How is July going for you? Mine is quite busy. Things are opening up more locally and my book projects are moving forward. My short story collection Dream Signs now has a release date – September 16th! I can’t wait to see it as a real book out in the world. One of the stories in the book, “A Limit to Growth,” is included in The Fiddlehead’s Summer Fiction issue (available for order here). It’s about math, art, and a jaded fortysomething woman who goes on a cybersex chat site.

I’m participating in Clarion West’s Write-a-Thon this month. If you aren’t familiar with the name, Clarion West is a speculative fiction writer’s organization that runs a six-week yearly workshop and offers other forms of writing education and support. Their mandate is to “support emerging and underrepresented voices by providing writers with world-class instruction to empower their creations of wild and amazing worlds.” I attended some of their online offerings during lockdown and enjoyed them very much. Several of my favorite writers teach there, have studied there, or both. In short, they’re doing fantastic work. 

The Write-a-Thon is two things: an inspiring community for writers and a fundraiser for Clarion West. Anyone can sign up to participate and get access to talks from writers, a Slack channel to chat about your craft, and more. The Write-a-Thon runs until the end of July and you can sign up here to participate. 

My goals for the Write-a-Thon this month are to write two new pieces, send out three submissions, and set up two events for the launch of Dream Signs this fall. If you’d like to support Clarion West’s work with emerging writers, or cheer on my writing goals by tossing a coin to your Witcher, you can do so on my Write-a-Thon profile here: Sponsor a writer. 

And if you’d like a sneak peek at my story “A Limit to Growth”, read on:

When I was ten, I resolved to marry the first man who didn’t laugh at me for carrying math books around the beach. I’d explain to him about factors, how beautiful it is to look inside a larger number and see what groupings make it up, what small parts combined to make it breathe. I’d tell him there are patterns everywhere—in tree branches, in sand dunes, in the veins of our bodies—and math is one way to access their secrets. The power of numbers could course through us with the rhythm of the incoming sea, and we would know infinity. Until then, I’d keep this love to myself, nestled close like a tiny animal.        

It’s been three decades now, and the math outlasts the men every time. After Alan, John and Dan, I gave up on love and tried the sleeping-around thing. I’ve watched man after man melt to sweat in the evening, and my memories of them are ephemeral. There are only so many you can wake up beside without confusing their names, only so many off-centre attempts at pleasuring you can endure with a straight face, only so many times you can consent to faking it and only so many times you can be accused of faking it when you absolutely aren’t and only so many times you can tolerate a stranger calling you Sweetie before you’re looking more forward to a cup of mulled cider at your place than another encounter.