Wednesday, November 17, 2010
That's one way to get readers.
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
The New Yorker Short Story Review
"Birdsong" by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie
This story can be found online at http://www.newyorker.com/fiction/features/2010/09/20/100920fi_fiction_adichie?currentPage=1
This story is about a young lady who is dealing with the the pressures of life and those around her. It's also a story of her complete dissatisfaction with how she is treated by others. She starts happy and carefree with the way her life has turned out and ends completely dissatisfied with the consequences.
The author tells the story through a series of flashbacks that the first-person main character goes through while sitting in traffic. She is stared at by another woman in traffic, who brings up all the feelings of dissatisfaction in her life.
Through stories about her happiness with her married lover and how they bond over business and sports news and how he shows her birds in the trees at his home, she slowly sees the falsehood in what she thought was real. She sees how his driver doesn't respect her. How the waiter never addresses her. She feels powerless.
But the degree of self-worth she feels doesn't stop there. It is also reflected at work, where the woman are always expected to cut the cake, and are asked when they are going to be wed. She begins her own journey into the past to look at how real and satisfactory her life has been.
The story-telling through descriptions create imagery in the reader's mind.
"I stayed for thirteen months and eight days, mostly in his house in Victoria Island—a faded-white house, with its quiet grandeur and airy spaces, which was built during British colonial rule and sat in a compound full of fruit trees, the enclosing wall wreathed in creeping bougainvillea."
This story can be found online at http://www.newyorker.com/fiction/features/2010/09/20/100920fi_fiction_adichie?currentPage=1
This story is about a young lady who is dealing with the the pressures of life and those around her. It's also a story of her complete dissatisfaction with how she is treated by others. She starts happy and carefree with the way her life has turned out and ends completely dissatisfied with the consequences.
The author tells the story through a series of flashbacks that the first-person main character goes through while sitting in traffic. She is stared at by another woman in traffic, who brings up all the feelings of dissatisfaction in her life.
Through stories about her happiness with her married lover and how they bond over business and sports news and how he shows her birds in the trees at his home, she slowly sees the falsehood in what she thought was real. She sees how his driver doesn't respect her. How the waiter never addresses her. She feels powerless.
But the degree of self-worth she feels doesn't stop there. It is also reflected at work, where the woman are always expected to cut the cake, and are asked when they are going to be wed. She begins her own journey into the past to look at how real and satisfactory her life has been.
The story-telling through descriptions create imagery in the reader's mind.
"I stayed for thirteen months and eight days, mostly in his house in Victoria Island—a faded-white house, with its quiet grandeur and airy spaces, which was built during British colonial rule and sat in a compound full of fruit trees, the enclosing wall wreathed in creeping bougainvillea."
Sunday, November 7, 2010
"Ukrainian Mitts"
A Creative Writing Assignment on something familiar to you
My dad comes in from outside, the time is 10:34 pm. He smells of hard work in the garage, gasoline and dust. The familiar lined face looks a bit tired as he smiles at me.
His massive hands, often referred to as “Ukrainian mitts,” reach out and take hold of each of my shoulders. His hands are a dark brown, deeply lined rough skin that gets snagged on clothing and is never without a cut or a bruise. They are stained with the grease he works with everyday.
I am helpless between his two hands and try to squirm out of his grasp. He shakes me violently back and forth and then pulls me in for a bone crunching bear hug. I can barely breathe for a second or two, it’s like he has to show me how much he loves me by the strength of his hug.
The strong hands then tell me to straighten up by pulling my shoulders upwards. Pummelling my back he says that I’m “so tense!” as I squeal and scream because it is nothing like a relaxing massage, it is more of beating. But I still smile, as I try to give him a pounding back. It is to be expected that he would cause so much pain in a simple hug.
It is strange, this interaction between father and daughter. But it’s the only way we have ever embraced; as far back as I can remember. My father’s hands are like no one else’s, too strong for his own good. He isn’t a large man only average height and weight, but through his hands a sense of who he is can be found.
He is a carpenter by day and everything else man by night. He fixes things for everyone around him. From a broken bed frame to a leaky roof- he can do it. It never surprises me when I go outside and hear the sound of a drill or a mightier saw. It just tells me my dad is home. The puppy we got last year used to cower when he heard the sound of power tools but I noticed this summer he has grown accustomed to it.
The garage which houses all of these power tools reminds me of when I was younger. I would spend plenty of time playing on the blackened concrete, the smell of welding and engine oil filling my nostrils. I would watch my dad work, as he welded a trailer together I would know when to turn and look away, right as he slid the welding mask over his face.
I was used to the scratches and calluses that forever covered those working hands of his. I would turn them over and over in my own young, soft hands and tell him that he need to “moisturize”, of which he would reply that they would just get worn again with the next day’s work.
My dad comes in from outside, the time is 10:34 pm. He smells of hard work in the garage, gasoline and dust. The familiar lined face looks a bit tired as he smiles at me.
His massive hands, often referred to as “Ukrainian mitts,” reach out and take hold of each of my shoulders. His hands are a dark brown, deeply lined rough skin that gets snagged on clothing and is never without a cut or a bruise. They are stained with the grease he works with everyday.
I am helpless between his two hands and try to squirm out of his grasp. He shakes me violently back and forth and then pulls me in for a bone crunching bear hug. I can barely breathe for a second or two, it’s like he has to show me how much he loves me by the strength of his hug.
The strong hands then tell me to straighten up by pulling my shoulders upwards. Pummelling my back he says that I’m “so tense!” as I squeal and scream because it is nothing like a relaxing massage, it is more of beating. But I still smile, as I try to give him a pounding back. It is to be expected that he would cause so much pain in a simple hug.
It is strange, this interaction between father and daughter. But it’s the only way we have ever embraced; as far back as I can remember. My father’s hands are like no one else’s, too strong for his own good. He isn’t a large man only average height and weight, but through his hands a sense of who he is can be found.
He is a carpenter by day and everything else man by night. He fixes things for everyone around him. From a broken bed frame to a leaky roof- he can do it. It never surprises me when I go outside and hear the sound of a drill or a mightier saw. It just tells me my dad is home. The puppy we got last year used to cower when he heard the sound of power tools but I noticed this summer he has grown accustomed to it.
The garage which houses all of these power tools reminds me of when I was younger. I would spend plenty of time playing on the blackened concrete, the smell of welding and engine oil filling my nostrils. I would watch my dad work, as he welded a trailer together I would know when to turn and look away, right as he slid the welding mask over his face.
I was used to the scratches and calluses that forever covered those working hands of his. I would turn them over and over in my own young, soft hands and tell him that he need to “moisturize”, of which he would reply that they would just get worn again with the next day’s work.
Through Footless Halls of Air; The Stories of a few of the Many Who Failed to Return
By: Floyd Williston
I went to McNally Robinson today for a book reading and signing by Williston. I chose the book because I find the Second World War an interesting subject that you can never know enough about. My Granny and Grandad both served for the British Armed Forces in the Second World War. My Great-Grandfather received a Distinguished Cross from the Great War as a pilot when he and another comrade bombed a bridge the Kaiser were about to cross. Also it seemed fitting(apparently to McNally too) with Rememberance Day around the corner.
I have never been to a book reading so I wasn't sure what to expect.
When I came across the tiny table set up, spreads of newspapers covering it, and a small display of books I wasn't sure if I had the right day. But I introduced myself to the older Williston and I began talking to him and another fan, Harry McFee, author of a similar book to Williston's. But I'll get to what sort of book later.
The two were both quite elderly, and yet just as interesting. Williston is a author, journalist and historian. He has had many articles published in newpapers across Canada about Canadians in the Airforce. He was born in Nova Scotia but has lived in Winnipeg since '54. He was the youngest of sixteen brothers and sisters of which two of his brothers served and died in World War Two. Their stories are told in the book.
He has studied the Canadian young men that fought in some of the world's most horrific battles. His first book however chronicled the life of marathoner Johnny Miles, the first Nova Scotian to win the Boston Marathon twice. It was called "Johnny Miles, Nova Scotia's Marathon King." The book at the signing/reading to be discussed however takes a look, as the title describes, at the stories of young men in the Airforce that failed to return from operations in the Second World War.
In an excerpt from the introduction Williston says "I conciously set out to identify one or more airmen from each of the four Atlantic provinces who made the supreme sacrifice in the service of our country. There is a long list to choose from."
The second man who was perusing the table, and Mr. Williston, with me was Mcfee. He is also an author of a book called "We were Young and We Had Wings" also about the young men that fought for Canada in the Airforce. His two brothers served in the Second World War, one brother in the Airforce.
There was no reading from the book, but there was much discussion of it, and stories about the writing of it. The idea for the book was brought on by Williston finding the diaries of his two brothers after his parent's death. He also found an old postcard, addressed to him from one of them. It was touching to see the tiny blue diary and the old yellowed postcard. Along with the various newspaper clippings was a stack of old books that Williston used to research the stories. Some were barely still together, being held tight with scotch tape.
After buying a copy I read a few lines to get a feel of the book myself. The stories are based on fact and yet they are told in a poetic way that makes you forget that you are reading history. They truly are stories that come alive in the reader's mind.
One of them was about a lady who had her brother's story in the book. Williston always got the family to read what he had written. So he gave it to her to read it over. She was not happy with the tragic ending; it bothered her that her brother's death be shared in the book in that way. So he didn't include it. But when she died shortly after the book was published her sister read the book and thought that his story needed to be finished like the rest of the tales. In a later publication Williston included the ending.
He also related another story about a man who served in the Airforce and was gunned down. It was recorded in the books that he had been killed. He wrote the man's story in the book, and yet when the book came out and people began reading it he learned that he actually was alive and living in Australia. The edition I have has a tiny note that corrects this point.
He explained to me another interesting story about the painting for the cover. It was painted by Ivor Llyewellyn, a wireless operator in the Second World War. He was flying a plane that can be seen in the picture when a Lancaster beneath him was spotted by the enemy. When the search lights shine on you, your a dead man. So Llyewellyn tried to capture the terrifying moment in a painting. But the story doesn't end there, Williston tells me. Apparently after the war Llyewellyn was having terrible headaches that nothing could be done to help, psychiatrists, doctors; no one could help him. Meanwhile he started a new hobby; painting. One day he was ill with a headache and his wife told him to go to bed. Instead he jumped up and went to his new painting studio and the cover of "Through Footless Halls of Air" was born. Within half an hour his headache was gone. It was like the painting of the awful memory was imbedded in his mind and needed an out.
In all, it was a very enjoyable and informative 45 minutes I spent with the two gentlemen. I look forward to reading Williston's book, and maybe even move on to McFee's as well. Stay tuned for a full book review!
 |
| Floyd Williston, author of "Through Footless Halls of Air; The Stories of a Few of the Many Who Failed to Return" |
I went to McNally Robinson today for a book reading and signing by Williston. I chose the book because I find the Second World War an interesting subject that you can never know enough about. My Granny and Grandad both served for the British Armed Forces in the Second World War. My Great-Grandfather received a Distinguished Cross from the Great War as a pilot when he and another comrade bombed a bridge the Kaiser were about to cross. Also it seemed fitting(apparently to McNally too) with Rememberance Day around the corner.
I have never been to a book reading so I wasn't sure what to expect.
When I came across the tiny table set up, spreads of newspapers covering it, and a small display of books I wasn't sure if I had the right day. But I introduced myself to the older Williston and I began talking to him and another fan, Harry McFee, author of a similar book to Williston's. But I'll get to what sort of book later.
The two were both quite elderly, and yet just as interesting. Williston is a author, journalist and historian. He has had many articles published in newpapers across Canada about Canadians in the Airforce. He was born in Nova Scotia but has lived in Winnipeg since '54. He was the youngest of sixteen brothers and sisters of which two of his brothers served and died in World War Two. Their stories are told in the book.
He has studied the Canadian young men that fought in some of the world's most horrific battles. His first book however chronicled the life of marathoner Johnny Miles, the first Nova Scotian to win the Boston Marathon twice. It was called "Johnny Miles, Nova Scotia's Marathon King." The book at the signing/reading to be discussed however takes a look, as the title describes, at the stories of young men in the Airforce that failed to return from operations in the Second World War.
In an excerpt from the introduction Williston says "I conciously set out to identify one or more airmen from each of the four Atlantic provinces who made the supreme sacrifice in the service of our country. There is a long list to choose from."
The second man who was perusing the table, and Mr. Williston, with me was Mcfee. He is also an author of a book called "We were Young and We Had Wings" also about the young men that fought for Canada in the Airforce. His two brothers served in the Second World War, one brother in the Airforce.
 |
| Williston holding up a of pilot's logbook |
There was no reading from the book, but there was much discussion of it, and stories about the writing of it. The idea for the book was brought on by Williston finding the diaries of his two brothers after his parent's death. He also found an old postcard, addressed to him from one of them. It was touching to see the tiny blue diary and the old yellowed postcard. Along with the various newspaper clippings was a stack of old books that Williston used to research the stories. Some were barely still together, being held tight with scotch tape.
After buying a copy I read a few lines to get a feel of the book myself. The stories are based on fact and yet they are told in a poetic way that makes you forget that you are reading history. They truly are stories that come alive in the reader's mind.
One of them was about a lady who had her brother's story in the book. Williston always got the family to read what he had written. So he gave it to her to read it over. She was not happy with the tragic ending; it bothered her that her brother's death be shared in the book in that way. So he didn't include it. But when she died shortly after the book was published her sister read the book and thought that his story needed to be finished like the rest of the tales. In a later publication Williston included the ending.
He also related another story about a man who served in the Airforce and was gunned down. It was recorded in the books that he had been killed. He wrote the man's story in the book, and yet when the book came out and people began reading it he learned that he actually was alive and living in Australia. The edition I have has a tiny note that corrects this point.
He explained to me another interesting story about the painting for the cover. It was painted by Ivor Llyewellyn, a wireless operator in the Second World War. He was flying a plane that can be seen in the picture when a Lancaster beneath him was spotted by the enemy. When the search lights shine on you, your a dead man. So Llyewellyn tried to capture the terrifying moment in a painting. But the story doesn't end there, Williston tells me. Apparently after the war Llyewellyn was having terrible headaches that nothing could be done to help, psychiatrists, doctors; no one could help him. Meanwhile he started a new hobby; painting. One day he was ill with a headache and his wife told him to go to bed. Instead he jumped up and went to his new painting studio and the cover of "Through Footless Halls of Air" was born. Within half an hour his headache was gone. It was like the painting of the awful memory was imbedded in his mind and needed an out.
 |
| Center McFee, right Williston |
In all, it was a very enjoyable and informative 45 minutes I spent with the two gentlemen. I look forward to reading Williston's book, and maybe even move on to McFee's as well. Stay tuned for a full book review!
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
Saturday's tragedy
A 17-year-old is facing drunk driving charges from a crash on Bishop and St Marys. The Winnipeg Free Press reports a 19-year- old woman and a 17-year-old girl in the vehicle hit were both killed. Some charges the 17-year-old driver faces are "impaired driving causing death, impaired driving causing bodily harm, criminal negligence causing death and criminal negligence causing bodily harm."
Many Winnipeggers were shocked and disheartened to hear of this tragedy. It is something we preach about continually; drunk driving and its effects on victim's families and friends.
I myself was especially devastated to hear about this because of the chance that it could have been me or my friends, or loved ones in that car. We are constantly driving at that time of night. We always take precautions to have a sober driver, but that doesn't stop the others on the road from running a red and slamming into you, much like this crash on Saturday.
I think that the highly publicized consequences of this tragedy can help save a few more lives. Although some may argue that the publicizing of this event as an example to others takes away from the great sadness at the passing of these young woman, I would argue that it perhaps is what they would want.
Also publicizing the wrong choices of a young girl who, by Manitoba laws, is not of legal drinking age, can add a dose of immorality to the mix. If we make an example of her, are we not taking into account her maturity level? Or is it right to publicize and make an example of someone who is now facing a lifetime of regret? Or is it up to her to make that difference?
Sadly, drunk driving is still a huge issue among Manitobans. Perhaps this story will make a few more people say "keys please" or call a cab for a friend. I for one was definitely affected by this story. It was not only terrifying but it was real. It could happen to anyone you know or love.
Many Winnipeggers were shocked and disheartened to hear of this tragedy. It is something we preach about continually; drunk driving and its effects on victim's families and friends.
I myself was especially devastated to hear about this because of the chance that it could have been me or my friends, or loved ones in that car. We are constantly driving at that time of night. We always take precautions to have a sober driver, but that doesn't stop the others on the road from running a red and slamming into you, much like this crash on Saturday.
I think that the highly publicized consequences of this tragedy can help save a few more lives. Although some may argue that the publicizing of this event as an example to others takes away from the great sadness at the passing of these young woman, I would argue that it perhaps is what they would want.
Also publicizing the wrong choices of a young girl who, by Manitoba laws, is not of legal drinking age, can add a dose of immorality to the mix. If we make an example of her, are we not taking into account her maturity level? Or is it right to publicize and make an example of someone who is now facing a lifetime of regret? Or is it up to her to make that difference?
Sadly, drunk driving is still a huge issue among Manitobans. Perhaps this story will make a few more people say "keys please" or call a cab for a friend. I for one was definitely affected by this story. It was not only terrifying but it was real. It could happen to anyone you know or love.
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