Michael Croucher's Blog
November 10, 2015
A Haunted Touchstone
Writers are taught and constantly reminded to write about what they know. That doesn’t mean that in order to write someone has to be an expert on the subject matter. If they are, of course that qualifies them as someone in the know. But even though knowledge is a solid foundation for a good story, the real power is generated by feelings and emotions. The best place for a writer to get in touch with those feelings and emotions is through reflection on his or her personal experiences. With all of that in mind, I prefer to interpret the write what you know rule as write from your experiences, and from your emotional responses to those experiences.
So continuing with the liberal definition of my writing touchstones, I’m including what I can only describe as a paranormal experience. I’m no expert on the subject, but over the course of my lifetime I’ve had several encounters that have defied rational explanation and challenged my understanding of what is normal. Some of the stranger things I’ve seen, felt and heard have impacted my outlook on life, and a few have found their way into my writing.
In the mid 1980’s along with our two young daughters, my wife and I traveled to England and met up with an aunt and uncle of mine who were not much older than we were. Over the years we became very good friends. Together we arranged a weekly rental of a thatched cottage in the village of Feniton in Devon. It was a sixteenth century building with thick whitewashed stone walls, a thoroughly charming and cozy place to stay. The cottage had two floors, bedrooms on both floors and a cavernous fireplace in the main room. My wife and I took one of the bedrooms upstairs; our girls were on the same floor in a room nearby.
That charming little place provided my wife and me with the most startling ride of our life. We had a first night full of strange experiences: the one described in the excerpt below that actually shook us out of our bed, several that scared our daughters and my aunt, and some undisclosed happenings that shortened the stay of my adult male cousin who was going to stay for a few days. He left well before dawn on the first night and drove to his sister’s place a few hours away. When asked about it later, he would only say that the place was very strange and gave him the creeps.
It was a bizarre week. Night time occurrences interrupted our sleep and lowered our energy levels during the day, but we’d paid a lot for the rental and the setting was beautiful. We all wanted to stay, and did, further bumps, frightening noises, and light switches that mysteriously turned on and off didn’t weaken our resolve.
Of all the things that happened in the cottage, the fright my wife and I experienced on the first night was by far the most dramatic. The event became a key influence for a scene in my novel, Diamond Run. I’ve included an excerpt of the fictionalized account below.
Just to clarify and manage your expectations, the paranormal events are described as they happened, but the references to stockings, garters and a teddy, are pure fiction, as was the mention of a gun… Sorry…but we were on a family holiday. Enjoy the excerpt.
N.B. The image attached to this post is not the actual cottage. It is attached to give the reader an idea of the size, shape and vintage of the actual place we stayed at in Devon.
* * *
I came awake in a hurry; I felt like I was falling. A man screamed at me. “Get out of this house!”
The bed shot into the air and came down with a thud. It was as if a massive creature had seized it, lifted it, shook it, and then threw it down. It kept happening. The shaking and bouncing became more violent. I was completely disoriented and struggled to swing my feet out of the bed… I landed on my knees on the floor, one hand trying to control the bed, the other searching for my gun.
Sue shrieked, reached across the top of the bed, and grabbed onto my wrist. She was holding on tight, but I couldn’t pull her away from whatever was holding her.
I managed to get to my feet, and felt like my legs were going to give out beneath me. Squinting through the darkness, I checked the entire room. There was no one there but Sue. The damn bed was still bouncing with her on it.
She called out, but not to me. “What is it? What do you want from me?”
The bouncing stopped.
“This is nuts, Sue,” I yelled. “What the hell is happening?”
She was shaking her head and sobbing. “He’s here. This has happened before.”
“Who’s here?”
I headed towards the light switch on the far wall. Before I got to the switch, I felt an icy chill down my back. It stopped me in my tracks.
A voice, the same one I’d heard before. This time there was a lot more force in the words. “Leave her alone, just let her be. Get out of here!”
I pushed through the cold spot. It clung to me until I got to the light switch and turned it on. The room was empty.
I looked at Sue. She stood up, still naked except for the stockings and garters. She still looked incredible; nervous and vulnerable, but incredible.
She threw on her teddy and a housecoat. “It’s gone. Come on, Phil, let’s go downstairs.”
October 23, 2015
Workplace Touchstones – Set ’em Up
Writing Touchstones – The Pin Boy
I had several jobs before I started high school. I delivered newspapers for the once powerful and now long-defunct Toronto Telegram. I also caddied at a private golf club, and worked door to door on Saturdays with a Fuller Brush man who was my friend’s dad. The dad had been selling for years and knew the power of giving out free samples before making his pitch, especially when the sample was given out by a fresh faced kid. He’d send us ahead, one on each side of the street with the samples and strict instructions to only give a sample to the lady of the house, to make eye contact and smile, then if she returned the smile to deposit the gift in the palm of her hand. He’d be at the same doors within an hour and usually filled out orders as a result of our efforts. It worked for him and it gave us a bit of spending money. On top of that, he always treated us to lunch.
Those kind of jobs established a pattern in my life; a preference for work that kept me mobile and unconfined. But from time to time, I’ve found myself shut in to earn a living. Inside positions tended to frustrate me and were often short-lived. Perhaps that’s one reason why police work kept me contented and motivated for nearly two decades, losing its luster only when the next promotion or seniority (age) would have put me behind a desk. But every job I’ve ever had, inside or outside, has its touchstones and upon reflection usually serves up good writing material.
This post is about my first confined workplace: a bowling alley. I was a pin boy in the days before automatic pinsetters. Canadian alleys were mostly five pin establishments with a few lanes dedicated to ten pin. I was good at setting the pins for both so it wasn’t hard to pick up ‘lines’ when I needed some money. For the most part I worked at the Runnymede Bowl in the west end of Toronto. It was there that I consciously started ‘people watching, mostly to see who to avoid, and who to trust. I learned that complete trust was a scarce commodity, even in people I liked, and occasionally in me. But, I watched and I learned, and over time I established people watching as a habit.
Sometimes observations seek expression. Why not on paper? Nickel a Line is a short story that was generated from my memories of the Runnymede Bowl. Enjoy.
* * *
Nickel a Line
Nate looked at me through grubby glasses that he hadn’t cleaned in the two months since I’d last seen him. A cloud of smoke drifted from a novelty ashtray that sat between us on a thick pad of score sheets. He’d won the tin trinket the previous summer at the CNE Midway. It had the shape of a naked woman on her back. Her hard nipped boobs poked up through loose heaps of ash. A soggy ended hand rolled rested in the cleavage.
I looked around the alleys. “Hey, Nate, looks like you’re getting busy, any chance of me grabbing a few lines?”
“I never thought I’d see you back here, Mick. You’ve been gone quite a while.”
I nodded, but kept my mouth shut. I’d started caddying at a golf club about nine weeks back. I liked being outdoors, and with the per-round rate and tips I was making better money there. Now, it was late fall and turning cold, the number of rounds I got for a week had really dropped. On top of that, Dad had been laid off from his job. My spending money was in short supply. I needed to put some gas in the car. So here I was, looking to see if I could pick up some change.
Nate started threading fresh laces in a pair of men’s number tens.
A piece of tobacco flew off his tongue. “Still five cents a line, whoever spread the rumor that I was paying seven is full of shit… I’ll give you another chance, Mick, because I could use you tonight, got a five pin league in, and you’re faster than any of the kids I’ve got.”
He looked up again. “No screwing off though, you get one two minute piss break… none of this ten minute bullshit, or I’ll take you off the damned roster for good. Go down to three and four. Those are the lanes the hot shots from Viceroy and Canada Packers are on.”
Nate and I had never really hit it off. I’d actually got into a few shouting matches with him. The last and loudest one was when he’d fudged my line counts on a league night that I’d worked.
I was glad he was giving me the alleys now, but I knew he would have me on a tight leash. “No sweat, Nate.”
I was in the perch just before the first ball cracked in. It sent all five pins on lane four flying. One of them just missed my shin. I wasn’t tucked into the foot shield properly. I jumped into the pit and grabbed the pins, three in my left and two in my right. I tapped my foot down on the lever, set the pins on their mounts, and sent the ball back before buddy boy at the other end had finished his fist pumps. No problem, I was as fast as ever.
Four frames in and I was feeling relaxed, into the rhythm, swinging between my two alleys like I’d never left. The pins were set quickly after each frame. I was keeping the hot shots happy.
The snack bar at the Runnymede Bowl was a bit of a hangout. I took a peak over to see who was around. Only a few people at the counter, and nobody that I knew except for a couple of other pin boys having a coke between lines.
Then, I checked around the open lanes down at the far end. Between fourteen and fifteen I saw two familiar faces.
Son of a bitch, that girl is Pam and… is that who I think it is? Yeah, it is. Well… there’s no fucking way this is happening.
I’d just left her an hour ago at Castle Burgers. I’d never told her I was coming here. I hadn’t really planned on it until I passed by and thought about making some money.
What the hell is she doing with Roonie? And, Jesus he’s all over her, really coming on.
I’d seen Roonie doing his thing two weeks ago at the Palais, saw him slow dancing with Gail Jennings. Basically, they were dry screwing with their clothes on. He was really grinding it to her. And now that slugs with Pam?
I watched him put his arm around her and steer her towards the front doors.
Aw shit, their leaving.
“Break on three and four,” I yelled out over the clatter of pins and the rumble of balls.
No response. I yelled my request again. Eventually another pin boy, Jim Barrett headed over from the snack bar. I flew by him on the median between lanes and ran towards the door and the stairs down to Bloor Street.
Nate saw me coming and tried to cut me off. He didn’t make it and yelled down the stairs at my back. “Mick, where the Hell are you going? The can’s up here for Christ’s sake, and you just fucking got here.”
I ignored him.
“No more damn lines for you, and don’t try up at the Junction Bowl either; I’m letting them know what an asshole you are.”
I headed west, towards the Troc. It was dance night. My mind was racing and my fists were tightly clenched. I was going to stop this, and quick.
There’s no fucking way Roonie. Not a chance, not with her, you piece of crap. Not with my little sister.
© Copyright Michael Croucher 2009
October 13, 2015
Visiting My Touchstones – Kingsbury, U.K.
Visiting My Touchstones – Kingsbury, U.K.
I’ve travelled to England often over the last forty years. On several occasions I’ve been able to visit my boyhood home in Kingsbury, a community in the north-west London Borough of Brent. Just walking by the house on Rannock Avenue, I was able to cast my mind back to the late 1940s and early 50s to retrieve some memories.
My nan lived with us and was a major part of my early life. Post-war, both of my parents worked, as did the parents of some of my cousins who lived nearby, so our house often had kids around during the week and older relatives at night or on weekends. Because the war and its hardships were so fresh in everybody’s mind, there was plenty of intriguing conversation. I retained some of it, but there were bits that were fragmented or that had faded from my memory over time, and some because of my tender age, had gone over my head.
After my dad passed, I came into possession of all of his personal papers, wartime photographs, service record documents, and his military keepsakes. My mother had also served in the war. She passed well after my dad, but I received all of her papers and mementos as well. Over the years this material reignited my interest in some of the fascinating stories I’d overheard, and they filled in a few of the gaps. But my curiosity about that war and the impact it had on families, during the conflict and in the years after it, just kept growing. I wanted to dig deeper, if not into the intrigue, at least into the experiences. Because my interest was as a writer of fiction, I was looking for things that could flavor the novel I had in mind. I wanted to do more research of the war years and get a good read on what families had to deal with.
What better place to start than the first home I’d lived in. The house was situated within a few hundred yards of still-visible bomb craters in a park area. The craters had filled up with water, those craters I’d enjoyed in my postwar childhood as a place to catch tadpoles, frogs and newts. It was a house with ceilings and walls that were still cracked from the frequent percussion of anti aircraft guns at their emplacements a few blocks away.
I was still in diapers when the war ended, so I have no direct memories of the conflict. But the house, the surrounding neighborhood and many of the conversations I’d overheard resounded with it. The grieving for loved ones: those lost, missing, taken prisoner or wounded; the cities and towns flattened, scarred or cratered, and the lingering heavy rationing, kept the war top of mind in Britain for quite a few years.
On my first trip back to England, twenty-four years after we’d left, I took the tube and a bus ride from central London to the same bus stop my family used when I was a boy. That bus stop had been an exciting destination for me back then: it meant we were going shopping, going to watch my dad play cricket, or visit friends or family. In the late 1940s and early 50s most London families didn’t have cars. My parents didn’t own one until we came to Canada.
I did the long walk to the house at a leisurely pace, absorbed in the past, taking detours to pass by my first school, Fryent Primary, as well as the homes that my cousins had lived in. I hadn’t thought about it for years, but as I walked up Townsend Lane and neared the corner of Rannock, I remembered the exact spot where, after every workday, my dad would give out a tuneful whistle for our spaniel, Scamp. I could picture Scamp jumping off the front step to race along the side walk with his thick ears bouncing to greet him. Looking back, I think one of the best parts of Dad’s day was that little greeting. As much as he cared for and enjoyed family, he was a very private man, slightly aloof and withdrawn. He liked his space, his books, his stamps, his cricket, his opera, and of course Scamp. He spent most evenings, especially in the winter in a big chair by the RCA record player, with our pup at his feet.
I’ve also gone to the house on Rannock by car over the years, sat and watched it, being careful not to spook the neighbors, digging deeper into my memories through visualization, bringing little tidbits to mind and making notes.
As you can see, I’m using the term touchstones quite liberally for this series of posts, but I think it’s the perfect term for the examination of anyone’s life by focusing on places, things and events. It’s an especially powerful tool for writers.
This post points out how the house on Rannock Avenue became an important touchstone for my writing. It influenced some of the early scenes and key characters in my first novel, Bravo’s Veil. With a backdrop of England in 1939, the book retraces a family saga that begins with the evacuation of children from London at the outbreak of World War II. Here’s an excerpt:
* * *
Paul sat in his bath, looking through the gap in the curtains towards a trio of search light beams in the distance. He stirred the shallow water slowly with his palms, thinking through the events of the day. He heard Nan’s heavy breathing. It became louder as she struggled up the staircase. The floorboards creaked when she stepped onto the landing and shuffled along the hallway.
The door opened a few inches and her face poked through. She nodded, pleased that he was in the bath. Wisps of smoke rose from the cigarette between her lips. “Good lad.”
Paul leaned forward, his arms shielding his privates. He looked up at her.
“Can I come in for a minute, love?” she asked.
She moved into the room and pulled her spectacles from the pouch in her pinafore. She put them on, and raised his chin with a finger that was stained with nicotine.
She inspected his face. “Ruddy hell.”
Shaking her head, she stood back from the tub. “What a damn mess. Are you going to tell me who did that to you?”
He looked down to the water.
Her face softened.
“It’s all right, I’m not angry at you, but I really should know what happened.”
Silently, he pushed at the back of his sponge. Nan pointed to the grime and black dust that was caked on his arms and neck.
“Look at you; you’re blacker than a damned coal man. Put that soap to work like you mean it, ducks.”
She moved to the door, then turned back towards him, exhaled through her nostrils, and took another drag without removing the cigarette from her mouth.
“I was right though, wasn’t I? A nice bath always makes you feel better.” She smiled through the smoke. “You keep listening to your old Nan, and everything’s going to be just fine. Scrub up really well, and I’ll see you before your bedtime. Perhaps you’ll tell me about it then.”
He grinned and soaped up his sponge.
She pulled the bathroom door shut, lingered outside for a moment to make sure he stayed in the tub, and then moved back along the hallway.
Paul listened to her work her way down the stairs. She would be moving slowly, making sure that both feet were on each stair before she took the next step, and hanging onto the banister while touching the wall with her other hand. She wouldn’t be coming back up until his bedtime.
He stood, picked up a stringy towel that was draped over a stool, wrapped it around his waist, and stepped from the bath. At the sink, he reached up and rubbed away the mist on the cracked mirror. He leaned forward and gently pulled his lower lip out and down. The tooth had come nearly all the way through. A crusty black and scarlet patch of blood was caked along the inside of his lip, and was especially thick below the wound. A bruise ran along the edge of his jaw line from his chin. His face ached, and his forehead throbbed. When he opened his mouth he felt a sharp pain all the way back to his ear. The taste of blood still lingered and he smelled the sourness of his breath.
He turned on the tap, spat out a stringy trail of blood tinged saliva, and watched it circle and slide into the drain.
He heard the heavy chime of the downstairs doorbell.
Paul turned off the tap and wiped his mouth on the corner of the towel. Leaving the bath full, he climbed into his pajamas and cardigan, opened the bathroom door and stepped out. He edged along the hall to the top of the stairs. From where he stopped, he could hear clearly.
His Nan opened the front door.
“Hello, Bett, come in, love, come in.”
He moved back along the hallway, but stayed close to the stairs so that he could keep listening and watching through the railings. He put his back flat against the wall, slid down it, and sat on the floor. Nan and Bett Helmer would talk through at least two cups of tea.
* * *
“Nice to see you, love.” Gwen Collins took a shopping bag from her guest and placed it by the windows in the front room.
Bett hung her coat and scarf on the end of the banister. Her eyes followed the bag.
“I’ve got your black out curtains ready, the downstairs ones anyway.”
“Ta, that’s lovely.”
“We’ll hang them right in front of the others and you’ll be all set, this house will be as tight as a camera box, you’ll see. You can’t see a pinprick of light through mine. Have you noticed?”
“I did, Bett. Very nice job.”
“I’ll have the upstairs ones ready for you by Monday.”
Bett examined the existing curtains, and looked up towards the rods.
“Have you made any decisions? You know, about evacuating the boys.”
* * *
At the top of the stairs, Paul moved onto the stairwell. He sat again, careful not to make any noise, and kept his feet back from the turn in the stairs, well out of sight. He leaned forward, and cupped his hands to his ears, eager to capture every word, and hopefully, every whisper.
* * *
Notes: The characterization of Gwen (Paul’s nan) is drawn, and fictionalized liberally, from memories of my own grandmother. So is the character of Bett Helmer: she’s based on my recollections of one of our neighbors. The memories I have were empowered and crystallized by my seeing the house several times, and by other old photographs that I went though after my mom died. The house on Rannock held many touchstones for me. They only came to life and spoke clearly to me through my quiet contemplation of the years I’d spent there.
One particular and deeply meaningful item was the nagging catalyst that eventually kick-started the writing of Bravo’s Veil. I’ll visit that item in a future ‘Touchstone’ blog post.
Bravo’s Veil was first published in 2010 and was carried by Friesen Press. The book is no longer in print. It will be republished under a new cover – and a new edit, at the end of 2016. But here’s a way you can read the early version of the novel now, at no cost. This ‘first read’ will let you enjoy it with the deep background understanding of the blog’s touchstones
FREE OFFER, Bravo’s Veil. UNTIL CHRISTMAS! The entire manuscript of Bravo’s Veil is available in a reader-friendly PDF and will be available upon request to those who subscribe to my email notifications. Be assured, I don’t post e-mails frequently and e-mail addresses will not be shared.
September 24, 2015
My Writing Touchstones
Michael Caine’s breakthrough movie Alfie was a huge hit in 1966. I saw it with my girlfriend at the time, my wife to this day. It was a memorable experience for both of us and a riveting performance by Caine.
The storyline of the movie was intriguing. Alfie, an unrepentant womanizer reaches a stage where his life and the lives of some of his conquests spin completely out of control. When he impregnates a woman twice his age and sees firsthand the product of her abortion, he starts the long and rocky process of examining his life. ‘What’s it all about’ was the theme and subtitle for this powerful and entertaining story.
Most of us have pondered the ‘what’s it all about’ question. At some point we might begin to examine our own lives. I have. I’ve searched for the emotions felt, lessons learned, and the impacts I’ve had at various stages of my life. Of course, there has been good and bad, and often the latter prevailed, so the examination is far from a parade of feel good stories. But the value has been immense for me as an individual and a veritable gold mine for me as a writer.
Like so many worthwhile activities, the results are far more impressive when they’re arrived at with process, and the process is equipped with tools both literally and figuratively. The tools I use most frequently are ‘the screen of my mind’, yes literally, and touchstones, figuratively. There are those who would argue with the assignment of literally to the ‘screen of the mind’ tool. But most would agree that we think a great deal ‘in pictures’. As an extreme example, the mention of 9/11 conjures up vivid images on the ‘screens’ of all our minds, not words: images. This screen is arguably one of the most powerful tools of human consciousness.
By definition a touchstone is a stone, a black siliceous stone formerly used to test the purity of gold and silver by the color of the streak produced on it by rubbing it on either metal. I’ve stretched the definition to measure or test the experiences and venues of my life. For me ‘touchstones’ are symbols and markers for the various stages and events of life. Over the decades, I’ve lived in, worked in, and traveled to a lot of places, and of course, like everyone else, I’ve met and interacted with thousands of people. Sometimes the experiences and interactions were great, and sometimes — especially during my police career — they weren’t. They occasionally became confrontational or even violent. Either way, they were all valuable experiences and continue to provide ideas and details for my writing.
Recalling experiences as vividly as possible can be very challenging for anyone. As the years slip by, the memories become foggy and frequently forgotten. Fortunately, I’ve learned to sit quietly, connect with the touchstones in my imagination and use the powerful visualization technique of the ‘screen’ to bring the experiences, emotions, observations, and details back into focus, and at some point infuse them into my writing.
In future blogs, I will be sharing my favorite touchstones and some of the writings and stories they’ve fleshed out.
—Michael Croucher
September 9, 2015
Avoiding Writer Burnout
As a writer, I realize how important it is to come to grips with pace. I’m not talking about the pace in plot that keeps readers engaged, although that of course is crucial. I’m taking about the day to day pacing of all of the activities that writers undertake. Whether self-published or published, young or old, full time or part-time, writing and getting a book to market eats up huge chunks of a writer’s day, and most of each week.
I didn’t publish my first novel until I was well into my sixties, so I feel I can talk from experience on this. You see, for over thirty years writing was my hobby. I took it seriously enough, wrote lots of short stories, even won first place in a fiction contest put on by the Toronto Writers and Editors Network. But I didn’t consider writing full time until much later than most writers, so instead of feeling pressured when I wrote, it was more of an enjoyable pastime. I had a good long look at the business before I took it on full time.
When I jumped in with both feet of course, I took on other commitments. Publishers and the people who’ve worked on my books have a big interest in the success of the projects, so there’s much more of a time investment required of me now. I’ve learned quickly that from a productivity point of view, and in consideration of my age, how important pacing is. I’ve also developed a tremendous respect for younger writers who have to manage careers and jobs, as well as raise their children. Middle aged writers too, often have no choice but to keep their day jobs, and they take on another huge load to keep at the writing. All of them take on a more intense pace of life than I would now.
Regardless, I believe all writers have to manage pace very carefully to avoid burnout.
Seven Things I Do to Avoid Burnout.
Understand why I write. Do I write for fame or fortune? No. Although I wanted my writing to reach as many people as possible, and we all have egos, it was never about either of these. Naturally, I appreciate the opportunity to earn extra income and I like the feeling of accomplishment. But for me, the writing is a creative expression and release that fills another basic need. I need to tell stories, and I want to do it in writing.
Each writer has their own reason, for some it will be the money; and there’s nothing wrong with that. For others it will be notoriety; that’s fine too. Some just want to be storytellers, and that’s noble. Historically humans have always been storytellers. Unfortunately modern opinion has placed a stigma on writers that aren’t shooting to make the ‘lists’, or who don’t write ‘literary’ fiction. Times are changing, thank God, and the revolutionary methods of distribution available to writers mean, that with commitment they have every opportunity to get their stories out there.
Establish clearly defined productivity goals. I have goals for word counts and the number of posts on my Facebook and Twitter accounts. I’ve also started posting one blog a week on my website blog. All of my productivity goals are time bounded, realistic (for example my daily word count is 500), and measurable. When a dead line is approaching, I can allow some flex or stretch to my tasks and my objectives.
Use a daily task list for each objective. If I miss for some reason, I don’t stress over it. I have a life to live. Once in a while life gets in the way, and when it does that’s usually good.
Manage my activity and my expectations. I write, I complete my tasks, and I review my results. Once they’re in, the results can’t be changed. But my activities can be adjusted and fined tuned to impact future results. That’s it; it doesn’t need to get more complicated than that.
Commit to completing my writings and my tasks. Loose ends and unfinished projects can nag; I like to get them out of the way. I also schedule specific times for research and learning, keep a writing and marketing tips note book, and use Pinterest a lot for research material. That keeps everything handy and stops me from fishing for the same information repeatedly.
Celebrate my victories (big or small), and then I let them go. I go out for lunch or dinner or away for a few days with my wife for bigger celebrations, and maybe I’ll have an evening cocktail or go out for a coffee for the little ones.
Step away frequently. I take regular breaks and make a point of standing up and walking around for five minutes every hour. I will schedule ‘free days’, and that means no writing, no research, no writing related tasks, not even reading, because reading is a definite related task for a writer. On ‘free days’, I try to not even think about writing, and all writers know how difficult that is. Actually, it’s practically impossible. But honest, I try.
September 2, 2015
Finding Treasure in a Notebook
Finding Treasure in a Notebook
I’ve used a notebook for years. I keep one by my bed in case Inspiration arrives in those drowsy times before and after sleep, and the dream state offers up the occasional gem. Of course, day to day observations and thoughts provide most of the little details that can be so useful when writing. If these gifts aren’t notarized quickly, I find they just float away and are lost. Sometimes the inspiration and ideas remembered by browsing through notebooks can be significant, even years after the original notation.
Fifteen years ago I was on a business trip to Europe, attending trade shows in Stockholm and Dublin. I had a few days between venues and decided to spend them in my boyhood home of London. Since my family had moved to Canada, I’d only visited there a few times and it seemed crazy to pass up the opportunity. An incident occurred on the London Underground that shook me somehow and I thought about it for days. Fortunately, it made its way into my notebook before the memory faded. Eventually, this experience strongly influenced a chapter in a novel.
I was travelling on the Victoria Line, heading back to my hotel in the Green Park area. It was a rainy Saturday and the Underground was crowded with tourists and shoppers. I was packed in and clutching a ceiling strap about ten feet from a doorway. The train rumbled into Oxford Circus, arguably one of the busiest stations in the system. The platform was packed with busy, hurrying commuters. The door closest to me slid open and a new mass of passengers wedged into whatever space they could find.
The last passenger to get through the door was a little boy of about six. He was all decked out in a yellow rain slicker, yellow Wellingtons and even a yellow sou’wester style hat. All of his rain gear was slick with moisture and his hat was still dripping. He jumped through the door gleefully, landing with a thump on his shiny Wellingtons. The broad grin evaporated instantly when he turned back to the closed door and saw the faces of his panic stricken parents on the other side of the glass. You could barely hear the father’s voice, but his message got through to a few passengers. He had mouthed the words ‘next stop’ with great exaggeration as he jogged along the platform beside the train.
Two young ladies comforted the terrified boy, and were soon joined by a male passenger who identified himself as an off duty London policeman. Together they took the boy off at the next stop and delivered him to a uniformed policeman and a transit official, presumably to wait for the arrival of his parents on the next train. I’m sure it was a joyful and somewhat tearful reunion.
It was easy to draw on the raw emotion of that young boy and his parents when I wrote a chapter for my World War Two novel Bravo’s Veil. The chapter described the fear and anxiety associated with a child being separated from his family during the evacuation of London. The scene would have been written anyway, but as a writer, I felt a surge of emotional empowerment from the notation that I think gave the scene more impact.
Even if you aren’t a writer, use a notebook to keep your experiences secure. These jottings can be a treasure for life. Don’t let the memories or lessons drift away. And don’t worry about perfection; just make notes in any fashion you chose. Life is rich in good times and in bad, and in the words of Plato or Socrates (both have been given credit for this statement over the years), an unexamined life is not worth the living. Examine your memories, make notes as they occur, preserve them and share them. It’s our birthright to tell and to hear stories, don’t let yours die with you.
Bravo’s Veil is currently out of print. Another edition will be published in March 2016.
—Michael Croucher
May 7, 2015
Where are The Storytellers?
I have an author’s website, an author page on my Facebook account, and have Pinterest, Linkedin and Twitter accounts. Every component of my social media platform is set up to point out the fact that I’m an author. Fair enough, the acceptance letter from my publisher carefully highlighted a proviso that I build a solid marketing platform. And I get it. To put my books out there; I need to help the publisher’s distribution efforts by promoting myself as a ‘brand’, and I’m happy to do that.
So, why don’t I get all tingly when I see my name with the ‘author’ or ‘writer’ label attached? It took me a long time to figure this out, but I believe I have. It’s because I know the passion I feel when I’m creating a novel or a short story doesn’t come from being seen as an author or a writer. It comes from the lifelong love I’ve had for stories and storytelling. Semantics? Maybe.
As quoted — apparently by Socrates — ‘the unexamined life is not worth living.’ There’s no escaping the therapeutic value of examining and sharing some of our memories. It doesn’t matter if someone traveled the world for fifty years or lived their entire life in the same cottage in the same village, they could not exist without countless experiences, observations, and interactions. Every life provides the fodder for a multitude of intriguing and powerful stories.
This brings up a bigger question. Why aren’t there more storytellers? Everyone has interesting stories, memories and challenges that deep down, they long to share. Telling stories has been a basic outlet for the human need to express since we chased animals with clubs and sharpened sticks just to survive. Stories both fabricated and real have been the centerpiece of community and family interaction, and an important distraction from dangerous and difficult lives for centuries. Stories were coveted and sorely needed, whether recited around the family hearth, or at a church or community hall.
That need to tell stories is still with us, and so is the reality that although very different from the past, life can still be difficult and dangerous. But storytellers nowadays are scarce. I believe that basic need has been powerfully suppressed by the ridiculous notion that storytelling should be left to the professionals. Gradually the printing press and the emergence of ‘popular fiction’ have deprived us of amateur storytellers. We need them back in our lives, and not just the ones hoping to make the New York Times Bestsellers list. We need more people revealing what they’ve experienced through writing long or short stories, through journals, or just spinning yarns. I believe our complicated lives could be sweetened by pulling our heads out of our ‘electronic backsides’ once in a while and engaging in interludes of folksiness.
Well, maybe…just maybe, technology will slowly encourage this. The tidal wave of social media sometimes offers hope in the form of new communities and meeting places. Some are already describing themselves as the ‘cocktail party room’ or ‘community halls’ of the internet, where the contacts we’ve retrieved and gathered from other social media accounts will not be collected like so many business and trading cards, or blatantly ‘sold’ to. Instead, they will be nurtured and developed into stronger relationships. Building these relationships successfully should enable us to reconnect with our real social networks in a deeper way, and to carry our stories with us.
—Michael Croucher
April 24, 2015
Night Wagon
“Night Wagon” – Winner, Toronto Writers and Editors Network, Fiction Contest 2013
Copyright © Michael Croucher 2012
NIGHT WAGON
Broken glass was scattered over the shop’s floor. It lay in piles near the front door and in trails of smaller bits and shards that reached to the back wall. A cold draught washed in through jagged openings in the glass panel and carried a curling ribbon of snow that coated the door frame and the wall beside it.
A stream of cold air reached the small man in the second barber’s chair but it didn’t bother him. He felt warmer here than he had outside. He turned the chair towards the street and waited in the dark with a brick clutched in his hand. Both of his hands were speckled with blood from small cuts and with small pieces of glass.
“Seasons Greetings” banners draped from the top of the two huge shop mirrors beside him and a ‘Johnny Walker’ clock hung on the wall between the mirrors. Reflected street light caught the clock’s face; it was three fifteen. The man watched the steady movement of the red second hand and listened to its distinctive click.
His words were slurred and he spoke as if someone occupied the next chair. “If nothing happens by three thirty, I’ll give ‘em another tweak.”
A few moments later, he became drowsy in his new found comfort. His chin dropped to his chest and he dozed off.
When he came to it was three fifty-five. There had been no response. He clambered down from the chair, took the brick into his right hand, and moved towards the front of the shop.
He swayed on his feet, staring at the main window and the loops of plastic garland and tinsel that decorated it. “This oughta bring the god-damned boys.”
He wound up and hurled the brick. It crashed through the window and scuttled across the street, carrying huge wedges of disintegrating glass with it.
He grinned, nodded and climbed back onto the chair.
Within five minutes flashing red lights were reflecting around the shop and off of the mirrors. A flashlight beam probed through the circus of light and settled onto the man’s face. A Smith and Wesson revolver was trained on him through the broken window, another from the combative squat of an officer who was now inside.
“Don’t fucking move,” said the closest officer. He sounded young.
A gun barrel was pressed behind the man’s ear and he felt the chair being turned away from the street.
The second cop was now inside; he was older.
His flashlight scanned the man’s face for a closer look. “So it’s you again, Freddy. I guess you’re thinking it’s time to get back inside, is that right?”
Freddy’s nose was flat and grotesquely twisted. One side of his face was covered in ancient scar tissue, the eye socket just a blackened crater.
His tongue flickered across his dry and badly cracked lips. “Yeah, it’s getting cold officer; too fucking cold.”
Freddy was pulled from the chair roughly by the young one. His arms were brought together behind him and the cuffs snapped on.
“Easy Bobby, loosen those cuffs, son. Old Freddy’s just going home for the Holidays, isn’t that right Freddy?
“Yeah, those stockyards are freezing man.”
“What a damned stench.” The young cop grimaced as he removed five small empty bottles from Freddy’s pockets and checked him for weapons. “He’s covered in shit. Jesus H Christ what a mess.”
“I’ll call from here. If we use the radio, a wagon could take an hour.” The older cop picked up the shop’s phone and dialled the duty desk at his station.
“Staff, it’s Sid O’Hara on 125, we’re on location; the barber shop at Keele and Mulock. We’re holding one for an entry. It’s old, one-eyed Freddy. Mother of God, he’s ripe. We can’t put him in the cruiser; it’ll stink for a bloody year. He’s covered in all kinds of slop… shit his pants. Looks like the old bugger had his fill of vanilla extract. Could you send the wagon down here for us?”
He hung up and looked at his prisoner.
Spray flew from Freddy’s mouth. “It’s Sunday, right Officer?”
“Yeah it’s Sunday, Freddy. Christmas Eve.”
“Nice bean soup at The Don on Sundays.” Freddy grinned, three blackened stubs on his gums shined grotesquely in the flashes of red light.
The Paddy Wagon arrived and its rear door swung open. The cuffs were removed and Freddy climbed awkwardly up the wide steel step and into the hold. He was short enough that he could stand up straight in the aisle between the side benches. He looked back at the cops, drooling as he spoke. “You taking me to Twelve first?”
“Right, Freddy,” O’Hara replied. “You’ll be processed in no time; by noon you’ll be eating Christmas cake and wearing a nice little party hat at The Don.”
Freddy clapped his hands and laughed. “There you go, boys. And here comes ol’ Santa and his bag full of gifts.” He turned and slapped noisily at the seat of his soggy pants.
The young cop closed the heavy steel door and the wagon pulled away, grinding bits of glass as it went. Freddy’s gnarled face grinned back at them through the tiny barred window.
The two cops walked back towards the cruiser.
O’Hara got in the passenger seat and took off his cap. “Stop by The Queensbury on the way in, partner. I’ll pick us up a couple of special coffees.”
“Ah… alright… sure, Sid.”
“And I’ll get a stiff one for the Staff Sergeant for helping us out. After all, it is bloody Christmas… Will you have one shot of rye or two, Bobby?”
“Well, I don’t normally drink on…”
O’Hara gave him his best ‘come on now’ stare.
The young cop glanced back at his partner who was now loosening his Sam Brown belt.
Bobby sighed, put the cruiser in gear, and headed up Keele Street. “Ah, just one… thanks, Sid.”
April 5, 2015
My Blogging Holiday
My Blogging Holiday
I stopped blogging for a while. Not because I didn’t like it, because I did. I stopped to finish my second novel, Diamond Run, to wade through it draft after draft, editing and rewriting until it sat on the screen of my laptop looking back at me and proudly proclaiming that it was done. Not just done, a polished and compelling piece of fiction ready for publication on whatever medium I chose… Right!
Then my writing landscape changed, I found a publisher. At the same time, I discovered that my book wasn’t quite done. The news was broken to me by a very capable, very thorough, and very gentle editor, who after the first pass through my novel sent me a document with a word count that would have made a decent sized chapter. Switch this, cut this, try this, and have a look at these suggestions chapter by chapter.
And she promised more to come, another edit, and a line by line review before sending it to the proof reader. But not until I’d spent hours rewriting. It didn’t matter; I was pumped and ready to dive in. My editor was a good motivator. A lady who knew the power of words, she sent a little note promising that my dedication to the process would transform my novel from a good one to a very good, perhaps even a great one. Well, that sounded a bit lofty, but I hope when it comes out in a few months that some readers will find it great.
I’d done a reasonable job myself, correcting on a line by line basis, and making minor tweaks to the plot. I’d built a passable piece of fiction, and hopefully an enjoyable one. But it had missed out on the biggest benefit that a professional editor could provide, a copy edit.
I applied the recommendations of my editor, and I was stunned at the results. Drags on the story line were eliminated. Pace was maintained, and conflict constantly heightened. In short my story is far more compelling. Whether or not it results in stronger sales, is yet to be determined. But every writer wants their story to be told as powerfully as possible. Now, mine is going to be. No matter what, I came out a winner. Thanks to my editor, Chelsea Jack
After decades of writing, and thinking I could do my own editing, I suddenly feel like Christopher Columbus, I’ve made a big discovery. A good editor is golden… Everybody say ‘dah’.
—Michael Croucher
November 30, 2013
The White Touch of Winter
His rubber soled brogues gleamed black in the morning light and left a solitary trail in the snow that coated the sidewalk of Saint Johns Road. He tilted his umbrella forward and into the breeze to keep the flakes from his scarf and tie. Accumulated snow slid down and swirled from the panels of the umbrella’s fabric as he walked.
He passed a row of trash bins that hugged a wrought iron fence; a thickening white coat softened their harshness and diluted their familiar stench. When he reached the wide stone steps he stopped and breathed deeply before climbing them and going through the huge doors. A small and sparsely decorated tree, loops of garland, and a few Christmas cards adorned the long reception counter. He looked towards the only person behind it.
The nurse’s voice echoed. “She’s ready to see you Mr. McGraw, you can go on down.”
“Thank you.”
Her door loomed. It was impersonal, stark and coldly finite.
He entered, stopping just short of the bed; he dug deep for some cheer. “Good morning, you’re looking better, more color than yesterday.”
Her eyes were pale blue rivets in dark bags. They locked onto his face and struggled. “You weren’t here yesterday. No one was. They don’t come any more, none of them ever do.”
“I was…” he started and then caught himself. He remembered the counselor’s words. “Speak from your feelings and offer comfort but don’t expect much, and understand that trying to correct her would frustrate you both.”
“Are you comfortable? Shall I open you a biscuit? Would you like some juice?”
“Last week those buggers from Junction Road took my slippers. The floors are cold here. I want my slippers.”
“Time for her is a jumble, last month, last year, last decade or even fifty years ago, might seem like last night. And the details, well, she’ll take them from a kaleidoscope of memories; it’s all part of the process Mr. McGraw.” The man had given him a booklet. It still sat on the kitchen counter, unread and unmoved for several months.
“I love you Mom.” He plumped her pillow, tightened her sheets and kissed her dry forehead.
No response; her eyes were fixed on the door. “Tell them I’ve got to find my slippers.”
Fifteen minutes in the visitor’s chair and none of his words seemed to reach her. It became clear that this was one of the many days when she wouldn’t be lucid, wouldn’t comprehend who he was, and her mind would be away somewhere, stuck in a maze that was far beyond anyone’s reach.
He stood. “I’ll be back tomorrow morning Mom.”
“Slippers, they’re brown.” Her head dropped back onto to the pillow and rolled from side to side. She grimaced and tears slid into the deep crevices on her cheeks. “Those little bastards from Junction Road took them.”
Through a veil of tears, he found his coat, left her room and walked slowly down the hallway to find his composure.
The nurse at reception waved when he passed, he nodded and pushed through the big doors.
The snow was much thicker now, and the sidewalk was patterned with fresh prints.
At the bottom of the steps, he stopped again, this time letting the cool air ease the tightness in his throat.
During his long walk to the subway, his mind was busy. He tried sorting through and lingering on happier images of her and on happier times. Christmas lunches and Thanksgiving dinners came to mind, as did her delight in preparing them so thoroughly and creatively for family and friends and for all those added guests that so often appeared. Sometimes twenty or more people had crowded her tables.
He shook his head, but not at the obvious irony. It was at the injustice; since she’d become ill, it disgusted him that any happy reflection on those times and those deeds had been taken from her. All things past and present seemed to be lost in the blur of her world and were drifting, somewhere behind a confusing veil of scattered images and thoughts.
Not a deeply religious man, but a sporadic churchgoer, he thought angrily about his maker. To Hell with God; how could any higher power thrust a wonderful and giving woman like his mother mercilessly into an existence like this?
Cutting deeper as he walked, and pinching at his heart were his own feelings for her. She was the only person in his life who’d ever shown love for him under all circumstances and through any ordeal. She’d known when to connect with him, quickly discovering his wants, fears and frustrations, and always pulled a timely rabbit from a hat by saying exactly the right words or by telling or reading him just the right story.
She’d read ‘The Secret Garden’ to him as they sat in the plush rattan chairs of the sunroom so many years ago. Those sessions had been just the right tonic for the nagging fear he’d had over getting his tonsils removed.
He pictured her pretty and knowing smile and its mystical effect on him. He heard her words. “Fear and anger are just little demons. Changing your thoughts will help you to deal with them. Then you’ll be fine, your demons gone first and then your tonsils. That’s what we do all through life sweetheart, deal with problems as they come, think, rethink, and act if you can, but always expel the demons. ”
As the snow fell in huge flakes all around him, the memories seemed surreal but therapeutic. It was better to reminisce this way than at the hospital; his reflections were always devastatingly painful when experienced within sight of her.
He allowed the memories to drift past and by the time he’d joined the flow of commuters into the station, he’d worked through more than enough of them. His emotions had shifted back and forth; happier with the reflections and darker with the realities of now. He tried to push the nostalgia and any anger away, and then move his thoughts towards defining the objectives of his busy day.
A pretty but roughly dressed girl sat on a blanket by her open guitar box; the lid was sprinkled with coins. She was singing ‘Jingle Bell Rock’. She performed it sweetly but not well.
He filed past with the flow of commuters and enjoyed the short diversion that her singing offered.
She looked up and smiled when he dropped heavy coins into the lid.
The escalator took him to the platform level.
The girl was now singing ‘Silent Night.’ The lyrics, although somewhat drowned and scattered in other sounds, still reached him. “… mother and child………….. sleep in Heavenly peace…… sleep in Heavenly peace.”
He entered the platform area and stood to the back of the gathering crowd.
The young minstrel’s carol hit home; it was his mother’s favorite. He could see and hear her singing it in the kitchen as she baked her Christmas cookies. He closed his eyes for a few moments to savor the image.
When he opened them, he gave thanks.
For the moment at least, he understood. He forgave the world and then he forgave God.
He suddenly felt drained. His eyes became hot and they filled up quickly. He found a bench, lowered his head and sobbed into the ends of his scarf and into his black leather gloves.
Several trains came and went in both directions.
Head in his hands, he sat there and was quite content to let time and trains pass by as he slowly released his demons.