...is where I went tonight and now I need to stay up an extra twenty minutes past my bedtime (already long past) to tell you about it.
I was Very Worked Up about this event, as you may know. If you did not know anything about it, the Writer's Trust sponsors and organizes a large number of awards and other programs for writers. For instance, the Journey Prize, for which I am short-listed. Their big gala is tomorrow, when the winners will be announced, but since nominees, employees and board members had not yet met in most cases, and because many people had travelled from quite far to be there, they gave a dinner party beforehand to bring us all together.
What a wonderful idea, despite the fact that it combines all my love/hates--strangers, famous people, eating standing up. But I had my annual hair-straightening indulgence this afternoon, and wore make-up and my party tights (argyle!), so I felt semi-ok after a few minutes wandering around introducing myself to people I didn't know. The people from the Trust were really friendly, and tried to introduce everyone to everyone, plus there was a speech where all present were given little intros. It was quite interesting to put faces to some of those names; people look very different when they are moving and talking than in a little window on the back of a book.
I have also learned a little bit of wisdom about writer-parties, which I will share, in case you need it: writers are perceptive and observant. They notice body language and respond to it, so if you reveal in your posture or gaze that you are feeling uncomfortable, some writer will likely arrive at your side and try to set you at ease. On the other hand, writers know other writers to be weird, so if you pretend you are having a grand time staring at this bit of the wall where it goes behind the bookshelf, writers will think that's plausible and leave you to enjoy yourself uninterrupted. So I looked uncomfortable because I was uncomfortable, and numerous people were very kind, and then I wasn't uncomfortable anymore and I just looked like myself.
And I only lost one bit of food to the floor. If you are reading this, dear host, there is a baby carrot under the chaise lounge and I'm really sorry about that. Otherwise, it was a wonderful wonderful night.
Good night!
Set out for / a great adventure
RR
Monday, March 31, 2008
Sunday, March 30, 2008
Questions without answers
Is it just my lame neighbourhood, or was it awfully well lit during Earth Hour? Obviously the press says different, but...
Did America's Best Dance Crew jump the shark with the rollerskating crew?
Why did my nextdoor neighbour's snow boots, which he always leaves in the hall, have roses in them the other day?
How could I possibly have spent $55 at Kinko's this afternoon?
Pondering, pondering...
I watch your hand smooth the front of your blouse
RR
Did America's Best Dance Crew jump the shark with the rollerskating crew?
Why did my nextdoor neighbour's snow boots, which he always leaves in the hall, have roses in them the other day?
How could I possibly have spent $55 at Kinko's this afternoon?
Pondering, pondering...
I watch your hand smooth the front of your blouse
RR
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
Post-mortem
I just wanted to let y'all know that the Exile Reading last night went swimmingly, both (a) in the sense that I neither fell off the stage nor choked during my reading nor in any other way embarrassed myself and (b) all the readers did beautifully, many of my most lovely friends were there, and I had a brilliant time. As you may know, I get waaaay worked up over readings, though I love to do them. I am always thrilled when invited to read, up until about two days before, when I become convinced it will suck, try to uninvite all my friends or at least apologize in advance for the sucking. And then I stagger through somehow, and then people *clap* and *hug me* and I'm happy again. Clapping and hugs, poetry, stories and friends; why couldn't every Tuesday be like that?
None of this has happened yet
RR
PS--The new issue of Exile, with my story in it, and lots of other good stuff, should be available in the next few days at bookstores around and about. If you can't find it and want it, try their website (to the right) or ask me and I'll find you a copy. I'm helpful (and shameless) that way.
None of this has happened yet
RR
PS--The new issue of Exile, with my story in it, and lots of other good stuff, should be available in the next few days at bookstores around and about. If you can't find it and want it, try their website (to the right) or ask me and I'll find you a copy. I'm helpful (and shameless) that way.
Monday, March 24, 2008
You might wanna
...come see a bunch of writers, including me, read tomorrow night at the Exile Quarterly/Exile Editions Launch: 7:15, the Dora Keogh Pub, more info at the link. High hopes for fun and literature abound.
Other fun upcoming is the Idle Tigers show at The Embassy on Saturday, 29th of March as part of the Pitter
Patter Festival. I hear the Tigers are going to be up quite late in the evening, so if you can't make that, you can always just pre-order the record, The Spirit Salon ahead of the May 1 release date and feel giddy with anticipation. I did, and now I do.
Also, it was both sunny *and* warm this morning, a rare combination. Hooray!
So pay my way into Graceland
RR
Other fun upcoming is the Idle Tigers show at The Embassy on Saturday, 29th of March as part of the Pitter
Patter Festival. I hear the Tigers are going to be up quite late in the evening, so if you can't make that, you can always just pre-order the record, The Spirit Salon ahead of the May 1 release date and feel giddy with anticipation. I did, and now I do.
Also, it was both sunny *and* warm this morning, a rare combination. Hooray!
So pay my way into Graceland
RR
Saturday, March 22, 2008
Reading about Writing
...is one of my favourite things. The act of writing, I mean, more than the noun, although my interest of course extends to criticism. And biography. And gossip.
I just finished reading Leonard Micahels's novella "Journal." The first half of it seems to be about (I make no assertions about the work is actually about; Michaels is slippery) a writer in a happy, or at least undemanding relationship, thus free to focus on writing a screenplay, teaching classes, chatting and backbiting with other writers. I was fascinated. In the second half, the marriage seems to fall apart, and the focus comes to be on the narrator's assorted entanglements with other women, often quite graphically depicted. I was less interested. Men and their affairs, eh, I've heard it before; how a writer feels telling an anecdote to another writer and then realizing it's a really good anecdote and they both want to use it in a story...that's new ground. In my opinion.
"Journal" is a story that it's unfair to quote from, because it is composed of fragments in a writer's journal, disparate and specific, and it's only by reading them together that you get even a partial portrait of the character. Nevertheless, some of the aphorisms (from the first half) beg to be quoted and so I will, with the caveat that you shouldn't taken them as representative of much:
"In the American South, it's said of a medical student, 'He is going to make a doctor.' For writers there is no comparable expression, no diploma, no conclusive evidence that anything real has been made of himself or herself."
"Writers die twice, first their bodies, then their works, but they produce book after book, like peacocks spreading their tails, a gorgeous flare of color soon shlepped through the dust."
"Anything you say to a writer is in danger of becoming writing."
"My neighbour is building his patio, laying bricks meticulously. The sun beats on him. Heat rises off the bricks into his face. I'm in here writing. He'll have built a patio. I'll be punished."
And then Adam Gopnik wasn't even really talking about writers, just trying to make a comparison with magicians, but it's still relevant:
"All grownup craft depends on sustaining a frozen moment from childhood: scientists, it's said, are forever four years old, wide-eyed and self-centred; writers are forever eight, over-aware and indignant."
Which of these bits I believe, I couldn't say, but I feel a little older than 8—the devouring outward gaze of a writer feels more teenaged to me.
How do you know you're right / when you're not nervous anymore
RR
I just finished reading Leonard Micahels's novella "Journal." The first half of it seems to be about (I make no assertions about the work is actually about; Michaels is slippery) a writer in a happy, or at least undemanding relationship, thus free to focus on writing a screenplay, teaching classes, chatting and backbiting with other writers. I was fascinated. In the second half, the marriage seems to fall apart, and the focus comes to be on the narrator's assorted entanglements with other women, often quite graphically depicted. I was less interested. Men and their affairs, eh, I've heard it before; how a writer feels telling an anecdote to another writer and then realizing it's a really good anecdote and they both want to use it in a story...that's new ground. In my opinion.
"Journal" is a story that it's unfair to quote from, because it is composed of fragments in a writer's journal, disparate and specific, and it's only by reading them together that you get even a partial portrait of the character. Nevertheless, some of the aphorisms (from the first half) beg to be quoted and so I will, with the caveat that you shouldn't taken them as representative of much:
"In the American South, it's said of a medical student, 'He is going to make a doctor.' For writers there is no comparable expression, no diploma, no conclusive evidence that anything real has been made of himself or herself."
"Writers die twice, first their bodies, then their works, but they produce book after book, like peacocks spreading their tails, a gorgeous flare of color soon shlepped through the dust."
"Anything you say to a writer is in danger of becoming writing."
"My neighbour is building his patio, laying bricks meticulously. The sun beats on him. Heat rises off the bricks into his face. I'm in here writing. He'll have built a patio. I'll be punished."
And then Adam Gopnik wasn't even really talking about writers, just trying to make a comparison with magicians, but it's still relevant:
"All grownup craft depends on sustaining a frozen moment from childhood: scientists, it's said, are forever four years old, wide-eyed and self-centred; writers are forever eight, over-aware and indignant."
Which of these bits I believe, I couldn't say, but I feel a little older than 8—the devouring outward gaze of a writer feels more teenaged to me.
How do you know you're right / when you're not nervous anymore
RR
Friday, March 21, 2008
Circadian Reading
Though I don't know too much about the science of it, I put a lot of faith in personal circadian rhythms, the cycles by which an individual organism reacts to light, dark, and other stimulus to determine when and how much we sleep. Obviously, humans are diurnal, and want mainly to be asleep when it's dark and awake when it's light, but most believe that there are fairly wide variations in exactly what hours a given human will not only prefer but biologically be more able to be conscious. I have to believe that, otherwise I'm just a giant loser that prefers to be in bed by 10:30, maybe 10. Call me at 6 am, though; then we can chat. But you won't, because your circadian clock is different than mine, as it is with most people. Ah, the majesty of human difference.
I have been wondering recently if the body *and* the mind have an innate preference for doing *everything* at certain hours. Obviously, we are flexible, can do things on schedules that accommodate our jobs and loved ones and the hours that busses are running, and also maybe there is no ideal hour to reprogramme the heat levels on the microwave (perhaps the ideal is never.) But really, on a lazy weekend day (ie. today) on which I am not expected anywhere and have no particular tasks to do, I find the day orders itself into it's ideal form, which involves several hours of reading starting just past dawn.
I prefer to read in the morning--I'm better able to focus, to sit still, to immerse myself in the book for longer periods. I don't of course, usually get three hours in the morning to read, being employed as I am, but I do get 45 minutes or so to read while doing cardio at the gym at dawn, and I really love that, too. And I read on the bus *to* work with much more concentration than on the bus home.
I wonder if there is something in that, some sort of perceptive nozzle that is switched higher in the earlier part of the day than later... I wonder if there is a good time to do everything--I write best in the evenings, I know, and I'm more charming to talk to before 9pm. Perhaps there is a laundry hour, a speechifying hour, a pancake flipping hour. Perhaps there's some minute of the day when, for the first time in the seven years of our relationship, it would become intuitable to me how, or even why, one would want to alter the heat levels on the microwave.
This is just yammering, of course, since there's no way I'm going to look beyond the already slightly esoteric Wikipedia article to find out more about this subject. But it is worth, as always, playing to one's strengths.
Seven drops of blood fall
RR
I have been wondering recently if the body *and* the mind have an innate preference for doing *everything* at certain hours. Obviously, we are flexible, can do things on schedules that accommodate our jobs and loved ones and the hours that busses are running, and also maybe there is no ideal hour to reprogramme the heat levels on the microwave (perhaps the ideal is never.) But really, on a lazy weekend day (ie. today) on which I am not expected anywhere and have no particular tasks to do, I find the day orders itself into it's ideal form, which involves several hours of reading starting just past dawn.
I prefer to read in the morning--I'm better able to focus, to sit still, to immerse myself in the book for longer periods. I don't of course, usually get three hours in the morning to read, being employed as I am, but I do get 45 minutes or so to read while doing cardio at the gym at dawn, and I really love that, too. And I read on the bus *to* work with much more concentration than on the bus home.
I wonder if there is something in that, some sort of perceptive nozzle that is switched higher in the earlier part of the day than later... I wonder if there is a good time to do everything--I write best in the evenings, I know, and I'm more charming to talk to before 9pm. Perhaps there is a laundry hour, a speechifying hour, a pancake flipping hour. Perhaps there's some minute of the day when, for the first time in the seven years of our relationship, it would become intuitable to me how, or even why, one would want to alter the heat levels on the microwave.
This is just yammering, of course, since there's no way I'm going to look beyond the already slightly esoteric Wikipedia article to find out more about this subject. But it is worth, as always, playing to one's strengths.
Seven drops of blood fall
RR
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
"Kissing with tongue"--your opinion, please
Is that still part of the (pre)teenage lexicon, do you think? Or have they reverted to "French kissing" or something I haven't even thought of because I am now officially old? Does anyone actually know any teenagers?
All insights appreciated!
RR
All insights appreciated!
RR
I like
Am I ever going to get it together to review something? This is the extremely small question of the hour, which I mainly ignore. Until then, here are some things I've been uncritically enjoying.
Thom Bryce, of Free Biscuit fame, has a new play called *The Curative* being performed this week by the (pivotal)arts folks at the WriteNow! festival, in conjunction with three other plays that I haven't seen, but if *The Curative* is a fair sample, are probably brilliant. (Warning: *The Curative* is not for the faint-hearted, in terms of both sex and violence. The word "chilling" comes to mind.)
The joyful music of The Choir Practice. I don't know what I need more faith in, but this pretty music redeems it all.
Smoked tofu--it doesn't even have a Wikipedia page, but it's delicious (as tofu goes) and little known. Consider it.
Oh, and just to show I can dislike stuff, I didn't think Lars and the Real Girl was very good, and, worse, gave a simplistic reductive portrayl of both women and the mentally ill.
But really, who am I to say?
You look so good with a gun / but that hat doesn't suit you
RR
Thom Bryce, of Free Biscuit fame, has a new play called *The Curative* being performed this week by the (pivotal)arts folks at the WriteNow! festival, in conjunction with three other plays that I haven't seen, but if *The Curative* is a fair sample, are probably brilliant. (Warning: *The Curative* is not for the faint-hearted, in terms of both sex and violence. The word "chilling" comes to mind.)
The joyful music of The Choir Practice. I don't know what I need more faith in, but this pretty music redeems it all.
Smoked tofu--it doesn't even have a Wikipedia page, but it's delicious (as tofu goes) and little known. Consider it.
Oh, and just to show I can dislike stuff, I didn't think Lars and the Real Girl was very good, and, worse, gave a simplistic reductive portrayl of both women and the mentally ill.
But really, who am I to say?
You look so good with a gun / but that hat doesn't suit you
RR
Sunday, March 16, 2008
Also
I have a bad habit of, when I think of a nice line of prose that I would like to use someday, I stick it into whatever I happen to be working on at the moment, even if it doesn't fit at all. For safekeeping, as it were. I opened a file this week that I haven't worked on in a year, and found this line floating non-sensically in the middle of some dialogue:
"I feel like a wave in the middle of the sea, that doesn’t know it’s a wave yet, that’s just water and the moon."
So now it's *here* for safekeeping, which is only somewhat more appropriate and less random.
In case you care, the reason I am looking at very old files is that...I have no further writing to do on *Once*. I spoke to my editor yesterday--it's done. Story order, and what stays in, is still to come, but that isn't typing time and I don't know what to do with myself, so I'm working on old things, wondering what the hell I was thinking this time 2007.
Maybe *I* don't know I'm a wave yet.
I'm feeling pretty bizarre, that's for sure.
Pleased, yes, pleased, I forgot to mention that. Absolutely thrilled, really. But also super bizarre.
Living in the future
RR
"I feel like a wave in the middle of the sea, that doesn’t know it’s a wave yet, that’s just water and the moon."
So now it's *here* for safekeeping, which is only somewhat more appropriate and less random.
In case you care, the reason I am looking at very old files is that...I have no further writing to do on *Once*. I spoke to my editor yesterday--it's done. Story order, and what stays in, is still to come, but that isn't typing time and I don't know what to do with myself, so I'm working on old things, wondering what the hell I was thinking this time 2007.
Maybe *I* don't know I'm a wave yet.
I'm feeling pretty bizarre, that's for sure.
Pleased, yes, pleased, I forgot to mention that. Absolutely thrilled, really. But also super bizarre.
Living in the future
RR
Saturday, March 15, 2008
One way you might know you're a grown-up
You think you look most attractive when you also feel you look most like yourself.
This, I believe, will be the author photo on the back of *Once*:
At the top of my lungs
RR
This, I believe, will be the author photo on the back of *Once*:
At the top of my lungs
RR
Friday, March 14, 2008
Think about It
Thinking aloud last night with KC, I made the logical hop from feeling
ambivalence--the state of having simultaneous but conflicting feelings or attitudes, such as love and hate, toward some person or thing. ambivalent (ambi- in two ways + valere to be worth)
to
valence--the quality of an atom...that determines the number of other atoms...with which it can combine... -valent combining form having (a given number of) valent forms: monovalent, trivalent
So when you are ambivalent about an idea or an atom or a person, you don't know whether you can bond with it or not...genius!!
Oh, English language, how much do I love you? Sometimes I feel like I should write a little tribute to my love, but since I would have to use words to write that tribute, it seems a little tacky, like borrowing someone's credit card to buy them a present. I have so many really serious problems.
When violins aren't so out of tune
RR
ambivalence--the state of having simultaneous but conflicting feelings or attitudes, such as love and hate, toward some person or thing. ambivalent (ambi- in two ways + valere to be worth)
to
valence--the quality of an atom...that determines the number of other atoms...with which it can combine... -valent combining form having (a given number of) valent forms: monovalent, trivalent
So when you are ambivalent about an idea or an atom or a person, you don't know whether you can bond with it or not...genius!!
Oh, English language, how much do I love you? Sometimes I feel like I should write a little tribute to my love, but since I would have to use words to write that tribute, it seems a little tacky, like borrowing someone's credit card to buy them a present. I have so many really serious problems.
When violins aren't so out of tune
RR
Monday, March 10, 2008
Scene 2
Two gents walk into the grocery store. They are wearing extremely nice suits, long overcoats flapping open. One is gangly and 6'3"-ish, one is about 5'8", but both are strikingly attractive in that so-clean-as-to-look-wet, just-shaved-in-the-parking-lot way. They are somewhere in the low end of the twenties.
A lot of time is spent selecting baskets, which they swing Mary-Had-a-Little-Lamb style every time I encounter them in the aisles. I hear them talking loudly about how much they like spareribs and which kinds are best, but they don't seem to know what they are looking for or to be putting much in their baskets. I see the tall one bounce off a display of cakes, basket swinging, overcoat flopping.
Rarely have such ingenuously heterosexual males been spotted shopping for supplies together. They walk so far apart they block a whole aisle, which they apologize for and attempt to cluster up, but it doesn't work. Their shoulders are too wide, they talk to loudly, where will they swing the baskets? They wind up with about four items scrupulously divided and rattling around in the bottoms.
What can have brought about this state of affairs? Outword Bound corporate training program? Brothers evicted from parental home? Some sort of double-date doomed to ptomaine poisoning?
I lose them in frozen foods and go to check out. I am at register by myself in the otherwise crowded checkout area when the tall one passes by, basket swinging, probably dinging his canned crescent rolls. He walks towards my line, stops. He sees it is the shortest line, but he doesn't join it. He stares nervously, watching me hand over my credit card. Is he checking me out? I *am* wearing cool tights. But nevermind, he's at the *very* low end of the twenties. Pocket creditcard and receipt, gather bags.
As I retreat from the cashier, I sense tallboy advancing. He leans over the conveyor belt and speaks quietly and urgently to the cashier. As I leave the store, I hear over the PA system: "If there is a 'Drew' in the store, could he please report to the customer service desk? That's DREW, please report to..."
RR
A lot of time is spent selecting baskets, which they swing Mary-Had-a-Little-Lamb style every time I encounter them in the aisles. I hear them talking loudly about how much they like spareribs and which kinds are best, but they don't seem to know what they are looking for or to be putting much in their baskets. I see the tall one bounce off a display of cakes, basket swinging, overcoat flopping.
Rarely have such ingenuously heterosexual males been spotted shopping for supplies together. They walk so far apart they block a whole aisle, which they apologize for and attempt to cluster up, but it doesn't work. Their shoulders are too wide, they talk to loudly, where will they swing the baskets? They wind up with about four items scrupulously divided and rattling around in the bottoms.
What can have brought about this state of affairs? Outword Bound corporate training program? Brothers evicted from parental home? Some sort of double-date doomed to ptomaine poisoning?
I lose them in frozen foods and go to check out. I am at register by myself in the otherwise crowded checkout area when the tall one passes by, basket swinging, probably dinging his canned crescent rolls. He walks towards my line, stops. He sees it is the shortest line, but he doesn't join it. He stares nervously, watching me hand over my credit card. Is he checking me out? I *am* wearing cool tights. But nevermind, he's at the *very* low end of the twenties. Pocket creditcard and receipt, gather bags.
As I retreat from the cashier, I sense tallboy advancing. He leans over the conveyor belt and speaks quietly and urgently to the cashier. As I leave the store, I hear over the PA system: "If there is a 'Drew' in the store, could he please report to the customer service desk? That's DREW, please report to..."
RR
Scenic
Standing at the bus stop, kicking a frozen snowdrift, talking about how much everything sucks.
D: So you wanna stand here and wait or you wanna walk?
Me: Walk!
(we start walking single-file, D in the lead)
D: I wasn't sure if you'd want to walk through all the snow...
(sidewalks unploughed since Saturday's blitz)
Me: This will be hilarious, and end in tears.
D: As long as we get both!
(walk for some time, talk about cartoons. Arrive at massive snow mountain in middle of sidewalk, constructed by snowplough. Toronto officially hates pedestrians. D climbs mountain, begins descending other side. I climb halfway, teeter sideways, half collapse in snow, right myself, climb to top. Descent looks far steeper than ascent)
Me: This is where it ends?
D (turning to look) Ends?
Me: It's over.
D: As in, the end of you?
Me; Yes!
D: Death?
Me: Yes.
D: The drapes go or I do?
Me: Oscar Wilde!
D: Do you want a hand?
Me: Yes!
D: So you wanna stand here and wait or you wanna walk?
Me: Walk!
(we start walking single-file, D in the lead)
D: I wasn't sure if you'd want to walk through all the snow...
(sidewalks unploughed since Saturday's blitz)
Me: This will be hilarious, and end in tears.
D: As long as we get both!
(walk for some time, talk about cartoons. Arrive at massive snow mountain in middle of sidewalk, constructed by snowplough. Toronto officially hates pedestrians. D climbs mountain, begins descending other side. I climb halfway, teeter sideways, half collapse in snow, right myself, climb to top. Descent looks far steeper than ascent)
Me: This is where it ends?
D (turning to look) Ends?
Me: It's over.
D: As in, the end of you?
Me; Yes!
D: Death?
Me: Yes.
D: The drapes go or I do?
Me: Oscar Wilde!
D: Do you want a hand?
Me: Yes!
Sunday, March 9, 2008
Reading Alert
I am a quite minor part of this even--an "opener" really. But judging by the last Exile Launch that I attended, those folks throw a good party. Not everyone needs more midweek poetry, but if you do, consider coming out on March 25 to the Exile Quarterly / Exile Editions launch party, to hear some jazz, some Gwendolyn MacEwen, and some bits of story by me that will appear in Exile 31.4!
Talking to all your little pets
RR
Talking to all your little pets
RR
Saturday, March 8, 2008
Advice
For several years, I held volunteer positions in which I was forbidden to give advice...about anything. There were good legal reasons for that, and we had a great deal of training about how to jump on our impulses before that "Well, what you *should* do is..." was even a conscious thought.
I'm still super-hesitant about advice, even though it's been a few years since I've done that kind of work, even though I am *very* opinionated about what you (and everyone) should do, even though I take advice in quantity myself. I was pretty successfully brainwashed, apparently, and it's likely for the best--most people (not me) tell their problems seeking commiseration, not problem-solving, and anyway I don't have all *that* much useful insight to share.
But not none. In my nearly 30 years on the planet, I've picked up a few things that I think other people might. I imagine this store of useful advice will grow, probably arithmetically, not exponentially, until I am old and have perhaps a page of useful algorithms about how a life should be lived (I'm not talking about specific, right-or-wrong advice, like where Dundas Square is or how to de-worm broccolli. If I'm sure I know it, I dispense that info freely.)
What I've got so far--
Follow the recipe at least the first time.
Sleep on it.
It's statistically more likely that you'll regret making a scene than that you'll regret *not* making a scene.
If people in the movie theatre *look* noisy, trust your gut and move during the previews.
It's probably not as bad as you think.
Milk doesn't really expire when it says it does; just smell it.
More people like to be hugged than seem like they like to be hugged.
Allow extra time.
I don't know if that's stuff is relevant, but it's all I've got so far.
7 drops of blood fall
RR
I'm still super-hesitant about advice, even though it's been a few years since I've done that kind of work, even though I am *very* opinionated about what you (and everyone) should do, even though I take advice in quantity myself. I was pretty successfully brainwashed, apparently, and it's likely for the best--most people (not me) tell their problems seeking commiseration, not problem-solving, and anyway I don't have all *that* much useful insight to share.
But not none. In my nearly 30 years on the planet, I've picked up a few things that I think other people might. I imagine this store of useful advice will grow, probably arithmetically, not exponentially, until I am old and have perhaps a page of useful algorithms about how a life should be lived (I'm not talking about specific, right-or-wrong advice, like where Dundas Square is or how to de-worm broccolli. If I'm sure I know it, I dispense that info freely.)
What I've got so far--
Follow the recipe at least the first time.
Sleep on it.
It's statistically more likely that you'll regret making a scene than that you'll regret *not* making a scene.
If people in the movie theatre *look* noisy, trust your gut and move during the previews.
It's probably not as bad as you think.
Milk doesn't really expire when it says it does; just smell it.
More people like to be hugged than seem like they like to be hugged.
Allow extra time.
I don't know if that's stuff is relevant, but it's all I've got so far.
7 drops of blood fall
RR
Wednesday, March 5, 2008
Peterborough Panel Post-Mortem
Though I did have to get up at 5 in order to be at the bus station by 6:15 in order to hang around for half an hour to get the 6:45 bus, the trek out was sadly without incident. I read a bit, took a nap, avoided eye contact with the guy who was talking to no one. When I arrived I was under instructions to take a taxi to Trent, for which I'd be reimbursed. I was dreading this, because I am afraid of taxis (I am not even embarrassed about this phobia. I really don't know more people don't have it--you spend your whole formative period being told that if you get into a stranger's car, they will kill you in a disgusting manner, only to later be told that it's ok if you give them money.)
But then I saw a lovely city bus that helpfully said "Trent" right on it. When I got on, there was Nine Inch Nails playing on a little stereo under the driver's seat, and when I didn't have the right change, the much-pierced driver said not to worry about it.
Peterborough is awfully awfully pretty. I've already forgotten the name of the river there, but it's gorgeous. The campus is nice, too--a few strange fan-shaped buildings, and rather sprawling (the bus drove for a long time on-campus before we got the library) but it has a bridge *right over the river*. Between classes, the bridge crowds up like a school hallway, only more scenic.
I hung around the library for the morning, got given all the coffee and fruit I could handle (I won a bonus cup in roll-up-the-rim-to-win! This post hasn't even reached noon or any literature yet! I am going to focus!) and a room with a view to read and write in. Then there was lunch, which was good even though I couldn't really identify what kind of sandwich I had. It had some sort of fish in it. (Focussing=failure.)
The panel *was* intimidating*, but in a good way. The other participants had done this sort of thing before—several of them are profs and do it all the time—and they seemed able to formulate complete thesis statements on the fly. The conversation seemed to me remarkably cogent and focussed, mainly about the role of writers outside of writing fiction and poetry. Thus, we talked a lot about teaching and learning, which I felt qualified to talk about at least a little, and a lot about critics and "public intellectuals, which is something that intimidates me greatly. I always *mean* to figure out how I could usefully review and criticize (two different things, I'm pretty sure) but I really haven't yet. The discussion gave me some ideas.
*Shut Up He Explained* is nearly 400 pages, and it's quite wide-ranging, so a lot of the things that hit me hardest--how a writer transubstantiates fact into fiction, and how artistry operates on a sentence level--didn't get covered. Maybe there will be another panel?
Then there was coffee and chatter, and I was most relieved that it was over and I hadn't said anything horrid (though I felt a bit guilty for having introduced the phrase "the joy of the text" to the discussion—surely I could've thought of a less lame way to convey that). Some of the writers went to another writer's house for drinks and classy snacks, including something that, though I ate a lot of it, could really have been anything. Italian antipasto, but with corn? Salsa, only sweet? Some sort of chutney? Why am I still *on* about the food?
In this more informal discussion, I was still pretty bug-eyed and silent, but I asked enough questions ("Wait, *who* did he punch?" "Is that person dead?") to follow the flow. As illuminating as the first, really.
Then there was an early dinner, because apparently if you are in PTBO on a Tuesday, you either have leave by 7:30 or sleep there. I will restrain myself from describing that meal (curry!) Everyone refrained from rolling their eyes when I said the day had been "a wonderful experience" (worse than "the joy of the text") and I got on the Greyhound and went home in the blizzard. When I got here, there was lightning in the snow.
It really *was* a wonderful experience, though, is the thing.
What is this love
RR
But then I saw a lovely city bus that helpfully said "Trent" right on it. When I got on, there was Nine Inch Nails playing on a little stereo under the driver's seat, and when I didn't have the right change, the much-pierced driver said not to worry about it.
Peterborough is awfully awfully pretty. I've already forgotten the name of the river there, but it's gorgeous. The campus is nice, too--a few strange fan-shaped buildings, and rather sprawling (the bus drove for a long time on-campus before we got the library) but it has a bridge *right over the river*. Between classes, the bridge crowds up like a school hallway, only more scenic.
I hung around the library for the morning, got given all the coffee and fruit I could handle (I won a bonus cup in roll-up-the-rim-to-win! This post hasn't even reached noon or any literature yet! I am going to focus!) and a room with a view to read and write in. Then there was lunch, which was good even though I couldn't really identify what kind of sandwich I had. It had some sort of fish in it. (Focussing=failure.)
The panel *was* intimidating*, but in a good way. The other participants had done this sort of thing before—several of them are profs and do it all the time—and they seemed able to formulate complete thesis statements on the fly. The conversation seemed to me remarkably cogent and focussed, mainly about the role of writers outside of writing fiction and poetry. Thus, we talked a lot about teaching and learning, which I felt qualified to talk about at least a little, and a lot about critics and "public intellectuals, which is something that intimidates me greatly. I always *mean* to figure out how I could usefully review and criticize (two different things, I'm pretty sure) but I really haven't yet. The discussion gave me some ideas.
*Shut Up He Explained* is nearly 400 pages, and it's quite wide-ranging, so a lot of the things that hit me hardest--how a writer transubstantiates fact into fiction, and how artistry operates on a sentence level--didn't get covered. Maybe there will be another panel?
Then there was coffee and chatter, and I was most relieved that it was over and I hadn't said anything horrid (though I felt a bit guilty for having introduced the phrase "the joy of the text" to the discussion—surely I could've thought of a less lame way to convey that). Some of the writers went to another writer's house for drinks and classy snacks, including something that, though I ate a lot of it, could really have been anything. Italian antipasto, but with corn? Salsa, only sweet? Some sort of chutney? Why am I still *on* about the food?
In this more informal discussion, I was still pretty bug-eyed and silent, but I asked enough questions ("Wait, *who* did he punch?" "Is that person dead?") to follow the flow. As illuminating as the first, really.
Then there was an early dinner, because apparently if you are in PTBO on a Tuesday, you either have leave by 7:30 or sleep there. I will restrain myself from describing that meal (curry!) Everyone refrained from rolling their eyes when I said the day had been "a wonderful experience" (worse than "the joy of the text") and I got on the Greyhound and went home in the blizzard. When I got here, there was lightning in the snow.
It really *was* a wonderful experience, though, is the thing.
What is this love
RR
Monday, March 3, 2008
Fair's Fair
1. What was the last Canadian book you recall reading?
Diana: A Diary in the Second Person by Russell Smith
2. Where did you find out about it, and where do you find out about Canadian books to read in general, if in fact you do?
I found out it was available again when the This Is Not a Reading Series launch was announced, but there's been rumours about this book for years. That's atypical, though—in general, I read on recommendation--I don't listen to every recommendation, but nor do I very often read without when.
3. Where did you get the book, and where do get Canadian books in general, if in fact you do?
I bought that book at the launch, as I wont to do if I go to a launch, but that's not that often. In general, I read books from the library or receive them as gifts. If I want to make a point of buying a particular book, I often order direct from the publisher.
4. Who is your favourite Canadian author? Bonus points--Why?
This is a fairly inane question, I know, I know--depends on the day, the genre, the mood. But it does give an idea when I say Munro, Pyper, Smith, Atwood, Rooke, Lyon, Copeland, doesn't it?
A thousand different voices,
RR
PS--I'm using these answers to try to pull together something coherent to say at a CanLit-y panel tomorrow. When in doubt, ask your friends!!
Diana: A Diary in the Second Person by Russell Smith
2. Where did you find out about it, and where do you find out about Canadian books to read in general, if in fact you do?
I found out it was available again when the This Is Not a Reading Series launch was announced, but there's been rumours about this book for years. That's atypical, though—in general, I read on recommendation--I don't listen to every recommendation, but nor do I very often read without when.
3. Where did you get the book, and where do get Canadian books in general, if in fact you do?
I bought that book at the launch, as I wont to do if I go to a launch, but that's not that often. In general, I read books from the library or receive them as gifts. If I want to make a point of buying a particular book, I often order direct from the publisher.
4. Who is your favourite Canadian author? Bonus points--Why?
This is a fairly inane question, I know, I know--depends on the day, the genre, the mood. But it does give an idea when I say Munro, Pyper, Smith, Atwood, Rooke, Lyon, Copeland, doesn't it?
A thousand different voices,
RR
PS--I'm using these answers to try to pull together something coherent to say at a CanLit-y panel tomorrow. When in doubt, ask your friends!!
Sunday, March 2, 2008
CanLit Queries
If you felt like answering some or all of these quicky queries about CanLit, it would really be helpful, and interesting, to me!
1. What was the last Canadian book you recall reading?
2. Where did you find out about it, and where do you find out about Canadian books to read in general, if in fact you do?
3. Where did you get the book, and where do get Canadian books in general, if in fact you do?
4. Who is your favourite Canadian author? Bonus points--Why?
Thanks!
RR
1. What was the last Canadian book you recall reading?
2. Where did you find out about it, and where do you find out about Canadian books to read in general, if in fact you do?
3. Where did you get the book, and where do get Canadian books in general, if in fact you do?
4. Who is your favourite Canadian author? Bonus points--Why?
Thanks!
RR
Saturday, March 1, 2008
"Naturally Unpopular"
"Auchincloss was a disaster from the start. He had no friends. He was a failure both as an athlete and a scholar, but, more than that, he was, as he later put it, 'naturally unpopular,' possessing that indefinable but unmistakable quality that signals to his peers that a boy is to be ostracized and tormented. He was sneered at, called Rebecca for the Jewish appearance of his nose, kicked and shoved."
--From "East Side Story" by Larissa MacFarquhar, The New Yorker February 25, 2008
--From "East Side Story" by Larissa MacFarquhar, The New Yorker February 25, 2008
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