My Blogs

So, I’m starting to write a new novel. It would

I’m a big believer in synchronicity. Many times, I’ve seen

“This is a female text, composed while folding someone else’s

The dead of night evoked a fear in our ancestors

I discovered Jen Manion’s powerful book, Female Husbands: A Trans

Whether we’re anxious about a potential illness or expecting a

The ultimate discovery is a found book with notes in the margins. It’s like passing secret messages in class. Such a book recently entered my life via a used bookstore. Their copy of The Stone Angel by Margaret Laurence called my name.

In the summer of 1975, I was a shy, awkward girl obsessed with the Little House on the Prairie series by Laura Ingalls Wilder. I couldn’t get enough of her stories about 19-th century settler life. Her books were my gateway into historical fiction. Wilder’s writing opened my eyes to the hardships that people experienced on the frontier. She introduced me to homesteading women who faced life-and-death struggles and who diligently, with resourcefulness and hope, safeguarded their families. She also showed me examples of quiet strength, resilience, self-advocacy, inquisitiveness and how individuality and community can co-exist. She immersed me in her characters’ world and made me care about them.

The cover of  UNREST, my recently released 19th century historical adventure, is art. Quite literally. This is a tale of coincidences. When book designer Talia Abramson incorporated the art of Toronto-based painter, Keight MacLean, I was over-the-moon excited. Of all the artists in the world whose work Talia might have selected, she’d been drawn to an artist I’d interviewed a few years earlier and adored. Keight works with paint and I work with words, but we both explore the suppression of women’s voices in history.

UNREST, my 19-century historical novel has been released today! " Brash, duplicitous women, murder and mayhem, and illicit love abound in this wild adventure for fans of Outlander and The Home for Unwanted Girls, announcing a major new talent in historical fiction." —Random House Canada With greatest joy and pleasure, I share what the book is about and praise by renowned Canadian authors: Beith Powning, Genevieve Graham, Suzanne Desrochers, Alissa York and Alix Hawley.

“I’m 98 years old.” A darling woman I met on the weekend proudly shared her age. My husband is part of a gardening club that volunteers to water flower gardens at a seniors home. I was waiting for him to finish dousing geraniums when I spotted this stylish woman crowned with snow-white curls. After she saw friends to their car, she spritely doubled back with her walker to say hello. I raised the routine topic of weather, but she had something more exciting in mind.

Two hundred years ago, coal oil lamps were a rarity in the backwoods home. Hearth fires and candles were main sources of light. In heavily settled areas, a chandler might pass through once a year to sell their candles made with moulds. Most pioneer women preferred to make their own candles.

I’m so darned happy! Today, I came across a 2021

Since childhood, I’ve been interested in the “olden days” and how people lived. As a historical fiction author, I take delight in curating facts and impressions about people’s daily lives and how the times in which they lived impacted them. You can imagine the extensive research required to construct a believable world within a novel. For history lovers, this aspect of writing is pleasurable work. This being said, I’ve been learning about steamship travel in Canada in the 1800s and early 1900s. What might my characters encounter aboard such ships? I’d imagined grunge and simplicity at every turn.

IF WE SAW SOULS INSTEAD OF BODIES is the title of an essay by author Brianna Wiest and appears in her book 101 Essays That Will Change the Way You Think. I quickly noted that the entire piece consisted of questions. Before reading further, I stared into the pine trees outside my window. Would my questions look much different from hers? Don’t we humans yearn for the same emotional comforts? I pulled a chair snug to my desk, closed my eyes and started typing. The following is my reflection.

I recently had a conversation with a friend’s young grandsons, while visiting an independent bookstore to celebrate the launch of a fellow writer’s novel. One of the boys commented that, except for Chapters-Indigo, he’d never been in a bookshop. The children were impressed by the variety of available books and the general ambience of the space. Their wonderment took me back to remembrances of my childhood book encounters. I recall my family owning a small selection of Dr. Zeus books, Green Eggs and Ham being my favourite, and a few Golden Story Books. As was common then, my parents, on their modest income, didn’t own adult fiction books.

Millions of women have shaped our world, but there’s limited representation of them in historical archives. These invisible women—who span differing ethnicities, regional economies, social statuses and age groups—have been reduced to passive bystanders in society. In the essay collection The Western Women, one researcher describes how historical women been painted over with three stereotypes popularized through movies and novels. Since March is Women’s History Month, let’s look at women who defy each stereotype.

My earliest diary memory is the sort popular on the birthday party circuit of my childhood. I never received one as a gift, but I remember looking with envy at those pink puffy covered diaries and their zippered closures. Little girls I knew flashed their miniature padlocks and keys like symbols of their importance. I attempted a diary on looseleaf paper when I was young. But at the ripe old age of 11, my life was uneventful. My thoughts were all I owned and even then, I felt the risk of committing them to paper. Recently, I've begun collecting books containing diary excerpts penned by women from the past.

A recent movie version of Cyrano de Bergerac has me thinking about fiction authors releasing their thoughts into the world. Through love letters Cyrano writes to the lovely Roxane, on behalf of a young soldier wooing her, he expresses love for her that he’s too bashful to share directly.

I’ve always imagined the hardships our earliest settler families might list would include isolation, lack of survival skills, or hunger. Upon arriving in Upper Canada, Loyalist settlers were promised a three-year supply of food by the government. One of their greatest challenges was getting their grain allotment ground into flour. Some counties distributed portable hand-operated grinders that used rotating steel desks similar to the type used in coffee- and pepper grinders. Difficulty of operation made them unpopular. Modelled after a First Nation people’s strategy for grinding corn meal, the inside of a hardwood stump was hollowed out (using fire or red-hot iron) and used as a pestle. A mortar was formed from a 6–8-foot hardwood pole, 8 inches in diameter at the bottom and narrow enough to hold at the top.

Maintaining focus for the duration of a novel is a lot like running a long distance. If you think you can, you can. A painter friend once told me that when they worked on a piece for over a month, boredom would set in. How did I stick with writing the same novel for two or three years? The word compulsion leapt to mind. I’ve since distilled where that answer came from.

Since living in the country, my husband and I have come to enjoy the night sky. Without the glow of urban lighting cast upward, we have a clear view of stars and constellations. Where we live, when the sun goes down, darkness is thorough and restful. The only light is that of a full moon of which we enjoy a glorious view. October’s full moon is given the name Hunter’s Moon. On such nights, according to the Farmer’s Almanac, people historically gathered meat to sustain their families over the harsh winter months when game would be harder to come by

I’ve been researching death and grieving in the early 1900s to inform the novel I’m currently writing. Death was no stranger. An article published by Berkley University, tells that just years earlier in 1830s London, England, life expectancy of middle to upper class males was 45 years. Tradesmen generally lived until 25 years, and labourers until 22 years. In working class families, 57% of children died by the age of five. With the prevalence of deaths, rituals shaped by grief helped mourners to cope with their losses.

When writing a personal essay, I lean toward overwriting. The first draft is for me and subsequent drafts are for the dear reader. Once the excess is simmered off, the resulting flavour is more intense. It’s tempting to pour in every memory levied and fact gleaned from research rabbit holes. Alas, I’m kept in check by a desire to serve the essay and by publication wordcount requirements. Some personal details and research remain on the cutting room floor.

Nothing kills story innovation faster than our inner critic. It’s counterintuitive, but when writing drafts, we need to turn our brains off. When we work from our conscious mind, the ego takes over. What a poor sentence! That character should be more likable. Does this even resemble a book page. Our writing choices become predictable and guarded. The inner editor pulls us away from the magic.

My husband and I are urban transplants, now proud ruralites living in an agricultural zone. This change of residence is a dream come true for us. To the north, south, east and west of our home we look out on cornfields and rippling waves of wheat. In every direction we see historic barns that mark family farms. In short, we’re in heaven.

The view of rustic barns is one of the greatest pleasures of a countryside drive. They stir fond childhood memories of my grandparents’ farm and inspire my storytelling. I am fortunate to live in an agricultural region dotted with this historic architecture. After a windstorm felled a neighbouring barn, I began to reflect on the life expectancy of these treasured buildings. I recently enjoyed a conversation with Jon Radojkovic, president of Ontario Barn Preservation (OBP). Along with board members and regional representatives, he devotes himself to documenting and protecting Ontario barns constructed prior to 1959.

Last October, my husband and I moved to a rural property. Since the spring, we’ve planted a small apple and pear orchard and started cottage gardens. We’ve also dug fruit beds and created sixteen 5 x 15-foot market gardens. These projects are labours of love that require daily watering, weeding, and staking. Already, I’m harvesting vegetables and the task of food preservation begins. I’m also a novelist dedicated to production goals. My inner critic natters in my ear. You’re not spending enough hours with your butt in the chair, it says. But when I step back and analyse the actual facts, I realize that in spite of this new diversion of my time, my output is the same as in winter when hours were more abundant. This is cause for me to think about time.

Creative process and flow. I’m forever curious about the practices and self-talk that writers undergo to reach that special place where the story rolls out like a movie in their head. The flipside of that splendid flow is the quagmire of resistance. I’m also interested in what holds writers back.

I love a good night sleep. Who doesn’t? Sufficient rest affects a frame of mind. Certain mattresses and bed frames guarantee physical aches and pains. With friendly concern for historical characters residing inside my stories, current and future, I set about to the nature of bed with which they must contend.

Last fall, my husband and I moved to a rural one-acre property in Ontario’s Kawartha Lakes region. Farmers fields surround us and from every direction we see where the earth and sky meet. At night, stars are visible in the natural darkness and howling coyotes often lull us to sleep. We also found unexpected pleasure in a local auction barn nestled on a nearby sideroad.

Writing involves a lot of waiting. If you’re a writer, you know exactly what I mean. First we wait for the spark of an idea, that miraculous vibration felt in our core when a song or an image or a turn of phrase tells us this is the one. This is the kernel of truth upon which we can build more truths and a fully inhabited world. Yes, this could be a novel. We snatch up the nearest pen and paper to jot ideas before they dissipate. To miss recording them would mean more waiting.

I’m currently writing a novel set in Nova Scotia which translated means New Scotland. The Canadian province is revered for its rich Scottish culture. Here I’m sharing an early sweep of research that’s helping me establish the underpinnings of my Scottish characters.

Wouldn’t it be interesting if instead of writing our signatures, we were called upon to “sign” our names with a simple drawing of our choice? An image that represents us more accurately than an assemblance of letters? I know exactly what my drawing would be. A woman looking through a window. In my mind, I carry so many snapshots, from over the years, of me looking through windows.

Today’s reader has grown accustomed (haven’t we?) to the removal of quotation marks from literature. Readability is sustained when artfully composed dialogue is paired with their absence. I’m considering the use of quotation marks in my own work which leads me to question what dictates the choice of whether or not to use this traditional punctuation.

In mid-1800s Canada, there existed the core ingrained settler values of independence and self-reliance that dissuaded municipalities from lending financial assistance to the poor in rural areas. As urban populations grew, the incidence of poverty and crime escalated. Poor laws, like the ones that obligated England’s municipalities to assist impoverished locals, did not exist in Canada. With no effective welfare infrastructure, communities responded by “auctioning off” able-bodied poor children and adults who had neither family nor local relations to help them.

My great-grandmother Essie always wore an apron, the full-bib type that buttoned together in the back. Hers were made of lightweight cotton printed with floral patterns and trimmed with piping that matched. Even as a small child, I felt the love and warmth and story inside her tilting house. Although mindful and very much living in the now, part of me lingers in that time so vivid in my mind. The remembrance leads me somewhere unexpected.

Although I've listened to scores of online Margaret Atwood interviews to glean every bit of her wisdom, I most remember her advice to a pair of eager high-school-aged would-be writers. "Take care of your back." She reminded us that a body of work comes not only from cerebral exertion, but from unsung heroics of the body.

I recently watched The Lost Daughter, an indie film directed by Maggie Gyllenhaal. She wrote the script based on Elena Ferrante’s novel of the same title about Leda, a middle-aged divorcee whose long-awaited vacation leads to painful introspection. Here's what the film taught me about writing.

Early settlers in Upper Canada, particularly those living in rural areas, sought ways to break the isolation and monotony of long winters and heavy snows. Dog sleds and snow shoes that we regard as entertainment today were common 1800s instruments of travel over frozen lakes and rivers. So what did pioneers do for fun?

People often ask, how long I write each day. I stare above their head, then hem and haw as if grappling with a physics calculation. My brows shrug; my mouth purses. How long indeed?

This past week, I listened to a podcast in which an award-winning author was interviewed about her writing life and most recent publication. She’s received critical acclaim for four New York Times bestselling novels and two short story collections. In short, she’s a force. Her rapport with the podcast host was energetic and his questions yielded rich content. After a lengthy conversation, the author commented with surprise on the time. She needed to pick up her child from school. How sweet. How human. Then came the record scratch.

Among my favourite girlhood books was the "Little House" series by Laura Ingalls Wilder. Late 1800s pioneer life captivated me. Kathryn Adam, a scholar in midwestern women’s history and literature, regards Wilder’s female characters as historical resources that reveal “role expectations and feelings of western women”.

A dear friend presented me with a copy of The Right to Write by Julia Cameron. This morning, I read a passage in which Cameron talks about using emotion as fuel for writing. I know just what she means. Every day can’t be a great writing day. We’re only human and easily derailed. A song triggers the memory of a traumatic event and upsetting images flood our minds. Muscle tension from overworking makes our heads ache. Someone we love suffers hard times and our mind repeatedly veers towards worry like a shopping cart with a wonky wheel. The harder we try to put these thoughts from our minds, the deeper they entrench themselves. Why fight it when we can harness those emotion in a productive way?

“If you don’t understand how valuable you are, you will always accept what is given to you.” These are the words of Celina Caesar-Chavannes from her book “Can You Hear Me Now?”. The sky opened up when first I read them. Her next thought aims straight at us. “We (meaning women in particular) are often humble people who find quantifying our skills and experience—our worth–daunting.”

One off the pleasures of October is attending the fall fairs so prevalent across Ontario. After discovering archived images of fairs held in the early 1900s, I became curious about the origins of such events. These curated details will find their way into my writing one day.

I used to dislike wearing hats. They didn’t suit me. Millinery shops would draw me to try on hats. I’d pick a style shown in magazines, the type of hat that should be worn by women I admired—the sort who laughed with abandon, ate life like it was a juicy apple, and never second guessed themselves. When I looked at my reflection in the mirror, the hat occupied the entire frame. I disappeared.  But that's all changed now.

Writing is a lot like running long distances. If we think we can, we can. Our minds and emotions are called upon, and sometimes cajoled, to jettison us across real and self-imposed deadlines. Even when we give it our all, the road can stretch long before us. Between start and finish lines are magical effortless days anchored by disappointing ones when getting the story down feels like bench-pressing a Buick. And there are mediocre days, at the end of which, we forget the progress made in a manuscript. That’s the nature of art and creativity—knowing it’s so should silence the nattering critic in our heads. Well, at least it should.

Oh my gosh—goats! Since choosing to incorporate a small herd into the novel (in progress), I’ve become completely enamoured with the little scamps. My generous Facebook community has shared anecdotes and facts, many of which will colour the pages of my story. In one of my favourite research outings of all time, my husband Eric and I visited friends Candice and Ken at their farm in Northumberland County. They introduced us to their herd of Lamancha goats and talked about the basics of goat behaviour and care. Enjoy the photo story!

My keen interest in the lives of Canadian women during WW1 stems from the novel I’m currently writing set in that same era. Prior to the war, women of middle- and upper-class families were monitored by chaperones. Working-class women, in whom I’m most interested, were unchaperoned but constrained by what society deemed “good” behaviour. The status quo took a drastic turn starting in 1914. Cue the morality police. Equally fascinating was the weight of social expectation on women mourning their war dead.

A writer’s life involves a delicate balance between immersion and seclusion. We must be of the world to discover events and locales for exploration, to stimulate curiosity, to develop observations and empathy. In the chaos and trauma of everyday life, we learn what it is to be human. Yet writers require quiet isolation in which to create. Always, we’re reaching for stillness.

Age has been leading me to push ego out of the decision-making process. In The Book of Secrets, Deepak Chopra’s succinct explanation of “choiceless awareness” is welcome affirmation. And paper artist Béatrice Coron reminds me that choices based on instinct will bear fruit, if not immediately, then over time.

Twelfth century philosopher, Ibn Khaldun wrote that, “God created man in such a way that the veil of the senses could be lifted through sleep, which is a natural function of man. When that veil is lifted, the soul is ready to learn the things it desires to know in the world of Truth.” How beautiful and comforting. What can this mean to us as humans and creative beings? PS Are you interested in a BOOK GIVEAWAY? You can win an ebook copy of my debut novel, The Last Hoffman PLUS PLUS a paperback copy of your choice from one of my Read It/Loved It books featured in July’s newsletter: A Swim in a Pond in the Rain … by George Saunders Sing, Unburied Sing … by Jesmyn Ward The Signature of All Things … by Elizabeth Gilbert The Swallowed Man … by Edward Carey To enter: Join “Gwen Tuinman: Novelist / Bimonthly Newsletter” by clicking this link: http://eepurl.com/c3NIbn. ⭐ Contest closes July 15. ⭐ Winner announcement July 16! Good luck!

There’s a route I walk through my neighbourhood when I’m trying to think and sometimes when I’m trying not to think. More often than not, I circle the loop solo (if you don’t count the characters of my novel riding on my shoulders). When other humans cross my path, I nod and give the smile that says, “Way to go, you’re out in the world.” We’re mostly introverted, hence the early hour of our stroll. But once in a while, the sidewalk presents a bubbling extrovert. What can you do but take notice?

In the novel I’m currently writing, one character—a farm wife in the early 1900s—operates a home dairy and sells butter to local families. With an interest in butter-making, I set out to learn the process used in the early days. How delightful to discover a recording of a women’s working song plus a butter-making demonstration video from the 1940s!

I love the company of curious people. Our conversations leave me feeling lighter and joyful. New ideas tumble inside my head after we part ways. In correlation to curiosity, they are introspective and keenly interested in other people’s view points. Ideas, humanity, and the natural world light them up. They extend the pleasure of their discoveries to others. Upon reflection, in detailing attributes of an interesting companion, I’ve also described a writer.

In the summer of 1979, I sang along when Dan Fogelberg’s love song Longer played on the radio. He loved the object of his affection ‘deeper than any forest primeval’. What could be more compelling to a fifteen-year-old girl pining for romance. I then equated primeval with a dark European forest, thick with moss and trees old as time. Thirty-nine years later, I travelled to an old growth forest in the Ottawa Valley to research for my novel set in the timber era.

I dislike conflict. Most of us do. But it’s natural (and unavoidable) that situations will arise where we perceive things differently from one another. We each cherish a differently composed montage of principles and our views are uniquely coloured by individual traumas. A copy of Zen Guitar by Philip Toshio Sudo recently found its way to me. He writes about applying Japanese philosophy to the art of guitar playing. I’ve been reflecting on how to apply these same philosophies to coping with longstanding conflict.

If I could take a ride on anything in the world, I’d choose a bird. As a child, I loved the story of Thumbelina, a girl—you guessed it—the size of a thumb. The book illustrations were in a style reminiscent of the Victorians. My favourite was of Thumbelina riding a cerulean blue barn swallow with a burnt orange belly and a split tail. Together they soared above farms, church steeples, and villages. It would be interesting to see the world from a bird’s-eye view.

There’s a ritual of daily habits that I go through in preparation to sink into that focused near dreamlike state that allows the story to flow through me. Even when I do everything to the letter—read some nonfiction, journal, make the bed, wash up the dishes, meditate, do a bit of yoga—words can stutter onto the page. So what’s a writer to do when the slightest distraction, negative or positive, can shift attention and drains their magic?

A large part of writing life is spent researching information that, when woven into a story, creates a believable world that readers will enjoy spending time in. This process is immensely enjoyable to me. Currently, I’m writing about characters who are wintering a horse and a few goats in the early 1900s. The livestock will require hay. Since the people have no access to mowing equipment, so I’m learning about how they would have harvested hay by hand. I really enjoyed these videos and I hope you will too.

Research by neurologists in UCLA proved that when we watch other people engaged in action, neurons associated with the muscle group used by the active party will begin to fire in our own body. The observer’s neurons “mirror” what is observed in others. Our physical and emotional states are bound to each other. At a time when it’s so easy for our hearts and spirits to flounder, it’s prudent to be mindful of what of what our eyes and ears take in.

I once played a dinner-party game with friends. We took turns drawing cards from a deck of conversation starters. "What famous person, dead or living, would you like to have dinner with?" That sort of thing. The question I drew asked what famous person’s voice would I like to take on for a day. This led me down a rabbit hole of thought and the discovery of a manifesto.

Ernest Hemingway once wrote, “I am trying to make, before I get through, a picture of the whole world—or as much of it as I have seen. Boiling it down always, rather than spreading it thin.”  As a writer, his sentiment about rich story content is at the forefront of my mind. I strive to bring something of value to the page hoping to engage readers, if only to evoke their own introspection on the heels of my own.

Nahneebahweequay—a woman of courage and tenacity—was born in 1824 to the Mississaugas of the Anishinaabe First Nation. Her name means upright woman. She became an activist for Indigenous land rights with her feet planted firmly in both her native heritage and the English world in which she was known as Catherine Sutton. Her fight for justice led her to meet with Queen Victoria at Buckingham Palace.

I read an essay recently in which the writer reflects on the first piece of art she’d ever bought as a young woman. The purchase of this large gaudy painting, she declared years later, made no sense then or now. She deemed the colours too bright, and the subject matter unaligned with her cultural identity. By the final paragraph, however, she concludes that the painting reflected her mood at the time of purchase. It got me to thinking about the first art I’d purchased.

In the early 1900s, Georgina Binnie-Clark lobbied for women farmers’ equal right to claim government land grants and she educated new generations of women agriculturalists. Her story is particularly interesting in light of the present-day women’s farming movement and also because she campaigned for justice during an era that disapproved of outspoken women.

When I was nearing the end of high school in 1981, a forward-thinking teacher challenged one of my classes with this riddle. “A father and son were in a car accident in which the father was killed. The ambulance brought the son to the hospital. He needed immediate surgery. In the operating room, a doctor came in, looked at the boy and said, “I can't operate. He is my son.” Who is the doctor?” The riddle stymied all of us.

In 1907 my great-grandmother Essie was referred to as a spinster—a woman beyond the usual age of marriage. She was only 22 years old. Taylor Swift sang about being 22 on her album "Red" more than a century after Essie was the same age. “We're happy, free, confused, and lonely at the same time / It's miserable and magical, oh, yeah / Tonight's the night when we forget about the deadlines.” I’m thinking of how differently it felt to be 22 over 100 years apart.

Zora Neale Hurston (1891-1960) cultivated an awe-inspiring career that includes anthropological research of African-American culture and folklore; journalistic and novel writing; playwright and directorial work in the live theatre realm; and activism. She was part of the Harlem Renaissance and became a voice for her artistic community.

In Aspects of the Novel, developed from a series of his 1927 Trinity College lectures, E.M. Forster shared an excerpt of work by author André Gide. The passage examines “the old thesis of truth in life versus truth in art.” Upon first reading this phrase, I thought brilliant idea—then doubled back for another pass and sunk into it like a warm bath. As a novelist, I aspire to writing plots and characters infused with truths in life, so I turned to well-thumbed books on my shelf to read how others weigh in on the issue.

During the pandemic lockdown, our attention is shifting from the pursuit of things to creating moments of satisfaction. The ways in which we can spend our money and time are limited for now and many of us have rediscovered the pleasure of old pass times. Are we experiencing a rebirth of contentment?

As a creative person, I’ve historically found administrative to-do lists terrifying. I’d start off gung-ho, then turn into a morose Hamlet-type. “To get it done, or not to get it done. That is the question.” All those unticked boxes came to symbolize shame and guilt. They mounded up so heavily I couldn’t lift them. Why try? But then I realized that the dormant to-do’s I needed—nay wanted to get done—could allow me to unstifle myself and share my words.

I’ve nearly worn out my DVD box set of Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman from having watched it so often. Dr. Michaela Quinn had the cure for almost everything and often sought the council of her First Nation Cheyenne friends who taught her about medicinal plants growing in the wilds. Episodes often mentioned people suffering a catarrh or ague. These terms appear in a number of pioneer journals as well and I’ve always been curious about their meaning.

I recently saw an Instagram post that asked, “When will the pandemic end? I just want to know if I should by pumps or more pajama pants.” We’re taught to dress for the occasion, but in past months we’ve been dressing for functionality and perhaps as an involuntary reflection of our mood. Clothing, women, mood. Don’t we all have stories about this?

I used to have a volunteer gig interviewing local authors. During each discussion, I’d ask, “When did you know you were a writer?” Now folks ask me, and here’s what I tell them.

“We believe each other into being.” This quote by poet philosopher Jennifer Michael Hecht has me thinking about aloneness, connection, and that while we may be out-of-sight we are never out-of-mind.

Insomnia is the canary in my mineshaft. Just when I think I know what I’m doing in a novel, it swoops in to chirp that I don’t know what I’m doing at all. What’s the cure?

In the early 1900s era during which my novel in-progress is set, patriarchal power frustrated women’s need for social change, specifically prohibition and ending domestic violence. We’d yet to attain the right to vote and in Canada, women were disallowed from holding public office because we didn’t qualify as “persons” under the definition set forth in the Constitution. Research deepens my understanding of the characters whose stories I tell. I’m feeling their aggravation.

One of the certainties in life is that nothing stays the same. The world changes, dark shifts to light, and we evolve too. The question is do we offer clemency to all our past selves?

I think of pre-COVID smiles exchanged during interactions in real-time. Pleasantries shared from behind a mask often fail to satisfy. I used to think eyes smiled. But not any more.

There are phrases we fall in love with while reading. We jot them on scraps of paper that we tuck away until some future instance prompts us to read them again. The centre will not hold. Those words had me in their grasp today. I followed them to Didion and Yeats.

During this tumultuous period, it’s even more challenging to free our minds from distraction, so our imaginations can run free. We may stumble moving forward, but we get up and try again.

Here in Canada, October is Women’s History Month. I’d like to celebrate by sharing the story of a woman journalist who, in the late 1800s, embarked on a career in journalism and gave a voice to women’s issues. She proved to Canadians that women’s interests reached beyond the kitchen and childrearing.

We're all hearing the volume turn up on the climate change issue. The earth is suffering the effect of trauma. When humans mistreat the environment, consequences of climate change fall squarely on other humans. We’ll find answers to heal what we’ve broken. Have faith. The answer may lay in soil.

Do you jot notes in your books, or circle meaningful phrases, key paragraphs? Maybe you turn the corner of a page down so you can remember a particular passage? Then we have a lot in common.

There is nothing more daunting—yet beckoning—than a blank page. I wrote this line while journaling in the voice of my new protagonist. Funny how, without intending to, our characters become a writer’s confessor. So many of us are wrestling our personal version of a daunting yet beckoning blank page.

I recently came across the term pop-feminism. It refers to the enthusiastic hearting and sharing of feminist slogans on social media posters--but without investing oneself in learning about the highlighted issue. I may or may not have been guilty of that time to time. (Cough!)

I've been thinking of my grandmother lately. Each summer of my childhood, I escaped the forces of home to enjoy two carefree weeks in her presence. This poem is for her. I wrote it following a vivid dream that she'd come back to me. Erie Belle, always in my heart.

So many of us feel lost and rudderless. The uncertainty of not knowing where to set our foot next leaves us trembling. This is a year of getting comfortable with being uncomfortable.

This growing stack of index cards will become my third novel. I recently posted on social media about how I’ve been writing plot points, research references and character profiles on them. A sweet friend commented, “Oh, that’s how you write a book.”

Dear womxn creatives, whatever you’re doing—actively creating, reflecting, or resting in stillness—we're your people. If you're passionate about your art--or want to be--please join us for an inspiring discussion about creativity. Conversations with other artists replenish my soul and my imagination which is why I love this event. Hang out with us online at The Wild Nellies Meet-up for Womxn Creatives and enjoy inspiring insights from our creativity panel!

When you hear about a historical movie featuring a ship at sea, do you picture a woman at the wheel? I didn't either until I read "Women at Sea in the Age of Sail" by Donal Baird, a fascinating account of seafaring women from Canada’s east coast in the 1800s.

The incidents that characters would rather sweep under the rug—memories painful to unearth, past deeds that gnaw at our conscience, regrets and unrealized ambitions—are the things we must write about.

When you’re ready to publish your novel, choosing an image for the cover is no small feat—especially when the story is literary and explores a variety of themes. I faced that challenge when preparing The Last Hoffman for publication. Here’s a peak at my journey to selecting an image.

Our stories connect us to each other. Memoir is the literary version of two friends bonding through a shared story of challenges, triumphs and perhaps sorrows. The process of writing memoir relies on the distillation of raw material. How does one begin?

I'm delighted to be a writer in residence at The Lynde House Museum from July 14-16, 2020. Readers, writers and aspiring writers who dreams of recording their life stories will enjoy the week's offerings. Enjoy the book talk, the memoir workshop, and individual or small group chat about your specific project. Join us for all three events or any combination of events that suits your needs. Have a beautiful day and I'll see you there!

Who are we when no one’s looking? Not everyone fully believes the ideals they applaud publicly. Sometimes, their true feelings slip between the cracks and reveal themselves on public forums. Those slips are impossible for an audience to unsee and unhear. What to do?

Have you ever felt sad that a book is over? It’s so difficult saying goodbye to some characters. We writers empathize. Imagine being the creator of the story and spending every day with those characters for two years or more. It’s difficult for us to close the pages too.

Virginia Woolf said that a woman needs a room of her own if she’s to write fiction. Cheers to that. I'm privileged to have such a room. The state of this creative space is a reflection of my churning mind.

Unwed Mothers and Maternity Home History is a research piece I wrote in 2015 as I worked on my recently released novel, The Last Hoffman. A character is in trouble. She is pregnant, young and unmarried. Should she raise the baby? Should she give it up to a childless couple?

You will be moved by “More Than Enough”, a newly released music video by singer songwriter The Rockin Krolik. This haunting song is inspired by my memoir essay, “We Are Enough” and observances of his mother’s domestic abuse experience.

Here's a quick read about vintage photography with purpose. There's so much more to this picture than a little cherub with curls and pinchable cheeks. The story behind the camera is interesting too!

I'm thrilled to share that my novel THE LAST HOFFMAN is published and available for purchase in e-book and print format. The Last Hoffman is a story about the reverberation of family secrets. It will renew your faith in second chances. More juicy details in this post....

I’m nearing a finish line. For the past three years, I’ve been researching and writing my current novel in progress—and it’s almost done. The work must be completed before the end of May which is not so far away now. Today I'm thinking about how it will all get done!

We all love stories. Here are a few thoughts on why booklovers read and why writers are compelled to write.

Essie was born in 1884. She was my great grandmother and a source of fascination for me as a child.

“I like to live always at the beginnings of a life, not at their end.” This quote by essayist Anaïs Nin (1903-1977) caught my attention recently. While brief, it’s a thoughtful prescription for living that I’ve been mulling over the past few days. What did Anaïs mean by “at the beginnings of ‘a’ life”?

I’ve been thinking about how as a writer, I am

Sometimes the universe has bigger plans that we'd envisioned for ourselves. We awake to the blissful realization that the journey we'd planned is now planning us.

Stephen Brûlé is a photographic artist specializing in tin type photography. We recently chatted about photography, creativity and olden days. He shared fascinating details that will find their way into my writing.

Early 1900's Garden Photographs--a curation of four images depicting moments in Canada's past

Historical Author, Tom Taylor, and Lynde House Museum curator, Monica Effenberger discuss The War of 1812 and the legend of Canada's hero, General Isaac Brock.

Historical author, Tom Taylor and Lynde House Museum curator, Monica Effenberger discuss the War of 1812, General Isaac Brock, and the Lynde family's contribution to the war effort. (Part 1)

(A Four Photo Series)  

Pioneer settlers worked hard to clear trees from the land so they could grow crops. Logging bees and stumping bees plus fire and blasting powder helped. <a href=""> Read More...

Julie Oakes regails us with bees, marmalade, and her favourite temperance activist from the 1800s.

Julie Oakes, historical culinary expert, discusses the 1800s kitchen hardships and pioneer diet

A few weeks ago, I paid a visit to a

The fall season is truly upon us now, and the garden aspect

An exploration of my Irish ancestors' Methodist roots.

“I wonder …” How would you finish this sentence?

Learning about the practice of 'farriers', expert horse shoers.

Upper Canada settlers overcame agricultural woes. Some First Nations' practices were adopted.

(A Four Photograph Series) “I wonder …” How would you

How do writers come up with story ideas?  There are

  I recently pushed away from my desk in favour

While I was growing up, my hometown continued to shift and

Why will I forever laugh out loud at the sight