I began writing as a child, long before I understood what writing could become. During the COVID lockdowns, the quiet pressed in and something shifted — poetry became serious, necessary, a way to stay alive in my own mind. Last year I began turning those poems into songs, and the door opened wider. I walked through it and didn’t look back.
I live in a small town in northeastern Ontario, where winter is nearly a permanent season and summer arrives only in brief humid bursts, often shadowed by forest-fire smoke. The climate here is not just background; it is a character in my work. The cold shapes my metaphors, the landscape colours my imagery, and the northern temperament threads itself through every line.
Music has always been my compass. I’ve learned more from songs than from any textbook. I’m in my 40s now — a fact that feels unreal until I stand up too quickly or sit down too slowly. My favourite band is Manic Street Preachers, and their influence is stitched directly into the bones of my writing.