Bio

Deb Loughead, a Toronto author, poet and workshop leader, has been writing since she learned how to read. In fact, she’s saved everything she’s ever written, including her very first composition entitled “A Narrow Escape for a Mouse” which she often reads during her classroom visits!

She completed her B.A. in English at the University of Toronto in 1977, then worked as a copy editor until she decided to stay home to raise her three sons and squeeze in some creative writing on the side. From 1980 – 1995 she was an associate editor for Etobicoke’s Spires magazine, writing short stories, poetry and articles for the children’s pages. She has also written and directed children’s plays which were produced by the drama club at Etobicoke elementary schools, as well as one in Sudbury, and coached children in drama workshops as far away as Goose Bay in Labrador.

Deb has conducted writing workshops and held readings for children and adults at schools, festivals and conferences across the country, such as the Montreal Young Author’s Conference, the Labrador Creative Arts Festival, Sudbury’s Rainbow Schools Authors’ Week, Eastern Townships Language Arts Festival in Lennoxville, Quebec, and the Eden Mills Writers’ Festival. She has also taught creative writing classes for adults in Toronto. Her award-winning poetry and adult fiction have appeared in a variety of Canadian publications. Deb’s children’s poetry book, All I Need and Other Poems for Kids, is popular with teachers for classroom curriculum use. She has written extensively for the educational market, and her rhyming stories and plays, as well as a series of middle grade novels, are used in classrooms across the country.

Deb’s advice to budding writers is: “Save everything you ever write. You never know when you’ll need it!”

Currently she is the Past President of CANSCAIP, The Canadian Society for Children’s Authors, Illustrators and Performers, as well as a member of the League of Canadian Poets, the Writers’ Union of Canada, and the Canadian Children’s Book Centre. Deb Loughead is represented by Marie Campbell at Transatlantic Literary Agency.

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“I want my animals. I want my animals. I want my animals.” I sat at the kitchen table, repeating the phrase. Staring straight ahead, swinging my legs under the chair, kicking the chrome table leg every now and then, clinking the buckle of my patent leather shoe against the gleaming metal, repeating those words over and over. My mother was working at the counter, and she was ignoring me. Well, not completely. In her mind, she was counting. She wanted to see how many times I’d repeat “I want my animals” before giving up. But I was tenacious. I didn’t give up easily, and she blinked first. She finally had to retrieve that little bag of plastic animals from the cupboard after I’d said it 53 times, so that I’d stop.

A stubborn streak, she told me. That’s what I had. And she repeated that “I want my animals” story often when she wanted to remind me about it, when I was getting on her nerves, being stubborn again. Almost like she might change me by stressing how annoying it was. But I didn’t change. I’m an Aries. Of course I have a stubborn streak. Of course I’m tenacious. That’s why I’m still writing after all these years. Every so often these little snapshots of my life pop into my head, as if I’m trying to account for something, to explain how I’ve gotten here, where I come from, why I’m me.

Sometimes I think about all the people in the world who have their own stories to tell, and how each one is different, and how it’s this combination of stories that sums up a person and makes each one so distinct. And I wonder if it’s the stories that shape the person, or the person who shapes the stories? Do the stories that we carry around with us make us who we are? If our stories were different, would we be different? Does everyone grow up with stories, like I did? And if they didn’t, is something missing in their lives? If they’re story-deprived, are they capable of creating their own stories, or is it a deficit that they must suffer from for the rest of their lives?

I like to think that who I am has been shaped by what I learned from the stories I heard as a child. I like to think that because I heard so many, growing up, it was just natural that I became a writer. Stories were the only way that my mom could keep me quiet, could settle me down, could appease my stubborn, demanding nature. If she said the words “Once upon a time…” or “When I was a little girl…” it was like a magician saying Abracadabra. Instant, blissful silence. I would cease my yapping or squirming, and sit perfectly still, listening for what was coming next. A story. And ever since then I’ve been a dreamer, fixated on stories.