Lyn's Blog

DURBAN, SOUTH AFRICA

2012-01-09T18:07:00.003-08:00

So here I am in Durban. Last time I was here, in April, 1960, I wandered into the Durban Publicity Association to buy some tours, got talking to the folks behind the desk and they invited me on a couple of weeks' free tours if I became a tour guide myself for a bus load of Afrikaaners coming to Durban for their dream holiday by the sea. Fantastic opportunity - so I did.

This time on the Nautica with Oceania Cruises, I took the shuttle bus to the waterfront at Shakaworld Marine Park and jostled with the hundreds, perhaps thousands, of bodies swimming, surfing, sunbathing, picnicking, and playing music on the beach. What a difference now that apartheid has been abolished! Almost everyone in the water and on land was black and all were well dressed and in holiday mood. But I was told that in the more affluent area of resort hotels further along the mile-long crescent of sand, most people were white. I invited myself to a smiling family group sprawling on lounge chairs under their canopy tent and asked to take their pictures. "We live peaceably now," they told me.

In 1960 I had met a couple who took me to the Hluhluwe Game Reserve now a national park where the rare white rhinos lived. We had our own personal guide to do our tracking and it was an exciting moment when one of the rhinos charged. Next day, the pregnant wife gave birth! This time, I visited Tala Game Reserve, one of the private reserves that seem to have proliferated in the intervening years. Many of these private reserves are established on former sugar cane fields and I was a bit disappointed to see the one at Tala surrounded by roads and chicken farms. It was a little like a zoo.

Still, it was wonderful to drive slowly along the sandy trails through the acacia thornveld and wetlands and see so many animals living out their natural lives on more than 7,000 acres. I never stopped clicking pictures.

There were no elephants or lions, leopards or cheetahs, but I was thrilled with intimate views of white rhinos plodding ponderously beside us, primeval looking hippos facing off for play fights, baby giraffes sucking milk between the splayed legs of their mothers who several metres above were scratching their heads on the tops of the thorn trees, warthogs urinating, impala defecating.

Although familiar with the striking body patterns of African animals, here so close they seemed more vivid: the black and white and brown stripes of the zebras, the geometrical orange squares and oblongs of the giraffes, the finely etched black lines of the impala and kudu.

Groups of wildebeest grazed on the grassy plains. Egyptian geese and flocks of waterbirds swam and waded in the wetlands. Resplendent yellow weaver birds clung to reeds as their nesting bowers bobbed in the breeze. Ostrich chicks, tall as their parents, ruffled their feathery dresses, strutting their stuff.

It was nearly dark when our guide returned us to the gates for the trip back to the ship. I am happy that game drives and safaris are so popular in Africa, whether public or private, that animals living their lives in the wild are supporting an economy for all and acting as a deterrant for poachers.

Come back soon for the pictures.

Lyn's Adventures (and Misadventures) on the Indian Ocean from Africa to Singapore

2012-01-08T20:22:00.000-08:00

After lots of misadventures taking a milk run from Vancouver to London to Dubai to Cape Town, my friend Elizabeth and I are in Cape Town to begin a 35 day cruise on Oceania Cruise's little ship the Nautica - along the east coast of Africa through the islands of the Indian Ocean (some of which I have not heard of before) to India, Thailand, Malaysia and Singapore. Last year this ship was attacked by Somalian pirates near Yemen and guests on lower decks personally reported bullet holes in the side of the ship near their cabins. The Nautica outsped the pirates' open boat and got away. On other trips, guests have reported throwing chairs overboard to deter pirates tryng to board their ship on rope ladders. I also heard that a cruise ship was attacked in the Seychelle Islands which is one of our destinations on this trip. The pirates are using more sophisticated methods and roaming farther afield. I am told that security forces are aboard our ship but are incognito and lying low. I am not sure if guns are allowed on cruise ships. Sounds like an exciting trip.

So in future blogs I will record some highlights of each port of call. I last visited South Africa in 1960 when I set out from Western Australia to see the world. I jumped ship in Cape Town and hitch hiked to London instead. It was the height of the riots by blacks against apartheid and South Africa was boycotted by the rest of the world. History was in the making and I wanted to be there. I'm here again.

Last time Cape Town's famous Table Mountain was covered by its tablecloth of cloud so I couldn't climb to its peak. This time it was too windy for its cable car so I chose to take a bus tour around the Cape of Good Hope
from the Atlantic Ocean to the Indian Ocean on a narrow winding road that is touted as one of the best coastal roads in the world. No tunnels through the steep rock faces, just overhanging ceilings to give unobstructed views over dozens of cosy surf-lashed beaches and friendly walkways for fortunate residents in the expensive apartments and houses clinging to cliffs above.

And then at the tip of the peninsula, the Cape of Good Hope nature reserve with baboons playing on the road signs, cape fur seals and cape cormorants black splotches on the offshore rocks. At Cape Point, I climbed to the lighthouse on foot and at the top discovered that I had missed the station for the funicular railway. I could have taken the train! Well, the exercise could have burned off some calories from overeating the fantastic cruise ship meals.

On the way back to Cape Town on the Indian Ocean side,we visited the Kirstenbosch Gardens, a World Heritage site with only native plants on a wild hill side.

We left port that evening for East London where I hoped to go on a game drive but had to sail past this destination and head instead for Durban because of heavy winds, stormy seas and trouble with electrical breakers which needed spare parts to be flown in from, I think, Norway. I will see my wild animals in Durban.

Frank Hedingham - A Canadian Hero!

2011-11-21T18:59:00.000-08:00

God works in mysterious ways!

While waiting for the 10am church service on Sunday June 28^th to begin, I glanced at the announcements in the bulletin and was transfixed. No, it wasn’t notice of a retreat or a bottle drive that roused me from my “comfortable pew.” It was entirely unexpected yet uncannily it connected me with events in my life – from the preceding week, from the preceding decade.

“Anyone who wants to climb Mt Benson today, let Ron or Yvonne Downey know and meet after the service.” Or words to that effect.

The service was about to begin. Yvonne, the day’s server or chalice person, was already walking down the aisle beside Reverend Susan. Better not interrupt them. Ron was sitting in front of me. “Can I come? Can you wait for me to race home and change my clothes,” I think I whispered. He smiled and nodded. I chose to go after the sermon and before the eucharist. “Sorry, God,” I whispered to Him, “I’ll say a prayer on top of the mountain – if I get there.”

I think He meant it to be. You see, 13 years before, I met Frank Hedingham, my common-law partner of two years, and we attended the old St. Philip’s little white Heritage Church back along main street. I remember the minister that first day was Reverend Trefor who had recognized Frank from Gabriola. Trefor commented that Frank seemed to be so content, so happy. Frank thrived in helping Anglican ladies at garden tours and tea parties. Actually, he thrived in helping anyone.

Just before I met him, Frank had been so depressed that at least one person confided to me that he had wanted in fact, he tried - to end his life at the top of Mt. Benson. And later he said that he wanted his ashes scattered there.

There were two connections. Here’s more.

On August 14, 1997, during our travels to the Yukon, Northwest Territories and Nunavut where I used to live, I took Frank to the Liard River Hotsprings on the Alaska Highway in northern BC, the scene that day of the worst bear attack in North America, and the topic of my subsequent article in the August 1999 edition of Readers Digest. Two died and two were mutilated. On March 25^th, 1998, I received from the Governor General Romeo Le Blanc in Rideau Hall, Ottawa, the Star of Courage – posthumously on Frank’s behalf. Frank had died at my home in Western Australia on the 22^nd February, 1998, in part as a result of post stress from the bear attack. Despite his heart problems, he had fought the bear by pounding it with a tree branch and kicking it on the snout with his hiking boots. I could have been the fifth victim. Then he ran half a mile along a boardwalk and back to the parking lot to get someone with a gun to shoot the bear and led attempts to concoct stretchers from bike parts or anything else he could scrounge from people and their trucks as they were fleeing from the park. The rangers were elsewhere on the Alaska Highway that day.

Frank was honoured “in recognition of his conspicuous courage in circumstances of great peril.” I gave the medal to Frank’s eldest daughter. It was her wish. He was honoured again later – posthumously - with the Carnegie Award for Bravery. Once again, I accepted the wish of his daughters to receive the medal.

I brought Frank’s ashes back from Australia and in the company of Reverend Trefor outside my house on Nanoose Bay where Frank said he spent the happiest days of his life, I scattered one third of his ashes. I gave another third to his son and daughters to scatter on Gabriola where Frank as a teacher, a Coastguard and Fire Department volunteer had helped many others and retained the last third to scatter on Mt. Benson in accordance with Frank’s words to me.

I kept those ashes beside my bed for 13 years, never realizing an opportunity to climb this iconic mountain, the back drop for Nanaimo, despite my many hikes to the halfway point after church with the Sunday Whiners hiking group. Now on this Sunday June 28, 2011, I was to climb Mt. Benson with a much more appropriate hiking group, a hiking group I had known nothing about - Ron and Yvonne Downey, Tony and Ellen Davis, Alex and Gillian Guy, Gilles Wendling and his daughter Lucy, Mike Gibbs (as well as Yvonne’s friend Kathryn Pate from Campbell River), oh, and a colourful troupe of happy dogs. Mike carried the heavy urn and my camera in his back pack for safe keeping. Ellen and Tony stood close by offering comfort and companionship as I scattered the ashes at the top among the green grass and beautiful yellow, blue and white spring flowers. Frank was helping the world even after death.

It must have been meant to be.There were more unexpected connections and all in the same week.

A few days before that fateful Sunday, I received a call from the Governor General’s office in Ottawa to ask if I had received my “replacement” medal and scroll. They had recently been doing some “housekeeping” work in their back room and after 13 years it was just noticed that they had two pieces of conflicting paper work, one that said that they had sent me a medal and citation scroll but the same medal and citation were still in their office, unsent. Could I explain this? I confirmed that I had given away the original medal to Frank’s family and not received any “replacement”. They were deeply apologetic that 13 years had passed and couriered both the medal and a new citation to me immediately. Now they hang proudly where Frank had said he’d spent the happiest days of his life. I do not ask questions about how this all happened but it seems to me that considering all the connections in the same week there is some supernatural Hand at work here.

Before this happened, I had no idea that the same people I knew at church were also - like me - hikers, kayakers, sailors, campers, tenters and explorers. Ellen Davis, so immaculate and fashionably groomed at church, practically galloped up the 3,300 foot mountain in her shorts and boots with husband Tony. Her descent was more sedate as she put her nursing background to work after sudden cramps in my legs by guiding me down the mountain with both hands – backwards.

There was always cheeriness, camaraderie and a helping hand in this group as we took 3 hours to get up and almost the same time down. The terrain varied – over and under logs, through head high corridors of salal and ferns, on root paths and around trees, swinging, slipping, sliding and groping, half of us losing the other half on the way home, but we were all glad we did it and some of us would do it again.

“Want to climb Mt. Benson again?” asked Ron at church last Sunday. “We can go another way next time. We did it from Witchcraft Lake, that’s the steepest trail. You can also do it from Westwood Lake, longer but not as steep.”

With my penchant for exploring, my hiking boots and kayaking paddles are always pointed in the trail not travelled, but I am so glad that I climbed Mt. Benson to the very top and especially with my pew mates from St. Philip’s. I made a date today with Ron’s wife to walk – with the dogs – of course, along the beach in front of my house at low tide some time soon. It will be a rush in another way.

TRIP TO THE ISMAILI JAMATKHANA IN BURNABY

2011-11-21T18:41:00.000-08:00

Mention the words Islam and Muslim to many in the street these days and their thoughts turn to Sharia Law condoning the cutting off of hands, suicide martyrs dreaming of virgin in paradise, raped women being stoned...and many more negative images.

Eight parishioners from St. Philip's-by-the-Sea decided on Tuesday November 15th to accept the free invitation of Naz Rayani and Mona Goode from the Centre for Studies in Religion and Society (CSRS) at the University of Victoria to tour The Ismaili Jamatkhana and Centre in Burnaby. We sought the truth behind those stereotypes.

It was a dark and freezing morning shortly after six when I joined Susan Hayward-Brown, Margaret Foggett, Gillian Guy and Deirdra Love at the carved eagle sculpture in the Northfield Street parking lot. Yvonne Downey kindly drove us in her van to Duke Point for the 6.45am ferry where we were met by Caleb and Maureen Lawrence. Like a family out for a holiday, we were all in upbeat mood looking forward to learning from those who called their God Allah.

Naz, Mona and a busload of others from Victoria joined us on the other side and like giggling kids we boarded a school bus for the drive to Burnaby as darkness gave way to dawn followed by a perfect blue sky sunny morning. Mona struggled to keep upright in the aisle of the jerky bus as she introduced us to the origins of Islam.

Islam is one of the monotheistic faiths from the Abrahamic tradition, along with Christianity and Judaism. Followers of Islam are called Muslims. There are 1.4 billion Muslims worldwide and their numbers are increasing. As the Bible is the holy book of Christians, so is the Quran the holy book of Muslims, a book revealed to the Prophet Muhammad by the Angel Gabriel in Mecca and Medina over a period of 23 years in the 6th century AD. Muslims believe in Jesus as a great prophet and his virgin birth a miracle but not his resurrection.

After the death of Muhammad, Muslims disagreed and the people divided into two groups: the Sunni and the Shia. Mona likened the Sunni to the more conservative Catholics and the Shia to the more liberal Protestants. We would be hosted by the Ismailis who belong to the Shia branch of Islam. Shias believe in the spiritual leadership of Imams, directly descended from the progeny of Muhammad. The current Imam of the Ismaili Muslims is His Highness Prince Karim Aga Khan. An avid royalty watcher, I had heard much of the Aga Khan as a celebrity. Now I was to see him as a philanthropist.

In the 1960s and 1970s, the Ismaili Shias fled from the bloody dictatorship of Idi Amin in Uganda and were welcomed to Canada. Unused to Montreal winters, they fled again, this time west to British Columbia. Now, Mona smiled, many have gone east again, beyond Montreal to the Maritimes.

The Ismailis are grateful to Canada and respect their neighbours. One sign of this was our entry into their building which the Aga Khan opened in 1985 in the presence of the Prime Minister of Canada. The Aga Khan said, "It is my very deep hope that it will become a symbol of a growing understanding in the West of the real meaning of Islam."

I had expected some soaring multi-domed monolith surrounded by a vast parking lot and hundreds of men (not women), streaming out of their vehicles for five-times-a-day prayers in a traditional mosque.

Instead, as our bus turned abruptly left off an inauspicious suburban street, we almost slammed into the wall of a short driveway and were forced to make more tight turns and successive changes of forward and reverse gears before descending to the courtyard.

Yes, we looked up at an imposing three-storey rectangular block building in sandstone and concrete with a central portal of marble, but once inside the solid oak doors, we entered what one person called 'a womb'. Winding stairs with concrete walls led still further down to administrative offices, a library, a resource centre, a council room, and classrooms where high school students came for Saturday 'Sunday School.' Lights were subdued and colours muted. Tapestries covered concrete. It was warm and quiet, peaceful and comfortable. So low-key I nearly missed the sign to the bathroom.

Unlike cathedrals, this Ismaili Jamatkhana (meaning the house of the community) was designed not to soar but be sunken, humble and respectful of its neighbours. "We need to be together as friends and family and work together for a better world," said Dr. Abdul Hassam who addressed us at lunch in the social hall on the third floor. "Islam means peace and surrender. You get peace when you surrender or submit to Allah intelligently and through your own free will. Islam guides all aspects of one's life. Islam is pluralistic, it accepts all other religions."

So far, nothing resembled the Islam as portrayed by the nightly news. I wish the terrorists were listening. In the prayer hall, a vast open space where 1200 people could assemble, I am sure I saw a cross in the geometrical tracery that embroidered the windows. I didn't ask. I hoped.

The welcome brochure read: "Jamatkhanas are meant to play an ambassadorial role in terms of the designs inspired by Islamic architecture, symbolizing the presence of the Ismaili Muslims as proponents of peace, prosperity, interfaith harmony and a pluralistic approach to society." The Aga Khan said, "From (this building) should come forth those thoughts, those sentiments, those attitudes, which bind men together and which unite." I wished. I prayed.

There was much to learn. All tapestries have one obvious flaw because only Allah is flawless. The Ismailis bow to modern living and calls to prayer come not five but three times a day. Most come Fridays for prayer but there are twice daily gatherings. Meditation between 4am and 5am; prayers at 7.30pm. I wish that we Christians could attract such dedication.

On the third floor after lunch in the social multifunctional room, Dr. Hassam demonstrated charity, the fifth pillar of Islam, by outlining the worldwide work of the Aga Khan Development Network which is dedicated to improving living conditions and opportunities for the poor, without regard to their faith, origin or gender.

"We go where governments don't go. We don't dictate. We provide opportunities, give people the capacity to become independent. We set goals, give training. " As an example, he cited Kenya where 20,000 farmers set aside part of their land to grow green beans which are now sold to France and where, by the way, the Aga Khan now lives. Another was the provision of a cell phone service in Afghanistan.

It was dark again when we from St. Phillip's boarded the ferry at Tswassen for the return ride to Duke Point and Nanaimo. I asked my companions to give me the first thing they remembered from our day at the Ismaili Jamatkhana.

Caleb: "In the media Islam is regarded with fear and anxiety. Moslems appear entirely opposed to Christianity. It was good to know that though the Sunnis are more rigid, the Shias are more open, liberal and adaptable."

Deirdra: "Intuition favours the informed mind. We have more in common with liberal Muslims than conservative Christians."

Gillian: "I learned there's another face to Islam but I would have liked to have more time in the prayer hall for prayer and meditation."

Margaret:" I learned how much alike we are. It all comes back to Love One Another."

Maureen: "I was impressed with the commonalities between the Aga Khan Network and the Primates World Relief Development Fund."

Yvonne: "The nice geometric designs on the floor of the courtyard, in the tapestries and on the windows. The humility of the Ismailis towards their neighbours."

Lyn: "I felt the same way about the respect these Muslims show to peoples of other cultures and beliefs, and I was amazed at the vast amounts of money they are able to raise with the Aga Khan Development Network. I read that Naz Rayani, our host today, organized the World Partnership Walk in Victoria from 1995 to 2010. This is said to be Canada's largest annual event to do such fund raising to fight global poverty. In 2010 nearly 40,000 Canadians came together in ten cities to raise close to $6 million. When Naz was introduced as 'a walking miracle' by Dr. Hassam, I think it was a tribute to his organization of the Walk as well as his recent recovery from a stroke. And I like the fact that he regularly organizes these day trips to the Jamatkhana to give non Muslims a view into the Muslim world."

The day had been perfect - the weather, the camaraderie between us and the Muslims, and our own camaraderie. God - and Allah would surely be pleased.

The Calgary Herald

2010-05-25T14:23:00.001-07:00

The Calgary Herald wrote an article on 'The Ring' !!

Click the link below to read it....

http://www.calgaryherald.com/entertainment/movie-guide/Author+Hancock+director+Paul+Gross+Will+turn+book+into+movie/3064756/story.html

Lyn.

Buenos Dias from Buenos Aires

2010-03-01T23:09:00.001-08:00

Buenos Dias from Buenos Aires which a couple of days ago had 80 inches of rain in 20 minutes, and caused havoc in this city of tango, parks and monuments - people were waist-high in water, power was off and traffic was stalled. I returned from Iguazu Falls in both Brazil and Argentina an hour or so ago to find I had to move hotels because of the conditions.

Tomorrow I squeeze in a couple of hours at a famous cemetery here in Buenos Aires, a cemetery full of ornate tombs and imposing statues, not to mention the humbler grave of Eva Peron.And then for the next 40 days I will be on the cruise ship the Insignia, the same ship I toured Turkey and Greece two years ago, for a total circumnavigation of South America. I would love to continue a blog from each major adventure and will try to click some words en route.But I am doing long shore excursions on most days and difficult on strange computers, especially this one which is Spanish and very different than what I am used to.

Highlights? Losing my Spanish speaking guide on a tour of Buenos Aires, trying to help a few of my fellow passengers who also lost her, slipping on a cracked pavement, helped up by two gallant men who found our lost bus, eating a gargantuan beef steak that seemed as big as the Wall of China, revelling in a tango show in the theatre but also on the street and wishing I had time to find my own tango partner, flying to Iguaza Falls which at three kilometres long is the longest series of waterfalls in the world and now one of the New Wonders of the World, walking the catwalks that snake around the islands in the branches of the rivers that produce these waterfalls, getting drenched in a rubber boat that bored its way through the deluge to the screams of my companions, but most of all rubbing noses with families of coatimundis (South American raccoons) that rooted busily around the subtropical undergrowth on either side of the trails to the falls. Those who read my books may remember Pixie and Pete, two orphaned coatis in my grade six classroom at Monterey Elementary in Victoria. Bandit faces, long noses and stand-up striped tails. I loved seeing coatis in their natural habitat. Next? Perhaps a puma or a jaguar?

Finally, a salute to the people I have met in Argentina and Brazil-all unfailingly polite and friendly.

Lyn at the ‘Academy Awards’

2010-02-13T12:42:00.000-08:00

On January 27th in the Grand Ballroom of the Four Seasons Hotel in Vancouver, the President of the Simon Fraser University Alumni Association, Bernie Maroney, presented me with the Outstanding Alumnus Of the Year Award for Arts and Culture. Such was the opulence of the occasion that I felt I was at the Academy Awards.

I arrived by taxi at the Four Seasons Hotel, was proudly escorted by colleagues, enthusiastically greeted by staff at the top of the ornate escalator, warmly welcomed to the Chartwell Room for pre-dinner drinks and formal photos, and led by a kilted piper from SFU’s world famous pipe band into the grandiose dining room filled with hundreds of supportive people, including the other three recipients, Ms Carol Huynh, the first-ever Olympic gold medallist for women’s wrestling, Dr. Marianne Sadar, the first in the world to develop a novel therapeutic strategy to combat currently incurable advanced prostate cancer, and Dr. Robert Turner, Director of Neurophysics at the Max Planck Institute for Human Cognitive and Brain Sciences in Leipzig, Germany. He and his team created today’s most widely used method of mapping brain function: magnetic resonance imaging (MRI).

Huge television screens for easy viewing of speeches and the videos which introduced the recipients looked down upon the elegantly presented tables and superb floral decorations which accentuated red roses and white orchids. Red was the theme that night and by coincidence I wore a long red slitted dress that left one shoulder bare but which could be covered up by a matching scarf of the same material if necessary. This handy throw could also cover up my recently stitched, still bandaged broken elbow.

Flimsy enough that it can be crumpled in one hand, this red dress has been worn around the world – from the beaches of Australia to the jungles of Belize, from balls to weddings to barbecues. Next week it will be crammed into my suitcase for a cruise around South America from Cape Horn to the Panama Canal.

As usual in my life (and one of the themes in my acceptance speech), my life is full of adventure or if not intrinsically adventurous, I seem to make it so. And such is the story behind my red dress which I have been wearing for 40 years!

I remember well the day in 1969 that I bought it. I saw it in the window of a shop in downtown Miami. “Stop!” I yelled to my long-suffering father who was driving Mum and me around the States, a holiday for them and a travel writing trip for me. “Drive around the block. I want to buy a dress.” Ten minutes later, I flagged Dad down in the traffic and piled back into the truck with the 40-year-old red dress that goes everywhere for every occasion.

One item that I couldn’t take to the awards ceremony was my beloved orphaned raccoon Tabasco, at least not in the fur. In 1977 when I received my B.Ed. degree I took Tabasco to convocation with me in my mortar board. In 2010 I took her to the gala in anecdotes and images filmed by the university’s Media Unit.

SFU was the right choice for me to do my degrees. What other institution would welcome a student who brought a raccoon to class, would publish articles on the raccoon in the university papers, would make the raccoon the mascot of the English Department, and put the raccoon’s picture in the university calendar!

I lived with Tabasco in a no-pet apartment at the bottom of Simon Fraser Hill in Burnaby and had the most productive years of my life: two degrees, two books, hundreds of articles, dozens of speaking engagements, and made several longtime friends with staff and students. You can meet Tabasco yourself in her book Tabasco the Saucy Raccoon. That’s the magic of books. Everything and everyone comes alive again. As ten-year-old Zoe from Bella Bella wrote, “Now Tabasco lives in my heart.”

I’m glad I was first of the four recipients to be presented. It was hard to concentrate on melt-in-your-mouth filet mignon or conversation with table companions while worrying about your acceptance speech which came after dessert. Friendly smiles from the Master of Ceremonies, Dr. Larry Beasley, a helping hand to the podium by Bernie Maroney, precise organization by Julie Saito’s crew and an introduction by SFU’s Media Unit’s video Lyn Hancock: A Passionate Presentation which you can see yourself on www.lynhancock.ca made it relaxed and enjoyable. I think I was the last person left in the huge ballroom. Myself and my plaque which is now on the wall at home next to Tabasco.

The Perils of Self Publishing

2009-11-27T19:54:00.001-08:00

To Be or Not To Be: the Perils of Self Publishing

Today I sent my latest book The Ring to the printer and after surviving the perils of self publishing, this is something to celebrate, perhaps also because this is my first attempt at a blog.

In 1985 McClelland and Stewart published The Ring’s predecessor under the title Tell Me, Grandmother and it was a great success. In those days all I had to do was to type my manuscripts with photos attached, an enjoyable job which took any time between twenty-one days and four years; the manuscripts were edited and designed by in-house editors and designers who became my personal friends as did the publishers; and then I was sent plane tickets for the grand tour across Canada to promote the finished books (less grand across the United States, London and Australia). I was wined and dined in the best hotels and featured in newspapers, radio and TV. The system must have worked because my first book There’s a Seal in my Sleeping Bag was still in print four decades later and Love Affair with a Cougar and Tell Me, Grandmother now sell, to my amazement, for more than a hundred dollars on Amazon.

Despite modern technology, in fact because of modern technology, the writer’s life was much easier in the 1960s when I started my writing career than it is today, at least for me, a self-confessed Luddite. So let me reminisce on some of the changes.

I was lucky. I, a writer of animal stories, was launched at the right time when interest in conservation of our natural resources was on an upward swing. I started at the top in more ways than one. I was a school teacher and wrote some newspaper and magazine articles but I spent my summers up and down the BC coast by float plane and rubber boat studying wildlife.

I remember well that wonderful day in the mid sixties when I returned home to Island View Beach, dirty and dishevelled after a summer camping tentless on top of waterless seabird colonies off the west coast of Vancouver Island to find a plane ticket to Toronto and an invitation to stay at the Four Seasons Hotel to meet Sir William Collins who had flown out from Glasgow to ask me to write a book. Sir William was the kind of publisher who developed a personal interest in his writers and they loved him in return - Gerald Durrell, Joy Adamson, and certainly Lyn Hancock. Joy (who is old enough to remember Born Free?) was the JK Rowlings of her day and Sir William wanted a follow-up. Another woman who had adventures with wildlife.

Then there was Jack McClelland of McClelland and Stewart who came looking for me at Simon Fraser University (that was easy, he had only to follow the chitters of Tabasco my saucy raccoon who accompanied me to classes). Sir William had died and Jack with his sidekick Anna Porter persuaded me to join their publishing house. Jack gave me Farley Mowat’s editor and Lily Miller became another longtime personal friend.

Today the world of publishing has vastly changed. Very few or no grand tours. Very few or no in-house editors. Very few or no in-house publicists. Writers must take on most of the responsibilities that previously were the jobs of publishers. Books are vastly changing. At writers’ meetings I am told constantly that people under 30 don’t want to read books in the old-fashioned way, they demand books on screens, I-pods, phones, Kindles, Sony readers.

My new book is titled The Ring and believe me, I have been going around in circles since I took on this project, I am ashamed to say, almost a decade ago. As there were no copies left of Tell Me, Grandmother, I was asked by my co-author and her far-ranging family to “put it on line” so the material would not be lost. No, I protested, let’s publish a new book and as the only way I knew was the old way, we embarked on what has turned out to be a multi-year project marked by many challenges, mostly because neither Marion nor I knew anything about modern technology.

Our project seemed simple in the beginning. Marion, starting from scratch, bought her first computer and with neither of us knowing anything about scanning, she took on the job of laboriously typing in every word of the original book, her last copy. Meanwhile, I started writing the new story, a story which only came to light after the publication of Tell Me, Grandmother. You can read the details in the new book but let me tease you by saying that a Vancouver Island man read that book and discovered he was the grandson of the book’s main characters, Sam and Jane Livingston, the first settlers in Calgary. When he also realized he was Metis, a whole new world opened up for him and his family. The Ring which to me is the beginning of a Canadian Forsyte Saga is the stuff of which films are made and perhaps one day it will be one.

Although I am best known for my adventures with animals or my life in Canada’s North, some people know of my interest in history. My method to bring history to life for modern readers is to start in the present, work back to the past, and return full circle to the present, yes just like a ring. There’s another more dramatic reason why this new book is called The Ring but you’ll have to read it yourself. This blog is to tell you something of how the book was published, not what is in it.

So the content for The Ring kept evolving and the pages kept expanding. Not just more text, maps and illustrations but more archival images and photographs. The more one discovered the more there was to discover. Such is the fast march of history even from one year to another, that I kept returning to places across Canada or asking others to take the journey for me. The book kept growing.

Adding content was a joy, arranging text with pictures was often a source of despair. Kind people came to help but I was impatient with the new ways of communication. I balked at discussing changes on chat lines in a corner of the computer screen, I wanted to work face to face and side by side. I wanted to see my words on paper and my pictures on a lightboard as in the old days. (Dale (on right in photo) and I are posing with the new book.)

So I sought a publisher to do it for me. Several were interested but they wanted me to write their book, not mine or Marion’s. One wanted to take slices of the history and scale them to kid size. Another wanted me to take the main character and turn her into historical fiction. Another wanted me to alter the infrastructure and have the story told by a third person who didn’t exist. And all, in a declining cutback industry, wanted to fit the number of pages into the slot at the post office which spilled out the least cost for shipping. But with the story more important than the postage, I didn’t weigh the pages or count the cost. I wanted it my way.

Finally, I found a publisher who reminded me of Sir William Collins, Jack McClelland, Rhonda Bailey, some of my previous mentors. I was relieved. This publisher was enthusiastic with the book in its current form, sent a contract and even planned the promotion. But very soon afterwards, she lost her funding support, moved to another province, another publishing house, and the deal was undone.

So I decided to do what more and more writers were doing in this age of new technology. I became the publisher myself and hoped I could cope with the new way of doing things.

It was during this phase that several more things went wrong, one after another. Marion (on right in photo), whose idea this story was in the first place and who was going to handle its distribution (the main pitfall of self publishers), died after a terrible accident in Edmonton. The Ring is dedicated to her memory. Then the first helper in my team got impatient with a book that seemed to go on forever and lost enthusiasm for the project. My next helper who asked, “Don’t you want to make this book the very best it can be?” cleverly shuffled around text and photos before my eyes and sent off various digital versions of the book to Lulu, the most popular POD publisher. Each came back as published books, looking good on the surface but with haphazard formatting, hyphens in the middle of lines, hyphens at the end of lines, spacing that changed with every publication. What had happened?

“You’ve formatted it in Word,” said my friend and publisher Ursula of Leaf Press. “You have to reformat it in In Design, that’s what publishers use.”

I had to travel to Australia. “No problem,” said my second helper. “I’ll learn how to do it.” But her sudden divorce and its aftermath ended that plan. The book was delayed for several more months. When I returned to Canada after a book tour in Australia and a medical emergency trip to Belize, there were still more challenges to confront. The original illustrator couldn’t find the original illustrations which were needed to avoid background smudging. I broke my elbow so had to cancel my flight to the Calgary Book Fair where I was to promote the book by reading the manuscript. And I couldn’t type. Was this book jinxed?

And then in my search to add some missing links to the text, I discovered Dale, the great granddaughter of the hero and heroine of the book and she just happened to be a professional graphic artist, well versed in the new technologies. She jumped aboard, put the manuscript into In Design, changed the font, rescanned all the maps and images, resized all the photos, arranged the chapter headings on the same side of the page, revised the layout, learned how to do a new index with many more names, and added a few pages of text and photos of her own. When the new font resulted in an extra half dozen blank pages which had to be filled, we scoured the web for more historical images and photos. The book got even bigger but hopefully it was getting better.

Dale and I agreed that a book is not finished unless it is finished. One day when we thought our work was done, she commented casually, “Did you know that when my dad at 66 learned for the first time that he was born Sam Livingston 111 through your earlier book and he flew to Calgary to meet his sister who had spent her life looking for her long lost brother, he took with him half of a ragged-edged picture of a little boy. His sister had a ragged-edged picture of a little girl. When the two pictures were put together, the ragged edges met perfectly and each knew they were brother and sister.” It’s a scene that gives most people goose bumps. It had to be added. When you add, you have to rearrange, and that takes more time. The Ring had a life of its own.

You can be content with the content but copy editing can take weeks. Editing a screen image is not the same as editing a hard copy. Errors you see on the screen are different to the errors you see on a typed page. I do not like scrolling screens, I like turning over real pages and writing corrections with a pencil. We pored over pages in each other’s kitchens or in our parked cars. We added multi-coloured stickers to the pages needing corrections. Time and time again, Dale printed out the pages, stapled them together, I huddled over the lines and she took them home to make the changes. With every printed version we found still more things to correct, a comma here, a semi-colon there. Ursula, editor extraordinaire, who likes the old ways turned her eyes as well to the pages and pointed out yet more errors. Perhaps only a period was missing or out of place but we aimed for perfection. It took weeks to deplete the piles of stickers.

Emails flashed back and forth between checkers in Duncan, Lantzville, Victoria, Calgary. Then when I was finally satisfied that all was well, Dale noticed that Jane’s name was missing on a caption. The right name had been there for months, suddenly it disappeared and we hadn’t touched that page, it had been right since the beginning. “A trickster at work,” said Dale, stunned. Perhaps so. I remembered years ago a computer technician came to my house to search for missing data on my computer. He found bits and bytes of stuff strewn everywhere. When he left he commented in disbelief, “Things happen in your house that happen nowhere else.”

Finally, came Friday of the last weekend before publication date. Dale copied the very last version of the book to a PDF file ready for the printer on Monday. We had finished. I ordered the champagne.

Or so I thought. “Why don’t you do some more fine-tuning and I’ll play around with a different cover,” Dale suggested by phone. I didn’t dare curb her enthusiasm. Meanwhile, not believing that the computer is always right, I spent my time manually rechecking that the index entries matched their respective pages.

Monday morning 3a.m. Dale who had been up all night sent me a new cover. It was more colourful, more powerful than the first one, but what did readers think? As soon as I thought that some of them were up and having breakfast, I emailed it around to gather comments and the consensus was that we make the changes, not only the front and back covers but the new credits and new acknowledgements pages as well.

8a.m. luckily one hour earlier than offices opened in Victoria and Calgary. I emailed the new cover to the senior curator of the Glenbow Museum for her opinion. She seemed to like the changes but reminded me to add one new credit. I decided to add another of my own. I reached for the boxes of files piled haphazardly on the cabinets behind my computer. The cat leaped for them at the same time and the boxes and pages came crashing down. It took a while to locate those two credits amid the mountain of paper on the floor but perhaps it was fitting that an animal had a hand in my history book. They had had many hands in previous books.

9a.m. I thought we were done.

But no, just as Dale (fine-tuning the final edits of the manuscript in the photo on the left), The Ring's graphic artist, was about to click the PDF file to the printer on time, I realized the book didn’t have a bar code and ISBN number on the back page. How do you do that? Ursula who is a gem of generous advice said she would prepare it if the printer could not. I had no idea what was involved but I phoned Printorium in Victoria who said they would email the code to Dale who could drop it into the PDF file. Not that I understood what had to be done, but by noon I was told all would be well.

So in a few days, Dale will pick up the proofs, the sample book that shows what the rest of the run will look like, we will approve or disapprove, the proofs will be returned to the printer and five more days after that, The Ring, a ten-year-old baby will be born. At last. “I’m going to enjoy that bottle of champagne,” said Dale with a gleam in her eye.

It’s been almost ten years. But the work has only begun. Now we have to tell people about the book. A new world of websites, facebooks, on-line radio interviews, flickers, twitters and tweets - and other ways I can only pronounce. I have to turn slide shows into powerpoint presentations (I'm presenting in the Ladysmith Intermediate gym in the photo on the left), change address books into data bases and plan my own grand tour. It feels overwhelming but when members of Sam and Jane’s far-flung family learn news of The Ring and write to express their excited anticipation, the long journey seems worthwhile. If only Marion who started it all was here to see it.

But then that’s another blog.

C Lyn Hancock 2009

Simon Fraser Alumni Award

2009-11-06T16:37:00.001-08:00

The SFU Alumni Association is pleased to announce the 2009 Outstanding Alumni Award recipients:
Arts and Culture
Lyn Hancock, BEd '77, MA '81
Author, Photographer, Environmentalist, Educator
"A distinguished author, photojournalist, lecturer and filmmaker for over 40 years, Lyn Hancock has published 20 books and countless articles in newspapers and magazines around the world. Ever true to her calling as an educator, Lyn has taught thousands of children about wildlife habits and habitats. Through her talent, creativity and endless enthusiasm, she has shared her passion for nature with three generations of Canadians" (SFU Alumni Association).

Tabasco the Saucy Raccoon

2009-10-31T11:15:00.000-07:00

Please see my updated website. My book Tabasco the Saucy Raccoon is available in stores and online. I am also available for presentations in school. My most recent visit was to Ladysmith Intermediate School.

Exciting News, The Ring Has Arrived

2009-08-11T10:00:00.000-07:00

The original story of love between a Metis woman, Jane Howse, and Sam Livingston, a flamboyant Irishman, first published as Tell Me, Grandmother in 1985 by McClelland and Stewart, has been updated with new information, a new cover, and approximately additional pictures, both archival and modern.

Why The Ring?

Sam and Jane's romance is symbolized by the ring given to Jane as a token of Sam's undying love. Unusually wrought and engraved with the words IN MEMORY OF, it remains today as a legacy to the many descendants of this remarkable couple.

The Ring appeals to adults and children alike, to people of all ages who are fascinated or curious about their past. It reveals how life can often turn full circle in mysterious ways.

Such is the magic of books that miracles happen. In The Ring you will read how the publication of Tell Me, Grandmother in 1985 changed the life of one of Sam and Jane's descendants and made a huge impact on his family.