The Harvest Season For A Muskoka Writer, 150th Video

THE HARVEST SEASON - A TIME FOR REFLECTION - AND VERANDAH SITTING

I ENJOY MY NIGHTS ABOVE THE BOG

     I SUPPOSE SUZANNE AND I LOOK LIKE CAST MEMBERS FROM THE OLD "ANDY OF MAYBERRY" TELEVISION SHOW, SITTING ON OUR DECK, YELLING OUT GREETINGS TO PASSERSBY, AND GETTING BIG WAVES IN RETURN. THERE WAS A TIME WHEN I SLEPT MOST NIGHTS ON THIS VERANDAH, EVEN WHEN THE WEATHER GOT CHILLY. EVEN IF THE TEMPERATURE HAD FALLEN TO WELL BELOW ZERO, I OWN TWO LATE 1800'S BUFFALO ROBES, WITH A WOOL LINING, AND LET ME TELL YOU, IT'S ALMOST IMPOSSIBLE TO STAND THE HEAT IT KEEPS BENEATH ITS WEIGHTY LENGTH AND BREADTH. I LOVE WEARING HISTORY LIKE THIS. SO COMFORT WASN'T AN ISSUE. SUZANNE THOUGHT I WAS GOING THROUGH A HOBO PHASE, AFTER I READ FORMER MUSKOKA LAKES MAYOR, BOB BENNET'S BOOK, "BINDLE STIFF," WHICH IS A FINE PIECE OF WRITING, DOCUMENTING HIS EARLY LIFE RIDING THE RAILS AND RESIDING IN MANY HOBO JUNGLES ACROSS CANADA AND THE UNITED STATES. I WANT TO DO A COUPLE OF BLOGS ABOUT THIS BOOK SOMETIME SOON. BUT GETTING BACK TO SLEEPING ON THE VERANDAH. IT WAS MORE THE CASE I WAS IN MY THOREAU AND WALDEN POND PHASE, AND I WOULD OFTEN WRITE TILL TWO OR THREE IN THE MORNING, LISTENING TO ALL THE AMAZING SOUNDS OF THE NIGHT. IT WAS A PARTICULARLY PROLIFIC WRITING PERIOD, AND BEING OPEN-AIR WAS GREAT FOR THE CONCENTRATION. INDOORS FOR TOO LONG, AND I GET PUNCHY, LIKE A BOXER WHO HAS STAYED IN THE RING WAY TOO LONG. I REMEMBER ONE NIGHT, DRIFTING PEACEFULLY OFF TO SLEEP, AND WAKING UP SUDDENLY,  AND SEEING A FACE BETWEEN THE TWO BY FOUR SLATS OF THE RAILING. CRIPES, I ALMOST JUMPED OUT OF MY BUFFALO ROBE AND MY SKIN. A LADY WHO HAD CLEARLY ENJOYED A SNOOT-FULL OF BOOZE, AT A PARTY DOWN OUR STREET, HAD TRIED TO TAKE A SHORT CUT THROUGH OUR FERN GARDEN, AND GOT HER SHOES STUCK IN THE MUD. SHE WAS IN QUITE A STATE BY TIME SHE MADE IT TO THE HIGH-SIDE VERANDAH, AND I'VE GOT TO TELL YOU, OF ALL THE FUNNY MOMENTS I'VE HAD AT THIS PLACE, THAT FACE TO FACE ENCOUNTER, WAS HILARIOUS. JUST NOT AT THE TIME. SHE LOOKED LIKE A ZOMBIE, HAVING JUST CRAWLED OUT OF A COFFIN, AND I LOOKED LIKE A BEAR WITH A HUMAN FACE. WELL SIR, THAT GIRL BOLTED LIKE A DEER BACK ACROSS FERN HOLLOW, AT THE FRONT OF THE HOUSE, AS IF THE FILM REEL HAD SPED UP TO DOUBLE TIME. I WAS STANDING UP AGAINST THE WALL OF THE HOUSE, TRYING TO INCH TOWARD THE DOOR TO HASTEN MY ESCAPE FROM THE UNDEAD. IT WASN'T UNTIL SHE GOT OUT INTO THE GLOW OF THE STREETLIGHT, THAT I REALIZED IT WAS A NEIGHBOR FROM THE STREET BEHIND US. SHE LOOKED BACK AT ME, AND REALIZED I WAS FUNDAMENTALLY MORTAL. SHE WENT THE LONG WAY HOME, AND I SNUCK BACK BENEATH THE BUFFALO ROBE, TO THINK ABOUT THE STRANGE FRONT-YARD ENCOUNTER. HEY, IT WAS SOMETHING TO WRITE ABOUT, THAT I WOULDN'T HAVE HAD IN MY REPERTOIRE IF I HADN'T BEEN LODING OUTDOORS.

THE WEIRDNESS OF BEING A WRITER - AND THOSE WHO WANT TO ANALYZE US…..BUT CAN'T HANDLE THE TRUTH

     Every now and again I will read some officious author's self help material, offered without solicitation, to other writers, in order to make them (us) more proficient and successful at their tasks. I'm glad I never thoroughly read these useless tomes when I was a young writer, or I might have quit altogether. The material is void of just about everything that makes a writer in the first place. Like the blood, sweat and tears, and all the depression that is inherent, when putting your finished product up for public scrutiny.

     Back in those days, I needed a haunted house, a couple of good manual typewriters, a couple of miles of ribbon, some whisky for late night vigils, and a pipe to smoke after the final stroke of the metal key against paper. Although I took creative writing courses in university, and had some pretty fair talent helping me hone my craft, largely it was presented to us……just take what you want from our experience, and carry on with what you know best. And don't write for yourself. Write for the benefit of your readers. Even now, like a whack-a-mole game in a carnival midway, some young writer will pop up from the rank and file arts community, and try to impress me with a gentle critique. They will have read material published elsewhere in Ontario, (not on this blog), and arrive at my doorstep, or email account, to bestow false praise, and offer their services, on some project they think we should amalgamate talents. I'm not very good at this kind of protocol, because my knee-jerk reaction is, "get the hell away from me." Suzanne has been working on me recently, to make me more presentable to the public. I am after all, an antique clerk now, and must meet the public daily, either to sell them something, or buy something from them, at our boys music and antique shop. Like I've said before, I've had the public relations skills from former jobs, but working alone here, at Birch Hollow, for many years now, I've lost my ability to passively agree, smile and chortle, if I don't feel particularly pleased with the turn of the conversation. Especially if one of the aspiring authors decides this will be the day, to help Mr. Currie help himself. I like their enthusiasm, and their smiling, rosy cheeked faces, but I can't abide those who delude themselves, thinking they have become writers by positive thinking. Positive thinking for me was….."the liquor store is still open. The liquor store must still be open." In the first years of my writing career, I was Ray Milan in the movie, "The Lost Weekend." The point I'm trying to make here, is that you don't become a logger because you are positive you will make a good one. There's a little more to it than personal affirmation….."If I believe, I can conquer." For me, as God is my witness, if Suzanne, a non-writer, hadn't believed in me, and realized what potential I possessed as a writer, I would have quit without a doubt…….and stuck myself in the large rut, of penning little poems in attractive booklets as keepsakes for my family and friends. 

     I've been writing for far too long now to be moved by the early stages writer, who feels it incumbent, to figure me out, and buff out all the dints. It isn't going to happen as they might wish. I don't think, for one minute, (each time I meet one) they're being mean or overly critical. I think they're being stupid and naive about what makes a writer write. For me, it was as simple as pulling myself away from other writers, who felt compelled to throw in their two cents worth, but always because their work was, you see, so much better than mine. It's why I have refused time and again, to join any writers' circle or whatever they want to call it, that brings creators together to share and nurture. Geez, if I want that, I'll join a cult. The thing is, that there's a lot of egos at these get-togethers, and some are more powerful than others. I would get into an argument two minutes into the discussion. Not just because I'm crabby and a bastard, but because I learned how to be a writer by clutching, grasping, climbing, falling, sliding, and crashing. Sometimes in one night. There is nothing that makes me want to blurt out, "Look at me, I'm a writer," but I know people who do this, and for most of them, it's nothing more than wishful thinking. Being a writer is far more involved than I can explain in simple terms, that are used by unqualified writing tutors, who have never once, cradled a bottle of scotch and a beer, wondering if this was the last paragraph of life.

     I used to sleep out on the deck, frankly, to find my writing mo jo. I had gone through a lot of self analysis, and actually listened to some wieners, who had put out books destined to fail…….and I told them so……but got contaminated just having them and their ideas in the same room. While they told me how to re-generate my writing career, I felt it pointless to argue, that since the mid 1970's, I've only ever had one writing hiatus, and that was after I left two newspapers because of disagreements with respective publishers. I took a year off to figure out if I could ever truly live with the excesses of the writing profession again The highs and very lows. The wins and the big losses. The confidence boosters, and the confidence defeats. Suzanne helped me figure it all out, and she didn't take it personally, that I found sleeping on the deck, was allowing me to work late, and immerse in what I needed most. Like Thoreau, I was a different and more creative person, with this access to nature. I'm a wonderfully kind and considerate person in a canoe on a silent and reflective lake. I'm a son of a bitch, when I'm stuck in a line-up at the hardware store, returning something that doesn't work to solve my problems. Suzanne knew, during my hobo jag, that I was re-connecting to what I found most enlightening and inspirational in life. She knew I hadn't found another woman. But she did appreciate, that without my improved connection, with what I wanted to write about, that I would be miserable, and be unable to create as I needed. She's always been very understanding in this regard. I did warn her, at the moment she accepted my marriage proposal, that marrying a writer with a side of antiques, was taking a hell of a risk. Writers can be supreme asses, and crappy marital partners. At least I was laying it on the line, that the going was likely to have some additional rough patches, as writing stalemates happen without warning. These are never joyous times. Fortunately, I have very few "out of order" occasions, but Suzanne always knows when she needs to get concerned, especially if I've got deadlines, with my columns to be sent out to other publications. I used to work well under pressure. Of course, I would have a drink at my finger-tips. This writing sober thing is better than I thought. When I was plastered, and feeling creative, the copy from those late-night jags never, ever made it to any publication. It was bad. Working and sleeping out on the verandah helped me sober up. I didn't need booze to write. I didn't need a writing motivator. I needed nature. It was there for me. All I had to do was immerse myself, without fetters, and write out of desire…..not out of demand.

      When I occasionally get sucked into some "I want to save you as a writer," email from a budding and very green author, I read it largely to re-boot myself about what's really important about the creative process. As far as motivation, listen to no one. Follow your instincts. The ones you were born with, because folks, we writer-kind in earnest, don't have any choice. It's the way we were born. And there's nothing in these flimsy self-help "learn to be a writer," editorials, that is going to change this, or improve upon what has been life-long. Maybe there are a few writer-hopefuls who think this stuff will help them. Maybe! Just don't send them to me, to help me save myself from the quagmire they assume I'm sinking into without their help.

     I had to be physically pulled off the verandah tonight, this time, to write a blog. I don't actually sleep out there anymore, at least intentionally. I fall asleep because I'm so darn relaxed and contented with our environs here at Birch Hollow. Even in the hour or so I was out there, early on, I found enough inspiration in South Muskoka, to pen this short tome…….about the curmudgeon writer of The Bog, and the hobo I once aspired to be.

     Thank you for joining today's blog. Please come back and again when you have a chance.

     I'm going back to the verandah to sip a cold ice tea. Non alcoholic.