Lesson from Primary School

Today, my wife and the ladies from her book club meet in our living room to review The Midwife of Venice. Needless to say, I have no intention of staying here while they discuss the literary skills of Roberta Rich. I have at times, been asked to stay and participate. I'm sure I would enjoy the discussion, but I know better. I always answer that I do not wish to intrude. What I really mean, though, is “you would not catch me dead advancing a male opinion anywhere near so much oestrogen.” You know what I mean.
I usually try to leave before the first of them arrives. My usual tactic is to pack my laptop and drive to either the local coffee shop or the library. My official intention is to work on my “stuff”, but what I always end up doing is to read the Globe and Mail and a magazine or two, all the while feeling somewhat flustered at having exiled myself from my own home.
When four o'clock rolls around, I jauntily return to my castle to find it empty of gossip. All the ladies are gone, except for my Queen, who for some reason is always in a particularly good mood. Sometimes, things are better between man and woman when they revert to primary school attitudes. What I mean here is that when all these women invade our living room, Blanche and I abide by “the girls with the girls and the boys with the boys”. It always works.

A little bit of satisfaction

This morning, I printed the second draft of my book. When I transferred the stack of paper from the tray of my printer to my desk, the weight of it surprised me. For a brief moment, it became a tangible recognition of the efforts I have put into the project.
Writing, as with any creative endeavour, can be a lonely process. Until other human beings can hold our book in their hands, we writers must eke out a little bit of satisfaction from wherever or whatever we can, even from an inanimate wad of paper.

Sayward Forest Canoe Route Movie

I made a few minor changes to the Sayward Forest Canoe Circuit video. This is the revised edition.

A Soft Start

I stare through the window at the bare branches of our maple tree. After much denial, I accept, in my gut, that winter has banished summer to the realm of memories. A soft and muted inner voice repeats, “Time to start writing. You can do it. Time to start writing. You ...”
I inch my way to the study, sit at the computer desk, and stare at the screen. My mind wanders. I procrastinate, read an article on the European debt crisis, and then check out what's new at the Google app store. Finally, resigned, I click on the Open Office icon. My fingers fight back. They feel stiff, uncoordinated. I force them to the keys. Finally, a few words appear onto the screen.
I feel better now.

Winter

Winter is coming; time to start writing!