Books like Indians on Vacation — picked by fans

Years ago, when I went to Montreal to get my Master's degree in Philosophy, I decided to become a stand-up comic at the same time. I soon realized that I had a lot more fun coming up with the funny bits than I did being ignored or heckled while on stage delivering them. So I became a sit-down comic. (Well, a sprawled-on-the-couch comic.) I've since written and published several novels, which contain a lot of funny bits, but I decided, in addition, to publish the leftover or funny-on-their-own bits in a separate book. Hence, Too Stupid to Visit.

Sled dog racing? I knew nothing about it most of my life. I became interested after writing a nonfiction book on the history of sled dog racing. So interested, I wrote a novel on it—Cookie Cutters & Sled Runners. I attended local sprint races and even traveled to Alaska to see the start of the Iditarod. I learned so much watching the mushers prepare and the excitement of the dogs. I still enjoy watching the Iditarod, the Yukon Quest, and local sprint races. I’m excited to share a list of great sled-dog books. What I like about my list is that all the books are so different! 

A few years ago, while researching my novel Incarnate, I sought out Arctic, Alaskan, and winter horror novels. These books explored the dangers of such places—brutal nature, isolation, depression, fear, and suicidal tendencies. Combined with the supernatural, Lovecraftian, and unexplainable, they created gripping stories.

I also read non-fiction essays, books, articles, and watched YouTube videos about these harsh environments. The authors captured the reality of isolation and danger perfectly. If you're curious about what it’s like to venture into these perilous, frozen landscapes—without risking frostbite—these novels are a thrilling way to experience it.

As a young person I loved to read history novels, but each book had to be about either British monarchs or American generals. Then I watched the movie Bye Bye Blues, a Canadian prairie story by Anne Wheeler, and realized for the first time that the story was about me, about us. It was such a heady feeling that I decided to study Western Canadian history at university. Three weeks after I got my M.A. from the University of Victoria I was offered the chance to write about Vancouver Island coal miners and the rest, as they say, is quite literally history.

I’m a Canadian author and I set my novels here. When I first attempted to write a book, I chose historical fiction because I thought it would be easier to get my characters into trouble—without cell phones and other modern conveniences to bail them out. I wasn’t wrong. However, the research involved with writing good historical fiction soon gave me a whole new appreciation for the genre and I was hooked. I find the WWII era far enough in the past to provide historical insight into humanity’s many weaknesses and strengths, yet near enough to make it relatable. I’ve been thrilled with the feedback on my faith-based stories.

As a young person I loved to read history novels, but each book had to be about either British monarchs or American generals. Then I watched the movie Bye Bye Blues, a Canadian prairie story by Anne Wheeler, and realized for the first time that the story was about me, about us. It was such a heady feeling that I decided to study Western Canadian history at university. Three weeks after I got my M.A. from the University of Victoria I was offered the chance to write about Vancouver Island coal miners and the rest, as they say, is quite literally history.

I have gone through the refugee experience, and it has shaped me. I grew up queer in Syria, became a man in Egypt, a refugee in Lebanon, then an author in Canada. At the expense of romanticizing something so deeply painful, I do believe that the experience has made me a better man. It matured me, offered me a deep connection with others within my community, and built an unmatched appreciation of my culture of home back in Syria and my culture of diaspora here in Canada. As a fiction writer, I am obsessed with writing queer stories about immigration. 

I started to write poetry because I loved the poetry my father recited. I've kept writing poems because poems brought me closest to the mystery my father and mother were to me. Both my parents lived through the Depression in England and the Second World War that followed. Both of them suffered, one as a civilian casualty, the other as a soldier, and both carried to their deathbeds the things they did and the things that were done to them. The books that move me most offer me the words that lift the weight of sorrow and the understanding that replaces grief and anger with compassion.

I had a rotten childhood. Stuck in bed with asthma, I couldn’t do sports; but I could roam space and time with books, especially science fiction. Yet when I tried to re-read my beloved sci-fi titles as an adult, I got a shock. The books with sound science had terrible writing; the well-written books were full of scientific schlock. I realized that if I wanted sci-fi that was both technically astute and rewarding to read, I’d have to write it myself. And so I did.

Philosophical novels challenge rather than appease. They subvert. They obscure. As a former acquisitions editor at major publishing houses, I am confounded by the scarcity of chances taken on books that don’t fit the status quo or, are "difficult." I am most interested in how books—even when they meander and cavort—lead to surprising and unsettling revelations. Or how they don’t lead to revelations at all but keep the reader guessing as to when some semblance of grace will be achieved. I don’t wish to sound pessimistic; if anything, I wish to be realistic. Philosophical novels are reflections of life, which is often confusing, contradictory, and, yes, difficult. With a touch of grace for good measure.