COMMUNITY IN 2021
Since the release of my second novel October 2020, I’ve participated in a number of interviews and discussions on the craft of writing, my process and inspirations. Again and again, I found myself speaking about… community.
When the pandemic started, I had the privilege of working from home. As a novelist, my attitude was: “Great- more time for uninterrupted writing!” And for about six months I did write, with momentum and energy, working halfway through a third book. Then… like a car running out of gas, I slowed down, and rolled to a… halt.
My tank was empty. It was less writer’s block than a depletion of energy – a mental and emotional exhaustion. My protagonist Daniel’s story has always been fuelled and fortified by my immersion in downtown Toronto— it’s multitude of bodies and voices, its kaleidoscopic expressions, music and parleys, its queer cultural spaces.
I realize my writing needs community, the way a life needs sunlight. Confined to home, lacking my daily illumination, I’m surprised I lasted six months. Perhaps other writers with more imagination have been able to carry on better than I have. Perhaps if I was writing fantasy fiction, world-building inside my own mind, things would be different. But Daniel’s story has always been rooted in the outside world, in real lived experiences.
This afternoon on New Year’s Eve, my real-life husband Daniel and I set out on an eight-hour road trip across Toronto: we've mapped out our route, we’ll pack a thermos of tea and knosh on Christmas baking-- and we'll make a dozen stops, visiting with friends and family – socially-distanced to be sure, but still connecting in person, face-to-face. This is what we need.
May we all create our own moments of connection and vitality in 2021, and refuel for the long journey ahead. -DKY
~ ~ ~
David tossed his bottle aside. “Here.” He rummaged in the pocket of his jeans and pinned a Three Dog Run button to my T-shirt. Then he hiccoughed, gripped my face between his hands and planted a kiss on my mouth. His breath smelled like Jägermeister, cigarettes, and cinnamon chewing gum. “Happy New Year, mister. I love you, Daniel Garneau, you’re the best. You are a very very kind soul, did you know that?” He poked me in the chest. “And you are a very very fuckable man. I mean it. I love you. Did I say that already?”
“Yes, you did, but that’s okay.”
“I love you.”
“I love you too, David Gallucci. Happy New Year.”
(Chapter One, p. 24, Tales from the Bottom of My Sole)
When the pandemic started, I had the privilege of working from home. As a novelist, my attitude was: “Great- more time for uninterrupted writing!” And for about six months I did write, with momentum and energy, working halfway through a third book. Then… like a car running out of gas, I slowed down, and rolled to a… halt.
My tank was empty. It was less writer’s block than a depletion of energy – a mental and emotional exhaustion. My protagonist Daniel’s story has always been fuelled and fortified by my immersion in downtown Toronto— it’s multitude of bodies and voices, its kaleidoscopic expressions, music and parleys, its queer cultural spaces.
I realize my writing needs community, the way a life needs sunlight. Confined to home, lacking my daily illumination, I’m surprised I lasted six months. Perhaps other writers with more imagination have been able to carry on better than I have. Perhaps if I was writing fantasy fiction, world-building inside my own mind, things would be different. But Daniel’s story has always been rooted in the outside world, in real lived experiences.
This afternoon on New Year’s Eve, my real-life husband Daniel and I set out on an eight-hour road trip across Toronto: we've mapped out our route, we’ll pack a thermos of tea and knosh on Christmas baking-- and we'll make a dozen stops, visiting with friends and family – socially-distanced to be sure, but still connecting in person, face-to-face. This is what we need.
May we all create our own moments of connection and vitality in 2021, and refuel for the long journey ahead. -DKY
~ ~ ~
David tossed his bottle aside. “Here.” He rummaged in the pocket of his jeans and pinned a Three Dog Run button to my T-shirt. Then he hiccoughed, gripped my face between his hands and planted a kiss on my mouth. His breath smelled like Jägermeister, cigarettes, and cinnamon chewing gum. “Happy New Year, mister. I love you, Daniel Garneau, you’re the best. You are a very very kind soul, did you know that?” He poked me in the chest. “And you are a very very fuckable man. I mean it. I love you. Did I say that already?” “Yes, you did, but that’s okay.”
“I love you.”
“I love you too, David Gallucci. Happy New Year.”
(Chapter One, p. 24, Tales from the Bottom of My Sole)
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