HAPPY SPRING, EVERYONE!

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Hey everyone,

I hope this newsletter finds everyone well! In my corner of the world, spring has definitely SPRUNG. Frogs, red-winged blackbirds, dogwood and ocean spray blooms are everywhere. Digging in the dirt is here!

I'm thrilled (and a little nervous!) to share that my next novel, Secondary Feathers, is in the final spit-and-polish stage and will be officially released on September 15th​. The novel has an autumnal vibe, so its release will be timely.

This book has been such a meaningful journey to write. It's about an older woman rediscovering herself after heartbreak, taking risks, and realizing that it’s never too late to choose you. I poured a lot of heart, humour, and hope into this one, and I can’t wait for you to meet Natalie and Ben!

Here’s the back cover blurb:

If you enjoy stories about second chances, slow-burn romance, and finding your way back to your own voice, I think you’ll love this one.

💛 You can preorder it here!​

Thank you, as always, for your support—it means the world.

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BOOK STORE WOO WOO

Synchronicity or Coincidence?

When my first book, Hannah and the Spindle Whorl, was published (Ronsdale Press, 2010), I wanted to commemorate the occasion. But what? I was leaning toward a tattoo, but I had no idea what sort of design felt appropriate. A quill and ink bottle felt a little too cliché, as did all the other “bookish” ideas I came up with. So, I put the idea aside and figured that if I were meant to get one, eventually, inspiration would show up.

One Saturday afternoon, a week after my book was released, I found myself in my favourite used bookstore in Victoria, BC — Russell Books. This bookstore is magical — a two-story, fir-floored old building with piles of books stacked floor to ceiling. It has since moved to a shiny, modern location, but back then, it was like something out of a Bookish Rom-Com movie.

I wasn’t looking for anything in particular, but whenever I found myself in a bookstore, I always asked about “that book.” That book is one I’ve been searching for for decades. Bambi, by the Austrian author, Felix Salten, was written in 1923. I know what you’re thinking, but it isn’t the Walt Disney version that probably popped into your head. No. This book is a full-length novel and a book written way before its time. It’s a story about love, family, ecology, and the ethics of hunting, and it’s the book that made me want to become a writer. I must have read it twenty times between the ages of twelve and fourteen.

Anyway, I always asked after it, as I lost my copy somewhere along the way, but no one had ever heard of it.

So, when I asked the bookstore employee about it, I wasn’t expecting things to be any different this time. I was right; she hadn’t heard of it. I smiled. If the book was meant to show up, then one day, it would. But as I thanked her and turned to walk away, another employee walked past, and she stopped him.

“David,” she said. “This woman is looking for a novel called Bambi: A Life in the Woods, written in 1923 by a man named Felix Salten. Have you ever heard of it?”

David’s face drained of colour. He didn’t say a word. Instead, he held up his right hand. In it, was the book. Not only was it the right title, but it was the EXACT SAME edition I’d had as a kid.

“I don’t know why I’m holding this book,” he said, incredulous. “I just found it in a box in the staffroom, among a bunch of old gumboots. I don’t know why I picked it up.”

But I knew. Call me a new-age flake, but it seemed like an affirmation from the universe that I was on the right track.

Ten dollars later, the book was mine.

And I knew exactly what my tattoo would be: a small black and white etching-like fawn inspired by the delicate illustrations in the book.

That was fourteen years and eight books ago. I still get goosebumps every time I think about that day.

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Okay, time for another mini-story...

Elizabeth has heard it said that your coffee defines you.
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She looks down at her uncomplicated Americano and wonders if it’s true.
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At the counter, two women place their orders - their coffee seems complicated: non-fat, tall, skinny, no-foam, no-whip, something or others.
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Both women look complicated, Elizabeth thinks. They are also tall and non-fat, so maybe it’s true.
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The bell above the cafe door tinkles, and another woman enters the shop, this one gourd-shaped, middle-aged, with strawberry blonde hair.
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She orders a pumpkin spice latte, short.
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When the hipster comes in, Elizabeth is immediately curious.
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He orders a dark roast.
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Black.
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Didn’t she read somewhere that people who drink their coffee black are more likely to be psychopaths?
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Yes. In the New York Times. She is sure of it.
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The hipster sits near the window.
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Takes out his iPhone.
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Sniffs a lot, and has a very twitchy foot.
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He stares at one of the tall, non-fat, no-whip, women.
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And doesn’t blink.
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Elizabeth decides his name is Damian.
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That he owns a venomous snake.
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And is most likely a chronic insomniac.
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She guesses that he is probably obsessed with classic dark-haired beauties named Titania or Isolde; women who prefer sweet tea over black coffee.
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That he makes voodoo dolls in his basement apartment, carefully assembled from horse hair and human teeth and fingernail clippings.
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But Elizabeth finds out later his name is Peter; that he works as a landscaper & is restoring a 1968 BSA Thunderbolt.
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That he has twin daughters named Flora and Fauna, and a cat named Holden, and that he drives an old Subaru.
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You can’t believe anything you read anymore, Elizabeth thinks.
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Coffee Schmoffee.

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WHAT I'VE BEEN READING

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Canadian author, Karen Harmon’s memoir, Where is My Happy Ending – A Journey of No Regrets, landed so hard for me—not just because it’s set in the late ’70s and early ’80s in the same area where I grew up (the author and I both graduated from high school in 1978 in the same part of Vancouver), but because it got the era in all its messy, wild, unforgettable detail. The discos, the food, the way we dressed, and especially how things were between men and women back then, before anyone had impactful conversations about power dynamics or boundaries. The book was funny, yes—some parts made me laugh out loud—but it also kinda hit me in the gut.
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There were moments that brought up memories I hadn’t thought about in years, especially around how, at a young age, I, like the author, let myself be taken advantage of by men who saw vulnerability as opportunity. The book didn’t just capture the zeitgeist—it captured the emotional landscape of coming of age in a time when so much was unspoken. Honest, nostalgic, and surprisingly moving.
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As a recovering people pleaser, so many of Karen's reactions to people and events around her really struck a chord with me. But here we both are, now in our 60s, looking back at our vulnerable selves with love and compassion. Life is truly a journey. And of course, now I want to dig out my Seafarer jeans and cue up some SuperTramp on the ol’ 8-track cassette deck!
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PS – I’m sure I bought my jeans from Karen at the Bootlegger where she worked in Gastown in 1979/80! And we were absolutely for sure knocking back Tequila Sunrises down at Sugar Daddy’s nightclub then, too!

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UNTIL NEXT TIME...

Before I sign off, I just want to say—whether you're deep into your own writing or simply love getting lost in someone else's story, I really believe there's something a little magical about how the right story always seems to find us at just the right time. So thank you for spending a bit of your time with mine.

Here’s to all the words still ahead, and to those quiet, magical moments that make them worth writing—and worth holding onto.

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Cobble Hill, Vancouver Island, BC CANADA

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