The Decline and Fall of Western Civilization

So I was walking through the lunch room at work on Wednesday, and sitting on one of the tables was the Living section of the Toronto Star. The entire front page of the section, even below the fold, was taken up by colourful photos and sketches of pretty girls wearing short skirts, and the articles were all about how short skirts are the new big thing this year. The entire front page of a section was taken up by this revelation. No wonder people don’t buy the fucking newspaper anymore.

#7 – The Pale Horseman, by Bernard Cornwell

Cornwell was already a veteran when he wrote The Last Kingdom, so there was no real danger of The Pale Horseman displaying any trace of a freshman slump. I’m pleased to say that he did not disappoint. Uhtred is again the narrator, but instead of focusing on his life with the Danes, The Pale Horseman shifts back to England and introduces Alfred and his political maneuverings in a more serious way. (Also his stomach problems, most likely colitis, a condition that I’m well aware is difficult to cope with nowadays, never mind in the ninth century.) It’s often easy to fall into the trap of thinking that people in the distant past, due to their lack of technological advancement or their ideas about the natural and social orders, were somehow less intelligent, less sophisticated than we are today. This idea is sadly reinforced by a lot of popular media, particularly… Continue Reading

#6 – The Last Kingdom, by Bernard Cornwell

No doubt we’ve all had moments in our lives when we think “wow, I really should have listened to my father on that one.” As far as books are concerned, my biggest such moment was when I finally sat down to read Patrick O’Brian’s Aubrey/Maturin series. I had been putting them off for years despite my father pushing them at me, and as a result I spent a long time in the dark when I could have been reading perhaps the best historical fiction ever written. My father didn’t raise any fools, though, so having learned my lesson about Patrick O’Brian, when he (my father) sent me a box full of Bernard Cornwell’s novels a while back, I put them in my stack, in the special spot I reserve for books that will allow me to blow off a little steam and have some fun. My father’s taste in historical… Continue Reading

#5 – Man’s Search for Meaning, by Viktor E. Frankl

When I was in high school I worked in the kitchen of a fast food restaurant. I was happier at that job than at any other job I’ve ever had. I worked with some of my best friends, and we had fun. It wasn’t a hugely demanding job, but it was more challenging than it looks. They weren’t the kind of challenges that I’d look for in a job today, but at the time they were enough. I was happy there, but not fulfilled. The job wasn’t what brought meaning to my life. Happiness, as Frankl correctly asserts, is not everything. It’s not even the most important thing. That’s not something we like to hear in this day and age, but I have no doubt that it’s true, and many of us need to hear it. I’ve been putting off writing this for a long time. I finished reading Man’s… Continue Reading

In the Hope of Saving Me

They had never been lovers, were barely friends, and he could count on one hand the number of times they had touched. He still felt deep in his bones, and lightly across his skin and hair, every one of those moments. If he closed his eyes, he could relive them all. The first time, when he had said or done something, he couldn’t exactly remember what, her eyes had lit up the way he imagined newborn stars would, the change from dark indifference to the powerful, blazing expression of life and attentiveness so abrupt and affecting that it was, paradoxically, almost imperceptible. She had reached out to him, impulsively, and given him one of the light embraces with which young girls so often express unexpected pleasure, careless of their potential force and investing in them, or so they think, only transient meaning. That first time was for him still the… Continue Reading

Silence, Bad Poetry, Etc.

I have not fallen from the face of the earth, nor am I somehow stuck on Man’s Search for Meaning. I’ve actually read four books since then, and am nearly finished with the fifth. I’m just having some trouble writing the review (and I’ve kind of started playing World of Warcraft). It will be up soon, I promise, along with the other belated reviews (and for the record, I’m currently reading The Taker, by Rubem Fonesca). This post is just to let you know that I’m still alive and about as well as I ever am, and that I love sonnets, and have decide to write some. And they will be terrible. Don’t worry, I won’t inflict them on you. I was thinking about the books that I lost in the flood this summer. The one I miss the most isn’t the Emily Dickinson or the China Miéville or even… Continue Reading

#4 – Not Quite Dead, by John MacLachlan Gray

I must say, Not Quite Dead was absolutely the weakest of John MacLachlan Gray’s three historical novels. There’s two major flaws with the book. Well, okay, before I get started on the two major flaws, I should point out there are lots of things I liked about the book, and I’d be interested in seeing more books featuring some of these characters (Inspector Shadduck in particular), but these are not the things that stuck with me about this book. So the two big things: first, the plot was complicated and slow. Complicated and slow, while fine in any number of other books, is not a quality that I look for when selecting a mystery/thriller. The complexity of the plot (or perhaps, seeming complexity) is mostly the result of having too many characters and differing points of view for a book this short to assimilate. It jumps all over the place,… Continue Reading

Even If It Were A Dog, It Certainly Wouldn’t Be Shaggy

With several stories out there in the hands of editors waiting for acceptance or rejection (including one I spent six years writing) I find that my biggest problem isn’t anxiety, it’s figuring out how to write “and then I woke up” (or similar) a third of the way through the story I’m working on now without my readers thinking everything so far was just a dream. I’m horrified that the exact right phrase I need is a goddamn cliché. It’s things like this that drive writers to drink. That, and spending six years trying to get a ten page story just right.

Wooden Fish Update

Well, it’s official: I’ve decided to relaunch Wooden Fish. All that’s up right now is a placeholder until I figure out the specifics of how I’m going to organize it, how I’ll accept submissions, the new look, and so on. Hopefully the more important bits will be figured out in the next week or two, though I think that it could be several months until it launches officially with its first issue. Any and all queries regarding Wooden Fish can and should be directed to august@woodenfish.ca. Thanks for your time, your input, and your support!

A Beautiful Day in the Neighbourhood

It’s not very literary, but I couldn’t resist passing this on. These last seven months or so have been extremely hard on me personally, and today was among the harder days. I’ve had a tough time believing in the existence of genuinely good people. Fred Rogers was a hero of mine when I was a small child (I wrote to him once, and he sent me back a signed photo that I still have somewhere), and I’m glad to see that he was the man we all thought he was. This made my day a little better.