Tag: Writing

Everybody loves to be buttered up, even writers

Sure, they might be phishing, but I’m fully willing to let them compliment my talents. Even if they haven’t read a word.

In these waning days of a long, cold winter, sometimes I need a little pick me up. And that’s when I check my email. Hmm… The old Inbox is looking good today. A few samples:

“My name is Anabel Brooks, the curator of the Good Morning America Book Club.

As we prepare our Valentine season reading feature, I wanted to personally reach out. We’re highlighting a select group of authors and introducing their work to our community of over 151,000 engaged readers, and your work stood out during our selection process.”

Well, isn’t that nice. Good Morning America, a top US morning show has discovered little old me. Let’s scroll to my next email, this from one Gilmore Schaffer:

“I’m reaching out because The Granby Liar struck me as the kind of novel that lingers with a reader long after the final chapter—not because it shouts, but because it observes carefully, trusts the intelligence of its audience, and allows tension to unfold with restraint.”

Gilmore is obviously insightful, with discerning taste in elegantly written crime novels. Man, I’m on fire.

“Dear Author Maurice,

My name is Angela Morrettis, and I serve as the Member Relations Lead Coordinator for Lucy’s Book Club, a 4.9★-rated Instagram reading community of over 15,000 engaged readers who meet monthly to read, reflect, and share meaningful conversations around books.

For our January 23 National Reading Day gathering, our members would be excited to read and discuss one of your books. We believe your work would resonate deeply with our audience and spark thoughtful dialogue during the session.”

Wow, 15,000 engaged readers. Throw in a few disengaged readers and my book sales will go through the roof.

“My name is Karin D, and I lead the Wellington City Book Club, the premier literary community based at the iconic Circa Theatre in New Zealand’s capital. I am reaching out because The Granby Liar has been officially shortlisted for our 2026 Author Spotlight.”

Oh my, New Zealand. I had no idea I was an international phenom. I really love it when a reader from the other side of the globe connects to my deep love of Townships storytelling.

Wait, there’s another email from Veronica Clara. I bet she really understands what I’m getting at:

“The way you explore the many layered, sometimes conflicting ideas around tzedakah, its spiritual meaning, its human implications, and its role in wealth, repentance, and redemption is both profound and deeply moving. Your careful comparison of the Babylonian Talmud and the rabbinic compilations of the land of Israel brings a richness and emotional depth that made your work feel incredibly alive and relevant.”

                  Okay, I wasn’t expecting that.

                  Welcome to the modern life of the small name author. It seems that when it comes to scams, the con artists are really scraping the bottom of the barrel. It’s enough to make one long for the days of the Nigerian Spam Scam, where a stranger asks if you would give him your banking information so he can move his millions out of the country, and in return he’ll reward you most generously.

                  Yes, it seems the Nigerian princes have all moved away, your Microsoft Outlook is up to date, and your nephew has gotten his bail money. So now it’s down to the ink-stained wretches to support the online scamosphere. Limited time, get back to us quickly, only a few spots left. You too can be as successful as Louise Penny.

                  Of course, there’s a flaw in all of this, one that seems to have escaped the keyboard kings of the seedy underbelly of the Internet: YOU’RE TRYING TO GET MONEY OUT OF WRITERS. Toiling in obscurity, that’s kind of our thing, and we have the bank balances to prove it. We work on laptops that are older than our college age children, shivering in our pilled sweaters as we try to stave off the winter chill. A scant few make the big leagues, sparking hope in the rest of us. And there’s a lot of us.

                  But of course, as writers we aren’t just broke, we’re also suckers for a good compliment. Reading things like “I was struck by the depth of your storytelling,” or that my work “resonates with readers,” really warms the heart.

                  Thankfully, I have a deep sense of cynicism, honed by years of working as a newspaper reporter and magazine writer. When everyone is out to get you, paranoia is just common sense.

                  So no, I won’t be part of the Good Morning America Book Club anytime soon. I won’t be the featured author for the 2026 Author Spotlight. But I still might take a shot at comparing the Babylonian Talmud and the rabbinic compilations of the land of Israel. Just dig in, see where it goes.

                  Time to dust off my Old Testament.

Trashy Reading: Reflections on writing and my unusual career path

From politics to trash removal, I’ve had my fair share of dirty jobs

It’s been on my mind for the last little while: Explaining my career arc. How does a farm kid become a writer, and then how does he support that writing habit when it falls short of being able to put food on the table?
Here’s a hint: At my new job the other day I was hoeing out the back of my recycling truck when out popped a relatively clean copy of Jack Higgins’ Drink With the Devil. Being an avid reader who’s always looking for something new (if not necessarily “fresh,”), and a person who can’t bear to see a book go to waste, I put it aside to air out.


Yes, I am now a garbage truck driver. One who picks books out of the trash, mostly because they are books, and I think they deserve better.
The typical story of the aspiring writer starts with the artist taking any job he or she can find to pay the bills, while toiling away at night to create the next Great Canadian Novel. Typically, there’s a lot of drinking involved, and if the artist aspires to be the next Hunter S. Thompson, a selection of drugs as well. Manuscripts are sent out, rejection letters come back.
In my case it has been somewhat the opposite. With an abiding love of reading and writing, I studied English, but didn’t see a future in it. Then I discovered the world of journalism while at Champlain College, and by the time I was at Bishop’s, I was freelancing for The Sherbrooke Record. My first assignment had me strapped into a T-28 Trojan training plane in Bromont. Next, I was interviewing the likes of Jean Charest, photographing Patrick Swayze.
By the time I got my Political Science degree, I had a full-time job. The salary was minimum wage, but I was on my way to a career that promised upward mobility. Many who had done time in the Record newsroom had gone on to jobs at major national and international news organizations. Why not me?
But circumstances conspired against me: By the time I was getting truly ink stained at the Delorme Street warehouse of words, upward mobility in journalism had pretty much ground to a halt. While previously a year or two under the tutelage of Editor Charles Bury was a springboard to bigger and better things, the industry was starting to contract.
Then there was the fact that I was a Townships farm kid. I had seen the bright lights of the big city and was unimpressed. I was happy right here, and there was no shortage of interesting things to write about. Crime, politics, social issues, human interest, the Townships had it all. Sit at a farmer’s kitchen table with a notepad and a cup of instant coffee and watch the world open before your eyes.
The one thing that didn’t open was the financial floodgates. I got by, but fame and fortune, well, not so much. After 15 years I’d had enough and struck out on my own as a freelance translator and writer. The money was better, but the job was a rollercoaster of feast and famine. Rich one month and starving the next. Even when I took the Editor’s chair at Harrowsmith magazine, writing and producing content for a national audience, the pay was abysmal.
There’s also the fact that I’ve never been at ease in an office setting. Other than writing jobs, all my sources of income had been from manual labour. Throwing hay, shovelling freshly digested hay, fixing cars, cutting trees. Sweat of the brow stuff. So, when my freelance business went into decline, I looked elsewhere. Back to my roots, as it were.
And that’s when I started doing the writing I truly love. At the paper, I simply couldn’t write news all day and then go home and write some more. But after a day digging ditches by hand, I was ready to write.
In the years when I was writing The Granby Liar and Borderline Truths, I was restoring old cars, beating auto body panels out of sheet steel, cutting wood, shovelling snow. I even spent a couple of years as an organic gardener for a member of the local gentry (otherwise known as pulling weeds for rich people). Somewhere in there I started driving a dump truck in a quarry, got my licence, and was set loose on the region’s roads hauling everything from asphalt to tree stumps. For a few of those years I had winters off, time to feed my inner artist. To do the writing I love.
And now to my latest occupation: A town worker driving a garbage and recycling truck. I was a little self-conscious at first. For all that effort, all those experiences, here I was hauling away the stuff nobody wanted anymore.
Q: “What do you call a political science graduate from Bishop’s?”
A: “The garbage man.”
Q: “What’s that smell?”
A: “That’s the spice of life.”
Which brings me back to this slightly battered Jack Higgins novel hanging off the back of my garbage truck. I’m reading it now. It’s not great literature. More of a pulp adventure story. But Higgins wrote some 85 novels and sold over 250 million copies world-wide, an accomplishment that very few have been able to match. I might not place him in my personal pantheon of great writers like John Steinbeck or W. O. Mitchell, but the dude sure got something right.
And I still have a way to go. I guess I’ll have to see where this story takes me. One thing’s for sure. It’s not over yet.