About Me

I have been a freelance writer, editor and instructor since 1991. Before we strike into the heart of my memoir writing studies and courses, I'd like to tell you a bit about myself. This information covers some of the same ground as my Cirriculum Vitae, but does not include publications. For that information, please view my CV.

I was raised in Vancouver, British Columbia and spent most of the 1990s working as a freelance writer and copy editor, with an emphasis on commercial and sport fisheries. I chose this area of concentration for many reasons, top among them a love of catching, cooking and eating wild Pacific coast salmon. Beyond this selfish motivation, I also care passionately about all marine creatures and retain staunch respect for the men and women who make their livings on or near Canada's oceans. I also love being on and around boats of all kinds.

I always said that being a fisheries reporter kept a person perpetually humble. Every time you thought “Oh this is simple, I get it,” some other complexity would insert itself into the fisheries equation. Logging and forestry practices. Pollution. Global warming. Destructive fisheries practices, such as drift-net fishing and trawling. Human greed, stupidity and shortsightedness. Overfishing and criminal resource mismanagement (that would be you, federal Department of Fisheries and Oceans). Government, First Nation and personal politics, layer upon complicated layer. The perfect fisheries reporter would have university degrees in Aboriginal studies, biology, forestry, chemistry, oceanography, zoolology, political science, history and English literature (the latter was of some use to me!). For the rest of us, we wrote with as much care and heart as we possessed and hoped that something we published helped one more cluster of wild salmon return to their home stream to spawn, or one more magnificent halibut, big as your front door, live to see another year.

In 1997, I relocated to Isle Madame, Cape Breton. In 1998, I married the Maritimes, or more correctly, married a Maritimer. As a coastal-raised person, I thought understanding the Maritimes, fitting right in, would be a cake-walk (fishcake?). Uh, no. It has been a marvelous experience to write about the dazzling diversity of differences between Canada's lateral coasts. Husband, I would say, I felt less foreign on my first trip to Istanbul than during my first visit to D'Escousse. Wife, he say, just keep your mouth shut when you go downtown, and they won't know you're foolish. Downtown? I echoed, looking around the quiet rural village of 250, shaking my head – then, a moment later, Foolish? Just an Irish turn of phrase, The Husband explained, no offense meant. And don't worry, he encouraged me, they tell me you're learning every day. They? I asked. Who is they? The Husband beamed: Why all the neighbours and islanders, of course. They're keeping a good sharp eye on you! They call it Marjorie sightings!

There I was, then, sighted and, I hoped, applauded in my learning efforts - just another Cape Bretoner-in-training. Each day, I'd make a new report to The Husband. News bulletins to me, familiar joys to him. Husband, I'd say, the fish and fisheries are different. The food is different. The music, language, geography and even the ocean smell is different. The flowers and trees, too. Yes, he'd say, and what do you really think? I love haddock, I said. I love lupins, Digby scallops, Glenmore Distillery single malt and the Cape Breton Highlands. I'll never understand the difference between a jig, a reel and a strathspey and I'll never make a seafood chowder as good as a Maritime-born.

But I cry when they play Farewell to Nova Scotia and I am right destroyed when we all sing The Island Song. I love bagpipes and can tolerate tartans. I salute the Stella Maris in the Acadian flag, can cite most of the founding Acadian surnames in l'Acadie and line up for rappie pie. The Acadian deportation – ou le grand derangement a vous– took place in 1755, by les maudits anglais, bien sur, and the Fortress of Louisbourg was ultimately claimed by the same, in 1758. Oh yes, and rum is a miracle in our midst, followed closely by Coke and fried bologna. Am I getting there?

Not too bad, said The Husband, pulling out the vowels thick as molasses in February, the way they do in Port Hood, on the western side of Cape Breton Island. We lived on the eastern side, one of the many “countries of God” on “The Island”.

In 2006, we (The Husband, *Orange Dog and I) relocated to Halifax, Nova Scotia. Work and health reasons dictated the move. We still have a home in Cape Breton, though. I love Halifax – it is a dear and perfect pearl of a city – but in our deepest hearts The Husband and I remain Capers. That said, I am enjoying being a Haligonian-in-training. This west coast woman has discovered that the heart has many homes.

And if a person is truly lucky, they have several different sorts of work they love, too.