Andrea MacPherson

I will admit, straightaway, that I am a sunshine person, someone who loves all things to do with summer – dresses, sandals, flowers that keep blooming, bbqs, sitting out all night long, pitchers of sangria.  And, so, it might make sense that I have been over-occupied with all things to do with the garden.  Might.  Might, if I wasn’t also trying to start a new novel, to have a coherent thought, to think of anything beyond the way my regal geraniums droop and how my hibiscus keeps blooming beyond reason.

 I wonder if maybe, just maybe, because of my home on the west coast of BC, of seeing so many months of grey and being comforted by it, I’m unable to write when it’s sunny out.  Once, a reviewer insinuated I was melancholy.  I balked.  And then I thought, but yes.  I suppose I am.  It’s the tragedy that interests me, the parts of ourselves we’re not keen to admit.  So perhaps I am a rainy, cool, all water-coloured [like my mother's paintings] writer.  Expect nothing from me during the months I might tan.