About
“Mark Leiren-Young, who has a background in pretty much everything — journalism, television, comedy, theatre and film — is without a doubt one of the most talented, multi-disciplinary voices in Canada.” – Vanessa Farquharson, National Post
“A more polite, eco-friendly version of Hunter S. Thompson.” – Erick Thompson, CFAX
“Canada’s go to guy for dolphins, whales and trees.” – The National Post
“A weird little guy.” – William Shatner
Author
NEVER SHOOT A STAMPEDE QUEEN (2009)
Never Shoot a Stampede Queen WON the 2009 Stephen Leacock Medal for Humour. In 2009 it spent 16 WEEKS on the BC Bestseller’s list!
Click here to join The Stampede Queen Facebook group.
Click here to buy the book online.
Shooting a Stampede queen
By Bill Phillips – Prince George Free Press
For the record, I worked at the Williams Lake Tribune after Mark Leiren-Young did.
I’m not the wacko editor or overly-protective senior reporter he talks about in his new book Never Shoot a Stampede Queen – A Rookie Reporter in the Cariboo. (I was the wacko editor who worked there after Leiren-Young left.)
However, I do know all the people Leiren-Young talks about in his book. That’s probably why I liked his book so much. I could put faces to the bevy of characters he describes. So, take it from me, he does describe them very well. If you want an accurate description of how life was (or is) like at a small town newspaper, read his book. It is laced with humour, truth, and unbelievable people.
There’s the judge who wore cowboy boots in the courtroom. This is true. I actually spent a sunny June afternoon walking through a horse pasture with this judge. Had a nice chat.
It was all part of a court viewing. It wasn’t as successful as I thought. When I learned we were going to view a horse pasture in question in an animal cruelty case (which I could, and maybe will, write a book about) I was all excited. I told the Williams Lake Tribune photographer to be at the ready. I wanted a shot of the judge with his cowboy boots on (they were actually gold-coloured boots and you can’t take pictures in the courtroom). However, when I emerged, the good judge was wearing runners. Drats.
This judge gained notoriety in the 70s in the Cariboo because he tossed out a car theft case against a local First Nations fellow. It seems the only evidence they had that this fellow stole the car was that he was seen in the area of the theft about the time it occurred. Up until this judge came along, that was enough to convict a native.
But back to Never Shoot a Stampede Queen:
“The cops wanted to shoot me, my bosses thought I was a Bolshevik and a local lawyer warned me that some people I was writing about might try to test the strength of my skull with a steel pipe,” writes Leiren-Young. “What more could a young reporter want from his first real job?”
The title of the book refers to Williams Lake’s Stampede Queen contest. The winner gets to compete for Miss Rodeo Canada so, as you can imagine, for the contestants and the parents of contestants, there’s lots on the line. And there is a lot of protocol. Leiren-Young talks about being given the assignment to take pictures (i.e. shoot) of the contestants and then dealing with an irate mother complaining about the unflattering pictures shown in the paper. Only later does he learn that the editor (once again, not me) hated the Stampede Queen contest and deliberately ran the worst photos taken.
Welcome to the world of small town newspapers. This is the same editor who would take a story away from a reporter if the big city dailies wanted the story and would pay some freelance dollars. Yup, not surprisingly, Leiren-Young, who had the audacity to take a lunch break during a production day, was there when the paper unionized.
Take it from me, Leiren-Young described life at a small town newspaper to a tee and I can vouch for the fact that he did not make up the characters in his book. They are real and their worth reading about. You’ll shake your head, your jaw will drop, and you’ll laugh.
THE GREEN CHAIN: NOTHING IS EVER CLEAR-CUT (2009)
January Magazine: Dec 11, 2009
By Linda Richards
Regular readers of January Magazine may already know that I’m a major fan of journalist/author-turned-filmmaker Mark Leiren-Young. I’ve been reading Leiren-Young in our mutual hometown alternate weekly, The Georgia Straight, for… well, for a real long time and he is just all the things a journalist of his ilk should be (sez me). He is smart and worldly, but not in an irritating, tweed-and-elbow-patches über-literati kinda way. His world view is sophisticated, certainly, but you imagine he wears soft clothes and that he knows how to laugh and — more importantly, perhaps — he knows how to make his readers laugh, as evidenced by his win of the 2008 Stephen Leacock award for his debut book-length work, Never Shoot A Stampede Queen.
It turns out that, while Leiren-Young was hatching Never Shoot A Stampede Queen, he was also working on a film (if you want to call writing, producing and starring in working, and I think you might) that has since been released into wild success. Since its debut in 2007, The Green Chain has been a sweetheart on the international film festival circuit and, when you consider, how could it not? The Green Chain takes seven fictional tree killers and has them explain why they love trees. It’s fictional and it’s fun, yet it tells the story — from both sides, now — exceptionally well.
In the book of the same title, The Green Chain: Nothing Is Ever Clear Cut (Heritage House), Leiren-Young takes the idea on the road, in a way: asking 22 people who might have opinions on such things “How do you feel about trees?” The resulting book is, in many ways, surprising. Leiren-Young himself observes that when he began these interviews — with noted thinkers, writers, activists, doers — he imagined that he would come away depressed. But, he notes, “most of the interviewees were surprisingly optimistic. They think the solutions are out there, and now that we’re living in the age of Al Gore and green is the new black, our society might be willing to embrace the solutions. Or at least attempt them.”
Leiren-Young’s journey of discovery is inspiring. And I’m not the first to note that it’s lovely and refreshing to encounter someone who sees both forest and trees.
Filmmaker
THE GREEN CHAIN
Mark’s first feature, The Green Chain, which he wrote, directed and produced, is now playing in Canada on TMN and Movie Central. The script earned Mark a nomination for “Best Screenplay” at the 2008 Canadian Writer’s Guild Awards. The movie won the El Prat de Llobregat Award at the 15th Annual Festival Internacional de Cinema de Medi Ambient (FICMA 2008) in Barcelona. It was one of only three nominees for “best feature” at Mockfest in Los Angeles. The movie earned Jillian Fargey a Leo Award for “Best Supporting Actress.”
The Green Chain explores the issues facing dying logging communities and stars Babz Chula, Brendan Fletcher, Tricia Helfer, Jillian Fargey, Scott McNeil, Tahmoh Penikett and August Schellenberg.
THE GREEN FILM
Mark also wrote and coproduced the award winning short, The Green Film. Starring Jonathan Young (Nightwatching) and Lexa Doig (Andromeda). Directed by Andrew Williamson (Sea), Produced by Scott Renyard (Project Cougar) and Juggernaut Pictures Inc. And featuring Local Anxiety’s Green Guilt Blues.
The Green Film has received a 2009 Gold Remi Award from Worldfest Houston, a 2009 Bronze Palmetto from the Felder Film Festival and a 2009 Slate Award Nomination – The California International Film Festival – Best Mini Short.
OTHER
Mark has several other film scripts in development, including an adaptation of his award-winning play, Shylock, with Middle Child Films.
Here’s the Green Chain podcast series, where Mark talks trees with some world environmental leaders. And here’s Mark on Sci-Fi Talk with Tony Tellado.
Journalist
As a journalist, Mark has written for such publications as Time, Maclean’s and The Utne Reader. He has also written for most newspapers and magazines in western Canada. He’s received a National Magazine Award as a humour columnist and a Western Magazine Award for feature writing. He’s a regular contributor to The Georgia Straight and is a humour columnist for The Tyee, where he also hosts an environmentally themed podcast series.
(Go to the archive).
A Saltspring Christmas
I originally wrote this for The Globe and Mail in 1990… Merry everything!
A Saltspring Christmas
It was the Winter of 1987 and I desperately needed a break — from everything. I’d just quit my job, split up with my long-time girlfriend and was discovering the true meaning of stress. So I filled a suitcase with books, clothes and more books, loaded my computer into the trunk of my car and drove off to catch a ferry to the least stressful place I could think of — Saltspring Island.
I told everyone I would be staying with friends and that they didn’t have a phone. I lied. I checked into the Saltspring Hotel.
I’d heard that this was the second version of the hotel, built right where the first one had burned down. My friend, Kevin, told me his family used to own the old one and that the new one was supposed to be haunted. No such luck. There were no ghosts and hardly any guests either. It was Christmas-time and not many tourists show up in Saltspring for Christmas.
There was a man down at the other end of the hall who was in town because his mother was ill and he wanted to be nearby and there was me in my corner room overlooking the harbour and the parking lot.
I vowed not to make any phone calls and I came awfully close. A few days after I arrived I made three calls to friends — but that was it. Geographically I was a ferry ride away from home, but I decided that in my imagination I was somewhere far away. So I wrote letters, read books and watched far too much TV.
Christmas Eve I didn’t feel like being alone, but I could only find one open restaurant in town and it was open just long enough to serve me dinner and hustle me out so the staff could get home to their families. I went back to my room, but the TV was just showing Christmas specials about love and family and togetherness, so I went downstairs to the pub. Not much action there either. It wasn’t empty but close to it.
I finished my cider and was about to leave when the bartender offered me a special coffee. I thanked him, but told him I didn’t drink coffee. “You’ll still like this,” he said, and handed me an elaborate concoction in a black toddy mug with a rim of fresh whipped cream slithering down the side.
If there was coffee in the drink I certainly didn’t taste it. It was sweet, smooth and potent. The bartender and I started talking. He was up for a job managing a new restaurant. He liked working at the bar though, except that since he was one of the only singles on staff, he’d drawn the Christmas shift. He was the same age as me, 25. We talked until pretty much everyone else had left and when he started tidying up, I got out my wallet to pay my tab. “It’s on the house,” he said. “Merry Christmas.”
I went back to my room and slept until 10 a.m. Christmas day. Then I switched on the TV. There was Scrooge and Christmas services and a selection of televangelists. The movie channel was showing a variety of movies I’d intentionally skipped at the theatre, but considering the competition I settled on Young Sherlock Holmes as I ate my brunch — an apple and some cookies I’d bought because I knew everything on the island was closed for Christmas. It was the only time during my self-imposed exile that I felt lonely. I thought of calling someone, but the long distance feeling wasn’t what I wanted. It was the kind of loneliness that comes from not seeing anyone you know for two weeks.
So I took a shower, wrote a couple of contemplative letters, started flipping the channels again and then the phone rang.
“Hi, this is Stephen,” said the voice on the other end.
I had no idea who in the world Stephen was.
“My mother just brought a whole Christmas dinner for me. There’s turkey and stuffing and mashed potatoes and vegetables. The works. If you wanted to come down to the bar and share it with me…”
The bar? Stephen was the bartender. “Are you sure it’s okay?”
“Sure,” said Stephen. “That’s why I’m asking. It’s Christmas.”‘
So I put some clothes on, went downstairs and there was Stephen, serving up the kind of Christmas feast that Scrooge delivered to the Cratchit household after his change of heart. His mother had brought him all the things he’d mentioned and more. There were a half-dozen metal bowls with crisp tin-foil covers. Every time he peeled back another bit of foil something else new and tasty was revealed.
After he saw that I was shy about eating too much he practically scolded me. “There’s plenty,” he said. And there was too — until we finished it. And we finished a lovely bottle of red wine. Then we started on another bottle.
He had a TV in the bar and as we ate we watched the Christmas classic, Top Gun.
And, just after that, Stephen’s girlfriend showed up.
When they started snuggling I got up to leave, but Stephen stopped me. ”You’re not going anywhere. This is Christmas and you’re my guest,” he said as if, just maybe, he was kind of proud to have a guest for Christmas.
Then his brother arrived and Stephen introduced me like we were long lost school buddies. And when his sister, whom he hadn’t seen in months, appeared and hugged her two brothers, Stephen turned to her and said, “You give Mark a hug too; today he’s a member of our family.” She did, too. And I probably blushed.
It was well after two a.m., and I’d met a whole collection of Stephen’s friends and relatives, before I finally made my way back up to my room – fuller and drunker than I think I’ve ever been and grinning away.
It was the most the most beautiful Christmas I’ve ever had, and I never did get up the heart to tell Stephen I was Jewish. That day though, I don’t think it would have mattered.