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.
September 15, 2006
A Big Storm Knocked It Over
I loved A Big Storm Knocked It Over by Laurie Colwin. It was a light read, and I finished it in one rather busy day. It would probably fall into the “chick lit” genre, but in a more “You’re a woman, ergo you’ll probably like this” way, than “This is chick lit, ergo it’s crap.” I’m not sure what the difference is. I did read this in a hardcover library copy as opposed to a pastel paperback, which might have left me more open-minded at the outset. It was written in the early nineties by an author with twenty-five years experience, as opposed to a cookie cutter text turned out by a journalist-turned-novelist during the past couple of years, and you can feel the difference. It’s not for everyone, but I loved this book because it was deliciously happy. It was about a woman who loved her husband and loved him still at the end, and he was a good guy all the way through (a novel premise!). The main character surprised me throughout, with her neuroticisms, quirks, intelligence and funny inner monologue. The snark and the daring was just perfectly spread. Sadly, Colwin died before this, her final book, was published, but she’s written plenty of others and I intend to make my way through them over time. And aren’t her titles fabulous?
The problem with finishing a draft of manuscript is that as much as I have all that, I have nothing and have to start all again. That starts today, after the laundry. Yesterday I read through it, and much of it pleased me, but it’s still a long road ahead. Now rereading The Double Hook, which I like a lot second time around. Also reading Nora Ephron Collected, which is fabulous. And still ahead this weekend, dinner in Greektown tomorrow, and they’re calling for sun, for the first weekend in over a month.
September 15, 2006
Curious
I am curious as to why the recent shooting in Montreal has provoked debate once again about bullying in schools, the social ostracization of young people, and what would drive one to become such a monster. The murderer was twenty-five years old, an age at which a person would normally take responsibility for their own behaviour. There is no excuse for what he did; I refuse to sympathize with this fully grown man stuck in a pathetic prolonged adolescence. High school is tough, but I’ve found that there is a place for almost everybody in adulthood (frighteningly so, sometimes) and that when one can’t find their own way, society isn’t always the problem.
September 14, 2006
Currently fascinated by…
The Shell Oil Tower (aka Bulova Tower) at the CNE, 1955-1986.
September 10, 2006
Finished. For now. Until tomorrow when I start again.
I’ve been wary of taking too much satisfaction from sheer volume, ever since the teacher librarian at my elementary school informed me that it was “Quality, not quantity” that was important when evaluating one’s grade three report on cats. But when “just getting the thing done” has been the whole object, I can’t help but be satisifed with 143501 words, and 400 pages, and a beginning, a middle and an end. The rest, I can take care of later. A draft this summer was my goal, and school starts tomorrow. Otherwise, this all means the weekend sort of fell by the wayside. I knit a lot, and read the newspaper, but mostly I just wrote. This afternoon, I went to the now-annual CW bbq, and was reunited with many familiar faces, and found some new ones. After days shut away, slogging away at this tale of mine, the stimulation was a bit much, but I really enjoyed myself and I am so in that fall-jacket, bonfire, back to school mood.
I loved the headline for the Margaret Atwood article in The Globe yesterday: The Priorities: first writing, then the laundry, as I sit here on the cusp of my temporary new incarnation as student/housewife. I also cannot wait for Atwood’s new book. Also excellent, Rex Murphy on satire, and everything I never knew about the Bloor Street Swiss Chalet. Stephanie Klein in The Guardian. Ian Rankin on surprising parallels between fact and fiction. A tribute to Roald Dahl. Calvin Trillin in The Globe (and his Alice Off The Page is going to become a book).
September 9, 2006
Papa's bank book wasn't big enough
What transpired yesterday was an absolute miracle. Shockingly so. Yesterday afternoon we completed our Christmas Shopping for the British Family, as last December I vowed we would while we traipsed around nightmarish shopping malls seeking that perfect something for Stuart’s dad, and then spent a small fortune sending it all by air. Best of all, all the gifts are excellent, and they’re going to be wrapped and packed this week and sent by sea with plenty of time. And it was an altogether pleasant afternoon, in the uncrowded shopping mall. A bit of a waste of a sunny day, but worth it. It was a combination Christmas/Back to School shopping venture, and we got a whole mess of new clothes. Last Fall, we were too poor to buy clothes and the year before that we lived in the land of the pygmy peoples, and as a result, we’re even more raggedy than can be expected from people with our lack of fashion sense. No longer however. New jeans, and a replacement hoodie for the one I bought in August 2002, and best of all a wonderful autumn jacket of my dreams, brown with a green cordoroy collar and I have started a matching scarf already. Stuart also got some new clothes, and when we got home we overhauled the closets and Stuart threw away anything he wore in first-year university, as that was in a previous century. And we also cleaned up my desk area for back to school, and now everything is tidy and orderly and there is a choreless weekend straight ahead.
September 7, 2006
Boogie with a suitcase
The story I’ll come to tell about the morning my front brake snapped will be much more dramatic than this rather soporific truth. I wasn’t going very fast, and I stopped well in time, and more than any escape from certain death, I am left with a broken brake I’ve got to pay to get repaired. Yawn. And such is Thursday.
Bookishly, I’ve read Liar by Lynn Crosbie this week, which reminded me of The Year of Magical Thinking in surprising ways. Also read As I Lay Dying, and now reading Heave by Christy Ann Conlin, which I’ve wanted to read for awhile. I’m not quite into it yet, but I think I’ll like it.
Otherwise, Germaine Greer’s take on the crocodile hunter. Ali Smith’s common ground. Dionne Brand wins The Toronto Book Award. And in news so exciting I can hardly sit in my chair, Paul Burrell has written a second book about buttling Diana, this one entitled “The Way We Were”.
September 5, 2006
When I was young and in my prime
Poetry and prose don’t easily mix, and the combination is so often done badly. My biggest problem with the poetry collection/novel hybrid is that there so often seems little occasion for the poetry. And so in the case of When I Was Young and In my Prime by Alayna Munce, I must say stress first that it works, and that it works so well. The narrator is a poet, and the plot involves the decline of her grandparents in their old age, and also the dynamics of her own marriage. Munce is a wonderful writer, and she tells a story that isn’t stock. It was an unbelievably fresh narrative, and I particularly enjoyed its geography. The end was powerful, and though it made me cry, it didn’t leave me sad. Significantly, I would recommend this book to someone who didn’t read poetry at all, and I think they would come away a little swayed by the form.
