In this new volume, The Chronicles of Harris Burdick, 14 of today’s foremost writers formalize that process. With writers such as Gregory Maguire ( Wicked), Louis Sachar ( Holes), Jon Scieszka (The Stinky Cheese Man) and Stephen King weighing in with their own imaginative leaps from Van Allsburg’s cues, The Chronicles of Harris Burdick is a dizzyingly impressive sampler of storytelling styles and approaches.
Scieszka’s treatment of Under the Rug, for example, has the creepy, devilish wit (and vague rancour) of a classic Roald Dahl story. That illustration features a man defensively holding a chair overhead against an ominous lump under the rug, with the accompanying line: “Two weeks passed and it happened again.”
The only previously published story comes from King, whose contribution came about as a result of a family game. About 20 years ago, he, his wife Tabitha, who also has a story in this volume, and son Owen, then 12, each took a picture and wrote a story around it. Inspired by
While the King family game was strictly personal, the author’s story was published in his Nightmares and Dreamscapes collection in 1993. The story of King’s contribution underscores both the success of this collection and the enduring power of The Mysteries of Harris Burdick.
The stories in The Chronicles of Harris Burdick are but one possible path; the mysteries of Harris Burdick remain as powerful as ever.
Sept. 12, 2021 My opinion: I wrote about the above article before. In gr. 5,I wrote a short story about "The House on Maple Street." A teen girl baby- sits 3 kids and they're in the house.
It was a cold night, even for January. I was worrying. It’s what I tend to do. Everyone would probably stay home. When I arrived I blew my runny nose and draped my coat over one of the many empty chairs. I was the first one. Soon enough, though, other runny noses started to appear and my unease about reading to an empty room (which I’ve done) was quelled.
It was swiftly replaced by a fear that the other three authors, who most were there to see, weren’t going to show up and I’d be left to scramble. Of course, Zoe Whittall, Alison Pick and Sheila Heti all showed up and delivered slick readings. Everyone was happy and warm.
Subsequently, I found my way to the bar. I was met by an old friend, Tim. I hadn’t seen him in years. We shook hands and he told me he enjoyed the readings. “I bet life’s changed a lot since the big release, eh?” he continued.
I didn’t correct Tim for casually mashing together “big” and “release” concerning my book. It was the reverse equivalent to claiming The Millennium Trilogy was a tolerable publishing success. I took a pull from my beer. Has publishing a book changed my life?
My first thought was, “Yes! Of course it has! Look where we are, man!” I peered around the room — upstairs at Sneaky Dee’s on a Thursday night. Two heavily tattooed fellows were preparing the T-shirt table for the upcoming band, the same table used for selling books earlier in the night.
Fine, it wasn’t Massey Hall, but it was a well-suited venue. It had a stage, spotlights, a mic and I’d just done a reading with three established writers. Writers I’d admired long before my own book was released. Definitely, my life had changed.
I pointed all this out to Tim. I could tell by his blank expression he wasn’t convinced. He wanted more. “Yeah, OK. But what else is new?” he asked.
I told him how the last few months I’ve started eating one cookie during my morning writing session. On days I’m out at a library or coffee shop, I pack one cookie in a folded paper towel. I make myself eat it, even if I’m not hungry.
“I just find it gives me a little rush of energy,” I explained. “It really helps me to work a bit longer. I never used to do that.”
Tim’s eyes had gone from vacant to wandering completely, past me to the band tuning their instruments onstage. Everyone else associated with the reading, the other authors, the crowd, had left, replaced by followers of the band. We had to raise our voices as they started into their first song.
We were shouting back and forth, working together now, trying to unearth any significant alterations to my life, post book. “COME ON, THERE HAVE TO BE SOME CHANGES,” Tim called. “WE JUST HAVE TO FIGURE THEM OUT.”
As he leaned in to scream in my ear, he recognized the wool sweater I was wearing from many years ago. “SO IT’S NOT YOUR WARDROBE. YOU’RE STILL WEARING THE SAME CLOTHES.” My phone, too, he pointed out, helpfully, “IT’S THE ONLY ONE YOU’VE EVER OWNED, RIGHT?”
I looked down at my cumbersome flip phone and nodded.
When we couldn’t come up with anything else, Tim asked about the red mark on the side of my nose. I told him how a few days prior I’d taken a break from writing and was lying on the floor reading. This is something I often do. I like to hybridize my rituals of procrastination.
Why lie down to rest my back or read when I can do both at once? I was holding the book in both hands above my face. Predictably I fell asleep and dropped the book. It was Douglas Coupland’s biography of Marshall McLuhan. An excellent book but unfortunately a hard cover. The firm spine left a purple bruise on the left side of my snout. Small but noticeable to Tim’s suddenly discerning eye.
“YOU KNOW WHAT? THAT DOESN’T COUNT AS NEW, EITHER,” he yelled into my ear. “I FEEL LIKE THAT’S HAPPENED TO YOU BEFORE … MAYBE EVEN A COUPLE TIMES.”
“HOW DARE YOU,” I replied. “ONCE BEFORE AT MOST!”
We drank another beer, mostly in silence before Tim said he’d better get going. Outside, back in the cold, I thanked him for coming. He went right, I went left. Strolling alone along College Street, I was still thinking about our chat.
To an outsider, newness, change, that’s interesting. Existing conditions have no flavour. They are picked over at the buffet table, not gorged like stories of transformation.
We’ve come to believe a sudden life change is synonymous with success, a symptom perhaps of reality TV competitions. Think Susan Boyle. Nobody on Monday, Somebody on Tuesday.
For most who spend a chunk of their day engaged in artistic pursuits, the idea of one’s life being significantly altered after the completion of some form of work is unlikely and unanticipated. A dramatic life shift isn’t part of the equation.
Completing a project, finishing with something one is pleased with, that’s the aim. But then it’s finished. All that’s left to do is press a folded 20 into its palm for gas money and give it a reminder to drive carefully.
The wish then is for a relatively smooth drive. Most people won’t be aware of it. Some might notice it, some may even interact and react to it. And life pushes ahead as before.
Unlike last year, I do have a book in stores. And I’d just been included in a public reading with three talented authors, changes I’m content with.
Like last year and the year before that, this year I’ll spend the bulk of my time sitting at a desk, writing, revising, reading, thinking about writing, and eating cookies.
The process will remain difficult and gratifying. And hopefully I will finish something again, something new, something I like, before any more hard cover books get the better of me.
The not-so-glamorous life of a newly pu... | |
This week's theme is about writing and publishing:
publishing research- Pagemaster Publishing/ NeWest Press
publishing research- Grass Roots Press/ Folklore Publishing/ Book Publishers Association of Alberta/ Company's Coming/ Dragon Hill publishing
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