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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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10 Canadian Short Stories to Read in 2025

Stay up to date with the latest literary voices and styles this spring season by reading 10 Canadian short stories published in 2025 (so far). Discover fresh perspectives, compelling voices, and innovative styles that have been discovered and published across our rich literary magazine landscape.

“The Reader” by Kayal Vizhi in Issue 114 of BRICK

“The girl is a reader, first and foremost. She lives in an apartment in a city that is not the city of her childhood. She waits tables and attends classes on English Literature. Daniel Gluck, the elderly interlocutor in Ali Smith’s Autumn, urges his young neighbour Elisabeth Demand to always be reading something…. Even when we’re not physically reading. How else will we read the world?”

“It is my 27th week at the Restaurant for Homesick Aliens, though it isn’t much of a restaurant, and I wouldn’t call myself homesick. But I guess I am an alien, this not being earth. There are no cooks or waiters, just row after row of vacuum-packed food and food equivalents organized by planet. Choose from over 300 pan-galactic menu items, then head over to the Insta-Gourmet (Iggy for short).”

“Roses for Bodies” by Luanne Gauvreau in Issue 302 of The Fiddlehead

“Early morning and Max had finished his first errand. He had two bars of the finest shaving soap in all of Florence in his jacket pocket. Smooth and rich, but not so soft that it disappeared in a frothy mess in your shaving cup; foam that kept its integrity with the soap. The way the foam of a good cappuccino remains a part of the coffee, he thought. Italians are good at foam. He had bought a bar of this soap early in his stay here and it had been a daily pleasure. This scent, in the morning, will come to mean Florence in his memory.”

“Lady with the Big Head Chronicle” by Angélique Lalonde published in Issue 125 of GEIST

“The lady with the big head wants me to keep writing about her even though I thought I had understood her story and typed it all up, then put that story in a book and shared it with other people. All along she knew I would keep going but didn’t let me in on her knowing. She relishes in showing me I am wrong about so many things because she is a somewhat ghost who appears and disappears to me, wearing veils that morph between the faces of my ancestors, descendants and kinfolk, the world that awes me, and all of the things I fear.”

“The Only Twin” by Joel Fishbane in Volume 12, Issue 2 of The Humber Literary Review

“We can’t all be like Lana Turner, discovered at a drugstore. But David Boreanaz was spotted while walking his dog and this, at least, gives me a reason to hope. It helps that my dog tends to attract attention. He’s a Borzoi, better suited for the Russian wilderness than the streets of Manhattan. Shaggy white with brown streaks. People often ask me about him and, someday, one of them might give me their card.”

“Kangalang” by Yasmin Rodrigues in Issue 229 of The Malahat Review

“Wash clothes shit on Saturday morning! Why? Why was she still living in this miserable backwater at Georgetown, British Guiana? In 1952, 1952, when everybody, everybody was getting ready for life, getting ready to study, to marry, and now, getting ready for elections, getting ready for freedom, getting ready to push the British out of British Guiana.”

“Southwesterly Winds” by Helen Knott in Issue 173 of The New Quarterly

“For a split second, Elizabeth saw the younger, livelier version of her mom that had existed two decades before. Back then, she had danced in that very same kitchen with her dad, her long straight jet-black hair swaying as she moved her head to the music that streamed in from the radio. She wore a dress that fanned out every time her dad twirled her. Sometimes in Elizabeth’s memory the dress was grey with a white floral print and other times it was blue with pink flowers, but she was in a dress, nonetheless.”

“Baked As You Like It” by Justina Bombard in Issue 45.4 of Prairie Fire

“Elaine paused, piping bag poised above the smooth red surface of the pie. She was very much aware her hair would be a gingham of powdered sugar when she took off her hairnet. “Be with you in just a minute.” She set the bag down, wiped her hands, stood at the counter. “Back again?””

“Cinderella Lives in North Montreal” by Joshua Goudie in Riddle Fence

“My fairy godmother drinks too much. She shows up most days with warm, sour breath, then falls asleep on the couch watching Maury Povich. Some days she’ll bring me a strawberry mille-feuille all squat inside a wax paper bag. I eat at the kitchen table, cleaning the crumbs with the tip of my finger, leaving behind sugar-sticky prints that are invisible until you tilt your head just right. On TV, people celebrate like guests at a surprise party. You are not the father! Everyone is screaming and jumping out of their seats. When I hear snoring, I switch the channel to play Mario Kart.”

“Someone Else’s Year” by Sabina Willmott in Yolk

The resolutions started because I didn’t want to be myself that year. I had done it forty times already and it was getting old. So was I.
The first was to drink more water. I usually avoided it. There was already so much of it inside me, rising wet from between my legs and under my arms when I ran. I went to the sink and put a mug under the tap. Unrinsed remnants of cold coffee sulked in its porcelain barrel; it didn’t matter. All things coalesce in the clutch of the stomach. The faucet spit up something that slid down my throat like oil. I was an engine. I was a firetruck.

Finding the Form with Stephen J. Price

Most of my stories come to me as an image inspired by something like a line from a song or story or I have witnessed. “The Hawthorne Effect“ began as a refrain that kept swimming about in my head – This is a love story. It’s important to remember that. That struck me as interesting, like someone trying to come to terms with the fact that the long-term relationship they’re in does not resemble it’s frenetic, passionate beginnings. I wanted to tell a love story, but not of the romantic sort. I wanted to write about commitment.

I do not struggle with writers’ block. I write longhand for a minimum of twenty-five minutes a day. Every morning, after walking the dogs and having some breakfast, I go to my writing space, set a timer and write continuously for that stretch of time. It does not sound like very much, but a lot of words can be put down when one doesn’t self-edit along the way and usually I end up continuing past the allotted time. When I finally sat at my desk to try and make something out of the refrain that had been bouncing around in my head for a while- This is a love story. It’s important to remember that – it all formed quite easily. The character of Larry Mitchell waiting to give a victim impact statement came to me immediately. By the end of the first week I had the story. That first draft bears little resemblance to the story that made it to the desks of the editors of The New Quarterly. All I had was a real estate agent named Larry who had been attacked by a young man who was in love with Larry’s wife.

“The Hawthorne Effect” refers to the phenomenon where individuals modify their behavior when they realize they are being observed. It was coined during workplace studies at Western Electric’s Hawthorne Works in the 1920s-30s. It is about the only thing I recall from when I studied Economics at The University of Alberta because it always struck me as an engaging title for a story. (Like Larry, I abandoned Economics when I found out Calculus was a requirement.) I liked the idea that Larry was reviewing his relationship with his wife and how the past changes when it is observed.

It became apparent pretty early on that it was not a story that could be told with a standard beginning, middle and end. It needed to jump around, representing the way Larry’s mind is flitting from one event to another while sitting in the courtroom waiting to give his victim impact statement. The miracle of cut and paste was invaluable to me while constructing “The Hawthorne Effect”.

It was written during the pandemic and only now found a home. It was rejected several times, but I had faith in it. It just needed to find the right fit.

Stephen J. Price writes and teaches writing in Treaty 7 territory that he grew up calling Calgary. He is particularly interested in helping late bloomers, those who have taken up writing late in life.

Photo by Nick Morrison on Unsplash

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Stephen J. Price’s Writing Space

My office is my sanctuary. It is generally acknowledged in my household that my writing space is the coolest room in the house. It has all my distractions – reading and music and guitars – which are necessary to my writing process.

I am not one of those writers who is able to focus on their project for long stretches of time. When I am working my way through a piece, I often turn to music or the works of other authors for sources of inspiration. I never pick up one of my guitars because then I am just avoiding the task.

Stephen J. Price writes and teaches writing in Treaty 7 territory that he grew up calling Calgary. He is particularly interested in helping late bloomers, those who have taken up writing late in life.

Photo graciously provided by Stephen J. Price

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International Women’s Day Reads

In honour of International Women’s day, here is a collection of works across our recent issues, and past X Page Workshops, which celebrates the creativity, strength, and resilience of women. Join us in recognizing the power of women’s narratives today, and every day. These reads will be available to enjoy until next week! 

Fiction

“Wildflower Ladies” By Megan Beadle
 

It’s not 1969, baby girl. This isn’t Woodstock. We’re old ladies now, but we were young once, radiant but self-conscious, at the pinnacle of beauty. Halcyon days. Our other friends are here too: Janis, Bob, Joni, Eric, Jimi, the members of Jefferson Airplane. The air crackles with music and possibility.

Poetry

“Ambient” By Jessica Lee McMillan

I can only see her feet
from the gym corner
where I sit, a conduit
wired to earbuds
playing “Roygbiv” through waves
of analogue synth
connecting neurons,
                                      feeling

“As a Tree” By Elise Arsenault

See her interlocking grain, her
resistance to splitting. See her become
a wagon wheel hub, become a drum
for she bends well. Become the keel
of a ship, gifting strength and balance. Bend
into the curve of a bow, bend
into a rope swing, lilting
in a willow.

X Page Workshop

“Quinceañera” by Lucy Beltramo

I am standing in the bathroom, staring at my reflection. I’m wearing a cream-coloured mid-length dress with a pink silk belt. I’ve put on eyeliner, pink eyeshadow, and pink lipstick. My hair is half up, half loose. My mom is behind me, placing small flowers in my hair. They have sparkles.

Today is my Quinceañera, my fifteenth birthday. It’s a special celebration in my country, Argentina. A Quinceañera honors the end of girlhood and the start of becoming a woman.

“A Spring’s Hope” by Reem Elkady

I breathe in and breathe out as I close my eyes, the crush of the crowd washing over me. I can feel the familiar skin pricks, fists tense as my throat closes up and my breathing gets shallower and shallower. Yes, this is a crowd and yes, I should be running for the hills. Far away from any form of people congregating in a confined area.

“When No One Is Looking” by Eunice Owusu-Amoah

I…may have done something…dumb.

I am, maybe, nine, ten. I stand in the corner of the bedroom I share with my three older sisters. The fire…is small, so I am only slightly alarmed. I lit the piece of paper and dropped it on the ground. I am no longer a lighter of fires on little matchsticks quickly put out in fear. Now I am a lighter of pieces of paper…just to see.

 

Thank you to our featured writers for sharing these stories. 

Photo by Vonecia Carswell on Unsplash

What’s Leannah Riah Fidler Reading?

I am currently, hungrily working my way through Iona Whishaw’s ‘Lane Winslow’ series. I am trying to hold back, to not read too fast, knowing there are a limited number of books in the series so far.

But, I can’t stop myself.

A dear friend, and avid reader, turned me onto this series in the fall and I fell in love immediately.

The series is based around my hometown of Nelson, BC and in the fictional community of King’s Cove in the 1940s, after the end of World War II. In the first book you meet Lanette (Lane) Winslow, as she has just moved to Canada from Britain after the war. She had resigned from the wartime work she was doing and is just looking for a quiet country life now. She bought a beautiful house on the lake and wants to leave the excitement and danger of war behind. 

Except, we find out her new life is anything but quiet and serene. The first book starts with a mysterious death, practically in Lane’s backyard. She is drawn in to the circumstances surrounding it, and we the reader, are pulled along.

I love getting to know more about the main characters, as they return in each book. We not only find out about their hopes and fears but also about secrets from their pasts and how these secrets can come to disrupt the lives they are living now. It’s a fun read with suspense, action and a touch of romance thrown in.

Iona Whisaw was born in BC and spent her younger years in the Kootenays before moving away. But her time here must have made an impression. While the author does take some liberties with the landscape, for me the places are easily recognizable. How could I not love stories that are set in the same places that I call home? I can see Lane falling in love with the mountains and the lake they lean over.

I would recommend this series to anyone would loves a good British murder mystery, beautiful descriptions of setting and a little romantic tension. Definitely a good series to curl up in bed with (but not if you have to get up early the next day!

Leannah Riah Fidler lives in southern B.C and draws her inspiration from the landscapes of the natural world. She has previously been published in the Black Bear Review. She is working on her first poetry chapbook and is often found staring out the window.

Photo by Laura Heimann on Unsplash

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What’s James Dunnigan Reading?

When I moved from Montreal to Toronto for my PhD, I made a promise to myself that I would never lose fluency in French, the language of my home and of half my family. To make sure of that, I’ve tried to read as much as I possibly could in French every year. Last August, I took up the challenge of reading Proust’s À la recherche du temps perdu.

I did it because I’m always up for a challenge and because my PhD also happens to be in modernist literature, so I’d be taking care of two orders of business and one of pleasure all at once. I’m now at the beginning of the final volume and it’s been a wild ride.

It’s hard to add anything to what brilliant people have already observed about Proust and hard not to repeat clichés, but I have a few impressions. One is that the sheer length of the novel is absolutely necessary. Even the parts that feel like a slog are there for a reason: to distract you from the magic at work in the background. It is designed so that you can recall patterns, details, repetitions, across distances not of 200 but of 2000 pages. The huge distances in the novel’s fictional space and time emulate the vastness of the real space and time. When you recall this or that detail across so many pages, it almost feels like you’re remembering something from your own distant past. In other words, he doesn’t just tell you that involuntary memory episode with the madeleine cake in Swann’s Way. He actually gives you the experience of involuntary memory, over and over. The novel is your madeleine and teacup. It makes a work of art out of your mind in the act of piecing its huge patterns together.

Proust is also giving me new ideas about how to divide a piece. The action of the novel progresses almost by virtue of digression, and that makes you think (rethink) the internal divisions a novel can have, like: what is a chapter? What is a paragraph? What is a sentence? You can never think too much about those basic building blocks, really. The rhythm with which you tell something is even more important than what you tell: it creates what you tell. The whole composition of “Nat in New York” was a story of finding the right rhythm—as is that of every project I’ve got going now.

James Dunnigan is a writer, scholar and editor from Montreal and author of five poetry chapbooks. He has published in The Fiddlehead, Maisonneuve Magazine, CV2, Event Magazine, HA&L, Echolocation, and other publications across Canada. He was a finalist for the QWF Quebec Writing Competition in 2014 and the Gwendolyn MacEwen Award for poetry in 2018. He is currently completing a PhD in English at the University of Toronto.

Image by Wissam Hajj from Pixabay

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