Summer WordWorks 2016- History by WordWorks Magazine

BRITISH COLUMBIAâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;S MAGAZINE FOR WRITERS

SUMMER 2016 $6.95

FEDERATION BC WRITERS

Ted Hughes: What poetry told us to do FBCW Annual General Meeting on the Sunshine Coast

A New Spin on The Elder Project

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– Stories & Poems about Life in BC’s Interior

ISBN: 978-0993700415 225 pages, trade paperback: $14.95

ISBN: 978-0993700439 308 pages, trade paperback: $18.95 Short fiction, memoirs, and poetry, depicting experiences in BC’s Interior. 51 contributors; drawings and colour photos. Proceeds to Doctors Without Borders Canada.

Childhood Regained

Concrete advice for engaging readers through techniques such as deep point of view, showing instead of telling, avoiding author intrusions, and creating authentic dialogue.

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– Stories of Hope for Asian Child Workers

ISBN: 978-0993700408 191 pages, trade Paperback: $14.95

ISBN: 978-0993700446 274 pages, trade Paperback: $18.95 21 well-researched stories by writers around the world, about Asian child labourers; with study questions & resources. Age 12 & up. Proceeds to SOS Children’s Villages Canada. Ingram, Amazon, Indigo online, Red Tuque Books, Cobalt Books. www.CobaltBooks.net; info@CobaltBooks.net

Tips with examples to help you hone your style, bring your scenes to life, tighten your writing, pick up the pace, and develop a more authentic voice.

Also by Jodie Renner: Writing a Killer Thriller and Quick Clicks reference guides. Organizer & editor of two anthologies for charity. All available in bookstores & through Amazon.

CONTENTS

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Ben Nuttal-Smith

The Federation of BC Writers: 40 Years of Service

Priscilla Dunning & Beth Skala

Let's Get Together!

Elinor Florence

How I Crafted my Historical Novel

Bren Simmers

Third Annual Vancouver Poetry Crawl

Winners of Literary Writes, 2015

Chelsea Comeau

An Interview with Marlene Grand-Maître

Antony Stevens

A Community of Writers: The Federation of BC Writers Annual General Meeting

Caitlin Hicks

What Poetry Told Us To Do

Caitlin Hicks

So This is Ted Hughes

Wendy Morton

The Elder Project

Ann Graham Walker

A New Spin on the Elder Project

Andrea McKenzie Raine

The Story We Leave Behind

WORDWORKS IS PROVIDED FREE, QUARTERLY, TO MEMBERS OF THE FEDERATION OF BC WRITERS AND IS AVAILABLE ON OUR WEB PAGE, AND IN SELECT BRITISH COLUMBIA PUBLIC LIBRARIES. TO JOIN THE FBCW, GO TO BCWRITERS.CA

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Page 1 ◆ WordWorks ◆ Summer 2016

FROM THE EDITOR T

his Summer marks a full year that I’ve been the editor of WordWorks Magazine. Four issues, four seasons, and more growth than I thought possible. Our editorial team has blossomed, we’ve welcomed a new Business Manager (Thomas Baxter) to the team, we have so much support from our many advertisers and partners, and we’ve seen hundreds of new readers join the Federation of BC Writers (FBCW), our parent organization. WordWorks is gaining momentum, and being a piece of its history is a pleasure. This issue we're looking at History. History takes us back to our beginnings, and encourages us to make note of our growth. You'll find articles on the craft of writing historical fiction, the history of our organization, and how to leave a legacy with other generations. History is made every moment, and in that spirit we’re marking the winners of our recent Literary Writes contest. Finally, I want to remind you that WordWorks is an opportunity for FBCW members to be a community. Share your knowledge and skills with your peers, and express your worries and doubts. Whether you have a question for the letters section, an article you’d like to write, or an idea for one you’d like to read, by contributing you are assisting your fellow FBCW writers, and making WordWorks a piece of literary history in British Columbia.

Shaleeta Harper

Publication of The Federation of British Columbia Writers 2014 Bowen Rd, Nanaimo, BC, V9S 1H4 bcwriters.ca

Editor

Shaleeta Harper communications@bcwriters.ca

Editorial Board bcwriters.ca/WordWorks/editorialboard

Cover Artist Chris Hancock Donaldson

www.chrishancockdonaldson.com © The Federation of British Co-

Content of WordWorks Magazine is, with very occasional exceptions, provided by members of the Federation of BC writers. If you would like to submit something, or if you have a story idea you would like to see included in WordWorks, please visit bcwriters.ca/WordWorks/submit

Advertising

WordWorks is pleased to advertise services and products that are of genuine interest to writers. Space may also be provided to honour sponsors, whose generous contributions make it possible for the Federation of BC Writers to provide services to writers in BC. For information about advertising policies and rates, see bcwriters.ca/WordWorks/ advertisers

Content

Editorial decisions are guided by the mandate of WordWorks as "BC’s Magazine for Writers", and its role as the official publication of the Federation of BC Writers. WordWorks will showcase the writing and poetry of FBCW members'; provide news and feature coverage of writing and writers in BC with an emphasis on writing techniques and the business of writing; carry news about the Federation of BC Writers, and its work supporting and advocating for writers.

Summer 2016 ◆ WordWorks ◆ Page 2

CONTRIBUTORS Elinor Florence

Antony Stevens

Elinor is making further use of her wartime research by writing a regular blog called Wartime Wednesdays, telling true stories of Canadians at war. She is currently compiling her best interviews into a self-published book titled My Favourite Veterans. You can read more about her writing projects and subscribe to her Wartime Wednesdays blog here: www.elinorflorence.com.

Antony Stevens is studying Creative Writing and Journalism at Vancouver Island University, and is editor for the Navigator Newspaper, text literary magazine, and online games press Clip Through. Antony is a proponent of performance poetry, and he holds his breath when he writes.

Andrea McKenzie Raine

Priscilla Dunning is a poetry and fiction writer and co-founder of the writing group, Pens Ultimate Nanaimo. She is published in several anthologies and is a contributor to a resource publication for Alzheimer’s caregivers. She is currently writing a novel inspired by her work as a family therapist.

Andrea McKenzie Raine resides in Victoria, with her husband and two sons. She earned a B.A. in English Literature at the University of Victoria, and is the author of a poetry book titled A Mother’s String and two novels titled Turnstiles, and A Crowded Heart.

Caitlin Hicks

Caitlin Hicks is an author, international playwright, and acclaimed performer in British Columbia. Her debut novel A Theory Of Expanded Love (2015) was an iBooks Best New Fiction pick on a list with Judy Blume, Toni Morrison, Sara Blume, and was featured on two Best of 2015 Must-Read lists, with many 4 & 5 star reviews on Amazon and Goodreads. www.caitlinhicks.com

Beth Skala

Beth Skala is an award-winning poet whose work has appeared in numerous anthologies. She is a founding member of the writing group, Pens Ultimate Nanaimo. Currently she is working on a book based on her experiences as a Feng Shui consultant.

Chris Hancock Donaldson

Chris Hancock Donaldson is inspired by music, the outdoors, films and photography. Her photos have been used in magazines and on book covers. A writer also, she loves Adrienne Rich and Sharon Olds and, to quote Hemingway, strives to write hard and clear about what hurts. You can see her photos at www.chrishancockdonaldson.com or @dangerdoe on Instagram.

Priscilla Dunning

Bren Simmers

Bren Simmers is the author of two books of poetry, Hastings-Sunrise (Nightwood, 2015) and Night Gears (Wolsak and Wynn, 2010). She is the winner of an Arc Poem of the Year Award and was nominated for the 2015 City of Vancouver Book Award. Bren currently lives in Squamish, BC.

Chelsea Comeau

Chelsea Comeau is a freelance writer and editor whose work has appeared in The Claremont Review, Quills, and CV2. In 2015 she was the Canadian winner of the Leaf Press Overleaf chapbook competition. She is currently the poetry editor of WordWorks magazine.

Marilyn Anne Holman

As a mother, grandmother, registered clinical counsellor and teacher I have always been involved in the lives of children. It is a privilege to be part of their laughter, humour and the way they see life. To create and write for them is a joy.

Christine Lowther

Christine Lowther's latest book is Born Out of This, a memoir. She is also the author of three poetry books: New Power, My Nature and HalfBlood Poems. She lives in Clayoquot Sound on Vancouver Island.

Ben Nuttal-Smith

Ben’s many publications include an historical novel, a memoir, an illustrated biography, several chapbooks, books of poetry and two illustrated children’s books. Ben’s poems and short stories have appeared in national and international magazines, anthologies and online publications. Ben Received The Surrey Board of Trade Special Achievement Award in 2011 for outstanding service.

Wendy Morton

Wendy Morton has six books of poetry, and a memoir. She is the recipient of many prestigious awards, including The Meritorious Service Medal which “enables the Governor General, on behalf of Her Majesty the Queen and all Canadians, to recognize outstanding accomplishments that set an example for others and bring benefit to our country." http://www.theelderproject.com/home

Bridget Canning

Bridget Canning is a college instructor and writer. Her short fiction has won two Newfoundland and Labrador Arts and Letters Awards and been shortlisted for the Cuffer Prize. She was selected to apprentice with the Writers Alliance of Newfoundland and Labrador's Mentorship program in 2015. She lives in downtown St. John's.

Ann Graham Walker

Ann Graham Walker is a former CBC radio producer who moved to BC and began honing her poetry. She studies with Patrick Lane and has been a finalist in the Prism International and Malahat Open Season Award poetry contests. Ann’s chapbook The Puzzle at the End of Love was published by Leaf Press.

Marlene Grand-Maître

Marlene Grand Maitre's poetry has been published in literary magazines, including The Malahat, TAR, and Grain. Her work has also appeared in four anthologies, most recently in I Found It At The Movies (Guernica Editions, 2014). Longlisted for Best Canadian Poetry 2011, she also won Freefall's poetry competition in 2013.

Page 3 ◆ WordWorks ◆ Summer 2016

EDITORIALS & OPINIONS

THE PRESIDENT’S PEN ANN GRAHAM WALKER

ou know how it is when a friend goes off on holiday to an exotic place, and comes back all smiles? Tells everyone "You shoulda been there!" Meanwhile you've just gone through an intense patch at work, or another monsoon… Well, I apologize in advance if you had a rough long weekend, because a bunch of us just had the best time at the FBCW annual general meeting (AGM) in Roberts Creek, on the Sunshine Coast. Two-and-a-half days of great workshops and meetings at a perfect inn called the Linwood House—a big Victorian-style manor run by Gwen, Ron, and Louise; experts in pampering and gourmet food. There we were, surrounded by a gorgeous garden in full bloom—Dogwood, Rhododendron, Weigela, not to mention spring flower beds. One writer found a flock of sheep next door. Down the road, six grazing horses. Huge thanks are due to Sunshine Coast regional Rep Caitlin Hicks, who suggested the venue, and hosted an excellent literary Cabaret at the nearby Gumboot Cafe on Friday night. Thanks to the local writers—it was a privilege to hear you read your excellent work. Despite the astonishing beauty and comfort of the setting, we got a lot done. We attended several workshops, including Rachel McMillen's on how to write a mystery novel (set in the Linwood house, maybe?); Jennifer Manuel's on how to self edit your manuscript; and Caitlin Hicks’ on how to get published in small Indie presses. Other features were literary agent Trena White’s one-on-one sessions, a seminar Summer 2016 ◆ WordWorks ◆ Page 4

with George Opacic on privacy, and even more. The actual AGM portion on Saturday was a success. We elected six very dynamic new Board members, who will join our team in maintaining the FBCW’s forwards momentum (did you know our membership has climbed to 650?). Let me introduce you to your new Board: Sharon McInness from Gabriola joined the executive as our new Secretary. Rachel McMillen, a former Certified General Accountant, became our new Treasurer. Sandra Lynxleg became our new regional rep for the Central Region (and member of the Executive in charge of overseeing the Elder Projects—see inside this issue for details about that). Former FBCW president/Executive Director Craig Spence came on board with a clear goal to advocate for better remuneration for writers. JoAnne Bennison from Gibsons brought her passionate interest in helping young writers—she's been involved in numerous arts initiatives, including children's theatre. Additionally, two young members from Langley came aboard: Cassandra Oswald and Sarah Neeson. They are interested in everything from developing policy to starting an FBCW youth council. These new Board members join Loreena Lee, our former Secretary (now our Events Coordinator), George Opacic—who calls himself our Curmudgeon at Large, while offering a broad range of business skills. (George received a well-deserved honourary lifetime membership award at the AGM, in recognition of his long and skilled service). Lucia Terra, Caitlin Hicks

and Doug Reid remain on the Board—each one a committed regional rep who organizes meet and greets for their members and keeps them connected through a regional newsletter. Huge gratitude was expressed to continuing Director Suzanne Anderson from Duncan—Suzanne is an experienced non-profit volunteer who just wrote and filed a major Gaming Grant application on our behalf. (Keep your fingers crossed). As for me, I was reaffirmed as President. Thank you for that trust. I will do my best to get your Federation of BC Writers not just off the ground and flapping its wings, but soaring and serving you well. We have a great team. We are in lift off. Thank you to our Board members and our volunteers for all they do to help the FBCW publish a quality magazine and put on top notch programs. Thanks to you, our membership, for your creative ideas, that help the FBCW continually rebuild itself, and thanks to Shaleeta Harper for her excellent organizing of the AGM. A final note on the Linwood: weekend price Gwen gave us (which included meals) was amazing, everyone (including the Board and the Executive,) paid their way, and were so happy to be there. I recommend it if you're thinking of visiting the Sunshine Coast. Now we're looking forward to our next year's AGM. April 28-30 in Nanaimo. Mark it down, people. The Linwood House will be hard to beat but Shaleeta is determined to come up with something equally cool and since she’s twenty-five, she probably will.

EDITORIALS & OPINIONS

THE FEDERATION OF BC WRITERS: 40 YEARS OF SERVICE BEN NUTTAL-SMITH

hanks to initial research by George Opacic and my own collection of 30 issues of WordWorks magazine, I’ve been able to glean the following tidbits of Federation of BC Writers history. I would have finished research much sooner if I hadn’t been delayed by my propensity to read so many great stories and articles by our members. Still, please note many vital items of information as well as names and dates are missing. I would urge readers to make corrections and additions to this project. The FBCW was initially founded in 1976 as The Federated Association of British Columbia Authors, “to answer the needs of writers in the province on a grass roots level and to provide more of a western perspective.” Still, I have been unable to find records of meetings nor an AGM through 1977, 78, 79, 80. Trevor Carolan speaks of a meeting 29 June, 1981 at Langara College, when members of various Canadian writer organizations got together to discuss forming a provincial writers’ association. Scribblers at that meeting represented The Writers’ Union of Canada, The Periodical Writers’ Association of Canada, the Canadian Authors Association, The League of Canadian Poets, The Guild of Canadian Playwrights,

members of ACTRA and Mona Fertig represented The Literary Storefront. Following that daylong meeting, The Federated Association of British Columbia Authors name was officially changed with a new charter to The Federation of BC Writers. The founding meeting was arguably Saturday, March 20, 1982 when we were registered as a non-profit organization. Writing is, by nature, a solitary occupation. Writers are used to being alone. However, writers also need community. The Federation of BC Writers provides community and much more. According to Sylvia Taylor, long time Executive member, The Federation of BC Writers has “weathered many a storm. It has survived on passion and commitment.” During Sylvia Taylor’s time in office as Fraser Valley Regional Director, President, then Executive Director, (1999 to 2013), the Fed became “the largest provincial writers organization in Canada, with nearly 800 members—the envy of other provinces.” According to Sylvia, “The President of the Quebec Writers Federation said she was stunned by the scope of what we offer. Never had she seen so much done for so many with so little.” By January 1990, under the leadership

of President Heather Glebe, The FBCW counted 950 members. The FBCW has survived many crises, especially when governments withdrew most funding from artistic and literary organizations. We had to close our office and let staff go. Yet, with volunteer help, we carried on. When funding for our “Off the page” Writers in the Schools program was denied, a private donor wrote a cheque for $2,000 and the program continued for another year. Members carried on by donating workshops and serving fellow writers. For several years, we survived on membership fees alone. Still, we struggled to carry on, sometimes with very little volunteer help. The years 2010 – 2011 brought rapid turnover in leadership due to burn-out. Craig Spence, who served as both President and later as Executive Director, termed his stint as president “A wild ride”. “The ravages of fiscal storms nearly drowned the FBCW in the last few weeks of 1989. But do we say die? Never!” and from retiring Executive Director Bob Webster in his final report: “It has been the most interesting, exciting, stressful position I have ever held.”

This article, along with additional information about FBCW history will be available on our blog. Information includes lists of: founding members, early members, benefactors, annual festivals, anthologies, past presidents, executive directors, and much more! To find our blog, please check our website at bcwriters.ca Page 5 ◆ WordWorks ◆ Summer 2016

CRAFT & EDUCATION

LET'S GET TOGETHER! PRISCILLA DUNNING & BETH SKALA

he title of the workshop was "How to Publish Your Book," so it was no surprise that talk around the lunch table turned to what we were writing and our hopes and aspirations as authors. It was clear that we all felt very alone and hungered for contact with other writers. We wanted to have thoughtful feedback on our work. We wanted to learn from other writers who were a few steps ahead in the process. And we wanted to pool our ideas and experiences around publishing. It was obvious. We needed a writers' group. This was 2010.Three of us at the lunch table lived in Nanaimo. We didn't know any writers' groups in the city, so even though we had just met, we made the decision to form our own group. A group is its people. The original three knew others who were interested. The library gave our phone number to people who asked them about writers' groups. When we hit the number eight, we realized that was our maximum to allow everyone to share their writing and comments. A large part of our group’s success and longevity is attributable to its diversity. We are a blend of ages (30 to 70).We have different backgrounds. Some of us are retired, some are working two jobs, and one is raising a young family. Our diversity extends to distinctive writing styles and goals. The glue that binds us consists of mutual respect and a love of writing. Our first joint venture was to pick a name for our group. The winner was Pens Ultimate Nanaimo, affectionately nicknamed PUN. Since its inception, PUN has published four anthologies of poetry and

short stories. The learning curve has been steep, but we have supported each other along the way and contributed our own special talents. It is a tribute to our compatibility and shared goals that we have been able to select cover art, proofread, and make other publishing decisions by committee-of-the-whole. PUN meets twice monthly for two hours at the home of two of our members. We find that meeting in the same place gives our group stability and besides, they have a large table that seats us all. In order to be a working group, as opposed to simply a social gathering, we do not bring or offer snacks. We take turns facilitating the meeting and keeping the discussion on track. We also have guidelines for feedback which ensure that everyone's comments are respectful and constructive. Every meeting begins with an inspirational reading, chosen by a volunteer, which sets the tone and helps us leave our everyday concerns outside the door. During the meeting we are writers first and foremost. Finding writers with whom you are compatible may sound like a tall order. Were we just lucky with PUN? We don't think so. We spent a lot of time in the early days and indeed, once a year since, reflecting on our goals as writers and as a group. Why do we write? What do we want from a writers' group? What can we contribute to our writers' group? These questions can help any writers who are taking tentative steps to forming such a group. They can inspire lively discussions over coffee that may lead to regular meetings. Even if they don't,

the ideas laid on the table will certainly be worth pondering. The format of the meetings will depend on the goals of the members. Pun’s format has changed as the needs of the individual writers in the group have evolved. In the beginning, we included announcements of upcoming writing events such as workshops and contests, plus showand-tell of interesting books. Now, as our members have more of their own work to present, we rely on email for that sharing. Occasionally, one PUNster or another has presented a workshop to the group on such topics as haiku, children's literature, and short stories. After proofreading our first book, the more academically-minded members presented, on request, brief reviews of apostrophes and other technical bugaboos. We have also challenged ourselves with writing prompts. One of the most interesting exercises was the eight-author story. Each member created part one of a story. Part two of the story was written by the next person in the loop, and continued until person number eight wrote the conclusion. We are still talking about what we learned about ourselves as writers from that exercise. So, do you need a writers' group? Only you can answer that question. Talk to your friends who also write, and play with the idea. No writer friends? Put a note on the library bulletin board and meet at a coffee shop for a test run. We have so much to learn from each other. Let’s get together!

The Federation of BC Writers has a listing of writers groups on their webpage at: http://www.bcwriters.ca/writers-groups/ If you would like to add your writing group to the list, or advertise that you are looking for a writing group in an area where one doesn't already exist, please email Shaleeta Harper at communications@bcwriters.ca Summer 2016 ◆ WordWorks ◆ Page 6

CRAFT & EDUCATION

HOW I CRAFTED MY HISTORICAL NOVEL, BIRD'S EYE VIEW ELINOR FLORENCE

y foray into historical fiction began when I stumbled across an old newspaper photograph, a black-and-white image of a woman in an air force uniform, studying an aerial photograph through a magnifying glass. I was working as a newspaper reporter at the time, back in the day when we developed our own photographs. I was immediately intrigued by this image and wanted to know more about this woman and what she was doing. From that tiny seed planted in my imagination, I eventually created Rose Jolliffe, the character who inhabits my historical novel Bird’s Eye View. Supposedly all first novels are more autobiographical than those that follow. In my own first novel, I made Rose a farm girl from Saskatchewan because that’s where I was raised. My interest in the war was present from childhood, since my farm was a former airport during the war, part of the British Commonwealth Air Training Plan. In fact, our family home was a former barracks building. I also knew from the start that Rose had to be a Canadian woman in uniform. Fifty thousand women served during the war – the first women in Canada’s history to be admitted into the armed forces – yet their contribution has been sadly overlooked. I

wanted to shine a light on their passion and commitment. So I had Rose enlist in the Royal Canadian Air Force. Bird’s Eye View is the first novel ever written in which the protagonist is a Canadian woman in uniform. Based on that old photograph, I also knew that Rose had to become an aerial photographic interpreter. In this little-known branch of Allied Intelligence, interpreters studied the photographs brought back by the reconnaissance aircraft – searching for camouflaged factories, bomb targets, and troop movements. They were, in essence, spying on the enemy from the sky. Once I had those basic facts about Rose fixed in my mind, I was ready to begin. I chose to write in the first person because the story is seen through her eyes – hence the title. Historical fiction is like any other genre, in that the author creates a dream world to captivate the reader. Specific to historical fiction is that it takes place in a precise place and time, one that really happened. This creates an added layer of interest for the reader, and an additional challenge for the author. Here’s how I set about crafting my historical novel. 1. Read, Read, and Read Some More: Before starting my novel, I read every-

thing I could find on aerial photographic interpretation. Since this is still a fairly obscure topic, there isn’t much out there. Most of the books I found were written about the reconnaissance pilots, the men who risked their lives to bring back the film. There was little information about the six hundred interpreters stationed at Royal Air Force Medmenham, a beautiful mansion on the Thames River that was the headquarters for photo interpretation – perhaps because more than half of them were women! Nevertheless, I tracked down two or three books written by former interpreters. I had to order them online, since they weren’t available through my public library. I also read books of a general nature about the Second World War. Although most of the action in my novel takes place in England, I didn’t want to leave Canada behind. So throughout the book, Rose’s mother writes frequent letters about what is happening on the home front. I learned how the women at home were cooking with rations, working in factories, raising their children as single parents, and coping with the terrible strain of knowing their loved ones were fighting on the other side of the world. Finally, in order to recreate that era, I researched clothing styles, popular music, common expressions, and a range of other details. For authenticity, I read fiction writPage 7 ◆ WordWorks ◆ Summer 2016

CRAFT & EDUCATION

ten not just about the war, but during the war. My favourite wartime author is Nevil Shute, who wrote some wonderful novels including Pastoral, and Requiem for a Wren. 2. Conduct Personal Interviews: Setting my novel in that time period gave me the advantage of having access to people who were alive then, and could tell me about their own experiences. This advantage obviously doesn’t exist for historical fiction authors who write about Ancient Rome, for example. In that case, one must rely entirely on the printed word, although talking to subject matter experts would also be very helpful. I made full use of my advantage by interviewing numerous veterans. Because my novel describes the war as seen through the eyes of a woman, naturally I sought out female veterans. For many, it was the first time anyone had ever asked them about their time in the service, so I was doing original research. From them I learned what it felt like to blaze the trail in a man’s world, as well as other mundane details such as their universal dislike for lisle stockings. On the other hand, the disadvantage of writing about recent history is that living people will know immediately when mistakes are made. That kept me on my toes. 3. Plot, Plan and Premeditate: Since I am a plotter (one who plans the book in advance) rather than a pantster (one who writes by the seat of her pants), my office was filled with charts showing the sequence of events during the war. Yellow sticky notes laid out on a large table were the tools of my Summer 2016 ◆ WordWorks ◆ Page 8

trade, and I moved them around endlessly. Plotters of all stripes will recognize this compulsive need to organize the course of the book. In the case of historical fiction, much of the action is driven by events that actually took place. Again, this is a mixed blessing. I spent many long hours struggling to reconcile the narrative arc of my novel with the ebb and flow of the war’s progress. However, the big dramatic battles also provided the framework for Rose’s character development, and her growing revulsion to war. This is her reaction when she sees the first aerial photographs taken during the Canadian Army’s failed raid on Dieppe: “With growing horror, I scanned the defenses along the top of the steep cliff: concrete pillboxes, mortars, and machine guns. The invaders had been met by a blizzard of gunfire. I turned to the dark squiggles scattered along the narrow, pebbled beach below the cliff and floating in the water without realizing at first what I was seeing. Then I gasped. These could only be bodies, arms and legs crookedly outflung.” 4. Plant Plenty of Nuggets: I like to think of a novel as a river. Sometimes it flows smoothly between the banks, and at times it turns into raging rapids. As a reader, you ride that river. Along the way you notice nuggets gleaming below the surface – little flashes of brilliance that you want to put in your pocket and take home. I found nuggets of colour and atmosphere, many of them from personal interviews, that I seeded liberally throughout the book. I believe that’s why many readers have complimented me on the authentic “feel” of the book, how they felt transported back in

time. Here’s one example: While I was interviewing a former air force photographer, she told me that when the darkroom got too hot, the girls would strip down to their bras and panties. As long as the red warning light was on outside the door, nobody else would come in for fear of ruining the film. This anecdote screamed “nugget!” and I highlighted it for later use. In my novel, Rose is working in the darkroom, wearing nothing but her undies, when her commanding officer comes in unexpectedly because the red warning light has burned out. This incident naturally enhances the sexual tension between them. The next best thing to personal interviews is written or audiotaped memoirs, since they are also filled with specific details that you rarely find in the history books. Currently, I’m completing my second historical novel, about the last homesteaders in Canada, those hardy souls who took up free land in the freezing, forested area of northern Alberta after the First World War. This time around, there is nobody alive who remembers these days. To research that slice of history, I’ve read thirty-five books of personal memoirs about homesteading life. And that brings me to the final drawback of historical fiction. Researching another time and place can be so addictive that you may never want to stop! At some point, you must accept that you will never know everything about that time period, but you do have enough information to start crafting your novel. I wish all my fellow historical fiction authors the very best of luck. In my humble opinion, it is the most fascinating and rewarding of all genres.

NEWS AND FEATURES

THIRD ANNUAL VANCOUVER POETRY CRAWL BREN SIMMERS

he night before the Third Annual Vancouver Poetry Crawl organizer Kevin Spenst was hospitalized. The twenty-one poets ready to read with him on April 16th at eleven venues across downtown Vancouver debated, “Should we cancel or carry on?” Kevin replied, “We’re in Metro News as a poetry renaissance, we must continue.” At each venue poets gave cold readings of poems from Kevin’s new book, Ignite; his book was so new that it was still wrapped in plastic. Elee Kraljii Gardiner captured each reading on video for Kevin, and in that way we carried him alongside us. The crawl kicked off at the Grunt Gallery with Jorden Abel and Shazia Hafiz Ramji, followed by a trip to the Windsor gallery where Ray Hsu asked participants to come up with one adjective that described Kevin. He then cued and conducted each audience member in a performative poetry composition. The beauty of living in the YouTube era is that I could watch the whole thing even thought I hadn’t arrived yet. Full disclosure: I joined the crawl after the lunch break, reading with Jeff Steudel in front of a replica of the iconic working class home from the late 60s, 70s, and 80s, The Vancouver Special. Constructed in a gap between condo buildings, this installation by Ken Lum shows what the original cost of a Vancouver Special would get you today (an inset the size of a hat box). The actual replica is eight times larger, reflecting the increase in property values and the current affordability crisis in Vancouver. After a short reading, we deked through a Chinatown alley passing open air bins of gai lan and pak choi, before crowding into Centre A gallery. We didn’t know where to stand; bright canvases covered the walls and floor. Patrick Cruz’s exhibit Flowers of Paradise could be named the next best place to take a selfie with your smartphone, which is ironic given that material excess in our global culture is one of the themes explored in this work. We were feeling a collective buzz when we poetry-bombed El Kartel, a high-end clothing shop. Jennifer Zilm gamely read about dentists behind an old Yamaha motorcycle, while women tried on dresses in

the background. It was an unusual setting for poetry, but one that opened up dialogue between audience members. Poets who had never met each other introduced themselves. We crawled from venue to venue in pack formation. At another gallery, when we asked to turn off the music for the reading, the bemused gallery worker replied, “I didn’t know you were coming.” We had set up camp on her wooden floor, and she wasn’t quite sure when or if we would leave. Throughout the day there was turnover among the fifty plus crawlers, as new participants joined and others left. Between readings were street scenes: a man with electrical equipment with a cardboard sign that said “Buy My Shit.” We passed a smashed Gastown store window, blood at the centre of impact. A stark contrast existed between slick digital photos blown up on canvases and people pushing shopping carts full of their belongings. Many

Jennifer Zilm at El Kartel Page 9 ◆ WordWorks ◆ Summer 2016

NEWS AND FEATURES poets addressed this discrepancy between homelessness and the abundance of arts spaces in the Downtown Eastside. Shannon Rayne read a poem about a coffee chain that stopped giving free refills because people were fishing their cups out of the garbage. Leah Horlick, at Gallery Gachet, asked us to think about whose home this neighbourhood was as we wandered through it. We could stop to pee at an overpriced coffee shop where clientele stared at their MacBook Airs, while some residents had to urinate in alleys and parkade stairwells. At Artspeak, Cecily Nicholson gave a stunning performance from her first book Triage, reading sections by heart. Mariner James created a layered and interlaced sonic experience by reading a poem alongside a recording of the same poem. And at the Skwa-

chàys Lodge amidst a backdrop of high-backed red chairs, a gas fireplace and gorgeous First Nations art, Jónína Kirton entertained us with poems that shared advice from her mother. “Campbell soup knows how to feed families. There’s recipes on the can. It’s okay to have sex before marriage, as long as you have him over for dinner first.” After eight consecutive readings, I was drunk. I slipped off and headed home only to miss the arrival of Kevin Spenst at the Paper Hound, direct from the hospital. That’s Kevin for you. His enthusiasm and generosity of spirit had brought together a tasting flight of poets for the third year in a row. That kind of inclusivity across aesthetic styles is what helps Vancouver cultivate a thriving poetry community.

Elena Johnson and Timothy Shay at Centre A Gallery Summer 2016 ◆ WordWorks ◆ Page 10

THE FEDERATION OF BC WRITERS PRESENTS

THE WINNERS OF THE 2015

LITERARY

WRITES

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FICTION

SEVENTEEN MINUTES BRIDGET CANNING

he nurse says to put on two hospital gowns: one like a coat, the other like a backwards coat on top. No bra. “Okay, Robin. Do you have implants or piercings?” “No.” “Tattoos?” “I got a cover up last week.” Should I show her? She might get a kick out of it. “It might get warm, but it should be okay. Diabetes?” “No.” She says I will get an injection, some kind of ink the machine can detect. It might make me feel cold. Or I’ll taste it in the back of my throat, like garlic. She leaves me alone so I can double-bag myself in the gowns. There’s a camera in the dressing room for people who are at risk of collapsing. I am to pull the curtain while I get changed. Who is watching? Maybe the last person to see my healthy breasts, depending on the MRI results. Sean saw them this morning, but he doesn’t know about any of this. The doctor says I’m young for this and it’s all unlikely. But we’re playing it safe. I stuff my things into the bag they’ve given me. The nurse waits outside. Her dark hair is cut in a tidy bob that cups her face. She leads the way to the MRI room. Her scrubs are lavender. How easy do blood stains come out? I threw out a pair of pajama pants because they were stained from irregular periods and spilled coffee. Maybe scrubs are unstainable. Maybe you don’t need to scrub scrubs. The machine is a white hole, ceramic or plastic and reminds me of old fashioned wood burning ovens. The kind that inspired

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Hansel and Gretel. The kind that can fit a whole witch. The nurse passes me ear plugs. “Can I listen to my iPod?” “No.” “My mother could. They let her choose a CD and they played music inside.” “Was this at the Janeway? They do that for the kids.” “No, it was in Ontario.” “Oh no, we don’t have that here.” I remove the backwards gown and lie on my belly so my breasts dangle between the slats. I am slid into the white hole. How does Gretel get away? She tells the witch she doesn’t know how to get in the oven. Show me how to get in. The door slams, the witch howls. The candy house is free for the taking. The nurse says it will take seventeen minutes. Inside, it is like a washing machine: sloshes, long blaring beeps. More annoying than alarming. Like on Saturday — I set off the car alarm when we were leaving to meet Sean’s work friends. “You pressed the wrong button on the keychain,” Sean said. He pulled it from my hand. The alarm stopped. “Robin, you should learn the difference. If you’re attacked, knowing to press the alarm could save you.” “I know which one,” I said. “I was trying to lock the car.” The MRI makes blurry b-b-b-b beeps, like a finger strumming lips. I told myself I would look, see what I could see. But looking might make me move. I keep my eyes closed. On Saturday, I wore the new red shirt. It has wrap-around

FICTION sheaths of fabric crossing over the chest. Colleen would call it a boob shirt. She’d say something like, that’s quite the boob shirt you’re wearing. But I figured, why not show them off a little. I asked Sean how I looked. I did this even though Sean has decided against giving compliments: “People depend on compliments too much. They shouldn’t rely on others to feel good about themselves.” “I don’t think you’ve thought that through,” I said. “Everyone likes to be noticed — you enjoy being complimented.” I did not say I suspect this decision is based on his mood shifting. And that I doubt it’s a belief he would state widely, to a questioning audience. “How do I look?” I said. “You look fine.” In the car, I asked if he was annoyed about the tattoo. “What’s done is done,” he said. “The removal of the old one would be expensive and painful,” I said. “And leave a scar.” He shrugged. The next time he’s in a mood, it will become a thing. I know it. The beeps go long and high. The emergency signal is a squeeze ball in my palm. Like the cartoon perfume bottle depicted on the poster in the waiting room: No Scented Products Please. A cartoon nose escaping a cartoon perfume bottle, the old fashioned kind with the squeeze ball applicator. I can’t smell anything inside the machine. We met Sean’s work friends for martinis. It was Vivian in Payroll’s birthday. Six women sat around the table; each held a glass of something colourful. They all wore black and white. Vivian’s cocktail dress was black lace. Even Sean wore all black with his black Converse sneakers. I didn’t know there was a black and white plan. The urge to explain was overwhelming, like looking for a place to spit. No one told me there was a theme. “Why don’t I take pictures of all of you?” I said. They passed over their phones. I took a couple with each. “You know,” Sean said, “the thing about cameras today is that you can take one picture and send it to everyone.” The ladies laughed and play-swatted at him. “Sean’s our big brother at work,” Vivian said. “I hope he doesn’t rip the heads off your Barbies,” I said. “That’s what my big brother did.” “I mean he has to tolerate our conversations,” she said. “He must complain about being henpecked.” Later, Vivian danced with a girl who wore a dress with vertical pinstripes. Vivian two-stepped, but pinstriped girl worked her hips so that the stripes curved and flexed like radiation waves. The noises change to hissing. A cord rests against my arm. Imagine if it moved. Like the snake woman in Canadian Tire. We needed supplies for the rolling blackouts. She wore an off-shoulder black t-shirt and I could tell her nipple was pierced. She said the rolling blackouts

were brutal because she put the snakes in bed with her. It’s exhausting, trying to sleep with the squirming. Cold blooded, right? They need heat and there was none. When we walked through the hunting supplies aisle, he said she runs a pet rescue for reptiles. And in the car, he said they used to fuck, years ago. An arrangement, not a dating thing. The nurse announces that the IV is starting the detectable ink drip. Imagine, snakes warming themselves on me. Their flesh smooth on mine. They smell with their tongues, don’t they? Being tasted constantly by tiny tongues, like rapid feathers. Insanity forming. A form of torture somewhere, in some sadistic regime. I feel my arm get cold, but that’s all. It’s like I can feel how wet my blood is inside my arm. Outside the bar, Vivian leaned against the wall. The rain poured off the awning and made a fringe around us as we smoked. She was really high. “When I was a child, I wanted to swim in the rain. To see the ripples the drops made from underneath. I wanted to know if the sound of rain entering water was like rain on a roof. How it makes you feel cold, but safe. Swimming in the rain would show me the comfort of mermaids.” She rotated her shoulders against the wall to face me. “You’re beautiful, Robin. The kind of beautiful that everyone can see, but you.” She hooked two fingers into my cleavage. My shirt was wide open. How long had it been like that? “Look at the rack on you,” she said. She wiggled the tips of her fingers. I stepped back. She laughed. Back in the bar, she said to Sean, “You don’t know what you’ve got.” The MRI ejects me slowly, like an old VCR. The nurse unhooks the IV and I put my finger on the cotton swab on the hole. I can get back into my clothes now. Back in the change room, I hook my bra and read notifications. They are printed on coloured A4 paper: PLEASE NOTIFY TECHNOLOGIST IF YOU ARE WEARING AN INSULIN PUMP. PLEASE HAVE YOUR HEALTH CARD READY. My new tattoo did not get hot. If there is something wrong and I get my breasts removed, maybe I will get tattoos where they used to be. Someone on Facebook shared a video of a woman who got tattoos on her post-mastectomy chest. I could get a floral pattern. An underwater scene. I could pick out a wallpaper design. Maybe the snake woman has tattoos. I think she must have. Maybe this is why Sean doesn’t like them.

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NON-FICTION

THE SHAKING MAN names and small details have been altered to respect confidentiality

CHRISTINE LOWTHER

oke up at 4:30am again, head full of the shaking man. Can never know how things turned out for him, if he recovered, went on with his life. As if anyone could “go on” after landing in autumn-cold ocean from capsized sight-seeing boat, breathing diesel fumes for an hour, losing sight of spouse, parent, child or all of them, thrown by colossal waves. Flayed by a broken window, clung to by others with worse wounds, rising and falling and choking. Nobody wearing a lifejacket. One of the crew, a young woman, dived down and released the raft, but some of the passengers were already on the rocks. A deckhand shot a flare. That caught the attention of fishermen from the local First Nation, risking their boats and lives to save strangers, to save him, shaking so violently he could no longer yell or speak. I try to imagine how he saw his rescuers: faces full of concern, panic, reassurance? Instead I see him, lying shaking on the bed in Emergency, eyes open on me momentarily, pleading for a blanket, except I couldn’t be sure that’s what he was saying, only that he was asking, and every morning since, asking. But I walked out, because it wasn’t my place. Twice I walked out on him. That morning had been the memoir writing workshop. “I write to remember …” She instructed us to fill in the dots. “I avoid writing about …” We were to retell a Key Event that changed us forever. Ten minutes fast writing. Much later she said she’d noticed the boat heading out to sea after lunch. I was at work by then. Briefly outside around four-thirty, I looked up as the x-ray technician hurried by. “A boat’s sunk,” she said. “At least three people are dead.” I said nothing. What did it have to do with me?

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I’d be off in an hour, hopefully before any victims were quietly brought to the morgue. Nobody local, so there wouldn’t be families grieving. Did I even put that much thought into it? I locked the dumpster and went back indoors, re-inserting my earbud and continuing to vacuum the basement. What should I have said? What should I have done? Probably forty minutes later, finishing the laundry room floor. Imelda’s voice over the intercom. Pulling out the earbud, I hear her speak the word that means me, housekeeping. Put down the vacuum hose, pick up the phone. Suddenly I’m searching for things I don’t know the names of. The transparent, soft plastic tubes that hang from I.V. poles to enter a patient’s nose or bloodstream. And blankets, of course. Luckily, one of the dryers is disgorging warm flannels. Not folded, though. I yank a welter of them, electric shocks snapping, onto the nearest clean apparatus with wheels. Roll pell-mell down the empty halls, stab the elevator button, jump up and down with impatience now that I comprehend the need. It’s only one floor up yet seems to take too long. Finally I emerge from the lift, turn two corners into the corridor; it’s gone blue with uniforms, all the medics on the west coast standing ready along the walls, poised with a practiced calm. I wheel the blankets and tubes toward Emerge, nurses’ and doctors’ faces turning. Relief there, at the sight of my blankets. Doctor Jane praises their warmth. The hospital only has one Bair-hugger (forced-air warming therapy unit), and Emerge is full of people suffering from hypothermia. Nurses quickly scoop up the bounty while I turn and jog back around the corners and down the stairs

NON-FICTION to find more. If we run out, there are baby receivers, curtains. The other dryer is nowhere near finished. I strip shelves, deplete the pile of permanently stained flannels waiting to be donated to third world countries. Back upstairs, a doctor asks me to keep the warmer filled with folded flannels. Before I can complete this task Les, a tall, bearded nurse, fills my arms with coldpacks and asks me to microwave them. I head for the nuker in the nurse’s station, ambulances still delivering stretchers behind me, a woman wailing in Emerge, a knot of people at the Admitting desk holding pages of names, some highlighted yellow, Imelda glancing up with a faint, sad smile. A visitor is agreeing to leave. He is hyperventilating as he walks steadily toward the front door, gaping around at the scene. Then a helicopter shatters the air right on top of us. I catch the eye of a police officer, her hands full of names. In that fraction of a second, she winks. Then I’m throwing coldpacks into the microwave. “Less than thirty seconds or they’ll explode,” I’m told. While they warm up, I find pillowcases for them in the ward cupboard (will there be enough?), where I also grab more flannels. The oven pings but only one out of six packs is warm. I keep adding seconds on the timer. The nurse was wrong. Not only are these never going to pop, they’ll likely never heat up. The wait is agony. Finally one feels almost hot enough, so I slip it into a pillowcase, press the timer again, and hurry along to Emerge, scanning high for Les’s beard. He is nowhere to be seen; every doctor is deep in conversation, nurses speeding to and fro. This is stupid — by the time I find Les the pack is going to be cold again. It’s up to me. I stride into Emerge. All the beds are gone, survivors moved into wards. A few doctors stand together, heads close. I hear Doc Mallory’s voice as I avert my eyes. He is asking how many are dead, how many missing. The cast room door is open and I can see the foot-end of the bed. It is occupied. I dart in with my prize. And it’s him lying there, unattended. The shaking man is swathed in blankets, yet his chest is slightly exposed: olive skin, black hair. I place the heated bundle onto his chest. He begins to ask me his question, voice trembling, teeth chattering. And a doctor zooms in behind me (which doctor?), stares as if I’m not trustworthy. In wanting to help, I’ve somehow crossed a line. I walk out, hoping, assuming the doctor will listen to him. Give him what he asks for. Only two more packs have heated sufficiently; I’m going to abandon this fruitless effort, but first I place the pair together in a pillowcase, retrace my steps. Les is still nowhere, everyone else still busy. So it’s back to the cast room, warp speed, where else is there to go? I place the hotpack on top of the first one, upon the patient’s chest. The survivor’s chest. I assume he will survive. He’s in the same flannels, nothing added. He begins to ask again, and the doctor (which doctor?) accelerates in behind me like déjà vu. Staring. Clearly I shouldn’t be there. For the second time, I turn my back on this shuddering, pleading human being. I don’t know if he ever gets another blanket, if that’s what he’s asking for — politely. He’s even polite. It’s what I guess later, when the counsellor prods me to remember: that it was another blanket he

wanted. Not much to ask, but forming the word, blanket, with a mouth in shock? He shouldn’t have had to speak the whole sentence. He should have been answered. At the time there is pride and satisfaction in helping. Enough to finally raise my head and meet the eyes of some of the medics I know. More and more hospital staff are arriving. The cook went home at 5:30 but the on-call chef sees the ambulances pass him on the street, walks in and prepares platters of sandwiches, brings them upstairs. I call my supervisor; she drives all the way from the next town. I fold flannels with a medic whose name I don’t know in the middle of the corridor. I keep catching glimpses of the list of names with some highlighted yellow. Yellow for alive? Deceased? Missing? Not my place to know. Back downstairs, the laundry is already piling up like garbage at a dump. Leaving the change room at ten p.m., my gaze snags on stretchers in the hall: bodies under sheets. Some are loved ones of survivors upstairs. I cut across to depart via the laundry room. Police are outside the morgue door. I’ve worked nine hours — they feel like twenty-nine. Up the driveway and on the street, two TV cameramen stand silent and waiting beside their tripods. Next morning, they are still there. The shaking man was transferred. I clean a patient’s room and she tells me her family drowned. All I can do is take her small belongings, put them through the gentle cycle, then scrub and soak them. But the diesel smell will not come out. It lingers in the downstairs corridors, and on my hands.

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WRITING FOR CHILDREN

THE WIGGLY JIGGLY TOOTH MARILYN ANNE HOLMAN

One day while playing marbles In his friend’s back yard, Sean bit down on an apple Just a bit too hard. He put his hand up to his mouth And to his great surprise A tooth was loose. It felt quite strange, as it jiggled there inside. Well, it wiggled and it jiggled, But it didn't really hurt. It was sure a nuisance When he tried to eat dessert. Sean brushed it faithfully And shined it best he could, But he was really wishing It would leave his mouth for good. Then one day it happened, While he was drinking juice. It wiggled and it jiggled Then suddenly it came loose. “My tooth,” he tried to yell, “It's finally come loose.” Too late he soon discovered It had gone down with the juice. It was such a neat tooth, So beautiful and white. Summer 2016 ◆ WordWorks ◆ Page 16

But the tooth fairy won't find it When she visits here tonight. What could he do to tell her To let her know the truth. He'd lost that tooth forever When it swished down with his juice. He grabbed a pen and pencil And drew a sad faced tooth And on it wrote a message I'm in his stomach with the juice. That won’t work, he decided, She’ll just think it’s a lie. Something that I made up She'll simply pass me by. While sitting at the table He had a better thought. The Fairy would believe him, If she saw the toothless spot. I'll go to sleep this evening With my mouth open wide. She'll swoop down on her toothbrush And have a look inside. Then she'll know for certain I've lost that precious tooth. It won't make any difference It’s down there with the juice.

That night he slept quite soundly. His mouth was open wide. Quite certain of his decision She'd definitely look inside. The morning came, Sean awoke He gave an awful gasp. His mouth was shut Oh no, she must have flown past. He looked down at his pillow, Which had fallen off his bed. Pinned on it was a note And this is what he read: Dear Sean Don't worry about your tooth. I got it out real quick. Magic always works And I know a special trick Your teeth are very shiny. They sparkle like the stars. You must be brushing every day And avoiding candy bars. You’re quite the clever fellow, Sean I can’t believe my eyes. I’m leaving you a little gift, Plus a wish for a surprise.

POETRY

THE WALLS TAKE REFUGE

The shrapnel of your husband’s anger embedded in cupboard doors. A dry year. No one weeps. Backs exposed, the basement walls take refuge in dark corners. You bury your face in the weather the cat brings in on her coat: small craft warning. The sofa and the armchair too yielding, you learn to love the floor. How it doesn’t give. You count your bones. Not all there. Once, you had your own home. Its rooms whisper: Give birth here. Wash your dead.

MARLENE GRAND-MAÎTRE

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EDITORIALS & OPINIONS

AN INTERVIEW WITH MARLENE GRAND-MAÎTRE WINNER OF THE 2015 LITERARY WRITES POETRY PRIZE

CHELSEA COMEAU

arlene Grand-Maître considers herself a late bloomer in the poetry scene, having started writing in her fifties. Her love for the craft blossomed when she decided to take a general creative writing course at the University of Victoria, and found that she naturally gravitated to the poetic genre. Seventeen years after launching her journey as a writer, Marlene has been published in numerous literary magazines, including the Malahat Review, Grain, the Antigonish Review, and Freefall. Her work has appeared, thus far, in four anthologies (the most recent of which is titled I Found it At the Movies, an anthology on the theme of film), and in 2013 she won Freefall magazine’s poetry contest. I chatted with Marlene for a little while over the phone, and we discussed her writing habits and rituals. Marlene divulged that she does all of her writing on the couch at home, and prefers to write her initial drafts by hand, until she reaches the point at which

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she can’t seem to take the piece any further. That’s when she types them up and prints them out to edit them. As a writer who likes to immerse herself in whatever genre she’s currently writing, I had to ask Marlene what poets she’s currently reading. She named Louise Gluck and Anne Michaels as her two most frequently read poets, at present. Marlene also mentioned spending time at the picturesque Banff Centre as a participant in the Banff Wired Writing Studio, which includes time spent at in Alberta itself, as well as in an online mentorship. Now, she can add the 2015 Literary Writes contest to her impressive list of accomplishments. Marlene says she was extremely thrilled to discover she’d won the contest when she checked the Federation’s website and saw her name listed as the top prize recipient. We then discussed her winning poem with a little more depth, and she explained that, after working in programs for abused women for

many years, she wanted to explore an abusive relationship through poetry. It was hard for her, she explains, to find a way into the poem, because she felt that it isn’t enough for a poet to simply present the reader with a list of gruesome images. Using a house as her extended metaphor, the objects within the home began to take on the abuse and violence within it, creating an inhospitable atmosphere. In this way, she felt the metaphor freed her to explore the dark theme. Marlene’s success as a writer proves that devotion to craft is truly the most important component. Her time spent learning, engaging in experiences, and, most importantly, just sitting down to write, has ensured a development of skill that proves there is true talent in her bones. Readers will undoubtedly enjoy her Literary Writes poem, and should certainly look forward to more of Marlene’s winning pieces.

NEWS AND FEATURES

A COMMUNITY OF WRITERS ANTONY STEVENS

hadn’t been on the ferry to Langdale in 9 years—not since before they started making more room for toddlers and desperate, baggy-eyed adults, and less room for nostalgia. I used to jam on Galaga in the arcade as a kid to make the trip from Departure Bay to Horseshoe Bay go faster. Heck, my first time playing Crazy Taxi was on the ferry. Now they’ve replaced the arcades on the ferries with coffee shops and larger play areas for babies of all sizes. It was going to be a long trip. My first mistake of the day was within the first five minutes: I bought two ferry tickets for myself leaving Departure Bay—an impulse, as I only ever go to the mainland with my partner. I sprinted down the empty ramp to the foot passenger area, my weighty backpack full of three days’ worth of clothes and a laptop, only to

be ushered out a side door because I was too late for the walk-on ramp. There I found Workworks editor Shaleeta Harper waiting for me, late herself after a sleepless night of quadruple-checking her preparation for hosting the Federation of BC Writers’ annual general meeting. On the ferry to Langdale we met up with the FBCW president Ann Graham Walker, and Rachel McMillen, mystery writer and soon-to-be treasurer. Ann was quiet, recovering from bronchitis, while Rachel spoke with an Australian accent about her time in Mexico. We talked for a half hour over eggs and toast (if you can count that yellow-dyed rubber they serve as ‘eggs’) until the chime told us to clamber back into our vehicles and continue on our way. Memories are fleeting, and as such the Langdale Page 19 ◆ WordWorks ◆ Summer 2016

NEWS AND FEATURES terminal was smaller than I had remembered, as anything seems when you’re three feet taller. Once again, there was no time to reminisce; we set a destination on Google Maps for the FBCW AGM at the Linwood House Ministries in Robert’s Creek. We were immediately back on the highway, as though we had never boarded a boat, and as though Langdale was only an off ramp. Our route was the scenic one, bypassing Gibson’s Landing entirely. Walls of coniferous trees passed by us on either side, the pine almost minty through the open windows. When we reached the Linwood House, we missed the driveway completely; unmarked, and mistakable in modesty for a walking trail, arriving at the Linwood House was like arriving in the 19th century. The Linwood House is of Victorian style: a pink beige with auburn trim, a stone chimney on the side, and enough variants of shrubberies to please the Knights who say “Ni.” Inside, the building is furnished with and peppered with display items from across the last century—things collected from garage sales, travels, and donations. “Everything has a story,” said Gwen McVicker, who runs the Linwood House

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with her husband, Ron. Each item on display serves a purpose, has a context and a subtext. In one room, a wedding dress hangs on the wall. In another, a drawer full of pearl necklaces. In mine, a desk with a Polaroid camera from the 1950s. When we entered the Linwood House, we weren’t asked not to touch the various decorations. There were no warning stickers on the sides of cupboards. Instead, the McVickers invited us in like they were sharing their home with us, and rules were imposed by a silent, mutual trust. As it turned out, the McVickers were sharing their home with us. The couple have lived upstairs for 18 years (5 years after the house was built) offering respite for marginalized women, and a “sacred space” to inspire and encourage others since then. “We love being surrounded by creative people who are passionate about what they do,” McVicker said. “I think the setting was perfect for your group.” Dozens of members from the FBCW arrived that first day before the AGM, and each was the type of character you’d hope to read about. George Opacic, former FBCW president, sat across from me in a

purple argyle shirt. He poured me a glass of wine and discussed two of his favourite subjects—quantum mechanics and human resources—and how those subjects related to poetry with wry humour. It was the first time I drank red wine, and he left me the bottle when he stepped outside. The next day, George was appreciated with a plaque for his decades of efforts towards the FBCW and the writers it supports. A woman named Shanon continued the conversation I began with George, first on the subject of wine, and then on the subject of poetry. We were all headed to a cabaret that night, and I made a half promise to her that I would read if there was an open mic. I hadn’t read in nearly a year, so my half promise was closer to a quarter, or a tenth promise, but I smiled and nodded anyway. That night, she read her “sexy finch” poem (or so her husband calls it), and aftewards my name was drawn from a hat to read during the open mic. I kept my promise. “61 years—71 years ago, woah,” Ben Nuttall-Smith, one of the longest running FBCW members began during his featured reading at the cabaret, “an almost 12-year-

NEWS AND FEATURES old boy, and his younger sister, 11, came to Canada on a converted oil tanker, across the North Atlantic. I wrote this to remember that wartime crossing.” Ben’s two poems that night were moving, the second of which was a touching folk song about saving the world with love: “Oh what a world this world would be where I need you and you need me, and every man would meet with a smile and call us ‘friend.’” The next day I won Ben’s chapbook Postcards in a second, equally random draw, and read it as I fell asleep in the Linwood House attic. The morning following the cabaret, one of the featured readers came up to me and said that he and his wife were both blown away by my poem—a perfect irony in turn that her reading was my favourite of the night. We sat across from each other at dinner and discussed anxiety in public speaking, while our two young tablemates, both newly appointed board members, helped him map out some possible locations to add to his book tour.

As for the AGM itself, the most important takeaway was a renewed vision of community. All weekend we had seen writers helping writers—the current slogan behind the FBCW. Shanon helped me get past my anxiety so I could perform at the cabaret. Ben’s entire self has been devoted to human cooperation. George was commended for his many facets of writerly support. But the FBCW isn’t just writers helping writers, it’s a whole community. “Various writing groups didn’t even know each other existed,” author Jennifer Manuel said during one of her talks. When she hosted a Blue Pencil Café (a rapid-fire editing workshop) under the FBCW, the event connected those writers. It built community. During her talk, she borrowed quotes from Sarah Selecky, Betsy Warland, David Jauss, Wayne Booth, and Douglas Glover—a pool of writers from various communities—and built upon their ideas. That’s what the FBCW showed itself to be: a building community of writers. “The literary community in Canada is

very generous,” Jennifer finished. There’s something about writers that connects us, and, ironically, it’s not always through words. It’s our sensibilities, how we read signs and moments and people. We see the stories of everyone around. We see the poetry in a house full of memories. We see the decisions that will define us. “We like the cheesy things,” Anne said to the group, and all I could think of was me stuffing my face with brie and wine for the first time in my life, while the sun shone on the patio outside. And yet, in the distance, we could hear thunder rumble, because there’s always more world out there. More moments, more words, more stories, more writers—all connected in a web, thin at first, but thick and heavy as they are excavated and offered a hand to pull them out of difficult terrain. The only thing more important to writers than ink or lead is each other.

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NON-FICTION

WHAT POETRY TOLD US TO DO CAITLIN HICKS

e stands there under the soft light, a prisoner surrounded. Hundreds gather in the dark, ears and eyes fixed on his every move, witnesses to the spell he casts with each pause, each breath. Here is this celebrated monster, whose wives, six years apart, had sacrificed themselves in despair at the altar of an open oven door. Yet he reigns, anointed by the Queen herself, canonized by those in love with the cadence

Summer 2016 â&#x2014;&#x2020; WordWorks â&#x2014;&#x2020; Page 22

and innuendo of his nuanced creations. He stands there simply, like any man, pants rumpled, hair greasy, round shouldered and gray templed, and we wait for his next utterance, hoping he will ensnare us too. I sit at the back of the room, astonished, listening with my whole body. To him. My bones hold a stillness(1) I say to my alter self, quoting her. My arms fold across my chest, my legs grip each other against

my pelvis as if I have the physical power to dissipate the magnetism he so effortlessly spins around him. We are utterly in love with each other! (2) For a moment in the dark I am Sylvia Plath, just married: Mrs. Sylvia Hughes, Mrs. Ted Hughes, Mrs. Edward James Hughes, Mrs. E.J. Hughes (3). Mentally, I verbalize words she wrote in letters to her mother. I know the words by heart because

NON-FICTION I am an actress; I've memorized an entire play of Sylvia's correspondence with her mother from a dramatic collection called Letters Home. I slip into the skin of my imagined Sylvia; breathing the same air as he breathes. It's October 23, 1983, a crisp, chilly, fall day, almost a year after Sylvia Plath became the first poet to win the Pulitzer Prize posthumously. Warm with the dampness of each other's bodies confined to one room, we are the literary consumers of The Fifth Annual International Festival of Authors at Toronto’s Harbourfront. It's Sunday and Ted Hughes, England’s Poet Laureate, Sylvia Plath's ex-husband and lover, stands before us as the keynote speaker. My Toronto acting debut in Letters Home closed a week ago at The Adelaide Court Theatre. The play enjoyed a three week run, reviews in The Globe and Mail, The Toronto Star, Now Magazine, and local university newspapers. I hear him again, his deep voice clear and urgent. Listen to me, it says. He reads with the simplicity of a par-

ent holding a sleepy child in his lap, pyjama-clad and nodding. We're unaware just yet that we've slumped against him in a profound relief; we've opened ourselves to the images he throws before us, we swallow them whole. In the wake of his resonant voice we occupy an innocent happiness, exhuberantly gullible, giddy with the joy he serves up in the exquisite rendering of his poems. We're blind with it, we love him. We've always loved him. We can hardly wait to thunder him with the only thing we can give him: the sound of our hands slapping against each other. How did he do this so quickly and so thoroughly? * Toronto—October 21, 1983. A 'halcyon blue' day, as Sivvy would say, crisp and cool. Leaves whirl and scatter in circles on the deck at 644 Church Street. The show closed last week. We had a great run, and now I can get fat with this baby. Gord finally got his divorce papers in the mail. In a tiny, two bedroom apartment just off Bloor Street, I scribble notes into my

journal, where I live with Canadian artist Gordon Halloran. I have left my first marriage, my friends, my family and my country for this man. My lover’s divorce —from a fourteen year marriage in Canada—has just come through from San Francisco, where we met and fell in love. Now we can get married. I am brimming with pregnancy—four weeks from my due date, our wedding only ten days away. I am not legally allowed to work, yet teach fitness classes at a trendy workout studio in Yorkville. Daily, Gord finishes a commissioned oil painting of the Toronto Stock Exchange. The play is a two-hander whose script dramatizes letters between Sylvia and her mother, Aurelia, chronicling Sylvia’s life from 1950, the year she entered Smith College, to 1963, the year of her death. Rose Leiman Goldemberg is the New York playwright and our production is the Canadian premiere of her play. Sylvia is pregnant in parts of the drama and conveniently I’m not very big with this baby, but big enough to jut my belly when Sylvia’s pregnancy sur-

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Page 23 ◆ WordWorks ◆ Summer 2016

NON-FICTION faces. University of Toronto's The Newspaper, The Excalibur, The Toronto Star and Canada’s National newspaper, The Globe and Mail review the play, without taking note of my advanced pregnancy. We have good audiences: “Letters Home offers more than a biography”, and “Plath’s Letters Read Well”. In my journal, it says that October 21st, Gord goes down to City Hall to get our marriage license. Two days hence, Ted Hughes would arrive for the Festival at Harbourfront. I weigh the cost of the tickets. We are down to our last pennies. Gord’s savings have been seriously depleted with the production of this play. Reluctantly, his red Mustang convertible and a clunky old blue truck are put up for sale in the want ads, and Gord arranges to sell his cherished Kathe Kollewitz print to a dealer in San Francisco. But, on October 22nd, there have been no sales, no income from our sacrifices. We are going to be parents, and we have no money for diapers. My fascination with the Plath/Hughes legend is by this time, huge. By the play’s closing performance, Sylvia's suicide still fascinates me, weighs heavily. Jealousy, despair, yes, yes. Ted broke their marriage apart over an affair with another woman. Worse, at the time of Sylvia's death in February 1963, Ted Hughes was a rising star shining brilliantly in the literary heavens; Sylvia's career was just beginning to take off. The parallels with my life seem uncanny. Both our imperfect marriages fell apart when we fell in love with each other, but Gord’s divorce papers, filed on the same day as mine, only arrived yesterday; mine came through a few months ago, with no explanation from him as to the delay on his. I have leapt off the building for him; but he’s back in his own town, surrounded by childhood friends and family, all things familiar and comfortable and in place for his success. How long will our love last? I don’t know him well enough to be able to answer that question. As an artist and illustrator his work is well established; well known to Canadians for his illustrations, published on the covers of national magazines such as Summer 2016 ◆ WordWorks ◆ Page 24

Macleans. I’m an actress, with no work permit in a foreign country. Ambition, identity, true love and fidelity are all my issues, and I passionately step into Sylvia's shoes. I am 31, the same age she was when she took her own life. Speaking to a Festival organizer, I am reminded that Hughes has been dogged by overeager Plath fans, who blame Ted for Sylvia’s suicide. Everyone is hoping for all of us to defer to his legend-ness and behave like good Canadians. How can I miss this? There will be people in the audience who have seen me in Letters Home, but I want to be a fly on the wall, free to gape and wonder. To know what I could only discover by meeting him: if I were Sylvia, would he have won my heart? Sitting at the back of the stuffed-to-capacity auditorium, I listen with show-me arms folded to the accented, apologetic voice of this man reading absolutely spellbinding poems about a sheep farmer. Afterwards, queues wind around the

room. I thread my way through the bumperto-bumper bodies to ask him if he wants a beer. A look of relief, delight (?) crosses his face. Gord pushes his way through the absolutely stuffed bar to buy it, and when we deliver it, I pull up a chair and sit right next to Ted Hughes. I look over his outstretched arm as he signs his autograph into the night. I am close enough to him to feel the warmth of his body. At the end of the night, Ted Hughes writes me a poem on the back of my ticket. An original Ted Hughes poem, penned in his hand, in sloppy black ink. A photographer from the Kingston Standard, who knows I played Sylvia in Letters Home, snaps our photograph together. It is published the next day. Look at the photo: if you were Ted Hughes, much anticipated Poet Laureate, meeting adulating fans as the evening wears down, you could show this photo to your third wife. She'd see the look on your face. She'd notice your left hand, unusually large in the foreground.

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POETRY

SO, THIS IS TED HUGHES CAITLIN HICKS

So, this is Ted Hughes. “A large, hulking, healthy Adam” she said Ha! A stoop-shouldered shuffler a baggy panted Down-looker: chin crooked in his neck pointed nose cocked sideways. That hair! Straight grey, greasy fronds spring from his forehead into those wide eyes softly laughing at the wrinkled edges; set against a wiskery grey-bearded chin. He’s not that Big, Hulking, Huge Whatever She described: he’s in his Fifties! “With a voice like the thunder of God,” she said I hear Soft, apologizing

warm-accented timbre rumbling, rising and bellowing in the passionate heat of his Wild Word poems A singer, story-teller Weaving magnets before gullible, gaping faces We sit on seat’s edge In the crowded stillness a pin drop We, gasping for air forget to clap His head hangs like Christ on the cross He ends the rushing, bleeding images Tricks us, starts again! Like a prayer! So this is Mellowed This Ted Hughes.

Humble, clumsy-gaited embarrassed and amused by the adulating bodies A sea washes Him to a table to sit. Dry, condemned man up-glances sideways Mischief darts under the ferns He’s a rascal! He taunts his captors gleefully signing his punishment His name, Ted Hughes. Big, black sloppy fountain of ink eagerly spoils white parchment virgin book He hardly sees their faces but smiles seductive, shy sly charming disarming Ted Hughes. My rabbit heartbeat Adrenalin-drugged insane! I plot, full of courage Book toting, ticket-toting, program-toting ants inch line behind him I blurt forward squashing a knat-sychopant at His side “Do you want a drink?” I gasp, hoping He nods,” Yes!” Triumphant! I paw the crowd Tingling thrilled The squirming insects clutch forward a mass of thirsty limbs Gord! co-conspirator lover, director, psst! “He wants a beer!” A wink, and tumbling fumbling for the sparkling fizzy Page 25 ◆ WordWorks ◆ Summer 2016

POETRY my lover pays and gets. Cunning spiders, we tiptoe, web and circle our prey Beer. Here! Jailbird smiles, grateful. And we, full-cheeked Cheshire cats share the mouse we chew A buzzing bumblee bee spies me the pretend Sylvia as Prisoner spoils another book “You, bzzzzzz! Your last production . . . bzzzzz! wonderful!” Big bellied arachnid Recoils. “Don’t! I’m not her!” I scramble safely away lest he discover me for the fraud I am Ted Ted scribble scribbles More play comments from a tall grasshopper and someone is pointing at me from across the room my stomach knots I spin the web Mingle in the milling crowd “Please?” I ask, “ A photograph?” “Me and He? Photographer frowns I beg Me The actress, He The Legend ? Camera bearer scoots to smug fat beetle Event Official. Barrel belly Panic here! remembering our phone chat to him I was a Plath-fly “Don’t! I’m not!” And yet finally! WE: Me and He exactly are a picture The Legend leans to me those crinkling conspirators lurking impishly at the edges Summer 2016 ◆ WordWorks ◆ Page 26

of His eyes, His mouth Kingston photo-man poises his lens and in that moment HE, the famous English poet my fantasy husband shrinks away from me the pretend, the secret Sylvia And he stiffens, somber: carefully protecting his offspring image, Ted Hughes. Flash! It’s over. The hulking Adam glows again. As night thins, as crowd wearys a full-mouth fat lipped blonde thrusts a well-worn lipstick pen into His hand We Bask in embarrassment as The Captured rapes another creamy page drawing a heart above undying words to her She waves, twitters, Totters breathes on Him, touches his hand Listening, uncomfortable we all laugh. So finally it’s tired, we’re late, The witching hour. I shrink, Becoming ant Empty handed I fumble pleas ardent Catholics pray to Jesus Prisoner smiles at me: yet another insect His broad wedding-ringed hand scribbles quick in wet ink on my tickets a poem to me: For Caitlin who brought me a beer when everybody else only wanted a signature here We (1) Ted Hughes (2) Ted Hughes (3) Ted Hughes

(4) His other self Ted Hughes (5) His subsidiary Ted Hughes (6) Id, Ego, Superego Ted, Ed Edward Hughes. I am an actress too young, at age nine to have saved her and I left my husband for another lover so I am like Him, too I Became her these last three weeks I learned two, lived two hours of their lives and one-sided at that but my fantasy makes me feel I hold them in my hand as all no doubt do who read His words Her life and wonder: Who suffered most?

CRAFT AND EDUCATION

THE ELDER PROJECT A WAY TOWARDS KNOWLEDGE WENDY MORTON

am a former secondary teacher, and a poet with seven books in the world. I like to say that poetry is the shortest distance between two hearts and in the past five years I have seen this happen many times. I have seen First Nations, Metis and Inuit youth sitting with their Elders, turning their Elders’ stories into poems. Two hearts connecting. In 2008, I was commissioned by the Alberni Valley Museum to write poems from archival photographs and journals, in celebration of the 150th birthday of the Province of B.C. The poems were combined with photographs and displayed in the museum. After I wrote the first 20 poems, I realized that a whole population was being ignored: the First Nations people: the Tseshaht, the Hupacasath, the Ahousaht, the Nuu-Chah-Nulth, who had been there thousands of years before the arrival of the white settlers. Jean McIntosh, the museum’s director, agreed. Two chairs were set up in the Museum and many First Nations

people came with their stories. I met Dolly McRae, who told me stories of her life in residential school. She and others I spoke to became my teachers. It was from them I learned of the darkness of the residential school experience. As well, I learned about the rich life they had with their families. I wrote in one of my poems, how they were “raised with the sacred/ the seasons of the moon/ to honor the earth, the elders.” A year later, I met Barb Stoochnoff, a teacher at Chemainus Secondary School told her about the book I had written for the Alberni Museum project, What Were Their Dreams. She asked me to come to her class of First Nations students, and teach them to be poets. And so I arrived, magnetic poetry and photographs in hand and worked with them to find the words for their own stories. Denise Augustine, who is in charge of Aboriginal Education for the Cowichan Valley School District 79 was there, and said, after she saw the poems the students had written, and how readily they had

THE ELDER PROJECT | 33

Page 27 ◆ WordWorks ◆ Summer 2016

CRAFT AND EDUCATION written poetry, said “Let’s do something.” That something was the first Elder Project book. Denise and I compiled a list of questions for the students to ask the Elders that would give the students an idea of the life the Elders had lived. I trained the students to write poetry. I distributed photographs, some of which had been given to me by the Elders I met in Port Alberni, and gave the students a pile of Magnetic Poetry words, and the students, sometimes working together, wrote small poems, getting an idea of how to write the short lines of a poem. Later, the Elders arrived, and the students turned their stories into poems, which were then published in The Elder Project in 2010. On page 3, Denise wrote in the introduction, “This project connected our youth with their Elders. People hunger now more than ever for connection with one another. These stories connect us to our past, our family and our community. The confidence and creativity that has been developed has been magical to watch.” Together With the Children was published in 2010, with students and Elders from Vernon School District 22 and the Cultural Immersion School at the Okanagan Indian Band. Sandra Lynxleg, District Principal for Aboriginal Education, organized the project in Vernon. I happened to be in Vernon, saw a brochure featuring the Aboriginal Education program and called her up. I took a copy of The Elder Project for her to see and she immediately said, “Yes!!” Later, she wrote in the introduction on page 1: “Read these poems. You’ll ride in a canoe. You’ll see turpentine poured on a head. You’ll eat hard tack cookies. Smell a box of crayons. As you turn each page you’ll meet us and learn more about who we are.” In 2011, the third book, The Elders Speak, was published. Again, in School District 79. This book involved students from Chemainus Elementary, Crofton Elementary and Penelakut Island Elementary. Students involved in the first book acted as assistants for these students. They helped the younger students write their magnetic poetry poems, sometimes sat in on the interview with the Elders, and provided valuable support. One poem, on page 4, written by Kali Jack and Tyson Jack for their Elder, Danny Norris, captures the spirit of the project’s intent:

Torngat Mountains National Park in Labrador, where I worked with Inuit youth and their Elders.Denise Porter,who was the Aboriginal Education Support Worker in Golden, wrote, “The real gift of the Elder Project was in the intergenerational connections that were made, and will live on, not only in a physical form, but also in the minds and souls of the participants.” We have received support for the production of some of these books from Coast Capital Credit Union, TD Bank, New Horizons for Seniors and Parks Canada. All of the books have been designed and edited by Rhonda Ganz. These Elder Projects have changed me and given me a new understanding of First Nations, Metis and Inuit people, and they have deepened my compassion. My greatest hope is that the books that are produced will find their way into classrooms where the students can learn to view First Nations, Metis and Inuit people as the gifted human beings they are. The goal of an Elder Project is to have the students hear the stories of their Elders, to take the stories into themselves and write poems which will then go out into the world, with healing for everyone who reads them. There are now 14 Elder Projects. They can be viewed online at www.theelderproject.com/home.html

Pacific Wordcrafters Words matter.

My Elder, Danny Norris I grew up around wood stoves and sawdust stoves. We had a small house, 18 people, no running water. There were roses outside, a smokehouse for drying fish. We made sure our chores were done first, then we could go and play. We had to eat at the table because the Elders were talking, teaching us. We swallowed their knowledge. Many more books were produced over the next five years. These Elder Projects were done all over British Columbia and at Summer 2016 ◆ WordWorks ◆ Page 28

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CRAFT AND EDUCATION

A NEW SPIN ON THE ELDER PROJECT ANN GRAHAM WALKER

ometime earlier this year, when BC days were a dark monsoon, I emailed Wendy Morton to get her thoughts on things the Federation of British Columbia Writers might do to better serve Aboriginal community. Wendy, as you can see in her WordWorks article this issue, is the organizer and instigator of fourteen Elder Projects that bring together Aboriginal schoolchildren with their storied 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 hesitated in answering my email. She told me about the young Elder Project participant who once expressed the invisibility she feels. It may be 2016, but—real or perceived—for an Aboriginal teenager navigating the halls of his/her school, there is still the feeling of being on the other side of a divide, whether you want to be there or not. Do non-Aboriginal students know that divide as well, and wish it weren't there? "What I've always wanted to do is a variation on the Elder Project," Wendy said. "It would be to get First Nations and White or Metis 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 did open doors to shared understanding and compassion. Could the Federation of BC Writers play a role in making such an event happen? Yes, the Board decided, as long as proper procedure is absolutely followed, as long as the participants are carefully chosen by a responsible, professional person, bearing in mind that the students are minors. There was a perfect place to pilot the idea. Wendy called Barbara Stoochnoff, teacher and counsellor at Che-

mainus 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. On April 28, seventeen students (selected by Barbara) ranging from grade eight to grade twelve congregated in a classroom at Chemainus Secondary School for a poetry workshop lead by Wendy and Barbara: There were eight non-Aboriginal students, nine Aboriginal students— three of them published "graduates" of a previous Elder Project. Barbara had 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 will be published in a chapbook to be given to the students and to school libraries. What did the students think of the experi-

ence, 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. One White student admired the deep pride his Aboriginal partner held, despite a sometimes difficult and impoverished childhood. That student, in turn, expressed his surprise in discovering his partner had gone through difficult, impoverished times during childhood as well. Another student commented on how interconnected everyone was. So much happens in a conversation.

Page 29 ◆ WordWorks ◆ Summer 2016

EDITORIALS AND OPINIONS

THE STORY WE LEAVE BEHIND ANDREA MCKENZIE RAINE

s authors, we are natural storytellers, and have so many stories brewing deep inside that we want to share. Many of the stories we need to tell may not fall into the hands of the reading masses, but they might be fortunate to be read by family and friends; left as a legacy. The stories may start out as personal memoirs or family history, intended only for those who are part of the story. A story that is left behind may also be the story that remained locked in the author’s imagination, and never reached the page; the ambitious tale that was never quite tackled. Perhaps the author is reluctant to pen a story that is close to his or her heart because it may involve someone who might be offended by the telling of the story. It is difficult to change the names in a story to protect the innocent if the purpose of the story is to give a historical account. Another reason may be because the research required for the telling of a story is overwhelming, and the author does not yet have the time or resources to fully immerse themselves in the project. Authors also sometimes hoard away their stories while toiling away at a career, household responsibilities, and raising young children; they wait until they reach retirement and their kids are grown before committing to the act of writing – a long-awaited passion, like a secret lover. Sadly, for some that day might not come and the unwritten stories perish with the author. As fruitless or frivolous as it may seem at the time, while waiting for the ‘right time’, it is important to write and to honour that desire to tell the story because it is a gift. The author can only hope that the unpublished story, locked away in an old trunk or kept in the bottom of a drawer, won’t be lost – that it will be discovered, read, and enjoyed by those who are closest to us; the intended audience, which could be their children or grandchildren. Words written on a page are living and relevant, and always have the chance of finding an audience, either within the lifetime of the author or beyond their lifetime. Those words are a part

Summer 2016 ◆ WordWorks ◆ Page 30

of the author’s life and experience, and they become immortal, rendering the author certain immortality, as well. As authors, we labour over choosing the right words, the right sentiment or description to embody a period of time, in baring our souls; a telling of our lives, hoping to one day be heard and remembered, to capture a sliver of our world for future generations to understand in

their own time, as the world changes – to live on. The stories inside us need to be told, whether they are destined to reach an audience or not. If we are lucky, they will surface to engage, educate and entertain future readers. Sometimes, the story that is left behind is brought to light many years later by those we entrust it to – and unwittingly reaches the masses and finds its voice.

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LETTERS

LETTERS TO THE FBCW WORDWORKS WOULD LIKE TO OFFER AN OPEN COLUMN TO ALL OF ITS READERS! Send us a question to communications@bcwriters.ca about anything somewhat writing related. If applicable, someone from the Federation will try to answer any questions.

Hello, Quick question: do you guys still pay an honorarium for submitted stories which you publish? Thanks, Hi, The best answer is no, for now. We are trying to do one better. We decided at a previous board meeting that an honorarium wasn't good enough, and we decided to pay at .20/word instead for fiction and non-fiction that was previously unpublished. We also pay 50.00/poem. This is a trial offering, which is why we haven't advertised it (we need to ensure we can get grant funding) but for the foreseeable future that will be our policy. If it doesn't work out, we will go back to $100.00 honorariums.

Hello, Nice to meet you. Yes, when you have a book available to sell or a launch happening, please do send me an email. I'll post about it in the WriteOn newsletter. Additionally, you're able to purchase a low-cost ad in WordWorks Classifieds. All the best, Shaleeta Harper Executive Director; FBCW Hi, I was pointed in the direction of the FBCW by a writer friend of mine. I am wondering what the benefits are for joining. I am interested in joining,but I would like more info. I can see your members profiles but I recognize very few of the names

I hope that answers your question!

Thanks,

Shaleeta Harper Executive Director; FBCW

Hello,

Hi, I'm a new member, and have been fortunate in that a publishing house offered to publish my first novel. We have a signed contract and I’m just waiting for all the steps necessary before it is ready for print. It seems that can take a great deal of time. I was wondering if, when it is ready for sale, should I let you know? Thanks,

I'm glad you messaged us. Our member profiles are not extensive--many members choose to remain anonymous. To answer your main question though-we have several benefits for members. As a member, you receive WordWorks magazine, and the publications of any current partners that we work with (currently Geist and BC Bookworld). Members receive substantial discounts to workshops, retreats, and other events. Members are able to place ads in WordWorks (Member Classifieds) at a special, affordable rate,

and can submit articles to WordWorks. Your regional representative will arrange get togethers and network with your local community through a regional newsletter, which is members only. We are always looking for more ways to help our members, and are open to suggestions. Additionally, I need to mention that we are changing our programs, so the website will become more feature rich (forums, blog), and some content will be only available to members. If you have any more questions, feel free to let me know. Shaleeta Harper Executive Director; FBCW Hello, How do I go about changing my method of payment for my membership.? I no longer want bcwriters taking automatic payments from my paypal account. Thanks, Hi, You'll need to go into your Paypal and cancel the automatic payments-- after that you can pay by cheque, credit card, or Paypal (non-automated)Please let me know if I can help further. Best, Shaleeta Harper Executive Director; FBCW Page 31 ◆ WordWorks ◆ Summer 2016

MEMBER CLASSIFIEDS These classifieds are open to only FBCW Members, and are $35.00 each

PUBLISHING CONSULTANT AND BOOK COACH Fiction and Non-Fiction Print or Ebook

A COUNTRY GIRL A BESTSELLING EROTIC NOVEL BY JEANNE AINSLIE IS NOW AVAILABLE ON AMAZON KINDLE amazon.com/author/jeanneainslie

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When Stanley Rabbit moves from Little Bear Reserve to the inner city with his family, he finds himself dealing with many challenges – his sister’s lure into prostitution, striving to get good grades in high school, struggling with peer pressure, drugs and alcohol and avoiding an unfriendly cop with a questionable agenda. How does Stanley cope with these and other difficult adolescent challenges?

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Summer 2016 ◆ WordWorks ◆ Page 32

MEDITATION THE ART & ACT OF MINDFULNESS “This is a fabulous book” Jean Howell “Calming, cultivating and controlling our miracle mind is done with the act of meditation” Henry Landry PRE ORDER NOW AND SAVE: WWW.VIRETREATS.COM/NEW BOOK OR TXT: 250. 710. 7594

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For more information visit writersfest.bc.ca/membership, call 604-681-6330, or email aforshner@writersfest.bc.ca

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