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
Sunday, May 9, 2010
Sunday, February 7, 2010
Soft spot for Winnie in Hard Ol' Spot
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
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
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Halifax Chronicle-Herald Review
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.
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.
Sunday, January 10, 2010
Once
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
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
Thursday, January 7, 2010
Making it Big on the set of Doyle
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
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
Thursday, December 24, 2009
Feeling Seasonal
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
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
Monday, December 21, 2009
First review for Hard Ol' Spot
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.
http://thechronicleherald.ca/Books/1158553.html
Nice start.
Saturday, December 12, 2009
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
Hope you enjoy it.
GC
Friday, December 11, 2009
Early Christmas Present
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
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
Monday, December 7, 2009
The Cuffer Anthology
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
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