Born on the Canadian prairies-- in Saskatoon, Saskatchewan-- on March 28th, 1984.
It was a dark and frigid night...
The wind (still what I remember best) pounded furiously against the thin walls of our house, and hollered like a pack of forlorn timberwolves.
Are you impressed yet?
I’m doin’ my damndest here, people. But the utter tedium of finding new and innovative ways to describe myself is starting to eat away at my soul!
And I am not a narcissist.
I am not a narcissist. I am not a narcissist. (Practice makes perfect.)
So What Am I Then?
Well, I'm definitely a writer, and a desperate romantic. A father.
A humanist, a feminist, a pretentious food purist and a novice green thumb.
My LinkedIn profile gives some more insight:
although settled for now in a somewhat remote Eastern Ontario village, I'm more of a domesticated wannabe globetrotter with a noticeably thick cosmopolitan accent.
So… Shit... I am a narcissist!
Let us digress though, for a brief moment, and then never speak of this conversation again.
And for the sake of labels, last words and late night dinner parties: let's say that I’m a moderately sophisticated smart ass with hobbies. Not exactly Shakespeare... but it’s to be what it will be.
I LOVE LIFE--
Definitively, from top to bottom-- and I marvel at the few people who sit up front and press their faces against the glass. I know happiness well, yet I retreat often into loneliness (as if by some sanctified, spiritual compulsion).
Maybe that’s what it takes to be a great writer (God, I can only hope).
I boast playfully, as usual, on my Google Plus profile:
If fancy, felicitous words were dollars... I would have so many of them!
A TRUE LOGOPHILE...
But there is truth beneath this impeccable sense of humour. I do search for those perfect words, indeed: the rarely found and yet simply filigreed phrases which express more, it seems, than even our own souls at times.
A common affliction among writers (God, I can only hope): Jack Kerouac once commiserated. “Someday I will find the right words,” he assured himself, “and they will be simple.”
Sure they will, Jack.
Cheers anyway, in spite of our gravest errors: to midnight oil, and matchboxes... and to those curious cases of 'je ne sais aucune chose'.