November 5th, 2008

The Enormity of the Task Ahead

Four years ago I went down to Florida to volunteer for John Kerry during the final days before the election. I had never been anywhere near a campaign office before, but the one I worked in contained exactly what I had hoped and expected it would: an immense swirl of positive energy and optimism. Surrounded by dozens of people who thought I as I think, who were willing to volunteer endless hours with endless goodwill for what they believed was the common good, I was filled with hope. I loved doing my little lists of get-out-the-vote calls, eating leftover Hallowe’en candy, chatting with impassioned strangers and believing wholeheartedly that change was good, possible and imminent.

Such was my blinkered (and coddled) worldview going into Election Night 2004, and profound dismay and distress was the result. I hadn’t ever spoken to anyone who didn’t think George Bush was a disastrous liability to America and the world, and therefore I thought such people did not exist. I couldn’t believe that anyone would vote against (in my perception) their own ecomonic security, the solidarity of nations, diplomacy and advocacy for peace.

I left the campaign office in the afternoon and spend election night with my family, who are considerably more informed about politics (and everything) than I am. Around 2am, I had to be pried from my chair (a chair I still dislike for it’s association with that evening) and sent to bed with the firm message that the situation was not going to change. If you’ve ever tried to explain anything to me at 2am, including where the bathroom is, you’ll know I have a hard time absorbing information past midnight and I *did not buy it*.

I was so terribly disillusioned to be wrong.

Four years later, I spent election night at the home of lovely friends and a puppy with whom I have a dubious relationship. Last night, when the puppy hurled himself at my chest, I gave him a hug and whispered in his floppy ear, “Remember me, Mookie? Remember when I came to visit last time and you bit me? Let’s not do that again, ok?”

And we didn’t. The evening was so fun and easy, because we were *justifiably* confident long before we had any right to expect that. Unlike my long miserable night in 2004, things were fairly obvious at 9 and over at 11. I could not, however, go home, because we had balloons and blue cookies and noisemakers, the puppy and the speeches and joy to share. I have never made it to the speechifying before–I found McCain’s “the fault is mine” concession speech deeply moving and personal. Obama’s speech was glossier and while he said many things that impressed me, it wasn’t amazing. But here’s the crazy thing–he’s got at least 4 more years of speeches. I’m willing to wait.

I’m still pretty ill-informed, cheerful and excitable about politics, but I’ll never again be in such a happy bubble as I was in 2004. I know now that what I feel I know to be right is not universal, and that there is more to any issue than an everyday goofball person can ever imagine. I am sure I do not well understand any of the positions of Obama’s that I so firmly endorse. But I am happy that I didn’t give up on American democracy, and happy that, if I don’t understand, there is someone in the most powerful office in the world whom I trust to get it.

Despite the two wars, the economic disaster, the health-care system and everything I don’t even know about, I am filled with hope. And I’m so glad those little girls are getting a puppy of their own.

True patriot love
RR

October 28th, 2008

Rose-coloured Reviews Via 1 Train Service

There are those who are to the manner born, and there are those who are still excited when the waitress gives us two after-dinner mints instead of one. I am firmly in the second category (I love each of my insurance company give-away pens with all my heart, and despair when I snag a pair of stockings after less than 10 wears). Those in the second category are stunned even the modest level of luxury on Via Rail‘s Via 1 class.

I have been devoted to Via since undergrad at McGill necessitated student six-packs, which are such a very good deal. And “comfort class”, as the regular part of the train is known, is just fine–at least if you are of average height and don’t mind bringing a bag lunch. The only people I can think of who would *need* Via 1 are the above-average in size…the business traveller could, I believe, make use of the Via wireless internet just fine from comfort class.

But despite being un*needed*, the comforts above Comfort Class are perfectly delightful and desirable when thrust upon a person (by, say, the travel arrangers at the Ottawa Writers’ Festival). I had been in the Panorama Lounge before, keeping a business-travelling friend company, so I knew what delights lay ahead–a comfortable place to sit (otherwise, you wait standing in a line-up for non-reserved seats on the train) and free drinks, as well as a private bathroom.

But to get all this you have to pick-up your ticket at the general ticket desk, and when I arrived (early, natch) said ticket desk was experiencing a mel-down. Apparently, Wednesday last, Via computers all over the country ceased to function for an hour or so. My departure hour. When a security guard took my ticket voucher, though, I didn’t know it boded ominous and just thought she was being helpful. “This is my first Via 1 trip,” I confided. “I’m very excited to go in the lounge.”

I guess I have seen people less willing to share in my excitement (those insurance pen/breath-mint incidents come to mind) but she was close. But, after we’d stood together a while staring at the ticket agent staring at her unusable computer, a bright spark flickered in the security guard’s grim eyes. “Would you like to go in the lounge *now*? We’ll take care of the ticket for you.” And just like that she got what she wanted (rid of me) and I got what I wanted (free diet Coke at 9:17 am).

I actually thought that all the Toronto porters, guards, agents, etc., were unusually thoughtful that morning, particularly considering what inconveniences they were putting up with. But in truth, they actually didn’t process my ticket voucher at all, just looked my name up on the manifest and assumed all was well, which made for a painless trip out and, on the way back, a horrible half-hour of staring at a teeth-sucking silent ticket agent who couldn’t figure out how to go back in time with his (perfectly functioning) computer and make up a ticket billing for a trip I’d already taken. It could be that the Toronto agents are better-trained than the Ottawa ones, or simply that the Toronto folk shirked responsibility for setting something up for me, but I definitely think the Ottawa guy could’ve been nicer to me and my accompanying lovely festival volunteer in the endless period we spent together.

But ok, after all that, both trips were actually lovely, and pretty much identical. The seats in Via 1 are slightly wider and higher than comfort class, and there’s enough leg room for the limbs of those well above six-feet (or for your laptop case, purse, and discarded boots). Then there are these weird sculpted tusks of pillows on the headrest. I think they are meant to keep your head from tipping onto your neighbour or into the window, but since I *like* to sleep pressed against the window (who knows why?) I wasn’t crazy about it. Actually, though, there’s plenty of room to get around the pillow.

Ok, everything else about this train-ride review is actually a restaurant review. The first train I took left at 9:30 am, and we were offered coffee, tea or juice; followed by pastries; then veggie chips; soda/cocktails; a three-course meal; coffee/tea; truffles, and maybe more cocktails if so desired, before we waddled off at 2:15. Sheesh. I didn’t sample the pastries or the cocktails, but the coffee, soda and veggie chips (called “Yum-yums” but still good) were all delightful. On the return trip, it was 6:15pm to 10:10pm, so we had an additional round of cocktails/soda instead of the pastries.

I crashed out (slouched against the window) just before the lunch service, and my seatmate (as he told me later) and the server debated and then decided against waking me–they held my first course in reserve until I regained consciousness. My seatmate, by the way, was as nice and friendly as could be, while quite obviously making the best of the bad situation that was sitting with me. It wasn’t personal; he just wanted to sit alone, and made no secret of this to the porters and servers that happened by. I felt that he should have been more discreet and pretended that it was his heart’s desire to have to stand up every 1.5 hours so I could pee. However, when he finally did leave (he took someone’s spot after they got off in Fallowfield) I put my feet on his seat.

Both meals were very good, though the lunch was mainly better than the dinner. There was a wide range of main courses, a fish, a chicken and a meat-meat each time, though if you are a veggie you have to order when you buy the ticket (which seems strange, given that it’s 2008 and many random meals just happen to be meatless). Also, the first courses both ways had an animal-origin protein, and there were no choices about that. A seafood salad on cucumbers going out, and sliced beef on rice-edaname salad coming home. I enjoyed the seafood and picked off the beef from the otherwise lovely salad (when I first heard the term “edaname salad” about a year ago, I was puzzled, but now I like them), but it would seem easier just to go the greens and croutons salad route, which I think pleases most of the people most of the time.

I had tilapia with vegetables and tiny little potatoes cut into quarters for the lunch, and slided breaded chicken over linguine and vegetables and a very small amount of red sauce for the supper. Both meals were nice, but just by virtue of the content I liked the fish better (breaded chicken=pointless, in my opinion). I also spent some time trying to decide if the meals, which are served in little ceramic bins about the size of two decks of cards, with everything heaped inside, are the same amount of food one gets in a restaurant all sprawled out on a plate. I think it was, about.

There were services on the Via 1 that I didn’t take advantage of–free newspapers, extra pillows, checked baggage service, possibly things that I didn’t even know about. But the most famous of all, the truffles, I was ready for. How wonderful–I had a chocolate one and a white chocolate one on my respective journeys, and both were full of delight (er, if you definte delight as sugar, cocoa butter and cream).

Also, whatever class you travel, the rhythm of wheels on rails is a delightful lullabye.

I’ve seen them all and man they’re all the same
RR

October 20th, 2008

Getting around

If you notice a dearth of posts around here this week, that’s because I’ll be away doing a reading in Hamilton tomorrow and then one at the Ottawa Writers Festival on Wednesday. And then I’m going to frolic briefly, and return to report on the whole thing. So don’t you fret!

Poor helpless me
RR

September 28th, 2008

What Writers Do on Vacation

If Blogger can only cope with one picture at a time, that’s the way we’re gonna do it! Here’s Stephanie and I at the University of Manitoba Rare Books Archive.

Gonna dance til the dancefloor falls apart
RR

September 27th, 2008

Everyone Should Go to Winnipeg

Hello, blog–I’ve missed you!

Wednesday morning, I went off to Winnipeg to the Thin Air International Writers Festival. It was my first away-game as a writer, my first flight this year, and only the third time I’ve stayed in hotel since I stopped vacationing with my parents in high school. It was *amazing!*

In one awe-striking 20-hour day, I flew out to Winnipeg; checked into the hotel; met the amazing staff and volunteers of the festival (they work *hard* in the west); ate Korean food, saw the Red River; lay on a bench in the sunshine; gave a Book Chat with Pasha Malla, moderated by the amazing Charlene Diehl; hopped up and down in a parking lot; saw a dear friend I hadn’t seen in a decade (hi, Stephanie!); gave Mainstage reading with an incredible cast of characters and *without* collapsing from nerves; stayed up late talking about books; and ate a *lot* of Manitoba cheese. It’s very good.

There’s a video from the afternoon bookchat on the Thin Air blog, of me reading from my story, Route 99 if you are curious. I had actually never seen myself on video before, and as it turns out that I can’t really stand it. I saw about 10 seconds, enough to tell that it’s really me and Charlene in the frame. I think it’s fine. You can’t see Pasha in the frame, but trust me he was there, being charming and low-key and insightful. Have you read The Withdrawal Method? Maybe you should read it, if you are into wise and generous (and often very funny) short stories about men, women and children searching for human conncections.Though if you are female and prone to reading in public, maybe you should take the bright blue dust jacket off, as I got an awful lot of looks.

There’s good stuff about the fest and it’s many personalities throughout their Hot Air blog, and it’s still on-going, as the fest doesn’t end until tomorrow. The festival is huge, and lovely. The talent contained in 10 days is immense.

Then on Thursday, after an interview with a local arts mag, I gave up on being a serious professional writer (as if) and just went off with Stephanie to enjoy Winnipeg. The weather was stunning, and S. is a force of sunshine herself, so of course it was fab, but I am actually impressed to no end about that lovely friendly city. The University of Manitoba, the Legislative Buildings, a pipe band, a Royal Canadian Mounted Police change-of-command ceremony, the biggest cockroach I’ve ever seen, a petting zoo, a store that sells exclusively handmade items with cats on them imported from Japan, and of course, an extremely muddy and hilarious corn maze, for which we were so inappropriately dressed that it was simply safer to take off shoes and stockings and go barefoot. See below:

I was overjoyed to be in Winnipeg, participating in a real literary event with so many amazing folks, and overjoyed not to have screwed anything up. I really liked the town, the people I met, and the squish of mud between my toes. I think I may have been slightly over-stimulated by the whole 3-day whirlwind–when at long last I got to mighty Manitoba mainstay, a Perkins Restaurant (it lived up to expectations–great omelette), the waiter commented that he loved coming to our table because we were always so thrilled to see him.

I’m just thrilled about everything in the universe right now, really. Except of course that I owe just about everyone in the universe an email/phone call (sorry, guys, I’m gonna get it together shortly). Oh, and that Blogger seems to have dug in its heels about uploading pictures from my Mac. I have tonnes, but you’ll have to make do with the one for now–maybe someone will lend me a PC so I can work this out at some point!

I just want you to come figure me out
RR

September 18th, 2008

Rumours of Asia

I have always had a pair of brass sculptures of Thai dancers. These are young women with high pointed headdresses and sinuously flailing arms. The arms are brassed in mid-motion pushing through the air–on each body, one hand high, one low. When you arrange them with the lowered hands touching, as I always do, they form a wave with their arms. Their faces are impassive, more impassive even than you’d imagine for being formed from metal. Their arrangement is also impassive to me, though you could put them together another way or even just have each on it’s own. But why would you, when you could the wave.

I have no idea how I ended up with these; their presence in my life predates memory. Almost certainly, they were given to me, as I was not shopping for objets d’art, or anything, in nursery school. Of course, a heavy pointed metal objet seems a spectacularly inappropriate gift for a nursery scholar, but it never occured to me to play with them in a way that could result in me or anyone getting hurt. I have always just kept them on shelves or tables, in the hands-touching arrangement. Until:

B (picking one up): This is an unusually weapon-like hat, isn’t it?

Me: Put it down.

B: You could kill some with this, probably. (gesturing Macbeth-like at me) Stab stab.

Me: Put it down put it down.

B: Fine (puts it down the wrong way, so that the wave is flawed)

Me: It goes on the other side of the first one.

B: (moving it) And do you want me to flick the lights on and off 25 times?

Me: With their hands touching!!!

B: That’s a complicated way of saying yes.

Me: ARGH!

B: (nudges them so that they are again perfectly arranged) You’re gonna miss me.

B. is in fact my brother, whose presence in my life also predates memory, and whom I will indeed miss when, tomorrow, he moves to Tokyo. For someone who likes things consistently arranged, it’s hard when a loved one flies off to the antipodes. But there is a bright side to this, of course (in addition to B. having a wonderful year abroad): watch this space in Spring 2009, when Rose-coloured reviews the Tokyo transit system. I can’t wait, can you?

I can barely stop
RR

September 17th, 2008

Taking It to the Streets

Two days post-launch, I’m starting to breathe normally again, and to focus on coherent thoughts other than, “Ack!” and “Hooray!” But there are future tailspins coming up, and I’ll mention them here in case you happen to be in the neighbourhood of said spins, and feel like coming out to comfort me.

September 24, 2pm–An Afternoon Book Chat with Pasha Malla at the Thin Air Winnipeg literary festival.

September 24, 8pm–Matches and Misses readings, also at Thin Air, this time with writers David Bergen, Nicole Markotić, Daria Salamon, Pasha Malla and Gerald Hill.

October 15, 8pm–The launch of the sure-to-be-wonderful Pivot Reading Series at the Press Club in Toronto. Fellow readers are Paul Vermeersch, Leigh Nash, and Alex Boyd. I’m really excited for this because the Pivot Series is sort of goddaughter to the wonderful IV Lounge Reading Series, which Paul and then Alex ran for a total of ten years. Carey Toane will be doing it now, and I’m v. v. pleased to be on the ground for lift-off (there is something wrong with that metaphor), with all the old and new guard.

October 21, time tba–A group reading at Bryan Prince Bookseller in Hamilton. Extra awesome because it is as close as I’m likely to get to a hometown reading. My hometown does not possess a bookstore, and Bryan Prince was always where I shopped for books as a kid, so it’s pretty exciting to go back there and see, perhaps, my own book on the shelf.

October 22, 8:30pm–THE WRITING LIFE #3 discussion with Pasha Malla and Ivan E. Coyote, hosted by Neil Wilson Ottawa International Writers Festival

So we’re either headed into some good times, or this blog will cease entirely to be about reading and writing, and be given over to talk of my hair and places I’ve fallen down. Oh, suspense!

Never knew it would end til it did
RR

September 8th, 2008

Eden Mills Recap

Yesterday morning, Kerry Clare and I set off for the Eden Mills Writers Festival, to listen to the readings, buy the books, be short-listed for the Eden Mills Literary Contest (KC’s story “Stillborn Friends”) and to read at the Mill (RR’s story “ContEd”). It didn’t start to rain until we were at the rental car place, and it didn’t start to pour until we hit the 401. I’m actually a fine driver (far better than you’d think if you know me socially, I’d say) but the 401 becomes whitewater in a downpour, and I am not that much *better* than fine. At least white-knuckling the highway took my mind off my terror about doing the reading.

But we didn’t die under the wheels of a semi, and instead arrived in the still-pouring downpour, and sloshed into the, you guessed it, outdoor festival venue. By the time I’d signed in, it was pretty close to my cue to read, but there was of course still time to sneak by the Biblioasis tent and see, for the first time ever, my book.

I knew what it looked like, since I spent three years writing the thing and saw every version of it, and the cover mock-ups, the advanced reading copies, etc. I knew it would be there, since Dan (Wells, Biblioasis publisher) had promised to bring copies. It really should’ve been a zero-suspense moment, but, um, it was absolutely thrilling. There was *Once*, out in the world, separate from me and all the people who have been working so hard on it–a big stack, looking pretty much perfect, and ready to be taken away and read. Something about the thought that the book is now fully self-contained, that anyone, strangers can read it if they feel like it, is what really hit me at that moment, I think.

Dan put a copy in my hands and hugged me and a photographer took my picture, and someone asked me to sign a copy, and my mentor Leon Rooke suddenly appeared to congratulate me, and I hugged him, and hugged Kerry, and somehow got out from under my umbrella and got wet…

I think, once in a while, something can be exactly as good as you dreamt it would be.

And then I went down to the Mill, which is a lovely setting to read in. There is a hill facing the water, a natural amphitheatre looking out across a tiny inlet to another spit of land where the stage-tent and microphones were set up. Of course, with the downpour ever increasing, all that surrounding water seemed a bit much, and I was rather alarmed crossing the slick-boarded bridge to the stage. But fellow readers Elspeth Cameron and David Chariandy were spell-binding enough to make me forget all the splashing and chill under my umbrella. Almost more amazing than anything was the fact that people stayed to hear me, the last reader. After 40 minutes in the deluge, when I walked to to the podium, perhaps 50 or 60 soggy people peered at me through the curtain of water, waiting patiently to hear what I had to say.

And I didn’t die under the wheels of a semi! Or fall into the water, or make any egregious stumbles in my reading. It was probably the most audible reading I’ve ever given–I’m getting louder! And…and…I read it out of the actual book! Hooray!

Whew. It was all gleeful after that. Stars of the afternoon included Mariko Tamaki, Paul Quarrington, Shari Lapena, Laurence Hill and, of course, Leon Rooke. Another star: the sun! It came out and was lovely warm for most of the afternoonn. My clothes got dry, even my feet. And we were fed dinner in the community centre, served by adorable children so eager in their work that they would sometimes watch you take the final bite of your salad with their hands on the rim of the plate. Hilarious!

And then, after getting briefly stuck in the mud of the parking area, we drove home. I was very very tired and over-stimulated, a state in which it is my preference to drive 20 kilometres under the speed limit. And it is a testament to Kerry Clare’s truly wonderful spirit that she neither attempted to decapitate me with one of our Eden Mills Mix cds (which would’ve been a tragic loss of both me and music), nor closed her eyes and let me get away with disrupting traffic. And we didn’t die under the wheels of a semi, or even ding the rental car, thanks mainly to Kerry’s gentle guidance, and then we were home.

I am very lucky in my friends, and in many things.

My best friend Leslie said / oh she’s just being Miley
RR

June 25th, 2008

Back

Oh, that was really great. Everyone should take vacations. Who knew?

What can I tell you–I read, I wrote, I walked around, I slept until *eight in the morning* and then ate a breakfast I hadn’t cooked, went for runs on semi-familiar streets, walked on actually probably unfamiliar streets. Talked about the evolution of language and the unknowability of the human race with old friends, ate at Quebecois chain restaurants (I don’t know if they are better or just different than ours; sometimes the two are synonymous for me). I read even more. I got tonnes of work done (you would too if the above were your only responsibilities).

Still, I was running out of clean clothes and all my imported friends were returning to their real lives, so I did too. And now the weather is perfect and I’m going to the ballgame.

What can I tell you?

You’ll be coming down
RR

May 5th, 2008

Love of intimacy, fear of committment

The characters that I write about, I know very well. They are *not* real people, because no description on a page could ever really transcribe a breathing living person, especially when you start adjusting details and inventing actions. Even “based on” real people seems a stretch to me, since every time I try that, my viewpoint and the needs of the narrative, and the desire to invent and the limits of my ability to transcribe, results in characters that would never be recognized by their so-called “basis.”

And yet I feel intimate with them, because I spend so much time working out information that never appears in stories, nor should it: you barely want to hear about the grocery-store buying patterns of people you actually know and love, let alone invented strangers in a fiction. But it entertains me to work this stuff out while I’m sitting on the bus–lots of tiny anecdotes that might or might not be entertaining, but go nowhere, are plotless, almost eventless. Sadly, I sometimes get confused and write them into stories, and then have to write them right back out again.

Perhaps this is all part of Hemingway’s iceberg theory of writing: that 9/10 of an iceberg remains unseen, but that’s what keeps it afloat. It’s true, it helps me to write about characters I know well, although it’s not exactly a coherent effort on my part to build them up in my head. More likely, my commute is just too frickin’ long.

On the other hand, when I have to shape my time and efforts towards buidling a story, ie., do actual research about places and things, instead of just staring into space thinking about people, I get stymied. Or lazy. I did coherent research for a short story last fall for what is probably the first time. It took *forever*, and really was not as much work as I made it out to be. This summer, I need to go to Montreal to do research for (gasp) book the second. This is not a hard task–Montreal in summer is awesome!

And yet with the foot-dragging.

It is possible that it seems to me a bit too committment-y to put otherwise useful time and money into writing projects. The daydreaming on the bus, even the hours at the desk, there’s a part of me that feels like those are mine to do what I like with, but to spend $200 on a train ticket, take a week off from work…for a book I haven’t even written yet? Who do I think I am? A writer? How pretentious–research! If I were a *real* writer, wouldn’t I be able to invent it all? Or shouldn’t I be “writing what I know”? Or something?

It’s nothing terribly rigorous that I need to do in Montreal–just see certain buildings and neighbourhoods and get my bearings clearly. Possibly I’d feel better about it if I had to go dig through archives or something. Anyway, at least in this way I can make it into something somewhat vacation-y–go out to eat, see friends, frolic. Although, there’s a part of my brain that isn’t so hot on frivolity, either–why aren’t you *writing?* screams that area of the mind.

You know, it’s really a wonder I get anything done at all.

Could someone please take me?

RR