UNTITLED

There are moments of writing when I discover something fresh and exciting. One such occasion hit me this morning while I sat on the ferry at 6:45, reviewing my chapter notes and beginning to draft a query letter for my untitled novel.

I have a file on my laptop with a list of a dozen possible titles and thought I’d committed to one, but tellingly I never put that name atop the manuscript. I began this project two years ago during National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo) and I simply saved it each draft as “NANOWRIMO” for lack of anything more inspiring. The name came during a five-minute brainstorm where I typed a stream of titles on the same theme. Then, The One hit. So clear! (Aside: If only searching for a guy brought a similar moment of clarity and exhilaration.) I typed it and then jotted down my rationale and the multiple meanings. My feet began contorting, rocking and shooting outward as I sat in the snack bar area amongst a cluster of way too chatty early morning commuters. A leap or a happy dance might have effectively let out all the energy, but I am too reserved.

I have struggled with titles since elementary school. I had no tolerance for the standard teacher directions at the outset of writing activities. “Put your name on your paper and then write your title.” Just because the title appears at the top, why should it be written first?

Oh, you can change it later.

Sure. Go into an elementary classroom and watch how much changing young writers do. They don’t! Nobody teaches revising. Sad, but true. The title gets scrawled in pencil, but it might as well be in permanent marker. A quickly determined title limits the writer’s creativity or becomes a mismatch to the subsequent story. Young writers learn to write safe headlines. “The Dog”. “My Thanksgiving”. “The Scariest Moment of My Life”. Ho hum. Is it recess yet?

My wise editor for my first novel knew I was not committed to the title I’d attributed to the manuscript at the time the publisher accepted it for publication. She didn’t fret. “It will come to you at the right time. You’ll know it when it comes.”

And, yes, for this second novel, I do know it! Hooray. Except, I’m not sharing it. Not just yet. Nobody has green-lit the work yet. I reserve the right to change my mind. What if a fresher, more exciting idea pops in my head? Heck, that happy dance may happen after all.

Apples for Apples

Well, I’ve struggled to retain and experience any gay part of my identity since moving to a rural area in British Columbia nearly four years ago. For unrelated reasons, I’ve taken a leave of absence from my regular job and I’ve traveled to a new place for a two-month sojourn to pursue creative projects. So where did I go? New York City? Chicago? Montreal? Tokyo? A rural area on the Ottawa River in Ontario. Ottawa is an hour’s drive away.

As with my home, the family cottage where I’m staying has a water view—only closer and better. The closest town is about ten minutes away. The services there are similar, sans the Starbucks (alas). A pulp and paper mill is one of the biggest employers in both areas. Things are remarkably similar. Why did I trade apples for apples? And why did I drive 4,600 kilometers to make the trade?

This cottage is what I retain from childhood. This is a place where I am able to think differently, possibly sparking new creativity. Here is where some of my most profound life decisions have gotten sorted out.

Will any part of my being gay further develop here? It’s unlikely. I have switched over my hometown from Vancouver to Ottawa on an online dating site and changed the “seeking” option from dating to friendship. I’m not looking for a long-term relationship or even a fling (though stumbling into either wouldn’t be so bad, would it?). Simply connecting with another gay person would be welcome. While I had many friends here as a child, it’s been almost thirty years since I’ve seen any of them. I’m a tag-along at social outings with my relatives and their friends.

I’ve been here four days and things are as quiet as they are at home. I am making progress with my writing so the primary purpose for being here is coming to fruition. I’ve had a couple of Ottawa guys indicate they’d like to meet for coffee. Neither would be a dating candidate and I’m not even sure that there will be anything on which to base a friendship. (One guy’s subject header read: “Yo!” Are there pirates in these parts or is this a middle-aged gay man who really thinks he can pull off an urban gangsta persona? His interest in Ultimate Fighting also baffles me. Random Michael Jackson quote: I’m a lover, not a fighter.) But I’m going to try to remain open, parenthetical thoughts notwithstanding.

I also have my aunt and cousin trying to play matchmaker. Super. I need the help. But I get the feeling their efforts are misplaced. It seems one of my childhood friends is single (though he has a child), attractive, in good shape, has a dog and likes running and biking. On paper, they’ve got checkmarks in each box for both of us. I’m trying to remain sensibly cautious (negative?). For a match, at least three things need to be: (1) He has to be gay; (2) He has to be single; and (3) He has to be interested in me (and I in him). Three big hurdles and I’ve never been much of a hurdler.

At this point, I remind myself that I’m here for my writing. Anything else is a nice distraction and a bonus. Of course, who doesn’t like a nice bonus?