The G stands for Gordon, let’s get that out of the way right now. Uncle Gord used to carve whistles from alder twigs every spring at the White Cabin. I’ve never quite figured out how he did it. The Pike part is for the eight foot long spear, not the fish, and that first bit? Well, that’s just me. Family legend has it that I was named after the teen-aged next-door-neighbour. Prestigious, I know.
I am a writer. More specifically, I am a writer who has, by dint of a thing called making a living, spent a great deal of the life therein attained not writing.
You see, as a child I wrote with abandon. Poems and silly stories, dream journals and boyish adventures, and above all fantasy stories. I drew maps for my stories, or stories for my maps. And as I matured, so too did my ideas.
As a young man I wrote with aspiration. Other writers had done what I was doing, and I read them all. University was a further incubator for my ideas, and I delved into them with as much vigour as I did my studies. No, not as much. More. My maps grew more detailed. The people who inhabited them drew breath. Their civilizations rose and fell and were buried in the sands. And then…
Life happened. Real life. Rent and food and insurance and a mountain of student debt, and suddenly my utility was of far more value than my fantasy.
I joined the workforce. I did well. I married, bought a house, had kids; I’m fortunate enough to still have them all. But the career, well, it came to an end a few years back. When it did, I remembered.
There had been a time when I had had ideas.
When I looked, they were still there. Dormant. Waiting. Full of patient, passive life. Like acorns, they were just waiting for warm soil and cool water and the encouragement of the sun. Encourage them I did.
I have since written a book. You can read about it here, in this blog, as I continue my journey towards its publication. And soon, I hope, you’ll be able to read the book itself. Until then, I’m glad to have you along for the ride.
When not indulging in words, I can usually be found making other things. Unsurprisingly, I would characterize myself above all as a maker. I render helpless pieces of wood into smaller pieces of wood, with the intent of then fitting them together in pleasing ways. I try to draw the things I see in my head, or that I see around me, with varied degrees of success. I test my family’s patience by indulging my lifelong delusion of mastering the guitar. And to make up for it, I bake for them, and that seems to be a good balance.
Oh, and something about a 16-year career in retail, blah blah blah.
Thanks for peeking in on me.