For this post : http://coucoumelle.blogspot.com/2010/05/culture-shock.html
I was 18 when I arrived in Québec City, on my own. Except for a four month stay in Timmins Ontario, I had never lived anywhere in my life (that I could remember) except for Moose Factory.
Had I been going to live in India, or China, I might have expected different customs. But I was just going to Québec City. Other than the language barrier, how different could that be?
Very different, as it would turn out. (...)
For this post: http://coucoumelle.blogspot.com/2010/07/andrew-allen.html
A couple of months ago, a friend of mine shared this video on facebook:
I watched it, and I said to myself, "Self, here is a guy who can just write up a song like that on the fly, sing it with a big smile on his face, and it sounds good with nothing accompanying him but the guitar." And myself replied, "We have to check this guy out."
So we did. We checked out some songs on youtube, we joined the fan page on facebook, and from there, we found out about his website: http://www.andrewallenlive.com/fr_home.cfm (...)
... for another book that I am still working on Crashing Into Thin Air
Pain. That was the dominant sensation. Rays from the early morning sun angled directly into the woman’s grey-green eyes. It was sheer torture driving east at the start of the day with a raging headache.
The sunglasses barely helped. The two Tylenols and the extra-large coffee from Tim Horton’s had not kicked in yet either.
Then there was the other pain too, less physical, but just as strong. It felt like a black hole was eating her heart up from the inside out.
What had he been thinking? Why would he have done such a thing? Obviously, the man had gone downhill in the years since she had stopped seeing him regularly.
Squinting into the sunlight that seemed to send daggers straight into her head, the woman could see the exit for a gas station, just off the highway.
The woman tapped the brakes lightly and took the exit. She needed gas, and she wanted to make a phone call. (...)
and lastly, this children's book I wrote:
Every night when Nicolas went to bed, the dark came to visit him. It came to his window and stared at him through the drapes. Nicolas huddled under his blankets and did not move until his older brother Gabriel came in to bed. Then the dark left and Nicolas could sleep.
“The dark is going to eat me.” Nicolas told his biggest brother Alex.
Alex laughed. “There is no such thing as a dark.” He said.
But Nicolas knew there was a dark. He could hear it laughing outside to itself. He knew it was the dark because when it laughed it sounded like the branches of the great old maple tree creaking in the wind. (...)
So, I guess, depending on what I write, I have varying styles? That doesn't really surprise me. I suppose it's the same for pretty much everyone.