My ancient visions see once more the light. I am growing wise quickly but it is a maturity I don't despise (including grey hairs). At 29 I had a mid-life crisis when I realized there was no book by my name in print. The problem was no one even knew I was a writer, as I had not revealed it to anyone. When I was growing up, I simply called creative writing "procrastinating." Alas! My family was shocked when in 2005 I decided to become a full-time writer and said I was writing a book. I even wasted time by sitting at a desk all day staring at a blank page. Then I turned to automatic writing and channeled a lot of dead poets.
When McMaster's interviewed me last year as a Canadian writer, it turned out I was suffering from an undue amount of persecution. I mentioned Ernest Hemmingway as an example of what it feels like.
I started writing down my poems when once of my relatives asked me to put them down for my niece. Now she is nineteen, and does she read? Hardly. She is a cook though. Everyone else reads. People constantly mistake me for my niece; they even exclaim, "You don't look a day over nineteen!" And they think I am a cook.
I am a brand ambassador for a company that takes on contracts from food companies. I have done this for five years now. This means I talk to hundreds of people every weekend. Rarely when I am talking to someone does poetry come up. But there are a few chosen people who see beyond. They want to know what are the books I write. Soon they will find out. We are leaping across Canada this year just in time for the festivities.
Yours Truly,
Emily
