first impression is somewhat jaded. There are 800 people crammed into this room, and I wonder how many of them are certifiable or at least a little delusional. Everyone looks just a little too eager, just a little too desperate to be a great writer. The demographics consist mostly of middle-aged women, either the plump short-haired variety or thin with long grey hair and dangly earrings. Romance novels and self-help/New Age, I presume. There are a few women my age and I wonder what it is they write. As for the men, there’s a good mix of young, dark and artsy (science fiction); middle-aged and socially-awkward (tax guides); and older, white-haired men with cardigans and sport jackets (memoir). These are the ones I expect to be both great writers and also just a little bit crazy. There’s also a guy in a fedora and trenchcoat, and that’s just scary.
Where do I fit in here? I wonder. Am I just a wannabe like everyone else? Immediately I’m ashamed of my thoughts, not for doubting myself but for being an insufferable snob, judging these 800 people in the span of 10 minutes. Insecurity and condescension, the Siamese twins of the Arts.
The room quickly becomes standing room only and apparently the hot real estate is right in front of me. Since I can no longer see past the army of red-vested volunteers crowding into the back of the room, I thumb through my registration package, making mental notes of the workshops I want to attend. Soon weary of obsequious speeches, I offer my seat to the lady standing on top of me and head out into the hallway in search of free coffee. I also want to find the Fraser Room, where my Blue Pencil Café meeting is taking place right after the opening session. Might as well be early for something.
My appointment is with David Leap, a magazine writer and editor. He’s tall and young and easy-going, which is good because I don’t really know what to say or ask and I only have 10 minutes. After fumbling over some small talk I show him my sample article and ask for his critique. He’s quite enthusiastic about it and goes through it with me pointing out all the things I did right. He says he wishes his journalism students wrote this well. He then tells me that it’s very newspaper-oriented and if I wish to sell it to a magazine I’ll need to add a bit more “story” to it. He thinks the Walrus might be interested in it, and we bat around a few more ideas as to where I could sell it. As we’re talking, I notice that he gets white flecks of foam on his lips when he speaks, a distraction to be sure, especially when you’re worried that one of those little flecks of foam might fly off and hit you. A volunteer comes and tells us that our time is up, it’s onward and upward to the next aspiring freelance journalist.
Checking the schedule, I find the Trillium room and Julie Fergus’ workshop on “Marketing Out Loud – Your Non-fiction Idea.” She’s taking us through the process of making a verbal pitch to an editor or agent. It’s both very interesting and completely useless, seeing as how I don’t have a book or even a book idea to pitch. I look through the schedule and realize that most of the non-fiction workshops are like this: how to sell your work, not how to write it. I resolve to spend time in some fiction workshops instead, figuring it won’t do me any good to know how to sell my work if I don’t have any worth selling. But Julie tells us all to prepare a one-line “zinger” sentence describing our book, so I make one up based on the article I had written: “Cheating the Poor exposes the appalling truth that the Canadian foreign aid system wastes our tax dollars and betrays the world’s poor.” Who wouldn’t want to read a book about that?
I didn’t buy the full conference package, which includes meals, so I’m on my own for lunch. Mike packed a sandwich for me so I hunker down with more free coffee and the book I’m currently reading, The Secret Lives of Bees. To be honest, I’m having trouble getting into it and so after I’ve finished my sandwich I spend the rest of the lunch time wandering around the hotel, eavesdropping on conversations.
“So, how did it go?”
“Really well, I think. I mean, she didn’t read the whole thing but she
seemed interested …”
“I’m on my fifth novel, now … no, I haven’t sold any of them yet but that’s
what I’m hoping to do here …”
“It’s about these aliens, right? But they don’t know that they’re aliens –
kinda like how Harry Potter didn’t know he was magic. Except the aliens
aren’t kids, and their magic comes from this stone …”
After lunch I end up in another non-fiction workshop, despite my best efforts. The presenter is Mr. Leap of the Foaming Mouth, and he’s talking about the difference between travel journalism and travel memoir. It’s an interesting subject, and he has a detailed handout, but there are so many questions and stories about people’s travel experiences that we only get through the first three points. The stories are interesting, so I don’t mind. One lady tells of dining in South Africa during apartheid, and the little black server boy had to run four miles and back to get a tomato for her hamburger. “Would that make a good story?” she asks.
At this point I duck out for my meeting with an agent, Anne Hawking. I chose her because her profile looked the most prestigious – she’s worked at every major literary agency in New York and is now at the oldest literary agency in the country. Since I don’t have a pitch to make, I chat with her about the world of the literary agent – what she does, where she travels, how the foreign rights industry works. I bring up the idea of platform, explaining that if I were to write a book it would be about international development but that I’ve only been working in the industry for a couple of years and would anyone take me seriously? “Hmm. Probably not”, she says, and I nod and pretend that it doesn’t matter. But then she tilts her head and says, “But if you could find someone really, really prestigious to do the forward for your book, you might stand a chance.” Great, I think. I’ll just call up … I don’t know who I would call up. I start to get depressed until I remember that I don’t have any intentions of writing a book anyway.
My next meeting is with the Editor-in-Chief at Knopf Canada, one of only two Canadian editors at the conference. From the back, Diane looks … well, old. She’s wearing dark slacks and a sweater, has shoulder-length grey hair, and walks with a cane. But then she turns around, and I am caught completely off-guard by the florescent pink bangs that frame her face. I ask her some of the same questions I asked Anne, but I’m not really listening to her answers. Instead I’m wondering, Could I get away with pink hair at that age? Could I get away with it at any age? Maybe if you work in publishing you’re allowed to be outrageous … maybe I should work in publishing and then I’d be outrageous … I zone back in and give her my “zinger” sentence for practice. She says, “Well, that certainly tells me what the book is about.” Great, it’s a dud. She reads the first few pages of my article, nodding and exclaiming in all the right places. “Do you think a book about this could sell more than … I don’t know, 10 copies?” I ask. “I mean, I’d love to read it, but I don’t know anyone else that would.” Good thing this isn’t a real pitch. “Well, I’d love to read it too,” she says, surprisingly, “But you’re right, it would probably have a very limited audience.” How diplomatic.
There’s only an hour left in the last workshop so I head to “Re-creating History,” by the historical fiction writer Bernard Cornwall. I enjoy reading historical fiction, so listening to a bestselling author of that genre will be fascinating, right? Wrong. Cornwall is proud, pretentious, and far too used to standing in the front of a room, answer softball questions from his fawning fans, and calling that a workshop. I leave early but am disappointed to find that the free coffee has been taken away. My disappointment runs slightly deeper than the lack of coffee; while not a total wash, I’ve failed to take away anything of real importance from Day 1 at the SiWC.
Monday, September 18, 2006
New Brunswick Election
I'm at home in New Brunswick with my parents, watching the results of today's provincial election on the news. It's too close to call and will probably remain so until late into the night. Obviously, I'm rooting for Lord, but if I were a betting woman my money would be on Graham. New Brunswick has often disappointed me.
The longer I live away from this provice (10 years and counting), the starker the contrast between Canada's two coasts. In New Brunswick, there is so much history, such deep roots. In British Columbia there are few houses older than I am! And yet the world seems bigger in British Columbia. Maybe it's the combination of ocean and mountains, or the ethnic diversity, or the urban centre of Vancouver. Even the capital city in NB seems more like a turn-of-the-century small town.
One of the issues in this election is the brain-drain. Young people are flocking to the west, and I can certainly understand why. While I enjoy coming back to visit my family, I can't imagine living here again. My grandparents are trying to sell their house and 1.5 acres of land for $95,000 and can't find a buyer for that price ... my husband and I are trying to buy a three-bedroom single-family house with a postage stamp lawn and can't find one for under half a million. How can land be worth so much in BC and so little in NB? Obviously I'm not the only one who doesn't want to invest in New Brunswick. And yet when I think that I'm the seventh generation of my family to live on this land, it saddens me that my kids won't grow up here. But I'm also glad that they will have the chance to experience a larger view of the world. Tradition - however important it may be - is not enough to keep me here, and I imagine that there are many other young New Brunswickers who feel the same way.
The longer I live away from this provice (10 years and counting), the starker the contrast between Canada's two coasts. In New Brunswick, there is so much history, such deep roots. In British Columbia there are few houses older than I am! And yet the world seems bigger in British Columbia. Maybe it's the combination of ocean and mountains, or the ethnic diversity, or the urban centre of Vancouver. Even the capital city in NB seems more like a turn-of-the-century small town.
One of the issues in this election is the brain-drain. Young people are flocking to the west, and I can certainly understand why. While I enjoy coming back to visit my family, I can't imagine living here again. My grandparents are trying to sell their house and 1.5 acres of land for $95,000 and can't find a buyer for that price ... my husband and I are trying to buy a three-bedroom single-family house with a postage stamp lawn and can't find one for under half a million. How can land be worth so much in BC and so little in NB? Obviously I'm not the only one who doesn't want to invest in New Brunswick. And yet when I think that I'm the seventh generation of my family to live on this land, it saddens me that my kids won't grow up here. But I'm also glad that they will have the chance to experience a larger view of the world. Tradition - however important it may be - is not enough to keep me here, and I imagine that there are many other young New Brunswickers who feel the same way.
Tuesday, September 05, 2006
Jack the Woman-Hater
Layton suggests talks with Taliban
Those on the left never cease to amaze me. Out of one corner of their collective mouth they style themselves as "The Women's Choice". They employ affirmative action in their candidating process. They are vitriolic in their support for a woman's right to do or have absolutely anything she wants.
Out of the other corner of their mouth, they want to sit down and talk with the Taliban. The Taliban. The archetypical opposite of everything the left says it stands for. The Taliban, stoner of women who dare to show a fraction of skin on the wrist or ankle. The Taliban, possibly the world's greatest denier of women's basic rights and freedoms. Forget about a woman's right to pay equity, equal representation, sexual and reproductive freedom - under the Taliban women were not even allowed to appear in public without a close male relative serving as escort, let alone such radical freedoms as post-primary education or the ability to drive a car.
The fact that the NDP want to get in bed with the Taliban is beyond absurd, but it is typical of the inconsistency that we have come to expect of the left. The NDP sees itself as the defender of women, unless of course defending women means siding with George W. Bush. They would rather get in bed with radical religious zealots who actively persecute women and minorities than be in the same house or even the same neighbourhood as Bush. Their position on the Taliban is not one based on principles - unless Layton is a much stupider man than he appears and has never read a history book or watched the evening news. He knows what the Taliban have done and what they are capable of. No, his stand is purely political - whatever the US is for, the NDP is against, even if that means being against women's rights (as in, a woman's right to exist).
Hopefully the average Canadian is smarter than Jack gives them credit for and can see through this pathetic and insulting charade. Unfortunately for Jack, over half of the Canadian population (and an even greater percentage of his voters) are women. Maybe he should have thought of that before he advocated sitting down and having a chat with those who would stone any woman at the negotiating table just for the crime of being there.
Those on the left never cease to amaze me. Out of one corner of their collective mouth they style themselves as "The Women's Choice". They employ affirmative action in their candidating process. They are vitriolic in their support for a woman's right to do or have absolutely anything she wants.
Out of the other corner of their mouth, they want to sit down and talk with the Taliban. The Taliban. The archetypical opposite of everything the left says it stands for. The Taliban, stoner of women who dare to show a fraction of skin on the wrist or ankle. The Taliban, possibly the world's greatest denier of women's basic rights and freedoms. Forget about a woman's right to pay equity, equal representation, sexual and reproductive freedom - under the Taliban women were not even allowed to appear in public without a close male relative serving as escort, let alone such radical freedoms as post-primary education or the ability to drive a car.
The fact that the NDP want to get in bed with the Taliban is beyond absurd, but it is typical of the inconsistency that we have come to expect of the left. The NDP sees itself as the defender of women, unless of course defending women means siding with George W. Bush. They would rather get in bed with radical religious zealots who actively persecute women and minorities than be in the same house or even the same neighbourhood as Bush. Their position on the Taliban is not one based on principles - unless Layton is a much stupider man than he appears and has never read a history book or watched the evening news. He knows what the Taliban have done and what they are capable of. No, his stand is purely political - whatever the US is for, the NDP is against, even if that means being against women's rights (as in, a woman's right to exist).
Hopefully the average Canadian is smarter than Jack gives them credit for and can see through this pathetic and insulting charade. Unfortunately for Jack, over half of the Canadian population (and an even greater percentage of his voters) are women. Maybe he should have thought of that before he advocated sitting down and having a chat with those who would stone any woman at the negotiating table just for the crime of being there.
Saturday, September 02, 2006
You know it's fall when ...
... the Pumpkin Spice latte has arrived at Starbucks. Contrary to popular opinion, the seasons of the year are not announced by a change in temperature or the date on the calendar. Rather, they are heralded by the arrival of various caffeinated beverages. Tim Horton's Roll Up the Rim to Win is the harbinger of spring; Starbucks' Pumpkin Spice latte is the perfect reintroduction to warmth and comfort after a summer of bottled water; and the long-awaited arrival of the Gingerbread and Eggnog lattes means it's beginning to look a lot like Christmas.
I must admit I am a Starbucks snob. While I enjoy my medium-double-double as much as the next person and have been known to cry at Tim Horton's commercials, there are few things which bring me greater comfort than the smells, sights, sounds and textures of my local Starbucks. By textures, of course, I mean the deep comfy chairs, and the sights not only include the soft lighting and warm colours, but also the thousands of books in the adjoining Chapters I can see from my deep comfy chair. Add to this today's paper, some soft jazz music and my favourite holiday drink (or a vanilla latte when nothing else is in season), and you have all the ingredients for a perfect pick-me-up or wind-me-down.
Why I hate to love Starbucks
I feel guilty for being such a Starbucks devotee. Maybe it's my liberal arts upbringing, or maybe it's because I work on behalf of the world's extreme poor and those on the fringes of our own society. I feel like I should be in some dark, independently-owned cafe with murals by local artists on the walls and a guy with dreadlocks behind the counter. And, in truth, I would gladly frequent such a place were it ever to exist in the middle of the suburbs where I live and work. So instead I find myself glancing over my shoulder as I enter one of the six Starbucks within a ten minute drive from my house, half-expecting anti-globalization protesters to throw a re-usable mug of organic, shade-grown, fairly-traded coffee in my face. However, this information from Wikipedia helped to salve my conscience:
Excellent. Now I can enjoy my Pumpkin Spice latte in peace.
I must admit I am a Starbucks snob. While I enjoy my medium-double-double as much as the next person and have been known to cry at Tim Horton's commercials, there are few things which bring me greater comfort than the smells, sights, sounds and textures of my local Starbucks. By textures, of course, I mean the deep comfy chairs, and the sights not only include the soft lighting and warm colours, but also the thousands of books in the adjoining Chapters I can see from my deep comfy chair. Add to this today's paper, some soft jazz music and my favourite holiday drink (or a vanilla latte when nothing else is in season), and you have all the ingredients for a perfect pick-me-up or wind-me-down.
Why I hate to love Starbucks
I feel guilty for being such a Starbucks devotee. Maybe it's my liberal arts upbringing, or maybe it's because I work on behalf of the world's extreme poor and those on the fringes of our own society. I feel like I should be in some dark, independently-owned cafe with murals by local artists on the walls and a guy with dreadlocks behind the counter. And, in truth, I would gladly frequent such a place were it ever to exist in the middle of the suburbs where I live and work. So instead I find myself glancing over my shoulder as I enter one of the six Starbucks within a ten minute drive from my house, half-expecting anti-globalization protesters to throw a re-usable mug of organic, shade-grown, fairly-traded coffee in my face. However, this information from Wikipedia helped to salve my conscience:
Although it has endured much criticism for its purported monopoly on the global coffee-bean market, Starbucks purchases only 3% of the coffee beans grown worldwide. In 2000, the company introduced a line of fair trade products[6] and now offers three options for socially conscious coffee drinkers. According to Starbucks, they purchased 4.8 million pounds of Certified Fair Trade coffee in fiscal year 2004 and 11.5 million pounds in 2005. They have become the largest buyer of Certified Fair Trade coffee in North America (10% of the global market) and the only company licensed to sell Certified Fair Trade coffee in 23 countries. Transfair USA, the only third-party certifier of Fair Trade Certified coffee in the United States, has noted the impact Starbucks has made in the area of Fair Trade and coffee farmer's lives by saying:
"Since launching FTC coffee in 2000, Starbucks has undeniably made a significant contribution to family farmers through their rapidly growing FTC volumes. By offering FTC coffee in thousands of stores, Starbucks has also given the FTC label greater visibility, helping to raise consumer awareness in the process.
FTC coffee now represents 3.7% of all Starbucks coffee, up from less than 1% when the company began to offer FTC. Starbucks, unlike many companies with whom we partner, makes FTC volume information public."
Groups such as Global Exchange are calling for Starbucks to further increase its sales of fair trade coffees. However, fair trade certification can cost $20 to $30 thousand, and many growers are unwilling or unable to pay for certification. As a result, the supply of fair trade coffee is increasing slowly, and Starbucks sometimes has difficulty finding fair trade growers that can meet its quality standards.
Excellent. Now I can enjoy my Pumpkin Spice latte in peace.
Wednesday, August 23, 2006
The Pointlessness of the Status of Women
BIG BLUE WAVE has posted an excellent rant about the radical feminist agenda of the federal Status of Women Agency. This, of course, begs the question: why do Canadian women need special status and a government agency to promote it?
I must admit that I’ve never really understood the push for equality. Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for equality. I suppose the difference is that I truly believe that women and men ARE equal, and therefore I don’t see the need to waste time and energy shouting, protesting and lobbying about it. By constantly angling for equality, the message that is being sent is that we are not yet equal - it is still something towards which we are striving. However, rather than demand that the world (i.e. men) treat us as equals, perhaps a better strategy would be to simply act as though we are. There should be no need for feminist lobbying groups or government agencies on the Status of Women – in fact, such an idea should be ludicrous in a society where women and men truly are equal.
Perhaps I’m betraying my youth here. I’ve been taught since I can remember that men and women are equal – and I’ve believed it. Even more than that, my experience has proved it. To my knowledge, I’ve never been discriminated against because of my gender; I make more money and hold a position of higher responsibility than most of the men in my place of employment; and I generally don’t give my gender a second thought. In my world, equality is reality and not something to strive towards in some Utopian future. The future is now, so let’s start living in it.
I must admit that I’ve never really understood the push for equality. Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for equality. I suppose the difference is that I truly believe that women and men ARE equal, and therefore I don’t see the need to waste time and energy shouting, protesting and lobbying about it. By constantly angling for equality, the message that is being sent is that we are not yet equal - it is still something towards which we are striving. However, rather than demand that the world (i.e. men) treat us as equals, perhaps a better strategy would be to simply act as though we are. There should be no need for feminist lobbying groups or government agencies on the Status of Women – in fact, such an idea should be ludicrous in a society where women and men truly are equal.
Perhaps I’m betraying my youth here. I’ve been taught since I can remember that men and women are equal – and I’ve believed it. Even more than that, my experience has proved it. To my knowledge, I’ve never been discriminated against because of my gender; I make more money and hold a position of higher responsibility than most of the men in my place of employment; and I generally don’t give my gender a second thought. In my world, equality is reality and not something to strive towards in some Utopian future. The future is now, so let’s start living in it.
Wrzesnewskyj resigns
The Liberals continue to self-destruct over the Israel vs. terrorists debate. Why is this still an issue? Thank goodness for Prime Minister Harper, who has come out loud, strong, and consistenly clear in his support for Israel. What a change from Mr. Dithers, eh?
Update: Hilarious
Update: Hilarious
Saturday, August 19, 2006
Peace before aid
It surprises me that more non-governmental organizations are not coming out in support of our peacekeepers in Afghanistan. A fundamental tenet of development is that there can be none without peace. One only has to examine development efforts in countries such as the Democratic Republic of Congo or Northern Uganda to see that this is the case. The most that NGOs can offer in these war-torn situations is emergency relief, which is a far cry from the sustainable development so desperately needed.
The lack of peace is one of the most significant obstacles to sustainable development. Why would a farmer even bother to plant his field when he knows that all of his crops will be stolen by rebels raiding the countryside? How can children go to school when all of the teachers have been killed and the school buildings destroyed? How does the economy function when the roads, bridges and railroads have been bombed or blockaded, making trade impossible? No, the only thing that can be done in these situations is to concentrate on keeping people alive, primarily through emergency food aid. While this is a noble objective in and of itself, it does nothing to break the cycle of poverty in which so many of these countries are engaged.
Only when peace arrives can it be accompanied by hope, and hope is the essential ingredient to sustainable development. When there is peace, a farmer can plant his fields – perhaps using an improved variety of seed or fertilizer supplied by an international NGO – and know that he and his children will live to enjoy the harvest. When there is peace, mothers are willing to send their children to school without fear that they will be kidnapped and forced into the nightmare life of child soldiers. When there is peace, governments can do their job and invest in essential services such as transportation, trade, health and education, rather than spend all of their resources fighting rebels, neighbouring countries, or their own civilians. Under these circumstances, development can flourish in an environment of security and hope.
A story in the Edmonton Journal recently illustrated this point. The Canadian Armed Forces, Canadian Food for the Hungry International (a relief and development organization), and an Edmonton church are partnering together to send desperately-needed medical equipment to hospitals and clinics in Kandahar, Afghanistan. Without our peacekeepers, however, this could never take place. We owe them a debt of gratitude for going ahead of our NGOs, paving the way for the development that will truly make a long-term difference in Afghanistan and all the other countries where they have made development possible.
The lack of peace is one of the most significant obstacles to sustainable development. Why would a farmer even bother to plant his field when he knows that all of his crops will be stolen by rebels raiding the countryside? How can children go to school when all of the teachers have been killed and the school buildings destroyed? How does the economy function when the roads, bridges and railroads have been bombed or blockaded, making trade impossible? No, the only thing that can be done in these situations is to concentrate on keeping people alive, primarily through emergency food aid. While this is a noble objective in and of itself, it does nothing to break the cycle of poverty in which so many of these countries are engaged.
Only when peace arrives can it be accompanied by hope, and hope is the essential ingredient to sustainable development. When there is peace, a farmer can plant his fields – perhaps using an improved variety of seed or fertilizer supplied by an international NGO – and know that he and his children will live to enjoy the harvest. When there is peace, mothers are willing to send their children to school without fear that they will be kidnapped and forced into the nightmare life of child soldiers. When there is peace, governments can do their job and invest in essential services such as transportation, trade, health and education, rather than spend all of their resources fighting rebels, neighbouring countries, or their own civilians. Under these circumstances, development can flourish in an environment of security and hope.
A story in the Edmonton Journal recently illustrated this point. The Canadian Armed Forces, Canadian Food for the Hungry International (a relief and development organization), and an Edmonton church are partnering together to send desperately-needed medical equipment to hospitals and clinics in Kandahar, Afghanistan. Without our peacekeepers, however, this could never take place. We owe them a debt of gratitude for going ahead of our NGOs, paving the way for the development that will truly make a long-term difference in Afghanistan and all the other countries where they have made development possible.
Sunday, August 13, 2006
Yet another reason to distrust the mainstream media (as if we needed one)...
Most of the right-of-centre blogs I've encountered share one thing in common: a dislike and distrust of the mainstream media. I am certainly not one to dispute this well-warranted attitude in any way; in fact, I wish to offer my contribution by way of a personal anecdote regarding how ridiculously unprofessional and incompetent the media are at representing anything remotely close to the truth.
A couple of years ago, when I was naive enough to mention seemingly innocent personal facts on my first blog, I happened to mention to my readers (who were mostly old university friends and long-distance family members) that my husband had recently started working on a federal election campaign for Conservative Candidate X. On this same blog, in the Links section, I had listed a couple of charities to which I am sympathetic. A few weeks later, at the height of the campaign, an article by Peter O'Neil appeared in the Vancouver Sun about Candidate X, stating that said candidate had connections to "right-wing religious organizations." His source? Candidate X's name and the so-called "right-wing religious organizations" had appeared on the same webpage - my blog.
The truth, naturally, was completely overlooked. In fact, Candidate X has no connection to either of the charities I had listed on my blog. The Candidate's only connection was that a supporter's wife had linked to them for reasons best known to herself, and without the knowledge of either the Candidate or the supporter. And yet Mr. O'Neil, with an appalling lack of journalistic integrity or professionalism, stated unequivocally and untruthfully that there was a connection between the Candidate and these organizations, to the detriment of this Candidate's campaign - which of course, was the entire point of Mr. O'Neil's article.
And so I learned two lessons that day: one was to distrust everything I read or hear in the media, even when the reporter has "evidence" or a "trusted source" for his or her misrepresentations. The other was to guard the privacy of my family, friends and colleagues by not mentioning them on this site, and thereby not giving amateurs like Mr. O'Neil the opportunity to exploit them for his own liberal agenda.
A couple of years ago, when I was naive enough to mention seemingly innocent personal facts on my first blog, I happened to mention to my readers (who were mostly old university friends and long-distance family members) that my husband had recently started working on a federal election campaign for Conservative Candidate X. On this same blog, in the Links section, I had listed a couple of charities to which I am sympathetic. A few weeks later, at the height of the campaign, an article by Peter O'Neil appeared in the Vancouver Sun about Candidate X, stating that said candidate had connections to "right-wing religious organizations." His source? Candidate X's name and the so-called "right-wing religious organizations" had appeared on the same webpage - my blog.
The truth, naturally, was completely overlooked. In fact, Candidate X has no connection to either of the charities I had listed on my blog. The Candidate's only connection was that a supporter's wife had linked to them for reasons best known to herself, and without the knowledge of either the Candidate or the supporter. And yet Mr. O'Neil, with an appalling lack of journalistic integrity or professionalism, stated unequivocally and untruthfully that there was a connection between the Candidate and these organizations, to the detriment of this Candidate's campaign - which of course, was the entire point of Mr. O'Neil's article.
And so I learned two lessons that day: one was to distrust everything I read or hear in the media, even when the reporter has "evidence" or a "trusted source" for his or her misrepresentations. The other was to guard the privacy of my family, friends and colleagues by not mentioning them on this site, and thereby not giving amateurs like Mr. O'Neil the opportunity to exploit them for his own liberal agenda.
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