May 11th, 2008
Mother’s Day…
is one of those occasions I feel politically opposed to, but personally fond of. I don’t like officially dictated emotion—love your mom in May, your Dad in June, and your significant other in February. It’s weird to celebrate only these traditional roles and not others, and certainly hard on those people who don’t have people, or people they want to celebrate, in those positions in their lives. I was fairly irrational on the subject of Family Day in a few months back–now they’re *legislating* our affections? But the fact is, I love my family 365 days a year, but it *was* fun to take a day to emphasize that. Similarly, I adore my Mother, and it’s nice to have an occasion to bake her a loaf of bread and spend the afternoon together.
So, it is with mixed but genuine feelings that I wish those of you who are a observant a very happy Mother’s Day.
This sentimental heart that beats / I don’t really mind
RR
May 10th, 2008
Buzz
Ok, so I was the only writer in Toronto who’d never been to the IV Lounge before. I had the address in hand, and still I walked by it twice on the way to the 10th Anniversary of their reading series. There’s no sign, and it just looked like a house with the door swung wide. But if you glance *through* the door, you can see there’s a Toronto Life review pinned to the entrance way. So perhaps not a house. If you go into the vestibule, it does in fact say “IV Lounge” in chalk, but that doesn’t really jar loose the impression that you’re walking into someone’s living room when you open the second door. Nor does the fact that everyone in the room *notices* when you do.
But such a warm room, once you make your way inside—full of writers excited for writing and reading and eager to share (although I did hear–“Wow, you’ve *never* been here?” more than once. People have no sympathy with the whole “no life” thing!) There were ten folks on the bill last night (for 10 years, natch) and it was ovely. I *do* love readings–that joyful childhood association with being read to. I know poems about extinction by Paul Vermeersch or weapons by Dani Couture, or crime fiction by John McFetridge, among the many other standouts yestereve, aren’t exactly my mom and a fairy tale, but there is that same sense of “trust me and I’ll tell you something good”. And I wasn’t disappointed. Now that I know where it is, I’ll be back at the IV fairly often, I imagine.
And I’ll be going to the book launch of *IV Lounge Nights* in a few weeks (May 29). Not only because I was so impressed with IV in general, but specifically because my lovely friend Matthew J. Trafford is featured in the collection. I can’t wait.
Oh! The thing about these glorious nights with the writers is that I get no writing done. To work, to work!
We’re alone in this wilderness
RR
May 7th, 2008
Chick-Lit Ruined My Life
It used to be that clumsiness and ineptitude was just embarrassing, and best kept to yourself. Then Bridget Jones happened, and it was so great to have a book about being self-conscious and semi-insane over your own secret faults—someone else had written it, better and funnier than I would have, so now I didn’t have to. Then there came the strange cultishness of chick-lit, where self-obsessed ramblings came to be packaged in book form all-too-regularly without a hint of irony, or context, or humour. Women engaged in subtle self-deprecating one-downsmanship at parties, and it seemed that there was always a more glamourous way to fall off a chair than the way I was doing it.
And now it comes to this: defeated by the cello bags at the grocery store. Opening these has always been a challenge, and one day it finally proves impossible: the bag remains aggressively two-dimensional, a sheer limp sheet of cello no matter how much I try to rub, tug, and blow (sorry) it into three dimensions. Finally, I have no choice but to sidle back to the bag spinner and get a new one, nervously tucking the failed case into the tie cup. I look up, sure I’m being scrutinized, either by my bitchy blond nemesis from work, or my stand-offishly handsome grouchy boss, or perhaps a quirky cute butcher with a raised eyebrow and a penchant for clumsy girls. Or perhaps the bag stand is about to be knocked into the grapefruit display by a grocery-robber run amok and I’ll be taken hostage in a great big televised misunderstanding that all my friends will see.
But no. What actually ends up happening is that I can’t open bag number 2, either, and I have to put the bag and the loose apples separately into my basket and take the whole thing with me as a kind of long-term project, and after about five minutes in line, finally get the whole thing sorted.
What an anti-climax.
We were the high-priests / the keepers of the backbeat
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
May 3rd, 2008
Are these the same viewpoint?
Or opposites?
“Does anyone connect looking
anymore with beauty?”
–Speaker, “On Utility” from Ken Babstock’s collection *Airstream Land Yacht*
“‘I had almost given up hope of being loved…But, ladies and gentlemen, I’m now in love… Now, imagine the, um,
“I am trying to…communicate as best I can. I want to
–Dermot Schofield, fictional poet, in Lynn Coady’s novel *Mean Boy*
April 30th, 2008
Up (and) coming
All Idle Tigers fans (and fans-to-be, and fans-in-law) should be at Cameron house this Thursday for the Spirit Salon album launch! Shameless groupie that I am, I’ll push a little more:
a SPIRIT SALON SPECIAL: Idle Tigers album launch
with Pants and Tie and Katherine Sheng Morrison
Thursday, May 1, 2008 at 9:15pm
The Cameron House
408 Queen Street West (Queen and Spadina)
Toronto, ON
Another thing that’s coming up at some point is the release of the new issue of UofT lit mag *echolocation*. The website is no longer being updated, but if you go here you can see a picture of how the cover will look, which I think is pretty dreamy. Of course, I’m biased because said cover contains my short story, “The Weatherboy,” among other gems and treasures. Things don’t much run on schedule in the echolocating world, but allegedly it’ll be available in the next few weeks. I’ll keep you posted.
My girlfriend was insulted by a futurist artist
RR
April 28th, 2008
Poet Laureate of the Blogosphere
Who knew that there was such a title, although it’s clear to me now that it’s an important role. I’m so delighted that there is such an election, because that means there’s lots of people blogging about poetry and the world in poetic terms, as there should be. But for me, there’s only one poetic blogger on my radar, and that’s rob mclennan. So no disparagement meant to the other nominees, who are probably also quite brilliant.
But if there’s someone who has got to speak for poets in the blogosphere, I hope it can be rob, because I’ve never seen a blog that creates such a sense of commitment and community, such wide-ranging and warm interest and encouragement. It speaks to the blog’s space of generosity that a fiction writer such as myself never feels out of place there. rob’s blog makes it feel like writing is worthwhile, whatever your form.
I’m sure these things don’t matter *that* much in the scheme of life, but it *is* national poetry month, so if you are so inclined, maybe vote?
I could kick your ass / yeah, you in the looking glass
RR
April 25th, 2008
Rebecca Has a Bad Week
RR–I’m such a loser, I think I’ve called you every day this week.
Mom–That’s not true. I haven’t heard from you in ages. I’ve missed you.
RR–I called you on Sunday, and another day besides today…
Mom–So?
RR–And today is Thursday.
Mom–That leaves lots of days you didn’t call…well, several.
This weekend will be better, not least because I’m going to see my Mom (and Dad), because Kerry was wearing a spring skirt yesterday, because I am booked solid with frivolous things to do. So in case I don’t get a change to post before then, I just wanted to say that my brothers-and-sisters in educational trajectory, the masters in creative writing crew ’08, will be reading on Monday evening, and they are charming and I’ll be there and maybe you’d like to come, too?
Deets:
Monday, April 28
Bar Italia (582 College Street, between Manning and Clinton)
7:30pm
No cover
See you soon!
Don’t worry girl you weren’t around
RR
April 23rd, 2008
Stress-free degrees?
Impossible! But there’s a University of Toronto Spring Reunion event that gives it a try, with mini-classes for alumni that have no tests or papers, and feature cool speakers from all walks of life. Also me, who is more from a hobble of life (no, seriously, something went wrong at yoga on Saturday). These are open only to University alumni, but if you are one, it seems like a great event: Barry Callghan, George Elliot Clarke, and Elizabeth Hay, among amazing others.
The stress comes in, not for the audience, but for me, who will be reading with Ms. Hay, and is thus very nervous to be in the company of the author of Late Nights on Air. Audience members are actually guaranteed a good time, though–since even if I fall off the stage, that’ll be funny, and Elizabeth Hay is a truly brilliant writer; it’s win-win.
You always play me in the cheapest key
RR
April 20th, 2008
This weekend
Friday–I sat on a metal patio chair with an icy drink in my hand after sunset, brain shrieking, “This is patio weather, this is patio weather!” It wasn’t, not after sunset, but that I could even delude myself for a couple hours is progress.
Saturday–A small child hit me quite hard with his bicycle. Although I very much wanted to yell at this small child, I did not, because a) I like to pretend I am a good person who could not yell at children, b) the child had fallen into the road and had his own problems, c) it is weather that children ride bikes in, and weather that a foot can be rather badly hurt by a bicycle tire because it is bare. I asked the child repeatedly if he was all right, and he repeatedly apologized, until he was able to ride off and me to hobble onward.
Also Saturday–I saw the movie *Leatherheads*, which made very little sense and didn’t really even try, and yet there were a few scenes that were so charming that the rest of the film can coast on that.
Sunday–I strolled and ate brunch and strolled and got an enormous number of free beauty products and found the Luminato magazine (as far as I can tell, it was in the Globe, but neither Stars nor Nows) and felt good about the world.
Name it and I’ll pull it out your ear
RR
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