What I did on My Vacation (from blogging)

I wrote. Mostly that is what I did. Poetry for the Poetry Federation of Canada’s all call for submissions for nine new anthologies. The titles of these anthologies have me a bit stumped because they came with no content direction what so ever. The poetry of birth. The poetry of seasons. The poetry of relationships. A wide berth for interpretation could mean just about anything. I chose the pedestrian path and took the titles literally, but alas, it turned out that I had missed the deadline (I think I got the email informing me about it a couple of days prior), so I ended up just picking the best three and sending them to the magazine sponsoring the anthologies.
I also polished another piece for The Daily Globe and Mail on the recent lice saga (which we appear to have recovered from – thank the lord/universe). I am struggling with a piece for Canadian Living magazine. 500 words on My Canada. I am not sure that any part of Canada is “mine” yet, but I don’t know that I can call any place I have ever been “mine” in the way that some people refer to homes or favorite haunts. I feel that the place I will call mine I have yet to step foot on.
I found out that one of my short stories didn’t make the cut for a rather avante garde literary magazine out of Calgary, so I turned around and submitted it to a Sci-fi/Fantasy mag here in Edmonton. Probably a better fit.
And finally, I began scouring my blog for a piece that I might enter in a memoir-writing contest. This in addition to attending a writer’s group meeting where another member supplied me with three more contests that are possibilities.
Oh, and I wrote my first cover letter. Next is the query.
And you know what I discovered about this? That it is fun. More fun than blogging and reading blogs and mindless message board voyeurism. Hmmmm. Rob started a blog the other day on his “net” history and conclusions he has come to concerning it. I still like blogging. It’s not the same as my writing for contests and submissions. It fulfills something different but I suspect that I will not be an everyday blogger once I start to get the hang of how this getting published thing really works. I still like reading blogs but I am down to a certain select few that I read consistently. I really need to start using the RSS.
One thing I did not do was return to my novel. By the rules, I should have begun my read through and second draft about a month ago, but the topic matter is so depressing. I find that even a fictional account of my widowhood too heavy for my soul at the moment. I also did not finish my cat lover story because I want to make it a part of my sci-fi short story series and haven’t found the bridge between what I started and where I want it to come out. Patience. Patience.
I did work on the links to my wordpress blog. I did finally get the ball rolling on getting all the beneficiary stuff changed on my existing pensions. I did find and semi-organize (they are all in one folder) my tax info for 2007.
And…..drum roll……..I got Rob to help me purge and organize the cabinets in the kitchen.
What?! That sounds like a non-important agenda item to you, dear readers? Au contraire, mes amis. The cabinets (like the refrigerator) have been harboring out of date (by years) foodstuffs and all manner of non-used and non-essential items that, if not taken care of now, will simply demand attention when the move to Texas is glaring us in the face or worse, will be waiting for us next summer when we are back to finish getting the house ready for sale.
I have been wanting to do this for a while, believe it or not, but the problem is that I am not always certain when my cleaning and purging help is needed, wanted and/or helpful because much of what there is doesn’t belong to me.
I tread a very delicate line when it comes to rearranging or packing away or pitching. I don’t want to push. I don’t want to dredge up memories or be the cause of hurt feelings where Shelley’s things are concerned. It’s hard for the girls to visit and see so much change. It’s hard for Rob to go through things all the time. And it’s hard for me because I am torn between wanting to help, protect and at the same time start carving out areas that reflect me. Shelley had a distinct décor style that is evident in the plants and wall hangings and color scheme and the way that all space is occupied by something. But for me, plants get dusty and the die when not watered and aren’t all that great for an asthmatic to have around. I like my walls sparse to totally bare. My favorite colors change too often to slap them on a wall, so I usually go with light colors that are barely colors at all. And I like room. I love room. Room to walk around or dance around or sit on the floor with newspapers or writing papers or books spread out all around me. It could just be my lazy Sagittarian side but stuff just invites dirt to settle on it and then it needs to be cleaned. Not much stuff equals way less cleaning. And, I like the freedom that space provides.
Rob and I talked about the cleaning and the impact of Shelley’s things on us both. He had worried about how I felt and honestly aside from one small teary breakdown this last summer, I haven’t been bothered. I worry more about the impact of change and paring down and giving away and tossing on him and the girls than I think about the impact on me. He reminded thought that what I see is a reflection of a lifestyle that he and Shelley were transitioning away from around the time she became ill and that had that not occurred at that time, things would be much different.
It was nice though to clean out spaces. I am beginning to like the downsizing and the lack of stuff. I think now about what I truly need in terms of the material to feel satisfied once we get to Houston, and I realize that it is not an extensive list.
So now it is Friday again. Katy has the day off because of the teacher convention and we are heading into Sherwood Park for the morning. First stop is Beaners, a hair salon for little girls. She was promised a visit during the lice escapade (of which the saga is far from over as a new lice alert pamphlet came home with her from school the other night). Then it’s off to the mall because she is growing like a weed and needs new tights and has Christmas money to spend. I need to browse the magazine rack at the Chapters and perhaps grab a chai at the Starbucks (okay, not perhaps – definitely). Afterwards I need to hit the gym and there is ballet today too.
Whew. A lot done and a bunch still do to do

Start Here

“It starts with this: put your desk in the corner, and every time you sit down there to write, remind yourself why it isn’t in the middle of the room. Life isn’t a support-system for art. It’s the other way around.”
Stephen King from On Writing p.101

Something I needed to hear. Funny how that works.

On Writing a Novel

I am currently zipping through Stephen King’s book about writing called On Writing. There are two things that make this unusual. The first being that I am zipping through it. Reading anything longer than a news paper article is rare for me these days. If a story runs more than two pages in Oprah:The Magazine, I shudder and steel myself for mental exertion. The second reason my reading of King’s book is unusual is that I generally speaking don’t care how other writers go about the business of writing. Perhaps I should, but I don’t. I write. Sometimes I share it. I like positive feedback. I am annoyed by constructive criticism but once I get past the annoyed part I do take it to heart and use the constructive parts. The reason it annoys me though is because it is rarely information I didn’t already know. I know when my writing isn’t working and having it pointed out to me just makes me crankier than I probably already was. But, I am enjoying the King book. It isn’t really about the process as much as it is about his journey and we all have our own journeys to make as writers. I found what he had to say about the writing of Carrie to be particularly interesting. He said it wasn’t a story that he connected with and that it was hard to write, but he thought it taught him a lot. Among other things it taught him that a writer should quit just because a piece was difficult emotionally or imaginatively. “Sometimes you have to go on when you don’t feel like it, and sometimes you’re doing good work when all it feels like is that you’re managing to shovel shit from a sitting position.” - (p.78 of On Writing by Stephen King).

I kinda feel like that right now with my novel. It has changed direction and style and format to the point where I think I will need to start again. Not toss what I have, but start at the beginning and work my way through to what is passing as the end right now. That is 223 pages worth of reading and revising and thinking and being frustrated. Because I am.

Rob printed off a copy of it for me at his office at work because we don’t have the printer set up in our home office yet. I have been pestering him for a printer since September because I really don’t like having him print things for me at work. Not because I am one of those people who worries overly about things like using the employer’s office supplies for personal business, and I know this makes me a terrible person in some circles, The reason I don’t want Rob printing things is because he will read them, and they are not ready to be read until I say they are ready and even then they might need more work in my opinion. So Rob printed my mess of a novel and asked me where the story was going. Did I know what I wanted to say? Well no actually, thanks for asking. The thing is that I am coming around slowly to the idea that my story is not about Julie the widow but about Julie the woman who watched her husband die. It’s about me in more ways than I am comfortable with and about people I know like family, friends, the men I met online last year in my quest to date again. It’s about chaos. It’s about loneliness. It’s about pain. And it’s about how all these things go on out of sight while people appear to be managing and surviving.

Stephen King is got it about right.

My First Public Reading as a Writer

The Fort Saskatchewan writing group I belong to, the Paragraffers, held a public reading for it’s members Sunday at Shell Theatre located at the Dow Centennial Center. Any member who wished to was able to participate and our leader, Kathie, even invited the nearby Strathcona group to participate if they were inclined. I decided early on that I would be reading from the novel I am working on and chose a shorter chapter that I shared not only with the Fort group but with my writing group, WOW back in Des Moines. It was one of the first scenes I wrote for the novel and it might not survive to the final draft, but I like the flow and the way it advances character and plot and I love the dialogue.

I admit to a little bit of nervousness when I was introduced by Dick Easton, one of the Fort members who is also the editor of the group’s newsletter, but as soon as I began speaking, and then reading, I felt right at home. It was a feeling almost akin to the one I had when I did my practicum for teaching, which is the first class they have prospective education majors take to give them a bit of a taste of what it is like in a real classroom with real kids. The first time I stepped foot in a seventh grade language arts class, I knew I was right where I belonged. That I could do this. Teach. Manage large groups of kids. And that I could do it really well. Reading my piece today in front of an audience, that was small - between 15 and 20 - I knew I could do this part of the writing. The author thing. I love writing, and oddly, for me, I love reading my stuff to people and talking about the process. I say oddly because I am a very shy person. I don’t like the spotlight. But, when it comes to writing, as with teaching, that shy part of me evaporates as though it was never there.

Rob and Katy came to hear me and the others. Rob shot a digital video of my segment and took pictures of the other participants as there was no one else there taking photos. I am going to write up a short piece for the local paper and send it along with a few of Rob’s photos (he is kinda thrilled about the prospect of having one of his photos in the paper with a credit).

All in all, a perfectly lovely afternoon. I still feel wonderful about how it went and my performance. Another step on the road to writing for a living.

Let's Talk About Time

I’m running the risk of sounding whiny by broaching the topic of my lack of time again, but it has been eating at me all day. I had nothing on my schedule today but an appointment for a haircut at 1PM. Everything else was optional but for finding some time to go to the gym, buying cat food and getting over to the bookmobile at 7Pm. And yet somehow, my day completely slid away from me to the point where even though I did get quite a bit accomplished - for example: the laundry is near done; the kitchen is clean; I made a crock pot of homemade chicken veggie soup and a wholesome lunch and supper for husband and child; I got over to Sherwood Park to the pet store for food, the Starbucks to replenish tea supplies and hit the grocery store - whew! Right? But, I still feel like I got so very little done. Here it is nearly 7:30 in the evening and I am only just getting to my blog, and I haven’t touched my novel more than a handful of times since last Friday between traveling, helping Rob’s mom and child-minding. Valuable things all too. Don’t get me wrong. And perhaps I am just insanely selfish. Do I really need to work-out for an hour and a half every day? Do I need to blog daily? Is the novel something that has to be done by the end of the month, so I can spend December editing?

Sadly, I still have the widow tendency to putz around and waste time. However, is reading the newspaper daily(okay, two newspapers) a waste of time? Am I wasting time reading and responding to others’ blogs? When I choose to write this blog instead of going to writing group, is that being as productive as I could be?

Rob says it’s a matter of prioritizing, but the trouble is that what is most important seems to vary from week to week. Last week my deep water exercise class went by the wayside because Rob was working on finishing the roof - which is a matter of some urgency with winter basically upon us here in Alberta. Tonight both water aerobics and writing group bit the dust because I needed to write. I just needed to and I can’t explain the importance of this need any more clearly than it is like an athlete who misses too many training days in a row due to an injury. After a certain point your body just cries out to move and sweat and be allowed to do that which it was trained to do. The same is true of writing. My mind just screams to be unleashed on the keyboard. I need to write almost like I am beginning to really need to run and lift weights. I don’t feel like myself otherwise, and it has been so long since I have felt like me that I am afraid to take even the tiniest break lest I fall back into the dark times when writing and movement were luxuries.

I don’t know. The scheduling thing is still eluding me, and I can rationalize that there are more important things that come up because that is the nature of life, but the truth is much simpler. I am still not using my time wisely. I still surf the net aimlessly when I can’t string words together instead of using that “think time” to do something productive. In the old days when I wasn’t writing, I was reading. Really reading. Novels. I sadly don’t have the attention span for that yet, but the Internet is hardly the place to pump mental iron. And I could be getting up earlier. I have shamelessly luxuriated in my timelessness these last months. I don’t wear a watch or set an alarm clock at bed, but those days need to end mostly.

I know there are probably many writers who dink about and write here and there, but I don’t think many of them are published much less successful. To be good requires commitment and discipline and probably sacrifice. And, I just cannot do all the things I would like to do and still spend time with Rob and Katy, and whatever my aspirations, they come first.

I guess it is back to the drawing board for a little more scheduling and organizational fine tuning, remembering always that they are just details.

Writing: The Problem with Digging Deep

Eric Clapton’s autobiography recently came out and it’s been praised widely for, among other things, its frankness. Mr. Clapton’s colorful past manages to be honest without injecting drama that isn’t there. But the chapter dealing with the death of his four year old son has a different tone than the rest of the book. There is a distance to the narrative that alarmed his publishers to the point that they asked him to consider rewriting it. He declined and explained that his child’s tragic accident was not something he could write any other way. That time and those circumstances were not places he could go emotionally anymore. He could talk about them. Sing the song he wrote for his boy. But to write the event from the perspective of the grieving father wasn’t possible. He just couldn’t do it.

In writing my novel I have discovered that while I can fictionalize much of the events surrounding my first husband’s illness and death and that I can write about the year that followed in a fashion, I can’t dive in to those emotions anymore. I am too far removed and just don’t want to. I wondered for a while if this was the denial I have been accused of in the past and decided it wasn’t. I am normal and what I am experiencing is normal. Grief doesn’t go anywhere really but you do reach a point where it is someplace you don’t go much, if at all. And that’s more than okay. It’s a good thing.

So, I am mining my past and my pain for the time being as I go back over the latter half of last year and when the book is finished, I won’t be revisiting that in my fiction again. I have other projects. Two of which I have already started actually. Still, “going there” as Gary Paulson would say, isn’t entirely without its redeeming factors because I think I am writing a pretty darn good book.

Time Flies

Not literally and yet literally, time flies. And it’s not about fun either. I am not always having fun. The dishes, the laundry, the child, the cat, the groceries, the miscellaneous errands. The care and maintenance that goes into the all of the aforementioned can run a considerable range up and down and around the old fun meter. There are my various physical activities (running and swimming) and mental activities (my novel, the blog, attempting to keep up with the world of literature and the news of the day - although sometimes I don’t get to today’s news until tomorrow). I have written about this before but I just run out of time, nearly every day it seems.

As I sit and type this, I can hear and feel the roof shuddering because Rob is out back in the pitch dark building a new gable over the kitchen window box because the roof is leaking and it’s pretty much winter here now. And he hasn’t time either and I don’t need to wonder why or how this happened. We merged our lives and doubled everything essentially but the time we are alloted.

So, the novel is over 31,ooo words and 108 pages and I am certain I will hit the 50,000 within a week but I will likely not be done. More like 3/4ths done. I have discovered however my novel writing style, which as I suspected it would be, is not a start at the beginning and write to the end; but more of a have a good idea where things go and write as the ideas germinate whether that is starting in the middle or rearranging chapter order as you discover that you wrote chapter 11 when it should be chapter 2. My writing is more and more consuming time. I am becoming of those people who sit in waiting rooms with their laptops open and pounding away.

Tomorrow I promise to blog more topically but tonight I am tired and there is a novel calling and a hay fever attack subsiding and my husband is back inside to be snuggled up to. Time just continues to fly by.

Lost Blog Entries and the Moon at Noon

I had this beautiful piece about Rob written this morning , but for some reason known only to the geeks at Apple Tech, the program “unexpectedly quit” and I hadn’t saved. Let that be a lesson to us all, I suppose. When I told Rob what had happened and that the topic of the day was him, he wondered if I had used the anecdote he told me last evening when we were snuggled up after just getting in bed for the night. He had apparently been 40 minutes late for a site safety meeting he is on the committee to oversee. It’s one of those committees that no one wants to take part in but they do it anyway simply because it’s a good way to rack up brownie points with the powers that be. Anyway, as Rob walked in to the meeting yesterday morning, more than a little late, he observed that nearly everyone in attendance looked as though they were having the mental equivalent of a root canal. Sour and dour and painfully uptight looking. And as he observed the situation and slid into his seat he thought to himself (with not a little bit of Virgo smugness), “Yep, bet none of you got laid this morning.” It’s moments like these - and there are many - that I know my soul is well-mated.

This morning I was so proud of myself for getting the blog entry done early because I wanted to spend the day working on my novel. Yes, I have started the Nonawrimo thing a few days early but I am am justifying this because we are taking a trip to Rob’s mom in the middle of the month and that will be a good five days of getting nothing done as far as writing goes, so I am actually going to end up two days short of the 30 days anyway. In the end all that matters is the novel, and it’s starting to actually take a shape - and not the one I had originally envisioned either.

So, with my best intentions thwarted, I was going to camp at the Starbucks and write for a bit after dropping my little girl at kindergarten. But, it’s lunch hour and the tiny Starbucks resides in the local Safeway where many people visit the store’s deli and then feel free to eat in the Starbucks sitting area. Yeah, I don’t get that either. So, there were no tables, and though I could have taken my chai latte over to the Fort library, I decided to come home and write in the office Rob set up for us a few weeks ago. Yesterday, the cat sat in my lap as I wrote but today she is angry with me for leaving her outdoors while Katy and I went to the gym. As I explained to her when we returned to find her curled up on the welcome mat at the door, this is what happens to little cats who don’t come when they are called (she’s learning but slowly).

On the way into the Fort I noticed the moon was still up. It often is. Not something I ever saw back in Iowa. I still can’t get over the sky here. Rob says it is the same sky but it just looks so different. Perhaps it is the wide openness or the latitude, but the clouds and the moon and the stars even never fail to catch and hold my attention like they were paintings in the Louvre.

What I had wanted to say today was how I love to watch my husband. In the mornings he is so deliberate in his actions as he dresses for the day. He is a powerful looking man and it fascinates me, the way his muscles move under his skin and how the light shades and shadows him. Of course, my first version was far more poetic. Rob wondered if being so often my topic he would lose his Canadian sensibilities. I am not sure that Canadians are anymore sensible than the Iowan’s I lived around all my life, but he is certainly the least affected man I have ever known. Sensible is certainly among his many middle names.

I am sorry I lost that earlier entry but I guess I was supposed to write this piece you are reading instead. Sometimes things work out better than originally planned.

A Random Thought about Writing and the Widowed

We are heading back to the states tomorrow for a short visit. Per usual there is too much to still be done and probably only just enough time to do it and nothing more. I can’t figure out how my life went from being empty, open spaces to this crammed full existence that still feels as though I need more minutes at the end of every day. It seems as though it shouldn’t have as simple as falling in love with Rob and moving here to be with him, but in more ways than can be imagined, it was just that.

Which brings me to a thought. Rob and I have been talking a bit about writing. About his promise to write about Shelley’s ordeal with melanoma and the difficulty that presents in terms of digging up the past and the occupying pain, but also in terms of how does one take such a sprawling topic and pare it down to an accessible essence? The path that leads some of us to widowhood is winding and long, and there is so much more to it than just the symptoms of the disease and the doctor’s visits and the treatments. The emotional side is as vast as an ocean and twice as deep. So, what to save and what to toss? In school I would teach my students to identify the audience and make their content match the needs of their readers or listeners. I am not sure if that applies in this case. But, it’s Rob’s story to tell and knowing him I imagine that he will stick to the facts and approach it from a logical “what would someone need to know” stance. It makes sense.

He got me thinking about my own story, which I am beyond weary of telling to the point where I don’t even want to hear other people’s stories. I don’t like sharing widowhood on the loss level anymore. Not that I ever enjoyed it, but there was a time when it made me feel less alone. Not as unique or novel. These days I prefer to share moving one stories. And it’s not about being positive or practical, it just is. Who I am now is a woman who was widowed. It happened. It sucked. It’s over? No, but it isn’t my now and hasn’t been for a very long time. If I were to write about my experiences, I would start with the beginning for this year and work through the beginnings of our relationship, Rob and I. There is so much out there on loss. On coping with loss. On surviving loss. On wallowing in it too. But, there is not much on moving on by people who have actually done it and not been overcome with buyer’s remorse once they got there. Beyond blogs and posts, the movies and books are a little to sugary-coated and belie the churning of emotions that nearly make you sick with fear, hesitation, second-guessing and more concern for the opinions of the world at large than for yourself.

When I think about it, my blog has been about moving on, and that is all that I have been willing to share really. The first blog was about loss and the frustration associated with jump-starting my idling life, but I shared that only belatedly, after most of it was written and past and it was no longer a true reflection of me.

I need to ponder this a while longer. I haven’t a deep need to write about myself beyond this blog right now. I am not sure how the world would benefit from another story about widows finding love again. It has the feel and the makings for a cheesy chick flick. Besides every widowed person I know talks about writing a book as though writing was a gift that came along with widowhood like the parting gifts game show contestant losers are sent away with at the end of a show.

Happy Canadian Thanksgiving

Heading down to Saskatchewan in a while for the holiday weekend. Got to hand to it Canadians, they know how to space their holidays. Back in the States it's feast of famine in terms of time away from the grind but up here the year seems to be evenly broken into a plethora of official holidays that result in three and four day weekends. That's another thing about Canadians, whenever possible, they hold their holidays on Monday. The school year, which would break the back of the average American kid, is ten whole months long but it has all these lovely holidays in addition to the official provincial and national ones. Yes, that's right. Provinces can schedule their own holidays. Puts U.S. states' rights in its rightful place, right between "weenie" and "wuss".

Monday is Thanksgiving here. We had planned to lay about. There is work to be done winterizing and since it seem to be snowing all around us, though not here yet, it's something we need to be moving a bit more swiftly on. However, Rob's mom is moving to B.C. in a few weeks and needed him to come down and take care of a few things his younger sister can't help out with. Yeah, there is a story there but I am not at liberty to tell it. Suffice to say that are issues and I am sure you can imagine the rest without any further assistance. I am just standing over here in the corner of my blog, not saying a word.

Saskatchewan is an eight hour drive through terrain that makes Nebraska seem interesting. Since I have made it once before, and much of it is on two lane highway (Canadians do not believe in mega highways like Americans do. Back in the states there are four lane highways in the middle of nowhere simply so farmers can get from the homestead to the back forty fifteen minutes faster). It takes forever to get there. Though once there, Regina is a somewhat interesting place. A place I won't see much more of this time than the first time I was there in June. Perhaps I will get a bit of real writing done as I will be internet inaccessible, but more likely I will work on yet another attempt at winning the mystery story contest in the Edmonton journal. Some other SAHM won it this week which means I have to read another chapter in this increasingly boring story. But, I am nothing if not pig-headed and single-minded when it comes to at least seeing this damn contest through to its end. I suppose I could write one of those "thankful" lists that people do when Thanksgiving comes around. When I was in grade school the nuns had us do this every year. It was a bit like having to think up sins for confession once a month. Not that I haven't much to be thankful for but the holiday itself is such a sham. Below the 49th it is sold as the day the pilgrims sat down with their friendly Native American neighbors and gave thanks for surviving their first year. Of course the real story behind the Plymouth pilgrims is more on the order of the sordid stuff that would have made it an awesome reality show had there been such a thing as television back then. Then, of course, is the reality that Thanksgiving was actually a propaganda tool of the Lincoln administration during that unpopular war he was stuck with known as the Civil War. But whatever, I am not at all sure what meaning Canadians have attached to it beyond the fact that it's been about six weeks since the last holiday Monday around here.

I am thankful for the six or ten of you who read this blog and want to wish you all a Happy Thanksgiving from Canada.

Trying

My daughter’s favorite thing to say last year when she was in preschool and hadn’t succeeded at some task or other was “Try, try again. That’s what Mrs. Wright says.” An interesting motto for someone who was just four years old. She would often exhort me with the same saying and she still brings it up from time to time. So, as you might have guessed, I did not win the fiction contest last week with my chapter two entry, but as I mentioned I have numerous opportunities to try. I spent last night and most of today (in between SAHM things) working on my chapter three attempt. I think is is a bit better than my previous work and I may get the hang of this mystery writing thing yet.

Chapter Three – The Art of the Bid

Emmy wanted to storm in and confront both men. But cooler, decidedly more detective-like instincts kicked in. She waited in her van. Jack first, and minutes later Gombrick, emerged. To the casual observer they were unrelated customers from the throngs who waited daily in long lines for icedcapps and Timbit. Gombrick's stiff gait reminded Emmy of a peg-legged pirate. Jack was carrying his usual cup of coffee. After they were gone, Emmy pulled out but didn't follow either man. She knew where to find them when she needed them. What she needed now was information that neither was likely to give her.

Ixion Construction was located just off Yellowhead Trail near 82nd Street. Emmy called to let them know she was bringing a preliminary report. In truth, she had nothing to report that would help Ixion discredit Gombrick’s claims. She hoped they would have information for her. There was only one reason for Jack and Gombrick to be together and it meant bigger issues were at stake. But what did that have to do with Fulton?

"Ms. Budge, it’s good to see you so soon."

Emmy smiled wryly as she shook the proffered hand of the company's vice-president, Elizabeth Farron. Not the type Emmy pictured when she thought of construction workers, Ms. Farron had assured her on their initial meeting that she had come up through the ranks. Not tall, but sturdy and with the strongest grip Emmy had ever encountered in any female, she was inclined to believe that the pretty blond with a sunburst tattoo peeking above the neckline of an Oilers’ shirt was more capable than your average heir of an oil sands tycoon.

Ms. Farron led Emmy into a conference room strewn with evidence indicating a meeting had taken place not long ago and motioned for Emmy to sit down, "Sorry about the mess. Just finished up a progress meeting on the microbrewery project."

"Brian Fulton’s?" Emmy inquired. "That’s still on?"

The young woman hesitated slightly before nodding. "There were other investors."

"Of course. Was that part of Gombrick's job? Bidding?"

Ms. Farron gave her a quizzical look. "No, but he was
aware of company bids. Why do you ask?"

Emmy shrugged, "Curious. I really stopped in to say I’m dropping the investigation." Before she could be interrupted, Emmy raised her hand and continued, "I followed Gombrick for four days, and aside an inexplicable visit to the Edmonton Queen last night, he did nothing to indicate he’s anything other than a middle-aged man with a bad back. My advice: pay him the money."

"I'm paying you money to prove he’s defrauding my company," Farron retorted angrily before the whole of Emmy's statement sunk in. Slowly anger drained from her sky blue eyes. "Did you say he went to see Brian Fulton last night?"

"No," Emmy replied, "I said he visited the Edmonton Queen. Why would you think he saw Fulton?"

Flustered, she replied. " Well, I just assumed. Bert was on the James MacDonald project when the accident occurred and Brian was one of the backers.”

"But isn’t that a city contract?" Emmy asked.

“Yes, but even the city needs to borrow funding for large projects.

“So you knew Fulton?”

"Not really. My partner, Vic Wild, handles funding.” Her tone was flat, but the absent way she twirled long straight strands of hair around her fingers told Emmy there was more to her involvement with “funding”, Brian Fulton and his microbrewery.

"I know you think there’s nothing more to this case, but I would appreciate it if you would continue out the week. Just to make sure, and with a closing bonus for your wasted time."

That evening Emmy mulled the events of the day over a glass of ale at the Black Dog on Whyte Ave. She had been sure Gombrick was working with Jack on some case, but her conversation with Ms. Farron left her thinking Gombrick was guilty of more than trying to arrange an early retirement. She flipped through some clippings in a folder on the table.

"Not your usual reading fare, Em. Actually, I can't remember the last time you read anything longer than the back of a DVD," a tall dark bespectacled man remarked as he slid into the seat across from her. "Isn't reading what you supposedly pay me to do?”

Emmy glanced up from the news clippings. "I love that about you too. Your ability to read while biting the hand that feeds you."

"You haven't fed me yet. Or offered to buy me a drink," he pointed out cheerfully, rifling through her papers. "The Edmonton Journal? Hope you’re not looking for information about the world at large."

"All people, places and things Alberta are chronicled in the Journal, Cam," she replied.

"Newsflash. The world isn't flat," he whispered back in a mockingly conspiratorial tone.

"Nice," she replied, "but I need to connect Gombrick and Fulton. I can’t do that on the Internet, Facebook boy. Didn’t I ask for information on Farron?"
"Did better," he told her placing a printout of Farron's Facebook profile between them.

"One hundred forty-two friends. Good to know," Before she could tell Cam to go home and be useful, she spied two familiar faces. Bert Gombrick and another she couldn't put a name on.

"Gombrick? Odd friend choice. He could be her father and is suing her. Who’s this guy?"

Cam put the day's Journal on the table, pointing to the front-page photo. His finger traveled from a blurry Gombrick to a woman who was clearly Farron to a barely visible man in the back. Before Emmy could ask, Cam opened the Life section to a picture of the same man smiling in an advertisement.

"Jeff Bates? The yoga school guy?”

“Interesting group of friends, eh Em?”

My First Fiction Submission

The Edmonton Journal is sponsoring a writing contest for the next eight weeks. The author, Thomas Wharton, will write the first and last chapters and readers are invited to continue the story by submitting chapters they have written. The first installment of what may end up a published novel, Murder on the North Saskatchewan, appeared in the Saturday edition with subsequent chapters to be published on the following Saturdays until the story is completed. Submissions have to be in by Tuesday of each week and writers are allowed to win at least twice, but not in a row. I don’t write mysteries, or at least I haven’t since I was in fifth grade. I don’t even like to read crime/detective style stories anymore which is odd because I was a huge fan of The Hardy Boys, Encyclopedia Brown in grade school and then Agatha Christie and Ellery Queen as I got older. But, the chance to be published was too big a siren call to pass up, and I admit the $500 prize moved me a bit too.

I started the second chapter Saturday night and thought about it on and off during the day on Sunday while we were in the city to visit the zoo and run errands. Rob very helpfully drove me around the area where the first chapter takes place because as a newcomer here its hard for me to write convincingly about the setting. Last night I spent a couple of hours hammering out my first draft only to find it was 143 words too long. Word counts can be maddening but there is nothing like have to lose a few dozen sentences to force a writer to get to the point without losing the substance.

So, below is my second chapter of Murder on the North Saskatchewan. You can use the link to read the first chapter before reading it. Let me know what you think. I emailed it this morning and I am very excited!

Murder on the North Saskatchewan - Chapter Two

"I'm a professional investigator," Emmy corrected him and immediately felt stupid for doing so because apparently her surveillance hadn't gone unobserved.
Bert chuckled, "Feisty. I like that in a girl dick."
Emmy didn't know whether to be insulted or merely disdainful of his Albertan redneck sexism. Flashing him a cool eye of contempt, she squirted her wayward quarry square in the face. He staggered gamely backward a few stiff steps before toppling straight back onto the parking lot pavement. Emmy quickly shoved the pepper spray into her bag and scrambled to assist him,lying flat on his back with arms and legs flailing. Fleetingly Emmy noted how much he looked like the turtle Chelsea had when she was eight that never could stay right side up and met an untimely end in the garbage disposal.
As Emmy bent down to help Bert, he awkwardly rolled onto all fours and crawled away from her outstretched arms.
"Get away from me," he snarled, rubbing at his eyes.
"Oh, don't do that," she cautioned him too late as the rubbing elicited a string of expletives.
She glanced about the near empty parking lot, not for help but to make sure that no one was watching. By the time the EPS had finished taking statements from the passengers, even the news reporters from the various local stations had packed up and left. The only evidence of the night's events were the police tape cordoning off the riverboat, and a banner proclaiming the ill-fated opening of the casino boat's maiden voyage. Guiltily Emmy tentatively approached the now partially righted Bert, sitting on the nearby curb he had crawled to, back held at a painful angle and using the hem of his shirt to dab ineffectively at his eyes. He looked up when he sensed her nearing. Even in the dim light coming from the streetlamps on 98th Ave, Emmy could see that his eyes were as red as the sunset earlier that evening. He held up a large, powerful looking hand to halt her approach. Though it was clear that he was greatly hampered by the apparent injury to his back, it was also obvious to her that he was a very strong man. Biceps bulged perceptively. Despite his receding hairline, slightly graying close cropped beard, and gimped back, he was a still a young man.
"Don't come any closer," he told her through gritted teeth. "I have had about all I care to take from anyone in the employ of the late, and sure to be unlamented, Brian Fulton."
"I was hired by Ixion Construction," Emmy corrected him, puzzled by his assumption that the murdered man had employed her.
Bert laughed. "You are green."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Didn't they teach you in correspondence school to check the background of your employer before taking a job? Just to cover your pretty little bum?"
Emmy flushed. "It was an Internet course. Through MacEwan if you must know. Very reputable." But even as she spoke she was remembering something that Jack had told her. "Everyone is a suspect, Em. A good investigator gathers facts because there ain't no such thing as a completely innocent party. They all have motives and things to hide. Even the victims."
"I thought as much," Bert grunted. "Not that I owe you a thing. Especially after the pepper bath. But Fulton was a silent partner in Ixion. His ex's cousin may own it on paper, but he fronted the cash."
Emmy stored the information for further rumination and asked, "So you came here tonight to confront him?"
Bert shook his head. "I came here tonight to remind ole Bullrider of a few facts."
"Facts?"
"That are none of your business, lady," he retorted and with a mighty heave pushed himself up onto his feet.
Even though she was standing a good ninety centimeters from him she still took an involuntarily step back. Bert Gombrick was tall and quite imposing. Emmy entertained just the briefest thought about whether or not he looked as good unclothed as he did in dark blue jeans and white button down shirt before regaining her composure. Defiantly stood her ground, meeting this angry blood-shot pale blue eyes with her own stormy grays.
"I'll tell the police what I saw."
He smiled grimly. "Go ahead."
"You wouldn't care? I saw you arguing with Fulton shortly before he turned up....and over the paddle wheel of his own boat."
"I'd care. It would be inconvenient, but I have nothing to hide. I was off that boat before it left the dock, and I can prove it."
Emmy couldn't tell if he was bluffing. Jack had always told her that a good liar "feels more fair than foul...to borrow from Tolkien....the less likely to be mistaken for an angel, the more likely you can believe them."
As she was thinking, Bert limped by her towards his truck. She silently watched him leave. After he disappeared towards the legislature, she climbed into the van. She didn't feel quite the failure she had. He may have known all about her, but it wasn't because he'd spotted her. He'd been told. And that didn't make any sense at all. "When something doesn't make sense, go back to the beginning." That was Jack's motto, and despite the fact that Jack was a prize-winning boob, Emmy knew that she was being played. She was supposed to be on the Edmonton Queen tonight. Just like Bert Gombrick was supposed to know he was being tailed by a private investigator working for Brian Fulton. The question was, why? Emmy pulled out of the lot and headed for the High Level Bridge. Since the divorce she and Chelsea had been staying in a tiny rented house near the University of Alberta. Tomorrow she would start at the beginning, Ixion Construction and Steven Hollis, the man who had hired her. Tonight, she needed a shower and a beer.