I'm in Toronto for the International Short Story Conference. It's nearly 5am here and I am all jet-laggy and wide awake. I'm reading on Saturday with Licia Canton, which I'm very much looking forward to. Her collection has the stunning title Almond Wine and Fertility. Can't wait to get my mitts on it. I wonder did they put us together because mine is called Nude?! Maybe we'll get a huge and lascivious audience!
This is a conference I have read at twice before, in Lisbon and Cork. It's on every other year and it is such a treat: heavily academic, but also packed with stunning writers, including this year Margaret Atwood and Alistair MacLeod. I always return home from it more deeply in love with the short story than ever.
From what I've glimpsed of the city so far, it is Chicagoesque - a gorgeous mix of modern and shabby; vastly multi-ethnic, extremely friendly. My kind of place. And to top it all, I am going to Rufus's opera Prima Donna tonight. Its North American premiere. I feel blessed. I also met Rufus yesterday. But that's another story...
