Here is where you can catch me sharing poems and signing books this month:

Saturday April 6th ONLINE at noon Mountain Time–a Zoom reading sponsored by Freefall Magazine and LCP for National Poetry Month. Click on “Zoom reading” and it should take you to registration.

After that, it’ll be in person!

Monday April 15, Art Bar Poetry Series, 320 College St, Toronto ON, 7 pm.

Wed. April 17, Perfect Books, Ottawa, ON, a conversation and reading with Anita Lahey, 7 pm. “Love Letters and Laments.”

Sunday, April 21, feature reader at Accent Open Mic, Montreal QC, 5043 St Denis. 8 pm.

Monday, April 29, Book Launch at Off the Tracks, Granville Island, Vancouver BC with Miranda Pearson, Eve Joseph and Geoff Inverarity. 6:30 pm.

Wed. May 1, Munro’s Books, Victoria BC. Local Book Launch! Alongside poet Miranda Pearson. 7pm.

Hope to see you at one of these events, and if not, Whiny Baby is available for purchase or order wherever you buy your books, or via ordering through my publisher, McGill-Queen’s University Press. Click on their name to go directly to the site. As an added bonus, they’re celebrating National Poetry Month by offering 30% off all poetry titles!

All the best, Julie

Here are a few blurbs that will appear on its cover. I’m so grateful to the writers who took the time to offer these early reviews.

“Whiny Baby is garden and grit, wit and compassion. Julie Paul is unafraid to name what visits us as writers and as humans in the world: longing and grief, lust and greed and hunger, and moments of a rich and clarifying light. Framed through humour and wry self-implication, these are poems of great generosity that speak the world in all of its fraught complexity – the wild thrash of its radiant heart.” Jenna Butler.

“Whiny Baby’s perceptive heart spots a spelling mistake or a blue jay from a hundred feet away. The speaker in these poems is Cohen’s pretty woman in the darkened door, crying ‘why not ask for more.’ Her candour, her caramel syllables, keep me reading! More priest than queen, she listens to grass, floats dead man, is a reason to stay together. Whiny Baby is a self-aware witness in which feeling is the ground, the scars, the hope-soaked prayer between the lines.” Cornelia Hoogland

“Is it ‘smoke, pollen, the lack of self-restraint’ that has me tearing up as I dive, whole body, into the poems in Whiny Baby? Yes, but also it is the incredible female voice here, the deeply emotionally connected woman living and being in the world. It is middle age, childhood, and motherhood. It is the mother who irons her young adult son’s shirts to be close, it is the ‘chair that was never guaranteed to still be there / when the music stopped,’ and it is that ‘no one cooks for you’ once a beloved Nana is gone. It is the big questions and the small moments that nearly answer them. These poems recalibrate, they check in.” Yvonne Blomer

“Julie Paul’s poems are suffused with daily light, with wit and humour, and with the unexpected gift of grace. ‘I am here to offer company,’ she writes, “… a gesture of love on a sunny morning.” Her company is the best kind, funny and wise. I love her careful craft, her supple lines that follow one another as naturally as water in a stream, riffling over rocks, and the deeply attentive care she pays to the world around her, at her feet, in the sky and in branches of the trees shading her walks. Read these poems for their beauty, their surprising turns of phrase, their emotional depth, and for the space they hold for all of us within this generous book.” Theresa Kishkan

“Trust me, Whiny Baby is a song you want to hear on repeat. These poems demonstrate Julie Paul’s range; her voice is by turns tender, lyrically buoyant, clever, funny, and wryly self-aware. Some of these poems are as distilled as the best of Kay Ryan and some are abundant, lushly playful, offering the sort of wisdom and solace encountered in Mary Oliver’s work. In being attentive to ‘what humans do,’ Julie Paul’s poems illuminate ‘the struggle to love as best as possible what’s right in front of you.’ No small gift.” Susan Elmslie

I think a lot of us are feeling grounded these days, in so many ways. My daughter lives in Montreal, and it’s about to begin another stage of lockdown—a curfew from 8 p.m. to 5 a.m.. Not that there’s much to do anyway beyond her own four walls, but it still feels like another layer of freedom gone. Even here, in B.C., our bubbles are immediate households only, which feels restrictive, and it must feel even harder for those living alone. Sometimes FaceTime is not enough.

Yesterday, in the forest, it was so good to see other people and their dogs, from a safe distance, out in the post-rain morning, and also to walk long stretches alone. When I hike alone, I can stop whenever I want, take in more of my surroundings, snap pics, feel moss, and practice one simple thing I do when I come across a bridge or a gate made from two trees: I mentally leave the past behind.

It doesn’t have to be a conscious list of things or memories, but more of a general feeling that I’m leaving something behind me that I no longer need. (Like 2020 in general?!)

Afterwards, a lightness follows, almost like the lift-off. It feels like a micro-vacation. Put your hand up if you need one of those right about now.

I’m grateful for the woods nearby—its own mini escape room that I’m in no hurry to leave—and all the gates and bridges and chances to feel a little lighter.

*

For the writers in the room:

I’ve just begun teaching the first month of The Creative Six-Pack, and I’m excited to get back into facilitating these offerings for writers at all stages of the journey. This first month is all about writing practice, so students are working hard on short daily exercises, meant to kick-start the whole writing process. There are spaces still available for this month and the whole 6 months, if you’re interested! Just drop me a line.

Later this month, I’m also going to be a part of my friend and writing partner’s amazing new offering: Traci Skuce has brought together 20+ writers, creatives, editors, and publishers for a complimentary masterclass series that will serve fiction and memoir writers who want to write and finish their books. Whether you’re just getting started, feeling stuck on a project, searching for new ideas, struggling with time management, or nearing the finish and wondering what’s next, this summit just might have something for you. And, it’s totally free. You can sign up here:

Stay well out there.

J

It feels like the first dirt I’ve ever felt, the best colour to mark my lifelines, the right thing to celebrate. Nine months into this pandemic, my face craves the rain and my palm, when it hits the ground to break my slide down a wet, woodsy slope, stings with pleasure. Finally, something other than goopy medicine meant to kill everything it touches. When I stop to catch the view, my blood sings with thanks and the mud tightens and dries on my hand; as if it’s a first kiss, I promise not to wash it off.

But soon, I am down at lake level, and the jade expanse beckons me and my hands, and we go. The water isn’t December cold; if the sun was more consistent today I might even wade in. I have friends who ocean swim all winter, and swear by it, but I am too much in love with summer, with that kind of pleasure, the easy kind. I carry on, along muddy trails, find roots and rocks to keep me from sinking.

Am I sinking? No more than anyone, less than most. I miss my people, I miss my rituals, I miss an easy world. But I have had it good, so good, all in all, and a temporary blip like this won’t get me. My three-years cancer-free date has come and gone with little fanfare, other than a private celebration.

I take photos of strange stalagmite-like fungi, of moss paths, interlacing as they grow skyward, of rain circles on the lake’s surface, of a tree decorated with ornaments and photos of dearly departed dogs. I pick up a fallen Fir bough, intending to take it for a wreath, smell dog piss on it and find another, resting where the pee can’t reach. I cover my boughs with my jacket and walk back to the car in case the wrong, official eyes happen to see.

This is the most reckless thing I’ve done in months. It feels amazing. 

The Creative Six-Pack

What is it?

A series of low-stress, fun and generative writing courses delivered monthly, to help focus, support, and/or kick-start your writing practice.

When?

Beginning January 4^th, 2021, it will run for six consecutive months.  

What does it include?

JAN: Habit-forming: a gentle nudge toward making space for your creative work. Food for thought and action, a daily prompt to build your writing practice and habit.

FEB: The Instant Short Story: a multi-layered approach to creating a complete story.

MARCH: The Real Deal: exploring creative nonfiction, as only you can tell it.

APRIL: The Poetic Nudge: prompts and gentle pushes toward writing poetry or more lyrical prose.

MAY: Switching Genres: the same material in multiple genres.

JUNE: Revision. Plus a variety of nutrients to satisfy your body of writing.

Who is this series of classes meant for?

Maybe you’ve wanted to try your hand at writing but don’t know where to begin, especially now, when in-person classes are not happening. Or you’ve written for years, and are stuck. Or you’d just like to shake up your current writing practice, or try a new genre, or distract yourself from the strangeness of our world situation. Or you can’t go to the gym, but you still want a six-pack! Okay, well, this series of workshops may not deliver on the elusive rippled abdomen, but it will offer you exercises to strengthen your writing.

These classes will not be delivered in a synchronous manner. In other words, they won’t be live, or via Zoom or any other live chat format. There are many amazing classes out there if this is how you’d like to learn, but these are not the ones. I’ve got Zoom fatigue, and many of you might have this, too, so I’m going to save my limited Zoom budget for things that can’t be accessed by any other means.

There will be short videos as part of each module, as a way of delivering material, but the whole curriculum will be offered in a self-paced way, within a set time (the month it’s scheduled). Each module will be available for one month, before the next one is offered.

What kind of commitment will this take?

As with many things, you get what you give… but in general, they are meant to be completed with no more than four hours of total writing time, with the exception of the first month, when you’ll be aiming to write daily for a short amount of time (5 days a week).

Who is this Julie Paul, offering the series?

(See more info elsewhere on my site about my publications, etc.)

I write in a few different genres, and have taught many classes, courses, and workshops, both privately and via The Victoria School of Writing, Camosun College, Royal Roads University, Metchosin International Summer School of the Arts, public libraries, etcetera. I love to help new writers find their writing path, and to encourage everyone to try their hand at other forms and styles of writing.

How does this differ from my real-time classes?

Ahh, real time. Remember when we could gather, share a plate of cookies and a pot of tea and read aloud to one another? That’s how I structured my classes: write, read aloud the fresh work, praise it, then move on. While this can feel daunting at first, it’s a fabulous process, because it’s a way to honour the work and then leave it behind before you’re on to the next assignment.

This won’t be a part of this series of classes, given its delivery format. BUT, if you are so inclined to sign up with a friend, or pair up with a student in the class to exchange work, I highly encourage this. And the good part is, they can be anywhere in the world :).

I would love to “meet” you, in real time, so I am offering the option to Facetime with you at any pre-arranged point during the course, to answer questions and just chat about the class. As well, there will be opportunities to share your work with me.

There is a shape and flow to the whole series, beginning with a generative month of near-daily writing, then moving on to more specific topics, to culminate with a month focused on revision.

As the full, official Creative Six-Pack, you can access all of the modules for $200 CAD (plus GST)—the best value! Alternatively, you can select individual modules and take part when that topic’s month begins, and it’s $40 per class. (I do have to charge the old GST, so totals will be $210 / $42, and fees can be paid via e-transfer).

For more info, and to register, please feel free to email me at myjuliepaul@gmail.com

Thanks for your interest!

The daily writing word given to me yesterday by my writing friend Marti, was “pine,” and I spent the day rolling that around in my head.

What does it mean, to pine for something? The ache of longing, the emptiness of a missing puzzle piece—except the whole picture is a day, a year, a life. To want love, to want to love, to yearn for understanding or Nana’s butterscotch fudge.

I don’t do puzzles, because to me they seem both far too daunting, and also (forgive me, puzzlers) kind of pointless. Where do I begin, and how impossible it seems to have a thousand tiny shapes become one! And why, I ask myself, spend all that time putting it together, when the complete image is already right there, on the front of the box?

I write not knowing where I’m going, and I think I largely live this way, too. Leaping before looking, with minimal scaffolding or planning. But plans have also served me well once I decide on a direction. Like Jean-Luc Picard on Star Trek, I have pointed my finger and said his catch phrase: Make it so. And more often than not, I’ve made my way in the direction I’ve pointed, albeit with a detour or two.

And now, six months into the pandemic? I pine for plans, I ache to make anything happen beyond the daily grind. I feed the sourdough starter, I fill the hummingbird feeder, I carry the indoor cats outside to let them feel the wider world, watch as they turn their little faces toward the sun, the breeze, the chatter of chickadees. All of those detailed plans for our journey through Italy and France are ghost memories, forever dead, because even if we make it there in the future, and I fully intend to try, it will be a different trip.

Today, while driving to the dentist, I stopped at a red light and looked at the street sign above the crosswalk: Pine Street. Below it, eleven toddlers in bright yellow pinnies held hands, a chain of children with three bigger links to keep it strong. This is what I’ve been pining for: normalcy. Kids being kids, outside, living as if they had never worried about anything to do with Covid at all. Getting back to my daily writing, because that’s what feeds me.

I pine for a world I didn’t know I would miss as much as a loved one, as much as a species, vanished. Some days the current world feels like a world without birdsong. At the beginning, it was worse, and the sound of children playing now, back in the schoolyards, walking with their play groups, delights me more than it ever has.

What do you pine for? It’s the end of September: the sun is strong, the bees are plentiful, I still have ripening tomatoes, and a friend dropped off these beautiful, juicy apples. For today, this has to be enough.

Thank you for following along and I hope the words have been of useful. You will still receive blog updates but they won’t be so often :).