September 2011 Archives

Here at my house, we're on count down till the TD Canadian Children's Literary Awards, which are given out October 4th. Plain Kate is up for the big prize! This is the nomination that saw me pop out to Vancouver to tape a session with the CBC Book Club. That's just gone up as a podcast, so you can listen to it here! (The link is right under my picture.)

If you're in Lethbridge, Alberta, tomorrow, you can catch me at the newest location for Canada's coast to coast literary festival, Word on the Street. I'll be beaming in via Skype to talk to teens (and anyone else who cares to come!) about writing, publishing, and Plain Kate. 12:00 Mountain Time. Check out the teen author line up: it's impressive.

And tomorrow at Kitchener's Word on the Street, I'm talking science and poetry for the local launch of the quarc project, a joint offering of the New Quarterly and ARC magazine. (This write-up (including the entertaining biography of me) shamelessly stolen from the TNQ blog, the literary type.)

The New Quarterly is celebrating The QuArc Issue this Sunday, September 25 at 4pm in the Arts & Culture tent at Word On The Street Kitchener (in beautiful Victoria Park).

Three of the many terrific QuArc writers will be reading from their work in the issue, talking about their writerly process and about how their interest in science informs their work (in this instance at least). In other words, they will tell the story behind the story (or poem, or literary experiment...). Our writers are:

Erin Noteboom Bow trained as a particle physicist and worked briefly at CERN and at Los Alamos National Labs, before switching gears and making a career as a writer. She has been struck by lightning, survived a brain tumor, and was excommunicated from the Catholic church (Lincoln, Nebraska diocese) for campaigning for the ordination of women. She has also written four books: two volumes of poetry, a memoir, and a young adult novel, and won the CBC Literary Award for Poetry. Erin's contributions to the QuArc issue include a comic discourse on the history and behavior of quarks and a poem, "Why A Bride Wears White," which draws its metaphors from scientific principles.

Sound poet Christian Bök was born "Christian Book" but changed his name "to avoid unseemly confusion with the Bible." He has published three collections--Crystallography, Eunoia, and Pataphysics: The Poetics of an Imaginary Science--but by his own reckoning is best-known for holding the world record for the fastest rendition of Kurt Schwitters' "Ursonate." Eunoia won the 2002 Griffin Prize (Canada's most prestigious award for poetry) and the book went on to sell 20,000 copies in Canada (no small feat for a book of poetry!). It was a best seller in the UK as well. Bök is a conceptual artist and has worked in science-fiction television creating alternative languages. Christian's contribution to QuArc describes his current project: creating a "living poem" by encoding it in the DNA of a long- lived virus and watching it evolve over time (really!).

Miranda Hill is a writer of short fiction and poetry. Her work has appeared in The New Quarterly, The Dalhousie Review, and The Fiddlehead and will soon be published in the 23rd volume of The Journey Prize Stories. Her first collection of short stories, Sleeping Funny, is forthcoming from Doubleday Canada. Hill is also the founder and executive director of Project Bookmark Canada, a national charitable organization that installs plaques bearing text from stories and poems in the exact physical locations where the literary scenes take place. The organization is working to build a cross-Canada network of installations that celebrate place, fiction, and poetry, enticing Canadians and visitors to read their way across the country. Miranda's contribution to the QuArc issue, a story called "Rise: A Requiem," is an interesting turn on the age-old tension between science and religion.

So! Prairie Fire took a handful of my ghazals. It's the first time I've had ghazals published, and Prairie Fire is a good catch. I'm pleased. But of course the burning question is: "what's a ghazal, anyway?" (And by "burning" I mean "three people asked me.") I recycle my little piece below that answers that question.

The ghazal in its traditional Arabic and Urdu is built of couplets, each self contained, but connected in the ear by both a refrain at the end of each second line, and a rhyme that occurs both at the end of the first line and just before the refrain in the second line. There are other formal requirements, too, but those are the main ones. It's traditionally an oral form: the poet recites it and the audience comes in for the refrain. The rhyme just before the refrain helps cue the listeners.

Contemporary poets experimenting in English have made free with this. Understandable: English is so rhyme-starved, and most of us don't recite to enthusiastic, poetry-literate crowd, alas. As with the haiku, those of us adopting the form in English are missing some things, but finding others uniquely our own.

I am just beginning to play with the form, and have kept only the requirement that a ghazal be five to seven couplets long, and that each couplet be self-contained. (They are connected, but the connections are mysterious.) The addition of the borrowed first couplet is my own idea -- echoing other poets being close as I would come to a call and response. Here's an example (not one of the ones in Prairie Fire).

Ghazal beginning with lines by Roethke

The river turns on itself,
The tree retreats into its own shadow.

Like a breath, the bay empties
before the wave.

Old photographs. Setting fire to them -
almost a murder.

... as sparks fly upward, the Bible says.
But they do, as if reaching.

Night windows are not stars, though many birds
mistake them, fatally.

Over at Squeaky Books (a fun book blog which takes its name from Shannon Hale: “I couldn’t remember the last time I had stayed up into the squeaky hours of the night because I couldn’t put a book down, and that was a tragedy.”) there’s an interview with moi. Here’s an excerpt. Go read and subscribe, though: it’s a fun site.

We had a discussion on twitter about how you didn’t like people using the word “depressing” when talking about your book. Can you talk a little about that now? Why do you think people feel the need to use that word, and how would you better define it?

That word, “depressing” — I don’t like that word. It means something real: it means paralysis, the loss of hope. Now, I’ve read and liked books like that: 1984 is depressing, for instance. Or MT Anderson’s Feed. They are books that suck you in and beat you up. When you’ve read them you feel less good about the world — though perhaps willing to do something about that, which is the point of such books.

“Depressing,” then, is distinct from “sad.” Depressed people in fact do not feel sad: they feel horrible pain, they feel (contradictory) numbness, and (contradictory again) rage — but not anything as simple and redemptive as sorrow.

I will accept that Plain Kate is sad. It made me cry, and I selfishly hope it makes other people cry too. If I may channel my inner Bugs Bunny: What do you want from a Russian Fairy Tale: a happy ending? I personally think that the novel — particularly the ending — is uplifting and driven by hope, but it’s okay with me if people don’t get that layer, and feel nothing but the sadness. That’s one level at which the book can be read.

But “depressing” — no, I hope not. I don’t want it to be a book that beats you up, that makes you feel hopeless and numb. That’s the opposite of why I write. (I take as my motto E.B. White: “All that I want to say in books, all that I ever want to say, is that I love the world.”) And so when people that the book is just too depressing to read, that’s a charge that hits home.

Tonight’s the night for the Sunburst Awards: Canada’s science fiction and fantasy awards, for which my Plain Kate is up. They’re giving them out at Harbourfront in an Oscar-style surprise.

I wasn’t nervous until last night — I really don’t expect to win this award, and I’ve been too busy being nervous about the TD and the Vancouver trip. But now I’m officially a little nervous. Evidence: I took my bike halfway to work before realizing I needed to go home for my suitcase and figure out some other way to transport myself.

Mom said to me on the phone last night: did you write a speech? And I said: a speech? She: In case you win. Me: Oh, sh*t. She: Well, I’m sure you’ll be better than Frances What’s-her-name at the Tonys. A high bar indeed.

I did officially have my nails done, concerns about such things (frocks, nails — not hair, note the advantages of shaving it off) being my default anxiety displacement mechanism. I’d never had a pedicure before. They’re NICE. Of course, then I decided to wear boots.

Look for me at Harbourfront tonight. I’ll be the one chewing on my perfect fingernails.

(This is from the novel I’m drafting, The Swan Riders, a sequel to Children of Peace)

“So,” said the thing that had not yet decided on a name. Michael? Michael, from the Hebrew  מִיכָאֵל, Mikha’el, “who is like God.” Michael, the warrior angel. The leader of heaven’s armies. Michael, slayer of dragons. Michael, patron of soldiers. Michael, the body on the slab in front of him. Michael.  

“So,” said the thing: “This was billed as ontologically disturbing. And I’ve gotta say, it’s living up.”

A body, a human body. His body. A flop of hair, strong cheekbones, bit of a scruffy jaw, lips almost girlish. He’d looked clever when he was alive. He didn’t look clever any more.

Across the body, Aranjinda stood hunched up in a lumpish cardigan. The thing checked and found that, yes, the room was cold.

Well, it would be.

His ceramic fingers pulled up and twirled a lock of the sandy hair. It was longer than he usually liked to let it get. “I had pretty good hair, though, didn’t I?” he said.

This morning we again rose on East Coast time, had a beautiful cup of coffee, and then caught a cab to Third Beach in Stanley Park. It's a quiet, wild corner of the park: a steep slope of rainforest -- pines and cedars and ferns, moss and stone -- that spills onto a powder sand beach strewn with bleached logs and grey round boulders.

We sat down on one of the logs and took off our shoes, rolled up our jeans. The sand was cool, the Pacific (technically the Georgian Straight) cold, but not numbingly so. It washed in and out quietly, waves that didn't even top one's feet. Purple clam shells and shining black abalone shells. Ravens instead of seagulls. A place so different from anywhere I've ever been that I could believe it had a different origin: a Raven-creates-the-world place.

I walked for an hour. Saw little crabs, a washed up jellyfish, the breathing holes of clams (one spouted like a wee drinking fountain, confirming my guess at what they were). I picked up seashells for the girls and for me. Found a beautiful piece of white sea glass -- sea glass is a (literal) touchstone for me. Found two raven feathers.

Thought about this poem:

What can heal us?

Like men who have lost legs,
we cannot be restored,
but the tumbling world
makes lights of us --
the sea turns glass
to milk. A teacup handle
to a tool for divination.

The tumbling world.

And then I caught a cab, and then a plane. And here I am at another airport, and it seems a whole world away.

Today in Vancouver: hiked across a swinging, bouncing suspension bridge high over the Capalino river gorge, and walked a suspended walkway between the cedars in the rainforest.

We caught a bus out to the Museum of Anthropology (tip: catch a cab to the Museum of Anthropology) and sat under the huge, numinous totem poles. Walked the grounds and ate wild blackberries.

We wandered Granville Island and bought The Owlet quilted backpack that looks like an owl for her first day of preschool, which is Tuesday. We ate dinner at a restaurant across from the farmer’s market, where everything was local and bought fresh that day.

We took at boat up False Creek Inlet and watched the moon rise directly ahead.

And now — since it’s 8:00 — I’m ready for bed!

Greetings from Vancouver. Good times were had at the CBC Book Club taping this morning; Bookstores were located and stocked was signed per publicist’s request. So I feel all Official Author-ish.

Which is a strange way to feel. It’s a strange convention, generally, that writers should go out and be the public face of their books. After all, the core skill of an author is to sit alone and listen to the fictional people. Most of us are good at sustained alone time, at looking inward with a somewhat furtive intensity, as if we were eavesdropping with a cup against a wall. This is not a skill that translates well to, say, cocktail parties. But after the book is finished, we’re called upon (if we’re lucky — I know I’m lucky, this is not a complaint) to head out for the vast cocktail party of publicity — to meet people and tell them about ourselves and generally be charming. It’s just plain odd that we treat authors this way.

But we do, and so I’m here in Vancouver with my Official Author hat tilted just so. I get so nervous about this stuff. Deeply worked up. I didn’t sleep last night, and this morning I felt compelled to try on all three shirts I brought with me (one of them twice) and then post about that on Twitter. At least I don’t have hair to fuss with. Imagine the stress of that.

I get so nervous — and then it always goes just fine. In fact, I’m even good at it. Maybe I need the nerves in order to get the energy? I’m not sure. I do think no one I meet on these tours would guess how fundamentally introverted I am.

Anyhoo, the taping went well, and the audience had some interesting questions. I talked about physics more than I meant to — but then, people will always ask about it. I ended up explaining to someone, afterwards, how the quantum nature of the universe solved the problem of Newtonian determinacy and free will. I also pointed him to the official source for news about whether the Large Hadron Collider has destroyed the earth yet. I hope he feels better now that he knows these things.

And then I got to wander Vancouver a bit. What a stunning beautiful city. I had a Vietnamese style submarine from a street vender sandwich for lunch, a great unpretentious fusion of deli meats and spicy sour vegetables and sauce. I happened upon Hapa-palooza and had my heart thudded by a taiko (Japanese War Drum) performance. I caught a bus over the False Creek Inlet to another bookstore, and then James and I walked back from there, over the same high bridge: wind and sunshine, and unmatched views of the inlet and the mountains and the beautiful skyline. Now we are off for Stanley Park.

And I feel very luck to have fallen into such a strange convention, to get to trail my little book around the country. Thank you, TD, for sponsoring the Children’s Literature Award, and thank you, CBC, for featuring the nominees. It’s a privilege to be here.

Readers, I have been shopping.

Under the influence of my visiting (and very stylish) mother, I bought not one but two Serious Frocks.

One is a little black dress — not what I was shopping for, but so smashing, and I got the most amazing turquoise and gunmetal earrings to go with it. The other is a wrap dress in gunmetal, olive, and cobolt blue. Also bought: two pairs of quite impractical shoes. I’m having second thoughts about those. I normally wear flats with serious insoles — the kind made of half an oak’s worth of cork and holding several patents — and I bought Chinese Laundry three-inch “Barbie goes to the Party” heels. I may also need training wheels.

The Serious Frocks are needed for some serious parties. In fact, by the end of the month I am anticipating needing writerly life support, as I sink into some kind of introvert’s healing coma. Because here’s my schedule:

• CBC Book Club Saturday, September 10: I’ll be in Vancouver doing the CBC Book Club, which is taped before an audience and broadcast later. Free tickets for the taping, folks! It’s at 11:00 AM. I don’t know when the broadcast is, but I’ll try to find out. It will be on North By Northwest, the BC-wide morning show, and on the internet.

• Sunburst Awards Wednesday, September 14: I’m at Harbourfront in Toronto as part of a lineup of authors shortlisted for the Sunburst Award — Canada’s award for science fiction and fantasy. Holly Bennett, Paul Glennon, Guy Gavriel Kay, Douglas Smith, Hayden Trenholm, and Robert Paul Weston are also reading. And then they give out the award. Like the Oscars, but lower budget and geekier, and hey: doesn’t that sound like more fun anyway? Keep your fingers crossed for Plain Kate, which is up for the Sunburst in the Young Adult category.

• Science in the Pub Friday, September 16: I’m home in Kitchener/Waterloo, and appearing at the Perimeter Institute’s popular Science in the Pub event at the Huether. It’s part of the Grand Opening Weekend for the new Stephen Hawking Centre. For discussion: Science vs. Art: which is more creative. (Somehow they didn’t mention the smackdown aspect of it when they were signing me up…) Rumour has it they’ve pulled in Ray LaFlamme for Team Science, which makes me heavily outclassed: Team Art supporters must come wave our far more beautiful flags. There is one event at 5:30 and one at 7:30: they are the same, so pick one or the other. Attendance is free but advanced tickets are required.

• Telling Tales Sunday, September 18: I’m reading at Canada’s leading children’s literature festival, Telling Tales, in Rockton, Ontario. Anne of Green Gables and Mark Twain are also going to be there, in person. Free admission, though donations are accepted.

• Word on the Street Sunday, September 25: I’ll be appearing via videolink at the newest location for the coast-to-coast festival Word on the Street: Lethbridge, Alberta. Since Plain Kate is up for the Alberta reader’s choice award, the Rocky Mountain Book Award, I’m hoping some folks will actually have read the book.

• EEEK! The TD Canadian Children’s Literature Award Tuesday, October 4: Oh, my goodness, I’m going to the ball. Plain Kate is up for the TD Canadian Children’s Literature Award for the most distinguished book of the year. This isn’t public, alas, but an “invitation-only gala” at the Carlu in Toronto. (Lah-de-DAH!) This, too, is like the Oscars: the winner will be announced on the night. Wish me luck: this award is a very big deal, especially for a first novel.

I shouldn’t go before I tell you my two favorite parts of the Serious Frock Adventure. The first is that my five-year-old Fancy Nancy daughter, seeing me model my little black dress and great big earrings, went to her jewelry box to get her new mood ring to complete the ensemble. I am to wear it, she says, to be extra beautiful.

The second is that I talked to my grandfather after shopping. To help you paint the stereotype in your head, I’ll tell you he’s a 90-plus retired farmer with an eighth-grade education and an Irish temper. To erase it, I’ll tell you he looks like Jimmy Cagney and dresses that sharp. And that my grandmother, who died last year, was a great beauty who took up modelling in her 70s, and had a closet full of smashing clothes, for which she made special trips to the city (Sioux Falls) with my grandfather proudly on her arm. She wore a hat and gloves to go into town to shop. She would not have dreamed of cork insoles. She is greatly missed. Anyway, I talked to my grandfather and he sighed and said: “Ah, you can’t beat a black dress.”