Alan ten-Hoeve: My (small press) Writing Day

I wake up early at four, sometimes even three o’clock. I think about getting up and doing some writing. You always read about ambitious writers getting shit done in the wee hours, I think to myself.

Then I fall back asleep.

Around eight o’clock I officially rise to the sound of my kids fighting and my wife asking me if I’m awake. Crawling out of bed I do some light calisthenics to get the blood flowing. Stuff like lunges, jumping-jacks, free-squats, push-ups and crunches are good for working out the kinks from a restless night.

Once I’ve limbered up I go to my bookcase. On the bottom shelf there is the complete Oxford English Dictionary. Twenty leatherbound volumes coming in at a total of one-hundred and thirty-eight pounds. Taking ten volumes in each hand for a balanced sixty-nine pounds each, I gun some curls, shoulder presses, and shrugs. Finally feeling warmed up and ready for the day, I head outside to the backyard where I break a few cinder blocks by hand, then do a version of that cross fit “battling ropes” thing, but with Aircraft carrier anchor chains instead. Chains that happen to be the exact weight of my guilt.

I know what you're thinking, but don’t get the wrong idea. I’m no health nut or anything. The reason I train like this every morning isn’t by choice. Not really. It’s because of Gary.

Gary is a timid yet mischievous troll. Not the kind of troll that lurks on the Internet. No, I’m talking about the traditional, mythical kind of troll that shouldn’t exist outside of books and movies. The kind with long, hairy nipples, and breath like the grease traps in a filthy backwoods dive the day before being closed down by the health department. That’s the kind of troll Gary is.

Oh, yeah. Gary also happens to be my muse, though you couldn’t tell by the way he treats me. When I least expect it he’ll sneak up from behind and pull my pants down, or trip me, maybe slap a “kick me” sign on my back as I’m on my way out to a public place.

Unfortunately I never know when Gary’s going to come for a visit. He always arrives uninvited and unannounced. Keeping a careful distance so as not to blow his cover, Gary watches me through the windows of my house, from around corners and behind chairs, slowly and surreptitiously making his way closer. I always have to be on my toes.

If I notice Gary is in the area I must pretend not to, or I chance scaring him away. One wrong look and, BOOM, he’s gone. Writing day ruined. So I try to be patient and let him come to me. Once he’s within reach, though, I jump on him and attempt to wrestle him to the ground.

This is where all that training comes in handy.

Gary may only be four and a half feet tall, but he’s a barrel-shaped three-hundred pounds, so he can be a real handful. Sometimes, I find he has slathered himself in baby oil and he easily slips from my grasp, leaving me on the living room rug feeling slick and defeated. Other times it’s an epic struggle, and even if I get the upper hand, the physical effort involved drains the creative juices from my system, and I am forced to let him go. Then there are the jokes. If you can even call them jokes.

You see, Gary is an annoyingly huge Brent Butt fan. He likes to repeat the jokes he sees on Brent’s comedy specials he obsessively watches on YouTube when he’s not replaying his collection of Corner Gas DVDs over and over. One time, as I was trying to work his arms behind his head in a full nelson, Gary turned toward me and, in an attempt to throw me off my game, said, “You ever see that time Fabio got hit in the face by a bird when he was riding that roller coaster? That’s gotta be the weirdest thing that’s ever happened on the planet.”

“Shut up!” I said, feeling my grip slide. But of course he didn’t listen.

“I mean, you can’t even have those three things in a story without it being kinda weird.”

“Shut up!” I repeated through my teeth. “That’s not even a joke.”

But he already had me where he wanted. Feeling my hold slack, Gary stepped back, heaved me over his shoulder like a rag doll and took off. That time I didn’t see him again for almost five days.

Rarely but ideally, if Gary is ungreased and I work quickly enough, I can maneuver behind him, slip my arm under his knobby chin, and apply the sleeper hold.

Lemme tell ya, lugging a three-hundred pound troll’s dead weight down to the basement is no easy task. It’s almost harder than wrestling him. I guess I should mention the basement is where I do my writing.

By the time Gary comes to, he is securely tied to a chair next to the oil tank. Once he stops struggling to get loose and acquiesces to the situation, I remove the duct tape from his mouth, turn the desk lamp in his face, open my laptop and get to work.

But even getting Gary to the basement isn’t a guarantee I’ll accomplish any work. Sometimes I take the tape off his mouth and all he wants to do is convince me that Hiccups is an underrated TV show, or he’ll go on a rant about how depressing it is to be a troll. He points out that the worst people on the Internet are named after him, and how his species is always portrayed as greedy beasts living under bridges, and the fact that goats are afraid of him.

“But you eat goats,” I’ll say.

“Be that as it may, they shouldn’t make assumptions based on an outdated and offensive fairytale,” he replies with indignation.

On these fruitless days, fully aware that nothing literary will be getting done, I just sit back and listen. I’m a good listener.

Regardless of what we accomplish, whether it’s a poem, a short story, a novel, or a counseling session, I eventually untie Gary from the chair. To show that there aren’t any hard feelings I ask if he wants some coffee, to which he’ll ask something weird like, “No, but I’ll take a chili cheese dog if it’s not too much trouble.”

“Sure, why not?” I’ll say.

But as soon as we get upstairs and my back is turned, he bolts like a streaker running across a football field.

As he runs away, Gary invariably yells over his shoulder that I’ll never see him again.

But I know he’ll be back.

He always is.

Alan ten-Hoeve resides in New England where he is patiently tolerated by his wife and children. His writing has appeared in The Daily Drunk, 433 Magazine, (mac)ro(mic), Versification, and others. His music with The Multi-Purpose Solution can be found on Mint 400 Records.

Erica McKeen: my (small press) writing day

          I’m in upheaval, having recently moved from Ontario to British Columbia. Upheaval means that everything steadying me has been heaved up from below, axed apart from under and around me, casting off any hope for the typical or the scheduled. My new rooms are bare and tightly strung with echo. Here and now, there isn’t enough obligation to keep me grounded (there will be, in a week, when school begins again, again, as it is always beginning again, again, in September).

          Typically, though (I’m blanching at the word, realizing how much I want the typical, the scheduled, and how often I’ve barred myself from it), I wake at 7 am to the puppy shaking her flanks at the end of the bed, meaning she wants down and to go to the bathroom. My partner or I, depending on who feels less exhausted and more generous that morning, dress/es groggily in something lying around that won’t startle the roommates if they see one of us outside: a t-shirt for Nic, a lumpy sweater for me, swung over my PJ top. I take the puppy (let’s say it’s me this time) outside, congratulate her enthusiastically and bleary-eyed when she does her business (she’s still not perfectly house-trained; the internet tells me enthusiasm will tame her bad habits), then take her inside where she eats while Nic and I get more reasonably dressed.

          We walk the puppy anytime between 7:30 and 8:30 am. We talk. It’s a luxury we’ve taken advantage of since the pandemic struck in March and Nic lost his job. Either way, someone must walk the puppy to stop her from nipping ankles and furniture. After this, I eat a quick breakfast—oatmeal—and read some submissions for The /temz/ Review. I go for a run around the neighbourhood, a slow jog that lasts anywhere between forty minutes and an hour and a half, depending on my energy level. Without this kind of regular exercise I become frayed around the edges, a little worn and fuzzy, and there is no hope of writing.

          When I return, I cool down while cruising social media on my phone (checking up on the Poetry London Instagram page) and answering emails. Then I shower and eat an early lunch, around 11 am.

          Next, black tea. This is the most caffeine that I can handle. Make sure the puppy is preoccupied or sleeping.

          Finally, around noon, I write.

          Writing time is flex time, spent working on personal, creative projects (lately, creepy and strange stories, maybe growing into a collection), book reviews, miscellaneous projects like this one, or assignments related to my volunteer work. The volunteer work could be anything from writing and practicing artist introductions for LOMP: reading series and Poetry London to completing some minor editorial work for The /temz/ Review or inviting artists to participate in the reading series. Many times I need to force the volunteer work aside to finish my own writing, because the volunteer work—however rewarding—is endless.

          I continually fix my posture (it’s terrible) while I sit. I bite my nails to stubs. I second guess myself, and then third and fourth guess myself. I dawdle. I finally sink into the work and forget about time.

          Three in the afternoon generally arrives with brain fog and a happy heart if I feel I’ve done some good work. Nic and I reconvene to walk the puppy. We cook dinner, we eat. After food, and after my brain arranges itself into something reminiscent of a thinking substance, I take time to read. This could mean reading and editing my own work (more of a passive task than writing, and therefore more suited for the late afternoon); reading submissions for Augur Magazine and The /temz/ Review, depending on the submission period and the number of stories I’ve already worked through; or (ah! And isn’t this the best of the three?) reading whatever book I have on the go, whether it’s a review copy (this takes longer, making notes on my phone for the upcoming review) or a book “for fun.” “Fun” means my kind of fun, meaning, more likely than not, strange and challenging and disarming. Currently I’m eating away at Lily Wang’s Saturn Peach and Sally Rooney’s Conversations with Friends.

          Sometimes, however, I skip the reading in order to submit my work. This depends on whether or not I have anything at hand to submit.

          Evening comes with TV—this really is “fun” and rarely serious—maybe a beer, maybe a swim in the pool across the street, putting the puppy out for her final pee, and settling at last into bed around 10:30 pm, where I scroll through social media and jot ideas into the notes app of my phone. Fragmented sentences. Sticky words that need to be scraped from my head before I can properly close my eyes.

          This is typical. I’ll call it typical, for now. When school begins everything will have to be rearranged and uncomfortably squeezed. I’ll have to do away with the TV.

Erica McKeen is a writer, organizer, and teacher. She recently received her MA in English literature from Western University. Originally from London, Ontario, she is a Poetry London board member, assistant editor at The /temz/ Review, and co-organizer of LOMP: reading series. Her novel, Tear, was longlisted for The Guernica Prize, and her work has appeared or is forthcoming in The Dalhousie Review, The /temz/ Review, Canthius, and elsewhere. She currently lives on Musqueam land in Vancouver, British Columbia.