It’s been a month since Pejorative left my desk and entered the noise. The algorithms have already decided who should see it and who should not. Every click feels like a vote of confidence, or a funeral rite.
Every story starts with a spark. For Pejorative: Echoes of a Nation, that spark was a question I asked on my blog, just a few “what if” scenarios about Alberta leaving Canada. At the time, it felt like speculative fiction. But the more I followed the rhetoric, the clearer it became that the lines between reality and fiction were blurring.
Dystopia isn’t arriving, it’s already here, just unevenly distributed. For some, it’s daily survival; for others, a new shock. This memoir fragment explores how silence becomes complicity, why endurance is not apathy, and how writing can stand as witness.
The road wound higher than I remembered, climbing through high hills with just enough guardrail to suggest safety. On one side, forested hills stretched into layers of green and shadow. On the other, a drop, sharp and unforgiving, reminded me of gravity’s patience. Above it all, a clear sky stretched like a promise.
Coffee in one hand, edits in the other, the rest of the cottage still asleep.
Proof copy in hand. Red pen out. Beta readers circling. This book’s a risky one, fractured timelines, testimonies, and media scraps stitched into a story I hope makes sense outside my skull.
