Saturday, October 12, 2013
My original intention was to write "Diary of a Newmarket Madman," following my famous countryman Nikolai Gogol, whose play adaptation of his famous book is now making huge waves in St. Louis, Mo.
What came out instead was my"Light Over Newmarket," a nutty enough book in its own right, but nowhere near the great Gogol.
Nevertheless, LON was reviewed by the late Dick Illingworth in the ERA and I managed to cop an Ontario Arts Council grant.
Yet I was still Ivan and not Nick Gogol, who was a Ukrainian, and probably the father of all Russian 19th century literature.
And in York Region, there were other, bigger guns.
So I had to stop running for being Nikolai Gogol of Newmarket, settling instead for maybe Roy Green.
And what the hell. Today I was so proud to learn that the wonderful Alice Munro got the Nobel Prize for Literature!
(I myself have never been a fan of the Canlit crowd, and neither, probably was Ms. Alice.
She did it all on her own. In her own way.
And good on her).
But as for me, what to do?
I can't nearly write as good as Alice Munro. I don't think anybody in Canada can.
Is it too late have a sex change?