Embracing each moment of what in the actual EFF…

October 12, 2026.Reading time 24 minutes.

Recently, I cackled to myself—I don’t chuckle, I cackle like a proper witch—upon seeing an influencer on Threads explain, in a ten-slide carousel themed in pastels, that social media doesn’t work like it used to, and that long-form writing is poised to make a comeback. She then aestheticized—fetishized?—blogging, while breaking down how to make the most of it, in just a few short pastel-hued steps! Okay, but…are we not seeing the irony in sharing a few “easy-for-the-AI-rotted-brain-to-digest” steps, when it pertains to tackling long-form blogging? I mean…unless it’s all to be written with AI. Oh.

Anyway, that one stupidiffication is an excellent microcosm for how it often feels to engage with humanity these days.

(As a side-note, blogging was forged in the fires of Mount Nerd, where the prose rambling, the aesthetic ugly, and where us writers typed maniacally when we should’ve been taking a shower. That’s our origin story, and no one can take it from us.)

The what in the actual EFF of the publishing industry

The stupidiffication of things is a great lead in to the current state of the publishing industry. At last check, it was early summer, Madonna’s amazing new album was my soundtrack (and remained so on repeat many times over), and I was starting to really side-eye the downhill trajectory of the publishing industry. I decided then to hit pause on querying more literary agents, and instead check back later.

Okay, it’s later, and, it’s gotten so, so, so much worse! Yikes.

I haven’t pitched to any further literary agents since July, and perhaps I should have, but given the current state of things, I’m not so sure. Meanwhile, a couple of agents who requested my full manuscript to read still have it, and it could take many months to hear back. In other words, I simply can’t donate my current energy to that, my mind space is too valuable! I want to use it on actual writing!!

Oh wait: why am I still writing given the current state of things? And what is the current state of things? I’ll sum it up quickly so I can ramble on about other things: Black authors are being disproportionately accused of AI use and losing traditional book deals and literary prizes, big publishers are using AI for all sorts of aspects of the publishing/marketing process with their authors having no say in it, publishers have also become more risk averse than ever when it comes to what they invest in, which, by the way, authors from marginalized backgrounds have long known! Why have we known this? Because support for diverse stories has always been lacking and has only dwindled in recent years. But I guess now, because white authors are noticing it, it’s suddenly a problem? A. Tale. As. Old. As. Time. If that’s not enough, some literary agents have teased how they have it on good authority that many literary agents use AI to vet submissions without the author’s consent, but of course they won’t name names, which leaves us writers to wonder which agents are putting our copyrighted work through AI models without our permission; good times!

It’s enough to make me want to withdraw my remaining queries, forget about seeing if the grass is greener with another publisher—it’s seeming dried out and overrun with weeds if you’re an author from a marginalized background—and maybe just…self-publish everything henceforth. The only potential problem with that, is that the self-publishing landscape is rotted with generative AI slop, which makes it just as hard to get noticed there, as in the ultra-competitive traditional publishing industry when you have very little marketing support (which is disproportionately the case if you’re an author from a marginalized background). A.k.a. an endless loop of what in the EFF. More realistically, I should probably first have a chat with the editor from my current publisher and let them read my completed manuscript, etc. And I will. Just a lot to think through in the meantime!

Oh, the other question: why am I still writing?

We are deep in the horrors of the arts being assaulted/critical-thinking being flattened by generative AI, which is exactly the point, the pursuit, the plan. Whose plan? Well, if you’re still reading this, you probably already know, but if it seems unclear, all that’s required is a dip into some history, followed by some gentle critical thinking, to see the repeated pattern of fascist movements relying on bringing down the arts in some form or another to achieve their nefarious aims. In times like these, two things can happen; #1: art can seem less important than ever (“people are dying, no one needs your fiction“), and #2: it can seem more tempting to give up, especially because of item #1.

In reality, it’s precisely the time to be creating more art, because the relationship between humanity and art has long been a story of empathy; seeing the world through someone else’s eyes, feeling seen by someone else’s artistic expression, and feeling connected as human beings through books, songs, films, paintings, cooking, and so on. It’s all so vital, especially in a time when “the plan” is to keep us isolated, to keep us focused on immediate gratification, and to keep us disconnected in the hopes that our empathy dries up.

What it amounts to—for me, anyway—is a strong feeling that creating and sharing art is almost a moral imperative in times like these, or a humanity imperative, at the least. And there doesn’t have to be any snobbery to it, either; it can be a comic strip, a catchy song, a funny film, a romance novel, absurdist humour, experimental fiction, a strange sculpture, a prize-winning historical novel, a dessert that changed your life, whatever. I can already sense that I’ve had this feeling before, maybe I even blogged about it before when AI was on the rise, but it certainly feels more important than ever.

With that, I’ll be sharing some things, but before I really get into it, I’m going to start with this ninety-second clip of absurd humour that will always be genius to me. It’s from the sketch comedy show I Think You Should Leave, and…how should I even set it up…hmm. Okay, imagine if someone ruined their job interview because of their opinion on how a door should be opened. Yeah. Anyway, if you don’t think this is funny, we can’t be friends (which might be fine, dear reader, maybe you and I already have enough friends!) The clip about the door is here.

Little snippets of my writing a.k.a. creating is self-discovery

The first snippet

It was Thanksgiving weekend here in Canada, and it reminded me how fast October is flying by. It brought to mind a passage from my latest completed manuscript that is somewhere in submission land, and reminded me how much self-discovery I experienced while writing it. I recalled that version of my writer self, deep in the fiction, creating a scene of my character experiencing this alternate reality where art and our modern work lives never existed. Once I’d finished writing the scene and read it back, I realized it contained so much of how I feel about the world, but had never expressed in quite that way before. I think that’s why I can never stop writing, because even if it’s increasingly difficult to get noticed in either the traditional publishing world or the self-publishing world, it’s not really about getting noticed. We create art to learn something about ourselves, to grow, and maybe to release things we’d been holding in. Finding any audience after that is where the human connection lies, but the size of said audience is merely the business aspect of the art, never the purpose. Not to me, at least (which is why I’ll never understand why anyone would use AI to “generate” any part of it). Anyway, back to this little passage. Here it is, and meanwhile, retail store aisles are already filled with Christmas merch. Time flies, because they make it so…

For Risha, marking time was a challenge in Sector C. Like learning how to use a paper map after years of relying on a GPS-powered app. She shouldn’t have been surprised, when so much of life in her modern world was an exercise in brain-cell atrophy. There was a screen time version of atrophy, and an “IRL” version, too. The former was powered by an algorithm churning out customized dopamine and disregulating rage in equal measure (the rage requiring fresh hits of dopamine to keep the cycle going), and the latter was a day-to-night dance: alarm-clock ringtones dependent on the level of needing to be jolted awake, a specified time to report into work, managerial approval to pack up for the day, the happy-hour block, the matinée shows, the prime-time entertainment, the football kick-offs, weekdays, weekends, the forced anticipation of Hallmark holidays shoved into retail aisles . . . everyone marching to the pre-ordained cycle, lather, rinse, repeat.

The second snippet

I’m not going to add any context to this second snippet, because this current writing project is taking me to the strangest places. When I arrive at the final product, it’s up for debate if I’ll even share it publicly. All I know is that in the past few months, existence and death and memory and connections have been so much on my mind, that I’ve surrendered to following my thoughts and typing out where they lead. It reminds me of a quote from Anne Carson, a fellow Canadian who last week, won the Nobel Prize in Literature. On writing, she said this in an interview in The Paris Review: “I think about it as something that arrives in the mind, and then gets dealt with if it’s interesting. It’s more like a following of something, like a fox runs across your backyard and you decide to follow it and see if you can get to where the fox lives. It’s just following a track.”

Here’s my second snippet, a wisp of thoughts from the clouds that have been in my mind (and no I can’t explain the context of the sea pen or the netting or the vested humans—because this weird little project might only exist for me!):

As for me, I see nothing but the vast unknown in one direction, and the sheltered past in the other.

I make my choice.

Later that night, I’m safely back in the sea pen, having snuck back in through the hole in the netting.

I hope he didn’t see me return to my captive past. I hope he knew I wanted to be braver, but that the fear of the unknown wound up paralyzing me instead.

My decision to do the safer thing stirs a memory in me, something that feels eerily similar. And human.

The next morning, I play dumb when everyone wonders where he’s gone to. And later, when we’re back in the designated swimming area, I leap into performance mode, dancing for the rotating groups of vested humans with renewed zeal. I find comfort in this, in wearing a mask so effective in hiding the hurt.

And that feels human, too.

Staying connected through art: some recent quotes that hit me

If I can’t stop writing, then I can’t stop reading, either. I’m glad for that, because the reading came first, and the reading is what made me. Here are some quotes from recent reads that stayed with me.

From It Lasts Forever And Then It’s Over by Anne de Marcken:

I realize now that when I was playing these silent movies of life after our life, you were still there. You were sitting with me, the two of us alone in the theater, still together. This sadness is not an empty church and not an empty house. It is the whole empty world and I am in it and it is in me.

From No Longer Human by Osamu Dazai:

The more I feared people the more I was liked, and the more I was liked the more I feared them—a process which eventually compelled me to run away from everybody.

From The Wedding People by Alison Espach

Phoebe prefers this new way of talking. And maybe this is just one of the really nice things about getting older. Maybe this is the part of her life when she gets to start saying what she means, for better or worse. Because no amount of truth can be worse than the feeling she got after years of hiding from it.

Existing in things, and looking forward to things.

As the drumbeat of stupidiffication echoes in the vast expanse, one of the nice antidotes has been existing in the world more, experiencing humanity more. That isn’t foolproof of course, as the endangerment of critical thinking skills is apparent in the real world, too. My only solution so far has been shaming friends and family when I notice them using generative AI to offload basic thinking. When the shame game becomes overwhelming, I stare at a tree for a while. A tree would never disappoint me. Anyway, the shame combo of aggressive side-eye paired with direct call-outs—that only an Aries could pull off—is working a little, at least. It’s also reminding me that shame is an important ingredient in a functioning society, shame it was neutralizes the harsh flavour of audacity. Let’s bring back shame!

Another great antidote? Having smart friends who care about the world and humanity, friends who happen to be hilarious, too. This is necessary! Never try to be the smartest person in the room, be fascinated by the thoughts of amazing humans, should you be lucky enough to find them.

More in-person events are great as well, and in late August, I got to be a part of that, while on a panel at Toronto’s new incredible third space, Book Bar. It’s the coziest spot where you can browse and buy books with a glass of wine in hand, and read with a cozy coffee or finely crafted cocktail. This event was a dream; a packed house, enthusiastic readers and writers, some pals showed up, and, in the Q&A, I chance to sneak in some shit-talking about AI (which I couldn’t pass up). Glorious. The theme of being out there with the people shall continues this weekend, when I’ll be attending a poetry reading in celebration of the publication of a new anthology, one that features a dear friend’s poetry! Never be the smartest person in the room.

Outside of events, reading and writing in beautiful spots has always been a lovely part of late summer/early autumn in Toronto. Especially at Cafe23, where the sounds of the soothing fountain in the dreamy back garden created the perfect environment for jotting down some notes for my current writing project.

What else? Oh yes, quality time is of course a priceless thing, like last night, during a Thanksgiving sleepover with my niece and nephew, when we watched Shrek 2. My nephew is finally old enough to understand some of the humour! It was heartening to see him get upset when the giant gingerbread man “Mongo” had the misfortune of getting his cookie arms blown off. It was a clear sign of his empathy, an important trait that will be nurtured as he grows up.

Then, there’s food, the making of it, specifically. Making good food infused with love has long been one of my favourite things, and I was able to do that recently with an amazing apple crisp made from local Ontario apples that are currently in harvest. The way this smelled in the oven was the first hit of unbridled joy, and the second joyful part was experiencing it a spoon at a time with one of my favourite people (along with vanilla ice cream, of course). Not a crumb left.

An additional antidote comes in the form of something else I’m looking forward to, which is securing tickets to the opening weekend of what has been hailed as one of the best, strangest, most confusing, and mind-bending documentaries of all time, You Can See Everything. I was already drawn to this project because of Nathan Fielder, a fellow Canadian and strange genius whose work has made me laugh and feel uncomfortable in equal measure (if you’re not familiar with him, start with Nathan For You). I also listened to the original podcast documentary about Elizabeth Holmes way before there was an HBO special or a dramatized adaptation starring Amanda Seyfried, a.k.a. I’m an OG “shocked and appalled by Elizabeth Holmes” citizen. In other words, I can’t wait to see this documentary with my smarter-than-me friends in a theatre full of fellow curious Canadians. I’m sure there will be plenty to discuss.

And finally, there’s that fresh-air antidote of admiring trees more—and not just when avoiding smooth-brained humans. It’s the best activity in autumn.

I’ll leave you with some visuals of said antidotes to what ails us (or me). Until then, the writing flows on and the human connections deepen. I can’t imagine doing it any other way…

Did Madonna swoop in to save us? Yes.

July 9, 2026.Reading time 8 minutes.

On July 3rd, halfway into a small-town road trip, I was relaxing on a balcony with one of my best friends. The sun had just set, leaving us with a scenery of lush trees backlit by pinkish skies, the taste of crisp rosé anchoring us in summer, and the sound of Madonna’s Confessions II album bringing our souls back to life.

We played it again on the drive home, I played it once more on my return to the city, and have played it again since. All along, without hyperbole, I knew it was so much more than just pop music (also, pop music is great). It was a message arriving at the right time, as has so often been the case with her music. Because here we were, living in the greediest, cynical timeline of rich fucks grabbing everything for themselves before building the bunkers to hide away in for when humanity crumbles at their hands (bunker-construction and humanity-destruction well underway), asking ourselves, does anything even matter anymore? Here we were, having generative AI being shoved down our throats with the “inevitability” argument, while it sucked up water with no measured benefits vs. what humans could do, being told, “AI is a resource, like electricity, and one day, humans can pay to access these units of “intelligence.”” Um, what the fuck? HERE WE WERE, being told that our human intelligence costs more than what its worth, so we should simply let machines do the thinking for us, and in the process, abandon all hope, art, and soul, because we just don’t need these things anymore, when machines can create all the corporate and entertainment output we seek.

But then, on July 3rd, 2026, here was Madonna, swooping into the dumpster fire wrapped in gauzy, purplish-pink fabric, with a very important reminder: it’s humans who create the art, and it’s machines that, well, generate “stuff,” vapid stuff out of other stuff they stole. And it shows. It shows in the way you feel nothing from the stuff that comes from machines, and in the way you can somehow feel it all from art that’s created by a human.

Speaking of one particular human, here was Madonna, literally telling us to get up and dance, an act that in itself activates the soul, via an album that not only is an incredible listen full of no-skip dance tracks transitioning into a well-earned come down (you have to listen to it chronologically for the incredible song transitions (in the first six or seven songs especially)), but an album that lyrically, resonates emotionally over and over and over. It’s Madonna looking back, Madonna being autobiographical, Madonna being nostalgic, Madonna gazing into the future through a featured track with her daughter…Madonna doing what only Madonna can do, as a unique human who’s lived a hell of a life.

By now it’s evident that I’m a Madonna fan, and I have been since I was a child. In other words, you could argue that I’m wearing my purplish-pink tinted glasses as I write these words. But here’s the thing: most of Madonna’s albums didn’t affect me in this way, and certainly not her last few albums (which contained several songs I didn’t evne like). I even thought Madonna might be finished with making new music, when I attended her Celebration tour concert in 2022—a concert that felt like a greatest-hits goodbye (and a great one at that). But no, Madonna is back and as important as ever, and if you don’t believe me, you can read the critics’ reviews of her albums here and here and here.

Back to Madonna saving us all…well I think of it like this: her album is the antidote to the algorithms, to the machines trying to keep us smooth-brained and angry and isolated from each other. Through Madonna, the fog has been lifting since July 3rd, with millions answering the call to “get up and dance,” whether in sweaty clubs the way it used to be, or with their friends in the living room, or even just solo in their kitchens as they wait for their food to finish cooking (that was me earlier today). These small but transformative acts are getting us off our screens bit by bit, and properly launching the analog summer so many of us had hoped for. Yes, this album launched that back-to-basics summer right into the stratosphere, amongst the stars where it’s evident that souls are intertwined. It’s incredible how music can do that, an art form I’ve always been in awe of, as a writer whose only medium is words. Yes, musics, like in the way a sequence of piano notes can make you cry. Or in the way a person can reveal their heart by making a love song about someone else. Or in the way the right rhythm can make you get up and dance.

I love music. And I love the dance floor, even if it’s just my kitchen. Or, as Madonna put it in Confessions II: “The dance floor is not just a place, it’s a threshold. A ritualistic space where movement replaces language.”

Here are some other lyrics from Madonna’s new album that moved me. Maybe they’ll inspire you to “get up and dance” this summer…

“Everyone here is a work of art.”

“Good for the soul, the ones that you love will keep you above.”

“You bring a smile right here, you chase away my darkest hours.”

“People really think there’s a beginning and an ending, to this thing called life. But energy never dies.”

“When I’m alone, I see you standing there. I see inside your soul, and I feel whole.”

The night is kind, the day is blue. Everything fades away. Except for you.”

“Love is the strangest thing. Just when you think you finally let go, it comes back to you.”

Summer: what if we made it magical?

June 25, 2026.Reading time 6 minutes.

It was two-ish weeks before the summer solstice, while in France, when I had a thought: what if summer could be magical this time?

A wild thought, when last summer was the lowest of the low (if you’re a regular reader here, you know). And after that last summer, when the hole of grief seemed cavernous, it was hard to even picture new summers, new dreams, or much of anything beyond just “getting through.”

But many months later, there I was in the South of France, buzzing from a day in the Cote d’Azur sun (and from Limoncello Spritz, if I’m honest), revelling in the gentle blue-sky breeze, and stopping to smell the literal flowers in peak bloom, on a meandering stroll filled with sparkling conversation.

You could say it was simply the magic of the South of France, or vacay mode or whatever. But when I left the south and got back to Paris for the final leg of my trip—which wasn’t “vacay mode” per se but rather catching up with friends after sixteen times in the City of Light—the first person I noticed from the taxi window was this woman who had to be the textbook definition of “living her best life,” with her spritz, vibrant attire, and the book she was reading, a book literally titled SUMMER!!

I mean, come on. The universe was telling me to take a damn cue.

Outside of my world, the signs are there too. The New York Knicks won the NBA championship for the first time in fifty years, earlier today, Canada’s men’s soccer team somehow advanced to the knockout stage of the World Cup for the first time in history, people hate AI more than fucking-ever and are desperate for an analog summer (tick-tock, hoes, it’s time!), established systems built on corruption and other assorted fuckery are finally being seen for what they are (fingers crossed for the crumbling?), and people are talking more openly about quantum realities and jumping timelines to leave this constant hellscape (oh wait, is that last one just me? Sorry, my Sunday mornings often include slow sips of coffee and astronomy-article rabbit holes).

So, is it time to have a summer? Have we earned it?

“But Romi, that’s just escapism, all our problems will still be here.”

I used to think that way too, Pessimistic Pam, but we contain multitudes, in case you didn’t know. And on the topic of escapism, I’m not sure if I prescribe to that word anymore, since “escapism” implies that whatever pleasantness we dare to embrace is just a temporary dopamine hit, before returning to the shackles of a permanent doomscape. But what if it wasn’t like that? What if our permanent state held steady with more gratitude and joyfulness and whimsy, with the realities of the world and grown-up responsibilities still there of course, but maybe not ruling over us every waking hour of the day?

What if, what if, what if.

I don’t know about you, but I’m going to spend my summer on the other side of the sentence that starts with “What if…”.

As for what that means in Toronto: creating a balcony sanctuary for endless aperitivos, coffee, reading etc. (already well on my way), more picnics, more hanging out by the lake, more fun things like movies in the park or symphony in the gardens or what have you, more family time, more patio drinks, more flirting, more Blue Jays games, more night gelato (this was a nightly tradition in the South of France in the sleepy town of Menton, where everything except the gelato spots would close by 10:30pm; a.k.a. the streets filled with night walkers—not the zombie kind—and their night gelato! Sublime)…and finally, more living outside the algorithm. Simply more outside.

So in the words of the final episode of Somebody Somewhere (if you still haven’t seen that show yet, I implore you to do so): “Cheers to us, and here’s to livin'”

Before I go, here’s how summer in Toronto is shaping up (gloriously), and below that, I’ve included a mix of photos from my forever love Paris, Bordeaux, and the south of France (plus a day trip to Sanremo, Italy). Cheers!

(Next time I’ll return to the topic of writing/publishing industry madness—either in September, or some time later this summer if I’m having rosé on my balcony and feeling chaotic. And, if you want to read the first five pages of my novel, scroll down to the bottom of my previous blog post).

Glorious AI backlash, touching grass, and the opening pages of my book.

May 25, 2026.Reading time 10 minutes.

On my favourite publishing industry podcast, The Sh*t No One Tells You About Writing, the literary agent hosts have been saying that lately, they can’t go a week without talking about AI, because there’s always some new chaos or drama unfolding on either the writer side, the”fake writer” side (the ones who use AI), or the industry side. For myself, someone who only pops up here every few months, I could go pages and pages talking about all the AI messes that have unfolded since my last post.

Instead, I’m going to sit back, because I no longer need to shed light on the problems with AI when they have now reached critical mass. I don’t have to link to articles that prove the environmental damage AI data centers cause, when it’s being talked about loudly on a daily basis. I don’t have to hate on the sloppery that’s devoid of human connection, when people are now sensing what’s missing and rejecting it, to the point that top brands are sharing behind-the-scenes videos that show how their work was created without AI. I also don’t have to remind everyone how using generative AI models rots their brains and critical thinking skills, when A: that’s been proven in multiple studies, and B: graduating university students are literally booing commencement speakers who declare that “AI is the future” in their speeches (the kids are alright).

Of course, that doesn’t mean AI will go away. In fact, it’s more prevalent than ever, and will likely continue to be shoved down our throats, since AI CEOs and other tech snakes are proudly saying the quiet part out loud these days—their intention to crash the economy and destroy the environment, all to cull the population until only the “useful labor” remains, the sort of human capital that can serve a function in future “company-owned” cities—if you haven’t yet read Octavia E. Butler’s post-apocalyptic novel Parable of the Sower (an eerie mirror of where we’re headed despite being over thirty years old), now might be a good time.

Yes, those tech losers who clearly grew up with no friends are on a rampage these days, but…that doesn’t mean they’ll win. So cheers to the backlash going mainstream, up-to-and including this great scene from a recent episode of the genius show Hacks:

Scene from Hacks E05E06, Deborah Vance talking to AI CEO: "Why are you trying to optimize the creative process?"

Scene from Hacks E05E06, Deborah Vance talking to AI CEO: "I mean, that's one of the things"

As I write this, there is only one episode of Hacks remaining before the series concludes. I’ll be inconsolable when it ends later this week, but when the creators of the show shared their desire to release the entire series on DVD—since you never know when a show is going to disappear off a streaming platform forever—it made me realize I need to expand my DVD collection (yes, I bought a DVD player last year, because it’s time to touch grass, and discs! (only carefully from the edges, though). Luckily, Toronto has a great DVD store, Bay St. Video (they do rentals as well, which reminds me of when I worked at Blockbuster Video as a teen…nostalgic sigh). Here’s to small businesses.

Speaking of touching grass, the late spring finally bloomed in Toronto, and at last we are in sunny bliss.

High Park reading, book "Tokyo Ueno Station" by Yu Miri

Speaking of touching grass (again), European grass sounds appealing, too.

A long awaited return to France…

If you’ve been following along, you’ll know that last year, during stressful times and the harsh transition into grief that followed, I let my passport expire. A big deal? No. But as a travel lover, that would normally never happen on my watch. I’ve finally renewed it and am off to France in three days, for a fifteen-day vacation that will hopefully nourish the soul, and be another step in bouncing back after hard times. I feel grateful for that, as not everyone has the opportunity to bounce back from hard times with travel. I’m also incredibly excited to catch up with friends in Paris and Bordeaux, and spend a good week on the French Riviera, too (I don’t think I’ll run into Mike White and his The White Lotus cast as they film season four, at least I hope not, because I want a relaxing, low-key French Riviera experience (am staying in a small town for this reason), not that loud luxury rich shit)).

Anyway, more on that later!

And my first love, writing.

Before I head off for vacation, I really do need to submit my new book to more literary agents. I’ve only submitted to about twenty so far, the majority of whom received a version of my query letter and opening pages I’ve since revised (I really thought I was done when I first submitted them, but later, more clarity came; isn’t that always the way?). I’d love to get another thirty ticked off before I leave on Thursday, not because I expect much at this time of the year, with agents rushing to pitch things for existing clients before the industry slows down in summer, but because, as a recovering type-A person who’s still quite a bit type-A (even though the stress and sadness of the last three years mellowed me out a bit), it would feel so good to have a big chunk of pitches sent out before I dump my brain in champagne.

And so, there is a lot to do in the next couple of days, but before I go, I thought I’d share the opening pages of the novel I’m pitching, in the chance that it tickles your fancy.

Disclaimer: it won’t tickle your fancy if you don’t enjoy anything in the rom com/romance genre, but if you do, the only preface you need is that our character absolutely loathes the rom com genre. That’s where we begin, and while over the course of the novel her character arc will have her wrestling with this hatred and coming to see the genre in a new light, in the opening pages, this rom com hater who has long-stopped believing will be stopped in her tracks by an unexpected meet-cute.

(I know I could’ve made things more clear by simply sharing the book’s concept and a detailed description, but I don’t want to risk someone putting that description into an AI model and spitting out a book while I’m still pitching mine. Ah, the times we live in.)

Anyway, read on, hope you enjoy it!

The opening pages of my new novel

Chapter 1

Thursday — One day before the Harvest Moon

Risha Deol was the rusty third wheel to hot couples. And she hated it. She wanted to avoid them, but lately they’d been popping up like undead creatures emerging from six feet of dirt. His veiny forearms so hard not to ogle. Her shiny long legs so easy to loathe. And Risha always tethered nearby, but never quite in the mix.

Today, the sexy couple stared her down on the 6 train, where she sat between a man-spreader going to town on a meat supreme sub, and a young woman transfixed by the AI slop reels playing on her phone. The couple bothered her more than the man chomping away at seven layers of meat, or the woman co-signing the death sentence of humanity. So much more. It wasn’t just because she was recently divorced, but because the couples were everywhere, a curse of the rom com renaissance. Such was Risha’s experience when she went out in the world these days; a proliferation of posters featuring upcoming rom com films, and no escape from the two-dimensional hotties blessed with fake happy endings anchoring the glossy ads, like the couple staring her down at that very moment.

Or maybe there was an escape.

As the train slowed to a stop at Union Square station, Risha practically leapt out of her seat.

She would walk the rest of the way.

Read the full excerpt for free here.

Birthday joy that’s conditional on a writing goal? It can work!

April 8, 2026.Reading time 6 minutes.

Hitting a writing goal to avoid punishment—like robbing oneself of birthday joy—will not work for everyone, and it might be unhealthy, too. But for an April Aries? It couldn’t be more on-brand.

A while ago, though, I had the realization that recent traumatic and tragic experiences had changed me, transforming me into a version of myself that was less of that typical, full-throttle, go-getter Aries. In its place I prioritized better sleep, quality time, healing, health, hobbies, and calm. This remains true, but no one changes completely, right? And I wouldn’t want to. Each of us has certain characteristics at our core, our nature, whatever you want to call it, and for me, a part of that is being independent, conjuring up self-motivation when I need it, and, from time to time, accessing that sixth-gear of writing (and editing), all “fast and furious” like, in a “now or never” kind of way.

That was the story of the last month. I spent it adding colour to, deleting word-fat from, line-editing, and then polishing the draft of my newest book.

It all led up to now, this night before my birthday, and my wish to gift myself a finished version of my book that I could pitch to literary agents—up to and including sending the first pitch today to get the ball rolling (I do have a publisher who’s interested in seeing my next work, but I wouldn’t be doing my dream justice if I didn’t aim beyond a small imprint for my third traditionally-published book). Since it’s been so intense, I’ll definitely take a beat before pitching more heavily in May (it takes time to research each agency and find the right agent to submit to!), but in the meantime, here she is, in all her 82,000-word and 300-page glory, and yes, I sent that first pitch today!

I actually haven’t physically printed something I wrote for editing and markup purposes since, well, my screenwriting days (way, way back), but that was more of a one-hundred-page printout affair. So yes, she was hefty, and magical to behold in all her heftiness, as I took her around Toronto for editing sessions in the library, in cafés, at the bar with Prosecco (hey, it helps with getting the creativity flowing!), and finally back at home to do the markup fixes. A physical printout was also quite helpful for my weary elder eyes, as it significantly reduced my screen time.

Editing printout of book with red pen at the bar with Prosecco

Editing printout of book with red pen at a café table with a latte

I’ve made it this far into the blog post by focusing on the mechanics and avoiding being sentimental, but I can’t avoid sentimentality forever, it would go against the core of my very being. Because, after all, when I’m not describing the practicalities of the writing process, being incredibly sarcastic, talking shit, or humbling myself at the altar of self-deprecation (less often), I’m a tears-welling-up-in-my-eyes kind of sap.

So here we go: there were so many times in the last two and a half years since I started exploring this book idea, that I couldn’t envision it ever being completed. So many obstacles in the way, so much familial support I needed to provide, so many serious life stresses, so much sadness holding me back. At times, I wondered if I’d have to give up and let this one go, and you know, try to be a writer at some other time in the future. What I learned was, the perfect time or mental state or emotional state was never going to come along, so I had to try, but equally, I needed to give myself time whenever I needed it. Living in this paradox of “do it anyway” and “do self-care” was a mind fuck, to say the least! So, to be here now, and to be able to share that I’m holding the book that was the most challenging to write, and that I wound up infusing with so many real emotions and feelings about the world we’re living in—making it the most creatively satisfying book I’ve ever written for both those reasons—feels like a real accomplishment. It simply means the world to me, and yes, I did have a cry about it. I’m a sap.

There are more challenges ahead (*gestures wildly at the horrific state of the publishing industry*), but we’re not going to talk about that today, not when there’s champagne and good friends waiting.

Until later, when we’re jacked on caffeine and freaking out about the industry…