Love in the late nineties was complicated (see: Ross & Rachel; Bill & Monica). Me? I fell for a gay man. I was also working weird hours at a media job in the suburbs. Awash in sound bites, I all but stopped reading; even vicarious desire was out. Then, one morning, on my commute, inspiration found me: a subway panel printed with Shakespeare’s Sonnet 116. The poem assured me that infatuation was rot. Real love was permanent, “an ever-fixèd mark.” Corny? Maybe. But I worshipped Will’s lines and I believed them; 116 became my hope – the star to my Scarborough-bound bark – until I finally dropped out and started writing. I got stuck on it. Still am, “even to the edge of doom.”
Marguerite Pigeon’s first novel, Open Pit, appeared this spring. She lives in Vancouver.
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