Author: Karen Harmon

They Said Don’t Do It!

They Said Don’t Do It!

By Karen Harmon

If I Can Write a Book Then You Can Too!

In 2009, an unexpected event took place. A business that I had been working very hard on dissolved. It was a successful company six years in the making. It did well until it stopped doing well.

Then my mother died.

After the collapse of my career and my mom’s unexpected death, I packed up and moved away from the small town I had lived in for twenty years. My daughters were grown and succeeding independently, so I uprooted my eleven-year-old son and moved to an entirely different community. My marriage was on the rocks, and everything felt impossible.

Why I started writing

After moving away from friends and family, broken dreams, and what felt like wasted blood, sweat and tears, I found a place to live and enrolled my son in a new school. Much to my dismay, my husband and I temporarily separated.

The place we moved to was in a forested area on a hill overlooking the city. Every morning after dropping my son off at school, I went back up on my hill, wrapped myself in a blanket and sat outside in the back yard on my favourite lawn chair. It was late Fall. There I rested. I pondered, prayed, and weeded out the tangled gnarly bits in my brain and began the process of healing, taking some time to breathe.

We had two cats who marvelled at their new surroundings. I loved watching them explore. Sometimes brown bears would venture into our yard from the forest and sun themselves. I went inside during these times, but I took great pleasure in watching them frolic in their natural habitat, which just happened to be my back yard.

Eventually, I needed to work, so I applied and started teaching fitness at two local community centers. The exercise and oxygen to my brain assisted in helping me form new-found happy thoughts. I also began working for the school district as a teaching assistant.

Employment gave me a livelihood and a vocation gave me purpose.

As I sorted through the problematic aspects of this current disarray, I felt the insistent nudges of new beginnings. I began telling my son colourful and exciting stories about his grandfather, my dad, who had died before my son had a chance to meet him.

My father ran away from home during the Great Depression in the 1930s. At the age of thirteen, he rode boxcars to a different province. Tales of his adventures enamoured my son, and we grew closer through the storytelling. One day he said, “Why don’t you write a book, mom?” My response was, “Okay, I will.”

My Writing Process

We all know that writing a book is easier said than done.

I chose not to look at the big picture. The enormity of such a project could surely be overwhelming. I instead decided to write a story. One simple three-paragraph story. I wrote what I knew, my dad’s decision to run away. I dissected how a thirteen-year-old boy might feel, and then went on to describe the setting and his appearance. I enthusiastically researched the life and times in the 1930s. Times of poverty, hopelessness, and panic.

Before long, my three-paragraph story turned into what could be an entire chapter.

Initially, the purpose of my writing was to create a keepsake for my three children—a gift and a history lesson of where they came from. Never professing to be a literary genius, I threw all caution to the wind and kept writing.

Side Note—I did not think of myself as a writer. I disliked school, and through insecurities and low self-esteem, I assumed that I was not smart, at least not academically. Everyone in my age group, my grade, seemed brighter than me. However, I did not dwell on this observation because I had something else—I could be fun and funny, and because my father told me his life story many times over, I became an avid storyteller. The gift of imagination is a beautiful child-like quality. This was instilled by my father and has served me well.

Continuing with the process, I wrote and wrote. My computer skills were not the greatest. Everything about technology frightened me. Hence, those old feelings of not being smart arose. In sharing this with a dear friend, a woman who had already written and published a book, I was given some excellent advice. She said, “E-mail me.” I started to E-mail her all of my writing; she encouraged me and made suggestions, but mostly her reassurance is what propelled me forward.

Eventually, I learned how to make attachments and save my work. However, I needed to write all the steps down on a piece of paper, which I kept next to my computer as a reminder.

The writing process became therapeutic. My memory grew. Therefore, my recollections expanded. Sometimes I was driven to tears and, other times, laughter.

I felt a closeness to my lovely deceased parents. I cherished my time with them, telling their story. Surprisingly, I grew to relish life’s complexity, family dysfunction, nostalgia, trials, tribulations, and most of all, the healing aspects of self-discovery through my writing.

Overall, writing recharged my batteries and gave me a zest for living. Instead of watching television at night, I could hardly wait to get to my writing.

In the midst of this beautiful time, my husband and I were able to work out our differences and get back together.

How I Published

Being a novice writer and “not a literary genius,” I had no clue how to get my work published. Optimistic and somewhat naïve, I assumed I would send my manuscript off to Penguin Books, Harper Collins, or Simon and Schuster.

Not so fast…

After I wrote and wrote about my father, before I could even think about publishing, I realized the content was not enough. I needed more material. So, I delved into my mother’s struggle with mental illness. Subsequently, I healed some more.

In the meantime, my son became YouTube famous. I will save that story for another time, but practically overnight, he became a world traveller. This was all to enhance his YouTube career, meet fans, dance, make videos, and create brand deals.

Only thirteen years old, he needed a chaperone. Of course, I as his mother, was the perfect person for the job. We travelled, he performed, and I continued writing.

On a trip to Santa Monica, California, he had meetings to attend and much to my trepidation, he asked if he could go by himself. Other YouTubers had invited him to film and network, so I said yes. He was older by then. I gathered that no fifteen-year-old wants their fifty-year-old mother traipsing after them in sensible shoes and a bedazzled backpack.

Therefore, I had a lot of time on my hands. Instead of accompanying my son, I ventured out to various coffee shops and set up my laptop alongside cool hipster people drinking coffee, and I kept on writing. Alone, surrounded by strangers, I convinced myself that I was ready to publish.

Having no idea about Algorithms and how the vast arena of search engines work, I started to get advertisements on my iPhone, primarily on Facebook and Instagram, about self-publishing. This, to me, was like divine intervention. How remarkable, I thought; seemingly mystical in the theme of, “Wow, publishing my manuscript is meant to be, look at all the signs!”

Since then, I have discovered how the internet can be a friend, foe, and wealth of information. It is often confusing and sometimes scary. Falsehoods and too much information can certainly be a deterrent when trying to make a decision. Now I laugh about those sneaky Algorithms.

Yet, in that Santa Monica coffee shop, sipping a cinnamon-laced Latte, there came a dull roar in my brain that chanted, go for it, publish, publish, publish.

Advertisements for Tellwell Publishing kept appearing, asking me if I wanted to fill out a questionnaire. No strings attached, just a form to see if I was a writer in the making and someone capable of possibly publishing a book—with their assistance, of course.

I liked the idea. It reminded me of those quizzes some of us filled out from magazines when we were younger—questionnaires designed to help us discover personality traits, career paths, or if the man we had chosen was the right one.

Shortly after completing the extensive form, I was emailed a response. It stated that my story is worthy of being published by the information that I submitted. I was asked if an agent could contact me to discuss my options. I instantly became wary. But I said yes to a phone call.

After the phone call, the representative emailed me a list of three publishing packages without any expectations or pressure—the cost of each and what they all entailed.

There was an option for a monthly payment plan, and what stood out most was their promise of step by step publishing assistance and support. A design team would help me with the front and back cover. Also included was the interior and exterior layout, an ISBN and a marketing plan. They pledged to answer my questions in a twenty-four-hour time frame. I was ensured they would list my book on all the major bookselling sites.

Choosing the cheapest package, I told no one about my endeavour. I said yes, and the book publishing process was set in motion.

I recommend choosing two people you highly trust, mentor types to share your thoughts and publishing plans with. I went at it alone for fear of being judged. Now I say, who cares what people think.

There will be naysayers along the way. There always is. These are the people you might want to steer clear of when sharing your hopes, desires, and dreams. They will only squelch you. Wise, supportive people are best. And try to narrow it down to just a few. No sense in spouting off all your book writing ideas to every contact on your email list. At least not right away.

Why You Should Get an Editor

The best source of guidance came from my editor. Please do not think of publishing your book without one.

Looking back, I could not have written and published two award-winning books without her. I would never have made all of my invested money back, which did eventually happen.

The difference between hiring an editor and not hiring an editor is, in my opinion, monumental. An editor will ensure that your book is readable, professional, marketable and acclaimed. Plus, they pick up things we as astute over-zealous writers may miss.

For example, would you hire a plumber to clean your teeth? No, of course not! A plumber is needed to fix a drain, among other things, while an editor is required to improve a manuscript.

I visualized my book as a beautiful house I was building, my dream home. My editor was the city planner that said, “This needs to go here, and that needs to go there.” She also became an interior decorator and a housekeeper. Without her expertise, I am sure my home would not have been presentable and may have been reduced to rubble.

Your manuscript is your baby. Just like you would interview different daycares for your child, make sure the editor you choose is the right fit. Tell them your vision and be open to their suggestions. Professional editors know what to do, and they will not lead you astray. But as I said, it is your story, so do not be afraid to speak up.

Stop Thinking and Write It!

My best advice is to try what I did. Think back to a memory or an idea you have and plan to write three paragraphs about it. That way, you will not overwhelm yourself. Start with a topic you are familiar with. Afterwards, go back and add detail.

You may want to write a memoir, fiction, non-fiction, sci-fi, children, self-help…your options are endless.

Libraries are still an excellent source for research. They are inviting and somewhat forgotten in this age of Google, Reddit, YouTube and various other sites. The library near my home smells of books and coffee. They have comfy chairs and proper desks to work at.

My favourite place to write is in my bed with my dog curled up beside me. I usually write on Sundays. Pick a day and time that works best for you.

You have to start somewhere. Break it down and do not look at the big picture. At least not at the beginning.

When my daughter Emma was a little girl, she had a terrible time cleaning her room. She would look at the mess and give up even before she got started tidying.

I came up with a strategy. Breaking down all the room cleaning tasks, I wrote every job on slips of paper. Put books away, pick up barbie dolls, fold clothes, bring dirty dishes to the kitchen, make your bed, dust, etc.…We then folded up the pieces of paper and put them in a hat. One at a time, she took out a piece of paper, read the task, did what was written on the paper. Voila, in less than an hour, her room was spotless.

The first piece of paper I would put in your hat would be, open up your computer and write three paragraphs.

Sometimes I am over the top optimistic, but I genuinely enjoy helping others, so please feel free to check out my social media sites, website and email me. I would like to hear your story, and I am willing to offer you suggestions and encouragement that may help you bring your writing dreams to fruition.

I know you can do it. Happy writing!

Looking for Normal and Where is My Happy Ending? A Journey of No Regrets

I Married an Alcoholic

I Married an Alcoholic

I Married an Alcoholic

By Karen Harmon

January 1, 2021

“A person who drinks too much on occasion is still the same as they were sober. An alcoholic, a real alcoholic, is not the same person at all. You cannot predict anything about them except they will become someone you never met before.”

-Raymond Chandler, The Long Goodbye

My wedding day, April 10, 1987

He was sweet, a little bit shy, and handsome, reminding me of my dad. I adored my alcoholic husband. I did not know he had a drinking problem when we met. We were in our early twenties then, and as young people, we all liked to party, having drinks on the weekend, listening to music, and hanging out with friends.

When I walked down the aisle to marry him, I suspected that he might overindulge from time to time. There were signs, but I loved him. All I wanted was a husband, a baby, and a home.

In a sense, my father walked me down the aisle as if he was unknowingly dropping me off to spend my life with a stranger, someone that I should be fending off rather than joining in wedded bliss. If I could have predicted the future, I might have chosen someone else. But in retrospect, it was best that I did not know what the future held.

I tried very hard to fix my husband throughout our marriage, to change him and make him into the man I wanted him to be. I cried, pleaded, and begged for him to quit drinking. I thought that once we were married, life would be different. If we had a baby, he might choose to curb his appetite for liquid libations. When that did not work, I hoped that another baby would do the trick.

Our two little girls became my joy, but I was struck with terrible sadness and disappointment within, which I carried underneath a radiant smile and motherly duties.

The grass always seemed greener on the other side of the fence. I continuously looked at other families and longed to be more like them.

I was young and had not yet learned that everyone had skeletons in their closets. Not one single person on earth is perfect, and most people have secrets that are kept under lock and key, certain hush-hush and veiled mysteries never divulged. Only those living under the same roof can see the realities of what lies within.

Some refer to alcohol addiction as the elephant in the room, a metaphorical idiom that refers to an enormous topic or controversial issue that everyone knows about. Still, no one mentions or discusses it because it makes them feel uncomfortable. Or perhaps it is personally and socially embarrassing, far too contentious to mention.

Unlike an elephant, alcohol was more like an evil force that invaded and engulfed my husband. Its claws dug in deep to his body and soul and would not let go. It seemed impossible for him to get free. Even though he tried, he could not eliminate the sinister force that stole him from our children and me. The addictive qualities tormented him, changed him until he was no longer the man I knew.

But before all of that, we moved into a log home my father had built. We upgraded it, and my new husband put in a beautiful flower garden.

It was not until years later, when everything had ended, that I found out he did his best drinking while gardening. The proof was in the empty whiskey bottles hidden amongst the geraniums and cherry tomato vines. Like land mines and time bombs, the empty liquor bottles appeared as shrapnel, jagged and pointy like thorns on a rose. Evil and good, pain and pleasure, nestled in the flower bed I had come to love.

As a gifted and avid gardener, he took great care of the lilac tree and the yellow rose bush that my father had planted for my mother way back when they were first married. My dad had died six months after we got married, so I treasured those plants—aromatic blossoms that brought memories of my dad back to life, along with memories of his love for my mother. My husband’s watchful attendance to these flowers from my past warmed me.

I asked for red geraniums and window boxes. So he built, planted, and nurtured them and helped them grow.

My red geraniums, dad’s yellow roses, mom’s lilacs and Dale’s tomatoes. Artwork by Mackenzie Harmon @sonofvincent

How relevant all his hiding was, almost like a rite of passage. People have been doing it for years and still practice the art of camouflage to this day—places to hide their guilt, shame, and problem drinking. His was the garden. Other people find cupboards, the garage, under beds and in drawers; golf bags, gym bags, and the toilet tank. The options are endless. Where there’s a will, there’s a way.

The lengths of the alcoholic’s desperation is heart wrenching. The very thing they are hiding and trying to protect us from is what rips us all apart. But, the best protection of all is stopping and getting help. Many try, some succeed and conquer, while others become conquered.

Our beautiful garden was a decoy for my husband’s addiction.

Family photo at the side of the house 1988
Dale watering my flowers

I left pamphlets around the house about alcoholics anonymous; brochures about treatment centers and magazine articles about the devastation alcohol abuse has on a family. I made appointments with doctors and therapists. I arranged an intervention with family and friends. I prayed and prayed until there were no more prayers left in me. And worst of all, I dished out ultimatums.

When none of my attempts to make him quit drinking worked, I tried the “If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em” mentality, thinking, how bad could it be? At least we would be on the same page, in the same headspace, but then I realized we could hardly afford HIS drinking let alone me jumping on the bandwagon. Besides, I did not have the stamina. Late-night drinking and hangovers were not a part of my original plan.

As a fitness instructor, I ate, drank, and breathed good health and fitness. On top of that, I was a mother, and with that came responsibilities and work to shape and mould our precious little people.

Throughout my whole life, I wanted to be a mother and a wife, which was not an easy feat, because in the 1980s, a liberated woman would never admit to this as a goal.

Crabbing in Sooke, 1986

I eventually cracked the code to my unhappiness. It was the most challenging work I have ever done. It took years of self-discovery, healing, and grieving. In the ‘90s we called it ‘Tough Love’, whereas some referred to it as looking out for number one. The best term and action that worked for me was setting up personal boundaries.

Setting up boundaries is a valuable life skill that helps define a person by outlining safe and permissible ways for people to behave. Having boundaries also helps us respond when someone passes those limits. It is not mean or hurtful to work towards clarity and ways to control incoming and outgoing interactions between people.

How did I know it was time?

I had been invited to an afternoon get together. You know, the kind where mothers gather with other mothers. Their children play out in the yard while the moms chat and share their thoughts on work, family, politics, news, fashion, favourite recipes and tv shows. We might have a potluck lunch or dinner, a few might have a glass of wine and then coffee and dessert at the end. Everyone parts ways and drives home clean and sober.

Before arriving at the party, I decided to take the hostess a bottle of wine as a gesture.

Pulling into the parking lot at the cold beer and wine store, my eldest daughter, four years old at the time, started crying. Not just tears but sobs and outright wailing. Before I could stop the car and figure out what was wrong, she said, “No, mommy, we can’t go here; this is where daddy goes.”

My heart instantly broke.

Their father, who did handsprings in the yard, backflips on the trampoline, and played the guitar for hours, often went to this very same liquor store while leaving our girls in the car. They were small, but their feelings were big and real. They knew.

Looking into the eyes of my daughter, I had to say something. She was inconsolable. So, I made it simple, yet I validated her distress and fear. I said, “If you were to eat ten chocolate bars at a time, it would probably make you very sick. Alcohol is the same. One drink periodically would not be so bad, but what if someone had five or even ten, one after the other? It would make them very sick. If they did it every day, then their body and mind would not work very well anymore”.

She accepted this. I did not go into the liquor store that day.

My life had been highjacked by his consumption of beer, Southern Comfort, and a few joints daily. I asked myself if I could get my daughters out from under the affliction that was killing their father and sabotaging our marriage. A little voice inside my head struggled to come out, but when it did, it said, “Yes, you can.”

Leading up to the day of my chocolate bar analogy, I had been going to AL anon meetings, reading self-help books, and going for individual counselling. I also found a group of women to cycle with, or rather, they found me. I looked for spirituality in a local church and had contemplated leaving my marriage, but it was the tears and distress of my little girl that shook me to attention and gave me the strength to go.

I was thirty-two and had worked at saving my relationship and primarily the man in it, for ten years. Most of us spouses and partners have learned that it is up to the individual to get help. I eventually realized that nothing I could say or do would make him quit drinking.

After leaving, I was proud that my daughters no longer overheard our arguments, experiencing my tears and their father’s silence.

My oldest daughter is now thirty-two, the same age I was when I chose to leave, which is not the solution for everyone. I do not profess to have all the answers. Should you stay, or should you go? Will they recover, or won’t they?

Alcoholism does not look the same for everyone. Some people may drink every day, while others only drink every three months. When drinking alcohol begins to interfere with our lives and relationships, it’s most likely an addiction.

People do not get out of bed in the morning intentionally wanting to hurt others. As children, we do not dream of one day growing up and becoming an addicted person. We are born. We are held and nurtured, or maybe we are not. Our needs are met, or perhaps they are not, and even so, something happens to us along the way. The once clean slate or empty canvas of our perfect state-of-the-art human self becomes imprinted with the language of our life experiences.

Standing in front of the log home, me and the girls, 1990

So, what happened?

Some of us had parents who raised us to the best of their ability, and their parents before them did the same. But they often lived their lives based on their environment, past hurts, and patterns, and sometimes too much meaning was put into the poisonous things.

I learned that I had no control over my alcoholic, and there was no way to stop him from drinking. My safety, mental and emotional health, and that of my children became my priority. Everything had become unmanageable. The disease is progressive, and my children needed one healthy and sober parent, and that was me.

There is no clear road map or a magical crystal ball that tells us why the people we love become addicted. Or why they cannot stop. As hard as this sounds, we need to take care of ourselves. We can still love them. I still love my ex-husband, my children’s first father. But for me, I had to let him go to save us.

I have been a special needs teaching assistant for twenty-eight years, a fitness instructor for forty years, and in the last two years, I have written and published two books. Looking for Normal and Where is My Happy Ending? – A Journey of No regrets.

My journey has been one of no regrets. I permitted myself to think that way because here I am. My struggles and successes are what have made me who I am today.

Emma, Karen and Jessica – Low-income housing 1993

Remembering, both Hurts and Heals

Remembering, both Hurts and Heals

“You’re everywhere except right here, and it hurts.”

-Rupi Kaur

My father died when I was twenty-seven years old. I felt grown up at the time and yet like a little girl wanting her daddy, mostly devastated from losing him and unable to think of my life without him.

He never met my husband or my three children. He was absent from my adult struggles and never saw my tears of disappointment when things did not go my way. He did not see who I grew up to be or the work that I have done, and the countless people I have helped over the years.

I have finally accepted that he will not ever be here to cheer me on and witness the dreams and goals I have yet to accomplish.

Unless he is floating up above me or his spirit is twirling around with the breeze on a windswept night, I have not seen or felt his presence in thirty-three years. I often hope that a fluttering butterfly or sunspot on a photo is a sign, a message, or an indication that he is always with me.

I wonder about heaven and the afterlife, the Promised Land, immortality, and the man upstairs. I so want there to be a land of milk and honey and seventh heaven. I fantasize seeing him again and visualize running into his arms at the Pearly Gates.

It helps me to think this way.

Remembrance Day has passed. November 11 marks the end of World War I At 11:00 a.m. on the 11th day of the 11th month, two minutes of silence is held to remember the people who have died in wars.

The poppy is described in the famous World War I poem “In Flanders Fields.” The red poppy is a symbol of both remembrance and hope for a peaceful future. The poppy is a well-known and well-established symbol that carries a wealth of history and meaning.

The daffodil is another flower with meaning. It is the symbol of the Canadian Cancer Society. It represents strength, resilience, courage, and life. It survives Canadian winters to become one of the first flowers to bloom in spring. My dad died of Cancer.

My father’s favourite flower was a Pansy. Kind of funny for a construction worker, farmer, man’s man, and rugged type. He liked the little face imprinted on the petals.

Now, the petite, sweet blossom reminds me of my dad and how he appreciated the little things in life—flowers that bloom, a silly joke, or the game of Charades; nature and his garden with tomato plants growing up along the back wall of our house; pickled beets and canned pears. He loved working and building, helping and creating.

My dad came from meagre, impoverished beginnings and vowed to my mother when they first met that he would never yell or show anger towards their children. My mother was in agreement.

Us kids consistently came first. As my parents struggled, we still had bicycles, toys, trips, and lessons of every kind. My mother said if there were a particular movie we all wanted to see, we would eat ground beef for a week just so we could afford to go.

My dad and his brother 1919
My handsome dad, Vince Bonner 1967

Without bragging, I like to think that I am like my father. He was kind and humorous, witty and smart. But he was also a worrier.

I did not know until years after his death, when my mother told me, that my dad had internally fretted over pretty much everything; their four children (my siblings and I); money and food, not having enough; health and happiness, ours and his. And yet on the outside, he displayed nothing of these worrisome thoughts that tormented him.

He was never one to sing the blues or show how much he agonized over all of these things.

How do we keep our loved ones who have passed away current in our minds? We might reminisce over old photos and videos. As it may be, something often reminds us of them—a place, a smell, or running into an old friend. In my case, it is a flower.

I like to tell stories and reflect on memories in remembrance of the good old days, my past, and the people who have left me, and this world, far too soon.

If I close my eyes and concentrate, I can still see his smile, hear his loud, boisterous laugh, and almost feel his bear-like hugs. I understand his worry now that I am older and wiser. I carry with me many of his same worries. Perhaps we all do…

Imagine having one more day with someone who has finished their time on this earth. Not a day when they were sick in bed, but a day when they were well, a time years before they tragically or suddenly left us. What would you do? What would you say?

If I could be who I am now and was given twenty-four more hours with my dad…

I would get up early, and he would be in my kitchen making bacon and eggs. We would sit down to eat and have an instant coffee together as he stoked the fireplace. Then I would walk out to his garden with him, and he would show me around. While we were walking, I would tell him how happy I was that he was my dad. I would ask him questions like, “What’s your favourite food?” or “What did you think when you first saw me?” or “What are you worrying about today, Dad?” I would then introduce him to my three children and my husband, and we would all play Charades together. He would admire my husband for the work that he does with the homeless. He would be astounded at how my oldest daughter looks like me, how my middle daughter is an adventurous world traveller. And lastly, he would be impressed with my son’s artistic talent and how handsome he is. He would tell me that all three of my children have beautiful smiles and how happy he is that they take care of their teeth. He would then tell me how proud he is of me and how sorry that he left me.

Where is My Happy Ending? – A Journey of No Regrets, Page 278

Reflections of a Limo Ride

“It felt glamorous, but wrong, to be enjoying the luxury of black leather seats set in a U-shape formation, with a minibar lined up behind the driver. The sunroof was open, allowing a warm September breeze to ruffle my hair. At one point, my brother’s girlfriend suggested we stand up through the sunroof above us. The driver said that was completely out of the question for safety reasons. None of us wanted to do it, anyway, except her.

As we exited Lonsdale Street and turned onto the Upper Levels Highway, the route reminded me of all the times I had ridden with my father as a little girl in his work truck. My treasured childhood memory, combined with the new experience of being in a limo, brought a lightness to the event, and for a brief moment, I was absurdly happy. Catching myself, I struggled to find balance and teetered between pain and euphoria. For once, my mother’s mental health issues seemed to be making sense.

The Capilano Crematorium had standing room only. Aside from myself, a great number of people in the community had adored my dad, and it seemed like all of North Vancouver had come out to pay their respects. Not everyone could fit inside the room, and many had to wait outside until it was over. It was the end of a long warm summer, so thankfully, the doors were kept open.

I sat next to my mother, and she held my hand. I first thought she laced her fingers in mine because she was reaching out to calm me, to let me know that she was there for me, but when I felt the soft wadded-up Kleenex balled up in her palm, I realized she was holding my hand for her own sake. I did not mind, as the last time she held my hand was when I was a little girl at the grocery store.

My oldest brother had prepared music, a mixed tape of my father’s most loved songs—”The Tennessee Waltz,” sung by Patti Page, and “Put Your Sweet Lips a Little Closer to the Phone,” by Jim Reeves. We had an open microphone, so people were able to come up and share their memories, thoughts, or heartfelt feeling”.

Page 279

Stepping outside into the glaring sunshine, several people stood around laughing at the telling of old stories or perhaps funny memories they had shared with my dad, while others timidly glanced over at me with downcast eyes, not knowing how to act, what to say or do.

I wanted everyone to be weeping, to holler out how unfair it was, to shake their fist at the sky, and to demand answers. Their laughter felt wrong and unnerving. I yearned for someone to gallantly take my father’s place, climb into the oven, and become reduced to ashes, professing that they should be taken from this world instead.

In the days and weeks afterward, grief consumed me. I felt unbelievable heartache and melancholy that I carried everywhere with me…

My writing has brought me tremendous healing.

I work hard almost daily in wonderment, battling my unanswered questions and missing my dad, even now, after all these years later.

But, if truth be told, sometimes I forget to remember.

I had a dream a few days after my dad died. In the dream, he called me on the telephone, the old-fashioned kind attached to the wall. He told me that he was happy and well and for me not to worry, that everything was going to be okay. He asked how my mother was doing.

The song He’ll Have to Go by singer-songwriter Jim Reeves reminded my dad of my mom. When they first met, they were both on blind dates with other people, so this song turned into their song.

“Put your sweet lips a little closer to the phone

Let’s pretend that we’re together, all alone

I’ll tell the man to turn the jukebox way down low

And you can tell your friend there with you he’ll have to go…”

-by Jim Reeves

My best advice is never to stop remembering and telling stories. And never feel guilty if your loved one slips your mind for a time. It is okay. Even if they never told you, I am telling you, those that have passed would want us to have a great big beautiful life.

Remembering is healing, and so is moving forward and living life to the fullest.

Me and my dad 1982

He’ll Have to Go by Jim Reeves

Hanging Out With Old Friends

Hanging Out With Old Friends

Hanging Out with Old Friends, Saying

“Remember When…”

As we grow older and everything around us is changing rapidly, our long-time friends remind us of who we are. They know a lot about us, and everything feels comfortable. They offer us a sense of family without pressure. They know how to make us feel better, even if we think we are okay. Our past struggles do not seem so hard with someone who knew us way back when. If they are still in the picture, they are a person who loves us unconditionally.

When I first met my best friend Mary, we were in Grade Two. We both loved Miss Cook, our teacher at Queensbury Elementary School in North Vancouver, B.C.

Looking for Normal “Miss Cook was classy and glamorous, with a bee-hive hairdo, matching skirts and jackets, go-go boots and frosted pink lipstick. She could have been a model in the Simpson Sears or Eaton’s catalogue. She spoke softly and was very kind. I was shy and overly obedient.”

Mary was not shy at all; she was the “pick me, raised hand, bottom out of her seat” kind of student. She rarely got picked, which only made her try even harder the next time.

Looking for NormalEyes fixed on the Queen every morning with her ruby red lipstick, pleasant smile and sideways pose. Singing God Save the Queen, followed by the Lord’s Prayer until it was engrained into our pint-sized heads. These segments and flashbacks of elementary school are unforgettable.

I lived two blocks from the school and went home for lunch every day. Mary stayed for lunch at school because she lived too far away. Besides, her mother had five children and a job outside the home, so it would have been much too confusing for Mary to eat lunch at home. Therefore, we got in the habit of Mary coming over to my house to eat lunch with me. 

In 1966, our favourite lunch was Campbell’s Tomato Soup with grilled cheese sandwiches. Sometimes we were given Swanson’s Chicken Pot Pie, the individual kind, and if my mother was in a rush, then it would be Lipton Chicken Noodle Soup that came in an envelope in a red box. We loved the tiny noodles. Crackers were smashed, crumbled, or dipped as an accompaniment.

When Mary came home for lunch with me, we were always late going back to school. Talking, laughing, and playing took up most of our time. School always came second, especially to Barbie dolls.

Me and Mary 1966

I moved away in Grade Nine to Mission, British Columbia, and Mary and I lost touch. 

When I moved away and left Mary, I had no friends in my new community. Although I lived with my parents on a hobby farm, in a log cabin which my father built, I felt completely alone out there. I had a horse, chickens, pigs, and an above-ground swimming pool.

Looking for Normal – “Starting Grade Nine in a new school made me think that perhaps I might be more popular. Maybe my grades would get better, and just maybe I would become thinner, prettier, and less shy.”

Climbing aboard the school bus in 1973, I was filled with anxious excitement. I was starting fresh, beginning something new; fearful and yet joyful. 

Making my way to an empty seat on the school bus, a friendly voice, and an even friendlier face invited me to sit with her. She had thick blonde hair, a slight overbite, and braces. Her name was Barb, or Barbie to her family, and Barbara to my mother. But I started right off the bat, calling her Barb.

We liked each other instantly. By the time we had arrived at school, we had already made plans to hang out together that same day after school.

With Barb, I went shopping at the mall and enjoyed attending her Scottish Dancing recitals. We both had first boyfriends at the same time. We relished our time horseback riding and cruising the strip in my parent’s car. Eventually, the inevitable arrived, our high school graduation.

Barb and I hit the disco floor in our late teens when we moved to Palm Springs together. Even though we got into some sticky situations, we sure laughed about our many adventures and shared fiascos.

Where is My Happy Ending? – A Journey of No Regrets – “We discovered in 1979, the drinking age of twenty-one was not closely monitored, and that two fresh-faced Canadian girls could cause quite a stir in this swanky, upscale town.

After entering the nightclub on our first attempt, we cruised through unnoticed. Feeling empowered, we gave each other a half shrug and a knowing glance. Surprised but not showing it, we were thrilled to have gotten in past the tinted glass doors with just a coy smile directed towards the bouncers.

Karen and Barb (Sara) Newport Beach, California, 1979

When we arrived home in Vancouver, we got jobs and began looking for Mr. Right. Shortly after that, Barb moved away. 

I met Dawna, another best friend, at one of my first jobs. She was clad in a spandex leotard, leg warmers, and a headband. It was 1980 at The European Health Spa in Vancouver.

Where is My Happy Ending? – A Journey of No RegretsI enjoyed my first two days of work just fine, but on my third day, I was informed that I would be teaching the next day’s aerobics class. I felt panicked and unsure of how I would pull off an exercise class that I had no experience in teaching.

As I pondered my dilemma, out of the Sales Office bounded a tall brunette girl, about my age and dressed as I was in a black leotard and high heels with a badge that read Dawna – Head Girl. Her bouncy shoulder-length permed hair set off her dynamic personality. I was captivated by her enthusiastic voice and was all ears as she began to explain how easy it would be for me to teach a thirty-minute aerobics class.”

Soon Dawna and I rented an apartment together and began adventurous endeavours of teaching fitness, skiing at Whistler, staff parties, night clubs, and working on the Alaska Highway.

Above: Dawna and Karen working on the Alaska Hwy 1982. Below: Karen and Dawna 2012.

Several years passed, and in my early twenties, as the saying goes, “it’s just like riding a bike,” Mary and I reconnected. It was like no time had passed. We were together again, best friends; Lucy and Ethel, Mary Richards and Rhoda Morgenstern, Laverne and Shirley.

Karen as Lucy, Mary as Ethel
Karen and Mary now

Catching up, bringing each other up to speed, sharing our heartbreaks and disappointments and then reminiscing about our past… Babysitting jobs that had gone sideways, science tests we failed; mean teachers, nice teachers; boys we liked, boys we disliked; sleepover parties and all those lunches we had together.

Barb and I stayed in touch and have had many visits in person over the years, and long-distance phone calls. Facebook messages and photos of children, pets, and grandchildren have been consistently shared. Last year we went on a trip together.

Dawna and I have a relationship mostly on What’s App, but when she comes to town, we always connect in one way or another.

Three friendships that span over fifty-four years.

We will all change, but our old friends remain guardians of our memories. We can take stock of our life journey with regrets, or we can work towards no regrets. And figure out what we learned. 

We see how we have evolved with old friends, what was once painful, what mattered, or what we have wholly forgotten.

Remembering what it was like to be someone different from who we are now is indispensable to our growth and integrity. To be with old friends can be warming and comforting.

Over the years, I have strived to keep in touch with Mary, Barb, and Dawna.

Sometimes I see one best friend more than others, but I hold them all close to my heart. Our lives have changed, evolved, and grown, occasionally in different directions and paralleling from time to time. We listen, we talk, we learn. We share mishaps and feats, struggles and strengths, grief and healing, fear and courage.

As an added note, your best friend does not have to be with you 24/7 or think and act like you. Despite all the changes a person goes through in their life, a best friend will stick by you and always accept you for who you are.

Honourable mention…

I recently connected with my grade five best friend Elizabeth from Queensbury, Lee-Ann from Mission high school, and Carol, my dear friend from Maple Ridge. 

Six amazing women from my past are now a part of my present. And don’t get me started on all my NEW friends!

“A friend is the hope of the heart.”

-Ralph Waldo Emerson

You’re My Best Friend

Song by Queen

“Oh, you’re the best friend that I ever had

I’ve been with you such a long time

You’re my sunshine, and I want you to know

That my feelings are true

I really love you

Oh, you’re my best friend

The Old Lions Gate Hospital

The Old Lions Gate Hospital

North Vancouver B.C. – The City of My Beginning

“And the seasons they go ‘round and ‘round. And the painted ponies go up and down. We’re captive on the carousel of time. We can’t return. We can only look behind from where we came. And go ‘round and ‘round and ‘round in the circle game.

-Joni Mitchel

When they tore down the hospital that I was born in, I took it personally. I was shocked, taken aback, and saddened. Out with the old and in with the new, or so the saying goes.

Living on the West Coast of Canada, we are warned continually, “The big one is coming!” Earthquake drills, safety kits, water, and granola bars—“Are you ready?” they ask.

Built in 1929, the first Lions Gate Hospital on 13th Street in North Vancouver, B.C., met its fate a few years ago, and I suppose it was inevitable. Many older brick and mortar buildings are either being reinforced, or the wrecking ball is called in to demolish them before they crumble and are shaken free from becoming historical monuments. 

When I first noticed the boarded-up windows and fenced barricades, I panicked. I wondered how they could close down the building of my birth, where thousands of babies had started just like me—new beginnings, new mothers, and decades of memories, both heartwarming and heartbreaking.

This particular building was a collection of archaic rooms, narrow hallways and outdated systems in desperate need of costly restoration, or perhaps a more practical and frugal approach was to dismember this dinosaur of my youth.

I took note and began watching daily. Whenever I drove past the dilapidated hospital, I felt the pull, like a magnet attached to my heart. “Look to the left between St. Georges and St. Andrews Streets,” my brain told my eyes. And there it was, trapped and surrounded by portable fencing. It spoke back to me, “I am tired, old, and frail.” Helpless and forlorn, it called out to me as I continued past. If the walls could talk, I could only imagine what they would say.

Much to my dismay, they began tearing down the monumental hospital in September 2016,

I must have shared my concern and plight with my husband and son one too many times because they gallantly, heroically (some would say foolishly) snuck in through the temporary fencing one damp night and snatched me a brick. How sweet and romantic, I thought. The moment bonded them.

Writing about the place where I was born has made me a hopeless romantic, a nostalgia junky and a lover of the past. So much so that I enjoy the Group Facebook sites that one must join to share stories and photos of days gone by. There we can catch up with old friends and meet new ones that share a common theme. The same town, school, experiences, and memories. Clicking the Like button or commenting engages us in the lovely walk down memory lane with others.

When I see the shared photos and stories of my townspeople, friends, strangers, and those of us linked by the city where we once lived, I often think of my parents, now deceased, and how they arrived here first; it is because of them that I am here in North Vancouver.

They instigated my life, and now I am flooded with these sweet memories.

Trekking through forests and mucking about in creeks; roller skating at Stardust and swimming lessons at Mahon Pool; bike riding and skateboarding through friendly, well-kept neighbourhoods; from rocky beaches and sandy French fries to mountains, ski lifts, and picturesque views; coke floats at Steadman’s five and dime, and afternoon matinees at the Cedar-V movie theatre.

Our parents have similar stories to each other, but different from those of us grown-up kids. Sometimes they gave us a glimpse into their pasts and how they got here, arriving by boat or train, working, struggling, and coping. Their memories became a road map for us, the ones left behind.

My father’s journey west – excerpt from Looking for Normal

Vincent Alphonse Bonner

The train chugged and steamed along, emitting smoke and soot as it huffed and puffed towards the mountains, heading west. After the night on top of the boxcar, thirteen-year-old Vince woke from a fitful sleep. As daylight approached, Vince was lost in the epic scenery. A towering, majestic backdrop were these fearsome Rocky Mountains that he had only heard about and never seen. How grand that a poor boy from a small prairie town could experience something so breath-taking. In a dream-like state, Vince Bonner found solace in the picture-postcard scene that was unfolding before him.

The grandiose beauty was a welcome distraction from the shaking and rattling of the train. Vince felt as though his limbs would come loose from the constant sway and jostle, and from holding on for dear life. With his eyes burning from the putrid stench and his head pounding from lack of food, he was still able to find hope knowing that he was fleeing a desperate situation. Soon, young Vince would be in beautiful British Columbia, the land of opportunity. He just knew that his dreams would all come true once he made it to Vancouver.

My Mother’s journey west – excerpt from Looking for Normal

Mary Frances Lillian Gervais

Thinking back to her recent journey from Taber, Alberta, immediately brought back fond memories. The warm cozy berth and thick wool blanket were a comfort to Frances. Never having travelled west before, the Rocky Mountains took her breath away, majestic and surreal as the train passed through Banff, Alberta and on to Golden B.C. Photographs did not do justice to the towering, jagged razor blades of rock jutting out of the mountainside—powerful long-horned sheep grazing not far from the tracks, massive moose looking up to the passing locomotive, brave, bald-headed Eagles soaring high, searching the landscape for their next prey.

Excited to be arriving in Vancouver after a long train ride, Frances was not prepared for the dark skies and what seemed like endless rain, now understanding the term, “It’s raining cats and dogs.”

Regardless of the weather, she had made it, relieved and excited about the unknown. A big city, a fresh start, adventure, romance and the beginning of something new.

Frances and Vince meet, married, and set up in North Vancouver, the city of my beginning.

In a way, we are all like old buildings. Some of us have weathered the years, whereas others have developed a hard outer shell, which, if not treated well, will develop cracks and become unstable. If we can be restored, we are able to live on for many years; if left alone, we will crumble.

We all become a little worn over the years, and yet, if we stay connected and lend an ear to each other, we can learn and treasure the memories of days gone by. Let us keep sharing our history with each other, offering years of wisdom, hope, and love.

If we continue to remember, the structures from our past will always be with us.

Joni Mitchell – The Circle Game

Click the link to have a listen

Take Me Out to the Ball Game…

Take Me Out to the Ball Game…

Take Me Out to the Ball Game

“Baseball is like church. Many attend, few understand.”

I was born in the 1960s and fell into the role of being a typical girl for the decade, life and times. I knew no other way. I played with dolls and was the nurse when my brothers played games of army or cops and robbers. Never expecting to do well in math, I professed to hate it, and no one thought to change my thinking. Instead, I helped my mother bake and set the table at dinner time.

Girls my age wore dresses to school as we were not allowed to wear pants. By grade three, after much petitioning by my mother and other like-minded women, the rules were changed.

Ironically, when my mother was a girl, she was a tomboy. She climbed trees and rode bicycles. Rebelling was her favourite thing to do, and she created a gang of other spitfires who refused to live by conventional 1930s standards. In the wintertime, one cold prairie year, she threw a frozen sock with a rock in the toe at a bully. Instantly she became famous and the talk of her town in Tabor, Alberta. Don’t mess with Frances was the sentiments all around.

As for me, I was more of a little miss goody two shoes.

At the North Shore Winter Club, I took figure skating lessons, and my brothers played hockey. I went to afternoon movie matinees over town with my mother, and my brothers went fishing on Chilliwack lake with my father. I worked on my Mary Poppins jigsaw puzzles while my big brother Kenny played soccer.

I adored my Barbie Dolls zooming them around in a pink convertible or packing them up in their orange van for a camping trip with homemade knitted sleeping bags.

On dreary, rainy North Vancouver days, I created tasty treats in my Easy-Bake Oven, serving up thin slices from sugary sweet chocolate discs on a doily covered plate to every member of my family. All prepared in the comforts of my home and cooked by a lightbulb.

My cat Ginger was the best-dressed pet on the North Shore as I maneuvered him into doll clothes, wheeling him around the neighbourhood at 18th and Moody in a baby stroller. He was passive and contentedly lolled about under a yellow crocheted baby blanket, while we meandered up and down Grand Boulevard. His tail annoyingly twitched, indicating he had other thoughts on his mind.

However, every spring, once the baseball season started, together as a family, we went to Loutet Park Baseball Diamond, behind Sutherland High School in North Van.

My father sponsored a Little League team named after his business, Vince Bonner Bulldozing. Sometimes he coached, and some years he had men – other fathers do the coaching.

My father is the tall, handsome man on the right, standing beside my oldest brother Doug.

What was interesting is that my father did not have a competitive bone in his body. He mentored his team nonetheless. He taught them to be good sports, show kindness and have good clean fun.

During practices and game days, well known for his clowning around, his genuine boisterous laugh could be heard from near and far.

After every game, my dad enjoyed taking the boys to the local corner store, Williams Confectionary. A neighbourhood store that carried all our favourite treats; saltwater taffy, mojo’s, spearmint green leaves, marshmallow strawberries, lick-a-maid straws and salt and vinegar potato chips. Root beer popsicles were my favourite.

The entire little league team piled into the back of his pickup truck, parade-style and ice-cold Cokes were handed out to each kid whether they won or lost, struck out, or hit home runs.

Many people, parents, other teams and by-standers would scratch their heads, throw up their arms and shake their heads at my father’s style of coaching. Nothing was thought of the twelve boys rolling around in the back of the pickup truck!

It could go down in the history books that my father’s baseball team never won a game. This brings to mind his unspoken philosophy, It does not matter if you win or lose, but it is how you play the game that counts.

Both my brothers played on the team, and my mother was a scorekeeper. I played in the forest with other little sisters and begged to purchase something from the on-sight concession stand. Much to my dismay, the answer was always no, but I made a point to ask anyway. My forest friends and I gleefully chimed we want a pitcher, not a belly itcher, even though we did not understand the meaning behind our chanting.

Watching my mother in a floral printed dress sit behind the bat catcher, on a little wooden bench, with a pencil and scratchpad to keep score, impressed me. She appeared beautiful and smart. I wondered what she was scribbling; it always looked essential, which warmed me and made me feel proud.

I never knew the tomboy side of my mother. When I came along, her adventurous spirit had been squelched so many times that it failed to appear. She had hung up her patched blue jeans and rebellious attitude many years prior. Long gone were the stones nestled deep in her pockets never to be thrown again. She traded everything in for a wedding ring, handsome husband, house dress, four children and housework.

The free-spirited younger version of my mother occasionally emerged for storytelling purposes, giving me a slight glimmer of who she used to be.

My mother’s memories became my memories.

Years ago, after a failed marriage and struggling as a single mother, I worked hard and often felt beaten down, it was the age-old saying; It does not matter if you win or lose, it is how you play the game that counts, that reminded me of my dad and propelled me forward in life.

I was out for a walk the other day and took a trip down memory lane, which entailed a short walk over to the still standing and utilized baseball field of my youth, Loutet Park, behind Sutherland High School in North Vancouver. Even though I did not play the sport as a child, I have fond recollections of a family event just the same.

Ghosts from my past showed up that day. The umpire’s sober caged in face and puffed out padded chest. The ambitious expressions of freckled-faced sweaty boys, and my dad’s gregarious smile while throwing his head back laughing, mixed in with his hollering, “way to go, or better luck next time kid.”

Visualizing my mother keeping score, soft brown curls, correctly applied red lipstick, wearing a blue and yellow floral dress tucked in around her will always tug at my heartstrings.

The spectator bleachers, dugout and scorekeeping bench, are still the same, just a little worn and weary but not ready to throw in the towel just yet.

I treasure the thoughts of my typical 1960’s childhood, and recently, I have felt inclined to learn how to throw a ball, hit it with a bat and catch it with a baseball mitt. If you think that you can teach an old dog new tricks, leave me a comment and let’s make a date. I know just the baseball diamond that you can teach me at. I promise to be a good sport.

Check out more stories like this in my first book, Looking for Normal

My Fourth and Fifth Child

My Fourth and Fifth Child

“If writing and publishing a book is like giving birth to a child, then book marketing is like rearing it.”

After writing my first book, I was excited and proud, mostly because it was intended for my family. A keepsake, a walk down memory lane, and a history lesson. A reminder of our roots and where we came from. I speculated the issues that plagued our ancestors could help us. Like a road map to find our way or a jigsaw puzzle showing which piece goes where—eventually leaving it up to us, the ones left behind to figure it out, like Nancy Drew deciphering clues.

As friends and family began to read Looking for Normal, I was curious and wanted to know what they thought. Many enjoyed it and found it relatable, humorous, sad and a worthwhile read. While others said nothing at all, indicating to me that they had not read it or simply could not get through it. Or perhaps the worst-case scenario, they did not like it in the least.

After talking with my author friend Nadine Sands, she helped me understand that Memoirs are not everyone’s cup of tea. Some prefer reading Stephen King or classics such as The Great Gadsby or Jane Eyre. While others play games on their phones, listen to music or watch Netflix, all perfect stress releases at the end of a busy day.

I gave up wondering people’s opinion and realized how happy I was that I pulled it off, I wrote a book! I appreciated that someone cared enough to purchase my book in the first place, even if it sat on a shelf unopened. This concept got me thinking that I wanted to reassure them, the non-reader types, and say “It’s okay, memoirs are not for everyone. I get it, and my feelings are not hurt in the least,” followed by a happy face and heart emoji.

Two years later, before the publication of my second book, Where is My Happy Ending? – A Journey of No Regrets, I could not figure out why I was so attached to the manuscript. I found myself reading it over and over again. Obsessing over this and fixing that. I was having a hard time letting go and pressing the send button.

When all was said and done, I eventually took the bull by the horns, closed my eyes, bit my lip, crossed my fingers and clicked send. Off it went, my pride and joy to Tellwell Publishing.

After my manuscript arrived back to me as a real book, I had an Oprah Winfrey Ah Hah moment, an epiphany of sorts and the light bulb above my head shone brightly.

I estimated that it took me approximately nine months to write Where is My Happy Ending? – A Journey of No Regrets. During the process, I laughed and cried. I researched and studied. I dreamed of the day my book would finally be published and presented to the world. In comparison, during all three of my pregnancies, I laughed and cried. I researched and studied. I dreamed of the day my baby would finally be born and presented to the world.

While writing, I had many sleepless nights, I questioned my capabilities, and sometimes felt vulnerable and alone.

Minus the swollen ankles and morning sickness, birthing my book reminded me of birthing my children. Nowhere near as monumental and miraculous but a process of being born just the same.

When I thought about my book and worried about its content, much like I thought and worried about my children, I wondered if my readers would like it or if it would be misunderstood. Hurtful or helpful. Entertaining or trivial.

Or would it slip through the cracks and get completely unnoticed?

Years after graduating high school, even though my mother never saved anything, I came across some of my old report cards. Handwritten and folded in thirds. In the section where the teacher was to leave a final comment, were the words, Karen was a pleasure to have in my class. From grade one until leaving Elementary school at the end of grade seven, year after year, those same sentiments were repeatedly shared.

After discovering these outdated records of my education, I realized that the teachers had no idea who my younger self was, I felt as though I had slipped through the cracks and had gone completely unnoticed.

To my superiors, my mentors and guides I was a pleasant and nice girl. I was neither high maintenance nor low maintenance: a class clown or a brainiac. Exceptionally beautiful or outwardly plain, but average.

Who would have thought the little girl who felt unnoticed would become a writer and published author.

My biggest wish is that Looking for Normal and Where is My Happy Ending? will inspire, influence and reassure the reader that we all have struggles, highs and lows, joy and sadness. We are more or less in the same boat on the same turbulent seas, and we share similar calm waters. We are not alone, even though it sometimes feels that way.

A very wise women told me this… when we open up ourselves it is natural to experience vulnerability, but with it comes strength followed by empathy for others that may share a similar story to us.

Please note that I have enjoyed the writing process immensely. Followed by the delivery of my books into the vast big wondrous world. But now that my book has been released, I need to handle it with care and raise it up and watch it grow to the best of my ability.

If you like my baby, my fourth and my fifth book child, I would be grateful and thrilled if you could tell others by giving me a book review on Amazon, Indigo or Good Reads. Not lengthy. Something short suits me fine so that I can get noticed and not slip through the cracks. And if it is not your cup of tea, I am okay with that too.

Looking For Normal

Where Is My Happy Ending? – A Journey of No Regrets