Words for Real Life

I've got this storebought way
Of saying I'm ok
And you've learned how to cry
In total silence

We're talented and bright
We're lonely and uptight
We've found some lovely ways
To disappoint

But the airport's always almost empty
This time of the year
So let's go play on a baggage carousel
And set our watches forward like we're just arriving here
From the past we left in a place we knew too well

From "Watermark" by the Weakerthans

Leap Day

Today is a day that comes but once every four years. Possibly people say that about other things--the Olympics, elections, anniversaries, what have you, but those *dates* come around annual, it's just the events that don't. Today is, as far as I know, the only *day* we don't get every year.

So it's a good day for leaping--a leap of faith, a leap of logic, a game of leapfrog? I think we should try to at least hop a little; even if we don't like it, it's just the one day and then we won't have to do it again for four more years. Seems like something to try, anyway...

If you were the floor / I'd wanna be the rug
RR

The Journey Journey

I meant to post something more coherent than the last post, especially since that link wasn't working at a few points yesterday, but then in the evening, *electricity* wasn't working in my neighbourhood, and apparently the internet runs on that, so I had to make do with reading my flashlight (not as much fun, or as easy, as childhood memories make it out to be) and tripping over things.

Anyway, if you never got the link, my story "Chilly Girl," along with Krista Foss's "Swimming in Zanzibar" and Craig Boyko's "OZY," were shortlisted for the Journey Prize yesterday. I am very happy, obviously, for the honour of the recognition and the company in which I receive it. I *highly* recommend you read the whole collection if you haven't already--it's really inspiring to know so much is going *on* out there in the world of Canadian writing.

I think that this sustained attention to new work and unknown writers is what's brilliant about the Journey Prize. It keeps the stories front and centre, and gives applause and encouragement to both the writers and the journals that nuture them. We all would, I'm pretty sure, do what we do regardless, but applause and encouragement makes it a little easier.

The first draft of "Chilly Girl" was written for a class, rewritten for the final project, critiqued, rewritten again for a contest that it didn't win, performed at a reading, rewritten again and then put away. All of those events were joyful in their own way, and I was proud of the work (mainly) throughout. But when it accepted by Exile Quarterly in the summer of 2006, that was a huge huge boost. I made a couple tweaks for them, and it was published in December 2006, in Exile 30.3. In January 2007, the editors at Exile encouraged me to read the *entire thing* at the issue launch, which was terrifying and extraordinary.

Later in January, the Exile editor Michael Callaghan told me he'd nominated the story for the Journey Prize, which was brilliant but mystifying, because I didn't know how these things worked. I forgot about it until May (I didn't know when the longlist would be announced) and received the news that I would be in the anthology the day I was going out to celebrate finishing my thesis defense.

I got to check the copy-edited proofs in June (yes, even that was fun) and the beautiful book came out in November 2007. It was reviewed positively in December and now this shortlist announcement in February, leading to the "gala" awards announcement on April 1, 2008.

"Chilly Girl" has been knocking around in print for close to a year and half, and on my hard drive for *way* longer than that and all this time I've been beavering away, trying to write more, write better, just write. And if you extrapolate that to all the extraordinary stories in the collection, the ones that got nominated, the ones that were published last year or still just exist on people's hard-drives, it's sort of an amazing wealth of words that surrounds us, don't you think?

I think I'm making the point poorly, but what's great about this prize for me is it recognizes all of us who are beavering away after work and on weekends, in classes and with our friends. It rewards work that people did on spec, because they wanted to, with no thought *to* possible reward. And we'll all go one with it no matter what, but it is *so nice* to be noticed.

If you were a flower / I'd be a bee
RR

Speechless

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RR

Panel in Peterborough

I know that most (both?) Rose-coloured readers are, like me, carless people who don't live in Peterborough. However, if you are there a week Tuesday, you might consider stopping at Trent to hear a panel discuss Shut Up He Explained, by John Metcalf, and how it fits/shapes the future of Canadian writing.

As an "emerging writer" in Canada who was deeply affected/inspired by that book, as well as being edited by it's author, I am part of said panel. How exciting, and how terrifying. I hope to have come up with some modest insights to share by next week.

Even if I don't, the discussion will still likely be great, and even if you can't make it, I urge to check out the book. On it's own, *Shut Up* will still tell you a great deal about where CanLit is, has been, and might go.

Below are the details. Sorry I can't duplicate the nice poster sent to me by Trent, just cut'n'paste the text.


Roundtable with John Metcalf ~
Library ~ Champlain Writer in Residence

Emerging Scholars on
The Future of Writing in Canada:
Life After “Shut Up He Explained”

Tuesday, March 4th 2008
~ 1:00 p.m. to 4:00 p.m. ~
A.J.M. Smith Room, Bata Library

Jonathan Bennett ~ Christopher Dummitt
Michael Fralic ~ Lewis MacLeod
Rebecca Rosenblum ~ Dan Wells
Moderated by Adrian Kelly


Anyway anyway anyway / you wanna

RR

Me at the Mall

I know this isn't a popular problem to have, but I am a thwarted consumer. I love shopping and, sadly, I love the worst capitalistic aspect: malls. Even when I was a student and all my discretionary income went towards coffee, I called the mall (all malls are The Mall) The Museum of Nice Clothes and went sometimes just to savour all the *stuff*. Doesn't need to be mine for me to appreciate it.

Now, however, I am no longer a student, but a person with a decently remunerated full-time job and I could have the occasional expensive bit of discretionary fluff. However, I almost never shop unless there's a birthday I'm in danger of missing, because full-time jobs eat up a lot of time and then there's this whole writing thing I do. So my clothes wear out and discretionary purchases are limited to high-end groceries (but how many artichoke hearts can a girl eat?) In many ways, I still look like a student (not if you get close to my eyes, though), because I dress, well, with deliberation, but there are some gaps.

I had a perfectly servicaeble and presentable black canvas bookbag throughout grad school, which my parents gave me to congratulate me on getting in, and which disintegrated promptly on graduation (magic book bag?) Having no time, or really, no patience, I'm not *that* busy) to procure a new one, I fell back on my purse, which is small and stylish and, for days when I needed to bring a heavy book, or a big lunch, or my gym stuff (read: every day) I would have my old book bag, which is a) emblazoned with the word "bloomie's," b) fuschia, and c) 21 years old.

I've been using this bag for *months* and it occurred to me only today that it is hideously unprofessional to be lugging to work, no matter how brilliant the books inside. So I had a minor freak-out, which justified a trip to the mall. Hurrah!

Oh, I had the full mall experience: my way was impeded by unsupervised toddlers and angry teens in do-rags, I looked at bizarre herbal products from the GMC, and bought cherry-banana fat-free, sugar-free frozen yoghurt from a charming nervous Asian girl ("She's new," explained the charming nervous Asian boy who was directing her in fruit apportioning. I nodded encouragingly. "I'm new, too, but I been here a week already." "You're both doing great," I told them, and they beamed as I took my dessert. It was fuschia, too, and awful. When will I learn?

I bought no bag, because these are the years of bling, and I can't do with that much shininess on a leather bag. I saw some nice things, but they all had at least big buckles and zips. For a minute, I got confused and thought I liked a pink patent leather thing, but I stopped myself. I can't wait until my 40s to get this right. I'm going somewhere more conservative tomorrow, I think. On my way out of the big Scarborough mall, I got myself embroiled at the crosswalk and almost didn't make it (Scarborough is like a dangerous lover--once you are in her arms, the only way out might be death).

I had a perfect time.

Carry the news
RR

Character sketch

Not a useful patch of prose, but I like it, so I thought I'd put it here:

Joe was so tall, with such big beaming eyes, with such a loud and easy laugh, such an extensive music collection, so generous, so talented, so warm, that he could be forgiven a lot by a lot of people. Sloppiness, for example, in not only his personal dress and the state of his bedroom but the state of his life: missed appointments and forgotten birthdays and relationships that never quite ended although they ceased to exist. He wasn’t all that bright, either—a liability at Scrabble or Trivial Pursuit or deciphering a roadmap, never able to calculate the tip or whether Christmas would fall on a Wednesday or not. He was a bad cook, though he worked hard at it. He was promiscuous, but sincere. He disliked cats, dogs, rabbits—and it wasn’t allergies. He tried to avoid holding babies.

We're just kissing /we're just hugging
RR

Car Accident

On the way home from seeing the always charming and thought-provoking Russell Smith speak, the car I was in got rear-ended. Obviously, it was a very small accident, all parties were uninjured, or I would not be cheerfully typing this post in such a devil-may-care manner. In truth, though we're all fine, the damage was minor, and I was home an hour later, I'm rather alarmed about the whole event. "I was in a car accident" *sounds* so serious, like "I had a heart attack" or "I got mugged." Ew.

Plus, and this goes to show what a creature of media I am, I was very freaked out by the fact that vehicles colliding in actuality is nothing like how it is depicted in films, on tv and in books. When I had surgery last year, I was thrilled to find that ORs really look like those on tv, and coming out of anesthesia feels like it's described in fiction. On the other hand, filmic car accidents seem to have more give and crush, metal bending into metal. In real life, it's an unyielding feeling, like being whoomped in the back of the head by a brick wall (we were stopped at the time, maybe that's why). It feels like the end of time, this awful if really short silence before everyone yells, "Are you all right?"

We all were, I can't emphasize that enough. It's just another illusion shattered really. Plus a taillight.

I would've hit them
RR

Huh

Was the last post about how we should be nice to other people in order that they be nice to us, and therefore really all about self-interest? Hmmm...

Never ever ever ever
RR

Love Like

I started writing a post about Platonic ideals a couple days ago, but what with the weight of saying something intelligent and all the varying demands on my time these days (do not leave kitchen floor covered in crumbs; pay your bills; go to work; write fiction; eat; do not ignore your friends) I'm not sure when that will be done. So, on the eve of Valentine's Day, I thought I'd do a little easy post, on niceness.

Today, I had a magnificent customer service experience. I had bought a defective product and was sad (and nauseated; it was a defective food product*) so I looked up the customer service number on the brand website and called. The woman on the phone was tensely, nervously helpful--she wanted my first name so that she could "better address" me, and she promised to "address" all my concerns before she even knew what they were.

You can sort of guess why someone in a role like that would sound like you just kicked her dog. I mean, "customer service hot-line" reads "complaint line" to pretty much everyone, and since the number isn't on the packaging and you have to look it up on the web, you have to be pretty plaintive to call that number. I've had jobs along those lines, and it was terribly terribly unfun. I'm sure there are circumstances where it is necessary to yell in order to be treated with respect, but this sort of scenario is rarely one of them. Some people just call to yell.

I, however, only wanted a refund on my snack item. When, in response to the customer server's tense politeness, I was politely tense back (I get nervous calling strangers), her manner loosened markedly. And when she realized that I had a legit complaint ("I, oh, ew, I *assure* you that that is *highly* unusual") things went along swimmingly. It was easy for me to arrange a refund, and pleasant. Nice.

Nice, a highly underrated quality. One of my better ones, I like to think, and the reason working in service did not destroy me utterly. It's so *easy* to be civil to strangers, because they'll be gone soon and won't want anything from you again. It's the people who are around all the time who are going to make demands, who are going to be hard to put up with.

I am not feeling *terribly* hostile towards V-Day this year, but romantic love already gets a *lot* of attention in our society. I don't know that it needs this particular day. And I don't think customer service reps are any less worthy of a day than secretaries and nurses, both of whom have Days, and significantly more so than, say, bosses.

People feel free to be rude to store clerks and phone reps because there are no repercussions--it's a five minute relationship and the outcome is unlikely to improve if you turn on the charm. But the *interaction* will. That's the thing--I'm not necessarily advocating politeness for it's own sake here, though if that's the only argument that will work on you, take it. It's that you end up with the exact same groceries whether you smile at the clerk and say, "Thanks, have a nice day," or keep your iPod in and don't make eye-contact. But there's no hope for a return smile or friendly comment if you do the latter, and who needs fewer of those things? On my best days I try not to squander any interaction--the bus driver is never going to change my life, but if I say thank you as I get off, he or she will usually call some variant of, "You're welcome, have a good day!" which are words you just can't hear too often.

The customer service rep on the phone asked me if there were any further problems she could help me with, and I told her that my only problem had been that I'd spent the money and had no snack item, and now that she was sending me the refund, I could buy a new snack. I thanked her. She thanked me. This all took about three minutes, and was lovely.

I imagine lots of people are going to be do fun Valentinesy things tomorrow, and me too, but one thing that might be nice is to be nice to *everyone* tomorrow, not just the ones we love best.

I'm backed out on the car
RR

Weekend'o'weird

I mainly resolved to stay in this weekend and do work, but even the briefest of forays into the outside world seemed slightly nuts. The theme started on Thursday, when a seemingly inebriated man heckled Kerry and I as we walked into the subway station. We slowed our pace to let him go by, out of harm's way, we thought, only to arrive in the underground to find him threatening to shoot/be shot by some guy in a red shirt and running around in circles. I saw, for the record, no weapons of any kind. I can only assume that the fellow was crazy, and heckling everyone as he did us, and that he unfortunately found someone as crazy as himself with which to interact. I hopped on my train, eager to get away, only to be motioned off by eagle-eyed Kerry, who had noticed our mad pair boarding my car. The subway had to be briefly halted, and people like me sort of voluntarily evacuated until our friends could be located and, apparently, taken away in handcuffs.

The gunplay theme continued Friday, when a convenience store clerk stared at me in horror when I snapped by gum waiting in line. I thought he just was annoyed with my immature and unladylike behaviour (and, really, good point, why do I do stuff like that? I am almost *30*.) When I got to the head of the line, the guy explained he thought my Bubblemint burst sounded like a gunshot. (No, it didn't.)

I have actually been working this weekend, but I also wandered about in the warm slush (yesterday) and artic wind (today), had my pilates class stealthily switched for Nia, a sort of spiritual dance that, to the *ahem* uninitiated can seem, well, like a cross between dance that's too hard and dance that's too silly.

So, yeah, that's what I've been up to. I *might* get as far as the library and/or the movies this afternoon, but then again, there's that artic wind (see above). I might just hunker here in my cave.

Be well, and warm, and safe.

Talking to your little pets
RR

Demands

I have nothing of import to say today, but my friends have questions for you. Over at A Place, Ferd wants to know your Oscar picks for the annual Oscar Derby. I often win, and this year I've actually seen several of the movies, so throw your hat into the ring! It's very entertaining!

Also, my friend Corinna's writing another article is writing another survey article for CanadianLiving.com, and has queries for you below. If you respond in the comments section here, or send me an email, I'll pass it on (be sure to include the name you want used!)

I'd like to know what is the best, most unusual (in a good way) or
unexpeted compliment you've ever received? I'm not looking for
comments on nice eyes or pretty hair; I'd like to go beyond that and
hear about the complements that brightened your day or really meant
something to you. For example, I was once told I have a great walk!
Unexpected and strange. Perhaps your arch nemesis at work complimented
you on a job well done, or a stranger praised you for how well you
handled your temper-tantrum-throwing two-year-old.

Let me know what the compliment was, and if relevant, what the
circumstances were, who said it, and why it surprised you/meant
something to you. Make sure to include your name (first name only or
pseudonym ok), age and city.

Please get back to me by Wed. Feb. 20th. And pass this along to anyone
who you think might be interested in contributing.

Oh you crazy moon
RR

Name It

If you look right, you'll note that my long-nameless forthcoming short story collection can now be known under the more efficient rubric, Once. I like this title because it captures a lot of ideas I care about: stories of as glimpses and as frames of film, ideas of time and timelessness and the impossibility of eternality, of telling something to someone, of memory and excitement. I really hope that at least some of all that can be picked up by a reader who happens to glance at that title. At least it's short and easy to remember.

Those who have been watching this channel for a while might be moved to comment that Once was the title of this collection once before, and then for a long while I said it wasn't. Never let it be said that I cannot admit when I am wrong, though in this case the thing I was wrong about was not realizing I was right the first time. I'm pretty sure I was.

The book is better-written than this post.

If you never ever say your name to anyone / they can never ever call you by it
RR

Glamour--A Time and Motion Study

7:00--Roger, Rick and Marilyn alarm-clock
7:01--Go directly to the bathroom mirror to see if grade-ten style zit has disappeared from beside nose during the night.
7:01:30--Nope.
7:02--Turn on the coffee, shower, wash hair.
7:19--Try out new perfume, which turns out to be stronger than old perfume. Become concerned that I smell like a bordello carpet.
7:20--Drink coffee and eat cereal while drying hair with more thought than usual. No electrical appliance or anything, just the air in the room and really intense hope that it won't dry funny. Also, read New Quarterly and write in journal.
8:03--Go check Facebook, write down directions, search for map.
8:30--Turn on ABBA. Start getting dressed (did I mention was wearing Teddy-bear robe?) in weather-inappropriate clothing: black jersey dress, white cami underneath, lucky argyle tights. Move from drinking coffee to drinking pop.
8:58--P. arrives, bearing green-tea lattes and professional grade makeup brushes! Bless her.
9:00-9:04--Hop up and down.
9:05--Drink some latte. Make P. sniff me and say I do not smell like a bordello carpet. Also force her to assess zit. It's a very tough job, being my friend.
9:10--Sit in desk chair. Be made over.
9:47--Except for utter failure to operate eyelash curler (official take: the hell?) am made over. Am stunning.
9:48-9:51--Hop.
9:52--Return to drinking coffee. Run around apartment stuffing everything I own into shoulder bag: all the makeup, hair products, water bottle, yoga pants to go over/under weather-inappropriate clothing in case of cold, coffee in portable cup.
10:03--Freak out and insist we leave. Assorted hopping.
10:09--Run into next door neighbour, who mainly sees me on laundry day. He seems perplexed by my bombshelledness (or maybe the smell), compliments my hat.
10:11--Get the bus.
10:13--Discover destination is in map gully. Enraged at expensive, useless map.
10:32--Disembark bus. Get briefly but alarmingly stuck in snowdrift (rare on foot, but not unknown). Free self and catch up with more surefooted P.
10:45--Arrive at Dave's studio early and feel guilty, but not guilty enough to wait in the snow.
10:46--Greet Dave, remove winter things. Hop.
10:47--Get offered coffee and giddily consider accepting, before realizing that cannot stand thought of rebrushing teeth, reapplying lipstick.
10:48--Remousse hair instead. Hair will never move again. Get P. to remove smudged mascara with Q-tip for me, so that I do not gouge out own eye.
10:55--Point out zit to D., who wisely claims not to have noticed. Manage to restrain self from apologizing for scent issues. Why did I even put on perfume for a photo is a question that occurs to me only now.
11:00--D. points me towards photo area, with professional looking lights, canvas background, small swivel chair in centre. I am instructed that straddling the chair backwards will give my back the appropriate arch.
11:01--Dress, patterned tights, knee-high leather boots, straddling chair. Am harlot. Picture is from shoulders up, only, but I fear viewers will sense harlotry.
11:03--D. produces camera as big as my head and shoulders together, sits on chair approximately two feet from me, takes some pictures. I am very nervous about not showing my teeth (hate teeth today), my makeup, my immobile hair. I find it hard to smile without it looking like rigor mortis.
11:09--D. shows us pictures taken so far on the computer. According to both him and P., there are lots of nice ones and we could probably have stopped at this point, but I become Being John Malkovich-style disoriented, looking at so many me's, and insist that we continue.
11:20 or so--D. makes appropriate friendly comments about the book for which this is all for, and I start to chill out and not smile like maniac/dead person.
11:40--All told, 148 frames of me with slightly different facial expressions are taken. Am appalled, but strangely fascinated.
11:41-12--Finished, and thus freed, finally, from demented self-consciousness, pepper D. with a million questions about photos, paparrazzi, models, etc. That I have never before encountered a real photographer that didn't work for Jostens is painfully obvious. Am fasacinated.
12:07-1:00--Take assorted busses to meet Melinda at Winterlicious.
2:00 and on--Wait for a long time for table, but is worth it--licious, in fact.
Evening--Go home, wash off makeup, put on pjs, go back to writing, and quit acting like a diva. An incredible day, but I'm glad I don't have to many of those. So, probably, is everyone else.

If someone told me you'd be here
RR