JUST GOT BACK FROM THE CONCERT. WHAT A MASSIVE CROWD TO SEE THE GOOD BROTHERS. IT WAS SO NICE TO LOOK AROUND THE PARK AND SEE THOUSANDS OF FRIENDS, NEIGHBORS, AND VISITORS ENJOYING THIS JEWEL OF A PARK, ON BEAUTIFUL GULL LAKE. I CAN TELL YOU ONE THING; MANY OF US GRAVENHURST CITIZENS WERE PROUD OF OUR HOMETOWN.....FOR BEING SUCH A GOOD HOST. THE MUSKOKA THUNDER MOTORCYCLE CLUB DONATED $500, TO FRED SCHULZ, DIRECTOR OF THE MUSIC ON THE BARGE CONCERT SERIES, RAISED DURING A RECENT CHARITY RUN. THEY HOPE TO MAKE IT AN ANNUAL EVENT, IN AID OF THE MUSIC ON THE BARGE PROGRAM.
OUTSIDE OF IT BEING ANOTHER GREAT EVENING OF MUSIC IN GRAVENHURST, IT WAS WONDERFULLY NOSTALGIC TO SEE HOCKEY LEGEND, BRIAN GLENNIE, FORMERLY OF THE TORONTO MAPLE LEAFS, OUT TO VISIT HIS FRIENDS, THE GOOD BROTHERS, ON THE BARGE, JUST BEFORE THE CONCERT. THEY EVEN DEDICATED "FOX ON THE RUN" FOR MR. GLENNIE, WHO OF COURSE PLAYED FOR TEAM CANADA, AGAINST THE RUSSIANS, IN THAT HISTORY MAKING 1972 SUMMIT AGAINST THE RUSSIANS. IT WAS NICE TO HEAR THE OVATION FOR BRIAN GLENNIE; WE HAVEN'T FORGOTTEN WHAT YOU, AND THE REST OF TEAM CANADA, DID FOR ALL OF US CANADIANS........GLUED TO THE TELEVISION SETS. THANKS BRIAN. AND THANKS TO THE GOOD BROTHERS, FOR RECOGNIZING THIS KIND GIANT OF HOCKEY PAST.
SON ANDREW WILL JAM WITH THE GOOD BROTHERS - AGAIN
WE HAVE JUST COME BACK FROM GULL LAKE PARK, ON OUR TYPICAL AFTERNOON SCOUTING MISSION, TO PLACE OUR LAWNCHAIRS PRIOR TO TONIGHT'S MUSIC ON THE BARGE CONCERT, WITH THE GOOD BROTHERS. SURE IT ANNOYS SOME OF THE PATRONS BUT IT'S OUR BONUS FOR GETTING THERE EARLY AND STAKING OUR CLAIM, TO WHAT WE BELIEVE, ARE THE BEST SEATS IN THE PARK. OF COURSE, THIS IS JUST OUR OPINION, BECAUSE DIRECTLY IN FRONT OF ME IS A HUGE SILVER BIRCH THAT LEANS OUT OVER THE LAKE, AND THE BRIDGE TO THE BARGE. IT'S PERFECT TO PUT MY FEET UP ON, WHEN I'M WRITING SOMETHING. WE'VE BEEN IN THAT SPOT FOR MOST OF A DECADE, AT THESE SPECIAL SUNDAY EVENING CONCERTS, AND OUR BOYS, PROTECT THE SMALL PARK ACREAGE AGAINST INTERLOPERS. THEY WORK ON THE BARGE, SO THEY CAN SEE IF ANYONE UNCEREMONIOUSLY COLLAPSES OUR CHAIRS, REPLACING THEM WITH THEIR OWN. IT'S NEVER HAPPENED BECAUSE PARK GOERS ARE PRETTY DECENT FOLK.
BY THE WAY, THE PARK LOOKED GREAT THIS AFTERNOON, AND IF IT WASN'T FOR THE PET MAINTENANCE HERE AT BIRCH HOLLOW, CHORES, CHORES, CHORES, WE WOULD HAVE STAYED DOWN THERE UNTIL DARKNESS SENT US HOME. IT WAS A GORGEOUS SCENE OF NEIGHBORHOOD, COMMUNITY, MUSKOKA CULTURE AND RECREATION. HUGE FAMILY PICNICS, A FULL BEACHFRONT, BOATING WITH EVERY KIND OF WATERCRAFT, EXCEPT TUG-BOATS, AND LOTS AND LOTS OF VISITORS SITTING AND ENJOYING WHAT OUR REGION HAS TO OFFER AS INSPIRATION.
THE GOOD BROTHERS CONCERT IS A TRADITION WITH OUR FAMILY, WHICH HAS BEEN ONGOING FOR THE PAST DECADE. ONE OF THE TREATS, IS THAT ANDREW GETS TO JAM WITH THE GOOD BROTHERS, AT A LITTLE AFTER-PARTY. IT'S SUCH A BIG DEAL, THAT GET THIS.......HE DECLINED TO DO SOUND, ON SUNDAY NIGHT, FOR JOHNNY WINTER, AT GRAVENHURST'S EXCITING ENTERTAINMENT VENUE, PETER'S PLAYERS, WHERE ANDREW IS A REGULAR SOUND TECHNICIAN.......SO HE COULD CARRY ON THAT TRADITION, WITH HIS FRIENDS, THE GOOD BROTHERS. OF COURSE HE WORKED THE JOHNNY WINTER SHOW LAST EVENING, AND WILL DO IT AGAIN ON MONDAY, PART OF THE THREE DAY RUN. BUT TONIGHT, HE HAD TO KEEP COMPANY WITH THE "GOODS," CARRYING-ON HIS OWN MUSIC TRADITION HERE IN GRAVENHURST.
ROBERT ATTENDS, AS WELL AS SUZANNE AND I, BUT WE JUST SIT BACK AND ENJOY THE MUSIC.
THE CONDITIONS ARE PERFECT. A GOOD NIGHT FOR AN OUTDOOR MUSKOKA CONCERT........AND HAVING CANADIAN COUNTRY MUSIC HALL OF FAMERS, WILL MAKE IT A MILESTONE NIGHT FOR ENTERTAINMENT IN TOWN. JOHNNY WINTER INDOORS, THE GOOD BROTHERS, ON THE BARGE. THIS ISN'T A SLEEPY HOLLOW AT ALL!
THE NOVELIST IS COMING......THE NOVELIST IS COMING
IN CONJUNCTION WITH SUZANNE'S RETIREMENT FROM TEACHING, I HAVE DECIDED TO GIVE SOME SERIOUS THOUGHT TO TRYING OUT MY FIRST SERIOUS NOVEL. I HAVE NEVER ATTEMPTED SUCH A GRAND SCHEME, AND I'M NOT AT ALL SURE HOW IT WOULD GO......IF ENTERED WHOLE HEATEDLY. THERE REALLY ISN'T ANY OTHER WAY TO DO IT.....THAN FULL COMMITMENT. I'M JUST A LITTLE WORRIED I MIGHT BECOME ECCENTRIC AND RECLUSIVE, MORE THAN I AM NOW, AND MAKE MYSELF UNHAPPY WITH ITS COMMONPLACE. I LIKE COMMONPLACE WHEN IT RELATES TO BIRCH HOLLOW. I DON'T LIKE BOXING MYSELF IN, ANY MORE, WITH PROJECTS I'M DISCONTENT WITH. I TURN DOWN QUITE A FEW WRITING OPPORTUNITIES BECAUSE I CAN'T HANDLE THE BOREDOM THEY WOULD REPRESENT. SO IT WOULD HAVE TO BE A WRITING ADVENTURE THAT BECAME AN OPEN ROAD OF POSSIBILITY, WHERE I WOULDN'T KNOW THE ENDING UNTIL I FINALLY GOT THERE.......AND SAID TO MYSELF, WELL SIR, I KNOW HOW TO END THIS THING. I KNOW SOME WRITERS WHO PLAN IT ALL OUT IN ADVANCE, AND THEN ADD THE MEAT TO THE BONES. IT WOULDN'T WORK FOR ME. SO IT WOULD HAVE TO BE SPONTANEOUS, AND FRANKLY, I HAVE NO IDEA IF IT WOULD BE WORTH THE EFFORT. I REMEMBER WHAT HAPPENED TO TORONTO SUN COLUMNIST, PAUL RIMSTEAD, WHEN HE WENT TO MEXICO, TO AFFORD HIMSELF THE TIME TO WRITE A NOVEL......AND INSTEAD FOUND A NEIGHBORHOOD WATERING HOLE THAT HE ONLY LEFT AT DINNER TIME. HE MANAGED TO WRITE A COLUMN FOR THE SUN, BUT THE NOVEL NEVER MADE IT PAST THE PRE-PLANNING STAGE. AND HIS MARRIAGE BROKE DOWN AS WELL. HONESTLY, I COULDN'T HAVE TAKEN A NOVEL BY RIMMER SERIOUSLY ANYWAY. HE WAS MEANT TO WRITE FEATURE STORIES, BIOGRAPHIES AND COLUMNS. I MIGHT EXPERIENCE THE SAME FATE, AND FAIL MISERABLY. BUT I AT LEAST, WON'T OWE THIS FAILURE TO HAVING SPENT TO MUCH TIME IN A BAR, DEBATING WITH THE LIAR'S CLUB, WHICH IS WHAT HE CALLED HIS MATES AROUND HIM.
BUT AS MANY WRITER COLLEAGUES HAVE TOLD ME........"WHAT THE HELL DO YOU HAVE TO LOSE?" THEY'VE GOT A POINT. I'M CERTAINLY MATURE ENOUGH TO HANDLE IT, I LIKE TO WRITE, I'VE GOT A WILD IMAGINATION, AND PLENTY OF TIME BETWEEN ANTIQUE HUNTS. HERE'S WHAT I WROTE, A WHILE BACK, IN ORDER TO GET SOME FEEDBACK FROM MY READERS.......AS TO WHETHER THEY THOUGHT, AT THE TIME, I COULD MAKE A GO OF IT AS A NOVELIST.........SIPPING WINE AT A ROADSIDE CAFE IN PARIS, SMOKING A PIPE, AND CLOAKED BENEATH A COMFORTABLE CAPE AND A PEAK CAP .... OR TAM IF THE MOOD SUITS. SUZANNE HAS JUST LAUGHED AT THIS COMMENT, READING OVER MY SHOULDER, BECAUSE SHE KNOWS FULL WELL, I WON'T EVENT TAKE MY BALL CAP OFF TO GO TO BED.
I'LL PROBABLY GIVE IT A GO, AND MAYBE I'LL USE SOME OF THE FOLKS I KNOW FROM THIS TOWN AS CHARACTERS. NOW WOULDN'T THAT BE A LEACOCKIAN HOOT. I'LL CALL IT "MARIPOSA A LITTLE FURTHER NORTH." THERE WILL BE LOTS OF GRATUITOUS NUDITY.....BY DESCRIPTION, UNTIL HOLLYWOOD BUYS THE RIGHTS AND WE MAKE A FEATURE FILM.
I'LL LET YOU KNOW WHEN I BECOME A PAPERBACK WRITER! GOOD FOR A LAUGH ANY WAY.
ANY ROOM FOR THE NOVELIST TO EMERGE? I’M SOFTENING ON FICTION
Back in the early 1980's, a writer friend and I, both working for the community press at the time, in Bracebridge, decided to put together a stage-play. Two news hounds thinking about a plan to pursue fiction, is just left of nuts. It took a lot of booze. It was at my peak of imbibing and the more whisky we consumed, the more the idea seemed golden. We might have even written a screen play, or television pilot, had we carried on in our drunken stupor. Heavens knows, we might have co-written a novel. The only reality we needed however, to figure the whole thing out, was a good re-read of what we’d penned during the previous binge. Take out the gratuitous stuff, the ridiculous story-line, and really bad word-smithing, there wasn’t a shred of workable copy to salvage. We gave up when the booze ran out. I don’t know what happened to the rough copy but it should have been burned-up, just in case it had our names attached.
Both of us have remained in the writing enterprise, to varying degrees, ever since, just not as authors of fiction. I’ll admit to having made a few attempts in the past thirty years, beyond what we started to pen from that front table at the local watering hole. Each time, I get about the same number of chapters in, sober as a judge, but can’t seem to find the inspiration to finish the book. I’ve never been very good at reading fiction, and even as an old book seller, by profession, more than 95 percent of my books for sale, are titles of non-fiction. So it’s a belief issue, that fiction is frivolous, although it’s always crossed my mind, that as a writer, it would be okay to be called a “novelist.” I’ve been called better and worse, in a career that began with poetry in the mid-1970's in my latent beatnik phase.
My first published works were poems. At York University I was taught by a number of successful poets. Truthfully, I still write poems, in an old hardcover ledger, I keep by my livingroom chair. I only write in it when everybody’s gone to bed, simply because I don’t want to explain my creative dabbling. Family couldn’t leave well enough alone, and sooner or later, they’d be quoting poetic lines, to counter-point one of my arguments, or follies, or both at once. While it might seem strange to do this, I enjoy creative writing for personal entertainment, not for career enhancement. It’s why I tread so lightly on the subject of writing short stories, or an eventual full-chapter novel. As a career anti-fiction crusader, I look pretty stupid when one or more of my kin find several sample chapters of sample fiction loose on my desk.
I have made mindful attempts to re-invent myself as a creative writer, in common step with the historian, feature writer, blogger, and columnist. So far it hasn’t worked. The other discipline kicks the novelist’s ass repeatedly. It’s not that I’m unable to write fiction but that my own history makes it a difficult conversion. I’d love to start with a clean slate, as a novelist, and live the novelist’s life. If it was that easy, I’d have converted twenty years ago when I left full-time employ of the weekly press, and I was searching for career opportunities. In those two decades I’ve written twice the volume of historical and feature material, as an independent, that I would have for a regular pay cheque working for one master. Independence and freedom from a publisher’s influence, has been the hallmark of my writing career so far. But to think that, as a novelist, I’d have to cater to the editors and publisher of popular books, with market strategies for profit-making, makes me nauseous just thinking about it. I’ve enjoyed writing for all of these years, and hope one day, my boys will appreciate some of my accomplishments......ones in authordom they don’t know about. I’ve spent many years working as a writer; owned by no one, loyal only to my own conscience. Yet as I have long advised my two sons to pursue dreams with passion, and challenge for success, I realize the contradiction is pretty striking. If I was to embrace my own advice, I’d start working on an idea right now, and let everyone here know, a novelist had emerged.....having just now escaped from the historian’s dominion.
I have one of the most beautiful and compelling backdrops, here in the Muskoka hinterland, any writer or artist could ask for........ a perpetually inspirational place to create. I can sit here, in the comfortable digs at Birch Hollow, our modest homestead, and watch out at a most enticing environs, thriving with activity from the bird feeder guests, to the half dozen squirrels and venerable old crows, dwelling in the adjacent woodland. Robert Frost and Washington Irving benefitted from such inspiring vistas.....and while I don’t have the advantage of Irving’s haunted Hudson River Valley, or Frost’s picturesque farmstead, we do share the immersion, and restorative communion with nature. Sometimes non-fiction simply can’t address the enchantment I see in this hinterland, here in South Muskoka. As hard as I try, there are descriptions I compose, that borrow from the obvious qualities and quantities of nature, yet overlap the shadowy expectation of what I think exists and interacts beyond my sight. As Washington Irving understood the botanist’s need to investigate the smallest molecules of a larger life-form, he also appreciated that despite the revelations magnification and dissection would reveal, it could never totally explain the nuances of the enchanted life. He was not deterred from believing in phantoms, wee fairies and their midnight revels, and held considerable regard for lore and legend, as part of enduring, important cultural beliefs and identity. His was in no way, a bid to abandon science for what it could explain, yet as with the heavenly music a harpist plays, it might be supposed, as much, the summonsing of angel-kind to earth. Just because science hadn’t proven the existence of angels, didn’t stop the believer from anticipation and expectation,........ regardless of the scientist’s conclusions otherwise. Irving could believe in the revelations of new science yet still not be thwarted from believing in the great worth of legend to existence..
It is this perpetual badgering I engage upon myself, whenever I get the urge to pen the opening chapters of a novel, or collection of short stories of which I most enjoy. I will get to a mid-zone of work, and the non-fiction interest, will implore the novelist to settle back into wishful thinking and nothing more. Even by this confessional, I have no such personal fortitude, at this moment, to become a novelist all of a sudden by any type of internal revolt, or staged intervention......of novelists I know gathering round me, to cast-out the historian’s bent, for more fertile thoughts and creative enterprise. Still, I’m having more fiction-friendly hiatus periods these days, as I find my column work full to overflowing, and time on my hands to pursue other interests. I think it’s fair to think of it all as a future potential, when I’m satisfied it hasn’t been at the sacrifice of my daily scribblings on-line and for assorted publications. I suppose it’s as much a fear of the unknown, and the expectation, based on early trials, that my creative foray will fail miserably. I’ve always rather worried, that a failure in any writing enterprise, might thrust me into such a funk, that composing anything thereafter would be next to impossible. It’s happened before just not the result of a turn toward fiction.
I will continue to be inspired, sitting here, looking out on such a magnificent scene, as this winter lowland, in the great woodlands of Muskoka. I will make subtle forays in creativity, and dress it up as non-fiction, at least for the immediate future. One day, I think, I will sit down here, early one morning, and experience a sort of grand re-constitution of values......commencing an unfettered, inspired season of creative liberation. Until then, the historian rules this body, and is a taskmaster, let me tell you.
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