May 12, 2026

The Things We Never Say, by Elizabeth Strout

Don’t let that Elizabeth Strout has followed up her novel Tell Me Everything with one called The Things We Never Say make you think she’s shifted gears. Although she’s left Maine behind, and the familiar cast of characters—Lucy Barton, Bob Burgess, Olive Kitteridge, and others—who’ve populated her stories over the past three decades are absent from the book. In fact, yes, The Things We Never Say seems set in a different universe altogether, one in which Strout’s beloved literary people, Bob et. al, are fictional (CAN YOU IMAGINE!?), because there’s a reference to her main character, Artie Dam, reading a book “about some crotchety old woman from Maine,” which is clearly Olive Kitteridge. “People die of loneliness,” Artie recalls the woman in the book thinking. “It happens all the time.”

But what this quotation reveals is that this latest book is still familiar territory for Strout, territory she’s mined before—the unknowability of other people, even those who are closest to us, how alone we can feel within intimate relationships, the depth of mystery contained within each and every one of us. This is territory that Strout will likely never stop mining either, which is fine with me, because what she writes reads like answers to questions I will never stop asking, and I’m glad she’s wondering too.

Artie Dam is a man akin to Bob Burgess, a man with feelings, many of which he’s unable to express. He’s a beloved high school history teacher and it’s 2024, which is a hard time to be a student of history in the United States of America, to have one’s eyes open to what’s happened and what’s going to happen next. The great heartbreak of his life is a car accident when his son was a teenager that killed his son’s girlfriend, and changed everything for their family, especially the dynamic between Artie and his wife. But then Artie learns something about his past that changes everything he thinks he knows about his family, and Artie has to figure out what happens to that, a problem that’s aligned with questions he keeps asking himself about the nature of free will.

This is a novel in which not much happens at all, or rather it happens in such a way that it’s easy to overlook that everything happens in this book, life, death, betrayal, heartbreak. But also redemption, hope, possibility, (sometimes) connection. This book is wrenching in the same way that being alive is, and similarly it’s so deeply worth the ride.

May 11, 2026

calling down the sky, by Rosanna Deerchild, translation by Solomon Ratt

“there is no word for what they did/ in our language/ to speak it is to become torn/ from the choking”

A perfect and poignant Mother’s Day read this weekend was the recently released 10th-anniversary edition of Roseanna Deerchild’s poetry collection calling down the sky, with a Cree translation by Solomon Ratt. The poems are in Deerchild’s mother’s voice and tell the story of her experiences of residential schooling with a simultaneous candour and remove (“people ask me all the time/ about residential schools/ as if it’s their business or something.”) Following the deaths of her parents, Deerchild’s mother attended 3 residential schools from the age of 5 to 14, where abuse and neglect were rampant, the trauma living deep in her bones ever since, manifesting in her health troubles and memories that are hard to face. These poems stare down the brutal realities of these institutions, the inhumanity baked into the system, the depravity and cruelty inherent in the quotidian experiences of the children who were forced to live there. But Deerchild also shows the subtle ways in which the children were able to exercise subversion where they can, the title poem about the night sky and the northern lights which the children know and understand due to their own knowledge of place, but “never seen/ that priest run so fast/ as though the devil himself was chasing.”

May 11, 2026

Last week the internet went crazy

Last week, the internet went crazy. And I was so interested in the way that the internet went crazy, because instead of being in the crazy fray (where I use to hang out all the time!), I was looking on from the sidelines, in more than one sense. The most obvious sense being that this was a fracas among the children’s lit internet, of which I am not a part, so I had no skin in the game, the game being a comment by children’s writer Mac Barnett (from his recently released book on writing for children) in which he reports that “maybe more like 94.7 percent of kids’ books are crud.”

The thing I found most fascinating about this comment was how 94.7% of children’s authors in my feed seemed to believe without hesitation that their books were the books that he was talking about. I mean, the odds are high that they were, 94.7% being a sizable piece of the pie, but still. No doubt there is a gendered element to this. I’m not a children’s writer, BUT I was once a student in a university department of English, and I think the dynamics are the same, which is that 94.7% of the students are women and it’s the 5.3% of students who are not who are lauded as geniuses, dominate in-class conversations, and receive post-doctoral fellowships. So I suspect I understand why the community finds itself with a chip on its collective shoulder.

But still. I find myself thinking, “Can you get a little bit of male entitlement, people?” We could all do well sometimes (but not all the time) to channel the spirit of that guy who’s released an obscure book with a small press nobody has ever heard of that sells six copies and who is wide awake the morning of the announcement of the Giller Prize longlist waiting for his moment, and who’s indignant when they fail to call. As a writer of commercial fiction, I understand parts of what it must be like to be a kidlit writer (not being taken seriously, your poetry colleagues from your MFA have never published anything but still think they’re better than you, male writer colleagues with literally no interest in ever reading anything you’ve written), but we’ve got to hoist our spirits high above these petty grievances and/or get our heads out of our asses.

I know all this because of the years of my life that I wasted being triggered by things Jennifer Weiner was saying on the internet. It was my PRIME, people, and I spent it in the comments of Blogspots, either being really mad at Jennifer Weiner, or defending Weiner from her naysayers, and I don’t really remember why my views on Weiner were so all over the place, but also she was a lightning rod so it almost didn’t matter, and now I think about all the things I could have been spending my energy on instead.

The greatest revelation I’ve had in recent years is that so much of the frustration across the entire political spectrum (and also in my nervous system) is the result of fury that we cannot, in fact, control the things that other people think or the ways they behave. And this revelation lives alongside another fact that is just as true, that is we must keep working for a better, fairer world, not merely accepting the status quo. That we must change the world, but also there are parts of the world that are not ours for changing. That other people are going to think things, and say things, and I’m not going to like the things they think or say, and this is—in fact—part of the schema.

And yes, I’m talking about cancel culture, but I’m also talking about the people who were so opposed to cancel culture that they became their own cancel culture (which was a thousand times worse than campaigns removing men from positions of power for being sexual predators, no?).

It’s a mess, it’s a muddle, and I don’t really know a way out of it, except to shut down your browser when those synapses are flying and you find yourself in an internet pile-on, and go for a walk outside.

May 8, 2026

When It Isn’t Easy

I’m writing a novel right now, and I’m having a hard time. When I’m writing first drafts, I’m usually firmly wedded to forward momentum, just get to the end already, but things have gone off the rails a bit where I’m at, 52 000 words. Or maybe I’m still on those rails but the rails aren’t properly fastened to any foundation, and the narrative is all over the place, and/or no place at once. There’s not a proper focus, a proper through-line, I don’t know my secondary characters well enough, the narrative has disparate elements that need to be pulled together. There are some fundamental mysteries that I need to solve before I’m ready for this story to get where it’s going, and so I’ve gone back to the start for rewriting and reweaving—and I’m really just overwhelmed.

Part of this is because Definitely Thriving flowed so easily, and I was conscious as I was writing that this was something special, and I really feel the absence of that ease this time. Although there was so much ease that I don’t properly feel like I wrote the book at all, instead it poured out of me like magic, and I’m not really sure how to do that conjuring trick again, which is terrifying. And finally, I’m scared because I spent last year writing a story that was never going to turn into anything, and once I stopped writing it, I was just so grateful to be done, and now I’m just nervous that this will be how it goes now, me driving my creative truck straight into a brick wall over and over again.

Next week, I am taking part in a very cool storytelling event produced by the Museum of Toronto called “Toronto Confessions: Love it or Hate It” (tickets on sale now!), an opportunity I said yes to because it was just so damn cool, in really exciting company, the sort of thing I’m always not-so-secretly jealous that I’m not constantly being asked to do. But it’s totally not in my wheelhouse, so far out of my comfort zone. A different kind of story making than I’m used to, with different narrative tools and structure, and I’d have to memorize it all—is my brain even capable of this? I really wasn’t sure. And as I began to put my presentation together, I was so afraid that I’d only embarrass myself, that I wasn’t cut out for this. It’s not very often these days that I try something new.

Except that lately I’ve been trying new things a little more often, my springtime so far filled with travel to new cities, brand new twists in schedule and routines, even just little things that challenge me and make me realize that my capacity might be greater than I think (except for the days when I’m really tired). I don’t want to jinx my presentation next Thursday, and I’m still terrified that I’m going to make an ass of myself, but it’s looking more likely that I will show up and be basically adequate (and hopefully better). It’s been fascinating to make something new, to start from nothing and learn how the pieces fit, how to structure and edit my ideas in a new format, even if it’s been super scary, like walking a tightrope without a safety net. Because how do I really know I can do it? But then I figure it out, and realize I’m starter than I think.

Like maybe even smart enough to figure out how to write this novel? And maybe instead of letting the difficulty become my atmosphere, the air I breathe, I can see this tricky phase as part of the process, a tangle to be unknotted, a problem to be solved.

How do I really know I can do it? (GULP)

I don’t. Until I do. (Or at least I hope I will!)

May 6, 2026

Welcome to Sunny Town, by Théodora Armstrong

Welcome to Sunny Town, by Théodora Armstrong, is the story of Maggie, a young artist stuck in her relationship and creative process who decides to broaden her horizons by moving to Japan to teach ESL in 2001. She joins an artist friend in Okayama and becomes part of the ESL expat community there, but eventually finds that the connections she’s making are somehow making her feel more lost than ever. After the Twin Towers fall in New York City that September, the world feels even more strange, Maggie’s Japanese life an unreality, and she must take stock of her present and her past in order to begin contemplating such a thing as the future.

I loved this book, partly for reasons that are personal. I too “taught” English in Japan not longer after the turn of the century and so the culture and dynamics Armstrong writes about were familiar to me and brought back so many memories—the obnoxious cultural superiority manifesting from all sides in conversation classes, Japanese housewives who befriend young gaijin as a hobby (I got “picked up” in the grocery store a few times), weirdo expats who’ve been in Japan for way too long, and (even worse) the ones who manage to escape and then find their way back again.

Armstrong also so perfectly captures the longing and pain of being in one’s 20s anywhere, realizing how little foundation any of us really have beneath our feet, recognizing our parents as flawed and human, putting too much effort into relationships unworthy of our energy, pushing everything (especially our limits) just a little too far simply to find out what happens if we do.

Welcome to Sunny Town is a Künstlerroman, a beautiful and tender portrait of womanhood and becoming. And while Maggie is a messy character, the narrative does not get bogged down in her boredom and ennui, as I’ve encountered (and been put off by) in other “messy girl lit,” too cool for school. Nope, Maggie dares to feel, to hope, to want, to create.

And to connect, most important of all, both with the world around her, and to the reader who’s lucky enough to pick this novel up.

May 5, 2026

Best Offer Wins, by Marisa Kashino

The most controversial thing I ever did in my life was have a baby before I’d bought a house, which is to say that I know the stakes for Margo Miyake, the protagonist of Marisa Kashino’s debut Best Offer Wins. She’s sick of the one-bedroom rental in Washington, DC, that she shares with her husband, Ian, and figures the stress of their uncomfortable living situation is part of the reason she can’t get pregnant. They’ve already lost out on eleven heartbreaking bidding wars, and so when she finds out about a perfect house that’s not on the market yet, she decides to get in first, ingratiating herself with the home’s current owners, keeping her machinations on the down-low, hoping they won’t find out what she’s really after.

If Margo’s desperation seems extreme, there’s a reason for it, the unstable childhood she clawed her way out of, thirsting for middle class respectability, and in her husband she’s found the promise of that—real estate is the final piece in her puzzle.

But of course Margo is also completely unhinged, the extent of this becoming clearer as the story unfolds. I had been expecting a story along the lines of The Hand that Rocks the Cradle or Single White Female, Margo worming her way into the another family’s household for the life she wants, but the family fast gets wise to her, and Margo needs to resort to even further extremes to fight for the house she’s determined in hers—and the terrifying thing about Margo is that she’ll stop at absolutely nothing.

I loved this book. There is something narratively admirable about Margo’s ruthlessness, if not morally (‘cuz she’s a psychopath!). Best Offer Wins is a propulsive and uncomfortable read, the latter for the relatability of it all—because how far would YOU go?

May 4, 2026

A False and Fatal Claim, by Iona Whishaw

Lane Winslow is back in Iona Whishaw’s latest mystery, A False and Fatal Claim, the fourteenth title in her bestselling series set just outside Nelson, BC, in the idyllic hamlet of King’s Cove. Which is where the story begins this time, not long after Lane’s sojourn to Mexico, when Lane is visiting the beach and discovers not a body (surprising!—or at least she hasn’t found a body YET) but a hat. Meanwhile, a motorboat has been reported missing, and so too has a local boy gone astray.

What connects these three events? And more importantly: where is the body? And whose will it be?

All of this intrigue is in addition to local excitement around the wedding of Sergeant Ames, and the usual small town gossip and shenanigans. Plus, Lane is charged for caring for the missing boy when he finally turns up, because it appears his mother has run off too, just to someplace different. And the boy offers her one of her biggest challenges yet, making her consider questions of nature and nurture and how the troubled boy’s difficult life has kept him from learning to make proper attachments and made him lash out at the least opportunity. (Whishaw’s previous career as a teacher, social worker, and school principal has informed this story-line to great effect.)

I’m also not one to put pressure on couples to have children (it’s not for everybody!) but I’ve been wondering whether Lane and Darling would—it’s been a while since their wedding and a baby could be a nice distract from the poetry manuscript that Lane is perpetually avoiding, not to mention a diversion from stumbling across bodies. And Whishaw drops some interesting breadcrumbs making me wonder if a pregnancy plot-line might indeed be on the horizon…

The setting is cozy, the characters familiar and beloved, the mystery itself twisty and interesting, and all of this is underlined by a gorgeous and satisfying foundation of justice and social justice—the story is set in 1948, but Whishaw’s characters push back against racism and sexism in a beautiful way. As with all the books in the series, which manage to remain vital and fresh fourteen books in, these cozy reads manage to suggest provocative answers to some of the most pressing questions of the moment.

April 30, 2026

Two Months

The last two months have been a little bit wild, especially when you consider that most of my months aren’t wild at all. I’m a creature of habit, wedded to routines, and so I was nervous about the busy schedule that began unfolding for me with book promotion this spring. But oh, it’s been wonderful. So much fun, so much joy in connecting with others, so much gratitude for the opportunity to promote and share my book (and also that these efforts have created momentum so that it feels like the publicity machine is flying without me having to generate all of that energy myself).

I remember someone telling me once that having a second baby feels a bit like what you’ve always imagined having a baby would feel like (as opposed to having your existence blown to smithereens, which is what happened with my first child) and this experience of releasing my fifth book feels analogous—when I imagined being an author, I wanted to feel like this.

Some of this is luck and timing—the wind has been right, and its powering my sails. Some of this is having realistic expectations, and having some of them exceeded. It’s also being okay with the inevitable disappointments, and having stable ground beneath my feet with which to weather these—holding that Pema Chodran duality of big and small at the same time. And not looking for things from publishing a book that publishing a book is almost never actually going to deliver—arrival, self-esteem, certainty, an identity, meaningful respect, love or friendship. The thing is the thing, and that thing is publishing a book, nothing more and nothing less, and I’ve really just had a really good time, and what more can a person ask for?

Want to read more about this? My two recent Substack essays for paid subscribers are “A Yearning that Pours” and “This Book Launch Will Be Different.”

April 28, 2026

Becalming, by Aga Maksimowska

Aga Maksimowka’s Becalming is a novel that complicates dualities in the most fascinating way. The story opens on a sailboat, waves slapping the sides, and Gosia (who otherwise knows a lot) can’t tell a rudder from a tiller, whereas her mother can, at home as the captain, and suddenly Gosia sees there’s another side to her mother, one that she’s never even glimpsed back in Canada. She tells us, “This isn’t Toronto Harbour; this is the Baltic, an arm of the Atlantic, the world’s youngest sea.”

Gosia has returned to Poland with her sister and her mother after living in Canada for decades, painstakingly making a life there, and now—age 30—she works as a teacher, she’s stable in her relationship with Peter. Or maybe too stable? There is something wild and hungry inside Gosia that Peter struggles to accommodate, and Gosia has found herself drawn to a work colleague, the appeal of the forbidden. But stability is appealing too, especially after a childhood where she was left by both her parents—her father for another wife, her mother who immigrated to Canada before Gosia joined her.

The sailboat is important—becalming is motionlessness from a lack of wind, which can sometimes mean relief. The word also is very close to “becoming.” There’s a whole lot going on her, and the depths get even murkier when revelations about Peter’s dying father suggest he wasn’t the perfect man the Gosia liked to suppose he was, the counterpart to her own absent father. And all the counterparts are all messed up anyway—why are her relatives in Poland now doing better than the Canadians in 2007? Is Gosia, drawn to her colleague, more like Peter’s father herself?

In Becalming, Maksimowska weaves a complex and beautiful web of connection and disconnection, then and now, here and there, plot and prose both turning surprisingly, creating a rich and textured portrayal of family, history, and real and messy love.

April 27, 2026

Go Gentle, by Maria Semple

“It’s hard to imagine another writer getting away with this kitchen junk-drawer of a novel,” writes critic Ron Charles of Maria Semple’s latest, Go Gentle, and Charles means it in the best way. Because this isn’t your mother’s kitchen junk drawer, or your own, or anyone’s, instead a junk drawer that could only belong to the wondrous mind of Semple, as brilliant as it’s squirrelly, her narratives prone to sharp turns and unlikely diversions. Stoicism, 1990s’ comedy writing rooms, #MeToo, motherhood, covens, art heists, weird rich people, Central Park, the Louvre, bomb threats, secret agents, divorce, hot sex, success, and failure.

Go Gentle is the story of Adorra Hazzard, a mid-life divorcee, and a Stoic philosopher who lives on New York’s Upper West Side and is populating the units in her apartment with like-minded women so that she can form a coven. But then she meets a man one night at the opera, and the whole world becomes unhinged after that, Adorra cut up in an international plot (or is she just imagining things) that somehow ties back to her earlier career as a comedy writer before sexual assault by a colleague and an NDA put an end to that part of her life for good.

If you’ve never read Semple before, you’ll likely read this book, and wonder what’s going on here, and I certainly did the same sometimes—Semple throws her reader into the deep end, no hand-holding, it’s up to us to find our bearings, and there were moments when I was lost and confused. There is such a breeziness to her narrative voice that I’m compelled to fly through it, but there is some method to the madness and details that need to be attended to. (Up until the novel’s last page, I’d missed the cameo from the protagonist of Semple’s breakout hit, Where’d You Go, Bernadette?)

I’m the last person to read Maria Semple critically—Bernadette was a game changer for me as both a reader and a writer, and I’d follow her sentences anywhere. I loved this book, because I love everything she does—and I’ve also found her weird twisty books give bang for their buck, just as revelatory and fun to read a second time.