On puritans and dashing writer men.

Took in another event at the Book Festival this morning.  A discussion by authors Maggie Humm & Lesley McDowell around, among other things, iconic female writers and their often tumultuous relationships with their male counterparts. 

It was, to say the least, an interesting talk.  I wondered at first at McDowell's focus on heterosexual relationships, as there are of course many same sex relationships that have given rise to great writing, or great creativity (Virginia Woolf and Vita Sackville West come to mind, for one).  But then she noted that she'd decided to focus on relationships that occurred in the early part of the 20th century, and, given that most women of that time couldn't even vote, she noted that she was intrigued by the inherent inequalities present in these relationships.  Which I found a most interesting point.  She cited the case of HG Wells and Rebecca West as a prime example of this.  Older, experienced male writer, younger, inexperienced female ingenue who happens, while maintaining her own writerly ambitions, to fall hopelessly in love.  I found the differences that McDowell outlined in their separate writing careers most fascinating.  Women of that time, especially women writers, were of course at the mercy of so many things:  money, children, society.  A man like HG Wells could gallivant around the country and have affairs with scores of women, but his writing got done and was respected and there was no danger of his dalliances ever really denting his reputation as a writer.  Whereas Ms. West, who very quickly bore a child out of wedlock to her darling HG, had to deal with a different kind of situation altogether.

It is odd, I think, to realize that these things happened less than a century ago.  That women were this oppressed less than a century ago.  That female artists couldn't have the kind of opportunities available to male artists unless, like Ms. Woolf, they had access to a steady stream of cash.

On a slightly different note, at one point in the talk Ms. Humm mentioned that a collection of Virginia Woolf's photographs had been deemed too risqué for publication in a recent anthology put out in America.  She laughed and cited the puritanical nature of America as part of the issue.  That, coming on the heels of last night's discussion of all things McSweeney, made me wonder.  Is it just that mainstream America tends to be puritanical, and uptight about things like this?  (While, of course, being perfectly fine with all the skin flashed on MTV, prime time, etc.)  Or has the global perception of America/North America -- because I've learned, since being here in the UK, that people tend to see them as one and the same -- been forever branded by the Bible belt fundamentalist creed?

I certainly wouldn't consider McSweeney's to be a publication afraid of the risqué.  Nor does that word come to mind when thinking of The Walrus, or maisonneuve, or Geist, or scores of other publications in the good old North of A that currently exist.

Have added a few titles to the must-read list, however, as a result of today's discussion.  Don't know when I'll actually get around to reading Between the Sheets or The Edinburgh Companion to Virginia Woolf and the Arts, of course, but at least they've found a place.

An inaugural festival for an inaugural post.

So I thought it would be appropriate to centre my first post to this blog around another first -- in this case, the first appearance of Unbound, a new mini-festival hosted within the larger Edinburgh International Book Festival.  (Well, that plus the fact that, while I've been hankering to start this blog for some time, I just haven't gotten the oomph together to do it, so needed some sort of outside kick to start things rolling ...)

Unbound actually began last week, on the evening of August 15th.  I almost made it, but chickened out at the last minute because I didn't want to go by myself.  Chicken, yes.  Very much so.  (Especially since that evening in question was built around a discussion of Scottish erotica, and whether or not such a thing does indeed exist.  What a thing to miss.  A travesty, one might even say.) I eventually mustered the courage later the following night and trundled downtown to catch some members of DIScOmBoBulAte read and entertain.  It was standing room only, though (lesson for the future!), so I left before the evening had come to a close.

Lesson firmly in mind, I then ventured out tonight well in advance of the program's start time.  Got to the Spiegeltent a good forty five minutes early, grabbed a cup o' tea, and plunked myself down on a table right close to the stage.  I was eventually joined by a very nice family from somewhere down south -- they'd come up for the weekend and had never been to Edinburgh before.  I got to act like a local.  It was great fun.

ANYWAY.  The evening itself eventually got started around 9:30pm, and as it turned out was 100% worth the wait.  Tonight's speaker was Eli Horowitz, the Managing Editor of McSweeney's. 

If you've never heard of McSweeney's before, go here.  Please read.  I expect you, like me, will suddenly find yourself stuck to your computer screen, alternating between hysterical laughter and, well, hysterical laughter.  And that's just the online version of the magazine.  If you're looking for a publication that's not really like any other magazine you've ever seen, considering signing up for an issue, or two, or three.  Expect magnets in books and superfluous combs in your mailbox.  Hilarity all round, folks.  Trust me.

ANYWAY ... again.  It was, all told, a great discussion.  Eli Horowitz is very engaging and quite obviously really passionate about the magazine and what they're trying to do.  It made me all warm and fuzzy inside, to hear about the struggles of their small-but-dedicated team and see what goodness underground mags are spreading out there in the world.  Three cheers for McSweeney's and their hardworking, slightly unusual staff!  And five extra bonus stars to Mr. Horowitz himself, who calmly sat on stage and had his head shaved as a finale to the evening's discussions.  (He kept talking, even with hair in his mouth.)

I mean, if a good ol' head shaving doesn't make a literary festival, I don't know what does!