Stories We Tell

            When I was six or so, my family was sitting around the breakfast table telling stories of the dreams we’d had. This wasn’t an irregular occurrence, but something different happened this time: my dad had a dream to share. Normally he only commented on how he didn’t dream, so when he commented that last night, he had a dream, he had our rapt attention.

            It was an extraordinary and hilarious tale about his encounter with an aggressive pink rhino, which he had eventually befriended. To this day I don’t know for sure if he made it up on the spot and wrote it down later, or if he’d prepared it in advance. It doesn’t really matter – what matters is that it was the start of something wonderful.

            I honestly don’t know how it happened, but it led to my dad coming into the grades 1-3 my brother and I both were in to tell the story of the Pink Rhino again, and the story was loved by the whole class – so much so that it became a regular thing. My dad began producing more Robert Munch-esque stories and telling them for my class. It wasn’t just the incredible stories themselves – it was the way he told them, which I would love to describe to you, but in truth it’s something you’d have to experience.

Some of the stories involved members of the class, like Pictures, a story about a talented artist in the class named Mallory whose pictures came to life when put on the refrigerator (causing no end of problems), or The Scratch – a story about the fight I had with Rotten Rosco, the most fearsome pirate to sail the Canadian highways, that he wrote over the weekend as an explanation for a huge scratch I’d gotten on my face from running into a tree. Others grew into massive class projects, like the Ordinary Story, a rhyming story about a boy and a girl who wander into the woods and befriend a troll – after this story, our class worked together to create an enchanted forest from plasticine.

            Looking back on that time, I find it incredible how many engaging and humorous stories he wrote, memorized, and told over the short three years I was in that classroom. It led to him joining the local storytellers’ guild and telling stories at a number of other venues as well – including an event for my wife’s homeschool group, before I even met her.

            Looking back on that, it’s no wonder that, with that in my background, I grew up with a passion for telling stories. However, there’s one conversation I had with my dad several years ago that has stuck with me ever since – it was the day he told me how impressed he was that I could write full length books. I looked at him in astonishment and told him that he could easily write a novel as well. I, myself, was (and am) still impressed with all his shorter stories. I’ve only written a few short stories in my time, and almost all of them leave an opening for more to happen – making them more like first chapters than short stories. Writing something novel-length is far easier to me.

            I think that was the first day I came to appreciate a key element of human nature: our tendency to be blind to that which makes us extraordinary because it comes easily to us. We think that, because we find it easy, everyone must find it easy, and that the things we find hard and that other people find easy means that those people are more extraordinary than us.

            We teach kids that everyone is unique and special, but we don’t go on to tell them what that actually means. It means that everyone has their own skills and talents, and those are what make them extraordinary. If something comes easily to you, that’s probably one of the things that makes you special. And those things you wish you could do that other people seem so good at, but that they seem to think it’s no big deal that they can do it? That’s what makes them special, and they just might admire you for the things you find to be easy.

            Sure, I’ll never be able to sit at the front of a room and captivate an audience with the way I tell a story – at least, not like my dad can – but I have my own ways of telling stories that are just as good. Not to mention, requiring far less energy to present. And quieter. Much quieter.

Check out my YouTube channel where I tell the stories of my D&D campaigns.

Click here to find the charity anthology containing a couple of my short stories.

Also, make sure you check out my wife's blog and her website.


If there's any subject you'd like to see me ramble on about, feel free to leave a comment asking me to do so.

Tunnelling Through The Snow

            Around this time of year, I always used to hope for a huge snowfall. Not just because it would mean school would be cancelled, but because I needed a lot of snow for my favourite winter activity: building snow tunnels.

            Of course, at the time, I didn’t call them snow tunnels – I called them igloos. This is a misnomer, because real igloos are constructed using blocks of ice (or packed snow), whereas what I made involved tunnelling out a mound of snow. Since we Canadians live in igloos year-round, it’s an important distinction to make. For the purposes of this blog, I’ll periodically call them igloos for simplicity’s sake.

            Anyway, the first time I made an igloo, it was a big family project. My parents, brother and I all worked really hard on it. To this day, I couldn’t say for certain how big that igloo was, because I was rather small at the time – in my memory, it was at least five-feet tall with a diameter of ten feet. Big enough for my entire family comfortably fit in, at least according to me. In reality, it was probably significantly smaller.

            After that initial construction, my brother and I got creative. We built a second, much smaller, igloo and attached the two with a tunnel. My poor mother nearly got stuck in that tunnel – it turns out adults are bigger than kids, but we were so proud of our accomplishment that we wouldn’t let her alone until she’d crawled through it.

            In future years, my brother and I became experts at tunnelling through the snow. This was, in part, for safety reasons. Around this time, there was a great deal of concern about kids getting injured in collapsing snow tunnels. One of my friends (you know who you are, and I know you’re reading this) was only allowed to play in our tunnels with us as long as she kept her head outside. My brother and I felt this was unnecessary because none of our igloos ever collapsed (unless we jumped on them or they melted) – we believe that the any that did were poorly constructed.

            Here are the guidelines we used for making our tunnels:

-          First, only use snow that packs decently. Light, fluffy snow won’t hold together well enough to form a solid structure. It is a good idea, once your pile of snow is ready to be tunnelled, to ensure it s sufficiently packed. To do this, carefully (so as not to leave footprints) climb to the top of the pile and roll down the hill. If the pile isn’t too high, it is also possible to jump lengthwise onto the top before rolling down. Repeat this until the hill is sufficiently packed on all sides and feel free to continue for as long as it’s fun.

-          Second, when tunnelling, make sure the walls are the correct thickness. If they are too thick, they could collapse from the weight. If they are too thin, they won’t be strong enough to hold up the structure. The ideal thickness is right before the point when you can see sunlight through the walls. The best way to achieve this is to tunnel until you can see a bit of light – then pack some snow over top of that and use that location as a guide for the continued tunnelling process. It is especially important to focus on getting the roof the right thickness, since that is the most likely part to cave in if there is a structural problem. In that event, a thinner roof is less dangerous.

-          Third, the don’ts. Don’t freeze your igloo – the process of freezing it will make the structure weaker and, in the event of a collapse, more dangerous. Don’t fill the walls with windows and doors – one entrance is enough, maybe one or two tunnels if you have a complex structure. And whatever you do, don’t jump on top of it – especially if there is another person inside.

Using these guidelines, my brother and I crafted many interesting snow tunnels. From a triplex of interconnected igloos to an igloo fort with a tunnelled outer wall, we had a great time every year we got enough snow (right up into out twenties). It helped that we had a large driveway – big enough to hold 6-8 card or 3 (friendly) dogsled teams. The snow needed to be shovelled anyway, so why not put it all in one place?

            So, if you’re stretched for things to do this winter, and you happen to get a lot of snow, try tunnelling. It’s a great deal of fun – just make sure you stay safe.

Disclaimer: To the best of my knowledge, that driveway has never had a dogsled team parked in it – and no, all Canadians don’t actually live in igloos.

Click here to find the charity anthology containing a couple of my short stories.

Also, make sure you check out my wife's blog and her life coaching website.


If there's any subject you'd like to see me ramble on about, feel free to leave a comment asking me to do so.

Fear Always Works

            “Fear always works.” I watched Zootopia for the first time today and was impressed by how filled it was with social commentary, but that particular line in the movie (said by the villain) stood out to me. It’s true; fear always works. But, what if it didn’t?

            One of the reasons fear always works so well is because it’s instilled in us from childhood. Why? Because it always works and, quite frankly, is the easiest way to control someone. Why don’t we touch the things that will hurt us? Because we will be punished with something that we fear. Why don’t we eat the things that will make us sick or damage us in the future? Because we will be punished with something we fear. Why do we obey the rules set forth by parents to keep us safe or to keep them from worrying about us? Because we don’t want to be punished with something we fear.

            It continues on into the school system (we do schoolwork because we fear the consequences of failure), then into the work force (we do whatever we’re told, even sometimes when we know we shouldn’t, for fear of getting fired) and even our entire social structure (we obey the laws out of fear of fines and jail). Everything is predicated on fear. So, is it such a surprise that fear is used so much to control people?

            Okay, so the question then becomes, why do we always use fear? Quite simply, because it’s so easy. Look at sheep herding. With the right amount of fear in the right place, the sheep will go wherever the shepherd wants. It’s the same with people – it preys upon our survival instincts, our natural desire to stay safe. And it takes so little effort.

            Children are taught that they are to follow the rules or they’ll be punished. This simple bullying is enough to keep them mostly in line. They will follow rules that make no sense to them, just because they fear the consequences. Parents see nothing wrong with this – and why should they? They were raised the same way, and it held true for everything in the rest of their lives.

            Now, of course, they could always try explaining the rules to their children. That way they would hopefully understand why the rules are there and why they should be followed. They could be taught to keep themselves to be safe, and to respect and understand the feelings of others. But that takes a lot of time and most people don’t believe children are capable of understanding – or remembering. But a punishment, that is easy to remember.

            Still, I can’t help wondering what the world would be like if we were all raised to be mindful and empathetic rather than fearful. Would the world be a better, more compassionate place? Or would fear tactics, on the occasions that people decided to use them, become even more powerful because we aren’t so used to dealing with it?

            Either way, it seems like fear will always continue to work. I guess what we need to do is raise people to overcome fears – that way, someday, fear will no longer work.

Click here to find the charity anthology containing a couple of my short stories.

Also, make sure you check out my wife's blog and her life coaching website.


If there's any subject you'd like to see me ramble on about, feel free to leave a comment asking me to do so.

Cultural Shifts

            My parents recently returned from a trip to China and I was particularly struck by the stories about the current cultural structure they have. They are currently in a transition from communism (where – at least in theory – everyone is provided what they need, but no one really owns anything) to capitalism (where people earn money based on their work and their job and use that money to buy whatever they need or want – or just stockpile it). Since this is a rather extreme mix, they've ended up with a fascinating mash-up of the two, with an odd class system in the middle.

            In the cities live the “citizens”, who have money, rights and all those sorts of things. They own and rent property – although the prices are extremely high and the spaces are small – and function much as we in the Western world would expect.

            On the other hand, out in the country live the “peasants” – mostly farmers who are paid very little and own nothing. Yet, at the same time, they live in houses free of charge and often these homes are nicer and have more space than those of the privileged “citizens”.

            In this system, the “peasants” who work very hard and sacrifice much can buy their way into being a “citizen” – the tour guide was one of these and had made the proud step with much hard work and with the help and sacrifice of his parents. The people seem very proud of their transition into capitalism.

            What I found most interesting about the current state of the system is how close it currently is to ancient Rome. There they had slaves. There were rules about how they could be treated and at a certain age they could be released. They even (at least legally) had the ability to save up money to buy their way to freedom and possibly even a citizenship (if I'm remembering correctly).

            The sad part, though, is that with the change to capitalism, China is starting to lose its artists. In a system where everyone is provided for equally, there is plenty of room for people to focus on developing talents and artwork – and beyond that, there is no need to charge for that art what it is really worth. Switching to a capitalistic system, the artists need to make an hourly wage for their work. With all the detail and care that goes into any given piece of art, it is rarely possible to sell it at a price where someone will actually buy it. So, the artists of a country largely defined by its art are slowly fading away.

            The same problem has struck in the farming community as well, causing a food crisis for the country. Many farmers are abandoning rice fields in favour of fishing, where there is much more money to be made.

            Hearing about this culture and its shift is very enlightening and inspiring to me as a writer, creating my own world and cultures. However, as a resident of this world, I can’t help but feel sad about it. The world leans so heavily towards capitalism, where money is valued above all else. There’s an emphasis on getting as much money as you can, regardless of whose toes you step on to get it. The worst part is that it gives the impression of working well, so many people get behind it and cheer it on – especially the people who have figured out how to make the system work for them and don’t see everyone left behind.

            But where would we be if everyone managed to get the system to work for them? What if all the “unimportant” minimum-wage workers suddenly up and vanished, having found a better way to live? Who would flip our burgers? Who would cash us out and stock the shelves in grocery stores? Who would grow the food?

            Capitalism is clearly not the way to go. They say money is the root of all evil and all you need to do is look at the world to know that it is true.

            What will work better instead? Honestly, I don’t know. I've put a lot of thought into it and every time I think I have a solution, I find a way that human greed will turn it against itself. But I keep hoping and thinking. Perhaps someday I will come up with the answer, or someone else will. Then it will be our turn for a cultural shift.

            Until then, all I can do is share my insights and hope that they might make a difference.

Click here to find the charity anthology containing a couple of my short stories.

If there's any subject you'd like to see me ramble on about, feel free to leave a comment asking me to do so.

Deathstar the Christmas Tree

            Today I shall share with you the story of our first Christmas tree, since 'tis the season.

            For those of you who've follow this blog, you’ll know that over the spring and summer, Colleen and I were involved in some extensive renovations to convert her parents’ house into two separate units – one for us and one for them. I don’t think I mentioned it before, but we actually did move over the summer as well.

            Anyway, Colleen went out hunting Christmas trees with her family, only looking for one for them since we don’t really have space for one. However, while they were out, they came across what can only be described as a spherical tree and Colleen fell in love with it. So, they grabbed it as well as their own tree.

            As it turned out, this particular tree had been targeted by an insect that specifically eats the tops (and only the tops) of evergreen trees. Since the tree was a write-off anyway, it was given for free (with thanks for saving them the work of getting rid of it themselves).

            The tree was promptly brought home and suspended from the ceiling – yes, that’s right, it’s hanging from the ceiling – with a container for water attached to its stump. Today, we finally got it decorated with our combination of traditional and geeky decorations.

            So, without further ado, I give you the first Christmas tree of our own Colleen and I have had – Deathstar, the spherical Christmas tree. It’s a shame that no future tree is likely to compare.

Click here to find the charity anthology containing a couple of my short stories.

If there's any subject you'd like to see me ramble on about, feel free to leave a comment asking me to do so.

Workshopping with Homeschoolers

            Last Monday I had a delightful experience. My wife and I taught a chainmaille workshop for a homeschooling group.

            When I was first asked to run this workshop, I asked the mother who’d suggested the idea to have the kids look through my website to pick projects they’d like to learn. The reply I got was that they wanted to learn the techniques and be allowed to make what they wanted after that.

            This, in itself, was a bit of a challenge, since it’s hard to plan for such an unstructured lesson – particularly for materials. However, I also understood the benefit of allowing the children free reign with what they created.

            So I went and I taught a group of eight (including one of the mothers and the curator of the museum we were at) the basics, then stuck around to teach more to those who wanted to learn more patterns and help the others with what they were making on their own. It was a wonderful time – it felt like I was there having fun with a group of friends. It was also great to teach people so eager to learn.

            What impressed me most, however, was the only member of the group who didn't really take to the craft. He struggled with the pattern, but still gave it a good try. Instead of throwing a fit, like many kids his age would (and I could see the emotions that would accompany that written on his face), he tried his best and gave up when it became too frustrating.

            In response to this, where many mothers would scold him and tell him to keep trying, his mother thanked him for giving it a try and doing his best and gave no objection to him returning to playing with Lego (what they’d been doing before the workshop).

            I think this demonstrates one of the major advantages to homeschooling – there is a much greater level of respect and understanding between the parents and their children, since they spend so much more time together. Children are also encouraged to learn and ask questions, but not forced to learn if they don’t want to, which makes them more willing to learn. They even enjoy it! Whereas children in the school system usually rebel and take a great dislike for learning.

            I wonder if there is something our educational system can learn from this. Perhaps there’s away to teach children in large groups while respecting who they are instead of trying to change them to fit the system. It might even make a friendlier society at large.

            Oh, did I mention how polite homeschooled children are? At the end of the workshop, that same boy who had trouble learning made a point of coming up to me and thanking me for coming to teach. I'm looking forward to my next workshop with the group very much.

Click here to find the charity anthology containing a couple of my short stories.

If there's any subject you'd like to see me ramble on about, feel free to leave a comment asking me to do so.

Monsters from my Closet

            Today I shall tell you of the monster in my closet. Well, monsters, really. And they aren't there any more. At least, I hope not. They were dreadful.

            They’re funny things, though, monsters in closets and under beds. Where do they come from? My own observational skills tell me that they come from the half-shapes we see in the dark – things that are often made of the shadows and silhouettes of multiple items, making us wonder what we could possibly gave hanging from the back of the door that could look like that. On the other hand, common lore (backed up by a quick internet search) suggests that the monsters came as stories used to scare children into obedience. I suspect both are true.

            It’s an odd tradition, though, telling children there are monsters in their closets or under their beds and will eat them (or drag them off) if they don’t behave. Yes, fear is the easiest way to get anyone to do what you want (although far from the best and encourages bullying), but this particular story lacks a certain logic. I mean, really... if you want your child to go to sleep, do you really want them thinking there’s something lurking under their bed?

            That said, I'm quite confident my parents never told me there were monsters anywhere in my room. My brother might have, but I have no memory of it. So it’s strange that I actually had such monsters lurking about. It’s possible that my monsters were inspired by their common presence in books, movies and the minds of my friends.

            Regardless of how they got there, two monsters took up residence in my childhood closet. At first, there was only one. He would come out of my closet, searching for children who were still awake so he could eat them. Luckily, I was very good at pretending to be asleep.

            Unfortunately for me, I had a keen mind. I knew that everything in the world had an opposite, balancing factor. So, it was only a matter of time before my monster brought his brother along. His brother was a monster who only ate children who were asleep.

            Still, my luck hadn't run out (as can be told by the fact that I'm here today to tell you this tale). Neither of the monsters were very smart. They would go to opposite sides of my bed, so I was able to close one eye and keep the other open. This fooled one into thinking he was seeing an awake child (when he ate sleeping ones) and the other into thinking he was seeing a sleeping child (when he ate awake ones). They would inform each other of their findings, then switch places. All I had to do was switch which eye was open and which was closed.

            They would go back and forth for some time, getting frustrated and hungrier. Eventually they would give up and wander off, back into my closet, and I was finally permitted to go to sleep. After running this ploy for long enough, my monsters finally gave up and stopped coming.

            I have to wonder if they might still be out there somewhere, hunting unsuspecting children. Perhaps they merely fed off my imagination and, since they were unique to me, they faded from existence after I had defeated them. If you do happen to come across them, though, tell them “hi” from me and give them a wink.

Click here to find the charity anthology containing a couple of my short stories.

If there's any subject you'd like to see me ramble on about, feel free to leave a comment asking me to do so.

The Deer-ostrich

             I saw a deer today. Well, it may have been part ostrich, as all I saw was a body with some legs and a neck disappearing into the snow. I've never actually seen a deer in the wild before. All my life, my parents have said “There’s a deer!” and by the time I looked, there were no deer anywhere.

            I have no idea where I'm going with this; that just seemed like a good way to start. After all, who doesn't love a deer-ostrich story? Now, of course, I have to write one.

            Once, there was a deer-ostrich. He was a beautiful fellow with a fine coat of fur and a long feathered neck. Life was good for him, since he could reach up high to eat from trees, or down to the ground to eat grass, if he pleased.

His only trouble was that he didn't know how to handle his fear. Two sets of instincts told him, simultaneously, that at the first sign of trouble, he should bury his head in the ground and run. As you can imagine, this resulted in some ungainly flights, often leaving deep trenches right up to trees.

            Now, the deer-ostrich was one of a kind, so he had no one to teach him what he should do if a predator were to spot him. So he decided to ask a deer for some advice.

            “If you see a wolf, run!” the deer insisted. “Don’t mind the lions, they prefer ostriches.”

            “Oh deer, but I am a deer-ostrich!” the deer-ostrich replied. “What if the lion prefers me?”

            “Ask an ostrich,” the deer said with a shrug.

            That’s just what the deer-ostrich did.

            “If you see a lion, just bury your head in the ground,” the ostrich said. “The lion will think you’re an odd type of bush and leave you alone. Wolves prefer to eat deer.”

             At that point in time, a lion happened upon them. Fighting his instinct to run, the deer-ostrich followed the ostrich’s lead and buried his head in the ground.

            The lion wasn't fooled, as the ostrich had claimed he’d be. What he saw was a tasty feathery meal next to a silly deer with its head in the ground.

            When the deer-ostrich emerged, he found himself safe and alone. Satisfied that he now knew how to survive when he was afraid, he went about his life, running from the wolves and burying his head around lions.

            The system worked for years, until he chanced upon a lion and a wolf at the same time. In a panic, the deer-ostrich had to choose one of his defences. Since the lion was closer, he buried his head.

            The lion went about its business, but the wolf was delighted to come across a deer who, with its head in the ground, couldn't see him coming. It was the easiest dinner the wolf had ever gotten, although upon telling others of his luck, he did have something to say.

            “But, my, did that deer taste fowl!”

            The moral of the story is: Don’t make up stories on the spot at midnight.

Click here to find the charity anthology containing a couple of my short stories.

A Few Steps Behind

            I've never really been one for being up-to-date on the newest and latest. My parents somehow managed to teach me that if you wait for something, you find out if you really want it. Combine that with my (almost) infinite patience and you've got someone who is quite happy to wait for what he wants. Sometimes it’s worked for me, sometimes against.

            I think the first example of this would be Pogs. Do you remember those? They were little pieces of cardboard with pictures on them that you collected, traded and wagered in games involving flipping them with plastic (sometimes metal) Slammers. They became a huge thing when I was a kid, but I didn't get into them until just months before they were banned throughout the schools (because it was gambling, plus it was causing loads of fights and bullying).

            Next would have been Pokemon – the video game; I was never interested in the cards foe some reason. When the Pokemon games first came out, it was released on the Gameboy. Newer versions were released on the next handheld system, the Gameboy Color. I didn't get my own copy of the game until the Gameboy Advance came out, at which point I got a used Gameboy Color and Pokemon Gold Version (I wanted Yellow, but it was no longer made). It was also no longer “cool” to play Pokemon, though I didn't care about that one bit.

            Harry Potter was something that I wasn't quite as late to the party for. I believe the third book was released within a year of my parents giving me the first one for my birthday. Over the next year I read that book ten times, the later times being followed by the second book, then the second and third. That was the first time I was ever riding the crest of the wave, waiting for books four through seven to come out.

            The better side has revealed itself in more recent years. Dr Who is the perfect example. I only started watching the show last year. My reward? I haven’t had to wait for any of it! I was able to buy all seven seasons (I haven’t gotten into the older stuff yet) and watch at my leisure. The same went for The Big Bang Theory – when I started watching it, I had plenty of seasons ready and waiting for me to watch.

            On the flip side, of course, are the few interests I have gained that have (along with my wife’s less-patient influence) managed to get me waiting on the edge of my seat. The video game, Portal was so amazing that Portal 2 was the first thing I ever pre-ordered. Also, the Assassins’ Creed series that has me chomping at the bit as I wait for each new instalment. And we mustn't forget BBC’s Sherlock, which I just watched the first two episodes of the third season tonight and must now wait for the third episode to become available.

            Weighing these two styles of obtaining entertainment, I find that I prefer being late to the party. That way I save money (because prices drop the more you wait), I get larger portions of my chosen entertainment at once and I don’t already own everything so it isn't redundant when I get extended and collector’s editions of things. All I get for keeping up to date on the latest thing is I can talk about it with other people who keep up to date on it. Besides needing to avoid spoilers while cruising the internet, living a few steps in the past is much nicer.

            Better late than never is a very common saying. Perhaps it’s actually better to be late than on time.

Click here to find the charity anthology containing a couple of my short stories.

If there's any subject you'd like to see me ramble on about, feel free to leave a comment asking me to do so.

The Editing Process

            I haven’t had a blog about my writing recently, so I thought I ought to change that. Since I finished writing my latest book last week (throw confetti!), I thought it would be appropriate to share what happens next.

            While I budget myself a year to write each of my books, that clock stops ticking when I write the last word of the book (usually with a couple months to spare). The process, however, does not stop there. That is when the editing starts.

            First, naturally, I read through the book myself, fixing all the typos I can find, smoothing out awkward sentences and such. Sometimes I need to rewrite sections that aren't good enough and occasionally there’s a minor plot hole to fix (for a while, in my second book, there was an object in two places at once). Once that’s done, I hand the book off to my wife, Colleen.

            Now, Colleen has a very special job while editing. Not only does she have to watch for the same flaws I did, but she also needs to fill in a few... blanks that I left for her. Blanks that tend to look like [INSERT DESCRIPTION], [DESCRIBE PRETTY SUNRISE] or [DESCRIBE DAY AT FAIR]. Plus she has to report back to me on her thoughts on the book (incidentally, two chapters into the latest one she has emphatically declared that this is my best book yet. Be excited).

            Then the book comes back to me to go through once again. I read the whole book again, making the same edits as before and making Colleen’s suggested changes, as well as editing her new parts (sometimes – although rarely – I send some back to her to be rewritten with, usually with specific requests). Oh, and I get to read her delightful comments, particularly on some of the references I made.

            Once I'm done that edit, the book goes off to my parents. I know this might seem cheesy to some people, but my parents (along with being awesome) are very talented and, while most parents will shower their children’s work with praise, mine have always been fantastic at providing wonderful feedback.

            My dad has done a fair amount of writing himself, and – back when he had more free time – he used to tell his great stories at schools and events. He is also a library technician and he reads a lot. Like me, he is the type of person who analyses a book while he’s reading it, picking up on the foreshadowing and guessing what’s going to happen next. He’s my best source of feedback on the book’s overall content. He’s stopped bothering with doing technical edits because my mom will catch all of those.

            My mom is one of those (despicable) people who are amazing at everything they do. She knows her grammar exceptionally well and, if she’s not sure on something, she takes the time to look it up. She also reads at a snail’s pace, making her an ideal line editor. By the time she’s done reading my book, I'm confident that there are next to no technical errors remaining. It’s definitely worth waiting the six (or more) months it takes her to read the whole book.

            With my feedback from my parents, I go through the book again, making even more changes. Then, it’s time to get down to business. I sit down with Colleen and we go through the book together, making it as perfect as we can. This is where the greatest conflicts in our marriage come from – we once spent over an hour arguing over the wording of a sentence. It was great.

            At long last, the book gets declared done and I get to work on getting it published, which will involve even more editing.

            Blogs, on the other hand, are much simpler. I usually skim through them once after writing them, then don’t bother with any editing until someone sends me a text of Facebook message to let me know I've got a bunch of typos. Thanks, editing types! All literature would be a lot messier without an outside eye to whip thins into shape.

            (P.S. I'm taking the liberty of not reading a single word I wrote in this blog. How did I do?)

Click here to find the charity anthology containing a couple of my short stories.

If there's any subject you'd like to see me ramble on about, feel free to leave a comment asking me to do so.

Where Wild Brains Roam

            Have you ever looked down at your feet and realised just how far away they are? No, really. I mean, if your head were to fall off for some inexplicable reason, when it landed, it would hurt. Really hurt. Although, with your head falling off, I really have no idea why you’d be worried about a little pain. Seriously, get your priorities straight.

            Where was I? Oh, yes, feet! Way down there (perhaps closer for some of you than others *cough*mydad*cough*). How did they get there? Don’t you remember a time when they were much closer? No, not quite that close – yes, I know all infants go through that stage where they chew on their toes and some people never grow out of the phase of constantly putting their foot in their mouth, but I'm talking about when you’re standing straight as a board. As in a two-by-four (properly treated so it doesn't twist – if you have to twist to see your feet, I'm afraid I must tell you that you've gone and got your feet on backwards. You might want to have someone look into that) rather than a board of directors because those are rarely straight.

            So, yes. Closer feet. Back then, the drop wasn't nearly so far. We could fall flat on our faces and hardly notice it. Of course, we also had the energy to go whizzing around , so we were far more likely to fall flat on our faces. Or run straight into walls. Or trees. I did that once, I should tell you some time. My dad tells it better though. My version has me, my brother, a Batmobile Nerf gun and a tree. My dad’s version has pirates marauding on highway 403. Way better.

            Anyway, your feet were once much closer, then, suddenly, one day, you look down and discover just how far away they are. Has that ever happened to you? It happened to me today. I guess that just goes to show what kind of funny thoughts can spring into your mind sometimes.

            Now, pick your head up off the floor and put it back on your shoulders where it belongs. This isn't the Labyrinth, you know.

Click here to find the charity anthology containing a couple of my short stories.

If there's any subject you'd like to see me ramble on about, feel free to leave a comment asking me to do so.

Spider Assassins Want Me Dead

            The first spider that tried to kill me did so when I was around eight years old. I was about to leave the bathroom when I saw this large spider sitting on the doorframe. I quickly opened the door and found myself leaping back and screaming like a little girl (I can honestly say that it was the only time in my life when I’ve really screamed. I also dislike the term “scream like a little girl”, but it is really the only apt description). The diabolical spider had stung a thread across the door so that it would go flying straight at my unsuspecting face when the door was opened!

            Well, it didn’t get me and I recovered from the trauma. I was okay for about a week until I pulled a Kleenex out of a box and a different spider came out with it, lunging at me! It was at that point that I knew that the spiders had it in for me. The more I watched, the more I became convinced that my parents’ house had a division of specially trained, licensed to kill, secret agent spiders.

            I even considered writing a book about them. From the perspective of the spider agents, of course – a series of short stories about each spider’s attempt to kill a targeted human, all ending abruptly as the human’s protector (my mom) put an end to their attempts.

            I must say, though, that I have to admire the spiders for their skills. Why, this one spider was running along the top of a doorframe when, out of the blue, it fastened a web, dropped down into the doorway and let its weight and momentum carry it back up to the doorframe where it continued running as if nothing had happened.

            Incidentally, that ninja spider would have landed right on my head had I not noticed it and stopped walking through the door.

            What’s that? You’re a bit skeptical about all these spiders trying to kill me? Well, let me tell you... When I wasn’t living at my parents’ house, there were no spider problems. My wife and I even had a gigantic spider (we named it Peter) living outside our window and it never troubled us. Now that we’re back at my parents’ house, there have been a number of weak attempts – that is, weak compared to this really good one.

            This spider was very clever (past tense because my wife recently managed to dispatch it). It made its home between our mattress and the box-spring – the two piece box-spring. If we lifted the mattress to get it, it could just scurry down the crack and be lost before we could get at it.

            For months it lived there, coming out only at night to feed on me – or, perhaps to inject me with venom that would kill me once it reached a great enough concentration. I’m glad it was slain when it was, otherwise who knows what could have happened. I might have dropped dead at any moment and nev

Click here to find the charity anthology containing a couple of my short stories.

If there's any subject you'd like to see me ramble on about, feel free to leave a comment asking me to do so.

Of Music and Maille

            Oooh, this is new! I'm actually writing my blog while still at an event. Hopefully I won’t get interrupted too often, but if I wander off I hope you don’t mind.

            Festival of Friends is a music festival, rather than the usual medieval fairs or geek conventions we go to. We were uncertain of how well we’d do here, but we've done quite well for ourselves. People love our stuff! And because this isn't the sort of event people usually find chainmaille at we drew a lot of attention.

            We've even continued the pattern of selling a tie at every show we've been to. Just before I sat down to write this, one of the vendors across the aisle from us could no longer resist the ties he’d been admiring all weekend.

            Oh! We also have someone who wants to stock our products in her shop! That’s exciting news.

            I haven’t wandered around the festival that much – I'm a little afraid of being disappointed. Festival of Friends was an annual event for my family to attend, but a lot has changed. Instead of being out in a park, it’s moved to a fairground and that has changed the entire feel. It feels... well, like a fair. Not that it’s a bad thing; it’s just different.

            The music has changed a lot, too, but that’s a good thing. There’s a very good variety, ranging from folk to rock (the later it gets, the younger the music gets). And the crowds attracted? All ages. It’s not often I see such a diverse crowd. We've even encountered a number of fellow geeks! (One of the security guards was at ConBravo! Where we had a table two weeks ago.)

            Backtracking to when Festival of Friends was at the park, I simply must share a story from when I was a kid. This is the story of the time I got lost. Well, actually it’s the story of the time my family got lost. We were at the festival and my parents had been talking about leaving and I was adamant about staying. So, there I was, watching the band playing on stage, and my parents got up to go juggle. I looked around, couldn't find my parents and panicked. I thought they’d left without me!

            So, I did what any kid would do – I tried to catch up with them. I ran all the way to the car which, to my relief, was still there but, to my despair, was devoid of any family members. However, I had been taught very well – I knew that if I got lost, I was to stay in one place until I was found. Plus, if I stayed by the car, there was no way those dastardly abandoning parents of mine could leave without me.

             I waited. And I waited. Crouched down beside the car (probably crying), I waited. During this time, there were announcements I couldn't hear at every stage of the event telling people to look out for me and telling me to report to the missing children’s tent while my parents themselves (and any other relatives still at the event) frantically searched for me. They did eventually find me, but not until their second trip to the car because, with me crouched down, they couldn't see me.

            And that is the story of the time I caught my parents trying to abandon me and I cleverly outwitted them when I was somewhere between the ages of six and eleven.

            Well, I should sign off before the crowds of the last rush show up. Next week I may have something interesting stories as I plan to be attending a free online writer’s conference this week. Write On Con. If you’re an author, you should check it out.

P.S. Be glad that I edited this between the time when I originally wrote this post (surrounded be music, talking and distractions) and the time I posted it. Be very, very glad.

Click here to find the charity anthology containing a couple of my short stories.

If there's any subject you'd like to see me ramble on about, feel free to leave a comment asking me to do so.

Defeating the Dastardly Ball

            I really need to start writing my blogs before Dungeons and Dragons. Such a fantastic idea; I think I’ll start doing it as soon as I get back on the ball.

            Of course, getting on the ball is the real trick, isn't it? Even harder is to stay on it. Last weekend, after Colleen and I had been talking about how poorly we’d been doing at keeping up our various work and chores, I said to her “Don’t worry! As of Monday, you and me, together, we’re getting on the ball!”

            And it worked...! For the first day and a half. Then Colleen got sick and, as a result, we both slipped back a bit. But we still ended up having a better week than the previous few. Once again, this weekend I said, “As of Monday, we’re getting on the ball!” After all, if a horse bucks you off, you get right back on!

            Naturally, all of this got me to thinking about why it’s so hard to get back into a routine once it’s been broken. The answer seemed pretty obvious – when a routine is broken, a new one is formed and you follow that routine instead. Our brains are wired for routine. We’re creatures of habit.

            That’s an interesting phrase, actually... looking at the rest of the world, aren't all living beings creatures of habit? Pets expect to be fed and exercised at regular times, flocks of birds migrate seasonally and just about every animal I know of follows some sort of routine. Interesting...

            Reminds me of my dad frequently saying humans are pack animals while pointing out groups of cars clustered together on the highway where it’s far safer to keep as much distance between yourself and other cars as possible.

            Where was I...?

            Creatures of habit! Right. Colleen and I are good at setting our routines – you need to be when you work from home. No boss to tell you what to do. Unfortunately, the routines are too easily interrupted – usually by shows. We can be happily working 40-50 hour weeks leading up to a show, but as soon as the event is over we often drop to 15-20 hour weeks. Why? Well, because shows interrupt our fantastic routine and tire us out enough that we feel we deserve a day off. By the end of the day off, a new routine is established and it’s hard work to get back into the old, good routine.

            So, here we are, jumping on the ball, bouncing off and trying again. I think we’ll manage it this week – after all, it’s just in time for another show to interrupt us in another two weeks. Ah, but now we’re one up on that tricky ball! We've caught onto its routine of routine breaking! Now we’re prepared take that ball and practice jumping on and off it until there’s no doubt about who’s in charge of the routines around here! If it throws us off, we can just give it a good kick!

            Then go chasing after it as it goes bouncing off down the hill so we can fetch it back and get back on it.

            Seriously, who writes this stuff? Oh yeah, me...

Click here to find the charity anthology containing a couple of my short stories.

If there's any subject you'd like to see me ramble on about, feel free to leave a comment asking me to do so.

 

A DM is Born

            So, back in the spring I came up with a ridiculous idea – I was going to see if my parents would be interested in playing Dungeons and Dragons. I had played a couple games over the years and enjoyed it, but all of them died out very quickly because it was just too hard to get everyone together at the same time. Colleen had also played a little and wanted to try some more, which is where I came up with such a crazy idea.

            I started by asking my mother, since she’s the busiest one in the family (she’s a minister – if you've never spent much time around ministers you should know that they are always working, even on their days off). I explained the game isn't just about the fighting – it’s a storytelling game. I was shocked when she actually said yes.

            Then my brother dropped by, so I jokingly told him about it and asked him if he was interested (in the past he said he’d never want to play). He said sure, as long as I could convince his wife. A few texts later, she was in.

            Without even trying, I’d gotten four family members interested in the game. Last was my father, who, when he came home from worked and I asked him, said “yes” without a hesitation when I asked him.

            That was about when I realized that I had just accidentally convinced my family to play D&D, which meant something else – I needed to be the Dungeon Master, the person running the game.

            For those of you unfamiliar with the game, when playing D&D you are either part of a group of adventurers playing through the game, or you are the Dungeon Master (DM) who has to create the world, the story and control everyone and everything in the world who isn't one of the adventurers. In other words, it’s a lot of work.

            Luckily I was able to cheat a little. Because I've never run a game before, I decided that I would alter a pre-made adventure rather than making one from scratch. This way I’d know that I was running the game properly and it would be far less work.

            Even so, I knew I’d be teaching a group who were almost all new to the game while learning how to run the game, so I was a little worried about how it would go. I also wasn't sure if I was going to enjoy the role.

            Well, tonight (last night, for you lot reading this on Monday) we had our first game and I, for one, had a great time. I haven’t gotten feedback from everyone else yet, but the rest of my family seemed to have fun as well. This was particularly gratifying because the beginning of any D&D game is extremely slow and full of a lot of work for everyone, but when you have new players there’s a lot of new explaining to do that makes it even slower. Luckily everyone learned quickly and the pace picked up fairly quickly.

            It seems that I make a decent DM and I'm thoroughly enjoying myself. With any luck, everyone else will continue having fun as well and this will end up an ongoing thing. On the other hand, that means a lot more writing for me – not to mention I’ll have to start writing my blogs earlier in the week. Hey – that means this may even work out well for you!

Click here to find the charity anthology containing a couple of my short stories.

If there's any subject you'd like to see me ramble on about, feel free to leave a comment asking me to do so.

 

 

Moving Day!

            Ahhh, moving day! Yesterday was moving day for me, which is why this blog is coming out a little later than usual – sorry to anyone it confused. One thing I've decided, though, is if I want to really get into shape, I’ll become a mover.

            Nope, not happening. Never. My muscles say once was more than enough. They have also threatened to mutiny if I ever move into (or out of, in this case) an apartment building again. Particularly the top floor.

            I'm told that moving can be very stressful – it certainly was for Colleen – but I don’t see it myself. Perhaps that’s because everything I do, moving included, is rather abnormal. For one thing, I've technically been in the process for months, and I don’t mean just packing. You see, since it was my parents’ house we were moving into, Colleen and I have been bringing boxes over since our roommate confirmed he was buying a house with his fiancée. This, in my opinion, is a far more sensible way to move than the usual do-it-all-at-once method because you don’t need as many people and you spread all the work out over more time. Then there is only one trip with all the big furniture and you’re done! Time to unpack!

            Granted, not many people have this option available. I've only ever moved twice in my life (excluding when I was too young to remember) and it was either out of or into my parents’ house. The result being that I have always had the freedom to move at any pace that works.

            My parents are awesome, by the way. And I'm not just saying that because they read this blog – they really are! I mean, not only did they let us move back in, but they gave us two rooms instead of the one we were expecting! Plus they entirely fixed up the bedroom for us (okay, so we helped with that, but they didn't even ask us to). This is only one instance of their awesomeness (my friends were always jealous that I had the best parents ever), but this isn't a blog about them, so I’ll stop boring you.

            I think that’s about it for today. Moving has occurred. All is well. Time to finish unpacking then get back to work as usual. Moral of the story: always move in or out of your parents’ house (or don’t move at all).

Click here to find the charity anthology containing a couple of my short stories.

If there's any subject you'd like to see me ramble on about, feel free to leave a comment asking me to do so. Really, please do!