Patricia Pearson: Playing House
The second book in my windfall is not a book I would be tempted to pick up and purchase. For one thing, and I know this probably sounds vain, I didn’t like the cover. Aesthetically, the book was not one that usually grabs my attention—waving to me from the corner of the bookstore, sharply calling: “Pick me!”. The cover is pink/purple with a baby bottle’s nipple on one side, a tube of red lipstick on the other, and the title squashed between. There is one benefit to such a cover: it immediately gives the reader an idea of what kind of story they will be reading. Perhaps that’s not all bad.

On an up-note, I was able to read this novel within a span of 24 hours—that included going to work, cooking, cleaning, etc. so I estimate the average time it took me to read this was around 3 hours, or less. The first person narration was immediate, snappy and often snort aloud funny in terms of dialogue or internal thoughts. The writing was often witty with short bursts of mocking. In short, it was an amusing book.

That said, the plot was often clichéd, entirely predictable, and the open ending screams another book. There were groaning moments, such as the birth scene—how often can a birth scene be comedically written, but written differently? Amusing as the novel was, the main character Frances Mackenzie was too much of a character, and seemed entirely solipsistic, so much so, that halfway through this book, her consuming self-focus began to grate slightly on my nerves.

Of course, maybe it was just me, expecting more from something meant for entertainment, something light to read while waiting for bus, the plane, the train, something to take my mind off the fraught urban life I usually lead. And in some crazy way, maybe it did do that (I did read it), but it didn’t involve my imagination to the point where I was lost in some wondrous world, lost within lines of prose so provocative that I had trouble re-entering the world. No, it didn’t do that at all. Not at all.

…that I won at the Saskatchewan Festival of Words was cracked almost immediately in the washroom of the Moose Jaw Mineral Spa. There I drooled at the fortunes of my good luck. Within my basket were Richard B. Wright’s Adultery, Sharon Butala’s Real Life and a hardback copy of Lilac Moon: Dreaming of the Real West, Patricia Pearson’s Playing House, Ian Brown’s What I Meant to Say, Peter Robinson’s Final Account, and Anthony Bidulka’s Amuse Bouche. I gave Brenda the copy of Tony’s book, as I already have the series of three and proceeded to plot out my August reading schedule by beginning with Adultery. I had heard Richard B. Wright read in MJ an excerpt and he explained to the audience it was going to be his last reading from this novel.

And so, you’re asking yourself while eager to click the mouse to another more interesting page, what was it like? (Or you’re asking yourself why you came here to read this in the first place).

I have to say that I was disappointed with Adultery. I don’t know if my expectations were high (I enjoyed Clara Callan (although what I enjoyed most about CC was the unusual narrative developed in the letter exchange)) or if it was just me. I thought the concept of Adultery was interesting, the violent murder/infidelity/unravelling of the life of one average Canadian man, a witness as well as an active participant to his own demise, and his consequent need to “feel” something. I think the book is successful at depicting the vacuousness of grief, the emptiness one feels in dealing with grief, and there is a certain loneliness which I feel in this book that is caused by the inability of the main character to be in control of the situation, and somehow to be in control of the emotions of others. I understood the whole aspect of need in the main character, the need to feel something, is integrated throughout the plotted out text, and through the oftentimes dullness of language; however, I as the reader, needed to feel more from this language. I understood the numbness of the text, but I wanted to experience something more.

What I missed within this novel was the lack of depth. There were opportunities for depth. The main character Dan Fielding is a senior editor for a publishing firm, and throughout the novel he is reading a non-fiction book on the history of water. The metaphor of the drowning man is obvious, but I guess (maybe I’m too fussy) I thought the metaphor could have been greatly expanded, blown out of the water–ha– with interesting original stories, ideas, and facts about water (there were only small facts, nothing really to sink into); the snippets of the non-fiction novel integrated with the life and the “real” events that happened to Dan. But I wanted more of the unreal, more of the meaningless details that bog lives down, day in and day out, yet details that enrich our lives and appear as the seemingly real. Or not.

The novel contained too much description and not enough of the “show” for my taste. In this plot driven story, I never really had the sense of sympathy for Dan. I wanted to sympathize with him; albeit I understood that my sympathy wasn’t necessary to the overall structure of the text, but I felt that to really enjoy this book I needed to grasp Dan as sympathetic, I needed to grasp the meaning of Dan’s life within the language of Dan. The plot held me, but the writing, while good enough, was not strong enough to satisfy me. I wanted so much more.

Next on my list will be Patricia Pearson. She was very amusing in MJ. Stay tuned for the next installment of–wait for it: The Basket of Books–or not.

…I’ve begun this new blog on somewhat of a hairy note, I’ve decided to continue what I’ve started.  Today in my email was a link to a book about people with red-hair (thanks B). I find it fascinating– all the hype over one hair colour. I did a short paper once for an expository class about the myths of those with red hair.  Judas was rumoured to have red hair.

So to go along with this theme I found a poem by Li-Young Lee–hair it is.

Ha!

This is all more confusing and less confusing than it should be. I’ve decided to set up shop here for awhile as I’m extremely exhausted from dealing with the cyber-spam that my Blogger account seems to have attracted. Hopefully, this will be a quieter, more comment friendly atmosphere. If not, I can’t say what will happen.

So, welcome to my new home here at WordPress. I still haven’t quite figured everything out. I believe that will take a long time. There is more and less here than than at my previous blog. I certainly aim to be more impersonal and writing conscious with my posts, although I’m not certain I’ve the ability.

That said, I was thinking about repetition and how it applied to poetry, so I looked up fractals and poetry to see what was available. Here is one link that caught my attention and another. Here are the interpretations.

Of course, here there are subsequent questions about the use of fractals, but I’ll leave the questioning up to you.

Here’s a link to a picture of the teens that I worked with doing some poetry for a few hours at the Teen Writing Experience.  They were an awesome bunch of kids.

Can you hear me now?

Welcome to WordPress.com. This is your first post. Edit or delete it and start blogging!

An article sort of caught my eye a few days ago, and I found it interesting as I’m still trying to claw my way through Pynchon’s Gravity’s Rainbow. It’s curious, esp. after listening to a panel discussion at the Festival of Words about the joys of the internet, and how writers can anonymously comment or review their own books.

I spent a few hours at the TWE today. A great experience. I talked poetry with a wonderful group of fledgling writers. It was a great opportunity and I liked their energy.

…a list of exercises derived from things I thought I saw, and subsequently thought about far too much during my walk through Wascana Centre:

1. Write a poem about how many white dogs you see in the park (I swear it must have been some sort of dog convention as they all looked like the same breed (but what do I know about dogs?))

2. Write a poem on why the dogs seek contact with other dogs and with people in the park, while people tend to look away from each other.

3. Write a poem about the horse dung on the sidewalk (yes, horse–if not, I’m afraid there is something very wrong with the geese).

4. Write a poem about the difference between those really walking and those walking simply.

5. Title of a poem: On Being Susan Sontag (although I’m not quite sure I’m up to that one yet).

6. Write a poem about the people who exercise lists about writing poems.

…of something hits me every spring and I place fish in the rain barrel to eat mosquito larvae, and it usually works, if the fish live. This year 2 pond goldfish and 2 calico fantails have survived for well over a month (even with the June threat of being washed away from too much rain). Another wave just hit me (I must amuse myself somehow). A recent email has got me thinking about names for the goldfish. I’ve decided to call them all “untitled”. “untitled #1” “untitled #2” etc.