Author Archives: jtkwriting

About jtkwriting

Writer living in Toronto. "Sneak out of your window darling, let's live like outlaws honey."

The Writer’s Alphabet vol. 20; “T” is for Theatre


I love theatre because it is literally alive, and live, and living right in front of my eyes. Sure, shows are workshopped and previewed, rehearsed and remounted, but every time I step into a theatre, and every time the lights go down and the actors take their marks, it is the beginning of a new, unique show. Every performance is different, no matter how the cast, the stage manager, and the director try (or don’t) for consistency. Every single show will have a dropped line, a tech malfunction, an inflection, or an improved performance. These are just a few examples of things that make every performance unique, but I think the idea is clear. Live shows are performed by living human beings. Every night is different because every night people are different. This obviously excludes casting flips, and director’s notes, but those two things also contribute to how the performance I saw on a Thursday could be different from the performance you see on the Friday.

Further to the “living thing” point, I love theatre because until the next performance, there are no do-overs. There isn’t an editing bay to cut together filmed scenes. If someone messes up on or off-stage, that miscue is a part of the show. This is not a bad thing. In fact, I celebrate it because in the shows I’ve seen, missteps have led to some of the best comedic moments and showcased the talent of the actors and their ability to seamlessly recover without breaking character. Plus, most of the time the audience won’t even notice.

Continue reading


The Writer’s Alphabet vol. 19; “S” is for Suck


Everything sucks*.

*Note: For the purpose of this post, “suck” is defined as being bad, shitty, terrible, worst-thing-ever, oh-my-god-this-is-horrible.

Everything sucks, not all the time, but everything will suck, or may, at some point. This post probably sucks. Even after a couple rereads and edits, it might be terrible, but it’s Wednesday and I need to post a Writer’s Alphabet column otherwise I get major anxiety. So this festival of suck is what you (and I) get.

Everything will suck. Everything also won’t suck, but let’s focus on the more negative side and flip it into a positive. Here are 4 intro examples before I get to the writing example for your pain or pleasure: Continue reading

The Writer’s Alphabet vol. 18; “R” is for Repetition


I read a lot about writing. I probably read too much about writing and should spend more time writing, than reading about writing. That being said, one of the common bits of advice that repeatedly appears in what I read is that good writing comes down to repetition. This includes specific pieces, but also general processes. Another is to cut down on the use of the word “that”. I clearly need to reread those articles as I’m sure you noticed I used “that” FIVE TIMES in this paragraph. That being said, repetition is key to producing good written works and here is what I’ve come up with as supportive evidence: Continue reading

The Writer’s Alphabet vol. 17; “Q” is for Quitting


For two months earlier this year, I thought I had quit writing. I hadn’t written anything of significance and I couldn’t feel any ideas. I say feel ideas because if the writing doesn’t give me creative and literal goosebumps, I know I am not inspired to write it. I repeatedly read the adage commonly attributed to Picasso (“Inspiration exists, but it has to find you working.) Reading it was as far as I got. So I thought I had quit. I was wrong. Continue reading

Burn/I’m On Fire

“So kiss him again,
Just to prove to me that you can,
I will stand here and burn in my skin,” – from “Burn” by Ray LaMontagne (LaMontagne)

“Sometimes it’s like someone took a knife, baby, edgy and dull,
And cut a six-inch valley through the middle of my soul,” – from “I’m On Fire” by Bruce Springsteen (Springsteen)


As the summer days race toward their end, I am drawn back to the beginning of the season and the words I wrote about how I feel so lost from my friends. So lost I rode my motorcycle the 2500 miles from Los Angeles to Toronto and “screamed banshees” through our old neighbourhoods.

It has been a summer of reflection and trying to understand myself and my actions more or less over the last ten years. Those ten years include the inspiration for my TV show Astoria, and then the writing and five year run of the show itself. Before I give you the final stories and their life altering conclusions ever appropriately accompanied by Springsteen inspirational quotes, I want to revisit the scene from Season 1 of Astoria when I followed Erica to the departure area of Toronto’s Pearson Airport, and then followed myself home.

In case you forgot, the story went something like this:

From what Erica’s sister Nikki told me, Erica was on her way back to her fiancé Damo. At least that’s what I inferred from Nikki telling me that Erica was on her way to the airport. I didn’t wait around to hear the rest, if there was a rest to hear.

I got out of the cab bristling with nervous energy. The departure drop-off lanes at Pearson were their usual mess of cars swerving over each other. Every part of me had a layer of perspiration. I had no idea of the airline, so I entered the nearest doors and searched in every direction. I might have even stared at the ground in case somehow Erica found herself meshed with the cold tiles.

It was ridiculous to think that anything was going to happen with her and I. This, more or less, was what Omar yelled after me as I bolted for the door. Chris just said my name in an imploring lilt, and I believe Cynthia said something about being a dummy. All due respect to my friends but, fuck those guys. We finally – only took five years, five hundred conversations, and one awesome night on my couch – proved them wrong. Though the current state of Erica and I maybe proved them right.

I looked up and saw Erica standing with Damo not more than 100 feet away. He had a traveler’s backpack snug to his shoulders and she had nothing more than her purse hanging tight to her back. Her hands rested on his shoulders and his cupped her waist. I willed my feet to move but the neurons must have crossed the signals as I could nothing but stand rigid with unblinking eyes and I was drawn into the past. Continue reading

If It’s the Beaches

“Take whatever what you think of,
While I go gas up the truck,
Pack the old love letters up,
We will read them when we forget why we left here,”  – from “If It’s the Beaches” by The Avett Brothers (Avett, Avett)


In the waning minutes of the day, people mulled around outside the cabin sized bus terminal. The long shadows of dusk echoed the anticipation of goodbyes that weighed down their shoulders. It appeared no one was expecting an arrival that night, just a group waiting for the inevitable departures of loved ones.

They stood closer to the roadway away from the group. The slight breeze brushed across her bare shoulders and kept her cool on the humid July evening. She looked up at him. The wispy air played with the ends of his unwashed hair, but couldn’t seem to nudge it out of his eyes. When she did catch a peek of them, the whites were cracked with red, and the blue stared at her suitcase near her sandaled feet.

“Tomorrow, I shall no longer be here. Nostradamus,” she said.

“I should never have switched from scotch to martinis. Humphrey Bogart,” he said. Continue reading

White Line Fever

“And I took one last ride by your house, and saw you sitting there inside,
Thought about our love, and all those things, that seemed to make it die,
Well baby out of all them other girls, you’re still the best that I’ve ever seen,
But I just sit there idling, wondering when everything,
Got so fucked up, got so turned around,” – from “White Line Fever” by Blacklist Royals (Blacklist Royals)


Christian “Kimbo” Marshall wondered if anyone besides his band mates could tell a sort of death was near.

They had just hopped on the small but legendary stage at The Horseshoe for The Something’s Coming secret show. Fifteen years on, they were still Toronto’s favourite punk sons, whatever that meant anymore.

He strummed the guitar anchored around his thin and inked neck, and looked out at the rammed back room. Kimbo remembered being one of those kids, sweaty with anticipation at seeing a favourite band and ready to get wetter with the rest of the crowd.

From behind the drums, Ben yelled ‘ready’ and Yuriana – she preferred Yuri for short – and Max, the other members of The Something’s Coming, yelled ‘ya’. With the affirmation, Kimbo assaulted the strings with his thin pick and tore through the opening thrash of “Day Train”. While his mind should have been on those expectant faces in front of him and giving them “the best goddamned show they had ever seen”, as he was once quoted as saying, it was on the conversation he’d had with the three assholes facing his back.

“Are you fucking serious?” he yelled while he faced the living room wall of Ben’s Admiral Rd. mansion. His eyes shot to some snooty painting for fear he would lash out at anyone in his view. It wouldn’t be the first time they had physically confronted each other, but this time it was four against Kimbo and he knew his anger would only be met with solemn shakes of their heads.

“It just makes sense man. Like we’ve got other shit we want – ” Ben cut off with  a shake of Yuri’s head.

Kimbo turned when Ben stopped and looked at Yuri herself.

“Chris…it’s the last tour…that’s it. No discussion, no anything. Maybe in a few years we can pick it back up, but for now, we’re done,” she said.

Her words were calm, measured, and direct. They pierced Kimbo like needle sharp daggers, imperceptible at first, yet devastating when he realized how deep they had cut.

What the fuck am I supposed to do now? he thought.

He spread his arms wide and said, “What the fuck am I supposed to do now?”

Kimbo looked at each of Ben, Yuri, Max, and then at Roger the band’s manager. Their silence did little to sway him.

“Fuck. This!” he shouted, followed by stomping out of the room. Continue reading

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