Ode to the Book

The Most Scintillating Tech We've Come Up With Yet

The night I finally finished the final final edits of my book “Portal: The Art of Choosing Orgasmic, Pain-Free, Blissful Birth,” I dreamt that I sent the book to one of my old UBC creative writing professors, and then (as so effortlessly occurs during one's dreams) he appeared, and told me he had been in love with me all along. 

I did have a huge crush on him exactly twenty years ago when I took his class. I was twenty-two at the time, and he was sixty-one. 

For the record, there was not even the slightest hint of impropriety on his part (or mine, also for the record). 

In fact, I don't think I made any kind of impression on him whatsoever--just another earnest undergraduate.

Short and stocky, he had a funny walk and wore an unfashionable (at the time) blue windbreaker over his paunch. His physical presence was, to me, evocative of some kind of oracle-toad from the fairy tale I had constructed of my life; a hideous, beautiful, wise, intriguing toad, which I realize might sound unkind…but I have to emphasize that his bad clothes, evident ill-health, and frog-like mien did nothing to diminish the allure he held for me, though I was somewhat disturbed by his ancientness.

He smoked cigarettes in the courtyard between each of his teaching sessions, and I made an enormous effort to time my own entry and exit to class so that he and I might end up in the hallway at the same time, that I might bask in his atmosphere, and get a whiff of the mixture of ashtray and the vodka which everyone knew he carried around in his thermal coffee cup.

I recall that at one point he told me that the fact that I had made the priest the sexual deviant in my short story was a tired cliche. Otherwise, we had very few personal interactions, and I don’t think he thought much of anything about me as a writer.

Now that I'm forty-two, sixty-one doesn't seem so antiquated at all. 

As it turns out, however, he is no longer sixty-one. According to Wikipedia, he is still alive at eighty-one years old (which is how I deduced, brilliant little me, that he was sixty-one twenty years ago). 

I’m delighted to know that he's still kicking it—not that he (or anyone) shouldn't be going strong in their eighties, but I’m well aware that many people have the idea that becoming older makes debilitation or senility inevitable, and many more who are convinced that smoking and drinking will kill with particular determination, and this belief itself tends to lead to dying sooner rather than later. 

But it seems that Professor M. has more writing to do, and perhaps some more smoking and drinking to do. Good for him. 

I had bought a used copy of one of his novels from Tanglewood Books on Broadway (one of many bygone Vancouver bookstores) with every intention of reading it, mostly to fuel my professor/student romance fantasy (by absorbing the story that I was sure to discover of who he really was) but my infatuation with him never really took off apart from the hallway loitering (thank goodness), and I never did end up reading the book. Maybe I'll give it a try now. 

And maybe I will send him my book, “PORTAL,” about birth and God and choice and quantum entanglement, just for fun, with a cryptic note: "You probably have no idea who I am, but I took Creative Writing 215 in 2003, and finally got around to it."

In all likelihood though, I won’t send him anything. I suspect I will always feel somewhat chagrined, or at least conflicted, by my university experience—UBC never quite lived up to my hopes or dreams of real intellectual openness, depth, or exploration…what a shocker. 

The reasons are obvious to me now, but I was an innocent until quite recently (thank God for St. Rona, always.) Now that I understand that academia is the primary ill*minati recruitment centre, and a place where the marginally capable and highly malleable are sorted, filtered, indoctrinated, and assigned, I am genuinely proud of the fact that I resisted for as long as I did, and that I did not, in the end, succumb to the sunk cost fallacy and doggedly finish my master’s degree. 

To do so, by the time the machinations of the world started to come into focus for me, would have been a major act of self-betrayal, not least on account of the fact that Royal Roads University—the school that came close to granting me a graduate degree—bestowed upon the odious Bonnie Henry (British Columbia’s Minister of Health at the time of Rona, and perpetrator of what many believe to be are major crimes against humanity) an honorary degree in 2020. What an embarrassment. And what a miracle that I finally woke up. 

Looking back, it’s almost touching to see how much effort was made via my family, class, and social milieu, to convince me that universities are not only the purveyors of the most basic and essential status marker, but the foremost bastions of culture, knowledge, and even wisdom. This too, is vaguely embarrassing.

Incidentally, I recently came across Bonnie Henry’s newest work of literature at one of the last remaining independent bookstores in Vancouver, Banyen books where my dad worked in the late 70s before opening his own ill-fated bookstore, “Norris Books” on 4th avenue, just half a block down from where Banyen Book now resides. 

(I spent a significant portion of my high school years at Banyen, hiding out in the quietude of the theology and poetry sections in lieu of attending my lessons at Kits High. Even then, the cutting-edge classes I was forced to take on environmentalism and multiculturalism struck me as anodyne and suspicious, at the very least. Vancouver has always been at the forefront of all the agendas.)

Henry’s book is hilariously titled “Soap and Water and Common Sense: The Definitive Guide to Viruses, Bacteria, Parasites, and Disease.” I almost bought it to gratify my number one vice and guilty pleasure, which is aggrandizing my own ego by ridiculing and tearing down the intellectually inferior under the pretext of their evil-doing. Sigh. Poor, wretched Bonnie Henry. I’ll let her be, for now.

All told, I am honestly relieved that neither UBC (where I did most of a bachelor’s degree) nor Royal Roads University, nor any institution dedicated to promulgating propaganda can lay claim to being my alma mater. 

No, I am the bounteous mother, thank you very much. 

The timelines are endlessly fascinating to me, though. I attended UBC just as it was on the cusp of total woke-washing (though honestly I think “going full retard” is really the only accurate way of putting it), and poignantly, my first year at UBC at age 17 was my grandfather’s last year of lecturing there as Professor Emeritus of the history of science and medicine, irony of ironies (speaking of ill*minati recruits). 

In his own old-school way, Dr. John Norris certainly saw (and recognized) the degradation and diminishment of “higher learning,” which I too want to believe did exist at one point, maybe even to a slight extent during my grandad’s lifetime. 

But despite his flickers of awareness while bearing witness to the beginnings of the blatant corporate takeover of academia, Grandad was so enmeshed in the system there was no way he could ever have allowed himself to actually put the pieces together to see the big picture, nevermind to perceive what was coming.

Nonetheless, there were parts of university that I did love. 

In the 90s and early aughts, the UBC campus was still beautiful, green, and spacious. I can conjure even now the immense pleasure of striding, wool coat open, across the majestic central mall in the crisp fall air, full of back-to-school ambition, past the grassy knoll where students lounged and lolled, absorbing the late-season sun, talking in groups, or reading honest-to-goodness paper books.

Now, what was once the generous grounds of the student union building is studded with concrete towers in the midst of which is a postage-stamp of sports field made of plastic grass. 

I was there, at the UBC campus not long ago, while on a visit to Vancouver with my teenager daughter, who, in a few short years will be in the position of having to decide if she too wants to be re-educated, or to educate herself, whatever that might possible mean, or look like, for her. 

During our afternoon at UBC, I observed, heartbreakingly, that alongside the claustrophobia of densification, smartification, evident censoriousness (stickers and signs everywhere, reminding everyone of what is allowable to think), and intellectual regression, is the commensurate shift of the focus of the individual’s attention from the outward gaze upon the world of ideas which I believe books paradoxically provide, to a concentration inward and downwards. More striking even than the geographical and habitual changes to the UBC campus, was seeing the sea of heads bowed in supplication, while trudging zombie-like along the sidewalks. Worshippers of the screen not so much of the word. 

There were tons of young people around, but the energy, or lack thereof, was palpably dim. Anesthetized, it seemed. What was missing, I quickly realized, was sex. Among all these young people, there seemed to be a notable absence of sexual energy. No charge, no frisson. Just crowds of blandly dressed bodies uncomfortably detached from their usual avatars, a consequence of our increasing orientation to the colourful panes of glass we tap and tap, knocking at the window to a disembodied simulacrum of reality. Let me in. Let me out.

My favourite classes at university included medieval history (I had a crush on that prof too), and English literature. Despite being intimidated by the ponderousness and pretentiousness of it, I adored critical theory. It was all word-spells, conjuration, and poetry, and it’s entirely appropriate (and elegantly quantum) that the post-structuralists were both the architects of social engineering, and the authors of its decoding, although it took me twenty-years to realize that the feeling I had of being an imposter myself on account of the fact that my most successful essays were a bunch of exquisite-sounding piffle did not actually mean that I was stupid or that I didn’t get it, but rather that I did get it—it was the emperor who was naked. I retained my dignity just fine.

I also now know that it wasn’t just postmodernism as a genre that was all obscurantist made-up nonsense (through which was threaded some genuine brilliance), but that this describes literally every social construct and cultural institution, and the art and craft of making history itself.

It was “Creative writing,” however,—the act, not so much the classes—that was always “my thing,” though I do see now that my Professor grandfather’s view that “creative writing” as an academic field of study was pure ego-driven self-indulgence was (and is) true in many ways. All writing is, obviously, “creative,” but what the academic designation of “creative writing” tends to mean is “useless”—useless writing. 

And really, much of what we churned out as twenty-somethings was useless; decadent nonsense, unmoored from any real intellect, perspective or, for most of us, life experience. Frankly, the majority of the young writers within our cohort were quite stunningly bad at writing. I wasn’t—bad, that is. I’ve always been a good writer. But I can’t say the writing itself that I produced at the time was any good. 

Yet I went on to basically write for a living, both directly and indirectly. Writing has been my constant; the through-line. (In fact, I wrote my first “novel” when I was in grade two, called “The Adventures of Santa Claus,” and I’m still absurdly proud of the fact that my teacher called my mother to inform her of my talents—the little-girl ego remains.) Writing was always an effortless joy, when I could let go and allow it to be, and in both overt and circuitous ways, it has been my saving grace.

During high school I ran a brisk business selling essays to the cool kids. I wrote several of my sister’s university papers, and after I dropped out of university for the first time (among several) I moved to Halifax in the early 2000s where, in the midst of the implosion of my first marriage and my halfhearted (thankfully) attempts to drink and drug myself to death, I wrote and edited for the local Halifax weekly (badly, erratically, and unenthusiastically). 

After meeting Lee, the loving of my life, and moving to his ghastly home province of New Brunswick, I wrote essays about our shared life there as ceramic artists, and I began to document, in writing, my thoughts on being a mother, a maker, and a birth-worker, while doing more (terrible, mind-numbing) local journalism and freelance editing throughout that time, and expanding (if you can call it that) into copywriting. 

I ended up working for a few years in academic marketing and administration, which involved writing and editing for the communications department of a for-profit   university—a job that was both nauseatingly corporate and strangely enlightening (whoa, wait a second…it really is all sleight-of-hand! All of it!) while attending births simultaneously (my boss at the time was wonderfully supportive of my birth-work, and in retrospect, immensely tolerant of my vicissitudes in general) and building and expanding my birth-education business, then finally combining birth-support, writing, and teaching, then leaving the corporate world forever. 

Writing has always been both inextricable from all of my other endeavours, and a central column that has supported each of my tangential projects, allowing me to integrate it all, from my beloved career in pottery, to, especially, my work in birth and my life as a mother. One of my favourite aspects of co-leading the Radical Birth Keeper School, is the section I teach on writing, marketing, and copywriting for birth-workers.

In general, I cannot imagine not processing the immensity of birth-work, birth-witnessing, mothering, and creativity through the art and craft and act of writing.  

But until I submitted to the painstaking process—the initiation, really—of writing, re-writing, honing, editing, re-configuring, correcting, revising, editing some more, and now finally completing my first book “Portal: The Art of Choosing Orgasmic, Pain-Free, Blissful Birth,” I had not fully claimed the truth that I am a writer. 

What I can see now, more clearly than ever, is that all the circling and churning and mediocrity that I insisted on repeating and maintaining for so long was firmly rooted in a profound commitment to sabotage myself and to perpetuate the story that I suffered from crippling levels of insecurity, which necessitated continuously behaving in a way that proved that self-perception to be true. 

I had quite literally handicapped myself and my progress through life with the persistent belief that if I claimed any real sense of purpose, or ownership over my life, or if I staked what I recognize now is my true “identity” as a writer (when in fact, I was a writer, and am, because writing is what I consistently do, every single day), and allowed myself to fully own and embody the truth that not only am I a writer, but I am an excellent one, people wouldn’t like me, people would feel threatened by what I have to say, people would get offended, people might think I’m arrogant, and people might even dislike me (and my writing). 

As it turns out, all of this is true. Many people do dislike me and what I write. And what a delight it is to no longer give one hoot, and to know that it has nothing to do with me personally. 

Alas, many other people (women especially) are so envious of others and so full of self-hatred that they really can’t tolerate someone else’s success or self-ownership. 

This is sad and weird and grotesque, yes, but it is also in no way my problem to solve or to pay any attention to, and it’s nice to realize that I’ve become increasingly comfortable with ignoring that nonsense all together.

This is no different, of course, from knowing and owning that I am a wise-woman and birth-witness—an authority in integral birth—and following that path devotedly, never mind the haters. (Note that given that I’m Canadian, I cannot securely describe myself as a “midwife”— a word that, in the past 50 years, despite several hundreds of years of cultural significance, has been appropriated by the state and reduced to a legal designation, meted out only to those who have agreed to submit themselves to obstetric medical hazing—ludicrous, I know). 

In any case, I digress. 

There really is something monumental about writing a book—creating a book—of all things, and I have more respect than ever for all the writeres who bravely embark on the adventure of authorship, particularly now, when the message that seems to be tacitly encouraged is that books, or so we are told (by some), are arcane objects—a little bit one-dimensional in comparison with the sparkly colourful convergence of interactive elements that make up the computers in our pockets and at our fingertips at all times. 

Books lack the cross-functionality versatility of computational technology, though of course, it is the book, as opposed to the techno-gadget, that is: books are three dimensional, indissoluble, powered-up (always), tangible, tactile, while the “smartphone” is actually (as we all now know full-well) shallow, scattered, and immature. Retrogressive, really.

The harnessing of our focused attention and concentration is a requirement for even beginning to seek wisdom, and the corporeality of the book as a medium lends itself to this, uniquely.

Books are soulful, I would argue, in a way that digital copy (yes, even so-called e-paper) is not. I have come across those who have elatedly “downsized” their book collections, replacing them with digital files, and I feel only pity. 

Books bear the imprint not only of the author’s mind, but of the trees that were felled to build its sheaves. Books are substantial. Books are real.

I have books that have outlived several generations of people already. Books are testimony. Books have an inherent faithfulness, an authenticity, a factualness, even if their contents are fantastical. Books demand an investment, and a reciprocity that the tablet (pill) does not. 

I know that most people are varyingly stressed about the future. But especially in light of the satanic insanity of so-called AI (true stupidity, as I point out in PORTAL) and its dull, necrotic, frankenstinian march forward, I am more excited than ever before about the future of The Book—one of the most advanced, scintillating, and powerful technologies that humans have come up with yet. 

I truly believe that books—real live books—are more important than ever (I cannot wait to someday retrieve my two storage lockers full of thousands of them left behind—for bow—in New Brunswick.) My books truly are my most prized possessions. Books are magnificent. 

But while I’ve always loved books, the fact that I created one—that I crafted this thing of substance, inspired by my deepest truth and decades of lived experience; a work that is truly the product of profound sacrifice on so many levels—has changed and deepened my perspective on writing, and on the value and exquisiteness of books themselves. 

My dedication to the book and the word, is, in many ways, an extension of my devotion to my kids. Words resonate, rippling through the ether, and when I’m gone, my children and grandchildren will have my voice, entombed in this tome, or so I tell myself. 

I am beyond delighted by the way the experience of writing PORTAL has changed me, and I am immensely proud of it.  Mostly because it’s good. But also because no “artificial intelligence” was involved in its creation, no piracy or pretence, no falsification, no digital “enhancement.” It’s truly me. A thing I made. A creation. A work of art.

The way PORTAL came into the world—like a somewhat complicated, protracted (and yes, at times quite painful) birth—was incredibly precious too. I had the immense privilege of being supported of a team of truly wonderful editors, who graciously, brilliantly, compassionately, incisively, and at times critically (in the perfect way) midwifed me through the massive undertaking, and I am so very grateful to them, but in the end, as with the birth of a child, no one else but me—mother, author—could allow the work to be brought forth in full discipline and surrender.  (If you’re looking for truly expert, compassionate, and skilled support in your writing endeavour, consider reaching out to Sophia Zaferes (@sagefertility on instagram) and/or Alicen Grey @alicen.grey on instagram), and my right-hand woman through all of this, has been my amazing assistant (also a fantastic editor) Olivia Seline (@oliviaseline_ on instagram).

Now that it—my book— exists, forevermore, or for as long as the world remains manifest as a device, an instrument, a transmission, an artefact (as well as an e-book, and upcoming audiobook, of course—yes, I have indeed compromised in every way), and given by everything I’ve learned and am learning about the writing, editing, publishing, and marketing process from beginning to end, I will be unveiling an enormous project in the coming weeks, focused on supporting other women writers in bringing their creative dreams to fruition.

For now, I hope you read PORTAL, especially as a veritable book. In fact, I invite you to acquire it, to hold it, to dog-ear its pages, to mark up its margins. Take it to the park. Take it into the bath. I urge you to allow yourself to be weighed down by it, to let it take up space on your shelves or your bedside table. 

But even more so, I hope you allow what I have to believe is the latent nostalgia and romantic inklings that everyone secretly harbours for books as sacred objects, to be rekindled.