Tag: writers

The simple rule.

Anyway, I’ve returned to staring into the abyss. Beyond that, as I’ve told you before, your guess is often as good as mine.

Except for one thing.

Hello and welcome, reader.

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

Early this morning, as I began this last entry of 2024 for The Practice, snow fell like alabaster down onto the barren Alberta hills surrounding Pajama Flats. By the time I finished what passes for work in these parts, the once threatening countryside wore a certain fat man’s beard of white. And with the season’s signal given, even the world’s most resolute outsider must, once again, for a short while, give up his denial. So, though not a celebrant, I send best wishes for the coming holidays, and for a healthy and happy new year to you and yours.

Since last we met, I’ve resumed work on my latest manuscript, and, as a result, have returned to what passes for sanity in these parts. As usual, when referencing myself, of course, I must use what some might call a liberal interpretation of the term. Which, I will admit, may or may not adhere to the medical criteria required to, in the eyes of a pro, let’s say, earn the citation.

My guess is that’s life for a responsible individual. But I could be wrong, too. It has happened before, after all. Though not as often as I like to make out in print.

Around here, I call that keeping my ego in check. Nor am I breaking out the history books to confirm anything, be they rumour or otherwise, either. Let’s just say there’s plenty I don’t explain. As, likewise, there’s far more I won’t forget.

How was that for a little secret agent irony at arm’s length?

Anyway, I’ve returned to staring into the abyss. Beyond that, as I’ve told you before, your guess is often as good as mine.

Except for one thing.

Because, as a writer of fiction, I follow a simple rule, and only one. It’s ever been the same, too. But it struck me the other day, for the first time that I can recall, that I’ve not written about the silly thing. So, to make things plain, and to say thanks for sticking around, too, I’m sharing it with you.

I know, I know. It breaks the local secret agent’s code. I will regret it, I’m sure. If not today… you know the rest.

By now, you’ve learned I don’t toss around words such as posterity, either. But we can use it this one time, as a label, if you want, to make this stuff easier to understand. See, the fact is, I’ve always known the people I care for most can also read. So, that I waited quite a long while to share my stories is more than coincidence.

There are other reasons, better ones, too, maybe, besides those, as well. So, for today’s practice, we’ll deal with a few.

Right about here, for many, I’m told, is where things go sideways. Of course, for others, the whole deal is a miasma built on madness. Anyway, after this, what the charitable call weird, if being nice, intrudes upon our conversation. I’ve heard it takes, at least, an open mind to handle what comes next.

Best of luck with that.

Most times, I pass this stuff off by saying ‘art is subjective’ or something near as oblique and just about as meaningless. And, lucky for me, it’s not that I’m overwhelmed with such queries, either. That’s because here, as the man warned so long ago, we nowadays work without applause.

Well, that’s more luck, too, because I prefer it this way. Not just because I’m anti-social, either. Though, if truth be told, I’m not much for crowds. But that’s not the reason. No. It’s because my process works best the more time I spend alone.

The above confession surprises none that know me well.

And, once again, like clockwork, I digress. So, let’s get back on track.

Now, I’ll start by telling you that this month’s story reveals at least one fact. Too bad, so sad, for both of us, what it also shows is that I’m not much good at writing short stories. Thus, once again, I must ask that you endeavour to persevere, reader, despite my shortcomings.

I promise to do my best to make it worth your while.

Here we go.

By the time my father passed, and I returned to his remote spread in the postal district of Harwill, Manitoba, where I had spent my boyhood, I was thirty and had lived in more else where’s than I can now recall, for half my life. There, among the lingering remnants of my childhood dreams, for the first time in several years, I was alone.

In the literal, as well as the metaphorical, sense. Because the closest neighbours were miles away, and I lived with only the ranch animals for company. For long weeks, among fallen leaves and barren fields, grief was my close companion.

But, instead of surrounding me, the wilderness near at once made a home for itself in my psyche. While, with little thought, I returned to the daily grind of feeding, watering, caring for, and cleaning up after the horses in the stable and those in the pasture. Learned as a boy, my father’s careful lessons kept all of us alive, despite the lengthy time and experience since last I had used them.

There, in the crisp silence of falling snow, I will admit to sometimes hearing his voice.

Whether splitting wood or carrying water or shoveling shit or making a fire or fixing a pot of coffee, in my head, he showed me, once again, not just what to do, but how to do it. In that way, after a while, I recalled the why that drove me.

But my solitude didn’t last.

For in the years I was gone, they built a gravel road leading to the front gate of the place. Though nothing to write home about, it was solid enough for a pickup truck with an experienced hand at the wheel to manage the trip at least three seasons out of four. Which, compared to my childhood, was a shocking improvement.

Six weeks after the funeral, when the freeze had set in well enough to make the loose gravel a relative delight, a cousin, a few years older than me, who was once a good friend, visited. I can’t speak for the old ballplayer, but our visit was for me, at least, unsettling.

A white Christmas was on the way, and six inches of snow covered the fields when I saw a blue truck clear the ridge a quarter mile away from my dad’s front gate. It was a Sunday, and not yet noon, and I had finished my chores early, hoping to spend a few hours reading by daylight.

Even seated at the kitchen table next to the big window, by that date on the calendar, I needed the gas lamp to see inside the low-pitched cabin by four o’clock in the afternoon.

And though I didn’t know who owned the approaching truck, I figured it meant the end of my reading plans. Near at once, I caught myself hoping it wasn’t more sad news come to visit. With a shake of my head, I banished the worthless thought.

For by then, I had figured out that life was what I made it.

Instead, I turned away from the window and, crossing the kitchen in a couple of steps, went to the cast iron cookstove and moved the full kettle into the heat. I emptied the remains of yesterday’s tea into the slop pail next to the stove. After rinsing it with fresh well-water from a nearby steel bucket, I set the tin pot on the warming rack to await fresh leaves and boiling water.

Just then, there was a knock on the two-room cabin’s front door, and I went to greet my guest.

“I don’t know how you can stand it,” he said.

Across the wooden table from him, I grinned before replying. We sat in straight-backed chairs and drank strong black tea with plenty of white sugar. The fading sun now hung low in the eastern sky behind the cabin, and ghost-like shadows of tall bare poplar trees stretched across the yard in front of the kitchen window.

“To me, it’s like a holiday, I guess.”

We spent the previous hours catching up and renewing the bond of family and friendship that had once made us close. It was a chance to appreciate Einstein’s relativity, too, as the hours passed in what seemed, later, like only minutes.

He shook his head, slow, before speaking.

“But for real,” he said, “doesn’t it drive you crazy? Alone out here, like this, all the time? I’m telling you; it’d make me insane!”

This time, I chuckled. He spoke again before I could reply.

“I mean, christ, isn’t that why you left this god forsaken place?”

That one got me, and I laughed out loud. He joined me.

“No offense to your old man, either,” he said, “because I loved him, and you know that.”

I nodded.

“He did, you, too, pard.”

It was true. My dad loved his nephews and nieces as if they were his own kids. As near as I can tell, it’s a family trait.

“So,” he said, “how, and why, do you do it? Doesn’t it drive you mental? I mean, thinking about all you’re missing? You know, in the world you left behind? Like that.”

I chuckled at the misconception before answering.

“I don’t know if anyone ever leaves anything behind, pard,” I said.

For a moment, neither of us spoke.

“Fuck,” he said, “why’d you have to remind me? Ain’t we supposed to be a pair of jocks? And free of the misery of deep thoughts? You know I am, anyway, cousin, and that’s a fact.”

I grinned at him and thought a moment before answering. Beyond baseball, he was quite an accomplished athlete in his day. Nowadays, the world would celebrate him for such talent. Back then? In our time? Not so much.

But, and despite many disappointments, much like my cousin, I had done okay, too. In truth, for a couple of dirt poor half-breed boys from the middle of nowhere, starting with nothing, we made out alright. That’s how I see it now, anyway.

“If only it were so,” I said, “for either of us.”

He sipped from the mug in front of him, and I did the same from mine. The sweet black tea left a bitter aftertaste. Like memories, I thought. Then, to keep from slipping off into useless melancholy, I reached once more for the cup on the table in front of me, and in a single gulp, drained it.

“You ready for a fresh one?”

“Don’t mind if I do,” he said, “but after that I gotta hit it, okay?”

I nodded to him but said nothing while filling our cups from the steaming tea pot. Not too many months later, the way was clear enough for me to once again see it. Soon after, it was time to leave my boyhood home.

And though we didn’t know it then, the loose talk and strong tea enjoyed through that winter afternoon would be the last we shared.

The rest, as we say, is history.

For as I write this, more than thirty years have passed since I left home for the last time and devoted my life to this work of mine.

The truth of the work I’ve done to date, meanwhile, is that I’ve shown little concern for story arcs and archetypes and hero’s journeys and bullshit like that. Yes, I believe that stuff is bullshit. To be specific, we call crap such as that ‘content’ and I don’t make it. What I’ve spent my life doing is art. So if you’re looking for a cheap thrill, or somebody trying to make a buck, or to escape from life and its brutal indifference, you’ve come to the wrong place.

Here, we soak ourselves in it.

It goes this way.

First, I believe that the power of artistic insight, when applied to our shared condition as people here on earth, relies on perspective. Second, I believe that perspective, to best reflect what we share, most needs time. Third, I accept that time is an aspect of nature applied at random to what we call shared reality, but impossible to either separate or experience apart from it.

The art of writing, then, as I practice it, is, at best, a paradox. For science tells us spacetime is a continuum, rather than an aimless arrow speeding toward an unknown destiny. Thus, in a sense, what happened either is, or could be, still happening. And my thing, if you recall, is showing how it was. Not a thing more. Of course, no less, either, when it’s done well.

How’s that for irony?

Too damned close for comfort, if you ask me. Likewise, too, in such a light, at worst, my practice amounts to little beyond obscure history. Despite its author claiming a seat at the artist’s table.

Before writing me off, though, allow me to at last share what brought us here today. You know, the simple rule. Which, again according to nobody aside from me, if one adheres to it, leads, through repeated failure, to ultimate success.

So, for the record, here you go. The simple rule of my fiction is: if writing it doesn’t make me cry, it’s not good enough for anyone else to read.

Now, the part about ultimate success is, as of this writing, pure conjecture. In fact, all I have for evidence is the work I’ve so far done. That, and the hope one day I’ll make my masterpiece.

Beyond that, as near as I can tell, the only way for me to reach the afore mentioned and lofty goal is by using irony to keep reality at arm’s length. Though as I told you before, it could be I’m wrong, too. I mean, it has happened before, if what I’ve heard is true.

Anyway, by now, I’m sure enough that’s okay, too. Because in these parts, I accept the simple rule as a fact of this writer’s life. And that makes every other thing alright, no matter how much, or even if, I do or don’t like it.

Thus, from here on, reader, you’re free to call me a crybaby. Go ahead. I won’t deny it. After all, if you want to call yourself an artist, you’d best be ready to suffer for your art.

And, with that questionable bon mot, the latest fiction ends.

Likewise, what passes for literary insight in these parts wraps up, too, for at least a while. As usual, I hope you’ve enjoyed whatever this was, and that I’ve left you with more questions than answers.

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

– TFP

December 14, 2024

The obscurant’s duty.

Instead, I focus on stuff I can either affect or enjoy, like loved ones and art and baseball and books and freedom and films and music. As worrying over things beyond my control amounts to vanity, which serves no good purpose.

Go ahead, call me selfish. I won’t argue the point.

Hello and welcome, reader.

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

The writer’s self-imposed rest continues, here. By now, I’m at loose ends and threatening to crack, despite sticking to a strict regime of diet, rest, study, and training. At times like this, being stuck in here is one fine how-do-you-do.

Nor can I say what’s worse; exhausted and crazy from writing, or insufferable and angry at not.

Did I mention the irony at arm’s length routine goes on, as well? Anyway, by now, you know its style, and neither habit nor vice. The truth is, I’m often hard pressed, figuring out which parts of it to believe myself. As usual, that makes it damned near impossible for me to imagine what it’s like for you, reader.

I’m not even sure when the narrator got to be so bloody unreliable. But rather than get stuck in the latest mystery, let’s move on to the usual craft related horse sense shared in this edition of The Practice.

How was that for personal insight?

I mean, who cares if I believe the world has gone bat shit crazy, anyway? Or that I’m sure the inmates in control of the local asylum are threatening to burn the place down around the rest of us? So what if I’m certain the zealots have united with the rich to use the mob’s ignorance against itself and destroy freedom?

It’s just entertainment, after all.

See what I mean? That’s why this writer leaves that bullshit out. Because such talk is worthless to anyone but a fan of wrapping themselves in a flag of false concern. Well, I wave none of them here. Nor am I a fan of those who do. Instead, I focus on stuff I can either affect or enjoy, like loved ones and art and baseball and books and freedom and films and music. As worrying over things beyond my control amounts to vanity, which serves no good purpose.

Go ahead, call me selfish. I won’t argue the point.

Besides, I always meant for this writer’s life to be seen as an object lesson, not an instruction manual. That’s the story I’m telling now, anyway.

So, let’s get on with it.

To open this month’s rant, I’m saying it’s a fabulous epoch for writers we’re living through today. Here’s why.

After all, with traditional, hybrid, and self-publishing, writers can now choose their delivery method. Not only that, but the growth of genre writing of all types has opened the door for those with more varied tastes.

So, and despite the challenge of a market remade by the internet, it’s a fine time to be alive for publishers, too. As, no matter the length of the grant-funding lineups, old school publishers still sell far more books than hybrids and indies combined.

With all the choices, readers are doing alright, as well.

In short, there’re few reasons to complain in any corner of the literary world.

So, why is the writer such a cranky ess-oh-bee, anyway?

As a race, meanwhile, we publish more books today than we ever have. The latest reports claim over three million titles printed in 2023. That includes more than two million self-published, on top of over a million turned out by traditional publishers. Since early in the 21st century, the yearly numbers have grown by a near exponential amount.

Sadly, printing more books doesn’t mean selling them. With industry revenue numbers flat since the turn of the century, the average title can now expect to sell a paltry 263 copies.

But, despite a knot to the ego left by that sorry fact, it doesn’t explain the writer’s angst. Nope. For behind the vague term, average, waits a hard but simple truth.

It’s more a measure of the possible than expected return.

Or maybe it’s a dream. Because a little more than three million divided by the over seven-hundred-ninety million books sold last year doesn’t quite show the facts.

For writers, the numbers are daunting.

Because once you allow for the millions on top of the bestseller lists, followed by the tens of thousands of mid-list titles, and genre hits read by thousands more, there’s not much left for the rest. And that’s without counting reprints, libraries, or schools.

Which makes reaching even the average quite a task for most of us.

But that’s not the source of this writer’s misery.

Because, you know, c’est la vie. That’s why it’s a calling, and not a career. If this comes as news to either of us, then we’re both in trouble. Though I will allow that, mine would then be far worse than yours, given the time.

Lucky for me, I’ve always known the truth about the calling. Of course, given my preference for risk, it’s ever been a great fit, too. But I’ve made a habit of advising others against the pursuit, when asked about the artist’s life, all the same.

And that’s not it, either.

For the record, though, it’s a dark ride best left to ‘those’ people. You know, the ones that think and look and act something like me. We’ve got to work too hard to pull off normal for long. And we are, as you’ve learned by now, far too easy to find. Though, given the terms of the deal, I don’t know why.

I’ve long believed it genetic, and thus, the luck of the draw.

Besides, other than the standard model, spacetime continuum, and quantum uncertainty, the choices are few, and offer, at best, a mixed bag of the same old nuts. I mean, unless stuff like matrixes or holograms or religion or conspiracy theories are your bag. For me, none of that crap offers any more comfort than accepting what science tells me is real.

I’m also not saying that’s it.

Nor is the latest month of open prose submissions at The Paris Review, held yearly in February, June, and October, and underway as I started writing this. The old mag has remained a hit with the literary set since its birth in 1953. Despite a growing online rep for these days printing little but the soulless drivel of homogenous MFA-toting wannabes. As, thanks to social media, there’s now no shortage of critics.

I’ll tell you this: if my stuff was a fit, I’d send it to them!

They’re also open to unsolicited poetry submissions in four months of the calendar year. And, for all, there’s no agent required. To see if your stuff fits, look them up online.

That also isn’t the cause of this writer’s discontent.

Which is okay, just the same, because I’m next claiming to know a story about the old rag that’s worth sharing. Though, like many of those found here, it may or may not be true.

Away we go.

One crisp fall morning when I was a semi-regular student at Winnipeg’s Argyle Alternative High School, an English teacher named Brian Mackinnon read to the class from an interview with Ernest Hemingway. George Plimpton wrote it before any of us kids were born and published it in the afore mentioned Paris Review. And, though Mr. Mackinnon didn’t read all of it to us, and I said nothing to anyone, then, in the language of the times; what he read to us blew my mind.

So, when school broke for lunch that day, I hurried back to the stack-wall cabin that served as our inner city classroom to ask if I could borrow the magazine to read the interview in full. After getting Mr. Mackinnon’s permission, I spent most of an hour sitting at a desk across the room from him and read it over more times than I can now recall.

The teacher kept an eye on me and the magazine while eating a bagged lunch and tending to business of his own. We didn’t talk, and I made plenty of notes. I wrote them in longhand, using a pencil and a notebook, in those times carried in the chest pocket of my denim jacket.

And to this day, what I read there serves as the most useful fiction writing instructions I’ve ever found, and the blueprint for my writing practice. Though I prefer to sit when at work. But if you’re looking for a roadmap, or just an interesting read, the interview is on the website of The Paris Review. You’ll need a subscription to the magazine to read all of it, but if you’re anything like me, you’ve made worse investments.

Enjoy, and best of luck.

Because there’re few how-to books worth reading when it comes to writing fiction. Oh, you can find plenty of texts devoted to tools and techniques, so don’t get the wrong idea. Many of them, such as ‘The Elements of Style’ by Strunk & White, might be worth their weight in gold, to a writer. But as far as the details of doing it go, Hemingway’s terse replies to Plimpton’s probing queries offer more insights into how to write fiction than anything published before or since, in this writer’s opinion. At least, that’s my story, and in a world without sure things, you can bet I’ll stick to it.

Not only that, but, and perhaps more germane to our inquiry, could this be the source of the writer’s angst?

Well, I’m still not sure about that, myself. But all the same, over the last weeks, I shared a few of the concepts by which I follow the way of the writer and literary artist on the dreaded social media. Maybe I did it to keep myself from going over the edge from all the time spent not writing. Perhaps it was holding up my end of a passe tradition.

I can’t say for certain.

I know what stuck with me after reading that 1958 interview was Hemingway’s artistic insights and fiction writing instructions. In short, the why and how-to of his writing practice. And, though I’ve since read other writer’s ideas about the same stuff, none worked for me. That’s despite having little beyond gender in common with the fellow, and, in truth, often resenting him and the privileged world from which he emerged.

And, like I said, there’s just not a lot of that stuff, from so credible a source, lying around waiting for a writer to read.

Or perhaps reading his best work forces me to see my own shortcomings in such stark relief that anger, and resentment, are the only refuge. I’m not sure about that, either. But I know I’ve always thanked him, and Plimpton, and Brian Mackinnon, too, for the teaching. Without it, I might’ve taken the same wrong turns so many others do and ended up spouting the sound-alike claptrap that composes so much of today’s so-called content.

Though I’m still not sure that explains this writer’s malaise.

Could be it just pisses me off knowing I owe the guy something for everything I’ve done as a writer, too, you know. Because I sure wouldn’t have made it this far without the instructions he shared with us in that interview. And where I came from, we used to say, we know who we owe, about stuff like that.

So, maybe that explains it. But if that doesn’t work, we can think of those few posts as a fix, instead of an obscurant’s duty.

It’s worth recalling, too, though, how I believe stuff like that is quite personal. And thus, by rule, kept private, in these parts.

Anyway, a claim I’ve heard is the internet lives forever. Well, if so, there you go. I mean, as far as all that, I’ve held up my end.

For though one’s pudding may well turn out another’s poison, my tradition, as I first came to understand it in that classroom long ago, thanks to Hemingway, Plimpton, Mackinnon, and The Paris Review, demands I share it. In the spirit of Teddy and Squire Bill, and doing what I can, with what I’ve got, where I am, and all that.

Thus, our story ends.

So, too, for this month, do the craft related insights wrap up, as well.

Once again, I hope to have left you with more questions than answers. Because, after all, it’s the writer’s way. Of doing and being. Inside and out, too. Here, in this quiet place, just past one of the countless curves on the road to find out.

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

TFP

November 9, 2024

The culture wars.

The question, for me, is, where’s H. L. Mencken when we need him? Or, at least, a literate contemporary less focused on reaping the low-hung rewards of division? Why? Well, because a world filled with minds clouded by the virtual hive of social media has lost the ability to see their emperors wear no clothes.

Hello and welcome, reader.

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

The thing is, the older I get, the more I believe in practice. I’m not sure why, but it could result from spending my younger days in a booze and drug addled haze. You know, the pain of regret, lost youth, and all that.

All the same, I’ve taken some needed rest. Only time will tell if it helped. But, you know, how can you miss me if I don’t make a habit of going away? Anyway, let’s get to sorting through this madness that brings us together here.

See, when taking the latest break from this life and the work that drives it, I indulged a few of the habits that ever threaten the careful discipline protecting it, too. For a by-now lengthy search has confirmed, well enough for me, anyway, that I am perhaps the laziest man who ever lived.

So, aside from listening to music, reading, or watching films and sports on television, I accomplished little but canine fornication here over the last seven weeks.

Despite the lengthy bout of what I’m calling rest, I could not escape the endless clamour of the times. Instead, in between baseball games on TV, I listened in, bemused, as the world’s assault upon the individual kept on running amok. The result? Waves of collective tyranny, alongside cancelled culture, history, and people. In short, the slow death of freedom.

The online revolution, like all earlier examples, brings plenty of misery.

The question, for me, is, where’s H. L. Mencken when we need him? Or, at least, a literate contemporary less focused on reaping the low-hung rewards of division? Why? Well, because a world filled with minds clouded by the virtual hive of social media has lost the ability to see their emperors wear no clothes.

So, a tyranny of minorities threatens the rule of law. An online mob lends false courage to those without it. The wheels of freedom spin, unable to find a grip in the mire of vitriol. And nearby, the leering ditch of an autocratic future waits beyond a cultural divide.

For those who deny the past condemn not only themselves, but everyone else, to repeat it.

Likewise, to those offended by Mencken’s rep as antisemitic, bigoted, and racist, I must insist on separating the man from his work. So, to those who prefer beheading statues or defacing art, the exit is here. Good riddance to you.

After all, we say ignorance is bliss because the truth most often hurts.

Thus, I’ve no trouble saying I admire Einstein as a genius of physics. At the same time, I regard many of his ideas about people and politics as the foolish ramblings of a naïve ignoramus. Not only that, but I suggest his private writings reveal him as a poor judge of character.

For the genius Einstein, like the brilliant Mencken, was also an elitist and favoured a world governed by scientists and intellectuals.

Western society long ago split the ugly reality of Einstein’s private beliefs from his work. We did so to get the great public benefits found there. Without having to deal with his personal thoughts.

The popularity of Mencken’s public writing, meanwhile, far outweighed the latter discomfort caused by his then unknown personal feelings.

C’est la vie. Nothing, and no one, is perfect all the time. And those living in glass houses should know better, or something like that.

Not only that, but Einstein and Mencken remain two of my favourite people, despite their warts.

For context, what follows is a writing device called an aside.

I’ve told you before how I spent much of my life travelling. What I should have added is that my endless wandering was for work of one kind or another. I was not then, nor have I ever been, a tourist. The fact is, I enjoy few things less than travel.

All the same, I’ve done more than my share of it. And, no matter where or when or for what purpose, meeting people was always part of the deal. Sometimes, there were compadres and colleagues and companions who came along for the ride, too.

The reason I mention the travel is that those miles taught me we’re all different. In practice, if not form. So, the way we do things in one place is often quite different from the way we do much the same in another spot. Because it turns out, local culture and experience, teach what works best for a population.

I, in contrast, am both a living remnant and byproduct of colonialism. So, me and a few hundred thousand distant mixed race cousins speak of a different philosophy. Though far less clear, it takes but a single word to sum it: globalization.

A word to describe my deal is paradox. That is, a situation, person, or thing that combines contradictory features or qualities. And the one shared with you above is, of course, most important to me. See, for me to be, plenty of contrary ideas related to those described had first to mingle. In the most personal of ways.

I’ve spent much of my life conflicted about that.

But I’m not here to debate the left, right, wrong, shoulda, coulda, and what-have-you related to this place in which we live. No. As usual, my concerns are specific and rooted in experience. And my choice of Mencken and Einstein as today’s examples speaks to them.

So, let’s return to the rumination.

The so-called culture wars must end. The practice of reviewing the past by the light of the future is both prejudiced and narrow-minded. In the near-term, it demonizes history and encourages division. In the long term, it impedes both learning and progress.

That is because those who would cancel the past condemn the future to repeat a cycle of ignorance. They also prevent the world learning from it. And no matter the reason, those who seek to justify such cowardice commit crimes against the society to which we all belong.

And, like it often does, life once again presents us there, with another somewhat ironic paradox. For we must suffer the pain of learning the unfortunate details of our shared history if we are to improve our future.

Ain’t it grand?

My belief is they exist to remind us of the random and uncertain nature of the place in which we live. Thus, I think of life and its assorted ironies as the universe sharing a Newtonian response to a Quantum equation.

For a laugh, maybe?

Well, after all, I don’t know about that. But for me, the lives of Einstein and Mencken raise one question above the many. Because, you know, writer. And thus, arrogant, obsessed, self-centred, and all that.

So, how does knowing the background and private life of a writer change the way a reader perceives their writing?

After all, both Einstein, and Mencken, held private opinions about many topics. Were they living today, keeping them that way would prove all but impossible. And once they became known, the cancel culture would dispose of them without remorse.

But are we obligated to cancel people for their private opinions? Are we obliged to remove them from public life now, for opinions held then? If so, why? And, if we are thus duty bound, how can we justify use of their ideas? What about the public good?

As we can see, a lengthy and fast-growing list of paradoxes soon emerges. Not to mention the host of existential angst that comes along with all that navel-gazing.

Instead, let’s use another literary device, the outline, and the storytelling method, to illustrate the point.

Here’s what I mean. Let’s say our hero is born into the working class. He could also assert his youthful talents included dropping out of school. It then wouldn’t surprise a reader when earning a living shaped his younger days. So, too, learning he retired early from the ring, and spent his twenties swinging a hammer in the trades, should also make sense. News a return to school led to white collar success in his thirties and the freedom to choose in his forties would then cause a reader no great shock, either.

With the known popularity of rags-to riches stories, this one is shaping up. As background, it sets the protagonist up for sympathy.

Now, what if our story told of his life as a working stiff, and how it made the writer’s career play second fiddle through the early part of it? What if it also included school-age success? Or told of decades making music and writing part time before it got to be a full-time gig? Then, what if he spent years in obscurity until a minor hit record in his fifties, followed by a niche market bestseller as he enters his sixties?

After all, every plot must have enough twists to keep a reader turning pages.

To maintain our story’s arc, we must take the next step in this writer’s tale. So, let’s have him tell us that like many, he thought himself a late bloomer, too. He could then declare that for him, it’s because he thinks of the past only when writing about it. He should also claim a more accurate metaphor for his life is that of a perennial, to better fit the narrative. To further move the plot, he could then tell us how, in most aspects, he enjoyed a seasonal parade of high and low periods.

From here, the action falls, for the tale must soon resolve. Often, a writer loses his way there, too, much as his story’s hero might, were any of it true.

However, because the hero yet lives, it’s a story with an unknown end. So, the next part might go something like this. He could start by telling how, before falling off a series of injury cliffs to start his fifties, he enjoyed a long athletic career. He might tell us about little league baseball and high school football, and pro boxing in his twenties, power lifting in his thirties, and trail running into his advancing years. Then, he might close with an uplifting comment about the value of discipline, sport, and fitness training.

Just like that, we’ve got an ending ambiguous enough to let the reader think.

Much like life, though our story doesn’t end, its hero’s journey is complete. It also fits a standard narrative arc well enough to serve our purpose. But was it fact? Or fiction? And, either way, how might knowing it affect a reader’s experience of its writer?

As near as I can tell, the answer is unknowable. I didn’t have to deface any art to figure that out, either. Though it appears I’ve stumbled across another paradox.

Either that, or a bit of nonsense to enjoy with a morning coffee. As usual, I’ll leave that for you to decide.

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

TFP

September 14, 2024

The tough sell.

That’s because, to me, it’s enough to know life changes a person. While the details vary from one to another, no matter where we are, each of us live plenty of history, too. Likewise, though none can claim they’re one of a kind, each of us is specific. Change, then, should be among the most accepted things known to happen.

Hello and welcome, reader.

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

For here, as best I can manage it, respect and tolerance govern the ideas shared between us, whatever our differences. I further limit these missives to career news, aspects of the craft, and what passes for humour in these parts. The website, you see, is public, and meant to promote my writing.

So, there’s little space made for personal stuff.

Not only that, but I believe we’re best served by taking such an approach to life and work. It’s the reason I’ve always kept a strict divide between my work and private life. Because, the fact is, I’m sure philosophy is for living, not reading.

But such arcane rules don’t govern today’s public discourse.

So, these days, the public display of anger, disrespect, and ignorance now so common does often confound me. And, despite working to keep envy, greed and misery out of my private life, even my well-made defences are now and then breached.

For the record, the countless means by which a negative person can find a problem for every solution continues to astound me.

But instead of boring you with a tiresome rant, I’m sharing the latest career news, along with a personal insight, while having a laugh at the expense of these angry times. Because, thanks to the artists with whom I’m lucky enough to work, the weeks just passed featured plenty of close-up looks at brilliance.

So, away we go.

First, let’s get to the news. Which, for me, remains positive. Despite reporting no offers for my latest manuscript to date.

About that, I say don’t worry, friends. For languishing in obscurity is the fate of most writers, be they poets, journalists, songwriters, screenwriters, historians, or novelists. Many of them, I assure you, own far greater talent than mine. Indeed, the writing racket has ever been a tough one in which to practice, let alone survive. None can say if it’s made better because of that, all the same.

Don’t go taking those remarks the wrong way, either. Because, as by now you’ve noticed, I’m skilled in my practice. Not only that, but I know it, too. Yes, after a lifetime of work, I’m right there with the rest of the second raters. And though my reach still exceeds my grasp, taken as a whole, that’s enough to keep me writing.

It’s worth saying that despite my commitment to independence, I make a habit of shopping my work to the few publishers who accept stuff from writers without an agent. Likewise, I’ve chatted with my share of agencies as well. And though not now in pursuit of a rep, I’m always willing to listen to anyone wishing to champion my work.

I’ve said here, before, how the results so far posted by my novels have proven the industry’s judgement of my work correct. For though often praised, just as their writer, they’ve proven too dark, or too fair, and don’t fit into a genre, which makes them a tough sell.

I say it’s because good art just isn’t good enough. Not when the world, as ever, clamours for more of the great. That’s why I keep trying, by the way, despite the results. And will, too. I think of it as failing my way to success. Besides, only time can tell how the next one turns out.

Anyway, instead of doing the usual, and wasting the months between draft rewrites and publisher shopping on behalf of my latest novel on rest, I spent much of the last year’s ‘down time’ writing. I not only started, but finished a trilogy of short film scripts, an animated short, and a feature film screenplay. Right from the start, the change in format proved relaxing, too.

At first, I thought it a clever way to pass the months between drafts, as it gave me something to do while waiting for replies to my queries.

But as often happens in these parts, the innocent return to screenwriting led to trouble of its own design. For near at once, the long dormant embers of the frustrated filmmaker living inside me soon fanned into a tiny flame. And, you know, for a writer, a spark is enough to burn down a house.

Because, yes, I’ve dabbled in film since my early days. In the company of friends, I wrote and appeared in my first short while still in my twenties. Neither a huge fan nor too skilled at the practice, I’ve since acted in a couple of shorts and stood around as an uncredited extra in a few features, as well.

Today, I don’t mind saying that among the fondest of my young man’s dreams was to someday write, produce, and direct feature films. But, while a writer needs only a pen, a filmmaker needs an army. Not only that, but compromise, collaborate, and cooperate are skills far less refined than those of grammar, style, and method, here.

For those reasons, and others, too, I put filmmaking away, long ago, as untenable. But, you know, life prefers irony.

So, gifted as I am with pro artist relatives and friends, it wasn’t long before there burned a fire big enough to attract a small crowd. And soon enough, a skilled team assembled itself, drawn by the siren song of immortal cinema, by then adrift on the summer breeze.

Together, we soon crafted our guerilla production plan. Earlier this month, on the streets of Edmonton, Alberta, we put it into action. Now, weeks later, we’ve filmed and assembled the first of our planned trilogy of short films. At this writing, with editing of film and audio complete, post-production next continues with colour treatment. With plenty of work ahead, we plan a festival release next year.

So, there’s more to come for that story in the future, and I’ll update you here. Next is the promised nod to personal insight.

Now, in life, and despite my practice as a writer of historic fiction, I’ve long believed it best to keep going forward. Not only that, but I’m sure it’s unhealthy to spend too much time reliving the past as well.

That’s because, to me, it’s enough to know life changes a person. While the details vary from one to another, no matter where we are, each of us live plenty of history, too. Likewise, though none can claim they’re one of a kind, each of us is specific. Change, then, should be among the most accepted things known to happen.

Yet the widespread claim that people can’t, don’t, and won’t, persists.

But even getting that, when someone says they haven’t changed, I’m nonplussed. I mean, always, but more so when such glib nonsense pops out from under a headful of grey. You know, despite living through the vast change wrought by the postmodern world’s relentless tech driven progress.

And just as he does with everyone, a devil lives in the details. At least, that’s what certain people want you to believe. For in these invasive times, a claim often heard is how the public need to know supersedes the right to personal privacy. That’s why online charlatans and fakirs take so many of us in when playing fast and loose with the facts and the world in which we must learn to live together.

I mean, few even know how basic tech, such as smartphones or the internet, work. For too many of us, those simple facts leave them untethered, and grasping for the shreds of what looks to be an ever more distant reality with which they could either interact or hope to understand.

For despite being awash in information, the plethora of choices offered by an ever more bewildering world renders many of us helpless.

Thus I was but little surprised by last week’s chat with an old friend, who shared his fears after watching one such doomsday-promoting online video. I won’t say which of the clickbait kings was behind the video, either, as one’s heaven is another’s hell. Besides, not one of them is worth hearing.

My friend’s concerns were real enough, too, though rooted in the misogynistic doublespeak of its fanatical source. We then spoke at length of the scourge of ‘real news’ sources and the many online kooks now claiming to have cornered the market on the facts.

In the end, we agreed that critical thinking remains a person’s most valuable skill in the internet age.

He later asked why I didn’t set up a YouTube channel to debunk the myths promoted by the near countless false prophets. As usual, I laughed along with him at the well-loved irony of his humour. And though notorious most for keeping my own counsel, even in the company of friends, it wasn’t the first time I’d heard of such a plot.

I then gave my usual reply to the suggested plan.

The brief speech starts with saying how, in these parts, as a writer of fiction, respect for privacy is paramount. It then tells how I save the philosophy, and the personal stuff, for my writing. The spiel ends by saying how those with a hankering to know more should read my novels. Because, as it turns out, I’ve always done this for something other than fame or fortune.

How was that for the nickel tour of an artist’s life?

Well, if it’s news to either you or me, then neither of us has paid attention. Not only that, but few are the reasons not to be polite. Most times, it costs nothing but time.

And no matter what the algorithms say, we’ve plenty enough to make room for that.

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

TFP

July 27, 2024

The solo act.

Anyway, my essay’s premise is quite simple. I suggest that most writers, me included, and much like most people, have little to say worth reading when either young or old. Which renders the so-called problem of ageism in writing moot. For, in truth, all is vanity. At least, I’ve been told a fellow once said something mighty close to that.

Hello and welcome, reader.

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

This month, instead of sharing a narrative work with you, I’ve returned to the essay format. For the students or writers in the crowd, limiting the use of adverbs and adjectives improves the clarity and reading ease of prose while favoring the active voice. Also, to best show the salty turns of my pretzel logic, I’ll use a long form of the expository technique.

After all, in a world filled with troubles, some of them even real, why limit oneself to a schoolboy’s five paragraphs?

I’ll enforce the usual constraints on length, too, so don’t panic. Time is all we have, and taking as little of yours to say what I need to remains job one, here. Recall, as well, how these notes are to be laughed at over a cup of coffee, not used as the basis for argument.

However, because the world is a hyper-sensitive place, here’s another qualifier. I know ageism comes in many forms, is a severe problem worldwide, and like prejudice of all types, harms each of us. Despite knowing this, the terms of my essay don’t reflect it. So, for those not ready to lighten up, the time to leave is now.

Anyway, I believe life is a choice, and while there are countless divides over which a man could waste a few words of his daily writing practice, who am I to go against the wind? So, without apology to those with other axes to grind, I’m tackling the concept of ageism in the writing business this month.

Here we go.

I’ve said many times before, here and elsewhere, how I believe writing is a solo act. Despite adhering to said belief, I often attend a webinar series hosted by the Writers’ Guild of Alberta that looks at the business of writing.

Need I tell you they’re free and included with the membership?

A couple of months back, the webinar topic was ageism, which inspired today’s essay. I must assure you I mean neither insult nor harm to either the panel or the WGA for hosting such an interesting and enlightening event. In fact, I’ve since attended another of them.

I plan to sit in on more of them in the future, too, unless today’s essay results in my being drummed out of the Guild. What I can’t say is whether future topics will inspire me to write so absurd a response.

Anyway, my essay’s premise is quite simple. I suggest that most writers, me included, and much like most people, have little to say worth reading when either young or old. Which renders the so-called problem of ageism in writing moot. For, in truth, all is vanity. At least, I’ve been told a fellow once said something mighty close to that.

To lend comic support to my absurd argument, I’ll use the comparison technique. I will first define the concept before setting its terms in my essay. Then, I’ll review where it’s been and where it could go with a quick look at my ‘old versus new’ experience of ageism in writing, its supposed effect on both trad and indie publishing, and the degree to which literary history repeats. I’ll close with a few words for those sure to be fighting about it long after I’m gone; tomorrow’s readers and writers.

When thinking about the concept of ageism, one must first accept the role of nature in the survival of our species. For at birth, like most mammals, people are helpless. And without nature’s version of ageism making the old teach the young, the game of evolution, and us, too, would soon end.

So, without some type of ageism, neither you nor I would be here talking about it.

Now, perhaps because an egghead only made up the word in 1969, I found several definitions of ageism, too. For today’s essay, I used the web’s most popular online info source. Here’s what it says.

Ageism is a bias against, discrimination towards, or bullying of individuals and groups based on their age, either younger or older.

I don’t mind telling you that, to me, the word’s suggested meaning is so broad as to render it near meaningless. But has the concept of ageism in writing changed over time? Or has the business evolved to a point where it no longer serves a postmodern need? I offer the following examples from my writing career in reply to these questions.

Like many old writers, I started writing when I was quite young. Not long after that, like plenty of neophytes I then knew, I spent too much time bitching about old writers who took all the work that paid. Instead of writing, I mean. The same old goats were the only ones getting published, too. Or so it looked to me. The rebel without a clue, a smart mouthed high school poet, ruined by getting published at seventeen. I couldn’t imagine how a bunch of old farts would have anything to say that was worth reading.

For among the countless things about which I then knew nothing, is the fact that most writers get published later in life. Note I said most, not all. Here in Canada, the latest reports claim the average age for a writer publishing a first novel is forty-seven. My first one published after I turned fifty-four.

Another fact worth noting is that while we’re young for what amounts to a moment in our lives, we’re old for the rest of it. I don’t know, and thus can’t say, but that could be why there are more outfits devoted to serving the needs of the elderly than the young, too.

Despite their best efforts, the problem of ageism, according to educated sources worldwide, grows ever more severe. The latest word is the publishing careers of writers young and old are under serious threat from some form of it. Because, nowadays, the criteria for success make one thing clear; most of today’s writers are either far too young or too damned old.

Of course, when looking at ageism and writing, one must consider the role of history. So, too, must one examine the topics of sales, marketing, and filthy lucre. Because, like all industries, the one built around writing must earn a profit to survive. Though nowadays, among writers in our country, such talk often gets framed in terms of the hardships of securing grant funding.

Up here, one isn’t long in the racket before hearing talk about the difficulty of accessing the now ubiquitous grant culture. Which is about par for the course, in the arts world, today, as it turns out. I’m not sure, but in some corners the idea seems to be that anyone claiming to be a writer should get taxpayer support, if a committee of their peers okays it.

Likewise, nowadays, one hears little about the nepotism and cronyism that runs through the publishing universe. That’s because, like all rackets turned institutions, much of it is based on who one knows. And, when doing such business, it’s best to be careful who one criticizes. Color me careless, I guess.

So, divide-and-conquer rules. As it does with most of our twenty-first century rackets. Because today’s writers must also survive in the gig based world run by algorithm. Thus many of them, much like those on the recent panel, instead choose to damn the unwanted challenge, slam the editing quality, and curse the lower barrier to entry of indie publishing. And, you know, like a tall fellow once said, a house divided against itself, and all that.

Anyway, being old, when I hear such talk, I recognize it for what it is: fear, envy, and blame. For indie writers, that is, who by daring to go their own way, somehow make all so-called trad publishing dreams harder to achieve. Despite the grant funding, I mean. And did I tell you the Guild is also at least ninety percent funded the same way? Now, if that’s not irony, I don’t know what is.

Lucky for me, I get that it’s not only easier to deride groups without the power to protect their interests, but safer than calling out those whose favor one curries. I know, too, that hoping writers would uphold a higher standard of integrity and fair play than usual to either the times or their industry was foolish on my part. Oh, well, my bad, not theirs, and it’s a solo practice, after all.

Sadly, a writer without the benefit of old age might know none of that. But I’m not sure ageism accounts for it, either.

Besides, the facts tell us self-publishing is how the business of writing began. Their authors published the first books not about science or religion. The publishing industry evolved from those humble roots into what it was, is, or might one day be. And like all capitalist rackets, its first concern is profit. It cares little for either writing or writers.

So, for writers of either today or tomorrow, maybe it’s worth keeping this in mind; history repeats. Beyond that, the terms of this gig are plain; think for yourself, don’t run with the mob, and no whining. Oh, and accept that some things, like competing for your place, are inherent to nature, the process of evolution, and the business of writing.

But it’s also wise to beware from whom you take your advice, too. Because this type of thinking, the independent kind, comes without grant funding. And not much profit either, so far.

What can I say? I’ve only ever done these things because I love doing them. That includes all the starting, stopping, thinking, hoping, wanting, winning, losing, hurting, haunting, and every other stupid, selfish, pointless thing that comes with this writer’s turf.

You see, I don’t write for the approval of anyone but me. Though, like most of us do, I did when I was a schoolboy. But as one knows better, one does so, right? And, likewise, I’ve only ever fought to find out about myself. That’s because I think the point of writing is seeing me, as reflected by you. So you might see yourself in my reflection. And maybe that’s because of what another writer asked, long ago, about how one could be here and not have a story to tell.

I don’t know about that, for sure. But few, at best, know much about anything. Instead, I accept on faith only what science claims as fact. With a commitment to do better, as it becomes known to me. While also taking responsibility for my acts. For me, that’s close enough to a philosophy, for a writer. And the way I see things, the job is applying it to my writing.

So, where once I knew the joy of profound ignorance, I now know the power of humble experience. Not only that, but as all who do must, along the way, I had to pay a price for these gifts. And of the things I could share with you today, reader, I offer this: I would do all of it again.

That’s despite knowing that if I did, there’s a good chance I’d find another way to make the same old mistakes. And if ageism has anything to do with that, I sure hope the eggheads don’t figure out a way to get rid of it. Because tomorrow’s writers are sure to need it just as much, or maybe more, than I did.

As always, thanks for being here, and for sharing this with anyone you think might like to read it.

TFP

June 9, 2024

The unplanned lunch.

But, as all those who have done enough of it know, the world is smallest to those who travel. So, it was no surprise, to me, when the once young writer and I again met when each of us passed through another of the world’s countless crossroads.

Hello and welcome, reader.

As always, it’s my pleasure to receive your online attention.

For here in these rural parts I call home, the wheel turns, and the hamsters run, much as they do wherever you might find yourself on this luckiest of rocky blue marbles. As nowadays, global trade has turned these postmodern times into a near homogenous parade of pointless sight and sound for all but the most isolated of us.

To some, my claiming luck is enough to provoke a sneer, if not an argument. But as the death of optimism was reported everywhere, I won’t bother repeating the news here.

Anyway, the glass remains at least half full, to me.

That’s despite the empty promises of collectivism now sweeping the globe, by the way. Made possible thanks to the greatest evil to confront the twenty-first century so far, social media. I call it Fascism 2.0, for short. It’s the same old script, distract people with enough bullshit so the wildest lies start looking like the truth.

Of course, the sweetest irony, for me, is the widespread refusal to learn from even the most recent of our shared history. In fact, based on the current rush to embrace autocracy and collectivism, one might think the twentieth century didn’t happen. If that’s not funny, I don’t know what could be.

But these are sensitive times, with facts believed little more than inconvenient, by those with a political agenda. Though few, if any, will admit either that, or that they have one, without a fight.

What else could such absurd and lemming-like behavior be, aside from hilarious?

I know only this. It’s easy to be distracted by one’s perception of what’s happening. And that makes it simple to lose sight of not only where one is, but where one wants to go.

But rather than argue about it, this month I’m sharing a story that better illustrates my point. Like all stories, this one may or may not be true. However, being fact or fiction will make no difference to your enjoyment of it.

So, away we go.

When still a young man myself, I got to know a handsome young writer who claimed to want to write more than anything else. He had the gift of gab and told me he was consumed by a desire to write great works of art. And so, wherever he went, and whenever I saw him, he carried a pencil and notepad in some pocket of the tweed blazer he most often wore.

He made a point of being seen at cafes, nightclubs, and parties, too, scribbling in the notepad. For much like today’s cohort, the young writer struggled with the weight of expectations. These included his own and what he imagined as his fellows, along with those of his vocation. Unknown to him then, as it is to many now, the world cared nothing for his wants, and these devilish concerns lived only in his mind.

I was a young drunkard at the time, and still learning the trade. I first made acquaintance with the handsome young writer at a local watering hole. Like myself, he enjoyed a drink, and, once again, like me, perhaps a little too much for his own good. Anyway, I took scant notice, then, as we met only when one or both of us was on a party.

One hungover morning, after sharing a binge or two, he asked me to read something he wrote, and I did. Because he didn’t ask for it, I offered him no criticism. From then on, when on a bender together, he would give me more of his stuff to read.

Just as with all who claim ‘writer’ as either vocation or profession, what he wrote was most often bad, sprinkled with some good. His work also left little doubt he was quite a talented writer. And though I thought him a great competitor, our friendship carried on through the formative years of my early twenties.

Life and circumstance being what they are, the handsome young writer and I went separate ways in pursuit of individual goals. For the next several decades, we remained out of touch, and, in fact, as unknown to one another as though we had never met.

But, as all those who have done enough of it know, the world is smallest to those who travel. So, it was no surprise, to me, when the once young writer and I again met when each of us passed through another of the world’s countless crossroads.

He sat at a table in the window of a restaurant overlooking a busy downtown city street, speaking to a server. Even from a distance, and despite the passing of many years, his striking good looks stood out. I was on my way to the same place and noticed him from across the way as I waited for the light to change.

It was a thrill to see the no longer young writer, and I hoped he would be as happy as I to renew our friendship.

After walking in, I told the hostess I was meeting a friend, and strode up to stand before the fellow’s table. Upon arrival, I spoke out at once.

“Howdy stranger,” I said, “long time no see.”

As I was speaking, he lowered the book from which he read and placed it with care in his lap. For a moment, I feared he didn’t know me. Then he raised a single eyebrow and grinned up at me as he made his reply. I didn’t have time to notice the book’s title before he spoke.

“By god,” he said, “fancy meeting you here, you pirate!”

He stood, and placing his book on the chair, embraced me. A moment later, we shook hands and exchanged pleasantries, and he invited me to sit and join him. Of course, I accepted without hesitation, because we at once had picked up where we left off thirty-five years or more ago, as birds of a feather with a long way yet to go.

Though neither of us, I thought, knew what had become of the other in the meantime.

For the next hour, we caught up. As it turned out, he was eating lunch before catching a flight to his home on the east coast, at the end of a business trip. Meanwhile, after visiting family to the south, I was passing through on the drive north to my small town home on the high prairie.

Our meeting was as pure an example of coincidence as anything I’ve known.

Even by then, both of us were grandfathers. For each of us, life had been full, too. While the years had treated him with kindness, the once young writer was now a grey-haired executive, pushing software for Big Tech. Like many of our cohort, he long ago left for the better-paying pastures of our southern neighbors and turned his degree into dollars. Though, despite the abundant greenbacks, he told me it took years to pay off his school debt at home.

From our smartphones, we shared countless family photos, and soon learned we had each been equally blessed. Though our paths had no doubt taken different directions.

Somehow, the hour of our unplanned lunch slipped away, and too fast, besides. Soon, it was time for us to part. To me, given our circumstances, it looked sure that we should never again meet.

Then, for just a moment, nostalgia threatened to overtake me and ruin the great blessing of seeing my once good friend. With a quick shake of my head, I returned to the moment and smiled at the no longer young writer, who was making a request.

I will admit he caught me by surprise.

“Before I go,” he said, “and knowing I might not see you again, I’d like to ask a favor.”

I was surprised and may even have raised my eyebrows before answering him.

“Well, let’s hope our paths cross again, somewhere,” I said, “and whatever can I do for you?”

He picked up the book on the chair next to him and handed it to me before speaking.

“Well,” he said, “I’d appreciate it if you could autograph my copy of your latest novel.”

Like I often am at such rare moments, I was flustered by his request. But I did as he asked, and he looked pleased when reading the inscription after I was through. A few minutes later, we parted. He in a cab headed east to the airport, me in a van driving north to the highway. As far as I know, we’ve not seen each other since.

Now, I think it important to say he was dressed in style. In a word, he looked great. But, because clothes make the man, though neither of us mentioned it, the wealth gap between us was made plain in what we each wore. By my crude accounting, I thought he must earn my annual income in less than a week. In contrast, mine wouldn’t be enough to pay his yearly green fees.

But he was gracious about it and picked up the tab for lunch without a word.

While driving home that day, what passes for insight here came upon me. At one time, both the once young writer and I were distracted by what we perceived as life’s major concerns. And so, we made things beyond our control more important than reaching for what looked to be simpler dreams. Only much later, after discovering the pitfalls of peer pressure and collective thinking, did either of us find an individual path to the life he most wanted.

To each of us, the demands of the nameless herd proved not only false, but dangerous. Just as ignorance of history means, today’s youth are as distracted from reality by events beyond their control as were those in the last century. While, as usual, the gulf between have and have-not increases. For only the status quo is served by ignorance.

Sadly, I haven’t seen or heard from the no longer young writer since that impromptu lunch date. But I hope he liked the novel, just the same.

Now, I’m not sure if my story’s use of metaphor is clear enough for everyone to appreciate. Likewise, its balance of symbol and motif might not be elegant enough for some readers. While its attempts at humor, meanwhile, may prove too crude for others.

I don’t care about any of that.

All that matters to me is you getting what I’m trying to say. Because I’m not speaking to anyone but you, reader. And what’s most likely is, we’ll never meet.

That’s just how it should be, too. After all, I’m a writer, and my job is sharing our story. Not just with you, but for you, as well.

As ever, thanks for being here, and for sharing this with anyone you think might like to read it.

TFP

May 11, 2024

The rebellion.

As usual, I’m on the side of the facts, and in this case, history offers them. Not only that, but my personal experience of decades working in these arts rackets backs its claim. So, with artists, I support the doctrine of exceptionalism.

For those inspired to protest, the lineup starts to the left, just outside the door.

Hello and welcome, reader.

It’s good to be here, and thanks for joining me.

First, the literary news.

Which comprises sending thanks to all for joining us at the Local Author Book Fair presented by Homexx Homes on March 24th. Thanks again to Leduc novelist Penny Benjamin for hosting the event and Homexx Homes for donating the space.

I much enjoyed the chance to meet some area novelists and talk a little about writing with a few local readers. Thanks again to everyone for the support.

Watch the Events page here and I’ll look forward to seeing you at a future Book Fair.

Now, on to the latest ravings by the long-lost pirate of the high prairie.

Once again, a period of rest, which means not writing, forces me to rail in this public forum. Though by now, more than a month has passed since work on my latest manuscript ended. I’ve done as little of anything as possible, and no writing, aside from this practice, thereafter.

So, here we go.

For while I’ve loved few things more than doing it, there are fewer yet that take more out of me than writing fiction.

I’ve long supposed it was part of what makes a novel art. The suffering writing one of them causes, I mean. Well, that, and the often genuine commitment it takes to read and make sense of them after they’re published.

But aside from that, it’s hard to say what makes a written work art. For me, anyway. Though even I know this isn’t. But what, then, is literary art?

Must the writer ground a work of fiction in philosophy and use it to define an ethos to qualify?

I would offer the work of Camus as an example of such an approach.

Or does a simple expression of feeling justify its existence?

Here, I could suggest poetry to make the point.

I mean, most of us know about genres, the boxes into which we fit the books, movies, music, and anything else that offers a choice of style, type, or use. But we do that for ease of sorting and management, and not for defining the artistic role of things. At least, that’s a usual claim.

So, one would think genre, or the box into which we place a work for sorting, should neither define nor limit a work’s artistic merit.

But that’s not what happens, in fact.

Instead, with art of all types, genres play a far greater role than either sorting or managing. Because the genre name placed on a work forever defines the critical appraisal earned by it.

Not only that, but we’ve trained ourselves to praise what’s known as high art and to belittle what’s called pop art. If one uses the terms high and pop as genres of art, that is. Of course, doing so means granting genre power beyond its actual purpose.

It doesn’t get any closer to answering the question of what makes a literary work art, either.

In my defence, I must remind that readers here should, as ever, expect to find more questions than answers. For when seeking facts, one is best to ask, not tell. Besides that, I’m serious, too, and remain undecided.

Though I don’t figure to change anyone’s mind here, either.

But as those precious few who know me would tell you, I sometimes enjoy pulling on a thread. So, what about artists?

Are they common? Does the talent to make art live in all of us, or everything, such as a room filled with ten thousand monkeys, like the internet generation lately claims? Or is it instead practiced by a small and uniquely gifted group within our species, as the evidence of history suggests?

In each case, who decides which of us goes where? And what are the criteria for selection? Is it a choice made by a few stuffed shirts hiding in a mysterious ivory tower? Or is it some kind of secret lottery, where you need to know someone to buy a ticket?

Or could it be something worse?

As usual, I’m on the side of the facts, and in this case, history offers them. Not only that, but my personal experience of decades working in these arts rackets backs its claim. So, with artists, I support the doctrine of exceptionalism.

For those inspired to protest, the lineup starts to the left, just outside the door.

Now, as far as criteria go, however, I suggest little beyond nepotism, cronyism, and the desire to keep a power structure in place composes it. To best ensure the riches of a few at the expense of many.

How’s that for a change of pace?

Outraged by such statements? Or just offended by an off-white dropout making them? Perhaps a little frightened? By an attack on the ivory towers upon which the dreams of our somnambulant world rest, I mean?

Well, there’s not a thing to be done about it. Because writing backed by nothing other than a classroom is worthless. And where a single word of rebellion gets spoken, the seed of dissent persists. As likewise, those holding power, along with their gatekeepers, remain under threat.

Once again, for protesters, the lineup starts to the left, just beyond the exit door.

Besides, if everyone’s an artist, any who don’t like what I’ve said can use their talent to compose a response that refutes my premise. I’ll look forward to reading it.

There’s no better reason to write about what you know than that, either. Because opposing a prevailing narrative is an act of personal rebellion. While for me, doing it peacefully is a big part of what makes art real.

Before going further, it’s worth noting I understand progress takes time. I know, too, of my good luck, despite the challenge of race, for my birth in the democratic west, a place of relative freedom. I thus temper the roots of my latest protest with knowledge of the blessings I’ve enjoyed and how good I’ve had it, compared to many of my fellows.

All the same, change often needs a catalyst. And a man doesn’t tend such a fire to keep it burning. Like I’ve said here, before, the point of building it is sharing light and warmth. In terms minimal and metaphoric, that’s also what I call my philosophy of art.

Within my literary work, I’ve made that too plain to be missed. As in days gone by, I did the same with my music. At least, that’s my story.

But twenty-first century life means bathing in facts. Which now must compete with as much or more outright lies and nonsense. Sadly, the relentless ubiquity of each has driven many of us to a state of vast ignorance. And left our former beliefs about things like common sense, insight, and wisdom, the relics of a bygone era.

While leading our once free society to the brink of ruin.

Now, don’t start up with the worrying, Chicken Little, because the skies have yet to begin their fall. Not so far, anyway. We’ve plenty of time to prevent it, too. But we need to take a break from the narcissistic navel gazing we call social media to pull it off.

So, it’s time to say this again.

After a longer surge to the left than ever before seen, society’s pendulum now swings, perhaps just as far, to the right. In response, the early stage of panic grips lefties everywhere. For they now fancy themselves under serious assault, despite their claims to the moral high ground.

Meanwhile, among those on the right, the call to arms has by now taken over much of the world’s public stage. As, in conflicts worldwide, both armed and rhetorical, the voices of autocrats and conservatives demand the return of their share of power.

This should surprise no one.

For despite what you may think, the people always get what they want.

Not only that, but it’s natural for a pendulum to swing. And in a society, not one of us has an inherent right to getting our own way. A society works by its people arguing back and forth about how things are going to be. There are no rules aside from those we make and enforce upon ourselves.

Likewise, as a man who dislikes being told what to do, I’ve as much trouble keeping it between the lines as anyone. So, when things don’t suit me, I’m not shy about letting the world know about it. In a democratic world, after all, I’m free to make my opinions known.

So long as I recognize my freedom ends where it infringes on that of my neighbor. And likewise, my neighbor must respect that their freedom ends where it impedes mine. These are the rules used in our supposed free democratic society.

We call it the rule of law.

Unless or until one’s ideas disagree with whatever mob is making a show on social media, that is. After which, just like everyone else, one is free to stfu, or change one’s tune. If not, one must then face the consequences.

They call it canceling, nowadays.

It’s part of the online terror spread worldwide. By competing gangs of newborn zealots. Often anonymous, enabled by tech, and driven by a toxic mix of fear, ignorance, and stupidity. Each of them not only denies the differences between people, but our right to be that way.

Whether making claims of diversity or separation, each group seeks an ideological monopoly around the globe.

Like our kind does in the age of social media, though, instead of debate, the opposing groups engage in shouting wars from inside separate echo chambers. And, of course, any talk of compromise leads to nothing but more shouting. Despite the claimed misery caused to each by the dreaded status quo.

It’s more of the same old, same old, and everything remains everything. To hell with those of us wanting only to live and let live.

Without a doubt, our latest approach to living together in peace is dumber than any I’ve yet seen. And I’m now an old man, widely traveled. As near as I can tell, the latest inmates, drunk on the anonymity granted by social media, believe themselves in charge of the asylum.

On which side they stand makes no difference.

Because extremists are the enemy we all share. All the time, and everywhere, too. It doesn’t matter whether they’re doe-eyed leftists devoted to change, or hardcore right-wingers sworn to preserve the past. Each endangers a free and healthy society.

That makes all of them my enemy. Whether you like it or not, it makes them yours, too. Because we, the people, are best served by evolution, not revolution. No matter who, or what side, claims we need it.

History makes those facts plain.

I know, too, that few of us take the time to learn from it. And these days, with every recorded moment of the past but a click or two away, our resistance to such learning does our society, and thus ourselves, far more damage than ever.

Here, one often wonders if our kind might just enjoy conflict more than anything else.

And though sure few will heed this call, I’m glad to share it. Because, to me, it means I’ve held up my end of this artist’s deal. So, from here, you’re on your own. The allegorical canary, meanwhile, may now rest in peace.

For those who wonder, I do, too, on most nights.

That’s because I know my job. And all that matters is doing it. Even if you don’t get that, it’s okay. Only a single other, somewhere, must, for an idea to survive. As we’re all here, plainly, the precedent was long ago set.

See, my job is holding up an end. Time and nature will take care of the rest. It’s not like I’ll be around to see the results, anyway. I’m good with that, too. After all, I’m the son of a farmer, and tending a crop meant for sharing with strangers is the biggest part of what I know.

Because just like it is for most of us, there are few people interested in anything I might do, feel, say, think, or write. Which makes my choosing to publish any of it a pointless exercise. Well, either that, or an act of absurd rebellion.

I’ll give you three guesses to figure out which one I think it is. But the first two don’t count.

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

TFP

April 6, 2024

The habit.

Maybe that’s why I’ve always thought of writing as keeping a fire burning. Not only for myself, and my survival, but for the next one. Who, with any luck, soon enough comes along from who knows where any of us ever do in this dark place.

I know a little warmth goes a long way, too, when you’ve been cold awhile.

Hello and welcome, reader.

     It’s good to be here, and thanks for showing up.

     Were I that way, my excuse for blowing the monthly schedule after only five of them is that February was a short one. Either that or finishing third draft revisions to my latest manuscript kept me too busy to drop you a note.

     No matter. I’m not, and by now, you’ve accepted me like this. The way I’ve got it figured, those who would not left long ago.

     So, let’s get to it. Because, as usual, I’ve got something to say, and you’ve precious little time to waste reading it.

     First, the literary news.

     On Saturday, March 23rd, I’ll be one of a dozen Alberta writers featured at the Local Author Book Fair hosted by Homexx Homes. We hope you’ll join us between 12noon and 5pm at 1335 – 155 Street SW, Edmonton.

     It’s a chance for both of us to meet some area novelists and talk a little about writing. And yes, there will be plenty of books available if you want to buy them.

     Other than that, believe it or not, beyond the latest public appearance, it’s mainly dullsville in these parts. Unless you’re one of those with a thing for writing, anyway, and that’s for sure.

     Because writing remains a solitary habit practiced by a relative few. Despite nonstop attempts by teachers, guilds, and salespeople worldwide, to brand it a shared experience. So, if you’re one of the few, the Book Fair is a chance to meet others of your tribe. While if, instead, you wonder what makes such people tick, it’s a chance to find out.

     I look forward to seeing each of you there.

     Now, on to more nonsensical ravings by the long-lost pirate of the high prairie.

     Despite a recent snowy blast, the ides are upon us, and deep thoughts, of nonsense like artistry, craft, and work habits fill this battered melon. Here, the in-between time, when one work ends but before the next begins, reflects the worst of the outsider’s life I’ve led since taking up this worthless crusade.

     It’s then when my career choices, even to me, seem most obscure, too. Though one can’t deny their results. A man makes his bed and must then sleep within it, after all.

     As, likewise, freedom comes with no guarantees.

     Well, some of us prefer it this way. Despite the hardships that now and then come along with our choices.

     For we know that countless others have no alternative. Some of us might even be one of ‘those’ people. Because of color, circumstance, or inequity, they’re forever on the outside. We both know who they are, too, no matter who we might claim to be.

     Because it’s tough for reasonable people to deny reality.

     Maybe that’s why I’ve always thought of writing as keeping a fire burning. Not only for myself, and my survival, but for the next one. Who, with any luck, soon enough comes along from who knows where any of us ever do in this dark place.

     I know a little warmth goes a long way, too, when you’ve been cold awhile.

     For me, all kinds of writing keeps the fire lit, as well. Not just novels. Because I started out as a high school poet but made a stage name for myself as a touring songwriter. That was years before writing my first newspaper column in a local weekly, and decades ahead of publishing a monthly feature in a national magazine.

     So, yes, I got plenty of practice, in out of the way places, before taking the big stage. That’s how I see writing novels, by the way. As the top shelf. I mean, as a solo act, to me, the novel is the summit of a writer’s career, and one of the greatest achievements in the arts.

     Or it should, and can, be thus, if done as a solitary act, and well. If supported by a team of editors, however, not so much. Not to me, anyway. And did I tell you, lately, how I’m the only one to whom I answer? Well, if not, there you go.

     There I go, railing on about writing what you know, again.

     I’ve worked hardest to ensure my response to these overly sensitive times is plain in my writing, too. Because I stand against the tyranny of the mob, no matter the shade of PC cloak in which it may wrap itself.

     I’m against censorship, too. Of all kinds. Because only the fearful and ignorant want to ban books. Likewise, those willing to enable such a mob by ‘sensitivity editing’ have reached a new level of cowardice.

     Because the first job of writing is to inform.

     That means showing how it was. Not how you wished it could be. A writer shows how people lived at a moment in time. A writer doesn’t hide the facts out of fear the truth might offend whoever may later read it.

     Those who don’t get that, don’t get what it means to be a writer. Likewise, I’ll wager they don’t get art, or artists, either. For them, I suggest printing this to hang among their participation medals.

     Is it hot enough for you, in here, yet?

     Can you believe this? How could someone holding such outlandish beliefs not be far more popular in the 21st century? Talk about getting what you want! Poor little rich boy, indeed.

     Now that’s what I call entertainment.

     Beyond fortune and fame, I think it’s also why we built the entertainment industry. I mean, how else is the world supposed to get any value out of so many troublemakers? And keeping them together, chasing the same carrot, eases management.

     I guess we owe the guys in the suits for that, if nothing else.

     Not only that, but all fiction writing is entertainment. That’s why we invented novels. Oh, sure, maybe some folks don’t like thinking about writing that way, but it’s a fact. For those who wonder, I’m with Vonnegut on this one, and think the novel is, much like myself, an anachronism leftover from another time.

     Worse yet, the published novelist’s job is entertaining a reader.

     So they can, for a few brief moments, escape the rusted chains of vicious reality. If only now and then.

     And though at best no more than a lifelong fringe player, a darling of the bush leagues, the proverbial four-A man, I’m pleased with my choice, and the results, too, of chasing my dreams. Because even a career in these minor leagues showed me more life than I ever dreamed of seeing.

     Now, don’t get it wrong. Because I’ve had far more than my share of moments. I know many turns I’ve taken were either delinquent, amoral, or wicked, too. If one sought the trappings, instead of the story, I mean.

     I know this because of losing myself in them a time or two. Yes, it’s a fact. Few like throwing it around more than me. Way back when I got a taste for hording it, too. So, let’s say I’ve been as sick on it as anyone, now and again.

     Lucky for me, I got over it, and after a time, returned to my life’s work.

     I’ve not for a minute regretted the choice, either. Though many can’t say the same, neither about me nor their own.

     C’est la vie. Make it. Lie in it. Next.

     For me, life’s beauty is in its simplicity.

     Of course, the trouble with that is people are hard-wired to seek patterns. Which leads to a relentless need for ever more complex answers. Thus rendering real life plain, lonely, or even, as some claim, boring. And leaving its beauty, sadly, beyond the grasp of many of us.

     I think it’s clear that our recent turn to the worship of communal tech is the end of not only freedom, but progress, for our kind, too. Though, unlike others, I don’t blame A.I. for any of it. That’s because I still recall who’s driving the bus.

     Despite the apparent species-wide need to blame the almighty but unseen algorithm for all things unpleasant today.

     Remember, an algorithm is simply a process or set of rules, or run-time instructions, followed by a computer to perform a task or solve a problem. Nowadays, people still write most of them, too. So, for whatever they do, that makes it our fault, every time.

     What we call A.I. has little, or nothing, to do with it.

     Did I tell you how I’ve used some kind of software editor since taking up the word processor in the early days of computing? In those days, spell checking was the limit of its power. Fear of copyright infringement means I won’t say the name of the long dead software I first tried, but it was quite good, for its time.

     I was pleased to set aside the typewriter, as well.

     I’ve used the giant of such software tools since its demise and enjoyed the fruits of development labor as the built-in editor there improved over the years. Once more, infringement fears keep me from publishing its name, but you likely know the product. As far as I know, it’s as good as it gets among its kind.

     But editors are people, too. And all people have tastes, fears, and biases, as well as experience, skill, and talent. Nowadays, the demand to be PC rules their efforts, too. Not only that, but access to their time is expensive. So, after publishing my first novel, I bought purpose built and A.I. powered editing software.

     Today, it’s integrated with the word processor I use for all my published writing.

     What’s it like? Well, I’ll say it’s not worth letting a few kooks run amok on social media scare you with fearful tales of a frightening future. Because the world of tomorrow, and everything in it, is yours.

     That’s whether you want it or not, by the way. So, you know, enjoy.

     As editors go, while easier to get in touch with than a person, software is no more flexible with the rules of the grammatical road. But despite the A.I., it remains a rules-based world. So, even today’s basic tools let the user shape them to quite a granular degree.

     Care to split the infinitive, anyone?

     That also means I can be as purposely incorrect as I need to be when showing how it was in my work. And to me, that’s a writer’s actual job.

     But while a handy tool for a pro writer, an A.I. powered software editor isn’t yet a threat to replace a person at the keyboard. Not today, anyway. But who knows what tomorrow brings? After all, as a novelist, I’m an anachronism, and not long for this new world.

     C’est la vie, my friend, c’est la vie. Still, you know, it’s worth having a little fun while you’re here. Because it’s not for long, as things turn out.

     Though for youngsters to get the best of what’s yet to come, staying in school long enough to qualify for the life they want is likely their best choice. That way, they can be one of those writing the next wave of algorithms.

     With any luck, they’ll save the rest of us from our early attempts at blaming A.I. for not fixing the many things we left broken.

     And though unlikely to see the light made by their fire, here’s a thanks to them for keeping it burning. Because the writers of tomorrow will need warming. Just as they who wrote yesterday did, and we who write today do, too.

     As ever, thanks for being here, and for sharing this with anyone you think might like to read it.

TFP

March 16, 2024

   

The experiment.

After all, why make the effort to think for yourself when someone else will do it for you? What’s wrong with more of the same old thing? And so what if the price of profit is serving the lowest common denominator?

That’s entertainment by algorithm.

Hello reader, and welcome.

From peaceful Pajama Flats to wherever this note finds you, I send best wishes for the coming new year. In these parts, meanwhile, and despite the season, the experiment continues.

As a writer, I’ve had a busy and productive year.

Though I’m anything but prolific.

Not only that, but like all writers, I must first commend the feats of others when looking back on my own. And few things keep an overgrown ego in check, like recalling the greats of the past.

All the same, for me, it was a good one. I’m grateful for it, too. Though my reach continues to exceed my grasp.

Because the more things change, the more they stay the same. At least, that’s what my elder brother likes telling me. And more often than I care to admit, I’ve found those words prophetic.

In my mind, I can see him grinning as he reads this, too. Thanks again for sharing, Bud.

My dear old dad, on the other hand, would tell me there’s no time but the present. Which, as things turned out, is another point on which we would disagree.

In memory, often, I see him laughing at me, too. Rest in peace, and thanks again, Dad.

They have been and ever will be two of my favorite people. Either despite or because of the many times we agreed to disagree. Even after all these years, I’m still not sure which.

But as the calendar turns, I’ll say keeping on is its own reward. And that I owe those two men plenty for sharing their wisdom. Perhaps as much, or more than, what I owe the nameless writers on whose shoulders my stuff stands.

Anyway, I’m thankful for all the help, as well. Though, like the times, I’ve changed, too, and plenty, by now. Not always for the better, either, I will admit.

But, as usual, one endeavors to persevere. And I’m as good with who I am now as who I used to be, too.

So, here’s to another new year given to progress, not perfection.

On that front, the one just passed was, for me, a triumph of effort and focus. For at last, I feel prepared.

I only wish the previous statement could provoke the laughs from you that it does me.

What’s that you say? About what do I laugh?

As usual, the joke I’ve made is on me. After all, I’ve spent my life doing something about which I apparently know little, or perhaps nothing. Only now, as an old man, does awareness of not just how, but why, and for what, the thing I’ve tried doing, is clear to me.

What’s this, you ask? You know nothing? How is that news?

All the same, I’m now ready to properly do it. I feel, as near as one can, that everything done before was to get ready for what comes next.

But don’t get the wrong idea, because I’m without a real clue about what that might be, just now. Which, believe it or not, isn’t so strange, around here.

I’m talking nuts and bolts, of course. Because the worst of the artistic heavy lifting is already done. I mean, the first drafts are complete, anyway. And if you can’t see what might be there after reading a first draft, you’re in the wrong racket.

Of course, even the arts world gave up on imagination long ago. Instead, like most everyone else in the computer age, they traded it for the safety of formulas.

After all, why make the effort to think for yourself when someone else will do it for you? What’s wrong with more of the same old thing? And so what if the price of profit is serving the lowest common denominator?

That’s entertainment by algorithm.

Well, I’ve always asked more of it and still do. That’s why I got into making art as a boy. Not only that, but I think being an artist is a calling, too. And yes, of course, I think writing is an art form, as well.

How’s that for a laugh? Not dark enough? Well, hang on, there might be a better one up next.

From the start, the only audience I’ve tried to please is me. And what’s more, the times I pull it off are rare.

Despite the setbacks, I keep working. And lately, to me, the stuff reads like it’s ready. Maybe that’s why, despite the hour growing late, I’m looking forward to this new year as much as any before it.

Either that, or the delusion is near complete. I’ve heard they’re often like that. Slowly built up over time, with change so slight as to remain unseen until its effects are too apparent to ignore.

Well, no matter how it turns out, I’ll take what comes.

And if that doesn’t work for you, well, then I guess we’re not looking for the same thing. But then again, I’ve heard tell there’s no accounting for taste.

In these parts, it’s what accounts for the size of the royalty cheques.

Now come on, if that one didn’t do it, then I just ain’t gonna get er did, cousin. Because I can’t do it no better. And that’s what you call a softball, right there.

So, from here, you’ll be on your own, as far as laughs go, to end or start this latest new year. But don’t go claiming I didn’t give you nothing to end off right or get started strong, you hear?

I mean, what the hell, it’s not like making widgets, you know. A man has to dream this shit up, right off the top of his fool head, too. You just try it for yourself one time, and then come talk to me about it.

Be careful, though, before you do. On account of it can leave a man with a humdinger of a headache, afterwards, and that’s for sure.

Do you follow me?

I had a friend who asked me that every time he lost track of what he was saying. Like me, he was an ex-pug. And when I knew him, he lost track of his thoughts so often it surprised me how many he tracked down. Anyway, he always had a lot to say, so I figured it must have been good exercise for his brain.

Well, I write a lot more than I speak, but maybe his excuse will work for me, too.

Either way, here’s a happy new year wished to you and yours.

As always, thanks for sharing this with anyone you think might enjoy reading it.

TFP

December 31, 2023

The community.

After all, it’s not called the write-what-you-know ‘school’ for nothing. Because if you ain’t done, then you can’t know. None of it. Not one bit. I can say that much for sure now. And knowing is another of the dubious prizes you get for being a high-mileage unit.

November 12, 2023

Thorsby, AB

Hello and welcome, reader.

I’m grateful you’re here and want you to know it. For me, that’s a big deal. Because, sadly, I’ve often been told I can be a selfish jerk in private life. And that such behavior sometimes intrudes upon my public one, as well.

My claim, of course, is that’s what comes with the writer’s turf. Though it’s true, I’m at times distracted to a rude degree. As, likewise, I remain wholly unrepentant.

But I write this stuff because I want you to read it. Otherwise, I wouldn’t publish it. Whether it’s my latest novel, a magazine column, or a blog post that brought us together. Why, even if it was a note left on the social media that brings you, I’m glad you found me.

Because a gig’s a gig. That’s what my late partner-in-crime, Kenny Holmes, would say. After all these years, I remain sure he was right, too.

Anyway, I’ve long made a habit of holding up my end of a deal, nefarious or otherwise. So, when the lights go up, whatever you’ve paid for is what you get, every time. Because I’ve spent my life on the stage, not in the crowd.

After all, it’s not called the write-what-you-know ‘school’ for nothing. Because if you ain’t done, then you can’t know. None of it. Not one bit. I can say that much for sure now. And knowing is another of the dubious prizes you get for being a high-mileage unit.

I’m not so sure writing what you know is a selfish act, either. Though I’m not claiming a higher purpose than entertainment for it. Around here, with art, intent counts as much or more than anything else, anyway.

I also know there’s no accounting for taste, too. Not only that, but to me, entertainment ranks among the highest aims of art. Although, despite, or maybe because of, my own picky nature, I’ve never been much concerned with what’s popular.

My guess is, because you’re here, you’re a little like that, too. Or maybe a lot. Whichever it is, thanks for stopping by.

Now, let’s hope I can make the visit worth these five minutes of your time.

Over the last month or so, I appeared at a couple of local Author Fairs. There, I had the good fortune to meet a few dozen Alberta writers. I met authors of fantasy, self-help, and science fiction, through those of memoir, literary, and romance novels.

For me, getting to know a little about the varied approaches and outlooks of the writers behind the many styles was a treat. After meeting readers and selling books, the highlight of both events was getting to know a few of them.

It was great fun. And much like being a member of the writer’s guild, the events made me aware of the community of writers to which I belong. Though, because writing is a solitary pursuit, I often forget about that.

So, here’s a public thank you to the good folks at the Spruce Grove Public Library for the reminder, and the invite. And for putting on the most recent well-attended event. I will look forward to seeing you all again next year.

Meantime, I hope to attend more events like it in the future. Because I’m a recluse, not a hermit. And, so far, at least, meeting people who either have or want to read my books has been more fun than a barrel of monkeys.

I met several aspiring writers, too, both young and old alike, at each event. For me, more than anything, it’s a privilege to help others get started, or keep going. So, I hope the recent Author Fairs inspired and supported their writing as much as it has mine.

Likewise, the chance to meet fellow published authors, and talk a little about writing, is big fun. I’m not sure, but maybe that’s because we’re all chasing something different. Despite the unique focus of each writer, however, our shared devotion to the lonely craft somehow forms a bond between us. Though we are surely strangers, and remain so, afterwards.

By now, after spending most of my life chasing this solitary mirage I call a vision, it seems I’d forgotten about that, too.

Well, I’m now reminded. And so, plan to do a better job of sharing, and giving back, to this lifelong pursuit of art for art’s sake.

Because my chasing this writing thing has made me a life. Not of ease, but opportunity. It has challenged the depth of my commitment and imposed a harsh discipline. While showing me that, like everything else, one gets from it exactly what one puts into it. No more, and no less, either.

I wouldn’t want it any other way. And I have loved living it, too. Why, I love it more today than I ever have. And, because I’m old, and have been doing it since I was a kid, that’s saying something.

Next, I’m going to throw in a plug for the Writer’s Guild of Alberta. Because the WGA is the writer’s community to whom I belong, and they do plenty of good for writers in Alberta. If you’re a writer in the province, published or not, I encourage you to join the Guild.

For despite each of us pursuing a solitary craft, all of us belong to a family of writers with roots beyond our own time. In places like the WGA, they help preserve those roots for writers of the future.

What I know is, there’s always plenty of good things for writers happening at the Writer’s Guild of Alberta. Not only that, but they create plenty of opportunities for writers, too. I encourage you to check them out online.

Now, to further support the theme of giving back, I’m going to prattle on for a minute about writing and opportunity. For the writers, I’ve used a mix of metaphor and simile as motifs with which to show my point. While trying not to either mix the former or stretch the latter.

Because it’s sometimes hard to see when it shows up, and not just for writers. For most of us, we’re often unaware of things until after they’re gone. Another hard thing to learn about that is, most times, we don’t get a second chance.

So, this one is for the young and old aspiring writer alike. When or if you see a chance, take it. For, much like when a train leaves a station, the first job is catching it. Leave the worrying about where it might go for when you get there.

That’s a long-winded way to say you’ve got to write the words when they show up. Because the right ones will be long gone if you go looking for them later. And though the time is never right, it’s always time to write now.

Recall, too, that writing is iterative. Which means it’s just fine when a first draft sucks. Because without it, there can’t be a second one. So, instead of letting them fade away, use your smartphone to jot down a first draft of your thoughts when they happen.

Meanwhile, the voice of experience calls a warning. Of how the pain of a missed chance is far worse than that of any failure.

Here, this writer’s life is a roll of the dice and enjoy the ride, anyway. I mean, as near as I can tell, I’ve little control over much beyond saying yes or no to it. And that, by the way, is another way of saying I control my attitude, and nothing else.

So, as a writer, speaking to those wanting to be one, the best thing I can say is get on with it. I’m not saying it’ll be easy. In fact, it’s likely going to be quite hard. And, no doubt, often lonely, too. But once you start, you’ll figure out the rest, including when, or if, to publish it.

Ain’t life grand? Thanks for teaching me that, Jim, and rest in peace.

As usual, thanks for being here, and thanks for sharing this, and the new website, with anyone you think might like it.

TFP