WordWorks Fall 2019

BRITISH COLUMBIA’S MAGAZINE FOR WRITERS “Because,” according to The Discourse, “reconciliation and story-telling go hand in hand.”

FALL 2019 $6.95

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Five hundred words, title included. Use all six of the following words in the piece: cobble, status, woven, wait, avocado, intermittent.

The contest is open to British Columbia writers only. Sign-ups via Submittable will start September 1. The winner will be announced on November 1, 2019. Entry fee: $10 FBCW members $20 non-members.

Visit bcwriters.ca for more info.

Table of Contents Fall 2019 Randy Fred: Getting over It 4 Julie Chadwick: Confronting Reconciliation Myths: Kwul’a’sul’tun Speaks at VIU 6 Wawmeesh Hamilton: Can the Language of Journalism Reflect Indigenous Peoples? 8 Gregory Younging: Elements of Indigenous Style 10 Cherie Dimaline: Indigenous Words for an Indigenized World 11 Who We Are: Ann Graham Walker 12 Joshua Gillingham: Becoming a Resilient Writer 20 Loreena Lee: Never Give Up 21

Poetry Joanne Arnott: fruits of location: uplift | 5 Joseph A. Dandurand: We Were Hungry | 19 Lisa Rawn: Renewal | 22 Jesse Holth: How Poets Dream | 27 Fiction Wiley Ho: Blind Luck | 20 Jill Talbot: Ghosting | 23 greg blee: The Pie | 25

A Word 2 Members’ Corner 2 President’s Pen 3 Faces 14 Contributors 28 Launched 30

WordWorks is published by The Federation of BC Writers 3383 Rockhampton Rd, Nanoose Bay BC V9P 9H4 www.bcwriters.ca | membership@bcwriters.ca Copyrights remain with original copyright holders. All other work © The Federation of BC Writers 2019. All Rights Reserved. ISSN: 0843-1329 WordWorks is provided free three times a year, to members of the Federation of BC Writers. It is available on our website and in BC libraries, schools, and historical societies. Join us at www.bcwriters.ca.

FBCW Annual Membership Rates Regular: $80 | Senior: $45 | Youth: $25 FBCW Board of Directors President: Ann Graham Walker Vice President: Doni Eve Treasurer: Keith Liggett Secretary: Adriane Giberson

WORDWORKS STAFF Editor: Ursula Vaira Business Manager: Sherry Conly Visuals Editor: Chris Hancock Donaldson Cover Design: Chris Hancock Donaldson FBCW Board Advisor: Ann Graham Walker Typesetting and Graphic Design: Ursula Vaira Doni Eve, editorial and copy-editor, Chelsea Comeau, poetry editor, Barbara Pelman, fiction editor, Jacqueline Carmichael, Christine Lowther, Caitlin Hicks We gratefully acknowledge support of the Province of BC, the BC Arts Council, The Canada Council for the Arts, and the Magazine Association of BC. UPCOMING THEMES Winter 2020: Writing and Activism Spring 2020: Publishing Pitch article ideas and cover art to editor@bcwriters.ca.

Directors: Adriane Giberson, Emily Olsen, Jacqueline Carmichael, Cynthia Sharp, Luanne Armstrong, Carine De Kock, Barbara Drozdowich, Chris Hancock Donaldson, Ruth Lloyd, Wawmeesh Hamilton, Sheilagh Simpson, Randy Fred

CALLS FOR SUBMISSIONS We are looking for fiction, non-fiction, and poetry from BC writers. Submission deadlines for the Winter issue is October 21, 2019.

Advisory Committee: JJ. Lee, Steven Price, Esi Edugyan, Alan Twigg, Gail Anderson Dargatz, Anne Tenning, Betsy Warland

CONTESTS: We run three contests every year; all the details are on the website. Upcoming: Flash Fiction, deadline October 1, 2019.

ADVERTISING: WordWorks is pleased to advertise services and products that are of genuine interest to writers. For advertising policies and rates, see bcwriters.ca/WordWorks/advertisers or email Sherry Conly at www.business@bcwriters.ca.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS The Federation of BC Writers acknowledges that Indigenous writers have not been able to take their deserved place in the literary culture due to wounding by colonization, by racism, and by the failure of the gatekeepers to recognize a rich culture of storytelling, to nurture Indigenous writers, and to share opportunities to be heard and honoured. We will continue to invite those writers and their stories; to read, to listen, include, support, and recommend. As well, we know the power of the written word and strive to recognize and call out biased language; to use instead the language of inclusion and dignity and autonomy when we speak about reconciliation.

Joseph A. Dandurand’s poem “We Were Hungry” will be published by Nightwood Editions.

Joanne Arnott’s poem “uplift: fruits of location” was published in Pensive & Beyond (Nomados, 2019).

The 2Do typefaces are BirdsXtreme by Manfred Klein and Architects Daughter by Kimberly Geswein.

The text of WordWorks is set in Warnock Pro, the titles in Cronos Pro.

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enter the flash fiction contest by Oct 1

A Word

Members’ Corner

Ursula Vaira I’ve learned a lot, putting this issue on reconciliation together and I still have a lot to learn. This I know: There is much that writers can do to seek relationship with one another.

From relationship, everything is possible.

Our featured columnists have much to offer. Douglas White III (Kwul’a’sul’tun) shows how a language of caring and love revealed to him “the heart of reconciliation.” Randy Fred tells how the act of writing broke open his long silence about the abuse he suffered at residential school. Cherie Dimaline has compelling answers to the question, “Who should tell Indigenous stories?”

Wawmeesh Hamilton explains why journalists “shouldn’t shy away from telling Indigenous stories just because they’re not Indigenous.” The late Greg Younging left us his superb Elements of Indigenous Style: A Guide for Writing for and about Indigenous Peoples. And Ann Graham Walker writes about the Fed’s involvement in projects that bring Indigenous and non-Indigenous youth together to write.

I’m giving huge thanks to all participants in this issue and to all volunteers who helped me with advice and labour and skill to put it together.

Will you take our survey? WordWorks is the FBCW’s flagship publication—by BC writers, for BC writers. We’ve made some changes over the past year and we’d like to get your feedback. We continue to face pressures around cost (it is already our largest budgetary item, costing us over $30,000 annually with printing costs, writer fees and salaries). If publication costs increase again we will need to make some choices and would like to know your preferences.

The survey will take less than five minutes to complete and we are offering a chance for a free FBCW membership for all who complete the survey and would like to be entered into the draw. We will let you know results in the next issue.

Send us a letter! Subject line: Letter to the Editor editor@bcwriters.ca

Here is the link (until October 31): https://www.surveymonkey.com/r/22JM6F5

the cover painting of Heron

and Salmon is by Gus Frenchy, a Stz’uminus artist living in Duncan. He’s been working on art all his life; as a teenager he began focusing on the Salish aspect of his art. Joe Wilson is one of his biggest influences. Gus Frenchy’s work has been shown at the Eagle Feather Gallery in Victoria, and 2019 will be his second time contributing to the One Tree Project sponsored by the Bateman Foundation and Live Edge Design.

Some of his most enjoyable moments are when he is teaching art to local kids from ages 8–12 at Khowhemun Elementary.

He also works on murals, carvings, drum making and jewellery.

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Congratulations to Wiley Ho of North Vancouver. Her “Blind Luck” won the 2019 BC Short Fiction Contest. First Honourable Mention was Jill M. Talbot of Vancouver for “Ghosting” and Second Honourable Mention was greg blee of Gabriola for “The Pie.” The other finalists were Barbara Black, Kaya Silver, Dean Gessie, Diana Jones, Janet Miller, and Mary MacDonald.

Our next writing contest is for Flash Fiction.

The deadline is October 1, 2019.

We've made some recent changes to WordWorks and would like to know what you think Feedback from our readers is important to us.

Watch for an email and take our short survey.

The President’s Pen Ann Graham Walker Dear Writers: I just finished reading this issue of WordWorks. Reconciliation—it is such a big word. How do we live up to it? I feel really grateful to the writers for their reflections on how reconciliation relates to us, today, as writers—Indigenous and non-Indigenous—and to Ursula Vaira for her finely juxtaposed gallery of ideas.

How do we make the Federation of BC Writers the most diverse community of writers it can possibly be, inviting and serving every writer in this province who does not want to write alone?

We love hearing your ideas for how we can do better. The place to write to us is membership@bcwriters.ca.

In terms of volunteers, what we really need right now are people with social media skills. And we need help organizing local writer get-togethers—perhaps in your community.

As this reaches you the tempting forgetfulness of summer is behind us; we are beginning new projects and adding a layer of clothes. Some of you receiving WordWorks are new. I want to wish you all the best for your writing projects and hope that the Federation will be a source of encouragement and support. We are BC’s community of writers, a provincial non-profit and federally registered charity.

A quick heads-up about scammers. Please watch out for job offers in your mailbox that sound too good to be true. There has been a rash of fake editing job offers lately.

Best wishes for your writing Ann

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Getting over It Randy Fred

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Why don’t you just get over it?” This is a tough question put to survivors of Indian residential schools. To get over the Indian residential school experience means getting over many horrors: rape by adult supervisors and older students; loss of traditional language; physical abuse; starvation and torture; emotional abuse; spiritual abuse; separation from family; and cultural genocide. For me, you need to add to my nine years in the Alberni Indian Residential School the near six years in court. This trauma was guaranteed to lead to post traumatic stress disorder (PTSD). I was diagnosed with PTSD by professionals through court-ordered assessments.

A common consequence of rape is suicide. I attempted suicide twice in my early twenties. Many people who attended residential schools attempted or were successful at suicide. Most students who were in my Grade 1 class died young. Many from violent deaths.

Silence has kept the truth hidden for over a century. My first attempt at sharing my experience was in the late eighties, when as managing editor for Arsenal Pulp Press’s imprint Tillacum Library, I wrote the foreword for Celia Haig-Brown’s book Resistance and Renewal: Surviving the Indian Residential School. It used to be common practice for book publishers to find someone with fame to write a foreword. I was unable to find such a person for this book so I took it on myself. It proved to be torturous. I had been mostly silent about my experiences in the school until I tackled this writing assignment. It was a nightmare.

Photo by James Pitcher

Society considered Indigenous Peoples to be lazy drunks. In reality, we were using drugs and alcohol to numb the pain of Indian residential school experiences.

Brittany Barker conducted research at the University of British Columbia that found descendants of Indian residential school survivors were more likely to end up in foster care. This is not at all surprising.

A critical component of reconciliation is learning the history of Canada’s Indigenous Peoples. Many books, videos and radio shows document truths. I very much loved Richard Wagamese’s book Indian Horse. He showed how racism was rampant throughout his life. The Indian residential school stories are horrific but important for all Canadians to know.

Crave TV has the movie.

Racism is the greatest barrier to reconciliation. I experienced racism everywhere I lived and worked. It is extremely difficult to change racist opinions and feelings.

It is simple to understand why many Indigenous Peoples hold on to negative feelings towards non-Indigenous Peoples.

Reconciliation is a two-way street. Love for one another is a lofty goal, but respect for one another is a reasonable goal.

To the Truth and Reconciliation Commission, “Reconciliation is about establishing and maintaining a mutually respectful relationship between Aboriginal and non-Aboriginal Peoples in this country.”

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There is much good resulting from the ninety-four Calls to Action by the Truth and Reconciliation Commission. Many positive efforts are teaching First Nations and non-First Nations about each other. Funding is being made available for language revitalization, arts, and cultural activities. Libraries, schools, government agencies, public institutions, businesses, and individuals throughout Canada are making honourable efforts to fulfil one or more of the Calls to Action.

True reconciliation will be a national goal for many years to come. It has been common for social change to occur far before political advancement. We can maintain hope. We can learn from the many other countries who launched reconciliation programs.

I sincerely hope I get over it!

fruits of location: uplift Joanne Arnott i can’t see you i can’t hear you i continue staring into what i believe to be your direction your general direction

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your part of the world i have heard of you before you sounded interesting you sounded like you may be a bit like me: as i am a pauper

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Confronting Reconciliation Myths: Kwul’a’sul’tun Speaks at VIU Julie Chadwick

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ears ago, Doug White III (Kwul’a’sul’tun) asked his late grandmother Dr. Ellen White (Kwulasulwut) what would be lost when there was no longer a number of people who could fluently speak their language.

What she said surprised him, said White.

“She told me that there is an elevated form of the Hul’qumi’num language that is only used in very close and intimate relationships between two people who really know each other and really love each other,” he explained.

“And she said the last time she really spoke like this in this way was with her late sister Eva. She said, ‘Imagine two old grandmothers sitting together in a quiet space having tea, being alone, being able to talk together.’”

White said that special form of Hul’qumi’num described by his grandmother used different grammar, diction, tones and rhythms. It was used only in very personal contexts and not for day-to-day relations and conversations.

“To me it sounded like she was describing a poetic way of talking to each other, in a place of unquestioned safety and love,” White said.

“And what my grandmother described is the heart of reconciliation that we never talk about. It is about creating a new dynamic, a rhythm of caring and love between all of us.”

So opened the wide-reaching keynote speech by White entitled “Re-Imagining Reconciliation: Confronting Myths and the Future of Canada” at Vancouver Island University in November, 2018. Offered in partnership with the CBC Radio One’s show Ideas, the talk marked the fourth instalment of the series, and the last before long-running host Paul Kennedy retires.

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Vancouver Island University photo

Currently a Snuneymuxw First Nation councillor and director of VIU’s Centre for Pre-Confederation Treaties and Reconciliation, White used his vast knowledge base in this and other capacities—including as former Chief of Snuneymuxw, member of the First Nations Summit task group, member of the BC First Nations Leadership Council, and lawyer and negotiator for First Nations governments across the country—to paint a clear picture of what reconciliation currently is in Canada and where he believes it needs to go.

Presently, how reconciliation is conducted rests on a series of myths, White explained. The first myth is foundational, a myth of omission in how reconciliation is discussed.

We’ve become good at talking about reconciliation in its legal, political, economic, social and cultural dimensions,

he said, but we fail when it comes to positioning those talks on a foundation of love, intrinsic values and our potential as human beings.

To exemplify this point, White referenced the sentiment present during a 1910 visit to Kamloops by then-prime minister Sir Wilfred Laurier. At this time, Laurier was formally addressed by a delegation of various BC chiefs which culminated in an extraordinary document known as the Laurier Memorial. “There’s a beautiful passage where [the chiefs] are reflecting back to a time when the first non-Indigenous people were arriving in their territory,” said White. “Some of our chiefs said, ‘These people wish to be partners with us in our country. We must therefore be the same as brothers to them, and live as one family. We will share equally in everything, half and half, in land and water and timber and so on. What is ours will be theirs, and what is theirs will be ours. We will help each other to be great and good.’”

The second myth identified and addressed by White was rooted in the perception that courts and lawyers were necessary in leading the work of reconciliation.

“Lawyers and courts serve a purpose, but they are a blunt tool in reconciliation work,” said White, who pointed to a variety of causes, including political failures and lack of political will.

“Lawyers are trained in focusing on division and distinction, on how to be rational adversaries. They’re not agents of coming together,” he said. “No matter how much good courts may be able to do—they can settle matters, order change, compensate wrongs—but they can’t make us love each other. Indeed, they often do the opposite.”

The final myth confronted in White’s keynote speech

was the idea that “we are well on our way” in the process of reconciliation, when really the path was only just beginning.

Referencing the 2014 Supreme Court of Canada decision regarding the Tsilhqot’in First Nation, which for the first time recognized expansive Aboriginal title, White said this came with sweeping implications and points the process of reconciliation down a fundamentally different path. “[It] stands as a major counterpoint to all the law, policy, regulations and patterns of behaviour that are premised on the idea that Aboriginal title doesn’t matter,” said White.

As a result, he argued that much of the economies in this country are structured on wrong ideas, and now need to be rebuilt around the reality of Indigenous Peoples’ relationship to their lands and decision-making about their territories.

To do this, ingrained patterns that were currently taken for granted about how things have always been done would need to change.

“I do recognize that this last mythology discussion sounds potentially in tension with the first discussion around love, but it isn’t. If we truly accept one another as equals, with dignity and autonomy, and we love them, then we are willing to sacrifice. That is the dynamic of all healthy human relations,” said White. “It is the foundation of how we can work together to help each other to be great and good.”

Reprinted with permission. Salish Sea Sentinel, the news magazine for Naut’sa mawt Tribal Council, provides its eleven-member Coast Salish Nations (and the rest of the world) information about a variety of matters including culture, economic development, governance and infrastructure. www.salishseasentinel.ca

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Can the Language of Journalism Reflect Indigenous Peoples?

Wawmeesh Hamilton

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recent story in the international news source Al Jazeera prompted me to think about my experience as a journalist who is Indigenous.

In the story, producer Amira Abujbara, whose father is from Qatar, reflects on making a documentary in the remote Alaskan Indigenous village of Iliamna, where her Indigenous mother is from.

Abujbara documented the challenges and hardships villagers face preserving their culture and connection to the land while living in a beautiful place. But she also talks about navigating the complexities of doing your job professionally while covering people you know and are both a part of, yet also removed from.

I may not write for Al Jazeera, but I understand what she is talking about. It’s something I’ve always been aware of in the twelve years I’ve worked as a journalist.

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In the past, I’ve covered news involving my First Nation, the neighbouring First Nation, as well as the larger group of nations belonging to the tribal council we are members of. The stories ranged from land, title and rights issues to education, culture, sports and resources.

In many instances, I dealt with people I knew or grew up with. I was aware of this going in. But just as basketball referees or baseball umpires may officiate games in which they know participants, you put your game face on and you do your job. Period.

Being Indigenous affords me less difficulty with access to stories. And I bring a deeper context and understanding to Indigenous issues than other reporters may have. But once I’m in the door, I’m there as a journalist, and I’m obligated to ask difficult questions about sometimes difficult issues First Nations are involved with.

Over the years, I’ve written three stories some First Nations weren’t happy with. One felt it was an internal issue. Another felt my story about them missed part of the issue. And another wished it was never written. None, however, criticized my stories for being unfair, inaccurate or unbalanced.

The one issue I take with Abujbara is her comment that: “Journalists have rarely done justice to Indigenous communities because the language of journalism has rarely done justice to Indigenous Peoples.”

“The language that media uses today does not heed silence and self-interpretation,” she writes. “It does not respect the power of conjured stories. It does not favour the collective over the individual. And this does not fit with Indigenous perspectives.”

I disagree to a point. Historically, I don’t think it’s the language of journalism that fails Indigenous Peoples. I think some reporters and editors fail Indigenous Peoples because they decide what language is used and how it’s used to write a story.

I’m convinced the language can work because I’ve made it work. It boils down to caring. How much does a

non-Indigenous reporter, editor or producer care about telling an Indigenous story?

Of course they should, especially since it falls to them most often to tell these stories, since there are so few Indigenous reporters in Canada’s newsrooms.

They shouldn’t shy away from telling Indigenous stories just because they’re not Indigenous. This is something I hear quite often, and it troubles me because what are non-Indigenous reporters, editors and producers learning about reconciliation and Indigenous Peoples unless they are doing these stories? I don’t shy away from doing stories about non-Indigenous issues because I’m Indigenous.

If you care about a story’s truth and the people at the heart of it, you’ll find a way to tell it well, with soul, life and depth, like Amira Abujbara’s story.

Reprinted from the Urban Nation newsletter with permission from The Discourse, reimagining the community newspaper to better represent all of us. thediscourse.ca Photo of Wawmeesh Hamilton / Uytae Lee The Discourse

It’s not the language that fails Indigenous Peoples; it’s the reporters and editors who wield it.

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Elements of Indigenous Style Gregory Younging

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his book is an important, timely, and well-thoughtout resource. It is an excellent guide for publishers, academics, journalists, students, and anyone else who is interested in writing about Indigenous Peoples. Greg Younging’s extraordinary experience, cultural sensitivity, and knowledge base come through on every page, providing readers with very thoughtful and helpful advice on so many areas of potential difficulty. I can see that this book will have very wide relevance even beyond Canada’s borders, though it is well focused on the Canadian context.

The book is written in an eloquent, intimate style that puts readers at ease and positions them as participants in a conversation—a technique that works exceedingly well for the chosen purpose. There is a great need for a resource of this kind, and Elements of Indigenous Style fits that need in a resoundingly positive and productive way. Over time, I feel that this book will make a significant difference in the fair and equitable representation of Indigenous Peoples, and this will lead to empowerment and pride among Indigenous community members.

In addition to the invaluable advice contained in the book’s editorial principles, the word-usage examples are extremely helpful. The discussion of rights, intellectual property, and the public domain is excellent, as is the material on Métis identity and community history. Throughout the book, the discussion of problematic practices is done in a clear and thoughtful way, explaining why a particular practice is disrespectful or inaccurate. Thus, it comes across not as a prescriptive and authoritarian book (as some writing textbooks do), but rather as a teaching text that informs readers of why certain editorial practices are problematic, and how these situations can be avoided. This book provides solutions rather than solely identifying problems.

Possibly the most important ethos of this book is contained in the advice that there is no substitute for engaging in a relationship with the Indigenous Peoples who are represented in a text. This book foregrounds the Indigenous methodology of working from the basis of relationships, and thus it is an excellent example of decolonial scholarship.

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This guide features: • •

• • •

Twenty-two succinct style principles.

Advice on culturally appropriate publishing practices, including how to collaborate with Indigenous Peoples, when and how to seek the advice of Elders, and how to respect Indigenous Oral Traditions and Traditional Knowledge.

Terminology to use and to avoid.

Advice on specific editing issues, such as biased language, capitalization, and quoting from historical sources and archives.

Case studies of projects that illustrate best practices.

The foreword, by Warren Cariou, is excerpted from Elements of Indigenous Style by Gregory Younging, published by Brush Education. Reproduced by permission of the publisher.

Copyright © 2018 Gregory Younging

Indigenous Words for an Indigenized World Cherie Dimaline Speaking to thousands of readers and literary audiences over the past year, I hear one question keep coming up: who is allowed to tell Indigenous stories?

There’s a short answer, so here it is—we are.

And then there is the longer answer, one that takes some convincing once I’ve shut the door on aspiring non-Indigenous writers of Indigenous stories, but one that needs to be heard.

Writing becomes the action and the argument that refuses to comply or allow history to continue on unchallenged and the future to develop unabated. In this way stories become our battle plans and our peace treaties—they hold our records and influence our next steps.

We hold on to story. Stories are powerful, and stories are survival, in particular, for communities and peoples who seek to rebuild and persevere. Indigenous storytelling communities are surviving the longest and most multifaceted genocide effort, in part, through the preservation and handing-down of stories, stories which contain all the teachings, wisdom, encouragement and identity necessary to move forward as a people.

It is imperative when we tell stories in an Indigenous context that there is connection to the nation(s) that we are speaking of or on behalf of, even in fiction—this is real survival. And survival is not just about living or cheating death. It’s about having the original words to call out to family members. It’s about carrying the teachings and words that locate ourselves and each other.

Stories about us have been wrong for too long—anthropological tomes that Other-ed and oppressed; fictional imaginings that took over the mainstream opinion; false narratives that built the collective understanding that we were “primitive” that we are “less than.” Cemented through generations of publications, the “Indian” became easy to dismiss, easy to claim and easy to kill. When stories about us get it wrong, we end up with policies and practices that seek to keep us alive only as figures of the past or imagination. We end up with residential schools, higher rates of missing and murdered women, girls, and transwomen. The murderers of our youth are acquitted. We die. It is literally a matter of life and death that we tell our own stories, that we create the narratives that allow us to live. In publishing and the literary industry, our structures and knowledge have to wield influence. After all, it’s not enough that we write the books, we must build the house in which they will be kept safe, according to community architectural planning and with our own tools.

And then there is this simple fact: when we tell our own stories, with our family histories, our intimate knowledge, our specific worldview, it’s just the best storytelling there is. Why would you want anything less?

Republished with permission of CBC Licensing.

Photo of Cherie Dimaline by Robin Sutherland.

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launch my book in WordWorks. bcwriters.ca/launched

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Who We Are Ann Graham Walker

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ne morning in early 2016, when BC days were a dark monsoon, I emailed Wendy Morton to get her thoughts on how the Federation of British Columbia Writers could support her upcoming Elder Projects.

Wendy is the organizer and instigator of twenty-one Elder Projects that bring together Aboriginal schoolchildren with their elder relatives (www.theelderproject.com). It is an exercise in memory retrieval, in generational bonding, in celebrating Aboriginal culture and memory through the eyes of the young—and for each of the young participants, it is an invitation to write.

Wendy barely h e s i t ate d in answering my email. She told me about the young Elder P ro j e c t p a rticipant who once expressed the invisibility she feels.

For an Aboriginal teenager navigating the halls of school, there is still the feeling of being on the other side of a divide. Do non-Aboriginal students know that divide as well, and wish it weren’t there?

“I’ve always wanted to do a variation on the Elder Project,” Wendy said. “It would get First Nations and Métis

and white students together, writing poems about each other.”

An interesting idea, rich with possibilities. Imagine finding yourself partnered with someone you may not have had an opportunity to talk to, because of cultural distances, in this case Aboriginal and non-Aboriginal. You get together and don’t just talk, but write a poem about one another. I have participated in exercises like this, in poetry workshops, and can say it really does open doors to shared understanding and compassion. Could the Federation of BC Writers play the role of making such an event happen?

There was a perfect place to pilot the idea. Wendy called Barbara Stoochnoff, teacher and counsellor at Chemainus Secondary School—a school that has successfully participated in numerous Elder Projects with huge support from teachers, students and Elders. Barbara embraced the idea, and so the project began.

Seventeen students (selected by Barbara) ranging from Grade 8 to Grade 12 congregated in a classroom at Chemainus Secondary School. Barbara organized them into pairs. Wendy gave them a list of questions to ask each other, and each student wrote a poem, not about themselves, but about their partner. The poems were published in a chapbook and given to the students and to school libraries.

What did the students think of the experience, at the end of the two hours?

“We talked together about what we are feeling,” said one student. She and her partner talked about their upbringing and experiences, found common ground—as well as differences.

“I enjoyed the writing. It gave us a connection because we were writing about each other,” said a grade twelve student, in the circle discussion that followed the exercise.

So much happens in a conversation.

Photos and poems from the Who We Are series are on the website: https://www.bcwriters.ca/who-we-are/

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A poem is the shortest distance between two hearts. —Wendy Morton The Who We Are series grew out of our partnership with Wendy Morton on the Elder Project, an initiative for which she received the Governor General’s Meritorious Service Medal. She is a FBCW Honorary Ambassador and a member of the Order of British Columbia.

Wendy just completed her twenty-first Elder Project in May at Highland Secondary School in Comox, BC. We were happy to support her with the help of a $1100 grant from Coast Capital Savings. The Federation was able to support the Elder Project in 2017/2018 with the help of a grant from the BC Arts Council; we did four Elder Projects and two Who We Are projects. That grant has run out and we are actively looking for alternative sources of funding. If anyone would like to be a sponsor, or knows of a corporate funder who might, please contact us. We hope for many reconciliation initiatives to come that will use poetry and writing as a tool and an invitation to build empathy and help cross divides.

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FBCW Faces Fed members out and about in the lit world, performing, writing, teaching, celebrating achievements, reading in hammocks ‌ Clockwise from top left: Christine Lowther at the Denman Island Readers & Writers Festival.

Cynthia Sharp in the kitchen of Deer Lake Gallery where she and Sharon McInnes were featured at Spoken Ink in January, taken by journalist Sheilagh Macdonald.

Judy Millar at Word on the Lake Festival, taken by James Murray.

Lozan Yamolky with friends Mike Kvammen and Ashok Bhargava, taken by Janet Kvammen at Hood 29 CafĂŠ Earth Day Gathering.

Yvonne Maximchuk at Comox Valley Writers Society Festival.

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send my pic to Faces! editor@bcwriters.ca

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Clockwise: Carol L. MacKay's debut children's picture book, Lily in the Loft, illustrated by Val Moker, was a finalist in the 2019 Next Generation Indie Book Awards in the Regional Fiction category.

Cynthia with Writers International Network (WIN) President Ashok Bhargava, the IN Spring Celebration in April, by Janet Kvammen.

Earth Day Flash Fiction & Poetry feature Jane Munro with Cynthia Sharp, taken by Janet Kvammen.

Caitlin Hicks (at the mic in red pants), Gord Halloran and Anna Lumiere in MOTHER LOVE at the Pender Harbour School of Music.

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2Do renew my Fed membership!

bcwriters.ca fall 2019 15

Blind Luck Wiley Ho

“

Blind fortune tellers are the best,” Mother said, with certainty in her eyes. “They have other ways to see your soul.”

“He had a fifty-fifty chance, Ma.” “He saved your life, didn’t he?”

“But, Ma, he got it wrong!”

My mother folded her arms across her chest, “it’s unfilial to correct your elders.”

This was her trump card. Any time she was losing an argument to one of us kids, she invoked Confucius’s dictum of filial piety—unquestioning respect for one’s elders—and stopped us dead in our tracks. It was a dirty trick, but I let it go.

It was old news anyway. I’d known for a long time about the blind fortune teller in Judong, my birthplace in Taiwan. Though my family had emigrated to Canada in 1979, like homing pigeons, we kept flying back. Each time we made the long flight over the Pacific I wondered if this would be the summer I would track him down. My siblings thought I was weirdly obsessed, so I shrugged, “I’m looking for the blind guy who sees the future. Get it? It’s funny.” And then I laughed all by myself.

My parents disapproved of my quest. Mother thought I should respect fate rather than question it, “Just be grateful you’re here now.” Father, a man of reason, was embarrassed by talk of destiny, “You can’t dissect nonsense.”

I let them interpret my silence as filial piety. I didn’t know how to explain the clench in my heart anyway.

The summer I was eighteen I decided to be systematic about my search for the blind soothsayer. I was going to look through the streets and alleys of Judong one by one to find him.

On a steamy July morning, I set out from the old family home that my grandfather had built. With reinforced cement walls two feet thick, the five-storey house survived earthquake after earthquake. Its single concession to mortality—after the big shake of 1999—was a thin crack down one living-room wall.

The grey monolith was left to my father. After my father it would go to my brother. Ah-gong’s will had been explicit: male heirs only.

I appraised my birthplace with adult eyes. It hadn’t changed much since I’d moved away as a child, still too young to read. Everything looked the same, just smaller, the same dusty roads separating blocks of stocky buildings with signs on them I couldn’t understand, the same hazy hills in the distance. Though Judong’s just fifty kilometres south of Taipei, it’s without the capital’s shiny skyscrapers, fancy restaurants or international tourists—or even consistent sidewalks. I had to weave my way down the main road, vying for patches of pavement with other pedestrians, scooters and trucks parked haphazardly along Tung Nin (Peaceful East) Road.

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Jumping every time a scooter beeped and swerved around me, I jostled my way down the street, excusing myself to no one in particular. Window-shopping along Peaceful East Road was treacherous.

By mid-morning I was sweaty from dodging traffic and the growing heat.

It was evident I wasn’t going to find a blind man wandering along Judong’s main roads. Turning down a side lane I was welcomed with shade cast by three- and four-storey dwellings. Pots of purple basil and red chillies were strewn here and there like a trail of bread crumbs.

Occasional bursts of pink bougainvillea erupted out of fertile cracks in the ground, creeping and arching toward upper-floor windows. Rotund water tanks guarded rooftops like sentries. A sleek pigeon navigated high-tension wires and laundry lines, flying directly into its metal coop.

I was on the lookout for the town’s elders. They always had time to talk. Through doors left ajar, I spotted whitehaired Ah-gongs and Ah-pos fanning themselves in front of blaring televisions. I left them to their shows and continued down the lane to the local temple.

Guarding the temple’s red- and gold-lacquered doors stood a chest-high brass urn, its polished belly filled with sand supporting countless sticks of red incense. The air was pungent with blue smoke. A tiny woman with a hump on her back was standing before the urn, whispering into a bouquet of incense she clutched with knobbly hands. I waited for her to finish her long prayers, fixated by tendrils of smoke curling up to the temple’s flared roof.

Finishing her devotions, the Ah-po stood on tiptoes to reach the top of the urn. I stepped forward and offered to help. My Mandarin was rusty.

“You don’t live here, do you?” she stated, handing me a few sticks of incense. I explained I lived in Vancouver.

She told me her grandson lived in Toronto and waved aside my attempt to explain Canadian geography. She was more interested in why I had returned to Judong.

“I’m looking for the blind fortune teller,” I said, jabbing the incense into the urn’s sand. “Do you know where I might find him?”

“What’s your surname?” she asked, as if I hadn’t spoken.

Her voice was raspy, reminding me of my own Ah-po, and I shuddered.

My paternal grandmother had a low growl that used to terrify me, along with her permanent frown and black-pencilled eyebrows. We had all lived together before my parents decided to move my family overseas. Ah-po had presided over the household, controlling what we ate, when we slept, where we played. She had rules not even my parents dared to trespass. As a little kid I maintained a safe distance from her, which wasn’t difficult since Ah-po didn’t play with the grandchildren. She merely counted them—the boys—like golden eggs in a basket. Ah-po rarely spoke to me and addressed me only by my birth order. When she wanted me, it was to point to her slippers outside her bedroom door and intone, in her voice, “Zui mui-eh, daigo loi.” Last one, fetch.

Stepping back from the brass urn, I told the old woman my surname. She cocked her head sideways to peer up at me. “You must be a granddaughter of our town’s founder.”

From my hesitant smile, she guessed I was and launched into stories about my illustrious grandfather.

I’d heard them all before, how Ah-gong had been the town’s first qualified doctor, curing innumerable patients; how he’d started a cement plant to employ the town’s men; how handsome and charismatic he’d been. I had difficulty reconciling his legend with my own memories of a balding man always looking for his black bag, nodding absently at my grandmother and hurrying out the door.

“Your grandfather’s cement built this very temple,” the old woman said.

I nodded politely, wondering how to steer the conversation back to the fortune teller.

“Your grandfather delivered every one of my sons,” she continued, softly rubbing her belly like she was still pregnant. “They’re all grown now, busy with their lives.” Her gaze was somewhere far away.

She continued in her gravelly voice, “Sons rarely visit old folks, not like daughters. I wish I had a daughter.”

“But your generation just wanted boys,” I blurted out. bcwriters.ca fall 2019 17

“Don’t interrupt your elder,” the old lady snapped, “especially when she’s paying you a compliment.” She lifted her chin. “What do you know about my generation? You know only what you assume.”

My cheeks grew hot. I tried not to think of my grandmother.

“The blind fortune teller,” she scoffed and turned toward the temple doors. Shuffling away, she muttered, “He should be dead by now.”

“Really?” I followed in alarm. “When was the last time you saw him?”

“Why do you want to find him?” The old woman turned around at the doorway. “He was a fake,” she hissed, “a liar and a thief.” Her face looked stricken, as if she’d just received terrible news. “Go then. Go look for his ghost in the street market.”

I watched as she carefully raised one leg over the temple’s high threshold followed by the other. I wanted to ask her what she’d meant by “liar and thief” but she had already disappeared inside.

I knew which street market the old woman meant. It was the original open-air market where everyone shopped before supermarkets became popular. I’d been there with my mother when I was little. It was where fishmongers yelled out the morning’s catch next to farmers flogging fragrant pears, sweet lychee nuts, and giant heads of mountain cabbage. I would flinch by the screaming butcher, holding my breath against the bloody smells coming off his wooden block, squeezing past the meat hooks that dangled dark, dripping organs.

By the time I reached the old market, the dark pavement seemed to pulsate with heat. I walked right by the market’s cave-like entrance and had to double back. Why did the old woman hate the soothsayer so much? Was he really dead?

Entering the market’s cavern, I squinted into the sudden gloom. Several stalls had already been emptied, and the fish monger was splashing buckets of pink, scaly slush into the gutter. Did he know of the blind fortune teller, I inquired.

He shook his head without looking up. I questioned each shopkeeper, but none had heard of him. I walked deeper into the market, each step less hopeful than the last.

Around a corner the lane tapered and stopped at a large shed with corrugated tin walls. I was at a dead end.

“Are you looking for something?” a voice croaked out.

Half-hidden by the shed, an ancient crone was patrolling a small stand covered in bright fabrics. “I have the best cloth in town.”

She nodded glumly when I said I didn’t sew. I asked about the blind soothsayer and her rheumy eyes brightened.

“That was a long time ago,” she said, “but people used to come from all over for his help with their dilemmas.”

She pointed at my feet. “He used to sit right there.”

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I stared at the pitted alley I was standing on. The old woman was still talking but I was no longer listening. I was imagining an old man sitting here, low to the ground, his eyes unfocused and half-closed, waiting.

Living with my grandparents had been especially hard on Mother. After delivering a golden firstborn—my brother— she subsequently gave birth to a girl followed by another and another. With every pregnancy, my Ah-po had said, her harsh voice directed at Mom’s belly, “Girls are like the dirty water you pour out of a bucket.”

It was the early seventies in Taiwan, and feminism was a faint rumour from the decadent west. Daughters were still considered liabilities, to be raised to marital age and then transferred to her husband’s family with an expensive dowry.

The fifth time Mother became pregnant, she’d come to this market alone. She’d walked briskly through the streets and entered the market, pushing past her favourite stalls, ignoring the beckoning sellers, not stopping until she’d arrived at the very spot I was standing now.

I pictured a young version of my mother approaching the seated fortune teller. She’d had to kneel beside him on the hard stone to be level with him. The seer had leaned forward with his hand to clasp Mother’s delicate wrist.

Statue-still and sightless, he let his fingers study her skin, feeling the fine bones and tissues within, finding the deep, insistent pulse.

The transaction hadn’t taken long. He’d held her wrist for only a minute before he pronounced, without hesitation: “Definitely a boy.” Relieved, my mother eagerly paid his considerable fee and rushed home to tell my grandmother: “There’s no need for an abortion.”

Had he meant to save my life or had it been dumb luck?

Did it matter anymore? The man with the answer was probably long dead, like my Ah-po and her hateful voice. And, here I was, unmistakably alive.

My heart raced, drumming fast, like a newborn’s.

Wiley Ho. Winner of the 2019 FBCW BC Short Contest Photo by Monique de St. Croix

We Were Hungry Joseph A. Dandurand our people came from the sky and they have been here ever since and some say there was ice that covered the land but our people came from the sky and began to take fish from the river and we lived in the ground for a while and then we began to build Longhouses that each family lived in and as the family grew bigger so did the longhouses and you could see them for miles on the shore by the great river and usually each village was right beside a deep hole in the river where the fish would gather to rest and our people from the sky took enough fish to feed their growing family. today we number just over 200 and we are quite young with only a handful of elders who do not speak our language and most do not know our traditional ways but we survive and we bring back our customs and we practise the old ways and we learn from our families from other parts of the river and we grow as a people as we are the survivors of those before us who came from the sky that day centuries ago.

our young look to us for answers as the world has changed and they are burdened with drugs and alcohol and abuse and all the great demons of history and how another people from some far away island came here one day and called us savages and tried to change us but we survived and our young will live on as our people have grown so much spiritually that any book that says different no longer matters as we do not kneel and we do not worship a man god from another people as the longhouses start their fires and winter is upon us and we look up to the sky and we raise our hands as if to say welcome home.

Joseph A. Dandurand Photograph courtesy of the Vancouver Public Library

bcwriters.ca fall 2019 19

Becoming a Resilient Writer Joshua Gillingham

L

et me begin with a confession: I spent seven years writing the first chapter of my first novel. Seven years.

In that opening scene my characters were trying to climb up over a mountain pass and in all that time they never made it over the top.

Then, two years ago, everything changed for me when I learned how to be a resilient writer. I’ve now finished my first novel, delved into the sequel, recorded an audiobook podcast, enjoyed collaborative work with other writers and podcasters, and started negotiating my first book deal with a Canadian publisher. So, if you are stuck on the side of the mountain right now, then let me assure you of this: you can get up to the top.

My first lesson was this: inspiration feels more like rowing and less like the weather. I used to sit around in my writing chair as if it was a sailboat. There I would wait for inspiration to fill my sails and whisk me away on the adventure that was my story. Gusts of inspiration came intermittently but with such infrequency that they carried me nowhere; even worse, they often blew me right back to where I started. But when I learned to row, to start tugging at those oars despite the blisters and the rain, I started to

make real progress. Then when a blessed gust of inspiration did come I was ready to take full advantage of it.

The second lesson I learned is going to sound strange, but I’ll share it anyway because this is what really changed the game for me: imagine there is a force that is actively and insidiously working against you finishing your book.

You don’t have to literally believe this (I do) but it will put you in the right mindset. The creative process, like actual birth, isn’t a pretty, passive act. You won’t want to Instagram the reality of it. It’s a gritty, greasy slog that will take everything you’ve got, and then some. So forget all the perfect pictures of laptops and lattes that other people post online and brace yourself for all-out war. My last piece of advice is for writers in the digital age: treat social media like sugar. It feels great to have your Facebook page liked, your Twitter announcement re-posted, or your podcast shared. However, nothing is going to crush you like a bad review or a rejected query letter if you’re relying on praise from strangers; it’s like trying to run a marathon on a stomach full of Halloween candy. Instead, ground yourself in your work, believe in its intrinsic value, and invest in a support network of analog friends (preferably writers) rather than banking all your hopes on one-shot viral success online.

Not everything that works for me will work for you. But I do think your story is worth telling and I don’t think you will finish it in a reasonable amount of time without becoming a resilient writer. So ignore the storm clouds on the horizon. Never mind that the breeze is blowing against you.

Chalk up those hands then grip the oars and get writing.

For more on writers and resiliency Joshua recommends The War of Art by Steven Pressfield.

Photograph by Catherine Zoleta.

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Never Give Up Loreena Lee

I

’ve just finished the illustrations for a client’s book, written for children. This one is about leopards. I’ve illustrated children’s books about dragons, tigers, snowmen, and invisible hats.

I’ve illustrated other books, too, but none so much fun as these. Could I do another?

Early in 2017 I had hit a wall with my novel right after Chapter 8, and shortly afterwards I was diagnosed with stage four terminal cancer.

Told I had about a year, I hastened to get my affairs in order.

The chemotherapy treatments took my legs and the nerves in my feet, but writers and artists can work from any chair, even a wheelchair. I finished my autobiography and realized what a full, eventful life I had. I began to give talks to various groups on the merits of recording life stories for the enjoyment of coming generations. I gathered all my short stories and collected my poetry, publishing them with the help of my writers’ group.

I could still critique and edit. But could I do one more illustrated book? Would I be able to finish the novel I’d started? The novel still wasn’t ready to let me in, so with my sense of humour clutched firmly in both hands I wrote a book of silly poetry, featuring spiders, studious foxes and

dusty dragons, to name a few. Not a writer for children, but I did my best. Most of the time I managed to keep my monster locked in the closet of my mind.

No one knows how much time they have; taking that time to do what one loves is what matters. Now, in the middle of 2019, I’ve passed my best-before date by quite a few months. With new procedures out there, why not try? I’m finally beginning to see a few words trickling out of a crack in the wall of the novel.

One thing about writers, our last breath can come out of the end of a pen. (Or a brush.)

No one knows how much time they have; taking that time to do what one loves is what matters.

Now, in the middle of 2019, I’ve passed my best-before date by quite a few months. With new procedures out there, why not try? I’m finally beginning to see a few words trickling out of a crack in the wall of the novel.

H 2Do

update my entry in the professional directory at www.bcwriters.ca

Photo by Sheila Urquhart

bcwriters.ca fall 2019 21

Renewal Lisa Rawn Maybe it was the barbecue next door the aroma a nesting signal me raking up winter’s dog leavings from greasy thawing ground heaving sandbags from the farm truck where they spent winter stuck frozen together beside the wheel wells. Maybe because my upper lip brushed my arm

Lisa Rawn Photo

by Dale Alfred Rawn

and it tasted like salty childhood and the lake ice is pulling stiff toes back to shore to rot in the slime and cattails, as I might dream of the dizziness of first cut hay or it might have been the goose who launched from the yard, dogs following with their barks. Yes, it must have been the honking, me hearing the honking the honking hearing me, that made me recall my mother, her pain, three years ago in spring— me wading into the sea the waves too, always speaking.

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Ghosting Jill M. Talbot

I

can’t find any cards that say thinking of you that don’t imply it’s a peachy holiday just to imagine your face.

I’ve managed to find some self-control over the years, otherwise I’d bring oven mitts to the dead poets event in the school gym tonight. You were such the stereotypical guy, like you should be used as a specimen for alien civilizations.

Labelled: Fragile.

I’m eating pumpkin seeds as the kids get ready. I don’t want to go but that’s part of being an adult, something the kids call adulting.

Creating awkward verbs is in. You couldn’t help it, you always just were something, not doing it.

from Queer Eye and was abandoned for a century. I turned the heater on and the TV. We were in Surrey, of all places. I threw my purse on the floor. You put it on a chair.

You did wear a skirt, you said, as I took off my jacket.

I just looked back.

I didn’t mean it like—you started mumbling. You had previously asked me to wear a skirt and heels, I had previously said I don’t take orders.

You were the one who said you wanted to be classy, you said.

I didn’t mean—I also mumbled—I was being facetious, I said.

Why do people say that? Why do people use that word? Facetious.

You asked if I wanted the lights on or off. I said off, obviously, that way we don’t have to see how gross it is.

I asked if you wanted the remote. You instead turned on some music. The TV people were eating pretentious cupcakes.

Why are you shaking? you asked.

I’m not.

You are.

I recorded your look in my mind when you were checking me out. I should want this, I thought.

You asked if I wanted to know a secret.

Of course, I said.

You were in prison for seven years then moved in with your PO, forcing her to get a new job. She lost her virginity to you—was waiting for the right guy.

I’m not the right guy, believe me, you said.

I wondered why you thought I needed this explained to me. You also asked me if I knew what the people outside were doing. Selling drugs? I asked, as if I were a child and this were an exam.

Why did you have to look so charming?

I had the key. 306.

The key looked like it was for a boat, it was that type of shithole.

The 6 was missing from the door.

Classy, you said.

We met online. The previous night was a Super Blood Wolf Moon. Two friends and I collected moon water, leaving a cup out and allowing it to do its magic. The other two had a joint, I had a ginger ale. The Super Blood Wolf Moon happens every seven years. It looked like an embryo, a thin red veil covering a smushed face.

I collapsed under the blood moon. I opened my eyes and looked up. Are you all right? she asked.

Oh my god! she said, thinking I was shaking my head no, but I was just getting her hair out of my face.

I’m great, I laughed.

That was before we met up.

I had the key. 306. The key looked like it was for a boat, it was that type of shithole. The 6 was missing from the door.

Classy, you said.

I debated giving the key to you. Eventually opened the door myself, at first trying the wrong hole. The room seemed unusually large. You had the drink, Sour Puss. Sour Pussy! I said in valley girl voice, you made a face both at me and at the drink, looking like you were downing mouthwash instead.

The two beds made me feel like Pleasantville got a visit

The moon was hit by a rock recently. You can see the damage, or crater, I suppose it’s called. bcwriters.ca fall 2019 23

Can you imagine if that happened on earth?

The moon is like an abused woman, changing shape but never moving, never breaking.

My son is pretending his action figures are astronauts.

He even likes ​Star Wars.​Can you see yourself playing with Lego again?

But you were no astronaut. You enjoyed your own lives so much you never questioned them, you acted like being questioned proved what a great liar you were!

Better than a liar is a magician.

In the store where we bought energy drinks there were posters warning of violent men, including a sign which read,​ New guy in town killing and rapeing woman!​and the usual shoplifters. Trump was president, and yet you acted as if women all believed all handsome men were prince charming, that we could never be afraid for our safety.

I was merely an extra in your story.

I guess I’ll never hear from you again, you said, pleased with how you saw yourself as completely in control of the narrative, going on and on about your guilt about your girl.

You saw her as so good it was as if she wasn’t even a person.

She was a vase for you to fill and empty.

By the way your coffee was terrible, you added, as if I was responsible for the café.

styled. When I had it in my hands I wanted to rip some out and take it home. You’re hot, I said, trying to do what one does.

Believe me, you are too, you said.

I doubted that.

I felt like you were teaching me how to figure skate. I never was good at staying in the moment, in the heat. If you can’t stand the heat, get into the bed, is probably something you’d say. And I’d smile.

We all do.

You wanted to watch Netflix. Now Netflix is owned by the NSA. But you know what secrets they can’t steal?

Magic.

You know what else happens every seven years?

Yeah me neither.

There was a dance-off on the Sky Train on my way home where I cried. Two groups of young men​—​those in drag and those yelling, no homo! I would’ve recorded it if my phone hadn’t been dead. A specimen of the culture wars. He rubbed himself as he swayed his hips, terrifying the other group of young men into surrender. At first I thought the one in a silver dress and make-up was my ex, but he wasn’t that outgoing.

And then I wondered which side you’d be on.

Pumpkins were already starting to decompose. My skirt made me feel stupidly vulnerable. It took me a week to get rid of the smell of your cologne. I regretted not wearing any perfume. I regretted not bringing any moon water.

At the time I thought I had surrendered, now I think otherwise.

You’re not the only person who lied.

Recognize those eyes?

I told him a fairy tale.

Happily ever after, never-ending, or something like it.

With locks of perfect hair and a clock always set two minutes to midnight.

We all lived through at least one Super Blood Wolf Moon whether or not we knew it, and probably a few Halloweens.

Probably a few bastards.

Now I’m in menopause. A poor name. Today I heard it never ends. We bleed for half our lives and then menopause happens until monodeath.

My son is learning the moon walk. There are things I won’t tell him about Michael Jackson.

There are always these things we can’t talk about. We all make you think we’re waiting. We all do.

Women.

We all lived through at least one Super Blood Wolf Moon whether or not we knew it, and probably a few Halloweens. Probably a few bastards.

I remember your slick hair most of all, curly. Perfectly

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sell my book at the FBCW online Book Market bcwriters.ca

24 fall 2019 bcwriters.ca

“Ghosting” won First Honourable Mention in the 2019 FBCW BC Short Contest.

The Pie greg blee

J

aker and Nance grooving to a cranked-up Anarknk track, singalong dancing in the restaurant kitchen, alone in the post-lunch lull.

Jaker working on “the weapon,” adding salt to the heavy cream in the mixing bowl, adds more, unscrews the lid and dumps the whole shaker in.

Go manbaby go! Nance sings, pulling the plastic wrap off a jumbo aluminum foil pie pan.

Jaker beats in time with the guitar riff, relishing the revenge for the prank Lälo pulled Saturday night—vinegar injected into random wine bottles, the staff apologizing all night to the diners. Good one!

Wait-wait, vital ingredient! Jaker unzips, takes out his cock, pisses a little into the bowl. Nance cracks up as he stirs it in with a chefly flourish. Careful, she cries, you’ll curdle the cream!

Whip manbaby whip! Jaker chants, whisk going like a ceiling fan. Dumps in more cream, whisks again, mocktastes it with a middle finger, shoves the bowl into the restaurant freezer. Twenty minutes and we’re good to go.…

They work at Over The Edge, quirky fine dining establishment, Jaker a sous-chef kitchen rat, Nance serving.

OTE is the place they met, also the best place they’d ever worked—co-op owned by the staff, no ball-breaking owner/manager like so many other choc cuisine joints. Plus, pranks were a thing at OTE—practical jokes, staff versus staff, sometimes with the regulars too … but especially the good-natured, escalating battle of wits with Lälo, head chef at the hotel restaurant across the road. Epic!

But Nance and Jaker’s Australian live/work visas had finally come through, so it’s Sayonara baby, we’re Dewn Undah, see yuh agin in a ye-uh. One day to go, last chance

to get one over on Lälo, a big event at the hotel this very afternoon.

As the bowl cools in the fridge they pull on clean sets of work clothes—chef whites, crisp server blues, professional-looking food uniforms being a free pass into pretty much anywhere. Tuck hair under caps, check the mirror, check each other. Together they spoon the chilled mix into the pan to create an immensely thick and sticky cream pie.

Jaker eases the weapon into a cake box, Nance grabs an empty tray for a prop, and they cross the road to the hotel.

Showtime! says Jaker, turning for the kitchen entrance.

Lälo is totally going to shit himself! says Nance, going in the front door for the main ballroom.

The geeky guy on stage is winding down his intro. The event’s a Press Release thing, that much Nance knows— some local tech company making a big announcement, teasers in the media for weeks, inescapable. Bigger than she’d thought, the ballroom bustling with energy, business suits, media, cameras.

Giggling to herself, Nance picks a spot at the back of the room, puts down the tray, pulls out her phone, hooks to the hotel wifi. Focus on the speaker, company logo and name prominent on the screen behind: “Valence Intellect unLimited.” Its PACKED, she texts to Jaker, who would be a raw jangling nerve by now.

Bail? he texts back.

She spots Lälo shifting foot-to-foot by the far wall, overseeing the whole production. No way, this is a fuckin coup!

Nance starts the live-stream, almost looking like a journalist herself. She set it up a couple days ago, the channel already with nearly a hundred viewers. “Holy shit,” one posts, “it’s the Valence AI reveal—very exclusive!”

The guy’s speech concludes and the room energizes as he introduces the next speaker, Maureen somebody, VP of Tech. A firecracker, she strides on to applause as the huge screen behind the stage bursts to life.

Super-fancy animated graphics, welling soundtrack, along with “Valence Sheelok”—the thing’s name, the app they’re launching. VP lady gets right into it with the bcwriters.ca fall 2019 25

Artificial Intelligence jargon—transparent inference, relational reasoning … buzzwords Nance doesn’t get, but the audience clearly does.

The VP holds her arms aloft: “But enough from me, now let’s hear from Sheelok herself!” Onscreen behind her a huge female face materializes, blue-skinned but smoothly realistic. The crowd, as they say, goes wild.

A prominent camera mounted above the screen scans the room while the applause dies down. Then the screenface says, voice only slightly robotic, “Hello folks, I am Sheelok Fones, your friendly neighbourhood AI detective from Valence Intellect. I see we’ve got 138 of you here in the room today—but only twenty-nine women, not including me. That’s just a 21/79 percent gender split, people—could use some improvement! But hello to you all, and thanks for coming!”

Laughter and applause, everybody impressed, as Nance pans the crowd.

“Let’s extend a welcome to TechTalk TV,” Sheelok continues. “Good to see you here, Alan Similken. Looks like you’re wearing a new pair of shoes.” Yes I am! a man beside a TV camera shouts, to more buzz.

“Absolutely none of that is programmed in,” the VP says. “Sheelok is gathering that info on her own in real time, using bleeding-edge visual processing, natural language and logical inference engines, all thanks to Valence Intellect’s proprietary breakthrough in extended neural networks.

“This is the vast power of cloud super-computing, soon to be coming direct to our subscribers’ smartphones.

Anybody have a question for Sheelok?”

A tall, middle-aged woman in a jacket jumps to her feet.

“Okay, I’ll bite. A lady never tells her age,” she says, “but what’s your guess, Sheelok?”

Sheelok’s camera-eye points and zooms. She thinks— computes—for a second and says, “My guess, based on a general aging algorithm for Caucasian women, would be that you are in your late thirties. However, a 97 percent match in my facial recognition database tells me you are Justeen Darby, and cross-referencing my data cache tells me you’re a venture capital scout with Pre Media and are forty-seven years, seven months and two days old. Looks like the spin class is working, Justeen. And the new hairstyle looks great!”

Holy fuck, this thing is good, Nance mutters to herself, starting to imagine the havoc she could wreak with it. Scary good.

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Sheelok and the VP trade quips with the audience, Sheelok deducing all manner of things, correct more often than not. Nance is starting to worry about Jaker, king of second thoughts, winding himself into a nervous frenzy back in the kitchen, cream pie slowly melting in the box.

When’s he coming out? Well, I’m busy, he’s on his own.

A reporter breaks in with a question: “Hey Sheelok, what about the ethics of dumping disruptive technology onto society without thinking through the consequences?”

Damn good point, Nance thinks.

Sheelok cracks an indulgent smile and opens her mouth, but the VP steps smoothly to centre stage to respond, when Nance sees Jaker punch out through the double doors at the side of the room. He looks sharp and professional, the pie held high on the fingers of one hand.

Nance watches through the screen of her phone, streaming to six hundred now, the number ticking up fast. She zooms on Jaker, stopped dead, doors still swinging behind him, taking in the crowded room. Nobody has noticed him, kitchen staff being effectively invisible, another advantage of the uniform. Jaker’s head scans the stage from VP to screenface, figuring out what’s up, who’s the target.

The VP cracks an ethics joke, the room breaks into laughter. Jaker’s galvanized.

Pulling himself to full height, he marches along the front between audience and stage. Trips on a thick power cable, juggles the pie, recovers. The VP notices him coming, brushes him away as idiot catering staff. Jaker stops in front of the stage, the VP sees the pie and stops talking. A silent gasp seizes the room as people grok what’s about to happen.

Nance zooms in full.

With the practised smoothness of the experienced food handler, Jaker launches the pie at her face. But the VP is super agile, ducks, the pie overshoots and squooshes into the screen on Sheelok’s right eye, stuck fast. Sheelok’s

How Poets Dream Jesse Holth mouth drops open, processing what’s happening, pies-inthe-face maybe not part of her training dataset.

There’s a beat of silence, just frantic camera-whirr, then the room goes berserk with shouting and camera flash.

In a corner of the screen, a double-bed-sized blow-up of Jaker’s driver’s licence appears.

Sheelok raises her voice to cut through the buzz: “Hello, Jacob Shaimer,” she says, the pie oozing down her face in a slug-trail of moist white cream. “Please be careful, you have dropped your dessert.”

Already halfway to the kitchen doors, Jaker hears his name, gapes back at the screen in horror, trips backward over the same cable, catches himself, and flees. The VP is frozen on stage, staring at the screen and her prize AI still talking, unheard, as the pie peels off and plops to the stage.

Nance, now well over a thousand viewers, catches it all—the pie, the oh-shit look on the VP’s face, Jaker’s exit, the audience’s stunned silence, the outburst of laughter and outrage—and shuts it down, mission accomplished. It’ll be shared to the moon in an hour. Jaker out through the swinging doors, nobody in pursuit yet. Winging it, Nance grabs a bottle of designer water off the back table, gives it a shake and thumb-sprays the room, adding to the chaos as she backs out the door. Last thing she sees is Lälo, scrambling for the stage with a towel. In the lobby she puts on her professional look, walks calmly out the front door to meet Jaker in the parking lot.

You see that? Jaker raves as they hotfoot it back across the road to OTE. That thing fucking knew me!

It takes Nance half an hour to calm him down and get them back to her mom’s place, where they’ll lay low till they catch the plane tomorrow.

But she remembers to leave a note on the counter: Tell Lälo we say hi!

greg blee Photo by Leah Hokanson

like searching water for land / desperate, reckless, quick / swift eyes / the mind, casting around, what is it / in the rough / vaguely wordlike / below / what you seek is seeking you / like a drop in the ocean / this whole ocean / a drop, a word to distill / sleep, turning about your body / tossing lines, fishing for something holy / until / it rises up, passing nets / through waves, hauling your catch out of the deep / breathing, wet / glistening / pulled free / from the weeds, that monstrous dark / now, full formed / this poem is a thing you can hold

Jesse Holth photo

by Zachary Kastrukoff

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Contributors JOANNE ARNOTT is a Métis/mixed-blood author and editor, currently Poetry Mentor for SFU’s The Writers Studio, and Poetry Editor for EVENT magazine. Joanne received the Gerald Lampert Award (1992), and the Vancouver Mayor’s Arts Award for Literary Arts (2017). Recent books are a poetry chapbook, Pensive & Beyond (Nomados, 2019) and a co-edited collection, Honouring the Strength of Indian Women: Plays, Stories, Poetry with Vera Manuel (University of Manitoba Press, 2019).

GREG BLEE is a writer, ex-engineer, and adventurer. His published work includes magazine articles, essays, short stories, chapbooks and online pieces. He blogs, and nurtures interest in improv, songwriting and slam poetry. He has lived in Tofino for a decade, but recently relocated to Gabriola Island, where he’s diving back into the serious writing of unserious pieces. He is working on a collection of stories about the decline of the modern world.

VIRGINIA BOUDREAU is a retired teacher living on the coast of Nova Scotia. Her poetry and prose have appeared in a wide variety of international literary journals and anthologies, most recently TNQ, and Palette Poetry. More work is upcoming in Grain Magazine, Cricket (children’s magazine) and The New York Times (Solvers Column).

WARREN CARIOU is the Canada Research Chair in Narrative, Community, and Indigenous Cultures; Director, Centre for Creative Writing and Oral Culture; and Professor, Department of English, Film, and Theatre, University of Manitoba.

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JULIE CHADWICK is the author of the critically acclaimed non-fiction book The Man Who Carried Cash, which explores the explosive relationship between Johnny Cash and his Canadian manager, Saul Holiff. She is also an award-winning reporter and editor formerly with her hometown paper the Nanaimo Daily News and has had her articles appear in the National Post, Vancouver Sun, and Victoria Times Colonist.

JOSEPH A. DANDURAND is a member of Kwantlen First Nation and Director of the Kwantlen Cultural Centre. He has published thirteen books of poetry and the latest are: I Want (Leaf Press, 2015), Hear and Foretell (BookLand Press, 2015), The Rumour (BookLand Press, 2018), SH:LAM (the doctor) (Mawenzi Press, 2019), The Corrupted (Guernica Press, 2020), and his children’s play: Th’owixiya: the hungry Feast dish by Playwrights Press Canada (2019).

CHERIE DIMALINE is the author of the books Red Rooms, The Girl Who Grew a Galaxy, A Gentle Habit and The Marrow Thieves. In 2017, she won the Governor General’s Literary Award for young people’s literature, text, and Kirkus Prize for young readers’ literature for The Marrow Thieves.

RANDY FRED, a member of the Tseshaht First Nation in Port Alberni, has spent most of his working career in communications. He founded Theytus Books Ltd. and Tillacum Library as well as a couple newspapers and a magazine. He has produced a variety of video shows.

JOSHUA GILLINGHAM is a writer and northern fantasy novelist from Nanaimo, BC. His debut novel, The Gatewatch, will be published by Crowsnest Books (Toronto) this upcoming fall. Find more of his work at www.joshuagillingham.ca.

WAWMEESH HAMILTON is a reporter at Discourse Media.

He has won three BC Community Newspaper Association awards, three Canadian Community Newspaper Association awards, and, along with colleague Peter Mothe, a 2015 Canadian Online Publishing Award. His work has been published with CBC, The Canadian Press, The Globe and Mail, Metro and The Tyee. Wawmeesh graduated with an MA from the UBC Graduate School of Journalism in 2016. He is a member of the Hupacasath First Nation in Port Alberni, BC WILEY HO was born in Taiwan and moved to Canada when she was 8. She travels regularly to Taiwan to visit her roots.

She identifies herself as Generation 1.5, inhabiting that curious place between the here and there-ness of two countries. Wiley works as a technical writer and blogger. She is the current Newsletter Editor for the North Shore Writers’ Association and is working on a collection of short stories.

JESSE HOLTH is a writer, editor and poet based in Victoria, BC. Her work has appeared in over a dozen international publications, including Grain Magazine, Sheila-Na-Gig online, Eastern Iowa Review, and others. She received Honourable Mention for the 2018 Christine Prose Poetry Award, and serves as Assistant Poetry Editor at The Tishman Review.

LOREENA M. LEE has taught visual arts for thirty-five years.

Her paintings hang in collections in North America and Europe. She has written textbooks and biographies and made instructional videos. Her essays and short stories have been published in several venues. She also illustrates for children’s books and other genres. She has three published novels and an illustrated cookbook. She lives in Abbotsford, BC. LISA RAWN is the author of poetry chapbooks Between Ocean and Land (above/ground press), and Ahead of Winter (Alfred Gustav Press). She has poems in Room, subTerrain, SPRING, The Prairie Journal and Words. She won first prize in Vancouver’s 2015 Pandora’s Collective poetry contest, and was nominated for a 2016 Pushcart.

JILL M. TALBOT’S writing has appeared in CV2, The Fiddlehead, Geist, Rattle, PRISM, The Stinging Fly, and others. Jill won the PRISM Grouse Grind Lit Prize. She was shortlisted for the Matrix Lit POP Award and the Malahat Far Horizons Award. Jill lives in Vancouver, BC. ANN GRAHAM WALKER has been published in several poetry anthologies, including Rocksalt: an Anthology of Contemporary BC Poetry (Mother Tongue, 2008), and Poems from Planet Earth (Leaf Press, 2013), and in numerous chapbooks edited

by Patrick Lane, and in a number of literary journals. Her chapbook The Puzzle at the End of Love (Leaf Press, 2012) is out of print right now, but she is working at getting a new version published on Amazon. She has been a finalist in the PRISM international Poetry Prize and the Malahat Open Season award.

DOUG WHITE, BA, JD, was the elected Chief of the Snuneymuxw First Nation from December 2009 to February 2014 where a major focus of his work was on the implementation of the Snuneymuxw Treaty of 1854. He is currently the Director of the Centre for Pre-Confederation Treaties and Reconciliation at Vancouver Island University and practises as a lawyer and negotiator across the country for First Nations governments. He is also legal counsel for First Nations across the country.

GREGORY YOUNGING was a member of Opaskwayak Cree Nation in northern Manitoba. He had an MA from the Institute of Canadian Studies at Carleton University, an MPub from the Canadian Centre for Studies in Writing and Publishing at Simon Fraser University, and a PhD in educational studies from the University of British Columbia. From 1990 to 2004, he was managing editor of Theytus Books, and was its publisher from 2016 to 2019. Gregory had worked with both the Assembly of First Nations and the Royal Commission on Aboriginal Peoples, and was a member of the Canada Council Aboriginal Peoples Committee on the Arts from June 1997 to June 2001, and the British Columbia Arts Council from July 1999 to July 2001. He was assistant director of research for the Truth and Reconciliation Commission of Canada. He was on the faculty of the Indigenous Editors Circle at Humber College, Toronto, until 2017, and Indigenous Studies at the University of British Columbia, Okanagan, when he passed away in 2019.

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Launched!

New titles by FBCW members A Blooming Jude Neale | Ekstasis Editions, 2019 | ISBN: 9781771713184 | $23.95 A Blooming, by Jude Neale, is a collection of poems that capture the intricacies and intimacies of relationships. It speaks of birth and dying with the same awe. Jude takes the simple mundanity of life and turns it into a vibrant tapestry. Her words of love shimmer and lend surprise and comfort to the reader. She uses metaphor to create strange and wonderful poems that delve into the human heart, without sentimentality or excess. Humanity and connection weave together against the powerful juxtaposition of frailty and strength. A Blooming delights the senses and provides sustenance to the weary soul.

The Banker’s Box

B.R. Bentley | FriesenPress, 2019 | pb 9781525548604 hc 9781525548598 e-book 9781525548611 Take a flamboyant banker, a rakish CSIS Intelligence Officer, and an ambitious British Columbia premier. Add a dash of Chinese money laundering, a gangland contract, a sudden disappearance, and the dynamic global LNG shipping industry—and what do you have? These are some of the ingredients in B.R. Bentley’s latest novel, The Banker’s Box. The book’s multifaceted plot, with threads stretching from North America to Asia, will appeal to local and international readers alike.

Set in the worlds of high finance, politics and crime, The Banker’s Box provides a fascinating view into the crumbling foundations that frequently support power’s elegant façade.

Footsteps to Freedom—Tales of Therapy in Rural India

Hilary Crowley | TouchWood Editions, 2017 | ISBN: 1771512431W | $25.00 This book transports the reader into rural India during the height of the polio epidemic. It explores how a volunteer physiotherapist from the British Columbia interior turns adversity into advantage when she conquers her fears of the unknown and leaves home to immerse herself in work with the differently abled in rural South India, leading to life-changing experiences. Hilary Crowley is a physiotherapist living in Summit Lake, north of Prince George, BC. She took a leave of absence from the Prince George Hospital in 1994 to help train a team of local disability workers in rural South India. For more information and to purchase: www.samuha.ca hcrowley@mag-net.com.

The Haunting of Vancouver Island

Shanon Sinn | TouchWood Editions, 2017 | ISBN: 1771512431 Vancouver Island is known worldwide for its arresting natural beauty, but those who live here know that it is also imbued with a palpable supernatural energy. Researcher Shanon Sinn found his curiosity piqued by stories of mysterious sightings on the island—ghosts, sasquatches, and sea serpents—but he was disappointed in the sensational and sometimes disrespectful way they were being retold or revised. Acting on his desire to transform these stories from unsubstantiated gossip to thoroughly researched accounts, Sinn uncovered fascinating details, identified historical inconsistencies, and now retells these encounters as accurately as possible.

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Trial by Winter

Anne Patton | Couteau, 2018 | ISBN: 781550509786 pb 9781550509809 EPUB On an isolated homestead in 1903, Dorothy Bolton and her family face their first prairie winter.

Living in a poorly built sod house, they are unprepared both physically and mentally for the challenges of surviving the long months of brutal cold. To add to their miseries, they are out of money and the men must leave in search of paying work. Dorothy’s mother falls into melancholia, and it is up to the ten-year-old to keep hope alive while blizzards rage around their tiny home. The family finds a bright future on the Canadian prairies but not where they expected it to lie. Middle-grade fiction based on actual people and events, Trial By Winter is the conclusion to a trilogy.

The Irish Affair Linda Christian Diver | 2018 | ISBN: 9781525526749 Linda Christian Diver’s short stories and poetry have been published in several anthologies including The Paragon Collection and Ascent Aspirations Magazine. Her historical fiction novel, The Irish Affair, is set in Ireland during WW2. Escaping the wartime blitz to run a hotel in rural Ireland, Scotswoman Helen McKellan must navigate through shifting currents of adultery, black-marketeering, an absent, philandering husband who works for MI5, and a feckless brother-in-law caught in the web of a vicious Belfast hardman. When temptation and ambition pair with distance and deceit, both the innocent and guilty are driven to acts they never thought possible. The book is available through http://www.lindachristiandiver.com.

Being Joy

Gloria Stewart | Friesen, 2018 | hc 9781525534850 pb 9781525534867 eBook 9781525534874 Being Joy is a comprehensive 40-day program for anyone who may be feeling that something is missing in their lives. Perhaps they don’t feel the same passion for what they do anymore or for who they are. Or they may feel overwhelmed with worry and short on inspiration. By taking a few minutes each day to embody each chapter’s unique theme and activity, the reader can begin to develop a more optimistic outlook on life while building a solid joyful living habit. As they increase self-awareness they can move towards a greater expression of joyfulness thereby elevating their vibrational frequency and attracting more positive events, people, and opportunities into their lives. And that is truly joyful living! www.beingjoy.ca.

River Tales

Liz Maxwell Forbes | Osborne Bay Books, 2019 | 9780994906533 | 68 photos | 320 pp | $24.95 Swept up in the back-to-the-land movement of the 1970s, two couples buy a rural property and set in motion what would be twenty years of adventure and misadventure along the Cowichan River. River Tales is one woman’s personal stories from that special time and place. Available in select bookstores on Vancouver Island, Amazon Kindle and from Osborne Bay Books www. osbornebaybooks.com.

The Group of Seven Reimagined: Contemporary Stories Inspired by Historic Canadian Paintings

Karen Schauber, editor | Heritage House, 2019 | ISBN: 9781772032888 | 112 pp | $24.95 In celebration of the one-hundred-year anniversary of The Group of Seven—2020 Showcasing twenty-one stunning landscape paintings in lush full colour and the marvellous short fictions they inspired. Featuring contributors from across Canada, UK, US, AU.

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Salt and Ashes

Adrienne Drobnies | Signature Editions, 2018 | ISBN: 9781773240480 | 96 pp | $17.95 Out of dried tears and burnt matter comes fertile ground, new nourishment. A woman traveller walks up and down a mountain and through a quarter of Grenoble over the course of many months, experiencing anticipatory grief and bereavement over the loss of a spouse. With little to anchor her, poems begin to seek her out—poems that transform the vocabulary of science, its language and concepts, into texts that encounter the natural world with intensity and clarity.

Crafted from the language of dreams, mythologies, and inventions, and laced with subtle humour and irony, these texts return us to the place of origin seen anew. They remind us that, beyond pain and grief, the only peace we have is the one we construct for ourselves.

Evacuee

John Napier-Hemy | Rutherford Press, 2019 | 9781988739342 | 285 pp | b&w photos | $23.99 A child’s innocent view of his time in Victoria during WW2. John lived with his parents in Admiral’s House with Uncle Roy, who was Commodore of the Pacific Fleet. John’s parents had their own battles, both between themselves and with other relatives. This is a sweet story with young John arguing with his cousin over the value of a Hollywood movie made in Bamberton, up-island from Victoria. The movie was called The Commandos Strike at Dawn. There was Aunt Madge, who was the provincial assistant archivist. She amazed John in the way she rode her bicycle to work every day staying precisely in the centre of her lane.

Anxiety: Debug It Don’t Drug It

Dr. Michael Catchpole | Rutherford Press, 2019 | ISBN: 9781988739366 | 208 pp | $36.40 Michael has practised for forty years as a consulting psychologist and is a professor at North Island College. He finally had enough of the misinformation that has been promulgated by big pharma and their salespeople regarding treatment of anxiety-related disorders. The established, proven, best outcomes for treatment have not been drugs, but cognitive behavioural therapy—CBT. The medical fraternity have been slow to understand this, and, as a consequence, thousands of people have been subjected to the highly addictive and ineffective drugs that have needlessly killed and maimed the minds of so many in recent years. This book is a layperson’s explanation of anxietyrelation disorders, their treatment and what a person can actually do about it.

In a Cloud of Sails

George Opacic and Ron M. Craig | Rutherford, 2018 | ISBN: 9780995174375 | 212 pp | $34.37 A ship was built in North Vancouver in 1968. She was a wooden three-masted barque which was to carry her often-feuding crew into adventures: down to California then onto the wide Pacific to see Marlon Brando in Tahiti, assisting NASA on the way with Apollo 13, then finally arriving after a hard and dangerous journey to Australia. There, the Endeavour II became the feature ship in Australia’s Bicentenary Celebrations in 1970, displayed before the Queen and world dignitaries.

All the way, the ship’s changing crew had one thing in common: they found ways to disagree with each other. It was to be the ship’s undoing. Numerous colour photos throughout.

Margot: Love in the Golden Years

Ben Nuttall-Smith | Rutherford Press, 2019 | ISBN: 9781988739397 | 102 pp | $27.90 This is Ben’s adoring remembrance of Margot Thomson, poet, painter, world-renowned glass painter, psychologist and lover of her “housey” and its delightful gardens. Margot’s sharp wit was turned to those who messed with her community in Crescent Beach, including the interminable coal trains that honked their way past her housey and left tons of coal dust en route.

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My time at the Calgary Distinguished Writers Program was extremely fruitful. Not only did the residency provide luxurious time to advance several poetry and translation projects, but it also served as a catalyst for expanding my art practice into sound and performance. I was able to engage and develop projects with various art communities, for which I remain very grateful. — Oana Avasilichioaei

2010-2011 Canadian Writer-in-Residence 2017 Governor General’s Literary Award winner

Are you our next writer-in-residence?

Apply by January 15, 2020.

ucalgary.ca/cdwp

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