#yegwrites

[canadian-author]

It turns out I'm really good about writing the beginning and the ending of a novel, it's the 350 pages in between that give me some trouble.

[yegarts]

Yorath House Studio Residency Wrap-Up: Thea Bowering and Jody Shenkarek

Long-time friends Jody Shenkarek and Thea Bowering were the third artist pair to take up residence at the Yorath House Artist Studio Placement this year. Over the summer, they began their long-talked about collaboration that blended Jody’s music with Thea’s storytelling.

Now that their residency has concluded, the artists are sharing a final update on their time at Yorath House with reflections, prose excerpts, and images. Read more about their residency on the YEGArts blog (introductory post, reflections #1, reflections #2) and check out Jody and Thea's Instagram @sistersofyorath .

Thea Bowering: Final Blog Post

I've lived in Edmonton for two decades now, and if I think of my life as a story, sometimes I find that ironic: I never imagined spending the last of my youth in the geography I had dismissed in my Can Lit 100 courses. I always hated those "foundational," multi-generational stories about people arriving and staying in a place on The Prairies, hated slugging through pages that described life in dusty landscapes I thought no one in their right mind would want to live in. Over the last two decades, I've written short stories about the urban landscape of Edmonton. I would often forget I live in a river town, that there is a river down there, flowing through the basin of the city. When I did picture the North Saskatchewan, it was frozen, not necessarily with ice, but as it would be on a postcard printed who-knows-when sitting in a motel/gas station card rack. Greetings from Edmonton! In red cursive. Greetings from anywhere!

I'm terrible, I agree. A good part of the reason I wanted this residency had to do with an intense need to be better, get down into the valley and close to the river to find a lightness, an expanse, to be away from trucks and cement, my cramped and failing house, unfurl my sedentary body and tired mind and simply push them into green--become less ironic. Every day I was working at Yorath House, I would walk the short path to the dock that reaches quiet out into the river. And with water below me, the green and brown banks all around, the crazy swirling white and blue sky far above, I would stretch out waiting for the currents of "the Universal Being [to] circulate through me." But this didn't happen. I looked glumly at the lucky ones floating down the river on paddleboards, holding their beers, wondering if the Universal Being was flowing through them. One day walking up the ramp from the dock, back to the main path, I saw off to the side a fully intact dandelion puff, the largest and most perfect I'd ever seen. I bent down and stared into its perfect roundness. It looked back at me, a giant eyeball on a stalk, its spore-design an iris. It was a perfect eyeball looking at me. My whole imperfect body staring back, recoiled. I realized, as much as it relaxes me and makes me happy, Nature also makes me feel like a terrible human, with some impenetrable construction column inside that keeps out the blowing spirit. I am more at one with the crumbling city. 

But it was my aim to write something about things I hadn't tried to write about before: nature and local history. I did end up reading and being influenced by writers I hadn't read before, who write on nature: Ralph Waldo Emerson and Emily Dickinson. And I ended up learning a lot of things I didn't know much about: the Métis lot system, the history of scrip, the Indigenous and Métis community that lived between 1935-37 along the edge of the city, 142nd street, the street I drove down every day to get to Yorath House. I learned that the practice here of taking apart material history and abandoning it is as old as the city itself. When the last original Fort Edmonton was dismantled in 1915, the Alberta Government promised the people it would reuse the timber in a heritage or museum-like way. Instead, the pieces of fort lay about below the parliament building and eventually vanished. There are many great rumours about what happened to that timber. Similarly, Dennis Yorath tried to donate to the city the eight-foot fieldstone chimney that sat on his property, all that was left of a cabin built by English Charlie, a famous early settler and gold panner. A letter from a city secretary to Dennis reads: "As you know, the fireplace was the oldest relic of early Edmonton still in existence. Without your permission for removal, it would have been lost forever." Well, the chimney was lost forever, deemed too fragile to move and re-erect near John Walter House or the reconstructed Fort Edmonton. For years it had sat, houseless, in Laurier Park, without signage, a curiosity for passersby. And after it was dismantled, where did its stones go? I became obsessed with this and trolled the field next to Yorath for old looking stones, ha! 

There is, however, also a beauty that comes from the way the material past is neglected in Edmonton--rather than cleaned away, it is often left in piles for whomever wants it, left to fall down on its own in beautiful weathered ruin. In my stories about cities, I focus on the flâneur: a modern social and literary figure--solitary, urban, wandering, rebellious--who goes far off the set paths of the city to witness and recount the visions of urban life that are neglected, strange, or in ruin. As Jody and I poked about in the bush along the paths of Yorath, in our mode of flânerie, we found evidence of old river homes--possibly going back as far as the Métis and early European settlers. (We image, anyway!) We find a line of stone foundation, an old hearth, a large pile of completely rusted tin cans, a very old gear a tree has grown into.

In one of my favourite essays of flânerie, Virginia Woolf's "Street Haunting," the speaker says she must cross London alone at dusk to buy a pencil. This is just an excuse--as a woman at her time had to have a purpose, usually related to shopping, to leave the house alone for a walk. Her real purpose is to write about all the strange and chance spectacles she sees along the way. This wandering on foot and with words is something I was trying to do with the long piece I was writing at Yorath. (I've submitted excerpts from it in previous blog posts.) In one way, in my mind, our version of Woolf's pencil is the Ghost Pipe--the flower we sought and thought about throughout our residency. It spurred on our walks and meditations about many things: growing older, grief, thoughts about beauty, nature, and the fragility of ourselves and our world. Now that the residency is over, I am going through withdrawal, not being in the valley and on the water and walking paths every day. But I also know that I have found the spot in Edmonton I can return to, for solace and the inspiration to continue this long poetic-prose piece about this place. I'm going to include the last two entries I wrote while at Yorath. I don't think they really gives a sense of closure; they're just the latest in a string of them that continues. 

30.

Ten weeks here and I haven't yet written about grief. Even though it's what we started with. Even though it's all around and in everything. Your loved one's ashes catching wind over water. My loved one's ashes buried in an old settler orchard. air, water, fire, and earth. God's eye woven by someone and hung, a star, on a saskatoon berry bush over our little cluster of ghost pipe. The narrative did not go as we hoped it would. Does it ever? We did, in the end, get to see it--but not here. By a different piece of the river. That day under the Mill Creek Bridge, the police were evicting a community who had been living in the ravine for a while. The police were cheery and relaxed as a mattress with a bloom of brown in the middle fell into a storage container. This was all we could observe through the greenery. We heard rustling close by, along the bike path, but we did not go see. Did we learn how to sit beside grief? The moment of finding the flower was not an epiphany, did not bring about a sudden change, but brought empathy, real and useless. We returned almost daily to the tender stalks, to sit in vigil. All around us things died quickly or slowly, unnoticed by walkers and joggers and cyclists. A caterpillar writhed silently as wasps dived onto it, taking out chunks of real estate and planting eggs. We feel for it. We remove it with a bit of bark and place it somewhere covered. It will die in pain unobserved. Grief is useless but persists. Love persists. Grief walks up and down the river, up and down. A hundred and fifty years ago children walked up and down the banks of this river, calling for their parents. You are useless and crude and should learn how to be useful. That is all that matters now. The present is over. You should learn to measure grief and think about the future. Instead, you sit beside white flowers, taking elegiac photos. Mourning that which is a symbol of mourning.

31.

The other day I thought of Emily's long dash as a straightened-out blackening ghost pipe, a line somewhere between life and death. To suspend the Breath / Is the most we can / Ignorant is it Life or Death / Nicely balancing. The white petticoats rimmed black and gathered professionally in a flower frenzy, one black stockinged leg thrust straight up and then out, tick-tocking back and forth with a da-da-dahdahdahdah. Your time is up, Victorianism! She can-caned with a young ruined face that people loved. I shouldn't. But I still think of this plant as a tragic heroine.

Jane Avril, skinny, "fed on flowers" holding the pose

                                                                                    and then dying, poor, in obscurity, of course. Jane the strange one, Jane the crazy. All the innocent whores of modern history jerk from lover to lover down narrow stone streets, turning childhood illness, a nervous tic, into dance. They take up with a woman, then a lecherous doctor, drag a boy-child along from one daddy to another. Hysterical elegance and soft melancholy all around, movement immortalized in Toulouse-Lautrec posters. Life and death, luck and misfortune, a hair-width between them. She once headlined at the Jardin de Paris, but ended in a poor house, sick with angina, dying in 1943. Last written words "I hate Hitler."Too loose. To Lose. The Trek.

But all that is behind me now. We sit at the side of the jogging path in folding chairs, just two weird old ladies, it looks like. J. says: Ghost Pipe's stems reminds me of an empty artery. Yuk, I say...

                        I just Can't. Can't

Look. The Summer is almost gone.

Jody Shenkarek: Final Blog Post

My time at Yorath House this summer has been such an incredible opportunity. Thea and I came to this place to work together and learn from each others experiences. We spent many hours walking the trails, sitting on the beaches, talking, listening trying new ideas and enjoying the grounds and the surrounding community. Time was a gift for us. Time to explore words, music, ideas and each others hearts and minds. We learned a lot about the area and the history of the people that have lived herein this place. I am thankful for my time and the interest it has sparked in me regarding place and people and history. We saw many native plants and learned the bends of the river. Met people from the area and found our favourite paths and places. The house welcomed us, and provided a place of comfort and creativity. We learned slowly how to intertwine our talents and come out with a project that highlights our individual and shared ideas.

Mornings with coffee and sunlight were my favourite time for writing lyrics and poetry. Thea taught me about form in writing and I taught her about making songs.

I have many hours of recordings made on the grounds of birds and sounds and our long talks and experimental songwriting projects. My photography and paintings done during that time have brought me great joy and I'm hoping to show them in the future.

Our beloved flower friend ghost pipe showed up (sadly not in the grounds of Yorath) but nonetheless we had the opportunity to sit with it for a week. I am forever grateful for this time as it shifted my world.

We will never truly leave Yorath now. We will come and walk and remember and keep building on the projects that we have started here. Ideas grow and reflection on our time will bring other new ideas as well. The chance to have an entire summer to be with a fellow artist and work together was heart opening. Connection and creativity take time. Thank you for this perfect summer.

[floetryverse]

they called me fat they called me ugly they called me stupid they called me a bitch

then one day

i changed my number they stopped calling

- Paula E. Kirman

[konnl]

COVER AND SYNOPSIS REVEAL of my new thriller novel coming out in 2018. Witness real justice. YEGman: In the darkest streets of Edmonton, crime is around every corner. The police have exhausted their resources. Citizens are in a constant state of fear. The city is in dire need of justice. Someone needs to give the felons what they deserve – skip the courts and deliver their verdict with a fist full of fury! At least that is what Michael Bradford tells himself. He struggles with violent tendencies while personally investigating the Crystal Moths, Edmonton's most notorious gang. His vigilante methods get caught on film and are uploaded to the web with the hashtag YEGman. These videos catch the attention of a rebellious journalism student whose aspires to cover the developing story on the city's underground hero. #author #thrillerNovel #coverReveal #coverArt #graphicDesign #photoIllustration #graphicDesigner #illustration #thriller #amWriting #yegWrites #YEGman #authorsofinstagram #bookstagram #writersOfInstagram #bookLovers #bibliophile #bookCover #novel

[yegarts]

“I Am YEG Arts” Series: Marty Chan

Award-winning author, playwright, and professional liar since 1988. It’s quite the trifecta—and calling card. But truth be told, those accomplishments are just the tip of this iconic writer’s contribution to the arts. He’s written celebrated radio dramas and television scripts, had a play produced across Canada and Off Broadway, and is constantly inspiring the next generation of lifelong readers. What doesn’t he do? Take any of it for granted. Writer of books for kids, plays for adults, and tweets for fun. This week’s “I Am YEG Arts” story belongs to Marty Chan.

Tell us about your connection to Edmonton and why you make it your home.

For an artist breaking into the business, Edmonton was the perfect place to get my start. I had grown up in Morinville, a small town just north of the city. When I decided to pursue the arts in the late 80s, I was like every other starving artist—eager, hungry, and inexperienced. Thankfully, Edmonton’s cost of living was affordable, and the community’s support was great. Seasoned actors were willing to perform in my early shows, while artistic directors accepted my invitations to see these plays. This generosity gave me the confidence to grow as an artist. And it’s not a unique experience. I’ve heard from other artists that Edmonton has an incredible community. This is the main reason I make this city my home.

How did your love of writing begin? Were you always a storyteller, or was it a “detour” while on another path?

I had always loved stories, but I never thought I could be one of the people creating the stories until I was in Grade 11. My high school language arts teacher gave our class a homework assignment to describe how we would redecorate our bedrooms if we had a million dollars. So I went to town describing a bed on an elevator that could descend to a private movie theatre, a library, a fully stocked kitchen, a video arcade, and a private swimming pool. My teacher loved what I wrote and suggested I pursue writing. He opened my eyes to a career that I never imagined possible, and I’ve never looked back since.

You write books for kids and plays for adults. What’s a common thread that you bring to all your storytelling.

Growing up as the only Chinese kid at school, I was the target of bullies. So, to protect myself, I developed a biting sense of humour that I used to deflect the attention from me to my funny comments. This self-defence mechanism evolved into my writing voice. You can find humour in pretty much everything I write, whether it be self-deprecating character comedy or political satire.

Tell us about the role that funding and awards have played in your career. What doors do they open for artists?

Every artist needs time to develop our work, but it’s hard to find that time when we have to pay the electricity bills. Funding and awards buy us the time to devote our energy to the projects we create. I’m grateful for the time agencies like the Edmonton Arts Council have given me. Without their funding on several of my projects, my manuscripts would be sitting on a dusty shelf, waiting for someday when I had the time to work on them.

A lot of children (and adults) look up to you. Who did you look up to as a child?

I struggled as a reader early on in my life because neither of my parents had the skill or time to instill in me a love of reading. However, my school librarian took the time to get me hooked on reading Hardy Boys novels, and my language arts teacher inspired me to pursue writing as a career. These two people were instrumental in shaping me into who I am today.

What do you hope young readers take away from your work?

My greatest hope whenever I write a book for kids is that they see themselves in the stories, which is one of the main reasons a lot of my books feature East Asian characters as the main characters. Growing up, I rarely saw a person of colour in a lead role in a show or as a hero in a novel. So I’m doing my small part to add to the canon of literature so that I can represent all readers, regardless of their cultural background. When kids can see themselves in a book they love, then they feel like they belong to this world.

Tell us a little about what you’re currently working on.

I have a few projects on the go right now. One is a kids’ book about a girl who can move objects with her mind. She has to hide from a scientist intent on using her for human experiments. The book is currently called Willpower. The other project that I’m working on is a short film for Concrete Theatre. Beneath the Mask is a satire of horror movie tropes that skewers the roots of pandemic racism.

When you were a kid, what’s something an adult told you that they were right about? What’s something they were wrong about?

When I was a kid, a junior high teacher told me that everyone is capable of greatness, but only if we work for it. She was both right and wrong. She was right about the importance of putting the work in, but I think she was wrong about greatness. If greatness is measured by how other people see us, we’ll never be great enough; but if greatness is measured by our personal satisfaction, the smallest victories can become the biggest moments in our lives.

Describe your perfect day in Edmonton. How do you spend it?

My perfect day in Edmonton starts with a walk through the river valley, followed by a few hours of writing. It would end with a visit to a local restaurant to try a new dish and an old favourite dish, in case I don’t like the new one.

What makes you hopeful these days?

People who are willing to listen make me hopeful. I know that during the pandemic, we’ve seen more instances where people do more yelling than listening, but if we take the time to find the people who are genuinely open-minded and willing to hear both sides of an argument, we just might see progress as a society.

You visit Edmonton 20 years from now. What do you hope has changed? What do you hope has stayed the same?

First, I hope that I don’t have to visit Edmonton 20 years from now because the city will still be my home. Second, I hope that Edmonton will be a destination for people who love arts and culture. If we could be the Chicago of Canada with talented people creating unique works of art and literature, I’d love to be one of those old men sitting on the porch of a retirement home and saying, “I was there when I saw the city’s potential for greatness, and I saw the community put in the work to achieve this potential.”

Want more YEG Arts Stories? We’ll be sharing them here all year and on social media using the hashtag #IamYegArts. Follow along! Click here to learn more about Mary Chan, his books, events, tips for writers, and more.

About Marty Chan

Marty Chan writes books for kids, plays for adults, and tweets for fun. In theatre, he’s best known for his plays Mom, Dad, I’m Living with a White Girl and The Bone House. In fiction, kids have loved his Marty Chan Mystery series. From 1994 to 2000, he penned the Dim Sum Diaries humour commentaries for CBC Radio. He continues to work and live in Edmonton with his wife, Michelle, and their cat, Buddy.

[floetryverse]

I've fallen into the cracks between the light and the broken daylight and sunset and I can't decipher my emotions when I am still falling

- Paula E. Kirman

[floetryverse]

people have always tried to fix me in the places where they were broken

- Paula E. Kirman

[floetryverse]

Two of my poems were selected to be part of the “Word On the Street” project in McCauley, and have been sandblasted into sidewalks in the neighbourhood. The one with reddish letters can be found on the east side of 96 Street near 105 Avenue, while the one with blue letters is part of the big sidewalk along 107a Avenue near 95 Street.