The Writers' Trust of Canada has got itself a heck of a fiction contest this year. Last night, the five finalists read from their nominated works, and each one stole the show in their own way. Rivka Galchen was very endearing with her short reading, and funny, and allowed the brilliance of her first novel's concept to emerge organically. Rawi Hage was quite expectedly quiet, and intense, dark, and superb. Lee Henderson, whom I have seen read many, many times in Vancouver, wowed with his inventive, pithy language ("the burial mound was zitted with purple potatoes," and "the dog snouted for treats"). Patrick Lane floored me with a pitch-perfect account of a boy trying to commit suicide in a river, an account that could have ended with any of his fifteen finishing sentences and been brilliant. And Miriam Toews gave a virtuoso reading from the Troutmans, speeding through the jokes that by the time the audience laughed, we were gulping our chuckles back in the face of perfect pathos.
I'd love it if Lee won. But I seriously don't have a clue as to who's gonna take it.
Thursday, October 30, 2008
SATURDAY'S MUST-SEE EVENTS!
I've got a sweet little piece of inside information for all you loyal readers out there. Actually, two sweet little pieces:
1. This Saturday at noon, Daniel Baird of Walrus fame will be hosting a round table in the Brigantine Room that is sure to knock your socks off. It's called the Eavesdrop Salon and I suggest you book your tickets now. Baird, Boyden, Quarrington, Rich and Whitlock - conversing on whichever topic their blinding intellects wish to pursue. It's no holds barred, people. Anything could happen.
2. Later on, at 4pm, my own personal editor at the Walrus, Jeremy Keehn (OK, he works with other writers, too) leads a fascinating conversation on "narrative and the passage of time" with some of Canada's most gifted, insightful and award-winning authors, David Bergen, Christopher Dewdney and Bill Gaston. Make this your pre-dinner stop on the last day of the festival. I'll see you there.
1. This Saturday at noon, Daniel Baird of Walrus fame will be hosting a round table in the Brigantine Room that is sure to knock your socks off. It's called the Eavesdrop Salon and I suggest you book your tickets now. Baird, Boyden, Quarrington, Rich and Whitlock - conversing on whichever topic their blinding intellects wish to pursue. It's no holds barred, people. Anything could happen.
2. Later on, at 4pm, my own personal editor at the Walrus, Jeremy Keehn (OK, he works with other writers, too) leads a fascinating conversation on "narrative and the passage of time" with some of Canada's most gifted, insightful and award-winning authors, David Bergen, Christopher Dewdney and Bill Gaston. Make this your pre-dinner stop on the last day of the festival. I'll see you there.
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
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
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
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
DAY SIX: Bad blogger. Bad, bad blogger.
So there I was yesterday afternoon, still recovering from my reading (and the massive Random House party on Sunday night, which left dock at Jamie Kennedy's at the Gardiner Museum, tore through Avenue at the Four Seasons and eventually smashed up onto the rocks of the Hospitality Suite), when I suddenly realized there was another festival party about to start at Harbourfront.
"Ugh," I thought, as I crawled from my bed to the couch. "How can there be another party? It can't possibly be as big as last night. I'll just show up a bit late."
Turns out I missed the biggest party of this year's IFOA.
The IFOA/Hello! Magazine Opening Party went down in the Enwave Theatre last night, and it was a veritable who's who of who matters in publishing. I am a bad, bad blogger for missing it. When I showed up at about 7pm (yes, 7pm, people... this blowout started at 530 in the afternoon), the room was packed and wildly overheated. Speeches were over (I heard from a number of people that Geoffrey Taylor gave a great one), 150 people had already left and Hello! had already taken down their photo booth (get this: you could have your photo taken, and then through some whiz-bang printing they'd give you a personalized Hello! cover. I rue the moment on Sunday night when I switched from wine to scotch. Rue it, I tell you.)
Anyway, because the inimitable Becky Toyne decided not to rip my head off for being late (though it was well within her right to do so) and instead recently handed me a CD filled with photos from the party, forthwith, I will pretend I was there.
Actually, better to start with Hello! Magazine's party diary.
Ok, onwards!
Team IFOA. Finally, their turn in the limelight. Well deserved!
Guest curator, feted novelist and all-round lovely bloke, Colm Toibin (right) with artist Micah Lexier.
Globe Book Review editor Martin Levin stumping Booker-winner Anne Enright with some arcane piece of trivia.
Two members of the IFOA Royal Family: Ben McNally and his son Rupert (pretending not to be admiring Kim McArthur's passing ponytail).
Bad blogger, arriving late. That is a look of contrition on my face (accompanied by a frisson of indigestion and a soupcon of a migraine).
"Ugh," I thought, as I crawled from my bed to the couch. "How can there be another party? It can't possibly be as big as last night. I'll just show up a bit late."
Turns out I missed the biggest party of this year's IFOA.
The IFOA/Hello! Magazine Opening Party went down in the Enwave Theatre last night, and it was a veritable who's who of who matters in publishing. I am a bad, bad blogger for missing it. When I showed up at about 7pm (yes, 7pm, people... this blowout started at 530 in the afternoon), the room was packed and wildly overheated. Speeches were over (I heard from a number of people that Geoffrey Taylor gave a great one), 150 people had already left and Hello! had already taken down their photo booth (get this: you could have your photo taken, and then through some whiz-bang printing they'd give you a personalized Hello! cover. I rue the moment on Sunday night when I switched from wine to scotch. Rue it, I tell you.)
Anyway, because the inimitable Becky Toyne decided not to rip my head off for being late (though it was well within her right to do so) and instead recently handed me a CD filled with photos from the party, forthwith, I will pretend I was there.
Actually, better to start with Hello! Magazine's party diary.
Ok, onwards!
Team IFOA. Finally, their turn in the limelight. Well deserved!
Guest curator, feted novelist and all-round lovely bloke, Colm Toibin (right) with artist Micah Lexier.
Globe Book Review editor Martin Levin stumping Booker-winner Anne Enright with some arcane piece of trivia.
Two members of the IFOA Royal Family: Ben McNally and his son Rupert (pretending not to be admiring Kim McArthur's passing ponytail).
Bad blogger, arriving late. That is a look of contrition on my face (accompanied by a frisson of indigestion and a soupcon of a migraine).
Hey Shinan Govani... write your own blog!
I'm thinking of applying for a job as the Scene columnist at the National Post.
Wait a minute, I already am the Scene columnist at the National Post.
Check this out. Go to Shinan Govani's latest post. Scroll down to the part about Anita Shreve and Francine Prose. Now, check out my post on Anita and Francine, describing the exact same dinner.
See any similarities?
For the record, I much prefer "beloved-by-Oprah" than "Oprah-blessed." Contrary to popular belief, she ain't no deity (so far as "we've" heard).
Shinan, I'm OK with you ripping me off. But the least you could do is mention my blog!
PS. We should have dinner sometime this week, perhaps at one of the authors' dinners. Then we could have a blog-off. Drop me a line, and I'll hook it up.
Wait a minute, I already am the Scene columnist at the National Post.
Check this out. Go to Shinan Govani's latest post. Scroll down to the part about Anita Shreve and Francine Prose. Now, check out my post on Anita and Francine, describing the exact same dinner.
See any similarities?
For the record, I much prefer "beloved-by-Oprah" than "Oprah-blessed." Contrary to popular belief, she ain't no deity (so far as "we've" heard).
Shinan, I'm OK with you ripping me off. But the least you could do is mention my blog!
PS. We should have dinner sometime this week, perhaps at one of the authors' dinners. Then we could have a blog-off. Drop me a line, and I'll hook it up.
DAY FIVE: Reading The Riverbones (and meeting Dervla Murphy)
The Green Room above the Studio Theatre at the Harbourfront Centre is, well, an "intimate" sort of space (ie. small and very hot). This is where Julie Angus and I met Dervla Murphy - Irish travel writer extraordinnaire, the First Lady of Far-Flung Adventure - with whom we were about to share a stage. Dervla was hard at work, scribbling notes for her talk. She looked up as we arrived and gave us a smile I will never forget. Through the heat, and the confusion ("I don't even know what a PowerPoint Presentation is!"), Dervla seemed almost happier to meet us than we were to meet her. I laughed when she asked me what my book is about. My book? What does it matter? You're Dervla Murphy!
We sat and chatted for a good while, as if Julie and I weren't nervous at all (we were). I almost sweated through my suit jacket. Julie was wearing wool. Dervla signed a book for Julie's mother-in-law, while telling us her next trip was to Gaza. The Gaza Strip. Dervla was going there straight from Toronto next week.
In case you weren't aware, Dervla Murphy is in her late-seventies.
We walked downstairs to the backstage area. Dervla came last, a bit slowly down the steps, and Julie went onstage to a roar of applause. Dervla and I walked around to grab a seat at the back of the theatre, where we watched Julie describe her row across the Atlantic to a rapt audience. I couldn't help thinking I was witnessing some kind of ceremony, a passing of the torch from one generation of courageous women travelers to the next. Julie, though she may not have known it, was absolutely riveting as a guide across the ocean; Dervla kept looking over at me, her eyes wide, smiling in awe.
Then it was my turn on stage. I think we had some fun. I taught the crowd how to speak Sranantongo (Efu yu no go leri, yu lasi), and then I read a chapter from The Riverbones called The Red Road. Efu yu no go leri, yu lasi means, roughly, "If you don't learn about something, you will lose it." It was only when I was preparing for IFOA that I realized this is actually the point of my book. Suriname is one of the world's Last Edens. It is the middle of nowhere, but it is also the middle of everywhere.
Dervla came last. She offered some very kind words to myself and Julie (see below). And then the audience pummeled her with a million questions. A little later, as I signed a few books for a few lovely strangers, Julie and I marveled at the length of the line-up for Dervla's autograph.
"Someday," we thought to ourselves. "Someday."
~
Quote of Day Five:
(sorry, but I gotta do this)
"I have had a number of depressing conversations lately about the future of travel writing. But having shared the stage with Julie and Andrew today, I am relieved to find travel writing is in very good hands."
- Dervla Murphy
We sat and chatted for a good while, as if Julie and I weren't nervous at all (we were). I almost sweated through my suit jacket. Julie was wearing wool. Dervla signed a book for Julie's mother-in-law, while telling us her next trip was to Gaza. The Gaza Strip. Dervla was going there straight from Toronto next week.
In case you weren't aware, Dervla Murphy is in her late-seventies.
We walked downstairs to the backstage area. Dervla came last, a bit slowly down the steps, and Julie went onstage to a roar of applause. Dervla and I walked around to grab a seat at the back of the theatre, where we watched Julie describe her row across the Atlantic to a rapt audience. I couldn't help thinking I was witnessing some kind of ceremony, a passing of the torch from one generation of courageous women travelers to the next. Julie, though she may not have known it, was absolutely riveting as a guide across the ocean; Dervla kept looking over at me, her eyes wide, smiling in awe.
Then it was my turn on stage. I think we had some fun. I taught the crowd how to speak Sranantongo (Efu yu no go leri, yu lasi), and then I read a chapter from The Riverbones called The Red Road. Efu yu no go leri, yu lasi means, roughly, "If you don't learn about something, you will lose it." It was only when I was preparing for IFOA that I realized this is actually the point of my book. Suriname is one of the world's Last Edens. It is the middle of nowhere, but it is also the middle of everywhere.
Dervla came last. She offered some very kind words to myself and Julie (see below). And then the audience pummeled her with a million questions. A little later, as I signed a few books for a few lovely strangers, Julie and I marveled at the length of the line-up for Dervla's autograph.
"Someday," we thought to ourselves. "Someday."
~
Quote of Day Five:
(sorry, but I gotta do this)
"I have had a number of depressing conversations lately about the future of travel writing. But having shared the stage with Julie and Andrew today, I am relieved to find travel writing is in very good hands."
- Dervla Murphy
Monday, October 27, 2008
Say what you will about blogs... Colm Toibin's reading mine.
Hi Colm. Hi Anne. Hi Dermot.
I learned something strange and a bit unnerving last night: a few of the Irish writers at this year's festival are actually reading this blog. Last night in the Hospitality Suite (oooh, I promised my superiors at Harbourfront I'd never start a sentence with "last night in the Hospitality Suite." I can almost feel the hairs going up on the back of Geoffrey Taylor's neck. You see, the Hospitality Suite is the Vegas of IFOA. It's strictly off-the-record - no media, no hassles. Just writers "relaxing" and "being themselves" in a well-appointed suite at the Westin Harbour Castle. To blog about the goings-on in there could be the single fastest way to "destroy" a young man's writing "career." Or so I've been told.)
Anyway, last night in the Hospitality Suite, Colm Toibin quoted from this blog, Dermot Bolger accused me (in a very friendly manner) of stealing his "best stuff," and Anne Enright introduced me not as an author but as the official blogger (it's OK, Anne... I know I'm already terribly overexposed in this capacity and sadly underexposed as a writer).
This led to the classic conversation about blogs themselves, and how many of us feel they are simply useless, or self-congratulatory, or both (Colm came up with a very good euphemism for blogs versus books, actually, but I'll not share it here for reasons of propriety already discussed above).
But this makes me wonder: what would make this blog better? What would pull it up and out of the mongrel blogosphere? And I think I know the answer. A pure-bred, world-famous, prize-winning, Irish-accented Guest Blogger!
So come on, Colm. Have at you, Dermot. Let's see it, Anne. Which one of you will rise to the occasion and offer to write IFOA's first guest-blog?
I learned something strange and a bit unnerving last night: a few of the Irish writers at this year's festival are actually reading this blog. Last night in the Hospitality Suite (oooh, I promised my superiors at Harbourfront I'd never start a sentence with "last night in the Hospitality Suite." I can almost feel the hairs going up on the back of Geoffrey Taylor's neck. You see, the Hospitality Suite is the Vegas of IFOA. It's strictly off-the-record - no media, no hassles. Just writers "relaxing" and "being themselves" in a well-appointed suite at the Westin Harbour Castle. To blog about the goings-on in there could be the single fastest way to "destroy" a young man's writing "career." Or so I've been told.)
Anyway, last night in the Hospitality Suite, Colm Toibin quoted from this blog, Dermot Bolger accused me (in a very friendly manner) of stealing his "best stuff," and Anne Enright introduced me not as an author but as the official blogger (it's OK, Anne... I know I'm already terribly overexposed in this capacity and sadly underexposed as a writer).
This led to the classic conversation about blogs themselves, and how many of us feel they are simply useless, or self-congratulatory, or both (Colm came up with a very good euphemism for blogs versus books, actually, but I'll not share it here for reasons of propriety already discussed above).
But this makes me wonder: what would make this blog better? What would pull it up and out of the mongrel blogosphere? And I think I know the answer. A pure-bred, world-famous, prize-winning, Irish-accented Guest Blogger!
So come on, Colm. Have at you, Dermot. Let's see it, Anne. Which one of you will rise to the occasion and offer to write IFOA's first guest-blog?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
