Category Archives: Writing

Seasonal Crows

Most of our time in school is dedicated to student learning and the celebration of student achievement, but each year, our school hosts an Art Exhibition for works created by the adult members of our community. If you choose to, you can allow your work to be sold by silent auction, with a portion of the proceeds going our Student Service Committee to support the work our students do within the local community. It’s a pretty good gig.

I created two pieces for this year’s exhibition, including this piece, “Seasonal”.


This is a collage of Instagram pics and other digital photographs that I took, sorted and layered with varying degrees of transparency. I didn’t know what to call this piece, as strictly speaking, the images don’t represent all of the seasons. But it does feel seasonal to me. Like passing time with a lot of motion with a few moments of clarity and the traces of something ephemeral–memories or ambitions–present over everything.

The second piece I exhibited is called “Crows”.


We live on the top floor of our apartment building, and one morning the crows were sitting on the roof there and taking the occasional flight about and around before returning to their perch on the roof. It gave me a chance to get some great shots against a neutral background. The images on the left and right are un-retouched, just as I shot them. The centre frame is a composite of several other shots.

I haven’t written anything for a very long time, but I had a sense that visually, these crows needed text to accompany them. Or typography, maybe. So I started thinking about words for crows and then words as crows and then a couple of days before the exhibition, I started to hear the poem and wrote it down.

Separately, the poem is this:

What Needs Out
there is a murder in each of us
a monochrome of misshapen
characters mutually aflutter and
cawing for water, for a bellyful,
for birth at every moment of their
age; each cry a loose cohesion
of shadows and the things they
mean in the swirl and science of
reasonable flight and what needs
out now: jubilation and despair
and yearning for and for;
they flap and gather, beaks agape
misunderstood scavengers hoarding
clever for later, a shiny thing for the
nest, to sparkle between the sticks
and tarry feathers, those points and
balms we settle our hollow bones
angularly over to press out
pollock-speckled eggs of heavy
slate-green and ink, each to crack
on arrival of another hungry word.
beaks agape they flap and gather
and flutter and caw, dark forms of
cacophony and unarticulated dreams
aspiring to the tidy murmuration of
precise elocution–pretty and
ephemeral–shaped, evaporated and
reformed on an invisible web of water
vapour and rising sighs.
hungry, the word-crows flap and
gather against themselves, beat out
their commotion and ego and corvid
noise, their murderous need of a
single melody, clear syntax and

Most of the time, I write, take photographs and generally make art to please myself. Often, I don’t even get around to sharing it with anyone. That might sound self-indulgent, but I think art is only self-indulgent when it is made with indifference to (or contempt of) its audience, even if the audience is just you.

That said, in addition to expression, I think art is also communication. Sometimes it is nice to share your work with others and to have it land, to palpably feel the closing of that loop of communication and see that something you’ve sent out has been, in some way, received.

I love seeing what my colleagues present in this exhibition. And I’m grateful for the opportunity.


PWP Guest: Leo Brent Robillard & The Road To Atlantis

A long time ago, when I was taking my first steps to becoming a teacher and a writer, one of the first kindred spirits I met was Leo Brent Robillard. He was then the editor and publisher of a literary journal called The Backwater Review, and had not yet written his first novel. He was already an excellent teacher; as a teacher-in-training, I did a practicum under his guidance, in a senior Writer’s Craft class. I have always found our conversations about literature, music and film nourishing.

I recently had the chance to read his fourth novel, The Road To Atlantis, about the aftermath of the death of one child in a family. Robillard writes with great empathy and little sympathy; the characters are exposed, their emotions raw, their actions perhaps as regrettable as they are understandable and also, possibly, inevitable.

The central tragedy of the story is compellingly told. And yet as I read, I was aware of being attuned to certain resonances that stem from being a writer and teacher. I wondered about some of the decisions made in telling the story and other elements of craft, and how it might feel to paint such an uncompromisingly complicated picture of high school life while also being a teacher in a high school where it might better serve to ignore some of those challenging realities.

It is not unusual for me to formulate questions I would like to ask authors while reading their books. It is rather unusual to have the opportunity to ask them. If you have not yet read The Road To Atlantis, there may be some spoilers ahead. Hopefully, just vague ones that wouldn’t ruin anything for you, but certainly, there are references to things that happen. So if you want to read the book first, go ahead. We’ll be here when you get back. I am happy to have another chance to talk about books and literature and writing with Leo Brent Robillard.

“I wanted the reader to feel a sense of inevitability – that events and decisions could not be changed.”

DP: I am interested in how you decide how to tell a story. Even if you know what the events of a story are, you have to decide how to present them to an audience. How do you choose a tense to write in, present or past, or a narrational voice, say, first or third person?

LBR: In some ways, the story demands to be told a certain way. I have a preference for third person limited, so perhaps I dream up characters and stories that cry out for that point of view. This form of narration allows for multiple perspectives and voices which not only contribute to plot, but to characterization as well. Characters are developed by what they do and say, but also by how others perceive and respond to them. Third person limited is perfect for establishing the latter.
When writing historical fiction I favour the present tense. It invests the story with a sense of immediacy, in spite of the difference in time period. The Road to Atlantis, being contemporary, was my first novel written in the past tense. I think I opted for the past because I wanted the reader to feel a sense of inevitability – that events and decisions could not be changed. It was a question of atmosphere and mood, rather than necessity.

DP: Through the first section, “Cape May,” we see the story through the perspective of David and Anne respectively. We are made aware of what’s happening with Matty, but only as it is seen by David or by Anne. It isn’t until the second section, when Matty is a teenager, that we get access to his perspective directly. Was that a conscious decision?

LBR: Withholding Matty’s perspective was certainly conscious. In fact, almost half the book transpires before he enters as a point-of-view character. I made this decision in order to have Matty “disappear” physically from the text. It is a reflection of his metaphorical disappearance to David. His re-emergence as an older adolescent in the second half also allows for an intimate and judgemental perspective on both Anne and his father. It is easy, I think, to feel sympathy for Anne and David (if not understanding). Matty calls reader loyalties into question. His parents have every right to be broken and devastated, but they are quite selfish in their grief. Matty reminds us of this.

DP: The story begins with David as its protagonist, in his perspective. Conventionally, we might expect this to be consistent throughout the novel, but the reader comes to the end of the novel in Anne’s perspective, rather than David’s. Was there a point where you saw the story as belonging more to David or to Anne, or does that shift in perspective from beginning to end suggest that story belongs to both of them?

“I see the end of the novel as a carnivalesque Pieta.”

LBR: Ultimately, I do not think that the novel belongs to any one person. I see both David and Anne as equals. But I do feel, in retrospect, that the novel has a lot to do with men and fathers. I think it has something to do with the fact that women are commonly viewed as emotional beings – as being “in touch” or “in tune” with themselves. Whereas men are often expected to master their emotions. I see the end of the novel as a carnivalesque Pieta. The fact that Anne is the witness of this moment just seemed satisfying and cathartic to me.

DP: When I started reading The Road to Atlantis, I was aware of a lot of short sentences that I didn’t remember from your early works like Leaving Wyoming or Houdini’s Shadow. I wondered what you might have observed about the evolution of your own prose style?

LBR: I wanted to be as direct and unsentimental as possible with the characters and the story of Atlantis. I felt as though its brutality was laid bare that way. I take great pains in editing every sentence. I am not sure if this is reflective of and an evolution in style so much as a creative choice for this particular novel.

DP: I thought as I read that there is an interesting parallel between Sarah and Kim. Both are young women whose value is, at least initially, presented in terms of their physical attractiveness, and both face the possibility of a relationship with an older male teacher. In the case of Sarah and David, they move past that potential moment, but in Kim’s case, we learn that she did have an affair with her teacher in Germany. I wondered if that is an intentional juxtaposition meant as a comment on the impact that such relationships can have developmentally, for better and for worse?

LBR: Adults have a responsibility toward children. The irony in David’s treatment of Sarah is that he takes his responsibility seriously, while at the same time he is neglecting his responsibility toward Matty. He is, I think, endeavouring to recapture what he lost with his own daughter, to the detriment of his son. I feel a great deal of sympathy toward the character of Kim, as well, because certainly her development has been damaged by adults – and not just by her teacher. She would make a strong protagonist in her own novel – say ten or fifteen years later — as she sorts through the impact of her upbringing and her own poor decisions.

“I wanted a young man charged with caring for and raising a woman. Because I think it is possible. Because I think men can be nurturers.”

DP: There is a moment when Anne is watching Melanie drink wine and she starts counting the gulps. It is the first time that she counts the behaviours of a character other than herself; there is a kind of breaking of containment. Do you see this as a kind of climax for Anne?

LBR: I am not sure if this is the climax, but it is a symbol of her unravelling. To quote Yeats, “The centre cannot hold.”

DP: Ten years after David has his altercation with Dallas in class, Dallas gets his revenge. At the time that it happens in the novel, it seems like a stand-alone event. David goes home, but no one else seems to notice that he’s been in a fight; it doesn’t have an impact on anything else that’s happening at the time. Was there a sense for you that karmically, David needed to be punished for what he did to Dallas as teacher, or did it just seem like a logical extrapolation of Dallas’ character?

LBR: I think the scene works, because it is a logical extension of Dallas. However, karma was the driving force behind it. As I mentioned earlier, adults have a responsibility towards children. Even children like Dallas and Kim. David experienced a lapse in judgement. He was under great strain. While I am sure many readers (and many teachers) might cheer for David in that moment, the truth is, Dallas was a target of displaced anger. We have to realize that Dallas, like Kim, is damaged goods. Adults did this damage. Adults should be responsible for fixing it. David erred. Dallas paid him back.

DP: Similarly, the birth of Matty’s child seems to begin a healing process for the family, or at least the beginning of the rebuilding of the family as a community. Was there a sense that the loss of a girl-child as the cause of the family’s trauma needed to be balanced by the return of a girl-child in order to heal it? I’m intrigued by these kinds of symmetries in fiction, where at worst, they can feel like contrived coincidences, but when they are working, as I would argue is the case in Atlantis, they can also feel inevitable and deeply satisfactory to a reader.

LBR: Symbolically, I wanted Matty to be holding a girl in that final scene. I wanted a young man charged with caring for and raising a woman. Because I think it is possible. Because I think men can be nurturers. Because I wanted a cycle that went at least as far back as David’s father to be broken. Brooke is not meant to replace Nat. But life does go on. Kahlil Gibran says, “One may not reach the dawn save by the path of the night.” This is the dawn after a long night.

DP: You are a working teacher, in addition to being an author. You write candidly and, I think, realistically and unapologetically, about teenagers and their interactions with adults. Realistically, teachers find some students challenging, though that reality is rarely spoken of, since the conviction that all students can learn and grow is the fundamental starting point for education. But as an author, you have provided a glimpse behind that curtain. Do you ever feel that your life as a teacher and as a writer are in conflict? How do real teachers and students respond to your depictions of teachers and students in print?

“A good book does not have to be a moral one; but a good teacher does.”

LBR: That’s a tough one. Teachers are both revered and despised in our culture. Revered for the task with which they are charged, and despised as well-paid public servants in a time of economic instability. But no matter which camp you fall into, a lot is expected of a teacher. To begin, all students can learn and grow. Unfortunately, some will require more than a good teacher to achieve this. Having good teachers is integral, but so is having good parents and access to good mental health specialists, good social workers, good coaches, and good friends. It takes a village to raise a child.
Writing can sometimes be in conflict with teaching. A good book does not have to be a moral one; but a good teacher does. My books say things I could not say in a classroom. But books are what we use to educate. When a student leaves the classroom forever, it is one of the only things that will continue to further his education. In this way, the job of a writer is not that different than the job of a teacher.
My older students and their parents have both read my books now and in the past. If there has ever been an issue, it hasn’t made it back to me. In many ways, that I am a writer can be helpful in my English classes and fundamental in my Creative Writing class. Writing and publishing becomes a living thing to them, and not just something dead people did a long time ago.

DP: Because I know you, I recognize the names of people in your life amongst the characters in your novel, though the characters do not necessarily represent the people whose names they bear. Is it important to you to include the real people in your life in your work? Is it a coincidence, or perhaps a kind of dedication?

LBR: Names. Honestly, I dread coming up with names. Sometimes I just write the down the first one that comes to mind – that of a friend, say – just to get it out of the way. I probably intend to change it, and then it grows on me, until changing it just seems wrong. It isn’t meant as flattery, nor is it meant as revenge. It’s just my one moment of laziness in the trenches of creation.
Character traits and character development, on the other hand, is a different kettle of fish. That one’s all about revenge.

Leo Brent Robillard is an award-winning author and educator. His novels include Leaving Wyoming, which was listed in Bartley’s Top Five in the Globe and Mail for Best First Fiction; Houdini’s Shadow, which was translated into Spanish; and, most recently, Drift. In 2011, he received the Premier’s Award for Teacher of the Year. He lives in Eastern Ontario with his wife and two children.

The Geography of Now


Monna is running her Geography of Now eCourse over at She’s got us thinking about where we are from – not just the physical geography, but the social, emotional, spiritual, historical, ancestral, sum of places, experiences, people and things that have made us who we are. This is what I wrote.

i am from
the dark and still
of night
starlight and
crescent moons, the
aurora borealis one
freakish summer when she
dropped her shimmering
skirts to the 43rd parallel
and danced a

i am from that node
where thoughts graze
like sheep and breed and
tumble and spit and cry,
scream for attention
catch sight of themselves and laugh
curse and sigh
pick themselves up and
get on with it

i am from in between

i am from the kiss
of natural light
the soft glow the
golden whisper
that magical hour
when the serious sun cuts
its rays loose to linger before bed
the sky full
of sourceless light
accomplishment without ambition
the photography of mind
and paper and
yes, too, of screens;
i am a cinema of dreams

Eat the Frog

This is a short screenplay I wrote a few years back to talk about script-writing with students in the filmmaking club at my school. One of the challenges for student filmmakers is that they tend to think in terms of big budget, two-hour films which are very difficult for them to produce convincingly. The idea of this script was to write something that had some decent story to film, a bit of range for the actors to play, used accessible locations, but allowed for enough creative interpretation that students could put their mark on it. Some students are shooting a version of it this year, so I look forward to seeing what they do with it.

Seven Years Before Tuesday

The three boys ramble up the street like some kind of odd camel, the tall one leading the borrowed grocery cart packed high with empties, the smaller two pushing from the handlebar like hind quarters, laboring in steady unison. They hug the curb and nearly pitch when one of the wheels wedges in a storm drain, bringing the awkward camel to a stop.
“I’ll get it,” says the left hind-quarter and he dives under the belly of the cart, pushing and plying the stuck wheel. The first boy, and the third, alternate critical examinations of the second boy’s efforts with lazy glances around the neighborhood. On the lot next to them, a wide beveled door opens across a square verandah, the small white house yawning out an incongruous gaggle of neatly ragged and stale smelling somnambulants. Neat like they arrived for a dinner party and ragged like they drank straight through to breakfast. But neither the men nor the women are drunk. And certainly not the girl.
The third boy is a little shorter, but he and the girl are the same age, maybe ten years old, or eleven. Their eyes lock, except that she doesn’t see him. She looks into an indeterminate distance, or else closer, into some deeper plane of herself. He’s seen her before, this girl with the torn clothes, the tousled hair, the accumulation of dirt tanning the skin but for meandering tracks of dried tear-snails, mapped out in varying lines of lighter shades beneath her dry eyes. He’s seen her on television, emerging from the dust of tornado-toppled houses in those prairie towns where the lightning and rain go straight up and down and happen all at once. He’s seen her carried on the shoulders of uniforms, clutching a discordant lollipop someone’s plied into her hand so she’ll stop screaming for who’s numbered among the missing, for the hand or foot that implies the rest of a body lost in the cracked earth. She is the girl on the news, pulled out of the well, or found alone in the woods, the girl exhausted from being suddenly without.
But there is no evidence of disaster. The house behind her stands strong and bored, politely suffering the creaks in its planks, its flaking paint. The ground holds steady, nothing burns. The wind would sooner drop a kite than stir up any offense. And this girl is not alone. The hand that holds hers is like hers, its skin her own skin but older, a father’s hand unscathed by efforts of salvage or triage. Eight of them stand on the lawn, blink in the day-blue in diluting increments, then with a nod amongst themselves, start walking, the men and the women and the distant girl.
“Somebody musta died,” says the first boy. “I heard their funerals can last for weeks.” He looks over the glass in the cart to the third boy, whose gaze follows the peculiar parade. “How much you say we get for bottles?”
“Dime each,” says the third boy, without turning, “Weeks?” He stares after the walking girl, her canvas sneakers dissonant with her pretty, torn dress, their rounded rubber soles lifting and flattening as she recedes, like the mouths of small fish, alternately opening and closing on the answer to the riddle of her.
“How much, the cans and metal?”
The girl disappears behind adult legs and the third boy shrugs. “They do them by how heavy. A buck, maybe?”
“Hey,” says the second boy, his head springing from under the cart as if from a sideways toaster, teeth bared in an inspired grin, “What do ya think we get for the cart?”

Here and There

this place knows my toes
but thinks them

the wind lingers here
sings inside my raincoat
and slips
like a kiss
into yesterday’s
wet fog
summers green near the flow of water
and strawberries picked
to happy the belly
stain lips sun-soft
and fingers with a smile
a squint
a wink
a blue dream of clouds
and swimming up from the bottom
to crest at the crest
and wave down with feet
at tattooed stones
in the clear

my bones know this place
but remember it
much bigger



the telephone rings
i choose not to answer

my window is large
the world passes
in fragments
for my contemplation

three small birds
sheltering from the winter storm
sleep under the seam of my awning
i close the window
and wake them.
now one of them watches me
while the other two sleep.

i daydream tranquility
while snowflakes fall
slow, white pennies
and jazz sings next to my soul

children impress angels
in the snow

The Skin of a Pear

creased skin of his hands turns tan-dark to white
on a sudden line along the lengthy age of fingertips
the pear cups the palm
comes apart between thumb and straight-edge
moving together sharply

desert is the oldest skin
horizon-line cups sun-curve to grain
palm creases and fingerprints
age lengthily
shift granular with the sudden turn
of snowblind to night

see sandy yellow roundness
curved like her hip
into his palm
the pear feeds his age
gives water to the open skins of his life

but he shakes his head
green eyes burnt brown
whisper grainy as fruit flesh
disintegrating against the palette
a name on his lips
too dry to speak
the taste of love
too long left
in the open distance between