Michael Libling

A 3-Way, a Bloating Problem, a Trout, and Everyone Who Ever Lived

December 2, 2022December 3, 2022

1. Someone Was Crazy Enough to Interview Me Again

Sooner or later, I’m going to be interviewed and say something that offends someone, if not everyone. Chances are, I’ve already succeeded, though no one appears to have cared, which might well be the one advantage of being Michael Libling and not Stephen King or J.K. Rowling. But if there was ever a cause for concern, this recent three-part interview is probably it.

Conducted by writer/editor Gillian Pollack of Treehouse Writers in August 2022, the interview is a three-way of sorts, featuring me, along with prolific authors Amy Sterling Casil and Ron Collins. My advice is that you read Amy and Ron’s contributions and fake it when you come to mine. Of course, should you disregard this advice and come across any statement by me that raises an eyebrow (or other notable body part), please do not hesitate to keep it strictly to yourself. Nope. I don’t wanna know from nuttin’.

Nothing better to do? Click here for Interview Part One.

Feeling foolhardy? Click here for Interview Part Two.

Too late to turn back? Click here for Interview Part Three. (At the very least, you might enjoy my reading recommendations featured in this final section.)

Meanwhile, speaking of trilogies…

2. Worlds without End

Back in 2015, I attended the World Fantasy Convention in Saratoga, NY. At one point, I got to chatting with an author who had just released his tenth book in a popular fantasy series—a series with no end in sight. After much back and forth, I summoned the courage to ask, “Aren’t you bored after all this time, writing about the same characters in the same world?” He paused, his smile thin as he mulled his response, and on the tail of a long sigh, he quietly said, “Oh, God, yes. You have no idea.” His words have often come to mind ever since.

That Bloated Feeling

I grew up reading The Hardy Boys, Dale of the Mounted, and The Secret Seven, books with recurring characters and occasional references to previous installments. Each novel was self-contained, without any need to read them in chronological order. I knew in advance that when I reached the final page, the story would be wrapped up. THE END meant THE END. You know, like picking up a Jack Reacher, Hercule Poirot, James Bond, or Inspector Gamache. Same cast, different story, solid ending! But what I’m talking about here are the open-ended series, where each volume must be read in sequence and concludes with a cliffhanger or, more correctly, a non-ending. The promise is that sometime in the future, a concluding volume will tie up the loose ends. How many volumes? How far into the future? In many cases, I’m not sure either the author or the publisher knows for certain.

A Pandemic of Bloating

Thus I wonder how many writers feel trapped by the book series they’ve created, obliged to carry on with a mission that’s become more chore than joy. How do they cope with a series that runs either to Armageddon or the author’s natural death, whichever comes first? Clearly, money and fandom talk, and I surely would not dismiss either were I in such a fortunate position. At the same time, I sympathize with readers who have committed themselves to a series only to find no end in sight. I suspect “Get on with it, damn it!” has been shouted at more than a few books, no matter the series. Being a literary completist demands dedication.

For Your Reading Pleasure: Every Human Who Ever Lived

My first serious foray into the field was Philip Jose Farmer’s RIVERWORLD series, beginning in the 70s and continuing into the 80s. The concept was irresistible. As Amazon describes it: “Imagine that every human who ever lived, from the earliest Neanderthals to the present, is resurrected after death on the banks of an astonishing and seemingly endless river on an unknown world. They are miraculously provided with food, but with not a clue to the possible meaning of this strange afterlife. And so billions of people from history, and before, must start living again.”

TO YOUR SCATTERED BODIES GO (Riverworld #1) remains among my favorite books. A richly deserved winner of the 1972 Hugo Award. I continue to recommend it. BODIES is an intriguing read and, for writers, an educational one, if only to see how Farmer establishes his concept. My problem was, the deeper I got into the series, the more frustrating it became. While provocative and entertaining, a definitive THE END was nowhere to be found. The tease was constant. I had the feeling Farmer wasn’t sure where to take his ever-expanding tale. I gave up on the series after THE MAGIC LABYRINTH, the fourth installment. I no longer cared whether or not there was an ending. I felt I was being played. I’ve been wary of open-ended series ever since.

Fortunately, some trilogies really are trilogies and some potentially open-ended series really do have endings. While each of the following is vastly different in genre, plot, style, and execution, I guarantee none will leave you hanging…

Three Authors Who Know How to End It

Ben Winter’s LAST POLICEMAN Trilogy is an engrossing read, a rare and clever blend of mystery and apocalyptic fiction, highlighted by Book #3 and its unforgettably unambiguous ending.

I was also impressed by the first two books in Matt Kressel‘s WORLDMENDER Trilogy, and am confident Kressel will maintain the same high level of skill and entertainment in the concluding PRINCESS OF ASHES, coming soon. As the Shelf-Awareness reviewer put it, “[A] fascinating first novel…King of Shards is the first entry of the Worldmender Trilogy, and its use of Hebrew culture and legend to build a complex, dynamic setting serves to imbue every page with an epic mythos.”

Should techno-thrillers in the Tom Clancy or Michael Crichton vein be your preference, you won’t go wrong with Canadian author Timothy S. Johnston’s multi-award-winning RISE OF OCEANIA series, a deftly structured hybrid of the standalone and the to-be-continued. (Keep reading. My full review of Johnston’s fifth book in the six-part OCEANIA series lurks below.)

That Bloated Feeling isn’t Exclusive to Books

Bloating is also an issue for TV, of course, where streaming demands content on top of content on top of content. Concepts that used to deliver a good two-hour movie are now stretched beyond reasonable limits, broken into six, eight, or thirteen series episodes, padded with fat, chaff, and Kate Bush classics. In effect, streaming has ballooned your one-time two-hour movie to thirteen freaking hours. And just when you think it can’t get any more tedious, that once “limited series” has been renewed for another season or two or five. At this rate, two-hour movie concepts will soon require a lifetime viewing commitment. Yup, one show for ever and ever and ever.

Hmm…now that I think abut it, maybe I should write a series. Hmm…hmm…. THE SERIAL KILLER’S SON TAKES A WIFE (coming fromAutumn 2023, WordFire Press) just might be an ideal starter. Hmm…hmm…hmm… what if…

Afterthought: Philip Jose Farmer, Kurt Vonnegut, and Kilgore Trout

Despite the above, the somewhat subversive Farmer remains a favorite author, especially for his connection to another favorite, Kurt Vonnegut. If you’re a Vonnegut fan, the name Kilgore Trout will be be familiar. Trout is the science fiction writer created by Vonnegut, and a character who appears in several of his novels. In 1975, VENUS ON THE HALF-SHELL was published in paperback, garnering much attention because of the author who was credited for having written it: Kilgore Trout! Yup, Vonnegut’s fictional SF writer.

While many believed Vonnegut to be the author, it was, in fact, Philip Jose Farmer. It’s a funny book as I recall, with my favorite line being: “Never stand downwind of an Earthman or a Shrook” or something to this effect. Should I ever manage to dig out my copy of VENUS, I’ll quote the line exactly. Meanwhile, check out this obituary and this tribute to Farmer that appeared in The Guardian at the time of his 2009 passing.

3. Book review: THE SHADOW OF WAR by Timothy S. Johnston

With respect to full disclosure, I know Timothy S. Johnston personally. We met in the fall of 2019 at London Ontario’s ComicCon, each of us at the booth of our publisher at the time, ChiZine Publications. Although we are drastically different writers in terms of storytelling and subject matter, we hit it off and have remained in touch ever since. The more I’ve read his work, the more I’ve come to appreciate his skills and discipline. Indeed, much like the characters in his “Rise of Oceania” series, Johnston is laser-focused on his mission: to create no-nonsense, action-packed, science fiction thrillers that up the ante with every turn of the page. With THE SHADOW OF WAR, the fifth and penultimate entry in the Oceania canon, Johnston delivers the goods yet again.

The Twenty-Second Century is All Wet

The series is set in the early years of the twenty-second century, when the full impact of climate change has arrived and Earth’s waters have risen to catastrophic levels. Within this scenario, undersea colonies have emerged, providing both hope for the future and crucial resources for the terrestrial population. Alas, these same colonies are suppressed and exploited by their land-based, military-minded overseers. In keeping with this planet’s sorry history and the innate nature of humankind, war and rebellion continue to dominate. Finding an edge against the enemy is a never-ending pursuit, a reality Truman McClusky and his team of freedom fighters from the Trieste colony know all too well.

Johnston Does More than Entertain, He Illuminates

As usual, Johnston doesn’t mess around. His opening is as audacious as it is horrifying, establishing page after page of cinematic thrills and derring-do his many fans have come to count on. In the past, his novels have brought to mind Tom Clancy, Ian Fleming, and James A. Corey (THE EXPANSE). This time, it is Andy Weir and THE MARTIAN. Johnston does more than entertain, he illuminates, with scientific, technological, and historical research woven seamlessly throughout. Indeed, Johnston so cleverly incorporates facts, data, and developments, you barely realize there is an educational component. It all goes down so easily.

Among the topics THE SHADOW OF WAR touches upon are laser weapon technology, neutral particle beams, kelp forests, tectonics, and even the xenophobic movement led by UK politician John Tyndall in the 1990s. Those familiar with Johnston’s work will not be surprised by any of this. Another element, however, might catch some readers off guard.

Bodies Here, Bodies There, Bodies Bodies Everywhere

The body count throughout the Oceania series is high, ranging into the upper thousands. Readers of techno-thrillers and fans of action movies, John Wick and Marvel included, take human loss in their stride. Victims are fodder. Here, Johnston departs from expectations, forcing his protagonist, McClusky, to confront the human toll his quest for Trieste independence has cost and how many more must fall before his rebellion succeeds. It is a welcome evolution of the McClusky character and the hero trope. The introspection (and guilt?) also sets up the final book in the series, A BLANKET OF STEEL. Should McClusky’s dream of independence be realized, what will the ultimate price be? True victory or a pyrrhic victory?

Action scenes are Johnston’s greatest strength. It’s a large part of what makes reading his work so entertaining. Time and again, he puts his characters into heart-pounding, life-or-death situations with no evident means of escape. And time and again he finds a way, without resorting to deus ex machina. And this brings me to Johnston’s other strength: The total lack of pretension.

His novels do not pretend to be anything other than what they are—thrilling, science fiction adventures that propel the reader from first page to last. As I said at the outset, his goal is to tell a good story—period! With THE SHADOW OF WAR, his eighth published novel, Timothy S. Johnston maintains both his objective and justly growing reputation.

4. Coming January 2023: The Most Mundane Blog in Blogging History, Featuring…

• Brilliant Opening Sentences for Short Stories, Novels, and More! Absolutely Free!

• The Sad Fate of a Cherished Friend I Picked Up at a Local Gas Station

• Why I Have Come to Hate Sinks (Yes, sinks—those things in your kitchen and bathroom))

• Blogs and Bloggers that Easily Put Me to Shame

…In other words, I’m not offering much for you to look forward to. Till then, Happy Holidays to all, no matter what you do or don’t celebrate. See you in the New Year…or on Facebook or Instagram or LinkedIn or (ugh!) Twitter.

Lost Blogs. My Fling with Porno. LESTER LIES DOWN…

October 20, 2022November 7, 2022

It’s been a rough stretch. The pounding on my door. The angry phone calls. The threatening emails and texts. The shameful graffiti on underpasses and overpasses… Yes, the clamor has intensified over the past three years. Hordes of fans, friends, and family members have petitioned me to put together a new blog. At last count—and I caution this is only a guestimate—the tally had surpassed a…uh…um…sort of big number. I hereby humbly accede to these demands.

1. The Graveyard of Lost Blogs

Truth be told, I have written a few blogs since the pandemic began. It’s just that, for reasons of propriety, foresight, shame, and cowardice, I have posted none.

Lost Blog #1: Here, I detailed the troubles experienced by my then publisher, ChiZine, beginning in November 2019, and the impact this had on my novel, HOLLYWOOD NORTH: A NOVEL IN SIX REELS, just as the momentum was building and a second printing was in the offing. Never before had I a clearer understanding of what it meant to be caught between a rock and a hard place. On the other hand, the blog allowed me to reach a personal milestone—an average of twenty-eight grating whines, seventeen weaselly groans, six sulky sniffles, and five mopey sighs per paragraph. Feeling sorry for myself has never felt more therapeutic. Indeed, as writers’ blogs go, I am confident mine broke all previous records for “whine-able” content and would surely have been recognized by Guinness World Records.

Although HOLLYWOOD NORTH was subsequently picked up by Open Road Media in the US, thanks to OR editor Betsy Mitchell and my agent Christine Cohen, the peaks of whining achieved in this forbidden blog remain a high point among my cherished lows.

Farewell, My Peanut Friend

Lost Blog #2: Here, I threw caution to the wind to address the sad demise of Mr. Peanut, killed off by Planters in 2020 after 104 years of dedicated service. I knew Mr. Peanut. I was friends with Mr. Peanut. This was personal.

As a child, I met Mr. Peanut several times on his frequent promotional visits to my hometown of Trenton, Ontario. He was unfailing in his kindness and generosity, often handing out 5-cent bags of salted peanuts for free (FREE!) to ragamuffin and sophisticate alike. He deserved better than to be left a mere shell of his former self by cold-hearted corporate entities.

Why didn’t I post it? First off, my wife, Pat, began to question my relationship with Mr. Peanut. By reading between the lines, she suggested my affection for Ol’ Crunchy might not have been quite as wholesome as I had led her to believe. And then a trusted friend noted a second issue that was even more disturbing—a potential career-ender: “Sorry, Mike, but do you really want to come across as a person who condones cannibalism? Mr. Peanut, a fully roasted adult, handing out free bags of peanuts…infant legumes of his own species….”

Up Shit’s Critique! True-Life Adventures of a Dumbass Writer

Lost Blog #3: While this particular blog has never appeared on my website, it was inadvertently sent out to my email subscribers. (You know who you are!) Why haven’t I published it here? No reason, aside from a mild fear of cancelation, name-calling, occasional death threats, and accusations of arrogance, elitism, and insensitivity.

The jaunty diatribe, commencing with the title above, chronicled my less-than-delightful experiences in agreeing to provide constructive feedback to would-be writers. Suffice it to say, I now consider these to be the five most terrifying words in the English language: “WILL YOU READ MY NOVEL?”

2. We’ll Be Right Back After These Important Messages

I’ve been blabbing about it ad nauseam since May 2022, so I’m guessing you’ve heard the news. My latest novel, THE SERIAL KILLER’S SON TAKES A WIFE, will be published by Kevin J. Anderson’s WordFire Press in autumn 2023.

Timing is everything, of course, so I’m hoping these stats from Morning Consult entertainment reporter, Saleah Blancaflor, hold up in the interim:

“A recent Morning Consult survey reveals that nearly two-thirds of U.S. adults (62%) said they are fans of TV shows or movies about serial killers, while a quarter of U.S. adults describe themselves as ‘avid’ fans of the genre. Nearly 80% of millennials said they’re fans of serial killer content.”

I’ll be telling you more about the novel as we move closer to publication. Suffice it to say, my writing tends to cross genres, so in the interest of accuracy, THE SERIAL KILLER’S SON TAKES A WIFE is a Thriller-Mystery-Crime-Horror-Dark Humor-Romance novel. Okay, maybe not Romance exactly, but it does drop a mush-bomb or two. One early reader called it a breezy spin on horrible things, which pretty much nails it.

Speaking of novels…

3. Book Review: LESTER LIES DOWN by James Ladd Thomas

I met James Ladd Thomas at the Bread Loaf Writers’Conference in Middlebury, Vermont, in the early 2000s, and we have remained in contact ever since. He has just had his second novel published by Vine Leaves Press, and I am happy to review it here. (This is the first in a series of reviews I’ll be posting from time to time, unless I say more than I should and these blogs become “lost,” too.)

The Adventures of a Mildly Autistic Hospice Caregiver

Thomas is what the publishing world refers to as a Southern Writer. He lives in the South. He writes about the South. And, knowing him personally, he holds no
illusions about the South. …All of which combine to produce an entertaining and rewarding read. His first novel, ARDOR, made his roots abundantly clear, though I’ve never been sure if it was a novel disguised as a short story collection or a short story collection disguised as novel. There is no confusion, however, about his latest, LESTER LIES DOWN. This is most definitely a novel and, like ARDOR, worth your reading time.

The part I enjoy most about Thomas’s writing are the insights he brings to his characters and, by extension, the sensitivity he applies to the vagaries of life, love, parenthood, and…yeah!…carousing. From the first page, LESTER LIES DOWN immerses the reader in Lester Gordon’s world and the unpredictable life (and lives) he leads as a mildly autistic adult.

A Literary Novel with a Shot of Genre

There’s the work Lester, who takes us on his daily rounds as a hospice caregiver, visiting and chatting with his terminally ill patients and their loved ones. There’s the widowed, single-parent Lester, who struggles to raise his three children, Jase, Lizzy, and Chuck—the last of whom has a fondness for drawing nude women and providing bookie services to the neighborhood kids. There is the romantic Lester, who would like nothing more than to find love again. And then there’s the loyal Lester, who gets caught up in the questionable doings of his old friend, Ardor, and the mysterious men who have been stalking her—an unexpected subplot that flirts with genre. (Yeah, she is the very same Ardor of Thomas’s first novel and, trust me, she is a…uh…um…uh…a handful. Be careful she doesn’t leap off the page to pick your pocket.)

Revealing, heartbreaking and, at times, disturbing, you might feel you’re eavesdropping, if not outright spying, on the characters Thomas so vividly brings to life. The dialogue sparkles, laugh-out-loud funny one moment, touching the next. Indeed, the conversations often stray to the intense and intimate, straddling that indefinable border between Life and Death.

If literary fiction with a distinct Southern charm appeals, LESTER LIES DOWN could be the book you’ve been looking for. Read it. Savor it. And, chances are, you’ll be thinking about Lester and company long after you’ve closed the back cover.

Movie and TV producers take note! The script is waiting for you. It’s all there on the page, courtesy of the author, James Ladd Thomas.

4. A thrilling tale of advertising, porno, smiles, and tears…in that order

From the late 70s onward, I earned my living as a copywriter and creative director, working for advertising agencies before striking out on my own as a freelancer. I had some terrific clients over the years, most notably The Netherlands Board of Tourism, KLM Royal Dutch Airlines, Rail Europe, and Ex-Lax. Yeah, Ex-Lax. “It can make your day overnight.” Now I’m not going to get myself into trouble by dredging up the worst clients, but I will tell you my favorite story about a prospective client. I should also point out this was long before “streaming” and “the Internet” were things.

One day, the phone rings. The caller has been referred to me by an existing client, and he wants to know if I’ll meet him at his office to discuss a project. He is the president of a company that ranks among the largest distributors of pornographic videos in North America.

As a freelancer, I am open to anything. (The nature of the business demands it.) While I might have turned down a few requests along the way (like writing speeches for a certain political party), I was too curious to dismiss this one. Hey, I’m no prude, and frankly, it sounded like fun. Opportunity is opportunity. Once a mercenary, always a mercenary. Anyhow, I’m sure you get the picture.

So down I go to the prospective client’s office and warehouse. He greets me warmly and proceeds to give me a tour of the premises. The place is massive and impressive. Videos line the walls from floor to ceiling. Thousands and thousands and thousands of ’em. With categories, proclivities, and fetishes for all types, tastes, and occasions. Man, the place is bustling, with shipments coming and going. And some of the posters hanging about—golly-gee and gulp! Yeah, the business is a going concern. Exciting. Booming. Titillating. And I am more than intrigued about the role I might play. The products offer a refreshing change of pace from the pharmaceutical, fundraising, and financial services accounts that dominate my days.

After twenty minutes or so, Mr. President leads me back to his office. He gives my portfolio a cursory examination, before easing into his plush leather swivel. “So,” he says, “what do you think?”

“Interesting,” I reply.

“Yes, isn’t it?”

I am a tad distracted, transfixed by the colorful, educational poster plastered to the wall behind him. Only now do I face the sad reality of how sheltered my life has been. Holy cow! So that’s where that goes! Who’d a thought!

“But you need to understand, I do not distribute just any videos.” He adjusts his glasses, tents his fingers. “Our offerings are restricted to only the finest productions. And therein lies the problem. People believe all pornographic content is the same. I want to distinguish our products, do something to make them stand out from the competition. This is where you come in.”

“Interesting,” I say. Yes, my vocabulary has been reduced to a single word.

“It’s more than interesting,” he says.

I nod. I smile.

“Excuse me?” His eyes narrow. His nostrils flare. “Are you smiling?” It’s not a question, it’s an accusation.

“I’m listening, that’s all,” I say. “It’s interesting.”

I have crossed a line I didn’t know was there. He is plainly unhappy with me. Still, he continues. “I want you to create a sticker—and some brainy slogan—to go on every package, so the buyer knows a video from us is the highest quality on the market. Like a Good Housekeeping Seal of Approval, but for sex videos.”

I smile again. I know it’s a mistake. I cannot help myself. Worse, it’s a huge smile, all teeth and gums. I cover my mouth, fake a cough, sputter some excuse about asthma. Admittedly, I’m finding the whole idea crazy, but I’m also thinking how cool working on such a project might be. Unfortunately, Mr. President has a different interpretation: “You’re laughing at me.”

“No. No, I’m not. Honest. It’s just so interest—”

“I will have you know, Mr. Libling, I take my business seriously. Very seriously.” He removes his glasses, pinches the bridge of his nose, pauses.

I summon my serious face. I do not want to blow this. I really do want to create a Good Housekeeping-type seal of approval for porn. Hell, do I ever! The creative wheels are already turning.

He wags a finger. “I’ll have you know—” His voice cracks. His eyes fill with tears. The guy is freakin’ tearing up! “I will have you know not a single video enters or leaves this building without my having watched it first.”

I shudder. I bite my thumb. I blink more blinks than I have ever blinked.

“Furthermore, I’ll have you know—and you can ask my wife about the hours I spend in our home theater—I watch many of the videos two or three times, just to be certain each meets our company’s highest standards.”

I gag. I tremble. I brace for my head to explode. I can’t even manage an interesting.

“You think this is funny?” He catapults himself to his feet, plucks a hanky from a pocket, and blows his nose. “My business is not a joke, sir.” He wipes one eye, glares at me, and wipes the other. He looks to me and then the door. “Thank you for coming.”

I am going to cry. I am going to burst.

“Shut the door behind you,” he says, and as I turn to exit, I hear the whir of the video player that sits beside his desk, followed by the click of a VHS cartridge as he pops it into play.

I am going to pee my pants.

__________

______

Footnotes to a Novel, Featuring “The Diner from Hell”

October 29, 2019October 18, 2021

1. The Art of the Interior Monologue*

I’m standing at my publisher’s table in the vendors room at CanCon in Ottawa. I’m wearing my laid-back author face, a time-honoured expression that goes well with tweed jackets, elbow patches, and briarwood pipes, when a potential book buyer materializes mere footsteps away. I wait and I watch as she browses the literary offerings. My restraint is a case study in nonchalance, until I catch her fleeting glance at my novel. It is all the invitation I need.

“Perhaps you’d be interested in my book,” I say, drawing her attention back to HOLLYWOOD NORTH: A NOVEL IN SIX REELS.

My patter dips into the book’s primary setting, Trenton, Ontario, its secret history, and my personal connection. I cover off the accidents and crimes, the silent movie studio, and several of the other true-life events that inspired the story. She is curious, but not convinced. I falter as a wave of self-doubt inundates my fragile psyche. Perhaps my approach would be more effective on a used car lot, as one author friend had recently intimated.

With a pathetic crack in my voice, I invite her to look under the hood, check out the upholstery, take the book for a test drive. She hesitates, shrugs, and concedes. Slowly, she flips through the pages …

“Wow! This is a work of art,” she declares, and promptly forks over her hard-earned cash, as I readjust my T-shirt, my jeans, and my laid-back author face.

*This applies only to the original ChiZine print edition of the novel, both paperback and hardcover. The new Open Road Media edition of the book is pretty nice, but not as elaborate as the original.

1a. Kudos to Shapiro

Once again, many thanks to the brilliant Jared Shapiro and his inspired interior design (of the original ChiZine print editions). Jared’s contributions add to the story in ways large and small. As author Paul Di Filippo noted in his much-appreciated LocusMag review: “…all kudos must be given to the graphic designer on this novel, Jared Shapiro, for the striking multimedia approach to the text, with insertion of many embellishments and illustrations that perfectly complement Gus’s tale.” (On the unimaginable off chance you have yet to buy and read my novel, Gus is the protagonist and narrator of the story. Again, Jared’s remarkable design work only appears in the original ChiZine version of the novel—that’s the version pictured at the outset of this entry.)

2. A Highly Questionable Question

movie theatre — The Theatre Shoppe (left) predates my parents’ era, but that is precisely where the Theatre Bar was located. The Trent became the Odeon and then the Centre.

The one question I’ve been asked more than any other, especially by readers who know Trenton, Ontario, is if any of the characters in HOLLYWOOD NORTH are based on real people. The answer is an emphatic no. “This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.”

diner, movie theatre — A one-time owner of the shop at Dundas and Division was Alex Lamorre, a familiar name in the town to this day.

I will own up, however, to the place that inspired the Marquee Café which plays a pivotal role in the book. It is, indeed, modeled after my parents’ restaurant, the Theatre Bar, which once stood next door to the Odeon in Trenton.

While the movie house still stands, the Odeon has long since been renamed the Centre. It should also be noted that it wasn’t always the only show in town.

2a. Screen War on Main Street!

For years, two movie theaters competed within the same block and on opposite sides of the street, until circa 1960, when the Century was shut down. It was a sad day for many, the preteen me among them.

The Century theatre. (Source: Quinte West Public Library.)

After all, the Century was where I got to see the feature-length version of Disney’s Davy Crockett on the big screen. This was also where I saw On The Waterfront with my dad at a weekday matinee. I’m not sure why my father thought it was a good idea to take the 5-year-old me to that particular movie, but I am glad he did.

The Theatre Bar, Trenton, Ontario — The Pepsi sign on the left marks the entrance to the Theatre Bar.

Best I can tell, it was the moment I fell in love with movies and Eva Marie Saint.

As for the Libling family diner, where my sisters and I spent countless hours, poring over homework, helping out, and killing time, it vanished in the late 1970s, when the space at 122 Dundas Street West was renovated out of existence to make room for the multiplex that is today’s Centre.

2b. The Best Show in Town and Only a Dime

The main thing you need to know is that the Theatre Bar was not a bar in the popular sense. It was a bar only in the strait-laced Ontario sense of the era, which produced endless hours of glee for regular customers, who’d hang out in anticipation of the naive newbies who’d stray through the door.

This was in the days before Highway 401 connected Montreal and Toronto, when the stop-and-slow of Highway 2 was the only way to go, and Trenton’s downtown was a going concern. And smack on Highway 2 in downtown Trenton is where you’d find the Theatre Bar.

For the price of a cup of coffee, it offered countless thrills. No local entertainment venue delivered greater value. And it always went down the same way.

2c. A Man Walks into a Bar and Asks for a Beer

A thirsty out-of-towner would amble in. He’d plop himself onto a stool at the counter or a chair at a table. My mother would approach, welcome him with pen, pad, and generous smile. The unwary sap would request his beverage of choice. My mother would break the news. And hilarity would flow.

“Huh? You kidding me? I can’t get a beer? An O’Keefe’s, a Labatt’s?”

Mom would take it in her stride, offer a compassionate shake of the head.

modern movie theatre — The Centre today. Not much character, but that’s the way it goes, eh?

“But the sign outside—it says bar, right?”

“Just not that sort of bar.”

“Isn’t that false advertising?”

“How about a bite to eat?”

“Well, jeez, I guess, seeing as how I’m already here … Sure. Gimme a Coke, a burger, and an order of fries.”

“I’m sorry, we don’t serve French fries.”

“What!? What do you mean you don’t serve French fries?”

diner — That’s my dad behind the counter. Menus were on the wall. Daily specials were “spoken word.”

“We don’t make them,” my mother would say, which was my father’s cue. From his station at the grill, he would sigh his long-simmering displeasure at the fact, his exhaled editorial punctuated with a primal snarl. Despite her slight 5’1″, Mom was no shrinking violet. She would return immediate fire, her glare so fierce it would have kayoed a grizzly.

Meanwhile, the hapless stranger would slide right over the edge, blinking and twitching befuddlement as he belatedly surveyed the interior of the wacko joint he’d stumbled into.

2d. The Diner from Hell

And what a wondrous sight to behold the Theatre Bar was!

An air conditioner the size of an elephant casket. Mismatched shelves and display cases. Coolers and freezers. Bins of penny candies and racks of salty snacks. Cubbyholes stacked with packs of cigarettes and cigars. And observing the sucker’s every move, the grinning band of Theatre Bar regulars.

A sputter-fest is what it was. “Jesus H. Christ! What is this place? What are you running here? You call yourself a bar, but you don’t got any beer. You call yourself a restaurant, but you don’t got any French fries. Now I look over there and you’re selling ashtrays and transistor radios and Sen-sen and bicarbonate, and god-knows-what-else. Holy cow! Is that a Japanese fan? And look at that—you got more soda pop and ice cream here than the damn A&P. And Kik Cola! Jesus. You’ve really got Kik Cola? What next? What next?”

“Well,” my mother would suggest, “the lunchtime special is quite nice. It’s tuna fish on toast.”

“Huh?”

“It’s like chicken à la king, but without the chicken.”

I suppose I could end this here, but then the obvious question would remain…

2e. So Why Didn’t the Theatre Bar Serve French Fries?

Mom and her lemon meringue pie. At her peak, she’d bake up to 30 pies a night and cart them to the Theatre Bar next day.

When my parents first took over the restaurant, French fries were part of the menu. The item was, however, an ongoing source of friction. More than once I was awakened in the middle of the night by my parents’ savage debate on the subject. I will never forget my mother’s plaintive cry: “How many times do I have to tell you? I am sick of smelling like a potato.”

My father, on the other hand, didn’t mind. Smelling like a potato was good for business. Before too long, my mother issued an ultimatum. Either she would continue to smell like a potato or she would continue to bake pies for the restaurant. “But not both.”

The pies won out. If you were lucky enough to have ever sampled my mom’s apple or lemon meringue pies, you would know why. Her crust, oh man, that crust! At once crispy and chewy and flaky and buttery and … Trust me, a wedge of any of her pies would more than compensate for the elusive alcohol and fries.

3. Live and In Person at the Scene of the Crime

Should you be in or around Trenton, Ontario area on Wednesday, November 6, 2019, I’ll be risking life and limb with an appearance at Trenton Town Hall 1861, Home of the Trent Port Historical Society. Why the trepidation? I appeared at the Quinte West Public Library back in June and the warm reception remains a highlight of my so-called book tour. But the event was held before the novel was available and locals had yet to digest the contents. With this in mind, I have requested from security that all vegetables, fruits, tar, and feathers be confiscated at the door.

Anyhow, the location is 55 King Street and the show gets underway at 6:30 p.m. I’ll be reading from HOLLYWOOD NORTH, equivocating in a Q&A, signing books, and schmoozing. On a side note, the Trenton Town Hall 1861 Facebook page is responsible for several of the photos featured in this blog. Should you be active on Facebook, their page is worth checking out.

On a side note, for readers in the area, the novel is in stock at Lighthouse Books in Brighton, Chapters in Belleville and both Indigo and Novel Idea in Kingston.

4. The Baffling “Autumn Leaves/Marshmallow” Conundrum

As we were walking the dog the other evening, the autumn leaves accumulating underfoot, I mentioned to my wife, Pat, that when I was a kid in Trenton, we’d rake the leaves to curbside and then set them on fire. Sometimes, we’d grab a stick and roast

marshmallows, too. “Didn’t that cause a lot of fires?” she asked.

I had to think for a moment. “Yeah. Probably. But the marshmallows were so good.”

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“That Time of Month” or How I Learned to Time Travel

February 24, 2019October 18, 2021

The Benefits of Living in the Past

(By popular demand—well, should feedback from three individuals be sufficient to constitute popular demand—I present another brief excerpt adapted from my novel, LIFE IN HENK: A Semi-Authorized Memoir. Yes, it is a novel, no matter the truth or half-truth of any of it.)

Harvey Small was a traveling salesman. He lived in Montreal and was my Aunt Nettie’s cousin, but not my cousin, which I never fully understood despite my mother’s efforts to explain. Anyhow, the man peddled “women’s fashions and finery” from the back seat of an Oldsmobile and spent the night with us whenever he was covering his territory—which was most of Ontario, including Trenton. As my father liked to say, “With the money that shnorrer saved on motels, I could be Conrad Hilton, already.”

Mom & Dad captured during rare ceasefire

Harvey grazed on cigars and sunflower seeds, and watched TV with me. Ladies handbags and belts were his sidelines and, during commercials, philosophy and time travel, too. I was not a nervous kid, precisely or entirely, but I was a wary kid, ever waiting for some kind of axe to fall. (Guillotines were featured props in many dreams.) My parents’ middle-of-the-night blowups had equipped me with a well-honed sense of dread. Fact is, I was barely aware of this vital sixth sense, until the day Harvey set me straight.

In the Harvey Small biopic, William Conrad would star

“Dreading-shmedding, Mikey. Forget today and tomorrow,” he said. “It’s yesterday you want to fill your head with. No falling off your bike and breaking your arm. No bone slivers in your hotdogs. No girlfriends missing their time of month. No polio bugs waiting for you on an apple. Live in the past and you know everything that’s going to happen. Everything, Mikey. No surprises. Nothing to dread. Nothing to make you nervous.”

“Girlfriends?” I said. “They miss their time of month?”

“And you know what’s best about the past? You can change it to exactly how you want to remember it.”

“You mean they don’t know what month it is?”

“Be a good boy, get me a ginger ale. No ice. Only Barbara Ann Scott and dead fish look good on ice.”

“Why don’t they just use a calendar?”

“There’s only one trick. You’ve got to live long enough so you get to where you got a past.”

(If you want more of these excerpts, let me know. If you don’t want more, say nothing. I’ll get the hint eventually.)

Selected plugs, recs, reads, and … uh … canvases

Fiction

• What Kills Us Kills Us and Burning Down Disneyland by Kurt S. Olsson: Two award-winning poetry collections. Kurt calls these poems. I call them novels in miniature. Funny. Absurd. Touching. Hair-raising. Brilliant.

• The Friend by Sigrid Nunez: A National Book Award Winner for several good reasons. Not necessarily everyone’s idea of fiction. But I loved this novel. Period.

• Venera Dreams: A Weird Entertainment by Claude Lalumiere: Not an easy read by any stretch. But this genuinely “weird entertainment” drew me in and kept me hooked, page after page, chapter after chapter.

• Every House is Haunted by Ian Rogers: The title of this debut horror collection opens the door. Once you cross the threshold, keep the lights on, not for reading purposes, but for your mental health. Hugely entertaining. And haunting in the best way possible.

• A Likely Story by Donald E. Westlake: A biting, hilariously honest look at the publishing industry. A classic with a contemporary POV.

• Welcome to Dystopia: 45 Visions of What Lies Ahead, edited by Gordon Van Gelder: Hey! My story, SNEAKERS, leads off this politically charged anthology. What more could you want!

• The First Fifteen Lives of Harry August by Claire North: Winner of the John W. Campbell Award for Best Science Fiction Novel and a nominee for the Arthur C. Clarke Award in the same category. Not perfect. A tad overwritten. But it is intriguing and often affecting. Imagine Groundhog Day as a Groundhog Life.

• Nobody’s Buddy by John A. Moroso: Published in 1936, I include it here only because my sixth grade teacher read a chapter a week to the class over the course of the school year. Until I tracked down a copy of the book, I’d always incorrectly remembered the title as Buddy and Waffles. (Since this was first posted, I received a note from Dennis C. Myers, News Editor of Reno News & Review. It turns out my memory wasn’t entirely off base. According to Dennis: “You were correct: Nobody’s Buddy… is based on Buddy and Waffles, a story published in the August 1915 issue of Ladies’ Home Journal and the 1926, issue 9, of Baker’s Published Manuscript Reading. In 1915, Small, Maynard & Co. of Boston and The University Press, Cambridge, U.S.A., published The Best American Short Stories and the Yearbook of the American Short Story, edited by Edward J. O’Brien. It was an anthology of short stories [that included] a listing of other stories not included, but told where instructors could find them. Buddy and Waffles was listed in the second section, suggesting that it may have become a classroom reading and that could have been where you picked up the earlier title.”)

• Throw Mama from the Boat and Other Ferry Tales by P.J. Reece: Thirteen short stories from a Gibsons, BC writer with a Ferrytale (sic) sensibility. To quote the Amazon blurb: “There’s whimsy in these pages and also a deeply serious understanding of humanity, its wishes, disappointments, and its possibilities.”

Non-fiction

• Astounding: John W. Campbell, Isaac Asimov, Robert A. Heinlein, L. Ron Hubbard and the Golden Age of Science Fiction by Alec Nevala-Lee: If the names in the title mean anything to you or if the founding of Scientology and modern Science Fiction intrigue, you won’t find a more gripping narrative.

• The Horrible Possible and the Horrible Impossible and Radio’s Outstanding Theatre of Thrills: A History of Suspense 1942-62 by Michael Samerdyke: Lovers of horror, especially movies and Golden Age Radio, won’t do better than these meticulously researched and lovingly written entries. The content overwhelms, like many of the books I used to buy for my radio show from the late, lamented Nostalgia Book Club. Fun and addictive reading.

• The Bend at the End of the Road by Barry N. Malzberg: A new collection of essays from the most insightful, controversial, entertaining, knowledgeable, provocative, and curmudgeonly writer on the history of both genre and literary fiction. You won’t always agree with him, and that is pretty much the way he likes it. Same goes for Barry’s remarkable novels and short stories. He makes you think in ways you never have before.

Artsy stuff or I don’t know how they do what they do, either

• Ramon Kubicek: Look, I haven’t a clue about how to describe Ramon’s work. Half the time I’m not even sure what I’m looking at. But I can never simply turn away. Every painting tells ten thousand different stories. See for yourself.

• Ron Jamieson: I swear, these are paintings, not photographs. Honest. Look and look again.

How a Comic Book Ad Taught Me about the Holocaust

January 24, 2019March 24, 2022

All this, and only for a dime!

I was seven, maybe eight. And the deal on the back of the comic book looked pretty darn good.

I showed my dad the ad. He frowned, sighed as if exhaling life itself. “No,” he said. He was a big man, tall and strong, his speaking voice a bellow, his whisper a threat to aural health. Some claimed he had an accent too, but I never noticed. “No.”

I didn’t get it. He’d let me order the X-Ray Vision Glasses, the Sea Monkeys, and the Throw-Your-Voice Whatchamacallit. Why not this? “But it’s only ten cents. And look … ” I drew his attention to the corner. “It comes with a free book on how to collect stamps.” If anything would convince him, this would. I mean, c’mon, eh?—no one valued education more than my dad.

He shook his head, emphatic, final, and turned his back as if to walk away. Or, in hindsight, I guess, to avoid telling me what he always knew was inevitable.

I kept up the pressure, bolstered my case. “But you wanted me to collect stamps? You said it was a good hobby?”

“Collect all the stamps you want, but no Hitler—not in this house.”

Dad & me, Theatre Bar, Trenton, ON, ’62 or so

“But why? Why, Daddy?”

“Because I say so.”

“Is he like the Queen?”

“What?”

“Is Hitler like the Queen?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Queen Elizabeth. She’s on stamps, too. You know, like Hitler?” And there was that sigh of his again, mournful and rife with distress, resigned acceptance of a new battlefront in the lifelong war that raged between his ears.

He mulled his options, and sat me down. “Your comic books, your war movies, there’s a part they leave out,” he said.

This was a surprise. I devoured comic books by the ton. And movies— jeez!—I never missed a Saturday matinee. In fact, I was a member in good standing of the Odeon Movie Club, Trenton, Ontario chapter.

If anything was missing, I was confident I would have noticed. But Dad explained otherwise, made clear Hitler wasn’t just another Lex Luthor or mustachioed rustler with a hankering for Roy’s or Gene’s or Hoppy’s herd.

The part the comic books and movies left out

I could see he was trying to come up with a way to ease me into the story, all the while knowing there was no easy way. His sentences were short, and he’d take a quick breath between each, thinking, strategizing.

He told me how his father, a tailor, had been shot dead in the streets of Suchowola, their village in eastern Poland, because he was deaf and had failed to hear a soldier’s order to stop walking. He told me how his mother and youngest sister were murdered at a concentration camp, a place called Auschwitz. His mother was put to death on arrival. His sister, sick from overwork and lack of food, had collapsed one morning and was left to die outside in the mud and cold. (The testimony of a survivor would later describe her last moments alive, how another prisoner, a friend, had claimed her shoes before she’d breathed her last.)

I looked away as my father wiped his eyes, and quietly told him I didn’t want the stamps anymore. “Or ever, Daddy.” I meant it, too. No kid wants to see their dad cry, not for any reason.

“Where’s Hitler now?” I asked.

“Dead,” he said.

I flipped the comic book to its cover. “Good,” I said, and he pulled me in for a hug that broke all previous records in warmth and duration.

This was how I learned about Hitler and the Holocaust. And this was how my father came to tell me about the grandfather, grandmother, and aunt I would never know, beyond the photo that sat on his dresser. It was Dad’s only photo of them, and he kept it close until the day he died.

~posted in recognition of International Holocaust Remembrance Day (January 27), adapted from my novel LIFE IN HENK: A Semi-Authorized Memoir

Publishing news! Two new story sales and a repetitive bit more

Inspired by the above and, in some ways, a companion piece to it, At the Old Wooden Synagogue on Janower Street appears in the September/October 2019 issue of Asimov’s Science Fiction Magazine—as well as Rich Horton’s The Year’s Best Science Fiction & Fantasy 2020. And, with a nod both to summer jobs and my 16-year stint as a travel writer for the Netherlands Board of Tourism, How I Came to Write Fantasy graces the pages of the November/December 2019 issue of The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction.

Meanwhile, if you have somehow escaped my incessant blabbing and posting, my book, HOLLYWOOD NORTH: A Novel in Six Reels, is now available pretty much everywhere books are sold, including Amazon USA, Amazon Canada, Amazon UK, Barnes & Noble, Powells, Chapters-Indigo and many independents, such as Northshire Books in Saratoga, NY, Novel Idea in Kingston, ON, and Lighthouse Books in Brighton, Ontario.

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