In 1993 I found myself working at something other than singing for the first time in my life. I was 28. When my dream of an operatic career seemed to be lost , I did what any sane person would do. I went to see a psychic. Basically it was my plea to the universe to tell me it was all going to work out. I was pretty broke. Finding the 100 bucks for the session with the psychic required a creative tactic. Sorry feminists, desperate times called for desperate measures. I was working at a fancy restaurant in Toronto, and I found that hanging coats on the upper level of the closet, while standing on a stool, in a short skirt, really helped inspire male patrons to tip. I paid the psychic with a bag of loonies and toonies. It was a proud working girl moment.
I was nervous and excited the day I finally went to see her. I was desperate to hear that my operatic career would rise, like a phoenix from the ashes. When I walked through the door and she seized my arm and whispered fervently “Don’t tell me what you do. I don’t know what you do, but I have to tell you this-you should be a writer. If you aren’t a writer, you should have been. You must write”
I’m published on the web. Here are links to two articles posted on the Canadian Media Guild site.
My coverage of the NPAC conference 2014
I’ve been writing blog posts for years now. Here are two of my favorites:
You can hear my writing in this personal essay for radio. This aired on The Sunday Edition. I ask the immortal question-Can a 50 year old woman learn to do Hip-Hop?