September 18th, 2009
Smart does not equal serious
Here the thing, er, things:
This blog is pink.
I wear glitter to celebrate.
If you say something especially witty or interesting, I might clap (without irony).
I have strong thoughts on Sean Kingston (angry thoughts, but still).
I bake a lot of muffins.
I saw *I Love You Man* and didn’t regret it.
I eat things that fall on the floor.
Until recently, I owned a grape-scented Barbie doll, and when I gave away said doll, it was with a great deal of careful consideration.
I’m afraid of bats, cabdrivers, having too many items in the express lane, and people thinking I’m dumb.
I’m not dumb! Not according to my last IQ test, anyway, although that was in grade 7. Whatever. My CGPA was high! Well, pretty high! I can do math in my head…sometimes.
Ok, sure: sometimes I like dumb things. Sometimes I like smart things, sometimes I like things that you can’t intellectually assess (like gum!) Sometimes I *do* dumb things, like thinking I can make my own pastry bag. Sometimes I do smart things, like optimizing my bus route, or writing a good short story. Really, it happens.
I worry sometimes that no matter how carefully considered my thoughts on Thomas Hardy are, people are going to dismiss them because I am wearing rose-patterned tights during the conversation. Sometimes I think that I should be actively cultivating an image, and that image should involve sarcasm and clove cigarettes, or at least fewer hugs and less gum.
But then I have a bad day or someone says something mean or I get a headache, and I think that life is difficult, and we must find comfort where we can. And I for example, am immensely comforted by kittens. Their existance, their fluffiness, amusing pictures and videos thereof.
Friday I discovered I can haz cheeseburger and the LOLcats and it did my tender little tough-day heart a world of good. But I have picked the toughest, dark-angst-ridden artist LOLcats to share with you–see?
Tell me you aren’t happier than you were a second ago?
RR
September 11th, 2009
From the department of WTF
This morning, shortly after sunrise, Rebecca is walking home from the gym. She is passed by an extremely tiny jogger in shiny red spandex shorts. Rebecca is listening to Green Day on her iPod. She is relatively content. Suddenly, she feels a tug around her neck. Slowing her stride, Rebecca examines her iPod wires and hoodie drawstring (both of which she routinely mismanages) to find the source of the problem. The tugging increases. Rebecca stops moving, the tug stops increasing but doesn’t go away. She claws at her neck and finds: a noose!
Ok, ok, technically, it wasn’t a noose because it didn’t pull tight, but it was a loop of cord hanging from the tree above my head!!! More like a garrotte, I suppose.
!!!
!!!
!!!
The jogger missed it because she was too short, but it was exactly the right height for yours truly.
I was so alarmed and dismayed to learn that my neighbours were attempting to assassinate me with Robin-Hood-style tactics that I could not disentangle myself from the cord. Suddenly, a woman got out of a car that had been idling in the driveway I was standing in front of–I’m not sure if she was eager to help, annoyed that her dastardly plan had been foiled, or just wanted to pull out of her driveway! Anyway, she got me out of the cord and then, when I gestured that it could not be left this way (yes, that’s exactly what the gesture indicated) she pulled the whole thing down from the tree (it wasn’t bound all that tight) and promised to throw it away.
With no one to arrest and no actual damage done, I went home, in a state of severe discombobulation. Why would anyone want to kill me?
My only theory is that my state of attractiveness is not very high when I am wandering around post-gym, semi-dawn. Perhaps the neighbours think I am bringing down property values? The aforementioned hoodie in fact predates the term, as it was purchased by my father in the early 1990s at BiWay and given to my brother, who did not want it, which is how I ended up with it. So yeah, not a fashion plate, but hardly a cue for murder?
To recapitulate: WTF?
RR
September 10th, 2009
Things you don’t need to know
1) I took a mini-version of the Myers Briggs test and found out that I am an extremely boring person. I forget what the technical name of the personality type was, and they don’t make precise career recommendations, but the impression that I got was that I should definitely not to do anything creative as a profession, although I would likely be excellent at stacking papers into extremely neat piles.
2) In a similar vein, yesterday I was describing an activity someone had suggested. I said to my auditor, “I guess some people would want to do that, but I really don’t get why.” The response? “Human beings, Rebecca: make a study of them.”
3) Small recompense for being a boring non-human, but at least I continue to mouse lefthanded, and am getting better at it everyday. Still can’t use the drawing palette properly with the left, though.
4) Finally, I came to the astounding realization that, since there is no one among my good friends I would refuse to French kiss for hygienic reasons, being worried about drinking out of someone else’s glass is pretty silly.
Gone gone gone
RR
August 15th, 2009
Book Birthday
My book, *Once*, launched on September 15, 2008, which was certainly one of my favourite days in history. I’m celebrating my book’s birthday a month early for a couple reasons. One is an actual human birthday to celebrate this September 15, and another is that another book is launching on that day. Back and Forth by Marta Chudolinska, a name and a project that might be familiar because my own book cover (see top right of this page) is an image taken from Marta’s book. I am very glad she and I will be sharing a launch date.
Also, I had planned to move forward from doing all my readings from *Once* after a year, but I find myself a little eager on that front. With this early birthday, my next reading, on August 19 can be included in my new year of new readings. Not that I’ll refuse to read from *Once* if asked–or indeed, if inspired–but in general, I’m excited to do other readings after (most of) a year of *Once*.
Oh, but what a year.
Six or so months before *Once*’s debut, I was talking on the phone about some publication matter with the book’s editor, John Metcalf. It was early on a Sunday morning and I somehow wandered from the topic at handonto the various insoluble problems with my life. My tone may have veered towards self-pitying. John assured me that publishing a book would improve my outlook on my life as well as my life itself, and that I should somehow arrange to not entirely lose hope until the thing was in the world. I had accomplished something, and once I was able to hold it in my hand, I would feel it.
When I remained forlorn and unconvinced, John wound up making and mailing me an inspriational poster featuring an Impressionist art postcard of a child being held firmly by the hand, captioned “pre-book Rebecca” and one of a beautiful Impressionist lady lounging contentedly, “post-book Rebecca,” which is taped to my coat-closet door to this day.
I don’t know if I’ve fully grown up this year, but I truly have some amazing moments, and been more thrillingly rewarded than I ever thought possible for something I would really have done anyway. And the freedom that came with the book was the freedom, and encouragement, to do so much.
I read in a rainstorm. And on the radio. And to teenagers, UofT alumni, people in 7 cities, my high-school creative writing teacher, people stained with walnut juice, people with kids to get home to, people who weren’t listening, packed houses, almost empty rooms, writers I adore, my family, and people who didn’t care at all. I followed a slam poet, rave art, writers I adore, and lunch.
I was given lunch, dinner, breakfast, drinks I didn’t want, masses of cheese (why cheese, always, at the readings?), the spare bedroom, this really delicious kosher cookie, souvenir coffee mugs, mints, notepads, a fountain pen, flowers, poetry journals, a map of Winnipeg, hugs, and a pizza made out of Playdough. Also, occasionally, payment for readings.
Once, my status as a writer got me invited to an extremely fancy party. The invitation specified that I was not to bring an escort. “Ah, they want people to get to know each other,” I thought, and, at the appointed time, I got as dressed up as I am capable of, went across town, had my named checked at the door and entered the fanciest, most enormous party I’d ever seen. There were likely 1000 people there, and not one of them talked to me except the bartenders. I saw some stunning fashion, eavesdropped and some fascinating conversations, had one drink, several impressive canapes (cream soup in a shot glass!), and started the trek back across town after 20 minutes.
I signed books like a star! I got to meet artists and writers and musicians and booksellers and publishers. Once a friend went on a (ultimately unsuccessful) blind date and the last book the guy had read was mine. Once a friend of a friend’s wife (unknown to me) got my book for Christmas. Once, someone struck up an (interesting) conversation with me because he recognized me from a past reading. Once, I got interviewed on CBC’s Sunday Edition, and strangers Facebook’d me to say they’d liked it.
When people were snide in that oh-really-a-writer? way, or even some other non-writing way, I took great great pleasure in not telling them one thing about *Once* or its reception. Good news is deserved only by good people.
*Once* got reviewed across the country–not everywhere, but enough that I was dazzled and that occasionally, when someone saw my book they would say, “Oh, I’ve heard of this.” And better, reviewers often seemed to understand whatever it was I was trying to do: I couldn’t always believe the praise or even the criticism, but I was so thrilled when they described the work in words I would have used. Also, the idea of someone caring enough to read my work thoughtfully and then try to offer an estimation of what was going on was deeply deeply rewarding. And, ok, let’s be honest here: the other best thing about positive reviews was, for me, reading them aloud over the phone to my parents. Good people deserve good news.
I got hit on, gently mocked, toasted, ignored, lost, hugged by strangers, soaked in the rain, locked out of the reading space, and tangled up in my own feet. People told me that certain stories in my book *must* be about my own life, that certain stories were in fact about them (the reader). that several stories were far better than the rest, that every story was brilliant, that they didn’t really like it that much, that they didn’t get time to finish it, that the book is very different from me personally, that the book is exactly like me personally, that they don’t really like any short stories so I shouldn’t take it personally, that it should have won the GG, that I would have a hard time topping it, that they’d lost their copies, and that they always knew I could do it.
I had my portrait painted, was the subject of a slideshow, was on the radio (twice), was interviewed about writing and childhood and beer and Jewishness and inspiration, got to teach teenagers to write stories, got to speak on panels, introduce another author, judge writing contests, attend fancy parties, was filmed and tape-recorded and photographed, and had reason enough to wear all my nicest clothes at least a few times each.
I wrote a book. A year later I sort of believe it, and modesty is all well and good but I am so proud of *Once* I can’t even tell you. After a year of readings and three (ish) of writings, I still enjoy reading my own work and think that maybe I really did manage to do something good and interesting with the short story form that I love so much.
I’m writing another book, and it’s hard and messy and confusing and full of backwards turns and really some days nearly impossible. But I do get to sit down at my desk with the knowledge of the above, which is an inestimable gift to my confidence, patience and ambition. Yet another thing I’m grateful for.
I am also grateful to everyone who read the book or a story from it in a journal or in workshop, who came out to see me read, who offered a kind or (constructively) critical word, or said I looked just fine and no one could see my misbuttoned sweater behind the podium. When and if I get this second book published, I’ll get to do another acknowledgements page, thank goodness–I’ll owe even more thanks by then.
Happy birthday, *Once*. May you have many more on library and book-buyers’ shelves.
Not only real but beautiful
RR
April 7th, 2009
C’est moi, alors!
This is a portrait of me (der) by the portrait artist Alan Dayton, who is doing a series on creative people, lately writers.
As I’ve said previously, some rather remarkable and bizarre things have come my way as a result of publishing a book. One of them is certainly the photo-shoot/interview that Mr. Dayton did for me, and its result, this amazing, rather Gallic-looking painting. Certainly, never before have I sat on my couch in my favourite dress while someone bent over me almost medically, noting aloud the exact colour and striations of my eyes.
I consider myself hugely lucky to have been the object of Alan Dayton’s considerable talent, but I am also quite baffled. Now a portrait of me exists in the world, and, like my stories, I’m not able to follow it around and tell people what it means. I have to trust that viewers of this art will “get it,” whatever *it* is. Because of course, I have even less agency here than I do in my writing; this portrait is really Alan’s creation, and I just provided a little inspiration.
And yet, I do get the opportunity to say something about it, as I’ve been asked to write a mini-essay about the experience of being emportraited for the catalogue. But what will I say? Any ideas? Even though I’m *involved*, I’m still way underqualified to write about art, and never have before.
We’ve been here many times
RR
April 2nd, 2009
All panic, no disco
At less than 20 hours until my reading for 65 high school kids, I have nearly no voice. WTF? I’m not even sick, just silent.
Home remedies I have tried so far:
–green tea
–chamomile tea
–multivitamin
–gargling with salt water
–frosting (not really a remedy; I just found this cache of leftover frosting)
Any other suggestions for me? At this point, I can’t even muster the voice to call to cancel the event. It’s going to be extra lame if I have to get someone else to do it!!
He could not know another tiger
RR
March 10th, 2009
On We Struggle
By 7:15 today, I had showered, brewed tea, broken a ceiling lamp (I think it really broke itself; normal on-turning shouldn’t result in it shorting out like that) and written two letters. By 8, I had read two short stories, gotten dressed, and decided that the skirt I’d chosen didn’t really go with my sweater. When I tried to take it off, I discovered that I’d done up the hook and eye wrong (again, I’m thinking not really my fault–who know you could go wrong with those?) and *couldn’t* get the skirt off. This was the point at which I considered going back to bed, but five extremely despondent minutes later, I was able to change skirts (I still don’t know what went wrong). Keep in mind that neither skirt was the right answer to most questions fashion could ask: the one I had on was made of sweat-wicking technical fabric and slightly too big (but not big enough to slide over my hips or shoulders while fastened, we learn), and the one I wanted to wear is extremely elderly with the pockets completely torn out, so that things placed in them reappear immediately on the floor.
By 8:30, I was dressed and out the door, downstairs filling out the repair-request for my broken ceiling lamp. When it was done, I went over to the super’s mail slot and inserted…the two letters I’d written! I looked down at my repair request, still in my hand, and was sad, but put that in too; why not? Then it seemed like a good time to spend a few minutes staring at the wall, thinking about my retirement villa on the moon. Will I be allowed to have pets, I wondered. A kitten seems like such a good companion for the elderly. But how do felines react to zero-gravity?
Finally my super arrived, and I told him my sad story, at which he nodded unhappily, because he does not understand English. He has never admitted this to me, and he appears to read and speak it fine, so I keep talking to him and he keeps nodding. Aural English is tough to master, I know. Finally he opened his door and I pointed to his mail basket. He pulled out my repair slip and stamped and addressed letters and I said, “Ah, those are mine,” and we both regarded them thoughtfully for a while. Then I very gingerly took them out of his hand and said, “Thank you! I’m so sorry!” He smiled a little, and then broke into a grin when I said, “Goodbye!”
I still think today could recover and be a good day, but it will take some focus. Think about how people are really pulling together over the proposed funding cuts for literary journals and other mags with smaller circulation. Think about weather in positive degrees. Think about kittens.
And if all else fails, there’s always poets.
Now everybody kiss
RR
March 9th, 2009
Who are you? Where are you going?
Outside of prose, my artistic experiments almost always deserve the fate they almost always receive, which is never to be seen by anyone but me. An exception to this is my “Identity Mural”: because that thing is up on the door of the Rose-coloured Ranch, more people see it than, say, my sonnets and sketches of eyeballs. And because I’m way too excited when I receive people’s business cards (shout-out: note most recent addition to the mural,a Trainspotting-esque card from Vepo Studios at bottom righ)t, some people who have never even been to the RCR have had cause to wonder what exactly it is. So, here ya go:
This is probably not even properly a mural, because it doesn’t form an image out of all the disparate parts. It’s just a bunch of stuff stuck to a door, really–I told you I should stick to prose. But this thing is something I’m partial to, because it combines three things I like especially: other people, public transit, and my own name. Here’s what’s there:
–business cards of people I have met
–expired ID of my own
–expired Metro passes
–three name tags–one that says, “Who are you?” one that says, “Where are you going?” and one that is blank
–in the centre of it all, the peephole to my front door
–a *lot* of scotch tape–I, like Ramona Quimby, think scotch tape is god
A little random, a little fun. I am fond of my mural, unmurallike as it may be. And trust me, it’s way better than the sonnets.
I’ve got my sights on / and I’m ready to go
RR
March 4th, 2009
Incorrection
I don’t talk to myself. Unless startled by a bat or struck by a heavy object, I never feel a need to make any sort of sound when alone. Despite *many* defensive folks who have told me talking to oneself is a normal way to process information, I find it odd. It’s not like I don’t have plenty of commentary on every millisecond that goes by. But I can hear my own commentary just fine from, you know, inside my head. Also, I receive very little new information in this way; surprise surprise. Most of what I think is boring; no need to give it wider broadcast.
Actually, maybe this post is boring interior thoughts too. But slightly less boring than most interior thoughts. Anyway.
What is surprising is a new trend in my interior monologue, one that I really don’t think I thought up for myself. The past few months, screw-ups have been accompanied by the (silent) word “Incorrect” inside my brain. More recently, the word has come to have a visual of red block letters spelling it out: INCORRECT.
Harsh.
Lest you think I am having some sort of self-esteem spiral, the “incorrect” signal mainly flashes for small failures, ones that can be easily identified: opening the wrong software from my desktop, walking into the coat closet instead of the bathroom (not in own home), putting metal in the microwave. Doesn’t appear for major life decisions, wardrobe choices, consumer purchases–nothing with a lot of subjective leeway. A dozen people could have a different opinion on the story’s new ending or my new haircut, but you’re either standing in the coat closet or you aren’t.
Anyway, this post has little point, and probably should have remained interior, but I always find it curious when my brain does something all on it’s own without my bidding, and felt like sharing. Since this is likely *not* internally generated, I’m wondering if I picked it up from a book? A movie? This new mental quirk has no footnote. If you know where I stole it from, please share!
Note: My dislike of talking aloud to oneself should not be confused with the much more congenial concept of the “exterior monologue,” a term coined by the mighty AMT. The exterior monologue occurs when normal censors are turned off inside the brain, usually by nervousness, alcohol, or happy comfort with the audience. Then one just says everything that comes into one’s head. You’ve seen it happen, but it’s fun only in the last two contexts (usually), and even then only if you, like AMT, are thoroughly entertaining, inside and out.
Note 2: I also breathe silently and wear rubber-soled shoes; if it weren’t for clumsiness and cowardice, I would make an excellent stealth agent.
Just believe that I need you
RR
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