Category Archives: Behind-the-Scenes

Alistair MacLeod Got It Right

by Douglas Gibson

The Globe and Mail obituary for the Rankin Family’s Raylene Rankin on October 10 began,

Raylene Rankin and Susan Crowe disagreed about a scene in Alistair MacLeod’s novel No Great Mischief. There is no way that the story’s narrator would take his brother all the way back to Cape Breton to die, argued Crowe.
“[Raylene] looked me in the eye and said, “You’re not from Cape Breton,” said Crowe of her friend and musical collaborator. . . .

I’m not from Cape Breton, but in editing the book I never questioned Alistair’s decision to provide that particular powerful ending. Sometimes editors are smart to assume that authors know what they are doing.

Editing Tips from Douglas Gibson (#26)

by JK

In this recurring feature, we’re sharing tips for editors from the desk of Douglas Gibson. Good for those starting out or old hands who need a reminder, these guidelines form an engaging guide for sharp-eyed wordsmiths.

Tip #26

I have written earlier about the importance of keeping all of the entries in a list consistent. All very obvious, you may say.

How, then, can we account for the giant signs outside Indigo stores that say: “Books” (That’s good, and it’s nice that they lead off their list of items for sale with the printed word. ) “Gifts” (Again, a sensible widening of the items available.)  Then, finally . . . “Kids” (What is this? Either baby goats are now on sale, or junior human beings, or the list of items has just taken a head-spinning turn to express the idea that, um, you know, things suitable for children are available at Indigo.)

“Books. Gifts. Kids.” Nice work.

A Mile in an Author’s Shoes

by Douglas Gibson

Anyone who takes writers and writing seriously has the same thought when visiting a famous author’s house: what would it be like to sit  at the desk where the author did his or her work? How would it affect your own writing?

I had the chance to experiment with this, in a minor way, when Jane and I stayed in August at Bridge Cottage, the former Haida Gwaii summer home of my friend, the author, artist, and man of many talents, James Houston. The conditions were scientifically perfect, since James wrote in the early morning (check), in the summer months (check), by hand (check), and – above all – at the desk in the writing cabin that was constructed for him for that very purpose.

Obviously this piece of writing that you are reading is no “Kublai Khan,” but at this precise moment in its creation a Person From Porlock arrived to interrupt my writing. This person had every right to do so, since he was the unique Noel Wotten, the man who built the writing cabin for his friend Jim. This was in 1981, as the plaque outside, for “Hideaway Studio,” makes clear.

I have now resumed my experiment a full day later, after Noel took us fishing at Port Clements, further up the island. He is a noted expert at fly fishing, having cast weightless flies great distances on salmon rivers around the world, landing the fly gently on the ripple most likely to provide shelter for a lurking fish. I notice, too, that after the fly has landed, Noel leans eagerly forward, manipulating the coils of line in his left hand, imagining the fish just beneath the tempting fly. Far from being just a skilful mechanical exercise – cast, float the fly, swing it back, cast again – it’s an act of faith and imagination, making fleeting  contact with that other world that lies beneath the surface.

These thoughts are, just possibly, channelled by the lingering spirit of the man who sat here writing. Often, as in the third volume of his memoirs, Hideaway, he wrote about fishing. He openly admitted that his addiction to salmon fishing was what brought him to the Queen Charlottes and to Bridge Cottage and the river Tlell in the first place. He wrote Hideaway, which I had the pleasure of editing and publishing, right here. And, in the same way as he did, I have just found myself getting  up from his seat to check on the river.

The river dominates every moment we are here, only an underhand stone’s throw from its banks. Unless you are asleep, or deliberately turning your back on it and ignoring it, you always know which way the tide is running — upstream, or down the five kilometres to the salt water of Hecate Strait — and how high it has climbed against the bridge timbers, or how low it has fallen. The river dominates the view, decides our activities, and turns any thoughtful resident into a water creature.

Another interruption has left me with an extraordinary river moment. When the salmon are running, as they are now, all eyes are on the surface of the river, looking for the circle in the water that may precede a silver leap. So even tiny circles in the water catch the eye. Standing to watch them, I was like a dog on point as I saw five or six circles appear. Then the entire surface of the water was pocked with hundreds of such circles, a miracle of teeming fish. Until I realised that a cloudburst had just arrived, and that these circles came courtesy of raindrops from above, not fish from below. I wonder what the fish make of it all, when the ceiling of their world turns black, and full of noise, and fresh, cold water.

Clearly I had learned one of the great lessons of sitting at a writer’s desk. When you are there, you are in the same surrounding world. And if you are open to distraction, your distractions will be the same as his.

Editing Tips from Douglas Gibson (#25)

by JK

In this recurring feature, we’re sharing tips for editors from the desk of Douglas Gibson. Good for those starting out or old hands who need a reminder, these guidelines form an engaging guide for sharp-eyed wordsmiths.

Tip #25
A recent article in The Atlantic magazine discusses the pros and cons of unscripted dialogue in movies. The main advantage, the writer argues, is that the spur-of-the-moment conversations produced by the liberated actors “sound more real.”

Anyone who has spent much time reading faithfully transcribed examples of “real” conversations knows that in print the disadvantages of, you know, um, like I say, the, er . . .  kind of real stuff massively outweigh the advantages. So cut and polish that dialogue fearlessly, and you’ll have people talking the way they think they do.

Joan Rivers and Me

by Douglas Gibson

I was on the stationary bike at my local gym, when the TV screen in front of me flashed an intriguing message: “POLICE WERE CALLED TO A L.A. STORE WHEN JOAN RIVERS HANDCUFFED HERSELF TO A SHOPPING CART.”

I should explain that the bank of TV sets at the gym produces some of the most amazing daytime programs, so that I regularly return home with breathless news about what Dr. Oz has discovered about pills to prevent cancer, or the special melons from the south of France that prevent Cindy Crawford’s face from aging, and much else. It’s a different world out there.

But now this, about Joan Rivers!

I have never met Joan Rivers, and if we did meet I suspect that we would not agree on many things, especially around the area of cosmetic surgery. And while she does not play a regular role in my imaginative life, the “handcuffed to a shopping cart” story certainly caught my eye.

Soon the second shoe dropped. The follow-up line came five minutes later. “SHE IS PROTESTING COSTCO’S FAILURE TO STOCK HER BOOK.”

Aha! The shopping cart ruse was not a stupid tantrum thrown by a never-was celebrity. It was an act of literary defiance by an author spurned. The people at Costco, you see, do not stock many titles, and work hard to screen out books of literary merit. They, and presumably their customers, want only popular blockbusters by established authors (or, to be fair, flavour-of-the-month newbies). And their choices run heavily to big novels, and self-help books, and books by show biz celebrities like . . . well, when you come to think of it, like Joan Rivers.

Another Aha moment! If you are Joan Rivers, and used to seeing banks of your latest artistic creation displayed in the book section at Costco, it must be a terrible moment of  betrayal to find that Costco has decided to take a pass on your new “book.”

So I, and all authors with a new book fighting for space out there, share a moment (a very, very brief moment) of sympathy for the spurned author who decided to make her disappointment known. Few of us, however, would think of handcuffing ourselves to  a shopping cart. Joan Rivers wins on imagination there, hands down, as it were.

I hope that she runs up against a judge with equal imagination who is aware that by causing this fuss Joan Rivers has let millions of people know that she has a new book out there. Ideally, Ms. Rivers would be compelled to remain handcuffed to the cart 24 hours a day for six months. That would be the perfect sentence . . . not a phrase usually associated with the books of Joan Rivers.

Editing Tips from Douglas Gibson (#24)

by JK

In this recurring feature, we’re sharing tips for editors from the desk of Douglas Gibson. Good for those starting out or old hands who need a reminder, these reminders form an engaging guide for sharp-eyed wordsmiths.

Tip #24
Any time an editor sees the word “literally,” sirens should sound and red lights begin to flash. For “literally” is used wrongly most of the time, by most people. “I literally died of embarrassment” is not an extreme example. Every month you will read, and hear, dozens of such mistaken uses, serving to deprive the world of a useful word that says, “And I really mean this, it is the factual truth.” Dozens of examples. Literally.

Editing Tips from Douglas Gibson (#23)

by JK

In this recurring feature, we’re sharing tips for editors from the desk of Douglas Gibson. Good for those starting out or old hands who need a reminder, these reminders form an engaging guide for sharp-eyed wordsmiths.

Tip #23
Another hat that the ideal book editor wears is the Marketing Specialist’s Hat. Even a literary novel allows possible special markets. A central character’s interest in bird-watching, for example, opens up prospects of attention, even reviews, in birders’ magazines or websites. A story set during the Canadian advance in Italy during the Second World War provides gives the publisher the chance of a market among veterans, the Legion Magazine, and fans of military history. The editor, as the first reader of the finished book, should be the spearhead of the attack on these special markets. Or, if you prefer the bird-watching analogy, should be the one to tweet the news around the publishing house.

Federer, Murray, and Gibson

by JK

In September 2008 I was driving across Scotland after a day at St. Andrews when I realised that I was only ten minutes away from Dunblane. That set me thinking. I was aware that Andy Murray came from that little town, which I know very well, since my brother’s funeral was held in the cathedral there. And I realised that in just two hours Andy Murray would be playing against Roger Federer in the final of the U.S. Open Tennis Championships in Flushing Meadows, New York, in the biggest game of his life.

Time for a spot of enterprising, you-are-there reporting, on Watching Tennis in Andy Murray Country as Local Boy Makes Good or Disappointment Hits Home Town.

I rushed to grab a notepad and pencils, gulped down a sandwich then drove to downtown Dunblane.

“Where can I see the Andy Murray match?” I asked a group lingering outside a pub.

“Yer best bet would be the Community Centre . . . they’ve got a special screen set up doon there.”

I found the centre, parked boldly in the Bowling Club lot, and strode in doing my best Canadian sports reporter imitation. “Hi, I’m from Canada.” (Ok so far.) “I’m with the Toronto Globe and Mail,” I went on, brandishing my notebook (well, I had written a number of articles for the Globe over the years, and I did plan to submit this unexpected tennis article to them). “Who’s in charge of this event?”

So I was promptly introduced to Nora Dougherty, and asked her a few questions, taking ostentatious notes. She in turn introduced me to others, including old friends of the Murray family. When David McFarlane told me, “No matter what happens, Andy will still be just a wee laddie from Dunblane,” I had to stop myself from punching the air in glee. Unprofessional. But I knew that I had my lead.

I pounded it out the next morning and fired it off to the Globe’s Jerry Johnson (a very surprised man, but calm under fire), who ran it in the Focus section on Saturday, September 13, 2008. You could look it up, as they say.

Here, however, is my original version:

A WEE LADDIE FROM DUNBLANE; Watching Tennis in Andy Murray Country

by DOUG GIBSON

“No matter what happens, Andy will still be just a wee laddie from Dunblane.” It’s a very unusual evening in Dunblane, and David McFarlane (“I used to play tennis against his grandfather”) is clearly speaking for the 70 or so diehard Andy Murray fans gathered in the Dunblane Community Centre to watch the local laddie play for the U.S. Open Tennis Championship in far-off Flushing Meadows, New York.

Until recently Dunblane was famous for two things. Set in the heart of Scotland, 10 kilometres north of Stirling, thanks to its grand mediaeval Cathedral it qualified  for the title of “city,” although it can still only muster about 10,000 citizens. Its second claim to fame was a tragic one. In 1996 its name rang around the world when a madman invaded the primary school and wiped out a class of five-year-olds and their teacher; that incident changed Britain’s laws on handguns.

In the past few years, however, Dunblane has acquired a proud new claim to fame as the birthplace and home of Andy Murray, the 21-year-old thin white hope of British tennis. In Scotland, despite a curt and combative interview style and a scraggly beard that sets matronly fingers reaching for scissors from coast to coast, he has become a national icon.

Dunblane knows him well. As Nora Dougherty, the Community Centre trustee who helped to organise this evening’s event, puts it, the Murrays are “a well-known local family,” with relatives who excelled in sports ranging from soccer to golf, and Andy’s tennis career began at the Dunblane Tennis Club. His mother, Judy, is a well-known tennis coach and encouraged her talented son to go off to tennis school in Barcelona. Dunblane watched proudly as he won junior championships and then earned a place on the professional tour, racking up enough victories to arouse unrealistic expectations for the teenager among the success-starved Wimbledon crowds.

For all of his excellence as a shot-maker with a shrewd tactical brain, young Murray was built along the lines of a long-armed stick and his stamina tended to let him down in long matches, while injuries interfered with his progress. Hard work in the off-season with his support group (a coach, a fitness coach and a physiotherapist) added pounds to his frame and helped to produce a string of good wins, until on his day it seemed that he could beat anyone, twice managing to defeat the legendary Roger Federer, the perennial world Number 1.

What has the  crowd buzzing tonight in the square room hung with two blue Scottish saltire flags and a series of hand-lettered youth club signs (“C’mon, Andy,” “Go, Andy, Go,” even “Andy Rules”) is the Federer back-story. Described by no less an authority as John McEnroe as the best tennis player of all time, the Swiss has for years seemed invincible, except on clay, where the muscular young Spaniard, Rafael Nadal, reigned supreme. Then this year Nadal crushed him easily on clay in Paris and beat him on the grass at Wimbledon. Was this a changing of the Guard, as Federer’s loss of the top ranking implied? Certainly Federer’s confidence seemed to have melted into the Wimbledon grass, so that soon he was losing to second-raters. Yet now, here he was in the U.S. final, trying for his fifth successive championship. Was Federer on the way down, or was he on the rebound?

As the crowd shuffle their seats and tables around for the best view of the large Sky TV screen, they watch a replay of the dramatic semi-final, when Murray did Federer the enormous favour of removing his nemesis, Nadal, from the tournament. While beer and potato chips are stockpiled on tables, the crowd delights in watching their Andy play the best tennis of his life to defeat the all-conquering Nadal. Wise heads (and this is a sports-conscious crowd, including, visitors are informed, a world junior curling champion) opine that Murray will have to serve at his best to beat Federer.

The players appear to a roar from the crowd in the Arthur Ashe stadium that is almost matched by the somewhat smaller Dunblane group. “C’mon, Andyyyyy!”

The match begins, with Federer serving. Serving well. So well, in fact, that a distressing pattern soon emerges. He is holding his serve with ease, while Murray, as early as his second serve, is flirting with break points. Soon Federer does break him, to go to 4-2. The Dunblane crowd is being taken out of the game, with nothing to celebrate. When Murray hits a net cord that luckily drops over to win the point he waves a formal apology to his opponent, but in Dunblane the crowd goes wild.

The pattern continues, with Federer in supreme form, running around his backhand to blast forehand winners to both corners. He is playing very well, not letting Murray, who is not, into the game. First set to Federer, 6-2, in just 26 minutes. The calls of “C’mon, Andy” take on a plaintive note

In the second set Murray’s serve improves, and the games go with service. Now at 2-2 Federer is at Love-40 on his serve. A shot of Federer wiping his face on a towel has David McFarlane joking, ”C’mon, Andy, you’ve got him sweatin’!” Love-40! Surely this will be in every sense Andy’s big break. But the Swiss fights back to deuce with the aid of some baseline calls that have David commenting indignantly, “That was oot!” Unexpectedly the match’s Hawkeye camera – not called upon in this case — confirms David’s judgement, as Sky informs us, but the point goes to Federer. So, in the end, does the game, to general dismay.

The contest is more even now, with Murray trying more ambitious shots, although Federer’s anticipation and gliding speed around the court allow him to hit winners off what would have been winners against other mortals. But with Federer serving first and holding, Murray is always playing catch-up. A shot of Murray wincing as his right knee gives a twinge provokes worried headshakes all round. “Aye, that’s his bad knee.”

Murray’s returns have been improving, and he’s been gaining a couple of points on each Federer serve. But never enough. Suddenly, it seems, after a close-fought 5-5 , it’s 7-5, to Federer. Significant looks are exchanged in the centre. “Ah well,” says one man in a resigned sort of way.

The people in the Dunblane crowd know this sort of feeling. Scottish sports supporters are connoisseurs of losing. The role goes with being an underdog nation, used to being outnumbered, and reminders of the exceptions (like the successful battle of Bannockburn, just 15 kilometres down the road) are greatly cherished. The trick, for the supporter, is not to get hopes up unreasonably high. For the player, the key is never to give up, to lose gallantly, fighting to the end. Scots study these matters.

In that light, the third set is shaping up as a disaster. Federer is in superb form, covering the court with ease, hitting winners from all angles, making the fast and nimble Murray look almost slow. “Virtually flawless” is how the Sky commentator describes Federer’s performance, and as he racks up the points he nears 4-0. A 6-0 loss would be terrible. “ It looks like an early night,” says a woman in the quiet Dunblane hall, an odd comment for 11:45 pm.

In despair a TV cameraman covering the event pleads with the subdued crowd to start demonstrating filmable enthusiasm. The younger members react obediently: “C’mon Aaandy!” is followed by rhythmic chants and clapping, “Andy! Andy! Andy!”

In the din Andy loses five points in a row. The law of unintended consequences seems to have kicked in. “Shut up!” cries an older fan, to general delight. The silent treatment seems to work. At 5-0 down, just one game away from losing the match, Murray holds his serve 5-1. “That’s more like it, let’s go!” cries the crowd.

After being two points away from final defeat, Murray breaks Federer’s serve for the first time in the whole match. Bedlam in Dunblane. David McFarlane has a wonderful joke for the situation. “Andy was just gie’in him a start!” It’s an interesting theory, but now two sets down, at 2-5 with Federer to serve, Andy may have left it a little late. And so it proves. Federer nails down the game. 6-2. Andy went down trying.

It is 12:06 and the crowd starts to file out into the night, some helping with the stacking of chairs. But not before there have been “Three cheers for Andy Murray” and general delight at the prize-giving announcement, where Andy is gracious in defeat, that he will be leaving New York with $1 million — whistles, and pleased smiles. As Margaret McFarlane, who taught Andy at Dunblane Primary, said, the evening was “a wee bit of history.”

Perhaps the Dunblane reaction was caught best by the pre-game poster on the wall: “ Good luck, Andy. Well done.” This was an honourable sports loss, in no way a tragedy. Dunblane knows the difference.

 Special to the Globe and Mail. Publisher and editor Doug Gibson is both a former Scot and a former tennis player.

I enjoyed my brief career as the Globe’s Special Tennis Correspondent. It all came back to me on Sunday, July 8th when Federer and Murray had a rematch in the final at Wimbledon, and Britain closed down to watch this historic game. It produced the same result as the 2008, but Andy  Murray played well against the sublime Federer and lost narrowly, wryly summing up, “Well, I’m getting closer.”

I waited in vain for the call from the Globe that would whisk their Special Tennis Correspondent Doug Gibson to Wimbledon. Maybe next year.

Book Writing Is Not an Easy Job

by JK

In response to Mark Medley’s July 13, 2012, Afterword piece, “Who Edits the Editors?”, Doug offered his experience of editors becoming authors in a letter to the editor, which was published July 17, 2012. Doug writes,

Mark Medley’s fine column catches most of the problems facing people who work in publishing, yet boldly decide to write fiction. The matter of divided loyalties — and divided imaginative time — is central, of course.
But I especially liked the account given by the distinguished British publisher and poet, Robin Robertson, of the depressing reality in publishing offices of what happens to most books: “All those ashen faces among the glossy displays; all those unsold, unsaleable books; all that crushed hope underfoot.”
In my days as a publisher, dealing with writers’ hopes and dreams, I would sometimes gloomily describe myself as being in the business of disappointing people — the authors we decided not to publish, and , in too many cases, the authors we did publish.
In this case, Mr. Medley does not extend his research to include non-fiction writing by people in publishing. I know something about this, and its pitfalls. My recent book of publishing memories, Stories About Storytellers, has produced a rueful confession, under the subtitle: “Harder Than I Thought — A Publisher Tries to Write a Book.”
Is it possible that many wise people in publishing shy away from writing books simply because they know how hard it is?
Douglas Gibson, Toronto.

Editing Tips from Douglas Gibson (#22)

by JK

In this recurring feature, we’re sharing tips for editors from the desk of Douglas Gibson. Good for those starting out or old hands who need a reminder, these guidelines form an engaging guide for sharp-eyed wordsmiths.

Tip #22
Recently I came across a carefully printed sign in the well-known educational establishment OISE.  It invited patrons who had used its services to pass along comments, including “criticisms” and “complements.” My comments were not complimentary.

Should this sort of spelling error matter? My response is that this was not a scrawled sign in a small-time grocery (“Cabages”), but a designed, carefully printed sign that had gone through several stages of checking by educated professionals. The resulting error reflected badly on them, and thus on OISE. I’m certain that you don’t have to be a professional editor to have this reaction. Spelling still matters to a large proportion of readers, which means that it still matters.