Happiness and Nostalgia

The Globe and Mail had a nice review of The Journey Prize Stories 21 on the website yesterday. Yes, I am always pleased when my name is on a book that's in the newspaper, but mainly I am thrilled for the 12 writers whose work constitutes the collection. Especially for those who have never been in a book in the newspaper before.

The Globe's review of The Journey Prize 19 was my first review, and that, along with actually being included in the collection, was part of a big huge shock to my system, that of real professional grown-ups that I had never met taking notice of my work. That morning, which was full of phone calls and emails, since I had no subscription and no clue such a thing was possible, was amazing.

I hope the current 12 had a similar kvell yesterday, and that there will be more to come. I am sure I sound like such a fogy, and this was all only two years ago. Actually, maybe that's why the nostalgia is so acute--I'm not over the shock yet! I actually got an acceptance letter from a journal this morning and it took a moment to sink in--what, really, seriously??? Amazing.

I tried and tried to find the blog post from that 2007 Globe Review (or the review itself), but to no avail. But I did find this post, which might make you laugh.

RR

Peevish

When I graduated from highschool, we were supposed to write "obits"--little responses to abbreviated questions to squish beside our grad pictures in the yearbook and apparently sum up our personalities and lives in high school and after. The queries were PP: pet peeve, AM: ambition, PD: probable destination and K4: known for. Here's mine (if I were braver I'd scan in the picture; I'm not):

AM: to have one, to be a licensed driver, to blowdry, to reincarnate my fetal pig, to name that smell, to get the fish joke
PD: the bus 4ever, sleeping thru the apocalypse, K.N.'s floor, crushing my rage into a tiny ball
K4: too much hair, "I don't get it...oh, yeah, I do."

Though I did get my license (I corrected the spelling error--"liscenced"!! jeez!!) that's pretty much the same as I would write now, especially the last bit. But you'll note--no PP! At the time, I thought there were no peeves I wished to be remembered by (if you think I'm obnoxiously rose-coloured now, you should've seen high school, especially at intramural badminton!)

So things have changed, as I do have a few peeves now. And as KateN's dissection of a pet peeve has inspired me, here's some headliners from recent peevishness:

--the tap of a fork-tine against tooth enamel
--the rainbow-coloured spinning wheel Macs replace the cursor with when something's not responding
--when people say "How are you?" as an alternative to "hello," without waiting for an answer.
--Cyclists on the sidewalk! oh, my most hated ever, cause it's dangerous and not just annoying!! Like, I get that that many drivers in Toronto are horrible to cyclists, but taking a bike onto the sidewalk is like someone who is pushed around at work coming home and taking it out on their family--sidewalk abuse!! I got clipped by a bike-rearview mirror recently and was so very unimpressed.

Ahem. So, yeah, I get a little more tetchy as I age, I suppose. But I really would love it still if someone would explain the fish joke to me.

I was waitin' for the hot flashes to come
RR

Old School

Last night I dreamt that I was back in undergrad, and I had chosen a half-year course thinking it was a full-year. So in second term, I was a course short and somehow got thrown into a class not of my choosing, which I was completely unprepared for and hated* and was going to fail. Fairly standard anxiety dream, especially perfect given that I was going back to my old high school to speak this morning.

That's a pretty fun thing to do, actually--I was anxious mainly because this event was postponed once before due to my laryngitis episode a few weeks ago. I was pretty thrilled to be invited back to my high school by my Writer's Craft teacher, Pam North. When I was a whippersnapper, sitting in Writer's Craft class writing ghost stories, Rachel Preston came to talk to us about her writing career, and made a huge impression on me. One, because she was a real writer and she still assumed human form. Two, because she said, "If you put an action or expression by the person into the same line, you don't need a dialogue tag." Brilliant.

I don't think I said anything that wonderfully useful to this batch of whippersnappers, but my voice held up through the reading and my little self-intro, and then the Q&A did provide a number of quite insightful questions for me to work with. So I think we managed ok. More than anything, I wanted to convey that being a "real" (ish) writer is hard--endless drafts, rejection letters, balancing other work--but it's something one can do. I encouraged them to send their best work to journals, to attend readings and meet other writers, to join workshop groups (after Writer's Craft) and to take their work seriously enough to withstand the endless drafts and rejection. But not so seriously that they didn't have any fun with it. Because what would be the point in that?

Is your bed made? Is your sweater on?
RR

* The non-standard part of the dream was that it was a drama class called "Social Problem Dramas" and I had to star in one. I was furious, because the play wasn't even about any particular Social Problem but, rather, the concept in general. My dreams aren't usually so satirical.

Not Terrible at All

Today this blog turns two years old and, possibly, enters its hair-pulling, tantrum-throwing, finger-in-light-socket years. We hope not. It's been such a great ride so far.

One year ago I was here, being glamourous and alarmed. Two years ago I was starting this blog, and the first non-meta-blog post was this, about snark and story-telling.

Five jobs. Several publications. Myriad irritations. One book. Braces, illness, surrealism, and confusion. And...whatever post is after this one.

Cheers to that, and thanks for reading, responding, laughing and scoffing. It's been so very much fun so far.

RR

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.

On nostalgia

For my birthday, my friend Shannon gave me Listography, a workbook compiled by Lisa Nola so you can make up an autobiography in lists, cued by prompts in the book (or on the website. Obviously, fun for those of us who like lists, and possibly a little OCD for those who do not. I'm ok with that, and appreciate Shannon's endorsement of my fetish.

Still, not every list is magic--the one I made of every address I've ever had was depressing, mainly because I can't remember the apartment number of a place I live in seven years ago, which is frustrating for my obsession. I probably can't remember every toy and game I ever played with, either, but that toy-and-game list *is* magic, because there are plenty of them I *do* remember, and those toys are far enough in the past that I feel a pleasant burst of oh-I-remember thinking of them, whereas I still have most of the same furniture from the apartment of no-particular-number.

Oh, kid nostalgia! It's been making the rounds lately, must be seeing all the water-fights in the park. Kerry and I were pleased to find we both desired a Power Wheel and never got one. I was mentioning to a less-astute friend that I still think Power Wheels are cool, and he said, "Uh, don't you have a driver's license now?" As if that makes it any better! Driving acar is totally not the point.

Nevertheless, my parents weren't stupid--they knew that kids that could make an afternoon out of playing with a toad and drinking from the hose (my friend Nancy reminded me of that long-lost glee!) didn't need to drive around the backyard. I don't mean to paint my youth as quite the countryside idyll of Laura Ingalls or anything--we were as obsessed with Nintendo as any kids anywhere, we just also had the toads and the fields and spring run-off, etc.

And then eventually, you get into high-school and either start trying to be cool or actually are, and either way there's a lot less time to waste on playing--what are toys and games but ways to occupy people who don't have anything else to do.

I wrote a story once about hanging on to kid games when you're in high school, about not feeling up to growing up--it's called Grade Nine Flight. I always forget about that one, because it was written ages ago, though it later appeared on The Danforth Review, that wonderful online journal of (mainly) the short story. Someone reminded me of it recently, because it's the only actual story that comes up when you google me (TDR archives all their stuff). She read it wanting to know what my work is like, and there's a kind of double-nostalgia here, because that story is in a very different vein than my work these days. I'm not only nostalgic for childhood, I'm nostalgic for three years ago.

I'll go back to that sort of story one of these days, I'm sure. On Monday night, in High Park, I saw a toad.

When Johnny saw the numbers he lied
RR