Books for Sale

I still like all the books I’ve ever written/published—there’s definitely stuff in the older ones I would do differently now and some clunky passages here and there, but there’s also pieces that astound me that I was ever capable of them, and I wonder where that writer has gone—I’m glad I knew her once. I wrote the books I wanted to read and, you know, sometimes I still read them. When I hear writers talking about how they can’t even look at their older work and some even wish the copies didn’t exist, sometimes I wonder if I should have more self-critical reflexes or just more self-insight; but also I waited a long long time to publish (I started writing fiction at 14 and my first book came out at 30) and I was just quite sure of the work I wanted in the world at that point. I was not right about every single piece, but by and large I wouldn’t take any of it back.

Which is all to say, when the publisher of my first book contacted me recently to say they were making some space in their warehouse and would I like to buy up some extra copies of my first collection of short stories Once I said sure, I’ll take’em all (it’s not going out of print; you can still buy it from the publisher and on ecommerce sites and occasionally very randomly in a bookstore, but they just figure that, 16 years after publication, they just don’t need quite so many on hand.

What am I going to do with all these books? I…don’t know. Do you want one? I’m not going to sell them, I suppose—I think I’d be happy to know they’re being read and not pulped at this point. If you’d like a copy of Once for yourself, or to give someone you know who enjoys short fiction about young people trying to figure out what life is and how to live it in a version of mid-aughts Toronto that is both rather grim and a little bit magical, I’m happy to send it for whatever shipping costs (when the strike ends, or by courier)—or give it to you for nothing if we can physically get to each other. Other books I can offer this shipping/free deal on (because they are just hanging out in my home office closet so why not) include: The Big Dream, which is a collection of linked short stories about the lives of people working at lifestyle magazine publishing company that is coming apart, and either the French or the Polish translation of my novel So Much Love, which is about a young woman who goes missing and the way the community she lived in, both close and far-flung, is affected. Feel free to respond to this email if you’d like any or several of these and we can work out the details. I would be delighted.

I truly do like all these books (ok, I haven’t read the one in Polish). It would be very wrong to ever have a favourite story of my own, like picking a favourite child, but just to give you a soft-sell sample of what is available in Once if you read it, here is an excerpt from the short story “Tech Support,” which I love very much.

i. Tech

Clint stayed under Ursula’s desk, staring at the green glow of the power bar light. After a while her yelling and spike-heeled stomp on the carpet ceased, as if she was thinking things over. Clint didn’t need to see to know her hands were fisted on hips, legs planted wide. He thought he could feel her glare on his spine while he hunched over the CPU, fiddling, not really working. Finally she hammered off down the hall.

The screws on the old adapter were bent and wouldn’t turn smoothly. It didn’t help that he was coming at it from an odd angle, jammed under the desk, and that his fingers were slick with sweat. He heard rustling above him, but kept on with the screws—Ursula wasn’t capable of making so little noise and no one else was out of his blood. When he’d finally gotten the broken plug off, it took only a few seconds to put on the new one. The shiny puffin emblem caught the ligh that filtered down between the desk and the wall.

When he pulled back to sit in front of the desk, Anna was sitting on the floor next to him. Her ankles were tucked under her thighs, a mug in each fist. She held out the left one, pale beige, the way he liked it. “This one’s yours.”

He took the scalding ceramic in his hand without thinking, and had to set it down on the carpet to grab the handle. He sniffed. “You make this?”

“Had to. Luddock’s hungover.”

She took a sip and smiled forcefully, like an advertisement, so he did too. The coffee was thin and opaque and nutty—good, for office coffee.

“‘S great,” Clint said. “I guess Ursula misses out on this.”

“What was that all about?”

Sitting on the floor across from, Clint could quite clearly see Anna’s panties. They were navy. He tried to concentrate on her face. “What?”

“Ursula. I heard her come storming out of here.”

“Ursula storms to the bathroom. You’re working up here today?”

“Just an hour or so. A couple new monitors in Creative. But what happened…”

“Oh, I wasn’t… She thinks I work too slow. She wanted you, I believe.”

“Ah. This was the monitor adapter?”

“Yep.” He opened his damp palm to reveal the dented plug and warped screws.

“Well, that’s ruined. What’d she do, kick it?” Anna grinned into her mug.

Clint didn’t smile. “Looks like.” He pitched the thing over his left shoulder as he stood up and was pleased to here it ping into the wastebasket. Then he collapsed into Ursula’s ergonomic desk chair and started checking screen settings. “Fucking Ursula.”

[I’m gonna skip ahead to do a more varied except that isn’t super-long/this is already super-long, but.]

Luddock was sitting cross-legged on Clint’s desk. “Whatja fuck up?

“I didn’t. What did you get into last night?” Clint put his mug down, rolled his chair back, sat. A rubber chicken was lying on his filing cabinet. He hadn’t put it there.

A raised-eyebrow leer. Luddock started unfolding his stick-figure legs. His left loafer tapped Clint on the sternum. “Sorry. I heard Ursula shrieking at you.”

“No big thing. She’s just—”

“Madly in hate with you, I know. Could be a cover for lust.”

“She doesn’t even know my name. She has no specific emotions related to me. She just likes to yell.”

“Yeah, yeah. If she makes a move, I say screw the corporate ladder…” Luddock went into his own cube but kept talking, the sound undisturbed by the fabric wall “…and go for it. Worth any Tech job, hellion like that.”

“I’m glad you costed it. Listen, what time are we meeting the cab tomorrow?”

“Six, as discussed.” The squawk of the springs in Luddock’s pre-ergonomic chair.

“So early? We’re gonna be sitting around wit the social committee.”

“You’re too new—you’ve never seen this place get non-denominationally down to celebrate the birth of Christ. The open bar gets less open every year. This time it’s only the cocktail hour, not after dinner. Cheap bastards.”

“It’s to keep people from driving drunk.”

“You buy me a car, then we’ll worry about that. Trust me, the free dinner does not pay for dry-cleaning, let alone the cab.”

“And…Trinity?” Clint couldn’t really say the name without blinking a couple times, it seemed so likely that Luddock had made her up.

“She’s driving from work. She’s worried about traffic making her late.”

“It’s cool if you don’t have a date, you know. I haven’t got a date, Anna hasn’t—half the department’s stag.”

“She’ll be there, she just might be late.” Ludduck just went back to clicking and Clint rolled back to his station too, and there was silence and they both got three-quarters of an hour of work done before Luddock said, “Anna’s not bringing someone?”

“You knew that. She said it before the Oracle meeting on Thursday.”

“Yeah. But, I thought she was, like, kidding.”