Spring and Death

Today is the first day of spring, and I always love the changes to trees and plants and the many colors. But this is now the deathiversary of my brother, Dennis Anderson. I miss him very much and still love him. He was the eldest of four and really, the best big brother. If one of us said we wanted to be an astronaut or a rock star, he never would have laughed, but just suggested ways to make it happen. Truly a supporter, he tried to work to make the world a better place. In a way, that was his downfall.

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He was a thinker, a problem solver. Some of his past roles included working at one of Alberta’s first recycling places (long before anyone was thinking of recycling), a broadcaster, an MLA and a minister in the Alberta legislature. Designated a red Tory, because he was always more liberal leaning, he always tried to see both sides of the coin. He wouldn’t necessarily defend criminals or a hated public figure but he would present balancing information and points of view. He was on the board of the Canadian Mental Health Associate, and the Edmonton police commissioner. He was an honorary Thai consul and created the Chimo Project, a pet-assisted therapy program, one of the first of its kind.

He did all this without having ever finished high school, though he did attend the 60s hippie haven called Rochdale College in Ontario. His work in mental health garnered him an honorary degree from the University of Alberta, where I found out for the first time that his love of dogs (Chimo was a dog he owned) started with his first dog Sally, who pulled him back when he was about to jump off a bridge as a pre-teen boy. None of us had an easy life with our parents but Dennis, being the eldest probably faced more anger and abuse than the rest of us. He was probably too sensitive to have been in politics and it chewed him up a lot.

In the years before he died in 2019, I knew something was wrong when he said that maybe people shouldn’t be allowed to vote because they didn’t understand what was going on, and would jump to extreme conclusions (and social media has made this far worse). His statement shocked me because he would have always presented the other side in the past, and tried to discuss and fathom the whys and wherefores.

The darkness was filling his soul, he seemed unhappy; and part of this was caused by years of chronic sleep deprivation. He couldn’t stop think and therefore never selpt. It affected his memory severely and for a thinker, that is a death knell. He’d fainted at one point a couple of years before. It affected his leg and his tastebuds. But the absolutely useless doctor he had somehow didn’t think to test him for a stroke. But Dennis also didn’t trust doctors; not because of their skills but because he’d known enough (including psychologists/psychiatrists) and heard how they talked about their patients. This built a lifelong mistrust so he wouldn’t see them when he should have. He didn’t like when physiotherapists would suggest he do this or that exercise and became petulant. He certainly wasn’t perfect but he was a far better human than he thought he was.

The day he died from complications of sleep apnea, I had just come home and was rescuing a bee. It was still chilly outside and the bee was crawling over a primrose but these flowers have no stamens so there was nothing to feed on. It couldn’t fly. I went upstairs and found a bottle cap, dissolving some jam in water and taking it to the bee. It eventually fed enough to fly away. Only later did I realize that it was about the same time my brother had died.

I miss the deep thoughts Dennis had, his way of cocking an eyebrow when one of us said something, perhaps peculiar or wild or overly opinionated. I miss the way he wouldn’t always outright laugh but give this “hmph.” He liked to play jokes and he enjoyed wine. He loved animals and tried to make things better. This poem was one of many I wrote to express my grief and honor my brother, who gave me my first taste of science fiction. This is a a true story.

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First published in Songs of Eretz

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Updates, a Little Late

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It’s March already. How does this happen? I have great intentions of writing more frequently in my blog, and yet, here it is, March, with this being the first entry. I’ve been trying to overcome ennui or procrastination, but really it’s creative procrastination. I get many things done, just not always the ones I should be working on. I also think I’ve wanted to write about so many things that I froze myself. So here goes.

Intensions for this year will come later, but let’s say if I can start to maintain some regularity of writing here, I hope to feature a poet every month and pay them for one new poem. I’m not there yet. In the meantime, I’m looking back on 2025.

It was a fairly good year, with many highlights. Top was having my fourth poetry collection Vellum Leaves and Lettered Skins published Raw Dog Screaming Press. The cover was done by BC artist Rene Nault. Each poem captures its own moment and imagery, yet the poems also come together to tell the tale of Rapunzel. This is not the Disney version. Rapunzel is a fairy tale that was told in many countries, where her name was also Prunella or Parsiletta, always names of edible plants. She was held in a tower by nuns who were trolls, a witch, and other types of characters. Always, because her mother transgressed into the property to eat of the plant for which she is named, she is given in payment. From compulsion comes the tale.

She is sequestered in a tower where her only special ability is hair that continues to grow and grow. She knows little of the world until a Prince (of course, always a symbol of power, virility and authority) hears her singing and tricks her into allowing him into her bower. One thing leads to another, and when the witch finds out that Rapunzel is pregnant, she is banished to a desert to survive alone. The prince returns and is tossed from the window to land in thorns that blind him, until he wanders into the desert. Rapunzel cries healing tears into his eyes, and gives birth to twins. Then they live happily ever after. I guess I was attracted to this tale because there is suffering or hardship before ever after happens. I took the story past the happily ever after and progress through Rapunzel’s life.

A variety of my poems and stories were published, with “Eugenics in the Modern Era” in HWA Poetry Showcase XII, “Moon Rising” published in Absynthe and nominated for this year’s Rhysling Award, “Corn God Revival” first published in Journ-E and reprinted in Year’s Best Canadian Fantasy and Science Fiction, Vol. 3, and three poems, “Whirlpool,” “generation ship,” and “Small Reveals” were nominated for the Dwarf Stars Award last year.

I’m proud of my poems and there were a few others that I worked over quite a bit. I was a little disappointed they weren’t nominated for a Rhysling but I find sometimes the poem that an author loves best is not the one that others do. “The King in Yellow” was in Weird Fiction Quarterly’s issue of the same name, and it was a highly experimental form to reflect the madness that the king in yellow distills. In On Spec’s issues I had “The Minotaur’s Tale,” and in its last issue “To My Koi Mistress.” The latter was a parody of Andrew Marvell’s poem “To His Coy Mistress” taken to the heights of space. This poem took years to write, working the rhymed verse, and not slavishly copying from the original. “No One Gets Out Alive” is a social commentary on what we do when aliens arrive, knowing each and everyone’s end date. “The Weavers” is a personal favorite in remimagine the Fates.

Many poems were published last year, more than one a week in total. And since it’s starting to look like there’s a regular Hugo Award for poetry, I should list my eligible poems, no? Now, really, it will be a cold day in Christian hell and a hot day in Norse hell before I ever win a Hugo, let alone get nominated, but I can dream right? Any fantasy or SF poem is eligible and horror falls under fantasy if there is a speculative element (or SF as well). So here’s a list of all my poems from last year that are eligible for nomination.

And what the heck, let’s toss in the stories that are elgible too.

Should you be a member who wishes to review my work, and cannot find it online, feel free to drop me a comment, including your email in the message (since WordPress is a bit wonky on the forms), and listing which pieces you’d like to read. I’ll do my best to send them to you.

I was interviewed several times last year but I will save this for later. Two other highlights were that my poem “Giants in Liverpool” is being taught in Introduction to SF Studies by Christina Rau at Nassau Community College. And, at the Rainforest Writers Retreat held by Patrick Swenson every year, I presented a mini workshop on speculative poetry.

Write on!

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Horror Flying

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Last week, fellow writer Janine Cross took me on an adventure in Horror Flying. What is it, you ask?

It’s a journey for writers of dark fiction on a 4-seater plane, with one fan shooting a video. We talked a bit about horror and had a lovely time on a beautiful day. When I wasn’t flying (yes, I flew the plane!) I took a few shots in the air.

And now, Janine’s introduction:

Welcome to Horror Flying – Where creators of horror and dark literature take their fans on a “horroflying” adventure!

In our first episode, Colleen Anderson takes one of her fans flying over her home-town of Vancouver.

Colleen is an award-wining author and poet who has been published in 7 countries and is the winner of the Rhysling award. Experience the adventure and learn a little more about Colleen.

On YouTube https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rm1hWdHT3Qs (most popular)
On V-Cloud (best quality):

Enjoy the ride. Stay tuned for more adventures as I head off to Stokercon in Stamford, Connecticut, on June 11th.

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Farewell, Nancy Kilpatrick, Vampire Queen

Nancy Kilpatrick passed from cancer on March 31st. Many of us were shocked because we had no idea she was ill. She and I had been meaning to talk but in January she was sick and on antibiotics and at the end of February, she had a sore throat and put off calling. I still can’t quite believe she is gone. She was one of the original goths and a prolific writer of horror, vampire fiction and erotica. She edited anthologies and contributed much to the horror and fantasy genres.

I’d known of Nancy before I submitted to one of her anthologies. I believe she’d accepted some of my poems for the Worldfantasy.con CD-ROM anthology (yes, discs!) in 2001. I wasn’t accepted, but a friend of mine was rejected as well and Nancy wanted to keep the story for a Vampire anthology she was putting together. I’d seen nothing so I boldly emailed her and asked if I could submit. She allowed it and took the story “An Ember Amongst the Fallen” for Evolve: Vampire Stories of the New Undead, which came out in 2010. That began our friendship. She edited 14 anthologies, some under her erotic writing pseudonym Amarantha Knight. Interestingly, some of those early ones were through Masquerdae Books and I used to copyedit for them way back in the day.

(clicking on the pictures will bring up the captions)

In 2013, I was going to Brighton, UK for Worldfantasycon. I’d been going to the UK Fantasycons every time I travelled to Europe. Nancy loved travelling as well and she contacted me about sharing a room. That’s truly when we got to know each other and talked about many things; kindred souls. She loved the macabre and was searching out all imagery of the danse macabre throughout Europe and elsewhere.

I managed to make it into her nEvermore anthology, a Poe theme book of stories, with “Asylum.” We met again in 2016, when she came to Calgary for When Words Collide. She wanted to go to Heritage Park and ride the old steam train. I met her there and we road around the park, enjoying a meal together. We wandered the old west streets, looked at the Mason’s hall and met up at the convention.

Besides Danse Macabre, Nancy loved the goth, including mummies, bones and collecting teeth. In 2017, I went to the Czech Republic and travelled around Prague for a few days before Nancy met up with me. We rented a car and journeyed the country looking for the bone crypts, mummies and jewelled skeletons. We travelled to Brno, Kutna Hora, Klatovy, Karlovy Vary, Putim, Melnik, Cesky Krumlov and into Waldsassan, Germany to see the jewelled skeletons. Nancy had some mobility issues and often used a cane. For some parts of the trip she’d sit and have a coffee while I beetled about. She’d also been to the Czech Republic before so was content to sit for a bit. It was a great trip and we both had a thing about bones. (In honor of her love of bones, I post some of the pictures here.)

In 2020, we were going to share a room for Stokercon in Scarborough, UK but covid came along and ruined that. We both ended up with anxiety over the convention as they didn’t want to refund money for membership or hotel. It took a fight and we lost money. That year unfortunately changed everything.

Nancy became more afraid of covid than many. She rarely went outside in Montreal and was afraid of getting the vaccines. We still talked from time to time. And she was so thoughtful, sending an interactive Christmas card each year, that had games and hidden gems. She was helpful too. One of our last email conversations was about calling but I’d asked her opinion on a small press and their contract. She freely gave her advice. In turn I copyedited one of her Thrones of Blood books.

Writing most of her life, she had numerous books, many on vampires, as well as collections, anthologies, and stories in various magazines and anthologies. She told me once that even though she had an agent she’d pretty much had to make the sale for every one of her books. Where there are thousands of writers, and fiction on vampires, Nancy managed to continue to survive on her fiction. That is an amazing feat.

We talked on and off, and last October I asked if her travelling days were over. She mentioned wanting to hit the UK again but Worldfantasy.con (in Brighton this year) wasn’t one of her favourites and the timing was off. There was never any indication that she had cancer and part of me wonders if it came on fast.

I miss my friend, a witty woman with a curmudgeonly streak. Intelligent, energetic, and a tireless writer. Wherever you’ve gone, Nancy, may you bring light and goth clothes.

To know more about Nancy you can find her website here.

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What’s New, Writer?

It’s been just over a year since my last post. Yes, this blog has lagged terribly. Life just seems to be speeding up in incredible ways. There is more news than I have time for today, but here are a few highlights of last year.

There was far more I did but I was pleased to find that my poetry collection, Weird Worlds, has made the preliminary ballot for the Stoker Award. Whether it makes the shortlist or not, we’ll see. Either way, it is an honor that people felt this collection was good enough to be recognized.

If you’re curious about where to find the works above, I have included links below. In the meantime, I’m writing fiction and poetry, and continue to freelance edit. I’m also editing for OnSpec magazine in poetry.

Projects this year include finding a home for a weird, apocalyptic, climate fiction mosaic novella (quite the mouthful), finishing a collaborative collection of poems on transformations, finding a home for a collection of SF (mostly) horror poems, finishing a vampire novel, putting together a collection of fiction, and publishing my first novel, whether that’s self-publishing or not, it’s time to let it fly. Plus, of course, I continue to write fiction and poetry.

In convention news, I plan to be at Stokercon in Connecticut, possibly Worldcon in Seattle (depending on the political climate), and World Fantasycon in Brighton.

Hopefully, if I can keep myself focused, you’ll see another post before the year gets gone.

Weird Worlds is available here or on Amazon.

Over the years, WordPress has changed its features for editing. I have no idea why links won’t show in blue. It’s certainly not as easy as it once was.

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Writing Life

You might have seen that I’m freelance editing, and you may have tried to reach me through the contact form on this page. Unfortunately, it was malfunctioning and I didn’t receive email addresses. If you reached out and haven’t heard from me, feel free to do so again. I can be found on Facebook as well.

In recent news…as in I’ve not been so good an keeping this blog up to date…I won the Rhysling Award for long form poetry with “Machine (r)Evolution.” I also won the SFPA contest for my dwarf poem “Calcination.” SFPA has many publications including Star*Line, Eye to the Telescope and our annual Rhysling Anthology and Dwarf Stars anthology. And yes, I’m president of the SFPA so I can say “our.”

In other news, I’ve started as one of the poetry editors at OnSpec, and I’m at Reedsy for editing, though you can contact me here for a direct route. Next year will see a new poetry collection coming out.

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I’ll be out of contact for the rest of this year but will respond where I can.

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The Lore of Inscrutable Dreams

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Women in Horror Month: Tabitha Thompson

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Tabitha has chosen to submit some of her writing. Below are two short pieces: “Sacrifice” and “Highway 54” for readers of Women in Horror Month.

Sacrifice

It was that time of year again. My body caught the flu, which sent my mom into a cleaning frenzy. Whiffs of pine cleaner, bleach, and even her homemade disinfectant entered almost every room, letting everyone who entered know that her house was not just clean, but immaculate. I’ve always loved my mother and she was always willing to help me get better. Each day, she used just a bit of disinfectant to take all of the germs away.

From what I’ve been told, I was a happy baby. My parents had the brightest smiles in the room when I was born; but the good times didn’t last. By the time I was eight, my dad got real sick and died. Mom tried her best to make him better, but by the time the doctors helped him, it was too late. The flu they said was the cause. Since then, my mom made it a mission to keep the house clean, so we won’t end up like Dad.

Five drops here, five drops there, Mom used her disinfectant. I had become used to the smell of lavender and lemon, which was always more soothing than the pine and lemon. Mom enjoyed when I complimented her on her cleaning and creativity, so she would make my favorite soup.

Chicken noodle. Smelling the rich, warm broth fill my nostrils always made me feel instantly better before I even tasted it. Bit of carrot and potatoes to make sure that I got my vegetables, and chunks of chicken. Every gulp made me smile even more, and made Mom very happy. But one day she wasn’t as happy. She told me she just missed Dad and how she ached for his love. I knew that she missed him, which I shared too, and she promised that we’d all meet each again someday.

Mom said it had been two weeks and I was still sick. My cough was getting worse, making Mom more concerned. More soup, more cleaning. The scents became heavier, but she said she wasn’t cleaning hard enough. From two times a week to almost every day, I heard the rag in the bucket or the sink and Mom’s voice hum a tune. She said she was having another one of her “days,” so cleaning happened every hour and she started making nothing but soup for me.

Although I didn’t mind, my taste for the soup started to wane. Mom hated when I complained and said soup was going to be my only meal. I hated making her mad; it made her clean more. Gulp by gulp, the soup became almost inedible, but I had to be grateful for what I had, which included the love of my mother. After all, I was her only child. The taste of lavender hit my lips and she explained that it was a new twist on the soup to make me more relaxed; but all it did was make me cough longer. Perhaps I was allergic to lavender but all I knew was Mom’s standard five drops of disinfectant became daily capfuls of usage.

Perhaps my immune system wasn’t strong enough to fight off the cold, and I reunited with Dad. Perhaps I wasn’t Mom’s love after all, especially once Dad’s and my life insurance policy dropped into her bank account.

Highway 54

Brown teddy bear with standard stitching and right eye removed, soaked from the rain on Highway 54. It was then his life changed. It was only a few miles from where he figured that for once his life would finally come back together, but during that moment it was replaced with fear, something that he never knew until he looked into the eyes of his son. Everything except the smells were a distant memory. The smell of the air thickened in his nostrils as it happened, the smell of the rain kissed with humidity, and the smell of blood. From his lips and nose to his glass covered car seats and his son, the scent was all around him, a constant reminder of that particular moment.

As he clutched the now tattered teddy bear in his arms, he tried to forget, but it was inevitable, the final moments in the car with his son were still there, including the tiny shards of bloody glass hidden in the creases in the road. Blue and red lights were in the distance, and as they came closer, it sank in. He wanted nothing more than to have the love of his life back, their lives filled with laughter and love. Improper placement of the car seat is what he would tell the police. He had no choice, it was the only way he could keep his marriage.

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Tabitha Thompson is a lover of writing words that become horror stories, reading, coffee, rock music, and video games while residing in Florida as a college student. Her work is featured in publications such as Sirens Call Publications, JEA Press, and Mocha Memoirs Press. When she’s not writing, she spends time with loved ones. Always inspired, always creating.

Twitter ID: @Tabicat90 Instagram: http://@tabby_t137

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Women in Horror Month: Katie Berry

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Sometimes, people ask me, “Why do you write what you write, Katie Berry?” I usually respond, “I don’t know.”

The question is a good one. I have always loved reading horror stories and fantastic fiction. My earlier forays into the unknown and unseen came through the works of such legendary writers as H.G. Wells, Jules Verne, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu, and Bram Stoker, amongst others.

It was when I was in my middle teens that I discovered more current writers, such as one with the last name of King, and also a gentleman named Koontz. It was overjoyed to find this amazing treasure-trove of phenomenal tales conveniently located under the letter “K” in my local library. After that, I delved into writers who don’t have a last name starting with “K” and discovered such greats as James Herbert, Graham Masterson, V.C. Andrews, Robert R. McCammon, Anne Rice, Gary Brandner, Michael Crichton, and the list goes on.

But that is more of a who’s-who instead of an explanation as to why. Sometimes, at this point, someone will ask, “Maybe it the environment in which you were raised? Or perhaps it’s a genetic predisposal due to some childhood trauma?” Fortunately, there was very little trauma in my actual physical environment during my early years that would have triggered my predisposition toward horror. I think really think that distinction would have to go to my mother, bless her little heart. However, where she got it from, is anybody’s guess.

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As a child, I shared her enjoyment of classic horror movies from the ’30s, ’40s, and ’50s right up into the 1970s. Universal’s Monsters were our favourites, along with the Hammer Films of the fifties and sixties and the Corman-Price pictures from the same period. This was around the same time I discovered reruns of Dan Curtis’s The Nightstalker on the Late Show on CBS. After seeing that show, I wanted to be an investigative journalist, just like Darren McGavin. I actually took journalism in college, and though I never worked for a news service, the research aspects that I learned through those courses have been something that has aided my writing greatly over the years. I had also begun reading some of my brother’s old comics, such as DC’s The Witching Hour, House of Mystery, etc. And though too young to appreciate the original EC Comics of the ’50s, I was able to enjoy them through reprints I came across in later years.

Comedy mixed in with the horror is something I remember enjoying very early on in life. And so, it was inevitable that Mom and I also watched Abbott and Costello Meet Frankenstein, then The Wolfman, followed by The Invisible Man. Humour and horror mixed together have always held great fascination for me. I find that the two go together like a fine wine paired with a lovely aged cheddar (or yes, chocolate and peanut butter)—just the right amount of each is a very pleasurable experience. When I write, I try to inject a little levity into all of my stories. I find the moments of lightness help to enhance the moments of darkness, so it’s really a win-win for me!

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This isn’t to say my writing is outright horror-comedy or anything like that, far from it. But I feel that nothing beats a good chuckle after having the crap scared out of you, as I am sure many of you might agree. According to some readers of my stories, I have succeeded in that regard. And that, for me, is everything. To know that I have helped someone get away from their everyday life, if only for a few hours at a time, and step into another world filled with thrills, chills and chuckles is a wonderful feeling, and I feel very blessed to be able to do so.

I like the analogy that a good horror story, or any dramatic story for that matter, is like a roller coaster ride. You have your peaks of excitement and dips of despair, along with some curves and corkscrews thrown in for good measure to keep things interesting. The sort of story that, when you put the book down, you have that same feeling of excitement and regret that you do exiting the rollercoaster, that it was overall too quickly.

If a writer can give that ride to a reader and add in some believable and relatable characters, they will have succeeded. As one reviewer said of my novel, CLAW, “What a great adventure! Loved the characters, the creatures, and the humor of this great story. Everything felt so lifelike. This is one of those books that you don’t want to stop reading and pull you in deeper and deeper from page one…”  

That comment is the kind that makes my long hours, lack of social contact, and sleepless nights, all more than worthwhile. If you tell your tale well, and you’ve done your job, you’ll scare the bejeesus out of some unsuspecting reader and perhaps even make them laugh a little at the same time. It is the ultimate compliment for any horror writer.

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However, I will say this for sure; I do not view what I do as a job. Writing is a lifelong passion that I have fortunately turned into a career thanks to years and years of practice before even thinking of publishing my first novel. These days, I am fortunate to look forward to the morning slog to the office, even if it is only over to the next room; a place where I can dream as I write and then turn those dreams into an exciting, and hopefully terrifying reality for my readers.

In parting, I would like to thank Colleen Anderson for the opportunity to write a few thoughts for her blog today. It has been a pleasure to talk of writing and horror in general like this. In the future, I hope some of you reading this might consider visiting a small fictional town located near me in the Kootenays called, Lawless, BC, home to CLAW: A Canadian Thriller. Or, if something a little less outdoorsy is more your style, then perhaps you might want to consider checking-in for a stay at my latest creation, the Sinclair Resort Hotel, the location of my upcoming novel, Abandoned, releasing this month. Until then, I hope your frights are filled with fear, and that your thrills have plenty of chills.

Katie Berry is a Canadian Author of Thrillers. Born and raised in Ottawa, Ontario, Katie moved west to British Columbia during a family migration that occurred during the later half of the 20th century.

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A long-time writer and voracious reader, Katie enjoys a variety of creative and recreational activities when she’s not absorbed in the written word. With many years of keyboard experience, Katie is an avid digital musician, and has been involved in several musical theatre and stage productions in the beautiful West Kootenay region of BC over the past few years.

An eye for detail helps Katie capture many magical moments with her camera as she interprets the natural beauty of the world that surrounds her through its lens. Always looking for something new to advance her artistic experimentation, Katie is also an accomplished sketch artist. She specialises in detailed drawings of friends, family and fur-babies, such as cats, dogs and the odd ferret.

After a lifetime of experience in numerous fields of endeavour, Katie now spends her days, and most nights, doing what she loves, bringing stories to life for people who enjoy a tale where the everyday suddenly becomes something much, much more…”

Titles by Katie Berry: CLAW, CLAW Emergence: Caleb Cantrill, CLAW Emergence: Kitty Welch

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Women in Horror Month: Miriam H. Harrison

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My guest today is Miriam H. Harrison. Like many readers and writers of horror, it is not a genre that presents unrelenting terror, but is a place from which people can heal from the real-life horrors in their lives.

Horror and Healing

Growing up, horror wasn’t a genre or an escape, but a word too close to home. I didn’t need prescriptive plot arcs or three-act sequences. Life itself was a series of rising tensions, fleeting denouements, and inevitable crises. It wasn’t as tidy, though. Writing gives you a chance to clean up the edges, tie up loose ends, find closure. Life just makes a mess. But in life as in writing, there’s room for rewrites, edits. For a time living was horror, but later, horror was healing.

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Horror intersects with all forms, all genres, so it’s little wonder I found myself stumbling into it. Anything you pull deep from your soul can draw breath in the dark and surreal—horror leaves so little out of bounds. It is a wide open space to roam, to explore dark corners and re-imagine the familiar.

For me, writing horror brings together surrender and control. Surrender is the art of facing the blank page. There’s a vulnerability to giving over to the words, to seeing what emerges from your shadows. The memories that live deep inside can be frightening, yet light has a way of shrinking shadows. Unchallenged, the shadows spread deep and wide, whispering from every side. Shrunk down in the light of day, those ghosts can be captured in vessels of words. In words, there is control.

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Control comes in many forms, but I have come to value it most in a red pen. Ghosts exorcised into words can be given closure. In editing and rewriting, we get to shape what came before, give it new meaning, new purpose. Here we can find the context and resolutions that life so often denies us. We cannot edit what is not written, but we are not unwritten. We are messy, and editing loves a mess.

This month, I invite you to celebrate both horror and healing. We all have healing journeys to navigate. For anyone living with unresolved trauma, this is not a journey to face alone. Bringing someone else into your process is a different vulnerability, but better than facing that pain alone. Mine was a common story. During Women in Horror Month—and every month—countless women are living in fear. Many turn to shelters or friends for safety. This year those opportunities for escape are fewer, but the needs are still there. As you look to support women in horror, think also of the everyday horrors women face and what you can do to help make healing possible.

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Miriam H. Harrison writes to keep her fingers warm in her Northern Ontario home. She studies full time, works on the side, writes when she should be doing other things, and trains the dust bunnies to fend for themselves. She is an Active member of the Horror Writers Association, and any updates about her published works can be found on Facebook (https://www.facebook.com/miriam.h.harrison) or her website (https://miriamhharrison.wordpress.com/).

She has two poems appearing in the Valentine’s Day issue of Tales from the Moonlit Path and five pieces in the Supernatural Drabbles of Dread anthology by Macabre Ladies Publishing, which is available for pre-order and anticipating a February release. Miriam co-edited with Dinah Lapairie and Kenneth Lillie, In New Light: The Many Paths of Identity, Struggle & Mental Illness for Northern Initiative for Social Action.

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