WRITING:
My first extensive creative writing project, ‘Watcher of the Moon’, was given a positive assessment by Driftwood Manuscripts in South Australia. But then the ‘grander’ story evolved into a much wider landscape, with the ‘WOTM’ becoming the second of 3 books in a newly planned trilogy. Book 1 is in hiatus while ‘The Tramp’ has received preferential treatment.

Another novel and a children’s book are also underway, but again on-hold while I concentrate on ’The Tramp’.

Feedback I received from a Tasmanian publishing house some months ago suggested ‘The Tramp’ novel and CD offers the opportunity and a point of difference from other works of new fiction, and, considering there is a third aspect to the project: the musical stage drama, (stage adaptation in production), I was assured ‘The Tramp’, promises to be in a genre with few peers.

A pre-edited excerpt from The Tramp, by Michael Cannon:

"This is a pub?" Dennis asked as he unbuckled his seat belt. "You must've 'ad some balls to walk in 'ere in the first place."
"No," Samantha reminded him. "A failing bladder, if you recall."
"Well, it could have been a biker den for all you knew."
"What's more and I hate to say it, my second coffee's come through." Samantha opened the door, stepped onto the overgrown gravel car park and headed for the entrance.
"What a positively horrible dump," Sally said, "are we really going in there? Surely there are nicer pubs if we go into Wynyard?"
"We're here for this one, don't forget," Stuart said over his shoulder as he followed his wife towards the pub.
Sally shrugged, grabbed her camera bag and purse. Dennis ensured the windows were all up, pressed the remote lock, and then jogged to catch up with his wife.
Dennis walked to the bar while Stuart stared into the dark corner, hardly believing what he saw: on the dais sat two chairs, one microphone, two guitars, and hanging over the headstock of one, a mauve fedora.
"What's Sam's poison?" Dennis asked as Stuart reached the bar.
"Pint of Eddings Dark." Stuart spoke as if in a trance. "Same here."
Dennis opened his wallet and waited until a tall, heavy-set man approached. "What'll it be?" the man asked flatly.
Dennis assumed this was the man with the poor telephone manner. Appearing to be in his late sixties, a second look suggested life, genetics or both might not have been kind to him, and indeed he may have been younger. Six-one, largely built and despite the evident stoop, Dennis guessed that at one time he might have been a handful. His rolled sleeves revealed faded tattoos over wrinkled forearms. There was no evidence etched on the man's face that smiling had been a common pastime, and at that particular moment the man found no reason to break with his tradition.
"Four pints of, er..." Dennis glanced at Stuart.
"Eddings Dark Ale."
"Keg's down." The man spoke with little interest. "Got bottles of Eddings Dark, and draught or light on tap."
"Four of the dark ale bottles then, ta. Dennis is my name."
"That's nice." The barman looked over to Stuart and, as if it was an unusual occurrence said, "You been ‘ere before."
"September last year," Stuart answered as Samantha walked from the toilets and found a table by a window. The barman gazed at her. "Oh yeah, I remember. Menu?"
"Yes please. My name is Dennis." The introduction was a little less friendly than before.
The barman turned to Dennis and looked down at his extended hand. Perhaps he was having second thoughts about being a tough guy. "Rusty, because of this." He pointed to receding red hair, tied back from his face. He took Dennis' hand firmly. "Rusty Faulkner.”
…