Merry Christmas from Chesterfield Inlet

Merry Christmas from Chesterfield Inlet, where this year a buddy joins me.

Sorry Adam, we did not decide this to be our Christmas home. One day our children will know how long we waited for this day.

Thank you Norad for keeping the skies safe for the man who brings joy, currently in Bogota.

The George Lucas Effect

  A strange thing happened after the original Star Wars trilogoy (New Hope, Empire and Jedi) were released. The protagonist may have been Luke Skywalker (and company) but it was Darth Vader's story. It was all about the Dark Lord's demise. George Lucas always had a vision for his project, from which he could not be swayed.  I wonder if he set out to write the trilogy as such, or whether it was the format of film that created it that way.

  About a month ago I wrote of the Monster That Haunts Me, the rewrite required of the major project.  The rewrite is about the ending, which requires a different composition of the minor characters in the early chapters. The protagonist remains the same, but to justify the ending, the supporting staff require names, and in one scene, foreshadowing.

  An unexpected element of the rewrite is that is has resulted in a different query for publishers. The same format of the project is still being used, however, it is now shown in greater perspective by the final scene, which does not have the protagonist. The final scene turns the project, back on itself.

  George Lucas originally named the Star Wars protagonist Luke Starkiller. Like Lucas, I must now go back and give names, identities, and credit, to those, whom are otherwise undeserved, but without which, there would be no major project. I have, unknowingly, replicated the George Lucas Effect.

  Would it not be prophetic if the major project blossomed like the George Lucas effect on science fiction.

Writer Distractions.

Dad.

Wedding.

Daughters.

Fantasy football.

Alcohol.

Unemployment.

New adventures.

The Commute.

Clutter on my desk.

Sunday mornings.

Time to return to the pencil.

The Monster That Haunts Me

   The major project has been sitting for the last few months, waiting. Lamenting. It needed an ending, a conflict, an unexpected cliffhanger. A sudden revelation to neatly tie off the principle of the book.

  Two weeks ago I found that ending, that startling revelation. It began when I read studied, author Thomas Larson's book The Memoir and the Memoirist.  Ironically, among his credits, Larson is also a Staff Writer for the San Diego Reader, the same magazine that I write for.

  Larson showed me how the neat bow, the conclusion to wrap up the story was missing. That one element which would make the memoir memorable, was absent. I had known it now for almost a year, and still could not come up with any appropriate ending. I was given a possible conclusion by one of my daughters when she announced her intention to wed, but I did not have an "ending". As much as I had written, without the ending, it would be, as Larson wrote, a memoir which was inauthentic.

  And from another daughter, the ending arrived about two weeks ago.

  The rewrite is on. The ending has compelled me to go back into the draft, and begin working more of the elements of the ending, into the backstory. And with the ending, comes the opportunity to finish out this "monster" which has haunted me.

It's All Right Chickybabe.

"Writing a novel is actually searching for victims. As I write I keep looking for casualties." - John Irving.

"I've found, in my own writing, that a little hatred, keenly directed, is a useful thing." - Alice Walker.

"It's all right Chickybabe, I understand." - A father.

The Revelation It is Done.

   In May 1989, I delivered a child into the world, wiping away the blood from her body with my tears. I would be fortunate six years later to have another safely arrive.

  In August 1997, I began to write of the role of a father in the lives of their children after divorce, and of how now no person should interfere with that. I did not know at the time, I would be asked to stand on every word I had written.

  In February 2005, I left two children in care to seek out a new role as a functional father. I never gave up my children, I never excused myself, and I maintained the pressence I could.

 In November 2012, I last spoke to both children, amid hostility in their household.

  On November 29, 2014, I posted Christmas cards to both of my children. On May 9, 2015, it came back marked "return to sender, no longer at this address."

  Our lives now exist on eight photographs, and within several hundred pages of a diary.

  I now understand when my father once told me, that he moved away "because it was easier that way". I now understand why the father of the girls mother moved away and never made contact - not because it was easier, but because he understood that if he remained, what poison would be inflected.

  My role, as their father, has been severed. It is, over.

  And now I make all things new.
  He also said to me "Write this, because these words are true, and can be trusted."
  And he said, "It Is Done."
      - Revelations 21 5-6. 

Has It Really Been Ten Years?

  Has it really been ten years since my flight touched down at LAX?

  Has it really been ten years since Adam and I sat around Toscani's complaining about the public holiday surcharge?

  Has it really been ten years since the sun came up over the bay and set over the mountains?

  Has it really been ten years since Dad BBQ-ed lunch?

  Has it really been ten years since the drive up to Toowoomba to see my Godsons?

  Has it really been ten years since I put a sail on the water?

  Has it really been ten years since the last bout of "tickle wars" with my daughters?

  Sadly, it has really been ten years.