Giving Thanks

Unlike our American neighbours, we here in Canada celebrate Thanksgiving early on in October; our harvest time is earlier and we desperately want to pack in the fun before it snows and we get cabin-bound until April. The last bit is an exaggeration, but just barely some years. This year, for the first time in ages, there will be no family feast this long weekend; no one has fallen out but we've postponed getting together for a week due to a family birthday and my oldest brother being out of town. It's a strange turn of events, but as a vegetarian, I'm not lamenting the loss of smelling a cooked turkey (it's vile, to be frank!) and as an overwhelmed teacher, I'm grateful for the added time to catch up on piles of papers I need to grade.

Gratitude. It's one of those words that gets bandied about so much these days that I'm loathe to use it, but this year, I feel especially thankful. I'm here, I'm in one piece, and I am fairly settled and working my way back to feeling content with life. Everything isn't perfectly in place, mind you, but that's okay too: those pounds I put on over the last six months being too miserable at work and stressed beyond belief to exercise and eat reasonably are starting to come off as I recapture my fitness routine and my energy, and the demands of my new job are beginning to wane as I get used to it and find a system I can manage.

What exactly am I thankful for, in a year that was largely defined by the evaporation of two close female friendships and a deteriorating work situation? First, there is my husband, who is undoubtedly the kindest person I have ever known and the main reason I didn't give up on myself. When I felt I had nothing left to hold onto, he was there, hanging on with me and giving me sound advice and hope. Just leave, he said. When something stops working, you need to leave it behind. He was wise, calm, and gently supportive of all my decisions but more importantly, he was understanding of the terrible mistakes I made along the way. If I'd listened to him sooner, I would have also avoided impatient and unfair exchanges with another friend. I've forgiven myself for my part in things that went wrong this year, but I know that I would have been lost had he not been there for me.

                                   The love of my life. I will admit to being very jealous of his hair.


I am thankful for the support and affection of wonderful friends and family both near and far. The laughter, banter, and conversations that I had over drinks, food, and sometimes over the Internet kept me afloat in what was a turbulent, emotional year. I was not always rational and often took myself and those around me on a wild, roller-coaster ride of menopausal overreactions and angst, so thank you to those of you who humoured me or indulged me when I was an emotional twit, and also listened and empathized when I was a mess. I'm all better now, I swear.

I'm thankful for the music I discovered this year, because it gave me a refuge from the world when I got overwhelmed and too sad when the going got tough in the spring. Ed Sheeran, Simon Neil, Frank Turner, Marcus Mumford, Mike Rosenberg—thank you for writing songs that I could connect with and find hope in when I feared I would drown.

                                     Three of the records that I've listened to repeatedly this year.

I am thankful for Whiskey, Creemore, Sirius, and Pandora, who fill me with unconditional love every day. There is something so pure in the love of an animal, and I am quite fortunate that there are four of them in my life to keep me warm and calm.

                                          Creemore never gets tired of giving me her love.

I am thankful for my sister, who continues to support me even though she does not always approve of my choices and decisions. What I love the most about her is her frankness and her unwillingness to tell me anything other than the truth. Sometimes, what comes out of her mouth is a home truth, but this is one of the many reasons I love her to death and have trusted her all her life. She is smart and generous, and she always has my back, even when she is shaking her head at some of the situations I get into.

                                                     My beautiful sister. Love her to bits.

I am thankful that I was able to get away this year when the going got too tough to stay home. I found solace in New York City on the very day the school year ended and I was ready to break down; I will never forget the kindness of my hosts during the four-day getaway, and I hope to someday return the favour and show them this great city I live in. The time in New York was healing, and something so simple as spending the day on the beach at Coney Island allowed me to forget the preceding months and look forward to the summer.

I came across this at Coney Island during my beach day. Perfectly summed up my NYC weekend.

And then there is Scotland. I've likely made everyone sick of hearing about that trip, because who can actually believe that there is a place on Earth with such a hold over me that it can take my broken spirit and nurture it back to health not once but twice in a lifetime? I'm not the least bit religious, but there is something about this country that I cannot explain except in a way that could only be labelled magical or miraculous. Our second time there was no different than in 2001, when I was crushed by my father's death, with one big exception: we had friends to be with this time around, wonderful, silly pals who gave us banter and laughter, and also generously went out of their way for us in ways that truly humbled. There were concerts, football, coffees, ciders, meals, long drives and serendipitous meet-ups that left a big impression on my heart and reminded me that #realfriends were more than just a running gag online. There was such kindness and affection from the people we met that I know we will be back there again soon.

I love this photo because Michaela and I were photobombed by two random Glasgow lads.

Dumfries and Galloway Forest Park in the southwest of Scotland.

To those of you who helped me get through this year, I thank you from the bottom of my heart. I have nothing but love, respect, and admiration for each and every one of you, and I am very grateful that you took the time to demonstrate such kindness and patience towards me. I hope you recognize yourselves in this post, and that the world treat you as kindly in return. You all deserve no less. Happy Thanksgiving.

Scottish Scapes

I know Scotland has been in the news for the past week, but I promise this will be free of politics and all about the stunning landscapes that make this small country so magnificent to travel in. I hope you enjoy this small selection of photographs that attempt to capture but cannot do justice to what must be experienced by the naked eye.

The beautiful shores at Portpatrick, in the south-west area of Dumfries and Galloway. This beautiful town was once an important ferry port for travel between Ireland and Scotland, but due to many shipwrecks, was abandoned in favour of Stranraer, situated in the calmer waters of Loch Ryan in the peninsula to the north.

Ailsa Craig, the fairy rock in Ayrshire, captured from the shore as we made our way towards Glasgow on the coastal route from Stranraer.

The isle of Arran, taken from the boat as we made our way back across the Firth of Clyde  to Ardrossan.

Along the hiking trail just beyond the village of Glencoe in the Highlands, we found this beautiful lake with trees imported from Canada. It was the only time during our visit that we felt the landscape reminded us of home. And yet, the soft purples of heather on the hills and mountains definitely told us otherwise.

Photos taken along the road at Glencoe Pass. Absolutely the most majestic views we encountered on this trip and a highlight in terms of natural landscapes.

Loch Lomond from the western side as we returned from our day in Glencoe.

The views to the north from the boat cruise on Loch Lomond.

Loch Lomond as seen from the eastern side, during a nature hike.

 Looking westward over Loch Lomond from the top of a hill during a nature hike.

Bass Rock in the Firth of Forth, as seen from the shore at North Berwick in the East Lothian area just south of Edinburgh.

Stirling is often referred to as the 'gateway to the Highlands'. Stirling Castle offers visitors a magnificent view of the nearby Ochil Hills.

As our trip came to an end, we went to visit friends in the town of Tillicoultry, and were even more delighted to find that the Ochil Hills were in their backyard. Literally. I was quite green with envy, and would be thrilled and grateful if they would adopt me for a few months a year.

Scotland: A Healing Trip

Part One: #Realfriends

I flew home Sunday night just in time for the summer weather to begin. Hit by jet lag and a wall of humidity I didn't experience once in July, not to mention a new school, grade, and teaching language (all French, all day!), it has been a trying week. That said, I have to admit that as I sit out on the deck enjoying the late afternoon sun and warmth, I feel nothing but great joy in my heart. The school year is shaping up to be challenging but very rewarding, and I am confident I have shaken off the ghosts that haunted me for the first half of this year.

The end of June was not dissimilar to June 2001, when I was numbed by my father's terminal illness and in need of a healing break; this year, it was a horrid work environment that threatened to do me in. The remedy 13 years ago was running away to Scotland, a trip that deepened the strong bond with my now husband and healed the pain of watching a beloved parent die. Last February, as I was sinking into despair and demoralized, I set my sights on recapturing the magic and joy of that distant summer, hoping lightning could strike twice.

Fast-forward to August 2014 in Scotland. The weather was not especially warm, it wasn't always dry, and it was expensive to live for three weeks using the British pound. I sometimes missed the availability of fresh fruits and vegetables, my diet relied too heavily on starchy foods, and I may have had too much to drink. That said, Scotland was the most magnificent trip I've had since...well, since Scotland 2001.

The view from Elcho Castle on the Tay. Beautifully typical of this wonderful wee country that we fell in love with.

There were three sides to our stay: tourist traps of the finest order (castles, whisky, and tours), escapes of the more natural kind (hiking in the spectacularly scenic national parks), and meeting online friends face-to-face for banter and chats. The blend is what made this trip so memorable and perfectly balanced. I remember saying to my husband as we consulted travel guides: "We didn't know a soul when we went there in 2001 and we fell in love with it. How much more awesome is it going to be now that we have friends waiting for us?"

The love of my life and I enjoying a drink at the Cowshed after a Fringe show in Edinburgh.

And awesome it was. I'll save the natural wonders and tourist stops for my next blog entry, and gush instead about the people we met during our stay. They were our hosts in so many different ways, and I want to tell them again how much we appreciated their kindness and generosity. Every step of the way, they made an effort to meet up with us and share a drink or a meal, and engage us in conversation. We had assistance with hotels, tours, and rides to and from the airport, giving the #realfriends gag more mileage than I ever thought possible. We were also blessed by great company over good food and drinks, including invitations to their homes for meals and lodging. Were that not enough, we were also driven to stunning sites with them as our local guides. We were humbled by the warmth of their response to our visit, and I especially wanted to give them my deep thanks for making our trip so exceptional.

Dipping my feet into the waters at St. Andrews.

Dipping my feet into the waters at Loch Lomond.

There is a lot of cynicism about social media and online friendships, but my experience has largely been a positive one for the last 18 years. Perhaps it's because I met my husband on a Usenet board way back in 1996, but I've never felt nervous about making the leap to real life with virtual friends. The folks in Scotland were exactly who I thought they would be, no less funny or sweet than they had been on the sites where we had first "met", and I think the affection we had for them was very mutual in return. I can admit that I wept a little bit on the shores of Loch Lomond a few days before flying home because I knew that I would miss them deeply once we left, and just wanted to stay in their company a while longer.

The Central Cafe in Stranraer, where I had the best fish supper ever and spent time with someone who  will hopefully be a lifelong friend. 2016 awaits, bello.

From the bottom of my heart, thank you to all the friends we spent time with during our stay. It is in no small part thanks to you that Scotland was once again magical, each in your own special way. You all lifted my spirits, and gave me so many reasons to laugh and smile again. I love you all dearly, and you will always have a special place in my heart for being part of such a healing trip.

A Midsummer Night's Dream

It's the halfway point of the summer school holidays. Right about now, back to school ads start creeping in over the airwaves, and the panic that the fall is only four weeks away starts looming. Not me, not this year. We are four days away from a much anticipated three-week trip to Scotland, and I've just come off the best weekend of the summer since I disappeared to New York City at the end of June.

Yesterday, we hosted a BBQ that was at once a reunion of old friends and the making of new ones. There were adults and children we had not seen in over a year, and the little ones quickly won over the resident cats with their caresses and attention. The dog was enchanted by his very own Scottish 'whisperer,' and another Scotsman managed to inadvertently feed him real meat as he passed by; for the lucky pooch, it was a banner day near the food table.

 It was one of those gatherings where a small group came together and clicked socially right from the start; the time passed all too quickly because of the banter and chatter between these newly-made friends, as well as the usual catching-up and short bursts of storytelling. We were surrounded by laughter, cold drinks, and generous plates of food, as is always the case with good company, but there were also moments of seriousness when difficulties and struggles were shared.

Into the late evening, as I went over some of the events and conversations of the day, it hit me how hard the last few months have been in and around parts of this circle. There have been dark times for a few of them and in some cases, those situations are still unfolding and not yet resolved. It made me thankful that we were surrounded by kindness yesterday, and that we were able to offer encouragement and understanding. There was a gentle ambience among the people sitting around the table, and a show of support for those facing harsh realities. It reaffirmed my belief that we must try to be kind whenever possible, and that no effort to help is ever wasted even if it appears to be futile. I was touched by a private conversation I had with one of our guests, and her immediate empathy moved me partly because it came after a year's separation. It reminded me to try to be more like her: open-hearted, calm, and full of compassion. She is at once gracious and graceful in a way I have never managed, and it would likely surprise her to know her words and manner had such a profound effect on me. It made me sit back later and think about something I had read many months ago:

A few walls came down yesterday, and I am sure the efforts to reach out made a difference to those who were hurting. It certainly did to me, and that was unexpected. Maybe it's not such a bad thing to keep knocking every now and then, if only to remind ourselves and others that friendship is valuable, that no gesture of kindness, no matter how small, is ever wasted, and that it's important to let people know you care about them. 

Tomorrow Is a Promise to No One

I found out late Sunday night that a former student of mine had died. It was a sudden cycling accident, the third to hit our school community in less than four years, this one occurring far from Toronto as the young man in question was undertaking a journey of self-discovery to the US south. Beyond the usual shock at reading that a 23 year-old has been killed in a senseless, tragic manner, it feels surreal and I think back 13 years to when he was just a boy in my class. It is not difficult for me to remember details about students I have taught, and I can often recall specific passions about many of them: in this particular case, he loved rock music and Glasgow Celtic, and I can still remember how often and proudly he wore his Henrik Larsson jersey, and that he brought to school a 45 of a Led Zeppelin single that belonged to his mother and had been signed by Robert Plant. If you’d like to read his story, you can find it here. You can even read his travel journal here.

I don’t know if others feels this way, but for me every death brings back previous losses, and I find myself grieving for many people at once. I get flashbacks of friends and family who are no longer here, and details come to me in a strange string of remembrances—sights, sounds, and sometimes smells that remind me that I will never enjoy their company again. Is it weird? Perhaps, but it seems to be how I process loss, and there’s little I can or want to do to change that. There is something sweet in remembering those who crossed my path, for it means they added something to my time here.

Thinking about this subject brings me to another reaffirmation of something I realized in my early thirties, when I lost three young friends in less than three years: the only thing that is finite in life is time, and it is not in endless supply. Where I once scoffed at my mother for suggesting that it went by faster as we got older, I am often alarmed at how quickly it’s all zipping by. That said, this is not the only important notion here. Beyond that cliché, and the statement that “life is too short”, is a deeper thought: if only time is finite, does that make everything else in life infinite, and if that’s the case, what of it?

For me, declaring and then believing this notion of ‘infinites’ shifted my headspace and allowed me to realize that I could live my life in a more fearless manner. This doesn’t mean I’ve taken up dangerous hobbies or have stopped being observant of my surroundings to keep myself safe. Instead, I’ve opened myself up to the possibilities that arise from diverse experiences and in meeting new people. I feel quite strongly as I get older that it is by reaching out to others that we allow ourselves to receive these infinite gifts free for the taking: there is love, friendship, affection, laughter, joy, and excitement just waiting to be grabbed up, and all we need to do is open ourselves up. Yes, yes, the world is full of hatred, bullshit, and meanness too, but to refuse to experience the goodness that is out there for fear of the evil is to waste those finite days we are given. I've lost count of the number of times I've gotten quizzical looks when I go off to meet online pals in foreign locations, but you will perhaps understand my decisions to do so better if I tell you that I met this guy online almost 18 years ago. He lived in America then, and we ended up meeting, falling in love, and have been happily together ever since. Fearlessness leads to wonderful results sometimes, and I've experienced this over and over again and think I will continue to do so.

I was reminded on Sunday night that, to quote a favourite song lyric, “tomorrow is a promise to no one.” Make it count, people. You don’t always get another chance.

Giving Up Authors

I've done something in the last few weeks that I'd not managed for months now: I've read books, yes, in the plural. It may come as a shock to some people, but trying to write often means you have to give up reading because the editing of your own work in progress leave you little time or desire to read anything else. With the school year ending and summer vacation started, as well as with circumstances forcing me to halt further progress on my own novel, I renewed my commitment to return to reading, and went off to seek books I'd been wanting to start for a long time.

Gillian Flynn received much acclaim for Gone Girl, and I'd heard from many that it was excellent. My husband, who heard it in audio version, warned me that I would not figure out until the end whether or not I would like it, and said he still hadn't made up his mind. That added to the intrigue and so off I went. It turns out he was completely right on both counts, and I found myself deeply dissatisfied afterwards. Still, her writing style impressed me greatly and I took out her debut, Sharp Objects, from the local library. That reading was one of the most disturbing ones for me since We Need to Talk About Kevin, and for similar reasons. Granted, Flynn and Shriver are both gifted writers, and tackled their subjects masterfully. That said, I don't think I can read either author again because my head just doesn't want or even need to go to any more emotionally dark places. I can find misery and overthinking neurotic behaviour all by myself, no assistance needed at all, thank you. The mental frailties, chronic abuse, and self-loathing that embodies Flynn's twisted characters were too much for me, and so as much as I appreciated the author's craft and clever plots, I'm going to give her up for a good long time.

The last time I felt so discouraged by someone so talented was when I attempted to follow Stuart McBride's Aberdeen-based, Logan McRae detective series. I started with book four, Flesh House, and quickly lost my stomach at the plot, which involved a murderer sending human flesh into the food chain. McBride's strong, witty writing kept me in to the end, but upon finding out that the killer had escaped justice and would be making a reappearance, I decided that the series of books that had been given to me by a good friend would remain on the shelf for the day I ran out of every other book I want to read. I love mysteries, detective thrillers, anything of that genre, and I was so disappointed in myself that I won't be able to follow this series. Brilliant writer, but again, as a vegetarian who cannot stand to think about meat at the best of times, the physical violence in this book just overwhelmed me. Has this ever happened to any of you? Have you walked away from a talented author because you couldn't deal with the topic or plot?

Right now, I'm about 50 pages in with The Silkworm, the new Robert Galbraith (really, JK Rowling) detective novel. There will be death, there will be emotional scars, but judging by the debut of the series, it will not cause me the same level of distress as Flynn and McBride managed. Next up with be Mo Hayder, who broke my heart with her Birdman debut and continued to do so with the Jack Caffery series. I just hope she too will not send me to darker places than she has already...

Letting Go

I'm back from a four-day weekend in NYC and entering a month of needing to get a lot of things done before leaving for a three and a half week vacation in early August. The to-do list is huge, with the completion of my novel being, perhaps strangely, at the bottom of the pile. Professionally, I have a new classroom and programs to set up, and every last detail must be in place before we leave for Scotland because of our very late return to Toronto (one day before school begins—is anyone surprised?)  On the home front, we've had minor but time-consuming renovations and improvements to all three levels of the house, some to repair damage from last year's summer flood (the new basement floor), some cosmetic (painting, removal of carpets, and installation of new flooring), some to create a more functional space (new wrap-around shelving in the basement and storage room) and some to add beauty and ambience to the garden. With all these changes has come the need to declutter, reorganize, and purge unneeded items. It's a major, on-going job that demands a systematic sweep of each room and a lot of patience. It will also take a lot of time and effort, and seems rather overwhelming at the moment.

The sun going down as we made our final approach into Toronto last night. Beautiful, isn't it?



On the personal front, I've got a similar theme for the month of July. It's been a year of amazing highs and devastating lows, of relationships and friendships made, lost, and stalled. I've decided to stop punishing myself for what I may have done wrong or what I should have approached differently. Regret is a waste of energy that only eats you up and clouds your hope for the future. More importantly, I've realized that I need to let go of what I can't control: the destructive jealousy, envy, and fearfulness of a few people have hurt me these past few months, but all I can do is acknowledge that it happened, forgive, and move on. For the worry that has come with not knowing what is going on in other people's lives because they've withdrawn to regroup or recover, I need to step back and just hope that they are all happy or working towards that goal, and that everything will work itself out in the end. It is a difficult lesson to learn, this art of letting go, but at the heart of it is the essential truth that nothing stays the same and that we must accept change as the only constant in our lives and make peace with it. As I said, I'm working on it and hope my hiccups will be few.

My time in NYC, busy and light and fun (well, except for the visit to the 9/11 Memorial, which gives you a whole other perspective and helps get your head out of your ass) and healing, allowed me to shake the heavy dust of my emotional end to the school year before it settled on my skin. I'm excited about my new position for September, and though I will miss some people I really love, the change will be good for me. If nothing else, it's going to force me to control my potty mouth because I will be with younger children.  I'm also looking forward to our August vacation, and the construction of our itinerary is going to begin with a trip to the bookstore to purchase a tourist guide in the next few days. At the pace I've set for myself these next 5 and a half weeks, I have a feeling the unfinished manuscript is going into my carry-on. And that's totally fine. In fact, it's exactly how I want it.

Sanctuaries

It's officially summer today, and I celebrated by sleeping in after another fun Friday night of social tennis at our local club. I also decided to treat myself to a low-key, do-little weekend, and am enjoying coffee on the deck while my better half is behind me at the patio grill, starting what will surely be a delicious brunch. The local birds are making a racket around me, no doubt excited by the suet dangling from the bar area a few feet away, while my cats plot their demise and the dog just rests at my feet. We've been in this house five years now, a very average, older Toronto home that sits a few streets from the lake and far enough away from the city centre to boast a fairly large yard. I've spent the better part of five springs designing an outdoor space to be a refuge from the outer world, and I've finally succeeded in surrounding myself with greenery and natural beauty.

There are no fancy deck chairs or expensive plants, and I suspect most people would find it completely ordinary, but it was built to be simple and calming. For the next few months, this will be my main sanctuary as I soak in the warmth of the sun, and settle in to finishing the final book in my rock fiction series. The completion of this novel has eluded me for a year and a half, and the move to a new job for September has finally put all the demons to bed in that regard: my head is clear, my heart is happy, and my pen is once again flowing.

In less than a week, the school year will be over and I will be in New York City. I'm excited because it's one of my favourite places in the world, I'm going to meet a lovely online friend and get to spend some time with my brother and sister-in-law, and because the rescheduled trip (I was grounded in March by the 763rd snowstorm of the winter!) will frame the start of the summer in the same manner as our time in Scotland will mark the end of it. Travelling for me is also a sanctuary of sorts, and there is something soothing for me to be away from home, surrounded by different landscapes, meeting new people, and experiencing history and geography so unlike what I know here in Canada.

My departure gate at Pearson in March...



I'm looking forward to these two particular trips because they will both allow me to meet new friends, friends I've not met in person but who were instrumental in keeping me sane over the last ten months as I went through an impossible school year under difficult circumstances. If it weren't for their good humour and silly banter, their kindness, and their willingness to listen and give advice, I know that I would not be in such a good place today. Along with my family and close friends here, they often made me forget the despair that engulfed me at work, and I look forward to meeting up and having some laughs and good chats with them.

When my husband and I attended the world premiere of 'Sunshine on Leith' last September, the blue skies of Edinburgh filled the screen and we jokingly whispered to each other that it was time to go back to Scotland.

We've only been there once, in the summer of 2001, shortly after I lost my father to cancer; I was emotionally devastated and exhausted from the three-month ordeal of caring for him, and our 1600 km driving trip from one end of the country to the other brought me out of a deep melancholy: the capital city was beautiful and welcoming, and as we moved north to the Highlands, the castles were great fun to explore and the landscape was starkly majestic. By the time we had come down Loch Ness and crossed over to Skye, I was in love with the country and its generous, kind inhabitants. It didn't hurt that we fell upon two weeks of glorious sunshine and temperatures hovering around 24C. All in all, a perfect vacation that allowed me to heal my broken heart.

As this school year progressed and I found myself sinking under what can most kindly be described as a micromanaging, soul-destroying, pettily vindictive administration, our joke began to morph into a plan for the summer. We loved our time there when we knew no one, I reasoned, so how much better would it be to go again now that we have friends there? My husband agreed, and so I am now in my middle of perusing travel guides to make sure we catch all the touristy things we missed on the first pass as I design an itinerary that will allow us to meet our friends in the east, west, and northern corners along the way.

As for the healing, I have a feeling lightning will strike twice: once in New York City, and again in August.

Toronto Hosts the FIFA World Cup!

No, that's not a typo or a mistake in the title. As Canada's largest city and the most multicultural metropolitan area on Earth, Toronto enjoys a special atmosphere every two years: the FIFA World Cup and Euro Cup are a month-long party during which we embrace our immigrant roots and celebrate the achievements of the national team from the "old country." We have to because, quite frankly, Canada has only ever sent a team to the WC finals once, in 1986, and results were less than stellar: we hold the embarrassing distinction of being the only team to exit from the first round without a single goal scored, I believe.

 Toronto is a city of historically ethnic neighbourhoods, and the culture of these traditional areas has been preserved even though many of its original inhabitants have prospered and moved out to the suburbs. There are well-known spots such as Little Italy and Little Portugal in the west end, Greektown in the east, and French bistros and English pubs in the downtown core.  Bars of various heritage groups exist across the wider city, and are well-known to the fans who flock to watch the live games of their favourite teams. The Musket is where you go cheer for Germany, El Rancho will shout Olé for Spain, and the Café Diplomatico will be painted blue and shouting 'Forza Azzurri'. In fact, the local papers often publish a thorough list of where one can go to follow any team. Quite often, when a country has won a game or moved on to the next round, celebrations involve streaming into its traditional ethnic neighbourhood with flags to party and make a lot of noise. In 2002, when Korea and Japan hosted, the time difference made it impossible to record games to watch later in certain enclaves: Little Italy often erupted into cheers in the early hours, to the annoyance of residents trying to sleep.

Spanish supporters after the last Euro Cup.

The other local custom during the World Cup involves the proliferation of national flags on cars, and much like the pubs, there is an etiquette to follow: you can display a small flag on the window of your car, but if your team is eliminated, it must come down immediately. This year, there are also decorations for the rear view mirrors, adding to the colour bursts in the busy city traffic. Tomorrow, my German and French colours will each rest on one window side, and my personal prediction is that the bleu-blanc-rouge tricolour will fall first. Thank God for the dual heritage, I say.

There is also good-natured ribbing between friends during this month-long sport celebration. As my passionate Italian colleague Frank repeats every four years, "the Portuguese cheer for Portugal until they get eliminated, then for Brazil, and if they fall, they become Argentinian or Spanish. The Italians only have one team." I always remind him of the beautiful results of the 2000 Euro Cup, when the ridiculous added time gave France the goal it needed to force extra time and then triumph over the Azzurri. As you can see, soccer fans have long memories in this city.

There have sometimes been taunts and displays of aggressive fan behaviour in past years, but overall, the World Cup in Toronto is a chance to enjoy the beautiful summer weather and to socialize in public spots around the city. It is a global game well-suited to this global city, and seems to bring us closer together as we cheer on our teams and celebrate each advance of our favourite one. It is Toronto at its best, and this time, we're in the same time zone as the other host nation, Brazil. This means we can watch in prime time, get plenty of sleep after we've had plenty of drinks.  Good luck to all the teams, although if I could have my way, it would be a French-German final!

Monday Blogs: My Writing Process

Today is May 19th, which marks the birthday of two people who have been influential in my life. The first is Pete Townshend, who inspired me with his song Behind Blue Eyes to write my rock novel series of the same name. He shares his birthday with my lovely friend and fellow writer Val Poore, who invited me to contribute to Monday Blogs by answering four “simple” questions about my writing process, so here goes!

What am I working on at the moment?


I am working on the final novel of my Behind Blue Eyes rock fiction series. The four-part series, which starts the story of musician Ian Harrington in 1978 with the book Love Reign o’er Me will end in 1994 with Empty Glass.

How does my work differ from others in the same genre?

I’ve not read a lot of rock fiction so this is a hard one for me to answer. I think my series differs from others because it is based on the Who song of the same title and builds its narrative around a blue-eyed sad man. The books are about him and his band, but it is also a family saga, a love story, and a nostalgic look back at the 70s of Toronto and London through to the 90s, and so can also be classified in many other sub-genres. I think my lead singer is also rather different from those in other rock fiction bands in that he is not a confident frontman, but rather someone whose doubts and fear overwhelm him all too often.

Why do I write what I do?

I started writing the series in 1979; I was 16, loved music and books, and was frustrated by the lack of mainstream novels with settings in the music industry or featuring rock musicians as main characters. I solved my problem by writing the first book for myself to read, and then continued to develop the series because I enjoyed the result of my initial efforts.

How does my writing process work?

My writing process for the book series has been unorthodox in many ways. I wrote Love Reign o’er Me and Love Ain’t for Keeping (books one and two, respectively) in 1979 and then shelved the first drafts to pursue my studies at university and then begin a teaching career. I forgot all about them until 1997, when I found and picked up my original manuscripts and began to read them again. The 18 year gap had given me insight into some of the characters and conflicts in the books, and I decided to rewrite them to add the nuances and character depths my younger self had been unable to understand at the time. As I rediscovered my books, I began to write again and finished a third book as well as about 85% of the final instalment of the series. It took another 14 years and a decision to take a sabbatical year away from teaching before I finished many rounds of editing and revising and self-published the first three books. Books one and two were released in January and May of 2012, respectively, after which I got to work on the editing of the third one, Let My Love Open the Door, which came out in January 2013. The last one, Empty Glass, is still not completely written nor edited, though I am hoping to have it out by August 2014. Ambitious, I know!


I would like to thank Val Poore for the opportunity to share my process with readers, and am tagging Ian Gordon Craig to continue the link by giving us his insights on next week’s #MondayBlogs. 

I Wish I Wish I Wish...

I could hit rewind and got back to the fall of 2012. Knowing now that I would end up losing more than 8 close friends and family in the 18 months ahead, I would spend more time with them and treasure every second.


I'd seen menopause coming. Perhaps if I'd known what I was in for, I might have made a greater effort to fight it or at least contain some of its effects. I ended up with higher highs, lower lows, and a level of manic, frantic energy that often made me say and do impulsive, foolish things. If I's been able to prevent some of them, I would not have hurt a few important people as much as I ended up doing.


I had patience and could handle unfinished business. But I don't, and I can't. It's my most frustrating flaw, and I've yet to figure out how to silence the voice that nags at me to hurry up and resolve things when they aren't ready for it. It's the same voice that makes it hard for me to let things go, to let them unfold, and I hate it more than anything else about myself.


I could just disappear for another year like I did for the 2011-2012. I'm not sure I have it in me anymore to keep doing what I do for a living in current conditions. Another year away would perhaps give me answers in that regard.

I had handled certain relationships differently in the last year and a half. I know I didn't balance most of them properly, and that my attentions were sometimes too intense towards some of them, and too flippant with others.


I could still my mind. It never stops thinking, doubting, dreaming, asking, wanting. No wonder I have so many headaches.


I could adequately convey to my husband how much he has saved me from myself and from my own despair this year. He is the best thing in the world, and I hope I tell him enough times for him to realize how much I adore him and would be lost without him.



For everyone to be happy. Including me.