Tag Archives: writer’s life

March 18, 2026 · 9:21 am

Writing about Grown‑Up Friendships

Strong friendships can increase your lifespan by up to 50%, lower your stress levels, and reduce your risk of depression, high blood pressure, and even chronic illnesses.

All good, yeah. Who doesn’t want to be healthier?

When we’re younger, friends just… happen. You sit beside someone in class, or you share a shift at a terrible job, or you bond over the fact that you both survived the same haircut trend. But in middle age, friendship is a choice. A deliberate, hopeful, slightly vulnerable choice.

We’re all wandering around with our emotional tote bags full of past friendships, heartbreaks, and half‑finished self‑help books, hoping to stumble into someone who gets our jokes and doesn’t judge our YouTube feed.

Middle‑age friendships skip the performance. There’s no pretending to be cooler, calmer, or more put together than you are. Everyone is too tired for that. You show up as your real self — the one who has opinions about laundry detergent and about how over the speed limit is too over the speed limit.

Adult friendship is built on tiny, ridiculous moments:

  • The shared eye roll across a crowded room
  • The “tell me everything” voice note
  • The way they know your coffee order, your coping mechanisms, and your favourite band from back in the day
  • The fact that they’ve seen you cry, laugh‑snort, and rage‑clean

There’s something beautifully hopeful about new friendships — the idea that even now, even with all the history and heartbreak and hard‑won wisdom we carry, there are still people out there who will get us. Who will laugh with us. Who will sit beside us in the messy middle of life and say, “Same.”

But building and maintaining new friendships at a time in life when everyone is juggling careers, kids, aging parents, existential dread, and the sudden realization that staying up past 10 p.m. now requires a recovery period is a big ask — a next‑level commitment.

Worth it? Absolutely.

I’ve had the great fortune in middle age to have met and curated some of the most meaningful friendships of my life. These connections — the ones that feel earned and carry an emotional honesty that only shows up once you’ve lived long enough to stop pretending — are what drew me to writing about friendships.

Writing about adult friendships means writing characters who bond over shared exhaustion, mutual grievances, and complicated backstories. As a writer, I’m juggling characters with decades of personality quirks, emotional scar tissue, and the hilarious reality that grown‑ups can absolutely form a lifelong bond over one good conversation in a parking lot. These relationships are messy, layered, and wildly relatable.

In the end, I write about adult friendships because they’re the real plot twist of middle age — the unexpected relationships that sneak in, shake things up, and prove we’re not done growing yet.

Here’s to the brave, awkward, hilarious act of making new friends in the middle of life. And to telling their stories!

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March 12, 2026 · 1:55 pm

Writing Characters Who Are Starting Over at Midlife

Ah, midlife. Where achy joints and the consequences of past mistakes become real. The temptation to think of it as a cliff we tumble over—or a force we have to fight against—is reinforced by the messaging that assaults us every day. But here’s what I’ve figured out: midlife isn’t a crisis. It’s a recalibration, a period when the brain, the body, and the self all quietly renegotiate what matters.

Adult‑development research has found that midlife is actually a phase of increased emotional stability. Not because life gets easier, but because our priorities shift. We become more selective about where we put our energy. We stop chasing every expectation. We start choosing with intention.

In 2015, my husband and I moved to the country—yup, right around the time we hit our midlife sweet spot. Maybe it was the move, maybe the country air, maybe just being midlife, but soon I found myself knee-deep in my own recalibration. I now had the time and space to examine the decisions I’d made—both in life and in my career. It didn’t take long to realize most of them had been shaped by duty and societal expectations. And since the truth had only ever been a whisper away, it took no time at all to see what needed to change. I was a writer who wasn’t writing enough, and that needed to shift. The shift was shifting. The starting over was starting.

I began work on my second novel, Stillwater Lake, which—unsurprisingly—became a story about new beginnings and the complicated courage it takes to start over.

In the book, Tallie and Jim, both middle‑aged, aren’t running toward a shiny new beginning. They’re walking, slowly and reluctantly, toward the truth. The stakes feel different. More intimate. More earned. They’re not trying to become someone new; they’re trying to become a more honest version of themselves.

It took what wasn’t working to stop working, and an ice storm to force them into a much needed moment of stillness. Midlife does that—it interrupts us. It asks us to look honestly at what we’ve carried and what we’re still clinging to. Starting over isn’t dramatic or glamorous. It’s incremental. It’s the slow work of resting when we need to, returning to what matters, facing what we’ve avoided, and letting go of the idea that it’s too late to change.

New beginnings are scary—but maybe the bravest decisions we’ll ever make.

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October 15, 2025 · 11:47 am

The Moment That Started It All

Why did I write Look Over Your Shoulder? And more specifically—why this story?

Simple. Grief made me do it.

Twenty-two years ago, I lost a dear friend to leukemia. Heidi was an only child with rare lineage, which made finding a bone marrow donor within her extended family nearly impossible. At the time, she had a 13-year-old daughter and every reason to fight. So, she pulled on the boxing gloves and jumped in the ring. An international search began, and eventually, a match was found—an anonymous donor willing to give her a chance.

Then Toronto was gripped by the SARS pandemic.

Today, we understand what a pandemic means to society. But in 2003, our understanding was vague. Quarantines were strict. Visitors weren’t allowed in hospitals. After her transplant, Heidi was isolated—cut off from the very people she needed most. She and her family launched a fierce campaign to change the hospital’s no-visitors policy. She contacted local media. She made noise. And she won.

But despite all of it, just weeks after the transplant, Heidi lost her battle.

Once I moved through the early stages of grief, the “what ifs” began to loop. What if she’d found a donor within her family? What if she’d received treatment earlier? What if the system had bent sooner?

Lucky me—I have a built-in grief buster: writing.

To explain my loss and make peace with those looping questions, I began a new story. In it, I asked: what if a leukemia patient did find a donor within their immediate family? But unlike Heidi’s donor—who never knew their generous gift hadn’t saved her—this donor had to watch as their loved one’s body rejected the transplant. And what if that donor was the one person in the family least equipped to handle either the procedure or the decline?

And so, Look Over Your Shoulder began.

My wheelhouse is character. And this book is full of them. Through writing this story, I didn’t just learn how to shape a novel—I learned how different people carry grief. How they bury it. How they wear it. How they survive it.

Look Over Your Shoulder started from loss. But quickly became something more: a way to understand love, legacy, and the fragile threads that bind us.

💥 You can pre-order your Look Over Your Shoulder e-book now and take advantage of this introductory price: https://books2read.com/u/bzGr7z

💥 Print version will be available for sale on October 21, 2025.

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September 29, 2025 · 12:42 pm

What Happens After ‘The End’: Navigating Post-Novel Blues


“Endings are merely the seeds of new beginnings waiting to bloom.” — Uncommon

I’ve written three books now, Look Over Your Shoulder, being my debut novel. I’ve heard it said most writers have one all important book they need to write. But it isn’t always their first book. Sometimes they need to get down and dirty in the mud, figure out this whole writing character and plot and setting jazz, before they feel brave enough to tackle their big book. Not how I roll.

Look Over Your Shoulder is my big story. Good or bad, I’m not sure, but being one to rarely look before I leap, and without having the damnedest clue what I was doing, I jumped right into my big story with my first novel. Not going to lie, it wasn’t an easy journey, because, yeah, I ended up learning about character and plot and setting on the fly. Consequently, finishing this book took FOREVER. Would I have it any other way—that’s a hard no.

And now my baby’s about to go big and to go wide. She’s hitting the streets on October 21, 2025. Woohoo!

My journey to releasing Look Over Your Shoulder hasn’t been a straight line, but now that I’ve held my proof copy in my hands, I feeling a sense of completion. Along with a whole bunch of other feelings.  

Finishing the story was definitely bittersweet. Ecstatic to have completed the project, I felt pretty damn proud of myself, but once that high waned, I was left with a massive emotional hangover. Although I was able to take my story on some fun-filled adventures, there were also times where I went deep and dark. Eventually, I got through the hangover period only to find moodiness and irritability stacked up right behind it. I recognized this wasn’t somewhere I wanted to land and very quickly began work on my second novel—Stillwater Lake (scheduled for release in the new year—just saying).  

Okay, fine. I softened the blow and cheated officially saying goodbye to the world I’d created in Look Over Your Shoulder when I stole a few minor characters and dragged them into Stillwater Lake. Ya gotta do what ya gotta do to get through, I guess.

Today, I feel I’ve come full circle. I’m readings my proof and feeling nostalgic. I’m revisiting my characters, the settings and individual scenes, and I’m remembering where I was when I wrote them, who workshopped them with me, and how I felt when I thought I nailed them. This book is a scrapbook of my writerly journey. Looking back has been nice.

What’s the moral of the story? Writers are feelers. That’s why we write. I’ve decided it’s okay to have a bunch of big feelings when you’ve finished your big story, or any project for that matter. I say sit with those feelings as long as you need to, just don’t get stuck there. You may believe in delivering your story to the world, that you’re done. I doubt it. Not only will your story now live on in your readers, but I’m betting there’s another big story inside you just waiting to bust through. Write on writers!

Pre-order Look Over Your Shoulder now and take advantage of this introductory price: https://books2read.com/u/bzGr7z

Print version will be available for sale on October 21, 2025

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October 23, 2017 · 11:49 am

A Village

Every once in awhile, I think I should, must, no other option available, quit writing. It isn’t that I don’t want to write, it’s that I think I can’t write well enough, basically that I suck. On my really dark days, I worry I’m like one of those contestants on a reality talent show who thinks they’re the next Adele only to be told they’re delusional and shouldn’t leave their day job

Recently, I had one of those days after having submitted my latest work-in-progress to my critique group. When word came down—go back, it’s not good enough—no hyperbole, I was DEVASTATED, CRUSHED, a snivelling, whimpering puddle of pathetic doggy dodo.

Never before have I worked so hard to come up with—what I believed I was hearing—such a shitty piece of writing. How could this be? How could I have gotten it so wrong? I’ve quit my day job to give myself the time and space to create literary masterpieces for GD sake.

Then something wonderful happened. My writer friends rallied around me—more than one carrying a sharp stick happily aimed at my ribcage. Some of the very people who were (politely) telling me they weren’t feeling a connection to my characters and didn’t care to turn the page, were the very people who sent me private emails, called me on the phone, offered to look at my re-writes before I re-submitted and took me out for tea. They helped me realize that when I thought I heard, it’ll NEVER be good enough, you loser, what was really being said was, it’s not good enough YET. Who were these wonderful folks? They were my tribe, my peeps. I’d reached out my hand and they’d pulled me away from the cliff. My tribe believed in me. Maybe I didn’t suck

People, all people, need connection in the same way as they need food and water. Connection is a necessity not a luxury. Every one of us, not just writer, but I think especially writers who by the nature of the beast spend a lot of time in their heads, need to know they aren’t alone. This week, I was reminded I’m part of a village.

So, to those of you who are at the early stages of your writing careers, I would suggest you join a writing group and work on building your own tribe. Step away from your computer and introduce yourself to your village. Because if you’re serious about becoming a writer, you’ll absolutely have a dark-night-of-soul somewhere along your journey, and you’re going to need that village. It’s going to take courage and a spirit of adventure, but I promise you will get back tenfold what you give to your tribe and your village.

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May 7, 2012 · 8:05 pm

5 Ways to Writer Proof Your Life

Current Closet OfficeThis past weekend, I had the pleasure of attending a writer’s conference and spent a big chunk of the day in the company of two younger women who between them have seven children under the age of nine. I applaud these brave women who, despite their young families, are still working hard at their craft. I know when my three children were little I neither read nor wrote for fifteen years. It is no small feat juggling work, family and a passion. My hat is off to you ladies and your commitment.

So the question is how does a writer (or any artist for that matter) balance a writing life with the rest of their life?

Unplug

The first thing I would suggest is, if you live with a lot of people, buy yourself some good earplugs. Although my children are now grown, they haven’t all left the nest and my house is packed to the rafters. I know with 100% certainty that I would never have written a single word over the last ten years if it weren’t for earplugs. Earplugs and a commitment to make my life work are what help me survive the mayhem.

I live in a 2,000 sq. foot house with six other people (three generations ranging in age from 62 yrs – 2 yrs), a sixteen-year-old, ailing dog and four cats. (Some days I peer around my noisy, nuthouse and honestly wonder whether I’m in fact, living in a displaced person’s camp or maybe an animal rescue shelter.) We have a suburban sized lot and at present five people are sharing my car. Lucky me. Well yeah, I am lucky. Although it often (very often) doesn’t feel like a good thing to have so much activity swirling around me, I think my art benefits from our offbeat life.

Plug In

I strongly suggest that whatever your current living arrangements are, steal from your own life. The craziness of my house provides me with endless story ideas and plot twists. If last night’s brouhaha over wet rags left in a toddler’s bicycle basket vs. abandoned pop cans, juice glasses and coffee mugs on a workbench is any indication, I will never run out of material.

Space Out

I envy writers who are able to write anywhere, coffee shops, food courts, but I’m not one of them. I need a designated writing space. Never having had the luxury of spreading my family out over a 10,000 sq foot mansion or 50 acres of land, I’ve had to be creative when it comes to creating a writing space for myself. When I was a teenager my mother moved us (herself and four kids) to a three bedroom apartment. Finding space to steal away and write seemed impossible until I discovered our walk-in closet. I pushed my desk into the closet and pulled the door closed. In creating my closet office, I’d found a safe place to pour my teenage heart out onto the page. Today, I still have limited space to call my own and have once again created a closet office. Five years ago, I turned the smallest room in the house into my office and in an attempt to maximize the space, pushed my desk into the closet. TaDa!

Disconnect

Seems like a pretty simple suggestion and we all know what we have to do, but most of us are not always strong enough to do it. So I implore you, please help yourself by reducing your opportunities to diddle. Disconnect (or at very least shut off) Facebook, Google and your email account. If you are really good, and manage to get a lot done in the allotted time you’ve set aside for writing, reward yourself with an hour of playtime on your computer, but not until you are satisfied with your writing efforts. No cheating.

TVless

Do not have a TV in your writing room. If you have a favourite show and it airs during your writing time, watch it later on cable on demand, or on the internet (to be considered your computer playtime) once you’ve finished work. Simple but true.

If you allow it to, life will suck the artist right out of you. But…if you embrace your wild and crazy life, I promise you, your art will become a living, breathing wonder.

 

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