My meta-Interview w/ Daenon Kaye

Whatever happened to... Jay Royston

by Daenon Kaye

I sat down with Jay Royston to interview him about his upcoming book, Karmageddon. It has been many years since we worked together, publishing a Canadian film magazine in Vancouver. He has aged well, still has all of his hair and while wrinkles are now appearing around his eyes, there is still a sparkle for the unusual I recall from laughs past.

Been a long time.

Sure has. Over a decade at least.

Yeah. Last we talked, you were recovering from kidney cancer.

Yep. A lot more has happened since. Got two dogs. Got a house. Got married, got divorced. Had a kid. Got two more kids. Got married again. Returned to writing.

Let's talk about your book, Karmageddon.

Of course.
...
Let's pretend I know nothing about it. What's it about, at it's core?

Karmageddon is a collection of interlinked stories surrounding four nuclear attacks brought on by the world-wide legalization of marijuana. But at it's core it is a philosophical look at what happens when the tenets of our self-identity are taken away; our faith, our jobs and our bank accounts.

You call this a sequel of sorts to your previous novel, Enter A Fistful of Marijuana. Will your readers need to know that story before reading this one? 

Not at all. While it would help my bank account, Enter a Fistful isn't necessary reading to enjoy Karmageddon. Enter A Fistful introduced some of the characters you will also see in Karmageddon and established the birth of Karmajuana, a genetically-modified strain of cannabis which is the accepted drug of choice in Karmageddon.

Your books have a certain theme. For example your first book was Stoner, Unincorporated. 

Yes, but that was the name of the town my characters were in. I grew up in Prince George and outside of the city there is a small community named Stoner. I often wondered about what type of people would live in a town named Stoner and so, after spending some time in Nelson, I incorporated some of the people and stories I heard there into the novel.

Let's get back to Karmageddon; you hypothesize that the end of the world comes about because marijuana is legalized. It seems like quite a stretch to go from smoking pot to nuclear apocalypse. 

But is it? Give me an unusual yet believable story any day. The premise of Karmageddon may be absurd, but I hope it is believable.
Some of my favourite books are this way. Take Terry Pratchett's Discworld series, Douglas Adams and his Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, Jasper Fforde and his Thursday Next series. They have unbelievable premises but yet are able to strike a core between humour and truth with some readers. I hope to do that with Karmageddon.

Why did you choose to make it a series of short stories instead of the usual linear route?

There were many reasons. In the original Ghostbusters, when the Staypuft Marshmallow Man came to destroy the world, there was a typical crowd reaction shot. I recall thinking 'wow, those people will have such an amazing story when they get home.' Imagine trying to explain to anyone you saw a 100 foot marshmallow man? I wanted to do that, write of people who aren't necessarily part of the larger story.

I also wanted to make a book which is easy to jump in at any point. You don't really need to start on page 1 with Karmageddon. You could jump chapter to chapter and still get the main points of the story. It's a book where you can go at your own speed, where you don't need to remember what happened previously to finish the book.


Do you prefer e-book or traditional publishing?

Traditional all the way. I've tried e-books but it's just not the same. Books are more tangible, have that amazing tactile and sensual sensation when you are holding one. You don't get that from an e-reader. Plus I think a bookshelf is an amazing thing to have in your life. I have books scattered around the house, so I'm not dependent on just one e-reader. We spend enough time on our screens and the last thing I want to do is stare at another one doing something I enjoy.

Thoughts on self-publishing?

Like everything else, there's a good and bad side to self-publishing. It's become very accessible. A writer controls their own destiny, their own marketing. On the bad side, the marketing takes away from the writing. It provides instant gratification for a lot of beginning writers who may not respect the process and dilutes the waters of better-written books out there.

Good books can't be written in a week or a month. Stoner, Unincorporated took over a decade for me to feel it was good enough to publish. Enter A Fistful was over five years, Karmageddon, three. So the good news is I'm getting better but I couldn't have done it without the option of self-publishing.

 What's next? 

 I'm following up on some of the characters introduced in the world after Karmageddon, to see how they have changed. I also have three other novels in various stages of completion that are more serious in nature. Yet for the most part, I'm going to take it one day at a time.

Pre-thoughts on my first book signing

So, I'm doing a book signing at a local bookstore in two days.

I'm nervous.

And while I sit here nervous, I remember a couple of other things I should be doing.

That should help me avoid thinking of what I'm not doing to make this book signing a success.

I haven't contacted any media outlets.

I should do that.

But if I don't do that and my numbers are poor, I can always say 'well, it's because I didn't publicize it enough'.

But if I do and my numbers are poor, I can always say 'well, there's proof that mass media is dead'.

If I don't do that and my numbers are good, I can always say 'well, I guess I publicized it enough'.

If I do do that and my numbers are good, I can always say 'well, I guess advertising worked.'


Decisions, decisions...

The Joys and Pains of Self-Evaluations

We've all done a personality test of some sort; 'which superhero are you?' 'what type of pie best represents you?' 'If you were a car, you would be a what?'. Sure, they're funny and for a brief moment we might wonder what our life would have been like if we actually were Ross or Rachel from Friends. But for every goofy personality test, there are the more serious ones; the ones psychologists and scientists put together through data collection, analysis and accepted hypotheses.

They aren't necessarily fun. They allow you to reflect better on who you are as a person, why you might not feel like you fit in with the general populace. For some, they are epiphanies; 'Oh, that totally explains why I like spontaneous acts of expression and shutting myself out from the rest of the world'. I've done a few of them in my time but I'm at an age of 'tell me something I don't know'.

First, disclaimer; According the Mayers-Briggs Personality profile, I'm an INFP. You can be one of 16 different letter combinations and for most people (like myself) I don't really investigate many of the other combinations because, well, they're not me. I did the MP test in my first year of college, in  a room full of budding accountants. I was the round hole trying to fit into the square peg in that class, which made complete sense at the time.

I did it again twenty years later thinking I've had a lot of experiences since my first year of college. I've loved and lost, hired and fired, tried and failed, tried and succeeded. I've met hundreds of new people so all of that experience must have changed me somewhat right?

Nope, still an INFP.

I means introverted, I feel better by myself than with a crowd.
N means iNtuitive, which means I mostly go with my gut instinct as opposed to rational deductions.
F means Feeling, which means I am guided by my principles; if I agree with it, I'll do it.
P means Perceiving; I'm an idealist, I believe the best in everyone.

By no means is that a complete definition; for we are all only parts of a whole. But those are some of the basic ingredients which make up myself.

Now, I just did another test; the via assessment test, which is also free to do online. It measures those characteristics/values which dominate your personality; there's around 24 of them - too many to list.

I value honesty above all else. I also enjoy humour, creative thinking, and learning new things.

Sounds great, right? Nothing too surprising there. But when it came to my weakest strengths, you know what lays at the bottom of this idealistic soul?

Hope and gratitude.

That's a pretty big kick in the nuts and hard to rationalize with my strengths. How can I appreciate honesty yet have so little hope? How is I love to learn new things but have so little gratitude to the world I'm learning about?

So that's what I'm dealing with today; all because I took an assessment which tells me what science has determined by a series of 120 questions what I truly think of myself.

Does my humour come from my sense of hopelessness?

First Book Signing Post Recovery

Did my first book signing - I want to write about it but my 5 yr old is behind me, trying to find the word astronaut in a word search, among other things relating to the moon.

I can't do it. The kid needs more attention than a first draft of a manuscript.

In Other News

An old film friend of mine reached out and said he'd been writing something. I offered to read it.

It was some of his own therapy regarding his love life of years past.

It wasn't anything special. But then he linked me to his own blog and was blown away. I told him so. It was original, had a unique voice, etc etc. I told him this was a book waiting right there. He writes short and simple, with great imagery. I don't know if it is because I know him or if his writing is that good but I really relate and/or get frustrated with the protagonist's views.

Here it is.

He thanked me for my thoughts but wants to write of a different girl right now.

I'm a bit envious of his writing style but remind myself we are all different. I think his story could be more successful than mine ever would be, but then again - two completely different ball parks.

He writes kind of like this;

I'm listening to Creep by Radiohead right now. The dogs are laying on the couch, one is licking itself. I have to bathe them today, if for no other reason than to delay other mini-projects.

Artistic Therapy Part 5 Cancer

So, having cancer really puts a stop to things.

But it doesn't, life goes on.

I have a good doctor who is able to schedule me for a kidney removal in one month's time. I have my parents fly out to join me for the big day. They are divorced and remarried but they both come out and everything is weird again. I think they are staying in my nice landlord's place while I am in the hospital. I don't recollect much of this time.

I do remember, and this part still messes with me, for the weeks before the operation I was given a sieve to pee through; the thought being I'd pee out any kidney stones that were in my uretha. I did that every day until I had to go to the hospital.

The night before I was given 2 liters of electrolites to drink; that's basically a super-cleanse and by the end of the evening, it was going in me as a liquid and coming out as a liquid. My insides had never been so cleansed. All this was so there was plenty of room for them to do their digging around in there as they cut out my kidney.

So there I am, in my johnny, getting ready to go on the gurney which would lead me into the Operating Room. I go to have one last pee. I no longer have that sieve after all, what's the point, right?

So as I flush I notice this little turquoise tip-of-a-pencil thing going down the toilet. Or did I?

I get on the gurney, say nothing. I go into the operating room and it's lights out.

I recall waking up, or maybe this was from the first operation, and lifting myself over to the stretcher. I then pass out again. Next thing I remember is waking up with a young nurse over top of me. It's all foggy for a bit here - needless to say, the movie is the last thing on my mind.

I spend a few days in the hospital. When I'm able I fly home with my Mom to BC and convaless at home in her basement, my old room from my twenties. I listen to a lot of Bif Naked, hiding down there doing ... nothing I remember.

I hear somehow my ex-partner's sister also has a cancerous brain tumour. There's no contact there.

Facing Facts

I was angry at her. I was so angry at her.

I was tired. We were tired. I left a note saying we were going for pizza. Call me. Yes, I get she felt excluded. Yes, I was part of making her feel excluded. I didn't want her there. I wanted her studying on movie-making, learning the business side, figuring out how to enter film festivals, doing producer-type stuff.

I didn't want our days spent discussing shots, her swishy-snow pants swishing, the inevitable cutting remarks that I felt would be directed her way by X. I could visualize his scorn spreading to the others, making her the omega wolf, the one picked on, despite it was her drive that brought all of us together.

I felt I was protecting her.

I was wrong to do that.

I wanted to be entirely in control, to not have to argue with her about what to do, defend shots, scenes, lines. To avoid another discussion where she tells me we need to have a dream sequence with Y because she has two friends willing to go topless in a car wash and boobs sell movies.

I was so angry. I was angry at Sound Guy coming in and pointing out all the holes in the ship - holes I knew about and was the reason I called him.

I was angry this dream, making a movie, wasn't fun. I was angry my friend, the guy I trusted to shoot the movie, fucked off on me. I was angry I felt pushed into doing this, that there was no way to go but forward, ever since she said we had an investor.

I felt so alone, nobody to turn to to complain we weren't taking log notes. In the back of my mind, I knew every day meant another tape I would have to go through later, take by take, to figure out which was best.

I wasn't staring down the camera. I was angry that every day was such a complete tiring mess where I wondered what exactly I was shooting here. I was angry she said our relationship was over once the movie ended. I was doing this for us, I told myself.

And if there was no 'us', what was the point of anything? Being dumped on any day is never the best. It was only a slight drop below being stranded at the alter.

I was angry when she told me we were through. I said fine but we could we finish the movie first. We finished, hooked up for one more night and then I was angry she expected me to continue to fly back and forth to edit the movie, knowing the relationship ended.

I was angry I didn't get a choice in the editor - not even a fucking demo reel from the guy. We already got burned for $800 by the 'FX guy' for a shit totem grade school kids could have done in 20 minutes and a fake head so realistic I had to shoot it mostly from the back. Then there was my original DP, then there was the new DP who left town with one master tape still in his possession.

And now she was saying I wouldn't get a choice in who was editing this fucking mess? Were they aware we had no log sheets? Was he going to go through 18 hours of tapes for free?

So she kicked me off my movie. I was furious. She even got the investors to all sign something saying I was fired. I still have it. Along with a ream of angry letters sent over the next few months.

I was angry that I loved her, agreed to do this movie because of her, that she made me decide between the movie or her in the middle of filming.


I hated her. I hated her so much I moved across Canada. I hated her so much I sent her the masters after making my own copies and told her to go ahead. I hated her so much I had to ask her cancer-fighting sister if she was seeing someone else as she was recuperating in a hospital bed. I hated her so much I spent $1500 on a camera just so I could edit it myself. I hated her so much, I learned to edit. I hated her so much I would call her business phone from 3000 miles away in the middle of the night just so I could listen to the sound of her voice on her messaging machine. I hated her so much I never left a message.

I hated her so much I kept all her letters, a dying art, the angry letter - all capital letters, hand-written. I still have them, that's how much I hated her. I have pictures of her in my memory chest, from happier days of course, when I loved her and thought she loved me back. She was as old then as my wife is turning now.

(... that made me pause).

I hated her so much I yelled Happy Birthday to her when I saw her on the street five years later. I hated her so much I tried to say Merry Christmas to her when I saw her selling something in a department store. I hated her so much I left chocolates on her car door that night. She knew they were from me. I hated her when I saw her car beside mine, her staring ahead - either unaware I was right beside her or painfully aware.

I hated her for killing my dream, for no longer being part of my life. I hated her for making me feel like I could do anything and then telling me I couldn't. I hated her for the amount of times she'd blow me, far more times than actual sex. I hated her for pretending to believe in me. I hated her for all her arguments about her 'editor'.

I wanted nothing more than to win her back. I thought if only I edited this whole mess into something, entered it into a few film festivals on our behalf, then maybe she'd see I was doing it all for us. I wanted her to believe in me again. I needed her belief in me.

And when it was gone, so was I.

Life happened. I got cancer. She didn't acknowledge that. I moved back home. Not even a peep. I left, came back, got married, got divorced. Met someone else, and we are still together, two kids now. Happy life, happy wife.

The last time I saw her, and I've googled-creeped her name many times over the years to see where she was to no avail, she was entering a furniture store. I was inside, holding my months old baby daughter in my arms. I turned quickly, kept my back to the door as she entered. When she passed, I exited.

And that was the end of her. Physically.

Yet, she's still inside me. She found people willing to invest $15000 in our vision. It was an amazing, awful, one of a kind experience which will never happen again. For a few months, I was a filmmaker.
For a few years, I tried to recreate that lie, believing in an impossible goal, 3500 miles away from her.

Do I still hate her?

She did her damage.

Do I still hate her?

Did I ever hate her?

Or did I always hate the choice I made?

The Hilarity of Depression

Sometimes, I want to laugh at how depressed I get because I'm pretty good at hiding it. I think most people with depression know how to hide it; they remove themselves emotionally and physically from everyone.

I know that the more productive one is, the less depressed they tend to be; like the act of keeping the mind busy will keep those nagging thoughts at bay.

So here is my morning.

I wake up and get the kids to school. No problem so far, my mind is busy with the kids, we walk, we talk, we say goodbye.

Now I'm in trouble.

But wait, a friend's wife is running for council in our local election. She's off to put up some signs with her 2 other children not yet in school. I'll totally help, for I was busy trying not to think of what
I'm going to do today to avoid being with myself.

That takes about 30 minutes and then I'm back at the house. I have so much I could do so I'm going to take a long shower first to figure out my plan.

Such a long shower.

Here's a list of things I think about that I can/want/should do;

• research some lit agents (3)
• research similar publishing houses
• update my social media
• read and review some homework
• watch a movie that my wife probably wouldn't want to watch
• take out the compost
• buy tickets to a bucket list item. 
• go to firehall and work out
• apply to EI (hours recently cut back)
• update resume
• take the dogs for a walk. 
• Do some editing of Karmageddon
• Do some writing of anything
• clean up spare room for son #1
• dismantle legos and put on kijiji
• clean up carport
• unlock some more characters in Lego Batman 2. 

I go through all this and then decide I will do the last one first. But only until 10am.

I figuratively give my head a shake. I realize that's the least important. What's most important to me? Probably the computer stuff. But then I need to go downstairs, unpack the laptop, log in.
Just the thought of that is overwhelming in this mindset. Let's get dressed first. Make some coffee.

So I broke it down into little goals. And while it might seem to go down 2 flights of stairs may only be a problem if I was morbidly obese (I'm not), it is.

But first I make a coffee. I find the laptop. I go downstairs, clear off my desk. I power it up.

And now I'm here and it's 10am.

Deep breath...

Cracks in the windshield

I'm struggling again but this time I'm more accepting of it. I realize I am struggling. Not just in writing but in all things. The 'do it' part is missing. I'm stuck on 'just'.

I need to hear that song now but the random Internet slot machine will play Lucky for me.

I'm on a roll
I'm on a roll this time
I feel my luck could change

Kill me, Sarah
Kill me again with love
It's gonna be a glorious day

Pull me out of the air crash
Pull me out of the lake
'Cause I'm your superhero
We are standing on the edge

The head of state has called for me by name
But I don't have time for him
It's gonna be a glorious day
I feel my luck could change

Pull me out of the air crash
Pull me out of the lake
'Cause I'm your superhero
We are standing on the edge

We are standing on the edge.


Nice song. 


I guess I should be happy I'm just on the computer. I was standing in the shower, delaying getting out. I have so much to do today. I took a breath. I told myself that today was not going to be hard. I could do it.

Just. (also by Radiohead)

I will sit in front of the computer for an hour. So far it's been 23 minutes, I think. OK Computer (rocking this Radiohead).
I still don't know what is wrong with me, I mean, other than that I have depression and I am getting old and I'm confused as to what I should be and everything that comes with being nearer fifty than forty or thirty.
Shit, yesterday I played Lego Batman on my PS3 and then mowed the lawn. Priorities...

I got another thanks but no thanks from a literary agent and I told myself that these rejections hurt less the more you get them. And that's true and also not true at the same time. But I still delay on trying again. It's been six months and no word on Karmageddon. Time to throw it somewhere else.

Yet, here I sits. On one hand, good for me. I'm finally sitting here. Yet, I'm not submitting K anywhere. I'm choosing to write this instead, to question why I'm avoiding and yet also to be the immediate answer as to why I'm avoiding.

Time management. My life sometimes feels like a series of band-aids on top of each other. And I hear stories and I watch stories and realize I'm not as bad off as others. So I should appreciate that. But I still have so much to do. Just do it, jay. Just do it.

I've got a lot to do today.

And now the Internet has given me this sadly timely U2 song that hits home on my Radiohead station: 

Tough, you think you've got the stuff
You're telling me and anyone
You're hard enough

You don't have to put up a fight
You don't have to always be right
Let me take some of the punches
For you tonight

Listen to me now
I need to let you know
You don't have to go it alone

And it's you when I look in the mirror
And it's you when I don't pick up the phone
Sometimes you can't make it on your own

We fight, all the time
You and I, that's alright
We're the same soul
I don't need, I don't need to hear you say
That if we weren't so alike
You'd like me a whole lot more

Listen to me now
I need to let you know
You don't have to go it alone

And it's you when I look in the mirror
And it's you when I don't pick up the phone
Sometimes you can't make it on your own

Say, say, say

It's been an hour. Baby steps. On to the next thing.

Outside. In Rainbows. (Radiohead)

Yes, Daughter, there is still a Santa Claus

Late night thoughts on Childhood Beliefs

Note; It’s been nearly 6 weeks since I’ve written anything of substance. The cycle repeats. Inspiration, Dedication, Insecurity, Shame, Confidence. If I’m lucky, sometimes I’m able to replace Shame with some Editing. I shouldn’t feel insecure about what I do, I know it’s good. But I lack validation and the desire to seek out the validation, so I have let my dreams sit for the summer, enjoyed it with my children, for the summers do go fast and they are both starting school this year and my memory is slipping faster than they are growing.

I love my daughter. She’s nine. She told her mom a few days ago that she’s starting to have suspicions about Santa Claus. She didn’t say that directly, she was making an observation. “You know, Santa seems to only have toys that you could also buy in Walmart.”

I’m like… wow. But you, as a parent, have to keep that dream alive, you know? What do you do? Bring down the house of cards that is Santa Claus? 

WIP Inspiration 3

I encountered the word kismet yesterday and feel it deserves some recognition in the book - currently basing it as a discussion of kismet vs karma. Perhaps between Steele and Ruby. However, that confrontation isn't part of Karmageddon but more on Steele's spin-off - the Book of Steele.

I'd like to return to writing that but if I did I'd never get Karmageddon print-ready in case the traditional publisher rejects it.

Sad I'm already thinking it's going to be rejected - In Michener's the Novel, he insinuates only 3 out of 900 slush-pile books get referred up the chain.

I don't know how this surging of self-published books are affecting that pile - maybe it's less to pick through? I don't know. Either way, a lot online that a writer's yearly income is lucky to break $10,000/yr.

I am thinking of getting out of the self-publish forums, too self-defeating. I read about someone who is making thousands a month, read a sample of their work and think 'are you kidding me?' Most of self-published I've read seems to simply be the slush pile.

But back to editing...

WIP Inspiration 2

One thing that has been bothering me throughout the X amount of months I've spent on this book is the attempt to make 'smoking' Karma sound legit. In a day of edibles, pipes, bongs and god knows what else, using the word joint, or simply the act of my characters smoking a joint seems so ... juvenile and crass. Yet, calling them Karma cigarettes - which I often refer to them as with packaging, social habit etc seems too ... dated.

So today I was editing K2 when I had the idea to call them Karma Sticks. I realize just as I write this that smokes have also been referred to cancer sticks so ... I like it.

Now, I just need to do a simple search for every use of the word Karma or Karmajuana in K2 and determine if it justifies adding stick to the end of it.

And that's part of my process.

In other news, I spent 3 hours on Sunday guarding someone who was run over by a train. At least, the parts that were left of him. Right now I think I have some PTSD going on so at least I have that going for me...

Our debriefing included a man who told us there is a difference between remembering and revisiting what happened and to watch how our brain reacts to being normal in an abnormal situation.

Takes me back to these thoughts which I will probably be revisiting with a therapist later.

'Where do your ideas come from?' a short bonus feature for the next WIP

Not that anyone asked me this yet, but the question does bother me. Writing isn't easy for me. It isn't easy because I don't write generic genre stuff. I don't write about the good guy chases the bad guy in the world of global espionage nor do I write about On Golden Pond stuff where boy meets girl, boy marries girl after difficult romantic courtship. I don't think I write much about great insights to modern behavior or society.

Anyways, I digress. I wanted to remember this moment as I'm having trouble with a story and this could be part of an 'extras' feature, like they did with DVDs, some bonus content at the end of the book. Maybe this is a turning point (nah) but I guess it does help give a hint or two as to my process in writing this stuff that I question people would want to even read in the first place.

I have a man returning (under extenuating circumstances) to the town where his ex lives. People think he ran out on her, as he simply disappeared one day and never came back. They had a fight over procreating (she for, he against) and that was the last they saw of each other. 

Now, he just came out of the woods to discover the world went full-nuclear. There is no more society as we know it anymore. Nobody wants to tell him 'the news' and thinks it should be her to tell him.

That's not really a spoiler as that is pretty much the first thing he finds out so he's already adjusting to that. 

The question was, what could be so hard to hear after he's been told that the world is basically a radioactive wasteland that nobody wants to tell him?

Now, the immediate thought i think readers would have is that she is pregnant. I don't want to do that because it's completely cliche, and the man has had a vasectomy. I mean, it creates drama, it's part of the reason why he disappeared and adds in the 'well, whose kid is it then?' But then again, he's only been gone for maximum three weeks, so she really wouldn't be showing or anything yet.

So I've been racking my thoughts as to what could be so important that he has to be told personally by this woman but yet the whole town appears to already know.

It took me about three days idly returning to this question.

Then I got it today, just driving home from work. It might change but this is the best I have so far and I'm looking forward to writing the confrontation these two wind up having when he finally finds out what nobody else would tell him; she's dating someone else. It's such a paltry thing in the big picture of the Nuclear Apocalypse. I had thought perhaps maybe she got a couple of cats. But that doesn't seem worthy enough of everyone keeping that info away from the guy.

Yeah, this could work.

My bookshelf

I have a bookshelf. Everyone should be so lucky.

Actually 5 bookshelves. They are the length of closet doors, because that is what they are. That is also why I can't call it a bookcase. The shelves are full, with books I have read. Most of them only once but liked enough to keep, thinking one day I will read them again.

I think what you read says a lot about if we could be friends. I think my books say a lot about me.

Let me check out your bookshelf and I believe I will get a glimpse into your soul.

Look at my shelf and it's a clusterfuck of authors, subjects and genres... which is appropriate.

I am barely holding on here.

At one time, I built these shelves, for the specific purpose of making a home for my book collection. They were organized in some way now lost. Was it by author or subject matter?

The shelves, like myself, have become disorganized. I look back on these shelves, dissecting them, much like my life, what choices made me do this? Why are they there? When did I start stuff books anywhere there was space?

What was my original intention with that top shelf?

Perhaps that was where the 'classics' were to be. There was my Steinbeck, Asimov, Hesse, Wolfe. But then again, why is there a Mastering The Tarot book, sandwiched between a single serving of Tolkien (a hardcover 74th printing of The Two Towers (1983) I bought for a quarter at the Mission 2nd hand store) and Elmore Leonard's Rum Punch (better known as the Tarantino movie Jackie Brown)?

And why is 1 Harry Potter book and a Richler book on top of two Terry Pratchetts? Why are they with the Winston Churchill biography trilogy? The only thing separating the two is a sci-fi 'Hall of Fame' anthology (1971) I keep solely because it has Flowers for Algeron in it, a legendary story I only read a couple of years ago and was kinda 'meh' about.

At least still perchedon the top-right corner are my memories; about a dozen notebooks from years past, story ideas and memories waiting to be re-discovered, analyzed, considered. There's also a copy of the Joy of Sex under all that, because... I was single once.

Is that good those notebooks remain untouched, when so much of the rest has been tampered with?

On my second shelf, the 'eyeline' shelf for me, which I would think should be my favourites, are books organized again mysterious to my reasoning.

From the left there are a few hard-cover books, most over 75 years old if I go by their spines. Great, I get that - high enough to imply value if I ever become a book-collector/seller and also to keep out of toddler hands. But then there is a pile of financial books which I doubt I will ever read (again). It takes money to care about keeping money.

Then a few pretentious names to keep you interested; Philip Dick, Chuck Palaniuk, Ayn Rand. A couple books on accepting I'm a writer and how to deal with it. Dead center of the shelf is my current fav contemporary writer, Patrick DeWitt and his three books.

Beside him, my humour section. Woody Allen, Carl Reiner short stories. Will Ferguson devolves into a Uncle John's Bathroom Reader. That is bordered on the right by my 'spiritual section' in case I ever want to read more about Taoism or How to Win Friends.

Third shelf - I remember this is for my pocket books as the height is quite short. I'm thinking this uneven spacing needs to change if I am going to organize this mess. I have a lot of Discworld on this shelf, altogether. A sign of respect for honestly most influentialBut then I have some Vonnegut and Brave New World. A bunch of Malcolm Gladwell books separates the books from the few cassette tapes I have remaining from that part of my past.

I'm getting tired. So much to dissect.

Fourth shelf - the bigger books, too large to fit on my paperback shelf. These range from The Shining (2 copies) to Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy Anthology.  I recall this was to be my 'books made into movies' section, which explains why Gone Girl is beside Captain Corelli's Mandolin and Princess Bride beside American Hero (rebranded Wag the Dog for Hollywood purposes). There's also Silence of the Lambs and Cloud Atlas and my in-joke copy of God Hates Us All, the meta-book within a TV series, Californication, written by 'Hank Moody'. 

But that segment is cut off by the few Ender saga books I have found in bookstores by Orson Scott Card. Then it goes back into my over-sized Vonnegut, a copy of Geek Love found under the Free Books Tree in my neighbourhood. Fencing that off is my stack of sports-related books, mostly hockey. Now I'm seeing the subjects; the social consciousness pile, Shock Doctrine, a Leonard Cohen biography sandwiches some Noam Chomsky and 2 wildly different biographies of Howard Hughes. A Pat Riley Life Coaching dips into my Pierre Burton historical Canadiana books. I enjoy historical fiction but don't go out of my way to find it. Beside Burton is the collection of James Michener books/volumes read and still waiting to be read. Chesapeake, Alaska, Space, all bought for 50 cents each. As for cost per word, you can't get a better deal than this.

I am getting OCD just looking at this... 

Finally, on the bottom shelf, there are my textbooks, coffee-table books too large to fit elsewhere. My collection of Calvin and Hobbes, my Star Wars trilogy storybooks, which is probably worth quite a few bucks nowadays. Yet, there they are, bottom shelf. Surprised they weren't destroyed by curious fingers yet. A quick Internet search reveals some for sale on ebay, roughly $10 each.

Guess that new sailboat will have to wait...

Beside the fantastical X-Men anthology, Macbeth adaptation and V for Vendetta (graphic novels, not comic books I remind myself) there is a very interesting illustrated book called Great Moments In Medicine. The corners have been nibbled on by mice years ago when I had so many of these in storage as they waited for me to put down roots. This is where I learned they used to put boiling tar into bullet wounds during the American Civil War until some doctor decided that probably wasn't helping.

There's always a lesson if you read long enough.

My last two books are Lady Cottingham's Pressed Fairy book, a book I never gave to a long-ago crush and a textbook on Criminal Behavior. Perhaps there is a link? Then it devolves into photo albums, another nostalgic memory from decades ago.

But then... stashed behind those snapshots is another memory vault. My collection of childhood hard-cover Hardy Boy books, twenty-some in total. Back when I thought Franklin W. Dixon was a real person and had no idea what a coupe was, no matter how many times it followed Frank and Joe. Turns out it was a type of car. Memories. 

I thought at one time I would be giving them to my son. Thankfully, life made it so I have two. However, my first doesn't live with me and is a great reader, probably too far ahead of the pop curve what with his Harry Potter series, anime and Youtube channel. I doubt he would ever get hooked on two teenage detectives.

Perhaps my younger will be interested. However, that is many years away yet until he will be able to read.

I really need to organize this... but there you go - a quick glimpse into my book shelf. 

Random Bitching

I don't get the whole 'which one would you give up' or 'would you live in a cabin for a 1 million without Internet' posts.
Adults (I assume) are posting these - and friends are answering. I don't get it.

I assume it is some weird psych experiment - I read once they are lead generators so if you post on one it fills you with more of the same... but to what point? Do those posts evolve into 'would you live in a cabin or buy Hershey's Peanut Butter Cups?'.

Math questions... they never give you the right answer so you have to actually scroll through the comments and figure out which one seems to be the most popular. Sometimes, someone explains it but wow... i don't really care how much a burger is equivalent to.

Post a picture of your dog.  Why? Does anyone really scroll through the 13K pictures of dogs already posted on there? Why not just post the picture of your dog on your own timeline instead of putting it on some chain letter thing?

It's gotta be a psych experiment. Right?

Here's the last picture of my dogs...

This is actually a rock. But my boy thought it was Penny...
so I took a picture to remind him he needs to get his eyes checked. 

This is the last picture of my dogs.
They're happy. 

 

Still avoiding avoiding

I'd almost laugh at how ridiculous I'm being if I didn't think it was so some profound psychological block I'm going through.

I did a query letter about 4 days ago, asked my wife to proof it. Wife... still sounds weird to say that. Anyways, she looked at it today.

In the meantime, I've delved into sorting my children's lego, planting some potatoes, marathoned a bit of Ash vs. Evil Dead... basically a lot of things, everything other than submit the fricking thing or talk a bit more of Post Pestilence.

So, here I am... I have 15 minutes to send it off before I go get my daughter. Part of me is justifying not doing it because it's Friday and what's the point right before the weekend... I mean, can't hurt to let it go for a few more days.  What's the worst that can happen?

I wait 2 more days then I wait 2 more days and I wait 2 more days...

What is it going to be, Jay?



SUBMISSION UPLOADED.

Pls Wait 6 months for confirmation.

Still avoiding...

Once again, I've reached the summit of how far I'm willing to address the cancer/Pestilence thing.
I can say it is a lot of things, time, Spring, etc but really it's just me avoiding these demons.

I talked w/ my mom about that summer - 2003 as it turns out, making it almost 15 years this July. She stayed with me after the operation until I flew home with her. I, however, insisted I take her to a tea cafe in Halifax before we left. I have no memory of this. She also gave me a Radiohead fan magazine to read and Douglas Adam's Salmon of Doubt while I was in the hospital. Intensive care as one of my lungs partially collapsed during surgery. I recall the man beside me was often delirious. He had septic shock I could see his colostomy bag hanging off his bed.

Mom and Dad stayed with my landlord, who keep in mind, inherited a cancer boarder only 2 short months ago. I wish I could remember his name as well. He was very kind to take in my family and my problems on such short notice.

Dad left on a Sunday. Mom says he didn't believe I had cancer and so kept a letter from my Dr. identifying it as such... something -carcinoma. I plan on talking with him about his version of that time.

I then came home and recuperated in my Mom's basement. I don't recall much of this; listening to Bif Naked on the computer, avoiding everything as best as possible. I lost a lot of weight - I recall being about 185.

Somewhere during this time I learned my ex-partner's sister had brain cancer. I don't know if this is intertwined but there was another family friend who also had very aggressive cancer - he was down in Vancouver's cancer ward. These are only slivers of memories but I recall thinking how awful this all was. I partially hoped my cancer might somehow bring us back together only her sister had it too and all thoughts of the movie were set aside for both of us, I'm sure.

I went down to Vancouver in my step-brother's car. I recall this as I was pulled over on S. Marine for something and I had to explain why it was my license but my brother's registration. I don't think he was allowed to drive at the time. The cop was a bit confused but it was the truth and so I was let go, perhaps with a warning. I don't recall.

I had this plan to go visit both J and B in the cancer ward. I had this idea I would give J two flight passes so her sister could fly down and visit her sometime. And who do I see waiting for a bus stop on Oak? L. Crazy coincidence, right? So i loop around, park the car and go meet her.

She's not happy to see me. I don't recall most of this incident, other than she's making a scene and the other bus patrons are grateful for this bit of drama. I give her the flight passes and walk away.

I go to visit her sister, she's doing well. I recall asking something about L and another guy - figuring I might as well get it out of the way. L finds out I visited and yells at me some more. Don't know if it was by phone or letter as to this day I don't think she has a computer, having google-creeped for any evidence of her existence a few times over the years. For this journal I actually tried again but still nothing.

But I get ahead of myself. So, I go to visit J and I visit B - he's far worse off, bald, plump, hooked up to so many bags he looks like a technological Buddha.

I believe it turned out my Mom and her husband were there the day before? He had tracked dog shit in on his shoe into the ICU which made it so memorable.

I must have driven back to PG. I also had to go back to Halifax. I think I was given four weeks off for medical leave. I should have asked for longer as I was definitely not ready to return to work. I was there very briefly, gave my notice and flew home after a quick coffee date with the nurse who took a shine to me while I was in the Halifax ICU.

to be cont'd.

Artistic Therapy Part 4

I've dredged through pre-production and production. I've taken a break from this therapy. I could say that it is because I've gotten too busy what with the kids on spring break, which is kind of true. Or maybe I can just say I'm 'avoiding'.

But I also promised myself 2 weeks ago I would submit my latest manuscript to a chosen publisher - and I still haven't done that. So maybe, I am avoiding not only that but also this. Maybe the two are connected.

And now I'm thinking - where would my energy be better spent? Here or on polishing that manuscript.

I'm going to spend 15 minutes here at the very least.

Artistic Therapy Part 3

Previous Artistic Therapy here.... 

The Credits:

CREW
Me - struggling creative type, wanting to write and direct. 
Winnie - Producer and ex-gf
Mel - my ex DoP
Lester - The New DoP
Ned the Assistant Director
Boris the Assistant Camera Guy
Tony - the Sound Guy

CAST
Herb, the American Jock
Ash, the Quiet One
Tim, the Joker
Demi, the Native Girl
Rachel, the Trophy Girlfriend
Amy, the Angry Woman


Pestilence Part 3.

So, we're now in production. We have a 3 man crew, not including me. I can't recall much of that first week - it's a blur of waking early, driving 45 minutes to the set, lighting the stove in our crew/cast cabin.

But this isn't really a memoir, this is my memories of some of the struggles I went through, most of it after filming so I'm going to skim through most of this.

I recall near the end of the week thinking we were in a deep hole. The cast was great, I was barely holding on to an image of things were going swell. My DoP and I were the only ones who had been on actual film crews before. One of the cast had experience as an extra and wanted to make acting a career.

I called up an old friend from film school who wasn't working at the time and willing to fly up and help out. 'Tony' stayed at my mom's place with me. After his first day he pointed out a shitload of problems I was facing, none of them new to me. It was the reason why I called him. I was taking on too much of the AD role, not through any fault of Ned, just more because I had experience and wasn't able to properly delegate things to him.

So I patiently listened as he told me everything wrong. It was tough to sit through and not lose my shit. I knew all the problems. I needed someone to hold the boom and be an all around grip. Ironically, by the third day Tony had severe bowel problems and came down with the flu, causing him to hole up at my Mom's for a day or two.

Days later, Tony and Les the DoP ge in a huge shouting match one day, far from civilization. I don't know what it was about but it was just another small thing to try and mend. They managed to stay civil to each other for the rest of the script but you bet your shit there was tension building between 'them' and 'us'. The us being me, Winnie and Tony, who was guilty by association. I have no doubt there was a lot of shit talk after we'd call it quits for the day back at Herb's basement suite. Why? Because it's human nature to bond over things we are mad about and here I am, trying to make them famous through an indie film during a typical Canadian winter.

Artistic Therapy Pestilence, Part 2

They made a movie about a killer snowman so...

Recapping the failed launching of my cinematic career.

Here's what happened last week;

-I talked about pre-production, of losing Mel and getting 'Lester'.
- we held auditions and casted.

Here are my players so far, using pseudonyms to protect all concerned, although many I have lost track of.

Winnie - Producer and gf
Mel - my ex DoP
Lester - The New DoP
Ned the Assistant Director
Boris the Assistant Camera Guy

The cast with names changed even from the script

Herb, the American Manly Man
Ash, the Budding Hero
Tim, the Comic Relief Guy
Demi, the Native Girl
Rachel, the Trophy Girlfriend
Toni, the Strong and Angry Woman


Let's move on to Production.

It's winter, early March if I recall. I solved that one problem of the DoP, which I thought was due to 'schedule conflicts' but turned out to be drugs. I've booked a month off to leave work and go shoot this horror flick in a winter setting.

Usually, the weather during this time is around 0 to -10. Nothing too bad, snow is melting. I come back to town, storyboards in hand. I've arranged cheap flights for those that needed them. Herb has offered his place as a crash pad for those out-of-towners.

I am pretty excited to meet my cast and crew altogether for the first time. Winnie and I run out to the film set, talk about glorious things and feel somewhat nervous but good. We're about to shoot a movie!

Foreshadowing...

Behind the Curtains of An Indie Author

If you came here from Reddit or any of my writer forums, welcome to the show.

If you came here from Facebook, welcome back.


In the interest of anyone thinking of self-publishing or already are a self-published writer I have decided to write about a subject all of us dread to think about but must be acknowledged.

Sales.

On the forums I lurk and participate in, it feels like talk about Sales goes one of two ways; either someone is humble-bragging about what they've done or, and this is far more common, someone is panicking about not having enough sales.

Now, to be honest, the self-published books I've read tend to be either a) pretty bad or b) close to pretty good.

For me, most are too 'wordy'. If I had to take a guess, I'd say many of these fellow Indie writers are in their twenties, as I was as well at one time. That's okay. But I'm a talk and plot guy, not a preach and describe the scenery guy.

Back in my twenties, we didn't have the ability to push out whatever we chose without having to go through the hoops or getting a professional opinion. If you wanted to be published, you had to rely on someone else's opinion, a gatekeeper so to speak. You had to submit it and wait weeks, months for a letter.

I once received a form rejection letter from a publisher that I had no recollection of contacting, much less whatever it was I submitted.

It felt like a preemptive rejection and quite rude, to be honest...

For those who may fall into the b) category listed above, I usually want to say 'hey, let me help you trim this a little'. But then it is probably too late and perhaps a little rude. After all, they have already published and moved on to checking their sales stats, Kindle listing, book 3 of their fantasy epic trilogy, etc, wondering when the gold will start rolling in.

So with that said, I'm peeling back the curtain on my book sales to explain why you don't see a Tesla in my driveway. Maybe it will help some of you indie authors feel better about yourself or at least not as alone and worthless, as I sometimes feel.

Click that little 'read more' link below to continue.

My Personal Curse of Pestilence

Part 1 of Many

Artistic Therapy.

Pestilence; The Spaghetti Incident Edition

One of the few remaining transitional stills
I photoshopped for the movie.

I made a new friend recently. I told him I once made a movie. He wanted to see it so I gave him the DVD to watch. He called later to say there was no DVD in the cover. I laughed and said something to the extent of 'oh, that sucks'. I haven't bothered to look for the actual movie yet and that was three months ago. Just another big chunk of my life gone with no souvenir to show for it. Even all my publicity work for is stuck in one of my old hard-drives from some old computer tower, waiting for me to see if I can mine it out.


Everybody has their skeletons in their closet. My biggest on, in terms of my artistic aspirations, was a movie with the working title of Pestilence. This is that story.

I've lost track of many of the people involved over the years; some became Facebook friends for this story pre-dates Facebook. For their own privacy, if they read this, they can feel comfort in knowing I have not used their real names. Except for Trey, cuz Trey was a jerk.

Now, I've always fought a personal philosophical battle of 'going with the flow' or 'fighting to make it happen'. Many of my jobs came because of personal connections, not necessarily because I was the one best suited for the job. I've often taken a passive role in my life and sometimes I am surprised I am still alive. In truth, I wouldn't be if it weren't for many of the friends I've made along my way that have encouraged me, made me laugh, and made me believe in being able to attempt my dreams. Not that it was always the best thing for me but often, we choose who we want to hear.

I pitched a movie idea to John Henson (of Muppets fame) because a fellow PA said I was 100% guaranteed to not have it happen if I didn't at least try. I met him half-way, mailed him my pitch instead of telling him in person. I'm still here...

So this is a story about 'Going with The Flow' vs. 'Making It Happen'.

Sneak Peak; Karmageddon Chicken-style

Karmajuana In The Chicken Coop

ABB +93 (93 days After The Big Bangs)

“Let me ask you this. What’s your passion? Because I don’t feel you are passionate about this job.”

Curt Camfield cursed under his breath. The chicken gizzards, guts or whatever you called the inside of a chicken was piling up in the pail beside him. Three months ago, before the bombs hit, he had been a simple financial officer, living a comfortable life in a mid-level bank in a mid-level town in mid-level mediocrity. 

Chester Cloverfield, the semi-geriatric man currently standing across from him on the slaughtering table was waiting for his answer. In one hand he held the carcass of another headless, featherless chicken, the other a butcher knife. He held it more for effect than for efficiency as all he did was bring the headless chickens to Curt from the killing room.

Chester reminded Curt of his former district manager, who asked him the same question four months earlier, one month before the shit really hit the fan, six days before the financial markets collapsed and all the money in all the vaults was efficiently taken away by armed, mindless men in armored semi-sentient cars.

His former manager ordered Curt to calmly reassure those who cared too much about their money that their deposit was insured by the federal government, even if it wasn’t there. That was the last he ever heard from the district manager.

As Curt dutifully repeated those words to clients he never met, he had felt a gnawing unease in that part of the brain he assumed was his intuition. Soon someone in the growing mob would stop being vocal and start being physical. Especially when one of them voiced the suspicion Curt shared; there was no more federalized Bank of Canada, much less a working government able to guarantee their deposits. His promise was worth no more than the paper it wasn’t written on.

At that life-evaluating moment, as he looked over many of his employer’s most valued and valuable clients, he reconsidered that same question. What was his passion? Was he truly that passionate about this job he was willing to risk his life over someone else’s money? Wasn’t that his superior’s job, the guy who disappeared three days earlier, with a simple ‘Gone fishing’ email, leaving Curt the one with the most seniority in the branch? Was he passionate enough about this job he was willing to defend the honor and empty words and coffers of his employer?

Hell, no.

So he led the justified nervous mob into the back and pointed to the vault’s open door. They surged in, victims of cinematic shortcuts, envisioning shelves stacked with dollar bills. He relied that they would be so anxious to get their life savings they'd forget they needed Curt for more than directions to the vault. As the last pushed their way in and the first realized they had no combinations to the vault’s many empty safes, Curt was out the door faster than the stock market crash. He ran to his car, thankful that in the banking industry one only made clients, not friends. None of his clients knew where he lived. Still he raced home, told his wife and kids to get their shit in the RV and headed north as quickly as possible.

They drove two days before the back roads and gas ran out. The caravan they inadvertently joined on the highway led them here to Bluenose City, one of the many small city-enclaves survivors had established. It was here, Curt and his family found themselves new-age pioneers, living a simple, non-currency based life. Now it was all about survival and showing your worth to the whole, not to the stock market.

But still it was the same crap. 

Chester Cloverfield was an original resident of Bluenose City, third generation. His grandparents settled here back when it was too far away from anything to be even marked for prosperity on a map. It was simply a small hamlet carved into the mountain which bore its name. The City moniker came after the bombs as the refugees arrived and felt safe enough to stop moving on. 

Chester thought he liked the isolation and solidarity of raising chickens. It took until the refugee influx to realize he enjoyed being a head rooster even more. As the community grew, he tapped into a buried urge to be a respected leader of the masses and it certainly helped his political aspirations that he owned the biggest chicken coop in the area.

He once confided to his flock weeks ago that he always dreamed of a moment such as this since he inherited the chicken farm. There was a decades-long stigma to the family farm due to the infamous, yet rarely discussed, Great Easter Chicken Massacre of ’08. But Chester felt he could break the Cloverfield Egg Farm curse with hard work, dedication to the people and by not dabbling in God’s creations, whispered to be the reason behind the massacre.   

Indie Author Tips #5 -Rehash Old Material - Zombies!

Indie Author Tips #5 -Rehash Old Material - Zombies!

{click on the title}

Indie Author Tips #4 Behind the Typing

Indie Author Tips #4 Behind the Typing

Matt The Drug Dealer...alright, alright, alright.

Every once in awhile I read on my writer forums someone who is interested in reading a W.I.P (work in progress). Specifically they are interested in seeing how a book 'changes' between drafts. 

As I grow as a writer, I can see two problems with this request. First, I don't really want someone to read something I'm not proud of, nor have finished. Second, a lot of changes in editing are typos, some grammar mistakes, maybe a name change or two. Nothing you'd really notice unless you laid each page side by side. 

It's not like you are going to care I broke a long paragraph into two so as to make it easier to read, or that I added 'so as' between that two and to just so you aren't reading tu-tu in the middle of a sentence. 

However, sometimes there are big changes I make. The reasons vary but mostly it is because I feel the first draft doesn't read well. Perhaps it is slightly boring or there is too much exposition going on. Of course, I don't feel it at the time I'm writing - when it's going well, I'm just trying to keep my fingers at the same speed as my brain. 

So that said, I'm going to show a large change I did for a forthcoming novel from 1st to 2nd draft .

Context; this is a stand-alone chapter about Matt The Drug Dealer, who has found his sales plummeting since Karmajuana (you've read Enter a Fistful, yes?) has been legalized. He is one of a very few people that are not directly affected by Karmajuana's brainwashing abilities. Ironically, a lot of his chronics aren't either; turns out 1% of the population isn't affected by Karma.  

This is the first draft; (1400 words)

T-5 Matt the Drug Dealer

It was just past two pm when Matt heard the doorbell. He believed he jumped from his third-hand couch to his particle board door in record time. However, he didn’t exactly jump nor was it in record time as he was quite stoned. What he really did was slide off the couch like a half-full water balloon onto the floor and waited for his legs to catch up to the rest of his body.

It was only with supreme effort he was able to stand and focus on where the door was this time. The doorbell rarely rang anymore. As a businessman, the doorbell was a big part of his life in being a reputable and reliable pot dealer.

He peaked out the window before opening; another middle-aged man, not one of his regulars. Matt cursed. This guy would have the same request as all the other noobs who came ringing his doorbell like he was a goddamn McDonald’s; Karmajuana.

Matt had plenty of Karma. However, just because he didn’t like it, didn’t mean he wouldn’t sell it. He sold coke and hash and on occasion meth but he didn’t care for that clientele. The problem for him was he also had a lot of other shit that wasn’t moving and if it wasn’t moving, he wasn’t making money.

This new Karma shit was flooding the market and Matt was pretty experienced in the varieties of marijuana out there, knew his homegrown from his factory grown. This stuff was going gangbusters. People wanted it and people were getting it. He had made sure to try it himself, especially when it was becoming all the rage but he couldn’t see what the big demand was. It was a good buzz, nothing more. He had way more powerful shit sitting in his stash box than Karma but nobody cared. It was all they wanted. Karma, karma, karma. 

And he wasn’t the only one to notice. A couple of his chronics also mentioned their curiosity over what the big attraction was.

At first it was pretty exciting when Karma came out. After all, Matt was still a businessman who liked to listen to cold, hard cash. And everyone was buying. And by everyone, it was everyone.

Then it started getting weird. First, the neighbours came over and asked if he carried any of this Karmajuana they heard about. Then it was the moms. Trophy moms pushing strollers came right up to his door, looking straight out of a school board meeting, asking if he could set them up. Lastly, it was the cops. Cops actually coming to his door, ringing his goddamn doorbell and having the unusual audacity to ASK if he could score them some Karma. AND they did it politely. Fearing a set-up, he played ignorant. Then they just…left. No good cop, bad cop. No search warrants, no mind games. They just left.

His fellow dealers he was on speaking terms with had similar stories of being harassed by the Man in all shapes and forms, but not aggressively, not the ‘get-out-of-my-neighbourhood’ type way, just asking if they had any of this Karmajuana going around. Then everyone stopped asking because frankly, everyone was giving. It was a Karmajuana Christmas out there, every day. The very same cops who asked to get hooked up came by the next day and gave him a pack of nicely rolled Karma cigarettes then left. It was the strangest conversation ever and speaking as someone who has had plenty of odd conversations under the influence, that was saying something. 

The doorbell rang again but because he had muscle memory and still knew where the door was, it didn’t take him so long to get there from the couch. He checked the peephole, sighed happily and opened the door.

“What’s up, James?” Matt asked.

“Nothing, man. Just chilling. What’s up with you?” said James. Matt easily could smell the Karma on him.

“Want to come in?”

“Uh, yeah.” And while that was James’ opinion on the matter, he didn’t move. Matt looked up the street, noticed for the first time it was a pretty decent day outside and decided to sit down on the front steps. James sat down beside him. They both sat there doing nothing. James pulled out a Karma, lit it and handed it to Matt. They smoked in silence until there was nothing left.

“Hey James?” asked Matt.

“Yeah?”

“Have you noticed that things are, like, different lately?”

“Sorta. I was just at the 7/11. There’s nobody there.”

“You mean it’s closed?” asked Mike. The store was open 24/7 - he sent and received a lot of business to the convenience store for customers in search of munchies at 1am or drugs at 12am. He never knew it to be closed. 

“No. Like abandoned. It was still open but nobody was in there.”

“Someone must have been there. Maybe they were just in the shitter.”

“Well, there was this guy, Abed or Ammad or whatever. He said he worked there but he was smoking weed outside. Told me to go in and help myself to anything.”

Matt frowned. He knew Amed. He was a good guy but never smoked the bud. Never. He was the only clerk there whom Matt knew who would also ban shoplifters, as if he had a share in the profits the store made. If it was one of Matt’s customers, Amed would tell him so Matt would relay the message. Often Matt covered the losses with his own money or if Matt knew the thief, would personally bring them back to apologize to Amed and make them promise not to do it again. Matt respected Amed’s minimum wage honesty and business ethics, much like Amed respected his. He couldn’t match the vision of the Amed he knew with the Karma-smoking, apathetic Amed James described.

“And it’s not just him, there are a lot of open smokers out there now. Have you heard of these Karmafarians?”

“Karmafarians?” asked Matt, who was proud to never be up on current events, as was evident by his PS2 game system. “Never heard of them.”

“Yeah, it’s like, some type of cult or gang or something. They give away Karmajuana, for free.”

“Free? That doesn’t make any sense. Where’s the profit in that?”

“And everyone is just…chilling. Downtown is so quiet. Not quiet in people, lots of people, but more quiet in like no traffic. No cars. There’s just people sitting everywhere, chilling.”

James said chilling way more than was necessary. If Matt was in a pissy mood he called him on it. However, today was not one of those days.

“Weird,” Matt thought for a moment before admitting his experiences with the cops, “you know there is something really strange about that shit.”

“Yeah, I guess. It’s good, but it’s not like put-you-in-a-wheelchair and orgasm type good. It just makes everyone massively chill.”

“That’s what I thought too,” exclaimed Matt, happy to finally have someone on the same wavelength, “I don’t get it.”

“I heard that some of the chronics down at the skate shop also don’t get the big deal. Some say it’s the reason why marijuana was legalized. Somebody got it onto Parliament Hill and got everyone high, even the Prime Minister.”

“Fuck. Could you imagine? Getting high with the PM? What if everyone just stops doing shit and it’s up to the chronics to get shit done?”

“That would be awful,” said James, passing his Karma over to Matt.

“Yeah. I don’t even know where we would start. I guess we could get these Karmafarians to stop giving away free weed. My business is dying here.”

“Isn’t that more a job for the cops? Or for you know… your guys?”

Matt knew James was referring to his suppliers, rumoured to be part of the toughest motorcycle gang in North America.

“I haven’t heard from them in weeks. I don’t know what the hell is going on.”

“I don’t want to become a Narc. I mean, if it is a choice between free Karma and snitching, I’m on their side. I mean, free weed? Why not, right?”

“Well, in theory. Maybe we should ask around, see if the other guys feel the same about these Karmafarians, find out who they are.”  

But instead Matt and James sat on the front porch and watched the clouds and people go by. They began to notice the neighbours, many of them doing the same thing; just sitting on their front porches, chilling. The smell of Karma was heavy in the air.

 <<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<><>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

So I wrote that more than a year ago. Didn't think about it too much as it was simply only one character idea of many. Then I started getting serious of doing an Enter a Fistful sequel and I found I had all these short stories but no order to them. I had recurring characters, new characters, time-travelling characters (from a Nanowrimo challenge), political manifestos, hockey pool commentaries, a Dr. Strangelove tribute, etc. Basically I created a 'Frankenstein's Monster' of a story. It was overwhelming. 

I created some order in the chaos; a count-down of sorts. I separated characters into before/after/during on a timeline. I separated finished and unfinished chapters, did summaries of about 50+ individual short stories.

I chose Matt's story because if/when weed becomes legalized, it will affect people like Matt, who rely on the underground economy. He is Day #5 before all shit breaks loose. The goal of this was to show how quickly Karmajuana had spread across society. 

Now, onto the 2nd draft. 

The hard part is admitting when you don't like something you've done. I liked parts of Matt's story, didn't care for others. Some of it was a rehash of themes I'd already done. There's a lot of exposition there. What happened with the original guy who rang the doorbell? There's that paragraph on Abed and why Matt respected him. Is that needed? How is this advancing the storyline? So one night in bed I decided to change it. It then became this;