October flew by! I’ll get into the details in just a second. First, I wanted to say Happy Halloween! For me (and I’m assuming many of my readers here on Substack), Halloween/October is my favourite time of the year. Beautiful autumn leaves, cool weather, costumes, candy, and horror movies and stories. What’s not to love about the fall? October is also when Canadian Thanksgiving occurs. And this year, I’m thankful to all of you who are subscribed to my newsletter. It’s really cool knowing that folks like you are enjoying my writing and all the crazy ideas I decide to write down. Your readership makes a difference.

Now, there are a few new faces around, so you’re all probably wondering what the hell Abridged is. Well, Abridged is a monthly newsletter for paid subscribers that gives you a behind-the-scenes look at my writing life: works in progress, books, events, coffee, cats, and the occasional glimpse into my writing practice.

I hope you enjoy this month’s edition!

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Tucked away in the back room of Handmade Tattoo in Sherwood Park, Alberta, Wesley Pretty is hard at work setting up for our appointment. I’ve been seeing Wesley as my tattoo artist of choice for years now, and I love the quiet, personable, and methodical approach he brings to the artistry of tattooing. As a fan of his art, I’ve followed him closely as he’s grown and developed as a tattoo artist. I’m endlessly impressed by the wide range of styles he works in and his passion for the art form.

As he sets up, you can tell he’s performed this ritual countless times. Every step is efficient and deliberate. Before I know it, he’s donning his white nitrile gloves and herding me into position. With the two of us held captive by the delicate and painful work of tattooing, I take this as an opportunity to get to know Wesley Pretty better.

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I want to start by getting to know you as an artist. What drew you to tattooing?

I like the idea of being an artist who creates something that lives and breathes in the world. A tattoo isn’t tucked away in a bathroom or a hallway of someone’s house; it’s alive, and it dies. I also like that it’s a collaborative art form.

Tattooing also has its own distinct history. Sure, it’s lowbrow art, but it’s also the most dynamic and varied art form.

What keeps you coming back to tattooing day in and day out?

The clients, more than anything. The collaborative endeavour between artist and patron in tattooing is different than any other art form. Nothing is like it. I’m not just making art for them. I’m making art on them. Tattooing requires the patron to be present. It’s not like I’m away in a studio working on a portrait of their significant other, their pet, or something like that. They’re with me, through the good and the bad.

Do you think that client relationship and being able to be there with them through shitty moments and great achievements is also a part of the appeal?

Yes. But more so, there’s a struggle on both sides. I’m there for theirs, and they’re there for mine. I mean, in the design process, I’m alone, but the hard art form is the tattoo, not the design. I think it’s important to keep in mind that tattooing is a collaborative effort. And quite often, the collaborator is a non-artist.

Are you working on something specific right now? How is it going?

I’m doing more large-scale work now than I ever have in the past. I’m also dipping my toes into Japanese tattooing, which has an incredible learning curve. There’s so much to know, and depending on the type of Japanese tattoo you want to do, it can be a bit dogmatic. There are definitely some dos and don’ts and rules that can be bent but not broken.

Japanese tattooing is really blowing my hair back right now because it’s so challenging. I like learning new things, and there’s a lot to learn with Japanese tattooing, which is nice. I get bored if I’m not learning something new. It’s nice to have projects where you’re familiar with what you’re doing and very confident, but it doesn’t really spur growth. Unless you’re at least a little bit uncomfortable, you won’t grow.

Can you tell me what a typical creative day looks like for you?

I have two types of days: in-studio and out-of-studio.

When I’m out of the studio:

I wake up, drink coffee almost immediately, spend a little bit of time with my cat and then stare at my drawing table from across the room until I get the gumption to sit at it. Then it’s looking at reference, working on designs for current clients or for projects I want to do—designs that I put up for grabs. I like to have music, audiobooks, or movies on in the background. Then I usually start cooking around 3 or 4 pm for supper, and after eating, it’s either back to my drawing desk or spending quality time with my partner.

When I’m in the studio:

My day is the same. I get up and see off my significant other. I have a coffee or two. If I have any last-minute drawing to do, I’ll do it. I usually don’t draw at the last minute. I like to be prepared for my appointments at least 1-2 days in advance. But every once in a while, I’ll wake up the night before an appointment and have to start a piece from scratch because something will come to me, or I get a feeling about something and need to change it.

Once I’m out the door, I fight through traffic; I have a 40-minute commute. I’m usually at the shop by 9:30–10 am. Then I’ll clean my studio space, make sure it’s safe and ready for my client, and set up and prep my artwork. When my client comes in, we’ll chat about the design, then we stencil and start tattooing. Tattooing can take an hour, two, or six hours. Once the appointment is done and my client is bandaged and out the door, I clean up, get groceries from a locally run produce market (I’m vegetarian, so I like to get fresh vegetables multiple times a week, so there’s less waste), then head home and cook dinner. I do all the cooking.

If I were to say whether I have a hobby, cooking is definitely it. Drawing and art are not my hobby; it’s my livelihood.

Drawing and art are not my hobby; it’s my livelihood.

What part of the creative process do you enjoy most? Are there any parts that you struggle with?

Drawing. I love tattooing, but nothing is as satisfying to me as putting pencil on paper and the problem-solving that comes with putting designs together and bringing ideas to full development on paper.

Once upon a time, tattooing was so all-encompassing and challenging. Gaining experience and gaining the knowledge to tattoo things was once the most difficult part. Even though I’ve been drawing at a fairly high level since the ‘80s, drawing is still the most challenging, the most rewarding, all of those things.

Drawing is hard. I do everything by hand. I rarely use digital assistance like Procreate. But for the most part, everything I do is done with pencil and paper, and at size to fit my client. I’m not knocking other artists, but in my experience with my work, anything that’s done digitally doesn’t have the breath or energy that hand-drawn designs have. Something is lost in digital art.

Have you found that over time, recurring themes have emerged in your work or that you gravitate towards?

I tattoo what I’m hired to do. But the stuff I work on for myself is mostly organic: plants or animals.

I am also beginning to like and appreciate traditional subject matter in tattooing more and more. The tried and true designs, stuff that’s as old as modern tattooing or Western Japanese tattooing. I like that they’re all done slightly different. There’s variation on a theme, almost like the blues; there are all these old blues standards that have been redone and reinterpreted by so many different musicians. You become part of, not just the history, but a discourse that lives and breathes and changes and evolves with the art form. That’s a special thing to be a part of. It lends reverence to those who came before us.

Some people might think, “Oh, you’re copying an old design of another artist’s work.” To me, you’re actually reinterpreting it, and paying homage to it and keeping those things alive by tattooing them on new generations of people. I don’t think of it as flogging a dead horse or stealing. It’s a reinterpretation. The subtle, respectful evolution of these ideas is a really special thing to be a part of. It keeps the past alive.

What books, films, works, or artists have influenced you recently?

I’ve been looking at a lot of Japanese tattoos. I think the best way to learn is to look at the sources, at the tattoos that started traditional Japanese tattooing and the people who inspired those tattooers, like the artists and printmakers, the Ukiyo-e stuff. I like looking at the history and then reinterpreting the source material.

People like:

• Hokusai

• Hiroshige

• Kuniyoshi

What’s something that would surprise people about you?

Lots of people think I’ve been tattooing for a long time. I got a very, very late start at tattooing. I didn’t pick up a machine until I was almost 40 years old. Art has been a priority in my whole life. But tattooing, I didn’t start working in the medium until I was much older. So there was no screwing around. I couldn’t afford not to take this seriously from square one. I was about 41 when I started doing this full-time, and you know, at that stage of life, you have bills and responsibilities.

I had to work hard right from the very first moment I went full-time. Being able to do this on weekends while working all week wasn’t an option. Early on, I worked 100 days straight without a day off, and you can only keep that up for so long when you’re not 25. So I couldn’t just dip my toes into tattooing.

How’d you get started in tattooing?

Initially, I didn’t have aspirations to do professional tattooing. In 2020, I was in an emotional low period; my life was in an upheaval in my then-marriage, and even creatively as an artist. I actually, on a whim, started stick-and-poking myself, and I did some fairly nice tattoos. Then I went out and got a tattooing machine, looked for books by people who actually knew what they were doing, and I taught myself.

I was fortunate enough to be discovered by another tattoo artist who asked about my tattoos and invited me to come into the shop where he worked to get tattooed. After a while as a client, I got hired at that shop based on the tattoos I’d done on myself.

So I didn’t go the traditional tattoo apprenticeship route, and I’m not sure whether that worked out for me because of the depth I already had in the arts, or if I was just lucky. I try not to think about it too much. I wouldn’t recommend it as a way to learn tattooing. It’s a very complicated medium, and there’s a lot of safety involved. I practiced setting up and learned about cross-contamination and all sorts of things before I even started trying to tattoo myself with a machine.

It’s a blur when I think about it. Once I got into the shop, though, I was only self-taught for so long. I sponged everything up. I’ve always been able to learn by watching others, and seeing even the body mechanics of other tattoo artists helped me learn quickly. I was very lucky to work alongside some very talented artists from all walks of life, and lucky to be at that shop for the first 5 years of my career.

See more of Wesley's work

Thanks so much for tattooing me and sharing a coffee! One last question: if you could share a cup of coffee with anyone (living or dead), who would it be?

Hmm, this is tough. There are a lot of people I admire, but I don’t think I’d enjoy their company. Don’t meet your heroes, you know?

...William S. Burroughs.

Until next time…

Coffee Break is a new interview series full of conversations with writers, artists, and creative minds about creativity, craft, and the stories behind their work. Thank you for pulling up a chair and joining us. Until next time, may your coffee stay warm and your notebook stay full!

This time, I decide to skip breakfast in hopes of getting a little more rest. It works. And by 9:30 a.m., I’m reading to get my day started. After showering, I head down to the dining hall for some much-needed coffee.

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After some chit-chat, a coffee, and a quick snack, I get to work. I start my writing day off by filling a page in my journal and writing a post for Substack.

Somehow, time today moves faster. Before I can get my fingers on my keyboard, it’s already lunch. I eat my fill.

After lunch, I need some time to walk off my meal, so even though it’s windy as hell, I take a gander into the woods. The fresh air feels wonderful in my lungs—the gentle sounds of the woods are yet another soothing experience. I’ll miss this part especially.

Walk complete, I head back to my little room and get to work on my novel project. Distraction-free, I manage to finish a few chapters I had started previously, adding a little over 2,000 words to my first draft.

I started this novel project back in August, and already I’m nearing the halfway mark of my outline. I can’t wait to finish up the first draft so I can go back and make the story, setting, and horror even better. I know this project will take time, but man, am I excited to get that first draft across the finish line.

Some time around three, the wind and rain kick up, knocking out the power. It’s a bit shocking, suddenly writing in the dark, but these things do happen. Apparently, I learned later, the entire region lost power. Fortunately, just before dinner, we were reconnected again.

Dinner arrives, and we eat and cajole. There’s another open mic tonight following our meal. So I hang around in the dining hall, sharing updates on how my writing day went. Already, bottles of wine are being broken out.

It’s a little sad to think that tonight is our last night together, and tomorrow we will be going our separate ways.

I enjoy the open mic, even though I decide not to read. It’s such a pleasure getting to listen to writers read their own work. And what a variety of writing genres and styles we have tonight. Every time someone goes up to the mic, I don’t know what to expect. But I am surprised and delighted every time.

After the open mic, there’s no fire. It’s been too wet and too windy tonight for that. So we congregate inside and pull up chairs and chips. More wine is poured, and a joint makes its rounds. We laugh. We ask questions. We tell stories. We stay up late into the wee hours of the night. Eventually I make my departure, ready for a better sleep.

This weekend has been wonderful. I’ve made a serious dent in the writing projects I wanted to work on. And I’ve got to spend quality time with friends and my literary community. While I miss my own bed, my cat, and my husband, I’m so glad I was able to attend the writing retreat. And I’m so grateful for the people I got to share this weekend with.

Tomorrow is our last day together, and while I wish time would slow down just a touch, I’m so thankful for the time we had. What a joy. What fun times.

After breakfast, I’m determined to get straight to work. This weekend I’m working on two writing projects: a braided essay and a horror novel. I get my laptop and another coffee, then find a nice spot to sit and write in the conference room where workshops will be held later this weekend.

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I begin with the braided essay. But I quickly find that I’m in that phase of editing where I need to read my work out loud, a lot. And while the conference room is lovely and has some amazing views of the woods, there are other writers slowly piling in to get their own work done. So I pack my bag back up and set up a writing space in my small dorm-like room. For the next few hours, I revise, edit, cut, add, and reorganize this braided essay I’ve been picking away at for a few months. By the time lunch rolls around, I’m feeling good about the state of the essay.

At lunch, I sit and chat and laugh with folks, asking for updates on how their day is going and where they’re at with their writing. After lunch is a freefall writing session; it’s something to do with prompts, from what I understand, but I’m too wrapped up in the braided essay I’ve been working on even to consider attending. After lunch, I return to my room and my writing.

A few more hours pass, and finally my braided essay is in a place where I feel satisfied with it. It’s grown in word count and detail. It has a nice rhythm. I feel good about it. But I know there could still be more work to do to tweak it; I just need a little bit of time and space. Fresh eyes, you know?

Ready for a break, I gather my writing supplies and head outside. I leave my bag on the outdoor patio and decide that now, in the late afternoon, is the best time to take a walk in the woods.

There are barely any leaves left on the trees, but the woods are still thick with pines. The trails well maintained. I follow the path that leads me close to the creek running through the entire property. I love the sound of the running water. If it weren’t mid-October, I’d consider dipping a toe into the creek, like I did last year in late August. But the water is icy cold even in the summer heat, so I admire it instead.

By the time I return from my walk, our next cohort of writers is beginning to arrive. I say my hellos as I write in my journal, excited to see more familiar faces. A group of us gathers to gab, pulling up tables and chairs to get a little more comfortable. There’s a well-fed cat on the premises who makes his demands for pets known. I indulge him (an easy mark for kitties).

Before we know it, dinner is being served. We get our plates and sit outside; our conversations never quite stop; instead, they meander all over the place. Following dinner, there is an open mic. I signed up. So rather than ducking back into my room to write, as many others are doing, I hang out with my friends and chat.

I love open mics. I love the variety. The surprises. The risks. They’re such fun events. And here, after our first full day of writing, it’s very exciting to finally get to hear some of the work everyone has been plucking away at. When it’s my turn, I read the first 700 or so words of my essay. It feels good to read out loud to a small crowd.

As we listen to each other, the retreat staff get a fire going outside for us. And once the open mic concludes (with much applause), those of us staying up late make our way to the fire. Suddenly, there are snacks and wine everywhere. We pass bag after bag of chips in a clockwise rotation, telling stories and making jokes as the fire burns.

I start a game where I ask people for a story based on one of two prompts. We hear stories about childhood memories and fears, stories about incredible experiences in a crowd, and stories about people we consider our heroes. By the time the fire is burning low, our small group has been whittled down to just a handful. We put out the fire, return our chairs, and head inside to finish the evening with a few more words of conversation before deciding it’s time to head to bed.

I haven’t drunk this much wine in a very long time. But as I crawl into bed and call my husband back home to dispense the day to him, I know the hangover will be worth it.

This is my second year attending the Writers’ Guild of Alberta writers’ retreat. Last year it was in August, and we melted in the heat; this year we have the brisk October sky and a looming referendum hanging above us. You can’t ignore it. Even along the highways leading out of Edmonton, there are billboards about it—those ugly questions.

I carpooled this time around. I enjoyed the never-ending conversation as the fields between Edmonton and the retreat blurred behind us. We stopped in Gasoline Alley outside Red Deer for a quick coffee and to stretch our legs. By that point, we’d been on the road for nearly two hours. After accidentally walking into a construction zone (the Tim Hortons was undergoing renovations, and we were not paying attention to the signage), we wandered over to the temporary Timmies, got our coffees, and hit the road again.

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It was a little after 4 pm when we arrived. I got my room number and my bags. This year I’m three doors down from the room I stayed in last year. While the number outside differs from last year, the room is practically identical. I unpack and make myself comfortable.

Satisfied, I returned to where our cohort of writers was beginning to gather. We pulled up chairs, made introductions and got ourselves situated. While around us, more writers—strangers and friends alike—joined us. There are a number of friends and familiars here this year, and that makes this retreat all the more exciting. In a way, and maybe this is just because I recently watched The Burning (1981), it feels like being at summer camp again, but this time we have wine, and joints, and experience to buoy us.

At 5:30 pm, we gather in the dining hall or cafeteria. We are welcomed and introduced to our gracious hosts, given a quick rundown of the place and then set free to enjoy dinner. As we eat, we talk about the craft of writing, the projects we’re working on, and the books we’ve read. These conversations are some of my favourite.

Full, many of the writers disperse to get to work (keeners), while others linger to visit. Later in the evening, we will play some literary trivia; my team will lose, but we crack so many jokes we basically win. Prizes are handed out (books by local authors), and more writers disappear for the night.

Our once gaggle of writers is now a small scoop. We talk, we joke, someone cracks a bottle of wine. Our conversations meander, coming back around to the terrible question of separation looming over the province, and to the importance of resistance, education, and books, especially now given the book bans in libraries. We try to avoid politics, but it can’t be helped.

When the stars are out, I break out a joint, and our spoonful of giggling writers makes a loose circle outside. We smoke. We joke. We look up at the stars. We talk about the writers we know and love. It’s so dark, and so quiet.

We will return to the dining hall and chat and laugh a while longer. Slowly, more of us will depart for the evening. I, too, will say goodnight, with laugh lines more defined than the night before. In a few years, when those creases become permanent features of my face, I’ll have tonight to blame. And what a wonderful thing that is to carry—that I spent a night laughing under the stars with people who inspire me to become the writer I want to be.

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From last year

At the edge of a clearing, a small brown mouse raised his nose and took another whiff of the scent he was following. His ears twitched as he listened for danger. Crossing a clearing like this would leave him exposed to all kinds of predators, especially those who liked to monitor the ground below, but his rumbling stomach had forced him into action.

The forest had not been kind to the mouse these past few days, and he had been forced to follow the strange smell in hopes of finding food. The mouse inched closer to the edge of the clearing and could smell the scent of humans and something else coming from what appeared to be a cabin. Of course, the mouse didn’t know what a cabin was, but he knew well enough that food was nearby. 

The mouse bolted from the grass, running as fast as he could in the direction of the tantalizing smell. His little legs pushed his body as hard as they could go, hopeful that a bird of prey would not see his great race. Fortunately, luck was on the mouse’s side. In a few seconds, he had reached his destination.

He stopped in front of two large wooden doors, half buried in the dirt. He sniffed them, searching for an opening large enough so that he could squeeze his small body inside and hunt for the source of the smell that had captured his attention. Finding one near the edge of the door, he used his teeth to enlarge the hole so it would be easier to squeeze through once his stomach was filled. Spitting out pieces of dry wood, the brown mouse squeezed his body through the hole and into the cellar.

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There was a sudden drop, and the mouse tumbled over a few worn wooden steps before landing on his side on a dirt floor. The fall had hurt, but not enough to slow the vermin down. The mouse hurried to right himself, checking the air for danger. There was nothing. He was safe. 

His beady eyes blinked a few times as they adjusted to the darkness of the cellar. It was mostly dirt, and the walls were supported by some very old stonework and wooden beams. There was the faint smell of human food, preserves that had long ago once stocked the wooden shelves that dotted the far wall. But that wasn’t what had caught the mouse’s attention.

The mouse lifted itself to its back legs, stretching its nose into the air so it could find its way to the thing it most desired. Catching the scent once more, the mouse turned his head and took a deep inhale before springing into action once more.

The small creature skittered across the centre of the cellar, climbing into and then out of a wide, shallow hole in the ground. The smell of recently overturned dirt flooded his senses, and while the mouse caught the scent of an earthworm near the surface, it was the other scent that held his focus. He shook his small head and found the scent that had enticed him. Following it, he ran near a shovel. The mouse inspected the shovel’s metal spade, confirming he was getting closer to the source.

Finally, the mouse found what he was looking for: a patch of bright red mushrooms that sprang to life in the far corner of the cellar. The mushrooms were dotted with white and emitted an intoxicating scent that made the mouse’s stomach rumble. The mouse came closer to the fungi, pressed his nose to the dirt, and inhaled the smell, letting it overwhelm his senses.

Desperate for a bite, the mouse began consuming the mushrooms with a fervent hunger. He chewed and knawed and tore the fungi apart, half choking on the spongy flesh as he tried to swallow as much as his small body would allow. The sound of his tearing bites and satisfied squeaks was the only sound in the stillness of the dirt cellar. Then, full, the mouse began grooming himself.

The mouse had just finished swiping his paws over his ears when his mouth began to foam, and his eyes shifted in colour, fogging over from a deep black to a hazy blue. He turned to the remains of the mushrooms and began to chew once more. In a few bites, the mouse’s stomach grew to a painful size. As he continued to eat, his stomach screamed to stop. Practically begged to stop eating. But the mouse could not stop the frenzy. It moved from mushroom to mushroom, consuming more than double its body weight in fungal flesh.

Unable to vomit, there was a terrible pressure inside the mouse’s stomach; the organ was stretched far beyond its means. The mouse shuddered, trying to pull its bugling body to the last mushroom, when there was a sharp pain in its side.

Splitting open like a cheap zipper, the mouse’s intestines and stomach ruptured, spilling digestive fluid, blood, and half-chewed mushrooms into the mouse’s abdomen. The loose guts and stomach content slushed around, the stomach acid burning the mouse’s other organs.

The mouse tried to squeal as his body was ripped apart from the inside out, but his throat was blocked with chunks of mushroom. He coughed and choked out a few pieces, blood coating his mouth, before his eyes rolled back. The mouse twitched and jerked for a few brief moments, then lay still in front of the final red mushroom.

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As the air stilled in the silence, the mouse’s body stretched and bulged as something inside pressed out against its skin. Blood spilled from the split fur as the head of a small red mushroom flecked with white specks pierced out from inside the corpse.

Another pushed out of the mouse, then another. Before long, a cluster of red-capped mushrooms emerged from the small dead creature, consuming the mouse’s body as if he had never wandered into the cellar.

Then, as if given a silent signal, the gills beneath the fungi’s caps released their spores. In the darkness of the cellar beneath the cabin, the air was filled with dust-like clouds that floated towards the ceiling. 

A quick hello to all the new faces

Hey, I’m Theo! I’m a Canadian horror lover, cat lady, and a published poet/writer. Cups of Silver is my reader-supported corner of the internet where I’m growing as a writer. So there are all kinds of writing experiments happening here, I hope you don’t mind.

If you enjoyed this piece, consider hanging around a bit more. Free subscribers get two posts in their inbox every month. Paid subscribers get that plus Abridged, a monthly newsletter that talks about the behind-the-scenes of my writing.

Anyways, thanks for spending part of your day with my words!

One last thing…

I’ll be attending the Writers’ Guild of Alberta annual writing retreat here pretty soon (from October 15-18). When I first started sharing my words here on Substack, I was at this exact writing retreat, posting a daily update about how it was going. I plan to do the same thing this year, too.

It’s fun getting to bring you all along for the ride.

So stay tuned for a weekend of bonus posts!

More horror stories:

Welcome back to Abridged! For those who are new around here, Abridged is my monthly behind-the-scenes newsletter for paid subscribers. Here is where I’m sharing notes on my current works in progress, what I’ve been reading, literary events I’ve attended, and any news about new publications.

For you, my paid subscriber, Abridged is my way of saying thank …

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In the evenings, when I’m curled up on the couch, my cat on one side, my spouse of six years on the other, it’s quiet in our home. The cat purrs between us, her cigarette-soaked meows and rumbles coaxing us to rub her belly just one more time as we work away at whatever creative projects or fun we’re preoccupied with. Often, I’m wrapped up in a blanket, crocheting, writing, scrolling Substack, or playing computer games, while my partner works through a challenging art project, reads, cooks, or blows up bad guys in his latest video game.

Over the five years we’ve lived together, this has been the routine—a set of activities around the house so familiar that we move like synchronized swimmers. To me, this is romance, alive and well and thriving.

There have been hiccups, though, as should be expected. We are only human.

For instance, this past Spring, as part of a trend many hybrid and remote workers across Canada have been experiencing, I was forced to return to the office full-time. Now I love my day job, and a return to the office wasn’t a dealbreaker. I was hybrid for about a year and a half, so the shift wasn’t earthshattering, but still significant. I had to recombobulate my daily routines, and social outings as I wouldn’t be home as often.

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For several months following the return to office, I was floundering to find a routine that didn’t leave me with a social hangover. Which meant I fell behind on my own impossible goals during this tough transition.

Since then, I’ve done my best to carve out a routine where my weekends and evenings are for taking care of the apartment, resting, and creative work. Saturdays and Sundays, especially, are dedicated to chores and tasks I can do at my own pace. Even though two days a week doesn’t feel like enough time to get everything I want done, I’m making it work for me as best as I can.

But those evenings, when we are sitting side by side on the couch, comfortable, warm, and in our own worlds, are a sort of intimacy I cherish. That quiet time together lets me feel relaxed, and close to the person I love without draining my social battery into oblivion. This downtime helps me recharge.

And admittedly, it feels good to sit, doing nothing for once.

I, like many people, struggle to stop and rest. There’s this nagging voice in the back of my head that berates me at all hours with reminders that I’m not doing enough. Even on my most productive days, when I write more than 3,000 words in one session, that voice still tells me it’s not enough.

I’m not creating enough.

I’m not sharing enough.

I’m not working hard enough.

I’m not being social enough.

All of May, I wrestled with this. April, being National Poetry Month in Canada and the Poetry Festival here in Edmonton, meant I pushed myself to attend and speak at as many events as I could. And it was absolutely worth it! I got hired to do a few gigs for Poetry Fest, I met new friends, and got to spend quality time with the literary community I hold so dear. For once, it felt like I had done enough.

But that also meant I was out of commission for May. My social battery was drained to absolute zero; it took me a whole month to recover. While I like to think I learned my lesson, there’s a high probability that next April I will do the same thing all over again. I love poetry, and sometimes I can’t help myself.

Finding friends and a significant other who respects my need for downtime is a blessing. Because I do want to spend time with you, I really do, but I also know I need rest.

When I’m socially worn out, I’m no fun to be around. I suck at small talk. I struggle to pay attention. I can be sharp in my responses. I verge on becoming a mess. But this isn’t inevitable, or so I have learned over many years of therapy and fuck ups. Learning how my social battery fluctuates, setting boundaries, and taking time to stop and do nothing have made a big difference.

Buy me a coffee

Pushing myself to write regularly has been another wrinkle in my grand plans I’m still ironing out, but being here, sharing my words, and connecting with strangers in a way that doesn’t drain me feels like I’m on to something.

In late August 2025, I started Cups of Silver with no real goal other than just writing and sharing my work. Since then, I’ve met many talented writers, read some incredible work, and shared numerous short stories, digital diary entries, and poems on a regular twice-a-month schedule, all from the comfort of my couch and writing desk.

I’ve been fortunate to find readers (like you!) willing to come along for the ride and who tolerate my urge to experiment with genre and style. It means a lot to me that people read my words and that they respond with such thoughtful comments. The fact that Substack doesn’t feel socially draining (unlike Instagram, which I’ve since taken an extended break from) is also a blessing.

Needless to say, I’m happy to be here. And I’m happy that this a part of my ever-shifting routine. To those who’ve been here from the beginning, and those who recently joined somewhere along the way: I’m grateful for you.

And I’m excited for what the next year of writing on Substack will bring.

So all of this is to say, Happy Anniversary, Substack. Thanks for being here while I figure out how to pace myself.

Read more in my Digital Diary Series

Cups of Silver is my reader-supported corner of the internet. If you enjoyed this piece, consider subscribing. Paid subscribers also receive Abridged, a monthly letter from behind the scenes of my writing life. Thanks for spending part of your day with my words ♡

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This poem came from deep within the trenches of my phone notes. It’s been pickling in the dark for some time.

Originally, I wrote this back when I worked for an itty-bitty digital marketing agency as a Content Writer. At the time, that job sucked the creativity out of me, as I was tasked with writing numerous search engine-optimized blog posts under incredibly tight deadlines. Many of the blogs I wrote then were for and about the industrial sector. So while they were fairly easy to write, they were tedious and mind-numbing; there’s only so much excitement you can inject into your writing when the topic is access mats, aftermarket truck tires, and tube fittings.

So, to help push through the day and give my brain a creative reprieve, I wrote a short poem about a vinegary snack and then thought nothing of it. That is, until recently, when I was cruising through my archive of poems.

After looking at this for a while, I realized that, as silly as it is to write a poem about pickles, it’s also pretty fun to take such a prompt and actually put effort into it.

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Oh, and if it wasn’t already clear, yeah, I’m a fan of pickles. They’re a great snack.

Now enjoy the poem!

Bick’s Baby Dill

Plucked from the garden
I am washed
with rough hands,
the dirt scrubbed clean
from this green sun-kissed flesh.

I am new to the world
and all she has to offer.

Under the glow
of lights too bright,
the acidic scent
of garlic and herbs,
and oh-so-strong vinegar,
batters the air as I am bathed
and then contained in such a way
as to become my namesake:

Transformed, Transfigured.

Here’s your fun fact of the day:

Bick’s is a Canadian brand that started as a small family operation run by the husband-and-wife duo George and Lena Bick. They got their start in Scarborough, Ontario, in 1951, with the help of their sons, and by 1960, the family operation had packed and pickled 12 million jars of pickles.

The family sold the company to Kraft Canada in 1966. And over the years, it's changed hands a few times before ultimately winding up under the TreeHouse Foods umbrella. Since 2010, Bick’s no longer produces Canadian-grown/made pickles; instead, everything is imported from the United States.1

Why do I bring this up? Well, as a Canadian, I’ve been following news surrounding the ongoing trade war with our neighbours down south. And the latest round of tariffs, the backing away from CUSMA, and other ongoing political developments have had a significant impact on us domestically, as I’m sure they have had on our southern neighbours. I think a simple jar of pickles is a pretty good example of how intertwined our countries are. Our relationship is unlike any other.

As the trade war continues to loom over us, I know I’ll be doing my best to shop local and buy Canadian. I’m not a patriotic person. But in times of need, I’ll do my part. I hope my fellow Canadians do too.

Remember, we’re better together.

Buy me a coffee

Check out more poetry

Cups of Silver is my reader-supported corner of the internet. If you enjoyed this piece, consider subscribing. Paid subscribers also receive Abridged, a monthly letter from behind the scenes of my writing life. Thanks for spending part of your day with my words ♡

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Welcome to my very first edition of Abridged! Abridged is my monthly behind-the-scenes newsletter for paid subscribers. Here is where I’m sharing some notes about my current works in progress (right now I have waaaay too many drafts, but more on that later), what I’ve been reading and/or watching, some literary events I’ve attended, and any news on new publications.

This newsletter is a sort of monthly check-in or summary about how my writing life has been going. So you’ll see a variety of updates, news, and sometimes the odd rambling thought about the writing process.

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Edmonton is alive in a way that hasn’t been possible for most of the summer. Between record-breaking bouts of rain and clouds of mosquitoes with a hunger like no other, the city has been hiding away indoors.

I, too, have been a hermit inside, having spent more time on the couch than a park bench, than I’d like to admit. But with sunshine and a warm breeze, and low to no chances of rain in the forecast, this Sunday is different. I can feel it before I leave my apartment.

Outside, the streets are busy, buzzing with activity. Down the road, I can hear the distant cheers of the annual Edmonton Marathon in full swing. I direct my shoes in that direction, curious to see how the runners are navigating the post-apocalyptic scene of Jasper Avenue as it sits mid-construction.

Downtown revitalization tastes more bitter than sweet lately, in part due to a string of businesses shuttering their doors, many citing the reckless levels of construction as a key cause of their failures.

“It wasn’t one tax increase. It wasn’t patio fees. It wasn’t paid parking. It wasn’t hybrid work. It wasn’t safety. It wasn’t one construction project. It was death by a thousand cuts.”

— Chris DeCock, president of Greta arcade bars. Source CBC.

I’m sympathetic to the losses. Having lived as a neighbour to the ongoing construction, I feel those pains, but I’m still hopeful for better times. We just have to wait for the concrete to be poured, the roads to be reopened, and the LRT expansion to be up and running, or so I say to myself. Construction season is a necessary evil in a city where, for nearly six months of the year, we are buried beneath snow. There is only so much time. And there is so much work.

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Nonetheless, the marathon runs full steam ahead. Jasper Avenue is shut down, and bystanders cheer on their loved ones from between orange pylons and construction fences, holding signs with words of encouragement. Volunteers, police, and EMS are on standby, helping guide the odd lost driver to better routes and ensuring the runners are safe. It’s nearing 25℃ today; they must be sweating in their uniforms and hi-vis vests.

After a while, I continue my wanderings. It’s Sunday, which means the 124th Grand Market has set up shop. Alongside their booths and tents, a local church is hosting a yard sale. There are books, records, CDs, and more for just a bit of pocket change. I adjust my bag and camera, then follow my instincts.

The market is a smorgasbord of shopping opportunities. I have no self-control, so when I spot a table piled high with boxes of books, I begin browsing. 6$ lighter and an armload of hardcovers and paperbacks heavier, I take my time sauntering through the main aisle of the market. Between fresh produce and hot food, jewellery and pottery, wine and beer, the goods on sale present many tantalizing opportunities to part with the measly cash tucked away in my wallet. But I have a budget to stick to, so I tighten my purse strings and persevere through the temptations.

Along the way, I stop and listen to a lone guitarist as he serenades the strangers on the sidewalks, busking for change and smiles. Then I meander further, waltzing into a pop-up art show and sale hosted by the local community league. While most of the canvases are too abstract for my tastes, there are several figurative pieces that I stop and admire; the body is an endlessly fascinating form.

This is something I love about the neighbourhood: there is art in the streets and music in the air.

Buy me a coffee

My arms tire from their literary load. I recall the dishes and the laundry waiting for my labours (never-ending). Then opt for a final retreat before my return home: a cafe.

With a pastry and a cappuccino in hand, I crack open my journal and begin writing. The purple ink flows with the caffeine, the taste of honey a warm undercurrent.

Even though the construction, business shutdowns, lack of affordable housing, and opioid crisis continue around me, colouring every in-between glance, every bus stop, every alley, today has been a reminder: downtown is not dead. The community continues, thrives even, collecting at events, sharing coffee, and meandering about. We are here. Alive. Breathing.

One beautiful day doesn’t distract from the problems the core is facing, but sometimes, for a few hours, we can forget, and instead, pet a stranger’s dog and exchange small talk.

August marks one year of writing and sharing on Substack. And over this past year, I’ve really come to love and enjoy the community here. Nowadays, there are so many social media platforms solely dedicated to sharing short-form video and image-based content that, as a writer, it’s been hard to find my place in the digital ecosystem without feeling like I’m screaming into the void or having to alter my work to be more search engine optimized.

For me, Substack has become a sort of home for my writing. I’ve been able to share numerous stories, personal essays, poems and even a few wandering thoughts and shitposts via the notes function. Over time, I feel like I’ve really begun to build a community of fellow writers and readers. And for that I am so grateful.

As I continue to grow and develop as a writer, I’ve decided to share a little more about my process and what happens between my twice-a-month posts.

My stories and essays don’t just appear out of nowhere. Often, I’ve spent weeks (sometimes months) brainstorming, planning, editing, revising, writing, and researching in preparation to share my work. My writing comes from scribbles in my journal, conversations with my fellow creatives, inspiration from events, and countless cups of coffee. And now that August marks one year on Substack and I feel I better understand both the platform and my writing process, I want to create a space to share some of those behind-the-scenes moments with you.

Introducing, Abridged!

Abridged will be a new monthly newsletter from yours truly. It’ll be a short monthly summary of what I’ve been getting up to in my writing life. And I aim to publish it around the end of each month, starting this August.

What’s Inside?

To help me stay on top of this newsletter (and to make it feel more like a regular column), there will be several recurring sections you can come to love and expect from Abridged. Here’s what that’ll look like:

From the Writing Desk

This section will be a sneak peek into what I’m currently working on, including some of my rough drafts and research. I’ll also talk about some of the writing challenges or successes I’ve been facing, and what I’ve learned along the way.

Field Notes

This section will be more like a news and events section. Here I’ll let you know about some of the literary events I’ve attended in the past month, news and updates related to my publishing journey, and any readings/workshops/gigs I’ve been a part of. Plus any other adventures I’ve gotten up to.

Kitty Corner & Coffee Break

No lie, this is probably my favourite section. Because I love to take a million photos, I’m giving Abridged a dedicated space to share a few pictures of my lovely lady cat Lily, plus a favourite cup of coffee from the month.

Consider this proof that all of your tips and paid subscriber support really are going back into all the coffee and work it takes to keep Cups of Silver going.

Off the Shelf

The final section of Abridged will be a short roundup of some of the books, films, television series or other media I’ve been enjoying. I’m a big reader (I usually plow through 50-70 books a year) and a big horror movie fan, so I’m excited to share the shows and media that inspire me.

Why Paid?

I think transparency is important. So let me explain why Abridged will be paywalled:

Over the past year, my paid subscribers have been helping to support the time, energy, and resources it takes to continuously create and publish new work here on Substack. And while they already get access to the full archive of writing Cups of Silver has to offer, I feel like now is a good time to give back to them.

My regular twice-a-month posts of stories, essays, and poetry will continue to remain available to free subscribers and new readers. Abridged is just my way of saying thank you to those who’ve chosen to support me through a paid subscription.

One last word

Whether you’ve been reading Cups of Silver from the very beginning of my my time here or have only recently joined, I just wanted to say thank you for making space for my words. I’m really excited to share this next year of writing with you.

When this poem was first accepted for publication (back in late 2023), I was over the moon. At the time, it felt like getting my writing accepted for publication was a far-flung dream that would take months, if not years, of rejection before finally happening. You can imagine how shocked I was to find out one of my poems would be getting published in print only a few weeks after sending out my very first round of submissions.

At the time, I was so self-conscious about my writing that I rarely shared my poems. I was just beginning to explore what poetry could do for me, so I seldom shared the actual words I’d written.

Here’s to changing that. Enjoy.

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To name it

My words thick
and venomous
with yesterday’s tears,
a cheek stained
with black eyeliner—
I carry tattered
Kleenex in the
pockets of my
favourite denim jacket—
call it punk,
call it dramatic,
call it melancholy—
give the tears
a proper name,
one that can
be pronounced by
anyone’s tongue,
except mine.

To name the
feelings are to
tuck it into
bed with you,
and I don’t care
to share sheets
with a ghost—
your toes too
cold for my
bare feet.

I toss, and
turn all night,
my elbows crashing
into the soft
parts of your
stomach, a knee
connects with a
shin, a nightmare
startles me awake—

I’m a monster
to sleep next to.

Much love and support to FEELS Zine for giving this poem a place to call home. This first publication was a really big deal to me, and even though now I have a few more under my belt, I still feel such love for my very first pub.

I will never forget the feeling of absolute joy and exhilaration I experienced when I opened that very first acceptance email. Even now, I still feel that every time I’m fortunate enough to have a piece of my writing picked up. And thankfully, over time, the rejections have hurt less and less.

Cups of Silver is my reader-supported corner of the internet. If you enjoyed this piece, consider subscribing. Thanks for spending part of your day with my words ♡

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The woods leaned heavily as the wind whipped through the trees. Their branches creaking and whimpering in pain as their elbows knocked into one another. The incoming storm charged the air. Our friend—the forest mouse—could feel the static dance across his brown fur, making the hairs stand at attention. Nervously, he ran his tiny paws over his face and ears to discharge some of the static.

He would have to start running soon.

Rain weighed heavily on the darkening clouds but did not yet spill over. Instead, they gathered and stirred above. The swirling changed the sky from black to green. Danger was imminent. Anything could happen.

Our friend raised his nose as high into the sky as possible, stretching his tiny body to its full three-inch length. He breathed deeply, tasting the humidity in the air, looking for a sign—the smell of a particular burrow hidden underneath an old stump. If there was anywhere for our friend to go, it was to that wooden fortress.

Calibrating himself by twisting and turning, our friend quickly found his destination: to the west, away from the coming storm and deeper into the woods. A distance that could be managed if he pushed his hardest and ran as fast as he could. There would be little room for error.

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The sky continued getting greener, the wind howling between the trees, a cacophony of sounds as the forest was swept up and battered. It was then that the first drops began their heavy descent. Big fat raindrops that could drown flies mid-fall. The kind that could knock a forest mouse off its balance.

Our friend gathered himself into a sort of runner’s starting position, his haunches raised, ready to spring into action. He waited for the starting gun. Lightning flashed across the sky in an instant. He counted down the seconds to the sound of thunder, timing the storm’s landing. As the deep rumbles shook the forest, our friend bolted from his hidden position, running as fast as his four legs could take him.

The storm’s sieging forces were moving quickly, and a forest mouse was a vulnerable fellow under these circumstances. But Mother Nature had knighted our friend with an advantage: his small size and speed made him the perfect navigator for this neighbourhood. He’d spent his life here and knew all the hidden nooks and canopy highways. Even on the darkest nights, our friend could always find home—one of them, anyway.

Halfway to the fortress, our friend pauses once more. He stands high and tests the sky, seeking answers for this calamity. The forest was anything but quiet. You could smell the fear of small things in this rain. He knew his friends were safe; they hadn’t ventured this far. It was his curiosity and sight-seeking nose that led him away.

But he was almost there. The scent of the fortress was more pungent now, and he knew of its tunnels, which could take him safely home. Back to the warmth of his den, tail tucked around his friends.

The storm made landfall, and the trees went into a panic. The rain poured out of the sky in great buckets, taking leaves and debris down with it. The forest floor was slick with mud now, making the terrain even more challenging to navigate as it washed away some of the trail markers. There was an ever-present crackling in the air, and the thunder seemed to increase from rumblings into growls, like the badgers on their bad days.

Our friend took off once more, ducking and diving between the larger drops of rain as best he could. Their brutal assault would do nothing but slow him down. So he ran, his little legs working as fast as they could, launching him into the sky before his mind could catch up with where he was going.

It was pure instinct that took over. All he could do was hold on.

Suddenly, the woods illuminated for one awful moment, turning the moss, leaves, and branches into scenes from a horror movie. Their abstract shapes transformed the familiar forest into something more sinister, older, and unknowable for just a brief blink of an eye. There was a loud crack of lightning as electricity connected with a tree not far from the forest mouse. Had the conditions been any drier, a fire would have started.

Fortunately for our friend, the rainy season had indeed been rainy.

The distance between the forest mouse and the fortress was down to mere strides now. He could feel that swelling sense of safety rise in his fuzzy chest, and his legs began to slow down so he wouldn’t crash upon arrival in these slippery conditions. But thinking too hard about his safety, our poor friend was jinxed. His back paw slipped out from under him, and he felt a terrible pain as he attempted to scramble upright, before slipping once more in the heavy mud.

Safety turned to panic as our friend struggled to pull himself to his feet. The villainous storm drowned out his cries of frustration. There were even a few colourful curses. Fortunately, his friends were near. They had been tracking his scent since they felt the first rumblings of thunder deep in their underground burrow. They had been worried he’d get trapped by the storm.

Relief flooded our friend when he saw his rescuers. As a team, they worked to pull him out of the mud and lead him to the cover of the tree stump.

Tonight, they would be safe again. The ancient woods would protect them as they stood their ground against the storm. And together, the forest mouse and his friends curled into each other, warm and protected, while overhead thunder rumbled on.

Read more of my fiction:

This past April and May, I was lucky enough to be brought on to Funicular magazine as a Guest Poetry Editor for their latest issue. And I want to spend some time talking about that experience.

Now, volunteering for literary magazines isn’t a new ball game for me. I’ve done it once before as a volunteer editorial assistant for Divinations Magazine, and I’m currently a volunteer fiction reader for filling Station magazine, but being approached by Funicular was different.

First, Funicular publishes its issues in print. While I love and appreciate the work that online magazines are doing, there’s something so special about a physical thing with your words printed inside it. There’s a real weight to it.

Second, I was lucky enough to have one of my poems, “When,” published in Funicular magazine previously.

Third, Funicular reached out to me.

And finally, it’s a local magazine.

So, while I was over-the-moon excited to take on the role of Guest Poetry Editor, I was also nervous.

While I’ve been published before, like many of my fellow literary friends, I also struggle with imposter syndrome. I often feel like an outsider in the creative writing community. Sure, I have a bachelor’s degree in English Literature, so I know a thing or two about fiction and poetry, but I avoided creative writing as a student, convinced I had a brain for essays and not much else.

So, I don’t have any formal training or education in writing poetry, stories, workshopping written works, or even giving feedback on someone else’s creative expression. Everything I’ve learned and accomplished thus far has been through a series of trial and errors.

And let me tell you, there’s been a lot of errors.

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Maybe that’s part of the reason why, as soon as I said YES to the opportunity, I instantly also felt incredibly nervous. The pressure was on. Being a part of someone else’s literary project and making editorial decisions is no small task. But I did my homework, I pulled myself up by the bootstraps, and I pushed through the anxiety.

In preparation for the submission window to open, I spent some time rereading past issues of Funicular magazine and reacquainting myself with the sort of poetry that often graces its pages. Taking this time to review helped a lot. By the time the first few submissions rolled in, I already had a solid understanding of what to look for.

As I got into the rhythm of reading poetry submissions (often in batches so I could go back and reread submissions before making a decision), I found my footing. And with that, my confidence grew.

By the end of the submission window, I was sure of my editorial decisions and excited to see what would make the final cut, given the space constraints of a print publication. For any submissions that left me still feeling undecided, I pitched both arguments for and against them, then deferred the final choice to the Editor/Founder of Funicular, Jason.

So what did I learn from being on the other side of the publishing world?

Well, here’s what I’m taking back with me and will keep in mind the next time I do my own round of poetry submissions:

• READ THE SUBMISSION GUIDELINES

• Read a few back issues of the magazine you’re submitting to; it’s really easy to tell who did and did not read previously published work by that magazine.

• Go for the throat. Poetry doesn’t have to be polite and loving; it can be cruel and spiteful, too. Sometimes, taking a firm stance will make your work stand out.

• Be intentional. Don’t just throw commas, periods, and capitalized letters around willy-nilly. As an editor, I assume every word, line break, and punctuation mark is intentional; if it comes across as random or disorganized (or god forbid, there’s a spelling error), that indicates a lack of editing to me.

• Hook your reader in. If, after the first stanza, I’m not curious or excited to read more of your poem, you’ve already lost me.

• Avoid cliches. There are so many poems out there about cats, coffee shops, and heartbreak. If you’re going to revisit one of these well-worn themes, make sure you’re looking at it from a different angle, something new. Otherwise, there’s a good chance your work won’t stand out in the slush pile.

• Take a risk. Keep submitting your work. Don’t give up. Rejection is all a part of the publishing process.

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A final round of thank yous

That brings me to now! Issue #20 of Funicular magazine is now available in print and as a digital version.

Shoutout to the many talented and courageous folks who sent me their poetry. It takes a lot of guts to face the possibility of rejection. It takes even more guts to be so vulnerable. So thank you for giving me this experience.

To those poets who didn’t make the cut this time, know this: my editorial decisions do not reflect on the quality of your work. I read many great pieces that weren’t included in the magazine. That doesn’t mean your work was bad; tough editorial decisions just had to be made.

To the folks who did get accepted: thank you for trusting me to read your writing. I can’t wait to read it again in print.

And finally, to Funicular: thank you for trusting me to be a Guest Poetry Editor for issue #20. This opportunity meant a lot to me, and I learned a lot, too. Thank you for trusting my decisions and for giving my poem “When” a home.

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Sometimes, when I’m caught in the rain and feel that familiar tug of mud beneath my boots, I think of my brother.

He was a good kid—the favourite son, though our Ma and Pa would never admit it. I knew it. Knew it from the way they looked at him. Knew it by the way folks used to ask me about him, like I was his keeper.

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Every year, I get excited for my favourite park to spring back to life. The ducks and geese like to call this patch of paradise home, and their arrival feels like a true signal that Spring/Summer in Alberta is finally here.

To celebrate, here are a few photos I took of the ducks and geese (goslings too!) plus a poem I wrote ages and ages ago about the p…

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Anyway, enjo…

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I know what purgatory is like. I’ve been there. I am there. I’ve been trapped in this kitchen for what feels like hours, but when I look at the time, it still says six o’clock. The seconds are dragging. My girlfriend’s mother is staring, so too are her father and brother.

Hell, even the dog is watching me now.

I clear my throat and try out some small talk…

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