Category Archives: Books

Today So Far

We have been having a terrific thunderstorm for the past hour. Very loud. Cats have scattered.

However, because it has been overcast since I got up at seven, it feels like it’s still seven. Possibly also because I started working at eight, and have managed to carry six or seven shelves’ worth of my office books downstairs into the communal office space. I have room on my office shelves for new books now. Or rather, to place the books that were double-shelved or piled on the floor. There’s a bit more order in my chaos. I am pleased. Maybe this afternoon I’ll thin out some of my books in the living room to carry downstairs too, such as the philosophy and critical analysis ones, to occupy the downstairs shelves as well and free up room for the triple-shelved books and new acquisitions that have been shoved here and there over the past year.

I got my contracts with the Big Local Company in the mail today; I’m told my cheque was cut yesterday and will be here early next week. About time.

Books I Read This July

The Magicians and Mrs Quent by Galen Beckett
Mr Darcy Takes a Wife by Linda Berdoll
Wit’s End by Karen Joy Fowler
Kushiel’s Justice by Jacqueline Carey
The Soloist by Steve Lopez
Gentlemen & Players by Joanne Harris
A Romance on Three Legs by Katie Hafner
Band Geek Love by Josie Bloss
Second Honeymoon by Joanna Trollope
Runemarks by Joanne Harris
The Lollipop Shoes by Joanne Harris
Ink & Steel by Elizabeth Bear
This Lullaby by Sarah Desser
Small Favor by Jim Butcher
Body and Soul by Frank Conroy
Charlie Bone and the Hidden King by Jenny Nimmo
Charlie Bone and the Castle of Mirrors by Jenny Nimmo
Birds for Dummies by Gina Spadafori & Dr. Brian L. Speer
Guide to the Quaker Parrot by Mattie Sue Athan

Quick notes:

Mr Darcy Takes a Wife by Linda Berdoll: Epic fail. Got halfway through. Tries too hard to be Regency-style, tries to pull in too many new characters in a very un-Austen manner. I could take the basic subject matter; I couldn’t take the execution. Gah. I’m including it even though I didn’t finish it because I need to note it down somewhere.

Gentlemen & Players by Joanne Harris: Wow. I so didn’t see the twist coming. I should have. This reads like Robertson Davies meets Patricia Highsmith.

The Lollipop Shoes by Joanne Harris: A well-handled not-really-a-sequel that addresses further wanderings of certain characters from Chocolat, but whose protagonist is someone new. I read it in one afternoon.

Runemarks by Joanne Harris: Yes, I went on a bit of a Joanne Harris rampage this month. This was an interesting take on what comes after Ragnarok. She got most of the Norse deities bang-on, albeit reduced to one or two traits.

Ink & Steel by Elizabeth Bear: Brilliant Elizabethan/faerie parallel story with really sharp characters and a story that draws one in and really makes one care about the characters and events. And yet, it is completely different from Brennan’s Midnight Never Come. Let’s see, what did I say about it earlier…

Last night I finished reading Ink & Steel, the first part of The Stratford Man duology by Elizabeth Bear. I’ve already geeked out on her journal about how excellent it was. I direct you to her website to read the available excerpted material and get yourself hooked. No, you don’t have to read Blood & Iron and Whiskey & Water to read Ink & Steel and Hell & Earth; they’re all part of the same universe but not in a serial fashion (beyond the loose duology of the first pair, and the definite duology of the second pair). Very, very worth reading. Bear continually astonishes me with her versatility and her ability to handle any genre at which she tries her hand. The heart of her success is most likely related to the fact that she writes a good story, about real characters with flaws and irrationalities as well as strengths, and makes it happen in a setting that has enough detail to create an entire atmosphere without going overboard. Also Elizabethan England, vile playwrights, and Faerie pretty much covers all the stuff I squee about, so when tied together, huzzah!

All I can add to that is: Eight days till Hell & Earth! Let the stalking of the bookstores looking for early copies begin! [SQUEE! I just checked stock and there are already two copies in at Chapters! I know where the boy and I are going after dropping HRH off at work tomorrow…]

In Which She Muses About ‘Celebrity’

Despite the fact that I have worked in the book business for mumble-mumble years (good gods, has it been seventeen!?) and I know perfectly well that Editors and Authors Are Real People, I still have to work through the ‘yikes Famous Person’ veil that descends over my eyes when I meet one. I am, as previously mentioned, deathly shy, which makes self-promotion a challenge to say the least. It also means I have a permanent inferiority complex.

Brendan Cathbad Myers is someone whose work I’ve read since he published essays about druidry in Wiccan Candles, a now-defunct Canadian publication. (You can still read his articles, though, on his web site here.) His articles demonstrated to me that there was a deeply philosophical and ethical aspect to Paganism, above and beyond the basic foci (and petty arguments) that seemed to resurface again and again.

I tend to write and publish material that has a practical application focus to it. His work is on a completely different level academically and intellectually. (His work is stuff I wish I could write. And maybe did, once upon a time in university, before I was swayed by the need for not-101 books about alternative spirituality.) So when we finally came face to face on Saturday night in the resto-bar where we were waiting for a table, I was expecting someone different. Instead, he was excited to meet me.

(Funny story: I walked into the dark and crowded area with Blade and Silly Imp and waved at everyone, including someone who I knew was Brendan from his author photo. Brendan turned to another friend of mine and said, “Who did I just wave back to?” “That would be the famous and best-selling local author Autumn!” t! replied enthusiastically and on purpose because he knows how uncomfortable I am with having fuss made about me.)

We were both excited and a bit nervous. I admire his books immensely, and he appears to like mine. Which boggles my mind, because they’re so simple as compared with his own. Apples and walnuts, I suppose; you can’t really compare such different things. We were both thrilled to meet a fellow Canadian and pagan author, and we began to chatter away. He has such wonderful experiences to share, and a sense of wonder and appreciation pervades his conversation when he shares stories and thoughts.

We talked a lot about our experiences publishing, which isn’t a surprise. We shared our frustration about the very real needs of the intermediate to advanced readership within the alternative spirituality market that aren’t being met because publishers are more interested in putting out basic books that appeal to a broader cross-section of the market. I can’t argue with their reasoning; it makes sense on a piece of paper. There will always be more people in the beginner stages of study than those who choose to continue through. At the same time, however, one of the most common requests in esoteric bookshops is “Do you have something that’s more advanced than this?” He told me about his current publisher, about whom he has nothing but positive feedback to share, and I’ll certainly look into them as I develop ideas that the publisher I’ve worked won’t touch.

We talked about the festival experience, and the need for people who have more experience under their belts to hook up and share their own experiences and thoughts. It’s hard to find stimulation when you’re the one teaching all the time. And we talked a lot about responsibility and ethics and values and other cultural themes related to his most recent book, The Other Side of Virtue (which I glowingly review in the upcoming Summer 2008 issue of WynterGreene Magazine. The short version: Brilliant, insightful, valuable. Read it.).

At the end of the evening it was hard to leave someone I’d just met and with whom I’d made such a wonderful connection. And it was truly wondrous to meet someone whom I consider an established and respected authority only to discover that he was just as eager and nervous about meeting me. I am an idiot. There is a lesson here, if only I’ll absorb and remember it. On the way to the restaurant Silly Imp told me she’d met and worked with Thorn Coyle recently, and that she thought we two were a lot alike. This was another source of ‘yikes’, as Coyle is another huge name who I respect immensely. I suspect that I will never shake the feeling that I’m a kid masquerading as a confident and qualified adult.

Apart from Brendan fitting into the group remarkably well, it was really, really good to (a) be out after dark, and (b) be out with friends deliberately ignoring what time it was. I’m paying for it now but it was good at the time, and I’d do it again (just not any time soon). We all have such a hard time scheduling things that it was remarkable to have us in one place to begin with. The only downside to the evening was that HRH couldn’t share it with us. I know he and Brendan would have hit it off rather well.

I’m feeling even more excited about the Hamilton festival now that I’ve met Brendan.

Metaphor

Libba Bray, the author of the Gemma Doyle trilogy, is in the last stretch of her current project and has an amusing (and, alas, very recognizable) metaphor for the process to share in a blog post entitled ‘Writing a Novel, A Love Story’.

No, this is the part where I become convinced that I could advertise on Craig’s List for gangs of homeless gerbils to run across my keyboard in an agitated, looking-for-the-water-tube state, and they would do a better job. This is how it goes. Every. Single. Friggin’. Time.

In fact, writing a novel is very close to falling in love. How so? I’m glad you asked.

Replace “novel” with “book in general” and yes, there it is: a decent and humorous summary of the process.

Not Dead…

… just completely and totally exhausted. HRH is fighting a bad cold, the boy is taking up every bit of energy I’ve got, and I have that restless-but-hermity thing going on. I’ve lost all interest in food and eating.

The rest of the birthday weekend was lovely. The picnic was enjoyable (despite the somewhat uncomfortable experience of the sad attention-starved little girl who insinuated herself into our group because her very-not-sober father was passed out under a tree) and it was good to see people just sitting flaking out in the shade, listening to the kids playing on the playground equipment, munching fruit and bread and cheese and such. Dinner with HRH’s parents on Sunday was also lovely. Thanks go out to everyone who came by or sent their regrets and best wishes, and for all the thoughtful gifts I received (organic nibblies! gift card for the bookstore! a very generous contribution to the 7/8 fund!).

My office feels much bigger with only one cello in it. I tried playing my 4/4 the other day and, as I was afraid, it feels clunky to me now. I so didn’t want this to happen.

I’m currently slogging through a freelance MS evaluation. I know what’s wrong with it, but I’m having a hard time putting it into words (saying ‘overwritten’ isn’t precise enough, alas). Also, what’s wrong with it is making it very difficult to read and get past the wrong to the story, which is, as far as I can tell, a good one.

The boy and I went to a bookstore today (gift certificate, yay!) and I picked up a book thinking it was one kind of thing, and started reading it to discover that it’s something very different. I wish I hadn’t bought it. I’m considering taking it back and exchanging it, except providing the reason of ‘I thought it was something else’ when I’ve read the cover copy thoroughly and flipped through it in the store is really, really lame. Still, a thirty dollar book I’m not going to read is a thirty dollar object taking up room on my shelf that’s needed for other books. This is what comes of (a) having a lousy mental focus (thank you and no love, fibro fog) and (b) shopping with a three year old who is clamoring to get to the train table. I am, however, really looking forward to the other book I picked up (A Romance on Three Legs by Katie Hafner).

Because we went to the Big Bookstore (With The Trains), as the boy calls it, we were obliged to visit the Big Animal Store in the same strip. I was partially looking forward to seeing the little Senegal parrot who stole my heart two weeks ago and partially dreading it, because I didn’t know if I could stand to have my heart broken again. I was both disappointed and relieved to see that it was gone. I hope it went to a good home.

We also stopped at the library to pick up a book I’d put a hold on which had come in: Wit’s End by Karen Fowler. I am very set for reading material. For the next two days, at the very least; I seem to be inhaling books these days. I suspect it has something to do with my need to turn off my brain to some extent, and the need to absorb someone else’s words. I also feel like I’m accomplishing something when I finish a book, which is something I sorely need when I’m down to functioning on inadequate energy.

So I’m muddling around, trying to keep up with the basic things that need doing, and feeling very flat about it all. And when I feel flat and inadequate I get irritated, and I’m very afraid I’ll fall back into the ‘going to bed mad because I didn’t do anything of worth during the day and waking up irritated the next morning’ thing, a rather destructive cycle in which I was mired five or sixish years ago. I think I need to get writing and creating again, which is a challenge because when the boy’s with the caregiver I’m working on freelance stuff for more immediate (and concrete) money (as opposed to working on something uncontracted which may or may not ever sell for theoretical money in the future).

I missed the boy’s thirty-seven month post on the 11th and I can’t see it being written any time soon, if at all. I also missed marking the three-years-at-home-as-a-family anniversary on the 13th as well. I’m so damn tired.

But I do have a shiny red and white bike on the back porch. Someday I may even put air in the tires and ride it. When the next chunk of money comes in we’ll buy the trailer so the boy and I can go for rides together.

There you have it. I’m exhausted and uncommunicative. The end.

Birthday!

This morning I have received an aggressive kiss on the nose to wake me up, followed immediately by the boy chirping, “Hi Mama, it’s your birthday! Here, take this.” I mumbled a thank you and peered at the folded piece of paper he’d given me, with crayon all over it. “It’s a card for you!” he explained enthusiastically. “See, these are butterflies!” Then there were toys brought in and played with on the bed, as well as many snuggles. Then he hauled HRH’s guitar out and played and sang me a birthday song extempore, on the spot.

We returned the 7/8 cello Number 3 to the luthier this morning. “And?” he said. “Almost,” I said. “Almost, but not quite.” I explained that the two-week home trial had confirmed that the 7/8 size is indeed perfect for me, but that this particular instrument just didn’t have that certain something that clicked and made it mine. He asked if there was anything particular, in order to avoid it when selecting another for me to test, and I shook my head; there wasn’t anything specifically wrong. It just didn’t grab me and say, ‘You cannot part with me.’ I like the tone, the overtones, the balance, the construction, the feel under my fingers, everything; it’s just not this one that I need. He has another 7/8 in his Laval workshop and will bring it in for me, but I’m on holiday the last two weeks of July and he’s closed the first two weeks of August, so we’ll pick up again then. In the meantime there’s the two shops in Toronto, and the Scarlatti 7/8 Number 2 to take home for a test, and I’ll think about the one in Alaska too.

On the way to the luthier we treated ourselves to breakfast sandwiches and iced cappuccinos, and the we went through the car wash for the first time with the boy, who found it very exciting. Unfortunately we ran into not one but two road detours in St Lambert and Longueuil due to festivals or triathalons which rerouted us way out of the areas we needed to travel in or through, so the trip was about twice as long as it needed to be.

My birthday present from HRH was a new bike! It has been many, many years since I have owned one. As he carted it to the back yard yesterday the next-door neighbour said, “You got a n new bike?” HRH said, “It’s not mine, it’s hers.” “But it’s a man’s bike,” the neighbour replied, confused. Yes, it is a man’s bike, but I preferred the shiny red and white paint with a back rack to the blue and white with a plastic basket in the front, complete with fake flower, and with flowers painted on the seat. The blue was nice, but give me a rack over a flimsy plastic basket any day. Also, a red bike is just cooler. The next purchase is a bike trailer for kids so the boy and I can bike to the library and the grocery store, or just go for a ride together. My parents gave me a lovely blank book and a copy of Martha Stewart’s cookie recipe book. I got birthday money last weekend from my in-laws, which went to new summer shirts and a skirt (and a new bike helmet and lock!). There was a cheque in yesterday’s mail from my grandmother, which will buy a new printer. I have received numerous birthday wishes from all over via e-mail, phone, and journal posts, the weather is spectacular, and I am having a wonderful birthday so far. There’s a late afternoon picnic in my future today, and I have been promised sushi tonight after the boy goes to bed. Tomorrow there’s a birthday dinner with the in-laws, too. Life is good.

Catch-Up

Friday morning: government refund cheque on overpaid student loan insurance. Small, but enough to put gas in the tank and food in the cooler. Thank you, money fairies! We can go to the godforsaken howling wilderness on Saturday after all!

And so we enjoyed a lovely afternoon, evening, and morning chez Fearsclave and his lovely wife, along with t! and Jan, new local house-owners (though not local dwellers till the end of summer), and Mousme. Those twenty hours away did us a world of good. The boy stayed home with his local grandparents and didn’t miss us at all. There were shandies (or straight beer if you were pretty much everyone other than myself), burgers and sausage dogs, a bonfire and roasted marshmallows, blessedly deep sleep, then a lovely clear morning. We have now partaken of t!’s justifiably famous french toast (made with bread specially developed for this purpose by Jan), served with lashings of thick bacon and beer-boiled sausages. We consider ourselves extremely fortunate.

Yes, that was the weekend: food, relaxing, sun, friends, nothing much else. Cats, yes. Also Jack the dog. And several uninvited mosquitoes.

I slept horribly last night here at home.

This morning the boy and I cruised the local pet store for fun, then visited the Melange Magique for incense and to poke around at nifty other stuff. The boy went Tequila-hunting (smart cat hid from him a lot), played in the ‘tents’ (AKA the reader’s corners), and practised going down the stairs headfirst in a controlled fashion. Nightdemons even gave him a little coloured onyx egg of his very own. He would have chosen a blue one if he hadn’t discovered that one of the six year old girls he idolises would choose purple. Naturally, he instantly chose a purple one himself. I came home with light floral incenses to cheer me up in general and put a research book aside for later purchase. Lo and behold, upon our arrival back home, there in the mailbox was my first cheque from the freelance gig I began at the end of May, so huzzah! All the work I’ve been doing to get the damn money moving seems to be paying off (literally). Also not a huge cheque, but it’s the principle of the thing.

Last night I finished reading Ink & Steel, the first part of The Stratford Man duology by Elizabeth Bear. I’ve already geeked out on her journal about how excellent it was. I direct you to her website to read the available excerpted material and get yourself hooked. No, you don’t have to read Blood & Iron and Whiskey & Water to read Ink & Steel and Hell & Earth; they’re all part of the same universe but not in a serial fashion (beyond the loose duology of the first pair, and the definite duology of the second pair). Very, very worth reading. Bear continually astonishes me with her versatility and her ability to handle any genre at which she tries her hand. The heart of her success is most likely related to the fact that she writes a good story, about real characters with flaws and irrationalities as well as strengths, and makes it happen in a setting that has enough detail to create an entire atmosphere without going overboard. Also Elizabethan England, vile playwrights, and Faerie pretty much covers all the stuff I squee about, so when tied together, huzzah!

I have no idea what I’ll read next. The beginning of July was pretty much centred on Ink & Steel. Kind of like how my life in general can’t be planned beyond the Canada Day concert because I’m so focused on it during the months leading up to it, I hadn’t thought about what I’d read once I’d consumed Ink & Steel. Non-reading-schedule-wise, there’s a wedding to perform on Thursday, and I have a birthday coming up for which I’d like to do something but I’m so exhausted right now I can’t think of what I’d actually enjoy. Maybe just a Hurley’s thing, despite how crowded and loud it can get; if it’s my birthday I can leave whenever I like, after all. Except that necessitates babysitting, which I can’t afford. And I don’t want to have people over because that’s also exhausting on several levels, and although we all tend to forget it (including myself until I do something stupid) I do live with a chronic fatigue and pain syndrome. I just got off the phone with my mother, and she suggested a picnic in one of the local parks, an idea which has mountains of merit. I think I’ll talk that through with HRH tonight.