One of the black bears had left an almost perfect, paint-imprinted butt mark on my mattress. After ripping off part of the plywood cabin wall, the two bears had apparently sniffed out the single box left on the shelf beside the door. The box contained, among other things, a can of spray paint my father had meant to put away in the locked aluminum shed last fall. As my parents, brother, and I surveyed the damage my mother said she guessed one bear had bitten into the spray can and promptly covered the butt of the other animal with black paint. The sprayed animal must have backed up and leaned against my lower bunk bed, leaving a unique piece of backside art.
This kind of springtime arrival camp damage was nothing new. I spent the first 17 summers of my life in an isolated fly-fishing tourist camp owned by my parents in Northern Quebec, 1600 kilometres from Montreal on the Kaniapiskau River. There was no electricity, hot water, or flush toilets. We lived in cabins my parents had built, prepared meals using a propane fridge and stove, and used gas lanterns at night. Two or three times a month a bush plane would land on the lake bringing the all-important mailbag, a food order (given over the short wave radio a week before by my mother), a new box of 12 books from the Montreal library, and a keen group of city fishermen.
That annual spring-and-fall family migration planted in me a love of reading and writing and also a need to move on a regular basis. Exploring unfamiliar territory, both through travelling and writing, became my way of engaging with the world and making sense of it.
After high school I moved to Australia, working first as a governess on a sheep station and later stapling boxes and grading pineapples in Brisbane factories. This was also where, for the first time, I fell in lust and confused it with love—an experience invaluable to a writer, I realized in hindsight. I then travelled for two years before settling down to study biology, having been convinced no-one could make a career out of writing. After doing biology field work on remote lakes in Northern Ontario, I moved to Yellowknife, Northwest Territories for five years then headed south (everything is south when you live in the NWT) and went back to school, this time majoring in Creative Writing. The year I graduated I met Evan, a fellow nomad. We’ve been together for 29 years and along with raising a family, managed to take semi-regular travel sabbaticals.
Inbetween the travelling, I worked initially as a journalist and freelance writer then 20 years ago moved into film and television screenwriting and storyediting, along with giving writing workshops and teaching screenwriting at the Vancouver Film School (VFS). These days I live on a small island a 2-½ hour ferry ride from Vancouver, BC. We don’t have bears here but there are hundreds of deer. I continue to work on my own scripts, novels, and creative non-fiction projects as well as do contract story editing. Two days a week I commute into the city to teach at VFS.
For many years, my not-so-guilty pleasure has been watching television. I find myself challenged and invigorated as a writer and viewer by the number of incredible TV series available to us. That doesn’t mean I’m blind to the fact that not all shows are four-star entertainment, but many—with cable channel and streamed series seemingly leading the way—shine with originality and “come hither” story and character hooks that keep me returning week after week.
I continue to work with screenwriters like you to help you discover and develop the stories you want to tell. Sometimes ideas get stuck between our head and the laptop keyboard. I can help you in your creative journey.
According to Ernest Hemingway, gypsies believe the bear is our spirit brother because “he has the same body beneath his hide, because he drinks beer, because he enjoys music, and because he likes to dance.” You and I are part of a small group of people who know they also like to paint.
Contact me at email@example.com if you wish to discuss how I can help you with your writing project.