Taking Stock and Summer Snapshots: Loss, Writing Projects & Covid

September always makes me take stock, turn inward, and try to move with that big ol' wheel turning from late summer to fall.

Summer was rough at the start, had a smooth middle, and then a rough finish. In late May, I got a phone call saying a dear friend took their own life. This crushed my spirits. Well, more than my spirits. I was bereft. Levelled. I knew he had been dealing with mental health issues (agoraphobia, PTSD, psychotic breaks) for a few years. The following weeks were a blur of cleaning out his apartment. Their immediate family, his sister, lives in Connecticut and had to come up here and sort out details while the lawyer handled the estate. 

On June 15, I spoke on a very smart panel, Celebrating Artists' Pride as part of Lanark Pride. The other queer artists included, from left to right: Lorrie Potvin, Arria Deepwater, a photographer I know from a ways back named Lori Taylor, Susan Wagner-White (absent) and moderated by Kathryn Baker-Reed (not in the shot). The event was a great opportunity to talk about my creative process and writing in general, and talk to readers, which I love doing. I am grateful that it helped me feel like a writer again, as I had not worked on anything since learning of my friend's passing.

My June 28 launch of my short-story collection Fear Itself raised my spirits, with a great crowd and great questions from my host, Dr. Sean Moreland. 

Performing my story "Carl and Monty's Prairie Wager" with my pal and co-conspirator Sean McKibbon was definitely a Rocky-Mountain-high sort of highlight, as we have known each other nearly as long as the grizzled cowboys in the story. Blogged about it previously here.

 Full moon—a Strawberry Moon, in fact—over
the St. Lawrence River. June 3, 2023. 9:26 pm.

July was an adjustment. I continued to parry the blow of my grief with both healthy coping mechanisms (staying busy, exercising, talking about it) and unhealthy ones and taking pictures of the good ol' moon, a coping mechanism I developed during the slow loss of my sister to lung cancer in fall 2021. 

Our teenaged son traveled out west to work at his aunt's store for six weeks while we learned to do things on our own here. Still, this mid-stretch was fairly good, between ending June with my launch of my short-story collection Fear Itself, reconnecting with founding members of my Little Workshop of Horrors group and trading stories again, reconnecting with an old friend (more below) and getting much done in the day-to-day details of our lives. My co-pilot and me managed to go to attend great friends' gatherings and got out for some a few fine-and-fun dinner dates and we also found adventures wherever we could, big or small.

In early August, we visited our son in BC. It was either that or driving about six hours to the National Cryptozoology Museum in Portland, Maine (the other Portland), but seeing our kid again clinched the  decision. We went west instead of east. 

A positive rapid test for Covid can look like
this, with a single red line on top. 

A few days after returning, and having a two-hour delay of layover time at Pearson International Airport in Toronto, we tested positive with Covid. Yes; it's still out there. On the plane and the airport, only a handful of other people masked. We masked whenever we were in the air, in fact. There then followed the inevitable self-isolation period. Our neighbours had dropped off the rapid tests. For groceries, my best friend offered and he got us emergency staple items (ready-made chicken, hummus, milk, produce). In other words enough to get through a week. But still, we missed work time (I luckily had enough sick days, although there is no longer a Covid-sick-day category, but only regular sick days). This was frustrating and we just felt awful.

At least the symptoms were lighter than last time (a year ago, around the same time, after traveling to Toronto and Niagara On The Lake). I could focus long enough to read, too, which is fortunate. No fever or chills, agonizing aching hips, head cold, headache, and various flu symptoms. So, we lost a few weeks due to Covid. Time permitting, I will share pictures of my coping mechanisms. 

Grady Hendrix's heartful and entertaining My Best Friend's Exorcism I blogged about recently here last time. But, as well, I read Suzette Mayr's rather stunning The Sleeping Car Porter, Kate Beaton's literary and epic Ducks, J. W. Ocker's highly amusing The United States of Cryptids and writer-artist Steve Skroce and colourist Bryan Valenza's Clobberin' Time, a rollicking five-issue series with the ever-loving blue-eyed Thing getting into tight situations with characters including the Hulk, Doctor Doom and Dr. Strange in wildly imaginative and cosmic, senses shattering fights. 

It's wild and just my weird-speed.

Still trying to catch back up, from doing stuff around the house, the yard, and just getting it together for autumn. My writers' group need to meet to critique our stories in person (we have already done so in Track Changes for each piece, but meeting in person truly brings out the flashes of insight, in my experience). 

I am still finishing drafting a horror short story about Jehovah's Witnesses confronting their greatest fears (hint: it's based on an urban myth from the 1980's about the perils of JW's who either read the comic or watched the syndicated Saturday-morning cartoons about little blue guys and gals). The needle on the story is veering toward the novella territory of 7,500 to 17,500 words. 

As well, after weeks of delays, compounded because of my grief, I finally turned in my review of Daniel Allen Cox's I Felt the End Before It Came: Memoirs of a Queer Ex-Jehovah's Witness) with my editor at prestigious queer online literary magazine. Stay tuned for a publication date and further details.

Now with September here, I am turning to introspection and hopefully inspiration. I will need to be patient with myself as I make up for lost time, but I am also kind of excited about the prospects of my writing projects. Autumn, particularly October, was always Ray Bradbury's favourite time of year, as well as Jack Kerouac's whatever his flaws. It's also mine. I'm trying to see the things that matter more, and treasure them, while also understanding that I'm as flawed and imperfect as anyone else and being better aware of my effect on others.

So in addition to back-to-school miscellany, I need to get gunning on a secret project for a local and wonderful press; assembling my second short-story collection and lastly, second-novel revisions.

Welcome, September. Let's try to get along, shall we?