As if running isn't enough

How complicated does a sports bra get to be? It can't be too complicated to wear or to tweet about.  "Pulls over the head. Leaves your tits two separate entities. (Or not)."

i-caved

I bought the cell phone. Ya, that one. Do they even call it a cell phone anymore?

The problem with a smart phone is that if you’re dumb (technologically speaking) having a smart phone is a) no help b) likely to make you feel stupider. It’s like giving the Oxford English Dictionary with the magnifying glass to an illiterate.

Moving Earth

Aside from writing, which barely qualifies, I’m not much of a DIY (do it yourself) girl. I’m more of a GSE (get someone else) type. However, I felt the need over the past few days to move earth, (but luckily not heaven, because I wasn’t up for that). And so I did, buckets and buckets full.

At Home in My Blog

Sometimes I worry my little blog doesn’t get enough of my attention. Not that I’m feeding it less, just that it’s taking up less space in my brain.

The sardine retreat

Turns out I’m driven. Turns out my fears were unfounded. I don't need a big fat bureaucracy, or my father standing over my head with a megaphone he can do without, to impose structure and deadlines. Turns out I won’t always abandon projects I claim to hold dear leaving a wake of false starts. Turns out I can be alone. Turns out I’m a writer.

Harper's War on the Environment

If someone were proposing a toxic dump on the property next to mine, ignoring the scientific studies indicating it would poison the ground water and give me and my kids diseases (all the while telling me it was the key to prosperity and competitiveness and that I was anti-Canadian for opposing it) I'd be up in arms.

Even if it was going to employ 50 people.

The Pitch

I recently met with a columnist who’d generously agreed to let me pick her brain. I was nervous and excited and did more nattering on about what I was up to, than I did effective mining of her resources. She did say that her own tips and particular journey might not be that helpful to me. She’d taken a traditional route – journalism, internships at magazines, national newspapers. My route - decades as a bureaucrat followed by the canon ball jump into writerly waters, was another thing altogether.

Should you ever take the reader to the toilet?

I got my novel back the other day. A close friend read the first draft and while she liked many things about it, even found herself caught up in the page-turnerness of certain sections, she felt it needed a trim - a shave? a diet? The story is too fat. As someone who struggled with body image and eating disorders my whole adult life an overweight story is a scary thing.

Forgive me my trespasses

It’s bad enough to be rejected. My short story didn’t win the Toronto Star competition. I console myself with the belief it's more of a train-of-thought monologue, than a traditional story. Fair enough. But mishaps that remove you from the competition altogether are worse. In this case I had only myself to blame although I’ve spent the last two days identifying who and what else might shoulder that burden.

Friday sucked.

The comforts of complaining

My writing landscape looks different than it did a few weeks ago. I have less and more to complain about. I left for Cuba. The Huffington Post accepted a piece. The NYT Motherlode Blog exposed my nudity. Things went from there.

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