Laurie Gough is the Feminist Kerouac

Laurie Gough is the feminist Jack Kerouac. She weaves a lyrical narrative as intricate as the Moroccan carpets she was once drugged into buying. I picked up her book Kite Strings of the Southern Cross with no intention of surrendering my machismo virtue to gooey Goughy prose. Yet, Laurie seduced and ravaged me against my will, and I must say, "I liked it!"

Laurie is a redhaired beauty with freckles on her creamy shoulders that call out to be included among the known constellations. Connecting the dots of heavenly stars and Pacific islands, her book also connects the dots on why travelers wander. Humans have migratory instincts.

Before a political line was drawn across this continent branding folks Americans or Canadians, indigenous people migrated with changing seasons. Now, folks are told to settle down and act respectable. Yet, Laurie failed to get the message. Good for her. Perhaps, feral memories from Laurie's primitive American birthplace summoned her out of her civilized Canadian home like Buck in Call of the Wild was lured into the moonlit forest by savage dogs. Whatever the case, her book rocks. 

I fondly remember meeting Laurie. I was sitting at a hotel in Mexico, when she deliberately positioned herself about ten feet away and proceeded to make Gough-Gough eyes in my direction for nearly an hour. Finally, I walked up and thrust my manly junk into her warm porcelain hand. That's right. I gave her a copy of my book after her workshop at the San Miguel Writers' Convention. I can only hope my stuff satisfied her like her stuff satisfied me. Honestly, she was one of the best pieces of literature I've ever had. Er ... done? Uh ... read. Oh, oh, oh Canada! Sorry Laurie, aint easy makin' a livin' on American guy lit, 'cause as you seem to grasp, American men can hardly read.