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A THANKSGIVING, OF SORTS...

“The first step towards getting somewhere is to decide that you are not going to stay where you are.” (Unknown)

Anyone who knows me is aware of my love of quotes.  A quick look at my bookshelves will reveal this bizarre fascination with books of quotations.  Whether the quotations are obscure or well-known, educational or frivolous, they are to be found somewhere on a poster in my classroom or on a Post-it in my home; they have even inspired some of my stories.  This quote about a first step was on the wall of my grade eleven Math classroom, and the teacher, Miss Taylor, had lived it.  At the age of 39, she had moved to Canada, from England, with her elderly mother and had carved out a very nice life on the Canadian prairies.  Miss Taylor would also tell us at the beginning – and at the end – of every class that we could do anything we put our minds to; she was, undoubtedly, talking about deciphering the baffling world of Pythagoras or figuring out the trigonometry tables in the back of the textbook.  I didn’t have a problem with either of those.  My problem was producing a story that my English teacher would not drown in a sea of red ink!  Honestly, there was so much red on the page, my ‘friends’ used to call them autopsies.  But, fortunately for me, Math was my final class of the day, and as I listened to Miss Taylor’s words, I found myself starting to believe that I could learn how to write stories that people might actually like.  Even more importantly, I found myself wanting to take that first step.

By the time high school was over and I’d said goodbye to Miss Taylor, I had written a dozen or so short stories and had an idea for a novel; but university was looming, and even though I was on a full scholarship, I wanted to spend the summer working so I could pay for all of the unknown adventures awaiting me during my four-year quest to become a teacher.  Although the adventures never materialized, I did meet Sherol, a fellow student in the Faculty of Education – and an adventure of the brassy kind.  Sherol was loud, boisterous, absolutely fearless, and pursued me with a vigor that still makes me blush.  Eventually, she figured out, even before I did, why she wasn’t getting anywhere, and presented me with The Charioteer as a birthday gift and offered to go with me when I told her I wanted to read The Front Runner.  Although it scared me to death, I went to the store and waited, for twenty minutes, until the line at the counter disappeared.  I paid for the book and when I exited the store, Sherol was outside, grinning from ear to ear; she hugged me and told me how long she’d been prepared to wait for me to do it myself.  With the book securely in my hands, we boarded the bus and went to read the book; it took us two days, but we read each page together.  I still have these two books (sorry, Andy!)  I was like a sponge around Sherol, I adored her, and she loved my stories; every night on the bus, she would sit, on the edge of her seat, and offer encouragement and laughter, always annoyed when her stop seemed to come so quickly.  She told me I had a gift for making the ordinary seem interesting and a raw kind of style she found captivating.  Sherol was the person who helped me to see that being gay wasn’t something shameful.  When she died two weeks before graduation, she took a little piece of me with her, but she had left me with so much more. 

By the time I was in my third year of teaching, a new guidance counselor arrived at the school; the scuttlebutt had it that she was a seasoned veteran and an ex-nun.  Although I had not been raised in a Catholic family, my upbringing had been staunchly religious.  An ex-nun?  I felt an immediate and consuming need to meet her.  Lenore and I became fast friends; she had a disdain for the ordinary, a take-charge attitude and a sharp, biting wit that left me breathless.  After a few daiquiris one night, I told her about my desire to write, and even told her about my idea for a novel; she told me to start writing and even offered to be my sounding board.  Of course, I figured it was the alcohol talking, but when a month passed and her hands remained empty, she chastised me – as only she could – for being a coward.  Months of writing flew by and Lenore’s observations were blunt, witty, kind, meaningful and always welcomed.  During this period of some of the most intense writing I’ve ever done, my family discovered that I am gay, and disowned me.  Lenore never let me feel sorry for myself and never stopped encouraging me to write.  Even when she was going through her own battle with breast cancer, she was unerringly selfless in her support.  Lenore taught me more about myself than any other individual and, even though I could never summon the courage to see my writing as anything more than a hobby, her words of encouragement and her unending support stay with me to this day, as does a copy of Halfway Home.  Lenore gave it to me.  It is a story of hope.  A gay man, in his thirties, learns to forgive his family that had abandoned him, and, finds that love had always been right beside him, waiting patiently.  I know that God exists because he sent me Lenore, even if only for a while.  Lenore used to joke that she was definitely going to hell, and if you read the novel, you’ll understand why.  Wherever she is, I know she’s in a better place, and that’s all that matters to me.  When I read a review that is less than complimentary, if I close my eyes, I can hear her smokey alto bellow, You thick bastard, I told you that wouldn’t work!  One of the last things Lenore ever did for me was to pass along this quote by Winston Churchill:  I am ready to meet my Maker. Whether my Maker is prepared for the great ordeal of meeting me is another matter.  Those words still make me smile. 

There didn’t seem to be anything left for me in my hometown; my family had moved on without me, my small triangle of friends didn’t understand what was ‘wrong’ with me, I’d been suffering from something the doctors couldn’t seem to diagnose correctly, and, although I still loved teaching, I knew I would have to continue it somewhere else.  So, feeling lost, feeling alone, and feeling sorry for myself, I found myself wandering from province to province, my burning need to write stories but a distant memory; that is, until I found a home at the foot of the Canadian Rockies.  I didn’t realize I was unhappy, or that anything was even missing, until the day I was surfing Amazon.com during a free period.  I happened upon a book entitled Caught Running.  I was immediately drawn to this book because it featured gay schoolteachers.  I paid extra for courier delivery.  When it arrived, I stayed up all night, captivated by the story of two lost souls who’d found comfort, love and acceptance in each other’s arms.  (And I swear I could hear Lenore whistling at the steamier scenes!)  What followed was a discovery of an entire genre: Caught Running, Cut and Run, Love Ahead, Bareback, Natural Disaster, Crossing Borders, Zero at the Bone, To Love a Cowboy.   As I grew more and more sleep-deprived by devouring these books, I found myself remembering why I’d wanted to write, and more importantly, I found that there was a home for the stories I’d forgotten I’d ever written.  And so to Madeleine, Abigail, Jane, Chris, Z.A., Rhianne, and so many others, I offer my sincerest gratitude.  Whatever your reasons for telling these stories, you inspired me to rediscover my love of writing, to try to make a contribution and even to hope to make a reader, as you did for me, look at life as something to be lived, without fear or cowardice.

At the end of June of this year, with nothing but eight weeks of summer vacation ahead of me, I plunked myself down in my favorite chair and began to type.  After eight days, I had a finished manuscript, an email address for the publisher I’d come to see as the only possible home for my novel and a renewed fire to write again.  The final step was the most terrifying of them all, but, eventually I hit the ‘send’ button and received an email from Elizabeth North at Dreamspinner Press; my manuscript would be reviewed.  Whatever becomes of my writing, I will be eternally grateful to Elizabeth for making my dream come true.

Good to Know is that idea that I’d had after high school; it is the story that kept Sherol riveted to the edge of our seat on the bus, and it is the novel that Lenore read and nurtured so selflessly.  What it might lack in polish, I hope that it more than makes up for in promise.  And although it has undergone many changes over the years, it represents my most heartfelt appreciation to all those behind the many steps I’ve taken on this journey; I am, once again, the person I’d forgotten I used to be. 

If given the chance?  To Miss Taylor, I would say, “You were right.”  To Sherol, “I think of you every time I see a bus.”  And to Lenore?  Well, once she stops saying I told you so, I’ll try to get a few words in.  Maybe something witty, for old time’s sake.

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D.W. Marchwell is the author of Good to Know, which is available from Dreamspinner Press as well as other online retailers. For more information on D.W. and his work, please visit his website at http://www.marchwellbooks.ca/.