The Elephant in the Room

I recall watching Born To Be Wild, a 3D IMAX film back in 2011, about the rescue efforts underway by brave and selfless humans who valiantly try to right the wrongs committed by poachers and habitat encroachment. The film focused on the plight of the orangutans and elephants, and as Morgan Freeman narrated the short film in his famous dulcet tones, I was at once dismayed by the depravity of human cruelty and then uplifted by the sheer capacity of human generosity. I suppose it is true that to be capable of one, the other must also be possible. My tears of sadness and joy within the 40 minute running time were testament to that.

Earlier this year, an opportunity to travel to Kenya for a friend's wedding came. Unfortunately I was not able to go, but thankfully my best friend went to represent us both, and in return I received a most wonderful gift. A small bunch of the wedding guests who had traveled around the world to be there for the nuptials were treated to an afternoon at the David Sheldrake Wildlife Trust, that was featured in the film. The foundation does amazing work in rescuing and rehabilitating orphaned elephants who are the victims of merciless poaching. I cannot do justice to the incredible work they do here - all I can ask is that you visit their website, or watch the film. I challenge you not to be moved after you do so.

To cut a long story short, as a souvenir, my best friend gifted me the most amazing present possible of sponsoring an elephant in my name. I was adamant that I did not want any knick-knacks that went on a shelf collecting dust, so I was thrilled when this little elephant came into my life. I am now proudly one of little Sonje's foster parents, and a beneficiary to the foundation, where the money goes to help all of the elephants in their care.

Little Sonje, a yearling, was found on her own on the eastern boundary of the Tsavo East National Park. She was a milk dependant orphan with a huge, hard swelling on the top joint of her right hind leg (possibly from a poorly healed fracture), and two small scars at the site of the injury indicating a possible arrow or spear wound, leaving the calf with a pronounced limp. The rescue team named her Sonje, the Mliangulu word for 'lame.' She was lucky to be found alive as a hungry lion, who was known to be in the vicinity, would have undoubtedly made a meal out of her.

So now I get monthly updates of my little girl's status, including photos, along with a watercolor by Angela Sheldrick. I also receive news about other rescues and in general am treated like one of the team, which is heartening to say the least.

As a proud Papa, I just wanted to share (and boast). Here's a little picture of her below. She's got my ears.

One year later...

Any film watcher has seen the well-used storytelling trope of a particular scene ending, fading to black or white, with the words ‘one year later’ (or another arbitrary length of time) then appearing on screen.

Based on what came before – and the set-up of what comes immediately after, the viewer then makes their mind up and fills in the gaps of what they didn’t see and of what will never be divulged. It’s such a common narrative trick that the individual doesn’t feel like they’ve missed out on anything at all, so clever is the brain at pattern recognition and filling in the blanks.

Here I find myself using the same method, a year after my last blog entry – but I am calling attention to it, which is rare and a tad signpost-like. And the purpose of it is to fill in the gaps myself and to narrate my own journey. That is the wonderful prerogative of a writer: the ability to put my thoughts into reader’s minds. It’s such a beautiful thing, and it’s something that I am careful about and respect very much. After all, when you are invited by a stranger to tell them a story and they willingly imagine what you have painstakingly created, you have to treasure and honor that invitation. Any perceived injustice would result in a rejection of any future tales, no matter how great they might be.

I am also acutely aware that, as of this writing, that I am not yet a published author – I do not yet possess a public profile where there is sufficient interest to have to explain my hiatus. In fact, part of the draw of being a writer is the awesome anonymity, even if you’re a bestselling author. But no, I’m just a regular lad with a handful of followers and many more casual blog readers, well-wishing family, friends and acquaintances. I could just pick up where I left off and go forward.

So why don’t I?

If I’m ever going to become the type of writer I want to be, I have to nurture the human being that I already am. One should influence the other. So, in short, this last year has been rather momentous. A lot has happened, and one of the major changes was moving back to my parents’ place in part to take care of them – my father in particular. Becoming a parent to your own parents is quite heady stuff, especially when you throw the curve balls that are dementia and Parkinson’s. Add my career, and any number of regular and extraordinary stresses that we all experience as inhabitants of this planet, and there you have it.

But in the meantime, all this enabled me to turn inwards and craft my first YA manuscript into something that truly excites me, but to also write another manuscript: another standalone that is quirky and full of spirit, which belied the difficult and sometimes frustrating circumstances at home.

So here I am, one year later, smiling, happy and grateful to write, with all the love around me that I need and which I am utterly grateful for.

In the end, it was a year well spent.

The Naked Disguise

Being that my blog (and the working title of my manuscript) is called 'Childish Things,' I am apparently interested in, and an advocate of, all things that allow the imagination to run wild. Too often in life, as we progress from childhood to adulthood, we are encouraged to put away childish things and behave a little more maturely, a lot more seriously, and focus solely on the mechanics of day to day functioning at the expense of the occasional daydream or wish fulfilment fantasy.

We tend to be extremists that way. As young kids we can go nuts and create whole worlds in our minds (even build castles and forts with the cushions off our sofa), yet once we cross that imaginary line, the world drains itself of every colour to become harsh in its black, white and predominantly grey tones.

We equate seriousness with maturity and using imagination with being somewhat naive and childish. At least, that's the face we show to the world.

BUT...

Have you ever noticed how older teens and adults regress - cut loose, if you will - once they're given official permission? A couple of examples in my life have occurred these last two Saturdays. Both were 40th birthday celebrations - one was a Red Party (wear anything red), and the other party's theme was Hat, Wig and Hairpiece (you can kinda guess what that involved).

Suddenly, well respected, somewhat serious, intelligent professionals (I work with a few) happily regress to their younger, cheekier and more energetic selves and lose their inhibitions. Usually, alcohol is the elixir of regression in adults, but it's not the same. For one, it's inherently messier and it dulls the senses. So when a simple hat, hideous mullet wig (my choice) or splash of color is donned, you get the same looseness without the groggy repercussions. Basically, you 'play' once more.

Adults don't play, you might say. It sounds a little strange. Perhaps it does. In reality, it's just a label for a feeling that comes naturally to all kids (big and small) when the timing and circumstance are right. The fact that I was in a roomful of adults who were having a ball, dancing up a storm, exchanging hats, wigs and tiaras as the night grew young is all the proof that I need that ALL humans (and animals by the way) play, regardless of their age. Call it whatever you want, but strip the euphemism away and that's what we're all doing.

If it takes a disguise or accessory to get to the real 'you' beneath the role you assume in society, then I say why not? And if you're a young kid or a teen reading this entry, never let your ability to play slip away.

I guarantee you'll be happier for it.

I Wish...

Driving home from my parents' place today, I saw a little kid walking with his mother, wielding a cricket bat and taking shadow swings with a beaming smile on his face. I was instantly taken back to my own childhood and the endless lists of things that I was super-passionate about - and imagined I'd achieve when I finally grew up.

Whilst I no longer take my tennis racquet everywhere with me, or dress up like a superhero, I realized that I still - in a more understated, adult way, carry with me the books, both published that I read, and the manuscripts, notebooks and diaries that I write, making a declaration of sorts to the world that I still desire something - that I still very much have a dream that I wish to someday (soon) turn into a reality.

That young boy today was no doubt imagining hitting a ball out for a '6' and winning The Ashes, and was doing so without trying to hide his burning ambition from those around him. It seems that as we grow up, we tend to dream in a little more subdued way, or layer it with the real life necessities and obligations that adults must contend with in life.

That isn't a bad thing - after all, a life in its complicated entirety is so much more than an achievement, a trophy, or a publishing deal.

But...

I think it's healthy, necessary and vital to every so often stand up with a hand on one's heart and make a wish upon a star. Tell the world - in most cases, the people in your life, what you wish for in those quiet and honest moments. If you put it out into the world, chances are someone, somewhere will hear.

Be brave!

The Underdog

Everyone loves an underdog...

I vividly remember reading an editorial article in GQ back in 1999, whilst holidaying in Greece, that has stayed with me. Although the article lampooned the infamous procrastination of novelists - in a very wry and very true way - it was the story of a man, who after a debilitating stroke, managed to write a novel by blinking out the letters, that resonated with me. Apart from being a constant pillar of perspective and reference any time the writer-in-me gets a tad precious or believes there's 'never enough time,' how can I not deeply admire a man who despite a terrible affliction succeeds in accomplishing a herculean task that most able-bodied people could never hope to achieve?

I was reminded of that editorial last night, when I watched the Ladies Singles Final at Wimbledon. The newly crowned champion, Marion Bartoli, is the epitome of an underdog. Her playing style is unorthodox - two handed off both sides (reminiscent of the legendary Monica Seles), with a hammer-like service motion (that doesn't include bouncing the ball at the service line), added kangaroo-hops and shadow swings at the back of the court after most points (to help reset, alleviate nerves and focus on the point ahead), culminating with her physique (which is not traditionally athletic). It brought to the fore that in sport there are genetically blessed athletes and there are natural-born competitors. Marion is most firmly in the second camp.

Whether a literary or a sporting example, what is it that ignites the fervor of a reader, watcher, or admirer into advocating for the proverbial underdog? Is it an inevitable push-back of all things cookie-cutter in appearance? If so, it is a full circle moment for most adults as it tends to run against the teen need of fitting in. For me, it reminds me that we're all unique, individual creatures trying to forge our own path in the world. Cookie-cutter or quirky-souled, deep down we are all one-off creations with no inherent rule books to help us navigate through life. It is the obvious examples of the above paragraphs that provide a touchstone of this very truth and ignites a sense of camaraderie.

As we cheer for the underdog, we cheer for ourselves.

A Writer is Born

When I was in the 1st Grade, my teacher, Miss Jackson, informed us all of a monthly book club that allowed kids to choose, order and have books delivered right to their very own classrooms. I thought I had died and gone to heaven! There was Lucky Book Club (for youngsters like me -  I was 6 years old at the time) and Star Book Club (that were for a slightly older clientele, filled with chapter books, and novels). I recall going home with the brochure and excitedly showing my mother. Even as I type this, THIRTY years later - eep - I can vividly remember how giddy I was. Mail-order books! OMG!

My parents had always encouraged my reading and where possible (and affordable), I could buy a book from the bookstore. But as I graduated from having tales read to me to reading them on my own, I wasn't able to get my hands on books fast enough to satisfy my craving for the written word. Excited and nervous, I remember asking mum if I was allowed to order a book that very afternoon. Without remembering the exact conversation, I was so happy when she agreed. I think I even mentioned that it was a monthly service and could I use my pocket money to buy a book or two every month? As many things those days were linked to being a good boy/diligent student, I was over the moon when she agreed. After all, I WAS a good boy (mostly), and a brainy kid.

Now...what to order? I must have poured through that thin four-paged, double-sided brochure for the entire afternoon. It was my equivalent of looking through the display case of assorted ice-cream and being able to choose only one. Would I pick the best one? Oh, the dilemma!

Finally I choose the book, Caps for Sale by Esphyr Slobodkina. That was the one I wanted! But what did a 6 year old know about the mechanics of mail-order? When my mother shrugged her shoulders, I retreated to my bedroom, trying to figure it out. Frustrated and anxious that I might miss out on this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, I decided to take a wild stab at it. So, I took out my craft scissors and carefully cut the little picture of the book that I wanted from the brochure and slipped it into the envelope along with the few dollars. Proud of my ingenuity, I rushed back to school the next day to hand it to my teacher.

I remember Miss Jackson opening the envelope and smiling. She may have even stifled a laugh. She took a new brochure and flipped it over to the back page to show me the order form that was there all along. She then gave me a lesson in filling out a coupon - a skill that still serves me to this day, and popped my order through.

I waited the week or so - it felt like a month - for the book to arrive. Then, during class one day, Miss Jackson held up the basket of freshly delivered books and read out the new owners' names. I blushed and hurried to the front of the class when she called my name out. Looking at my very first independently chosen and purchased book (as much as a kid my age could choose and purchase anything), I remember thinking that it was the glossiest book I'd ever seen. I was convinced it shone brighter than any other book I had on my shelf.

As you can imagine, I read and re-read the book a trillion times. From there my retail book addiction was born. Every month I would examine the new brochure and carefully order the next adventure I wanted to go on.

Even now, when I peruse the shelves of a bookstore, or the webpages of Amazon for my Kindle, I am reminded of that day. Somewhere in that experience, my adoration of books was ignited and my dream of being a writer was launched. And that dream is still very much alive today...

For the Love of Horror!

It used to be frowned upon to admit that one liked watching horror films - it was usually accompanied by a snort of derision and a roll of the eyes, especially by serious film critics. And while there are plenty of awful, just awful, entries in the canon, there are also films that lock you into a metaphorical roller-coaster car and take you for a thrilling - and yes, horrifying, ride.

Any writer (or reader for that matter) of horror, thriller, action, science fiction and the like are either fans of scary movies or have at the very least plundered the storytelling archetypes inherent in the genre. When uber-successful directors such as JJ Abrams and Joss Whedon openly admit to having gorged on a diet of horror and sci-fi in their formative years, the genre suddenly achieves a modicum of gravitas.

When one thinks of a storyteller, one conjures the image of a campfire surrounded with eager listeners who are enraptured by the narrator's ability to lure, enthrall, surprise, frighten and ultimately delight them with a yarn. As a writer or filmmaker accomplishing the above emotions is most definitely a goal, if not 'the' goal of entertainment. (There's even a theory that being scared in a safe environment actually helps people deal with the real evils of the world).

I too find that studying (and unabashedly enjoying) the horror genre has definitely helped hone my idiosyncratic set of storytelling skills. I may not be a horror writer per se, but any narrator who wishes to take his or her readers on a Joseph Campbell (arche)type journey can surely learn a thing or two from those who have successfully scared the pants off the public! As a writer of fast-paced and Dickensian YA, it has assisted me in crafting an appropriately shadowy atmosphere.

So, count me in as another creative who both enjoys and has been influenced by all-things-scary.

Boo!