Wednesday, September 28, 2016


There’s a cut
Across my heart
A broken string
Held on to my friendship
With you

I hear, little feet
Across the floor
It’s 4 am make sure
I’m still the constant

We adopted each other
From a cage in the heart
One night you whisper
Thanks constant

Listen, little heart beat
Against mine
Learning she’s safe
My place like concrete
A constant

The constant is here to stay
You can leave if you like
But the constant is here to stay

I hope people show up on
Oct 3rd at every shelter around the world
Ensure a life isn’t senselessly
Taken away and we show
The world we are

I wrote this poem about people giving up their pets when they get married or have children or move and how much my cats depend on and trust me even if they are giving me the stink eye. I didn't know how to finish it until the pit bull ban in montreal. I hope the poem speaks for itself but if you can't take on a pit bull, know that there are thousands upon millions of homeless and neglected animals that need help. On Oct 3rd if you can't protest the killing at a vets office in montreal go to your local shelter or sanctuary and see how you can help: a donation, a dog walk learn about what you can do in your own life to support not just pit bulls but animals in general. 

As I type this my friend is taking time off work because her granddaughter was seriously hurt by a dog attack, and not a pit bull. My heart goes out to her. 

Saturday, September 17, 2016


I healed a part of me I didn’t know was broken. I talked to a theatre friend I hadn’t talked to in 20 years. She mentioned how the acting teacher had this huge influence in where her life had gone. You see she didn’t make it into the Acting program and that was her one dream in life. For a moment when she was talking I didn’t see the connection with me. And then I did, you see I didn’t like the way he taught and so I decided not to audition into the program.

My childhood dream was to become and actress, as was hers. And we put all our effort into getting to DAL and becoming the only thing in life we thought we could be. But we didn't get our dreams.

One day, I sat in class and worked my way through whether or not I wanted to take acting at DAL. I had not understood, that if I consciously made the decision not to audition, that my soul wouldn’t be OK with it. That it was an earth shattering decision to make a 19 in the middle of a theatre 1000 class. It was only last week in itself that I was able to say “It was better that I chose the writing path, because I need writing to breathe.”

Maybe I did need theatre to breathe and have been drowning myself all these years and didn’t know.

I can now stop waiting for that magical theatre moment to reappear. I can stop putting my emotions on hold waiting for my acting moment, to appear to the old washed up dreamer. I wasn’t the only one whose dreams slipped away at dal; I wasn’t alone. But yet I was because I had control over the decision.

 I didn’t even know I was hurt, because I had made the decision, I thought I couldn’t be hurt.
Think of the friends who hadn’t made the decision, whose audition was just turned down and they couldn’t go to a new school.  I send you hugs my friends. May we all have healed.

And so I cradle a little part of me whose dream didn’t come true, and appreciate the pain that was in making that decision; even though I did make that decision, it still hurt a lot.

Monday, September 5, 2016


SO things are becoming a little bit clearer. Which is good, but the changes affect the way I see the world: a lot. When people use to ask me about my writing, I’d always say there was something missing and I’d go to a writing workshop and learn more and always there would be something missing, something holding me back. That piece missing was me. My confidence my health and my ability to write that was all hampered by depression,by me.

I see other people who’ve never taken a writing class be published and succeed and I get hung up on maybe it’s not good enough, so the hang up is still me. No matter how many times I write “I’m good enough,” believe that “I’m strong enough” or look in the mirror and know “my eyes are sparkling enough,” there’s still that part of me that doesn’t believe I can do it, and that’s the part that hold me back from succeeding.

I’m not good enough, I haven’t had the right writing classes, I haven’t had enough writing classes this one will teach me something I don’t know. There is always something I don’t know. But I won’t know it until I do it.

There are many writers that say you don’t know how to write until you write and come up against yourself; no amount of lessons are going to prepare you for what you face when you write your own work and then you have to relearn to write again when you do your second and third and fourth piece etcetera. Even with short stories, we can’t get one sent to the editor, and not have to do a million drafts of the next one.

And so I find that although I didn’t want it to be me it is me that is the catalyst to whether
or not I succeed.