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Snow!! Big juicy chunky flakes of snow are dancing in the sky at this very moment! So of course I must pick a silly winter poem for Silly Poetry Friday, you silly person, you! Are you familiar with the work of N.M. Bodecker? No? Well now you are, silly. He was a very talented (and under-appreciated) author and illustrator of children's literature. This poem comes from Bodecker's collection of silly poems, Hurry, Hurry Mary Dear:
How's about a brand-spanking new category? This one's a fun one! BiblioQuotes! Every now and then when the mood strikes, I shall post a book or writing or reading related quote for your biblio pleasure. Sound good? Sure it does!
Today's quote is one of my most favourites, so of course it has to go first.
"Outside of a dog, a book is man's best friend. Inside of a dog, it's too dark to read."
– Groucho Marx
This book was a very decadent purchase. 91 pages, and well, there ain't a whole heck of a lot of text on those 91 pages. But the text that is there, is good. (Note that I did not say very good, 'cuz I think Elmore Leonard would not like that description. He's not big on hooptedoodle when it comes to writing). And yes, there are illustrations, too, 'cuz well, I did put it in the category of The Illustrated Library, didn't I? This beautiful hard-bound book (with a lovely leather and cloth cover, no less!) is illustrated by the very clever Joe Ciardiello.
Elmore Leonard's 10 Rules of Writing is (according to the description on the back of the book) the indispensable guide (and gift) for every reader and writer. Leonard is all about keeping it simple. So I guess it would only make sense that he keep his rules clean and simple, too, right? In Leonard's brief introduction he writes:
These are rules I've picked up along the way to help me remain invisible when I'm writing a book, to help me show rather than tell what's taking place in the story. If you have a facility for language and imagery and the sound of your voice pleases you, invisibility is not what you are after, and you can skip the rules. Still, you might want to look them over.
Here are some samples of Leonard's rules:
1. Avoid Prologues
They can be annoying, especially a prologue following an introduction that comes after a foreword.
But these are ordinarily found in nonfiction. A prologue in a novel is backstory, and you can drop it in anywhere you want.
There is a prologue in John Steinbeck's Sweet Thursday, but it's okay because a character in the book makes the point of what my rules are all about. He says:
"I like a lot of talk in a book and I don't like to have nobody tell me what the guy that's talking looks like. I want to figure out what he looks like from the way he talks...figure out what the guy's thinking from what he says. I like some description but not too much of that."
The Steinbeck character goes on to say, "Sometimes I want a book to break loose with a bunch of hooptedoodle....Spin up some pretty words maybe or sing a little song with language. That's nice. But I wish it was set aside so I don't have to read it. I don't want hooptedoodle to get mixed up with the story."
5. Keep Your Exclamation Points Under Control
You are allowed no more than two or three per 100,000 words of prose. If you have the knack of playing with exclaimers the way Tom Wolfe does, you can throw them in by the handful.
6. Never Use The Words "Suddenly" or "All Hell Broke Loose"
Some damn fine advice to live by.
Can someone please tell me what it is about my face? (Ok, maybe that is a slightly loaded question). But really, over the years, I've had so many people say something about my appearance that I'm beginning to get a tad paranoid.
Years ago when I was a kid, it was of course usually insults. Stuff about my funny-shaped nose ('Patricia is in grade four but her nose is in grade six') and stuff about my bushy eyebrows (Great names like 'Sasquatch'. And yes, my eyebrows were bushy, in a really scary way, until I discovered an amazing invention known as tweezers. I'm still not sure what the greatest discovery was for me when I was young – sex or tweezers). But hopefully we all move beyond that crap, and people know enough to not say stupid things about one's appearance. Right?
Once I moved to Toronto eighteen years ago, that's when the comments really picked up again. For some strange reason, I seem to have the kind of face that everyone has seen before. I've lost count the number of times strangers have come up to me, believing me to be someone else. People I do not know will approach me and begin conversations as if I am their best friends. Then they will see my confused expression, take another look at me, and realize that I'm not who they thought I was. Can one person have that many dopplegangers out there?
But the pièce de résistance are the questions I get about my nationality. I've had people ask me if I am Italian, Portuguese, Greek, Polish and Spanish. A couple months ago I was walking in my neighbourhood when I walked by a very old lady who was sweeping her driveway. She looked at me, smiled and walked right up to me. (Now if I had said a few words about her appearance, I might have mentioned that she needed a few lessons in how to put make-up on properly, but that would be rude, right?) She had a thick European accent. With a big smile on her face she asked me, "You Ukrainian?" I smiled and said no. She looked at me suspiciously. "You look Ukrainian." I told her I was pretty sure I wasn't Ukrainian. She then asked me what my nationality was. I said Canadian. She shook her head. "No! Where you from?" I sighed in my head, because I figured I would get the usual incredulous response. I told her my father's family was from England, and my mother was from Jamaica. I was expecting the usual answer, "But you're not black!" Instead she said, "Ahhh...Portuguese Jamaican!" I was stunned. Nobody ever got that right. I exclaimed, yes, she was right, and actually my mother's family was Portuguese Jewish Jamaican, and how did she know? But by this time she had lost interest in me, and replied, "Ok, 'bye 'bye" and continued sweeping her driveway. Oh well.
Last week I was waiting at the Bloor/Yonge subway station when I noticed that a heavy-set man over six feet tall was staring at me. I turned my head and looked in the other direction, but when I eventually turned my head back, he was still staring at me. So I thought what the hell I'll smile at him. That was his cue. He came up to me, and in a thick Russian accent he asked, "You Russian?" I said no. He was surprised. "You look Russian," he said. (What the hell does Russian look like? I was wearing my glasses. Do all Russians wear glasses? He was wearing glasses, too, when I think of it). "Where you from?" he asked. Here we go again, I thought. Canada, Jamaica, yada yada. Big surprise on his face. "You from so far away!" Like Russia isn't far away?
Just this past weekend I went for a walk and ran into that same old Ukrainian woman I had seen a few months before. This time she was bagging some leaves. She still didn't know how to wear make-up. It was pretty cold outside, so I had put on my comfy brown ear muffs (I prefer ear muffs over hats. For completely vain reasons, of course – can't abide hat hair). The old lady looked at me. I smiled, figuring that we would have another interesting conversation. But no. She acted like she had never seen me before. Once again, she came up to me with a question. This time she was not smiling. "You chimpanzee?" she asked. I wasn't sure if I had heard what she said. "I beg your pardon?" She repeated the question, this time in a really pissed off, accusatory tone. "You chimpanzee??" I laughed and pointed to my ear muffs. "Oh you mean these!" She nodded, but did not smile. In fact, she looked like she was really offended by me, and my choice of headgear. Suddenly I got a little scared, and walked on.
I wonder what she will say to me the next time. I wonder what anyone will say to me the next time. I'm putting my money on Lithuanian.
No, I didn't forget about Silly Poetry Friday, silly. I just got sidetracked, with something called work. And thankfully, I've been getting plenty of that stuff lately, and it's all jolly, jolly good stuff. So it got me thinking. Every time I get a lovely new illo job, I always have to squeal with joy and pinch myself 'cuz I can't believe I get paid to do something I love doing with every fibre of my being. I get paid to just be me. I keep waiting for someone to come up to me, take away my good fortune and say, "Oops, sorry – we meant to give that to some other guy." But so far, so good, no one's come knocking on my door with that message. It also makes me remember certain negative voices from (thankfully) the long past, voices that weren't so very positive about my artistic abilities. So with those thoughts in mind, today's poem comes once again from good ol' Uncle Shelby, from Where the Sidewalk Ends. It's actually not a particularly silly poem. In fact, I would say it's pretty darn smart.
LISTEN TO THE MUSTN'TS
Listen to the MUSTN'TS, child,
Listen to the DON'TS
Listen to the SHOULDN'TS
The IMPOSSIBLES, the WON'TS
Listen to the NEVER HAVES
Then listen close to me–
Anything can happen, child.
ANYTHING can be.
Oh do I love this little film clip of Harlan Ellison. He's my new best friend. Just a little warning about the content, though: Harlan has a potty mouth, ok?
This is exactly how I feel about working as a freelance artist. I cannot begin to express how bloody infuriating it is to be approached by someone who wants me to give them my work for free. I really get sick and tired of having to pull out that ol' speech about how my talent and time is of value, just like an electrician, a plumber or a lawyer. But I still gotta do it. Just used that ol' speech very recently, in fact, for a very large corporation. Sigh.
Go get 'em, Harlan!! You da man!
Hey! Did you know that this week is Canadian Children's Book Week? You didn't know? Well, ya know now, don't ya? So what is this week (November 17-24) all about, you ask? Well, to quote the web site:
Canadian Children's Book Week is the single most important bilingual, national event celebrating Canadian children's books and the importance of reading. Every November, thousands of children and adults participate in activities held in every province and territory across the country. Hundreds of schools, public libraries, bookstores and community centres host events as part of this major literary festival.
Sounds pretty cool, don't it? This week my pal Liam O'Donnell is in Nunavut! And Robin Muller is in Alberta talking about 13 Ghosts of Halloween (though it does seem a bit odd to be talking about a Halloween book once Halloween is over, but what the hey – it's promoting the book, which is always good, and I figure kids love Halloween not matter what the time of year). I hope they both have lots of fun, and I certainly hope they both brought mittens.
Even if you don't know much about Canadian Children's Book Week, you can still get involved, in a small way. Take a boo at this blog post from Tough City Writer. She's created a wonderful wish list in celebration of this week. Here's a couple of her wishes:
Wish #1: Go to your bookshelf (or your kids') and dust off a Canadian classic you've been wanting to re-read. You know, Jacob Two-Two, Jelly Belly, even Anne of Green Gables would make me happy. (I know, I know, "classic" is subjective. Make your own criteria and go for it.)
Wish #2: Send book from Wish #1 to a child you love. Or even one you don't love, or even one you don't know. Tell them, "Hey, a Canadian wrote this book, ya know? And I think you might just like it."
The rest of her wishes are just as clever and charming as these two. She's also inviting everyone out there to contribute their own wishes, in celebration of reading and children's literature. I gave my wish, so why don't you? And if you do, please let me know on this post, ok? Pay the book-lovin' forward, I say!
Oh, and by the way, the artist who illustrated this year's poster is the very talented illustrator and author and musician, Martin Springett.
And so it goes...the silliness continues. You know what, man? Silliness is deep. Like, really deep. So deep, in fact, that I thought I'd share some silly beat poetry with you this time round. Ok, I'm not sure if Jack Kerouac would appreciate being called a silly poet, but this poem he wrote is called Goofball Blues...
Goofball Blues
I'm just a human being with a lot of
Shit on my heart
My ambition was not the great
Lover,
But that's what I am
Even in dreams, fiancees
Of other men
Ball on my joint
And I am the Flying horse
Of Mien Mo
When I am an old man
My grave will rot me
The ones I loved were crazy
Without knowing why
When I am old I'll yawn
In the Flannel Grave
And to add to the beatnik silliness, I thought I'd post some illustration work I did recently for that hip cool literary publication, Gargoyle Magazine. I illustrated the CD for a collection of Gargoyle's spoken word poetry, and thought it would be fun to give it a 60's beatnik theme, dude. Can you dig it?
Anyone here ever read Keri Smith's blog? She's a very talented writer and illustrator, and she's been blogging for many years. Her 'Wish Jar Journal' was actually one of the first blogs I started reading on a regular basis. It's changed a lot over the years, and these days I think it's the best it's ever been. Keri explores a lot of interesting ideas about art and creativity and inspiration, and though I may not always agree with her viewpoints, she certainly does make me think.
I just had to bring to your attention two recent posts written by Keri. The first post is all about how she lost a book she was reading, If On A Winter's Night A Traveler, by Italo Calvino. Of course losing a book can be very frustrating (and sometimes heartbreaking), but what is so amusing about Keri's experience of losing this book is the fact that the book she lost is "a book actually about a reader who loses, misplaces, and is unable to find the ending to the books he/she starts." Then you have to read the conclusion to her missing book saga, and once again be amused by the utter irony of her book-lost-and-found experience.
Keri's post got me thinking about a couple of things. First, I really must read Italo Calvino. He's on my radar, thanks to Isabella, who apparently loves the author so much she named her cat Calvino (which I think is an amazing name, and I'm warning you now, Isabella, I may have to steal that name for a future pet). The other thing I started thinking about was the whole experience of losing books. That's why I chose that image from the movie The Name Of The Rose, based on the book written by Umberto Eco. I guess I'm spoiling it for those who haven't seen the movie, but there's a scene near the end of the film where a library full of ancient rare books is set ablaze, and Sean Connery's character is desperately trying to save as many books from the library as he can. On some level, I kind of understand what that book-loving monk was going through.
Yes, I've lost books, and yes, it's annoying. But when I was 21, I lost almost an entire library. My heart still aches when I think about it. You may recall me mentioning in the past that as a kid, I was surrounded by a multitude of books, thanks mainly to my mother, who loved (and still loves) to read, and had a passion for purchasing lots of penguin paperbacks in her youth. She had such a large collection, that one year my father built a library in our basement to house all these paperback books. The shelves were painted orange (I have no idea why) and covered almost an entire wall of our basement (which was a pretty good sized basement). There was a fiction section which housed Mom's Agatha Christie collection, as well as books by Ngaio Marsh, Somerset Maugham, Graham Greene, Josephine Tey, Charles Dickens, Roald Dahl...the list goes on and on. She also had a Humour section, a Horror section, a Science Fiction section, and even a section for Westerns (which I never read, and don't regret at all). In the non-fiction section there were books on Psychology, Child-rearing, Literary Criticism and History, including that Plantagenets series written by Thomas B. Costain, which I would read bits of, from time to time (they were pretty darn thick books for a young kid to muster through!). Because my mother is a librarian, every book had a specific place on the shelves, so it was very comforting for me as a kid to gaze at the shelves and see all the familiar titles, all where they were supposed to be. It was like visiting old friends. Of course I took out many of the books and read them over and over, and of course I tried to put them back in their proper place. I especially loved the smell of the old paperback Penguins. Even as a young girl I would open up a musty old book and drink in the scent of the tattered pages. Yes, the books weren't actually mine, but I felt they were mine on some level, because I loved them so dearly.
Well...in 1984 the crap hit the fan, as they say, and my parents divorced. I won't go into details, other than to say that it was a crazy, ugly time. The last thing anyone was thinking about was a bunch of old paperback books. Suddenly the house was up for sale, and suddenly a great many of those books were either sold or given away, without my knowledge. Before they all disappeared I managed to salvage some Agatha Christies, Ngaio Marshes, and of course, all of the Josephine Tey. The have a place of honour in my own precious library. And no, you can't borrow them. Ever.
When my husband and I first looked at our house, I wasn't entirely sure I liked it. The room that became our library certainly had a great deal to do with my decision, but you know what really had a part to play in my choosing this house? When we went down to explore the basement, there underneath the circuit box were bookshelves built into the wall, created specifically to house yes – paperbacks. I looked at that shelf and it was all I could do to not begin to weep.
I had felt rudderless for many years in my 20's, and ached for a home to call my own in my 30's, once I got married. Now I gaze at the many bookshelves in our house and I can hear my old familiar friends gently whispering to me that yes, it took a little bit of time, but I've finally found my way home.
