Reading
Understanding Dick Francis
09/03/10 19:30
I finished Odds Against yesterday and came
away amazed, yet again, at Dick Francis' skill as a
writer. This is a great book and the climactic scene
between hero Sid Halley and the four villains is
absolutely, painfully, devastatingly effective.
It occurred to me, after I had read the final pages of the novel, that in all my years of being a Francis fan I have never actually heard the man's voice nor seen video of him. So I went to Google and checked him out. First, I found his own webpage (not surprisingly, www.dickfrancis.com) which is clean, clear and filled with interesting stuff, neatly presented. There are a couple of videotaped interviews on there but, unfortunately, nothing I saw in my brief perusal involved Francis in his prime: most were recent chats involving both Dick and his son Felix.
In one interview, however, Dick refers back to his worst riding moment, aboard a horse called Devon Loch in the Grand National steeplechase race at Aintree Racecourse in 1956. So I went to Youtube and found this:
It's a brief tribute to Francis shown on British television after his death and it shows the end of that race, which is the biggest steeplechase race of season (the Daytona 500 of British steeplechase racing, so to speak). Francis, a champion jockey at the time, is riding one of the co-favourites in the race, Devon Loch, which is owned by the Queen Mother. Francis and Devon Loch come off the last jump and the final turn with a five-length lead before devastation happens. It's amazing and painful to watch.
I watched that video several times with a pain in my stomach and I realised I had gained a little bit of an insight into how Francis, a man who otherwise led a charmed life, could make the pain his heroes feel (and they all have their own private torment) so real to the reader.
Then I looked further on Youtube and found a much less clear video of the entire race from 1956, my first viewing of an actual steeplechase race. It's just amazing to watch. Thirty or so horses start out and the pace is incredibly fast. Perhaps even more incredible, the race lasts almost seven minutes! I'm so used to watching horse races that last a minute or two but apparently steeplechases are much longer.
The experience has made me appreciate both Francis' achievements as a jockey and the action he describes in his books even more. I wish I had done this kind of research long ago.
It occurred to me, after I had read the final pages of the novel, that in all my years of being a Francis fan I have never actually heard the man's voice nor seen video of him. So I went to Google and checked him out. First, I found his own webpage (not surprisingly, www.dickfrancis.com) which is clean, clear and filled with interesting stuff, neatly presented. There are a couple of videotaped interviews on there but, unfortunately, nothing I saw in my brief perusal involved Francis in his prime: most were recent chats involving both Dick and his son Felix.
In one interview, however, Dick refers back to his worst riding moment, aboard a horse called Devon Loch in the Grand National steeplechase race at Aintree Racecourse in 1956. So I went to Youtube and found this:
It's a brief tribute to Francis shown on British television after his death and it shows the end of that race, which is the biggest steeplechase race of season (the Daytona 500 of British steeplechase racing, so to speak). Francis, a champion jockey at the time, is riding one of the co-favourites in the race, Devon Loch, which is owned by the Queen Mother. Francis and Devon Loch come off the last jump and the final turn with a five-length lead before devastation happens. It's amazing and painful to watch.
I watched that video several times with a pain in my stomach and I realised I had gained a little bit of an insight into how Francis, a man who otherwise led a charmed life, could make the pain his heroes feel (and they all have their own private torment) so real to the reader.
Then I looked further on Youtube and found a much less clear video of the entire race from 1956, my first viewing of an actual steeplechase race. It's just amazing to watch. Thirty or so horses start out and the pace is incredibly fast. Perhaps even more incredible, the race lasts almost seven minutes! I'm so used to watching horse races that last a minute or two but apparently steeplechases are much longer.
The experience has made me appreciate both Francis' achievements as a jockey and the action he describes in his books even more. I wish I had done this kind of research long ago.
Enter Sid Halley
07/03/10 19:21
I'm not sure if you can plan a better Sunday evening:
a great home-cooked dinner, a strong rye-and-ginger,
Chantal Kreviazuk on the CD player and the Oscars on
deck in about an hour. Life can be really good, even
as I approach the frightening age of 45.
Chantal is belting out the tunes on her break-out disc, Under These Rocks and Stones, with it lyrical repetitions of "green apples" and "cotton candy" throughout the album. Her two early hits, "Wayne" and "Surrounded", are stirring happy memories of our recent encounter with Kreviazuk at the Fredericton Playhouse in a spectacular concert.
I can't say I've seen many (if any) of the movies that are up for Academy Awards tonight but I still love the show. A couple of years ago, Patti and I caught the broadcast with about 300 other people at the Bloor Cinema in Toronto, probably my favourite mode of Oscar watching! Tonight I'm looking forward to Steve Martin as host. Should be fun.
Meanwhile, I've moved on to Dick Francis' fourth novel, 1965's Odds Against. For Kicks was as good as advertised, featuring DF's first really cruel villain, but was a little heavy on the self-justification by protagonist Daniel Roke. Odds Against is significant because it first introduces Sid Halley, arguably Francis' most successful, most complex and most interesting hero. It also features one of the most memorable, horrifying scenes he wrote but I'll tell you more about that when I get to it. I'm still only about 70 pages in so there's lots more to come.
Halley is an ex-jockey, a champion, who had to give it up when he lost the use of one hand in a messy steeplechase accident. Scarred, both inside and out, Halley slowly works himself out of a deep depression to discover he's actually pretty good at the detection business. Maybe, just maybe, life is worth living after all, even if the life of a champion jockey is forever lost to him.
In Odds Against, Francis flexes his creative muscles while keeping the action galloping along. Halley proved so popular, meanwhile, that Francis brought him back in at least one later novel (Whip Hand), something he resisted doing with almost every other hero he created (for some reason, I think one other hero made a second appearance but I can't remember which: we'll figure it all out as I keep reading).
Chantal is belting out the tunes on her break-out disc, Under These Rocks and Stones, with it lyrical repetitions of "green apples" and "cotton candy" throughout the album. Her two early hits, "Wayne" and "Surrounded", are stirring happy memories of our recent encounter with Kreviazuk at the Fredericton Playhouse in a spectacular concert.
I can't say I've seen many (if any) of the movies that are up for Academy Awards tonight but I still love the show. A couple of years ago, Patti and I caught the broadcast with about 300 other people at the Bloor Cinema in Toronto, probably my favourite mode of Oscar watching! Tonight I'm looking forward to Steve Martin as host. Should be fun.
Meanwhile, I've moved on to Dick Francis' fourth novel, 1965's Odds Against. For Kicks was as good as advertised, featuring DF's first really cruel villain, but was a little heavy on the self-justification by protagonist Daniel Roke. Odds Against is significant because it first introduces Sid Halley, arguably Francis' most successful, most complex and most interesting hero. It also features one of the most memorable, horrifying scenes he wrote but I'll tell you more about that when I get to it. I'm still only about 70 pages in so there's lots more to come.
Halley is an ex-jockey, a champion, who had to give it up when he lost the use of one hand in a messy steeplechase accident. Scarred, both inside and out, Halley slowly works himself out of a deep depression to discover he's actually pretty good at the detection business. Maybe, just maybe, life is worth living after all, even if the life of a champion jockey is forever lost to him.
In Odds Against, Francis flexes his creative muscles while keeping the action galloping along. Halley proved so popular, meanwhile, that Francis brought him back in at least one later novel (Whip Hand), something he resisted doing with almost every other hero he created (for some reason, I think one other hero made a second appearance but I can't remember which: we'll figure it all out as I keep reading).
Francis Delivers Excitement
02/03/10 06:49
It's now been a month since British thriller writer
Dick Francis passed away at age 89. In honour of his
death, I have decided to re-read his entire
collection of novels (more than 40 in total) from
first to last. Though I've read every one of them
before, often several times, I am trying this time to
read them more slowly and more thoroughly, to
appreciate the writing rather than simply getting
caught up in the action.
I'm now on the third novel, For Kicks, and I have to admit: I haven't been very successful on the whole slowing down bit.
Dead Cert, Francis' first novel published in 1962, blew me away. The first ten pages are practically perfect —Francis launches the book in the middle of an intense steeple chase, adds a mysterious and deadly fall, introduces evidence of nefarious deeds, then manages to leave our mild-mannered hero all on his own to sort things out — and the rest of the book gallops along unrelentingly from there.
I can't imagine a more perfect opening salvo for a thriller writer and am in awe that this was Francis' first attempt at writing a novel. Amazing. Effortless. Perfect.
His second novel, Nerve, is almost as good. With a more complicated plot, it suffers only from the fact that the main character solves the mystery early and much of the second half of the book focuses on his campaign to bring the villain to justice. Here, Francis introduces his life-long interest in the psychology of evil while continuing to set first-rate thrillers against the background of the British horse racing industry.
I read and re-read the first part of Dead Cert, just to get clear in my mind what impressed me about it, but then got caught up in the plot and raced through the rest of the book. It took me longer to get into Nerve, mainly because I had a strong recollection of the intense suffering the hero endures and simply couldn't face it, but, once I was hooked, the pages flew past.
I have now stepped into the third novel, For Kicks, and am, once again, trying to force myself to go slow. In this book, Francis introduces his first protagonist who is not actually a jockey. Daniel Roke, an Australian horse breeder, agrees to take on an investigation on behalf of the English racing authorities simply for a change of scenery, going undercover as a stable lad to look into a new kind of doping.
With For Kicks, Francis delivers his third straight "cracker" of a novel. I wonder when I'll come across a weak link in his chain of mysteries.
I'm now on the third novel, For Kicks, and I have to admit: I haven't been very successful on the whole slowing down bit.
Dead Cert, Francis' first novel published in 1962, blew me away. The first ten pages are practically perfect —Francis launches the book in the middle of an intense steeple chase, adds a mysterious and deadly fall, introduces evidence of nefarious deeds, then manages to leave our mild-mannered hero all on his own to sort things out — and the rest of the book gallops along unrelentingly from there.
I can't imagine a more perfect opening salvo for a thriller writer and am in awe that this was Francis' first attempt at writing a novel. Amazing. Effortless. Perfect.
His second novel, Nerve, is almost as good. With a more complicated plot, it suffers only from the fact that the main character solves the mystery early and much of the second half of the book focuses on his campaign to bring the villain to justice. Here, Francis introduces his life-long interest in the psychology of evil while continuing to set first-rate thrillers against the background of the British horse racing industry.
I read and re-read the first part of Dead Cert, just to get clear in my mind what impressed me about it, but then got caught up in the plot and raced through the rest of the book. It took me longer to get into Nerve, mainly because I had a strong recollection of the intense suffering the hero endures and simply couldn't face it, but, once I was hooked, the pages flew past.
I have now stepped into the third novel, For Kicks, and am, once again, trying to force myself to go slow. In this book, Francis introduces his first protagonist who is not actually a jockey. Daniel Roke, an Australian horse breeder, agrees to take on an investigation on behalf of the English racing authorities simply for a change of scenery, going undercover as a stable lad to look into a new kind of doping.
With For Kicks, Francis delivers his third straight "cracker" of a novel. I wonder when I'll come across a weak link in his chain of mysteries.
In Memory of Dick Francis
15/02/10 21:10
I was very sorry to read that one of my favourite
mystery authors of all time, Dick Francis, passed
away this past weekend. I have loved Francis' writing
for more than 20 years now and will miss him very
much.
I first encountered Francis' work in 1989 while working for a string of small newspapers in Southern Ontario. I had dropped by the local library, looking for something good to read, and ran into a colleague from a rival newspaper. We got to talking about our favourite writers. After chatting for about a half hour, we realised we'd been trying to sell each other on our own faves so we agreed to a trade: I'd read his two favourites (Francis and some early 20th-Century English comic writer) and he'd read two of mine (I think at that point it was Raymond Chandler and F. Scott Fitzgerald).
I never really found out what he thought of Chandler and Fitzgerald but his suggestions proved to be a hit and a miss with me. The hit? Dick Francis. Francis was something special. I was enthralled from the first page. I wish I could remember which novel it was that I read first but, to be honest, I can't. I tore through one, then a second, then a third. Before I knew it, I was reading them at a rate of about one every two days, gobbling them up as quickly as I could find them at the library. When I had run through the holdings of all three branches of the local library, I finally had to suck it up and go to used book stores to buy them. I still own every one of them in paperback and, a couple of years ago, I found an autographed hard-cover edition of Twice Shy in a used book store: a real treasure.
I've read each novel at least twice. They are simply wonderful mysteries.
Francis' career, itself, sounds a bit like a dream. In the first part of his life (the time immediately following the Second World War), he was a champion jump jockey, eventually riding the Queen Mother's horses in races all over England and Europe. When a significant fall knocked him out of competitive racing in the mid-1950s, he went to work for a newspaper, covering the racing scene. Success came quickly for him.
He wrote his first novel, Dead Cert, in 1962 and it was an instant hit. With the research and editing help of his wife, Francis went on to write a novel a year until the late 1990s and, if I remember correctly, he's written a total of 42 mystery novels in all.
Every one of them is a thrill ride. His heroes are average people, his stories all have some sort of a horse-racing angle to them and you always find you learn something from each book.
I can't name a favourite among the 42 but I can tell you that certain scenes and certain characters stand out strongly in my memory. And I'll never be able to hear the phrase "torpid stumblebum" without thinking of Dick Francis.
I'm planning to go back and re-read his novels from first to last, now that he's gone. It's the least I can do for a writer who has given me so many hours of enjoyment and who has earned my respect and admiration. Goodbye, Dick Francis; you will be missed.
I first encountered Francis' work in 1989 while working for a string of small newspapers in Southern Ontario. I had dropped by the local library, looking for something good to read, and ran into a colleague from a rival newspaper. We got to talking about our favourite writers. After chatting for about a half hour, we realised we'd been trying to sell each other on our own faves so we agreed to a trade: I'd read his two favourites (Francis and some early 20th-Century English comic writer) and he'd read two of mine (I think at that point it was Raymond Chandler and F. Scott Fitzgerald).
I never really found out what he thought of Chandler and Fitzgerald but his suggestions proved to be a hit and a miss with me. The hit? Dick Francis. Francis was something special. I was enthralled from the first page. I wish I could remember which novel it was that I read first but, to be honest, I can't. I tore through one, then a second, then a third. Before I knew it, I was reading them at a rate of about one every two days, gobbling them up as quickly as I could find them at the library. When I had run through the holdings of all three branches of the local library, I finally had to suck it up and go to used book stores to buy them. I still own every one of them in paperback and, a couple of years ago, I found an autographed hard-cover edition of Twice Shy in a used book store: a real treasure.
I've read each novel at least twice. They are simply wonderful mysteries.
Francis' career, itself, sounds a bit like a dream. In the first part of his life (the time immediately following the Second World War), he was a champion jump jockey, eventually riding the Queen Mother's horses in races all over England and Europe. When a significant fall knocked him out of competitive racing in the mid-1950s, he went to work for a newspaper, covering the racing scene. Success came quickly for him.
He wrote his first novel, Dead Cert, in 1962 and it was an instant hit. With the research and editing help of his wife, Francis went on to write a novel a year until the late 1990s and, if I remember correctly, he's written a total of 42 mystery novels in all.
Every one of them is a thrill ride. His heroes are average people, his stories all have some sort of a horse-racing angle to them and you always find you learn something from each book.
I can't name a favourite among the 42 but I can tell you that certain scenes and certain characters stand out strongly in my memory. And I'll never be able to hear the phrase "torpid stumblebum" without thinking of Dick Francis.
I'm planning to go back and re-read his novels from first to last, now that he's gone. It's the least I can do for a writer who has given me so many hours of enjoyment and who has earned my respect and admiration. Goodbye, Dick Francis; you will be missed.
Ten Days Later
30/01/10 20:22
Back from a great trip to Ottawa, exhausted but
happy. While in Ottawa, I not only attended a very
interesting course on alternative dispute resolution,
I also met some great people, got to spend time with
Mike, Elizabeth, Stephen, Isabelle and Edward, met up
with Rob, had meal after meal of fantastic food, went
through the fabulous National Gallery and even attend
the Kub Car races of my nephew's Scout Troop (and,
yes, Stephen won the entire competition for the
second year in a row!).
I got absolutely no writing done. Not a word. I feel like I was on a whirlwind the whole time I was there. I did read the first forty pages or so of Sue Grafton's T is for Trespass on the flight to our nation's capital but, quite frankly, it was so terrible I couldn't go on. I kept turning the page, waiting for something to happen, only to find more back story. Listen, Ms. Grafton, just about anyone who picks up T has already read A through S. We don't need to reread them all in capsule form. Get on with it.
So I put the book in my suitcase and never went back to it.
I had thought I might get the chance to work on Luke, my latest Phillip Gold novel, but I never even looked at it. That's not due to lack of interest (I'm quite looking forward to getting back to work on it); it's just that Ottawa kept me so busy!
I got back last night, enduring a rather windswept landing at Fredericton Airport along the way. After my first good night's sleep in a week, I spent some of the day today working on a Star-Trek-based workshop I'm facilitating later this week. I just love iMovie and iDVD, which make the whole task of creating multimedia so easy.
And it has occurred to me that, with February upon us, I have now left The Silent Goodbye sit on the shelf for more than a month. Pretty soon I'll be able to go back to it with a more objective eye to do the first major revision. That will be fun too!
I got absolutely no writing done. Not a word. I feel like I was on a whirlwind the whole time I was there. I did read the first forty pages or so of Sue Grafton's T is for Trespass on the flight to our nation's capital but, quite frankly, it was so terrible I couldn't go on. I kept turning the page, waiting for something to happen, only to find more back story. Listen, Ms. Grafton, just about anyone who picks up T has already read A through S. We don't need to reread them all in capsule form. Get on with it.
So I put the book in my suitcase and never went back to it.
I had thought I might get the chance to work on Luke, my latest Phillip Gold novel, but I never even looked at it. That's not due to lack of interest (I'm quite looking forward to getting back to work on it); it's just that Ottawa kept me so busy!
I got back last night, enduring a rather windswept landing at Fredericton Airport along the way. After my first good night's sleep in a week, I spent some of the day today working on a Star-Trek-based workshop I'm facilitating later this week. I just love iMovie and iDVD, which make the whole task of creating multimedia so easy.
And it has occurred to me that, with February upon us, I have now left The Silent Goodbye sit on the shelf for more than a month. Pretty soon I'll be able to go back to it with a more objective eye to do the first major revision. That will be fun too!
Apparation Confusion
13/01/10 18:55
Not much progress recently. I've kind of fallen into
a bit of a lethargic state on the creative work, with
my career work heating up and a number of extra
projects coming my way. It's not the worst thing in
the world, to be frank, but it certainly makes
creating a "Writer's Blog" a little more difficult.
On the reading side of things, I'm back into Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, this time trying very hard to read it slowly and thoroughly. I always find myself getting so caught up in the action that I whistle right through it so I am making a conscious effort this time to savour every word. And most of the words are worth savouring. I've noticed one significant issue, however, that I still can't figure out.
It has to do with Apparating, that process whereby a witch or wizard can transport themselves to another place simply by turning on the spot with a wand in their possession. In an earlier book, our crew takes apparating lessons. Hermione, as usual, does fine but Harry and Ron struggle. At the end of The Half-Blood Prince, Dumbledore has to help Harry apparate since Harry is still not good at it and does not have his apparating license. Once Dumbledore is rendered incapable by the potion in the cave, however, Harry is forced to do the apparating for both of them and he is successful.
What I don't understand is why, in The Deathly Hallows, sometimes Ron and Harry are capable of apparating on their own and at other times they have to have Hermione's help. For example, when they move from Grimauld Place to the Ministry of Magic to put their plan into action, Rowling is quite specific that Hermione first takes Ron and then comes back for Harry. It's possible I've missed something but I can't figure out this inconsistency.
I know. Those of you who haven't read The Deathly Hallows eleven times like I have probably don't care but it still stumps me.
With regard to Luke, my new Phillip Gold novel, I hope to use some upcoming business trips to Ottawa (during which I'll have some evenings alone in a hotel room) to get back to writing. I'll keep you posted on how that goes.
On the reading side of things, I'm back into Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, this time trying very hard to read it slowly and thoroughly. I always find myself getting so caught up in the action that I whistle right through it so I am making a conscious effort this time to savour every word. And most of the words are worth savouring. I've noticed one significant issue, however, that I still can't figure out.
It has to do with Apparating, that process whereby a witch or wizard can transport themselves to another place simply by turning on the spot with a wand in their possession. In an earlier book, our crew takes apparating lessons. Hermione, as usual, does fine but Harry and Ron struggle. At the end of The Half-Blood Prince, Dumbledore has to help Harry apparate since Harry is still not good at it and does not have his apparating license. Once Dumbledore is rendered incapable by the potion in the cave, however, Harry is forced to do the apparating for both of them and he is successful.
What I don't understand is why, in The Deathly Hallows, sometimes Ron and Harry are capable of apparating on their own and at other times they have to have Hermione's help. For example, when they move from Grimauld Place to the Ministry of Magic to put their plan into action, Rowling is quite specific that Hermione first takes Ron and then comes back for Harry. It's possible I've missed something but I can't figure out this inconsistency.
I know. Those of you who haven't read The Deathly Hallows eleven times like I have probably don't care but it still stumps me.
With regard to Luke, my new Phillip Gold novel, I hope to use some upcoming business trips to Ottawa (during which I'll have some evenings alone in a hotel room) to get back to writing. I'll keep you posted on how that goes.
Holiday Diversions
02/01/10 13:51
With snow coming down outside in one thick blanket
(we're expecting up to 35 cm by the end of Saturday),
today is a good day to curl up and do nothing. Not
that we've been doing much for the past couple of
days! Mostly reading and watching DVDs.
Patti borrowed a number of vids from the local library for the holidays and we've plowed through most of those. In honour of my commitment to reading all of Dickens, she picked up the BBC mini-series of David Copperfield (starring a very young, pre-Potter Daniel Radcliffe) as well as the recent theatrical film version of Nicholas Nickleby. We watched the first 90 minutes of the mini-series (the thing is more than 180 minutes in total) before giving it up as too depressing. Nickleby lasted only 20 minutes before we hit "Stop" and walked away. Maybe Dickens is better read than viewed.
As I was flipping among the various American college football bowl games yesterday, I noticed that Vision TV was showing all six hours of the BBC's version of Little Dorrit, the Dickens novel I am actually reading right now. Awful. Though it did seem to be a little more light-hearted than the others, it was still really bleak. I'm starting to reconsider my intention to read the whole Dickens oeuvre.
We have been watching the first season of Mad Men, the American TV show set in the 1960s, and are finding it a challenge. Yes, the racism, anti-semitism and misogyny so blatantly on display in the show are likely accurate representations of the time but they are very hard to watch. And I can't help but wonder if the decision to set the show during that time period and to focus on those kinds of behaviours (as well as smoking and drinking) isn't, itself, a form of backlash against the small progress we've made as a society towards inclusion and equity. Many have argued that the show represents a critique of such conservative, hate-filled attitudes (a la All In the Family) but I'm not so sure.
I'm happy to report, however, that the problematic aspects of the show seem to decline as the first season goes on while the plots develop in interesting ways and the characters and their relationships continue to be quite fascinating. The jury is still out but we still have six episodes of the first season to watch before drawing any conclusions.
I have enjoyed reading the two volumes of The Complete Peanuts I received for Christmas: 1971-72 and 1973-74. These two Peanuts volumes involve the introduction of both Marcie, the bespectacled little girl who calls Peppermint Patti "sir" all the time, and "Rerun", the baby brother of Lucy and Linus. As a result, I was concerned that, at this point in the comic strip's history, we might have reached the "jumping the shark" moment that plagues many a successful series (be it a TV program or a comic strip), when the writer runs out of ideas and the characters become mere caricatures of themselves.
I'm pleased to find that my fears were unfounded. In fact, I think I've laughed out loud more often with these two volumes than with any of the earlier books. And I'm finding it very interesting to see how Peanuts strips are reflective of their times. For example, in a February 1972 strip, Snoopy mentions Star Trek, the first time that iconic sci-fi show was ever mentioned in the Peanuts world. This is notable because the original series of Star Trek aired on television between 1966 and 1969 and passed unnoticed by Charles Schulz into oblivion. It was only when the show began to pick up speed in syndication that it became important enough a cultural force to make its way into Snoopy's world.
OK, so maybe I'm just pleased to see Star Trek make an appearance in Peanuts. Cool. I like to see my interests meld. Now all we need to have is Hermione refer to Spock and McCoy in the next Harry Potter film.
Patti borrowed a number of vids from the local library for the holidays and we've plowed through most of those. In honour of my commitment to reading all of Dickens, she picked up the BBC mini-series of David Copperfield (starring a very young, pre-Potter Daniel Radcliffe) as well as the recent theatrical film version of Nicholas Nickleby. We watched the first 90 minutes of the mini-series (the thing is more than 180 minutes in total) before giving it up as too depressing. Nickleby lasted only 20 minutes before we hit "Stop" and walked away. Maybe Dickens is better read than viewed.
As I was flipping among the various American college football bowl games yesterday, I noticed that Vision TV was showing all six hours of the BBC's version of Little Dorrit, the Dickens novel I am actually reading right now. Awful. Though it did seem to be a little more light-hearted than the others, it was still really bleak. I'm starting to reconsider my intention to read the whole Dickens oeuvre.
We have been watching the first season of Mad Men, the American TV show set in the 1960s, and are finding it a challenge. Yes, the racism, anti-semitism and misogyny so blatantly on display in the show are likely accurate representations of the time but they are very hard to watch. And I can't help but wonder if the decision to set the show during that time period and to focus on those kinds of behaviours (as well as smoking and drinking) isn't, itself, a form of backlash against the small progress we've made as a society towards inclusion and equity. Many have argued that the show represents a critique of such conservative, hate-filled attitudes (a la All In the Family) but I'm not so sure.
I'm happy to report, however, that the problematic aspects of the show seem to decline as the first season goes on while the plots develop in interesting ways and the characters and their relationships continue to be quite fascinating. The jury is still out but we still have six episodes of the first season to watch before drawing any conclusions.
I have enjoyed reading the two volumes of The Complete Peanuts I received for Christmas: 1971-72 and 1973-74. These two Peanuts volumes involve the introduction of both Marcie, the bespectacled little girl who calls Peppermint Patti "sir" all the time, and "Rerun", the baby brother of Lucy and Linus. As a result, I was concerned that, at this point in the comic strip's history, we might have reached the "jumping the shark" moment that plagues many a successful series (be it a TV program or a comic strip), when the writer runs out of ideas and the characters become mere caricatures of themselves.
I'm pleased to find that my fears were unfounded. In fact, I think I've laughed out loud more often with these two volumes than with any of the earlier books. And I'm finding it very interesting to see how Peanuts strips are reflective of their times. For example, in a February 1972 strip, Snoopy mentions Star Trek, the first time that iconic sci-fi show was ever mentioned in the Peanuts world. This is notable because the original series of Star Trek aired on television between 1966 and 1969 and passed unnoticed by Charles Schulz into oblivion. It was only when the show began to pick up speed in syndication that it became important enough a cultural force to make its way into Snoopy's world.
OK, so maybe I'm just pleased to see Star Trek make an appearance in Peanuts. Cool. I like to see my interests meld. Now all we need to have is Hermione refer to Spock and McCoy in the next Harry Potter film.
What the Dickens!
30/11/09 18:30
Last week, I turned on the TV to find nothing of note
on but a PBS presentation of what I thought to be a
fairly bizarre musical version of Charles Dickens'
A Tale of Two Cities. It wasn't a musical
like Oliver! but more a filming of a staged
version of an English-language opera. I found it
awful yet strangely compelling.
It also convinced me that I should go back and read the original novel, which I had not read since my undergraduate days in Hamilton. Figuring that Patti and I own about five million books (the residue of five university degrees in English literature and one in law), I was pretty confident we'd have a copy of A Tale of Two Cities somewhere in the house.
Sure enough, with a little bit of looking, I located one. A very small one. Our Macmillan's Pocket Classics edition of Dickens' classic (published in 1921) measures four and a half inches wide by five and three quarters inches high. In modern terms, it's about the size of an iPhone.
And the printing? Well, let me see. It's this big! For 402 tiny pages!
A challenge to read, if I do say so myself. I can't say I'm gobbling it up the way I do a Harry Potter book or a Dick Francis mystery but I'm really enjoying it. Dickens wrote in an era where time was taken to describe the scene and the people in it fully, to make broad philosophical points and to ponder the great mysteries of life. Dickens, in other words, got paid by the word.
So that's where I am right now. Reading Dickens and enjoying the rambling prose. And not doing any writing of my own.
It also convinced me that I should go back and read the original novel, which I had not read since my undergraduate days in Hamilton. Figuring that Patti and I own about five million books (the residue of five university degrees in English literature and one in law), I was pretty confident we'd have a copy of A Tale of Two Cities somewhere in the house.
Sure enough, with a little bit of looking, I located one. A very small one. Our Macmillan's Pocket Classics edition of Dickens' classic (published in 1921) measures four and a half inches wide by five and three quarters inches high. In modern terms, it's about the size of an iPhone.
And the printing? Well, let me see. It's this big! For 402 tiny pages!
A challenge to read, if I do say so myself. I can't say I'm gobbling it up the way I do a Harry Potter book or a Dick Francis mystery but I'm really enjoying it. Dickens wrote in an era where time was taken to describe the scene and the people in it fully, to make broad philosophical points and to ponder the great mysteries of life. Dickens, in other words, got paid by the word.
So that's where I am right now. Reading Dickens and enjoying the rambling prose. And not doing any writing of my own.
Time Out Continues
12/10/09 20:30
My extended break from writing continues. I don't
know what's behind it but I also don't seem to be too
interested in fighting it. As a result, I'm getting
nothing done.
I've taken up reading the Peanuts comic strips from start to finish. I have the first eight volumes of The Complete Peanuts in my book collection so I have finally taken it upon myself to read them through. I've always been a big Charlie Brown fan so this is a very nice way to appreciate the art and wit of Charles Schulz in a more concerted, comprehensive way. I'm only on the second volume right now but it's fun to watch as the now familiar characters take shape across the pages.
Phillip Gold remains on the back burner but much in my mind while Abigail Massey lingers as well. About the only writing I have been doing lately is an almost daily blog on sporting topics on the Fannation website associated with Sports Illustrated online. It's interesting to post a brief splash, say, on US college football and then watch as 10 or more people read it in the first half hour. Not that things continue at that pace for long: my most popular post has been read by all of 85 people. But it's kind of fun.
I have also added a temporary special section to this website. It's a page called "Buttons" (see top left) which offers a photo gallery of all kinds of different accessible door buttons and elevator buttons from around my place of work. We're planning a campaign to stop people from using these assistive devices if they don't need them; the more they're used, the sooner they wear out, the more often the accessibility of a particular building or room is compromised.
I like the photos, though, for some reason. So I thought I'd post them here for a while. Their presence on the web also gives our poster designers access to them without resorting to massive e-mails.
I will, I trust, be back in the courtroom with Philip soon; I'll let you know when that happens.
I've taken up reading the Peanuts comic strips from start to finish. I have the first eight volumes of The Complete Peanuts in my book collection so I have finally taken it upon myself to read them through. I've always been a big Charlie Brown fan so this is a very nice way to appreciate the art and wit of Charles Schulz in a more concerted, comprehensive way. I'm only on the second volume right now but it's fun to watch as the now familiar characters take shape across the pages.
Phillip Gold remains on the back burner but much in my mind while Abigail Massey lingers as well. About the only writing I have been doing lately is an almost daily blog on sporting topics on the Fannation website associated with Sports Illustrated online. It's interesting to post a brief splash, say, on US college football and then watch as 10 or more people read it in the first half hour. Not that things continue at that pace for long: my most popular post has been read by all of 85 people. But it's kind of fun.
I have also added a temporary special section to this website. It's a page called "Buttons" (see top left) which offers a photo gallery of all kinds of different accessible door buttons and elevator buttons from around my place of work. We're planning a campaign to stop people from using these assistive devices if they don't need them; the more they're used, the sooner they wear out, the more often the accessibility of a particular building or room is compromised.
I like the photos, though, for some reason. So I thought I'd post them here for a while. Their presence on the web also gives our poster designers access to them without resorting to massive e-mails.
I will, I trust, be back in the courtroom with Philip soon; I'll let you know when that happens.
Update on all the Stuff in My Life
26/07/09 10:56
I have to come clean: I haven't written any Phillip
Gold in three days. Okay, there, I said it. I
admitted my fault. Work has been extremely busy and
so has life in general. Add that the constant rain of
the past few weeks has finally broken out into
glorious sunshine (and the resulting golf game) and
you'll see why I haven't been able to get back to
The Silent Goodbye.
My subconscious has been working on it (or is that my unconscious?) and I expect to be able to get rolling again when I next sit down. Too many things have gotten in the way.
By way of update on other things, however, I still have not heard from the publisher about my Abigail Massey submission. I have also given up trying to figure out what that means: they don't review new submissions very often so they simply haven't taken a look at it; they have looked at it and rejected it but figure bad news can wait; they like it but it has to go through the channels for approvals before they contact me again.
I"ve heard all the possibilities and have no clue which is true. I don't want to give up but I'd feel a lot better if I had heard one way or another.
My vegetable garden is coming along surprisingly well. Although we have little critters that seem to go after certain plants, the whole garden plot (so brown and barren two months ago) is alive with varying shades of green. I even had to go out and do some heartless thinning to most of the rows of veggies but learned from the way the remaining plants suddenly exploded in growth thereafter that thinning is a good and kind thing for plants. No actual, edible vegetables yet but we're getting there.
With regard to backyard birds, I made the mistake of buying the really cheap seed and ended up, perhaps not surprisingly, with a yard filled with grackles, crows, doves and pigeons. I'm surprised the neighbours didn't come to complain. So I took the main feeder down and put it in the shed. Within two days, most of the undesirables had disappeared and, for the last two days, we've enjoyed the company of gold and purple finches as well as chipping sparrows and chicadees at our finch feeder. Much better. Lesson learned.
In the area of reading, well, I've gotten myself caught up in Harry Potter again. In preparation for the disappointing film that came out a couple of weeks ago, I re-read The Half-Blood Prince, then followed the natural course of things and read The Deathly Hallows. Now I'm whipping through the first three books, reading the novel and watching the movie in rapid succession to see the changes. I can't believe I never realised how different the ending of the first book was from that of the first movie: in the book, Harry's battle with Quirrell/Voldemort is killing both of them when Dumbledore intervenes to save Harry; in the movie, Harry is victorious over Quirrell but knocked out by Voldemort's escaping spirit and wakes in the Infirmary. Very different.
And, still on the video front, I am now watching the third season of Star Trek: The Original Series again. You can feel the change in quality from the opening moment. For one thing, Kirk and the rest have been allowed to grow their hair out from the military cuts of the first two seasons to hippie styles of the sixties. It just looks bad.
Anyway, that's the update. Off to the golf course now!
My subconscious has been working on it (or is that my unconscious?) and I expect to be able to get rolling again when I next sit down. Too many things have gotten in the way.
By way of update on other things, however, I still have not heard from the publisher about my Abigail Massey submission. I have also given up trying to figure out what that means: they don't review new submissions very often so they simply haven't taken a look at it; they have looked at it and rejected it but figure bad news can wait; they like it but it has to go through the channels for approvals before they contact me again.
I"ve heard all the possibilities and have no clue which is true. I don't want to give up but I'd feel a lot better if I had heard one way or another.
My vegetable garden is coming along surprisingly well. Although we have little critters that seem to go after certain plants, the whole garden plot (so brown and barren two months ago) is alive with varying shades of green. I even had to go out and do some heartless thinning to most of the rows of veggies but learned from the way the remaining plants suddenly exploded in growth thereafter that thinning is a good and kind thing for plants. No actual, edible vegetables yet but we're getting there.
With regard to backyard birds, I made the mistake of buying the really cheap seed and ended up, perhaps not surprisingly, with a yard filled with grackles, crows, doves and pigeons. I'm surprised the neighbours didn't come to complain. So I took the main feeder down and put it in the shed. Within two days, most of the undesirables had disappeared and, for the last two days, we've enjoyed the company of gold and purple finches as well as chipping sparrows and chicadees at our finch feeder. Much better. Lesson learned.
In the area of reading, well, I've gotten myself caught up in Harry Potter again. In preparation for the disappointing film that came out a couple of weeks ago, I re-read The Half-Blood Prince, then followed the natural course of things and read The Deathly Hallows. Now I'm whipping through the first three books, reading the novel and watching the movie in rapid succession to see the changes. I can't believe I never realised how different the ending of the first book was from that of the first movie: in the book, Harry's battle with Quirrell/Voldemort is killing both of them when Dumbledore intervenes to save Harry; in the movie, Harry is victorious over Quirrell but knocked out by Voldemort's escaping spirit and wakes in the Infirmary. Very different.
And, still on the video front, I am now watching the third season of Star Trek: The Original Series again. You can feel the change in quality from the opening moment. For one thing, Kirk and the rest have been allowed to grow their hair out from the military cuts of the first two seasons to hippie styles of the sixties. It just looks bad.
Anyway, that's the update. Off to the golf course now!
Home Again
30/05/09 08:20
I'm back home again after what turned out to be an
excellent conference in Halifax. A lot of good people
from across the country and some excellent
presentations.
I didn't get any writing done, however. Too much to do at the conference, too much to do in Halifax.
So I've come home exhausted and looking forward to a quiet (apparently rainy) weekend to recover in time to get back to the office on Monday.
I am still trying to think of ideas for an Abigail Massey novel. My visit to Halifax prompted me to wonder if perhaps that's the direction I should go: have Abigail and her pals go to 1943 Halifax for some reason, perhaps to greet a war brides ship or a hospital ship. I'd like to get them into Pier 21 since my mother's family arrived there about 10 years later and I find it an interesting and quite dramatic place.
As usual, I'm worried about the research but there does seem to be a massive amount of information on Halifax available so I hope it would not be too hard.
While in Halifax, I had the chance to see and hear both Lawrence Hill, highly respected author whose most recent novel, The Book of Negroes, was recently named winner of the Canada Reads competition for 2009, and Halifax poet and singer Shauntay Grant, a performance artist whose poem "Up Home" is now a highly successful children's book by the same title.
As any of you who have read this blog in the past will know, I was not overly impressed with one of Hill's earlier efforts — Some Great Thing. My review of that book appears in an earlier post. Hill in person, however, is exceptional. A warm and welcoming man, his presentation proved a wonderful kick off to the conference. And he read an abbreviated version of the first chapter of The Book of Negroes during that presentation, prompting me to go out and buy the novel. I've just started reading it and am very impressed.
Grant, on the other hand, closed the conference
with an energetic, passionate performance of several
of her poems, including "Up Home", a memoir of her
childhood in North Preston, one of several Black
communities in and around Halifax. Grant's
performance was entrancing and her poetry has a
lovely quality to it that I find hard to put into
words. I don't know if the book, Up Home, is
available widely across the country but it is worth
looking for. It's published by Nimbus Publishing in
Halifax and includes some truly spectacular artwork
by Halifax artist Susan Tooke, much of which was on
exhibition at the Nova Scotia Art Gallery when we
were there.
Meanwhile, my garden is showing very healthy rows of green now, all of which popped up while I was away. Exciting times!
I didn't get any writing done, however. Too much to do at the conference, too much to do in Halifax.
So I've come home exhausted and looking forward to a quiet (apparently rainy) weekend to recover in time to get back to the office on Monday.
I am still trying to think of ideas for an Abigail Massey novel. My visit to Halifax prompted me to wonder if perhaps that's the direction I should go: have Abigail and her pals go to 1943 Halifax for some reason, perhaps to greet a war brides ship or a hospital ship. I'd like to get them into Pier 21 since my mother's family arrived there about 10 years later and I find it an interesting and quite dramatic place.
As usual, I'm worried about the research but there does seem to be a massive amount of information on Halifax available so I hope it would not be too hard.
While in Halifax, I had the chance to see and hear both Lawrence Hill, highly respected author whose most recent novel, The Book of Negroes, was recently named winner of the Canada Reads competition for 2009, and Halifax poet and singer Shauntay Grant, a performance artist whose poem "Up Home" is now a highly successful children's book by the same title.
As any of you who have read this blog in the past will know, I was not overly impressed with one of Hill's earlier efforts — Some Great Thing. My review of that book appears in an earlier post. Hill in person, however, is exceptional. A warm and welcoming man, his presentation proved a wonderful kick off to the conference. And he read an abbreviated version of the first chapter of The Book of Negroes during that presentation, prompting me to go out and buy the novel. I've just started reading it and am very impressed.
Meanwhile, my garden is showing very healthy rows of green now, all of which popped up while I was away. Exciting times!
Tainted
04/04/09 21:33
I don't feel it would be appropriate for me to write
a formal review of the novel Tainted, by
Ross Pennie, which I have just finished reading. Ross
is a friend and I was lucky enough to have had the
chance to have some minor influence on this novel as
it was in its early draft stages. I'm afraid,
therefore, that any review I could attempt to write
would be hopelessly biased.
Let's just say I liked the book. Very much. And I was impressed with how much work Ross evidently put into it after it had passed through the hands of our writers' group. Ross has made significant changes since then and the book is the better for it. If I read Ross' Acknowledgment's correctly, Edna Barker was his editor at ECW and she has done a heck of a job, helping him make an already solid novel even better.
Instead of a review, I offer some of the very positive comments about Tainted that others, more influential than I, have made about it:
Best-selling author of medical thrillers Tess Gerritsen calls it "[f]ascinating and fast-paced" and adds later, "Ross Pennie knows how to weave real science with crackling suspense."
Publishers Weekly writes: "Pennie's mystery debut introduces a winning protagonist" in Dr. Zol Szabo.
And finally, the reviewer for the American Library Association says: "Pennie's novel is a taut and timely work of suspense." The same reviewer adds, "Pennie builds tension perfectly, grabbing readers from the first page and keeping them entranced," and calls Tainted "[M]ust reading for fans of Robin Cook and Peter Clement."
With those kinds of raves from the professional reviewers, who needs more kind words from writing hopefuls like myself? But I add my endorsement to their kind words: Tainted is an exciting read; I can't wait for the next Zol Szabo mystery to find its way into my waiting hands.
Let's just say I liked the book. Very much. And I was impressed with how much work Ross evidently put into it after it had passed through the hands of our writers' group. Ross has made significant changes since then and the book is the better for it. If I read Ross' Acknowledgment's correctly, Edna Barker was his editor at ECW and she has done a heck of a job, helping him make an already solid novel even better.
Instead of a review, I offer some of the very positive comments about Tainted that others, more influential than I, have made about it:
Best-selling author of medical thrillers Tess Gerritsen calls it "[f]ascinating and fast-paced" and adds later, "Ross Pennie knows how to weave real science with crackling suspense."
Publishers Weekly writes: "Pennie's mystery debut introduces a winning protagonist" in Dr. Zol Szabo.
And finally, the reviewer for the American Library Association says: "Pennie's novel is a taut and timely work of suspense." The same reviewer adds, "Pennie builds tension perfectly, grabbing readers from the first page and keeping them entranced," and calls Tainted "[M]ust reading for fans of Robin Cook and Peter Clement."
With those kinds of raves from the professional reviewers, who needs more kind words from writing hopefuls like myself? But I add my endorsement to their kind words: Tainted is an exciting read; I can't wait for the next Zol Szabo mystery to find its way into my waiting hands.
Some Great Thing? Not So Much
29/03/09 08:10
I'm back. A very difficult week away leaves me tired
and emotionally drained. Not the best circumstances
under which to try to do any writing but at least
I've been reading. I've just started Ross Pennie's
new medical mystery Tainted, which is great
so far, much better than my previous reading
expedition: Lawrence Hill's Some Great
Thing.
I have read and admired Hill's writing for some time, especially his non-fiction work on race relations (for want of a better term this early on a Sunday morning) in Canada. I have used an essay he wrote for Maclean's Magazine in training programs at work and am very much looking forward to obtaining a copy of his recent work, The Book of Negroes.
Published in 1992, Some Great Thing was probably Hill's first or second novel. I received it as a gift recently and, frankly, had never heard of it. Having read it now, I can see why.
This is no great book. In fact, the writing in it is surprisingly poor, in my opinion. The story of a young journalist of south asian background who returns to his hometown, Winnipeg, to take a job with the local daily newspaper and get reacquainted with his race-proud dad, Some Great Thing flounders around for a coherent story line from start to finish and, after failing to find one for 240 pages, simply stops. The characters are stereotypes of the worst kind and Hill literally tells us what to think rather than allowing us to develop our own understanding of the people and events of the book.
It's an early effort, no doubt, but Some Great Thing provides for me more evidence to prove my theory that often the writing itself does not matter in the decision of what gets published. If the subject matter is something the publishers feel will sell, they figure the reader won't know how bad the book is until after he has paid his money and taken the book home to read.
I have read and admired Hill's writing for some time, especially his non-fiction work on race relations (for want of a better term this early on a Sunday morning) in Canada. I have used an essay he wrote for Maclean's Magazine in training programs at work and am very much looking forward to obtaining a copy of his recent work, The Book of Negroes.
Published in 1992, Some Great Thing was probably Hill's first or second novel. I received it as a gift recently and, frankly, had never heard of it. Having read it now, I can see why.
This is no great book. In fact, the writing in it is surprisingly poor, in my opinion. The story of a young journalist of south asian background who returns to his hometown, Winnipeg, to take a job with the local daily newspaper and get reacquainted with his race-proud dad, Some Great Thing flounders around for a coherent story line from start to finish and, after failing to find one for 240 pages, simply stops. The characters are stereotypes of the worst kind and Hill literally tells us what to think rather than allowing us to develop our own understanding of the people and events of the book.
It's an early effort, no doubt, but Some Great Thing provides for me more evidence to prove my theory that often the writing itself does not matter in the decision of what gets published. If the subject matter is something the publishers feel will sell, they figure the reader won't know how bad the book is until after he has paid his money and taken the book home to read.