"Hard Sell" a hybrid piece of fiction centred on real events that took place on a single day, has been published at Litro Magazine, a very cool publication distributed free to London UK commuters. Click here to read the story online.
Devin Scullion, a 20-year-old Hamilton man who had the ultra-rare genetic disorder progeria, has died. My research into progeria for Saints, Unexpected frequently brought David's story across my desk, and indeed he was loosely the inspiration for Wu, a character in the novel who has the disorder. The Hamilton connection is a strong one, too, as Devin was one of only 200 people worldwide who suffered from the disorder, attracting worldwide interest from geneticists and physicians who traveled to Hamilton to learn more about him and his case.
RIP, Devin—I hope some of your abundant light will live on in the pages of my work.
Link to the Hamilton Spectator article about Devin's passing.
...the day a writer realizes that his biggest literary accomplishment is out there and running.
I've talked about it for months, held it in my hands, read from it in front of eager listeners, and chatted about it at an amazing literary festival, but today is the day my debut novel officially gets launched into the world.
Available at your favourite local bookstore, or
Click here to order from Amazon.ca, or
Click here to order from Chapters/Indigo.ca
Thanks, everyone, for your support—this is quite a ride.
On Sunday night (March 20, 7pm), I'll be doing live radio for the first time in 20 years! (I was a radio junkie/host in a former life.)
I'll be talking with Bernadette Rule, host of ArtWaves, on 101.5FM The Hawk, Mohawk College's radio station. I'll join Jennifer Gillies, the director of GritLit, to read from SAINTS, UNEXPECTED and to talk about the festival, writing, and what it means to find a voice in Hamilton.
If you're in Hamilton, you can dial into 101.5FM on your radio. Alternatively, the show can be live-streamed by clicking here. Finally, the show will be archived at this location, too.
I'm excited to share the cover design for Saints, Unexpected, which will be released on April 15 from Invisible Publishing!
Thanks to Megan Fildes for the stunning design.
(Don't forget: Saints, Unexpected is available for preorder from the Invisible Publishing website.)
My short story, "Fairly Traded," achieved a notable mention in The New Quarterly's 2013 Peter Hinchcliffe Fiction Award contest and was picked up for publication!
This will be my first major publication credit in a Canadian literary journal, so I'm very excited. "Fairly Traded" will appear in the winter or spring issue.
Story link: http://www.thecolorsofmysoul.com/2013/06/zoomer/
My writing friend Nicole Baute posted her story to a contest page a ways back and announced it on facebook. The challenge is to write a flash fiction piece (max 500wds) as inspired by the image to the left. Well, after reading her piece and enjoying it a lot, the image kind of got stuck in my brain. So I wrote my own.
I received my official acceptance letter for my creative writing MFA through the University of British Columbia!
I'm very excited. UBC runs what is probably Canada's best MFA for writers.
Yeah, we had some fun last night. Hamilton scribe Amanda Leduc – whose novel The Lives of Ordinary Men comes out in May, which means you should get it – organized "Steeltown Speakeasy," a casual reading at the Baltimore House on King William (a truly excellent venue).
I read from Chance & King, my newest WIP. We also heard from Liz Harmer, Dave Pace (that's Dave in the photo doing his reading), and Virginia Ashberry, a talented bunch of writers.
Amanda tells me she's going to try and make this a bi-monthly thing. Sweet! Here are some links/connections so you can stay informed:
For S, G, and the kids.
We’re new here. Moved in a few months ago, renting half of a house near railway tracks, the Corktown Pub, and the Bruce Trail. We don’t know many people.
Corktown is an old neighbourhood, one that has weathered the rises and descents of a steeltown like Hamilton. You can see old century homes on the same stretch of block as faceless apartment buildings, and you can walk from one end to the other in about five minutes and thirty seconds to see the whole range of then until now. And sometimes you can guess who’s renting and who owns their small patch of this railside neighbourhood by how many mailboxes you can see or how well the gardens are tended. The remnants of hard times are becoming scarce, though, as the old homes get bought up by professionals who prefer café-style lattes to coffee from Tim’s.
You can look in through windows, like anywhere, and get the briefest of glimpses into how others live their indoor lives. Especially at Christmas. Hamilton’s a city that hasn’t yet shrugged off the Christian side of the holidays – there’s still a crèche downtown, where baby Jesus looks out at Gore Park and Jackson Square. And for a few weeks at the end of every year, Christmas trees in living room windows shine like friendly beacons, winking at everyone that walks or drives by as if to say, Yeah, us too.
We know our neighbours enough to say hello, maybe hear tidbits about them here and there, about their weddings, their trials, their children. My Lady’s better at the contact – I learn from her. Our little corner generally keeps to itself, which is fine. A typical encounter you might recognize: “Morning,” one of us will say. “Morning.” “How’re things?” “Oh, fine, fine. You?” “Good thanks.”
It’s Christmas Day. Corktown’s quiet. Later in the day, my Dad will say with a smile and a far-off look, “There’s nothing nicer than driving on Christmas morning. Not a car on the road.”
We don’t sleep in all that often, but I manage to make it until 7:15. My Lady makes it another ten minutes or so, with me tiptoeing around in my tan moccasins and trying to make coffee on the quiet. Then I hear a cough and the rustle of sheets as she gets out of bed. I confess that I’m little excited she didn’t stay in bed too long – I was strategic last night as we got into our PJ’s. “Hey, I have an idea,” I said. “Mmm?” “How about pancakes tomorrow morning?” “That sounds nice.” And then I asked her to make them, hoping she’d say yes, planning my offer to make them if she didn’t. She did, of course, but sometimes you need to plan your offer, just in case.
As I sit to read the news, there’s not much going on in the world I care to read about. Christmas even slows the news down, it would seem. I don’t even click on links that talk about politics – even though someone, somewhere had the job of keeping the website updated, the poor soul – and scan straight into Lifestyle. Or maybe it was the wine section. I love the columnist’s name – Beppi – a good wine-trusting kind of name.
“Oh, no,” says my Lady’s voice, muffled by the open fridge door.
“What?” I ask after a few seconds. (I don’t multi-task well.)
“We’re out of eggs.”
Bummer. I’m about to move on and suggest oatmeal, and then I remember who suggested the pancakes in the first place. I ponder an offer to head next door for an egg, wonder if she’ll accept, kind of hope she won’t. I decide I probably should, the whole enterprise being my idea.
I mention I saw our neigbour getting stuff from his car, so they’re definitely awake. “I can go next door.”
Her very quick agreement catches me off guard so I try to hedge a little, throw out another option, delay having to put pants on over my boxers. I point in two directions, two neighbours. “Um, which side?”
“If you saw G at the car, they’re awake. Go there.”
Right. Time to make good. Put on my baggy, striped PJ bottoms over my boxers, which bunch up around my tender bits. “How do guys wear these things under jeans?”
My Lady’s a good sport when I speak banalities. “I know, right?”
I slide on my rubber shoes and unlock the door, expecting a blast of real cold, pleasantly surprised when it doesn’t come. It’s cold, but not cold. Mild Christmas, they’ve been saying, something about 95% of Canadian urban centres not having a white Christmas this year, even frigid places like Winnipeg and Edmonton. I head out, doing that strange walk we do when we’re underdressed for winter temperatures, a stiff, lurching blend of hop and shuffle.
Next door, I climb the stairs and listen for a moment. I smile. There’s a Christmas morning in full swing in there, seven kids, two adults, and 365 days of pent-up anticipation rattling the windows. Mom sounds tired, tells the kids there’ll be no whining on Christmas morning, and the decibels dip for a solid three seconds before I decide to knock. I’m too timid – they don’t hear my first one. The second one prompts a cheer and an excited exclamation from the oldest boy, “Leo is here!”
Five little girls in their best flannel PJ’s in primary colours and cartoon characters and stars all over them, and two boys in boxers and t-shirts, like the man of the house, open the door with one big collective smile. I’m not Leo, but those kids don’t miss a beat.
They all yell it at the same time, blessing someone they don’t really know even though he’s supposed to be someone closer named Leo. The girls are wiggling all over and crowd around me at the door, perfectly pleased with themselves, while the boys hang back, trying to be a little cooler even though their eyes are spilling their excited secret.
“Merry Christmas,” I say, notching up my enthusiasm a notch. “Did you know your house is vibrating because you’re so excited?”
They laugh. That’s so nice.
And then those little girls put a bigger smile on my Christmas morning. They all rush the guy at the door they don’t know from Adam, blessing his legs with a group hug worthy of the angels. I’m a little speechless at the display, but I hug them back, even as I realize I’ll never be able to match the enthusiasm and happiness spilling from five hopped up little ladies who could care less who the bed-headed guy at the door is but who are still going to pile the purest Christmas cheer on him the world has seen since the shepherds knelt beside that squalling baby in Bethlehem.
“Um, we’re making pancakes and don’t have any eggs,” I finally manage. It’s hard to speak normally when your face is smiling itself to split at the seams. “Could we borrow one?”
“Absolutely,” S and G, the Mom and Dad, say.
The girls are still hugging my legs, fiercely, with their eyes closed and their lips grinning, as Dad hands over an egg carton and Mom puts a gift wrapped in Christmas-tree green on top.
“Merry Christmas,” she says.
I can’t stop smiling as I head back to our place next door, shaking my head a little at the goodness that has just been poured all over me. The air is still cool, but I’m walking slower now. I can’t wait to share the story with my Lady – tell the universe, maybe – about ten strong little arms that could’ve lifted this stranger straight up to heaven.