I was born in Northwestern Ontario beside Lake Superior. The
changeable weather and the violent storms that ripped across the lake
dominated our lives and conversations. During the harsh winters, five
to ten feet of snow would accumulate, while temperatures could
plunge to minus forty degrees. In bad years, predators drew close to
town. Farmers lost stock, and townspeople lost dogs. Wolves howled
in the tree line as squalls tore through the street. Winter would fade
into wide blue skies and warm, sweet summers. Our world could be
both richly beautiful and intensely harsh. We endured, and it marked
us.
Unable to read as a child, the stacks of books at the local library
enchanted and frustrated me. Fortunately, each weekend, the staff
presented story hour. The tales of Nanabozho and the Sleeping Giant
fueled my imagination. My reality became the stuff of fantasy as I
absorbed stories of Wendigos, brumbies, dragons, and warriors. Once
in school, I learned quickly. Before Halloween, I read every book in my
classroom. My teacher walked me to the second-grade classroom to
choose advanced books, and I never looked back.
The stories I read didn't satisfy me. These juvenile writings were full of wise adults and polite people where no one
questioned authority. These writings didn't reflect real life. As soon as I had the skills, I wrote my own tales. In my mind,
life was interesting, dangerous, and exciting. Honour, fairness, and justice prevailed. Unfortunately, fantasies and dreams
didn't pay the bills. I needed to keep a roof over my head.
After gaining a degree, I settled in the north to spend spare time skiing, hiking, fishing, and camping in nearby forests.
Winter camping is an exhilarating sport. Isolated in a quinzhee shelter under brilliant star-filled skies, I read and brewed
tea until my food ran low.
Wolves and bobcats are curious, and they would often visit my campsites. At night, I'd hear them breathing and smell
their musky scent as they paced around my shelter. They accepted me and made very little fuss over my presence. Once,
some coyotes tried for my dog, but that's another story.
The north can be intensely beautiful. I experienced it instead of writing about it. How can you explain the thrill of
hearing the northern lights crackling in the sky or listening to wolves howling from a hilltop, their voices echoing across a
lake? Sometimes, words can't describe an experience. I absorbed the essence of the North. As time passed, my writing
drifted to the dark lore of the nighttime world of vampires, witches, fairies, and fay.
Please enjoy my offerings! I hope they give you as much pleasure as I received creating them.
