Tag Archives: Quinn

Writing

Shmoozing with Criminal Minds

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It’s the highlight of my year so far: my book One for the Raven made the top-five shortlist for the 2019 Unhanged Arthur Ellis Award, which recognizes the “best unpublished first mystery novel” written by a Canadian or permanent resident. Thank you, Crime Writers of Canada.

So … what does that mean?

For one thing, I got to go to a fancy party in Toronto.

The 2019 Arthur Ellis Awards Gala

Two airplanes and three trains took us to Toronto’s Arts & Letters Club on Thursday, May 23. My arm candy included my bestie Quinn (who happened to be attending a work thing in Toronto that week) and my mom, who is a huge mystery fan and challenged me to write my first mystery novel.

Our goals for the evening included:

  1. Take as many photos with professional mystery writers as possible. No shame.
  2. Get my copy of Still Life signed by Louise Penny, who was a nominee for Best Crime Novel. (I made myself have low expectations for this goal: Facebook said my idol had flown to New York on the Monday. Her attendance was unlikely.)
  3. Eat, drink and be merry.

Photos of Heather with Professional Mystery Writers

Here are some of my souvenirs from the evening:

Me, Tim Wynne-Jones and my mama, Virginia Walker. Tim made my mom cry once: she was listening to one of his short stories on CBC Radio while driving, and she had to pull over because she couldn’t see through her tears. He apologized at the event.
Every good party needs a Newfoundlander, and we had two: Helen C. Escott and her son, Daniel. Daniel offered to (finally) screech me in, but we couldn’t find a fish or any screech. Helen’s book Operation Wormwood made the shortlist for Best First Crime Novel. Her upcoming book (Operation Vanished) sounds amazing too.
Linwood Barclay is another of mom’s favourite authors. His book Escape won the Arthur Ellis Award for Best Juvenile / Young Adult Crime Book. It sounds like the perfect book for Isaac’s bookshelf.
The winner of the Best First Crime Novel was A.J. Devlin, a fellow B.C. writer, for his novel Cobra Clutch. He let me touch his arm for good luck.

Sadly, Louise Penny was not in attendance. That bucket list goal of meeting her and saying “thank you for helping me find my genre” remains unchecked for now.

Nonetheless, we did manage to eat, drink and be merry.

What’s Next?

I didn’t win in my category — Liv McFarlane took home the trophy and $500 from Dundurn Press for her book, The Scarlet Cross. But Dundurn Press will consider all five shortlisted manuscripts for publication, and that’s pretty darn exciting. Congratulations to my fellow newbie shortlisted folks: Darrow Woods, Jim Bottomley, Don Macdonald and the incredible Liv McFarlane.

The big lesson I learned from our whirlwind Toronto adventure was that I’m still a baby in this genre. Most of the writers I met have agents, editors and publishers.

I’m super proud that the first draft of my mystery made the shortlist. It will be even better once I finally finish the second draft. If Dundurn doesn’t offer me publication, I’ll have a strong manuscript and resume to lure another publisher.

United We Stand, Divided We Fall

When I started reading Louise Penny’s books, I found my genre. University writing courses had taught me that “literary” writing (not “genre” fiction) was the “best” writing. But my favourite books to read are mysteries, and Louise Penny showed me that “literary mysteries” could succeed.

I’m too sensitive to read gory mysteries or thrillers: I prefer Agatha Christie dramas and Sherlock Holmes puzzles. While some of the books we celebrated at the awards gala aren’t books I’d read, I’m happy for the authors and proud to see mystery writers applauding and celebrating one another.

I want to (continue to) be part of this tribe of crime writers. And someday I want to win an Arthur Ellis trophy: a macabre noosed figure, with a rope on the back that makes the limbs dance when pulled.

the Arthur Ellis trophy

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Our Plan B Life

And Then I Became an Adrenaline Junkie

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Something weird is happening to me. In the last six days I have:

  • hiked up a mountain,
  • gone to two gym fitness classes,
  • Zumba-ed, and
  • climbed a rock wall.

I am not this person. I’ve never liked getting sweaty, or pushing my body so hard that I ache the next day.

Hiking to the summit of Mount Goldie.

Maybe it’s because I’m closing in on 40, and am increasingly aware that I need to take care of this meat-vehicle of mine.

Maybe this is what I always intended to do/become, given that my subconscious made me add “physical activity” to our Plan B Life plan.

Maybe it’s because I have a stable life after living in various forms of limbo for five years, and Isaac has started kindergarten, and I can start becoming the Heather I’ve always been inside.

And/or maybe it’s because Brock’s one-year death-anniversary is this month, and that’s driving me to revel in my own healthy body, my tumour-free lungs, and all the opportunities I have in our new life to try new things.

Sobering thought: as of October 3, I will have lived longer than Brock.

That Time I Drove to Cranbrook

This adrenaline-junkie thing started on Thursday, September 6. I can pinpoint the date because that was the day I ran away to Vancouver.

September was too difficult for me, what with being Brock’s death-anniversary month and our imminent move into our new house, so (enabled by my fabulous sister Evy) I booked a flight for Thursday night to visit my bestie friend Q and his sweetie Taylor in the big VanCity for the weekend.

I dropped Isaac off at kindergarten and hit the road toward the airport, specifically Westside Road, a back route that is 5 minutes faster for me than taking the highway. Westside Road is a fun road to drive. It’s twisty and turny, with stunning views and some straight stretches. You have to watch for suicidal deer and fluorescent cyclists.

I started the drive mopey and weepy, longing for the bottles of wine that Q and I would inevitably drink while he listened to me mourn the death of my life partner.

And then I changed the music to an Eminem CD, and everything changed. I drove faster. I have a safe car, an all-wheel-drive Acura that Dad vouched for. I drove even faster. Isaac’s usually in the car with me, or I have other passengers, and I can never drive as fast as I want to. But I was driving alone that day, and I could drive as fast as I wanted.

Suddenly, instead of longing for a wine-y weekend on the couch, I started to think of all the things we could do that would feel as good as my driving too fast:

I could drive a race car.

I could get that second tattoo I’ve been wanting.

I could go zip-lining.

I could dance in a club with loud music and wear a slutty dress.

Zip-lining at Grouse Mountain: one of many Vancouver adventures that weekend.

A switch flipped that afternoon, and I think — 15 days later — it’s still flipped. Or I’ve still flipped. Whatever.

I can’t get enough adrenaline. I’m constantly looking for more things to do, to see how close I can get to the edge.

Zumba = Self-harm?

About what that “edge” is: I do think there’s an element of self-harm in all this, because there’s that longing to physically manifest what is going on inside of me.

Wikipedia says:

“Some [people] use [self-harm] as a coping mechanism to provide temporary relief of intense feelings such as anxiety, depression, stress, emotional numbness, or a sense of failure.”

Yes, it feels good to bring all that pain of losing Brock to the surface, and feel my legs ache after the gym this morning. I liked the terror of dangling at the top of that climbing wall. I desperately want to drive on a race track, just to see how fast I can go before I’ve had enough (I have yet to figure out the logistics of making that happen).

So don’t fret: the fact that I am looking for a SAFE way to drive a fast car, and that I’m doing squats instead of cutting myself, means that we’re on the healthier end of the self-harm spectrum.

Part of Grieving?

Meanwhile, my widower friend is planning a three-month backpacking trip around the world, and I wonder if our shared need for adrenaline and adventure is part of the grief process. Another stage.

Maybe those of us who have watched our person die have a heightened appreciation for how WONDERFUL it can be to live.

Maybe doing something risky makes being alive even sweeter.

Survivors are extra aware that health and life can end at any time, long before we’ve checked off all the bucket list dreams. Maybe we just want to make the most of it, by having all the adventures available to us.

More More More

Evy and I bought a lottery ticket today (it’s at $60 million!) and if we win I’ll use my bit to do EVERYTHING. I’ll race cars, I’ll trek across a desert, I’ll fly in a helium balloon.

Come to think of it, I can do quite a lot without winning the lottery. Let’s see how far I can go.

Paragliding off the top of Mount Swansea (October 2018).

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