Just as I stepped up to take some photos of Dwayne's sunflowers with that stormy sky behind, a finch landed on some of them (just to the left of the top bunch on the right). In my world, finches are associated with my father. Likely he appeared to tell me to stop screwing around taking pictures and get back to editing my book.

The osprey, on the other hand, were quite happy to circle overhead and have their picture taken (award-winning birds that they are) but to do them justice, I really need to buy a better zoom lense.

Despite the colour of the sky and the gasps of ground desperate for moisture, we did not get the rain it looked like was coming. A few huge drops pelted down but that was the extent of what these dark clouds produced. Apparently, it poured in Oxford. That's how it goes with micro-climates. Now the sky is blue and cloudless and the drying wind continues to blow.
Maybe we'll have a thunderstorm tonight.

Since discovering the true purpose of my memoir, I have to read the manuscript again for another round of editing. So this afternoon, I'm trying to get through the first fifty pages. These have changed since taking another 2,000 words out (I've eviscerated most of the end of my marriage, to the vast improvement of flow, and I apologize for all the time we wasted on that event so many years ago -- because, as it turns out, it wasn't really that significant) and now encompass Maggie's death.
How many times have I read the chapter on her dying? A dozen, at least. I started to skip it the last few read-throughs but today I knew I had to see if it needed any tweaking. It made me as emotional this afternoon as it did when I wrote it in 2010 (but not as bad as when it happened in 2002).
"I can't believe it can do this to me after ten years," I thought and glanced at the calendar on my wall.
Ten years tomorrow.
And so I ended up crying and holding a photo of my long-dead dog Maggie as if it were only the one year anniversary of her death.
I realize that Maggie is the only dog whose death I've experienced first-hand and it came at a very bad time. But what's also funny -- in a weird sense -- is that the last couple of times we've gone down to the store for ice cream, I've seen orange-pineapple ice cream on the list and that's the flavour I ordered for Maggie when we went out for cones every night during the last week of her life.
So tomorrow, on the tenth anniversary of the death of my dog, I'm going to eat an orange-pineapple ice cream cone for no other reason than the fact the story of her death and the story of my father's are some of the best writing I've ever done.

Between the gardens, the anniversary party and the utter lack of extra money, we've been too busy and too poor to leave home. I did plan one getaway, however, for the end of August to celebrate Dwayne's birthday. We spent the past weekend in Halifax and it was worth the wait. Relaxing and rejuvenating. Nice to be reminded of why we wish we could do more travelling.

The whole thing pivoted on taking Dwayne to a Scottish Public Housecalled the Loose Cannon, since flying him to Scotland for the weekend was not an option (what a surprise that would have been!). The food was average but we could drink beer brewed in Edinburgh! (Not Guinness as the glass suggests.) The beer was so smooth we went back Sunday for the weekend brunch and more beer and I had a decent haggis.
We took a couple of walks along the harbour and finally visited the Seaport Farmers Market. 

On the way back to the hotel Sunday afternoon, we took a side trip to Brazil - sat on the patio at Pipa to drink sangria (yes, Shelagh, you should have been there!);

The view from our hotel. 

The opening part of my book deals with my inner voice, how in my twenties it spoke to me in complete sentences -- Break up with him -- and how long it took me to listen to it.
Well, I remain as slow a learner and listener twenty years later.
On my lunch break Thursday, having just emailed an article to an editor a day before deadline, I was watching television while eating tuna and carrot sticks. An ad came on for this duck derby that the Alzheimer's Society of NS is promoting and I thought I would buy a bunch of ducks.
"Because I have to do something," I thought as I watched a still of a bunch of smiling women with their arms around each other. Then what followed was this: "The spirituality of Alzheimer's."
This idea has been floating around in my head for a couple of years. I even mentioned it briefly in my book proposal, buried on a page I called "Platform and Promotion" (more on that in a minute). My favourite article, one I wrote for the Observer magazine but one that did not win an award (which I really think it might have but I have no idea if it was submitted or  not), is all about believing that a person's spirit is not annihilated by this progressive neurological disease.
BUT HAVE I BEEN LISTENING?
Holy mother of pearl, that's what my damn book is about. That's what makes it unique. If I didn't have such a deep aversion to pain, I'd bang my head against the door jamb until my brains, which I'm obviously not using, seap out  my ears, which obviously don't work.
The spirituality of Alzheimer's is the big theme of my book, it's the a-ha moment of truth and change. When that nurse said to me, "The man who raised you is no longer here," and I knew at that moment that she was wrong, that's the turning point that every editor is seeking in a book. How do I make my book stand out from other narratives on caregiving for a person with dementia? Highlight the one area that is overlooked and misunderstood: the plaques and tangles do not eat up the spirit. My story proves it.
May I just say right now, Thank you, dear friends and family, for loving me even though I'm completely clueless.
So this is how I'm hoping to circumvent this latest push for PLATFORM.
It's cropping up on so many agent blogs/submission guidelines, this demand for platform. To the point where it is implied: Do not query me if you don't have a platform. Again, I see this as a result of the rise of/obsession with social media. What is platform? It's a writer's way of promoting a book beyond the story and the quality of writing. Basically, it's why celebrities/famous people are writing memoirs and health books -- because their name will sell the book.
To which I say bullshit. Shania Twain's autobiography dropped off the radar quickly because no one wanted to read another book about a divorce; her name just got it out there in advance of the release day. I learned this from that editor I hired: It's really hard to make divorce interesting or unique because your either experienced one or aren't interested in reading about someone else's. Hence, after the first few chapters, when the end of my marriage is the catalyst for me moving home where I was supposed to be, most mentions of the divorce, of that relationship have been excised unless it relates directly to the Dad story. (At the time, that failed marriage and the aftermath was all consuming; ten years on, I can see what a waste of time it was. sigh)
But now agents, particularly, want to know how popular your blog is and how many followers you have on Twitter. Do you have a column? A radio show? Your own TV show? How are you going to reach your audience? WHAT MAKES YOU FAMOUS? (I really hate reality-show reality.)
To which I anwer, a la Imogen Robertson, I'm too busy writing my book to have time for all that other non-writing related stuff. Call me old-fashioned but I still believe a good story sells, with or without a Twitter account. Word-of-mouth sells books. Readings and signings sell books. Getting to know the author sells books. Having a unique angle on a common story sells books. My plan has always been to do Facebook and Twitter and Youtube and whatever else is out there once I know when my book is coming out. But before that, I don't see the point. Besides, it would take me 1,000 tweets to put this essay out there!! 
It's all very confusing and time consuming when I have a book to rewrite.
Actually, I don't have to rewrite the book; the unique perspective is already written in to it. Another Duh moment. It's been there all along, through every version of this story, whether it was the 164,000 word original or the 96,000 word version it is now (so for those of you who keep hearing me say, "I'm editing the book," now you know why).
So let me tell you where you can shove platform. I don't have a platform and I don't need one. I'm not selling my name, I'm selling a story that is far more important than me and my tweets.

Imogen Robertson is a British author who has written 3 historical murder mysteries. This quote is from an interview included in her book, Island of Bones. When asked what advice she would give a writer just starting out in his/her career, Robertson said,

"Learn your craft. Go to workshop, listen to working writers, take their advice and keep at it. Learn to be a constructive critic of your own work. And ignore any who says that the way to a book deal is hassling agents or publishers at parties. You're much better off staying at home and writing!"

This is what I love: just when doubt starts to creep in, my mother finds a quote like this that scoops me up out of the swamp and onto a dry tuft of grass. Because as my mother pointed out, I have done all those things, including not networking. I've said over and over that I'm suited to being a writer because I don't mind being on my own, I don't mind never leaving my house. Despite social media and the demands for platform (more on that tomorrow), I still believe that for me and my book, the old-fashioned way is the right way. Find an agent then a publisher and word-of-mouth will help sell the book.
Then and only then will I need a Twitter account.

We have a very interesting neighbour, named Rose, who lives around the corner from us on the Dickson Road. She has a huge vegetable garden and preserves and freezes everything she and her husband don't eat.
Two years ago, she made mustard pickles with zucchini instead of cucumbers and gave me a bottle. Holy crap it was good. It was just sweet enough to lose the tart taste that requires other food to be eaten with it. I ate the entire jar in less than a week. I'd just put a spoon in it and eat a mouthful.
Her huge garden is fenced and she has no other gardens because all her birds run free. Chickens, guinea hens, geese, ducks. I love her yard but there's nothing pretty about it!
From her, we get our potato sets and our sunflower seeds. You'll see that only HALF of the sunflowers have bloomed so I'm hoping to have an awesome shot of them all open and soaking up the late summer sun.

Dwayne heads up river at high tide. Please note, he's not wearing his lucky fishing shirt...and that means he didn't catch any fish. Writers know about superstitions; I thought fishermen had them, too.

The police helicopter is flying over the vast woods behind our house looking for marijuana grow ops and Abby is digging in the vegetable garden.
She is harvesting her crop of balls.
I think she believes Dwayne planted ball plants that have come to fruition. Every time her paws dig in the dirt, they unearth balls of various sizes and shapes of red and white. They are firm, somewhat crunchy, and stand up to being tossed up in the air repeatedly better than the green ones that she plucks off those shrubs on the other side of the garden.
Wait until the pumpkins ripen...

I had to write a column this weekend for this week's paper but it didn't happen. I didn't feel like writing, I didn't have an opening or a point. I know what I want to say, I know the picture I'll publish with it but nothing else would come.
I couldn't put muscle on the skeleton of my idea.
Yet this is where the real writer parts ways with the pretend writer. As a real writer, I know I only have to sit down at my desk and start typing, typing anything, even starting in the middle of the column, to get the column written. Or do what I ended up doing: sitting down with my notebook and start scribbling, jotting down the ideas, each one clinging to a rib then another rib then another.
Until that moment -- which as we know seems to happen for me when I'm in the bathroom -- as I'm putting mascara on and suddenly, the opening then the point of the column
DING!
was there in my brain. My whole body relaxed. Skin formed, enclosing everything. The writing is the easy part now.
You can't know how much I rely on that real-writer system to get things done. Total trust that it works. Just write. That's how you get published.
That's how you only get one eye properly made up.

This little fella is growing in front of our garage. It doesn't get any sun and it's rather late in the season for it to sprout.

The quotable life lesson is so obvious, I'll just let you ponder it in your own hearts. But it's true, it's very, very true.

I'm going to dig it up and transplant. To have it as a symbol of determination and against-all-odds sprouting, then to drive over it in my car, is a bit much to handle.

Here I am!
In the four days I haven't been able to write any blog posts, I realized how ingrained keeping a blog has become in five years. Five years is a long time, a part of my life, so here's to the next five years.
I have no intention of maintaining this blog as an official writer's blog so I can keep this as low key as possible. To avoid being found easily by Googling what could be considered my key words, I've chosen a title with no key words in it (like writing or dogs or osprey), I'm not using titles, I'm asking that no one provide a link to this blog on their own blog/website, but likely the best thing is that I've checked the box that makes this blog unavailable to search engines. It's just for us, and you know who you are.
Just writing all that makes me want to stop this madness but that would mean having to do email newsletters and I think I've proven that I suck at those. This blog isn't to promote me -- one of these days, I hope to have an author's website -- but for right now, I'm just sharing our life with friends and family.
So this is my opening note to welcome you to my new blog. Change is always good and it is time for something new.
Something pink!

p.s. Comments are fully open so anyone can leave a quick message if you want without as many hurdles as signing in with an ID.