September 30, 2007
No Nuit Blanche
Here is a photo of Stuart and I experiencing our urban landscape. Alas, we did not get to Nuit Blanche. On the way home from a brilliant night at Rebecca Rosenblum’s (with such good company as Chapati Kid), I shared public transportation with people going to Nuit Blanche, and their company made me want to go home to read. I’m glad I did.
And now we’ve just arrived home from The Word on the Street, which was a brilliant afternoon. I should have paid more attention to the scheduling though, instead of showing up blind, as I’m sure there was a lot of good programming I missed. Such as Elizabeth Hay, whose novel I finished Friday night and was the best book I’ve read this year. I could have heard her read! She could have signed book! I lined up at the author’s signing tent anyway, and told her how much I’d enjoyed her book. Managing not to be too much of a blathering idiot, which is sweet relief. Afterwards I also met the lovely Kim Jernigan of The New Quarterly, which was exciting. And finally to the main event, as Patricia Storms presented and read from her new book 13 Ghosts of Halloween. It was delightful. She was absolutely entertaining, the presentation was fabulous, we got hear her sing!, and after she signed my book. Plus I got to meet her, which was nice. I am an ever-adoring fan.
So a good day, in daylight. I freaked out though, about the proximity of The Vic Book Sale to The Word on the Street Crowd, and wondered if they’d leave anything for the rest of us tomorrow. And then I came to the conclusion, all on my own, that even if they didn’t, I have eight billions books of my own still to read, some of which I bought at the book sale last year, and a whole host of others on reserve at the library. Which I thought was very mature, and I deserved a pat on the back for. Whenever I refrain from childishness, I always feel this proud.
Today I picked up The Beatles Blue Album, which made me fall in love with them years ago, and I want to again. Now reading Alice I Think by Susan Juby, which is out in its own grown-up edition, and, really, it positively should be.
September 27, 2007
Links for Thursday
Gather ye rosebuds while ye may by Judy Pollard Smith was an absolutely gorgeous essay. “There is a plethora of print for baby boomers to mull over, about how worldly-wise and wealthy we’ve become on some counts, about how many toys we’ve collected, about how we strive to improve upon medical solutions to halt the aging process./ But where, oh where, is the stuff of import? Where is the reading material that tells us that we don’t have to keep on dieting and jogging like maniacs, that it’s okay to let ourselves grow older with élan, with hope, with our friends and families, with happy hearts, with grace? Where is The Wife Of Bath when we need her?” I sent it to my mom.
On books which have opened our eyes to feminism. I love that one is broad-minded enough to include Joan Didion. For me? Three Guineas, The Edible Woman, Just as I Thought by Grace Paley. I’ll think of others, I’m sure. (Yes. Fear of Flying was tremendously important during a rather bizarre period in my life, no matter how cliched and out-of-date that reads). Though of course the books that really formed my conciousness included The Cat Ate My Gymsuit by Paula Danziger, and The Real Me by Betty Miles. Much later on came Bust Magazine, which changed my life, I think. Though I’m older/younger than that now.
Some audio links: I listen to online radio at work. Like everyone else, I adore This American Life. And for the last week and a half I’ve been enjoying BBC Radio 1’s Legend Shows, by Paul McCartney, Debbie Harry, Noel Gallagher, Paul Weller etc. Very cool, and you can always listen again.
And if all else fails, you can look up “fruit” on wikipedia.
September 26, 2007
Books in my life
I’ve got all these books in my life, and not necessarily just the ones I’m reading. Books I’m not reading seem to have just as much a presence. Oh, reader’s compunction. I get it rarely, reading as swiftly as I do, but a couple of tomes have been lurking lately, and I know it is absolutely imperative that I get to them, and they’re piled on my bedside, but the dust on their jackets is now this thick. I’m talking nonfiction, usually, when I talk like this. To begin a long nonfiction book is a tremendous commitment, requiring sacrifice as to how it keeps me away from fiction. A Short History of Everything and Guns Germs and Steel are way overdue. I’ll get around to them. This might be absolutely a lie, but I really intend that it not be.
And then books I should be reading. And not should as in “ought to be but won’t” as above, but rather “must” be read, as the whole universe is saying so. Like with Great Expectations quite recently (and yes, I’ll get to that book too). Now it’s Lucky Jim, which Rona Maynard recommends. And in this interview Kate Christensen cites it as an influence on her In The Drink, which I’ve just read. (Do read the Christensen interview [via maud newton] by the way, for a fantastic example of chick lit’s cannibalistic tendencies, which I’ve mentioned before.) So I suppose Kingsley Amis is in the cards for me.
As is Raisins and Almonds, which comes recommended by Becky Rosenblum‘s mother.
Exhausting. But now I actually am reading Late Nights on Air by Elizabeth Hay. Or at least I will be before the night is out. This book has had rave reviews all around, and so I am looking very forward to it.
September 24, 2007
Someday could be soon
Burma in the news. Do you want some context? Read Karen Connelly’s The Lizard Cage, which took the Orange Broadband Prize for New Writers earlier this year. I read it last winter and found the book so enomously powerful. “Someday the government of Burma will change…,” Connelly writes in her acknowledgements with such faith, and dare we hope that someday could be soon?
Update: read The last public voice of democracy in Myanmar.
September 23, 2007
Where you live with who
This morning I conducted a scientific study. (How exciting!) A study which is made a bit questionable by the limits of my own library, and the fact that my library has many more books by women then men. But still, I looked through my contemporary novels at author biographies and found the following results.
– 50 books did not make reference to the writer’s partner or family, and 24 books did.
– the 50 books with no reference were split evenly along gender lines.
– Of the 24 books that mentioned partners/families, 1/3 were by men, which was more than I had supposed.
– None of the authors who I knew were gay and lesbian made any reference to spouses/partners
– Writers with famous spouses who are less famous than the writers themselves mention their partners by name
– Writers with spouses who are more famous than they are either don’t mention them at all, or don’t name them
I’ve been wondering lately about this sort of information being included in author biographies– why it is important or relevant? I understand why husbands/wives/partners are so gushingly regarded in book dedications and acknowledgements. (Author acknowledgements are my most favourite extra-textual feature). Of course the writer wants to give due credit, but is this necessarily important to the author biography? One might argue that readers want details of authors’ lives, but these details are so vague, there’s little point. They basically say, “Oh, and yes, she is married.” Or is “…she lives with her husband and children” just another way to say that although she’s smart and writes books, she’s not turned her back on femininity altogether? Which would make me uncomfortable.
I’ve had to write three little writer bios this past while, and in none of them have I noted that I live in Toronto with my husband. Though I would have liked them to. If my novel ever sees its way into the world, I would like my biography to end just like that. But I am not sure why– why does it matter to my professional life? (It is also important here to note whether or not authors actually write their own biographies on published books– this I do not know). I suppose for many female writers, it’s a question of marketing– readers might like a writer they can relate to, and domestic details make an author seem more accessible. I think also that many writers would argue that their family is an essential part of their life, whose support makes writing possible, and therefore the family deserves a place in their life story. I would assume that a writer of children’s books would note if they were a mom or a dad.
And so my scientific study was just as inconclusive as “Do Plants Need Air?”– my famous experiment at the grade eight science fair. There are just too many variables, and so still I am curious. Why is where you live with who important? Is it really important at all?
September 23, 2007
13 Ghosts of Halloween by Storms and Muller
I’ve loved Patricia Storms’s blog for ages now, and have come to admire her bookish enthusiasm, her humour and intelligence– not to mention her artistic talent. (Her bookslut is one of my favourite images ever). And so last week I was quite excited to purchase 13 Ghosts of Halloween by Robin Muller, which Patricia has so beautifully illustrated. A singable tale of a group of friends exploring a haunted house, the book was delightful. Pictoral highlights were the twelve werewolves howling, the redhaired girl with glasses, and cool effect created on the thirteenth stroke of midnight. I loved it. This book is adorable, and I am so pleased it has joined my children’s library, to be pulled out in October for many years to come.
September 21, 2007
RR on Rosie
Writer Rebecca Rosenblum has kindly filed her book report on Rosie Little’s Cautionary Tales for Girls:
The nice thing about Rosie Little is that the central character is often wrong. Chicklit these days (ok, I haven’t read most chicklit, but what I come across) mainly has central characters who are never wrong. Rosie Little’s is far more interesting than a character created in order to alleviate some girl-power discrepancy. Rosie Little just lives her life, and more importantly, watches others live theirs. She is empathetic and reflective, and stupid about certain things. The men in this book are mainly one dimensional and often idealized (or demonized)but I’m not sure that was the writer’s failure of skill or the character’s failure of perception. Which is an interesting question, I think.
This book is billed as a novel [but…] I didn’t think it was much like one. I still don’t, but it is much like a life,
episodic and puzzling and unlikely to climax with a big prize.I liked it, and I liked it despite the fact that the narrator refers to an erect p*nis as a “sweetmeat” quite early on, which would normally qualify the whole thing for disqualification outright.
September 19, 2007
Forward
It’s always exciting to have a new author before me! I’ve never read Kate Christensen before, but I took note of Maud Newton’s recommendation awhile back. Today I picked up her first novel In the Drink from the library. She’s also got a new book out: The Great Man. Oh there is always something to look forward to.
September 18, 2007
Bay window
The very best thing I’ve read lately is R.M. Vaughan’s “Dominick’s Fish: The things we leave behind when we die” in the latest issue of Walrus, which uses an amazing story about aquarium fish to demonstrate that “the concept of disposibility is itself false, a convenient conceit.” And writers’ rooms continue at The Guardian, with two of my favourite writers: Sue Townsend and Margaret Drabble (photo borrowed here [and oh I wish I had a British bay window to call my own]). For more good reading, go here for Ben McNally, and then go to his new shop (which is just up the street from my husband’s building- as if he needed yet another place to be sent on errands to). Rona Maynard gets a great review, and a review of Cloud of Bone, the book I’m reading right now. Giller Prize Giller Prize Giller Prize. Hooray.
September 13, 2007
Fictional Fiction
I’ve been thinking about fictional books lately, and of course I’m not the only one. There’s a whole wikipedia page devoted to them (and of course there is). But fictional books have been turning up in my life awfully frequently lately– The Blind Assassin by Laura Chase, A Short History of Tractors in Ukrainian by Nikolai Mayevskyj, Briony Tallis’s Atonement, the Great Expections as retold by Matilda and Mr Watts, My Thyme is Up by Reta Winters. I do believe Mr. Ramsay had written a book to prove he’d reached the letter Q, but I don’t think I know its title.
Please pardon the obscure references (but full points to whoever can get them!). Do note, however, that these are only the fictional books found in books I’ve read since the beginning of August. And I haven’t even started on The Raw Shark Texts, which are primarily constructed of such things. Is there something strange going on here?
Now I understand that the ubiquity could have something to do with the books I choose, and my affinity for books about people who write. But sometimes fictional books do turn up in the oddest places. Some have also had profound effects upon me. And which especially, you may ask? The best fictional book I’ve never read would have be Lo, the Flat Hills of my Homeland by none other than A. Mole. And I am also quite fond of Anne Shirley’s short story “Averil’s Atonement”, though of course its commercial nature put me off a bit in the end.
