shortest month short stories

Might as well read short stories in February. Obviously, not only short stories; I’d never stick to that. But I’ll read a short story a day and write 140 character reviews of them here (likely gathering a few together and posting every few days). Because I like arbitrary rules and boundaries:

  1. only stories I haven’t read before;
  2. each story by unique author.

So I’ll scan my shelves, grab short story collections and anthologies, and go from there. We’ll see what I find. I have two big textbook Short Stories of The English Language so if I run out of books, I’ll just jump into dead white male land and read a bunch from there.

And send me short stories you think I should read too! As long as I don’t have to, you know, expend effort myself to find a copy of them 🙂

January 2015

I read:

Thoughts:

  • The Book of Strange New Things by Michel Faber: Reviewed earlier this month.
  • Katamari Volume 1 by Alex Culang and Raynato Castro: Reviewed earlier this month.
  • Notes of a Native Son by James Baldwin: I found the personal essays far more affecting than theory ones, but the theory essays on race are definitely not at a 101 level, which is where I am at. Thus a good reminder to me not to expect people to only be writing for me as an audience. I am not the most important person, nor the audience for everything.
  • Turn Us Again by Charlotte R. Mendel: One time I read an article about fake book awards (it’s not this article, but similar). Turn Us Again had an award sticker on the front, and I know this is going to sound so mean, but after reading the book, I couldn’t help wondering if the award was some sort of vanity book award. The main character ends up being a repugnant apologist for domestic violence and the whole thing sours.
  • Siberiak by Jenny Jaeckel: Reviewed earlier this month.
  • Bang Crunch by Neil Smith: Sometimes (like let’s say two bullet points above), I get angry with bad books and I think Why am I not getting published and I get all ggrrrrrrr. Then I read books that are much better than my writing and think “Ohhhhh, so this is why I don’t get published.” This book is of the second category.
  • Double Trouble by Jenny Dale: Ugggg, one of those kid books where girls like pink and boys like blue and everyone is always helpful and pleasant and possibly this book is a shill for the veterinary industry with such riveting discussion as:

    [regarding the missing dogs]

    “If only they’d been identi-chipped.”

    “What’s that?” asked Chris.

    “It’s a way of keeping track of your dog,” Neil explained.

    “You can insert a tiny microchip, about the size of a grain of rice, under their skin,” his father added. “If the dog is found by anyone, a scanner can be run over the chip and it will identify the dog.”

    Plus the book was relocalised for the US, even though they are in the UK, so all these British kids using American words (soccer rather than football, cell phone rather than mobile), everything spelled the American way. I hated every second of it.

    Tesfa, however, was enthralled.

  • 20 000 Leagues under the Sea by Jules Verne: If I ever need a book that in no way whatsoever passes the Bechdel test, here I am. I don’t even think there are any women, let alone named ones in the entire book.
  • History of Loneliness by John Boyne: Reviewed earlier this month.
  • Cosmo by Spencer Gordon: Some of the stories were from a female point of view! I’m always chuffed (to steal a word ridiculed in one of Spencer’s stories) when a man writes stories from a female’s perspective and doesn’t just barricade to the white twenties upper-middle class male cave. Plus, I am going to call him Spencer because I have exchanged a few emails with him (he is the editor of The Puritan which published my story Darién Gap) so I am going to take it that we are on a first name basis. He also wrote a story about adult entertainment in the book, and one of my emails to him, I talked about there is an adult entertainer with the same first and last name as me. I have no idea when Spencer wrote the adult entertainment story, but I’m going to take credit for the inspiration anyway.
  • The Bone Clocks by David Mitchell: Good then not so good (psychosteric chapter), then all right again, but not as good as the beginning was. I had been hoping I would fall into the story and wrap it around me like a blanket, but I didn’t. I read it and returned it to the library and now I’ll forget about it.
  • A Spy Among Friends by Ben MacIntyre: Dull until Elliott is going to visit Philby to get him to confess, although the dullness might be because I already knew a lot of the information before that point. I would have liked more about the actual debriefing of Philby by Elliott.
  • Beautiful Darkness by Fabien Vehlmann and Kerascoët: Creepy, in a good way and not a good way. Uncomfortable. I think I would have liked it more had I known going in that it was supposed to be awful. For some reason, I thought it was a kids’ book. It is most definitely NOT a kids’ book.
  • The School for Good and Evil by Soman Chainani: Tesfa loves this book so much and I just loathe it, with its muddled story and lessons. For a story that wants to break open the good/evil dichotomy, it sure relies on a lot of nasty tropes (pretty = good, ugly = evil, etc.). I also hate things where they use “fat” as a pejorative term, which this book does in spades. I want to take the setting and rewrite my own, feminist, good vs evil tale for Tesfa instead.
  • Women of Karantina by Nael Eltoukhy: Reviewed earlier this month.



Favourite book of the month:

It’s sad. I didn’t have one five out of five book this month. I did have two four and a half’s, this and Cosmo, but this makes me worry that either I am picking lousy books or I have lost the ability to enjoy life.



Most promising book I put on my wishlist:

I mean, how could I not?



I watched:

    Bletchley Circle: This show is so unintentionally silly. I would never have watched it if it were American, but somehow I can handle it when they all have UK accents. I’m sure that’s some sort of ingrained classist colonial brainwashery.

  • Bojack Horseman Christmas Special: Only took me until January to watch the Christmas special.
  • Pitch Perfect: I’m glad that when they had two black women in the Bellas, right away they got rid of one because two black women, that’s just too confusing. Also, I loved that they won after they abandoned the idea of singing only songs by women and switched to straight up songs by men. The message there, ahhh, inspiring.

    End sarcasm.

    I did, however, actually love Fat Amy’s reasoning for her name though.

  • Wet Hot American Summer: Totally don’t get the love for this movie.
  • The Slap: It’s like Heartbreak High, but all grown up! Still as vitriolic as the book, but somehow more palpatable as a TV show. Of course, since this is TV, they were very rude about extended breastfeeding, and the whole plot about Connie’s dad being bisexual seems to have vanished. But, the show did teach me that everything in Australia seems so close to the road, like with no sidewalks. Every time a character opened a door to go outside, I worried they were going to get hit by a car. Also Australians seem to have very dirty doors and busy wallpaper if this show is anything to go by; I’m going to assume saltwater ruins paint jobs and the ugly wallpaper thing is just a difference in taste?
  • The Fall: There’s a part in the second season when Spector says what sort of sicko are you for watching this and Stella later denigrates people who get their thrills from watching violent shows (like The Fall) and I was like joke’s on you, I’m only half watching while I do other work, so take that critique of violence in media! Less sexualized violence than in Season One due to Season Two’s plotline.
  • Steins;Gate: I watch in background while I sew or clean dishes and don’t really pay attention, but I’m thinking it isn’t a show you have to pay that much attention to. Just because it’s about time travel, it isn’t Primer-intricate or anything.



I wrote:

Nothing. Tesfa didn’t go back to school until January 7th and there were three snow days this month. Plus, I gave up writing for January to do all the things I’d been procrastinating from doing:

  • replace all the garage and outdoor lights,
  • get new toilet seat,
  • take off the broken screen door,
  • sew tea towels,
  • make soap,
  • redesign this website here,
  • find a sports bra that fit properly (trying to find bras in 30FF is not a fun experience),
  • sew a Snuggie (it’s white! I look like a member of a doomsday cult!), and
  • I did a lot of miscellaneous baking and cleaning.

So that was January writing. February writing: get a collection of short stories ready to send out (i.e. put them in one file, print them out, proofread them, then send them out and wait for the crickets of not-even-worth-a-rejection-letter coming in). Ditto faerie story.

Review of Women of Karantina by Nael Eltoukhy

Until Women of Karantina, I haven’t had much luck in Arabic literature. Granted, having read only two books originally published in Arabic (In Praise of Hatred and Girls of Riyahd), that’s hardly a statistical sampling. So now, with book three that I have read from Arabic, I can proclaim Women of Karantina to be the best book translated from Arabic I have read (to the best of my knowledge – maybe I read another book translated from Arabic when I was a kid but the fact that I don’t remember it, even if I did read one, likely says it wasn’t very good).

Reading, I kept being reminded of something. It took a good third of the way through the book for me to figure it out. Women of Karantina was reminding me of One Hundred Years of Solitude. Both have a family, although in Women of Karantina, some members are bonded by blood, others bonded by proximity. They have exploits, wild, crazy, revolving exploits, in Alexandria, whirling up and pulling more and more people in, like being swept down a drain or swept up in a sandstorm. The whole thing is a folly, the silliness and the megalomania and the scheming and the treachery and every plan failing and succeeding marvelously at the same time. Is it as polished and magical as One Hundred Years of Solitude? No, but it comes close.

Once he told his Mama that he felt like a zero before the decimal, like something worthless.

(Oh Hamada, sometimes I feel like that too.) But, with the above quote, we can see how Women of Karantina isn’t as accomplished as One Hundred Years of Solitude; do we really need that added phrase “like something worthless”? That’s understood. Trust your readers to figure it out. There are also repetitions of certain phrases, characters changing personalities and tastes on a whim, a narrator that is sometimes a bit too intrusive for eir own good, and background about Alexandria dumped into the story when I would rather get back to the story of the main characters, not learn about how Alexandria once tried to ban tobacco and hookahs. We have dreams (but that’s clearly an issue I have no one else, since every book I read people talk about their dreams) as shortcuts for character development, and the cheap trick of someone’s friend turning out to be dum dum dum a figment of his imagination. Plus the use of faggot for virtually every insult. Oh my goodness, you have all of Arabic at your disposal, switch up the insults (or at least, drop the homophobic one for something else). So almost magical, but not quite.

As to the translation, my knowledge of Arabic hovers an epsilon away from zero, but often the verb tense didn’t fit. There’s a lot of the omniscient narrator using (and I had to look this up) present continuous in the story, i.e. “We are still in the early days of Spring” and “Inji and Ali are now satisfied that their path is secure.” Each time it happened, I was pushed out of the story. Perhaps this is how the present tense works in Arabic (come on Duolingo people, let’s get working on an Arabic course for me) and the translator wanted to keep the feeling of a tale originally spun in Arabic? I don’t know. It stuck out.

Still, for all my whinging in the last few paragraphs, I enjoyed Women of Karantina. Awful people doing awful things to each other, but still, it earns my smile.

Women of Karantina by Nael Eltoukhy went on sale January 15, 2015.

I received a copy free from Netgalley in exchange for an honest review.

almost a month of Finnegan’s Wake

Remember back in 2003 or so, when spam messages were random words strung together. I guess spam filters have gotten wise to those types of messages, since I haven’t seen one like it in ages. But you used to scan through one occasionally, while bored or procrastinating, and wonder if maybe it did make sense, but you couldn’t say how.

I think if you ran Finnegan’s Wake through a spam filter, it would mark it as spam, like those random word string messages. I have no idea what is happening. I seem to be in some sort of play-without-characters section. Or maybe it’s the Bible.

In any case, wise words from Finnegan: “All the world loves a big gleaming jelly.”

Otherwise, to steal some creative spelling, I deespare.

no one has gotten my memo on dreams

Because I keep reading books where they talk about dreams.

Dreams are boring. Want proof? Here are some of my most interesting dreams:

  • waiting for a bus at Baseline Station in Ottawa;
  • going to the superbox at the end of the street to get the mail;
  • putting a book on hold at the library through the library website.

Yes, I had a dream about sitting at my computer and going to the library website. Let’s see someone make an interesting story out of that. Except you can’t — because it was a dream and all dreams are, by definition, boring!

a song making perfect sense for a Thursday

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Cr3E6mNRxHU

Geoff: I heard you singing a song this morning and thought Wow, Meghan must be in a good mood if she’s singing a song, only to find out you’re singing a song about killing children.

Me: And it’s Thursday, so it doesn’t really make much sense for me to be singing this song either.

Geoff: I’m more concerned about the child murder than the day of the week you’re singing this song on.

going in blind

I got the new David Mitchell out of the library, without reading the inside cover blurb, without having read any reviews. So I have no idea what is going to happen or what the plot is or anything. It’s different, letting go of expectations. There are little clocks up on the top. Only one page twenty so I don’t know what they’re for, but I like them. It makes me smile, little round clocks going round and round and round and round.

Review of A History of Loneliness by John Boyne

I’m not sure how I should write about A History of Loneliness by John Boyne. It’s a book that made me want to throw my kobo against the wall. I think that’s what Boyne wanted, for people to be angry about sexual abuse within the Catholic church, but my anger at this book wasn’t for that; my anger at this book was for how glossy it was. My anger at this book was for how insensitive Father Odran Yates, the protagonist, is. My anger at this book is just all encompassing and I want to stop reviewing and never have to think of it again. Every comment I made in the (electronic) margins on my kobo is caustic and rude and I am going to try and smooth them out and hopefully not give into the nauseated feeling in my stomach.

So we have a priest, Father Odran Yates. He is a good priest, feels the calling of God, enjoys his priesthood. There’s some unnecessary intrigue when he’s sent to the Vatican and is embroiled in the deaths of Pope John Paul I and whoever was before Pope John Paul I (my Catholic family members are pretty embarrassed for me right now, not knowing who came before Pope John Paul I). The novel suggests that Pope John Paul I was going to do something about some nascent scandal within the Irish Catholic church, which the reader assumes to be the rampant sexual abuse, and hints that Pope John Paul I was murdered for this. The novel then becomes quite scathing against Pope John Paul I’s successor, Pope John Paul II. Less hints this time: That man hates women. Direct quote. There’s also some unnecessary back story about Yates’ brother who drowned and Yates’ widowed sister with dementia that could be excised completely without much fuss, although I suppose it’s meant to counter the argument that people with lousy upbringings will do lousy things, like rape children. Because Yates had a lousy upbringing and still managed to keep his penis to himself.

Back to Father Odran Yates, who, for the most part, is upset regarding the unrestrained sexual abuse by priests because it makes him look bad. It means people don’t respect him on the Luas. It means men are angry with him in coffee shops. It means that he grows tired of having a chaperone when he talks to his altar boys. For something like eighty percent of the novel, Yates does not seem to understand that this is not about him. People are rightly angry because of the years of abuse perpetrated by the church. He has no compassion for the victims of sexual abuse, instead painting himself as the true victim in all this. This infuriates me. I am incensed. It’s taken me hours to write this review because I get so angry and I have to walk away. I suppose he comes around when he realizes that his friend, another priest, sexually assaulted Odran’s nephew (which he then makes about himself, visiting the nephew even though the nephew has cut off all contact with Yates, because Yates needs the nephew to absolve him. Yep, back to what Yates needs rather than what anyone else does), but for a priest who goes on and on about how this is his true calling, he seems to have no ability for humility and no compassion. No Matthew 9:36 (Seeing the people, He felt compassion for them, because they were distressed and dispirited like sheep without a shepherd) for Yates. This is all about him. The book ends with Yates realizing he must have known about other abuses, but chose to look away. The End. No self reflection or anything about this. Just stop.

Ignoring the repugnance of the plot, the writing is all right. Not spectacular, and I’m still biased towards spectacular Irish writing after my time with Frank O’Connor earlier this winter. It’s really slick, the writing. It’s not uncomfortable the way it should be to reflect the content. I know that seems like an odd criticism, that the writing is too smooth for the context, but I can think of no other way to put it. Facile maybe? I know people are going to connect with this book and it’ll likely sell millions of copies (the author also wrote The Boy in the Striped Pajamas), but there’s no depth. It’s like a puddle rather than a sea.

You want some amazing writing about Ireland: read Frank O’Connor. You want a meaningful fictitious book on sexual abuse within the Catholic church: read The Bishop’s Man by Linden MacIntyre instead.

A History of Loneliness by John Boyne went on sale September 11, 2014.

I received a copy free from Netgalley in exchange for an honest review.

I have gotten to the poetry part

At least Joyce didn’t italicize and indent it like Tolkien and like I’m going to do now or I would have probably ignored it.

If you met on the binge a poor acheseyeld from Ailing when the tune of his tremble shook shimmy on shin, while his countrary raged in the weak of his wailing, like a rugilant pugilant Lyon O’Lynn; if he maundered in misliness, plaining his plight or, played fox and lice, pricking and dropping hips teeth, or wringing his handcuffs for peace, the blind blighter, praying Dieuf and Domb Nostrums foh thomethinks to eath; if he weapt while he leapt and guffalled quith a quhimper, made cold blood a blue mundy and no bones without flech, taking kiss, kake or kick with a suck, sigh or simper, a diffle to larn and a dibble to lech; if the fain shinner pegged you to shave his immartial, wee skillmustered shoul with his oo, hoodoodoo! broking wind that to wiles, woemaid sin he was partial, we don’t think Jones, we’d care to this evening, would you?

Don’t ask me what it means. Maybe if they still do recitation and memory work at school, I’ll have Tesfa memorize it and say it aloud just to piss off her teachers.