Month: April 2025

Alena Papayanis’ Writing Space

My choice of writing space often reflects how I’m currently feeling about my writing practice, in particular, how much resistance I’m experiencing. The more resistance, the more likely it is that I will flee my office at home and opt for a coffee shop. If there were such a thing as a coffee shop passport, my pages would be packed with stamps from Toronto’s west end coffee shops like an avid, maybe even obsessed, traveller. I have a penchant for coffee shops that are painted green, and in the west end neighbourhood of Toronto I live in, I’m lucky to have two that I can visit often. The green is calming and slow and is reminiscent of being out in nature, but with all the conveniences of being indoors.

For me, a coffee shop is like a micro vacation; each new shop or subsequent visit to a regular one brings me a new set of people to watch, strangers to have random exchanges with, conversations to overhear, and windows to stare aimlessly out of. It feels like a fertile creative space for an autistic, introverted, writer who loves to observe the world but not always be a part of it. I can sit there like a scientist with a clipboard, like a radio ready to receive, like a painter with an empty canvas, ready to receive the world.

But writing at home, at the desk in my bedroom, is where I get to my deepest truths because it’s where no one else is watching, so I can allow myself to admit more. It’s where writing often brings me to tears — bigger, deeper tears than I’ll let myself shed in public. Or perhaps it’s the other way around — that the tears bring me to the truest words because they wash away the surface to reveal the emotional truths hidden beneath.

Alena Papayanis is a queer writer, essayist, professor, and speaker whose writing on queerness, coming out “later in life,” love, and people-pleasing has appeared in numerous publications, such as Huffpost, Chatelaine, the Globe and Mail.

Photo by Patrick Tomasso on Unsplash

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Finding the Form with Bobbie Jean Huff

I have written poetry, essays, short fiction and novels. With poetry—including the two published in TNQ 173—I have never had any difficulty finding the form: a poem arrives unbidden, decides to stay, or, if it’s the middle of the night and I’m not smart enough to reach for my phone to punch in its “plot” or structure, it vanishes, never to return.

Fiction is different. My first novel, The Ones We Keep, came to me as a short story during a conversation between me and my husband at a burger palace in Maine. We were playing the “What If” game, and when it was my husband’s turn he said, “What if you found out that one of our children had died—but not which one?” I quickly wrote it as a short story that never sold, but I realized years later that there was more to the plot than could be contained in a mere five or six thousand word piece. It would work as a novel—or not at all. Happily, it worked.

I recently finished my second novel, which also began life as a short story. Now I was ready for the third. I already knew its plot, but I still had to figure out its form. I’m especially fond of alternating timelines, and situations that don’t completely resolve, but the first step, I knew from experience, was to write an outline, at first with a broad brush, and then with as much minute detail as I could muster. Only after that would I be able to find the form.

Over time, the whole enterprise of writing has become more difficult—at least for me. I believe some of the culprits to be aging (of the writer!), the pandemic, ever shortening attention spans, and constantly being online. So I don’t expect that writing this third novel will be a walk in the park. Wanting some illumination of its difficulties, I decided that I would keep track of everything that happened during the first day.

Below is that day’s record.

A Day in the Life of a Writer
10:51 Open laptop to begin outline of Chapter 1
10:53 Receive mildly amusing text from sister on sibling thread
10:55 Brother texts back LOL; you and other sisters do the same
10:57 Resume outlining Chapter 1
11:32 Dermatology office texts reminder of Friday’s appointment (#1 attend, #2 reschedule)
11:35 Resume outlining Chapter 1.
12:34 Friend texts thanks for Netanyahu piece, she’ll read right away and get back.
12:45 Husband texts from basement office: Did you download guest symptoms form for tomorrow’s visit to nursing home friend?
12:51 Find nursing home site, download and print form, fill out and place in purse.
12:57 Resume outlining Chapter 1.
1:03 Husband texts about grandson’s digger toy, part of which he lost when trying to assemble it. What can be done?
1:11 Print out digger toy diagram from digger toy site and place in kitchen for discussion later. Then text daughter-in-law that digger toy will be fixed on weekend.
1:14 Husband texts Is tuna ok for lunch, even though you hate tuna and he knows it. You text back, Fine.
1:17 Resume outlining Chapter 1.
1:24 First son phones. Says he’s digging massive hole in yard for just in case. Just in case what? you ask, almost hysterically. Son responds nothing to worry about, Ma, will call you tomorrow. Then he quickly gets off phone.
1:29 You text husband: Why does first son need huge hole in back yard?
1:31 Husband doesn’t respond.
1:36 Husband shouts up from basement: Can’t find my phone—can you call it? You call it five times while husband walks around listening for it.
1:39 Resume outlining Chapter 1.
1:41 Lunch with husband, after which third son arrives to borrow car. Shows pix of furniture he bought for new apartment. Husband and son, outside your study, talk enthusiastically and loudly about something called zip ties.
1:58 Third son leaves. Resume outlining Chapter 1.
2:04 Daughter-in-law texts thanks so much, fourth son will assemble digger toy instead of husband but don’t mention to husband, please. Let her know when part arrives.
2:06 Resume outlining Chapter 1.
2:09 Raid kitchen cupboard for Lindor Milk Chocolate Truffles. Eat six, standing up.
2:13 Text husband to hide Lindor Milk Chocolate Truffles but not in usual hiding place, please.
2:15 Resume outlining Chapter 1.
2:17 Second son Facetimes granddaughter seated on sofa singing while tiny plastic piano on her lap plays London Bridge. Son asks if granddaughter has perfect pitch. You reply that you can’t tell with someone who hasn’t yet learned the notes. You proceed to argue over whether perfect pitch (which you have) means you’re a good musician. You say no, perfect pitch makes things more difficult. Son says how could it? You point out that not only does he not have perfect pitch, he’s not a musician. You feel bad after you put down phone.
2:28 Friend texts back sorry, no time to read Netanyahu piece until next week, meaning she disagrees with it and doesn’t want to fight with you about it.
2:30 Resume outlining Chapter 1.
2:41 Husband texts from basement that he’s sneezed three times, a small part of his throat might be sore, did you remember to order the three-in-one tests and have they arrived? You text back that they’re on linen closet shelf.
2:43 You google the accuracy of three-in-one tests.
2:49 You google chest pain: anxiety or heart attack, and how to tell the difference.
3:09 Resume outlining Chapter 1.
3:11 Dermatology automated voice calls: press #1 to confirm Friday, #2 to reschedule.
3:14 Sister texts on sibling thread again, something slightly less amusing than her morning text.
3:16 Brother, then other sisters (including you) text LOL.
3:18 Resume outlining Chapter 1.
3:39 Husband texts he’s making shepherd’s pie, and because he hasn’t gotten much work done today, can you peel potatoes and put on to boil for 40 minutes at 5:10? You refrain from texting back a bad word.

 

Bobbie Jean Huff is a Canadian-American whose debut novel, The Ones We Keep, was published by Sourcebooks. She has written short stories, essays and poems for various Canadian and American publications.

Photo by 🇸🇮 Janko Ferlič on Unsplash

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What’s Christina Wells Reading?

I used to only read one book at a time. Strictly.

Now, I have a stack of fiction and nonfiction at my bedside table and a stack of poetry books that live partly on the desk in the office and partly in my canvas bag — they live a life of transit, since I’m keen to keep them forever at my side. 

When I was younger, I forced myself to read only one book at a time. I was even proud of it. I read one, put it away, took another one out — always in an orderly fashion. I still have that inclination, but life put its finger on me. After birthing and raising three children and moving my heart, possessions and family clean across the country from BC to NL in a pandemic, I’ve come to acknowledge and embrace the piles, the scribbles, the unfinished work, the grief. Actually, it’s become somewhat of a guide post for me and my creative process now. And when I say “creative process,” I mean my writing, but also the processes in my parenting, my marriage, and my friendships as well. The stacks of books indicate my comfort level with imperfection, with not getting things finished, and sometimes, not even having an end in sight. In fact, I’ve come to enjoy living in this in-between wilderness of life. 

My story is ongoing — a continuation of those who came before. And my story will continue once I’m gone. My children are creating their own stories too. 

So, back to my stacks of books. At my bedside I have Miranda July’s On All Fours in the stack. I presented her short story, “Doing Nothing Isn’t Enough,” about a year ago to a graduate short story class I was taking with Lisa Moore here at MUN, and researched Miranda July in-depth. She intrigued me and I didn’t know how I felt about her, which I liked. When I started seeing these online posts of women sporting DIY embroidered hats with “All Fours Group Chat” on them, I was curious enough to go pick up the book. I only just started reading this one, so I’ll have to report back. Maybe in the group chat. 

I have Arts of Living on a Damaged Planet: Ghosts and Monsters of the Anthropocene there, a gorgeous book of essays compiled and edited by Anna Tsing, Nils Bubandt, Elaine Gan, and Heather Anne Swanson. I love the feel and layout of this book, and so far I’ve read the essays by Donna Haraway, Ursula K. Le Guin, and Deborah Bird Rose. I’m finding having them near, comforting — the writers discuss our current climate situation with sharp challenge and imagination. Always a good combination. 

Galore by Michael Crummey is in the pile. I just finished that one. I’ve been on a real Crummey kick over this past year, having read The Adversary, The Innocents, (in the “wrong” order, but it was fine!) and The Wreckage over the past few months. My husband picked up Crummey’s book, River Thieves, for me the other day from the SPCA Thrift Store (I seem to be working backwards in Crummey’s literary chronology), so that one will probably be my next read. Galore resonates with the beautiful Magical Realist structures in Gabriel José García Márquez’ One Hundred Year of Solitude, while also carving out its own place in the conversation. The book is set squarely on the island of Newfoundland and merges the realities of rugged outport life with folklore and the supernatural. Something Crummey is very, very good at. 

“Zero at the Bone: Fifty Entries Against Despair” by Christian Wiman is another book I’m reading. I picked it up because a friend of mine recommended it and I loved the title. Wiman is an American poet — and his eye for the poetic shines in all of the small pockets of prose and poetry he’s crafted in this book. It feels like a collage — full of quotes, small essays, poems, and vignettes from his intimate family life — all addressing questions of faith and how to live thoughtfully in this world. I love that I can pick it up and easily read one of these fifty entries just before bed. Anything to counter the despair. 

I haven’t forgotten my poetry stack! I’m currently completing a poetry manuscript, a creative thesis for my MA in English at Memorial University in St. John’s. This is partly why my stack of poetry books travel everywhere with me. The pile can change slightly from day- to-day. Today, I have Daze Johnson’s Water/Wept (not pictured), John Thompsons’s Stilt Jack, Chantal Gibson’s How She Read, Paul Muldoon’s Moy Sand and Gravel, Liz Howard’s Letters in a Bruised Cosmos, Luke Hathaway’s The Affirmations, and Maggie Burton’s Chores (also not pictured). I have my head down writing a lot these days, and when doubting myself or needing to be reminded of poetic voice and the writing community, I dip into these beautiful works for inspiration. They each offer a wellspring of beauty and encouragement. 

Christina Wells is a multi-genre writer from Northern Arm, Newfoundland. Her award-winning work, which explores memory and place, has appeared in ROOM, Riddle Fence, and Horseshoe. She’s currently completing an MA in Creative Writing at Memorial University.

Image by fengye775210 from Pixabay

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Lauren Peat’s Writing Space

These days, I do most of my writing at the Central Branch of the Vancouver Public Library. At first, this habit was pragmatic: I found I could focus more easily outside my apartment, and the library was a place I could linger for hours without spending any money. Over time, though, the library has come to embolden my work in other, less obvious ways.

At the library I write alongside students studying finance, single parents minding their toddlers, and unhoused folks looking for respite from the cold. I marvel at how librarians make such a space possible: on the one hand, curating knowledge; on the other, waking patrons up in case of overdose.

But I’ve begun to realize these activities aren’t as distinct as they seem. Curating anything of value requires staying awake to our surroundings and responsibilities; knowledge divorced from these concerns might more accurately be described as information, and often causes more harm than good.

Unlike libraries, poems aren’t born out of social mandates, and nor should they be. And yet poetry is a powerful knowledge-making activity, even if the knowledge it produces is sinuous, impossible to quantify. Writing at the library, then, reminds me of my own responsibilities—to a place, a context, a set of relations. Of every poem’s capacity to become a site of social encounter and repair.

Writing can be an intensely solitary endeavour, and so it’s tempting to assume we write for ourselves alone. For me, the library is an antidote to this way of thinking. Sometimes the antidote is pleasant, and other times less so: just yesterday, everyone was asked to evacuate because someone had sprayed pepper spray in the stacks. How not to feel interdependent, waiting outside with a hundred people for the air quality to stabilize. How not to feel interconnected, returning all together to the tables and armchairs, the stacks of books grown out of other places and contexts, other sets of relations.


I’m discovering that these relations offer me and my writing as much—if not more—than they ask.

Lauren Peat’s debut poetry chapbook, Future Tense, was published by Baseline Press in Fall 2024. Her poems, essays, and translations have appeared in Arc Poetry Magazine, Asymptote, Only Poems, The Ex-Puritan, The Malahat Review, and World Literature Today, among other places. Her writing is also featured in the repertoire of acclaimed vocal ensembles across North America. Translation Editor for the online poetry magazine Volume, she lives in Vancouver and works in public education.

Photo by GoToVan on Flickr

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