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As far back as I can remember the pen and paper have been my faithful companions and story telling my forte. As a child I would sneak away from the mundane adult world, find a private retreat (usually behind the garden shed) and imagine. There in my own little sanctuary I'd conjure up all kinds of intriguing tales and colorful characters. In my teen years my journal became my confident, revealing all my hidden secrets, private fantasies and wild notions within its pages. Later I started to write poems, articles and short stories, and pondered the thought of becoming a writer.
When I immigrated to Canada I buried my dreams under layers of real life clutter. I chose a safe and practical career in child care, married and raised a family. But my creative spirit kept trying to dig its way out. I was asked to write articles and editorials for our local church. I taught a story time class at the school, which lead me to writing a children's book. I wrote an article about my husbands' prestigious grandfather and sent it to our local newspaper. They printed it. I kept sending them articles, they kept printing them. I was surprised at the compliments I received from the editor and readers. It was evident to me then that I had excavated my creative spirit.
I decided to take a comprehensive writing course to improve my technique. With help from a proficient and supportive tutor, who told me I had a gift, I began to cultivate my skill. My articles started to sell and I received an assignment from a major Canadian magazine. I have spent the past few years working on my novel (a trilogy) and two children's books. I have a diploma in creative writing, along with a certificate complementing my creative skills. I have a boundless imagination and a wealth of experience to draw from.
I write to explore my inner world. I write because some mystical magnet draws me to my desk. I write to escape the mundane world of people and things. I write, because I need to write. To me it’s a sort of innate longing, to get my thoughts, wild fantasy’s, opinions and stories on paper. The words come to me, from some magical realm, into my head, down to my hand, onto the paper and by some unfathomable miracle become a legible piece of work.
I love horror movies and spooky stuff. When I was a young girl my friend and I would wander through the local graveyard just before dark, read the tombstones and make up stories about the people that were buried there. God…I was weird.
I ran away from home when I was 17 years old, to join a band of hippies and live on the streets of London. I went to challenge the establishment, proclaim peace, escape the hum-drum village life, with its narrow minded people and find myself. I lived in la…la..land with the flower children for a year but I never did find myself. I have now. Thank God!
I met my husband in an Irish bar. When he told me he was from ‘Seman’s’ Saskatchewan…I said to my self (after stifling a snicker) Flippin heck Pauline, you do pick um. But I kept him and haven’t regretted it since. Well, maybe once or twice.
I write longhand in my purple room, at my antique desk, under a large picture, then I type it into the cold inanimate piece of equipment I call my computer and edit as I go. Young people think this is weird.
I don't eat mammal. Don't ask!
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