Deepam Wadds offered a session on May 12.

Deepam Wadds hosted a workshop, “Write Your Way In” as a part of the Write Around The World fundraiser.

Deepam thinks that the most successful and pleasurable writing comes from being in a state of wonder. Finding that fine balance between will and surrender; between skill and letting the pen run free is when magic happens.

Winner of The Writers’ Union of Canada’s 2016 short prose contest, Deepam (Susan) Wadds’ short fiction and poetry have been featured in literary journals and anthologies, including Room and carte blanche magazines. The first two chapters of her novel, “What the Living Do,” won Lazuli Literary Group’s writing contest, and was published in Azure’s winter 2017 issue. A graduate of the Humber School for Writers, she is certified in the Amherst Writers & Artists (AWA) method of writing workshop facilitation. Since 2014, she has been leading writing workshops and retreats in Canada, internationally, and most recently, virtually.

Three Generations

by Donna Lewis Fox

My grandmother’s Victorian sewing machine

drops into an oak cabinet with ornate urns carved into the door.

Fabric in the colors of a rainbow was cut

into diamonds, triangles, and squares to become a quilt.

Intricate swirls of tiny white stitches would be done by hand.

Another treadle machine with gold scrollwork on its arm

was converted to electricity by my dad. My mom refused to replace it.

It is the machine I used to create my first piece of clothing.

My mother’s sewing machine with its matching stool

covered in creamy vinyl sits in our library.

As a young mother, I inherited my grandmother’s machine.

In the fad of the day I antiqued it with a black base coat and gold highlights.

I sewed sweet dotted swiss sundresses with matching bloomers for my baby daughter.

When my new Singer arrived a year later,

my Grandmother’s was retired to life as an end table.



by April Boyington Wall

I Remember…

I remember the times before this lockdown. Eating outside on a patio. The vacation with my family outside Puerto Vallarta. The colours and laughter and the thrill of staying for an extra week to explore the  town. The writing retreat in Tuscany and sharing time with my daughter and her family in the villa we rented together.

I remember the time before I realized the deadness of some of my friendships—at least consciously. I was unperturbed,  or so I thought,  with the digs, the ignoring, the not-listening. 

Were those times better? I knew things weren’t quite right yet I hadn’t faced the ugliness of the limitations of those relationships.

I am hurting now, recalling what was unspoken yet so clear.

I Don’t Remember…

I don’t remember when the veil started to lift. I know that I often felt bad after interactions with these people. I recall noticing that the pattern was the same with one of them. I asked questions about him and his  family. I offered support. He talked about himself and his money and his accomplishments.

I don’t remember when I realized that he —and the relationship—weren’t going to change. And that the illusion of our friendship we had shared since adolescence was just that—an illusion.

I don’t remember when I realized similar patterns with others and recognized that it was not going to ever be different.


I Wore White

by Marie Lauzier

I wore white to my mother’s funeral. 

I read that funerals should celebrate as much as grieve,

That white was as appropriate as black.

And so I wore white.

It seemed important at the time.

I was not a rebel.

She had been sick for so long we had done a lot of grieving

With her, before she was gone.

It was time to celebrate,

And so I wore white.

No-one said anything.

My father raised his eyebrows and cleared his throat.

But he said nothing except “the car is here.”

My brother did a double-take and couldn’t look at me.

Family friends and relatives shook their heads and lowered their eyes.

My mother’s godson was too embarrassed to make eye contact.

I didn’t care.

I was the only one in white.

Even the priest was in dark vestments.

It was mid-May.

My only white dress was sleeveless.

I was cold and uncomfortable,

But it seemed important at the time.

Fifteen years later my brother finally asked,

what the fuck was that about?

I’m not sure, I said,

But I know it seemed important at the time.

I would do it again.

Her shortened time was full.

I needed to remember her with joy as much as sadness.

It seemed important at the time.

It still is.

Thank you for joining us to Write Around the World!

For the rest of the summer, watch our blog! We are sharing writing from AWA’s yearly marathon fundraiser, which happened this year all-online throughout the month of May.

We offer this series in appreciation for the incredible community of writers and workshop leaders that sustain us. If you’re inspired and would like to be part of the fundraiser, please donate!