Congrats to all the GG winners, especially to Thomas King, who once came to Saltspring Island with Leon Rooke to take my photograph, and to Arleen Paré, with whom I wrote in April for NoPo Mo. (I also am interviewing Arleen for Brick Books about a poem in Lake of Two Mountains.) Big big congrats to you all, and I’ll see you at the awards!
Off to Toronto for a reading at Glad Day, New York for the Shiele exhibit, Ottawa for the GGs, and Saskatoon for two readings.
You know those form letters you get from periodicals you submit to? Ever wondered if they have different tiers of them (they do), or whether to feel encouraged when you get one that says “Please try us again?”
Here’s a site where you can search for a specific periodical and find out what their slips say, and whether you’ve moved up a notch.
As an example, here is the Alaska Quarterly Review:
We thank you for the opportunity to read your manuscript. Unfortunately, your work does not meet our needs at this time. Because we know how much effort went into this submission, we regret the use of this form. But the volume of manuscripts we receive makes a personal reply impossible. The Editors [with a hand-written "Many Thanks"]
Same text as standard, with a handwritten “Many thanks. Hope you’ll send more.”
Not sure if this is personal or form:
Thank you for the opportunity to consider your work. Although in the end we have decided that “The [Exploding] Arm” does not meet our needs at this time, please know your work was seriously considered. We sincerely hope you will continue to send more our way. Many Thanks, The Editors
We thank you for the opportunity to read your manuscript. Unfortunately, your work does not meet our needs at this time. Because we know how much effort went into this submission, we regret the use of this form. But the volume of manuscripts we receive makes a personal reply impossible. [Hand-written "Many Thanks"] The Editors
painting by Jane Eaton Hamilton 2013
The first few paragraphs of my short story “Acrobat.”
Giving me away for your mama was how it had to go, Jet, I couldn’t rock that cradle. (You said, Mama?) All of you a drum over blood, hot in a rocky shell, so protected you burned against asbestos, keeping your fires tight and banked.
That night coming into you from behind I wanted to hurt you. You thought it was later but it was that night, me inside you too hard and gritting my teeth, grinding myself up into you till you came from it like a tic, squeezing around me. In the place I was touching you were highly polished, a susceptible pink. I wanted to hurt you–I was in love with you.
Your mama would tell me leaving was clinical, a simple wound, a parting of skin, a small surgery. But your mama never stood with you under a piñata. You said, Mama? You told me to dream in colour, running the loops of my brain in blues and yellows.
Jet, I called it love and read all your bumps and valleys. I was willing. I took you in the bathtub, I took you up against the purple hallway wall. I said I was never tired. You were the one thing I had a story for. You weren’t pretty but I called you beautiful, Jet, you with the name that made me think of a vapour trails, that name you wore like jewellry, like the one earring in your ear of a lizard or a spider.
Everyone knows how hard it is to get by as an author. Income sources are cut back all the time. It’s been shocking for me to re-enter the field when readings are barely compensated and copyright is not protected by our government or educational institutions. Do you know the percentage of each sale that comes to the writer (many months later)? Deborah Dundas at the Toronto Star opines…
sketch by Jane Eaton Hamilton 2013
49th Shelf has a list of queer Canadian books up. I can think of a whole heck of a lot of books that are queer and not on it (including 6 of mine), but it’s still a great resource for anyone looking for some sweet bedtime reading.
“If you don’t feel you are possibly on the edge of humiliating yourself, or losing control of the whole thing, then what you’re writing probably isn’t very vital. If you don’t feel that you are writing over your head, why do it? If you don’t have some doubt of your authority to tell the story, then you’re not trying to tell enough.” John Irving
Yup, that would be me. Now. Every day. That feeling in my gut, my stomach, my esophagus, my chin. I am in so far over my head. Now, I am going to put this Irving quote up where I can see it and remind myself that this is how it is supposed to be.
Also, I will look at this photograph of a doorway which I took in the glow of Matisse’s water lilies at L’Orangerie, to still myself.
Excerpted from my collection, Body Rain. In 1989, a few blocks from where I now sit, on Laurel Street in Vancouver, my friend Diane was shot through her sliding glass doors near Hallowe’en night, when everyone mistook the noise of the gunshot for fireworks. Eventually (many years later) her brother’s husband was convicted of the crime. This is a solemn poem for Hallowe’en, and also a cautionary poem during this week in which we consider male violence.
What we left unsaid is jabbering—
I haven’t enough ears.
The man who killed you,
who was he
with his bullets, Diane?
You loved me.
Perhaps it is the promise
of love I feel,
the redemption of arousal,
a giddy comprehension.
I was stupified, then,
you know I was,
pregnant, foggy as milk.
It is late, now, to understand.
Will you forgive me
Saturday I stood on the shore
with daisies cascading from my fingers.
Diane, the ocean would not swallow them—
yellow was caught in her throat
Who knows this season
better than you?
Hunters rustle the undergrowth
In my yard the sumac
drops lit candles.
I would show you how to flee, Diane.
consider the pumpkin on the stooop,
the quick torture of its hide under my knife.
I have costumes in my closet
and we’ll go out like breath
this night, like perfect witch women
in our black hats. On broomsticks
our voices wake like bats.
darkest of hearts.
You wait outside the gate,
I take your shattered chest
against my own.
I heat you and melt you
with the force of the living,
with the love of the living
for living things.
Yesterday, three pieces of mine appeared. One of them was in Siècle 21, a publication out of Paris, in which a French reprint of my story “Bird Nights” called Nuits d’oiseaux, chosen by Marilyn Hacker and translated by Cécile Oumhani, appeared. I have not gotten my French to the state where I can read this yet, but I remain hopeful. Meantime, perhaps some of you can. And, if not, there is always the English version from Numéro Cinq, which is linked under the French one.
Many thanks to Marilyn and Cécile for their work in preparing this fall and winter issue, and to their colleagues.
I’m really pleased and proud to have this small story up on Compose today. I wrote it a bajillion years ago and have always had a warm spot for it. It’s about a young woman visiting back east whose cousin twists her arm to go to a funeral for someone she never met.
Here’s an essay that appeared in The Spirit of Writing, Classic and Contemporary Essays Celebrating the Writing Life, ed Mark Robert Waldman, Tarcher/Putnam, 2001
Congratulations! It’s a Six Pound Eight Ounce Novel!
The plot curls inside you, hardly formed, just eight weeks along. Two months–still time for a miscarriage. Has anyone else ever had that happen? Told the world they were going to be a novelist and then had the damned book slide out slippery as a dead fish? It’s true what they say–you need a good counselor. It breaks your goddamned heart.
There’s only one thing you can do. Toss. Take a helluva big breath. Start again. Like the doctor said: You’re not too old. You can have another novel.
You don’t think it should be so hard.
Your mother says anything worthwhile should be a little hard.
Your husband is worthwhile, and sometimes he’s a little hard.
Which is why you tell him to get home from work while you’re ovulating. You can’t do this alone. You need every one of the ideas that shoot out of him. Conception is no easy business. The circumstances have to be just right. Precisely right. Basal thermometers. Pillows under your hips. OED on the bedstand. You are not the kind of woman who conceives easily.
You don’t tell anyone you’re pregnant. You’re afraid of jinxing it. You don’t want to have to say: No, I’m sorry. I’m not. No. I lost it. I know. Thanks for the sympathy. Really. I’m sorry too. I’m heartbroken. Everyone is sorry, sorry.
You don’t want to be put in that position again.
There are other concerns: what if somebody else tries to make a novel that looks like yours? If someone copies you? Tells the story and acts like it was theirs all along? You know it can happen, especially these days with the Internet. Actually, it has happened to you, and more than once. A friend called up one time and said, I just read a story you told me in Alice Newbold’s new novel. Page 172.
You found Alice Newbold’s new novel and damned if it wasn’t a good looking thing. A little thin, in your opinion, but gripping. And there on page 172, just like your friend said, your story. The central conceit of your gestating book.
And once you told a writer friend something about yourself that you’d never before confided. You swore her to secrecy. Weren’t you shocked when it ended up in one of her stories? In a story that won a prize? And the worst thing was you couldn’t tell anyone. You couldn’t trash her the way she deserved, because then you’d have to say this private thing.
Plus, plus, the title of her book was a phrase you said, that you might have used as a title yourself in the future. You searched her acknowledgements page–nothing.
Forget it. You’re not going to mention the book prematurely. You could miscarry. You could hemorrhage, die and then your story would get adopted by someone else. Get their last name tattooed on its spine.
You long to push the new one out before it’s ready. You’ve lived with it for months, for god’s sake, and you’re tired. You can’t sleep on your stomach. You can’t smoke. You can’t drink. All your friends are deserting you. They didn’t realize you could be this boring. No matter what the doctors say, you’re not getting any younger. You have grey shooting through your hair, and wrinkles (laugh lines). You have to get it out of you. All the hip authors are under thirty-five. They just are. It’s not fair, but it’s a fact. You have someone take an author photo in soft light. For god’s sake, you tell your husband. Just get me to the hospital.
The doctors examine you. They tell you it’s too early. The contractions are probably Braxton Hicks, and even if they’re real, the docs are going to give you something to hold them back. This story needs another six weeks. Minimally. This story isn’t ready to breathe on its own, they say. It’s intensely premature. Is that what you want? the doctors ask, mumbling through their masks? A story that can’t breathe on its own? A story with immature lungs? Lifelong learning problems? A story that won’t sell more than a thousand copies?
You don’t, of course. You want a famous story. A beloved story. A story that makes Oprah’s Book Club. But christ you’re sick of being pregnant. You feel like a cow. And anyhow, can’t they resuscitate even novellas these days? You’ve seen stories sixty pages long published as first novels. Sure, it’s true, they have tubes attached, cerebral palsy, they won’t ever walk, but– Just get it out of me, you say.
Go home, the docs tell you. It’s not your time. Get plenty of bed rest. See me in my office. We need to check your weight, your blood pressure. You need to get rid of some of those adjectives. I’m sorry, no. There isn’t any medication. It takes talent, skill, self discipline, compound sentences. No more adverbs. And straighten out that plot line. While you’re at it, wasn’t that piano on page 150 a guitar earlier on? Any swelling of the ankles? Any faintness on sudden rising?
You’re bloated. Your breasts are so sore you weep if someone so much as looks at them. Only why would anyone? You’re ugly. You’re fat and you’re ugly and there’s never going to be a story, anyhow. There isn’t. It’s all flatulence. It’s all wind.
Things they said the last time: You have what it takes to be a good writer.
This is good, but it’s not fully developed.
There are several awkward places.
Numerous spelling errors.
In addition, several statements that seem unnecessarily obvious.
It doesn’t seem likely to us that the protagonist would murder her husband.
Yet, we like it. We think the story has great possibility.
Intriguing characters and situation.
Maybe the next one.o
The first couple postpartum months are rumoured to be brutal. Numerous strange hotel rooms are involved, so alike that you’re said to forget where you are and say to an Edmonton crowd: I’m thrilled to be nursing my novel in Vancouver tonight. You won’t have had enough sleep. Your hormones are wildly swinging–you’re as liable to break into tears as laughter.
But those are concerns for women who have finished their books. For books who’ve scored a ten on the Apgar scale. For books with publishers. Your novel won’t ever have a publisher. Because the stupid novel is never even going to get here. Never. You’re going to be waddling like an elephant until you’re sixty and it’s too late.
You’ve already passed your due date. After those contractions early on, fighting to keep the damned thing from being born too soon, now you can’t get rid of it. Two days, a week, two weeks. If it’s not done soon they’re going to have to induce you.
C-section. Your worst nightmare. They have to rip you open to get the book out.
But then it happens. They said it would happen and then it did. It happens and there’s no way you’re prepared. There’s no way this is what you want. Uh-uh. Stop the boat. I’m getting off. The novel can stay but I’m getting off. I’ve changed my mind.
Your water breaks all over your typewriter, ruining the climax. And oh no. There’s trouble. Meconium. Black flecks–the words you already edited out. You know what that means. All the how-to books you’ve riead have drilled it into you. This story has taken a breath of its own excrement.
The buzzer has gone off. You’re out of time. You have to get to the hospital. No turning back now. If you wanted to turn back, you should’ve considered abortion. It’s choice that you got this far.
You beg your husband to tell you things will be all right. Just say you love me, you beg. Just say I’m the best thing since cell phones. Just tell me my story is going to survive this. We’ll both survive this.
He’s good. He says all that. He whisks you to the car, props your feet in his lap under the steering wheel, says all the right things. But what does he know? What the hell does he know? He’s a fucking journalist.
And anyway. Why do they say labour doesn’t hurt? It hurts like a sonofabitch. You want drugs. Why shouldn’t you have drugs? They say no drugs, a natural birth, it’s what you wanted, you told them to ignore you when you changed your mind. Your asshole husband puffs in your face like a bellows. He’s useless, useless! Why did you sleep with him to begin with? What the hell were you thinking? He said, Stay home and take nine months to write. Hah! Hah! ≤
You can do it, your husband says now. You’ve got what it takes. Way to go, honey. Good job.
You’re nine centimetres dilated. Just wait, wait a minute. You feel like pushing? Don’t push. Honey, I said, Don’t push. The doctor says she’s gotta move the lip of your cervix away from the novel’s cover page. It’s gonna hurt.
Sometimes it’s all you can do.
You could push the Empire State Building out, you swear you could. You grunt and bear down. You leave bruise marks on your husband’s arm.
But fuck it. Fuck it. Who cares about delicacy at a time like this? You’re crying, and then a few minutes later, when the doctor says she can see the title page, you’re laughing.
Okay, hold on. The acknowledgements page is out. The dedication to your husband. Hang on. Here’s the text, wailing its newborn lungs.
They’re passing you the novel, now, and it’s beautiful. She’s beautiful. You can’t stop crying, but the tears are tears of joy. Your husband kisses your face. He’s the greatest husband. Didn’t he stand by you, thick and thin? He’s whispering to her. He’s stroking the five little pages of her denouement. He’s smitten. Look. He’s starting to cry.
She looks just like you, your husband says. She’s got your fontenal.
No wonder he’s weeping. She’s the most beautiful novel you’ve ever seen. You don’t care what anyone else says, because you’re in love. You’re head over heels.
Congratulations, says the doctor. I’m pleased to say you have a healthy, six pound, eight ounce novel.
Estimated number of angels, according to physicists, that can dance in a row across a pinhead’s diameter, “Rockettes-style”: 10 to the 32nd (Harper’s Index)
what are the angels wearing tutus leotards ballgowns with feather boas are there fishnet stockings is there a Capezio store in heaven is dressing angels worse than dressing fleas for a circus do you have to worry about their wings can wings be folded do feathers smash are wings retractable is it chaos on the pinhead who is the choreographer does she mimic choreographers that have come before fossey maybe or is there a heavenly choreography does god take time out of her busy tuesday to attend rehearsal do angels show their legs do they wear makeup does somebody clamor for a solo is there room on the head of the pin what dance are they dancing hip hop modern jazz ballet tap can-can riverdance animation do they ever get blisters sore muscles do they ever get old do they get tired of being too small to be seen