October 14th, 2008

Reasons for reading

So fascinating–such cool lists in (varying degrees of slanting) response to my what and why do you read post, from Fred, Naya and Kerry. This is exactly the sort of information I was hoping for…anybody else?

remember when you broke your foot /from jumping from the second floor
RR

October 13th, 2008

Thanksgiving

It would baffling and onerous to try to make a list of all those things for which I am thankful–this is the burden of good things, I suppose, insufficient time in which to list them. But really, though Canadian Thanksgiving was originally conceived as a harvest holiday and it is supposed to have vague connotations for being appreciative of all good things, I believe most stereotypical images of Thanksgiving feature mainly a) family and b) nice things to eat. And I certainly am grateful for both, and will now attempt to encapsulate that emotion in the following transcription of a conversation held earlier today:

(my father and I rummaging through the coffin-sized deep-freeze in my parents’ basement)

Me: Green beans, green beans, oh, pizza! Green beans, green beans…

Dad: Beets, do you like beets? Do you want these?

Me: Sure. Thanks. Green beans, Broccolli…

Dad: Yellow beans, green beans…you know, I don’t really like vegetables anymore.

Me: What? You like vegetables. You’ve always liked vegetables.

Dad: Some of the thrill is gone, I think. I don’t even know what the hell this is.

Me: (peering intently at frozen green blog in his hand) Is it broccoli? It could be broccoli.

Dad: (speaking to the green lump like Hamlet spoke to the skull of Yorrick) That may be. That may well be.

RR

October 10th, 2008

What and Why?

How do you choose your books? This is a question that fascinates me, because reading choices can be so random–you like the cover, you receive it as a gift, you find it on a bus seat. Or else so intense–you follow an author’s career for life, you become obsessed with a subject, someone likes something and is chatty about it, and suddenly half their colleagues, their family and their church is reading it.

Is this a marketing question or a social one?

I talk about books with everyone I know, and am thus rarely short on texts lent, recommended, reviewed or given. I also have the opportunity to buy books at readings and launches, which I love doing because then the author can sign it. I don’t actually care about the signature, but I like the little personal moment when this person I admire looks into my eyes and says, “One “b” in ‘Rebecca’?” (I am still looking for the one-and-only two-B Rebecca in the world, that started *everybody* asking me this.)

So basically, my book selections are a collaborative and somewhat random project of lots of people. In an effort to encourage others to make a similar list (post it on your blog and tell me! or put it into the comments here!), below are the last 10 things that I’ve read and why (list starts with what I’m currently reading and goes backwards in time, in case you care):

The Collected Stories of Isaac Babel, with Introduction by Lionel Trilling. I’ve been reading a story a week from this one forever. I first realized I needed to read Babel when I read Leon Rooke’s fabulous Balducci’s Who’s Who, in which Babel figures as a character. I also know that Babel is a favourite author of my former classmate, Jonathan Garfinkel, whose book Ambivalence I so admired. So when I saw an old copy of my father’s on a shelf, I picked it up and said, “Oh, can I have this?” (gotta love parents–who else’s house could you do that at?)

Pardon Our Monsters by Andrew Hood. I caught a ride in the same car as the author, and he was very witty. I am halfway through, no regrets.

Nellcott Is My Darling by Golda Fried. Purchased at the Coachhouse Books open house, based on the fact that the main character and I shared some life experiences in common, and vaguely remembered good press somewhere years ago.

Songs for the Dancing Chicken by Emily Schultz — Iliked her previous work (novel Joyland, editorship of Broken Pencil), we have a mutual friend that told me she is cool, then I saw her read the poems and bought the book.

The Withdrawal Method by Pasha Malla. Wanted to read it in anticipation of our shared reading at Thin Air Winnipeg last month, also was intrigued by the fact that the book was on the Giller long-list. [Aside: This year marks the first that I’ve even known what was nominated before the winner was declared, thanks to That Shakespeherian Rag.] Mr. Beattie’s Canadian Notes and Queries review also piqued by interest.

Stunt by Claudia Dey. Saw her read, twice. That’s it–she’s a powerhouse.

The Writing Life by Annie Dillard. One of those books that *everybody* reads and loves and talks about, to the point where you feel like you’ve read it too. When I saw it at BMV for $4.95, I realized I hadn’t.

Make Believe Love by Lee Gowan. I was walking past a bus stop when I saw a friend standing there reading a book with a beautiful cover. I asked her what it was and she told me the above. I said, “Oh, hey, I’ve met him a couple times, he’s really nice. Is the book good?” She said, “Yeah, it’s pretty good. Do you want to borrow it when I’m done?” I said yes.

The Hart House Review 2008. I picked it up at the University of Toronto masters in creative writing graduation reading, several of my friends from that class (Helen Guri and Laura Boudreau–you can’t link to the individual pieces, but they are online) having wonderful work in the issue.

Split Images by Elmore Leonard. A used copy that my editor John Metcalf gave to me. He had marked out specific dialogue that he thought I would find a useful example for my own writing, but it’s a *thriller*–of course I read it all.

Sort of random, huh? But fascinating–reading is such a social thing for me, even though it’s actually done alone. What about you?

I had my eyes closed in the dark
RR

October 7th, 2008

Constance Rooke, 1942-2008

I didn’t know Connie very well, but she always hugged me when we met, which I think might go some ways towards describing how kind she was. And though I knew she was ill, she always looked so beautiful that I never quite believed it.

There’s an obituary in the Globe, among other places.

RR

Rose-coloured Reviews *Nellcott Is My Darling*

Golda Fried‘s first novel, Nellcott is My Darling is the story of shy, self-absorbed teenager who moves from Ontario to Montreal to study arts at McGill and live in residence. Everything about life and school d in Montreal simultaneously alarms and beguiles her, and every trip to the film society or the cafeteria is both anxiety-provoking and an adventure.

*Nellcott* is yet another book that I can’t really give an unbiased review to, this time because it is my unauthorized biography!

Ok, not really. But in many ways, Alice Charles sees the world in a shockingly similar way to how I did. Or maybe it’s just universal at that age: “Everyone at the university was the same age, so riding the bus with Nellcott to the suburb of Laval was like being in the Twilight Zone.” “Seeing your friends onstage was like seeing them with silver makeup on in front of a tinself backdrop…And that was only the beginning. They actually played too.” “She loved slumping in a chair and just listening to professors talk and talk about all this stuff she didn’t know and all she had to do was listen and take a few notes.”

Less universal is Nellcott, the handsome, moody, older record-store clerk who falls for Alice the second he sees her (her feet, actually) and almost instantly becomes her (over)attentive boyfriend. He’s eccentric in a fun undergrad way (even though he never went to university): he drinks creamers and throws pebbles at Alice’s window to get her attention, plays guitar and judges people by their taste in music, smokes constantly and lives on dinner food and KD. Oh, and he’s dreamy-rockstar attractive, has his own appartment Alice can hang out at, is devoted to her, and doesn’t pressure her (much) for sex.

It’s a high school girl’s fantasy of her first university boyfriend!!!

Ok, so I found certain aspects of the romance unrealistic–but on the whole, Fried does a marvelous job of showing Alice’s world and her hyperbolic, inward-facing view of it. Her floormates in residence are an artist and a rugby player, her classes include children’s lit and abnormal psychology, her social life is watching old films in Leacock auditorium and drinking at the Bifteck, and it’s all almost perfect, though at times there is a slightly obscuring gleam of sarcasm in the rendering of the rugby player who screams when she gets her period and despises all who eat meat. But h, the spot-on details: cafeteria workers hosing down trays while wearing shower caps! Vintage shops on Mont Royal where you have to wrestle the clothes off the racks, that ever-present glittery cross on the mountain.

A lot of the scene-setting is really a lovely love poem to Montreal. Alice is bedazzled by it, but lamely–“I could never leave this town… It’s like when I’m here, I really want to conquer the town.” How, doing what, going where? Alice goes where she’s taken, generally by the hand. Alice really does appreciate–she has excellent eyes–but little else. This is enough for the reader, or this reader, who loves the descriptions of streets and buildings, meals and parks, although occasionally Fried does stray into Fromer-guide territory: “Montreal had a small but colourful China town.” But Alice does little conquering.

Alice is not always a wonderful person–she would rather be passive than nice, and here again we start to see a bit of a an extreme parody of normal silly-girlishness. She adores Nellcott perhaps nearly as much as he adores her, but she is uncomfortable on the phone and therefore never calls him. She refuses to order for herself in restaurants because she wants to eat off his plate. She hangs out with her square, studious, sarcastic friend Bethany mainly because she wants company she doesn’t have to impress, one person she can feel cooler than. Whatever, this is all typical 20-year-old behaviour (except the restaurant thing, which is pretty obnoxious) but there’s no balance–Alice *never* does anything nice for anyone, or takes an interest in anything (I loved Bethany’s snark, and after a while started waiting for her to come around and tell off the protagonist.)

Alice was a protagonist that I did really empathize with, but I felt like I couldn’t completely, and I wasn’t supposed to. This book is very very funny, and I think some emotional resonance was sacrificed to satire. The novel is written in the 3rd person, and although there is nothing of other characters’ perspectives, somehow, the narrator still has some distance from Alice, some ability to comment and judge. Then the sparseness of the narrative–Alice often does things “more” or “again” that we don’t see the first time; conversations one would predict would be pivotal are elided; readers are assumed to know things and by and large we can figure them out. I began to feel that the narration skipped over all the times Alice ever asked anyone a question out of genuine interest, thought anything insightful about a book (she says, “I love him, I love him” of Charles Bukowski, but not why or which book, and I got a feeling it didn’t matter).

Is it a bad thing to be a little realistic and little satirical? Well, I laughed out loud when, at a family Thanksgiving dinner, Alice’s dad says, “So, everyone at this table who’s had sex before raise their hands,” and her parents’ hands shoot up. Poor Alice, in that scene, surrounded by these punchline characters. She’s a smart creation, and if she were real she’d someday grow into a smart human. She deserves a little better than punchlines. If you enjoy looking back on your naif years, especially if they were spent at McGill, this book will make you happy. But I found it easier to read if I offered the protagonist the same retrospective forgiveness I give myself.

If it were real or in a dream
RR

October 6th, 2008

This Week

My desk goes live! The Walrus review of *Once* goes on-line. And on Wednesday, Mark Kingwell, Joshua Glenn and Seth launch The Idler’s Glossary at the Gladstone. They’re doing a “Twelve Step Program for Idlers”–I’m not sure if it’s to become one or to stop being one. I’m hoping for the former, as I’m sure I could use 6 or 8 of those steps. I worked most of the weekend, and am tired now.

King’s taking back the throne / the useless seeds are sown
RR

October 5th, 2008

No Politics

I try not to ever talk about politics with people I don’t know well, not because I don’t have opinions but because I am so pathetically ill-informed that I can’t defend them properly. But sometimes I get blindsided by politics, and I manage to learn a little something, about something or other.

1.

D: To even do ok in the debate, Joseph Biden had to be so smart and so erudite and so careful, and all Sarah Palin had to do was not be a monkey. Really, people are thrilled that she formed complete sentences and didn’t fling her own feces.

2.

J: So, everybody knows that light has amplitude, right?

Me: Ok, now I know, but only because you just told me this second. I don’t think normal people know that.

J: Normal people?

Me: Well, most people.

J: The people who are going to be allowed to vote in two weeks don’t know this? Oh no!

My mother says what you gonna do with your life
RR

October 3rd, 2008

“The Great Canadian Novel is a collection of stories”

So says Andrew Hood in The Storytellers, an article by Quentin Mills-Fenn about our books in Winnipeg’s Uptown Magazine. I think Andrew nailed the best quote of the piece, but the whole article’s pretty good!

After twelve/just as well
RR

October 2nd, 2008

The Review Review

As has been evident in the Rose-coloured Reviews, I’m sure, I do not feel terribly confident in my ability to review books–or anything–in a way that an end-user will find useful or even interesting. And that’s who reviews are for, end-users, the person who is going to wind up with the book in her hand (or the shoes on her feet, or in some way using of whatever the item under review is).

I feel more confident my ability to criticize writing to the *author*–I am in love with the workshopping process, used to write manuscript evalutations and still work as an editor. When I read a work-in-progress, usually I can go through a text and say what’s working and how one could build on that, what’s not working and how one might ameliorate that.

In my opinion, there’s a big difference between these two tasks: one is prescriptive, one is predictive. One is about how to write, and one about whether to read. Or not. I’m not sure. There’s an interesting quote on That Shakespeherian Rag about criticism as teaching–it’s about *how* to read. Is criticism different from reviews? Um, yes, of course–I’m still a little fuzzy on this (thanks a lot, grad school) but I think so. But both forms are written by readers for other readers, and the writer is really a static component.

There is no meliorative aspect to reviewing–they can’t fix it, can’t try to help move the next draft closer to the ideal text in the author’s mind. By the time reviews are being written, it’s no longer about the writer. As it should be–if someone’s going to invest the time and effort and cash to procure and read a book, they deserve a little guidance on what to invest in.

Still, for a writer, it is such a strange sensation. For years, teachers and workshop groups, friends and colleagues, editors and mentors have all been pitching in their opinions and advice to help me write a good book. And now there are opinions out there that I can’t do anything about. Reviews are the first response to my work that I’ve ever seen that isn’t meant to help me. They are meant to help readers.

I *do* approve of that. But it’s so strange.

I’m really happy that the responses to my book so far have been so thoughtful and intelligent, and also generous. But I’m still not really sure what to do about them–the book is and will always be what got sent to the printer in July, and the snags and infelicities that the reviewers hit are there for good. And when the day comes that someone loathes the book, well, chances are I won’t agree, but *even if I do* there won’t be a thing I can do about it.

Except keep working on the next one. And keep trying to learn to write a decent review myself. I think both will teach me a lot, and those are lessons that I could likely stand to learn.

The light disappeared from the room
RR

October 1st, 2008

The What that Is Up

For subscribers and newsstanders alike, the Fall issue of Maisonneuve is out and about. I’ve only just got my copy and flipped through, but there’s an article on extreme grooming, a new book section, photos and profiles of people encountered outside a courthouse, and my story, “Massacre Day.” I am pleased to be among this eclectic and intelligent collection. Enjoy!

I’d say that woman has a halo
RR