Cynthia Reyes

My Most Popular Blog Series Ever

June 16, 2026 Cynthia Reyes

LOST WITHOUT A CLUE

Part 1, The Ebor House Series

I kid you not: I could get lost in a room.

So – naturally – I got lost while coming home from an appointment in a nearby town.

The key to getting lost graciously is to act as if where you’ve ended up is where you’d meant to go all along. But I was too agog at where I’d ended up to even pretend to be gracious. My mouth fell open.

Blog Photo - Bond Head Whtie fence and flowers

In no time at all, I’d gone from modern streets and brand-new neighborhoods to this old country road and a feeling that I’d time-traveled into the 1800’s. Beautiful old houses flanked both sides of the road.

And I knew, without being told, that some of these homes had belonged to certain local families for generations. It was that kind of place.

Blog Photo - Bond head grey hosue between trees

Most were surrounded by expansive grounds with big old trees…

Blog Photo - Bond Head Grey House and Lawn

Sweeping lawns and glorious gardens.

On the lake side of the street, were more gardens, houses and infinite vistas….

Parkland and beaches and families at play….

Blog Photo - Bond head family playing by lake

Boats at the marina…

Blog Photo - Bond head marina boats in bg

People fishing…

Blog Photo - Bond Head Marina, Boats and Man fishing

Where on earth was I?

Not one to panic till I’d run out of options, I kept going… and thought I’d seen that enormous old tree just a minute or so before I turned…

Blog Photo - Bond Head huge tree and fence

So I turned around again and kept going…..

And discovered a sign…..

Historic Bond Head.

I’d never heard of it.

Later, I’d learn that Bond Head, formerly known as Port Newcastle, was once a thriving harbour, with ships ferrying cargo to and from Quebec, Toronto to the west, Kingston to the east and various American ports.

In 1856, Bond Head and the neighboring village merged under the name of Newcastle. The overall region is now known as Clarington.

But right now, I was just busy being lost.

And then I saw a strangely beautiful old house.

This house must have a great story, I thought.

And this is how I met a man named Ron, whose historic home had belonged to generations of an illustrious Bond Head family which counted as relatives two Lord Mayors of London, England, and had a big impact on the life of many Canadians, including themselves.

Click here for Part 2: A fascinating story begins

Stay tuned.

A Good Home

Whose Truth?

May 13, 2026May 20, 2026 Cynthia Reyes

Once in a while, one of the writers I coach will cite an American memoirist who said if people wanted you to write warmly about them, they should have behaved better.

Nothing wrong with that statement. It’s a catchy quote that supports truth-telling in memoirs.

Except.

Except when it’s used to justify careless, mean-spirited or defamatory claims against others who don’t have a chance to defend themselves.

Memoir writing calls for us to be truthful, yes. But I’d argue that it also calls for us to never carelessly harm others.

When I was a child, I thought my grandmother was a hateful person. And early in my first draft of A Good Home, I was merciless in how I described her. But later in that same first draft, I revealed a surprise: when I ran away from home as an adolescent, it was to her home that I returned, and we became best friends.

But the draft was long and I took out that chapter (and a few others) before asking my siblings to read the manuscript.

My sister read the manuscript and immediately reacted. “You left out all our grandmother’s good qualities,” she said.

And she was entirely right. I had done my grandmother a great disservice in that draft. Luckily, it was only a first draft.

~~~

Relationships sometimes end badly. When that happens, there’s usually blame on both sides, but the story we know best is our side. We feel wronged, deeply hurt. And no – we definitely don’t want to ask the other person to explain their behaviour. We’re too hurt, or it’s been too long. In some cases, it’s impossible because the person is now dead.

I was fortunate: I got to know and understand my grandmother’s actions better, and to experience a different side of her when I was older. I grew to love her dearly. That gave me the material needed to paint a more balanced picture of her. I believe my book ended up being more credible because of it.

Not everyone is that lucky. So, sooner or later, someone I’m coaching will write about someone who hurt them deeply. Now, they want to discuss whether or how it should be included in their memoir.

The first thing I will say is: Don’t hold back in your first draft. A critical reason is because writing a memoir helps us understand ourselves and sometimes others better. So let it all hang out in that first draft.

It’s the final draft – the one you will publish and send out into the world – that you need be concerned about.

First, there’s the question of basic fairness. Your written words give you power over others. Is what you have written about someone else fair? Wield your power fairly.

Second, there’s the potential for defamation. In many jurisdictions, you can’t be held legally responsible for defaming the dead. But you can be sued if the person is still alive and can prove that you damaged their reputation.

Third, there’s the question of unintended harm. What you write about someone who is now dead but may be easily identified by a reader could harm others you care about and didn’t want to hurt. That person’s children or other loved ones, for example. This doesn’t mean you should throw out everything you’ve written, but it does mean you should be aware of the potential risk of causing harm.

~~~

Our memories of our life experiences are uniquely ours and may be different from those of the other participants in those events. In other words, they’re your truth, as seen through your eyes, but they may not capture the entire truth – or even most of it.

Most memoirs now start with a disclaimer advising the reader that the book contains the author’s memories of events. Some authors may also change the names of certain people in the story, or find other ways to make them unrecognizable. These devices may provide some protection for the author. But before you publish, give a thought also to those whom you did not intend to harm. And to your own credibility as a writer.

My best wishes,

Cynthia.

A Good Home

A Child at Easter – Redux

April 2, 2026April 2, 2026 Cynthia Reyes

I’m dedicating this story to the child within each of us. (Excerpted – kinda – from “A Good Home”.)

My first garden had everything we children needed: tall trees with big outstretched arms, a wide stream and acres of fields to play in. All this stood beside and behind a tiny pink farmhouse in the Jamaican countryside where a mother and father and five children lived.

A pink farmhouse? Yes.

Seven people in a tiny pink house? How tiny?

Two bedrooms, two front rooms.

Must have been crowded, I hear you thinking.

But this was a land of mild temperatures and hot sun. Children spent many of their waking hours outside. Nature – the wildness of it, the near-danger of it, the freedom of it – was our garden. A child’s own garden.

It wasn’t until our family moved to our grandmother’s much larger house in a nearby village that the first memories of a flower garden — the kind that people tend — lodged themselves in my seven-year- old mind. It was in front of the house, under a window.

via public domain.net — via publicdomainpictures.net

I remember that garden now as a small space full of pretty flowers. Roses, zinnias and dahlias, Joseph’s Coat of Many Colours and other things grew there, each cheerfully elbowing out the other, competing for space and sun.

Crocus in Spring — Photo by Hamlin Grange

And I remember these, above everything else: the fairy flowers.

Clusters of tiny flowers bloomed in gentle colours: pink, white, yellow, mauve. Unlike the other flowers in the garden, these huddled in small patches, as if supporting each other — or seeking warmth from the cool, early-morning mountainside air.

“Luminous”, I’d call them now, because their petals seemed to glow, as if someone had polished each one very tenderly till it shone.

It was magic: they simply appeared one day, as if a fairy had waved her wand above the soil. The size of them – about three inches tall — and the magic of them made me think that these were the sort of flowers that fairies would have growing in their own garden.

Then, when I wasn’t looking – perhaps when I was at school during the day, or asleep during the night – the flowers disappeared completely. When that happened, I imagined that the fairies had brought them to another garden where other children could enjoy them. It was a sad and hopeful feeling all at once.

The timing of the flowers’ arrival always seemed spot-on: Easter time, or Holy Week, as church-going families called it. And so, surrounded by the mysterious stories of Jesus’ crucifixion and resurrection, my sisters and I decided that the tiny flowers were to be called Easter Lilies. Easter lilies — brought by fairies.

It wasn’t the first time – or the last – that I’d get my magic and miracles mixed up. For a child who is told ghost stories and biblical tales of miraculous resurrection finds it easy to believe in fairies.

Unknown to my parents, I even thought of ghosts and fairies in church. When the pastor got too fiery, or too boring, or glared at me for giggling and whispering to my sister, I imagined a kind ghost or fairy – or maybe God himself – putting him to sleep right there in the pulpit – just for a while.

Now – with a garden of my own – reality overtakes imagination, most days. I know that pretty gardens take a lot of work. Those magical moments of my childhood were hardworking times for my parents.

It was my mother who tended the little garden and made sure the flowers would bloom. It must have given her great pleasure, but it was work — along with her other duties as a mother, wife, designer and seamstress of women’s dresses, and active church member.

Still, I hope Mama would forgive me for wondering — at least when it comes to the little garden — if she got a bit of help from the fairies.