Fall workshops are open! Also, our storage unit flooded. I have thoughts.
Chris (me, a white, 40-something woman in a hoodie with chunky glasses) smiles slightly ruefully at the camera with a storage unit full of chairs and boxes behind her.
First things first: Fall writing workshops are open for registration!
Our whole line-up opens today. We love this moment. I have some I’m especially excited about this season…
A new “Romantasy” workshop with Kim — the cross-over of romance and fantasy
An in-person one-day version of “Keep Your Pen Moving” with Mari for anyone who wants a mid-autumn deep dive
A BIPOC-only version of “Writing Towards the Body” with Asifa
A return of my new class about writing for the internet, but with a new title — Paper Airplanes
And lots of our fan favourites, like Focus and Flow, Begin Here, and Tiny Worlds
These are all maximum 7-8 people depending on the class, so if you want to grab a spot, pause here, stop reading, and go check them out.
Last week I got a call from my in-laws that I did not want.
We share a storage unit across town, where they store their late parents’ things they aren’t ready to get rid of, and I store the contents of our beautiful Firefly studio. Turns out, it had flooded. I flew to the car and pointed myself West to see what I could save.
Then, of course, I drove into a slow-motion fever dream of Toronto rush hour, so I surrendered, and took some time to think.
I always thought it would break my heart to see our studio close. But boxing things up was actually fun, and moving day flowed like a clean river. I remember, at the end of it, pausing before heaving closed the orange door of the unit, and whispering a little thank you to everything cozied up inside. A swell of warm curiosity filled my chest, wondering when I’d see it next.
Truth is, we all have creative projects in waiting.
Call it stalled, paused, hibernating, underground, “on the back burner”… We all walk around with inner storage units filled with ideas, drafts, and unfulfilled longings. The trick is not to feel bad about this.
Our modern ethic is so go-go-go, and show-show-show, that we can forget that the back burner is a very nourishing place. Things warm there. They mature. Tilda Swinton talks about “creative patience” as a way to “keep our dreams soft” and encourages artists to work on “soul time” instead of “clock time.”
Can you feel that in the back of your neck?
I learned about that earlier this year when, on a whim, I remembered a short story I wrote in my mid-20s. It was a breakup story, written for catharsis, and I didn’t think about it much after I wrote it — but when I pulled it out this year, I was surprised how much music was in there. My broken heart really writes! I liked the story. But I had never finished it.
When I got to the spot where I’d stopped writing, I realized that I knew exactly how it should end. It took me twenty-two years to grow into an understanding of love that could carry that story through to its conclusion. I’m so glad I gave myself that time. Those final paragraphs were like a love letter to past me — Don’t worry, honey. This will all make sense later.
As I inched my way across the city to the soggy storage unit, I started to think about new questions.
What if patience is the overlooked ingredient that lets our work become what it’s trying to become?
What if our unfinished projects aren’t signs of failure or procrastination, but signs of life, ready to compass us back to our vision any time we turn towards them?
What if we aren’t entirely in charge of what gets “done” and what doesn’t, but rather, we are asked to keep moving forward, driving and surrendering over and over, until we finally get where we want to go?
Floods will happen. Stories will be left unfinished. If we’re lucky, we’ll leave our lives with our storage spaces stuffed with ideas and unopened boxes — evidence of a creative life well lived.
Am I getting carried away with the metaphor here?
I finally got there, and most of our stuff was okay. We lost a couple boxes of books, but none of the precious ones. I was able to get the wood stuff up on risers until the puddles evaporated, and on the weekend, a crew of us went in and repacked everything.
It looks cozy in there again, waiting for its next adventure, curious (like I am) what it will be.
So I’m raising my mug today to all your unfinished projects, and mine.
To the slivers of ideas that show up in your early morning dreams. To the manuscripts that just aren’t ready to join their last sentences. To the seemingly-abandoned boxes, waiting for you to unpack them, and remember what’s in there. Even the soggy ones.
If you want to move something forward with us this fall, we’d love to meet you there.
Autumn Small Group Workshops are open for registration
This is my favourite part of Firefly. A small group. Time and space to spread out our thoughts and visions. To build community. To listen and be heard.
Most are on Zoom, but some are in the east end of Toronto.
The Big One is open for applications
Every fall we launch two new “The Big One” cohorts.
This is our longest and deepest writing experience — 9 months with a small, curated group, with a deep-dive weekend partway through, and 1-on-1 coaching for the tricky bits.
Britt will be leading a group on Tuesday mornings, and Mari will be leading a group on Wednesday evenings.
Community Bonfire is on the horizon
Mark your calendars, we’re sparking up the fire again!
If you’re in or near Toronto and you’d like an evening of low-pressure community connection, please join us at our bonfire.
Saturday, September 13th
7–8:30pm Eastern Time
Withrow Park Fire Pit
We’ll have lots more info in our next newsletter.
And, of course — a poem.
This one from the nuance-filled and deep-in-the-bones Cameron Awkward-Rich.
Shall we leave the end of this newsletter in the capable hands of Jeanette Winterson?
I was recently reading her novel, Lighthousekeeping, and couldn’t get over this passage. I think it’s exactly what I’m writing about here.
“It's better to think of my life like that—part miracle, part madness. It's better if I accept that I can't control any of the things that matter. My life is a trail of shipwrecks and set-sails. There are no arrivals, no destinations; there are only sandbanks and shipwreck; then another boat, another tide.”
In it with you,
P.S. I can’t find the full text of the Tilda Swinton speech I was quoting (from the SXSW 2023 Keynote), but here’s a little more of it via Instagram. Thank you Sophia for sharing this!
P.P.S. Speaking of Instagram, here are some pics of the flood, and the cleanup. Thank you so much to Syd, Amari, and Ian for helping me tuck everything back in with love.