March 26, 2010
Our top nine islands
1) Miyajima
2) Ward’s
3) Alcatraz
4) Montreal
5) Japan
6) Île de la Cité
7) Juniper
8) Britain
9) Centre
March 24, 2010
Why we read Tabatha Southey aloud
Why we read Tabatha Southey aloud at our house every Saturday morning: “And as if generations previous to us did not hang around waiting for the mail to come. One never hears a mother in a Victorian novel complain that their child is “addicted to the second post,” but a child on the Internet is always portrayed as a problem. I hear parents express remorse that their children are making friends on Facebook, which is the modern version of the old-fashion letter of introduction and “at home day” combined. Do they think their own teen years were any better spent, writing fan letters to the Bay City Rollers?”
March 24, 2010
Women's writing is going to remake our literature
“We’re going to change what we think of as literature, to a certain extent, in order for women to be fully felt, I think, in our writing. We have wonderful woman writers… who are bringing us their experience. And their work is an oeuvre; it has a different shape to it, and it’s not going to fit with the old formula of novels. Women’s writing is going to remake our literature and make it whole, I think.” –Carol Shields, “Ideas of Goodness” (from Random Illuminations by Eleanor Wachtel).
March 23, 2010
Jumping in and out of portals
This afternoon I was reading The New Quarterly (and one thing I fear, by the way, is that I will never find the words to articulate just how much I love this magazaine), and I was enjoying Eric Ormsby’s article “Fine Incisions: The Art of Reviewing” when the following jumped out at me: “Mere opinion isn’t the same as reasoned judgment; opinions, the fodder of blogs and websites, are fine and dandy, and everyone’s entitled to them.”
And it took me way back to last week when a Canadian newspaper columnist wrote a ridiculous piece about how all bloggers are men, the reason being that “spitting out opinions on current events every twenty minutes” is just “a guy thing.” Oh, the furor that ensued! For me, however, the column’s most egregious misstep was its painting of all blogs as mere opinion-spit receptacles.
Part of the problem, of course, is that the columnist was writing about political blogs, which I don’t read, but I think most of them are written by men– am I wrong? (And of course, women do engage with politics in their blogging, but in the the blogs that I read [which are written by both men and women] this engagement occurs more pragmatically than that of bloggers for whom politicking is a passion and an end in itself.) Perhaps with political blogs, opinion spitting is indeed in order, but this is so far from the case for the blogs that I love best.
Everybody might be entitled to an opinion (though where is this written exactly??), but it doesn’t mean I have to hear it. There are many writers whose opinions I do respect, but, honestly, most of these tend to be published by major news outlets (whose reader comments I make a habit of ignoring). The blogs I love best aren’t those that call out, “Here’s what I think…”, but rather those that tell me, “Hey, take a look at this…”
I like a blogger who will tell me about a book she’s just read, or bring my attention to an article from somewhere else that they have a reason to respond to. I like blogs that profile interesting people, or track the minutiae of beautiful lives, or tell stories beautifully. Where intelligent people are enlisted to write to us. I like blogs that direct me to cool stuff. I like blogs where conversations take place and ideas are shared. I like blogs where writers meditate, even change their minds, which means they think about things. I like blogs where brilliant people send out dispatches. In short, I like blogs that take me somewhere new (particularly if it’s into other people’s houses).
Of course, these writers do have opinions, and most of these blogs are best when they incorporate elements of the personal, but when the personal is used as a springboard out into the wider world, it’s what I like best . This is the case as well with blogs about mothering, and books about mothering, and books about anything actually. And there is nothing exclusively female about this kind of blogging, either. Boyish blogs actually seem to have this market cornered, and I’m thinking of the blogs my husband reads, like Boing Boing, which (literally) takes us (to online) places in wonderful link-filled frenzies.
Anyway, back to to the columnist and Eric Ormsby: I don’t know if these poor people don’t know blogs, or perhaps they’re visiting the wrong ones? Regardless, I think it’s a shame that while the rest of us are all here jumping in and out of portals, they seem to be smashing their heads into virtual brick walls.
March 22, 2010
Just think of all I'd miss
Ten months of not sleeping for more than three hours at a time are starting to catch up with me, I think, as I am absolutely exhausted and keep falling asleep to wake up moments later unsure of what my name is and where I am. Yawn. I am also wonderfully busy with writing work (which is handy, as I’ve just quit my job and this is what I do for a living now, in addition to prying dustbunnies from the baby’s fist. And, if anyone’s asking, I could take on further assignments at any time). I’m currently reading a book for review that is good popular fiction, as opposed to the bad literary fiction I was reading just before it (and the former is preferable, don’t you think?). I am making good progress on an essay about Sharon Butala’s wonderful book The Girl in Saskatoon, which should appear in a special issue of Prairie Fire next year. And I’m also working on something for Literature for Life, which should be finished tonight or tomorrow (and I continue to be so pleased with my involvement with this group).
Naturally, all the books I’ve requested from the library came in at the same time, and so I’ve got mountains of reading before me (glee!). I will be picking up Bad Mother by Ayelet Waldman this week for the second time (last time I had to return it before I got a chance to read it). After that I am going to read Solar by Ian McEwan (which some most esteemed readers have been raving about on twitter, so I am looking forward). Joan Bodger’s The Crack in the Teacup is after that, and then postcard and other stories by anik see (on the recommendation of Steven W. Beattie). We’ve also got Sarah Waters’ The Little Stranger coming at you (which I’ve wanted to read ever since I encountered this review), and Lionel Shriver’s So Much For All That (which Rona Maynard has been mentioning on Twitter [and just so you know, I refuse to acknowledge the word “tweet”]). And another book called The Breakwater House, and probably another book, and then another.
So imagine if I woke up dead tomorrow? Just think of all I’d miss!
March 21, 2010
Poetic April Returns
I’m getting ready once again for Poetic April, the Pickle Me This celebration of National Poetry Month. During which I plan to read poetry, buy poetry, write here about poetry, post poems and generally enthuse. I come at my enjoyment of poetry from a very pedestrian perspective, so I am pleased to announce that we’ll be having poets guest-posting here throughout the month to educate us all. I do hope, however, that the one advantage of my limited perspective will be that other ordinary readers will also come to see how poetry can speak to us all*.
*Am I allowed to say that? Does poetry even want to speak to us all? If I suggest that I love a collection of poetry for its narrative, for instance, is that a back-handed poetic compliment? Which is not to say that language isn’t what I pay attention to, for language is what a poem is made of, but if I don’t have the background to appreciate the language as experts would say I should, am I even entitled to appreciate it at all?
March 20, 2010
Dogs in (children's) books update, and other children's lit bits and bobs
In an attempt to overcome my aversion to literary dogs, I went to see the exhibit “The Little Dog Laughed…” this afternoon at The Osborne Collection of Early Children’s Books. Harry the Dirty Dog was featured, and also Alice’s dog Dash, and Farley Mowat’s Dog Who Wouldn’t Be, Snoopy, the Poky Little Puppy, Cracker “The Best Dog in Vietnam” (what a distinction!), Eloise’s dog Weenie, and Maurice Sendak’s dog Jennie from Higglety Pigglety Pop. A lovely display of books old and new, literary dog paraphernalia, and dog art. If I enjoyed it, just imagine what someone who likes dogs might think.
In other Toronto Library children’s book news, I followed everybody’s advice and 
requested The Night Kitchen. I loved the kitchen cityscape, and the story, and I get behind anything to do with cake in the morn. I also got out Brundibar, upon the recommendation of our wonderful librarian. Today when we were at Lillian H. Smith, I got a bunch of other books, including A Day with Nellie, and Miss Nelson is Missing which I probably haven’t thought about in twenty years but upon glimpsing immediately realized that I used to be obsessed with.
If all this wasn’t enough, yesterday we made our second trip to Mabel’s Fables. I bought a gorgeous edition of A Child’s Garden of Verses illustrated by Gyo Fujikawa, whose illustrations are absolutely timeless. As Robert Louis Stevenson’s poems seem to be too, after 125 years (and I was inspired to seek them out after reading How the Heather Looks). The classic nature of this purchase is balanced out by our others, which were (delightfully) Sandra Boynton’s The Belly Button Book, My Little Word Book, and Baby Touch Colours.
March 20, 2010
My shumi blog
We became obsessed with hobbies back when we lived in Japan, mainly because the Japanese have institutionalized hobbying and because we were often bored back then. And so that was why I started my “hobby blog”, Ever Projecting. I’d encourage you to check it out if you want to see a craft blog that will make you feel better about yourself. Unlike most craft blogs, this one is rarely updated, decorated with unflattering photography, and features crafts that are poorly executed (the one exception being the incredible baby blanket I finished last spring). I am terrible at making things, but I go on doing it anyway– wonky cardigans, ugly aghans, pickles that shrivelled up in their jar, unmatching mittens (which I thought was so clever at the time), rainbow socks, reusable baby wipes (my first and probably last foray into sewing, but they’ve turned out to be very useful). I hope my blog will inspire other untalented people either not to let lack of talent get in the way of production, or to continue not bothering to try anything at all. Or you could just take a look at the sweater I just finished knitting for Harriet.
March 18, 2010
Finnie Walsh by Steven Galloway
This seems to be the second in a series of reviews of long-ago first novels reissued when writer strikes it big with a later book. I read Steven Galloway’s acclaimed The Cellist of Serajevo last year, and found it to be the most nuanced, interesting book about war I’ve ever encountered. And since Galloway had me obsessed with a book about a sniper (unlikely, I know), I decided his first novel about hockey Finnie Walsh was even worth a go.
The only real problem with Finnie Walsh is that it’s not A Prayer for Owen Meany. I’m not sure if it wanted to be, if it’s a homage or just an incredibly resonant echo, but the similarities between these two books are overwhelming. Owen has certainly inspired his share of devotees, and the more evangelical among them might struggle to accept Finnie for himself, but if you’re like me and found Irving’s book charming but way too long, you’ll probably manage to do so.
The book is narrated by Paul Woodward, son of a mill-worker who throws a wrench into the social order when he becomes friends with the mill-owner’s son. When the book begins, Paul and Finnie are seven years old, on the cusp of beginning their great hockey adventures and taking turns smashing the puck against Paul’s garage door. This creates a racket that keeps Paul’s father from sleeping properly that afternoon, so that he ends up nodding off on his job at the mill on the night shift, and losing his arm to the blades of a saw.
Finnie Walsh, perceptive beyond his years, feels responsible for the accident, and becomes closely bound with the Woodward family in order to atone for what happened. Over the next fifteen years, his fate and theirs are intertwined, and the narrative follows the cast of characters– among them, the oddly charismatic Finnie, Paul’s father (who spends those fifteen years educating himself by reading every issue of National Geographic from its inception), Paul’s sister strange sister Louise and his even stranger sister Sarah (who wears a lifejacket everywhere, and sees the future reflected by her bedside lamp). The narrative itself is somewhat random, often tangential, but these characters are so lovingly rendered that the story is compelling.
In the background throughout, there is hockey. Both Finnie and Paul follow the sport, and the narrative is punctuated by its zeitgeist– the ascent of Wayne Gretzky and then his trade to the LA Kings in particular, and many other players that I’d never heard of before but Galloway spins the stories so they’re epic heroes. Both boys play hockey as well– Finnie is a goalie, and Paul plays defense, and they move up through the ranks in local hockey until they’re both drafted into the NHL when they finish high school. (Which I think is a bit unlikely, no? Or rather, the remarkable nature of it is not made incredibly evident. It’s as though this is all just part of a natural progression, but maybe for some players it is?)
The novel begins, “Finnie Walsh will forever remain in my daily thoughts, not only because of the shocking circumstances of his absurd demise, but because he managed to misunderstand what was truly important even though he was right about everything else.” Which is a truly great opening sentence, but it also makes clear where the narrative is going to take us. So that the journey is the whole point, but Galloway has created a splendid one. For the hockey-illiterate such as myself, this book was a splendid, uplifting ride, but for the hockey-already-converted, this might be the Canadian novel you’ve always been waiting for.
