By nature, I’m mostly a hobbit. However, like Bilbo Baggins, I do travel, sometimes more than I want. And I mostly travel alone, which means I rely on the kindness and assistance of people who work for airlines and in airports. And these people are amazing—helpful, good natured, efficient, and friendly. I couldn’t travel the way I do without them.
“Traveling Blind” is a nonfiction piece about getting there—where ever that is. I hope you find it funny, in a neurotic sort of way. The piece first appeared in Wanderlust Journal, and I want to thank Sarah Leamy for being interested enough to accept it for publication. Enjoy the piece, and make sure to check out the magazine.
A sincere thanks to Dan and Jen of Firewords Magazine: The Anthology of Fiery Fiction and Poetry. This month, Dan and Jen bring us Issue 9, Perspectives,and I’m happy to say the magazine includes “The Water People,” a story I wrote earlier this year.
“The Water People” is, in some ways, a different kind of story for me. For one, it’s told from a collective first person point of view, which I’ve never used before. This is a story about days of endless rain, and a strange race of liquid people who take over the world as it drowns. Fine—I have a thing for stories in which the world ends, so that’s nothing new.
I’m also excited because this is the first time my work has appeared in a UK magazine. Firewords is a Glasgow based, print journal that relies on volunteers rather than advertising. You can purchase the magazine in a variety of formats—just follow the link above, and thanks for your support of this gem of a journal.
Winter arrived here in Edmonton on November 1. It does that here—one day it’s fall, cool but lovely, and the next day it’s winter, snowy and cold. Even the geese who stop here on their way south were caught unawares by the sudden change.
This happens every year, and every year many are taken by surprise at the abrupt start to the winter. People scramble to find their winter-clothes; they line up to have winter tires put back on their cars. For this season, which is sometimes fully half the calendar year, it takes longer to get ready to leave the house, and it takes longer to get anywhere. This longest season of the year has an inevitable effect on the way people think and the way they interact with their world. If you live here, you simply can’t ignore what’s happening outside your window.
A few years ago, I wrote a flash fiction piece about snow and about winter. I’ve never tried submitting the story, mostly because I didn’t think it would mean much to anyone living south of the fifty-third parallel. Nonetheless, here’s the story, Dreaming of Snow. Enjoy!
He dreamed. All day the snow fell heavily and deliberately, dropping down in great white flakes that gathered themselves into clinging crystalline faces that vanished as they kissed the ground. The air was thick and alive with falling snow.
He sat on the couch and watched the gathering whiteness through the window. The snow fell and fell. It obliterated the green of pines and the brown of branches. It swirled and settled, leveling the ground to an implacable plain of whiteness that steadily rose and rose.
Once, he opened the front-door. It smelled sharp and clean and cold, and the snow hissed and sighed as it jostled its way down, filling the air with its crystalline whisper and clogging coldness. He closed the door.
Back at the window, he watched as the level of whiteness crept up the side of the house. He knew he was drowning, drowning in snow and cold. It would rise to the level of the window, then it would rise even higher, and it would bury the house—and keep falling and falling. Sooner or later, he would be entombed in snow.
Eventually, he would suffocate, or perhaps the inexorable weight of the falling snow would simply crush the house with him inside. Watching the white wall creep up the window, he knew he could do nothing. There was nothing to do save remember the dream of summer that had fled forever. And as he remembered sun and leaves and the song of birds, he could see individual snowflakes pressed against the glass, flakes that formed patterns and frozen faces, faces that peered in and took no account of the heat that for now still ran throbbing through his veins in a rhythmic pulse of denial.
A big thank you to Rebecca Leboeuf and the people at Penmen Review for picking up My Sister Maddie. This story has made the rounds of literary journals, so I’m thrilled that it has finally found a home.
My Sister Maddie began as a writing exercise. I haven’t tried this one often, but it can be helpful. Take a story or an excerpt from one of your literary mentors, then write something that models itself after that piece. You can try emulating language, character, or the way the piece creates setting. It works—for the most part. You will find that your own writing takes a different shape as it evolves. It’s a great way to get started or unstuck.
When starting My Sister Maddie, I used Alistair MacLeod’s “The Boat” (The Lost Salt Gift of Blood 1976) as a starting point. MacLeod writes stunning landscapes and character portrayals. I can’t do what MacLeod does, but I can aspire towards that kind of excellence.
Check out all the fine writing on the Penmen Review as well, and if you don’t know MacLeod’s work, then find a quiet afternoon and read one of his short stories. They are lyrical, poignant, and painful—from one of Canada’s best writers.
Writers create their best work using personal experiences. I use my life to write stories, but this is always an exercise in culling. Experiences can be interesting; however, interesting experiences don’t necessarily make good fiction.
Thanks to the fine people at The RavensPerch for picking up Flash Point. You can find the story here. I wrote Flash Point in response to an incident on Whyte Avenue while walking one evening with my daughter. The story is fiction, but most everything in the story actually happened—unusual, for me.
Finally, I usually don’t write as a means of making a point about an issue. Having said that, here’s a comment from the editors at The RavensPerch:
“Above all, thanks for reminding readers about the evils of bullying. We believe your piece can help make a difference.”
Enjoy the story, and make sure to check out the fine fiction and nonfiction at The RavensPerch.
Like many Edmontonions, I have a complex, confusing, and often resentful attitude toward the place I live. However, I’m less concerned with resolving these feelings than using them to write fiction.
My friend Tom Wharton posted a piece on his website about setting stories in Edmonton. You can read it here. He always encourages his creative writing students to write about this place in all its bifurcated glory. If you don’t know the city, it’s divided by the North Saskatchewan River, which makes it more two cities than one.
Here’s my latest story about Edmonton that features the High Level Bridge. Bridges appeared this month in Literary Orphans. Thanks to Scott Waldon and the people at the magazine for picking up the story.
If you live in Edmonton, you will understand Bridges in a particular way. If you don’t, I hope you can still appreciate the story.