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Once I decided I was going to write a book, I did what seemed perfectly logical to me: I bought books and books about how to write a book. For those who know me, this will not come as a surprise. At the time, I still didn’t know whether I was writing a novel, a play, a self-help book, a biography, or a memoir. But I studied and studied. Eventually, once I understood what kind of book I was writing, and once I was finally ready to begin, one elusive question remained unanswere

Spring has sprung in Montréal, and with it come my annual reflections on trees, flowers, and especially roses. Maybe it is because, after a long winter, growth seems to arrive all at once. Maybe it is Mother’s Day approaching. I am not entirely sure. But roses have always had a hold on me. What began as a childhood ritual with my father became, over time, a symbol of memory, transformation, and the kind of love that travels quietly through generations.

Four photos. Four moments. Four versions of me: reader, grad, exec, author. And yet, they’re all the same “me,” just wearing different hats along the way. It starts in kindergarten. I can still feel the excitement of that morning — slipping into my new red-and-grey uniform, smoothing the crisp white terylene blouse, standing in line for school photos. The instructions were simple: “Pick something on the table for your picture.” I chose a book. Not because I could read (I c