I'm in the middle of writing a magazine story about recently deceased Canadian film critic, Gerald Pratley, and at this mid-point in his story, I have never felt luckier. Lucky to be a writer. Lucky to channel one man's driven spirit, stir it up with professional accolades, pull back the discretionary cloak of personal failures and dip into healthy doses of glamour. I feel him with me. Yes, that's corny, but very true. He once lived in my house after I'd moved on. He called me to tell me that he felt my presence there. I can now say the same. I just can't call him.
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