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 14th, 2010
Bronwen Wallace
A call for submissions that might be worth considering:
The Bronwen Wallace Award for Emerging Writers: You’ve got to be under 35 and unpublished in book form to qualify for this one, but otherwise it’s quite uncomplicated to enter. Deadline December 17.
September 13th, 2010
Reality: not a good idea
Years ago, I knew some people very distantly–“saw around” is probably closer than “knew”–who struck me as interesting. Then we had a series of interactions, very brief, that made me intensely curious about how they could possibly relate to each other, let alone get along as well as they seemed to. They treated each other (and me) very strangely, and while it was fine to treat me any way they liked, since they never had to talk to me again, I couldn’t imagine how they could stick with each other like that. The whole thing was very very odd.
Afterwards, as we all made good on that opportunity not to speak again, I thought about those folks a lot, and began to try to work out possible reasons for them to have acted as they had. I started filling in motivations and also backgrounds, childhoods, hometowns, central people in their lives, etc. Finally, I came up with a rather plausible world and lives for these acquaintances, whom by that time I had lost track of entirely in the real world. Mind you, I had no notion I was putting together the *right* or even probable background for these people; I just wanted something logical to quiet my mind.
Once I had that logical thing, I realized what it was was a story, of the sort I write, so I wrote it. Through many drafts, it shed almost all of its antecdents in reality , and took on more and more of my imaginings. Finally I published it–and I think it’s one of my favourite pieces–with only a few bits of physical description linking it to the original “characters” who inspired it. I’m quite certain not even they would recognize themselves.
This all took years, because I have an incredibly hard time working from reality: I have to almost entirely digest and regurgitate something in my own way before I can write it. I have to make it my own, which means throwing out 99% of the reality it came from, and just keeping some tiny nugget that makes the connection for me, though it’s likely entirely lost on the reader. So that’s my process, if you are curious, but that’s not the point of this post.
The point of this post is that, a few weeks ago, owing to the wild randomness of the web and people’s sense of privacy or lack thereof, I found out what was going on all those years ago. Not quite all of it, mind you, and not what anyone thought of me personally (though I can guess), but quite a bit of the emotional background and actual events leading up to that period, enough to pretty much know why it all happened. I also found out, in broad strokes, almost everything that happened to one of the characters in the years since.
I was so wrong. SO wrong, about everything. I am trying to keep this as vague as possible so that no one will ever work out who I mean, but I do have to say: I would never ever have guessed the role of the ukelele in all this. True!
And then I freaked out slightly, and am perhaps still doing so. It’s hard to pin down why. I don’t care that I was wrong, because I never set out to be *right*–I just wanted a story that would satisfy my own desire for logic and closure and narrative. It’s more like in those time-traveller books when a self from the past or future comes along and bothers its present incarnation. I made up these fictional characters to take the place of the real people in my mind–the real people went *away* and were not interested in explaining themselves to me, so I replaced them. And now the really people are *back*, insisting on their real-ness, disrupting the space-time continuum.
I don’t like it.
This is why 90% of my stories are made up out of the whole cloth–less interference. But even when you just take a grain of real-life, it can still mess with your head. I am not a journalist, and don’t owe a moment’s thought to empirical accuracy–fiction writers are all about emotional truth, however it might be told. But it is bad for my brain, not to mention my morale, to have competing versions of my work show up with greater truth claims than I could ever muster.
Oh fellow writers, how do you deal with this?
A fun sort of freakishness
I am very tired and miserable today, so I thought I would cheer myself and possibly my readers by talking about one of my better skills: winning raffles. I don’t know if talking about my gift in this way will cause it to evaporate, but I have been silent too long: I am Rebecca, and I win raffles. Not always, but an awful lot.
It all started when I was 5, with my first-ever raffle ticket. My parents had valiently held out against the Cabbage Patch Kid craze, insisting that no toy that was worth whatever they cost, I think maybe $40 or so. But they did consent to give me a $1 to enter the raffle at the local fair, one of the prizes for which was a Cabbage Patch Premie, pretty much the most adorable thing ever.
“I’m going to win that doll,” I told my mother.
“That’s not the way it works. You just pay for a chance to put your ticket in with a lot of other people’s tickets and they only draw one. You probably won’t win the doll,” said my mother.
I won the doll. Terrible lesson. Or at least, it would have been if I didn’t continue to win stuff.
Mind you, I’m talking about raffles–local fundraisers with prizes donated by the community or door prizes at parties, not lotteries or sweepstakes or anything involving a cruise ship. I think the most any of my prizes has been worth is about $100, and mainlysignificantly less. Plus the largest *cash* prize I’ve ever received was $8. But I’ve gotten some nice stuff, and it’s good for morale to win things. Here, for the sake of my morale, and to prove that my gift is real, is a lifetime list of stuff I’ve won in raffles (more or less chronological):
–Cabbage Patch premie
–stuffed white dog holding Christmas stocking in mouth
–My Little Pony baby seahorse
–black corderoy trucker’s cap with advert for local famer’s co-op on it
–stuffed white bear wearing red scarf
–dinner at Swiss Chalet
–anthology of poetry reviews
–bag of Hallowe’en chocolate
–bath set (there may have been more than one of these; sort of a blur)
–chance to go see Tragically Hip for only $7
–enormous cookie
–gift certificate to bowling alley
–ritzy dinner in French restaurant
–Mac8600 (used)
–$100 gift certificate for Ryerson bookstore
–$20 gift certificate for Amazon.ca
–centrepieces (many; mostly ones I could not carry on the bus and had to leave behind; once famously a tin sandbucket, which I have grown very attached to)
–elaborately frosted chocolate cake
–broadside by Al Purdy about Charle Bukowski
–movie tickets, various, including passes to any cinema, passes to press screenings of new movies, and tickets to a TIFF screening
–hand mirror with matching brush
–illustrated copy of Hamlet
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.
September 4th, 2010
Rose-coloured reviews *Ysabel* by Guy Gavriel Kay
My review of Guy Gavriel Kay’s Ysabel must be somewhat lacking in context, as I know it is one of hundreds of books in a genre of which I’ve read, in last 15 years, pretty much zilch. It’s the tale of a teenager, disregarded and pushed around by the adult world, who discovers amazing powers within himself and is able to step in and stop a wrong that e no one else could even fathom. You see–popular story-style.
When one is starting to read in new territory, it is wise to start with the best–so that even if the material is not particularly attractive, the talent of the writer and the intricacy of the structure can help suck you in. Which is why Scott wanted me to read something by Kay, one of Canada’s greatest and most vivid storytellers, as well as a global bestseller and pretty much the only writer I have ever encountered whose readings draw such crowds that people arrive a couple hours early to ensure they get seats.
There’s a reason–Kay is damn good. My somewhat snippy summary above does not at all encompass the 12-character, fast-moving, action/adventure/historical novel that is *Ysabel*. The book takes place in the south of France, where 15-year-old Ned has been dragged so that his famous photographer father can shoot images for a new coffeetable book on the area. His had is accompanied by three assistants, so Ned has no real role to play other than sulk and do homework.
On the first day of shooting, Ned wanders into an old cathedral where, in short order, he meets a pretty exchange student from New York and a 2600-hundred-year-old gentleman who climbs out of the floor, threatens them with a knife, and later springs from the roof.
Unlike some fantasy books I could mention (and most of the vampire-related ones), *Ysabel* does not simply use history to organize or weight the plot, or to sound cool and deep. The plot is intrinsically rooted in Greek/Celt relations (such as they were) from millenia ago. It seemed that Kay had done an incredible amount of research, but to be honest, if he muffed stuff, I could never have caught him, and I doubt most readers could have. That’s the advantage of choosing an esoteric point in history of course.
But a sensational one–if Kay is to be trusted, even the unimproved history contains bloody sieges, obscure marriage rites, seafaring adventure and midnight rituals. Not to mention skull worship. The events that Kay makes use of are so serious and strange that sometimes the improvements he does make on them–the story that Ned walks into involves a eons-old love triangle, and an elaborate game of hide-and-seek–can seem trivial. But most of the time, the book makes a powerful case for history being still with us, always, and the worst crimes never being truly forgotten.
So the man in the cathedral must fight another for the hand of the beautiful Ysabel, and Ned and his new pretty friend Kate get wrapped up in it–first a little, then a lot. And the interesting thing is, then Ned’s dad does too. And his dad’s assistants. Ned’s mom, his aunt and uncle round out the cast.
Since the Brothers Grimm, books have featured plucky young heroes whose parents were either dead or dastardly, and who thus had to fight their battles all all all alone. I have long maintained that there is nothing Freudian in this; it is simply easier to right an adventure story about one or two rather than about a family (try it!) It is really nice to see Ned scrambling along alone and then–in honest 15-year-old fashion–having to turn to his folks for certain kinds of support. *Ysabel* is at times very sweet, but almost never sappy.
All the characters were well-drawn, if not particularly nuanced. Most were strong, conflicted, kind, smart, and frightened, although perhaps each in a slightly different order. There was a long backstory related to Ned’s mom and his aunt which is rather overdramatic and does not have a satisfying resolution, but the more quotidian interactions of the family are natural and smooth–everyone’s pretty panicked by the violence and craziness (supernatural wolves keep attacking) but someone’s always hollering after Ned to bring his cellphone and wear a hoodie. The acknowledgements mention that Kay is a dad of young men perhaps slightly older than Ned, which would explain why his insights, while not exactly profound, are so accurate.
Sometimes I get so caught up in my short-story universe that I forget how other forms work. A 400-page fantasy novel is about as far from short-story as you can get; characters read aloud from historical wall plaques in this book, not just once but several times. They also read from guidebooks, websites, and the occasional poem. And it’s weird to get massive chunks of exposition like this, yes, but honestly, it seemed to work well enough. I guess it is a question of pacing–if you are going into 1000s of years of character backstory, countless wars and sieges, 3/4 of a page on a google search seems about right.
It also helps that Kay’s prose is crystal clear. It’s brilliant in the sense of being invisible–the words just exist to bring you the images. *Ysabel* was the most movie-like book I’ve read in a while. Even sitting beside the massive hardcover, I still feel like I watched it more than read it. And the best way to see the clean *serviceableness* (that’s a compliment, actually) of the prose is to open a page at random. Read/see:
“Ned got back in and slid the door shut. Greg looked back at him for a second, then put the car in gear and started forward again.
“They passed through that closed-in arid canyon in silence, came out of shadow into springtime fields and vineyards and sunlight again. Moments later they saw the Roman arch and a tower on the left side of the road…”
The ending is very very exciting–involving the characters racing up a mountain at dusk towards the site of an ancient murder of 200 000 souls, a crime still present for Ned because of his nascent gift for a kind of second sight. Reeling from the proxy pain, Ned struggles to save a life and (what, I’m not wrecking anything, it’s that kind of book) succeeds. The bittersweet way his victory plays out is touching and my eyes actually watered a bit (it’s been a tough week, though; Kay can’t take entire credit for that).
There is some weirdness going on with the male-female relations in this book, I can’t not mention that. The Ned-Kate relationship is actually pretty natural, quirky and chaste, but quite believeable. There are a couple of really inappropriate sexual jokes from one of the adult characters though. These came early in the book and then went away, so I took it as Kay’s soon-abandoned attempt to be edgy, but the theme comes back right at the end. Way to take the edge off a nice moment, Mr. Author.
More innocuously, there is a way-too-long scene of men-are-idiots-women-are-smart banter that made me insane. I hate those sorts of “women rule the world by telling men where their socks are” jokes: you got so much respect for women, find your own damn socks. And while you’re at it, evaluate on a woman-by-woman basis, instead of a blanket statement. But this is my own personal bugaboo more than anything; the scene is not all that long.
I have not at all really delved into the intricacies of the plot because, well, it’s really intricate. And Kay explains it really well, but I don’t think I could. This book is a fast fast read–you don’t feel at all hard-done-by (there are too many hyphens in this post) reading 400 pages, though it’s a bit much to lug around the hardcover.
Oh, and another cool thing? The main characters are all from Montreal, so while in France, everyone’s speaking French. Neat-o.
Ok, that’s it.
September 3rd, 2010
Useful information
Here’s a bunch of random stuff I’ve read on the web lately that might be helpful to you:
10 Mistakes Freelancers Make: I worked freelance for a while and made many of these mistakes, which probably contributed to how miserable I was (but not entirely; some people just have a set number of hours beyond which they NEED to have a conversation with someone). Now I work with/administrate for freelancers, and I see the best ones avoid this stuff. The piece is a bit general, but if you’re just starting out, probably exactly what you need.
Definitions of Different Kinds of Cousins: I’m from a small family and can generally define everybody by pointing and saying their names, but I can see the lure of wanting to know the exact title of your cousin’s daughter or your grandmother’s cousin. The folks from the Emily Post Institute finally set the record straight.
Q&A with Daniel Alarcon: Apparently the New Yorker does these little Q&As with their fiction writers as a web-only feature now. The questions are quite generic, but the writers that the New Yorker pulls are so good that their answers are still worth reading.
The Finding Time to Write piece is part of a writing advice column the Vagabond Trust has been running every Thursday. The best piece of advice in it is this–so true for some of us, but no one ever says it: “Maybe you can have your web browser open and keep an eye on your Facebook news feed while you’re writing. Maybe you can sit on the couch with your laptop and watch TV while the kids are screaming and playing in the room and you can still get your writing done. I don’t know, I’m not you. If you feel that you just can’t stop doing something to write, to to write while you’re doing it. If it doesn’t work, you actually are going to have to stop doing whatever that is for a little while.”
Hope that helps with…something or other. Happy Labour Day, peeps!
September 1st, 2010
As busy as I want to be
Rosalynn from TNQ/The Literary Type and I often seem to be on the same wavelength, but never more so than in her post on busy-ness. I had always sensed that there is a value judgement inherent in that word, I just couldn’t articulate how. And now R has articulated it for me:
“I’m starting to wonder if, somehow, “busy” has somehow become synonymous with “successful.” As though if you’re not constantly doing something, you must be doing something wrong. And not only should you be “busy,” you should feel obliged to jokingly complain about it, as though, you know, you really wish your life were not so very full and “busy”, but hey, you’re powerless to change it. So many people need so many things from you, all the time.”
What this modern-day concept of the word has basically buried is that everyone is busy–we do things for all the time we are awake. Some of those things are not glamourous or even interesting, but unless you are actually staring at a wall in suspended animation, you are busy–reading, talking, eating, writing. I don’t particularly like to be invited to do something at last minute, even if I ostensibly have “no plans”: the book and/or the video is a plan, too, and reading or watching is as “busy” as a party.
In my opinion.
After reading this post, I thought about a woman who once described to me a book she had thought of writing. I thought she wanted suggestions on how to get started, which I offered. She quickly cut me off, saying, “I know I’m not going to write it. I like to have fun too much.”
At the time, I was mildly insulted–I thought she was making fun of my nerdish lifestyle. But now I think she was incredibly honest. Her priorities are different than mine, and she wasn’t going to be embarrassed about that. Remember those girls you knew in school (everybody knew girls like this) who were regularly “too busy” to come to the movies with an all-female posse, but could always find the time for a male? They weren’t lying; different activities rank differently: once you’re fed and rested and studied and worked, how are you going to slice up the rest of the time?
By my own standards (and certainly by my mother’s), I have a lot on my plate–but it’s my plate and I’m an adult, so I serve myself (this metaphor is officially over). Shortly after reading that post at TLT, someone I respect remarked how difficult it must be to work full time and write seriously. People say this to me occasionally and it’s a delightful compliment, appealing as it is to my sense of myself as a dramatic martyr to my art. Unfortunately, I’m no kind of martyr; I *like* writing. It is fun to me, which is why I can do it even when I’m tired or I’ve just gotten 4 rejections or that spot on the couch just looks so comfy. (I realize there are some writers can work for long periods on their couchs; I am not one of them).
Cognizant of all this, I made myself say to this woman, “It’s actually fine–I’d rather do it this way than any other way I’ve thought of.” Though it would have been much more fun to throw myself across her desk and murmur, “Oh, how I suffer!”
I could be less busy if I wanted to: I could give up or cut down on the writing, stop watching trashy movies, only read books that relate directly to my work, get a car and stop spending 1.5 hours a day on transit, quit both my writing groups and book club, never do anyone a favour, not host parties, only call my parents every other Sunday, break up with Mark and uninstall Facebook Scramble. And then there’s the matter of this blog…
Everyone who read that did so list thinking certain items were obviously jokes and others would really be good to cut back on. We prioritize on our own systems, and really, it comes down to what we care about. Me, I care about all of the above, and as long as I can, I will keep doing it all. If something comes along and demands more of my time, I’ll reprioritize.
Until then I am like most people, exactly as busy as I want to be.
August 30th, 2010
I am an artist and I vote!
There’s never an excellent time not to care about politics, but the current moment, at least in TO, inspires even the politically confused such as myself try to pull together (I am normally the worst sort of political specimen–opinionated but ill-informed). The folks at Arts Vote are trying to remind us to participate in the system at least a little–if we care about how the city is handled, at least we should try to choose the handler with care. They have this neat project where they ask people take photos of themselves with a helpful reminder slogan:
I made this sign (the pink is lipstick!)
Of course, artist is only one thing that I am. I am a part of many constituencies, such as TTC riders, education workers (I am not a teacher, but I get to be an honourary one sometimes), human being fearfuls of a monocultural and car-riders who would like to find a parking spot someday.
Which means that, before October 25, I have to get organized.
Buy the book: