“None are so old as those who have outlived enthusiasm.” Henry David Thoreau

“Would you be okay with speaking at any of our branches?”

“Yes, of course. Happy to go anywhere,” I replied to the email from the Vancouver Public Library. They were inviting me to speak about my novel. I was thrilled.

Those words came back as second thoughts as I tried to find a parking spot on the edge of the downtown east side in Vancouver−known as one of the poorest neighbourhoods in Canada.

Throngs of people lined the streets leading to the Carnegie Branch of the Vancouver Public Library. Some were seniors, others were addicts, still others looked like they were living rough−eyes hollow and distant, faces scrapped and scratched, lips cracked and dangling cigarette butts. The smell of marijuana, alcohol and rot was the kind that fixed itself to your clothes, your skin. It’s almost impossible to see Vancouver’s famed beauty in these streets. And yet this is Vancouver too.


No Pitch Goes Unheard Here

“I never put off till tomorrow what I can possible do – the day after.” Oscar Wilde

I will do a few today, just a few. They should know. It’s only fair. No one should be left hanging, waiting. I wouldn’t want to remain in limbo, forever anticipating. I scroll down the list of those highlighted emails. There are about 150 of them.

To be fair, I have acknowledged each and every one. Immediately. It’s a point of pride. If someone writes to me, I respond. Thanks so much for getting in touch. I’m just in the middle of …, will get back to you, no later than… Please feel free to contact me anytime if you’re wondering where I am in the process.

Most thank me for the quick reply. I can hear the eagerness in their written words and feel even worse. I won’t be able to find a spot for every enthusiastic soul.


Roots and Wings

“There are only two lasting bequests we can hope to give our children. One of these is roots, the other, wings.” Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

“How is it that someone who doesn’t cook opens a restaurant?”

“I had money. I wanted to run a business.”

“But a restaurant? What made you think you could do that?”  

“I thought it would be a good business. It was crazy. I should have taken more time to think about what I wanted to do before I jumped into anything.”

God, when hadn’t I said those exact words before? Except this time they were coming from my father. This conversation was a snippet of one of the many I’ve had with him over the last couple of weeks. I’ve always known the specifics of our history: how and when we immigrated to Canada, what my parents did to support us, and how they struggled with integrating into a new culture.


Painting Paradise

“You have your brush, you have your colours, you paint the paradise, then in you go.” Nikos Kazantzakis

Organizing an event of any kind, large or small brings with it a number of considerations, not the least of which is where to find the money to fund it. In my paradise (as it pertains to organizing the Whistler Writers Festival, and the Writer in Residence and the Author in Schools Programs) funders come onboard and give generously because they believe in our cause, see our need and want us to succeed.

As you have probably deduced, I’m a dreamer.

January of each year begins with writing grants, compiling lists of potential business donors, discussing strategies, populating countless spreadsheets and writing plans that realistically outline how much we’re going to need, where it’s going to come from and what benefits the community will realize.

Despite the reams of documents we prepare, there are no guarantees we’ll get any money. This year we saw funding cuts from two of our major sources. One had funded us to the same maximum amount for years. This year they cut us back.


Why I Bother

“Every calling is great when greatly pursued.” Oliver Wendell Holmes Jr.

Why do I bother? I've asked myself this question daily, sometimes hourly. It happens anytime I sit down to write. First there are the questions: Why is this important? Who do I think I am? What the heck are my characters doing now? How does this fit into what I'm trying to do? The relentless questions are typically followed by feelings of worthlessness.

As insidious as undetected pinpricks in a garden hose, my insecurities seep out: I can't do this. I'm not good enough. It takes me some time to get a grip. The only thing that helps is to stay put, in front of the laptop, focused on the work, and asking myself, over and over again, what am I trying to say. This last question is helpful.

A friend of mine echoed similar feelings when we talked about writing earlier this week. She had just finished reading the novel, All the Light We Cannot See, by Anthony Doerr. "It's such wonderful writing. You're blown away. But then you wonder what's the point of your own writing." My friend is a very talented writer. And hard working too. She squeezes revising and editing her novel in and around her day job and her responsibilities as filmmaker, wife and mother. She's more than committed to her craft. Still when you read something so incredible, it's difficult not to question yourself and your own abilities.


Not For the Money

“The purpose of art is washing the dust of daily life off our souls.” Pablo Picasso

“So how much do you make?” I’m attending a book club meeting in Vancouver. I’d been invited here to discuss my novel. I don’t know anyone in the group. They found me through a friend of a friend of a friend.

I accept all invitations for presentations to book clubs or schools or festivals or anywhere really. You want me to come, I’m happy to oblige. I’m honoured by the interest people show in my work. And besides I have the gift of the gab (born with it) so any occasion to engage in discussion is good.

Despite this, I’m nervous. Yes, believe it. I hate to disappoint and each event is a performance. I prepare for hours: read and reread the piece I will deliver, think and rethink possible questions, imagine and reimagine where the discussion will go.


A Door Cracks Open

“Sometimes we stare so long at a door that is closing that we see too late the one that is open.” Alexander Graham Bell

I argue that I can’t let it go. “It’s been fifteen years. How do I walk away?”

I do want to give up. This feeling has been true for quite some time, but of late, it has intensified.

It’s just become too unmanageable. My energy is waning. Besides how many more original ideas can I come up to keep things fresh and interesting? I don’t have any viable answers, but that doesn’t stop the questions from coming.


Caregiving and Responsibility

“You cannot escape the responsibility of tomorrow by evading it today.” Abraham Lincoln

My maternal grandmother raised me and was my primary caregiver for the first four years of my life. She died after giving my brother his middle-of-the-night feeding. My mother raised my son. I was in university when I had him. I went into labour in my afternoon class, finished the day, went home, then to the hospital. I told myself I didn’t have time for this even as the nurse was rolling me into the delivery room. Papers had to be finished, an exam was coming.

I took four days off and went right back to school, refusing my mother’s pleas to take a year away from my studies. To be fair, my ex also helped raise our son. I did as well, after school and on weekends. Still I have always felt I had abandoned him.

I’m not proud of deserting my son. I don’t regret my education or my career, but I wonder to this day why I felt I had only one option available to me back then. But that is likely a topic for another blog or perhaps a psychiatrist’s couch.

In families like mine grandmothers shoulder the caregiving responsibilities and instil the family’s values. Even though I only had my grandmother in my life for a short period of time, I have never forgotten her or the lessons she subtly taught. Don’t fight with your sister and brother. Share. Take care of your family.



“Poetry is finer and more philosophical than history; for poetry expresses the universal, and history only the particular.” Aristotle

“So what happened?” The doctor asked. He looked to be no more than fifteen and had a manic yet caring presence. We’d been watching him running in his clogs from one bed to another only minutes before he walked into our cubicle. He seemed to take a lot of time with each patient. But perhaps that was my impatience showing. We’d been sitting in the same spot for nearly an hour.

My dad sat in his undershirt, his dress shirt off. His chest, arms and the top of his head were covered in bruises and bandages. His broken collarbone stuck out in such a way that I could see the fracture without the need for an x-ray. Still the x-ray flashed on the screen behind him, the break confirmed in case I had any doubt.


Still Missing Her

“We ourselves feel that what we are doing is just a drop in the ocean. But the ocean would be less because of that missing drop.” Mother Teresa

Do you remember being a kid? I know. I know. It’s been a long time for me too. Still I get flashes of memory. They come at the strangest times with no obvious trigger. My hand gripped in my mother’s. The first day of school. We were both dressed in our finest. We were new to the country and neither one of us spoke the language so we had no other way to impress or, more correctly, to show that we were good enough to belong. I suppose we figured if they liked us, we’d be accepted.



“Action indeed is the sole medium of expression for ethics.” Jane Addams

I was at a social gathering the other night. Our friends had told those who we were meeting for the first time that I was a writer. They asked me thoughtful questions about the writing life, my novel, and many questions about the business of writing. I thought perhaps they were emerging writers themselves, but no, they said, “we’re just avid readers.”

I love engaged readers. And I should have stayed at that level of polite chitchat. After all it was incredibly generous of these strangers to ask about my work, but these days, I can’t seem to shut up about the refugee crisis in Europe. The platform doesn’t seem to matter. Whether it’s a get together with fellow writers, or a social event as the one I described above, or a coffee with a friend, or an early morning conversation with my father, my discretion and tact button seems to malfunction.


Once A Presentation

“This city is what it is because our citizens are what they are.” Plato

Last week I read from my new novel, The Brink of Freedom, at an event hosted by the office of the Greek Consulate General of Vancouver and the Hellenic Community Association of Vancouver. It was an honour to be invited and to hear the Consulate General, Ilias Kremmydas introduce my novel and compare some of the novel’s story line and its characters to various characters from bygone Greek tragedies. As a writer, it’s always wonderful to have my work read so carefully.

I read for about ten minutes. In the silence of the room, I felt the encouragement and attentiveness of the audience. Could a writer ask for anything more?



“Neither should a ship rely on one small anchor, nor should life rest on a single hope.” Epictetus

The other day I felt pretty low. My publisher had just let me know that she hadn’t heard back from a broadcaster regarding an interview I’d hoped to do prior to a major event I was doing in Vancouver. In addition, a festival I had hoped to be invited to couldn’t find a spot for me. Where have I heard those words before? I’ve usually said them when I couldn’t place someone at my own festival.

Intellectually I know there are only so many spots to go around, and yet, the rejection still hurts. Rather than being rationale (not my strong suit anyway), I blamed myself, or rather my lacking, for these rebuffs. I’m just not a big enough name, a big enough draw, the book sucks, I suck.

And I spiralled downward from there.

On the heels of all that, I had to also attend a book club meeting I’d been invited to months before. As depleted as I was emotionally, I had made a commitment and rallied myself to fulfill it. Besides, who else was reading my novel?



“Imagination was given to man to compensate him for what he isn’t. A sense of humour was provided to console him for what he is.” Horace Walpole

I’m the first to admit that I’m not funny. Not in the ha ha sense anyway. I can’t write or think comedy and I’m attracted, as I’ve said many times in this blog, to unraveling and making sense of tragedy and damage. Strange how I just used the word, unraveling. That’s really what I’m obsessed with. What makes someone unravel? But I’ll save that for another blog. Suffice to say, I take myself far too seriously.

And yet, I am in awe of others who can use humour to make sense of the incomprehensible in their lives.



“Even the knowledge of my own fallibility cannot keep me from making mistakes. Only when I fall do I get up again.” Vincent Van Gogh

Over the past few weeks it has been difficult to avoid news of the trial of former CBC personality, Jian Ghomeshi. I’m a news junkie so listening, reading, watching the news is a big part of my day. I typically avoid this kind of sensationalism, preferring to focus on global political issues. But the cross examination of the women in this trial has stirred long forgotten memories.

A man I met years ago came back to mind. I can’t remember his name and barely have an image of what he looked like, but there he was again. Front and centre. And more importantly there I was again. My actions. My ineptitude.



“Out of suffering have emerged the strongest souls; the most massive characters are seared with scars.” Khalil Gibran

I’ve been very fortunate to be invited to attend book club meetings to discuss my latest novel, The Brink of Freedom. I love meeting people and love discussing books. It’s a bonus that the book under discussion happens to be mine. I’m grateful that people are willing to read what I write and they want to discuss it with me. No author could ask for anything more.


The Brink of Freedom: A Review by Linda Roger

I am away this weekend at a retreat, so I asked author, Linda Roger, if I could post her review of my novel on my blog. She agreed and here it is below. Linda Roger's forthcoming novel, Bozuk, Exile Editions, fall 2016, is also about tremours, in Turkey, where Europe meets Asia. Thanks again, Linda!

"Blessed are the meek," the firebrand Messiah from Nazareth spoke in his alleged sermon on the mount, "for they shall inherit the Earth." In those days, the Earth was a potentially wonderful legacy - people to meet, places to see, clean water and abundant renewable resources - and heaven an abstraction. The dispossessed had reason to hope, to cross borders in their search for new and better worlds.



“We have all known the long loneliness, and we have found that the answer is community.” Dorothy Day, activist

It’s the third week of January and I’m still a little wobbly. Yes, we’ve had lots of snow this year. But I’m not talking about the slippery conditions. I’m talking about my inability to find my organizational footing, some routine. My days at the moment are disjointed. I do what I can, but I’m feeling disorganized and overwhelmed.

The New Year brings with it new beginnings and a myriad of things I put off until January. And now January is here, three weeks in fact are gone and still so much to initiate. There’s a new writing project, another writers festival to organize along with another writer in residence program and another author in schools program. There are grants to write, invitations to be sent out, and plans to put together for communication, website enhancements and corporate sponsorship. It makes me want to run and hide. I’ve thought of doing just that, likely every day since the 1st.


Once Upon A School – Part 2

“One stroke of lightning does not have to lead anywhere, but to the next stroke of lightning.” Alice Munro

Last week I told you about how it came to be that I was presenting my novel to a group of 50 kids at Vimy Ridge Collegiate in Edmonton. Here’s the rest of the story.

Paul introduced me by saying all sorts of nice things about me and the time we worked together. He spoke about his own parents’ experience as refugees and why my novel meant so much to him. Paul’s father was made a refugee after the 1948 split of Pakistan and India. He talked about his mother’s father having to leave his family behind as well, when Paul’s mother was only a baby. His grandfather did not see Paul’s mother again until she was 17. That separation affected the relationship between Paul’s mom and her father for the rest of their lives. Paul’s introduction made the issue of refugees very real for the kids. They listened intently.

I told them that this presentation was important to me because it allowed me to raise awareness of the plight of refugees and at the same time expose school kids to Canadian books, open their horizons to what was available and to what they could do if they were inclined to write. 


Once Upon A School – Part 1

“Without knowledge the world is bereft of culture. And so we must be educators and students both.” Roberta Bondar

I was in Edmonton to do a reading in early November. I love that city. When I moved to Edmonton for work in 1986, I didn’t know a soul, but right from the start, the people I met and worked with made me feel welcome. They became my family away from home. Friends I made and colleagues I worked with have remained close despite my many moves.

So, as usual, many came to the Edmonton reading to support my efforts, yet again. I moved away some 20 years ago and still they came. It’s this camaraderie that always leaves me wondering why I ever left.

At the reading, one of my former colleagues asked if my novel would be appropriate for high school students. Paul is a coach at Vimy Ridge Collegiate, a school in the Edmonton public school district with a renowned sports program.

At first I wasn’t sure what to tell him. At the core of the novel are two refugee families trying to make a better life for themselves in economically ravaged Greece. Could there be a more tragic situation? Should kids have to face this sort of reality? Enough that it’s been a difficult subject for me. How would kids handle it?



“Every sunset brings the promise of a new dawn.” Anonymous

I can’t believe another year is coming to a close. I say this every year, sometimes several times throughout the year. “Can you believe it’s already April?” Or. “It’s summer. Where did spring go?” Or. “The colours are changing. Wasn’t summer incredibly short this year?”

Rather than complain about where all the time has gone, I thought it might be more useful to reflect on the year that was, maybe recapture some of its special memories.



“Generosity is giving more than you can, and pride is taking less than you need.” Khalil Gibran

A journalist friend of mine this week sent me an email asking for suggestions for Christmas gifts that disappear. An example would be a jar of jam that would be eaten and enjoyed or a certificate to a restaurant. Lots of food ideas. She is writing her usual Christmas column and asked a bunch of us to think of suggestions.

“These gifts are really out of the ordinary. They are cool and interesting gifts that aren't made of plastic which later end up in the landfill.” 

She went on to say, “You are eclectic and far-flung, as I hope your ideas will be, so fire away.”

Far flung is one way to describe me. I suppose there have been other less flattering things said about me too, but I digress.


Spread the Word

“A book is a dream you hold in your hand.” Neil Gaiman

I ran into a friend of mine at a meeting last week. She said she was eager to read my new novel, The Brink of Freedom. I’m honoured and grateful people want to read what I’ve written and it’s high time I said thank you.

Thanks to all of you who have read The Brink, bought it for your friends, bought it as a Christmas gift, told everyone you know about the novel, written to me to tell me how much you enjoyed it, invited me to your book clubs and included my novel as part of school curriculum reading both in the Sea to Sky corridor and in Edmonton. I’m so grateful that my novel has resonated with so many. Thank YOU!

If you’re looking for other ways to support The Brink or any other book or author, consider spreading the word by writing and posting a review on Good Reads, or When you write a review on one of these sites, or blog about a novel, people everywhere see it. It’s a great way to share with others what you loved about a book. And it gets the word out.


People Helping People

“We make a living by what we get. We make a life by what we give.” Winston S. Churchill

I tell friends and strangers alike that holding my novel, The Brink of Freedom in my hands in early October was an incredibly emotional experience. It wasn’t my first novel, but still the tears flowed, uncontrollably at times.

Months after returning from Greece, I remain an obsessed follower of any news of the plight of refugees. I grieve every death, cry with every image of a refugee stuck in limbo in a camp or trudging along a road towards what they hope will be a better future.



“When complaints are freely heard, deeply considered and speedily reformed, then is the utmost bound of civil liberty attained that wise men look for.” John Milton

I mentioned my son in last week’s blog when I wrote about Catherine Hunter’s book, After Light. I’ve been thinking about how we do things, or rather how I do things, particularly those things I think I’m doing in the name of love.

Like all kids, my son would, from time to time, grumble about school or a teacher or tell me he didn’t understand his latest math assignment.

I’d double my efforts to help him succeed. “Let’s do your homework together. We’ll figure it out. We have to work harder. That’s all.”


After Light By Catherine Hunter

“A good book is the precious lifeblood of a master spirit.” John Milton

A friend of mine called me just as I finished Catherine Hunter’s latest novel, After Light. I was a mess. Crying my eyes out. I couldn’t talk. What a book!

When I was able to collect my thoughts I sent Catherine what I hoped was an intelligent commentary. Here is a brief excerpt of the note I sent Catherine. I’ve taken out the bits that would give away any key elements of the story. Suffice to say my note to Catherine was much longer, but hopefully you’ll understand how I felt about this novel from my note below. 


Questions - Part 2

“Questions are never indiscreet, answers sometimes are.” Oscar Wilde

The nightmares I wrote about last week haven’t let up. I’ve explored what I think is triggering them. If you read last week’s blog, you know it’s complicated and has many tentacles. Perhaps, it’s me. I could be making things worse than they need be. In fact, I’m sure I am. 

If I just settle back into some routine, maybe these recurring dreams will stop. But that would be a simple solution and I’ve never done simple.  

Maybe it has nothing to do with me at all. Audiences and journalists alike have asked me some great questions about The Brink of Freedom. This probably has my brain working over time so rather than focus on my nightmares, I’m going to share with you the number one most popular question I’ve been asked after my readings and my typical response. Then you can see me tackle the same question in an interview I did with Tracy Koga of Shaw TV Winnipeg.

The single most asked question: what can we do as individuals to help refugees.

It’s such a hopeful question, isn’t it?


Questions - Part 1

“The answers you get from literature depend on the questions you pose.” Margaret Atwood

I wake with a start. I’m expected somewhere. Where am I supposed to be? Who knows? Nothing around me is recognizable. The fog gets thicker and I feel myself drift away into nothingness. Again.

The mist lifts. Momentarily. This time, I can see where I’m meant to be. I see the restless audience, my publisher pacing and eyeing her watch. I struggle with the door. It refuses to give. Then miraculously it does. I run toward my publisher. But the stage has shifted. The audience and publisher are across from me in another building. I can see them in the distance. I fan my arms; jump up and down as a four year old, in need of attention, might.  I’m sure I’ve caught someone’s eye, but then it passes over me as though I’m not even there.

I fall again, only to wake to the same recurring feeling: I’ve been left behind. I’ve been unable to do what was expected, what I set out to do.

When the light seeps in through the curtains I see where I am. Looking around I try to figure out what day it is. Did I fulfill my commitments? What have I missed?



“Education is an ornament in prosperity and a refuge in adversity.” Aristotle

Fiction makes sense of a situation in a way that eludes facts and figures. It’s difficult to fathom the kinds of numbers we’ve seen reported about the refugee movements in Europe. Over 3,000 dead in the Mediterranean this year alone. 100 dead in the last two days. 700,000 have reached European shores so far this year and more keep coming despite the risks. The majority, well over 500,000, have come via Greece, and the small island of Lesbos.

Here is a Shaw TV interview I did recently that explores the genesis of my novel, The Brink of Freedom and my passion for this issue:

© All Rights Reserved. Unless otherwise indicated, all blog content copyright Stella L Harvey

Beginnings – Part 2

“Every new beginning comes from some other beginning’s end.” Seneca

Last week you saw the trailer for my novel, The Brink of Freedom. Here is a short excerpt of the reading I’ve been giving audiences on the tour. Hope you like it.

“Sanjit is so small, so sickly. How could we possibly leave him?”

“How will he ever become a man? You baby him too much. He wants to become a man. You see how he carries large scrap pieces to help me. You refuse to let him. You want him tied to your sari forever. It cannot be this way.”

“He is six years old.”

“My mother abandoned me when I was younger than that. And I became a man without her,” Vijay said with pride. Yes, he’d been a product of a rape. And his mother had thrown him to the streets as soon as she could. But somehow he’d survived. By the time he was five, he was sweeping streets. Later, he heaved out garbage for a restaurant owner. That owner taught him how to read and write, allowed him to go to school, and showed him how to apply for scholarships. That’s where he fell in love with the bustle of a busy restaurant, dared to dream he’d have one of his own. He’d accomplished a lot, but there was still more to do.


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