Sometimes being a writer doesn't involve writing...

What a strange week for this writer.

I have gotten absolutely nothing done on my own writing projects and yet, when I look back, the week was filled with writing.

First, a colleague at work approached me to ask if I could read over and provide suggestions on a narrative children's poem she's been working on with her mom. The goal is to find an illustrator and get the poem published as a book.

Neat idea. And, because I really like this colleague and appreciate her sometimes warped sense of humour, I'm quite excited to give this poem a read. I'm hoping it crackles with the author's joyful nuttiness. If it does, it's sure to be a winner.

But that's a big "if". I've met a lot of wannabe writers who tell a great tale when you're sitting around with a drink in your hand but then, when they try to put it down on the printed page, the story loses something. A lot of things, in fact.

There is something about the act of writing that makes most people incredibly self-conscious. The verve, the colour they bring to the spoken word can often get lost in the translation to the page. I hate seeing that.

And I don't think it's restricted just to creative writing. I don't know how many times I've been handed a work-related document to review only to find that it makes absolutely no sense.

So I go to the writer and I say, "Tell me verbally: what are you trying to say here?"

And they sit back, think for a moment, then rhyme off a perfect, concise, often artfully phrased explanation of what they intended to write in the document.

"Okay, go back and type exactly what you just said," I tell them. "Don't even think about the act of writing: just type it exactly as you spoke it out loud."

"But... but...."

"We can clean it up later. Just go and type it."

Works almost every time.

Of course, my colleague in this case has written a poem -- a children's poem -- so that might be even more difficult. We'll have to see.

Second (you forgot there was more than one element to this, didn't you?), I dropped by a charity book sale at the local mall yesterday and found, much to my surprise, not one but two books by people I know.

Wade Hemsworth is an old and dear friend who used to work in newspapers. His Killing Time is an exceptionally good true crime book about a murder that took place 20 years ago in Ontario. I think it was the first time anyone I knew got a book published by a real publishing house.

The book sale offered a copy of Killing Time that had once been a part of the collection of a public library out here on Canada's east coast. Weird. And cool. I'm pleased to report the book was in pretty battered condition, meaning it had been read often while at the library. I'll have to report that to Wade.

And then I found, at that same sale, a paperback copy of Cathy Vasas-Brown's crime thriller Every Wickedness. I first met Cathy after she had written and published this novel with a major American house when, for some reason I still don't understand, she decided to enroll as a student in a mystery writing course I was teaching in Hamilton.

I have to admit, it was weird for me to be teaching a class on writing to a person who had already achieved the ultimate in the business but it turned out to be a fun experience.

And finally, to round out my writing week, I was contacted by a member of my family who also happens to be a judge. He wants me to review and edit an article he's written that will be published in a book next year.

How cool is that? This man is one of the smartest, and best, people I know and he's an absolute expert in his field. I have no doubt that the article will be both interesting and enjoyable. Whethere I can contribute anything of value is yet to be seen, however.

Not a bad week, I must say, even if I accomplished nothing with regard to my own writing projects.