Posted by: Todd Babiak - Author of The Book of Stanley

I used to make fun of writer friends who had websites and blogs. Given our busy lives, with families and jobs and leaves to rake and, most importantly, BOOKS TO READ, where was the time to express unconsidered opinions about, say, chocolate? Besides, it always seemed an embarrassing exercise in self-love. “Shoot me,” I remember saying, to my friend, William, “if I ever get a website. The sound of it: toddbabiak.com. Tasteless! Boorish! Actually, don’t shoot me. Stab me, with something that isn’t even sharp. Just press really hard, again and again.”

Three months later, I had a website.

It’s been difficult, avoiding William at dinner parties and the theatre. Perhaps William doesn’t know I have a website. Now that I have one, with handy links to Amazon and Indigo-Chapters pages where my novels are sold, I judge the quality of my friendships by the “comments” button under my blog entries. So far, it’s mostly my brother and Cousin Brad who respond to my provocative posts about those yellow ribbon magnets, that guy who peed in my garbage cans, and chocolate. Which leads me to conclude that my brother and Cousin Brad, who are blood relatives and therefore ineligible to be my friends, are my only friends.

The website has been most useful as a mechanism for contact; readers can hunt my address down and email me after reading the novels. The Book of Stanley, my latest book, contains religious themes. It hasn’t been nearly as controversial as some had expected, partly because people with serious religious views have so many holy texts to read, they aren’t interested in novels that include sasquatches, Busby Berkeley routines in schoolyards, and sex scenes in Montreal townhouses. But I have received a number of emails, more than thirty, from Scientologists who believe I am attacking them in the novel.

My internet research of Scientology has revealed little of substance, so if I have inadvertently attacked the religion it had to be either instinctual or supernatural. And by supernatural I mean spiritual. And by spiritual I mean religious.

Someone, God or the life force or possibly Yoda, wanted me to write what I wrote. He is omniscient, isn’t He? And omnipotent? How could I have slipped through His fingers? If He has fingers, which He assuredly does not. What would He use them for? You think God feeds Himself, or plays baseball? God.

I’m not sure if William has religion. He’s always been pretty slippery about that stuff, along with details of his salary and sex life. But just in case, I’m taking martial arts classes. In case he’s fashioned a blunt shiv, I want to be ready.

Posted by: Todd Babiak - Author, The Garneau Block, The Book of Stanley

Since the publication of The Garneau Block, I have been invited to a number of book clubs. It is contrary to the nature of the contemporary man to join a book club (why is that, by the way?) so I have only encountered women on these genial evenings. There is always red wine, which helps do away with the social discomfort that I sometimes inspire with my squirrel-like anxieties.

I always wear a suit, which is always too much. The host invites me in and I sit down in a comfortable chesterfield and smile. As we introduce ourselves, I investigate, by the tone and tenor of their voices, whether any of them disliked the novel. Women in book clubs always seem to be attractive and intelligent, so I worry about being caught checking them out (after two glasses of wine, my gaze tends to linger). And, of course, I worry about eating too much hummus and horrifying these lovely readers with my garlic breath.

At the end of the evening, when it is time to sign books, I inevitably forget someone’s name. There is no elegant way to rectify this situation, and I always feel like a boor. If the forgotten name is a variation on “Kirsten,” I can sometimes rescue myself by asking how to spell it. If the forgotten name is “Liz,” I only end up seeming impure of heart. It is best to admit one’s flaws at a book club meeting, unless one’s flaw happens to be staring at the line of a woman’s collarbone while she asks whether my book is autobiographical.

The Book of Stanley, which contains satirical elements about organized religion, will make for even more anxious book club meetings. I’m eager for my first invitation, so I can work on behaving myself.