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I love the summer, but it isn’t my ideal writing time. There is something about miserable weather outside the window that gets my creative juices flowing, and my part of the country has its fair share of deep freeze cold to keep me productive. Unfortunately, our summers are gorgeous! Sun, heat, and for some reason, this summer hasn’t produced a single mosquito yet. I don’t get it! We’re normally swarming in the little beasties.

Today, I wasn’t productive at all, and I blame our stunning summer day on that. I chatted with a friend on the phone, took a long walk to our local library where I met up with another friend so our kids could play together, and then walked the long trek home again to cook supper for my husband. It was a good day, a busy day, and a happy day, but I haven’t even touched my manuscript yet. I’m beginning to feel guilty about that.

I shouldn’t, though. This is my last summer before my son starts school. I’m stuck in a limbo of longing for some uninterrupted writing time (imagine!) and feeling guilty for that longing. But as much as I’m going to miss having my little boy around all day, I have to tell you… I sometimes stand at the kitchen sink, wrist deep in soapy water, lost in a fantasy of having a whole morning to write to my heart’s content. There will be a pot of tea nearby. The ideas will be flowing, and nobody will ask me to wipe their nose, find their toy, fix their snack or find them something to do because all of their toys are boring.

Hart House quad, University of Toronto

Hart House quad, University of Toronto


When I was in university, I used to come write at Hart House, the most charming library University of Toronto has to offer. I’d curl up in a leather armchair next to a lead paned window, ivy spilling inside if I cranked it open, and pore over my books. I dreamed of the day I’d be a full-time writer, and I have to say, in that picturesque setting, my fantasies involved less dripping noses and my fingers were never prune-y from dish washing.

But that’s okay, because my new fantasies of uninterrupted writing time are even sweeter than the Hart House day dreams. I’ll probably be ignoring a pile of laundry, turning my back on the dishes and there will be no ivy spilling through windows, I can assure you, but it will be reality. My reality.

And while I do have a soft spot for ivy and lead paned windows, I really do love my life.