There were two bottoms in my life. One was in 2014 or so, the other was around this era in 2018. Everything was crash, bang, boom! I like this anonymous submission because my voice comes through loud and clear. I want to live. I want to be true. It’s bold, solid writing! Some of the details are exaggerated, but it was all me. The Cut page

Personal essay that explores limerence and love addiction for the Humber Literary Journal (published by the Humber School of Writers).

Fun story. I read that Sheila Heti was compiling a digest email of emails of well-known people for the rest of the world to read. I loved this idea because some of my best writing had been in intimate emails. I signed up to receive the digests.

One of her entries was an email she’d written to someone with a matchmaker idea. She knows lots of interesting people, so, she’d set them up herself. I thought it was real and wrote her to sign up.

It was just an idea, but she was game and set me up with a writer dude in NYC. It didn’t pan out, but it did give me the great privilege of “e-meeting” Sheila Heti. She later sent out a mass message asking for input on her collaborative book called “Women in Clothes”.

Funny that this quote was selected but it does accurately describe my experience of changing rooms, even to this day.

I would probably disagree with myself now. I don’t care that much about wearing makeup nor do I care about people ‘seeing’ me. However, this was a pretty constant preoccupation most of my young life. Getting older is kissing and making up with your younger selves.

I wrote a magazine article about food trucks!

During a writing program at Simon Fraser University, I began compiling notes I’d saved for years, some of them random thoughts about what it meant to be part of a new online generation, shifts in my identity, defining narcissism, etc. The resulting essay called “Quit Facebook” was born. adbusters published it and the online version went, kind of, viral. I was invited to attend a TV show in Italy and was published all over the place, including Russia. This essay eventually ended up in a textbook for essay writing where it still gets republished today.

I think this is a good essay and its arguments stand the test of time. It’s also a really interesting “screen cap” of a new era. Its innocence is endearing and enduring…and I’ve gone on to quit Facebook several times since.

A senior editor from L’Officiel Russia read the Facebook essay and loved it, decided to print it.

Hehe.

In 2009, I completed a writing program called The Writer’s Studio at SFU. It was a year-long mentorship program that changed my life. I met diverse writers, experimented with genre and craft, learned how to read publicly, and gained a lot of confidence.

I loved my mentor Wayde Compton because he was sparing in his critique but warm, genuine, and informed. He’s continued to be a supportive figure in my life. This story was about a weekend affair with a much older man in the heart of Bangkok.

It was a gift to write this while surrounded by supportive peers. It was a deeply personal story and attached to all sorts of shame, but I excavated it and told the truth and it was beautiful. I love this story.

I was searching for meaning in my 20s and adbusters was one of the places that offered insights into corrupt systems and inequities. I had a dream about garbage during a 10-day silent meditation and wrote a personal essay about it. Getting published on a first-time submission was a dream come true.

This was inspired by a real dream that I had while in Japan at a Buddhist meditation retreat. It was visceral and kicked off a phase where I paid closer attention to my dreams as guides for waking life. The piece needs some heavy editing, but it’s lovely.

Now defunct Street Corner out of Vancouver’s Downtown Eastside. I knew someone who volunteered there and they were kind enough to publish my poem about women.

“Lilith Tells Gogol”

Between her soft thighs

In the movement of her hips,

Which fly

Like unreachable kites

Like owls in the night;

The final prize.

Your hands which pound stamps

and pull reigns.

Your hands

Whose fingers history’s braggarts enslaved.

Whose hands reached out to beg entry

To the world I hold between my legs.

In the whispered secrets of hips,

A sacrifice of pride.

So at whose feet, I ask,

did you lie?

I love this. A local guy in Edmonton started a magazine he sold at farmer’s markets and other places around the city. He gave me a chance. It’s sweet.

I was crushing HARD on a guy on MySpace and staying at my mom’s house over Mother’s Day. I was lonely. This was the first time in my life that I understood what it was to fall in love with someone’s ‘virtual’ image.

I spent hours staring out at the forest behind the school where I was a teacher’s assistant in rural Japan. It was astonishing to watch each season, it was like I’d never paid attention before. And something came to me one day in the autumn and it seemed to be about art and God and I needed to write it in a flash. I’ve edited it a bunch of times since this publication, but the essence of what I felt in that moment remains.

Could be song lyrics.

This is so cringe and earnest.