Vanessa Shields's Blog

Interview with C.M. Forest

Christian Laforet, aka C.M. Forest, writes horror. He’s been writing horror for years now, and has a stack of books to his name. A local horror-writing hero, Christian organizes events and readings, is a master on social media, and he’s part of the organizing team for Canada’s only Dark/Horror Fiction Conventions – dReadcon – which has its second annual event this Saturday in Burlington.

In our conversation, we talk about the writing life, writing horror and what is specific to writing in this genre. We talk about influences and video games and movies. And more!

Christian is also one of my writing partners (poor guy). We write together at least once a week, and it’s a thrilling endeavour because Christian is sweet and funny, and wonderfully enthusiastic about writing – yet his brain concocts some of the grossest, scariest things I’ve ever read. We have fun. Oh yes.

He doesn’t look scary at all, right? Heee!

Infested is an award-winning book! Winning the Silver Benjamin Franklin Award from the Independent Book Publishers Association!

For all things C.M Forest, click here!

WATCH THE VIDEO INTERVIEW HERELISTEN TO AUDIO INTERVIEW HERE

Stay connected with Christian on Facebook and Instagram. His books are available at all your favourite local bookshops too!

Christians’ Books!

The Space Between the Houses

All These Crooked Streets

No Light Tomorrow

Harvest: A Farmhouse Horror Anthology

Infested

We All Fall Before the Harvest

The Roots Run Deep

Thanks for letting me interview you, Christian!

How to Survive Querying

In my last blog post interviewing Ainslie Hogarth, we talked a lot about writing query letters. I gave examples using the query letter that Ainslie edited that I was going to submit to an agent at a workshop. Soooo, the workshop was this past Sunday…and golly, did I learn a lot!

First things first: we have a winner! Congratulations to Barbara who was the first to comment on the post. She won a signed copy of Ainslie’s book Normal Women! Thanks for reading, watching and commenting, Barbara!

Back to the query letter experience. The workshop, entitled ‘How to Get Published’, was with Brian Henry from Quick Brown Fox, and the guest agent was Marie Lamba from The Jennifer Di Chiara Literary Agency. I’ve been a fan of and frequent participant of Brian’s workshops over the years. If you haven’t yet subscribed to his newsletter/substack, I urge you to do so!

Part of the workshop included an opportunity to read your query letter out loud to the agent and receive feedback from both Brian and the agent. I was able to read my query – in fact, I went first (which I prefer, ’cause then I’m not sitting there nervous and sweaty as others read theirs!) – and I did so with enthusiasm and hope. The feedback was mixed…and, as happens each time I do things like this, I felt more confused and frustrated once the experience was done. BUT – overall, I think I did a good job!

In an effort to share where I’m at with writing and submitting query letters, I’ve put together a ‘Query Letter Survival Tool Kit’ – based on my experience researching the query, pitching my queries, and getting feedback from agents and editors.

Please note: (disclaimer?) This tool kit is based on my personal experience researching and also first-hand experience with agents/editors. It is based on my (ahem…educated) experience, and is meant to be a guideline/helpful load of information for those in the querying boat with me.

Information in the following info images is based on feedback from agents/editors – including Brian and Marie – as well as research on-line.

THE QUERY SURVIVAL TOOL KIT

At this point in my writing career, writing and submitting query letters feels like something to survive. It may not feel this way for you! But it does for me, and I created these ‘how-tos’ in an effort to support you in your own efforts as you navigate trying to get an agent or a publisher.

If you write the ‘pitch’ part of your query, following the Five Cs guideline (starting with Character…and filling in the info from there), you’ll be well on your way to creating a strong pitch.

The above order is most used format for query letters as of today (!). Here is a great blog post on format by Nathan Bransford – with another way to ‘see’ what the query looks like in said format.

Here’s another example from Reedsy (another great tool for learning about writing/publishing):

Here is what my query letter looked like after feedback:

For one thing, this particular agent wanted the genre info up front…and because mine was near the bottom, she was confused. Also, I was trying to impress her with a paraphrase quote at the beginning (based on research I did for ‘hook lines’ at the beginning of the query)…and that confused her as well because the quote was from a writer who writes ‘literary fiction’ – and that’s not what genre my book is. So, bleck.

In any case, there were other feedback components that I may not adhere to simply because it doesn’t match what I want to say. On the other hand, it was clear that there were parts of my pitch that didn’t translate…and parts of the story that I entirely left out in an attempt to be…flashy, fancy, pitchy? Because I was desperate to impress the agent…!

But now…I’m done with that. *she claps her palms together*

Moving forward, I’m going to continue with edits on the novel, and complete a stellar young adult novel – again. I’ll write my query letter based on the format above and write my pitch using the Five Cs method…writing the pitch with confidence based on all I’ve learned thus far! I’m switching my ‘try-to-impress-the-agent’ with desperate hope to ‘my-book-is-amazing-so-it-is-impressive’ hope.

It’s possible that I won’t get an agent at this point. It’s possible that I’ll try, wait, not get an agent, then submit directly to Canadian publishers. In which case, I’ll still need my trusty query letter.

At some point, I’m gonna need a synopsis too! I’m sure I’ll post about how to write one when the time comes.

In the meantime, buckle up beauties! We can survive the query madness! For more learning…

Click here to connect with QueryTracker (which has Query Manager within it!)

Click here to connect with Nathan Bransford. He’ll do critiques of your query!

Click here to connect with Jane Friedman who has loads of info on querying and all things submitting and publishing!

Interview With Ainslie Hogarth (W/ GIVEAWAY!)

Ainslie Hogarth is a Windsorite whose writing career catapulted with the publication of her first novel The Lonely (being re-issued in 2026 with The Boy Meets Girl Massacre (Annotated)). Since then, she’s switched agents, landed one of the Big Five publishers, and is on her fifth publication, forthcoming in 2026.

I stalked met Ainslie after I read her book, Mother Thing, looked her up on Instagram, and sent a blabbering-fan message to her. She so kindly responded and we met up at a local coffee shop…and thus began our love affair.

PSSSST. There’s a giveaway at the end of this blog post…

In this just-over-an-hour conversation, we get a deep-dive into Ainslie’s career, including the mega-importance of the query letter…examples to follow!

So, if you’re interested in a) writing horror/women’s fiction but also your stories slide between genres, or b) how to get an agent, or c) how to switch agents, or d) how to write a kick-ass query letter, or e) wanna just witness a really cool woman writer talking about writing…then listen/watch up!

The Video InterviewThe Interview Audio OnlyThe Query Letter

So, I’m the guinea pig here. I drafted a query letter to submit to an agent at a workshop I’m taking this September. Ainslie so graciously agreed to edit it using the chopping block she put her own query letters through (on?).

The First Draft

Based on Ainslie’s suggestion to research the agent, parts of this letter are meant to be ‘personal’, including points of reference based on said research…

Total word count: 571

“…remember to believe in the magic and seek and spread the love with vigour…”

Beks Reid hears her dead mother’s voice. It’s a daily reminder of the by-the-one-year-death-iversay promise Beks made to her: meet Essy Beau – world-famous, award-winning powerhouse novelist who lives in the same condo building. Fifteen-year-old Beks is caught in The Great Numbness, yet conjures what’s left of her wobbly courage to meet Essy. She breaks the ‘Don’t Bother Beau’ rules of the condo, and makes a connection. Turns out, Essy has been waiting for Beks, and they set up a weekly writing mentorship, establishing an extraordinary bond built on a love of reading, writing, and the magic of storytelling.
But meeting Essy disrupts grief’s power in Beks’ body and mind, and she can’t hear her mother’s voice anymore. Not to mention, it causes increasing tension at home with her weepy father who seems determined to flip his life upside down, and her basketball-obsessed, pun-prone, older brother. When a Monster voice slimes in, Beks feels pressed to return to her faithful role as disappearing-sad-girl-grieving-her-mother. Slipping inside the shifts between broken-hearted and bravery-bursting, Beks begins to navigate best-friendship (with Jilly, a BFF with sassitude), a first job (at the local indie bookshop, of course, complete with a passionate owner and a curmudgeon bookseller), and first love (with Uni, a 1980s film loving, convenience store clerk with John Cusak-quirky-hotness) – in hopes of rediscovering the magical voice of her dead mother. But why does it seem like the more alive Beks feels, the further away her mother becomes?
When Beau doesn’t show up for a scheduled mentorship session, Beks’ burgeoning intuition and tempestuous imagination lead her actions into a sleuth-savvy sojourn to solve the mystery of her curious disappearance. One mystery uncovers another, and the abracadabra of Beks’ determination to believe in the magic and seek and spread the love with vigour forces her to face grief’s gargantuan goal: acceptance. Can Beks truly be herself – reader, writer, best friend, sister, daughter, girlfriend – inside the impossible, magical grief?
INSIDE THE IMPOSSIBLE, MAGICAL GRIEF is a 90,000-word, contemporary, young adult, magic-infused, mystery-tinged debut novel about an adolescent awakening navigating love’s myriad explosions in body, mind and heart tangled inside the confusing grips of grief.
Infused with candid conversations about creativity, screenplay-style flashbacks and hilariously vulnerable texts, INSIDE THE IMPOSSIBLE, MAGICAL GRIEF echoes the metaphorical playfulness of A.S. King’s Pick the Lock, and the sage yet daring wisdom of Anne Lamot’s Bird by Bird, with a heroine that is a confluence of modern archetypes like Kody Keplinger’s Bianca Piper in The DUFF, and Ashley Poston’s Florence Day in The Dead Romantics…definitely silver-screen bound!
I currently work as an editor, a film and television producer (Suede Productions), and a creative writing teacher. My experience as a book publicist for an award-winning Canadian press enhanced my social media, author communication, and marketing skills. My memoir, Laughing Through A Second Pregnancy (Black Moss Press, 2011) went into a third printing, and my third, traditionally published poetry book, Thimbles (Palimpsest Press, 2021), was named one of CBC’s Spring Poetry Books To Read.
I look forward to friendly further discussion – you bring the swiss chocolate, I’ll bring the Oh Henry’s!
Yours truly,
PS. I too felt forever changed when I visited the British Library in London and saw the handwritten works of geniuses like Kipling, Bronte, Joyce and Austen! I bet we could talk for hours about this…!

The Edited Draft

Sorry, I had to take a photo because the edits wouldn’t copy and paste! You can see all the read, though…all the crossed out lines…

The Submitted Draft

This is the draft that I sent in for the workshop, in (dire!) hopes that it gets chosen and I get to read it and receive feedback from the agent. (Here’s the workshop I’m attending on Sun. Sept. 7 if you wanna come too! It’s virtual!)

Total word count: 489 (82 words edited out)

Dear ,

If grief can be covered over with some kind of blanket, to paraphrase author Anne Tyler, I’ve lifted the quilt, gathered the sharpest edges, and used them to write THE IMPOSSIBLE, MAGICAL GRIEF.
Beks Reid’s mother died one year ago, but she still hears her voice every day: “Today’s the day to meet her!” She’s talking about Essy Beau—world-famous, award-winning powerhouse novelist who just happens to live right in their building. It feels impossible for Beks to approach her idol in the throes of The Great Numbness which took root the day her mother died, but Beks manages to summon what wobbly courage she has left and makes a connection. Turns out, Essy is the best.They set up a weekly writing mentorship and establish an extraordinary bond built on the magic of storytelling.
But meeting Essy disrupts The Great Numbness. Beks can’t hear her mother’s voice anymore, and her burgeoning happiness only increases tensions at home with her weepy father and basketball obsessed brother. Worst of all is that a Monster voice slimes in where her mother’s voice used to be, urging Beks to cut her connection to Essy, and return to her role as disappearing sad girl. All this plus navigating an altering best-friendship, scoring her first job at an indie bookstore (complete with curmudgeonly employee) and falling head-over-heels for Uni, the super hot, film geek who she’s convinced was pulled directly from a John Hughes movie.
And then one day, Essy Beau doesn’t show up for their scheduled session, and Beks, on top of walking the fine line between honouring her mother’s memory and rebuilding her life, has to solve the mystery of her mentor’s mysterious disappearance. One mystery uncovers another, and Beks finds herself forced to face grief’s gargantuan goal: acceptance.
A.S. King’s Pick the Lock meets Anne Lamot’s Bird by Bird, in THE IMPOSSIBLE, MAGICAL GRIEF, a 90,000-word, contemporary, magic-infused, young adult mystery about love’s myriad explosions in body, mind and heart; about the confusing, tangly grips of grief; about creativity and self-acceptance, and the bonds of love that make us who we are.
I currently work as an editor, a film and television producer (Suede Productions), and a creative writing teacher. My experience as a book publicist for an award-winning Canadian press enhanced my social media, communication, and marketing skills. My traditionally published memoir, Laughing Through A Second Pregnancy (Black Moss Press, 2011) went into a third printing, and my third, traditionally published poetry book, Thimbles (Palimpsest Press, 2021), was named one of CBC’s Spring Poetry Books To Read.
I look forward to friendly further discussion – you bring the Swiss chocolate, I’ll bring the Oh Henry (currently, my fav chocolate treat)!
Yours truly,

Vanessa Shields
PS. I too felt forever changed when I visited the British Library in London and saw the handwritten works of geniuses like Bronte, Joyce and Austen! I bet we could talk for hours about this…!
Instagram: @shieldsvanessa
http://www.vanessashields.com

Major changes include: 1) getting the story pitch down to three paragraphs from five, 2) changing the title, and 3) shortening my ‘comps’ (the books I compare my book to, which is an extremely important part of the query!).

The word count over all is still high. The goal for the entire query should be 300-350 words max, however, I took some liberties in the open line and in the PS in an attempt to personally connect with the agent. I think Ainslie edited my story pitch super well, and tightened everything up in a way I just couldn’t on my own! Thanks, Ainslie! (And no, she’s not for hire to help you with your query! Sorry!) (Also, I’ll let you know how the workshop goes, and if I get feedback from the agent!)

THE GIVEAWAY!

FIRST PERSON TO WRITE A COMMENT GETS A FREE, SIGNED COPY OF NORMAL WOMEN! Please don’t put your mailing address in the comment! Just your comment and your email – and I’ll connect with you to get the book in your hands!

As always, thank you for listening/reading! I’m really enjoying doing interviews with local writers and sharing them with you!

Stay connected with Ainslie HERE on INSTAGRAM!

Loss, Labour (Quitting Writing) & Luxuriation

LOSS

On Friday, July 11, 2025, our beloved Oscar crossed the rainbow bridge. That morning when we awoke, he was in the hallway, puddles of urine and vomit around him. We cleaned him up, took him outside where he was able to go to the bathroom…but then he fell to the deck and couldn’t move. We had to carry him inside. He knew it was his time.

We cancelled our plans, and remained with him, constantly touching him and loving him until 5pm when a vet came to our house was able to offer end-of-life services. We wept and wept. At one point, Oscar lifted his head and looked at me, his wisdom gleaming in his eyes…and he told me, it was okay, he was loved, and he’d always be with us. And it’s true.

His gone-ness continues to be everywhere. Our home is different now…feeling the spaces Oscar’s energy and body had taken for over ten years…wondering where he is…hoping for his return. His food bowls are still out, as is a small altar with his paw print and ashes. Every day, I look at photos of him, caress them and tell him I love him.

Oscar was the first dog I had from puppy to papa (that’s what we called him). He chose us when we went to see his litter…reaching out with his paw toward the kids. He was born wise, a King stuck in the body of a Golden Retriever. He loved to be adored, constantly pushing his paw in our faces for attention. And though he loved to be kissed, his giving of kisses was a carefully considered occurrence.

Pages, our other Golden, is doing well. We’ve been taking her with us wherever we go that dogs can go too. We even took her to the drive-in! And, she’s been swimming her little mer-dog heart out in the pool. Yes, there are rumblings of desire for a puppy…but for now, we’re loving the heck out of Pages, and missing Oscar as our hearts heal.

LABOUR

Summer makes my relationship with work go awry. Because my working life is pretty adjustable, I find that as the air heats up and as the kids galavant in a schedule-less bliss, I too want to galavant and deviate…and embrace the heat like it’s an old friend.

So that’s what I’ve been doing…reading, writing, walking, watching movies, visiting with friends, hanging with the kids and nick…days go by and many of them I don’t know what actual day it is as it passes! I enjoy a tender sleep-in, letting my body ‘awake’ when it wants to. Indeed, I’m grateful for this adaptable lifestyle!

Inside this bliss, however, the guilt and Animus push in. I had many days where tears lead the way, leading into long conversations about value and validation, about dreaming new dreams and editing others. I even applied for some part-time work ‘outside’ of anything creative/writing-centric…to satiate a curious narrative that tells the story of me writing more if I had a job that had nothing to do with writing. Alas, there were no calls, no interviews…and as I waited and worried, wrote and wrestled with wants, I decided that I’d stick with what I’ve been loving as work – teaching, editing, writing – but create and uphold a shift in my narrative about it. And also – work with others to support this shift!

I had several writing blitzes wherein I made major breakthroughs on my novel. This was pretty darn exhilarating! I did a three-day writing retreat with Charis Cotter, my writing partner who lives in Newfoundland (we Facetime!), and then we had several days where we kept working, and it was intensive and brain-melting.

I had a breakdown after 26 chapters of edits, and I quit writing. For about 18 hours.

Yes, I printed out the first 26 chapters of my novel draft, read each one and made notes in a document for all the things that still needed attention, then I started on the final chapters…which need the most editing of all of them thus far…and I started worrying and thinking about what to do with it, who to send it to, would it get published…and I crashed from overwhelm…also, I got a rejection for a submission I was super hopeful about…and a couple emails that tossed me right over the precarious edge I was attempting to balance on.

So yeah, I quit writing. I decided, out loud and with conviction, that this whole ‘career’ in writing just wasn’t for me anymore. Nope. No way. No need. I could still be creative. Start sewing again. Work on collages. Focus on my health and fitness. Get a part-time job at a restaurant doing dishes.

WHAT RELIEF I FELT, my friends. What beautiful, pure, the-weight-of-a-thousand-books-lifted-off-my-chest kinda relief…I closed up my laptop. I piled my novel pages and put them on a shelf. I went to the sofa, cried, and ate popcorn and an Oh Henry whilst watching Dirty Dancing. I put myself in the corner and was happy as hell to be there. No dancing, dirty or otherwise.

I let my body and my brain feel what it felt like to not identify as a writer. To not constantly be organizing ideas, managing time for projects, worrying about publication, and bracing for rejection. To let a line of poetry, a phrase for a short story, the dialogues between characters…swoosh on out of my head like tufts of smoke.

I felt giddy. I felt youthful. I felt panicked. I felt alone. I felt alive in a way I hadn’t felt, perhaps ever…because for as long as I can remember feeling anything about ‘who I am’…being a reader, being a writer has always been a driving force in my identity. All the other things I’ve done in my life, all the accomplishments and all the other dreams lived or buried…none of it held the space, the energy, the drive, the purpose, the MUST-NESS like reading and writing.

And then this profound disconnect happened.

My entire body felt different. It was like I was miraculously able to lift my ‘writer’ self out of my body, lay her down gently on the bed, and let her…be. Separate from me…and all my other parts. I felt a calmness…a freedom in my veins…a zimmering, if you will, in my body free of the ‘life’ of the writer who took up so much damn space in my existence.

And in this separation, I let myself feel the expansions in the spaces my ‘writer’ part took up…it was like I had…bubbles inside me…and my stomach expanded (who knew she could expand even more!)…and my guts breathed a huge sigh of relief…and my spine fluffed and elongated…and my entire nervous system, looked around, felt the space, and did a jig. A jig, I tell you!

I announced with my voice: I QUIT WRITING! And the walls heard me, and the dog. My family smiled as they do when I make grand announcements. And I smiled too – absolutely there was more space in my smile…stretching around the back of my head…have you ever smiled this kind of smile? It literally hurts. But in the best way.

Yes, for one afternoon, and an entire evening and a fabulous night’s sleep…I was no longer a writer, but a me…just a me free of this major identity.

I awoke the next morning, and I didn’t think about anything. My mind was quiet…all the characters, the words, sentences, dialogues…all the ‘work’ that is the voice of the writer, all the energy, all that movement in my body – gone liminal. It was nearly terrifying. And then I remembered what I’d done the day before.

And there beside me, on her side, leaning her ear in the palm of her hand, the writer was…waiting. She winked. I laughed. I told her, ‘sweet woman, let me have my coffee first…’ And she did. And she stayed close as I started my morning, slowly, quietly. I ate toast with peanut butter and butter (yes, of course and butter), and realized that I can be ‘me’ without being a ‘writer’.

It felt really odd starting my day without the writer agenda-driving my thoughts/actions. It felt…a bit scary too because what would I do all day if writing wasn’t somehow involved? I let myself remember that writing can be a joyful experience. It can exist without a list of to-dos, without the stress of ‘musts’, without the pressure of ‘what ifs’, without the suffering of rejections…and it can be ‘just writing’ to write. To release the voices, to play, to imagine, to create…

Why can’t I treat the writer in me like I treat the crafter or the reader or the walker? HOLD IT – I CAN!

I asked the writer if it would be okay if we were friends, not co-workers. I asked the writer if I could let her have her own body sometimes if she got too heavy in mine. I asked the writer if she knew I still loved her so very much even if I shifted her power in my mind.

She put her hand on her boney hip (She’s a lanky lady who loves to smoke and drink coffee. Luckily, when a ‘part’ smokes, there’s no danger involved.), and smirked. “Of course, silly,” she said. “Of course. But…let’s write soon, okay?”

And I smiled back, and nodded. “Soon.” And I finished my breakfast, and I got dressed, and I felt the freedom of choosing to write whenever, wherever, and why-ever I wanted…’I’ as in ‘all my parts’…without the chesty-guilt of hurting the writer’s feelings. The writer just wants to write – no feelings are hurt when not writing. I got that. I got it! Finally.

And ever since that day…a few weeks ago, my relationship with writing has shifted into this new…freer…smoother…in fact, MORE present experience. And this ability to release a part from the rest of me has been very rewarding. I’ve given release to the ‘must-make-money’ part, and the ‘how-you-should-make-money-part’ (they’re a feisty pair)…and this ability is me learning how to ‘pause’, separate and contemplate – and then act.

I feel different. And I’m grateful for this change! I feel so much more space in my body now that the writer is her own distinct part, not a complete layer always covering me.

LUXURIATION

New word alert? This internal body shift, this rearrangement of relationship with the writer meant that whatever I do now, I do with new vigourous luxuriation! I feel like there is more time in each day and that’s an incredible feeling to have.

I spent hours in the pool and/or some body of water. The outstanding heat was, for me, the best! And learning how to not lose time ‘worrying’, but instead, ‘doing’ and also ‘being’ in the ‘doing’ was…is…live changing. Yeah, that’s not a typo: LIVE changing.

I read more books this summer than I have in years!

Even since taking this photo, I read another book! That pile has 8 books in it, but on Monday, I finished reading this:

I read this book in only three sittings because Nina George is one of my favourite authors. And, despite it deviating in subject matter (sort of!) than her other books…the writing was stunning and I felt like I was in Breton, France with her characters, and I adore a book that transports me….even if spending time with the characters provokes me in frustrating ways. Also, it made me want to swim and smoke and eat cheese and fish….of which I’ve done three of the four…

My fall reading pile (which will grow, no doubt!) is this:

I’ve already started reading ‘Our Lady of the Lost and Found‘…and I’m nearly done ‘The Japanese Lover’…it’s the kinda book that takes a lot of energy to read. And, Ainslie Hogarth’s ‘The Boy Meets Girl Massacre’ is en route (so is an interview with Ainslie..coming later this week!). Also, I’ve pre-ordered Patti Smith’s newest masterpiece, ‘Bread of Angels‘ – forthcoming November 2025.

Reading makes me very, very happy.

I’ve been taking looooong walks too. Like, at least 45 minutes in length, five-to-six kilometres a pop. Again, who knew I had this MUCH TIME to spend on walking? But I do! And, I’ve been reading and writing and dreaming and sleeping and swimming. It’s bonkers, but I love it.

Yes, my children are older now, and that’s a fact that absolutely affects how I spend my time. But, I tell you, they’ve been pretty self-sufficient for years, and it’s only been this summer that I’ve figured out ‘how’ to use my time, my opening time, in a way that is both functional and fun.

This fall is going to be a jolly good time too. I can feel it. I’m taking two writing classes. I’m team-teaching a six-week feedback forum. And after that…a workshop and perhaps a retreat (in the works!). I’ve got my poetry books out on submission, and a load of poems and fiction out on submission. And my novel is getting closer and closer to being submittable. In fact, as soon as I’m done this, I’m gonna jump back in! (This is my third sitting for this post!)

Earlier this week, a writer I’m working with shared an amazing article with me (thanks, Natasha!)…I pulled a quote that continues to resonate with me…

Thriving is not ignorance. It’s resistance. Thriving doesn’t mean you turn your back on the truth. It means you refuse to let the truth break you. You don’t have to pretend bad things aren’t happening. But there’s a difference between staying informed and being consumed. One keeps you engaged, the other swallows you whole.

Eva Schmidt, from ‘Permission to Thrive in a Broken World: How to Live Fully in the Chaos

Here’s to thriving, y’all. To being and doing our best, to the best of our body, mind and heart’s abilities.

Thanks for reading this far! More soon…

Be kind. Spread love.

Interview with Charis Cotter!

This is award-winning, Canadian author Charis Cotter! Charis and I have been writing partners and best friends for years. This June, her new middle-grade novel Mystery of the Haunted Dance Hall released from Tundra, an imprint of Penguin-Random House.

Critics are wildly impressed…

“Cotter trusts readers with deep descriptions and a languid buildup to the action. Her writing is ethereal and evocative, evoking the dangers and glittering possibilities of summer nights away from home.” —STARRED REVIEW, Kirkus Reviews

“Steady pacing and elegant prose combine to craft a warmly bewitching tale about young love and heartache.” —STARRED REVIEW, Publishers Weekly

And so am I! I read Mystery of the Haunted Dance Hall in two sits. I couldn’t put it down. And being with Charis when the idea for the book bloomed then witnessing the years of writing, editing and finally, this year, the birth of this book, made reading it all the more amazing. My little ‘review’ of the book is at the bottom of this post!

For now, please enjoy our zoom interview!

Video Interview Here!Audio of the interview here!Here’s my review of Mystery of the Haunted Dance Hall!

*SPOILERS*

Perhaps her most heartfelt book penned yet, Charis Cotter’s latest middle-grade, ghost-mystery extravaganza, The Mystery of the Haunted Dance Hall, fondles your fears, charms your curiosity, and humbles your heart with unique and unforgettable characters, a fowl-friendly setting, and an enchanting storyline that lives beyond the page. Dedicated to her late father, Graham Cotter, The Mystery of the Haunted Dance Hall, seeps within its pages, a deep yet loving loss, that immediately compels the heart to pay attention. I was moved to both laughter and tears as I read, embracing the embedded sadness and love that flutters like angel wings in the subtext of this beautiful story. 

The Mystery of the Haunted Dance Hall is an ode to grief set in a kids’ camp during one enchanting summer in the 1960s. Cotter is able to masterfully layer grown-up feelings with magical moments that teach healing through friendship, trust, and the community that is chosen family (or campmates!). Even though this story tackles big topics like loss, fear, belonging and death, it is carried gently in the humourous, thoughtful and mildly spooky voice that is characteristic of a Cotter novel. Yes, there are ghosts! But there are also kids with distinct super-powers that, once embraced, enable a kind of bravery that makes a reader eager to turn to the page, to continue to the next adventure, to eagerly join Bee and her vivid cast of camp-going characters at Camp Blue Heron in discoveries that develop into a wonderful story.

Our heroine, Bee, is cautious yet intelligent and brave, and riddled with a curious desire for belonging that she nurtures through friendship, self-discovery, and a brilliantly curated leadership that Cotter creates through her incredible writing. Indeed, all of Cotter’s characters are bright, daring, wounded and wobbly yet they thrive in the development of character and plot that Cotter seamlessly weaves. This is one of Cotter’s superpowers! With Zippy, Felicity, Miss Linnet, and the robust cast of camp-going humans and birds, Bee is able to able to recognize where and why and when she is needed, using her superpowers and burgeoning bravery, toward inner healing, self-discovery and acceptance, and an elevated voice that continues to stick with me some weeks after joining Bee on her adventures. 

There are several mysteries to discover and unravel in The Mystery of the Haunted Dance Hall, and it’s an exciting, delightful and goose-bump-inducing experience reading as the story and characters develop and divulge. You don’t have to have attended camp to appreciate the unique qualities of it because Cotter does an excellent job of describing both the landscape and the activities that occur in this nature-driven setting. Readers will get the added thrill of learning about birdwatching, table-setting, hiking and canoeing that are integral parts of the camping experience. And, the ‘play’ of both character and camp-connected names that are birds is a luxurious adage to the storytelling prowess that Cotter delivers. 

Grief is a heavy topic, and an even heavier lived experience for both child and adult. What I love about this book is that it carries the weight of this universal emotional experience through exceptionally intuitive and compassionate character development. Whilst unraveling a ghostly, yet enchanting mystery that in itself exposes a tragedy that needs freedom from the strong grip of grief, Cotter opens and heals wounded hearts young and old, alive and dead.

This is Cotter’s fifth novel in the middle-grade, mystery, ghost story genre. Each of her previous novels has won multiple awards, and this will be no exception. What’s perhaps even better than an award is the heart of a young reader-turned-fan of which Cotter also has many! Readers write letters and emails, blogs and reviews sharing their delight and love of the Queen of Ghost Stories’ novels. These accolades exemplify Cotter’s creative writing abilities, and make her one of Canada’s greatest, most successful middle-grade writers alive today. 

Let’s judge this book by its cover! It is an utterly striking, enchanting and inviting cover with artwork by Byron Eggenschwiler and jacket design by Kate Sinclair. Added artistic bonuses within the book include whimsical flares like the small leaves of ornamental section breaks, the loop-de-loops beside the chapter numbers and the little leaves beside the page numbers. Definite attention and care was put into the design and layout of this book. Published by Tundra, an imprint of Penguin Random House, The Mystery of the Haunted Dance Hall is a guaranteed summer-camp, ghost story success – on its way to being a Canadian classic! 

Click here to order your copy of Mystery of the Haunted Dance Hall or connect with your favourite bookshop and order from there!

More interviews to come with Ainslie Hogarth, Christian Laforet (CM Forest)…and more!

Love as Activism

Today marks the fifth anniversary of my Nonna’s passing. My tummy has been in knots all day. My guts toiled in memories. Today is the last exam for my daughter; her eleventh grade year concluded. Today my son will attend a funeral for a classmate; a bright, compassionate, kind light of a human who passed in his sleep. Today, bombs continue to drop. Today, disease expands in bodies. Today, heat wraps the afternoon like a shadow. My throat is tight blue – I hold tears there because weeping feels weak.

What if my activism is to love the tiniest thing? That in a single tear unfolding from the corner of a single eye…grief has a home that welcomes everyone? What if an embrace is a whooshing wind of peace?

The depth of my sadness is galactic, yet held in the determined chambers of my beating heart – alive and insisting on living at all costs. Like your heart. Like every human heart.

What if a poem is agency? Advocacy? Anarchy? Proof of the availability for peace when Love is the language?

As the mourning continues for my Nonna, for a young man turned angel, for deaths near and far, internal and external, literal and metaphorical – I deny the narrative that weeping is weak, that hope is useless, that Love is not enough.

I choose to be “the kind of “wound that turns into a lung through which you breathe,”” – as written by Elias Canetti (July 25, 1905–August 14, 1994).

I choose to inhale and exhale love. Small gasps. Deep inhales. Tight-lipped exhales. Gargantuan yells that vibrate the stars…Wishful whispers that fill thimbles…all is breath. All is love.

Interview with Jane Christmas about her new book ‘A Flight of Saints’!

*SOME SPOILERS!* *CONTENT WARNING: FOUL LANGUAGE!*

Friends, I’m super excited to share this just-under-an-hour zoom interview I had with the incomparable Jane Christmas! Her new book and first foray into fiction, A Flight of Saints, is out in the world and you must read it!

Yes, there’s a different name on the cover of this book! Jane used the pseudonym Elizabeth Braithwaite when self-publishing this fantastic, feminist literary gem. We talk about this, about self-publishing versus traditional publishing, about agents, the creative processes, and the long, winding and frustrating road that led Jane to choose self-publishing to get this story into the world.

INTERVIEW WITH JANE!

Here are options for enjoying this interview! A text file and an audio file, not video!

Audio file only. JANE CHRISTMAS INTERVIEW TRANSCRIPTDownload

To order a copy of A Flight of Saints, visit Jane’s website here! Also, her website is jam packed with easter eggs about the story, the characters and the impetus for using a pseudonym. Annnnd, all her other books are available to purchase as well! Woot!

Here’s my review of A Flight of Saints:

Jane Christmas seamlessly makes the leap from non-fiction (memoir) to fiction with her debut novel A Flight of Saints. Writing under the pseudonym Elizabeth Braithwaite, the choice to use this name was not “an attempt at subterfuge or trickery, but a genuine desire to be free from expectation and have new writing judged afresh.” Perhaps an even deeper-dive into ‘free from expectations’ and ‘writing judged anew’ includes the fact that this novel is self-published. In these regards, A Flight of Saints is truly an adventurous flight into new and exciting literary excellence for Christmas – and it’s already nominated for an award! 

A Flight of Saints is a female-centric, feminist, spiritual journey-driven story about five nuns who escape an abuse-heavy convent, traveling the harsh forests and dangerous edges of the Alps towards a convent led by their heroine Hildegard of Bingen. Each nun comes with a unique set of ideals, commitments to the cloth, and shifting self-awareness that bounce and bang against the harried treacherousness of twelfth-century travel (sans electricity, tents, even a good pair of boots!), challenging leadership roles, friendship, and sisterhood. Led by a steadfast, dedicated, yet flawed main character Sister Lucia, the internal conscience of this quest-driven tale spins like a determined dreidel. 

Layered with Braithwaite’s intelligent comedy, impressive knowledge of female saints, religious texts and well-researched settings in twelfth-century life, A Flight of Saints offers readers an adventure story that both frazzles and frees ideals and beliefs about religion, friendship, violence against women, motherhood, home, family, and the power of unconditional love – transcending time, and showing how antiquated experiences for women are comparable to contemporary realities, the good, the bad, and the ugly. 

A Flight of Saints is a fast-read, as Christmas’ narrative-driven, vulnerable-yet-sassy memoirist’s voice translates beautifully into Braithwaite’s fictitious world of arrive-at-all-costs, coming-of-age, we-can-do-it plot points that hit beats both emotional and physical. You care about the nuns, some more than others, but certainly there is relatability, and her well-timed, revelatory, origin story developments for each woman lift the storytelling into the realm of literary brilliance. 

It is a feminist move to self-publish, especially after being under the tar-feathered wings of a Big Five publisher. This active energy of perseverance, of self-preservation, of self-propulsion is a character in the story, for sure, and reflects Christmas’ personal experiences of reverence with nuns, navigating a sometimes dangerous literary landscape, Alp-like in its jaggedness, and a sexual assault that will forever resonate in her physical body…and her body of work. 

It’s no secret I’m a major fan of Jane Christmas, the writer, the mentor, the woman, the mother, but with A Flight of Saints in the world as yet another extension of her bravery and storytelling prowess, I’m feeling more disciple than fan! There are many, many instances of outstanding writing throughout the story that stopped me in my reading tracks to gush and cheer. For example, this bit exemplifies the depth and the courage of not only the women, but of authorial voice:

“This was the true nature of our origins: We were all scourged by the loss of home and family. None of us belonged to any place or to anyone. And I realised that, broken as we were, they were all I had, and I was all they had. We were all saints because we had suffered.”

Kudos extend to the linocut artist who created the cover art was Haychley Webb, map and cover designer Stephanie Hofmann (yes, there’s a stunning map at the beginning of the book!), and book designer Dinah Drazin  for adding visual beauty and fun to the book. 

A Buncha Catch-Up!

Good goddess, it’s been too long since I’ve posted! May has come and gone. What a zippy little month it was! Significant moments include turning 47 (!), whilst my son turned 19 (whaaaaat?!), visiting Stratford for the festival to see some stellar theatre, finishing a new poetry manuscript….

Indeed, did I mention that I turned ‘We the Mourners’ into a full poetry manuscript? I did, and I’ve been submitting it here and there, hoping to get a pub-deal. I’ve been submitting a lot, in general. Poetry, flash-fiction…Remember that Honourable Mention I got for a flash fiction piece? Well…they had to say this about my story…

And…I entered a novel excerpt contest…and this is some of the feedback I received from editor Eliana Gruvman. THANK YOU, ELIANA!

It feels sooo great to receive feedback in general…considering that silence and/or no responses at all (!) is one way that folks respond…but to get this rich support based on the first chapter of my novel…helps me keep working on it, and believing in it…and feeling that deep-heated ‘knowing’ that what I’m writing matters.

I’m still editing yes! It’s a hard, long job…and I keep making new commitments to myself regarding getting it done asap…and then…well…PMS and birthdays and weather and events and friendships and, and, and…! Writing a novel is such a different beast than writing poetry. I can write poems quickly and submit then eagerly…but editing a chapter in a novel? It’s like…an entirely different experience in my head, heart and body. I will get it done. I know I will…I’m trying to be gentle but also not give up. There’s a fine line there!

I did my first Poetry Marathon! Twelve hour of writing poetry, one poem per hour! A thousand tender thank-yous to Cassie Caverhill for sharing this hilarious and hard journey with me! We wrote some damn great poetry, didn’t we?!

I taught a ‘Healing Through Writing Workshop’ last week that was fun and helpful (I hope!). I talked about how writing in a journal all these years has been healing for me…and offered some tools/prompts for bringing healing writing practices into one’s life. I’m also teaching a writing workshop later this month on Writing & The Body…

Registration is open! Each time I teach, I remember how much I love teaching! That lovely, zinging, giddy, nerve-wracking, love-inducing feeling of sharing creativity with others is the best! I’m in talks with other teachers about offering some classes in the fall…stay tuned!

And now…for some fun photos…I haven’t posted a pic of myself in a minute…have I? Well…here we go! (PS. I’m growing out my grey hair…)

Gardening Hack! Cup up an old rain boot and stick in a plant!Me with bubble braids…is that what they’re called? Our Pages…lookin’ frothy gorgeous!It’s official. Charis Cotter! Stay tuned for an interview with her about her new book! Me…I don’t think my hair has ever been this long!

And this:

Miller (16!), Moi (47), and Jett (19!) in Stratford!

I’m working on a post about author Jane Christmas…aka Elizabeth Braithwaite! She’s published a new book, her first fiction, entitled A Flight of Saints! I have a zoom interview to share with you!

And…soon I’ll be interviewing Charis Cotter about her new novel The Mystery of the Haunted Dance Hall!

Happy sigh. Life is busy and full. And hard and sad and devastating and wonderful and love, love, love…..

A Photo Update!

Life has been life-ing, baby! Here are some photos to catch us up…

The Honourable Mention!

Thanks so much to the Women on Writing community, and judge for the Winter Flash Fiction contest! I made it to the top twenty (over 200 submissions!) and garnered an Honourable Mention! I’m sooo grateful and excited!

2. The Gently Mad Magazine Event

It was a grand afternoon at Biblioasis celebrating the release of the second issue of the Gently Mad Literary Magazine. I was among a roomful of eager poets and artists sharing their published pieces from the magazine. It was a lovely, inspiring event that honoured ‘the muse’ and the creative process. Thanks to Serafina and Caprice for their organizational prowess, and to the Scarlet and the Biblioasis team for, once again, hosting a fine literary event! (And thanks to the person who took at the photos…I’m sorry I didn’t get the name!)

The Gently Mad Lit Mag is open for submissions for their next issue! Click here for all the details (deadline June 15th)!

3. Reading

I’ve been doing a lot of reading…laying on the sofa with the dogs, the cool air blowing over us…I’m reading Beautyland by Marie-Helene Bertino right now. Um, it’s breaking my brain with it’s amazingness…and will start The Ruins by Scott Smith this week (for book club)…

4. Writing

Last week was dedicated to editing my novel, and this week I’m leaning into two poetry manuscripts – adding more poems, and making edits to existing pieces…also figuring out the order of the pieces…which can be a huge job! I’m adding about 10 more pieces to the ‘We the Mourners’ poem I wrote in April (thanks for all your loving comments!) so that the manuscript will be long enough to submit as a full manuscript (as opposed to a chapbook which is under 30 pages).

Editing the novel continues to be…intense. I’m making major changes and that means a lot of hacking entire pages out…and writing new scenes. I’m moving into act two where fiction can go to die (!), and so it’s a lot of considering, planning, plotting and staying focused on character development. Because I wrote to a very detailed structure and now I’m deviating quite a lot, I’m feeling like maybe I’m doing it all wrong…! But, I also want to keep to the integrity of the story I want to tell…and since I followed the rules to begin…perhaps it’s okay to break a few in this edit?!

I’m feeling daunted most of the time, and it’s hard as balls to get my butt in the chair and work on the manuscript. But…I also feel the fire of timing and I really, really, really want to have all the edits done by the end of June. I’ve moved up this date to account for a copy edit that I have to get done and then respond to. Sigh. Also, although much is changing, I still have to kill a darling and that is weighing heavy on my heart!

This weekend, I’ll be doing the Poetry Marathon with local poet Cassie C. What is a poetry marathon, you wonder? We’ll be writing one poem every hour for 12 hours. So, by 9pm on Saturday, we’ll each have written 12 poems! In the in-betweens, we’re gonna hit up of submission list, and send out poems/chapbooks. It’ll be a day dedicated to poetry! Though spots are filled for this year’s marathon, check out the link above and consider playing along next year!

I also have two other poetry manuscripts that I’m working on…one is a complete chapbook that if I add more, I can push to a full-length manuscript, and the other is a very early draft with a list of ideas for poems that I’m aiming to make another full manuscript. Poetry is constantly creating in my brain…and when I give it attention, the poems fly out of me. I’m doing my best to give time and attention to the poems!

5. Horses

Wait, what? Did I say horses?

In the fall, I started watching ‘Yellowstone’. I quickly remembered how much I love horses as I watched the characters ride and rage around Montana. I stopped watching the show, but my desire to connect with horses stayed alive, and I did some research on local ranches/riding lessons. There are a lot of ranches in our area!

I am currently volunteering once a week at Sarah Parks Horsemanship in Essex. I am learning how to groom the horses, lead them (walk with them), and get comfortable around them. I hope to get some formal lessons in the near future where I’ll learn how to saddle a horse, and then get on one and learn basic riding skills. Then…perhaps I’ll find a horse I can ride more consistently…

I’ve had minimal experience riding horses. When I lived in Kelowna, BC for six glorious months when I was 19-20, I went riding several times. I was able to get a horse, get on it, and GALLOP in the mountainside. It was incredible! I aim to learn how to do that again…and learn more about these wildly peaceful, gigantic animals. I’m hoping that riding will also help strengthen my pelvic floor. (You feel me, ladies?!)

6. Movies & Miscellany

I’ve started watching summer movies: Field of Dreams, Signs, Mystic Pizza (also can be a fall film!), Stand By Me I’ve watched so far. I also watched the new feature on Netflix entitled Nonnas. It was delightful, and I was a weeping, hungry mess by the end of it! Well done, Vince Vaughan and team! I’m looking forward to Goonies, Pretty in Pink, Sixteen Candles, The Sandlot, Runaway Bride, and one of my all-time favs, Shirley Valentine!

I went to the theatre to see Sinners. Damn! So entertaining!

Spring is officially here, with Summer slipping her heat in and out of our weeks…so yard management and pool opening has been added to the list of things to do. We’re looking forward to a busy, busy summer making films (more on this soon!) and cooling off after long shoot days in the pool.

Allergies continue to grip my nose and ears, and I’ve already gotten a sunburn (by accident!) so I’m carrying sunscreen with me wherever I go!

Time feels…like open arms filled with opportunities. I’m doing my best to be a writer and mom and wife and friend as the busyness of life ebbs and flows. Hope you are too!

Keep smiling, being kind and spreading the love!

PS. I will finish up my post on what it feels like publishing a book…and I’m interviewing author Jane Christmas about her new book A Flight of Saints…to be shared here soon!

Poem 30 – We the Mourners

We made it to the end of April! Thank you for ‘mourning’ with me…Here is the poem in its entirety, including not one but six new stanzas for the final day of April! I couldn’t help myself! It was a great pleasure and practice writing poetry and sharing it with you for the National Poetry Month. The ‘theme’ as chosen by the League of Canadian Poets for NPM 2025 is family. Thank you for being part of my poetry family!

We the Mourners

We the mourners
roam the land
a planet-sized graveyard
witnessing the body as tombstone
inclined toward the sharp knife of
Love’s lapidarian urges
etching Time wounds
into our skin –
urging the most tears

We the mourners
swallow the sour spaces
between right & wrong
holding the knowledge
of their folly – fools alive
enough to write songs
poems plays paintings
in the lush language of loss
of lust of legends – heads
bowed into palm-praying
hands throats humming

We the mourners
take pride in the stride
of the single falling tear
in the animal-gutteral growls
of the multi-breathed sob
in the rib-shaking depth of the
long-winded wail
cry weep bawl – we bowl
our bodies into the sacred
howls of healing

We the mourners
are bodies built
trench-laden & weaponed
for the onslaught of wars
unceasing on land
in sky in water in
mind in flesh gushing
bloods deviant with
DNA unleashed since
the First Body bloomed
– we weapon with Love

We the mourners
do not forget the first light
the second dark & all the
colourful shadows between
– fiery & untimed unnamed
do not forget before Before
when the body tingled after
flights stardust-drowned
delirious determined
to omit its genesis

We the mourners
strum the nervous system
into freedom – braiding
fight flight freeze zingy
nettles embrace
stinging fingertips
lips bloodied
elegant & ebullient

We the mourners
continue the chants
benedicted protectors
our knees so swollen
we are double-capped
cradled in earth’s
dancing dust –
praising we choir

We the mourners
clutch the One True Prayer
that begins with
the sprawling what if
and never ends
Oh we bead the voices
of the dead lift them
seeding back to the sky

We the mourners
move among you
slip under tongues
rage under ribs
hover over hearts
contaminate your rituals
of goodbye with the
staining ink of memory
sew them to the souls
of the next bodies to Be

We the mourners
engage with our voices
we give you our faces
we listen with our bodies
we answer the calls
we respond to emails
we talk through texts
we post, we comment
we like, we share on the
Love-net that is human
to human interaction
we do not have cell
phones or laptops or
computers – we have
each other we have you
we patience we kind
we hold we carry
we here, we hear
we you, you, you

We the mourners
are the carpenters of shelves
designing and building
your golden libraries
home-ing the books of
your storied lives
we parchment, we ink
we hand write the words
of humanity’s be-ings
if you look closely, you will
see letters in your blood
love loves to read and
the past is a series we
each contribute to, the present
is a manufacturing marvel
the future, o, the future is a window
tucked in the basement with
ghosts and clowns and spiders
and mice – lounging in the
detritus of deception

We the mourners
preserve the tip of the tongue
it is getting lonely, discarded
in the speed of need-to-know
no, no – the tip of the tongue
is the holder of creativity’s
cauldron, the altar of imagination’s
fierce fortress, intelligence
the tastebud of transcendence
– why flounder it
to artificial accoutrements?
we heed the healing force
genuine in our care for the
tongue’s mighty roar

We the mourners
eat grief for every meal
spice it with saffron & sage
agrimony & quassia
sauce it over pasta
spread it on warm bread
there is enough grief
to feed trillions and trillions
need to eat. Grief is thick
tender sassy sticky ripe
sweet nasty juicy rich
like hand-churned butter
batter-beautiful and bold
we overeat and bloat
blissfully for your griefdom
to continually thrive

We the mourners
refuse politics as a container
for global exchange we trust
in the evolutionary grit of the
radical amygdala, of the hankering
left brain right brain continuum
we believe in the flux capacitor
the lorax the lord the god the goddess
– in the souls of scrolls fossils
petroglyphs zircon crystal dragons
flies roaches and clonal aspens quaking
for 80,000 years and counting – we’re
counting. We believe in the flat line as
a goal post to be lifted and moved shifted
and shoved as a means to share
Everything – We believe in Munsch

We the mourners
cloak and swagger in the
silence between screams
explosions faces slaps car
crashes thunder rolls forks
scraping plates nails scratching
chalkboards – the silence between
tantric orgasm pants labour moans
and the first pure newborn vibrato
We are collectors of the vibrations
of love matter-ing inside life’s bold
and brittle becomings. Our satchels
perpetually overflowing with
the juicy soma of now

We the mourners
knit with yarn of loneliness
needles click-clacking inside
the calm light of moon sigh
and sun whisper – the depth
of your lavender longings, your
yellow yearnings, your purple
hopes, your green envies
your spectrum of abilities to
love is a scarf pattern we
art with and for so to warm
the throats in existence
all the voices tangling
to talk in the perfect depths
where soul pieces await the
communion of connection

We the mourners
undulate we gyrate as we spectate
the immaculate sufferings of
today – we bud in spring we bloom
in summer we fall in fall we patient
in winter we season in your seasons
of loss and gain – again and again
we orchestrate the alternate
mouths of Fate we wait we wait
we satiate the grand debate of
‘Why?’

We the mourners
do not fit a mould
we are water fire air
we genuflect to the land
with its doctorate in
Wonder & Awe its Masters
in Chaotic Change its
Bachelor’s in Creative Writing:
education is classroom-ed in the
witnessing of human
reactions that like the elements
thrive in the chaos and after-
birth of suffering’s children

We the mourners
spiral on the puckered
kissing lips of radical
empathy – fearless
in the grand maw of
self-compassion’s
voracious persistence –
the body battles the
soul’s unconditional
devotion to self-love
we understand this
internal war: we warrior
we fence-jump
we edge-leap
we do our own stunts
for your pleasure

We the mourners
cook in the kitchens
of your trauma
sharpened, we prep
lean strips of safety
hand out meal tickets
for your final feasts
in the death rows of
your personal growings
this is no diet but a
style of healing that
serves all universally
the kitchens are always
Open – dessert is
served in the sink:
your anger bowled like
ice cream your fear fired
like brulee – the more
you chew and swallow
and release the more
you enjoy the meditation
that is hand-washing dishes

We the mourners
interpret what you
don’t understand what
you can’t understand
what you misunderstand
we detain the unjust
unmangle the unfair
correct the corrupt
outlast the argument
In the spikey mountain
Range that is how we
Love – understanding is
weather we are always
prepared to vane

We the mourners
have but one request:
when you weep may you
turn your feet to lungs
and, when you’re ready
breathing out your toes
drop your quaking
palms from your face
and see us seeing you
acknowledging the truth
of your suffering

We the mourners
mimic the grace of gravity
gracious in our devotion to
the celestial creaminess of
our earth’s perpetual giving
we heed her frenzied fumings:
heart-first into her tantrumed
thrashings in response to our
unsustainable thirst for convenience
She can warm, feed and shelter
our bodies even as she swallows
us whole – until we digest Her losses
as our losses and dispel the myth
of money as anything but a
fool’s flame to light a night

We the mourners
maintain that the playground
of growth homes a seesaw
of thoughts: the up of risk
the down of caution the even
keel of toes balancing on the
sandy ground of steadiness
the mind is child and adult
simultaneously – we will push
you gently on the pendulum swing
of imperative play or squeal you
over the metal bar full-circling
your ecstatic youth-fat laughter
into the wonder-wounds of wisdom

We the mourners
multi-verse: chair-side by
a death-bed, cord-cutting
at a birth day, weep-wailing
in a warzone, body-quivering
in an orgasm, ring-sliding
at a wedding, coffin-gripping
ash-spreading, we exult
your glory-driven body
sphere-ing fractal astral
moments – eternity spanning
or blink-fast: when it feels
like a breaking so wild and wide
it Is we usher your parallels
like royals to thrones you
are all royal – your bodies
radiant thrones

We the mourners
masturbate on the velvety
vulva of virility – at once
feminine and masculine
simultaneously synergized
in the polyamorous pleasure
of Love. Love loves a whole
hole filled rubbed tongue-ed
the body champions ecstasy
on the silky slide of procreation
that is – the consummation of
consenting co-authors of Love’s
eternal storytelling
what follows, be it swollen
belly or adopted heirs: we
are each the parent of our
Love’s seedings, no matter
the garden’s grounds –
mother father guardian
gold-gilded givers, we grow
the gift of life

We the mourners
translate prayers into
trees foresting the collective
pleas, needs, wants, hopes
wishes, dreams, panics
confessions, cruelties, crimes
envies, jealousies, vanities
desperations and desires
this is why the willows weep
why the banyans burst why the
aspens ascend why the sequoia
single-stems why the juniper twists and
the dead camel thorn trees
in Namibia preserve their plight
in the clay salt – pillared prompts
of prayers past and present

We the mourners
matter – we are All
inside outside side-by-side
we bacteria we cell we blood
we bone we organ we skin
we throat we mouth we speak
we whisper we scream we opera
we growl we screech we hum we
hommmmme we insect we
mammal we solid liquid gas
plasma we precipitate we fog
we wind we soil we soul we float
we burrow we worm we bury
we scratch the surfaces
of living’s grand coffins we hear
the bells when you die alive –
we rejoice and lift you up and
more deeply into your Self

We the mourners
are your outlets in the
walls of your silver body
sanctuaries we current – electric
eeling your soul to your body
the constant flow of you-ness
flick-shivering in your veins
the body’s highways of heaven
we conduct the heartstrings of
Love’s almighty manifestations
aligning your dark and light
in harmonious hilarious healing

We the mourners
crawl in the knotty-nooks
creep in the craggly-crannies
of your loneliest lonelies
we tender-kiss the back of
your neck gooseflesh the
top of your scalp–we are
Love detectives fathoming
your extraordinary sadnesses

We the mourners
smiling, take the weight of
the world off your shoulders
put it on your hips plump your
pituitary push it under your
voice box so you can caterwaul
your case with the mountains
you are also so intent on moving
we dig tunnels for your dreams
bust open the stifling pipelines
crush and toss buckets –
remind you that the sky is
not the limit but your birthright

We the mourners
ponder the light at the
end of the tunnel –
it is also the beginning
the fantastical miraculous
womb-throat entrance of
your slippery body into this
human be-ing – you slide
into the strength of your
brilliance each breath
a tarantella of recovery
on your path back to the
home star

We the mourners
release control
confront the hinges
of confinement that
choke and chafe
channels of kindness
the design of Life
is architected by Love
see the blueprints
under your skin: blood
runs wild in your veins
plotting Love’s plans
one heart-pump at a time

We the mourners
march in memoriam
to the truth-songs of
the prophets who lived
and lighted among you
their voices remain
beyond the body in
the solidarity of equality
lyrical Love in its
ultimate verity: to compare
and compete to judge and
to label suffering
is the greatest fallacy of
human interaction:
humble acceptance of
the atrocious past is a
commitment to not repeating it

We the mourners
carry this burdened cross:
when the Love story you tell
with your body mind and spirit
results in the killing of another
human being then it is not Love
but a flame of Fear burning
your eyes into blindness:
internal suffering cannot be
healed by external extermination

We the mourners hold vigil
for the sacrifices
of human evolution
when all the bodies dust
we the mourners will palm-sweep
what remains back into Love’s
thundering belly storming with
laughter that you listened and
loved your way back to the light
body-less boundless beaming
belonging infinitely to each other