I came across a blog (see slushpile.net), with this subject line: Why people hate self-published authors.
Do they? I wondered who these ‘people’ could be; does the writer intend that we conjure a specific demographic? Well, I don’t hate these people.
The writer sets out to explain why ‘self-publishing is so reviled.’ I began to read but stopped after a few paragraphs because he (she?) hadn’t begun to answer his own question.
It’s always a shame when a person chooses to waste some of his precious time on earth reviling.
There is no need to revile anyone who writes, or has the audacity to dream of others reading his or her work.
I was reminded of the self-published writer who was well-known in the small press Toronto world of the eighties: Crad Kilodney.
Crad was a famous curmudgeonly writer who sold his self-published books on the street.
He’d wear a sign that said: ‘Buy my books – they’re terrible,’ or words to that effect. He called his one-man, one-writer op Charnel House. A great name.
He deigned one time – it took some convincing I was told – to let Coach House Press publish one of his books. I was a junior coffee girl at Coach House then.
I’m embarrassed not to remember which book it was that ‘we’ published. It may have been Lightning Struck My Dick, but maybe that’s just the title I remember best (for some reason).
As it turned out, we didn’t move as many copies as Crad did himself. He got to say, I told you so.
Then came the day he said he’d had enough and was moving away, to California as I recall.
I googled his name just now and discovered that he’s back in Toronto and may not have been gone for long. He has ‘retired’ as an author of books but does write on www.cradkilodney.wordpress.com and a quickish look reveals some good, funny reading lies ahead.
As for the blogger who wants to tell us why people hate self-published authors, he fails to see the irony: He is one of them. So am I. Anyone can and, yes, does blog – you don't need a publisher, you don’t even need permission.
You don’t get paid either, but writers don’t do it for the money, do they?
Sunday, April 19, 2009
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Belated but heartfelt condolences to the incomparable Vanessa Redgrave
On March 18, Vanessa Redgrave’s daughter, Natasha Richardson, died as a result of a skiing accident here in Canada. A tragedy for all concerned, certainly, but my heart broke especially for her mother, the great actress who has always been a friend of literature.
Looking back at what I know of her career, it is obvious there is a terrible irony to some of it. She turned The Year of Magical Thinking into a one-woman show based, of course, on Joan Didion’s medidation on the death of her husband, which was swiftly followed by the death of their only child, a daughter. Because of Natasha’s death, a charitable staging of that show in April in New York has been postponed until October.
In the 2007 film Evening, which I’ve not seen somehow, even though it stars not only Vanessa, but Meryl Streep, Natasha Richardson played the eldest daughter of a character played by her mother, who is dying at the end of the film. A scene that is now doomed never to transpire in real life.
I remember seeing Julia, the film for which she won an academy award, when it first came out. My mother made me a pretty die-hard Lillian Hellman fan. Now, some 30 years later, all I recall of that movie was my amazement at this incredible-looking actress I’d never seen, with hands that looked half a block long, but were so elegant and so intensely expressive.
One of the many reasons I’ve admired Vanessa over the years is that she is politicized, radical, and has the courage to speak out (even while accepting her academy award for Julia – what better place to make a point, when the entire world with access to a television is watching).
Finally, I will never tire of seeing the last minutes of the film version of Ian McEwan’s brilliant novel, Atonement. The book is better, no surprise there, but the final 6 or 7 minutes of the film version is worth sitting through everything that comes before it. Vanessa, as the elderly Briony, is interviewed about her final book. I could watch that scene over and over again and probably will. When I watched it recently, I realized I’d forgotten that it was Anthony Minghella who interviewed the elderly Briony, another sad irony in the career of this titan.
Dear Ms Redgrave, your legions of fans hope to see more of you before too long. In the meantime, we are so sorry for your loss.
Looking back at what I know of her career, it is obvious there is a terrible irony to some of it. She turned The Year of Magical Thinking into a one-woman show based, of course, on Joan Didion’s medidation on the death of her husband, which was swiftly followed by the death of their only child, a daughter. Because of Natasha’s death, a charitable staging of that show in April in New York has been postponed until October.
In the 2007 film Evening, which I’ve not seen somehow, even though it stars not only Vanessa, but Meryl Streep, Natasha Richardson played the eldest daughter of a character played by her mother, who is dying at the end of the film. A scene that is now doomed never to transpire in real life.
I remember seeing Julia, the film for which she won an academy award, when it first came out. My mother made me a pretty die-hard Lillian Hellman fan. Now, some 30 years later, all I recall of that movie was my amazement at this incredible-looking actress I’d never seen, with hands that looked half a block long, but were so elegant and so intensely expressive.
One of the many reasons I’ve admired Vanessa over the years is that she is politicized, radical, and has the courage to speak out (even while accepting her academy award for Julia – what better place to make a point, when the entire world with access to a television is watching).
Finally, I will never tire of seeing the last minutes of the film version of Ian McEwan’s brilliant novel, Atonement. The book is better, no surprise there, but the final 6 or 7 minutes of the film version is worth sitting through everything that comes before it. Vanessa, as the elderly Briony, is interviewed about her final book. I could watch that scene over and over again and probably will. When I watched it recently, I realized I’d forgotten that it was Anthony Minghella who interviewed the elderly Briony, another sad irony in the career of this titan.
Dear Ms Redgrave, your legions of fans hope to see more of you before too long. In the meantime, we are so sorry for your loss.
Sunday, March 1, 2009
How Marian the Librarian Came to the Rescue, Part 3
Playground Polly is always with Boffo, which is fine with him because he knows that he is too little to be out and about on his own. And truth be told, he’s too nervous to do any of the things by himself that he does quite happily with Polly.
As for Polly herself, she is actively trying to postpone what she knows will be the beginning of the end: the day that Boffo starts school. Her prodigy, her perfect little brother will be no more; he will be ‘re-educated.’
Going to school is a fate Polly has managed to postpone thus far for herself, but it has taken single-minded determination and focus. When asked why she won’t go to school, her statement never varies: ‘Because I don’t want to.’
If pressed for more she will add, ‘Maybe one day I will change my mind.’
But Boffo wouldn’t kick up much of a fuss if he was told to go.
He is easily pleased and happy when he sees happiness around him, which has the effect of making those around him want to appear happy, at least to Boffo. They do so by smiling and laughing, by being courteous and pleasant. By appearing to be happy, they begin to feel happy, and all those smiles become genuine.
Polly holds puppet Boffo in front of the puppet master. As she does so, Marian the Librarian twists the man’s arm behind his back and begins to lift it. ‘Let him go,’ she orders, with a sharp little lift of his arm.
Almost instantly Boffo reappears as himself. He falls to the floor forgetting he is no longer a small boy on strings under the control of strange adult. He laughs, jumps to his feet and hugs both Marian the Librarian and his sister.
The odious puppet master is gone in minutes. He turns red when, pushing angrily through the double doors, he sees Boffo waving a cheerful good-bye.
I should mention that Polly and Boffo never took books out of the library. It took me a while to wonder if Polly could read them – not learning to read would be the one major drawback of avoiding school.
Boffo did indeed to go school, by the way, and he taught Polly to read. Polly was so excited when she learned to read that with Boffo’s encouragement, she did change her mind, went back to school and raced through several grades at once. She also spent more time with Marian the Librarian, who taught her to find exactly what she was looking for.
Saturday, February 21, 2009
How Marian the Librarian Came to the Rescue, Part 2
As if from nowhere, the puppet master produces two puppets with strings attached and gets them standing on the stage. One is much taller than the other. The show has begun!
I’ve got Kissing Doorknobs open in front of me but hear Polly gasp. She is staring intently at the stage, but she must see something I can’t from this distance.
The smiles on the little faces in the crowd tell me the show is funny. I move closer. The big puppet is smacking the little one with the branch of an apple tree. One can see the apples bouncing, still on the branch, which does give the scene some humour, but not if you consider the perspective of the one being smacked.
I look at the smaller puppet again and this time thinks he looks familiar. I know I haven’t seen this puppet show… Boffo!
I shriek silently. The little puppet looks exactly like Boffo and is even wearing the same cheerful clothes.
The poor kid with OCD is not living happily. ‘Step on a crack:’ I can see how that rhyme could drive you mad, but I feel I must return the book to the shelf and go quickly to the back of the cardboard theatre. I must see if Boffo is watching all the fun, just as he’d asked to.
It occurs to me to wonder what on earth I would do if Boffo, this boy who is no relation, is turned into a puppet on my watch and is not now smiling behind the cardboard. Marian the Librarian – hurray! – takes control. ‘Polly,’ she hollers, ‘grab the small puppet!’ and Polly jumps up instantly, grabbing the puppet before the puppet master has a chance to react.
The final chapter next week!
I’ve got Kissing Doorknobs open in front of me but hear Polly gasp. She is staring intently at the stage, but she must see something I can’t from this distance.
The smiles on the little faces in the crowd tell me the show is funny. I move closer. The big puppet is smacking the little one with the branch of an apple tree. One can see the apples bouncing, still on the branch, which does give the scene some humour, but not if you consider the perspective of the one being smacked.
I look at the smaller puppet again and this time thinks he looks familiar. I know I haven’t seen this puppet show… Boffo!
I shriek silently. The little puppet looks exactly like Boffo and is even wearing the same cheerful clothes.
The poor kid with OCD is not living happily. ‘Step on a crack:’ I can see how that rhyme could drive you mad, but I feel I must return the book to the shelf and go quickly to the back of the cardboard theatre. I must see if Boffo is watching all the fun, just as he’d asked to.
It occurs to me to wonder what on earth I would do if Boffo, this boy who is no relation, is turned into a puppet on my watch and is not now smiling behind the cardboard. Marian the Librarian – hurray! – takes control. ‘Polly,’ she hollers, ‘grab the small puppet!’ and Polly jumps up instantly, grabbing the puppet before the puppet master has a chance to react.
The final chapter next week!
Sunday, February 15, 2009
How Marian the Librarian Came to the Rescue, Part 1
A story dedicated to:
Maylin, Lahring and the award-winning Dewey Divas; and to neighbourhood libraries where the only bad reader is a dead one (but of course librarians don’t say that, at least not as far as I know).
When I lived in that neighbourhood, I would sometimes take Playground Polly and her little brother Boffo to the local children’s library. They weren’t my kids but they showed up together on irregular Saturday mornings in a going-to-the-library mood.
When we would get to the library, we had to go up a flight of stairs and through two sets of doors to get to the children’s section. Both Polly and Boffo would have a cheerful hello for Marian the Librarian. She always waved to acknowledge their greeting.
On this particular morning, we find Marian the Librarian struggling with the set for a puppet show that is soon to begin. The set consists of two cardboard walls designed to sit in the slots of wooden blocks positioned on the floor.
Polly and Boffo race to offer her assistance and admiration. She is pleased and says, ‘Hold the fort; I’ve got a couple of things I must do before we begin!’
From the curtains that disguise the deep, right-corner recesses of this ‘special events room,’ a tall man appears. He strides towards them. ‘I’m the puppet-master,’ he says, sharply.
Boffo, who never sees the crossness on a person's face, enthusiastically expresses his wish to learn the art and asks if he can he stay and watch the puppet master behind the stage. I see that Polly shares my surprise when he says yes.
Polly says she’ll watch from the front, goes and sits on the floor where lots of other children have begun to congregate. I am content, sitting on a small chair in the library proper (reading a fascinating book ‘for teens’ called Kissing Doorknobs about OCD). I read as the puppet master begins.
Maylin, Lahring and the award-winning Dewey Divas; and to neighbourhood libraries where the only bad reader is a dead one (but of course librarians don’t say that, at least not as far as I know).
When I lived in that neighbourhood, I would sometimes take Playground Polly and her little brother Boffo to the local children’s library. They weren’t my kids but they showed up together on irregular Saturday mornings in a going-to-the-library mood.
When we would get to the library, we had to go up a flight of stairs and through two sets of doors to get to the children’s section. Both Polly and Boffo would have a cheerful hello for Marian the Librarian. She always waved to acknowledge their greeting.
On this particular morning, we find Marian the Librarian struggling with the set for a puppet show that is soon to begin. The set consists of two cardboard walls designed to sit in the slots of wooden blocks positioned on the floor.
Polly and Boffo race to offer her assistance and admiration. She is pleased and says, ‘Hold the fort; I’ve got a couple of things I must do before we begin!’
From the curtains that disguise the deep, right-corner recesses of this ‘special events room,’ a tall man appears. He strides towards them. ‘I’m the puppet-master,’ he says, sharply.
Boffo, who never sees the crossness on a person's face, enthusiastically expresses his wish to learn the art and asks if he can he stay and watch the puppet master behind the stage. I see that Polly shares my surprise when he says yes.
Polly says she’ll watch from the front, goes and sits on the floor where lots of other children have begun to congregate. I am content, sitting on a small chair in the library proper (reading a fascinating book ‘for teens’ called Kissing Doorknobs about OCD). I read as the puppet master begins.
Sunday, February 8, 2009
Why YA, Eh?
A couple of years ago, I’d given a White Stripes CD to a 14-year-old and her cousin, also 14, because the music didn’t really work for me. In return, they offered one of two books they’d selected for reading, my choice. There was Nobody Knows My Name by, of course, James Baldwin, and The Book Thief by Markus Zusak. I picked that one because I’d read the Baldwin, years before, but had never heard of Markus Zusak.
The Book Thief is a fabulous novel, as a tribute to reading, and as a piece of wondrous imagination and hope. I wondered why it was labeled YA and when I saw that Zusak had written other books in that category, assumed that once you’re YA you stay YA.
I noticed that The Book Thief was published by a Random House company, the estimable Knopf in New York, without which Knopf Canada, the company I try to keep in the black, would not exist. But they are bigger, with a bigger list in a bigger country. Why did they publish The Book Thief as young adult fiction? My kids are too old now for books published as YA and I don’t publish them, so I may have missed The Book Thief entirely if not for the teenagers I know.
There are books with the YA label that I feel have enriched my life immeasurably as an adult. There is Tuck Everlasting by Natalie Babbitt and Holes by Louis Sachar – just two of many books I would not have discovered had I not become a parent.
I do feel the ‘Y’ should be struck from its place in the ‘YA’ acronym. Maybe the categories could be ‘children’s literature,’ 'teen literature' (Gossip Girl, etc.), and 'literature'.
We adults may be missing out just because the protagonist in a novel is a teenager. I’m grateful that in Canada at least, The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time, was not labeled YA – it was pitched as a great read for everyone. My son, then 15 years old and Harry Pottered up the wazoo, loved it.
The Book Thief is a fabulous novel, as a tribute to reading, and as a piece of wondrous imagination and hope. I wondered why it was labeled YA and when I saw that Zusak had written other books in that category, assumed that once you’re YA you stay YA.
I noticed that The Book Thief was published by a Random House company, the estimable Knopf in New York, without which Knopf Canada, the company I try to keep in the black, would not exist. But they are bigger, with a bigger list in a bigger country. Why did they publish The Book Thief as young adult fiction? My kids are too old now for books published as YA and I don’t publish them, so I may have missed The Book Thief entirely if not for the teenagers I know.
There are books with the YA label that I feel have enriched my life immeasurably as an adult. There is Tuck Everlasting by Natalie Babbitt and Holes by Louis Sachar – just two of many books I would not have discovered had I not become a parent.
I do feel the ‘Y’ should be struck from its place in the ‘YA’ acronym. Maybe the categories could be ‘children’s literature,’ 'teen literature' (Gossip Girl, etc.), and 'literature'.
We adults may be missing out just because the protagonist in a novel is a teenager. I’m grateful that in Canada at least, The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time, was not labeled YA – it was pitched as a great read for everyone. My son, then 15 years old and Harry Pottered up the wazoo, loved it.
Sunday, February 1, 2009
A List to “rehabilitate” Bishop Richard Williamson
Rehabilitate:
1. To restore to good health or useful life, as through therapy and education.
2. To restore to good condition, operation, or capacity.
3. To reinstate the good name of.
4. To restore the former rank, privileges, or rights of.
The above is from thefreedictionary.com. I’ve no idea what rehabilitation the bishop has experienced, if any, but if I were the pope, I would lock him in a spartan room high in a tower, with no means of escape, and make him read the books listed below. "Resistance is futile," I would ordinarily assume, but I don’t know the bishop.
1. Every Man Dies Alone
by Hans Fallada
Watch for it in March. I’m reading a galley (being in the biz) – it’s incredible.
“The greatest book ever written about German Resistance to the Nazis.” – Primo Levi
2. If This Is a Man/The Truce
3. The Drowned and the Saved
both by Primo Levi
It was hard to pick just two.
The Drowned was his last book. Levi died when he jumped head first over the railing at his apartment building -- to deny Hitler's ghost his push.
4. The Boy in the Striped Pajamas
by John Boyne
I confess I've seen the movie but haven’t read the book. The book is always better, though, so I look forward to it.
5. The Book Thief
by Markus Zusak
Why YA? Why?
6. The Journey
Ida Fink
How can something be 'beautiful' and 'crippling' at the same time?
7. Maus I
Art Speilgelman
The Jews are mice; the Nazis are cats.
8. The Righteous: The Unsung Heros of the Holocaust
Martin Gilbert
Thank God!
9. The Zoo-Keeper’s Wife
Diane Ackerman
An amazing writer.
10. Daniel’s Story
Carol Matas
This was my daughter's big eye-opener in Grade 6.
1. To restore to good health or useful life, as through therapy and education.
2. To restore to good condition, operation, or capacity.
3. To reinstate the good name of.
4. To restore the former rank, privileges, or rights of.
The above is from thefreedictionary.com. I’ve no idea what rehabilitation the bishop has experienced, if any, but if I were the pope, I would lock him in a spartan room high in a tower, with no means of escape, and make him read the books listed below. "Resistance is futile," I would ordinarily assume, but I don’t know the bishop.
1. Every Man Dies Alone
by Hans Fallada
Watch for it in March. I’m reading a galley (being in the biz) – it’s incredible.
“The greatest book ever written about German Resistance to the Nazis.” – Primo Levi
2. If This Is a Man/The Truce
3. The Drowned and the Saved
both by Primo Levi
It was hard to pick just two.
The Drowned was his last book. Levi died when he jumped head first over the railing at his apartment building -- to deny Hitler's ghost his push.
4. The Boy in the Striped Pajamas
by John Boyne
I confess I've seen the movie but haven’t read the book. The book is always better, though, so I look forward to it.
5. The Book Thief
by Markus Zusak
Why YA? Why?
6. The Journey
Ida Fink
How can something be 'beautiful' and 'crippling' at the same time?
7. Maus I
Art Speilgelman
The Jews are mice; the Nazis are cats.
8. The Righteous: The Unsung Heros of the Holocaust
Martin Gilbert
Thank God!
9. The Zoo-Keeper’s Wife
Diane Ackerman
An amazing writer.
10. Daniel’s Story
Carol Matas
This was my daughter's big eye-opener in Grade 6.
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