Snow. Romantic, silent and cleansing. Snow. Trudging, bundling and bouillabaisse. Snow.
William and I had never done snow together. Being from Canada, I grew up in it. Being from Southern California, he had not and, with the exception of some ski trips and a few winter semesters, had not spent much time in it at all.
After my return from the writing conference I had started work on a novel. My confidence level as a writer was high. I wrote every day, as I believed real writers did. When William had time he sat in my office as I read him pages from the day's work.
After one such session, I looked up and bit my lip.
What? Thoughts?
He shook his head. Where is this coming from?
What do you mean?
It's rich...dense. It's robust writing and I love it. A much different voice than in the memoir.
I exhaled. Thanks. You know that means a lot.
Can't wait to hear more.
And I launched myself into a world of research and writing while William prepared to go on location to Montreal for three months. He would leave in October and I'd join him in December.
Montreal held history for me. As a young actor, I'd toured with plays to the city in winter and acted in a comedy pilot one summer. Quebec is a joyously unique part of Canada. With its own Quebecois-French dialect, its culinary expertise and a zest for beautiful art, fashion and beer, it's impossible not to be proud of the province and the jewel at its heart, Montreal.
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