#80 – #83 – Review Catch-Up

Getting caught up with book reviews might be an impossibility at this point. There are a few that I think deserve full, thoughtful reviews. But for some of the books that I’ve finished over the last little while I just want to note that I’ve read them, you know?

#80 – More by Austin Clarke

So, here’s my lesson: do not buy multiple books by the same author if you a) have never read the author and b) don’t know if you’d like the author’s voice in the first place. Way in the way back, I bought a copy of The Polished Hoe because it won the Giller. Then, because I thought to myself, Clarke was a Giller-winner and therefore must be a great writer, I bought a copy of another novel of his, More, before actually reading The Polished Hoe. And I found More an exceptionally hard book to get through. I’m glad I read it — it’s an interesting look at a woman living in downtown Toronto who abandoned her life’s dreams upon arriving here after taking up with a rogue of a man and having a son who becomes difficult to raise as he grows older. Yet the story, told in extreme stream of consciousness over the course of a few days when Idora discovers her son is missing (and she refuses/is scared to go to the police), remains incredibly hard to follow. And the voice, complex, issue-driven, and difficult, yet heartbreaking at the same time — it’s a highly personalized narrative, but it’s also confusing in terms of locating a coherent time/place in terms of the story. And that about did me in, I often found myself wondering where is she, what happened? how long has passed? throughout each of the diversions from the actual time frame of the novel. And then, I discovered that The Polished Hoe is written in much the same vernacular. Oh boy. Avoiding reading The Polished Hoe had me reorganizing ALL of my books in alphabetical order (instead of alphabetical by country/reading challenge) JUST to put it off for a few more days/weeks.

#81 – Make the Bread, Buy the Butter

I read this book over a few weeks on my iPad and enjoyed it immensely. Former EW writer Jennifer Reese. Over the course of many, many months Reese undertook an enormous task: is it actually cheaper to make anythings and everything at home? From butter to cheese to vermouth to chickens to turkeys to you name it, Reese tried to make it. And you know, the results were fascinating. It was an interesting experiment — and wholly interesting in terms of the comparisons. I don’t think I’d ever make a cheesie from scratch but I might actually go back to using our breadmaker in the new year (if I can find it). The only downfall was that the formatting of the ebook was terrible — drop boxes ending up in places that didn’t make sense, strange typos, and odd recipe layouts.

#82 – Another Life Altogether

 

To be perfectly honest, I have no idea how this book ended up on my shelves. I avoided it for months, giving up my British shelf to focus on the Canadian, because I had zero interest in reading this novel. And yet, the novel was a complete delight — the story of a young girl, coming of age, coming out, who has to cope not only with being an awkward, outcast of a teenager, but with her mother’s manic depression. Jesse wants nothing more than to fit in and, after her mother returns from hospitalization, her father moves the family to a new town where she falls in with the popular (cruel) kids. The difficulties of leading a double life, not only hiding her mother’s troubling state of mind from her friends, but also her own sexuality, come to fruition with a somewhat cliched but still utterly engrossing conclusion. This novel completely surprised me, in a good way. Beale’s a strong, empathetic writer, and by the end I was rooting so hard for Jesse that I had to remind myself she wasn’t real.

#83 – Before I Go To Sleep

SJ Watson’s thriller seems to have done the impossible — thrilled literary and non-literary readers alike with an insanely addictive novel that is literally impossible to put down once you’ve started. In many ways, we, as a society are spoiled by the massive amount of entertainment that’s available to us. To someone who consumes a lot of pop culture, surprises are hard to come by. I mean, I can count on one hand how many times in the last ten years I’ve actually been fooled by “twists” in movies. I’m not going to step out and say that Watson’s novel is perfect — there are little inconsistencies that made me a little mental — but here’s the trick, I roared through this novel in less than a day and that’s while working full-time and taking care of a toddler. And that’s saying something about the power of his writing. When Christine wakes up, she has no idea who or where she is, amnesia has taken her life, and not for weeks, for years. Kept carefully and safely by her husband (or IS she?), Christine slowly manages to both overcome her medical condition and discover what really happened all those years ago. The novel keeps you hooked (although, like I said, anyone who knows their pop culture/thrillers/Julia Roberts movies will guess the ending) and it’s a terrific novel for a rainy Sunday afternoon when there are no good films on your PVR .

#87 – Akhmatova

Yes, I am very behind. I have read seven different books in the last little while that need to be written about, I will be getting caught up over the next week or so because as of today at 5 PM, I am on vacation until January 3rd.

RRHB: “At least you can get some rest.”

And I laughed, what does that actually mean? Rushing around for the holidays, cooking like mad, scrambling to see loved ones of all shapes and sizes? Probably. But do you know what it also means? Naps.

I miss naps.

And then I read Akhmatova’s poetry over the last week on my commute to and from work. Her writing is simple yet powerful, serene yet complex, and utterly, completely captivating.

My favourite of all of the poems in this little volume is a fragment that goes like this:

5.

But I warn you,
I am living for the last time.
Not as a swallow, not as a maple
Not a as a reed nor as a star,
Not as water from a spring,
Not as bells in a tower —
Shall I return to trouble you
Nor visit other people’s dreams
With lamentation.

(1940)

She lived through prison camp, through bad marriages, through hard Russian winters, through so much hardship, and she managed to still turn words into beautiful things for me to admire. It’s joyous, the wonderful, spirited, heightened magic that is the power of language, isn’t it?

 

Busted On The Bloor Line: Two Feet High And Rising

There’s a moment, just before the RRBB launches himself up and forwards, that he’s not quite convinced that life on two feet as opposed to crawling is all it’s cracked up to be. And then, the instant passes and he’s toddling about, arms flailing, happy as can be, proud, excited, terrified. It’s amazing to watch. There are these things, these milestones, that you know your child will reach. You know he will (or should) eventually walk, talk, smile, roll over, but when they do it, your world stops for a moment because the firsts are something that you want to hold on to as a parent. Grab them, capture them, ensure that they’re burned into your brain for embarrassing stories for when he grows older, and then you forget. You don’t mean to but you do. Your mind gets all filled up with the detritus of everyday life, pebbles of information that you wish would landslide in your brain and come right out your ears (like why and how do I know the lyrics from 80% of the popular songs on the radio but I can’t remember the exact moment the baby first smiled at me?), leaving room for the really important stuff that you probably should have written down anyway.

Continue reading “Busted On The Bloor Line: Two Feet High And Rising”

#79 – The Virgin Cure

Way back in the way back, when I started working in publishing as a lowly little Digital Marketing Manager at Random House of Canada, I had the pleasure of working with Ami McKay, whose first novel, The Birth House, charmed even the most cynical among us lowly bibliophiles (read: me). For years afterwards, I sent many authors towards Ami’s website, Twitter feed, etc., as a picture perfect example of how to build a really terrific digital footprint. McKay is open, honest, forthright and utterly authentic — it’s impossible not to like her. You know?

So I kept all of this in mind when I was reading The Virgin Cure. It becomes harder and harder to read books, and then review them critically and/or comprehensively read them without allowing for personal feelings to creep into my thoughts about the book. Reading Ami McKay’s blog, you know immediately how much research she had done for the novel; you understand the personal connection to the topic; and you feel her very intense dedication to her work. It’s lovely that it’s utterly apparent that all of this is totally apparent in the end result as well.

Moth, part gypsy, part lost girl, lives with her fortune telling mother in a tenement building in New York’s Lower East Side. When her mother sells her off into the service of a wealthy woman, Moth takes her future in her own hands. The opportunities for young girls, orphaned, abandoned, are not great and, yet, Moth does what she has to in order to survive. McKay’s novel is heavy on action — it rips along like some of the best historical thrillers I’ve read, reminding me of books like Slammerkin and Fingersmith. While there’s no overt “twist” like there is in either of those novels, there is a somewhat shocking reveal that I won’t go into too much detail here so as not to spoil it. Continue reading “#79 – The Virgin Cure”

Busted on the Bloor Line: Catch All, Catch Up

I can’t honestly believe that almost an entire month has gone by without posting. The pace of life, the hectic nature of things right now, the combustable nature of my days means that I am without a coherent thought most evenings after work, after the RRBB goes down. And his sleeping has been so erratic that it means neither of us is well rested, which only adds to the frazzled nature of our lives at the moment. We can’t seem to get it together. No, let me rephrase, I can’t seem to get it together. To say that I’m overwhelmed would be an understatement. I’m terrified I’ll crack at any moment, fissures the size of the grand canyon appearing in my psyche, ruining all of the hard work I’ve done over the last decade to keep everything together. And then, I come home after a long day and the RRBB is so excited to see me, he practically leaps into my arms, and we have a good bedtime, plenty of splashes in the bath, and a wonderful cuddle, and my RRHB makes dinner, and he keeps the house wonderfully, and I realize that it’s all going to be okay as long as I can just keep it together enough to get into bed early and get some rest to start up and do it all over again tomorrow.

Over the next few days, I’m going to get caught up, on some things at least. I’ve got three whole days off — vacation! — what a concept. As we speak, I’m sitting at a Starbucks working on my NANOWRIMO project (woefully off word count but I’m at least trying!) feeling like I’m playing hooky from my life. It’s actually kind of brilliant. The RRBB’s in daycare. The RRHB’s off doing music. And I’m typing. I really, really like typing. I don’t even care if I ever get anywhere with any of it. The fact that I’m moving my fingers along the keyboard stringing metaphors up and hanging myself is all that I can handle at the moment.

I wish that I had the video of the RRBB walking to post. He’s jaunty and deliciously off kilter, swaying back and forth with a look of concentration, pride, and pure terror on his face as he careens from me to his father and back again. Yesterday, he toddled around with his Elmo phone backwards and upside down on his ear saying, “Hi!, Hi!” over and over again. Everyday he becomes a little more human. And I keep thinking that this time last year we’d already been to the hospital with him twice, brought me back from the brink, and managed to finally get home to our lives in one piece. The constant struggle to keep everything in one piece seems relentless. I want to sit down and have a conference with all of the working moms I know to talk about just how they do it — how they keep everything straight and manage to not feel pulled in a thousand directions all at once. It’s funny, I was out for dinner with all of my oldest and dearest girlfriends the other weekend. The first time I’d been out socially in forever. And it was insane how I could barely string a sentence together. The evening ended up with me leaving a three-day-old burrito on the table because I a) hadn’t had time to eat lunch and b) I never manage to get my bag cleaned out and organized the night before, even though I probably should. I know I’m exaggerating a little. But not really. The frantic pace of keeping the little boy’s life moving along seems to supersede actually getting my own s%^t together. And yet, when my life generally gets this crazy, I usually go absolutely batty. Can’t keep it together. Spend hours in a bathroom with a toothbrush and some bleach getting out all the kinks. And I’m not there, not even remotely, in fact. I’m stressed and anxious and grumpy a lot of the time but I’m not actually unhappy. It’s an interesting distinction. Yesterday, I was more than a little frustrated. I mean, I need a haircut. Need to eat a good meal that isn’t a decaf latte and a muffin. Need to find time to go swimming. Need fresh air. And yet, as I watched my little guy pull out his tenth book that we’ve both read a hundred times, pull out toy after toy, exclaim, “that!” for the seventy-billionth time, I thought, “at least we’re getting this right.” Because it doesn’t matter what I get wrong in the day. It doesn’t matter if I’m behind in everything. All that matters is keeping him safe, sound and confident enough to get up on two feet and careen into the world.

Now if only I could keep my own shoes on straight, then we’d really be getting somewhere. I guess the lesson in all of this is that it’ll take as long as it takes to get organized and into a proper, non-chaotic, routine. Things need to change. I need to change. I need to put my clothes away and get them out the night before. I need to pack up our stuff the night before. I need to actually write the list in advance instead of in the midst of the chaos. Or, truly, I just need to take a few deep breaths and take it all in. And try not to let the stress feed the disease and then we’ll be back in the thick of it again. It’s been a tireless year of meds and more meds and broken bones and broken bodies, and I hope when I see the SFDD this week that he has good news for me. And couple that with a good night’s sleep and maybe I won’t feel so scatterbrained.

And now I’m just rambling.

I Am A Terrible Mother (Just Kidding)

Every parent brought their child to daycare today wearing a costume… except, um, me and the RRBB. Here’s the thing: he can’t walk. It would be me and the RRHB carting him around from door to door asking for candy. That we wouldn’t let him eat. But I did feel a twinge of regret this morning when I saw the cutie patooties all dressed up for fun at the daycare. Some of the older toddlers looked like they were actually going trick-or-treating around the building — I almost died it was so adorable.

So, instead, we gave the RRBB punk rock hair after his bath. In my humble opinion, at this moment, we have costumed him as Johnny Rotten just post Sex Pistols and right before the release of the still-thumping PIL.

Aw, a punk rock baby. Wish I had a video of him dancing to just about every single piece of music that floats by his ears, including the theme from Metro Morning at the ungodly hour of 6 AM.

#78 – Saints of Big Harbour by Lynn Coady

Anyone who might dismiss Lynn Coady’s masterful Saints of Big Harbour as a regional novel would be selling themselves short, I think. Yes, it’s set in Nova Scotia in a small town adjunct to an even smaller hamlet where life resists any change that doesn’t first come in the form of a rumour; and yet, it’s as a pure novel that explores the ideas of love, life, and family as I’ve ever read anywhere. The whole book just swooped in and stole my heart.

Guy wants nothing more than to date a girl “not from around here.” “Here” being the place where he’s grown up, outside of town, with a single mother, a sister who has already escaped, and a half-crazed uncle hell bent on ruining his life all the while claiming to save it. And when the girl of his dreams turns out to be slightly unhinged (or a teenager), his life takes a complex turn. As if being a teenager isn’t hard enough, Guy has to contend with Isadore, his unhinged, alcoholic uncle, whose violent, angry, controlling tendencies keep his family under continual threat of emotional explosion. And when Corinne Fortune makes up a story about him, avoiding violence (from her brother, from his uncle) becomes a way of life for poor Guy.

It’s a multi-perspective novel, and more and more Coady’s writing reminds me of other great Canadian storytellers like Paul Quarrington. There’s an element of humour. An instance of absurdity. And yet, it feels so utterly honest and real, and depicts a life that if I took one step to the right, I could completely see myself living. That’s how real her characters feel to me. The story barrels along and it hums with efficiency — there’s so much truth in the telling, from her portrayals of alcoholism to the unhappiness of a teenage girl, that I was consistently amazed at the evenness of Coady’s storytelling — it never falters, never waivers.

Continue reading “#78 – Saints of Big Harbour by Lynn Coady”

Busted on the Bloor Line: 365 + 8

Where in the world did a year go? It honestly seems to have moved at light speed — the RRBB turned one last Saturday. We celebrated by having a party with our families and a few close friends. Of course, he didn’t know he turned one. He didn’t even know he was the star of the show. He simply took it all in stride as the living room grew more and more crowded, and more babies arrived to play with his toys. We took the idea of no presents very seriously. Our boy has been so lucky to be so loved by everyone in his life from near and far that he’s been incredibly spoiled from the minute he entered the world on October 22 at 3:04 PM. At first my family were a little frustrated and angry with us for asking everyone to refrain from gifts but I think when they saw much stuff was already in my house, they understood. Now all I have to do is convince them to not go crazy for Christmas. I am not sure I will win that battle.

He spent the majority of the weekend miserable and upset. Two days in daycare equals the remaining five getting over whatever sickness has made its way around the room. So, we’ve spent the passed three weekends trying to make him well enough to go to daycare on the Monday & Tuesdays. The weekend of his birthday, the poor fellow caught the same awful tummy bug that felled my RRHB and kept him in bed for almost three days (well, bathroom, then bed, then bathroom, then bed). He had the worst diaper rash I’d ever seen. Hours before his party he had his diaper off, rolling around the kitchen floor, letting, ahem, loose. He was the grumpiest I have ever known him. Yet, the minute people arrived, he was delicious: happy, excited, glad to see everyone in his world that adores him.  Continue reading “Busted on the Bloor Line: 365 + 8”

#77 – Mean Boy by Lynn Coady

After reading Lucky Jim for book club, there was chatter about other “set in post-secondary education” novels and whether or not they were successful. One of the books that was mentioned was Lynn Coady’s Mean Boy. As I’ve talked about earlier, I’ve been on a quest this year to clear off my shelves and get through all the books gathering dust in my life. It’s an impossible task — I’ve been reading my “old” books in a haphazard, semi-alphabetical/dewey-like system since a few months into the RRBB’s life. I was, at first, reading “A” titles from Canada, England, etc., and then gave up and just wanted to power through one country before moving on to another. So, I’ve started with my Canada shelf, and I’m at C now (FINALLY) and have three Lynn Coady novels to get through (four if I add the *new* The Antagonist to the list even though I’ve promised myself that I’ll only read one new book for every one from the TBR pile), which means it’s weeks before I get through just this one particular author, sheesh. All of this rambling is to say that I’m knee-deep in Coady these days. I raced through Mean Boy, am half-way through The Saints of Big Harbour, and had actually started The Antagonist weeks ago before I felt too guilty for not reading all of her backlist. In a lesser writer I’d be frustrated by having to read so many of their books in such a short period of time. Lucky for me then to discover that I LOVE Lynn Coady. Continue reading “#77 – Mean Boy by Lynn Coady”

#76 – Better Living Through Plastic Explosives

Short stories are epic and amazing things to read on the subway. They give you the false impression that they are “lighter” reading than novels because of their length, but I’ve been finding that so many of the collections I’ve read as of late pack an emotional punch that knocks me out after ten rounds a-la the Ali rope-a-dope, and none walloped me harder than Better Living Through Plastic Explosives by Zsuzsi Gartner.

Like many obnoxious city dwellers, I pride myself on my political correctness. I urge my life forward in terms of pop culture knowledge and feel some pride that I can still scramble in some quality viewing in terms of films, television. I’m achingly earnest about my interest in environmental issues, even if we struggle on a daily basis with our consumption and teaching our families about our feelings about how much stuff there is in the world. But Zsuzsi Gartner takes a machete to pop culture, and slices through it with her razor-sharp prose, like I said on Twitter, and inevitably makes you think about it in a way that consistently questions my own steadfast resolve in my own “goodness” (if that makes any sense).

In many of her stories, there’s an element of the fantastic — a man reverts back to the stone age, becoming more neanderthal by the day, barbecues become open pits, women turn feral, and a young girl rides out of the ravine on a tortoise. The group of neighbours, all healthy, wealthy and utterly politically correct, can’t understand what’s so appealing about ripping open a 2-4 and roasting giant, hulking hunks of meat over an open flame. Houses disappear due to mud slides (I imagine) but never claim a human life. Young, adopted Chinese girls fly up into the air and are no longer human. The stories are awe-inspiring. Both in the sense that Gartner’s awe-inspiring imagination is unparalleled in Canadian writing (I think) but also in how she manages to create a world that’s so utterly familiar and terrifically strange at the same time. I’s kind of like Fringe, in a way, with two realities — the one in which I live every day and the other where it’s not strange to see a blimp floating on by. Continue reading “#76 – Better Living Through Plastic Explosives”