I write internal mayhem, scandal, death on a cruise boat when you know your expiry date, and wrong decisions. OMG, I do, I write tragedy, vengeance, love, chaos, and fate. I write about the sufferings of the poor and the vanities of the rich. Children falling from windows, women falling for the wrong men, women disappearing into the dark. I write about anger and redemption. I write about the muscled heroism of Algerian contemporary male dancers and the wheezing greed of seniors in deep-water aquafit. The stench of the Downtown Eastside, the rattle of developers’ gold. I write First Nation to colonial white, colonial white to First Nation. To Conservatives and NDPss and Greens and Muslims and transvestites and homeless in Vancouver. I wrote Diane Arbus and Bob Rennie and the hockey rioters, and I’ll write whatever else comes along next. I write fiction and what passes for truth and every gradation in between. I write the unborn, the newborn and the dead. I write the wretched, magnificent city of Vancouver back to its people. I write.