Fuzzfest- A Good Day

Some days are harder than others.

Some days are made for terrible metaphors about pain and suffering and their relationship to the tragedy of life as we know it.

Some days are made for the kind of poetry that we write and Never Show Anyone Else. Ever.

Some days inspire novels and films and abstract art where everyone dies in vaguely cubic shapes.

Some days are days that we carry inside ourselves for years, burrowing in directions we never anticipated.

Some days are what we use in Very Important Interviews when we talk about Suffering for Our Art.

Some days we learn to take ourselves a little bit less seriously (maybe after seeing those Very Important Interviews).

Some days are just good days.

Some days we live and are happy.

I like those days.

IMG_0072Fuzzy as a kitty having a Good Day

This week is Fuzzfest! Pull up a chair and a warm blanket and bask in my version of light cheer!


For days that are more good than otherwise, my fantasy novel, The Guests of Honor, is available here.

 

 

 

Everyday Magic- Seasons

There are stories that stick in a child’s head in strange and unusual ways.

For me, this was the story of a little boy with the magic to bring his paintings to life. As long as he did not complete his paintings, they remained beautiful, but non-living, works of art. When completed, they would remove themselves from the page and come out into the world. There is more to the story, both joy and tragedy, involving a greedy emperor and some subtle meditations on the meaning of art versus life.

All I understood was that with the right paintbrush, the world around me could be created.

This was especially obvious to me as the seasons changed.

In spring, a faint touch would pull along the brown branches, delicately spackling buds that would emerge with a firmer hand and harder line of green.

In summer, the heat would take on a life of its own, faint lines of blurred colour resting oppressively above all of the outside.

In fall, the specks of red, stars of yellow, would start at the outer edge, forced by gravity to spill downwards, swathing the forest in colour.

In winter, the delicate borders of frost would hint at the watercolourist’s nightmare, a world of white.

When I think of seasons, I think of a soft hand and a large paintbrush.

I think of a small child laughing, trailing magic behind him.

IMG_0007A soft hand and a child’s heart

This week is dedicated to everyday magic. I will be sharing some of the real-life inspiration for the strange things that appear in the pages of my stories.


If you would like to see how I deal with artistic magic as an adult, I have also written a fantasy novel, The Guests of Honor. It is available here.