Wish List

Cheeky, cheeky, I know. Any excuse to slip in a baby picture, but I assure you that this is entirely relevant. Obligatory baby shot amidst some pumpkins is a symbol of autumn, which means that Harriet is four months old, which means that in two months, she'll be six months old. Which means that I will soon lose my maternity leave top-up, and then will have to stop spending money like a Rockefeller. (Or did the Rockefellers make money? And save it? Perhaps this is my problem.)

All of this is fine, except that it throws a kink into my book-buying habits. Or at least it should, particularly as I have forty-two books waiting to be read on my book shelf. (Some are more likely to be read than others. Nightwood by Djuna Barnes has been there since 1998).

When I buy new books, it's a kind of compulsion. I feel as though said book has to be mine as soon as possible, and if I delay, I'll lose track of my desire for it, and then the world will end. I'm serious. But seeing as we're entering a new age of impecuniousness, I've got to change my ways.

Which doesn't mean I'll stop buying books. No, I once read an essay by Annie Dillard who wrote that anyone who hopes to make money from literature has to spend money on literature (and hard cover literature to boot), all for the sake of karma. (And I would extend this to anyone who values and enjoys literature as well, but that's just me.) I will continue to buy new books, of course, which provide the best value for money I've ever known, but I have to be more careful about going about it.

There will be no more rash purchases. A good review in The Globe no longer means I have to rush around the corner to Book City immediately. Instead, I will wait on my urge, think about it for a while. Perhaps I will even wait until Christmas, for somebody to give it to me? And in order that the world not end, and I keep my desires neatly organized, I've started a new list in my ever-expanding sidebar. See "Wish List", to the left, which has already two.

I don't expect it will stay so short for long.

Why I love the LRB

As a person who loves driving but hates cars, I found Andrew O'Hagan's "A Car of One's Own" the very best thing I read today. From the London Review of Books, 11 June 2009. Read the whole thing. Excerpt as follows:

"I could easily say I loved my car – I missed it when I went to bed at night. On that first long drive from London to Wales and thence to Inverness – which took 14 hours – I believe I discovered my autonomy. As with all illusions, I didn’t care that others found the enchantment funny: the feeling was new, and its newness is something that millions of people express rarely but understand fully. In American fiction, a great number of epiphanies – especially male epiphanies – occur while the protagonist is alone and driving his car. There are reasons for that. One may not have a direction but one has a means of getting there. One may not be in control of life but one can progress in a straight line. When your youth is over and definitions become fixed, even if they are wrong, it might turn out that the arrival of a car suddenly feels like the commuting of a sentence. It may seem to give you back your existential mojo. That is the beauty of learning to drive late and learning to drive often: it gives you a sense that life turned out to be freer than it was in your childhood, that time agrees with you, that your own sensitivities found their domain in the end, and that deep in the shell of your inexpensive car you came to know your subjectivity. Of course, one may find these things in the marriage bed or in a gentleman’s club, but those places have rules and your car is your own bed, your own club. Music? Yes. Tears? Yes. Singing? Yes. Stopping under the stars? OK, if you must. And here is Tintern Abbey. And there is Hadrian’s Wall. And should I stop in Glasgow for a drink? If you read the novels of Joan Didion, you will see there can come a time in anybody’s life, women’s as much as men’s, when they climb into their car and feel that they are driving away from an entire kingdom of dependency. The motorways don’t offer a solution: they offer a welcome straitjacket. Your car will get all the credit for bringing you home to yourself, for showing you the only person you can truly depend on is not merely yourself, but yourself-in-your-car, a somatic unity. Those who spend most of their lives being alert to the demands of others – and that’s most employees, most husbands, wives, parents, most believers – will know the rhythmic, sedative pull of the motorways as the road performs its magic, pulling you back by degrees to some forgotten individualism that the joys and vexations of community always threatened to turn into an upholstered void. Virginia Woolf was almost right: all one really needs is a car of one’s own, the funds to keep it on the road and the will to encounter oneself within. Though most of those men aren’t listening to Virginia Woolf – they’re listening to Dylan’s Highway 61 Revisited."

Reporting from the reading road

So I'm halfway through Little Women, just beginning Part Two and Meg's wedding. And what I do remember now from the first time I read this is that I was unbelievably confused about who Teddy and Laurie were, and only now do I realize that they were both Theodore Laurence. (And somehow I was also confusing him with Teddy Kent from Emily of New Moon, but that's neither here nor is it there). In general, I'm not finding the book too rip-roaring, and am looking hungrily to my to-be-read stack and counting the number of pages left (250). But the experience is not without its joys: though the characters are types, they're also more than a bit surprising, and Jo is as entrancing as Jo's ever were. (Beth, however, I probably will not mourn so much when it's time.) Regarding the types: remember Sarah Liss on Little Women as the original Sex and the City? I also absolutely love the self-consciously omniscient narrator.

It strikes me, however, that this is a children's book in a way that anything penned by L.M. Montgomery is not. I'm revisiting this for the first time since girlhood, and I'm not finding anything new between the lines, unlike when I last reread Anne of Green Gables and discovered the heart of the story is actually Marilla. Also, Little Women is a bit too moralistic, which I realize is the whole point, but it's sort of retchful, no? I know the girls don't always manage to be good, but they're always trying to, and Marmee is so frightfully good (because she's suppressed her terrible temper) and I just feel as though the March family loves one another a little too much in order to compensate for... something.

So, is this sacrilege? What am I missing? Is this a book one has to fall in love with in childhood? Any illumination would be quite welcome.

UPDATE: Part Two has actually proved to be much more interesting. "Literary Lessons" (Jo's adventures in publishing) laid out very clearly the confusing nature of writing feedback. And "Domestic Experiences" (where Meg and Brooke's household descends into chaos when jelly fails to set is funny, poignant, and real). And even Amy's failed posh fete. I am enjoying it more.

Pickings less slim than planned

This is the fifth year that I've attended the Victoria College Booksale on Half-Price Monday, and I regret that it may have to be the last. The same books are always left over and for a long time they were exactly the books I wanted, but I have them all now, so the pickings seem a bit slim. Which is probably the reason I thought I was being so prudent as I browsed, careful to only pick up books I had some intention of reading with pleasure (rather than books I'd read if I were somebody I'd rather be, which is a mistake I've made before). In the end, however, my stack was not so modest. It was smaller than in years past, but that's not saying very much.

I got an ARC of Leave Me Alone, I'm Reading by Maureen Corrigan (because I liked the title), The Sweet Edge by Alison Pick (because I just read her story in The New Quarterly), That Scatterbrain Booky by Bernice Thurman Hunter, Charlotte's Web by EB White (because they're both wonderful, and Harriet can read them when she's bigger), Almost Japanese by Sarah Sheard (because I liked the title-- Japan having once been my home-- and then I saw it was Coach House, and knew I couldn't go wrong), Dear Mem Fox by Mem Fox (I KNOW! I KNOW!, and I hope no one reading is too deterred by my being absolutely obsessed with this woman. I am so excited to read this book), The Space a Name Makes by Rosemary Sullivan, Home Cooking by Laurie Colwin (because I've already read it, and therefore it won't sit on my To Be Read shelf!), Fludd by Hilary Mantel (see-- slim pickings. I've long swore I'd never read a book called Fludd, but now maybe I will. I do love Hilary Mantel, and this isn't the most historic of her historical fiction, and so...), Excellent Women by Barbara Pym (because I've wanted to read her for a while), My Cousin Rachel by Daphne DuMaurier (even though I haven't managed to get around to Jamaica Inn from last year), Goodbye Tsugsumi and Amrita by Banana Yoshimoto (because we like Japanese fiction in translation at our house), Believe Me by Patricia Pearson (sequel to Playing House, which I read in the spring), Salvador by Joan Didion (because, because, because), and Fatal Charms by Dominick Dunne (a collection of his essays. Am looking forward to it). And also, Eloise, because everyone needs a primer on misbehaviour.

Wash the Poodle

"I suspect the real attraction was a large library of fine books, which was left to dust and spiders since Uncle March died. Jo remembered the kind old gentleman, who used to let her build railroads and bridges with his big dictionaries, tell her stories about the queer pictures in his Latin books, and buy her cards of gingerbread whenever he met her in the street. The dim dusty room, with the busts staring down from the tall bookcases, the cozy chairs, the globes, and, best of all, the wilderness of books in which she could wander where she liked, made the library a region of bliss to her. The moment Aunt March took her nap, or was busy with company, Jo hurried to this quiet place, and curling herself up in the easy chair, devoured poetry, romance, history, travels and pictures, like a regular bookworm. But, like all happiness, it did not last long; for as sure as she had just reached the heart of the story, the sweetest verse of the song, or the most perilous adventure of her traveler, a shrill voice called, "Josy-phine! Josy-phine!" and she had to leave her paradise to wind yarn, wash the poodle, or read Belsham's Essays by the hour together." --from Louisa May Alcott's Little Women

Happy Friday

I just received a spam email from "me" with the subject heading, "I'm so proud for you". Totally! We've had a very good week this week, mostly due to the fact that I'm no longer exhausted. Harriet is back to getting up just once a night, probably just because she decided it would be so, but we like to think because I've started waking her for a feed right before I go to sleep. So we'll enjoy it while it lasts.

She's also going bed early, however eventually, which gives me a marvelous break in the evenings. And since I've (almost) quit Facebook, I've ceased my epic time wasting. I'm getting lots of reading done, working on knitting a little sweater for Harriet, working on a writing assignment that I'm finding absolutely thrilling, as well as a bit of fiction. Little Women is wonderful, actually. I have a short story coming out in December, and I'm very excited about that (with details to come, of course).

I am very grateful to have two good friends also on maternity leave right now, and their company is the best way I've found yet to pass the days. And not just to pass the days, but to enjoy them. Today we all finally went to The Children's Storefront-- it was my first visit, finally, and was an absolutely magical place we'll be returning to. And we're looking forward to Sunday, when Harriet hosts her very first party.

It is a happy Friday indeed. (And is this where we cue the baby going ballistic, and not sleeping at all tonight? Just in order to make me eat every word I writ. Oh, we'll see...)

On Mem Fox's Reading Magic

I starting this book thinking it was preaching to the choir. I already knew that reading aloud to my child would point her in positive directions. I've long delighted in picture books, we live in a house full of books, and those of us already literate are reading all the time. We also both love reading to Harriet, because she's a baby, and there's not much else to do with her (because "Pattycakes" gets old quick, and there's only so many times you can play "The Grand Old Duke of York" without being spat up on from up at the top of the hill). As Harriet's library was ready before she was, she's always been well placed to reap the benefits of books, but since reading Mem Fox's Reading Magic, I feel more confident than ever. Which, as a parent, is really quite novel.

Of course, we were on the right track already, but it's always nice to have that underlined. And then to learn even more about how to foster not just literacy, but also a love of books-- Fox teaches the benefits of reading aloud from birth (and not just at bedtime!), how to read aloud effectively, how to make games out of books to enhance the opportunities for learning, why having the child read aloud might stifle a love for reading, and also the three secrets of reading: an engagement with print, with language, and with the world. I also liked her list of twenty books children will love, which is available on her website.

I came away from this book so absolutely inspired, and excited by the opportunity to have a positive effect on my daughter's life (and on our relationship-- Fox mentions the together time of reading, and cuddling together it requires, which is so important to young kids). It also underlined a hunch I've had about being a parent for a while-- that however much we fret and feel guilty and unsure, the most essential things that children require are those we give them without even trying.

Finally getting around to

Am currently suffering from the plight of every avid book-buyer, that is my unread books shelf getting rather crowded. Certain books have been up there for a year, which you think would be a hint that I'll never get around to them, but for some reason I can't give up the ghost. And I keep buying irresistable books that sit on that shelf for just a day or two, so that the others get pushed further and further back in line. The Vic Book Sale next week will do nothing to help matters, and so I'm getting around to one of these volumes. As of later today, I'll be now reading Little Women. I think I found it for free in a box out on some sidewalk, and though I read the book years and years ago, I scarcely remember it at all (except for Beth's death and Jo's hair) so I'll go back there again. I'm not terribly motivated to do so though, perhaps due to the fustiness of my particular novel, and damn, that book is long. We shall see. I'll let you know how it goes.

Eden Mills in the Sunshine

If you ever want to appreciate being out in the world, do have a baby. Though this means being out in the world requires a remarkable amount of luggage, but no matter. We had a wonderful time at Eden Mills on Sunday on such a gorgeous sunny day. The drive was beautiful, with splendid autumn colours (already!). We saw our good friends the Rosenblum/ Sampsons, which was splendid (though we really only saw them in passing-- our readings schedules were quite different). On Publishers' Way, we checked out The New Quarterly, where I bought a t-shirt that might fit once I stop breastfeeding, and Biblioasis next door, where I bought The English Stories by Cynthia Flood and said hello to the excellent Dan Wells. We listened to readings by Marina Endicott, Ian Brown (who was amazing-- pictured here) and Miram Toews (who we knew would be amazing already. She was the reason we were there and she did not disappoint). And then Terry Griggs, and Julie Wilson, and I enjoyed it all thoroughly. Also enjoyed was the organic ice cream, cones of which we each had two. Perfect all around, until we got stuck in traffic out by the airport and the baby screamed until home, but alas. These are the chances we take.

Surprising Gillers (with just a bit too much historical fiction. And MARTHA BAILLIE!!)

I was wrong. And come now, this is hardly unprecedented. I tend to be wrong at least five times a day, but I do wish I'd been wrong about something other than Lisa Moore's chances at this year's Giller Prize. Because-- to the surprise of many-- February didn't make the longlist, and I consider it a fine novel. Also to the surprise of many, ten out of the twelve books nominated this year were written by women, which is surprising because women writers don't tend to stack up on prize lists, unless it is the Orange Prize, which is why there is an Orange Prize. (Or at least this is the way it looks from my chair. I could be wrong about this too. I probably am, after all, I haven't slept for more than 2.5 hours in a row in three weeks-- have I mentioned this? Have I mentioned that I'm slowly losing my mind, but I digress... as tired people often do.)

The most remarkable thing about this longlist, however, is that it's interesting. A mix of small and big presses, book names and unknowns (to me), books I know of and will probably never read, and some that seem rather intriguing and I've never even heard of. Okay, a bit too much historical fiction for my liking, but then that fiction seems pretty various, and history is anything past five minutes ago. There is a lot of good stuff here.

Including, The Incident Report by Martha Baillie! Honestly, my disappointment at Moore not being included is quelled by Baillie's spot on the shortlist, because I absolutely adored her book, which was so innovative, surprising, and like nothing else I've ever read before. It's a book that I think more people should know about, not just because they'd probably like it, but because it's so extraordinarily good. And I never thought about it being a Giller pick, because it's not that sort of book, but maybe this just isn't that sort of Gillers? Imagine if Martha Baillie won??

I'm not sure she will. But I sort of think she should. My opinion not meaning so much, of course, as her's is the only book I've read of the list, but I urge you to read it too, and you might just concur.

Some things on Saturday

Oh, I wish I could tell you what I'm now reading, but you'll have to wait for the December issue of Quill & Quire to find out. Alas, but I'm enjoying myself. Birds of America is on its way to me in the post. For the last few days, I've been composing a love letter to the Spadina Road branch of the Toronto Public Library (which I'll put down on paper soon, and copy here). We've been listening to Elizabeth Mitchell at our house, and we're totally obsessed-- everyday I have a new favourite, but I like her version of "Three Little Birds" and also The Tremelos' "Here Comes My Baby". I've been playing guitar myself these days, and Harriet is entranced by the shiny tuning pegs. She also likes strumming the strings. We're going to England in less than a month, which is exciting, but seemed like a much better idea when the baby was still hypothetical. Now, I am a bit terrified, but pleased that her brilliant sleep patterns are wrecked already so that I don't have to worry about the time change doing so. (In terms of baby sleep, how about this: ask moxie hypothosizes that sleep is this generation of parents' "thing" [whereas, it once was potty training] because babies sleep on their backs now, where they do not sleep as well as they did on their fronts. This is also why our parents have little sympathy for the sleeping plight). I continue to be exhausted, much the same way I was when Harriet was born, except I have a life now and do not spend my waking hours sitting in a chair sobbing, and therefore the tiredness feels worse (and yet, I would not, could not, go back there, no). I've also quit Facebook, sort of. You see, I was totally addicted, checking it whenever I was feeding the baby and often when I wasn't, and there are better things I could do with my time. And yet, there are many things I love about Facebook-- friends' photos, event invitations, cool links, finding out about friends' achievements, that many of my FB friends' aren't friends otherwise, and I'd miss them if I went. But there are only so many strangers' photo albums you can peruse without feeling your life is slipping away, so, I had my husband change my Facebook password, and now I have to be logged in by him. And I really hope this doesn't happen all that often. So this should free up some time for me to finally read through my stack of London Review of Books that has been accumulating since Harriet was born. And I mean that. I am also going to knit Harriet a sweater from the Debbie Bliss Baby and Toddler Knits book I got from the library today, but I'll use the 12-24 month sizing, because I'm realistic about how long it takes to get anything done. Today, we had the most wonderful brunch at the Annex Live. And the baby is awake, so I must go lay out the newspaper on the floor so I can read it while I feed her.

The Gate at the Stairs by Lorrie Moore

The thing about Lorrie Moore, I've found, is that everybody loves her. Except me, because I didn't even read her until I read her story "How to be an Other Woman" in the anthology My Mistress's Sparrow is Dead. Which made clear why everybody loved her, so I read her novel Anagrams next, which might have been a mistake, because while it was good, it didn't leave me hungry for more. But then something about the buzz from her novel The Gate at the Stairs hooked me-- Lisa Moore's rave review definitely, and the novel's dealings with children and motherhood, as this is much/entirely my life these days.

Another thing about my life these days, however, is that I'm tired. I am so unbelievably, unrelentingly tired that it's quite hilarious, and only because when I am this tired, I'll laugh at absolutely anything. (Baby no longer sleeps for more than three hours at a time, and therefore neither do I.) And for this reason, I think, as I read this novel, I kept thinking I was reading a book by Francine Prose. I am not sure why-- it had a bit of Goldengrove AND Blue Angel about it, and was nothing like Anagrams, or something you'd expect from a short story writer, and I was also (as I said) really, really tired. All of which is beside the point. (Yawn. And at least I didn't get her confused with Francine Pascal.)

I was fortunate, I think, to come to this novel as I did, having not read much of Moore before. Maud Newton posts her own thoughts on the novel and links to others', and the consensus seems to be that Lorrie Moore devotees are a bit disappointed. That the novel is brilliant and absorbing in so many ways, but flawed and unsatisfying at the same time. And it's true that this novel wasn't perfect, but I was glad to be reading it as one being awed by the power of Lorrie Moore for the very first time. Critics have been unconvinced by Moore's narrator, Tassie Keltjin, a twenty-year old who seems much more like just a vehicle for Lorrie Moore's point of view and lingual deftness, but so entranced was I by such a pov and deftness, I wasn't about to complain.

The novel was so interesting. Which is such a lame way to describe anything, but what I mean by this is that I could think about it forever-- about the significance of the title, for example, and the narrative arc which isn't an arc, and the characters' stories, and how the narrative was utterly unpredictable, not because it was exciting, but because it was like how life is. How the novel was so accessible, and so challenging at the very same time, and the unending layers you could reveal inside it if you took the time to try.

Yesterday I went into the bookstore to check out Lorrie Moore's Birds of America. Another shopper saw me reading the back and said, "That book is amazing. Buy it." I said, "I'm going to. I'm reading her new book right now." She said, "That's just what I'm here to get," and I pointed her towards its spot on the new hardcovers table. "It's fantastic," I said, because flawed or not, it is.

And that is the story of how I came to join the legions of those in love with Lorrie Moore.

The very best thing

"We all might have burst into hysterical laughter, and we probably would have if a sleeping child weren't propped in the middle of the dining room table, next to two candlesticks, a Stengal sugar bowl, and some salt and pepper shakers. Adoption, I could see, was a lot like childbirth: Here she is! everyone exclaimed. And you looked and saw a pickled piglet and felt nothing, not realizing it would be the only time you would ever feel nothing again. A baby destroyed a life and thereby became the very best thing in it. Though to sit gloriously and triumphantly in ruins may not be such a big trick." --from The Gate at the Stairs by Lorrie Moore

Eden Mills Upcoming!

We're packing up the (autoshare) car this Sunday and heading out of town for the Eden Mills Writers' Festival. I went last year, and it was as wonderful in the pouring rain as it was in the late-afternoon sunshine, so this year we really can't go wrong either way. Although last year I didn't have a baby in tow, or I did but she was a blastocyst, but I'm bringing a husband this year for moral support, and such a gorgeous outdoor venue is the perfect way to mute squawky baby cries. I think we're all going to enjoy it. The schedule is up, and I regret that some of my most desired readers are double-booked. So I'm going to have to run like a madwoman to pack it all in. (Decisions, decisions: we're giving up a lot to catch Miriam Toews, but we have to, because I heard her read once before and I've been wanting more ever since; hope it's possible to zip from Terry Griggs to Julie Wilson, etc.) Yay, Eden Mills!

*And, oh! Less than two weeks until the Vic Book Sale. And also Word on the Street! The only good thing about about the end of summer is a bookish September.

Goodnight Nobody by Jennifer Weiner

All right, I wasn't planning to blog about this book, because I was reading it for strictly fun, but it turned out to be a fantastic novel worth mentioning. The book is Goodnight Nobody by Jennifer Weiner (and three cheers to whoever gets the literary reference in that title!). It was a little bit Tom Perotta's The Abstinence Teacher for suburbia satire, a little bit The Ten Year Nap by Meg Wolitzer for a take on the politics of mothering, but it was a thousand times better than both these novels put together. A murder mystery that had me guessing until the very end, amused and intrigued throughout, and reading like a madwoman to uncover whodunit. Her take on the "mommy-wars" manages to be well-considered and hilarious.

My impression of Weiner's work is that it's somewhat formulaic (though I could be wrong-- I've only read one other of her novels and seen a movie of the other) and she has made herself somewhat of a spokeswoman for chicklit (on her own very excellent blog and elsewhere). She is incredibly articulate and great at arguing her cause, though the problem with this is that most of the chicklit she speaks for is not remotely as good as the stuff she writes. Nevertheless, I get the impression from reader reviews that Goodnight Nobody was something of a departure for her, no matter what its cover looks like, and as a lover of good books, I must say Weiner pulls it off with aplomb.

Too Much Happiness by Alice Munro

It was only last winter with Alice Munro's Best that I finally discovered Munro hadn't spent her career writing Lives of Girls and Women over and over again, and so I was very pleased to pick up her new short story collection Too Much Happiness. And once again, I was impressed by the scope of her work, in two senses. The first, in that there seems to be no template for an "Alice Munro Story". Set in the past and present, with first and third person narration, with male and female protagonists, about events remarkable and mundane.

But I was also struck by the scope of many of the stories here themselves, how they begin at a fixed point, and then suddenly zoom far out to show the perspective, and hindsight, of an entire lifetime. "Fiction" begins with young Joyce, who's just lost her carpenter husband Jon to his apprentice and is devasted, and then suddenly we're whisked off to Joyce second husband's sixty-fifth birthday. "Deep Holes" starts with the details of a picnic, with devilled eggs and a nursing baby, and ends years in the future as a mother encounters her long-estranged son. And I love that-- how this zooming out turns the story inside out, and makes it something so completely different than we figured we were being set up for.

The final story in this collection seemed out of place to me, however-- perhaps because I haven't read Munro's The View From Castle Rock, with much of its fiction taken from historical fact? As this final story's title is also lent to the entire collection, however, I decided to read it again quite closely and view the whole book through such a prism. "Too Much Happiness" is the story of nineteenth century Russian exile, mathematician and novelist Sophia Kovalevsky. The story is a collection of scenes from near the end of her life, which she'd supposed might actually be a new beginning-- she'd become engaged to the man she loved, and having previously not been sure "whether she was going to happiness or sorrow", she decided it was to be "Happiness after all."

Happiness, we learn from this story, is a trick after all. Sorrow is inevitable, and the trick of happiness seems to be that too much of it is the direct route to sorrow anyway. That the end of the story will always be the same, and seems to be the case in all of these ones, nothing really changed but just confirmed. But yet as the characters realize this, we as readers have realized that things as we've been seeing them are not like we've imagined them. Munro twisting her plots masterfully to create suspense, tension, absolute horror-- these are stories in which things happen, which in the case of the contemporary short story is not as obvious as it sounds.

These are stories that bring us to the brink of discomfort, and Munro compels us over the edge just to see what's happening there. The woman going to visit her husband in prison for murdering their children, a strange naked dinner party at which our narrator's buttocks slap against a dining room chair, a woman telling a story to save her life, the man with the birthmark, the girl who detests being followed by her mentally disabled neighbour which leads to fatal consequences...

"Too Much Happiness" is still the odd story out, it seems. Set outside contemporary times, outside of Canada, about a historical figure, however little known. So much a series of sketches, it's hard to get a sense of the story as a whole, to find the vividness Munro gives us elsewhere. And yet I do suspect there is trickery here too, and I do get a sense that here lies the key to it all. "Actually, this science," Kovalevsky wrote of artithmetic, "requires great fantasy", just as the best kind of fiction is a problem to be solved.

Pirates and Penguins, oh my!

Yesterday, our wee family attended the launch of Patricia Storms' book The Pirate and the Penguin at the magnificent Yorkville Public Library. It was not actually Harriet's first literary event, as she'd attended Coach House Press's Wayzgoose Party the week before, but it was her first launch, and the first time she'd sat down for a public reading. She was spoiled by Patricia, I think, who had an actual pirate on hand for the occasion, and was kind enough to pose for a picture with us. Her reading was excellent, and held even Harriet's three and a half month-old attention span. Afterwards, Stuart and I had shared a slice of cake, which Harriet inadvertantly stuck her hand in.

We loved the book, from each one of its delightful map-illustrated inside covers to the other. Now, I've never really *got* pirates myself, except Somali ones-- I don't understand why International Talk Like a Pirate Day is funny, for example. But I've been a big fan of penguins going back yonks, and I like alliteration at the best of times. The story was funny, and sweet, and I especially liked its references to knitting and yoga. Patricia has been illustrating really wonderful books for a long time, and we're so excited that she's finally written her own!

Worst Nursery Rhyme Ever

My friend Kate gave us a gorgeous Mother Goose collection when Harriet was born, and Stuart and I have been happily reacquainting ourselves with the rhymes since then. And Mem Fox does prescribe at least five nursery rhymes per day ("Begin on the day they are born. I am very serious about this: at least three stories and five nursery rhymes a day, if not more, and not only at bedtime, either") so we've been following her recommended dosages, and then some. We ended up receiving another collection used from our neighbours, and so now we've got Mother Goose for upstairs and down. And how wonderful, to discover these rhymes with their words and rhythms, and to realize we've known them all along, stored somewhere in the back of our minds but coming back to us just like that.

"Hey Diddle Diddle" is Harriet's favourite, we've decided, because it was the first nursery rhyme she ever heard (on her second day in the world, when we walked part way down the hall in the hospital, and stopped at the "Hey Diddle Diddle" mural, because I could go no further).

But we hate "Bat Bat". Neither Stuart nor I had heard it before, and when we found it in the first collection, we thought maybe the editor's son had written it, and they'd included it to be nice. Because it was a load of crap. But it's in our second book too, so it must be real:

Bat bat come under my hat
and I'll give you a slice of bacon
and when I bake
I'll give you cake
if I am not mistaken.

We're going to start skipping this one, so not to put Harriet off nursery rhymes altogether. They're all a bit goofy, but "Bat Bat" is idiotic: why would you want a bat under your hat? And would one be enticed by a slice of bacon? Who'd entice a bat? Do bats eat cake? And doesn't all of this suggest the narrator is indeed mistaken? Nonsense is one thing, but stupid is another.

Worst Nursery Rhyme Ever.

Readers' Choice

Oh, exciting! I'm one of five finalists in the University of Toronto Alumni Short Story Contest, whose judges will be choosing a winner in the next few weeks. In addition to the main contest, however, there is a Readers' Choice Award, voted online. Click here to read the five stories (including mine, but I'll play by the rules and not tell you which it is) and vote for your favourite.

Television saved my life

Though I've always been partial to television, its tendency to consume my evenings whole meant that I've kept my distance from it these last few years. I also don't have cable, which definitely helps with this. (Further, I hate commericals, which is why I love Midsomer Murders on TV Ontario, also because MM is the best show ever.)

But this summer, it's true that television saved my life. First, when a friend lent us her Series 1 and 2 DVDs of 30 Rock in late June, and though we'd have to turn it up loud to be heard over the baby's screaming, each episode provided us with a little bit of lightness every evening. And though I went into the show with Liz Lemon's character appealing to me most, I was surprised to find that Tracy Jordan became my favourite. In every episode, he'd utter a line that would completely surprise me, and turn my idea of who he was inside out. His complete lack of conformity (to anything) made him always fresh and interesting, bizarre and hysterical. ThoughI do continue to worship at the alter of Tina Fey. (Naturally. I'm a girl with glasses).

The other show I've watched, and the one I appreciated the most, however, is CBC's Being Erica. Which does appeal by its Toronto location (and Jessica Westhead reference-- see Pulpy & Midge behind Erica's desk. This is one bookish show). I'd almost given up on liking Canadian television, as every show I tried to watch was usually terrible, but I had heard good things about this one, and the series was being rerun for the summer. (I also liked that I could watch it online whenever I wanted.) It's a show with a gimmick (girl goes back in time to learn lessons from her past), but the gimmick was never the point for me.

For me, the part of the hook was half-decent acting from most of the cast. (Most of the cast-- some do act like actors on Canadian TV series, but this is a Canadian TV series after all.) A really wonderful soundtrack that catered to my nostalgic side whenever Erica went back to high school. And pretty fantastic writing that veered towards the unexpected. (I also liked it when Erica enquired whether her going back in time to change the past would disrupt the space-time continuum, as you do, and he informed her that her overall impact on the universe was not quite that extensive.)

I put Erica to the test in a recent episode, where Erica is at the movies with her pregnant friend. Friend has to go to the bathroom, but can't get out from her seat, and just before the show breaks for commercial, water splooshes all over the floor. "If she's wet her pants instead of having her water break, therefore defying all television convention," I said, "then this is the best show ever". (It was a water splooshing all over the floor moment that had me sure I was never again going to watch Sophie, a previous Canadian show I'd tried to like). And back from commerical, Erica won!

Now, full disclosure, Judith's water did go sploosh later in the 'sode, but I'm still giving credit. This show isn't perfect, but it's a million times better than most of the other stuff on TV. It's immensely entertaining, and I look forward to Season Two in a couple of weeks.

Far enough on the other side...

Though I'm far from out of the woods, I think I'm far enough on the other side to look back with a little perspective. I went through a phase of claiming that no one had warned me how awful the first few weeks of motherhood would be, but that wasn't true-- I'd read Anne Enright's Making Babies, Rachel Cusk's A Life's Work, I'd seen a good friend go through it eight weeks before. It just never registered, there was no context. I have to say now that the best pregnancy/early days book I read of all of them was Diane Flacks' Bear With Me: What They Don't Tell You About Pregnancy and New Motherhood. I'm not sure why I focussed so much on the birth part (and read so many other books on the subject, because birth's going to happen anyway, and you'll have so little to say in choosing how), but the afterward was so absolutely accurate, that I'd be struck by lightening if I claimed one more time that I wasn't warned. Particularly when she says that you should just mark three months off on your calendar and take a seat on the sofa. Though I got off mine more than once, remembering that I didn't have to was tremendously helpful.

Now that baby is here, however, the very best book I've found is 365 Activities You and Your Baby Will Love. Now that my baby can hold things, hold her head up, roll over (!), smile at me and engage with the world, it means a little less, but when she was smaller, this book gave me some insight into how to interact with her. I really had no idea how to do so-- I'd never met a newborn, and imagined she'd be born three months old (if only...). With this book, I began to have some fun with her, gained some confidence in my mothering abilities, and she responded to every activity. The ribbons in particular, long dangling ones hanging from a coat hanger that continue to be one of the most fascinating sights she's ever seen.

Anyway, I got this from the library and then bought myself a copy and have given two as shower gifts since. I'd definitely recommend it, and we do continue to enjoy the ideas they suggest.

An Honour!

We here at Pickle Me This are honoured that Julie Wilson mentions us as one of her favourite book blogs in her profile at the CBC Book Club where she is Featured Reader. Thanks, Julie!

On Atwood's new novel

I won't be reading Margaret Atwood's The Year of the Flood, and I tell you this now in order to promote the book, actually. Because Atwood is a certain kind of author, the kind who might be one of your very favourites (as she is one of mine), and you could decide to give her new one a miss. Her range is absolutely epic, which is why I'm always troubled by readers who claim not to like her work. Which work then, I wonder-- The Robber Bride? The Blind Assassin? The Handmaid's Tale? Because if you're not partial to any of these, I'm not sure what else of literature is left, really.

I, however, am not really partial to sci-fi/genre fic/spec fic, or whatever you decide to call it. And this, I realize, is just as infuriating/limiting as claiming to dislike all Atwood, but that's a blog post for another day. Today, however, I'll just have you know that because I probably won't be crazy about this one, it's not taking priority among the to-be-reads. Which does not mean that the book sucks, because I probably will buy it for my husband for his birthday. But rather that 'something for everyone' means a boatload of stuff that's not for me, which is just fine. Margaret Atwood's flexibility and fictional experimentation have made her one of our country's most fascinating writers for the past thirty years, and even if not in love with every book, you can't help but admire that.

(I'll also probably get to this one eventually, and enjoy it a great deal).

Blockbuster Mining

From xkcd via my friend Leah.

Songs blasting by outside my window #3

Disturbia by Rihanna

Mothering and Blogging: The Radical Act of the MommyBlog by May Friedman and Shana L. Calixte (eds.)

First, a note to everyone who now lands here after google searches regarding "maternal ambivalence", particularly those who google "ambivalence about the baby's birth"-- fear not. I am the one who cried on the operating table before my c-section because I'd decided maybe I didn't want a baby afterall, but it really did work out okay in the end, and it will work out for you too. Ambivalence, I like to think, just means you're just considering all sides, and really, you'd be stupid not to.

Anyway, those readers land here because of my post from last spring "On mommy blogs, maternal ambivalence and my worst tendencies", a post in which nothing was resolved and I talked around in confusing circles. Since then, I've come not closer to conclusions, I'm still troubled about both "mommyblogs" and my feelings toward them, and even having become a mommy myself hasn't changed my perspective so much at all.

Perhaps resolution is not the point, however. Mommyblogs contain multitudes, and so to think just one thing about them is sort of limiting, which I'm quite sure about now, having read the excellent collection Mothering and Blogging: The Radical Act of the MommyBlog, edited by May Friedman and Shana L. Calixte. A collection of academic essays containing multitudes itself, and reflecting the wide range of responses that mommyblogs prompt. A microcosm, perhaps, of "the mamasphere", with dissenting voices, personal stories and experiences shared, academic discourse in an accessible way, these various points of view in a heteroglossic rabble.

I come away from this collection entirely comfortable with my lack of conclusions, understanding really that it is thinking about these issues that is the point. I'm still not convinced that most mommyblogging is a radical act, but just considering why or why not is important, and that there are many issues at stake here. Stand-out essays including, Jennifer Gilbert's "I Kid You Not: How the Internet Talked Me Out of Traditional Mommyhood", Lisa Ferris' "Kindred Keyboard Connections: How Blogging Helped a Deafblind Mother Find a Living, Breathing Community", Jen Lawrence's "Blog For Rent: How Marketing is Changing Our Mothering Conversations", and "Schadenfreude for Mittelschmerz? Or, Why I Read Infertility Blogs" by May Friedman.

I'd never considered mommyblogging marginalization, or the politics of the mamasphere, the implications of corporate marketing, or-- for a form so built on self-identification-- what it would be read from the perspective of a lesbian mommy in a multiracial family, for example. This is some can of worms.

I see now that whatever my feelings about mommyblogs, to dismiss their importance would be wrong, and that so many bloggers tend to write for themselves and each other, so it doesn't matter much what I think anyway.

Springing

I've been disappointed by quite a few books lately, which might be because reading doesn't come so easy these days, ever since breastfeeding got convenient and doesn't take up my whole life. So a book has really got to be worth my while, seeing as "so little time" has never been more true. I also continue to put books on hold at the library, and have about thirty books waiting to be read on my shelf. All this to say that I've got reservations on springing for a hardcover, but I still think I'm going to buy A Gate at the Stairs by Lorrie Moore, because Lisa Moore's review made me hungry to read it.

In other acquisitions news, today I bought Harriet Old Possum's Book of Practical Cats.

A Compendium of Literary Harriets

For my own interest, and compilation will be ongoing. Please feel free to add to the list via comments:
1) A Big Storm Knocked it Over by Laurie Colwin: Harriet aka "Birdie"
2) Tom's Midnight Garden by Philippa Pearce: Harriet Bartholomew aka Hatty
3) Harriet the Spy by Louise Fitzhugh: Harriet M. Welch
4) Harriet, You'll Drive Me Wild by Mem Fox: Harriet Harris
5) Garbo Laughs by Elizabeth Hay: Harriet Browning
6) The Lord Peter Wimsey mysteries by Dorothy L. Sayers: Harriet Vane
7) The Gates of Ivory by Margaret Drabble: Harriet Osborne
8) Harriet Bean series by Alexander McCall Smith: Harriet Bean
9) Emma by Jane Austen: Harriet Smith
10) Coventry by Helen Humphreys: Harriet Marsh
11) Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie by Alan Bradley: Harriet de Luce (in spirit)
12) The Fifth Child by Doris Lessing: Harriet Lovett
13) "Harriet" (poem)by Charlie McKenzie: Harriet Michaels. (In the film So I Married an Axe Murderer, so this is a fictional literary Harriet).
14) Franklin the Turtle series by Paulette Bourgeois: Harriet the Turtle (Franklin's sister).

September

September is the end of my self-imposed fiction writing maternity leave. Though no doubt the world would not miss my fiction if I never went back, I find that I miss it, and I have a feeling the experience of writing it is going to be different now that I've had a baby. So my goal is to write for fifteen minutes every day, which is a small goal but with my current schedule will some days be impossible. Therefore I should ideally do it before breakfast, right? Oh, but I'm not quite ready to sacrifice sleep, which is still far too precious. So we shall see.

September is also two literary events I'm looking forward to-- first, the launch of Patricia Storms' picture book The Pirate and the Penguin on September 12 at the Yorkville Public Library. Harriet and I are very excited, and not just because we've been told there will be cake. I can't wait to get the book, and help to celebrate the work of such a marvelous lady.

And then the following week, we're off to the Eden Mills Writers' Festival! Terry Griggs! Miriam Toews! Mary Swan! Lynn Johnston! Zoe Whittall! Etc. etc. I am very looking forward.

(Also exciting is that today I'm wearing a pair of pre-pregnancy pants. I'll sure miss elastic waists, but it had to happen sooner or later...)