February 2020

How could I have written and seen the publication of 99 books? I ask myself that question and it does seem odd. After all, I didn’t have a book published until I was, um, 29. So, if my math is correct, all were written in the brief space of 39 years. That’s an average of 2.5384615 per year according to my calculator.

Just for the record, I believe I have at least six or seven that I wrote but (perhaps for the best) never found a publisher. And, of course, I have a few more upcoming projects in the works, as should any writer who loves the job of sitting down and writing.

Hello Canada, Publishing a first book takes a long time. It was over a year ago that Dundurn accepted Evie of the Deepthorn for publication, a figure that doesn’t include years of writing, revising, and submitting, and we still aren’t quite there yet. As I write this, the upcoming release seems both too soon and too far away, like getting there requires a leap of incredible faith. In some ways I feel as if I’m Achilles shooting an arrow towards a target in one of Zeno’s famous paradoxes, watching the arrow halve the distance endlessly, never quite advancing. But I know that one day—and soon—the arrow will inevitably hit its mark, the book will be released, it will find its audience, and I’ll feel that strange mixture of excitement, relief, and disappointment that comes with hitting a major milestone and inevitably wondering—when you’re allowed a minute to breathe—what comes next.

Hello Canada,

 

I wanted to be a fairy warrior princess when I grew up. My friends and I spent our recesses writing stories and acting out adventures: rescuing princes from evil wizards, practicing archery on horseback, attending balls to spy on a villainous lord.

I used to play dress up in long velvet gowns. I still do that, sometimes, but to be honest I think I look better in my black button-up shirt and floral-print bowtie. Gender is like that for me—dress up. It can be a lot of fun.