Ian Williams wins Giller Price

Ian Williams wins Giller Price
Novel- Reproduction

Joan Thomas Wins the Governor General Award

Joan Thomas Wins the Governor General Award
Novel - Five Wives

Wednesday, November 27, 2019

A poem to usher in the new year, 2020.


By Wislawa Szymborska

The world is never ready
For the birth of a child.

Our ships are not yet back from Winnland
We still have to get over the S. Gothard pass.
We’ve got to outwit the watchmen on the desert of Thor,
fight our way through the sewers of Warsaw’s centre,
gain access to King Harold, the Butterpat,
and wait until the downfall of minister Fouche.
Only in Acapulco
Can we begin anew.

We’ve run out of bandages,
Matches, hydraulic presses, arguments and water.
We haven’t got the trucks, we haven’t got the Minghs’ support.
The skinny horse won’t be enough to bribe the sheriff.
No news so far about the Tartars’ captives.
We’ll need a warmer cave for winter
And someone who can speak Harari.

We don’t know whom to trust in Ninevah,
what conditions the Prince-Cardinal will decree,
which names Beria has still got inside his files,
They say Karol the Hammer strikes tomorrow at dawn.
In this situation, let’s appease Cheops,
report ourselves of our own free will,
change faiths,
pretend to be friends with the Doge,
and say that we’ve got nothing to do with the Kwabe tribe.

Time to light the fires.
Let’s send a cable to grandma in Zabierzow.
Let’s untie the knots in the yurt’s leather straps.

May delivery be easy,
may our child grow and be well.
Let him be happy, from time to time
and leap over abysses.
Let his heart have strength to endure
And his mind be awake and reach far.

But not so far that it sees into the future.
Spare him
that one gift,
O heavenly powers.

Wislawa Szymborska, a Polish poet won the Nobel Prize for her work in 1996. She died in 2012. She was a fearless champion of human rights and a great poet.

Monday, November 25, 2019

Local Books by Local Authors

Reverberations: A Daughter's Meditation on Alzheimer's
by Marion Agnew

Marion Agnew

Most people think Alzheimer's Disease is the same as memory loss, if they think about it at all. But most people prefer to ignore it, hoping that if they ignore it hard enough, it will go away. That was certainly Marion Agnew's hope when her mother was diagnosed with Alzheimer's. Yet, with the diagnosis, Marion's world changed. Her mother — a Queen's and Harvard/Radcliffe-educated mathematician, a nuclear weapons researcher in Montreal during World War II, an award-winning professor and researcher for five decades, wife of a history professor, and mother of five — began drifting away from her. 

To keep hold of her, to remember her, Marion began paying attention, and began writing what she saw. She wrote as her mother became suspicious on outings, as she lost even the simplest of words, as she hallucinated, as she became frightened and agitated. But after her mother's death, Marion wanted to honour the time of her mother's life in which she had the disease, but she didn't want the illness to dominate the relationship she'd had with her mother. This moving memoir looks at grief and family, at love and music. It is a coming-to-terms reflection on the endurance of love and family.

The book is published by Signature Editions and is available at their web site.

 Meet Marion: informal hangout/signing at Calico Coffeehouse on Saturday December 14, 2019, from noon to 5 p.m. I won't be selling books there, but I'm happy to sign anything someone buys, either from the publisher (http://www.signature-editions.com/index.php/books/single_title/reverberations_a_daughters_meditations_on_alzheimers) or another bookseller. 

I'll Read That For You:A bluffers guide to 101 books you should read before you die.
By Margie Taylor 

Margie Taylor, book reviewer extraordinaire, wrote many wonderful reviews for this blog. Now she has collected 101 of them in a book called I’ll Read That For Your: A bluffers guide to 101 books you should read before you die. It is available at Amazon and the Amazon site lets you peak at the table of contents. Readers, you will be bowled over. Below is the Amazon review.

Margie Taylor

So many books and so little time! If you're too busy to read all the great books but want to be able to hold your own in literary conversations, this book is for you. In 1500 words or less author and journalist Margie Taylor tells you what the book's about, what you need to know about the author, and offers up her own personal evaluation. Her random sampling of books, taken from the 2010 edition of "1001 Books You Must Read Before You Die", are engaging, lively, and informed. Read the reviews and decide if you want to read the book yourself. And if you don't, at least you'll know what you're missing.

Thursday, October 24, 2019

Short Fiction by Joan M. Baril

  Mock Wedding
by Joan M. Baril
Corporal Jamie Sorenson, fast asleep in his childhood bedroom, finds himself leaping to his feet, and for a half second he’s back in Kurdistan reaching for his weapon. The noise that woke him, an erratic clunk, clunk, clunk, is barely audible above the unending prairie wind. 
No dawn yet but the July heat is already moving into the small room under the eaves. Outside the crow tribe is in full voice, loudly celebrating another day of drought. 
He pulls on his jeans, boots and tee and careful not to wake his dad sleeping in the next bedroom, heads down to the back door. Under the yard light, the dust flows on the wind, a dark unending wave. Inside the stable, his horse, Cody, the last animal remaining on the farm, is kicking at the sides of its stall. 
As he soothes the frightened creature, talks to it and calms it, he sees the problem. A dead rat, probably killed by Cody’s hoofs. He takes the shovel and lifts it out. It’s the skinniest rat he’s ever seen. Even in Iraq, the rats are bigger but then, it sometimes rains in Iraq. It hasn’t rained in this corner of Saskatchewan for three years.
He walks the horse outside into the light to make sure it wasn’t hurt in its frenzy. He smooths the wet flanks, checks the hoofs, rubs the velvet nose. Cody always hated rats. This isn’t the first he’s killed.
Jamie decides to saddle up and take a dawn ride around the farm. As he moves the animal through the dust, he does not look down at the thousands of rows of wheat plants, all small, stunted and dying. At the flat-line edge of the world, the sun appears slowly, wrapped in gold. Not one cloud accompanies it.

At the same time as Jamie is easing Cody along the familiar roads of the Sorenson farm, near-by, in the town of Whistle Creek, sixteen-year-old Dot Hexwan stands waiting as her granny unlocks the front door of her coffee house. Dot is carefully holding a pile of flat boxes containing scones, tarts and muffins for the morning coffee crowd. 
Behind them, the perpetual wind tears along King Edward Street, lifting dust, paper cups and assorted garbage along with dry leaves from the dying trees. 
“They say,” her granny says pushing open the heavy door, “if the wind ever stops in Saskatchewan, the people will fall over.”
It’s an old joke. Neither of them laugh.
The street lights disappear. Now the only light comes from across the road at the Keefer apartment above the Keefer Drug Store. The family’s having an early breakfast, Dot figures, to get the work underway before the heat. The business is closed and they’re packing up everything to move to Regina next week. Laura Keefer, the school librarian, is leaving with her parents and so the school library is closed until there’s enough money to hire a replacement.
            As they prepare the coffee house for another money-losing day, her granny says, “Are you sure you want to be here, Dot? Is this worth missing school for?”
            “I want to learn how to do it right,” Dot says. “Maybe when I grow up, I’ll need to know. You learned from your mother. But the meaning has changed from the olden times. On the net, I found lots of mock wedding parties. The University of Saskatchewan has them but they’re just concerts with rock bands. In the Dakotas, they have mock wedding anniversaries.  Everyone dresses up in silly clothes and makes fun of the anniversary couple. It’s really a roast with all kinds of crazy toasts and stuff like that. Just an excuse for a big booze up, if you ask me. Nothing to do with the weather.”
“Just remnants of the old culture, squibs that mean nothing,” her granny says, pushing several tables together to make one long table in the middle of the room. “Sort of like Hallowe’en now, all about skeletons and zombies. And Christmas without a mention of the solstice. In a lot of places, the real thing is forgotten but not in the small towns around here. Our memories are long, back to the Great Depression and farther. We don’t talk about it often and never with strangers, mind you, but we old ladies remember very well, at least my generation does. And there always was a lot of booze involved, or so my mother said.”
“Speaking of old ladies,” Dot says, “here comes your gang.” She holds the door for the two sisters-in law, Sybil and Ardeth Capaluk, who are lugging large dusty cardboard boxes.
“Put them there.” Granny points to the long table. “We’ll unpack everything, see what survived since 1936 and what needs mending. Set everything out. Then we’ll wait. I’m hoping the Sorenson boy will show up early. He’s my pick. And the Keefer girl, Laura, who’s moving away next week. She’s such a pretty, tiny thing. She’ll be perfect.” 
 Dot notices that the corners of the boxes are crumpled with age. The three women set to work, removing blue tissue-paper bundles and spreading out the contents: a white satin skirt, a large blouse with lace cuffs, a long veil with a headdress of artificial poppies still bright red after half a century in the Capaluk attic. 
“Your mom packed this stuff real good,” says her granny, lifting out a large pair of white high-heeled shoes with red cloth poppies pinned on them. And here’s your top hat, Dot. The tail coat has some moth damage but I can darn it up okay.”
Two hours later, the coffee is perking, the sign on the door says OPEN and Dot spies the  Sorenson jeep pulling to the curb. The old farmer and his son, Jamie, get out. The first customers. Inside the three old women wait.
Jamie sees the clothes at once and understands immediately. “Oh no,” he says. “Not me. Forget it. No way.” He backs toward the door but his father gives him a push forward into the room.
“Why not?” says Ardeth Capaluk. “What else you doing till your leave is up and you go back to Iran or where ever?” 
“It’s a crazy superstition,” Jamie says.
“Some say that,” Ardeth replies in the deep firm voice that once made her the feared principal of Willow Creek High School. “Maybe it is. Maybe we’re all just crazy old bats. It’ll give you a grand send-off party anyway. We’ve booked the Legion Saturday night. Dot’s in and we’re asking pretty Laura Keefer. It’ll be her send-off party too.” 
Several regular customers push through the door. They realize at once what’s happening. “About time,” someone says. A loud excited buzz of conversation fills the room as Dot circles the outer tables with the coffee pot and her granny sells scones and muffins at the cash. In the middle of the floor, Jamie and Ardeth Capaluk stand eye to eye, engaged in an intense whispered conversation.
“Give it up, Jamie,” old Ada Desrosier yells. “It’s a done deal.”
Jamie glares around and shoves his way out the door. His dad shrugs, sits down, turns over his coffee cup and nods at Dot. Dot thinks she has never seen the coffee shop so peppy. The word has spread. More and more people push in and some circle the centre table to stare at the ancient wrinkled clothes.

The three women dress Jamie in the back room of the Legion. A couple of his friends are with him, beers in hand, trying not to laugh. He stands there is his tee and shorts as the women circle around. 
“God, this blouse stinks,” he says. “What did you gals do?”
            “We tried our best,” Ardeth Capaluk says. “The material’s too fragile to put in the dryer and we couldn’t hang anything outside in the dust. So we sprayed the clothes with some stuff called Febreze.” She stands on a stool to reach up with the lipstick. 
            “God almighty,” Jamie says.
            When the piano sounds “Here Come the Bride,” Jamie teeters down the aisle on his dad’s arm carrying his bouquet of thistles. His veil trails behind him. The red ring of cloth poppies on his head slips over one eye as he moves toward the altar where Dot, in top hat, tails and a clerical collar waits, holding the Old Farmers’ Almanac for a Bible. Tiny, lovely Laura Keefer is there dressed as the groom in a too-big suit of her brother’s. She laughs out loud when she sees him and he feels the ridiculousness of acting out some ancient belief, the stupid idea that this silly game will end the drought, send down the rain. 
He hears the people in the chairs laughing and cheering and the lewd comments of his buddies. He knows every person in this room and for the first time during his leave, he feels right at home. After all, this is his town. He grew up here and so did his parents and grandparents and so did Laura and the crazy old ladies at the coffee shop and all the sad stone-broke people in the audience who have endured so much heartbreak for three years. 
They are standing now and clapping. “Bravo Jamie boy!” “Throw us a kiss, honey bunch!” He knows the bride is the star of the show. The groom and the minister are merely props. He is not sure how the cross-dressing stuff relates to the old beliefs, the half man, half woman idea that is supposed to change all their destinies. Try as he might he can’t feel any power in this ancient ceremony which arrived with the first settlers from eastern Europe, beliefs so old, that even then, no one knew when they started. But for this one evening, he knows that many of these people believe he, in his ridiculous female get-up, is the lodestar which carries the ancient magic, the ability to bring the rain.  
If, he thinks, I am now a woman, I’ll dammed well be one. Let the old gods, if they exist, help me out, both now and when I get back to Kurdistan. For the first time he smiles. He attempts a curtsy on his tippy heels, sets one hand on a hip as he minces, preens, blows kisses and yells back at the hecklers, gives them the finger, does a little dance, gets tangled in the long veil, gets untangled by his father and finally, grabs Laura around the waist and does a few jive steps, one sock breast falling down to his waist as he swings her around. 
The audience erupts in cheers. 
“Dearly Beloved,” says Dot. She can’t help laughing. The noise in the room covers up her words. “Do you Bride, and you Groom, promise to work together in the good years and bad?” 
Laura reaches out and grabs his hand. Even in her floppy suit, with no lipstick and her hair under a baseball cap, she looks terrific. “Do you accept the tornados, the dust storms, the winter snows and summer heat, the other worlds of plants and animals, and this prairie, more space than place, more sky than land?”
The audience quiets. Jamie and Laura look at each other. “We sure do,” they chorus.
“Okay,” says Dot. “By the powers invested in me by all the saints and sinners of Willow Creek and beyond, you two are hitched.” 
Even past the cheers, he hears the sliding panel door of the bar open, the chairs being pushed back, the sounds of the local dance band setting up on the stage. He and Laura hold hands as they accept the many congratulations. He then swings the veil around his waist, shoves one end down the elastic band of his skirt and kicks off the high heels. He’s ready to lead out Laura in the first dance. 

The party finally breaks up about three. He danced with everybody, even the old gals, the town witches as he thinks of them now, the ones who got him into this thing. He dances with Ms. Lawrence, his high school history teacher who tells him about the Alchemical Wedding, the union of opposites to create something new. He dances with some of the guys, slapping their hands away from his one remaining boob. Mostly he dances with Laura. They promise to see each other tomorrow night, keep in touch by email after they both move away. His dad, a one-drink drinker, left hours ago in the jeep. Laura leaves with her brother to walk the half block to the family apartment. He would have loved to kiss her good-bye but, no chance. Too many people around. In the back room, he changes back to jeans and tee and scrubs off the lipstick and black eye stuff. He stays on for a final drink with his old buddies, most of them staggeringly drunk, and waits for one of the designated drivers to take him home. 
No one in the unit will believe this, he thinks as the car bumps along the back roads to the farm. He’ll be leaving next week, a short course on small arms at Base Shilo and then, probably, back with the Kurds. 
The designated driver, Tom Fasina, who owns the school bus business, holds the car door wide so he can get himself out. “Good work, Jamie. You did great,” he says. 
Jamie stands a little unsteadily on the lawn. God what a party. The front door light gives enough illumination to see something fall to the ground. It’s one of the red cloth poppies from that ridiculous veil thing. It must have got stuck in his hair. He picks it up, a good souvenir. The cloth is frayed at the edges and the petals are covered with dark spots. As he stares at it, another dark spot appears. 

Sunday, October 20, 2019

A Letter from Northwestern Ontario Writers Workshop

Great news. If you are not a member of NOWW, this letter might make you want to join. Such. great organization.  Joan M. Baril.

Happy Friday NOWW Members,

I’m writing to share some wonderful news and offer some reminders about upcoming NOWW events that I think may interest you.

1)    This upcoming Wednesday, the 23rd, we will be hosting our second Write-In Wednesday gathering. We will be at Seattle Coffeehouse in Thunder Bay from 7-9 PM. This is a low-key, relaxing kind of event. It’s an opportunity to chat with other writers and work on your own writing projects. There’s no agenda, no expectations, no projects – just a time to gather and write with new friends. If you’re not sure what to write, we will have some writing prompts on hand. We hope to see you there!

2)    Marion Agnew is hosting a workshop at Waverley Library on Saturday, October 26th from 1-4:30 PM. Her topic is Creative Nonfiction and the workshop is described as: 

“’Creative nonfiction’ is an umbrella term that offers writers many opportunities to make choices. Whatever you’re writing – your life story for your grandchildren to keep, the history of European architecture in the 1990s, a scientific treatise on the role of insects in combating climate change, brief descriptive scenes from your daily life, or anything else = you’re welcome at this workshop. Through discussion and practice, workshop participants will look at how choices in form can support and amplify their purpose, how to think about the kinds of research that might help them, and how to gain the perspective you need to revise content you know well.”

Pre-registration is required which can be done on our website at: https://www.nowwwriters.ca/workshops.html

3)    NOWW is thrilled to announce that we have partnered with The Walleye magazine to publish NOWW writers previously unpublished work in “The Beat” section of their magazine. Your work, if chosen by The Walleye, will be paid upon publication. What an excellent opportunity to professionalize your work and be compensated as a writer!

As a NOWW member, you are being provided with this opportunity to have your work published and distributed throughout the region. To read the guidelines and to learn how and where to submit your work, please email Don at admin@nowwwriters.ca and he will get you started on your journey towards publication. Good luck members!

4)    Lastly, our first Peer-to-Peer Review commences this November 1st! This is an opportunity to receive feedback on your own work and provide feedback on another member’s work. Take some time to review the guidelines posted on our website at:

We look forward to receiving your submissions and to facilitate the review process to help you grow as writers. Wishing you all the very best!

Take care and happy writing,

Jodene Wylie
NOWW President

Don Parsons
NOWW Administrator

Box 425, 1100 Memorial Ave.,
Thunder Bay, ON
P7B 4A3

Monday, October 14, 2019

When I was a teen-ager, I read The Leopard by Giuseppe Tomasi di Lampedusa. I did not know it was one of the greatest Italian novels ever written. I knew nothing about Garibaldi, Italian history, the changes that ushered in modern Italy leaving behind traditional Italian culture and customs.
            I read it for the sentences, long beautiful sentences full of life and meaning.
            Now I’m reading Lampedusa by Steven Price, a book about the writing of The Leopard. And once again, the sentences pull me into the story and I can’t put the thing down. Some books open a door to another world. This is what The Leopard did many years ago and this is what Lampedusa does now. 
            Thank you,  Steven Price. Lampedusa is short listed for the Giller Prize.

Friday, October 11, 2019

New Book Club Books from our Public Library.

Hello Joan
I am happy to let you know that we have added quite a few new titles to our Book Club in a Bag Collection. Also, if you have been to the KitKeeper site recently, you may have noticed a new highlighted collection "Indigenous People Collection". These titles are written by Indigenous authors or are dealing with Indigenous subjects/issues. As always, you can put any of these titles on hold by visiting  Kitkeeper
As always, a big thank you to the clubs that donated all the great books.

New Titles:
Radium Girls by Kate Moore
The Seven or Eight Deaths of Stella Fortuna by Juliet Grames
Professor Chandra Follows His Bliss by Rajeev Balasubramanyam
Educated by Tara Westover 
The Chilbury Ladies Choir by Jennifer Ryan

Full Disclosure by Beverley McLachlin donated by the Tea & Trifles Book Club
The Power of One by Bryce Courtenay donated by the Beaches Book Club
Becoming by Michelle Obama donated by the Club Au Vin Book Club
The Neuroscientist Who Lost Her Mind by Barbara Lipska donated by the Choc-Lit Book Club
Quintland Sisters by Shelley Wood donated by the Silver Harbour Book Club

New Indigenous Titles:
This Place: 150 Years Retold by Kateri Akiwenzie-Damm
Moon of the Crusted Snow by Waubgeshig Rice
Moccasin Square Gardens by Richard Van Camp
#Indian Love Poems by Tenille Campbell
Islands of Decolonial Love by Leanne Betasamosake Simpson
Nitisanak by Lindsay Nixon

Helen Cimone
Community Hub Assistant - Collections

Mary J.L. Black Library
901 Edward Street South,
Thunder Bay, On P7E 6R2
TEL: (807)-345-8275
FAX: (807)-475-7855

Monday, October 7, 2019

The Price of Charity, short fiction by Patrick Peotto

Patrick Peotto
The Price of Charity
As the judge took his seat on the bench, Connor glanced over his shoulder at his client in the prisoner’s box. The man was vile, undoubtedly a murderer, but Connor knew that if he won this motion, he’d be set for life. He’d be considered one of the preeminent criminal trial lawyers in Toronto. 
He fingered the two-dollar coin in his hand, trying to quell his self-doubt. Where was Plutus this morning? he thought. How could he abandon me? 
Connor took his seat as instructed by the judge’s deputy and held his breath as he awaited the decision. 

Saturday, September 28, 2019

Wicked Storm by Peter Fergus-Moore


            "Mom, where's dad?"

            Tessie flinched. Turning slowly, she lied as casually as she could,

            "He's out right now, Edna. He had to work another shift at the plant."

            "No, he's not!"

            "Yes, he is, Bradley Pangborn, and I'll have you mind your tongue!" Tessie spoke more sharply than she had intended. Her son's eyes spurted anger light, but he said no more. Edna stared at her plate.

            "Now, we'll see about some supper."

            "There's no food!"

            "Yes there is, Brad."

            "Yeah? Where?"

            "Right here!"

            Tessie limped to the counter, where she had put the day-old bread. She knew there was just enough margie in the fridge for a few slices, and they  had a half quart of milk left. Maybe they could put some sugar on the margie and pretend it was a treat. 
            "Sugabread!" Edna smiled.

            "That's right, Eddie," Tessie smiled. She looked over at Brad. He was staring at his plate now.

            "I'm hungry," he muttered.

Thursday, September 26, 2019

Meet Michael Christie

Conversations with Michael Christie
Sunday September 29. 2 pm to 3. 

Tuesday, September 24, 2019

Some poems

Golden Rod September 
Masses of golden rods
Sunshine yellow along
roadsides, clearings
wherever spruce, pine
and birch have left some 
space, and even here in
the city where garden
or concrete do not reign.
(Elizabeth Kouhi)

We fold our hands
And close our faces
But underneath….
Just think of summer sands
(Karl Wendt)

 yesterday an old wind
today a cold stillness
an old mountain ash dies
(Karl Wendt)

The pond has dropped a foot over the summer;
Now you couldn’t pole a punt across it now.
New-risen loamy flats and yellowing lilies’
Braided root, thick a a leg, are dying

In fierce September sun; dark trunks of trees
that drowned and fell and sank
after beaver damned the trickling creek
turn pale as dust.

The radiant storms of words
and images cri-crossing air and settling
in devices electron-thin can’t reach
into valleys tucked under rocky ridges

of the Shield. Hours here
dissolve the city’s crust of irritants
and distractions: your ambition’s focused
as a frog’s, waiting for the bright fly.
(John Donlan)

Early Morning Mist
Amber fields scuttle away
and crouch in tall mist.

Trees angular
 as a runic alphabet
line the roadside,

their naked
limbs reach
into nothing.

I’m driving myself…where?

One touch
                        one touch
(Rona Shaffran)

Wednesday, September 18, 2019

September Reading

I fell right into this theme. I'm reading my story based on my experience of almost drowning in the Rio Grande River. I think that falls under the sub-heading below. "Danger." Hope to see you there at Merry J. Black on September 26, 7 pm. 

September Reading


Fire, passion, rage, 
danger, hot to trot, roses, hearts, communism ...

    Thursday September 26, 2019

Time:     7 pm to 9 pm

Venue:   Mary JL Black Library

Readers:   Patrick Peotto, Joan M. Baril, Peter Fergus-Moore
Open mic for poetry following the readings.

Monday, September 9, 2019

Wow. What a concept! Writers Take Note!

Write-In Wednesdays is a new NOWW offering. Once a month, NOWW writers will gather at a coffee shop with their writing materials (laptop, pen, paper, etc.) and a desire to be productive on their own projects among other writers. 

Working on a novel, short story, play, piece of creative nonfiction or some poetry? Bring that to the table and toil away alongside other writers doing the same thing. We want to write together and what better place to do that than a place that serves coffee? 

The event will run for two hours (from 7pm-9pm). If you don’t have any projects on the go - don’t worry; we will have writing prompts on hand to help you get started! 
This is an informal event to gather and do what writers do best - write. We hope to see you there!
Wednesday September 18, 2019 @ Seattle Coffeehouse at 7 pm.

Friday, September 6, 2019

Summer Reading with Sweet Peas

Three very good books. Flights by Olga Tokarczuk; In Other Words by Anna Porter: How I Fell in Love with Canada One Book at a Time; Party Wall by Therine LeRoux.

Thursday, September 5, 2019

Book Cover Challenge

Margie Taylor’s Ten Book Challenge required me to post on Facebook the covers of ten favourite books. Just covers. No commentary. Here they are:
1.    Sweetwater by Michael Crummey
2.    Dear Life by Alice Munro
3.    Dubliners by James Joyce
4.    A Two Spirit Journey by Ma-nee Chacaby
5.    The Russlander by Sandra Birdsell
6.    The Tin Flute (Bonheur d’occasion) by Gabrielle Roy
7.    The Josephine Trilogy by Sandra Gulland
8.    The Dead Celebrities Club by Susan Swan
9.    Lear’s Shadow by Clare Holden Rothman
       10. A Tree Grows in Brooklyn by Betty Smith