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Mr. Wordwise answers your literary questions, both large and small-minded, in his erratically posted column here at Bookninja. Mr. Wordwise can be reached by email at mrww@bookninja.com. Mr. Wordwise mostly does not do house calls. |
| DEAR MR. WORDWISE: I like to go to literary readings for the free food and drinks,
but I don’t actually like the readings part. All those readers
sound like they’re channelling sine waves. My question is
this: is it acceptable for me to go to readings but miss the actual
reading part? —TOASTED IN TORONTO I’d suggest not being late at all, since the poets will have wiped clean every glass of wine and cold cut before the reading commences. You should go early, at least 15 minutes before the invitation time and shovel down the edibles. Then you borrow a copy of the author’s book from someone who was actually stupid enough to buy it, wait until the author is surrounded by his friends or family and establish eye contact with him and gesture as though to say, “You’re way too popular! I can’t even get a minute alone with you so you can sign the copy of your book for which I paid $36.49!” By making eye contact, the launched author tacitly agrees to attend your stupid book launch. At this point, you disappear. Your predicament reminds me of the launch of my fourth novel, The Reindeer Huddler, at Uncle Wordwise’s Seafood Buffet and Banquet Hall. A platter of bad oyster shooters early in the evening resulted in a large outbreak of doubled-ended evacuation midway through my 35-minute reading from the passage of my novel during which the protagonist Torvald, the tubercular cellist, dreams of becoming an antlered being as three naked Inuit women swaddle him in Hudson Bay Company blankets. At some point it became a psychological phenomenon: the sea of syrupy crap and vomit within proximity of caviar and my hallucinogenic combination of English and demotic Norwegian incited puking from even those whose who had only been picking on Grandma Wordwise’s Beet Salad. Sadly, the sales to and critical reception of The Reindeer Huddler mirrored my poorly planned event. In this country, I fear that every fourth reader that dies is being replaced by a salsa-dancing enthusiast. DEAR MR. WORDWISE: DEAR VIRILE: Finally, a question worth my trouble answering. I am sorry to be the first one to tell you this, but too much of literary culture pinwheels around the “personality” behind the book. You know, the halogen beam-gaze, quarter-smiling young progeny of a coupling between a boat-person turned model and an octogenarian newspaper baron. The lifestyles columnist whose roman-a-clef threatens to overturn the despicable, exfoliated underbelly of the day spa business. The eccentric male novelist who sleeps in a treehouse and who writes his 800-page novels, longhand, on discarded holiday giftwrap. When promoting my work, I’ve often been taken out for dinner—have you tried Indonesian food; holy shit—only to feel compelled to announce, sometime before the bill arrives: “I’m sorry, but I don’t sleep with women within ten years of my age.” Or: “I thought you were taking me out to dinner just to lavish praise on my work and the contours of my thighs—no strings attached. I’m flattered, but I don’t sleep with men.” Loud, angry denials and accusations often ensue, so I suggest you leave the restaurant first and wear footwear you feel comfortable running in. One way to avoid this type of embarrassing misunderstanding is to change your jacket bio to resemble a Casual Encounters personal ad. You may use my Writers’ Union bio as your template: “Dashell Wordwise is the author of eleven books, including the novel The Reindeer Huddler and the memoir Nightsweat in Muskoka. Born near a berry patch outside of Antigonish and shortlisted for numerous prizes, Wordwise is looking for midnight encounters with discreet, elegant, feminine, non-smoking women: curvy, but in the right places.” DEAR MR. WORDWISE: I recently finished a manuscript called The Butter Churner, a pioneer incest saga about turn of the 20th century Dutch immigrants in which the butter churner serves as the main metaphor for a family’s perception of time and loss. A friend of mine, who is a published writer, sent the novel to her editor. A few weeks ago, this editor replied with a terse, hurried note explaining to me that while my butter-churner metaphor was “unique” and “interesting,” he told me he was interested in younger, “urban” writers. Being the only person in a very small rural community who has blinding white Da Vinci veneers and gets regular Botox treatments, I am definitely “youngish-looking,” but not so urban. For my next novel, what sort of themes or topics should I look for?—“REFRESHED” IN RURAL MANITOBA DEAR “REFRESHED”: The pressure to remain a youthful-looking and beautiful Canadian fiction writer has resulted in drastic and ill-advised measures on the part of many—including yours truly. In the past few years, the constraints of my girdle have affected, considerably, my lung capacity at writers’ festival readings. Also, be careful to read the side effects of any medication you might be taking to restore, ahem, one’s youthful vigour. Believe me, it’s not just slightly embarrassing to show up at a book launch in the middle of a four-hour erection. I think Peter C. Newman noticed. I share your own confusion over what is meant by “urban” fiction. Having done my research and reading on “urban” culture, leafing through issues of The Source and Vibe, and watching three episodes of the David Chapel show and a Will Smith movie, I think the problem with Canadian fiction is that, indeed, not only is it not “urban” enough, but more specifically, there isn’t enough braggadacio. CanLit is far too depressing and its writers far too self-deprecating. Why aren’t there more stories about young Canadian writers riding in their Escalades, drinking Cristal and watching Scarface on the DVD player in the back seat? As they say on the street, Canadian fiction needs a good “pimping out.” DEAR READERS: The forum I have with you is sacrosant, and normally I avoid bringing
my own interests into this column. Unfortunately, the rate at which
my work—including this column—is produced has been sorely
diminished by the recent, abrupt departure of my intern, Drenka.
Without giving notice, Drenka has left me to pursue some “modelling”
opportunities with a guy who lives in a basement with windows covered
by tinfoil. It was partly my fault for taking her on without conducting
the proper due diligence. It turned out that while she was actually
the woman pictured on her Slavic Love Bride web page, she misled
me by claiming a “working knowledge of English.”Certainly
I was expecting her not to be able to understand the explicit e-mails
and voice messages I sent to her cell phone when was she out with
my credit card. If I knew that she was be able to understand expressions
like “priapic ardour” and “quivering tumescence”
or to gain access to a computer Please circulate this posting, then, c/o Bookninja.com: “Mature, accomplished, upper-midlist Canadian novelist and
columnist seeking an intern for light secretarial tasks and provocative
bending. Small honourium paid for bus fare, Chardonnays, and work
undergarments. Looking for a woman between 18 and 24. Complete inability
to read or write
Kevin Chong was born in Hong Kong and raised in Vancouver, where he attended the University of British Columbia. He received his MFA from Columbia University in New York City, and is the author of Baroque-a-Nova. He currently lives in Vancouver and is writing a second novel.
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