May 31, 2011
May 30, 2011
The Letter
The following was written for creative writing class in March 2011...
Dear Mike:
I feel that I owe you a very serious apology. For two weeks I have put off writing this letter because I haven’t wanted to think about what writing it actually means. I also haven’t wanted to think about the fact that once it’s finished, there is nowhere to send it. My words will sit in a document in my hard drive on my computer – unread and untouched – for days, months, possibly years. This letter won’t ever be printed, won’t ever be shared, and it will be a painful reminder of the past until I finally decide to delete it forever.
So why am I writing it at all? I’m sure you must be curious. It seems silly when I actually stop and think about what I’m doing. But like I said, I owe you an apology. Angela told me that sometimes she writes letters to people she has hurt or betrayed. She doesn’t mail them, but putting her indiscretions down on paper apparently allows her to start the healing process. At least that’s what she said. I usually don’t pay attention to her ideas, because a raging drug addict has a weird way of looking at the world, but this time I think she might have something.
And, you were a raging drug addict too, so you might just understand.
Before I begin to explain why I’m sorry, I want to remind you that things weren’t always bad between us. We were friends – great friends actually – before we started dating. I still remember the day we met. It was three weeks before grand opening at the store we both worked at. I was organizing boxes of nails on shelves in the hardware section and I had just dropped a box on my foot. They were heavy, and I remember screaming ‘sonofabitch’ at the top of my lungs as I jumped back in pain. I wasn’t looking at what was behind me, and I backed up right into you. I screamed again, this time in surprise, lost my balance, and we both went down in a heap of flailing limbs, scattered nails and clothing.
It was a hell of a first impression, and I’ll never forget it.
As the years progressed and we continued to become closer, I knew that I had feelings for you that were beyond platonic friendship. I never told you this – even when you asked, years later – but I think I always knew we would end up together. It’s strange, but sometimes I meet people in my life that I know are going to mean something. They just stick out, and I feel drawn to them. You were one of those people. I knew it the first time I looked at you. I just didn’t realize how much you would mean and how badly you would break my heart.
If we could go back, do you think it would have been better it we just left things alone?
For three years we were like ships passing in the night. I knew you were miserable with your girlfriend and you knew I was having problems with Trent, but we kept our distance from each other. I think we both knew that the second we let things escalate, that would be it. So we worked together, flirted, shared casual stories when we went for cigarette breaks, and waited. And waited.
I know I started it. I guess that’s the first thing I’m really apologizing for in this letter. I’m inquisitive by nature, and when our casual conversation began to transition into the realm of serious admission, I pushed you to tell me what I already knew. And I was right. Once we went there, we couldn’t go back.
I’m sure it’s weird for any person in a new relationship to have to help their partner move their personal effects out of a home they used to share with someone else. I won’t ever forget the look on her face as you shut the door on her for the last time. Nor will I forget the angry text messages she sent me later that night. I guess I was stealing her man away from her, but at that time, I didn’t care. All I could see was you, and nothing else mattered.
The struggle to get you a new apartment was a difficult one, but finally we found a small yet quaint basement bachelor suite on Corydon Avenue. It was the first time I had ever dated someone who had their own place, and I remember I hung curtains, organized your kitchen and painted your walls with childish excitement. You thought it was adorable. I thought you were adorable. Everything was perfect during the first few months in that apartment on Corydon Avenue. I mean it when I say that at that time there was no place else in the world I wanted to be.
I fell in love with you in that little basement apartment. We spent so many evenings hiding from the world, wrapped up in our own romance as if nothing else mattered. I remember turning off my cell phone as soon as I walked in the door and burying it deep inside my backpack. Nothing was more important than you. There was truly nowhere else I wanted to be.
You warned me ahead of time about your sister’s medical condition, but I always thought she seemed ‘normal’ whenever she came to visit. It broke my heart when you told me about how she almost died in a car accident when she was seventeen, and how she was thrown from the car and landed on a rock 30 feet away. She hit her head, did permanent damage, and won’t ever have a chance at a normal life. When she came to visit us, you always took care of her. She pretended she didn’t want you too, but I know she did.
Like any other realistic romance, our honeymoon period eventually ended and the admissions and back-stories started to be shared. My story was fairly simple and I didn’t have anything to hide. I was born in Winnipeg, raised in Vancouver, had relocated to Winnipeg and was living at home with my parents while I finished university. My number once vice was smoking – as was yours – and I was in a perpetual state of quitting. No, I didn’t have anything to hide, and I assumed you wouldn’t either. But when it was your turn to start talking, you hesitated. I pushed and prodded and convinced you that I didn’t care what had happened to you before we met.
But the truth of the situation was that once you started talking, I wished I had never asked.
Jail? Twice? Seriously, Mike. You didn’t think that would have been important to mention before I practically moved in with you? It wasn’t even a little infraction, either. It was a gigantic fucking drug charge, and you were caught with enough product to overdose an entire high school. I know I said I was alright with it when you told me, but inside my mind was screaming. How would I ever tell my parents that I was dating someone who had served time in Kingston Penitentiary? They would never, ever accept you.
So I promised to keep it a secret. At the time, I was so blinded by our relationship that I actually shrugged off this admission. I pretended to go about my business as if nothing had changed, and I didn’t bring it up again. Then, two weeks later, you had more you wanted to tell me. I had done so well with the last confession that you needed to tell me everything. I nodded and said I would listen. I should have known better.
The stealing and fighting you told me about wasn’t what broke my heart. It was the drug use. As hard as I tried to understand, I couldn’t wrap my head around it. I had watched my friend Angela rapidly decline after high school when she discovered opiates, and I knew what a person could become when they allowed the drug to consume their judgement. There is nothing more disgusting than watching a person inject a needle between their toes because it’s the only place left on their body that’s still usable. I told you this. You agreed with me. You promised it would never happen again. You looked me in the eyes and told me you would never again use drugs.
If it hadn’t been for that damn doctor who prescribed you stupid morphine for your leg injury, I wouldn’t be writing this letter right now. I know you told him you had a problem with drug addiction in the past. He didn’t listen. That stupid, stupid man. I still want to walk into his office and punch him in the face as hard as I possibly can. If I had to pick one person to blame for the beginning of your end, it would be him. You tried so hard not to take the pills, but your injury got worse. If you didn’t take them, you wouldn’t be able to function. I understand that.
But I couldn’t help you when you let the drugs take over.
I returned from vacation and you had changed. Everything about you was different, and I could tell you were using regularly again. Initially, I pretended not to notice, and attempted to bring your life back into order. But my efforts were useless, and you were gone. When I looked into your eyes, they were empty. The person I fell in love with wasn’t there anymore. It broke my heart to do it – more than I could ever express in a letter – but I had to walk away. I couldn’t help you anymore, and I knew that eventually you would take me down with you.
I wish that I had told you this before, but I kept tabs on you for a year after we broke up. Even though we weren’t together anymore, I still cared about what happened to you. I heard that you went to rehab and straightened yourself out, and that made me so happy. Despite your problems you were a good person, and the world deserved to have you at your best. You got a new job, a new apartment, and even a new girlfriend. That also made me happy, because I had moved on too. I honestly believed that you were alright, and it was around November of last year that I stopped keeping track of you.
In hindsight, I shouldn’t have stopped. I am so sorry that when you really needed me, I wasn’t watching.
I got the call on a Friday afternoon while I was sitting at my desk at work. It was Jim, your best friend. He wanted to tell me the news himself. Jim remembered that I had tried everything to help you get away from drugs while we were still together, and he knew that I really had loved you. It was Jim who had kept me updated on your life for a year, and he kept it a secret from you just as I asked him to.
His name popped up on the caller ID and I instantly knew something was wrong. I quickly ran to the bathroom, and answered. In between a series of ragged sobs, he told me you were dead.
I dropped the phone. I started seeing spots and was afraid I would pass out. Sitting down on the floor, against the door, I picked up the phone again and asked for details. I needed to know everything. Jim didn’t know much and said he would call me back with information as soon as he found out. I’m still waiting for that call. But when your obituary was published, it told me everything I needed to know.
You died on Thursday, January 11, of a drug overdose. You were 30 years old. When you were discovered – and by whom I still don’t know – you were alone in your apartment. You most likely didn’t know what was happening to you, or that your end was approaching. Despite your desire to live a long, fulfilling life, you died alone in a crappy apartment with a syringe in your hand and a shoelace tied around your arm.
I didn’t go to your funeral. I’m sorry about that. I couldn’t do it.
Over the past few weeks – as the reality of the situation sinks in – I’ve been thinking about everything we talked about over the years. You wanted to visit Thailand and you wanted to become a chef. You didn’t believe in God, and you weren’t sure there was really a heaven or hell. You knew you had made a lot of mistakes in your life. Above everything else, you loved your family. Your sister was your world, and your little brother was your hero. You wanted to set a good example for them and you failed.
I started this letter by announcing that I had a very serious apology to make. And I do. After everything that we had been through – both as friends and a couple – I’m sorry that I left you to deal with your problems alone. I shouldn’t have. Even if I stopped being your girlfriend, I still could have been your friend. I could have helped you from a distance, but all I thought about was protecting myself. That was wrong, and now you’re dead. I’ll never get to tell you that to your face, and every time I think about what your life could have been, my heart breaks a little bit more.
Everyone tells me not to blame myself. Maybe now that I’ve apologized, I won’t anymore. I loved you passionately once Mike, and I still cared. I will always care. I promise.
May 25, 2011
Pieces: Available now at McNally Robinson Bookstore
May 23, 2011
A craft fair can be a lucrative enterprise
When I first published my debut novel – Pieces – I had a few plans for its distribution.
First, I would create a Facebook page. I would encourage my friends to “like” this page.
Second, I would hold a book launch and encourage people to attend.
Third, I would heckle friends and family to force THEIR friends and family to purchase a copy.
I did all that, and sold 150 copies in a month and a half. Not bad if you ask me.
The next goal on the agenda was to purchase another 150 copies and sell them to my secondary audience. Friends and family are pretty tapped out at this point, and I now have to find strangers (a.k.a. the “general public”) who are interested enough to invest $15 in a copy.
Initially, I was unsure of how I would be able to reach the general public. I was becoming slightly nervous I would be sitting on the second printing of Pieces indefinitely when my mom mentioned the Winnipeg Beach May long weekend craft fair. My brother makes jewellery, my mom makes cards, and she suggested we purchase a table for all three of us to sell our creative products.
It sounded like fun, so I agreed.
The Saturday of the craft fair was cold, wet and rainy. We arrived at the arena – with honorary Hope family member Tiffany Lachuta – at 8:00 a.m.
As we arranged our merchandise on the table, I convinced myself I would be lucky if I sold one copy of Pieces. A craft fair isn’t exactly the most likely place for people to purchase a novel, especially when there are so many interesting, handmade items to choose from.
Well, I should have had more faith in my selling skills.
My first sale took place at 9:23 a.m. to a lovely woman who actually came around the table and gave me a hug. A second and third sale quickly followed, and my lunchtime I had sold over 15 copies of my book. I was having so much fun talking to people, and the praise, support and positive comments I received were truly heartwarming.
After eight hours of sitting at our table, I managed to sell 27 copies of Pieces. I surprised everyone – including myself – and I couldn’t be happier with the outcome. My mom, my brother and I plan to enter one craft fair a month for the rest of the summer. We will travel the province, sell our products and enjoy each other’s company. I can’t think of a better way to spend my time.
I want to take a moment and thank each of the 27 people who bought my book. You were all so kind and supportive, and it means so much to me that you wanted to read about my great-aunt’s life.
Stay tuned for info about the next craft fair…
P.S. To watch my book trailer, click here, and to watch my launch footage, click here...
May 19, 2011
A Winnipeg girl is growing up
One day I was a second-year college student focusing all of my time and energy on assignments, grades and time management.
The next day I became a recently graduated communicator with unlimited possibilities and the time to explore what I want to do with myself for the next 30 years.
It hasn’t been easy. Saying goodbye to my classmates and instructors the last day of class felt like I was parting with family. I know that I will see those I love often, and everyone is only a phone call, Facebook message or Twitter post away. But after spending every day with the same people for two years, I can’t help but feel like a small piece of my heart is gone.
It has also been difficult deciding what to do next. For the first months of my last year of school, my boyfriend and I had planned to move to Japan to teach English for a year after I graduated. Travel complications and the recent natural disaster destroyed that plan, leaving me with literally unlimited time on my hands.
I decided that finding something short-term would be the best way to recover from the quick change of plans, and in March I accepted a term position with MPI as a Community Relations Assistant. As a result, my summer months will be spent travelling around the province and giving presentations on bike and road safety. The job is fantastic, and after two weeks of work I’ve already fallen in love with it.
And then, last Sunday, I accepted a second term position…
Meet the new Audience Development Coordinator & Publicist for the Winnipeg International Writers’ Festival (more commonly called "Thin Air"). Not only will I be in charge of publicity and communications, but I will also be coordinating and overseeing each writer featured in the festival. This means I will be spending time with published authors who love what they do.
Anyone who knows me well will automatically understand that this is my dream job. It will also provide me with the entrance to the literary world that I’ve wanted for years.
This is a pic of me at my book launch in March. It was honestly one of the best moments of my life, and I hope that working for Thin Air will help bring me one step closer to my goal of becoming a successful author.
Needless to say, it’s going to be a busy summer. I don’t know what I will do after I finish both contracts in October, and I will once again find myself with unlimited time to do whatever I want. Maybe I’ll find a full-time job, another term, or maybe I’ll go travelling.
For now, I’m trying to enjoy each and every day until my life changes again…
May 16, 2011
Chicago, Picasso and a girl from Winnipeg
This year, my trip was also fantastic. But instead of writing a long post about everything I did, I want to talk about only one thing.
The Chicago Picasso sculpture.
Located at Daley Plaza in the heart of downtown Chicago is a 50-foot unnamed Picasso sculpture. It has been featured in such movies as The Lake House and Mercury Rising, and I have wanted to see it for years. When in Chicago last year, I simply didn’t have enough time to visit it. I left the city with regret, and vowed I would return.
Thankfully, I have amazing friends, and a group of my CreComm BFF’s accompanied me on a night of adventure that ended at the sculpture. The front of the Picasso sits on a 45-degree angle, which means it is possible to climb it and slide down.
Of course, we all slid down the sculpture. Repeatedly. We also raced, slid down backwards and took a plethora of ridiculous photographs. I can honestly say that it was one of the best moments of my life, and I will never forget it.
