Five Years a Writer

I lost myself this past weekend; not literally, but, rather, in words. In stories. Most of them non-fiction, but stories all of them. Stories about people  — starting over in a new country ( Peace by Chocolate by Jon Tattrie; the story of Hadhad family who fled Syria, landed in Nova Scotia and now employ many locals in their chocolate factory ); acting stories of drama and comedy and, in so doing, reflecting the universal emotions of our lives back at us from the small screen (How to Save a Life: The inside story of Grey's Anatomy [ mega hit TV show ] by Lynette Rice); overcoming the inner voice that says 'No, don't do it; you're afraid to do it; don't do it; say no' (Year of Yes by Shonda Rhimes , who created Grey's Anatomy, among a host of hit TV series, including the recent Netflix hit Bridgerton); and  coming into their own by opening themselves up in the face of love (Voices of Summer by Rosamunde Pilcher ).  That was a lot of ...

Live from Ukraine, he came on the radio directly after the local news, which included a segment on the giant pothole that had developed overnight on a main street in the centre of Winnipeg. He had been on air a month ago, and he ended that interview by saying he hoped he would still be alive the next day.  He did survive and now we were hearing from him again. A former judge and lawyer, he was coming to us in real time from a town in Ukraine to provide an on-the-ground update on his situation. It was compelling; he pulled no punches. He said it was “surreal” to hear that potholes make the news in Canada while where he is — fighting for his country and his life — there are dead bodies lying in the street. Surreal indeed. So much these days is hard to bear, impossible to absorb, really, so his words struck me and have stayed with me. Because, while potholes can do significant damage to vehicles, the chance of the driver or passengers dying as a result of hitting one is, of cour...

The cat would not take no for an answer, so I got up to feed her in the very early morning hours. It was pitch black outside but, through the one living room window that didn’t have the blind all the way down, I could see some commotion on the street. It seemed noisy, too. Hmmm…what was going on? I peered out and saw a City truck, with lights flashing, and two men. They appeared to be bashing away at the curb…oh! At the curb! Right by where the street drain cover is still buried under snow and ice. I had tried in vain to chip away at it on the weekend, because we’re expecting a ‘weather event’ this week that includes both snow and rain. With nowhere for any of that expected precipitation to go, it would pool on the street and cause serious trouble for all. By chance, earlier last week, I had come across an online report that I could submit to the City masters alerting them to a frozen street drain. If I provided location details, they would send out their ‘super steam unit’ (my name f...

Sunflowers are the national flower of #Ukraine For a long time, I have not watched the evening news. But these days, I am watching it every evening. The images compel me. I am not living them, so the least I can do is witness them. A young man with a duffel bag, slung across his shoulder. One duffel bag. And his Canadian passport. That got him across the border into Poland. A young girl, holding her aged cat. In a shelter. Where will she go?  A young boy, alone, reaching for food from the volunteer and showing the phone number written on his hand. Who will pick him up?  An old woman being helped, oh so carefully, across a makeshift bridge of planks. Will she make it to safety?  All of them leaving their home and security in Ukraine, for who knows what and who knows where. The images stick in my brain and they got me thinking: What would I take if I had to flee? Sparked by the news, the pieces below come from my imagination, written on March 12, 2022, in the safety of my...

Amanda through the ages (from L): about 2 years old. About 21 years old. Heading into her 60s. To mark International Women’s Day on Tuesday, some women are writing letters to their younger selves with advice or wisdom from their older point of view. I took up the challenge. It was an interesting exercise to write such a letter to my younger self — thinking back to what that young woman thought success could look like (the corporate ladder) and how my unfolding life has shown me what it actually has come to mean for me (my own character). In the ‘writing as tool for transformation’ courses I have developed with my creative collaborator, Deborah Schnitzer, we include several writing exercises that invite the participants to write the same story from different points of view. It’s a powerful means to open up our understanding of our own experiences. I encourage you to write a letter to younger self. You might be surprised to read what you’ve learned in the intervening years.  -----...

This photo of Joan Didion and the quote was the "spark" for my super-short story The world is mad with delusions of power and horrifying invasions, but this past Sunday saw me step away from that roiling mess of humanity for a 2-hour break to focus on telling stories. It was so much fun. I am co-leading a 4-week course called Spark Your Writing, with my creative collaborator, Deborah Schnitzer. Each week, we send out a ‘spark’ (a prompt) to the participants and they have the week to write something in response to it. On Sunday afternoon, we gather via Zoom to share what we’ve produced. In a time of great destruction, it is both nurturing and necessary to connect with our creative capacity and put our energy into making art. Writing stories is one way of doing that. I have spent years and years saying, 'I don’t write fiction'. But last week’s spark got me going and sent me down a road I don’t usually travel in my writing: I wrote a fictional short story. A super-sho...

Not a blow-up hot tub or bouncy castle in sight. Just thousands and thousands of people, all marching for women’s lives . That was the scene on April 25, 2004 in Washington, DC. It was a glorious sight and an inspiring event to be part of. I was there, among the million or so others, and I still remember the feeling of community, camaraderie and conviction that filled the air and fuelled our chants. Collectively, we sent a message to politicians and individually we re-upped our commitment to the cause. A number of my friends from across the country had met up in Washington to be part of the historic gathering of protesters against George W. Bush and his regressive policies on abortion. We made a long weekend of it, enjoying the city’s museums and restaurants before the march on Sunday. We mixed fun and politics. We did not break the law: We came. We protested by marching. We returned home. The point is that protesting is an essential form of democratic action. It’s a way to, literall...