I have noticed some great gift sites online recently saying some very nice things about my illustrated book Good Granny/Bad Granny, but I gotta say that this site is the tops when it comes to gushing over my book. I'd never heard of notcot, but with a subheader like "a visual filtration of ideas + aesthetics + amusement", I figure it's gotta be pretty cool. And besides, their recommendations really are oh-so-fab, dahling.
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.
Ooooooo....I've got wonderful news! But first, for those not in the know, I am a very big fan of writer and artist Barbara Hodgson. She is one of those few gifted people on the planet who can combine beautiful writing with luscious art to create treasured, memorable books. If you don't know about her work, well, you should find out. A good place to start is by reading Barbara's new book, Trading in Memories: Travels Through a Scavenger's Favorite Places. In this new creation, Ms. Hodgson takes her readers on her own adventures through Paris, London, Istanbul, Naples, Damascus, and too many other places to name. Like her other books, Trading In Memories is overflowing with luscious collages illustrating her fascinating travels.
If you want to find out more about the book and Barbara Hodgson, you must take some time to explore the Trading In Memories web site. And if you are a passionate traveler with a gift for writing, why not enter the Travel Story Contest? You could win a collection of travel books valued at $250. And if you're interested in getting a review copy, there might be some left, but you must hurry and contact Monique Trottier over at So Misguided.
Thank-you, Barbara Hodgson, for creating yet another amazing book, and thank-you so much Monique, for bringing this gem to my attention!
Just a little gentle reminder that I'd still LOVE to get some more submissions for the Good Granny/Bad Granny story contest! To encourage all you closet writers out there to send me something, I am extending the deadline to Friday October 26th. So there's still plenty of time, folks, to send in those great granny stories!
Another thing about the contest that I wanted to mention is that I'm afraid I was not clear enough in my description of how the submission should be written. I want a personal tale written by you, not an attempt to copy the style of writing from the Good Granny/Bad Granny book. To help you understand what I mean, I have enlisted my wonderful husband Guy to write his own granny story:
I’m not sure how to categorize the Granny story I’m about to relate, so I’ll leave that to the reader.
During the summer that I was twelve, it was a regular practice of mine to meet up with friends behind our grade school and smoke cigarettes. The school happened to be directly across the street from my Grandparents’ home. Local kids considered this schoolyard a safe haven away from adults, since we could see anyone approaching from any direction for quite some distance and stash our butts long before anyone could get near.
On one particular occasion, there was three or four of us behind the school, competing to blow the best smoke rings and horsing around with matches. Somehow we failed to see the approach of a woman walking her pet on a leash until she was just a few feet away from us. When I finally did notice her, I was mortified. It was my Grandma out walking her Siamese cat, Chan.
Grandma stopped walking and said hello to everyone. She casually asked us what we were doing and, just as casually, despite my panic, I made some inane reply while crushing a burning cigarette into my palm, hoping against hope that we hadn’t been caught out. Everyone’s cigarettes had disappeared, but you could see smoke still wafting through the air and I was sure that Grandma couldn’t have missed it. She introduced herself to the other kids, sharing a nicety or two with them and then, when I thought she had finished with the formalities and was about to bust us, she said goodbye and carried on with her walk.
I was both relieved and perplexed as I watched Grandma leave, not understanding how she had failed to see that we had been smoking. Then I realized that while Grandma was walking away, Chan wasn’t. His leash was taught, stretched to its length. Chan was a very stubborn creature and would often refuse to move if he was not so inclined. This was one of those times. Chan was lying on his side, his paws curled up and his chin tucked in against the pulling of the leash on his collar. Grandma wasn’t walking the cat - she was dragging him. In this apparent battle of wills, Chan had been refusing to walk so was being dragged around instead.
I wondered then, as I do now, if I was saved from being punished for smoking because Grandma was distracted by Chan’s intransigence, or because, perhaps, she had indulged in a drink or two of sherry before her walk, a common practice as she got older. Perhaps she was simply being charitable to us. Whatever the reason, as they receded into the distance I could see that neither Chan nor Grandma was prepared to give in to the other for quite some time.
I like that post title. It was actually the title of a comic strip that I tried to get syndicated many years ago. But today I'm using that title in reference to a new book of mine that's available online for pre-ordering at Amazon, and will be available to purchase in January 2008.
It's a cartoon book written and illustrated by me, and it's called You're My Guy Because... It's published by Red Rock Press, in New York. Here's a description of the book from a recent catalogue, with an image of the cover:
If you can't read the text (and who could?), here's what it reads:
This book is for your man of the moment, the one who is the curator of your heart. It lets him know – it lets him see – why your spirits rise, why your pulse picks up, when he's around. A century and a half ago, Elizabeth Barrett Browning started a poem to Robert Browning with the now-famous words: "How do I love thee? Let me count the ways..."
That was then. This is NOW. Maybe neither you nor your main man is a poet, but that's no reason you should not list some of the funny little ways you care for him. This small book of many witty reasons is for THIS time in your life – yours and his. In winning words with amusing illustrations, it reveals how true affection is built from little things that mean a lot to those who've shared them.
So there you have it! The perfect gift for the darling man in your life. What I really like about this book is the fact that all the writing was inspired by 'my guy', Guy. He is sweet and adorable, and boy does he ever make me laugh. And what a perfect title for a book, don't ya think? I sure know why Guy is 'my guy'...
Any serious poets out there? I don't mean people who write only serious poetry, I mean people who are serious about their poetry, and might actually purchase the 2008 Poet's Market guide. Well if you do, you will notice my cover illustration of Gargoyle 51 alongside the listing for Gargoyle Magazine. Throughout the Poet's Market covers of various literary magazines are highlighted, and as luck would have it, the Gargoyle cover was one of the chosen few.
I will more than likely never actually use my copy of 2008 Poet's Market, but I shall treasure it forever.
Congrats to my pal Bev Katz Rosenbaum for the official launch of her new YA book Beyond Cool, the sequel to I Was A Teenage Popsicle. It was a great turnout at the Yonge & Eglinton Indigo, and she had free bookmarks and popsicle candy for everyone! A sugar rush and a book rush at the same time. Now that's beyond cool. Take a peak at the way-cool cover:
And the blurb on the back of the book describing the story:
I was frozen for ten years. Yes, crazy, I know, but very true. My name is Floe Ryan, and I was vitrified at sixteen because of a rare disease. Now I've been thawed back to my normal self, but absolutely everything else has changed. My little sister's older than me, my teachers are now holograms (but still annoying), and instead of learning how to drive a car, I'm driving a hover-car. And just when I start warming up to this new scene, everything falls apart...My boyfriend is giving me the cold shoulder, and there are all these cliques I can't fit into – high school can be a lonely place. Worse yet, Dr. Dixon at the Cryonics Center tells me that people who were frozen are more susceptible to illnesses and the one doctor who can cure this immune system weakness has gone AWOL. Now it's up to me and my brainy friend Sophie to find him. But we're not the only ones looking for him – and this time I could be iced for good...
If you're gonna be in Toronto on Sunday September 30th, then why not swing by Toronto's Word On The Street, the fun and fabulous annual Book and Magazine Festival. Lots of interesting authors will be there talking about their books – people like David Suzuki, Vincent Lam, Kenneth Oppel, M.G. Vassanji, Russell Smith, Michael Redhill...and um...even illustrators like me. I'll be at the Children's Reading Tent at 3:15, talking about my illustrated book 13 Ghosts of Halloween and doing a little drawing presentation and reading. I'd love to see you there, because I'd hate to present in front of nobody. Wait. Maybe that won't be as nerve-wracking as actually presenting in front of people...hmmmm.....anyway, come for the day, because it really is an amazing event and a wonderful way to celebrate the magic of books and reading.
Lately I've been thinking a lot about love. Of course if one is married, one would hope that the subject of love would come up from time to time in one's daily life, but for the past few weeks, I've been thinking and talking about this thing called Love much more than usual. And why? Because the question of love keeps throwing itself at my feet, so much so that I cannot kick it out of my way. There are people in my life who are getting divorced, after being married for many years. I recently read online that Lynn Johnston's husband has left her for another woman. Not too long ago I reconnected via email with a couple of great guys I knew in highschool, which got me thinking about years past, and the heart-breaking romance I experienced from age 17-21. And then last week I watched a fascinating documentary on TVO, about the life and work of the Canadian writer and poet Elizabeth Smart.
If you're not familiar with the writings of Elizabeth Smart, you might have at least heard of her most well-known work, By Grand Central Station I Sat Down and Wept. I had known of this book for many years, but had never read it, and really did not know much about what the story (if you can call it that) was all about. Though it is a fictional piece, it is inspired by Elizabeth Smart's very intense love-affair with the British poet George Barker. Smart came from a privileged background, but eventually turned away from that lifestyle and embraced the bohemian life of a writer and poet. She fell in love with Barker before she even met him, having become smitten with the man from simply reading his poems. Barker was married, but Smart was besotted with him, and though they never married, during their tumultuous affair she had four children from him, and struggled as a single parent in England after WWII, earning her living as a copywriter and freelance writer for various magazines. She eventually wrote another novel, The Assumption of Rogues and Rascals, but she shall be forever linked to By Grand Central Station I Sat Down and Wept, because of it's mirror of her own life, and her unapologetic, obsessive (and in my opinion) unhealthy love for a man who did not seem to return his love with the same raw, vulnerable passion. In fact Barker ended up siring 15 children from a variety of women, including Smart.
The book (novella?) is very short – only 112 pages. It's broken down into 10 tiny sections, but there really isn't a great deal of continuity or story for that matter, in this work. To me it reads like the emotional outpourings of someone's very private diary, albeit someone who is an above average writer. But that does not mean that By Grand Central Station is flawless. Far from it, in fact. Smart's writing is smothered with flowery metaphors which at times are so embarrassingly bad, they are laughable. I am a bit confused as to why this book has received so many rave reviews over the years. Perhaps I am old and cynical, but this kind of writing just makes me roll my eyes:
For excuse, for our being together, we sit at the typewriter, pretending a necessary collaboration. He has a book to be typed, but the words I try to force out die on the air and dissolve into kisses whose chemicals are even more deadly if undelivered. My fingers cannot be martial at the touch of an instrument so much connected with him. The machine sits like a temple of love among the papers we never finish, and if I awake at night and see it oulined in the dark, I am electrified with memories of dangerous propinquity.
The frustrations of past postponement can no longer be restrained. They hang ripe to burst with the birth of any moment. The typewriter is guilty with love and flowery with shame, and to me it speaks so loudly I fear it will communicate its indecency to casual visitors.
Just a little too rich for my tastes, I'm afraid. Though perhaps it is not just Smart's writing ability that is entirely to blame. I truly do believe that when one is in love, in that heightened passionate state of love that we know does not last, I think one is a little insane. I only have to read some of my own poetry during my own wretched romance to know that I was suffering from some strange sickness. Everything he touched I adored. I loved the way he walked, the way he held a pencil, even the way the smelled. One night, early on in our relationship when we were just friends and I desperately ached for the return of his love, he forgot his grey pullover at my house. All night I held it close to me, drinking in the smell of him. He, on the other hand, wanted to change everything about me – the way I dressed, the friends I chose, how I presented myself as a woman in front of others. And sadly, for many years I acquiesced to all his demands, because I was convinced I was nothing without him. Most people thankfully recover from this illness, and are thus resistant to any future insanity, not unlike catching measles in one's youth, and thus being free of the disease for the rest of their lives. Of course if we're lucky we fall in love again, but we've built up scars and scabs that hopefully protect us from making stupid decisions and letting our emotions completely overtake our lives. To love, rather than to be in love, is I think, the preferred condition. A very wise cartoonist friend of mine recently said, "Love transcends illness, infirmity and the ravages of time." Perhaps for some that seems so very unromantic. So be it. I do not want some slick Ken doll who whispers poetry to me every evening – I want someone who will see me and still love me at my most physically and emotionally worst, someone who will laugh with me, cry with me, and hold my hair when I am sick and puking into the toilet. I want someone to play Scrabble with, someone to dance with in the kitchen, someone to read to, and be read to, someone who is the first person I always want to tell all my good and bad news to, and hopefully someone who will share with me all their sorrows and joys. I want a best friend.
Sadly, Elizabeth Smart did not have such an experience with George Barker. The love she experienced was selfish, cruel and irrational. I'm perplexed as to why anyone would admire this kind of relationship, or rave about this kind of self-indulgent writing. As I read Smart's story, I was reminded of Somerset Maugham's novel Of Human Bondage and the two kinds of love the main character Philip Carey experiences, one with the selfish Mildred, and the other with the stable Sally. Which type of love do you think is best?
I'm also reminded of a fascinating documentary I saw many years ago about the life of comedian John Cleese. In his later years, Cleese has become very interested in psychology and human relationships, and together with therapist Robin Skynner, they penned two books, Life and How to Survive it, and Families and How to Survive Them, both very funny, insightful books (and trust me, I usually make a habit of staying far away from self-help books, but these works are quite exceptional). At the time of this documentary Cleese was married to his third wife, Alyce Faye Eichelberger, a psychotherapist (I believe they are still married). Parts of the documentary discussed Cleese's childhood, his problems with his mother, and his difficult past marriages. I recall him talking about the different kinds of love, and comparing the passionate love one experiences to a Van Gogh painting, and the more stable, warm and lasting love to a painting by Constable. He said given the choice, he would choose the Constable painting.
So would I. And thankfully, I did.
Ok, folks – sharpen your writing utensils and let the fun begin! It's what you've all been waiting for, I'm sure – The Good Granny/Bad Granny Contest, where you send me your best Good Granny and/or Bad Granny stories.
Here are the contest rules:
Email to me your best Good Granny and/or your best Bad Granny story. You can either write the story within the email, or send an attachment, either a Word file or Rich Text Format. You can submit in both categories, but you can only win in one category. It increases your chances of winning, and makes my reading experiences that much more enjoyable, don't you think? When you send the email, just make sure the subject heading says something like 'Contest' or 'Good Gran/Bad Gran Contest', or 'GG/BG Contest'.
Do try and keep the stories relatively short. Please try for a maximum of 600 words. I don't mind if you go over that count a little, but no novelettes, please.
The stories can be written by people who are discussing their own Good/Bad Grannies, or by an actual Good/Bad Granny herself, sharing one of her own delicious Good/Bad Granny tales. Or if your mom or mother-in-law is a Good or Bad Granny, you can write about her, too.
When writing a Good Granny story, obviously I'm looking for sweet, adorable, loving yarns. Something to pull at my heart strings. Here are a couple of Good Granny illos from the Good Granny/Bad Granny book, to help inspire you:
Regarding Bad Granny stories, I'm looking for tales about those non-traditional Grannies – the ones who 'Granny outside of the box' so to speak. Maybe your Granny was/is hip and edgy, or maybe you are the funky Granny who doesn't knit booties, but knows how to make one hell of a good martini. Or maybe you had a crusty Granny who smoked cigars, loved her whiskey and swore like a sailor. I like those kind of Bad Granny stories, too. But I think I can live without the Granny who whipped your hide with a wooden spoon and held your hand over the burner to teach you a lesson. That would depress me too much, sorry. Here are the respective Bad Granny illos to help you on that Bad Granny writing path:
The deadline for the contest is Friday, October 26th, so you've got plenty of time to get those Granny stories started. Please send those stories, and please don't worry about making it an astounding literary work of art – I just want an entertaining, honest tale, told straight from the heart.
So what's in it for you? Well, if you win, you will receive a signed copy by the artist of Good Granny/Bad Granny. Yes, that would be me. Aren't you thrilled? I will be giving out four signed books in total – two books going to the two best Good Granny stories, and two books going to the two best Bad Granny stories. Winners will be contacted via email on November 1st. I will officially announce the winners on this blog Monday November 5th. Please note that I will be posting the stories written by all four winners on this blog. Heck – what's the point of winning if you don't gloat and share?
If you have any questions regarding this contest, please write them in the comments. I need to know if I've missed any important details, or if the rules aren't clear enough. Eventually I'll be adding a link on the sidebar of this blog to a page about this contest, once I figure out how the heck to do that.
A big thank-you must go out to the folks at Raincoast Books for providing the Good Granny/Bad Granny books for this contest. And here's Mary McHugh's web site, the talented author of Good Granny/Bad Granny. And take a gander at Mary's delightful video where she discusses some of her favourite Good Granny/Bad Granny examples, and then finishes with some wonderful tap dancing!
So c'mon! Get yer Granny on!
