It's Launch Day!

Angus and Sam at the beach two summers ago,
Inverhuron Provincial Park, Lake Huron.

We were on holiday a couple of summers ago and everything was as it should have been: laughter carried on the lake wind and secrets shared around the crackling fire. Sunburns and sleeping bags. Long days at the beach.

It was all there, a glorious week of it but, when I think of that time, it is only one moment that I recall. One small but shining moment, when time stood so irrevocably still that memory etched a potent tenderness in my heart.

It was late in the day, after supper, and we were down at the beach for one last swim. Our good friends Tammy and Richard were there with their daughters, playing in the waves that were pounding against shore. Lake Huron is a fickle playground – one minute her water is serene; the next it can be dangerously rough. It didn't seem too bad that evening, enough big waves to give everyone a thrill, but not enough to scare anyone.

Not until the plastic rafts Tammy and daughter Megan were on began pulling away from shore in the grip of a needy undertow. Tammy screamed for help and it only took a few minutes for Richard, a former lifeguard, to bring them to safety.

I have to say, Richard is one of my favourite people on earth. He's kind and gentle, and he'd give you the shirt off his back, he would, but he's got a few rough edges and is particularly good at scowling and cussing and teasing his wife.

Tammy, mind you, gives it right back. When I first met them I thought for sure they were headed to divorce court but that's just the way they carry on. Besides, I know they love each other. I saw it that evening on the beach. I saw it as clear as I've ever seen anything.

The way they stood, her hip snugged against him, her smile full of gratitude, and of love. They stood there while the sun set and the beauty of this long-married couple suffused me with pure and unbridled joy.

I'm smiling as I write this, just remembering.

For some reason I associated what had happened with Gordon Lightfoot's classic song If You Could Read My Mind. I played the song over and over, thinking about Tammy and Richard, about heroes, and feeling such overwhelming emotion that I would cry every single time the song played.



A few days later I sat down at my computer and wrote But Heroes Often Fail, a short story for Friday Flash. When I finished, I looked up from the computer and tears filled my eyes. I felt pretty good about what I had written, and I still feel good about it. I've written more than 50 Friday Flash stories but it's one of my favourites and I am thrilled it was included in The Best of Friday Flash Volume 2.

I often refer to Friday Flash and how it changed my life but just because I say it all the time doesn't make it less true.

It's simple, really. You write a "flash," which is a story 1,000 words or less. You post it on your blog on a Friday (or a Thursday night if you're a keener, like me) and then add your blog url to the Collector at FridayFlash.org. You then "advertise" your story on Twitter and on the Friday Flash Facebook page.

The first time I ever did this I was AMAZED at the instantaneous results. Within minutes there were people visiting my blog from all around the world. I remember shrieking, "THERE'S SOMEBODY FROM FLORIDA!" Within a couple of days I had visitors from England and even Australia, all writing heartfelt, insightful and helpful comments about my story. In the meantime, I used the Collector and Twitter to read other people's stories.

What I had discovered – what all people who write Friday Flash had discovered – was an incredible community of writers. They might have been based in Rhode Island or Newfoundland or England, but they became as important to me as my "real" family and friends.

Even better, Friday Flash was a teacher for me. It taught me to be a better writer, both by writing and by reading. It was also a confidence builder. If it wasn't for Friday Flash I never would have written a novel. I wouldn't have joined a writers group. In fact, I'd probably still be mired in a soul-sucking miasma of depression. Not now, though. Now I wake up with purpose, with a smile on my face and a bounce in my step.

And this is all due to Jon Strother, the writer who dreamed up Friday Flash and made it a reality. Thank you Jon, from the bottom of my heart.

Now, enough maudlin! Today is a day for celebration! Today is LAUNCH DAY for The Best of Friday Flash Volume 2, a collection of 58 of the finest short stories I've ever had the pleasure of reading.

And if I can brag a little bit, I have not one but two stories in this collection. As well as the story I submitted, But Heroes Sometimes Fail, a story called Running Away was nominated for – and won – the Reader's Choice Award. I actually have to laugh about this. It's a horror story and I almost never write horror. Basically it's totally different than my usual drivel, so it's funny to me to see it included. Regardless, I owe my nominator, Virginia Moffatt of Oxford, a great deal of thanks. Virginia also has a story in BOFF2; called Breakfast News, it is laugh out loud funny.

There are some tremendous stories in this book – I swear you'll laugh, you'll cry, you'll be scared and you'll think. There are stories for all tastes, for all moods, and they're all in these sweet little bite-sized lengths that are perfect for when you don't have time for anything else.

As writer Dan Powell so eloquently said in the Foreword, "Flash fiction is all about the moment. A snapshot of an event, an emotion, a conflict. A glimpse of something important that flickers in front of the reader. It hints at a whole world beyond the borders of its modest word count and when gone the characters, ideas and images sit in the head of the reader for far longer than the story took to read."

Only five of the stories in BOFF2 are written by Canadians, which makes me even prouder, I have to admit. Canada may be a big country but it hasn't got anywhere near the population of some other countries so we Canadians always think of ourselves as underdogs to some degree. When we succeed at something, we're like Sally Field at the Academy Awards: YOU LIKE ME, YOU REALLY LIKE ME. Silly, I know – that's just part of our identity.

To celebrate Launch Day, I've joined up with my four fellow Canucks on a wee blog hop. I do hope you drop by their blogs and say hello. They are all really wonderful writers and wonderful people, as I have come to know. They are:

Alan W. Davidson

Lauren Cude

T.S. Bazelli

Jen Brubacher (who lives in England but is definitely Canadian - in fact, Jen is a little jet-lagged and may not be able to post today but she's hoping)














One more thing: I hope you consider buying The Best of Friday Flash Volume 2. It's available in paperback for $9.99 plus shipping and as an e-book. You can buy it from the publisher, eMergent Publishing (thanks to Jodi Cleghorn for all her efforts) and from Amazon. When you buy a paperback from the eMergent, an e-book is bundled in at no extra cost.

To all my family members I have this to say – guess what you guys are getting for Christmas!

Camp Journal Day #5

You should see my hair. On the other hand, maybe you shouldn't. Oh, and I rolled out of bed at 9:32 a.m. Plus, Dave's making pancakes. All sure signs that we're on vacation.
Yesterday I made a run into town to pick up some poison ivy stuff. Sam had a rash on top of both his feet and there is tons of that noxious weed around here. I google-imaged poison ivy to see if I could see my son's rash – big mistake, unless photos of humongous blisters, swollen eyeballs and scarlet red asses turn your crank. What I didn't see was any little red rashes a la Sam but I decided to get the treatment just in case.
This is what you do: wash the "affected area (!)" with soap and warm water (that always kills me, the "affected area." Of course you wash the affected area - do you think you wash your hair? Your arse? Sheesh, how dumb are we people-who-write-instructions-on-the-back-of-medicine-bottles?); follow that with a wash of rubbing alcohol; apply a hydrocortisone cream; then take a Benadryl or a Reactine. And don't itch it, unless you want an infection. Sam seems better today. "It's still there," he says, "but it's getting better."
***
I'm reading Stephen King's On Writing. What a fabulous book for a writer. I'm enjoying it even more than a novel.
I read it years ago, when I was only thinking about writing, and I thought it was merely ok. Now that I'm in the midst of a project, it is invaluable. Inspirational. I want to talk more about it but Dave has just put a pancake in front of me so I must go.

Camp Journal Day #3

I had to write something to get rid of that last post. Stick my head down the toilet and flush it? Omigawd, can I be any more dramatic? Thanks for all your messages of support – means the world to me, honest. You'll be happy to know Day #2 and Day #3 have been completely fabulous. Or maybe you might have been happier knowing I was unhappy because nothing cheeses a person off more than a person on vacation having too good a time. Oh come on, admit it. The minute somebody starts yakking about what a great time they had you zone out, start thinking of that salami sandwich you had for lunch, and how every time you burp it still tastes like salami.
Not that I had salami for lunch. I joined Weight Watchers, see, and I've been scarfing down a lot of chicken and veg. My friend Tammy said, "You're so brave joining WW just before going on vacation," but honestly, this is the best kind of vacation for waistline trimming. All we do all day is swim, bike and walk. Everything is a walk when you're camping; even going to the bathroom is an aerobic workout and I'm not talking about the pushing!!!
Must go - my camping buddies have shown up for the de rigeur campfire. They are exhausted from carrying chairs and crap down the road to our campsite. "My arms are falling off," complained one.
See? Aerobics, I tell ya.

Camp Journal Day #1

I wish I had something good to report.
That's not true, I do. A fair bit of the day was fantastic. It's this end bit that has me pounding at the keyboard, mad as a hatter, my son sent to bed for the night and my husband going to our friends' to apologize that we won't be dropping by their place for a campfire.
Sigh.
For a while there, it was magic. We bicycled down to the beach and, oh, what a beach. To me, Inverhuron Provincial Park has the best beach in Ontario. As good or better than the surf I frolicked in at Puerto Plata, way too many years ago to count. I do know that I was embarrassed about showing off my fat self in a bathing suit but back then I was positively Twiggy compared to now and now I don't care what people say about how I look. My friend Tammy and I were coming out of the water and she held a flutterboard in front of her because, "I hate coming out of the water and have people staring at me so I do this." I wanted to make some crack about how no one was looking at her because they were all staring at me saying to their wives, "Look, hon, there's a whale coming up the beach." I think everyone should hang out with someone who is larger than them; that way it doesn't matter what you look like.
I'm digressing, aren't I? That happens when I rant. What I'm trying to say is we were having a great time. We were all in swimming; gawd, the water was like pea soup. Sam said it was like swimming in lemon lime Kool-Aid because of the amazing colour; and the sand, that rippled sand that felt so soft on the toes. It was late afternoon before we finally got to the park and got settled in; then we hopped on our bikes, towels slung around our necks, and headed down for that glorious swim. The setting sun was still hot; other people who had been at the beach all day were leaving – the fathers' backs loaded down with coolers and beach umbrellas, chairs and floatey toys, their faces stolid, sunburned and grim. We had the water almost to ourselves and we played for a few glorious hours.
Then we came back and I made supper: brown rice, sauteed baby carrots and a strange-sounding but absolutely fabulous concoction combining a can of diet cola, a cup of ketchup and chopped raw chicken breasts. While I made dinner I let Sam play games on my laptop because, as he told me yesterday, the only thing that excites him in life is video games and computers. Apparently a day at the beach isn't even close to the levels necessary for excitement.
I put dinner on his plate and I knew right off that my picky kid was turning his nose up. When Dave and I made him eat, he got cranky and tearful and said, "If you guys hate me so much, why do you even make me visit?" See, for those who don't know, Sam and his big brother live full-time with his father because I was fucked over big time. Husband cheated, I hit husband with Dr. Seuss book in flaming fight, I call cops to get husband kicked out, cops take me to jail instead because I hit husband, I spend night in jail, judge gives me an order to stay away from my own house, I go live with my parents, kids come to visit me, husband wants full custody and is willing to fight for them, I have no money to fight it plus lawyer says I will never win because Dr. Seuss incident gives me a criminal record, so I don't bother. Ex husband and I arrange an amicable separation agreement because there is no other bloody way. I sit by and watch ex husband spoil children senseless with material things to assauge his guilt. He never makes them eat their dinner and usually feeds them french fries and chicken fingers. He never gives them chores. He spends money he doesn't have to win their love. I try to teach them better, but they don't appreciate rules or weird food. My oldest is 14 now and is at a point where he almost never comes to visit us because he world is the computer and his bedroom and his friends. Sam still wants to come, for the most part, and we almost always have a great time. Only he hates being told to eat his dinner so suppertime often becomes a battleground.
Like tonight.
When he says we must hate him, we try to talk sense to him. Dave sits him down earnestly and pours his heart out about how much he loves him and asks for a hug. Sam barely puts his arms around him and doesn't say anything in return. Dave's heart breaks. Sam heads for his bunk. I call him over to me, determined to talk and cuddle and work things out. But things don't work out and I get angry. Instead of cuddling, I send him to bed.
Now we're all depressed. Day one of our vacation isn't turning out like we planned.
Some days I could just stick my head in a toilet and flush it.
My children are growing up without me and I can't stand it.

A Stone's Throw

In this photograph, Sam is the perfect boy.

He is eight years old, skipping a stone towards an invisible shore, at the end of an endless summer day. He has scoured the rocky shore for suitable pebbles, clutching two or three in the grubby fingers of one small hand. With his pitching arm he hurls the stones into the setting sun, his fingers reaching into the sky.

These are hands I still like to hold when we cross busy streets. He gives them to me reluctantly as he grows older but I will ask for them as long as I can. My heart swells with tenderness when his small hand folds into mine. I am swept back to the time when his fingers were a day old, impossibly beautiful, impossibly small.

He is growing so fast. Soon everything will change.

But not in this photograph, where the stone is frozen in mid-air and my son is silhouetted against a blazing, glorious sun that will never set, and his hands, his beautiful, impossibly small hands, will always be a haven for his mother's heart.

Inverhuron Provincial Park, July 2009