I would suggest that you finish your first draft before thinking about the technical elements of your story. If, however, you have a writing process that is systems-driven and revels in design, by all means start out with the analysis to blueprint your tale.

When we think of story we often think about the all-important characters and the conflicts they encounter; the causal connections. But in order to move these elements forward there is the means of conveyance. How is the story conveyed?

A narrator conveys the story.

The narrator can be:

1) In the first person: the “I” tells the tale from within the story, and can be the main character or a secondary character. This is the most common modality of the first person narrator.

The “I” narrator can also be located outside of the story but “tells” the tale to the reader as an omniscient narrator and can come very close to being the writer’s voice (but does not have to). This is infrequently seen.

2) In the third person, limited omniscient. Often from a vantage point that has access to the main character’s thoughts and emotions but not the thoughts and emotions of the other characters although these can be surmised via the main character within the habitat of the story.

3) In the third person, omniscient. The narrator has access to everyone’s thoughts and emotions and reveals them as desired.

4) The rarely used second person. A slippery person– very interesting. (I recommend experimenting with it.)

Most stories are conveyed in the first and third person. Both narrators can have varying degrees of proximity to the characters.  This is a matter of intimacy: how close do you want your reader to get?

If the narrator is outside the story (i.e. the third person narrator), how close is the narrator to the emotional centre? Is this third person  rendering the telling as if “neutral”– cool and uninvolved, an “observational” tone? Or is the narrator positioned right inside the main character’s head, seeing out through her eyes, relaying all thoughts and emotions?

Compare:

“Several emotions flickered across her face. She swallowed hard. She slid her hands along the outside seam of her skirt.”

to

“Something wobbled inside her throat. She clenched her teeth, sealed her lips to stop the fragile thing from being born. When she swallowed it was all broken glass and twisted metal. Her moist palms throbbed with the pound of her heart. She slid her hands down the cloth of her skirt to wipe the wet away. Oh god, she thought. My thighs feel disgusting.”

Once you’ve decided upon the distance between the narrator and the character/rendering this distance needs to be maintained consistently throughout the tale. Any sudden shifts will be noticed instinctively, if not consciously, by the reader.

Another question you need to consider is the role the narrator is meant to play in the conveyance of the story.

Is the narrator meant to be, mostly, a transparent filter through which story is conveyed? Or, is the narrator meant to be an active component of the story experience– i.e. you’re meant to notice the narrator’s presence and it’s as if the narrator is almost an character (though not a player) in their own right? A lovely example of this can be found in Carmen Dog, by Carol Emshwiller. This is also a novel that tells, tells, tells from beginning to end and in the most successful of ways. Yes, stories can be told instead of primarily shown, for all that I ask my mentees to show more ! Or is the narrator somewhere in -between these two extremes?

Finally, whose story is the narrator telling? Is the narrator telling their own story? Is the narrator telling someone else’s story? Is the narrator telling someone else’s story but in doing so, is actually sharing a story about herself? I.e. Monkey Beach, by Eden Robinson.

The first person narrator is also capable of differing degrees of proximity. A first person narrator can be emotionally remote in his telling insomuch that the narrator never tells the reader what he really feels, i.e. Remains of the Day, by Kazuo Ishiguro (Although those feelings can be conveyed in different ways such as compulsive thoughts, denial, saying one thing and doing another, etc. This becomes a psychological study of character.). A first person narrator can also share every emotion she feels, the experience of the story felt viscerally by the reader as if inhabiting the space just as the character does, i.e. The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-time Indian, by Sherman Alexie.

Narrative POV both limits field of vision (how much of the story is shared), and how close the reader gets to the emotional centre. It functions a little like blinders on a race horse, as well as the tether.

Understanding these aspects of narrative POV can enable you to write a stronger story. Having the capacity to selectively alter elements of narrative POV can have a huge effect on the editing process.

Luckily Daughter is a cool young cat sauntering in and out of the apartment, her fake lashes and black-liner lending her a sloe-eyed nonchalance as she re-imagines and shapes her life beyond her mother.

Son is mostly a voice on the cell phone, a sometimes text message. We meet, occasionally, for supper or lunch, catching each other up on the major events of our current lives.

I remember when they were small, and needed my attention every day. When it was difficult to find the time to write. There was scarcely time to think. The night crying fevered sweats the impacted bowel chicken pox scratching the cold snapping my temper frayed the blinds, the string, I was often in a state of slight unravel….

There is time, now, to be busy with work and work. Daughter is perfectly happy, even if I’m not, with eating spicy Korean instant noodles for three nights in a row. Son is making his way in a room of his own and a mile away.

With more space and time for work, work has taken up more space and time in my life. It presses, so, upon the shoulders, the tightness at the temples, the muscles in my neck. My T-rex arms that are perpetually bent at the elbows, even when I’m sleeping.

But I am not confined to a 9-5 job. I am not confined to an office dress code or monitored by the Bradford Factor. All that is required of me is to meet my deadlines, meet the expectations of my contract jobs. (No! Not THAT KIND of contract job!)

Even in the midst of work and snake and ladder creativity, if I really need to I can close the laptop. Put on my coat. Just leave. There is space for contemplation if it is desired or needed.

A few weeks ago it was my Oba-chan’s death memorial day. I wanted to do something that honoured her. Something that reminded me of her. Something nice, quiet and beautiful. I decided to go to the Bloedel Conservatory. My grandmother loved plants and animals– she was the one who taught me through example the wonders of gardening. She always looked so peaceful working among the plants, the evenly mounded rows of soil. It was the only time she was alone, I suppose. She raised me and three of my sisters. What noise and clamour we must have been….

D joined me that late afternoon. The air was saturated with peaty wet moisture. It smelled brown. But it was far from quiet for the birds. The dark green stems and leaves of tropical trees and palms, great banana plants and the flicker chit of brilliant finches. The raucous  screechings of parrots.

The overlapping mesh of green. My grandmother was there. In the space between. In the fractal array of stems, in the tightly knotted red of a frond ready to breach. It looks like an angel being born, D said.

Oba-chan in the brilliant feathers of the golden pheasant. In the softly dimpled down. In the seeds that hungry finches devoured. In the minute droplets of mist that fell upon our faces. I breathed her in and breathed her out. Come closer, I said. Oba-chan, I miss you.

A great many of us live in cities and our lives are framed by mechanical noises, urban clamour, and an artificially induced tempo. The night is never completely dark. We can feel our neighbours living close beside us, humming, vibrating, like so many ants inside a mound.

How amazing it is to move toward a quieter and darker space. Where the daily pattern of sound is not the swelling rush hour traffic, but the tide.

Our breath changes. The air is sweet and tangy with salt. In the distance the surf booms into a grotto. The shoreline is littered with tomorrow’s story.

How to describe this beautiful monstrous? The shiny cartilaginous curves of the kelp root, smooth, wet, the colour of tea-stained teeth. The tendrils that grip around rocks, the long gleaming strands that undulated under water. How powerful it looks. How alien and remarkable.

We see with our eyes. We feel with our skin. The tiny hairs upon our bodies. Cold air enters the lungs and we warm it with our blood and moisture. The distance dissolves beyond the limits of what can be seen.

At my feet an anemone blooms, its mouth its anus a hole I want to poke with my finger. (Not to worry– I didn’t! Don’t want to molest the anemone minding its own business.)

D and I had learned that there were sea lions in the area. We had opted for a cabin in Ucluelet instead of Tofino, and it was lovely– so quiet, laid-back and gorgeous. I was eager to see the local sea lions so we criss-crossed the town site and looked at every wharf, ducked onto many beaches. Ne’er a sea lion to be seen. One afternoon while we walked through town I swore I heard one barking. I dragged D down to the wharfs again but no– the elusive mammal was not there. On the evening of my birthday we went out for a lovely homey dinner at Matterson House (big portions!). We ate so much we needed to walk off some of what my daughter likes to call a “food baby”…. D suggested we walk toward the quietest wharf we’d seen, tucked away from Boat Basin, just off of Hemlock St. It was so very dark. So very quiet.

“Where is everyone?” I whispered loudly. “Why aren’t they celebrating New Year’s?”

“Shhhhhhhh!” we giggle-shushed our way down the paved road.

The night pressed heavy and dense against the edges of light that curved above the two docks. A large fishing boat moored. When from the darkness,

“Puh-fffffffffftssss!”

“Listen! Listen!” my eyes round with hope and wonder.

Great exhalations of mammal breath, we peered out into the darkness, the oily black of the night ocean.

A young bearded fisherman called out from the boat.

“Is there something out there?”

“We can hear breathing! It’s going, ‘Pffffsssssttt!’” I said.

“Oh, the sea lions,” the young fisherman said. His face was flushed. “I was just feeding them fish from the net.”

“Do you have any fish left?” I asked unashamedly.

“It’s her birthday,” D said. “She’s been looking for sea lions all day.”

“I can check to see if there’s anything left.” The fisherman poked around the great net spool and came back with a mangled fish the size of my forearm. He held it by its open mouth. I beamed with delight.

“Can I feed it?” I asked.

“You want to hold the fish?” he asked, mildly surprised.

“Yah!” I said and held out my hand. He handed the fish over to me a little dubiously. I held it from the crook of its mangled jaw. I couldn’t stop grinning.

Then the sea lions roiled in the water.

“Oh my god!” we exclaimed. Not the fisherman.

Eyes gleaming, light edging their wet fur with brief halos. Slick, supple, they twisted and dove in the dark water. The surface grew still.

“Should I toss the fish, or should I dangle it in the water?” I asked.***

“Uhh, I wouldn’t dangle it,” the fisherman said. “They can jump up right onto the wharf.” He receded into the boat.

“Just toss the fish!” D exclaimed. She was standing several meters behind me, and well away from the edge of the wharf. “Just toss it from behind this post!

“I want to dangle it,” I said. (I have no idea what I was thinking…. Clearly, not very much and not very well. I think I wanted a photo. I think I began thinking like my mom, who has been known to feed wild elk mandarin oranges from the car window….)

The sea lions were underwater. I wanted to see them better. But some strand of reason remained and I tossed the mangled fish (rock cod).

A mature sea lion twisted to the surface and opened its maw. Jaws lined with sharp triangular teeth. It clamped down hard on the ragged fish and twisted back down into the cold dark. I peered over the edge of wharf. Hoping to see it twine up again.

A second sea lion burst upward, jaws open, snapping, toward me, looking for its portion, of fish, of stupid Japanese Canadian flesh, whatever it could sink its carnivorous teeth into. The fear so sudden so fast I could only stare, take two steps backward, and somehow manage to stop myself from peeing my pants.

I don’t know what D did or said. If she cried out. If she ran further away. She wise enough to be behind the post…. That was the closest I’ve come to peeing my pants from fear. Those sea lions…. I think there were three of them…. Over five hundred pounds of sleek muscle and sharp teeth. Oh my god. Beautiful and terrifying.

It was a stunning reality check. There are no photos. Just the echo of fear when my heart pounds. I still love sea lions. And I RESPECT THEM!!!

The wonders weren’t just in and of the ocean. The earth teemed with gorgeous life. Shorepine Bog Trail was a wonderland. It was as if the ecosystem had been arranged with giant bonsai, natural bonsai…. It was so magical, maybe prehistoric…. I kept on expecting small dinosaurs to burst out of the branches. The limbs of the small dense trees created weird low canopies, almost tunnels, near to the ground. If you crawled down those twining paths who knows where you’d resurface? There is magic in the dark places. Much power.

2013 brought in with sea lions and teeth, booming surf and froth, expanses of sand and the shriek of bald eagles. A warm cabin in a dark night. 2013 bodes well…. I move forward with gladness in my heart.

***I DO NOT ENDORSE FEEDING WILDLIFE! PLEASE DON’T FEED WILDLIFE! They become habituated to humans and lose their fear of them and then accidents occur often leading to the animals having to be destroyed. (I rationalized that it was okay to feed the sea lions at this point because the fisherman had been doing it already, probably after every catch, and my one fish would not be adding to the problem…. O_0 Ohhhhh, the rationalizations…!)

I sent the first draft of my first graphic novel to my agent. Got her feedback. Will return to the text to revise– hoping to finish that off in December. We shall see what the writing goddesses decree!

At the end of October I was in Toronto for Impossible Words Reading Series, a writing workshop, IFOA and the World Fantasy Convention. Whirlwind! It was so intensive and exciting and rather exhausting. Whenever I’m in TO and on a hectic work schedule I always make sure to get some body work done at Six Degrees Community Acupuncture! Their community-based model is so inspiring and with a sliding scale rate it’s affordable for so many. My scattered spirit and fast-paced workheart always get calmed and grounded there. High recommend!

I can’t say enough about the lovely time I shared with the Impossible Words folks and the workshop I did with the Toronto Street Writers. The youth were so incredibly keen, thoughtful, energized and creative. I felt so privileged to share that space with them. Marvellous!

The IFOA events were so posh! <wide-eyed>. I had that dissonance thing that happens when I’m in a hotel room with a king-sized bed, Lake Ontario and DT Toronto spread across my window, a bottle of gin on the dresser. Ohboy! I was on an SF panel that was called “From Science to Fiction”. Although I read a great deal of SF I don’t exactly write a lot of it. A couple of distinctly SF stories have been published, but it’s not exactly my area of speciality. So it was with measure of trepidation I approached the panel. Well, I told myself. I didn’t put me on the panel, and I can only speak to what I can about the topic. I’m afraid the panel talk grew a little “heated” shall we say, when I disagreed with one of the comments from a fellow panelist. Yikes! Alas, we can’t all agree with one another and if we can’t share difference of opinions/ideas on a panel discussion (isn’t that one of the points of a panel? to air different ideas/thoughts on a topic?), really, what’s the point of having a panel? Happily I wasn’t upset by the exchange and walked away having learned a few more things about how one might perform a panel:

1) That a panel is still a kind of performance.

2) Don’t get intensely emotionally involved with the engagement.

3) State your thoughts carefully and thoughtfully. Be clear and concise.

4) If someone tries to interrupt you, stop them by telling them you’re not finished yet, and continue speaking until you are finished. This is especially important to do if you are a woman and the person trying to stop you is a man.

So much to learn and grow! ^___^

I stayed at the Westin Harbour Castle hotel during IFOA and one night I was walking through the lobby when I heard the intonations of Japanese. I glanced at the open lounge area and saw four Asian women talking. I continued on past and sent off a postcard. When I returned I saw and heard them again. It was definitely Japanese. If I were my younger me I wouldn’t have done it, but now I’m 45 and there’s very little to be embarrassed about any longer. I walked to their table.

“I’m sorry to trouble you,” (I said in Japanese– the language of courtesy and manners, apologize for being an ass even before you’ve been called one, etc.) “But I couldn’t help overhearing you talking in Japanese, and I wondered if, perhaps, you might be the Japanese Hiromis (there were three of us at IFOA! , Hiromi Kawakami and Hiromi Ito) attending the festival? I’m Hiromi Goto, the Japanese Canadian writer.”

And they were!!! Along with the director of The Japan Foundation. I got to sit down with them and share a drink and talk about writing, love, shit, Kumamoto, rifujiku, cultural grammar…. It was so lovely and heartening! It’s lovely to make new connections and I was thrilled to be able to talk to Japanese writers of the same sex. We have so little access to English translation of contemporary Japanese novels written by women in Canada. I think there are far more translation available in the US, but it’s so very hit and miss to find them here. The other Hiromis and I all did book swaps and I’m looking forward to reading their work over the colder season! Yessss!

World Fantasy Convention was busy, thrumming and engaging. I did a reading and a panel, got to meet Jeff and Ann Vander Meer in person (Yay!), attended many panels, wrote notes, and, I must say, it was kinda cool to have David G. Hartwell ask me to sign my book for him…. Talked to so many people! The Cooke Agency (who represent me) had a gorgeous party in their suite. Had lovely conversations there as well.

I’m afraid I didn’t take any photos of these events. I suppose if I switched to a smart phone (as all my friends except Rita Wong entreats me to do) I’d be able to take more photos in a casual and easy way. But whatevs! I still have memory and language. <grin>

Hoping to hunker into writing and writing. I want to live and breathe inside of it as if I were writing inside a womb of my own making…. It will be a womb of one’s own, would it not? Hahahahahahahahaaaa!

(Ha! Agent Sally Harding just happened to send me a photo from the display case at IFOA, so lovely serendipity!)

“Canadian Fantastic Literature”

I’m heading to Edmonton next week for some events. Some of them will be streamed live and then archived. Will post details as they become available.

Happy writings, y’all!

Don’t get me wrong. There are tons of books out there that I’ve loved and adored, respected and cherished, written by white authors about white characters. But that’s the point. There are tons of those books out there.

I’ve been reading for a middle-aged long time, and I read across the board in terms of genre, age groups, styles. I have a particular fondness for smart, inventive and cutting edge fantasy and science fiction, especially if it’s feminist. And I am so hungry for novels of the fantastic that are written from a non-Eurocentric subjectivity. I do think that white writers can write about cultures not their own, especially if they do their homework and truly consider what appropriation of voice means (see some older posts I’ve written in my blog). But what I want to see and read are stories that delve deep and long into diverse cultures, histories and legends. I want to read stories from people who wish to share with me tales of magical creatures I’ve never heard of. Of ghosts that have no feet. Of babies who grow heavy when they latch upon your back. I want to read about tiny tree spirits and heroic monkeys, why jellyfish have no bones. And not just content, but the kuuki, that comes with the subject matter. The turn of phrase, the tying of two disparate strings into a different kind of connection. The moment of fushigi, or kimo, that has to do with language, culture, context and history.

The resonance of culture is difficult to measure. It’s not the accumulation and arrangement of a numerous facts. Essentialisms aside, one’s culture(s) creates a particular context of experience and understanding of the world. There is a grammar of seeing and perceiving that comes from being from a specific culture.

That grammar comes with its own set of embedded flaws, as all cultures have their weaknesses and strengths. But in a North American context there’s still a dearth of narratives that fully explores the fantastic from non-white subjectivities. I’ve written at length about the oddness of the shallow treatment of race in The Hunger Games and the lack of cultural content in a previous blog post. I’m looking for more than just a skin colour and small gestures. I want a full-blown world that’s rich, diverse and multi-layered with stories and histories. Writers like Nalo Hopkinson and Nnedi Okorafor are doing this work marvelously. More, I cry out. Give us more.

I don’t think writers of colour and Indigenous writers are obligated to write “out of” or “from” their own cultures of origin. That would fall into a kind of essentialism and it can become an awfully slippery slope.

As a writer I’ve chosen to have Asian North American girls and women as the heroes and anti-heroes of my novels and short stories. I have taken this on as a kind of commitment (although Darkest Light, my latest novel, had me, for the first time, writing a main character who is both white and male!)—a small vow to do my part as a writer colour to bring more visibility to non-white subjectivities in literature.

Who we see in texts matters. How those narratives are formed matters. Not just the race of characters—the construction of the stories themselves. What’s a “classic story” in one culture is not so for another. The shapes of stories can say just as much as the content.

I am hungry for other kinds of stories.

I want to read stories and books that will let me see my world in different ways, not re-inscribe the world I’ve learned through the public education system and popular culture. Let me dream in a language not my own.

I am so pleased and honoured to be serving as the writer-in-residence at Athabasca University this academic year. An online university most of my residency will be online although one or two visits to AB are in the works (tba). I will be conducting one-on-one writing consultations through email and/or over skype should it be desired.

My email for residency-based communications: <hiromigoto@athabascau.ca>

I’ll start accepting submissions for one-on-one consultations at the beginning of October. Details on how to submit material will be posted in the AU website (which is currently being updated). I will provide a link to the AU site as soon as it’s completed. You do not have to be an AU student to submit your material. I look forward to reading your words.

Yoroshiku onegai shimasu.

Firstly, I’ve been away from true blogging for several months now (Posting wee bits of news here, an interview link there isn’t quite the same, neh?) because I got caught in a whirlwind of life changes and now, here I sit, in a room of one’s own, albeit with a semi-detached daughter.

I had planned on moving to Toronto after Daughter graduated from high school (Daughter to move with me as she’s not ready to fledge). Son is twenty-one and ready to leave the nest. And I wanted to have a fresh new start in a different city, plunge myself into a new adventure. The family house sold very quickly. I began to pack up my things and sorting my archives.

The call from SFU’s The Writer’s Studio came in early May. The Toronto move had been planned for the end of June. I was asked if I’d like to mentor genre and YA fiction in their writing program. I was speechless for several seconds. “You know I’m planning on moving to Toronto,” I said. Yes, they knew. “You’re messing with my mind,” I said. They gave me a little time to consider the position.

What to do? What to choose? I didn’t have any sort of job opportunities lined up in Toronto. I’d have to hit the sidewalk and send emails, letters, make phone calls. Hustle. Begin anew. I have friends and contacts in Toronto, but there were no guarantees. When one’s livelihood relies upon an art practice to pay the bills every source of income is precious….

Pragmatism trumped risk and change. I accepted the SFU mentoring job. I began looking for an apartment in Vancouver. Daughter was disappointed about the sudden reversal as was I and many of my Toronto friends. Vancouver friends were pleased as can be. Son, and other family members were happy as well.

Of course I was excited about the new job and anticipating the experiences I would have. I felt lucky and privileged to have been given this opportunity. And it is also discombobulating to have psychologically and emotionally prepared for a major move only to suddenly reverse course.

You choose one path instead of the others and the possibilities of that moment have been lost, but the path you chose opens up with unimagined outcomes and new junctures of change and the possible.

I love my new apartment! One of the reasons I wanted to move to Toronto was so that I could learn living in a new city and have new experiences. I’m actually getting that here. I hadn’t thought I’d feel such a difference between Burnaby (where I lived for over 10 years) and Vancouver, but it is not at all the same. I’m learning a new rhythm, a new pattern of body and environment. I’m driving far far less (yay!) and I walk a great deal more than I did before. The sounds, the textures of this place are intriguing. I love riding the bus and staring out the window. I live much closer to several friends and this has made visits so much easier and casual– I love this! There’s a greater urban thrum. Seagulls working and shrieking their night shift. The clang and clamour of garbage trucks, sirens and the making of friends with neighbourhoods cats. The refrigerator alternates between playing Galaga and attracting crickets. The punky smell of weed rising from the back alley, drifting through the building. I’m certain there’s over fifty restaurants in a 2 kilometer radius! The pleasure and pain of learning to grow plants on a balcony. The pleasure of a balcony.

This is a new chapter in my life. Daughter is still seventeen and there are several more years before she is ready to go off on her own, but I feel like my role as full-on “mothering mother” has shifted to something a little more relaxed and looser. Of course I’ll always be a mother to her and my son, but I’m feeling less the urgency and responsibility to place the children’s needs before my own. They need me less and I feel like if the things I’ve tried to teach them ’til now didn’t stick, repeating those lessons will not do any of us any good at this point.

Trying to be a parent who was present and engaged with their development (as much as I was able to) took a lot of time. I didn’t know what kind of time it would take. I don’t suppose a lot of people know until they actually have children and then we see. (I don’t resent the time it took to parent them– it would be bloody ridiculous of me if I did feel resentment, I mean I brought them into this world for chrissakes! It riles me up when I hear parents saying things like, “You should be grateful to me for bringing you into this world. You wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for me.” My eyes bulge wide with incredulity. The child had no say in the matter! The child didn’t ask you to be their parent! The parent brought them into a world they may not have chosen of their own accord. The onus is on the parent to be the best they can rather than the reverse. Tho not to suggest, however, that the child has no responsibilities.)

I’ve always wanted a room of my own ~___~ . I’ve always lived with other people…. Yes, my lovely semi-detached daughter is with me and this is very enjoyable too. Now and then I tell her to wash the dishes or clean the bathroom, but we both give each other a lot of space. Son has moved into a bachelor pad about 10 blocks away from our apartment. Sometimes I ask him if he’d like to drop by after work. He comes in late smelling of kitchen oil, a little rumpled and tired. I ask him if he’d like to eat some leftover stew. He says he prefers to pack it up and relax at home. I put the stew in a yoghurt container and in a plastic bag. We hug and he goes off in the night.

There is more space in my life now that I am not a full-on mothering mother. I call my own hours, structure meals around hunger and time errands to my liking. I can delve into novels and ideas like they are rooms I can inhabit for as long as like. There’s no one keeping time (Well, of course there are deadlines! It’s not complete LaLaland after all. Good thing, too. ‘Cause otherwise I’d just roll around in fancy as if I’m a caterpillar with a hookah!) and it’s all left me rather giddy. And happy.

I guess I’m a middle-aged fledgling of a kind…. Leapt from the great stick nest and riding the warm updraft.

Thank you to Lynda Williams & David Juniper. ~__~

We also talked about my moving to Toronto. Alas! At the time of the interview this was so! But quite recently I was invited to be the new YA & Genre Fiction Mentor at Simon Fraser University’s The Writer’s Studio! I was very pleased to accept this position, thus, my move to Toronto has been postponed for the time being.

As my father always emphatically stated:

Life… <dramatic pause> is Un-Knowable!