My Studio: Wayne Tefs

I spend a great deal of time on my bikes, both in Winnipeg and in Tucson, and in a way they constitute a kind of office. A mobile office where thoughts come in the way of meditation: ruminative, fragmentary, suggestive. There’s lots of time on a road ride to let the mind drift and for thoughts to waft like streams of smoke, winding from this to that as the wheels whistle along, matching the twittering of birds from the verge.

Read more

My Studio: Leo Brent Robillard

Like most writers, I have a computer and a room to house it. It is a good room. Pale walnut floors. Slate-coloured walls. If I stand, I can see out the window across the back deck and over the gardens to the lake. It is tastefully decorated with my wife’s black and white photography. My guitars are close at hand. But I have never considered this space as my studio.

Read more

My Studio: Lydia Kwa

Meet the creatures who hang out on my crowded and messy writing desk—there’s Monique the odd Ceratopsian (“horned face”) dinosaur, with a twisted torso; Thelma the cute Rhodochrosite owl; and several smaller crystals and stones.

Read more

My Studio: David Arnason

I like to write overlooking water. I know that some writers find the natural world a distraction. They would sooner be cocooned in an enclosed space where there is nothing but the writer and his words.

Read more

My Studio: Richard Scarsbrook

I would like to begin with a bold statement like “The WORLD is my studio!”, or “I write wherever and whenever The Muse finds me”; I would like to say that The Muse finds me scribbling frantically in a Moleskine at a café on the Left Bank in Paris, or atop the summit of Mount Kilimanjaro, but in reality she just stands there tapping her toe and glancing at her watch while I mop spilled coffee from the keyboard on my little desk in my little Toronto apartment.

Read more