I listen to a lot of podcasts. Like too many. I’m tempted to claim podcast cred by pointing out I’ve been listening to podcasts since 2005, but it’s not important that you know how long (see how I did that? told you anyway?), just that I listen a lot and have opinions about what podcasts make for good listening (and not). Before foisting my podcast views on you, dear readers, I thought I’d check whether such reviews would be of any interest. No pressure – if you’re only here for reviews of novels that’s a-okay. I can keep my podcast opinions to myself (and the cats).
Category Archives: Fiction
Crazy Rich Asians: Cinderella Wears All the Diamonds
It’s hard to read a book like Crazy Rich Asians while living a decidedly middle class life. It’s probably harder still if you’re not the beneficiary of a defined benefits pension plan and in a unionized position like I am. The book sets out to be fun [insert jazz hands]! To introduce the west to contemporary Asia! To put displays of excess on the page for ogling. Because if you can’t have your own billion dollars, the next best thing must be to read about it, right? Continue reading
Filed under Bestseller, Book Club, Fiction
Saints, Unexpected: Even Hamilton Couldn’t Make it Good
We read Brent van Staalduinen’s Saints, Unexpected for book club, and if it hadn’t been a book club read I likely wouldn’t have finished it. I’m loathe to write a negative review for a book that is so obviously earnest: written by a local author, published by a small press, in every way a book that wears its heart on its cover. So it gives me no pleasure to report that it is… not good. Continue reading
Filed under Book I'll Forget I Read, Canadian Literature, Fiction
Bel Canto: I may be tone deaf, but I know good writing.
The only thing I remember from first year English is a lecture that argued that all creative writing (whether poetry or prose) is about the urge by authors to create something which will outlast them. That every poem or story is, in the end, a valiant gesture toward immortality. And that readers should read with an eye to the way the author intentionally and accidentally imbues their work with this impulse; that is, that the discerning reader will always be able to find evidence of the author’s vanity, of their arrogance in thinking their work will endure. At the time I found the argument moving and persuasive. Since then I think back on it more as an example of excellent teaching, it was a well paced lecture with convincing examples and analysis. Which isn’t to say I now thinking writing isn’t about immortality, just that I haven’t had cause to declare an allegiance in the great What is Writing For debate of humanity. Continue reading
Filed under American literature, Fiction, Orange Prize
Literary Vice 