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There’s a line in a song by the band Fun that asks, “Why am I the one always packing up my stuff?” I had an immediate connection with those lyrics the moment they touched my ears. Perhaps because I am, in fact, always packing.

My sister says moving is “my thing.” I laughed depressingly the first time she said this. I’m starting to think she’s right. Over the past six years, I have moved eleven times. Eleven. As a result of all these moves, I have precious few material possessions. Clothes and books, mostly. But, I do have a heavy collection of both—the latter of which got many groans from my father as he heaved box after box (that’s what you get for teaching your kids the joy of reading; parents beware).

I am okay with not owning much beyond the items my body wears and the ones my eyes feast on. We come into this world with nothing and will leave with the same, so why accumulate too many dust-collectors along the way? My problem arises from the question of “home,” because, for me, the term keeps morphing.

Last week, I packed up my meagre belongings, said goodbye to my former apartment in the Financial District of Toronto and moved out to the west end. I stood with my parents, amongst boxes and packing tape and let the tears fall.

The sadness came not from leaving the actual structure. Though I will miss the convenient location, it’s not the 600 square foot space that I was upset about. It was the thought that, once again, I had lost a home.

When I was a kid, this idea of home was encapsulated in our Orangeville house, a place that I can still see down to the last detail when I close my eyes—which way each door opened, where the furniture was placed, the pictures on the wall, nail polish stains on the carpet, even the smell of each particular room. I knew every inch of it. But that’s not what made it home. That came from the feeling that washed over me when I punched in the garage code and walked inside. It was sanctuary. It was safety.

As a teen, I moved with my mom and siblings to Waterloo, and my home got smaller. It was a long time before I felt comfortable in this new city—the girls wore pastel ribbons in their hair and seemed to shop exclusively at The Gap, both foreign ideas to me—so I spent a lot of time in my bedroom, with the door closed. I read books. I wrote short stories. I scribbled out poetry. I escaped from my paralyzing fear over not fitting in by making these four walls my new home. Again, I was safe.

Even after I made friends—life-long ones at that, so lucky for me that I did decide to venture out—that zone still remained where I felt the most at ease. Even just knowing it was there to come back to buoyed me up when the outside world seemed too much to take.

It wasn’t until university, when I started my perpetual moving habits, that I started to think of home not as a place—because that was always changing—but as a person. When I got married, one of my best friends sang Chantal Kreviazuk’s hit ballad “Home” in her beautiful, melodic voice. Home was what I sought after, what I longed for. I wanted to belong.

I don’t think it’s a unique feeling, that search for a place to belong, but issues arise when you identify home as a specific person. When the walls you thought you knew so well shift and reveal an ugly truth behind the mirage, you have two choices: make peace with a new reality or step out into the cold, on your own.

You see, if home is another person, then the common phrase “I’m home” because fairly problematic. You are that other person? Or they are you? A loss of identity or a projection of your identity onto someone else can’t possibly be a healthy mindset. Can it?

No matter what Justin Timberlake is crooning about these days, I refuse to believe that true love is a mirror, a chance to admire the qualities you like most about yourself as they manifest in someone else.

But as my mom held onto me while my shoulders shook in the middle of a mostly empty living room, one that used to hold happy memories of unconstrained laughter, random Friday night dance parties and frantic cake decorating fiascos, I realized I might have done just that: confused my own identity with that of a coupledom. When home is a person and you lose that person, you can longer utter the words, “I’m home.” Does that mean you become nothing?

For moments during that day, it felt like it. But then, as I settled into my new residence, I started to understand that I had it wrong all along. If I kept making home another person, I would always feel transient, my sense of comfort and security completely reliant on the state of another individual. Home couldn’t be another person, or a physical location; it needed to be me.

When I was little, someone told me that turtles travel around with their homes on their backs. I used to picture the tortoise shell as a kind of portable tent that they could crawl inside, put their turtle feet up on a chaise lounger, turn on the TV and relax (I blame Franklin books and an over-active imagination for this false image).

Obviously, I know now that the turtle shell is more defence mechanism than homey escape with an area rug. But the concept stays with me when I think about when I will next feel like I’m home. When I will feel safe.

I have a healthy body, an energetic mind, a searching spirit. Seems like I should have everything I need with me, at all times.

No four walls of a building, nor two arms of another, can ever compete with that.

If I start writing, will you stop poking me in the middle of the night?

I get it. That will sound dirty to some. I promise you, it’s the furthest thing from it.

As a writer, I know full well that inspiration for projects comes at all times. Day. Night. Middle of a business meeting. While your significant other is trying to tell you something. Sometimes it’s not even a project you want to take on. It’s hard not to listen. And get lost. If I’m ever talking to you and, mid-conversation, I seem to zone out, I do apologize. It’s not my fault. Honest.

In her TEDTALK, Elizabeth Gilbert (author of the best-seller Eat Pray Love) addresses the double-edge blade of creative inspiration. “Not just writers, but creative people across all genres, it seems, have this reputation for being enormously mentally unstable,” she says. Because she wants to continue doing what she loves, writing, she asks the question of how one can do this, without becoming looney-tunes certified, destroyed by the creativity inside.

Her research takes her first to the Greeks, and their concept of the daemon, and then to the Romans, who named this creativity the “genius”–not a clever person we think of today when we hear the word, but an outside source of inspiration. “They believed that a genius was this, sort of magical divine entity, who was believed to literally live in the walls of an artist’s studio,” she says. “Kind of like Dobby the house elf, and who would come out and sort of invisibly assist the artist with their work and would shape the outcome of that work.”

This distance from creative responsibility gave artists a healthier relationship with the process of their art. Their successes, and failures, were not solely on their shoulders. The burden of being an artist was lighter. There was still work to do, but they thought of themselves as the captain of the ship, rather than the God of the waters. The job was daunting, but not sanity-obliterating.

It’s a comforting thought. I would much rather be the writer who gives voice to the stories that are whispered in my ear by this genius, than the writer who accepts the burden of playing magician, to conjure genius works in the first place.

But, sometimes it would be nice to control WHEN that whisper of inspiration decides to invade my mind. Like, say, NOT at 7am on a Saturday morning of a long weekend when all I want to do is sleep-in because it’s the one morning I don’t HAVE to be up.

Alas, one can only ignore Dobby the house elf for so long.

I awoke early this morning, after a fitful sleep where I tried to ignore my whirring mind that was drowning in the ideas I scrawled down yesterday, after work: an outline for my next novel. It’s ambitious. I’m nervous. But it’s nice to know I’m not truly alone when I sit down at the blank page. Maybe, just maybe, that genius is looking over my shoulder as I write the prologue.

So, yes, I have started writing. Genius, art thou satisfied? Perhaps you can stop jabbing me in the ribs at the crack of dawn? By which, of course, I mean please do continue. I will need all the poking and prodding I can get. But at least tell me where your snooze button is.

Watch the video and read the transcript here: http://ented.babblebuzz.com/elizabeth-gilbert-your-elusive-creative-genius/

I got lost today.

I was sifting through an old portable hard-drive and stumbled upon writing of mine from years ago. It trapped me for a good hour, reading back through my old thoughts on life and love. I could be pretty angsty, in my teen years. And wordy. Yeesh. Pretty sure I had an opinion about everything (which would explain me getting voted “Most Opinionated” in my high school year book).

Despite certain changes in perspective, the new me still smiles and cries over reading about the old me. “It feels like a lifetime ago,” is the age-old expression. But how true the statement is, like life is divided into smaller lifetimes, connected but separate. It gave me a glimpse into a perfectly preserved state of mind, allowing me to look at it (somewhat) objectively, from the outside this time.

I think we can all learn something from our former selves–even if it’s just, “I tend to repeat my mistakes. A lot.”

We can learn what it was like to be young. What it was like to love with our whole hearts. What high expectations we had. What we thought was our lowest moment in life.

So, I thought the new me would share some of the old me, from one of the most life-altering moments of my early 20s.

Context: I had just moved to Toronto, to the Village neighbourhood (Church and Wellesley)–which I still say is one of the best in the city. I was about to start my post-grad program at Centennial College in Book and Magazine Publishing, totally convinced I was headed into the book world (hey, maybe I still will someday). Excited and nervous energy abounded.

Happy TBT.

My T-O Face

The bright lights of the city scene cascade through my window, and I sit here in wonder and amazement. I can hardly believe that I am here.  Me.  On the seventh floor, downtown Toronto, heart of THE Canadian Metropolis. In the great tradition of Carrie Bradshaw from Sex in the City, I have positioned my desk to allow me to look out onto the bustle of the streets as I write. My framed view is more east than any person who wants a sense of security might venture to go, but to me it is beautiful.  It is adventure.

After spending my undergrad years in the same city which contained my high school era, the journey to larger things feels like a long time coming. Four years reading book after book, but never feeling connected enough to the material—to write about books and authors, but not create or know them—has led me the world of publishing. And I feel very much at home, even though I am a tiny soul in a sea of the million faceless.

I can already tell that my classes are filled with people who are passionate about literature. People who walk into a book store and are overwhelmed by the mere sight of so many tightly bound pages. People who read not because they have to, or even want to, but devour novels and articles and poetry and words because they need to. People who believe that the written word is not dying out, but thriving among the weeds and vow to water what they can. People with ideas. People like me.

Everyone that I talk to from back home tells me that they are certain I am going to plant my roots here and never leave—perhaps that there is something about this city which connects to my own ruby red slippers and I have finally clicked hard enough to send me home. And so, I can’t help but wonder, after all my heart has been through over the years, is it possible to fall in love with a city?

Author’s note, 6 years later: It is.

Life is a marathon, not a sprint. Slow and steady wins the race. Tortoise trumps hare.

I know that’s what people say, but recently I’ve been questioning this notion.

Because I’m a writer, all of my life becomes a metaphor, and none is more true, for me, than with health and fitness. A friend and I were discussing it the other day; just as with a workout, you won’t see any improvement until you experience some pain, so in a relationship you can’t possibly expect to grow if you don’t go through hard times together. No pain, no gain. Such is life.

But that one is easy.

Here’s my issue with the marathon metaphor: I had been training most of the spring and summer in order to race in the Warrior Dash, which is an extreme obstacle course (as is on trend, with races like Tough Mudder, only without the insane electric shock, because, well…electric shock??? Thanks, I’m good). I’m not a natural born runner–I have bad knees from back in my gymnastics days, so I had to be careful about slowly building up my endurance.

When I finally got my footing, I was doing a steady run on the treadmill, at least 3.5 miles 4-5 days a week. I thought I should be in the best shape of my life. But for some reason, I wasn’t.

Nothing made this more clear to me than when I got invited out to a CrossFit class at the Academy of Lions in Toronto, in order to write an article on it for the magazine (coming this fall). I describe it as basically conditioning on crack. In a good way.

The class is divided into three parts: a warm-up, where they asess your skill level, movement and take note of any areas of difficulty or injury; then they do skill building (we did pull-ups); lastly, is some type of cardio, made up of a few different stations. Ours were modified pull-ups on rings, squat-lifts with a kettle bell, medicine ball throws and jump-squats to an elevated surface. Only one minute at each station, pushing as hard as possible (so, four minutes in total), then one minute to rest. Repeat.

After the third run-through, I was fairly certain that my heart had run away with my lungs, leaving only a goodbye note that read, “Screw you, I can’t do this!” It was only 12 minutes of physical activity and I was left in a huff. My whole body was shaking, and my muscles had that weird heavy feeling that you just know is going to mean you can’t move the next day.

On the other hand, I have never felt so powerful. I had used my entire body, every inch of my strength and finished the class strong. It was challenging. But a marathon it was not.

When I sat down with the founder afterward, Dahni Oks, I asked him about my plateau. He explained to me about the body becoming too efficient at movement that it knows too well. It gets lazy, and you don’t see any growth. He suggested tabata training, where you would run full out for 20 seconds, then rest for 10, repeating this four times. So, again, a very short amount of time–technically only a minute and 20 seconds of rigorous activity. But somehow enough to keep your body guessing.

It got me thinking. Maybe life isn’t the marathon we think it is. Maybe I’ve been doing it all wrong. Maybe it’s just meant to be a series of crazy, intense, completely focused moments, broken up by times of rest.

Because I work primarily from home and there’s no one to yell at me about sitting at my desk between the standard 9 to 5, I’ve been able to put this to the test. A few hours of intense and focused work, followed by a short amount of downtime. It’s a model that is more up and down than steady, but so far, it has really worked. My productivity is up, and lately I’ve been feeling less stressed, even though there is still plenty to stress about–especially since I got in a segway accident on a press trip (they took us on a obstacle course), which resulted in a epic crash on my part, where I busted my knee a mere two days before the Warrior Dash and I had to drop out because I suddenly had two kneecaps on one leg. And for my next trick…

Perhaps it was just life’s way of saying, “Take your 10 second break, already.”

In honour of Alice Munro’s birthday today, I thought I should make my post about her. If you haven’t read anything by this Canadian literary gem, immediately stop reading this ramble and pick up one of her books. An aggressive demand, perhaps, but I make no apologies. She’s that good.

I was reading this article about an interview one reporter had with Munro, right after she won The Trillium Book Award for her latest collection of short stories called Dear Life. She mentions the fact that she is retiring from writing. She says, “It’s nice to go out with a bang.”

What?! This word smith is RETIRING from writing?! The news, as you can probably tell, is a bit devastating to me. I first read Munro in university, when studying for my undergrad, majoring in English (perhaps that’s obvious). Although most of what I read these days is YA, because of the nature of my job, Munro still makes my reading list.

My favour of her work is an abnormality, because I’m not usually a fan of short stories. I dislike only geting to view the created world of the author for only a short time–I feel cheated. I also dislike writing them. For me, they either turn out like a snapshot that makes sense to no one but myself, or they get wrapped up in the end in such a pretty bow, a superficial story not worth reading.

However, with Munro’s work, the short stories read well on their own, but also together, weaving various themes in and out with complex characters and vivid scenes. She is clearly a talent, and a recognized one at that. Our Canadian literary scene could use more Alice Munros.

So, to hear that she’s bowing out? A travesty.

In the interview, she’s goes on to explain that she loves writing. But, she’s come to a time in her life when she doesn’t want to be alone as much as being a writer necessitates. She wants to be social.

Now, I’m still disappointed, but her words gave me pause. The act of writing, in and of itself, is generally a solitary activity. I can’t tell you how many nights I’ve cornered myself off, ignoring calls, emails, yells for attention for other rooms. I sit in front of my screen for hours at a time, lost in a world of my own making. I gesture with my hands, working things through. I talk out loud, sounding of the rhythm of the words when they aren’t alive enough on the page. I have conversations with imaginary people, rather than the real ones waiting to hear from me (I realize that this last bit makes me sound crazy, but I write fiction in my spare time, so press pause on recommending a good therapist). Hours and hours, with no one but me. And I’m not a published author with book deals calling out deadlines to me. My alone time, right now, is all by choice.

However, I think the loneliness is more than that, more than time spent in solitude before a computer or notebook and pen. Even when not in writing mode, the mind of a writer is continually isolated, dreaming up new stories, dredging through ones in the works, waiting for the garden of an idea to grow, making connections between meaning and metaphor, asking questions of your characters, creating backgrounds for people on the street, jumping feet first into another’s high heels or worn-through runners. Writing is not just an activity; it’s a way to see the world. Which means, it doesn’t stop.

There have been times when a story idea has come to me, even in a social setting, and I just cannot shake it’s conception in my mind. A wrestling and aggressive birth, it struggles to take form. It can be all-consuming. I have to step aside and see it through. Alone. Otherwise, I end up aggravating the people around me because I’ve failed to really listen. My head isn’t with them, even though I am automatically nodding along, my body on auto-pilot (perhaps so I don’t sit there with an open mouth, drooling, while I dream up a new storyline or revamp an old one). My apologies to anyone who’s had to suffer through me not really being present (Riley is all too familiar with these occurrences).

Munro’s words ring true to me. Being a writer means being alone, in so many ways. It’s tiring, I would imagine, after a couple of decades of being a professional loner. Right now, it seems shiny and new, with a set-me-on-fire(-in-a-good-way) type of energy.

So, Alice Munro, I salute you, on this your 82nd birthday. A path forged, a good well done, a happy, bubbly, social retirement rightly earned.

I can’t help but keep thinking about this, so I thought I would take it to the virtual page. Indulge me, for just a moment.

My mom sent me a video this week, along with a personalized greeting, saying she thought I might be interested in it because I love bikinis so much.

Totally true. Some women have a weakness for shoes, or snow globes, or faceless porcelain statues that I will never understand. But hey, no judgement. I collect bikinis, so I’m equally as strange. I never really spend a lot on them, but it’s one of those things that immediately catches my eye in a store and lures me in like an unprotesting fish on a line, ready to dine. (As a side note, I had quite the array until my ex preemptively threw out most of them as soon as I moved out, but had yet to remove all of my stuff. I’m over it. Sort of. Anyway, I have since started collecting once more.)

So, automatically, I was intrigued by her email. I clicked on the link.

You are welcome to watch it. But, be warned, it did disturb me and continued to do so, more and more, as time passed and the girl’s message really sank in.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_wtLYeyp8QU

If you don’t want to watch, the gist of the ten-minute video is this: the bikini has a long history, stemming from the times when women wore great ballooning outfits and required bathing houses, where they would change into their ridiculous costumes and be wheeled down to the water’s edge, so no one would catch sight of an offensive bare leg or arm.

The bathing suit, of course, evolved and the invention of the bikini was quite a scandal in its day. The creator had to hire a prostitute to model it, because no self-respecting French girl would come near something so itsy-bitsy.

And now we have modern day, where the beaches and pools of the world are filled with all sorts of tiny swimwear for women. People see it as a sign of female power. But is it? The speaker references two studies conducted on the male brain, to measure the true effect of seeing a woman in a bikini. Basically, the part of brain most associated with tools lights up like a Christmas tree. He links the picture to present tense, first-person verbs, like “I grab, I handle.”

Therefore, she suggests, it isn’t actually a form of power, beyond having the ability to turn men into neanderthals. Instead, we should be reverting back to “modest dress”–especially when it comes to what we wear around the pool. She has started her own swimwear line, which make the 60s swimsuits look relatively “cheeky.” Her argument is that this is more empowering for women.

So, here is my reaction: ARE YOU FREAKING KIDDING ME?

Ahem, let me be more eloquent in my assessment. By only referencing studies of the male brain, she seems to be saying that the perceptions of others (specifically those of the opposite sex) should be the only thing that shapes how we see ourselves as women. That we should accept that power exists solely in the position of the voyeur.

Where are the studies of how the female brain is affected by seeing another woman in such swimwear? Or, better yet, the female brain when she is wearing the bikini herself? Why are we STILL looking to men for approval and, I choke on this as a write it, permission for power?

All things in proper context of course (I would never wear one walking down the street, the same way I don’t wear a parka to the beach in July), but I love wearing bikinis. I put my collection to good use in the summer and on vacation. They’re colourful and playful: fashion as a reflection of myself. I enjoy feeling the sun on my skin, the water rushing past me in the pool (and not getting dragged down by copious amounts of material). I work hard to stay healthy and be fit, and I think I deserve to wear whatever it is that makes me feel good about my body. Do guys stare at me at the beach? I don’t know. BECAUSE I DON’T CARE ENOUGH TO NOTICE.

I feel good. I feel confident. I feel powerful. And it has nothing to do with how other people see me.

Now, my mother meant no harm by sending me the link. She simply was giving me something to think about, which I always appreciate. However, I whole-heartedly disagree with the message of the video.

If you want to wear a dress in the pool, if that’s what makes you feel good, powerful and fashion-forward, two-thumbs up to you. Go ahead. I say this with a straight face, no sarcasm. Seriously. Fashion is all about personal expression.

But I’ll stick to my bikini, thanks.

John Green’s A Fault in Our Stars has been on my reading list for awhile. I don’t often get to explore books of my own volition, as most often my pile of material consists solely of YA novels the publicists so nicely ship out for review. The pile grows and grows and I never really reach the end of it.

However, while I was passing some time in between one appointment and another downtown the other week, I stopped in at Indigo, which is the best and worst place on earth. The best, obviously, because that’s where all of the books live and I can roam through those shelves for hours, both fascinated by the thousands of titles and by the idea that one day, if I eat my writer’s spinach like I should, I might be amongst them (I have, more than once, narrowed in on the K shelf and found exactly where such a work might be housed, if I have my way). The worst, even more obviously, because the store tends to eat my funds at a rate more rapid than the government. Hungry, hungry.

So, while killing some time, I dared to roam the shelves for a bit before heading to the counter with a few items. One of those was John Green’s fifth novel, which is about a 16-year-old cancer patient named Hazel, who has been living with a terminal diagnosis for most of her life. Her parents force her to go to a support group, afraid she is becoming too isolated with her solo reading and watching of America’s Next Top Model reruns. So, she goes. Begrudgingly. And there, she meets Augustus Waters, a former high school basketball star who lost his leg to osteosarcoma, but is in remission. Even though she resists, her whole look on life, and dying, gets turned upside down.

As you might be able to tell, based on the synopsis, this book made me cry. No, not cry. Bawl. Loudly. And made my boyfriend wonder if I might be emotionally unstable.

Now, I am an avid reader, like I said before, so I come across books all the time that make me cry. But this one was different.

John Green has created characters whose bodies are betraying them. They are literally death-creating machines, if you will. But the characters, however full of death, are more alive than those who will survive them. The banter of Hazel and Augustus, as their relationship develops, is witty and wonderful, and not at all typical of what most authors insert as “teen lingo.” While reading the book, I found myself flipping very quickly between laughing hysterically (out loud) and crying hysterically (even more out loud). And sometimes even doing both at once (a talent, I know).

When I write dialogue, a lot of people who read it tell me that it’s not believable. That teens don’t talk like that. That they would never express themselves with long-winded phrases like, “You have every right in the universe to be feeling a whole whack of mixed emotions right now—the entire Crayola Crayon super-pack of feelings. The big one too, that comes with a sharpener.” That they don’t know about literary references, or selfless acts or facts of life we consider “adult.” It’s unnatural. Who talks like that?

Answer: I do. Question: In high school, though? Answer: No. I started younger. In elementary school, I told everyone my pet peeve was “egotistical people.” The cool kids in middle school used to ask me to write “big words,” ones they wouldn’t understand, in the back of their yearbooks. People used to stare blankly as my best friend and I (we dubbed ourselves “Mischief Makers” based on our roles in a play inspired by Anton Chekov’s short stories) bantered back and forth in high school, pondering life’s great questions (like we had to abide by the rules of correct card opening; see picture below) and the last episode of Buffy The Vampire Slayer (if you don’t think that show references literature and tackles the issues that matter, with a little blood-sucking on the side, then it’s time to take another look; Joss Whedon is a genius).

Their look of disbelief at my claim of oddly intelligent teen speech habits is somewhat insulting. For two reasons. One, being that I work with teens on a regular basis, so I know how witty/clever/profound they can be, perhaps when no one’s looking. Young adults are the most fascinating people on the planet; they walk around all full of energy and life-changing moments. They might know more about what’s real than we do, later on in our years. And, they can eat McDonald’s fries and not get fat. Mind. Boggling.

The second reason it’s insulting is because it makes me feel like my plate of life comes with a heaping side of weird. Sprinkled with the sauce of lets-avoid-her. Fine. I’ll accept it. I can’t write about normal people, because I’m not one of them. Does that make you happy?

But, I digress. Not that I put my self on par with John Green in any way (all hail someone who can control my emotions like a puppet master), but reading his work, where Hazel and Gus casually reference Samuel Beckett, Julius Caesar, “The Red Wheelbarrow” and the quest to leave a mark on the world before they depart prematurely, calmed my soul and lit me on fire. There ARE people out there, who share my weird streak and enjoy banter that takes on a form so opposite to polite dinner conversation that it’s like a different language entirely. And some of those people are writers. Great writers.

Soul, you can rest. There’s the calm. Here’s the fire. Now get to work finishing this book!

“Dana threw away her diamond earrings this weekend.” Insert shock.

I have friends who like to tell the story this way, with only one sentence. But there’s more to it than that.

Some people will probably judge me for it, call me stupid and disregard the rest of what I have to say. But, I’m pretty sure that happens on a regular basis, so I’m not too worried.

For the rest of you, this is how the story really goes.

My friends and I were up in Montreal a couple of weeks ago for a Bachelorette party. We took the train in, sipping on wine in little juice boxes while the cars swished back and forth and everyone on board was thoroughly annoyed with our excited banter. The dirty looks didn’t really bother us much. We were on our way to celebrate with a girl most us have known and loved for more than a decade and there was not a boy in sight to ruin our fun. Precious moments.

And so began a weekend of perhaps too much drinking. But it was on the second night that the incident in question happened.

After a superb dining experience of tzatziki, fried cheese, Greek salad and plate breaking, we headed to a shot bar. The group was scattered between the dance floor and the bar (both of which were plagued with first-time drinkers at least 10 years younger than us scoping the scene while nervously playing with their straws). I was ordering a drink with one of my best friend’s beside me, when I reached up to fiddle with my earring (an unfortunate nervous habit of my own), when the touch came back empty. The small diamond hoop that I always wore wasn’t there.

Panicking, I reached up to grab for the opposite ear, thinking maybe I had taken them both out earlier and forgot to put them back in. Wrong. A solitary earring was dangling there. I had lost the other, somewhere along the journey of the night. Hotel. Cab. Restaurant. Cab. Street. Shot bar. It could have been anywhere.

“I’ve lost my earring!” I cried, out of exasperation, but also because, if you live in a box and don’t know, clubs are loud places and I wanted my bestie to hear the exclamation of distress.

She looked at me, narrowing her eyes to inspect the lobes on either side of my face.

“Who gave those to you?”

I stopped. Of course, it had been my ex. They were a birthday present for my 22nd birthday, when we were still dating. I still remember staring at the tiny box before I first opened it, wondering what lay inside. I had tried to push thoughts of a ring from my mind at the time. It could be anything, I thought. Anything sparkly, that is.

He was always buying me gifts, and not just on special occasions. Seemingly, for no reason at all. Even after we were married, people used to point to this as evidence that I was such a lucky girl.

But the gifts came with a price tag. They were guilt gifts. He hooked up with a girl at a bar; I got treated to a mani with my BFF. He spent the night trolling craigslist for “women seeking men” ads; I got surprised with that dress I’d been admiring in a store window. He got friendly with a member of his sailing club; I got an at-home paraffin wax kit.

Of course, the actual link between cause and effect were mostly unknown to me at the time. But eventually, I started putting the pieces together and crunching the numbers in my head. The price was far too high. I couldn’t afford the relationship anymore. And I left.

Now, I only wonder at the real cost of those diamond earrings I gasped at when I first opened them over six years ago. Whatever it was, I felt done with paying the debt.

“It’s a sign,” she said. “Give me the other one.”

Now, the next bit is what most people will consider a bit crazy. She took the earring in her hand, we joined pinkies, closed our eyes and tossed it behind us.

“Make a wish.”

I got yelled at by various people who heard the story throughout the night, demanding that I go searching for it immediately. But as I joined my friends on the dance floor and grooved out to “Single Ladies” (in a totally ironic type of way), I felt completely liberated. And yes, perhaps a bit tipsy.

Yet looking back, I don’t regret the impulse decision to throw away a symbol of my purchased silence. I had spent so long not being honest or open about the hardships of my marriage, even to the people closest to me. To my own detriment, as well as to the relationships I cherished most. I sacrificed them for the sake of someone who ended not being worth it. I clicked the clasp of my diamond earrings into place every day and put on a smile. I closed myself off.

Now, I feel better. I feel lighter. I feel like I’m back in the world. Life isn’t all lemonade, but it isn’t a complete lemon, either. Piece by piece, I am letting go and embracing the next chapter. One that’s full of friends, family, happiness and, hopefully, a bit of success.

But no diamonds. Diamonds aren’t this girl’s best friend. They aren’t worth near enough for that.

I’m not one to shy away from the usual spiders, or smelly baby diapers or even haunted houses (you can read about my experience sleeping over in a haunted plantation house in Louisiana here).

But I do have a list of things that totally creep me out. Okay, so I know most of these are fairly random, but every time I come across one of the things below, I can’t help but think, “AHHH!” “UGH!” or “SHUDDER”–perhaps all three at once.

1. Noses
My close friends and family know about this one all too well and sometimes like to torture me with it. I have looked after my nieces and nephew many times, so I am completely okay with tending to the “messier” parts of life (although, “Can you wipe my bum?” still gives me reason to pause). I’ve also cared for a few intoxicated friends now again (I won’t name names, but rumour has it 5-Hour Energy shots are a bad choice for a night out…so is a carb-free diet). But the minute a child–even one I love dearly–runs in with a dripping nose, I involuntarily find myself running from the room, trying not to make my gagging noises audible from space. And yes, I have returned when no other adult could be found within a four-mile radius to help with aforementioned condition, in order to wipe the mess away (with my eyes closed), but I am thinking “AHHH! AHHH! AHHH!” the whole time.

It’s even worse when it happens with adults. They intentionally go digging around in there, IN PUBLIC (transit). And once you see it, you can’t erase it from your memory by thoughts of anything else but…I can’t even continue this thought…

2. Libraries
This one might be the most random. I love books. Like love, love, love books. But libraries creep me right out. They’re too quiet. Enforced silence is unsettling. Ugh. I also totally believe that creepy people are hiding in the stacks, waiting to do creepy things to unsuspecting browsers, while the musty smell and weird lighting help to cover their tracks.

Professor Plum, with the candlestick in the library. See?

3. Toe Socks and Shoes
My best guest at why this is so creepy is that it stems from not particularly liking feet, or people touching my feet or paying people to touch my feet (pedicures, people–where did your mind go?). So, I don’t get why someone would willingly sport apparel that shoves a fair bit of material in between each toe crevasse. They’re weird enough to see other people in them, but then I think about someone cramming my tootsies into those contraptions and I shudder. Out loud. *shudder*

4. Puppets

UGH. ’nuff said.

5. Zombie Movies
Even the funny ones. I can’t handle all the blood and unpredictability. Zombies don’t plot or scheme or think about survival. They are mindless and don’t even have the gaul to care about their villain appearance (which, to me, is important for character development). My boyfriend tried to get me to watch Zombieland with him, with the promise that I only had to sit through 15 minutes, and if I didn’t like it, we could turn it off. He was confident that I would be drawn in by the dry humour of the normally hilarious Jesse Eisenberg as he plays a neurotic character wondering who to trust (hint: not the zombies or the pretty girls, like Emma Stone) in a world gone so mad that the likes of Woody Harrelson (whom you know is never going to play a sane character) are the most likely to survive. He was sure that the funny element would be enough to make me forget, so I could laugh along with him. He was also wrong.

Ahhh, ugh, shudder and all that.

What creeps you out? Extremely random blog posts? (I hope not)

I sat on the bank of the escarpment this weekend, looking down over the edge whenever my eyes glanced up from the pages of my book. The novel I was reading was much darker than the bright, warmer-than-normal spring day and the heat of the sun beating down on my shoulders helped to lighten the mood. And freckle the two shelves of skin there.

Out in the distance were two familiar silhouettes, paddling a canoe across the expanse of water below. Following them with my eyes, I saw one reach up a hand and wave lightly. The other followed. I waved back.

And, suddenly, a scene appeared before my eyes (imaginary, but not hallucinatory–go with me here; I’m a writer, so I’m only HALF crazy). What if the people in the canoe were to witness a kidnapping, of someone they knew, from the water? Too far to do anything to help. Too in view to prevent seeing it all.

And then, I wondered, who is kidnapping this girl from such a peaceful setting? Is there a (somewhat) rational explanation for her being targeted? Why, other than the obvious, does it fill the gentlemen in the canoe with a Molotov cocktail of thunderous emotions? What would they do to try and find her? Where could the kidnapper have hidden her?

I did an interview with director Shawn Levy (Date Night, Real Steel, Night at the Museum) a little while back, who said that the story in every great film he’s ever worked on has started from a basic question of “What if?” What if you could revitalize your marriage with the events of one night? What if the underdog could be trained by a former champ to become a contender? What if the museum exhibits came to life at night?

This “what if” concept has stayed with me ever since, and I am constantly applying it to possible story lines for future writing. If it’s an interesting “what if” that can be proposed in one short line and grab someone’s attention, it’s worth the blisters on my fingers to try and hammer it out. Right?

But it’s funny when that inspiration strikes. For a fiction writer, it could be a character, it could be a scene, it could a complex dystopian world that unfolds itself to you in one spectacular moment before going back into hiding. Then, you need to start the tedious/exhilarating experience of trying to pull it out, to make it grow. It’s nothing more than a seed that can wither and die so easily, and you are left with no proof that it ever existed in the first place. As author Rick Yancey (The 5th Wave;  put this on your summer reading list NOW) once told me, writers have to be patient gardeners.

If writers are indeed gardeners, creating manicured lanscapes from the wild chaos of nature, then I guess it’s no wonder that being outdoors can be the most inspiring location for the wordsmith. The poets and writers of the Romantic Movement in England (circa the early 1800s) wrote about little else than nature itself (which I remember from university because I was ready to scream at them to write a little dialogue here and there, in between their long-winded descriptions of the almighty mountainside, the turbulent sea or the country garden). But it is inspiring, even now.

Maybe especially now.

Being delegated to my closet in the sky downtown Toronto, I do feel inspired by the colourful city lights and impressive skyline. It excites me. It widens my eyes. It overwhelms the senses. Yet it’s not the same inspiration. Not at all.

I must admit, the only time I crave the solitude of a cabin in the woods, away from all the urban delights I revel in on a daily basis and swear I cannot live without, is when I think about sitting down to write pages and pages of something I hope to one day see published. It seems less daunting and more organic in a setting like that. Or maybe it’s just an escape from reality that parallels the journey of diving in to write a book. It’s different than my every day, and, in some ways, that fact alone makes it appealing

However, never having actually written much in that type of environment, I am ill equipped to really tell if I could stomach the isolation for the time needed to pound out a manuscript.

But, then again, what if I could?