The best writers give themselves the most permissions.

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In Football Season, John Updike, The Music School

Sandford Lynne has written a very popular book on poetry titled “Writing Poetry From The Inside Out.” Thank you Robert Brewer and the fine participants over at Poetic Asides for the recommendation. I am not recommending this book though, at least not yet. It is a beginner’s book and I am a beginning, ignorant poet, yet the book bothers me. Me. I am looking for nuts and bolts and so far the author has only given his attempted inspiration. I am on page 67 and until now it has all been writing BS — “You can do it!” Pfft. I know that; I just don’t know how.” But on with my point I feel so self-secure about.

In the last paragraph of Chapter #4 the author leaves us with his legacy. When I read it I stopped, and not because it is the end of the chapter. I re-read it and re-read it. I have read it several times now, and I have Googled it. Many have written about his lines on this page number 31. I’ll present his full text since I always seem to skip the most important parts when I truncate.

When I think about it, the happiest, most successful, most fulfilled people I know are the ones who, over time, gave themselves the most permissions — in all areas of their lives. Guided by the compass of an inner truth, they did not wait for others to tell them what was okay to do, or wait for others to tell them which steps to take. Through trial and error, they learned how to experiment with their lives. And maybe this is worth underscoring: The best writers give themselves the most permissions. The happiest, most fulfilled people give themselves the most permissions. The two go hand in hand.

I am writing about this prescription to let it go because it has been a theme with me this past year. I run a prompt writing group, and this is really our one and only theme. Let it go! I have written poetry, essays, fiction, and pages full of landfill. I have turned a few of them into novel scenes and maybe one short story. Time flies. Every Wednesday night when it isn’t blizzarding I let myself go as much as I can.

I think I wrote not too long ago about my Douglas Glover workshop. On the way out he encouraged me with some direct advice. “Let it go!” I don’t know if those were his words; he probably said something more elegant. But that was the message. Let it go. Give yourself permission to go for it, and damn it all, go for it!

But an aphorism is useless without action. Words are just words, unless you are writing them. Or reading them. Yesterday I began my first John Updike read. I’ve been picking up his little novels for over a year now, but I have never managed to hold one open in front of me long enough to let anything sink in. I am notorious for that — reading a paragraph and brushing it off. I a a profligate first paragraph reader and a delinquent last paragraph finisher. I grabbed his short story collection “The Music School.” It was first published in 1962 and is almost as old as I am. Some of the stories, maybe all, are likely older. So let’s start from my beginning, I thought. How bad can this be?

The first sentence and the paragraph of the first story — “In Football Season” — hooked me.

Do you remember a fragrance girls acquire in autumn?

Are you serious? Of course I do. I paused while my mind raced back to chasing my wife at university in the autumn of 1979 and remembering her fragrance. My mind continued back to junior high school in 1973 when my interest in girls had exploded open in that young teenage hormonal irruption. The fragrance of girls at the school dances and on the mile and a half walks to and from school each day.

As you walk beside them after school, they tighten their arms about their books and bend their heads forward to give a more flattering attention to your words and in the little intimate area thus formed, carved into the clear air by an implicit crescent, there is a complex fragrance woven of tobacco, powder, lipstick, rinsed hair, and that perhaps imaginary and certainly elusive scent that wool, whether in the lapels of a jacket or the nap of a sweater, seem to yield when the cloudless fall sky like the blue bell of a vacuum toward itself the glad exhalations of all things. This fragrance, so faint and flirtatious on those afternoon walks through the dry leaves, would be banked a thousandfold and lie heavy as the perfume of a flower shop on the dark slope of the stadium when, Friday nights, we played football in the city.

Updike knew his opening sentence would create many of these sensations on its own, but now he directs them towards us. He tells our histories to come alive and be remembered. And then once he has us, at least us knuckle dragging men, he then directs us to the football field. And now we’re all hooked on John Updike.

But was this giving permission in action? What does giving permission mean and how do you know if you’ve given yourself permission? These are questions I ask of my own writings. Am I giving enough?

First, how many grown men would write about the fragrance of young teenagers? How many would write past glancing references and delve into flirtations and implicit inviting crescents? In today’s pedophilia-phobic society? In 1960? Any way you cut it, John Updike explored emerging sexuality without inhibition — at least by 1960’s standards — and went so far as to publish his words. I think it is pretty clear he gave himself permission to explore and write about all facets of the human condition. And the more I read John Updike, the more I fall in love with his free pen. The more I read John Updike, the freer I feel with my own writing hand.

Write on!

The Boy Who Drank Coffee

April is over. PAD is finished. We are back on the regular Wednesday poem schedule at Robert Brewer’s place — Poetic Asides.

This morning’s prompt, “The Boy Who (blank),” put me off. I think it was the Peter and the Wolf imagery the prompt evokes. The last thing I see myself writing is about a mischievous young boy running through fields bored out of his skull and crying wolf. I get enough of these shenanigans at school. So I guess my mind went all gritty on me. I spent time yesterday on my novel and I thought about its setting and title on the way to school on the bus. It takes place in a coffee shop. I was drinking home-ground Brazilian coffee. I took a sip of it as I pondered the prompt. The Boy Who Drank Coffee
fell from the heavens onto my page. Fine, now what? Why would a young’un drink coffee anyway? Maybe he is emulating his father. I hear some impressionable kids do this, imitate their dads — he’s a drunk and a thief so why can’t I be one too? It’s the family business. Well dad drinks coffee every morning, so why can’t he? It makes his father feel good. Maybe it is the one spark in his otherwise dark and dreary day. And maybe the boy takes his response literally. Maybe he thinks it is all the coffee’s doing. Maybe if only he can drink coffee, his life will appear as glorious as his father’s words. Maybe.

The Boy Who Drank Coffee

Four milk and six sugar please
Yes, in addition to what you have already added
I cannot stomach the taste of this black gruel
But my daddy drinks it
And he smacks his lips every morning after that first big gulp
And he remarks what a glorious day it is
Even if it is raining or snowing
Or the sun is not yet up
Or the birds are not singing
And the only sound we hear from the cold kitchen is turnpike whining
So load it up with sugar and milk
I want to experience this fabulous world, for the life of me
I can otherwise not see.

My Signed Novels — [Can-Lit Warning!]

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authors, autographs, can-lit, novels, readings, signatures, signed

I don’t know anybody else that collects signed novels, and mine is hardly a collection. Fourteen is a loosing football score – -*update* I added a new one since I began writing this blog. Now it is a Canadian football score. It is not a particularly impressive collection, even if you are a fan of Canadian literature. Nothing rare. Nothing I will ever make money off of. These are not Babe Ruth signed books, this is Canadian Literature. *yawn*

I am a fan of Canadian literature, and in my opinion, we should all be fans of it. The books I read all seem to offer an insight into humanity I do not find elsewhere. I am sure they exist. But not like in Canada. Our little pond is full of big fat fish.

I will start off with my Newfoundland collection. I like Newfy authors. They are possibly the most honest people on the planet. When you read a Newfy author, you often get a deep look into your own soul. Isolation psychology?

> Every Little Thing by Chad Pelley

This is not my favorite book, but Chad might be my favorite author. He is a literature pusher. His now defunct blog Salty Ink has been a Can-lit stalwart, and he recently launched a new magazine in St. John’s called The Overcast, Newfoundland’s Arts and Culture Magazine. He has visited us in Saint John at least twice. I have eaten a meal and drank beer and coffee with him. Chad is a literary rock from The Rock, and I am proud to own a book signed by him.

> The Deception Of Livvy Higgs by Donna Morrissey

I enjoyed this book, but it is not on my top ten lists. I attended a workshop Donna ran while she was here, and it and her reading were amazing. Energetic and animated do not begin to describe Donna Morrissey, yet she combines her liveliness with such thoughtful insight. She is an introvert in and extrovert’s clothes. The perfect combination for a writer? A book to remind me that writing is hard work and needs our passion and energy. It motivates me to look at the back of this book.

> Finton Moon by Gerard Gallant

Gerard has stopped by at least twice. His tours seem to zig zag around Atlantic Canada. Newfs apparently get lost on the mainland. He also ran a workshop here, and I thought it really helped me understand some of my writing. I realized I tend to write to me, and that may not be a good thing; or it might be. Gerrard went to the same University as I did, Acadia, and I suppose we share a bond in it. Stand Up And Cheer, Gerrard. I was at Acadia at the same time as Russell Wangersky. I don’t have any signed Wangerskies, and I don’t remember or know him, but we feel like family to me. Ha. Next…

> The Colony Of Unrequited Dreams by Wayne Johnston
> The Son Of A Certain Woman also by Wayne Johnston

I carried Unrequited around for six months. I read it in the car while I waited for my wife after work. Five minutes here, twenty minutes there. It has that slept on the floor of the car lustre. Sorry Wayne, but it’s beat to shit now. I have yet to crack the other book, but I plan on it soon. My reading pile … piles are too high.

Wayne is the funniest reader I have ever listened to. Seriously, he could be a stand-up comic. He is dry and knows a good story. Wayne is an easy read (a compliment), so I should get at it. I also have a few other of his books I picked up but never got signed.

Now I move to the mainland’s authors.

> The Free World by David Bezmozgis

This story wasn’t the most exciting, but it was interesting. It is a peek into the life of 1970’s Russian Jews emigrating to Canada (and to the USA and Israel). This is historical fiction that should be read by all simply for its insights into this little written about aspect of our history. I think it has potential to be an important addition to historical literature. David was a fine reader and it was a big crowd, a very enjoyable evening. I am proud to own this book.

> Dogs At The Perimeter by Madeleine Thein

Madeleine has amazing control of the English language. I will admit I expected the stereotypical struggling Asian English. No. She puts everybody I’ve ever known or heard to shame. I sat and listened dumbfounded. Her character’s voice also jolted me. It was first person present tense — similar to the voice I was playing with for the novel I am now writing — and I noticed it jumped around from present to past to inside the character’s head. I immediately felt an affinity with the voice and I bought the book and chatted with her about the voices. She signed it “To John, in celebration of the beautiful present tense.” I cherish this book.

Dogs is an important book. There are very, very few novels about the Cambodian killing fields. This is not about them but about escaping them, coming to Canada, and returning to find the lost … names. People lost their names in those times. To keep one’s name was to associate with the enemies of the Khmer Rouge, to mark yourself as an enemy. The few who managed to flee came with an emptiness that Thein wields expertly and gnaws at you throughout the book. It is not a book about the torture but about rediscovery of self. It is powerful and moving. A very well written and important book.

> The Golden Mean by Annabel Lyon

I enjoyed Annabel’s reading and was intrigued by her background stories. She has studied Aristotle and this story is largely about her theory he suffered from bipolar disease.

I did not enjoy the book so much. I found it thematic with thin characterization and thinner plot. It was a worthy read. I now view thematic novels as something to avoid, yet I also try to write to strong themes. I think this book has helped convince me a strong plot is needed in a novel. I carry an opposition to MFA style stories, I think, and this book has played its part in me building this wall.

> Attack Of The Copula Spiders by Douglas Glover
> Savage Love also by Douglas Glover

Doug just finished a stint as the writer in residence at UNB in Fredericton, an hour and a half drive from me. I have emailed him too often, met him three times, and attended a workshop of his. He is MFA through and through, but even so, I was quite effected by his essays in Attack Of The Copula Spiders. This is perhaps the most important book I own. And I am not going to say anything more. Sorry. It’s one of those leading a horse to water scenarios. I am not going to try and make you drink, and don’t even ask to borrow my copy. I now look forward to reading Alice Munro and Ernest Hemingway short stories because of Doug. I now read much slower and more carefully because of Doug. I now read with a pencil because of Doug, I now write paragraphs like this one because of Doug. Nuff said?

I haven’t read his Savage Love yet. As I just stated, I am a slow reader, but it is in the queue behind about a hundred other books.

> The Town That Drowned by Riel Nason

Don’t tell Riel she is an inspiration for me. Of course any local author who gets published is, but she is more than that. She can also write. This is a very well written first novel. There is much in it working against my liking it — a young woman’s coming of age story, a literary bent, more of a young adult story, and I may be the only reader to ever not like the character Percy, but the story works. It really works.

I have heard her speak three or four times. We say hello to each other in the mall and we both smile. She congratulated me when I won second place in a local short story contest. You know? It’s great to have successful authors around you waiting to pat you on the back. It’s important. If I ever succeed at getting published, Riel will get a thank you from me.

> The Headmaster’s Wager by Vincent Lam

Vincent was an awesome reader. He is full of energy, wit, and well written words, and he was very engaging. Again I have not yet read his book, but it is creeping towards the top of the pile. It is another Asian story, Vietnam during the war. I think it is another important historical story.

> Road To The Stilt House by David Adams Richards

This is DAR country, yet I have only ever been in the same room as him three times. I have only every read one of his books. I am torn about whether I like his writing or not. On one hand he does so much wrong. “For Those Who Hunt The Wounded Down” read like a mentally challenged twelve year old wrote it, yet it was also captivating. His characterization is paramount.

I think hearing him read helped explain his voice. He reads emphatically. He almost shouts like he is tone deaf. He forces the words on you, and once he starts, he does not want to stop. Once he starts, you don’t want him to stop. When he reads his stories they sound true and clear, like a book you have to buy and read, yet when I read the same passages, I shake my head and wonder what I was thinking. Enigmatic to the core.

Anyway, he didn’t sign this for me. I found it in the stack of DAR novels for sale at Loyalist City Coins. I picked it up, saw his signature, and thought it was worth the $4 they were asking for it. *grin*

> Accusation by Catherine Bush

Another book I have not yet read. During her reading it became very apparent her story had lots of parallels to a story I was planning to write for NaNoWriMo 2013. That’s why I bought it. I got it signed just because I bought it and she was there. I cannot say anything good or bad about this book except it is small and easy to carry around. It is near the bottom of my to-read mountain.

> Carnival by Rawi Hage

Rawi blew me and everybody in the room away with his reading. When he finished there was absolute silence. He asked for questions, nobody moved, and he almost walked away. I told him afterwards it was because we were all stunned by his reading and he seemed confused, like I was joking. I joke not. He writes like a male Alice Munro. The images he created in my head were layered, grew with the tension of the chapter, and at the end exploded in street themes. I was not planning on buying this book or staying for a signature, but I couldn’t help it.

This reading was also not long after he battled on CBC’s Canada Reads with The Orenda. So he was up there in everybody’s mind. Just writing about this reading has moved it up near the top of my reading list. I think it might get read next. Alice, you’ll have to wait again. *grin*

Perhaps my most treasured signed book.

ADDENDA A

> The Name Of The Wind by Patrick Rothfuss

Pat Rothfuss visited us in early October 2013. He spent a day at our local university, UNBSJ, for an event called “One Campus One Book.” The school paid Pat a ridiculous amount of money to spend a full day at the school interacting with students who all received — and were expected to read — his book. Later that evening he spoke to The Lorenzo Society, the university’s author touring platform. And after that, Pat spent another hour or more on a patio bar discussing the publishing industry. He drank coffee and I drank beer. Yes, autumns in Canada are beautiful, mostly. Sometimes.

I was born in Wisconsin and it felt good talking with a homey, but honestly, his book didn’t do much for me and neither did he. I know he has a large fan base, and while I cannot speak negatively of him or his writing in any way, I am just not a fan. I cannot choose what or who I like.

> Child Of Change by Garry Kasparov

In 1988 I helped organize The World Chess Festival held in Saint John, New Brunswick, Canada. We hosted some 300 of the world’s top players and included a Candidates’ elimination round for the FIDE World Championships. I played several named players including Mikhail Tal who won the first World Blitz Championship. Kasparov came but didn’t play in any tournaments but the Blitz Championship. He put on a simultaneous exhibition and also sold and signed his new book.

ADDENDA B

> Light Lifting by Alexander MacLeod

I totally forgot about this book. I remember attending his reading, but I do not remember buying his book or getting him to sign it. I am glad I did. This year I read his father’s only novel “No Great Mischief” which is a must read for any Atlantic Canadian. I am going to try and find time to read it this year. Next year for sure. I have so many quality short story collections I want to read, and I read them so slowly 😦