The event last night cost me a lot in time, gas, and cookies. In every way but cookies, it came up short. Or did it? The occasion was a reading of my book, The Dwindling, A Daughter’s Caregiving Journey to the Edge of Life, at the largest library in my area. Looking out the window of the cavernous room we’d booked for the occasion, was the picture perfect harbourside of Nanaimo BC. Looking out over the audience, there was one wizened lady with a big sun hat, a backpack and sensible shoes. Here’s the back story of this nightmare. It began with an idea that my author friend Carollyne and I hatched over a glass of chardonnay, that we could both tell our stories with their tough truths, and sell lots of books. The author circuit would be more pleasant in collaboration with a friend. How could we lose? That plan came to fruition last night. But it did bear fruit? We called our dog and pony show, Adventures in Elder Land. Her novel’s theme is elder abuse, one edge of a family relationship where the elder’s vulnerability is misused by greedy children. I’m on the other edge. We stepped up to support our vulnerable parents. Over several hours, Carollyne and I figured how to meld such different approaches in different genres into one compelling event. We chose three issues bound to trigger response: the onset of dementia, family consensus, and the tug of war of control. Our powerpoint tossed the presentational ball back and forth between us. We practiced reading with feeling. I bought the juice and cookies and Carollyne got the technology working. Then, in the last half hour before show time, we fortified ourselves in the cafe across the street with a pinot noir, speculating about how many people going into the library were our audience. Wiping our lips of tell tale stains, we were ready. Our audience of one browsed our books table without reaching for her wallet. The librarian said it was silly to introduce us to an audience so small. She offered excuses for the debacle. “The day is too beautiful. Children are just out of school. It is the start of the long weekend. The topic is depressing." We began. Feeling a little ridiculous, though perhaps not as uncomfortable as our audience, Carollyne stepped up to the mike. Her voice echoed like a grinding vacuum cleaner in an empty cathedral. I couldn’t manage such artifice, even though it was our pact to call this a dry run. Instead, I sat backwards on a chair, leaning onto my audience who introduced herself as Rosemary. Fifteen minutes into our hour she sighed, reached for another cookie, and told us to please stop the presentation. It was boring and a little bleak. We did. Munching contentedly, she began her critique. Too long. Too stiff. And most of all, we had no rapport with our audience. “I don’t want to hear about your book,” she said, “not at least until I know more about you.” Like Socrates she pushed me. Every answer I gave about my motivations for writing the book led to another question. Why did you do that? How did you feel? What was really going on inside? There was a sheen of sweat on my forehead and I felt the prickle in my arm pits. I stammered, all pretence of smooth talk gone. At last my carapace cracked. Who cared about my masters degree in community based research anyway,?Rosemary snorted. Piffle! It was my story about sitting with African women under the acacia tree, digging for their truth about hauling water, keeping healthy, learning to read that really interested her. That was the fact that would convince her why I was compelled so many years later to collect every artifact of my parent’s dwindling and try to make sense of it all. Rosemary assured me that if that was my true credential, people would relate to my book. But I must limit the readings to a paragraph not a page. “People have the attention span of a flea”, she said, slurping juice. Carollyne had the same grilling. “I sound like a piece of fluff,” she whined. “No, you sound like you have a right to write this book,” Rosemary replied, full of confidence as she took three more three cookies and wrapped them in a paper towel “for later”. She slung her backpack onto her shoulder, straightened her hat, and said she had do go. But before she left, she made the big reveal. Rosemary was a retired teacher. All her career she had forced truth out of pose in thousands of students. “You’ll get there eventually,” she said as she stood to go. “Keep at it.” Our thanks for her coming came from the soul. This stranger had offered more than any book or course or coach in presentation. ever could. And we needed her on this maiden voyage. From the perspective of our plans to ply an audience with talk and refreshments and then sell books, this was a failure. From the perspective of learning, we were winners beyond any expectation. I have two goals as an author of The Dwindling. One is to sell it. The other is to use it to engage about important ideas about caregiving at the edge of life. Two audiences have different expectations, and need different approaches. So thank you, uninvited teacher! You left a gift of edgy honesty that was worth far more than the cookies you cost.
11 Comments
Monique
6/30/2017 02:41:29 pm
Good one Janet. Interesting how our best learning happens when we least expect it or when an experience such as the one you described may actually help us reach our goals but taking a different route than we had planned.
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Janet
6/30/2017 03:02:19 pm
Yes, isn't it true? The thing that looks like a failure might not be. Certainly this woman would have not spoken her mind in a crowd. She would have just left. Yet she did in the best way, and we listened.
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Rhonda gossen
6/30/2017 03:27:31 pm
Really interesting questions the teacher asked, what a great lesson about finding voice
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Janet
6/30/2017 03:46:24 pm
It sure was. Turning lemons into lemonade. It will take a deep dive for me to connect international development to writing a memoir but it makes sense. I picked up the pen for a reason. With skills and inclinations.
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Judi
7/1/2017 07:54:30 am
The only Canada Council-sponsored poetry reading of the many I organized in the late 70s at the Calgary Public Library was the one by Leona Gom. The only two people in the 440-seat John Dutton Theatre at he Central Library were my parents. Betty, breaking away from a no-doubt busy workday across the street at the AVC. Fred Perry on his lunch hour from his cubical at Imperial Oil. The gold I mine from that memory Is not one of embarassment at my defeat but of the deep and and abiding love and support I got from Mom and Dad.
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Janet
7/3/2017 09:55:25 am
What a reflection! I'm wondering how many people are out there who have had the nightmare worst case scenario turn out to be the best thing that could have happened?
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Elizabeth
7/2/2017 07:08:00 pm
Thank you for writing the book and sharing your story. I don't know anything about selling books.
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Janet
7/3/2017 10:00:47 am
Thanks for this full on comment. Yes, we do hear an awful lot about how we will overwhelm the system. I think that there is a paradigm shift out there building subterranean power as we the boomers "get there". Something that will turn the nightmare we fear into the potential for advanced old age to be something else....
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Judy Evans
7/3/2017 06:37:35 am
Thank you for sharing so well your humbling but rich experience, Janet. I'm in awe over your openness to learn and grow, and admire you terribly. Keep up the good work.
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Janet
7/3/2017 10:01:42 am
Thanks! It will be fail forward...
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10/7/2022 02:52:59 pm
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it's about the journeyCaregiving was my first and finest journey. Writing this book about it was the next. It lends support to other caregivers who say, "that happened to me too." I'm on another journey now, advocating for caregiving and an activist to bring on better ways of thriving as we age. It's all brought me purpose and meaning, Come along and get some of that too! I'd love to share your stories. Boldly speaking out about our experiences makes us all part of the change we want to see. So
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