Mordecai Richler was one of the most prominent and well-received authors in Canadian history. He was dubbed 'the great shining star of his Canadian literary generation' and won several awards during his lifetime.

A few months ago I happened upon one of his essays in an anthology, and having heard of his success, I was surprised to find that the writing didn't do the trick for me at all. "1944: the Year I Learned to Love a German" describes the impact of literature- specifically the novel All Quiet on the Western Front- on Richler's progression into adulthood. The premise is auspicious enough, but I found that, for one thing, the essay simply doesn't know what it wants to be. What calls itself a persuasive piece presents as an autobiography, dabbles in politics, and ends up reading like a glorified book review (not unlike the ones I used to publish on my Goodreads account when I was 13.)

In fact, the whole essay seems to be written through the lens a 13-year-old. And there's a reason for that: each of Richler's personal anecdotes take place when he's a pre-teen.

I understand what he was trying to do. He wrote his adolescent self as narrow-minded and egotistical in an attempt to set up a discernible transformation after he reads All Quiet on the Western Front.
And I think it could have been effective, except that there wasn't an after to compare to his before. None of his anecdotes clearly exhibit the fully matured version of himself that he claims to have achieved, and his coming of age story loses its potency because his character never really comes of age. All that to say, the whole essay comes across as juvenile, and I unintentionally read it through the voice of the ignorant persona he established in the first paragraph and never revised.

Even after 13-year-old Richler reads the groundbreaking novel that supposedly revolutionizes his life, his transfiguration of the mind, so to speak, ends up a downgrade. Or at least not an upgrade.

He starts out as a self-centered, conceited kid, and spends the first third of the essay making pompous reference after pompous reference to non-fiction texts, which I'm sure were efficacious for Richler's more well-read audience, but went straight over my head.

Then after he reads All Quiet on the Western Front, he says "I grasped for the first time that I didn't live in the center of the world." Excited at the prospect that the essay's atmosphere would finally become more altruistic, I continued to the next sentence: "Of course, this wasn't my fault, it was my inconsiderate parents who were to blame."

He goes on to blame his parents that he lives in an unimportant country, is left-handed, and isn't the top of his class. He blames his parents that he isn't in the center of the universe, as if those three factors were significant enough to keep him from it. If reading the book that changed his life marks the climax of Richler's journey of self-discovery, then his revelation just doesn't have the transformative quality he was so clearly going for.

And if you're having trouble understanding how All Quiet on the Western Front has anything to do with his anguish at living in "an unimportant country," then join the club.

On top of all this, the essay's thesis is contradictory and hypocritical. Richler's main point can be summed up with something along the lines of: 'this book has taught me to be less self-important, and now that I have read it, my self is so much more important.'

I find that, in general, Canadian novelists came across with a similar air, because they had to pave a way for themselves. Especially in Richler's time, Canadian literature went through somewhat of an identity crisis. I mean, British lit went back for centuries, and there were so many Great American novels, but Canadian authors hadn't established a distinct voice. And so, instead of writing for the sake of writing, I get the sense that they were self-consciously and inorganically attempting to write distinctly Canadian literature.

Just like how "nothing ruins a conversation like saying 'let's have a conversation,'" nothing ruins authentic Canadian writing like saying 'let's be authentic Canadian writers.'" 

"1944: the Year I Learned to Love a German" even illustrates this crisis. Before Richler reads the novel, he procrastinates by daydreaming. He says: "I organized a new baseball league for short players who didn't shave yet, appointing myself the commissioner, the first Canadian to be so honored."

Yes, this is likely nothing more than a playful gesture at his childlike interests, but if you replace his 'baseball league' with creative writing, and 'short people who didn't shave yet' with unestablished authors, Richler's teenage fantasy perfectly illustrates what I imagine he was going through as a Canadian novelist at the time.

And, after a weak essay Richler concludes with an even weaker ending. Rather than throwing in one last take away line to leave readers contemplating, he uses his last words to throw in two more seemingly arbitrary book suggestions, leaving his unrelenting praise of All Quiet on the Western Front to feel ultimately unresolved.

Richler's egocentric, autobiographical take on a book review made the whole piece feel like an advertisement. But as he puts it himself: "Writing that doesn't advertise itself is art of a very high order."

It certainly is of a high order: one that I personally don't think Richler achieved, which is why "1944: the Year I Learned to Love a German" didn't work for me.

Anyone who's been following my blog for a while might notice that I've spruced up the layout of my website with a total overhaul.

When I started 'Reasons Why' a few months ago, I half-expected it to be an experimental (and admittedly: temporary) project rather than the substantial undertaking it's become. And so, I thought it was time to eradicate my blue template which, although has served me well, didn't quite capture the profound and eclectic tone I was going for. Yesterday afternoon, oblivious to the tediousness of the task ahead of me, I sat down with my dad to update 'Reasons Why.' Four hours, five recycled templates, and one confusing phone call with my HTML-proficient brother later, and I had my new website.

Whether you find my updated layout easier to navigate, more atmospheric, or merely prettier, I think all the hard work really payed off, and that's why I revamped my blog.

Recently, my dad and I came up with a challenge in hopes of alleviating some of our quarantine-inflicted boredom; we've been taking turns coming up with creative writing prompts at the start of every week. We take each prompt and roll with it, building on it with our own ideas. And by the end of the week we both end up with pieces of fiction that speak to our own interpretation of the challenge.

This week, for example, my dad came up with this prompt: "write a fictional 'letter in a bottle.'"


My dad wrote a really compelling short story, and I strongly recommend following this link and giving it a read.

I took the prompt in a bit of a different direction. As most of my readers know, my fascination with the Titanic is hardly recent. So it won't come as much of a surprise that I was naturally inclined to take a Titanic-esque spin on this week's challenge. This is what I came up with:

And that's why I'm still thinking about the Titanic.

Of all the abounding natural wonders Canada's provinces have to offer, Saskatchewan's seem to be the most overlooked. The prairies are constantly shunned for their 'repetitive' scenery and 'boring' views. I mean, how many people gush over the prospect of vacationing in Saskatchewan, spending their summer break staring at flat landscape after flat landscape?

One of my family's favourite TV series, Corner Gas, is set in small town Saskatchewan. And sure, the show plays at the stereotypes and cliches wherever possible, but it also perfectly captures the essence of prairie life in a way that only true Saskatchewanians can fully appreciate.

I'm living in Toronto now, but I was born and grew up on the prairies. And although the city has a lot going for it- education, tourist attractions, employment opportunities- there's something really incomparable and definitive about small town culture.

Life in Saskatchewan has a certain simplicity to it. Its slow pace not only allows people time for themselves, but also for each other. People have a way of approaching one another that completely contrasts the tense, distant greetings I've seen in the city. It's easy to be suspicious of people when you don't know who they are or where they're coming from, but in a small town, where every stranger you run into knows someone who knows someone who knows you, people are way more willing to take each other as they are.

And it's not only the social connectedness that I miss. I know the landscapes aren't necessarily Saskatchewan's strongest selling point, but something about the pivotal lack of trees really brings out the sky brilliantly. Or as Hank Yarbo from Corner Gas puts it when a visitor passes through the town and comments on how flat the Western prairies are: "There's lots to see. Nothing to block the view."

I'm taking a creative writing course this year which, although it has been regrettably adapted due to the coronavirus lockdown, has improved the course my quarantine considerably.

One of the first and most valuable lessons I've learned from the course has been what my teacher calls 'alpha waving.'

Back in January, he explained the scientific theory behind the electrical signals, or 'waves' that pass between the neurons in our brains. There are five commonly recognized frequencies of brainwaves, each of which play distinct yet equally crucial roles in our lives.

Take delta waves for instance- the slow, shallow waves that we experience during a state of deep, dreamless sleep. Or gamma waves- the fast, rhythmic waves that our brains produce when actively involved in concentrated problem-solving.

Alpha waves fall in the middle of the brainwave spectrum. They're in those rare moments when you're conscious but not concentrated on anything in particular. Those few minutes early in the morning when you lie down and stare at the ceiling in that half-awake, half-asleep bliss. Or the brief moments after finishing a chapter of a good book before you've reintegrated yourself into the real world.

A 2015 HealthLine study found substantial evidence proving that rises in creativity and productivity could be triggered by enhancing a state of consistent alpha waves. So before our lessons, my teacher starts each class with designated time for 'alpha waving'- silent reading, listening to music, meditating, or anything that will get us as close to that inventive head space as possible.

One way I've been trying to keep my quarantine productive is by starting off my mornings with a bit of alpha waving of my own accord. I'll set a timer and spend 20 minutes writing unfiltered, unrefined, and unpolished pieces.

And while taking time to tune into my alpha waves has certainly improved my productivity throughout the day, I also think it's helped broaden my creative writing. I think it's innate to 'edit as we go' in everything we do. And as refined as this makes our work, it also largely limits its potential.

As my dad always says, we should "write drunk, edit sober."

If you wait around for the perfect idea to come, it could take years to write your first sentence. And sometimes a few minutes of alpha waving with an 'all ideas are good ideas' mindset is all it takes for inspiration to strike.

I'll usually start writing with no direction and  no destination, but often by the time my alarm goes off 20 minutes later, I'll have come up with at least a couple compelling ideas among the nonsense. And a lot of these ideas end up recycled and polished up for future pieces.

Behind every brilliant composition, there are hundreds of rejected words that- before they can be set aside- need the chance to come onto the page.

And that's why you should write a little bit everyday.

A couple weeks ago, I wrote a blog post about my fascination with the sinking of the RMS Titanic. In researching the post, I came across a number of conspiracy theories linked to the wreckage. And while some of them may have been plausible, most were far beyond reason.

One of the most popular theories for example, suggests that the Titanic never sank, and the telling of its demise was actually a case of tactical insurance fraud.

The theory bases itself around the substantial damage that the RMS Olympic, another White Star Liner, experienced to its hull a year prior to the Titanic's maiden voyage. Many posit that the Olympic was so severely impaired that it was no longer profitable. As a result, White Star Line supposedly 'switched' the Olympic with the Titanic and sent it to the bottom of the North Atlantic, abandoning their damaged vessel and collecting their insurance money.

This theory has so many undeniable flaws, but my favourite is that the Titanic's insurance money wasn't even nearly enough to cover the loss of the Olympic.

Reading about these unswaying theorists reminded me of a presentation that guest speaker Robert Cutting gave my school a few years ago. Mr. Cutting illustrated the convincing nature of conspiracies in a really effective way: by having our class of hyperactive pre-teens interact with one first-hand.

He brought in album covers, tape recorders, and photographs, and we spent the day evaluating the "Paul is Dead" theory.

If you've never heard of it, this highly-elaborate theory suggests that Paul McCartney, bassist and vocalist for the Beatles, was decapitated in a car crash on November 9, 1966. Following McCartney's death, the remaining band members are said to have replaced him with the winner of "a McCartney Look-Alike Contest," and kept the casualty under cover for years.

Sounds pretty outlandish, right?

That's what my class thought at first, too. After laying out the theory's groundwork, Mr. Cutting asked for a show of hands to see how many of us were convinced. We were all pretty skeptical, and no one's hand went up.

But after a full day of studying song lyrics, holding mirrors up to album covers, and listening to Beatles' tracks backwards, Mr. Cutting asked for another show of hands, and one by one our hands went up. I guess to a class of 12 year olds, this theory was mind-boggingly conclusive.

And theories about shipwrecks and rock musicians are relatively harmless. But there's a really sinister world of anti-Semitic and Illuminati conspiracies that has lasting ramifications for those who fall into its traps.

In order to understand why conspiracies are so dangerous, it's important to first discern where they come from.

One of my favourite blogs, Terra Incognita, has a series on the theology of Disney XD's 2012 cartoon, Gravity Falls. The blog discusses 'duping delight,' which is that innate, often uncontrollable thrill that comes with telling a lie and getting away with it. 'Duping delight' often manifests as a momentary smile or laugh in the midst of a fabricated story.

That's what makes conspiracies so psychologically compelling. They give us a secret to be a part of. They give us a sense of power over others.

They give us delight.

But once you've bought into a conspiracy theory, it becomes a closed feedback loop. Each piece of disproving evidence only ends up enforcing it more, and the stronger the argument against it, the stronger the incentive to be right.

And once you've fallen down a conspiratorial hole, it causes a domino effect of inevitable consequences.

Take Jim Keegstra's students for example. Jim Keegstra was a Canadian public school teacher who was convicted of hate speech and charged under the Criminal Code in 1984 for teaching his social studies class that the Holocaust was a fraud. His students had no reason to disbelieve his lessons, which used appalling language to describe Jewish people.

And not only is this nauseatingly offensive, but it also caused irreparable cognitive dissonance among his students.

When people tried to convince them that the education they received from their seemingly trustworthy school teacher was entirely deceptive, it undermined their ability to decipher true from false. His students are interviewed describing the years and years it took to rebuild their trust in reliable sources.

I think it's especially important to be mindful of the manipulative nature of conspiracies today, during the COVID-19 Pandemic. Almost 30% of Americans believe the coronavirus was manufactured artificially and intentionally.

And it isn't wrong to have thoughts or to make speculations. But it's so critical that we don't present those opinion as facts, and that we do our best to maintain an educated and unbiased perspective.

A newspaper was delivered to my house the other day that was full of anti-Chinese sentiments and Sinophobic articles regarding COVID-19. And I couldn't help but sympathize for the paper's vulnerable readers, who- like Jim Keegstra's students- were being manipulated by a seemingly trustworthy source.

When a conspiracy is not approached cautiously, we become defenseless to its influence.

And that's why a conspiracy theory is a hole you don't want to fall down.

But something you may not know is that Bjorn Ulvaeus and Anne-Frid Lyngstad both made the list, each with a networth of $300 million.

Surely you've heard of Ulvaeus and Lyngstad, the lead singer and the producer of Swedish pop-rock supergroup Abba. But if you've been living under a rock for the past 48 years, Abba (which is an acronym for each of the four members' first names) is a highly distinguished band formed in 1972 that quickly became one of the most commercially successful groups in the history of pop music.


And although their popularity peaked in the mid 70's, Abba is timeless, and holds lasting relevance almost half a century later. Even those who claim to be Abba-haters can't help but sing along to Dancing Queen or tap their toe to Take a Chance when it comes on the radio.

Each of their songs (which range in style from disco to slow blues to Broadway-esque show tunes) are masterfully rendered, and have something new and enticing to reveal with each listening.

Does Your Mother Know

Along with their wide range of genres, I think one of the reasons Abba's songs translate so easily into a Broadway show is because of the narrative element of their lyrics (which amazingly, they wrote and performed before they even spoke English.)

Take the story behind Dancing Queen for instance: a girl who's a little too "young and sweet" goes into a club that's a little too mature, looking to have some fun on a Friday night.

But after a couple of months of listening to nothing but Abba, I started formulating theories about another one of their hits: Does Your Mother Know. Sung by one of Abba's male leads, Does Your Mother Know tells of an older man advising a free-spirited girl to "take it easy."

If you think about it, Dancing Queen and Does Your Mother Know are two different takes of the exact same story.

That's one of the things I love about Abba's lyrics. Not only are the stories captivating, but they also open up the opportunity to connect and interpret them through your own perspective, and sometimes through the viewpoint of your own experiences.

And when you delve deeper into the history of the band members, the source of their alluring lyrics become evident. From their struggles with poverty to abusive parents to marital trials, their songs have a plaintive quality that comes from a very real, authentic place.

Kisses of Fire

In my opinion, Abba are some of the most masterful writers of compelling melodies in all of pop history.

For example Kisses of Fire- the B-side of Does Your Mother Know- has a melody that keeps listeners engaged right from the first note. You think you can predict exactly where the melody is going, but it ends up turning in completely unexpected directions.

What starts as a lyrical ballad turns into an up-tempo pop number, and then gradually adjusts into a poignant soul song

And yet somehow, each individual note falls into place, and by the time it's over, the whole piece feels like a complete unit.

Super Trouper 

But in the case of Super Trouper, the harmonies are created exclusively by female voices, and the shorter distance between each line causes for really tight, crisp harmonies. Not to mention the airy and almost angelic timbre of the female voices.

All of Abba's harmonies are so distinct because of the creative application their two vocal leads' similar ranges.

About a year ago, I took a rather impulsive trip to my local Home Depot to buy some houseplants. I knew next to nothing about plants, but returned that evening with a succulent, a bag of potting soil, and a lot of enthusiasm.

And it didn't take long for me to fully immerse myself into "plant-culture." My leafy family is constantly growing (both in size and members) and it's one of the most prosperous parts of my life.

Or in other words: I've become completely plant-obsessed.


I'm sure you've heard of the physical benefits of houseplants. They're natural air purifiers, and rid houses of the toxic chemicals found in paint, cigarettes, vinyl, and cleaning solutions. They can also balance humidity and temperature levels, and as a result, people with houseplants suffer less respiratory problems, dry coughs, and sore throats.

Some plants have more easily discernible benefits. Aloe vera are medicinal succulents with anti-inflammatory properties. I'm always using the gel of my aloe plant to treat sunburns and mosquito bites, and it works unexpectedly well.

Other plants bear edible fruit, and still others are tasteful decoration.

But the impact my houseplants have had on my life-style stems from something much deeper than a room with clean air and a cute aesthetic.

Humans are created to nurture, cherish and connect with life. And there's something so rewarding about having a living community in your room whose existence coincides with your own. It's awe-inspiring to watch a seemingly helpless organism grow from a 3-inch sapling into something beautiful right in front of your very eyes.

And knowing that you played a part in that prosperity connects you to something bigger than yourself.

Each of my plants has its own name, story, and personality. A few months ago for example, my Nana gave me a shoot off her Balfour Aralia tree. For a while, my little sapling (that I named Baby Groot) was thriving. But when his leaves started losing their thick rubbery texture, I did some research.

I found out that Aralia trees are actually extremely resilient. The problem though, was that Baby Groot was putting all his energy and strength into reviving his dying limbs. I learned that if I were to cut him down from the trunk, he would actually grow back healthier than ever.

So I gave him a "haircut," and the results were dumbfounding. I cut him down to nothing and watched my tough little Aralia sprout grow back at an almost unbelievable rate.

And as absurd as it may seem, I think there are lessons to be learned in Baby Groot's resiliency and perseverance. And if we learn to step back and listen, there are similar lessons being taught throughout all of nature.

Keeping my potted plants is a simple way of accessing everything the environment has to say, and experiencing it first hand.

There are so many more unexpected ways my plants have improved my quality of life. I've started working with my blinds open, and letting a little more sunlight into my room. I've started using a calendar and following a schedule to make sure I'm watering them properly.

My own personal growth and prosperity has started paralleling the growth and prosperity of my plants.

Keeping my little organic family healthy and happy has given me a fulfilling purpose outside of my own needs.

And that's why keeping houseplants will change your life.