{"product_id":"cease-to-blush-isbn-9780679313236","title":"Cease to Blush","description":"\u003cb\u003eBillie Livingston’s second novel leads us to consider the nature of our hidden  lives and desires—and to question whether the sky would really fall if we admitted  our true needs and ceased to blush.\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e As \u003ci\u003eCease to Blush\u003c\/i\u003e opens, Vivian is late to  her own mother’s funeral. Wearing a tight red suit, Vivian stands out like a pornographer’s dream amongst the West Coast intellectuals mourning the death of prominent feminist  Josie Callwood. But for all of her bravado, Vivian finds herself emotionally numb  and spiraling downward. Vivian and her mother were in constant conflict, with Josie  disapproving of her daughter’s lifestyle; her inclination to use her body instead  of her brain, and her so-called acting career, which has amounted to little more  than playing prostitutes and the odd dead body. For her part Vivian has been invested  in antagonizing her mother’s feminist ideology. As the story opens Vivian’s career,  as well as her relationship with boyfriend Frank, is taking an unsavoury turn as  she wades into the quick cash scheme of Internet porn with herself cast in the lead.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e But Josie has left a big surprise for her troubled daughter: a trunk full of mementoes  from her own past, all of which point to a secret life more exotic than anything  Vivian has been able to pull off. Puzzling together bits and pieces, Vivian learns  that her mother was at one time a burlesque performer named Celia Dare who rubbed  shoulders with the flashiest celebrities of the sixties. Vivian becomes determined  to uncover the true story of her mother’s life.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Chasing rumours, Vivian sets off  down the Pacific coast and soon finds out that truth is a slippery snake. With only  a few of her mother’s letters, some guarded anecdotes from Josie’s former confidant  and a slew of books about the sixties, Vivian begins to re-create her mother’s life,  placing her at the heart of some of the biggest events and scenes of the era. From  the protests and beat coffeehouses of Haight-Ashbury to the frenzied nightlife of  Rat Pack Vegas, from the political soirées of New York to mob meetings in glitzy  Miami hotels, Celia Dare saw and did it all. Yet the glamour hid an ugly underbelly,  and as Vivian peels away the layers of the past she begins to uncover her own emotional  truths as well.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003eCease to Blush\u003c\/i\u003e drives the bumpy road from the burlesque stages  of Rat Pack Vegas to the bedroom Internet porn business, exploring just how far women  have really come. In Vivian, Livingston has created the perfect character through  which to explore what it means to be an independent woman today; with Celia\/Josie,  it’s clear that things weren’t so cut and dry in her day either. Though Celia’s story  is told vividly here, its accuracy is impossible to gauge and the ghosts are not  talking. But maybe this is Celia’s gift to Vivian: the ability of the past not only  to illuminate the future, but to re-imagine it.“Brazen, fast and wickedly smart, Billie Livingston knocks every gender stereotype  you’ve ever held dear on its ass. Suspenseful and knowing, this novel unveils all  the painful bits, the hard knocks and sacrifices between mothers and daughters—how we make each other strong.” \u003cbr\u003e —Lisa Moore, author of \u003ci\u003eAlligator\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “\u003ci\u003eCease to Blush\u003c\/i\u003e,  by poet and novelist Billie Livingston, is an immensely readable tale of two women:  Vivian Callwood, erstwhile model and actress, and her mother Josephine, a famous  feminist academic. These are not the gals on the Mother’s Day cards; this relationship  is a bitter blend of hopes unmet, expectations defied, and approval withheld.” \u003cbr\u003e —\u003ci\u003eBooks in Canada\u003cbr\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Provocative but wildly fun, [Livingston’s] second novel ably depicts  the frustratingly circular route womankind has taken over the last 50 years, from  a world where Barbara Billingsley vacuumed in pearls to one where Jessica Simpson  vacuums in panties. . . .\u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003eCease to Blush\u003c\/i\u003e is proof that issue fiction is still being written,  and very well too.” \u003cbr\u003e —\u003ci\u003eThe Globe and Mail\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“\u003ci\u003eCease to Blush\u003c\/i\u003e is a well-crafted, thought-provoking  novel about where women’s beauty and vanity can take them and how a person’s exterior  can hide an unknown story.” \u003cbr\u003e —\u003ci\u003eVancouver Sun\u003cbr\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “With \u003ci\u003eCease to Blush\u003c\/i\u003e, Livingston  has made her rep as one of the most dangerous writers you will ever be lucky enough  to encounter.” \u003cbr\u003e —\u003ci\u003eThe Vancouver Review\u003cbr\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Livingston writes beautifully, even soulfully  and \u003ci\u003eCease to Blush\u003c\/i\u003e is her best work to date.” \u003cbr\u003e —\u003ci\u003eJanuary Magazine\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003eBILLIE LIVINGSTON is a Canadian novelist, short story writer, essayist, and poet. She is the author of the critically acclaimed novels \u003ci\u003eGoing Down Swinging\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eCease to Blush\u003c\/i\u003e, and \u003ci\u003eOne Good Hustle\u003c\/i\u003e, which was longlisted for the Giller Prize, nominated for the Canadian Library Association's Young Adult Book Award, and named a best book of the year by \u003ci\u003eThe Globe and Mail. \u003c\/i\u003eShe is also the author of \u003ci\u003eGreedy Little Eyes\u003c\/i\u003e, a short story collection that won the Danuta Gleed Literary Award and the CBC's Bookie Award; \u003ci\u003eThe Crooked Heart of Mercy\u003c\/i\u003e, a novel; and \u003ci\u003eThe Chick at the Back of the Church\u003c\/i\u003e, a poetry collection for which Livinston won the Pat Lowther award. Her short story, \"Sitting on the Edge of Marlene,\" has been adapted as a feature film. In 2017, Livingston received the Writers' Trust Engel\/Findley Award \"in recognition of a remarkable body of work, and in anticipation of future contributions to Canadian literature.\"As we pulled up to the curb I could see them a little ways off, gathered around the grave like long black shadows. The sky was the blue of a cheap ­paint-­by-­number. Leonard tugged his door handle to get out. Sitting in the passenger side, I squinted behind sunglasses and sipped my vodka tonic from a travel ­mug.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Viv?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Let me be for a minute.” I reached up and shoved the sun visor, pulled it so it blocked the ripping afternoon glare. “Wish to hell it had rained today.” Contrary to its ceiling now, the city’s floor was one big sog after an onslaught of rain falling in sheets and drizzles and sheets again. Today was the first sunny one in three weeks. Timing is everything. Len sighed, closed his ­door.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI had shown up at his apartment an hour ago so we could head out together. His building is less than a block from mine. Len liked my mother. She liked him too, as much as she was capable of liking a guy. Frank, on the other hand, didn’t care for my mother, which was appropriate because she loathed him. She had loathed my choices in lovers pretty much across the ­board.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Wow. Bright,” Len had said at first sight of the ­stoplight-­red skirt and jacket I chose for the occasion. He was wearing his navy suit, a little beat up, shiny in spots, the only one he owned. I always thought if I won the lottery, the first thing I’d do is take Len shopping. Len deserves the things he can’t ­afford.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I need a drink. Have you got anything?” I stood in his living room, clenching and unclenching, gulping breaths and heaving them out like ­garbage.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Ah–” he touched at his suit as if patting himself down for cigarettes “–sure. I think we’re running a little late though.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMy hands jumped to shore off demands and questions, flicked him off toward the kitchen. “We’re already too late. It’s a funeral.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eUnscrewing a bottle from the cupboard over his stove, he stopped on the verge of pouring. “Scotch or vodka?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Vodka.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe rescrewed the cap and grabbed another bottle, poured. “What the hell,” he muttered and poured a shot in a second glass. Dumped tonic in both. I sat on the couch and gawked straight ahead at the blank wall. He’d painted over the mural that had been there ­before.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Hair of a mongrel, madam?” He handed me the drink and I looked some more at the nothing in front of me. Yesterday there was ­floor-­to-­ceiling rendition of Leonardo da Vinci’s Vitruvian Man. Now it was blank with eggshell white. He must’ve done it after I left last ­night.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“What’s with the blank wall?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHis brows hopped. Off my blank stare he said, “Come on, you’ve been drunker. Last night. You kept bitching about it.” He swapped his tone for a whiny shrewish imitation of mine. “I\u003ci\u003e hate that ugly ­Spider-­Man with his dink hanging out\u003c\/i\u003e.” He shrugged. “I want to do something else there anyway–You sat right there while I painted over it.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI nodded. Last night I had wanted to drink myself to tears as though the tangibility of drunken rivulets might shove me past the gauzy void, up against some nice flinty edge. But it was more like anaesthetizing a corpse. Part of me had an urge to turn the stove on high and slap my hand on the burner and part of me thought, Christ, millions are doping themselves up with antidepressants every day to get this sensation, maybe I got a good thing ­going.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Frank never showed up this morning,” I ­said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe looked at his watch. “Where is he?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I don’t know. Probably still in bed, jerking off to porn.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Ach . . .” Leonard raised his hand against the image. “Please.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLen’s a bit precious when it comes to things too raw in the sex department. When we were eighteen, out of curiosity we rented \u003ci\u003eDeep Throat\u003c\/i\u003e. I was no virgin but still sat with my face screwed up in skepticism: “Gross, he can’t stick it in there.” “Girls don’t have clits in their throats either.” Len, meanwhile, clutched his head like a Vietnam vet experiencing flashback, shock searing its way though his frontal lobe. I suggested we ­fast-­forward to the story part. There was no story part. We pressed eject. Len rolled a joint and sketched my feet the rest of the ­afternoon.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Don’t you think it’s just this side of obscene not to accompany your girlfriend to her mother’s fucking funeral?” I ­asked.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“You told him you didn’t want him there. At least that’s what you said last night. They didn’t like each other, you said, so why put on a big phony show.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI stared into my glass and sloshed the fizz around. “He should want to be there for me.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“What?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTaking a gulp, I looked past him to the blank wall again. “So, what are you going to paint there. Did we decide?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“How ’bout I paint you?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“You’re done then. It’s a masterpiece of ­photo-­realism.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLeonard slid the pads of his fingertips up and down the steering wheel. When he finally spoke again it was to remind me, “She never liked this car.” I’d tossed my keys to Len feeling too shaky to drive. He tapped at the ­push-­button ­transmission.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“She thought it looked like some old Valiant she sold when she first moved here,” I said. “And she didn’t like the colour.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMy car is black. Like the guy I bought it off. Though he had a kind of ­pimped-­out affectation he was actually a student\/actor I’d met on set. He was about to drive back home to New Orleans, when he decided to sell the car and fly instead. I hadn’t made up my mind whether the car was my style or not and met up with him on campus to have lunch and another look. He was flirtatious but I wasn’t much interested. Then, outside the Student Union Building, we ran into my mother. Between the guy and the car – the look on her face.","brand":"Vintage Canada","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46304137380069,"sku":"NP9780679313236","price":21.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780679313236.jpg?v=1767723511","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/cease-to-blush-isbn-9780679313236","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}