The Puck Has Dropped

Three forwards and two defensemen (and women) faced off with a poetry contest to celebrate the Amazon release of Bad Ice: Bernard, Michelle, Precie, Kerri and Wordtryst.

My trusty assistant Cujo picked the winner from my Maple Leafs beer cozy because the linesman tripped over the blue line. And the winner is...

...Kerri!

See? You visited a new writer site and won something! It's that easy. Please email me through my profile with your physical address and I'll send you an autographed copy of Bad Ice. I hope you enjoy it.

I think I'll print off these cool poems and frame them for my writing room (when I get one). Thank you everyone for participating. It was a lovely diversion.

Hat Trick Poetry Contest

The first goal was the e-release of Bad Ice. The second goal was the print release on the Champagne Books site. Now it's my Hat Trick, my Amazon release. It seems a few kind souls have bought a copy already because it has a ranking. Thanks, and enjoy!

If you've already enjoyed the book, please toss in a little review. It can only help!

To celebrate the Amazon print release, I'm holding a little hockey theme contest. Don't worry -- you non-hockey types will have a shot. All you have to do is write a short poem using the following words:

Puck
Ice
Pond
Stick

It doesn't have to be a GOOD poem, but try to entertain the other posters. I'll take each poem and put it in a hockey helmet. We have several in the house. My assistant (whoever I can recruit) will draw the winner out of the helmet on Saturday, November 15th during CBC's Hockey Night in Canada.

The winner will receive an autographed copy of Bad Ice.

(Once again, I extend infinite thanks to those who expressed their support during a difficult time. I appreciate every message and love you all.)

Thank You

I am overcome by the generous outpouring of sympathy from you, my old and new friends. The last few weeks have been both surreal and all too real.

The authorities believe Brandon climbed a tree for the night because wolves and coyotes are prevalent in the area. He may have fallen asleep or simply fell. Chest injuries from the fall seemed to have caused his death. It was probably the first night he went missing.

The funeral is set for next Friday.

Sigh.

In other news, Bad Ice is now on Amazon. Just thought I'd let you know.

Thank you, thank you, thank you.

Now We Know

I came back from lunch and everyone stared at me. The phone rang. It was my husband. He asked if I had seen the news - Macleans magazine in particular. I had just picked up a copy because there was an article about Brandon. He said, "No, the website." He told me hunters found a body they believed to be that of my nephew Brandon Crisp.

Mary drove me home from work, and Mark's co-workers drove him home. Mary and I caught my son Andrew walking home, and we quickly picked him up and brought him home.

I have to drive to Oakville to get my daughter in college. Then we'll go to Barrie to be with Brandon's parents.

That's all I can say for now. I'll update you later.

Thanks again for all your support. I truly love you all.

Words Fail Me...

... but I'm going to try anyway.

Since my nephew Brandon went missing, our family has been in the center of a whirlwind of shock, concern, dismay, media attention and controversy. It's not over by a long shot -- Brandon's parents will continue to push for an investigation of Brandon's online activities. They are convinced he is holed up somewhere, being told he's a "Pinball Wizard." Maybe his captors are telling him his parents hate him, don't want to talk to him. Maybe he wants to contact home, but he can't.

I refuse to believe he's hurt, abused or lying in a ditch somewhere. My mind cannot process that. I hold the same hope that authorities will flush out the people who lured him away with promises of money and status.

Old friends and new have dropped by to offer condolences, hope and prayers. I can't begin to express my gratitude.

In the meantime, I must tear myself away from obsessing over every breaking story. (Some online discussions infuriate me and I wish I could reach out through cyberspace and slap some of those people upside the head. They don't know this family. I do.)

Although I feel I'm in a holding pattern, I must go on with my life. I feel like I'm not allowed to laugh at a joke or smile at my colleagues. It feels strange.

This is a writing blog. I have to get back to the task at hand. While I pursue my latest career, a piece of myself will still hold vigil for Brandon. Until he is found, he will always be on my mind.

If I receive any breaking news, I will be sure to tell you right away.

Now, I'll try to change the subject...

Ravenous Romance has offered me a contract for The Toast Bitches. Those bitches (the characters, not the publisher) have been roaming around in my head for a long time, and it's time to unleash them on the world. I'll be busy cranking out a hot, sexy manuscript.

Sheesh. Wish me luck.

A Missing Boy

My husband and I drove north and exited Highway 11 to join the searchers that were organized at a park on Ridge Road and Line 8. As we proceeded along Ridge Road, we noticed the Oro-Medonte walking trail cross the road several times. We also notice five or six groups of volunteers along the roadside, poking through the patches of long dried grass for signs of Brandon.

We overshot the sideroad and turned around. Just north of Ridge Road on Line 8, we found Burl's Creek Family Event Park, where volunteers gathered to find my nephew, Brandon Crisp.

Tents were set up, and several school buses were parked alongside over a hundred cars and vans. We searched and found Anna and Steve almost immediately. Steve was talking to a news photographer, so we approached Anna and each gave her a big hug. Their daughter Natasha stood nearby, her face pinched with old and new tears. I wrapped my arms around her.

The volunteers were incredible. Yellow school buses sent loads of searchers to designated groups along the regional roads and trails, dropping them off with an experienced searcher. Many members of the search groups worked for Metroland, the media group that employs Brandon's mom and myself. They were so positive and supportive.

A man with a grey beard and a Tilley-type hat stood near one of the buses. He was introduced to Angelika and I as Terry Grant, the host of a show called Man Tracker. He is based in western Canada with a show that features tracking human competitors through rough terrain.

He had flown here to offer his support, and was very kind. Wow.

As he talked to us, a camera appeared and a fluffy boom mike hovered above our heads. I hope I didn't say anything to embarrass my kids.

Later, we went to Brandon's parents' house to regroup. A local restaurant delivered a lovely spread - wings, salad, cheese and crackers. We all stood around the kitchen island, discussing the various possibilities in the ongoing investigation.

I thank everyone for their incredible support and good wishes. I hope we wake up from this nightmare soon.

We Interrupt Our Regular Blogging...

I don't normally use this blog for personal concerns, but this time I feel it's necessary to get the word out to as many people as possible.

My 15-year-old nephew Brandon Crisp has been missing for a week. On Thanksgiving Monday he had an argument with his parents over his obsessive on-line video game use, and his parents took away his X-Box.

As a result, he took off from his home in northeast Barrie, Ontario. He hasn't been seen since. I found out about this late Friday night, and have since kept in contact with his parents during this ordeal.

A flyer campaign last week brought no leads, so the media stepped in. After a few online news reports from The Star and our Metroland papers, local television stations asked for help this weekend.

His bicycle was seen mid-week at the side of a walking trail north of Barrie, but wasn't reported until after it was taken by unknown parties. There was a ground and air search in the rural area northeast of the city yesterday (Sunday) and several unconfirmed sightings.

My sister in law phoned this morning to tell us the Barrie police are now treating this as an abduction.

If anyone in the Barrie area sees their kid with a Huffy yellow and black mountain bike, call Barrie police. If they see anyone acting suspiciously, call police. If your kid is taking extra dinner to his room, investigate.

Here's the latest online news report.

For those who can't directly help, a few prayers would be nice.

Edited to add: According to news reports, authorities still don't suspect foul play, but they're concerned about his safety, considering the cold nights in the past week.

I can't seem to post a comment this morning, so I'll edit my post:

Anyway, I was saying to anon, that would be awesome if you volunteer. The police aren't allowing civilian searches at the moment, but anyone with a cottage in the area should check their attics and such.

The fact that a witness saw him walking the trail after he ditched the bike gives me assurance that he wasn't picked up by someone with a car.

Still in a holding pattern...

Typing furiously

I pitched my idea for The Toast Bitches (love that title - you can't have it) to an e-pub and they want to see a manuscript. Problem is, I haven't written it yet. D'ya think I can knock off three chapters in a week?

Same pub, different work - I recently signed a contract with them for my short story If The Shoe Fits, which will appear in their upcoming anthology, Sex and Shoes (December). I'll provide details when it's up on their website.

Do-Over

When I was eight or nine years old, I gazed at the blue sky through a high window in my bedroom and wished I could fly through that window and end up a couple of years in the past. I wished fervently that I could have done things differently, already knowing my future in a life that was so brief, yet seemed so long at the time.

I don't know what triggered such a need to be elsewhere, or elsewhen. Perhaps I was mad at my parents for uprooting me again. Maybe I lacked friends at the time. All I knew was that I wanted to try again, maybe to speak to that boy I liked, or to stand up for myself in a schoolyard altercation.

Now that I'm older and only slightly wiser, I look back at the vast expanse of years in my past, and realize I'm just past the halfway point of what I hope will be an optimistically distant future. Would I have done things differently if I knew where I was today? Whatever decisions I made in the past, I think I'd be as happy as I am today. Maybe not the same kind of happy, but still happy.

Would you have done things differently if given a do-over? Are we hard wired to be the people we are today, or does fate deal a different hand with each shuffle of the cards?

Life's Too Short

I got this in my Fortune Cookie today. I'm going to get it laminated. Maybe make a keyring or something. Nothing like positive thoughts to keep me going.

As an avid listener, I find myself on the receiving end of a lot of complaining - at work, at home, even at the grocery store. Maybe I have a sympathetic face, who knows? People complain about lack of communication, but don't bother to tell management that their computer isn't working. They complain about not being included in corporate events, but don't attend the annual Christmas Party.

They complain the house is a dump, but don't mow the lawn for weeks at a time. If their hair is curly, they want it straight. If it's straight, they want it curly. They're too skinny, too fat, too hot, too cold.

Some people make a living at complaining. They jab at their partners, parents and children with sharp-witted and humorous glee on television, movies and on the stage. Stand up comedy would be nowhere without complaining.

Don't get me wrong - it's okay to bitch once in a while, but when it starts to sound like a broken record, maybe complainers need to take a step back and look at their lives. Even when life seems like it's shitting on them at every turn, they don't realize how precious it is.

Perhaps they have spouses and children who love them. Even if they aren't rich and famous, they have the company of friends who see beyond the negativity and give them the support they need.

Writer Patry Francis , who often has every right to complain, quoted Woody Allen:

"Life is divided up into the horrible and the miserable. The horrible would be terminal cases, blind people, cripples. The miserable is everyone else. When you go through life you should be thankful that you're miserable."

My little cousin Austin fought a courageous battle with cancer for five years, finally succumbing at the tender age of eight. Every step of the way he laughed, played and came up with marvelous insights about life, death, friends, Heaven and Pokémon. Even as he was wheeled through the parking lot on a gurney while being transported by ambulance from one hospital to another, he asked the paramedic to stop so he could catch the raindrops on his tongue.

When you are inclined to complain, stop and think about your Fortune.

What is your Fortune? Is it money? Fame? Contentment? Family? A spectacular sunset? Tell me.

Fan Girl

It's that time again.

Yes, you heard me. Hockey time. It's only pre-season, but tonight our local sports channel is airing the first Leaf game of the 2008-2009 season.

Every year, the diehards exclaim, "Maybe this will be the year."

Every season, we're disappointed. As the summer wears on and fall approaches, our hope springs forth once again. We're such positive thinkers!

Curtis Joseph, a local boy, first joined the Leafs in 1998, after a stellar stint in Edmonton. He stood on his head year after year to keep the pucks out of the net and earned the adoration of the usually critical Toronto fans. Later, he moved on, and now he has returned as the backup goalie. His nickname is Cujo.

A couple of years ago I saw him in the craft store at the local mall browsing with his wife and daughter. I quickly scanned my brain to come up with a suitable opening line.

I had one. I approached and said, "Funny you should be here when I'm looking for a clock mechanism for my Toronto Maple Leaf Goalie Clock." (I was, really!)

He smiled and said, "Too bad you didn't bring the clock. I could have signed it."

I fished around in my purse for a scrap of paper for him to sign, and I found one of my pet portrait business cards with stuff scribbled on the back. "All I have is my card, and it's got stuff on it."

I handed it to him. He looked at the card and said, "Oh, you paint dogs?"

"And horses," I said. He has horses. Yes, I'm a pathetic hockey fangirl. "You can keep the card." Hey, why not drum up business?

He handed the card to his daughter. "Here you go." Damn, she's gonna lose it.

His wife stood nearby, looking slightly annoyed. Afterward, I felt awful for not saying hello to her. She must get that fangirl stuff all the time.

I asked the lady at the counter for a piece of paper, and Curtis gave me a nice autograph for my son.

Wouldn't it be cool if I got a current or former NHLer to read Bad Ice? That would be a blurb to beat all blurbs. I sent an email to Cujo through the Leafs site offering a free book, but no answer. Well, it's worth a try!

When I'm famous, perhaps Cujo will dig up my card and think, "Hey, I have Sandra Cormier's business card! I wonder what it'll get me on EBay?"

Tea for Eighty

Yesterday I attended a Victorian tea party, part of a fundraiser for a church in Bradford, a neighbouring town. After I crawled around the house looking for two matching black shoes and squeezed into the only dress that still semi fits, I picked up my neighbour Carol and her friend Rosemary.

They had an art sale, with paintings arranged along the pews. Lovely stuff! A big room at the back of the church was filled with ladies of all ages at tables that seated six. Tiered trays were placed at the centre of each table, adorned with little sandwiches and cakes and scones and tea and coffee. Alas, no sherry.

There was a contest for Best Hat, but all I had were cowboy hats and baseball caps. Some of the ladies really worked hard to make their lids attractive. A woman in the corner made hers by hand with satin, pearls and ostrich feathers in the back. It was lovely.

Another lady in her nineties decked out her mother's jewel green wide-brimmed straw hat with flowers from her garden. She even visited the field behind her house and snagged a few clovers to complete the look.

One lady had a red hat with a cardinal perched on the top. A fake one, not a real one.

After the awards were handed out for Best Hat, a woman arrived late - decked out in a wide brimmed hat, white elbow length gloves and a parasol. She was obviously wearing a corset because her décolletage almost grazed her chin.

Her friend at a neighbouring table asked if they could sit with us since there were two chairs free. Victorian Lady sat down and announced she was a writer. Everyone at the table pointed at me. "She's a writer, too."

Our new guest told us she writes for Red Sage under the name Chevon Gael. She's a lively, exuberant lady who's been writing for many years with several novels under her belt. We immediately exchanged cards and passed around to the rest of the table, too. I fully intend to pick her brain for tips on giving readings and signings in our area.

Her friend is a librarian. She graciously listened without interruption while Chevon and I babbled enthusiastically about the e-publishing world. It's refreshing to be able to talk about writing without the listener's eyes glazing over.

I had a great time. In two weeks Carol and I embark on another adventure, all the way to the foot of our street to attend a fund raiser for our local hospital.