Roughing It Like a True Canadian (Yes, We Pay for This!)

Roughing It Like a True Canadian (Yes, We Pay for This!)

Let me explain something about being Canadian—specifically a Torontonian—that might sound completely bananas if you’re from, say, anywhere else.

Every summer, without fail, we pay actual money to drive for hours (in traffic, because everyone else is doing it too) to stay in small, creaky wooden cabins that proudly boast such luxury features as… basic electricity, questionable plumbing, and the gentle hum of mosquitoes dive-bombing your forehead at 2 a.m.

We call this “going to the cottage.” But don’t let that charming little word fool you. We’re not talking about lakefront villas with infinity pools and catered meals. No, no. We’re talking about roughing it. This is glamping’s awkward cousin who wears Crocs unironically and thinks canned beans are a gourmet side dish.

My American friends are baffled.
“You pay for this?”
“You drive hours to voluntarily not have a dishwasher?”
“You left the city to use a composting toilet?”

Yes, dear friends. Yes, we did. And we’ll do it again next weekend, too.

I once spent an entire summer “up north” (that’s what we call anything above Barrie) with a single goal: to learn how to waterski. I brought all the gear: gloves, ropes, swimsuits engineered by NASA, sunscreen that could deflect UV rays from Saturn. None of it helped.

You know what did help? Falling on my face a hundred times and laughing so hard I swallowed half the lake. Because when you’re out in nature, where you can’t check your email or DoorDash a smoothie, you remember who you are. You’re not your inbox. You’re not your Wi-Fi speed. You’re just… you.

That’s the real magic of the cottage.

The bug bites are real. The back pain from the so-called “bed” is real. The sound of loons calling across the lake at sunrise is so beautiful it’ll make you cry into your instant coffee. And every year I return, I bring a notebook and a plan to write. Sometimes I do. Sometimes I just stare at the water and remember what silence feels like.

And that, my friends, is where a lot of the magic in my books begins.

So yes. I paid to sleep in a wooden box in the woods with no air conditioning.
And I’ll pay again. Happily.
Because that’s how Canadians find their stories. One mosquito bite at a time.

Comments

Writers, Don’t Be a Slave to Word Count: Let the Story Speak for Itself

As writers, we’ve all asked ourselves that nagging question: “Is my book long enough? Too short? How long should it be?” It’s easy to get caught up in the numbers, obsessing over whether our work fits neatly into arbitrary word count guidelines. But here’s the truth: Word count should never dictate the quality of your story. The heart of storytelling lies in the narrative itself, not in how many pages it spans. The Pressure of Word Count From NaNoWriMo goals to publishing industry standards, writers face constant reminders about “acceptable” word counts. A novel must be 80,000-100,000 words. A novella shouldn’t exceed 40,000. Short stories have their own limits. These guidelines are helpful, but they can also be stifling. We begin to pad scenes unnecessarily or trim meaningful moments just to conform to these benchmarks. I’ve been there. I’ve wrestled with my manuscript, forcing it to stretch or condense to meet expectations. And you know what happened? The authenticity of the...

The Glamorous Life of a Writer (Or, Mostly Just Staring at a Screen)

There’s a persistent rumor floating around that writers live thrilling, adventure-filled lives. Perhaps it’s all the dramatic author portraits on book jackets—moody, windswept, staring off into the distance as if contemplating the fate of the world. Perhaps it’s the movies, where writers are always dashing off to Paris to write the next great novel in a charming café (suspiciously never interrupted by spotty Wi-Fi or overpriced croissants). I hate to break it to you, but real writing? Not quite so cinematic. In reality, my writing days mostly involve staring intensely at my screen, willing the words to appear through sheer force of will. Occasionally, I engage in deep philosophical debates with myself—such as whether my protagonist should turn left or right down a hallway (the fate of the fictional world depends on it). And let’s not forget the highly intellectual process of naming characters, which can take hours because somehow every single name I think of is either the name of ...

Winter Blues and the Creative Spirit

This winter really kicked my rear end . I don’t know if it was actually colder, longer, and snowier than usual or if it just felt that way, but either way, I felt drained. A kind of low-grade listlessness settled over me, the kind that makes it hard to muster enthusiasm for much of anything. My creativity? It all but hibernated. I’ve always been a summer person. I thrive when the sun is shining, when I can get outside and move, when nature feels alive and bursting with possibility. There’s something about stepping into warm air that sparks energy in me, making ideas flow as easily as the breeze through the trees. But winter? Winter is different. The days are short, the nights are long, and the cold seeps into everything. Even with the glow of holiday lights or the beauty of fresh snow, I find myself counting down to spring. I try to embrace the season—hot tea, cozy blankets, the occasional twinkling snowfall—but the truth is, I have to actively fight my way through these three months...

Thinkingdog Publishing

Search This Blog