The Writing Life

When I was a child in Hamilton, Ontario I used to crouch by my bedroom window on sultry summer nights. I scanned the sky for the moon, luminous, mysterious. My life goal was to become an astronaut. I jumped off the teak desk in the second-storey den many times, attempts to fight gravity. While on the floor, my five younger sisters and brothers fought over toys and the television channel.

I grew up in a Victorian brick building that housed the previous owner’s medical practice on one half of the main floor. It was routine for patients to come and go seeking my father’s advice for their many ailments. People with blood dripping from fresh lacerations, and crying fevered babies. Once four men carried in a bus driver who’d suffered a massive heart attack and crashed the bus outside our door. I peeked into the hallway and viewed his ashen face and unmoving chest. Dead.

My parents loved the theatre and purchased 4 season’s tickets to the Hamilton Player’s Guild. Such was privilege in the 1960’s. I was fascinated by the stage and its ability to temporarily transport the audience to another dimension. Throughout high school, I was drawn to the world of acting. I auditioned for many roles and always found myself in the horde of background players. The silent townspeople included by the teacher in a semblance of inclusion. I stood in the wings, mumbling the leads’ lines to myself as they were spoken.

I read for many hours throughout school. I journaled in lined notebooks, messy handwriting, almost illegible. Sometimes the pressure of my pen tore holes in the flimsy paper. Sometimes only a scattering of words filled an entire page, large looping letters. I got A in everything except handwriting. A D was a passing mark but my parents exhorted me to improve. The most boring subject in the world, but my father told me that “a woman should never have messy handwriting.” His was outrageously illegible.

My stack of journals piled up during my university years. Poetry, observations, angst. I graduated from a combined degree program at McMaster University with a B.A. in English literature and a Bachelor of Social Work. 1979, the year of the Iranian revolution. How sweetly naïve we were.

I worked as a research assistant, then a community worker with mentally disabled folks. I was driven by a vision of attending medical school; in 1981 I received the call to enroll five days before classes commenced.

Studying and practicing medicine is a true privilege; other people allow their physician into their painful, personal and often difficult lives. No matter the number of years in out- patient practice or on the wards of a hospital, this is the most important concept all medical personnel must keep in mind in every interaction.

In 2003, I experienced an injury with subsequent surgery that ended my career in medicine. After several years with chronic pain, I decided to return to my love of writing — slowly and just snippets at a time. The eventual outcome is The Ace, a historical novel sprinkled with Canadian magical realism. Please sign up for my newsletter to read an excerpt of this novel.

As well, two short non-fiction pieces have been published:
Food and Family - Living Legacies Vol. 3 PK Press 2011 p.41-45 and The Shtaindelah - Letters and Pictures from the Old Suitcase Pinking Shears Publications 2012 p.95-97.

Deleted Arm is my second novel and tells the story of a chaotic year in the life of quirky Simone Hennessey, an accomplished psychiatrist and neuro-linguist. Simone is itching to get on some pages out there so hopefully Deleted Arm will be available for readers soon.

On a personal note, my family and I moved to Victoria, B.C. from Ontario in 1993. The West Coast is so beautiful and it is a joy to take my little Havanese doggie Kali to the beach or on walks in the woods. I love warm weather, food with made with love and my wonderful friends. And reading and writing!

Thank-you for checking out my website :)