Nice to meet you.
There used to be a shiny bio here. I’ve outgrown it so I cut it loose.
In short? I’m a less-is-more Canadian mother raising four kids, penning postcards, and meeting deadlines beside my dashing husband, Steve. He’s an Australian scholar with a pastoral heart and rock & roll past. Very niche.
We drive a Batmobile. I say “Batmobile” but I really mean an unsexy black minivan. It once escorted us from Vancouver to Toronto by way of a sprawling tour of America. That particular trip involved all our earthly possessions, including two kids and a 24-day-old newborn. I’d tell you all about it but the weight of our ghastly move obliterated my memory bank. I took a few pictures.
I was born in Vancouver but Scotland raised me right. Steve and I hauled our growing family to St Andrews in 2011 so he could do his Ph.D. The blustery North Sea kept us company for five glorious years and I became a new woman in the process. The rest, as they say, is history—medieval history, to be specific.
Lipstick, berets, and gin—these are my calling cards. Friendship fuels my tank. My default setting is a combination of faith, hope, and love.
I don’t tolerate bullshit anymore. I prefer sincere conversation and none of this filtered living small talk business. Human beings were not designed for pixelated polyester living. I prefer the real deal, a combination of scratchy merino and sturdy linen and fine silk. Life in all its brilliant and brittle glory.
The perfectionist in me is screaming, “Elissa!! You can’t publish this yet.”
My weary soul is nodding and rolling her eyes. She’s pouring a drink and putting her feet up. She’s smiling. “All in time, Elissa. All in time.”
I SHARE WHAT I’M LEARNING.
Joy lives in the wilderness.
Life happens one day at a time.
Simplicity beats the alternative.
Generosity is a state of mind.
Sincere appreciation opens doors.
Postcards are the future.
Coffee reigns but Love Gin comes to life with grapefruit so…tough call.
WRITING IS THERAPY.
Whether it’s work or play, I love what I do.
Thanks for lending your attention. Please don’t send an invoice.