Lessons from an Afternoon with Atwood

What a wonderful rendition of an enlightening afternoon. Thank you, Kim!

The Republic of Poetry

What’s a Master Class with Margaret Atwood like, on her home stomping grounds of Pelee Island? Well, it’s a wee bit intimidating, to be honest. You know the person who’s coming to sit with your writing group is prolific and probably one of the most brilliant writers on the planet. You know her mind is sharp and that she’s well read. The day before she visited us at our cottage rental here on Pelee, four of us were in the island bakery, stocking up on baked goods for the evening wine session. While I was checking out with some cookies for the group, the owner asked if I was one of the writers here this week. “Yup. We’re writing. And reading. And walking. And drinking wine. And eating stuff from your bakery!” Then, as I was using the debit machine, she leaned over and hissed conspiratorially to me, “There’s Margaret…

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What not to say to authors (and what to say instead)

In this post about the realities of being a published author, there are some lovely suggestions for what to say to said author.


NOTE: I LOVE being an author. I feel like the luckiest THING ever. This post is not a sign of my unhumbleness.

…However, since the wonder of being published, I’ve got one niggle. Whenever I talk to anyone about my books, people say the same things to me. Over and over. There are obviously a lot of myths out there about authors, so I’d thought I’d answer the main ones here, all in one go.

Myth one: Authors are all filthy rich…like JK Rowling

What not to say: “Wow, you’re an author? So, where’s your castle then, JK Rowling?”

The reality: Honestly, I’d make more money if I was paid a pound for every time someone brings up JK Rowling when talking to me about my career, then I’d ever make from selling books.

Here is the basic maths…

An average book costs, say, £7.99.

An average…

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Deepam and her words have moved. Please click here: Deepam Wadds

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By any other name

lilyMy mother once huffed, “We gave you a perfectly good name.” She was right, they did. I have always thought the name Susan, means “Star,” but when I look up its etymology, I find that it comes from the Hebrew and means “Graceful Lily.” So why, with such a lovely name (whether Star or Lily) would I go by a Sanskrit name? It’s because I get asked some version of this question so often that I write this post. It’s a valid question. I’m a WASP, not a Hindu. But then again, I’m not Hebrew either. Continue reading

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Filed under memoir, name meaning, Osho Rebalancing, Pune India, Rebalancing, Rebalancing training, Uncategorized

A Student of Bodies – a Rebalancer’s poem

rebalancingToday, in Sue Reynold’s divine Sanctuary Sunday – a full day to dive deep into words, to come at ideas, images, and stories in fresh ways – she offered up as a prompt Thomas R. Smith’s poem, Baby Wrens’ Voices. With the invitation to use the first line of the poem, “I am a student of wrens,” as a jumping off point, I took the cue and wrote this poem: Continue reading

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The first massage from “Touched”

Here is another piece from Touched, a narrative non-fiction story about learning the art of Osho Rebalancing in Pune, India.

heart in hands

The blue Nivea bottle is slick and warm. Just a drop, said Komala, displaying a nickel-sized dollop at the base of her palm. Just go slow, and you’ll be fine.

My partner is Jivan from Germany. He has short copper-coloured hair and constellations of matching freckles all over his long body. I think his eyes are green but he’s already taken off his glasses, closed his eyes, and turned his head away. He lies like a gift on the table before me, his hands palms-up at his hips. Continue reading

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Dancing in the Summer

dancerLast night I danced in the summer with a handful of women and one brave man. The music was good, the energy light and uncomplicated. I danced into, through, for and by myself for the first long while, only vaguely aware of the others. And then, as the evening sun outshone the murky clouds that had permeated the day and the light sparked red and gold through the windows, I became aware of the tribe.

Silhouetted against the soft light their forms danced, each to their own rhythm, and for a moment I was breathless with wonder. Continue reading


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