The first time I met a real writer – a poet – I wanted to be just like him. Not...

“Writing about music,” Martin Mull quipped, “is like dancing about architecture.” Part of the problem, of course, is that the...

Patricia Highsmith hated her mother. And dogs. (I can hear you gasping. Who hates dogs? Nobody hates dogs! Well, Patricia...

Somewhere in the mid-eighties I had a prescribed and sweet life. I was raising two little girls, playing two hours...

Me and Karen In the summer of 1982, when I was fifteen, I went on an exchange with a girl...

For the last five years I’ve spent Mother’s Day birdwatching with my teenaged son, Yeats. We drive to Point Pelee...