Dreaming and Waking

It was with some disappointment that I heard last week that Yann Martel has given up his book project.

I assume that most non-Canadians (and probably a lot of Canadians too) wouldn't heard about this odd little one-sided book club. Yann Martel is a pretty famous Canadian author who wrote Life of Pi*, among other things. In 2007, Yann was in the visitor gallery of the House of Commons to witness the official celebration of fifty years of the Canada Council for the Arts. There was a short speech by the Minister for Canadian Heritage... and that was it. As Yann says: "Fifty years of building Canada's dazzling and varied culture, done with in less than five minutes."

Reportedly, our prime minster, Stephen Harper, did not even look up during this brief speech. His Conservative government treats the arts as optional add-ons to the serious business of life; mere entertainment that should only be funded in the most minimum of ways. Yann was embarrassed to see that the politicians could not manage even a good semblance of caring on the anniversary of the Canada Council.

As a direct result of that day, Yann started What is Stephen Harper Reading?. Every two weeks, he mailed Stephen Harper a book with an inscription. The books are incredibly varied, include poetry, classics from all around the world, Canadian novels, and even kids books (Where the Wild Things Are). I believe almost any reader can probably find one book on the list that they've read, or at least one they'd want to read. Each book came with a letter explaining why he chose it.

He published all these letters on his website, along with all the responses he received. Over almost four years, he (and a few others with him) sent 100 books to Stephen Harper. This elicited exactly seven responses, all from the prime minister's office and none from Stephen himself. On the website, the vast majority of the letters are followed by a sad little "Pending..." in the reply section.

Besides following the website, I also bought Yann's first 55 letters in book format (which he also mailed to the prime minister) and intend to buy the second edition when/if it comes out with the last 45 letters.

I was taken with Yann's project for several reasons. First, I am in favour of arts funding. Second, I am in favour of creative protests. Third, I love reading other people's personal correspondences and diaries, and there are aspects of both in these letters. And, finally, I like reading about books. I will happily read descriptions of books I never intend to read (just as I love movie previews, even for movies I would never watch).

I love the 100th/last letter. It is perfectly artsy, a bit academic, and just a little snarky**. I'm still contemplating his comments about being tired of using books as political bullets and grenades.

I hope he gets a personal response to this last letter. Perhaps I have old fashioned manners, but the lack of a single thank you note from the recipient of all these wonderful gifts offends me. But besides that, I am genuinely curious as to what Stephen Harper would say in response to the final comment Yann makes on this whole project:

We've become slaves to our work and have forgotten that it's in moments of leisure and stillness, when we're free from working with a hoe or at a keyboard, that we can contemplate life and become fully ourselves. We work, work, work, but what mark do we leave, what point do we make? People who are too beholden to work become like erasers: as they move forward, they leave in their wake no trace of themselves. And so that has been the point of my fruitless book-gifting to you: to raise my voice against Canada becoming a nation of erasers.

Yann Martel, should you stumble across this for some reason and feel the need to start mailing books again, I will gladly provide my address and I promise to read every book. Also, I write very nice thank you notes.

* Random side story about either the psychology of readers or the nature of marketing: I saw Yann Martel read at the Writers and Readers Festival. In the discussion after, Yann mentioned people often say of "Life of Pi" that "I know it is highly commercial, but I enjoyed it". This amazes and confuses him because there's no way that novel, with all its symbolism and heavy themes like religion, etc., could possibly be considered to a commercial piece of writing. He considers it something of a bizarre miracle that it became a bestseller. I think there's a bit of something like (warning: TV Tropes link) It's Popular, Now it Sucks going on.

** "One hundred is a nice round number and a good number to end on. (The number of times you personally have written back to me is also a nice round number, by the way: 0. That's zero, naught, nada, zilch.)"

When I was a little girl – well, still a little bit little, as I lived in a town without a bookstore when I was really little-little – I used to spend all my allowance money on books. It would take me about six weeks to save up for one Baby-Sitters Club or Fabulous Five book. I was always envious of people carrying bright yellow Coles Books bags. I couldn't imagine anything better than being able to buy as many books as I wanted.

I now have a lot of bookcases layered two or even three books deep. All of the shelves on the Ikea bookcases are bowing under the weight. It has come to the point where I don't want to buy more books (except for ones by certain authors whose work I collect), due to lack of places to put them. At the same time, I still want to support writers and publishers and everyone else who helps makes books happen.

It was a year or two ago that I started exploring the possibility of eReaders. The tipping point was when I decided that I wanted to own all of Terry Pratchett's Discworld books, but knew that there was nowhere for me to keep 38 books without giving up some of the books I already own, and that's simply not going to happen.

After much research and internal debate, I bought an eReader back in November. It currently contains five novels I purchased (including one Discworld novel – I'm hoping to find a Canadian source for bundles of his books so I don't have to buy each one separately), all 14 of the original Wizard of Oz books (they are in the public domain), and three library books.

I carry my eReader with me in my purse. It weighs about 8 ounces and I always have a book with me. I don't get quite as much reading done in coffee shops and restaurants as I planned, however, because waitresses and people at neighbouring tables are always asking about my device. I really don't mind answering questions, but sometimes I worry that I am babbling too much information at someone who had just a casual interest, so I clam up quickly unless there are follow-up questions.

( So, a summary of the stuff I learned about eReaders for anyone who wants to know )

Part two is here: About digital reading: eBooks & eReader pros & cons.

*It is my understanding that there are ways around the proprietary format, but I didn't want to mess with things like that.

My nephew is going to be 18 months old at Christmas time, and I've already started shopping for presents. If I'm being honest, I must admit that I've already bought too many gifts, many of them too old for him. I'm collecting future gifts in boxes in the basement and I'm starting to fill shelves and a space under the bed with toys and books to share with young guests. I've already bought the entire Bunnicula series - good for eight-year-olds.

I'm buying things now because it is a good excuse to shop for toys, but also because I worry that good toys might disappear and good books might go out of print. I remember that there was a time when all the Lego available seemed to be simplistic kits: make a spaceship by clicking three pieces together; nothing else could be made of those pieces because they only fit together the one way. Now, good Lego - big boxes of loose pieces in primary colours that can be made into anything - seems to be back in style, and I want to buy a couple of pounds of it while I can. It looks like kids can start using Lego as young as three years old, so it isn't too early, really. Besides, Russ and I can play with it in the meantime... to make sure it works properly, of course.

I blame Margaret Atwood.

Don't get me wrong; I'm a fan of her books. But she's still wrong about one thing.

It's not even necessarily current-Atwood who is the problem - she has apparently softened her stance somewhat - but past-Atwood, who insisted that The Handmaid's Tale and Oryx and Crake aren't science fiction books but are instead 'speculative fiction' because "Science fiction has monsters and spaceships; speculative fiction could really happen."

I blame Atwood for making it sound like science fiction is a limited genre and that any book with literary merit - or literary pretensions - actually belongs to a different genre: "speculative fiction", "distopian fiction", "magic realism" (the academic name for a certain kind of literary fantasy).

It's good marketing: Ms. Atwood surely knows that science fiction fans will read "Oryx and Crake" no matter what she calls it, but literary fiction fans and awards committees don't take genre books seriously. It just bugs me that so much well-written, intelligent science fiction gets pulled out of the category, furthering the (incorrect) assumption amongst much of academia that what's left is pulp. To some, if something's not trashy, it can't actually be science fiction, and if it is science fiction, it can't be smart or thoughtful.

It is also interesting that distopian science fiction is often elevated over more optimistic visions of the future. Not to say that their writing is equal, but consider that The Year of the Flood by Margaret Atwood is held to be literary, where Stardance by Spider and Jeanne Robinson is firmly situated in the science fiction and fantasy section of the bookstore. That doesn't surprise me; cynicism and pessimism are often considered marks of intelligence, where optimism means that you aren't smart enough to grasp how awful things really are.

I like science fiction, whether it be literary or trashy or something in between. So whatever, Atwood: You have written three science fiction books. Distopian speculative fiction, sure, but that's a science fiction sub-category. Deal with it.

If God exists in the spaces between...

... mind the gap.

By most any definition, the Gathering for Life on Earth is long over. We've been home for nearly three weeks, the Facebook friending frenzy has slowed, next year's theme's has been posted to the website, and I've completed my final duties as Board secretary. I'm working on the last of my Gathering laundry today, so along with the usual t-shirts and underwear, I've got swimming towels, sarongs, and cloaks drying on the deck.

Words have been failing me in regards to the Gathering. Other people's words clutter my attempts (they say "the best Gathering I've had", "my favourite Gathering so far", and "a wonderful weekend", and I say... nothing), and the pressure of the unexpressed words is keeping my other writing attempts stopped up. Given that the 3-Day Novel Contest is in two weeks, I must write again despite wordlessness and finger stutters.

I've started slow, commenting on a few LJ posts at long last*. Next, this post. Then, soon – maybe, hopefully – a novel outline in time for the long weekend.

Today's been a day of laundry and words.

I'm awash – lost – in other people's words and in piles of wet clothing. Various distractions (William and Russ' birthday) and bad weather have interfered with my ability to do laundry, so I'm doing about a month's worth this weekend. Between, I've finally read Atwood's brilliant Oryx and Crake in preparation for reading her new book, The Year of the Flood, when it comes out in a month or so. And there's been the The Videographer – the 3-Day winner from 2008. Weird book, but worth a read. Not particularly cheery, though, so Russ won't want it soon. He read The Handmaid's Tale and Cat's Eye back-to-back and is a little over the literary misery. I've told him to read a Bruno and Boots novel before tackling "Oryx", as it is dystopian.

I don't mind dystopian, but I wish it weren't so depressing all the time.



The slowest race is happening on my porch right now, between the drying laundry and the sinking sun. And then it's folding clothes and planning my preparation for the Writers and Readers Festival. I'm thinking this year I might actually try to read some of the authors' works before hearing them speak.

*I've been reading my FL daily, but have had no words for commenting.

Vancouver has an annual literary festival, The International Writers & Readers Festival. Last year, rythos42 and I went to a couple of events together, and we continued the tradition this year. Most events are what you expect from a literary event: darkened theaters, authors reading, and thoughtful discussions about character's motivations.

Last night's event was a little different. Our first clue that this wasn't quite the same as the other events we'd gone to was that there was a bar. After some confusion about how to buy a glass of wine (the process involved tracking down and buying tickets, then using the tickets to acquire alcoholic refreshment), we settled into seats. We were just discussing our expectations for the evening when the dance music came on. And then the go-go dancers came out.

There were three male go-go dancers. They wore American Apparel briefs, t-shirts, headbands, and white knee socks with stripes at the top. One was in green, one in red, and one in yellow. Green was really into it. He was dancing his little heart out, even pulling up his shirt to show his belly button and playing to the crowd. The other two seemed a little self-conscious, maybe because their underwear didn't fit as well as Green's did. If you are going to be showing your underwear, it's a good idea to make sure it fits your ass tightly. Baggy-bum is not sexy.

After the go-go dancers came some readings, featuring selections from a biography of Houdini written entirely in poetry, "the dirtiest story in my short story collection" (about a woman working on a sex website), a poet with very poet hair who brought wine to the reading stand and repeatedly, adorably, lied that he was calm, and the 3-Day Novel winner of 2006, The Convictions Of Leonard McKinley.

I had chosen this event in order to see the 3-Day writer, Brendan McLeod. rythos42 and I had both read his book ahead of time – and unintentionally almost scared Russ out of reading it with our veiled references to the story's almost-very-disturbing conclusion. It is a funny book... and it is even funnier when he reads it. I would like to propose that all authors who have to do readings should get training by slam poets first – Brendan and the other performance poet who read from her first novel were both wonderful to listen to.

More go-go dancing during the intermission – this time without the t-shirts. Green was still enthusiastic. We'd all been given a free copy of subTerrain magazine and I used was relieved to find it full of short stories and poems. The last time I was given a magazine for free, it was a surprise to me when it turned out to be full of furry porn. Not really my thing, but very educational.

After the intermission, an audience participation game called "Tops or Bottoms" for book prizes, followed by more readings: an author who apologized for being smashed before reading a very serious passage about a mother with dementia, a novel section about giant killer ants and a milk chicken bomb (I don't know), a piece about a bridesmaid having a fling with the wedding bartender in her parents' house, and a story about a couple who sleep in a cage to prevent the man's jealous pet chimp from attacking the girlfriend. The last author, Catherine Kidd, also performed one of her poems, which was a very interesting combination of science and politics and artistry, set to music. I wouldn't want to read it – I don't think it would very interesting on paper – but it was a great performance.

After the event was over, rythos42 and I hung out near Brendan McLeod until he extracted himself from another conversation. I told him that I'd also done the contest and all three of us, along with a friend of his who had also done the 3-Day twice, commiserated on the problems of writing fast (making characters walk off cliffs, sudden earthquakes, and multiple kidnappings).

He hated his novel after writing it and didn't think it would win (which doesn't give me any hope that my novel that I hate has any chance of winning, but it is interesting given that I love his novel).

He said that the published novel is pretty close to what he wrote during the contest; he added about ten pages, took out the parts where random characters he didn't need anymore ended up walking off of cliffs, and fixed the ending so that it actually was what he'd intended it to be when writing the original manuscript. Which took us to talking about the ending (which I won't spoil; read the book!) and I think he was pleased that we'd already read the book (rather than just having bought it at the table at the other side of the room) so we could share in the joke when he told us that a middle school decided to give copies away as prizes, only to find that they really should have read the whole book first and not just the first couple of pages and that parents weren't terribly pleased with this particular literary prize. Brendan sent them some more youth-friendly and parent-pleasing poetry recordings as replacements, even though he had told them that their plan was a bad one, and one of them surely should have been able to read all 111 pages.

He signed my book, adding "P.S., Do cocaine!"

My Mom thinks that I was the sweetest and most generous little girl in the world. I guess all moms think that about their little girls, but my Mom thought she had proof; proof of my goodness in the form of a little story:

"When we moved to the house in Oakville, you gave the biggest bedroom to your little sister."

Mom's story had meaning beyond its few words; this was my mother summing up my personality as a child.

The facts are true: I gave the biggest bedroom in our new house to my sister. There wasn't a fight. I gave her the room very willingly.

The full story is a longer one, and it starts more than a year before the move to Oakville. One afternoon just before the end of the school year, my grade two teacher lowered all the blinds and turned out all the lights in the classroom. She had us all close our eyes. She turned on an audio recording of a children's story and let us listen to the opening scene.

I can't remember what the teacher's point or lesson was (or if there was one), but I remember the story:

A little girl, Sophie, wakes up during the "witching hour" and hears something out on the street. She goes to her window and sees a giant – a huge, scary giant – walking down the empty street, peering in the bedroom windows. She's terrified and tries to hide, but the giant finds her. He reaches into her bedroom window, captures her in one giant hand, and carries her away, never saying anything to her.

The recording ended there.* We all blinked into the classroom lights and resumed class. No one else seemed worried about Sophie.

I worried about Sophie, but, even more, I worried about me. We lived on an isolated road outside of town; if a giant came, he wouldn't have many other children to choose from, and there were fewer people around who might hear me if I screamed. But I comforted myself with the knowledge that the bedroom I shared with my sister overlooked the backyard, so the giant wouldn't be able to peer in our window from the street. We were safe.

A year later, we moved from the small town in Northern Ontario to a suburb of Toronto. My sister and I were promised our own separate bedrooms.

There were three bedrooms besides the master bedroom: two that faced the backyard and one that faced the street. My sister and I were basically left to figure it out between us.

The front bedroom, the one that overlooked the street, was the bigger and brighter bedroom. I never considered taking it for even a moment. I took one of the back bedrooms – which was a perfect fine room, just not as fine as the other one – and my sister gladly took the front one. I didn't tell her about the risk of being kidnapped by a giant.

"You sacrificed your sister for your own safety?" my Mom exclaimed in a mixture of amusement and horror.

"I didn't really believe in the giant, you know? But I wanted to be on the safe side. Anyway, she could've taken the other back bedroom."

"I thought you were so nice..." Mom's laughing and shaking her head.

"Well, it was still a nice thing to do, I guess, since the giant didn't get her in all those years that she slept in the front bedroom."

*I only recently figured out that the scene was the opening of one of the few Roald Dahl books I didn't read as a kid: The BFG. Anyone who knows the story will understand why this discovery was so amusing to me in light of the effect the story fragment had on me.

When I get a new book by a favourite author, one I know will be wonderful, I have trouble starting the book, for starting it will only bring me that much closer to finishing it. The anticipation of starting a new book is like the moment right before the orgasm: you both want it to last forever and want to get on with reading the book already.

I want reading the great book to be perfect: I want to be all comfy – in a soft place, warm enough – and to have a long period of uninterrupted time to enjoy it. I would be completely undistracted by illness, exhaustion, or work concerns. My house would be perfectly clean and tidy, my emails would all be answered, all the bills would be paid and filed. Of course, I have to accept less-then-ideal circumstances, or I would never have sex read at all.

I received a package from Amazon.ca today; one I wasn't expecting for a couple of weeks, so it caught me completely unprepared. Four Charles de Lint books I have never read, all here at once!

I've been lusting after some of these books for years – they are all small press items, unavailable in stores, and I finally saved up the money to buy them – and now I have them piled on the edge of the de Lint shelf of the living room bookcase, glossy and seductive, and I can't seem to get myself started.

I'll finish the Nightside book I'm in the middle of, bask in its glow for a moment or two, then grab one of the new books and not get nearly enough sleep for the next couple of nights. Right now, I am trying to tell myself that I will stretch the four books out, savouring each one. In reality, I will probably gorge myself. If I'm not on LJ a lot for the coming week, you know where I am.

I anticipate being very satiated.

And the Grinch, with his grinch-feet ice-cold in the snow,
Stood puzzling and puzzling: "How could it be so?
It came without ribbons! It came without tags!
"It came without packages, boxes or bags!"
And he puzzled three hours, `till his puzzler was sore.
Then the Grinch thought of something he hadn't before!
"Maybe Christmas," he thought, "doesn't come from a store.
"Maybe Christmas...perhaps...means a little bit more!"

How the Grinch Stole Christmas is a typical secular Christmas story where in the end, someone (or everyone) learns the true meaning of Christmas: Christmas isn't about the gifts and the decorations and the food, but about being with loved ones and family. It is all about appreciating those we care about and spending time together.

Wait a minute! Shouldn't we be doing that all the time? Shouldn't we always make an effort to spend time with our families and show how much we care about our friends? What separates Christmas from what we should be doing everyday?

Gifts. Special food. Decorations. Seasonal parties.

It shouldn't be about the amount of money spent and who gives the most extragavent present. Homemade gifts, simple gifts, meals shared... these are valuable expressions of Christmas spirit. This doesn't have to be about commerce. It is the thought that counts. But at Christmas time, the thought that counts comes wrapped in festive paper or served on a snowman plate.

Sometimes we need an excuse to show each other we care, or a reminder to remember what's really important. And the important thing is the people and the home and the community.

But our reminder is still a celebration that comes with ribbons and tags; packages, boxes and bags. Oh, and rare roast beast.