February 9, 2011

How about this? One magazine thinks about its gender gap.

From Kim Jernigan’s introduction to The New Quarterly 117: “When making their choices for this issue, the poetry editors were thinking seasonal, in part, but our fiction editors, of which I’m one, were thinking thematic. Worrying, I should say, that our choices might be falling into a predictable pattern, specifically that we were tending too often to mother/daughter stories. Four of our five editors on the fiction side are women, and of those, three are mothers. Were we looking to see our own lives reflected on the page?

…But I think our choices reflect less our demographic than the thematic cast of the submissions as a whole. For whatever reason, the fiction we receive tends not towards work, or war, politics or race relations or environmental catastrophe, but towards the familial and relational.

At least we’ve captured some fathers and sons this round…”

In a week during in which we were once again informed that the gender gap for magazine contributers continues to be gaping, it was refreshing to read of an editor and her editorial board conducting their business with these ideas in mind. It would nice if more editors would do the same, in particular those whose mags are suffering from a dearth of women writers.

And “suffering” is the right word. Come on now, it’s not like magazines are doing really well the way things are. Something needs to change, and correcting this disparity this would be a step in the right direction. I’m not just ranting on principle either– a diverse body of writers makes for better and more interesting content. Everybody wins.

February 9, 2011

The Vicious Circle reads This Cake is for the Party

We headed out to the west end, somebody brought a chicken, and there was a baby (who never cried). There was also a heart-shaped chocolate cake doused in chocolate glaze, and it was for the party, and we would have it and eat it too, etc. etc. And so we sat down to talk about the book, which was Sarah Selecky’s This Cake is for the Party.

As usual, we were divided, but in a less dramatic way than we’d been with Jessica Grant’s book. Partly because Selecky’s book is a much more even collection, but too even, we decided. Our main criticism that the book was short on action, not as in car chases and explosions, but characters who showed some agency, stepped outside their inertia– and the stories we liked the very best were the stories where characters actually did such things.

The stories we liked the least were those at the beginning of the book, and we wondered if a story like “Paul Farenbacher’s Yard Sale” (which we loved, every one of us) had started the collection, would this book have been easier to embrace? The characters in the first story “Throwing Cotton to the Wind” didn’t seem fully formed to us, and who’s named Sanderson and Flip? Though this story did have a passionate defender among us, who’d read it five times in a row because she found it so moving. She found it hingeing on the moment when Anne and Flip have sex, and how the looseness of these characters allows the reader to slip into their places, this one powerful moment of connection between two unhappy people. Another of us noted how well Selecky writes about animals, and also the greatness of the line about a sound like falling potatoes.

Another criticism was that after the fact, the stories in the collection had blended together. The best exceptions were “Paul Farenbacher…” (and one of us loved the part where she leans back on the ice-cube dispenser, and the fridge starts ringing like a slot machine), and “Where Are You Coming From Sweetheart?” (and of this story, one of us remarked that Selecky had so absolutely nailed what it is to lose a mother, being in that house with the father who has no idea how to take care of you)– we loved the ending to “Where Are You Coming From…” in particular, a powerful image with so much weight to it. Though we wondered about time period– it seemed retro, but references were contemporary. But these stories, like all the good stories This Cake…,  have some weight to them, history, characters who act, and are not mere cardboard cutouts of people.

We noted the book’s strange preoccupations, with organic vegetarian food, and pyramid schemes. We loved the references to the library ball in “How Healthy Are You?”, particularly those of us who’d been to the library ball. We liked that these stories took place in Peterborough, and Sudbury. We thought there were interesting details about these characters’ work (candle making, creating organic household cleansers, etc.), but all these jobs put them at such a distance from the world– we would have loved to see someone driving a bus, or a story that took place in an office.We loved the book’s design, but questioned the blurbs– really Lisa Moore? “Ultra-lush”? And none of us found any of the stories “flat-out funny”.

Sometimes, we think, the hype of a first book raises expectations unfairly. We thought that This Cake is for the Party was a good book, a very good first book. That it’s a promising start to Selecky’s publishing career, a harbinger of greatness to come, and then we decided that was more than enough, and decided to break out the cake.

February 8, 2011

Dear Author, I don't want you to visit my book club

I don’t want an author to visit my book club. Perhaps because my book club is more vicious than most, but I still can’t imagine a book club in which conversation could flow easily in an author’s presence. Because how do you talk about the parts of the books that suck? How can the group vehemently disagree on the book’s quality if naysayers are too polite to speak up? How can you speculate as to the author’s intentions, and where they went wrong? How can the book be viciously attacked, therefore provoking the book’s most passionate defenders to step up? And what if the author ate all the guacamole?

I understand why authors do attend book clubs, and why book clubs want them to do so– the arrangement is mutually beneficial. Authors get book sales and club members get filler, which it seems book clubs are ever after anyway. Though I do wish that book club members would have a little more confidence in their own skills as readers so that meetings did not have to contain merely filler. That they could think up their own discussion questions, for example (and in my club, these are mainly along the lines of, “All right, what’s up with this bit I couldn’t understand?”) Let their own conversation sustain the meeting, and if author visits are desired, have them at a supplementary meeting– certainly these visits would only enhance subsequent discussion. But the discussion will suffer if the author is sitting there for it.

I raise this matter in regard to Canada Reads, and Charlotte Ashley noted the same thing in her summation yesterday. That for the first time, authors have been sitting in on the entire Canada Reads process, and I don’t think it’s done the program any good. I liked the initial plan of having readers champion their favourite books for an “essential books of the decade” list, but things went askew when actual authors got in on the action. And authors got so in on the action, that their personalities became inseparable from the books in question. Relationships through social media developed so that it was impossible for many to read these books without a conflict of interest. The books themselves ceased to be the point at all.

As I wrote in October, “If your book really was one of the essential books of the past decade, couldn’t you rely on your passionate readers to promote it? And if you don’t have those passionate readers, then, um, maybe your book wasn’t one of the essential books of the past decade?” As Charlotte Ashley wrote yesterday, “if there was an elephant in the room [in yesterday’s “debates”, surely it was the CBC’s repeated insistence that this competition was about finding the “most essential” book of the last decade whilst gesturing at a stack of books nobody has ever heard of.”

Unless is the one book here that has any chance of essential-ness. I haven’t read The Best Laid Plans, but Charlotte didn’t have much to say about it, and she’s a pretty smart reader. I read Essex County Book 1, and it was interesting– I’d suggest it had more ambiguity than any of the other Canada Reads books, save for Unless, but still, not quite an essential pick. The Bone Cage was a good first novel, but one with many problems. Like The Birth House, it’s a book whose problems I wouldn’t take great care to deliberate on, except that now someone is going around claiming it’s the essential Canadian book of the decade and it absolutely isn’t. The whole thing is kind of ridiculous.

What’s more ridiculous though is that no one having this conversation. I’ve refrained from saying anything until now, because I don’t like to talk shit about books, but we’re all being far too polite now, and I fear that authors attending our book club is most of the reason why. It’s why book bloggers are celebrating these books without question, not a word of criticism, though there is plenty to criticize, but how can we  criticize when the author is our friend on Facebook, and our favourite Twitter pal?

I believe passionately in the role of book bloggers in contributing to literary conversation, that (to paraphrase V. Woolf) ““The standards we raise and the judgements we pass steal into the air and become part of the atmosphere which writers breathe as they work.” Of course, I’ve always appreciated connecting with authors through blogging, the writer googling themselves at midnight on a Friday night and sending an email of thanks for my review– I love that. But when the author shows up on my doorstep wrapped up on a ribbon, bearing their book on a silver platter along with a cupcake, well then, it’s not about the book anymore.

I fear that the infusion of authorial presence in the online world is compromising what bloggers have to say, and readers and writers have a lot to lose by that.

February 7, 2011

Canada Reads Independently 2011: Update 2

Canada Reads began today on CBC Radio, though I was sans a night’s sleep and attending various walk-in clinics and emergency rooms all day instead, so I missed it. (My child has been diagnosed with a cold. We are slowly coming to terms with having such a tragedy invade our lives). But Charlotte Ashley, who comes through as my Canada Reads Hero for the third year in a row, has summed up the show in Charlotte Ashley-ish fashion. I look forward to reading what she has in store for us tomorrow!

In less contagious household news, my husband is devouring Thomas King’s Truth and Bright Water. “I love it,” is his direct quote, but we’re both a bit brain-dead, so I can’t get much more out of him than that. He notes the authenticity of Tecumseh’s perspective, of its limitations (that he is so young) and how King doesn’t manipulate that perspective to his own ends. The story is very true to his voice.

The Canada Reads Indies hero of the day is she of Buried in Print, who has read the entire lineup (as well as that of Canada Reads). Of Still Life With June (which I’m reading next), she writes, “I know it’s barely February, but I’m fairly sure [it] will be on my list of favourite reads for 2011.” She says Truth and Bright Water reads like magic: “It’s nasty: pitted, stripped, open wound, scabbed, blistered, split. But it’s curled up in twists like pigs’ tails. It’s dynamic, it’s alive.” She reads Home Truths and discovers that “[Gallant’s] preoccupations as a writer are my preoccupations as a reader: it’s a perfect match.” And finally, of Be Good, she writes, “It’s strangely addictive, the sort of prose that immediately provokes either immersion or revulsion.” Which is certainly championship reading– thank you for reading with me…

February 6, 2011

Sides of Peterborough, and Peterborough books

Michelle Berry’s “What It’s Like Living Here” got me thinking about my hometown of Peterborough a few weeks back, not least because she appears to live on the block where my two best friends grew up (and therefore me alongside them). Her piece awakened nostalgia for the Peterborough I left behind, while Candace Shaw’s response to it “I guess I do like it here” introduced me to a Peterborough I hardly know, and I think these both complement one another wonderfully.

I’m thinking about Peterborough at the moment now, however, because I had brunch with my friend Mike this morning, and also because I’m rereading Sarah Selecky’s collection This Cake is for the Party. Selecky is a Trent grad, and many of her stories take place along the city’s hallowed routes (sirens on Water Street). Andrew Pyper’s Kiss Me also contains stories set in Peterborough. And Paul Nicholas Mason’s novel Battered Soles is THE Peterborough novel, as far as I know– I enjoyed it very much a couple of years back. Any other Peterborough stories I’m missing?

Because as far as I’m concerned, no place is real until it has been rendered as fiction.

February 6, 2011

Books in Motion #8

I usually watch readers on the subway from afar, taking note of appearances, accessories. I didn’t get a chance this time, because she was sitting right beside me on the Danforth Line and the first thing I noticed was that she was reading The Lacuna (by Barbara Kingsolver, who should have been on the cover of Time last year, remember? My best book of 2010?). Without even thinking, I said to her, “I love that book.” “I know,” she said, “isn’t it wonderful?” and I could hardly start staring then, taking notes on the cut of her trousers. She was reading it for her book club. I found the first 150 pages hard-going, I told her, but she said she was experiencing no such thing. I had to get off at the next stop, and by then we were friends, and wished her the best for the rest of her reading.

February 6, 2011

I am reading at the Draft Reading Series "Bloggers Live!" event

It’s one week until I’ll be reading as part of the Draft Reading Series’ Bloggers Live! event, with my friends Julia Zarankin (of Birds and Words) and Maria Meindl (whose blog is brand new), and Diana Kiesners who writes The Accordian Diaries, which probably means there will be an accordian. Me, I’ll be sticking with prose, though anything is possible. In the spirit of whimsy, a convict riding a zebra.

The event is next Sunday, February 13th at 3pm at Merchants of Green Coffee (Queen and Broadview-ish).

Let me know if you’re coming, and I’ll save you a seat.

February 5, 2011

Canada Reads Independently 3: Home Truths by Mavis Gallant

I may be crucified for admitting this, but I didn’t enjoy reading Mavis Gallant’s collection Home Truths, though the stories themselves, they’re a whole other thing. When I finished reading “The Ice Wagon Going Down the Street”, I had to close the book, catch my breath, and put my head back together. A story that hooked me with its opening lines, “Now that they’re out of world affairs and back where they started, Peter Frazier’s wife says, ‘Everybody else did well in the international thing except us.” The story is a scathing treatment of “the international thing” and the people who do it well or otherwise, a pathetic, tragic climax, ill-considered hobo costume, Saskatchewan evoked in the wilds of Geneva. What a trick to render the hollowness of life so very richly.

The collection opens with “Thank You for the Lovely Tea”, a perfect formula. Malicious girls in private school uniforms, and the coldest, most precise and shivery ending: “[Ruth] wondered if she would ever care enough about anyone to make all the mistakes those around her had made during the rainy-day tea with Mrs. Holland. She breathed on the window, idly drew a heart, smiled placidly, let it fade.” The book proceeds with characters caring enough to make all manner of mistakes– a young girl who rejects a playmate for her more sophisticated cousin; young girl abroad whose choice of lover lands her with inevitable heartbreak; Lottie Benz who goes to Europe, seeing the whole world as a pet project, but an acquaintance from home keeps her from making her neat arrangements, and forces her to reconsider the parameters of her life (which is another way of saying that she grows up).

In her pitch, Carrie Snyder referred to the collection as “a smorgasbord for the mind”, but I confess that it was just too much for me to digest. The stories were so deep and involving that to move from one to the other was simply disorienting. (This is not a problem I usually have with short story collections. I love the idea of collections offering glimpses into window after window, and I am, after all, a veritable peeping tom.) These stories are exquisite, yes, but many are far from short, and they’re not ideally presented together in book form. Though the edition has given the book overall a definite structure (“At Home”, “Canadians Abroad” and “Linnet Muir”), these stories are not necessarily enhanced by being considered together.

I take full responsibility for this as a reader. For not having the kind of time to consider each of these stories singularly, as they’re intended to be. But perhaps these stories are best considered within the context of whatever issue of The New Yorker each one first appeared in, which places for them, I think, fully at home in the wide literary world. We’re also really talking novels for Canada Reads Independently, and though I might argue that any one of these stories on its own conveys as much depth as a novel, if not more, the effect of all of them together is overwhelming to compare book-for-book.

Now, Carrie Snyder notes that she chose this book primarily for its Linnet Muir stories, however, Muir being the narrator and protagonist of the final third of stories in Home Truths and to consider these, I’d like to shift gears a little bit. Linked short stories have a bad rap these days, a cheap way for publishers to sell a novel that isn’t (for writers to write one). But I would argue that the best collections of linked stories possess a range of perspectives not possible in other forms, and a greater chance of coming close to presenting something like truth.

This is apparent in the Linnet Muir stories, which present the same characters and events in different contexts. And interestingly, because they weren’t necessarily intended to be published together, contain a great deal of repetition in order to establish the facts of Linnet’s life, repetition that would be edited out of a novel’s first draft, but which becomes almost a meditation here. Characters who are secondary in one story are in the spotlight in the next. There is flux, there are many plots, some fizzle out and go nowhere, characters grow up and change their minds, and this is kind of what life is.

“Between Zero and One” was my favourite story in this section, Linnet Muir considering the world of men which she becomes privy to as the sole female working in a Montreal office during World War 2, and how other women could be just as complicit as men in ensuring women’s place as a “third-class immigrant”. In many of the stories, she’s reflecting on her parents, who were too young and too consumed in their own affairs to be present to her as a child, and who are both lost to her now. Linnet is coming of age as she looks back on the vanished world of her childhood, vanished doubly for having disappeared at the beginning of September 1939. Wartime is the backdrop of “Varieties of Exile”, which (like many of these stories) talked around and around itself, avoiding the epicentre to the point where I began to question its architecture, but came to a sad and illuminating conclusion that gave me the strange feeling that this story’s destination and not the journey was necessarily the point (though the latter will be entirely worthwhile upon rereading).

These stories are difficult, and I might suggest that “precise” is an adjective that rarely applies. Not that these stories aren’t deliberately constructed, the imprecision itself deliberate somehow, but there is a muddledness to the prose– lines that could mean any number of things. “I did not forget her, but I forgot about her” says Linnet about the godmother who fails to follow through, and though the line rings familiar, sparkles with insight, what she means exactly is unclear. Which triples the stories’ already-expansiveness.

I’ve also failed to really get to the point, because there are too many points to be considered. Instead of glimpses into one window after another, I kept getting lost in mansions. And so although Gallant should top any list, I can’t put her at the top of this one, but then Home Truths is really a book that belongs in a class of its own.

Canada Reads Independently Rankings:

1) Truth and Bright Water by Thomas King

2) Home Truths by Mavis Gallant

3) Be Good by Stacey May Fowles

February 3, 2011

Mastering subtlety

“Bookish people, who are often maladroit people, persist in thinking they can master any subtlety so long as it’s been shaped into acceptable expository prose.” — from Unless by Carol Shields

February 2, 2011

Slow snow falling deep

My life at the moment offers such a richness of time, for which I am incredibly grateful. We are very rarely in a hurry, Harriet can walk down the street at her own stumbling pace, we can do the grocery shopping in the morning when the store is nearly empty, we get chores out of the way in the week so that weekends are devoted to pleasure, and when I call to make her doctor’s appointment, I’m able to say that pretty much any time is fine. (Except nap-time. Nap-time is sacred. There is never enough time in nap-time, or in the evenings after Harriet goes to bed, and I take care to use every second of this precious free time for writing and reading, and I do. When I’m not looking at photos of people I don’t know on Facebook.)

The best thing about this arrangement is that we can take pleasure in the little things, that there is no such thing as drudgery, because everything has its place. For instance, I clean the house on Friday mornings and don’t worry about my filthy kitchen floor for the rest of the week, and I have somehow come to love this ritual, that I’m not cleaning while I could be doing something better, but that I’m cleaning because it’s what we do then. And when we finish, there will be time for something else. So that I can enjoy the seven seconds in which the sun gleams from my just-mopped floor, and the stove-top is scrubbed (and I just don’t look in the bathtub, which is never, ever scrubbed). To clean my house is satisfying, and to be finished even more so.

I have also become a passionate snow shoveller. Snow shovelling is only such a chore, because it creeps up on you just when you’re late for work, but this is never the case with us. The storm that struck our city last night was not as powerful as predicted, but still, a man skiied by my house this morning, and snow had covered everything. And because Harriet and I were expecting a friend this morning, we went outside to shovel her way up to our door. (We shovel also for the postal service. If you clear it, they will come.) Harriet has a small shovel, and is impressed enough by it and by the snow that she is satisfied to watch me work. And it was the perfect snow to shovel to– there was so much of it, but it was light enough that I could lift big shovel-fulls of it, feel impressive, and not injure my back.

I get so so few opportunities to actually physically labour (which is a good thing. I once did a Habitat for Humanity Build, almost killed myself, and spent most of the build under a tent eating twinkies, and no one minded, because I was very bad at building houses). Which makes it entirely satisfying to work for once, to use my body, my strength, to clear the sidewalks and our driveway, creating mountains at the edges that are taller than Harriet. (A mountain taller than Harriet. I know. Can you imagine such immensity?). To know that snow-clearing is by-lawed as my obligation as a citizen of this city, that we have to work together to keep our sidewalks clear, and how many people fulfil their duty actually as opposed to those who don’t. It makes me hopeful. And to be out there in the fresh-snowed quiet of a Wednesday morning, everybody either gone to work or snow-dayed in bed, the snow still falling and me quite content knowing that I’m doing a job that will never be done.