Have you ever had one of those moments when you think maybe the universe is trying to tell you something? That just happened to me.
I was three- or four-hundred words into a post talking about me and about this blog–and I think I was being quite witty, to tell you the truth–when the whole thing disappeared. I’m sure I hit a wrong button somewhere, but it’s more fun thinking the universe took control to suggest I do a little rewrite.
So be it.
Welcome to our little blog site, Guild of Dreams, where you’ll find myself and 10 other fantasy authors pooling our resources to entertain and perhaps enlighten you. We’re all different people with different writing styles, but we all share a love of fantasy and a desire to reach you, the reader, so our aim is to write about things that you will find of interest. To that end, I think we all want this site to be as interactive as possible: leave comments, make suggestions, tell us when we’ve hit a nerve or when we’re full of crap; anything you want, just don’t throw bottles–I had enough of that playing heavy metal covers in bar bands during the ’80s.
So what do you want? Don’t be afraid, let us know.
Okay, enough about you, what about me? I’m not egotistical enough to think everyone reading this is a huge fan of my work and came here just to read whatever I have to say (one can pretend though, right?). So, who the Hell am I?
Well, to find out the basics, you can check out my link in the little bar menu above. But there’s more to me than where I live, a little Canadian humour, and the fact I’m married to a drop-dead gorgeous burlesque performer–though with most people, once they find out about my wife, kind of tune out everything else about me. You want to know more than that and the fact I have two children, a dog, a cat, and a hamster, right?
Here you go, then.
The first thing I remember writing was a song when I was in grade two. It was about love, like all good songs, and contained Earth-shaking lyrics like: “red as fire, orange as fire, yellow as fire, blue as our car” and “I love you when I go to bed at night, but not without my Teddy bear”.
No, I’m not making this stuff up, folks. I may have mentioned my night-light in there somewhere, too.
I went on to write many poor quality songs through my teens, though those were a little more angsty and rarely mentioned stuffed animals, but the first story I recall was a little science-fiction masterpiece called “The Mystery of the Blue Marble” (sounds ominous, doesn’t it?). It involved a mysterious blue marble (see how that ties together?) that shows up out of nowhere in the schoolyard. Children and teachers investigate, a searing laser issues from the marble, and much carnage and mayhem ensues. I think it was about a page long.
The next story I remember was written in grade 10 and concerned a man finding out his wife has been cheating on him. My English teacher, Mr. Black (if you’re reading this, sir: thank you), loved it, and I remember him actually opening his mouth to read it to the class then stopping and changing his mind. Apparently, back in the early ’80s, such things were inappropriate for small, undeveloped fourteen- and fifteen-year-old minds.
In the years between high school and my mid-30s (ouch, my age is showing), writing became spotty as things like earning money, pursuing love, and drinking too much (a good, writerly quality) took up much of my time. You, know…life. I wrote a few little stories, all of which leaned toward the dark side of the human condition (one about a serial killer, another about a woman who kills her boyfriend because she suspects he’s a murderer when really he’s just going to propose to her, and a few others I’ve forgotten, so it’s best you don’t know about them). I submitted a few to magazines and had them summarily rejected, but it was no surprise; I didn’t even know how to spell edot back then.
Then one night I lay in bed tossing and turning, unable to find blissful sleep. I had a story developing in my head (not a very good one, it turned out, but one I was excited about at the time). I tried to ignore it, tried to get my much-needed rest, but my wife eventually kicked me out of bed because my energy was keeping her awake, too. To the kitchen table I went, pad and pencil in hand, and scrawled out a story with the hideous name “A Brief Discussion on the Subject of Time Travel”. The story, its subject matter and quality are irrelevant to this discussion, it is what happened upon writing that story which is of importance here:
I renewed my love of writing.
From that story on, I couldn’t stop. And didn’t want to. I took mail-order courses, on-line writing workshops, attended a conference, read grammar and how-to books. Five complete novels, ten + short stories and more outlines and scribbled notes than you can shake a stick at later, I can’t imagine a day without writing. It balances me, makes me an easier person to be around, and makes life feel more worth living. That night I wrote a really mediocre story about two guys in a coffee shop debating the reality of time travel, I found my passion.
And I want to spend the rest of my life sharing it with all of you.