Good intentions

I had no intentions of ever doing any kind of writing for work. When I was a kid I always loved writing and creative writing classes at school, but I didn't see how that could equate into a career that would have me living above the poverty line. I didn't really enjoy English classes, mostly because I didn't like the books we read and I wasn't very good at writing essays. I think I scored a 67 on my provincial English exam. I realize now though that English classes were only 20% about writing, and more about being able to form an opinion on what you had read. The only opinions I had about the readings were that they were boring and irrelevant to me.

I also hated gym class. I never learned how to run. Everyone else seemed to just be able to do the laps like they were part gazelle while I just never could find a pace that I could go at and not feel like my lungs were collapsing. I didn't have asthma, but I used to secretly wish I did so at least I'd have an excuse for my performance. (I never felt the peer pressure to try smoking, but I always wondered if one of those puffers could magically make running a little more bearable.)

Yesterday I had two things on my to-do list: go for a run in the park and go see the short films presentation at the Writers Festival. Okay, so they still don't technically pay me to write yet in the creative department at Good Wooden Leg, and I'm still in the learning stages of running, but we've definitely come a long way, baby.

I arrived to the venue early this time, and was one of the first people to buy my ticket. As I waited in the lobby for the doors to the theatre to open, I noticed our local CTV sports anchor chatting with an event organizer. It seemed that he would be hosting the program. Somewhere around this time I also glanced down at my ticket and noticed something odd. My ticket said:

Saturday, September 27, 1:30 p.m. Matinee: Hockey Day in Canada!

I figured there had to be some kind of mistake. Perhaps they had given me the wrong ticket, or I was in the wrong place. I grabbed a program book from the stand and flipped to the blurb on Moving Stories Films. The page read:

Sunday September 28, 1:30 p.m. Matinee: Moving Stories Films

I had read the program wrong, and now I was going to a discussion on hockey literature. This was fantastic for a girl who only knows the term "icing" as it pertains to a cake.

(I would like to now add the subtitle to this post: Jillian, if you are going to take in a writers festival, you should at least first know how to read.)

I suppose I could have tried to explain my situation to the ticket seller, but that seemed a little embarrassing. I envisioned him scowling at me and saying, "What do you mean you don't want to see the discussion on hockey? Are you an American tourist or something?"

So I figured I would just make the best of my mistake. Who knows, maybe Pasha would magically re-appear and I could wink at him again.

I went in, dropped off my entry for the door prize, perused the book table, found a seat in the second row and hoped for the best in something I had no intentions of taking in.

For this session, four authors took turns doing their readings. In between readings, the host asked them questions and opened the floor up for audience members to interview the authors as well.

Regardless of the topic, I think it is always interesting to hear an author talk about their work. My favourite presenter of the afternoon was Paul Quarrington, a Leafs fan who wrote King Leary. The book tells the story of a fictitious hockey hero who is nearing the end of his lifetime and reflecting upon it from the nursing home. The writing is smart and funny, and Paul does a great out-loud reading. I didn't have a pen on me to write down the title, so I tried my best to just commit it to memory.

I was left pleasantly surprised with the session and happy that at least I had learned about one book that interested me.

And then the most perfect part of the afternoon came. The host drew a ticket from the door prize ballot box and announced "Jillian B@rr0tt" as the winner of one copy of each book presented that afternoon.

It was the funniest twist of fate ever. I was so amused by it all that I just had to tell someone what happened. I graciously accepted my books and then headed outside to return my missed call from my dad. Later I realized how terrible that must have looked. I had just won this awesome collection of new books and I didn't stick around to ask anyone to sign them. Fate shakes her head at me a lot for my ungratefulness.