As many of you know, I grew up in the same part of Ottawa as Canadian Prime Minister and Rolling Stone Cover Boy, Justin Trudeau.

Although I was a few years older, our paths still crossed many times, and even if we’re far from good friends, we have an amicable, nodding relationship that has well positioned me to assist him and the Liberal party in the creation of a series of Justin Trudeau romance novellas.

What follows are excerpts from some of the books:

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Book Title: Never The Same Way Twice

His fame and internationally renowned good-looks made it hard for Justin to live the simple life he so often craved. Sure, he got a lot of satisfaction from being the most influential man on the planet, photobombing wedding shots and ministering to refugees, but what he really missed was just rocking out at concerts like an average Canadian, an average Canadian who was lucky to live in the second best country in the world, according to U.S. News & World Report.

But tonight, tonight Justin was going to let the world save itself.

Disguised as a relatively plain Canadian– but for his fantastically lithe and toned body– Justin was going to let loose at the big Blue Rodeo concert.

It had been a long time since he’d rock n’ rolled.

It’s funny how two lives might entwine, and little did Blue Rodeo super fan Brenna Macdonald know, as she took the number 95 OC Transpo bus in from Orleans to catch the show, that her life was about to be forever altered.

Book Title: A Song Of Ice And Fire And Good Governance

Sansa’s heart was racing, galloping so hard that she was sure he must hear it. He took her chin in his hands, his hands made so strong by all the beautiful planks he regularly executed, and raised her lips toward his. At that moment he ceased to be Justin Trudeau, the widower Prime Minister of Canada, the lost Parliamentary Democracy of Westeros and only hope in the battle against the White Walkers, the White Walkers who had taken his bride, and he became something else. He became a vessel of passion.

“Je veux faire un amour doux mais ferme envers vous, ma reine,” he said to her in his mystical language, as he pulled her to him.

She could feel his manhood pressing against her, his lips now so passionately, so respectfully, on hers, and her release was so great that Sansa felt as if she was marble melting under the light.

Book Title: For Love Of Country

It was the best Pride parade that Toronto had ever seen, and the joy of Canadian Prime Minister Justin Trudeau as he marched the streets– his white shirt soaking wet and clinging to his smooth body from all the water gun fights– was infectious. Sal, like everybody else, could not stop smiling as he watched from the crowded sidewalk. And then, as if a divine hand had ordained it, Justin’s eyes locked with his. The free-spirited and inclusive leader of a great nation beckoned for Sal to join him on the street, and immediately security parted the sea of people to make way for him. Sal, in a wheelchair and impotent since the mortar explosion in Kandahar, rolled out to him. The Prime Minister asked for permission, and then playfully sat on his lap and put his arm around him as they proceeded down Church Street and into a future neither one of them could have imagined.

Born to Lead

Grade 9

Bob Bord had blond hair and could almost lift the back of a car off the ground. His dad drove a BMW and Bob was the coolest kid in all of the school. His nickname was Boss B! Everything in Bob’s life was amazing except for one thing, Bob thought school completely sucked! It grossed him out, and whenever Bob got mad or bored something really cool happened to him. Do you know what that was? He turned into the Incredible Hulk only instead of being green he was red with blond hair. His rage was great. SMASH, SMASH, SMASH!! He broke the blackboard over the teacher’s head! SMASH, SMASH, SMASH!!  All the other prisoners cheered, and then the Incredible Bob Hulk punched a hole in the wall! SMASH, SMASH, SMASH!! All the kids, even the nerd kids, escaped through the hole and then played football. Boss B was quarterback, Caitlin wore her white shorts, and it was awesome.

Sometimes At Night

Grade 10

Sometimes at night I wonder

why some people have so little

and others have so much?

I am strong, rich and good at the shot put,

but other people are poor, weak and bad at sports.

Why is that?

THEY DON’T WANT IT ENOUGH!

My inner voice screams at me,

THEY DON’T WANT IT ENOUGH!

THEY ARE LAZY!!

My inner voice is never wrong!

This truth, like a Rush drum solo pounding in my heart.

Top Gunner

Grade 11

Lieutenant Ross Fordington wasn’t scared of anything, least of all big government or night demons. He was the best pilot in the entire military, even though he liked to do things his own way.

“Get out of my way!” Fordington shouted, “ I don’t need any pencil pusher telling me how to bomb a government-subsidized village!”

Jones, Fordington’s best buddy and wingman, put his steady hand out. “No,” he said to Captain Limp, a washed-out pilot who relied on a bloated salary he didn’t deserve to live a lavish, elite lifestyle and ride a bike. “You’d best leave the Bear alone unless you want a fist in the face!” Limp shriveled up like the small, scared girl he was, and then Fordington went out and bombed the village killing all of his enemies.

After his missions, Fordington was never bothered by night demons. They never haunted or tormented him in the dark hours for the things that he did, and Fordington never, ever woke up screaming and ashamed, soaked in a cold, mortal sweat.

The Night Demons

Grade 13

Fod Rord was a bull of a man. He had a thick, powerful neck, could run fast for his size and was able to throw a football 150 meters. He was also really funny and had lots of money. People loved him and always wanted to come to his pool parties. He had it all.

Until the night demons came.

Sometimes, when Fod was in bed and alone with his thoughts, he’d begin to feel restless, as if somebody, or something, was watching him because he had done bad things. Fod would try to shake it off. He hadn’t done anything wrong! He knew that! That raccoon was a societal leech! Nobody knew if Priynka slipped or was pushed! The gardener could easily have taken that money! Fod knew that he was in the right and that he was strong and destined for great things, but the night demons did not.

Each night they would come to him, their pale, weak faces chattering and asking questions. The night demons, they invaded his privacy, and even when Fod put on his headphones and listened to his greatest football huddles of all time tape, they were still there. They would not go away! They were awful! Because of the night demons Fod would often go out into the night and wander in the wooded area beside his expansive family estate in order to clear his mind. Sometimes he would just yell he was so frustrated. His roars were so terrible and powerful that the birds would suddenly take flight, and Fod would sit down and, not crying, just look up at the moon and the eternal stars that filled the sky.

I’m just starting out as a freelance writer and I’m not “connected” in any way to the decision makers in publishing. Do you have any tips on how to write a successful query letter to an editor?

Lost in the big city

Dear Lost in the big city:

A “friend” I know, after reading a really brilliant and funny and smart query letter I had written to an editor, asked me this: “Did you write that while you were in your bathrobe?”

Well, of course. The bathrobe is like the writer’s uniform.

This jealous guy, whom I will call Wilson and who doesn’t have a tenth of the talent I do, went on about how my 800-word e-mail was “doomed from the first exclamation point–laden paragraph.” He wasn’t finished, “You can smell the desperation. It’s obvious you have all the time in the world in which to splash words about the page,“ he said, “and editors are busy people, they don’t have time for juvenile charm offensives. They just want good writing delivered swiftly.” And then he paused to chuckle and say, “You didn’t really send that, did you?” Later, he posted it on his well-attended blog as a piece of “found fiction.”

Wilson and I have not spoken in years.

The point that the talentless Wilson was making was that if you write like you don’t have a job— like you have no compelling reason to put clothes on each day, you won’t get a job.

Because the industry is clogged with unimaginative nobs that are all sleeping together, they have little time for outsiders. The best thing to do is to keep your query letter short and sweet. Briefly flatter them, pitch your idea with some graceful economy, link to a few of the finer examples of your writing, and remember your job isn’t to be the “next big thing,” it’s to make your editor’s job easier. They don’t want to be scrolling through some windy pitch, they want to be out having drinks with somebody they want to sleep with, or at the very least, somebody who might want to sleep with them.

Bitter Writer

PS: Have you considered veterinary technician as an alternate career?  Writing sucks.

PPS: Do not add, “I am poor and almost 50. Everything around me crumbles,” to your query.

Please send any questions to mm@michaelmurray.ca or just post them to the comments page here.

What follows is a partial transcript of our final interview:

Pointy Headed man wearing a bowtie: Cressida, that’s a beautiful blouse you’re wearing!

Pale woman with small teeth: I love it, too! It brings out that beautiful auburn in your hair, Cressie!

Cressida: Oh, thank you both, that’s so sweet, but I have to say I can’t take any credit for it.  It was a gift from Roger Federer for that feature I wrote on him that won the National Magazine Award!

Me: I didn’t know that Roger Federer shopped at Winners.

Cressida: I think you have a toothpaste stain on your shirt, Michael, and your right shoe.

Pointy Headed man wearing a bowtie: So, Cressida, let’s start with you. Although I think we all have a pretty good idea, would you tell us what would you bring to the position of Fiction Editor of the New Yorker?

Cressida: Blahblahblahblahblahblah.

Pointy Headed men wearing a bowtie: Wow. Just wow.

Man wearing a cape: I have to say Michael, that’s a tough act to follow. What about you, how would you respond to the question?

Me: I feel like I’m on the Apprentice.

Pale woman with small teeth: You mean the novel by Ferenc Herczeg? Interesting, please elaborate.

Me: May I excuse myself to get a drink of water please?

Cressida: I think he meant the TV show with Donald Trump and not the great work of Ferenc Herczeg, whom I met and edited in Hungry.

Me: Slut.

Woman who was going for a sexy librarian look but failed big time: Mister Murray?

Me: Please, call me Michael, I’m not all stuck up and pretentious like some people here that might be named Cressida.

Cressida: Excuse me, but I do not take kindly to being called a slut. Even though we’re competing for the same job, it doesn’t mean we can’t be civil. And I was only slutty for that first year at Oxford.

(Much laughter amongst stupid inquisition clique and slut Cressida, followed by long, exclusionary digression about all the universities they attended and all of the common people and dogs that they know.)

 This is what has happened to me.

For a good chunk of my life— well over a decade— I lived without ever getting on a bike. I guess I thought I was done with them, and then suddenly my wife gave me one for my birthday. It’s a beautiful piece of art, this bike, elegant yet sturdy, conjuring the romance of a distant era of picnics by the lake. (You know, tweed, repression and big skirts, that sort of thing.) No matter, we immediately dubbed the bike, Linus The Sinus— in honor of my seasonal allergies— and then my wife and I headed down to the shop to buy all the necessary accoutrements, including a helmet.

Rachelle looked at me, ” Really, is that the helmet you’re going to buy?”

“Yes, it’s fun.”

The helmet in question was purple and decorated with decals of yellow caution tape.

“It makes you look like you’re not all there, if you know what I mean.”

“No, I don’t know what you mean.”

“Special.”

“I am special.”

“Yes, yes you are.”

“I’m special like a gold medal cycling champion made out of sharks.”

“Ring your bell, honey, see if it works.”

I rang my bell and it worked.

“Do you see what I mean?” Rachelle asked.

Toronto, like most big cities, is a dangerous place to ride a bike. There’s a climate of unremitting guerilla warfare between cyclists and vehicles, the streets are a congested, unpredictable frenzy of insane people driving cars, insane people riding bikes (often kicking cabs or attacking them with bicycle locks. I actually have a friend who grew so furious at a cab that she got off her bike and threw it at the still moving vehicle.), insane people on skateboard or on foot, buses, streetcars and a variety of other danger zones, like freshly dead (skiddy!) pigeons and streetcar tracks which often feel like they were designed to capture bicycle tires and then catapult the rider into oncoming traffic. It’s a treacherous landscape, and it requires some attention, and so, after a dozen years being off a bike, I’ve been tentative in my approach, often taking to the sidewalk in particularly hairy zones.

I’m aware that this is wrong, and I’m very conscious of moving slowly and apologetically when I do this. It doesn’t much matter. If you have a disposition to be pissed-off, you will be pissed-off when you see me, and if you don’t, well, you’re likely to be satisfied by my apology, weak grin and enfeebled, breathless pace

The other day while pausing on the sidewalk waiting for Rachelle— who was in a store shopping— another cyclist came up behind me. He was pulling a little cart behind him and his eyes were large, as if in the midst of a roller coaster panic.

“Space!” he shouted at me.

I did not know exactly what that meant, but figured it must be a common expression used by cyclists. I moved my bike onto the street and tried to make myself as small as possible.

“Space, space!!” he shouted again.

And then he stopped his bike exactly where mine had been, took off his helmet and said, “Sir, where can I weld? Do you know the welding place? It is here, no?”

We were maybe ten yards apart and so I had to yell back to him, but my voice, thin and raspy at the best of times, was lost to the industry of the city. So I got closer to him, but still found myself yelling and for whatever reason, over enunciating each word, as if I had to really concentrate in getting my words right.

“I know nothing of welding!” I yelled back, “I am waiting for my wife!”

“I like to rest in the sun, too! Do you like to weld?”

It was apparent that the man I was speaking with had a mental disability, and it was while I was in the midst of this exchange that my wife came out of the store with our groceries. As I was putting on my new cycling gloves, Rachelle looked over at me, “You know how this looks, don’t you?” I told her that I did and we cycled home in silence, her on the street and me, occasionally ringing my bell to alert pedestrians, on the sidewalk. Ever since, I have been a lone, cycling wolf.

The other day while riding down a sidewalk in an expensive residential area of the city know at The Annex, a man who was passing by stopped and turned to me.

“You shouldn’t be doing that, you know.”

Irritated, feeling as if it was impossible for me to catch a break, I turned and looked at him. It was Ryan Gosling.

Ryan. Fucking. Gosling.

It’s not enough that he breaks up street fights in Manhattan, but now he has to be the cycling police in Toronto, too?

I have no idea why I said this, but before I knew it I had sneered, ” Give me a break, Gosling!”

At this point I was hoping that the faint momentum I had going for me on the bike would keep me gliding by him and that nothing further would come of our encounter. It would become a grand story, a part of my mythology. I would recount again and again for rapt audiences the story of me telling off Ryan Gosling, mister superhero movie star.

But no, he jogged toward me.

“No, I won’t give you a break. Either walk your bike or ride on the street like you’re supposed to.”

I stopped my bike and gave him a sour look, trying to think of something to say.

“Look, I just have one lung, okay?” is what I came up with.

Gosling looked at me, kind of like the way his character in Drive did, “Did you hear me or not?”

I was going to give him the dismissive “Sheesh” sound and ride away, but he’d put his hand on my bike.

“No, no, you’re not going to ride away from this. Now just get off the sidewalk, okay? You’re a grown man, do the right thing.”

I got off my bike and sighed.

“George Clooney wouldn’t be do difficult, ” I said.

Gosling looked at me and raised his eyebrow, “Oh, yes he would. Have you ever worked with him?” His eyes twinkled and I felt a little bit like I might be falling in love.

“I’ve written him a few times,” I responded dreamily.

“Well, you should just take my word for it and move along.”

Slowly, I began to slink my bike away. It was humiliating, this. I turned around and looked back, hopeful that something devastating and witty would come to me, but all I saw was superstar standing there, still watching me, his hands on his hips.

What a dick.
What a fucking dick.
I would throw my bike at him.
It would be a sudden Ninja move.
It would hit him first in the throat and then he would respect me.
And then we would be best friends and my love for him would be filial and not creepy.

Life would be good.

However, throwing my bike at him proved difficult as my allergies were bad and I was hyperventilating a bit (RYAN FUCKING GOSLING!), and so I just kept walking my bike away. I didn’t want it to end this way though, and so I stopped and turned around, fully planning on yelling, ” “The Notebook was a fucking Jokebook!” but Gosling was gone. Even though the star was nowhere to be seen, I felt his presence and continued to walk my bike down the street, now the slowest, saddest man in the world.