I must admit that part of me ponders the implication of being called a little genius (does it mean I’m smart but not that smart, or does it mean the person who wrote it is physically huge and therefore considers me a tiny guy–albeit a smart tiny guy? Hmmm…)

Most of me, though, still cannot believe the high I get from knowing that someone, not only enjoyed my book, but also benefited from it in some way.
That’s a high money can never buy.

Notice that last sentence, the one that asks, “When is your next book coming out?”
While I do have one in the works, odds are that it won’t see the light of day for another 18-24 months.
Yeah, I know, I’m a slow novelist.

But it’s not only that.
It’s also that, right now, I’m incredibly busy at my day job, the one that sees me as an accountant who writes.
Lots of writing, teaching and consulting projects on the go, right now.

And, when I take a respite from all that, I’d really like to use that downtime to work on ze novel.
And so…
I feel I need to take a sabbatical from this blog.
For how long, I don’t know.

If you’d like to keep in touch, I will continue to update my other site, my business site.
The one over at dilauro.ca.
So maybe I’ll see you there.
Whether you migrate over or not, I’d like to thank each of you, from the bottom of my heart, for reading my ongoing ramblings, for buying my book and, especially, for taking the time to post comments here on this blog.

As I said, I will be posting here again one day.
In the meantime, thank you and Arrivederci.

Starting a business. Bankrupting a business. Selling a business.
I’ve had a hand in all of that.
Chasing VCs, appealing to lenders, debating tax audits.
A lot of it—most of it—was hard work.

Getting my accounting degree. That, too, was hard work. So hard that I still, too often, have nightmares over it.
My dream—no shit—is I get notified, there’s been a mistake, they want the diploma back!
My dream is, I’m one credit short and I have to take another class, write another exam.
Then I wake up in a sweat, my chest heaving; my heart beating out a drum roll.
Christ, I hate that dream.

But the hardest thing I’ve done? You know what that is?
If a university degree is a jog around the block, if managing a business is a marathon, then this thing—this other thing—is like running through the eternal fires of hell.

So, what is this other, all too infernal, thing?
Writing a novel, that’s what.
Writing a novel is like opening your soul, revealing your fears and exposing your most secret embarrassment. Writing a novel is like being seventeen again and asking the prettiest girl at the prom to dance with you. It’s like setting yourself up so that everyone can point and stare. And then laugh at you.
Writing a novel is like disabling your shields, while Klingon warships lurk about. And you’ve got no cloaking device either.

Writing a novel makes my head explode. Writing a novel, I’m left imagining that soon—very soon—there’ll be nothing left. When I’m writing, I can picture every braincell burning up, dying before its time. I picture all that grey matter shrivelling up, drying up, leaving my head vacant—a vacuous, empty space. And leaving me crying, please, no more. I don’t want to do this anymore. Please! I’ll do anything, rub my face against sandpaper, crash my car into a building, watch an episode of Glee. Please! Anything so long as I don’t have to go back and work on this novel anymore.

Writing a novel is hard. And that’s before I start piling on all the other crap. The self-doubt, the self-recrimination. The little voice inside my head that keeps admonishing me, Why are you wasting your time with this? This is stupid. Close Scrivener, for crissake, and do something fun, like a tax return or something.

Then there’s all of that having to deal with other people. People I’d love to talk to, but who won’t give me the time of day—the booksellers, the reviewers and the press. And people I don’t want to talk to. Those people—the friends, family and colleagues. The ones who, for example, return a wry smile when I tell them I’m writing a novel. The ones who leave me wondering Are their eyes rolling? Are they laughing at me? Maybe they’re onto something. Maybe they know I’m no writer. Maybe they’re right, maybe I’m not a writer. Am I a writer?  Am I a fake? Am I getting paranoid? How the fuck do I know? I bloody well used up all my braincells! I can’t even think anymore. Why? Why? Why? Why the fuck am I writing another novel? Oh for crissake, my head hurts. Man, I need to take it easy. Do something else, something fun. Like add up a column of numbers, or prepare consolidated financial statements. Yeah. That’s better, that’s way easier.

You know what I love? Sometimes, when I’m writing, you know what I love?
I love for telemarketers to call. Interrupt me.
When that happens, and when I’m in the mood, they get it—both barrels—verbal buckshot.
All that frustration, that self-doubt, that concern over dying braincells. It all pours out. That little voice inside my head? It gets louder, hostile even. And it gets directed at them. You little shit! Can’t you tell I’m busy? No, I don’t want pet insurance. No, I don’t care if I won a free alligator and a condo in Bora Bora!  No, I don’t need a twelfth credit card. Now go away you slimy, sorry, tree-dwelling primate. Go away and lay your slimy primate ass across two lanes of autostrada traffic.

And, if the above explains the hothead I can be. It also reveals the liar I am.
Because the truth is, I’m never aggressive with telemarketers. Though I’d like to be.
Because the truth is, a telemarketer just called, while I was writing this, and after politely telling her I didn’t need an extended warranty for my Rambler, I couldn’t help imagining how good it would have felt to tell her—uh—all that stuff I wrote up there.

OK back to this novel thing…
Why tell you this?
Why spill my guts—like some hapless drunk to a heard-it-all-before barkeep?
Because, as it turns out, I’m writing another novel—yes, a second one.
Why, you might ask, after such self-inflicted torture, would I bother with another novel?
The answer is simple.
The answer is, even if it’s hard work (the hardest work I’ve ever suffered through), writing remains, paradoxically, the most fun I’ve ever had (with a computer keyboard, of course).
The truth is, many mornings, writing my first book, I’d jump out of bed and run to my computer, so eager was I to get back at it.
The truth is, some days—riding my bike, sitting in traffic, chatting over a coffee—an idea would hit, a great idea. Something, say, about my protagonist. Some clever thing my protagonist just told me.
Because sometimes, when the flow’s, er, flowing, that’s exactly how it feels. It’s like my characters are fully-formed, and talking—telling me important shit.

But that’s not happening to me right now. Not yet anyway. My characters are still, like Frankenstein’s monster, lying on a gurney, getting their act—and their psychological and physical components—together. They haven’t come to life yet.
It’s early days you see. I’m just a few chapters in.
And—for me—these are delicate times.
The characters are only now making themselves known—their strengths, their foibles, their secrets.
At this point, scenes and back-stories, events and plots are almost lava-like. They’re bubbling and cooling. Oozing and solidifying.
And because—for me—these are delicate times, because I’m amortizing grey matter and braincells at an alarming rate, I’m not sure I’ll have any left over for this blog. At least not for the next few weeks.

What I’m saying is… my presence here might be sporadic.
Or it might not.
The truth is, I don’t know.
The truth is, I want to put a dent in this new writing project. I want to develop the characters, bring ‘em to life. I want to, you know, super-size them.
Plus. I need to develop the story, bring that to life. I need to work on scenes, backstories, relationships. I need to set the whole thing too. Like, what city? Where does it all happen?.
Right now I’m thinking, hmmm, maybe Montreal. Or Ottawa, even. Not Toronto though, that’s for sure. Hey! What about New York? Just about every great (and not so great) novel is set in New York. Salinger’s people—his characters—lived there, for crissake.

So, what it means is, on the writing front, this new novel jumps to the front of the queue (Christ, I can’t believe I wrote queue without having to look it up. I mean, how often do you use that word, queue?).

OK, your turn. Is writing hard? Would you rather rub sandpaper against your face? Would you rather talk to a telemarketer? Tell me about. Tell me I’m not alone. Please!

And now, about a year—bang-on—since the novel’s release, I can tell you that I’ve earned an education of a different kind.

Here, then, are ten things I learned about being a novelist
1. Creative writing is fun
2. Promotion, not so much
3. All moms love what their novelist offspring write
4. Other than other writers (and moms) most don’t give a crap that you’ve written a novel
5. If extrapolated into an hourly wage, my book’s earnings would leave me below the poverty level even in a developing country
6. I’m intrigued by (and—if I’m honest—envious of) those debut novelists who break out big
7. If I were my own accountant, I’d counsel my client to forget about this novelist thing—there’s simply no money in it
8. I don’t listen to accountants
9. It continues to thrill me when someone tells me they enjoyed my book
10. Though it’s tempting to give up, every day I remind myself of this…

Ever tried. Ever failed.
No matter. Try again.
Fail again. Fail better.
(Samuel Beckett)

What about you writers out there. What did your first book teach you?

Don’t panic! Because here are some gift-giving ideas centered around a theme—a simple premise. One that goes like this…
Rather than banking on an almost-impossible hope of satisfying that person-who-has-everything, why not think differently and do something that will benefit some other real-life person? A total stranger, perhaps. Or maybe a neighbour.
Here’s what I mean.
Gimme Shelter
Forget the necktie. Your old uncle Arthur—I’m willing to bet—has enough bloody ties. Instead of browsing in Menswear, head across the mall to where the supermarket is. Now fill the cart with fruit, veggies, non-perishables and, of course, a turkey and truck it all down to your local food shelter. Then give uncle Arty a card explaining that your great and good deed was offered up in his great and good name.
Or, if you want to go basic, just take the coin you were going to drop on a paisley bow-tie and donate it to a needy organization. Make sure the receipt’s in your uncle’s name, and give that to him—with a flowery thank-you on Christmas morn.
Homeless shelters, centres for the abused and, especially at this time a year, food banks need all the support you can muster. So go ahead. Eschew the tie; make the donation. I bet it’ll warm uncle Arthur’s heart much more  than you could have ever predicted. Besides, who wears ties nowadays?

Make it Personal
In a similar vein, there is almost definitely a family on your street, or in your kids’ school, that is down on their luck. You know what I mean right? There’s someone you know—or someone you know about—that lost their job, that’s recovering (or waiting for) surgery, or that’s suffered a hardship that couldn’t have come at a worse time of year.
Help them out. Buy toys for their children, or buy a turkey for their Christmas dinner, then gift-wrap it and deliver it to their door. Then tell that difficult person-who-has-everything, via a card, about the heartfelt gesture you performed in their name. That deed will make you feel good, will warm the hearts of a needy family and it should make the person-who-has-everything happy too. Talk about win-win-win.

Go Indie
Do you know how many independent writers there are? Tons, that’s how many, tons.
And, contrary to popular belief, many—if not most—are fine writers. Brilliant even. In the last few months alone, I’ve read works by Gregory Mose, Daniel Clausen and Leo Babauta. And I’ve enjoyed every page of their books.
For next year I’ve already teed-up books by indie writers like Alex Carrick, Frank E Mundo, Daniel Clausen (yes, him again, what can I say? I’m a big fan), Donna Carrick and Moriah Jovan.
Now here’s the thing. Writers—of all colours, of all stripes and of all corners of the world—love nothing more than to be read. That, of course, is why they write.
So go ahead. Buy a book by an Indie writer (any of the above is a good bet). With luck you might even be able to have it signed and addressed to uncle Arthur. If nothing else, you will have a compelling, first-person account to go along with that original gift.

Get Even More Indie Mood
You know that the word “indie” covers more than independent writers? Of course you know that.
You’ll find Indie artists in the performing arts, the visual arts and the recording arts. Here are just a few I’ve gotten to know, I’m getting to know or I’m hoping to know;  Mike Dickson,  Heike Matthiesen,  Peter Hum,  Trey Ratcliff,  Nancy Kenny, Christopher Davis.
So why not browse the web for your local art scene? Or, (if you trust my taste) seek out one of the aforementioned artists and buy a ticket to their show, buy their CD or one of their prints, buy a music or art lesson, or just arrange for a photo shoot. Think of it. You’ll be helping out an independent artist and you will, almost definitely, have the most original gift under the tree.

There you have it, just a few suggestions for a Christmas gift that goes further than just being given. It’s a gift that will make someone’s day. I guarantee it.

How about you? Do you have a gift idea that, in addition to benefiting the recipient, also helps out someone else? Let me know by leaving a comment.