Going Inkless

Americans have an odd relationship with politics. Some are obsessed with it, vocal champions of their side who give passionate sermons on the issues of the day. They never pass up an opportunity to debate, loudly, because it just isn't fun without a fight. Others are apathetic or so disgusted by the ceaseless bickering that they would prefer to avoid the subject altogether . Before and after every election, we hear news stories about how Americans just don't care to vote. And who can blame them after being subjected to months of mud slinging, negative ads, telephone polls, and a ton and a half of junk mail from both sides (each declaring their opponent to be just short of a baby eating monster?) Who can blame them when elected officials are exposed as scoundrels on a regular basis? How is a person supposed to choose in a maelstrom of misinformation, hyperbole, and rampant insincerity? All of that works to the advantage of many political candidates. What remains of th...

My notebook is well-travelled. This one has been with me for thousands of miles, taken along on road trips and camping adventures so it would always be handy when inspiration struck or to fill long hours with useful activity. It's been written straight through from the top of each page to the very bottom. Notes and rewrites clutter the margins. There are lines marked out and rephrased in half-height letters sandwiched between the usual rows. For clarity, I began the book by writing only on one side of each page, so that the marks wouldn't show through to muddle the other side, but when I reached the last page, there was nowhere else to go. So, I flipped the book and started a second pass. There are notes scribbled on the covers, and the whole book is so dense with ink that I imagine you could measure the difference in weight compared to when it was new. This current notebook holds chapters of the novel as they were when first conceived, scraps of other stories, outline...

There's a tone of harvest's richness and abundance that ripens in late summer, growing fat and gold until one day you realize you've slipped into autumn. I think it's always been my favourite season. This is the breathing space between the summer's frenzied activity and the hectic winter holidays. The air is cooling and filled with the scents of ripe apples and dying leaves. Where green ruled the view, now all is flame and gold, and a papery rustle accompanies each crisp gust of wind. It's time to dig out the sweaters, to see the new patterns and promise in another school year, to plan costumes and fun for Halloween. But autumn, for all its joys, cannot be separated from the principles of death and loss. We recognize that the world around us is dying, drying out, moving from summer's blush to winter's shroud. Through all the celebrations of the season, we feel that ancient wheel turn. Autumn is a time to contemplate the darkness. In the world ...