I had a bulleted list of highlights written out about my seven-hour day spent at the International Festival of Authors (mostly) with Teri, but for some reason it all seems so personal. I think it has to do with the feeling of being a fan in the way Teri so wonderfully…
It's a cloudy, dark day today, though warmer than it has been. It's quiet. Somewhere around 4pm, there was suddenly nothing else I wanted to do than read an old favourite, The Mayor of Casterbridge. At one point in my life I would have called this my favourite book. I don't…
My husband shared this great NY Times article with me, called The Power of the Particular: My best theory is this: When we are children, we invent these detailed imaginary worlds that the child psychologists call “paracosms.” These landscapes, sometimes complete with imaginary beasts, heroes and laws, help us orient…
After high school, I got a job at an artificial flower warehouse by the airport. It was my first real job. I took two buses that always smelled of coffee, and squeezed in amongst people trying to navigate a newspaper within their own sliver of personal space. I loved it.…
1) A long morning walk with my dog, remembering what a cool breeze feels like. 2) Reading the paper at my parents' kitchen table. Opening my laptop to write. 3) The familiar sounds of my childhood home - the fridge humming, the kitchen floor creaking, an upstairs door closing as…
When I say I miss high school, I miss writing terrible poetry in a notebook in a shitty coffee shop that was the closest thing to my house in the suburbs, the kind of coffee shop where someone writing in a notebook for two hours is strange. Wandering around secondhand…
As of late: 1) A short story of mine, "Breathing Underwater", was published at my friend Leesa's new site WhiskeyPaper. It's a really wonderful site, and I'm thrilled to be included. 2) My lovely friend Susanna and I are collaborating on a blog, Lumisilla Mailla, which means "in snowy lands"…
You can tell me anything you like about the value of output, of just writing without analyzing. But give me the minutes spent staring at the screen, walking around the neighbourhood, working loose the knots of a story that you feel might never give way. Despite the almost palpable stress…
More than a week later and I'm still at odds with my city. I venture out of my bubble and quickly return, soothing my jangled old-lady nerves in the ravines and parks and brick homes of my neighbourhood, my strangely sleepy neighbourhood that feels like a held breath. I've also…
"I remember the day I started to write that. It was in January, a Sunday. I went down to the bookstore, which wasn’t open Sundays, and locked myself in. My husband had said he would get dinner, so I had the afternoon. I remember looking around at all the great…
