Article in the Toronto Star
Ian & me
A Woman of Inspiration
I had the privilege to work alongside Claudette Lennard during the first wave of the pandemic. Please enjoy my profile of this Woman of Inspiration 2021.
https://canadianimmigrant.ca/living/women/heroes-on-the-frontlines-of-the-pandemic-2021-immigrant-women-of-inspiration
CB w/ PGC = FUN Monday, February 22, 2pm EST
Please (and I do mean please) join Carolyn Bennett Writer/Comic along with playwright Daniel Thau-Eleff as they read from their work and converse about crafting comedy for the stage. Presented by the Playwrights Guild of Canada (PGC). Free. Did I mention it is free? FREE <tag>Free<tag>. See what I did there?
Season's Greetings from CBennettworld
Season's Greetings from the person, place and thing know as CBennettworld. All my imaginary employees wish you and your family peace, prosperity and good health in 2021 and beyond. Everyone, from the assembly line workers who package those last minute items you ordered online to the management team that oppresses them, wish you and your tolerable ones joy this holiday season.
And what a holiday season it is! No attempts at conversation with more successful peers at festive unions gatherings, no choking down freezer burned hor d'oeuvres at recovery meetings, no guilt about not shopping for gifts online or at the mall -- this truly is a season of blessings for the introvert, the indifferent, or the selfish.
Of course, a monolith like CBennettworld must make a display of charitable endeavours. To that end, we have delivered a wagon full of remaindered goods to a local homeless shelter, including Hai Karate (dealcoholized), Easy-Bake Ovens, and Carolyn Bennett's debut novel Please Stand By. We also have pledged 775 million dollars to send a Canadian to the moon to scout for suitable locations for our warehouse expansion. We hope to be manufacturing something on the moon by 2025, and have signed an exclusive deal with Tim Horton's to be the official lunar coffee chain in our retail stores. We are a forward-looking conglomerate, and right now, I am looking forward at a guy leaf-blowing garbage off the sidewalk and onto the street in front of his house.
2020 started off with optimism and is ending with despair. I think it was Job, or Justin Bieber, who said "the Lord giveth and the lord taketh away." As a thought leader, I would like to offer a comforting take on that phrase -- "but the Lord giveth again, and will taketh away again, and then giveth again, and then taketh away again, and so on."
It's not the end of civilization as we know it; it's the beginning of the end of civilization as we know it. Would that be so bad? Would eliminating social, racial and economic inequality be so bad? Would cleaning our environment, inventing green technologies to power our world, and allowing for arts, culture and scientific exploration to flourish be so bad? Would being kinder to each other and cutting each other some slack be so bad?
Do we need to produce any more useless crap on this earth? No! Because we will be doing that on the moon in 2025, fingers crossed.
In the meantime, from my stent-filled heart to yours, my imaginary employees and I wish you a calm and bright Christmas, miles away from family and friends. We're all in this together.
Signed,
Imaginary CEO
CBennettworld
News of the CBennettworld
Greetings this day in November 2020.
I am happy, if not shocked, to report that I have received a Toronto Arts Council grant to support a new writing project. Please keep an eye out for short stories penned by me and collected under the title Going in a Different Direction, publication date TBA.
And if you are available Monday, November 23 at 1PM, please join me as I participate in the panel discussion Isolation, Disruption, and the Healing Benefit of the Arts. The discussion is part of the annual conference of the Canadian Senior Artists’ Resource Network (CSARN). Registration is free. https://www.csarn.ca/conference/
Stay well, cats.
I Miss Stage 1
I miss Stage 1
It was good fun
hanging in my jammies
having little nappies
in the afternoon
it went so soon
Grocery clerks were heroes
celebrities were zeros
you couldn’t see me
I had on homemade PPE
I miss Stage 1
I miss Stage 1
it was good fun
Unless you had Covid-19
Devastation not foreseen
Except by those in the know
Sounding the alarm
Of the virus’ great harm
Rest of us ate treats like fudge
Now we have pandemic pudge
But at least we’re still breathing
our babies now be teething
but we’re the lucky ones
we haven’t died from guns
we can login
sip bespoke gin
and be at work with no commute.
our shrunken lives we must compute
That’s why I Miss Stage 1
when everyone had fun
hanging out in jammies
having little nappies
Nature said Time out
you need to layabout
Let me have some rest
While I put you to the test
stay still
or I will kill
You.
Toronto Star Article
FYI gang — I’m Workin’ for the Senior Man!
Article in the Toronto Star:
https://www.thestar.com/life/2020/08/20/when-stages-shut-down-an-artist-applied-for-work-in-a-retirement-home-they-called-her-bluff-and-gave-her-a-job.html
Elevator Pitch: April 2020, Toronto
The elevator slowed. The 68 button lit up.
Don't come in. Don't come in . Don't come in.
The elevator stopped at the 68th floor.
I searched for the close door button with my elbow, aimed, and leaned my weight into it. For crying out loud, I was only going to the pharmacy to buy some generic desloratadine. Yes, I should have been shopping for a month's worth of groceries, but I get them delivered and besides, I was ready to rip out my eyes and serve them up to my followers on Instagram. Here -- have my itchy, watery, burning eyes, bitches.
The doors parted with a tinny rumble. For a moment, stillness, as if someone had snapped a photo. The taupe wall, the utilitarian mauve carpet, someone's ideas of 2015 functional opulence. I was suckered, I must admit. I'm no longer a suckee. I got wise.
And that's why I dread seeing him.
I didn't know I was holding my breath, my hope was that intense. I tucked my head down. Please don't let it be him.
The first thing I saw were his black 10 percent leather Oxfords and his statement socks, socks detailed with intricate mushrooms. Even through my blurry vision, I could see mushrooms, like hovering spaceships. I wish.
I kept my head down, but there was no point. Sometimes you have to look your tormentor in the eye.
He began. "Okay. How about this. Masks for dogs."
He had his grey blazer on, again, of inferior make, but business casual passable. I had to, had to respond because I'm conditioned by god knows what to be accommodating, even to this guy.
"Being made by the thousands in Oklahoma as we speak." I kept my fists clenched in my hoodie pockets.
"Okay." He drummed his fingers on his smooth shaven cheeks, again, kudos to him. "Cats?"
"Probably. Look, I don't want to appear--"
"What about a show about a guy, a sales guy who's been laid off, who ... hustles his neighbours to invest in his ideas?"
I shot a desperate look at the floor button panel. Buttons lit up in succession-- 60, 59, 58 -- wasn't anyone in the building going out for air?
"Or delivering balloons to construction workers? To cheer them up? They're front line workers, aren't they? Or what about -- the Real Housewives of Toronto, but they're all drag queens? That's good! Don't you think that's good?"
The elevator slowed and stopped at the 49th floor. The doors parted to reveal a young woman wearing a rhinestone mask and clutching an Affenpinscher. She saw us and shook her head.
"No. it's okay!" I said. "There's enough room in here. We can fit three."
The elevator doors closed as she took a step back.
"Robots. I mean, come on, it's about time. A little after the fact, even. Hair cutting robots?"
"Prototypes in Japan. They also cut your toenails and give you a massage." I couldn't bring myself to tell him about the happy ending.
"A vaccine?"
"Of course."
"Yeah, I can't get that together" He tapped his forehead with his index finger.
I cursed my laptop's camera. Communication, I have come to understand, is not always an individual's obligation to society.
"Listen," he spread his hands wide, by his own side and at a safe distance, "one channel. For everything. For our televisions, for our dishwashers, our beds, thermostats, heartbeats, cars --
"Internet of Things. Now please, I have nothing to --
"But you do, Jessica. You're an influencer. You have a million followers. And I'm just some guy. You know what I have in my fridge? A quarter of a burrito and truffle poutine from last week. I don't want to go to the food bank! How about -- hair extension extensions?"
The elevator dropped, kept dropping, down, down, and bereft, I saw my eventual death, and his eventual death, as frivolous. Still, I caught his pleading gaze. There was nothing I could do.
"Let me see what I can do."
He grinned weakly. I suppose he was no idiot. Between us nothing but white noise, then his "thank you."
Small mercies. Desloratadine was on sale.
Letters from a Community Non-Profit Worker
January 13, 2020. Dear Mother. You've been dead for almost two years and now I can finally get a word in edgewise. It feels strange not hearing your criticism and sarcasm. I have a reservoir of your greatest hits to drawn upon though, so I'll continue being hard on myself in your absence.
You may be pleased to know I've been hired by a non-profit where I've been volunteering. The non-profit is a community support service that helps seniors and persons living with disabilities. I have no kids and have had a good run in the arts, so the lousy pay is not a deterrent. I have enormous respect for the staff, so if I keep my mouth shut and do as I'm told, I should be able to hold down this job for a month or two. A tall order, I am aware. Cautiously yours, Carolyn.
January 31, 2020. Dear Mother: I'm being trained on a client management computer system. The Meals on Wheels (MOW) Supervisor instructs me orally, and I write down every word. I compiled all the information she's given so far and wrote up a procedure manual, which I presented to her. She sniffed and gave me a curious look. Am I odd to do this? Why can't I trust my memory? Oh yeah -- all the pot smoking I did as a teenager. Riighhhtttt.
February 3, 2020. Dear Mother: I overheard a video coming from the desk of C., the PSW Supervisor with whom I share an office. One of her PSW's brought the video to C.'s attention. The video sounded the alarm about the novel coronavirus that's due to spread globally. "The World Health Organization doesn't have a clue and isn't equipped to deal with this," insisted a woman's voice. "This virus is spread through the nose, mouth and eyes. Governments are doing nothing. They're carrying on like it's business as usual. Millions of people are going to die." When the PSW left the office, I went over to C's cubicle and questioned the news source. A virus transmitted through the eyes? Sounds like science fiction to me.
This job is far more stressful than I ever imagined. The title of Office Administrator was false and misleading advertising. It's more like Lackey for Every Department Chronically Understaffed.
February 11, 2020. Hello Mother: I am home sick with a cough, headache and fatigue. Just taking the day off, mind you. How were you a nurse in a hospital oncology ward all those years and never call in sick? Maybe it's because you lived with six teenagers and a husband in a small house and work was your escape. Now your devotion makes more sense.
I've been on this job for a month, and it's killing me. If I'm not scrambling to find enough volunteers to deliver meals to the community's most vulnerable, I'm desperately trying to update ancient files for an upcoming accreditation, clearing dishes and mopping floors at our community dining events, and booking clients for an income tax clinic. I feel like I'm not doing any one job well. Doing stand-up comedy to a roomful of drunken and hostile yahoos is a walk in the park compared to this. A walk in the park -- that would be nice. Yes Mother, stiff upper lip. I hear you.
February 28, 2020. Mother: One of the managers sent an email to the staff today, informing us that masks and gloves are available. She asked if I wanted a mask. "Why would I need one, I'm in the office," I said. She handed it to me. "You might as well take it." I accepted it. She's just doing her job.
You know who need these masks? The volunteers. The poor souls that schlep meals out to the community. They need masks and gloves. No volunteer has asked for one yet, and I have been told not to offer any.
March 2, 2020: Dear Mother: This place could not run without volunteers. The ranks are sparse and dwindling. The Meals on Wheels Supervisor and I deliver meals more often than not because there aren't enough volunteers to cover our area. The ones we do have are loyal. Some are over 65, some live with disabilities. Most have been with us for over 10 years. Every day I tell them how great they are. Why do they volunteer? Why did I volunteer? To serve others, with no strings attached. It's as simple as that.
March 6, 2020: Mother: The stress is getting to veterans on staff. I hear C. reprimanding her charges now and then and letting out a loud "help me Jesus!" when the CEO bustles in unannounced. At first I chuckled at C.'s cries, but soon realized she wasn't being ironic. Every now and then I'll hear gospel music or Christian hip hop and rap coming from her cubicle. I am surrounded by people of faith.
I admire them for their reliance on a higher power. My higher power these days are the PM, the Premier and the Mayor.
March 19, 2020. Dear Mother: The community dining and wellness programs are shut down. Once busy dining areas for seniors are empty. Volunteers now have disposal gloves to wear when delivering meals. Masks are still not available. The only programming still going is Meals on Wheels and Personal Support. Covid-19 is closing in on us. Paradoxically, the job has never been easier. I am on my own now; the MOW Supervisor is home with her kids. My little MOW computer procedure manual has come in very handy. Life is being whittled to the basics.
March 26, 2020. Dear Mother: How did you face death while on the job? How did you face your own death? I speak with frightened, lonely seniors on the phone, assuring them that they'll receive their meals, that our service will not stop. I think about the dear faces who answer the door when I knock, and how they might be gone in an instant. Now I leave the meals at their doors, knock, and hear myself say 'have a nice day' from a hollow distance.
The Christian rap plays at a steady rate from over the cubicle divide these days. I never thought I'd say this, but help us Jesus.
How to Promote Your Debut Novel Without Money, Social Media, or a Publicist
My debut novel Please Stand By has been on the shelves for a month and a half now. In that time, I am delighted to say that over 200 books have been sold. Some of you might be thinking “that’s pathetic”. Yes, I know Margaret Atwood’s The Testaments sold over a hundred times that amount, but that’s only because she is an enormous success. I would be embarrassed to be that talented.
You may wonder how I’ve managed to sell over 200 books without any publicity. What follows are my ten tips for promoting your debut novel without money, social media posting, or a publicist:
1. Come From a Big Family: My extended family is big, with the mouths to match it. Thank god for catholic guilt. My siblings and their friends have probably snapped up 50% of the books.
2. Cry In Front of Your Audience at Readings: First of all, give readings. Then make sure you cry in front of your audience. Mention having a mysterious illness, or that you are being renovicted.
3. Have Giveaways: This is recommended on Goodreads. Everybody wants something for free. Give some books away. Hand them out at busy street corners, at the laundromat, on the subway. Go table to table in restaurants – compete with the rose sellers.
4. Get on Television: Everyone focuses on social media, but don’t discount good old fashioned television. Stand behind a reporter and wave your book at the camera. Car crashes and murder scenes attract more eyeballs, so get a radio scanner and find a police channel relaying the latest tragedy near you.
5. Be in a Car Crash, or Involved in a Murder: A little extreme, but how far are you willing to go for readers?
6. Go on Tour: There is no need to only do readings in your home town. Hit the road. Cheap means of transportation include boxcars, airplane engines, and bus roofs.
7. Run Naked Through the Streets: A classic attention grabber. Grabber? That’s what he said! ... and promptly got arrested for.
8: Network: This is standard advice, but raise it up a notch. Go to conferences – any conferences. Dental associations, gemmological conventions, toy train shows – those in particular are known for their lonely men. These fellows are likely to buy anything from a woman who pays attention to them.
9: Get Your Book Reviewed: This can be tough, but not impossible. It helps if you have a common name, like Carolyn Bennett, James Patterson, or Stephen King. Blackmail book columnists. Tell them you have compromising photos of them the public may want to see.
And finally:
10: Write something offensive: It has to be offensive enough to attract the attention of all the political spectrum, but not so offensive that it’s delegated to the nutter bin. Lean toward outrageous, rather than putrefying.
Good luck!