kiss the joy as it flies

I just finished:

Kiss the Joy As It Flies by Sheree Fitch.

From the inside flap: “Panic-stricken by the news that she needs exploratory surgery, forty-eight-year-old Mercy Beth Fanjoy drafts a monumental “to do” list and sets about putting her messy life in order. But tidying up the edges of her life means the past comes rushing back to haunt her and the present keeps throwing up more to do’s. Between fits of weeping and laughter, ranting and bliss, Mercy must contemplate the meaning of life in the face of her own death. In a week filled with the riot of an entire life, nothing turns out the way she’d expected.”

I’m not sure what rock I was living under when this novel was released by Vagrant Press in 2008, but the first I heard of it was about a month ago as I packed it up at the library to ship out to a patron who had put it on hold. Ooh, I thought, what a great title. And it’s by Sheree Fitch, the incredibly popular and prolific author of kids’ and young adult lit. Very interesting. So I bumped that patron off the hold and took it for myself. Ha. No, I didn’t. Sometimes it’s tempting, but your friendly neighbourhood librarian would NEVER do such a thing. We’re big on freedom and fairness and all that crap, you see.

So, having waited patiently for my turn, the book came back, I dropped what I had been reading and started in. The first thing I noticed was Fitch’s poetic prose – not surprising from a poet, I suppose – and her eye for detail. Mercy notes the “high-pitched, train-whistling congestion” of her doctor’s chest, for example. At a yoga class, she watches how “Twenty people floated to the front of their yoga mats like synchronized swimmers in the belly of a pool.” And of her landlord and his wife, Mercy reflects, “They’d known it was Harold’s last Christmas even then. Doris had shiny puddles of grey under her eyes…Harold’s face was the yellow of dried mustard, and his eyes were bulging out of their sockets like the eyes of a seal, glazed over with morphine.”

I liked the basic concept too: woman receives threatening medical news, woman freaks out, woman makes last ditch effort to resolve some issues she’s been letting slide, woman learns a few important life lessons in doing so. Mercy comes across as a relatable character, with just enough personality quirks to seem real, but not so many as to make her outlandish. Her life is not unlike yours or mine – frequently disappointing and infuriating with just enough moments of happiness to keep her going.

My only criticism is about the last few chapters, which seem like a bit of an afterthought. A much anticipated trip to Africa lasts for one tiny chapter (compared to the doctor’s appointment at the beginning which carried on for six chapters) and the trip feels a little forced, as if its main purpose is to get Mercy out of the country so it can be all the more dramatic when she’s summoned back for an emergency.

I also have a bit of an issue with the “One Year Later” epilogue. For fear of ruining it for you, all I’ll say is, bitter hag that I am, I can’t stand happy endings in which everything conveniently sorts itself out and everybody’s just dandy. I start rolling my eyes and muttering darkly about unicorns and lollipops and fireworks and it’s all very unattractive.

So, final word: would I recommend it? Absolutely. Great writing, intriguing story and, as far as the ending goes, chances are good you’re much less pessimistic than me and will love it.

Writing Life

I’ve spent the past week conked out in bed and sprawled across the couch with The Mother of All Head Colds. Flus. Flues. Influenzas. Even though I know better now, I can’t quite shake my childhood belief that if you have a runny nose/sore throat/cough, you have a cold and if you’re barfing, you have the flu. Whatever. I was sick. Unfortunately, I was so sick I didn’t get as much reading done as one might expect considering I was horizontal for 23.5 hours out of every 24.

But I did read this:

Writing Life: Celebrated Canadian and International Authors on Writing and Life. From the back cover: “Provocative, candid, often very funny, personal, and passionately engaged, this inspired collection will take readers deep into the heart of the writing life.”

I love anthologies for the exposure to new voices and always come away with a list of authors to seek out. Seek out their work, I mean, not the authors themselves. Ugh, it’s nice to realize my brain fog hasn’t lifted much. Anyway, this anthology is no different: my love for Lisa Moore and Lynn Coady was re-affirmed and my hopelessly long reading list now includes Eden Robinson, Shyam Selvadurai, Susan Swan and Michael Winter. Of course, anthologies are also helpful in pointing out authors to avoid; if they can annoy, bore or ostracize me within ten short pages or so, I don’t need to suffer through a whole book, thanks.

The other great thing about this particular collection is the topic: writing.  Ooooh. I love a good book about writing. I love hearing about the experiences of published authors, love collecting tidbits of information here and there as if it will somehow help me. I’m a kid again, sitting on the stairs eavesdropping on my older sister and her friends and being impatient to be a teenager too since they obviously had everything cool and exciting and all I had was stupid used roller skates with ugly silver stars on the sides and an eight o’clock bedtime.

I am a voyeur when it comes to writers and want to know it all – the writing schedules, the struggles with confidence, the thrill of success, the reality of making ends meet, the challenge of raising children, the attitudes toward readers and critics. This collection didn’t have a lot of that nitty gritty detail, but I still enjoyed it. Most of it. But that’s the pleasure of a collection, right? It’s like a box of chocolates. Eat the ones you like and pass the rest off on your co-workers.