The Weekly Man – Coming This July

Weekly Cover Vertical
Bored on your morning coffee break? Need some mind stimulation along with that coffee? Maybe a chance to shed a tear or two? Or laugh, chuckle, chortle (whatever, no one’s asking)?

Or be transported to another world far away from the workplace. Wouldn’t we all like that? Or maybe you’d just like some continuity in your morning break.

The Weekly Man lets you peer into the lives of the most amazing group of people you’ll ever encounter as they move toward an incredible discovery. You’ll get just enough each day to get you through your coffee break.

More details to come!

Ants Are Invading Our Book Covers

Sometimes people ask me about the cover for my third novel The War Bug. They say things like, “Biff…there’s a giant ant on the cover. I signed the book out of the Freddie Beach Library so that I could read about ants in space.”

I know where this is going, so I try to fake things like a heart attack, memory loss, mistaken identity…but nothing works. I’m there. The person who read the book is there and the issue looms in the air over us.

“Biff, there’s no ant in the book. Nowhere. No ant. I wanted a giant ant and all you gave me was some stupid computer virus.”

What can I say? What can I do? Nothing…except maybe scream and bang my head against the nearest wall. Sometimes that works, sometimes not. Sometimes I have to throw the nearest heavy object at my persecutor.

But it’s true. There’s a giant ant on the cover but no ant in the book, not even a small one that looks like a person milling about an airport as you’re taking off. And for the record, there are no June bugs, lady bugs, bees or dust mites in the book.

Here’s the cover…


I guess…when you think ‘war bug’ the first thing that comes to mind is a walloping big army ant. That was obviously the first thing the graphic artist thought. But the War Bug isn’t a giant ant; it’s a computer virus that ignites a war between online city states 200 years in the future.  This is not a book about ants in space.

It puzzled me that the book sold only one and a half copies but I received hundreds of complaints from readers who wanted to read about the adventures of a giant space ant. How do you respond to the disillusionment of ant lovers? How do you address their grief? Some said they would never read my books again. Some said they would never read anyone’s books again. Some made death threats if I didn’t re-write the book and include at least one big-ass ant.

But I had a better idea.


I was invited by the notorious J. Richard Jacobs to contribute stories for the first Twisted Tails anthology. I wrote four…one of them about a graphic artist who receives a work order to produce cover art for a book about a war bug. He glances quickly at the text for the back cover and produces his life’s masterpiece: a beautifully rendered giant termite sort of floating on a mystery plane of existence somewhere in space.

There’s something compelling, almost hypnotic, about the termite that dives deep into the artist’s being. He starts reading the actual book and realizes that the War Bug is actually a computer virus, but he keeps this to himself and passes the work on. Since no one actually reads the book with the exception of the editor who never sees the cover, the book is published with a giant termite staring down the most adventurous and daring of readers.

And the book goes on to become a world-wide bestseller because the cover art is somehow magical. No one ever reads the book. Not even the alcoholic author who lives in a cave with the ghost of his former feral cat. For talking points, people read the blurb on the back cover, which is bland enough that no one realizes the truth. The book wins oodles of global awards for cover design. It even wins literary awards based on the blurb and the termite.

In the end, the graphic artist stares at the original artwork and…


OK…so this isn’t exactly what he saw but…

Nobody ever  heard from him again.


Never Bored with the Boards


I think we’ve all lost a little weight in honor of our art. I have. Twenty pounds in just the last few months. I didn’t want to lose that weight. I’d already lost too many pounds after surgery last year and I was into a getting it all back.

But then came the boards.


It started a few years ago when I was invited to accept a skate board in honor of Isaac The Puma Miller and do something with it. Anything. I could paint on it, draw on it, glue things to it, nail things to it, throw things at it, etch it, sketch it, burn it, subject it to esoteric processes and I could even use witchcraft. But I’m not a witch, so none of the spells worked. I’m a man with pens. Lots of pens. Black gel pens and a deep need to spread ink over things.

But why a skate board? Because Isaac was a skate boarder…and a movie maker, and he wasn’t just talented. You could tell this kid had a destiny…and he was loved by everyone who knew him, but he was taken away from us far too soon. I can’t even begin to comprehend the loss, even years later.


His family wanted to do something special in his honor, something what would preserve his memory in the context of the things he loved.

They decided to build a skate board park in his honor. It would be an expensive undertaking, but they had the arts community on their side. Artists around the province received skate boards to turn into art that would be auctioned off to raise money for the park. Take a look at some of the skate board art they created…

The boards were auctioned off at the Freddie Beach Playhouse and they raised several thousand dollars. It was one of the most unique art shows the city had ever seen.

My daughter, Cassie Mae, sent one from Alberta…


Here’s my board (slightly unfinished)…


That was my first board.


It took a while for the addiction to really dig in under my skin and soul. A few months later, I bought a plank of pine and set on it with ink. It took almost a year to finish.


A few months ago, I started doing them in earnest, to the extent that they’ve changed my life style. I come home from work, shower to wash the smell of IT off my body and soul, sit at the table in the kitchenette, pick up a pen, put it on the board and suddenly it’s ten or eleven in the evening and I haven’t had anything to eat.

And that’s where the pounds went: through the nib of the pen and onto the wood, shedding micro ounce after micro ounce into the fiber and grain of a pine board. Honestly, it’s addicting. Once I put that pen on the wood, I’m there till the finish line.


It starts at the lumber store, standing in front of a stack of 12 x 24 pine boards, examining each for possible stories hiding in grains and knot holes. I look for anything that feels like some kind of connection to the board.

Here’s my theory…

That board was once part of a tree, a living thing, and living things have energy, some of which sticks to the board when the tree is cut down and sliced into building material. I look for that energy with my hands. I swear, after a while you can feel it. It’s not loud or flashy…it’s faint and hidden somewhere inside the death of the tree.

I usually buy three or four at a time. They come from a pile of rejects: those ones with obnoxious knot holes, absurd splits down the center and crazy grain patterns that will make you sea sick.

Then comes the really hard part: figuring out which board to work on first. I examine each of them, hold them up close to my eyes and ears, run my hand over the front and back surfaces, close my eyes and listen with invisible artist antennae. And then I just toss one on the table and say, “Ah ha! It’s you my lovely. I’m going to cover you with ink and love. I’m going to listen to you from the afterlife and tell your stories.”

Well, not really. I don’t talk out loud.

But I do try to tune myself into the life of the tree while I’m drawing. It starts with a few big lines to set the rhythm and composition; then, I really get into delving into whatever vestiges of energy might be left in the board. That’s when I start getting images in my head that I can’t see until they travel down my arm into the pen and my hand and onto the board where lines of ink begin looking like animals, sprites and otherworldly beings climbing up through the wood grain.

The stories are mesmerizing: heroic battles for survival between ants and snails and beetles, generations of bird families returning year-after-year to the common nest, centuries of shooting stars, vicious fang and claw wars to reign over territory…all told by knot holes, grooves, grain and blemish.


I’ve been doing these drawings since I was a kid…when I was influenced by Inuit art…the simplicity and power of that single object floating in the space of its own existence. Later, I came across the work of Aubrey Beardsley and the exquisite contrast between light and dark. Still later, I succumbed to the brilliantly rhythmic symbolism of Deanna Musgrave’s work and Pamela Marie Pierce’s bold lines defining everyday things with intense power.

BTW, how do I know that something’s influenced me? Easy…as I’m creating the work, I see traces of the influence. Still waiting to see some Van Gogh.


There was a time in the early 70s when you could walk into just about any place in the city where people were doing acid and see one of my drawings on the wall. The ones I did on cigarette papers were, of course, mostly smoked.

Along with the Emerge Artists’ Collective, they re-emerged a few years ago as 105 Personal Demons in a show at Government House.

Gov House

And once again with Emerge at the McCain Gallery in Florenceville.


Those pieces of paper spilling out of the landfill along with the garbage bags are drawings hoarded for years.

I rarely do these drawings on anything but pine boards now (and I might start looking at different types of wood) with the exception of postcards made for watercolor paintings.

BTW, the triptych image at the beginning of this post isn’t complete. I still have to stain it with red wine. I stain them all with red wine. It just seems fitting.

More to come…







How Writing Expunged My Nightmares

Post Cards 2-6

I never finished high school. I was short one credit: Math. A subject I hate more than pig’s brains fried with onions (which I will never eat again, no matter how much I don’t want to offend Albanian naval officers who jump ship in Halifax in the 70s and move to Fredericton where they give house parties featuring Albanian cooking and fried pig’s brains being an Albanian delicacy).

   Regardless of the school’s requirements for graduation (which they changed the following year), I wanted to go to university. So I wrote the college entrance exams and passed, which left me with a choice: attend high school for another year to take one course in a subject I hate…or…go straight to college and take subjects I love.

   Went to college. Got an honors degree in English Literature. Still don’t know what a cosine is. Don’t ever want to know what it is.

   So, everything was going smoothly until about five or six years after I graduated. That’s when I started having nightmares. I was back in high school after being away for a while; in fact, it was the exact same school that wanted to torture me with Math for another year. 

   Only different.

   I didn’t know anyone. Couldn’t find my locker. When I tried to ask questions, the students walked past me as though I were an invisible ghost. Somehow I managed to find my locker. Nothing inside it made any sense. The books were a mystery. My schedule was a mystery. Everybody was in class and the halls were empty. I was alone, trying to figure out what class I was supposed to be in and where it was. I was terrified and puzzled. I was afraid I was going to flunk if I didn’t get to my next class soon.

   Suddenly, I was sitting in a classroom. (You know how dreams are. You’re here, you’re there.)

   It was a French class. I hadn’t been to any of the classes and the finals were coming up in a few days. I didn’t have a clue the material I was going to be examined on. The text  book was in a foreign language (well…yeah). I couldn’t hear anything the teacher was saying; in fact, I couldn’t even see the teacher. The students around me were all looking straight ahead at some place where the teacher was supposed to be. They were expressionless and completely unaware of me, negating any hope of help from my fellow students.

   I started to worry. I looked at the text book. All that stuff I was supposed to know in just a few days. I was doomed. I was going to flunk French. I’d come back to high school just to fail. 

   Wait a minute! I’m back in high school? Why the hell am I back in high school? I have a college degree. 

   At which point, I’d wake up all sweaty and stressed out but relieved that I wasn’t going to flunk French. Yay!

   I had this dream two or three times a month right up to the time, years and years and years later, when a fellow by the name of J. Richard Jacobs invited me to submit some stories to an anthology he was putting together called Twisted Tails. They were stories with a twist at the end that caused revelation, shock or whatever wasn’t expected. A surprise. 

   I was experiencing a serious case of writers block at the time. The novel I was working on was mired in a complete lack of here’s-where-I’m-taking-this-next. Everything had just stopped dead. But there was this invitation to write some short stories, so each evening I went to the coffee shop where my daughter was working and wrote four short stories in pencil. Yep, pencil. 

   One of the stories I wrote was called School Dazed. It was my nightmare revealed in pencil. Of course, I had to redo it in Word to submit to J, but there it was…right in front me like a confession. 

   The story was published in the first Twisted Tails anthology…and guess what? That’s right, I never had that dream again. The same happened with a recurring nightmare I had about being caught in a labyrinth of horrors in a haunted house I’d visited when I was a teenager. And that really bad case of arachnophobia? Wrote it away. 

   I tried writing a story about a man who won the lottery, but apparently it just works for nightmares. 

   Now, where was I going with this? Right…writing can be therapeutic. More on this later. In the meantime, if you have a recurring nightmare, try writing a short story about it. 

Don’t Say A Word

Red Sky-5

So there I was…with a finished novel after just eight years. Not that it took me eight years to write it. I took about four years off to study photography and another couple of years to apply some of that studying to the actual pursuit of picture taking.

During this time, I used the storyboard for my novel as an example of story boarding in my Writing Hurts Like Hell workshops. I also talked about the novel profusely, to anyone who would listen. I even posted excerpts on my blog.

Let’s turn the clock back a bit…to long before I started the novel…way back to the days of Sinclair Lewis. He and his wife would never utter out loud the title of his book Main Street for fear that another writer would pick up on it psychically and use it. Which, of course, assumes that writers are somehow psychically connected.

Maybe so, maybe not so.

I finished the novel over a year ago and put it aside for a few months before going through it for one last round of revisions. Then, I started contacting literary agents. Lots of them. After a few weeks, they started getting back to me with the usual death threats and warnings of legal action. I’m used to this. I bask in the dark light of agent rejection and use it to fuel my enthusiasm for the impossible.

But I didn’t like some of their comments, especially the ones who said things like:

‘We don’t need another Three Faces of Eve book. What the hell were you thinking when you wrote this garbage?’ 

‘Have you seen the movie Seven Sisters? Obviously you have, because this novel of yours is just a rewrite of the movie with a different title, different characters, different story line and different concept. And different uses of the word “and.” Rejected!’


But now that the word’s out, I can talk about the word. The name of the novel is The Weekly Man, not Six Brothers and One Sister. Both have seven main characters.

Seven Sisters has three women born the same day in a society that only allows one baby, so they hide their identity and each of the sisters can go outside their home one day of the week and they name themselves after the day they can go out (i.e., Monday, Tuesday…you know, days of the week).

The Weekly Man has seven personalities living in the same body. The one who was born in that body on Monday exists every Monday (but isn’t named after the day). The one who was born in that body on Tuesday only exists on Tuesdays (and he isn’t named after the day either). So, a different personality each day, ending with a female personality on Sunday (but she’s not named Sunday).

In Seven Sisters, the characters all know of each other’s existence; in fact, they live together. In The Weekly Man, the characters (even though they live in the same body) don’t know of each other’s existence until they’re in their 30s and they start meeting on social media. It took over a year of research and banging my head on table tops in the coffee shops around the city where I did my writing to work this out.

In Seven Sisters, the characters are focused on keeping their existence secret from the rest of the world . In The Weekly Man, the characters are kept secret from each other. Seven Sisters is a serious movie. The Weekly Man is humor. For instance, the Tuesday character is trying to murder the Thursday character but can’t because the they don’t exist on the same day. And, of course, the Sunday character is thinking about getting a sex change.

Now, I’m not saying that the people who wrote and produced Seven Sisters picked up on my idea through some kind of psychic connection. I would never say such a foolish thing, Sinclair Lewis or not. However, I did learn a lesson from this: When you start a novel, finish it. Don’t talk about it. Don’t be distracted by photography or other pursuits. Don’t use your novel’s storyboard in your writing workshops.

And don’t let the agents get you down when they point at you and laugh. It’s their job. It’s nothing personal. Well, the death threats are kind of personal, but I get those all the time, and not just from agents.

I guess the thing to do is sit on the book for a couple of years until there’re all new agents out there who don’t watch movies and have never read books on multiple personalities. Yeah…a couple of years.

In the meantime, I’m working on another novel. But I’m not going to talk about it. And I’m sure as hell not going to say the title out loud.

Attack of the Blue Eyed Zombies

zombie 2018-121 copy

A friend recently posted a Tweet on his Facebook that I found interesting. It was from a woman, whose name was hidden under a red highlight. It went like this:

Stop complimenting people’s blue eyes. It’s basically complimenting whiteness. Less than 1% of non-white people have blue eyes. No one ever says someone with brown eyes has beautiful eyes. Brown eyes are beautiful. I love mine.

Complimenting whiteness? What the hell? Suppose you have a husband or wife who has blue eyes. You’re not supposed to say something like, “My god, you have beautiful eyes.” 

Here’s how I commented:

I’ve complimented many people on their green and brown eyes. I think this complaint is going over the edge of political correctness and I really hate it when people like this tell me how I should react with other people in a way that takes away my right to be an individual because they have a ridiculous personal problem.

This tweet is reverse discrimination. If you’re white, then yoau’re getting something you’re not entitled to get…because you’re white. And you should feel bad about getting the compliment because less than 1% of non-white people have blue eyes. And this is your fault. Because you have blue eyes. And you’re white.


We’ve always lived in a world where no matter what you say or do, you’re going to make some people happy and piss others off. We get through this by doing or saying the things we believe in and to hell with that annoying group of people whose ire you awaken by expressing yourself.

And yes, there are certain things that are unacceptable under any circumstances. Walking up to a stranger and putting a bullet in their head is never good. Calling someone a racist name is bad. Saying or writing words to incite others to commit crimes is wrong.

But increasingly, I’m seeing swarms of self-righteous people making up arbitrary rules on language, behavior, purchases, preferences, opinions and…well…everything. 

A friend of mine unfriended me on Facebook over a disagreement we had about an article in which a woman felt that she was somehow being denigrated by men who opened doors for her. I’ve seen women open doors for men. Does this mean they’re denigrating men? 

It seems like everyone with a pet peeve, no matter how petty, is using social media to control others with their inane pronouncements on conduct that, unfortunately, gather a certain amount of momentum from a population that’s so afraid of doing the wrong thing and being criticized by others that they take this garbage seriously. 

The problem with this is that it keeps us focused on small matters of personal presentation rather on the larger matters such as the death of our planet, the increasing likelihood of nuclear war…you know…stuff we should be thinking about instead of wondering if it’s OK to tell my daughter that she has beautiful blue eyes.

Thinking Hurts


Thinking hurts.

Think about it.

No, don’t think about it…you’ll hurt your head. But if you were to think about it, if you were to endure the pain, you might ask yourself, “Why does thinking hurt?”

Let’s look at this question and see if we can answer it. Without thinking. The obvious truth throws itself across the path of our search for an answer: Because it’s complicated and it means looking at things from all angles whether I’m comfortable with them or not and maybe being faced with opposing views that demand that I make a decision or even a series of decisions with one decision creating the need for yet another decision and possibly another and another and maybe I don’t agree in my gut with those decisions but I know they’re right in my mind and this might just require that I act on the decisions arising from my thinking and that means getting off my ass and doing something or I could just sit and think and rethink and counter think and get all angsty and depressed because I started thinking and now I can’t stop because once you start thinking it’s like taking your thumb out of a dam that’s leaking all around you and now you can see those leaks.

Got that?

You could drown in the truth…just by thinking about its possibility. I guess that’s what really hurts about thinking: Once you start, you have to decide whether you’re going to finish the thought, or whether you’re going to drop the thought and just let it dangle in your head like a discontinued piece of yourself.

Having to finish a thought can be tough for the above started reasons: It can lead to truth. Truth can be a bitch. You might have to do something.

Not finishing a thought can be tough because its incompleteness will park itself just under the surface of your days like a broken tile that you have to continuously avoid stepping on.

And then there are the unobvious truths about why thinking hurts:

  • We might have to stop fooling ourselves
  • We might have to admit we were wrong
  • We might have to admit someone else was right
  • We might start asking questions
  • We might start getting answers

And who, these days, really wants to hear answers to their questions? I mean, isn’t it enough to just ask the question? And just leave it at that? Personally, I have a hard time dealing with the questions. I don’t need a bunch of answers to complicate things. When the questions are just hanging there, swinging in the wind, thumbs out for a ride on the answer bus, you don’t have to do anything but drive past them. But if the bus stops…


Something to think about.