In November of 2004, I didn’t write a novel. This is a series of excerpts from all the novels I didn’t write that month.

My grandfather, if this old photo is any indication, was not a particularly handsome woman. My grandmother had something of the Hollywood starlet in her look, but my grandfather was little more than dignified-looking in his bold eyeliner and knit cardigans. His jaw and his nose, strong and Scandinavian, did little to enhance his femininity.

Grandpa liked Fortrelle dresses. Sturdy fabric, he said. And it was. I still have one of his dresses hanging in the back of my closet in perfect condition (though slightly musty smelling). He wasn’t much for the showy patterns my grandmother loved. He liked plain, straight lines that flattered his build. And living where he did, he didn’t want to draw much attention to himself.

Not that any of his neighbors made comment about it. That was something I never understood. According to family legend, everyone accepted his odd attire as if it were nothing. All the ladies of the neighborhood would go to Grandpa for tips on the most flattering styles, and Grandpa’s Swedish-tinted voice would praise or scold them depending on the day and according to the dress. Whatever he lacked in beauty, he did make up in style.

Except for his love of Fortrelle. The actual memories I have of Grandpa – not the legends or the colourless photographs, but my times with him – have a rough polyester texture. Sitting on his lap with my head against his chest because he had let me stay up past my bedtime. There was a heartbeat, the push and release of lungs against his ribcage, and that enduring fabric.