Saturday, 29 October 2016

Returning Author Gerard Collins. An Excerpt from Finton Moon.

This is a first for the Scribbler.







Gerard Collins was the guest last week for a 4Q Interview and we are featuring an excerpt from his delightful tale of Finton Moon. The first back-to-back guest appearance of a selected author and there is none more deserving than Gerard.



I've had the pleasure of reading this novel and I can tell you it touches on every emotion. You're right there in a small town in Newfoundland and can feel what the young man is going through. I recommend this novel to anyone looking for a "good book".


Please scroll down to the end of this post to meet Gerard and to read last week's 4Q Interview.






Gerard sets the scene for the excerpt you are about to read.


"This is one of my favourite scenes - and some other people have told me it's theirs, as well. It doesn't have the drama of some other scenes, but it's such a typical Finton moment in which he feels overwhelmed by the problems of his life. He's on the cusp of adolescence, which includes problems with girls and at school, and his responsibilities and worries (including his father being accused of murder) are mounting. At the beginning of an October snowstorm (not unheard of in rural Newfoundland in any given year), he goes for a walk in the woods, half-thinking he might never return home. It's a peaceful scene - based on a walk I once took myself, though mostly with the knowledge I'd eventually return home - but his mind is troubled. Near the end of the scene, there's an appearance from a girl named Alicia, who likes him very much, though he's never shown much interest in her."




An excerpt from Finton Moon.
Copyright is held by the author. Used by permission.


Lost

On the afternoon of the last day of October, snow plummeted from the sky and blanketed the countryside. He’d stayed home from school, saying he didn’t feel well. But everyone had scattered yet again, and, especially with his father taking Nanny Moon to the grocery store, he saw an opportunity to leave unnoticed. Through an opening he’d cleared on the sweaty windowpane, Finton watched in silent wonder and realized—it has to be now.

Now and then, he would glance outside to ensure that the snow was still falling. Then he pulled on his clothes and double-wrapped his long, red scarf around his neck so that it hung like vestments. He soon shut the door behind him, trundled out into the meadow and up the hill towards the woods.

The world was shockingly white, a land without edges or sharp distinctions. On the snow-laden ground, patches of brown grass and brambles poked up through the white carpet, reaching skyward against the rushing, white flakes.

In awe of how quickly the world had changed, Finton trudged the ghostly path. Where once the landscape was brown and drab, all had now turned bright. It was as if he’d breached the forbidden border and emerged into a land enshrouded by snow, where everything blended with everything else. Oblivious to the flakes on his cheeks and bare head, he forged a path into the waiting woods. Twenty minutes later, he stopped on the home side of the cold, dark river, peering into the thicket. Clouds billowed from his mouth. Over there would be darker, colder. The babbling brook seemed to call: “Step over. Hurry up. Don’t waste time.”

At the edge of the stream, he bent down and slid flat onto his belly. He leaned forward, leveraging himself with his arms, and drank from the river. Every time he thought he was done, he thrust his lips and nose back into the cool water, and gulped until he’d had his fill. Satisfied, he stood upright and sniffed the wind that smelled of spruce, pine, and birch, and the rot of half-frozen bog and damp peat moss.

 
For a long time now, he’d had the feeling of being watched, and he’d expected to see his observer when he’d lifted his head.

With the back of his hand, he wiped his mouth, tugged both ends of his snow-stippled scarf, then launched himself across the brook, landing with a thud on the other side. The river’s song was unexpectedly different—deeper, resonant—reverberating in his heart. Hundreds of times he had crossed that river and never noticed the variance. But the thought was fleeting as the sun skittered behind a cloud, and he plodded towards the ominous thicket.

Except for the shimmering, white flakes that continued to fall, the woods were dark. A brown-coated rabbit hopped across the phantom path, paused to face the traveler, then quickly disappeared into the underbrush. Finton paused to notice the imprints of feathery paws and a furry belly that formed a divergent trail. He expected something magical to happen like in Alice in Wonderland, for someone to speak to him, tell him to go back home—or perhaps welcome him back to this place where he once belonged. He hoped not to be scolded, but that wouldn’t have surprised him.

He stared at the branches of a snow-laden pine and thought how majestic it was. He marveled at the moment’s silent perfection, frozen in time. Then, all at once, the branch bowed down, flicked upwards and dropped its load. The accompanying sound was like a gas stove igniting, jolting and abrupt. As a fine white mist sprayed the air around the tree, he gazed in wonder, blinked, and trudged onward.

At last, he came to the foxhole, where he sat on the rim, dangling his feet, and caught his breath. The snow was falling thicker now, as if it might go on forever. If he lay on his back, they’d probably never find him here—at least not until the spring, and then it would be too late.

He climbed into the hole and lay back, closed his eyes and listened to his own breathing rising and falling. Then he heard a sound—a light, quick intake of breath. His eyes snapped open, alert for an oncoming bear or a circling wolf. He swallowed hard and scanned the woods.

But he heard the sound only once and, after a while, his breathing slowed, and his senses attuned themselves to the woodland scene. The north wind whistled through the tops of the snow-covered evergreens, and a lonesome chill enveloped him. Already, the damp cold had seeped through his corduroy pants, and he wished he’d worn his snowsuit. He wondered how long he’d had his eyes closed, and whether he’d dozed. He kept his eyes shut, despite the cold and the truculent snowflakes that slowly buried him.

He knew how it should end. Jesus had to die for the sins of mankind. The world wouldn’t take him back once he’d gone so far and shown them all how badly they’d behaved. Galilee was no place for such an enlightened soul.

All Finton had to do was to lie there and he’d be dead within hours. He was just exhausted. So much much.

No one was looking for him—they were all too busy. No rescue party was coming, at least not until it was too late. But it was some cold. Starting to shiver, he was tempted to wipe the snow from his cheeks and eyelids. But the snow felt so right. The foxhole was welcoming.

“Finton?”

Go away.

“What are you doing?”

“God? Is that you? I’m not answering until you explain some things.”

“It’s not God.”

He felt like that fisherman in The Old Man and the Sea. How much had he hated that book? Skeet actually threw his copy into the garbage can outside school and set it on fire. A few other guys threw theirs in too. But it stayed in Finton’s mind how the old man used to have these conversations with the big fish and the teacher said he was really talking to God. Bunch of baloney, he’d thought. He wanted to open his eyes, but couldn’t. Something not quite like sleep had overtaken him and resisted his attempts to animate himself. His lips were frozen, but he managed to ask, “Who’s talking?”

“It’s me, b’y. What the hell are you doin’?” she asked, and he knew her now. “You can’t stay here.”

“Why not?”

“Snap out of it, b’y. Get yerself up or you’ll freeze to death.”

Warm hands caressed his face; soft lips pressed themselves to his frozen mouth. He considered resisting. But it was too late. No one could save him. He felt two fingers pinch his nose and cut off his breath. Sputtering and coughing, he bolted upright. “Jesus, girl—tryin’ to kill me.”

She squat in the snow across from him, her hands red, her discarded mittens lying in the snow beside her. A mischievous grin adorned her face.
 
 
 
 
Thank you Gerard for sharing a part of your story.
 
 
For you readers that would like to know more about Gerard and his writing please drop by his website: www.gerardcollins.ca
 
 
 
Please leave a comment. Always happy to hear from YOU!

Saturday, 22 October 2016

4Q Interview with Gerard Collins of New Brunswick.


Gerard Collins is a Newfoundland writer, now living in New Brunswick, where he has recently received a generous grant from ArtsNB to write a novel manuscript entitled Black Coyote and the Magic Café.  His first novel, Finton Moon, won the Percy Janes First Novel Award, was longlisted for the 2014 Dublin IMPAC International Literary Award, and was also shortlisted for both the 2014 NL Heritage and History Awards and the 2013 Sunburst Award for Excellence in Canadian Literature of the Fantastic. Before that, his debut short story collection, Moonlight Sketches, which features a number of individual prize-winning stories, garnered the 2012 Newfoundland and Labrador Book Award.
Gerard’s short stories have won literary prizes, been adapted for a university radio play, and been featured in anthologies, journals, television, newspapers and on CBC radio. He has also published creative nonfiction, newspaper articles, journalistic pieces and academic book chapters. University courses have featured his short fiction, while the NL Department of Education has purchased Finton Moon for all high school learning resources centres across the province. He has a Ph.D. in American Gothic literature and has taught at Memorial University and University of New Brunswick. 

Gerard regularly presents workshops throughout Atlantic Canada and recently hosted a writing retreat in Saint John. In April 2017, he is offering a retreat in Ireland that includes a five-night stay in a Dublin castle, an extensive tour of Yeats country in the West, and two nights in London, England. He has served as faculty at the prestigious Piper’s Frith writers’ retreat and as a mentor at the Write Stuff program for high school students in Saint John, and the New Brunswick Writers in Schools Program (WiSP). Besides private mentoring, he also has mentored for both the WFNB and WANL mentorship programs. He often edits manuscripts and serves on arts grants and awards juries. You can contact him at www.gerardcollins.ca or on Facebook.
 
 
 
 
4Q: Thank you Gerard for being our guest on the 4Q. Before we discuss your writing, it is well known that you have assisted many authors through mentoring and workshops. Please tell us about the upcoming workshops you are working on and the benefits to writers.

GC: Thanks for inviting me, Allan. I’m planning a couple of workshops in the Maritimes, but I’m most excited about the creative writing retreat in Ireland next spring, April 20 to May 1. 

After the Saint John retreat last winter, which was a major success, a local travel company asked me if I’d be interested in taking the retreats overseas, and I immediately said yes. Last March, we sat down and designed what I think is the “perfect writers’ retreat”. Because this one is in Ireland, my first thought was that we should stay in a castle. So, for the first five nights, we’re staying at the Clontarf Castle hotel, which has a history that goes back to the thirteenth century. After five nights there, we’re heading over to Ennis, on the west side of the island, to stay at the 12th century Old Grounds hotel, and there’ll be visits to Galway, the Cliffs of Moher, a boat tour that includes a jaunt to the gravesite of Ireland’s most famous poet, W.B. Yeats, and a lot more. The tour company has managed to put all of this together – including lots of great meals and a two night stay in London, plus a panoramic tour of that city – for a great price that includes an extensive writing component. 


On the retreat, I’ll be giving three creative writing workshops, providing written feedback on a ten-page writing submission, and consulting with each participant one-on-one. I’m most proud of that part because not many retreats do that – provide quality time with, and direct feedback from, the writer-in-residence. There’ll be plenty of time for writers to do walkabout tours, especially in Dublin, and to have long pockets of free time to do some writing on their own. I think that’s essential, as lots of writing actually occurs in the afternoons and evenings, after the workshops. The idea is that, in addition to the writing workshops and feedback, the surroundings – the culture and history of Ireland and of London – will inspire some creative thinking and research for years to come. It’s the kind of writing retreat that can influence a person’s whole approach to writing for a long time. 

At the “A Winter’s Tale” retreat in Saint John this past February, we had a packed house for the weekend, and it was about the coziest, most inspiring atmosphere you can imagine. Many of the participants are still in touch with each other, as well as with me, and several have asked if we can do it again some time. At least one, and likely more, of those people are coming to Ireland with us, in fact. Mostly, it’s the individual attention to their writing and the uninterrupted time for writing that people enjoy, but the workshops and even the reading on the last night were pretty special, I’ve been told. One writer said on the feedback form, “This retreat has changed my life.” Pretty big compliment, but I can see how it’s possible. If you’re devoted to becoming a good writer, there’s nothing more valuable than having someone with experience tell you what’s missing from your writing, and what you’re doing well.

I do private mentorships as well, and it’s pretty much the same. I love teaching, and I guess it shows. It’s really gratifying when someone tells me I’ve had a positive influence on their writing.
 

4Q: I am presently reading your novel Finton Moon and am enjoying it tremendously. Can you give our readers a brief synopsis and tell us what inspired this story.

GC: Finton Moon is the coming-of-age story of a young boy raised in a strict Catholic family in small-town Newfoundland, and people come to believe he can heal with his hands. It’s a funny book, in some ways, and it’s also dark in places. There’s are a couple of mysteries at the heart of the novel, with quite a few interesting characters – my favourite probably being the witchy neighbour Bridie Battenhatch, whose daughter Morgan is a bit of a wild child. He has a best friend named Skeet, and there’s a girl named Mary he is in love with, and another girl named Alicia, from a very poor family, who loves Finton from afar. She even stalks him a little, but she’s a good and kind person. There’s a murder in the town, and Finton’s father gets accused of being involved, and this traumatic event affects Finton’s faith – and social life – quite a bit. It’s a pretty complex, but lighthearted novel. Every day, someone writes or says how much they love Finton.

The inspiration for Finton Moon is my own upbringing in small-town Newfoundland, to some degree, although it’s not autobiographical. I think anyone who reads it will see that there’s a balance between reality and fiction – drawing on what you know in order to create something magical and new. Finton’s ability to heal was inspired, in large part, by some time I spent in the Fraser Valley in B.C. where I was first introduced to spiritual activities like reiki and touch healing that are partly matters of faith and partly quite real. I’m not a great believer in many things, but there’s no denying the physical effects of touching, hugging, therapeutic massage and that sort of thing – for Finton, he doesn’t know if it’s real or not, or where it comes from. He just knows that it seems to work, and that ability makes him an outsider. I know a little bit about that, and I’m sure lots of people can relate. On some level, we’re all outsiders, I think, or at least have known times when we felt like strangers in certain surroundings, among certain people. 

4Q: Please share a childhood anecdote or memory.

GC: Most of my best memories are stories I was told about myself, and I’ve told them so often, they seem like memories, even though I actually have no true recollection. I once called out my grandmother because I was displeased with something she had done. I was only four, but, according to family legend, I stood on her front door, in quite the huff, and told her: “You bastard, Nanny!” It must have looked pretty funny to her, although appalling, too, I’m sure. I also, apparently, got chased all the way home by a huge moose, after I’d wandered into the woods near our family home. One of my favourite memories is of skipping Sunday mass to go out on the bay in “Uncle” Rich Power’s dory with him. He said, “Your mother won’t mind, b’y.” He was an old man, who taught me a great many lessons, like how to make a whistle from a dogwood tree, and I believed every word he said. But, apparently, my mother did mind. 

4Q: In addition to your novel, you have a collection of short stories called Moonlight Sketches, both of which are available at Chapters. What are you working on now and what’s in the future for you Gerard?

GC: Primarily, I’m working on a novel called Black Coyote and The Magic Café, set in modern-day Sussex. I’m enjoying writing that one. ArtsNB has helped me out with a generous grant for writing it, thankfully. As a full-time writer, that financial boon helps a lot, especially because it’s so competitive and so many writers are worthy. I’m also working on a short story collection called Dying of Exposure, and I recently finished a new novel called My Sister’s Walls, which, although I’m still tinkering with it, I’m hoping will see publication in the near future.

As for the future, I’ve made a shift away from university teaching and towards full-time writing. I’m also doing some mentoring – although I’m pretty selective, being careful of my writing time – and I’m finding that I enjoy giving workshops and, especially, writing retreats. The future looks pretty bright, I must say. The ideas are flowing, and the writing gods have been kind. The time off from teaching right now should yield a pretty good crop of new publications over the next few years. Writing plus travelling makes for a pretty good life.

Thanks again, Allan. I’ve enjoyed this series you’re running on local authors, and I’m proud to be a part of it.
 

 
It is our pleasure to have such a distinguished guest on the Scribbler and the thanks are all ours Gerard.

**And the good news is that Gerard will be back next week with an excerpt from his novel Finton Moon. This will be the first back-to-back guest appearance on the Scribbler.

 
 
 
 
 
Please leave a comment below, we would love to hear from you.
 

Saturday, 8 October 2016

Work In Progress by Allan


On the 13th of August I posted the opening section of my WIP, The Alexanders. An historical fiction that begins in 1911 in Govan Scotland.

This week I'd like to share a little more of the story. You can check here - The Alexanders - if you'd like to read the beginning.




                  Section 3


Danny Alexander is buried on a hilltop not far from the Firth of Clyde, near the community of Saltcoats.  He died three weeks previous by drowning. He and two drinking buddies in a stolen dory, none of them could swim. Reckless fun turned deadly peril when the boat was swept asunder by a rogue wave. All three perished. He left behind a defeated wife, seven children, a legacy for drink and the cards, and no money. The rent was four months behind, unable to find work, not enough food for her children, his wife Lucretia relented to the inevitable and moves to Kilwinning to live with her widowed father and accepts charity.

The ancient farm provides a meagre existence.  Old man Brodie has two draught horses, Clydesdales named Charlie and Belle. The horses plow fields, haul fodder, yard logs and whatever he can do with them to earn a living.  His parcel of land is only big enough for a small garden, a woodshed and his two bedroom house. Living alone for the last nine years, he welcomes his daughter to stifle the loneliness but is adamant that there is not enough room nor food for eight more mouths.

The two youngest bairns, Paul and baby Sheila, could stay but the rest of her lot would have to find other lodgings.  The two oldest boys, William and Thomas went to live with Lucretia’s brother and his wife in Newtongrange where they would earn their keep by toiling in the coalfields at the Lady Victoria Colliery where he worked. Her brother Robert was childless and the boys were most welcome. 

Mary, the eldest girl, went to live with Molly MacDougall, her deceased husband’s sister, in New Lanark. Molly’s husband, Geoffrey is the floor manager at the cotton mills and was more than willing to have Mary as a domestic to earn her keep until she is old enough to be employed at the mills. The second youngest girl, Lily, went to live with Lucretia’s sister, Victoria, in Dumgoyne.  Victoria and her husband, Willard have a daughter the same age and both work at the Glengoyne distillery.  

Every time Lucretia left one of her children with a relative, she did so with a heavy heart. Her determination was a thin string holding a dead weight when she turned her back to leave on each occasion. Fortifying herself with the thought that each one would have a better life. She loves all her children but especially Dominic and this will be the most difficult. She kept him until the last and decided that he would be better off with his uncle Duff. 

4 

Duff tries to focus on the pair that sits across from him at the table.  The boy is looking around the kitchen, eyes wandering back and forth to the fishing rod leaning against the icebox.  Lucretia is glaring and tsk-tsking at the empty crock on the cupboard, brown sauce drying on the top. Several errant beans are poised along the rim like sure footed bugs. She turns to stare at him directly. She says, almost a whisper,

“Your brother Danny is dead.”

Duff sits straighter, a bit more stable.  Shock causes him to blubber loudly. Dominic stares at him with wide eyes, surprised by the outburst.  He sits back in his chair.

“What! Little Danny! How? When? Why wasn’t I told...?”

Lucretia has both elbows on the table when she leans forward and points a finger at him.  It’s no nonsense and freckled like her brow.

“You wouldn’t have come anyway. You didn’t even like him.”

Accused he relaxes back into the seat. One hand rubs worried fingers unconsciously through his beard.

“Well, I didn’t hate him.”

“You haven’t spoken to him since your Da died. It must be what…almost four years now?”

Duff answers affirmatively by shaking his head. He’s looking at the boy. He’s not totally sober yet. The body glow is still active but the head cleared a bit.  The lad doesn’t look troubled, makes him curious.  From the corner of the table he picks up his mug, the tea Lucretia made still steams. Settling both elbows on the armrests, he cradles the cup in both hands.

“Tell me what happened.”

“Him and his two mates…”

Lucretia relates the past 20 days of her life. There are tears, there is anger. Her voice raises in emphasis at points. Flat when in denial. Faint when she speaks of sorrow and loss of which Lucretia has plenty. Dominic watches intently, fascinated by his mother’s admissions. Alcoholics and cards, other women, hard worker when sober, always fed his kids, a wild man under the sheets.  Dominic blushes, hangs his head. Both hands under his bum on the hard chair, he wiggles to get comfortable as he thinks about that, staring at the knee of his wool pants.

She tells Duff about the funeral, the dreaded landlord, her dire straits, the parting of her children. It goes on for forty-five minutes. He’s had Dominic fetch two more teas in the telling. He’s as sober as he’s going be. Watching the woman in front of him, he pities her but lets her speak. She pauses frequently, something personal arresting her thoughts. He follows her hazel eyes as they change from dark to light, perhaps a memory sweet.  She finishes with the parting of her kin and the people who’ve helped her.

“…and they’ll always be my angels.”

Duff is sitting up, elbows on the table, hands clasped about the empty tea mug. He knows what’s coming. Tilting his head at his nephew, he sees his brother’s eyes looking back at him. Same brownish center and green outer ring, same depth.  Beginning to think of his lost freedom, Lucretia interrupts his thoughts.

“I need ya to help raise my Dom.”

There’s quiet now as everyone settles on the statement. Lucretia pulls her shawl tighter while fighting back her tears. Staring at the table, she only sees the blurry surface, wanting Duff to say no…and wanting him to say yes. Dominic is shy of his uncle’s direct stare, the bushy eyebrows look stern. He glances back at the fishing rod in the corner. Duff notices where Dom’s eyes travel.

“Do ya like fishing?”

The head bobs up and down in quick answer and he speaks to the rod, still shy.

“Aye, though I’ve never done it. I know I would though.”

He chances a glance at his uncle whose brow is unknotted. A slight grin makes the cheeks pudgier. He returns a weak smile watching Duff push the teacup aside. One hand begins grooming the beard trying to grasp what raising a boy entails. Lucretia knows she must remain silent while Duff considers her request. She understands how disruptive a child can be. She brought Dom here because the boy usually does as he’s told. A bachelor can be set in his ways.

Dominic has already shed tears over the parting, mostly on the wagon ride, but is warming to the idea of maybe his own bed, probably lots of food and hopefully a new pair of boots. His gaze returns to hands clasped in his lap, red behind his ears because his uncle is still staring at him.

The ticks of the big clock in the entryway grow louder in the silence.  Duff is wondering what Adairia and his buddies will think?  He resents being forced into this situation. Breaking his gaze away from the boy, he looks back at the rod. He put it there last spring, promising himself he’d get out. He sees the dust bunny swirled about the end of the handle resting on the floor. It convinces him that a change might be needed. Sitting up abruptly, he claps his big hands, startling both of his visitors.  Dominic jumps in his seat, Lucretia gasps and Duff waves a hand at Dominic.

“How old are ya lad?”

“I’m…I’m eleven.”

“Have ya had any schoolin’?”

Dominic squirms in his seat, the flushed cheeks, embarrassed at his lack of education. Lucretia attempts to speak for him.

“He’s good with….”

Shaking his head at her, Duff keeps his eyes on his nephew.

“Let the boy answer.”

Dominic may be pliant, an eager to please fellow but he’s never been known to back down from a challenge. He looks directly at Duff.

“I know my numbers and letters but have a hard time putting them all together. I…I don’t know what to do with them.”

Looking at his mother, the same Watson half smile as her as if they’ve had this discussion before. That moment Duff sees another facet of Dominic.

“Please don’t ask me about fractions, or tell me I’m gonna like girls.”

Duff chortles, slaps his thigh and breaks into a laugh. Relaxes back in the chair. Lucretia, about to scold Dominic, is softened by the innocence in his eyes. She too begins chuckling, a rare occurrence of late. Dominic becomes shy and drops his gaze.

The revelry is short and quiet returns. Momentarily, Duff sits up in his chair, brushes his beard, and straightens out his suspenders. Looking at Dominic, his face is stern.

“You’ll have to earn your keep. You’ll have to learn how to arrange those numbers and letters properly and you’ll do as I tell you. Is that understood?”

Dominic has warmed to his uncle. He likes the bushy beard and bristly eyebrows and eyes that looked like his Da’s. Trying to make himself look bigger, he straightens out from his slouch.

“I’m a good worker, uncle. You can ask Mr. McLaughlin, I worked on his farm for two summers. Isn’t that right Ma?”

“It’s true Duff, lad may be skinny but he’s tough enough, good as any man. Gets that from you Alexander’s. ”

Lucretia feels a warmth descend upon, knowing Duff has agreed to take Dominic. It is soon replaced by melancholy that she must leave one more child in the hands of a relative. Her emotions are a mixture of pain and comfort.

“You’ll not be sorry Duff, he’s a good boy,” she says.

Pushing her chair away from the table, she stands and waves to Dominic.

“Come along then Dom and get your bag from the cairt.”
 
 
 
 


Thanks for dropping by the Scribbler today. I hope you're enjoying the Alexander story. I would appreciate any comments and you can find a spot below to leave some.

Next two weeks on the Scribbler will bring you guests
*John David Buchanan of Texas, USA






*4Q Interview with Gerard Collins of New Brunswick, Canada.