A question that is frequently asked when writers get together is: How much money…. No, not that question but this one: are you a plotter or a pantser? That is, do you meticulously plot out your stories/novels—beat by beat, scene by scene and chapter by chapter—or do you write by the seat of your pants and worry about plot, if you ever worry about it, in the re-writes? [As an aside, I’ve often been glad that pants is a plural noun for a singular object, because if a writer was a “panter,” that would be an entirely different kind of story.]

Generally speaking, I come down on the side of being a plotter, which is a good thing since a mystery (and a lot of my SF has a mystery element, as well) pretty much needs a plot, though I have met a couple of mystery writers who claim they don’t know “who dun it” until they reach the end of the book. I also know a very successful SF writer who simply writes and writes, scene after scene, in no particular order, until a plot emerges. Then, like Arthur Miller did with Death of a Salesman, he simply cuts away anything that does not contribute to the theme and puts the scenes in proper order. It works for him (with nearly 30 novels to show for it) but it wouldn’t work for me.

Before I begin, I know the final destination my characters are trying to reach and more or less how they will get there. I do know the culprit and their motive before I start writing the murder.  The trick is often to pretend I don’t so that I can create plausible suspects for the detective (and the reader) to investigate or to suggest alternate paths or destinations for my characters. In any case, I’ve never been able to plot out an entire novel from beginning to end (though it often works for short stories). There are simply too many interesting possibilities to be found in the writing. I do eventually get it all down in outline but usually not before I’ve written a third of the book. I plot as I go, trying to always be 10 or so chapters ahead of the current place in my writing.

Not that my plots ever reach the beat-by-beat level of detail. If a beat is 200 words and it takes 25 to describe it, maybe just writing the scene would be easier. At some point, you have to trust your writing brain to find your way at least a few steps in the dark without endless planning. Rather, for me, a chapter outline will provide a guide to the essential scenes that need to take place. Moving forward, subsequent chapters have to build on those scenes and follow through with the consequences for the characters from their actions.

Here is the plot of the opening two chapters for my last Max Anderson novel, The Glare of Truth:

Chapter 1
Erich Harvey contacts Max and tells him he may have killed a man (Rejean LeFoie) in a drunken fight. His memory is unclear but he was told of it by Pierre Delecroix. He is subsequently arrested by Captain Fontaine. Max visits lawyer, Blaise Cleroux, who tells him that LeFoie was suing Harvey for alienation of affections regarding Nicole Bilodeau by revealing LeFoie’s secret activities.

Chapter 2
Max encounters Bilodeau and is told LeFoie was an evil man who associated with bad people. A conversation with Ginger Buchan suggests that Bilodeau’s politics are decidedly to the right. He warns Max off Harvey because… At Le Coq Bleu, Henri says dangerous anarchists are now regular customers. Max’s relationship with Jaqui explored.

Fairly thin gruel but, in the writing (and re-writing), it turned into 7200 fairly tasty words. You’ll note that in the second chapter there is an ellipsis where I wasn’t sure why Buchan was warning Max about Harvey. I knew it would come to me since both characters had appeared in previous books and “were known to me.” It almost sounds like character-driven writing, doesn’t it? Which, of course, it is—characters may be driven by plots but it is the characters and their problems that ultimately create the plot.

One of the reasons I don’t plot everything in advance is because I know I will discover things (that is, randomly make things up) about my characters that will enrich, and often change aspects of, the plot. Yesterday, I was writing a scene in Chapter 3 of my new mystery. It was supposed to be a brief scene about a minor secondary mystery, but by the time I finished it 1100 words later, I had uncovered a significant character change for one character, introduced another character who will play a major role in this book and likely future books and added a fascinating complication to the main plot that is going to make the book so much more interesting. You might say I planted a seed that will bear fruit later on.

Thus, my answer to the question is that I am both a plotter and a pantser, which shoved together makes me a PLANTSER!
 
 

A couple of weeks ago I had a dream which, since it refuses to fade away as all good dreams should, has precipitated this blog. I won’t bother with the details of the dream – the logic of dreams seldom flows true – except to say it involved stepladders and artistic success.

The more common metaphor is the ladder to success, which one climbs to reach the top of one’s field. However, a ladder, by its nature, requires a wall to lean against. In this case, since I am talking about artistic achievement, the wall represents the culture you are immersed in, a wall, built brick by brick by your predecessors. Sadly, some people seem to feel their achievements are sui generis, without precedent or reference to all that has gone before. Since none of those people are likely to recognize success if it fell on their heads, this blog is not for them.

Or, perhaps it is. After all a stepladder is self supporting, that is the wonder of its engineering. Still, it needs a foundation to rest upon and the wall has now transmogrified into a floor. Alas, there is no escaping the past.

Back to our stepladder and the artist who seeks to clamber up it. Why do we need to climb the damn thing anyway, you might ask, I’m not painting the Sistine Chapel? Well, metaphorically, you are. That is to say, you are grasping at a level of achievement not available to your current reach. If you are satisfied with what you can presently reach, well, I’m sure there is a place for you in hack heaven. The step ladder is a way up to a higher level.

But what is this metaphorical stepladder, what does it consist of, what does it represent? Knowledge, of course, though not simply facts and figures. You need knowledge of that foundation you are standing on. If you are a writer, you need to read, not just anything and, certainly, not just things that entertain you. The books that will build sturdy steps are made of sturdy things—hard ideas, difficult characters, perplexing and powerful plots and language you can cut your mind on (if you’re not careful). Similarly, a painter must study painting, a dancer must understand music and movement and, yes, choreography.  And so on.

Knowledge is not enough. You need experience, you need effort, you need to occasionally fall (which is only one letter removed from fail).

That experience has to be transformed into thought, deep, perplexing thought and powerful, often painful, emotions. Art is an attempt, more than else, to understand and try to solve the problems the world presents to you. And that is at the heart of it too – this is your stepladder to climb, no one else’s, and the problems that you see and experience are the ones that you have to delve into. It may be that in solving your own problems with the world, you might solve those of people who surround you. It may not be a universal truth (man with an income in want of a wife, sort of thing) but it might resonate in a wider field than your friends and family.

Nothing happens, of course, unless you want to climb the steps. The first few are easy; you are not far from where you started so the fall (fail) will be small, likely not too painful at all. But with each step higher, the giddiness of your position will start to fill you with both excitement and fear. As you climb higher, as the work you can do becomes ever more difficult, you begin to wonder if you have climbed enough or maybe even too high. I certainly wonder that every time I try to do something more challenging than what I did before. I think: I’ve done enough, I’m better than ever, why do I need to climb higher?

Why indeed? Yet, the higher we climb, the more we can see. Our vision widens to encompass more distant parts of our own culture, or more remotely still, the vast beauty of other people’s art, from far and wide. Moreover, we can also see higher, we can perceive, maybe begin to understand, those profundities others have already expressed, achievements that might now be within our grasp. Those last few steps are the most frightful as first, our thighs and then, our knees are pressed against the highest step. There is nothing to hold onto here, no stability but the ladder we have built and, perhaps, those people who encourage us and promise to hold us up (but what if one of them, and there are people like that, who would be happy to push us down, see us fall/fail).

Finally, we gather our courage and make that final step, that lies parallel to the platform we began on but so much higher, like standing on nothing but air, and we reach as high as we can. We stand on tip toes and stretch out our fingers. And just beyond our grasp is the pinnacle of success. For art is not a destination, it is an aspiration. Like Hemingway trying to write that one perfect sentence, what we want from our art is ultimately unattainable; it is the reaching not the grasping that matters.
​
Well, that was fun. For me anyway. These days, I sometimes feel shaky on my own stepladder, not wanting to take the next step up, wondering who would notice if I did. But then I take a breath, lift my foot, extend my hand and…

Photo by Debby Hudson on Unsplash

Happy New Year!
It’s bad enough I seem to only write these blogs once a year but now I’m over a week late getting it done. Put it down to information overload or the general fatigue of the years piling on, but better late than not at all (depending on how you view these essays.)

Well, 2023 was, for me at least, a significant upgrade on the year before and the year before that and, I guess, the year before that, too. It was certainly a year filled with travel and a degree of success in my writing career. There were some low points but they hardly took the thrill out of the high ones. I know that lots of people found the year hard—between inflation and the state of the world or their personal losses—and my heart frequently has and continues to go out to you.

However, having said that, this is my blog and I’ll cheer if I want to.

Travel came in three big batches (a several small ones, too).

The first big trip was to Mexico, one of my favorite countries, for the first time since 2019. We spent five days in late February in Oaxaca City, sampling some of the best cuisine Mexico has to offer, interspersed with long walks and a little sight-seeing, then it was off to Puerto Escondido for two weeks on the beach. The town had changed a bit in the four years since we were last there, a bit noisier, a bit busier but there was plenty of good seafood, lots of surf, sand and sun, and the trip to the lagoon was, as ever, an oasis of calm and beauty. We divided our time between an apartment farther down the beach, which was nice if a little shabby and with too many stairs to the front door, and one of our favorite little hotels, Hotelito Swiss Oasis, right on the main beach.

The second big trip was a western swing. First stop was Winnipeg to attend NASFic, (North American Science Fiction convention, held in the years World Con is held outside North America). It was not the best organized convention I’d ever been to, in fact, probably the worst, but it was my first out of Ottawa since the before times and it was great to see so many old friends. It was especially nice because I got to launch my new science fiction novel, The Passion of Ivan Rodriguez, published by Tyche Books. The book had plenty of advance praise from fellow writers and received a very positive review in Publishers Weekly, that you can read here.

After Winnipeg (and a three-day sojourn back in Ottawa) it was off to Vancouver Island to visit old friends and then on to Calgary to see family, friends and attend the 10th annual When Words Collide writing convention, where a second launch was staged. We had been back west once during COVID but this was the most ambitious trip. Of course, I wound up getting the virus though I barely had any symptoms and they lasted only 2 days.

When we returned home, one of the first things we did was to decide to sell our condo and become renters again. This was part of a long-term plan though circumstances forced us to move it up a little. There were some health issues that may prove serious in the medium term as well as some financial considerations because of upcoming major repairs to the building. In any case, it didn’t really look like things were going to happen for us, as there was little interest shown in the first two months it was on the market. We even thought of taking it off MLS in mid-October but our agent persuaded us to hang in there despite a planned trip to Europe which started with a quick jaunt to Spain on October 18th.

We arrived in Madrid during one of the biggest rainstorms in years, with floods along the coast and in low-lying cities. It had abated by evening and we had a pleasant evening out in Barajas, a nice little enclave near the airport. The next morning, we flew off to Granada to spend several days with our good friends, Violet Malan and Paul Musselman. We stayed at their place and toured the plazas and tapas bars of the city and, as well, took an exciting for me, harrowing for Liz, drive up into the Sierra Nevada mountains. We were just in time to see the first dusting of snow on the heights and had a lovely time, climbing through the villages, shopping and enjoying a fabulous lunch. On our own time, we toured the Alhambra, much more pleasant in the cool of October than during the heat of early August when we visited a few years ago.

From there, we flew off to London via Barcelona. We didn’t stay over but our luggage did for 48 hours, requiring a significant shopping trip in London as we replaced clothing and toiletries before our bags finally arrived. Vueling even covered about a third of our expenses. It is a cheap airline but hardly a bargain in our case.

Regardless, we spent a pleasant five days in South Kensington, visiting parks and museums and taking in a show, the ever-hilarious Noises Off. We were supposed to go to another show but had worn ourselves out and gave it a miss. At least we had bought tickets so we made a contribution to the arts, without actually having to get ourselves off the sofa. The next day we headed off to Deal, the town on the Channel coast where we lived for 2 months in 2017. We had a marvelous time dining and, yes, dancing, with our friends, Carol and Geoff Stickler, before Liz returned to London to visit her daughter Susan and her partner, Hugh, while I headed to Paris to research my next two Max Anderson mystery novels.

Imagine our shock, when the next day, we received an offer on our condo. It was a little low but we countered and within a couple of days we had a deal we could all live with. Everything was done on-line or by email with Liz in London and me in Paris. Having sold our condo with a closing date in early December, we had to find a place to live, rent it, arrange a move, massively downsize and all that jazz, all while still in London (I had returned to spend the final fabulous days with Susan, Hugh and their family of four children).

Back to Canada on November 8th, taking possession of the apartment on the 15th and moving the following week was pretty hectic – so much so that we went off the first weekend of December to a writing retreat at the home of Rob Sawyer and Carolyn Clink. We signed all the papers before we left and wrapped up the final details after we returned with 36 hours to spare before closing.

December was spent settling in, further downsizing and preparing for Christmas which we spent in Hamilton with Steve, Diana and the three boys, James, Alex and Finn. A pleasant end to a hectic year.

I mentioned the publication of my SF novel in July but I also released the third Max Anderson mystery, The Glare of Truth, in August as an indie publication. I’ve already got a good start on the fourth, tentatively titled, The Risen Sun, which I hope to have out in mid-summer. I also sold a novella, Carter’s Refugio, to Analog Science Fiction and Science Fact, one of the leading SF markets in the USA. I finished a couple of other short stories as well, though they are still seeking a good home.

What is a writer if not a reader as well. During 2023, I finished 71 books, ranging in length from 71 (poetry) to 608 (science fiction) pages. Mysteries were a mainstay with 30 completed books, while science fiction and non-fiction each tallied 13 (a big increase from the 4 the previous year). Eight mainstream fiction and 7 books of poetry rounded out my reading. As for what stood out for me in each category:

Mystery – Pilot that Knows the Waters by N.L. Holmes
Science Fiction – The House of Saints by Derek Kunsken and Africa Risen (a short story anthology)
Non-Fiction – Sand Talk by Tyson Yunkaporta, Entangled Life by Merlin Sheldrake and Ways of Meaning by Jeremy Lent (it was a particularly rich year here)
Mainstream Fiction – Yellowface by R.F. Kuang and Bewilderment by Richard Powers
Poetry – The Perseverance by Raymond Antrobus

I’m happy to say that another of my big accomplishments of the year was reconnecting to some old friends, many of whom I haven’t seen or even talked to in over a decade. That was nice and I count those moments of renewed friendship among the best of the past year. I look forward to many more in the coming year (which will include lots of travel to both coasts of Canada, plus The Philippines and Thailand) and lots and lots of writing and reading.

That’s it until next time. Here is a picture to say good-bye to 2023 and hello to catching the wave to new adventures.

I never thought I'd say it -- but I really miss editing. Working with other writers fuels my own creative engine. So, if you think I might be the editor for you, check out my editing services page for details on rates and process.

I read 65 books last year -- though many of them were very short so that's a bit of a cheat, I suppose. There were a lot of mysteries (25) and science fiction (18), not surprising since that is what I write and, as well, what I fall back on when I want release from the troubles of the day. I also read 11 mainstream novels, 7 books of poetry but only 4 non-fiction, which is quite low for me. With two novels to research next year I suspect that last figure will go up a lot in 2023 (2 of the 3 books I am currently reading are non-fiction)

I am very selective when it comes to literary fiction, so it may not be too surprising that some of the best books I read last year were in that category. Judith and Hamnet by Maggie O'Farrell tops the list. It follows the family life of a certain (unnamed) Elizabethan playwright and is intelligent, funny, moving and beautifully revisionist. Close behind is No One is Talking About This by Patricia Lockwood, a novel of social media and real life, quite brilliant, at times hilarious but also melancholy and hopeful, Also worthy of note was John Bainville's The Sea, a lyrical story of memory and remorse.

Poetry provided delightful language and strong emotion in the form of Postcolonial Love Poem by Natalie Diaz and Nuclear Family by Ottawa's own Jean Van Loon.

Although my ventures into non-fiction were few, far between and mostly brief, they did include two real gems. Helgoland by Italian physicist, Carlo Rovelli, is a wonderful unpacking of the origins of quantum theory. The science is excellent but so are the biographical notes and the often poetic language. I love everything Rovelli writes and this was no exception. 

Notes on Grief by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie was an extended essay on the death of her father but also reveals much about the contrast between her homeland of Nigeria and her adopted country, the USA. Her fiction is lovely, powerful and insightful and so is this.

As mentioned I read a lot of mysteries and science fiction though I don't always choose particularly challenging work. Still, the three-book Welsh Guard Mysteries by Sarah Woodbury were standouts with strong characters, interesting history and good solid plots. In science fiction, I read Elder Race by Adrian Tchaikovsky, a novella that has tempted me to tackle his longer and more complex work in the new year.

I hope some of these brief descriptions tempt you and that you find some new favorite authors as a result.

Time to celebrate the accomplishments of the old year and proclaim the achievements of the year yet to come. Happy New Year and all that stuff.

For the last few years, most people have happily kicked the old year to the curb and embraced the New Year with hope and optimism (though this year, it seems, with more hope than actual optimism). Still, one can dream that this is the year that the old paradigms will fail, the system will be transformed, that good will triumph over ill.
And we will all be more productive, thinner, fitter, younger (I said it was a dream) and kinder human beings. Of course, we will, it’s all those other people who will fail to make the change. Oh, well.

I don’t believe that history repeats itself but human behavior certainly does. The sad thing is not that we will make mistakes in the coming year but they will likely be the same mistakes we promised ourselves to learn from. The triumphs of the coming year are not likely to be something completely new either (unless we are in that magic age between 15 and 25 when everything we do is completely new—to us at least) but rather will be a better version of past success. The next novel will be better than the one before; the next vacation will be exactly as planned and so on.

I did say that actual optimism is hard to find.

It is hard sometimes to believe in the future, especially when the future seems likely to be much shorter than the past. Based on my family history, my life is already 85% over. Even with the benefits of modern medicine and a middle-class lifestyle, I might ratchet that down to 75%, but let’s face it, those last few years are not likely to be stellar. On the bright side, my chances of dying in a major storm, or a nuclear attack, have seldom been better.

Nonetheless, I do believe in the future even if I won’t get to experience it. I know the world will not end with me, even I won’t end with me, as the planet re-cycles my constituent parts and distributes them randomly around the globe. A thousand years from now, parts of me might drift in the deep ocean, reside in a leaf and the insect sitting on it or, even, as part of the little finger or frontal cortex of the first person to leave the solar system. What wonders my elements will see!

I sometimes find it odd that so many people deny the reality of the future—and their role in and responsibility for future events—even while they cling to the dead beliefs and systems of the past. They dismiss their power to reshape the future into their better nature while trying to re-write the past to suit their darkest prejudices. The past is nothing but competing myths, the present is over before you notice it is there, but the future is a land of endless possibility.

The world will go on and maybe even go on as a place fit for human life only if we, collectively, do things that make it so. No better world except we make it. It has become a popular mantra to say the individual has no power; it’s all been concentrated in the hands of the few. Those on the right embrace this idea, depending on the Übermensch to save the day. (Elon Musk is not going to save either the world or humanity; it’s not clear he can even save Twitter.) Those on the left, having lost their class consciousness, are too busy fighting over nomenclature to actually make a difference. Those in the middle are going “la la la” and fiddling while Rome burns (Surely there is something on Amazon I can order to soothe my nerves).

Oh well, I’ll be dead soon so what do I care? Hmm, I think my first resolution for 2023 is to stop saying  “oh, well.”

Back to the original intent of this little missive. 2022 was like most years—it had its ups and its downs, though at the time the peaks and valleys seemed more extreme. My wife, Liz, suffered through the deterioration and eventual replacement of her hip. It was horrible to see her pain and the muting of her spirit that this affliction entailed. Yet, at the same time, I felt uplifted by being her caregiver, fulfilling the vow of “for better or for worse.” While it seemed that I was working all the time, the responsibility of doing something to make life better for someone gave me the energy to be productive. Now that she’s fully recovered, I don’t seem to have any energy. Hmm. Maybe I should push… no, no, I guess I’ll try to get more sleep instead.

And then there was the convoy… We survived both personally and as a city and a country, but if they come back, I’m dropping flowerpots on their heads.

On the other hand, I sold my first science fiction novel in nearly a decade, just shortly after I was inducted into the Canadian Science Fiction and Fantasy Association Hall of Fame. I have another (mystery) novel drafted and well-developed ideas for two more books (one of each genre) to work on for next year. I sold some stories and helped my condo board solve some problems. I made some money editing and ghost-writing, which means the current inflation and interest rate rise doesn’t hurt quite so much. My own health was generally good other than the aches and miseries that come from the winding down of the entropy clock. I was able to travel a little, see friends and do things that I didn’t even know I missed so much.

For 2023, I feel as energetic as one can, looking forward to writing and reading new books and new ideas. Travel will be back on the agenda (with vaccine boosters as required) with visits to old favorites and new vistas. By this time next year, I hope to have polished my completed mystery novel and written another book or two and sold a few short stories, too. Plus, I will be thinner, fitter, kinder and more productive but, sadly, not younger.
 
I did read 65 books last year but a lot of them were short. I will write a separate blog about my favorites soon.

I hope your 2023 will bring you everything you desire and none of what you fear. Be well. Be strong. Be happy.

Meanwhile, here’s a few pictures to cheer you along.
 
 

In August 2022, I was inducted into the CSFFA Hall of Fame. Here is my acceptance speech.

Thanks. I’d like to start by thanking the Canadian Science Fiction and Fantasy Association for inducting me into the Hall of Fame. It is a great honour. I’d also congratulate my fellow inductees, Julie Czernada and Ed Greenwood. Great company to keep.
 
The Greek philosopher, Heraclitus, said: The only constant is change.

I feel seen.

I have lived in eight communities in six provinces and territories. I have degrees in two completely different fields. I have had at least five distinct careers and something like fifty different employers, including myself. I was the worst boss. I’ve even been married four times—though I seem to have finally got that right.

Through all this, there have only been two constants: my love of and engagement in science fiction and my belief in the power of progressive politics. I’ve always felt the two things were connected though I may be biased.

I can’t remember precisely the first science fiction novel I read – it may have been Robert Heinlein or Isaac Asimov but there is a good chance it was Andre Norton; she was certainly one of my early favorites and I still have a first edition copy of Witch World. I was about ten in any case because I was getting most of books from the Lay Library in Amherst, Nova Scotia, which was replaced by a new modern facility before I turned 12.

I remember climbing the stairs and browsing the stacks and seeing a whole row of books with little pink stickers of rocket ships on the spine. It was my first experience with the genre ghetto (though I certainly didn’t think of it that way). The librarian and my parents were just happy I was a voracious reader, not just of science fiction, but of any other book I could get my hands.

Science Fiction was my first and deepest love and I read everything from Mary Shelley to HG Wells to the pulps of the 30s, the Golden Age of the 50s and the New Wave of the 60s – Harlen Ellison, Ursula LeGuin, Phillip Jose Farmer, Samuel Delaney, Octavia Butler, Michael Moorcock and a host of others, influenced my taste and stimulated my thinking about the future.

As a teenager, science fiction and its relatives, fantasy and comic books, drove a lot of my decisions, not all of them good ones.

My lust for more and more books made me into an entrepreneur – I picked and sold berries, mowed lawns, shovelled snow, anything to get money. By fourteen, I was selling greeting cards and novelties door to door and probably knocked on half the doors in my town of 10,000. And almost all of it went into books and comics (well, and chemistry sets and telescopes). By 16, I had a regular part-time job working at the best of all possible places – the public library.

I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t have done any of it if it weren’t for science fiction, because, if truth be told, I am an incredibly lazy person by nature. But human nature can’t defeat science or, it appears, science fiction.

Science fiction also drove me, at the age of 13 to regularly hitchhike 50km (keeping it a close secret from my parents) to visit the United Book Store in Moncton to buy used paperbacks and search through the stacks of old comics for gems at a nickel a piece. I actually bought Journey into Mystery #83, the first appearance of Thor, which, apparently, is now worth about $200,000. I wish I still had it but… well, I mentioned the previous marriages, right?

It also led me into my only criminal act. I was in a bookstore and there were 3 SF books I absolutely had to have, but I only had money for two. So, I bought two and stole the other one. It was so easy I did it again, but then my conscience got the better of me. Sort of. I wanted to go back and pay for them but was too embarrassed. It is a stain I shall carry to my grave.

On the brighter side, science fiction stimulated my interest in science. As a kid, I had several increasingly complex chemistry sets, a microscope, two telescopes, electronics kits and stacks of science books. Many were presents from my working-class parents; the rest I bought myself. My father would also use his pocket knife to donate blood and skin cells for me to examine with my microscope and make crude drawings.

I excelled in school, especially in the maths and science, and went on to take a B.Sc. in Chemistry, under full scholarship. That led to my very first publication—not a science fiction short story but a co-authored paper in the Canadian Journal of Chemistry. A career in chemistry seemed on the horizon but it was not to be.

I mentioned my belief in the power of progressive politics, quite a leap of faith growing up in the most conservative place in Nova Scotia. I served on my first NDP constituency executive at 14, helped organize a student strike at seventeen and attended my first provincial convention later the same year. I took political science and sociology courses as my “arts” electives and in my fourth year I switched from Chemistry (though I did finish my BSc) to Social and Political Thought and then went on to do my Master’s in the same area. I was accepted to do a Ph.D but change, change, change.

Instead of studying politics, I ran for office – twice – which started a decade of involvement in electoral politics, unionism, and a wide range of social causes.

But even though I spent my twenties enmeshed in politics and public service, I didn’t forget my first love. In 1979, I attended my first science fiction convention in Halifax where I met Spider and Jeanne Robinson and Theodore Sturgeon. My first Worldcon was in Baltimore in 1983 where I had a brief encounter with Isaac Asimov. Since then, I’ve attended dozens of conventions across Canada and the USA and nine WorldCons as well. I started as a fan and con volunteer and organizer but, as I started writing my own stories in the early 90s, I graduated to panelist and, even Guest of Honour at a couple of smaller conventions. Along the way I met mentors who became friends, indeed some of my closest friends came to me through science fiction, including Rob Sawyer, Derek Kunsken, Matt Moore and of course, my wife and sometimes writing collaborator, Liz Westbrook Trenholm.

It somehow seems inevitable that I would take one more step in my ever-changing relationship with science fiction. When the opportunity came to buy the publishing house that had nurtured my first novels, I seized it and spent 8 years as publisher and managing editor running, with Liz and Mike Rimar, Bundoran Press. I did that while still working on Parliament Hill for 15 years, advising an indigenous Senator from the Northwest Territories.

But what does it all mean? All this change; all this constant engagement in science fiction and progressive politics. I said I think they are connected. The connection is the future. Science Fiction at its best, like politics at its best is always about the possibility of a better world. Even when science fiction delves into dystopia and the real world seems to be following its lead, there is always light somewhere, a belief that people of good will and determination can find a way through, the crisis can be solved and the disaster averted.

Maybe that seems jejune. Maybe I only have hope and faith because I’ve lived a charmed life. My father died when I was 24; my mother fell into dementia. I participated in the wreck of three marriages. I have twice been so broke, I didn’t know where next weeks meals were coming from. I was an eye witness to the murder of Corporal Nathan Cirillo at the War Memorial in Ottawa. I have fought for causes that failed. I have lost family and friends to death and dispute.

But I still believe that tomorrow can be better than today. I still believe that I can write a story or a polemic that will make a positive difference to someone somewhere. I still support causes, even seemingly lost ones, with my voice, my vote and my money.

I still believe and do those things because science fiction told me that that is the way the world can work.
​
To finish with a quote from another philosopher. The future’s so bright, I have to wear shades.
 
 

Well, that was the year that wasn't. 

Actually, looking back it wasn't a total loss. I polished up and published two mystery novels and have been making slow progress on a third. I also put together a bunch of my blog posts and published a book of observations and opinions -- as if anyone cared. I wrote a couple of stories and sold one of them (so far).

Although I decided to wrap up my editing services this year, I still managed to provide edits to 4 clients and just before the year wrapped up took on a ghost writing job that will keep me busy until June.

While 2020 was the year of local travel and trip cancellations, in 2021, during the lulls between waves we made brief jaunts to both coasts to a cottage in Nova Scotia to see family and to Vancouver Island to visit old friends and walk by the Pacific Ocean. While Europe did not pan out, we did make a quick Christmas trip to Hamilton to visit grand children before the gates came clanging shut again. COVID did interfere with our life at home though as our local New Year's plans ended when the host tested positive and had to stay in Florida. 

Current plans call for a trip to the UK in June but Omicron may have other ideas. Or maybe we'll just say la la la, don't look up, hold our noses (to keep out the testing swabs) and make one last mad dash into the world, trailing viral loads like over laden suitcases. OK, the isolation is starting to get to me.

Obi ZOOM Kenobi -- you are our only hope!

I did read a lot this year -- 66 books in total -- a mix of mystery, science fiction, literary fiction, science, history, poetry and writing books. The highlights (in no particular order were: The Reckless Oaths We Made by Bryn Greenwood, Mythos by Stephen Fry, Homegoing by Yaa Gyasi, The Pull of the Stars by Emma Donahue, The House of Styx by Derek Kunsken, Essential Poems from the Staying Alive Trilogy edited by Neil Astley and The Ode Less Travelled also by Stephen Fry.

Beyond that, I put in about 200 hours as a member of my condo Board, walked over 2200 kilometers without really going anywhere, played a lot of board games and yes, ate a lot of takeout food (and discovered dozens of new recipes in my own kitchen).

And took some pictures.
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I sometimes think I lack sticktoitiveness (a real word I made up). I started university studying chemistry, going so far as to get a degree and a publication in the Canadian Journal of Chemistry before switching to Social and Political Thought.  Instead of doing aPh.D. (I had a four year scholarship), I ran for political office. After twelve years in the public service, I worked in arts for eleven years -- six as a writer/actor and five as an arts in education administrator. Then, I moved to the Senate to work as a policy advisor to a Senator for 15 years. Half way through that I bought a publishing company and ran it for eight years. Now I'm retired from everything but writing.

My writing career has shown the same tendency to shift and shimmy like a jalopy with transmission problems. My first serious writing was for the stage, starting in Yellowknife with Hemingway Crosses the Mackenzie. After moving to Calgary, I had a number of plays produced in local theatres and on CBC radio. I won a few contests and almost made the big time before switching to writing science fiction in the mid-90s. I stuck with that for the next twenty years (and am still writing 3-5 short stories a year but once again my interests have started to change.

This year I published the first two novels in the Max Anderson mysteries, set in Paris between the Wars. The first is called In the Shadow of Versailles and is, for the month of October on sale as an ebook. It is also available in print. The second, By Dawn's Early Light is only available in digital form though a print book is coming soon. I'm about a third of the way through the third book, working title: The Glare of Truth.
But wait, there's more. I've started making notes for a mystery set in Rome in the time of Sulla the Dictator (roughly 100-80 BC). No title yet, or even an outline, but it's percolating away in my hindbrain. I plan to have the first one (it's a series) sometime in 2022.
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Now, if I can just resist the lure of poetry (for the art) or screenwriting (for the money), I should be fine.

When one door closes, sometimes you should simply let it shut and walk away.
However...

Recently I announced I was quitting freelance editing and would not take new clients after the end of September. I called it the next step in my long retirement that began four years ago when I left my job at the Senate of Canada. Last year brought the end to Bundoran Press and this year I say goodbye to my freelance gig. It's been great helping good books get better and working with a wide range of authors, but it's time to move on and focus on the writing of one author -- me!

My science fiction writing has slowed somewhat though I continue to finish two or four stories a year while my last novel makes the rounds of publishers and agents but I've kept busy with other non-SF projects, notably a series of mystery novels set in Paris between the wars. The first is finished and ready to go while a second drafted and going through final edits. A third is well underway and I already have the central ideas for two more. Plenty to keep me busy until I finally call it quits or head for the retirement home in the sky, whichever comes first.

While I am still pursuing traditional publishing routes for my science fiction, I've decided to take a different route for my mystery series. Indie publishing is tough road but it's one I've decided to go down. If I sell a lot of books, that's fine, but if I don't, that's normal. Hopefully, I'll find a few readers and in the meantime, I'm really enjoying the process of researching and writing the books. Once we are travelling again, a return trip to Paris (my fourth) may be essential to get the details right. 

Some of you may have heard that I've also started studying the craft of poetry--but don't worry, I won't be inflicting the public with those efforts anytime soon. Still, it's a lot of fun, almost as much fun as my daily struggles with learning Spanish and my work on the condo board (okay, that one's only fun for weird definitions of fun).

​Gosh, who knew retirement could be so busy?