Bänoo was and is, to my mind, one of the most powerful and passionate members of the literary community in Canada. As the founder of Shab-e She’r (Poetry Night), Canada’s most diverse and brave poetry open mic (inception 2012), Bänoo has made fostering open and respectful conversations her mission. Any time I hear her speak or read her work, I walk away with much for my brain to chew on.

Today is no exception. I am honoured to welcome Bänoo to this series to share her thoughts about literary community, and raise an important perspective about the words we use to describe this collective.

Last year, after reflecting on my experience working with people across many lifestyles and demographics, and after speaking with several health care professionals due to injuries and a resurgence of my eating disorder (which I tried to frame as “some minor flares of disordered eating” to avoid doing anything about it), I started the ongoing process of overhauling my exercise habits.

Recently, while I was conversing with Tim about publicity plans for his upcoming book, In the Capital City of Autumn—a gut-punchingly breathtaking collection of poetry due out this April with Wolsak & Wynn—Tim expressed a polite wariness about this business bustle.

Understandable.

Tim is the author of twenty-four works of fiction, nonfiction, and poetry.

I can’t remember how I met Wayne Ng, exactly. I do know it was sometime after my first book was published and through social media. His award-winning book, Letters to Johnny, was published by the same press as me—Guernica Editions. I’m fairly certain that was the connection that brought us together, but what kept me fascinated by this person was not only his incredible writing but his warmth and generosity.

I am happy to welcome Gail Kirkpatrick to The (CanL)It Crowd—a fitting author to feature in this series on literary community and citizenship since I first heard of Gail’s debut novel, Sleepers and Ties, through a dear mutual writer friend who recommended her book. And it’s a book that is (planets align!) also about the power and importance of community, set against the beautifully rendered backdrop of the Canadian prairies. (Learn more about Sleepers and Ties here.)

To kick off The (CanL)It Crowd—my new series on literary citizenship, life, and community—I welcome the irreplaceable and irrepressible, Gary Barwin, who shares an updated version of a blog he wrote when he was Writer-In-Residence at Sheridan College. Gary talks about award culture, winning, losing, and taking care of shit. I’m delighted to host this highly amusing, truth-dropping collection of thoughts.

I once hosted a fantastically embarrassing poetry event at a bar in Uxbridge, Ontario. Even though—by the providence of being in the same MFA cohort—I’d secured an incredible poet to read, no one came except my mother. It was a Sunday afternoon and the venue didn't even have patrons at the time. A woman wandered in off the street and in a promising show of support after surveying the sad scene, vowed to return with more people. I can't remember if she ever did. I was so anxious that parts of the afternoon are a blur.

On a seemingly unremarkable stretch of Highway 11 between Fauquier and Kapuskasing, Ontario, a UFO squats a stone’s throw from the town of Moonbeam’s Visitor Centre. The spacecraft is reminiscent of Gazoo’s ship in The Flintstones—except made of fibreglass and bigger. Much bigger. Standing at approximately nine-feet tall, the Moonbeam UFO monument is striking enough to summon thousands of travelers a year from the roadside, inviting them to take a few snaps and stretch their legs while they explore this intergalactic novelty and learn more about the fascinating town of Moonbeam.

When I was 11 years old, I read Anne of Green Gables by Lucy Maud Montgomery, and much like millions of other young girls, I found a kindred spirit in the precocious redhead. It wasn’t until I was 37 that I realized I had far more in common with the author than her feisty fictional character. 

Whether it is a labyrinth on the back of a cereal box or a good crossword inside your newspaper, puzzles can be a fun—albeit, sometimes frustrating—hobby. One puzzle that has caused both amusement and frustration, and in my case, anger, is the Bean Puzzle Tombstone.

Located three kilometres north of the small town of Wellesley, Ontario in the Rushes Cemetery is the confounding Bean Puzzle Tombstone. This tombstone, which was erected by Samuel Bean in memory of two of his wives—both of whom died after being married to Bean for less than a year—features an epitaph in 15x15 alphanumeric code that baffled puzzle masters, historians, tourists, and locals for decades. But it managed to peeve me off within seconds.

Every week or so in the summer months, I drive my nine-year-old son Joseph an hour to a woodlot near a conservation trail in Newcastle, Ontario. Here Sam, his falconry sponsor, shows Joe how to offer a Harris Hawk her first live kill: a pigeon. 

Joe stands resolute and alert as the hawk swoops toward him from her high ring perch about 20 feet away, her four-foot wingspan materializing miraculously from her 780-gram body. As Sam has instructed, Joe gives a sharp tug on the lure holding the pigeon, which has been lying still near Joe’s feet. The tug excites movement from the bird and keeps the hawk focused.