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I think I forgot to mention that I’m taking a creative writing class this fall. It’s a ‘graduate level’ course that focuses on workshopping fiction with a goal that by the end you’ve got 50 pages or so that are in good shape to shop around. After reading the first stories by two of my classmates last week, I had a shiver of self-doubt that I’m ready for something so polished. However, I’m sticking with it, and just sent off my first story for discussion in our next class, which is November 7th (we’re skipping Hallowe’en, for the parents in the group).

The story I sent off is one of a series I’ve been working on about the time I spent in Banff during university. Looking at it before sending it off left me on a crazy trail of procrastination, trying to find out about people I used to know (one ex-boyfriend who I treated terribly and regret to this day what I jerk I was), googling different places I remember, trying to recall things that happened 10 years ago now.

But most of all, trying to capture the irony of Banff itself, rich playground for wealthy folks, pitstop for kids running away, easy summer money, beautiful landscape, unreal life, all of those things that make for good fiction. If only I could figure out how to write it properly. Fingers crossed they don’t hate it, and fingers crossed I actually make it through class without throwing up. Shyness really is a disease, isn’t it?

We went to the last IFOA reading we had tickets for yesterday. There were four women reading: Lisa Moore (from her Giller-nominated Alligator), Allison Pick (from her new novel The Sweet Edge), Melissa Bank (The Wonder Spot) and chicklit belle of the ball, Lauren Weisberger (Everyone Worth Knowing).

Lisa Moore’s book was by far the best of the bunch, from what I could gather from the readings. She had one line about how a windshield reached out and punched the character during an accident that stopped me in my boots. I’ve got the book at home and might move it to the top of the ‘to read’ pile, that is after I’ve got through the three book club books I’m behind on these days.

I admire Lauren Weisberger, and Melissa Bank’s book read quite funny, and I’m glad to see ‘chicklit’ become kind of accepted at such a high-brow event as the IFOA. It’s a nice change, and maybe a necessary one…

The Dr. Mr. Fancypants had me go for CT scans yesterday, of my head (sinuses) and chest (lungs), to see what the disease is doing. My appointment was for 5 PM. On a Friday. There’s nothing more discouraging than having to be at the hospital when everyone else in the world is on their way home for the weekend. On top of that, I’m so tired these past few days that I’m having trouble paying attention to anything.

In fact, I’m so tired that I can barely take care of myself. Today I’m kind of grumpy that I’m a band widow, and I’m missing my RRBF, but it’ll all pass once I get some sleep and rest for the majority of the weekend. My only plans are to watch bad TV (24 on DVD) and read. Oh, and to do my abridged versions. I’m so behind!

Isn’t my life thrilling?

You know, the worst part of days like this, disease days, is honestly thinking that it might be easier just to let the Wegener’s have its way with me. I know it’s not a rational thought, probably a side effect of the maddening prednisone, but today I’m even too tired to think about fighting.

But that’ll all change this afternoon. I’ve got one more IFOA reading to go to, and I’m hoping that it’ll perk me right up.

Tonight I went to Brick Books‘ 30th anniversary party. They were celebrating the launch of four new books of poetry, and with one of the authors being a friend of a friend, I decided to go along with Kate. I have such a love-hate relationship with poetry: love the form, love the medium, love language; hate the form, hate the pretension, hate the language (kidding).

The first two poets were mediocre, and one was downright nuts, but that sort of made the evening fun. The last two poets, David Seymour (aforementioned friend of friend) and a truly fantastic poet named Karen Solie, made the whole evening worth while.

Well, then there was the fun “philosophic” walk home with Kate, the truly funny idea of starting the Anti-Poets Poetry Club, and seeing some people I hadn’t seen in a long time. Oh, and then being too shy to say hello to my ex-poetry teacher. All in all, a pleasant continuation of my quest to lead a more cultured life.

Because there are few places on the web where the words “apocalyptic gloom” and Ashlee Simpson work better than on Popwatch. Oh this poor, poor man who is unable to realize that little in the world of pop music has to do with anything other than the world ending.

Because I wake up to it every damn morning as I listen to the asinine morning team berate someone for having leaking rectums or something equally disgusting, and then am forced to listen to the second worst song I’ve ever heard in my life: “Photograph” by Nickelback:

Look at this photograph
Every time I do it makes me laugh
How did our eyes get so red?
And what the hell is on Joey’’s head?

‘How did our eyes get so red’? Seriously? Did he actually write that down and get all excited because he then took the whopping huge next step of then rhyming “red” with “head.” The man’s a bleeding genius of rectal leakage.

See, you can’t listen to radio in a vacuum.

…was on Oprah yesterday to talk about his book in terms of her book club pick. The whole episode felt a bit Oprahfied, with the poor woman being saved from her addictions and seeing James Frey today with his happy family, but it also felt real. And it felt real because Frey himself seems very real, very honest and very explicit about his own story.

My favourite part of the whole hoopla surrounding the book? How many people this morning woke up thinking about that book, about that man, about his struggle and about his one simple piece of advice: hold on.

Maybe that applies to people with diseases like Wegener’s Granulomatosis too. And not just people with addiction.

So I’m starting to feel the side effects with the prednisone, in particular, craving rich bad-for-you foods like cheese and ice cream. I’m waking up at all hours of the night, worrying about silly things, crying and feeling sorry for myself. This morning, I woke up at 4 AM and started putting our mail into different files. I was sort of looking for something that I couldn’t find, but that’s not really the point.

And then I had kind of a sh*t day at work, managed to feel even more sorry for myself, all the while wanting just to go home, crawl into bed, and ignore the rest of the day.

Now I’m sitting here about to get read to go to a Brick Books party at the Gladstone, happy to be getting out of the house, but miserable because in order to get out of the house, I actually have to leave.

Last night we saw Julian Barnes, David Baddiel and Michael Crummey. It was another good evening of readings. And funnily enough, Zadie Smith and Nick Laird sat one row down and across the aisle from us. I had to try hard not to watch them, and keep concentrating on the task at hand.

Now I’m totally exhausted and must sleep.

We’ve got a niece! My RRBF’s sister had her baby two days ago, and she’s lovely. I went to see her this afternoon. So small…I’ve never seen a person whose only 1.5 days old before. She has amazing facial expressions: yawning, open eyes, scrunchy face, half-smile (probably gas?), and more. How amazing is that?

Oh, they had me, they really did—right up until the very end, when a giant, zit of a Hollywood moment ruined the film for me.

To cap off my incredibly culturific weekend, I went to see North Country with Glark and Wing Chun on Sunday afternoon. That makes it: two IFOA readings, one film crew, one rock and roll show, and a feature film—all in one teeny, tiny weekend. It’s amazing what having 35 odd people you don’t know in your house will make you do…

Annnywaaay, I hate to admit how hard the film grabbed me in the first two thirds. The story was good, the acting was solid, the relationships didn’t ring false, the politics were honest, and they had me. Blubbering, sniffling, bawling and batting away the tears at one pivotal moment in particular.

And then it went all MOV on me. And the ending was spectacularly cheesy without having to have to be, and I was mad that I got sucked in at all, because being cheated at the end of a film is like being cheated by the first really hot boyfriend you have—it comes totally out of the blue emotionally, even though you were half-expecting it because he’s so good looking you know it’ll never last.

In the end, glass ball predictions mean that Charlize Theron will probably be nominated for an Oscar. As long as everyone stops talking about her appearance and let her talent stand for itself, but wait, what am I saying, that’s a pipe dream that’ll never come true.