A story a week...

Ambitious? Yes, but something I can do. In addition to finishing the Loremaster edit, fleshing out Patriot and The Platinum Ticket and putting together a couple of rough outlines for a few other novel length projects I have decided on a goal of one short story a week - written, edited and submitted to market. To this end I have blown the dust off a couple of books in the basement.

One - none too dusty actually - is Fiction Writer's Workshop by Josip Novakovich. In his book, Novakovich presents a complete Fiction Workshop with a good number of story assignments. Taking my recent successes from the Fiction Workshop I attended earlier this year, I can see the value of a creative springboard.

The second book is much older and has a touch of sentimental value. It is called Writing with a Purpose by John M. Bassett and Donald G. Rutledge. This particular copy of the book was published in 1958. It was presented to me in grade seven by my teacher, Mr. Ian Morrison. Mr. Morrison is also the guy who tried - and failed - to teach me how to play a musical instrument. My most vivid memory of Ian Morrison is an errant stick of chalk hurled in anger that nailed the girl sitting next to me. No - the chalk wasn't intended for little Dave Beynon - he was actually trying for the kid behind the girl but his aim was rather awful. But I digress...
Writing with a Purpose is a great all-round primer for any sort of writing you might choose to do. Essays and letters comprise a good deal of the material but there are some real creative writing gems scattered throughout.

Why a story a week? Well - I need to get some publishing credits and I need them sooner than later. In Issac Asimov's compilation, Gold, he reprinted a number of essays from the magazine that bore his name. In one of the essays he speaks about cover letters and getting published. One thing he talks about are how self-doubting most fiction editors are, himself included. He said that when an editor sees previous writing credits cited in the cover letter it makes him or her far more likely to give the story serious consideration. Those previous publishing credits tell the editor that other editors have found this author's work salable. Of course, the writing still needs to be good, but those publishing credit are priceless.

I already have five short stories making the rounds. With additional stories entering the world each week my chances increase that much more and once I can add publishing credits to the cover letters...well, the sky's the limit. Publishing credits also come in handy in finding agents and publishers for novel length fiction.

Speaking of writing, I need to edit some more Loremaster... next time I plan on talking about having fun...

As Handy As They Come...

It is always been my firm belief that the gene for “handiness” resides firmly on the Y chromosome. This belief probably stems from my childhood observations. My father was the ultimate handyman. He could frame, string electrical work and drywall. Carpentry and plumbing were second nature to him. With the right tools he could build anything. I’d always hoped that this handiness gene had been passed along but 41 years of experience has taught me differently (for the sake of my son, I hope it has skipped a generation). All of this leads into my recent misadventures.

It is been a rather chaotic week around the Beynon household. For a long time now we’ve needed to replace the enclosure surrounding our bathtub. With peeling grout and more than a hint of mold, it could be put off no longer. To begin we tore out the strips of this laminated board product with dubious water-resistant properties. It was this board that had become moldy. As I tore out the drywall it soon became abundantly clear that our lovely old house was completely off square. It also became clear that the plumbing side of the job (the challenge I was looking forward to) was very much beyond my meager abilities. After swallowing my pride and making sure that I still had some manhood left, I picked up the phone and call the plumber.

The plumber stopped by, took a look at the pipes and the tub, and drew my attention to something I had been doing my best to ignore. The edges of the existing tub and the brackets underneath were very rusty. Chewing my lip and nodding my head, it was agreed that a new tub would be needed. A soaker tub was ordered and delivered. The plumber and his helper showed up a few days later and set to work.

I, emasculated, could only watch.

It was much later in the day, after hours of straining and reaching and fiddling on the part of the plumber and his assistant, that I knew the right decision had been made. It would have taken me a week of messing around and at the end of it all I would have had to pick up the phone and call the guy anyway.

Next came the drywalling and the tub surround. As I said before, our old house is not square. That meant I had to build up the corner of the bathroom in order to have a square corner for the tub surround. The correct term is apparently “shimming the studs”. To me it sounds like something that might happen at a singles bar in Spain – kind of like the “running of the bulls”. The drywall in itself was an adventure with many a swearword aiding in adjusting the fit. I’m really glad the kids were at school while all this was going on. The tub surround is a five piece marvel of modern engineering. We chose the five piece model because it’s more forgiving for uneven walls. After a lot of measuring, measuring, measuring again and finally cutting, all five pieces were mounted to the wall.

I have discovered a job I really, really hate. The application of silicon sealant is a chore devised by the Devil, I say. After a failed initial attempt, I ended up with a crooked snail trail along each and every seam. I am far from satisfied with the job I’ve done but there comes a time when you need your damn bath tub back. In a couple of weeks I will revisit the silicon on the tub surround but for now I have other things to do.

Those other things include doing a final polish on a total of five short stories that I aim to have sent out by the end of tomorrow. Once those are out in the world next week will be dedicated to a final edit of Loremaster.

Silly Old Cat

It's been a rough old day here at the Beynon homestead.

It started last night with a puking boy who has, I'm happy to say, made a speedy recovery and by bedtime looks much better. Even in the height of a massive hurl he would look up from the tupperware container he has dubbed his "puke bucket", wipe his chin and say in an almost cheerful voice, "Wow, Dad, that sure was a lot of puke wasn't it? I think that hunk is banana..." What a trooper. A good night's sleep and he'll be right as rain.

The other part of the rough day is much, much sadder.

Seventeen years ago when I moved in with my wife-to-be she had two cats. One was grey and white and hated me. His name is Duffer and he did not like that I had taken over the role as alpha male in the house. Immediately after moving in he systematically pissed on everything I owned, paying particular attention to a comfortable chair that eventually needed to be thrown out, so impregnated was the odour of his rank urine. Over the years DUffer mellowed and he and I are now good friends. I mentioned that my wife had two cats.

The second cat was Jesse. He was this big, fat orange cat that she had adopted from another family. He and I were instant friends. From my first night in the apartment he was sleeping on me. He would constantly find my lap, regardless if there was a newspaper, a book or a plate of Chinese food on it at the time.

He was always more of a dog than a cat. He would come when he was called. He used to greet me at the door when I got home from work. He would even chase little foil balls made from cigarette packs and bring them back for me to throw again.

Over the years he has been a constant fixture in the Beynon household. He always liked women but I was just about the only man he was ever really fond of. He actually liked to attack my brother in law and my friend Bruce should they get too close or walk past one of his hiding places.

Well, old Jesse was exactly that...old. Our best guess is that he was 22 years old - a ripe old man of a cat. In recent weeks and months he'd been losing weight and vigour and this weekend a decision needed to be made. This weekend Jesse stopped eating.

At one time this cat tipped the scales at over 20lbs but recently he felt lighter than a towel. After moments of weakness where he couldn't stand and his refusal to eat over the weekend we made the decision this morning to take him to the vet.

I placed him on the passenger seat next to me and as I began the 5 minute drive he climbed over to be on my lap. As he sat there he looked around to see the world as it passed him through the driver's window.

I have nothing but good things to say about the folks at Wellington Veterinary Services. I was holding up pretty well until I actually had to verbalize the reason for my visit. They were kind and gentle. Jesse hissed and growled (he had got into the habit of hissing and growling at strangers for good measure in recent years anyway) as they gave him the IV but he calmed as I petted and held him.

I told the vet that I was raised on a farm and that farm kids aren't supposed to be emotionally attached to animals. She said it doesn't matter. She's seen bikers in tears over sick kittens and miserable old men distraught over the loss of a dog.

One of the strangest parts of the whole affair was when it came time to take Jesse home. The doctor returned to the room with a dark blue corrugated paper coffin. I recognized it immediately. It was the same "kitty coffin" I had sold at one of my previous jobs to Gateway Pet Memorials in Guelph. Strange that my own cat would end up in something I took a hand in designing and selling several years ago.

We had a short service in the backyard this evening and tomorrow a tree will be planted over Jesse's grave. I don't know it this is a Welsh tradition or just something my dad used to do but whenever a beloved pet would die when I was growing up a tree or shrub would always be planted to mark the spot. It's a lovely tradition and what more fitting tribute to my old friend than a living monument that will grow with each season. We should all find as nice a headstone as a tree.

Goodbye you silly old cat.