The Edible Woman's Return
The closest I ever got to Margaret Atwood (apart from one reading that she gave in French in around 2010) was in 1992. I had just submitted my Gazette review of her poetry book Good Bones, the day before, and I was standing in line at the post office with a novel manuscript that I had packaged and was mailing off to an agent in NY. Ahead of me in line was a tall young woman with long curly black hair. She half turned and glanced at my package, probably seeing my name in the upper left corner. Then she swiveled around and from three feet away stared straight into my face. She had luminous green eyes, and looked like a younger version of Margaret Atwood. At the same time, she held up the envelope she had come to buy stamps for, so I could clearly read the handwritten names: Mr and Mrs C Atwood in Don Mills, Ontario, and the sender "J Atwood". It was the way she casually and pointedly displayed it beside her ear with a little smirk, that put me off. Normally I would have s...