Pick a Favourite

“Which writing project are you the most proud of?”

This question was posed as a creative exercise. Once I got over it ending with a proposition, I thought it was a bit like asking a parent which child she loves best. I also realized that I have a more extensive catalogue than one might assume, given my constant whining about writer’s block and lack of time/inspiration/talent. Picking one was suddenly a daunting prospect.

My initial thought was “Fixed Fire”. Writing five novels in four years and self-publishing two of them was no mean feat. What started as a one-off about a disillusioned warrior in denial of his magical powers quickly evolved into a saga set in a world beyond the mountains. The landscape was rich, the romance was blistering, the characters were vivid, and the family dynamic was utterly—sometimes hilariously—dysfunctional. It was a blast to write ... until it was not. Stalled at volume 7 since 2011, I’ve written novellas about some of the lesser players in the greater tale and each of them is captivating in its own way. But to pick the one that does me most proud? Errrr ... Next!

How about the vampires? I am secretly impressed with myself for writing three different versions of the genre starring three different incarnations of the iconic immortal: the romantic Julian Scott-Tyler, the power-hungry Darius Wolfe, and the outlaw Ariel Black. Perhaps I love my vampires a little more than I do the “Fixed Fire” crew (it truly depends on the day), but which of the trio does me the most proud? It’s really too close to call.

Then I considered the list of short stories spanning a decade from “Four Legs and a Tale” to “Ruby Red”. I’ve written about centaurs and witches and princes and waiters and angels; how can one stand out above the others when they’re literary apples and oranges?

Oh, and let’s not forget the blog. I’ve posted some dandy diatribes and yes, I have favourites among them, mostly among the fictional pieces but including a few of the philosophical. Winnowing out a singular post for personal pride is impossible.

Finally, I realized something that maybe should have been obvious from the get-go. I love them all, every one of them, and always will. However, given the folder of half-started stories on my hard drive, and the difficulties I encounter in actually completing something, I’ve decided that the project I am most proud of will always be the one I’ve just finished.

View From Another Window

Ter and I no longer live in Fairfield. Our heritage suite was sold last fall and our new home is across the bridge in Esquimalt, which is still within the Capital Regional District but is far enough away from Victoria to be , as far as we’re concerned, on another planet.

Rather than being right across the street, the ocean is two blocks away. I can still see it through my bedroom window, but now it’s partially obscured by tall cedar trees and the rooftops between here and there. The mountains I admired from the Ocean Room are visible in the same frame—and yes, I have my own bedroom again. We both do, though Ter’s is known as “the nun’s cell” because it’s so much smaller than mine. She’s happy in her little den, as I am happy in what’s been dubbed “the Princess suite” because “master” cannot apply when one’s house elf was accidentally freed from service.

Fate has been extremely kind in granting us a suite where no one lives below us in a building where all our neighbours are older and (mostly) quieter than we are. We have more of them than we did off Dallas Road, but I’m the only soul in residence who leaves at crap o’clock because she has a regular job. Everyone else is retired or semi-so, but if you’re inclined to laugh at us being roomies in an old folks’ home, you can stifle the impulse right now. This place is a gift. It more than met all our conditions. It included a few we hadn’t even considered.

In truth, I have never felt as blessed by my loving friendly and generous Universe. Here, we can heal. We can rest and recharge from the ongoing strain of living above entitled millennials while adapting to a world, first, without Ter working and, second, without Mum. It’s been tougher than I thought it would be—not that I thought much about it until it happened, and if I had thought about it, I would never have imagined it playing out as it actually played out. Many things have changed. It seems everything has changed. One thing has not.

The view may be different, but the magic is the same.

pbs.old

Remember when PBS was the TV station for kindergartners and grandparents? I preferred The Electric Company to Sesame Street (I still love the Muppets, but Big Bird annoyed me right out of the gate) and the documentaries taught me more about the world than my elementary school teachers. As a teenager, I watched Saturday afternoon cooking shows with Mum, and Masterpiece Theatre was a Sunday night staple where I learned about history and literature through British dramas like I Claudius, Elizabeth R and The Six Wives of Henry VIII.

I suppose I’ve always viewed public TV as an educational tool more than entertainment (though, as in the case of MT, combining the two makes superior competition to the offerings of commercial networks). But the musical programming is either highbrow or old hat, certainly not aimed at the original MTV generation of which I am a member.

Ter and I—perhaps snobbishly—have a running joke that we’ll know we’re past our prime when Def Leppard show up on one of those oldies revues we recall from our youth. You know what I mean: the 50s and 60s singers/bands playing to a full-yet-middle-aged crowd in a nostalgic nod to better days, usually broadcast during pledge drives so you know who provides the bulk of their funding.

Music became important to me in the 70s. In the 80s, it was vital. And while our 80s icons continue touring into the 21^st century, there’s a pervading sense that, at some point, they’ll show up on public TV with—let’s just say it—the other has-beens.

One evening Ter asked me if I’ve heard of Duran Duran’s A Diamond in the Mind.

“Yeah, it’s the concert film from the tour for All You Need Is Now,” I replied.

“Have we seen it?”

“We have it.”

Surprised, she looked up. “We do?”

“We do. Why?”

She brandished the program guide she was perusing. “It’s on channel 9 at ten o’clock.”

*THUD*

Ter continued as if I hadn’t blacked out while staying upright. “You say we have it?”

“Yeah,” I said. I went to the DVD library and produced our copy. “It’s on PBS?” I asked, just to be sure.

“Yup,” she said. Then she laughed, feigning (?) horror. “Oh, my God, Duran Duran beat the Leps onto PBS! Who saw that coming?”

We fell about with hysterical laughter, but it’s seemingly official. We have become the PBS generation.

Return to Comfortable Rebellion

Somewhere along the line, I lost my focus. This blog started in 2013 as a creative outlet, though it ended up following my life path and personal development as much as it did my literary (let’s call it what it is) frustration. It was great fun to write about the ride until the ride veered off the tracks and threw me against the wall a couple of years ago. Now, in 2020, nothing is the same. My home, my job, my neighbourhood—even I, myself—have changed.

For the better, one hopes. One must always hope, else there’s no point.

Earlier this year, I decided to reboot the Rebellion. Since that decision, Covid 19 has swept around the world and is threatening my own community. Life is so far from normal I can’t envision what the end result will be. I don’t know what the rebooted Rebellion will look like down the road, but I didn’t know it the first time, either. In truth, with everything around me so strange and unfamiliar, I don’t know anything more than that I want to write again. I really, really, want to write again, and for the first time in ages, I feel like I can actually accomplish something. I have a room, a rig, and my wonderful Ter to support me as I go. Anyone who wants to come along is welcome, of course. I’m happy enough on my own, but it’s nice to have company besides the voices in my head. You needn’t introduce yourself. I don’t have to know you’re there ... but if you’re up for a story or a spontaneous Philosophy Quest, pull up a chair and I’ll put the kettle on for tea.

With love,

Strange Days

Here we sit, still ahead but losing ground in the race against Covid 19. It’s not where I expected to be at this stage of the journey, but I’ve given up on waiting for the return of normal. “New normal” doesn’t even apply, as life of late doesn’t settle into any kind of routine before another wave hits.

It’s getting stranger.

Right now, I can’t work from home, so I am almost alone at the office, where three other stalwarts are with me on a floor usually populated by eighty-five. Not that I mind the solitude. It’s fiscal year end and there are fewer distractions with most of my colleagues staying home. I’m getting lots done.

The reality hits beyond the confines of work and home. Ter reports of empty shelves and decimated departments at the grocery stores. I myself walk almost deserted streets, where the homeless folks are about to outnumber the not-homeless folks. Shops, cafes and restaurants are closed. The inner harbour is quiet. No tourists get in my way and ridership on the community limo is down.

And every day, the number of confirmed cases increases.

In no way are we facing the same catastrophic numbers as China or Italy, or even the US. I trust Canada has been as proactive as a nation can be against a pandemic whose arrival was inevitable. I understand the BC response as well (twelve years working in emergency management helps), yet I can appreciate the frustration of people who don’t see why we have such restrictions when the situation, though serious, surely isn’t dire.

The point is, we’re trying to avoid “dire”.

I confess, the novelty has worn off for me, too. I’d like nothing better than to be part of a bustling crowd again, but I also tend to be proactive while others, it seems, prefer to be reactive.

It helps to be an introvert. If not for the pressure of work (Covid’s timing sucks), I’d be on vacation, hunkered down with Ter in our cozy new flat, writing up a storm instead of venturing into a post-apocalyptic Victoria every day. I’ve been living in a Stephen King novel without the gore, and the experts say it ain’t over yet. The worst is yet to come, but if we all pull together, it may not be as bad when all is said and done.

Stay safe. Keep your distance. Wash your hands (mine are so dry they almost hurt, but there’s nothing Lubriderm can’t fix!). Limit your exposure to the news. Get outside and breathe. You’re alive. Spring is here. The world is still beautiful and this pandemic will not last. It’s just another attempt at Nature seeking balance.

I hope.

58

Groucho Marx said, “Time flies like an arrow. Fruit flies like a banana.”

My mother once said she’d wake up feeling like a young woman, then look in the mirror and “get an awfy surprise.”

My aunt once said she’d figured out why babies cry when adults lean over their cot: “Everything falls forward and you have a face like a pudding!”

Today is my 58^th birthday. Part of me goes, “Wow.” Another part goes, “Already?” and another goes, “Not done yet!” I continue to be a work in progress, though it seems of late that what progress I’ve made in recent years is being tested in the crucible of this existence. It’s all fine and well to preach inner peace, faith and meditation; now’s the time to walk the talk.

I’m also at the age where parents, mentors, friends and icons being returning Home. The loss of souls who nurtured and inspired me growing up has been extremely trying. And I’ve spent more time than is comfortable wallowing in the Slough of Despond—but there have been bright moments, too: positive change at work, revisiting the music I loved when it was new, reliving shared history and laughing over the best memories. I’m old enough now to understand the concept of selective memory, and am beyond grateful that the bad ones don’t cause the same pain, while the good ones are as acute as when they were being made. Life is indeed a funny thing.

So here I sit, taking stock of where I am versus where I was or expected to be, and am okay with it. New adventures lie ahead, yet there’s enough in the rearview mirror to entertain me in slow moments, and to prove that I have been generously supported throughout my journey. I continually long for extended periods of creative production, and trust it, too, will come in due course. I can, in the meantime, give myself four hours on a weekend and see what evolves.

Mostly, I have learned to live only in the present moment and let the gods advise when I need to do something. Some days are more daunting than others—that’s the joy (?) of being human—but I’m getting the hang of it now. There’s no rush to master it, either. I’m still in awe of this beautiful, magical, unpredictable, colourful, wonderful world.

Happy birthday, Ru.

With love,

Pas des Deuce

Best in Show IMHO

When they were last here, I only got a few photos before the batteries in the Canon croaked.

This year, I was aware when the deuces rolled into town; even if I hadn’t caught a clip on the evening news, I couldn’t miss the roar of the engines or the slew of candy-coloured paint jobs cruising up and down the main drag at the end of the workweek. Boy Sister and I sat outside the Blanshard Street Starbucks and watched them trickle through the intersection, unable to blend into traffic because they are made to stand out. He got some great snaps of rear bumpers and front fenders, or whole delivery vans and local SUVs – taking pictures of a moving target takes some practice and more time than we had on our lunch break.

They also rumbled along the road outside my living room window. I spent Friday evening deuce-watching from the sofa, gleefully noting that the event known as Northwest Deuce Days brings a plethora of restored classics out of the garage. So much chrome, so many brilliant shades of wow! ... and the sound! That glorious, deep, rich, beautiful baritone grumbling purring roaring bellowing sound! No earplugs, please – if I’m going to lose my hearing, let it be to a vintage rod.

It’s the best weekend of the year.

On Saturday morning, I made sure the Canon was juiced for the deuce and took it over to Clover Point for the Poker Run parade. I found a plum spot at the crest of the hill and started snapping. Sure, I got my share of back ends and front bumpers, but eventually I got the hang of when to press the button. I came away with 55 photos worth keeping.

I may have deleted a few more than that, but my favourite rods stayed within the frame:

And when all was said and done, I would have taken this one home:

I know. Sue me.