My second annual tree lighting poem as Poet Laureate of Scugog Township.

In fact, in many ways, it can be argued that today a writer’s task actually shifts into high gear after the contract has been signed. And writers have to be prepared for that. They need to be ready to pitch in. To pull their weight, as the old saying goes. They need to commit themselves to taking on aspects of the writing life that have little to do with actual writing. At least during the period when their title needs to get out into the world. Otherwise, that getting out into the world will be a very brief one, given that the sales lifespan of most books is not very great.

When I started thinking about the cover of my forthcoming novel, The Unravelling of Ou (Palimpsest Press, February 15, 2026), I had a pretty clear idea of what I wanted. And because I was publishing with a small press, I knew I’d have —within reason—a fair amount of control over my cover.

It was probably only a few days after signing my publication contract that I reached out to Santa Fe artist, Catie Powe.

Much like my delayed shoe tying, I couldn’t tell the time for the first five years I was in school. I struggled with math, and the numbers on the clock only confused me. I had this Snoopy watch I loved, mainly because the minute hand was a tennis ball. I got by okay by bluffing my way through with my Consumers Distributing digital watch. I even fooled my parents somehow, but maybe because of their own drama, they didn’t notice I couldn’t tell time.

An excerpt from “Episodic Tremor and Slip” from Lorne Daniel’s What is Broken Binds Us, published by University of Calgary Press.

There is still the smell of summer rain in the wind
And the sky is grey between the leaves of my window
As the paper advances through this machine
It begins to curl the other way, now

Adelle Purdham is one of the sweetest people in my literary circle. Yes, she’s a talented writer, but Adelle is also notably generous with her time and support. I’m delighted to call her a friend. I am also delighted to host Adelle on my blog for this year’s first episode of The (CanL)It Crowd to share her thoughts on literary citizenship and community within the koan that is CanLit.

Mr. Boyd said her new horse blanket was stupid. Left-wing bullshit. A blanket made of old water bottles isn’t gonna save the world. Probably won’t even keep the horse warm! He sucked on his remaining bottom tooth. Nina had seen him peel a whole orange with it. Decaying and brown, it reminded her of a shriveled kernel of flint corn.  

“I’ve tried striking these dark episodes from the autobiography in my head on the grounds that I can’t claim something I never knew. (Brain doctors are split on whether blackouts are legitimate legal defences.) But when I ignore the blackouts of my past, I’m unable to conceive of myself as someone whose views and actions matter today.”

A few weeks before Valentine’s Day, as part of my poet laureateship, I wrote a blog post on how to write a love poem, acknowledging (then promptly ignoring) the fact that I may not be the best person to provide instruction on such an endeavour. Imagine my delight when I learned that my post had encouraged a writer I admire immensely to recommence her habit of writing an annual love poem.

Writing love poems isn’t really my thing.

This is what I’ve been telling people for years. Even when I suggested to my fellow Scugog Arts members that, as Poet Laureate of Scugog Township, I should share a blog on how to write a love poem for Valentine’s Day, it occurred to me that I might not be the best person for the job.

To be clear: I stand by this last claim but the first one—the one where I say writing love poems isn’t my thing—is categorically false.

Hi, my beautiful bookish brethren—Hollay here, your doting neighbourhood book publicist, National Book Critics Circle Member, former lit mag reviews editor, book podcast and radio show host, soon-to-be open mic poetry series host, Founder of River Street Writing, and basically, your go-to gal for CanLit community golden retriever energy. 

Earlier this year, I was lucky enough to be a part of The & Festival at Sheridan College as the moderator for the Navigating Vulnerabilities in Life Writing with Paige Maylott (My Body is Distant, ECW Press), Christine McNair (Toxemia, Book*hug Press), and Maurice Vellekoop (I’m So Glad We Had This Time Together, Penguin Random House). Our conversation was wonderful, and I walked about feeling energized and dazzled, but I also walked away with a handful of questions we didn’t have time to address.

He has my last name.

He has it because he’s mine—my fourth child and a last chance.

My name because of his puckish brutality and his milkweed tuffs of hair against my face in the dark.

The luxury of finding familiar skin, so close.

Because my name means power. Because of his first name, given after my uncle, who died at 58 of brain cancer.

My uncle, as a child, ran through the house calling to his mother:

You’re very nice, I love you.

(I love you, too.)

Because of sparkling idolatry; my baby’s eyes—they’re warm asphalt after the rain.

CanLit may be a koan, but rob mclennan is a one-man force for hope within the riddle. He runs a fair for small presses, he hosts a site for book reviews and does countless reviews himself. He’s written a whole host of wonderful books. While I have no doubt he must be tired of a great many things, he retains a sort of dignified persistence within a sometimes fraught and often uncertain literary landscape.

When I asked author and fellow League of Canadian Poets board member Rayanne Haines to join me for an instalment of The (CanL)It Crowd, I knew her response would be thoughtful. I also knew I’d probably be a little surprised—in that wonderful, ticklish way good writers can suss out sensitive spots and lean into them. I was not, however, anticipating being moved quite so much by Rayanne’s nuanced call for resistance.

As a naturalized citizen in Canada from the Caribbean, I have a complicated relationship with the words citizenship and community. The sense of belonging has always been a tricky concept for me. Moving from a village where everyone knew my name and my story to a cosmopolitan city where I often felt like a stranger was disorienting. Writing became my anchor, a way to make sense of my experiences, to connect with the world around me, even when it felt foreign.

I love the word ‘citizenship’ that Ghadery has rooted into this conversation about writers’ experiences with building literary community. Citizenship is such a great term in this exchange because the act of creating literary community is truly a give-and-take, labour-of-love endeavour with accompanying rights and responsibilities. Good citizenship is good relationship building.

We create art not just to razzle dazzle and entertain each other but to be in dialogue with each other about concepts and questions. About possible beginnings. And possible endings.

I first heard of Terese Svoboda from Terese herself. She reached out to me about this funny little series of mine that explores (and sure, even interrogates) the koan of CanLit through the lens of literary community and citizenship. Terese was interested in contributing to the discussion, which was great. But I wasn’t sure who she was, exactly. We had a mutual writer friend in common, but beyond that, I was unfamiliar with Terese’s work.

As it turned out, this was kinda Terese’s point. This is what Terese wanted to write about. As a recent immigrant from the U.S. to Victoria, Terese arrived in Canada as a relatively unknown author.

I first met Steven Mayoff when I started working with Radiant Press in 2023 to do publicity for his staggering and strange and altogether wonderful novel of magic realism and satire, The Island Gospel According to Samson Grief—a story about a painter in PEI who is visited by three messengers of The Supreme One who have a bizarre order for Samson: he must build the Island’s first synagogue.