can't see the forest for the trees...

The last months of the school year went through me like green corn.  Travelling all over Ontario (well, southern Ontario) thanks to the Forest Of Reading.  There were festivals in Thunder Bay, London, Toronto, Mississauga, and Oshawa, and I was there for each one, smiling, nodding, signing books, and making speeches and presentations.  That picture was taken in Peel, I think. You can't see me but I'm there in the front row.  Did I have fun?  Yes.  Would I do it again?  Totally.  Next month?  Well, maybe I'd wait a bit.

A Forest Of Reading nom does more for book sales than just about anything else in Canadian kid lit.  So many schools are on board, so many librarians order your book ...  it's like a Scholastic Book Fair times 500 schools, and you actually make some money. I'm pleased that the selection committee liked Zomboy enough to include it this year. 

You don't have to win the award -- the winner doesn't make any money or sell many more copies.  Simply being on the short list is a victory.  Which is just as well.

Winning any award is a bit of a crap shoot.  The right judges, the right timing, the right book.  People's choice awards are an even purer crap shoot because the judges are regular folks instead of professionals.  Denominators are lower, emotions are higher.

What kind of authors win readers' choice awards?  Cool ones.  Young ones.  Judges like to vote for people like themselves - which makes sense.  But more important than who you are is what you write.  Most kid authors are neither young nor cool, and some of them win.

So, what kind of stories win?  The tear-jerker about a tough kid making her way against the odds is a good bet - especially if her dog or sister dies.  The action-packed adventure might win, if the world is in jeopardy and our protagonist has a cool weapon.  Adventure and sentiment rule. 

Man, I wish I could write that kind of story.  But you have to believe and care about what you write, and I, well, I can't care about that stuff.  I don't mind reading it, but every time I imagine writing about a dog (or sister) gazing at me with liquid eyes as they breathe their last, I start to giggle.

Want to know what doesn't win, no matter how the dice roll?  I'll tell you.  What won't win is a story about zombies that is really a riff on racism and school bussing, where the overall tone is funny quirky and the ending is left kind of vague.  Don't write one of those.


Sadly, I did, and so I was not the winner of the Red Maple Award this year.  I didn't win in Thunder Bay.  Then I didn't win in London.  Then I didn't win in Toronto, Peel, Oshawa.  The picture up there does not show me winning.  It might have been one of the times Eric won (adventure, cool weapon) or Rona (dead children).  I spent the end of the school year not winning the award.

Sigh.  I got used to it.

Am I glad to have been on the short list?  Yes.  Would I do it again?  You bet. Will I write an easier-to-like book for next time?   I'll try, but I haven't written one of those yet.  Don't bet on me.

Snow Day!

Free day!  I was supposed to drive to Montreal to visit Ed who goes to school there, but scheduling and illness dropped from a great height and the cancelled the trip.  So I have - get this - NOTHING required of me today or tomorrow.

Ahhhh.  This is stolen time, time away from the world.  Fire from heaven.

Don't get me wrong -- I miss Ed immensely, would LOVE to see him.  And what with editing two books and writing a third, juggling irate editors like chainsaws, I have TONS of stuff to do.

How odd, then, that my response would not be regret at missing my son or grateful and diligent application to my legitimate tasks. No, I want straight to the kid place:  Snow day!  Woo hoo!

I wonder if this is a human thing or a Scrimger thing?  I remember way way back, slaving away on a project due the day after tomorrow, worrying like hell because I wasn't likely to finish in time, and when the deadline got extended by a week, my first action was to go to a movie.

Do prime ministers respond this way to unexpected gifts of time?  Do tycoons or saints or scientists?  Or is it only us irresponsible artist-kid types?

I'm not entirely stupid -- I know that time is never GIVEN but only loaned at interest.  There'll always be more stuff to do, and even less time to do it.  But I can't help my feeling of relief right now.

I should phone Ed (actually that'll be fun) and get back to my book.  I know I should.  But maybe I'll put on another pot of coffee and savour my freedom for another few minutes.

something different

I didn't ever come back to the time at the Sharjah International Book Fair last December, where I sat on a panel very much like the one in the picture, with the Minister of this and the Professor of that and a moderator with a frown you could build a temple on.  Serious moderator.   Our discussion was titled: The Nectar Of Meaning, a topic so, um open (that is to say, meaningless, not to say stupid and hilarious), that I spent no time in preparation.  There were TV cameras and translators and an actual audience, and the other panelists pulled out sheafs (or sheaves, like bringing in the sheaves?) of notes, and I sat there, mesmerised by the moderator's lowered mono brow and note taking which was in Arabic (duh) and backward - that is, right to left (also duh. I don't get out much).  I actually stared down at the hand and thought, Cool.  I am such a doofus.

The other panelists spoke first. They used the phrase nectar of meaning a couple of times.  The prof got especially worked up about it.  Thing is, I had absolutely no idea what they were talking about.  I had a translation, all right, but the concepts were so abstract, the sentences so laboriously constructed and hard to decipher that nothing registered in my ear.  They might as well have been saying blah blah blah blah nectar of meaning blah blah.  Half an hour later the darkness was still total.  Then it was my turn.  The moderator wanted to know what I could add to my fellow-panelists' analyses.

I started my own talk with the phrase, And now for something completely different.  Then I told some stories and hoped for one of those scene missing slides. 

The reason I remember this Sharjah moment now, months later, is that I went through a similar experience last week. 

I was part of a quarter of writers at a genre-type literary event.  Now, I have no issues with genre writing -- I read a lot of detective stories and fantasy.  But for all my metaphysical speculation I don't write genre (unless you figure that all writing is one genre or another - which I kind of believe.  The tropes of fantasy - elves and swords, quests and curses and magic rings -- are not much different than the tropes of serious literary fiction --  exotic older love interests, mentally troubled siblings, sexual secrets).  Anyway.  I listened to these talented folks reading about magic and the coming of the Star Cats, about fae and their non-human heroines, and I applauded along with the rest of the audience.  And then it was my turn, and I opened my spiel with:  And now for something pretty darn different.

Funny?

I am no longer going to apologize for blogging infrequently.  Yes, I could be more diligent.  I could also be taller, cuter, richer, and better groomed.  But I'm not so, well, what the hell?  Yeah, that's my defence: the WTH defence.  (I wonder if that would work on a murder charge?  Yeah, your honour, I killed him, but, you know, what the hell? )

Tons of stuff has happened.  Chanukah, Christmas,Kwanzaa, New Year's, Martin Luther King Day, my youngest's birthday.  Tons.  I can't remember New Year's -- I must have had too much fun.  (I can't remember MLK Day either.)  I've been to Florida to visit my dad.  I've been to a bunch of schools to talk about stories.  I've finished editing my magic camera book.  And I've had a haircut. 


Gonna talk briefly about humour today.  Kind of my bread and butter, since I tend to write funny-ish books (that's my story, anyway).   Is anything off limits for humour?  Off the top I'm going to answer, No.  You can tell a joke about anything.  Yes any subject.  But for me to find a joke funny, it can't be mean.  Tasteless, stupid, pointed - sure.  But not mean.  

I like to push boundaries a bit, to shock or surprise the reader or listener.  Without surprise there's no humour. The whole point of the joke is the unexpected element.  When the grasshopper hops up onto the stool and the bartender says, Hey there's a drink named after you, and the grasshopper goes, Really, there's a drink named Bob?  we laugh (maybe not anymore --  it's a pretty old joke) because we don't expect the bug to have a human name.

Shock can be funny -- Robin Williams' favorite joke features incest, and the shock is part of the humour. There's the one about the homicidal pedophile taking the little boy into the woods -- that's pretty funny too.  When I was a kid we'd roll on the ground laughing at dead baby humour. These jokes are not mean.  If some people find them offensive, that says more about the listener than the joke.  I'm happy to ignore any response that begins:  How dare you ... 

BUT is there a funny racist joke? Is there a funny joke that makes fun of the way some people speak? Not to me.  Because they're mean jokes.  I happen to think Leminy Snickett is a smart and talented guy, and I have tons of sympathy for an emcee trying to be funny and grabbing what he thinks is an easy laugh (I have done this myself - and got in trouble for it).  But that joke at Jacqueline Woodson's expense is a loser because it's kind of mean.  If Leminy were African-American it would still be a lousy joke because it makes fun of a stereotype, and that's not good. Mort Sahl standing up halfway through the premier of the (very long) movie Exodus and shouting at the director:  Otto, let my people go! is funny because he is making fun, not of a stereotype, but of something that happened to the Jews.  So, Holocaust humour - sure. But jokes based on how Jews, or any group of people, are perceived will be a harder sell.  That's victimizing.  You'll have to really surprise me.

Is there a funny Ghomeshi joke?  I'm going to say it's possible.  Because the only one you'd be victimizing is him, and he kind of deserves it.

Saskatchewan and Sharjah

Did I talk about my time in Sharjah?  I didn't?  It has been a while.  Yeah, I scored the trifecta for literary travel this fall -- Brazil, Arab Emirates, Saskatchewan.  All it takes is a bit of luck and the ability to say, Yes, when someone asks if you want to go someplace. 

So, Saskatchewan.  Walked across the tarmac in Regina shivering like a bunch of castanets. -45 with the wind chill.   No I am not kidding.  You know how it is when you take a breath and your lips, lungs and inside of your nose freeze solid?  Like that.  Thank heavens my car, air bnb, local restaurant and schools were all well heated.  Actually, I had a great time in Regina and Saskatoon, hanging out with a couple of the '7' authors and chatting to large bunches of goofy kids.  Among other things I learned that St Timothy was one of the guys Paul sent letters to.  (Apparently the fast route to sainthood is to be on Paul's Christmas list.)  Man, the prairie cold is a real thing -- not like our southern Ontario version.  Yeah, I know, wet cold get here is supposed to make you feel worse than dry cold, but numbers don't lie and -45, no matter how dry, is plenty plenty cold.  

 A week earlier I was jogging around a person-made lagoon in dry, sunny, 27-degree weather, on my way to the 'blue' souk to grab prezzies for my kids (there are two kinds of souks -- blue and gold.  The gold one only deals in precious metals, and my kids are not getting those kinds of prezzies).  I saw a totally unexpected --

Shoot, time has done its thing and I am late.  How does that happen?  I still haven't said much about Sharjah.  Remind me to tell you about my televised panel discussion with the lit. professors and minister of education.  Topic:  'The Nectar Of Meaning.'  Oh yeah. Scrimger playing with the big kids. Til soon.

charades in Brazil

So I'm back, and if you didn't know I was away, that's, well, realistically, my fault, since I don't update my status very regularly. (Lot of commas in that sentence, did you notice? I'm not fond of them normally but there they are. Anyway --)

Brazil.  That's where I was, representing my country loud and proud at the Porto Alegre Book Fair, the - ahem - largest outdoor book fair in the world.  The fair is proud of that claim and makes it often.

Porto Alegre is a real city, biggish but understandable, not like Sao Paulo which is bigger than most countries. Porto Alegre has a university, some industry, a huge marketplace (that's it in the picture) and government stuff floating on top.  There's a good vibe, lively and friendly.  Not touristy.  Not at all.  In fact I had real trouble making myself understood.

I'm used to travelling in Europe where people, especially service people, are polyglots, and since I can get by in English and (sort of) French, I can hail a cab and order a meal and avoid getting run over most of the time.  Not in Porto Alegre, though.  I almost missed my flight because they changed the gate and only told us in Portuguese.  The desk guy at my hotel (The Grand Amazing Metropolitan or something - totally normal mid-price place close to the fair) smiled widely but shrugged at my questions, pointing at my room number and pantomiming opening the door. 

And that was the norm.  For me Porto Alegre is the city of charades.  Thank heavens for the fair volunteers who made sure I got to my various events.  Thank heavens for the English-language-based schools I talked to, and the journalists, and the other Canadian authors, who maybe preferred French to English but spoke it well and didn't mind me bumbling away in their language. 

But the rest of the trip -- hilarious!  I love walking around a new city, getting a sense of it.  It's my favorite thing to do.  I did a lot of walking around in my few days in Porto Alegre.  And everywhere I went, every question I asked, every encounter with a native, broke down to the lowest common denominator of personal exchange: charades. 

Yup.  Just like this. Take coffee, for instance.  I drink a lot of it and Brazil makes good coffee.  But I wasn't able to convey that I drink my coffee with milk. Coffee with milk is easy in English, in French, in Spanish.  But not Porto Alegre Portuguese.  I tried milk on the side.  I tried a glass of milk.  I got a hundred frowns, shrugs, enlightened nods followed by whipped cream (and once a cream-filled doughnut.  That made me laugh out loud).  I mimed pouring milk into coffee, and got sugar.  I mooed and got a startled response, which I can't really blame the waiter for.  Cappuccino worked, but I don't want cappuccino all the time and I couldn't get across the idea that I didn't want the milk foamed. 

Not until I lunched with the the Canadian Trade Commissioner, on my last day there.  Paulo is friendly and hard-working.  We got on well.  He blinked when I explained my request, said something to the waiter.  The coffee arrived the way I like it - the milk was even warm. 

Thanks!  This is great!  How do I order it? I asked Paulo, who frowned at his own espresso.

I drink a man's coffee he said, and changed the subject.

This part of Brazil - gaucho country - has a strong sense of machismo, and Paulo is a man's man.  If I go back I'm going to have to learn the Portuguese for woman's coffee.

where am I again?

I'm terrible.  I should be posting more frequently. I have lots to say.  Stuff is happening.  But, alas, though my life keeps getting fuller, the number of minutes in the day stays the same.  So not only am I not posting as often as I'd like, I am not able to write as lengthily as I used.

So, like, I am in Alberta now, land of farms and oil and cities like Edmonton, where the streets are numbered and change numbers from block to block so that what used to be 66th is now 75th ...  and then it turns into 66th again.  As if the city was designed by a numerate geek who had too much to drink and then started punching away at the calculator.

It's easy to get lost (in fact it's almost impossible not to get lost) , which is too bad if there's a  schoolful of kids waiting for you to talk to them.

On the good side, it's not boring.