Rebecca Reviews Muriella Pent

Note on the reviewer--I have for some time being trying to write a real book review. I have a *lot* of trouble expressing opinions. This is not to say I'm not opinionated, but I get stuck fast, especially when I feel I might be judged or, horrors, argued with. I generally avoid making objective statements about things that are important to me, and here you know we're talking about books. I think books are one of the most important things in the universe, and I greatly fear getting them wrong.

*However*, books are stronger than I am, I'm sure--they can stand a little misjudgement. And if I would presume to write them, I would presume also to understand something about how they work, and by what criteria they might operate. So I wanted to try a review, and I've been on the lookout for a book I thought I might be able to work with. I chose Russell Smith's Muriella Pent for a few reasons, mainly that I liked it a lot. I thought it would be easier to find interesting, witty, insightful things to say about a piece of fiction that is itself interesting, witty, and insightful. That's a cheat, and I know real reviewers don't have that perogative--one of the many reasons why I am not one. I also thought it'd be useful to review something by a writer whose back-catalogue I'm familiar with. I've actually read *all* Smith's other fiction books (though not his fashion writing) and am likely by any standards a fan. So this whole process is wildly biased, but hey, it's a start.

Ok, a review of *Muriella Pent* in 1500 words of semi-astuteness. Ok. Ok, go!


Muriella Pent is a wealthy fiftyish widow. Her children are grown, and she lives alone in a stuffy gated community, trying to fill her days with gardening, which proves unsatisfying, and the local arts council. Muriella once had some artistic ambitions, and she sees the council as an opportunity to learn as well as help.
Besides Muriella, there are three other points of view: Brian, a fellow council member who has just finished his BA in English; Julia, the daughter of one of Muriella’s friends, who also knows Brian from school; and Marcus Royston, a poet from the Caribbean that the council brings to Toronto for an artistic residency. Due to funding cuts, the only actual residence available for the residency is in the maid’s quarters of Muriella’s enormous house.
There’s the premise, and it has a fair amount of interest. Marcus, who has lived through a revolution, and its grinding bureaucratic aftermath, still believes in the purity of the artistic impulse. His journal writing and poems—inserted between chapters—convince the reader that he is the real deal, but his drinking, womanizing, and disrespect of political agendas quickly alienates the desperately policitically correct council. Royston—and, one can imagine, Smith—is disgusted by the idea that artistic quality can only be measured its usefulness in achieving social aims: “building community” and “giving voice to the voiceless” are some of the disdained ideas.
There’s a lot of ideas in this book. Debates at meetings of the embattled council, bantering between honour students, diary entries of urban observation are disturbing and hilarious, by turns or in tandem, but they don’t move the plot at any great clip. A set piece of a public library press conference features a homeless man eating all the cheese (“The man had a raincoat which was still largely coherent…”), a paraphrase of comments that Jane Jacobs made, and one more nail in unpopular poet’s coffin, but in terms of pure plotting the book could have done without it. In terms of pure plotting, the book could have done without most of its best moments, actually.
So MP is not a plot-drive n book then. I think it is on the razor-sharp edge between satire and emotional realism, and I think that’s why it’s awesome. To write a decent satire, you have to both love and hate your subject—a straight lampoon is one laugh only. The characters in MP are intellectually and sensually vivid, in contrast with the world they live in, which is full of pretension, posturing, aggression and stupidity. The wild and wide digressions are the best bits, full of bite and sympathy both. Early on, we have a car full of people so tense they are vibrating, all snarking and vying for attention while poor Muriella struggles to merge on the 401 in rush hour. Later, the horror of running into someone you know at the video store and being judged by whatever you happened to have in your hand:
“I like Catherine Deneuve,” she said softly.
“Why?” said Jason.
“Why? I don’t know. Why do you like any actors?”
“Well, usually when we like things,” Jason said a little too loudly, “we are able to articulate some reason…”
The characters are the heart of the book, and I think most of them are remarkable achievements. Before reading, it wasn’t the scathing commentary on arts funding that worried me, but rather the idea that a white, fortyish guy would be writing from the POV of a middle-aged woman, a twentyish woman, and a Caribbean-born man of mixed race. I think Smith does a credible job on all counts, though not flawless. Muriella is probably the most diverse, most sympathetic character he ever created—she’s sweet and self-conscious and not without irony, yet she’s obsessed with her clothes and she calls people lovey (I didn’t think people other than Mrs. Thurston Howell did that). When Smith re-released his pornographic novel, Diana, I heard him speak about how he wrote that book in part to learn about writing about women from within a female body, about sex from a woman’s point of view. You can see those lessons put to good use here—Muriella fully inhabits her body, fully wears her clothes. She even feels her grief over her husband’s death in her body. Sometimes it’s too much, though, this embrace of female physicality, especially with Julia’s character. She’s so so so beautiful, and every other character wants to sleep with her, so she doesn’t get a lot of other characteristics. Actually, that’s not fair—her intelligence and willful self-neglect, self-destructiveness, are evident, but given short shrift. Julia actually quotes from her own diary at one point, which is an unenjoyable narrative shorthand for she’s very bright and insightful, see?
I could have used a little more time on Julia’s mind instead of so much on her nipples—“She did not put on a bra…to show off a little,” “The top was thin as film, and tight across her small breasts,” etc. Neither Julia nor Muriella wears a bra. In fact, no woman in this novel who neither morbidly obese nor a tool of the patriarchy chooses to be so “unencumbered.” This is fantasy: Toronto is the most over air-conditioned place I’ve ever been, and the subways are crowded—and I found it distracting.
Marcus Royston is a complicated and nuanced creation. He’s pathetic and sympathetic, passive aggressive and irresponsible. You like him, but he drinks too much and sleeps with everybody and calls himself a poet while writing little poetry. His sad patience (he winks at his favourite prostitute as he walks towards his boss’s office the day he knows he’ll be fired) and his observations on the seasons (end of October: “baths are drawn, doors are closed”) show a real poet at work, and the actual poems here are pretty damn good. But there isn’t enough of his point of view for me, especially in the second half of the book. It’s more Muriella’s story all along, and Brian and Julia take up more and more space. Marcus kind of gets shifted to the side, a catalyst spent in causation, burning out. We don’t know what his life entailed before coming to Toronto—people don’t ask him a lot of questions, and his note-taking is limited to present-day observation, and poetic musing.
The fourth POV character is Smith’s stock-in-trade—Brian, the literature and video-game loving, pretentious, self-conscious jerk/sweetheart who sees “nothing but humiliation” in pretty girls, and wants to write “such a novel of sadness and devastation” as revenge for that humiliation. He’s funny and awful and totally familiar, especially when bantering with his best (only?) friend, Jason. If I could write young men this well, I don’t know that I’d ever bother doing anything else. You don’t see Tiger Woods knocking himself out on the soccer field, you know? Listen to this, and I mean really, read it aloud and listen:
“Why are you wearing that hat?”
“What’s wrong with my hat?” Jason touched it front and back without both hands as if straightening it in a mirror. He looked very serious and Brian laughed.
“Does it come with spurs and chaps, or a little badge? Is it Halloween?”
“What’s your ambient name?”
“I have other hats, you know, you could wear, like a medieval helmet, with a visor, it comes with a whole suit or armour, and a shield, you could walk around like that if you liked. Or how about a hobo costume, with overalls and the stick and the little bundle in a red handkerchief?”
“Shut up,” said Jason. “Chicks like hats like this.”
I know boys like that, though honestly, most of them are not quite as funny.

Four points of view, two countries, one mansion, two basement apartments, a drunken party, some sexual dalliances, some cameos from previous Russell Smith books (yep, am a fan), too much booze and a lot intellectual posturing: could you forgive me for saying that I think this novel is a beautiful tribute to Canadian ideals not quite working out? We Canadians haven’t quite nailed down what our literature or our country should look like, what we actually mean when we say “Cultural Mosaic,” or why we keep segregating ourselves culturally—the comments on “Little Malta” are pretty emblematic—when we like the idea of unity so much. The way these characters ebb and flow and refuse to define themselves is very definitely Canadian to me. And by the end of the book, all characters are shaken and surprised and, mainly, expanded by the mixing up that comes from going beyond cultural definitions and engaging in real life. Pretty impressive for a work of fiction.

Oh my goodness, reviewers work hard. I’m spent.

That's not my name
RR

Internet Abundance

There's been much action on the interweb while I was away--yall just wait for me leave, don't you? Or, actually, some of this stuff has been up a while, I'm just slow. But now I am alerting you! If you, you know, care about any of this.

--The last ever installment of rob mclennan's "12 or 20 Questions" series--with rob himself. So interesting. I was shocked at the lack of enthusiasm for pears! Also involving mr. mclennan, witness via YouTube the intense run-up to the Throw-down in O-Town last night, vs. Nathaniel G. Moore. It's too bad they couldn't have had one here (or I couldn't have posted about this earlier for the Ottawa reader(s) out there) but the videos are pretty amusing.
--In further bookishness, the always insightful Kerry Clare, writes movingly about the books we read again, on Descant Blog. I can't quite nail down the metaphor here--if the past is a foreign country, books are open tickets...? Oh, she says it much better--go read.
--Toronto poet Dani Couture has started a photo blog called Animal Effigy in order to document the ways the urban environment is haunted by images--effigies--of the animals we have shut out. The pictures are often funny and sometimes sad, and you can contribute if you have a similar eye for this sort of thing.

Enjoy!

Your soul impedes on mine
RR

Joy

A few weeks ago, I wrote a post about short stories, which *may* have had a "persecuted" air to it. Which was in reaction to things I'd read and heard, but that was also somewhat selective listening. Obviously, short stories have many defenders and protectors--thanks to all who wrote to me to say so! I felt much better, and more inclined to look on the bright side.

And there is much brightness, including the speech Lynn Coady made at Luminato, pointing out the artistic experimentation permitted in short stories (I wish I could reproduce it, but of course I can't. This is why everything in the universe should be written down.) And then there is Emily Schultz's new pro-story website, Joyland. Commmitted to keeping the living art of short story, and international, and cool, Joyland's first story is actually one of Coady's (and it is alive, and cool, and very funny and weird). One of mine, "Black-and-White Man", will actually run there in September--I feel priviledged to be a part of the party.

Other joyful news from the land of writing, though not particularly story-focused:
--novelist, book-reviewer, cat-lover, friend-of-mine Lauren Kirshner writes as beautifully and warmly on her new blog as we all knew she would.
--writing, reader, friend to all things bookish Julie Wilson is bringing her crazy-cool literary voyeurism to the youths with Seen Writing, a workshop for teens with poetry readings, on-the-spot writing exercises, and reader models that (cough) you might know. This event is part of the The Scream Literary Festival, which has too many great events to name.

Obviously, the fate of literature, in its myriad forms, is in little danger. Not that we shouldn't all be vigilant and all...

He could not know another tiger
RR

Back

Oh, that was really great. Everyone should take vacations. Who knew?

What can I tell you--I read, I wrote, I walked around, I slept until *eight in the morning* and then ate a breakfast I hadn't cooked, went for runs on semi-familiar streets, walked on actually probably unfamiliar streets. Talked about the evolution of language and the unknowability of the human race with old friends, ate at Quebecois chain restaurants (I don't know if they are better or just different than ours; sometimes the two are synonymous for me). I read even more. I got tonnes of work done (you would too if the above were your only responsibilities).

Still, I was running out of clean clothes and all my imported friends were returning to their real lives, so I did too. And now the weather is perfect and I'm going to the ballgame.

What can I tell you?

You'll be coming down
RR

Help Helps

I am a big fan of the focus group, the consensus, and the communal project. Of course in the public sphere, but also at work, at school, and when picking out clothes--wherever people I respect are willing to offer an opinion, I'm usually willing to work with it, or at least consider it before putting that halter top back on the rack. I like to play life as a team sport; it seems to reduce the margin for error when you have lots of brains on the project, instead of just the one, which can get sort of caught up in itself (well, mine can) either with chutzpah or insecurity. The alleged focus of this blog being what it is, here I'm talking about the role of other people's opinions in my writing. (but really, if you have a free afternoon, I'd be happy to let you pick out all my clothes).

Team playing doesn't seem obviously to apply to writing, which at some point has to be a human alone with a pen/pencil/keyboard/tarred stick. But then, eventually, it's all typed or tarred--it's either done or it isn't, and if you don't know, perhaps someone else can tell you. Well, I know it doesn't work that way for every writer, but quite often, someone can tell *me*.

I've been lucky in the someones in my life, the people who are willing and able to read my work insightfully and give me some of that insight to use in future drafts. I try to avoid showing early-phase stories to non-writers, because they tend to say unhelpful things like, "Wow, this is great!" or "I didn't really get it..." But in terms of editors, teachers, and fellow writers, I've been more than lucky. The two hours a week that I can go sit with fellow-writer Kerry Clare and write in frequently interrupted silence is invaluable, though writers of the quiet garret variety think we're slightly mad. I however, like solidarity, and sympathy, and that fact that K always calls me on it when I'm not making sense.

I've been getting feedback and critiques of my writing for years, but another team-writing aspect--research--always seemed a step too far. Sure I'm always bothering people about what their jobs are like, or their commutes, or what they ate for lunch and where you buy that sort of thing. And, sure, there is a certain joy for me when the job interview or the date goes so irretrievably bad that I'm free to ask question after question of this person I'll never see again about what it's like to be an HR manager, a real estate agent, a pompous jerk. And yes, I did talk my dear friend Scott into spending an entire Saturday teaching me to play a game that I needed to fill in a tiny part in the plot of a story.

That game day, last fall, is as far as I've gone with the research so far. Yes, laziness is a part of that, I suppose--not wanting to go beyond a quick web search or phone call to a friend before I got to the meat of writing. Weirdly, though, I think there is also a bizarre sort of selfish independence there--not wanting to start doing extensive reading or interviews on a subject, because then that subject would start to take up more of the fabric of the work. Other ideas and voices would being involved, leaving less room for the bits that are truly mine.

Mine?

As if anything's mine-all-mine after writers, editors and friends have all piped up and said, this bit's funny don't cut it, but I don't understand why he kisses her, and that dog changes colour, and also this symbolism is forced and phony could you do something about that? At that point, showing up in someone's office with a notebook and a list of factual questions is the only responsible thing to do. If I'm going to enlist so many people's time and intellects to make the story *good*, I'd better get it *right*, too, and often I can't do that all alone, with or without search engines.

And so, off I go. To Montreal, on what is mainly a mini-vacation, but will involve a notebook, a map, an appointment with experts. I'm looking forward to putting new people on the team, adding to the playbook, not expanding this metaphor any further. I'll let you know what I find out. (I'll experiment with the world of wireless in Montreal, but I may be postless until I return next week)

Stay with me / go places
RR

PS--Help in all forms--I just realized the subject line, something that I say all the time, is not my own; it's a line from a poem by Judith Viorst. Go, team!

Rumours of my demise have been greatly exaggerated

To my great surprise, this week's celebration of the short story (at the Festival of the Short Story at Luminato, in conversation and in the press), has contained a great deal of defensiveness and/or (depending on the speaker/writer) mourning for the form, which is apparently/allegedly (depending on the future, as I suppose is everything) dying.

Dying?

I have heard mutterings of this sort before, but in the random, sourpuss way that I never take seriously. However, after this week of hearing so many people I respect sing tragedy for my so-far chosen metier, I do wonder if I ought to be thinking/worrying/defending myself. By which I mean both myself doing some defending, and doing some self-defense.

Self-defense--I do feel implicated/assaulted here, hence the semi-confusing header. Because I spend so much time reading, writing, thinking about this form, I guess I've come to believe that we are somewhat synonymous, or at least symbiotic. Not actually; of course the short story will be just fine if *I* go, but how would I do without the short story?

I don't want to find out.

Short stories have a lot of technical challenges that make them difficult to write, and difficult to read. But if you've tried to do either, then you know that, and if you haven't, I don't want to discourage you. So let's talk instead about what's great about short stories, about how they will never die:

Short stories give the intensity of single moments and incidents--a playground game, a barroom brawl, a cigarette break--that would have to be contextualized into a life in a novel, pared down into pure language in a poem. Sometimes, you just need what happened, right there, right then--he said, she said, the chandelier crashed down and I took the puppy into the street. You need every detail and dialogue tag, but maybe not the how and the why and the what happened next.

Short stories can be read on the bus to work, and thought about all day long.

Short stories can be shared in magazines and journals and newspapers. You can sell them--it's not easy, and you won't get rich, but there are dozens and dozens ways to get your stories to readers, and find stories to read.

Short stories are complete, and thus you know (nearly) right away what you are dealing with--whether you like it if not why, and whether you want more. They are self-contained, offering all you ever need know about the given situation. And yet they are by nature constrained and thus spare--non-essentials are left out, leaving space for the reader to slide inside, inserting imagination of whys and wherefores, physical descriptions and psychological profiles. For readers that like that sort of thing.

Short stories be can sent as attachments.

Short stories contain lines like:

"I felt like I was turning into a reptile, an iguana sitting on a rock with a decaying memory and no compassion." Douglas Coupland, "In the Desert", Life After God

"Bodies look white in the winter light and now she is cold under his nervous fingers, breath sawing, springs creaking like the poplar branch clawing at the frosted pane and he rolls from her on the cool sheets, tense, held back by something." Mark Anthony Jarman, "Wintering Partners", Dancing Nightly at the Tavern

"You struck me as a circus performer. You were fat-thin, your hair long-short, the fingers that held your cigarette swollen like those of a midget (though I know that's not what they like to be called)." Emily Schultz, "I Love You, Pretty Puppy", IV Lounge Nights

I remain unconvinced.

Never say die, comrades. Never say die.

The declaration of spring / the next day it starts snowin
RR

Launch date change and Luminato post-mortem

The Toronto launch got moved to September 15, which gives me (and you!) nearly two extra weeks to be excited. The reason it got changed is because the This Is Not a Reading Series fifth anniversary party is on September 2nd. So if you booked that evening clear, you still have something cool to do.

But I do hope you'll come on September 15th, for some form of non-reading-series awesomeness. It'll likely be at the The Gladstone, one of the very first cool places I ever went when I moved to Toronto.

Speaking of readings, I didn't die at the one I did yesterday. In fact, it seemed to go fairly well: good questions were asked, lots of people turned up (THANK YOU FOR TURNING UP!) and my partner-in-reading 's nose stopped bleeding in time for him read his story brilliantly.

However, it does seem to be the consensus that I don't read so well unamplified, something I will surely be mentioning to someone before the September 15th gig. If you know me well, that revelation seems somewhat surprising, because when calm I can yell quite well across a soccer pitch, but in front of an audience, I am never calm: my voice goes up an octave (it's true!) and recedes into the back of my throat. I am going to work on this, *this* being sounding less like a half-strangled children's television character at readings.

Also the thing was *filmed*, which I found a bit disconcerting. I don't know what the video is going to be used for (blackmail?) but in general Luminato does cool stuff, so if they do something cool with the reading, I promise to let you know. On the condition that I don't have to watch it.

You and me both kid (you and me both kid)
RR

Illuminations

Good news: there are two more events in the Festival of the Short Story. Earlier this week, I missed Elyse Friedman and Pasha Malla moderated by Caroline Adderson, and Anthony DeSa and Caroline Adderson moderated by Russell Smith (dammit, on both counts).

However, tonight, though I'll get to see Ahmad Saidullah and Sharon English moderated by Jane Urquhart, at the Palmerston Library (560 Palmerston, two blocks west of Bathurst Station). And of course tomorrow it'll be me and David Whitton, moderated by Lynn Coady at 40 Orchard View Blvd (one block north of Eglinton Station).

No links for all these wonderful names, because I am so so so tired. Life has been exhausting of late, making up, I suppose for the times when I can take the time to blog in great, linkified detail how I came to own a Tupperware egg-separater (a great anecdote, let me tell you). The upside of exhaustion is that it displaces nerves, so though I am less than 24 hours away from a public speaking endeavour, I am relatively calm.

And by calm I of course mean groggy.

Who taught you to live like that?
RR

(Never) Stop the Presses!

THE TORONTO BOOK LAUNCH FOR *ONCE* WILL BE SEPTEMBER 2ND!!!!!!

I wanted to give you all maximum notice, because if there's any chance of you being in the city then and free from contraint and interested in seeing me accidentally inhale my hair when I try to speak, I want you to be there.

It'll be part of Pages Books amazing This Is Not a Reading Series. I'm not quite sure where, as of yet, or what time.

When he saw that brown-hair lady
RR

Speaking of September...

I've heard various dates for the publication of Oberon Press's *Best Canadian Stories* 08, either September or October--I think I'll just put "Fall" in the sidebar list, as that fits better--but when it comes out, it will contain my story, "Fruit Factory." This is a big honour for me, and I am quite quite thrilled. "Fruit Factory" originally appeared in issue #102 of the always-amazing New Quarterly.

Speaking of TNQ, the stories of mine that will appear there in the summer issue are "Linh Lai", "The House on Elsbeth" and "Zoom", plus an interview with Amy King--that also wouldn't fit in the sidebar, but I wanted to share. Because this is also a huge honour, to appear in such a great journal, and I am (again, still) thrilled.

Come hell or full circle
RR

Predictive Powers

I hate to brag, but my intuitions were all correct about this weekend. The big party was in fact as scary and intimidating as I had thought, and though no one was rude and the appetizers were delicious and the music good and the space beautiful (though I could never quite figure out where in the museum I was, such was the crowd) I left quite early early. I am a wuss, I admit it, but now I know there is a certain number of strangers beyond which I cannot cope. And that shotglasses filled with chilled soups, with shrimp or cheeseballs impaled on the rims, is a good thing to eat, and actually I didn't know that before.

Then the Small Press Book Fair was lovely, well-organized and entertaining, and not intimidatingly crowded, though well-attended. I would say the surprise there was hearing Christopher Dewdney read from his latest books on time. That *was* a surprise, because you would think, knowing me, that a poetic and scientific exploration of night and day would leave me gasping for air, but Dewdney's reading was surprisingly warm and accessible. And no small feet, in a noisy space with so much traffic. Very impressive.

Further predictions--it won't be this hot forever. Soon it will snow again and we'll be complaining about that, so let's enjoy at least being able to move freely on the sidewalks. One more prediction: before the snow but towards the end of summer, I'll be reading at Eden Mills Writers Festival, which is an exciting prospect. No matter how hot it is in September, Eden Mills is by a river and therefore will be slightly cool, and filled with authors and awesomeness. Hooray!

And somebody beside you
RR

Good Times

Today is the first day of Toronto's arts/creativity/light festival, Luminato. There's a quadrillion events, dance and music and art and theatre and literature... If you look at the website, it's all very intimidating for one little human--so much cool! Ack! More intimidating: as I am a reader at the Festival of the Short Story I get invited to the Armani Opening Night Party. Which sounds super-glamourous, and I've never been inside the ROM crystal, or to a party sponsored by Armani. So I'm going to go.

Which sounds reasonable, until you realize I don't leave the house a whole lot (witness: everyone and their dalmation has already been to the crystal) and am scared of parties. And yet I find them so alluring I must go (insert depressing moth metaphor here). So we'll see how this all turns out. Once more, into the fray!

Tomorrow will be less alarming, as I am attending the non-glamourous but super-cool Toronto Small Press Book Fair
Saturday June 7, 12-5pm. I haven't been in a few years, and it's in a new venue, and I love small presses. If you want to go, too, this one needs no invitation--

750 Spadina Ave
> Miles Nadal Jewish Community Centre
(a half-block south of the Spadina subway station)

Kisses for you
RR

Look! A book!

Linocut print by Marta Chudolinska
Book design by Daniel Wells
Content by meeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!

I cannot pretend to be calm about this.

This energy beneath my feet
RR

PS--My scanner/blogger/the universe is being difficult and cutting off the bottom of the cover--it is a yellow band that says, "Winner of the Metcalf-Rooke Award" and is fully as beautiful as the rest the thing.

The Weatherboy...

a story by me, is out now in issue 7 of the University of Toronto English grad students' journal, *echolocation.* That mag is going through a little change of management, so if you are neither subscriber nor contributer nor UofT student, it may be a little hard for you to get hold of it. It'll be at Pages and Book City but outside of the Toronto area--well, hit me up if you are curious, and I'll see what I can do for you.

Or just join me in a general feeling of well-being!

It's your turn to go down now
RR

For Your Enjoyment

This is my CBC3 Radio Playlist. I think it's so clever that you can make a playable list of your favourite CanRock, and then send it to your friends so that they can experience what it's like to live in your aural landscape. I don't know if anyone cares to listen to mine, but if you have one (or get inspired and build one) I'd love the link, as I am musically ravenous these days. When I like a song, I like it 15 times in a row.

I have read enough acknowlegement pages to know that many writers thank a particular song or album they have listened to on repeat throughout the writing (and/or they thank their housemates and neighbours for putting up with it). I am hoping that my relationship with the "repeat" button has more to do with my literary tendencies than my obsessive ones. Not all songs, no matter how beloved, are musically or lyrically complex to stand up to this treatment (sorry, Avril.) To listen to a 3 minute song for 3 hours, it's got to have a lot of elements in play. If you are looking for recommendations, Wintersleep and The Arcade Fire both stand up to the challenge quite well (they're on the playlist).

Another thing, completely unrelated, that you might enjoy is that Diane Schoemperlen did a 12 or 20 Questions or at rob mclennan's blog. I've been waiting for this one (I have full faith rob will get everyone eventually), not only because Schoemperlen is so witty in everything she writes (not everyone who writes good fiction writes good non-fiction *about* writing fiction [witness that sentence]). The other reason: everytime I read one of these and reach question 8 (when was the last time you ate a pear?), I think of the Schoemperlen storylette, "Small Room with Pears" (from her brilliant Forms of Devotion) and thought the story would be referenced when the author herself answered #8. But she doesn't bring it up, which was a small disappointment, but still, her answers were quite wonderful to read. Enjoy!

Resurrection/livin' in the past
RR

Yesterday

If you were worried--or have been forced to listen to my worries--know that yesterday's presentation and reading at the UofT spring reunion went really well. Though I was v. v. pleased that my own part involved no falling over and a fair amount of audience laughter (with, not at), the greatest delight was hearing my co-reader, Elizabeth Hay speak. Her reading from Late Nights on Air was lovely, but I was particularly struck by her remarks on our topic, starts as writers. I can't reproduce it here, unfortunately (I should've just been nerdy and taken notes) but I was heartened by her quotation of J. M. Coetzee's hopeful assertion that "there are no bounds to the sympathetic imagination" (from his rather dark essay, "The Lives of Animals," in the collection by the same name or in his sort of novel, Elizabeth Costello).

My own piece was more nuts-and-bolts, about how I came to be at UofT at all, and how I write. I think I'm pretty practical about writing, really--in the Q&A, we got asked about writing at certain times of day, and all I could say was, "I write after supper, unless I go out." Anyway, since I *have* my notes, I'll post them below, with the caveat that of course I didn't really say it quite like that.

After all that, I rounded up my beloved posse (consisting of my brother, and my posing-as-life-coach friend AMT) and then Lauren and her posse, and BBQ ensued. And then coffee, and strolling and park with AMT, and eventually I calmed down and was able to assess the day as, actually, having been pretty good. Whew.



Starts are difficult to pinpoint--you start with reading books and thinking you want certain stories to go on, you start with a red pleather diary and you write poems about the CBS Evening News with Dan Rather. You start in high school when you win a literary award and everyone claps. A story in the newspaper, and then actually a story in a literary journal when I was just 18. Is that a start as a writer?

I would say no, I think. As a kid, you do stuff: I wrote, I played the piano, I ran track, I made stuff out of clay. You have a lot of free time when you are a kid. Writing was the one I was actually sort of good at--the prizes and the publications and stuff--but being good wasn’t the central thing. My friends were into art and music, and I liked being with my friends, so I did way more of that stuff, and I was not good at it at all.

Even though I wrote stories throughout high school, took creative writing classes in university, joined writing groups and wrote semi-steadily when I began working, I certainly wasn't a writer. There was some pride involved, but no identity. If someone criticized my work, I would back away from it like a bomb—“Oh, of course it’s very bad, it’s just a hobby, I don’t take it seriously, actually I was just kidding.” That first high school journal publication had been upsetting--they wanted to change the ending, they wanted me to improve the writing, they wanted to teach me something, and I just wanted to do what I wanted to do.

In taking classes and opening myself to feedback, I learned to chill out and accept criticism, to improve, but I still
half-believed that publishing was too much for me, a foray into a scary world of real work that I wasn't really up to. Publishing fiction would make me accountable for it, responsible for making it good, and that was the last thing I wanted.

I'm going to count my start as my arrival at University of Toronto, because then when I actually made a choice to write instead of other things. I had a decent job, other responsibilities and interests, and a more or less ok habit of writing in the evenings and showing it to my friends or people in my writing group or no one. I tried to learn from the books I read, the evening classes I took, I tried to become a better writer, but if it didn't work, if I wrote another rambling self-indulgent story or didn't even finish it...eh. I was trying, but nothing was at stake.

The UofT Creative Writing masters is actually English and Creative Writing, there's coursework, lots of reading and critical theory and discussion. But still, principally, you write, and everything else in service of that--what I read, I wanted to learn from, my colleagues, everything was the texts that were sitting on my hard drive at home. I had a lot of different jobs during my degree, but when I ran out of day I just wrote at night--the jobs weren't the important thing. I wasn't exactly a writer, but I wasn't letting anything define me, either. I was trying really hard, and when something wasn’t working in a story, I went back to it and back to it and back to it. I didn’t just want to write, I wanted to write well.