I am not young

I wouldn’t go so far as to say I am old, but I am certainly not young. Indeed, I see author bios saying things like ‘ever since I was in fourth grade I always knew I ‘d be a writer’. I burn with envy. Ah, my youth!

Fourth grade.

For me, the fourth grade lingers in some ancient, sepia-tinted past—faded and largely unknown. That was a long time ago. So, no, maybe I don’t have have my thumb placed firmly on the (lively) pulse of modern writers. But be that as it may, and as lonely as this place often feels, I blunder forward.

Write, write, write.

One novel done, thousands of copies sold, many more novels complete on paper, still more clanging around in my brain (one on submission) - and hopefully eventually…eventually (Oh my stars) my next manuscript is given that elusive green light. Opus number two. But for now, THROUGH A DARKENING GLASS is all I have. It is a novel with many nods to Jane Eyre. There is a crass (but I think generally succcessful) attempt at an A.S. Byatt-esque intellectual-banter-slow-burn romance. My writing reveals a Canadian obsessesed with their English relatives (full disclosure, despite endless edits by an absolute army of proofers, we still let a few North Americanisms slip into this very English story - I am still haunted by my mismatch of "bangs" and "fringe" and deeply scarred by an errant mention of "pants" slipping through all our defenses). Nevertheless, I am proud of this work. I present you with ghosts, lime kilns, dud bombs, massive moths, rationing books, hidden Smiths lyrics, an homage to George Eliot’s Mill on the Floss, Dante’s Inferno and probably far too much information about Auguste Rodin’s The Kiss, but there it is.