Every once in a while, I lose my ability to read. It’s not that I can’t make out the words on the page, or understand the sentences they form. It’s a kind of restlessness that comes over me, a dissatisfaction with the books on my shelves, a not knowing what I want to read (perhaps there’s too much choice?) and then, somehow, I can’t read anything.
As a wispy reader of 9 or so I spied a copy on the shelf built into my mother’s headboard, tucked among several books by Iyanla Vanzant and a John Grisham paperback or two. Its location on that shelf alone made it seductive; one of a collection so very unsuitable for my self. But prying into Adult Things while unsupervised was a favourite pastime of mine so…
I remember my enthusiasm at decoding the black scratches that turned into words when my parents picked up books; I remember reading in a circle with my class, each of us sounding out a few lines. Especially I remember being confused when my turn came, because I had read on ahead and didn’t know what page the class was on.
A faded picture of me and my little brother pops up whenever I turn on my phone. Here, encased magically in modern technology that my brother never knew, is the past that we were. It’s his third birthday, we’re sitting on top of the picnic table in striped bathing suits. I’m holding a patterned punching ball in my lap and his arms are reaching out, as if towards the future, but I know what he really wants is that chocolate cake mum’s carrying towards us.
We’re pleased to announce not one, but two smashing events at Montreal’s Blue Metropolis Festival that have been brought to you by carte blanche editors. This Really Happened, the brainchild [More…]
carte blanche and the Creative Nonfiction Collective Society are pleased to announce the shortlist for our 2014-15 creative nonfiction competition.
The winner of the competition will be announced on Saturday, April 25th at the 11th Annual CNFC Conference in Victoria.
When I was seventeen, living in Edmonton, I knew a boy named Mitch who, unlike the rest of us suburban softies, already lived on his own and had to pay his way through life. Mitch was violent, and routinely beat up his friends for perceived transgressions against him. He had a heroic scar on his face from the time he pissed off a drug gang and they went after him with a hatchet.