“The Widow” by Rehannah Hussain

Mister Sydney Bubwah had a problem. It was a big problem, and not easily corrected.

His wife Miss Annabelle was on a rampage. While cleaning her son’s room, she uncovered his hiding spot. In the hiding spot, she had found a few items that sent her into an irate mood. One was an old Sports-Illustrated magazine featuring Cheryl Tiegs drenched by a waterfall. It was a particular favourite of Mr. Bubwah that had gone missing some months ago. 

The other offensive document was his son’s mid-term report card, ranking him practically bottom of his seventh-grade class, a disappointing twenty-ninth out of thirty. 

Last, she had found a small fortune of one hundred and fifty dollars, consisting mostly of one-dollar bills. It had been hidden in an old smelly sock, that paired perfectly with another she had saved in her laundry lost sock bin.  Mr. Sydney was not sure which one had been worst for Miss Annabelle to find, but he was leaning towards the report card.

“That blasted child has nothing better to do in his life than chase girls,” thundered Annabelle as she furious dusted and tidied, placing objects back into their rightful places and ranting.  “Tell me, what girl is going to want a foolish man? Can you imagine, he is last in his class? I don’t ask him to do anything in this house. Not a single thing! He doesn’t have any chores; I don’t force him to wash or clean. He doesn’t even have a paper route. No! All he must do is study.  How hard is that to do? Just one thing. Do you know how many children wish they could just study? Tell me what is going to do with his life? I will tell you; he will amount to nothing!  No one wants a dunce working for them. No one will hire him. Then what girl will want him? Do you think girls nowadays want someone stupid? No sir, no way honey!  That boy better think again if knows what is good for himself.”  

Mr. Bubwah was doing his best to stay out of the way when Miss Annabelle cornered him, finger-wagging.  “You need to go and find that son of yours and talk to him. You need to sit him down and give him a real man-to-man.  Hands on her hips, she continued “He needs to hear from you, how hard this life is. You need to tell him that no one is going to give him food or a place to live. He must work for it, study for it, and go to college to make something of himself.”

Just when he was about to try and explain that all boys need time to settle down and that even he had gone through something similar as a kid and had eventually found his way, Miss Annabelle started anew. 

“And look nah, where did he get all this money? You think he stealing with those boys?  I know that something is not right! No, no, no.  You really need to set that boy on the straight and narrow. Tell him he is wasting his time on these lewd magazines. Because it starts with this and it’s the devil’s work at hand here you know.”  

Mr. Bubwah was starting to feel rankled, since they were his magazines that she was referring to, and she was making them out to be crude and shoddy. He always thought of them as beautiful, artful, and valuable. After all, they were not Playboy, so he responded more sharply than even he expected. “Yuh done? Anything else I need to tell him? Yuh sure you don’t want to just go look for him yourself?” Well needless to state, that didn’t go very well.

“Ex-cuse me? You need to step up, man. That boy is your SON, so YOU need to take responsibility. I am not a man; I don’t know what a MAN needs to say to his SON.  Besides, see this state I am in? If I see him right now, I am going to blaze his ass. He won’t be able to sit for a week.”

Mr. Bubwah recognized that he may have made things worse and needed the conversation to end. He was not fond of confrontation and tended to avoid it since it caused his ulcer to act up, and his heart to race. “Okay, okay, sorry, I am going to look for him.” As Mr. Bubwah started out the door, he heard Miss Annabelle call out, as he exited: “And don’t worry to come home without him.”

As soon as he exited the door, Mr. Bubwah fumbled through his pockets, and found his stash. He lit a cigarette a took a nice long drag. He had been trying to cut down but the stress of Annabelle’s fury, the impending conversation with his son, and this new dilemma was too much to bear.  Mr. Bubwah was toying with the idea of not returning home. He thought it would be a good solution.  Because his challenge was not that he needed to find his son, he knew exactly where Chris was. Chris was in the same place he was every Tuesday after school.  He was taking tutoring lessons from his teacher Miss Patricia Lee. This was the real problem, because Mr. Bubwah was also seeing Miss Patricia, but just not for tutoring.

Mr. Bubwah had not intended to cheat on his wife. He had been trying to avoid coming home early one evening after work when sheltering from the rain had taken him into a church. There had been a grief support group meeting for widowed patrons taking place that evening. Mr. Bubwah had been hungry, and delicious scents coming from the table full of food had grabbed his attention and caused his belly to rumble. 

The pastor had ushered him in, telling him not to be shy and to take a seat, and then announced that the session was to about to start.  Mr. Bubwah had joined them, sitting at the very edge of the group, and listening to their stories, shedding a tear or two, while commiserating with their grief. Afterward, he joined in as they ate the delicious food, sampled the various dishes, and enjoyed the sweet treats. Mr. Bubwah really enjoyed the session and found that he had benefited as well. In the week that followed his ulcer hadn’t acted up, nor did his heart didn’t race.  In fact, his overall stress management had been much better. So much so that he continued to attend the sessions, week after week, pretending to be a widow.

Miss Patricia Lee spoke to him on his fifth week of attendance.  It had been a quiet conversation. She inquired as to why she had never heard him share his feelings, as others had.  Mr. Bubwah, never good at lying, and more afraid of being caught, told her that it was too overwhelming for him to talk about and that he preferred to listen. Which was truthful since he found the most relief from his emotional pain by crying while listening to other widows' stories of love and sorrow. Ms. Patricia Lee had gushed and declared him a brave man because he was not ashamed to be vulnerable and deal with loss, whereas most men would just bottle those emotions. 

When she inquired, “How did one find the courage to be brave and move on?” Mr.  Bubwah had shrugged and stuffed an entire cookie into his mouth whole so that he wouldn’t be able to respond, fearing that he found out as an imposter. He had no idea that she had baked the cookies, and when she asked him to show her to be how brave, he reached for another, honestly stating that these were the best he had ever had. This caused others to join in, and she quickly forgot what she had asked. From that point onwards, Miss Patricia Lee would bring in the same cookies, week after week and she always sat next to him in the sessions. 

Mr. Bubwah and Miss Patricia had started meeting outside of group sessions as well. She came to the Gourmet grocery store where Mr. Bubwah worked as an assistant manager, and he would see her on the security screen weekly as she walked through the aisles selecting grade A eggs, granulated sugar, soft wheat flour, organic milk, and butter and German chocolate chips.

One day, she had stopped by on her lunch hour to pick up supplies for her cookie making and her grocery bag had fallen. The bag of sugar had busted and mixed with the broken eggs, milk, and flour to create a yellow sticky mess.  Miss Patricia valiantly tried to rescue the ingredients to no avail. Overwhelmed, she sat down in the parking lot and began to sob.    

Seeing her breakdown, and worried that he wouldn’t get his weekly sugar fix, Mr. Bubwah hurried outside. “Never mind this mess,” he had said, giving her a new set of groceries, “I’ll take care of it, don’t you worry. Don’t cry over spilled milk. You be brave now and pick yourself up.” Miss Patricia had been so grateful that she had hugged him and nearly toppled the new bag.  “Thank you so much. I really owe you! Let’s get dinner tomorrow, my treat,” she had gushed, and he nodded his acceptance quickly as others were stopping to stare.  

And so, the next day, he had met her for dinner, making the excuse that he had to work late.  He had not expected it to last very long, but instead, they had talked for hours. Mr. Bubwah had found out that she was a teacher and she loved teaching students in grade eight. She had no siblings and her parents had died, so when her husband passed away, she had been very alone.  The meetings were her only social outing for the week and she looked forward to being with other people.

Mr. Bubwah told her that he like to go to meetings to hear everyone’s story and that he was thinking someone should write them all down. When she had asked why anyone would want to write down sad stories, he had told her vehemently that all the personal stories he had heard were a beautiful accounting of love. The deeper the love, the sadder the tragedy.  After all even Shakespeare realized that tragedies were better stories than comedies.   Later Miss Patricia would tell Mr. Bubwah, that it was at their first dinner, that she felt love again, as butterflies fluttered to life in her stomach.

Mr. Bubwah had met Patricia for coffee most weeks, the group meeting weekly, and sometimes for dinner. All they had ever done was talk, but he knew that it was still considered cheating. He had done his best to keep both worlds separate, only realizing that Miss Lee was Chris’s teacher after he had shown his father his mid-term report card.

“You need to hide this from your mother. She is going to kill you when she sees it. And you are going to need a tutor. Talk to your teacher to see if she can give you extra tutoring.”

But when he had asked, “What’s your teacher’s name again?  And Chris had responded, “Miss Patricia Lee. She’s nice, I like her.” 

Mr. Bubwah realized that his world had become too small, and he would have to work hard to keep things separate. He repeated, trying to keep calm, “Your teacher is Miss Patricia Lee.”

“Yes, Dad I’ll ask her about the tutoring, but won’t it be expensive? Won’t mom find out?”

“Don’t worry about that, Mr. Bubwah said stiffly, “I’ll take care of it.”

And with that, he had gone to his storage unit to look for things of value to sell on eBay. He found his box of vintage sport-illustrated magazines including the swimsuit editions.

So, the thought of his two worlds colliding, after all his effort to keep them separate, stressed out Mr. Bubwah. He wanted to continue seeing Patricia, he enjoyed talking to her and attending the grief sessions. But what he really didn’t want, was for Annabelle to find out anything about this situation.  She would ruin it for him and in turn, his life would be ruined.

He would need a way out of this mess, and another thought was forming in his head, one that reflected his dire state of mind. The only way to escape this mess was if someone died. Either himself, which was looking like the easiest solution, or Annabelle, which would leave his son without a mother, which would be awful, or Patricia, which would be tragic, since she was not to blame for his mess.

It was a sad state indeed.

***

Rehannah Hussain was born in Toronto but spent many of her formative years living in the Caribbean. She holds degrees in both English Literature and Computer Science. Rehannah has worked in the Technology sector for the last 18 years. 

However, her first love has always been stories, whether it be listening to them, reading them, or creating them.  Rehannah also enjoys traveling, cooking, and visiting museums. She has recently started exploring creative writing, getting back in touch with her creative side.

See Brian Henry’s upcoming weekly writing classes, one-day workshops, and weekend retreats here.

 

 

“The Water’s Edge” by Jane Donaghey

There is nothing more enticing than the water’s edge. Looking back to our childhood homes, and there were many, we always seemed to be not far from water. 

I lived in Arva, just north of London, Ontario until I was seven. Down the hill out back of our rural home was a path to Medway creek. Following my dad past the friendly, old tree stump and the scratching raspberry bushes, we’d come to the flats of grass before it turned into the sloping river bank. He kept it short with his red and white riding mower. It was a cool and breezy setting for our family picnics. Our aunt played games with me and my siblings, and all my cousins, while the other adults visited and set out food on the shady picnic tables.

 Dad won his fight with the neighbour and the township to build a dam across the water-way so that we could access and cut our field on the other side. He designed it to allow the water to move through it but not to hinder its flow. It was wide enough to drive the mower across. I remember it being quite marshy there with the spring thaw but by summer it stayed dry.  One tree on that side had a large horizontal branch and we’d pretend we were riding our horse, galloping magically on its wooden back.

We had an old brown rowboat. Sitting upon the dam, dangling my feet over the edge dad carefully lowered me into its haul. He taught me to take the oars in my own small hands. I would steer us up stream, just a little ways to him but for my early years, a journey. That was our summer.

Jane

In the deepest winter it was skating on the thick, white ice in my snowsuit zippered up tight to my chin. My rosy cheeks tucked from the wind inside my hood. You could glide in the open length of the frozen river like my dad, or practice with a hockey stick and puck like my brother. Mom held my younger sister’s mittened hands guiding her along and keeping her from landing hard again on her snowy bottom. 

What I loved was to take route around the old willow tree, on the far bank. The ice would form at the base of its trunk creating an incline on one side and a decline on the other. Without much struggle I could skate up and effortlessly down and around the other side. I would play this way until my toes were numb with the small joy of it.

When we lived at Gramma’s, while the details on our new farm were being finalized, we swam in her country pool. She had worked hard to afford that lovely oasis amongst the pines that lined her property in Birr, another small town north of London. Perhaps it was to fill a void. Each peaceful morning’s swim an homage. She grew up in Muskoka, spending every summer there, first as a child then with her own children. She would pack them up in the car and land at the cottage on Clear Lake, staying from June till November. They’d attend the local school till the autumn chill drove them back home.

Once we made our new home on the farm we christened the creek with the dock my dad and brother built, an old oil drum fastened under the end to create buoyancy for diving. Spending hours perfecting our back flips, our muddy old sneakers protecting us from the muck and rocks of the dug out creek-bed. If we held on tight and were careful to avoid his claws, our black lab Jake would pull us through the water on his back. He would cough and spit with his efforts to entertain us. He was a great dog. That dog would catch anything, from sticks to snowballs, to river splashes, and even rocks. Crazy ol’ Jake, but he was game and he had a few broken teeth to show for his fun. 

We lost the farm to my parents’ un-amicable divorce years later. Mom bought herself and us kids a house in the suburbs in north London. There was a cement pool in our backyard. Every spring, the water would emerge from winter thick with green algae. We could only guess if it would metamorphose into a sparkling paradise in time for summer break.

Crazy ol’ Jake

The pool’s ancient pump was always needing repair. Mom, not a swimmer herself, wasn’t keenly on top of that task. But though she found it daunting, she never failed us and we’d be splashing about once the June heat hit. We would dash from the air-conditioned rec room, through the sliding patio doors, cross the hot pavement and jump in feet first. It wasn’t a great pool like my gramma’s with the diving board, never really deep enough for one, but during those scorching heat waves it served us well.

Over my adult years it’s been beaches I’ve longed for during the depths of winter, and sought out in summer’s excursions. There was never one too far from home. Be it the gentle waves of the Great Lakes Huron or Erie, that quenched my soul, or Ontario, during a stint of life in the “big smoke” of Toronto in my early 20s. 

Then there was the gasp-worthy chill of Georgian Bay, camping at then known as Cape Croker, with my husband. Its rocky shoreline and stunning escarpment for backdrop, our babies catching tiny green frogs on the clay flats one dry summer. The water-line was so shallow they could walk for miles with no fear of them drowning.

I’ve tried my strokes in the Florida ocean where the white sand glowed, as I spied my first glimpse of a dolphin’s leap on the horizon. I’ve braved hand-in-hand with my sister the crisp, sharp sting of the Adriatic Sea in Italy. Tasting the salt on our lips, and cool Mediterranean breeze on our skin, we felt like youngsters. The only few to even seek out an ocean swim from our bus tour that late September, passing the rainbow of surfboards, tethered and retired by the shuttered kiosk. We were Canadians and not miffed over our desire for a once-in-a-lifetime experience. We’ve surfed in Tofino, BC, and waded in Margaree Harbour, Nova Scotia. Making memories with our grown sons, the water almost always a point on our map.

The only time I had a swimming lesson was at five but I was too shy to join my brother for any real instruction. My father always proclaimed that he could swim before he could walk, and I believed, hearing about his extended stays in Muskoka. I was never timid near water so trusted my limited, graceless breast-stroke or side-stroke to get me from A to B.

Perhaps being born under the fish sign, I have always felt right or righted once I got closer to the shore. Whether the cooling effect of fresh water or the cleansing one of salt I am renewed once immersed. Sandy, or rocky, or silty no matter my toes always steady me. When I have gazed out as far as I can see, I know I’m ready to turn back to life and its lessons on land, calm and centred for a time until the next pull guides me like divining rods towards the water’s edge.

***

Jane Donaghey lives in Lucan, Ontario with her husband of 40 years. Their four grown sons are out in the world pursuing their dreams. When she is not working at the public library, she is enjoying teaching yoga, being creative, reading, long walks, and of course writing.

 See Brian Henry’s upcoming weekly writing classes, one-day workshops, and weekend retreats here.

“Troublemaker” by Irene Templeman Walker

 

Irene, known troublemaker

Exiled to the hallway again.

Why do I end up in the hallway so often? I’m not one of those bad children, like the ones who get The Strap. No. I’m not. I know I’m not.

Dadburnit. I make up swear words to keep my mind busy, and off my banishment.

Potverdikkeme. Darn it.

Flauwe kul. Nonsense.

Those are Dutch swears that my parents use.

Kletskop.

That one isn’t really a swear word. It just means chatterbox.

Chatterbox - that’s what Miss Moffatt calls me.

“You’re bothering your neighbours,” she says. Was I? I just finished my own work page and was helping my friend in the next row. She didn’t have it right and Miss Moffatt was busy with someone else. If my friend doesn’t know the right answer and I do, can’t I help her out? Shouldn’t I help her out?

I look up and down the familiar hallway of closed doors. The terrazzo floors are covered in a haze of grey, where the janitor mopped away the worst of the melting snow and dirt. I stay standing. There is no place clean enough to sit. A jumble of coats, snowpants, hats and mittens attached to their strings hang from hooks lining the walls outside each classroom.

Mom didn’t have any ribbon to attach to my mittens for the strings, so she used underwear elastic that she scrounged from the bottom of the sewing box. She sewed one end of the elastic to one mitten, and the other end to the other mitten, then threaded them through the sleeves of my winter coat. She anchored the elastic with sturdy black button thread to the label in the neck.  

Irene

I don’t mind that it’s underwear elastic. In fact, when my hands get hot, I take off my mittens and let them dangle. Then as I walk along, I can do a karate chop, and the mitten stretches far enough to hit the ground with a thwack! before it rebounds. I love the sound it makes – thwack! Thwack! Right now, my mittens are still dripping and muddy. That’s from when they thwacked right into an icy puddle.

The smell of wet wool hovers in the air as the mittens drip into the tops of my galoshes, lined up with 32 or so other pairs along the wall. We call them “overboots” because they fit over our shoes. They are never warm enough. I think how wonderful it will be, that first day of spring, when my feet, unweighted by the overboots, will feel light again, like a dancer’s. 

Knickerbockers and fiddlesticks. Will Miss Moffatt tell on me to Mom and Dad? They sure aren’t going to hear about this hallway from me. Dad always says if the teacher disciplines me, I’ll get double trouble when I get home. Nope, this is not for sharing with the grownups.

I wish I could lean against the yellow-painted cinder blocks while I wait, but I don’t want to get near all that smelly clothing.

I have a thought. What if the principal comes out of his office and sees me? He will ask what I’m doing. What will I say?

I’ll pretend I’m just going to the bathroom. No, wait, I don’t dare go that far in case Miss Moffatt pokes her head out the door looking for me. If she doesn’t see me, I’ll really be in trouble. I’ll pretend to go for a drink at the water fountain instead. I take six confident steps towards the fountain, swinging my arms. Then I turn around smartly and, lifting my knees, march back towards the classroom door. Nobody appears at any of the doors. I march back and forth half a dozen times more. I sing “The Ants go Marching” to myself softly in time to my step.

Dangbusticut. How much longer am I going to be out here?

I talk too much. That’s what Miss Moffatt put on my last report card. That’s why I spend so much time in the hall.

But I’m learning. I learned to slow down my work. If I don’t finish it so fast, then I don’t look around for something else to do, and I don’t bother my neighbour, and then I don’t end up in the hall. I take all the time Miss Moffatt gives us, going slower and slower, and I’m getting better and better at using up all the time. Lately I don’t even get my work finished. I don’t much like that, but it’s better than standing in the hall, afraid of the principal. He gives The Strap to bad children.

Finally, I’m allowed back into class.

On my next report card, Miss Moffatt writes, “Irene could do better if she tried harder.”

I talk too much.

I bother my neighbours.

I don’t try hard enough.

Criminy hockeypucks, school is hard! 

***

Irene Templeman Walker grew up in Toronto, the firstborn of Dutch immigrants. She rediscovered her childhood passion for writing four years ago, hoping that some day her grandchildren (unborn at the time) might read them. She sings alto, enjoys quilting, and is an incurable optimist. She makes her home in Ottawa with her husband of 43 years.

See Brian Henry’s upcoming weekly writing classes, one-day workshops, and weekend retreats here.

Writing Kid Lit workshop with literary agent Rachel Orr, Sunday, March 5 ~Online

Writing for Children and for Young Adults

  ~ The world’s hottest market

With literary agent Rachel Orr 

  ~ of Prospect Literary Agency

Sunday March 5, 2023
 1:15 – 5:00 p.m.
Online via Zoom and accessible wherever there’s Internet

If you want to write the next best-selling children’s books or just want to create stories for your own kids, this workshop is for you. Learn how to write stories kids and young adults will love and find out what you need to know to sell your book. This is your chance to speak with someone within a publishing company in a small group setting and to pull back the curtain and see how it all works. Be sure to bring your questions – we'll have lots of time for interaction.

Special option: Participants are invited to submit the opening couple pages (first 500 words) of your children’s book or young adult novel (or up to 1,000 words if that gets you to the end of your picture book or to the end of your first chapter). Email your pages to me prior to our workshop. We want to do some peer critiquing for everyone, and Rachel and I will publicly critique half a dozen submissions so everyone can see what works, what doesn’t, and how to improve your story-telling. If you’re not currently working on a children’s story, don’t worry, we’ll get you started! ~Brian

Guest speaker Rachel Orr is a literary agent with Prospect Agency. Founded in 2005, this New York City agency has three agents, all open to queries. The agency handles adult fiction and nonfiction, and all types of children’s books: board books through young adult.

Rachel specializes in children’s literature, where she represents a wide range of authors and illustrators including Sudipta Bardhan-Quallen, Cathy Carr, Mike Ciccotello, Samantha M. Clark, Cori Doerrfeld, Leeza Hernandez, Susie Lee Jin and Molly Ruttan. 

Before joining Prospect in 2007, she was an editor at HarperCollins Children's Books, where she had the pleasure of working with such successful authors as Dan Gutman and Suzanne Williams. Because of her editorial background, Rachel continues to do a lot of hands-on work with her clients before sending their projects out on submission. 

Rachel is looking for short, punchy picture books (either in prose or rhyme) that are humorous and have a strong marketing hook. She is also looking for Illustrators – especially those who want to write. 

In middle grade and young adult, Rachel is interested in both literary and commercial fiction. She is mostly drawn to contemporary, realistic stories, but finds it hard to say no to a good time travel.

Workshop leader Brian Henry has been a book editor, author, and creative writing instructor for more than 25 years. He publishes Quick Brown Fox, Canada’s most popular blog for writers and is the author of a children’s version of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde (Tribute Publishing Inc). But his proudest boast is that he’s has helped many of his students get published.

Read reviews of Brian’s classes and workshops here.

Fee: $45.13 + 13% hst = $51 paid in advance by mail or Interac

To reserve a spot now, email: brianhenry@sympatico.ca

See all of Brian’s upcoming weekly writing classes, one-day workshops, and weekend retreats here.

 

Wolsak and Wynn seeks fiction, nonfiction and poetry

Chasing Zebras, a memoir
by Margaret Nowaczyk
published by Wolsak & Wynn

Wolsak and Wynn Publishers

280 James Street North
Hamilton, ON L8R 2L3

https://www.wolsakandwynn.ca/

Note: You can hang out and chat with quick brown foxes and vixens on my Facebook page (here). Just send a friend request to Brian Henry. Also, if you're not yet on my newsletter list, send me an email, including your locales, to: brianhenry@sympatico.ca ~Brian

Wolsak and Wynn was created in 1982 by two dedicated poets, Heather Cadsby and Marja Jacobs, who felt that important poetry was being neglected by the publishers of the day. Within six years the press had gone from its first anthology of poems to its first Governor General’s Literary Award for Poetry. Today this is the umbrella imprint for the press, and it is still the place to find important work that has been overlooked by larger publishers. Whether it’s fiction, poetry, cultural analysis, memoir or translation, Wolsak and Wynn is dedicated to publishing clear, passionate Canadian voices.

Query with a small sample of your work. Snail mail only. No electronic submissions.

For fiction, please include a sample chapter and story synopsis, double-spaced.

For poetry, include a sample of 15–20 poems, single spaced on one-sided, white bond paper, with no more than one poem per page. There poetry books vary from 70 to 100 pages.

For nonfiction, include a sample chapter and proposed table of contents.

Submission period runs January 1 to March 31, each year. Full submission guidelines here.

Literary agent Rachel Orr was our guest speaker
at the online Writing Kid Lit workshop
on March 5, 2023

If you’re interested in meeting an agent and publishing your book, join us for an upcoming How to Get Published workshop. See here.

And if you’re particularly interested in writing for children or for young adults, join us at an upcoming one-day Kid Lit workshop or weekly course. See here {and scroll down).

Beyond that, Brian’s schedule continues to take shape....

Spring courses:

Online: Intensive Creative Writing, Tuesday evenings, 6:30 – 9:00 p.m., April 18 – June 20, first readings sent April 11. Details here.

Online: Writing Personal Stories, Tuesday afternoons, April 11 –  May 30, 2023. Details here.

Online: Welcome to Creative Writing, Wednesday evenings, April 12 – June 7. Details here.

In-person: Welcome to Creative Writing, Thursday evenings, April 20 – June 15, 2023, in Burlington. Details here.

A one-day workshop:

Online: Finding Your Voice, Saturday, April 15, with author Laurie Elizabeth Flynn. Details here.

Writing Retreats:

New: Late summer Writing Retreat in Algonquin Park at Arowhon Pines Resort. Tuesday, Sept 4 – Friday, Sept 8. Details here. We still have lots of room in this retreat.

Algonquin in June Writing Retreat at Arowhon Pines Resort, Friday, June 9 – Monday, June 12. Details here. Waiting list only.

***

See details of all upcoming writing retreats, one-day workshops, and weekly classes here. 

To reserve a spot or for more details about any course, workshop or retreat, email brianhenry@sympatico.ca

Navigation tips: Always check out the Labels underneath a post; they’ll lead you to various distinct collections of postings. For book publishers in general, see here {and scroll down}. For children’s and young adult publishers, see here {and scroll down}.