Tag: canlit

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 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