Tag: indigenous

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