The frogs started singing

…and it felt like a sign

May 10, 2026

(when we walked up to this tiny sea-bog last night the frogs started singing, and they sang until my phone reached 42 seconds of filming)

(How have I never made a 42 in the ocean sand before?!)

(My favourite scene from New Waterford Girl. My favourite movie.)

💖💖💖1:04am Sunday, May 10th

Sometimes it’s hard to know where to start a story. There are so many possible entrance points. But much like any good story. It doesn’t matter. It’s the feeling of the story that matters. There are so many possible beautiful beginnings…and so many possible happy endings.

So just starting making the most sense.

I was a weird kid. In a small town. The adults were the only ones who seemed to get me. And even then, I think I mystified most of them.

All I dreamed about as a teenager was getting out. No matter where I was I just didn’t quite fit in.

…and after awhile…I stopped trying. I have been a colourful, big-hearted weirdo for a very long time. But when I was 15…there was so much time when I could imagine that I’d ever escape the north.

(Me at 15, taken by my mother when I was went looking because I loathed being asked to pose for pictures)

How you tell a story matters too. I could paint my whole childhood as miserable, if I wanted. I could pull out all the awful bits, put it on a plate, and say…here are all the reasons I’m a miserable person.

…but I’ve always been so god damn oppositional. And I’m grateful for that. Because I grew up in a cynical time. A time where apathy was en vogue.

…and so. I grew in opposition to that. I cared. Too much sometimes.

I knew I was different. People told me all the time. But I honestly, mostly, didn’t mind

spending time alone. I had books, and music, and creatures. Nature, and the mysteries of the universe. I found everything fascinating.

…and I found friends. Or, maybe, they found me. Because I was so strange, and spent a lot of my childhood being bullied, by the time I was a teenager…I let people choose me. It proved a decent strategy.

The people who liked me, they liked the real me…because I couldn’t be anything else.

I spent a lot of time trying to avoid the chaos of being a teenager. My parents moved me to the teenage pregnancy capital of Canada. When I was 13.

Thankfully I was oppositional to that drive too. I was fascinated by the inner working of human relations. But I approached everything like an anthropologist. I want to tell you so much more.

But hilariously, this story isn’t about any of that.

It’s about falling in love with a story. Because it was so similar to my own.

I did get out of The Pas, Manitoba. My parents still live there. So does my brother and his family.

I went to Winnipeg to study film and theatre under the guise of an English Literature degree.

…and it took me a bit to get my feet. But once I did, it was exhilarating.

Everything was an adventure.

I had no intention of living a predictable life.

Still not the story.

In 1999 I was a film student, a radio DJ, and smack dab in the middle of so much weirdness.

My film prof suggested I go see this movie, it was playing at the Art House Cinema. I convinced three or was it four (the details don’t really matter) people to go with me.

…one of those people was an irritating young man who was likely on coke. His name was Johnny…and there was nothing remotely likeable about him.

He wanted to sit next to me at the movie.

The lights went down. The movie began…and I was immediately enchanted.

New Waterford Girl sucked me right in, from the very first scene. A young girl, trying to leave her town, holding a cardboard sign that says Mexico. And the accents, they were real Cape Breton accents. It was a movie made in Canada. Written by a Canadian.

…and even Johnny answering his phone and talking through the movie next to me couldn’t break the magic of this film.

I was in love.

With the movie.

It was the first time I’d felt seen and watched a character like me…be the main character. U.S. weirdos…we were usually the comic relief, the best friend, the side characters. Or the cautionary tale.

Not Mooney Potty. She was smart. Acerbic. Well spoken. She read at the table. She was the town weirdo. Of the place but still a fish out of water.

The movie was so well written. It didn’t talk die to you. Or over-explain. It was pitch perfect.

…and being 19 and watching it was revolutionary.

I wanted to write like that. To make an iconic film like that.

…but first it felt like I had to live. So I lived. I’ve done almost everything on my bucket list.

(It was a weird bucket list)

Be a radio dj, be in a band, do stand up comedy, be in a play, see some dinosaur bones, be high school valedictorian, perform slam poetry, open a weird community space for gentle outsiders, live next to the Pacific Ocean, and the Atlantic, live in the states for a bit, sell fruit, sell books, write a book…

I finished writing my novelette two years ago.

…publish your book. That…I’ve balked on.

Because I know my novelette is actually the bones of a screenplay. It was written to be watched in the dark of the theatre. (Though my dad really wants it to be a tv series)

On Friday, May 1st…I closed the third iteration of my community space, Curious & Kind.

Friday night I picked up my kids.

Saturday I was so tired.

Sunday I worked at the book shop. I meet a new friend. A catalyst with a camera.

Monday I went to go sit with my friends and hand out mail at my favourite cafe while we waited for a cat to come back after a scary near fire.

Tuesday I get a message. Trixie (the cat we’d been watching for) is back. During my shift at the art gallery. While sitting and making art with my new catalyst friend. Post a squirmish with someone who triggers my heightened sense of justice and oppositional nature. I get text request for some parent-peer advice.

Tuesday night I play a server for a friend. And work until 9:30pm serving a five course meal.

Wednesday I get another text and it is an invite to a screenwriting workshop by the mother of this wonder-human I met at the bookshop in 2024. The parent-peer.

Wednesday I work another serving shift at my favourite sushi restaurant. It is so busy, that some visiting servers from another restaurant help me clear tables (they get some extra food for their trouble).

Thursday is my first day off. I go to see my friend Heather…and we make art at her house…like we’ve been doing together since the beginning of Curious & Kind. She makes us fresh crumpets and we toast them in her fire.

I do not know that Thursday is going to change my life.

I go for tea with my parent-friend, and find out that she was the one that write my favourite movie 25 years ago.

I weep. I thank her. I quote the sweater scene. She hugs me. Everything in my life led up to this moment. Like all moments.

I’m going to take a screenwriting class from the person who write my favourite movie.

…and that was the sign I needed.

I don’t actually think it is ever too late to do the thing.

…so here I am, saying. I am going to publish my novelette. I am going to turn it into a movie or a series. I am going to write books and children’s books. I am, and have always been…a storyteller.

On Thursday night I went to Rosefinch(encouraged my friend Audra, even though I was so so tired), and saw another person who inspired my 19 year old self. A member of Plumtree. The band that inspired the Scott Pilgrim comics, the movie, and the series. But more than that…a musical friend to Rosefinch itself, and Audra.

Watching Catriona Sturton play was like watching New Waterford Girl again for the first time. It felt like a room full of wondrous human coming together, and not feeling alone. Feeling like, we can all, at this point just be ourselves.

Friday I play chess at the Lifestyle Centre with the neighbour I played with for the entirety of Curious & Kind. Twice a week we played. Now we make plans for Fridays.

Then I drive for an hour and a half…. for a third visit with my wondrous new catalyst friend. I tell her the story of meeting my favourite film writer. She tells me about her creative awakening. We talk for what seems like hours. She makes more time for me. We hug. We declare our friendship solid. Because sometimes that’s all it takes. A declaration. Knowing that time is an illusion. She encourages me to do what I dream, and I encourage her. It’s beautiful and reciprocal.

I look at my friendships and see that almost all of them are now. That I’m living a life I never could have dreamed.

If you’re reading this, I am no doubt grateful for you. I’m excited about the new thing you’re doing. The easel in your yard. The book you’re finishing. The song you’re writing. That kiss you’re kissing. The walk you’re walking. The garden you’re planting. The community you’re creating. The life you’re building.

We are not alone. We have each other. We have created ties. The threads between us are gentle, delicate, and can be tugged when things get hard, or we want to share our excitement.

We are building a tapestry, together and separately. And it is fucking beautiful.

Heart, (it’s 2:25am as I sign off)

Wake

P.S. I’m going to put the tiny book down here. I’ll likely write it at the bookshop where I gratefully get to be today, avoiding the temptation to go for brunch. My kids know that’s not how I roll. Instead they watched New Waterford Girl with me last night. Helped me make tacos. Went to the windy windy beach and parted at the waves. Putting our arms in the air. Pretending to fly.

My partner brings our camera, and watching them take pictures makes my heart all fuzzy and warm.