Highway Man
Tom Cochrane rode the highway all night long. I did it in the daytime, like a grown-up, and I stopped for snacks. Three hours from Medicine Hat, a lot of cows, and exactly two pronghorn.
read ↗
100 Days — Writing.
A piece of writing a day for one hundred days — small, finished things, shipped before they get precious. Showing up at the desk on a schedule and letting momentum do what waiting for the muse never has. Some will sing. Some hum. All will ship.
26 pieces · newest first
Same People
Expanding a business is expensive, risky, and frankly scary. My message to these brave souls never changes, and it has less to do with markets than with telling the truth.
read ↗
Temu America
Google Maps said I'd arrived, so here I am in Medicine Hat. I don't not love it. But every quadrant has the same chain stores and the same awful parking lot built for cars that never want to go home.
read ↗
Theatre Fun
There will probably be houses of straw, sticks and brick. There may be a talent show rap-battle-dance-off. We don't know yet, and that's most of the reason I keep coming back.
read ↗
One Weekend
It's one thing to have an idea, another to get it onto paper, and another thing entirely to watch it leave your hands and go home with someone who wanted it.
read ↗
More Cats
Put me on the spot with a Sharpie, a stack of paper, and a room full of cat people, and fun is guaranteed. By the end of the day, the Stoopid Stick Cats had drifted toward fine art.
read ↗
Cat Festival
Last year I doodled a cat for every book sold, and by Sunday the doodles had escalated into something resembling effort. This year: the Stoopid Stick Cat™. Simpler. Faster. Arguably worse.
read ↗
The Goat
I used to write first thing in the morning. Lately it happens right before bed, because the day got away from me. Again. Somewhere in there, a rhythm changed and forgot to tell me.
read ↗
Tilde Gone
Would I miss the tilde if it vanished tomorrow? Would I go hunting for the ALT code, or quietly get on with my life? I've started wondering what these symbols are actually for.
read ↗
Labour Day
More like Labour of Love Day, amiright? The chilli pot is huge, a week of meals easy, and somewhere in the grocery aisles I decided the whole thing needed bread bowls to live in.
read ↗
Kitchen Hero
The tree out front is turning red instead of yellow, but only on the side where the hummingbird feeder hangs. Is it sentient? Is it an octopus? Meanwhile, I made muffins.
read ↗
Teamwork
The timeline was insane. Custom linocuts, a new imprint, an ISBN, a bar code, six greeting cards, a bookmark for good measure, and an ecommerce site we insist on calling SHOW-PIFFY.
read ↗
Alberta Pasta
Tonight's answer to the never-ending dinner question is a pasta-carb extravaganza with salad and peas. Why peas? I dunno. I love them, and I throw them into whatever will hold still.
read ↗
Krampus Time
Jenn wrote another book. Well, technically her cat Newton wrote it, and I'm not going to argue authorship with a cat who has strong feelings about Christmas.
read ↗
Yard Full
The leaves have started turning in our yard, the mornings have gone crisp, and best of all, I don't have to cut the lawn. Small mercies arrive quietly at the end of August.
read ↗
l33t sk1llz
Four games in, a character showed up at the end of a chapter and named herself. I have no idea how I'll reconcile what she set in motion, and I can't wait to find out.
read ↗
Cat Tum
When Mabel isn't killing things, she can be found relaxing in her favourite sunbeam. Cute. Fuzzy. A little smile pulling at her lips. Probably dreaming of dismembering something.
read ↗
Big Onion®
Jalapeños from Mexico, tomatoes from Alberta, beef from Alberta, tortillas from Canada. Everything I needed with one exception: every onion on the shelf that day was grown in the USA.
read ↗
The Smoker
I started smoking. Worse, I convinced my eldest son to start too. Not coffin nails: matching pellet smokers, because briquettes stopped fitting my backyard milieu and I wanted something with soul.
read ↗
Crime Scene
Charlie and Mabel were left for dead in a snowbank two years ago. We took them in and gave them a job: watch the shop, report anything unusual. Today, no girls. Just an open window and a light rain.
read ↗
The Penalty
Four little boys, one hot Friday, and a gas station counter full of candy. Their bikes were lined up outside like getaway vehicles. Some things haven't changed in forty-plus years.
read ↗
Behind Aligned
100 Days of Writing and Doodling started strong, then went off a cliff like Thelma and Louise. This is not a new problem. I drive off the cliff, land it — albeit in pieces — reassemble, stop for an espresso, and carry on.
read ↗
Hair Today
It happens with no rhythm, no rhyme. One hair, one inch, in a place it didn't exist yesterday. Not a thatch. Just one. Eyebrow, then shoulder, and today, gloriously, my neck.
read ↗
Wormwood & Underwood
I am old enough to know how to change the ribbon on a manual typewriter. One that smells of wormwood and sugar cubes, scarred with cigarette burns. Would I write on one today? Maybe for a page.
read ↗
Found Treasures
There at my feet, across from Sidney's best fish and chips, lay a beautiful if inexpensive piece of jewellery. I looked around for someone clutching their neck. Not a soul.
read ↗
Happy Birthday
I plan on being kind to myself as I cobble this together. Inspiration? I'll paw through the pictures on my phone, find one that has a story and write something about it. I'm setting a word count of 750 and will give myself a little reward every time I'm within 10 or 20 words of the limit. Little rewards are just that. Maybe I'll have a nap. Or a bubble bath.
read ↗