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. I was a cashier, but […]
Your time is coming Read More »
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 a wind blows through. 4) Standing
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 book stores in Toronto, especially
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” in Finnish. There are only
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 of it, it makes me
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 been reading, photographing, writing these
“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 literature that was around me
I seem to be preparing for winter hibernation much too early; before it even threatens snow. I walk through the library, judging books by their covers. I read voraciously in the mornings, when it’s still dark. In the daytime, I discover ideas for short stories I’d forgotten about. And last weekend, evenings were spent getting
Today I went to the library to write, a new library, which I like much better than my local one. This new one has many staircases and little nooks with desks and comfortable chairs, and windows with trees and light on the other side, and a fireplace. And it was quiet. I wrote so well.
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After an hour and a half of reading my novel draft, making notes, and doing research, my eyes look like that. I take breaks to look out of the window of the coffee place, noticing how many people seem to mutter to themselves on their way to the subway. I try not to audibly exclaim
