Mona Awad
Born in Montreal in 1978, Mona Awad is a Canadian writer who works across novels and short fiction, composing in English.
Awad was educated at York University and later at Brown University, and she has also worked as a university teacher. Her writing in both long and short forms has placed her among the voices in contemporary Canadian and North American fiction, though the specifics of her career arc — her debut, her titles, the sequence of publications — speak more directly to what she's built over time.
As a short-story writer and novelist, Awad works in English, drawing on a background that spans two major academic institutions. York University and Brown University each shaped her formation as a writer and, separately, as someone who teaches at the university level. That dual identity — practitioner and teacher — is a common thread in her professional life, though the facts available don't detail which institutions she has taught at or the precise timeline of her teaching career.
What the record confirms is that Awad is a Canadian citizen, born in Montreal, who writes fiction in English. She is a novelist and a short-story writer, and she holds educational credentials from both York and Brown. Those are the anchors of her public profile, and they point to a writer whose formation was shaped by serious academic engagement at the graduate level as well as by sustained creative practice. Her work in both novels and short fiction represents the two primary modes through which she has operated as a professional writer.
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Note: The facts available for Mona Awad are thin — no specific titles, awards, dates of publication, or reception details are included in the confirmed fact sheet. Following the evidence-lock rule strictly, this biography cannot responsibly reach the 364-word target without inventing claims. The above represents the maximum accurate content the supplied facts support. A fuller biography would require additional verified facts about her published works and their reception.
Quotes by Mona Awad
The universe is against us, which makes sense. So we get another McFlurry and talk about how fat we are for a while.
Disorientation can be a very interesting space to occupy as a writer, Samantha. You should try it as an exercise over the holidays. It could be quite illuminating for you, I think.
Probably you have visited the Falls of Falling. For like an hour, a half day, a day and night tops, you parked in event parking, even though there is no event there but water.
I did this for you, you know, she always tells him.Did you? he wants to say.Because he doesn't remember ever asking for kumquats or hybrid cardio machines, but who knows? Maybe all this time, all the little ways he looked at her and didn't look at her, all the things he said or didn't say or didn't say enough added up to this awful request without his knowledge or consent, like those ransom notes made from letters cut from different magazines.
I gesture to the window and smile. Budding branches. Pale green leaves. Spring. Spring, does she see that? A time when everything is in bloom. Everything is having sex. Everything is so damp and fragrant and fuckable.
But even though Ruth's only a hair thinner than I am, she's way on the other side of the fat girl spectrum, looking at me from the safe, slightly smug distance of her own control and conviction.
The truth is, if you go to Warren, no matter what is going on in your personal life—hair trouble, existential malaise, ax murder—you do the reading.
What does she even eat, do you think?""Tea fungus,"Ruth says. "Unsweetened. From an eye dropper. Is what I picture. either that or some sort of sea vegetable.""Sad," I say."It is," Ruth muses.We decide to order two skim milk cappuccinos and split a gluten-free carrot cake cupcake.
