Tuesday, July 17, 2018

Tanis MacDonald : Afternoon Mind, Beginner’s Mind: my (small-press) writing day


Whenever I catch sight of my office off-guard, out of the corner of my eye as I head down the hallway to do something else, I feel lucky.  My office is the room of one’s own that Virginia Woolf talked about, and I make 500 pounds a year (okay, more) by my own wits. It’s a converted bedroom at the back of the house, crowded with books and desk and comfy chair. I don’t sit in the comfy chair; I’ve got a stabilized yoga ball chair where I sit.

On the best days, that room of my own is my hard-won sanctuary. On the worst days, it’s where I sit and wonder how so much time has passed. Chelsea Hodson’s essay “Trying to Write Down Life Before It’s Too Late” on Lit Hub spoke to my anxiety about writing and not writing. My writing day is prosaic but it gives me access to what is glamorous: that is, the inside of my head. Annie Dillard asserted in Pilgrim at Tinker Creek that she wrote in a room without a window facing a cinder-block wall so that she could have undistracted access to her imagination. Do you have the right writing space? Maybe. What is the inside of your head like?

The biggest change to my writing day came at the advice of my doctor, who told me that the pain I’d been feeling for five years was not due to poor ergonomics or simple aging, but because I was in the early stages of degenerative disk disease, a condition so alliterative I think it must only affect writers. The cushioning disks between my vertebrae were wearing thin. My doctor gave me glucosamine, the instruction to ingest a lot of calcium and vitamin D, and the irrefutable caveat that I must stand up from the computer screen every twenty minutes. I was aghast: my process! The interruption! But soon, standing up became as necessary as any other part of my process. Standing up did one very necessary thing: it alleviated pain and that was very good for my thoughts. For me, sitting is the new shrieking.

Many descriptions of a writing day favour the morning: you know, a writer gets up in the morning and starts their day off by pounding out 1000 words. There’s not a thing wrong with that: if the circumstances of your life allow it, if you are savvy and lucky enough. But my brain doesn’t work that way. Sure, I’m freshest in the morning, but that’s not when my writer’s mind is sharpest. In the mornings, I have a wide-awake analytical brain, so mornings are for TCOB, every day, every way. Mornings are for arranging, organizing, evaluating, emailing, brainstorming, nailing down details, checking off items on to-do lists with a little social contact, and maybe drinking a hot beverage while staring out the window. For me, the writing does not happen if I am thinking about other things. I’ve got to clear the cache to get to the material.

When asked at a speaking appearance a little while ago, David Sedaris said that his favourite time of day was 8:30 at night, because that was when he had lived a whole day, walked and picked up trash and talked on the phone and cooked and eaten dinner, cleaned the kitchen with his partner and at 8:30 Sedaris could go back into his office and write up the day. Sedaris’s essay “Day In, Day Out” in Let’s Discuss Diabetes with Owls is devoted to discussing the benefits (and pitfalls) of writing up the day. I don’t go as late as Sedaris; my sweet spot is sometime in the afternoon – maybe 2:00 or so, when something stirs in my writer’s brain and strikes a tiny gong. It’s time, it says, time to write. There are days – many of them – when the gong sounds and I can’t answer it. Sometimes I teach at this hour of the day. Sometimes I’m in a meeting and if so, then my meeting notes are crosshatched with writing ideas because it’s the hour of the day when I find nearly everything that comes out of people’s mouths punny or metaphoric or a nudge towards the missing thread of the essay I’ve been writing.  

I know this is unromantic in the extreme. We’ve been psychologically primed to honour the pristine potential of morning, the idea of writing all morning and standing up and stretching at 11:00, checking your word count and thinking, “That’s a good morning’s work.” It does sound great, and it also sounds like a REAL writer’s life. Maybe that’s because every white male novelist in mid-20th century America claimed to work this way, with a door shut against children and distractions and a wife bringing coffee and cookies for that 11:00 break. (I remember reading that thing about cookies and coffee years ago and I won’t look up the writer who said it because I don’t actually believe it.) I’m not immune to the inherent romanticism of this, and I also know that this is not my life. I am a writer who bursts from her everyday responsibilities like a bell has been rung, the bell that says “that is enough reality that for now.” If there are too many days in a row when I don’t pay attention to the bell, I’ll start to feel it and wonder why I am so grouchy. Just as I have to ask myself when was the last time I ate (hello, low blood sugar) or the last time I was outside (serotonin uptake, check), I have to ask myself when was the last time I wrote. Because if I have to clear the cache of everyday detail, then I also have to clear the imaginative cache: the lyric load, as it were.

I know that writers are interested in how other writers do it. It’s a question that I hear from beginner writers all the time; people crave confirmation that they are already doing it the right way. No one likes the answer that there isn’t a right way to write; if you are writing, that’s the right way. Maybe a more useful question, the one people really mean to ask is about options: is a better method out there that they could/should/might adopt, or at least think about? Because every time I think I’ve discovered the optimal conditions under which I prefer to write, something happens to change my mind.

I love to write with others. I sometimes meet with a group of writers to write for two hours. We meet up, open our notebooks and tablets and write: that’s it. This is known by various names. I attended one called “Shut Up and Write” in Vancouver, invited by writer Jane Eaton Hamilton. You don’t need to know anyone to attend. No one will teach you or mentor you or make you write; you could just sit and stare into space for two hours, but that’s so boring that odds are you’ll write. It’s hard to explain until you do it; why should being in the room with other people writing get you to write? Logically, it shouldn’t. But don’t pay too much attention to logic.   

I love a deadline.  

I love writing projects that demand directed once-a-day writing. A month is usually the longest I can sustain one of those. But I’ve written a poem a day during April as part of NaPoWriMo for the past six years, and more than once have produced book chapters by adhering to a strict 800 words-a-day-or-die rule for three or four weeks.  

I love to revise, and that’s when morning works for me as a writer. Because revision is detailed, painstaking, and distracting with its many needs. And I do sometimes write in the late evening, when I have shut down every other thing. This is a good time to turn to something I’ve struggled with writing, with adapting, with changing and allow my tired brain to call it out: nope, stop pussyfooting, say this and this and this. Enough prevarication.

I love when my writer’s mind won’t stand for any niceties.  

I love when my back lets me write.

I love when my afternoon mind kicks in.



Tanis MacDonald is the author of three books of poetry and one of creative nonfiction, Out of Line: Daring to Be an Artist Outside the Big City (Wolsak and Wynn 2018). She was a finalist for the Gabrielle Roy Prize in 2013 for The Daughter’s Way and was the recipient of the Robert Kroetsch Teaching Award in 2017, and the Faculty of Arts Teaching Scholar Award at WLU in 2018. She is also a co-editor, with Rosanna Deerchild and Ariel Gordon, of GUSH: menstrual manifestos for our times for Frontenac House (2018). Widely known as a scholar and a reviewer, her fourth poetry book, Mobile, is coming out with Book*hug in Fall 2019. You can find her at www.tanismacdonald.com.

Sunday, July 15, 2018

Kyle Flemmer : my (small press) writing day


My small press writing day

Recently, my small press writing day activities consists mostly of small press publishing, and, as you may know, small press publishing consists mostly of the jovial performance of repetitive tasks. As creativity is, sadly, not my means of subsistence, sometimes these tasks – like folding, cutting, and binding – must be spread out across several intermittent days. Occasionally I’m able to power through a demanding project in a day or two. So rather than document a single day in the life of my small press practice, I offer you the sum total of the actions I would perform for a hypothetical edition of chapbooks with the following characteristics: 50 copies of a 6” x 6” chapbook, 8 sheets printed on one side and folded to make 16 internal pages, bound at the loose end between 2 printed cardstock covers with a 4-hole stab binding. Let’s assume the project is fully proofed, ready to print and assemble, when we begin…

Printing cardstock covers one at a time using the rear paper feed slot on my printer: load print load print load print load print load print load print load print load print load print load print load print load print load print load print load print load print load print load print load print load print load print load print load print load print load print load print load print load print load print load print load print load print load print load print load print load print load print load print load print load print load print load print load print load print load print load print load print load print load print load print load print load print load print load print load print load print load print load print load print load print load print load print load print load print load print load print load print load print load print load print load print load print load print load print load print load print load print load print load print load print load print load print load print load print load print load print load print load print load print load print load print load print load print load print load print load print load print load print load print load print.

Cutting cardstock covers to size, three cuts, two sheets at a time, on a swing-arm paper cutter: cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut.

Printing internal pages: print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print print.

Folding internal pages with the help of a bone folder: fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold fold.

Cutting internal pages to size, three cuts, four sheets at a time: cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut cut.

Collating the loose sheets for binding: sort sort sort sort sort sort sort sort sort sort sort sort sort sort sort sort sort sort sort sort sort sort sort sort sort sort sort sort sort sort sort sort sort sort sort sort sort sort sort sort sort sort sort sort sort sort sort sort sort sort.

One at a time, each copy is fastened in position, pierced four times with a hand awl, bound with 12 stitches, knotted, unfastened, and their knot is burnished: fasten stab stab stab stab stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch knot unfasten rub stack fasten stab stab stab stab stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch knot unfasten rub stack fasten stab stab stab stab stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch knot unfasten rub stack fasten stab stab stab stab stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch knot unfasten rub stack fasten stab stab stab stab stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch knot unfasten rub stack fasten stab stab stab stab stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch knot unfasten rub stack fasten stab stab stab stab 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knot unfasten rub stack fasten stab stab stab stab stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch knot unfasten rub stack fasten stab stab stab stab stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch knot unfasten rub stack fasten stab stab stab stab stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch knot unfasten rub stack fasten stab stab stab stab stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch knot unfasten rub stack fasten stab stab stab stab stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch knot unfasten rub stack fasten stab stab stab stab stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch knot unfasten rub stack fasten stab stab stab stab stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch knot unfasten rub stack fasten stab stab stab stab stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch knot unfasten rub stack fasten stab stab stab stab stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch knot unfasten rub stack fasten stab stab stab stab stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch knot unfasten rub stack fasten stab stab stab stab stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch knot unfasten rub stack fasten stab stab stab stab stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch knot unfasten rub stack fasten stab stab stab stab stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch knot unfasten rub stack fasten stab stab stab stab stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch knot unfasten rub stack.

Lastly, I press the stack to ensure each new copy of the chapbook lies flat. I use my copy of The Complete Calvin and Hobbes box set, which weighs about 20 lbs., to compress the stack overnight: squish.

And voila, a limited edition of hypothetical chapbooks ready to set loose on the world. Should you be interested in my non-hypothetical chapbooks and/or other projects, I invite you to check out www.theblastedtree.com, where you will find print media featuring the work of dozens of authors and artists!




Kyle Flemmer founded The Blasted Tree Publishing Company in 2014 as an outlet for his writing and to build a community of emerging Canadian artists. He is currently the Managing Editor of filling Station magazine, were he served as Associate Poetry Editor for two years. Kyle graduated from Concordia University with a double-major in Western Society & Culture and Creative Writing, and has released three recent poetry chapbooks: ASTRAL PROJECTION (2017) from above/ground press, Lunar Flag Assembly Kit (2017) from no press, and Pray / Lewd (2016) from The Blasted Tree.

Friday, July 13, 2018

Lindsay Zier-Vogel : my writing day


When I was pregnant with my first baby, I was terrified I wouldn’t be able to write after he was born. I read every article I could find about writers, with kids, and gleaned that I would write when he napped (thanks, Alice Munro!). Of course, newborn naps aren’t really naps, they’re tiny pauses in the onslaught of newborn needs, and my first kiddo was not a sleeper and writing felt impossible. Well, that’s not true, I wrote anyway in the bull-headed way that I have, and then when the fog cleared and he slept and I started sleeping (ish), I read what I had been working on and it was fragmented and disjointed and generally terrible. It was terribly depressing. BUT then this shift happened, the shift everyone told me would happen, but that I didn’t quite believe in. My baby started napping solidly, on a mostly predictable schedule (and not on me, or in a stroller!), and then my time to write also became more predictable.

When I’ve done writing residencies, I wear the same clothes every day and listen to the same album and write in the exact same spot at the exact same time, and even eat the same things for breakfast, lunch and dinner. I take away all the extra decisions, so that I can live inside whatever I’m working on. I need sameness and structure, and impose a strict schedule on myself. The days of spending a month on a farm in Nebraska, or in a house in a tiny village in Burgundy seem laughably far away these days, and yet, the tricks I picked up there have served me so well while writing in the early days of motherhood.
I wear the same clothes. I always make a cup of Earl Grey tea in my favourite tea mug (not to be confused with my favourite coffee mug). I write in the same place. I put on the Department of Eagles’ In Ear Park. (I have been listening to that album while writing since 2010 and I am Pavlov’s dog and whenever I hear a song from it out in the wild, I feel I should instantly be writing).

When my second baby arrived, she took over my writing room. I was really sad about it at first, gutted even. I felt like I was giving up the final corner of myself when I replaced my desk with her crib. I loved my writing room. It’s the tiniest room in our house, with the best morning light, and it was filled with all my books and Love Lettering Project supplies, and quilts I had made. I moved my little office to the basement and it’s actually the most lovely little nook. It’s filled with all my books, my quilts, my Love Lettering Project supplies and the comfiest little couch. I have the best art hanging above my desk, a box of letters from my dearest friends, and my Amelia Earhart stamps framed and cheering me on. But it turns out, I don’t write down there. For a stretch, I was writing on the couch, but our living room is always strewn with ukuleles and Lego and dinosaurs and half-read kids’ books and balled up toilet paper “gifts” made by my son—most recently a book about Amelia’s airports. It’s too cluttered to sit and write there these days, and I refuse to waste precious naptime tidying up.
So now I write in my bedroom, in the centre of my bed. We got a king-sized bed earlier this year, an extravagance that took a long while to justify, but it is absolutely glorious and my very favourite place to be. It’s the room in the house furthest from any kid messes and our bed is a huge white fluffy island, the oak tree outside the window my dependable writing companion. I take my tea with me, open iTunes and put on Department of Eagles and write, or edit, or these days move my first person narration to third person.
I’m working on a book about Amelia Earhart. Well, kind of. It’s also about Grace, a 30-something library tech in Toronto, who is in love with Amelia and writes her letters as she navigates her way through her own life. I often look up photos of Amelia while I’m writing, typing in “Amelia Earhart hair cut” or “Amelia Earhart beach”, trying to find photos I’ve never seen of her. She breaks my heart and fills my heart, her beautiful smile, her confidence, the small cracks in her confidence.
My research is haphazard at best. I find tiny anecdotes—like how she was a social worker and helped Syrian refugees learn English, or how she loved tomato juice, or how she fell in love with flying on the edge of Lake Ontario during the CNE’s airshow, or how she called the plane that carried her across the Atlantic her “little red bus”—and hold onto them like lucky pennies, turning these tiny fragments into stories. There is so much I don’t know about her. There is so much I imagine I do.
This project is written in letters and sections of prose, and there’s something so perfect about the structure that lends itself perfectly to how I’m able to write these days of limited childcare—in short intense bursts, while the baby naps. I’m constantly amazed by how much I can get done in a short amount of time. It also helps to have my incredible writing group, The Semi-Retired Hens cheering me on and giving me feedback and asking all the right questions. Whenever I feel stuck, I think of them, writing in their own homes, trying to figure out all of the strange things required when creating entire worlds on your laptop.

Morning naps are for fiction. Afternoon naps are for grant writing (my job!) and/or non-fiction (I’m working on two books based on my community arts project, The Love Lettering Project—a non-fiction how-to guide and a kids’ book!) and evenings, after the kids go to bed are for grant writing, email sending, pitch writing, all the work-work I didn’t get to earlier in the day and all the other writing that writing requires—blog posts, newsletters, final reports, etc.
One day a week, I have both kids all day. On these days, I try to wake up early and bury myself in writing before my fella leaves for work and I have both kids all day. I used to swim in that early morning window, but realized after snapping one too many times at the kiddo to nap already that I was so desperate for them to nap so I could write, (and so of course they didn’t nap!), that I needed to do it first thing. Put my own oxygen mask on first and all of that…
Of course this is my most aspirational routine. Of course there are days the baby is teething and refuses to nap unless she is on me. There are days I am too tired to write (and I have finally stopped trying to push through those times and started giving myself a break), and then the other 24 hours a week I need to fit in my work-work which takes priority over my own projects.

Though it’s not writing-writing, I’ve also learned how essential swimming is to my writing process—it’s where I’m able to think and let my mind wander and float and drift, untangling all the things I couldn’t untangle when staring at a computer screen. I sort out nearly every problem in both my life and in my writing life while I swim and if I go for too many days without a dip, my mind starts to get all jammed up and I can’t stand to be around myself. I would love to swim every day, but it’s just too hard to fit it all in, so I aim for 4 times a week. And lately, I’ve been loving daycare pickups. I pull the kids in the wagon and they steal each other’s snacks and make jokes I don’t understand and sometimes fight, but they’re behind me, and my brain can wander.

I’ve realized recently, that the hardest part for me about having babies was losing the time, space and mental capacity to let my mind wander. But now that my kids are 3 (well, allllllllmost three-and-a-half) and 15 months, it can wander. Six weeks before the baby’s first birthday, I realized my mind could once again hold big thoughts. I could look at my novel as a whole, instead of staring at the single document I had open on my computer. It felt like all of a sudden there was a new room in my brain, a room where I can bank big thoughts, a room where I can put things in to mull over. I don’t always have time to hang out in that room, but it’s there and it is both empty and full and I’m so grateful to have gotten to a place where this room exists. So though I write in my bed, with ink stains on the sheets and smears of mid-day chocolate, when I’m not writing, I still have that new room in my mind. I love that room.



Lindsay Zier-Vogel is a Toronto-based writer, arts educator and love letterer. Her work has been published in various publications including the forthcoming edition of The Letters Page (University of Nottingham), Where The Nights are Twice as Long (Goose Lane Editions), Watermarks: Writing by Lido Lovers and Wild Swimmers (Frogmore Press/Pells Pool, UK), The Temz Review, The Toronto Star, The Lampeter Review, Taddle Creek. She is currently working on an epistolary novel about Amelia Earhart, titled “Letters to Amelia” and is one of three contributors to the popular swimming blog, Swimming Holes We Have Known. Her hand bound books of poetry are in the permanent collection at the Thomas Fisher Rare Books Library.  Lindsay is the creator of The Love Lettering Project, an internationally acclaimed community art project that has been bringing anonymous love letters to strangers since 2004. She is currently working on two books about the project – a DIY guidebook for adults and a children’s picture book.