September 22, 2006
The Queue
My admission of the day is that I like Stephanie Klein, the Carrie Bradshaw of the blogosphere. I encountered her while researching my seminar on blooks last spring, and learned about her six-figure deal with Reganbooks. And after checking out her blog, not even that extensively, I realized I really couldn’t hate her because she is so heartbreakingly earnest and sort of lovely. Anyway, the point is that I put her book on hold at the library today. I don’t think this means that I am a bad person. It does mean, however, that I will be reading it before Reading Like a Writer or Special Topics in Calamity Physics. I am 33rd in line for Klein’s book, 90th for Prose’s and 230th for the Popular Ms. Pessl.
September 21, 2006
Interesting
My character, who is speaking in 1970, probably would not have used the verb “upgrade”, and would definitely not have used the adjective “upgraded”. She could have used the noun “upgrade” when talking about a hill, but only if her vocabulary was a little archaic.
September 21, 2006
Saturday
I would sum up Saturday by Ian Mcewan with the word “devastating”. Numerous times, I could not bear the tension and had to flip ahead just to make sure things worked out (and this is not my usual practice). The climax was incredibly awful (in a marvelously written way) and it was not until the book was just about over that I realized I had hardly breathed for most of the end of it. And when I was finished, I felt spent, as though I’d been crying for an hour. Not that I was upset or even sad, but just so swept up in the narrative and it made me want to crawl up onto my rooftop and shout something. And so devastating, but incredible. There is beauty in this text, and as I finished reading this on my front porch under blue skies, I couldn’t help but see it everywhere. I found particularly interesting what a bearing history has had on this book. It takes place in 2003, and it’s sort of amazing to think of how different it would read if the world had gone another way. Which makes me think of how this works with so many works. How history keeps on reworking texts for us, developing new approaches and meanings. The multudinous possibilities.
September 21, 2006
Question
How do people who can’t/don’t finish a certain book feel they have authority to post an amazon review of said book?
September 20, 2006
Wednesday Brunch
Today Stuart and I got to have brunch on a weekday, which felt indulgent but is actually quite practical. Our local brunch spot has 45 minute waits on the weekends, but today we were seated upon arrival, and coffee/tea is free Monday-Friday. And it was wonderful to hang out with Stuart in the afternoon. He’s back to work tomorrow so we’ll have little of that in the future. Exciting plans are on the horizon for him job-wise. He’s doing really well, and I am so proud of him.
The rewrite continues, slow-going but I am happy with the results. It is such a different process than writing the first draft was. It’s a lot easier in many ways, because I’ve got so much to work with, but now I am also getting down to the tedious details of euphony, and it’s not the same creative flourish. I am enjoying it though, and I see how completely necessary a rewrite can be. Some of my first draft was decidedly pukey and objects and ideas disappeared into thin air, but I think it’s getting better now.
Now reading Saturday by Ian McEwan, which, I have been told, might change my life. And I suspect that could be true.
September 19, 2006
How to get your mitts on one
And so everybody’s asking: How do I get a copy of I wish my enemies were Russians, the new release from Pickle Me This Press? Well it’s easy. Either you remind me and I’ll bring along a copy when I see you next for just $5. Or we can send it to you, upon receipt of a cheque for $7 (which includes shipping and handling. Oh handling, it does get expensive). Email me at kerryclare at gmail dot com and I will send you the address of Pickle Me This Press Headquarters, which of course I can’t post online, or there’d just be crowds lined up at the door.
September 19, 2006
In praise of white linen.
I just finished the wonderful Nora Ephron Collected, which provided a take on the 1970s women’s movement I have never found elsewhere- that of the skeptical feminist with a sense of humour. I enjoyed it. It also made clear that nothing ever changes, which was apparent upon reading Ephron’s essay about the very first reality television program. Now reading The Afterlife of George Cartwright (for school), which takes place at that ground upon which I used to stomp- Nottinghamshire. Cartwright’s family’s house was where the Marnham Cooling Station stands now, and we used to go by it on the train! The book is a bit boyish for my liking, but I’m enjoying it.
~Where war and wrack and wonder/ By shifts have sojourned there,/ And bliss by turns with blunder/ In that land’s lot had share.~ I’m sad about violence in Budapest. It comes at a funny time, as the fiftieth anniversary of the Hungarian Revolution is coming up and it would be nice to have a happier ending to that story. I had a fascinating visit to Budapest in 2002 and whilst there, I inadvertantly fell into the middle of a political demonstration, which is one of the stranger things that have ever happened to me. (But not as strange as when a kiosk fell on me. Also in Budapest). I had gone to see the parliament buildings, and a crowd was gathered there, protesting dubious election results, if I remember correctly. Police moved in with riot gear. It was surreal and I couldn’t believe I was standing in the middle of it. Sometimes calm in Europe is so easy to take for granted, and we can forget what a lack of precedent there has been for sixty years of peace(ishness) there. It’s just as complicated as anywhere else in the world. And Thailand too, another place that features heavily in my personal map of the world. Of course, I think about bad things that happen everywhere, but I think that as a North American, one gets so accustomed to bad things happening “over there” that when “over there” is close to home, it makes a difference. Right or wrong.
Margaret Atwood’s new book does well in The Guardian. On mainstream poetry. The CBC Chair resigns for talking about bowel movements and bestiality (we wondered if someone had been evesdropping on us by mistake). And The Long Pen tries again, this weekend at The Word on the Street. How exciting! echolocation is going to be there too. Drop by for a free bookmark!
September 17, 2006
I wish mine enemies
Today was good because it was a Trinity Bellwoods day. And because the newest book from Pickle Me This Press is now on sale for $5 per copy. Today is still good because we are roasting a chicken for dinner, and because that sunshine was not just a rumour.
September 17, 2006
But there's no fight in him.
I took a creative writing course six years ago, during my third year in university. I came across one of my former classmates last week, and we were reminiscing, and so as a result, this morning I looked through the anthology of poetry our class produced that year. What I noticed is that the more self-referential amongst us (and there were quite a few, this was a creative writing class after all), in our poetry frequently advertised our ages, which were twenty or twenty-one years old at that time. It was a bit fascinating to notice; I remember doing that, and it meant something then, but I can’t remember what now. I can’t imagine writing “I am twenty-seven” and expecting it to mean anything, and I don’t know if that’s because twenty-seven actually means nothing, or if I’m just less obsessed with the wonder of my own existence.
In Saturday night news, we got to hang out with Erin Smith (who has a new blog), and eat Greek food in her ‘hood. It was fabulous, but moreso because after we went home and did Sing Along With Annie from her Annie DVD. Her cat got upset during “Tomorrow” because it hates high pitched noises. It got increasingly agitated during “Hard Knock Life”, and sat beside me on the arm of the sofa, meowing. The cat lost the plot during “Well, how about Champion?” and while we were singing “Rover, why not think it over?”, the cat lifted up its paw, and punched me in the head. I didn’t let the assault get in between me and my music. Rover was a perfect name for that dumb looking dog.
