on writing, etc.

the reread begins

noreply@blogger.com (saleema) — Thu, 26 Jan 2012 17:04:00 +0000

A graduate student on a maternity leave came in yesterday with a photo of her month-old baby. She was elated, buoyant, energized. It made me happy to see. I don’t know many people with children, but PPD, at least in some low-grade form, seems to be more of the rule than the exception among my friends. (And why not? What with the sleep deprivation and radical realignment of one’s life in service of another, I’m amazed and relieved that anyone manages to thrive under the circumstances.) Today I’m in the middle of helping another graduate student who recently returned from a maternity leave figure out how she might downgrade her current Ph.D. to an M.Sc. She’s worn down and doesn’t think she can finish. I’m trying to be helpful while at the same time giving her the space to consider all of her options (putting the degree on hold again, etc).

Tonight I’m finally going to buckle down and reread the Draft…the one I sent in on October 15th, after an intense three months of radical cutting, ordering, and writing. And thus begins the next stage of editing. Until I reread what I have, I can’t be sure how much work it’s going to entail. I do have a feeling that I might to put back a number of things I cut, or reimagine them somehow so that what I left in isn’t so thin on the page. There are some parts of the story that could endlessly expand in my imagination, and others I feel like I barely know…and don’t even care to know. It’s amazing how, if you’re not careful, your story can wriggle out of your grasp and race into places and characters you’d rather not write about. But for some reason they got in there and won’t be ignored. Hmmmph.

My editor and I have agreed on a deadline of March 12, which seems awfully soon, but I think more time can be wrangled if needed.

Using things up

noreply@blogger.com (saleema) — Wed, 25 Jan 2012 19:37:00 +0000

As part of my efforts to declutter, I’m going to write about my small triumphs and strategies and ordeals. Read no further unless you are fighting a similar battle…or don’t mind hearing about it.

If you are a woman in your twenties or thirties, chances are that you have a cupboard full of lotions, soaps, shower gels, bath oils,and sundry other cleansing products. Most of these probably came to you as gifts -some wanted, some unwanted – though some others may have been purchased on a drugstore whim, or acquired as a sample when purchasing some oh-so-necessary other product. Those necessities, the things one actually uses…well, those get used up right away and never delegated to the back shelf in the cupboard Where Toiletries Go to Die.

I recently cleaned out the cupboards in my bathroom (a tall order considering the size of the cupboards, which are high enough that I have to climb on top of the washer and dryer to reach the upper row), and though there was a fair number of straight-to-garbage products (see above re: toiletries dying), there was also enough left over to clean and primp and scent me for what I suspect may be a full two years. (Perhaps I exaggerate. But I doubt it.)

So now next to the tub, there are three overturned bottles of lotion. (Given that they are pump dispensers, this is no easy balancing act on the tile floor.) Two have been coaxed to give up their remaining, previously unpumpable goods and have already been completely finished and recycled. When these next ones are finished, there are still yet-unopened lotions lurking in a neat row in the cupboard. These, too, will get used, somehow. Don’t be surprised if you come over and I ask you how you feel about the scent of jasmine…

I’m lucky I live alone and there is no-one to complain about these odds and ends balanced around the bathroom. On the edge of the sink, there’s another emptying pump of antibacterial hand soap. It doesn’t look pretty, and it feels and looks like the height of parsimony. But it isn’t only thrift. I don’t want to take for granted what I have, nor do I want to waste anything. The packaging on everything makes me queasy. (I know, I know, it’s recyclable…but how recyclable? How much energy and waste goes into the recycling process itself? I need to look into this.)

I want to be free of so many of the things cluttering my apartment, but I’m a pack rat. Sometimes I have to do things the hard way when it comes to letting go. But the idea is that once everything is gone, I’m going to be oh-so-careful about what else comes in. Here’s hoping.

nearly February, crazy weather

noreply@blogger.com (saleema) — Tue, 24 Jan 2012 21:21:00 +0000

Well, the list for the Oscars is out and Midnight in Paris is on it, and somehow that’s the only one of the long list of movies up for Best Picture that I’ve seen --- even though I’ve seen a ton of movies this year, it feels like. Just not those ones yet.

Speaking of movies, my mother came by my office today and dropped off an early birthday present of a DVD player, as mine was on the fritz (where does that expression come from?*) for so long (after, admittedly, functioning perfectly between 2002-2010…a decent run in the world of electronics, I suppose) that I finally had to retire it altogether. (Although along with everything else I’ve “gotten rid of,” it continues to sit in a box near the door.) Along with a new-old large TV someone gave me recently, this heralds a new era of luxurious movie-watching at home on something other than a 10-inch screen. My mother was also kind enough to bring a can of Tim Horton’s coffee and a big package of gourmet jelly beans (already opened).** Somehow I’ve got birthday bounty, and I haven’t even started to think about my birthday yet. I can’t believe it’s almost February.

The weather these days is crazy. Snowstorms. Rainstorms. Bitter cold. More rain. Repeat. It turns out that even when rain is freakishly unseasonable and frankly alarming (hello global warming), and even hazardous (sidewalks and streets frosted with slick ice), I still like it. The warmth isn’t unwelcome either. It gives me that spring feeling even though I know it’s a lie. I wonder…if global warming really carries on in the dreadful way that has been predicted, will that spring feeling ever give way to one of impending doom, or will that sudden Canadian lightness-at-heart that arrives on a warm breeze simply coexist with the rational concern we’ll all be feeling? I think there may be a tiny bit of buried glee even as we slather on SPF 5000 in the middle of February.

* According to various online sources, nobody knows for sure. Surprising!
**Recommendation: do not look at the ingredients on a package of gourmet jelly beans. (Shellac…plus two kinds of wax.)

managing expectations

noreply@blogger.com (saleema) — Mon, 23 Jan 2012 21:45:00 +0000

The thing about Mondays seems to be managing one’s expectations. There is the thrill of upcoming plans (tonight: music and loved ones, tomorrow: drinks with a friend I haven’t seen in much too long, Wednesday: more music), the slight anxiety of conflicting commitments (two things scheduled for Saturday! Possibly at the same time! One in a far-flung corner of the city I’ve never been to before…), the looming freelance deadline square in the middle of the week when there is almost no time free to prepare for it, the allocation of lunchtime plans to exercise or errands or social calls (in this case, lunchtimes are given over to a dear friend recovering in the hospital across the street), the overly ambitious to-do lists that include pressing matters (the now-monthly and increasingly dreaded and despair-filled call to Bell to get them to adjust my service and billing as originally requested back in September) as well as items that have continued to roll over for weeks (make dentist and doctor appointments), along with all the regular stuff like buying groceries and making meals and doing the dishes and managing to get out of the door wearing two socks without holes in them (this last is only very occasionally achieved). Then there’s emails and texts and chats with friends. Then there’s worry and longing for people not seen in much too long, not to mention guilt over all those other ancient items on the to-do list that never quite make it onto the week’s menu.

And then there’s the writing. When to do that? Sigh.

If I expected to do it all, I’d be crushed by disappointment on a daily basis. But if I expect nothing, I achieve even less. All the writers out there with even busier lives (e.g. kids…gulp): I don’t know how you do it!

transformation time

noreply@blogger.com (saleema) — Mon, 23 Jan 2012 20:52:00 +0000

Happy Lunar New Year! According to one of the dozen or so forecasts for the Year of the Dragon that I looked up (until I found something that caught my fancy…that’s the way horoscopes work, right?), 2012 is supposed to be a transformative year, a year of major shifts in one’s life (my Sheep horoscope seems to call for almost every kind of major life change imaginable). One site is calling it the Year of Empowerment – a time for risk-taking and moving outside one’s comfort zone. True or not, I like the sound of all that. (Sort of! It has to be admitted that my life is pretty great just the way it is, too.)

Bring on the Year of the Dragon!

Midnight in Paris

noreply@blogger.com (saleema) — Mon, 23 Jan 2012 13:12:00 +0000

I finally saw Midnight in Paris recently, and I was a little disappointed, even though it was a perfectly fine movie. The opening was long and unfocused (I get it: we’re in Paris…happy as I am to watch endless picturesque shots of the City of Lights), and the whole thing felt too fluffy to mean very much to me. (I also kept getting bogged down by the “practical” considerations of the time travel magic…and how it worked exactly...though I recognize this is probably mostly my problem.) I’m not in love with the time period (true, I haven’t read all that much of any of those writers), and I’d already heard the best jokes from a friend of mine who was talking up the movie, and Rachel McAdams’s character was enough of a caricature (wasn’t she just awful?) to make the whole thing seem mostly like a pleasantly diverting little comic strip.

Then I was reminded of Vicky Cristina Barcelona, a movie I don’t recall all that well, but which I remember well enough to be surprised all over again, when I think about it, that it was made by the same person. It felt like an entirely different category of movie. That’s Woody Allen for you. Prolific!

A few interesting Woody Allen links have crossed my desktop lately.

On Woody Allen’s typography (he uses Windsor, based on the recommendation of a printer who used to eat breakfast at the same New Jersey diner in the late seventies):

http://kitblog.com/2007/12/woody_allens_typography.html

9 things entrepreneurs could learn from Woody Allen (I think they’re pertinent to anyone involved in a creative endeavour):

http://techcrunch.com/2012/01/14/woody-allen/

742 days ago

noreply@blogger.com (saleema) — Sat, 21 Jan 2012 21:17:00 +0000

I made a note to myself on my iPhone as follows:

Dominant eye
Veins/blood
New York City

Before I started carrying a new phone, I used this Notes feature primarily for addresses, account numbers, and story ideas. In this case, I wish I had given myself a little more to work with.

getting down to it

noreply@blogger.com (saleema) — Sat, 21 Jan 2012 16:49:00 +0000

Today is one of these wonderful Saturdays alone at home when it seems possible to get everything done at a leisurely pace...until about four or five or whenever o'clock when I realize I need to scramble to order to get ready to go out.

For a few years now (five?), my friends and I have been going out for dinner to celebrate Lunar New Year. Traditions/superstitions passed along by J's mom and rigorously followed ever since dictate that the apartment needs to be scrubbed clean, the laundry must all be done (and dried), and, if possible, a bowl of eight oranges needs to be obtained and placed auspiciously on a newly tidy kitchen table. At least, this is what I do. Sometimes it takes the threat of a whole year of bad luck to really inspire a good deep clean, and that's what on today's agenda. Though I really ought to have started earlier! But there' s still Sunday night if I don't happen to finish.

The dishes have been done (does anyone else clean their apartment in a certain order?), coffee has been made and nearly finished (hence the blogging break), and laundry is about to be put on.

In other, actually more interesting news: I finally got my notes on the new draft of my novel yesterday! So once I've taken the time to reread the draft (a task I dread less than usual), I can dive back into revising. I've now spent even more time away from it than I spent on the revision itself (three months), and looking over the notes, a few things were even a little fuzzy in my memory. I'm happy to have something focused to dive into right at the start of the Year of the Dragon. New year, new work.

Before the day is over, I also have to track down something to wrap some little gifts before tonight. (I'm happy with what I managed to pick up on my way home...I'll post a photo if I have time.) I'm also behind schedule on picking up red envelopes for the children in my life, but I'm hoping the stores in Chinatown will be open late this time of year, so I can pick them up before dinner.

podcasts, Skype, tax fantasies

noreply@blogger.com (saleema) — Sat, 21 Jan 2012 13:36:00 +0000

I’ve been listening to podcasts lately (finally). Radiolab is my current favourite. It’s probably a reflection on the sad, stale state of my music collection, but I’ve been having a great time putting them on while I’m cooking or doing the dishes. This month I’ve also Skyped for only the second time ever. I see more of both in my future.

These days one of my fantasies (hold onto your hats!) involves doing my taxes early and oh-so-leisurely. Ever since a procrastination-induced panic attack during my third year of university, I have been extremely careful not to cut things too close. In fact, starting a very short project only two or three days before a deadline is enough to almost make me nervous and uncomfortable at this point…even if it leaves me plenty of time to start and finish. It makes for some inefficient work -- there’s no doubt that deadline pressure is effective in getting things rolling, and I understand perfectly why people leave things to the last minute, as I relied on this method for virtually all of my undergraduate papers – but I’ll happily accept some inefficiency as the price of peace of mind. I like to do my taxes over a few evenings – it takes that long to organize all my receipts – with a glass of wine. It makes me feel wonderfully organized and competent, as well as a little buzzed.

Another daydream is that Instagram will hurry up and make an Android version of their app, which was one of my favourites before I ditched my iPhone (or rather, relegated it to the practical status of an iPod touch). I love the dreamy, retro style photos it makes, and there’s nothing else quite like it. I can still use it on my iPhone when I log into wireless, but it’s definitely less convenient. Hurry up, wonderful Instagram!

Also there has been a lot of this here lately:

A Monday Morning in Montréal from CloudRaker on Vimeo.

The good thing about a snowstorm is that it usually means it's (relatively) warm out. What a strange country we live in!

this and that

noreply@blogger.com (saleema) — Thu, 19 Jan 2012 13:28:00 +0000

I’ve been slowly updating the list of links in the sidebar. Since becoming a blog slacker, I’ve been relying exclusively on my wildly disorganized (or formerly organized but now ossified and only marginally useful) set of folders on Google Reader. Meanwhile, check out the new additions!

Exchanged some more emails today re: a freelancing payment I am still waiting on from something I wrote back in August. In this case, and upon request, I had invoiced promptly – the very same day I filed the story. But such is the life of a freelancer. I am full of admiration for people who can survive on this kind of piecemeal salary, and no doubt those who are most successful at it have (one hopes) at least a few reliable gigs to bank on. But I am far too practical/anxiety-ridden when it comes to money matters to be able to try this at the moment.

The best thing I have read lately is a letter from John Steinbeck to his son on the subject of love. It has reminded me of grandness of Steinbeck’s heart, and it is good, warm, soul-expanding advice. I found it via the wonderful Classic Penguin tumblr, but it was originally posted on Letters of Note, a site I'm very happy to know about.

The best thing I saw earlier this week was the amazing Can Lit is Sexy tumblr. I hope whoever is doing it keeps it up!

And the last thing worth sharing is the great sale being run by ECW Press. Buy any Spring 2012 title and get the eBook for free. A terrific deal!

Taking stock on old resoutions

noreply@blogger.com (saleema) — Wed, 18 Jan 2012 13:47:00 +0000

I was going to take stock of how well I achieved my 2011 New Year’s Resolutions, but then I saw that the last ones I posted were at the beginning of 2010. I also saw that I only posted three times in all of 2011…clearly a resolution waiting to happen right there.

So I’ve had two years to work on these goals:

Read more American fiction

I did this, a little, though less than I would have liked. (Then again, I would prefer to have read more of everything, in every category.) I read The Corrections (yes, finally), A Visit From the Goon Squad (really amazing), We Need To Talk About Kevin (really good…very curious to see the movie, especially as Tilda Swinton seems like perfect casting), Home (tremendous), The Human Stain (the only Philip Roth I’d read before was Portnoy’s Complaint…my, what I’ve been missing), and Mr. Peanut (a totally dark and amazingly clever novel about marriage and murder). This last one was recommended to me by another amazing American writer, Joanna Pearson, whose novel The Rites and Wrongs of Janice Wills is the perfect YA treat. (YA = Young Adult, for those of you who don’t occasionally take great pleasure in dipping into what’s available for the younger set.)

Read more British fiction

Unless you count rereading Villette, the only British novel I’m sure I’ve read is The Little Stranger. It’s a great story – I got spooked reading it – and it was the perfect companion piece to Downton Abbey, which I got swept up in last January. Oh no, wait! At some point I also read Skippy Dies (solid, enjoyable).

Read more poetry

Yes, I absolutely did! Not only did I read a fair bit from the library, but I'm also fortunate enough to know a number of amazing poets who've published books recently. I promise you will not be disappointed by any of the following: Hypotheticals by Leigh Kotsilidis, The Id Kid by Linda Besner, A Complete Encyclopedia of Different Types of People by Gabe Foreman, and All This Could Be Yours by Joshua Trotter. Now I just need people to do this all the time and I'll be totally covered on the poetry front.

Finish my novel

Well, what does finish really mean? I finished and submitted the initial draft I’m sure I was referring to here. And then another. And…one more? And now I’m waiting for notes. That’s about as much as I feel like saying about this right now.

Write another one

Hahaha, it is to laugh. Well, not really. I have two other serious projects underway, and a few other less ambitious things somewhat started/imagined/idly planned. But a lot of major work needs to happen before this gets crossed off the to-do list.

Try writing something in another genre

Yes! A little. Though I haven’t tried submitting anything yet.

Conclusion: Decent progress? Unless you consider the fact that I had two years to work on these. (Secondary conclusion: time to make some new goals.)

resolution

noreply@blogger.com (saleema) — Mon, 16 Jan 2012 21:07:00 +0000

I am thinking about New Year’s Resolutions, as always. The gap between January 1^st and the Lunar New Year leaves a little room for resolution-tweaking or reaffirmations. Sometimes the goals I write down are too ambitious, or too amorphous to be useful. Be a better friend. What does that mean? What does it look like? (Probably: go out more. Check in on people you miss. Plan Skype dates with people who live far away. Don’t let emails languish in your inbox for too long without a response.)

Writing with a full-time job and any semblance of a social life is always something that requires heaps of resolve. I’m not sure whether this is ever something that can go on auto-pilot. In order to get anything done, I have to remind myself of what I want most of all and then set to work doing what I have to do in order to achieve that. Just about every day. And even then, I don’t always listen to my inner drill sergeant. It’s so hard when the diligence required to produce pages seems at odds with building and maintaining friendships and relationships – the things that, besides work, are supposed to make life worth living.

I wish “Just Do It” wasn’t so irrevocably linked to that all-too-successful advertising campaign. It really is a powerful little message/mantra.

Things you may observe about editing a novel

noreply@blogger.com (saleema) — Fri, 19 Aug 2011 03:34:00 +0000

Dishes accumulate more quickly than can be accounted for. In fact, all dishes and cutlery are dirty, in spite of the cessation of all cooking. (The most alarming thing about this is how little you are inclined to care.)

Your stomach never stops growling in spite of heretofore-unheard-of (read: confessed) indulgences sanctioned due to state of grievous emergency. (May include but not limited to Chinese takeout, energy drinks, garlic crackers, stale Cadbury mini-eggs.)

Most novels you will think about or pick up are better than your novel in its current state. (Heart-rendingly, soul-crushingly better.) Nevertheless, any momentary self-doubt cannot be given free rein to disrupt your terrified output of what you fervently hope is some reasonable approximation of brilliance.

How to edit a novel

noreply@blogger.com (saleema) — Mon, 08 Aug 2011 01:05:00 +0000

First: leave it alone. For a long time. In fact, if you don't look at it even once for almost eleven months, that's just about perfect.

Then think about all the parts you remember that make you cringe. Resolve to do away with them. Remember how you imagined your novel back when it was something you were excited to start working on.

Next, get notes from a careful reader or editor. Believe them. Compare them to what you already know about problems in the novel. Think carefully about possible solutions.

Last: cut ruthlessly. Experience elation.

I'm kidding about the list (although it doesn't strike me as bad advice), but in my case, this is more or less what has happened. I received my notes from my editor on July 15 (seven single-spaced, 10-point font pages of awesome insight), and after one week of mulling and strategizing here in the city, I took two weeks of vacation in which I planned to make a big push on the edits.

And last night I got home from two wonderful weeks in the country where I had planned to buckle down and edit edit edit like crazy. And editing in this case was going to mean writing whole new sections from scratch, since I decided I wanted to cut about a third of the existing text.

I did a fair chunk, but not enough. There were other commitments and distractions (mostly good ones), and the summer is so short here, I thought I ought to give it its due, which meant hiking up mountains, trips to the water park, stargazing, and cookouts down by the lake. No regrets, but I'm going to have to make a strict plan for how to get through the rest of it.

At the moment, I'm 28,000 words lighter (though this is likely to change), and the novel is finally beginning to be something closer to what I imagined it back in 2007...before I started writing it.

cold days

noreply@blogger.com (saleema) — Tue, 25 Jan 2011 02:54:00 +0000

A cold day is a good day for blogging.

There has been very little writing in my world lately, but a lot of doing and feeling, all of which can only be good for the writing in the long run.

One of the not-writing things I've been doing is running through the entirety of Downton Abbey. It was a nice transition from The Little Stranger, the last novel I finished and which I also recommend. Read & watch back-to-back for seamless immersion in the grand British world of turn-of-the-century failing estates and antiquated class systems.

poem

noreply@blogger.com (saleema) — Tue, 14 Dec 2010 19:42:00 +0000

The Argument

The first premise
was insistent, a kiss.

And so what
if I am already
convinced.

Ch-ch-ch-changes!

noreply@blogger.com (saleema) — Fri, 26 Nov 2010 16:38:00 +0000

One day after American Thanksgiving is as good of a day as any to think about gratitude. There has been a lot of upheaval and sadness and stress over the past few weeks, in every realm of my life, but also excitement and anticipation and elation. I am bursting with news (yes, book news, mostly), and a general sense of unreality that pervades just about every waking hour.

It is not the kind of state that (for me, anyway) is particularly conducive to writing, but I hope to get back into that by late next week at the latest. In the meantime, I am enjoying feeling fortunate for my work (the real work, and, yes, even the day job), the people in my life (who amaze and inspire and provoke me into hysterical laughter on a daily basis), the city where I live (today’s freezing rain notwithstanding), and all of the general benefits that go along with being an independent adult in urban Canada in this day and age (freedom from civil unrest! public transit! hot running water!).

Gosh, I’m lucky! I can hardly believe my good luck, some days. It’s a good thing to remember through the tough times.

Off to knock on wood…

The Incongruous Quarterly

noreply@blogger.com (saleema) — Mon, 08 Nov 2010 15:02:00 +0000

Have you guys heard about the Incongruous Quarterly? Its tag-line is publishing the unpublishable, which initially made me nervous until I found out that "unpublishable" might just mean too long or too short or too weird or too raunchy or too...something. It is still their mandate to publish good writing.

The first issue is available online here.

The deadline has now passed for the issue I'm guest-editing (fiction), but there will be other calls for submissions coming up with other guest editors. Submit! It is online-only, but this is a reflection of budget, not quality.

The way that I got involved is a story that makes me happy: last December I'd shown up at one of Sherwin Tija's wonderfully strange events: the Arcade Choir. From the event description:

Forty singers stand in the middle of a room. They are not professional singers, though some of them might be. They all have iPods, and on every single one of those iPods is the Arcade Fire album “Funeral”. At a signal, they all press play and, the album loud in their ears, start to sing the opening strains of the first song of the album.

Now this singing won’t be very pretty. They’re singing not only the words, but the instruments as well. People are encouraged to hum, howl, beatbox, make any noise that will translate the songs to the audience better.

Not everyone will know all the words. The people in the choir will have listened to the album plenty of times, but not very carefully. They know how the song goes, but won’t necessarily know the lyrics. Or know them correctly.

Because the music in their ears is so loud, they won’t be able to hear themselves, their neighbours, or the sound of all of them collectively. This might result in some very bad singing, but the choir is encouraged to sing their hearts out, the way one does when you’re in the shower and only singing for the joy of it.

I showed up alone, a little apprehensive, but too excited about the event to skip it. I love that album. And singing. So I went in.

I met two other women who had showed up alone -- and both of them were writers, too. (Writers: a curious and fearless bunch.) And one of them was E., IQ's co-founder and editor-in-chief.

Me: striped and singing.

It quickly became evident that it was a lot more entertaining for the singers than the audience (who all dashed out at the first opportunity). But it was really fun and funny (Sherwin recorded it...it is the strangest thing ever) and highly unique. I was glad I went -- even more so when E. approached me to get involved with the quarterly. You never know where or how you might meet someone and where that might take you. This is the thing that coaxes me out of the house on those nights when I'm feeling especially introverted or guilt-plagued about being behind with my writing.

poem

noreply@blogger.com (saleema) — Sun, 07 Nov 2010 15:00:00 +0000

new yorker

you are the great north american city.
relentless destination
impatient with happiness,

you’ve done it all, old hand
at the one-night stand, layovers
land easy at your port of call,

every kiss at greeting is rendered perfection,
your subway chatter no disaster.
palate-primed for boom luck,

an indecency of options
attends your every move, so
you’re a loud talker, speedwalker.

moreover,
your therapist has problems
you couldn’t imagine.

and your heart, your mind,
changing rapidfire with the mystery
algorithms of the traffic lights.

Reading tonight!

noreply@blogger.com (saleema) — Sat, 06 Nov 2010 18:03:00 +0000

I'm reading tonight at Le Cagibi as part of the Taddle Creek Travelling Series of Happenings to promote their Out-of-Towner issue. Sadly, I'm not actually in the issue (now that I've seen the actual magazine, which is gorgeous, I wish I'd known they were doing one, as normally submissions are restricted to writers from Toronto), but I'll be reading with Katia Grubisic, Mark Jarman, and Sarah Gilbert, so I can promise you will not be disappointed! (I am a big fan of Katia's poetry in general and of her excellent Goose Lane collection in particular.)

I'm especially looking forward to Sarah's presentation, which will apparently feature a projector for what I hope is an elaboration of her essay on Mile End. I'm similarly neighbourhood-obsessed, and I was excited to see she wrote about the lemon tree that (bewilderingly) continues to flourish a few blocks away from here in the back lane. I've brought other people to look at that tree, to convince me I'm not dreaming it.

I spent the morning trying to decide what to read. I don't feel like reading from Mother Superior, since I don't want to subject people I know to something that, at this point, they've probably heard before. At the same time, the novel I just finished writing is currently under submission (*fingers crossed* or, as my mother would say, pray for me) and the thought of actually opening the file again to look at it basically fills me with dread. Eeek.

So instead I'm reading from the new-new novel. I'm only about 60 pages in, but I'm still excited about where it's going, so maybe this is a good point to be reading from it. This will be only the second time that I've read from a first, unpublished draft. (The first time, at the QWF mentorship reading back in 2008, didn't go very well -- I was knee-quakingly nervous and more or less breathlessly squeaked it all out -- but I've done a lot of readings between then and now, so I'm going to blame nerves rather than the terror of reading something brand-new.)

But although I have mixed feelings about giving readings (mostly to do with nervousness), I have only one feeling about the importance of reading your writing out loud -- namely, that it is hugely important. No matter how my selection goes over tonight, I'm sure I'll at least get some ideas about things I want to change. And that's great.

If you stop by tonight, come say hi! The doors are at 8 p.m., but the readings will probably start closer to 9 p.m.

Winnipeg and since

noreply@blogger.com (saleema) — Sat, 09 Oct 2010 20:38:00 +0000

It's been a few weeks, eh? Winnipeg strikes again --- I went for a wedding, but I also managed to squeeze in an Arcade Fire concert and the Friday Night Poetry Bash at Thin Air, the Winnipeg International Writers' Festival. It was a whirlwind weekend of epic proportions, and highlights included hanging out at the Arcade Fire after-party, meeting and re-meeting some amazing poets, including George Murray and Ariel Gordon, and post-wedding, a dance party until 4:30 a.m. with some of my favourite people in the world. Also amazing was reconnecting with festival organizers and volunteers I'd met when I was there as a writer two years ago. I left with a bagful of books and a brand-new Thin Air mug to complement the lucky-charm one I already drink my coffee out of every morning.

Since then, the day job and Pop Montreal have been the main conspirators in keeping me from writing as much as I'd like. Still on the poetry kick. Some first drafts to follow here.

On the depletion of helium in the next thirty years

The scientist said it first: Mr. Nobel
in something or other. It was a Friday
kind of headline. We didn’t worry. On your
birthday, I bought you a silvery bouquet
for a song. String for a stem, one knot
undone for your open kiss and when you
took it in, you squeaked out a tune
like Alvin.

You’d think we’d have tried
to pace ourselves, but a party’s not a party
without a little something lighter
than air. Birthdays, of course, but word
got out and then Christmas, too, the solstice,
the odd blind date. The bridal mags vaunted
blimp proposals, the popping
of sapphire solitaires at 1200 feet.

We were running out of everything.

Everywhere clowns padlocked their sheds,
canisters stowed. And then on the best
hearses, floating black bunches wound round
and round the antennae. Finally,
the thing at the Wal-mart in Ohio, the so-called
“balloon loons,” the awful stampede. That woman flexing
her bruises, bawling brats in close-up
on the six-o-clock news. You said there’s a reason
Harry Winston doesn’t have clearances.

On the day the Goodyear came down
for good, odes appeared in the paper to
that noble gas and we wondered whether
something shouldn’t be preserved
for future generations. There was talk
of the Smithsonian. But they remembered the inevitable
drooping, settled for photographs of children
letting go, a rainbow of wishes rocketing
to the atmosphere. The very last of it all
except what NASA held back.

Twenty years ahead of schedule, it felt like
a small failure. Later, looking back, we knew
it was only the first loss
and the lightest.

still "editing"

noreply@blogger.com (saleema) — Tue, 14 Sep 2010 03:11:00 +0000

So...I owe emails all over town. And I should be working on tightening up a third draft I got a two-week reprieve on (oh super). Especially since I bribed myself with all the nice things I would let myself do once I finished, like install Chrome to watch that Arcade Fire thingee and order myself a whole pile of poetry books. Instead I'm noodling around, reading Philip Larkin, doing disservice to the art of poetry by dashing off whatever comes to mind.

I wasn't going to post this, but then I joked about it on Twitter and I have a bizarre code of honesty when it comes to that particular communication medium. (Blog posts on the other hand...pack 'o lies.)

Earl

When we heard you were coming,
we got weak in the knees.
Ran out to stock the pantry
with all nice things.

We shut up the bins and took down the trellis.
Fastened every new-bought shutter,
scoured leaves from the rain gutters
til the neighbours were jealous.

Last time you came, you took to the park,
clung in wet embrace to every old oak.
After toppling the gazebo like a joke,
you splayed their rings to leave your mark.

You’re a heartbreaker, that’s for sure.
We heard about your trouble down on the coast,
but we’ll put up with more than most
for bragging rights of what we endure.

We’ve tracked you, too, hearts afloat on your wake
of flooded basements, cancelled trips.
Your first name always on our lips,
praying there hadn’t been some mistake.

And life is long while we await your arrival.
The quotidian pales once our plans are complete,
so don’t be surprised if we run out to greet
you in a headlong rush, a dazed thrill of survival.

roughing things out

noreply@blogger.com (saleema) — Mon, 13 Sep 2010 02:05:00 +0000

Hawks in Calgary

It was the week the mail carriers
were wearing bicycle helmets,
that stifling August, summer’s fatigue,
all thoughts of hat hair banished
by the third split scalp.

I sat by the fan, wrote a love letter in five
verses, watched the mail carrier with
new boldness march the lane til one
alpha falcon talon-smashed to bits and
chin-strap the brave blue polycarbonate.

After awhile, the mail stopped coming
altogether. Given avian strafing,
the city allowed it. Diverted funds to study
why hawks were flocking and how they’d
discovered their natural enemy.

So maybe it wasn’t that you stopped writing.
Bad timing is all. Though I can see how
it might have scared you: the way
you just waved and I
swooped right in.

Sooner or later, they will fly south in
your direction, beyond us both.
All I do now is look out the window,
watching their wide, smooth circles.
Nobody comes or goes.

hot Saturday night!

noreply@blogger.com (saleema) — Sun, 12 Sep 2010 02:39:00 +0000

Desolation: an introduction

There are rigours to despair.
You cannot give way too quickly.
Losing hope is not like losing
faith: its hammered-silver cuffs springing open
at the sight of sleight of hand,
spotlight glinting off the palmed key,
or when you eavesdropped
on the sleeved doves
cooing from the waiting arms
of a red satin lining.
Or that time you stood up
in the sacristy, the rushed baptism
where you helped grasp
an unwilling baby and
through the holy aspersions
caught the leer of the callous priest,
flaring nostrils of a wine-wrinkled nose.

Nor is it like sets of keys
misplaced or like
the time the wind plucked your hat
in a cinematic gust, selected you
from the staid shoppers
worrying the windows, judged from
the pique of your fedora
how breathless how laughing
you would be forced to
chase it down.

Magicians claim trained birds
prefer the calm of crimson.
Colour blind faith
brought to the tailor. Ask him
about despair, its slow surge.
There are only
two occupations still
requiring his services:
magicians and bridegrooms.

According to practice,
things should start drooping.
Do not lower the flag
but let it be lashed
to tatters by a wind that won’t quite
be given its way.

There are things that will be
changed as by the termite.
Feel as much as the block of wood,
or the sand as it is leeched away
from the roiled shore.

For despair to take hold,
give it space. The only way
hope dies is through exhaustion.
It is a fire in the damp winter,
the cupped match
put out
again and again by the wind.

You must be unwilling,
stubborn as any other
heap of atoms attached
to being.

But if
you do it right,
there will be nothing left.
It will be like a dream
forgotten in the telling.

getting closer to living up to the blog name

noreply@blogger.com (saleema) — Fri, 27 Aug 2010 22:40:00 +0000

Plastic bag

So this is what it is like then, no
ceaseless flame or trumpet crescendo,
not a rose of such a hue or a lingering glance
or wondrous thought.
Even less some grand expanse: the air, the sky —
I think not.

Marks the palms and cuts the wrists
when you carry it, as it twists
round and round in the wind. Yes, this is
like my love, with no shame and no graces
and in places here and there
worn through.

But what can’t it bear? It bends to serve, and
in a pinch grows larger than we deserve.
For me and for you, this love, I think
it will do. This sorry, crumpled sack not what I chose,
yet takes one thousand years to decompose
to earth.