Looking back, it had to be a good friend of mine, the late
Stewart MacLeod, a writer, who’s kids got me started on
what would become an extension of my work.
I’d visit him whenever I found myself in Ottawa, our
nation’s capital.
The kids wouldn’t let me out of the house without
telling them stories they insisted I make up on the spot.
It wasn’t until I came home to Woodbridge from
working in Montreal much later when my nephews and niece, David,
Michael, Matthew and Belinda --– all grown-up now -- insisted
I tell them bedtime stories. With a twist!
They’d give me the plot and I had to make up stories based
on their ideas.
I’d sit with them in pyjamas and away I’d go. I’d be scolded
by their parents if I kept them up well past their bedtimes.
Author’s comment: These had to be good with definitive
plotlines: beginnings that caught their imaginations. A middle
keeping the plot moving and endings they never expected.
Why I never wrote them down at the time, I’ll never know.