The Social Network

For the first time, as I started this post, I thought, Who are you, you boring old bag, to blather on? What the hell new do you have to say?

I've just seen "The Social Network."

I emerged feeling energized by this fantastic film, but also old, poor, slow and stupid. Why haven't I invented anything that earned - okay, not billions of dollars, but even a paltry million or two? Why, you total loser? Because you're not nearly young or fast or smart enough, but also ... you're not enough of an obsessive asshole. That's a message in the movie too. The nice guy gets shafted; the relentless, conscienceless assholes win. Except, of course, that they don't.

See it immediately if you haven't already; it's stunning, Shakespearian, gripping from first to last, the performances and direction superb and the writing even better. The story of why and how Facebook got started at Harvard and how it grew is fascinating enough, but in the end, what's moving and beautifully portrayed are the eternal stories: the outsider wanting in; the genius losing perspective and humanity; the snake in Eden cajoles, the apple is devoured and a soul is lost. Not one moment feels false or dull. Well, maybe a cheap joke or two, a bit forced, but Sorkin is forgiven because of the extreme cleverness of his script. To me, the writer has done the equivalent of what his protagonist Zuckerberg, the Facebook guy, did - he has created something vital, current, necessary.

Aaron Sorkin is a writer, so he won't emerge with endless bags of dough as a result of this film. But if he doesn't win the Oscar for Best Adapted Screenplay, I'll eat my hat, and I have quite a few of them, so it'll take me awhile. I was a huge fan of "The West Wing" and I'm a huge fan now. Even though he makes me feel uplifted, but also weary, stale, flat and unprofitable.

a tiny bit of snow

Last night, what a treat - Marilyn took me to the ballet. "Everything/was beautiful/at the ballet," goes the song from "Chorus Line," and it couldn't have been more beautiful, this production of "Cinderella," with music by Prokofiev, put on by the National Ballet with panache and a great deal of humour. Sets, costumes, dancers and especially that glorious music. How do those people do what they do with their bodies? Legs up to there, leaps, twirls, extensions, jumps ... Utter delight. Especially, as my neighbours Jean-Marc and Richard, whom I ran into there, pointed out, the handsome Prince and all his tight-wearing friends. Delicious.

I've just had an email from dear friend Penny, in Sheffield. I'd sent her my blog book, in which she plays a significant part, and here, in the "blowing own horn" department, is what she just wrote:

I have read and reread your words and am now tracking the days with the calendar - two years behind time. 20th November 2008 - Excellence from the snow zone.

"... that first snowfall was beautiful this morning as it always is, the icing sliding along the trees and piled on the last hanging baskets outside - the cold kiss of death."

I shiver for more reasons than the chill wind of the coming winter.

You give your readers a tantalising glimpse of your life and your mind - slipping from the moment to the memory, from your reading to reflection. The everyday sits beside the events of the century, and your friends and family stroll casually through the rich story of your world.

Always nice to hear that someone besides my mother has enjoyed the book. It's cold, and the dark days are closing in; this morning, I pushed back the bedroom curtains to see the first swirls of snow. That wonderful feeling, lying warm in bed looking at the icy wind shoving at the trees outside. But the flakes vanished immediately, not like November 2008.

BUSINESS: My basement apartment is available for rent January 1. Please keep it in mind if you hear of an extremely nice person who needs an extremely nice place to live in downtown Toronto.

I hope you are warm and dry, in a very nice place of your own.

the lady and the playwright

It's dark by 5 p.m. now, as winter sidles in. I think of the pioneer peoples in log cabins - how did they survive month after month of snow and wind and vicious cold? Nothing to complain about, here in the warm house, looking out at the still-green garden, the birds pecking at the feeder, the cat curled up, asleep as always, beside me.

Wonderful news: my friend Bill, a neighbourhood handyman with long grey hair and very few teeth who rakes leaves, shovels snow and washes windows all over Cabbagetown, has found me a bicycle. Someone gave it to him. It's an old Raleigh woman's bicycle with 3 magnificent speeds and a huge front basket, exactly the right height, with the high handlebars I wanted. All that was needed was a bell. Bill asked for $20; I gave him $50. I feel marvellous pedalling along upright, with books and handbag in the basket, knowing that when I lock the fairly tattered and rusty bike, she won't be a thief magnet as a new bike would have been. Her name, incidentally, is Chocolat, with the French pronunciation, because she's a rich brown. I look forward to many happy years, Chocolat and I, together at last.

So to those who gave me money for my birthday towards the purchase of a new bicycle, I will put those funds instead towards my travel vacation next April. Many thanks, once more.

Since returning from New York to this sweet little city, I've taught 2 university classes, 2 home classes, seen 5 private memoir clients and started the 697th draft of my own memoir. Sometimes I think that so much energy goes into other people's work, it has become harder to throw myself into my own. But I'll get there.

I know I'll get there because I'm inspired by a fascinating book - "Must you go?" by Lady Antonia Fraser, about her love affair and marriage with Harold Pinter, one of the greatest playwrights of the 20th century. It's a fabulous book for anyone interested simply in the time and place - this couple consorted with famous actors, politicians and personalities around the world, casual mentions of lunch with Samuel Beckett, dinner with Steve McQueen etc. There's the delicious story of their relationship - their incredibly romantic meeting and love at first sight, with some of the gorgeous, heart-melting poems he wrote to her.

But most importantly for me, there's the image of Lady Antonia herself, the mother of six children, getting a divorce and marrying a brilliant writer while keeping her own writing career in full gear. She still had teenaged children at the time, though not, I think, living full-time at home, and undoubtedly she had a housekeeper and perhaps a cook - it's hard to imagine Lady Antonia hopping onto her bicycle to get a load of groceries, or dashing down to the basement to do the laundry, as some other writers who shall remain nameless have to do.

But still, she was writing and Pinter was writing while they jetted off to openings of his plays and meetings with movie producers and other writers - and television interviews of them both and vacations in Italy with "the children," his one and some of her six. She produced murder mysteries and lengthy works about history, a biography of Charles II, a history of 17th century women, while living an exotic life with a genius who adored her. Who took her to luxury hotels, wrote her passionate poems and bought her outfits at Yves St. Laurent in Paris.

I WANT TO BE LADY ANTONIA FRASER!

Okay, no, I don't. I love my solitude and tiny little Toronto. I don't want to write about 17th century women, and Pinter does sound like a handful, a bit neurotic and ferociously opinionated. In one moving bit, she tells us that after his death, among his things, she found a place card of her name from some dinner party, on the back of which she'd written, "You're absolutely right, darling. Now shut up!" and passed it to him. He'd kept it for decades.

But I so admire her drive, focus and professionalism. Yesterday, discussing the writing life with students, I told them that when I attended the Humber summer program, I'd noted something the Welsh writer D.M. Thomas had said: "Cultivate the garden that has been given to you."

You cannot write someone else's stories, only your own. So write them.

And my student Wendy told of the American humour writer Bruce Jay Friedman whom she'd had as a mentor at Humber. She told him she was stuck on a piece of writing, what should she do? He looked at her impatiently. "Write the next fucking line!" he replied.

That's what my hero Lady Antonia Pinter, despite her great romance and very busy life, continued to do. And that's what I'll do too.

baby musicians

I photographed this on the wall of the John Lennon exhibit at the Museum of Radio and Television - the first photo of the Fab Four together. Children.

a few NYC shots

Broadway is closed at Times Square, and you can sit at the tables or on the red staircase. At night, the view of the crowds and lights from the top of the staircase is spectacular.

Bruce in the park.

Beth - no, not in the Muskokas, but in Central Park.

The construction at Ground Zero. Bruce showed me the nearby cemetery iron railing, which after 9/11 was covered with photos of the missing. Just standing there makes you want to cry.