A Kick at the Darkness

Book winners!

2012-01-20T19:50:00.000-03:30

Thanks to everyone who entered the giveaway for Moonlight Sketches. This is the second time I've done this, and I am sincerely touched by the vast number of people who entered, and particularly the large number of people across the country and in other other countries besides Canada who already have bought the book but just wanted one signed. That's really the main reason I've started doing the occasional drawing for a signed copy--because so many of you aren't able to attend signings, or I'm not able to get where you are in order to sign a book for you. As a book collector myself--especially of signed books--I understand why you want the author's signature and maybe a personal note on your book, particularly if I happen to know you a little bit. Believe me, it always means a lot for me to be able to do it.

For others, there's the problem of living in a place where the book isn't even available except through the internet.

Regardless of your reasons for entering, a sincere thank you for your interest and continued support. I promise you there will be another draw for another free copy of Moonlight Sketches in a few weeks. Of course, both books and postage are expensive, and so I wouldn't be able to afford to do this if not for the help of the generous people at Creative Publishers. Thanks to you, Creative (Donna Francis, especially, in this case). I firmly believe I am with one of the very best publishing houses in Canada.

So, the winners are:

First draw: Frankie Nash Ouellette

Second draw: Deborah Kammerman

Both winners are friends of mine on Facebook, so if you can send me your mailing address, I'll get your book in the mail right away.

Congrats to you both!

Till next time,
Gerard

To Drive The Cold Winter Away

2012-01-15T16:37:00.002-03:30

All hail to the days that merit more praise

Than all the rest of the year

And welcome the nights that double delights

As well for the poor as the peer.

Sweet blessings attend each merry man's friend,

Each does but the best that he may,

Forgetting all wrongs with poems and songs

To drive the cold winter away.

...

The poorest of all now do merrily call,

When at a fit place they can stay,

For a song or a tale or a cup of good ale

To drive the cold winter away.

From the traditional song, "To Drive the Cold Winter Away"

There are lots of things we do, this time of year, to "drive the cold winter away." For me, one of the best ways to achieve the goal, to put a song in the heart and a smile in the soul, perhaps even some warmth in the crinkling toes, is to read a book.

The idea of that song, "To Drive the Cold Winter Away" shares a spiritual kinship with the notion of taking a "kick at the darkness" (thanks, Bruck Cockburn). In Canada, and even in much of the Northern Hemisphere in general, the winter months are the cruellest of all, offering barely a hint of hope that spring will soon arrive, that the darkness will relinquish its bruising grip. So we make our own light, much as we do in many ways throughout the year. Anyway, as is my wont, my attempt at cheerfulness often winds up as a study of the darkness that binds us all. (And, yes, I almost succumbed to the Tolkien Effect there. Thank you for noticing.)

In honour of the fact that winter now has us in its relentless grasp, and because I have a very generous publisher, it feels like a good time to offer up some more free books, as a sacrifice to the Gods of Winter, in the hopes that they will see fit to set us free at some point in the not-too-distant future. It's not a sacrifice of virgins, but I think it's more humane and not at all misogynist in nature. I think it's better that way.

So, here's the deal:

If you'd like to win a signed copy of my short story collection, Moonlight Sketches, just drop me an email at gnc@nf.sympatico.ca or join me on Facebook and click "like" on the post that mentions this offer.

This time, because, I said, I have a VERY generous publisher, I'm giving away TWO copies and so there will be two winners. Also, I expect to have another drawing in the coming weeks and will retain your name for that drawing as well. So your chances of winning are quite good. I'll do the drawing next Friday evening (January 20) at 7 p.m. Newfoundland time (5:30 p.m. Eastern). I'll put all the names into my artsy hemp fedora and, with eyes closed, draw out two names and notify you via my blog and Facebook. So check there to see if you've won.

This drawing isn't just meant for people who haven't picked up the book yet. If you've bought it and simply want a signed copy (for yourself or as a gift to someone else who doesn't have it), you are quite welcome to enter, wherever you are.

I should add that all this has come about because I gave away a copy of Moonlight Sketches before Christmas and, with so many entries, I felt terrible not being able to give away more than just one. The amazing Donna Francis at Creative Publishers (who are also publishing my novel, Finton Moon, in the spring) immediately wrote me an email, asking if I would like to give away more copies, which she would gladly supply. So all of this, really, is because I'm a sook.

Anyway, I hope you enter. And if I don't have you on FB yet, consider coming on over. Maybe you'll "like" it.

Groan, eh?

Gerard

Creatures From the Blog Lagoon

2012-01-06T19:36:00.001-03:30

In this age of social networking, the rise of the e-book, and the countless choices in front of the literary public, the book blog is a crucial means of getting the word out about a book. Book blogs are run by individuals (or sometimes a collective) who simply read books with the pure hope that they will derive some pleasure from it. If they like it, they write about. If they don't like it, they write about it anyway. So, while it's not the traditional, monolithic form of critical review, more and more, the book blog is becoming the voice we know, trust and have easiest access to. These people might be your friends, neighbours, teachers or the cashier at your local Walmart. But one thing they have in common is their love of books. I mean, why else would a person set themselves up as a book blogger, buy the books (although, once they develop a reputation, sometimes people in the industry will start sending books to the bloggers in hopes they will be reviewed) and take the time to write about it? All of these activities consumes time and that's increasingly something none of us have to spare.

The cool thing about book blogs is their unfettered honesty and, if they like a book, the chances for that opinion to go viral on the web within hours or days is always there. Lots of these blogs are linked to dozens of other, similar blogs and so word gets out pretty fast about what's either good to read or not worth your while.

Where is all this going, or coming from? Well, lately I've been blessed with some positive publicity from a variety of sources, and I wanted to sahre it, as well as acknowledge the givers.

A book blogger who goes by "raidergirl3" recently named Moonlight Sketches among her favourite reads of the year. This person apparently has read a lot, is a rabid fan of books in general and seems quite savvy--articulate, too, which I particularly appreciate in a reviewer, regardless of whether it's a postive review or not. Here's the link to her review: http://raidergirl3-anadventureinreading.blogspot.com/2011/11/book-moonlight-sketches-by-gerard.html .

And here's the link to her ranking of top reads, some of which I'll definitely be checking out: http://raidergirl3-anadventureinreading.blogspot.com/. Just scroll down to her "Best of 2011" entry. Look, I know it's not a Giller Prize, but you know what? To know that someone took a chance on your book, spent their hard-earned money on it and is willing to praise it publicly, thereby putting her/his reputation on the line...how could that not mean a lot to any writer? Thank you, raidergirl3, once again, whoever you are.

Another book blogger, Chad Pelley, of Salty Ink, has been quite kind to me, as well as to numerous other writers. To my mind, he's the king of book bloggers in Atlantic Canada and one of the best in the entire country, his knowledge of the industry and of books by Canadians being on a par with anyone's and much better than most. He's also the author of a recently published novel entitled Away From Everywhere, which I highly recommend, especially if you like books with lots of action and conflict, with a steady supply of introspection and subtle commentary on the human condition. I unabashedly loved it and have been telling people about it for nearly two years now, in fact long before I knew anything about the author. So, sure, he's been kind to me lately, so I thought I'd plug his book once more. It's not only good karma, it's the right thing to do.

Chad wrote an article for The Telegram in December and mentioned Moonlight Sketches as one of the "hot reads" for a warm, winter night. A few days later, he wrote a blog entry that listed what he considers the top books of short fiction in Canada this year. Again, Moonlight Sketches made the list.
From what I can tell, this self-professed "slow reader" has read a ton of books this year by Canadian authors and certainly has his favourites. Have a look at his list and you'll see what I mean: http://saltyink.com/2011/12/22/salty-inks-top-10-canadian-books-of-2011-short-fiction-canadianaffair/ But book blogging/reviewing is one of those areas where you're kind of expected to have favourites--I mean, that's partly what having an opinion is all about, being able to separate wheat from chaff, having the ability to rank one's own reactions to books, if not the books themselves.

Most recently, I was informed that my collection became a "Salty Ink bestseller" this year, having been cited by readers of this blog (and they are legion and widespread) as being one of those books they bought at least in part because they saw it mentioned on Salty Ink. So how could I not be grateful? Book bloggers have actually put food on my table this year, and I truly ought to be thankful and humbled. You would think so, right?

I did an interview with Salty Ink a couple of days ago, afte the "bestseller" incident was revealed and, with 2011 in the rearview mirror, I was able to gain, and articulate, some perspective about what kind of year it's been and how I actually feel about the book and the publishing industry itself. You can find the interview here:
http://saltyink.com/2012/01/05/year-end-summary-a-chat-with-gerard-collins-and-an-overview-of-moonlight-sketches/.

As most of you know by now, on this blog I vary from time to time, waxing philosphic about some topics and, on other days, simply letting you know what's been going on with me. There's been a lot of stuff related to Moonlight Sketches lately, as well as with the upcoming novel, Finton Moon (April 2012), and I thought it was time I wrapped it all up in one blog entry of my own with a nice, neat bow on it--a pretty good bit of housecleaning to start the new year.

I've had some fairly interesting and exciting stuff happen in the last couple of days, in fact, including some government correspondence to the effect that I am now culturally "significant" in some way. I'll be sharing that news in more detail soon. I am flattered by the insinuation (I mean, who wouldn't be?), but I have it in perspective. Truly, I am a teacher and a writer who has published one book, going on two. I haven't cured any diseases, haven't particularly made the world a better place in any broad sense and, even in the literary world, realize that there are many who have made themselves far more significant than my book of short stories could ever be. But it was a nice moment, especially after spending the better (or worse) part of two decades toiling away in obscurity. And deserves, as my man Clint says in Unforgiven, well, that's got nothin' to do with it.

Thanks, book bloggers, for taking notice and for loving books of all sorts. And even if you hate something I write in future years, it's okay to say so because I know it's just your opinion, and you're just trying to keep it real and do a good job.

May 2012 be your best year yet and the best year in books in, like, ever!
Gerard

And so this is...

2011-12-24T13:03:00.001-03:30

Am I even allowed to say the word? Will some politically correct police officer come and throw me in the clink for wishing you a Merry Christmas? So be it. I've been spreading that phrase around quite, uh, liberally lately and quite intentionally. Some are pleased to hear it while others appeared stunned, like: "You didn't just say that, did you?" Ah, more and more, it's the holiday that dare not speak its own name.

I always add, "And I mean that in a good way." And I do.

Christmas comes with baggage, for me and for most people. It's not something you can easily lay aside, even if you wanted to.

I am at that (un)fortunate stage in life when I have many Christmases to call upon and many more that arrive unbidden on the doorstep of my bedecked mind like those ghosts of Dickens's A Christmas Carol. There was the year of making construction paper chains in Miss Dakins's Grade Three class, which also happened to be the year of singing Snoopy's Christmas for all the parents just so I could earn an extra bag of candy to bring home to my older brother, who was sick when the party went down. There was the year I learned how to skate, more or less, and fell flat on my nose on the frozen brook. A few hours later, one of my drunken uncles used a salt loader from the Department of Highways to rip the wires from our house while I gazed in fascination and horror, thinking how strange, awful and exciting it would be to spend Christmas without power.

Years later, there was the first year off to school in the city, going home to Placentia (the New Orleans of Newfoundland, being at or below sea level and often flooded) and being unable (or so I was told) to get across to the bridge because the tide was in and the moon was high, and the water was knee deep wherever you want. I needed to get to Gander because that's where my new girlfriend lived (we're married now, going on twenty-five years) and I swore I'd get to her by Boxing Day come hell or high water. I braved both, in fact, and got there on the Terrible Transport (or "Terra Transport" as they liked to be called) to a joyful girlfriend and a welcoming home with gifts piled so high I had to ask whose they were. Apparently, they were all for me, since Christmas Day had already passed and all other gifts had been opened. The sheer quantity both thrilled and embarassed me--and still would.

Then there were the university years--getting by on hard work and dreams, the kindness and cameraderie of friends, drifting further and further away from a perpexed family back home in Placentia. I'm not exactly sure how or when it happened. I just knew that I started to dread traveling around the holidays and longed to just stay home with my girlfriend (soon wife) and bask in the glow of our over-sized real trees that were annually decorated with the products of her own hands, as she'd been making ornaments and saving them since she was a child.

Not long after that came the poverty years--like wanderers through a dark land, we waded through a cesspool of poverty, year after year. I taught high school for a while, but only on contract and getting teaching work was tough in those days. Ultimately, even the substitute work dried up--partly because I couldn't stand it in the least, the uncertainty of ignominy of the situation. I took to playing and singing in bands, deciding--at my young wife's behest--that I would, in the daytime, pursue my dream of becoming a writer. Christmases were hard in those years, especially because I often had to leave home to make a living (such is the heritage of being a Newfoundlander, it would seem) and at Christmas and New Year's, in particular, I had a chance to earn more sheckles than usual. With times so hard--and my wife working at a downtown bookstore--I took the gigs where I could get them and found less and less time for writing.

I'll skip the details of all that followed, including eventually being chased from those bands by the spectre of Student Loans. There was the year in Chilliwack, B.C., with family who had sworn to us that the Lower Mainland was snow-free and warm at Christmastime. That was the year they had to call out the army to clear the roads because nearly 300 cm of snow fell in short time. With no snow boots to be found anywhere, I bought a pair of green rubber boots that did me for trudging around town in the slush until the snow melted in early February.

After a couple of stops in Nova Scotia in a couple of years, we came back to Newfoundland and nearly starved. But that first year was my favourite. We had no furniture to speak of--a computer desk with only a broken computer on it. A wobbly, borrowed kitchen table, and no bed to sleep on for several months. Just before Christmas Eve that year--with the food bank beckoning--I landed a short term contract teaching English at the local university, a gig that I eventually parlayed into a Ph.D. and teaching career. With no one else around, we revelled in every movie and enjoyed our first vegetarian Christmas dinner, went for walks in the snow and talked to each other endlessly about our plans for the future. I never wanted it to end.

In all those years, we never had much in material goods. And I can't say it wasn't hard on the nerves. Poverty, once experienced, becomes baggage that can never truly be put down, much like Christmas itself. One tends to wear lack like a sack of spuds laid across the shoulders that forces you to walk as if you were the lead actor in a passion play.

And Dickens was right: It is at this time of year that "want is most keenly felt and abundance rejoices."

I have always felt abundant in matters of the spirit, matters of love, matters that matter. And Christmas--not in spite of, but because of the hustle and bustle--has always meant a lot to me. It's been a time of marking where I am in life, how far I've come. It's a time of remembering both good and bad. A time to reflect on what constitutes a life well lived, experienced and felt.

Christmas helps me feel. I make no apologies for it. It's Christmas Eve as I write this, and I am so tired of the banter about how Christmas is too commercial, too this, too that, or that it's meaningless or silly or stupid or that it's only for children or for Christians alone or whatever.

I care for none of it. I am not a relgious man. I doubt I'm much of a Christian, because of my best efforts. I like Christmas. I like everything about Christmas. Even the Nativity story has a magic and endurance about it that most writers can only dream of.

So sue me.

And if you don't like Christmas, why in hell's bells are you trying to ruin it for someone who does? Keep it or don't keep it in your own way. I really don't care. Just as I don't care if you're vegetarian or meataterian, gay or straight, religious or not. I'm just trying to get some peace here.

'Cause really that's all I want. The entire year is filled with things to be done, questions to be answered, essays to be graded, stories to write or publicized, people to see--and I would much rather be in a cabin in the woods by a lake, sipping something good and watching the sun rise. That's sometimes. Other times, I like being out there among the shoppers, feeling the moment and wishing they'd take it a little easier, be a bit more peaceful, in keeping with the situation.

I don't try to keep Christ in Christmas. That's for others to do. But I still call it "Christmas" because that's what it was when I was a boy; that's what it was called when I first met my future wife; it's what it was called when I went through my formative years and became who I now am.

I see no reason to change it or to stop speaking the name aloud. I won't tell you what to call it or whether you should speak of it at all.

But I do wish you peace and happiness, now and throughout the rest of your days.

I've said my piece--as I've been wanting to for a few days now--and now I'll withdraw for an evening of peace and friendship and a glass of something fine.

Good evening all. And Merry Christmas, whether you keep it or not. And I mean that in a good way.

And the winner is...

2011-12-18T19:47:00.001-03:30

PERRY OLDFORD, whom I distinctly remember playing football on the streets of Gander on New Year's Eve in the early 1990s when he was a teenager, is the winner of a personalized copy of my short story collection, Moonlight Sketches. I know this (that he played football, not that he won the book) because Matt Walters, Kurt Mahle and I also participated in that notorious event. It was all for posterity's sake, as I recall, and hardly anyone got hurt, although I do remember some of us (possibly me, can't quite remember) falling directly in front of a moving vehicle. It's the blare of the horn and the yellow wash of headlights that stay in my memory. Did I mention it was during a New Year's Eve snowstorm? The Snow Ball, I guess we should have called it.

Anyway, enough nostalgia--Perry, you won the prize and if you'll send me your mailing address (somewhere very out west and very north, I think), I'll get it in the mail to you tomorrow morning.

Thanks everyone for entering. I had fun doing this--all in the spirit of giving--and I suspect I'll be doing it again soon. I hope you'll considering entering your names again.

Gerard

Giving it away from my underwear drawer

2011-12-16T19:27:00.000-03:30

I'm not quite finished my work for the semester, but I'm in a grateful mood. I've just signed the contract for my first novel, Finton Moon, which arrives at book stores in Spring 2012, and I've also just received my first ever royalty statement from my publisher. Today, in an article in The Telegram Chad Pelley (talented and generous author of "Away From Everywhere") mentioned Moonlight Sketches as one of his "Hot Reads," and I got to thinking I should do something for someone. I mean, yes, I've been doing all the charitable stuff we all should be doing if we can, but I wanted to do something for that most cherished of souls: the reader.

Ever since Moonlight Sketches appeared in April this year, I've heard from a lot of people wanting to know where they can get a copy of the book and a great many who have bought the book but would also like to have it autographed. I can't afford to get into business of pesonally sending people my book (there's just too many and the cost of postage is just too prohibitive, no matter who pays for it), so here's what I've decided to do:

I'm giving away a free, signed copy of Moonlight Sketches this Sunday evening. All you have to do is email me either in Facebook or at gnc@nf.sympatico.ca and put "Moonlight Sketches Draw" in the subject line, and I'll enter your name for the contest. I call it a contest, but there'll be no bloodshed and certainly no hurt feelings at the end of it. I'll put all the names I receive in my underwear drawer and on Sunday evening at 7:30 p.m. Newfoundland time, I'll turn off the light in my bedroom and by the mere glow of the street lamp outside, I'll pull open the underwear drawer and draw a name. The winner will receive the signed copy of my short story collection, which I'll put in the mail first thing Monday morning. Wicked or what?

Really, I just wanted to say thanks--in a symbolic way--for everyone who bought my book, sent a note of congrats, a word of encouragement, showed up at a reading or signing, told a friend about it or mentioned it on Facebook. There are even people who come to readings but can't afford to buy a book. My heart goes out to you, but I understand the need to buy food before buying a book. Well, okay, not really. I think I'd starve before I'd do without books, but I realize that's just me.

Okay, I'm getting off track, as I am wont to do now and then.

Just thanks, luh. So you've got exactly forty-eight hours from now, as I write this note, to get your name in for the draw. Who knows--if you win, maybe the book will arrive in time for you to read it over the holidays (or give it to someone you know will enjoy it).

Meanwhile, for the many who have been asking lately, Moonlight Sketches is available at Coles and Chapters bookstores across Canada, as well as Downhome outlets in NL (including certain airports, last time I checked). You can also buy it directly from Creative Publishers: http://www.creativebookpublishing.ca/en/index.cfm?pid=58&CatID=51&InvID=1262 . You can also purchase it from Amazon or Chapters.ca, althought the wait time is a fair bit longer.

There are reviews, interviews and other details available on my website: http://www.gerardcollins.ca/

Merry Christmas. And I mean that in a good way. :-)

Gerard

Bully for us.

2011-12-09T19:49:00.005-03:30

I hardly even know what to say. So much information coming at me all the time. You know what I mean, don't you?

Some people seem to swim quite easily in these cold, murky waters--constantly plugged into the cellphone, laptop or iPad 2. Nothing wrong with that. I admire it, to some extent.

But what I'm really craving lately is some peace of mind. Or maybe just some peace.

At the risk of sounding like some strange kind of nut--a charge I gladly accept, since I have always felt greatly out of step with this world that values conformity and sameness above all else, even while it sometimes pretends to appreciate difference. Okay, that's a whole other thought there. "Digression!"

At the risk of sounding like some strange kind of nut, I will admit to not feeling very peaceful lately, even though peace is what I mostly seek. I'm not even sure what I'm about to say, but it feels like it could be a doozy since I haven't blogged much lately. I need to have clarity in order to blog, but that's ridiculous since writing really can help you sort things out. So in the interest of experimentation, I hope you'll bear with me as I sort some stuff out.

Here's what's been going on with me lately, and the things I think about. These will probably appear in random order, but will jump out of my head in the order that seems most crucial.

Went to lunch today with my wife in downtown St. John's. It was brutally cold after a wild and windy night in which (gasp!) our cable nearly got knocked out. I don't know how we survived at all. The TV screen froze several times when things got really intense, and we missed the last five minutes of The Big Bang Theory, just as Leonard was about to confront the guy who had bullied him in high school and still turned out to be quite an arse in adult life, someone who only wanted to use him for profit. Another digression. It's all digression.

My wife's father died 29 years ago today and I can tell that, for her, the wound is still as fresh as it was then. She was only a teenager when he passed away, and I can only imagine what that must have done to her mindset for the next few years. I won't dwell on it, but that was the reason I decided to put all else aside and just hang out with her today, doing things I thought she would enjoy. But the restaurant was crap. It was a place we've gone many times before and usually the service is quite good and the food generally acceptable. Today was not that day. The service was horrible, the seating was awful and generally speaking, it was not a great place for lunch today. Every time I asked for something, the waitress said, "No." She brought us our meal, which was passable, but the portions were incredibly small compared to what they used to be. I didn't complain, but I won't be going back there again, ever.

So why can't people just be nice? Why can't restaurants offer a decent meal at a fair price, served by a waitress who knows how to pretend to give a damn that you're sitting there? Sure, maybe she had a bad day. But it's like those drivers who take up two lanes with their SUV's or think the rules of the road and common courtesy don't apply to them--everyone can have a bad day, but that doesn't give you the right to ruin someone else's bad day. Stay home.

Now, I realize I'm risking ruining a few days of my own with this blog entry, so I'll put things in perspective. I'm a fairly even-keeled person. It takes a lot to make me angry--I mean really angry. I would never hurt anyone intentionally. I genuinely like people and, in fact, I'm in a good mood today despite the way people behave.

But I feel more and more that the world is becoming less kind to those who are kind.

Having said that, we stopped in at the Anna Templeton annual art and craft fair on Duckworth Street around noon today and the atmosphere was lovely and vibrant--I love hanging out with creative people. They have such a different take on the world, one that I find inspiring to behold. Sometimes I think I could easily have lived my entire world in such a culture, never having to breathe the musty air of an office of any sort. The first book I ever read was "Little Women." I was in Grade Two and completely on my own because I had finished my math assignments before everyone else (I did the entire year's work in a weekend and just presented it to the teacher as she asked for it). It was a sunny morning in November, and I chose the book because of the opening lines which presented Jo March and her sisters preparing for Christmas without the presence of their father, who was off to war. I remember wanting to be a member of the March family, which is why I liked Laurie, the boy next door who had similar designs. But I mostly identified with Jo because she wanted to be a writer, wanted to break from the restrictions of society, was always arguing against authority or putting on a play to illustrate the injustices of the world, the foibles of humanity. And then, near the end of the story, she publishes her first book, a copy of which gets delivered to her house. Before that, of course, her little sister burns her manuscript and Jo must begin again, but not before swearing her infinite hatred for the young scourge.

Where is this going? First, I admit that I had my own version of Jo's story come true today when I received the contract for Finton Moon, my first novel. I'm still that seven-year-old boy at heart. I read and reread the email from my publisher, even though I've known for a few weeks now that the novel would be published. As I told her, it's the difference between living together and being married. I won't explain--you know what I mean. But I've been working on Finton's story for so long--one that I'm sure has some of its inspiration in Alcott's story--that today was very much a special day for me. It was the best of times and oh yes, the worst of times. Publishing a first novel, with such great news coming just before Christmas. My first royalty cheque for Moonlight Sketches is in the mail to me. And then there's the darker side--that sad anniversary, that strange lunch downtown. And the bitter cold sweeping up Duckworth Street as we shuttled towards the car, having had to park at the very end of the street for lack of parking spaces.

It was also a week when it cost us a thousand dollars to fix a problem with our car. Easy come, easy go (sort of). A week of having to get our toilet taken apart and practically rebuilt by the plumber because the dang thing didn't work. A week of much much.

And here I am, having written so much and not really sure what I'm trying to say.

The university semester is winding down, and I'm getting tons of emails from students who want meetings or a few wonder if I'll read their revised paper or whether it's okay if they pass in the paper that they didn't submit back in October when it was due. People wanting reference letters. Emails upon emails to answer.

I also had a three-hour meeting with my editor. Lots of work to do. Enough said.

And there are many among my friends who have had a difficult week. I won't go into detail, but suffiice to say that I feel for them all and wish I could help them all. So I try. The only thing I really have to give--the thing that is most precious to me of all because I am constantly aware, like Tristram Shandy, of the ticking clock that pursues me through life--the only thing I have to give is my time. And so I give it. It's not much, but it seems to help a little.

And Christmas is coming, in case you haven't heard. I'm not one of those people who despises the season. I'll blog about it another time, I'm sure, but the fact is that I love Christmas--I love its difference, its reminder to slow down in life, to be kinder to one another, to light up the world with our song and lights, our laughter and dance. To me, it's not a religious holiday, despite its moniker. It's a time of hope. A reminder of the best that we are capable of. There's a dark side too, which for now I choose not to acknowledge in this entry.

But, above all the hustle and bustle and noise, noise noise, is it any wonder that I feel strung out, that I can barely sleep when I put my head on the pillow, that I hear above it all the ticking of that clock, like some hook-handed pirate in one of my favourite adult fairytales.

All boys grow up except for one.

Maybe what I'm feeling is that pull towards growing up--something the world keeps reminding me I should have done years ago. But I simply refuse. So I write. I choose to be artistic. I choose to express myself. I choose to kick at the darkness. I choose to laugh in the face of inadequate service and treat the feelings of my fellow creatures as if they were important. Because they are.

Occupy. Occupy. Occupy.

I'm sick of it. Sick of the protesting. Sick of the need to protest. Sick of those who protest against the protesters. Can't we just give people what they want and call it square and fair? They're not asking for the moon. Among other things, they're asking for jobs.

Oh, how greedy is that! How unfair that they expect jobs and affordable housing and three square meals a day and the chance to send their children to a good school and not have to worry about whether they can afford books or pencils or lunch, or whether they're being bullied without the parents' knowledge. Or whether they actually are bullies themselves. Strange how it all comes back to "The Big Bang Theory."

I think that episode of the returning bully struck a particularly raw nerve last night. (I'm aware of the over-simplification here--but I'm also aware of the public's propensity for over-complication. It comes down to mutual respect and human dignity.)

I've never been bullied per se. Not in high school, not by guys bigger than me or people who wanted to steal my lunch money. But, as a writer, artist, gentle soul who wants only the best for those around me, I sometimes feel that the world is a bully. Life in the twenty-first century is a bully. Advertisers are bullies. Banks are bullies. Teachers can be bullies. Other writers--the ones who judge you badly and even turn their backs--if you're not a member of their clique, or haven't won the right awards or written the kind of work that they would have written--they too can be bullies. Even those artists who insist that the world owe them a living can be quite tyrannical and self-righteous. The world owes us nothing, but we owe much to the world.

Getting closer to a point here?

I think so, but I'm still unsure of what it is. I think I'm just tired. I feel like Charlie Brown who is generally happy with life but feels a little bit too much of the sadness and commerciality of it all. It's not a phobia I have, though. I genuinely feel that change for the better is possible. I see good things in the world, good people, even great people, who act with the courage of their convictions and bring light to an all-too-dark world. I don't even fear that the darkness is winning. It's not really about that. I think that if we're still alive and have some hope for humanity, then we're actually winning.

That might sound hopelessly optimistic, but maybe that's just what I am. I know that "in the end dark is right," but I also believe that the night is "good" and "gentle" as it is infinite and harsh.

This blog entry changes nothing. It does get some stuff out of my head. And that's enough for now.

Peace, everyone.

Gerard

Book signing

2011-11-21T14:35:00.000-03:30

Wednesday afternoon (1-3 p.m.) I'll be signing copies of Moonlight Sketches at Coles bookstore in the Avalon Mall.

If you've got yours already and just want it signed, drop by. If you've got yours already but dropped it in the toilet or bathtub, or the dog chewed up the cover, you might want a new one. If you want your friend, father, sister or mean old brother, uncle or mother to read it but you don't trust them enough to lend them yours, you might want to buy a new one. And if you just love that beautiful wraparound cover by St. John's artist Darren Whalen and you want two copies of it on your shelf for purely aesthetic reasons, I get it. I'll even sign for it.

See you there.

Gerard

Review from a reader

2011-11-20T15:47:00.001-03:30

Google alerts me to all these reviews, so I eventually see them all. I haven't actually seen a bad one yet, but here's one from an avid reader of fiction that appeared on her blog a few days ago.

http://raidergirl3-anadventureinreading.blogspot.com/2011/11/book-moonlight-sketches-by-gerard.html

Enjoy! And thanks, readergirl, whoever you are.

GC

Moonlight Sketches: "Immensely realistic, enjoyable and worthwhile."

2011-11-13T13:34:00.004-03:30

"The popular image of rural Newfoundland is one of idyllic scenes of dories and docks, lobster pots and sunsets, saltbox houses and plaid-and-oilskin-clad locals with faces weathered by the wind and sun. This is the Newfoundland of tourism ads: the one that makes outsiders, worn out with the anonymity and bustle of urban life, gasp and sigh and long for the peace and quiet of a rural village. Those who hold this vision of outport life in their minds will be quickly disabused of it should they pick up a copy of Gerard Collins's short story collection, Moonlight Sketches, but pick it up they should. Collins's stories, while predominantly bleak, portray an immensely realistic rural Newfoundland brimming with fascinating and diverse characters and situations. Moments of dark humour and suspense make this collection an enjoyable and worthwhile read."

Maybe soon I can get the proper permission to post the entire article. For now, though, this opening paragraph is the only part of Gina Granter's glowing review--from the Spring 2011 issue of Newfoundland and Labrador Studies--that's available on line. The entire review is a broad-ranging and predominately positve take on my writing. The bottom line is that, while there was the odd weak spot, the overall collection is quite strong and she highly recommends reading it. So there.

GC

About A Boy

2011-10-23T19:58:00.004-02:30

It's been a helluva busy weekend. It started with signing books at the Christmas at The Glacier craft festival last week--the highlight was meeting a lovely woman from New York who bought Moonlight Sketches to read on the plane. It was a great example of what I enjoy about the publishing industry--it truly is all the great people I get the opportunity to meet.

I also taught a youth workshop Saturday afternoon at The Lantern as part of the Writers' Alliance (WANL) annual AGM weekend. The young writers I worked with were simply amazing, and I wish them all the best of luck in their efforts to get their work published. I've heard (and they've told me) that they enjoyed it, but I particulary appreciated an email I received today from the mother of one participant telling me how much her son "loved" the workshop--especially nice because he supposedly finds it hard to get interested in very much--he may have found his calling this weekend and, for me, that's as exciting as it gets. It's a lot of work to put one of these things together (especially since I hadn't done one like this before), and such comments make it all worthwhile for me.

The highlight of the week for me, however, had to be the official announcment of my forthcoming new publication: my novel, entitled Finton Moon, will be published in Spring 2012 by Killick Press. Those of you who know me and/or have been following this blog for the past year or so realize that Finton Moon won the Percy Janes First Novel Award, adjudicated by the venerable Kenneth J. Harvey back in 2001. In the ten years since then, I've not only substantially revised that novel several times, written four other manuscripts (including Moonlight Sketches) and completed a six-year doctoral program (including a 350-page thesis on ghosts in North American literature), but in the past four years have also completely rewritten Finton Moon so that it is a brand new story.

That's a tale that will be completely told someday, I'm sure--probably many times as I launch the new novel and start answering the questions about how it got to publication. But I am so proud of this novel and so completely happy with it--and I can hardly believe that after an entire decade, it will finally find a home on the shelves of bookstores and readers. Once the editors' revisions are completed over the next few months, and Finton Moon wends its way across the country and into readers' hands, I can finally breathe and stop working on a project that has taken up a large portion of the past decade and a considerable part of the past four years. I mention this because I know some people will wonder how I was able to publish another book so quickly (within a year!) after the first one appeared. The fact is, I've never stopped working on Finton Moon, even during the year and a half it took to get Moonlight Sketches out after I'd signed the publishing contract.

This new book has come to symbolize, for me, every hope and dream I've ever had for my writing career. It's already won an award and opened some doors for me, but I started work on it so long ago that, if I'd stopped to think about it, it must surely have seemed like a fool's journey to anyone who was watching me labour away at it. But I took the advice of some high-powered literary agents and one esteemed editor in New Brunswick, and turned it into the story it was always meant to be. I recently submitted the finished manuscript to Killick, the same press that published my first book and have so beautifully nurtured it and breathed life into my fledgling career, and they quickly agreed to publish it.

It's about a boy with unique abilities, but none so special as that which allows him to persevere in a world in which he doesn't belong. It's the story of a boy named Finton Moon.

What Kind of Writer Are You?

2011-10-10T14:21:00.002-02:30

If you are, or you know, an aspiring writer, aged 14-17, living in the greater St. John's/Mount Pearl/CBS region, here's something you might be nterested in. I'm teaching a 1.5 hour workshop about how to find your writing voice. If you're interested--or know someone who might benefit from this workshop, just get in touch with me (gnce@nf.sympatico.ca) and I can give you the registration information. There's a very brief form to fill out, but the workship is FREE.

The information, as it appears in the WANL (Writers' Alliance of NL) newsletter, appears below.

Saturday, October 22, 2:30 – 4:00 PM, for youth aged 14-17: ‘What Kind of Writer Are You?’ A Workshop on finding your voice with Gerard Collins

From Bram Stoker to Stephanie Meyer, from J.R.R. Tolkien to J.K. Rowling, successful authors find an audience because their voice is unique. Whether you’re writing a short story or novel, or even a blog, essay or Facebook status, it’s important to know your own voice. As a beginning writer, you are searching for what to say and how to say it in a way that suits who you are and the kind of writer you want to be. Through interactive discussion and brief writing exercises, this workshop will help you in the crucial first steps of telling your story.

Gerard Collins is the author of Moonlight Sketches, a short story collection. Besides winning several
arts and letters awards, he has been shortlisted for the Cuffer Prize and published in journals and anthologies such as Zeugma, Storyteller and Hard Ol’ Spot. He has recently served as an adjudicator for the NL Book Awards and the Writers Federation of New Brunswick short story competition. A lecturer in English literature at MUN, as well as a former high school teacher, Gerard has won the Percy Janes First Novel Award for Finton Moon, which will be published in Spring 2012.

2011-09-20T15:52:00.001-02:30

Just a note to let y'all know I'll be reading from my short story collection, Moonlight Sketches, Wednesday, September 21 at 7 p.m. at the A.C. Hunter library in St. John's. It's a free event, open to the general public--if you've read the book, it's a great opportunity to ask any questions you might have about the inspiration for characters, settings or stories. If you haven't read it, feel free to come along and listen to the discussion or ask any questions you might have about the writing and publishing process.

I'll also be appearing at the Halifax Word On The Street Festival this Sunday, September 25th. Reading and discussion 4:30-5 p.m. on the "Everything Atlantic" stage. Signing copies of Moonlight Sketches from 2:30 to 3:30 p.m. Sunday at the Creative Publishers tent. Hope to see you there!

Remember summer?

2011-09-12T20:10:00.003-02:30

This past August, I was fortunate enough to be invited to be part of the Winterset Literary Festival in Eastport. We had three whole days of sunshine, warmth, peace and love, and enough beautiful fiction and friendly writers from all over Canada to fill a whole town--for a newly published writer from a small town in Newfoundland, it was pure bliss. I've got photos to share in the coming days, as well as an article that I was asked to write for my publisher's newsletter, which I believe will also show up elsewhere on-line. But, for me there were so many highlights, it's hard to pare it down to just one. I would have to say, if pressed, the best part was seeing Lisa Moore's play, February, adapted from her critically-acclaimed novel of the same name. It was an intellectually and emotionally stunning performance.

Besides, that perhaps it was seeing all those Winterset winners on the same stage, including Michael Winter, Michael Crummey, Jessica Grant, Ed Riche and all the others, all at once. It was breathtaking and fun.

After that--although it was probably my favourite moment because it happened to me personally and I'll always cherish it--it would be own moment onstage for the "New and Lyrical Voices Panel," with immensely talented writers Leslie Vryenhoek and Kate Evans, hosted by Patricia Parsons.

My next favourite moment (note that I'm not including the time on the beach and at the cabin with my beautiful wife who loved every moment as much as I did) was the Saturday morning interview with Mack Furlong that also included Leslie Vryehnhoek.

Several people have written and asked me if they can find the interview on-line, so here's the URL (just click on the link below):

CBC Radio Interview at Winterset Literary Festival

I could also have listed the other panels, but I say more about those in the article I wrote--I mean, there was the panel of Winterset nominees (Russell Wangersky, Samuel Thomas Martin, Craig Francis Power) as well as a panel of Giller nominees (Johanna Skidsbrud, Sarah Selecky and Alex Macleod). I listened intently, learned a lot and laughed a lot. It was easily one of the best weekends of my life...so far.

Pictures and articles to come soon.

Gerard

I grew up in a library

2011-09-10T15:12:00.003-02:30

I'm not sure how old I was when I first stepped into the Placentia Public Library. It seems to me I couldn't have been more than twenty-four months out of my mother's womb when I had the urge to read something--anything!--cereal boxes, labels, the tag on my blanket that said "Do Not Remove Or You Will Suffer A Painful Death," the side of a carton of my father's Rothman's cigarettes. I have no recall of learning to read. It just seems it was something I always did. Adults in my family have told me I was reading at two years old, but I guess I was too engrossed in Anna Karenina to pay much attention to the date or time passing. I don't dispute the posibility since it feeds my fantasy of having been a child prodigy as well as my personal myth of having been somewhat of an oddity and an outsider. Besides, I'm actually thinking I should have been reading before the age of two--some serious neglect there on somebody's part. I recall being asked to read something for strangers who'd come to visit my parents' house. I felt a strange combination of pride and awkwardness at being asked to perform, but any misgivings usually evaporated when they rewarded me with money--usually a quarter, but, hey, the stuff I needed to buy was cheap.

But I digress.

I've been asked to read at the A.C. Hunter library on Wednesday evening, Sept. 21st and it's gotten me to thinking how much "Da Liberry" meant to me as a child. It was my oldest brother Charlie who took me there for the first time. He was, and is, a voracious reader and I'd like to think he simply thought it was a life-changing experience he wanted to share with his much younger brother. I will always be grateful to him for that.

On that first trip to the library, I couldn't choose just one measly book--I took home a stack of ten. The librarian was skeptical, I remember, suggesting perhaps I should just try one or two--and besides there was a limit to how many books a person could take home in one trip. But I must have seemed slightly heartbroken (and heartbreakingly so), for she allowed me to cart the works of it home. Two days later, I was back and the librarian assumed I must not have found anything among them to my liking, since surely I'd had enough books to do me for a month's worth of reading. When I breathlessly explained that I'd read them all--some of them more than once--she didn't question me again when I brought another carefully (yet somewhat randomly) chosen stack to the desk for her approval and checkout. In fact, she seemed rather pleased with me and, after that, began to treat me like a favourite patron of hers. (But then, I'm sure she had many favourites.)

There's a hurricane raging outside today, and it's Saturday morning, and I can't help but think about all those wonderful, dreamy Saturdays (not just mornings, but sometimes all day) I would spend in Da Liberry, regardless of the weather, curled up in a big cozy armchair, perusing books of all kinds, discovering new magazines like Popular Mechanics and Sports Illustrated and, of course, the ubiquitous National Geographics with their pictures of naked pygmy women that both startled and titillated at the same time.

But there were books, too--not nearly enough, unfortunately. I realize now it was a matter of government funding, but at the time I recall being very frustrated when, at the age of 8 or 9 (can't recall exactly) I had already read every book in the so-called "children's section" of the library. I had devoured the Narnia series, Alice in Wonderland, Bambi, Peter Pan, Pinocchio, anything by Enid Blyton, all the fairy tales and bedtime stories of just about every country that had them, and every single Hardy Boys book I could get my hands on.

So when I not-so-innocently asked the librarian, Mrs. Patterson, "Would it be okay if I started reading from the adult section?" it was rather a big deal for me--and apparently for her too. She said there must be SOME books in the child's section I hadn't read. She listed them all for me, but I just kept saying, "Yep. Read it. Yep. Read it." until she became slightly bemused, if not a little exasperated. "I'll have to ask your mother," she said. I don't remember how exactly my mother responded. I only know that the two days I had to wait until I could go back to the library and begin my adventures in adult reading were some of the longest hours of my life. She must have said yes to my request, and I recall a phone call to the library in my favour. But the library was closed on Sunday (!) and I had to wait until Monday. When my brother wasn't able to drive me there (which was often), I would walk. It was somewhere around 2 or 3 miles from our door to the door of the library, but for me it was like leaving home in order to go to my other home.--a journey in pursuit of comfort, a quest for exotic knowledge.

To me, entering the previously forbidden "Adult Section" of the public library was like the first time I left home to live in the city, the first time I went skating on the ocean by myself or, much later and many years ago, the first time I went to a strip club-- for a young fellow in a small town, there was a huge curiosity factor. I just wanted to know what was in there that could possibly be off limits to anyone. There were books with swear words and nudity (although it was word nudity, it was still real to me). But there was also adventure and murder more real than anything in the Hardy Boys. It was there that I first read Hemingway, Shakespeare, Joyce and Woolf--all before the age of thirteen, just because I was curious. I'd heard these names and wanted to read them for myself, to see what the big deal was about. My idea of summer reading back then was to pick up a copy of "A Midsummer Night's Dream" and lie in a sunbeam in my bedroom, imagining every scene as if I were there...or so I thought. My mother was always telling me that I should "get outdoors and play," and I did, but I often took my book with me.

And, again, these were library books. They not only changed and set the course of my life, but enhanced my existence in a way that nothing else could have. Not even the internet, if it had existed, could have served as such a companion and friend. The feel of a heavy book in my sweaty little hands, the smell of library dust on textured paper, the crinkle of the clear plastic covers that had been handled by so many like-minded readers before me--it all lent a sense of a communal experience with complete strangers, all of whom loved words as much as I do, or so I assumed.

In many ways, I owe my life to libraries. Of course, I owe it to a lot of other things and people as well, but libraries are at or near the top of the list of things for which I am grateful. In a small town of little cultural activity, the library was the gateway to the infinite, fodder for an imagination just beginning to sprout.

So, thanks not only to the libraries and governments who (sometimes) sponsor their existence, but also to the wonderful librarians who are not just doing their job, but doing it joyfully, as if it mattered. Trust me: it does.

I wish I still had my original library card. I think I'd frame it.

GC

Interview with Arts East magazine (Halifax)

2011-09-07T20:20:00.003-02:30

Hot on the heels of a super fun weekend at Winterset Literary festival in Eastport, I did an interview with the super cool Stephen Patrick Clare of Arts East Magazine based out of Halifax. Stephen's thought-provoking questions allowed me to say some things that I've never expressed in quite this way--which is a sign of a good interviewer. (Click on the link beneath the logo to read the piece.)

www.artseast.ca

Conditional release

2011-09-05T11:12:00.002-02:30

I'd love to start out by saying that I swear to the heavens above and hell below that I will strive henceforth to find balance in my life. But I'm not going to do that...not today anyway. I've been down that road many times before and it's a road paved with good intentions.

Rabbit at rest

It's the fifth of September, and already I'm wondering where the first week of the month has gone. I've spent the past nine days desperately trying to conquer a gigantic to-do list that, among other things, included finishing my novel, writing two articles, reading a book manuscript and a book chapter, finishing a short story and revising it and writing an arts grant. Now let's be fair--for your average person, almost any one or two items on that list would require an entire nine days, if not more. But the new fall semester begins on Wednesday and, after that, I don't get much time for writing. Sure, I dabble here and there if I can, but the effort to work on major literary projects usually grinds to a halt somewhere around the third week of the semester when the first papers need to be graded. With that, I've been composing a course outline, attending meetings, and reading various materials in perparation for the university semester. So, I guess what I'm saying is that: 1. I haven't found much time for blogging, obviously, and 2. I've given up hope of achieving any sort of real balance in my life.

Now that doesn't mean I don't just feel like chucking it all in and going for a long walk in the park. That's exactly what my wife and I did this morning. It was her idea, and I admit I was reluctant to take myself away from the computer, given there is so much to be done in the next 48 hours. I gave in to her madness--she actually suggested a walk in Bowring Park because she sensed that I needed it, and I won't say she was wrong. Ultimately, we did drive over there and spent a pleasant hour or so just strolling and taking in the relaxing sights and sounds of the unofficial last day of summer. Then we went for a more energetic strut around Mundy Pond, but that too was invigorating with the autumnal wind blowing through the thick, high grass, making that beautiful sifting noise that is like music to my urbanized ears. It's a sound that always relaxes me, always makes my yearn for the dog days of August growing up in my hometown when the only worry was about how to spend the last few days before school started. There would always be "one last adventure," as I used to call it. It usually entailed building a new tree fortress or camping out overnight in the woods, or going on a fishing trip of some kind. When I was really small, it would mean going blueberry picking with my parents and/or various members of the family. Back then, I was enthralled with every sight--every other car on the road, every bird that flew overhead, every dragonfly or butterfly that came near enough to nearly grasp in my hand. I thrilled to the babbling of a brook or the cry of a loon, or the sight of a huge bull moose expressing his way across a still pond in early fall.

I do need some balance in my life. Most of us do, I believe, but few of us seem to find it. Summer is a time for doing things, going places and much of the work gets laid aside. So when the autumn arrives, we dive back in--with some trepidation--and tell ourselves that the harder we work, the more we can achieve and the better life will be...and it's only until the next long weekend or vacation or maybe Christmas. The balance gets tipped in favour of labour.

Balance...I'm not ever sure what that means exactly. It's not on my list of things to do, so I haven't taken the time to figure it out. But, if I may, I'd say it has something to do with finding time for the things you love to do, along with also doing the things you feel you need to do. Of course, it would help if they were one and the same, but that's a rare condition. It's a wonderful thing to find time to "sit among the ducks," as I sometimes call it. To breathe properly and mindfully. To read a book for the pure enjoyment of it, rather than because you need to read it for work or school. To spend a couple of hours listening to good music.

But sometimes my life can have this feeling of someone just putting the pieces together, you know? Do this, this and this, and you'll be living a balanced life--as if there was some sort of Canada Food Guide for the soul that will make you feel like you're living a good life. But maybe it really is that simple. Mabye you can just fake it till you make it--do peaceful, fulfilling things until you actually become a peaceful, fulfilled person. Schedule the balance until you actually become balanced....even though "schedule" is one of my least favourite words.

I'm rambling, trying to figure it out, but the more I write, the more the clock is ticking. I realize I'm enjoying blogging just now--I usually do. I started out thinking I would just post some media interviews and that sort of thing, just to keep people informed about what I've been up to. I'll probably do that next.

For now, though, it's back to work. The novel is almost done. My to-do list has not been conquered, but it looks more manageable as I've slain a few dragons. But I'd prefer not to think of it in terms of slaying anything--something else I need to work on.

Peace.

GC

How to Avoid the Pitfalls of the Writing Life

2011-08-24T19:36:00.000-02:30

Tomorrow (Thursday, Aug. 25) I'll be at the FTLOL ("For the Love of Learning") conference called ACT, talking to young people who are possibly interested in becoming writers. This event has been marked on my calendar for the end of summer for a long time now, and I'm really looking forward to it. It's a free conference (my part runs from 12:15 to 1:15 p.m.) and the artists and organizations involved don't get paid for doing it. They just give of their time because they think it's a worthwhile endeavour.

I remember all too well what it was like to be on the outside of a career in writing and wanting in so desperately, having only a vague idea of how to get there. To have a chance now to impart some hard-learned lessons after nearly a lifetime of studying the publishing industry both from the outside and the inside is an opportunity I couldn't pass up. I'm hoping it will be a fun hour full of interesting and entertaining discussion and packed with suggestions about how to go about getting involved in the writin' racket.

Anyone between the ages of 15 and 35 is invited to join us. It's a very open sort of deal. I'm even hoping a few of my former students will show up--perhaps even a student or two who happens to be in my upcoming English 1080 classes in September. Over the last few years, I've talked to and mentored numerous students who are interested in writing, as well as the arts in general, and this single hour devoted entirely to the subject of getting started in writing would be a useful addition to anything else I might have said in the past.

All in all, it's a pretty cool event--the kind I wish had been available to me when I was on the outside looking in. Also, remember, it's not just about writing--there are other events going on too from the various arts and arts organizations in the city. There's lots to learn...just for the love it, and that's the really cool part.

MORE DETAILS BELOW from the organizers:

Wednesday, August 24 at 11:00am - August 26 at 6:00pm

Location Gower Street United Church

Aspiring artists have a unique opportunity to receive guidance from professionals, free of charge. Non-profit FTLOL is presenting its second A.C.T., (Arts Career Training) conference, which will bring established members of the local creative community to one location, to speak about the road to a career in the arts and how to avoid the potholes.

Youth Coordinator June Rogers says, “ACT’s mandate is summed up by its slogan, ‘Whe...re ambition finds direction’. It’s about keeping artistic culture alive in St. John's by ensuring that new artists know how to enter the professional arena. ACT is all about the art community coming together to support emerging artists.”

The conference will run August 24-26 inclusive, from 11 am to 6 pm, in the gym and lecture hall of Gower Street United Church, 99 Queen’s Road. An exhibition of new work by FTLOL's artist-in-residence and youth participants will take place concurrently.

Admission is free, and no registration is necessary. For more information, please visit www.ftlol.org, or contact 722-8848 or whatsup@fortheloveoflearning.org.

2011-08-20T19:47:00.001-02:30

For those with an interest in Newfoundland heritage and culture, this is a must see TONIGHT--a one-hour documentary presenting unique colour footage of pre-Confederate outport Newfoundland will air Saturday, August 20th, on CBC TV, at 8:30 pm Newfoundland Time.

The writer, Marjorie Doyle, is a friend of mine and the daughter of the iconic Gerald S. Doyle who is the subject of this documentary. She's extremely proud of this film (produced with her brother, filmmaker John W. Doyle) and simply wants to share it with as many people as possible. It's pretty rare footage.

Drive-by blogging

2011-08-16T20:29:00.004-02:30

Hi there!

Despite appearances, I haven't abandoned you or this blog. It's been a far more hectic summer than I ever imagined it would be. I've just come back from beautiful Eastport at the Winterset Writers' Festival where I had the kind of weekend that writers dream of. I plan to write more on that later this week, but for now I just wanted to apprise you of two bits of news:

First, my brand new website has been up and running for a few weeks now: http://www.gerardcollins.ca/?r=20110626164140. That's where I post all the information about where I'm doing readings and booksignings or media events, as well as other kinds of public appearances. You'll find all that on the "News" page. I eventually plan to add some new pages, particularly an "Academic" page to which my students can go for information about coursework and academic writing. Also, I hope, before the end of summer, to add some excerpts from my published writing as well as excerpts from reviews.

Second, this very busy week continues with a reading at The Fat Cat Blues Bar tomorrow (Wednesday, August 17th) in downtown St. John's. I'll be reading along with several other authors. Here's the info:

Breakwater Books and Creative Book Publishing are proud to present Mixed Type – putting a twist on mainstream literary events in downtown St. John’s. Local authors and musicians will team up with host and award-winning author Chad Pelley to present a night of literature and music. Mixed Type will feature authors Linden MacIntyre, Patrick Warner, Gerard Collins, Sam Martin, Michelle Butler Hallett, and Kate Evans along with performances by Andrew James O’Brien and Pilot to Bombardier. All are welcome, and admission is free. Join us August 17th at the Fat Cat on George! The show starts at 7:00pm!

All are welcome to this, no matter who you are. Eastport is still buzzing over the fact that Giller Prize winner Linden MacIntyre was there last year (several people said it to me in a way that made it obvious the information was a source of pride). Also, three of the other five authors were at Winterset as invited panelists this year-- pretty prestigious gig, if one is lucky enough to be asked. As well, I heard and met musician Andrew James O'Brien at Winterset this weekend and he is one hell of a songwriter and singer. I can't imagine anyone not loving his music.

Back soon.

Gerard

P.S. Now would be a good time to remind you to join me on Facebook, where all these events are posted as they occur: http://www.facebook.com/home.php?#!/event.php?eid=200229713364069

Free story from Moonlight Sketches!

2011-05-26T12:06:00.006-02:30

"Break, Break, Break"

There's been a lot going on with Moonlight Sketches and me since last I blogged, but for now, I just wanted to make you aware of a FREE short story that's just been published in the online journal New Atlantic Canadian Literature, which does exactly as it promises. Run by Salty Ink, NACL posts a variety of features and free writing samples from newly published fiction and poetry in Atlantic Canada. What better way to decide if a book or author is worth your time and money? They've just posted, in its entirety, "Break, Break, Break" from Moonlight Sketches, along with a short write-up and review of the story. I'm very pleased to have my story published by NACL and Salty Ink, as I consider them to be the most impressive book blog in all of Canada. I may be a little biased, but I wouldn't say it if I didn't think it was true. In fact, I'm sure you've heard me mention them before.

"Break, Break, Break" is one of my favorite stories in Moonlight Sketches, as it comes from a place of pure imagination, but inspired by the real life event of the Ocean Ranger tragedy, which killed 84 men off the coast of Newfoundland during a savage storm in February 1982. The story was written after a sleepless night of hearing voices inside my head--and yet outside of me, somehow--and the next morning sitting at the computer before I'd even had breakfast and writing for about 4 hours straight. This story is what came out and, in fact, it only required a minimal amount of revision before it was published in an anthology called Hard Ol' Spot (Mike Heffernan, ed.).

So if you haven't read this one yet, check it out--just click on the link beneath the NACL logo at the top of this blog entry. If you've already read it, you can check out the feature itself, as well as the NACL journal and Salty Ink. There's a lot of good stuff there, and you might want to bookmark the site because it regularly adds new features on very fine writers and poets. It's just one of the places you can go. :-)
Talk to you again soon.

Gerard

Fridged

2011-05-17T16:12:00.000-02:30

Talented poet Kerri Cull runs a book blog called The Book Fridge which features mostly Newfoundland writers. It's by far one of the most creative websites of its kind, especially from the East Coast of Canada--ranking right up there with the indisputable king, Salty Ink, which is owned and managed by another excellent Newfoundland author, Chad Pelley. The Book Fridge and Salty Ink are two glorious examples of why I long ago chose not to turn my own blog into a book blog--there are just too many people who do it so much better, and with more love and knowledge of Newfoundland and Canadian literature, than I could ever aspire to. That and, well, it needs to be said, it's too late now and you can't teach an old blog new tricks. It takes a lot of dedication--hours spent reading and managing a website--that I truly admire. Such bloggers perform a great service not only to new and established writers in this country, but also for readers who are voracious in their appetite for news about their favorite--and perhaps soon-to-be-favorite--writers. There's inside information and insight here that you just can't get anywhere else. Makes me think there ought to be a Book Bloggers Day in honour of those who do it and do it so well.

I did an interview with The Book Fridge a few days ago and it went live on Sunday, same day as my reading at Chapters. If you click on the link you can read my answers to her provocative questions. And, I must say, I love talking to an interviewer who, not only has great interviewing skills (Kerri Cull has been writing for years and once wrote a regular column in The Express that was one of my favorites), but took the time to read the book before the interview. I realize that's not always possible, and I don't mind if they don't read it, but it makes the questions and discussion all the better when everyone's on the same page, so to speak.

The link: The Book Fridge

And if you wanted to check out Salty Ink: http://saltyink.com/ There's tons of great discussion about high quality East Coast writing and writers.

Literary event of the week

2011-05-10T19:50:00.005-02:30

Time: Sunday, May 15 · 1:00pm - 3:00pm
Location: Chapters bookstore, Kenmount Road, St. John's, NL

Signing copies of Moonlight Sketches

This Sunday, I'll be reading selected passages from Moonlight Sketches, followed by a signing session. It would be great to see you there. It will be my first public reading after the launch of my short story collection, and I'm hoping there might even be some questions from the audience. All signs are that it will be a fairly well attended event, but it will be a cozy afternoon with some chairs set up at the back of the store, and I'll be at a podium, speaking to the group.

I'm looking forward to talking to some people who have read the book and might have questions about certain stories. Like, do you wonder how I came to write "Break, Break, Break" from the perspective of a sixteen-year-old girl, especially after I once swore I'd never write a story about the Ocean Ranger? Maybe you'd like to ask about the inspiration for the evil Crowley family, or what happens next for Winnie in "Hold Out"? If you've got a burning question about any part of any story in Moonlight Sketches, now is your chance to ask--and I promise a straightforward answer in my own special way. :-)

After the reading, there'll be a booksigning--whether you previously purchased a book or you're buying one Sunday afternoon, I'd be happy--and privileged--to sign it and to personalize it.

Of course, you need not stay for the whole two hours. If you just want to stay for the reading, or you'd like a book signed, that's up to you.

Meanwhile, this is an event that I'm really looking forward to, since it is my first public reading as a published author and because the thing that I've absolutely enjoyed the most about publishing a book is having the chance to meet people, especially people who read, not just my words, but books in general. In the past month, I've already had some memorable moments that will have an impact on me for years to come. I'm sure Sunday afternoon will produce a few more of those.

So that's from 1-3 p.m Sunday afternoon at Chapters in St. John's. Bring a friend or two. And if you can't come along, by all means send a proxy.

Gerard

Where Are You Going, Where Have You Been?

2011-04-29T20:04:00.003-02:30

I'll start with where I'm going: I'll be signing copies of Moonlight Sketches at Coles bookstore in the Avalon Mall (St. John's) from 2-4 p.m. tomorrow (Saturday, April 30).

Books in waiting.

It'll be my first ever signing and I'm more calm about that fact than I thought I would be. I guess after getting through the book launch on zero sleep, with all the pressures that came with that event, spending a couple of hours just signing books for people who buy them, chatting to folks while I sit, doesn't sound like a bad way to spend a Saturday afternoon. There's no pressure or stress there because--despite my tendency to be a hermit--I actually love talking to people. It's one of my favorite things in life. Don't call me on the phone, mind you. Can't stand that apparatus. But meeting new people or greeting those I haven't seen in a while is one of life's greatest pleasures.

I've actually never been to a booksigning. I recall one in St. John's a few years ago from a very famous Canadian author, who shall remain nameless, who just seemed so gruff with everyone and couldn't wait to get out of there. That was a reading, open to the general public but mostly attended by an academic audience. I would have thought the guy would be grateful that anyone even cared to show up. But, no, apparently you get to that point in your career (at least some do) when you start to take it for granted there'll be a crowd and you'll think to yourself, I've got better things to do than to be here. He got paid to be there too, and all these people had bought his books. All they wanted was to meet him, have a few words if possible and ask him to please sign their copy. Not too much to ask, considering the price of books these days. Not that the author sees all that much of the cover price, but it's the thought that counts--the mere fact that somebody not only put out their hard-earned money for something you'd written, but, even more important, were willing to invest a few precious hours reading your words....and STILL cared enough about you and your words, even after reading them, to want to meet you and ask for a few pen strokes on the inside cover.

I just remember thinking to myself: Self, if you ever get in that position, treat people with kindness because they deserve no less. So whether I see 2 people tomorrow, or 200 people, expect me to be the same. All I know is, I'll be thrilled to see you there. Oh, and if you miss tomorrow's signing, there is another one--that includes a reading from Moonlight Sketches and a meet-and-greet--at Chapters in St. John's on May 15.

It's been a veritable whirlwind since the book launch. With the end of the academic semester, I've met countless previously-neglected friends for coffee or lunch, done radio interviews, and am working on several articles while reading the manuscripts of others, all the while hoping to eventually get time to finish my novel manuscript, to be submitted to my publisher some time this summer.

If you missed it, by the way, The Newfoundland Herald had a two-page excerpt from Moonlight Sketches and a bio, while the WANL (Writers' Alliance of Newfoundland and Labrador) newsletter, called WORD, featured a column I'd written on my journey towards publication, including some advice for would-be writers. Somewhere in there, I managed to finish adjudicating the 2011 short fiction competition for the Writers' Federation of New Brunswick--a process I enjoyed thoroughly as I read each and every submission from beginning to end. I felt I owed these beginning writers no less than my full attention, as a show of respect for their commitment to their craft.

There's been tons more happening, but I won't bore you with all the details. I just wanted to fill you in on some of it and assure you I'll try to be a little more diligent about giving you the latest news and musings as the spring comes on and the summer spreads her hand.

Gerard

Promo Sapien

2011-04-19T20:32:00.004-02:30

An interviewer at the local university radio station asked me a question the other day that, I admit, I misinterpreted.

"What do you like most about being an author?" she asked. The question startled me because I'm relatively new to the idea of being an "author." I've long considered myself to be a writer--a sort author-in-training, but the idea of "authorness" or "authority" regarding anything hadn't really occurred to me...which became quite apparent in my response.

With a slight grin, I answered: "The interviews."

There was a brief pause and so I continued to explain that it was the opportunity to talk about writing with people who seemed interested to know about the process and about the book itself; the book merely gives me something concrete to talk to people about. I've been teaching university English for thirteen years, been a grad student for many years, an undergrad for five or six years before that (depending on where you count from) and, along the way, a high school English teacher and substitute teacher. I've never grown tired of talking about other people's writing. Literature is an enormous part of my life. I hesitate to say "Literature is my life" because, quite frankly, I tell my students every year, "This isn't life. It's about life." It's a sliver-thin line between the two, but the distinction, to me, is clear. It's the difference between reading "Young Goodman Brown" and actually going for a walk in the woods. But I digress. Fact is, I will never grow tired of discussing the uplifting prose of James Joyce, the sublime darkness of Flannery O'Connor or the gut-slicing poetry of a Cormac McCarthy novel.

I was also in the media for a while. As a nineteen-year-old, I was a fresh-scrubbed, awkward reporter for The Daily News, which specialized in stories about the end of the world and folks who kept pet roosters in the middle of downtown, keeping the neighbours awake. I also got to interview people like Ben Wicks and John Crosbie, politicians of all stripes and the occasional minor celebrity who found himself on the downside of a popularity that never quite materialized. Usually, the editor of the paper interviewed the more important, be-happenin' people. Years later, I found myself scraping a meager living by writing arts and entertainment pieces for a slick, ambitious magazine called Beam. I interviewed local music industry types and enjoyed what I did tremendously. Not a single arsehole among them, really, despite what one might surmise.

So now I'm the one being asked the questions. It seems, suddenly, it's not enough just to write. One also has to promote. Worse yet, one is expected to self-promote.

Okay, so there are worse things one can do to earn one's daily bread. But I have to promise myself that I will never knowingly cross that certain line, the one that separates the artist from the con artist.

Fact is, I love talking to people. So when I told that interviewer I liked the interviews, that's exactly what I meant. At the launch party for Moonlight Sketches last week, I talked to nearly every single person in that room, and it took some doing. But it never, for a single moment, felt like work and it certainly never felt disingenuous. I had a sincere connection with each and every one of them, and I recognized that they had used up some of their extremely precious time to come and help me celebrate something that was very important to me. How could I possibly just shake each hand and say, "Thanks for coming--next!" I couldn't do it. I wanted--even needed--to make sure that each one of them knew how much I appreciated them being there. I'm not supposed to say this, I'm sure, but I wasn't even concerned with whether someone bought a book or not. I mean, sure, buy a book--commerce makes the world go around. But I won't get rich from this book. Not financially, at least. But I meant it when I said I felt like the "richest man in town"--because there's a kind of prosperity that doesn't come from money. It comes from how many lives you've touched and, perhaps more important, how many of those lives you've allowed to touch yours.

My stock in trade has always been that I care about people. I couldn't be a writer otherwise. I recall a professor of mine from years ago told me he couldn't be a writer because, in order to compose believable dialogue, you had to be able to listen to people. And, really, as a listener, he was no Father Mulcahy. But he was right.

A writer has to be able to not just "watch" people; he has to be able to see them, understand them, empathize with them, relate to them on some level. It's not enough to study people--not for my purposes anyway. For me, being a writer comes directly from the need to connect and communicate. I've always maintained that making a new friend was like falling in love, at least in a certain emotionally complex way. It's always been that way for me. I want to stay up all night and talk with the world. I want to bring them home and give them milk and cookies. Talk about our favourite movies, our biggest disappointments, our darkest secrets (which I never actually tell anyone, not outright)--but really, I just want to know yours. I don't want to tell you mine. I mean, on some level, I really do want exactly that. But I'm more of a listener, you see.

Which brings me back to self-promotion. I don't have it in me. Honest. When I tell people something on Facebook or in my blog, or on the phone with my mother (though she usually has to wring it out of me), or in the corridor with a friend at work, it's because I think they might like to know, not because I expect something from them. I have always been the kind of person to keep accomplishments and failures alike very close to my chest for fear that someone will think--in that famous Newfoundland vernacular--that I'm attempting to "make a show" of myself. God forbid. We are all a "show" in our own way. It's just that we don't think of ourselves that way, and nor should we.

How many times have I seen my talented father refuse to sing at a party because he was shy? Which might well be another word for "embarassed" or "ashamed" of what one has to offer. How many students have I seen who know all the answers, including deeply profound insight on classic literature, and not offer to share their thoguhts because they couldn't work up the nerve to speak in a roomful of people? How many people have I seen who possess the talent to fulfill their dreams if only they weren't afraid of what someone else might think if they danced a certain, provocative, or just plain skilled, way or sang in that voice that was bigger than everyone else's or wrote only in a journal because they were afraid of offending friends, family and neighbours with their truth? Countless. An embarassment of riches, I have known.

Well, that still doesn't change my modus operandi. I will do book signings in the hope of meeting people who simply gather in the name of literature, friendship, or genuine curiosity. And I will attend book festivals and readings because they're fun--fun because I love words, especially when coming from the minds and mouths of those who are skilled with them and have something to say--not about the proper use of the comma or the supposed invention of a new narrative form--but about the human condition. Because that's what it is--a condition--and there's no cure for it except the obvious one of somehow becoming less human, of disengaging from the human race, of becoming an alien observer to one's own species, trading in one's keen insights for a royalty dollar and a date with the fame monster.

What do I like about being an author? It's actually the writing part. That feeling of sitting the butt down in a chair somewhere, pen in hand or fingers tapping the keyboard, and bringing the stuff in my head towards the light. Of course, then there's the part about having written something. That's not bad either, as Dorothy Parker obviously knew when she said it.

By any measure, Moonlight Sketches--and all of my writing--is an earnest attempt to make sense of the world for myself. And if you buy it, that's what you'll see in it. If you don't buy it, I'm sure we can still be friends.

Because, despite what the marketing geniuses, politicians, and corporate giants of the world want you to believe, that's why we're all here: not to sell each other stuff, but to understand something about who we are, to ourselves and to each other.

Or maybe I'm wrong, and perhaps we don't actually have any purpose.

But, somehow, I just don't buy that.

GC

Live radio today

2011-04-16T10:13:00.001-02:30

I'm on live radio at CHMR today at 1 p.m. with the wonderful Judy Gough. Should be an enjoyable hour for me because I don't have a clue what she'll ask, and Judy just happens to be a former student of mine, going back three years or so. I love the unpredictability of the situation.

Locally (St. John's, Newfoundland), you can tune in to 93.5. Online you can hear it at chmr.ca, aliant 825 or cable 942.

Here's the online link: http://www.mun.ca/chmr/main.html

Gerard

A Week in the Life

2011-04-14T19:29:00.005-02:30

A moment with the publisher.

A week ago, I was racing against the ticking clock to finish the last essays for the semester. Including revised essays and some makeup essays, I had about 120 to grade in just under four days. The first day, I got only five done, so the bulk was done in three days. That's almost 40 essays a day. To put that in perspective, I can, on a very good day, grade somewhere between 12 and 20, usually closer to the former.

On top of that, I couldn't sleep. It was mostly the adrenaline rush, and the less sleep I got, the more my brain compensated, allowing me to get nearly all the essays done and passed back to my students by Wednesday morning, but there was still a stack of about twenty or so that needed to be done before I could begin final tabulation--always a joy, but at least Excel lately has made that task easier.

So, working on less than two hours sleep in nearly three days, I went home Wednesday afternoon, intent on napping for an hour. Didn't happen. The wheels kept on turning. The thoughts pinged off the walls of my brain and kept me staring at the ceiling. Around 3:30 p.m., I got up and started thumbing through my copy of Moonlight Sketches for an excerpt to read at the book launch. The good thing about not getting any sleep, I was impervious to nervousness.

Of course, in the run-up to this state of affairs in the days before, I could be seen putting up posters all over campus, sending out (and responding to) dozens of emails. Then, on Tuesday, I received a call from my publisher saying the books had arrived from the printer and I could come see them. Seizing a propitious moment when I would have been taking a short break from grading anyway, I visited my book--which, for a short, obnoxious time, I was referring to as "The Precious." I was so thrilled by the look and feel of the book in my grubby little hands that I received an energy boost, but it was nearly impossible to focus on finishing those essays. Tick-tock, tick-tock. That was Tuesday afternoon.

By Wednesday evening, I was like a zombie--but an excited zombie. To put it in perspective, I have been writing, in one form or another, since the early 1990s. There were a few earnest years of simply putting pen to paper (literarlly, since computerization had not infiltrated the masses just yet), trying to figure out if I really was a writer and what kind of writer I would be. I won't go into detail here--not right now--about what the answers to those question were and how I actually decided that, yes, I could do this. Suffice to say, I had plenty of encouragement from editors at places like Random House, New York, as well as major American magazines. I felt, for the longest time, all I had to do was keep on going and the magic would happen. Hard work reaps great rewards, I believed.

Reading from "Fish of the Damned."

So I kept writing and writing. One novel manuscript, then another and then another. You get the picture. It really wasn't until I started writing and submitting short stories that I began to see a crack in the darkness. In 1998, I published my first short story--remember, I didn't write any short stories up until then, and I don't really count the ones I wrote as an undergrad, one of which actually found its way into the student MESS magazine (a feat I didn't truly appreciate, I admit, because the story was semi-autobiographical and therefore felt like cheating). In 1999, I won an arts and letters "Honourable Mention" award for an excerpt from my novel-in-progress and in 2000, that same novel won the Percy Janes First Novel Award for an unpublished first manuscript.

I was on my way, right? Lots of interest. Publishers and agents took me seriously. To this day, I have never received one of those nasty rejection letters that some people get. They've always been encouraging, always pointing out the strengths in my writing. They rarely mentioned any weaknesses, other than the fact that they didn't want to publish it. A couple of agents came extremely close to signing me and one publisher kicked the tires for nearly two whole years, in which time I re-wrote that prize-winning manuscript several times in an effort to get it published. I began my Ph.D. program in 2000 and gradually I was consumed by the doctoral monster--classes, seminars, an endless stream of gigantic essays to write, studying dozens upon dozens of books in preparation for comprehensive exams, and then, of course, there was the giganto-thesis--"me manifesto" as I called it. Somewhere along the way, my writing career had taken a backseat to life. And by that I mean that it was dead in the water, having never arrived.

So last Wednesday night was like a dream--all the more so because I was severely overworked and underslept. But I was giddy, as was evidenced by the fact that I surely hugged everyone in the room. But it was genuine affection on my part, and I assume on theirs, because of both the weight and the levity of the moment. It was a time for celebraing, and it felt like it wasn't just a celebration of my book or even necessarily of me, but of the very idea of perseverance in order to fulfill one's dream, what has been a part of me for so long--and denied me for so long--it begins to feel like a destiny and a quest. And, to be perfectly melodramatic about it, it was like finally pulling the sword from the stone.

Talking. Talking. Talking. My favorite part.

I have no idea how many people were there, but the room was packed. The first people I saw when I walked in were my brother-in-law, Matt (who bought me my first computer a long time ago, as a loan that I ultimately repaid) and his wife Jenn, who are always very supportive of my writing, always have been. There was Helene Staveley and her husband Brian, sitting in the big chairs like guests at a fancy party--which they were. And, of course, my publisher and her assistant, Donna Francis and Pam Dooley (who started working there less than two weeks earlier), were selling books and keeping things runnings smoothly. Those were the early-comers I remember. Then, suddenly the room was filling up--I next saw my old professor, Roberta Buchanan and her friend, followed by my very dear friend of nearly twenty years, Allison and her husband Stephen. My friend Mike Heffernan, a fine author himself who introduced me that night, as well as the cover artist Darren Whalen. Then came my sister-in-law Katherine and her partner, then writers Jessica Grant, Chad Pelley, Russell Wangersky and Sam Martin, then one of my former students, Carla, Kayla and then Megan, and then another and then another and another. I was utterly shocked to see so many students there from the past twelve years (shout-out to the amazing Jo-Ann!). My wedding day notwithstanding, it was the most gratifying day of my life. I could easily list everyone who was there--I remember you all. I remember a moment with each and every one of you.

Throughout the night, I had three thoughts that I distinctly recall a week later. One was that I felt like Bilbo Baggins and now would be a perfectly good time to disappear and go off on some big adventure. The other was that I had some notion of what it feels like to attend your own funeral, with all those faces from the past, people just showing up to say they thought of you, remembered you, and wished you well. Not everyone gets to have that experience, and, morbid as it sounds, I treasure it.

The other thought, of course, was that I was the richest man in town, just like George Bailey in my favorite Christmas-themed movie, It's a Wonderful Life. After years of paying my dues, keeping my head down, doing good work and trying my best to help anyone I could in any way they asked, I felt like it was all coming back to me. There were moments of darkness in those years before I published, times when I wondered why I even did it and what the reward was. Now I can see it. It's not about the book; it's not about how many you sell or whether you win any awards or get great reviews. This was a chance to bring together my friends, some family, former students who were now my friends and even some family and colleagues whom I consider to be my good and treasured friends. I felt like Sandra Bullock on the night of the Oscars, asking: "Did I really do something to deserve this, or did I just wear y'all out?" It was a fantastic night.

I didn't sleep that night. I was all wound up, talking nonstop to my amazing wife about what it was all like, about what surprised me most, about who I was glad to see. It turns out that I was glad to see everyone. The line-up for the book signing was long. I was eager to talk to each and every person who had bought a book and wanted me to sign it--but also there were people whom I know (because they were students, mostly) didn't have the money to buy a book, and just wanted to show up and show support, which I dearly appreciated. But I had a connection with nearly everyone in that room. Every one of them knew what this night meant to me--some were more aware than others, of course. My good friend Wendy put it in pespective when she half-jokingly said, "I've had this date circled on my calendar since 1994."

Since last Wednesday, I've made an attempt to get life back to some sort of normal. There've been papers to grade and literally hundreds of emails to answer. I'm almost through them all. There was an interview with Weekend Arts Magazine's Angela Antle a couple of days after the launch. It wasn't my first CBC interview, but it was my first one in which I talked about my own writing, about a book I'd published. To me, it was like appearing on Oprah's post-Oscar show the day after the Oscars ceremony. There's no feeling quite like it.

There is a small part of me that doesn't want to let go of this feeling. But it's necessary to get on with normalcy, whatever that means. I do feel that my life has been changed forever. There are book signings coming up (April 30 at Coles bookstore, and a reading/signing at Chapters on May 15), another radio thingy on Saturday (this time live on CHMR, the local universty station) some invitations to literary festivals throughout the summer and fall, and various opportunities that come from having published a book. Next week, when I've finished grading final exams, I'll take a deep breath and look out through the window of my new favorite coffee shop on Water Street and try desperately to feel all this, to know that it happened and that good things will come from now on. I can stop trying now and just do and be what I've always been. That part of it is over.

The excited zombie in action.

But there's more to come--because I've got a novel almost finished, soon to be submitted to my publisher. Maybe next year, I can launch my first novel into the world. And you're all invited to the party, to do it all over again, as a celebration of life. Not just my life, but the ideals of perseverance, friendship andthe enjoyment of life itself.

It's all just one gigantic kick at the darkness, ain't it?

Thanks, all, for being there--not just physically but in other ways, too. I really do feel like the richest man in town.

And, oh yeah, I finally did sleep on Thursday night, perhaps the biggest triumph of my entire week.

Gerard

(All photos courtesy of my friend Helene Staveley. I'll post official photos, if there are any, when they become available.)

Tune in to see if it's a turkey drop or not...but, baby, if you've ever wondered...

2011-04-13T19:53:00.003-02:30

This coming Saturday, April 16th, I'll be live on the air at 93.5FM CHMR at 1:00 p.m. Newfoundland time, talking to Judy Gough about my just-released short story collection, Moonlight Sketches.

Locally (St. John's, Newfoundland), you can tune in to 93.5. Online you can hear it at chmr.ca, aliant 825 or cable 942--or so I've been told.

Here's the online link: http://www.mun.ca/chmr/main.html
Gerard

And, oh yeah...

First Interview

2011-04-09T15:58:00.000-02:30

For those so inclined, and especially if you missed the book launch Wednesday night and had wanted to be there, here's the direct link for this morning's interview with CBC radio's Angela Antle. It includes an impromptu reading from the short story "The Darkness and Darcy Knight," a story about a young, idealistic American school teacher who finds himself in the backwoods of rural Newfoundland in the late 1990s.

The interview was a completely pleasurable experience, from start to finish. Angela Antle is the consummate professional, extremely likable and she has a way of getting you to spill your secrets...if only there was time to say it all. This is the first time I've been interviewed regarding Moonlight Sketches.

Enjoy!

Interview with Weekend Arts Magazine

Gerard

CBC Radio Interview

2011-04-08T16:46:00.001-02:30

Tomorrow morning, I'll be talking with CBC radio's Angela Antle about the writing of Moonlight Sketches. If you're interested in knowing what inspired the madness, check it out. The interview airs at 8 a.m., Newfoundland Time.

Interview with Angela Antle

Book Launch Party!

2011-03-29T14:13:00.001-02:30

At last, dear friends, a moment several years in the making: my first book (the first of many, I assure you) becomes a reality and in the manner of all auspicious events, there's a party! Come help me celebrate! There's food, drinks, frivolity, a reading and as many shenanigans as we can pack into a couple of hours. Meet me at the piano bar. And if you can play piano, you're especially welcome. :-)

Here's the official invite just posted by my publisher on Facebook.

(http://www.facebook.com/event.php?eid=161108180612265#!/event.php?eid=161108180612265)

Time Wednesday, April 6 · 6:00pm - 8:00pm

Location Bianca's, 171 Water Street
(In the banquet room, separate from the restaurant--just enter at the front, turn right, take three steps and you're there!)

Please join Killick Press/Creative Book Publishing as we celebrate the launch of our newest author, Gerard Collins. Hear the author read from his amazing debut short story collection "Moonlight Sketches," and get your copy signed.

Praise for "Moonlight Sketches"

"Here is outport Newfoundland like you’ve never seen it – or heard it: musical, broken-toothed, full of pathos and sly humour. Collins’ characters fall from innocence and... land on their feet, with their fists up. You will admire them. You will fear them. You will find you care most about those you fear. Moonlight Sketches is a work of extraordinary imagination and empathy."

Jessica Grant - author of "Come Thou Tortoise"

"Smart kid courts trouble with his bad-news friend. Beautiful woman aches to leave town. Things are not going well for Julia in university. Gerard Collins gets to the story. His writing is clean and unselfconscious."

Kathleen Winter - author of "Annabel"

“A compelling collection with lasting images and an atmosphere you’ll feel as thick as a cloud around you. Collins excels in hooking his reader with a well-paced sense of impending tragedy, and in capturing the isolated moments that have built his convincing characters, many of whom having been wrung through the wringer of small-town mentality. Collins knows the recipe of his own work: when to add nuanced comedic relief to a dark story, and when to add a closing line that clangs like a gong.”

Chad Pelley - author of "Away from Everywhere"

I truly hope to see you there. Everyone is welcome.

Gerard

New Date for Moonlight Sketches

2011-03-22T14:55:00.001-02:30

I keep forgetting that a bunch of you who read this blog aren't necessarily on my Facebook page. I announced yesterday that my short story collection, Moonlight Sketches, will now be available by April 1st. I had thought it was due today, but was recently informed otherwise. I guess just because you read it on Amazon don't make it so.

Thanks for all the interest in the book and the release date. Details to come.

Gerard

Review

2011-03-22T14:46:00.001-02:30

Got a great advance review of Moonlight Sketches from the Book Madam. It's a cool new website devoted to the love of books, Canadian books and authors in particular, many of whom are among the best in the world.

Check it out:

Book of the Month from Book Madam and Associates.

Gerard

What's in a Title?

2011-03-20T11:23:00.003-02:30

I've actually lost sleep over this issue. I mean, I know it doesn't matter in the bigger scheme of things. I know things are tough all over and, if it helps any, I've lost way more sleep over Japan, Haiti, the Middle East and Libya lately than I have over the title of my blog. In fact, I'm still haunted by the fact that I woke up just before 3 a.m. last Thursday night, unable to sleep and turned on the TV just in time to see the Tsunami as it crashed ashore. It brings to mind that old adage about how a butterfly flapping its weeks can be felt across an ocean. Needless to say, though, I'm a sensitive lad and it doesn't take much to wreck a good night's sleep or an attempt at a moment's peace. When this semester is done, I seriously have to check into a) meditation, b) Reiki (again), c) a media cleanse or purge, or d) rehab.

Anyway, a case in point would be my blog title. I don't get many nights when I have two whole hours when I can justify tinkering with details such as what color the font should be on my blog. I don't even normally think about my blog until I'm actually blogging. But I redubbed it "Blood 'n Guts" Friday night because I was in love with it. Turns out I was merely having a Friday night fling because Saturday morning, I was feeling a great sense of regret. What have I done? Who/what did I sleep with last night? "Blood 'n Guts, Gerard? Really?" It seems my long-dead teenaged self enjoyed the idea, but my grownup self woke up the next day with the feeling that I really shouldn't have done that. Blood and Guts? I'm gettin' too old for this shit. Sorry. Had to say it. Apologies to Riggs and Murtagh.

Anyway, I'm going back to grassroots--dancin' with the one that brought me. The subtitle for a year or so now has been "A Kick at the Darkness," and that, me dears, is who I am. I've been on this whole authenticity kick for a couple of months, so I've decided I need to keep it real. Maybe "Blood 'n Guts" is catchier; after all, blood and guts roll off the tongue, don't they? (Don't imagine it; just agree with me.) But I care less for catchy than I do for something that reflects something about me, the (nearly) grownup me, the one with a sense of eternal, hopeless optimism, who thinks we can affect our world with the flap of a wing, the stroke of a pen, the click of a letter on the keyboard or the utterance of a thought.

It's a tribute to one of my favorite songs ever, written by Bruce Cockburn ("Lovers in a Dangerous Time") and one of my favorite lines from a song. Kicking at the darkness is what I do, what I feel most of us do. The night creeps in, the darkness threatens to swallow us, the violence, the terrorism, the tsunamis, the robberies and cruelty, the despotism and politicizing and commercialization of nearly every living, breathing thing--doesn't it all feel as if it can choke you sometimes? And yet we kick back, desperately, savagely, enraged at the audacity of the those who think they can control us--even if they're right. Death conquers all. Darkness takes no prisoners. But we can try, can't we? Through humour (thank you, Jon Stewart!). Through writing (thank you, authors). Through art. Through music. Through photography. Through surviving, day after day. And, yes, perhaps even though blogging and Tweeting and Facebooking and singing and smiling and avoiding the crack that would break your mama's back.

Kick at the Darkness. That's the new title. As God is my witness.

Is there a God?

And would She approve this message?

I'd like to think so. On both counts.

GC

Blood and Guts! Yeah, baby!

2011-03-18T20:15:00.005-02:30

Okay, so yeah--the blog is now called "Blood 'n Guts." As my wife remarked just now, "It's a pretty drastic change from Moonlight Sketches." The former name was "more pastoral," she said. No argument there. But I want something else, something more visceral, more energetic, full of vigor and something with nuances--a title that greets you with a bloody handshake.

Of course, I liked "Moonlight Sketches"--it said a lot about what I was trying to do here. The problem was that I took it from the title of my book that's coming out soon. That kind of doubling up felt fine more than half a year ago when it seemed like the book was still, well, half a year away. But the closer the release date came on, the queasier I felt about it. It just felt redundant.

So here's where it comes from:

My hometown is a place called Placentia, which is a town below sea level (or just at sea level--I'm not sure which). But the water separating us from the "mainland" was called The Gut. As a kid, I was fascinated by how The Gut would lop with whitecaps on the windiest days when the tide was high and threatening to swamp us. I can recall riding in the backseat of my father's car, along the main road, with the seemingly insufficient breakwater made of logs doing its best to hold The Gut at bay, to keep it from spilling onto the road and submerging half the town in seawater. On the worst days, usually in winter, the waves would lop right over the breakwater and onto the road, and the salt spray would drift like spirits across the pavement and across to the other side. I would often have nightmares, literally, about trying to cross The Gut on foot, traversing the side of the road (or the bridge that joined us to Jerseyside) and fearing I was going to drown. (Above Photo by J.M. Smith)

So, as I was trying to come up with a title, the idea of "The Gut" took hold of my brain. I thought of simply calling the blog "The Gut" or "Gut Instinct" or something like that. Then I thought of "Blood and Guts," which became "Blood 'n Guts" and, ya know, I like it.

The new title suits my Gothic sensibilties, harkening back to the comic books I read as a kid, most featuring Weird War Tales or Dracula or Jonah Hex. Of course, it also describes the "blood and guts" movies that are a rite of passage for any serious fan of horror movies, which I was. Friday the Thirteenth. Halloween. Nightmare on Elm Street. That kind of thing. The schlockier the better. My tastes have changed quite a bit, but I still can't resist the odd Rob Zombie movie or whatever the latest horror flick is in the theatre. Mostly, though, the title is a nod to my darker side.

My fiction writing doesn't go that route--not usually, anyway--but my tales do tend to peer into the dark soul of humanity. I'm an optimistic by nature, but that doesn't keep me from going there where, perhaps one might be better off not looking at all. And that's the other part that makes me think the title fits--I like to look into the "guts" of things, how they work, what they're made of, what makes them do what they do.

Then there's the "blood" part--sometimes there will be blood. Sometimes, though, the blood is more metaphorical than phsyical, though it's often both. Again, there's the nod to my heritage. My stories in Moonlight Sketches aren't about my hometown--far from it, in fact. Sure, some stories (perhaps even all of them, on some level, conscious or unconscious) are influenced by my childhood growing up in a rural area that certainly had its share of darkness, like any small town. But most also take inspiration from the other places I've lived on this island and even beyond it. And yet it seems appropriate to me that I pay homage to where I come from--"blood" being a reference to the bloodlines, to heritage, to the things that make us what we are. It's a nod to the experiences that shape us all and particularly myself because, after all, lest you go thinking these stories are completely about you or about other people who shall not be named--they are mostly about me. They concern my own search for meaning in a chaotic world. I'm not even sure there is any meaning to it, of course, but I'll never know that for sure if I don't look into the guts of it, keeping in mind where and what I've come from and why I'm here.

Quite likely, I'll never know any of it anyway. But this blog is an attempt to uncover and discover, to decipher and explain, look into, and discern the world and myself, as well as all selfs. Quite selfish, you see.

So, yeah, blood 'n guts, baby! Hope you like the change, as I'm truly looking forward to a slightly different tone around here.

GC

Oh, yeah, and the awesome artwork above is from Darren Whalen and it's PROTECTED by the artist's copyright and Creative Publishers.

Spring Cleaning

2011-03-14T19:41:00.003-02:30

It's March madness in my corner of the world. I teach English at a university and it's the month of grading essays, meeting with students and various other teaching-related duties. The meetings are mostly pleasant, the grading less so, unfortunately. It's just that there are so many, it often feels like that classic Star Trek episode, "The Trouble With Tribbles," where they just seem to be multiplying. It can drive you a little stir crazy, especially in the throes of an Eastern Canadian winter.

In fact, it's snowing here today, again, just when it was fit to go outside and do some well-needed running (which I did on the weekend--'twas glorious). Now I'll have to wait for nature to do her thing because the city of St. John's is not one to be bothered with clearing sidewalks if there's a snowball's chance in Hell the rain and warmer temperatures might take it away...or even if there's not.

Meanwhile, I'm reading stories for an out-of-province short fiction competition, which I'm enjoying immensely. This time last year, I was reading nearly thirty novels in a span of 4-5 weeks for the NL Book Awards. That one was won by the very deserving Jessica Grant and her hilarious and poignant novel, Come, Thou Tortoise. This time around, the reading isn't nearly as heavy in terms of volume and it makes for a more leisurely adjudication process. Plus, I'm the only judge, so that means I don't have to spend time consulting with anyone. I don't mind that part of it, but when you're as busy as I usually am during March Madness month, it's best to keep the variables to a minimum.

Anyway, it occured to me that I should spruce up the ol' blog a little bit. Company's comin', you know. Got a new book--my very first, called Moonlight Sketches, coming out this month on March 22nd and shortly after that, there'll be the book launch, tentatively scheduled for April 7.

I've been going all this time thinking I had a "Profile" on this blog, but really didn't. I guess it was one of those things I figured I'd get around to. When I started this blog, it was pretty much on the downlow until it got closer to my book coming out. I didn't advertise it or post it on Facebook or anywhere else, so I figured traffic would be slow. And it was, at first. But lately, it's picked up a lot, so I figured it's time I added some info, including (you'll notice) a photo of the cover for Moonlight Sketches (a short story collection) and links for buying the books at Amazon and Chapters on-line. You can pre-order, if you'd like. In fact, I wouldn't mind because those sales go into the system as soon as the book is released, making the chances for a strong first week more likely--always important to get people's attention. More importantly for you, you'll get your book asap.

Oh, and I also added a link that goes directly to my Facebook page--you know, in case you dare to get a little closer and learn a little more.

Soon, I'll be changing the name of this blog again. If you have any suggestions for names, I'd love to hear them. I started with "Gothic Times" and then switched to "Moonlight Sketches," but I think the redundancy there is a bit redundant. So I'll be switching again soon and giving the banner a fresh new look, maybe something that will also download a bit quicker.

That's all for now. Oh, and thanks for all the feedback on the "Favorite Things" series. It's still ongoing. I've got some new ones coming up soon. In case I don't make it through March Madness, I've specified in my will that I want the new instalments in a timely fashion.

Ciao for now.

Gerard

Things I Like #4: Coffee With Friends

2011-02-21T16:13:00.000-03:30

In the small rural town in which I grew up, there was no coffee shop, no cafe or bistro where friends gathered to talk among themselves. For that simple pleasure, there was the kitchen, mostly the gathering place of women to talk about recipes, husbands, the weather and, I'm sure, many other subjects--both sanctioned and taboo--to which I, as an innocent child, was not privy.

The men congregated in the shed. Some chewed baccy or smoked Rothmans cigarettes, blowing smoke rings into the air as if exhaling a ghost. They'd talk of the "queer" ones in the community--meaning anyone who was a bit different--or about fishing and hunting, about what a nag the wife was or whatever topic happened to present itself for the day. Likewise, the woods, the fishing stage, a chance meeting on the side of the road, or two cars parked side by side on the road itself and blocking traffic--the need for talk, the desire for connection, of sharing the news somehow found expression.

It was a rough life, with a rough-hewn communication. The worlds of men and women rarely intertwined. At house parties--either at Christmastime or in summer when the American relatives would come visit--the men would end up in the living room and the women in the kitchen, chattering and drinking whiskey and beer. The children might cling to the feet of a parent or find himself (as I often did) sitting in the stairwell, ears pricked for the good parts--the juicy jokes, the curious gossip, or the unexpected song (which mostly came in the form of an Irish folk song or a country song from the radio).

My friends and I would build treehouses or forts--even in winter, it was humongous snow fortresses that would have housed Napoleon's army from the cold--and it was there we would talk about whatever was on our minds. Superman. Batman. Wolverine. Girls we liked or didn't like. How many stars were in the sky. Whether there was life in outer space. How far it was to California, how much it might cost to get there and whether you would ever go? When I didn't feel like talking to people, I would slink into the front seat of my parents' car with a good library book (my parents' budget didn't justify buying books, even if we'd had a bookstore) and stay there for hours, reading. Daydreaming. Or I'd spend my time on the landwash, calling out snails from their shells while the North Atlantic rushed and crashed onto rocks all around.

When I moved away to the city in my late teens, I discovered that, while I enjoyed being alone sometimes, my favorite passion was conversation. I'm sure it exasperated many of my friends, but there was nothing I enjoyed more than to sit and talk--didn't matter about what. It could be about plans for the future, about the merits of having a TV or not having one, about how the world might look in twenty years (boy, were we wrong), about whether Communism was a legitimate style of government, whether the Russians might really bomb us, or whether we would ever find true happiness, married with children, unmarried without children, or single and gallivanting about the world, largely dependent on the kindness of strangers as we backpacked across Europe, sleeping in the barn with the farmer's daughter, carrying a guitar on our backs, and doing odd jobs to keep ourselves alive.

It was the kind of talk that occurred in our bachelor apartment, shared by as many as five of us at a time and sometimes as few as two. It would take place in coffee shops--back then, Tim Horton's was the venue of choice, as St. John's didn't have nearly as many cafes as it does now. I can remember sitting under the overpass on Kenmount Road late at night, talking to a friend of mine about the state of the world while another friend "needed the apartment" with her boyfriend for two or three hours. I sometimes wonder how life has treated that friend--because we had a connection. There was a truth, an honesty and an urgency to our talk. The friend who needed the apartment eventually married that boyfriend. But I doubt they just talked, not that night.

I remember sitting on a picnic bench with a friend who owned a guitar. We sang Simon and Garfunkel songs over and over, dreaming of being them one sunny day, and we even played music together in years to come, on stage and off. But it was the talking, the daydreaming in between that was the glue that ensured we would remain together as friends for years, even decades, to come.

These days, my tolerance for long conversations that last into the night has faded and gone. I'd always had an appetite for hours and hours of discussion--in grassy fields, open-windowed cars, sitting around bars, barbecues or kitchen tables--until everyone else was ready to get some shut-eye except me. Always the last man standing. Always wanting to call for pizza at 3 a.m. or go out for a Tim's run at 4:30 or race to Signal Hill to watch the sun come up over the blazing red ocean. Sleepy-headed and chilled to the bone sometimes, but it was as good as life gets, especially when you're young.

I've discovered in recent years that I still enjoy it. Sure, besides my writing, I make a living by talking. I discovered a couple of years ago when I'd had minor throat surgery that I still love talking and will always love it. I'll never take it for granted again.

Most of my friends are female. And most of them are talkers. I admit I'm less of a talker than a listener. I'll ask questions, like a reporter or David Letterman, anything to keep you from being silent. I think there's something I've always felt, a sadness or a fear, a sense of mortality--the realization, even when I was young and listening through the stair railings--that the discussion doesn't go on forever, and, as Leonard Cohen says, "It's hell to pay when the fiddler stops."

I don't like going to bed early. I don't like ending conversations until every last syllable and emotion is wrung from it like water from a dishcloth or red wine from a glass. I don't like when friends have to get on planes or when students have to leave for the end of semester. Final exams are a morbid thing. Feeding the meter is an abomination--a pause in a perfectly good spoken-aloud thought. The ringing of the cellphone. The vibration of an incoming text message. The dry white bottom of a finite cup of coffee. These have always been, to me, the near equivalent of the closing of a lid on a coffin.

There'll be time enough for silence between friends when the fiddler stops for good.

I'm thinking about all this now because I just came back from a long--though not nearly long enough--coffee and conversation with a very dear, old friend (sixteen years now). It was snowy and all the cozier for it, with a view of the harbour, the ships coming in and going out, surrounded by people having coffee and breakfast with their own friends, acquaintances, and possibly family.

Afterwards, stepping out into the cold, I felt (as I always do at such times) as if I've been awakened from a powerful and perfect dream--the kind where friends always have time for coffee and conversation, for sharing intimate secrets and opinions about politics, religion, TV and music. I'm even interested in what she has to say about my iPod Touch, simply because she is my friend and when we first met, email was still new and the idea of an iPod hadn't even entered the mass consciousness. Computers were an elite item that would never, ever infiltrate the home.

I treasure conversation threads on Facebook or email. I thrill at the sound of the bell that says, "You've got mail!" But nothing, but nothing replaces good old coffee talk, which is far more addictive than email or Facebook could ever be. I'm already missing that friend and already planning the next coffee with another friend whom I haven't seen in a while. And on it goes; around it whirls.

However, it's not the talking I crave. It's the sound of that voice on that day--the voice that some day will not be there anymore, but for now has the ability to hold me rapt.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ETQfuzNGT58

Things I like #3: The Big Bang Theory

2011-01-25T16:48:00.007-03:30

Penny is a hot blonde who moves into the apartment next door to Leonard and Sheldon, self-described (and actual) nerds who, along with their two friends, Raj and Howard, live a sheltered existence, working in a laboratory by day and, at night, indulging in comic books, Facebook, Star Trek marathons, anything related to Star Wars (Sheldon will only watch the movies sequentially because he prefers “to be disappointed in the order in which George Lucas intended.”), Green Lantern, Incredible Hulk, The Fantastic Four, and space travel. That’s only the beginning of the seemingly infinite list of quirks and predilections that come with being these characters.

It’s not just that they’re geeks. Sure, we laugh at them. But we also laugh with them. When Penny, the cheesecake factory waitress, gets a good one on Sheldon, we cheer. Not just because she’s hot (I guess I probably mentioned that detail already), but because Sheldon is a snob of the highest order and thinks he is vastly superior to Penny. In many ways, maybe he is superior to her…although none come to mind. We like the underdog, and Penny is it—in spite of how she looks and that she’s vastly likable. Huh.

Speaking of the underdog, Leonard is a short, bespectacled, rather awkward man-boy who pines to be with Penny and, guess what? (SPOILER ALERT) He gets his wish, becoming, to her, "my little humunculus." That’s another thing I love about this show—the world seemingly loves an underdog—someone who seems at a disadvantage in a certain arena—whether socially, intellectually, athletically, or whatever. I love an underdog and, when it comes to dating beautiful women, Leonard is the ultimate underdog, and yet he gets Penny.

I could talk about Raj’s constant stereotyping of Indian culture even while he berates others for being “racist.” Or I could mention Howard’s penchant for irritating “the ladies”—as well as his friends—with his constant bravado regarding his sexual exploits, his Furleyesque outfits, his outrageously funny mother with whom he lives, or his various masturbatory fantasies—before he, too, inexplicably finds hismelf hooked up with a rather hot, bespectacled blonde named Bernadette.

But mostly it’s Sheldon who keeps me watching. I live for those episodes when his “Creationist” mother comes to visit, played by Laurie Metcalfe. But it’s Sheldon himself who makes it work. He considers himself to be the smartest person in any room, perhaps in any universe, alternate universes included. He cannot tell a lie, and he cannot keep a secret.

Sheldon: I promised Penny.

Leonard: Promised Penny what?

Sheldon: I wouldn't tell you the secret. (pause) Shhhhh!!!!

Leonard: What secret? Tell me the secret.

Sheldon: Mom smokes in the car. Jesus is okay with it, but we can't tell dad.

Leonard: Not that secret, the other secret.

Sheldon: I'M BATMAN!!!! SHHHH!!!

And when he gets sick, he needs someone—preferably his mother, but the reluctant Penny will do—to sing “Soft Kitty” to him. Penny eventually turns the tables and gets him to sing rounds.

I could go on and on with favorite episodes, favorite moments, but the upshot of it all is that this show makes me laugh. I know that some people consider it an intellectual sin akin to reading a romance novel or an Archie comic to own a TV, let alone watch it. And I know that if you admit to having a TV, you really should not plug it in or—God forbid—get cable. And if, by some stretch of genius, you do all of that and/ or have a satellite dish, then you absolutely must not—couldn’t possibly—be interested in a mere sitcom. You must watch Animal Planet, Discovery, Bravo! , CNN, Newsworld, or something slightly intellectual.

I choose to watch The Big Bang Theory because:

1. It makes me laugh. I need to laugh almost as much as I need water. Laughter has never attempted to drown me, unless I happened to take a gulp before I laugh unexpectedly. But I’ll take my chances.

2. Sheldon is a unique blend of C3P0, Spock, and Jack Klugman's character in The Odd Couple. He’s insufferable and lovable at the same time. And nobody on TV—or in movies, for that matter—can deliver such difficult lines with such perfect comic timing. And his facial expressions and slapstick abilities are pretty fine too.

3. Kaley Cuoco as Penny. Smart, funny, and sexy without trying (okay, sometimes she does try, but only for laughs because she knows the boys can’t handle it).

4. It’s smart comedy such as I haven’t seen since the days of Mad About You, Cheers, Barney Miller and M*A*S*H. Sure, I like the occasional episode of How I Met Your Mother and I caught the occasional Seinfeld. But…

5. This show has heart. The characters are likable, even when they’re mean to each other. The meanness doesn’t actually go all that deep; you sense the love they have for each other, but they would never say it aloud. They say it with gifted comic books, an awkward hug, or allowing Sheldon his “special place” on the couch. Of course, as his own mother would say, “He is one of God’s special people.”

And, once again, I care not what my love of this show says about me. It’s part of who I am. Sure, I could live without it. But I’d rather not. Thursdays at 8:00 Eastern. Anytime if you own Seasons 1-3 as I do.

Oh, and one more before I go:

Sheldon: Why are you crying?

Penny: Because I'm stupid!

Sheldon: That's no reason to cry. One cries because one is sad. For example, I cry because others are stupid, and that makes me sad.

Me, too, Shelly, me too.

Cover Story

2011-01-21T20:05:00.002-03:30

Here's a look at the final version of the cover for my upcoming short story collection, Moonlight Sketches. The beautiful artwork comes from the mind and the pen of St. John's artist Darren Whalen, who was an absolute dream to work with. These stories are connected in that they all take place in the same small town, called Darwin, and I wanted a cover that captured the darker side of smalltown Newfoundland. The collection has a dark sense of humour, of course, and I thought the cover should insinuate a blend of dark and light, while making the association with the title at the same time. Darren's idea was that the moon should be present but not too prominent, and I agreed. It was his vision that, not only should the moon cast a glow upon the streets of this midnight town, but that it should spread light upon the entire page--which keeps the cover from being too dark. After all, you need to be able to see the title and the name of the author, as well as various highlighted areas of Darwin. The task was a difficult one, or so I thought, but Darren pulled it off brilliantly. (For the full wraparound cover, you can scroll further down.) Oh, and the solitary figure ambling down the road in the dead of night? The pièce de résistance.

Below is the full cover, including flaps,designed by Darren Whalen. Here, you get the full view of Darwin in all its rich, dark glory. There are landmarks in the sketch that mean a lot to me, as someone who has been writing about Darwin for a lot of years. I look at it and I see the places where certain characters' stories occur. I see Winnie and Francis' house overlooking the bay, the school that Benny and Dave break into and find themselves in a heap of trouble, the streets where a soldier's funeral parade brings an entire town to a standstill, and the community's only bar (Jack's Place) where several characters go for solace and a drink, but often find more. And, of course, there's that ubiquitous moon of many faces, peering down on them all like a benevolent, curious, and yet distant god. The characters often act as if no one is watching, and yet, for as alone as they are in this little cove, off the known path, there is always the sense that their stories are taking place on a larger stage, beneath the same moon as you and me, wherever we are. Somehow, Darren Whalen's artwork captures all of these textures and nuances, and so much more. The cover truly is a work of art.

(Click on the cover for a larger view.)

Things I Like #2: The World According to Garp

2011-01-20T20:49:00.000-03:30

The World According To Garp (1978), by John Irving, is not the favorite novel of anyone I know. But it is mine. (Disclaimer: I can’t actually limit myself to one “favorite novel” any more than I can limit myself to one favorite food. But, for the sake of choosing something I actually like about which I can talk, I choose this one.) Unlike most people, I read the book long before I saw the movie starring Robin Williams and Glenn Close.

It was a book about writers. T.S. Garp was an aspiring novelist and his mother, Jenny Fields, was a nurse who didn’t aspire to be one but became one anyway. In fact, her accidental career as a scribe far outpaced and outweighed that of her son, providing much of the humour and pathos in the novel.

There was the cast of characters—including a former football pro who becomes a transgendered houseguest and endearing friend, a professorial wife with a biting wit and a younger lover, a babysitting lover of Garp’s who bites off more than she should chew, a deranged girl from Garp’s childhood who haunts him all his life. There are tons of reasons I love this novel, despite the fact that most times I find John Irving’s ideas about literature insufferable. But he does write good stories. Sometimes they’re way over the top and ridiculously absurd, but they’re always funny and his characters are mostly endearing, despite their flaws.

I love that Garp goes running, as well as being a writer. I love that he chases down a speeding driver who endangers his children. I love that the characters are able to forgive each other almost anything, but even when they don’t forgive—or forgive easily—their reasons are completely understandable. I love the “Undertoad” and the tragedy it brings. I love the scene where he loses a chunk of his dignity in the driveway.

But most of all, I like the inimitable way that Irving’s story—like many of his novels—makes me smile, from beginning to end. Many of my favorite novels (more on those another time, I’m sure) are intellectual experiences, books that make me think, that cause me to see the world in a different way, that mess with ideas of linearity in time and narration. Irving’s novel does much of that, too, but mostly it just makes me smile because, you know, life is just so damn funny, even when it’s tragic, according to Garp.

The full trailer of the movie, The World According To Garp:

Chix with Stix: Something New

2011-01-18T19:13:00.002-03:30

Things are coming along nicely for the launch of Moonlight Sketches in March. Meanwhile, I'm working on some other projects--writing the ending of my novel-in-progress, adjudicating a short story competition, and penning a new, soon-to-be-published article (details to come) about my journey towards publication, which will also include some advice for the unpublished. I'm finding I've got a lot to say and there's hardly any way to shut me up once I've begun.

Speaking of which, I was pondering last night about my newfound admiration for certain singers and songwriters. I've always had somewhat of a thing, shall we say, for female singers with guitars and pianos, especially those who write their own lyrics and melodies. In fact, I'd go so far as to say it's my favorite kind of music, somewhat of an obsession, of sorts.

All of this pondering got me to thinking (it's not quite redundant, as this new thinking is on a deeper level, you see): why don't I blog about this predilection? Why not just tell people what you like and why you like it?

Well, that started off a firestorm in my head--why, there are dozens, even hundreds, of things I like, and I could blog about one every day for a month and not run out of things to say. Furthermore, it's not only in keeping with my desire for authenticity, but each blog entry would say far more about me than I could ever say by explaining what I'm like. Not that anyone really cares what I'm "like," but you know what I mean--showing instead of telling, and all that. So I'll show you what I'm like by telling you what I like.

So here it is, starting with "Chix With Stix," these are a few of my favorite things! Drop the snow from the rafters! Change the set to a sparkly winterwonderland! It's Gerard's favorite things! (Can't help thinking about that recent classic episode of "How I Met Your Mother": "It's Barney's FAVORITE THINGS! YOU get a lap dance! YOU get a lap dance!"

Okay, no lap dances. But I like female singers with guitars and pianos, and who write their own songs.

Why? Because they're cool. They almost always look good--something about the guitar. Something about the fact that it looks like they have skills and talent. I mean, looking useful is key to being an attractive person, right? I'm more likely to listen to you if I sense that you can do something besides just talk.

Being able to write your own lyrics means you have something in your head, something worth listening to (hopefully). I'm talking about Laura Marling. I'm talking Sarah Slean and Sarah Harmer. I'm talking Jenn Grant, Florence and the Machine and Amelia Curran. I could go on and on. But the fact is, when I want to relax, it's a female voice I want to hear. I'll blog another time about my favorite male voices, and there are tons of them--and I can relax to the best of them, too. But this is about my #1 obsession, my go-to girls, the ones that make me feel good inside. I love the sound of the female voice, especially when it's wrapped around biting lyrics and beautiful harmonies.

Maybe as the month goes on, I'll find myself blogging about particular songs or singers. I dunno. I'll see where the month takes me. I might even blog next month about the things I don't particuarly like--i.e. the things I hate. My most obnoxious things!

But for now, here's a video, if you wish, of my absolute favorite Laura Marling song. You really should check out her music, if you're so inclined, along with some of the others I mentioned. There'll be more to come, for sure.

Laura Marling:

Virtually reality

2011-01-09T13:41:00.001-03:30

First entry for 2011—it feels like an important one. But I admit to not feeling up to the enormity of such a moment. Christmas, although I usually love the season, was more of a slog than usual this year. With family gatherings, which always includes family politics, I really got no writing done at all and that’s when I really get bummed out. More than that, I get irritable.

All that aside, I’ve decided to be a more authentic me this year. Life is so full of expectations from people. I find that, for the most part, people crave to know the real you until you actually show them some authenticity and then you find out what they really want is the fake you—the one that tells them what they really want to hear. And what they really want is assurance that you’re just like them—not odd or eccentric in anyway. They want to know that you’re rowing the same boat in exactly the same way, that you hate the same things and love the same things and have the same experiences and perspectives on the world. But it’s just not true.

I feel like most of my life I’ve been secretly myself and publicly whatever people want me to be. That’s not to say I’m not unique. I think people actually see me as unique, even a bit strange. Some even see me as likable. Others don’t quite know what to make of me. Mostly we call those people family.

This year I’m continuing on a trend I started last year, which is to be more and more myself, no matter the situation. It’ll keep me from worrying about people’s reaction to what I’m saying and doing. I never mean to offend anyone by what I say or do, or what I write, but then again, if they are going to be offended, then they’d best just do it and get it over with and, if possible, get over it.

I’m embracing my eccentricity this year. Owning my oddness. And if anyone doesn’t like it, they can kiss my self-righteous, earnest, playful, artistic, sodden, unsorry arse.

I’m starting with this blog. I haven’t written much in it for the past year, except for the occasional mention of The Book and how plans for its imminent release into the world are going. I’ll continue to do that because mostly I’m hoping that those who read my fiction will also want to read the blog—it’s tough keeping up with it, but I consider it a bonus of sorts. Sure, I’ll use it as a place to work some stuff out, but it’s also meant to be entertaining.

Having said that, though, I feel I’ve restrained myself. When I started this blog—making it distinct from my academic blog which is mostly for students and academics—I promised myself, and readers, that this blog would show me for my true self. While I haven’t written anything false, I admit to also holding back—of virtually hog-tying myself because I didn’t quite know how to go about this—of how to make a clean break from “Professor Collins” to “writer Gerard Collins.” Fact is, they’re both me. But I’m different in a classroom than I am anywhere else. This blog—which I’ve renamed “Moonlight Sketches,” after the book itself—was supposed to represent all shades and variations of me and my authentic self, but instead it has become a mere store window where I say “There’s a book—hope you read it.”

But I want it to be more. It’s a tough transition from being one kind of public persona to being another kind of public persona. Fact is, I’ve always just been myself, no matter where I am. But sometimes, in some places, some people make you feel very uncomfortable when you’re just being yourself. Again, they don’t really want that from you, especially when they’ve gotten used to something else.

I don’t want to reassure anyone that I’m just like them. I’m not.

I mean, sure, I have worries and concerns, personal issues—things that keep me up and awake at night. My body ages like yours. I watch a lot of the same movies, read the same books (mostly), and generally am human in every basic way. In fact, it would be tough for me to be a writer without being able to understand and empathize with your/our species. It's one of the necessary tools of the trade. Plus, I do like being a member of the human race, warts and all.

But I’ve never known anyone quite like me. ("That’s just like me!" you might say. "I’m unique too! So that means we’re the same!")

Uh, no.

The only real justification for me to keep this blog going is because I am different and I have things to say that no one else would possibly care to say. More and more, I find that when I try to fit into certain groups, I don’t really belong. The goal for me is not to pretend—to just be who I am and hope that that’s good enough for people. It’s harder to do than it sounds, or so I think.

More on this another time.

Meanwhile, I also wanted to mention something else: The Facebook Experiment has been going on for two years now and has been fairly successful. With only a handful of exceptions, I have made a policy of not inviting people to be my friends, but accepting friendship wherever it is offered. I think it’s worked well and, for the most part, I will continue in that vein. Again, it allows for, and even fosters, a more authentic connection for me—if people seek me out, it means they are genuine in their desire to be friends or good acquaintances, or even professional connections. To me, it’s all good. And I do realize that it seems a bit snobbish, but for someone such as myself who is so unsure of people’s real intentions, it’s best that I keep it this way for now. If anyone is reading this and would like to join me on Facebook, by all means do. http://www.facebook.com/home.php? I would love to hear from you and would genuinely embrace your friendship. I toy daily with the idea of leaving Facebook, but I know I won’t. I have too much fun there. And even there, the experiment continues—to be more and more authentic, to let no one stomp on my freak flag, to entertain a few people, to let people know I care about the world and thus let them know, by example, I think it’s okay to care.

It’s a cynical age. It’s dangerous to be seen as serious or caring. You risk much.

But at least it’s real. And it’s worth the risk.

GC

2010-12-07T15:08:00.001-03:30

The first glimpse of the cover I've posted on-line. I'm pretty thrilled with it. I'll post the hi-res cover shot by itself soon, as well as the original wrap-around artwork. In fact, this poster features only the front cover, but the entire cover has a much broader view of Darwin, the small town in which this short story collection is set. Oh, and this poster isn't reproduced from a file. It's actually a photograph of the cover.

The first poster for Moonlight Sketches.

New Review from one of the best literary journals in Canada

2010-11-06T18:45:00.001-02:30

Yet another great review for Hard Ol' Spot. I'm very pleased to take up two whole paragraphs. As a newly published author, it takes out some of the jitters with a new book forthcoming in March.

Kudos to editor Mike Heffernan, artist Darren Whalen, and the amazing lineup of authors including Lee Thompson, JoAnne Soper-Cook, Michelle-Butler Hallett, Leslie Vryenhoek, Michael Crummey, and a holy host of others. I'm proud to be associated with this book.

http://ojs.lib.umanitoba.ca/prairie_fire/article/view/27/19

GC

Cover Boy

2010-09-05T19:36:00.002-02:30

Today I had my very first look at the cover for Moonlight Sketches. Gotta say, I am impressed, delighted, thrilled, excited, and just generally pleased.

The artist is Darren Whalen, who does amazing work. His website is http://www.darrenwhalen.net/ if you're interested in checking him out. He's been painting and sketching and what-not for a long time now, but he's still very young and, really, is just getting beginning to become known in the art world. I haven't a doubt, based on what I've seen of his work, his name is going to be pretty big one of these days, maybe sooner rather than later. I can't show around the cover for Moonlight Sketches just yet because it hasn't been approved by the publisher, but Darren also did the artwork for another book, an anthology named Hard Ol' Spot (see image below) in which I had two stories published. Both stories, "Break, Break, Break" and "Hold Out" also appear as part of my collection that's due out in the spring.

This process has taken a while, of course. When I first met with my publisher, Donna Francis of Creative Publishing (MS is being published under their Killick Press imprint, which has been doing high quality work with fiction for a long time now), I mentioned that I loved Darren's work on Hard Ol' Spot and she said if that's who I wanted to do my cover, that would be fine with her when the time came. I was blown away. Not many authors (especially first-timers) get to have any say in their cover art at all, let alone in who the artist would be. This has been the beginning of a beautiful friendship with the people at Creative. They've been an author's dream, right from the start. Lately, I've been dealing a lot with the publicist/marketing specialist (not sure of the exact title) Janine Lily, who is the consummate pro and very friendly and easy to get along with. She is razor sharp too--just like Donna--and doesn't mind giving an opinion when needed...and it's often needed.

Darren and I got together earlier this summer--sometime in June, I think it was--to discuss ideas for the cover. He and I were on the same page right from the start. He wanted to convey the essence of the entire book--which is essentially a series of dark-themed short stories all set in the same small town, a place called Darwin--and to do this, he thought the best thing was to represent the entire town on the cover. Of course, he wanted to cast it in moonlight. While I loved the idea, I was concerned about the cover being too dark. Not to fear: he had it all figured out. It would be dark, it would be a sketch (as suggested by the title), and it would be this kind Blackwoodish dark blue tone to evoke the nighttime. And there would be lots of light coming from the suggestion of a full moon overheard. Anyway, I won't give all the detail, but it came out exactly as he described it, only better.

Seeing it with my name on the front, Darren's sketch of the town that has existed in my mind for nearly twenty years, and the words of praise on the back from some very well known and respected writers, just felt very...humbling. I've used other words (see above), but thats the ultimate one. This whole thing at times feels so much bigger than me, seeing my words go to print, my stories of people who, again, existed only in my imagination but are very real to me all the same, no words can convey the feeling that gives me.

Bravo, Darren. Bravo. Thus far, and I'm sure it will continue, it has been an absolute pleasure working with you and an honour having you design the cover of my first book.

It's been a good day.

Why write short stories?

2010-08-31T09:15:00.003-02:30

It's sad--to me, at least--that the question even needs to be asked. The better question might well be, "Why read a short story?" But I've never been one for begging. I don't want to tell anyone else why they should do anything because if you have to explain, the battle's already lost. There is no way in this semi-literate world to convince anyone to read something they don't want to read. Short stories and poetry seem to be at the top of the "Most Unwanted" list.

But I've always liked short stories. Like most people, I was introduced to the form in grade school. Unlike most people, I took to it like a wasp to a garbage can. Unfortunate metaphor, but it will suffice. Edgar Allan Poe's "The Telltale Heart" is one of those I recall best--it was the "vulturous eye" of the old man upon which the insane narrator fixated, an image that has stayed with me since Grade Seven. I remember "The Monkey's Paw" by W.W. Jacobs, with the admonition that you "should be careful what you wish for." Here I was, the biggest daydreamer in the Western hemisphere and being told that my dreams could lead to tragedy, disaster, and mental anguish. And while I felt ill for the grieving parents who'd brought their son, in some loathsome form, back from the dead, I thought it was pretty cool what a mere thought could do.

Later on, in university, I was so enthralled with Hawthorne's "Young Goodman Brown" and "My Kinsman, Major Molineux" that I went on to read his Twice-Told Tales and anything else by that author I could get my hands on. It was like being dragged willingly into a world I'd never even imagined--of witch trials in 17th C New England, of the changing of the guard in Colonial America, and people literally being tarred and feathered and paraded through town. Sure, I could look these things up on line or, back then, in an encycopedia. But there was something in the medium that compelled me to keep reading and to want to find more and read more of it. Quite simply, I liked being told a story. Maybe it was the yearnings of a child who didn't get read to enough at bedtime when he was young, like the baby who doesn't receive enough mother's milk. Stories, granted, are a different kind of nourishment, but it's a kind that we all crave at some point. Whether in film, song, graphic novel, or comic book, the story is the thing. It helps us make sense of our world sometimes, or it just entertains us--although I suspect it wouldn't entertain nearly as much if it didn't help us make sense of some things. On some level, the story is as primal as mother's milk, with similar nurturing powers and, in like manner, we lose our taste for it as we grow older.

Except, we still crave when we get older. We seek that nourishment where we can--in bars, from music, on the internet. It's like the human propensity for seeing faces--particularly the face of Jesus in a corn chip--in that we seek the man or woman who will tell us a good story, something to terrify us (like the escaped convict with the bloody hook for a hand!), mystify us (whatever happened to Ichabod Crane?), or teach us (as when we learn from Poe that madness resides within us all--a rather terrifying thought, in fact).

Okay, so maybe we are drawn to the story, but why on earth would someone choose to write a short story? I can't speak for the many who do write them. Everyone (or at least those who are paying attention) seems to know that short stories aren't the big draw they once were. Hardly anyone is reading them these days. There are too many other pulls on the imagination. The novel is bigger and sexier and, let's face it, can tell a much bigger story. Then, in this technologically advanced age, there is always the option to "make your own adventure" or seek thrills in a video game or watch reality TV, or any TV for that matter. One could even--heaven forbid--go down to court for a pickup game of basketball. There's just no shortage of options.

You would think in this so-called "magazine age" with its short attention span that the short story would be ideal. You could even read them on an iPod Touch, if you so choose. With its no-nonsense approach to the narrative, told in as few words as possible, the short story would seem to be the perfect companion for that evening ride home on the bus, or those few minutes in the dentist's office before they come to take you away, or that dead half hour when there's nothing going on and you just need some mental stimulation. Those last two words might be the key here because, at the end of a long day, the last thing a lot a people want is "mental stimulation." Of course, sadly, there are a lot of people who would consider themselves far better off without those two words entering their vocabularly, since we live in an age where it's so easy to become famous for doing absolutely nothing and having two clicks in your head isn't a requirement. Why be smart when you can be rich? Personally, I'd prefer both.

Will short story reading actually make you smarter? Well, that's a matter for some debate and it is treading into that territory where I didn't want to go, of convincing people they "should" read short stories. If you're intrigued enough to have read this far, then you probably don't fight your inclination to read them, not so much anyway. But those who stopped reading after the first paragraph, or even just the title, likely will not be bullied into submission. Those people we call the unwashed masses.

The real question, possibly, is whether writing short stories will make me smarter, as a writer? On the one hand, who cares? There is a danger, as I recall Stephen King recently pointing out, of short story artists writing only for the shrinking audience, for those who are actually reading. And I think there's an AWFUL lot of that going on. Editors often are interested in the magic tricks a writer can do--how many voices are there in this collection? Can he write in a postmodern style? Can he mess around with plot or write a character-centric piece that will have you creaming your jeans from the shear sexiness of the words, or is he just one of those old-fashioned writers who simply wants to tell a good story? The latter creature is in danger of extinction as more and more literary journals exist for the reading pleasure of those who subscribe to--and perhaps never even read--their magazines. They're often not interested in a good story well told. They want to know if you're being "experimental" with either form or language because, after all, "that's what everyone is reading."

Well, if that's what "everyone" is reading, they can read among themselves. Experimentation is fine, It is probably even necessary, to test the boundaries of what's been done and, especially what that particular writer has been doing. I often test my own supposed boundaries, if only so I don't bore myself to death. But there is a danger inherent in such behaviour when it becomes the sole reason for writing a story.

To me, a story should have, at its heart, the entertainment of whoever might read it. It might be read on a plane, in a living room, on a park bench, or wherever, and be understood (for the most part) and enjoyed by just about anyone. But there is a lot of writing for writers going on out there. I may even have done it myself, although, if I have, it is certainly not a consicous effort. Sure, I've written stories that castigate writers for performing such tricks--of speaking only to other writers, or to university professors and editors--in a private language that the unwashed masses couldn't possible be interested in. And who, really, could blame them?

Edgar Allan Poe wrote his share of stories that were meant to tweak the noses of his critics. He himself was "The Tomahawk Critic" and an editor of some renown. But his best stories--the ones that have survived him in the grandest way--are the ones that simpy seek to thrill, to anger, to excite...to thrill. He aims to produce an effect, and that is all. He doesn't want you to be thinking about the state of literary criticism while he's trying to tell you a story. He wants to scare the living crap out of you and make you afraid to go to sleep tonight. That's what he wants. It's sort of like , "Buddy, I'm already up; I might as well keep you awake too." Misery loves company and that, too, is a sentiment which drives many a writer, poets included.

I enjoy writing short stories. That wasn't always the case. But it is the case now because, once I started writing them and people starting reading them and enjoying them, I was hooked. There's not much money in it, but that couldn't possibly be the goal anyway. The audience just isn't big enough. I've always written novels--without much publication success yet, though I know that will change--and to novels I will return. But I'm already on to my next collection, about monsters of different kinds, and I salivate at the prospect of writing the next one. It's just plain fun. That's why I write short stories., or at least a big part of the reason.
There is an inherent artistic satisfaction I derive from producing something with a perfect beginnging, middle, and end. Sometimes they don't work out. But when they do, it's a feeling akin to having written a perfect song or painted a haunting portrait. Short stories aren't just miniature novels. They're not miniature anythings--they're just the size they mean to be and need to be in order to get the story told. If the idea can be told in 10,000 words, why would someone take 150,000? I guess there are many reasons for that, but the inverse question is even more to the point: if you can write a big idea in a few thousand words, now that's a challenge and one to be proud of. They might not pay you much for it, no matter how you publish it, but you've done something artistic.

Can't believe I used the "A" word, but I admit there is that sense of artistic pride in writing short stories. I like knowing that I can do it and that I did it. But if I ever find myself writing to an audience of writers--very often anyway--then I am in trouble. I like when other writers like my stuff, but there is a huge part of me that doesn't even care.

There are certain members of my family about whom I always say, "If they're pleased with what I'm doing, then I must be harming myself." Well, that's similar to my mantra about writing: "If all the critics and all the writers are pleased with my efforts, then I'd better think twice before doing it again." I like good reviews, but I don't need them. All I really need is to be true to my own vision for the story. Of course, having an editor who gets your vision is gold in itself, but you can't go trying to please an editor or anybody else. You don't get to be Poe, Hawthorne, King or Alice Munro by worrying about trying to reinvent the short story.

It doesn't need to be reinvented. It already exists.

Like a tree that falls in a forest.

GC

Tick Tock!

2010-08-23T19:32:00.001-02:30

Time's running out.

It's almost September and I'm trying to put the finishing touches on my novel, Finton Moon, but the clock keeps ticking--but that's fine; that's what clocks do.

I finished the editor's revisions on Moonlight Sketches near the end of the June and took a break to see some of the Central and Eastern parts of the island. The hope was to clear my head and then I could come back and throw myself into my writing. But the clock was ticking so loud I could barely hear myself think. So it all comes down to these next two weeks. To finish, or not to finish?

I'll keep you posted. As the fall draws near, I hope to make time to write a lot more about how the summer went. (Sad words, those.) For now, though, it's back to work.

GC

Moonlight Sketches: A New Beginning

2010-05-09T14:28:00.001-02:30

You might notice two things.

One thing is the new title on my blog. I've chosen the new title "Moonlight Sketches" after doing away with the old one, "Gothic Times" (R.I.P.), which I might resurrect at another time. Moonlight Sketches also happens to be the title of my new book coming out in Spring 2011. It's a collection of short stories about the fictional town of Darwin, Newfoundland, a place with a light heart and a dark soul. At present, there are fifteen stories, all connected by the fact that they take place in Darwin. Each story focuses on a different character, although, just as you everywhere you go in a small town you meet the same people, there are recurring characters throughout this collection.

I've been writing about Darwin for a long time now, really since I was about twenty years old. Kind of like Stephen King has "Castle Rock, Maine," I have Darwin, Newfoundland. I could set my stories just about anywhere, but it really helps to have this place that I can go to, where I know the landscape and the buildings by heart (although every now and then, a new person will appear or I'll encounter a new shop or a tucked-away corner of the Laughing Woods that I didn't know was there). Darwin is a rural area, surrounded by the oceans and trees, inhabited by people who know each other's names, but not necessarily their secrets. That's true to life of course, and it's just as true in the city as it is in the countryside. I could write "sunshine sketches," as Stephen Leacock did--although Leacock was well aware of the duality inherent in most people--but I choose to write "moonlight sketches". The darker, hidden side of people's lives is always far more interesting than the face they present to the public, and that, essentially, is what most of my writing is about.

It would be premature to say much more about Moonlight Sketches for now. I'm in the revision stages for my publisher right now and have to be finished it by the midway point of this summer. But, as the summer goes on, I'll be taking time to highlight each story and tell you a little bit about it--its basic premise and where the idea comes from, more or less (though who really knows?). By the time the book comes out, you'll have a pretty good idea of whether it's something that interests you.

I'm also aware that some of you are just interested in the writing process, as well as the publishing process, so I'll be blogging more about that too as I go. Sometimes I'm not sure what exactly people want when they read the blog of an emerging writer, so I'll just have to go with my instincts and write about the things that interest me and hope that they interest you as well. Having said that, I'll be posting stuff about other people's writing as well. That includes not just local authors, but writers in general who have inspired me in some way. In fact, I've already composed a list of top forty novels that have inspired me to write, and I'll be counting down that list over the summer, just for fun.

The second thing you might notice is that I'm blogging again. It's been a while, I admit, and really it's been too long. I enjoy writing and blogging, in particular, is a form of expression that gets my creative juices flowing. I intend this to be a place where I work some stuff out, not just where a certain project needs to go (I'm also working on three novels this summer, all near completion, just needing some prodding to get them across the finish line), but as a means of working out my thoughts about life in general, about the kinds of things that impress me or worry me or concern me about "the world". By "the world" I just mean everything and everyone, all the sane and insane, sensible and maddening things I see around me and think about constantly.

You see, I think a writer is not some special creature who knows how to use words better than anyone else. Of course, a writer has to have a vocabulary and know a little something about the craft of writing itself. But I honestly think some of those things can be learned, accumulated, if you will, over a period of time. A writer--a fiction writer, that is--is someone with a story to tell, the compulsion to tell, and the means of getting it onto the page in such a way that the reader will be entertained. A writer sees the world a little differently from most folks, but only because he or she notices the details and (here's the kicker) wonders about them, questions them, picks them apart, and puts them back together in the form of a story that, hopefully, someone else will want to read. If he's lucky, some readers (certainly not all and perhaps hardly any) will read that story and say, "Yep, there's truth in that thar tale." But I wouldn't count on that.

A writer is just someone who writes.

I mean, really, that's the truth of it. There's no mystery. It doesn't make me (or any writer) special. It doesn't make me any better than anyone else. Just as a carpenter feels the need to build things and a mechanic feels the need to understand how a car works, I need to understand how humanity works, talk about it in a form that makes sense and entertains someone. I need to write. That's all there is to it.

So I'm writing again in this blog, working on my collection and my novels, and expressing myself all over the place. I've been doing it a long time now and nobody's ever told me to just stop doing it. But even if they did, it wouldn't matter. It's not really an addiction. It's just something I do. To say I enjoyed doing it wouldn't always be true. Sometimes, I do. Sometimes, it's the most painful thing a person can do to their own brain. But I do it.

The sun shines. The rain falls. The writer writes.

Till next time,

GC

Soft spot for Winnie in Hard Ol' Spot

2010-02-07T20:10:00.000-03:30

There was a new review of the Hard Ol' Spot anthology of Atlantic Canadian fiction in the Southern Gazette today, written by Harold Walters.

He's not the first one to take a shine to Winnie in "Hold Out". That's nice because I've already written forty pages of a new novella for Winnie as she takes on the world in my post-apocalyptic tale, "All That Remains" (tentative title). I wrote it about three years ago, right after I finished "Hold Out," simply because I felt that Winnie wasn't finished yet. I hope to finish that one soon. Winnie's been beckoning lately.

Anyway, here's the review. There are thirteen (I think) other talented writers included in Hard Ol' Spot, so I'm very flattered when I even get mentioned. It makes me hopeful that Moonlight Sketches will be well-received when it appears next Spring.

http://www.southerngazette.ca/index.cfm?sid=321248&sc=385

GC

Halifax Chronicle-Herald Review

2010-01-26T09:26:00.000-03:30

A review from the Sunday December 22, 2009 Chronicle Herald (Halifax). I previously listed the link, but that link is now broken. So here's what reviewer Judith Meyrick had to say about Hard Ol' Spot. It truly is an honour to be singled out among such talented writers.

Hard Ol’ Spot short fiction at its best

JUDITH MEYRICK BOOKS & BITS

Sun. Dec 20 - 4:46 AM

Hard Ol’ Spot — An Anthology of Atlantic Canadian Fiction selected by Mike Heffernan (Killick Press, $19.95)

Selecting short stories for an anthology is a challenge. The content, the varying styles of the authors, it all must somehow "hang together" — make a whole. Mike Heffernan has walked this fine line well, and his new anthology, Hard Ol’ Spot, brings together a collection of stories that represents the best of Atlantic authors. Darren Whalen gives each story "a visual signature," his illustrations heading each story, sketching their essence.

These are stories about growing up and learning the hard way, about taking stands, and the Ocean Ranger. There is a quality to these stories that is uniquely Atlantic Canadian. They tell of the harshness of living in outport Newfoundland. They talk of resilience, and joy and dying, and throughout them, the Atlantic Ocean roars and simmers.

In six short pages, At Sea tells of a sailor suffering the deep misery of seasickness in raging seas. Don Roy somehow holds out hope, that a lifetime of poor choices and missed opportunities may still be redeemed.

Michael Crummey’s ability to place his readers inside his stories is remarkable. The Night Watchman tells of a company man, hired to walk the streets of Black Rock, to keep his employers informed of happenings in the night. And of Ellen, "although it’s only in (his) head that she’s part of the story at all."

But it is Winnie in Gerard Collins' "Hold Out" who speaks loudest by saying very little at all. The town is beyond dying, and residents are being offered $50,000 to leave. Only trouble is, it’s all or nothing. And Winnie won’t leave her home and her memories behind.

A good anthology is a cause for excitement among lovers of short stories and Hard Ol’ Spot — An Anthology of Atlantic Canadian Fiction is no exception. Heffernan’s collection showcases Atlantic short fiction at its best.

Mike Heffernan is the author of Rig: An Oral History of the Ocean Ranger Disaster. He lives in St. John’s.

Darren Whalen is a visual artist from Newfoundland. He lives in St. John’s.

Once

2010-01-10T21:43:00.002-03:30

Sometimes you see a movie that just hits you where you live. I just watched the movie “Once” and absolutely loved every single, quirky, music-loving, self-consciously shy and joyful moment of it.

A few years ago, not so many really, I took my guitar to a music studio downtown. I’d scrounged a few hundred dollars I really didn’t have and poured it into a couple of days at the studio, setting down tracks with just me and my guitar, singing a half dozen songs I’d written and thought were pretty good—mostly because friends, family, sometimes audience members, and the occasional music industry person told me were pretty good.

My songs were the only good thing about my music career really. I was a so-so singer with not much of a lower register and a higher register that was nobody’s darling, I’m sure. I was a good middle-range singer and a self-taught guitar player who should have taken some lessons.

But the songs. Ah, the songs. You could give me a topic, a word, a thought, a picture, and I’d write you a a strong melody, with a hook, and handsome lyrics at the drop of a loonie. Okay, no loonies involved, necessarily. Although, like the guy in “Once” who busks and sings his own songs only in the night time, I once played on a street corner in downtown St. John’s just so I’d know what it would feel like. F**ckin’ hard work. Constantly entertaining—or trying to. Constantly playing. Fingers getting sore. Strumming and singing against the wind. Nobody listening, not really. Sure, I made maybe fifty bucks or something like that for a morning’s work. I never did it again. But I learned a lifetime of lessons.

For a few years after that, I made my living with my guitar, singing with various bands, strumming to keep up, but the songs…ah, the songs. I wrote ‘em, I sang ‘em, and people would say, “Did you write that?” It was the moment I lived for.

That was the thing about the movie that got me: I remembered—no, felt and re-lived in my mind—that moment when the song was everything—that sense of urgency, of having to lay it down, get it out, get it right, and never think for a moment that no one would care about it or that it would never be recorded or nurtured or anything else. You only cared to sing the right note, to say the right word, to be brilliant in that very moment. To sound like music.

That’s creation at its finest, at least for an artist.

It’s a feeling I lived for. I still do that with my writing. I feel fortunate to have a book that’s coming out next year that someone actually wants to publish. Maybe someone will even read it.

But there’s nothing like that feeling of having to get it out, knowing it’s important because it matters to you and only you.

With music, every time you sing the song, there’s the chance for brilliance—for a moment that makes sense of the world even if all around you is chaotic shite. If you sing with someone else, all the better. The smile spreads slowly across the hard-lined face of the songwriter who hears his words on the lips of someone who gets it, who knows what it means, more or less, and who wants to sing it with you.

I miss that feeling. I crave it sometimes. There are times when I just know I’m going to pick up that guitar again soon and head down to a St. John’s recording studio, this time maybe with some real money in my pocket, and a band to back me up—a band who’s practiced and professional, who knows what you need and that what you need is for them to be in the moment, to love the song every bit as much as you do, except you know that they couldn’t possibly.

Yeah, that’s what I’ll do. Not for fame or fortune. I’ve never done anything for those reasons. But for love. The pure joy of creating something from nothing and from seeing something through to the end.

Now that’s a movie.

GC

Making it Big on the set of Doyle

2010-01-07T09:23:00.000-03:30

So I made my big break on the new t.v. show The Republic of Doyle last night. You might have missed me, though, if you didn't know what to look for. Heck, I'm sure my own my mother didn't recognize me in that big penitentiary guard hat and fog-gray uniform.

I enjoyed the show and early reviews were fantastic, from the Globe and Mail and from family and friends. I hope the show gets picked up for another season because it means millions of dollars into the local economy and a lot of actors, background actors (like me!), technicians, make-up people, and tons of other people get some work they can depend on for a while.

St. John's has never looked more beautiful, except maybe on a sunny day in autumn, and I love that they imported sunshine from the mainland, much as they did with most of the primary actors who were posing as local. They did a great job, mind you--can't fault them on that. And it was good to see a lot of local people playing minor roles--Sean Panting as the lawyer, plus a few other familiar faces, and of course Bell Island's own Allan Hawco in the lead role. For someone who doesn't look or sound like the prototypical lead actor, he's making a fine living for himself, it would seem, just by being a pretty good actor. The writing was actually quite good for a first episode. These things, from what I know, usually take a while to gel, and there were some inspired moments that made me laugh out loud. I'm looking forward to the next episode.

Oh, and as for my small role. If you look real close near the end when Shaun Majumner is entering (leaving?) a cell to meet with his father, the guard who lets him in (out?) is me. At first, you just see an extreme close-up of my cheek bone as I close the cell door. A few seconds later, you see me walking away in my over-sized hat that looks like it belongs on the head of an actor with a much larger head (I'm sure there are some).

While the part was small (there might be others as the season go on--it's hard to say how they edit these things), I was grateful to have made it on screen at all. They cut these scenes down to their barest, most essential bones so they only need a glimpse of, say, a guard to suggest the idea of a prison. Plus, there were nearly a dozen of us there that day as background actors and only two of us actually made it into the first episode. Hopefully, some of them will be seen throughout the season. They're good people who put in a long day's work that day. The whole thing was an enlightening and joyful experience that I hope to repeat many times, if the show gets picked up again. I kept having to turn them down over the past few months because of my teaching schedule. But if they shoot again this summer, I hope to be there.

Besides, a writer needs his experiences. I've already found the whole thing useful in writing my new novel called "Two Sisters" (almost finished).

Back to work.

Gerard

Feeling Seasonal

2009-12-24T13:40:00.000-03:30

It's Christmas Eve, and my wife and I are having some family over today, and we'll be spending time with them tomorrow as well.

While I can feel a sense of anticipation (of something, not sure what), I can't say I'm feeling Christmas yet. I love this time of year, and this year is no different. There's a little snow, a lot of rushing around, and everything's decorated with festive lights and colors. And yet there's something missing. Usually, I'll fumble around a bit until I can put a name on it, but that's not happening this time, I don't think. There's nothing missing in my life. I have everything I need. But somehow, it's not here yet, whatever it is.

Later this evening, after everyone has gone home and I reflect, consciously or not, on how nice it was to see everyone and spend time in the glow of the Christmas tree lights, eating food, and laughing (there'll be plenty of laughter, for sure), I will probably, suddenly get that feeling. You know: that feeling. The one that tells you you've spent all day not feeling like it's Christmas Eve and then...wham!...it's a little bit before midnight and it's almost Christmas Day. Tomorrow morning, you'll wake up sleepily, stuff yourself gradually with food and drink, basking in the coziness of an early winter morning, and then spend an hour or so opening presents. The rest of the day will be a blur of time with family, eating more food and drinking more wine, watching Albert Finney's Scrooge, and trying to ward off the feelings of sleepiness.

It is the time of year when want is most keenly felt and abundance rejoices, Charles Dickens famously wrote in A Christmas Carol. How true those words are. It's the time when if you are without anything--money, food, family, friends, a certain person, direction in your life--you truly feel it more deeply, closer to the bone. But if you have plenty of those things, you'll realize just how fortunate you are.

For most of us, though, it's both: we have much, but we lack something. Both are fairly pronounced by the holiday season.

I have much good in my life--blessings which I'll count in private, I'm sure. I am even going into the holidays this year with my first book deal, which makes it even more special, particularly in dreaming of what great things will follow. Again, I don't mean money. I mean the sense of well-being that comes from having dreamt of something and worked extremely hard for it for a lot of years. I never thought those years, those minutes, those days, would be wasted, but it sure is nice to know it for sure, to have proof of something that--until now--I only believed in and that some others believed in.

I guess it's sort of like faith. I used to think that that was something that was missing from my life and, certainly, it was. But this year, it's different. I realize that I've gone into Christmas for many years now with a sense of lack, a feeling of having been left in the cold and not being allowed to sit at the big, fancy table. This year, I don't have that feeling. I have other feelings--more positive feelings--to replace them. Strange, but in those other years, I never had any trouble mustering that special feeling of Christmas. Maybe there's a reason for that. Maybe the feeling of want was keen, and that somehow I either identified it with Christmas, or compensated for it with Christmas.

Either way, I now know what's missing and why, feeling it or not, it's Christmas. The thing is to realize it, I suppose. The feeling will surely come, just like family will enter later this afternoon.

Be good to one another, but especially to yourself.

GC

First review for Hard Ol' Spot

2009-12-21T19:08:00.001-03:30

Just saw the first review for the Hard Ol' Spot anthology, this one coming from the Halifax Chronicle-Herald:

http://thechronicleherald.ca/Books/1158553.html

Nice start.

2009-12-12T18:18:00.000-03:30

My shortlisted entry to the Cuffer Prize '09 is published in The Telegram today, in case anyone's interested in a sample of my writing. The challenge was to write a 1200-word short story. Most of my stories are between 4,000 and 5,000 words, so it really was a challenge. This one, called "Treed," very much reflects my philosophy of life and the way in which I sometimes find myself at odds with a materialistic society. Plus, it was fun to write about a man who just wants to climb trees.

Hope you enjoy it.

GC

Early Christmas Present

2009-12-11T20:29:00.001-03:30

When I started writing this blog a couple of weeks ago, my intention was to write about the world of a would-be writer, someone who's been working hard for many years to fulfill the dream of being a published author. While I'd published some stories and won some awards, the publication of a full-length book of fiction had so far eluded me. There were times, I admit, when I'd considered giving up. Not many, but there was some dark nights of the soul when I wondered if this was ever going to happen for me.

Well, today it did happen. This afternoon at around 3:15 p.m., I signed a contract with Killick Press (an imprint of Creative Publishing) to publish my short story collection, Moonlight Sketches.

This changes everything, of course. I'm sleeping little enough as it is, but now I'll be kept up at night thinking about cover art, book launches, signings, and of course revisions and edits. There'll be all that and more.

But it feels good. Here I am, on the 11th day of December, perched on the precipice of a new beginning. My stories have been given a home.

Just wanted to share that. There can only be one first book for a writer, and Moonlight Sketches is mine.

So now this blog takes a new twist as I'll be writing about the whole process of getting this book from idea to page and into publication, with all that that involves.

This isn't the end, by any means. I've got novels to publish and others to write. And the road will be long.

Guess I'm on it now.

GC

The Cuffer Anthology

2009-12-07T19:21:00.001-03:30

I recently attended the launch of The Cuffer Anthology (2009), a collection of Cuffer Prize entries from the first annual competition run by The Telegram. It's the newspaper's attempt to support and, as far as I can tell, even discover and develop writing talent in Newfoundland. The anthology, published by Creative Publishers, contains the top twenty entries to last year's contest, selected by editor Pam Frampton from nearly two hundred entries. The adjudicators were Kathleen Winter, Russell Wangersky, and Joan Sullivan, all noted and respected writers in their own right.

At the same launch, the Cuffer Prize people announced the winners of this year's competition, with Chad Pelley taking top prize after placing third last year. Last year's winner, Josh Pennell, finished 3rd this year, and Jillian Butler took 2nd place. My own story, "Treed," was shortlisted (top 10) out of 160 entries or so, and I feel honoured that it did because I honestly didn't expect it to finish anywhere near that high. Winning wasn't even a possibility. I knew that on the night of the competition and even before. The writing talent in this place is just way too good for me to win a short story contest with a story I came up with in an hour a day or so before the deadline. The winners are deserving, no matter how long their stories took to tell. They wrote their hearts on that particular day when they composed those entries and are obviously talented. Congrats to all three of them.

I've won my share of arts and letters awards and that sort of thing, and I really don't understand why so-called "losers" get their noses out of joint. It just comes down to so many factors: who the judges are, what kind of writing the judges like, what the dynamics of the judges are (sometimes they don't get along so well together, which truly can decide the outcome), what kind of story you wrote, and whether you wrote your absolutely best story.

But even if you write your best story and the judges are amenable to your writing style, that still guarantees nothing because there are SO many fantastic writers out there. It's impossible to take it personally, and yet a lot of writers do. They start crying "Foul!", saying how the judging was biased and they all knew each other or recognized their buddy's writing style. I guess it could happen, but I really think it's rare. In fact, I know it does. I know for sure it's never happened in my favor. When I won the Percy Janes First Novel award (for a still-unpublished manuscipt called Finton Moon), the anonymous adjudicator was a well-known Canadian author who had no clue who I was. But it amazes me how many people, to this day, assumed he must have somehow known me and my writing style and that's the only way I could possibly have won.

Newsflash: If you're going to enter your stories and poems and novels in these contests, you need to assume the best in people and their intentions. Otherwise, don't send it. Keep it. Send it to a publisher. But then, some people have similar problems with publishers as they do with literary competitions. The world might be a little crooked, sure, but I truly believe most of it's pretty straight-up. I think talent eventually wins out. Not always, but usually.

So people keep saying, "Jeez, too bad you didn't win the Cuffer." To which I say, It would have been great to win. I mean, really, that's why I entered. That, and to challenge myself and to give myself a deadline for writing a new story. (Truthfully, that's always my main goal in entering any competition.) But am I surprised when I don't win? Sometimes. But not always. Sometimes, I've written what I absolutely know is a great story and it goes nowhere, for whatever reason. Usually, you know when you've got something good though. And those are the times when you can't be denied. But the "X" factor, again, is all that other talent out there. You don't have to go around thinking you're the best. You just have to know that you're good. If you're not a good writer, then I'm not sure why you'd enter such a competition or try to publish your drivel. But if you know you're good, then what's the problem? Isn't that enough to let you say what you want with your writing and then hope for the best? The odds are always against you. Write a good story, and the odds are considerably better in your favour.

I don't understand the need to be the "best" at all times--to be better than the next person who also happens to be pretty damn good--and I don't get the need to disparage winners and pity so-called "losers".

It was a good game. There's another game next year. And we all had fun.

There was free food, too. Great launch! And a hearty congrats to the winners. May you all pen great works and bestsellers, or at least write whatever makes you happy for the rest of your days.

GC

Naked Launch

2009-11-29T21:32:00.003-03:30

The launch was a blast. I hope this book does well because it's full of amazing writers and good solid stories with a tinge of darkness, which is the kind of writing I like mostly. Someone asked me why that is recently, and all I could think of was that stories of loss, even if there is redemption, are just more interesting. I'm not sure that would hold up under scrutiny, but there ya go.

I did my reading last Tuesday night and it seemed to go over well. There were plenty of compliments on it, but I don't think anyone would actually come out and say it was a bad reading. It was a strange experience, though. There were a few friends there from MUN and a few people I knew from the writing community--Michael Crummey, Michelle Butler Hallet, Leslie Vryenhoek, to name a few. And I also glimpsed Chad Pelley, who recently won the Cuffer Prize for 2009. Of course, editor and now friend Mike Heffernan was there, along with the illustrator Darren Whalen, whose work is phenomenally good.

The great thing about the launch was the feeling that next day that I was sort of floating--and not just because I was tired. And it's not like it was my first public reading of my work. People kept telling me how much they enjoyed it or that they heard it was good. And, of course, The Telegram published a pretty nice photo the next day. I'm not a fan of having my picture taken, but that one came out better than most (it's not the one above, btw. I don't have a link to the one taken by Joe Gibbons at the newspaper.

I did feel a little naked up there. But it was fun reading an excerpt from my story, "Hold Out". Whenever people pay attention to you as a writer, that's a good thing. For the next few days, I've been feeling very creative, like I could write anything I put my mind to. Even came up with an ending for the novel I've been labouring on these many months. Can't wait for Christmas break. It could be epic. Funny how acting like a writer can make you feel like one. Huh.

Hard Ol' Spot Launch

2009-11-23T19:51:00.003-03:30

Tuesday night, Nov. 24th, a bunch of people will gather at Bianca's bar from 7-9 p.m. to celebrate the launch of the new short story collection, Hard Ol' Spot: An Anthology of Atlantic Canadian Fiction.

It's mostly a collection of "dark fiction," featuring a lot of really good writers, including Michael Crummey, Michelle Butler Hallett, JoAnne Soper-Cook, Ramona Dearing, and many others. I have two stories in this collection, one called "Break, Break, Break" and the other called "Hold Out". I'll write more on those two stories another time.

I've actually been asked by to be one of the two featured readers at this launch, which I take to be a huge honour, considering all of the talent involved in this project. I'll take any exposure I can get as a writer, of course, and this is a chance to show people what I do.

Bianca's is a pretty cozy setting. When you enter the restaurant, there's a door on your right that leads to the room where they hold book launches. There's a bar to buy drinks and a table set up to buy the books, as well as a microphone where the readers will read to an undoubtedly captivated audience. Then people will stand around and talk to each other about everything and anything.

I've often thought that book launches were a lot like funeral wakes, where people stand around and talk about anything except the corpse in the room. But, again, I suppose that's a topic for another time, maybe after I've actually been to the launch and survived it.

It should be a good time. There'll be lots of people there that I know, writers and academics and some amphibious ones like myself.

Hope to see you there. If not, spare us a thought, maybe even buy a book.

Peace out.

Star date 11/23/09: The Dawn Treader Comes Late

2009-11-23T19:32:00.000-03:30

I've put this off for too long. For a little over two years, I've been writing a rather amphibious blog called "Literary Pursuits" in which I've carried off two identities that, at times, were not so distinct from each other. I am a writer who teaches English at Memorial University, and so I spend all summer blogging about me and my various pursuits, especially fiction writing, and then in the fall of the year I switch over to blogging about matters related to teaching. At times, it's been an uneasy alliance, as I begin to feel like the infamous Dr. Henry Jekyll who attempts to keep his darker, hidden side at bay.

Well, like Jekyll, my Hyde will no longer be bound. I begin this blog, called "Gothic Times" as a way of unleashing my thoughts about the writing life and about life in general. My musings here have nothing whatsoever to do with teaching anyone anything about life, death, writing, fate, faith, comma splices, sentence fragments, or anything to do with dead poets and writers.

And yet, I intend to talk about it all. I will have no boundaries here. If you come to this blog, whether as a former student, a non-student, an aspiring writer, or just an interested bystander--or even a disinterested bystander--you will learn nothing about anything. Not that I've tried to teach you anyway. See there? A sentence fragment! And I didn't try to disguise it. I didn't try to stop it or correct it. I just let it be, in all its disfigured beauty.

I have been writing fiction for a few years now and have been publishing stories and winning some awards, while I've been writing novels as well. So far, publication of a book has eluded me, but I sense a shift in the literary wind and feel that it's time I started writing about my own writing, not just other people's. More to the point, I intend to write about me as if no one was listening or reading. I will not attempt to offend anyone, nor will I attempt to avoid such offense. I write not on behalf of any university or for any particular group. I will, in short, be my naturally optimstically skeptical self.

I intend to write about whatever interests me. If it's fixes for sentence structure or musings on Robert Frost you're after, you're in the wrong place.

But if you're honestly interested, mildly or strongly or somewhere in between, in what I do, stay tuned. I've got tons to say.

And no one can stop me.

This is mine. This is me, no holds barred.

Gerard