"Good afternoon, Bear. Where were you this morning? I thought we had a date for early morning
when I do my walk, such as it is."
"It's the bloody snow," said Bear, looking very disgruntled,
"But Bear, we don't have any snow," said Bum, looking puzzled.
"I know, Bum, you know, and my master's wife knows, but my master has gotten it into his head that snow is coming and he must be prepared, on behalf of his wife, because he'll be away doing that course he gives in the U.S.A. When the snow storm hits, she'll be defenseless because he cannot find his snow shovel. It must've been stolen, he said. His wife didn't mention that she gave it to the Thrift as they haven't had snow in the Cove for years."
"Wait a minute, Bear. Your master's wife doesn't look strong enough to shovel snow so what will she do with a shovel?"
"That's what she said," said Bear,"but the master came right back that the young fellow next door can do the shoveling, for money of course, but he'll need a shovel. When the snow hits, there won't be a shovel to be found."
"Where did he get the idea that snow is coming, Bear. There's been nothing about it as a forecast on the radio," said Bum. Much ado about nothing, she thought.
Bear sighed and then said, "My master drove a friend of his up Seymour Mountain because his friend's girlfriend works there, has her car with her, but wanted the boyfriend to join her for dinner because she's getting a cut price because she works there."
"Your master surely realizes that they get snow at higher elevations, like on top of mountains, but it doesn't mean we'll get any snow at sea level," said Bum.
"He knows that, Bum, but he was more than half way back down the mountain when a small flurry of snow hit his windshield and he freaked He had visions of snow coming and he would be out of town and the rest you know about his paranoi about having a snow shovel at the ready.."
"Anyway, he took me with him to find a snow shovel and we visited many hardware stores before we found what he wanted. He thought perhaps two shovels would be best but the cost put him off. The salesman at the one place tried to talk him into a very expensive snow blower but even he wasn't that stupid. I thought we would never get out of there and I knew we had missed our walk. I started to have a real hatred for snow, I can tell you, Bum."
"That reminds me of an old joke about a snow shoveler that was making the rounds many years ago, Bear."
"It''hard to believe there could be much of a joke about shoveling snow," said Bear suspiciously.
"From memory, and it was a long time ago I read it somewhere, there was a man and his wife, (at the wife's insistence as I recall) who moved outside the City to a small place near a forest, a stream, and some looming mountains. It was like the place my niece, Mara, and her husband, Mike, found in Squamish, about an hour's drive from North Vancouver.
Their first night there, a few weeks before Christmas, was thrilling for both of them. They were sitting, drinks in hand, gazing out the window at the softly falling snow flakes. They felt blessed.
Over the next week, it kept snowing and snowing and snowing and snowing. The man's belief that all that snow shoveling would keep him fit, began to pale. He slipped on the icy driveway and hurt his back quite badly.
Things started to deteriorate and there were several incidents with the snow plough operator who drove this route on a regular basis. Every time the man shoveled his driveway and the sidewalk fronting his property, the snow plough would come along and obliterate the end of his driveway and the sidewalk, with huge mounds of dirty snow.
Things got so bad, his wife left him and went to stay with her mother over Christmas and the New Year. The man was glad. This was all her fault and he hated her and he hated the f'ing snow and he particularly hated the f'ing snow plough driver. The last incident with the snow plough operator got ugly. The snow shoveler hit the snow plough driver with his shovel after the driver had the nerve to ask for a donation because of Christmas, and then threatened unmentionable things he was going to do to the driver with the broken shovel handle.
The police came, of course. The snow shoveler was incarcerated, and not in a regular hospital. He loves the little white pills he is prescribed but wonders why he is tied to the bed."
"As a snow joke, Bum, that stinks," said Bear.
"Maybe it's because you're a dog and never had to shovel snow," responded Bum. Bear said nothing.
"I hate to leave you on such a sour note so perhaps this message about snow I received recently from my niece, Mara, will please you. She enclosed a picture of the scene outside her window but, of course, I don't know how to include it here. A high tech person, I'm not. She wrote,"
......
I awoke to the beginnings of a Winter Wonderland. I could already tell as I lay in the dark....by the muted, muffled sense of sound. The landscape in layers of darks and whites....like an old photograph, and the stream's towering deciduous trees look like a filigree. The only colours are the brick red shoots off the lilac tree, and the little Christmas lights, barely peaking from the coloured snow-laden Apple tree.
.....
"Very poetic, isn't she?: said Bear.
"
"
.
Friday, December 27, 2019
Tuesday, December 10, 2019
STRENGTHS
"G'day Bear. You are looking particularly elegant today. What happened?"
"My master's son, Jimmy, came over to see me early this morning. He knows I like to have my coat brushed so he did it for me. It was lovely; he has a nice touch. And, what's with the G'day crap? Are you feeling Australian?"
"I heard the expression in a movie we were watching the other night and I thought what a great word."
How so?" asked Bear.
"It's good for any time of the day, morning, noon or evening. The perfect word wouldn't you say."
"Whatever," said Bear, and then "I find it a bit pretentious, so let's drop it, or at least don't use it on me."
"OK, oh word master," responded Bum. "Good morning, let's start again."
"Good morning, Bum, what's next on our editing job?"
"Strengths," said Bum.:
"The first point Paul made was that the notion of a relationship being struck up between a retired woman and a talking dog is an appealing one. We fixed this bit, as I already told you, so don't go crazy about it."
"OK," said Bear, and he looked pleased for once.
"The second point is that Janey Lennox is a quirky and appealing character," Bum continued.
"Hmph, Bum, if you mean a person, like you, who picks ups butts on her walk with me each day to match the number of cigarettes she smoked with coffee before her walk, and has a drink of water from the small water bottle she carries, every time a car or truck drives by, then I guess your nephew got that quirky part right. Appealing, maybe not so much."
Bum ignored his rather disparaging remarks and said, "You know I've started carrying my small water bottle on my resumed walks now, and yes I do take a swallow every time a vehicle goes by, and in addition, I take another swallow every twenty steps I take before I do about 5 shoulder lifts which seem to be helping me straighten my back somewhat."
"That's good, Bum, that you have taken over your own method of fixing your back and I see that it is working a bit, not perfect but a bit, and as I told you before, water is the source of life."
"I know you said that, Bear, but you know I don't particularly like water; it is so tasteless. And, I have never seen so many vehicles go by during my new walking regime. I can hardly make one block before my little bottle of water is empty."
"That's good, again, Bum. Bring a bigger bottle," said Bear.
"No," said Bum, and said no more on that boring subject.
"The third point Paul made under strengths is one you'll like. He said Bear shows himself to be an interesting and unexpected companion and their relationship does deepen and become more caring."
"Interesting is good, Bum, but why does quirky sound more with it? What the hell does quirky mean, anyway?"
"Most people think quirky is someone who is weird or peculiar, but it can be someone who is interesting and unique," said Bum.
Bear looked more annoyed than usual and said, "Paul gave me only one strength and that was interesting, and now you are trying to include it as part of the meaning of quirky."
"I googled the meaning of interesting because I just knew you would give me some grief about my being a fun-loving quirky type and you being only interesting. For your edification, dear Bear, interesting is someone who keeps your attention because he/she is unusual, exciting, and has lots of ideas."
"Oh," said Bear, "then that's OK. What's next on the list?"'
"Paul said there is some snappy and readable dialogue."
"That sounds pretty good. We do walk and we do talk so maybe some is snappy and I hope readable. down the road.," said Bear.
"No argument from me," said Bum.
"Finally," said Bear. "we agree on something. Makes a nice change, doesn't it? What's next for our strengths?"
"This is the last one, Bear. Paul said "there are a number of chuckle-inducing anecdotes," said Bum, and she smiled because this is one of her favourites.
"I hope I have one of the chuckle-inducing anecdotes, Bum, as you seem to be taking all the good strengths'" said Bear peevishly.
"As a matter of fact, Bear, the first one that comes to my mind is your fornicating story, so there," said Bum.
"I apologize, Bum, for jumping to an incorrect conclusion, or should that be assumption," said Bear, trying to placate Bum as best he could.
"May I say Bear how much I like that you apologize when required, so unlike many people who seem unable to do so, even when it is necessary.. You are a gentleman."
"Bum," said Bear, " I care deeply for you. as you do me, and I would never not feel sorry if I hurt you or made you feel I don't care for you. I think this is mutual and it makes us such good friends and companions. I love you."
Bear rested his head against Bum's knee and they sat there in companionable silence for awhile before Bum spoke. "I guess that's where we get that snappy and readable dialogue We both speak our minds and we know there is no malice behind it."
"So true, Bum," said Bear, "now give me my chuckle-inducing anecdote. I've forgotten a lot of it but I do recall I was just a puppy living in a new house with my master. He knew I was skittish and whiny so he let me sleep in his bed in the beginning. He's a very nice, kind man. Did I ever mention that to you?".
"Yes you did," answered Bum. "I remember our conversation about whether he was fornicating when he was looking for a new wife. He either divorced his first wife or she died, I cannot remember. You said he tried out several women because he is a careful man, and then you confirmed that fornicating was the right word because it means two people who are not married to each other having consensual sexual intercourse. If one of the two people are married, it is adultery."
"That's a lot of information, Bear, please continue."
"One night that stands out, I couldn't see what was happening as I was near the foot of the bed as usual. It sounded like someone might be hurt. I got to my feet and moved ever so slowly up the bed. There is some light seeping through the curtained window over the head of the bed. There were arms and legs everywhere and I thought they had a friend over, a sick friend from the sounds."
"That's a good one, Bear. Ha, ha, ha."
"Why are you interrupting the flow of my story, Bum? You don't let me do that to you."
"I am so very sorry, Bear. Please accept my apologies and please continue."
"OK, where was I?" said Bear. "I'm moving up the bed and there are legs everywhere. Suddenly, out of the gloom there is a bum, Bum."
"A bum bum?" said Bum. "More than one?"
"A bum, comma Bum," and now Bear is looking annoyed.
"Oh, sorry again to interrupt. It was a surprise."
.
"Anyway, a bum rose up before me, dappled by the moon's rays. It was my master's bum and it was all aquiver. I was a pup, so I nipped."
"You nipped his bum?"said Bum in astonishment.
"Yes, and a great groan emanated from him, and I heard these words, OOH ARTOOOS before he collapsed flat out. It was odd, because suddenly I was enfolded in loving arms, 4 of them I think, and it was lovely, my fur against hot skin. I'd never felt so loved."
"That is such a great anecdote, Bear. I too must've had a chuckle-inducing anecdote in that big book I wrote but for the life of me I cannot bring to mind, even one. Maybe I'm tired or worse, losing my memory."
"What about that wet kiss one, Bum. I found it quite amusing, as did your boyfriend, Gordon when you told him.."
"It happened many years ago when I worked as a stenographer at the Parliament Buildings in Toronto. The department was called Public Works, I believe, and I worked for about eight men who travelled the Province to find and expropriate private properties for the government. Neil Gillis was the boss and was considered quite a catch around the building."
"Did you catch him, Bum?"
"No," said Bum.
"Is he the wet kisser?" asked Bear.
"Yes," said Bum succinctly. She really is overusing that word, as Bear already told her.
This is where Gordon interjected with "So, where did this infamous wet kiss occur?"
"Neil had a small staff gathering at his apartment. I believe it was Christmas, and he kissed me, for Christmas I guess. It was simply awful. It was so wet, and I've never forgotten it."
"You seem to like the moist kisses I give you."
"I do, Gordon," I said. "You know I do. But, and this is a big but, there's moist and then there's a deluge."
"It sounds like a French kiss," murmured Gordon, trying not to laugh.
"He wasn't French, Gordon, "I think he was Welsh."
"That's funny, Bum," said Bear, "and isn't it funny that both of our chuckle-inducing anecdotes are about sex."
"Bear, if you can't have a bit of fun about sex, what else don't you have fun with. What a bore a person like that is."
"That's not us, Bum," said Bear.
"No," said Bum, succinctly.
.
"My master's son, Jimmy, came over to see me early this morning. He knows I like to have my coat brushed so he did it for me. It was lovely; he has a nice touch. And, what's with the G'day crap? Are you feeling Australian?"
"I heard the expression in a movie we were watching the other night and I thought what a great word."
How so?" asked Bear.
"It's good for any time of the day, morning, noon or evening. The perfect word wouldn't you say."
"Whatever," said Bear, and then "I find it a bit pretentious, so let's drop it, or at least don't use it on me."
"OK, oh word master," responded Bum. "Good morning, let's start again."
"Good morning, Bum, what's next on our editing job?"
"Strengths," said Bum.:
"The first point Paul made was that the notion of a relationship being struck up between a retired woman and a talking dog is an appealing one. We fixed this bit, as I already told you, so don't go crazy about it."
"OK," said Bear, and he looked pleased for once.
"The second point is that Janey Lennox is a quirky and appealing character," Bum continued.
"Hmph, Bum, if you mean a person, like you, who picks ups butts on her walk with me each day to match the number of cigarettes she smoked with coffee before her walk, and has a drink of water from the small water bottle she carries, every time a car or truck drives by, then I guess your nephew got that quirky part right. Appealing, maybe not so much."
Bum ignored his rather disparaging remarks and said, "You know I've started carrying my small water bottle on my resumed walks now, and yes I do take a swallow every time a vehicle goes by, and in addition, I take another swallow every twenty steps I take before I do about 5 shoulder lifts which seem to be helping me straighten my back somewhat."
"That's good, Bum, that you have taken over your own method of fixing your back and I see that it is working a bit, not perfect but a bit, and as I told you before, water is the source of life."
"I know you said that, Bear, but you know I don't particularly like water; it is so tasteless. And, I have never seen so many vehicles go by during my new walking regime. I can hardly make one block before my little bottle of water is empty."
"That's good, again, Bum. Bring a bigger bottle," said Bear.
"No," said Bum, and said no more on that boring subject.
"The third point Paul made under strengths is one you'll like. He said Bear shows himself to be an interesting and unexpected companion and their relationship does deepen and become more caring."
"Interesting is good, Bum, but why does quirky sound more with it? What the hell does quirky mean, anyway?"
"Most people think quirky is someone who is weird or peculiar, but it can be someone who is interesting and unique," said Bum.
Bear looked more annoyed than usual and said, "Paul gave me only one strength and that was interesting, and now you are trying to include it as part of the meaning of quirky."
"I googled the meaning of interesting because I just knew you would give me some grief about my being a fun-loving quirky type and you being only interesting. For your edification, dear Bear, interesting is someone who keeps your attention because he/she is unusual, exciting, and has lots of ideas."
"Oh," said Bear, "then that's OK. What's next on the list?"'
"Paul said there is some snappy and readable dialogue."
"That sounds pretty good. We do walk and we do talk so maybe some is snappy and I hope readable. down the road.," said Bear.
"No argument from me," said Bum.
"Finally," said Bear. "we agree on something. Makes a nice change, doesn't it? What's next for our strengths?"
"This is the last one, Bear. Paul said "there are a number of chuckle-inducing anecdotes," said Bum, and she smiled because this is one of her favourites.
"I hope I have one of the chuckle-inducing anecdotes, Bum, as you seem to be taking all the good strengths'" said Bear peevishly.
"As a matter of fact, Bear, the first one that comes to my mind is your fornicating story, so there," said Bum.
"I apologize, Bum, for jumping to an incorrect conclusion, or should that be assumption," said Bear, trying to placate Bum as best he could.
"May I say Bear how much I like that you apologize when required, so unlike many people who seem unable to do so, even when it is necessary.. You are a gentleman."
"Bum," said Bear, " I care deeply for you. as you do me, and I would never not feel sorry if I hurt you or made you feel I don't care for you. I think this is mutual and it makes us such good friends and companions. I love you."
Bear rested his head against Bum's knee and they sat there in companionable silence for awhile before Bum spoke. "I guess that's where we get that snappy and readable dialogue We both speak our minds and we know there is no malice behind it."
"So true, Bum," said Bear, "now give me my chuckle-inducing anecdote. I've forgotten a lot of it but I do recall I was just a puppy living in a new house with my master. He knew I was skittish and whiny so he let me sleep in his bed in the beginning. He's a very nice, kind man. Did I ever mention that to you?".
"Yes you did," answered Bum. "I remember our conversation about whether he was fornicating when he was looking for a new wife. He either divorced his first wife or she died, I cannot remember. You said he tried out several women because he is a careful man, and then you confirmed that fornicating was the right word because it means two people who are not married to each other having consensual sexual intercourse. If one of the two people are married, it is adultery."
"That's a lot of information, Bear, please continue."
"One night that stands out, I couldn't see what was happening as I was near the foot of the bed as usual. It sounded like someone might be hurt. I got to my feet and moved ever so slowly up the bed. There is some light seeping through the curtained window over the head of the bed. There were arms and legs everywhere and I thought they had a friend over, a sick friend from the sounds."
"That's a good one, Bear. Ha, ha, ha."
"Why are you interrupting the flow of my story, Bum? You don't let me do that to you."
"I am so very sorry, Bear. Please accept my apologies and please continue."
"OK, where was I?" said Bear. "I'm moving up the bed and there are legs everywhere. Suddenly, out of the gloom there is a bum, Bum."
"A bum bum?" said Bum. "More than one?"
"A bum, comma Bum," and now Bear is looking annoyed.
"Oh, sorry again to interrupt. It was a surprise."
.
"Anyway, a bum rose up before me, dappled by the moon's rays. It was my master's bum and it was all aquiver. I was a pup, so I nipped."
"You nipped his bum?"said Bum in astonishment.
"Yes, and a great groan emanated from him, and I heard these words, OOH ARTOOOS before he collapsed flat out. It was odd, because suddenly I was enfolded in loving arms, 4 of them I think, and it was lovely, my fur against hot skin. I'd never felt so loved."
"That is such a great anecdote, Bear. I too must've had a chuckle-inducing anecdote in that big book I wrote but for the life of me I cannot bring to mind, even one. Maybe I'm tired or worse, losing my memory."
"What about that wet kiss one, Bum. I found it quite amusing, as did your boyfriend, Gordon when you told him.."
"It happened many years ago when I worked as a stenographer at the Parliament Buildings in Toronto. The department was called Public Works, I believe, and I worked for about eight men who travelled the Province to find and expropriate private properties for the government. Neil Gillis was the boss and was considered quite a catch around the building."
"Did you catch him, Bum?"
"No," said Bum.
"Is he the wet kisser?" asked Bear.
"Yes," said Bum succinctly. She really is overusing that word, as Bear already told her.
This is where Gordon interjected with "So, where did this infamous wet kiss occur?"
"Neil had a small staff gathering at his apartment. I believe it was Christmas, and he kissed me, for Christmas I guess. It was simply awful. It was so wet, and I've never forgotten it."
"You seem to like the moist kisses I give you."
"I do, Gordon," I said. "You know I do. But, and this is a big but, there's moist and then there's a deluge."
"It sounds like a French kiss," murmured Gordon, trying not to laugh.
"He wasn't French, Gordon, "I think he was Welsh."
"That's funny, Bum," said Bear, "and isn't it funny that both of our chuckle-inducing anecdotes are about sex."
"Bear, if you can't have a bit of fun about sex, what else don't you have fun with. What a bore a person like that is."
"That's not us, Bum," said Bear.
"No," said Bum, succinctly.
.
Sunday, December 8, 2019
STORY ANALYSIS
"Good morning, Bear. Good to have you back. How did your visit go with your master. I guess he had lots to say about that course he's giving."
"Too much," said Bear, and said no more. Maybe he feels like I do when someone asks you if you want to see their daughter's wedding pictures and then pulls out three huge albums. At the end of this tiring task, you never want to meet the daughter and her mother's presence ever again, is questionable.
"Before we get on to Paul's Story Analysis, let me sit here and enjoy this cigarette, using my little goat ashtray. I won't walk today because I have to go over town with Frances. She has a meeting with a lawyer about copywrite of the letters she is trying to publish.. We'll park at the Bay and I'll walk her over to the lawyers and then walk back to this place called Sephora, a half block away from Granville Street, where I believe they sell that Rihanna lip cream I like and am now out of. That should do it for the walk and I can meet Frances at our usual spot on the 3rd floor of the Bay near the coffee shop." I puffed away and Bear said nothing about this information, I guess he's still annoyed with his master.
Finally Bear spoke. "I read your two profiles, Bum, and enjoyed them very much. Your friend, Bill, sounds like a real character and the one about your sister was very charming. I'm not sure I agree with your sister, Frances, that they are profiles and not short stories. They seemed short to me and they are stories I wonder what Alice Munro thought of them. She's the great short story teller."
"In my wildest imagination, dear Bear, I do not think Alice Munro is reading our blog. Jesuit Priest!! I've heard everything now."
"Your language is deteriorating, Bum. You seem to curse a lot lately," said Bear in that disapproving tone he uses.
"My sister said the same thing to me the other day and I asked her what the fuck did she know about it?"
"Charming," said Bear.
"You told me once, Bear, that you found yourself cursing more as you got older" said Bum in retaliation.
"In my defence, Bum, I try to keep my cursing to myself and not bombard unsuspecting people with it."
"Bully for you, Bear, but you don't have as much to curse about as I do. My medical situation is giving me grief, the doctors are useless, and I've lost my youthful walk, and worst of all, my strength which, granted, I took for granted, as do all young people. They have no idea what awaits them in their goddam golden years."
"Promise me, Bum, that you will try very hard to curse to yourself, like I do," said Bear.
"OK, Bear, I will do my very best," promised Bum.
Bear seemed satisfied with my response.
"We'd best get back to the Story Analysis which Paul wrote. This is what he said and I quote."
"The heroine archetype of Janey Lennox is Spunky Kid (Working Girl) - Heroes & Heroines, pp. 65-69. The hero archetype of Artos/Bear is either a Best Friend (Confident) - Heroes & Heroines pp. 16-20, or a Bad Boy (From the Wrong Side of the Tracks) - Heroes & Heroines pp. 10-15. It might be more interesting if his character were moved in the direction of this latter, Bad Boy. But even if he's a Best Friend it can still work, it may even be possible to combine these archetypes. The character Gordon is a Best Friend (Mr. Nice Guy) Heroes & Heroines pp. 16-20.
In terms of the actual plot, it is a fantasy story and a love story, maybe two love stories. Or perhaps it's a Tragedy of a sort, since right now it has a sad ending. As written, the plot is not really developed. In the end the lovers are separated as in Casablanca, but, unlike Casablanca, there is no higher reason or meaning in this sacrifice. Gordon has family commitments that call him away, and that's it. The story should have a higher reason or meaning in order to reach its potential. It should have a point to make.
Right now the story is saying, in effect, something like "Love takes a long time to find, and if you do find it, it is quickly snatched away. Alone again, naturally."
"Paul's a bit of a downer, isn't he Bum?" suggested Bear. "And, I am not a Bad Boy, stereotypical or not, and you can tell him that for me. And, before I leave my diatribe about stereotypes, I don't see Gordon as Best Friend (Mr. Nice Guy), Doesn't Paul know that stereotyping people, or dogs, is a type of prejudice because what is on the outside is a small part of who a person, or a dog, is."
Bum thought a moment and then said, "Perhaps he's too young to appreciate or understand a love affair between two older people. For God's sake, Gordon was closer to 90 than anything else so of course he wasn't going to ride off into the sunset with his beloved Janey and live happily ever after."
"That is true, Bum. People get old and they die, that is the nature of things. I wouldn't call it a tragedy, particularly if they had a special piece of happiness before the end. And, all that baloney about Casablanca and the higher meaning or whatever is all very well when you're young and eager to save the world. Your world and Gordon's is more or less on the wane., and saving the world would be beyond your ability or desire. You've lived your life, let that be an end of it. The real Gordon is dead now but you have let him live on in memory."
"Nicely said, Bear. I must go and attend to my ablutions, have some lunch, and take my sister downtown for her one hour meeting with that new lawyer Paul found to help with her project, her friends's love letters.".
"Will I see you later in the day, Bum? I'd like to hear about your big walk to that lawyer's office."
"Yes, we should be back in lots of time for me to make our martinis so I'll meet you then," said Bum.
"Good," said Bear. "I know how important it is for you and your sister to have your martinis at 5:00 o'clock sharp each day. It seems to me this 5:00 o'clock deadline is the only one you meet, on time I mean."
Bum gave him a dirty look and left.
Our drive downtown was pretty uneventful, very light traffic for a change, and no pedestrians popping out without warning in front of the car, and not so much construction on the sides of many roads as is usual. I turned on Cambie Street as usual, made my way to Seymour Street and, a couple of blocks later, right into The Bay to park. We were later than usual so had to pay a higher parking fee, and it has to be paid by credit card (no coins allowed anymore) which I object to most strenuously. Diamond Parking, I believe it's called, and they have taken over North America or perhaps the world. Bastards I said to myself, bearing in mind my promise to Bear.
We had lots of time before Frances had to meet Paul at the lawyer's at Homer & Georgia so we strolled through the Bay checking out the latest fashions which we should not buy because we are downsizing, and eventually reached street level. The cosmetic counters held us up for a bit just in case we could get a few free samples. No luck today. My leg is starting to act up a bit so I'm hoping it's not too far to the lawyer's office . It was. I rested up in the reception area there while Frances waited for Paul. That helped as the pain goes away when I'm sitting.
I left the lawyer's office and turned left a block down to Dunsmuir. It took forever and they never have a bench to sit on. I turned left and started my long treck back to The Bay. The first block wasn't too bad if you don't mind pain and discomfort in your hips. The second block seemed endless but I was able to lean against a few walls which helped. The next block was empty of pedestrians and benches or walls. There's an old hotel on the corner so I thought I'd stop and go in for a coffee. It was boarded up, and had been for some time if the look told you anything. Anyway, I stumbled on and half way down that dreary, empty, street, I said "Where is fucking Granville Street?" A voice from the empty street said "Fucking Granville Street is a block away." A young fellow in quiet shoes must've overtaken me. "I am so very sorry." I said. "That' s OK," he said. "I've heard worse." and off he ambled in the loose limbed way young people have.
I told Bear my big walk story when I got home. I left out the "fucking Granville Street bit" for obvious reasons.
.
.
,
.
"Too much," said Bear, and said no more. Maybe he feels like I do when someone asks you if you want to see their daughter's wedding pictures and then pulls out three huge albums. At the end of this tiring task, you never want to meet the daughter and her mother's presence ever again, is questionable.
"Before we get on to Paul's Story Analysis, let me sit here and enjoy this cigarette, using my little goat ashtray. I won't walk today because I have to go over town with Frances. She has a meeting with a lawyer about copywrite of the letters she is trying to publish.. We'll park at the Bay and I'll walk her over to the lawyers and then walk back to this place called Sephora, a half block away from Granville Street, where I believe they sell that Rihanna lip cream I like and am now out of. That should do it for the walk and I can meet Frances at our usual spot on the 3rd floor of the Bay near the coffee shop." I puffed away and Bear said nothing about this information, I guess he's still annoyed with his master.
Finally Bear spoke. "I read your two profiles, Bum, and enjoyed them very much. Your friend, Bill, sounds like a real character and the one about your sister was very charming. I'm not sure I agree with your sister, Frances, that they are profiles and not short stories. They seemed short to me and they are stories I wonder what Alice Munro thought of them. She's the great short story teller."
"In my wildest imagination, dear Bear, I do not think Alice Munro is reading our blog. Jesuit Priest!! I've heard everything now."
"Your language is deteriorating, Bum. You seem to curse a lot lately," said Bear in that disapproving tone he uses.
"My sister said the same thing to me the other day and I asked her what the fuck did she know about it?"
"Charming," said Bear.
"You told me once, Bear, that you found yourself cursing more as you got older" said Bum in retaliation.
"In my defence, Bum, I try to keep my cursing to myself and not bombard unsuspecting people with it."
"Bully for you, Bear, but you don't have as much to curse about as I do. My medical situation is giving me grief, the doctors are useless, and I've lost my youthful walk, and worst of all, my strength which, granted, I took for granted, as do all young people. They have no idea what awaits them in their goddam golden years."
"Promise me, Bum, that you will try very hard to curse to yourself, like I do," said Bear.
"OK, Bear, I will do my very best," promised Bum.
Bear seemed satisfied with my response.
"We'd best get back to the Story Analysis which Paul wrote. This is what he said and I quote."
"The heroine archetype of Janey Lennox is Spunky Kid (Working Girl) - Heroes & Heroines, pp. 65-69. The hero archetype of Artos/Bear is either a Best Friend (Confident) - Heroes & Heroines pp. 16-20, or a Bad Boy (From the Wrong Side of the Tracks) - Heroes & Heroines pp. 10-15. It might be more interesting if his character were moved in the direction of this latter, Bad Boy. But even if he's a Best Friend it can still work, it may even be possible to combine these archetypes. The character Gordon is a Best Friend (Mr. Nice Guy) Heroes & Heroines pp. 16-20.
In terms of the actual plot, it is a fantasy story and a love story, maybe two love stories. Or perhaps it's a Tragedy of a sort, since right now it has a sad ending. As written, the plot is not really developed. In the end the lovers are separated as in Casablanca, but, unlike Casablanca, there is no higher reason or meaning in this sacrifice. Gordon has family commitments that call him away, and that's it. The story should have a higher reason or meaning in order to reach its potential. It should have a point to make.
Right now the story is saying, in effect, something like "Love takes a long time to find, and if you do find it, it is quickly snatched away. Alone again, naturally."
"Paul's a bit of a downer, isn't he Bum?" suggested Bear. "And, I am not a Bad Boy, stereotypical or not, and you can tell him that for me. And, before I leave my diatribe about stereotypes, I don't see Gordon as Best Friend (Mr. Nice Guy), Doesn't Paul know that stereotyping people, or dogs, is a type of prejudice because what is on the outside is a small part of who a person, or a dog, is."
Bum thought a moment and then said, "Perhaps he's too young to appreciate or understand a love affair between two older people. For God's sake, Gordon was closer to 90 than anything else so of course he wasn't going to ride off into the sunset with his beloved Janey and live happily ever after."
"That is true, Bum. People get old and they die, that is the nature of things. I wouldn't call it a tragedy, particularly if they had a special piece of happiness before the end. And, all that baloney about Casablanca and the higher meaning or whatever is all very well when you're young and eager to save the world. Your world and Gordon's is more or less on the wane., and saving the world would be beyond your ability or desire. You've lived your life, let that be an end of it. The real Gordon is dead now but you have let him live on in memory."
"Nicely said, Bear. I must go and attend to my ablutions, have some lunch, and take my sister downtown for her one hour meeting with that new lawyer Paul found to help with her project, her friends's love letters.".
"Will I see you later in the day, Bum? I'd like to hear about your big walk to that lawyer's office."
"Yes, we should be back in lots of time for me to make our martinis so I'll meet you then," said Bum.
"Good," said Bear. "I know how important it is for you and your sister to have your martinis at 5:00 o'clock sharp each day. It seems to me this 5:00 o'clock deadline is the only one you meet, on time I mean."
Bum gave him a dirty look and left.
Our drive downtown was pretty uneventful, very light traffic for a change, and no pedestrians popping out without warning in front of the car, and not so much construction on the sides of many roads as is usual. I turned on Cambie Street as usual, made my way to Seymour Street and, a couple of blocks later, right into The Bay to park. We were later than usual so had to pay a higher parking fee, and it has to be paid by credit card (no coins allowed anymore) which I object to most strenuously. Diamond Parking, I believe it's called, and they have taken over North America or perhaps the world. Bastards I said to myself, bearing in mind my promise to Bear.
We had lots of time before Frances had to meet Paul at the lawyer's at Homer & Georgia so we strolled through the Bay checking out the latest fashions which we should not buy because we are downsizing, and eventually reached street level. The cosmetic counters held us up for a bit just in case we could get a few free samples. No luck today. My leg is starting to act up a bit so I'm hoping it's not too far to the lawyer's office . It was. I rested up in the reception area there while Frances waited for Paul. That helped as the pain goes away when I'm sitting.
I left the lawyer's office and turned left a block down to Dunsmuir. It took forever and they never have a bench to sit on. I turned left and started my long treck back to The Bay. The first block wasn't too bad if you don't mind pain and discomfort in your hips. The second block seemed endless but I was able to lean against a few walls which helped. The next block was empty of pedestrians and benches or walls. There's an old hotel on the corner so I thought I'd stop and go in for a coffee. It was boarded up, and had been for some time if the look told you anything. Anyway, I stumbled on and half way down that dreary, empty, street, I said "Where is fucking Granville Street?" A voice from the empty street said "Fucking Granville Street is a block away." A young fellow in quiet shoes must've overtaken me. "I am so very sorry." I said. "That' s OK," he said. "I've heard worse." and off he ambled in the loose limbed way young people have.
I told Bear my big walk story when I got home. I left out the "fucking Granville Street bit" for obvious reasons.
.
.
,
.
Friday, November 29, 2019
MY FRIEND PATSY
was my sister. She was a year and a bit older than I, but she died a few years ago and I caught up.
We grew up in a little town in Ontario, the inaugural home of the Mariposa Folk Festival. Dad was adamant that we stay away from those going-ons as he called them. Patsy and I weren't too sure what he meant so we went downtown to find out. It was absolutely glorious. There were masses of people roaming up and down the main street, cars too. They were mostly convertibles filled with very interesting people of every description. Some had big wild bushy hair festooned with feathers and what looked like jewels, some more modest but with painted faces. We had never seen anything like it in good old staid Orillia where you couldn't even wear shorts downtown or face getting arrested. If these were going-ons, we wanted to get going.
The Festival took place over a weekend, from my recollection, but the talk about it lasted quite a bit longer. We heard Dad tell Mom that he had heard that several young women in town had likely been impregnated in the field opposite the Schmidt farm where some of the Festival festivities were being held. Patsy and I weren't too sure what impregnated meant but it sounded dire, according to Dad. We were young but not yet women, so we thought we'd be alright.
The biggest affront to the town was to the Samuel de Champlain monument which had been standing in Couchiching Park for many years. Some rogue had placed a bottle of beer in old Champlain's hand. There was quite the uproar about that deed. Why, I do not know. Dad always had a bottle of beer in his hand.
Patsy had a friend, Carol, who lived across the street from us. Carol didn't care much for me but I was often with Patsy so she put up with me. Carol's Mom, Dot, was a bit of a gadabout. She dressed up in outfits of many colours, all with matching high heeled shoes. With her blue dress, she wore the blue shoes, with her purple dress, she wore the purple shoes, and so on. Patsy, Carol, and I would parade around Carol's house in the many coloured shoes when Dot was out. It was so much fun, clumping around in those beautiful shoes, although they were too big of course.
Mom didn't have much good to say about Dot. I heard her tell Dad that Dot ran around on Aiden, her husband, but I'd never seen Dot running, certainly not in those high heeled shoes.
Patsy and I got a paper route together. We talked Dad into it and it wasn't easy. He said two twerps like us had no right to be paper girls, and he was right. We were the worst. We left the papers outside in the rain. We threw away the wettest ones. We didn't deliver the dry ones to anyone we didn't like. When we collected the money, and some of them wouldn't pay because they hadn't received all the papers, we spent it at the Dairy Queen. We were fired eventually and we were glad, although Dad was a bit mad about the whole thing, and nagged about it for many weeks, or was it months.
Patsy, Carol and I went to high school together. One of us had been in the speeder class and therefore was one year ahead. It must've been me because I was younger and we three attended high school the same year. Carol and I were in the same class because we both wanted to type our way into a career in an office. Patsy took another class. She had no interest in typing. Carol and I hung around together between classes. She put up with me because no one else liked her. I was better than nothing.
We all grew up, as people tend to do. I got a job at an insurance agency in town. Patsy, I believe, worked across the street at the Fish and Chip place, and Carol managed to obtain a clerk job at a somewhat posh dress shop a block away on the main street. I kept to insurance for the rest of my working life, Carol remained interested in beautiful clothes, but Patsy changed direction and began to run a Dry Cleaning outfit in town. She did well there and organized the business into a prosperous, well-run one. Patsy had always been a bit bossy as a child so that held her in good stead in the Dry Cleaning business.
Being young women, the three of us started to cast our eyes around for young men. Slim pickings in Orillia until two handsome mounties came on the scene. They lived in a flat upstairs from the insurance agency where I worked so I had ready access to them. Nothing came of that access, but we did become friends. A few years later, I moved to the city and started a new life there and never looked back to good old Orillia. Carol married some unsuspecting individual but it didn't last. Patsy was the lucky one of we three. She met a handsome bus driver in town and eventually they married and lived happily ever after. One out of three isn't bad.
We grew up in a little town in Ontario, the inaugural home of the Mariposa Folk Festival. Dad was adamant that we stay away from those going-ons as he called them. Patsy and I weren't too sure what he meant so we went downtown to find out. It was absolutely glorious. There were masses of people roaming up and down the main street, cars too. They were mostly convertibles filled with very interesting people of every description. Some had big wild bushy hair festooned with feathers and what looked like jewels, some more modest but with painted faces. We had never seen anything like it in good old staid Orillia where you couldn't even wear shorts downtown or face getting arrested. If these were going-ons, we wanted to get going.
The Festival took place over a weekend, from my recollection, but the talk about it lasted quite a bit longer. We heard Dad tell Mom that he had heard that several young women in town had likely been impregnated in the field opposite the Schmidt farm where some of the Festival festivities were being held. Patsy and I weren't too sure what impregnated meant but it sounded dire, according to Dad. We were young but not yet women, so we thought we'd be alright.
The biggest affront to the town was to the Samuel de Champlain monument which had been standing in Couchiching Park for many years. Some rogue had placed a bottle of beer in old Champlain's hand. There was quite the uproar about that deed. Why, I do not know. Dad always had a bottle of beer in his hand.
Patsy had a friend, Carol, who lived across the street from us. Carol didn't care much for me but I was often with Patsy so she put up with me. Carol's Mom, Dot, was a bit of a gadabout. She dressed up in outfits of many colours, all with matching high heeled shoes. With her blue dress, she wore the blue shoes, with her purple dress, she wore the purple shoes, and so on. Patsy, Carol, and I would parade around Carol's house in the many coloured shoes when Dot was out. It was so much fun, clumping around in those beautiful shoes, although they were too big of course.
Mom didn't have much good to say about Dot. I heard her tell Dad that Dot ran around on Aiden, her husband, but I'd never seen Dot running, certainly not in those high heeled shoes.
Patsy and I got a paper route together. We talked Dad into it and it wasn't easy. He said two twerps like us had no right to be paper girls, and he was right. We were the worst. We left the papers outside in the rain. We threw away the wettest ones. We didn't deliver the dry ones to anyone we didn't like. When we collected the money, and some of them wouldn't pay because they hadn't received all the papers, we spent it at the Dairy Queen. We were fired eventually and we were glad, although Dad was a bit mad about the whole thing, and nagged about it for many weeks, or was it months.
Patsy, Carol and I went to high school together. One of us had been in the speeder class and therefore was one year ahead. It must've been me because I was younger and we three attended high school the same year. Carol and I were in the same class because we both wanted to type our way into a career in an office. Patsy took another class. She had no interest in typing. Carol and I hung around together between classes. She put up with me because no one else liked her. I was better than nothing.
We all grew up, as people tend to do. I got a job at an insurance agency in town. Patsy, I believe, worked across the street at the Fish and Chip place, and Carol managed to obtain a clerk job at a somewhat posh dress shop a block away on the main street. I kept to insurance for the rest of my working life, Carol remained interested in beautiful clothes, but Patsy changed direction and began to run a Dry Cleaning outfit in town. She did well there and organized the business into a prosperous, well-run one. Patsy had always been a bit bossy as a child so that held her in good stead in the Dry Cleaning business.
Being young women, the three of us started to cast our eyes around for young men. Slim pickings in Orillia until two handsome mounties came on the scene. They lived in a flat upstairs from the insurance agency where I worked so I had ready access to them. Nothing came of that access, but we did become friends. A few years later, I moved to the city and started a new life there and never looked back to good old Orillia. Carol married some unsuspecting individual but it didn't last. Patsy was the lucky one of we three. She met a handsome bus driver in town and eventually they married and lived happily ever after. One out of three isn't bad.
Thursday, November 28, 2019
MY FRIEND BILL
is nuts. We met years ago in our early twenties, Bill younger than I, as he mentioned ad nauseam over the many years of our friendship. I even have it in writing. One birthday card said "Happy Birthday. How do you think I feel having a friend as old as you?"
Government insurance came to British Columbia and that is where Bill and I met, a bunch of us milling around in the Personnel department where duties were being explained about the new car insurance system and suitable departments for each and everyone of us. Tall, dark and handsome Bill was not, but he was tall and talked to all and sundry without restraint. I was shy and wished I could be like him. Perhaps that is why I let a touch of meanness enter my comment about Bill's looks. Bill was tall, blonde and handsome and I should've said so up front. We were assigned to the same department, Underwriting, and spent months on end reading and re-reading the new Autoplan manual, a dry read of course; insurance isn't that exciting at the best of times.
To while away our empty days, we scrambled to take more than our turn making big vats of coffee for the entire floor. It was a big floor in the Royal Centre skyscraper and it contained a lot of people. Into the big floor, filled with dry and dusty people, the remnants of their previous employment in the grimness of private insurance, flew a bird of paradise in the form of my soon-to-be friend, Bill.
Bill entertained some of us by drawing cartoon-like sketches of us which we enjoyed very much. He had a gift. Years later after he left insurance, he attended Arts School in Alberta. My bird had flown.
I like clothes because I had none growing up. The first one up in the morning, dressed with the best of what was available. I've always liked to sleep in. Bill also liked good clothes. Price was no object and he had an elegant look whatever the type of garb. He had the best jeans, expensive and cut to perfection, lovely jackets of many colours, and of course shirts and sweaters to match. Whether dressed in well-cut trousers or the expensive designer jeans, he wore everything with panache. He looked like a person from the manor born, although I know he wasn't.
Bill was and is very extreme, whether it's eating too much, or not at all, smoking too much, or not at all, having a good time in any situation, no matter how bizarre, or so down in the dumps, you'd think he'd never climb out. But, he does. He's like a blazing fire sometimes and then is reduced to a glowing coal.
When Bill's in the eating-too-much phase, he says things like "I bought a big box of cookies and inhaled them when I got home." When he's in the not-eating-phase, usually after a visit from his mother who has a weight problem, he eats nothing, attends a gym, and the pounds melt away like magic. It's not magic of course, it's starvation. Recently, Bill e-mailed my sister about a weight gain he did not like. He said his stomach looked like a belted marshmallow.
Bill was always irreverent around the insurance office where we worked. Most of our co-workers liked it because they were a dull bunch, but my friend Fay didn't like his comment about a lovely sweater she was wearing. Bill said, "I like that sweater. It clings to you like a frightened monkey." I don't think Fay ever got over that comment and started wearing blouses.
Bill was and is a clean freak. There is no dirt or disorder he cannot handle. He is German so perhaps that accounts for it. He lived in a high-rise apartment building in the West End. If an unexpected visitor rang him from the lobby, he vacuumed his entire flat before they arrived on the 6th floor.
My sister and I took many road trips, while Bill preferred holidays in far, exotic places. He always stayed at the most expensive hotels and ate the finest foods. He had a small problem as he got older. He had a fear of flying. He convinced his doctor, and I sense nagging helped, to give him some powerful sedatives to take for the to-and-from trip to Brazil where some of his relatives lived. I hoped they weren't old Nazis but then I didn't like to ask. Anyway, Bill got on the plane and quaffed down all of the pills with a large brandy. He almost missed Brazil.
Bill and I and my sister met over the years for certain occasions. We liked to get together for the Academy Awards and had so much fun trashing the contestants and the guests. No one's dress, suit, hairdo, or figure were exempt from our caustic comments. It was so much fun. New Year's was another event. None of us had dates, so we met, drank big martinis and whatever food we could scrounge up. Bill dropped by one Halloween wearing a curly black wig and a big red nose. He said he was the trick and we were the treats.
So many fun times but I'll never forget Bill's favourite. We were blasting over the Lion's Gate bridge in Bill's TR something sports car. He decided to roll the top back which was most inconvenient for me who was riding in the back. When he looked back and saw me engulfed in the convertible top, he laughed so hard he could barely make it over the bridge to find a place to stop. He never let me forget that incident although I didn't think it was that funny.
Bill has been painting for years and continues to do so when he gets some inspiration. We have a couple of his pictures mounted prominently in our dining room where we spend so much time. My sister and Bill are in contact all the time by e-mail. I'm not into e-mail but I get to read his funny missives.
So many years have passed and so many memories to relive when the mood takes me. I found some old cards from Bill, sent over the years, and see that he has continued to harp on my great age. One example I particularly like, shows a dreadful picture of me ironing, while drinking martinis, wine bottles and full ashtrays strewn around the floor, and his comment in bold letters -- NO MATTER HOW OLD I GET, I'LL NEVER BE AS OLD AS YOU.
He's got that right, of course; I'll probably kill him. I love Bill.
Government insurance came to British Columbia and that is where Bill and I met, a bunch of us milling around in the Personnel department where duties were being explained about the new car insurance system and suitable departments for each and everyone of us. Tall, dark and handsome Bill was not, but he was tall and talked to all and sundry without restraint. I was shy and wished I could be like him. Perhaps that is why I let a touch of meanness enter my comment about Bill's looks. Bill was tall, blonde and handsome and I should've said so up front. We were assigned to the same department, Underwriting, and spent months on end reading and re-reading the new Autoplan manual, a dry read of course; insurance isn't that exciting at the best of times.
To while away our empty days, we scrambled to take more than our turn making big vats of coffee for the entire floor. It was a big floor in the Royal Centre skyscraper and it contained a lot of people. Into the big floor, filled with dry and dusty people, the remnants of their previous employment in the grimness of private insurance, flew a bird of paradise in the form of my soon-to-be friend, Bill.
Bill entertained some of us by drawing cartoon-like sketches of us which we enjoyed very much. He had a gift. Years later after he left insurance, he attended Arts School in Alberta. My bird had flown.
I like clothes because I had none growing up. The first one up in the morning, dressed with the best of what was available. I've always liked to sleep in. Bill also liked good clothes. Price was no object and he had an elegant look whatever the type of garb. He had the best jeans, expensive and cut to perfection, lovely jackets of many colours, and of course shirts and sweaters to match. Whether dressed in well-cut trousers or the expensive designer jeans, he wore everything with panache. He looked like a person from the manor born, although I know he wasn't.
Bill was and is very extreme, whether it's eating too much, or not at all, smoking too much, or not at all, having a good time in any situation, no matter how bizarre, or so down in the dumps, you'd think he'd never climb out. But, he does. He's like a blazing fire sometimes and then is reduced to a glowing coal.
When Bill's in the eating-too-much phase, he says things like "I bought a big box of cookies and inhaled them when I got home." When he's in the not-eating-phase, usually after a visit from his mother who has a weight problem, he eats nothing, attends a gym, and the pounds melt away like magic. It's not magic of course, it's starvation. Recently, Bill e-mailed my sister about a weight gain he did not like. He said his stomach looked like a belted marshmallow.
Bill was always irreverent around the insurance office where we worked. Most of our co-workers liked it because they were a dull bunch, but my friend Fay didn't like his comment about a lovely sweater she was wearing. Bill said, "I like that sweater. It clings to you like a frightened monkey." I don't think Fay ever got over that comment and started wearing blouses.
Bill was and is a clean freak. There is no dirt or disorder he cannot handle. He is German so perhaps that accounts for it. He lived in a high-rise apartment building in the West End. If an unexpected visitor rang him from the lobby, he vacuumed his entire flat before they arrived on the 6th floor.
My sister and I took many road trips, while Bill preferred holidays in far, exotic places. He always stayed at the most expensive hotels and ate the finest foods. He had a small problem as he got older. He had a fear of flying. He convinced his doctor, and I sense nagging helped, to give him some powerful sedatives to take for the to-and-from trip to Brazil where some of his relatives lived. I hoped they weren't old Nazis but then I didn't like to ask. Anyway, Bill got on the plane and quaffed down all of the pills with a large brandy. He almost missed Brazil.
Bill and I and my sister met over the years for certain occasions. We liked to get together for the Academy Awards and had so much fun trashing the contestants and the guests. No one's dress, suit, hairdo, or figure were exempt from our caustic comments. It was so much fun. New Year's was another event. None of us had dates, so we met, drank big martinis and whatever food we could scrounge up. Bill dropped by one Halloween wearing a curly black wig and a big red nose. He said he was the trick and we were the treats.
So many fun times but I'll never forget Bill's favourite. We were blasting over the Lion's Gate bridge in Bill's TR something sports car. He decided to roll the top back which was most inconvenient for me who was riding in the back. When he looked back and saw me engulfed in the convertible top, he laughed so hard he could barely make it over the bridge to find a place to stop. He never let me forget that incident although I didn't think it was that funny.
Bill has been painting for years and continues to do so when he gets some inspiration. We have a couple of his pictures mounted prominently in our dining room where we spend so much time. My sister and Bill are in contact all the time by e-mail. I'm not into e-mail but I get to read his funny missives.
So many years have passed and so many memories to relive when the mood takes me. I found some old cards from Bill, sent over the years, and see that he has continued to harp on my great age. One example I particularly like, shows a dreadful picture of me ironing, while drinking martinis, wine bottles and full ashtrays strewn around the floor, and his comment in bold letters -- NO MATTER HOW OLD I GET, I'LL NEVER BE AS OLD AS YOU.
He's got that right, of course; I'll probably kill him. I love Bill.
Monday, November 25, 2019
RESPITE
"I love that word respite, Bum," said Bear from his sprawling position on his front with his lovely head resting on his front paws. We were outside in my carport and it was early morning.
"Do you know what that word means, Bear?" asked Bum.
"Indeed I do," responded Bear. "You know I don't use words I don't know."
"I thought we needed a short period of rest or relief from something difficult or unpleasant, like the difficulties we had with Story Structure," said Bum.
"So, Bum, you tell me the meaning of respite, just in case I don't know its meaning, even though I told you I know." Bear looked very annoyed.
"I am sorry, Bear. That was thoughtless of me and I can only say in my defence that a lot of people, or dogs, don't know that word."
"OK then," said Bear. "It's nice out here and you can rest your sore leg by sitting on that raised bit in front of your car. By the way, where is your Silver Saturn?"
"It conked out and we had to buy this Mini as a replacement, and very nice it is, don't you think?"
"Yes, I like the racing stripes and the fog lights, which you've probably not figured out if I know you, and the skylight is a nice touch."
Bum ignored the bit about the fog lights because it is true.
"That's a very small ashtray next to you. Is that a picture of a goat I see inside it?" asked Bear.
"Yes, it is a small Welsh goat and yes it is a small ashtray because I usually only have one cigarette when I come out here in the morning to place the garbage in the can, spread the recycleds in their various boxes and bags, empty the car ashtray, and check that I have enough cigarettes in the car for the day if I need them when I'm going somewhere. Is that enough information for you, old nosy one?"
"Yes, that about covers it," said Bear. He made no mention of my smoking because he knows it annoys me.
"With my pinched nerve in my back and my sore leg and my inability to walk, I smoke and drink as much as I want, and to hell with it, and the medical profession," said Bum. She couldn't help feeling familiar annoyance with him as she turned away from him.
"Where are you going?" asked Bear from his prone position.
"For a walk," Bum said succinctly.
"I thought you couldn't walk on that sore leg," said Bear.
"Take note of this date, Bear, November 19, 2019, the day I start walking again. The other day, the doc said walking would be good for me and I should never have stopped."
"He could've said that months ago, Bum," said Bear in disapproval.
"I agree, Bear, but he said it now, but only after I asked him, for bloody hell's sake, so let's go."
They left the driveway slowly, crossed the street slowly, watching for cars of course, and reached the sidewalk on the other side.
"How's the leg?" asked Bear.
"Good so far, Bear. Perhaps the valium I had before I left is helping. I forgot to take it last night before bed, so I took it this morning," responded Bum.
"Did you bring your little book, like you used to do when we were writing our book, Bum?"
"Yes," said Bum, succinctly. She loves that word. Her friend Sandy used it to describe Jackie's writing style when she emailed Jackie yesterday.
They reached the top of the hill where Bum likes to perch and jot down a few thoughts, if she has any.
Bear asked, "How's our blog coming along?"
"Slowly," said Bum.
"Why's that?" asked Bear.
"As you know, Paul set up a blog for me called editingwithmyimaginarydog.blogspot.com and placed a lovely picture of you on its front. My niece, Mara, found the picture for me and it is perfect. The heading on the blog is Bear With Me, so it is fitting, don't you think?"
"I like it, Bum. So, did anyone have a gander at it?"
"No," said Bum. "I tried googling the name several times but it could not be found. Try the exact spelling, Google told me, but nothing worked. In desperation, I contacted Paul and he said it's probably because there are no posts on it so search engines are not picking it up."
"So, what did you do, Bum?"
"I posted a note about who I am and how I met you and called you Bear which is an old Celtic word for Artos, which is your real name."
"Did that work?" asked Bear.
"No, so I asked you to post something, which you did, explaining why you call me Bum. I thought that would do it."
"Did it?" asked Bear.
"No," said Bum succinctly.
"I think you're overusing that word succinct, Bum, just because you like it," said Bear snidely.
"Whatever," said Bum, succinctly, not that put out.
"So, Bum, whatever did you do, or more likely, what did Paul do? He was all gung ho to get you a blog which he thought was important to proceed with our book."
"Correct, Bear. He pinned it to the front of his Facebook with a note to the effect that I was his aunt and had written an unusual book, etc."
"Did that work?" asked Bear.
"A bit, he told me," said Bum. "He said he got about 23 hits which is more than he usually gets from one of his posts, and it was within a 24 hour period."
"That's very encouraging, Bum," said Bear looking quite pleased. "Did he get any comments?"
"We got our very first comment, Bear. It was from a woman called Phyllis; I won't use her last name just in case she is a private person; from Lower Nicola B.C., wherever that is."
"What did she say, Bum?"
"She said, and I quote, she is funny, liked that, and this is a beautiful dog, of course,"
"What an intelligent and insightful woman, Bum. I am so pleased she found me beautiful, high praise indeed."
"I too am pleased she found me funny, and you beautiful because you are."
"I'm funny," responded Bear looking a bit disgruntled.
"I know you're funny, Bear. Who knows better. But, there are two of us on the blog, so let that be the end of it. We don't want to bicker over our very first comment, and put Phyllis off making other comments."
"You're right, of course, Bum. I'm sorry."
"Any other comments on our blog?" Bear continued. "Surely it deserved more than one."
"As I already told you, there was a problem accessing the blog, and adding posts as suggested by Paul, didn't help. Paul's wife, Kim, tried to make a comment on one of the posts and that wouldn't work either. I don't know what the problem is and I'll have to get Paul involved."
"Anyway, because nothing seemed to be working, my sister sent a link to our blog to our old friend, Bill, who lives on the Island. He wrote back and said, 'having known Jackie for so long but not really knowing her at all, makes the blog so very interesting. I love it when someone slowly shows a side of themselves that they've kept hidden for so long, unless they're a psychopath. I wouldn't love that, Ha!'
"He compared you to a psychopath, Bum. Some friend."
"I don't think he's comparing me to a psychopath, it's just his way of writing."
"He should work on his writing skills," said Bear, "and don't use the word psychopath in a sentence describing you."
"Don't worry about it, Bear. I have written a piece about him and intend to post it next on our blog. As a matter of fact, many months ago when Alice Munro won a huge prize for her short stories, I thought I'd try my hand at short stories which I have always loved and read all my life. I wrote two short stories, intending to call my book My Friends. The first one was about Bill and the second one about my sister Patsy. I let my sister read them as I value her opinion. She said they're not really short stories but rather Profiles. I looked up profiles on google and they seem to be about famous people. My friends are not famous, except to me, so I ditched the short story project. Anyway, I'm going to post them on our blog and you can tell me what you think."
"I look forward to that, Bum. Supposedly, you were looking around for another project when you finished our book, Right?"
"Right," Bum said succinctly because she still loves that word.
"I have to go home now, Bum. My master is coming back from his course for a couple of days and will want to take me out walking. But, before I go, I would like to know what that pervert at the Safeway parking lot said to you."
"Dear Bear. I have received a number of telephone calls from perverts when I worked at ICBC. My friends wanted to know what they said. I said No."
"Perverts were calling ICBC?" Bear looked incredulous.
"Not everyone calling ICBC was a pervert. Some of them were calling about insurance. My recollection of these calls, and the fellow up at Safeway, is that they mostly say the same thing. Trust me, they are not that creative."
"So what did he, and them, say?"
"As I told my sister when she asked, and I am telling you now, get your own pervert."
"Do you know what that word means, Bear?" asked Bum.
"Indeed I do," responded Bear. "You know I don't use words I don't know."
"I thought we needed a short period of rest or relief from something difficult or unpleasant, like the difficulties we had with Story Structure," said Bum.
"So, Bum, you tell me the meaning of respite, just in case I don't know its meaning, even though I told you I know." Bear looked very annoyed.
"I am sorry, Bear. That was thoughtless of me and I can only say in my defence that a lot of people, or dogs, don't know that word."
"OK then," said Bear. "It's nice out here and you can rest your sore leg by sitting on that raised bit in front of your car. By the way, where is your Silver Saturn?"
"It conked out and we had to buy this Mini as a replacement, and very nice it is, don't you think?"
"Yes, I like the racing stripes and the fog lights, which you've probably not figured out if I know you, and the skylight is a nice touch."
Bum ignored the bit about the fog lights because it is true.
"That's a very small ashtray next to you. Is that a picture of a goat I see inside it?" asked Bear.
"Yes, it is a small Welsh goat and yes it is a small ashtray because I usually only have one cigarette when I come out here in the morning to place the garbage in the can, spread the recycleds in their various boxes and bags, empty the car ashtray, and check that I have enough cigarettes in the car for the day if I need them when I'm going somewhere. Is that enough information for you, old nosy one?"
"Yes, that about covers it," said Bear. He made no mention of my smoking because he knows it annoys me.
"With my pinched nerve in my back and my sore leg and my inability to walk, I smoke and drink as much as I want, and to hell with it, and the medical profession," said Bum. She couldn't help feeling familiar annoyance with him as she turned away from him.
"Where are you going?" asked Bear from his prone position.
"For a walk," Bum said succinctly.
"I thought you couldn't walk on that sore leg," said Bear.
"Take note of this date, Bear, November 19, 2019, the day I start walking again. The other day, the doc said walking would be good for me and I should never have stopped."
"He could've said that months ago, Bum," said Bear in disapproval.
"I agree, Bear, but he said it now, but only after I asked him, for bloody hell's sake, so let's go."
They left the driveway slowly, crossed the street slowly, watching for cars of course, and reached the sidewalk on the other side.
"How's the leg?" asked Bear.
"Good so far, Bear. Perhaps the valium I had before I left is helping. I forgot to take it last night before bed, so I took it this morning," responded Bum.
"Did you bring your little book, like you used to do when we were writing our book, Bum?"
"Yes," said Bum, succinctly. She loves that word. Her friend Sandy used it to describe Jackie's writing style when she emailed Jackie yesterday.
They reached the top of the hill where Bum likes to perch and jot down a few thoughts, if she has any.
Bear asked, "How's our blog coming along?"
"Slowly," said Bum.
"Why's that?" asked Bear.
"As you know, Paul set up a blog for me called editingwithmyimaginarydog.blogspot.com and placed a lovely picture of you on its front. My niece, Mara, found the picture for me and it is perfect. The heading on the blog is Bear With Me, so it is fitting, don't you think?"
"I like it, Bum. So, did anyone have a gander at it?"
"No," said Bum. "I tried googling the name several times but it could not be found. Try the exact spelling, Google told me, but nothing worked. In desperation, I contacted Paul and he said it's probably because there are no posts on it so search engines are not picking it up."
"So, what did you do, Bum?"
"I posted a note about who I am and how I met you and called you Bear which is an old Celtic word for Artos, which is your real name."
"Did that work?" asked Bear.
"No, so I asked you to post something, which you did, explaining why you call me Bum. I thought that would do it."
"Did it?" asked Bear.
"No," said Bum succinctly.
"I think you're overusing that word succinct, Bum, just because you like it," said Bear snidely.
"Whatever," said Bum, succinctly, not that put out.
"So, Bum, whatever did you do, or more likely, what did Paul do? He was all gung ho to get you a blog which he thought was important to proceed with our book."
"Correct, Bear. He pinned it to the front of his Facebook with a note to the effect that I was his aunt and had written an unusual book, etc."
"Did that work?" asked Bear.
"A bit, he told me," said Bum. "He said he got about 23 hits which is more than he usually gets from one of his posts, and it was within a 24 hour period."
"That's very encouraging, Bum," said Bear looking quite pleased. "Did he get any comments?"
"We got our very first comment, Bear. It was from a woman called Phyllis; I won't use her last name just in case she is a private person; from Lower Nicola B.C., wherever that is."
"What did she say, Bum?"
"She said, and I quote, she is funny, liked that, and this is a beautiful dog, of course,"
"What an intelligent and insightful woman, Bum. I am so pleased she found me beautiful, high praise indeed."
"I too am pleased she found me funny, and you beautiful because you are."
"I'm funny," responded Bear looking a bit disgruntled.
"I know you're funny, Bear. Who knows better. But, there are two of us on the blog, so let that be the end of it. We don't want to bicker over our very first comment, and put Phyllis off making other comments."
"You're right, of course, Bum. I'm sorry."
"Any other comments on our blog?" Bear continued. "Surely it deserved more than one."
"As I already told you, there was a problem accessing the blog, and adding posts as suggested by Paul, didn't help. Paul's wife, Kim, tried to make a comment on one of the posts and that wouldn't work either. I don't know what the problem is and I'll have to get Paul involved."
"Anyway, because nothing seemed to be working, my sister sent a link to our blog to our old friend, Bill, who lives on the Island. He wrote back and said, 'having known Jackie for so long but not really knowing her at all, makes the blog so very interesting. I love it when someone slowly shows a side of themselves that they've kept hidden for so long, unless they're a psychopath. I wouldn't love that, Ha!'
"He compared you to a psychopath, Bum. Some friend."
"I don't think he's comparing me to a psychopath, it's just his way of writing."
"He should work on his writing skills," said Bear, "and don't use the word psychopath in a sentence describing you."
"Don't worry about it, Bear. I have written a piece about him and intend to post it next on our blog. As a matter of fact, many months ago when Alice Munro won a huge prize for her short stories, I thought I'd try my hand at short stories which I have always loved and read all my life. I wrote two short stories, intending to call my book My Friends. The first one was about Bill and the second one about my sister Patsy. I let my sister read them as I value her opinion. She said they're not really short stories but rather Profiles. I looked up profiles on google and they seem to be about famous people. My friends are not famous, except to me, so I ditched the short story project. Anyway, I'm going to post them on our blog and you can tell me what you think."
"I look forward to that, Bum. Supposedly, you were looking around for another project when you finished our book, Right?"
"Right," Bum said succinctly because she still loves that word.
"I have to go home now, Bum. My master is coming back from his course for a couple of days and will want to take me out walking. But, before I go, I would like to know what that pervert at the Safeway parking lot said to you."
"Dear Bear. I have received a number of telephone calls from perverts when I worked at ICBC. My friends wanted to know what they said. I said No."
"Perverts were calling ICBC?" Bear looked incredulous.
"Not everyone calling ICBC was a pervert. Some of them were calling about insurance. My recollection of these calls, and the fellow up at Safeway, is that they mostly say the same thing. Trust me, they are not that creative."
"So what did he, and them, say?"
"As I told my sister when she asked, and I am telling you now, get your own pervert."
Friday, November 15, 2019
STORY STRUCTURE
"Finally," said Bear to Bum. "I thought we'd never get back to editing our book."
Bum responded, "It hasn't been that long, Bear. I've been busy."
"Doing what?" asked Bear in that disapproving tone he sometimes uses.
"I had a lot of medical appointments, as did my sister, and you know I drive her to and fro'. She no longer drives as she finds it too harrowing."
"Hmm," said Bear and paused for effect. He likes to do that. "I noticed you had time to post some items on your new blog, editingwithmyimaginarydog.blogspots.com. I think the world of bloggery could've waited to hear about that pervert you met at Safeway. That time should have been used to get on with our editing task. You lost the Reader's Report, didn't you?"
"I mislaid it, if you must know, but I did find it and now we're ready to proceed."
"You lost it," said Bear in disapproval.
"Hold that thought, Bear. Something has just come up on the CBC site here on my laptop. Don Cherry has been fired for inappropriate comments."
"What did he say this time?" queried Bear, looking dismayed by this incident.
"He said something along the line that immigrants take and take from this country and then don't buy a poppy, or something like that. I guess he noticed that so many people don't wear a poppy and he's right," said Bum.
"I thought we had free speech in this country," retorted Bear.
"Only if everyone agrees with what you've said, apparently," responded Bum.
"Lots of people buy a poppy but the bloody thing falls off, more often than not, according to my master's wife. She said she paid about three times for a poppy and lost them all. She was told to stick a piece of rubber from a pencil to the point of the poppy but she couldn't be bothered."
"I had the same problem last year and in desperation purchased a real poppy pin with a good fastener on the back. That worked well. This year, I donated and got a poppy, lost it, and then decided to dig out that pin from last year."
"I didn't see you wearing the poppy pin the other day," said Bear.
"I forgot," admitted Bum.
"So, Bum, it sounds like you've lost your memory," said Bear.
"I can't remember," said Bum.
Bear was peering at my laptop and said, "I see the sucky CBC has stepped up to say they respect Sportnet's decision that this is the right time for Don Cherry to step down. Hockey Night in Canada was a longtime CBC Saturday night staple, but the show and its games moved to Sportsnet in 2014. Mr. Cherry made many inappropriate remarks over the years while under CBC's umbrella, but they did nothing. Mr. Cherry was no doubt making a lot of money for them, much like Jian Ghomeshi."
"I think Mr. Cherry's dismissal is a shame. Dear old Mom, who is presently dead, always liked Don Cherry. She also liked Mike Tyson, as I recall. She liked bad boys, presumably. Some women do."
"Never mind all that, Bum. Let's get back to editing our book, using your nephew's Reader's Report as our guide. What was the first point?" asked Bear.
"It's called Story Structure," said Bum.
"OK," Bum, "Lay it on me and keep it brief. You know how you tend to run on sometimes."
Bum gave him a dirty look and started.
"This is the first paragraph Paul wrote under the heading Story Structure
and I quote, "Janey Lennox, a retiree living in Deep Cove with her sister, goes walking each morning through the neighbourhood. One morning she encounters a dog that can talk---a Nova Scotia duck tolling retriever---but he can talk only to Janey. His name is Artos. Janey enters into an agreement with the dog's owner, a man named Jim, to walk Artos each morning for pay."
.
"Hold it, Bum," said Bear, showing great exasperation. "I am not a talking dog. I am your imaginary dog, hence the title of our book. What was your nephew thinking? Next he'll be comparing me to Francis the talking mule."
"He does that later in his analysis, Bear, but let me explain something before you blow your top." Bum held up her hands to hold Bear steady and quiet.
Bear spoke anyway. "Let me first tell you, Bum, how much I appreciate that you brought me to your home this time. I know I've been here before but this time seems special."
"You are always in my thoughts, dear Bear. I can conjure you up anytime and any place."
"I like that word, conjure, Bum; it sounds magical, and our relationship is."
Both of them sat quietly for a bit, thinking loving thoughts about each other, and then spoke in unison.
"Story Structure, where were we?"
"You, Bear, became upset because our editor, Paul, thought you were a talking dog, and then he had the effrontery to compare you to Francis the Talking Mule. I think that sums up where we were."
"I suppose he finds you, his beloved aunt in real life, as a fascinating person with the added bonus of having a talking dog who talks only to her."
"Yes, Bear, something like that," said Bum in a somewhat smug way, and even produced a bit of a smirk. She knew that would get his goat.
"I hope you put Paul straight on that talking dog bullshit," said Bear, still looking annoyed.
"I did, but with my sister's help. This is what she said, and I copied it into our book.
What if there were another world that I could escape to like Alice down the rabbit hole? If you believe something enough it can become real. And with this thought, the dog appeared.
"That would be me?" asked Bear.
"Yes, my imaginary dog appeared and we walked on into all the pages of our book."
"What about the talking bit that Paul got wrong?" queried Bear.
"Do you know the Alice in Wonderland story, Bear?"
"My master's daughter read it aloud, and I heard it many years ago. I have forgotten most of it, I must confess."
"Ok then, Bear, in Alice's fantasy world a white rabbit came rushing along and she heard him say I'm late, I'm late, for a very important date, and no one reading the book questioned the talking bit. It was part of the fantasy."
"OK then Bum. Let's get back to Story Structure. What did Paul say next?"
"He said we enter into a companionable but also sometimes testy relationship, chatting as we walk each morning. We give each other nicknames--"Bear" for you and "Bum" for me. We particularly like to swap stories in which we vent our opinions on all manner of things. There is a sense that we become each other's closest friends."
"Finally, he got something right," said Bear.
"Look here, Bear, to give Paul his due respect, he, as a reader questioned the fantasy aspect and I fixed that, so don't go on about it. If it wasn't clear to him, there was obviously a problem. He's a good writer himself, a careful reader, and analyzes books of superior quality to ours, on his Facebook."
"OK," said Bear. "Maybe I was a bit harsh. So, what else did he say about the structure of our book?"
"Among the things that Janey, the heroine now called Bum, is that she has long considered writing a romance novel, something in the line of the Harlequin Romance or maybe the racier Harlequin Presents, and she shares considerable sections of two romance plots she has in mind."
"That's good Bum. I remember the Harlequin stories you wrote, and I particularly liked that the heroine in the Harlequin story met the hero at Honey's, the famous donut shop in the Village, and then the Canadian Superstore, of all places."
"Yes, that was fun, wasn't it Bear? Well, I guess we're finished with Story Structure," said Bum.
"Wait just one minute," said Bear. "What about the boyfriend? He's a pretty big part of the structure of the story, integral I would say."
"I forgot. Sorry. We meet a neighbour who is a widower and a master gardener, but who never seems to talk. I expressed interest in getting to know him better and you, dear Bear, became jealous and not fond of this idea. How's that?"
"That's better," said Bear. "I think your nephew has covered the salient points regarding structure. We could've finished this part of the Reader's Report faster if you hadn't lost it."
"How many times do I have to tell you, Bear, I mislaid it. It was not lost."
Bear responded, "When something is mislaid, it is lost."
Bum responded right back with, "You are a bit of a nag, Bear. Have I told you that before?"
"Someone has to keep you on the straight and narrow, and that would best be me who cares for you. You lost it. Why can't you admit it?"
"Bear, if I'd wanted this kind of grief, I would've gotten married."
Bum responded, "It hasn't been that long, Bear. I've been busy."
"Doing what?" asked Bear in that disapproving tone he sometimes uses.
"I had a lot of medical appointments, as did my sister, and you know I drive her to and fro'. She no longer drives as she finds it too harrowing."
"Hmm," said Bear and paused for effect. He likes to do that. "I noticed you had time to post some items on your new blog, editingwithmyimaginarydog.blogspots.com. I think the world of bloggery could've waited to hear about that pervert you met at Safeway. That time should have been used to get on with our editing task. You lost the Reader's Report, didn't you?"
"I mislaid it, if you must know, but I did find it and now we're ready to proceed."
"You lost it," said Bear in disapproval.
"Hold that thought, Bear. Something has just come up on the CBC site here on my laptop. Don Cherry has been fired for inappropriate comments."
"What did he say this time?" queried Bear, looking dismayed by this incident.
"He said something along the line that immigrants take and take from this country and then don't buy a poppy, or something like that. I guess he noticed that so many people don't wear a poppy and he's right," said Bum.
"I thought we had free speech in this country," retorted Bear.
"Only if everyone agrees with what you've said, apparently," responded Bum.
"Lots of people buy a poppy but the bloody thing falls off, more often than not, according to my master's wife. She said she paid about three times for a poppy and lost them all. She was told to stick a piece of rubber from a pencil to the point of the poppy but she couldn't be bothered."
"I had the same problem last year and in desperation purchased a real poppy pin with a good fastener on the back. That worked well. This year, I donated and got a poppy, lost it, and then decided to dig out that pin from last year."
"I didn't see you wearing the poppy pin the other day," said Bear.
"I forgot," admitted Bum.
"So, Bum, it sounds like you've lost your memory," said Bear.
"I can't remember," said Bum.
Bear was peering at my laptop and said, "I see the sucky CBC has stepped up to say they respect Sportnet's decision that this is the right time for Don Cherry to step down. Hockey Night in Canada was a longtime CBC Saturday night staple, but the show and its games moved to Sportsnet in 2014. Mr. Cherry made many inappropriate remarks over the years while under CBC's umbrella, but they did nothing. Mr. Cherry was no doubt making a lot of money for them, much like Jian Ghomeshi."
"I think Mr. Cherry's dismissal is a shame. Dear old Mom, who is presently dead, always liked Don Cherry. She also liked Mike Tyson, as I recall. She liked bad boys, presumably. Some women do."
"Never mind all that, Bum. Let's get back to editing our book, using your nephew's Reader's Report as our guide. What was the first point?" asked Bear.
"It's called Story Structure," said Bum.
"OK," Bum, "Lay it on me and keep it brief. You know how you tend to run on sometimes."
Bum gave him a dirty look and started.
"This is the first paragraph Paul wrote under the heading Story Structure
and I quote, "Janey Lennox, a retiree living in Deep Cove with her sister, goes walking each morning through the neighbourhood. One morning she encounters a dog that can talk---a Nova Scotia duck tolling retriever---but he can talk only to Janey. His name is Artos. Janey enters into an agreement with the dog's owner, a man named Jim, to walk Artos each morning for pay."
.
"Hold it, Bum," said Bear, showing great exasperation. "I am not a talking dog. I am your imaginary dog, hence the title of our book. What was your nephew thinking? Next he'll be comparing me to Francis the talking mule."
"He does that later in his analysis, Bear, but let me explain something before you blow your top." Bum held up her hands to hold Bear steady and quiet.
Bear spoke anyway. "Let me first tell you, Bum, how much I appreciate that you brought me to your home this time. I know I've been here before but this time seems special."
"You are always in my thoughts, dear Bear. I can conjure you up anytime and any place."
"I like that word, conjure, Bum; it sounds magical, and our relationship is."
Both of them sat quietly for a bit, thinking loving thoughts about each other, and then spoke in unison.
"Story Structure, where were we?"
"You, Bear, became upset because our editor, Paul, thought you were a talking dog, and then he had the effrontery to compare you to Francis the Talking Mule. I think that sums up where we were."
"I suppose he finds you, his beloved aunt in real life, as a fascinating person with the added bonus of having a talking dog who talks only to her."
"Yes, Bear, something like that," said Bum in a somewhat smug way, and even produced a bit of a smirk. She knew that would get his goat.
"I hope you put Paul straight on that talking dog bullshit," said Bear, still looking annoyed.
"I did, but with my sister's help. This is what she said, and I copied it into our book.
What if there were another world that I could escape to like Alice down the rabbit hole? If you believe something enough it can become real. And with this thought, the dog appeared.
"That would be me?" asked Bear.
"Yes, my imaginary dog appeared and we walked on into all the pages of our book."
"What about the talking bit that Paul got wrong?" queried Bear.
"Do you know the Alice in Wonderland story, Bear?"
"My master's daughter read it aloud, and I heard it many years ago. I have forgotten most of it, I must confess."
"Ok then, Bear, in Alice's fantasy world a white rabbit came rushing along and she heard him say I'm late, I'm late, for a very important date, and no one reading the book questioned the talking bit. It was part of the fantasy."
"OK then Bum. Let's get back to Story Structure. What did Paul say next?"
"He said we enter into a companionable but also sometimes testy relationship, chatting as we walk each morning. We give each other nicknames--"Bear" for you and "Bum" for me. We particularly like to swap stories in which we vent our opinions on all manner of things. There is a sense that we become each other's closest friends."
"Finally, he got something right," said Bear.
"Look here, Bear, to give Paul his due respect, he, as a reader questioned the fantasy aspect and I fixed that, so don't go on about it. If it wasn't clear to him, there was obviously a problem. He's a good writer himself, a careful reader, and analyzes books of superior quality to ours, on his Facebook."
"OK," said Bear. "Maybe I was a bit harsh. So, what else did he say about the structure of our book?"
"Among the things that Janey, the heroine now called Bum, is that she has long considered writing a romance novel, something in the line of the Harlequin Romance or maybe the racier Harlequin Presents, and she shares considerable sections of two romance plots she has in mind."
"That's good Bum. I remember the Harlequin stories you wrote, and I particularly liked that the heroine in the Harlequin story met the hero at Honey's, the famous donut shop in the Village, and then the Canadian Superstore, of all places."
"Yes, that was fun, wasn't it Bear? Well, I guess we're finished with Story Structure," said Bum.
"Wait just one minute," said Bear. "What about the boyfriend? He's a pretty big part of the structure of the story, integral I would say."
"I forgot. Sorry. We meet a neighbour who is a widower and a master gardener, but who never seems to talk. I expressed interest in getting to know him better and you, dear Bear, became jealous and not fond of this idea. How's that?"
"That's better," said Bear. "I think your nephew has covered the salient points regarding structure. We could've finished this part of the Reader's Report faster if you hadn't lost it."
"How many times do I have to tell you, Bear, I mislaid it. It was not lost."
Bear responded, "When something is mislaid, it is lost."
Bum responded right back with, "You are a bit of a nag, Bear. Have I told you that before?"
"Someone has to keep you on the straight and narrow, and that would best be me who cares for you. You lost it. Why can't you admit it?"
"Bear, if I'd wanted this kind of grief, I would've gotten married."
Monday, November 11, 2019
ET TU, BEAR
"Why the hell are you speaking French? I could hardly stomach Comment s'il vous plait, and now you're at it again."
"Calm down, Bear, those are the only few French words I know. No need to go ballistic about them."
"I think you are showing off, Bum, and I don't like it," retorted Bear.
"I am not a show-off, Bear," said Bum, sounding quite put out.
"You show-off every time you show up," said Bear, looking pleased with his comment, and then said "Why are you limping?"
"I've got a pinched nerve in my back and it affects my lower left leg, particularly when I try to walk on it. Fortunately, I'm OK sitting down," responded Bum.
"Are you seeing a doctor?" asked Bear.
"Of course; I'm not a complete moron," said Bum, again looking put out because Bear seems to think she wouldn't have the brains to seek medical attention.
"So, what is your doctor doing about your pinched nerve?"
"He prescribed these nerve pills, gaba something, which I took for over a month and they did nothing. They're good for people who have epileptic convulsions or the like, but they did nothing for me."
"OK, so what's the long and short of this sorry tale?" asked Bear.
"I am waiting to be shot by a dermatologist." Seeing Bear's eyebrows lift in disbelief, I said, "No, of course I mean a radiologist, but I have to wait until next year to get the appointment and the shot in my back, which I've heard works well for a lot of people."
"The medical system has a lot to answer for, don't they Bum?"
"You got that right, Bear. But, and I know you don't like buts, my right arm became so painful, I had to see the doctor again. I thought it was another problem with my pinched nerve but it wasn't. It was a frozen shoulder, just what I needed right now, and I could not lift my arm above elbow level.
The doctor said I needed pain pills to relieve the frozen shoulder. I asked him about the opioids in the news, for which everyone seems to be addicted. They must be good. He agreed and prescribed enough pills for a week, taken 3 times daily. The pharmacy would not give me all of them at once, it's against some law, and I would have to return, if needed, for the remainder. The pills worked almost immediately, so I was pleased. Although I didn't need the missing 4 pills, I decided to take them to comply with the doctor's wishes, and mine because I hadn't felt that up for a long time. They didn't help my sore leg but I found I didn't care so much about that."
Bear jumped in here with, "you were high, Bum."
"Enough, Bear, about my medical woes. I am heartily sick of doctors and specialists and hospitals and their ilk. They couldn't run a fish and chip shop, in my opinion."
"You sound bitter, Bum. This is so not like you," said Bear, looking somewhat sad and worried.
"Enough, I said, Bear, let's go back to you calling me a show-off. That hurt my feelings. It was only a bit of French."
"I'm sorry about that, Bum. I overreacted; I apologize. But, and I know you don't like buts any more than I do, I stand by my comment that you show-off when you show up."
"Whatever do you mean, Bear?"
Bear sighed and then began. "Everything you wear matches. You give coordination new meaning."
Bum similarly sighed and said, "Lots of people coordinate their outfits, even the Queen. When she's out and about, she wears, say a purple dress and over it a matching purple coat. Another day, another dress of a different colour and a matching coat. That is her signature look. So there!"
"I wouldn't compare myself to the Queen, if I were you, Bum. Anyone less like the Queen and her clothing style, would be you. Look at that outfit you wore the other day, blue jeans and that long sleeved top with the face on the front. The top had striped sleeves of different colours circling both arms, and, the piece de resistance, and pardon my French, matched your gloves."
Bum interrupted here. "As I recall I was wearing black leather gloves, not as matched as you would imply."
Bear sighed again. He's doing that a lot lately, and then said, "between all fingers of those black leather gloves were different colours of leather, red, blue, and burgundy, all matching the striped sleeves of your top."
"I give, as Mom used to say, I like to be coordinated," said Bum in defeat.
Bear smirked. He likes to be right, and then proceeded, "and then, you do the opposite."
"Now what?" responded Bum. "I think we've beaten this subject to death."
"Look at what you're wearing today - red plaid pants and a black shirt with white puffy balls instead of dots, and then, a red wool tie. It screams, look at me, look at me."
"Perhaps I'm a fashionista, Bear."
"No bloody way," said Bear, "and you don't even know what a fashionista is, do you?"
"Perhaps not," said Bum, and then "and how. pray tell, do you?"
"I hear things, as you well know, Bum."
"I know you want to tell me, Bear, so lay it on me. Make my day.as Clint Eastwood said in a good movie once."
Bear kept Bum waiting for a bit, to raise her tension. "A fashionista is a designer of haute couture, that is high fashion clothing. You've got the haute down pat, Bum, what with those opioids you were taking for your frozen shoulder, but the couture, not so much."
Bum wanted the last word so she said, "au revoir, mon amour." .
"Calm down, Bear, those are the only few French words I know. No need to go ballistic about them."
"I think you are showing off, Bum, and I don't like it," retorted Bear.
"I am not a show-off, Bear," said Bum, sounding quite put out.
"You show-off every time you show up," said Bear, looking pleased with his comment, and then said "Why are you limping?"
"I've got a pinched nerve in my back and it affects my lower left leg, particularly when I try to walk on it. Fortunately, I'm OK sitting down," responded Bum.
"Are you seeing a doctor?" asked Bear.
"Of course; I'm not a complete moron," said Bum, again looking put out because Bear seems to think she wouldn't have the brains to seek medical attention.
"So, what is your doctor doing about your pinched nerve?"
"He prescribed these nerve pills, gaba something, which I took for over a month and they did nothing. They're good for people who have epileptic convulsions or the like, but they did nothing for me."
"OK, so what's the long and short of this sorry tale?" asked Bear.
"I am waiting to be shot by a dermatologist." Seeing Bear's eyebrows lift in disbelief, I said, "No, of course I mean a radiologist, but I have to wait until next year to get the appointment and the shot in my back, which I've heard works well for a lot of people."
"The medical system has a lot to answer for, don't they Bum?"
"You got that right, Bear. But, and I know you don't like buts, my right arm became so painful, I had to see the doctor again. I thought it was another problem with my pinched nerve but it wasn't. It was a frozen shoulder, just what I needed right now, and I could not lift my arm above elbow level.
The doctor said I needed pain pills to relieve the frozen shoulder. I asked him about the opioids in the news, for which everyone seems to be addicted. They must be good. He agreed and prescribed enough pills for a week, taken 3 times daily. The pharmacy would not give me all of them at once, it's against some law, and I would have to return, if needed, for the remainder. The pills worked almost immediately, so I was pleased. Although I didn't need the missing 4 pills, I decided to take them to comply with the doctor's wishes, and mine because I hadn't felt that up for a long time. They didn't help my sore leg but I found I didn't care so much about that."
Bear jumped in here with, "you were high, Bum."
"Enough, Bear, about my medical woes. I am heartily sick of doctors and specialists and hospitals and their ilk. They couldn't run a fish and chip shop, in my opinion."
"You sound bitter, Bum. This is so not like you," said Bear, looking somewhat sad and worried.
"Enough, I said, Bear, let's go back to you calling me a show-off. That hurt my feelings. It was only a bit of French."
"I'm sorry about that, Bum. I overreacted; I apologize. But, and I know you don't like buts any more than I do, I stand by my comment that you show-off when you show up."
"Whatever do you mean, Bear?"
Bear sighed and then began. "Everything you wear matches. You give coordination new meaning."
Bum similarly sighed and said, "Lots of people coordinate their outfits, even the Queen. When she's out and about, she wears, say a purple dress and over it a matching purple coat. Another day, another dress of a different colour and a matching coat. That is her signature look. So there!"
"I wouldn't compare myself to the Queen, if I were you, Bum. Anyone less like the Queen and her clothing style, would be you. Look at that outfit you wore the other day, blue jeans and that long sleeved top with the face on the front. The top had striped sleeves of different colours circling both arms, and, the piece de resistance, and pardon my French, matched your gloves."
Bum interrupted here. "As I recall I was wearing black leather gloves, not as matched as you would imply."
Bear sighed again. He's doing that a lot lately, and then said, "between all fingers of those black leather gloves were different colours of leather, red, blue, and burgundy, all matching the striped sleeves of your top."
"I give, as Mom used to say, I like to be coordinated," said Bum in defeat.
Bear smirked. He likes to be right, and then proceeded, "and then, you do the opposite."
"Now what?" responded Bum. "I think we've beaten this subject to death."
"Look at what you're wearing today - red plaid pants and a black shirt with white puffy balls instead of dots, and then, a red wool tie. It screams, look at me, look at me."
"Perhaps I'm a fashionista, Bear."
"No bloody way," said Bear, "and you don't even know what a fashionista is, do you?"
"Perhaps not," said Bum, and then "and how. pray tell, do you?"
"I hear things, as you well know, Bum."
"I know you want to tell me, Bear, so lay it on me. Make my day.as Clint Eastwood said in a good movie once."
Bear kept Bum waiting for a bit, to raise her tension. "A fashionista is a designer of haute couture, that is high fashion clothing. You've got the haute down pat, Bum, what with those opioids you were taking for your frozen shoulder, but the couture, not so much."
Bum wanted the last word so she said, "au revoir, mon amour." .
Sunday, October 27, 2019
NO COMMENT
You may think from the title that I have nothing to say. Not so.
I bought a long-sleeved red cotton sweater at the Church Thrift a week or so ago. I liked it very much. It had a white stripe down each sleeve and the words, in white, No Comment, over the heart area. I don't think your heart goes that far to the left so let's just say it was at the top of my left breast, for clarity. Anyway, I enjoyed wearing that shirt and hoped I could point to the No Comment words, should the occasion arise.
The occasion arose sooner than I may have wished. I was shopping up at Parkgate at the Safeway store. I was carrying a small bag with a couple of potatoes and a carton of milk. I'm up there most days so I don't have to buy much at any given time. Anyway, as I was strolling towards my car, an older man stopped me and enquired if I would.....and I won't repeat what he said in case children read this blog. What he wanted me to do would certainly be inappropriate in the Safeway parking lot and indeed even in a dark alley. I pointed to my No Comment words on my shirt because I had no desire to discuss his demands with him. He peered at me and asked why I was pointing to my breast. Wouldn't you know a pervert like that would have poor vision. Just my luck. I told him it said Fuck Off and he said why didn't you say so in the first place. He wandered away.
Proceeding with the No Comment scenario, I have no comments on my new blog. My nephew's wife, Kim, (I guess she would be called my niece-in-law if I didn't want to call her Kim) emailed me the other day to say she enjoyed my blog very much, tried to make a comment on one of the postings, but had no success. I told her I would try to fix that, or at least ask Paul if he could do it. I also told her I have no problem with bad comments or good comments and related a story from years ago when a fellow at the SeaBus terminal called me a bitch, for a reason I can no longer remember. Anyway, I thanked him because no one had ever called me a bitch before. He looked alarmed as he stalked off, presumably thinking I had mental issues.
In closing, comment s'il vous plait.
I bought a long-sleeved red cotton sweater at the Church Thrift a week or so ago. I liked it very much. It had a white stripe down each sleeve and the words, in white, No Comment, over the heart area. I don't think your heart goes that far to the left so let's just say it was at the top of my left breast, for clarity. Anyway, I enjoyed wearing that shirt and hoped I could point to the No Comment words, should the occasion arise.
The occasion arose sooner than I may have wished. I was shopping up at Parkgate at the Safeway store. I was carrying a small bag with a couple of potatoes and a carton of milk. I'm up there most days so I don't have to buy much at any given time. Anyway, as I was strolling towards my car, an older man stopped me and enquired if I would.....and I won't repeat what he said in case children read this blog. What he wanted me to do would certainly be inappropriate in the Safeway parking lot and indeed even in a dark alley. I pointed to my No Comment words on my shirt because I had no desire to discuss his demands with him. He peered at me and asked why I was pointing to my breast. Wouldn't you know a pervert like that would have poor vision. Just my luck. I told him it said Fuck Off and he said why didn't you say so in the first place. He wandered away.
Proceeding with the No Comment scenario, I have no comments on my new blog. My nephew's wife, Kim, (I guess she would be called my niece-in-law if I didn't want to call her Kim) emailed me the other day to say she enjoyed my blog very much, tried to make a comment on one of the postings, but had no success. I told her I would try to fix that, or at least ask Paul if he could do it. I also told her I have no problem with bad comments or good comments and related a story from years ago when a fellow at the SeaBus terminal called me a bitch, for a reason I can no longer remember. Anyway, I thanked him because no one had ever called me a bitch before. He looked alarmed as he stalked off, presumably thinking I had mental issues.
In closing, comment s'il vous plait.
Wednesday, October 23, 2019
DREAM INTERPRETATION
October 21, 2019, dated by my sister Frances, who is a stickler for such things, as I said before. Here is her interpretation of my dream.
The office where you used to work seems to symbolize a time in your life when you were "safe" in doing what is known and expected of you. But secretly, your real creative nature was always with you but kept in a drawer away from the demands of your male animus side who is now threatening you if you don't allow his familiarity with what your creative side has developed. Once he consciously acquires this information, it is possible that he will make decisions or demands to remove you from a state of complacency where all the chapters are kept "safe" in a drawer.
In the outer office, leaving the containment of the workspace, you make a move to console Bear, your own personal creation, but find that Bear is now a black cat. A black cat has magical properties and may be viewed as entirely good or bad. Thus, the creation, Bear, may prove to be the doorway to a variety of future happenings as you accept the significance of Bear's role.
The woman who has "helped you" in your old work environment is part of your background life. She does not create but presents a non-accusatory presence; is safety personified and will not try to force you to more aggressive action if you allow her to read the first chapter.
The man who storms in demanding direction to the entrance (to the past life) is told by you that you do not have a front (conscious) entrance, that you are closed and that part of your life is closed. Then, a helpful woman with whom you used to work, appears and offers to help the irate man. She sums it up when she says not to worry, "you've had enough." The old job and way of life is gone forever. You are embracing the new life in the form of your creation.
The office where you used to work seems to symbolize a time in your life when you were "safe" in doing what is known and expected of you. But secretly, your real creative nature was always with you but kept in a drawer away from the demands of your male animus side who is now threatening you if you don't allow his familiarity with what your creative side has developed. Once he consciously acquires this information, it is possible that he will make decisions or demands to remove you from a state of complacency where all the chapters are kept "safe" in a drawer.
In the outer office, leaving the containment of the workspace, you make a move to console Bear, your own personal creation, but find that Bear is now a black cat. A black cat has magical properties and may be viewed as entirely good or bad. Thus, the creation, Bear, may prove to be the doorway to a variety of future happenings as you accept the significance of Bear's role.
The woman who has "helped you" in your old work environment is part of your background life. She does not create but presents a non-accusatory presence; is safety personified and will not try to force you to more aggressive action if you allow her to read the first chapter.
The man who storms in demanding direction to the entrance (to the past life) is told by you that you do not have a front (conscious) entrance, that you are closed and that part of your life is closed. Then, a helpful woman with whom you used to work, appears and offers to help the irate man. She sums it up when she says not to worry, "you've had enough." The old job and way of life is gone forever. You are embracing the new life in the form of your creation.
Monday, October 21, 2019
DREAM ON
Bear, I had a hideous dream about our book on March 14, 2019. I mention the date because my sister always presses home the importance of dating everything.
Anyway, the dream as I recall involved a man at the office, where I no longer work as you know because I am retired, who threatened me somehow if I didn't let him read our book. A woman, also from the office, had "helped me" greatly and I felt compelled to let her read the first chapter, which I kept in a drawer. In fact, all the chapters were there.
Later, I am sitting in the outer office trying to console you, Bear, but you are now a black cat.
A man storms in, shouting where's the entrance as he has some important car insurance to handle. I told him we don't have a front entrance, and we are closed, but I'll take you back and get you some help. Suddenly, a woman like Val who I used to work with, appears and takes the man and said she'll help me. I'm not to worry, she said, you've had enough.
Anyway, the dream as I recall involved a man at the office, where I no longer work as you know because I am retired, who threatened me somehow if I didn't let him read our book. A woman, also from the office, had "helped me" greatly and I felt compelled to let her read the first chapter, which I kept in a drawer. In fact, all the chapters were there.
Later, I am sitting in the outer office trying to console you, Bear, but you are now a black cat.
A man storms in, shouting where's the entrance as he has some important car insurance to handle. I told him we don't have a front entrance, and we are closed, but I'll take you back and get you some help. Suddenly, a woman like Val who I used to work with, appears and takes the man and said she'll help me. I'm not to worry, she said, you've had enough.
Saturday, October 19, 2019
BEAR IS BACK IN MY THOUGHTS
"Good morning, Bum. Where have you been?" asked Bear as I passed his driveway.
"You startled me, Bear," admonished Bum.
"Where have you been?" repeated Bear. "I haven't seen you since your boyfriend left."
"I don't walk this way so much," answered Bum.
"Why not?" asked Bear. He just can't let anything rest. Nosy bugger, thought Bum.
"The birds attacked me up the street near the corner, if you must know."
"What!!" exclaimed Bear.
Bum repeated, "The birds attacked me."
"Crows, I suppose," said Bear.
"Yes," Bum said. "my sister thinks they remember me."
"What do they remember, Bum?"
"I threw a stone at a crow once. He was getting into our garbage bag, placed at the curb for pickup. He'd made a real mess, tearing open the top and pulling bits of our garbage out, and scattering it nearby. I had to re-bag the mess."
"That's nasty," muttered Bear.
"Indeed." Bum went on, "I've tried wearing different coloured clothes, as a disguise, wouldn't you know. That didn't work. It's the whump, whump sound the crow makes as he attacks that I dread. Luckily, the last time I was carrying an umbrella and after two passes at me, I managed to snap the umbrella up on the third pass and that ended it."
"That's more than nasty, Bum."
"Enough about the bloody crows, Bear. How have you been?"
"Quiet," said Bear, and then continued, "My master has been away for a few months in the U.S.A. It's some kind of course to help retired fly boys."
"God, that sounds dull. I can't think of anything worse than spending hours and months attending courses."
"He's giving the courses, Bum," said Bear with a bit of a smirk.
Bum thought a moment, digesting this information, and then said, "no walks for you then, Bear?"
"No."
Bum pressed on, "so what do you do instead, or does your master's wife take you for walks?"
"No."
"You don't have much to say for yourself, Bear."
"No."
"Would you stop, Bear?"
"What?" said Bear crossly.
"Stop saying No to everything I say."
"Yes," muttered Bear.
"Yes, and you'll stop?" said Bum.
"Yes."
They stopped talking for a bit, both thinking I suppose.
Bum couldn't not talk for long, so said, "I've finished our book, Bear."
"That's great, Bum. Is it published yet?"
"No, of course not, Bear. It's in the hands of our editor, Paul, my nephew you know."
"How's that going?" enquired Bear.
"Slowly." Before Bear could comment on slowness, which he abhors, Bum moved away saying, "I must go, see you tomorrow." and that was that.
"You startled me, Bear," admonished Bum.
"Where have you been?" repeated Bear. "I haven't seen you since your boyfriend left."
"I don't walk this way so much," answered Bum.
"Why not?" asked Bear. He just can't let anything rest. Nosy bugger, thought Bum.
"The birds attacked me up the street near the corner, if you must know."
"What!!" exclaimed Bear.
Bum repeated, "The birds attacked me."
"Crows, I suppose," said Bear.
"Yes," Bum said. "my sister thinks they remember me."
"What do they remember, Bum?"
"I threw a stone at a crow once. He was getting into our garbage bag, placed at the curb for pickup. He'd made a real mess, tearing open the top and pulling bits of our garbage out, and scattering it nearby. I had to re-bag the mess."
"That's nasty," muttered Bear.
"Indeed." Bum went on, "I've tried wearing different coloured clothes, as a disguise, wouldn't you know. That didn't work. It's the whump, whump sound the crow makes as he attacks that I dread. Luckily, the last time I was carrying an umbrella and after two passes at me, I managed to snap the umbrella up on the third pass and that ended it."
"That's more than nasty, Bum."
"Enough about the bloody crows, Bear. How have you been?"
"Quiet," said Bear, and then continued, "My master has been away for a few months in the U.S.A. It's some kind of course to help retired fly boys."
"God, that sounds dull. I can't think of anything worse than spending hours and months attending courses."
"He's giving the courses, Bum," said Bear with a bit of a smirk.
Bum thought a moment, digesting this information, and then said, "no walks for you then, Bear?"
"No."
Bum pressed on, "so what do you do instead, or does your master's wife take you for walks?"
"No."
"You don't have much to say for yourself, Bear."
"No."
"Would you stop, Bear?"
"What?" said Bear crossly.
"Stop saying No to everything I say."
"Yes," muttered Bear.
"Yes, and you'll stop?" said Bum.
"Yes."
They stopped talking for a bit, both thinking I suppose.
Bum couldn't not talk for long, so said, "I've finished our book, Bear."
"That's great, Bum. Is it published yet?"
"No, of course not, Bear. It's in the hands of our editor, Paul, my nephew you know."
"How's that going?" enquired Bear.
"Slowly." Before Bear could comment on slowness, which he abhors, Bum moved away saying, "I must go, see you tomorrow." and that was that.
Tuesday, October 15, 2019
READER'S REPORT
On 16 June 2018, Jackie received a Reader's Report on her book from her nephew, Paul Vitols. In it, he said "The purpose of this document is to record impressions on reading draft 1 of My Imaginary Dog, and sketch ideas for what to do next.
The contents of this report are:
. Story Structure
. Story Analysis
. Strengths
. Things to Work On
. Possible Strategies
. Thinking It Through
. Recommendations
. Things to Consider
. Further Thoughts
. Next Steps"
Wow, thought Jackie. I need Bear.
.
The contents of this report are:
. Story Structure
. Story Analysis
. Strengths
. Things to Work On
. Possible Strategies
. Thinking It Through
. Recommendations
. Things to Consider
. Further Thoughts
. Next Steps"
Wow, thought Jackie. I need Bear.
.
Saturday, October 12, 2019
OUR EDITOR
Hi again Blog:
I finished writing my book called My Imaginary Dog, draft 1 that is, and asked my nephew, Paul Vitols, if he would edit it for me and Bear. Yes, he said, so I sent him a copy.
Weeks passed, or was it months, before Paul emailed me. He said he read my book slowly and carefully, as is his way, and that he enjoyed it very much, high praise from a man who reads and writes mostly about people and events from Before Christ.
Bear jumped in here and said "Is he the right person to edit our book, Bum?" and looked somewhat dubious after hearing about that Before Christ stuff.
"Paul is a very good writer, in fact exceptional. He's good at syntax, grammar, tenses, and story structure," said Bum. "You know, all that bullshit you need to know to produce an excellent product. Furthermore, he has written a couple of TV shows, short stories, etc., and he is more than competent to organize a book into manuscript form, ready for e-book or to have published."
"Oh," said Bear.
"Yes, Oh," responded Bum.
Bum and Bear agree that they have their editor, and a good one. Let the editing begin.
I finished writing my book called My Imaginary Dog, draft 1 that is, and asked my nephew, Paul Vitols, if he would edit it for me and Bear. Yes, he said, so I sent him a copy.
Weeks passed, or was it months, before Paul emailed me. He said he read my book slowly and carefully, as is his way, and that he enjoyed it very much, high praise from a man who reads and writes mostly about people and events from Before Christ.
Bear jumped in here and said "Is he the right person to edit our book, Bum?" and looked somewhat dubious after hearing about that Before Christ stuff.
"Paul is a very good writer, in fact exceptional. He's good at syntax, grammar, tenses, and story structure," said Bum. "You know, all that bullshit you need to know to produce an excellent product. Furthermore, he has written a couple of TV shows, short stories, etc., and he is more than competent to organize a book into manuscript form, ready for e-book or to have published."
"Oh," said Bear.
"Yes, Oh," responded Bum.
Bum and Bear agree that they have their editor, and a good one. Let the editing begin.
Friday, October 11, 2019
ME TOO
Hi Blog, my name is Bear. I am Jackie's imaginary dog.
In our book, Jackie calls herself Janey because she doesn't want anyone to know it is her. She is a somewhat secretive person. Jackie's nephew recommended that she get herself a blog and came up with the title, editingwithmyimaginarydog.blogspot.com. Her nephew said that it is unlikely that anyone will read it because no one reads his. Jackie is good with that because she is a private person.
When I discussed with Jackie the merit of having a blog, in light of her nephew's comments,she said she wants somewhere to write down her conversation with me because she hopes I will help with the edit of our book. She also said she has no desire to have her blog go postal. Sheesh, she means go viral, of course, and I told her so. She's fairly intelligent but often gets words like this wrong, part of her charm I guess. To emphasize the difference, I explained that going postal means she would be wearing a clown suit in a high tower with a high-powered rifle. Always the optimist, she said maybe postal would force more readers to read our book. Good grief, as Snoopy would say.
To get back to the point of my posting on this blog, on the second or third day of our walk up Strathcona, we stopped at the blue church, and because it was warm, Jackie/Janey removed her sweater. I noticed a mark on the shoulder of the blouse she was wearing. She was affronted because she said it is her logo, not a mark. Using her initials, JL, she mended a small hole in the blouse and placed a flower on top, sort of like Picasso, she said, which I thought was a reach.
I looked at it more carefully and said, "it looks like a bum." I called her Bum ever after.
Life began for my imaginary friend, Bum.
In our book, Jackie calls herself Janey because she doesn't want anyone to know it is her. She is a somewhat secretive person. Jackie's nephew recommended that she get herself a blog and came up with the title, editingwithmyimaginarydog.blogspot.com. Her nephew said that it is unlikely that anyone will read it because no one reads his. Jackie is good with that because she is a private person.
When I discussed with Jackie the merit of having a blog, in light of her nephew's comments,she said she wants somewhere to write down her conversation with me because she hopes I will help with the edit of our book. She also said she has no desire to have her blog go postal. Sheesh, she means go viral, of course, and I told her so. She's fairly intelligent but often gets words like this wrong, part of her charm I guess. To emphasize the difference, I explained that going postal means she would be wearing a clown suit in a high tower with a high-powered rifle. Always the optimist, she said maybe postal would force more readers to read our book. Good grief, as Snoopy would say.
To get back to the point of my posting on this blog, on the second or third day of our walk up Strathcona, we stopped at the blue church, and because it was warm, Jackie/Janey removed her sweater. I noticed a mark on the shoulder of the blouse she was wearing. She was affronted because she said it is her logo, not a mark. Using her initials, JL, she mended a small hole in the blouse and placed a flower on top, sort of like Picasso, she said, which I thought was a reach.
I looked at it more carefully and said, "it looks like a bum." I called her Bum ever after.
Life began for my imaginary friend, Bum.
Thursday, October 10, 2019
HI BLOG
My name is Jackie. I will be your writer today.
I met a dog on my walk today at the foot of Seymour Mountain.
This is the first sentence in a book I have written called My Imaginary Dog. In 2007, I retired. To keep fit, I decided to walk Monday to Friday up and down the streets of Deep Cove where I live. I carried a little book with me, and when I stopped halfway on my walk, usually at the small blue church up on Deep Cove Road, which is gone now, I made a few notes about the people and dogs I met on my walks.
One day, I was passing a bush near the end of a driveway of one of the many houses fronting the sidewalk where I walk. The sidewalk was just starting its uphill climb. I slowed when a dog appeared. Unattended dogs make me nervous.
"What's your name?" I asked, hoping to keep him at bay.
There was no reply. He turned away.
His owner, who was sipping coffee, called out from the deck over his garage, "His name is Artos. I see you walk by here most mornings and you're back in about 30 minutes."
The long and short of our conversation was that I agreed to walk his dog for $10.00 a day.
We started our walk that day and I called him Bear. He questioned his new name and I told him the old Celtic word for bear is artos.
My imaginary dog's life began.
I met a dog on my walk today at the foot of Seymour Mountain.
This is the first sentence in a book I have written called My Imaginary Dog. In 2007, I retired. To keep fit, I decided to walk Monday to Friday up and down the streets of Deep Cove where I live. I carried a little book with me, and when I stopped halfway on my walk, usually at the small blue church up on Deep Cove Road, which is gone now, I made a few notes about the people and dogs I met on my walks.
One day, I was passing a bush near the end of a driveway of one of the many houses fronting the sidewalk where I walk. The sidewalk was just starting its uphill climb. I slowed when a dog appeared. Unattended dogs make me nervous.
"What's your name?" I asked, hoping to keep him at bay.
There was no reply. He turned away.
His owner, who was sipping coffee, called out from the deck over his garage, "His name is Artos. I see you walk by here most mornings and you're back in about 30 minutes."
The long and short of our conversation was that I agreed to walk his dog for $10.00 a day.
We started our walk that day and I called him Bear. He questioned his new name and I told him the old Celtic word for bear is artos.
My imaginary dog's life began.
Thursday, August 15, 2019
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