CanLit Book Club

“... and that’s what I loved so much about Larry’s Party,” said the timid, homely middle-aged woman to the rest of the group, who sat around Mildred’s living room with books in their hands. The woman held up her hardcover copy of the Carol Shields novel and continued: “It wasn’t just the universal insights into human nature – it was the brave depiction of Canadian identity, what it means to be Canadian and to live in a distinct Canadian culture.” 

At this last point, the rest of the group smiled and nodded. 

“Thank you, Myrtle,” said the shaky voice of Mildred, a retired, grey-haired, but spunky lady of seventy-two. “Wonderful analysis. I’m sure those of us who haven’t read Larry’s Party yet will get on it as soon as they can. Now – we’ve got a newbie here tonight, and I can’t wait to hear what he’s brought in. Give a first-timer welcome to Darryl.” 

The rest of the book-club members clapped politely, and Darryl nodded shyly. He tried to hide his discomfort at being not just a stranger,  but by far the youngest in the room. 

“Okay,” said Darryl with a shrug and a forced smile, “the book I’ve brought in isn’t a very new one, either, but it was new to me, and I loved it.” He held up the battered paperback copy from the library. “A Prayer for Owen Meany, by John Irving. And wow. What a book it was! The characters were so vividly brought to life, and the plot was so brilliantly worked out...” 

Darryl sensed something wrong in the room, but he kept on talking. “I mean, it’s probably my favourite John Irving book now. You’ll never forget the title character – he’s a dwarfish boy with a screechy voice, who’s convinced God sent him to earth for a specific purpose, but he...” 

He trailed off as he realized the others were glaring at him. What was their look? Shock? Horror? Morbid curiosity? He couldn’t place it. 

“Uh, is something wrong?” he asked the group. 

A stony silence followed. Then Morley, a sixty-something man in a woollen vest and patched jacket, turned to the host and asked, “Is this a joke, Mildred?” 

fucking amateur night. seriously. does this person understand how book clubs work? they assign one recent book for the next meeting, they don’t pick their own books from thirty years ago. and the flat, unadventurous prose style. no grace or poetry in it. and the one-note characters. yuck. goddamn highschooler could’ve written this shit. why do I accept these gigs? judging awful short stories for a stupid writing contest. every time i do this, i have to sit through dozens of these sub-harry-potter calamities, just to find one or two that might be publishable. this is so stupid. i could be doing anything else right now. working on the new novel, applying for a grant, lunching with peggy – literally anything. i should’ve had a governor general’s award by now, maybe even a booker. instead, i’m reading crap by dumb-ass college kids who don’t read contemporary literary fiction and have virtually no life experience from which to work. i’m better than this. i. am. better. than. this. 

Mildred didn’t answer Morley. She just closed her eyes and shook her head, blushing.

“John Irving?” gasped Myrtle. “Whatever made you think that was an appropriate choice?” 

The others nodded with their lips pursed. 

“Um,” stammered Darryl, “why wouldn’t it be?” 

“Darryl,” said Mildred, in the tone of a patient kindergarten teacher lecturing an undisciplined brat, “do you understand? This is CanLit Book Club. We discuss CanLit books.” 

Darryl looked at the book cover, then back at the group. “Uh,” he responded, “Irving counts, doesn’t he? He lives here. He has Canadian citizenship now. And the present-day sections of this book are set in Toronto.” 

The others looked at each other with bafflement and mild offence. 

“I don’t think it counts,” said Mortimer. 

“Nor do I,” said Morley. “He’s not pure – not even close. American-born and -bred. Irving doesn’t have a single drop of Canadian blood in him. Don’t let him mongrelize our culture.” 

“Mongrelize?” guffawed Darryl. 

“Darryl,” said Mildred, her tone a little edgier now, “we’ve already told you the first rule of CanLit Book Club. What is it?” 

Darryl didn’t remember them telling him. “Um, don’t talk about CanLit Book Club?” 

Mildred rolled her eyes. “No. The first rule of CanLit Book Club: Canadian books only. Think of the great CanLit masters you could have chosen. Atwood. Laurence. Ondaatje. Richler. Cohen. Leacock. Lawrence Hill. Joy Kogawa. Mavis Gallant. Susan Swan. Catherine Hernandez. M.T. Kelly. Every author we discuss must be a genuine, established Canadian – with only one exception.” 

“And that exception would be...?” 

All the group members looked at each other, then at Darryl. 

“HEMINGWAY!” they bellowed in unison. 

Darryl shrugged again. “Fine. I’ll bite. Why is Ernest Hemingway the sole exception?” 

They all looked at Darryl as if he had thirteen heads. 

“Because his prose style is perfect, of course!” said Myrtle. “Why else?” 

“Because no one crafted and refined fiction better,” explained Mortimer. “No one. He sheared and tightened his prose until only the pure gold was left.” 

“Especially A Farewell to Arms,” gushed Mildred. “It’s flawless. Exactly as it is. Adding or removing one word would destroy it – would cause the whole thing to collapse and shrivel.” 

Darryl closed his eyes and suppressed a groan. He’d always felt A Farewell to Arms read as though it had been written by a moronic twelve-year-old, but wouldn’t say so here. 

oh god. oh my dear god in heaven. the kid thinks he’s a comedian, doesn’t he? or she. they. whatever. kid thinks he’s funny. and clever. thinks he’s going to score points with cheap, easy dime-store satire of the literary community. is this what he thinks canlit aficionados are, a bunch of stuck-up elitist snobs in our seventies? “mongrelize”? grow the hell up, kid. and all the gratuitous italics and caps in the dialogue. clearly been reading too much salinger or edward albee. or john irving, for that matter. this is why i’d be a lousy creative-writing teacher. don’t have the patience to deal with bad writing, i’d just tell the little bastards to quit forever and aim for careers in sanitation services. i didn’t work myself half to death for thirty years to deal with this shit. didn’t get a master’s in creative writing from york university, write ten novels, publish four poetry books, give public readings and signings across the country, all so i could sit here and read trash like this. kid thinks he’s going to impress me by citing a laundry list of canadian authors he’s heard of? hey pal, i don’t merely know who mordecai richler was. to paraphrase the late lloyd bentsen: i had coffee with mordecai richler, i knew mordecai richler, mordecai richler was a friendly acquaintance of mine, and kid, you’re no mordecai richler. i’m in the real canlit book club, and i wouldn’t want to belong to any canlit book club that would have you as a member. 

“I mean, the most insulting part,” grumbled Morley, “is that you had the audacity to bring in an author who’s...” His face changed colour, as if he were about to vomit. “Who’s popular,” he finally spat. 

The others nodded with frowns and crossed arms. 

“So disrespectful,” mumbled Mildred. “But... Margaret Atwood’s popular, isn’t she?” whined Darryl. 

“You know what I mean!” snapped Morley. “I mean, popular popular. As in, the common people read him. The proles. The dregs of society. What are you bringing in next time, Stephen King? John Grisham? Fifty Shades of Grey? Terry Pratchett?” 

“Not Pratchett,” gasped Mildred, wincing. “I don’t think I could handle Pratchett.” The other book-club members nodded and cringed. One of them even made the sign of the cross with his hand, like a priest. 

“I remember, decades ago, when someone recommended Irving’s The World According to Garp to me,” Myrtle said, sitting up and recalling with a deliberate pace. “I looked at the cover and said, ‘Gord, I don’t know. It looks so long. And the author’s not even Canadian.’ But he insisted – he said it was funny and poignant and a perfect reflection of our time. So I took the book home, and I sat down with it, and I tried, but...” Suddenly she burst into tears. “It was horrible! I couldn’t even get past page six! So wordy and rambly! Those big words and long sentences! And so much backstory! All that telling! Why was he telling me so much? I wanted subtlety and indirect suggestion, like a real writer would do! What was wrong with this man?” 

“And why in the name of God is he so obsessed with bears?” lamented Mortimer. 

“And wrestling? And bodily mutilation? And Vienna? And prostitutes?” asked Mildred. 

“And the word ‘notwithstanding’?” said Morley. “Why ‘notwithstanding’? I mean, just write ‘despite’, John! ‘Despite’! You can save two syllables so easily. Come on.” 

There was a long pause as Myrtle continued to sob. Morley patted her arm in sympathy. The other book-club members glared at Darryl. 

okay, buddy, you’re contradicting yourself now. are you defending irving or making fun of him? are you taking a stance in favour of traditional, popular fiction, or are you knowingly proving the valid points that your so-called “elitists” have been making about irving all along? or do you just want to make lazy seinfeldian observational jokes about him, and to hell with a consistent point of view? and if the other members don’t read irving, how would they know what’s in his books? stupid, stupid, stupid. also, too many exclamation marks. way, way too many. jesus christ, he’s a little tom wolfe. this story is really, really pissing me off, and i don’t know why. i should just finish reading it out of duty, reject it, delete it and move on with my life. but it’s making me mad. i think it’s the pretentious arrogance of this little twit, showing off his limited knowledge, trying to impress me, but also being hostile towards the exclusive club of literary legitimacy, a club he wants so desperately to join. the nerve. the absolute gall of this kid. even i wasn’t like this when i was young. i had a lot to learn, sure, but i wasn’t this cocky. i knew the difference between witty, cheeky irreverence and petty, smug, immature score-settling. take it from a real writer, kid, you can’t take cheap shots at a community and then expect a welcome. you can’t get your foot in the door after you’ve just kicked it off the hinges. you’ve got to pay your dues. you’ve got to be humble and patient and willing to learn. that’s how you get into the real canlit book club. by the way, why do all the names of the club members in this story start with “M”? 

“Uh...” said Darryl, “I... I’m sorry. I didn’t realize it was such an... issue.” The others continued to glare, and he realized the Lionel Shriver book he was currently reading would probably be a bad idea for the next meeting. “Um... if you’ll let me come back next month, I’ll bring a Heather O’Neill book. Is that okay?” 

The others looked at each other with visible hesitation. 

“I... guess that’s acceptable,” said Mildred. 

“I don’t know,” said Myrtle, catching her breath. “O’Neill’s work isn’t very subtle either.” 

“But at least she’s CanLit,” Mortimer pointed out. 

“Montreal,” said Morley with a squint. “Quebec. Are you sure that’s Canadian enough?” 

“It’s Canadian, Morley. Quebec still hasn’t separated,” said Mortimer. “And we’ve allowed Mordecai Richler and Gabrielle Roy before.” 

Morley rolled his eyes and let out a huff. “Fine,” he grumbled. 

Mildred turned to Darryl and nodded. “That’ll be good. We look forward to hearing about it.” 

Darryl sighed with relief. “Thank you.” 

Then Mildred turned to Mortimer. “Mortimer, what book did you bring this month?” 

Mortimer grinned and pulled his contribution out of his bag. “For this meeting, I’ve brought an old CanLit favourite: Lives of Girls and Women.” 

The entire room gasped as one. Myrtle spit out the coffee she was sipping. 

“Not Alice Munro!” shrieked Mildred. 

“We can’t read Munro anymore, you creep!” barked Morley. 

“But... what about separation of art from the artist?” asked Mortimer. 

“To hell with that!” cried Myrtle. 

All the members except Darryl grabbed the nearest blunt objects in the room, then rushed Mortimer and began to beat him to death. 

“I’m outta here,” said Darryl. 

and that’s it? what? that’s all? it’s just a sketch. just a trite, sophomoric little second city bit, complete with a spit-take and cartoon violence and every other cliché you can think of. kid doesn’t even know what fiction is, for the love of god. and he closes with a shit joke about the munro scandal. too soon, kid. way, way too soon. i can’t believe he paid five bucks to submit this crap. is this what fiction is coming to? no wonder they say it’s a dying art form. and i've just read the final death blow. the comet that wiped out an entire species, if that metaphor makes any sense. once the dinosaurs of fiction are gone, they’ll be replaced by the homo sapiens of dumb comedy sketches and superhero movies and tiktok videos. i’m babbling, of course. i think this sad excuse for a short story has melted my brain, or at least my creative faculties. i need to lie down. take a good long nap. maybe for the rest of the day. maybe for the rest of my life. right now, i don’t want to write anything anymore. i feel like giving it up 7 for good, because the new generation isn’t smart or literate enough to appreciate anything i might have to offer. r.i.p. to the real canlit book club. but perhaps i’ll feel better when i wake up. sure. i’ll get up, put a coffee on, sit back in the old reading chair and settle in with some susanna moodie. now that was a writer, goddammit. archaic prose style, sure, but full of substance and good canadian values. something to cleanse and purify my mind after letting it wallow in filth... 

or maybe i'll go to the library and give stephen king a chance. i've heard this 11/22/63 one isn’t so bad. actually clever. even philip marchand said a few good things about it. i wonder... 

no. how absurd. i know i’ll despise it. what was i thinking? 

what am i afraid of?