January 11th, 2011

Rose-coloured reviews *The Mysteries of Pittsburgh* by Michael Chabon

I was quite impressed by Michael Chabon’s later books, The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay and especially Wonder Boys–such wild and different novels,original, weird and very funny. So when I found a used copy of his first book, The Mysteries of Pittsburgh and found it completely covered in exclamations of delight from various reviewers, I thought I couldn’t miss enjoying it.

I missed.

Don’t get me wrong–there’s a reason why The New York Times, Los Angeles Times, Village Voice, Cosmopolitan and Playboy wrote blurbable raves about this book–“Astonishing,” “remarkable,” “extraordinary” and all the rest, it’s a linguistically gleeful, almost acrobatic novel, and I took real pleasure in the flights of language throughout. On almost any page you’ve find something like, “In the big, posh, and stale lobby of the Duquesne Hotel–in a city where some men, like my father, still wear felt hats–one can still get one’s hair cut, one’s shoes shined, and buy a racing form or a Tootsie Roll.” Or how about, “He stood up, inhaled deeply, and cried, ‘Ah, the sweet piss odor of cedar!'”

There’s a real flare for sentences here that goes much deep than fireworks–the images make sense as long as you care to think about them, and the metaphors are joyous and flamboyant, but true at the core. And oh, what an evocation, a mythologization of Pittsburgh–that’s the main thing I loved about this book. Pittsburgh seemed a magical and beloved place–interesting that the narrator was supposed to have lived there only 4 years, because he seemed to have known and loved it forward. And yet some mysteries never get solved, and I loved that about this urban dream, too–cities are just too big to ever know anything about them.

So what didn’t I love? The plot, I guess, and its various machinations. Art Bechstein is graduating from university, about to start working in a bookstore and have one last magical summer before he buckles down to some unknown serious grownup career. While working on his last academic paper, he meets a guy at the library who tries to flirt with him. Art politely turns him down, and they become friends. The new guy, also named Arthur (this worked just fine, much better than you’d think) draws him into an exciting, glamourous world of new friends and various sexual imbroglios, money and power.

Well, that’s how it’s set up and marketed. In truth, it’s a profoundly episodic novel, with characters making centre-stage appearances for pages on end, only to never be seen again. This happens in the first clangourous party that Arthur takes Art to–it seemed so intense that it all must mean something, but it was just a set-piece; Chabon could write a good party scene, so he did so. Even this girl, glimpsed on the back lawn of the party after a long search for her: “She stood alone in the dim centre of the huge yard, driving imperceptible balls all across the neighbourhood. As we clunked down the wooden steps to the quiet crunch of grass, I watched her stroke. It was my father’s ideal: a slight, philosophical tilt to her neck, her backswing a tacit threat, her rigid, exultant follow-through held for one aristocratic fraction of a second too long.”

Wow. Doesn’t it break your heart to know that this character, Jane, hangs around until the end of the book without doing anything else interesting ever again? In her one other big scene, she makes a salad.

Virtuosic writing for its own sake annoys me. I can’t be called plot-obsessed, but I’d like what’s on the page to deepen my understanding of character, setting, mood, something. There is a heavy plot running through the final third of the book, to do with the mafia (I’m not spoiling anything) and another with Arthur’s wildly annoying new girlfriend, Phlox (yes, really). I could be in a sensitive mood, but I felt that women didn’t fare too well in this novel–Chabon is well-known for his intimate understanding of men, and perhaps in his early days it was at the expense of understanding women. Phlox felt more like a scrap heap of wild outfits, quotations, beauty tricks and tears. A whole novel reading about her, and when she writes in a letter towards the end, “There’s only one place in the world where you are supposed to put your penis–inside of me,” I couldn’t tell if any spark of humour intended by character, or by author.

I was truly baffled by how the plot wrapped up at the end of the book, and though I don’t know much about the mafia in Pittsburgh, what I could understand struck me as terribly unlikely. Though I realized about midway through the book that the narrator was being constructed as unreliable, I wasn’t able to glean anything from that fact other than that the narrator was unreliable. In the great unreliably voiced books (*A Prayer for Owen Meaney* or *Money,* or even *The Great Gatsby,* which inspired this one) the absence of “truth” in the narration allows the readers to solve their own riddles, or create their own truth. But what can we do with the fact that Art never mentions having one friend–even a friendly acquaintance–that he did not meet after page 1 of this book. Are we to suppose that Art the narrator elides these memories as too painful or difficult? Or that Michael the writer couldn’t be bothered to write characters who existed prior to page 1?

I read the bookclub notes at the back (I have a 2001 edition, after Chabon was famous for *Kavalier and Clay*) and as an apology for having had wild ambitions for the breadth and amazingness of this novel, Chabon says, “Twenty-two, I was twenty-two!” But somehow he doesn’t see that as being inherent in the text itself; I think it is. I think this is a wild brilliant first effort from an author that had not really learned to marshal himself, to be true to his characters and his stories, and not just to his own writing. Later on, he did learn those things. So you should probably read this book–it’s got a lot to recommend it–but you should definitely read those later ones.

This is my first book for the Roofbeam Reader challenge
Off the Shelf. 11 to go!

January 5th, 2011

A couple reading challenges

So my main reading challenge this year will be Steven W. Beattie’s from That Shakespearian Rag, which boils down to:

“…why don’t we all try to read better: to be more sensitive, expansive readers, to enter more deeply into the text, to actively engage with books on an intellectual, aesthetic, and linguistic level. Let’s try to focus less on the quantity of our reading and more on the quality. Who knows? By slowing down a bit, you might even find you’re enjoying yourself more.”

Which is absolutely right, and something we should all be doing all the time. Except for those who get paid to read (academics and reviewers, I guess), there is no other reason to read except for the joy of the story, of the new information, new ideas. And I for one tend to lose those things when I read too quickly, ending up being able to say of the book, “Well, I read it.” Much as I do tend to be seduced by the pleasure of making tidy entries in my book journal and on Goodreads, no one cares *at all* how many books I read. So I’m going to follow Steven’s pledge to read in the now, with no goal in mind other than the text itself.

*However,* the real reason I’ve never done a book challenge is that I’m not organized enough, and I get sad when I have to read things I don’t like or am not interested in. However, there’s a challenge this year for something I’ve been wanting to do anyway–so by entering the challenge, I can follow my own path but still have company–yay!!

I found the To Be Read Challenge on Nathalie Foy’s lovely blog, and it seems ideal for me.

All you have to do is “To finally read 12 books from your “to be read” pile, within 12 months.” I’m superstoked to read these books that I’ve long looked forward to and somehow never managed to read, and I’ve already started reading the first one. If you are interested in joining me, the deadline’s been extended until January 15, and full details are at the link above. Here’s my list:

*The Mysteries of Pittsburgh* by Michael Chabon
*Jenny and the Jaws of Life* by Jincy Willett
*The Anxiety of Everyday Objects* by Aurelie Sheehan
*An Abundance of Katherines*by John Green
*Inventory* by Dionne Brand
*Real Life* by Sharon Butala
*A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius* by David Eggers
*Snow Crash* by Neal Stephenson
*Away from Her* Alice Munro (yeah, yeah, I got the movie paperback)
*London Fields* by Martin Amis
*Tell Your Sister* by Andrew Daley
*Songs for the Missing* by Stewart O’Nan

Two alternates–in case I wind up hating one of the above enough not to finish it:
*Little Eurekas* by Robyn Sarah
*Subways are for Sleeping* by Edmund G. Love

December 30th, 2010

2010, I hardly knew ye

Tomorrow I plan to spend lying on a couch (possibly, in the course of the day, several couches) reading, napping, possibly eating candy–happy new year’s to me! So I have to wrap up 2010 tonight, blogwise, anyway.

Blogwise, 2010 was an excellent year, with my lovely new site from Create Me This and many lovely friendly readers to comment on, discuss, refute, and reassess my rantings. Thanks to all who did any of the above, or simply read the blog. I write Rose-coloured because my thoughts get lonely in the quiet inside my brain. Thank you for being friends with my thoughts and, in many cases, with me.

Obviously, I am exhausted and have a stupid cold; otherwise the above might have made a little more sense. Thus, I am going to refrain from making a top books–or a top anything–list for 2010. I read 73 books this year, which is a lot for me, so I’m content to brag about it and let it go at that. Counting is a lot easier than rating. Back before I got sick, though, I did make a couple contributions to Maisonneuve’s Best Books of 2010, which is a great list overall, and one I urge you to check out.

At some point in January, I will make some resolutions. That’s a process I usually love, but maybe I’ve overdone it on the introspection with Reverb, or maybe it’s just the cold stomping on my morale, but I am not feeling to resolution-love this year. I hope to make a comeback on that front shortly.

Other 2010 stuff? Well, Best Canadian Stories 2010 is out from Oberon now (but not on their website), including a reprint of my story “Sweet” from Canadian Notes and Queries summer issue.

And, um, it really was a great year–I had a good time, it’s only tonight that I feel lousy. Here’s to good times and good health in 2011–see you on the other side!!

December 5th, 2010

Reverb Day 4

I’m still trying to catch up on Reverb. Here’s prompt 4–

Wonder. How did you cultivate a sense of wonder in your life this year? (Author: Jeffrey Davis)

Uh, to be honest, this one’s a little crunchy for me. I mean, I always try hard to look for things to be happy about (hence the name of this blog) but that’s not specific to this year…

Oh, I know–I joined a women’s writing salon and a book club. Both these groups exposed me to wonder by exposing me to a wide range of smart, funny, engaged people who are not necessarily my close personal friends who care about the same things I do, without necessarily agreeing with me about how best to care. Sometimes, writing and reading alone in a garret, it is easy to believe that one is the last insightful being on the planet–or at least one and one’s personal friends are. It is wonderful to be reminded again and again that this isn’t so.

November 22nd, 2010

Rose-coloured reviews *He’s Just Not That into You* (book and film)

The premise behind the self-help book and romantic comedy film, He’s Just Not That Into You is that women are socialized to look frenetically for any shred of male affection, and to believe in it where none exists, and this is a formula for vulnerability, sadness, and occasional humiliation. It’s funnier than it sounds.

The first time I saw the movie, I thought it an above-average romantic comedy. It’s in the same vein (but not as charming/more realistic) as Love Actually, with a half-dozen loosely connected couples struggling to find happiness. Chronic romantic loser Gigi (Ginnifer Goodwin) is willing to do anything for love, but her desperate attempts at flirting always go awry. The only thing man-related thing she’s really good at is analyzing them with her office mates, Janine and Beth, both of whom have their own problems. Janine’s problems are with her home renovations and her husband, Ben; Beth’s are with her engaged sister and her unwilling-to-marry boyfriend. Then Ben strikes up a fliration with a girl named Anna, who was already involved in a weird sexless romance with real-estate agent Conor. Anna’s friend Mary works at a gay newspaper and the film’s only major point about her is that the homosexual guys in Anna’s office offer the same kind of very p0sitive but useless romantic advice that Gigi, Janine, and Beth offer each other.

It’s all very confusing, but you don’t have to know who is related to whom to understand that all the women are lying to themselves and each other when they pursue men: “He’s totally into you” “I know he’s going to call” “You just have to give him a little encouragement” “You just have to be patient” “You should give him a little space” etc., etc. Women–so sweet, so giving, so kind–so eager to believe in love that they’ll believe almost anything. My gender does not come off very well in this film, but most of the performances are surprisingly nuanced.

Gigi suffers a series of standups and humiliations, and during one she meets Alex, a male bartender with no interest in sugarcoating the truth–he tells her that if a guy likes her, he’ll show it; everything else is just delusion. This starts Gigi on the road to some dignity, but it’s a tough road, because she eventually develops the theory that it’s *Alex* that’s into her. It’s complicated, but she’s sweet, he’s sweet, they hook it up by the final frames. Hope I’m not spoiling too much for you–it is a romantic comedy after all.

The central Gigi-Alex relationships hews to that rom-com formula, but the others are more various, and a bit truer to the core of the very depressing book–which is that women put up with too much and ask for too little in the quest for love. I read the book after enjoying the film, hoping it’d be funny in the same vein, and it is…but it made me really sad too. The titular comment is followed by “if” statements–if he doesn’t call, doesn’t compromise, doesn’t care… The first few chapters were empathizable and at the same time wince-worthy: who hasn’t assumed she wrote her email address down wrong, or checked the phone for a dial tone? (for a great, cringey depiction of such behaviour, try Amy Jones’s new story, Atikokan Is for Lovers. But the book points out all kinds of other stuff women excuse in men: from calling her fat to flirting with others, it gets pretty painful in the text version JKMTiY, and I was sort of a wreck when I finished it. My poor sisters!

Ironically, I felt the movie did a better job than the book of showing why ladies feel the need to put up with anything to land a man. The social pressures that women feel to be in a relationship before they can have the home they want, or be accepted by their families, or just to get that big lavish wedding are experienced by various main and secondary characters, in ways that you sympathize with–or at least, I did. I am neither smart nor patient enough to get into all the various story tendrils, but to just cover one more, I thought Jennifer Connelly’s portrayl of Janine–the only married woman in the bunch–was the most touching in the film. Janine is basically a tight-assed home-renovation nut, who eggs poor Gigi to get herself married off though Janine is not particularly enjoying marriage herself–and her husband certainly isn’t. When Ben admits to Janine–in a big box home supply store–“I slept with someone,” Janine clenches with rage. However, she only gets to wield her anger for about 30 seconds, because when Ben announces that he’ll move out, the woman is back in the position of supplicant, pleading, “Don’t you want to…work it out?” Because he cares less than she does, Ben’s admission of guilt poses less threat to him than to her.

The best moment in the movie–or any rom-com I’ve seen in a while, come to that–is when Janine discovers another layer to Ben’s deception and finally loses it. She’s at home alone, and smashes a mirror in her perfect bedroom. Then she seems to go limp for a moment, walks out of the room, then returns with a broom and dustpan, to clean up the mess while she continues to weep.

The movie is of course limited by it’s genre–even if the rhetoric around finding love is broken, romantic love is still the one and only answer. No one seems to be at all interested in their jobs, let alone to have any interests outside of work, and though friends and family are supportive, what they are supportive of is the quest for love. When Gigi decides not to concentrate on hooking up on Saturday night, she spends it alone watching brat-pack movies. In rom-com world, no one but single men want anything to do with a single woman on Saturday night–and there aren’t even any decent movies at the rental place.

I would definitely say watch the movie if you like this genre–it’s lots of fun (and Ben Affleck has a boat!) I’m not sure I recommend the book unless you are a woman prone to getting jerked around by men and don’t know why. Even then, I’m not sure it would help–I’m not sure many women are as deluded as the ones depicted therein. But I worry I’m wrong, and I was basically reduced to a puddle of woe by the book, albeit with a sad little feminist fist in the air. But then I got to call my beloved to relate said woe, so I’m not in ideal position to judge.

November 18th, 2010

Bookish music

I think I’ve done a post like this in the past, but I don’t remember so it’s like it never happened–let’s start over! While Mark takes on the rock’n’roll novel, I’d like to  look at the literary song!

I’ve actually been meaning to do this for a while now, but literary songs are hard to spot–you really have to sit down and listen. The problem is–as usual–metaphors. People use the acts of reading and writing, and the physical objects of books, as metaphors for all kinds of “feelings” and “relationships”! You think you’ve got some lovely literary tune, and it turns out to be about love or something. Neither Elvis Costello’s Every Day I Write the Book nor the Magnetic Fields’ The Book of Love is about an actual book (though that Merit fellow is bloody clever in making you think so). Even less literary are songs about writing that isn’t a real book even in it’s literal form, like diaries, or even not a book at all, like letters.

In the above examples, even what writing there is is pure metaphor–I don’t get the feeling an actual pen was ever involved. You know what song always makes think of someone at a desk? Famous Blue Raincoat by Leonard Cohen. Though a song (formerly a poem, I think) it has the exact pace and tone–even the rhythm–of the best things I get in the post (it’s good when Jennifer Warnes sings it, too).

My favourite litsy songs are actually literature–lyrics that are smart or funny or thoughtful or, even better, all three. Still, I wouldn’t want to listen to Loreena McKennit’s “Lady of Shalott” every day. More accessible, and yet stranger, are REM’s songs about stories and poems–they don’t sing them, they reimagine them, and sing their imaginings. Back to Mr. Cohen, REM explores his song/poem Suzanne, both the words and the tune, in their trippy wonderful song “Hope” (what? why can’t I find a link for that? also, I don’t know where the alligators come from). I also adore their investigation (no other word for it) of Shirley Jackson’s short story The Lottery in the song “Falls to Climb,” which gets weirder and more interesting the more you listen to it. Unfortunately, I can’t find a link to the REM version–all that’s on the web, it seems, are terrible covers I can’t be responsible for bringing into your life. But you should hear that one if you can. (And whoever the person was who explained that song to me–I think it was a blog reader–should remind me of his or her identity, since I remain grateful.)

Sometimes I think a song is about writing or reading, but I’m not sure. I guess that’s the nature of pop music. Like, these lyrics:

Now I’m hunched over a typewriter
I guess you’d call that paintin’ in a cave
And there’s a word I can’t remember
And a feeling I cannot escape
And now my ashtray’s overflowin’
I’m still starin’ at a clean white page
Oh and morning’s at my window
She is sending me to bed again

Now that’s as apt a description of the writing life as I’ve seen, but it’s from Bright Eyes’ Another Travelling Song, which is pretty much adamant in its title that it is not a writing song. The rest is about driving and cell phones and maybe child abuse? I’m not sure…it’s a really good song though.

And then there’s stuff where I *feel* like I relate, but I actually don’t have a clue. Like “Language City” by Wolf Parade sounds promising, but what is it actually about? “Language city is a bad old place / we all know / our eyeballs float in space / we all know / we were tired / we can’t sleep / it’s crowded here / others leave / Language City don’t mean a thing / to me.” Yep, not a clue–though the refrain, “All this work just to tear it down” does sound familiar.

This is my favour sort of puzzle–books, music, pointless theorizing–so if you’ve got some litsy music to recommend, please share!

November 10th, 2010

Rose-coloured reviews the Giller Prize show

I have not watched an awards ceremony on tv since…whenever the first time Steve Martin hosted the Oscars (ah, 2001! thanks, wikipedia). I thought it would be fun because I like Steve Martin, but I hadn’t seen any of the films, got bored almost immediately and gave up. As a child, I liked watching the Tonys, but only for the musical numbers.

Historically, I’ve taken little interest in the Giller Prize, for similar reasons—I had rarely read any of the books, no musical numbers, not even Steve Martin. But this year a number of authors I admire—and books I love—appeared on the list, and it suddenly had something to do with me.

I have to say, good as the nominees are, I have not found following the Giller run-up especially rewarding. I liked seeing This Cake Is For the Party flash randomly on the tv while I ran on the treadmill at my gym, and Steven Beattie’s five reviews are always interesting, but the Giller pledge? A seemingly drunken conversation in the Globe about how everyone under 40 is an idiot? I think a lot of stuff went on on tv, which I don’t have except randomly at the gym, which might have been more entertaining.

But I did want to watch the ceremony, so Mark (cableless) found us a home containing the three necessary elements—a functioning tv, cable, and a resident who didn’t mind watching the ceremony.

I gotta say, the CTV/Bravo folks (I didn’t know they were the same until this event) worked really hard. The show was exactly one hour, unlike the long rambling Oscars. Of course, it helps that they had only one award to give away. Mark and I briefly fantasized that perhaps there would be equivalents of the Oscars’ sound and lighting awards—stuff for book design and editorial work—but of course there wasn’t. Maybe next year.

The host—a Michael J. Fox-ish news anchor who was very charming but who made such intense constant eye contact with the camera his pupils seemed dialated—kept things moving at a good clip. Each book was introduced by a famous person who I had never seen in the flesh before, so I kept exclaiming “That’s what Anne Murray/Barbara Amiel Black/Jim Cuddy looks like?” The famous folks were non-literary except for one past winner, but all did admirable teleprompted jobs describing plot and character. Then there was a mini-movie about each author, showing them strolling around town with their partners and kids and talking about writing. Intercut with that was interviews with the judges, who described what was awesome about the book.

I’m not sure if I should admit this, but I really liked the personal stuff. Most of it had nothing to do with the books, but it was all very sweet and interesting. One relevant bit I especially liked how David Bergen’s university-student son described how he tried to challenge his dad with his philosophical readings, and that had ended up in the book. Some of it—especially the shots of each writer writing—was lame-o, but on the whole pretty tasteful.

After the little movie, the author was called to the stage. I was confused by this—were they going to give a reading?—but no, they were just given little leatherbound books with the Giller rose on them (what were they?), embraced by the presenter, and sent back to their seats. I guess it was a chance to show off their party cloths (wow, everyone looked good—how does a writer know where to buy and how to wear an evening gown? Does the Giller committee have people to help with that?)

I was surprised that there was so much talk about the books, but no readings. I had thought that’s what the authors were going up there for, or perhaps the presenters would do it, but no. Surely the books are the point of it all, and these talented folks’ actual prose would be much more interesting than the back-flap-chat summaries offered instead. I wonder why no readings…? Especially when so much time was lavished before and after commercials on showing the authors standing against a white screen, answering weird questions very badly. Almost all the clips involved them saying the questions were hard or impossible to answer, and that’s what was kept *in*. I wonder what they cut??

In truth, it wasn’t a very literary evening, even though the host kept exhorting viewers—with increasing anxiety, I felt—to read the books. It was really a sales-y style they used, mentioning the Giller effect and actually showing percentages of how much sales of past winners had increased with the win. I’m not sure what the point of that was, but if I was Linden McIntyre, I’d resent being called Mr. 710%, as he was last night. Isn’t it “The books sold so much because they’re awesome” not “The books are awesome because they sold so much”—right?

Those of us in the peanut gallery fell into decidedly non-literary behaviour, exclaiming over people’s clothing and what might be wrong with Barbara Amiel Black’s head (our hostess explained probably Botox). And then Johanna Skibsrud won, which I think was a big surprise to most, but a pleasant one. She was emotional, but still managed to give a good, clear, not-too-long speech. It was really worth the price of admission (well, we paid in Pirate cookies, but even more than that) to see Skibsrud’s sister crying with delight in the audience. That was lovely.

It was a pleasant evening and I’m glad I watched, though I don’t know that I’ll be in a desperate hurry to do so again. The emphasis on promoting Canadian authors in this show was a bit skewed—they’re only promoting five books. And the Giller pledge doesn’t make much sense and offends me in a way I can’t quite put a finger on—why do we have to promise? Can’t we put the books down if we get bored? And yes, I do think everyone should buy lots of Canadian books to keep our publishing industry going, but there was so much sales talk on this show, completely ignoring how much many people depend on the libraries systems, borrowing from friends, etc., and how that’s pretty good for the industry in its own way.

But then again, I don’t even know how to put on an evening dress, so I can’t really say.

September 20th, 2010

So Eden Mills was very good

Of course, you knew that, because it’s taken me a whole day to write this, so you’ve likely already read Kerry‘s or Mark‘s or someone’s accounts. So just to briefly recap: it was gorgeous out, the crowd was sizeable but not intimidating and full of cool people (Toronto Poetry Vendors! CoachHouse Books! Biblioasis! The New Quarterly! Etc!

The readings were stellar, the children were well behaved, and though I accidentally bought the wrong kind of hummus for our picnic, that was good too. Unfortunately, something insectal bit me during Stephen Heighton’s (excellent) reading and now I have a giant welt on the back of my thigh, but that was really the only downside.

Souvenirs (besides the welt) include a TPV copy of a Michael Lista poem and a copy of Alexander MacLeod’s Light Lifting, which got nominated for a Giller today! As if you weren’t already excited to go to his book launch tomorrow. See you there?

And, from the non-literary quadrant of my life, I arrived home to discover that one of my dearest friends has gotten engaged, and I am to be the maid of honour! I am honoured! Although, after googling my duties, slightly terrified. One thing I must do is help make boutenneres, which as turns out I can’t even spell. I always thought those were just flowers men put in their buttonholes…how would one “make” that? Oh dear. I promise there won’t be a lot of this sort of thing coming up on Rose-coloured, but…the issue might recur. Still, hooray for love!

September 15th, 2010

Once, 2 years ago

Today is Once‘s second birthday. This year has not been as whirlwindy as last, but I still feel everything I said on the first birthday. And I still get a little heartskip everytime I see the cover somewhere unexpected (like on a website, in a store, or at someone’s house), which does happen every so often.

Happy birthday, *Once*. Keep up the good work!

September 7th, 2010

Lit events

Guys, today is back to school and I am rife with envy! Where’s my fresh start, cartoon-printed lunchpail, adorable first-day outfit? Where are my new mountains to climb and new textbooks to deface? I am stuck here with the same old mountains and although I did receive a kind offer of a packed lunch, no one has taught me anything yet today, let alone bought me 500 crisp new sheets of Hilroy. Boo. September for a reformed schoolaholic is very tough.

At least the Toronto lit scene offers me some fun in September, and without the social lottery of locker assignment. I am referring of course to the beginning of fall book season, where new titles seem to come out every few days and there’s always a launch/reading/party to attend. The excitement over the new books and the fun of all the events helps to fill the void of knowing my beloved chem lab partner now lives in England and teaches grade 1, and we are all stupid grownups and no one ever passes me notes while trying not to giggle or make eye contact.

Ahem. At the end of this post, there will be a list of cool events that I am looking forward to in September. But first, because why not, a primer on Toronto litsy evenings, in case you are entering this heady world for the first time.

1. Find out what’s going on. You can a weekly digest of events through the Patchy Squirrel litserv, or read about them on Open Book Toronto. You can also follow individual writers or publishers you like on Facebook or Twitter or on their blogs–but I recommend also at least giving a glance at the general listings, as there might be stuff you want to see that you never thought to go looking for.

2. Don’t worry too much about the timing. I have rarely been to a book-related event that started when it said it would. Book folk never seem to write on the invite, “Doors 7:30, reading 8:00,” seeming to assume that everyone knows if it just says, “Reading 7:30” that’s 1/2 hour ahead. But theeven if the the event is actually scheduled to start at 8 (in some people’s minds, anyway) it will probably slide a bitfor mike issues, the reader running late, nerves, or because everyone doesn’t have their drink from the bar yet. If you come early, bring  a book–and don’t count on buying the thing being launched and reading that. The folks doing the merch table can run late, too.

3. Worry a little about the timing if you’d like to sit down. The thing that often surprises people about Toronto book events is that so many people show up and they get crowded, especially given that often the most genial (and affordable) venues are a little on the wee side. I think it’s super to see such a crush for books, but if it’s been a long day, sometimes I wish that things were a little less popular so that I could have a chair. That’s when I show up at the time actually listed on the invite.

4. Chat. I sometimes hear rumours, largely among people who have never been to one, that Toronto readings are somehow…not friendly? Which is nearly 100% contrary to my experience (there is an extremely short list of snarky things people have said to me at readings; unfortunately I have memorized said list). It’s scary to talk to strangers wherever you are, and it’s not like bookish people are automatically so incredibly nice, but most of them can manage a few lines of credible dialogue at the bar (“I love this poet/author. Have you read her stuff yet?” is a great place to start). And many bookish people *are* incredibly nice! If someone is a jerk to you, keep moving–it’s just that one dude. I also find readings pretty easy to attend alone–it’s not at all awkward to be by yourself at these things if that’s what you prefer. (For heaven’s sake, don’t chat during the reading!)

5. Pay what you can (and bring cash). Some readings and especially snazzier series have cover charges, which should be advertised clearly and pretty much (in my mind) get you off the moral hook for other purchases in the course of the evening. Many more cas readings just are Pay What You Can/pass the hat, and they do mean it. Put in what you can afford ($5 is awesome, but a loonie is still nice) and if you can’t afford anything, don’t sweat it. Believe me, writers and organizers are still glad you came to fill a spot with your friendly face and contribute to the energy and excitement of the event.

Hat-pass cash usually goes to the writers, so you might decide to just buy a book instead. At launches, there probably won’t be a hat or cover, so book-buying is your primary way to pay, if you so desire. Again, you should really feel zero pressure to purchase, but if you *do* want a book, try to remember to bring cash (though some launches are book-tabled by bookstores, and then they *might* have credit/debit machines). It’s silly to waste a chance to get a signature and a smile from the author and then go buy the book later and give Indigo or Amazon a cut.

Finally, buy beer/wine/jello shooters. No, this money doesn’t go to the writer, it goes to the venue, but that’s the venue’s incentive to host and keep hosting: a roomful of bookish drinkers on a Tuesday night. So if you are thirsty and able to afford it, drink up!

6. Compliment. I’m perhaps more needy than others, but I’m pretty sure there’s no one who *doesn’t* like to hear, “Hey, great reading,” even if they’re totally famous. And it might open the door to a conversation with an author you admire–I have certainly had some good ones that started there.

7. Stay late. I never do this, because I always need to get up early and save the world (note: sarcasm), but apparently some of these book parties rage long into the night. Go, stay late, and then tell me what I am missing.

Feel free to add to the list above with more advice and/or contradictions to what I’ve said. Also feel free to add to the list below if you know of more awesome upcomings we should be aware of.

Thursday September 9–Coachhouse Books Wayzgoose: A wayzgoose is a party given by the printer for the workers in the print shop, but Coachhouse extends it to all friends of the house. I’ve gone to this evening a few times and it’s always a delight: no readings, but an occasional speech, food and drink and tonnes of people. Pretty much the best party given in what is essentially an alleyway.

Sunday September 19–Eden Mills Writers Festival Six hours of reading, writers, sunshine and fun in a pretty little village outside of Guelph. This is not a TO event at all, it’s about an hour’s drive, but I know many of us city folks make the trek for the joy of listening to literature while sitting in the grass beside a little river.

Tuesday September 21–Launch for *Light Lifting* by Alexander MacLeod. I’ve been eager for this book since I heard Biblioasis was doing it–one of the stories, “The Miracle Mile” was in the Journey Prize collection that I helped adjudicate. I love that story. And I hear the launch will have music, too!

Saturday September 25–A reading with the Vagabond Trust, not yet posted on the interwebs, but reliably promised to actually occur. Featuring, among others, me!

Tuesday September 28–Launch of *Combat Camera* by AJ Somerset, 5th winner of the annual Metcalf-Rooke Award (a proud lineage). The event will be a staged interview with Russell Smith. I’m very excited about the whole affair.

And don’t even get me started on October!

Hope to see you guys at some of these. I’ll be the one eating a well-balanced snack out of a Ziploc.