Stephanie Domet

Author: stephaniedomet

  • When you’re having fun

    Wow, where does the time go? I went back to work and suddenly five weeks flew by. It’s been a wild ride, with a city hall scandal, a federal election and a provincial budget, plus the usual news and interviews. And it’s ratings, which means I’m busy as can be, hosting this and appearing at…

  • What kind of book

    This is a question I get all the time. What kind of book are you writing? I find this question almost impossible to answer, because really, the answer is, a good one, I hope. After that, what does it matter what other descriptors? And what does the interlocutor mean to do with the information anyhow?…

  • In the homestretch

    Well, here we are, just a few days of writing sabbatical left. Big sigh. At the farmers’ market yesterday, the clerk at Fox Hill said, that went fast. I said, yeah, if you think it went fast for you, imagine how fast it went for me. I can’t believe it’s almost over, but I’m so…

  • Life imitating art

    Or the other way around, or maybe both. I am on the road right now, as Kev takes living rooms and basements around Ontario by storm. He earned a Home Routes tour and so we’ve spent the last couple weeks together in the car, touring around, playing a concert in a different house each night.…

  • Waiting for the plot to thicken

    So I’m cruising along, enjoying the time spent with my characters, dealing with Dacey Brown’s unexpected revelation of bipolar disorder, generally digging being a full-time writer and then this week, blammo, I come up against the brick wall of plot. It’s all well and good to have funny characters who are clearly defined and well-thought…

  • You think you know someone…

    So, lately, I’ve been struggling with Dacey Brown. I thought I knew her, and then I sit down to write her, and she comes out all robotic and weird, making snap decisions about things and refusing to smile pretty for the camera. I got super frustrated with it all today and had a very short…

  • Writing is hard

    Not for me today, but I’m not the only one writing in this house. As I type, Kev is trying to write a song and it is not going well. There’ve been muttered performances, punctuated by cursing and discordant slams on the piano keyboard. The song, I should point out, is not actually being written…

  • Eleven

    Eleven pages seems to be comfortable to me. It feels like not very much, but most days, it’s where things settle out. Today, eleven pages took three hours, though those hours were broken up with laundry, making baked beans and some staring out the window. Plus, I figured out some things about Dacey Brown. It’s…

  • Perchance to dream

    I could do this, I could. I love my job, I do love it, but I could do this forever. I get up when it seems right to, and I make coffee. Maybe I read the paper or maybe, if I woke up with a sentence in mind, I write first. In any event, at…

  • The handwriting is on the wall

    So, it’s going. Not at the pace at which I’d hoped it would, but it is going. We went to Moncton and Amherst last weekend for a belated Christmas visit, and Kev’s step-grandmother died while we were there, and so the visit was extended and expanded and hugely emotional. I’m glad we were there, but…