The Punch

First off, let me apologize for being two days late with my Monday post. Some of you were probably worried that the Festival had finally had enough of me and had me eliminated, (Grosshans isn’t really his last name; it’s what they look like when he’s done with you). But fear not, for I am alive and well. Well, not really well, but alive none the less. And though I may be slowed by the same horrible illness that the Festival administered to my family, it will not stand in the way of me exacting revenge on my tormentors. Festival enjoyment will be my decongestant.

Now, though Sunday night was wonderful, by Monday morning I was starting to realize the chilly outdoor setting was merely meant to weaken my immune system and allow their virus to take hold. I awoke with a runny nose, sore throat and a cough. Instead of succumbing to the illness, I quickly set about writing my previous post. By 2 O’clock, my symptoms had worsened and I began to wonder whether I was even healthy enough to attend the afternoon book chat with Carolyn Smart and Richard B Wright. What to do? Go to the book chat and risk exposing you, the innocent festival goers, to the nefarious biological weapons residing in my body, or stay home, sleep and let the festival ruin my festival, thereby robbing us of our fun powered revenge. Being a man dedicated to the public interest, it really wasn’t much of a decision. Sniffles be damned, I was going to the festival.

I arrived just before the book chat started. I scanned the room and saw Ariel seated at a table near the front with a man I recognized as her husband Mike (you know, he doesn’t look half as beaten as you’d think). I decided to test our tenuous alliance and fish for an invitation to join them. To my surprise, that invitation came. I sat down and informed them I was sick (as if Ariel didn’t know). They told me to stay away from them and shuffled their chairs a few feet away. It was about this time the unthinkable happened; I was attacked.

That’s right, attacked. Right there in McNally Robinson, in front of world famous authors, the director of the Winnipeg International Writer’s Festival took a swing at me. Thank the lord I’m spry. I narrowly evaded Charlene’s right hook, and out of instinct assumed the drunken monkey fighting stance. I thought for a minute it was finally going to happen. Me and Charlene were finally going to throw down. But as I stood there on one foot, arms above my head, pythons ready to strike, I realized I couldn’t let this happen. Not here. We were surrounded by innocents. I couldn’t risk letting anybody get hurt. I decided the end would not justify the means and took a very different approach; I pretended to be scared. I let Charlene think she had won the day. I had to; it was for the public good. As I backed down, she smiled at her perceived victory and continued to the stage.

Now I’ll have to admit, the last few times I’ve been to these afternoon book chats, I’ve generally been quite distracted (you can see by my recounting of “the punch”, why I may have been). However, this afternoon, I decided before hand that I would do my best to block everything out and for once focus on why I was there. To hear the authors speak. And you wouldn’t believe what they said.

They talked about having writer’s block and how they get through it. They talked about getting into character when they’re writing, and how that relates to the writer’s imagination. Did you know writers are allowed to live in two worlds? The real one and another one they make up. This was probably the idea that got me the most excited (I was getting kinda tired of living in this one anyway, what with everyone always out to get me).

The authors talked for about an hour. I soaked it all in. Unfortunately the joy on my face must have been apparent. Around 3:30 Charlene forced the Q &A to an end. I suspect she was attempting to ruin my good time. I wish she wasn’t so spiteful, but she’s like that. Luckily I heard from Ariel that they have these book chats every day, all week at 2:30, so I can go to a few more. Shocking as it may sound, I’m starting to believe I might learn a whole bunch if I keep going to these things and ignore the festival’s distractions.

Anyway, that’s about it.

Book chats are good.

Charlene is bad.

Talk to you soon.

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Jason Diaz is a Winnipeg-based writer, bookstore employee and handyman (the bookstore business isn't as stable as you'd think). His poetry and prose has been published in dark leisure magazine. He has no idea why he keeps working for these meanies and volunteers coaching basketball to all the artsy kids in Wolseley so they never have to sit on the bench. He has a wife and many children.