I wish I could write a book like Oryx and Crake. An intelligent book, an engaging book and one that warns of the folly of our ways. Margaret Atwood is, of course, one of Canada's literary geniuses and I admire her work a lot. It is her birthday today and after the celebrations, I hope she dashes off a chapter or two of Maddadam. I am eagerly waiting its release which will end the trilogy that began with Oryx and Crake.
I am also a writer of much humbler talent and ambition. All the same, now that I've said it, I've let the door of the closet creak open and people know that I like to write. It's not something you just drop into the conversation at a party unless, of course, you're very bored and are ready for the fun to end.
Invariably, someone will ask, trying to look interested, "What have you published?" There's a question. They mean what books have you published and the last book I read was the The Da Vinci Code and it is as good as that? Then I have to confess that I haven't published much other than the odd short story and article in things like the ATA news. Now they don't even try to look interested.
The other reaction you get is the kind of prurient interest that someone has when you announce that you are interested in entymology. "Isn't that, like, bugs?" It's a short-lived fascination with someone who has a completely outlandish hobby. Then their eyes glaze and that's it.
Fair enough, perhaps. There are many other amature artists- painters. People will admire their work and don't ask, "Which of the national galleries would carry more of your work?" Musicians. People applaud and admire their talent. Usually they don't ask which label features their latest album. I am jealous but trying to be adult about it. After all, I am now, out of the closet.
I've been married a long time and often write about everyday events.