When in the course of human events is a short run of twelve chapbooks I’m taking with me when I read tomorrow night at the February edition of the Lilah Kemp Reading Series. It’s two excerpts from my novel in progress–one from the beginning and one from the end–and almost exactly 15 minutes when I practiced reading aloud. But we’ll find out tomorrow.
Found this guide to LA architecture in a Halifax thrift store. I’m making a new list of Things To See.
Stock isn’t pretty. But look what you can make with it.
The secret ingredient in here is the last minute squeeze of a lime I had leftover in my fridge from a misguided attempt to make mojitos at home. (I need a cocktail lesson from South.)
Everything about this girl makes her sound like a guilty pleasure pop star: raised in the same town as Shania Twain, plays the synthesizer, made her stage name legal, discovered and managed by Jian Ghomeshi, engaged to a metalcore singer, won the Juno for Best New Artist, posts Björk covers on YouTube.
But she’s so damn good, and I don’t go in for guilty pleasures anyway.
After a rainy Saturday up north, I made a sunny brunch for a sunny Sunday.
Let me share again my favourite quote from the weekend in the summer of 2008 when I read all the Gossip Girl books:
Was there something distinctly gay about Chuck Bass these days? Or perhaps not. Just because he’d gotten blond highlights and was wearing a slim, cream-colored wool coat by Ralph Lauren and orange leather Prada sneakers didn’t mean he’d given up molesting defenseless, drunken girls at parties. Perhaps he was simply expressing himself.
Forget the books you want to write. Think only of the book you are writing.
Henry Miller (from Henry Miller on Writing)
If only it were that easy, Hank.
I had never heard of Maud Lewis. She was a tiny woman who lived in this tiny house with her husband, Everett, in Marshalltown, Nova Scotia. She painted Christmas cards to sell, as well as paintings on boards with house paints. He was a fisherman who did odd jobs and sold her paintings on his route. She painted their house, too, and everything in it: the walls, the shelves, the broom and dustpan, the front door.
Maud died in 1970, and after Everett was gone in 1979, the house was packed up and moved into the Art Gallery of Nova Scotia. The entire house is inside the gallery.
I don’t imagine she’d know what all the fuss was about.