The Christmas Chronicles

If one more person tells me "Just four more weeks!" I may be forced to do something rash. Like start weeping uncontrollably. Or barking frantically. Or running around in circles like Will Ferrell in Elf.

It's not like I haven't done any shopping yet. I went to Narnia Farms on Johnson Street in Victoria and bought an assortment of lovely soaps and candles and jams and jellies. I love all those things, of course, but it also helps that one of my brothers runs the organic herb farm in Smithers that supplies all of Narnia's herbs.

Obviously, as we're getting close to Christmas, this is not the time to start making jokes about our family's (read: my three brothers') long and illustrious history with herbs. In the seventies, when my older brother was still a teenager and had taken to wearing ankle boots with a big heel and drastic sideburns, his interest in cultivation resulted a few heated family conferences at the end of which several spindly herbal specimens were ritually incinerated and he was forbidden from driving his muscle car for a week.

My older brother's penchant for gardening didn't last, but in the nineties another brother, I'm not saying which, took up the torch, as it were. That resulted in a rather embarrassing incident in which the family name was splashed all over the front of the local newspaper as he became the newest casualty on the war on herbs. Yes, one of my brothers failed to thrive in B.C.'s "other economy". The overheated police report made it sound as though the local detachment had taken down Scarface. The report breathlessly detailed "weapons" seized in the raid, which was undertaken by at least seven officers and which scored almost that many plants. The "weapons" were a pair of nun-chucks bought when the brother in question was twelve years old. The sticks resulted in several sets of badly bruised knuckles and had been retired to an old drawer with the a set of badly bent hockey cards. Look out Columbian Drug Cartel! Here comes the competition! Careful or he might accidentally bonk himself in the head with a nun-chuck while getting a hockey card to put in the spoke of your bike, just to really irritate you.

The "bust" resulted in many more heated family meetings during which the brother in question had to agree to give up a life of crime due to a lack of aptitude. Anyway, I'm not going to get into all that, since it's less than four weeks until Christmas. Let's just say that I was very proud to walk into the retail outlet and buy legitimate herb products produced by one of my brothers. Because, when you think about it, that's what Christmas is all about...

Shame on me?

From the Mail Room
(aka My Inbox)

Hello there,

Introducing the AMAZING erectile lengthener! Add inches! Call to order now! Be ALL you can be.

Response:
Thanks, but I think my "erectile", as you so charmingly put it, is long enough.

All the best,

Susan



Dear Miss Juby,

[Rest of letter blanked out due to somewhat inappropriate content]

Response:
Dear XXX,

Thanks for your letter. I'm glad you enjoyed the talk I gave at your school and I appreciate your invitation. One question: do I look like Mary Kay Letourneau to you? No. That's right. I don't. Young man, if I may say so, I think you've been reading way too much Melvin Burgess.

Susan



Hello,

I want to let Susan Juby know that all that cussing in Miss Smithers is unnessarry.Why did she feel compelled to use the g-word so oftern???Why.
I am a junior high school Librarian, I do pre read many books this one would have been fine except that is has so much cussing and well sex.So I will not pull it but I will not push it.
Good money down the drain.
Keep away from the bad stuff honey the kids have enough going on in their lives that YOU do not need to make a statement.
Miss Smithers is 15 and up.
Shame on you.

Eileen

Response:
Dear Eileen,

You will notice that I've changed your name. That's partly because I didn't want to embarrass you. Also, I'm not entirely convinced you really are a librarian. If so, you're the first one I've met who is unable to spell "necessary". I thought that was one of the first things they taught at library school. You know: "Books and librarians are necessary for a free and democratic society."

I'd like to thank you for your letter. Let's assume that you are indeed a librarian and not just some imposter. I can tell that you care about your job and the young people you serve. Unfortunately, leaving aside for a moment the rather egregious spelling and grammatical problems in your letter, there are a few flaws in your reasoning. Let's break it down.

"Keep away from the bad stuff honey the kids have enough stuff going on in their lives that YOU do not need to make a statement."

Damn! I wasn't aware that I was making a statement. I was actually writing dialogue that fit the characters. A few of the characters in Miss Smithers swear quite a lot, if rather mildly. They are a) a biker chick working in a motorcycle repair shop and b) a retired logger from northern British Columbia. I see by your return email address that you reside in California. I presume that certain people in your part of the world also indulge in the odd cuss word. Those people might include Hollywood directors, all drivers in Los Angeles, gang members (Crips, Bloods and an organization called the Chingalings that I learned about recently on the Discovery Channel) and perhaps, your new governor (if the rumors are correct).

Word choice, or diction, is part of how one creates realistic characters. For instance, your decision to use the word "honey" in a letter like the one you sent me says quite a lot about you, whether you intended it to or not. It says that you are either a very friendly and warm person or, more likely given the ending of your letter, kind of condescending.

Your assumption that putting swear words in a book is somehow part of a "statement" on my part suggests that you believe that a writer's first priority is to write messages. Actually, I had some of my characters swear because that's how some people talk and also, let's face it, because it's funny. My book is a comedy. I'm not quite sure you got that.

This brings me to the crumbling crux of your argument: (feel free to stop reading now if you are just pretending to be a librarian!) Kids have enough going on in their lives without having to deal with swearing. Come on, Eileen (yes, the Dexy's Midnight Runners echo is intentional. Why do you think I renamed you Eileen?) Do you really think swearing is one of the most difficult things kids have to cope with? Is swearing even in the top ten?

Here are a few other things teenagers (and all of us) have to deal with: war, poverty, sexual and physical abuse, global warming, environmental destruction, consumerism, greed, violence, substance abuse, racism, depression... By your logic no one should write about such things because young people already have enough to deal with. No teenagers should read that they are not alone with their problems. So much for books offering solace and a sense of identification.

I have to say Eileen, I do hope that you've been as diligent about writing letters to some of the perpetrators of the horrors listed above as you have to writers who use "cuss words." I think Halliburton and a whole host of other corporate polluters and developers could all benefit from a good scolding and a loud cry of "shame on you".

When I was growing up swearing was not only not an issue for me--it was an outlet. To be quite honest, I still enjoy a bit of swearing now and then. Swearing helps me to deal with some of the really shitty things in life. I particularly like swear words when they are spelled and employed correctly.

Which brings me to my final point. Whether you are a librarian or just someone posing as a librarian, you are clearly a fan of the written word. As I'm sure you know, an important component of effective communication is the ability to write clearly and with authority. (This is a lesson the erectile letter writer has obviously learned!) Correct spelling and syntax are essential. I won't belabor the point. All I'm saying is shud we worry about the langwage kidds are exposed to or shud we worry that they are being taught by langwage by people who dont know how to use it themselvespeople who fokus on a few to oftern cuss words when the wurld around ussis fallling apart? Sorry! Just kidding! I couldn't resist.

I'd like to close by leaving you with one of my favorite quotes by Clare Booth Luces: "Censorship, like charity, should begin at home; but unlike charity, it should end there."

Thanks again for your letter.

Susan

P.S. I almost forgot, even though you suggest that Miss Smithers is full of sex, the entire point of the novel is that the character doesn't have sex (even though she very much wants to.) If you are dying to know what happens, tune in for book three, Alice MacLeod: Realist at Last, available this spring!

The Saddest Graphic Design Project

Here's the set-up:

It was a dark and stormy night. No, really. It was. At least it was quite dark. My mother was visiting. She and James and I were sitting around the kitchen table. James and I had spent the day in Vancouver at his graduation from the CMA. After a long day listening to speeches by approximately 250 shiny, freshly-minted new accountants we were fatigued.

10:00 p.m.
Mom says goodnight. She heads off to the studio, which is where guest sleep at our house. It is also where Frank sleeps. It's sort of like a very elaborate, two-story dog house/writing workshop.

10:02 p.m.
Mother comes rushing into the house.

"He's gone!" she says.

"Who?" we ask.

"Frank!"

We immediately begin running around like under-medicated epileptics doing bad meth at a disco that is on fire. James runs to look on the deck. Mom looks under the couch. (In the house. Into which Frank is not allowed.) I run to the studio and rip back the curtain in the shower. Maybe he's hiding in the bed! I tear up the sheets. I throw open the cupboard. Nothing.

Cries of "Frank!" "Scally!" sound from every direction.

Still nothing.

Frank is gone.


10:07 p.m.
Mother worriedly stands at the front door as James and I get on our shoes and begin to search the yard and neighborhood.

Where can he be? He's never run away before. He's one of those dogs who is never out of our sight. If he's not in the studio, he's on the deck. He wouldn't have gone and left all his squeaky toys behind! It's like the beginning of a Without a Trace episode. Somebody call Anthony LaPaglia and Poppy Montgomery!

10:15 p.m.
Frank is not in the yard. He is not crouching in the patch of St. John's wort where he likes to "do his business". James has a flashlight and is walking along the road, looking down the steep bank toward the lake. I am walking the other side of the road, wearing my headlamp.

"Frank!" "Frank!" we cry.

Mother is patrolling the deck.

"Frank!" "Frank!" she cries.

Nothing.

10:30 p.m.
James and I arrive back at the house. We have an argument.

"I told you not to let him out by himself."

"But he's always been okay before."

"Yes, but there's always the first time."

"This is not the time for I told you so."

"Yes, but I told you so."

We are interrupted by mother.

"I'm so sorry I let him out," she says.

"It wasn't your fault. I told you it was okay."

"I'm going to go drive around," says James.

"I'm going to call all the local vets and the pound."


12:30 a.m.
James has driven through every street in the North End. I have called every vet in Nanaimo. No one has received a white and brown dog.

Finally, I get through to the person in charge of the pound.

"What happens to dogs who get hit?" I ask, dreading the answer will be that they get stuffed into garbage bags and dumped in secret locations in New Jersey.

"People bring them to us," says the kind-voiced man.

"But he doesn't wander. Ever."

"It's getting close to Halloween. People are setting off firecrackers. Lots of dogs can't handle that. I'll let you know if I hear anything."

2:00 a.m.
After another couple of fights (we are becoming like that couple in the Lovely Bones, only much, much more into blaming)we accept that we can't do anything else. I design 30 missing dog posters to put up in the morning. Mom and I burst into tears every time we see Frank's abandoned squeakies lying on the floor of the studio.

Mother goes for a sleepless night in the studio. I lay on the couch where I can see Frank's mat on the deck outside. James goes for another drive around the neighborhood. I fall asleep, only to be woken by dreams of Frank lying broken in the ditch or being tortured by proto-serial killers with horrible pathologies.

5:45 a.m.
I get dressed. It's still black as dead dogs in garbage bags outside, but I can't stay still anymore.

5:50 a.m.
As I'm putting my coat on I am startled by a cry. It's mom.

"He's back!"

Doors fly open. James emerges from the bedroom, fully dressed. I fly out the door. Mom greets us on the deck between the studio and the house. At her side is a rather embarrassed-looking Frank.

He is not wet. Or dirty. And does not appear to have been experimented upon.

Mother is in tears. I am in tears. James wouldn't like me to say he was in tears so I won't.

We all scold Frank and give him many biscuits.

"Where have you been, you little turd?"

"Do you know what you put us through tonight?"

Gradually, we calm down and all go back to bed, leaving the posters of Scally on the table. Best we can tell, he heard a firecracker and hid so far under the deck that we couldn't see him with the flashlight.

He has lost privileges, is grounded, no longer allowed on the deck without supervision and cannot go to the washroom without a pass. But he's home. Thank god.

Finding My Religion

The Reverend Billy and the Church of Stop Shopping
http://www.revbilly.com

Prizes! Come and Get Your Literary Prizes!

No. Not really. I have no prizes. (And if you're wondering what happened with the Name Miss Smithers for the U.K. Market competition, sponsored by yours truly, the U.K. publisher actually chose their own name. I thought all your entries were great. But sometimes great just isn't good enough. Sigh.

The headline for this blog entry is a reference to Lynn Coady's awesomely funny take on the Giller and the Governor General's Awards in this week's issue of The Tyee. http://www.thetyee.ca/Entertainment/current/BookKillers.htm

Now please excuse me while I try and think up some "Giller bait" for my next novel.

Lowlights in Conversation

I recently had my hair done and the colourist put a "slice" of "lowlights" under the top layer of blonde, so dark hair peeks out from behind the lighter hair. It's supposed to give my hair "depth". James noticed right away.

J: Hey! Look at your hair.

S: Do you like it?

J: It's like that Edith Levine girl's.

S: ---?

J: You know.
(Begins to sing, off key)He's just a skater boy!

S: You mean Avril Lavigne.

J: Yeah. Your hair looks like hers.

S: Edith Levine. Oh my god.
Honey, you would never make it as a 12 year-old girl.

J: (Still singing, begins to dance. Wags finger.) She said "see you later boy!"

S: Well, maybe you'd be okay.

As if you needed more reasons...

to watch T.V. (Or rather, TV shows that come out on DVD.)

In the last day and a half we've watched the first 8 episodes from the first season of The Wire. http://www.hbo.com/thewire/ It is totally, utterly excellent. The pace is deliberate and measured, the acting and characterization first rate, and the interwoven stories are intricate and individually and collectively terrific.

The Wire tackles big issues with a series of small and truthful moments. The show actually reminds me of a TV version of Richard Price's Clockers. There is no higher compliment I can pay to a police procedural/inner city crime drama. In fact, I read somewhere that Price and Dennis Lehane, another great crime writer, have written for The Wire.

My only criticism: the closing credits for the first season look like they were made on someone's old PC. In a basement. Somewhere in Canada. In 1992. The show deserves better.

God bless HBO.

The Single Most

touching photo album I've ever seen...

Dudes, I'm sorry too.

http://72.3.131.10/

Notes taken during the flight from Halifax to St. John

The plane has 12 single seats bolted onto some indoor/outdoor carpeting. Sitting in the pilot seat is a nervous-looking 15 year old. I sit down and watch as a 16 year old steward boards. He stows his coat in the handy egg crate, and then shows me the emergency exit door (the only door in the plane) and explains how, in the case of an emergency, I can open or close it with the rope that is attached. Well, it is more of a string really, of the sort used to fix broken gates. Oops! There goes the young man into the cockpit. Turns out he's not the steward: he's the co-pilot!

He sits himself in the co-pilot's seat and I watch him pull out a binder from another crate that sits between the pilot's seat and his. The book is decorated with a cartoon of an airplane--it appears to be some kind of Commercial Piloting for Dummies guide.

The cockpit is located in plain view, about 5 feet in front of my seat. I can see the pilot and co-pilot reaching up hesitantly to touch various knobs and levers, then quickly retracting their hands. The lights dim inside the plane and the co-pilot puts away his training module and prepares for take-off.

The lights flicker and glow on the dashboard. One screen looks suspiciously like some sort of video game is playing on it: Do those boys have a Playstation 2 installed where a gauge is supposed to go? Just then the doors to the cockpit slide shut so I can't tell.

The plane rattles and roars into life and goes screaming down the runway, shaking madly. And then, and then, we're up, up, up. We're flying!

Creaks and groans sound along with a few plinks and dings. Those boys and their video games!

Halfway through the 30 minute flight the cockpit doors slide open again. Turns out the video screen really is a gauge of some sort. But now the pilot appears to be doing his social studies homework.

The two of them chew their gum furiously. I can see their hairless jaws working. There continues to be much tentative fiddling with the knobs. They seem to have divided the board into two parts, but there is a bit of competition over the orange buttons in the middle. Those ones are probably the most fun. At one point the pilot slaps the co-pilot's hand away as he reaches for one of the coveted orange ones.

The sky outside is a soft blue, fading toward the horizon. It is quite lovely and it makes me feel better that the boys have light to fly by, seeing as how they don't quite seem to have worked out all the controls yet.

Is that the co-pilot's hand clutching the dashboard? I know that gesture. It's the one my mom makes every time she drives with me. Seventeen year-olds don't clutch dashes!

Young man, I feel like saying. Pray, take your hand off that dashboard! Whew, he seems to have heard my unspoken cry. He's reaching for his training manual again. It's not a Commercial Piloting for Dummies book. No. It's a colouring book. One of the two. Perhaps the illusion is the trick of the sunset.

Now the pilot takes some loose pages out of the egg crate. They appear to be print outs. From the Internet. Oh please let it not a few pages from howtolandaplane.com.

We must be nearly there. The boys have stopped chewing gum and are now yawning widely. They are exhausted. It is past their bedtime. It must be at least 8:00 p.m. All that knob twiddling had worn the little fellows out.

Ah, yes. We are starting out descent. The pilot rubs the sleep out of his eyes and begins to take us down. The co-pilot slumbers softly beside him, hand unconsciously reaching out now and then to caress the controls, like a child reaching for his stuffed animal.

And we're down. Goodbye little pilot and co-pilot. And goodnight.

Fetal Position

It's a damn good thing I was on tour in Friendly New Brunswick on Tuesday or I'd probably still be lying in fetal position after the results of Tuesday's election. I blame Xena. I bet she was too busy escorting Nana Mouskouri around to send her good vibes to Senator Kerry as I instructed her to do!

Anyway, as it was, I had to look after myself on the tour (actually, I was very well taken care of by a team of excellent and dedicated librarians) and so couldn't indulge in the kind of deep mourning I would have done at home. Fourteen readings in five days is a daunting task but it was all made worthwhile by the general excellence of the people of N.B. Thank you all.

Now I must go water plants and tend fish and cuddle dog and talk to husband for a while. Blog updates will resume as scheduled once I've settled down.

Spot The Hypochondriac...

(Or: Doing Our Part to Overburden Canada's Health Care System)

(Phone rings. It's my brother, Aaron.)

S: Hey! How are you?

A: I'm --

S: You'll never guess where I spent my Saturday afternoon!

A: --?

S: In the EMERGENCY ROOM!

A: --?!

S: So I started getting these chest pains. Like really intense. And having trouble breathing. And it just went on and on. So I got on the Internet and did a little research. Turns out it's really serious to have chest pains like that. I thought, 'Oh my God. I'm way too young to have a heart attack.' How embarrassing would that be! You know, to be 34 and have a heart attack. I mean, I'm 35 today, but on Saturday I was still 34. And that's young for the old myocardial infarction!

A: --!

S: I know. Totally! So they took my blood pressure. Gave me one of those EKGs. And they did one of those tests where they put a bunch of goo on your chest and then look at your heart! I had to wear a gown! It was really intense.

A: --!

S: Anyway, so it turns out it wasn't a heart attack. It was this thing called costochondritis. Lots of young people get it. It's like an inflammation near the heart. In the vicinity anyway. Not serious. Thank god. It's gone now. But for a while there, it was like-- whew!

A: Wow. Is this related to that thing you get with your finger? You know, where it turns white and everything.

S: No. That's something different. Anyway, how are you?

A: Oh, I've got this thing in my eye.

S: What?

A: Yeah. I've been to the emergency room and they can't find anything.

S: That's ridiculous! Tell them they have to find it!

A: Yeah. I guess I should.

S: You just go down there and don't leave until they fix your eye.

A: Ah, it's okay. I'll wait until tonight. I thought it would come out yesterday. But this morning it's still pretty bad.

S: You went ALL NIGHT with something in your eye! That's insane! They should fly you to Vancouver! Bring in a specialist.

A: Yeah.

S: You should demand help. You want me to call them?

A: No. I think it'll work itself out. It just sucks to be almost blind.

S: There's no point being a stoic.

A: I guess you're right. Yeah.

Your Loss

Dear Xena,

Babe, you checked out too early. For your information those weren’t frat boys and sorority sisters partying next to us: it was the Ontario Association of Midwifes. MIDWIVES! For an Amazonian type, you are very cowardly.

Besides, the next morning I was moved to the Sutton Place, where I joined several hundred historians who were having a World History Conference. You may scoff, in your world-weary-author-handler way, but you’d be wrong to do so. These historians looked like rock stars. They were slouchy and attractively disheveled with brit-pop hair cuts and Carnaby St. boots. These were the hottest historians on record. Even the old ones were much cooler than me (and possibly you.)

Anyway, I think you’re going to be sad you missed the rest of the tour. After all, I'm on the East Coast! The stuff of great fiction and the subject of some of the most famous mini-series in Canadian history.

Oh well. Your loss.

Susan

P.S. I’m sorry we won’t get to hold our hopeful vigil together tonight where we pray for John Kerry to win the election. Please keep your Big Daddy Chakra aligned for him, even if you've moved on from handling me to handling Nana Mouskouri or whomever.