Reviews...

A couple of early reviews for Me, Myself and Ike:

Canadian Materials Magazine: http://www.umanitoba.ca/cm/vol16/no1/memyselfandike.html

and

Publishers Weekly: http://www.publishersweekly.com/article/CA6701099.html
Me, Myself and Ike K.L. Denman. Orca, $12.95 paper (208p) ISBN 978-1-55469-086-2

Excerpt:

High school student Kit (a formerly popular kid who now sees his friends slipping away) and his friend Ike are obsessed with Ötzi the Iceman (a mummy discovered in the Alps in 1991) and fascinated by the insight into prehistoric man that his frozen body provided. They hatch a plan to gather artifacts of interest to future generations and freeze to death with them on a mountain, ensuring their eternal fame (“All those actors and rock stars—who's going to even know their names?” Ike says. “But a guy who's, like, a messenger from the past, that's special. Extraordinary”). As Kit gathers artifacts and deflects questions from friends and family, he writes a “manifesto” about modern culture and hangs out with the increasingly abusive Ike. Ages 12–up. (Oct.)

Fresh from the printers...

Me, Myself and Ike is now available from book stores everywhere! It will be formally launched at Kidsbooks in Vancouver on October 15th at 7 PM.

Sleep, Interrupted

When people visit us, a frequent comment is, "It's so quiet here!" On the whole, that's true. But of late, our summer sleep has been disturbed by the manic sound of a bell ringing villain engaged in the gleeful pursuit of prey - in our bedroom.

Lynx (relaxed pose shown above is deceptive) enjoys hunting. A lot. He also enjoys presenting us with his victims and his favorite place to finish them off is in our bedroom. I recently vowed to foil this cat caper by keeping our window (the section that slides open is only about a foot from the floor) open a mere crack at night. This isn't something I especially want to do in the summer but it's far preferable to being wakened by the cat tearing about in pursuit of a mouse, shrew, rat, lizard or snake. We've had all of those.

The cat is onto me. When I went to prepare for bed last night, I remembered to narrow the window opening, but it was too late. The wee gray thing scurrying ahead of my feet had been dropped off early. This example of future planning could show unsuspected intelligence in the feline species, but I was in no mood to appreciate that.

I reviewed my options. Ignore the sitch? Open the window and let the cat come back to have his way? Capture the creature and put it back outside? I was tired, it was late, but the only option I could go with was capture. I wanted to wake my husband and ask for his help, but decided against having two annoyed people. I admit to hoping the light being turned on would 'accidentally' wake him, but if that happened he pretended otherwise.

My weapon of choice was a ceramic pot which I intended to use for containment purposes, and I went for it. Lynx's choice of play-mate for the night proved to be a shrew, not especially fast but most adept at evasion. I gave up, went to bed, heard wee scratching sounds. Got up and observed that the critter was scurrying back and forth in front of the window - clearly sensing escape was through that crack. Aha! He merely needed a bridge and he'd be on his way. Open window wide, drape bath towel from here to there, lights out again, wait, and voila! The shrew figured it out.

I went to bed most pleased with the outcome, was almost asleep when a frog started croaking. Loudly. Too loudly for the sound to be emanating from outside. I didn't bother to get up and check on this - I knew who was responsible. Sammy, our kitchen frog, was back. He's not supposed to be a kitchen frog, he's a Pacific Tree Frog, but he spent much of last summer on our kitchen window sill or tucked into the corner of the counter behind the coffee pot, and no amount of taking him back outside could convince him our kitchen was not proper frog habitat. I even consulted a frog expert about his issues, but she informed me that he'd decided our kitchen was part of his territory - either keep all windows completely closed or share.

In his case, we share. Maybe he'll catch the mosquito that came in sometime later ...

Close Encounters of the Avian Kind

Since moving to this small patch of paradise on the upper Sunshine Coast, I've had my share of special meetings with birds. Last winter, a Muscovie Duck spent an afternoon on our deck, peering in the windows. (We dubbed him Peeking Duck.)
Last month, as I walked with a group of riders and horses through the woods, we were all spooked into uneasy silence by the eerie calls of a pair of ravens. Living here, we're all accustomed to the strange sounds of ravens, but on this occasion it was easy to understand why the coast aboriginal peoples considered them magical.

Last week, I was called upon to rescue an errant hummingbird who must have dodged through the open kitchen door (I suspect this move was due to one of their frequent aerial combats) and was then attempting to escape through a skylight. A tall ladder and some trust was necessary to resolve that situation.

And this past weekend, I met an owl - the one shown here. I heard strange sounds coming from the 'wild' back corner of our property - pretty much sounded like a monkey- went to investigate, and encountered this beauty. We literally gazed into each others eyes for a long moment, and then it turned it's head away- all the way round to look in the opposite direction. That would have been a really handy skill to have when my kids were little. I ran for my camera, felt certain the owl would be gone by the time I returned, but she (or he) was still there. She yawned, scratched herself, looked at me, looked around - was totally okay with the gawking, admiring human. I felt as if I'd been granted an audience with royalty.

There are many stories about owls, the oldest dating back at least 5,000 years to the Sumerians who associated owls with Lilith, Adam's first wife. That story says that Lilith refused to submit to Adam, saw herself as his equal, and left when they couldn't resolve their differences-freeing him to marry Eve. After that, Lilith was said to shape-shift into the form of an owl. The Latin genus for true owl species is 'strix' which means screamer or witch. The Greeks have tales about the Strix which relates them to vampires. In the Middle Ages, to many the sighting of an owl during the day was an evil omen, possibly portending death. But to others, an owl sighting meant one could be blessed with psychic awareness and wisdom.

I like this last interpretation best. Meeting this owl was a memorable moment. I initially thought it was the rare Spotted Owl, of which it's sadly said there are only 22 left in B.C. However, my Audubon bird book is out of date and the 'net established that this is a Barred Owl (aka Hoot Owl); they've only recently taken up residence on the B.C coast.

If this special visitor is an omen, I'd like to think that it means my latest book submission, which centers on a rather more common bird, the domestic chicken, will meet with the publisher's approval. Either that, or it means my new book idea (a nebulous entity at present) which may involve Wiccans, Shamans and other-worldly adventures, will begin to take shape.

Meanwhile, it's almost time for dinner and this too is fitting. The ornithologist's phrase to describe the Barred Owl's common call is, "Who cooks for you?" Around here, that's usually me.

Leonard Cohen

I wasn't fortunate enough to see Leonard Cohen perform live on his recent tour, but I was able to console myself by buying a DVD copy of his London performance. I watched it through once and since then, have listened to this marvelous music so often my family has fled. I don't think I've re-listened to music so often since I was a teen with something like Carole King's album, Tapestry, playing on my tinny old turn table, so I began wondering - just what is it about this music that's captured me?

It's the lyrics. It's a rare thing to find such poetry in music and much as I enjoy Cohen's beautiful melodies, I wouldn't feel the need to hear numerous repetitions were the music not mirrored and woven through with such wise and shocking insight, such depth of feeling and stunningly gorgeous metaphor. The phrases Cohen turns often delight, and if they're not doing that, they're challenging intellect or prompting a stare down with morality and spirit.

Many years ago (many) when I was in Grade 5, our teacher brought a Cohen recording into the classroom, played Suzanne, and asked us what we thought it meant. I didn't know but I remember being entranced, drawn into the mystery of that song and wanting even then to hear it again and again so that I might understand. Like the Suzanne of his song, I think Cohen is still showing us "where to look amid the garbage and the flowers". And I expect I'll keep listening.

Me, Myself and Ike

That's the title for my next book, due out Fall 2009. I've even had a sneak peek at the cover and think Orca's cover designer, Teresa Bubela got it just right - here it is.

The struggle with the title I wrote about in the previous post revolved around the issue of what it implies. It's been agreed that this tweak of an old phrase suggests a person dealing with the self and another. If it were the original (me, myself and I), a whole person who has it all together and is fully present is suggested. I don't think this phrase is used as often as it once was but when I first heard it (years ago), I thought it clever, a bit cheeky, even a tad defiant. As in, here I am and I haven't brought anyone else but that ought to be enough.

This may give you a hint as to the issues faced by the narrator of this story, Kit. Life isn't easy for him at the time of telling, and this book wasn't easy for me to write - far from it. And yet, it had to be told.

Here's a bit more about the story. Kit Latimer used to be happy: he had a beautiful girlfriend, a few close friends and a solid family life. Now his only friend is the enigmatic and possibly deranged Ike, who convinces Kit to undertake a secret and very dangerous mission . Increasingly alienated, paranoid and confused, Kit stands to lose everything - including his life- if Ike has his way.

What's in a name?

A dear friend of mine will soon give birth (if the ultrasound is correct) to a daughter. She and her partner have yet to choose a name for this child - they prefer to make this decision after they've met this very important new person. It's not easy, this choice, because most of us live for many years with the names our parents gave us, and that name becomes embedded in our identity. No parent wants to get it wrong.

Naming a pet can prove difficult too. At times, the name presents itself like - a present! No other name is possible once the right one appears. The fitting name announces itself like the thunderous voice of an angel and once it's there, that's it. Done.

Finding the right title for a book can be equally challenging. The bane of my writing life seems to be titles. I've chosen titles that appear exactly right only to find that lo! Another book in this genre has recently come out with that very title. I've slapped titles on books just for the sake of calling it 'something', then later struggled with my publisher to find the right moniker, the one that will reveal a hint of the story told, that will appeal, attract notice, be original, stand out ... Four of my six books published thus far have undergone title scrutiny and three of them required a change.

I am currently faced with this issue again. The final choice of book title rests with the publisher, but of course the publisher hopes that the author is in agreement. All who work to bring a book to publication wish for accord and title selection is not so very different from naming a child. A new story is akin to a new child; it is created, given a name, and after careful nurturing (editing), it is set free in the world to encounter what it may in the form of readers and reviewers. What readers and reviewers find in a story sometimes surprises me - and this is not so very different from what others find in my flesh and blood offspring; I don't see my son and my daughter the way others do and that seems entirely as it should be.

Within the next few days, my newest book, due for publication this fall, must find it's true name. Once I know what it is, I'll share it with you. Until then, I will continue to breathe through the contractions.