I would like to tell you that my studio is an oasis of creativity, lined with frayed notebooks of my collected ideas, a library of books that inspire me or keep me humble, nothing that I don’t find either beautiful or useful. And this would be at least partially true—it’s just the first thing you’d notice upon entering is a bulky old treadmill I inherited from my parents.
Read moreIn the early days my writing began in a closet with paper, pencil, and a flashlight. Later, as an adult, in a house with three small children and pets bustling about, I’d sit at an antique drop-leaf table used as a desk in the far corner of the basement
Read moreThe room in which I work is fairly small and nothing special. I’ve dreamt of painting the walls some bold literary color but they’re still in their original beige.
Read moreTo be honest, I don’t often use a studio to write. What I do have is a pile of notebooks and napkins that are filled with sometimes illegible words that are scrawled at a moment's notice.
Read moreThe largest object in my study, and its focal point, is the desk. We bought it from a government surplus dealer about 25 years ago.
Read moreHere's me writing poetry on my computer, in my favourite studio, my backyard, in Brandon, Manitoba, on a sunny day, sitting in the dappled shade of my magical Amur cherry trees.
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