Writing

What?

It’s been a while since I shared some fun Facebook Marketplace ads with you, so given that not much has happened this week, aside from me taking on teaching a workshop series on writing short stories, getting ready to job shadow at the radio station, scoring the motherlode of designer bags to sell at the market, hitting 20 000 words on my new manuscript, and preparing to publish a fantasy novel Ghost Bride of Gum San by JF Garrard, a terrific Toronto writer, as well as the brilliant new poetry collection Smatterings of Cerulean by the amazing Susan Richardson of the A Thousand Shades Of Green literary podcast and Stories From The Edge Of Blindness blog—well, it’s actually been a busy week but none of that was funny enough to write about so here we go:

WHAT

Me: What? Ken, what is this?
Ken: What?
Me: Exactly. What.
Ken: What?
Me: No, what’s on first.
Ken: I don’t know.
Me: I don’t know is the short stop.
Ken: What?
Me: What’s on first.

I could literally do this all day. What is a fun game. That’s a statement, not a question. But seriously, what is what? An un-defrosted freezer for $100? Or…a coffin? What?

There are a couple of things wrong with this ad. First and foremost, the grungy tile with the weird still life of the coffee pot, mushrooms, and broccoli. Next, the ugly kettle—I mean, who would want a kettle like that on top of your stove for the world to see? And of course, calling it ‘the ultimate cooking companion’ is so pretentious. Does the oven talk, or like, help you with recipes? And ‘style’? Dude, it’s just a plain, white stove. There might be some other things wrong with this ad, but I think I’ve covered the big issues.

These chairs might be comfortable, but wouldn’t they sink into the sand? I can’t see myself under a palm tree, enjoying a pina colada, listening to the sound of the tropical surf while sitting upright on one of those puppies. Give me a hammock or a comfy lounger any day. Or maybe the island you live on is in the North, but then I would think you’d prefer a Muskoka chair (which is the proper name for Adirondack).  

This ad is an enigma, albeit a very angry one. 6 words (well, 5 words and 1 number) that absolutely seethe with fury. But here’s the enigma—who posted this? Is it the person in the photo, who is ashamed of marrying a fourth time to yet ANOTHER loser? Is it the person who recently got divorced from the person in the photo, and is upset about being the fourth victim of this errant woman? Is the photo being held for a $500 ransom? Has this woman failed to win the lottery four times? It’s a mystery. You really have to wonder about the mindset of someone who would post this publicly—I’ve seen similar types of ads, but they’re usually more tongue-in-cheek. This one just seems mean…and definitely not worth $500. I didn’t even bother to blank out the location because I don’t think the person who posted it really gives a sh*t at this point.

Finally, there’s this one:

This guy wants you to have absolutely NO DOUBTS, and has pre-emptively answered all your questions:

Is it for sale? Answered.
Are you the person selling it? Answered.
Is it in good condition? Answered.
Is it brand new? Answered.
Does it work? Answered.
What brand is it? Answered.
What size is it? Answered.
Is it for hoses? Answered.
Does it crimp things? Answered.
Can you repeat all that below? Definitely.

See? The guy thought of everything…or he thinks he did, because you know at least three people will respond to the ad with “Is it still available?”

And here’s the cover teaser for Smatterings of Cerulean. Look for it later in March!

Radio Gaga

You may all remember a few weeks ago when I was interviewed on a local radio show. It was a lot of fun and I posted pictures of the haunted factory building where the station is located. Well…earlier this week, I received a newsletter from the organization that runs the show. It turns out that the host is taking a leave for several months and if they couldn’t find a second host to fill in, the radio show would be cancelled. I thought about it for a minute—running a live radio program all by myself in a studio at the heart of a haunted warehouse? That sounded super stressful. So I did what any normal person would do—I immediately composed an email to say that I would be happy to fill in. Then I hit send…Then I had a panic attack. Was I going gaga in my old age? What was I thinking?! Didn’t I already have enough on my plate? So I poured myself a glass of wine, and consoled myself by thinking that probably a ton of people would have offered to do this—I mean, who wouldn’t want to be on the radio? They were probably inundated with emails for this very cool gig.

The next morning, I was feeling less stressed…until I got a reply. Yes, it would be amazing if I could fill in—I felt faint. But it’s only one afternoon a month, my logical brain reminded me. Then I talked to my daughter, whose equally logical brain reminded me that I’m a very competent person, and that I shouldn’t let my anxiety get the better of me. “Mom,” she said, “you’ve been a radio host before AND a club DJ—you can do this!”

Well, yeah, sweetie, but that was 40 years ago—believe it or not, my first actual DJ-ing job was at the exact same radio station when I was in university, a job for which I had to audition in their sound booth (which was located on the university campus as opposed to a building that could use a good exorcism). I did well enough for university radio—I’d been a club kid for years and was pretty familiar with that scene—and was given a position subbing in for a friend when she was unavailable—her show was called “Your Grandma’s Tractor”, and it was alternative music featuring bands no one had ever heard of. Then I was offered my own show. This might sound amazing, but they needed to meet some kind of broadcasting regulation, and they’d just lost their Classical Music DJ. Yep. Classical music. Luckily, I’d grown up on that sh*t, and my parents had enough albums to start their own record store, so “Symphonic Gestures” was born. I did that gig for over a year, putting together intro notes from the backs of record covers, then just letting the music play for the next half hour. I didn’t have any listeners per se—I know this, because one time, the radio station ran a contest during my show for prizes but the only person who “called in to win” was my Mom, to whom I’m forever grateful for making it seem like I had an audience. I was like, “Hey random caller, guess what?! You just won a five dollar gift card to Tim Horton’s” and she was like, “Oh wow! This is my lucky day!”

It was great experience back then, but being a DJ now is most likely very different from the days when I had two turntables and a microphone. However, I will be receiving professional training, and I’ll be able to job shadow the current host, so by the time I have to fly solo, it should be fine. More than fine, because I’ll be interviewing other writers and listening to them read their work, which is always a fun thing to do. And I’ll be in a super-haunted factory, so be prepared for some wild stories. And if you want to read more about my illustrious and DJ-ing history (and why I once shut off the music and walked out of the club), you can go to My Week 81: When I Was A DJ.

Third Time Ain’t The Charm

I’m finally back from my European adventure and what a time we had! The cities, the museums, the history—it was all incredible—except for the food. Now, don’t get me wrong—we ate on shore once in Amsterdam (because we were late back to the ship for lunch and they claimed they had ‘no more food’), and it was excellent. No, I’m talking about the food on the ship. Ken and I have done quite a few cruises and we’ve never had complaints about the food, but this time neither of us (and none of the people we talked to) were very happy about it. Let me start with the ‘Angus Ribeye’. It was neither a ribeye, nor was it named Angus. I’m not sure how to describe it. But if you know anything about me at all, you know I love a good steak, so the first night, I was dying to try it. It came—it was mostly fat, but I forgave it because the dessert was cheesecake and that was awesome. Three nights later, I ordered the Angus Ribeye again on the grounds that the first one was just a bad cut. Again, it was mostly fat. But the dessert was chocolate mousse and it was great. Most of the other nights, the food was blandly non-offensive, but on our last night, I was determined. We sat with a mother and son duo quite often and when the son found out I was going for steak number 3, he was appalled:

Ron: You’re not serious. You’re ordering it AGAIN?!
Me: It can’t always be terrible. Third times the charm.
Ron: Okay, but you’re nuts.

Ron was right. It was horrible the third time as well. Another passenger, a dirty old guy who was always a) talking non-stop and b) hitting on all the younger women in front of his wife, was shocked when I told him I thought the food was bad:

Dirty Old Guy: What did you order?
Me: The so-called Angus Ribeye.
Dirty Old Guy: Really? I had that the other night. It was great—at least the half I could eat was great…
Me: I rest my case.

The most notable and weird dish I was served was the Taco Salad one day at lunch. The menu said “Iceberg lettuce, crushed nacho chips, cheese, and salsa, with a Ranch dressing. I ordered it. A giant bowl was placed in front of me. It was an entire head of iceberg lettuce, sliced into 3 huge sections. On top of it was a smattering of nacho crumbs, no cheese, a tablespoon of salsa in the corner and a little runny dressing. I looked at it, then I looked at the waiter:

Me: I don’t know how to eat this.
Waiter: I know, Madam. I’ll get you the grilled salmon.

Anyway, aside from a few subpar meals, everything else was wonderful, but wow, am I ever happy to be home.

In other news, as promised, I have faithfully recreated one of the paintings that we saw in the Museum of Contemporary Art. Below, you’ll find a photo of my painting and a photo of the original. Which one is the copy? Bonus marks if you know the original artist:

I hope you appreciate my efforts—it took me almost an hour. I just wish I got the same kind of money for MY paintings as the original artist—then I could have Angus Ribeye every night.

New Year, New Disposition

Happy New Year everyone! Hope you had as much fun as Ken and me, as we hosted our annual neighbourhood “New Year’s Eve In Newfoundland” party. Newfoundland is an hour and a half ahead of us here in Ontario, which means we blow our horns and drink a champagne toast at 10:30 then everyone goes home. That way, the younger people can still party on, and the older people, like us, can go to bed. We really do have the best neighbours, and even though my social anxiety and extreme introvertedness can be an issue in most situations, for some reason, I love hosting this gathering. And the belle of the ball was definitely my new miniature—a shadowbox bathroom that was conveniently placed IN the bathroom, where all the party goers could see it and ooh and aah over it, and no, it’s not quite finished because as you may have noticed, THERE IS NO CLOCK IN THE ROOM YET. But still, I’m really happy with it, and the tile I personally cut my damn self after buying a tile cutter on Facebook Marketplace for five bucks.

And speaking of Facebook Marketplace, a friend recently sent me this ad.

This is, quite possibly, the most Shakespearian piece of furniture I’ve ever seen. So I contacted the seller and went to check it out:

Me: That’s a really nice desk.
Seller: It is, for sure. It’s a little…dramatic though.
Me: What do you mean?
Seller: Have you ever read Hamlet?
Me: READ Hamlet? I only taught it for 25 years.
Seller: Then you might appreciate—
Desk: Ahem. I have of late—but wherefore I know not—lost all my mirth, forgone all custom of
exercises; and indeed it goes so heavily with my disposition that this goodly frame, is a sterile promontory.
Me (gives desk a shake): I don’t know about sterile—your frame is pretty solid. But the mirth thing? I get that. 2025 seems like a dumpster fire already.
Desk: Seems, madam? Nay, it is. I know not “seems”.
Me: Sure, sure. (to Seller) Is this an antique piece?
Seller: Well…you say tomato…
Desk: Antic. I have an antic disposition.
Me (to Seller): I’ll take it.
Desk: Frailty, thy name is woman.

In other news, I never make New Year’s Resolutions. If I can’t do something whenever it occurs to me, it sure ain’t gonna happen due to some arbitrary date imposed upon us by the Gregorian calendar. But other people in the house aren’t quite so hardcore.

Me: So, are you planning on doing anything different this year?
Atlas: What do you mean, Ma?
Me: Like, a resolution. Where you promise yourself to make a change in your life for the better.
Atlas: But I like my life. I get lots of treats, and pets, and walks, and treats.
Me: But isn’t there anything you could do to make it better?
Atlas: I could stop licking my butt so much, I guess. And stop chasing that skunk you keep in the house.
Me: Again—it’s not a skunk. That’s Ilana. She’s a cat.
Atlas: But she looks like—
Me: A CAT.
Atlas: Says you. How about if I snuggle you more?
Me: Best resolution ever.

In other news, DarkWinter Press had a great year. Here’s the link to our end-of-year post, in case you’re wondering what we got up to in 2024:  https://www.darkwinterlit.com/post/thank-you-for-an-amazing-2024

And while 2025 might already seem like a dumpster fire, at least DarkWinter Press has some great books coming out.

Not A Good Read

So I’m currently in a metaphorical battle to the death with “Tevin” from Goodreads. For anyone who is blissfully unaware of what Goodreads is, let me enlighten you. It’s a website where people can read a book and then post a review about it. I’m on there as an author—authors can have a “dashboard page” where all your books are listed, and this is where the fun began. Last January, the publisher of both my short story collections apparently had a chat with God, who advised him to stop being a publisher and “unpublish” all his company’s titles (and I’m not sure why “God” told him to do that—if I was having a conversation with an invisible deity, it would tell me that if I wanted to stop publishing, I should at least keep the active titles available instead of crushing people’s hopes and dreams, and also drink some wine and get a therapy kitten). Anyway, the one particular book is still on my author dashboard and I don’t want it there because it NO LONGER EXISTS. In addition, I WROTE IT and I HOLD THE COPYRIGHT. But try telling any of this to “Tevin” who has been insisting that it’s impossible to remove my own book from my own author page. His rationale? It is “crucial that our members are able to find books they may have read or been interested in reading.” No, Tevin. It’s “crucial” that homeless people don’t freeze to death in parks, or that we take care of the environment before climate change kills us. It is NOT crucial that “Danger Kitty” can read my non-existent book and post a random review. And that’s the other bizarre thing about Goodreads—there is no consistent system for book reviews. It’s a free-for-all, with everyone and their brother/sister reviewing other people’s writing in the most nonsensical way. Here’s an example:

Book That Was Written By Someone

Review 1: Bob gives this book a rating of 3 out of 5 stars and says “It was a great read. I thoroughly enjoyed it.

Review 2: Frank gives this book a rating of 3 out of 5 stars and says, “I didn’t enjoy this book. It was poorly paced.”

Review 3: Danger Kitty gives this book a rating of 1 rubber duck out of 5 slices of cake and says, “This is the best book I’ve ever read in my life.”

(Side note: Danger Kitty reads and reviews approximately 1 book every 2 ½ days, so I have my doubts about the integrity of their opinion).

Another example: my first book, Smile, was a Young Adult novel. It has two 5 star reviews, and a 1 star review. The 1 star review is from a man in his 70s. Did it occur to him as he began to read the story of two weeks in the life of a 16-year-old girl struggling to come to terms with her father’s death that he perhaps might not be the target demographic for this novel? Yet, he persevered, and went to the trouble to give it a bad rating. Also, his profile picture is right there next to the rating, and it’s SOMEONE I KNOW. One day, I might mention it to him, but honestly, given the random nature of Goodreads, it could mean that he adored it. Who the hell knows?

But back to “Tevin”, who claims to be a Goodreads Expert and who simply cannot delete my non-existent book from my author page because “it wouldn’t be fair to the readers.” So I went in and edited the book description to “This book no longer exists.” And now I have to wait for a “Librarian” to approve the change and you just know this person will NOT be an actual librarian, just like a “Pet Detective” is a dog food salesperson (I found this out the hard way when I saw the job ad, got super-excited, and clicked on the link, only to be bitterly disappointed.)

At any rate, just for the record, I give Goodreads 0 out of 5 llamas.

Update: I kind of won. It’s a bitter victory though.

It’s Beginning To Look A Lot Like…?

We’re officially into the festive season now, and maybe it’s just me, but everywhere I go, things seem to have taken a dark turn. First, there is the incredible abundance of giant inflatable figures that always seem to be either drunk or on the verge of dying. From the Santa on his back on the neighbour’s front lawn, to the Snowman who’s half in the bag, to the Vixen that looks like it’s trying to hump Rudolph, the town’s decorations have decidedly gone over to the dark side–or to OnlyFans. And it’s no better online. After perusing Facebook marketplace for some cool deals, I discovered that even there, people are having a bleak midwinter. Case in point:

Why would ANYONE hang something like this on a tree?! Talk about Silent Night, Hole-y Night. But then there are the wings, which are so pretty and delicate, like someone STAPLED DEAD BUTTERFLIES to these creatures…I guess there are some goth families who’d love to decorate like The Nightmare Before Christmas, but me? I prefer vintage blown glass to a bony ass.

And of course, why dress up as Santa Claus and bring joy to the children when you can put on a Skibidi Toilet costume?

I read the description and yes, it seems to be in English but I’m unfamiliar with many of the terms so I had to look them up. “Skibidi” can mean either “good, cool, bad, or evil” according to the interweb. I’m going to let you decide which one it is in this context but you can probably imagine what I’M leaning towards. “Rizz” is apparently “charisma”, and I’m not sure how charismatic you can actually be with a toilet on your head. And please, I’m begging you–don’t look up Dom Dom. I did, and both Atlas and I are scarred for life. Finally, I think the person selling this isn’t very confident that people will understand it’s a costume and not HIM because the ad uses the word “inflatable” or a variation thereof, FOUR times in one short ad. Yes, we get that it’s INFLATABLE. And either child-sized or one size fits most…

And finally, here’s the most terrifying thing of all. When you think of the choir eternal, does this ever cross your mind?

Whatever happened to winged cherubs, or lovely children in choral robes? No, this is what we’ve come to–a choir of robot babies who all look like they’re about to feast on your flesh instead of the fruit cake you’ve been diligently soaking with rum for days. Why the hell does ANYONE have this many baby CPR dolls and WHAT ARE THEY SINGING?! It’s most likely a cacophony of screams from one of the circles of hell instead of O Hole-y Night.

And speaking of the bowels of hell…

Last week, as if it wasn’t enough that I was interviewed on the CBC (Canada’s national network), I had the honour and privilege of doing an interview and reading on Reader’s Delight, a local radio show. And while the show is terrific, the radio station is in the bowels of a derelict factory building that is most assuredly haunted. Here are some pictures of the halls.

Just around the corner though, is a clothing store and I can’t even imagine who shops there. But if you want to hear me read from my new work-in-progress, Murder Most Novel (the one I got the grant to write), you can listen to it here!

Present and Accounted For

Last week, I received funding from The Writer’s Union of Canada to go up North and do writing workshop presentations at the local high school there. I’ve done this before at other schools and it usually goes well, despite the incident in the spring where the teacher in charge confided that she hadn’t told the students I was coming. When I asked, “Why not?”, she said if they knew, NONE OF THEM WOULD SHOW UP, and if that isn’t a boost to the old ego, I don’t know what is. But the kids this week all knew I was their guest speaker and they seemed pretty jazzed about it. As for me, I was exhausted for a variety of reasons. First, after haranguing Ken about taking too long at work and making us late KEN, we set out on the 4 hour drive. We were about 20 minutes down the highway when Ken asked where I’d put the copies of the books I was taking to raffle off to the kids, and I realized with horror that I had forgotten an entire bag, which also contained the memory stick with my PowerPoint presentation. I actually started to cry at the thought of going back and losing even more time, as if I wasn’t stressed out of my mind with anxiety already, but there was no choice. Luckily, Ken isn’t the kind of guy to give me grief over things like that—goodness knows I felt bad enough. And not only was I exhausted after the now 6-hour drive, I also have a terrible time sleeping at hotels. I also felt grubby, because the motel we had booked smelled terrible and had no hot water. It made me appreciate social distancing even more because I kept 6 feet between me and anyone who could catch a whiff of ‘motel stank’.

But the students were lovely and very enthusiastic—until it came time to share their writing ideas with the whole group. Their reluctance was palpable. Luckily, I have a little trick up my sleeve that I use in times like this.

Me: I’m working on a new book right now, a murder mystery, and I need victims. So if you put up your hand and share your writing, I will name a character after you, and you get to choose how I murder you.
Students (all hands go flying up in the air): Me! Me!

Here are some of my favourites:

Matty – killed on stage during a musical number, possibly electrocuted by her guitar

Kennedy – flaming arrow to the chest

Zack – burned in a public place on a giant pyre

Grace – pushed off a rollercoaster at the top by a very strong 5-year-old

Jimmy – killed fighting a bear

It was simultaneously adorable AND terrifying how much thought they’d put into this. And it all reminded me so much of Edward Gorey’s The Gashlycrumb Tinies. If you haven’t read it (click link if you want to have it read to you but it’s gruesome, just an fyi), it’s a very darkly humorous alphabet book: A is for Amy who fell down the stairs / B is for Basil assaulted by bears…and it goes on, only getting worse, as you can well imagine, but the illustrations are hilarious. Anyway, it was a good time and Ken and I made it home that night without having to stay in motel hell again.

But doing things like this is getting harder and harder for me. When did I stop wanting to explore the world and just stay home? I know it’s not just me—I was having a conversation with a friend the other day:

Friend: How did it happen? When did I become so old?
Me: I know, right? Like, all I want is to putter in the garden, write, make miniatures, and watch TV in bed with a glass of wine—that’s the dream.
Friend: One of my friends had extra tickets to the Pink show last week, and I LOVE Pink, but it was in Toronto, last minute, and I was like, go ALL THE WAY to Toronto and see a concert AT NIGHT without any chance to prepare? Hard pass!
Me: Ken wanted to go to a restaurant last week and I begged him to let me cook for him at home. Why would I want to spend all that money to WAIT for my food to come?!
Friend: EXACTLY!

Stick, meet mud. Maybe I was always like this, but I had the youthful energy to overcome it. Who knows. At any rate, if you’re looking for me, you can find me at home, nestled in my office writing a story about a boy who gets killed in a bear fight. I already have the last line written: “It was a bear, Jimmy. What did you expect?”

Read For Filth; A Mini Challenge

One of the things that I do as a writer, something I simultaneously love AND hate, is live readings. While it’s a wonderful experience to share your work with an appreciative audience, at the same time, I spend days beforehand worrying and stressing about it. What will I read? How long do I have? What if someone reads something similar to me right before it’s my turn? Also, I write some pretty dark stuff and I always have to preface a live reading with “this is fiction” or “my parents are really lovely people” or “I have never killed anyone…that I’m aware of” or “Why are there small children here?!” I’ve had a couple of really awful readings in the past, like the time that I was invited to an online poetry reading. I don’t usually read my own poetry and don’t consider myself a poet, but I DID have a poem that I was quite proud of. It was about the nature of time, and how doing something kind in the moment led me to avoid getting hit by a deer on the road later by about 10 seconds, the same 10 seconds I didn’t take to think about being kind earlier. But then the person before me told the audience a horribly tragic story about a family member who’d been hit and killed in a deer/car accident, which left me scrambling for another poem to read. And then there was the time that I was invited to a reading and wasn’t told until I got there that the theme was love. And I was like, have you even read ANY of my work? Because most of my writing is VERY dark. I didn’t feel too bad though, because the woman before me read a story where the two “lovers” are murdered in a very gory way by a vengeful ghost, and it made my selection seem tame by comparison. Then last weekend, I was at a horror writing conference and I was asked to read. “Perfect,” I thought. “Finally an audience who can appreciate some of my darker stories.” So I picked a couple of short stories that I NEVER read aloud because they are VERY violent. I got up to the podium and began. When I got to a particularly gruesome point in the story, I looked at the audience and stopped reading. “Wow,” I said. “I’d forgotten how nasty this was.” Everybody laughed, but it was that kind of uncomfortable laughter where you want to be supportive of the person who’s just bombing. I’m pretty sure that was all in my head, because when I’d finished the second piece, there was a lot of applause and some people came to buy my book. But still. I guess the problem is that I tend to overthink things. I mean, if you ask me to do a reading, you should know ahead of time exactly what you’re in for.

The last two readings I’ve done though, have been from my humour collection. I didn’t think anyone but me would GET me, but apparently they do, and both times, instead of having to apologize in advance, I just read and people laugh ( and buy even more of my books). Which made me realize that my audiences ARE responding appropriately. They laugh when I’m funny, and scream and cry when I’m scary. Mission accomplished.

The other thing I did this week was (almost finish) my new miniature dining room. I don’t know why I love doing these things so much, and I don’t know whether it’s going to lead to me being a full-blown dollhouse person, but it makes me happy. And here’s a challenge–take a look at the room and if you can identify the one thing that’s still missing (because remember, I said “almost finished”), that will cement you as one of the people who know me the best (Anonymole, I’m looking at you), and I will name a character in my next murder story after you.   

Also, the other day, I yelled at a crow. Why? Because it wouldn’t stop cawing and I was trying to write. So I went to the door, opened it, and yelled, “Shut the f*ck up, would you?!” And the crow stopped cawing. Another mission accomplished. And that dead mouse on my porch? Who knows where it came from…

Profiled

This weekend, I’m doing a book event called dReadCon, so here’s a throwback for you!

A few days ago, I saw a red flag hovering above the LinkedIn app on my phone. “Ooh,” I thought. “Is someone interested in being my friend?” Now, I know that connections on LinkedIn aren’t technically called ‘friends’, but what exactly DO you call them? ‘Business peeps’? ‘Corporate posse’? ‘Kudo Klub’? (If you know anything about LinkedIn, you know it’s always pressuring you to send kudos to people as if the mere fact that you’ve been connected to them for five years is cause for celebration, like ‘You’ve never once LIKED MY POSTS, MARCIA, so kudos for that.’ (I spend most of my time on LinkedIn wishing people happy birthday or congratulating them on their work anniversaries with lovely, personalized, auto-generated kudos.) At any rate, when I opened the app, I was even more excited to see that it was a personal message.

So I clicked on the message icon in breathless anticipation. There was a message from ‘Jarod’. It read, “Hi Suzanne! I wanted to reach out because, based on your profile, I thought you might be interested in discussing your sports flooring needs. Please reach out to me anytime!” Now, there were several questions I had about this message:

1) Who the hell is Jarod?

2) What’s with all the exclamation marks? This is LinkedIn, not Twitter/X.

3) What in the name of all that is holy could possibly have led Jarod to read my profile and glean from it that I had ‘sports flooring needs?

4) What even IS sports flooring?

And because I had no interest in engaging with Jarod about his weird flooring fetish, I will answer these questions myself:

1) I have no damned idea. He is neither a Business Peep nor a member of my Corporate Posse.

2) Jarod is very excited about sports flooring and the idea of potentially connecting with me over it. Perhaps he envisions us, sipping wine on a terrace somewhere, enthusiastically discussing whatever the heck sports flooring is.

3) I re-examined my profile. It says my name and that I’m the author of several books and that I’m the editor of DarkWinter Press and Literary Magazine. It also says I’ve been endorsed for Public Speaking and Educational Leadership despite the fact that the only thing I ever post on LinkedIn is my blog. Where, in ANY of that, is there the slightest indication that I’m a) athletic b) interested in sports c) interested in floors? I looked further down and realized that someone had endorsed me for ‘Coaching’. Could that be the tenuous link?

4) The only thing I can even think of is astroturf. Why would I ever in a million years need astroturf? I HAVE GRASS, JAROD. Or is sports flooring that bouncy stuff? Because that MIGHT be cool, maybe in like one room where you could go when you were stressed and just bounce around on your sports flooring like Tigger until you felt better. Then it occurred to me—could ‘sports flooring’ be a euphemism? But I couldn’t for the life of me think what it might be a euphemism for, so I asked Ken:

Me: What could an interest in sports flooring be a euphemism for? Like, you’re a professional killer and you bury someone under concrete at an arena?
Ken: That’s very dark. Hmm. The only euphemism about sports I’ve ever heard is ‘Water Sports’.
Me: Water sports? Like water polo?
Ken: No, like…you know, ‘Golden Showers’.
Me: EWWWWWW.

So I immediately wrote back to Jarod: I DON’T DO THAT. What a creep. Then I looked and realized I had two other messages, one from ‘Matt’, who wanted to know if I was interested in an AI Training Pilot Project. Now, if that’s a euphemism for teaching my robot butler how to bring me wine, count me in. The other was from someone who thinks I like camping. I don’t. And the best way to get me to LIKE camping is definitely not to send me a metal cylinder FULL OF FIRE. So guess which message I’ll be responding to based on my profile?

That’s My Name

Last Tuesday, I was in full recovery mode from our trip—jetlag was over, the unpacking was finally done (yes, I took my time, don’t judge me), and we were back to routine. I was at the computer, working on the new book that DarkWinter Press is releasing soon (a poetry collection titled Ever Striding Edge by the wonderful Paul Brookes, and you can see the gorgeous cover, created by wonderful artist Jane Cornwell, at the end of this post) and revising my own manuscript for Nomads of the Modern Wasteland after receiving a lot of feedback from both Kate and Ken. I decided to take a break, as one does, and peruse my social media. Lo and behold, there was a notification that I had received a comment on a vacation photo (I believe the photo was one of the whale tails from our excursion). I checked the comment and it was this:

Not only am I charming, but also attractive and stunning? Wow! I was almost sold on this guy but then he said: “You have the name with my late wife”? Do you mean to tell me, James Sam Gibson, that your dead wife was ALSO called Suzanne Craig-Whytock?! What kind of crazy coincidence is THAT? And how did it come to be? Your last name is Gibson, so wouldn’t she be Suzanne Craig-Gibson? Or did she take on the name, kind of a nom de plume, after reading about the semi-famous writer, Suzanne Craig-Whytock?

Donna Gibson: My darling James. I have come to a sudden decision. I hope you won’t think it too impetuous of me.
James Sam Gibson: My darling honeyboobookins. Whatever is it that you have decided? A new hairstyle perchance? I do love a good bob, as you are well aware.
Donna Gibson: Alas, no. Please gird your loins against that particular disappointment. The decision is regarding my name. I have recently come across a marvellous writer—a strange person yes, but someone with a wonderful way of words, nonetheless, a true inspiration. And thus, I will be changing my name from the somewhat mundane Donna Gibson to…SUZANNE CRAIG-WHYTOCK!!
James Sam Gibson: Oh my darling! What an incredible choice! And of course, when you die, I shall reach out to your namesake and attempt to rekindle our love with HER!
Donna Gibson: It is indeed a wise path to take. And now I must go and buy several clocks.
James Sam Gibson: But my darling turtledove, we already have a clock.
Donna Gibson/Suzanne Craig-Whytock: As a wise, charming, attractive, and stunning woman once told me, you can never have too many clocks.

Anyway, as you can imagine, I deleted the comment and blocked the troll. What is with these bot accounts anyway? If you knew anything at all about me, you’d know that if I was single,  “former military Christian widower” is the very last thing I’d ever be interested in. Now, if the profile said “Retired clockmaker and man about town with a penchant for designer handbags. Ask me which bathroom in my Victorian mansion is my favourite”, then you might have a shot.

In other news, I forgot to tell you that the weirdest thing about our cruise was that one of the lounges was booked every day for a “Private Function.” And that function was “KNITOPIA”. Yes, a very large number of passengers on the ship were there as part of a large knitting group. No, not a company that specialized in woollen textiles—an actual unrelated factum of knitters. While the rest of us were on shore excursions exploring Greenland, they were sitting in their windowless lounge knitting. While we were watching incredible Cirque du Soleil type shows, they were sitting in their windowless lounge knitting. While we were enjoying the social activities or watching the glassblowing in the Hot Glass Studio, they were sitting in their windowless lounge knitting. At one point, Ken and I were coming back from a fun game show in the Observation Lounge—it was after 10 pm, and as we went by the knitting lounge, there were about 50 people in it and they were all watching A KNITTING VIDEO and following along as the person in the video knitted one’d and purled two’d. I ask you—what the hell is the point of spending that kind of money on a cruise, if all you do is sit in a room and knit? And apparently, they had to pay EXTRA to reserve the lounge for 12 days. I actually saw one of them when we were in Greenland—she was sitting at a café table inside the local grocery store and SHE WAS KNITTING. Seriously—give me 10 grand and I will make your meals and turn down your bed every day while you knit in the comfort of your own home. And I’ll be charming and attractive and stunning while I do it.

Now available for pre-order!