A Skull in the Roots

I've lived in Toronto for the past 9 years. Before that came Brooklyn, and before that was Seattle. Both of those were five year stints, which means only Albuquerque, that scrappy outpost where I was born and raised, has been home to me for a longer period of time.

I know that doesn't make me well-traveled. Not by a long shot. At most, it might give an indication of what kind of fun I was intent on pursuing throughout my twenties. Had I been a bit more savvy, I'm sure I could have found that same kind of fun in any number of more affordable locales. But what did I know? I felt like I was flying blind a lot of the time, often impulsively moving from place to place in the hopes of finding... what? Something new? Something different? I doubt I could have explained what was driving me back then.

But looking back on it now, it's easy to see that my youthful restlessness ultimately prepared me for really falling in love with where I ended up. I've often told people that Toronto is a great blend of northeastern and northwestern experiences - it's dense, diverse, gritty and urban on the one hand, yet liveable, relatively green and easygoing on the other. And still capable of harboring a surprise or two as well, as I would soon find out.

Just after my daughter was born, I came across a used copy of The Damnation Game, Clive Barker's debut novel based (to some extent at least) on Faust, in one of the many used book stores on Yonge Street. I was surprised to find myself reconnecting with the book's power to both frighten and inspire. It convinced me to dig up some old story outlines and, for the first time in my adult life, actually try to put a novel together.

As I started to gather my thoughts, I also tried to get a sense for what my local writing environment looked like. I was aware that the city's public library system had a branch with an amazing horror, sci-fi and fantasy collection. But I'd never been motivated enough to actually check it out.

My wife and I had gone to a few early Trampoline Hall events, so we knew there was some fun literary-ish events held around town. Obviously, there is a lot of music stuff to get excited about around here, and Liz Worth's stuff played right into my endless need for tales of bad music played for bad people.

By then I'd discovered Andrew Pyper's work and was amazed to find that "dark fiction" had slowly bled into the mainstream market again. Not long after, I came across the ChiZine site and had my brains blown right out of my head. Gemma Files! David Nickle! A consortium of weirdos! And many of them locals! Not to mention the venerable Rue Morgue, which just happens to be a short walk from my very own front door.

I had no idea all this was here, just waiting for me to stumble over it when I was (finally) ready to get off my ass and roll up my sleeves. Something must be in the air, and I finally feel like I might be in the right place at the right time.

(With lots of homework to catch up on in the meantime.)

Despite Myself

It's taken me more than a decade to admit that I like to write stories.

Closer to twice that, actually. At some point in the mid-90s, I quit filling up notebooks with ideas and outlines, quit working on dialogue or striving to capture those telling details that bring a scene to life. Chalk it up to being overly skeptical of the value of personal expression, I guess. I mean, it's relatively easy to convince yourself that the world doesn't really need what you have to offer it, you know? At any given moment, there will always be more creative, more talented, more entertaining writers out there, all struggling to share their grander visions with the world's discerning readers. So why bother? I decided that pursuing other interests would be more rewarding, and moved on without looking back.

But the problem is that I never quite managed to stop thinking those stories up. I just wouldn't write them down, which didn't really do anything but turn my mind into a cluttered dumping ground for wayward snippets. Eventually, I was forced to concede that - surprise! - some of those snippets were tenacious enough to survive in my head over those ten or twenty years. Some even grew stronger during their isolation, no doubt.

Two years ago, I started writing again. To relieve the pressure, I guess you could say. I thought I had a straightforward idea that would be a good "practice run" for a novel. It would take a few well-worn tropes and twist them into new shapes. It wasn't intended to be innovative or particularly fancy. It was just going to be a good story, something I could work on and be proud of. The plan was to finish it in a year and then decide if it was worth the time and energy to do another one.

I was rustier with the verbiage than I'd anticipated, and that straightforward idea ended up going in some strange places. But the thing is very close to being done, and soon I'll be able to share it with more than just my circle of trusted readers. Oddly enough, I'm really excited about that prospect, because telling stories is such a vital part of sharing our world with others, of sharing all those little ideas and deeply-held dreams that bring us all together.

(Not to mention our wishes for the future.)

Why did I ever think such vibrant distillations of my travels and experience would be satisfied to endlessly pace the confines of my overcrowded skull? I guess it's time to heed their call.

Five Years Later...

How weird is this?

Years and years and years after the fact, I return to an old haunt to celebrate some good news.

Last night, at about 1:51am, I officially finished the last draft of my first ever manuscript! Well, last draft before getting any feedback from others, which I'm sure will necessitate at least another two full edits. Still, I'd been bracing myself for an anticlimactic feeling when I was able to turn that last page. But you know what? It felt pretty damn good. I cracked open a Lowenbrau to mark the occasion in my own quiet way, then went to bed.

Today, I was able to get copies to most of my beta readers. Beta readers! Do you hear me, PF from 2008? YOU HAVE BETA READERS IN YOUR LIFE NOW!

I hear this is where the fun part begins. Also, the grueling part. Maybe the heartbreaking part, too.

Stay tuned for updates on where all this goes from here.

detail from a dream

before i forget:

a restaurant i walked by in a dream a few nights past (such a minor detail, really, that i didn't remember it until the next day) was called "herbs and carcasses".

uh?

buried with friends / smothered in hugs

as i was drifting off to sleep the other night i decided that, instead of being cremated, i'd rather be buried in a coffin filled with mixtapes made by people i've known.

but those mixes would not include CD's. they're too blade-like to be comforting.



[viewed: the decline of western civilization]

more than one year later...

sometimes i wonder how it is that i can sleep for such long periods of time, and how i can let so many things just slip away, and how i can get so fucking far behind in everything.

tyler, i feel like a shit for not responding to your e-mail yet. i'll be getting to that today.

other than that, i'm just trying to wake up, wipe the slugs off my face, and get ready for a new day.

file under: of cumpleaños

today my better half gains a bit of ground in the age race.

the first time she came to nyc for a visit, i told the waiter at that restaurant on india row that it was her birthday. that was when they played the famous "happy birthday, everybody" song on the cheap overhead speakers. i will always remember the little swivelling disco light that was on, and the clunking noise it made as the different colored lights rotated around and around.

clunk clunk clunk

happy birthday, N. growing older with you is fun!