Saturday 14 September 2024

The Story Behind the Story with Author/Poet Michelle McLean of New Brunswick Canada.

 

Michelle is back and we couldn’t be happier.

 


She is sharing the SBTS of her new poetry collection, a touching personal journey.

She has been a welcome guest before and if you missed it, please go HERE.

Read on my friends.

 


Michelle McLean is a poet, clinical social worker and addictions counsellor, animal and nature lover, and collector of treasure in all forms. Her poetry has found homes in Quills, elm & ampersand, Ascent Aspirations, Other Voices, Peacock Journal, Understorey, and others. Her collection of children’s poetry, When Pigs Fly and Other Poems, was published in 2020 by Chapel Street Editions. Her eldest daughter, Sophie Arseneau, is the illustrator and her youngest daughter, Lily Arseneau, is a contributing illustrator. Michelle and her family live in the small village of Bath, New Brunswick.

Title:  Tesserae



Synopsis:

Tesserae is a poetry collection that traces the journey of trauma, grief, addiction and recovery.  It explores both what is shattered, and the various ways we seek to rebuild.  The term “tesserae” refers to small pieces of stone, glass, tile or any other material used in the creation of a mosaic.  The mosaic is our lives, which can be so messy, painful and sharp, but somehow still beautiful.  That’s what I’ve learned and continue to learn.  We can sometimes find ourselves utterly broken by the things that happen to us.  We also have the power, artistry and resilience to rebuild and make something new. 


 


The Story Behind the Story: 

Ernest Hemingway once said, “write hard and clear about what hurts”.  I believe that’s what I did in this book.  I wrote these poems for myself, for my own healing.  From the time I was a young child, I felt compelled to write about my experiences in order to better understand them and poetry has always provided a safe space for me to maneuver large, loud and often complicated, messy feelings in a way that simultaneously provided a sense of freedom and containment.  While intensely personal material, I opted to pursue publication because…well, there’s just something special about seeing my words in print and holding a published volume in my hands, something I created. 

This collection is heavy content.  I’ve described it as “equal parts scream and lullaby”.  I was twelve years old when my sister Tracey was killed in a horrific accident.  She was fifteen.  This utterly shattered our family.  The loss of a child is the worst loss imaginable.  It’s unfathomable (thankfully) to many of us.  Where is there space for the grief of sibling loss within this magnitude of tragedy?  I certainly didn’t know as a child and didn’t even know where to begin to look or even how to ask.  I didn’t even know the question.  I was adrift in a sea of suffering that I couldn’t identify, describe, or even begin to navigate.  I was drowning.  To borrow a line from the band Larkin Poe, “the river runs deep and the deep stays down”.  My deep stayed down.  Until it didn’t.  It was decades later when my first therapist named “trauma” as a significant factor in my recovery.  I remember being strangely defensive and hostile with her about that.  My parents had trauma.  Not me.  I couldn’t (at that point) acknowledge the magnitude of impact that my sister’s death had in my own life and development.   In my mind, my parents’ suffering was the only pain that mattered.  I couldn’t seem to make space for my own. I didn’t know how.  For many years, poetry was the only space where I let some of these feelings roam and find healthy expression.

My sister was a truly exceptional person and the impact of her loss is now woven into the very fabric of who we are.  I don’t believe you “get over” grief, but it is possible to move forward with it and learn how to carry it differently over time.  These poems were written over the course of many years.  I’m very happy to say I’m no longer in that dark place.  The collection itself is organized into three sections but certainly not meant to imply any kind of neat and tidy “completion” – I’m a work in progress, just like everyone else. 



So those are my personal reasons for writing and publishing this book.  That said, it is also my sincere hope that sharing these poems will play some small part in breaking down the stigma that folks with addictions and mental health issues continue to face.  I think we’ve come a long way when it comes to stigma, but we have a long way to go – particularly for those suffering from substance use disorder.  Stigma kills.  There’s simply no other way to say it.  Stigma is one of the biggest barriers to treatment and recovery for substance use disorders according to the Canadian Centre on Substance Use and Addiction (and my own anecdotal experience, both personally and professionally).   We need to fight stigma.  It’s a matter of life and death for too many people.

Early intervention is key.  I believe it’s critically important to model this for our youth.  For everyone.   I’ve often wondered how much suffering could have been mitigated for me had I received mental health care as a youth who felt so lost and alone in what I was going through.  Unfortunately, that was not the culture of the time – in my family, community, or in society more generally.  The layers of unhelpful coping and defenses I developed over the years as a result of muddling through on my own made it that much more difficult than it needed to be to fully engage in healing.  That said, I can’t emphasize enough that it’s never too late.

Gabor Mate talks about trauma as the gateway to addiction.  I think that is the case for many.  He encourages bringing an attitude of “compassionate curiosity” to our experiences.  I love that.   I think that if we, as a society, bring more of this “compassionate curiosity” to complex struggles and problems that people face, we would have more helpful outcomes.  Addiction is a problem – we all clearly know this.  What many don’t appreciate or understand is that substance use issues and behavioral addictions were also attempts at “solutions” for many of us when healthy solutions were scarce or absent altogether.  

We need to change the narrative to reflect the truth – that it is smart, strong and brave to seek help when needed.  Not weakness. Attending to our mental health should be as routine and accepted as seeing our doctors, our dentists, our hairdressers.  There should be no shame attached.  No stigma.  Stigma has devastating impacts for individuals, families and communities. It keeps people isolated and alone when they need support and community the most.  We are all on a continuum of wellness and illness, many finding ourselves at different points on that spectrum throughout our lives.  To borrow the words of Greg Boyle, there is no “us” and “them”.  There is only “us”.  







Website: Go HERE.



A question before you go, Michelle:



Scribbler: What is the ideal spot for you when you write? Music in the background or quiet. Coffee or tequila? Messy or neat?


Michelle: My ideal spot for writing still lives in fantasyland at this point – my “someday” waterfront home, perhaps sitting on my covered porch (with intermittent breaks spent rocking in my porch swing), overlooking the gardens and lake/river/ocean, a generous cup of very strong coffee within easy reach.

For now, I generally squirrel myself away in my bedroom to write. While I typically need quiet and privacy to focus when I hunker down for writing, I’m often inspired when listening to music and compiling my multitudes of playlists and tend to generate a lot of thoughts, connections and ideas that way. Sometimes inspiration comes in the stillness, other times in the chaos. The writing itself is generally a very quiet and solitary thing for me. While I prefer a well-organized writing (and living) space, this is not always my reality. More often there are papers strewn all over my bed as I hunch over my laptop in postures that would likely make most physiotherapists and chiropractors collectively cringe.


3 poems from Tesserae



Thursday’s Child                                            

 

I still remember the costumes                           

you were eight, I was five 


A wee Lucifer, shoulder-hunched                               

and anvil heavy, watching you twirl

resplendent in a gown of golden satin

recycled from a wedding

  

Glittered, star-topped wand

like Glinda, the good witch 

My crimson cape (perfect for

dramatic entrances)

was custom-made  

I tried to feel grateful

resisting the urge to poke you

with my plywood pitchfork

hot tears behind my beastly

plastic mask

 

No more pictures now                       

and it’s taken me years to find

some sympathy

for this little devil 

to recognize that sometimes

it’s the monster

needing rescue


 not the princess





In Medias Res

 

You dropped my name and it broke

on the floor

 

trying to make sense

of this ragged, shattered scene

 

all the spaces in between with your

fingerprints wiped clean 

                 

 Sharp edges of my pain                              

warn, handle with care

thin skin

beware 


 I will not throw away

this tesserae 

I’ve never been one for waste

(though I like things

properly spaced)

                   

I’ve been long collecting

for this mosaic

pulling in, sifting out

 

 Still arranging


 no plans, as yet

to grout  

 

 

 Watermarks

 

There was a time I snail-carried sorrow

on my back

took all my travels

with that burden masquerading

as home

  

There were seasons I chased sorrow

down with drink

dissolving the throat lump of loss

with a hundred and one flavors

of oblivion

 

Sorrow once held me hostage

in the trunk of an old beater 

hogtied and ball-gagged

breathing through bullet holes

and trembling

with my heathen prayers

 

I made my scathed escape

shaking

off the Stockholm syndrome

 

easing my way back                                           

to the things I know

by heart

 




Thank you for sharing your poems and for being our guest this week, Michelle.

We wish you continued success with your writing.


And a HUGE thank you to our visitors and readers.

 Don’t be shy, leave a comment if you like.



Friday 6 September 2024

The Story Behind the Story with Author Nancy Cusack of N.B., Canada.

 

The Scribbler is most fortunate to have Nancy as our guest this week.



She has kindly agreed to share the SBTS of her new book with our readers. 

The story has received rave reviews and five star ratings.

Read on my friends.


 

Nancy Cusack is a licensed counselling therapist working in private practice in Saint John, New Brunswick, Canada. She has a Bachelor of Science degree from St. Francis Xavier University, a Bachelor of Education degree, and a Master of Education in Counselling Psychology degree from the University of New Brunswick. Nancy is a Certified Canadian Counsellor with the Canadian Counseling and Psychotherapy Association and licensed through the College of Counselling Therapist New Brunswick. Nancy is a certified EMDR therapist, and has been helping clients overcome PTSD, anxiety, and other mental health issues for almost 20 years. She resides in Rothesay, New Brunswick, with her husband Patrick. She has two grown children, Jack and Annie, and when not working or writing she can be found at her camp exploring the immense ATV trail system New Brunswick has to offer or working on a quilting project with her many cats offering their assistance.

 

 

Title: Yesteryear Meets Today

 


Synopsis:   Growing up on a farm in New Brunswick at the end of World War II, Ruby Cusack had a childhood filled with animals, chores, visits to the fishing hole and rebelling against hair bows and box socials. It was a different time, before social media, cell phones, and television. A time of community and small town life, where everyone knew each other. A time when people were born, raised, married and went on to have their own family all in the same small place.

It was also a time of storytelling, and Ruby Cusack was good at that, sharing stories of her childhood with her own children. Stories of what she called yesteryear, the magical time of her own childhood, growing up on the family homestead in Titusville.


Original photo taken by school teacher Florence Folkins. 1950.

Her daughter, Nancy Cusack has gathered together some of Ruby's stories, using them as examples as she shares her own expertise in mental health. Taking her cues from her mother, Cusack, a licensed counselling therapist with twenty years of experience, shares her knowledge with compassion and a touch of nostalgia.

Spend some time with Ruby and learn of shivarees and how they could help lay the foundation for a strong marriage. Learn about quilting bees and how they brought women together, what the once extinct eastern panther can teach you about how your brain works to keep you alive, and why it's human nature to seek revenge, even though it doesn't usually work out too well for anyone. Be reminded that darkness happens everywhere, that love takes many forms, and the comfort that can be found in community.

Read Ruby's story, learn from Nancy's wisdom, and be treated to a touch extra with Ruby's famous line, 'Oh, by the way...


Spend some time with Ruby in Yesteryear, and with Nancy today. You'll be glad you did.

 


 

The Story Behind the Story:   My mom, Ruby was a teacher, genealogist, writer and story teller.  She wrote a genealogy column for the telegraph journal for over 20 years.   At the beginning of each genealogy column would be a little story about her growing up in rural NB.  When she died in Feb 2022,  her stories of growing up in rural NB kept swirling around in my head.  One night while I’m about to fall asleep I hear my mother’s voice telling me to pair her stories with mental health issues that I am familiar with..  Get writing basically.  “ That story about Ralph Floyds house goes nicely with phobias”.  “ That story about the substitute teacher goes nicely with learning styles”,  “ Nancy, that story about the hard butter goes well with seasonal depression”.  In the coming days I reached out to the telegraph to pitch a continuation of moms column with a different twist. They said “No”,  so I had no other choice than to write a book!  MY goal was to finish it before my dad died.  Dad was very sick with dementia in a nursing home.  My dad and mom lived in the same small community and went to the same one room school house in Titusville. So Mom’s stories were really his stories too.  I dedicated the book to my Dad, and when I received my very first book on June 20th, 2024, it went to my Dad.  I would read to him every visit, and he would remember the stories!  Dad died Aug 8, 2024.

 



Website: Please go HERE.



A question before you go, Nancy:




Scribbler: What is the ideal spot for you when you write your stories? Music in the background or quiet. Coffee or tequila? Messy or neat?



Nancy: My ideal spot to write is at work, in my office with light music playing, and my colleagues chit chatting in their offices, and common areas. When Im at the office I do not worry about the laundry, the dishes, the dust, or letting the dog in, and then the cat out, then in again, and then out, then in. 


***Nancy was recently interviewed by the Saint John Telegraph Journal. Visit her website to learn more.



Congratulations on the great write-up. 

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



And thank you to our terrific Readers and Visitors.

Sunday 25 August 2024

Summer Paths. The wait is finally over!

 

This, the fourth and final selection of stories, completes the Seasonal Paths series created by a consortium of best-selling and award-winning North
Atlantic writers.



In this anthology you will encounter unintentioned consequences, love in later life, the pull of family dynamics, misguided assumptions and murderous soulmates.


These yarns will take you to new worlds, into a ghostly abyss, across an ocean in pursuit of truth and into the darkness of ancient beliefs.
Make yourself comfortable and surrender to these multi-styled tales, all linked by the theme of summer, within the covers of this book. You will be surprised
and entertained by what you find.

 

 

Clean Laundry by Sandra Bunting.

It only takes one. What happens if someone moves in and tries to change everything? A good thing? Or not?

 Meet Sandra HERE.

 


The Year of the Goat by Pierre C. Arseneault.

A pregnant Esmerelda has gone missing, and Gus must find her before something bad happens.

Meet Pierre HERE.



 

 

Family Ties by Chuck Bowie.

Lucas glanced at the handsome aviator glasses on his hotel room table. “I wonder where they came from.”

Meet Chuck HERE.

 

 

The Huntress by S. C. Eston.

An injured woman is found on the side of the road…

Meet S.C. HERE.

 

 

Alice by Angela Wren.

A ship, a missing passenger and a mystery.

Meet Angela HERE.



Fakes on a Plane by Gianetta Murray.

Flying can be dangerous. But maybe not for the reason you think.

Meet Gianetta HERE.



Foul Play by Eden Monroe.

Never underestimate the children.

Meet Eden HERE.


 

Into the Abyss by Allan Hudson

In moments of curiosity, perhaps there are some paths we are not meant to follow.

More about me HERE.

 

The Last Resort by Angella Cormier.

Everything Sienna Noori had dreamed about was coming true, until she settled in an idyllic mountain resort, where her nightmares forged a dangerous path.

Meet Angella HERE.


 



 This anthology is dedicated to running through meadows full of wildflowers, watching bees, hummingbirds and butterflies grace the air, to building sandcastles, and to lazing in a hammock with a good book. It is for cooling off in the sea or finding shade on a swing under an old tree. It is a hope that summer will continue to take us on adventures and lead us down intriguing paths.

S. Bunting

 

 


 

 

Collect the whole Series. Please go HERE.

 


Thank you for visiting the Scribbler.

Saturday 17 August 2024

The Story Behind the Story with Bea Waters of New Brunswick, Canada.

 

Say hello to Bea!



This week we have the pleasure of featuring Ms. Waters and she is going to share the good news of her debut novel.

Plus, she treats us (teases us?) to an excerpt of  Book Two in the series.


Read on my friends

 

 


Bea Waters has been writing stories since childhood. Back then it was her way to escape the bullies, but today she strives to provide an escape into adventure for all who need one, while fostering a sense of belonging and cooperation. Her favourite characters are the weirdos, those who have been downcast by the status quo, because the future is never created by the status quo. Her favourite themes centre around the secrets we keep and the quest to find our tribe, our community.

Project Human is Bea's first published novel, and the first in a series that fuses Ancient Mythology from around the world with the genres of Science Fiction and Fantasy.

 


Title: Project Human

 




Synopsis:

Olivia Carpenter hates her life. The kids at school bully her; even her dad treats her like a disease. When Olivia runs away, she doesn't expect to be beamed up by telepathic aliens and transported halfway across the galaxy, where she discovers a universe teeming with intelligent life - including twelve alien tribes who have engineered human DNA to suit their needs. Caught in the crosshairs of a galactic tug of war, she's sworn to secrecy about her "Terran" origins until an attempt on her life forces her to trust her new alien friends with her identity. Will Olivia be able to unravel the mystery of Project Human before she's permanently silenced?





The Story Behind the Story:

I’m insanely fascinated with cultures from around the world. In my studies, I began seeing repetition between cultures that I could not ignore. For example, the Mi’kmaq people of Atlantic Canada had a written language before colonizers arrived with English and French. Their alphabet of glyphs, written on birch bark, were recorded by a priest. Hundreds of years later, when the Rosetta Stone enabled the translation of hieroglyphs from Ancient Egypt, the glyphs and their meanings were almost identical to that of the Mi’kmaq people. Clearly, a cultural exchanged happened between these people, or they both had a common origin.

Also, when I learned about the Annunaki, the Creator-Gods of the ancient Sumerian people, they claimed that they were genetically engineered by the Annunaki to mine gold for them. (Some have discounted that translation, without offering a better one, so I digress..) Coupled with humanity’s obsession with amassing as much gold as we can, I began to wonder. This is the oldest human created record that we have, so it’s also likely the closest to the truth.

I set out on a mental journey to understand our hidden past, humanity’s true origin story. I created it as a tv series, meant for an adult audience. The pitch was good: Thirteen alien species are fighting to control planet Earth, because we are their science project...

I pitched Project Human at the Banff Media Festival to Matt Loze, VP of Development at Fox Studios. He loved the pitch, he loved the worlds I had built and how each one was connected to a different culture around the world. And he couldn’t sign my show without giving the power to someone else who would run this big budget behemoth and make it their own thing. He wanted this to be my thing. He gave me the nicest rejection I’ve ever gotten. He told me to look at The Walking Dead, at Game of Thrones, and write this as a series of books. He said that once I had the stories on paper and an audience behind it, people like him would be in a bidding war for Project Human.

I returned home and got to work, but I decided to write the entire story from the point of view of a teenager, because a teen is still open to new experiences, to the possibility of aliens. Having a teen protagonist allowed me to begin laying out my grand unifying origin story for the human race without the resistance that an adult protagonist would bring to this massive revelation. I wanted this to be a non-stop adventure, full of twists and surprises, anchored in the common connections we share as a global species.

I’m also on a mission to infuse my books with ancient knowledge about the world that has been lost or hidden. Book one begins with Olivia practising a grounding technique taught to her by her grandmother. This later feeds into the story, but it’s also meant to show readers how to do an actual grounding practice, if they want that in their lives.

I’m really proud of book one, and I am currently editing book two.


 

Website: Go HERE.


***I’m getting ready to start a newsletter called “Occulted World” which actually just means “Hidden World”. It will be all about things that have been hidden from us by those who hold power. So if any of what you’ve read is interesting, please go to my website and sign up today!

 

 

 

A question before you go, Bea:



Scribbler: What is the ideal spot for you when you write your stories? Music in the background or quiet. Coffee or tequila? Messy or neat?


Bea:

I write at my dining room table when the house is quiet. Often a mug of purified water sits at my side, but sometimes black coffee or peppermint tea sneak their way in. I don’t generally write with music, unless I’m really craving Chopin piano nocturnes recorded at 432Hz. My workspace is messy to the right of my daily organizer, but the rest of the table has to be clutter free. When the words don’t flow, I get up and pace around, talking to myself and answering in the voices of my characters to get things going. I could never do that in a coffee shop, which is why I always write in private. Now you know one of my secrets!

 

 

 

 

This is an excerpt from Book 2 of the Project Human series, Atlantis Rising. This book is still under construction, so this passage may have some grammar errors. Apologies if that is the case.



Retchen was correct about the rural nature of route 785. Beyond Lake Utopia, all traces of human civilization vanished. The paved road gave way to a wide path of compacted gravel, and soon, even the power lines stopped. Anyone living this far from town would have to be a survivalist. Retchen salivated. Tonight’s menu would be a challenge.

The red van pulled over next to a lone driveway that disappeared into a stretch of deep forest. Retchen locked up the van and leaned a tire pump against one of the back tires. If anyone actually passed his van on this desolate stretch of road, it would look like he’d had troubles and had gone for help. Nobody would suspect the van itself meant trouble.

He inhaled deeply, enjoying the early scents of rotting leaves and fungal decay that had begun to take hold. The warm weather had stretched fully into mid-September; the only real indication that summer was coming to a close were the vibrant colours overtaking the green of the maples, oaks, and birch trees. Thankfully, half of the leaves were still attached to their branches, providing a decent amount of cover. He crept through the woods as if he was the wind itself. Eight thousand years of practice had given him the ability to be practically imperceptible. Nobody would have sensed his approach at all, if it hadn’t been for a murder of crows that cawed loudly and flew away.

Why did the crows always have to make such a ruckus?

The squeal of rusty hinges followed the cacophony of the crows.

“Who’s there? I ain’t ‘specting no one. Show yourself before I unload this here shotgun at ya.”

Perfect. If he wasn’t expecting company, Retchen’s meal would be undisturbed. Retchen dropped to a crouch and leapt into the air, grabbing a branch high up in a white pine. He swung around the branch like a gymnast and landed on it with barely a crackle from the bark betraying his lookout.

From high up, Retchen could see the entire property, including a post with a husky dog on a chain and a well worn path all around. The poor beast had been confined to three metres of this yard for most of his life. He’d stopped caring about intruders long ago.

“Show yourself!”

With his shotgun snugged into his shoulder and his finger tapping on the trigger guard, the homesteader looked down the barrel to his left, then his right.

“I know you’re out there. I can smell your stench. Gutted one of your kind a few years back and I’m gon’ do it again.”

Retchen was used to a lot of things, but he was not used to being recognized by scent. He was even less prepared to hear that one of his siblings had fallen prey to its own dinner. He twitched, snapping a twig.

The gunman swung his shotgun up towards the trees and fired, spraying the pine with pellets. The aim was a bit low, but the upper radius of the spray still managed to pepper Retchen’s legs. Dozens upon dozens of pellets punctured his clothing, shattering the scales underneath. Small dots of violet soaked through the flimsy fabric of his cable guy outfit. He had to act quickly. He had precious few moments before a second shot would land, better aimed. Wincing, he lunged from the tree, aiming himself directly at this puny human who had somehow injured him.

The gunman saw him coming and jumped sideways, swinging his shotgun around, but the gun was too long, and Retchen was too fast. He snatched the barrel, his scaly palm unaffected by the scorching heat of the metal. He twisted the barrel sideways and snatched at the man’s throat, choking him up off the ground.

“What was it you were gon’ do?” Retchen mocked, as the man kicked and thrashed his free hand in mid air. Normally, Retchen would play with his prey for a while, savouring the moments as true fear settled in. But now that he was injured, he needed to repair his wounds quickly, before another problem popped out of the bushes.

He squeezed the man’s throat until the struggle ebbed out of him. The man thrashed for a good thirty seconds, gurgling to the dog who whimpered but refused to move. He’d been taught that his place was chained to the pole, and that’s where he planned to stay.

After a few minutes of struggle, the gunman stopped thrashing. Retchen lowered the bruised neck onto his razor sharp teeth and the flesh gave way, adrenaline-rich human blood gushing forth, like a balloon losing its air. He gulped it back, barely spilling a drop, having not eaten properly in weeks. He drank until the human was dry and when he was done, he unceremoniously dropped the body on the ground, nodded at the dog, and went inside the cabin.

 

 


 

Book two sounds as fascinating as the first, Bea.

We wish you continued success with your stories and thank you for being our guest this week.



And thank you to all our readers and visitors.