“Between the Lines”: Josh Quirion in Interview with Terence Byrnes


JQ: How does your background as a writer inform your work as a photographer?

TB: On the surface, I don’t think there is very much crosstalk between the two areas, and I’m not entirely convinced there’s much going on beneath the surface. However, I do remember reading an article in the Toronto Star, when I was a boy, that talked about Federico Fellini’s casting technique, which involved looking directly into the faces of hundreds of people wanting a role in one of his films. It struck me, even then, that there was something appealingly wanton about that direct, evaluating, and possibly violating, gaze. When we look at people as characters in fiction and non-fiction, or as photographic subjects, that gaze is allowed, even required. The big difference between them is that my writing uses narrative to imply meaning. The still photograph constantly poses a question of what the narrative might be.

On a different tack…I’m also a pretty avid student of furniture design and construction. Had you asked me about the relation between making half-blind dovetails and writing or photography, it wouldn’t have been hard to draw comparisons.

JQ: Your photo series, South of Buck Creek, chronicles the lives of the inhabitants of Springfield, Ohio over multiple decades. Springfield, with its “crime, ageing population, and poverty,” was designated as America’s unhappiest city. Why did you select it and its population as subjects for a photography project? 

TB: Pure chance. I attended university in the States and was trying to make a few extra dollars taking passport photographs for my well-heeled, fellow students. One afternoon, I caught a ride into the nearby city of Springfield, Ohio, to buy supplies. The photo store was closed, I had to take the photographs early the next morning, and there was no way to return to my dorm. So, I spent the night walking the streets, meeting long-haul truckers and prostitutes in all-night cafes, and getting a glimpse of good, white, Protestant Springfield turned upside down. I returned with my camera (an Agfa Ambi Silette, for those interested in museum pieces) a week later and started to learn those streets, to listen to people’s stories, and to photograph.

The city was rigidly divided by race, class, and district, and my constant crossing of those borders often made the work dangerous. Inevitably, though, I made friends and became known, and people dressed in tattered hand-me-downs would pass in rattling pickups, yelling, “Hey, Canada! Picture!” It was an exhilarating acceptance into a world the middle-class residents of that city knew of, but only as an abstraction.

Not everyone accepted me, though. Some tried to run me down with their cars and threatened me with death in gruesome ways, but I always handled it. As more crack cocaine and Oxycodone entered that world, and Hispanic migrants added to the already-volatile human mix, things began to change.  On my last trip there, I was canvassing a familiar street, camera in hand, when an old man approached me, and raised his hand. “You see that house?” he said, pointing. “That fellow live there, he see you on the street an’ he go’n’ pop a cap in yo’ ass.”

As grateful as I was for the warning, it was unsettling to hear him speak what sounded like lines from a Hollywood movie or a bad novel. At that moment, I realized that my sense of invulnerability had itself been a fiction and that yes, if I kept it up, someone would most likely pop a cap in my ass.

JQ: It is fascinating that broken things, and thing breaking, often represent some of the most compelling subjects of examination for artwork. Does the artist have an obligation to use his or her medium as an instrument for the betterment of society?

TB: Ah, the Whack-a-Mole question! If the answer is, “Yes, artists have a responsibility to make society better,” other questions pop up. One must quickly ask which segment of society we’re talking about. The Japanese have called Canada a “mongrel nation” for good reason. We’re not homogeneous in background or values. Then there’s the troubling question of “betterment.” One person’s notion of betterment can be another’s nightmare. And if the artist ignores that responsibility to work toward a brighter world, does it mean that the art is bad by definition?

Your question has an easy answer: No. The artist’s responsibility is to do the job creatively and well. If the work should also bring to our attention an unjust social situation that must be addressed, call it value added. If the work represents its world poorly, unfairly, or even uninterestingly, we call it bad art. Artists are not social workers.​

JQ: Are you currently working on something specific?

TB: Probably too many things specific. I’m back to short stories and slowly building a new collection. And discovering, once again, that fiction-writing is a curious business. A story so often starts with an image or a feeling, not a narrative. The narrative must then be conjured from the story’s language. But there’s the baffling challenge: how to create language to carry a narrative that doesn’t yet exist?

JQ: Is there a recurring theme or intention that populates your work—is there something about your writing that is manifested in your photography, or vice-versa?

TB: I think every writer eventually discovers that, however one might experiment with topic, form, or voice, it’s still the same ventriloquist speaking through every story. I’m tempted to say that a theme like transgression surfaces again and again in much of my work, but acts of transgression are inherent in any dramatic form. I probably discover stories much more often than I invent them.

There is a parallel of sorts in photography. The shrunken, monocular world of the viewfinder or monitor is only an approximation of what winds up on the film or sensor. Which means that the process of photographic creation is often more editorial than spontaneous.

JQ: As a creative writing teacher, what might be the one governing suggestion that you would give aspiring authors? 

TB: Only one? Okay. Don’t fall prey to the self-defeating idea that the work of “authorship” (awful word!) is an all-or-nothing deal. Very, very few writers sit at their desks for 6 or 8 hours every day, pound it out, and make their living from that activity. It is possible—and often necessary and helpful—to do more than one thing in life. Chekhov was a doctor, Wallace Stevens an insurance executive, Rohinton Mistry a bank clerk, Alice Munro a bookstore founder, Mavis Gallant a journalist, and on and on it goes.

Since you have limited me to “one governing suggestion” I won’t mention that wide reading in fiction and non-fiction is essential, because writing, at its heart, is writing back to what you’ve read. Nor will I say anything about the undeniably selfish component of being an artist and the need to accept that fact. Or about the inevitability of slack periods (sometimes decades) in one’s productivity. We’ll save those topics for another Q&A. ​


Terence Byrnes says that he began publishing poetry, fiction, non-fiction, and photography “when giant lizards roamed the earth.” Over that unlikely span, he has published three books and his work has appeared in magazines ranging from Rolling Stone to Reader’s Digest to The Walrus. His photography has been published and shown internationally. Recently, Byrnes won a National Magazine Award (Gold) for a project that combined text and image in a form that was at once a social documentary and a memoir. He has taught creative writing at Concordia University, in Montreal, since 1976. A sampler from Rock’n’Roll Criticism to Memoir:

1970 record review in Creem, one of the first rock magazines: http://www.beefheart.com/lick-my-decals-off-baby-review-by-terry-byrnes/

1971 poetry review of Richard Brautigan’s poetry in Rolling Stonehttp://brautigan.cybernetic-meadows.net/tiki-index.php?page=byrnes

2006 memoir about ghostwriting in Maisonneuve, “Anatomy of a Ghost”: https://maisonneuve.org/article/2006/02/23/anatomy-ghost/

2008 interview, “The Literary Photographer”: http://literaryphotographer.com/terence-byrnes-closer-to-home-interview/

2012 memoir, “The Missing Piece” (original title “Missing War”) in The Walrushttps://thewalrus.ca/the-missing-piece/

2017, text and image, in Geist, “South of Buck Creek” (National Magazine Award Winner—Gold): https://www.geist.com/photography/south-of-buck-creek/

2017 “An Education,” published as fiction in carte blanche under the pseudonym “Gabe Marcus,” but where do memoir and fiction intersect? http://carte-blanche.org/articles/an-education/

2018 on-line interview about “The Author and the Author Photograph”: http://thebibliofile.ca/terence-byrnes-on-photography-and-the-author-photograph

Theatre Debut for Bookstore Owner Janice LaDuke


Text by Josh Quirion

     Literary connoisseur and owner of Queen Street’s Black Cat Books, Janice Laduke, is trying her hand at playwriting. Her subject, Pilgarlic the Death, is the debut novel by Bernard Epps. First published by Macmillan in 1967, it was, in the words of LaDuke, “resurrected” by Quadrant Editions in 1980. England-born and U.S.-schooled, Epps was an author, historian, humorist, and cartoonist who established himself in Lennoxville in the 1980s, where he became, as LaDuke characterizes it, “a bookstore regular from day one.”

            Epps’s novel, Pilgarlic the Death, was described by Professor Sherrill E. Grace as a “very fine” one that is concerned with the celebration of ordinary life and the mysticism of small towns. The small town in the novel is Stormaway, and it is situated in the Eastern Townships where the primary characters, Dougal the School, Hugh the Hero, John the Law, Milly of the Hill, and the eponymous Pilgaric the Death, become, as Grace describes them, “dream figures who are larger than life.” 

            It is his novel and these characters from which, approximately two years ago, LaDuke perceived the possibility of creating an adaptation of Epps’s work and of giving it a voice. And so, LaDuke “set about cutting down and paring out of Bernie’s novel, a play.” Although she admits that the play is nowhere near the story in its entirety, she qualifies it as a sampling, and hopes that it might entice and guide readers in the direction of the original work.

            Staged by the Eaton Corner Museum, the play will open on February 23rdat the Sawyerville Community Center in Sawyerville (situated less than twenty minutes outside of Lennoxville). LaDuke considered that because of its previous plays—“brimming with life and enthusiasm and pride in the history of this place where we live”—the Eaton Corner Museum represented the ideal theatre society to help her production materialize.

In the words of Janice LaDuke:

            “If you have any interest at all in the Eastern Townships, in the people of the Eastern Townships, in the history of the Eastern Townships, in the geography of the Eastern Townships, in literature, in play, in comedy and in tragedy… if you have any interest at all in LIFE, then you must come and see this play.”

Laduke has resurrected a novel that disappeared prematurely. Let us bear witness:

Feb 23, 2 p.m. & 7:30 p.m.
6 Rue Church, Sawyerville
Tickets available at Black Cat Books (168 rue Queen)
or contact Elaine Lebourveau for reservation: 819-563-8700



“Between the Lines” – Josh Quirion in Interview with Ann Scowcroft


JQ: Your debut collection, The Truth of Houses, received the Concordia University First Book Prize. About the work, jurors said it was “as if the author had been accumulating, constructing her vision long enough and could hold back no longer.” Is this accurate? Can you describe your method and practice of collecting material, and transforming that material into a collection of poetry?

AS: I think the jurors’ comment was accurate, perhaps more accurate than they knew, and perhaps especially regarding the reference to accumulation. Was The Truth of Houses my first book or my fourth? Difficult to know. I started writing seriously when my children were young and the book was published after they’d left home. Once I had enough poems to make up what I thought a collection would look like, I sent it out. There were always new poems, new ways to see how they might relate to each other whenever I got a rejection back six months or a year later. The pattern repeated itself until Brick accepted the manuscript it had become. Some of those first poems are in the book, as are a few that came after the manuscript was accepted. Of course there was the whole bit in between the sendings and the acceptance that involved sharing it among trusted readers. Given that I experienced the poems in that collection as cumulative and not thematic, it took feedback from friends for me to understand what a reader might hear. Michelle Ariss suggested the collection title, and, from there, I could see an organization was possible. That lead to fishing around in A Pattern Language, which also helped shape the sections in an otherwise non-thematic collection. In the years that I had been writing, sending, receiving rejections, re-writing, etc., poetry collections had begun to take shape in much more intentional ways that didn’t really reflect the accumulation aspect of Truth of Houses that the jurors noticed.

I suppose clarity and space are as close as it comes to method for me. I wrote for several years with a collective of writers from the Eastern Townships, and sometimes a poem would spring in its entirety in the kind of sacred space people writing and listening to each other can create. More often a line or a surprise reflection that seem suitable for a poem will just kind of float up from the clutter of every day mind, and I’ll write that down. Then it’s about creating time and space to sit with it and see what it would like from me, if anything. It’s really about the focused time in which an idea or a thought might develop into a poem.

JQ: You mention writing with a collective of writers from the Eastern Townships. Can you discuss your experience of belonging to “an association,” if you will, and what that can contributes to a poet’s (or author’s) work? And might I ask, also, who were the other writers from the Townships with whom you collaborated, and what form such a collaboration assumes?

AS: In 1993 my family lived for a year in western Massachusetts. I joined a writing group there, led by someone who had trained with Pat Schneider from Amherst. Hers was, at the time, a very particular approach that is probably more ubiquitous now. The leader provides a prompt of some kind, and the people gathered write whatever comes as a result of the prompt–or whatever comes despite the prompt. Then immediately, the extemporaneous fragments are read aloud, and each writer has an opportunity to listen to what the other writers heard in the piece. The listening and learning to respond to the writing and not the person is as important as the writing, and both are very useful for the writer.

I took that experience home to the Townships when we moved back in 1994, and started a group that included a number of people, including Carolyn Rowell, Marjorie Bruhmuller and Janice LaDuke, all of whom (and others still) eventually took the baton and extended the offer in other groups and locations. Many people have come and gone in the many permutations of that starter group. The initial gesture still resonates, still pulls new people in, and still gathers some of those original voices. More importantly for me personally was the kind of immediate community it created. Even if I haven’t led or participated in many years, the bond of finding people with the same yearning is a strong one, and many of those women (because it was mostly women) remain important people in my life. Impossible to meet one and not ask: how’s the writing going? It’s probably no more difficult being a rural writer than any other kind, but isolation can be an issue when you are just beginning to believe you might have something to say. Difficult to have confidence if there’s no one to listen!

JQ: From the perspective of someone who has written within a collective, can you speak to the mythos of the isolated, solitary writer? It would seem that this archetype is often romanticized in literature; would you say that it is so in literary practice as well? And, why do you think the writers you collaborated with in the nineties were mostly women; was it merely coincidence, or might there have been other contributing factors? 

AS: I wonder what you have in mind with “mythos,” and what romantic notion is coming to mind?  It gives me this image of the moor and substance abuse, but perhaps I am not reading the question right. Women tend to find time alone quite precious, or at least I have. Writing requires focus, and that usually means a fair bit of time alone unfettered by the needs of other beings. Is there any work that doesn’t require focus though? Even if you do what you do in the vicinity of others, chances are there’s a solitary aspect. I think I wrote earlier that there could sometimes be spontaneous and untouchable brilliance that arises in collective writing experiences; sometime something fully formed can appear. More often than not though, at least in my experience, the ghost of something swims up and needs to be taken home to be worked with. For people who don’t work in writers’ rooms or with performance groups, where the collective is assumed and needed, I think there is a certain amount of ownership that has to be generated around a given piece of writing, and that can only be done by building a relationship with it through long hours of singular contact. Having a community of other people who spend chunks of time with the life of their imaginations ruling things is important for many reasons, not the least of which are sanity and concrete creative feedback. When it comes to the work of writing, though, the fact is much it has to be done alone. I’m not sure if that feeds into the mythos or not.

Why mostly women in the group collaborations? I never asked. Men did participate in fewer numbers. Why was there only one man in my yoga class the other night? No idea. Geography? Flexibility? Disinterest? Is the gender segregation similar in degreed creative writing programmes? In groups or programmes led by men? Is it a rural thing? The possible variables are many and sound like they could add up to a healthy MA thesis. It’s likely a larger question that the small answer, whatever it is, about writing collaborations might contribute one drop to. You are probably better positioned to answer than I am: what do you think?

JQ: You participated, as writer, on an interdisciplinary performance project titled Frankenstein’s Ghost. You published the aforementioned collection of poetry, worked as a lecture at the Universities of Sherbrooke and Bishop’s, and you are now involved with the UNHCR as a Technical Advisor. How does it all connect? Does the artist have a responsibility vis-à-vis pedagogy? 

AS: Looks like restlessness more than a grand plan, doesn’t it? My work and creative lives have both meandered. It might take a few more years to see a meaningful pattern if there is one. I come from a family where it was understood that work delivered meaning to one’s life, and also that creative pursuits were fine as crafts, best suited for the basement or garage. Writing has always been both central to my interior life and shadowed in my external life. Which might explain the patience with waiting for the first book to take a publishable shape, and the willingness to go in a different direction with collaborations after. I’m circling another couple of projects now that seem singular, but not sure. I’ve lost a couple these last few years.

I’ve been asked a lot about the opportunities that the humanitarian work might bring to my writing, though never what an artist might bring to the work.  It has not yet brought content; I’m not convinced it ever will. It has made precision and clarity important, refined my attention to representation of experience so that it might re-create a reality and not a perception for someone who is not in a specific place, but who must make informed decisions about any number of impossible things that will affect the lives of significant numbers of vulnerable people in that place. The power of observation might then be what I’ve had to offer as a writer in this sphere of work.

JQ: What do you consider to be two great works of literature? 

AS: That word “great” is so dependent on time and circumstance for me. Anything by CD Wright for poetry; Steal Away is a particular favorite. For fiction, Rachel Cusk’s Outline was a revelation.

  Ann Scowcroft lives and writes in the Eastern Townships.

“Between the Lines” – Josh Quirion in interview with Philip Lanthier


JQ: When, and in what capacity, did you first get involved with creative writing in the Eastern Townships?

PL: I arrived in Lennoxville in 1972 as part of the second wave of appointments to the newly created Lennoxville Campus of Champlain Regional College. I had been appointed head of the English module (later elevated to departmental status) and quickly discovered that there was a talented bunch of colleagues in the department. We were also part of a growing critical mass of writers in the region, which included poets Ralph Gustafson, Louis Dudek, D.G. Jones, and Avrum Malus, and novelist Ronald Sutherland. John Glassco of Memoirs of Montparnasse fame was not far away in Knowlton.

The magazine, entitled Matrix: New Canadian Writing, was a collective effort on the part of interested members of the Champlain English Department. Our initial plan was to solicit writing from right across Canada and to embrace all aspects of the writing spectrum: poems, interviews, stories, reviews, translations, as well as film, television and stage scripts. At least, that’s what we said in our introductory editorial, and in fact over the fourteen years of publication, only film and television scripts escaped our editorial zeal. Before we embarked on the project, I was able to get the financial backing of the Campus Director, Peter Hill, and spent a helpful and convivial evening talking to Doug Jones who had been instrumental in founding the bilingual magazine, Ellipse, five years before. As the years went by, we also benefited from an annual Canada Council grant. The magazine became part of the Canadian Periodical Publishers’ Association where, for a while, I chaired a literary committee.

Matrix published twice yearly—there were exceptions when teaching workload overwhelmed the editors—until in the Fall of 1988, Issue 27, the last before the periodical was handed over to a group of teachers at John Abbott College in Montreal.  During those years, the literary critical mass expanded, and the area saw the arrival of poets Rob Allen, Steve Luxton, Michael Harris, Ian Tait, Rod Willmot, and others. Readings of poetry and prose flourished on the Bishop’s campus; The Seventh Moon Poetry Readings were a well-attended annual event in North Hatley. In fact, a subsequent issue of Matrix highlighted one of the readings with excerpts, sketches, and photographs of readers.

The whole process of editing a magazine I found fascinating and informative. Soliciting manuscripts, debating their worthiness with colleagues, carefully editing the texts, proofreading diligently, laying out the pages, finding illustrations—it was cut and paste back then—working with the printer, and then receiving delivery; it was all very satisfying.  I would occasionally involve students in the selection process. “Should we print this story/poem?  Why or why not?” The actual work of literary assessment dovetailed nicely with what worked in the classroom.  We never made any money. The price of our first issue? 50 cents, reduced from $1.00.

JQ: In November of last year, at the QWF’s (Quebec Writers’ Federation) annual awards ceremony, you were presented with the Judy Mappin Community Award for your contributions to creative writing in the Eastern Townships. What are the “contributions” for which the award was bestowed, and what did its bestowal represent for you?

PL: What the Judy Mappin award meant to me was that my love of literature was recognized beyond the confines of the Champlain College classrooms I taught in for nearly 30 years.  It was very satisfying teaching young people about the joys of reading, but it was particularly rewarding to reach out to the wider literary community through Matrix and through my work in editing the English portions of the Anthology of 20th Century Poetry of the Eastern Townships. Implicitly, I suppose, I was also recognized for my book reviewing, interviews with Rob Allen and Doug Jones, an introduction to a volume of Steve Luxton’s poetry, and an article on Jones as a translator which appeared in the anthology Language Acts. Once I retired, I had the opportunity to help start up the Knowlton Literary Festival, which celebrates writers both local and from out-of-town.  This has truly been a community effort involving about a dozen volunteers from the Knowlton area who for the last eight years have put together an increasingly successful and highly anticipated event each October. It takes a whole village to launch a literary festival; the support we’ve received from the Town would have made Judy Mappin very happy indeed. I was honoured and delighted to receive the award.

JQ: What can you tell me about this year’s edition of the KLF?

PL: Upcoming this October and highlighting the ninth edition of the Knowlton Literary Festival, participants can expect to meet Newfoundland writer Wayne Johnston (The Colony of Unrequited Dreams), crime writer Giles Blount, Globe and Mail sports journalist Roy MacGregor, and a panel of authors who appeared in the Montreal Noir anthology, including local author Johanne Seymour. We are also expecting confirmations from several other authors. As part of its opening night festivities, the Festival will host a version of Dylan Thomas’s Under Milkwood, performed by the Knowlton Players. But, probably the most popular event will be the Thursday night literary cabaret featuring eight to twelve local authors. We already have confirmations from Jim Napier and Isabelle LaFleche. Our ongoing year-round project to get books into the hands of children attending local daycare centres continues to flourish.

JQ: What changes have you seen, in terms of creative writing, in the Eastern Townships?

PL: There’s been a shift from an emphasis on poetry to an emphasis on prose writing, particularly novels.  In the 1970s and 1980s, the presiding writers were poets John Glassco, Ralph Gustafson, Louis Dudek, and D.G. Jones. Other poets such as F.R. Scott and A.J.M. Smith had places in the Townships, while younger poets like David Solway, Michael Harris, Richard Sommer, Rob Allen, and Steve Luxton came later, some briefly, some for longer periods.  The Townships was largely a community of poets centered on the various universities and colleges.  In the 1980s, Mordecai Richler, who had a house on Lake Memphremagog, began to incorporate Townships locations in such novels as Joshua Then and Now and Solomon Gursky Was Here. By the beginning of the current century novelists Louise Penny and Anne Fortier were well established in the area. Louise Penny, in particular, her international reputation growing, has come to dominate the Townships literary landscape.

The Townships lost three literary magazines by the 1990s—Ellipse, Matrix and the Moosehead Review—with a consequent loss of literary focus on work from this region. There has been an inevitable shift from such print media to the internet and social media, where writers’ work can appear readily and reaction solicited. Writing activity has been dispersed throughout smaller communities such as Stanstead, Sutton, and Knowlton.

JQ: As a cultural metropolis, Montreal is recognized worldwide for its artscape. Is there an effort that is made to distinguish the Eastern Townships literary community from that of Montreal?; are there differences in identity and composition that you’ve witnessed, and that you believe have been important for local writers to preserve?

PL: An early issue of Ellipse considered whether there was a characteristic Townships poetry in English, but it announced no clear discovery. The fact that the editors asked the question, however, indicates a growing suspicion at the time that there might be a basis for identifying such an aesthetic. There was also speculation about a form of northern pastoral practiced by local poets such as D.G. Jones and Ralph Gustafson. This is still an open question, which will no doubt preoccupy literary historians in the future. Certainly, there is a pastoral theme running from Frank Oliver Call and Louise Morey Bowman, right through to Steve Luxton. Gustafson celebrated what he called the “local heart,” a space within the imagination, which responds intimately and feelingly to the world beyond one’s window in North Hatley. For D.G. Jones, who lived just down the street, the landscape, or garden world, is the fragile site, which operates as a receiving station for signals from hyperspace: “these flowers/drink news out of the air.” Luxton walks literally into the bush where his encounter with nature becomes a reciprocal experience: He does not merely observe bird-life.  He himself is “in the vision of birds.”

So, if there is a poetic identity which distinguishes Townships poetry, it lies in poets’ focus on the world of more or less tamed lakes, rivers, mountains, and valleys of the local terrain, an Appalachian sensibility rather than pre-Cambrian. This is a country world, a refuge perhaps from the troublesome world of the city (Montreal?), where traffic makes a condition of repose and mental self-sufficiency extremely difficult to evoke…

No doubt Townships writers will continue to reformulate pastoralism to fit the shifting and increasingly perilous times. But it is to Louise Penny that we owe another form of Townships identity, which distinguished us from that city back west on Autoroute 10. She has collated various locations throughout the Townships to create an ongoing fictional world fraught with murder and brutality. One can now take a tour of the Townships which visits some of the more important sites of her high crimes and misdemeanours. At the same time, her novels also focus on the strengths and intimacies of local communities and their inhabitants symbolized by the mythical village of Three Pines.  She has done for the Townships what Julia Spencer Fleming in her crime novels has done for Northern New York State and Archer Mayor for Vermont: she’s put it on the world literary map. Sooner or later, we may produce an Alice Munro.

What distinguishes writing in the Townships from that of Montreal, it seems to me, is a regional rather than metropolitan identity.  If Montreal, with festivals such as Blue Metropolis, fosters multi-lingual and multi-cultural interchange and brings in writers from all over the world, the Townships writing is more local, discovering its identity in the immediate circumstances of life. In the translation work of John Glassco and D.G. Jones, the Townships has been a site of vital interaction between French and English writers. Anglophone writers here tend to be on the periphery of literary events in Montreal, though they clearly do not cut themselves off from contact with fellow writers in the metropolis or elsewhere in the world for that matter. The literary map here is one of distribution of talent through Lennoxville, Hatley, North Hatley, Stanstead, Sutton, Mansonville, and Knowlton:  a constellation of writers and readers who gather from time to time in local bookshops, schools, libraries, and festivals. Most of us do not need a GPS to get around; we know the way already.

JQ: Are there any programs of support and mentorship at the disposal of aspiring writers in the Townships?

PL: Aside from creative writing courses at Champlain College and Bishop’s University, and the efforts of teachers in local elementary and secondary schools, there are a number of regional support programmes for aspiring anglophone Townships writers. Over the last several years, the Townshippers Association has sponsored the Our Story project, which helped writers in various communities to develop their personal stories with a view to publication on-line. This year, Townshippers launched a series of writing workshops mentored by Melanie Cutting, Etienne Domingue, and Jan Draper, the launch took place in North Hatley on June 2. The Knowlton Literary Festival has run well-attended writing workshops for the last eight years both for children and adults. A recent Haiku Canada conference at Bishop’s also brought together writers of that popular poetic form to participate in readings and creative workshops, including a haiku walk on Mont Orford.


Philip Lanthier was founding editor of the literary magazine Matrix published in Lennoxville, between 1975 and 1988.  He has published articles and reviews on English poetry in the Eastern Townships and conducted interviews with notable poets of the region.  He has a B.A. from Loyola College in Montreal and a M.A. and Ph.D. from the University of Toronto.  Since his retirement from Champlain College, he has organized the Knowlton Literary Festival, now in its ninth year.  He lives in Bolton-Ouest.  

“Between the Lines” – Josh Quirion in interview with Carolyn Marie Souaid


“Yasmeen Haddad loves Joanasi Maqaittik”

JQ: The novel is primarily set in Saqijuvik (population 346), a fictional, remote village in northern Quebec. There is a beautiful image described towards the end of the novel, at which point Yasmeen says that from a certain place in Montreal, it seems that the whole of the city can fit inside the palm of her hand, but that in Saqijuvik, she could never fit the expansive landscape in her hand that way. What is it about Saqijuvik that makes it such an extraordinary stage where the story takes place?

CMS: The proliferation of new films set in the Far North is a testament to the visual spectacle of Northern Quebec (now, Nunavik). Simply put, it is stunning. I wrote my novel with film in mind: I wanted the action to play out against the striking Arctic landscape and I wanted this setting to take on a significant role in the narrative. I wanted it to be so in-your-face – despite its quiet stillness – it almost becomes a character itself. The land is huge, beautiful, immeasurable, unpredictable. The human eye can’t take it all in, and there are variables that cannot be controlled—the weather, for example. But Yasmeen believes with every fibre of her being that she has what it takes to grasp its complexity, in the same way she thinks she can get a handle on Joanasi, her lover, a man with a vastly different culture and worldview.

Let me back up for a minute. North of the 55th parallel and accessible only by air, Nunavik boasts roughly 507,000 square kilometres of wild tundra, taiga forest, mountain, river, and lake. Roughly 12,000 people inhabit the 14 communities dotting the Hudson-Ungava coast. Although I wanted my story set there, I didn’t want to anchor it in a specific village for fear that readers might construe the fiction as truth. I asked an Inuit friend to invent a place name that would evoke the changing world of the contemporary Inuit, a locus where tradition and modernity would battle it out. From the Inuktitut, Saqijuvik means, “place where the winds are shifting.” This is one of the main themes of the book—how the Inuit have fared in the aftermath of contact.

When she first arrives in Saqijuvik, Yasmeen is attracted to the unspoiled quietude, the vast, unobstructed sight lines of the tundra. She embraces it without reserve, the way she embraces Joanasi.  She embraces the Inuit values of using what the land provides for food, shelter, and clothing. When she is deeply in love, her relationship to the land is equally passionate. She sees only the pristine, unblemished landscape. As her relationship with Joanasi deteriorates, her feelings for the land take a hit. She begins to see only the detritus—the diapers and rotting carcasses and cigarette butts poking through the grey spring slush.

What Yasmeen wants all along is the “perfect Inuk,” one able to live in the modern world while preserving his culture and traditions. In fact what she discovers is a flawed man; and when she does [spoiler alert], she gives him up. Likewise, she gives up Saqijuvik and returns to the city she knows and understands, the dusty, noisy, predictable world of nine-to-fivers—a city she can fit in the palm of her hand.

JQ: Would you categorize the novel as belonging to the tradition of the bildungsroman (a work dealing with a person’s formative years or spiritual education)? Yasmeen acknowledges that during her tenure in Saqijuvik, she was edified and humbled by the people and the land, but she returns to Montreal disillusioned, with spirits rather abject. What did she learn during her eight months in the North, and how did these lessons affect her; what might be next for Yasmeen Haddad?

CMS: That would be an accurate characterization of the book. Yasmeen’s father, a forward-thinking Syrian-Canadian, has educated her about the value of education and curiosity. He taught her about the American astronauts and the European explorers, and raised her to believe she could do anything she put her mind to—the sky was the limit. When, as a young woman, she finally chooses Quebec’s Far North as a destination, she goes with a pioneer mind-set; she is seeking out a new frontier like the astronauts and early explorers in her father’s bedtime stories. She’s a teacher, but she is also a student hungry for knowledge. She intends to learn everything she can about the Inuit inhabitants, which also means integrating into the community. She is loath to adopt the colonial mentality of previous Qallunaat (people from the “South,” mainly Whites) who have knowingly or unknowingly contributed to cultural genocide in their efforts to introduce “progress” and/or “improve life” in the North. Upon arrival, Yasmeen is drawn to the beauty of the landscape and the resilience of the people who live there. She intends to use every opportunity she can to immerse herself in the culture, and she is harshly critical of her colleagues and other resident Qallunaat, who spend their time judging the Inuit by Western standards and falling back on unfair comparisons and generalizations.

Her relationship with Joanasi is the outward manifestation of her desire to connect with the new culture. She welcomes and even initiates their rough, passionate sex. In her words, she wants “their bodies intersecting on the bed and never coming undone.” She wants to “seal the space between them until it [is] non-existent.” She is serious about trying to bridge their worlds, and believes it is possible. Meanwhile, as the story progresses, Joanasi is beginning to drink more and more, and his rage is building.

Yasmeen’s eventual disillusionment is partly tied to her disillusionment with her father, her childhood hero, whose reckless drinking finally killed him (he is already dead at the start of the novel). She has begun to understand that if she continues down her own reckless path with Joanasi, if she stays with him, she will be destroyed in the process. The only possible solution is to end the relationship. Of course, this makes her a stronger person than her mother, who, like many immigrant women of her generation, stayed in the marriage no matter how bad things got. At the same time, Yasmeen sees this decision to pull out as a failure on her part to connect with the culture of the “other.”

The flashback portion of the novel (Yasmeen’s year-long adventure in Saqijuvik) ends with the dissolution of the relationship, though there is a lack of closure on her part. She doesn’t know what she will do next. Can she be an effective teacher to anyone? With this failure in her repertoire, what does she even know about the world? She is wistful and nostalgic. In the final bookend scene, a return to the beginning of the novel where she encounters the homeless Inuk in a Montreal park, she is finally able to let go of the North and hopefully move forward with her life.

JQ: You mentioned the “western standards” that pervade the attitudes of Yasmeen’s colleagues’ vis-à-vis the Inuit community. Supplied with a few years of experience, Elliott professes his “insider knowledge” about the residents of Saqijuvik. He regularly discusses their systematic, historical, and even genetic shortcomings. Contrarily, the individuals belonging to the local community refrain from exteriorizing judgement. I suppose the question, if it can be called that, I am arriving at concerns silence. The Qallunaat, like the metropolitan regions they are from, are constantly abuzz with talk and gossip, whereas the Inuit appreciate the stillness and quietude of silence. How does silence, or the conversations not had, function as a mechanism in the stories? In the bookend scene that you describe in the previous answer, Yasmeen says that that before (Saqijuvik), she would have bombarded the Inuit man with questions, but instead, she simply sits with him. What lessons can silence impart?

CMS: When I lived in the North back in the 1980s, it was common for students to visit their teachers after school. Usually mine would arrive unannounced, sit on the couch with their parkas still on and eye me curiously for a lengthy time, without saying a word.  They watched me cook, correct, wash dishes. At first it made me uncomfortable. Eventually, I figured out that the Inuit speak when they have something important or necessary to say. They don’t seem to experience our discomfort at being around someone else when we have nothing to say. Nor do they resort to small talk about the weather, for instance, to ease the awkwardness around silence. There is no awkwardness. They say what they have to say in the moment. When finished with a conversation, they will utter the word “taima” (“done”) and walk away or hang up the phone. There are no niceties sprinkled around to stretch out the chat or eradicate the void. In keeping with this practice, radio in the North allows for moments of “dead air,” something that would make radio producers down south cringe.

The contrast of sound and not-sound was a kind of shorthand I used to tell the story of the two cultures and places. Yasmeen adjusts to the silence of her new surroundings. She learns to be with people without talking incessantly. When Yasmeen returns to Montreal for the Christmas break, the jabbering city noise grates on her after all those months of quietude and simplicity and interacting with people in an authentic way.  She is irritated by the “cavernous” airport terminal, the family banter, and the car radio “veering off the station into static.” The city is a place of constant distraction. The snow-draped, silent North is as it is, unembellished. This is what she learns in her short year away. Talk is not always essential. Sometimes it prevents us from living in the moment.

JQ: What is (are) the role(s) of educators from “the South” who assume pedagogical responsibility in the North?

CMS: Before answering this, let me explain the educational infrastructure that is currently in place in Nunavik. It helps explain what is expected of non-Inuit teachers, like Yasmeen, who decide to head north. Briefly then—

After the 1975 signing of the James Bay and Northern Quebec Agreement (first major comprehensive land claims agreement in northern Canada), a lot changed in Nunavik. Health services were restructured, regional governments were established and an Inuit-controlled school board was created. Since the 1970s, Kativik School Board (now Kativik Ilisarniliriniq) has been mandated to develop and deliver educational programs and services to all 14 Nunavik communities. In keeping with the Board’s primary goal of protecting, maintaining and developing the Inuit language, culture and way of life, the first language of instruction is Inuktitut, with English and French as its second languages. The curriculum includes the usual subjects (math, science, history, art, etc.) but culture classes, taught by the locals, provide an opportunity for students to learn about their culture and traditions. Boys learn how to carve, build igloos and sleds, while girls learn how to sew parkas and sealskin boots. A unique teacher-training program also exists to train locals who want to become teachers. Generally speaking, classes are small enough – nothing over 15 – for children to get one-on-one attention.

People who accept a teaching position in the North understand that they are not walking into a traditional western school, although it certainly looks like one from the outside. They understand that they have to make their content pertinent to the lives of the students in their class. This involves a willingness to adapt their materials or create new ones that are relevant. My first year in the North, when the Board was still in its infancy, I made nearly all my classroom materials from scratch. Since then, three decades have passed. Culturally relevant materials are more readily available to teachers.

Several issues complicate the northern educational machine: high rates of student absenteeism and lateness, for example. On a nice day, children are frequently pulled out of school to go hunting with the family. This means a teacher is left to teach a lesson to half the class and then re-teach it the next day. Since this is a cultural matter (eating off the land is healthier than eating overly expensive frozen foods from the Co-op), teachers from the South are asked to be accommodating.

But another factor is important to consider. The world is getting smaller. Nunavik is now connected to the rest of the world through satellite and Internet. Nunavimmiut (people from Nunavik) are part of the global community. As a result, more and more Inuit youth are deciding to pursue post-secondary studies after high school. Since there are no colleges or universities in their own communities, they have to leave the North, and this presents its own set of challenges: homesickness, culture shock, adaptation issues (e.g. large, impersonal classes where the teacher doesn’t know your name). Preparing them for the post-secondary experience means that from early on, students need to be educated in a way that is consistent with their values and traditions, but they also need to be exposed to what is going on outside their communities. Educators need to prepare them for the challenge of moving forward and becoming a player on the world stage (if they wish to do so); of achieving their full potential within the global context, without losing their unique culture and traditions.


Carolyn Marie Souaid is the author of seven poetry collections, most recently This World We Invented (Brick Books, 2015). She has performed at festivals and literary events in the U.S. and Europe as well as Canada, and her work has been translated into French, Arabic, Spanish and Slovenian. Blood is Blood, a videopoem she produced with Endre Farkas, garnered a top prize at the 2012 Zebra Poetry Film Festival in Berlin. Her poems and stories have appeared in several magazines, including The Malahat Review, The New Quarterly, and the Literary Review of Canada, and have been featured on CBC-Radio. Yasmeen Haddad Loves Joanasi Maqaittik is the Silver Medalist for Best Regional Fiction (Canada East) given by the Independent Publisher Book Awards. She lives in Montreal.



“Between the Lines” – Josh Quirion in interview with Marjorie Bruhmuller


JQ: Writers’ immersions in the subject of their writing is essential in obtaining an authentic quality. Your work is rich in description and experience. The speaker has clearly “walk(ed) the woods.” (Reading Firewood, Bruhmuller) How is your relationship with your subject sustained?

MB: We are what we absorb. We deepen each time we feel, see something for the first time; or hear, taste or smell things that we don’t recognize. The mind is naturally curious, and experience (as it does our DNA) scores the brain with memory. So, I follow where an image or sensation takes me. And I walk a lot, and pay attention.

JQ: Who are the poets that  you’ve read whose works have resonated with you, and are there any particular texts that have withstood the test of time and remained relevant to you?

 MB: Shakespeare, Basho, Issa, Coleridge, Robert Frost, Emily Dickinson, D H Lawrence, Walt Whitman, Wislawa Szymborska, W.S. Merwin, Gary Snyder, Czeslaw Milosz, Sylvia Plath, Yrsa Daley-Ward, Galway Kinnell, Bob Dylan, Robert Hass, Jane Hirshfield, Don McKay, Mark Strand, Saul Williams,  Jeff Lemon, Ann Scowcroft, Ted Kooser, Maya Angelou, Aimee Nezhukummatahil, Sharon Olds, Robyn Sarah, Kim Addonizio, Dorianne Laux, Stephanie Bolster, Leonard Cohen, Billy Collins and Mary Oliver. That is the shortlist.

 In this excerpt from, “Learning a Dead Language,” by W.S. Merwin, I sense the essence of what it means to find poetry within yourself.

 “What you remember saves
you. To remember

Is not to rehearse, but
to hear what never

Has fallen silent…”.

 And in this excerpt from Billy Collins, “The Dead,” I so appreciate these lines (the poem in its entirety), the humour of his conjecture, the insight into the human psyche, and the subtlety of his commentary:

 “The dead are always watching
us they say,

while we are putting on
our shoes or making a sandwich,

they are looking down through
the glass-bottom boats of heaven

as they row themselves
slowly through eternity…”

JQ: In this “ongoing” conversation, how does the work of your predecessors permeate your own; how are you speaking back?

MB: By understanding how poets use the devices in their work, and how these tools (and the use of language) have changed; (to exact tone, inference), and by using these devices in my own way, I am able to expand on nuance and technique. I think about how they saw the world and themselves in it. I read between their lines, and use my own experience and that which I have read of theirs to grow a more comprehensive knowledge. I listen in on other poets’ lives, in varying generations, in different time periods and cultures, and carry that knowledge forward in my work.

JQ: In “When It’s June And I’m Walking Down The Street,” the speaker compels the “you” in the poem to look up, and to see, starting from the “pock marks in the pavement,” to the “long clouds sailing over the city like kites.” The final line reads: 

 “I want you to understand, that’s what
I mean.” 

 What should the developing writer understand; what should the reader understand? 

MB: What writers and readers can take from the poem is this: everything matters. The good, the bad. What matters, in the end, is living, the experience itself; what you discover when you are aware, when you’re open even to the most trivial everyday experiences.

JQ: So, how might you encourage developing writers to participate in the timeless conversation of poetry? 

MB: Time is not really the issue here. Response is the key; responding to what other writers say, what is happening at the time, with a global mentality; using what we learn from experience to widen our scope, and to relay these truths on to our readers. In other words, read many types of poetry, go to readings and performance poetry. Don’t lose out by ignoring what you think you know.


Age of Minority: a collection of plays in review


ageofminority (1)What do you get when you combine a closeted militant, YouTube star rihannaboi95, and a sprint across the Death Strip? Three solo plays written by the acclaimed Canadian multidisciplinary artist Jordan Tannahill.

Tannahill (27) is quite the hot commodity in Canadian theatre. In 2014, he won the Governor General’s Award in Drama for his collection of plays titled Age of Minority: Three Solo Plays.

First published in October 2013, Age of Minority: Three Solo Plays depicts the stories of young individuals who are pushed to the margins of society due to their sexuality or political identities. Each of the plays is based on a true story.

The plays, written with young audiences in mind, are defined as Theatre for Young Audiences (TYA). This is evident in the both the style and context of the play, demonstrating the real struggles that youth face in their coming of age journeys.

However, it is not just youth who are picking up this collection of plays and responding to live performances, but people of all ages. No matter the age, the stories of these characters resonate with readers and theatre-goers. There is a rawness to them that leaves the character exposed in his or her vulnerability, all the while maintaining a sense of integrity despite persecution and moments of overwhelming fear.

The first play featured in the collection is Get Yourself Home Skyler James. It is a story about a young American girl, who enlists to the army right out of high school – with her girlfriend. This play is set before the repeal of the Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell Policy. James’ secret is discovered, forcing her to make difficult decisions with no right answers.

Second in the line-up is rihannaboi95. This play is particularly interesting in the manner of which it is performed. As stated at the beginning of the script, “rihannaboi95 is meant to be performed as a YouTube confessional video (a direct-address monologue to a webcam)”. It was first live-streamed over the Internet from April 23 to 28, 2013 to audiences across the globe. The confessional provides the audience with a unique opportunity to listen, as a young boy named Sunny speaks about his passion for dance and the repercussions he faces from his family and community because of his YouTube videos.

Finally, Peter Fechter: 59 Minutes brings the collection to a close with a gut-wrenching story of eighteen-year-old Fechter’s last 59 minutes. His final minutes are spent in what was known as the Berlin Wall’s Death Strip. This is where the play begins, with Fechter bleeding from gunshot wounds inflicted by border guards; his minutes literally tick away.

Age of Minority: Three Solo Plays is unlike any other TYA piece, refreshing in its honesty. Tannahill outdoes himself in these pieces, and brings not only the characters to life but the issues each of them face. This collection of plays definitely falls into the category of “must-read” and is recommended for ages 15+.

Tannahill will be at Bishop’s this week on Thursday, Feb. 11 as the next guest in the Morris House Reading Series (MHRS). Be sure to stop by Bishop’s University’s Bookstore at 4:30 p.m. to hear Tannahill discuss his work. The reading is free to attend and a short reception will follow. Tannahill’s books will be available for purchase, so make sure to grab a copy and get it signed!

This article was written by Kristy Bockus and originally appeared in the issue of The Campus published on February 10th, 2016.


A SWEET Saturday


Students trickled into the Cleghorn room in McGreer Hall early in the morning of Nov. 7 for the Student Writing Event in the Eastern Townships (SWEET) event co-hosted by PROs. SWEET was founded and directed by Dr. Linda Morra as a means to encourage discussion about how and where to publish, how to get involved in the book trade, and how to work within a community of writers.

With a focus on the publishing industry, the established panellists offered different perspectives from both sides of the trade. Sarah Lolley and Elise Moser offered a writer’s perspectives with tips on how to handle pitches and grants, whereas Melanie Tutino offered insight into starting out in entry-level publishing careers, and Lori Schubert acted as a speaker for the Quebec Writers Foundation (QWF).

Sarah Lolley told the story of how she became a published writer. Persistence and passion is what drove her to the several writing outlets that she has today. When searching for an appropriate career path, Lolley’s advice was to “start with what you love, then what you are good at” – which is sound advice for any student.

Elise Moser spoke of the several publications that welcome freelance writings, and of the smaller publishing houses that are eager to take on projects.

Lori Schubert explained how a membership to the QWF opens several doors to further publishing opportunities.

Melanie Tutino currently works as an editorial assistant for Doubleday Canada. Tutino discussed how taking on an internship, even an unpaid one, can offer invaluable connections and the opportunity to learn valuable skills.

The SWEET panel offered undeniable insight to any aspiring writers, editors, or publishers.

Following a delicious lunch provided by the event, the PROs panel was also helpful for writers looking for guidance. The speakers offered insight into whether or not Journalism school was the correct path for graduating students.

Fraser Lockerbie, an established journalist and Bishop’s University alumnus, acted as the moderator for the afternoon. Lockerbie posed questions to each panellist about their experiences with Journalism school, or lack thereof, and had the panel discuss how their education influenced their course of action in pursuing their careers.

Jesse Feith completed a Journalism diploma program at Concordia after graduating from Bishop’s; he now writes for the Montreal Gazette. His advice to young writers was to not be afraid to show your passion; advice that can be applied to any future career.

Ronan O’Beirne, another esteemed panellist and Bishop’s alumnus, completed a Master’s degree in Journalism at Ryerson. He spoke on how the practical aspect of the program was useful, but that he wanted more. Master’s degree programs are usually directed towards the more academic side of journalism, focusing on mechanics and ethics. O’Beirne believes that choosing this direction of academia was integral to the understanding of his job.

The final panellist was Caroline Royer, a journalist who began her own online periodical without attending any form of postsecondary Journalism school. Royer’s best advice was to learn every aspect of the job so that nothing surprises you.

The advice that the panellists offered to audience members was applicable to every aspect of journalism, publishing, or writing, and proved that success comes in all forms.

This article was written by Hayley Winch and originally appeared under the title “How SWEET it is!” in the issue of The Campus published on November 11th, 2015.

Morris House Reading Series opens with critically acclaimed author Heather O’Neill


This school year marks the twelfth year of the Morris House Reading Series (MHRS), a program that brings both established and up-and-coming Canadian authors to the students and community surrounding Bishop’s University. The MHRS coordinator, Dr. Linda Morra, accompanied by Tomlinson Internship recipient, Kristy Bockus, work together to bring pertinent authors to Bishop’s University to share their knowledge and experience with an audience of open minds and eager ears.

On Sept. 17, members of the Bishop’s and wider communities assembled in the Centennial lobby to welcome author Heather O’Neill. Approximately one hundred students, faculty, and community members were in attendance at the event. These numbers make Heather O’Neill the most attended MHRS event since the series began.

As a Montréal author, O’Neill drew a fan base of Québec natives, along with those who have studied her work.

At the event, the author read “Dolls”, one of the published short stories from her collective work Daydreams of Angels. Students followed along with O’Neill using their own copies of the book, as some were enrolled in The Canadian Novel course where Daydreams of Angels is part of the curriculum.  O’Neill spoke softly and concisely, and while she performed, the audience was nearly silent; the only noise heard was the shuffle of feet and the occasional laugh.

After the reading, a question and answer period was held followed by a reception complete with refreshments. O’Neill’s personality shone through, as she answered the eager questions of audience members.  She shared intimate anecdotes about her life and adventures, all of which were taken in by the students, faculty, and community members who gathered to meet the author.

During the reception, O’Neill was gracious enough to autograph purchased copies of her novels. Many attendees were excited about the opportunity to chat quickly with the author while attaining a souvenir and a memorable experience.

Heather O’Neill’s novels (along with a few signed copies) are available in the campus bookstore for purchase.

This article was written by Hayley Winch and originally appeared in the issue of The Campus published on September 30th, 2015.

Short & Sweet, but Definitely Not Meek


On Sept. 8, 2015, the longlist nominees for the Scotiabank Giller Prize for fiction were announced. One of the 12 nominated Canadian authors is Montreal native, Heather O’Neill. The nomination came as a bit of a surprise since O’Neill was shortlisted for the prize in 2014 for her second novel, The Girl Who Was Saturday Night. The 2015 nomination is for her recent publication of a collection of short stories titled Daydreams of Angels. This marks the first time in the prize’s history that an author has been nominated for two consecutive years.

The stories in Daydreams of Angels play on common tales that children are exposed to during childhood. O’Neill challenges the original ideas by bringing to life characters of all sorts of backgrounds and social classes.

O’Neill breaks down the conventional framework of masculinity and femininity. The little girls in Daydreams of Angels deviate from the societal expectations of the unspoken, non-sexual, disempowered woman. These are the little girls of the 21st century, reinventing themselves.

The title, Daydreams of Angels, brings to light the angelic attributes of the characters within these short stories. Most are told from a child’s point of view, but with maturity that is usually reserved for adults. Yet this sense of aged understanding is somehow still paired with innocence that seems, in and of itself, like a long lost fairytale. The characters within these stories demonstrate the sort of grace that lives with children, not yet set to fulfill the fancies and whims of the distorted construct of social norms.

O’Neill paints pictures with her words, frequently using unusual similes and metaphors that challenge the reader to view even the smallest details in an entirely new way. This is probably O’Neill’s strongest talent. In most situations, an abundant use of similes and metaphors would bog down the text and make for a slow read. However, O’Neill masters the skill with ease, leaving the reader yearning for the next comparison.

One story that particularly deserves special mention is called Where Babies Come From. The myth of the stork is cast aside as the ridiculous tale it is, “Shall I tell you where babies used to come from? Well, they weren’t delivered by storks. That’s the silliest idea anyone ever had” (p. 82). O’Neill uses the lie told to children about their own creation and brings it into the 50s era. She highlights the strangeness of the time when the expectations of motherhood were shifting with the very idea of it being a different thing for each person. There are the women eager to dig up a baby whose bottom peaks above the sand early in the morning after being washed ashore, while others dilly-dally along the beach and are left to find the babies in the evening before they are pulled back out to the sea forever.

Through the fantastical, O’Neill continually exposes and breaks down expectations, commenting on a generation that dares to think beyond mere regurgitation of information and instead thinks for itself regarding manners of freedom and faith. It really isn’t much of a surprise at all that O’Neill should find herself as one of the Giller Prize nominees once again.

The subject of her nomination will surely be a hot topic for discussion when O’Neill arrives at Bishop’s University on Sept. 17, 2015. O’Neill will be hosting a reading and discussion of her works in conjunction with the English department’s Morris House Reading Series (MHRS). For the past twelve years, MHRS has brought Canadian authors to Bishop’s to share their work, answer questions, and speak personally with students, faculty, and community members. The reading will take place in the Centennial lobby at 4:30 p.m. and is free and open to the public.

To stay updated on upcoming guests follow MHRS on social media via Facebook (Morris House Reading Series) and Twitter (@BU_MHRS).


This article was written by Kristy Bockus and originally appeared in the issue of The Campus published on September 16th, 2015.