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Write like a motherf*cker

I know, it’s become an obsession – but the deafening noise continues from Spruce Street. Could I hate these people more? I had to go over on Sunday with my TO noise ordinance – no construction noise allowed on Sunday, which they conveniently ignore. Just a few more minutes, they said, which meant an hour. But then it stopped. The silence is like – like sweet fresh water, like the smell of roses, something blessed and fine. But this morning, here we go again. And now the bellowing boyfriend is there too. Noise cancelling headphones help a bit but only a bit.

I know, this is the price I pay for living in this wonderful ‘hood, where many others want to live. There’s apparently a ton of renovation going on this summer, because everyone’s at home. Enjoying each other’s noise and dust.

Jason is coming soon to continue plans for the launch. So far, I’ve been receiving positive reports from those reading the memoir now. Monique’s boyfriend Ron says he’s glad I survived my youthful indiscretions. I’m glad too, but I hastened to tell him that my indiscretions were relatively benign compared to those of many of my friends. It was a wild time, the late seventies – feminism, the pill, and tons of drugs had liberated us, and there was no AIDS to slow anyone down.

It’s a beautiful day, warm and sunny with a breeze. This ridiculous cat is next to me sleeping all over my work –

and I just received a card from the kids in Nova Scotia and a present from Judy in Vancouver, with a very important message:

Point taken. I promise to start, as soon as this one is out in the world and I can breathe again.

I just got some essential reading from the library and Shopper’s Drug Mart:

and am just finishing a fascinating book called Philosophy in the Garden, by Damon Young – how various writers and philosophers, from Jane Austen to Voltaire, think of nature and gardens and how that influences their work. Not sure what my philosophy of the garden is – perhaps, “Whatever can survive my carelessness and lack of skill deserves to survive.”

Luckily this was not my philosophy of parenting. Wait – no, maybe it was.



2 Responses to “Write like a motherf*cker”

  1. Another saying I like for writers is "Put the rage on the page." I must say I'm feeling no rage whatsoever as I sit in this lovely hotel garden beside a tinkling little pool. Very hot, very sunny. My last day in Porto. Oh, the smiling waiter's coming over with a big glass of chilled white wine. Bye.

  2. beth says:

    I feel for your misery, Juliet!

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About Beth

I began keeping a journal at the age of nine. Nearly fifty years later, I started this online journal, sharing reflections, reviews, updates, and the occasional secret.

Some Blogs I Follow

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This blog evolves. It once was about travels. Now it’s a reason to be at the keyboard that I value.


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Theresa Kishkan is a writer living on the Sechelt Peninsula on the west coast of Canada.


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Juliet is a Canadian who’s lived for decades in Paris and writes about her travels and the many things that interest her.