Stolen moments

The times, they have been busy. I am cramming to finish editing a book for Invisible, by an awesome writer from Dartmouth named Anna Quon. The book is called Migration Songs, and I’ve read it probably four or five times in its entirety now, and it still knocks me on my ass. Anna is a writer of such purity and power, that she can do that. Impress the hell out of her copyeditor on editing read-through take four. It’ll be out in October, I think it is, and you should be sure to get yourself a copy then.

Beyond that, I am reading like mad these days, just flying through novels and memoirs and non-fiction books of various sorts. Recent favourites include Turn of the Century by Kurt Andersen, which I read for the first time when it came out ten years ago and I loved it then. I re-read it and loved it even harder two weeks ago.

Then I devoured Dry, by Augusten Burroughs, a memoir of his time as an alcoholic and in recovery. I started reading it one night at quarter after ten, and when I looked up again I’d read a hundred and sixty three pages and my stomach hurt from not sleeping. I seriously considered calling in sick the next day so I could finish it off. Binge behaviour indeed.

And right now, I’m just about to polish off A Musician’s Guide to the Road by Susan Voelz. Who? She was in Poi dog Pondering, and more than that, she is one compelling writer. I picked up her book from Kev’s stack, thinking I could just read a few pages to get to sleep, that I wouldn’t get sucked in, because it’s a guide book, not a narrative. Wrong! I mean, sure, I feel like by reading it I get some insight into Kev’s life on the road. But also… it’s just a really good read.

And last week the deep and delightful Matt Epp was our houseguest. My houseguest I should say, as Kev was on the road (see above re: insight etc), so there were dinners and breakfasts and talks in the garden. And maybe best of all, I went to see him play at the Company House on Saturday night. It was good because Matt is good, and so that’s always a treat, but also because it was raining so hard, and I’d gotten caught in it on my walk down there and then I sat at the bar and drank white wine and wrote like the devil, a bunch of stuff about Evan Cornfield… I am starting to get a picture of him… what he looks like, how he stands on stage, what he WANTS. I wrote a little scene that feels right now like the beating heart of his particular story, if not of Fallsy Downsies overall. And maybe it doesn’t actually even end up in the book, but right now, I feel like I received some secret present, like the tap of writing was pouring pure chocolate and I was lucky enough to be there with my mouth open and a bucket at the ready.


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