Time and time, again



The new year just kicked off yesterday.


Come on. Lie to me.

From as far back as I can remember (well, not really, but it sounds better than “Since the age of 12ish”), my dad has told me to enjoy the present time because as soon as you reach adulthood, it starts flying by, and picking up speed with every year. How right he was.

It’s funny how writing about time only seems to come out in clichés. I know clichés are clichés because they are rooted in truth, but it’s nearly impossible to talk about time without having the impression of saying things that have been said since time immemorial. (See what I mean about clichés?)

It’s been a busy beginning to the year. Busy with inconsequential things like work and household chores. With fun things like friends, and books, and cooking. With inspiring and scary things like the prospect of moving to make future projects possible, but also to find a space more fitting to who I am becoming.

It’s also been a bit of a disappointing new year with almost no writing done, except the kind I have to do to make a living. And that brings me back to time, or the lack thereof. Weeks just zooming by (look at that: it’s Thursday again) and exhaustion setting in before my brain can even muster anything creative. Just this, what I’m doing right now, attempting to update a blog I haven’t touched since last summer (holy crap): five minutes in and I already feel tapped out.

And so my time has also been partially filled with bookmarking writing contests I never enter, reading submission rules for stories I haven’t imagined. I want to go back to writing, yet I’m using the cliché of time to explain (justify) why I’m not.


Time to get the dinner cooking.


It’s been 102 days


It’s been more than three months. Fifteen weeks. One hundred and two days. And I’m still sad. I’m still angry. I’m still in disbelief. I’m still heartbroken.

And sometimes, I’m ashamed. A little. For feeling all those feelings over something seemingly so trivial as a TV show. It is trivial, like fiction should be. But fiction doesn’t exist in a vacuum (most of the time); fiction is meant to reach out to people, to move them, to make them react in both positive and negative ways, to make people talk, to leave a mark.

I’ve been trying to put in words why Pitch left such a deep mark on me in just ten episodes. I’m saying ten, but I was hooked from the first.

I’m never hooked from the first episode.

I’m curious, I go “Hmm”, I think about it a little, I decide to give the second episode a try, but I never stay glued to my television thinking, “A week is too long to wait.”

Pitch hooked me from the first.

It was surprising, too, because of how unexpected it was. I had seen the promos on Global TV over the summer, but had not paid that much attention to them. I don’t watch a lot of live TV. I don’t have a list of new series I must try in the fall. I make an effort to watch a few French-Canadian series (because I want to encourage local content), but otherwise, I usually catch on a little later—which is not a bad thing considering how fast American networks pull the plug these days.

Yet, I sat down to watch Pitch.

I fell in love with it right away, like love-at-first-sight. In French, we call it “coup de foudre,” which literally translates as thunderbolt. That’s how it was. And while yes, I am #ForeverInLoveWithMikeLawson and his grumpy ways, bad back, and luscious beard, the reason Pitch hit me like a thunderbolt lies elsewhere: Ginny Baker.

From the first few minutes of the first episode, I was completely engaged in Ginny’s journey. I wanted to know everything about her. I wanted her to succeed. I wanted the team to adopt her. I wanted her to do things on her own terms. I wanted her to be happy.

Then, I met the people around Ginny and loved them, too. They were all so well-defined, so engaging. It’s a rare feat to have viewers care about almost all your characters in just ten episodes. In turn, it’s what makes the cancellation of Pitch all the more heartbreaking. Because I care. Deeply.

I want to know how serious Ginny’s injury is. I want to find out if Blip, who is such a supportive friend to Ginny, can be as supportive of his wife when she’s the one who wants to shine in the world. I want to see if Amelia will be back. I want Eliot to thrive in his career. I want Skip to get a closer chance at the Cup. I want Mike Lawson to figure out what he wants, in and out of the field. I want Livan to learn to be a team player. I want Oscar to find love (*cough cough* preferably with Amelia *cough cough*). Mostly, I just want more.

More Pitch.

More episodes.

More games.

More Kangaroo Courts.

More Lawson.

More Baker.

More Lawson and Baker.

More Bawson.

Most of all, more Ginny Baker. I want to see more of her journey. She has so many other stories to tell.

Alas, there will not be more. And I’m not over it.

I’m still sad. I’m still angry. I’m still in disbelief. I’m still heartbroken.

Cheers to…


I was about to write on women and violence against women and how difficult it is to speak up about the mundane abuse suffered by many women on a daily basis, but others have done so already, in light of the Ghomeshi debacle, and have done it much better than I could.

I was about to write about body image and how women are often–most unfortunately–the first to judge other women on their appearance, the clothes they wear, the shape of their bodies, but that’s also been done to death, and I’m not sure how to get us to be nicer to one another. I am guilty of preconceived judgement myself, though I try to analyze my initial reactions as much as I can. Pobody’s Nerfect. (Now I’ll have the Wolf Parade’s song in my head all day. Meh, could be worse.)

So what should I write about then? Maybe about how kindness is underrated? Maybe about how we should all celebrate simple acts of goodness when we see them? That’d be a start. Learn to say “thanks” to the stranger who holds the door for us, to the driver who gives us the right of way even if the right of way was his/hers, to the friend who calls just to see how we are.


So… Cheers to kindness?