Slowly but surely getting the hang of this whole audio thing, and I decided to go back and clean up this, the first audio piece I posted here. As it happens, this is also my voiceover demo, so if you know anyone who might be interested (hint hint)...
Enjoy!
Every Eight Seconds by Henry Gaudet
Sunday, August 21, 2011
Friday, August 5, 2011
Why I Write
Another "new to here" post.
If you're interested, you can still find this one, along with a lot of other good stories in the 2010 Writing4All Anthology:
http://originalwriting.ie/bookshop/fiction/general-fiction/writing4all-the-best-of-2010/
Check it out, and tell 'em Henry sent you.
No, it won't get you a discount. Sorry.
by Henry Gaudet
Growing up, I spent a lot of time with my grandparents. They had a place in the Middle of Nowhere, a few acres of woods and a small lake. Thirty or forty years on, thanks more than anything to a mythic sense of nostalgia, that place seems idyllic now, my own personal Narnia, my Hundred Acre Wood. But all that came later, after being fitted for my grown-up pair of rose-coloured glasses. Back then, it was just Grandma's.
Grandma's did indeed lie over the river and through the woods, where neighbours were friendly, but far flung and rare. Back then, the world was just a little bit bigger, and the Middle of Nowhere a little further from the Edge of Anywhere.
Not a lot of company for a young boy who wanted to play. There weren't any other kids for miles around. My sister was there, but well, she was my sister, so clearly that wasn't an option. I was going to have to find another way to amuse myself.
What I did have was one big honkin' playground. The woods were filled with trails and hidden clearings to explore. The rest would have to come from imagination.
What I did have was one big honkin' playground. The woods were filled with trails and hidden clearings to explore. The rest would have to come from imagination.
And so, during my time there, I chased monsters, fended off super villains and cosmic disasters, and generally defended the world from Bad Things which tended to show up in the woods, just out of sight of the house.
Between alien invasions and crime waves, I spent my time drawing. Sometimes, I illustrated my own courageous deeds, or came up with new adventures based on these earlier exploits. Sometimes, I just drew stuff I saw on Saturday morning television. I went through my share of crayons, markers, pencils, the odd bits of chalk, just about anything that would leave a mark.
There was no doubt that stories were going to matter to me. There was just no escaping it. But the clincher, the deal-closer, the reason I decided that I would have to tell my own stories, that was Grandad.
Late one evening, just a little before bedtime, I was sitting on the front porch swing, watching the fireflies and looking for all the world like a scene out of Andy Griffith. Grandad came out and joined me, sitting in his rocker. We sat there in the twilight for a few minutes before he lit up a cigar and he started to tell me a story.
He spun this amazing tale, about a farmer with a talking dog who fended off giants and dragons and became a hero by accident. It was funny and scary and magical, and he had me hooked from the very beginning. It was years later that I learned the story wasn't his own.
Between alien invasions and crime waves, I spent my time drawing. Sometimes, I illustrated my own courageous deeds, or came up with new adventures based on these earlier exploits. Sometimes, I just drew stuff I saw on Saturday morning television. I went through my share of crayons, markers, pencils, the odd bits of chalk, just about anything that would leave a mark.
There was no doubt that stories were going to matter to me. There was just no escaping it. But the clincher, the deal-closer, the reason I decided that I would have to tell my own stories, that was Grandad.
Late one evening, just a little before bedtime, I was sitting on the front porch swing, watching the fireflies and looking for all the world like a scene out of Andy Griffith. Grandad came out and joined me, sitting in his rocker. We sat there in the twilight for a few minutes before he lit up a cigar and he started to tell me a story.
He spun this amazing tale, about a farmer with a talking dog who fended off giants and dragons and became a hero by accident. It was funny and scary and magical, and he had me hooked from the very beginning. It was years later that I learned the story wasn't his own.
Tolkein's Farmer Giles of Ham was one of Grandad's favourite books. He knew the story by heart, well enough to tell me off the top of his head and make it his own.
Grandad would tell me lots of stories over the next few years. Some were his, some weren't. Over the course of a summer, we followed the adventures of Bilbo Baggins. He told me stories over the dying embers of campfires and in the flash of thunderstorms, stories of Arthur and Perseus and Coyote. He told me stories of his youth, the kind of true stories that never really happened.
Grandad would tell me lots of stories over the next few years. Some were his, some weren't. Over the course of a summer, we followed the adventures of Bilbo Baggins. He told me stories over the dying embers of campfires and in the flash of thunderstorms, stories of Arthur and Perseus and Coyote. He told me stories of his youth, the kind of true stories that never really happened.
He showed me how to make magic.
Of course, over time, kids outgrow Neverland. Mostly. Oral storytelling will always be something special to me, but I adore a well told story, regardless of the medium. A good story, out loud, in print, or on the big screen, is still magical and can bring me right back to that porch swing.
Of course, over time, kids outgrow Neverland. Mostly. Oral storytelling will always be something special to me, but I adore a well told story, regardless of the medium. A good story, out loud, in print, or on the big screen, is still magical and can bring me right back to that porch swing.
I’ve spun a few yarns of my own over the years, but it’s only recently that I began to create my own stories that might be worthy of the fireside. Stories to share with my little boy, and stories to share with strangers. I took the scenic route, but I was always going to wind up here.
It's in the blood.
Thursday, July 21, 2011
To Whom It May Concern
Dear Universe,
There seems to be a bit of confusion. My fault, really.
As you might recall, I said a while back that I’d like to be a “writer”. Now, granted, there are a number of ways that might be taken. For instance, I was literate at the time, so I could have been justified in dusting off my hands, saying “Job done” and wandered off to the fridge for a self-congratulatory beer.
Instead, I set off down a likely path and started stringing words together in the hopes that they would all come together to make a story, then trying to convince others that I had in fact made a story worth reading and paying for the privilege.
Yeah. Turns out, that’s hard, and not at all what I had in mind.
You see, I said I wanted to be a writer. I never said anything about writing. I was looking for something a little more Great Gatsby. You know, that guy with the elbow patches and an open calendar, the one who tends to show up in guest spots on all those old TV mystery shows.
That guy.
Not Too-old-to-be-the-starving-young-artist-typing-between-family-and-work-and-no-you-probably-haven’t-seen-me-in-anything-unless-you-followed-that-link-I-just-posted. That guy has to work. There’s no way he’d have the time for leisurely drinks by the marina, much less helping Matlock or Quincy or Fletcher solve a murder.
Thanks for giving this your full attention. I have some requests on the whole Rich & Famous thing too, but if we can sort this out first, the rest should go a bit smoother.
Cheers.
There seems to be a bit of confusion. My fault, really.
As you might recall, I said a while back that I’d like to be a “writer”. Now, granted, there are a number of ways that might be taken. For instance, I was literate at the time, so I could have been justified in dusting off my hands, saying “Job done” and wandered off to the fridge for a self-congratulatory beer.
Instead, I set off down a likely path and started stringing words together in the hopes that they would all come together to make a story, then trying to convince others that I had in fact made a story worth reading and paying for the privilege.
Yeah. Turns out, that’s hard, and not at all what I had in mind.
You see, I said I wanted to be a writer. I never said anything about writing. I was looking for something a little more Great Gatsby. You know, that guy with the elbow patches and an open calendar, the one who tends to show up in guest spots on all those old TV mystery shows.
That guy.
Not Too-old-to-be-the-starving-young-artist-typing-between-family-and-work-and-no-you-probably-haven’t-seen-me-in-anything-unless-you-followed-that-link-I-just-posted. That guy has to work. There’s no way he’d have the time for leisurely drinks by the marina, much less helping Matlock or Quincy or Fletcher solve a murder.
Thanks for giving this your full attention. I have some requests on the whole Rich & Famous thing too, but if we can sort this out first, the rest should go a bit smoother.
Cheers.
Thursday, June 16, 2011
Happy Father's Day!!!
Hey, gang!
Yeah, yeah, I'm a few days early. I just couldn't wait.
A very special episode, featuring a special guest reader. Enjoy!
Yeah, yeah, I'm a few days early. I just couldn't wait.
A very special episode, featuring a special guest reader. Enjoy!
Thursday, June 2, 2011
At Least There Weren't Any Disney Princesses
Just before turning in, my wife likes to check the news. All part of the bedtime ritual. Last night, she spotted a headline that she had to share with me. Apparently, there was some poll rating the top screen siren (their words, not mine) of all time, and Jessica Rabbit topped the list.
Okay.
Seemed like an unusual choice to me, but my wife thought it was downright weird, and I think she thought that it was weird that I didn’t think it was weirder. “She’s a cartoon. You know that, right? A cartoon. She’s not real.”
I looked over the list. Hayworth, Hepburn, Monroe. All the usual suspects, and a toon.
I’ve been accused from time to time of being the devil’s advocate, mostly by my wife, but it's a popular opinion. Now I’m not saying that’s true, but I should probably mention that I am on infernal retainer.
“Well, she’s not any less real than anyone on that list. Not to me. They’re all just pictures on a screen. Every last one of 'em. Jessica’s just a little more… stylized.”
After all, the whole siren thing is a bit of a cartoon. These aren’t real women. They’re caricatures. Go on, tell me Marilyn Monroe’s not a cartoon!
So sure, why not? Why not let the most cartoonish lead the pack? After all, that’s what she was made for, to be The Siren, every smouldering Hollywood starlet that ever was, all rolled up and crammed into that impossible silhouette.
That conversation led, of course, to the “How would you rank them” conversation. I’m not a big fan of musicals or of Hollywood’s Golden Age, so it wasn’t easy.
For those of you who’d like to play along at home, here’s the list.
1. Jessica Rabbit
2. Audrey Hepburn
3. Marilyn Monroe
4. Raquel Welch
5. Ursula Andress
6. Elizabeth Taylor
7. Grace Kelly
8. Rita Hayworth
9. Ingrid Bergman
10. Vivien Leigh
2. Audrey Hepburn
3. Marilyn Monroe
4. Raquel Welch
5. Ursula Andress
6. Elizabeth Taylor
7. Grace Kelly
8. Rita Hayworth
9. Ingrid Bergman
10. Vivien Leigh
Okay, Ingrid Bergman takes the top spot hands down, and I gave Andress second place for those three seconds walking out of the surf in Dr. No, but after that? Meh.
I love cartoons. Always have, always will. I just don’t love cartoons. Even the ones that weren’t drawn.
Sunday, May 29, 2011
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
Tuesday, May 3, 2011
Just a Guy
“Osama Bin Laden’s dead.”
To be honest, I was expecting something like “Good morning” or “The kettle’s just boiled.” Instead, my wife greeted me with “Osama Bin Laden’s dead.”
They found him and they killed him. I sat down with my wife and we did the tour of 24 hour news channels. Of course, everyone was covering it and had been for hours, but it all came back to this seven word soundbyte. They found him and they killed him.
I saw reports from New York, of celebrants cheering in the streets at Ground Zero. All things considered, I suppose it was fairly restrained, somewhere between a touchdown dance and “Ding Dong the Witch Is Dead.”
Cheering a death, even this one, doesn’t sit right with me, but I get it. This is the man we hold ultimately responsible for the attacks on September 11th. This is the mastermind who took 3000 lives and turned the world upside down, the man who set the events of the past decade in motion.
I get it, but I can’t share it. I keep thinking to myself, “He’s just a guy.”
In our minds, we made him into some sort of super villain, a Blofeld for the new millennium. It’s easy to imagine him in his secret mountain hideaway, directing the fall of the Western World from the shadows, with a legion of loyal agents ready to act on his orders at a moment’s notice.
Instead, we find a man living in isolation and relative comfort hiding under his hunters’ collective nose, a man whose contribution to the struggle had become largely symbolic. To his followers, he was an inspiration. His continued existence, a confirmation that the enemy can be defied. For those enemies, he had become a ghost, a boogieman.
The death of Osama Bin Laden will not slow the operations of terrorist groups like Al Qaeda. In fact, as a martyr, he may very well continue to serve as a powerful symbolic leader. The recent events in the Middle East are likely to do more to harm Al Qaeda, revealing peaceful uprisings and popular revolts as more effective instruments of change.
His death does nothing to slow the actions of terrorist organizations, and yet the order was given. Had to be given. Osama Bin Laden has enormous symbolic power in America as well. He was the Big Bad Wolf, the monster lurking in the dark. The dragon had to be slain.
Given the choice, I would have preferred to see him captured. I would have seen him stand trial and convicted and punished, not out of devotion to the rule of law, but to reveal him as Just a Guy.
Not a Monster. Not a Giant. Just a man. One who committed unjustifiable acts and was made to pay for them.
That didn’t happen. Instead, they found him and they killed him.
I won’t mourn his passing. I won’t celebrate either. For me, this is a somber and solemn moment, to reflect on the death of some guy I never met, and what that means for those of us who are still here.
Monday, May 2, 2011
Friday, April 22, 2011
Should
I was hoping to have something new for you by now. This isn't exactly new, but the reading is, so that counts, right?
Right?
Ah well, old, new or something somewhere between, I hope you enjoy.
Right?
Ah well, old, new or something somewhere between, I hope you enjoy.
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