Tag: alberta

Nuts and bolts.

Truth is, it takes far more than commitment to write. Though none go far without dedication, in fact, it’s the freedom to publish that makes a writer. Call it freedom of expression, or of the press, if you want. Either way, the simple act of publishing one’s private thoughts has always been a far greater danger to those who don’t than to they who do.

Hello and welcome, reader.

As usual, it’s a treat to have you join me here.

Though once again, it has been a while. Mea culpa. I’ve been resting after writing the second draft of my latest manuscript. Likewise, as they often do, the seasons drift past unnoticed by those working on projects with their own calendar.

So, and first, I send best wishes to you and yours for the holidays and new year. May peace and love be upon all who read this, now and forever.

You’ll have to pardon the rank sentimentalism. I’m in between, as mentioned. I can thus, and with little trouble, be mistaken for an illiterate fool, hid only by the cloak of a distant keyboard, at such times.

That’s also why, after considering various options, I plan to continue hosting The Practice here on the website.

C’est la vie. The value of the incessant practice is worth the balance of whatever scorn keeping it free may invite. It remains a sycophantic habit at best, after all.

Whatever the hopes and dreams of its author.

Near as I can tell, that’s how it must be for this scribe. Anyhow, who needs objective fact when subjective truth will suffice? At this time of year? Neither of us, I’ll say.

And once more, let’s hear it for fiction! Or whatever it is, these things are supposed to be.

I’ve added gifts and sharing, plus the usual craft stuff, to the subject list for this one, in keeping with the season.

Away we go.

I hold an abiding love for the writing habit, despite knowing the above-noted dichotomy lies at the bottom of its ruthless heart. I also get how, in that way, it perhaps looks most like any other type of addiction.

Though in the anachronistic ritual’s defence, as near as I can tell, the results are often, to their writer at least, cathartic. You’ll have to pardon my use of two-dollar words, but few describe it better.

Anyway, in these parts, the routine of practice eases the psychic misery only a substance would otherwise provide. In theory, that is. In fact, I can’t go more than a few days without scribbling down some nonsense. Though doomed never to see the light of day, obscure nothings found in a corner of an ever-restless mind most often serve such a purpose.

I tell myself the habit is harmless enough, as such things go.

Some of those scribblings, after weeks of rewrites, became these. I delete most of the rest. A few of them, however, have developed into novels and screenplays.

All of them contribute to refining the prose style used in my novels. For that, and many other good reasons, I’m a serious fan of practice.

Next to writing, of course, a writer’s best form of practice is reading. Nowadays, I view reading as a purposeful pleasure, used to open doors onto worlds lost to the immutable march of time, as described by a writer there to see it in the flesh.

To me, what matters most is knowing how it was for the writer living in that world. The one I can’t ever know or see but must imagine based only on their reflection of an unknown and personal reality in prose. I believe the literary types call that trick ‘place’.

Here, it’s believed the device that reveals the art of writing as akin to magic. I’ll call it literary sleight of hand and hope to cause less grief to any writer reading this. At any rate, the way some writers transport a reader to another place and time has always astonished me.

I mention this because, at this writing, that remains the sole means of time travel known to our kind. And while I speak only for myself, taking a trip without leaving the farm might be the greatest gift a writer ever shares with a reader.

Though one might also need to have lived on a farm, for at least a while, for such an analogy to resonate.

You’ll have to pardon me, for I digress.

Let’s return to the seasonal topic of craft, gifts, and sharing.

I, like everyone else who calls themselves a writer, must acknowledge standing on ground tilled by my forebears. And of course, owing a debt of gratitude that demands payment. Let’s call it the literary tradition. If you’re a writer, it’s the honour you owe to all the writers who lived and died before you. For giving you the chance to join them.

That’s why I most often focus on the craft here. To me, The Practice is how I pay my share of a debt owed to writers of the past. By trying to help a writer I’ll never know figure out how to get their work done by showing them how I do mine.

That’s the actual reason we’re both here.

One such giant of the past from whom I take strength and guidance is Marcus Aurelius, who wrote, “What stands in the way becomes it”. In truth, I remind myself of the simple maxim daily. For me, those words mean that to learn how to write, one must write.

If there is a secret to the writer’s life, I believe that’s it.

There. Don’t go around claiming I didn’t give you anything this year. If a novel, and a short film, and a little music, wasn’t enough, I mean. Now let’s get back to Marcus and his magic writer’s formula. Whatever else they are, these things are first about writing, after all.

See; to support the emperor’s maxim, I had meant to write about style today. My plan was to discuss use of the active voice and my commitment to it. That and the secrets to reading ease were to feature in this edition of The Practice. I also wanted to share the intricacies of constrained writing and the methods used to create the layered prose featured in my fiction. As usual, I planned to reveal the nuts and bolts that hold my stuff together.

Like most times, however, the best I could do was show instead of tell.

So much for sticking to a plan, I guess. As noted here in the past, digression makes up a large part of what passes for style in these parts.

While granting an often-pedestrian choice of material, its scant literary charm.

And once more, I digress. While digressing that time. So, let’s get back to discussing the craft, gifts, and sharing, shall we?

Truth is, it takes far more than commitment to write. Though none go far without dedication, in fact, it’s the freedom to publish that makes a writer. Call it freedom of expression, or of the press, if you want. Either way, the simple act of publishing one’s private thoughts has always been a far greater danger to those who don’t than to they who do.

I mention that because it hasn’t always been possible for writers to publish. Not even arrival of the printing press assured that freedom. In fact, only after centuries of revolution and the rise of democracy did writers gain the liberty to publish and share their private works with the Western public. As a writer, I’ve received few gifts for which I owe more thanks.

I’ve written before about what a paradise the postmodern world is for writers, but it’s worth a seasonal reminder. For writers, at least in the West, these are the good old days.

Not only that, but with totalitarianism on the rise worldwide, there’s no guarantee the good times will last much longer. Here at home, book bans grow in popularity. While our school standards dive ever lower. Soon, fostered by ignorance, the Western world could once more return to the dark days of the recent past. There, bigotry and hatred were the rule, led by committed groups of fanatics disguised as elected governments.

Think I might kid you? Think again! At this writing, censorship not only lives on as government policy in many parts of the world, but rises once more, right here at home.

These are interesting times indeed.

Now, call me old-fashioned, but I believe we stand at another of history’s countless turning points. For in this moment, the virtual world means our personal choices have the power to affect actual change in the world of tomorrow.

Will we have the courage to turn away from the glorious myths of the hideous past? Do we retain enough collective awareness of the dangers of nostalgia and ignorance to keep them from destroying our world and its freedoms?

I have my doubts, but time will tell. Near as I can figure, only one thing’s sure. It’s going to be a hell of a ride finding out!

As always, this deal is holistic, too. Which means you can’t remove one banana from the bunch without affecting all the fruit left on the tree. So, like it or not, we’re in this thing together, and there’s no place for any of us to go.

Not only that, but many of the same pressures acting on writers are now changing the rules of the world in which all of us live. The drive for profit, the fear of progress, and the demand for increased control over their output mirror corporatist society. In this way, the literary scene serves as a metaphor for the world at large.

Is it not a comfort to know we writers share the same daily existential nightmares as everyone else?

Like many of our twenty-first century troubles, meanwhile, it’s tempting to blame most of it on the internet, progress, and technology. I get that too. I mean, who knew that exchanging convenience and cost for freedom and privacy would end up being so dangerous?

But, you know, life is always a precarious balance of nuance and paradox. And, just like science, just because we don’t notice it doesn’t mean it’s not there.

Of course, I don’t believe the answer to any of these problems will come from asking an AI owned by a billionaire, either. In fact, I believe the longer such an illusion persists, the worse our world’s troubles will become.

After all, is that what we want life to be? Something we throw up our collective hands at and beg for help with from yet another unseen deity? Is that what we’ve decided-without ever knowing we had made a choice-to call progress?

For the record, it’s not the story told in these parts.

Nope. Here, I’m sticking with Marcus. Which reduces the world’s distress to little more than grist for a writer’s mill. In these parts, that will have to do.

Because just as the man said, what stands in our way must become it.

And what’s the moral of this seasonal tale?

Well, I thought either: “Life is change, and time is short, so act now.”; or “It’s a hard ride, and every shot counts.” might work. But it could also be, “Seek wisdom because even a fool’s choices echo through time.” though none of them recalls the season.

Of course, the favourite around here is, “Might as well laugh at yourself now because later everyone will.”

Truth is, though, I’ve never been much for closing doors. Either real or imagined. That could also be why, as the routine goes in these parts, I let the writing speak for itself and leave the moralizing to you, reader.

So, there you go-live it up!

How’s that for spreading a little noir cheer for the holidays?

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

– TFP

December 13, 2025

Methods and plans.

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

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

Hello reader, and welcome.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Meanwhile, I’m back, and away we go.

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

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

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

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

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

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

How’s that for irony at arm’s length?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Let’s get back to our craft talk.

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

The second one is big, too.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You’ll have to let me know.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How’s that for a frame of reference?

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

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

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

TFP

September 20, 2025

Another Sandwich.

All the same, I’m pulling back the curtain, to a rare degree, for you this morning. I’d be lying if I said it was a comfortable thing for me to do.

There’re a host of reasons a man writes fiction, after all. So, let’s get to it, before I lose my nerve.

Hello reader, and welcome.

As ever, I’m honored by your attention, and pleased to share the latest news from the controlled chaos of my home office here at bucolic Pajama Flats.

Which, I will admit, often serves as little more than added reason to further question the writer’s claim to sanity. And how’s that for irony at arm’s length?

Today’s piece, however, reveals that one of us is perhaps farther along the road to the nut house than anything so far published here. As usual, when making your pick of which is which, you get three guesses, and the first two don’t count.

In case you’re wondering, my money is on the guy punching the keys.

C’est la vie, and away we go.

Friends, as foretold by the curse, we live through interesting times.

To describe, I could bore you with a rant about how idiots are bringing back deadly diseases because they’re ignorant and hate science. Or rail on about the rise of stupid and its cohorts bigotry and racism.

I might point out the siloed minds of various online mobs running amok in the streets. A few of which result from the drive for profit that turned social media into a home for the hostile. From there, of course, it was a short slide down a steep slope into the culture canceling, division driving menace now enjoyed worldwide.

Even worse, I could mention that all are because of the same lowered school standards imposed by the people’s elected governments doing their bidding. Because, you know, the people always get what they want.

Most times, good and hard, too, as a fellow once claimed.

But, you know, circus, monkeys, etc., etc., save it for the eulogy.

So, instead, I’m going to share a short story about having success, but only after a long struggle, with you today. It’s a real one, too. With any luck, it might even inspire some new thoughts, for both of us, about all that old stuff.

Not only that, but I’m dusting off the personal history books for this one, too. How’s that for a surprise? Though, as ever, I won’t be naming any names.

All the same, I’m pulling back the curtain, to a rare degree, for you this morning. I’d be lying if I said it was a comfortable thing for me to do.

There’re a host of reasons a man writes fiction, after all. So, let’s get to it, before I lose my nerve.

I love movies. They rank third, after books and music, on my list of arts passions.

As a younger man, I dreamed of making my own films. Though once a camera buff who took a few interesting pictures, life led me to other places. Now, decades later, it brought me back to stand behind a camera.

Though progress means I now need someone else to operate the damned thing.

So, for me, my new short film, Another Sandwich, is a kind of love affair. While for you, it’s a chance to see what the words look like when made real by their author. In each case, we’ll learn something about each other.

I know, too, reader, how there’s a good chance you won’t be interested in following me down yet another professional rabbit hole. Not only that, but you can also rest, assured, that I’m not changing careers.

Truth is, I’m now more focused on getting my work done than ever.

Though, and likewise, I’m also more committed to the details of my writing process, too. Thus, as a writer, I’m in the best place one could imagine these days.

See, the first draft of my next novel is done. It awaits rewriting. After a couple of more drafts, and the usual lengthy months of editing, I’m betting it’s the best one yet.

Still, as frequent readers know, my process demands I take a month’s long break between rewrites.

And, just as my dad long ago told me, a man needs something to do. While those with a known urge to chase mischief are best kept busier than others.

Did I yet mention how I write novels one at a time? Or that I prefer to finish one before starting another? Well, despite the growing collection of detailed novel outlines saved to various discs and drives around here, that’s how I do it.

Maybe that’s why, over the last couple of years, instead of making music in a studio with Harwill and the band, me and The Film Project team made short films.

Now, wait a minute before swiping.

Because, after all these years, I know the people who read my books aren’t the same as those who once listened to my music. Not only that, but I expect to need yet another audience to watch my films.

So, while Harwill earned his own website long ago, I’ll host The Film Project here until it finds an audience big enough to pay for one.

Besides, to me, the essence of filmmaking is writing. That is; the whole thing depends on a screenplay. Which is another way to say it needs a story.

For the record, as a writer, beyond the need to know, I enjoy the challenge of working in different mediums. That’s why I once wrote a weekly fitness column for a local newspaper. It also explains a few years spent writing a monthly feature in a national magazine, too.

Those gigs are extra to the countless other types of writing for hire, including business, technical, and web dev, on which I honed my skills before turning to novels.

Of course, I feel much the same about music, with songwriting its foundation.

As many are now aware, in days gone by, my love of making music was enough to overcome an intense dislike of the spotlight for quite a long while. Though no longer able or willing to tour, my love for music lives on in recordings made and released since I retired from the stage.

Once again, I offer no apologies for the extremes of my good luck, either. Though I know too well how extraordinary is this crazy business which composes my life.

For I am, without doubt, a cantankerous and particular fellow. At most times, too, but always more so when working at my craft. Though often hidden behind the veil of a grin, my temper while at work is quick, and the demands precise.

Because, you see, I love my work with an intensity that exceeds all else. Where once focused on study and learning, nowadays I devote my life to its completion. So, it’s not for nothing that I spend so much of my time alone.

This work is hard. I’m not ashamed to say showing how it was tires me out. And I love my family and friends. So much so that I would spare them dealing with the even more arrogant prick I become when doing my thing.

Well, lucky for me, in these parts, writing is a solo gig.

But filmmaking, even more than music, is a team effort.

And working with me means taking a hard ride down a fresh-cut trail, most times. That’s because when you’re coming from behind, or working for yourself, there’s little time left over for niceties.

So, I don’t deny the many sometimes-hurtful choices made to support my work over the long years of doing it. Nor am I sorry for the ego bruising that now and then came with playing in that show, either.

That’s because, by routine, I demand the best of myself, and accept only that from those working with me.

Anyway, all that stuff is the natural result of a long run, of either failure or success, in any business. And, as ever, I let the work speak for itself.

Same goes for the colleagues who’ve stuck with me. Because, if you check the credits, or the liner notes, you’ll see the same names showing up, again and again, year after year.

There, hiding in plain sight, is another type of love story.

But, and once again, I digress.

The Film Project team, to date, remains a small one. As usual, my brother from another mother is riding shotgun, and doing his best to keep me from leading us too far into the weeds. A couple of our favorite Edmonton actors and writers fill out the guerilla production unit.

Likewise, we’ve again started with short films, too, as that’s where we left off. Back in nineteen-eighty-nine, that is.

Yes, indeed. A mere ten years after my early poems appeared in print, I wrote my first script, and acted in the finished short.

We used a camera rented for us by a long-gone true believer. My lifelong creative partner shot and edited ‘GST’ on video tape. Another of our best friends directed and starred in the seven-minute epic.

And, though produced for festival submission, the sole copy of the finished short went missing in a move. Sadly, it remains unseen, with its whereabouts unknown.

Over the years, I got my film fix by appearing in a few shorts, and even did some time as an extra on a couple of features. For business reasons, the credits went to Tim Harwill instead of me, and his profile lives on IMDB, not mine.

Ain’t it funny how I do all the work and that sonofabitch Harwill gets the accolades? If you’re wondering, that’s an irony I could live without just as well.

Anyway, it’s time to finish what we had once begun.

Before the clock runs out, you know?

If you’d like to find out more, see The Film Project page here on the website. You can also find Another Sandwich, and me, online at FilmFreeway. When there’s news, such as festival or online screenings, I’ll share it here.

How’s that for a brief story about beating the odds? Does it ask or answer? Well, as usual reader, that’s for you to decide.

Because for now, the story must pause awhile before it starts. And how it ends? Well, once again, only time can tell that tale.

Here, though, ends the latest rumination.

Now, before I sign off, a reminder.

With the warm weather at last here, many of us are looking for something to read. Well, guess what? As the luck runs in these parts, my latest novel, A Whippoorwill Called, is earning complimentary reviews. Set in a sweltering prairie summer, it’s a thunderstorm of love and lust meant for afternoons in the sunshine.

Click the URL below here to order a copy and see for yourself. Thanks again for your support.

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

TFP

July 5, 2025

Long shots.

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

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

Hello and welcome, reader.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No matter the subject to which his muse might lead.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

For they had reassured me.

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

For there live the immortals.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

For me, that’s enough.

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

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

So ends the latest rumination.

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

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

I’m forever honoured to share these stories.

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

TFP

May 31, 2025

A Whippoorwill Called.

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

You know, the way we must in daily life.

Hello and welcome, reader.

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

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

I still don’t know what to call them.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thanks again for your support.

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

It’s a hell of a deal.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That’s a tough one to swallow.

But plain enough, too, when looking back.

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

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

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

The second one missed the mark.

While I grew ever more dissatisfied with my writing.

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

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

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

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

In absolute terms, they flopped.

And my dissatisfaction grew with each of them.

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

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

Extra time helped me get closer to the truth.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

To me, anyway.

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

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

I’m blessed. Grateful, too.

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

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

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

“How goes the latest manuscript?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

You know, the way we must in daily life.

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

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

“Well, I look forward to reading it.”

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

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

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

But not everyone responds to my novels the same way.

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

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

“What do you mean?”

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

Though I have my doubts.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And of times which he was too young to know.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Time will tell, nephew.”

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

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

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

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

While doing makes being possible.

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

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

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

With that, the latest rumination ends.

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

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

TFP

April 12, 2025

The mythical summits.

Likewise, there’s little but bullshit to writer’s block. Oh, sure, there’re plenty of fears. And even more second guessing. Because knowing you’re forever defined by what you’ve written, for better or worse, is the only true story.

Hello and welcome, reader.

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

Once again, I chose practice over pulling the hair, one at a time, from my head today. And have I said anything in the recent past about the cathartic effects of this terrible habit?

Well, if not, there you go. Were it me, I’d pat myself on the back for helping save what passes for a writer’s sanity, after reading this. And no, I didn’t name this page ‘The Practice’ by accident, either.

So, let’s get on with the show.

Did you see what I did last time out?

I call my prose style irony at arm’s length. And my guess is those who get it, do. There’s little point worrying over those who don’t.

Art is subjective, after all, be it literary, or otherwise.

Not only that, but for a writer, it’s either there or not. In the hands, I mean. If talent lives there, when you touch a pen or tap the keys, stuff comes out. That’s a gift. Near as I can tell, granted by luck of the genetic draw.

The rest, all you make from it, the clarity, grammar, style, blah, blah, is practice.

That’s also why the elder Sam Clemons told a younger Bruce Munro it was pointless for most writers to try writing novels until they were past thirty. Because, until you’ve been around long enough to see a few things, there’s little a writer can say. Of much interest to anyone but themselves, that is.

Here, I’ve always made what I like and shared the results. That’s the source of the weird label attached to me, and the stuff I make, too. You know, taste? No accounting for same? Viv la difference? Anyway, around here, what happens after I’ve written something must ever be of the least concern.

Because, well, art. Beyond that, integrity. See, a writer, like a man, needs a code, and when he adopts one, he’s bound to live by those terms.

And don’t worry, because the gig gets simpler once you learn to be is to do and vice versa. From there, get to work and forget about anything not important to one or the other.

Though I must say I enjoy few things more than when people show they’re picking up on what I’m putting down and buy my books. My banker likes that, too. Maybe even more than me.

But if you don’t have the stuff in your hands, well, then it’s not possible to either do or be. No matter how bad one might want it.

Because talent is an exception, not a rule.

In that way, talent is much like experience. When you have it, you know it, and everyone else does, too. And when you don’t, it’s impossible to hide.

Anyway, here, we don’t deny, for either better or worse, that perspective is based on where one stands. Be it now or then.

But having the luck to endure means bypassing the fond reviews of nostalgia. As a life reflected by the past isn’t just lucrative, it’s fixed.

Likewise, life is longest after a gold rush. Though without guarantees. So, that’s why I say the world, and life itself, far more than me, loves the irony.

What helps, in these parts, is a willingness to embrace my obsessions. Again, for better and worse, depending on perspective.

Lucky for me, art is nothing, if not individual. It’s an undying compulsion, too. But those who can’t deny this want must accept the deprivation that often comes with making it. Either that or quit.

After all, the world still needs ditch diggers more than writers. That’s what I’ve been told, anyway, and many times, too.

Besides, there’s something those who make stuff up won’t ever understand.

It’s a thing of great import to a writer. And those who want to be, as well. Because there’s an emptiness that comes with accomplishing a work. From which there’s no return. Once you get there, staring back, in profound silence, waits only the abyss.

From whose endless inanimate void whispers, too late, a warning. Of how the more you know, the more that remains to be known, and how most of that is forever beyond your ignorant writer’s grasp. Until, at last, emerges this heartless truth: all is vanity.

Imagination or song of the infinite? The choice is yours.

Likewise, there’s little but bullshit to writer’s block. Oh, sure, there’re plenty of fears. And even more second guessing. Because knowing you’re forever defined by what you’ve written, for better or worse, is the only true story.

That’s a secret you’d like to know earlier, too. I sure would’ve, anyway. Because it’s of little use after the fact.

Oh well. And there you go. Do with that what you will.

Here, we have published a new novel. In a few weeks, it’s available worldwide on Amazon. And the usual response to that, from these parts, is underway. At such times, my old man would say I was crazy as a shithouse rat.

He’d be right when he did, too. Like he was many times about his eldest son.

That’s also when, I say, a writer needs criteria. If hanging onto what passes for sanity is a goal, anyway. For both sets of results, too.

Because, in either case, there’s something to manage, said the voice of experience. Though I’ll say the one is easier to deal with than the other, all the same.

I mean, if you’re wondering, failure draws less of a crowd.

But coming off a win, even a relative one, is a scary proposition. And doing this means working without a net. Every single time. After all, in truth, the artist is the product, and likewise.

So, a well-developed sense of detachment from one’s work is a necessity. For without that, the whims of a crowd, no matter its size, soon replace the muse. And, from there, it’s but a short step to life as a caricature.

Thus, for this writer, I must separate the work from the man making it.

Even after decades of pulling it off, that one remains, for me, the most important trick this racket asks me to perform.

For though I am what I do, and what I have done is doubtless that which made me, there remains a distinction between one and the other. I won’t deny my better self, most times, lives in the works I’ve made, either.

I know that to be a fact. You should accept it, too. Because I write fiction.

My pursuit of the recluse’s lifestyle, meanwhile, is driven by a need to separate the writer from his subject. And, despite what I just told you about fiction, that too is a fact.

Or, at worst, the point of today’s practice.

Anyway, if I wasn’t looking to be judged, I’d have stayed on the farm. So, once again, here we sit, to wait on arrival of the latest words about our latest words.

Because there’s no sense in my denying that falling off the side of a mountain is worse with an audience. No matter how sympathetic.

What confounds me is an inability to stop climbing the damned things. After all, clouds of lingering reluctance have ever hidden their mythical summits from these eyes. Despite the near endless claims of seeking for them.

How’s that for irony?

From here, it sure looks like life can’t get enough of the stuff.

Of course, detachment could be an art form, too, and I haven’t yet figured that out. I mean, you can’t ever know how stupid you are. I read that somewhere, and it makes sense. Though, around here, it often looks like I’m just smart enough to figure out I’m not.

Anyway, I’m no Balzac, either, but brother Kenny Holmes always said a gig is a gig. I figure he had that near enough to right back then, and still does, too. And did I say to be is to dobedobedo? Or something much like that?

Well, to fans of irony, and me, too, it’s theatre of the absurd. And what I hope most is the curtain doesn’t fall anytime soon.

Because I still haven’t figured out the danged plot.

And thus ends the latest rumination. Or would calling this one fiction be a better fit? What about claiming it as literary insight? As usual, I’ll leave that to you.

Now, for the big news, which I’m thrilled to share.

So, join me in welcoming my eighth novel ‘A Whippoorwill Called’ available worldwide Tuesday, April 15th, 2025, on Amazon. It’s a pleasure to share this one with you, and I believe fans of good storytelling will enjoy the tale of Charly and Jed Bedford. For a sneak-peak, click the URL below here.

https://www.amazon.ca/dp/B0DWC4LGCL

Thanks, too, for your support. I hope you enjoy the novel and tell all your friends. And if you dislike it, I hope you’ll tell the world. To help you with that, the Goodreads review site is at the URL below here.

https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/227753325-a-whippoorwill-called

Thanks for sharing your opinion. I look forward to your review.

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

TFP

February 15, 2025