The Story Behind the Story with Author Caroline Topperman.

 

We are most fortunate to have Caroline visit us this week.

She was introduced to the Scribbler by one of our previous guest, Hollay Ghadery , publicist for River Steet Publishing.

I know you will enjoy learning more about Caroline and her writing.

Read on my friends.  

 

Caroline Topperman is a European-Canadian writer, entrepreneur, and world traveler. Born in Sweden, raised in Canada with a recent stint of living in Poland. She is a co-founder of Mountain Ash Press and KW Writers Alliance and currently teaches at an underground school for Afghan girls. Her book, Tell Me What You See, serves as a toolkit for her writing workshops. She has written articles for Huffington Post Canada, Jane Friedman’s blog, was the Beauty Editor for British MODE Magazine, and served as managing editor for NonBinary Review. Her hybrid memoir, Your Roots Cast a Shadow: one family’s search across history for belonging with HCI Books, explores explosive intergenerational histories that link war zones and foreign shores with questions of identity and belonging.

 

 

 

Title: Your Roots Cast a Shadow: one family’s search across history for belonging

 

Synopsis:
A narrative of cultural translation, identity, and belonging.
The thrill of a new place fades quickly for Caroline Topperman when she moves from Vancouver to Poland in 2013. As she delves into her family’s history, tracing their migration through pre-WWII Poland, Afghanistan, Soviet Russia and beyond, she discovers the layers of their complex experiences mirror some of what she felt as she adapted to life in a new country. How does one balance honoring both one’s origins and new surroundings?

Your Roots Cast a Shadow explores where personal history intersects with global events to shape a family’s identity. From the bustling markets of Baghdad to the quiet streets of Stockholm, Topperman navigates the murky waters of history as she toggles between present and past, investigating the relationship between migration, politics, identity, and home. Her family stories bring history into the present as her paternal grandmother becomes the first woman allowed to buy groceries at her local Afghan market while her husband is tasked with building the road from Kabul to Jalalabad. Topperman’s Jewish grandfather, a rising star in the Communist Party, flees Poland at the start of WWII one step ahead of the Nazis, returning later only to be rejected by the Party for his Jewish faith. Topperman herself struggles with new cultural expectations and reconciling with estranged relatives.

A study in social acceptance, Topperman contends with what one can learn about an adopted culture while trying to retain the familiar, the challenges of learning new languages and traditions even as she examines the responsibilities of migrants to their new culture, as well as that society’s responsibility to them.

The Story Behind the Story:

In 2015, when I began writing my book, Poland was undergoing a concerning shift. Witnessing Pride parades flanked by police in riot gear and the disturbing rise of neo-Nazi and ultra-Nationalist was a serious reality check. The echoes of history felt chillingly close. I was seeing news headlines that were eerily similar to those my grandparents saw in the 1930s.

These experiences sparked a deep sense of and got me thinking about my own family's history. Their journeys through pre-war Poland, Afghanistan, and beyond were filled with displacement, persecution, and a constant struggle to belong. I felt an urgent need to explore these themes and understand the roots of prejudice and the fragility of acceptance.

My family's story became a lens through which to examine the complexities of identity and the enduring impact of migration and historical trauma. My grandmother navigating the restrictions of a patriarchal society in Afghanistan, my grandfather fleeing Poland ahead of the Nazis only to face rejection from the country he loved– their struggles resonated with the challenges I saw people facing around me in Poland.

I believe stories can help us connect and build empathy. By sharing my family's experiences and my own journey of navigating a new culture, I hoped to offer a personal and relatable way to understand these complex issues. Your Roots Cast a Shadow is more than just a historical account; it's about the human need for connection and belonging. It's a reminder that we need to learn from history to create a more inclusive future for everyone.

Website: Please go HERE.

A question before you go, Caroline:

Scribbler: Where is your favourite spot to write? Are you messy or neat? Your beverage of choice?

Caroline: My favourite spot to write is wherever I can set up my laptop but often I find myself taking notes in the most unexpected places. I have been known to pull out my voice recorder in the middle of a meal, when an idea strikes.

While I would love to say that I am neat and organized, my writing desk is a huge mess with sticky notes and study materials strewn across every empty surface. Lately, my writing involves a lot translating and research. On any given day I may be working through old letters, incomplete family memoirs, maps, and history books.

My go to beverage is coffee which sounds like a cliché but a cup in the morning is how I like to start my day. I am, however, trying to drink more water. I don’t do that enough.

An Excerpt from Your Roots Cast a Shadow

CHOINKI AND MENORAHS: A CLASH OF HOLIDAYS IN WARSAW

Hanukkah comes early in 2013, starting on November 27. Most of our things are still in boxes somewhere on the ocean. It’s at this moment that it hits me. Where do I buy a menorah and candles in a Catholic country? In Toronto or Vancouver, it was easy. But in Poland? I finally realize that the only place to find a menorah and candles is in the general store next to the Nożyk synagogue on Twarda Street, in what was once the Jewish part of town. Entering the courtyard, I feel the same way I do when I first see the boundary marker embedded in the sidewalk on Swiętokrzyska depicting the wall where the Jewish Ghetto once stood. The friend I’m walking with, a longtime resident of Warsaw, admits it is the first time she has noticed the marker. I don’t say anything, but I want to yell out at everyone mindlessly stepping over the metal plaque, “Do you know what you just walked over? Do you know what happened here? How can you go about your day and ignore history? At least take a second to acknowledge it.” This isn’t about religion; it’s more 74 Your Roots Cast a Shadow about humanity. I am frustrated. I am terrified that this is ignored. Why isn’t more being done to educate the public? I know that there is a good chance that the Holocaust will be forgotten in the near future, and that will be dangerous for the entire world. I feel paralyzed with my thinking, and I’m not entirely sure what I can do to relay my fears to anyone who will listen. A uniformed soldier cradling a large gun stands guard out front. This is a very common sight around most European synagogues. The main synagogue in Berlin stands behind a ten-foot fence. The main synagogue in Florence has concrete barricades spanning a six-foot perimeter around the entrance. Paris, Prague, Venice—if the city even has a synagogue, then it’s most likely behind some sort of wall, populated with armed guards. Churches on the other hand are easily accessible, with doors that are open to the public. We approach a man sitting behind a large glass wall. “What do you want? Why are you here? Are you Jewish?” I say that I am, and my husband is not. We have to hand over our passports and with much skepticism he allows us, finally, to enter. I am more welcome in the general store, and when the man behind the counter learns I’m in the market for a menorah, he is thrilled to show me everything they have. I also buy some candles and a few other treats that will get us through the holidays. As we leave, after he tells me that I’m always welcome, he says a few words in Hebrew. I smile and mumble something. I hope he doesn’t guess that I have no idea what he said.

Thank you so much, Caroline. for being our guest this week, and for sharing an excerpt. We wish you continued success with your writing.

Thank you to all our readers and visitors. Please leave a comment below if you have a moment.

The Story Behind the Story with Author Connie Cook

 

Let’s welcome Connie back to the Scribbler.

 

She has been busy since her last visit in 2022 with a new novel to share with us.

If you missed her most recent visit, please go HERE.

Read on my friends.

 

 

 

Connie Cook is a Retired Registered Nurse. As background research for the novel, she completed an online course to become a private investigator. Connie enrolled in writing classes and has been writing ever since. Her short stories have been published by Chicken Soup for the Soul, Pacific Magazine, CommuterLit and Feminine Collective.

 

 

Title: The Queen of Swords

 

Synopsis: When Jennifer's best friend Deslyn vanishes after a date with an online stranger, her world is thrown into chaos. As a seasoned ER nurse, Jennifer thrives under pressure, but this time it's personal-and she refuses to sit idly by. Meanwhile, Detective Joe Moretti from the Boston PD is hot on a similar case: three women dead, all linked through the same online dating site Deslyn was using before her disappearance. The trail has gone cold, until a chilling new discovery points north to Port Credit, Ontario, where a recent victim pulled from the lake matches the killer's MO. But this time, there's a twist: the victim is still alive.

Arriving in Canada, Joe meets Jennifer, the ER nurse assigned to the latest victim. Sparks fly between the sharp-witted nurse and the determined detective, each holding pieces of a puzzle that could stop a killer. But Jennifer has a secret weapon-her mother Portia, the town witch and psychic, who might be able to tip the scales in their favor. In a race against time, they'll need every advantage they can get.

As danger escalates, Jennifer and Joe must navigate a tangled web of deceit and trust, their quest symbolized by the tarot cards that guide their path. Can they expose the killer and locate Deslyn before it's too late? Will Portia's magic help uncover the truth? Intuition meets investigation in this gripping thriller, where the power of the otherworldly may hold the key to solving the case and saving lives.

The Story Behind the Story: I’ve always been a fan of mystery novels and TV shows so creating a mystery novel was fun to do. Also, I’ve been fascinated with tarot cards in the past, not necessarily for fortune-telling but more on how they can help you be more creative in interpreting the pictures and making up a story out of groupings of cards.

At the local bookstore I came across a book titled Tarot for Writers, by Corrine Kenner and published by Llewellyn Publications. It seemed a perfect fit and I used the cards to depict either the character in the chapter or an action that occurred within. This resulted in the novel The Queen of Swords, a Tarot Card Murder Mystery.

A question before you go, Connie:

Scribbler: Where is your favourite spot to write? 

Connie: Favourite place to write has to be at my desk, with my black cat laying in front of the monitor and occasionally stepping on the keyboard.

 

THE HIGH PRIESTESS/Prologue

   

The Card depicts a woman holding a crystal ball in one hand, an open book in the other. A full moon overhead casts shards of light through the darkness.

Meaning: Look inward and seek enlightenment. The Priestess is a channel, a medium for exploration of the soul. She embraces the elements of earth, air, water, and fire to balance her intuition and magick.

 

Portia never read the tarot cards on a Monday. Card reading required her full attention, and today was her day off. For most people, Mondays were for cleaning, doing laundry, and other normal things. But Portia came from a long line of witches and being normal was not how she would ever begin to describe herself. As the town witch and local psychic, cleaning took on an entirely different perspective.

She opened the windows to let the fall breeze blow through, ridding her storefront shop of bad karma and residual effects from customers over the weekend. Love, money, health, and travel were the big four when it came to a reading, and as a white witch, she adhered to the mantra of do ye no harm. Portia picked up the antique straw broom with its leather-lace wrapped handle and swept, even though it wasn’t dust she was sweeping. It was the air that needed cleansing.

 Syris, her twelve-year old black cat, skillfully moved and weaved his way over the tall wooden shelves stocked with apothecary jars filled with mugwort, wormwood, vervain, and the more common choices of lavender, geranium, and rose petals. He was careful and never knocked anything over; even tolerated the broom when it came near.

The tinkle of the shop bell over the door startled her. Darn, had she forgotten to engage the lock after cleaning the windowpanes? The CLOSED FOR THE DAY sign was clearly posted. She frowned, then summoned a smile as she tucked an errant strand of hair behind her ear.

A tall, slim figure stood silhouetted in the doorway. The background sun made it hard for her to see his face. His stance seemed harmless enough. The reek of stench that surrounded him and wafted through the open door spoke otherwise. Odor infiltrated her nostrils, sent her sixth sense into overdrive. Portia was no stranger to evil. She had faced it in the past and survived, but not without sacrifice.

Careful, I must be careful, she cautioned herself before speaking. “Sorry, I must have forgotten to lock the door when I was cleaning. I’m closed today. Perhaps you could come back another time?”

         The sound of a glass bottle hit the floor. Shards and splinters sent flying. Syris leapt from the top shelf and raced to the back of the shop. Okay kitty, good response. I’m getting your message loud and clear. A chill reverberated up her spine. Syris was an intuitive cat, her “familiar” in witch-speak, and she’d learned to trust his instincts.

        She waited for a response from the man who had insinuated himself into her space. He was taking his time, as if he was in control. Portia knew better. The Purple Pentacle was her shop, her domain, and whoever this demon was, he’d best not tangle with her. Even so, she clutched the straw broom in front of her, as if to put a barrier between her and the stranger.

“My apologies,” he replied. His voice was surprisingly mild, not what she’d been expecting. “Yes, I’ll be sure to visit you again when you’re open. I’m new to the area, just absorbing the local flavor.” As he came closer, black expressionless eyes took in not only her, but the entire room. Portia met his gaze, not flinching, totally focused.  He turned to leave and said, “Perhaps you’ll do a reading for me another day. In the meantime, remember to lock your door.”

His stench permeated the shop. It smelled like death and rotting flesh.  Portia couldn’t get to the door fast enough when he left. Even the sound of the lock clicking home didn’t make her feel safe. She peered through the window as the tall lanky stranger wandered down Lakeshore Road towards the Credit River. He tossed his head back a couple of times, looking at her as if to say, You’ve not seen the last of me!

A dark brown aura wafted over the Port Credit marina, a mere block away. Normally it was a clear blue azure, and in Portia’s experience, the universe always got things right. Bottom line, this guy would be back. Instinct told her she would need to be prepared. It had been many moons since she’d faced someone this evil. Every ounce of her being and skills would be pulled into action.

 She closed her eyes, willed her mind to focus, and called on the spirit guides to aid her in what was to come. They’d never let her down before and she trusted their guidance. We’re here, we’re here for you. Trust in your abilities and all will come to pass the way it is intended. The welcoming whispered voices soothed her soul and intuitively, Portia knew they would be present with her along this journey, as they’d been there for her in the past.

She lit a lavender incense stick to cleanse the air and restore peace and calm to her shop. As smoky plumes of fragrance filtered through the room, Syris returned from his hasty retreat and perched on the wooden counter, near the deck of tarot cards. It wasn’t like him to be there. He’s picking up on my vibes, she thought. I need to reassure him. Upon her approach, he swatted the deck. Five cards were strewn on the floor. Four were turned face side up. His message was clear. The cards needed to be read.

Portia knelt beside them, gently brushed the glass shards aside. First was the King of Swords, a protector. Who was he and why was he there? Beside him and overlapping was the Queen of Swords. Portia knew that card well. It represented her daughter Jennifer, a Registered Nurse who frequently showed up in her readings.  But why were they so entwined? She’d never had Jen show up in the cards before with a man.

A foot away was The Devil, no doubt the guy who’d been in her shop earlier. It was the fourth card that clamped her heart in an icy grip. A female body lay on the ground near water, her back impaled with ten long blades. It was the Ten of Swords. There were three swords in the first four cards, too many to be a coincidence. Swords meant strife or conflict. Was her daughter or someone she knew in trouble?  Or could it be someone else?

The fifth card had skittered under the table a few feet away. Her hand shook as she turned it over. It was from the major arcana, the card of Death. Mostly, the death card meant unexpected change, a release from the past, or transitioning. It wasn’t to be taken literally. The chill up her spine spoke otherwise.

Portia reached for the Ten of Swords, the presumed victim, one who required safety. The card vibrated between her palms. She closed her eyes and listened to the spirits, surveyed the scene, heard the message sent from the heavens. Some of it was a vision, part sounded like a voice pleading for help, like a desperate last attempt to stay alive. The images faded in and out. She struggled to make sense of them, closed her eyes, and focused, trying to hone in on the message. Through the fog in her brain, a voice filtered, not that of the victim—perhaps a spirit guide speaking for her, guiding her to safety.

…

She is cold, barely any feeling left in her body.  Her shoulder scrapes against a rock as gentle waves from the Credit River wash her to shore. She is oblivious to the abrasions, the pain. As her head grates against the graveled shoreline, she struggles to inhale. Her chest feels tight, pressured, like a weight is sitting on it. The rest of her still floats in shallow water at the river’s edge.  At least her face is above the waterline. She struggles to gather her bearings, struggles to breathe. It is a mess of confusion. Lost thoughts, memories, what in hell is happening to her?

Is that a dog barking, or just more noise in her head? It jumbles together as she hears a voice yell, “Shit, call 911.” More movement as she feels herself being pulled from the water, something thrown over her. Don’t cover my face, she silently begs. I need to breathe.

Minutes later, the pulsing wail of a siren splits the cold autumn air. She closes her eyes, and hopes and prays they are coming for her.

…

        Portia knew this girl was still alive. The victim’s subconscious thoughts were vivid, current. But there were others who had passed. Shades of spirits floated, surrounding this girl who was still tethered to earth.

Syris paced a protective circle around the cards three times, including the errant fifth card. His paw came to rest on the King of Swords.

And so, it began.

 

 

Thank you for being our guest this week, Connie. And for sharing an excerpt from your novel. We wish you continued success with your writing.

And a thousand thank yous to all our visitors and readers.

The Story Behind the Story with Author donalee Moulton of Halifax, Nova Scotia, Canada

 

Let’s welcome donalee to the Scribbler

I had the pleasure of meeting donalee at a book fair recently. She has kindly agreed to be our guest this week. She is an award winning author, as well as an educator and poet. Or as her website suggests,

… a woman of mystery …

Read on my friends.

 

 

donalee Moulton’s first mystery book Hung out to Die was published in 2023. A historical mystery, Conflagration!, was published in 2024. It won the 2024 Daphne du Maurier Award for Excellence in Mystery/Suspense (Historical Fiction). donalee has two new books coming out in 2025, Bind and Melt, the first in a new series, the Lotus Detective Agency.

A short story “Swan Song” was one of 21 selected for publication in Cold Canadian Crime. It was shortlisted for an Award of Excellence. Other short stories have been published in numerous anthologies and magazines. donalee’s short story “Troubled Water” was shortlisted for a 2024 Derringer Award and a 2024 Award of Excellence from the Crime Writers of Canada. 

donalee is an award-winning freelance journalist. She has written articles for print and online publications across North America including The Globe and Mail, Chatelaine, Lawyer’s Daily, National Post, and Canadian Business.

As well, donalee is the author of The Thong Principle: Saying What You Mean and Meaning What You Say and co-authored the book, Celebrity Court Cases: Trials of the Rich and Famous.

 

Title: Conflagration!

Synopsis:

Conflagration!

On a warm spring day in April 1734, a fire raged through the merchants’ quarter in Montréal. When the flames finally died, 46 buildings – including the Hôtel-Dieu convent and hospital – had been destroyed. Within hours, rumors ran rampant that Marie-Joseph Angélique, an enslaved Black woman fighting for her freedom, had started the fire with her white lover. Less than a day later, Angélique sat in prison, her lover nowhere to be found. Though she denied the charges, witnesses claimed Angélique was the arsonist even though no one saw her set the fire.

In an era when lawyers are banned from practicing in New France, Angélique is on her own. Philippe Archambeau, a court clerk assigned specifically to document her case, believes Angelique might just be telling the truth. Or not. A reticent servant, a boisterous jailer, and three fire-scorched shingles prove indispensable in his quest to uncover what really happened.

Angélique’s time is running out as Archambeau searches for answers. Will the determined court clerk discover what really happened the night Montreal burned to the ground before it’s too late?

 

The Story Behind the Story:

This book was a gift from my publisher, BWL Publishing, which has a series of historical mysteries set in each province and territory in Canada. My publisher unexpectedly lost her Quebec writer and asked if I could step in. I couldn’t wait.

Conflagration!, a historical mystery that follows the trial of an enslaved Black women accused of arson in Montreal in 1734, is founded in real-life events but wrapped in a mystery of my own making. The level of detail in court transcripts and the timelines set by the trial process meant I had a detailed blueprint for the book before I even began.

Website: Please go HERE.

A  couple of questions before you go donnalee:

Scribbler: Where is your favourite spot to write?

donalee: There is no special place for me when it comes to writing. Whenever I have a chance to engage with words, that is the most special of all places. I am not a marathon writer. I am a sprinter. I can’t sit and write for hours at a time. I break up my writing by taking a yoga class, soaking up some sunshine, checking email, doing some paid work. I do try to write 1,000 fictional words a day. Some days I achieve this. We don’t need to talk about the other days.

Scribbler: Are you messy or neat?

donalee: I find myself in the midst of clutter dreaming about sparse, well-organized places.

Scribbler: Your beverage of choice?

donalee: A smoothie with avocado, fruit, yogurt, protein and chocolate.

An Excerpt from Conflagration!

Conflagration! follows the arrest, trial, and execution of Marie-Joseph Angélique, an enslaved black woman accused of burning down Montréal’s merchant quarter more than 250 years ago. Here’s where it all started.

***

The soldiers are beating a warning on drums that can be heard throughout the streets. Soon troops are running through town with buckets, ladders, shovels. The town crier can be heard in the distance. He says only one word, over and over and over.

Fire.

My boots are on, and I am heading out the door. It is the law. All able-bodied men must report to the scene of the conflagration to assist. I take a cloth to wrap around my mouth. The smoke is starting to fill the streets, and it will be intense the closer I get to the blaze.

I turn to kiss Madeleine goodbye. She has a shawl on. “Where are you going?”

“With you.”

“Absolutely not. You can’t fight a fire.”

“But I can help those in distress.” With that my wife and my unborn child are out the door and heading down rue Saint-Antoine. I look at her retreating back, proud and perturbed.

We follow the crowd, the drums, and the voice of the town crier to rue Saint-Paul. The street is in flames. The de Béréy house is consumed. It was only yesterday I stood inside that home, admired its design and its furniture, spoke with its owner.

We form a brigade; bucket after bucket after bucket of water is passed and poured on houses that line both sides of the street. To no avail.

In less than three hours it is over. The fire has won. More than forty homes are gone. Gone. Reduced to black ash, burnt stubs of wood, and tar, from the water that was tossed everywhere in a futile attempt to squelch the flames.

Also burnt to the ground – again – is the Hôtel-Dieu de Montréal. The sisters who run this convent and hospital are outside helping those who have sought refuge. A few buildings remain to offer sanctuary including a private courtyard, a small chapel, and a garden. People gather here, at what is often considered to be the heartbeat of Montréal. Mercifully, no one is seriously hurt. No one has died. But families are without homes, their servants and slaves displaced. Businesses destroyed. I see the Panis slave from the de Béréy house and the servant girl who answered the door. They are drinking tea; others are drinking sweetened brandy. They all look past me.

Neighbors and nuns are handing out blankets and offering comfort. Fortunately, the night is mild, wrapped now in a layer of damp smoke. I look from across the street at the human remnants of the fire, at the sisters who scurry to lend aid, at the neighbor woman who holds a child while its mother consoles another. I lock eyes with the neighbor woman through the heavy haze. I know those eyes.

Madeleine.

* * *

We start to make our way home slowly. Our bodies are heavy; our hearts carry the same load. I have never experienced a fire like this. We have been warned, of course, but those warnings pale in comparison to the reality. There is solace only in knowing that we did all we could as a community. I wonder, somewhere in the recesses of my mind, if we did all we legally could have done. But that is a question for another time. Now is the time to mourn what has been lost.

I hold Madeleine’s hand. We are about to leave rue Saint-Paul behind us when we hear banging of the drums. François Roy, the town crier, has an announcement. It is perhaps more devastating than the debris and ash that surrounds us.

Marie-Joseph Angélique, Black slave of Thérèse de Couagne de Francheville, set the town of Montréal on fire.

Before there is time to think, to absorb this news, a man in the hospital courtyard turns to the slave woman at the centre of the firestorm. He, too, accuses her of setting the fire, insists everyone knows this. I see people nod their heads. I anticipate their will be trouble.

There isn’t. Marie-Jospeh Angélique confronts her accuser. There is no vacant stare, no deference here. No one, she says, would be so stupid as to light their own home on fire.

There is merit in the argument. I wonder if it is an argument that would win out in a court of law. I will soon find out.

Thank you for being our guest this week, donalee. We wish you continued success with your writing.

And a GIGANTIC THANK YOU to all our visitors and readers

The Story Behind the Story by Author/Poet Armand Ruffo of Ontario, Canada.

 Let’s welcome Armand to the Scribbler.

Armand is represented by River Street Writing and the second in a series of visits from their distinguished authors.

Thank you to Hollay Ghadrey of River Street for introducing us.

I’m sure you will enjoy learning about Armand and his writing.

Read on my friends.

 

 

Armand Garnet Ruffo was born and raised in remote northern Ontario and is a band member of the Chapleau Fox Lake Cree First Nation in northern Ontario. He is the author of some dozen books of prose and poetry, ranging from writing Norval Morrisseau: Man Changing Into Thunderbird (2014) and Treaty# (2019), both finalist for the Governor General’s Literary Award, to editing An Anthology of Indigenous Literature in English: Voices from Canada for Oxford U Press.  A recipient of an Honourary Life Membership Award from the League of Canadian Poets, and the Writers’ Trust of Canada Latner Poetry Prize, he is recognized as a major contributor to both contemporary Indigenous literature and Indigenous literary scholarship in Canada. His most recent book is The Dialogues: the Song of Francis Pegahmagabow, winner of the 2024 VMI Betsy Warland “Between Genres” Award.  He currently lives in Kingston and teaches Indigenous literature and creative writing at Queen’s University.

 

 

Title: The Dialogues: the Song of Francis Pegahmagabow

 

Synopsis: 

  A poetic narrative (which makes up the libretto for the musical version) about the life of the renowned WWI Ojibwe sniper Francis Pegahmagabow with textual interventions that address the narrative and the reader, raising questions about human-kind’s drive to make war on each other and the very planet that sustains. Moving in multiple directions, The Dialogues employs historical documents, philosophical queries, questions of translation, opera scores, graphic design… each resonating their own kind of poetry, while laying bare the struggle to reach through the past and into truth.

The Story Behind the Story:

The original libretto ­– titled “Sounding Thunder: the song of Francis Pegahmagabow” – was commission by the Festival of Sound in Parry Sound to mark their 35^th anniversary.  Because the production was received with standing ovations (It will be performed in Vancouver at The Chan Centre in early February 2025.), I was asked by audience members during the Q&As if I would consider publishing it.  I thought about it, but because it was not written for the page I had to figure out a way to do it.  Then one morning I awoke knowing what to do.  My subconscious had figured it out.  And so I created a dialogue by stretching out the libretto – the poetic-narrative –on the left-hand side of book and adding new material on the right-hand side, creating what I might call inventions. In a sense, then, the two sides of the book talk to each other resulting in a dialogue which in turn creates a conversation with the reader.  In short, whatever Francis’ story touches on, be it war, politics, spirituality, the environment, residential schools, etc., is opened up on the right-hand side of the page.  By this I mean that elements of the narrative are potentially reframed, expanded, developed, and, in turn, they address and implicate the reader. I hope this is making sense, or at least arousing curiosity.

Website: Please go HERE.

A question before you go, Armand:

Scribbler: Where is your favourite spot to write? Are you messy or neat? Your beverage of choice?

Armand: In the winter I do most of my writing in my home office. It’s cramped and cluttered with books everywhere, filing cabinet overflowing, pictures askew, paddles and bags propped in a corner, but it has a nice big window, and it’s comfortable. In the summer I used to work in a cabin near Haliburton, but the property next door was flipped a few years ago by real estate investors and nearly all the trees were cut down to build a monster cottage. (I mention this in The Dialogues.) For obvious reasons I don’t go there anymore. I now go to a cabin just north of Kingston. In the fall I often head up to remote northern Ontario to visit my family, but I never get much writing done. Too busy visiting and playing!


An Excerpt from The Dialogues: the Song of Francis Pegahmagabow (Wolsak & Wynn, 2024) 

 

SCENE ONE – SETTING THE SCENE -- HEREIN THE NARRATOR MAKES HIS APPEARANCE                    

AND IN A STEADY VOICE INTRODUCES FRANCIS PEGAHMAGABOW 

PICTURE HIM, male, 25, Anishnaabe-Ojibwe

compact, sturdy, brave,

self-reliant, defiant.

 

He steps out of the shadows

and stands quietly

in a distant corner of the trench. 

 

In his left hand he holds a pinch of tobacco

that he raises up

to beseech Gitchi-Manido,

The Great Mystery.

 

He prays aloud so that the Creator

might hear him

and take pity on him and the company. 

 

He begins by honouring the four directions.                                                           

                                                          XXX

 

                                                                            keeper

                                      Wabenokkwe, master of the east.

 

                                                                     keeper

                                                     Shauwanigizik, ruler of the south.

 

                                                                              keeper

                                                     Nanabush, guardian of the west.

 

                                                                        keeper

                                                      Giyuedin, spirit of the north

 

 

Translations can never be exact. In her novel Fugitive Pieces, a book mired in war,

Ann Michaels writes that translating poetry is like kissing a woman through a veil.

You never quite get it.  She refers to the difficulty of translating Greek poetry. What about Anishinaabemowin?  Linguists consider it one of the most complex languages on the planet.

Six Thousand verb forms.  A reflection of a peoples’ reality.

The Dialogues: Winner of the VMI Betsy Warland “Between Genres” Award.

Read about it HERE.

Thank you for being our guest this week, Armand. We wish you continued success with your writing.

 
And another HUGE thank you to all our visitors and readers.

Don’t be shy, tell us what’s on your mind.