Monthly Archives: August 2014

Not Just Any Old Ghost Story – an excerpt


As those of you folks who regularly follow my blog might know – I am launching a new novella through Kindle Select. It will be available for FREE from September 1st to September 3rd.

The novella is entitled NOT JUST ANY OLD GHOST STORY – and it is a tale of a young man who returns to the Nova Scotia fishing village that he grew up in only to discover that his father has been hiding a mysterious secret.

I’d like to give you folks a sneak peek at the first chapter or so.





I have heard an awful lot of stories and I’ve even told a few and nearly every story I’ve ever heard or told was born from my Dad. I guess this one is no different and why should it be? My dad has told me nearly everything I’ve ever learned and twice as much as I’ll ever be able to forget.

And even now I remember it all.

My Dad has told me about snow snakes and mud trout. He has told me how dreams were nothing more than stories waiting to be born. He has told me that the ocean was made out of tears cried by a woman who sits upon the bottom sobbing and shaking so hard that the waves toss and turn in their sharing of her sorrow. He has told me how my home province of Nova Scotia once served as Glooscap’s bed and Prince Edward Island was the pillow for his head.

“But Cape Breton was the old dark fooler’s canoe, you bet,” Dad would tell me. “Hunting or fishing, when Glooscap wanted to get himself anywhere handy to interesting he came right straight up to old Cape Breton Island.”

My Dad has told me how the raven stole the sun from the heart of winter and traded his song to keep it. He has told me how icicles are nothing more than snow angel tears wept down for all of the snowflakes that never reached a child’s out stretched tongue. He claims that the flounder got to be so ugly-faced a fish after losing an ill-planned swimming race with a fast-moving skate.

“That old flounder pulled a face in disgust and it just stayed stuck,” Dad told me. “Believe you me, nothing sticks harder than regret.”

And maybe that’s so.

I mean, just think about it.

We all learn to carry so much unnecessary regret. We drag it around behind ourselves and wear it sewn into the inner lining of our shadow. I think that the heart of every ghost story ever told is awash with the soft faded autumnal color of pure irredeemable regret.

“Why do you tell me so many stories?” I once asked Dad.

“A man is nothing more than the stories he knows,” Dad answered. “And here in Nova Scotia we grow our stories long, rambling and deep. Life isn’t all about cable television, cell phones and newspaper. There are the silences that whisper between the words, those secrets not shared that linger long after any story ever told. Believe you me, mister man, there is a tale to be told for every wave that washes the shores of Nova Scotia.”

This story is one of them, I guess.

Chapter 1 – In Which I Get a Ride

“Get in,” the trucker said, so in I got.

I had been standing here on the side of the road just short of the east most end of the city limits of Toronto, my thumb hooked hopefully into the contrary-minded west wind, just wishing for a ride when that big old semi rig pulled up.
When it hissed to a halt I was halfway lost in a day dream, wander-bound and telling myself a slow quiet sort of nothing-thought story, staring off down the highway and thinking on how absolutely miraculous it was that this single patch of road could tie one end of our country to the other and by nature must touch nearly every other road in North America. It is like my dad always said – bloodstreams and building blocks – a body sometimes wonders just how much of the world is made out of nothing more than it self made big.

So I clambered into the truck before the driver could think to change his mind.

“Strap your self on in,” the trucker told me. “I don’t slow down from here on out.”

The trucker was built big, even sitting down. He was all shoulders and arms looking like he had strength enough to tear that steering wheel off the dashboard and tie it into a forget-me-knot about my gawking neck. He looked like he had been poured out of concrete into the seat of that semi truck and let harden for a while. He reached over and shook my hand clear down to my toe bones. I counted my fingers when he let me have them back again.

They seemed mostly intact.

“Have you been out there long?” he asked.

“Long enough,” I said.

Don’t get me wrong. I wasn’t nearly as terrified of him as I was scared of what might be waiting for me back home in Deeper Harbour. Going back home will do that to a fellow if he has any sense of history or style. Memories will scare you if you think on them hard enough.

“So where are you headed?” the trucker asked me while I was busy strapping myself into the shotgun seat.

“Nova Scotia,” I answered, keeping it simple. Deeper Harbour would have been far more information than he needed to hear. When you are hitching a ride it is best to keep your answers comfortably vague. Facts will only get in your way. The road isn’t a place for conviction or scrupulous detail.

“I’m going that way too,” he allowed. “Halifax.”

“Good,” I said. “That suits me fine.”

I figured I could easily hitch the rest of the way up the Cabot Trail to Deeper Harbour, once I got myself handy to Halifax.

“You got a name?” he asked.

Call me Ishmael was what I thought to myself but “My name’s Tommy,” was what I told him out loud. I had learned a long time ago to keep my literary allusions to myself. What can I tell you? Three years wasted in wading through the study of North American literature, Northrop Frye, and a hefty dose of post-modern deconstructionalistic theory can surely crucify a conversation long before it ever gets started.

“My name is Hank,” the trucker said. He gave me a big piano key grin. I decided I was going to like riding with Hank. He seemed like an okay fellow. Hank was straight-talking, without an ounce of illusion to him

“The women call me Hunk,” he added and I abruptly reversed my previous verdict and prepared to give ear as Hank started to talk.

There is a rule for hitching rides on what ever highway you choose to stand next to. Sooner or later, in one way or another, you’ve got to pay for the gas or listen to it. If the driver wants a story, you’ve got to be ready to give him one and if he wants to tell one than by God you had better be ready to listen.

Hank told me he had women stretched from one end of the country to the other, just lying splay-legged along the side of the Trans-Canada highway, panting and dreaming and waiting for Hank and his eighteen wheels of pure pulsating passion to come rolling on in. He told me that he was a sexual Tarzan, a bull-moose monsoon of testosterone and transport, an internally-combustioned Casanova of diesel-driven delight.

Of course, I am paraphrasing with a little more than a fair degree of poetic license and embellished color. As the great bard will tell you – a story is just not a story without a little blatant hoop-doodlery.

“I’ve got ladies who wait for me night and day,” Hank said. “They are tracking the rumours of my whereabouts, marking the days out like the promise of Christmas on their calendars and inking out my progress with banana-black Sharpee’s and penis-shaped map pins pricked across a communal diagram of the Trans Canada Highway. They call me up on the CB radio to talk dirty to me and they scribble their telephone number in the back of my semi bunk and they leave me love-dewed panty mementos to remember them by.”

Now I knew for a fact that most truckers were too damn busy trying to make up the time on the road and trying to keep the costs down and keep the log book lying just pretty enough to fool anybody who wanted to believe that a man could actually drive from Point A to Point B and make quota time and still remember to catch the legally proscribed proper hours of sleep to bother chasing females.

The truth of the matter as I saw it was Hank was lonely, maybe one of the loneliest men I’d ever met and he needed to tell these stories in order to breathe.

So I let him tell.

I listened just hard enough to follow his drift but I was more interested in a wallet-sized photograph that dangled from the hinge of his sun visor. It was a photograph of a little girl standing in front of a backyard swing. Her hair was the color of prairie wheat and her eyes would have put cornflowers to shame and she wore a sort of a half-hook of a smile that looked to be one part sorrow and one part joy.

“Is that your little girl?” I asked.

We drove a kilometre or two before he answered.

“That’s her,” he said. “Joanie Margaret, she stole my heart and I aided and abetted her in the process.”

Another kilometre clicked on by.

“Divorce?” I asked.

I pronounced the word with a careful politic precision as if I were attempting to slow chew a pre-digested mine field.

“Her mother got tired of my stories,” Hank said. “Especially when she found out that some of them were true. She packed her bags and drove away while I was halfway to Winnipeg. I was driving this semi and she was driving her Volkswagen beetle and there’s probably some kind of irony there that escapes me the same way as she did. She was up and gone and I didn’t find out until I reached Toronto, on my way back home.”

The road continued to roll, not saying a word.

Highways have ears and mouths and can tell you things, believe you me.

“Do you see her often?” I asked.

“Not at all,” he said. “I keep a road map marked with the places that she ain’t been. I show her picture at every truck stop I roll into and so far nobody can tell me where she has got herself to.”

Now we were getting to the truth of things.

I should have felt proud of my self for uncloseting this particular skeleton; however I felt too damn sorry for Hank to crow over my discovery, even internally. We sat there and listened to nothing but the sound of the tires wishing over the road tar, the miles slipping away like water beneath a fast-paddled canoe.

“Reach on back,” he said, so I did. “There is a child’s sweater hiding back there.”

The sweater was folded neatly beside the shelf of his long haul bunk. It was a child’s pale blue cardigan and I imagined I could see his fingerprints tangled through the wool and I was certain that the color had been faded with tears and the intensity of his lonely dome-lit gaze.

“The sweater was supposed to be hers,” he said. “I bought it for her in Winnipeg. She’s probably six years too big to wear it by now but I’m keeping it all the same. I count the stitch knots at night time and it pretty nearly counts me down to sleep.”

Something caught my eye.

A movement in the truck mirror.

I took a quick a glance.

Just for a moment I thought I could see her, standing back there on the roadside with her thumb hooked into the wind, the shadow of a lonely wolf pine leaning down over her, a tire swing spinning wistfully round and around and around.

And then she was gone.

One more damn old ghost story fading away.



So, if that opening chapter is to your liking why don’t you watch for that little novella of mine to turn into a freebie and pick up a copy?

Remember – it is scheduled to be free from September 1 to September 3 – but due to the time differences I am not sure exactly WHEN it will be free tomorrow. Probably mid-morning would be my guess.

I must apologize for some of the Canadian spelling.





A Little Help From My Friends…

Hi folks.

I like to try to keep this blog friendly and easy-going, without a lot of high-pressure sales pitches.

Oh sure, I have thrown in a few “BUY MY BOOK” promotions – but by and large I try to just supply a little information and a few giggles along the way because life is too damn short not to laugh about it now and then.

But these next few days I truly NEED your help.

Starting mid-morning tomorrow my brand new novella, NOT JUST ANY OLD GHOST STORY, will be FREE on the Amazon network.

Just click this cover and it will take you to the listing!

Just click this cover and it will take you to the listing!

I want to get as many free copies out there as possible – so here is how you can help.

First off – once it goes free try and pick up a copy. Even if you don’t own a Kindle you can read it on your phone or on your computer or you don’t even have to read it at all. I won’t be offended.


If you DO read it – and it is a pretty short fast read – PLEASE leave a review on Amazon. You can be eloquent or you can just say “I liked this book” and then click the star rating (one star BAD, five star GOOD).  I can REALLY use a few more reviews. I’ve got two right now – one is good and the other is a one-star complaint about the spelling – (which is CANADIAN) and the grammar (which is told in a storyteller’s voice). A one-star doesn’t REALLY hurt my sales if it is balanced out by a few higher ratings.

Secondly – if you don’t mind and if you don’t find me too darned pushy – SPREAD THE WORD! Shoot out a Tweet about the freebie – with a link – anywhere between mid-Monday to mid-Wednesday. Post the cover and the info on your Pinterest site. Shout it out on your blog. Mention it on your Facebook. Whatever you feel comfortable doing to spread the word – I appreciate.

Just click this cover and it will take you to the listing!

Just click this cover and it will take you to the listing!

I’ll be posting an excerpt from the novella later tonight.

yours in storytelling,

Steve Vernon


Food Crawl – part 2

Fans of the old RED FOX TAVERN will be happy to know that they are open for business as a brand new Bubba Ray’s Sports Bar. We ate there tonight. I had a Rickard’s Red and a mushroom and swiss burger – which was awesome. Belinda had a Coor’s Light and a big plate of ribs. Mustn’t forget to mention the deep fried dill pickles which we had as an appetizer.

Absolutely perfect.

The service was great. Our waitress, Amanda, had only worked there for two nights but she was right on the ball. The food took a little while in coming but it was perfect. No complaints whatsoever. I’d recommend swinging by there for a beer and some grub first chance you get.

Make no mistake though. This isn’t the RED FOX anymore. This is BUBBA RAY’S. Fans of chicken wings will be glad to hear that Wednesday nights are Wings night at this location.

yours in storytelling,

Steve Vernon

The Perfect Halifax Food Crawl

So – both my wife and I had yesterday off and I decided that it was time to for a good old-fashioned food date.

You know how some fellows will take their lady out to dinner? They’ll go out to dinner at a fancy restaurant and try to make polite conversation and fuss around with the menu and smell the wine steward’s cork if he offers it to you?

Well, that just isn’t our style.

We started out by heading downtown on the bus in the early afternoon – about 3pm to avoid the 5pm rush. We didn’t drive because sometimes it’s nice to have a beer when you eat and the local police here in Halifax are awfully funny about drinking and driving.

We got off at Spring Garden Road in front of the new Public Library and walked up to the intersection.

“Where are we going?” my wife asked me.

“Never you mind,” I told her. “This is an adventure and I get to lead.”

For those who might take that wrong way I want to remind you that my wife has about two decades of making a living as a professional dancer to her name.

Meaning I actually NEVER get to lead.


(right dear?)


So we crossed at the intersection and stepped into the Nestlé Toll House Café

5475 Spring Garden Road

Belinda had a giant waffle cone of pralines and cream and I had myself a Nutella milkshake.

The ice cream was delicious – but I am fairly certain that the milkshake cup had a hole in the bottom because that milkshake disappeared awfully fast on me.

Oh wait a minute – (patting stomach) – I think I’ve found it.

It’s a great little shop to stop for some gooey sweet chocolately treats and the “Double-Trouble” sandwich looked awfully tempting in that it was two cookies of your choice with a filling in between of either icing or ice cream – depending on your druthers. The giant cookie cakes looked awfully good as well.

So we conversed a little – well, actually she conversed and I mostly made nom-nom-nom sounds over the extra ice cream that had mysteriously fallen out of Belinda’s ice cream cone and my mysteriously empty milkshake cup.

Afterwards we walked down and swung by the Black Market and then to the Neptune Theatre where we bought a couple of tickets for an upcoming Dylan Thomas play of “Under Milk Wood”.

We made our way down Barrington and for a quick peek at Strange Adventures comic book shop. My wife had not seen the new location so we had a quick look around. Afterwards we ambled on over to the Urban Cottage Antique Shop.

Then we made our way down to Historic Properties and checked out a little clothing shop that sold nightshirts. Belinda LOVES nightshirts and she picked up this one.

We made our way along the waterfront, stopping to chat with local artist Brad Perry – a gent who has been sketching caricatures on the Waterfront for over twenty years now. I used to set up my palm reading booth right next to his pitch back when the waterfront was open to free-range vendors.

After that we walked to The Shack Oyster Bar.

Click the photo and it will take you to their Facebook page.

We were just in time for BUCK A SHUCK Friday – which goes from 5-6pm on Fridays.

We each had a dozen raw oysters. I had mine with a bit of lemon and Belinda added horse radish to hers. There was a bit of a wait because of the crowd but the oysters were awfully fresh and tasty. We sat at an outdoor table and hand fed scraps of the leftover oyster meat to a starling who landed right on the middle of our table. After we fed him I shooed him off and told him to make for Alcatraz.


After that we headed up to THE OLD TRIANGLE IRISH ALEHOUSE and were served by a lady name of Lou who gave us some of the best customer service we had ever experienced. We split a smoked salmon platter with some slices of freshly baked soda bread, some lovely capers and slices of onion and cucumber and tomato. I had a glass of Guinness that suffered from the same problem that my milkshake had while Belinda tried a pint of Harp ale.

We ate our faces off but then – when the waitress Lou came back to the table to ask us about desert only I told her that we were on a food date and we weren’t done yet.

“Follow me, darling,” I said to my wife.

“We are we going?”

“On an adventure.”

So we headed up the hill to 1567 Grafton Street to the Scanway Cafe where I told the girl behind the counter that me and that giant hunk of chocolate bread pudding needed to be alone together for awhile. We got our desert to go and we hopped a bus and came home and watched an old Peter Falk Columbo movie while I made some more nom-nom-nom sounds over my bread pudding and Belinda got into a slice of Chocolate Genoise Cake with Espresso Buttercream in the middle.

The two of us were grinning and giggling and happy as a pair of cuddly guddy-gutted lapdogs.

So the next time your mate asks you if you would like to go on a dinner date – DON’T THINK SMALL!

Never mind the Pub Crawl – think Food Crawl!

Yours in storytelling,

Steve Vernon


How to Write – First, Learn To Juggle…

To follow-up on my last post “HOW TO WRITE – COMPLETE WITH BUNNIES” I decided to re-blog an article I wrote a lot of years ago on how to make it as a writer – back before the internet kicked in.


How To Write – First, Learn to Juggle

“It’s not you, it’s me.”

“I’m sorry, it’s just not working out.”

“Let’s just be friends.”

Everybody has to deal with rejection at one time or another. From the first time you see that ashtray you worked so hard on in art class, stuffed in the same basement box as Aunt Millie’s latest attempt at a family tree; to that promotion you fought so hard for and then had to watch as it was handed to the boss’s dweeb third cousin, twice removed.

One of the hardest things to deal with when you are getting started as a small press writer, is rejection.

“Sorry, this doesn’t fit our current needs.”

“Not for us.”

“Have you ever thought of taking up plumbing as a profession?”

Writing is a numbers game. You learn that the first time your teacher tells you she wants to see a five page essay on what makes ducks fly north. You learn to elaborate, to spin vivid description, to write really big and how the margins can be creatively adjusted on your dad’s word processor. If I say a lot, you figure, maybe the teacher won’t notice that I’m saying nothing at all.

Writing can be that way, at first. You’re just trying to pad the pages, until that really great opening scene that game to you in the midst of a bout of sleep deprived fervour inspired by an all night monster movie marathon, and that nifty ending you cribbed from a 1963 movie that you found in the basement box next to your ashtray and Aunt Millie’s attempted geneology; can somehow be linked together if you can just write enough paragraphs and/or chapters.

Writing is a confidence game. You have to relax and think you’re good enough at what you’re doing to be printed. It can shake that confidence if the first thing you send out is rejected.

When I first started writing with the intent of publication in mind, I would write one story and send it off and sit down and wait. Then, when the inevitable rejection came back I would go into a state of mourning, wearing a black hockey sweater and frantically scribbling angst ridden suicide notes. Five weeks later I would gather up the courage to send the same story out to another market, and repeat the process.

Then I learned to juggle. When I got my second story out, (a collection of angst ridden suicide notes strung about the thematic device of a second hand hockey sweater), I sent it out. Now I had two stories out. When the first story came back, with another rejection, it didn’t hurt so bad. I had another story out there that was sure to sell. Hockey was big that year. I felt confident.

Confident enough to write a third story and send it off.

Are you getting the idea?

A beginning writer needs to have a goal. A beginning writer needs to have a body of work. What better way to conjure up that body of work than by writing a large group of stories, poems or articles. Once you have a dozen, two dozen, or thirty submissions in the mail at any given time, rejection becomes nearly painless.

And you will learn, as well. Writers aren’t born, they grow. There’s an old saying – to be a writer you must first write a million words. Give yourself the time to learn how to compose a story. Give yourself time to learn how to market a story. Be a juggler. Get those stories out there, in midair.

yours in storytelling,

Steve Vernon

How to Write – Complete with BUNNIES!!!

WritingWriting is always a head game that we writers love to play with ourselves.

Back in the early years I can still remember how it was, sending out submissions and waiting for publisher’s replies.

I still have several publishers that I deal with and it NEVER gets any easier. You send your stories out and you sit and you fret and you wonder if they are going to “make it” out there in the big bad world or not.

I can still remember how it would feel back when I used to regularly have at least twenty to thirty stories submitted during any given week. I remember the excitement I’d feel, tearing open one of the hundreds (or even thousands) of SASE’s I sent out to accompany my manuscript.

For those folks who don’t know or don’t remember – an SASE was an acronym for a SELF-ADDRESSED STAMPED ENVELOPE. That was what you had to send with EVERY submission you made back in those days. Remember, I started sending out stories and poems and articles back in the mid-eighties. I spend several hundred dollars a year on postage stamps. I used to regularly visit my local stamp shop to pick up a regular supply of unused American stamps so that I could submit to US publishers – because even back then there were a lot more US publishers.

I remember the depression I would experience every time I opened one of those SASE and read the polite no-thanks and the not-for-me’s and the not-at-this-time. Lord, there were so many ways for a publisher to say “YOU STINK!” that after a while I began to feel like I was the only stag dater on a dance floor filled with prom queens and each of them were already dating the star quarterback.

Nowadays – after forty years of submitting my words for public consumption you think I would have grown used to the sensation but it NEVER gets easy. This is NOT a game for folks who are easily discouraged.

That’s why I love this new online writing community that has evolved over the last decade. I absolutely LOVE the immediacy of being able to deal with a publisher or an editor through e-mail. I do not miss SASE’s and I do not feel any regret that my cigar box full of American stamps sits untouched on a shelf above my desk – sometimes for months at a time.

Just last month I submitted a story to an upcoming Canadian collection of New-Noir fiction and I received an acceptance in FOUR days! I was over the moon with excitement. The book won’t see print until 2015, so I won’t tell you any more details – but believe you me I was insanely elated.

Other days are not so easy.

I still receive rejections. No writer EVER escapes them.

A lot of folks think that in this day and age of e-publishing that a writer would be able to escape such feelings. Believe you me there is still a lot of aggravation involved in e-publishing a new novel or novella or even a short story and waiting to see how many copies are sold. Independent writers are still out there frantically checking their sales figures and waiting for reviews to show up on Amazon or Kobo or Goodreads.

This gig never gets easy.

But even on the worst of days – when the e-books aren’t selling and the rejections are flying at me from the right and the left and right down the middle – I still can comfort myself with thoughts hassenpfeffer!

Click this for your Bugs Bunny fix!

yours in storytelling,

Steve Vernon


The fine art of milking a phrase

My wife has a WORD OF THE DAY calender that is driving her bonkers.

The deal is the calender is SUPPOSED to have a cool mysterious rarely-used word EVERY DAY.

Only everyday my wife flips the calender and reads something like this.






(these are just the last five days that I fished out of my wife’s garbage tin – SEE what lengths I go to in order to provide you folks with new blog-reading material?)

I ought to get a medal.


Well – today I stumbled across a word that REALLY ought to be on somebody’s WORD OF THE DAY calender.

I discovered “Typochondriac”.

Typochondriac DefinitionAll right – so I do realize that this isn’t exactly a word.

It’s just a term that somebody made up for the sake of a giggle.

Well, guess what?

ALL of our words in the English language – when you get right down to it – are something that somebody made up for the sake of a giggle.


I do it all of the time.

It drives my editors absolutely crazy.

I am addicted to the invention of brand-new words and new ways of using a word.

Let’s say Ketchup. That’s a word, isn’t it? It’s a good solid noun.

Only sometimes I’ll write “Hank ketchupped his french fries.” – using ketchup as a verb – and mangling the spelling while I am at it.

Which drives my editor absolutely batshit crazy.

Or I might use it as an adjective – the potato chips had a really strong ketchupish flavour.

That isn’t the proper use of the word “ketchup” – but sometimes a fellow has to resort to gimcrack improvisation.


Now there’s a word you don’t run into every day.

Think Rube Goldberg.

Now there was a man who excelled at chronic gimcrackery.

Rube GoldbergAnother good example is Dylan Thomas.

Dylan Thomas excelled in the art of what the Welsh call “cerdd dafod” – or tongue craft. Dylan himself often referred to it as the art of “milk tongue” and you can find no better an example of it than in Dylan Thomas’s wonderful play “Under Milk Wood”.

Milk tongue is the fine art of tinkering with the human language – playing with words and meanings and yes, even tongue-twisters to create phrases and paragraphs and poems and chapters and long rambling tangles of words that beg to be sung and shouted and read aloud.

I have always been a great believer in the judicious application of milk tongue.

A writer needs to learn how to play with their words. How to twist their meanings and jam them together into fat and juicy word-sandwiches. A writer needs to never be afraid to take a word that almost fits and beat on it some until it fits a little better and then just throw it with a drunkard’s abandon against the flow of the story, hard enough to stick.

Remember when your mother used to tell you not to play with your food?

Well play with your words, instead.

That’ll give you something to chew on.

typochondriacyours in storytelling,

Steve Vernon

The Longest Mile…


So I worked a half of a day shift today and got off work at one in the afternoon.

I hate to not get the hours but it was a beautiful day – so I decided I would walk home from work.

All of you Halifax folks – just picture walking home from Scotia Square to the Halifax Shopping Centre.


I had my reasons.

For one – I wanted to try out a barber on this random unpruned shrubbery that I loosely refer to as “hair”.

The barber was up at the end of Oxford Street – before you get to the Westcliffe Diner.

(And if you haven’t had a clubhouse, cheeseburger, milkshake or onion rings at the Westcliffe you REALLY want to go and give them a try!)

The prices are fantastic as well – and the service is always fast and friendly.

Click this picture to get to there Facebook page.

Click this picture to get to the Westcliffe Diner Facebook page.

I didn’t go for food today because I had already had a salad and part of the reason I walked was to burn off a few extra calories.

Besides – I needed to save room for the pizza tonight.


I went to the Golden Touch Salon.

The barber did a great job and I was really pleased.

So I walked home and I had just parked myself in front of the computer when the phone rang. Turns out that Pier One had our new couches ready. So I phoned up my stepson Connor – and he and I lugged two full-sized living room couches from Pier One to our home – maybe a half a block away.

My biceps are so bumped right now that I can barely type this blog entry.

I’m sweated down to the bone – so when Belinda got home she decided to order pizza for all three of us.

To hell with the diet. I crave carbs, grease and meat!!!

A Pappa Mario’s donair pizza!



We don’t need no steenking gyms!



yours in storytelling,

Steve Vernon



Posts I loved this week

Thanks for the shout-out, Taylor Grace.

For those folks who want to catch up on what is hot in blogland check out this great blog entry – POSTS I LOVED THIS WEEK – from Taylor Grace’s blog.

Taylor Grace

A fantastic week for blogs everywhere. I was a little worried about the size of this post (again). Then, just to add to the madness, I created a group of nonsensical categories and added more posts!

This is an awesome post on how to get deeper into your characters by finding out who they blame. Is it others or themselves? Locus of control is key. Writerology is such an awesome blog!

The Positive Writer has this great post on beating burnout with 4 great ideas. Loved it!

If you’re trying to get published and have written some short fiction, check out this post on how to get that fiction published in a Literary Magazine by Suzannah Windsor Freeman at Writer Unboxed.

Cute and informative, Winter Bayne tipped me onto this great post about punctuation from an editor in Zen/Xen.

Here are Molly Greene‘s 15 Must-have essentials for…

View original post 452 more words

It’s all in how you spin it – with added peach cobbler


I came down with what MIGHT have been a brief summer cold or what MIGHT have been a bad reaction to some ductwork going on at the office this week. Either way I decided to pass up attending the SUMMER FEAR event in Tatamagouche this afternoon – which REALLY peeved me off. I had been looking forward to this a long time but I was feverish, hacking and sneezing and coughing – none of which were conducive to hand-selling books.

Belinda put together a delicious-looking peach cobbler and I just had some with ice cream – which did my throat a world of good.

The nutritionist that lives in the wrong side of my eating-conscience might have said something about fat and cholesterol and glycemic index – but I prefer to focus on the organic butter, fat-free sugar and gluten-free peaches.

First person to point out that ALL butter is basically organic and that sugar NEVER contains fat and that peaches DON’T have gluten in them gets a punch in the nose, dammit!


🙂 🙂 🙂

yours in storytelling,

Steve Vernon