Category Archives: Uncategorized

Chuck Wendig: The Book of Accidents

Working at CanPages wasn’t a bad job. It was close to home, paid more than my previous job, and I had to actually WORK (because proofreading is hard). Of course, the skeptical would say that getting a job with a provider of local phone directories was a little short-sighted, especially in 2013. Anyway, yes, they were bought out and shut down, but a few sections were told to finish up what they were doing before leaving. Including my section, who stayed on for three or four months after everyone else had left.

With nothing to do.

And I mean, NOTHING. I had a desk, a Mac and two 23 inch screens, and no work to do. I spent those months on Google Plus, which was still a thing back then, and I’m pretty sure it was around that time that I came to know the work of Chuck Wendig. First through his G+ posts, then through his blog, Terribleminds, and then through his books.

Over the years I have read e-books, physical books, borrowed books from the library, asked for them for Christmas. I don’t know that I’ve read everything he’s written, but I have read all the Miriam Black books, and the Atlanta Burns stories. I read “Wanderers” with more than a little awe at the sheer scope of it.

It’s natural enough, then, that I would grab “The Book of Accidents” with both hands when it came along.

Chuck Wendig does not write easy books. He doesn’t spin calming visions of meadows and sunshine. His are not the tales of humourous misunderstandings, or social faux pas. Chuck puts monsters under the beds, then has those monsters turn out to be glove puppets of a worse monster, who is actually only the polite face of a monster so terrifying that other monsters leave a nightlight on.

“The Book of Accidents” is big, not as long as “Wanderers”, but still a healthy-sized tome, and I was looking forward to reading it slowly. I’ve just about finished “The Night Circus” for the third time, and need a break from the swirling rage it generates by being so effortlessly brilliant and simple, yet mind-numbingly complex and heartbreaking at the same time. The family sat down to dinner last night and put on a movie I wasn’t interested in, so I picked up “The Book of Accidents.” That would have been around 6.45pm. I can’t tell you what time I finished reading the book that night, because I lie on my side facing away from the clock, but I suspect it was past 1am. I’m a bit tired today, but it was totally worth it.

Like many of his books, “The Book of Accidents” quickly builds up a head of steam, and then it does not relent. The characters and the events are moving fast, and I did not want to stop reading, did not want to step out of the world of the novel and have to wade through normality for a day to get back to reading. I read, and I read, and I read, and when I closed the book, I did not feel cheated. The story delivers on the early promise, and while not every thread is neatly tied off, they don’t need to be. If there’s no sequel, that’s not an issue, but if there is, I’d read that for sure.

A few warnings – Chuck deals in gore, and there is plenty in this book. There are graphic descriptions of deaths and violence and school shooting victims. Like I said, he’s not writing whimsical comedies here.

But if you like sharp prose, fast plots, weird, weird, WEIRD goings-on and a SUPER-SIZED dollop of scary, then this is the book you need. And then go back to Blackbirds, Bad blood, Shotgun Gravy….

Genius is hereditary….I hope.

Alongside the ever present conundrum of “What sort of plays do you write?”, the second most popular question people ask is “Why did you become a playwright?”*

It’s a fair question, and one I used to answer with some vague pompous and self-aggrandizing waffle about working my way through the various formats until I found the one that took the least effort for the most money.
But the stupid thing is, there’s a sensible and much more compelling answer: My Dad is a playwright.

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It’s stupid because it’s taken me so long to realise. Dad has always been a vicar. It’s something he worked hard at, and I only really thought of him in those terms : Dad/Vicar. But while he was doing all that vicar stuff, he wrote several terrific plays for the young people of the church (and a good few adults as well) that play to all the strengths of good community theatre plays.

1.    They are written for a minimalist stage. All Dad’s plays were performed in the church, and although he was able to construct a small stage for most of the churches he worked in, the performance space was not purpose built. There were rudimentary flats, but the main idea was that lighting and props gave the idea of location (along with the dialogue, of course) and any bits of furniture that were needed could only appear if it was feasible to lug ’em onstage by hand during a blackout.

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2.       Like the staging restrictions, there were restrictions on the effects available. The lighting was limited, usually either hired or volunteered, but the best you could hope for would be different lighting areas and some colour. No flashy effects or projections – this was in the early Eighties, after all.

3.        Large cast. With the number of kids in attendance, plus the adults, there were a lot of people to accommodate. Luckily the Bible isn’t a small cast production, so there are plenty of parts on offer if that’s your source material. But you have to be pretty smart about how many are going to be onstage at a time, how long are they on or off, and what the heck are all the folks who aren’t onstage doing?

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4.     Story. Yes the Bible has plenty of stories to work with, but if you’re performing for a church audience, you have to think of new ways to present stories they’ve heard every Sunday. That was tricky enough in “All Prophet No Loss” which dealt with the various prophets, but in “Man on a Donkey” Dad was telling arguably the most famous story of all, Holy Week and the Crucifixion.

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Dad took on these challenges while doing his day job, one far more demanding and time consuming than any I’ve ever tackled. He wrote these brilliant full length plays and my Mum wrote songs to go along with them. Together they produced and directed them, oversaw the making of costumes (again, something simple, like tabards or waistcoats in the main) , manufactured props and painted flats.

And in amongst it all, a young me was wandering around, occasionally helping, usually hindering and always in some part or other. I was the man in the market, explaining the strange behaviour of the Prophet Hosea. I was a slave in Egypt, singing a funny song based on the old hit “Right said Fred” and trapping a wicked overseer in a statue made from cardboard boxes. Critics agree my best appearance was as the advertising salesman “Gordon Bennett” selling his line of Garden Machinery for Block and Dibber.

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Years of my childhood, spent preparing for and acting in plays written by my father, and I couldn’t come up with a more compelling reason for being a playwright than : “It was easier than writing a novel.”

Sometimes life’s secrets aren’t secret at all – they’re so obvious you have trouble seeing them.


*This has only become the second most popular question since I stopped working as the Door Greeter in Home Depot. Back then, the second most popular question people asked me was “Which way to the washrooms?”

Be a man.

A Dirty Job (Grim Reaper, #1)

As you might be able to tell from the illustration, I’ve just finished reading “A Dirty Job” by Christopher Moore. Again. I think this is the third or fourth time I’ve read it, and I’ve listened to it on audio a couple of times too. I’ve also read the sequel, but not recently. I’ll be collecting that one again next week, I think.

One of the things that draws me to this book is that the central character is described as a Beta Male. Not only is he described that way by the omniscient author voice, he also describes himself that way, and is content with the description. In a world where we love to label people, Beta Male is not usually considered one of the nice ones.

The odd thing is, Alpha Male is also probably most used as a derogatory term. Maybe it’s my own Beta sensibilities, but the few men I see using the term unironically about themselves online are NOT living the kind of life that looks appealing. It’s the kind of life that looks both entirely superficial and exhausting. It’s all about how shiny and fast my car is, how big my pecs are, how much cash I’m making RIGHT NOW, and the crucial point of all this is: are these things MORE than everyone else around me?

Of course, Alpha Males will tell you I’m wrong about that. They’ll talk about warrior this, and hunter that, and maybe leadership something or other. If you’re unlucky, they’ll also start in a diatribe about wolf society that is both wrong and outdated nonsense.

Growing up, the heroes onscreen that I saw were all Alphas. They were bold, physical, decisive. They took risks. I remember very clearly watching a James Bond movie (The World is not Enough) where Bond follows a lead by assuming a man’s identity and getting on a plane. He doesn’t know where the plane is going, doesn’t know what his assumed identity was meant to do there, and he had no back up. To me, that was terrifying.

But being Beta has made my life what it is. It didn’t bother me that I earned less than Mrs Dim, or that her career meant we would have to move every couple of years, so I couldn’t have a traditional employment path. It meant I could accept the reality of me being the primary caregiver once we had children, and it meant our arguments, disagreements, fights and differences of opinion never boiled over into anything major – I had backing down built into my DNA. And backing down doesn’t mean losing, folks. When you lower the temperature of the fight, you allow the pre-frontal cortex to re-assert control of the brain, supplanting the amygdala, which kicks in first in stressful situations. Your amygdala is the lizard brain, the home of fight-or-flight, whereas your proper reasoning is in your pre-frontal cortex. Once that can consider the facts, you make better decisions, but it’s slow to get moving. I didn’t win every argument (a lot of the time it was because I was wrong), but sometimes I got my point across later.

I have three kids, all AFAB, and I used to get a lot of comments about being a dad raising girls. People used to express sorrow at the family dog also being female, as if having a male dog would give me some kind of solace, some bastion of maleness from which the pair of us could regard the rest of the family. It always sounded weird to me, because I LIKED my kids. Just because they were girls didn’t mean there was some kind of gulf between us. They liked Star Wars and Doctor Who, and yes, they had dolls and fairies and stuff too, but they were my kids and I knew them very well. When they were tiny I would dress them for practicality, but when they were older they picked their own outfits, and dresses or trousers were their choice, and I don’t believe my views affected those choices one way or the other.

My middle kid told me the other day that I don’t fit a lot of the dad memes on Reddit – I’m not emotionally distant, or rushing out to spend time fishing or working on a car. I still did all the stuff I remembered from MY childhood – a dad should give rides on shoulders, should say “Hey, I think I have a book on that” when you’re doing a school project, should help you fix broken things, be bad at dancing, and know some obscure songs.

I wouldn’t go as far as to say that Alpha Males are the whole problem. You get assholes in every community. I belong to the Star Wars Fan community, Cosplay Community, Writing Community, Library Community, Ex-pats community…. No group of people exists with a common thread that doesn’t include at least one person who’s an asshole. But the Alpha Male image is based on propping up the ego of that individual. All the traits that they laud in themselves are selfish ones. Are they the ones to lead a group of survivors on a desert island? Maybe. Are they a useful member of the community in normal times? Less so, I would say.

We finally live in times where marginalised communities are rising to be heard. People from areas of life who have been oppressed, enslaved, denied, derided and pushed aside. They are standing up and demanding their space. Who is IN their space? Right now, it’s generally white guys, guys who think of themselves as global Alphas. And while most people know that it’s a big table with room for everyone, all those Alphas think that allowing others to the table means pushing them out. Betas would be asking if anyone wanted snacks on the table, if everybody was ok with their chairs. Betas want people to get along. Remember that internet tagline about “Don’t teach women self-defense, teach your sons not to rape?” That’s this too. The whole idiotic “incel” movement is based on entitlement : “I should have a girlfriend who has sex with me, I’m OWED one. The films and TV say it should happen because I’m a strong man.”

Alpha thinking. That guy who gave symposiums on “How to get girls”, who wrote the playbook. Like there’s a formula you can repeat to win any woman. Alpha thinking.

Alpha thinking has done more than enough. European men have rampaged around the globe, incels have murdered women, others have killed indiscriminately because of their belief in themselves, in their rights and what they are owed. It’s past time for the Alphas to stand aside, and realise their lives are phony and destructive.

Canada Day 2021

Tomorrow is Canada Day, the 1st of July. It’ll be the twelfth Canada Day we’ve had since we arrived, and it’s going to be a strange one.

For a long time I admired the Canadian attitude to Canada. The people seemed happy to be Canadian, happy to own it, to wear the maple leaf on anything and everything, to take the national stereotyping in good heart. Canada wasn’t a bad place, so we could relax about liking it, unlike those poor neighbours down south who are so embarrassed about their multiple failures that they have to be fiercely PROUD of their country, and shout down anyone who isn’t.

When the library sent everyone home during Covid, we were encouraged to take some of the online courses that were available, and chief among them was, essentially, “Introduction to the Indigenous Peoples of Canada”. It was a good course, carefully constructed by a group of people who represented a good cross-section of the many nations, bands and tribes and peoples that make up the Indigenous and Metis populations. It was a good course, but hard to switch of the colonial brain, the cynical, analytical part that wants to complain about things that are different. But by doing that, I came to see that we did, what the Europeans did, was inexcusable. We rolled in, made agreements, broke those agreements, then told the people who were here first that they had no claim under a system of law they didn’t subscribe to or even get recognised by. Time and again, colonists have proven they cannot be trusted.

This course wasn’t the first I had heard of the Residential Schools. We’ve visited the Nk’Mip Cultural centre in Osoyoos ( where they have displays about a school that did better by the folks, which tells you how it could have gone. But the course went into detail, and you cannot escape the fact that by trying to commit cultural genocide, the colonists have damaged an entire group of people, then castigated them for that damage.

I come from a small island nation that has been invaded over and over. Saxons, Vikings, Normans, Romans. All came and left their mark on the land and the people. In a play about the meaning of culture, I had an old woman ask her grandchildren if, should the Canadian Indigenous peoples get recompense for their injury, she should be recompensed by the Italians? But that’s disingenuous. This is about events that happened in living memory. About wounds that are still raw. About prejudice that affects hundreds of thousands every day, across generations. We need to sit and listen to those we have hurt, and let them lead the way to restitution. That will be hard, because the way they will go about that process, the steps they will require of us, and the time it will take will all feel different and strange to us. But it CANNOT be done on our terms. This is not for us. It is because of us.

So this Canada Day will be strange. I still love this country and the people in it. I’m still glad we came here, even though that makes us more a part of the problem, until we can find a way to be part of the solution. Canada may not have been a nation before 1867, but it has always been home to the people who lived here. Whether the land belonged to those people, or they belonged to the land is immaterial in light of what was done to them.

I’ve heard many times that the name “Canada” comes from the word “Kanata”, which means “Village”. I have lived in villages before. Everyone knows everyone else. People are able to help one another, and the whole village can come together in times of crisis or celebration. It’s time for Canada to come together and heal.

World Juggling Day or Not everyone can do everything.

If you’ve read more than three entries of this blog, or followed me on Twitter for more than a month, you probably know I’m a juggler. I may have cut way, way back on the amount of juggling I actually do these days, but it’s not something I will stop being.

Today I happened across a reminder that World Juggling Day will be this weekend – it’s set for the nearest Saturday to the 17th of June, when the International Juggling Association was founded back in 1947. I don’t know how I’ll be celebrating on Saturday, given the weird state of home life right now (Mrs Dim’s minor stroke last month, and the unexpected arrival of a kitten this weekend), not to mention that it’s also Father’s Day, which may or may not have celebrations of its own.

But thinking about juggling reminded me of a conversation with Mrs Dim. She’s concerned about her short-term memory issues. The docs assure her that the issues themselves are short-term, and it’s very likely she’ll recover full function in a matter of weeks or months. Mrs Dim is nervous, since so much of her job depends on her memory, so she asked me to tutor her in some of the endless memory techniques I keep researching.

And here’s the thing: I keep researching memory techniques because I have a lousy memory for certain things. Star Wars trivia? Not a problem. Appointments? Names? Pet immunisations? All a blank on a regular basis. Mrs Dim thinks my failure to train my memory despite reading all the books I can find on it is because I don’t apply myself. I think it’s because I have a bad memory.

Yes, yes, I know. Almost every book on memory says “Hey, anyone can improve their memory with these simple techniques! Memory is a muscle that must be exercised!” To prove this, there are testimonials from people who had bad memories before, and better ones after. I’m paraphrasing because, naturally, I can’t remember the exact words, or the names of the books.

Let’s take that muscle analogy for a spin, though, shall we?

I have a full set of muscles, and they are entirely adequate. At school, I competed in Sports Day and was unimpressive. I was beaten in races by kids who exercised to the same small degree I did. If I had trained hard, I could have probably beaten THEM, but I would still have come in behind Neil Ricketts, who ran the 100m in 13 seconds. Had he trained extensively? No. He was just naturally built for sprinting. And casual racism, violence, and bullying, but we’re talking about muscles right now.

I’ve taught juggling and circus skills since I was eighteen (and now I’m forty nine or thereabouts). I’ve only met two people in all that time who could not be taught. And it wasn’t that they couldn’t learn, they were choosing NOT to try, or not to listen, or determined to fail. Don’t know why, and after all these years have passed, I don’t much care. But my point is, while everyone can be taught to juggle, not everyone can be great at it. My first juggling partner, Dougie, was a natural juggler. He could watch a trick being done a few times and pretty much nail it on his first go. He learned amazingly fast, but he was lazy and sloppy in other ways. My friend Mike didn’t learn so easily, but put in much more effort, hammering away at each trick until it was right. I’m somewhere in the middle of the two, but hampered by my own demons of apathy and short-term concentration. What was I talking about?

Oh yeah. So anyone can learn to juggle, just like anyone can learn memory techniques. But some people are going to pick up the props (general term for anything you juggle) and get the idea in minutes, while others are going to need days. And some of those others will have to sweat for weeks to get a simple three ball pattern, while others will go onto numbers juggling, or knives (which are actually easy, but don’t let on!) or fire.

Dougie, me and Mike

So maybe those folks who tried the memory techniques and became memory masters were built that way to begin with. Maybe the folks like me will sweat away at our mnemonics and lists, and visual guides and hooks and only ever be barely adequate. A lot of these memory techniques, I fell, need a good memory to work. It’s easy to say ‘Place your daily appointments along a mental route you travel frequently”, but I don’t remember the route I travel to work every day. I can’t replay it in my mind like a movie. That’s not how my memory works.

People, I think, are good at different things. We can learn new skills, but some people will be better at some things than other people will. We should be ok with that.

Epic fantasy book review

This was my “To Be Read” pile not so long ago. I’d been carelessly piling up holds in the library and then a lot of them came in at once. You’ll notice that at least two of the books you can see are epic fantasy, something I don’t often dip into because…well, you’re not SUPPOSED to dip into it, are you? You’re supposed to dive in, headfirst, bring a sleeping bag and stay for a quest or two.

I picked up “The Sword of Shannara” on the recommendation of a patron, who assured me that it would make me forget all about that Lord of the Rings nonsense. After all, it was wildly different, with the story concerning a wandering wizard who seeks out a quiet young individual in a village to tell him that he must defeat the powerful evil growing once again in a distant but somehow threatening land. This unassuming individual takes his best friend (who happens to be his brother, and they set out, but the wizard is delayed and they are accompanied by a dark and brooding warrior type, who turns out to be destined to be a king, but has been cast out of his kingdom. Soon they gather a company around them that includes a dwarf and at least one elf.

I don’t know about you, but I haven’t thought about “Lord of the Rings” for MINUTES now.

My problem is that, yes I did grow up with Lord of the Rings, but I grew FURTHER up with Terry Pratchett. The straight, solemn pomposity of Shannara was just too grating. And I don’t care how much you love the series, when a character says ‘As you know” and then continues to talk for two pages in only four paragraphs, the editor fell down on the job.

Because of this unpleasant experience (I had to finish the book because the patron was going to ask me about it), I rather bounced off the better written but incredibly dense ” The Unbroken”. I could see it was setting up for a great sweeping series of volumes, and I couldn’t clear the mental space to get involved.

And then last week another hold came in. This was the third in a series. Well, the second FULL book, though there was a short story in between. Novella, maybe. Anyway, I’m not going to name it because the author fell out of favour due to reprehensible conduct, and though he has made no reparation or changes, he’s crept back onto social media and his books are out there. I had liked the characters in the first book, so I bashed on.

This book takes the “two streams” approach. The action begins in timeline A, what we could call “The present”, and between chapters it switches back to a point int he past that will lead to the present. The view alternates, moving the moment of The Present forward, even as The Past account catches up to where we came in. Confused? Don’t worry, it’s worse if you read the book. You see, the main character is also wanting revenge for something that happened to her way back beyond the point of The Past that we’re dealing with, so in both timelines you get extreme flashbacks. And it’s an ensemble piece. That refers to the previous books. And switches between first person and third person viewpoints.

Naturally, I was a little burned out on epic fantasy, but the latest hold that arrived (no, I haven’t finished ‘The Constant Rabbit” yet, it gets gloomy, but I did get through all of “Doctor Sleep”, and I put aside “The Burning World” for now.) is a much simpler prospect. Just an alternate history of Britain in the early nineteen hundreds after the French captured a steamship that slipped through a time gate and gave away the tactics of Trafalgar and Waterloo. There are tortoises too, but some of them get shot. It’s called “the Kingdoms” and I’m enjoying it immensely, thank you.

Twelve years of Twitter

So, May, 2009. We’d been living in Canada for two months, and only one of those months in our own place. I was still officially a full-time writer, but earning less than a full-time wage. Facebook hadn’t lived up to its promise of making me a household name (other than in my own household), and anyway, we were using Facebook to let our families know how we were getting on in the Great Unknown. And things were, on the whole, quite civilised.

But I didn’t want to be surviving, or getting by. I wanted to be a success, and that meant SALES! Plays or e-books, I didn’t mind which. The only way to really drive sales is, of course, to invest in advertising, while simultaneously working very hard on developing contacts and doing favours for other writers and publishers. Get known as a good person, someone whose opinion is worthwhile. Get word of mouth working in your favour by sending your material out to the right people, but only when they are ready to read it.

This is, of course, hard work and time consuming, and back then we already had plenty of things to consume our time. I remember James Moran, TV writer, Film Writer, and genuinely nice person, posting about how he managed to write the draft of his screenplay that sold (Severance):

“I wrote more than twenty drafts. I would go out to work, come home at night and work. I would work early in the morning and at weekends. I rewrote and rewrote and rewrote until it was right.”

I believed him, because it was the kind of thing I had heard before. Writing is something anyone can do. Making a living from writing is serious business, and not for the dilettante. I knew it. After all, even Sir Terry Pratchett himself had told me as much when I met him.

But I couldn’t shake the thought that there might be a shortcut. Something to get things moving. And so I got onto Twitter. It had only been going three years, but already people were saying that was the place to get yourself noticed. But I don’t have a wide attention span. I kept the number of people I was following pretty low for a long time, so I could actually see what they were posting. Naturally, the number of people following me stayed low too. I tried to be professional to project the image that would sell plays, but it feels dreadful. Surely Social Media should be the one place where you can actually be yourself? If other people don’t like it, there’s a block button! As long as you’re staying within the guidelines of the platform and the bounds of human decency (not always the same thing, obvs) then I say, BE YOURSELF!

And I’m not a salesman. I’m proud of my writing, and I think it’s worth performing. I’m proud to be associated with my publisher, who took steps to be a premier theatrical presence online while others were clinging to print. I’m not ashamed that I juggle, or like Star Wars, or was a Stay at Home Dad for a decade or two. Gradually I have relaxed my need to be professional on Twitter. I still advertise my plays, but I leave comments and terrible jokes, and post pictures of the garden, or the cat, or my latest helmet slightly more often than that.

Twelve years of Twitter haven’t made me a star, but they’ve helped me stay connected to two of my semi-cousins, one in the States and one back in the UK. They’ve allowed me to follow and interact with some authors I would never have the chance to meet in real life, and leave messages for people like my favourite comics artist, Terry Moore.

I was sad when they shuttered G+, because that had brought me a new circle of friends (whom I still chat to through another, inferior platform), and if Twitter eventually goes the same way, I will certainly feel the loss. The short format and chatty style fit into my day much better than the ghastly notion of listening to sound bites (Clubhouse) or watching short videos (TikTok and IG). Call me old-fashioned if you like, but I’d be happy to still be swapping bad puns on Twitter in another twelve years, even if it’s only me and a couple of other people there.

Stupid hobbies again: The Juggling Box

The first plan, taken from my planner.

When I get busy with things I have to do, my brain will squirm like a bored toddler and suggest stupid hobby stuff instead. I waste a lot of energy arguing with myself that I don’t need a pedal powered landspeeder, don’t have room to store one, even if I knew what to make it out of, and the steering would be a real issue, though I guess we could knock up a variant of rack and pinion and…

This is how I get into trouble.

Right now it’s pretty bad because I have a suit of Clone Armour (From The Bad Batch, coming soon to Disney +) that needs a complete overhaul. I have a dalek that needs surfacing work, and a ton of electronics. I have a helmet I’ve started for Mrs Dim, the first costume she’s expressed interest in wearing, and there’s loads more to do on that. Oh, and I started a rough project to build a Hollow Knight mask for my youngest Weasel.

All of which means, along with my day job and the paid writing work, that I have plenty to do, thanks very much Brain.

So a couple of weeks ago my brain started sketching out ideas for a new juggling box (see the illustration at the top.)

I know the kit I need for the kind of show I do these days, so I made a list and began to imagine the box I would need to hold it all. Since I didn’t have any way to measure the clubs and stuff, I used Z as the length of the clubs, and X as the depth, and Y as the width of all five of them together. All the other parts of the box would be measured in relation to those distances.

Don’t worry if none of this makes sense, it’s just what I do to keep my brain happy.

After a couple of weeks, it became clear that my brain wasn’t going to let go of this one. Never mind that I haven’t had an actual juggling gig in over a year, never mind that there’s nothing wrong with the kit transport that I have now. Oh no, we must make a box, my precious, and it must be very, very complex!

I bought wood. I wanted to buy piano hinges as well, but obviously they don’t make those the right length. In fact, of all the things I went to buy at Home Depot, the only bits I actually found there were the wood (2ftX2ft project panels) and some all-purpose tool holders that were going to be used to clip the clubs into place inside the box.

I didn’t photograph the early stages because it went very quickly and I didn’t have any hands free. First, construct a box with all the correct dimensions. Check those dimensions very, very carefully. Get corners as close to 90 degrees as possible. Then very, very, VERY carefully, cut all around the middle of the box, and really, really hope you picked the right side to start. Then, cut one of those pieces in half on the other dimension. Now, go look in that box of hinges and see if you can find four the same.

Ok, well, are there two the same?


Are there another two that are the same as each other?

Ok then. Put two hinges on each side, and now you have a box that opens along a central seam! I put the tool holders in place in the back and the clubs fitted in as if I had measured. (Which I had. Again and again.)

This would have been a good place to stop. I had achieved something, and my brain was a little surprised. Maybe it would have left it at that, but now my confidence strode to the fore and said “This is JUST the beginning!”

Because there’s more than clubs, right? You saw the list I made. By putting in guard rails on either side, and little restraining rails on the bottom, I could put juggling knives in one side and fireclubs in the other, swinging out like some magical thing!

I also made a box to sit on the top that would hold all the juggling balls.

And this was good, and I was happy, but then a little voice spoke up from the back of my mind and said “Er, excuse me, but where does the diabolo go? And the diabolo handsticks? And the devil sticks, come to that. Also, the front swings open, weren’t you going to design some fancy closing mechanism that would ALSO hold the juggling rings?

Reader, I switched off the lights and left the workshop.

But a few days later I was back at it again, because my wretched brain could see POTENTIAL. This might actually be GOOD and IMPRESSIVE and lots of other concepts that really shouldn’t matter to me now that I am nearly forty nine and living on a different continent from most of the people who made me feel inadequate as a human being.

I shifted the knives over to the same side as the fireclubs, because there’s room for both and then they rattle less, and that made space for the diabolo and both sets of handsticks on the right.

The Devil Stick itself was too tall for the box. I didn’t want to cut holes in anything, so I bolted a small plastic holder to the bottom of the right hand side, and the last of my general purpose tool holders to the top. Click!

Now for the front. I cut a couple of blocks to the curve of the juggling rings, then glued them on either side of the front doors. Then I cut a couple of square blocks that were larger and glued them on those blocks. Now the rings would hook in on these blocks and sit snug, holding the doors closed!

I also dug out a small pair of wheels for the back and some rotating castors for the front. Now the front doors could swing open easily.

And that’s where I am now. The voices in my head have subsided a bit, apart from the one saying the box of balls needs to be secured to the main box, and the whole thing should be edged with veneer to hide the screws and then lacquered a deep honey gold. Oh, and there should be some sort of handle to pull the thing along. And where am I going to put the poi? And what about the buckets for the magic bucket trick?

I don’t know why zombies want brains. They’re nothing but trouble.

Project 150 – it’s all gone horribly wrong.

So, less than three months ago, I mentioned that I was setting my goal low so I could keep on track. I recounted the story of the blogger who introduced his grand plan with a fanfare and vanished without trace. January and February were a breeze, with me accumulating enough of a word count to put me a month ahead.

Chapter one and two rolled out just fine – as long as you keep the maxim “Write the first draft for yourself” in mind. This was not great literature, but even refined, reworked and rewritten, it’s never going to be that.

But then March arrived and the shutters came down. It’s been a busy time for many weird and regular reasons (birthdays, pandemic, day job, driving lessons and building a new patio), and every time I grabbed five minutes to try and push up the word count total, I realised I wasn’t sure what came next in the story. As a life-long pantser, I’m used to working without a plan. I used Rachel Aaron’s advice and planned each scene I was going to be writing before kicking off, and I thought I had a general outline in mind, but I actually hadn’t worked through the whole story.

Let me explain: I hate it when characters do something stupid or out of character to move the plot along. I have a main character called Eddie, and he wants to A: rid his city of zombies and B: Keep the folks who have gathered around him alive. To make Eddie’s life harder, a convoy of military types have come into the city to resupply. Eddie wants them to join his band and help with the rebuild, but he’s worried they will just take over. The guy in charge of the convoy is tiring of the hit and run life, and Eddie’s fenced kingdom is just the safe compound he’s been looking for.

And so, chapter three is the time to start all the maneuvering, right? Except, I find I have no idea what happens next. I mean, sure Eddie and his friends have retreated to their secondary safe zone, so the convoy can’t target them, or threaten them. That’s good. The convoy are likely to find the kingdom and move in, and Eddie isn’t going to risk an armed confrontation to try and re-take the place. I set up a nice Chekhov’s gun situation with a zombie trap that allows Eddie to get hundreds of zombies off the streets and contained. If he was the right kind of protagonist, it would be some kind of poetic for him to use that stored army of undead to over-run the convoy.

But he wouldn’t. Eddie hates zombies, and wants to be rid of them. he doesn’t want ANYONE else turned into a zombie, even if they’re bad guys. And the convoy people aren’t exactly bad guys, they’re just living a different post-apocalyptic lifestyle.

So I’m two chapters in and I have written myself into a corner. Nothing’s going to change in the current situation unless Eddie acts out of character, or the convoy does something that doesn’t make sense, like abandon the kingdom, or ignore it completely.

Despite having hit my word count targets for the first three months, I have to throw everything out, and sit down and plot the whole thing. And this time, do it right. Good job I’ve finished building the patio.

Book blog – March 2021

This is a brief book blog post, as I’m going to try and write about three books that I absolutely loved this month. I say “try and write” because it feels like I never quite say all the things I want to about the books I love (and I don’t review the books I didn’t like, because the author doesn’t need to hear my negativity, and it might not have been a book meant for me. Yes, it could also be a BAD book, but that’s often a subjective thing.)

So, to begin : Remote Control by Nnedi Okorafor.

I’ve read the first Binti book, and I was enthralled. People have advocated for voices other than “old, white, male” in Sci-Fi for years, and this is why. A different grounding, a different perspective, a different experience, all these things come through in a story of a future that is only semi-familiar. Language is used differently (from my experience, obviously) and the locations are not the tired old usual suspects of New York and London. I haven’t been to the African continent at all, and my education (in a comprehensive in the South East of the UK in the 1980’s) was not packed with either the history or the geography of that assembly of nations. We did once discuss Ouagadougou in a geography lesson, but I could not have pointed it out on a map even then.

Remote Control reads like mythology that has grown together with sci-fi. The central character, Sankofa, is described as the “adopted daughter of Death” and it felt to me like a tale from long ago, like an Anansi story (something I learned about from an older, white Sci-fi writer, of course…). But she is this way because of an alien artifact. Her mission is something she has assigned herself, not something that has been ordained for her, but it’s no less onerous for that.

The characters are real, and they move through environments that come alive through the pages. I’ve never seen these places, but I could feel them as I read. The story is short, but satisfying, even as it ends with a setup that could lead to future tales.

I’ve been following Sarah Gailey on Twitter for quite a while (and if you haven’t read “River of Teeth, what the heck are you doing HERE? Go get it now, cowboys on Hippos in the American Wild West? GO, GO, GO!) so when I saw this book pop up on the “Just Ordered” section of the library, I was intrigued. This didn’t seem like traditional Gailey Fare. After all, the last one I read was “Magic for Liars” about a detective investigating a murder in a magic school.

But then you read the summary and discover this is about a scientist who discovers the woman her husband left her for is a clone of herself – moreover, a clone conditioned to be more compliant, using techniques the scientist herself has pioneered. I don’t want to talk too much about the plot, because the twists are awesome, I didn’t see ANY of them coming, and they’re beautifully done. But here’s what I thought when reading the first chapter.

Reading literary fiction, I compared it to wine: There’s a whole industry around analysing it, teasing out the ingredients and influences, and some people love it, and some don’t. Also, like LitFic, every time I try wine, it’s worse than I expected, I can’t understand the appeal, and I’m left with a nasty taste in my mouth.

Most of the stuff I read is like craft beer. Not as lofty as the Wine Set, but still requiring skill to create with the correct ingredients. Some of it doesn’t hit the spot, the way those oddballs who add fruit flavours to beer don’t really know what they’re doing, but in the main, I like my pint relatively simple but well-made. It’s not a can of Bud Lite, is my point.

But reading “The Echo Wife” felt like sipping brandy, or a good rum (both of which I have done in my time, with a cumulative four years of bartending in my past). Maybe port is the better comparison, since I drink that more enthusiastically than the other two. The whole thing felt rarefied, distilled, and utterly perfected. Not as pretentious as some new red wine from somewhere, but something with the weight of experience and craft behind it. Just breathtaking, beautiful writing.

Anna Meriano has written the “Love Sugar Magic” series, about which I know nothing, but I am sure I have seen mention of it on Twitter (where I spend more time than is healthy, obviously.) I picked up “This is how we fly” because my family and I went to the Quidditch Global Games when it was held here in Burnaby back in 2014, and I wrote about it here:

This is a story set in the real world (and having read Anna Meriano’s bio, it’s a world she is VERY familiar with), so the Quidditch played is on the ground, and while it’s important, it’s not the plot. The real story is Ellen’s struggle to get through the last summer before she starts college, as friends from High School drift away, and her home life becomes even more stressful. I admit I had more sympathy for Ellen’s stepmom than Ellen did, because she makes the very good point that she should not be the only one cooking, and cleaning and taking care of the kids (Ellen has a younger stepsister) but she also doesn’t try to accommodate or remember Ellen’s veganism, is suspicious of Ellen’s political activist views, and is also more than a little homophobic. Since I have three kids, one of whom is non-binary, I’m familiar with Ellen’s frustration with accepting the status quo, with inaction over climate change, over the abuse of trans folx, the refusal to accept all kinds of love, all identity choices as valid (and the use of the word “choice” there is a whole other conversation too, obviously – some things you don’t choose, you just are.) The fact the book manages to fit all these issues in without every one of them reading like a lecture is proof that the story has been worked on hard, for a long time – the author mentions six years of redrafting in the excellent notes at the end. It’s a great story, well told, and while some of the teen antics are painful to read, the resolution is right, fitting and realistic. The book even mentions the issue of appreciating Quidditch as a sport for all while acknowledging the problems around the original Harry Potter Franchise, thanks to JK’s anti-trans sentiments of late (and the other things that have come out about characters in the books and the latest round of movies.)

I borrow a lot of books from the library, because I’m there every day. It’s still rare to get three in a row that are a pleasure to read from cover to cover. I have no problem with recommending these three books.