Pathos and other things

If I look tired here, it's because I am! It's been a hard, hard, hard few weeks. I think I'm blaming it on teeth, as there are two teeth apparent but remarkably sloooow at coming in (it's been two weeks now, and they're just creeping past the gums). There's been a lot of screaming all the livelong day, and a lot of not sleeping all the deadlong night, and now I've just learned the joy of pushing a stroller along snowy sidewalks that people don't shovel. Today I was a lesson in pathos as I shoved my stroller up over snowy curbs, the rain cover ripped and flew up in my face, my boots were leaking, buttons dripping off my coat, and I got splashed by a taxi-cab. The whole thing was very sad. And I won't even get started on the middle of last night, when the baby would only stop crying when she was throwing up in my bed.

Motherhood is not always as romantic as I dreamed it would be.

There are good things: wonderful books to read, of course. I've been doing ongoing Christmas baking. I'm knitting Harriet a Christmas stocking. I finally completed a short story for the first time since Harriet's birth. My short story contest win. Friends to spend afternoons with. Yesterday's visit to the Osborne Collection of Early Children's Books. That Harriet's intensive lessons in waving hello and goodbye are starting to pay off. Advent calendar fun at every turn.

Speaking of, I'm loving The Advent Books Blog. I love reading the recommendations for books I have no intention of reading even, I love that different kinds of books that readers are so passionate about, and I like the linky places the recommenders' biographies are taking me.

I love this post about Christmas shopping at the library. DoveGreyReader on readers vs. critics. Maureen Corrigan on passionate books for the holidays. Rebecca (delightfully) on names and naming. And I found this old interview with Allan Ahlberg, which was interesting. (Peepo is a favourite around our house.)

Now must go eat... something. And begin reading An Education by Lynn Barber.

UPDATE: For those who care, the second tooth is finally in, and we've got a bit of peace around here. Hurrah! I've also found a cheap second-hand jogging stroller online that will make my pedestrian life a little less pathetic this winter.

Anticipation will get you nowhere

Today was a smaller day than projected. First, we got to the doctor and found out that our appointment wasn't actually scheduled (which wasn't my fault, for once). And then the Canada Reads 2010 lineup was revealed, and I'm not so excited now. Though it's not all bad-- Nikolski by Nicolas Dickner is on the list, and I'm pretty passionate about that novel, so I'm pleased it's going to get wider exposure-- it was one of my favourite books of 2008, and you can read my review here.

But I find the rest of the lineup distinctly blah: I read Generation X years ago and might like to revisit it, particularly as it's such a reference point, but I don't know how satisfying that reread would be. I read Good to a Fault last year, and though many many people loved this book, I didn't. Which was odd, because its domestic realm is a place where I spend a lot of my literary time, but the story needed a good edit and didn't come alive for me. I have never read Fall On Your Knees, though I've started it a thousand times but never got very far in (oddly, however, McDonald's The Way the Crow Flies is a book I absolutely adore). The only book of the bunch that was new to me is Wayson Choy's The Jade Peony, which I'm going to read now.

Participating in Canada Reads this year would involve me buying two books I used to own but gave away, and that's never a good sign. So I suspect I'll not be taking part, and I'm really disappointed about that. Last dear I so enjoyed reading all the books, looking at them critically, attending the Canada Reads Panel at the Toronto Reference Library, and listening to the broadcasts in March. Last year, however, I was inspired to get involved by a list of book I had a genuine interest in visiting (or revisiting, in one case). In particular, I liked the inclusion of a quirky book from a small press (Fruit), and that I got to discover an important Canadian writer I'd been neglecting (Tremblay). I am not so convinced that year's list would reap similar rewards.

I'm also not convinced that any of these are books I'd recommend for all Canadians to read, though does any book, I wonder, hold such general appeal?

Baggage Unloaded

Yesterday, after almost five years of reliable service, my trusty computer died. And naturally, I'd not backed up anything on it. So there goes hundreds of itunes songs, tons of word processing files, and most painfully, five years of photos from adventures near and far. Tears were shed, of course, but there are blessings to count. That, for some reason, randomly, all Stuart managed to save in a desperate attempt before my hard drive died was a file of unpublished yet publishable stories that would have been irreplaceable. And we've been pretty diligent about having our very best photos developed and put into albums (including a year's worth we had developed just in April). Sadly, none have been developed since Harriet was born and we've lost some pretty precious ones from her early days, but enough were put on Facebook and emailed to grandparents that we have a considerable record. Things could be worse, and we will have plenty of opportunity to take photos of Harriet in the future, I am sure.

Everything else that got lost, I don't really need. Sure, Stuart and I will miss our "Books Read Since 2006" files (lame, I know, but Art Garfunkel has had his list since 1970) but we will start new lists. We have lost thousands of photos, but we would never have looked at these, and there were times I felt a bit overwhelmed by the size of my photo library-- what does one do with such volume? I've lost a meticulous record of submissions, all my published work, story starts and some works in progress, but the published works are already out there, and losing the rest might feel like losing ten pounds. Tomorrow is my birthday, and I begin a new year, a new decade, I've got a new baby (who is four weeks old today!). Perhaps the lost computer is baggage unloaded, and now I get to get a new one, and has there ever been a better time for a fresh start? Tabula rasa? It's inspirational. Seems I've got some brand new creating to do.

Oh, but do forgive?

Oh, but do forgive my slow progress in coming back to life. I spent a good week in a magical land, and since returning home I've been everywhere and nowhere, and often not where I am supposed to be. Getting over a cold, very tired, excuses, etc. blah blah, previous Liberal government-- you know how it is. More interestingly, check out a special IFOA Readers Reading at Seen Reading this week. And I aim to be more interesting soon.

Spring Resolutions

I love making resolutions in the spring-- they're so easy. It was this time last year when I vowed to become less of a miserable, venomous cowy bitch, and the new me caught on so well. But now I realize that I just had spring on my side, because I've well lapsed back into cowiness as this winter has progressed. So it had nothing much to do with will after all, though at least I have a forthcoming pleasant disposition to count on. Because my disposition has been quite unpleasant of late, due in part to a small run of disappointments. So small, of course-- the kind I'm almost grateful for because I'm otherwise so lucky, and therefore can add to my "not likely to be hit by a bus" karma account. But only almost grateful-- lately we've been doing melodramatic despair like a dance craze. Enough of that though. My resolution-- stop seeking happiness in the postbox. And with spring around the corner, this one is sure to be a success.

Spin

We're all wound up like tops here at Pickle Me This of late, and since I sat down at my desk this morning I've made eleven (probably incomplete) lists of various things to do/ bake/ buy/ read/ download. I could do with a calmdown or a stiff drink, and thankfully this weekend promises plenty of the latter if not the former.

For a necessary diversion towards fun, via the marvellous Crooked House, try The Jackson Pollock Page.

Better Days

And so we post a photo of feet in honour of days better than this one. Tonight has been awfully scabby for a variety of reasons, none of which have to do with the greatness of expensive feta or my wonderful husband. Now reading Poppy Shakespeare and The Girls is coming up next. I am always drowning in the periodicals I subscribe to, all of which arrive in the same day or two. And so the moral of the story is that I'm not about to run of reading material anytime soon, no sir. The other moral is that the day flies by too quickly.

Or both

Curtis is back, and man, did he ever bring candy. We are pleased. In less pleasant news I'm in a state of high-agitation regarding my thesis defense next week, the undergraduate essays which are trickling in slowly conspiring to ruin the time I have left before my full-time job begins, wondering indeed about my passport application ("up to ten weeks" they're saying? Well, we've arrived), arrangements for our trip to England in June, how I'll manage driving on the wrong side of the road. Plus the sun has yet to make an appearance this April, which is sort of rubbish. I would prescribe myself a stiff drink, or a hot bath, or both.

I'm also bothered that I can't find Miffy books anywhere in this city. I even ventured into the mean blue bookstore that dares not speak its name, and no dice. If anyone can tell me where I can find some Bruna lit, I would love the tip because I know two babies (newborn and about-to-be) whose libraries need starting.

Good lit-news: Lionel Shriver in The Globe, CanLit in Hungary, and UofT makes its contributions to the Internet Archive.

Prairie Fiction should come with a warning label

I had book trauma this weekend. I don't mean this lightly. As I have mentioned before, reading prairie fiction sends me into despair. Which I always forget about until I've nearly finished the book and am filled with deep sadness for the human condition. And I never stopped to think that Obasan is actually prairie fiction too, as well being, well, Obasan. Which, when read following my recent Burmese prison tale rendered the world pretty bleak. And the sky was the colour of paper, and I kept staring out the window pondering the meaning of it all. So in other words I was in dire need of a good slap, and around people far too kind to administer one. Luckily life got better.

First, I'm now reading Orphan Island by Rose Macaulay which is a delightful and interesting romp. You can read the 1925 review from Time Magazine here (ain't the tinternet grand?) I've not read Macaulay's novels before, though her Pleasure of Ruins is the most beautiful book I own, and I loved her essay on English "Catchwords and Claptrap" (which you can read here). I am reading this novel on the recommendation of Decca who acknowledged it in one of her letters as a favourite. It's simply lovely.

And next up is The Post Birthday World by Lionel Shriver (who I hope to go see read at Harbourfront next week).

Second, I watched Stranger Than Fiction last night, and I can't think of the last time I enjoyed a movie so much. And it's a bookish film, but I watched it with two boys who are a little less bookish than I, and they liked it as much as I did. I found it purely enjoyable from start to finish, I didn't get bored once, and part of the reason I was so engaged was I had no idea how the plot would sort itself out. But it did perfectly, and all of us were so engrossed in the story that when we feared one character would meet an untimely (or timely, in this case, I do suppose) demise, we were out of our minds with agony. And I like a movie that allows you to care so much. Lately we've renting movies last minute with little selection, and then yelling at the screen begging the characters to off themselves so we wouldn't have to watch them any longer. So it was very nice to feel differently, and of course the bookishness was ace. Six thumbs up.

The sky is still the colour of paper, but my outlook has greatly improved.

Karma

The only problem with being fiction editor at echolocation is that sending out thirty rejections in an afternoon has got to bring you back some bad karma.

Self Portrait

We're tired at our house, which is what happens when we both spend the night having dreams in which we are struggling to sleep. And so for today, in lieu of coherence, Pickle Me This brings you me waiting for the tub to fill. Turban-headed because if my Japanese life taught me anything, it was that a bath sans shower is foul. And I like this image because it incorporates four of my favourite things: books, baths, big mugs of tea and Stuart (for it is his robe after all). Happy All The Time was a splish-splash delight.

Today in the post was a letter from Bronwyn, with whom I've defied Laurie Colwin's quote from Happy All The Time: "Friendship is not possible between two women one of whom is very well dressed". (That said woman is Bronwyn and not me should be revelatory to nobody). And her note contained the news that she has subscribed me to the London Review of Books, which is sort of like having pennies rain from the sky. I'd say life must be mostly good, with friends like that.

And I think Lucky Beans is one of the prettiest blogs I've ever seen.

At the end of the words

Courage utterly opposes the bold hope that this is such fine stuff the work needs it, or the world. Courage, exhausted, stands on bare reality: this writing weakens the work. You must demolish this work and start over. You can save some of the sentences, like bricks. It will be a miracle if you can save some of the paragraphs, no matter how excellent in themselves or hard-won. You can waste a year worrying about it, or you can get it over with now. (Are you a woman or a mouse?) - Annie Dillard, The Writing Life

Bollocky Night

I've had a bollocky night, and so I've drowned my sorrows in Dairy Milk. I've also abandoned Tristram Shandy in Book 4, because I think I've got the point by now. (My second abandoned book in just over a week! I never do that.) Now reading The Uses of Enchantment by Heidi Julavitz. Now despairing the day I ever decided to pick up a pen. Bollocks bollocks bollocks! And 75 papers to be marked enter my life tomorrow. Sometimes I wish I lived in my bathtub like a fish.

Growing up in Las Vegas, England seemed so far away

There's lots of good pop-music news in The Guardian today. My favourite is the review of the new Robbie Williams' album. Apparently "Rudebox" is not very good. I quote (rather extendedly, but it's funny): "...it's hard to think of a song more likely to curb the listener's generosity of spirit than Rudebox's closing "secret" track, Dickhead. A woeful sub-Eminem rant, it features Williams gallantly threatening to set his retinue of bouncers on anyone who dares to criticise his music. By the time it concludes, puzzlingly, with the singer shouting "I've got a bucket of shit! I've got a bucket of shit!", one feels less inclined to say the kind thing than the cruel thing: you don't need to tell me that, pal, I've just spent the last hour examining it." An excerpt on Razorlight in Japan, which is exciting, because that's where Stuart and I first saw them, and because their wonderful "America" is predicted to be the UK number one this week. And, finally, I had no idea the Killers' new album was a mormon rock concept album.

I'm honestly so glad the forces conspired to send me two (2!) rejection letters in one day yesterday. No sense in dragging out my failures for weeks, and to buckle down and onward then. My big project has lately developed a new cohesion and I wrote a lovely little essay yesterday, and so I am not so disheartened. I'm still reading Nixon in China, and of course a novel on the side. Penelope Lively's Heat Wave. She really is one of my favourite authors; she's never aloof and it's as though she conjures her stories from my preoccupations, but perhaps that's a sort of self-absorbed way to regard them. Next up is The Thirteenth Tale by Diane Setterfield, which is the most beautiful new book I've come across since The Middle Stories or Elegance. It has the most gorgeous endpapers. I can't wait to read it.

Another article about the blighted East Midlands, Nottingham's urban decay and suburban gangs (big ups the Basford massive!). Interesting from an urban development point of view, but all the same, we lived there and it wasn't so bad.

Sherrie Mitten?

The bad thing about the fictional creative writing workshops I mentioned is that on my bad days, I wonder exactly which pitiful-student-in-the-workshop-driving-my-instructor-to-suicide am I?