See the Person
Two Hearts: on book launches, disability, writing community and Amanda Leduc
Recently, after having read The Book of Delights, I fell a bit in love with the author, Ross Gay—the book was that good. This falling in love with people is something that happens to me as a person who holds romantic notions inside her head. I let myself get swept
Dear New Parent Whose Baby is Hospitalized
You are not alone. And if you’re reading this, you’ve come to a good place. Two wonderful moms, Jess and Kayla, have created a space, Beyond the Beads, for families to share their hospital experiences and to come together and support one another. They asked me to share my family’s
Don’t Judge Me
On Monday after the holidays, Dan looks after our three girls while I sit upstairs in my bedroom office writing a class assignment due in the next few days. He’s being incredibly flexible and generous with his work time, and I am grateful for that, beyond grateful. We had many
Leave
I want to be upfront about something. I love my family; I am grateful for my quality of life and the joy I get from spending my days writing. I love my husband who keeps me particularly happy and understands my humour when I call him “pony” and tell him
Meat Suits
Choosing a career as a writer means I’m forever thinking to myself what is it you’re trying to say? I’ve spent the last few weeks listening. Listening might be the hardest skill for me there is, so strong is my desire to contribute to the conversation. What is it you’re
Own Voices
“Why are we not telling stories that celebrate and include differences?” asked Amanda Leduc, author of Disfigured, in a talk I listened to recently. The talk was a wonderful online session offered through Writers Literary Festival (put on by The New Quarterly, based in Waterloo, ON). Amanda Leduc and Emily
Dear Troll Who Thinks My Daughter Doesn’t Deserve An Education
“A writer finds the story,” editor of Geist and one of my fellow MFA classmates, AnnMarie MacKinnon writes. This line resonates with me deeply. Every post, every essay I’m now writing; every thread of my last book is one giant hunt, chasing story down, banging down story’s door. Sometimes the
Mom Guilt
When I look outside my window, the rain is falling sideways, leaving wet streaks, not unlike tears, against the glass pane. Pane or pain? I had a rough morning with my daughter. She got up at 6:30 a.m., brushed her hair for an hour, yelled down at me from upstairs,