DAY SEVEN: A stolen moment with the author of Stolen Continents

Traveler, historian and novelist Ronald Wright has had a massive influence on me. I consider him a member of the same hallowed realm as Eduardo Galeano (who, generous soul that he is, agreed to blurb my book). Both Wright and Galeano have spent much of their respective careers revealing untold truths of New World history, telling real (and fantastically fictional) stories of the Americas and rethinking the tropes we've been fed since we were school-children about our origins on this side of the Atlantic. The careers of these two writers... oh wait, add in Peter Matthiessen... the careers of these three writers have shaped how I think about my own budding life as a writer, what kind of topics I am drawn to and what sort of stories I feel prepared (permitted? obligated?) to tell. I think of these three every time I stumble upon a new book idea, or a new concept for a magazine piece.

So, needless to say, I was there last night when Ronald Wright took the stage with Richard Price, Meg Wolitzer and Peter Robinson for a round-table discussion of the writing life. I listened as Wright told the story of how he only started writing when he got unexpectedly sick in South America, how he sold Cut Stones and Crossroads for something like four grand and didn't think twice about the money, how the gold the Inca Atahualpa spent on buying his freedom from Pizarro eventually ended up in Silicon Valley. This idea lies at the core of what Wright and Galeano have written, the idea that riches have consequences - "mankind's poverty as a consequence of the wealth of the land," to quote EG. I was so thrilled to hear Wright speaking the very essence of what fascinates me. It was an inspiring night.

So inspiring, in fact, that after the event I rushed over to Ben McNally's bookstore outside the Brigantine Room, stole a copy of my own book (sorry, Ben), inscribed a wee note to Ronald on the title page, and joined the autograph lineup. When my turn came, I shook Wright's hand, thanked him for his books, and gave him mine (on the very day it was published: October 28th) as a gift.

"This is my Cut Stones," I said, perhaps presumptiously, but reverently as well.

Wright seemed a bit confused at first, but when he turned the book over and saw Galeano's name, he smiled and nodded.

"That's a wonderful blurb," he said. And then he thanked me and wished me luck.

~

Quotes of Day Seven:
"It's amazing what you can do when you don't know anything."
- Richard Price
"The world will chip away at you. A mother shouldn't."
- Meg Wolitzer
"I'd rather be a K."
- Meg Wolitzer, on the discrimination book stores seem to have for author's with last names that start with W.
"It's alphabetism."
- Ronald Wright, on the same topic.
"Holy crap. My last name starts with W, too!"
- me, inside my head.
"I feel that fiction is the great, refreshing antidote to, well, everything else."
- Meg Wolitzer
"When you're twenty-four, you're an idiot. But you're a happy idiot."
- take a guess

Toronto Gets Dropped (book-dropped, that is)

We woke at 5am. The city smelt like wet leaves and mulch. We assembled at the darkened gates of Trinity Bellwoods Park and tried not to think about rain, coffee, whiskey, or our slumbering partners back home. We had a van. It was filled with one thousand books. We had a leader. Her name was Becky. We filled our bags to the brim, slung them over our shoulders, and wished each other luck.

The media had heard about us. The Toronto Star, National Post, the Torontoist, Quill and Quire - all of 'em had covered yesterday's strange press release. Free books? Words on the street, literally? Who were these sleepless volunteers, and what did they hope to accomplish?

The first annual IFOA "Random Gift of Reading" Book Drop began on camera. The Global TV Morning News camera, to be precise. A big, lovable video technician - clearly used to waking before the sun - turned Becky into an ape before our eyes.

"Now put the book in the bag," he said. "No. Go slowly. So I can see the cover. Yes. The light? There isn't any light. Oh, this light? I need this light. Yes. No. Good. Good! That's good. Look natural."

We fanned out along Queen Street West in the dark. We left Anita Shreve on a bike rack. We left Dennis Lehane on a fire hydrant. Just as I was hoisting Josef Skvorecky's Engineer of Human Souls up into the branch-fork of a tree, a man emerged from Clafouti, carrying a large pastry box. We eyed each other as he slid his box onto the seat of his car.

"What's this?" he asked.
"Free books."
"Do you have one my daughter might like?"


I gave him a copy of Andrew Miller's The Optimists. I left Skvorecky in his tree. The man drove away, but two minutes later he returned, swerving in reverse through the gloom.

"Do you want a croissant?"
"A Clafouti croissant?"

I chose fig. I took two more for the girls. The random gift had been returned and the sun wasn't even up yet.

The next hour passed like a hallucination. We left Donna Morrissey at a tattoo parlour, an old-school Penguin in a streetcar booth, Cornelia Funke in line outside the Reverb (for once, there was no one else there). A frightened man on the corner of Bathurst took a copy of Ken Babstock's Airstream and immediately started reading. His fear seemed to dissipate slightly, as if a remarkable voice had spoken (it had).

Store windows, mailboxes and door handles were dotted with Peter Robinson and Junot Diaz. We book-dropped the old site of Duke's Cycle, that sad, scorched swath of land still piled high with blackened junk. We left our mark on Shanghai Cowgirl (even though we find the new sign a bit twee) and at the gates of Brown's (because even short men gotta read) Christopher Dewdney became Aquainted with the morning as the sun began its slow climb.

Soon we crossed Spadina into the downtown core. It was nearing 7am, and the commuters had begun to appear. They were hesitant at first, but as a line of speed-walking businessmen overtook us - our random gifts already under their arms - more and more people seemed willing to take a chance. Meanwhile, American Apparel got booked. So did the front doors of French Connection ("fcuk reading, man... just fcuk it").

The CHUM building was buzzing, glorious morning-types flitting here and there amid the fluorescence of breakfast and television. An eTalk producer left out in the cold got a copy of Three Day Road. She quickly slipped it under her bum as if it were alive with a soothing heat. A Pepsi truck with its flashers on got totally booked - right there on its windshield - while its driver looked the other way. People with headphones on stopped and removed their headphones. People with cellphones to their ears dropped the cellphones from their ears. Something was happening here. Free books, yes, but something more. A literary love-in on the streets of Toronto, as one woman gave me a hug, and another one gave me a kiss.

"Come to the festival," I said. They assured me they would.

We retired to King and Bay, 500 gifts of reading hidden in plain sight, another 500 or so ready for the hand-to-hand. By this time, Geoffrey Taylor's interview on CBC Radio had been heard by hundreds of thousands, and the populace were prepared. A scrum formed around the boxes of books as we handed over millions of hard-won words.

"Is this crime?" asked one old man. "Because I hate crime."
"Can I get four extras?" asked a sweet young lady. "For my co-workers?
One woman had been sent all the way from St.Clair and Avenue Road. "My boss likes to read," she said. "I didn't know my boss could read."

The news stations had Becky on their morning shows, one after the other. Global even interviewed me, as a debut author. And finally, by about 745 am, one thousand books had found good homes, the sun was warming and the networks had left us alone. Our minds slid forward to next Wednesday, when IFOA begins.

And then a lone cameraman from the CBC appeared.

"We saw you guys on Global," he said. "It looked like fun, so they sent me down."

We laughed and gave the guy a program.