Apologies. This blog has been lately neglected in favour of school semesters rooted in upper level English studies, intensive on reading and writing and consequently heavily demanding of my time. And while I greatly enjoyed exploring the realm of Canadian theatre or delving into survival narratives by literary icons ranging from Dickens to Poe to Atwood, it certainly is nice to have some extra time to indulge in written pursuits of my own.
Oh yeah, I have a blog! If spiders could infiltrate this space of mine the way they constantly creep into each room of my house, their sticky threads untouched for many months by now would have irrevocably enveloped every post I’ve written here. But thankfully, despite its name the online web is immune to the invasion of arachnids, and though at home I must continue to clear the film they leave in every corner, everything here is as I left it back in March.
So why haven’t I been writing? Well, actually, I have been. Having recently returned to school this has been partly academic, while elsewise I have been engaged in an ambitious project that may someday reach completion but which at present is far from ready to be shared in any form. Apart from these efforts, however, there has been little in my life to inspire any verbiage that might be of interest to others than myself.
Besides a trip to Vancouver Island, best man duties for my best friend’s wedding, and a bus/hitchhiking/camping adventure which ultimately found me late-night grooving to Big Gigantic with friends and countless vivacious strangers in a glowing patch of Kootenays forest, the past half year or so for me has been relatively simple. It was kept as such due to my conserving money and vacation time for a voyage to a place I had fantasized of seeing since childhood: Europe. Continue reading
My words aren’t always there. Sometimes they hide, or simply run away. To try to find and bring them back to me can be exhausting. I’m always seeking ways to summon them with ease.
A couple months ago, I espied a newspaper article about a writing workshop being offered at a Kamloops library. Host to the invitation was Richard Wagamese, author of several novels including the 2012 bestseller Indian Horse. What made this opportunity particularly special was its cost, or rather, the lack of one. The writer was offering to share his advice and writing techniques with members of the Kamloops community, completely free of charge. Eager to sign up I called right away, but found the class had filled already. Still, I left my name and number, in case the man might hold another workshop. To my delight he did, and I ended up a member of that second group. Continue reading
Where did all of my words go?
For over a month this blog has been stagnant. Several weeks have passed since the number of pages completed for my debut novel has progressed (yes, I am ever so sluggishly working on a book). Even a simple grocery list has lately felt like time and nouns squandered. All other written endeavors of mine have been stalled, set aside so I can focus wholly on one looming deadline.
“Writing marriage vows is tough,” I keep telling people as the fixed date for their completion grows ever nearer.
“Are you kidding me?” they usually scoff in some manner of the like. “You’re a journalist. Writing is your thing. This should be easy for you!”
They are right about that; a mere few lines should be nothing at all for a word enthusiast to churn out. So why have I been having such trouble coming up with something to say in those moments before I kiss my bride? Perhaps I have been taking these marital verses too seriously, fixated on the depth of a symbolic and lawful union that feels demanding of some high standard of eloquent prose. Though that has rarely been my style when it comes to the relationship between my fiancé and I. Continue reading
“This is the easter bunnies dead bodey.”
This brief morbid statement, scrawled above a purple scribbled rabbit smeared with blots of red crayon, forms the written content of one of my earliest journal entries. Though the words were sparse and the spelling spotty, it was obvious that as a seven year old boy I had a hell of an imagination. Already I was discovering a thrilling way to express such wild fancies that abounded in my head.
Progressing through elementary school, I voraciously sought to read every book I could find, while at the same time honing my own budding aptitude for the written word. My spelling and grammar gradually improved, and simple sentences expanded into paragraphs and later entire pages of structured syntax. I began concocting short stories about subjects such as slave driving specters and ominous tailgaters, and with them attended a handful of local conferences for young authors. Before long I had made up my mind that what I wanted most with my life was to be a writer. Continue reading