May 21, 2012
Show Me a Story: Why Picture Books Matter
Last Sunday, I had a the rare pleasure of walking into a bookshop, browsing awhile, and buying a book I had only just discovered. That book was Leonard Marcus’s Show Me a Story: Why Picture Books Matter, 21 Conversations with 21 of the World’s Most Celebrated Illustrators, which I bought not just for its cover art (a Mo Willems book for me!), but because the illustrators interviewed included Quentin Blake, John Burningham, Eric Carle, James Marshall, Robert McCloskey, Lois Ehlert, Helen Oxenbury, Maurice Sendak, Peter Sis, Rosemary Well, William Steig, and Willems himself, among others. The book was wonderful. I was amazed to learn that Oxenbury and Burningham are married, that Tana Hoban and Russell were siblings, Steig was incredibly grumpy, Blake said he could only draw automobiles that were falling apart, that George and Martha were inspired by Frog and Toad (but of course!). That Sendak was a mentor to so many others, and that picture book illustration was such an old boys’ network. I loved learning about how many illustrators had a background in graphic design, reading their ideas about fonts in picture books, how much of a role technology had– being able to do books in full colour changed everything. And now it’s a big deal when an illustrator wants to hold back a bit, do some pages in black and white. I also love that as I’m still a picture book novice, I can read a book like this and discover so many new authors and illustrators– the book is in alphabetical order, and first up was Mitsumasa Anno with whom I fell in love as soon as I hit the library.
“One of the most important things is to laugh with your children and to let them see you think they’re being funny when they’re trying to be. It gives children enormous pleasure to think they’ve made you laugh. They feel they’ve reached one of the nicest parts of you.” –Helen Oxenbury
May 17, 2012
Picture books in which animals are put in jail
This is something I’ve been thinking about for some time. It is by no means a comprehensive list.
Curious George by Margret and HA Rey: Early Curious George was not only an avid cigar smoker, but ends up in jail for making prank calls to the fire department. Being a monkey, he is able to escape from jail with relative ease when a prison guard stands on one end of George’s cot whilst chasing him and lifts the other end up to the window. He floats away in a balloon. Later, he stars in a movie. 
Veronica by Roger Duvoisin: Veronica is a hippo who hates to blend into her herd (whose collective noun is actually “bloat”, but this isn’t part of the text). She gets around her camoflage by escaping to the city, but the gets hauled away for holding up traffic. The jail, unfortunately, barely contains her (speaking of bloat), and they have to bust down the doors to get her out of the place after a sympathetic little old lady comes to her aid and wins her freedom.
Chouchou by Francoise: Chouchou is a little French donkey who leads a simple but pleasant life having tourists pose with her for photographs. One day while provoked, however, she bites a young customer and is thrown in jail. She is only freed once the local children attest to her gentleness, demonstrating to officials that she’s indeed a harmless creature. She is freed in time to officiate at her photographer-owner’s wedding.
May 16, 2012
People Who Disappear by Alex Leslie
Twice last week I tried to read People Who Disappear, the short story collection by Alex Leslie, but couldn’t get past page 20. Not because there was anything wrong with the book, but instead because it seemed a bit heavy, and I suspected it would require an emotional investment I might not be ready to give. The third time I was ready though, it finally took, and the first story “The Coast is a Road” was so absolutely perfect. I read the ending over and over in disbelief that the story had led where it had. The story of of two young women, one a free-spirited journalist travelling in search of stories and the other her lover who trails along after her: “A tin can rattling, small tin rabbit jumping, tied to your bumper.” Together they travel through northern British Columbia, skirting disaster at every turn, tracing the limits of their commitment to one another, and the story is fabulously full of plot, jarring images– the horses! the horses! Seriously, have you read it yet?
This is a story collection populated with people who do disappear, with fractured lines, with miscommunication, gaps and questions. Closest family ties tend to be with strange uncles, or dubious fathers. Lovers are not wholly known to one another, test each other’s limits. The roads these characters travel are off often the map, literally and metaphorically: “There were so many, a person could spend their life driving around and around these invisible roads.”
Something I’ve noticed recently in reading reviews of short story collections is that very rarely do reviewers reach any consensus about what stories are the strongest or weakest of the bunch. And I’m beginning to think that as subjective is everything, the stories in a collection are in particular. The best stories here are the ones I liked the best, like “The Coast is a Road”, and also “Face”, its trap of nostalgia. My husband is not Canadian so he did not get it at all when I read to him the line that evoked my entire childhood:
“He went down in the pits again, taking his best friend, who played hockey by himself against his garage door every night, sending hollow metallic bursts down the block, so everyone knew at the same moment when his sweat got its first chill and he went inside; then we knew it was night.”
And of course, check out this writing. Clearly, this story’s appeal is its language as much as the personal connections I’ve made with its plot details.
In “Like-Mind”, a woman agrees to help an old friend whom she knows is unstable to drive around Vancouver picking up freecycle items for his new apartment, and she knows that becoming involved with him again is ill-advised, but he has no one else. It is inevitable that their history will be repeated. “People Who Are Michael” is a series of descriptions of videos uploaded to the Youtube channel of a Bieber-ish pop sensation who’s cruising for a crash. “Wire Boy” and “The Bodies of Others” are stories of childhood outcasts, and a young narrator is also at the heart of “Long Way From Nowhere”, the story of a girl who rides the invisible roads with a man who tells authorities he’s her father, but clearly they both have something to hide. She finally escapes him to run away to a community of environmental activists who live in houses in the trees, and this story is like the collection’s first story– as substantial as a novel and as surprising in its turns. I also enjoyed “Two-Handed Things” about two women whose relationship’s cracks are exposed but unremarked upon when one fractures her arm and becomes wholly dependent on the other.
Leslie’s stories are firmly rooted in their place, coastal and northern British Columbia with its ferry boats, extreme weather, and Vancouverosity. To those for whom these places and things are familiar, I imagine this book might feel a bit like home. And to people like me for whom it isn’t, the sense of it all is evoked just the same. It’s a really wonderful collection.
May 15, 2012
I'll be shindigging tomorrow
The Short Story Shindig takes place tomorrow evening at Type Books with three great writers and three great books– Heather Birrell’s Mad Hope, Daniel Griffin’s Stopping for Strangers, and Carrie Snyder’s The Juliet Stories. And I’m hosting the event, which I’m very excited about. You couldn’t ask for a better line-up. I hope to see you there.
May 15, 2012
Malarky Giveaway. Because you really have to read it.
I have this problem wherever books are being sold, I always think it’s kind of rude not to buy one. So this is how I ended up in possession of a spare copy of Anakana Schofield’s Malarky after attending her book launch tonight. Her reading was wonderful, the novel’s opening and its most terrible, hilarious, devastating sex-scene. I love this book so very much, and I’m not the only one– over here, the book is celebrated by the likes of Lynn Coady, Annabel Lyon, Jenny Diski and ME (which is the best crowd I’ve ever hung out in). Malarky has been chosen as one of Barnes and Noble’s Summer 2012 Discover Great New Writers selections.
“If Hagar Shipley met Stella Gibbons…” is how I called it in my review. “Malarky is a journey beyond the limits of love, an equally sad and hilarious portrait of motherhood.” I finished with, “This is a book that will leave you demanding more of everything else you read.” And it has.
So now I’d like to send you a copy. Leave a comment below before Saturday for a chance to picked in a draw, postage paid by me because I want you to read it this much. And yes, of course, the book is autographed.
UPDATE: And the winner is Julia, whose comment number was randomly selected by a toddler from a sunhat. And now the rest of you should track down copies of your own. You won’t be sorry.
May 15, 2012
On the baby blues, that space in between
The unhappiness I felt during my early days as a mother has been diagnosed as post-partum depression by such authorities as complete strangers and the back of book in which my essay “Love is a Let-Down” was published. And I’ve fought this label from the get-go, resenting the neatness with which it packages my experience. I think calling every difficult time in one’s life “depression” undermines the experiences of those who actually do endure this disease, and I maintain that my unhappiness was born from one salient point– life with a newborn was hard and crappy, and I am not very good at adjusting to change.
So I was thrilled to hear an interview on post-partum depression this morning on the radio, for a variety of reasons, actually, because the conversation was very interesting, but in particular because the doctor spoke about “the baby blues”. Of course, we’re all familiar with the term, but I was pleased to hear it delineated. She describes the baby blues as feeling “down and teary”, and the difference between it and PPD is that the former goes away in a matter of weeks (and it did!), and that it is so common that it’s not even classified as a disorder. It’s a period of adjustment, she says, which is what I’ve been saying all along. It was the whole point of my essay, which some readers missed and others resented. My friend Heidi says something similar to this in her blog post “Sometimes It’s Just that Becoming a Mother is Hard”.
I am a huge fan of in-between spaces in general, but I like this one in particular– this space between the blissed out new mom (who does exist! I’ve ever met a few of her) and the mom with PPD. The thing is that all of us are normal, that all of us need support from friends, family and our communities to make it through the early days. And it’s by acknowledging the various degrees of experience that every new mom will be able to find the support that she needs.
May 14, 2012
Oh come over here, kid we’ve got all these books to read
“Oh come over here, kid we’ve got all these books to read,
With the turtles and frogs, cats and dogs who civilize the centuries,
And in a world that’s angry, cruel and furious,
There’s this monkey who’s just curious,
Floating high above a park with bright balloons.”
From “I am the one who will remember everything” by Dar Williams, from her very wonderful new album In the Time of the Gods which I received for Mother’s Day, along with a new guitar tuner.
May 14, 2012
"I’m not sure if it’s sad or amazing that this is my life now."
“I’m not sure if it’s sad or amazing that this is my life now,” is something I wrote here nearly three years ago, not long after my life had changed forever and I still wasn’t sure if I liked it. “Now, must wake baby, feed baby, change baby. For we’re off to a program at the library that promises songs, and stories and “tickle rhymes” for all.”
And we all know how that worked out, of course: that first day, Harriet fell asleep in my arms, and we kept going back and back to learn new songs, hear new stories, so I could learn new ways to engage with my baby, to memorize the tickle rhymes that made her smile so I could pass them onto her Daddy when he came home at the end of day. The library became our community centre, its staff became some of our favourite people (and there was a time when Harriet referred to four people by name: Mommy, Daddy, Elmo, and Cindy [from Spadina Road] so that means something).
We had good company, made some excellent friends– though truth be told, not so many. I used to spend a lot of time sitting in circles of Mommies I could never love, wondering what had happened to my life, and also why everybody was thinner than me. I also dealt with a reputation as “the mom who knows all the songs”, which was a little embarrassing. But then as Harriet got bigger, we grew more secure in our new world (and found enough friends gathered from here and there that we always felt bolstered), the crowd seemed to matter less and less and the library program became about us, something fun for us to do together. We also weathered the stage where she wouldn’t sit still and I spent Baby Time chasing her around the library.
We graduated to the toddler program at the Lillian H. Smith Library, which came with a door that closed so Harriet couldn’t escape. And like that touchstone first day of Baby Time, when Harriet fell asleep in my arms, we had our toddler touchstone too when at the end of The Beanbag Song, 18 mos. old Harriet could not stand relinquishing her beanbag and howled inconsolably. The next week, however, she’d got with the routine, and returned her beanbag with all the other kids, and I had this sense that here was my girl learning the ropes, figuring it out, watching the world around her and deciding how she’d fit into it.
And so I got a bit teary this morning as I watched Harriet put her beanbag away for the final time, so at home in this environment and 
without a doubt that she’s entitled to the richness our community offers us. I remembered that 2 mos old baby in my arms that very first day as we sat in a circle singing Sea-Shell, Sea-Shell, Sing a Song to Me, and that screaming toddler clinging to her beanbag for dear life, and now this fabulous child who will be three in two weeks, who knows the ropes in some ways but is still figuring out in others– she likes to watch up to strangers and say, “I’m Harriet.” Sometimes she will hug them. Sometimes they are more or less comfortable with that, and my heart seizes. I already feel like the mother in Kristen den Hartog’s And Me Among Them who’s silently imploring her daughter’s schoolmates as she follows them all on their way to school, “Walk with her, please walk with her. Walk the rest of the way with my girl.” My girl. Yes.
But then my girl is also fierce, hilarious, loving, enthusiastic, fun, and kind, and her hugs are still age-appropriate enough that they’re met with the same. And now she knows all the songs too, singing along out of tune and half-screaming. Today when Joanne read us Jamberry, Harriet amazed us all by reciting the book along with her. Last week, she didn’t even sit with me, but up at the front with the other kids where she took her cues from the rowdiest ones and had a brilliant time. And once again, I wasn’t sure if it was sad or amazing that this was my life now. Sitting back, watching Harriet begin making her way in the world– it’s incredible to see her independent of me, but I miss the squishy goodness of her body in my lap, in my arms. Watching her put the beanbag away one last time, like a veteran toddler. When the program begins again in September, Harriet will be too old and enrolled in nursery school.
And so it’s away with one stage and onto another, sad and exciting, tragic and wonderful, and I’m getting the idea that being a mother means that we do this over and over again.
May 13, 2012
Malarky Launches
Malarky, which I loved madly, launches in Toronto on Tuesday. And since Rebecca Rosenblum has other plans that night, I’m going solo, which is terrifying. I don’t think I’ve ever been to a literary event without Rebecca. So here’s hoping that you’ll decide to come along, and I don’t feel altogether lonely.
