Magnified World

Not that long ago there was an interesting discussion on Twitter about how (or if) knowledge and experience with the setting of a novel affected the way you connect with the story being told. (If you aren't on Twitter and this seems to go against everything you've heard about the medium, let me just say that it all depends on who you interact with and that, yes, there are a lot of interesting literary discussions being hashed out in 140-character bites.) Personally, I love finding a book that's set somewhere I'm familiar with. Reading Ami McKay's The Birth House, for example, was a thrill partially because it's set in my home town (albeit nearly 100 years before I lived there). Likewise, as I become more comfortable with the idea that I now live in Toronto, books set in neighbourhoods I'm familiar with pop out at me in way they perhaps would not have five years ago. Nonetheless, the geography of a novel is, in some ways, incidental to whether or not I'll enjoy it, because even if I'm reading about somewhere I'm familiar with, I'm still experiencing it through the eyes and emotions of a fictional character, which means, in a way, that my experience doesn't matter. I had to remind myself of this a few times while reading Grace O'Connell's gorgeous debut novel Magnified World, though, because not only do her descriptions mimic the way I remember certain places, but her character Maggie feels wonderfully familiar, as if I've bumped into her before.

Magnified World is set, since we're on the subject, mostly in Toronto's West Queen West/Trinity Bellwoods neighbourhood. Queen Street, certainly, figures into the story a lot, as does College Street and Kensington Market. If you are familiar with these places, reading O'Connell's descriptions offers a warm buzz of recognition; if you aren't, though, be assured that this is not an insider's look at Toronto: the descriptions are vivid and accurate in the way that lets you unconsciously map out a character's movements, without feeling overwhelmed by comings and goings. It's my favourite way to read about cities, really – detailed without becoming clinical.

On book blogging

A few days ago, Rebecca Schinsky (an American book blogger and very activer Twitterer) tweeted about a letter she and other book bloggers received from HarperCollins U.S. imprint William Morrow that stated a change in their policy regarding review copies. Essentially, the letter (as discussed in the L.A. Times and The Guardian) laid down the law: no more unsolicited review copies; reviews are expected to be written and posted in a timely manner (within weeks of publication); and if bloggers won't play by these rules, no more review copies. But! William Morrow loves book bloggers, the letter assures recipients. So no worries.

Certainly, this letter may not have been worded to the greatest affect, and it seems William Morrow was taken aback by the angry response the missive received and has since tried to explain that the change in policy isn't meant to be punitive. Be that as it may, the wider response has been interesting. On the one side, bloggers are angry at being treated like free marketing labour – most don't get paid and look at free books as a way to help justify a sometimes very time-consuming endeavour; on the other side are those who see this letter and its response as further evidence of the entitlement of the blogosphere – hacks who think they're real journalists and should be treated accordingly. It's messy and ugly, and I'm not sure either side has it right, but rather than wade into the wider debate, I'll simply explain how it all works here.

One book, one world?

The "one book, one city" movement as taken off in the UK over the last few years. The idea is that an entire city simultaneously reads one book, usually a classic written by one of their countrymen and/or set in their city. It's like Canada Reads, but with a bit more follow-through.

Now though, the idea has been taken a bit further. Neil Gaiman's novel American Gods has been chosen as the first installment of "one book, one Twitter." The idea is that everyone who uses Twitter will read the same book at the same time and Tweet about it, effectively creating the largest book club in the world. The idea came from Jeff Howe, a contributing editor to Wired magazine, whose website hosted the voting for which book the world should read.

It's an interesting idea. On the one hand, I am happy to support initiatives that encourage reading and literacy and exposure to important books (full disclosure: I have not read American Gods, so I am basing its relative importance against its competitors). On the other hand, like many readers I know, I am wary of book trends. As much as I want to encourage excitement about reading, I don't think books need to be dumbed down for them to have wide appeal. That doesn't seem to be happening here, though.

Whether I decide to read American Gods at all (with the Twitter book club or on my own, later), I certainly will follow the success of the one "one book, one Twitter" movement. If you want to get in on the Tweeting (no spoilers, please), it all gets started tomorrow; send your Tweets to @1B1T or tag them with #1b1t.

Image shown is a screen-grab of one of Jeff Howe's Tweets about "one book, one Twitter" (or #1b1t).