...but I'm only sort of half-assedly celebrating. I mean, I'm in all black...except for the rose-patterned tights. I 've got green eyeshadow and black lipstick on, but I passed up a severed ear made out of chocolate (and scabs made out of dried cranberries, and an eyeball made out of who-knows-what) because it sort of squicked me out. Lame, I know, very lame, but the actual Hallowe'en party I'm attending is tomorrow (All Saints party?) so I'm getting another crack at the whole thing.
In the meantime, I leave you with the completely unspooky but totally astounding Against Me. I especially recommended "Borne on the FM Waves" (track 4)...oh, Tegan Quinn, you are adorable-punk.
Anxiety anxiety / you give me no mercy
RR
Friday, October 31, 2008
Thursday, October 30, 2008
Good news all around
I was interviewed by the intrepid Nathaniel G. Moore on Danforth Review and you can read the result. This morning I came quite close to walking into a skunk, but we both emerged unscathed. I have realized that I can avoid burning the tops of my ears while blowdrying by setting the dryer to a lower temp and drying for longer. This is a boring way to spend 10 minutes, hanging upside in one's bra holding up the hairdryer, but it's worth it, I guess.
Also, although I still waste way too much time obsessing about minutiae of etiquette, dress, diet, and dialogue, I realized whilst hanging upside-down today that I no longer care about enlarged pores, furniture, celebrity gossip or whether the person whose hand I'm shaking has a cold. So that *is* progress.
All the girls say
RR
Also, although I still waste way too much time obsessing about minutiae of etiquette, dress, diet, and dialogue, I realized whilst hanging upside-down today that I no longer care about enlarged pores, furniture, celebrity gossip or whether the person whose hand I'm shaking has a cold. So that *is* progress.
All the girls say
RR
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
January 30, 2008
Because I am having a yucky day, I am reposting my favourite Rose-coloured post of all time. I hope it cheers you up as it does me:
Walking Down the Street, Warm and Misty Out
Me (coughing): I'm a little sick.
B: You are.
Me (coughing)
B: You are a little ho(a)rse.
Me: Heh.
B: You remember that, that joke? Horse-hoarse?
Me: Yeah, heh. Baaaah.
B: ...
Me: Neeeigh.
B: You're a little strange.
Me: Heh.
B: Heh.
Me: Was that part of it?
B: Part of...?
Me: Was that a joke? Part of the joke?
B: Well, yeah. Because I said you were a little horse and you said "baaah" and then you said "neigh," so I said you were a little strange for doing that.
Me: Oh, ok, that's funny.
B: Yeah, you just needed some context.
Me: Yeah.
B: Only, you actually had context to start with, since you were there.
Me: Yeah.
B: Huh.
Me: It wasn't like I was just working my way around the barnyard, though.
B: ???
Me: Like, I made a mistake, making the sheep noise, but then I corrected myself and made the horse noise. I wasn't just doing all the animals, I wasn't going to say moo next.
B: Ah.
Me: It wasn't "baah comma neigh," it was "baah cut off with dash neigh."
B: I retract my earlier comment.
Me: The stenographer that we pull along behind us in a little red wagon will strike it from the record.
B: You aren't strange at all.
Me: Duly noted.
Walking Down the Street, Warm and Misty Out
Me (coughing): I'm a little sick.
B: You are.
Me (coughing)
B: You are a little ho(a)rse.
Me: Heh.
B: You remember that, that joke? Horse-hoarse?
Me: Yeah, heh. Baaaah.
B: ...
Me: Neeeigh.
B: You're a little strange.
Me: Heh.
B: Heh.
Me: Was that part of it?
B: Part of...?
Me: Was that a joke? Part of the joke?
B: Well, yeah. Because I said you were a little horse and you said "baaah" and then you said "neigh," so I said you were a little strange for doing that.
Me: Oh, ok, that's funny.
B: Yeah, you just needed some context.
Me: Yeah.
B: Only, you actually had context to start with, since you were there.
Me: Yeah.
B: Huh.
Me: It wasn't like I was just working my way around the barnyard, though.
B: ???
Me: Like, I made a mistake, making the sheep noise, but then I corrected myself and made the horse noise. I wasn't just doing all the animals, I wasn't going to say moo next.
B: Ah.
Me: It wasn't "baah comma neigh," it was "baah cut off with dash neigh."
B: I retract my earlier comment.
Me: The stenographer that we pull along behind us in a little red wagon will strike it from the record.
B: You aren't strange at all.
Me: Duly noted.
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
Rose-coloured Reviews Via 1 Train Service
There are those who are to the manner born, and there are those who are still excited when the waitress gives us two after-dinner mints instead of one. I am firmly in the second category (I love each of my insurance company give-away pens with all my heart, and despair when I snag a pair of stockings after less than 10 wears). Those in the second category are stunned even the modest level of luxury on Via Rail's Via 1 class.
I have been devoted to Via since undergrad at McGill necessitated student six-packs, which are such a very good deal. And "comfort class", as the regular part of the train is known, is just fine--at least if you are of average height and don't mind bringing a bag lunch. The only people I can think of who would *need* Via 1 are the above-average in size...the business traveller could, I believe, make use of the Via wireless internet just fine from comfort class.
But despite being un*needed*, the comforts above Comfort Class are perfectly delightful and desirable when thrust upon a person (by, say, the travel arrangers at the Ottawa Writers' Festival). I had been in the Panorama Lounge before, keeping a business-travelling friend company, so I knew what delights lay ahead--a comfortable place to sit (otherwise, you wait standing in a line-up for non-reserved seats on the train) and free drinks, as well as a private bathroom.
But to get all this you have to pick-up your ticket at the general ticket desk, and when I arrived (early, natch) said ticket desk was experiencing a mel-down. Apparently, Wednesday last, Via computers all over the country ceased to function for an hour or so. My departure hour. When a security guard took my ticket voucher, though, I didn't know it boded ominous and just thought she was being helpful. "This is my first Via 1 trip," I confided. "I'm very excited to go in the lounge."
I guess I have seen people less willing to share in my excitement (those insurance pen/breath-mint incidents come to mind) but she was close. But, after we'd stood together a while staring at the ticket agent staring at her unusable computer, a bright spark flickered in the security guard's grim eyes. "Would you like to go in the lounge *now*? We'll take care of the ticket for you." And just like that she got what she wanted (rid of me) and I got what I wanted (free diet Coke at 9:17 am).
I actually thought that all the Toronto porters, guards, agents, etc., were unusually thoughtful that morning, particularly considering what inconveniences they were putting up with. But in truth, they actually didn't process my ticket voucher at all, just looked my name up on the manifest and assumed all was well, which made for a painless trip out and, on the way back, a horrible half-hour of staring at a teeth-sucking silent ticket agent who couldn't figure out how to go back in time with his (perfectly functioning) computer and make up a ticket billing for a trip I'd already taken. It could be that the Toronto agents are better-trained than the Ottawa ones, or simply that the Toronto folk shirked responsibility for setting something up for me, but I definitely think the Ottawa guy could've been nicer to me and my accompanying lovely festival volunteer in the endless period we spent together.
But ok, after all that, both trips were actually lovely, and pretty much identical. The seats in Via 1 are slightly wider and higher than comfort class, and there's enough leg room for the limbs of those well above six-feet (or for your laptop case, purse, and discarded boots). Then there are these weird sculpted tusks of pillows on the headrest. I think they are meant to keep your head from tipping onto your neighbour or into the window, but since I *like* to sleep pressed against the window (who knows why?) I wasn't crazy about it. Actually, though, there's plenty of room to get around the pillow.
Ok, everything else about this train-ride review is actually a restaurant review. The first train I took left at 9:30 am, and we were offered coffee, tea or juice; followed by pastries; then veggie chips; soda/cocktails; a three-course meal; coffee/tea; truffles, and maybe more cocktails if so desired, before we waddled off at 2:15. Sheesh. I didn't sample the pastries or the cocktails, but the coffee, soda and veggie chips (called "Yum-yums" but still good) were all delightful. On the return trip, it was 6:15pm to 10:10pm, so we had an additional round of cocktails/soda instead of the pastries.
I crashed out (slouched against the window) just before the lunch service, and my seatmate (as he told me later) and the server debated and then decided against waking me--they held my first course in reserve until I regained consciousness. My seatmate, by the way, was as nice and friendly as could be, while quite obviously making the best of the bad situation that was sitting with me. It wasn't personal; he just wanted to sit alone, and made no secret of this to the porters and servers that happened by. I felt that he should have been more discreet and pretended that it was his heart's desire to have to stand up every 1.5 hours so I could pee. However, when he finally did leave (he took someone's spot after they got off in Fallowfield) I put my feet on his seat.
Both meals were very good, though the lunch was mainly better than the dinner. There was a wide range of main courses, a fish, a chicken and a meat-meat each time, though if you are a veggie you have to order when you buy the ticket (which seems strange, given that it's 2008 and many random meals just happen to be meatless). Also, the first courses both ways had an animal-origin protein, and there were no choices about that. A seafood salad on cucumbers going out, and sliced beef on rice-edaname salad coming home. I enjoyed the seafood and picked off the beef from the otherwise lovely salad (when I first heard the term "edaname salad" about a year ago, I was puzzled, but now I like them), but it would seem easier just to go the greens and croutons salad route, which I think pleases most of the people most of the time.
I had tilapia with vegetables and tiny little potatoes cut into quarters for the lunch, and slided breaded chicken over linguine and vegetables and a very small amount of red sauce for the supper. Both meals were nice, but just by virtue of the content I liked the fish better (breaded chicken=pointless, in my opinion). I also spent some time trying to decide if the meals, which are served in little ceramic bins about the size of two decks of cards, with everything heaped inside, are the same amount of food one gets in a restaurant all sprawled out on a plate. I think it was, about.
There were services on the Via 1 that I didn't take advantage of--free newspapers, extra pillows, checked baggage service, possibly things that I didn't even know about. But the most famous of all, the truffles, I was ready for. How wonderful--I had a chocolate one and a white chocolate one on my respective journeys, and both were full of delight (er, if you definte delight as sugar, cocoa butter and cream).
Also, whatever class you travel, the rhythm of wheels on rails is a delightful lullabye.
I've seen them all and man they're all the same
RR
I have been devoted to Via since undergrad at McGill necessitated student six-packs, which are such a very good deal. And "comfort class", as the regular part of the train is known, is just fine--at least if you are of average height and don't mind bringing a bag lunch. The only people I can think of who would *need* Via 1 are the above-average in size...the business traveller could, I believe, make use of the Via wireless internet just fine from comfort class.
But despite being un*needed*, the comforts above Comfort Class are perfectly delightful and desirable when thrust upon a person (by, say, the travel arrangers at the Ottawa Writers' Festival). I had been in the Panorama Lounge before, keeping a business-travelling friend company, so I knew what delights lay ahead--a comfortable place to sit (otherwise, you wait standing in a line-up for non-reserved seats on the train) and free drinks, as well as a private bathroom.
But to get all this you have to pick-up your ticket at the general ticket desk, and when I arrived (early, natch) said ticket desk was experiencing a mel-down. Apparently, Wednesday last, Via computers all over the country ceased to function for an hour or so. My departure hour. When a security guard took my ticket voucher, though, I didn't know it boded ominous and just thought she was being helpful. "This is my first Via 1 trip," I confided. "I'm very excited to go in the lounge."
I guess I have seen people less willing to share in my excitement (those insurance pen/breath-mint incidents come to mind) but she was close. But, after we'd stood together a while staring at the ticket agent staring at her unusable computer, a bright spark flickered in the security guard's grim eyes. "Would you like to go in the lounge *now*? We'll take care of the ticket for you." And just like that she got what she wanted (rid of me) and I got what I wanted (free diet Coke at 9:17 am).
I actually thought that all the Toronto porters, guards, agents, etc., were unusually thoughtful that morning, particularly considering what inconveniences they were putting up with. But in truth, they actually didn't process my ticket voucher at all, just looked my name up on the manifest and assumed all was well, which made for a painless trip out and, on the way back, a horrible half-hour of staring at a teeth-sucking silent ticket agent who couldn't figure out how to go back in time with his (perfectly functioning) computer and make up a ticket billing for a trip I'd already taken. It could be that the Toronto agents are better-trained than the Ottawa ones, or simply that the Toronto folk shirked responsibility for setting something up for me, but I definitely think the Ottawa guy could've been nicer to me and my accompanying lovely festival volunteer in the endless period we spent together.
But ok, after all that, both trips were actually lovely, and pretty much identical. The seats in Via 1 are slightly wider and higher than comfort class, and there's enough leg room for the limbs of those well above six-feet (or for your laptop case, purse, and discarded boots). Then there are these weird sculpted tusks of pillows on the headrest. I think they are meant to keep your head from tipping onto your neighbour or into the window, but since I *like* to sleep pressed against the window (who knows why?) I wasn't crazy about it. Actually, though, there's plenty of room to get around the pillow.
Ok, everything else about this train-ride review is actually a restaurant review. The first train I took left at 9:30 am, and we were offered coffee, tea or juice; followed by pastries; then veggie chips; soda/cocktails; a three-course meal; coffee/tea; truffles, and maybe more cocktails if so desired, before we waddled off at 2:15. Sheesh. I didn't sample the pastries or the cocktails, but the coffee, soda and veggie chips (called "Yum-yums" but still good) were all delightful. On the return trip, it was 6:15pm to 10:10pm, so we had an additional round of cocktails/soda instead of the pastries.
I crashed out (slouched against the window) just before the lunch service, and my seatmate (as he told me later) and the server debated and then decided against waking me--they held my first course in reserve until I regained consciousness. My seatmate, by the way, was as nice and friendly as could be, while quite obviously making the best of the bad situation that was sitting with me. It wasn't personal; he just wanted to sit alone, and made no secret of this to the porters and servers that happened by. I felt that he should have been more discreet and pretended that it was his heart's desire to have to stand up every 1.5 hours so I could pee. However, when he finally did leave (he took someone's spot after they got off in Fallowfield) I put my feet on his seat.
Both meals were very good, though the lunch was mainly better than the dinner. There was a wide range of main courses, a fish, a chicken and a meat-meat each time, though if you are a veggie you have to order when you buy the ticket (which seems strange, given that it's 2008 and many random meals just happen to be meatless). Also, the first courses both ways had an animal-origin protein, and there were no choices about that. A seafood salad on cucumbers going out, and sliced beef on rice-edaname salad coming home. I enjoyed the seafood and picked off the beef from the otherwise lovely salad (when I first heard the term "edaname salad" about a year ago, I was puzzled, but now I like them), but it would seem easier just to go the greens and croutons salad route, which I think pleases most of the people most of the time.
I had tilapia with vegetables and tiny little potatoes cut into quarters for the lunch, and slided breaded chicken over linguine and vegetables and a very small amount of red sauce for the supper. Both meals were nice, but just by virtue of the content I liked the fish better (breaded chicken=pointless, in my opinion). I also spent some time trying to decide if the meals, which are served in little ceramic bins about the size of two decks of cards, with everything heaped inside, are the same amount of food one gets in a restaurant all sprawled out on a plate. I think it was, about.
There were services on the Via 1 that I didn't take advantage of--free newspapers, extra pillows, checked baggage service, possibly things that I didn't even know about. But the most famous of all, the truffles, I was ready for. How wonderful--I had a chocolate one and a white chocolate one on my respective journeys, and both were full of delight (er, if you definte delight as sugar, cocoa butter and cream).
Also, whatever class you travel, the rhythm of wheels on rails is a delightful lullabye.
I've seen them all and man they're all the same
RR
Monday, October 27, 2008
Rebecca on the Radio
My CBC Sunday Edition interview with Michael Enright is listenable here. You'll have to download the podcast and cut to just past the end of the first hour, or else listen to the whole of it, which I don't think is a bad idea, honestly!! I loved the whole show, but I guess I was in an awfully good mood.
A citizen outta you
RR
A citizen outta you
RR
Sunday, October 26, 2008
Back at it
Well, here we are in Toronto again, and by we I of course mean me, for depending on who is reading this, you might have been here all along, or never were at all. Wow, that sentence is really reflective of my mental state--confused and groggy.
The Ottawa Writers' Fest was amazing, natch, but as you do when you are briefly in an exciting new place surrounded by exciting new people, I ran around like crazy (so many monuments!), stayed out too late (so many friends!), walked in the rain, swam with a headcold, talked too much and ate mainly granola bars and fajitas. I may never say anything that makes sense ever again.
If you want to read something about the fest that does make sense, try rob's clever blog, which has notes on various events throughout the week, and likely more to come. If you want to hearken back to a time when I did write coherently, you can read the Uniter's review of *Once*. And if you want to look hopefully ahead to a time when I may once more have it together, maybe consider hearing me read at the Cool Jew Cabaret on November 3. There will be a bar mitzvah machine!!
Now I need to go back to sniffling and folding my laundry and staring out the window at the grey grey sky. Toronto is not trying very hard to welcome me back!
How long before the story's over?
RR
The Ottawa Writers' Fest was amazing, natch, but as you do when you are briefly in an exciting new place surrounded by exciting new people, I ran around like crazy (so many monuments!), stayed out too late (so many friends!), walked in the rain, swam with a headcold, talked too much and ate mainly granola bars and fajitas. I may never say anything that makes sense ever again.
If you want to read something about the fest that does make sense, try rob's clever blog, which has notes on various events throughout the week, and likely more to come. If you want to hearken back to a time when I did write coherently, you can read the Uniter's review of *Once*. And if you want to look hopefully ahead to a time when I may once more have it together, maybe consider hearing me read at the Cool Jew Cabaret on November 3. There will be a bar mitzvah machine!!
Now I need to go back to sniffling and folding my laundry and staring out the window at the grey grey sky. Toronto is not trying very hard to welcome me back!
How long before the story's over?
RR
Friday, October 24, 2008
Radio radio
Oh yeah, can't believe I didn't add
I'll be on CBC1's Sunday Edition this Sunday, talking with Michael Enright about *Once*. Probably in the 10-11 hour, but not entirely sure. I think I'll eventually be able to post a link to the archived broadcast for anyone who wanted to hear but missed it. Very excited about this!!
Waiting for signal
RR
I'll be on CBC1's Sunday Edition this Sunday, talking with Michael Enright about *Once*. Probably in the 10-11 hour, but not entirely sure. I think I'll eventually be able to post a link to the archived broadcast for anyone who wanted to hear but missed it. Very excited about this!!
Waiting for signal
RR
Ottawa Writer's Fest--Long-distance post
Hello from the Ottawa Writers' Festival! Or, actually, a couple blocks away, at a cafe with wireless. I've been festival-free so far today, seeing the buildings wherein national power lies (did you know we have a National Press Building?) but you can feel the literature in the air. The fest has been lovely so far--I'll go back for some poetry tomorrow--including the biographing poets reading, the music-performing writers concert and of course, the short story reading, with Pasha Malla, Ivan E. Coyote, and me! (I apologize for the lack of links in this post, the wireless here isn't wicked fast).
I can't really say that I had anything to overcome, since Pasha had the stomach flu and Ivan had been teaching for the previous 6 hours, and both of them read beautifully. But I can't help but dwell upon the fact that I finally did trip on my way to the podium, something I've been worried about since I started doing readings. I didn't actually hit the ground, but the stagger-step made quite a thump in my boots and I was already in the centre of the lit-up stage, so I found the moment almost as embarrassing as it is in my nightmares. But not quite--survivable, definitely--and as soon as I realized I was going to stay vertical, I made my very cautious way to the podium and got on with things.
Am I allowed to say that I think it was my best reading ever? Well, I do think that, vain or not. I actually usually think that--I am trying so hard to learn to do this--not cough or swallow my words or speak too fast, or choose an inappropriate passage to read--that I do feel an improvement almost every time I go read. Even when my ankle sort of hurts from tripping on the speaker stand.
I did *not* ace the Q&A, but that's what co-readers are for. Ivan had some fascinating things to say about learning to write a novel from a story-writer's perspective, and she and Pasha both had interesting comments on the editing process (wow, it's really boring of me to say they were interesting and not say what they said, but since I don't have exact quotations to hand, it would seem weird to provide the gist.) And the audience was really responsive and interested and good-question-asking. Too bad I so often found myself with my mouth open and my eyes wide and nothing coherent to say, but I did manage a somewhat gushy but heartfelt paen to Canada's little magazines, and a few other things that weren't entirely lame.
And then I signed some books and chatted with the other writers and some of the audience and the lovely Fred and then, whew, there was a party.
It's fun here, but I do miss South-central Ontario. I'll be back by the weekend.
Too many angles / too many factors to cover
RR
I can't really say that I had anything to overcome, since Pasha had the stomach flu and Ivan had been teaching for the previous 6 hours, and both of them read beautifully. But I can't help but dwell upon the fact that I finally did trip on my way to the podium, something I've been worried about since I started doing readings. I didn't actually hit the ground, but the stagger-step made quite a thump in my boots and I was already in the centre of the lit-up stage, so I found the moment almost as embarrassing as it is in my nightmares. But not quite--survivable, definitely--and as soon as I realized I was going to stay vertical, I made my very cautious way to the podium and got on with things.
Am I allowed to say that I think it was my best reading ever? Well, I do think that, vain or not. I actually usually think that--I am trying so hard to learn to do this--not cough or swallow my words or speak too fast, or choose an inappropriate passage to read--that I do feel an improvement almost every time I go read. Even when my ankle sort of hurts from tripping on the speaker stand.
I did *not* ace the Q&A, but that's what co-readers are for. Ivan had some fascinating things to say about learning to write a novel from a story-writer's perspective, and she and Pasha both had interesting comments on the editing process (wow, it's really boring of me to say they were interesting and not say what they said, but since I don't have exact quotations to hand, it would seem weird to provide the gist.) And the audience was really responsive and interested and good-question-asking. Too bad I so often found myself with my mouth open and my eyes wide and nothing coherent to say, but I did manage a somewhat gushy but heartfelt paen to Canada's little magazines, and a few other things that weren't entirely lame.
And then I signed some books and chatted with the other writers and some of the audience and the lovely Fred and then, whew, there was a party.
It's fun here, but I do miss South-central Ontario. I'll be back by the weekend.
Too many angles / too many factors to cover
RR
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
Weetzie Bat
I can be heard reading one of my favourite favourite books over at Julie Wilson's lovely site, Seen Reading. Doesn't that first page make you want to read the whole thing? In my case, for the 40th time!!
You got to fight to stay in control of the situation
RR
You got to fight to stay in control of the situation
RR
Monday, October 20, 2008
Getting around
If you notice a dearth of posts around here this week, that's because I'll be away doing a reading in Hamilton tomorrow and then one at the Ottawa Writers Festival on Wednesday. And then I'm going to frolic briefly, and return to report on the whole thing. So don't you fret!
Poor helpless me
RR
Poor helpless me
RR
I give up!
I love Hallowe'en more than I love most things, but this year I cannot come up with a costume. This is a sad and embarrassing failure; I wouldn't blame you if you thought less of me, even stopped reading this blog. But if you are still reading, here are my excuses:
1) The party I am going to is TV-themed, and I haven't had a working television in 4 years.
2) Prior to 2004, all my favourite shows were sitcoms, and all those characters look approximately like real people. How would you *know* I was dressed as Bailey Quarters, even if I straightened my hair?
3) I am insanely busy these days and will actually be away for most of this week. Even when I am not insanely busy, I am a poor seamstress and have had bad luck with hair dye. Whatever costume I wind up with cannot be complicated, blond, or bulky (the party is also very far away--I don't want to spend an hour trying to keep my wings or antennae or whatever to myself).
Are these constraints not imposing? I am seriously thinking of covering my clothes with Styrofoam peanuts and going as no-signal snow... If you have a better idea (and almost any idea is better than that) please please share it. I will be forever in your debt. I'll bring you candy!
After twelve / just as well
RR
1) The party I am going to is TV-themed, and I haven't had a working television in 4 years.
2) Prior to 2004, all my favourite shows were sitcoms, and all those characters look approximately like real people. How would you *know* I was dressed as Bailey Quarters, even if I straightened my hair?
3) I am insanely busy these days and will actually be away for most of this week. Even when I am not insanely busy, I am a poor seamstress and have had bad luck with hair dye. Whatever costume I wind up with cannot be complicated, blond, or bulky (the party is also very far away--I don't want to spend an hour trying to keep my wings or antennae or whatever to myself).
Are these constraints not imposing? I am seriously thinking of covering my clothes with Styrofoam peanuts and going as no-signal snow... If you have a better idea (and almost any idea is better than that) please please share it. I will be forever in your debt. I'll bring you candy!
After twelve / just as well
RR
Friday, October 17, 2008
Rose-coloured Reviews Kashi Cherry Dark Chocolate Chewy Granola Bar
I appreciate portable food as only a person who is forced to carry most her life in a shoulder bag can (side note: did I mention that when my bag broke last month, I was unable to find a woman's purse that wasn't horribly over-girled, and was forced to buy my purse in the men's department? ha, the end of gender roles in sight!) I have worked my way through almost everything that comes in packet form from the grocery store, with particular attention to anything grainy. Granola and cereal bars are my favourites, the non-junky ones that aren't covered in chocolate or "yoghurt" topping. I like the Quakers Chewy and the Special K ones, but both are pretty small and nutritionally arid. Delicious, though.
The more serious bars--the ones with nutrients, no artficial ingredients, etc., like the Kashi bars--cost more, which makes me reluctant to buy them, because I have no values. But if you actually read the box, you realize these are actually *bigger*, so it's sorta worth it to spend the extra buck. Plus the cherry/dark chocolate idea sounded wonderful.
Eh, it's not that wonderful, though it is pretty ok. The granola base is full of all the Kashi standards--wheat, oats, rye, barley, and lots of the lovely crispy rice stuff. But it's not *that* much better than the Quaker combo. Let's be honest, Special K is terrible, and I just like it because...I don't know why, I know it's awful, but... Ok, I do know why: Special K contains tonnes of sugar and salt, as does Quaker, and I have a serious love for salt. The Kashi bar contains very little, cause it's healthy, yo. But that makes it sorta bland.
The dark chocolate chips were sort of a joke--the size of fruit flies and with their first ingredient being "evapourated cane juice", they didn't taste like anything at all. The cherries were actually very wonderful and cherry-like, but sparse--the actual test-bar for this review contained only two (this was an annomally, I ate several prior that contained more).
Nutrionally it's pretty sound, 5g of protein and 4g of fibre, only 2g of fat (although .5g saturated!) That, plus the beguiling but amorphous phrase "all natural", plus the lure of actually getting more bar, plus I don't actually *need* more salt in my diet, will probably make me buy them again although honestly, this is kind of a meh review. They are fine, but the box says "naturally yummy" and that's really pushing it.
Speak the truth and speak ever
RR
The more serious bars--the ones with nutrients, no artficial ingredients, etc., like the Kashi bars--cost more, which makes me reluctant to buy them, because I have no values. But if you actually read the box, you realize these are actually *bigger*, so it's sorta worth it to spend the extra buck. Plus the cherry/dark chocolate idea sounded wonderful.
Eh, it's not that wonderful, though it is pretty ok. The granola base is full of all the Kashi standards--wheat, oats, rye, barley, and lots of the lovely crispy rice stuff. But it's not *that* much better than the Quaker combo. Let's be honest, Special K is terrible, and I just like it because...I don't know why, I know it's awful, but... Ok, I do know why: Special K contains tonnes of sugar and salt, as does Quaker, and I have a serious love for salt. The Kashi bar contains very little, cause it's healthy, yo. But that makes it sorta bland.
The dark chocolate chips were sort of a joke--the size of fruit flies and with their first ingredient being "evapourated cane juice", they didn't taste like anything at all. The cherries were actually very wonderful and cherry-like, but sparse--the actual test-bar for this review contained only two (this was an annomally, I ate several prior that contained more).
Nutrionally it's pretty sound, 5g of protein and 4g of fibre, only 2g of fat (although .5g saturated!) That, plus the beguiling but amorphous phrase "all natural", plus the lure of actually getting more bar, plus I don't actually *need* more salt in my diet, will probably make me buy them again although honestly, this is kind of a meh review. They are fine, but the box says "naturally yummy" and that's really pushing it.
Speak the truth and speak ever
RR
My autopsy will show
Every time I do myself yet another moronic small injury, I wonder if this will be the day I die under mysterious circumstances. Because, as we all know from hearing episodes of CSI recounted to us at parties*, when people die under mysterious circumstances an autopsy must be performed to unmystify them. And the county coroner, when autopsying (verb?), does not just investigate the subdural hematoma or gunshot wound or whatever the ostensible cause of death is. Oh, no, they examine all flaws and injuries of the entire body and somehow, in 49 minutes, knit these together into a brilliant recreation of the poor dead person's last moments.
I worry about this. I worry that everyone who ever falls into the lake and drowns because his or her shoulder bag is too heavy and gets caught on his or her coat also has myriad other small injuries the originis of which can never be parsed by objective medical science. Examples off the top of my head:
--large round bruise in centre of back? Standing behind door when roommate burst in, euphoric due to larger-than-usual GST cheque. Caught doorknob in spine.
--small, slightly infected puncture wound on upper thigh? Stabbed with pen by toddler furious over denied banana. Ink and fabric fibres from jeans caused infection.
--shallow thick gash on back of wrist? Too fast, too vertical, too enthusiastic attempt to remove soda from soda machine.
And then there are the ever-present burn marks on the tops of my ears.
I wanna be the one to walk in the sun
RR
*I would be ok if no one ever told me about CSI ever again. The one time I tried to watch it, they found a severed head in a newspaper box in the first 90 seconds and then I had to go home.
I worry about this. I worry that everyone who ever falls into the lake and drowns because his or her shoulder bag is too heavy and gets caught on his or her coat also has myriad other small injuries the originis of which can never be parsed by objective medical science. Examples off the top of my head:
--large round bruise in centre of back? Standing behind door when roommate burst in, euphoric due to larger-than-usual GST cheque. Caught doorknob in spine.
--small, slightly infected puncture wound on upper thigh? Stabbed with pen by toddler furious over denied banana. Ink and fabric fibres from jeans caused infection.
--shallow thick gash on back of wrist? Too fast, too vertical, too enthusiastic attempt to remove soda from soda machine.
And then there are the ever-present burn marks on the tops of my ears.
I wanna be the one to walk in the sun
RR
*I would be ok if no one ever told me about CSI ever again. The one time I tried to watch it, they found a severed head in a newspaper box in the first 90 seconds and then I had to go home.
Thursday, October 16, 2008
Writing fiction is not my job...
...because no one is making me do it--though I have tons of help and support, I could stop tomorrow and no one would mind. That's a really good thing for me to remember when I'm tired and bitchy and writing the nth draft of something hard: no one asked me to write this, no one is dying to see it but me, but no one will write it if I don't. That's usually enough to keep me working, and when it isn't, I probably shouldn't have been writing that piece in the first place.
It's probably dreadfully tacky to quote oneself, but the above is from me, in response to one of Leila Amiri's thoughtful interview questions in our interview for the Concordia Link. I forget the above far too often, but putting it here might serve as a good reminder.
You were working as a waitress in a hotel bar
RR
It's probably dreadfully tacky to quote oneself, but the above is from me, in response to one of Leila Amiri's thoughtful interview questions in our interview for the Concordia Link. I forget the above far too often, but putting it here might serve as a good reminder.
You were working as a waitress in a hotel bar
RR
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
At least it's not a majority
Almost more depressing than the election returns is the fact that they are the result of the lowest voter turn-out ever in Canada. How can there be democratic representation if the majority does not register an opinion to represent?
Other things that are stressing me out include ongoing Sturm und Drang over the Salon des Refuses/Penguin Anthology debate. Very interesting reading, all of it, but surely not designed to unknot one's shoulders.
Also, my brief flirtation with blow-drying my hair must end, because over the past few weeks I have burnt the tops of both ears and, this morning, the back of neck. I think I would honestly rather go out with wet hair and risk catching my death. It's worked every other year!
Though the post must have been stressful for the writer, more joyful reading is Emily Schultz's great post on rewriting her novel at the Joyland blog. How wonderfully inspiring to know that books that seem so fully whole and complete when we read them as published fictions were once scrambled stacks of notes and nerves. It increases my awe, really, while at the same time, sparking a tiny voice in the back of my head that says, someday.
Not to mention fishing poles
RR
Other things that are stressing me out include ongoing Sturm und Drang over the Salon des Refuses/Penguin Anthology debate. Very interesting reading, all of it, but surely not designed to unknot one's shoulders.
Also, my brief flirtation with blow-drying my hair must end, because over the past few weeks I have burnt the tops of both ears and, this morning, the back of neck. I think I would honestly rather go out with wet hair and risk catching my death. It's worked every other year!
Though the post must have been stressful for the writer, more joyful reading is Emily Schultz's great post on rewriting her novel at the Joyland blog. How wonderfully inspiring to know that books that seem so fully whole and complete when we read them as published fictions were once scrambled stacks of notes and nerves. It increases my awe, really, while at the same time, sparking a tiny voice in the back of my head that says, someday.
Not to mention fishing poles
RR
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
Reading!
Tomorrow night launches Pivot Readings at the Press Club! I am so stoked to be a part of it, along with Leigh Nash, Alex Boyd and Paul Vermeersch. Here's the deets, from mistress of ceremonies Carey Toane:
850 Dundas Street West, three blocks west of Bathurst on the north side of the street, and easily accessible by both the Dundas and Bathurst streetcars. The party starts at 8 and goes till late. No cover, no hat.
I think it's going to be a wicked good night (a little bird told me that so many others are of the same opinion that one might wish to get there right at 8 to get a chair!) and I really hope you can make it. But certainly do not fret if you can't, because Pivot will be proceeding apace with three new readers every second Wednesday--how's that for service?
I will also be doing a couple more readings in Toronto in the next few weeks, if you should be interested. One for example will be on Tuesday November 11 at the Rivoli, 7ish, and feature Michael Bryson, Nathan Whitlock, Harold Hoefle and myself. Another swinging evening, I would say. And more to come!
Heart like a wheel
RR
850 Dundas Street West, three blocks west of Bathurst on the north side of the street, and easily accessible by both the Dundas and Bathurst streetcars. The party starts at 8 and goes till late. No cover, no hat.
I think it's going to be a wicked good night (a little bird told me that so many others are of the same opinion that one might wish to get there right at 8 to get a chair!) and I really hope you can make it. But certainly do not fret if you can't, because Pivot will be proceeding apace with three new readers every second Wednesday--how's that for service?
I will also be doing a couple more readings in Toronto in the next few weeks, if you should be interested. One for example will be on Tuesday November 11 at the Rivoli, 7ish, and feature Michael Bryson, Nathan Whitlock, Harold Hoefle and myself. Another swinging evening, I would say. And more to come!
Heart like a wheel
RR
Monday, October 13, 2008
Reasons for reading
So fascinating--such cool lists in (varying degrees of slanting) response to my what and why do you read post, from Fred, Naya and Kerry. This is exactly the sort of information I was hoping for...anybody else?
remember when you broke your foot /from jumping from the second floor
RR
remember when you broke your foot /from jumping from the second floor
RR
Thanksgiving
It would baffling and onerous to try to make a list of all those things for which I am thankful--this is the burden of good things, I suppose, insufficient time in which to list them. But really, though Canadian Thanksgiving was originally conceived as a harvest holiday and it is supposed to have vague connotations for being appreciative of all good things, I believe most stereotypical images of Thanksgiving feature mainly a) family and b) nice things to eat. And I certainly am grateful for both, and will now attempt to encapsulate that emotion in the following transcription of a conversation held earlier today:
(my father and I rummaging through the coffin-sized deep-freeze in my parents' basement)
Me: Green beans, green beans, oh, pizza! Green beans, green beans...
Dad: Beets, do you like beets? Do you want these?
Me: Sure. Thanks. Green beans, Broccolli...
Dad: Yellow beans, green beans...you know, I don't really like vegetables anymore.
Me: What? You like vegetables. You've always liked vegetables.
Dad: Some of the thrill is gone, I think. I don't even know what the hell this is.
Me: (peering intently at frozen green blog in his hand) Is it broccoli? It could be broccoli.
Dad: (speaking to the green lump like Hamlet spoke to the skull of Yorrick) That may be. That may well be.
RR
(my father and I rummaging through the coffin-sized deep-freeze in my parents' basement)
Me: Green beans, green beans, oh, pizza! Green beans, green beans...
Dad: Beets, do you like beets? Do you want these?
Me: Sure. Thanks. Green beans, Broccolli...
Dad: Yellow beans, green beans...you know, I don't really like vegetables anymore.
Me: What? You like vegetables. You've always liked vegetables.
Dad: Some of the thrill is gone, I think. I don't even know what the hell this is.
Me: (peering intently at frozen green blog in his hand) Is it broccoli? It could be broccoli.
Dad: (speaking to the green lump like Hamlet spoke to the skull of Yorrick) That may be. That may well be.
RR
Friday, October 10, 2008
What and Why?
How do you choose your books? This is a question that fascinates me, because reading choices can be so random--you like the cover, you receive it as a gift, you find it on a bus seat. Or else so intense--you follow an author's career for life, you become obsessed with a subject, someone likes something and is chatty about it, and suddenly half their colleagues, their family and their church is reading it.
Is this a marketing question or a social one?
I talk about books with everyone I know, and am thus rarely short on texts lent, recommended, reviewed or given. I also have the opportunity to buy books at readings and launches, which I love doing because then the author can sign it. I don't actually care about the signature, but I like the little personal moment when this person I admire looks into my eyes and says, "One "b" in 'Rebecca'?" (I am still looking for the one-and-only two-B Rebecca in the world, that started *everybody* asking me this.)
So basically, my book selections are a collaborative and somewhat random project of lots of people. In an effort to encourage others to make a similar list (post it on your blog and tell me! or put it into the comments here!), below are the last 10 things that I've read and why (list starts with what I'm currently reading and goes backwards in time, in case you care):
The Collected Stories of Isaac Babel, with Introduction by Lionel Trilling. I've been reading a story a week from this one forever. I first realized I needed to read Babel when I read Leon Rooke's fabulous Balducci's Who's Who, in which Babel figures as a character. I also know that Babel is a favourite author of my former classmate, Jonathan Garfinkel, whose book Ambivalence I so admired. So when I saw an old copy of my father's on a shelf, I picked it up and said, "Oh, can I have this?" (gotta love parents--who else's house could you do that at?)
Pardon Our Monsters by Andrew Hood. I caught a ride in the same car as the author, and he was very witty. I am halfway through, no regrets.
Nellcott Is My Darling by Golda Fried. Purchased at the Coachhouse Books open house, based on the fact that the main character and I shared some life experiences in common, and vaguely remembered good press somewhere years ago.
Songs for the Dancing Chicken by Emily Schultz -- Iliked her previous work (novel Joyland, editorship of Broken Pencil), we have a mutual friend that told me she is cool, then I saw her read the poems and bought the book.
The Withdrawal Method by Pasha Malla. Wanted to read it in anticipation of our shared reading at Thin Air Winnipeg last month, also was intrigued by the fact that the book was on the Giller long-list. [Aside: This year marks the first that I've even known what was nominated before the winner was declared, thanks to That Shakespeherian Rag.] Mr. Beattie's Canadian Notes and Queries review also piqued by interest.
Stunt by Claudia Dey. Saw her read, twice. That's it--she's a powerhouse.
The Writing Life by Annie Dillard. One of those books that *everybody* reads and loves and talks about, to the point where you feel like you've read it too. When I saw it at BMV for $4.95, I realized I hadn't.
Make Believe Love by Lee Gowan. I was walking past a bus stop when I saw a friend standing there reading a book with a beautiful cover. I asked her what it was and she told me the above. I said, "Oh, hey, I've met him a couple times, he's really nice. Is the book good?" She said, "Yeah, it's pretty good. Do you want to borrow it when I'm done?" I said yes.
The Hart House Review 2008. I picked it up at the University of Toronto masters in creative writing graduation reading, several of my friends from that class (Helen Guri and Laura Boudreau--you can't link to the individual pieces, but they are online) having wonderful work in the issue.
Split Images by Elmore Leonard. A used copy that my editor John Metcalf gave to me. He had marked out specific dialogue that he thought I would find a useful example for my own writing, but it's a *thriller*--of course I read it all.
Sort of random, huh? But fascinating--reading is such a social thing for me, even though it's actually done alone. What about you?
I had my eyes closed in the dark
RR
Is this a marketing question or a social one?
I talk about books with everyone I know, and am thus rarely short on texts lent, recommended, reviewed or given. I also have the opportunity to buy books at readings and launches, which I love doing because then the author can sign it. I don't actually care about the signature, but I like the little personal moment when this person I admire looks into my eyes and says, "One "b" in 'Rebecca'?" (I am still looking for the one-and-only two-B Rebecca in the world, that started *everybody* asking me this.)
So basically, my book selections are a collaborative and somewhat random project of lots of people. In an effort to encourage others to make a similar list (post it on your blog and tell me! or put it into the comments here!), below are the last 10 things that I've read and why (list starts with what I'm currently reading and goes backwards in time, in case you care):
The Collected Stories of Isaac Babel, with Introduction by Lionel Trilling. I've been reading a story a week from this one forever. I first realized I needed to read Babel when I read Leon Rooke's fabulous Balducci's Who's Who, in which Babel figures as a character. I also know that Babel is a favourite author of my former classmate, Jonathan Garfinkel, whose book Ambivalence I so admired. So when I saw an old copy of my father's on a shelf, I picked it up and said, "Oh, can I have this?" (gotta love parents--who else's house could you do that at?)
Pardon Our Monsters by Andrew Hood. I caught a ride in the same car as the author, and he was very witty. I am halfway through, no regrets.
Nellcott Is My Darling by Golda Fried. Purchased at the Coachhouse Books open house, based on the fact that the main character and I shared some life experiences in common, and vaguely remembered good press somewhere years ago.
Songs for the Dancing Chicken by Emily Schultz -- Iliked her previous work (novel Joyland, editorship of Broken Pencil), we have a mutual friend that told me she is cool, then I saw her read the poems and bought the book.
The Withdrawal Method by Pasha Malla. Wanted to read it in anticipation of our shared reading at Thin Air Winnipeg last month, also was intrigued by the fact that the book was on the Giller long-list. [Aside: This year marks the first that I've even known what was nominated before the winner was declared, thanks to That Shakespeherian Rag.] Mr. Beattie's Canadian Notes and Queries review also piqued by interest.
Stunt by Claudia Dey. Saw her read, twice. That's it--she's a powerhouse.
The Writing Life by Annie Dillard. One of those books that *everybody* reads and loves and talks about, to the point where you feel like you've read it too. When I saw it at BMV for $4.95, I realized I hadn't.
Make Believe Love by Lee Gowan. I was walking past a bus stop when I saw a friend standing there reading a book with a beautiful cover. I asked her what it was and she told me the above. I said, "Oh, hey, I've met him a couple times, he's really nice. Is the book good?" She said, "Yeah, it's pretty good. Do you want to borrow it when I'm done?" I said yes.
The Hart House Review 2008. I picked it up at the University of Toronto masters in creative writing graduation reading, several of my friends from that class (Helen Guri and Laura Boudreau--you can't link to the individual pieces, but they are online) having wonderful work in the issue.
Split Images by Elmore Leonard. A used copy that my editor John Metcalf gave to me. He had marked out specific dialogue that he thought I would find a useful example for my own writing, but it's a *thriller*--of course I read it all.
Sort of random, huh? But fascinating--reading is such a social thing for me, even though it's actually done alone. What about you?
I had my eyes closed in the dark
RR
Tuesday, October 7, 2008
Constance Rooke, 1942-2008
I didn't know Connie very well, but she always hugged me when we met, which I think might go some ways towards describing how kind she was. And though I knew she was ill, she always looked so beautiful that I never quite believed it.
There's an obituary in the Globe, among other places.
RR
There's an obituary in the Globe, among other places.
RR
Monday, October 6, 2008
Rose-coloured Reviews *Nellcott Is My Darling*
Golda Fried's first novel, Nellcott is My Darling is the story of shy, self-absorbed teenager who moves from Ontario to Montreal to study arts at McGill and live in residence. Everything about life and school d in Montreal simultaneously alarms and beguiles her, and every trip to the film society or the cafeteria is both anxiety-provoking and an adventure.
*Nellcott* is yet another book that I can't really give an unbiased review to, this time because it is my unauthorized biography!
Ok, not really. But in many ways, Alice Charles sees the world in a shockingly similar way to how I did. Or maybe it's just universal at that age: "Everyone at the university was the same age, so riding the bus with Nellcott to the suburb of Laval was like being in the Twilight Zone." "Seeing your friends onstage was like seeing them with silver makeup on in front of a tinself backdrop...And that was only the beginning. They actually played too." "She loved slumping in a chair and just listening to professors talk and talk about all this stuff she didn't know and all she had to do was listen and take a few notes."
Less universal is Nellcott, the handsome, moody, older record-store clerk who falls for Alice the second he sees her (her feet, actually) and almost instantly becomes her (over)attentive boyfriend. He's eccentric in a fun undergrad way (even though he never went to university): he drinks creamers and throws pebbles at Alice's window to get her attention, plays guitar and judges people by their taste in music, smokes constantly and lives on dinner food and KD. Oh, and he's dreamy-rockstar attractive, has his own appartment Alice can hang out at, is devoted to her, and doesn't pressure her (much) for sex.
It's a high school girl's fantasy of her first university boyfriend!!!
Ok, so I found certain aspects of the romance unrealistic--but on the whole, Fried does a marvelous job of showing Alice's world and her hyperbolic, inward-facing view of it. Her floormates in residence are an artist and a rugby player, her classes include children's lit and abnormal psychology, her social life is watching old films in Leacock auditorium and drinking at the Bifteck, and it's all almost perfect, though at times there is a slightly obscuring gleam of sarcasm in the rendering of the rugby player who screams when she gets her period and despises all who eat meat. But h, the spot-on details: cafeteria workers hosing down trays while wearing shower caps! Vintage shops on Mont Royal where you have to wrestle the clothes off the racks, that ever-present glittery cross on the mountain.
A lot of the scene-setting is really a lovely love poem to Montreal. Alice is bedazzled by it, but lamely--"I could never leave this town... It's like when I'm here, I really want to conquer the town." How, doing what, going where? Alice goes where she's taken, generally by the hand. Alice really does appreciate--she has excellent eyes--but little else. This is enough for the reader, or this reader, who loves the descriptions of streets and buildings, meals and parks, although occasionally Fried does stray into Fromer-guide territory: "Montreal had a small but colourful China town." But Alice does little conquering.
Alice is not always a wonderful person--she would rather be passive than nice, and here again we start to see a bit of a an extreme parody of normal silly-girlishness. She adores Nellcott perhaps nearly as much as he adores her, but she is uncomfortable on the phone and therefore never calls him. She refuses to order for herself in restaurants because she wants to eat off his plate. She hangs out with her square, studious, sarcastic friend Bethany mainly because she wants company she doesn't have to impress, one person she can feel cooler than. Whatever, this is all typical 20-year-old behaviour (except the restaurant thing, which is pretty obnoxious) but there's no balance--Alice *never* does anything nice for anyone, or takes an interest in anything (I loved Bethany's snark, and after a while started waiting for her to come around and tell off the protagonist.)
Alice was a protagonist that I did really empathize with, but I felt like I couldn't completely, and I wasn't supposed to. This book is very very funny, and I think some emotional resonance was sacrificed to satire. The novel is written in the 3rd person, and although there is nothing of other characters' perspectives, somehow, the narrator still has some distance from Alice, some ability to comment and judge. Then the sparseness of the narrative--Alice often does things "more" or "again" that we don't see the first time; conversations one would predict would be pivotal are elided; readers are assumed to know things and by and large we can figure them out. I began to feel that the narration skipped over all the times Alice ever asked anyone a question out of genuine interest, thought anything insightful about a book (she says, "I love him, I love him" of Charles Bukowski, but not why or which book, and I got a feeling it didn't matter).
Is it a bad thing to be a little realistic and little satirical? Well, I laughed out loud when, at a family Thanksgiving dinner, Alice's dad says, "So, everyone at this table who's had sex before raise their hands," and her parents' hands shoot up. Poor Alice, in that scene, surrounded by these punchline characters. She's a smart creation, and if she were real she'd someday grow into a smart human. She deserves a little better than punchlines. If you enjoy looking back on your naif years, especially if they were spent at McGill, this book will make you happy. But I found it easier to read if I offered the protagonist the same retrospective forgiveness I give myself.
If it were real or in a dream
RR
*Nellcott* is yet another book that I can't really give an unbiased review to, this time because it is my unauthorized biography!
Ok, not really. But in many ways, Alice Charles sees the world in a shockingly similar way to how I did. Or maybe it's just universal at that age: "Everyone at the university was the same age, so riding the bus with Nellcott to the suburb of Laval was like being in the Twilight Zone." "Seeing your friends onstage was like seeing them with silver makeup on in front of a tinself backdrop...And that was only the beginning. They actually played too." "She loved slumping in a chair and just listening to professors talk and talk about all this stuff she didn't know and all she had to do was listen and take a few notes."
Less universal is Nellcott, the handsome, moody, older record-store clerk who falls for Alice the second he sees her (her feet, actually) and almost instantly becomes her (over)attentive boyfriend. He's eccentric in a fun undergrad way (even though he never went to university): he drinks creamers and throws pebbles at Alice's window to get her attention, plays guitar and judges people by their taste in music, smokes constantly and lives on dinner food and KD. Oh, and he's dreamy-rockstar attractive, has his own appartment Alice can hang out at, is devoted to her, and doesn't pressure her (much) for sex.
It's a high school girl's fantasy of her first university boyfriend!!!
Ok, so I found certain aspects of the romance unrealistic--but on the whole, Fried does a marvelous job of showing Alice's world and her hyperbolic, inward-facing view of it. Her floormates in residence are an artist and a rugby player, her classes include children's lit and abnormal psychology, her social life is watching old films in Leacock auditorium and drinking at the Bifteck, and it's all almost perfect, though at times there is a slightly obscuring gleam of sarcasm in the rendering of the rugby player who screams when she gets her period and despises all who eat meat. But h, the spot-on details: cafeteria workers hosing down trays while wearing shower caps! Vintage shops on Mont Royal where you have to wrestle the clothes off the racks, that ever-present glittery cross on the mountain.
A lot of the scene-setting is really a lovely love poem to Montreal. Alice is bedazzled by it, but lamely--"I could never leave this town... It's like when I'm here, I really want to conquer the town." How, doing what, going where? Alice goes where she's taken, generally by the hand. Alice really does appreciate--she has excellent eyes--but little else. This is enough for the reader, or this reader, who loves the descriptions of streets and buildings, meals and parks, although occasionally Fried does stray into Fromer-guide territory: "Montreal had a small but colourful China town." But Alice does little conquering.
Alice is not always a wonderful person--she would rather be passive than nice, and here again we start to see a bit of a an extreme parody of normal silly-girlishness. She adores Nellcott perhaps nearly as much as he adores her, but she is uncomfortable on the phone and therefore never calls him. She refuses to order for herself in restaurants because she wants to eat off his plate. She hangs out with her square, studious, sarcastic friend Bethany mainly because she wants company she doesn't have to impress, one person she can feel cooler than. Whatever, this is all typical 20-year-old behaviour (except the restaurant thing, which is pretty obnoxious) but there's no balance--Alice *never* does anything nice for anyone, or takes an interest in anything (I loved Bethany's snark, and after a while started waiting for her to come around and tell off the protagonist.)
Alice was a protagonist that I did really empathize with, but I felt like I couldn't completely, and I wasn't supposed to. This book is very very funny, and I think some emotional resonance was sacrificed to satire. The novel is written in the 3rd person, and although there is nothing of other characters' perspectives, somehow, the narrator still has some distance from Alice, some ability to comment and judge. Then the sparseness of the narrative--Alice often does things "more" or "again" that we don't see the first time; conversations one would predict would be pivotal are elided; readers are assumed to know things and by and large we can figure them out. I began to feel that the narration skipped over all the times Alice ever asked anyone a question out of genuine interest, thought anything insightful about a book (she says, "I love him, I love him" of Charles Bukowski, but not why or which book, and I got a feeling it didn't matter).
Is it a bad thing to be a little realistic and little satirical? Well, I laughed out loud when, at a family Thanksgiving dinner, Alice's dad says, "So, everyone at this table who's had sex before raise their hands," and her parents' hands shoot up. Poor Alice, in that scene, surrounded by these punchline characters. She's a smart creation, and if she were real she'd someday grow into a smart human. She deserves a little better than punchlines. If you enjoy looking back on your naif years, especially if they were spent at McGill, this book will make you happy. But I found it easier to read if I offered the protagonist the same retrospective forgiveness I give myself.
If it were real or in a dream
RR
This Week
My desk goes live! The Walrus review of *Once* goes on-line. And on Wednesday, Mark Kingwell, Joshua Glenn and Seth launch The Idler's Glossary at the Gladstone. They're doing a "Twelve Step Program for Idlers"--I'm not sure if it's to become one or to stop being one. I'm hoping for the former, as I'm sure I could use 6 or 8 of those steps. I worked most of the weekend, and am tired now.
King's taking back the throne / the useless seeds are sown
RR
King's taking back the throne / the useless seeds are sown
RR
Sunday, October 5, 2008
No Politics
I try not to ever talk about politics with people I don't know well, not because I don't have opinions but because I am so pathetically ill-informed that I can't defend them properly. But sometimes I get blindsided by politics, and I manage to learn a little something, about something or other.
1.
D: To even do ok in the debate, Joseph Biden had to be so smart and so erudite and so careful, and all Sarah Palin had to do was not be a monkey. Really, people are thrilled that she formed complete sentences and didn't fling her own feces.
2.
J: So, everybody knows that light has amplitude, right?
Me: Ok, now I know, but only because you just told me this second. I don't think normal people know that.
J: Normal people?
Me: Well, most people.
J: The people who are going to be allowed to vote in two weeks don't know this? Oh no!
My mother says what you gonna do with your life
RR
1.
D: To even do ok in the debate, Joseph Biden had to be so smart and so erudite and so careful, and all Sarah Palin had to do was not be a monkey. Really, people are thrilled that she formed complete sentences and didn't fling her own feces.
2.
J: So, everybody knows that light has amplitude, right?
Me: Ok, now I know, but only because you just told me this second. I don't think normal people know that.
J: Normal people?
Me: Well, most people.
J: The people who are going to be allowed to vote in two weeks don't know this? Oh no!
My mother says what you gonna do with your life
RR
Friday, October 3, 2008
"The Great Canadian Novel is a collection of stories"
So says Andrew Hood in The Storytellers, an article by Quentin Mills-Fenn about our books in Winnipeg's Uptown Magazine. I think Andrew nailed the best quote of the piece, but the whole article's pretty good!
After twelve/just as well
RR
After twelve/just as well
RR
Thursday, October 2, 2008
The Review Review
As has been evident in the Rose-coloured Reviews, I'm sure, I do not feel terribly confident in my ability to review books--or anything--in a way that an end-user will find useful or even interesting. And that's who reviews are for, end-users, the person who is going to wind up with the book in her hand (or the shoes on her feet, or in some way using of whatever the item under review is).
I feel more confident my ability to criticize writing to the *author*--I am in love with the workshopping process, used to write manuscript evalutations and still work as an editor. When I read a work-in-progress, usually I can go through a text and say what's working and how one could build on that, what's not working and how one might ameliorate that.
In my opinion, there's a big difference between these two tasks: one is prescriptive, one is predictive. One is about how to write, and one about whether to read. Or not. I'm not sure. There's an interesting quote on That Shakespeherian Rag about criticism as teaching--it's about *how* to read. Is criticism different from reviews? Um, yes, of course--I'm still a little fuzzy on this (thanks a lot, grad school) but I think so. But both forms are written by readers for other readers, and the writer is really a static component.
There is no meliorative aspect to reviewing--they can't fix it, can't try to help move the next draft closer to the ideal text in the author's mind. By the time reviews are being written, it's no longer about the writer. As it should be--if someone's going to invest the time and effort and cash to procure and read a book, they deserve a little guidance on what to invest in.
Still, for a writer, it is such a strange sensation. For years, teachers and workshop groups, friends and colleagues, editors and mentors have all been pitching in their opinions and advice to help me write a good book. And now there are opinions out there that I can't do anything about. Reviews are the first response to my work that I've ever seen that isn't meant to help me. They are meant to help readers.
I *do* approve of that. But it's so strange.
I'm really happy that the responses to my book so far have been so thoughtful and intelligent, and also generous. But I'm still not really sure what to do about them--the book is and will always be what got sent to the printer in July, and the snags and infelicities that the reviewers hit are there for good. And when the day comes that someone loathes the book, well, chances are I won't agree, but *even if I do* there won't be a thing I can do about it.
Except keep working on the next one. And keep trying to learn to write a decent review myself. I think both will teach me a lot, and those are lessons that I could likely stand to learn.
The light disappeared from the room
RR
I feel more confident my ability to criticize writing to the *author*--I am in love with the workshopping process, used to write manuscript evalutations and still work as an editor. When I read a work-in-progress, usually I can go through a text and say what's working and how one could build on that, what's not working and how one might ameliorate that.
In my opinion, there's a big difference between these two tasks: one is prescriptive, one is predictive. One is about how to write, and one about whether to read. Or not. I'm not sure. There's an interesting quote on That Shakespeherian Rag about criticism as teaching--it's about *how* to read. Is criticism different from reviews? Um, yes, of course--I'm still a little fuzzy on this (thanks a lot, grad school) but I think so. But both forms are written by readers for other readers, and the writer is really a static component.
There is no meliorative aspect to reviewing--they can't fix it, can't try to help move the next draft closer to the ideal text in the author's mind. By the time reviews are being written, it's no longer about the writer. As it should be--if someone's going to invest the time and effort and cash to procure and read a book, they deserve a little guidance on what to invest in.
Still, for a writer, it is such a strange sensation. For years, teachers and workshop groups, friends and colleagues, editors and mentors have all been pitching in their opinions and advice to help me write a good book. And now there are opinions out there that I can't do anything about. Reviews are the first response to my work that I've ever seen that isn't meant to help me. They are meant to help readers.
I *do* approve of that. But it's so strange.
I'm really happy that the responses to my book so far have been so thoughtful and intelligent, and also generous. But I'm still not really sure what to do about them--the book is and will always be what got sent to the printer in July, and the snags and infelicities that the reviewers hit are there for good. And when the day comes that someone loathes the book, well, chances are I won't agree, but *even if I do* there won't be a thing I can do about it.
Except keep working on the next one. And keep trying to learn to write a decent review myself. I think both will teach me a lot, and those are lessons that I could likely stand to learn.
The light disappeared from the room
RR
Wednesday, October 1, 2008
The What that Is Up
For subscribers and newsstanders alike, the Fall issue of Maisonneuve is out and about. I've only just got my copy and flipped through, but there's an article on extreme grooming, a new book section, photos and profiles of people encountered outside a courthouse, and my story, "Massacre Day." I am pleased to be among this eclectic and intelligent collection. Enjoy!
I'd say that woman has a halo
RR
I'd say that woman has a halo
RR
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
