Tag Archives: writing

I’ve done it again

I could cry. I finished another book series. I loved it. I miss the characters already and my tablet is still hot. Five books of pure bliss.

When I started high school, I discovered the school library had a whole bunch of books by a lady named Agatha Christie. I devoured them. All. I could never guess who the murderer was. The best one? The Murder of Roger Akroyd. A classic. Genius.

After that, I was hooked on mysteries.  P.D. James, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (meh), then a whole bunch of more contemporary writers and more mysteries. No one was ever as good as Agatha Christie to keep you guessing until the end.

This series wasn’t like Agatha either. I usually guessed by 70%-80% of the books who had done it, or had a pretty good idea. Only one blew me away.

But I didn’t care.

The romance between the bookshop owner and the cop/PI was what got me.

It spans on all five books and couldn’t have  been written better. It was FABULOUS. Would they? Wouldn’t they? Finally? No? What the fuck do you mean he’s getting married? Aaarrrgghhh!!!! Damn you author! I hate you! Okay, I don’t hate you anymore.  What????? You had to throw that in there? Just to fuck things up??? I’m going to die….. Oh. Okay. I feel better now. Thanks.

Each book has its own murder to be solved. But each book is just a continuation in the long and peppered-with-angst love story. What a romance. Wow.

Such deep, intelligent characters. I’ll miss them.

I’ve done this to myself again. I’ve gotten deeply sucked in a good series and now will miss the characters I’ve been living with for the past sixteen days.

I know I’ll do it again too.

To read and weep is better than not to have read at all. (Who said that?)


Thanks, Josh.


How addicted are you when…

You’re afraid of reading the 8th book of a series because people have written bad reviews on it?

I’m so afraid of being disappointed and heartbroken that I don’t wanna read it. I will. Of course I will. But with just one eye…

See, people have written that the story is full of new characters and the two main characters (MC’s) are not the focal point of this book.

Well, I happen to miss these two MC’s and was sooooooo looking forward to reading book 8 because I would reconnect with them and love them and bask in their glory and live vicariously (precariously?) through their new adventure with them that I’m kinda not looking forward to reading it now….

The power of the review.

Be careful when you leave one, guys. Those suckers are potent.

I just read an encouraging one that says that, although the series MC’s aren’t the main characters in this one, it’s a good transition to maybe the end of their story and the beginning of a new one.

Sad but true. It’s gotta end someday, right?

(Sobs on her keyboard as she writes this post….)


Cold Turkey

Off meds as of today – had to quit Strattera or jump off a bridge. Quit Strattera a couple of weeks ago. Was back on Vyvanse because the doctor is away until the 18th and didn’t want to prescribe anything else with unknown side effects without proper monitoring.

Turns out the heavy acne problem around Christmas was not stress but in fact Vyvanse side effect No. 2987450. So painful it gives me headaches. Quit that today.

Will be going cold turkey for a week. Will I still be writing? Will I get out of bed? Will I cry for no apparent reason like today?

Stay tuned for the fun, folks.

Bucket list

In no particular order:

1. Sing “Islands in the Stream” on karaoke with one or a combination of Misteur Valaire.

2. Dance a slow with my husband in a public place, like a disco or something (instead of the kitchen for once).

3. Go to Italy.

4. Learn to play the piano again.

5. Sing a blues song while my husband is playing the guitar. Either a song we’ll write together or another one. There are so many songs I hear that I wish I could sing to him. 

6. Publish a book.

7. Write letters to my kids. 

Funny how some of these are singing and dancing. You’d think I’d have had time in my life to dance enough but no. And I don’t sing. Well, I think I can carry a tune but have absolutely no confidence in myself to go for it. I know the guys in Misteur Valaire wouldn’t mind if I sang off key with them because they’re just the nicest bunch of guys you could meet, but singing with my husband surprisingly stresses me more. It’s also less likely to happen than singing with Misteur Valaire and that’ll happen when pigs fly, so I should be alright.

As for dancing a slow with my husband, I’ve always said and will say again: if I could change one thing about him, it would not be the way he farts from just drinking water (let alone consuming any type of food), the way he has absolutely no tact sometimes and will say whatever comes to mind without any filter, or that he is the only person who doesn’t laugh easily at my jokes. It would be that he doesn’t dance. I cannot tell you how much I would pay, even sell myself, to have a fairy godmother or even a mediocre witch wave a wand or cast a spell to make this guy want to dance. 


Oh well. I sometimes have strange, vivid dreams. You never know, maybe one of them will be us dancing together. I can only wish.

8. Get over the fact that my husband will never dance with me.

Where’s my mind?

I think I left it in the washing machine.

Because it’s all soggy, washed out, dripping ideas down the drain.

It was so much fun taking ADHD meds called Vyvanse around Christmas time. I wrote and wrote and wrote.

I could write from 6 p.m. to midnight non-stop, words just flowing on the page – I would write so fast I left out some words. I wrote emotion, sex, descriptions. I could literally see the story unfold in my mind.

I asked my friend to read it for me and give me her opinions and ideas for changes.

I asked another friend to read a scene because she could be one of the characters.

Both gave me encouragement and praise.

My husband read the whole fifteen chapters and even if it’s a subject he’d never read on his own, he liked it. He also had ideas, caught mistakes and gave me praise.

Unfortunately, the meds also made me anxious and cut down my attention span to that of a gnat’s so I had to stop taking them.

And I stopped writing. Almost completely. Look at my latest postings on this blog and you’ll see what I’m talking about.

While weaning off the meds, my mom was diagnosed with inoperable pancreatic cancer, hence the post 3 months to live.

Now I’m taking another type of meds, Strattera, which are not working well so far. They leave me feeling depressed, desperate and sad. They don’t even lighten the ADHD symptoms yet – they take weeks before showing any improvement and I haven’t even reached the proper dosage yet – still implementing them gradually.

This is my second attempt at writing in almost a month – see here for the first one.

I read a post by Chuck Wendig, this writer I follow, who said we have to write everyday, even on days when we don’t feel like it. So here I am, writing.

The effort has given me a headache. Should have put my brain in the delicate cycle.

Flash Fiction on Goodreads group: Twelve Years After

I wrote this little piece for my Goodreads M/M Romance group flash fiction. Only two people wrote comments, to say it made them sad (one wanted to cry).  I know I should be glad it elicited emotion from readers, that’s what writing is all about. But I feel really bad it made them sad. I’d love comments on this.  The prompt was:

We didn’t realize what we had back then, wasted it, gave up, thinking that the first imperfection was a reason to split. That we needed perfection. Years later, I know that nothing can always be perfect, but that what we had was special. So when I suddenly saw you again after all these years, I could not believe my eyes … 🙂

And this is what I wrote:

“It seems so trite now. Who cares where we would have lived? As long as we were together. I can’t believe neither one of us gave in. We were so young and silly. We didn’t know we had it so good. Seeing you last week in the metro in the train going east for two seconds made it all come back. I saw you again today. I wonder where you’re going.
So you’re in Montreal again. I guess city life didn’t kill you after all. Or maybe it’s slowly draining your life away like you thought it would.
Do you have a family? A boyfriend? A dog? Did you finally sell our house at a huge profit? Did you keep the mural I painted in the living room or did you paint over it the minute I left? Are your parents still alive?
Do you miss me? Do you think of me sometimes, like I think of you? Do you ever wonder what if? What if we hadn’t split up? What if you would have agreed to move to Montreal with me? What if I would have stayed in Sainte-Catherine with you?
I loved you, so much. I think – no I know you loved me too. And we threw it all away.
I wanted to call you, to tell you I regretted my decision, I wanted to come back, I felt so alone in Montreal in my small but trendy apartment.
Of course I didn’t. I was too proud to admit I made a mistake. After all, I was the one who felt like I was suffocating and had to move back to the city. You’re the one who didn’t want to come with me.
You broke my heart. I probably broke yours by leaving. We had promised each other forever and I left.
I hoped and prayed you would come to your senses – yeah I know, I was arrogant. I had fantasies that you phoned, crying, telling me you couldn’t live without me; or that you’d show up on my doorstep with a suitcase and you’d rush into my open arms.
I saw you in the street, at the store, at the market, in the park, I saw you everywhere. Any guy with long, curly brown hair was you. I went mad.
And still I didn’t call. Then time flew by and it was most probably too late, you had most likely met someone; I’d make a fool of myself.
Twelve years have come and gone.
You’re still gorgeous. You still make my heart pound. You looked tired today and I wanted to take you in my arms and rock you gently, comfort you. It was a fleeting moment, but I felt it all the same.
I was with Noah for eight years. He’s a great guy. You’d probably like him. He wasn’t you. There’s no one like you. I’m sorry I was such a jerk. If only I could make it up to you.


I saw you yesterday at the McGill station. You were seated across from me, in the metro going west, on the other side.
You haven’t changed. You’re so beautiful. There’s grey hair mixed in with the chestnut now. It makes you look even more sophisticated. It makes me feel even less worthy.
Do you remember me? The guy from Hicksville who was afraid of loud noises and fast cars? I remember you. Every single day.
I was so impressed by you. You were going places, you were expected to succeed in the great big world. Your clothes, your hair, your car, your speech. I was in awe of you. You weren’t meant to live in the boonies with one shopping centre to serve a whole small city. Montreal called to you. I heard it every time we visited your folks, every time your friends phoned, every time you looked for something in our unique drug store and couldn’t find it, every time you sighed as you opened the front door at the end of the day.
I knew I couldn’t keep you. I knew I had to let you fly away towards the skyscrapers where you could perch and watch your city live and breathe twenty-four hours a day. I couldn’t drag you in mediocrity with me.
It broke me. The house was suddenly too big, too quiet. I couldn’t sell it and move though, I couldn’t leave your mural behind. Your blood and guts were on that living room wall and I couldn’t bear to think of someone else living with it, with you; and I couldn’t cover it either.
I sat watching that painting and cried my heart out for a whole year. My mom begged me to sell. I couldn’t.
I finally sold the house last year. I received an offer I couldn’t refuse (The Godfather still your favourite movie?) and moved to Montreal. I painted over the mural before moving. It was mine, all I had left of you, and if I couldn’t bring it with me, I couldn’t leave it either.
Matt told me about Noah. I knew you’d meet someone worthy of you. I wasn’t an idiot; you were too special to be alone for long. I expected it to be someone more in your league, someone in advertising, or designing. I was right.
I was happy for you. I was also devastated.
Even if I didn’t have any hope of you ever looking back, it nearly killed me.
Things are good now. I date on and off. Guys I meet in bars, in the supermarket, on the internet. Never anything serious. I tell myself I don’t have time for a relationship but we both know that’s not true. I can’t help but compare them to you and they all pale in comparison.
I know now I should have held onto you. I should have followed you to the ends of the earth. I should have fought for you.
I’m ready now, to fight for you. I looked you up on Facebook five minutes ago. Your status says single. I guess Noah’s not in the picture anymore. I’m thinking I’ll send you a private message and see if you remember me. If you do, I’ll invite you for coffee, just to catch up, you know, just old friends. Then I’ll tell you I never forgot you, I always loved you, I still love you. And see what happens. “

Gay romances: why are they popular all of a sudden?

Book clubs, group discussions, blogs, all kinds of stuff about M/M and F/F romances are popping up everywhere. There’s obviously a market for it.

Why? gayboys

This is what I think.

Although hetero romances are fun and make us feel good, there’s a bit more to a gay romance: it’s against the odds. It’s harder, more difficult, not as easily accepted, shunned and judged. If the characters make an effort, despite the adversity, to be together, it makes us feel even better.

Everyone knows how a good romance story is built: A and B fall in love. A and B encounter a difficulty. A and B work it out. A and B live happily ever after because true love always prevails.

When A and B are two guys or two girls, they’re already starting with a difficulty. In this day and age, even if we’re better about it than, say, 50 years ago, it’s still hard to be gay. Depending on where you live (if you’re gay I hope you don’t live in Uganda) it can be life-threatening.


To see two characters live through it and succeed, have a happy life, adopt kids, whatever, even if it’s two young adults who just come to terms with their orientation and decide to live a gay life with the one they love, they don’t even need to encounter a typical difficulty for us to root for them.

And it’s sexy for women to see men in a vulnerable, soft light, even if it’s all hidden behind a macho, virile, very-male badass. For some, the more the better.

The fact that we can now read books in public on our e-readers without anyone seeing the title or the book cover helps a lot, I’m sure. I remember being transfixed by a girl reading “The Story of O” in the bus when I was a teen. I was embarrassed on her behalf! Now? You can read fifty shades of whatever kink turns you on and no one is the wiser.

Also, if we heteros like to read romances about couples like us, guess what gays like it too! Especially young adults who want to find literature that will speak to them about what they feel. We need more teen books about gay life. We owe it to our young ones who need to feel they’re part of something and that something is good, healthy and accepted.

Live long and prosper, gay romance.