February 22, 2007

The best possible time

I’ve long adored the line from Tom Stoppard’s Arcadia: “It’s the best possible time to be alive, when almost everything you thought you knew was wrong.” Those times make the best stories. And there was one particularly upside-down period in my life when stories were absolutely omnipresent. My one regret is that if I turned them into fiction, no one would believe me.

The last time everything I thought I knew was wrong, I ran away to England, took up residence in a backpacker’s hostel, and lived off expired cans of tuna. And I got my job with Child and Family Social Services which for almost two years served to significantly broaden my perspective on the possibility of human experience. That job was all about stories. More dramatic, however, were the stories I witnessed whilst living at the hostel. Of course, after three months I moved out into a terrace house with my dear friend Matthew who’d been banned from the hostel for “attitude”. And this week he and I have been emailing, waxing nostalgic over lost time. Wherein lies my point– these stories, and what can possibly be done with them.

If I wrote a story about the small man with a mullet who lived in the attic, slept with old ladies who carried all their wordly goods in a picnic basket, and, so I’ve heard, resides at the hostel to this day, you would not believe me. And how on earth could I write about Goldtooth. Goldtooth? She turned up on a dark and story night with a gold tooth and gold spray-painted running shoes. Partial to sit-ups in the nude. She claimed to be searching the country for an Israeli soldier she’d once slept with, and she spent her days inscribing strange symbols into a scrapbook with photos of Paula Yates decoupaged all over the cover. Then there was the pretty Australian girl-child and the Spanish boy who became her boyfriend, and the message of love they left behind, preserved in the hostel’s guestbook for all eternity. The Catholic Bisxual Northern Irish member of the British Territorial Army. The very old man who veiled his bunk with beach towels, and huddled inside them most days transcribing something about Nostradamus. He claimed that if you ate just enough lentils, you would be able to see spirits, and the Norwegian chorister who slept on the bunk above him (and was fired from his job because of flatulence) became his devotee. And all this happened. How can one possibly contemplate fiction in this reality?

It will take time, some distance. Nearly five years later, and I’ve written two stories inspired by then, though of course “then” has served as a jumping off point and all reality is usually filtered out in the end. And as those days get farther away, I think they’ll be plenting more mining to be done with them.

February 20, 2007

Decca

Now reading Decca: The Letters of Jessica Mitford. Though, indeed, it is ever-so-popular to dislike the Mifords (because, really, grumpy people must find it within themselves to hate anything the least bit fabulous lest the universe be disturbed), I’ve been a fan since I read The Mitford Girls in 2003. Though by no means are their stories comfortable, they’re undeniably storied stories and I love them for that reason. Anyway, Decca’s letters run long and of course with my appetite for fiction, I’ll only be able to read them in dribs and drabs by my bedside. Like treats to savour. In celebration I will reshare with you my favourite poem I ever wrote, Mitford-inspired or otherwise.

Extremism was so fashionable that first season

“Why must all my daughters fall for dictators?”
~ Lady Redesdale (Sydney Mitford)

Extremism was so fashionable
that first season.

At the races my daughter won herself a diplomat
and my husband and I my husband and I
concerned with crashing stocks had our veritable sigh
and we folded our hands and nodded then,
as he stood on a box and took up his pen
because she looked on so loving
I couldn’t help but be pleased,
in spite of his wife, in spite of their life
and his radical politics leaning far right.

There was the matter of war in Spain
which (she said) was just a prelude.

This was the littlest daughter, always contrary,
“I will run away, you’ll all be sorry.”
When she finally fled, it was to throes of war
and she didn’t bring a stitch to wear,
to fight for the reds or marry for love
just to be where the action was happening.
She had to deny her former life
to prove her worth as working-class wife,
they came back to fight for the cause from their home
on the slummier side of South London.

The man of the year was a small man
seeking room to grow.

My middle daughter found him on her travels
my sullen, silly girl, by his words became so serious
when she sang them in her own voice
we consented, it was her choice
but he was such a charming gentleman
when he had us all to tea.
(But this is when the trouble starts, as you will see)

Solidarity was demanded on the homefront
but for us, this was impossible.

My golden older daughter and her lover- now her husband-
the coincidence of their ideological proximity
translated to sympathy for the enemy
and this daughter of mine, fond of long days and wine,
spent war years charming the Holloway Prison for Women.

The littlest one fled to America, still wedded to her cause,
kept her affiliations testifiable, and sincerity undeniable-
she had rallies and babies and books to write and
for seventeen years she refused to cross the line,
she fought the fascist front known as The Family

My husband and I- my husband and,
as his opinion of the Germans was established years before
when he’d lost a lung fighting in the First World War
and he could not abide by the company
of the leader with whom I’d had the pleasure of tea.

Especially not while the world was coming apart
at its bursting Versaillesian seams.

And my silly daughter could not abide by bursting seams
to choose between England and the man of her dreams
on September first, nineteen thirty-nine
she put a gun to her temple in an attempt to stop time.

My outspoken daughters had been drawn to men
who could outspeak them.

They dared to defy us with dictators- an original act of rebellion-
typical; no middle men, they loved instead
their moustaches and regalia their marching men with unbending knees
Prussian fortitude, Yugoslavian ingenuity
and all those ideals that had the trains run on time.
I could not raise a shallow woman; my daughters
my twentieth-century casualties, there was a time
behind every powerful man was a good woman
and I had birthed nearly all of them.

February 16, 2007

Don't give me no jazz

What a nice day I’ve had, the sun shining through the windows and the cold shut out by the walls. Since September, I’ve been working on the second draft of the story that will be defended as my Master’s theis come April. I’ve worked with the new draft by starting fresh and retyping each chapter with the first draft as a guide, making changes as I see fit and then going over it again (and again after that upon feedback from my advisor). And I’m getting toward the end of my story, and though the ultimate end has stayed the same, so many details have changed. And so I’ve thrown out (most of) the first draft from this point on. And it’s wonderful really, to work with these characters I’ve come to know so well and put them in fabulous places I’d never before considered. To be template-free, and let my imagination take over. All toward the same destination, of course, but I aim to make the ride more interesting than it was the first time around.

Now rereading To Kill a Mockingbird, which is rumoured to be even better than it was when I read it last in grade eleven. In periodicals news, The Walrus was really wonderful this month, and Vanity Fair arrived today.

And it is now the weekend. The Doering-Lui’s will arrive for dinner at 7:00. Tomorrow’s plans include long-awaited fish and chips, Kensington Market, and a search for a DS game on which I will be a trusty sidekick.

February 16, 2007

Fierce

Upon a recommendation, I read A Passion for Narrative by Jack Hodgins and found it so illuminating. I don’t really believe you can learn fiction from a book (except books of fiction, of course), but I’m right in the middle of my big project and reading such a guide at this stage is quite practical. Shines light on what might be wanting, and made me think of a few things I never even considered. And then I can go right to my story and apply what I’ve learned. The book also dealt with matters of structure I’ve been grappling with. My aim is to have my story done by the end of this month so that I can spend March dealing with it as a whole. Though this aim would be more achievable if February were just a bit longer. Though if February were any longer, I would probably lose my mind.

On lending books— most people who know me know me well enough not to even ask. Lending out a book fills me with terrific anxiety and I don’t feel better until it’s back in its home. Because as much as I love books as objects, I love my library as an entity even more. When I prune my shelves, however, I always make sure I give away the discards. I have a moral objection to profiting from books. I feel that karmically I will benefit somehow by spreading that love– whether to a college book sale, or a friend.

Now reading Ladykiller, which I would sum up as “fierce”.

My Valentines Day haul was ace: I got a box of Celestial Seasonings Tea. I gave Stuart a grapefruit. And I also made him a chocolate treat from a recipe in Globe Style (“Triple Chocolate Attack”), though I made plenty and got to enjoy as much as he did.

February 11, 2007

Epigraph

The streets of London have their map; but our passions are uncharted. What are you going to meet if you turn this corner? -Jacob’s Room

January 28, 2007

Glimpses

There had to be something more than this, Gail knew. All around her, she was permitted glimpses of the most marvelous things— the tops of blooming gardens behind tall walls, a sudden pagoda in the midst of a residential block, orange fish swimming far below a layer of ice in the castle moat. A tall blue building the next street over, windowless and featureless, except for its shimmering neon sign. It was a pachinko parlour, Joe said, which was a gambling game, and if Gail ever walked by when someone was going in or out, she got a sense of the overwhelming light and sound inside until the doors shut again and that whole universe disappeared.

January 9, 2007

Shift

I’m about midway through the second draft of my long project, and I’ve decided to shift from first person to third. I’m not convinced it’s the right decision, but I have to try it out and see. And so I am going through my story carefully, changing all the ‘I’s to ‘she’, and no doubt missing quite a few. It’s good though, because at this point in my work, it’s effective to go through the entire story carefully and see how its functioning as a whole. Changing the narration forces me to go through it carefully. I also have a feeling that it will make my narrator more likeable.

January 3, 2007

Short

I’ve taken a one-week break from my long project to write short stories– two or hopefully three. Concurrently, I’m reading Cathedral and listening to my new Badly Drawn Boy CD for inspiration.

January 2, 2007

A tricky business

Now, chewing gum is a tricky business, and so ultimately disposable and therefore dispensable that in a troubled economy it’s usually one of the first sectors to suffer. I worked in Product Development under Great Mind Peter Davenport who, with his knack for innovation, had been charged with maintaining the vitality of the Gollingham Gum brand throughout the economic down-turn. In addition to typing, my work with Peter involved the chewing of prototypical varieties of gum throughout the day and subsequently completing thorough surveys regarding their tastes, textures and flavours— long lasting or otherwise. I grew awfully fond of the new peppermint, and I credit Peter for saving what was left of the Gollingham economy with it.

December 15, 2006

The Ledbetter Serial Arsonist

Before we left Toronto, I had promised postcards home— to Caroline, my friends and even to my mother. But there were no postcards of Ledbetter in existence. You could buy postcards in Ledbetter, at the old train depot museum, but they were actually postcards of the Grantville Town Hall and the Grantville Floral Clock. They used to sell Ledbetter postcards some years ago, I learned from the woman in the conductor’s cap who staffed the museum. But then the postcards ran out and they never restocked, and so many buildings had burnt down by then anyway.
“Have you heard about our arsonist?” the woman asked me.
She led me over to the display in the corner which told the story of serial arsonist Randall Hicks who had destroyed over fifty buildings in Ledbetter over a more than twenty-year spree— from garages and sheds to the Town Hall and Public Library. Hicks was an accountant and a careful arsonist. Only one person was ever injured in one of his fires; a clear case of wrong place at the wrong time, he had been robbing a store Hicks had targeted. And no one had ever managed to catch Randall Hicks either. He’d turned himself in in 1966, one day after his father died, saying he would have done this years ago if it weren’t for the shame it would have brought his dad.
“And that’s why we don’t have postcards anymore,” the woman told me, so I picked up five of the Grantville Floral Clock.