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30 days to feeling better, Day One

I was supposed to be releasing a new book this month. I’m not. I could blame my schedule, my business partner, global economics and the consistent lack of spring in our Nova Scotia weather and believe me, I have. All it gave me was heartburn and more fatigue. I need spring all right, but spring in my step is the real thing lacking in my life, and while all of the above are contributing factors, the cause lies firmly with me and my choices. According to the charts, I am in the throes of burnout. In the words of my naturopath: my adrenals are ‘shot.’ I need to fix this now. I know that. I also know that my insurance company will not pay for six months in the south of France. The added wrinkle: I am a lousy patient. I lack discipline for daily gym visits and embrace my nightly couch-potato stance as a sacred ritual. But I am also tired of my own excuses for being, well, tired. So I’m launching an experiment, a give-myself-a-KISS a day program, changing the acronym a bit to replace the negative with a positive. Are there little things I can add to my routine each day to help my body heal? I’m giving myself 30 days to find out. Each day, I’ll post one thing I’m adding or changing in my day. Each week, I’ll recap and post any noticeable results. Will it work? Who knows, but it beats sitting here whining about my lack of energy and all the things I haven’t done.

Okay, then. Here we go, Day One of my 30-day Keep It Super Simple challenge to feeling better.

My addition for Day One: add a glass of water to every meal. Sure, I drink water, but I may not be drinking enough. My indoor air is dry, especially in these damp chilly days when my hot-air furnace is working overtime. Headache, fatigue, hunger, and brain fog can all be caused or aggravated by a lack of water. A few glasses of water a day should help that and if not, my body can get rid of it easily enough. There, done.

Thanks for reading. See you tomorrow.

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What do a writer, bagpiper and Muppets have in common?

Life lessons crop up, emerge, or even squeal in the most unlikely places, an everyday gift to each of us. The fine print that our logic often ignores is being open to the lesson, even when the cold sting of rejection and churn of duty urges us to close up, sign off, and pretend it didn’t happen. I nearly did that this past weekend but there is no ignoring bagpipes, especially when the piper is peeved. It went something like this. I spent the day at a trade show with a couple dozen other authors and several dozen avid readers, and it was terrific. For this solitary vocation, it was a necessity: getting out of the house, meeting other authors face-to-face, perfecting the pitch as visitors browsed for hints and swag. But in the glare of the house lights, fuelled by coffee and chocolate and recycled air, doubts emerged with each passing hour. Clearly I was the worst writer there, the least interesting, the lowest in sales, called ‘author’ not because of talent or promise but because I paid the fee and showed up. Now the warm goodbyes of strangers-turned-colleagues, some fresh air and a nap sent the doubts on a bit of a hike, but it took the Muppets to send them packing. More about that in a minute.

While I was flogging my wares down the street, my preteen piper was on Halifax’s awesome Citadel Hill wrapping up a four-event competition in which she earned two firsts, a second, and a third, taking the overall award for her grade. It was a great accomplishment. But. That second place, it was to someone she knew, on a tune she thought was solid. That was all she could think about, not what she won, but what she lost. The good-natured teasing from her peers, meant to show their pride in her accomplishments, threw fuel on the fire and by the time she got home frustration was waging all-out war on her outlook. Now the only folks more competitive than those swaddled in kilts are, perhaps, writers. Called by maternal instinct from the ooze of my pity party, we sat on the couch and shared miseries. Yes, we took pride in our work. No, it didn’t seem that was always recognized. But did we believe we did our best? Yes, we did. We repeated it over and over, until the black cloud melted and our stomachs unclenched. We can be our top judge or our worst critic: which will it be? A judge, we agreed, and a good one, who tells it like it is with constructive comment and encouragement, not insults or doubt. We will hold ourselves to our highest standard, and not tear ourselves or others down in the process. She hauled out her instrument and began to practise. Her final song was Danny Boy, described on the page as a Londonderry Air. When she read it aloud, though, it sounded like London Derriere. She giggled, we cracked up, and we hooted until we were sore. Then we watched this clip from The Muppet Show, with The Leprechaun Brothers, aka Beaker, Animal and Swedish Chef, and their rendition of this classic song. No awards, no medals, but clearly a winner:

Who were we kidding? Life is so much more than a competition. So, what do a writer, bagpiper and the Muppets have in common? We all share the same Derry Airs. Thanks for reading.

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The Writing Process Blog Hop

How did Finding Maria become a Nova Scotia love story? Read on in my conversation with author Susan Rodgers, who is from beautiful Prince Edward Island and author of the Drifters books – A Song for Josh, Promises, and No Greater Love. She was a finalist in the 2011 Atlantic Writing Awards (unpublished novel) and hasn’t looked back. Meet Susan and her work at www.SusanRodgersAuthor.com.

Thank you, Susan, for tagging me! Here is our conversation on The Writing Process.

Susan: Tell us about the inspiration for your series. Where did the idea come from and how did it evolve?

Me: The series started as a book, and the book started as a short story for an audience of one. I wrote The Watch as a gift for a friend, on the 5th anniversary of his wife’s passing. The story about their first meeting was meant for his eyes only, but I could see a larger story and he believed it was meant for a wider audience.  That led to a second short story, a chapter outline and, four years later, the publication of Finding Maria. It was after the book’s release that I realized there were more stories, and more details, to share. I envisioned a series of five, then of seven, with Finding Maria smack in the middle. True to the vision, Orchids for Billie (his childhood) was released in 2011, On the Scent of a Mandarin Moon (his Vietnam experience) came out in 2012, and Song of the Lilacs (his marriage) will be released in May 2014. Then work will begin on three books to pick up where Finding Maria left off in the present day.

Susan: When did you first become interested in Maria and/or the Von Trapp family?

Me: I watched the Sound of Music for the first time when I was 8 or 9, and despised it. I couldn’t stand how mean the children were to Maria, and didn’t watch past the first half hour. When I was 12 my aunt gave me the soundtrack on LP, and after being hooked by the music I gave the movie another try, and have been a fan of the story ever since. Flash ahead nearly 30 years, when I’m sitting across the restaurant table from my friend (now my business partner and publisher) as he shared another of his life memories, and the story clicked. The search for love and where one belongs, from a broken home to monastic life to marriage: that was Maria’s journey, and his quest seemed to mirror that.  As it turned out, he was a Sound of Music fan as well, and had made that connection after seeing the movie in the theatre following his decision to leave the seminary. That scene is included in Finding Maria, fictionalized but true to life. I am also fascinated by how artistic licence has elevated the von Trapp story from history to epic. Millions of people love the movie, but far fewer know the real names of the von Trapp children, or that they escaped from Austria not on foot in the dead of night, but calmly by train that took them to Italy where they boarded a boat to America. Despite those differing details, the courage and legacy of the family is clear and appreciated around the world and across the generations. It showcased to me the power of blending fiction and non-fiction, maintaining the essence of a true story while allowing the messages to ring out to a diverse audience.

Susan: I was asked about how my location informs my writing. I’m wondering if you find this also. Does living in Nova Scotia somehow impact your creative work? And does it make it easier in terms of marketing/sales?

Me: That one short story has evolved into the Finding Maria series, which we now brand as a Nova Scotia love story, for two reasons: I was born and raised here, and my main character was continually drawn back here in his search for love. So being Nova Scotian not only impacts my work, it is a reason for its existence. As for marketing and sales, it is an exciting time to be an author and publisher anywhere in the world. With a good story, some marketing savvy, passion for your work and internet access, sales can be attracted and driven from across the ocean or across the street, Nova Scotia included.

Susan: What are your future plans in terms of writing?

Me: Well, my immediate plan is the launch of Song of the Lilacs in May. Then I will wear my publishing hat for a while; we have a book due out by a new author this summer, and two other manuscripts currently under review. In November, we will be at the Toronto International Book Festival in The Hub, where all the cool creative types hang out.  Amid it all, I’ll get serious about Book Five in the Finding Maria series, picking up the modern day storyline that has corporate executive Jack and ghostwriter Gwen trying to deal with their newfound passion for life, and each other.

Thanks, Susan Rodgers, for the conversation and thank you for reading! I’m keeping the party going by tagging more Atlantic Canadian authors.

Susan Walsh Whistler was fortunate enough to be born and raised in St. John’s, Newfoundland, surrounded by family, fog, forest, and the North Atlantic ocean. A writer from an early age, her stories, poems, and essays are typically inspired by a sense of place and connection with both people and the natural world. After a bout in academia, she worked as a marketing maven, a retail clerk who got excited about things like the new Dior fall makeup line, a beaten-down stressed-out office worker, a communications/public relations person, a nursing home and animal shelter volunteer who suffered from wavering levels of tolerance, and finally, a stay-at-home mom to a beloved daughter and son who bring her all-new levels of inspiration. Susan is the author of the children’s book The Great Crow Party, with British Columbia-based artist Heidi Van Impe. She is a regular columnist for her local newspaper, The New Glasgow News, and showcases her work, both fiction and non-fiction, on her website www.susanwhistler.com.

Sarah Butland was born in Ontario, lived in New Brunswick for over 15 years and now resides in Nova Scotia with her high school sweetheart of a husband, their superstar son William and cat Russ. Butland started creating while still learning to walk. Many stories, attempts at novels and thousands of ideas later, she created BananaBoy and the Adventures of Sammy was born with Sending You Sammy, her first published children’s book. Then came Brain Tales – Volume One, a collection of short stories and finally Arm Farm, her current literary pride and joy. She is now working on Blood Day – The Novel (tentative title) to be released as soon as possible. In addition, she is active in her home community promoting local authors and events. Read more about Sarah and her wide range of work at www.sarahbutland.com

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Handling rejection: the Gem in the Mire

I just finished a call that a month ago would have had me wringing my hands and fighting back tears. My quote was too high. My services will not be required. His exact works: “I’m going to pass.” This after being highly recommended by a dear friend who did this job in the past.

However, I know now there is no place for tears or regret. He appreciated my timeline, work plan, and references. There was nothing more I could have done except reduce my billable hours or rate, and the old me just might have done that, after spending hours agonizing about ‘will they like this?’ or ‘am I being too greedy?’ The new me is smacking her forehead, saying ‘grow up’, and appreciating the positives I gained in this ‘loss’ of business, namely:

Confidence. I would be stuck investing time in something that serves neither my life goals nor my bank account if I charged less. Now the days I would have had to assign to this project can be used to work on more interesting things that can also make me money.

Clarity. He said, and I quote, “I wonder how [dear friend’s name here] could have done it for so much less.” His statement led to some pondering, and as a result, I figured something out. She provided them a favour, not a service and they didn’t distinguish between them. I gladly do favours for friends and on occasion for valued clients; thanks to the rejection, that distinction is becoming more clear.

Courtesy. I sent my quote promptly when asked. He responded quickly, made a point of discussing things by phone, and did not angle for a discount. I did not offer to fix issues that were not mine or beg for another chance. We ended our call with mutual gratitude for the professional contact and a promise to keep in touch for future projects. I did not gain a client, but did build a bridge. My only regret? Telling him: you get what you pay for. Anyhow, I have a feeling he already knows.

Courage. Staring down a fear isn’t easy, and rejection is a biggie. For this, I have an amazing group of women to thank. Writing is an isolated profession, entrepreneurs are by nature independent and women in business tend to be multitaskers to the point where connections become too fleeting to notice. As all three, I would go months without a single exchange or challenge to shake me out of my rut. Then, some clever minds got together and arranged 10 weeks of Thursday nights where women in business can share, argue, plan, and dream while being challenged by our fearless leader, Debi (read more about her and her proven results for business at www.thinkitplanitdoit.com). Halfway through, we have been told (and told, and told) that our time is valuable and our goals are important. I could blame this uppity thinking for losing me a contract. Or I can be grateful for how good standing up for myself feels.

The thrill of taking the high road is already hitting a few bumps … was my price really too high? Did I need that billable prep hour? Will I ever work again? … Need another head smack …. Looking forward to next week already.

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From fruit bowl to word count

Yes, I’m writing. Can you read it, you ask? Better than that. You can eat it. I wrote a recipe. One that worked. My first real recipe, ever.

I’ve been cooking since my first batch of Rice Krispie squares for my Brownie bakers badge, but always from someone else’s recipe. Make up my own? It never occurred to me, with so many great cooks out there who could do it better than me. But those cooks didn’t have my triple threat of :

1. a heat-fueled fruit craving, my body desperate for any moisture after three days of 35C heat (pushing 100 degrees for you fahreinheiters)

2. A tired fruit bowl,  that colorful container dutifully filled with fresh offerings in the hopes that the kids will grab an apple instead of the crackers. But, proving no match for the Call of the Carbs, the fruit in time and heat wave is reduced to the appearance of little old granny heads  on the fast track to composting. I couldn’t give up or give in, due to Threat number three:

3. Celtic blood running hot at the mere notion of throwing something out.

Without my albeit bizarre circumstances, the best chefs in the world couldn’t imagine my story, let alone write a recipe to match. So just like Jack had to find himself in Finding Maria, I had to find my own culinary voice. And you know what? It’s darn-tootin’ tasty, this concoction of mine.

Pear Rhubarb Applesauce

Two apples and one pear, peeled, cored and cut into small chunks; 2-3 stalks of rhubarb, washed and diced, leaves removed

Put the fruit in a small saucepan with about a 1/2 cup water, enough to cover the bottom of the pot. Sprinkle with 2-3 tsp of sugar. Bring to boil, then simmer 5 minutes. Sprinkle with a bit of ground cloves and nutmeg. Simmer another minute. Stir to break down any remaining chunks of fruit. Let cool. Serve warm or cold. Makes 4 dainty or 2 generous servings.

Okay, so I didn’t write a chapter today. Or a sentence, even. But I did acknowledge my story, test my limits, and share the results. It seems to me all writers do that exact same thing, but good writers do it fluently, confidently, taming the unknown with a polish that comes from good old-fashioned practice.

Don’t worry, Rose, I’m getting to your story. Right after I finish my snack. And maybe take a nap. Testing limits, even the tasty kind,  can really take it out of you.

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From the gardening trowel of babes

I spent a lovely evening with my son at a gardening class a few nights ago. It would have been cheaper to take him out drinking. We’d at least have payback from the empties, unlike what I’ll get when these plants follow the proud tradition of those who have been potted before them, which is up and die.

What won’t die this time, though, are the memories of his patience as I listened to the gardener speak plainly and slowly, then tried to translate his simple commands into visible action. An entire greenhouse at my disposal with any plant I wanted to use (and buy, of course). Helpful staff. A warm, pleasant evening. All odds were in my favour but still, my project looked like a reject from toddler day at the flower show.  “No, your container doesn’t look like hers,” my son murmurs in a tone surprisingly mature for 14, “but that doesn’t me an it’s ugly.” He pats my hand and points to a bench bursting with blooms.  “Here, try these.”

Selecting five random plants, he trowels, inserts, tamps down, and waters, his sturdy 6-foot frame curled over my container like Merlin in his quest for gold. Standing tall to reveal his work, the mixed blooms blend into a floral family right before my eyes.

Like the chapters in my books. At first, I love them, the idea, the flow. Then I hate them. Everyone else’s books read better, sound better, sell better. I push back from the keyboard in resigned exasperation. I sow hopelessness and resignation under a thick layer of gloom upon all with the misfortune to cross my path. Then someone comes along and calms me down with a focused dose of reality. Sometimes, it is my muse. Or a child whispering “I love you, Mommy, even though your books don’t sell.” Or an angel bearing Margaritas. Whatever the wakeup call, I squint in the newfound sun and in the immortal words of my great-grandmother, I get over myself, go back to my screen and keep going. It doesn’t sound like their stories because it is mine, flaws and gaps and all.

And in the fading glow of the evening sun, I listen to my son, not bearing Margaritas but marigolds, amid words for which my frustration is no match.

No, my container doesn’t look like hers. But it is still beautiful.

His talent does not go unrecognized. His glow of pride as his container is complimented by passing staff and gardeners is outshone only by the glow of my credit card as it bears the pressure of tuition, soil, baskets, and plants with names straight from outer space and pedigrees to match, given the price of the little darlings. But even if I kill every last one, the money spent will pale to the memory no one can erase, dismember or otherwise take away. How often does a teen want to hang with his mom? There’s the priceless gem.

There’s one in every torment, waiting for those willing to dig in the dirt and bring it to light.

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Lessons from a Dingbat

Another piece of childhood was buried this weekend with the passing of Jean Stapleton. God love her, she made it to 90 after a career in a profession known to take more than it gives. Jean’s characters on stage and screen were rich, vivid and plentiful, but to me and millions of fans, she is best remembered for the life she breathed into Edith Bunker.

I was 8 years old when I first met Edith. Our black-and-white TV got two channels, and one night a week, All in the Family became my family. I didn’t know what racist meant, or why it was such a big deal that Gloria didn’t take her ‘pill’. I loved the slapstick comedy, the blustery rants of the big guy in his armchair and the tittering giggles of his attentive wife. Edith was cute, but it was Archie I loved. My Grade 3 report on my favourite TV show detailed the scene where Mike is accusing Archie of using the vacuum cleaner on the linoleum floor. It’ll scratch the floor, Mike told him. ‘I know,” Archie sneered, “i wasn’t going to use the vacuum on the linoleum floor.” The camera lans to the Hoover upright standing squarely between them. “So why is this here?” Mike demanded. Archie draws to full height. “It likes me. It followed me in here.” I still find his comeback hilarious, but as a kid, I liked the fact that there was a comeback at all. Even at eight, I was tiring of the sitcom sweetness that insisted everyone in the world was patient, gentle, understanding, and capable in 20 minutes of soothing the hurt and sailing to a happy ending.  My mother rarely watched the show because it was too loud, but that’s what I liked. Real people argued, got angry, stomped their feet, and yes, even lied now and then to get out of trouble. I watched the show faithfully on air, then in reruns. But it would be 30 more years before I glimpsed the depth brought to Edith by the actress who gave eight years of her life to portray her.

It was easy to dismiss Edith as the stereotypical housewife, tied by her apron strings to a boorish husband and demeaning life. Even Jean herself once said Edith was a character she hoped most women would not aspire to be: uneducated, limited in her options, an object of ridicule. As a wife and mother now myself, I tried watching Edith with more mature eyes. Was she a pathetic figure sacrificed for the sake of a laugh? I had to admit it was possible. Then I saw the pilot episode, with the first incarnations of the Bunker family captured on film. Jean played the role of Edith not as a ‘dingbat’, but as the typical bitter, frustrated housewife to be expected putting up with the likes of Archie. Her voice was lower, her comments sarcastic, her demeanour one of passive aggression. It was fascinating to see, these two lives of Edith. Then, I watched a subsequent episode and Edith was back: her high-pitched shriek extolling her joy at Archie arriving home for dinner, her baffled expression as she tried to fathom his logic, her beaming smile as he bestowed upon her the title of ‘dingbat’ for the hundredth time that season, and I didn’t see a victim, a woman trapped, a life ensnared: I saw love. Beneath the bubbles of Edith’s airhead image beat the heart of a lion: devoted, dedicated, and wise. Edith was portrayed as a woman who stood by her man not because she was forced to by finance or circumstance, but because she saw through his bigotry, brashness, and anger to the kind person he was. Archie cut his teeth on the Great Depression, came of age in World War II, and energed to coat what remained of his feelings in the working class grit of the city and the cloak of gender where men would die rather than reveal their emotions, especially when it came to their wives. With every ‘Oh, Archie!’, Edith accepted this and revealed that she saw what we only glimpsed in the rarest of scenes: the tender side of Archie Bunker. With every stoic acceptance of his criticism, she protected his vulnerable side and the two communicated in away only true soulmates can.

Edith wasn’t weak. She was stronger than most of us will ever be.  And it took a most gifted, devoted actress to bring those layers to a character written solely to be a foil for the male lead. Jean may be gone now, but she remains a beloved role model.

“Those were the days.”

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The Need To Get Dirty

When one does not know what to write, it is a time to get dirty.

I mean gardening, folks. At least for today.

Me writing anything on gardening gives life to the saying: ‘those who can, do; those’ who can’t, write about it.’ A green thumb I have not. My photo is on the wall of every gardening centre within 100 miles, under the caption: Do Not Sell To This Woman Without Proof of Supervision. My garden isn’t a wellspot of new life; it’s palliative care for the flora and fauna set. Comments on my garden bypass the usual niceties of “My, how your hydrandgea is blooming,” straight to the ‘Wow, it’s not dead yet. How did you manage that?” My garden is not the place, you would think, to spark any kind of creative flow.

But it does. For one thing, gardening is best done outdoors. There is warmth from the sun, cool from the breeze or, for the more hardy, the wet kiss of rain or chilling boot to the arse of a northeast gale. But there is sensation, temperature change, a tingling on the skin just from standing there. Breathe in, and there are scents: earthy, flowery, and yes, manmade, too, and while your neighbour’s incinerated offerings of barbecue may not be the most delightful of aromas, there is still an engagement of brain, a spurring of thought. What is that charred carcass on his plate? What if this mild-mannered manager by day becomes a pet-chomping carnivore by the light of the grill? And there you have it: a story idea, just like that.

Now for the really good stuff. On your knees, amid weeds and rocks and clumps of soil are tiny sprouts reaching skyward despite the odds. Feel it through your fingertips and up your arm, earth warm from the sun, damp from the rain. Poke a hole, drop a seed or a tiny clumping of roots, cover, repeat. orderly, fragrant, backbreaking, but necessary if the dirt is to bloom, if the tomatoes on your summer salad are to be sun-kissed rather than factory-sprayed.

You rise stiffly, joints creaking, hands caked in mud, and look down at something you have accomplished staring back at you. For the two minutes or two hours you’ve been in the garden, you haven’t thought once about the blank page  on your screen, the missing word that taunts you, the hackneyed sentence begging for an edit. But you have been writing. After soap suds chase the mud down the drain and beverage suds rehydrate body and spirit, you’ll see them. Words begging to be planted, the blank screen a garden ready for its gardener.

How do the seasons influence your writing? Happy Spring!

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Think, Work, Stop. Honouring your Creative Cycle.

I heard this weekend that playwright Neil Simon wrote for seven months of the year, rested for five. Why? He was honouring his Cycle of Creativity.

Now, we can, too. You have time for this. Repeat after me. Think. Work. Stop. Repeat. Think. Work. Stop.

I’m fresh from a screenwriting workshop with the amazing Cynthia Whitcomb. Fresh is not the term often attached to a Saturday and Sunday spent in a boardroom but in this case, the word fits. I see my writing and my options in bright new ways thanks to Cynthia’s ability to share her passion for writing, talent for bringing words to life in pictures and experience of 40 years in the movie/TV business. Of the thousands of bytes of information I took from this weekend, her description of the Cycle of Creativity stands highest. Imagine a pie divided in three equal pieces. One piece is Brahma, what Cynthia calls the BAM! moment, the ‘cool! I’m so inspired’ idea that grabs hold and urges you to put pen to paper or finger to key. The next piece is Vishnu, a pretty word for work. Hard work. Lots of work that make the idea a reality. Finished your creation?  Next is Shiva, the stop and rest piece. It all makes so much sense it sounds simplistic. Yet seeing the pie, reading the words and best of all hearing the affirmation from a sucessful writer has done much to alleviate the guilt attached to ‘not working hard enough’ while silencing that cranky inner voice insisting that I drop this writing act and get a real job. “Our culture does not honour shiva,” Cynthia told us point blank, and it is true. Workplace heroes are the ones who give up vacations and work night after night of overtime, not those who back away from their desks to take their loved ones on a much-needed getaway. Artists are lauded for volume and frequency of product more often than quality of same. Work is necessary and can be fulfilling in itself. But without ideas, and without time to recharge, how substantial and sustainable can the output be?

You know the answer. We all do.

Cynthia shared the Neil Simon example to make the point. Being able to honour his cycle clearly worked for him and for the millions who enjoy his plays and their screen incarnations. Say it with me. Yes, I can honour our creative cycle, and I will. Avoid the pitfall of the Brahma junkie, take the high generated by your idea and plunge into Vishnu, emerging when the project is done or at a resting place to honour shiva. Take two months to see Australia, or take an afternoon to clean up your desk, whatever works that isn’t work to you.

Think. Work. Stop. I feel better already. How about you?

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Longest night: Day of Doritos and Gratitude

Longest Night. For winter-loving folk it sings a chorus of skis and hockey. For me, it is Shortest Day, SADS on a stick, jabbing me with icy spears of dread while growling threats of carb cravings and cabin fever that even the writer’s cure-all – wine – can’t silence. But this year it may be different. And I have my muse to thank.

To be clear, my muse is not a mythical creature or a figment of imagination. He doesn’t play the harp, rarely wears white, and whlle he’s no doubt modelled a toga or two in his day, does not resemble the Greek legends or angelic deities often attached to artistry’s mysterious element. Oh,no, that would be too easy. My muse is very much human, and a man at that: 5′ 7″ (he would say taller) of flesh, bone, stubborness and attention span swayed instantly by the scent of a football or the hint of cleavage. Yet in a job thrust upon him that neither of us predicted or chose, he offers a rare combination of wisdom, curiosity, and courage that has given rise to three books, will inspire at least four more, and reveals the world to both of us in moments of atomic detail. I have no gift to acknowledge the trust and sacrifice in assuming a role that is in complete defiance of the life he built, with no salary or job description, no office hours or fame. But the longest night does.

To explain that, we return to when the millennium was new and the longest day was his longest night. As summer blossomed from spring, the love of his life took her last breath and with it,  the light of his world. Years later, this fateful anniversary would bring author and muse together with one thing that could penetrate the depths of his darkness: his story in her words. Since then, my muse emerges as a child timid but fascinated by the wonders in our minds, scooping seashells of memories and netting fireflies of imagination to dump them proudly on my desk with a grin and a challenge. Presented with the words, he assumes the position of critical reader. Palms on thighs, eyes closed, he absorbs each syllable as I watch both page and cues. Leaning forward means he is challenging my assertions. Head tipped back shows his search for the images I suggest. Completely still means jackpot: he’s right there in a moment that was or could have been. “You’ve nailed it,” he’ll murmur. “I know,” I’ll reply, and we savour the words offered like sprinkles on a cupcake: not necessary, but nice.

With so much unspoken, the job is more easily dismissed than explained. “Not a muse, an agent,” he had huffed at first, silver head flashing its refusal under the fluorescent lights. “Well, if you’re not my muse, then as an agent you’ll starve,” I retort and he laughed, engaged by a new bridge connecting my world of artistry to his of commerce. Even now, after years of our meetings, I snicker as I imagine him with Scotch in hand, surrounded by conversation and cigar smoke, tightening his tie and his handshake with the introduction: “Yes, I’m a life underwriter, financial planner, and muse.” I try to picture the reactions, the requests to repeat that last part, to define the job, the terms, the benefits. Then, I admire his courage even more. For as real as he is, I too struggle with revealing that which is so natural between us to the narrowed views of those ‘out there’. How to explain the need for arguments with no winners, only a story clearer, smoother, energized by the rasping of our thoughts and words? How to honour the courage in offering one’s life stories to a critical world when thanks is dismissed with cool logic? “I’ve already lived the life,” he replies quietly. “I have nothing to lose by sharing what’s already been.” How to thank someone who endures author rants and reader indifference, juggles quarterly reports and galley proofs, while embracing each encounter with phone turned off and insight tuned in?

Above all, what gift is there to acknowledge his commitment to save me from myself? He teeters between a life that is and a life that could be, above the darkness we both fear, allowing me the freedom to explore, reunite, and reveal ourselves while keeping me from plunging too far and too fast. There is nothing I could buy, write, or promise that repays such dedication.

But the longest night can.

This year, my muse will spend its sparse daylight hours winging his way to a Christmas we all deserve: a holiday wih no boardrooms, calendars, or financial forecasts, only family, football and the bustle of a house devoted to peace on earth and goodwill toward men, women, children, and their stomachs. Before the longest night descends, he will be tucked into the warmth of a young family’s couch, with a new grandchild exploring her first Christmas and her Poppa with joyful, drooling abandon. It is the perfect start to a new season, and a fervent reminder of the light that can spring from darkness.

I will still mourn daylight’s loss with tantrums, Doritos and frequent naps, yet warmed by the image of my muse at rest I will learn not to worry when or if all will come to light, but appreciate the opportunities hidden in darkness.

After all, a season that spawned mulled wine can’t be all bad.

Merry Christmas, my muse.

Happy Holidays to all.