 |
| Wracked with angst. |
Louis Shalako
My
birthday has gone by and I am now officially an old fart.
Living
in a rent-controlled unit for the last thirteen years has certain advantages of
cost. As long as the landlord doesn't get some kind of a brainstorm.
I
know more or less what the pension benefits are likely to be.
I
still have a part-time job making pizza dough in the family business.
After
a years-long hiatus, I have made a few short story submissions. If I sell a
story, I get a little money, a little exposure, perhaps even a buy-link at the
bottom of the page, so readers can find me on Amazon, or iTunes, Google Play or
Kobo.
I plan on at least starting another novel in late September or early October, when the days grow short and nights get long and cold and dark. That one will be the tenth in the Inspector Gilles Maintenon Mystery Series. I have no idea of what to do there, except make it different, rather than repeat old plots. Make it as good as I can, sort of thing. It's always a good idea to have a few thoughts before starting, and if you know the ending ahead of time, you can write towards that point, although the murder mystery can be formulaic. You still want to surprise the readers.
And
I’ve been doing a hell of a lot of thinking.
There's nothing wrong with thinking, but it is possible to get too much of a good thing.
***
 |
| My first mystery novel. |
A
local journal advertised for a full-time reporter, the position paid $19-21 per
hour for a forty-hour week. That just seems like a pile of money after thirty
years on an Ontario disability support pension. Thirty years on ODSP also means
I don’t have much of a resume.
I
wrestled with myself for a couple of weeks and I just had to let it go—
It
was a wonderful opportunity, for somebody. I just couldn’t sort of visualize
myself doing it, no matter how good or bad I turned out to be.
Some
months went by and the same journal advertised for a free-lance journalist.
Again,
I had to wrestle with it, and again, I just couldn’t do it.
There
is such a thing as a reason. There is also such a thing as an excuse.
Irritable
bowels, for example. Much of the work can be done from home, with modern
digital technology. People can wear headsets with ear-thingies and a
microphone. They can have a webcam and set up meetings or interviews using
Zoom. They can zip files back and forth using email or wirelessly right from
any high-end phone.
They don't even need a newsroom any more. It's a nice thing to have and everything, but it's not strictly essential.
Sooner or later, one has to climb into the crummy old minivan and actually go somewhere, taking a photo outside a new business while the local politicos cut a nice, red ribbon...right?
Even then, folks submit their own photos all the time.
I’ve been fairly isolated after all these years, what with the pandemic and all. I worked alone at our shop from October to late April. You get used to it after a while.
More than anything, it’s like I just don’t want to get involved. If I did, it would be strictly on my own terms, which might be fairly stiff for the other parties.
It’s
one hell of a commitment, after all—to the employer, to the community we would be
serving, and most of all, to myself. At one time this would have been the job
of a lifetime.
Maybe
I’m just spoiled by all that free time, or maybe I’m just getting old.
END
Louis
has books and stories in ebook and audio format available from Google Play.
Thank
you for reading.
