I write the kinds of stories that don’t sit still.

The ones that come from somewhere real. The ones that leave a mark. The ones that don’t always resolve the way we expect them to.

For me, writing isn’t about tying things up neatly. It’s about noticing what lingers. The fragments. The quiet moments. The parts of a story that stay long after the telling is over.

One of the stories closest to me began long before I ever thought of writing it.

It comes from my husband’s grandfather. He was a young man from Northern Ontario who, with more determination than credentials, found his way into the cockpit of a Lancaster bomber during the Second World War. After being shot down over Holland, he survived in hiding with the help of the Dutch underground for nearly a year.

He wrote about it later in a rough memoir for his family. It wasn’t polished. It wasn’t dramatic. It was just honest.

That story stayed with me.

Not only for what happened, but for what it revealed. The risks people take. The choices they make. The kind of quiet courage that often goes unrecorded.

I’m currently working on a longer manuscript, following the threads of that story a little further.

That’s where most of my writing begins.

Not in the headline moments, but in what surrounds them. In the space between what is said and what is felt. In the pieces that don’t quite fit anywhere else.

Loose Threads is where I keep those pieces.

I live in Haliburton, surrounded by trees, changing seasons, and the kind of quiet that makes room for stories to surface.

Most days, you’ll find me at a table with a notebook, a pen, and a cup of coffee, trying to catch them before they slip away.

My short story, We Got the Road. The Road Got Tom, will appear in the upcoming Beaver Moose Canoe anthology.

If you’d like to follow along, I share new pieces on Substack.