Originally intended to simply focus on book reviews, over time, KaliDesautelsReads has morphed into its own entity.
I write about issues that are near to my heart, be they political, feminist, motherhood, mental health, or, as the title holds, books.
A thirty-something Canadian woman in my mid-thirties, I have been “super married” to my high school sweetheart since 2006, and together we have two crazy, clever, kind, hilarious, wonderful kids.
My first book – How Not To Blog: Finding Myself, One Post at a Time is available on Amazon (in eBook formats for you clever tech readers, and paperback for those of us who love that new book smell!)
I have tried a podcast – it’s still on Apple and Google Podcasts – but writing is where my heart is.
My life changed dramatically when my husband was diagnosed with Stage 3 cancer in 2018, and I am now a writer for a leading Canadian Cancer Non-Profit.
I am lucky enough to have a family that loves me and pushes me to be my best, even if it is outside of my cushiony comfort zone. I have a village of friends that nourish me, mentally, and spiritually.
Welcome to my thoughts. Sit down. Stay a while. Enjoy a cup of coffee!
I am thoroughly enjoying listening to this while I work today. Having Dan Rather read it himself makes it all the better. #ratheroutspoken #danrather #memoir #audiobook #W #bush #journalism #news #cbsnews #cbs #read #listen #bookstagrammer #books #bookclub #politics #obama #clinton #washington #bookclubofinstagram #kalidesautelsreads #newsandguts
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Carrie Green offering insight into following their dreams to success
Today, Carrie Green is officially a published author. It is exciting to see a woman’s dream come true, and their hard work pay off. Well done, Carrie! I am looking forward to reading your book!
#kalidesautelsreads
#kalidesautelswrites
#SheMeansBusiness
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On Beauty was my first introduction to Zadie Smith, and initially, I was not sure how to take it. I had not been exposed to, or rather immersed in fiction as social theory, and did not know to go deeper with the text. Upon re-reading, more than a decade later, the story of the bitter rivalry between Howard Belsey and Monty Kipps, as well as the symbiotic relationship of their families felt more succinct. The Belseys are a mixed race, atheist family with three children, the Kippses are a Trinidadian family, with two children, living in England. As the two families intermingle, alternately despising and loving each other, the reader gets a clearer and broader picture of prejudices, tensions, atheism versus born again Christianity, and familial loyalty. As with Smith’s other writing, On Beauty is a big and ambitious novel, populated by a large cast of characters. Opening and closing with a series of emails, the reader immediately drawn into the intimate relationship between the Belseys and the Kippses, without the formality of introduction. Told by a omniscient third party, the story alternates focus on one person or another at various times. There is a good deal of anger through the book, and lack of acceptance, which is likely Smith’s point through out – a mixed race family is an Other, and an immigrant family is an Other, but that does not mean they understand or accept each other. 446 pages
Peggy sat down. She chose the bench farthest away from the crowd. It was out of the sun, and in late November, on the rare warm, late autumn day, retreating from the sun is not a common choice. That being said, Peggy was not a common girl. Or rather, I suppose, she was not a common woman. The office buildings seemed to have emptied themselves of their human contents, spilling them into the sun, as they sought their short spell of rest; their respite from the usual daily drudgery.
From her vantage point, set back and away from most other people, Peggy could see where the trees and the sky reversed themselves into the ocean. With not even a breeze in the warm air, the ocean was a mirror: the dark green trees raising up at the waters’ edge, also pointed themselves downward, into and through the ocean, as though trying to escape the confines of the upward expectation that people generally held for trees.
Peggy smoothed out her thick, brown, woollen skirt and crossed her ankles. Satisfied that passersby would be duly impressed by the picture she created of herself, as they walked on, enjoying their surprise constitutional for the day. Peggy was unaware how little attention the passersby afforded her. In fact, although she intended to appear shy or retiring by selecting a lonesome bench, in truth, Peggy was not the least bit shy. In her mind, she could clearly see that all who passed her way were glancing in her direction, undoubtably admiring her as a sweet portrait of young womanhood – the full skirt, the well-tailored red jacket, the neat, though slightly scuffed pumps, the bangs on her heart shaped face swept neatly to one side. Her green eyes were bright, though slightly small for her face. She felt that this flaw was off set by the perfect Cupid’s Bow of her small mouth. Her nose was spiced with a dash of freckles, and upturned into a darling button. She was a proud woman, proud of her appearance, proud of her cleverness.
On this day, as she settled herself to enjoy her small paper cup filled with hot coffee, Peggy felt particularly clever. Working as a typist at a large newspaper, Peggy had achieved a modest level of success. After all, she was a woman. This was considered to be an ideal career. A holding pattern, until a suitable man came to sweep her off to the suburbs. She had dared to picture herself as a journalist. This ambition wasn’t unheard of, there were a smattering of lady writers at the paper, and Peggy was assuredly much more eloquent and intelligent than they. The only stumbling block seemed to be that the journalists and editors did not take her seriously enough and told her that she must earn her position; that patience was a virtue. Well, bully for virtue, she smirked. Her patience had worn through, and she had done something so daring, she hardly would have believed it, had she not done it herself. Whilst typing Mr. Brennan’s wretched piece, it struck her that the man had hardly the wits that God gave a cat, and methodically began to unspool the paper from the typewriter. With a slow smile, Peggy recalled how she had crumpled the ludicrous article and gently dropped it from her elegant tapered fingers into the wire waste paper basket at her feet. Quickly, and perhaps a tad furtively, she loaded a fresh sheet into the machine and set to typing. Her tongue passed over her lips in concentration as she prepared her story. The clacking of her keys had never sounded so cheerful to her ears as they did in that moment. When finished, she quickly scrawled Mr. Brennan’s name on an envelope and neatly folded her story.
Peggy was certain that when Mr. Brennan read her story, he would undoubtedly prefer it to his own senseless drivel. She felt light on her toes as she placed it on his desk, before leaving the office to sit, as we find her, on the dimly lit bench, intent on drawing attention to herself, by appearing to not draw attention to herself. Sipping her coffee, Peggy felt the warmth of the day, and the warmth of her dark, decadent beverage, and the warmth of her daring.
It was only a matter of time before she settled herself in the soon to be former office of that talentless Mr. Brennan.
Or perhaps jobless, back in her rooms at the boarding house…
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My laptop and I have been fast friends for the last few months. I had neglected her a while, but since this writing wish has turned into a writing goal, the big, cumbersome, slow old gal and I are on good terms. I appreciate that she ain’t what she used to be, but I know exactly where all the keys are. (Not all keyboards are created equal.) She is slow, but when the screen lights up, and I click on my Word icon, I feel happy. I feel pride and I feel like this is what I absolutely want to be doing. The words don’t always flow and I have not mastered the art of silencing my inner editor, but sitting on my reading chair, blanket across my lap, ear buds playing variations of classical music on SoundCloud, with my cat at my side, my kitchen timer under him (seriously… he will not not lay on it), I feel like I am working on something for me, and I am happy. Maybe it will become a real, honest to goodness, published piece of literature, or maybe it will simply be 90,000 words of my soul typed into a very old laptop, making my heart happy. Either way, my laptop and I will keep up our sometimes frustrating, but always rewarding friendship.
#kalidesautelsreads
#kalidesautelswrites
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Mr Penumbra’s 24 Hour Bookstore is a simple and pleasant read about a mysterious San Francisco bookstore, with only 3 employees, stacks of unreadable books and few customers, none of whom actually purchase books. A mix between a Dan Brown-style codex mystery, a fluffy fantasy novel, and a dichotomous love story to books and to Google. The story is told through the first person by Clay Jannon, and is populated with interesting, but not particularly fleshed out characters. The reader learns more about the inner workings of Google than they do of Clay’s closest friends and conspirators. It is fun, though not overly engaging. I feel that readers looking for something pleasant for the airplane or for transit would enjoy it, however, it feels like a book that once the reader has moved on, the characters will become nebulous. 288 pages.
Woohoo, I’m so excited for the release of She Means Business, by @iamcarriegreen tomorrow! Can’t wait to read it! #SheMeansBusiness #kalidesautelsreads
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“Religious teachers disagree when they try to show the difference between good and evil: what is a miracle to one becomes black magic to another. The good prophets have been stoned, but so have the witch-doctors. Blasphemy in one age becomes holy utterance in the next and this day’s heresy is tomorrow’s credo” – Daphne Du Maurier Monte Verità (1952)
As a student of religions and history, this quote speaks to me. What are your thoughts on this?
Daphne Du Maurier, the author of the chilling Rebecca, wrote a series of short stories, including The Birds. This is the novella upon which Hitchcock loosely based his 1963 film of the same title. Taking place shortly after WWII, towns in Britain are suddenly and mysteriously bombarded by maliciously vicious birds. There is no explanation as to what caused them to act so violently, nor anyway of knowing when it will stop. The story centres on a young family – Nat Hocken, his unnamed wife, and their two children Jill and Johnny. Nat works to protect his family the best that he can, and attempts to warn his neighbours of the seriousness of the situation. His pleas fall on deaf ears. The reader could read this, as I did, as a metaphor for the London Blitz, during WWII – an unknowable fear, causing death, no knowledge of resolution and the people feeling powerless to stop the relentless attacks. I have found Du Maurier to be an expert writer, keeping the reader intrigued until the last. The thrills are not from the graphic content, but rather from the idea of fear and the inability to protect oneself from the insanity of said fear.
Kali J Desautels 