Needles by Liz McAdams

The click, click of the knitting needles was the only sound I heard, the user unseen, a shapeless form buried in the shadows. “Would you like some light?” I asked and looked around for a candle or lantern. 

Silence from the figure, only the movement of sharpened needles gleaming in the firelight, a tangle of yarn lay at its feet.

“Well...” I glanced around the room into which I found myself an intruder. The noise of the moors behind me. A plaintive wail of wind and percussive rain beat at the windows, seeking to gain entry. I, myself a lone traveller, stood there, still dripping from the storm.

When the door  swung open and I stepped inside, I'd expected a rough cottage, but nothing had prepared me for a sight such as this. Not a sweet tidy grandmum’s cozy home, but a crude shack; all manner of thorny implements hanging from the ceilings, blackened pots and sharpened tools hung together suspended from beams that looked like they were bones from some giant creature. Metal and wood jostled, clanging, as I brushed by. Heaps of garments lay strewn upon the floor, the odour of disuse filled the air, and as I drew breath, I was tempted to open a window against the stench of decay.

My host sat silent in the corner  occupied in her busywork – at least I supposed  her to be a her. by her side, murky flames leapt from a dank fire, eating  at the blackened stonework.

“Well,” I said again, “this is some night.”

Still silence from the creature. In the leaping light of the fire, my host seemed to have heaps of clothes wrapped around her, a pile of garments that seemed to have no beginning or end. But the knitting needles protruded from the mass, clacking away and twining tangled threads, as though with a life of their own.

“Would you mind if I stayed, just for the night?”

Silence from the creature, and I eased myself to the hard-dirt floor, my haversack beside me. Camping in the rough was to be expected on a journey such as mine, and I soon accustomed myself to the filthy floor.

“I would like to stay for the night, if I may,” I tried again. “I can pay you for your hospitality.” I jangled a purse full of coins, which the creature steadfastly ignored, so occupied she was with her knitting.

“What are you making?” I asked.

“You. Making,” the creature croaked, in a rusty voice full of disuse. I was so surprised by the fact of reply I nearly fell back on the floor. 

“I beg your pardon?” I said.

“Ends soon.”

“The storm? It will end soon?”

“It ends.”

The creature fell back into silence; click, click of knitting needles the only sound heard above the storm outside.

I sat watching my host knitting, boney fingers barely distinguishable from the needles themselves, her face, as caught in the firelight, a grim mask of bone, with a thin skein of flesh stretched across. An old crone, I thought, gone mad and living alone in the wilds.

Realizing my host might need care herself, I sat up. “Can I offer you some food?” I opened my pack and began rifling through it . “I have some biscuits, perhaps –” 

The figure seized me with a look so hideous that I broke off, suddenly unsure of my own intention.

Silence stretched between us as the storm continued outside, a weary call of all things left to the night. Rain spattered against the thatched roof, and a dampness crept in to my bones. I shifted my position on the floor, aching, and sought comfort in thinking about more pleasant times and situations of my own life. Familiar voices and faces filled my mind, and soon lost in thought, I was startled by the creature’s abrupt announcement.

“It is done.”

“Pardon?”

“It is done.”

The figure gazed upon me, holding me with a look so terrible and filled with beauty that my knees trembled with fright. Then, plucking a pair of gleaming scissors from her person, she held out the tangled knitting in one hand and the scissors in the other, studying both by the firelight. I bade to scream, to shout out, to stop her, for in that instant I knew –

The figure held out a gnarled hand, and stopped me with a mere gesture.

Now, fully trembling with fright and realization, I watched as the figure cut the final line to the tattered piece of work, the thin thread falling lifeless, now on its own.

As though bound to the cloth itself, I too fell to the floor, gazing upward in the dim firelight at the work the figure now held admiringly. Flashes of my own life rushed before me: childhood, family, friendship, and beyond – all leading to my adventures here.

The piece fell to the floor beside me, and as I gasped my last breath, I perceived the creature pick up another skein of wool, and begin casting anew.

***

Liz McAdams is a short, sharp writer living in the wilds of Canada, with her black cats and her laptop. Her work appears in places such as Shotgun Honey, Yellow Mama, Near to the Knuckle and The Horror Zine. You can contact Liz through her blog here. 

See Brian Henry’s schedule here, including writing workshops, weekly writing classes, and weekend retreats in, Bolton, Barrie, Brampton, Burlington, Caledon, Collingwood, Cambridge, Georgetown, Georgina, Guelph, Hamilton, Jackson’s Point, Kingston, Kitchener-Waterloo, London, Midland, Mississauga, Oakville, Ottawa, Peterborough, St. Catharines, Saint John, NB, Sudbury, Toronto, Windsor, Woodstock, Halton, Muskoka, Peel, Simcoe, York Region, the GTA, Ontario and beyond.

“Putting things away” by Sandy Kenyon

There are still only three things in the box. I face the pile of memories in front of me: t-shirts, jeans, a half bottle of cologne, some keychains and guitar picks.  His shoes. Where did we even buy them? Oh right, Lebanon, Tennessee. I didn’t even know there was a Lebanon, Tennessee, but he’d researched it, found an outlet mall.  

I touch his shoes. He bought them to match my grey Sketchers. A closet romantic. The memory makes me smile, then takes my breath away.

Quickly I turn to the stack of t-shirts. Pick them up, but I can’t stop myself. I hold them to my face, inhale slowly, carefully. Can I still smell his cologne on them? I drop them into the box more abruptly than I meant to. Sit back. Straighten, roll my shoulders and rub the back of my neck. There. Four things. Wait, is a stack one thing or four? Four. I’m counting each t-shirt, each memory. Good. I’ve packed seven things. That’s enough for today.

Sandy Kenyon is a writer. She lives in Kitchener with her four-legged sidekick Chester. She enjoys travel, reading, and spending time with friends. More of her work can be found on her blog here.

See Brian Henry’s schedule here, including writing workshops, weekly writing classes, and weekend retreats in, Bolton, Barrie, Brampton, Burlington, Caledon, Collingwood, Cambridge, Georgetown, Georgina, Guelph, Hamilton, Jackson’s Point, Kingston, Kitchener-Waterloo, London, Midland, Mississauga, Oakville, Ottawa, Peterborough, St. Catharines, Saint John, NB, Sudbury, Toronto, Windsor, Woodstock, Halton, Muskoka, Peel, Simcoe, York Region, the GTA, Ontario and beyond.

One spot left for Fall Writing Retreat at the Briars, Nov 2 – 4, Jackson's Point on Lake Simcoe {And sign up early for the spring Algonquin retreat}

November at the Briars Writing Retreat

Friday, November 2 – Sunday, November 4, 2018

The Briars Resort & Spa on Lake Simcoe

55 Hedge Road, Jackson’s Point, Ontario, Canada (Map here)

Note: We’ll also have a late spring retreat, May 31 – June 3, 2019, in Algonquin Park at Arowhon Pines resort. Sign up early to get the 2018 rates. See here.

Give yourself a weekend of writing time – a weekend of instruction, inspiration and creativity. Award yourself with time away from distractions, with no dishes to do, delicious food at every meal, and with the leisure you need to sit with your feet up and write.

The retreat will feature both instruction and guided writing exercises, plus one-on-one critiquing and coaching from Brian.  You’ll also have lots of time to relax, rejuvenate, and reconnect with your creativity. All writing levels welcome. Whether you’re just beginning or have a novel in progress, please join us. 

The Peacock House

The setting: Originally a Regency-style Manor House built by Captain William Bourchier in 1840, the estate was purchased in 1870 by Dr. Frank Sibbald, who added two wings to the manor house, a coach house, a brick stable and of course a peacock house, because where else are you going to keep your peacocks?

The Briars also has a storied literary history. Humorist Stephen Leacock was a great friend of the Sibbalds, visited often, and is buried just down the road from the resort at the pretty St. George’s churchyard, as is author Mazo de la Roche. De la Roche’s Jalna series were worldwide bestsellers, making her one of Canada’s bestselling authors ever. Indeed, her books are still available from Dundurn Press.

Today, the Briars still offers the warmth of a country estate steeped in history while providing all the benefits of an extensive, modern lakeside resort.

Rates include accommodation. For the retreat, we have our own lodge, the Mayfair, with ten rooms, each entirely private, with a king, a queen, or two twin beds, an en-suite four-piece bathroom, and a desk for writing. The eight downstairs rooms each has a deck. The large, comfortable second-story living room features a wet bar and refrigerator (so do bring your own wine or beer if you like) and coffee service.

All meals – Friday dinner, Saturday breakfast, lunch and dinner, Sunday breakfast and lunch – are provided, as are coffee & snack breaks on Saturday. Alcoholic beverages are extra, as are Spa treatments – but you might want to check those out (see here).

All activities included. When you’re not writing, or for spouses who accompany you, there is plenty to do. The resort has an indoor pool, whirlpool and sauna, a well-equipped exercise room, and a games room with pool, shuffleboard, ping pong, and foosball. The beautiful Lake Simcoe setting offers idyllic opportunities for biking and hiking, with the resort featuring its own nature trails and with other trails three kilometers down the road at Sibbald Point Provincial Park. And of course there are plenty of nooks around the resort that are ideal for reading, resting and unwinding.

Check-in on Friday is 4 p.m. Our first writing get-together will be at 5 p.m. On Sunday we'll have our last writing get-together at 10 a.m., ending at 11 a.m. Check out is at 12 noon. (though we may push the Sunday schedule an hour later if the resort isn't full and they can accommodate a 1 p.m. check out) But once you’ve had lunch, don’t feel you have to rush off! You can stay for the rest of the day, enjoying the amenities of the resort. Participants are welcome to bring a non-participating significant other. 

Instructor Brian Henry has been a book editor and creative writing instructor for more than 25 years. He publishes Quick Brown Fox, Canada’s most popular blog for writers, teaches creative writing at Ryerson University and has led workshops everywhere from Boston to Buffalo and from Sarnia to Saint John. But his proudest boast is that he has helped many of his students get their first book published and launch their careers as authors.

Fee, including both the writing retreat and accommodation, meals, coffee & snack service, and all resort amenities: $345.135 per night plus 13% hst

or $690.27 for the weekend, plus 13% hst

Not included: Tips (probably easiest just to leave $20 – $30 for the wait staff when you check out), alcoholic drinks (or any drinks bought at Drinkwaters Lounge), spa services, or other extras.

Bring a (non-participating) significant other along for the weekend to share your room for an additional $238.94 plus hst for both nights (includes accommodation, meals and all resort amenities, but not the writing part of the retreat).

Book early – space is limited! Full receipts issued.

For more information or to register, email:  brianhenry@sympatico.ca

Note: Bookings for accommodations for this retreat must be done through Brian (unlike our retreats in Algonquin, where you book your accommodations through the resort).

Who can attend the retreat?

Everyone interested in developing their writing skills is welcome to attend, whether you're aspiring writer or an accomplished author or simply enjoy writing as a hobby. There is no requirement for you to have been previously published or even to have an intention to publish.

I'm a poet / playwright / other writer. Is this retreat for me?

The retreat is open to anyone who enjoys writing. Instruction will focus on narrative writing; i.e., stories, whether fiction or memoir. But if you’re an essayist or poet or whatever, you’re entirely welcome.

Should I bring my work in progress?

Yes, if you have an on-going writing project, bring it with you! If you’re not currently working on anything, don’t worry, we’ll get you writing.

Should I bring my laptop?

Yes, if you prefer to work on your laptop. If you prefer to work on paper bring that. Or bring both.

Can you cater to specific dietary requirements?

Yes. But you need to let me know at least a week ahead of time, so I can let the staff know about your needs.

The Briars, with a view of the tower, where you'll find writing tables set up

I want to stay longer or arrive early. Is that possible?

If you want to arrive early or stay longer, that’s fine. You’ll book the Friday and Saturday night with Brian, and arrange any additional nights with the resort; just make sure they know you’re with Brian Henry’s writing group.

Is there cell phone reception and WIFI?

Yes.

How about alcohol?

The resort serves alcohol with meals and has a licensed lounge called Drinkwaters. Guests are also welcome to bring their own wine, beer or whatever for consumption at our own lodge. (Though do note that Hemingway’s advice to write drunk, mostly produces drivel.)

Can I bring my spouse (or partner or friend)?

If you want to share your room with a partner, they’re very welcome. Just let them know you’ll be spending most of your time writing, (though you will have some free time every day).

For more information or to register, email: brianhenry@sympatico.ca 

See Brian’s complete current schedule here, including writing workshops, weekly writing classes, and weekend retreats in, Bolton, Barrie, Brampton, Burlington, Caledon, Collingwood, Cambridge, Georgetown, Georgina, Guelph, Hamilton, Jackson’s Point, Kingston, Kitchener-Waterloo, London, Midland, Mississauga, Oakville, Ottawa, Peterborough, St. Catharines, Saint John, NB, Sudbury, Toronto, Windsor, Woodstock, Halton, Muskoka, Peel, Simcoe, York Region, the GTA, Ontario and beyond.

“Stones” by Lynda Sturgeoff

“You can’t go to Paris,” her mother said. Both Nina’s parents were horrified at her plans. “You’re a child, only seventeen. How will you live? Who will you live with? What about money? You can’t work there.”

Finally her father cut in over her mother’s questions, “You’re going to live with that young man aren’t you? You know what they call kept women? You’re a slut!”

The pronouncement effectively ended that conversation. But at seventeen, Nina knew perfectly well that she was all grown up. She’d make her own decisions, find her own way. She knew she’d be just fine.

She flew to Orly and was met by the young man in question. The little studio apartment in the twelfth arrondisement was on the sixth floor of a six-floor walk-up. No shower. Actually not even a toilet. That was out on the landing – a hole in the floor with a porcelain footprint on either side to show where you were supposed to stand or squat.

She found employment as a shop girl in the shoe store around the corner – Mandrilly Chaussures. She learned to cook in the French style. The neighborhood had everything. Two bakeries, a butcher shop, a delicatessen, a produce market. The farmer’s market was at the corner twice a week.

She walked everywhere, down boulevards lined with Plane trees.

The Metro stations had the loveliest iron grills, and if you first checked carefully, you could leap over the turnstile, board the subway train and travel anywhere in the city without paying a dime. Sometimes this was a grand adventure, other times simply scary.

And the young man? Francois worked for the post office. He rode the mail train from the Gare de Lyon, sorting mail as they went south and sorting the return mail on the return trip. Apparently it paid well. “What is it you do on the train, again?” she had to ask. It seemed so mindless to Nina.

“Pas grande chose,” he replied. He didn’t do much of anything and seemed extraordinarily pleased by this.

She was in her glory, especially when Francois was away on the trains. She explored every quarter of the city. She wrangled a student pass, pretending to be an international student at the Sorbonne. This opened the doors of the great museums – the Louvre, the Quai d’Orsay – for a very reasonable price. That same student pass got her into the Paris Opera.

Walking up the Champs Elysee, she watched the tourists, smugly thinking herself a native Parisienne. Sometimes they stopped her on the street, asking for directions. It was fun to pretend she didn’t understand English, couldn’t help them.

And so Nina settled into her routine. She worked at the shoe store five or six days a week, with a half day off Wednesdays and Sundays. Selling shoes to old ladies was easy. They were so taken with her cute foreign accent. She flattered them, but also ensured the shoes fit and flattered.

There was a rush to buy proper walking shoes in October. One of her favorite customers explained, “It’s for All Saints’ Day, of course. I need to be able to walk in the cemeteries.”

Mystified, Nina pulled her coworker Christiane aside. “What on earth was Madame Cornier talking about? What is All Saints’ Day and what has it got to do with cemeteries?”

“It’s a national holiday,” Christiane explained. “November first. Many people go to visit their loved ones who have passed. They might visit three or four cemeteries in that single day, maybe more. It’s a sacred duty.”

Okay then. Quite a different tradition from the Canadian one. No trick-or-treating on October 31, just visiting dead people the following day, presumably without costumes or candy. By the end of October Nina was beginning to understand: this was a big occasion. And since it was a holiday, she too had the day off. The cemetery of Vincennes was nearby. Holiday or not, Francois was away on the mail train. So Nina took herself there, thinking herself better off alone. Francois was beginning to get on her nerves.

Cemeteries all over the world can be beautiful places, well treed with beautifully tended grounds. This one was old. Nina wandered up and down, studying the ancient gravestones. Here was one for a M. and Mme Mandrilly, presumably the ancestors of the shoe store owner. Here was one carved with angels. The name had worn off with time, only the dates remained: 1742 – 1782. Gravestone upon gravestone, the effect was one of peace. She picked up some small stones, placed one on a gravestone, put the rest in her pocket. They felt like a souvenir of peace.

Walking back to her apartment, Nina felt a presence nearby. Her mind began to fly. No, she thought, of course it’s not a ghost following me home. There’s no such thing. She walked on, feeling the presence behind. She looked back over her shoulder. Not a ghost. A flesh and blood man walking behind her. She walked faster. Her apartment building was just a street away when the man drew up. He reached out to grab her.

“Oh no you don’t!” Nina found the rest of the stones from the graveyard still in her pocket. She threw them in his face, screamed and ran. Safely back in the apartment, her heart still pounding, Nina felt her face wet with tears. She’d never felt threatened like that back home. She knew everyone in Blue Rocks. She wondered what her high school friends were doing. Certainly not fighting off Parisian creeps.

A letter arrived from her sister. Suzanne and her friend Lissi were coming to visit. They’d stay in a hotel but hoped Nina would be able to show them around. Suzanne was ten years older. What would she think of Nina’s life here? 

Nina felt a curious mixture of pride and fear. She had always been the little sister, petted and yet judged. Her choices were never good enough, her rebellion always too much. But here in Paris, Nina would be the expert. She’d show them around. They would have a wonderful time. And so they did.

Two days before they were to leave, they all went out to a little Vietnamese restaurant on the Left Bank, the Quartier Latin. What crowds there were. Students and artists milling about, wandering the streets, arguing, debating. Even inside the restaurant. The dessert was especially decadent – flambéed bananas all around. All except for Suzanne who had chosen something else at random from the menu. While they were all enjoying the flambéed delight, Suzanne was presented with what looked like a large and very hard cookie. It resembled nothing so much as one of the stones from the graveyard.

Suzanne suddenly lost all vivacity. “Come home,” she said to Nina. “Come home. I miss you so much. I don’t want to lose my little sister. I love you.”

Suzanne’s words played over and over in Nina’s mind. Her sister, her family pulling from one side, Paris pulling from the other.

Fifty years later, Nina can’t remember much from that adventure. But here she found herself, sitting on the Blue Rocks of Nova Scotia, looking east. If I look far enough, I could see France, she thought.

Lynda Sturgeoff is a retired Ph.D. chemist, has finally found the light. After years of reading, writing, and editing technical reports she is now taking her writing into the creative arena. This is aided and abetted by Brian Henry's writing class. She is currently working on a piece of creative nonfiction, thus combining the two solitudes.

 

See Brian Henry’s schedule here, including writing workshops, weekly writing classes, and weekend retreats in Algonquin Park, Bolton, Barrie, Brampton, Burlington, Caledon, Collingwood, Georgetown, Georgina, Guelph, Hamilton, Jackson’s Point, Kingston, Kitchener-Waterloo, London, Midland, Mississauga, Oakville, Ottawa, Peterborough, St. Catharines, Saint John, NB, Sudbury, Toronto, Windsor, Woodstock, Halton, Muskoka, Peel, Simcoe, York Region, the GTA, Ontario and beyond.

“The Soul Of An Ancient Culture” by Priscilla Boateng

I come from a continent cut from glory, enriched with fertile soil, on which the world grows. A continent adorned with bronze, embedded with gold, crowned with diamonds. Her tropical savannas are blessed with green pastures and still waters. They overflow with milk and honey. Yet every single day she lives in the world’s shadow.

For centuries, she was un-mapped. Her mystique convinced colonizers her people were untamed, wild and savage. They called her the Dark Continent. She is not dark to me. She is called Africa. She is my mother. Ma is what I call her.

I was formed in Ma’s womb and birthed into her golden arms. Ma taught me all the wisdom that I know about life. In 1992 Ma gave me a map of the world and said, “My daughter, fly anywhere.”

So I closed my eyes and placed my finger on her map.

Then Ma looked into my eyes and said, “No matter where you go, your feet will be blessed with the footprints of your history.” So I fell asleep in the sky and woke up in the arms of the coldest country I have ever been to.

Canada’s cold wind stalked me through the airport. The biting cold tore through to my marrow and I could not understand why. I was so confused. I felt like a vagabond in a chilly wilderness.

Within a month, my identity completely changed. I was called “African,” a word I had never heard of before. I quickly realized that all the rich history Ma had taught me was virtually unknown in The Great White North. I was told “African” is a word that was used to describe the ebony-skinned people who came from Ma. However, I have observed the word “Africa” to be meaningless. It is nothing more than an erasure of Ma’s history and culture. It limits the diversity of Ma’s people to a geographical boundary that the world views as one homogeneous place.

Africa is not one country, people, language, cuisine or artistry.

Africa is a continent carved with boarders which connect 54 nations. There are approximately 2,000 languages spoken in Africa. In my country Ghana, more than 250 languages and dialects are spoken. None of them are called, “African.” So when you ask me, “Hey Priscilla can you speak African?” Don’t be surprised when I look confused.

The people of Africa are a billion shades of brown and ivory who bear souls of ancient cultures. Their mouths tell stories of kingdoms and dynasties. 

But the real star of Africa is her food. From dawn till dusk her children cook miracles. Their plates are filled with fresh, organic mouth-watering foods you have never dreamed of.

Dr. Kwame Nkrumah once said, “I am not African because I was born in Africa but because Africa was born in me.” His words speak of my identity.

Africa is alive in me. Africa Is my soul, my home, my culture, my heritage and the land of my people. For me, being African means:

·         To walk in wisdom and stature as the child of the mother of all humanity

·         To belong to a tribe that teaches you the meaning of a community

·          To bear a name with a symbolic meaning

·         To love spicy and savoury food

·         To greet people with hospitality and warmth

·         To love celebrations. We celebrate everything while dancing to the beat of our ancestral drums. For our music is more than an art form; it is a way of communication

·         To feel the need to switch to my native language to make my arguments more earthy (We call that getting real).

Most importantly, to be African is to live deeply rooted in Ma’s heritage and values every single day.

I love Africa. The beauty of her name can never be compared. Even though I live far from her shores, her spirit will forever have my heartbeat.

Priscilla Boateng is a freelance writer who was raised in Ghana, West Africa, and Canada. Growing up with dual nationalities made her feel like she was constantly crossing borders, spending her days in one country and her dreams in another. This has fuelled her passion to write about her two worlds. She has a Bachelor of Journalism from Ryerson University and a Public Relations certificate from Humber College. She currently lives in Mississauga, Ontario, but is hooked on travelling.

See Brian Henry’s schedule here, including writing workshops, weekly writing classes, and weekend retreats in Algonquin Park, Bolton, Barrie, Brampton, Burlington, Caledon, Collingwood, Georgetown, Georgina, Guelph, Hamilton, Jackson’s Point, Kingston, Kitchener-Waterloo, London, Midland, Mississauga, Oakville, Ottawa, Peterborough, St. Catharines, Saint John, NB, Sudbury, Toronto, Windsor, Woodstock, Halton, Muskoka, Peel, Simcoe, York Region, the GTA, Ontario and beyond.

Writing and Revising workshop, Saturday, January 26, in Caledon at the Bolton Library

Writing and Revising

Saturday, January 26, 2019

12:30 – 3:30 p.m.

Albion-Bolton Branch, Caledon Public Library, 150 Queen Street South, Bolton, Ontario (Map here)

If you want to refine your story-telling skills and cut the time you will need to spend editing, this workshop is for you. You'll learn how to step back from a manuscript in order to find, and fix, flaws in your plot, structure, characterization and style. You'll learn how to rethink, rework and rewrite so that your manuscript will live up to your vision.

Special Option: You’re invited to bring the first 500–1,000 words of one of your pieces of writing. You don’t need to bring anything, but if you do, three copies could be helpful.

Workshop leader Brian Henry has been a book editor and creative writing instructor for more than 25 years. He publishes Quick Brown Fox, Canada’s most popular blog for writers, teaches creative writing at Ryerson University, and has led workshops everywhere from Boston to Buffalo and from Sarnia to St. John. But his proudest boast is that he has helped many of his students get published.

Read reviews of Brian’s workshops, retreats and classes here (and scroll down).

Fee: 37.17 + 13% hst = 42 paid in advance

or 39.82 + 13% hst = 45 if you wait to pay at the door

To pay in advance, make your cheque out to the Caledon Public Library and mail it to:

Attention:  Megan Renkema , Caledon Public Library, Albion Bolton Branch, 150 Queen Street South, Bolton, ON, L7E 1E3

Or you can pay in advance in person at any Caledon Library branch. 

To reserve a spot now, sign up online here.

See Brian’s full schedule here, including writing workshops, weekly writing classes, and weekend retreats in Algonquin Park, Bolton, Barrie, Brampton, Burlington, Caledon, Collingwood, Georgetown, Georgina, Guelph, Hamilton, Jackson’s Point, Kingston, Kitchener-Waterloo, London, Midland, Mississauga, Oakville, Ottawa, Peterborough, St. Catharines, Saint John, NB, Sudbury, Toronto, Windsor, Woodstock, Halton, Muskoka, Peel, Simcoe, York Region, the GTA, Ontario and beyond.