On writing a novel

 Three Deadbeats

(On writing a novel)

My characters, three of them

Show no appreciation, they do nothing to advance the plot

They have no suggestions about setting

They contribute nothing to dialogue, tension or

The dramatic arc, in short they are apathetic,

They lack lustre,

They lack Initiative.

I am writing a novel and these three deadbeats:

Ernest Masters, an environmentalist and activist,

Tizzy (Elizabeth Tan) a corporate Lumber heiress

And

Mark Penner a naive Primatologist/Anthropologist

All living in Borneo, I got them there.  I introduced them.

But…

They just sit and wait apparently doing absolutely nothing

Not a single original thought in their heads until

I the author sit down at the keyboard and give them an ounce of

Inspiration, some direction, like a parent taking off the training wheels.

Why is it always up to me to  plan their day, shape their destiny, plot their course in life, its as if I the writer have created them and they wait on me for every single word, helpless to act or react, to speak or hold a point of view, to have a relationship, or pick a tense. They don’t even check my grammar and spelling, the computer does that!

There is 50 000 words to go.

Well this book isn’t going to write itself, not with these three characters I have created…

Okay Izzy, you evil ittle deadbeat, you’re up…

Bombing Iran

Bombing Iran 

It was a precautionary statement

Concerning the storage and eventual

Disposal of the sum total

Of the accumulated common sense

Of generations.

With all the complex inter-related factors,

That eventually lead up to the inevitable

Break down of strategic multi-lateral discussions

At the highest level.

 

However, it was reported by pundits,

Those in the know, that the talks were

Productive.

 

Although the population had no real concept

Or early warning system to protect them

from the approaching madness

Concerning the trauma about to be unleashed.

 

Sheep and fodder.

 

The backstage lobbyists, developers, board members

And those with the majority stock options

Were in the loop of mankind’s opaque destiny

To make war in a time of peace

in a cost benefit sort of way seemed to the

Powerful, refreshing and exhilarating.

Their sons would never see a gun, 

Or walk a battle field

In the short term the most profitable option

And so, it was using ploys and proxy votes

Symbolic democratic virtues that

War was declared

For the benefit of mankind

 

Superficially, the powerful prayed

That their God be on their side

Those to be attacked and preempted

Had a similar prayer

And so, the tale goes

In all our virtue and with our greed

We rise up to bomb the oppressed

To liberate them.

We praise the lord

We count the dividends daily

Eventually, it will all trickle down.

Lake Muskoka

 

Dock-Side Lake Muskoka

When sitting dock side at water level

In the tranquil early light a gentle breeze barely stirs 

The water’s surface producing a surreal impressionistic

View of the forested shore a duck spreads wings wide

Extends webbed feet as it hits the water for a landing

Ignoring your presence just part of the scene

The Muskoka chairs found on every deck and dock

From Bala to Huntsville appear like superstition

Where people go to escape their own reality

If for only a day or a night.  

As the sun sets through the

Pines another glory to end a day of slow beats and long 

Breaths on a Lake that has seen birch canoes and steamer

Boats, loggers clear cutting now people in retreat the 

Tiny Muskoka cottage gives way to the mansion “cottage”

With loud speakers, power boats and camp fire party nights.

The tour boat captain regrets the changes as he plies the 

Still waters for another season. 

 Hashtag###  Refugees

(After the American Revolution)

She quietly inquired if any

Apartments were available

For rent

She looked tired 
Older than

her years,

Probably another of the new

Refugees from

Across the border.

The trickle was getting more 

Flood proportion as people left

As they could.

I directed her up the stairs

To the office.

Coming down she looked 

Defeated

like she had walked those

Stairs many times before. 

Her story sad,

Not unique any more

The middle class had been 

Shrink wrapped

And freeze dried,

Her words.

A former journalist who spoke

The truth.

Her home town looked

Like a third world

Grave yard

Desolate, war-torn

Forgotten,

Out-sourced,

Down trodden.

She had been mugged 

By a 15 year old

With a hand gun

She had given up then

On a generation of decay

Privlidge with decadence

Poverty with shame.

Politicians hypnotized with

False hopes

Truth was dead

No fact checking

Social media said it all.

There were hollow cries

For bank reform

The rich laughed,

“The buck stops here.”

It started in our own

Country when elections

Were won on fear

And peace keepers were

Replaced with front line

Soldiers

Not the only traveller 

“Give me your huddled masses”

Discrimination legalized

Refugees crossed the bridge 

In numbers

After the riots of ”25”

Police shot kids

The reverse was true.

Corporations paid even less tax

The survivalists shot to kill

Is that a gun 

In your purse lady?

“America, where a cop shoots a guy

in the back and plants a weapon on him

on video and we’re like asking,

‘Is he gonna get convicted?’ ”

The President sends in the troops

Rounding up the “immigrants”

To keep the country pure

While abandoned cars flame in the streets 

I fear to tred

After the Revolution.