#faster #shinier #prettier @authors: A Claire Tacon Guest Post

The CBC has announced that next year’s Canada Reads authors will be sent on a mall tour, part of a strategy to reach a younger demographic. Sporting bikinis and Lucite heels (regardless of gender), the writers will walk a food court catwalk and then stand next to voting boxes where mall patrons can pick their favourites. Shoppers not wanting to take a break between Dynamite and H&M, can text in their preferences. The writer with the most number of votes and facebook friends wins.

In her excoriating article in The Globe and Mail, Kathryn Kuitenbrouwer discussed much of what made this year’s Canada Reads so abysmal. The competition, however, is only a symptom of the fact that cultural criticism is no longer considered sexy enough in its own right. Instead it needs to be tarted up with reality-TV-style competitions and propped up by social media campaigns. Beyond the tackiness, it’s dangerous. By conflating the ideas of criticism and celebrity, we’re recasting what it means to be a writer.

Back in 2010, Russell Smith exhorted authors to unplug and get writing. He claimed that books succeed on their own merits. Keep your head down, keep writing and let the accolades take care of themselves. We’re two years on and there’s a spot on the Giller long-list for the title that got the most online votes.

***

Do you have a book coming out? Do you want to? The first piece of advice you’ll be given is to develop a web presence. With reviews and criticism disappearing in traditional venues, publishers need their authors to flog books by whatever means available. Social media is cheap, requires no supervision and when someone does it well, it can sell books. But those successes are as few and far between as Mary Kay ladies driving pink Cadillacs.

Social media was not designed for considered commentary. It succeeds by disseminating the business of ordinary lives in ways previously reserved for celebrities. Our names show up in “newsfeeds”; we get tagged in photos; our friends are tallied. We toss out the crumbs of our daily lives, convinced there is a waiting crowd ready to receive them as pearls.

It’s also a fast medium—Twitter, Facebook and blogs are built for snappy, superficial updates. There’s no time for the contemplation that went into a Richler column, and certainly none of the pay.

What happens to the craft when writers need to be more concerned with selling themselves than with honing their art? Few writers can survive without day jobs; many also have families. There are only so many hours in a day and the hours spent feeding blogs, Twitter and Facebook often come at the expense of writing, reading, and observing.

Before In the Field came out, I took the advice; got a webpage up, started a blog. I’ve written one post. Partly it’s because any free time goes to writing, but partly it’s because I’m more comfortable nosing into other people’s business than displaying my own. It’s why I write fiction. After logging more than a quarter million hours with myself, I’m quite happy to step into someone else’s shoes. 

There’s also the issue of experience. At 32, with only one book out, I’m reminded of my grandmother’s reaction to the couple that sold the rights to a livestream of their mutual deflowering. “What’s exciting about two virgins having sex?”

I worry that with increased reliance on social media, and more call for sensation to sell books, we’re cutting out a key writing demographic—introverts. If you’re not a great publicist, if you don’t like the spotlight, does that mean you don’t get to be a writer?

***

So where does that leave us? In fact, I take my answer from social media’s literary success. Sites like Canadian Bookshelf (or the now defunct Book Ninja), online writing hubs like Joyland, the multitude of author-driven review sites, Sarah Selecky’s Twitter feed writing prompts, or placesforwriters’ aggregation of calls for submission are all examples of ways technology can serve the arts community. I wish I’d spent less time over the past six months worrying about establishing an online reputation and more time contributing to my in-the-flesh community.

We need to accept that, infuriating as it is, we’re never going to get those spaces for criticism back in traditional media. And if we’re going to infect non-readers with a love of literature, it’s not going to be from masquerading as pseudo-celebrities or voting other writers off the island. It’s going to be from being community-builders. From hosting and attending live readings. From smart, hip initiatives like the Poetry Vending machines and Project Bookmark. It’s going to be from talking to people (yes, even the ones who liked Twilight) about books. Every day. 

The Carnival Barker Speaks... ( A Canada Reads Post)

[cue Tom Waits' Black Rider]

Ladies & Gentlemen.... Canada Reads 2011 Brings to the Big Top tonight, not only human oddities (& what better description can there be for most authors and publishers?) but the 40 essential Canadian novels to be voted on by YOU, to be whittled down to the 10 essential Canadian novels to be voted on by YOU, to be further whittled down to the 5 essential Canadian novels to be selected and defended by... someone else. Or, at least, so we assume. No one knows for sure what the Canada Reads folk have in mind for this. If you want predictions, you're in the wrong tent. Go see the woman with the feather in her cap and the mirrors under her table.

There's been a lot of discussion about this new approach to Canada Reads, both for & against (mainly against). It's left me a bit ambivalent. I agree with much of the criticisms Beattie & co. have made of the process, and though those who have countered by saying it's just marketing or a populist response to a populist program make valid points, it doesn't mean that there isn't something at least slightly distasteful about it. It's led to a bit of a sense of inertia here: though I have posted a Canada Reads memo here late last week (Canada Reads Needs More Rock & Roll [which it most certainly does]), and done the FaceBook thing, and *Tweeted*, and arranged a few newspaper stories and a radio interview regionally to get the word out, I haven't been able to beg my mailing lists on our behalf. I will, selectively, likely later today, but felt I needed to make a case for this book, here, first.

But how to do so? Readers of Thirsty have other commitments, even public ones. There's no reason they shouldn't vote for Sean Dixon, a very worthy candidate. To ask them to vote for a book that they haven't read, or read and did not love, merely because we published it, seems ... unreasonable. Erin Balser tweeted that more than 6000 people have voted for the final 10 books: if any of the handful of small press books make the cut, it's likely that they have been carried by people who haven't even read them, who are voting for it out of some sense of team spirit or for other reasons entirely their own. And there's nothing wrong with that either. But there is something queasy-making about it. Getting repeated Facebook messages to vote for one book or the other when, as a publisher, I have a book on the list, seems callous, and makes me feel as if the writers and publishers sending these messages either don't know who their audiences are, or don't care. It is, in the end, all about them. I can't ask Kerry Clare to vote for Moody Food because she's already made it clear she's voting for The Girl Who Saw Everything. Or Bronwyn Keinapple, as she's already said she didn't like it. Or others, who represent other presses, or may have books of their own in contention. Or who have friends with books of their own in contention. Or ...

There is a difference between marketing and popularity contests: mainly one of knowing your audience. Whatever else I might say about all of this, I have no doubt that Canada Reads knows theirs, and whatever they do to reach out to it can't be an entirely bad thing. We may wish the audience was different, but that is not the same thing at all.

Yet, had Canada Reads not opened it up to the public in the way that they have, a Biblioasis book wouldn't even be a contender. The token small press inclusion would be a Coach House or Cormorant, which isn't meant to disparage either press, because they are both exceptional: it's merely to acknowledge that we do not often look beyond our own noses, and one can see it time and time again when Toronto tastemakers decide to get charitable. So, despite the discomfort I feel about all of this, I owe a debt of gratitude to the Canada Reads crew in this instance: without this, we wouldn't even be on the list. We've been able to generate considerable regional media for it, and sold at least a handful of copies we would not, likely have otherwise done. By opening things up, there's at least a slight chance that Moody Food, a book we believed in enough to bring back in print last year, might find a real audience for the first time in its history. And, for me, that is the most exciting thing about Canada Reads, when it works well. And who can complain, really, about that?

We published Moody Food last year as part of our Renditions reprint series. When we started this series 5 years ago, we dreamt of doing two, then four, then six or more titles a year. It was part of our commitment to bring back books that we believed deserved to find their audience. In that sense, the Renditions series and Canada Reads, at their best, share a common goal. Moody Food was the sixth title in the series. It is also the last. We've been forced, by necessity, to shelve the series for a while, simply because we couldn't sustain the losses. It's no less costly to produce a reprint, and in several instances we have done so without even the benefit of funding. To publish a great book and see it sell 20, 40, 100 copies, is heartbreaking. No one will review a reprint. And in our focus on the new, new, new, no one cares about what was published a decade ago, or four decades ago. The only chance a book like this has, or a series like our Biblioasis Renditions has, is if we see course adoptions, the writer in question wins a major prize, refocusing interest on backlist, or we get lucky and get the book on CanadaReads. So, for now, Moody Food needs to represent the series, the idea of the series, from Ray Smith's Century -- a book we need to get on Canada Reads some day -- to Terry Griggs's Quickening. And all of the others we would like to do, a list of books and authors longer than my arm.

So why vote for Ray Robertson's Moody Food? First, hopefully, because it's an excellent book by an excellent writer, voted among the Top 10 Rock & Roll novels of all time. It's fun and sexy and witty and moving and thoughtful and -- in the best of all possible ways -- moral. But it also isn't for everyone, which is fine too. You need to know your audience. But it's a book, like others on the list of forty, which deserves a chance at a wider readership, a readership which, at this moment and time, for this particular book, only CanadaReads can provide.

But if this isn't enough for you, perhaps you might also vote for it because it does represent something, as part of the Renditions series, larger than itself. The idea that we need to keep these key books around so that eventually they will find their audience, so that they won't get lost in the weight of what is new, new, new. Every author and aspiring author and perhaps even every reader knows something about that, or at least the fear of getting lost in the mass and mist. A vote for Moody Food, frankly, will help us keep the series going, which will ensure that other Moody Foods and Centurys and Quickenings have their chance to find their audience as well. And that, my dear Thirsty Readers, is no small thing.

Carnival Barkers, of course, know their audience very well. They are the impresarios of the boardwalk. They know both what their customers want, and what they can provide, and do their best, even if only with occasional smoke and mirrors, to find the spot where the two meet. And, I suppose, in the end, there's no shame at all in that.

So: if you can do so, please vote for Ray Robertson's Moody Food. You have until Sunday.

http://www.cbc.ca/books/canadareads/2010/10/the-verdict-is-in-the-top-40-revealed-and-your-chance-to-choose-the-canada-reads-top-10.html

Thank you.

Canada Reads Needs More Rock and Roll

Ray Robertson's Moody Food (Biblioasis Renditions), his great novel of sex, drugs and rock & roll, has made the Canada Reads list of 40 essential Canadian novels of the last decade. We all know Canada Reads could use more rock & roll. But Moody Food won't get any further without your help. Please consider voting for Ray's Moody Food over at CBC's Canada Reads site, to help us ensure it makes the Canada Reads Top 10. You can vote for it -- or (sigh) another of your favourite non-Biblioasis books -- by following the link: http://www.cbc.ca/books/canadareads/

But, really: Moody Food, people.

What is Stephen Harper Reading?

Charlie Foran has stepped in for a spell at Yann Martel's What is Stephen Harper Reading?, and his selection for this round is Ray Smith's CENTURY. Calling it "A Book Still Patiently Waiting its Readers," Foran writes:

Books, like people, can get overlooked. I’d like to use this slot, so generously offered by Yann, to tell you about a wonderful Canadian work of fiction that still awaits real discovery. Ray Smith’s Century first appeared back in 1986, and didn’t cause much fuss. It had a decent publisher, and Smith had already released two books that had won him a small but noisy crowd of admirers: Lord Nelson Tavern and the humbly-titled Cape Breton is the Thought-Control Centre of Canada. These were charming, off-the-wall fictions, of a cheerful piece with the prankster stuff then emerging from the coastal regions of the United States. Smith, a Cape Bretoner exiled to Montreal, had his own coastal vibe, but it wasn’t stoner/surfer cool: it was late night FM radio, chill and iconoclastic, joshing of mainstream tastes with bite but no malice.

Still, Century didn’t launch. It took Ray Smith a long time to finish, and it wasn’t as easy in its literary skin as his earlier work: more moody and anxious, less sanguine about the triumph of light over dark. It was also set mostly in Europe, and spanned a near century in just 165 compacted, almost pointillist pages. Things had changed in Canadian culture and literature in the interim, and Smith responded by, in a sense, going even further off-shore than the island where he comes from (and now lives again, in retirement). Whatever Century was, it wasn’t “Can Lit,” as the impulse or industry was being dubbed.

I called it a “work of fiction” for a reason. The book, which has six parts linked by a single character and regular tonal overlaps, could be classified as a novel of the, yikes, post-modern variety. But, besides having no interest in any desiccated academic trope, the stories are all self-contained, as in a collection. Even Smith’s one discernable theme—how art must embody the morality largely absent from a corrupted world—isn’t writ in BLOCK LETTERS, so everyone will get it. Century defies categories and shrugs off expectations. Look, says the text, of course this isn’t life; of course it’s just a book. Allow these elegantly-arranged words to fall over you, confetti at a wedding, and then decide what the marriage is comprised of.

For the rest of Charlie's letter, please go here.

Ray Smith's CENTURY wins Canada Reads Independently

Ray Smith's Century has won Kerry Clare's / Pickle Me This's Canada Reads Independently Challenge. My offer of $20 incl. shipping/ GST (though sorry Alex: lap dance is extra) still stands. Or get your favourite indie to order it, which, considering the name of the competition, seems only right.

Thanks once again to Kerry for doing this.

Canada Reads 2011: are you listening?

Our Murderous CENTURY

Over at his blog Banjaxed, A. J. Somerset becomes just the latest fan of Ray Smith's Century. (He is also, incidentally, the only person yet to take me up on the offer to send Century to anyone, anywhere, for 20.00 incl. all taxes and shipping. In Andrew's case I drove it to Toronto and exchanged it for a sweaty twenty under a table at Hemingway's while the rest of the table was preoccupied. The offer still, of course, stands, though I may choose whatever means necessary, from Canada Post to pack-mule, to get it to you.)

For once, I'll cut to the chase and give you the last bit of his review. But you should really read the whole thing, here. Then buy the damn book. Skip the real Canada Reads for once, and, to paraphrase the lovely Kerry Clare, Read Independently.

From Banjaxed:

Henry James said that the only obligation of a novel was to be interesting. This one is fascinating.

And the writing. The writing is oh-so-artful, diction and syntax changing as we cast backwards in time; Smith does not allow himself to be trapped within the dictates of any particular style. This is a writer with a well-oiled gearbox, and he shifts gears smoothly without ever mistiming the clutch.

Also, it’s short. Writers of sweeping historical novels, take note: thine asses have been handed thee, upon a platter.

Read it. Now.

Canada Reads Independently: Century: The Review

Over at Pickle Me This, Kerry Clare has reviewed the first of her Canada Reads Independently choices, Ray Smith's Century.

Its sombre cover coupled with my misunderstanding that Ray Smith had eschewed story for higher principles would have kept me from Century: A Novel, were it not for Dan Wells' recommendation. I thought this was a book that wasn't for me, not only in a "not my cup of tea" sense, but that it was meant for a more erudite kind of reader for whom the act of reading is not meant to be a pleasure cruise ("Sweet Thames, run softly till I end my song... Wallala leialala").

So it is my surprise to find I love this book, that it contains everything I look for as a reader, including that most unfashionable self-contained universe. That Smith may have eschewed traditional narrative structure, but he has done so only to compress a 500+ page novel into his first 98 pages, to represent the disintegration and disorder present in the universe the book contains, to have Century be what it's meant to represent. And that his writing possesses a sympathy for and understanding of women that I found surprising, and striking, and even (dare I suppose in a book such as this?) somewhat heartening.

Heinrich Himmler didn't shock me. Perhaps I'm just being defiant in my reactions, but Jane Seymour, the young woman in 197o's Montreal who receives his ghostly visitations in her bed, the nightmares in which he touches her naked body (but oh, I was struck by the details-- "the buttons on the cuffs of his sleeve caught on the sheet when he reached under to touch...")-- there is context for her, precedent. Of course, her friends suppose that she has undergone a trauma, perhaps she has been raped, which has led to the visions, which leads to her suicide. And that may be so, but the whole thing is the extreme end, I think, of how ordinary girls become obsessed with Nazism, which manifests in more usual terms with an Anne Frank fascination and YA books about the Holocaust. As a kind of dangerous experiment in empathy, though of course the Holocaust is so sanitized in such literature, but there is a thin line there, and I just think that Jane Seymour has crossed it for one reason, or for many.

For the rest of what Kerry writes on Century, please go here.

What else can I add? Not much. Kerry fears towards the end that "it occurs to me that this response to Century has done it no favours. That its biggest problem is that no one is ever going to to say, "Hey, read this" with a snappy one-sentence reason why. That it raises questions without answers, and begins an engagement that is unceasing, and it's more like someone handing you pieces of a puzzle than recommending you a book. Except you get to rearrange the pieces over and over again, which is infinitely more interesting, but frustrating too." But I think she's mistaken. Her analysis of Century is so open and generous and engaging that she has me putting the book once again on the bedside table for another read. Hopefully she'll have convinced a few of you out there to pick it up as well.

Has anyone else read Century? Any thoughts you would care to share?

Steven Beattie has offered his own take on Century in the comments section on Kerry's blog that I'll take the liberty of quoting in its entirety:

Century is such a strange, unconventional book that I find it intensely difficult even to come up with a critical language appropriate to discuss it. And yet, its very strangeness, its very iconoclasm and idiosyncrasy, is what makes reading it such a potent experience.

Even its generic classification is open to discussion (as you point out, Kerry). Is it a novel? I'd argue yes. John Metcalf, on the other hand, considers it a collection of short stories, and certainly a case could be made. The closest Charles Foran comes in his introduction is to call the book a "tonal labyrinth," but even he admits that it's finally "unclassifiable."

What I love about the book is its morality, its honesty, and its embrace of language as a means of rescuing us from darkness. It's a deeply troublesome novel, but it's well worth the effort an engagement with it requires.

In the end, I'm convinced that a single reading is insufficient to come to a full appreciation of Smith's achievement in the book. I look forward to returning to the text and will be interested to measure my second encounter with it against my first.

But, hang on: this isn't my recommendation; it's Wells's. What am I doing defending it? Go read Moody Food, then we'll talk again.

That's right! I almost forgot. We get to do this again. Stay tuned for Kerry on Ray Robertson's Moody Food.

Know Thy Selves

It is nice to see backlist titles continuing to get coverage. It leaves me hopeful -- a scarce commodity around here these days. Kerry Clare is currently reading Ray Smith's Century for her Canada Reads Independently program, and despite the fact that the novel opens with the ghost of Heinrich Himmler coming to Jane Seymour in the middle of the night, whispering endearments and stroking her exposed shoulder, a rather brutal and horrifying introduction, she seems "hooked, intrigued, confused and wonderfully searching." Which is exactly as it should be.

Mike Barnes's The Lily Pond continues to find new readers as well. He continued yesterday with a successful talk in Cobourg, one of more than a dozen he has given over the last year. Whether or not you have read his book -- and you should -- he has been posting sections from these talks, which can work either as an excellent introduction to The Lily Pond, or as supplementary reading, over at his blog. (The blog is titled 2009, because he didn't want to commit to a blog longer than the year. The fact that he has continued into the new calendar year is a very good thing.)

You can check out some of these talk segments at his blog -- www.graphomaniac.blogspot.com -- just go over and click Mike Barnes's name on the sidebar. Here is one of the more recent segments, "Know Thy Selves".

Know Thy Selves

“Know thyself.” Everyone has heard the ancient Greek injunction, inscribed in the forecourt of the Temple of Apollo at Delphi. For all its wisdom, though, I still think it could be improved. It presumes, in its singular pronoun, a stable and consistent identity, when in fact identity is malleable and multiple, a condition of flux which must be constantly updated, even renegotiated. “Know thy selves,” I humbly suggest, would be a more humane and practical credo.

Something I remained ignorant about for a long time, for example, was the fact that my periodic inability to read–words, these things I loved, going dead and blank, their sequences fuzzy and meaningless–is a common symptom of depression, and doesn’t at all betoken apathy or lack of intelligence. Or at least not permanent forms of those things. What it may mean, though, is a temporary impairment of interest and cognitive ability. And there are far better ways to deal with that than simply dropping out of the life one wants.

Like what? you may be thinking. What are you supposed to do if you find yourself bottoming out just when you need yourself most? Unable to read–but an exam coming up? Unable to write–but an essay due? I can think of some practical approaches to these problems, but outlining them would take us too far astray in a short talk. And I would be the last person to say that these are not serious problems, serious threats. Fluctations in mental health still threaten my job and my personal life; they’re a minefield I am always trying to pick my way through. I have no wish to travel back in time to advise my younger self: he did the best he could, what he had to do, then. But I know a couple of things he didn’t. One is that hiding a problem–from yourself and from others–usually takes more energy than trying to manage it. Coming out is almost always a good idea. What I hope I would do now, when I felt myself slipping, is to approach someone I trust with the facts: I want to do this (finish my course, write my exam, hang on till tomorrow), but for some reason I’m unable to. I need help, something to get me through this. That would be a start. Not a solution yet, but the only sure step I know towards finding one. I don’t say it is an easy step to take.

It seems strange that my eighteen months on a psychiatric ward in my early twenties had not begun my education in these matters. That tumultuous passage had schooled me in many miseries, fears and self-doubts of every kind, but it had not taken me very far at all in developing a practical awareness of myself, how I had changed, and how I might get on with my life, given the fluctuating and rather fragile (though at the same time newly toughened and robust) creature I now seemed to be.

Strange...or not so strange. Many medical mishaps–including a misdiagnosis of schizophrenia, zombiefying tranquilizers, many electroshock treatments and a near-fatal overdose–had given me good reasons to drop out of the standard curriculum of mental health. Again, though, I was an extremist: I shunned the mental health system completely for the next decade, which included some of the lowest and most pointless wandering in my life. Some kinds of learning occur only slowly, in tiny increments. No matter how successfully it is managed, trauma takes time. Time to occur (since it occurs in waves, even if one event precipitates it)...and a long time to come back from. Long, slow time is usually not on offer in an age that idolizes speed and a narrowly defined functioning. These idols of quick-time get stamped out crudely and worshipped thoughtlessly. And is it perhaps yourself–your image and expectations of yourself–that have helped to mold this unforgiving deity? Just because what you need isn’t on offer–or doesn’t appear to be–doesn’t mean you can’t ask for it, claim it. A system may function badly–many do–but it can’t function better than we ask it to. Demand it to. And: permit it to. “Time heals,” we say, but do we act as if we believe it? It takes courage to trust time–the courage to wait and see.

After that, of course, comes the challenge of admitting what you see, and finding room to accept it. Several times each year I still experience what I call my “shut-downs.” These are the periods that have taught me how far beyond sadness depression really goes. In these dead zones my brain and body and spirit–my whole self, really–become, in stages, unable to comprehend or respond to the world. It is a lot like that famous scene in 2001, when Dave Bowman unplugs HAL, and the computer disappears circuit by circuit–busted right down to his programmed origins of “Dai-sy...Dai-sy”–though by that time I have long since lost the urge to sing. At such times I’ve learned to apply what I call the small-circle cure. This means reducing activity and stimulation to a bare minimum. Dimming the lights, unplugging the phone, cancelling social engagements. And, as I feel my ability to think in sequence ebbing away, scaling my reading down from the love life of Anna Karenina to the love life of Britney Spears...and then further down, to just flipping through books of pictures or watching reruns of The Sopranos. To return to the idea of functioning: Someone seeing me lying on my side for hours beside a single lamp, flipping pages of Rolling Stone or People, might see a very low order of functioning...and it is, in a way...but it is a much higher order of functioning than I showed in the years when I tried to keep reading and writing through these spells, which can last six weeks or more, and added terrible frustration to depression when I could understand nothing, produce nothing. Self-acceptance, I’ve come to see, involves a better understanding of one of the simplest words: and. I am a person who reads, and writes, challenging books...and I am a person who, at times, cannot read or write the simplest sentence. The two facts are not mutually exclusive; they mustn’t be, since I’m living both of them.

But that little word and can be a terribly hard word to remember. A major part of my ongoing recovery, including the therapy I do with the excellent psychiatrist I have now, involves trying to remember the truth of and. As I said earlier, there is a degree of amnesia to my condition, so that every time I lurch upward into mania or downward into depression, it feels like the first time, and I lose all memory that I have been here before and gotten through it. Retaining a thin thread of memory, enough that I can say, “I know this place; I was here before, and I left again,” is one of the most important gains I’ve made in recent years. It’s a lifeline to cling to, a thread to guide me out of the labyrinth.

I learned all this again just last fall. Ironically, after my book launch in October, and at the talks I gave subsequently, some listeners said to me, “You seem well now,” as if all the troubles I was describing were safely behind me. “I do feel well,” I said, “...now.” But I could tell they didn’t believe me when I said I knew bad times would return, times they, and even I, could scarcely imagine. Sure enough, within a month, I was floundering, slipping into a netherworld of sleeplessness and incoherent thoughts and depression and even hallucinations. I could barely understand the book I myself had written or the talks I had given about it. But while I felt myself slipping, while I still had time, I did a useful, practical thing. Using what few verbal resources I had left, I wrote myself a letter, a sort of “message in a bottle” from my still-hanging-on self to the unwell self I felt gaining on him. I taped the letter to the wall beside my desk, it is still there, and read it often in the next two months, feeling disbelief but also comfort at its assurances that I had gone to this black place before and had returned from it. I wanted to read it as part of this talk, but it is a little too long. “Letter to Thursday” is a frank and simple statement from one self to another, saying in essence: I know you, even if you don’t remember me. We are in this together.

“In this together” is a sentiment alien to the depressed person, since a feeling of utter desertion is at the core of the predicament. One is abandoned by joy, by purpose, by energy...by others, by the world, by life...by oneself. The last is the harshest turning in the lock. Losing this first advisor, ally, friend–this best angel, truly–confirms that the ship has indeed been abandoned and must inevitably go down. Without this “other” there is no self–only a cave where someone used to live. Heaing no word is having no word. Getting a letter, a postcard, a murmur, on the other hand, is evidence that desertion may not be absolute, or at least not final, since somewhere your self-in-health is still speaking.

Canada Reads Independently

Over at Pickle Me This, Kerry Clare has decided to run a separate book club of sorts, due to her disappointment with the official CBC Canada Reads shortlist. She asked me in December if I'd care to select a title to defend. I asked her, at least in part with my tongue in my cheek, if I might choose one of my own. Kerry said that the fact that I had endorsed a book by publishing it was good enough for her.

But: which title should I choose? I immediately gravitated to our Renditions list of reprints. I love this series, and consider it in some ways the heart and soul of the Biblioasis enterprise: to ensure that important and unjustly overlooked works of Canadian literature are brought back into print, that they are given a chance to find the audience they deserve. If Canada Reads worked as it should, it would be books like these -- overlooked classics, in my opinion -- and not recent bestsellers and more common fare -- that would be given a shot at the spotlight. If I could afford it, I'd do 3-4 of these titles a year, and you would see books by Clark Blaise, Bharati Mukherjee, Susan Kerslake, Norman Levine, Leon Rooke, Mavis Gallant, Douglas Glover, Mark Anthony Jarman, Linda Svendson and many others alongside the already existent titles by Terry Griggs, John Metcalf, Ray Robertson and Ray Smith (3 of them). I've viewed the series as a form of service, of giving back, and it is something I hope we can eventually grow as a bit of an aesthetic counterpoint to the New Canadian Library. As it is, unfortunately, I may have to take a break from the series for a year or two until my finances make it once again possible to take the hit these titles inevitably are.

Of the current Renditions titles, my favorite at the moment may just be Ray Smith's Century. I worried about selecting this title for Kerry's program: it's elicited wildly different responses from its readers. There are those who think it perhaps the most important work of Canadian fiction published: Charles Foran said as much in his introduction to the book, and a few others since the title's re-release this past Spring have concurred. Others have read it and hated it, and have not seen what the big deal is about. It is certainly an uncomfortable book: dark, troubling, sad, moral, while remaining blackly humorous, as is the case with so much of Smith's work. Steven Beattie, reviewing the book on That Shakespherian Rag this past summer, said, in part: "... the experience of reading Century is bracing, even 23 years after it was first published. Its pervasive sense of melancholy in the face of a fallen world may even carry greater impact in our post-9/11 society. In any event, it remains sui generis: a strange, searing work by one of our finest literary practitioners." It is one of the books I most hope readers of this blog -- all six of you -- will pick up. And i'm thankful for Kerry for agreeing to read it, and giving it a shot at finding at least a few more readers.

I was surprised to learn later that the same Steven Beattie chose another Renditions title, Ray Robertson's Moody Food, as the title he'll be defending. Beattie writes: "Rock and roll novels are difficult to pull off. It’s hard to capture on the page the unkempt spirit of the music – its energy, its anarchy, its ethereal, emotional immediacy. Which makes Moody Food, an extended booze- and drug-fuelled odyssey into Toronto’s Yorkville (and beyond) in the 1960s, a fairly stunning achievement ... the novel is many things: a modern retelling of The Great Gatsby; a vividly realized portrait of Yorkville in the 1960s; and a metaphor for the disillusionment of the generation that came of age pursuing a heady mix of peace, love, and marijuana smoke. Robertson has said, "I believe that no matter what artistic pursuits you have, you want to be regarded like a rock star." Ambitious and ultimately highly moving, Moody Food is that rarest of all beasts: a great rock and roll novel."

The other contestants are:

Katrina Onstad: How Happy to Be.
Martha Ostenso: Wild Geese
Carrie Snyder: Hair Hat.

To read the write ups about each book and its defener, please go here.