Pratfalls, Early Reviews, Fun w/ Master T

The Media team at the NXNE Media v. Musicians soccer game at BMO Field. I'm in the back row, fourth from the right.

Check out this review from the Montreal Gazette. Oh heck, it's such a good review I can't resist including a quote from it: "Christopher Shulgan's fascinating biography of Yakovlev... traces [Yakovlev's] gradual transformation from an ardent Marxist-Leninist to a man who devoted himself to righting the wrongs of the Communist system. ... Yet, perhaps, the most fascinating and intriguing aspect of Shulgan's book is the "Canadian Connection," the role Canada played in shaping Yakovlev's vision of future reforms..."

The Winnipeg Free Press ran another review. Also great is this piece, which appeared on Saturday's front page in the Windsor Star, my hometown newspaper. Great article, Grace. And the Ottawa Citizen reprinted the piece in a slightly shorter version.

Playing soccer on BMO Field in the NXNE Media v. Musicians game was head-exploding fun. Rick the former Much Music VJ known as Rick the Temp -- he passed the ball to me. And I passed the ball to Master T, who is simultaneously older than you might expect, and has better ball-handling skills. I had to leave the pitch at half-time to high-tail it to an afternoon tea at the King Edward hotel for Nicholas Hoare books, a fun event where I met Katie Hafner (cool), where I spoke, and where my turn at the lectern was followed by a literary critic, John Metcalf, who pontificated about his book in the following manner: Chapter one is about X. Chapter two is about Y. Chapter three is about Z. Up until the end of the book. It's kind of like, big whoop, but then Metcalf criticizes other writers for being boring. Perhaps he could work a little harder on avoiding same. After the tea I was signing a copy of my book for someone who had assisted in my research when I looked down expecting to see I had written "Thanks for all your help." When, in fact, I had written, "Thanks for all your health." 

Which seems like an odd reason to thank someone.  

Next was a cab ride to the CBA Libris Awards, where I was to present the award for best non-fiction work. When I arrived the event organizer, Emily, handed me a sheet of paper with my script on it -- a sentence or two about the difficulty of making captivating prose out of non-fiction narrative, followed by the three books, their authors and publishers. "You're the fourth presenter," she said, and then went off, presumably to provide the same service to other presenters. Some limited shmoozing ensued, coupled closely with canapé nibbling, napkin face dabbing and napkin disposing into trash can. Soon I was sitting up in the front row with the other presenters (Joseph Boyden included) as things got underway -- Bill Richardson, the CBC host not the New Mexico governor, was the moderator. He is funnier than you might expect. A writer named Tish Cohen, the presenter for something like the eighth award, was next to me, sheet of paper in hand, running through what she was supposed to say. Lips moving silently, that whole bit. Which prompted me to wonder whether I should go over my spiel one more time. I reached in my pocket to find the sheet that had my little blurb on it. I checked the next pocket. I went into my blazer and checked the inner breast pocket. The back pockets of my jeans. Then I went through and tried again. Next was a round of pocket contents emptying. And it was at that point, as the second presenter mounted the stage, that I concluded: I was fucked.

Because I couldn't find the sheet that had my script on it. There was a moment or two spent rehearsing the usual symptoms of panic—increased heart rate, temptations toward flight. Could I wing it? Just make up the blurb about writing non-fiction? Nope -- I was blanking on the title of the middle nominee. Monologue of uninterrupted curse words. I spied the event organizer, the kindly, the benevolent Emily, sitting to the right of the stage. With the third presenter already onstage, I duckwalked before an auditorium of hundreds of publishing executives, made it to Emily mostly unseen, explained that idiot me must have thrown out the script sheet with my canapé napkin, and waited, my life in her hands. 

"No problem," she said. She produced a binder, unsnapped the clips and produced a second copy of the script sheet. Seconds later I was up on stage presenting the award before an auditorium of people oblivious to my averted disaster. Naomi Klein won. Her publisher gave the acceptance speech. The awards that followed progressed with a single disappointment -- I wanted Type Books to win bookseller of the year, and they didn't. After, as I shared a cab ride with the lovely Vanessa from my agent's office, I considered the feasibility of naming my next child Emily. Regardless of the child's gender. As a gesture of thanks.