New Fiction

Two serial fiction projects appear together on this page, most recent posts first. The Wilde Room chronicles the life of Chef Jeremy Papier, 10 years after the events of the novel Stanley Park. The Wacky Pack Stories is the imaginary memoire of a kid growing up in West Vancouver in the 1970s.

They're Everywhere


Holy stickers Batman. These things have hit Toronto, New York, Halifax... everywhere.

Now they've reportedly crossed the pond. They're going up in the UK now.

Move over Banksy. Or whatever. I have no idea what this means.

Posted: Thursday, Jan. 19, 2012 9:47am

Timothy Taylor to open the Bowen Island Writers Festival

I used to go for church picnics on Bowen Island when I was a kid growing up in Whytecliff / Horseshoe Bay. Great to be going back.

From the Write on Bowen Blog

Award-winning and bestselling writer Timothy Taylor is the first author out of the starting gate for the next annual Write on Bowen festival.

Taylor, author of Stanley Park, Silent Cruise and Story House, will open the Write On Bowen festival on Friday, July 8 along with another key presenter. He will also host a two-hour workshop on Saturday, July 9.

Taylor’s new novel The Blue Light Project tracks three days in the life of a North American city gripped by a hostage taking in a television studio. It’s due to published in the spring of 2011.

To read more about Taylor, visit Quill & Quire’s piece Habits of a Highly Effective Writer. More details about the festival to come.


Posted: Tuesday, Dec. 14, 2010 8:43am

The Wilde Room: Chapter 5

Cillian Foley greeting Jeremy at the door to his den, after Jeremy had been shown down a labyrinth of halls by the Foley house manager. Martine’s father, it was clear even before Jeremy arrived, had serious matters in mind. That much Jeremy gleaned from Martine’s manner in setting up the meeting up in the first place. A seemingly spontaneous idea, although Jeremy realized it had been much more deeply considered. In this case, she’d woken up that morning after the news of Jeremy’s father’s death, and the idea of a summit meeting between the chef and his lords was fully planned in her mind, something necessary before he left and dealt with things back in Canada. But as soon as she said it, her head leaned in close to him, her morning smell reaching him – fabric softener, peppermint, organic fair trade medium roasted Columbian beans – Jeremy knew the idea had gone to sleep with her and taken shape, her mind gently at work as her slender hands lay weightless on the light blue sheets.
Posted: Thursday, Mar. 25, 2010 9:46am

The Wilde Room: Chapter 4

Shrewsbury Road
Ollie called Monday of the following week. Jeremy’s oldest friend in the world had turned his own life upside down since those long ago Vancouver days. Sold his company and started the fund. Let his marriage dissolve. Relapsed hard into booze as best Jeremy could make out. Now, among all those many other things, Ollie seemed unable to phone at anything other than a bad time. Ollie thought of Jeremy whenever there was no deal left to be done, or no guests left awake. He called whenever the action had temporarily subsided wherever he happened to be, and these were always straining, in-between times.
Posted: Thursday, Feb. 25, 2010 11:05am

The Wilde Room: Chapter 3

The Signature Dish
In the preceding chapters:
Just before service in Chef Jeremy’s Dublin restaurant The Wilde Room, he gets a phone call. It’s Dante, a former business partner, calling from Jeremy’s long-ago hometown of Vancouver. Sad news about Jeremy’s father. The man everyone knew as “the Professor”, with whom Jeremy had difficulties over the years, has died. Cardiac arrest apparently, althogh Jeremy wonders. During service, Jeremy drifts on memories of his father, old friends, and the life left behind. And as if sensing Jeremy doing so, that old life then breathes again, from very close.
Dante signed off with kind words. He said: “We need you here. Your family needs you here.”
Jeremy said: “What family?”
And Dante didn’t come back with anything maudlin or inappropriate. He didn’t proclaim himself to be a surrogate father, or any of the stupid things Jeremy remembered him being very good at saying in difficult moments. He didn’t mention their brief joint effort, the upscale Gerriamos, which Dante had sponsored and which Jeremy had nearly destroyed. Dante didn’t say: Jeremy we became like family that night you cooked for me and a few hundred of my closest friends and produced a meal made with wildlife harvested from Stanley Park just to make your point about whatever the fuck it is you were making your point about.
Posted: Wednesday, Feb. 3, 2010 12:57pm

Wacky Pack Stories: Hostile Thinkies

My best friend's name was Sten, as in Stendhal. As in Stendhal Beauregard-Vincent, his father having been important at one point in France. Then he (Sten's father) had decided to grow a beard, become a boat designer and move to West Van. He designed sailboats for quite a few famous people, including the catamaran that song writer was later found dead in, floating off Passage Island. The one the ferry hit. (That was the same guy who wrote the song Michael Jackson recorded. I can never remember the name, but the tune stays with me. Ba ba, baaa.. etc)

Sten and I, in school and around our street, were known as the Hostile Thinkies. I have theories where the name came from, but no real solid proof. It was from my brothers probably.

Posted: Friday, Jan. 22, 2010 9:36am

Wacky Pack Stories: Kentucky Fried Fingers

It's 1972. It's West Vancouver. It's Gleneagles Elementary school and nothing matters more than Wacky Packs. The coolest kids have them. Your tomboy pal Carrie has them. So you buy gum just to get them. And you put them on your binders, your desk, your lunch box. Your parents hate them.

That part is key. Your parents hate Wacky Packs.

Posted: Friday, Jan. 15, 2010 10:17am

The Wilde Room: Chapter 2

Smells and Bells
It was Dante who’d found the Professor’s body. Jeremy thought: of course. That strange friendship between his former boss and his father having forged hard after Jeremy fled his hometown. His two great would-be teachers seemed to have watched his flight leave together. Jeremy imagined them sitting in that little park at the end of the runway where the airplane nerds hung out. And after the howl of the engines had passed overhead, well, there seemed to be nothing left between them. They started playing chess weekly, as if the young man (young then) had been the very board they’d previously contested. He was gone. They needed a different board.
Posted: Monday, Jan. 4, 2010 9:11am

The Wilde Room: Chapter 1

The Wilde Room 
When the Professor died, it was Dante who called. Jeremy picked up, standing in the alcove next to the reservation desk at The Wilde Room. And there he heard the voice of his long-ago mentor, tormentor, once-friend. He stood, watching his house manager Martine through the front window of the restaurant. Beautiful Martine, clipping the fresh sheet into the menu display on the black railing on the street, the green wall of St. Stephens Green rising opposite. High and scattered cloud. A nice April day in Dublin and booked to the rafters. And here came the long ago. The dreaded. The not-quite put behind.
Dante said: “You remember this voice?”
Posted: Wednesday, Dec. 16, 2009 12:49pm
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