Tag: tfpruden

Methods and plans.

But all good things must end, and so my summer of fun, disguised as work, is done.

The crisp edge in the September morning air soon enough clears up my view of the world, and me, too. Even for a hard-shelled nut, most times, it’s a sobering picture.

Hello reader, and welcome.

Thanks, too, for dropping by. Though it’s been a minute, you can’t miss me if I don’t make a habit of going away.

Of far greater concern is my being here too often. For I know too well how familiarity breeds contempt.

Likewise, I understand that cost defines value. Thus, the act of giving something away without charging a fee soon enough renders that item worthless. As a result, I spent the last few months thinking over pay-per-view options for future editions of The Practice.

To no one’s surprise, there are now places (Medium, Patreon, Substack, etc.) that make paywalls and give subscriber-only access to stuff much like this for writers. My review of them continues.

Of the answers proposed to date, discontinuing The Practice leads. So, with the future unclear, I suggest enjoying this one.

You’re welcome to weigh in on this, too. Email and let me know what you think about pay-per-view access to this type of writing. Would you pay a one-time or recurring fee to read The Practice if it were behind a paywall? Why or why not? Thanks for sharing your thoughts.

Meanwhile, I’m back, and away we go.

Despite the exciting and productive summer, I enjoy fall best.

Now, I can only pine for warm afternoons spent working with friends in the sunshine. After all, between making music on stage and shooting film on the street, it was about as much fun as I’ve had, with boots on my feet.

But all good things must end, and so my summer of fun, disguised as work, is done.

The crisp edge in the September morning air soon enough clears up my view of the world, and me, too. Even for a hard-shelled nut, most times, it’s a sobering picture.

Of course, with the change in season, my respite from the keyboard also nears an end. Soon, for better or worse, I must return to my chosen life as a writer of novels.

So, to ease my return to the daily grind of writing fiction, I’m sharing a few thoughts on the writing craft with you today. Between the usual confounding digressions, that is. Lest we forget, the meandering nature of my prose composes much of what passes for literary style in these parts.

How’s that for irony at arm’s length?

Truth is, over the years, I have perhaps sacrificed as much to form and style as any other aspect of my practice. And though I mean no offense, reader, what is the point of writing if not to please its writer? Here, despite the popular failure of my efforts to date, I believe the work of making this brand of non-traditional Indigenous literature must continue.

This, despite learning that, after disappearing for a decade, the man from Harwill still commands more for a night on stage than my novels earn in a year.

Well, despite the obvious trouble posed by that sorry fact, I’m no less committed to staying the course. For reasons other than health or money, too.

Because, and lucky for me, success, like spacetime, is relative.

Not only that, but my desire to write and publish novels that challenge the literary status quo still outweighs all else, including either need or want. What’s more? I live better staying away from the many things that might prevent me completing them, too.

And yes, the longer I work at writing, the happier I am with the results. Sadly, the numbers tell me that so far, I can’t say the same for you, reader.

Oh well. The work of creating a literary frame of reference that shows how it was for a group of people forgotten by history, who yet helped shape certain moments during always uncertain times, maintains its strange hold over me. I remain compelled to write these stories.

For there, I believe, is the actual method by which the sum of a whole might exceed that of its parts. Likewise, the true proof for evolution is how changing moral standards always provide the rules for tomorrow’s society. Though not the only reasons, to me those are important aspects of what makes writing about us worthwhile.

Like many who write, reader, I too have an agenda. Mine is challenging yours. I believe that’s how writers contribute to the process of evolution.

Despite the lofty aim, and though grounded in realism and based on experience, my novels are pure fiction. Like most works of this type, they’re entertainments, but reflect the philosophy and expose a worldview held by their author. For I believe, too, that only books that do are worth reading.

Their writers, meanwhile, should ever linger on the outskirts of memory, either dead or living as anachronisms. These days, I count myself among the latter.

Did you note the ease with which I digressed there? Is that style? Or a hint of something more nefarious?

Let’s get back to our craft talk.

The first, and perhaps only, strict rule for learning how to write is to read a lot. To be a writer, you must first read. Books are, after all, the how-to manual of writing. From there, in spirit if not practice, you’re on your own.

The second one is big, too.

This writing thing is a solo deal. Did I mention that? Well, if not, there you go. A writer must spend most of their time alone. When writing, of course, but also while not writing, too.

Aloneness is a skill, you see, and like any other, you both acquire and improve it with practice.

For a writer must learn to see the world with their own eyes.

By now, I believe the in-between times are far more important than the hours spent at the keyboard, too. Though I’ve also learned discipline is key to everything, not just writing. That’s why I stick to methods and plans, while ignoring the ebb and flow of desire and inspiration.

Despite beginning this flight, as did many before me, with only the seat of my pants. If that works for you, keep on keeping after it. If it doesn’t, find another way. In the internet age, information abounds.

See, I believe the thing called a writer’s voice comes from life. And while desire and intent help, a cook needs the right stuff to make soup, too. Thus, a big part of a writer’s job is making sure they’ve lived enough to gather the proper ingredients for the meal they plan to serve.

Recall, too, that much like a cook, a writer improves by practice. So, if the souffle falls, or your latest story gets rejected, try again! Refuse to quit. Teachers of writing call that process finding your voice.

Given enough living, practice, rewriting, sweat, tears, and time, if one lives in you, you’ll grow into it. Though what you discover may not be what you hoped for when the search began. As many writers learn, the life seldom lives up to the dream.

Here, I write when I’m writing. I call it the training-camp approach. As much as possible, I live during the time of a novel until done writing it, too. And while in camp, I see few people, and seldom if ever speak about the work. I instead rely on the strict discipline of a six-day-per week routine, with early mornings spent working at a desk with my laptop, followed by exercise, and Sundays off. A perpetual soundtrack plays at low volume in the background. To avoid unwanted influence, I don’t read fiction during the time I’m writing. Instead, I watch plenty of movies and, if in season, baseball on television. I augment the simple plan with a healthy diet, and get plenty of rest, too. Then, for the months and weeks needed to write or rewrite or edit a draft of a novel, my calendar is full. I’m not a complete whack job, though, and remain in the present when not working.

That process provides for me and my abundance of psychoses. But years of practice went into discovering those methods. So, I encourage writers to start young and take plenty of time to figure out what’s best for themselves.

I spent decades working at other things while learning to write novels.

Not only that, but when I started out, pulp fiction was the writing to which I aspired. A career writing paperback novels is what I wanted. I figured on writing what I liked to read, and in those days, that was cowboy and detective stories. To me, it looked but a short step to the bestseller lists.

Then stuff like high school and puberty arrived, and most everything, including writing, changed for me. Along with chasing girls and playing sports, came awareness of myself and the place my family and I occupied in the world. Though I didn’t know it then, writing a fictional version of that place and its people would grow into the genuine passion of my lifetime.

How am I doing with the craft talk? Are the ideas clear enough to make sense to you? Or have I strayed too far into the obscure once again? Maybe ‘as usual’ is a better choice? I am, after all, a master of the oblique reference.

You’ll have to let me know.

As ever, I’m too easy to find, but email is best if wanting a reply. For now, it’s almost time to wrap up our writing chat.

This next thing is most important, no matter what your level of desire or experience. It applies regardless of genre, talent, or skill besides.

All good writing is rewriting. Those who wish it otherwise aren’t writers. If rewriting a sentence a few dozen times doesn’t bring you great joy, it’s not your bag.

In short, if you can’t live without doing it, you’re a writer.

Now here’s a personal insight, using the egghead-speak you won’t find in my books.

My novels use an outsider’s perspective defined by Metis heritage, combined with literary techniques including constrained writing, minimalist prose, noir humor, and realism to explore the impact of moral relativism among the post-colonial peoples of western Canada. Each of them challenges the prevailing historic narrative by sharing visceral portraits of unreconciled aspects of postmodern life. For in the twenty-first century, I believe only as an outsider, a minority among minorities, and a man without a country, is a writer freed from the ever more severe limits imposed by censorship and decorum.

Some folks might call that an artistic statement. I think of it as the writer’s manifesto. See, along the way here, I came to believe a writer’s actual job is showing how it was. I also consider fame, fortune, and popularity as not intrinsic to the métier.

How’s that for a frame of reference?

There’s always more, but for now, I’ll stop. The way I figure it, that’s plenty, but not more than a reader can digest at one sitting. While a writer, of course, will suggest edits. And, like I said before, enjoy this as the last of these, for at least a while.

Because it’s time to get to work on the second draft of my ninth novel.

Thanks again for being here, and for sharing this with anyone who might like to read it.

TFP

September 20, 2025

Another Sandwich.

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.

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

Long shots.

That makes two things inevitable. One; accepting you can’t know what you don’t. And two: not making things up to compensate for your shortcomings.

Whether what’s leftover aligns with either popular or personal tastes isn’t up to the writer.

Hello and welcome, reader.

As ever, it’s my pleasure to have you join me here.

Though I must tell you that, because the server doesn’t track it, I can’t tell if anyone ever visits the website. Or, like my books, even reads these damned things.

I mean, because of recent spam attacks, I’ve now had to turn off comments, here. Which, though rare, I also much appreciated.

If only to confirm that the website is, in fact, up and running.

Likewise, while nowadays living and working according to a series of strict and careful plans, I still prefer the winds of chance decide the fate of me and my work.

And if that’s not irony, then I don’t get it.

Truth is, I had a friend who claimed Harwill was most adept at avoiding success. Well, I didn’t deny it to him or anyone else. There’s only so much of that shit a man can stand before it makes a mess of him, after all.

In no time, he’s either a practicing addict or a fat man in a tailored suit.

Either way, he devotes himself to bending the world to his will. While destroying anything and everyone that gets close to him.

And yes, that’s again the voice of experience talking.

It’s always worth recalling, too, how I speak only for myself, and limit myself to experience, besides. You should beware, as well, that I didn’t get into this racket to make either friends or money.

See, I’ve always known everything is most okay if few other than me likes what I do. That’s because I’m not doing it for approval. I’m doing this because I can’t not do it.

From any other perspective, it makes little objective sense. I know that, too.

I have, after all, spent most years of this life doing my thing for an audience. From my early days in the ring through all the decades of touring as Harwill, the roar of a crowd fuelled the pursuit of my dreams.

For some, that becomes an addiction. Well, to me, it’s always been more of a nightmare made necessary by survival.

Because chasing the dream of authoring even a single great novel is a literal pursuit. It’s not some romantic notion. Such a writer must move himself despite the world’s desire to hold him close. No matter the comforts found only in either private or popular embrace.

Disco inferno. I learn by suffering. So, burn baby, burn. That also means if you’re seeking comfort and wealth, you’ve found the wrong line.

A good friend long ago taught me how those things are byproducts. While work of lasting value is that which honours the people with whom one lived.

To me, that’s always what a writer must seek. After survival, that is. To endure, after all, is the writer’s first chore.

Likewise, though a man trains for its own sake, it’s only the ever-present threat of posterity which adds tension to a writer’s practice.

No matter the subject to which his muse might lead.

If that’s not the case, you’re jacking off. And, despite recent social media claims, that’s best kept private.

The great concern, of course, is that one day, someone might read the work.

Thus, a man needs be a harsh judge with himself. While, likewise, a writer must demand not only the truth, but a readable picture of it, from himself.

That makes two things inevitable. One; accepting you can’t know what you don’t. And two: not making things up to compensate for your shortcomings.

Whether what’s leftover aligns with either popular or personal tastes isn’t up to the writer.

Anyway, I’m sharing yet another funny story with you this time. Even if, as often turns out, I’m one of a precious few that thinks it so.

Well, lucky for both of us, it’s a short one.

See, last month, while dealing with early fallout caused by my latest flop, I realized the entire affair was taking place without much of an audience.

That’s despite a crippling bout of angst, before it published, too, by the way.

Talk about putting a cart before the horse’s arse! Poor little rich boy? What? Again? How’s that for a story?

Anyway, despite a strong start, A Whippoorwill Called has yet to make the leap from hot new release to national bestseller.

And did I tell you the one about keeping results at arm’s length?

Well, rest assured, I care about such things. I do. Far more than you might imagine. Too bad if knowing that shatters your illusions.

So, don’t let the lackadaisical marketing of my novels fool you. That’s a result of limited resource, not desire. Because I wouldn’t publish a word if I didn’t want it read by the whole damned world.

I sure don’t publish them to protest placing the demands of profit above the writer, either. As few know better, the terrible price of business failure.

My respect for the world’s few remaining publishers is therefore immense.

Anyway, despite the fiscal limits faced by every small shop, the underdog role has always appealed to me. Which is lucky, for one born on the wrong side of the tracks.

Besides, the truth is long shots come in all the time. Likewise, luck is a thing which happens when preparation meets opportunity. That, my friends, is why we play the games.

It’s also why most things are always within reach of all people. Both experience and books taught me that. In the same order, too, as near as I can tell.

That’s what I tell the owners of Solitary Press when explaining the failure of a novel to make the leap to the bestseller’s list. You know, while begging for a little more time to finish the next manuscript and take another shot.

For as usual, in these parts, we endeavour most to persevere.

So, until my luck shows up, I’m sticking with hard work and dedication.

Maybe that’s why I owe my greatest debt as a writer to Raymond Chandler, too. That’s how I see things, anyway.

Because I grounded what some call my matter-of-fact prose style in the hard-boiled detective novels he wrote in the thirties and forties. I first read them while still a boy.

School introduced me to many other novel writing giants, of course. In my day, we studied works by Conrad, Fitzgerald, Hemingway, and Steinbeck, among others. In time, I came to admire and appreciate their genius, too.

Years later, I read many of those same writers again, for pleasure, while living on the road. But I also reread many of Chandler’s detective novels. To my surprise, I enjoyed reading all of them as much again, if not more, than I had when doing it the first time.

For they had reassured me.

I understood something else, at last, too. What I had sought was to reflect the people and the times in which I lived. In a style both readable and unique to myself. Nothing else had ever mattered more to me than that.

For there live the immortals.

In their own way, each of those writers had done it. So too, then, must I.

The years of misery and privation were in pursuit of little more than one confounding, but simple goal. Despite a search of imposing length, as yet I haven’t found a better why to explain all this.

So, blame me for the literary aspirations. Likewise, blame the attempt to reflect our times using a minimalist and episodic vibe on me, too. I wanted most to combine the simple with the complex and make something just as good no matter how you came at it.

After all, there’s always more between the lines than meets the eye. You know, c’est la vie. Its theme is more often found in an oblique reference or a recurring motif than revealed by a direct statement.

Not only that, but books don’t come with instructions. Though all of them must make pictures appear in a reader’s head using nothing but words on a page.

While also delivering a message from an unknown to the anonymous.

The best of them somehow take you somewhere, too. No matter how many times you might read them. Most times, it’s to places you couldn’t have gone, while doing things you wouldn’t ever be able to do.

And, far more often than that, you’d rather imagine such things than live through them.

Well, that’s what I call magic. I found it there, between the pages of a book, when just a boy, living in a wilderness. Not much later, I made a deal with myself to devote my life to making more of it.

Since then, I’ve done my best to keep that promise.

For me, that’s enough.

Because I found my way, thanks to novels written by writers who died before I was born. And though we won’t ever meet, I hope to return their favour by doing the same for a writer I’ll never know.

To see how it’s going, click the cover embedded below here and enjoy a free sample.

So ends the latest rumination.

Before wrapping this one up, though, I must send a serious message. It’s for everyone who has ever bought one of my novels. Thank you. Your continued support makes it possible for me to keep writing. And that means more to me than most anything else, outside of family.

So, here, as well as there, I practice hoping to get better, so you can look forward to reading the next one. While I work at authoring more stories about forgotten people in obscure places who struggled for survival, and sometimes toward some dream of salvation, in our times.

I’m forever honoured to share these stories.

Until we meet again, thanks for being here, and for sharing this with anyone who might like to read it.

TFP

May 31, 2025

A Whippoorwill Called.

But, and despite my knowledge of countless narrative and character details, I won’t ever know all of it. Not even when it’s done. For as a writer, my first job is getting the parts I know about right. The second is leaving the rest to the reader’s imagination.

You know, the way we must in daily life.

Hello and welcome, reader.

As always, it’s my pleasure to have you join me.

Since launching the new site, I’ve published these things on irregular Saturdays. That’s because many of you work during the week, and I want to give you something to read over a weekend morning coffee.

I still don’t know what to call them.

By now, you also know I favor the essay format here. Though I sometimes stray into a style not unlike the short story. In form, if not content, that is.

Because, you know, I’m a rule-breaker. Either that, or unreliable. Of course, it might depend on who you ask, too.

Anyway, this time, my reason for interrupting your weekend is legit. Because my eighth novel publishes next week, on Tuesday, April 15th, 2025. If you’re on the mailing list, I’ll send you an email announcing when the book is available. I’ll send along a URL and invite you to buy a copy, too.

Once again, eBook and paperback edition covers feature a licensed work by Indigenous artist Lonigan Gilbert.

A Whippoorwill Called is the first novel I’ve written as a full-time writer. And I can’t wait for you to read it.

For a preview, click the cover image embedded below here.

Thanks again for your support.

Because writing is a dream for this writer. And every time you read one of my novels, it comes true.

It’s a hell of a deal.

I imagined doing this as a kid. It’s miles beyond satisfying to live it.

So, this time out, beyond the big news, I’m sharing a little history. As usual, I’ll let you decide how much is fact or fiction. For, once again, I’m not sure.

Anyway, for the writers in the crowd, it might be as revealing as any I know. While for everyone else, it could make reading my stuff more fulfilling.

I’ll start with a note about the writing process.

Which, for many of us, remains a daunting challenge. No matter at what point of the writer’s journey, we find ourselves.

Because it’s a solo trip, and the end remains forever out of sight.

There’re no maps, either. And, for me, it turns out full-time effort makes a material difference to the finished work.

That’s a tough one to swallow.

But plain enough, too, when looking back.

That’s because, you know, results speak for themselves. For better and worse. And, in twenty-first century terms, I suck at multi-tasking.

All the same, I wrote my first two novels in between the last few years of Harwill tour dates. In relative terms, the first one proved a minor hit.

I was, of course, encouraged by the early results. And the next spring, when Harwill retired from the stage, believed me ready for life as a writer.

The second one missed the mark.

While I grew ever more dissatisfied with my writing.

And, no surprise, I remained reluctant, too. Of all things designed to limit or constrain my freedom, as either artist or individual. You know, stuff like success and the boundless trappings that come with it.

For I prize independence over all else. And thus, prefer my way over anyone else’s, too, when it comes to spending time. At work, or otherwise.

Despite the preference, my search for trusted advice is near constant. As likewise, those in my circle got sick of the review requests long ago.

However, as they do for everyone, my desires manifest, too. And I’m damned lucky to enjoy independence. Because, for me, that meant writing my next four novels before work, while building a startup company.

In absolute terms, they flopped.

And my dissatisfaction grew with each of them.

For the writing I intended proved beyond my grasp. And with each, I became less sure my talent would ever allow me to achieve it.

The startup’s failure let me write the sixth and seventh novels while working only part time. In between shifts as a writing coach and magazine columnist.

Extra time helped me get closer to the truth.

I was relieved when the sixth one scored another small hit. And thrilled when the seventh made it to third on the minor league charts.

But A Whippoorwill Called is the first I’ve written as a full-time novelist.

Though it’s now a decade since my first novel published.

And getting here took far more than a change of style.

Though that’s plain enough, too, if you’ve read the older stuff. That was the plan, anyway. To show the progress from start to wherever it might finish. And perhaps, to thus share a few of the challenges that lie ahead for those coming along behind me.

More than anything else, I believe that is the way.

For those new to these ramblings, I started as a high school poet.

If you’ve seen the about page here on the website, you’re not surprised to learn I’m now a grandfather.

Anyway, I believe every artist’s life is best viewed as an object lesson. That includes mine.

Now, for an aspiring writer, this next thing is important. I’m lucky to have a small circle of close friends. Many of them are fellow artists. And to them, I owe more than words can say.

This one is big, too. See, I was born into a family rich in arts talent. So, as a boy, I got to see musicians, painters, and writers up close. In the form of both near and distant relatives. Their influence on me and everything I do is plain enough.

To me, anyway.

But some have had more to say about what I do than others. My brothers, without a doubt, had more influence on me than anyone.

I’ve written about them, now and then. And of their influence on me and my work, too. And yes, I know.

I’m blessed. Grateful, too.

Of course, what I believe the greatest blessing to all of us is our children and theirs. Here’s an example of why.

Not so long ago, I discussed my work with a nephew. He’s an emerging artist on Canada’s fine art painting scene. And it’s a rare topic, even when talking with him.

Because my rep for avoiding such talk is well-earned. But I respect both his immense talent and his discerning tastes.

“How goes the latest manuscript?”

When drafting a manuscript now, I write six days per week. On the off days, I like to do a little writing.

Because, you know, I believe in the power of practice.

“Well, I’ve figured something out. But I’m not yet sure. Let’s say I’m optimistic.”

As a writer of novels, meanwhile, my process relies on detailed manuscript outlines. That means I get to know a story quite well, long before writing it.

“You don’t say? And what’s that, anyway, uncle?”

But, and despite my knowledge of countless narrative and character details, I won’t ever know all of it. Not even when it’s done. For as a writer, my first job is getting the parts I know about right. The second is leaving the rest to the reader’s imagination.

You know, the way we must in daily life.

“It’s a synthesis of advanced concepts and simple language.”

Which also means I don’t quite know what I’m doing while I’m doing it. Not if I’m doing it right, anyway. That’s because if I did, I wouldn’t be able to do it at all.

“Well, I look forward to reading it.”

For me, it’s what makes first drafts so much fun to write, too. Despite all of them being destined for an anonymous end.

“Thanks, nephew. I can’t wait to share it with you.”

That, and the idea of granting the only immortality we know to people who earned it. The best and only way I know how.

But not everyone responds to my novels the same way.

“Why the fuck can’t you just tell me a story?”

My younger brother, to whom I dedicated A Whippoorwill Called, spoke via long-distance phone call.

“What do you mean?”

He’s the father of my nephew, the painter. As well as a talented artist and writer himself. And maybe I imagined the frustration in his voice.

Though I have my doubts.

“I mean, you ain’t making music, kid. Enough with the fucking lyrics already!”

I’d be lying if I told you criticism doesn’t hurt. That’s despite enduring a lifetime of it. Because if it didn’t, then whatever I’ve done is false.

“Well, there’s no accounting for taste, I guess.”

Try recalling that the next time someone cares enough to critique your work. Then, embrace the brutal reality of life as an artist.

“Fuck that! Make it like you’re sitting in my head telling me a story! Forget all this grammar and bullshit and make it, so I don’t have to grab a fucking dictionary to make sense of it.”

The words of a brother differ from those of a friend. And, sometimes, they’re more insightful than those of any critic, too.

At such moments, it’s a point worth remembering. Because all good writing is rewriting. And where you start isn’t where you want to finish.

Now, I’m some lucky. That’s for sure. And I know it, too. Because my younger brother spent years in the newspaper rackets. There, he had his best work edited daily. So, that he believes my stuff worth reading is a serious compliment.

His son, meanwhile, is more talented than both of us. It sure looks that way to me, anyway. And younger people reading my stuff is a big part of why I write. Because, though I write about those who were there, it’s meant for those that weren’t.

That’s also why I write about people, neither he nor you, got a chance to meet.

And of times which he was too young to know.

“I’m not sure. But it looks like the peak.”

I’m now at work on the follow up, and the form is holding.

“Only question is how long it lasts. Because the stuff is writing itself, nowadays.”

How’s that for an existential paradox? Well, it’s just like Sam Clemons claimed, I guess. You don’t have to make anything up if you tell the truth.

“You don’t say? Well, uncle, that’s … interesting, I guess?”

His voice reminds me of his dad. It always makes me smile, too.

“Time will tell, nephew.”

I guess knowing those two read them is a big part of what makes writing novels worthwhile for me, as well.

Though it’d be news for me to say that. To either of them, I mean. But like I said before, you know. Blessed.

Now, here’s a little personal philosophy. By that, I mean words by which to live. Which also justifies my taking eight minutes of your precious time.

For here, the words of Aurelius ring true, while failure becomes success. As what stands in the way can only become it.

While doing makes being possible.

Likewise, how becomes clear because of why. For making art is each artist’s attempt to stop time. And pursuing beauty has ever meant finding danger. As sure as chasing truth means accepting a world made of lies.

Because the want for change is a call to act. Just as our knowing more must ever mean we know less. While only living today produces laughter tomorrow. For being you is first a demand to respect others. And there’s no strength in weakness.

From that, I suggest taking what you need and leaving the rest. Know always, too, that my best wishes go with you when you leave this place.

With that, the latest rumination ends.

Thanks for grabbing a copy of A Whippoorwill Called. I’ll look forward to reading your review.

Until next time, thanks for being here, and for sharing this with anyone who might like to read it.

TFP

April 12, 2025