Hello reader, and welcome.
As ever, I’m honored by your attention, and pleased to share the latest news from the controlled chaos of my home office here at bucolic Pajama Flats.
Which, I will admit, often serves as little more than added reason to further question the writer’s claim to sanity. And how’s that for irony at arm’s length?
Today’s piece, however, reveals that one of us is perhaps farther along the road to the nut house than anything so far published here. As usual, when making your pick of which is which, you get three guesses, and the first two don’t count.
In case you’re wondering, my money is on the guy punching the keys.
C’est la vie, and away we go.
Friends, as foretold by the curse, we live through interesting times.
To describe, I could bore you with a rant about how idiots are bringing back deadly diseases because they’re ignorant and hate science. Or rail on about the rise of stupid and its cohorts bigotry and racism.
I might point out the siloed minds of various online mobs running amok in the streets. A few of which result from the drive for profit that turned social media into a home for the hostile. From there, of course, it was a short slide down a steep slope into the culture canceling, division driving menace now enjoyed worldwide.
Even worse, I could mention that all are because of the same lowered school standards imposed by the people’s elected governments doing their bidding. Because, you know, the people always get what they want.
Most times, good and hard, too, as a fellow once claimed.
But, you know, circus, monkeys, etc., etc., save it for the eulogy.
So, instead, I’m going to share a short story about having success, but only after a long struggle, with you today. It’s a real one, too. With any luck, it might even inspire some new thoughts, for both of us, about all that old stuff.
Not only that, but I’m dusting off the personal history books for this one, too. How’s that for a surprise? Though, as ever, I won’t be naming any names.
All the same, I’m pulling back the curtain, to a rare degree, for you this morning. I’d be lying if I said it was a comfortable thing for me to do.
There’re a host of reasons a man writes fiction, after all. So, let’s get to it, before I lose my nerve.
I love movies. They rank third, after books and music, on my list of arts passions.
As a younger man, I dreamed of making my own films. Though once a camera buff who took a few interesting pictures, life led me to other places. Now, decades later, it brought me back to stand behind a camera.
Though progress means I now need someone else to operate the damned thing.
So, for me, my new short film, Another Sandwich, is a kind of love affair. While for you, it’s a chance to see what the words look like when made real by their author. In each case, we’ll learn something about each other.
I know, too, reader, how there’s a good chance you won’t be interested in following me down yet another professional rabbit hole. Not only that, but you can also rest, assured, that I’m not changing careers.
Truth is, I’m now more focused on getting my work done than ever.
Though, and likewise, I’m also more committed to the details of my writing process, too. Thus, as a writer, I’m in the best place one could imagine these days.
See, the first draft of my next novel is done. It awaits rewriting. After a couple of more drafts, and the usual lengthy months of editing, I’m betting it’s the best one yet.
Still, as frequent readers know, my process demands I take a month’s long break between rewrites.
And, just as my dad long ago told me, a man needs something to do. While those with a known urge to chase mischief are best kept busier than others.
Did I yet mention how I write novels one at a time? Or that I prefer to finish one before starting another? Well, despite the growing collection of detailed novel outlines saved to various discs and drives around here, that’s how I do it.
Maybe that’s why, over the last couple of years, instead of making music in a studio with Harwill and the band, me and The Film Project team made short films.
Now, wait a minute before swiping.
Because, after all these years, I know the people who read my books aren’t the same as those who once listened to my music. Not only that, but I expect to need yet another audience to watch my films.
So, while Harwill earned his own website long ago, I’ll host The Film Project here until it finds an audience big enough to pay for one.
Besides, to me, the essence of filmmaking is writing. That is; the whole thing depends on a screenplay. Which is another way to say it needs a story.
For the record, as a writer, beyond the need to know, I enjoy the challenge of working in different mediums. That’s why I once wrote a weekly fitness column for a local newspaper. It also explains a few years spent writing a monthly feature in a national magazine, too.
Those gigs are extra to the countless other types of writing for hire, including business, technical, and web dev, on which I honed my skills before turning to novels.
Of course, I feel much the same about music, with songwriting its foundation.
As many are now aware, in days gone by, my love of making music was enough to overcome an intense dislike of the spotlight for quite a long while. Though no longer able or willing to tour, my love for music lives on in recordings made and released since I retired from the stage.
Once again, I offer no apologies for the extremes of my good luck, either. Though I know too well how extraordinary is this crazy business which composes my life.
For I am, without doubt, a cantankerous and particular fellow. At most times, too, but always more so when working at my craft. Though often hidden behind the veil of a grin, my temper while at work is quick, and the demands precise.
Because, you see, I love my work with an intensity that exceeds all else. Where once focused on study and learning, nowadays I devote my life to its completion. So, it’s not for nothing that I spend so much of my time alone.
This work is hard. I’m not ashamed to say showing how it was tires me out. And I love my family and friends. So much so that I would spare them dealing with the even more arrogant prick I become when doing my thing.
Well, lucky for me, in these parts, writing is a solo gig.
But filmmaking, even more than music, is a team effort.
And working with me means taking a hard ride down a fresh-cut trail, most times. That’s because when you’re coming from behind, or working for yourself, there’s little time left over for niceties.
So, I don’t deny the many sometimes-hurtful choices made to support my work over the long years of doing it. Nor am I sorry for the ego bruising that now and then came with playing in that show, either.
That’s because, by routine, I demand the best of myself, and accept only that from those working with me.
Anyway, all that stuff is the natural result of a long run, of either failure or success, in any business. And, as ever, I let the work speak for itself.
Same goes for the colleagues who’ve stuck with me. Because, if you check the credits, or the liner notes, you’ll see the same names showing up, again and again, year after year.
There, hiding in plain sight, is another type of love story.
But, and once again, I digress.
The Film Project team, to date, remains a small one. As usual, my brother from another mother is riding shotgun, and doing his best to keep me from leading us too far into the weeds. A couple of our favorite Edmonton actors and writers fill out the guerilla production unit.
Likewise, we’ve again started with short films, too, as that’s where we left off. Back in nineteen-eighty-nine, that is.
Yes, indeed. A mere ten years after my early poems appeared in print, I wrote my first script, and acted in the finished short.
We used a camera rented for us by a long-gone true believer. My lifelong creative partner shot and edited ‘GST’ on video tape. Another of our best friends directed and starred in the seven-minute epic.
And, though produced for festival submission, the sole copy of the finished short went missing in a move. Sadly, it remains unseen, with its whereabouts unknown.
Over the years, I got my film fix by appearing in a few shorts, and even did some time as an extra on a couple of features. For business reasons, the credits went to Tim Harwill instead of me, and his profile lives on IMDB, not mine.
Ain’t it funny how I do all the work and that sonofabitch Harwill gets the accolades? If you’re wondering, that’s an irony I could live without just as well.
Anyway, it’s time to finish what we had once begun.
Before the clock runs out, you know?
If you’d like to find out more, see The Film Project page here on the website. You can also find Another Sandwich, and me, online at FilmFreeway. When there’s news, such as festival or online screenings, I’ll share it here.
How’s that for a brief story about beating the odds? Does it ask or answer? Well, as usual reader, that’s for you to decide.
Because for now, the story must pause awhile before it starts. And how it ends? Well, once again, only time can tell that tale.
Here, though, ends the latest rumination.
Now, before I sign off, a reminder.
With the warm weather at last here, many of us are looking for something to read. Well, guess what? As the luck runs in these parts, my latest novel, A Whippoorwill Called, is earning complimentary reviews. Set in a sweltering prairie summer, it’s a thunderstorm of love and lust meant for afternoons in the sunshine.
Click the URL below here to order a copy and see for yourself. Thanks again for your support.
Until next time, thanks for being here, and for sharing this with anyone who might like to read it.
TFP
July 5, 2025