A fondness for Baskerville

"And Jane, I'd like a beautiful typeface. Devinne or maybe Bembo."
"We can't get them,' said Jane Louise. "I can get you Garamond or Caslon." She doodled on her pad. Erna was a fountain of little-used or almost extinct typefaces. Jane Louise believed that Erna spent her nights browsing through old type spec books, and Jane Louise was not entirely wrong.
"Oh, these beautiful olds fonts," Erna said. "What a tragedy."
"It's nothing compared to teen pregnancy and wife beating," Sven said. "I'm sure Janey can get you Bembo for display type."
A few minutes later Erna withdrew to the editorial floor, leaving Jane Louise with an enormous, untidy manuscript.
"I wonder if old Alfred slaps her around," Sven said. "Jesus, it's like having a whole stable of nervous horses in there. I wish she'd shut up about type. It just goes to show that girls are ruined by reading. Even her nasty children have opinions on these subjects. She told me that her oldest had a fondness for Baskerville."
"All fourteen year olds do," said Jane Louise.
--from A Big Storm Knocked It Over by Laurie Colwin

What life has been like lately...

I'd post a picture of me and the baby, but as I've ceased to wear clothes, I've got none that are presentable. Harriet doesn't wear clothes either, but she pulls it off much better. We're now inhabiting a Harriet-centric universe, and we like it here. She's fitting into the family very well, and we're working hard to get her fatter. Her daddy is so wonderful to both of us, it makes me cry. She looks so much like him that it's a bit startling, and she's so beautiful that we can't stop talking about it. We also can't stop singing her "Ignition Remix" by R. Kelly, which may have a detrimental effect in years to come. But regardless, I continue to be a very lucky lady.

Psst: Harriet is after the spy, of course. I'll be writing more about that later.

Baby Harriet

Harriet Joy was born Tuesday May 26th at 8.30 am. She is perfect and her rather smitten parents are learning all the time. We love her and get to take her home tomorrow, we hope. Thanks for all the good wishes.

What life has been like lately...

Because I am a very lucky lady. And now we'll just have to wait and see what happens next.

I'll be back when I'm ready. I'll miss you until then.

The Children's Book by A.S. Byatt

Fairy tales can be as tricky as the shadowy creatures inhabiting them, and at a Midsummer Party in 1895, the children of Todefright Hall discover just how much in A.S. Byatt's new novel The Children's Book. These children are the Wellwoods, progeny of children's writer Olive Wellwood and her husband Humphrey who is a Fabian banker (neither he nor Olive too uncomfortable with contradictions such as that). The children have just impressed by a terrifying performance of Cinderella by sophisticated puppets, and are intrigued by the differences between the story they're accustomed to and what they've just seen (Cinderella's stepsisters hacking apart their feet to make the slipper fit, and no fairy godmother or magic pumpkin coach). So it turns out there are many different versions of the stories the children know, and this one is by the Brothers Grimm.

The story wasn't exactly scary, one of the children remarks. Among the grown-ups present in this Bohemian circle is a scholar of fairy tales who agrees, "It should be scary, there was a lot of blood. [But...] these were memories of some other time, long ago, and... they weren't scary./ 'They are just like that,' said Griselda [the child], feeling for what intrigued her, not finding it." "Like that", being precisely what they are; not meant to entrance, to sanitize, to edify, to terrify. Folk tales, not children's tales, which means not geared to any particular audience, and therefore resonating wider.

But these are children who've been reared on fairies, whose parents are idealists committed to keeping magic alive in their own lives. Into this circle has also come Philip Warren, a working class boy run away from the potteries, discovered in the basement of the South Kensington Museum (which is to become the Victoria and Albert), and his presence does provide balance and make clear that the Wellwoods' privilege is rarer than these socially aware children might imagine. But of course Philip is taken with the Wellwoods, and their wild existence, scrambling up trees, riding up and down lanes on bicycles, by the personal stories their mother has written for each of them, by the way that each one of them is his or her own particular sprite.

The difference between the fairy tales the children are accustomed to, the stories their mother writes, and the "like that" stories of the Brothers Grimm is that the latter does not attempt to make itself of another world. Olive Wellwood's stories are meant to be as "through the looking glass", but as the story progresses, we see that life itself really is rather "tale-ish": boys found hidden down hidey-holes, children who appear to be changelings, dubious parentage among the offspring of the Wellwoods and their freewheeling circles, Bluebeardy locked doors with terrible secrets behind them, and vanishings without any explanation.

So that when the children venture out into the world, they find they've been sorely deceived. The world is not a firefly-chasing idyll, and the monsters aren't all fiction-- the abuse sustained by Tom Wellwood at public school traumatizes him for the rest of his life, turning him into a Peter Pan type character. The girls grow up to see that for all their scrambling and rambling, society (and their parents) expects something very conventional about the kind of women they're mean to be. They begin to recognize their parents' infallibilities, and are taken aback by a world more complex than a good-queen/bad-queen dichotomy. And then comes World War One, into which the boys are led by some kind of Pied Piper, by leaders suffering from "the childish failure to imagine the world as it was" (when "the world as it was" is precisely "like that").

The Children's Book is a big book in which time passes quickly, and the reading is gripping. Similarities to Byatt's best-known work Possession have been made for good reason, though this doesn't mean the author is simply replaying an old game. She has embarked upon something sprawling here-- a story about the invention of childhood, about artistry and artfulness, about motherhood, and the status of women, all with an enormous cast of characters, most of whom are made to be tremendously alive. The novel also stands up as historical fiction, though I don't like to use that term about books I like and I loved this one-- there is nothing dusty, sepia-toned about it. The Children's Book is decidedly vivid and surprising.

It is true that by the end of the book, Byatt's immersion of her characters into historical events has perhaps become a bit too complete and the pages sweep by lacking the specificity we've seen in the earlier part of the novel. But so too did history seem to in the early twentieth century, and maybe we can understand it this way. Perhaps it's also the way that time goes when children are grown too, a single day holding far less possibility in and of itself, pages turning faster. Towards the end of the 600+ page novel, but this is the sort one is sad to get to the end of. And here Byatt offers us the possibility of some light, of a happy ending at the end of four years' bloodshed, and so we can dare to hope too that life and the world could also be like that.

Yellow House

Our house is being painted. Anyone who knows our house will also know that this is very good news. That no longer will we live in the shabby blue house, but in the freshly painted yellow one. I think this counts as upward mobility. We are very excited, and glad Baby won't have to be embarrassed at its premises. We're also getting a great deal on the painting (ie we're renters, and so someone else is getting the bill). The only downside is that the last few days I've had to endure such disconcerting sights as this one.

Books Without Which

Here is a list of books without which I would have had to imagine up my own anxieties throughout my pregnancy. Thankfully, however, these works came with their own inspiration.

• The Monsters of Templeton by Lauren Groff: Willie Upton returns to her hometown "in disgrace", and what happens in her pregnancy is a plot hinge I'll not here reveal, but you should read the book to find out why I thought I was crazy.
  
• Middlesex by Jeffrey Eugenides: We wanted to find out our child's gender, but nobody would tell us. So ever since I've been convinced that it doesn't have one. Time will tell.
  
• Like Mother by Jenny Diski: A baby without a brain! It can happen! It happened to Diski's Frances, but she was horrid, but then sometimes I am too.
  
• The Fifth Child by Doris Lessing: The Lovett's fifth child is a monster who destroys the family, not to mention kicks the crap out of poor Harriet's womb. The perils of banking too much on domesticity and cozy kitchen tables.
  
• Novel About My Wife by Emily Perkins: The pregnancy goes just fine, and baby Arlo is a dream, but the whole experience brings Ann's repressed demons back to the surface. I don't actually have repressed demons, but what if they're just really repressed?
  
• Rosemary's Baby by Ira Levin. Speaking of demons. Because how can you be sure your baby is not the spawn of Satan? And I mean really sure.
  
• We Need to Talk About Kevin by Lionel Shriver. Was it nature or was it nurture? Regardless, somewhere along the line Eva went wrong, and brung herself up a high school killer. And it could happen to you (ie me).
  
• The Baby Project by Sara Ellis. I actually read this book twenty years ago, but skimmed through it recently in a book store because I thought it might be cute. No. SIDS, oh my, and then I started to cry. So the anxiety isn't going to stop with the birth, it seems. No bumpers on the crib for Baby!
  
• The Girls by Lori Lansens. I didn't read this while I was pregnant, so didn't notice the potential trauma of the birth scene, but then I gave it to a friend who was pregnant, and let's just say she was plenty relieved to see just one head and four limbs at her first ultrasound.
  
• Consequences by Penelope Lively. If I read a lot of 19th century literature, surely I'd see even more mothers dying in childbirth. Which is one reason I'm really glad that I don't read a lot of 19th century literature.
  

Author Interviews@ Pickle Me This: Terry Griggs

It was one of those vivid reading experiences, the first time I read Terry Griggs. Last August, and I was sitting on a bench in a park in Elora Ontario, taking a sunny break in a lovely day's outing. I was reading Issue 74 of Canadian Notes and Queries, the Salon Des Refuses Issue, and the story was a new one, "The Discovery of Honey".

First line: "My parents were married in a high wind that was conceived in the tropics and born in a jet stream." And the whole of the story seemed to be impelled by that wind, by such a tremendous energy.

In reading other stories by Terry Griggs since then, however, I have found that same energy ever-present. Coming from the words themselves, I think, her prose "a language landslide, an avalanche". She uses language, which sounds obvious, but most writers don't, not quite like this. Griggs' new novel is Thought You Were Dead, her own particular take on the crime-fiction genre, and her 1990 Governor General's Award-nominated collection of stories Quickening has just been reprinted as part of the Biblioasis Renditions Series. I've reviewed both books here. Terry Griggs was lovely enough to answer my questions by email from her home in Stratford Ontario.

I: What has been your experience of crime fiction? Prior to Thought You Were Dead, were you an avid reader of it? What writers and books are you most familiar with? What are your thoughts on the genre?

TG: Very little experience, really. Before starting research for Thought You Were Dead, I’d read maybe two or three mysteries. But at some point I became interested in the form and intrigued with its popularity, especially among readers who would not otherwise read genre fiction. I’m an Eng Lit grad, so for the longest time the only kind of work I read was literary. Not a lit-snob, just didn’t know any better, thought that’s where the good stuff was. And it is, of course, but certainly not all. I still think of literature as being in two categories, although for me it’s no longer the literary/ popular fiction divide, but basically what appeals and what doesn’t. Some books fulfill my reading needs and desires and others don’t—it’s as simple as that. I find this a satisfying re-arrangement of priorities and one that opens up the field.

As for books: I discovered Ian Rankin’s Rebus series early on and followed along —to think that his publishers had wanted to dump him at one point before he hit the big time! I’ve read all of P.D. James and Martha Grimes, most of Elizabeth George, and sampled many others.
Kate Atkinson I’ve always liked, and she’s written some mysteries of late (although I believe she doesn’t call them that). Haven’t delved much into the oldie-goldies yet, I confess, although Dan Wells, my publisher has just sent me a copy of Chandler’s The Little Sister.

I: What did you learn about crime fiction while writing this novel? Though you've constructed a send-up of the genre, you're still working within the formula. How was this experience different from your previous writing?

TG: I feel that I’ve always written mysteries, just not the kind that come with the sort of conventions that need to receive at least a nod as one is passing through. And literary does have its own formulas, perhaps less obvious ones. I found the genre to be a fair bit of fun, the form flexible enough to sustain a bit of larky handling. Although this book comes out as a send-up, it’s really just creative play and me inhabiting the genre in my particular, albeit subversive, way, making it my own, leaving my thumb print (evidence!). Plot is perhaps more easily traceable in Thought You Were Dead than in some of my other works, although I’ve never considered it a lesser element. I want to be a good storyteller.

I: I'm always interested in how writers name their characters, and names do seem to be a preoccupation in your work. Most particular, from where did you unearth a name like "Chellis Beith"?

TG: You’re right about the preoccupation. The other night at a reading I was asked about where I’d found the name Chellis, and if I recall, I encountered it in my reading somewhere, possibly in a magazine. I tend to collect names, and sometimes suffer from name-envy if I run across a good one. Someone once told me that they’d named their daughter after a celeb’s kid that they read about in People or Cosmopolitan, I forget which, and I found this proud admission a wee bit sad (okay maybe I am a snob). So in Thought You Were Dead this is how Chel’s mother discovers his name, reading a trashy magazine while waiting in line at the grocery store. Here’s something funny, though: Chellis is an unusual name, but I did run across it again recently in The New Yorker. A woman called Chellis Glendinning has written a book, perhaps it’s an article, entitled “My Name is Chellis and I’m in Recovery from Western Civilization,” which sounds exactly like something my character would write.

Now, his last name is actually borrowed from the town in Scotland where my own ancestral family came from before moving to Glasgow way back when. There’s a quiet little network of Scottish stuff in the book and Beith is one of many.

And, by the way, you have a very interesting name—two Irish counties. Wouldn’t mind hearing the story behind that.

I: The novel is packed with details, detritus from Chellis' work as a literary researcher. ("The number of bones in the face (fourteen), the name of Sir Isaac Newton's dog (Diamond)...") Where did you get all this stuff? Had been saving it? Was it gathered specifically for this project? Do you require this kind of background yourself before you start writing, or can you just sit down with a blank page and go?

TG: Along with the names, I do collect these bits and bobs, often keeping them around for a long time before using them, if I use them at all. I’m not an info junkie, I don’t go scouring, but I find odd bits of information delightful. These sorts of details are telling. A small colourful fact can sharpen focus, or cast an object or subject in a different, more vital light. A small “fact” even plays a significant part in the book. It’s much easier to find these now with Google, but what you mention I discovered in my own reference books. No, I don’t face the blank page without doing some foraging beforehand, finds which go into a notebook. Usually a couple of notebooks—one for straight research—for Thought You Were Dead, I checked out women inventors and genealogy, among other things—and one for words, ideas, proto-conversations, wordplay, chapter titles, whatever might seem useful.

I: I loved your listing of Chellis and Elaine's formative reading:. "Mad Magazine, or Archie comics, or PG Wodehouse, and she reading Popular Mechanics, Richie Rich comics, or Virginia Woolf." Was your formative reading so diverse? What kind of thing did you spend summer afternoons reading out on your porch?

TG: You know, I wasn’t a devoted reader. Or at least reading didn’t occupy a large part of my time, as it does with true bookworms. I did read those comics, piles of them, and the Alice books repeatedly, and Enid Blyton’s adventure series, other stuff long forgotten. Most of the classic children’s books I didn’t read until I was a young adult, and now do read fairly widely, but I have to say I’ve never tackled Popular Mechanics.

I: Chellis notes that "Fiction filtered so surreptitiously into everyday life that you had to keep your eye on it. But not banish it altogether. That would be too too boring. Besides, it was so useful." Has this been true in your own experience? Whether as a writer or simply a person living an everyday life? And would you, like Chellis' employer, be annoyed at the terms "fiction" and "falsehood" used interchangeably?

TG: Well, you think of your own family stories, or anecdotes of daily happenings, the rendering of which often enjoy improving tweaks—fiction is a great assist in making life more interesting. It gives a finer, improved shape to conversation. Not that it isn’t true. That trip to the dentist may simply become a funnier, more artfully delivered report—you mine the situation for its subtext, or its less obvious charms. We’re story-telling animals, after all. Falsehood strikes me as being more intentional, purposely deceptive. Fiction transposes life into art, whereas lies are all craft.

I: I've thought a lot about how an author is meant to approach her readership, particularly because so many readers demand a pretty immediate kind of satisfaction from a book or a story. But in your foreword to Quickening, you suggest that any satisfaction seemingly withheld might just require the reader to work a bit harder. "If the gist of any particular effort here seems overly elusive, a reader might need to venture in like a beater and drive out the game." This is a provocative stance to take, to make the reader work as hard as you do. Should reading not be entertainment, a kind of leisure? What are your thoughts on this?

TG: I love the idea of being provocative, but that was actually said as a kind of courtesy. I’ve been given the impression that the stories can be tricky, not immediate, as you say. Can’t see it myself. An attentive reader is all that’s required. So, the statement is just me acknowledging that people bring other reading experiences to a story and perhaps mine may potentially cause a bit of head-scratching. I do think a reading workout is a good thing, forging new neural pathways, etc., but I also believe that entertainment and pleasure are the main reasons for reading. Some of us are just entertained by more tangled offerings.

I: "A language landslide. An avalanche, out the words tumble slam bang, and razzle dazzle." This from your story "Suddenly", whose character's words seem to "put on disguises before sneaking out of [her] mouth." "Language landslide" or "avalanche" could also qualify as a description of your own prose. But does it really flow so easily from your pen?

TG: Slowly. I write sloooowwwly. Fuss fuss fuss. But this is the interesting thing. The result, or so I’m told, has zip, a certain energy. Words are alive, after all, and possibly I’ve been able to align them in such a way that enables them take off at a real clip.

I: Your story "The Man with the Axe" is much about the creation of fiction. "Two women talking, that's all it took to spark a birth, a genesis, to entice someone out of the shadows." Is this your experience? Where else does fiction come from?

TG: From the basement. Martin Amis says that writing comes from the back of the mind “where thoughts are unformulated and anxiety is silent.” The genesis does often seem mysterious, although yes, in my experience it doesn’t take too much to spark something—an image, a word, an expression, even a cliché. (The other day out walking I overheard a woman say to a man, presumably her husband, “I hate to tell you this . . . ” Didn’t catch the rest, but don’t need to—I could happily supply it, probably something he’d really hate to hear.)

I: As a writer for whom language is so important, "finding the exact place the words met events", it is remarkable that you so often take on the point of view of characters without language— the dogs, the babies, the fetuses. What is the appeal in this for you? Is it the challenge? And how do you find the right words to match such characters' experiences?

TG: Looking over some of what I’ve written, there appears to be two categories of the speechless. Or near speechless. Those who use language stupidly, cruelly, more as a weapon, and those, you mention, who are invested with emotion and smarts, but can’t express it. I’ve never analysed why I do this, but I assume it’s some presentation of how rich the medium—language—is, how difficult the access at times, or how easily abused. I’ve always been happy to grant sensibility to, well, just about anything. In the kids’ books it’s a fountain pen named Murray Sheaffer. Am a generous dispenser of human goods (and bads). Perhaps I’m a pantheist. People do this sort of thing with their pets all the time, I expect. You interpret a look or a quality and put words in the dog’s mouth to match. The cat says wonderfully astute or affectionate things to you in a cute voice you ascribe to her, whereas what she’s really thinking is how you’d be a tasty little snack if only you were more her size.

I: What are your preoccupations as a writer? Are these different than they used to be?

TG: My main concern is simply to write well, to improve, to keep things lively, and to have a good time doing it. All that has been consistent from the beginning. My fascination with language itself continues, and some subjects keep coming up: the male/female divide, what used to be called the battle of the sexes, and ambiguity—people in situations that they both want and don’t want.

I: Who are your favourite writers? What are your favourite books?

TG: I like the stylists mainly, and poets. So just off the top of my head: Vladimir Nabokov, Eric Ormsby, Hilary Mantel (new book out soon), Beryl Bainbridge, Ted Hughes, Seamus Heaney, Diane Johnson, Julian Barnes, Rose Tremain, Flann O’Brien, Martin Amis, Eva Ibbotson . . . oh lots lots.

I: And finally, what are you reading right now?

TG: I just finished a marvelous book, YA, called The Good Thief by Hannah Tinti. I’m re-reading Little Dorrit. Dickens can wield a sentence most fantastically—away they go. The Letters of Ted Hughes. The letters to his son heartbreaking in retrospect. The whole deal heartbreaking, but the book excellent. I’m going to have a look at A. S. Byatt’s new one, although, like you, her sister is more my cup of tea. Yikes, shouldn’t perhaps mention tea in their company...

You must read The Girls Who Saw Everything by Sean Dixon

I like this picture, because my enormousness gets lost in shadow. You also get the blue sky, sunshine, leaves on the trees, that I've picked up a little bit of colour (really-- this is an improvement), and that I've had my nose in a book all day. Or at least for most of the day, when I wasn't napping, swimming, being visited by a wee delightful baby and her as delightful mother (who came bearing scones), making more strawberry sorbet and eating the first bbq pizza of the season. Obviously, it has been a really wonderful day.

But that book I've had my nose buried in has really been one of the very best parts of the day. Said book is The Girls Who Saw Everything by Sean Dixon, which I'm not going to review because I read it for fun and it's two years old, but you can read great reviews at That Shakespearian Rag and Baby Got Books. (Outside of Canada, the book is called The Last Days of the Lacuna Cabal, which I bet is not as well designed as my Coach House edition, though it just might be.) Also check out Sean Dixon's blog related to the book, and I know you'll be intrigued.

The whole thing is brilliant. It's a book that is accessible and complex, hilarious and poignant, serious and light, important and whimsical, and brimming with bookishness for the love of bookishness, and inside jokes and outside jokes, and all the very best things about literature. A completely original story, startling in its specificity, and yet the implications stretch wide. I adored this novel about "a whole bunch of girls and... an intense little book club." And moreover, if I may say, I love that it was written by a man. Not enough books about a whole bunch of girls are. Reading about The Lacuna Cabal Montreal Young Women's Book Club was ever-surprising, ever-satisfying. And perfect for a just-as-perfect Thursday.

UPDATE: Largehearted Boy features The Official Lacuna Cabal Playlist: "In the interest of satire, however, Emmy might choose, for Missy, "Common People" by Pulp, adding with a cocked eyebrow that the character played by Sadie Frost in the video reminds her of Donna Tartt's slutty sister, so there's a bookish dimension to the choice."

Visit JessicaWesthead.com

I'm pretty excited about Jessica Westhead's fabulous new website, not just because it showcases her work, but also because of my amazing husband Stuart Lawler's part in its making (through his great venture Create Me This). And it's a gorgeous site. Yay, Jessica! Yay, Stu!

Trauma by Patrick McGrath

Charlie Weir's mother got a lot of things wrong. Favouring Charlie's brother Walt and disdaining Charlie's profession, she once remarked, "Oh, anyone can be a psychiatrist... It takes talent to be an artist." This statement filed away in the lock-box of Charlie's mind, which he sorts through all too frequently, seething with ancient resentments. His fixation underlining the fact that many people probably shouldn't be psychiatrists, him in particular. He lies down on his own couch from time-to-time, and self-regards with much the same insight he accords other people in his life, and eventually it becomes clear that Charlie Weir is a danger to himself and others.

Charlie, the protagonist in Patrick McGrath's latest novel Trauma, is at a remove from those around him. This he regards as an intellectual advantage, allowing him a deeper understanding of character, and making him a better psychiatrist in his own estimation. And it is true that for a time he received professional acclaim, working out of an office with a fashionable address, under an esteemed mentor. In the present day, however, circumstances are altered, though Charlie glosses over this (as he glosses over the fact that he grew up a loner, that he's a man in his forties who has had only two serious relationships in his life.) He can no longer afford a receptionist, his referrals are way down, and one of his few clients has just attempted suicide.

Charlie works with victims of post-traumatic stress disorder, at a time when this is a relatively new field of study. His home in New York City circa 1980 is a fitting backdrop for such an occupation, a sordid, dirty, crime-filled nightmare of a city. His girlfriend Nora, troubled by her own bad dreams, explains them away with the city: "It's a war-zone, Charlie, you have to be a warrior to live here." He counsels women who've been victims of childhood abuse, of recent sexual assault. He'd previously been working with Vietnam Veterans, but gave this up when he'd started treating his brother-in-law, taken an intervention too far and the brother-in-law had killed himself. Discovering the body, believes Charlie, has been his own trauma, though he's never had his situation "seen to". He hasn't really felt the need to, with his understanding of the pathology of trauma. This understanding, he thinks, is what differentiates him from the men and women he treats who are also unable to control their patterns of compulsive behaviour. It's what sets him apart.

Of his brother-in-law, Charlie notes that never had he "encountered a man so profoundly alienated from his own humanity that he already felt dead." Though Charlie himself is so profoundly alienated that he doesn't even know he's dead. His absolutely failure of empathy is his failing as a psychiatrist, as a brother, as a husband and a lover. When his brother-in-law dies, Charlie abandons his wife, believing her unable to cope with her husband's role in her brother's death. Displaying a complete lack of insight-- what she'd be unable to cope with is abandonment in the wake of the loss she's already been dealt. And now with his new girlfriend, Charlie is unable to regard her character beyond its pathologization, driving her away from him. He's either being too much of a psychiatrist, or displaying behaviour so dense, it's hard to believe he's more than an automaton. He's accused of being cold, of being clumsy, but fails to take on what these criticisms actually mean.

Charlie Weir is not an absorbing narrator. It's true that he is cold and clumsy, and it's a credit to McGrath that his voice doesn't convince us otherwise-- Charlie Weir convinces nobody except himself. (I do wonder about implications of psychiatrist/narrators-- their seemingly absolute command of their characters, the characters' resistance to falling under command. Is psychiatry itself a kind of failed novel?) What Charlie's voice does mean, however, is that the narrative is not as enthralling as a "psychological thriller" probably should be. There is no "grip" about it, but tension does rise as Charlie becomes increasingly isolated. As we're left with just his own voice, and the confines of his mind, which is a most terrifying place. His awareness of his breakdown cannot save him in the end, and we're only forced to bear witness as he ever so clearly and evenly narrates his inevitable descent into an abyss.

Voracious

Now reading Trauma by Patrick McGrath, because Emily Perkins mentioned him in her interview last year. I reread Perkins' Novel About My Wife yesterday, because Tessa McWatt's puzzler put me in the mood to go back to it, plus Perkins writes about first pregnancy as a really bewildering, terrifying and tender time in a marriage, and I wanted to revisit that. Having the time and space to read voraciously is something I've not experienced in a while, and I'm really enjoying it.

And on the internet too-- Jessica Westhead has a story up at Joyland.ca, "Todd and Belinda Rivers of 780 Strathcona". Katia Grubisic in praise of difficult writing at the Descant blog. Seen Reading goes from sea to shining sea (or from Vancouver to Wolfville at least). The wondrous Meli-Mello responds to my post about Mommy blogging. And Marnie Woodrow guest-posting on Sesame Street turning 40 (plus she writes about loving Rita Celli, and who doesn't love Rita Celli?). From The Walrus, "Water Everywhere, 1982", which is an excerpt from Lisa Moore's new novel February (out in June).

And we're just back from our final midwife's appointment, which is so strange to consider. And moreover, that in just a week, our Baby will be here. This little person we've known so long and haven't even met yet-- I am very excited for that moment to come. (Besides, the reusable baby wipes-- I actually sewed them! We're all ready now.)

Long Weekend

Long weekend= Sweet Fantasies Ice Cream, long rainy Saturday with plenty of time for napping, dinner out (with cake and two forks), The Movies (which was Star Trek, because I definitely owed Stuart for a variety of dullish [to him] cultural events he's accompanied me to), grilled asparagus for lunch, long long walk to Trinity Bellwoods Park and home again (with plenty of bench resting along the way), brunch out, trip to the ROM and the Schadd Biodiversity Gallery, Dufflet treats in the ROM cafe, Greg's Ice Cream, an afternoon together in the company of our books, three books for me in three days (and another one tomorrow?), squirms from the little one who will be born in just eight days, and yes, this is far too many sweets, I know, but as one is only ever 39 weeks pregnant a few times in a life, we shall shove your dietitian where the sun don't shine. (Which isn't here, thankfully. Happy May.)

A country where you don't know the language

"The first pregnancy is a long sea journey to a country where you don't know the language, where land is in sight for such a long time that after a while it's just the horizon-- and then one day birds wheel over that dark shape and it's suddenly close, and all you can do is hope like hell that you've had the right shots."-- Emily Perkins, Novel About My Wife

Step Closer by Tessa McWatt

Tessa McWatt's Step Closer is a puzzle of a novel, which I was just in the right place for considering what I'd read before it. The novel's various pieces as follows: the 2004 Tsunami, witnessed from afar by Emily who is a Canadian living in Spain with her virologist boyfriend, Sam. Virology, which Emily is trying to learn more about so she can assist Sam with Spanish translations. And that Emily is a writer, the tsunami unleashing a need within her to put together a story about what happened between her, her friend Marcus and a man called Gavin along a pilgrim's trail five years previous. Gavin and Marcus's encounter relating to an incident at a Scottish borstal twenty-five years before that, during which one boy had destroyed the other's life. There is also the matter of Sam's current preoccupation with a colleague, and with his brother who'd disappeared years before.

A narrator struggling with her narrative is a difficult creature, particularly when the struggle is (however fictionally) such a literal one, to put pen to paper. McWatt avoids the chance of tediousness, however, by having Emily embed herself within her characters' points of view. In her shifts away from first-person, she presents herself as a secondary character, and uses whatever pieces she can find to construct Marcus and Gavin's stories. She also vividly portrays expatriate life with its listlessness and danger, dares and temptations, fleeting selves and cleanish slates, against the running of the bulls.

The text is further enhanced by McWatt's marvelous prose, which is difficult, surprising and illuminating. Shying away from nothing-- the sordid, the disturbing and the strange, but none of it cheapened, for sensation. As a reader I saw before me many scenes I didn't like, but I was confident the author was showing it to me for a reason. That she knew very well what she was doing.

Like Emily Perkins' Novel About My Wife, this is a story whose narrator never asked the right questions, never noticed the right things, and so there are gaps in the story that can't be helped, and are actually especially illuminating. Though McWatt's Emily's telling is more satisfying, perhaps not providing all the answers, but we do see in the end that her telling has been a journey of self-discovery. She realizes that she has so often made herself a character in other people's stories that she's forgotten her own-- which is a strange and twisted kind of egotism. Her focus on the past also keeping her from dwelling on the problems of her present, which are more numerous than she might allow. McWatt has written the most galvanizing, satisfying and beautiful conclusion, however, which doesn't so much give an end away as allow us to see Emily on the way to decidedly somewhere.

Even permitting gaps, however, not all the pieces here match up as they should. The virology metaphor perhaps stretches too far, and is not ultimately convincing. The questions Emily leaves unasked are sometimes too opportune plot-wise, and don't wholly make sense. But with such a puzzle of a novel, I do suspect that another read would make things clearer, and that I could even do well with another after that. The novel's conclusion making clear that Tessa McWatt is in control, and that ultimately such disparate plots link together. Which has been Emily's point from the very beginning-- "There is an order here, awkward and quiet, even now, if you look carefully." The reader is convinced.

Bad Gardener

Bad mother, bad schmother-- what I am is a bad gardener. I didn't used to think this. I used to even imagine that I had a green thumb, but turns out I just lived in a house whose backyard had very fertile soil (as a result of probably 40+ years of being a Portuguese man's backyard before it became ours). When we moved last year, we set up a pot garden on our deck, and it was a disaster. I think we got three cherry tomatoes and a bean from the whole lot, in addition to a crop of thyme we never managed to harvest. I will try again with a pot vegetable garden another time, but not this year, when I'll be too consumed with another little seedling. But seeing as our deck might be as far out into the world as I venture some (most?) days, I wanted something to be growing there. We went to the garden centre last weekend and bought a bunch of annuals that should take off without a great deal of work on our part. Though not if the squirrels have anything to do with it, bruddy squirrels, those vandals. It would be one thing if they ate the plants, or if their nuts were actually buried there-- but there are no nuts, they have no interest in the flowers but to unearth them. The squirrels just dig until the pot is sufficiently ransacked, then go about their merry way. Or as merry as a way can be for vermin. If I were a different type of person, I'd be gedding out my shotgun...

On mommy blogs, maternal ambivalence, and my worst tendencies

I've been thinking a lot about writing and motherhood lately, as I put one on the back burner and prepare for the other. I reread Rachel Cusk's A Life's Work yesterday, which is such a complicated, dark and beautiful book. And two ideas glared at me from her introduction-- first, the inevitable backlash to any mother who dares to put her experiences down on paper (or blog). Cusk found herself taken aback, but reasoned the response with that "in writing about motherhood, I inevitably attracted a readership too diverse to be satisfied from a single source. The world has many more mothers than an author generally has readers." So many people read her book because they were interested in motherhood, because of "the desire to see it reflected, to have it explained, all that love and terror and strangeness, even if it is immediately repressed by the far stronger desire for authority and consensus, for 'normality' to be restored: to me, the childcare manual is the emblem of the new mother's psychic loneliness." But more on this in a minute.

Second, Cusk writes "with the gloomy suspicion that a book about motherhood is of no real interest to anyone except other mothers." Which I've been conscious of also here, as babies have become such a preoccupation of mine lately. As my personal experiences, the books I've read, the way I've been reading, and everything I've been doing have been so framed within the context of our baby's imminent arrival. Though Pickle Me This has never been a particularly serious literary blog, it's certainly become even less so lately. I'm not saying my hard-hitting criticisms of picture books aren't worth noting, but there are some readers, I'm sure, who are less than enthralled. And I really don't want to alienate any of my five readers.

Here's the thing: I have read mommy blogs. (Note, I didn't say "I read (present tense) mommy blogs". But now I'm getting all Brian Mulroney pedantic.) The term mommy blog is a slur, as is "chick lit", neither "genre" (let's say) helping itself by mainly comprising compost. Stephany Aulenback recently remarked on the ubiquity of parents chronicling their children's lives online: "I think when our children are grown up, they're going to have different notions of "public" than we do now."

My derision of women writing about their domestic lives ("compost") sits uncomfortably with me, because it's so easy to deride women's domestic lives-- everybody does it. By existing within the domestic sphere, these stories really serve to undermine themselves, which certainly bothers me when it comes to fiction. When with aesthetics as an excuse, fiction about women's lives is so often deemed less than literary, as craft is less than art, etc.

The problem I have with mommy blogs, however, is that I watch them in the same way I'd watch a train wreck-- even the incredibly well-written ones. I don't necessarily admire these women's "honesty" and how they "put themselves out there", but sometimes I really do have to tear my eyes away. Their deliberate provocations are often horrifying, my knee-jerk response is catty, and I'm not the only one. As Cusk says, "The world has many more mothers...", each one with her own opinions, and then fights break out in the comments section, commenters accusing other bloggers' "followers" of being sheep, and then baa-ing themselves. Controversial topics include diapers, breastfeeding, reproductive rights, between working moms who work at home or out, and these are controversial topics, but it's all handled a bit grade five. No one ever shows up to have their minds changed or expanded. My problem with these blogs is less with the blogs themselves, but how they feed on my worst tendencies.

(Though I also hate the smugness. The current trend is to embrace your inner bad-mom, and let her all hang out, but at the root of this is the sense that badness is in fact best. That anyone embracing domesticity has something up her ass, that liberation lies in the anti-domestic after all, but I'm really not so sure. I think a lot of these people might be misled. For all they're anti-mom, they not beyond-mom, and they certainly define themselves in relation to their [albeit messy] homes. And this is a bit dangerous, can all go very wrong-- I read one blog by a defiantly proud bad mom, and then her baby died. I suppose we are to make of that what we will.)

Which is not to say that maternal ambivalence, the experience of which these women are trying to project, is not real, or a subject deeply worth pursuing. It's just not very often expressed in a particularly thoughtful way within these forums. Whereas I've found the idea explored well elsewhere, in the experiences of women artists in particular. Perhaps because these women have a medium with which to convey their experiences, because they are well-accustomed to expressing themselves. Because it's a complicated issue requiring a high level of articulateness. We Need to Talk About Kevin, The Divided Heart, Who Does She Think She Is, Cusk's A Life's Work, Anne Enright's Making Babies, and I was recently introduced to Marita Dachsel's Motherhood and Writing Interviews (by writer Laisha Rosnau, who is the subject of one).

So somehow I find myself saying that inarticulate people have no business writing about their lives. Hmmm. (Or perhaps that they should, but I just shouldn't read them because I'm not very nice). For your own interest, please do check in in about two weeks times to see how articulate I've become with a newborn, and then again six months later when my house is a mess and I'm smashing my head against the wall and the stove is on fire. When I'm just as bad a mom as any of them, reality sunk in. Don't think I'm not aware of this, but it's still scary to consider.

But it's not simply black and white, good mom/bad mom and I appreciate the writing best that reflects this. How Rachel Power (author of The Divided Heart) wrote recently: "maternal ambivalence is not a state of being torn between love and hate for our children (meaning not them so much as what they've done to our lives) — but is a state entirely borne out of love. It is precisely this love for my children, being so excruciating, that I can feel has ruined me. This acute tenderness and sense of responsibility is something us mothers are never free of, and almost impossible to imagine until you’re in it."

Reliving my own evolution

"I begin to relive at high speed my own evolution towards language, towards stories. Reading books to my daughter revives my appetite for expression. Like someone visiting old haunts after an absence I read books that I have read before, books that I love, and when I do I find them changed: they give the impression of having contained all along everything that I have gone away to learn. I begin to find them everywhere, in pages that I thought familiar; prophecies of what was to come, pictures of the very place in which I now stand, and yet which I look on with no spark of recognition. I wonder how I could have read so much and learned so little. I have stared at these words like the pots and pans, the hoarded gold of a precious civilization, immured in museum glass. Could it be true that one has to experience in order to understand? I have always denied this idea, and yet of motherhood, for me at least, it seems to be the case. I read as if I were reading letters from the dead, letters addressed to me but long unopened; as if by reading I were bringing back the vanished past, living it again as I would like to live every day of my life again, perfectly, without misunderstanding." --Rachel Cusk, A Life's Work: On Becoming a Mother

The Pattern in the Carpet by Margaret Drabble

Oh, but I do wish A.S. Byatt and Margaret Drabble would settle that petty spat about the tea set. You see, they'd have so much to talk about. I just finished reading Drabble's latest book The Pattern in the Carpet, whose reviewer in The Telegraph was quite correct with "What a puzzle: Margaret Drabble’s memoir cum history of the jigsaw cum paean to her rather dull aunt shouldn’t really work. But somehow, in the end, it seduces." It did. I'd also listened to the Guardian podcast of an excerpt from the beginning of the book, and so the whole of the book I read in her voice.

It was a very strange book, the kind they don't let you write unless you've been publishing for nearly fifty years and they indulge you. Such permissiveness a good thing, because the book is fascinating. (I'm not sure it will come out in Canada. It is a very English book. Estimates of a limited audience here might be correct, but then again they may not be). The book, of course, is a puzzle in itself (though if I were English, I'd call it a "jigsaw"), made up of memoir, family history, and the history of the jigsaw puzzle. Which comes to encompass a history of games, of amusements and pastimes. (And why does pastime not have two s's, I wonder, but anyway...) Also a history of childhood, and children's literature too. Told most unsentimentally, and Drabble admits she's never had much of an interest in childhood, or explored it in her fiction. But she's looking backwards now, in light of her own age and her husband's illness, perhaps because, she admits, she dreads of looking forward.

But The Pattern in the Carpet is hardly a personal indulgence. Drabble was indulged instead in being permitted to publish a book that "shouldn't work", whose pieces do not fit together neatly, and together form a whole that is quite difficult to explain/contain. Entire chapters as digressions, anecdotes fitted in for no other reason than that they're interesting, moving from jigsaws to mosaics, to the city as a jigsaw, production and marketing of children's games, and reconstruction of ruins, and the "Teas with Hovis" cups and saucers from her auntie's bed and breakfast. Something called a warming pan, and how Drabble's mother liked electric blankets, but for Drabble herself the novelty wore off and she sticks with hot water bottles now.

I loved it. Now I'm pretty partial to Margaret Drabble anyway, and have readily embraced her admittedly strange more recent novels that might have put her long-time readers off. But I suspect these readers will find the new book appealing as well, even if they lack interest in the subject matter (and I really couldn't have cared less about jigsaw puzzles before this book. Now I'm just a little bit inspired). The book is a veritable curiosity shop, scattered with sharp thinking, wonderful questions, and Drabble's meticulous prose.

But yes, she needs to talk to her sister. Byatt also has a new book out, The Children's Book, which I was resisting. I don't love A.S. with the same lack of reserve with which I love Drabble, plus The Children's Book is 600+ pages and I'm having a baby in a week and a half. The book might just be heavier than the baby, but then I read this review at Dovegreyreader Scribbles, and more thoughts upon the novel over at Crooked House. And now I simply must have it, baby or not. Particularly because of how it relates to The Pattern in the Carpet, to childhood as an invention and its literature. I'm looking forward to it. And maternity leave pre-baby has brought on the return of my ability to focus, and so this whole "reading" idea is not as idiotic as it might seem in the time being.

The Final Encounter

Though the blog's formatting is somewhat messed up (or at least it is on my browser), I'll point your attention towards my final post over at the Descant Blog. Encounters with Books: In Conclusion.

How the future's done

Lyrics from the baby's current favourite song (or at least song that brings on the most squirms) suggests to me that he/she will fit in fine around here: "I got a man to stick it out/ And make a home from a rented house/ And we'll collect the moments one by one/ I guess that's how the future's done."

Magazine as Muse

My friend Rebecca Rosenblum (you know her, with a book just nominated for the Danuta Gleed Award, and she's off to Japan this very day) has a wonderful piece in the current issue of The New Quarterly. "Stuff They Wrote" is part of TNQ's "Magazine as Muse" feature, in which writers credit magazines that inspired them to start writing down words, and even sharing them. Rebecca has written an ode to edgy teen magazine Sassy, and its "staffers" in particular. She writes, "Sassy was like a novel in a fundamental way. It had characters. Sassy brought that always-lurking I-perspective of journalism to the centre. The writers didn't take over the stories (usually) but they didn't elide themselves, either."

Sassy was a world in which Rebecca could imagine herself, the writers bridging that gap between her life and theirs, suggesting limitless possibilities for the kind of woman girls could grow up to be. And when Sassy became swallowed up by a corporate behemoth, and a strange zombie Sassy emerged, Rebecca knew enough to know the difference, and had confidence enough to put pen to letter-to-editor to say so. It wasn't too long after that Rebecca had her first story published, and she wouldn't dismiss the idea of some connection there.

Confession: I didn't like Sassy. Sassy scared me. Their rules were too loose, they went too far, they used questionable language, and were touting something I found close to anarchy (ie SEX!). As a young teenager, I thought the wide world was generally terrifying, and was convinced that drugs, drinks and dyed hair were signs of slips towards hell. Beware of scruffy boys with cigarettes who might dare to sport an earring. (And tuck your shirt in, young man). Mine was a puritanism born of fear of the unknown, as most puritanisms usually are.

So I had a subscription to Seventeen. Writes Rebecca, "Seventeen was imperative-voiced: columns and service pieces about how often you should brush your hair and how you might get into a bad crowd if you didn't listen to your real feelings. Seventeen wasn't like a story; it was like a textbook, only there were Eye Makeup and French-Kissing classes instead of Math and Geography."

Oh, but some of us were in dire need of schooling. In a world so incredibly chaotic (with dances, and lockers, and gym class-- oh my!), a textbook offered some assurance, and I followed mine quite dutifully. Back to School must-haves, awesome locker organizers, lipstick colours, and the best kind of Caboodle. I learned that it was okay to like Evan Dando (which was something upon which Sassy and Seventeen concurred). Sassy preached that you could be whoever you wanted, but I didn't know who that was yet. I preferred the message of Seventeen instead-- play the game right, and I just might fit in.

Not that I did fit in. I had oily hair and pulled my pants up to my armpits, but one issue of Seventeen in particular suggested that I might have half a chance. It was the issue from April 1993, whose date I only remember because I had it with me on a family vacation to Florida when I was in grade eight. It was the one single issue that I even remember, as not so much a muse as a re-framing of my world view, or at least of my place in it.

This was a new re-formatted Seventeen. A significant departure-- I've found a record of old covers on line, and March 1993 was neon-hued, Andrew Shue playing volleyball. And then came April, with its muted-toned Earth Day theme. Shouting, Save the Earth, Girl! Which was cool. I don't remember noticing the model's hideous eyebrows then, but I liked her funky rings and hat. Inside, I remember a feature on slam-poetry (though it might well have been slam-poetry-inspired Bohemian fashions, but alas...) headlined, "Poetry/ is such a thing now." Groovy, man. I wanted a beret. Someone wrote a piece about how amazing were the Beatles lyrics (citing, "She's the kind of girl you want so much she makes you sorry...") in comparison with whatever hit of the day was out then, and it was the first time I'd ever seen The Beatles (to whom I was obsessively devoted, so much that I was forbidden to speak of them at the dinner table because I was so incredibly boring) noted in contemporary pop culture. Poetry too, which I fancied myself a writer of. Book recommendations included one called Mrs. Dalloway-- something like "the cool story of a single day in the life of a woman getting ready for a party!" I tried to read it, didn't get it, but began to have it fixed in my mind that one day I would.

I probably just should have read Sassy, but I wasn't ready to leave my shelter. The granola-y "reuse, recycle, renew, respect" Seventeen, however, provided a glimpse of an alternative culture that might provide me some space within it. Books were cool, The Beatles were cool, and poetry was cool, all of which I'd known already, but now somebody else knew it too. It was 1993, and I was inspired. En route to Florida I bought a flannel shirt at a Kentucky outlet mall-- this was counter-culture. Naturally, I tucked it into my tapered jeans that were still pulled up to my armpits, but it was something, nonetheless. I was on my way.

Thought You Were Dead and Quickening by Terry Griggs

The timing was quite fortuitous in my discovery of Terry Griggs. (My discovery of her for myself, I mean, for Griggs is already well recognized, having published five books, including two novels, two children's novels, and the Governor General's Award-nominated short story collection Quickening. She was awarded the Marian Engel Award in 2003). I read her short fiction first in Canadian Notes and Queries 76, which was the infamous Salon Des Refuses issue, and then in The New Quarterly 108. I found that Griggs' narrative voice had the force of a hurricane, the fortuitousness being that when I wanted more of it, I had not long to wait. Her new novel Thought You Were Dead was released earlier this month with Biblioasis, and her 1990 collection Quickening has been reprinted as part of the Biblioasis Renditions series.

Thought You Were Dead takes the crime novel formula and turns it on its head with such a literary consciousness that book reviewer becomes uncomfortable using such cliches as "turns it on its head." Literary consciousness is not to mean hoity-toity here, however, or obnoxiously academic, seeing as Detective Chellis Beith only possesses one half of an English degree. Rather that this is a novel very conscious of itself as a book, written by an in author in full possession of her tools at work (which are words). With its tongue in its cheek, sending up the genre-- Chellis Beith isn't even a detective, though he's frequently accused of being one. Instead, however, he is a literary researcher, formerly a grocery store stock boy, snatched up by a best-selling author one day in the ValuMart "along with the gherkins and the Melba toast."

We find the body on page 1, and that this body is fictional, the work of Chellis's employer Athena Havlock makes no difference at all. Griggs makes no firm distinction between fact and fiction, between the literal and metaphoric, and these distinctions become even more incidental when Athena Havlock disappears. Second body turns up on page 145-- a live one in the form of a supposed long-lost sister. And then Chellis is forced to start putting the pieces together, to fill out the details in life as he's so often done in story. He employs his best friend and old frame in a quest to uncover the truth, applying the same level of initiative he applies to everything (which, suffice it to say, is very little.)

Griggs' fiction is as demanding as it is rewarding, pulling no punches at all. The reader is plunged rather than eased into the story, whose language must be untangled, unraveled in order to work out the plot. Chellis Beith may be a slacker, but Terry Griggs is no such thing, her tangling and raveling deliberate and intricate, sending up crime fiction, small-town culture, and the literary life. And so much more, this becoming clear with every rereading, with every sentence picked apart, with every one closely read. What a richly textured lark is this, how substantial is Terry Grigg's concept of whimsy.

With Quickening, which is a very different kind of book, stories that were written a long time ago, it becomes clear that textured larks and substantial whimsy have always been Griggs' way. These stories of island life are various, but linked by their connections to water (swim lit, however darkly, much to my delight), to vanishings, unlikely points of views (by babies, dogs, and fetuses). These are short stories with limits that are elastic, stretching to accommodate narrative shapes that are "tetrahedral in complexity". Which isn't easy. But in her foreword to this reprinting, Griggs notes just what she demands of her readers: "If the gist of any particular effort here seems overly elusive, a reader might need to venture in like a beater and drive out the game." What a novel challenge to have posed, and we're better readers for it.

*UPDATE: Terry Griggs has penned today's Tuesday Essay in The Globe & Mail.

The Immovable Baby

Though we love our own mothers dearly, continental drift and late-pregnancy laziness meant they were sorely neglected today as Stuart and I enjoyed Afternoon Tea together, a Mother's Day treat for me though I'm not quite a mother yet. I did earn a bit of mother cred yesterday, however, when a doctor spent twenty minutes or so inflicting great pain upon my abdomen in an attempt to get our determinedly sideways baby to turn. (All reports say I was very brave! and then after I got Dairy Queen). Baby didn't budge, however, and I've got to respect that. And now, after about six weeks of trying to get Baby to move through a variety of means, I'm giving up. I was very much committed to having a natural birth, but this baby is very naturally sideways, and I'm just pleased it has a means to still get here safely. I could spend the next two weeks resorting to further measures, but I don't think they'd work, and I'm also really tired. I am finished work now, and my sanity will be much more assured if I can spend this time relaxing, planting flowers in my garden, reading novels, writing while I still can, preparing food for the freezer, stocking the pantry, and taking plenty of naps. (This will also give me time to sew reusable baby wipes, which I have somehow been possessed to accomplish, even though I don't know how to sew. It is unfortunate my "nesting" instinct has taken on such inconvenient forms.)

And who knows, Baby might turn on its own anyway? But short of that, and providing Baby doesn't decide to come earlier, we are excited to know we will meet the wee one on the morning of May 26th. I'm not looking forward to a cesarean, which certainly wasn't what I'd envisaged, and in fact I am very scared and upset by the idea of a long recovery when I'll need my strength more than ever. But so many others have done it fine, we have a lot of support, and I am very fortunate that a) I've now met the surgeon and I love him and b) my midwives will be there to take care of the baby and me, and provide after-care (I love them too).

From our prenatal class manual: "Cesarean mothers... are courageous women who are willing to be cut apart for the lives of their infants. Perhaps it is time to congratulate yourself for your strength and courage."

Of mothers, and babies, and books

Today, for the love of Mothers, and babies, and books, my guest post is up at Rona Maynard's wonderful site. So why not go read "At least the baby's library is ready" and then have a pleasant Sunday.

Thatcher knew the type

"Thatcher knew the type. They broke spines, they dog-eared pages, they scribbled obscene comments in the margins and squashed bugs between the covers, they branded the text with coffee rings, flicked ashes in the binding, wiped freshly excavated ear wax on the end papers, used rusty bobby pins and strips of bacon for bookmarks. Small potatoes, he realized, petty vandalism, but not unconnected to great offences. Thatcher had a panoramic vision when it came to crime, a comprehensive view that took in the roots of evil as well as the fruit. All thanks to the firm, guiding hand of his mother, a long-suffering librarian who filled him in like the empty pages of a notepad, sparing no detail. A child who forgets to return a library book, she had warned, may well grow up to be the kind of person who "forgets" to take a knife out of someone's back..." --Terry Griggs, "Tag" from Quickening

Please bear

This would be a blog entry, but I am too fixated on cloth diaper brands and securing my next serving of ice cream. Plus everything I do these days seems to proceed in a most dilatory fashion. For example, I've been writing this for twenty minutes. Please bear with us, and thank you.

There has never been a cuter cake

This cake from my baby shower this afternoon was about as delicious as it was adorable. And even home-decorated by one of the wonderful shower attendees, no less. Pretty much typical of the afternoon too-- the shower itself was deserving of a cake this good, with amazing food and some of my very favourite company. Family and friends who were patient enough to sit around watching me open presents all afternoon. For such patience, I'm grateful, as well as for the presents themselves, which were so thoughtful, perfect, and as adorable as the cake. This is going to be one very blessed baby, and I'm so lucky already.

Sunshine

Today's sunshine was also quite delicious. We had banana oatmeal pancakes, which have been my favourite Sunday morning treat since we first made them in December. (The recipe is from Chatelaine, and you can find it here.) They're golden brown and wonderful, and we found using vanilla yogurt in the recipe is good. I will miss them after Baby is born, and we no longer have time to eat. Therefore, I will eat them as often as possible in the time remaining.

Tonight we also were able to sample the results of our experiment in sorbet making. (Sorbet making, I suspect, is another activity we might see less of when Baby arrives.) The recipe is from Tessa Kiros' Apples For Jam (which I cannot recommend enough), Mango sorbet from the yellow section, and though she calls for good quality mangoes (for this sorbet can only ever be as good as its mangoes, she says), we got fine results from our Ontario supermarket substandard trucked in from some southern hemisphere variety. It was also really easy, and though it required a day's preparation, a little whisking every few hours never killed anyone. And homemade mango sorbet really is a sweet delight. (Could have used a bit more sugar, but really, what couldn't?)