Latitude 46 Publishing celebrates fall releases

By Sudbury Star Staff Latitude 46 Publishing will celebrate the release of five books this fall with a public launch on Sept. 28 at 7 p.m. at Natura Events, next to Verdicchio Ristorante. Admission is free and there will be a cash bar. Following the success of its first full year of programming featuring a strong line-up of all female writers and national attention, the literary press continues to focus on the authors and stories that shape the experience, culture and history of northern Ontario. This fall, the Sudbury-based literary press will publish the works of award-winning playwright and theatre director Rod Carley (North Bay), poet Roger Nash (Sudbury), teacher Liisa Kovala (Sudbury) and adventure tour guide Hap Wilson (Rosseau). Latitude 46 Publishing will also print a second edition of Suzanne Charron’s biography Wolf Man Joe LaFlamme: Tamer Untamed, which was originally published by Scrivener Press. All five titles will be released in Sudbury, with additional events scheduled across Ontario. Books will be available for sale at the launch and then select retailers across North America, and online through Latitude 46 Publishing, Chapters and Amazon.

We’re looking for your CNF story for our next anthology

Latitude 46 Publishing is looking for Creative Non Fiction submissions for its next short story anthology. In recognition of Canada’s 150th birthday, we will publish an anthology of non-fiction short stories, entitled Up North for 150 Years, and more. Of particular interest to us are stories of colonization and resilience from Indigenous storytellers and stories of immigration both generations ago and today from Northern Ontario. The anthology will capture the growth of Northern Ontario since Confederation. Our goal is to recognize the many experiences that have formed this diverse and multicultural part of Ontario; both the Anishinaabe who witnessed the influx of immigrants to their territory and the newcomers who have helped shape this region. We are seeking original English language or translated stories between 3,500 and 6,000 words. Please include a short bio. If you are an oral storyteller or if you require special assistance in transforming your experience into a story, please contact Laura Stradiotto at laura@latitude46publishing.com. Publication is scheduled for Spring 2018. There is no fee to submit your story. Payment for publication is $150. Submit your short story through our online portal at www.latitude46publishing.com. Deadline for submissions is Friday Sept. 1 2017.

Into my father’s hands

After years of working on a manuscript, I imagine that most authors strive to get noticed by a publisher and land that first book deal, but publication was not my original intention. Since I was a teenager, I knew my father had an extraordinary story and I’d wanted to write it, but I worried that asking him about his life during the war would dredge up all too painful memories. Twenty-five years later, driven by fears of escaping time, diminishing memories, and increasing health concerns, we decided it was time to record his memories before they disappeared altogether. At the time, I thought little about what the finished project would look like, focusing only on remembering and recording. As our project evolved over months and years, I considered many options for sharing his story with our family, and even some close friends who had expressed interest. We discussed printing out copies, and maybe even binding it at a local print shop. During that period, I shared parts of the manuscript with teachers and classmates in my creative writing classes at University of Toronto. They encouraged me to complete and publish his story in book form. When the manuscript was complete, and with my father’s blessing, I sent it out to a few small presses and crossed my fingers, but that winter my father’s health declined and I felt that there was no time to lose. That’s when I decided to self-publish. The decision to become an indie author was the right one for so many reasons. There is no way to describe how I felt when I placed a copy of my father’s story into his hands or the look on his face when he saw his image on the cover. Fortunately, my father’s health improved enough that he could participate in book launches and other events with me after publication. As an author, self-publishing also taught me so much about the other side of writing: interior design and layout, various types of editing, cover design, shipping, distribution, sales, promotion, and a host of other issues I hadn’t thought about while I’d spent hours writing at my laptop. Months after self-publishing, I learned that a new small press had sprung up in my hometown with a focus on northern writers. As is my nature, I threw my hat, or in this case my manuscript, into the mix. What was there to lose? It turned out that it was a chance worth taking. When the publishers at Latitude 46 presented me with a contract, I received much more than that. All those roles I’d had to learn were now divvied amongst a group of passionate individuals whose purpose was to nurture my father’s story and support my efforts as an author. My book received a fresh interior layout, careful and respectful editing, and a lovely new cover, while I received a supportive team of individuals who believed in the book as much as I did. I’ll never regret self-publishing, but the transition to traditional publishing has been beyond my expectations. This time, I recognize the need for stories like my father’s to be read and shared beyond our circle of family and friends. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t think there is an author out there that doesn’t dream of getting that first book deal, but placing the book in my father’s hands was more important to me than waiting for years for a publisher that might never arrive. To my delight and surprise, as if by magic, a publisher did arrive, and in my own backyard. They had faith in me and in my project. Now, I’m looking forward to the moment when, once again, I can place a copy of my father’s story into his hands. For that I am forever grateful. –Liisa Kovala Surviving Stutthof: My father’s memories behind the Death Gate will be available Sept. 28 2017. Pre order your copy on May 1 2017.

2017 fall titles release party

Event Date: September 28th, 2017

Join as we celebrate the release of 5 books on Thursday September 28 2017 at Verdicchio Ristorante. 7 p.m. Free Admission. On this night we will be selling the new works of Rod Carley (North Bay), Roger Nash (Sudbury), Liisa Kovala (Sudbury) and Hap Wilson (Rosseau). We will also release a second edition of Suzanne Charron’s biography Wolf Man Joe LaFlamme: Tamer Untamed (originally published by Scrivener Press). All books are now available for preorder on our online store.

How writing brought me out of darkness

Some stories are easy to write. They keep us dreaming throughout the day. They fill us with endless hours of inspiration. They complete us. My first novel was one of those stories. Though fictional, I drew inspiration for that story from the people around me, their interactions with others, and their ability to persevere in even the most challenging circumstances. I enjoyed every moment that I spent working on the first draft, and had no intention of ever sharing it with anyone else. All I wanted was to write an entire book from beginning to end. Completing it was all the satisfaction I needed before, I tucked the manuscript away without giving it a second thought. Some stories are difficult to write. They keep us awake all night. They remind us of the darkness in our lives. Often, they tear us apart. I have always found true stories difficult to write, preferring fictional worlds over reality. But one night, after I was beaten, robbed, and left lying at the side of the road, I couldn’t think of writing about anything else. I was no longer inspired by anything or anyone, and the artistic lifestyle that once brought me joy had disappeared. My mind was clouded by the memory of that night, of my attacker’s voice and the violation I felt at having no control over what happened to me. The terrifying event played over and over in my mind, and no matter how much I wanted to change the story, it always ended the same way, with me scared, alone and bleeding on the pavement. Despite this cloudiness, I wanted to write about the attack. I thought that telling the story would help me to make sense of everything that happened and finally move on with my life. But I could only get four or five words down on paper before I had to stop. The night that changed my life forever was impossible to forget, and yet I could not force one bit of creative energy on to something that caused me such misery. And so I tried my best to forget about it. The more I tried to push myself to ignore the trauma, the harder it became to focus on anything else. Then, while attempting to distract myself from the loneliness of an empty house one evening, I came across the manuscript I had written before the attack. The words on those forgotten pages meant more to me than I could have ever imagined. I decided to devote some time to editing the story, and as I did, I began to recall how safe and confident I had been when I first wrote it. I found a distraction from my empty house and from the worst memory of my life. As I worked, I realized that after spending so much time trying to force focus on a negative story, I had completely closed myself off to the rest of the creative world that I cherished so much. Although it was unintentional, through the editing process I managed to find my way back to writing the “easy” stories. By doing so, I distanced myself emotionally from the one story that caused me so much grief. I also learned to accept that all stories, in their own time, become easier to share. Now, I keep myself open to all aspects of writing, because even the truest and darkest tales can end in light. Diana Douglas Diana’s debut novel Somewhere Picking Dandelions was published in November 2016 by Latitude 46 Publishing.

Judges wrangling over who’ll win a Northern Lit Award this fall

by: Sudbury.com Staff Sudbury publisher Latitude 46 has three works nominated for awards Back in May, Sudbury.com clued you in on the shortlist for the Northern Lit Awards this year. Sudbury publisher Latitude 46 is well-represented among the finalists. The publishing house started by Laura Gregorini and Heather Campbell saw three books it publishes included on the shortlist. In the English Adult Fiction category, Diana Douglas’ “Somewhere Picking Dandelions” and Shawna Diane Partridge’s “Rule of Seconds” both made the list. In the Louise de Kiriline Lawrence Award for English Non-Fiction category, Danielle Daniel’s “The Dependent” also made the list. “Huge congrats to @daniellefdaniel, Shawna Diane Partridge and Diana Douglas — three female authors we published in 2016. Shortlisted here!” Latitude 46 tweeted at the time. Now, with the finalists chosen, a panel of Northern Ontario public and First Nation librarians have begun deliberating to select a winner in each category. Finalists represent literary work written by authors with a connection to Northern Ontario and whose book has been published in the past two years. Winners will be announced and awards presented at the Ontario Library Service – North awards banquet Sept. 27 at the Radisson Hotel in downtown Sudbury. The nominees are: English Adult Fiction

Chalk – Doug Diaczuk (Anvil Press)
Wenjack – Joseph Boyden (Penguin Canada)
Grace and the Secret Vault – Ruth Latta (Baico Publishing)
Somewhere Picking Dandelions – Diana Douglas (Latitude 46)
Rule of Seconds – Shawna Diane Partridge (Latitude 46)

Louise de Kiriline Lawrence: Non-fiction

Killarney – Gustav A. Richar (Morsel Press)
The Dependent – Danielle Daniel (Latitude 46)
The Reason You Walk – Wab Kinew (Penguin Canada)
Alone Against the North – Adam Shoalts (Penguin Canada)

Poll Question: Have you read any of the books by local authors nominated for a Northern Lit Award? The Dependent – Danielle Daniel Somewhere Picking Dandelions – Diana Douglas Rule of Seconds – Shawna Diane Partridge

Latitude 46 looking for short non-fiction stories for anthology

by: Sudbury.com Staff. Latitude 46 Publishing is looking for creative non-fiction submissions for its next short story anthology. In recognition of Canada’s 150th birthday, Latitude 46 will publish an anthology of non-fiction short stories, entitled Up North for 150 Years, and more. Of particular interest are stories of colonization and resilience from Indigenous storytellers and stories of immigration both generations ago and today from Northern Ontario. The anthology will capture the growth of Northern Ontario since Confederation. The publisher’s goal is to recognize the many experiences that have formed this diverse and multicultural part of Ontario; both the Anishinaabe who witnessed the influx of immigrants to their territory and the newcomers who have helped shape this region. Latitude 46 is seeking original English language or translated stories between 3,500 and 6,000 words. Please include a short bio. If you are an oral storyteller or if you require special assistance in transforming your experience into a story, contact Laura Stradiotto at laura@latitude46publishing.com. Publication is scheduled for spring 2018. There is no fee to submit your story. Payment for publication is $150. Submit your short story at www.latitude46publishing.com. The submission deadline is Sept. 1.

What Growing Up In Sulphur City Taught Me About Beauty

I was born in a crater. My Northern Ontario birthplace was formed 1,849 billion years ago when a 10-kilometre-wide meteorite—actually, now they’re saying it was a comet—travelling at 8 times the speed of sound crashed to the earth. The massive impact formed what is now known as the Sudbury Basin—the earth’s second-largest crater at 62 km long and 30 km wide. That sucker punch from outer space filled the earth’s sunken face with molten rock containing nickel, copper, platinum, palladium, gold, and other metals. It took centuries for the pulverized rock to cool, and until the late 1800s for settlers in the Sudbury Basin to figure out they were sitting on, literally, a gold mine. By the time I was born in 1974, the city’s mines—Inco and Falconbridge—were two of the world’s leading producers of nickel. I grew up playing under giant plumes of sulphurous smoke belched by Inco’s massive smokestack at the refinery. My friends and I scrambled over the lunar landscape of rocks turned black by the copper smelting process. Some nights, Mom would drive my sister and me to see the slag being dumped by the mines. We’d sip milkshakes and watch the hot, lava-like substance spill down the side of a hill, mesmerized by its beauty. That’s right. I said beauty. For that’s what Sudbury was to us, then: the pockmarked backdrop upon which our imaginations could roam freely. With a little creativity, rocky outcrops became British boarding schools. Grassy backyards became stages for elaborate dance recitals. Graveyards became sites of espionage and intrigue as my sister and I hid behind tombstones, pretending our pointed fingers were guns. OK, we were strange children. But as Ray Bradbury puts it, “Trains and boxcars and the smell of coal and fire are not ugly to children. Ugliness is a concept that we happen on later and become self-conscious about.” (That’s from the introduction to Dandelion Wine). Indeed, I did grow self-conscious about Sudbury in my teens, especially after I moved away. “I’m from Sudbury,” I’d say apologetically to other Canadians, who’d laugh and say, “Ah, yes, the armpit of Ontario” (it turns out other cities like Hamilton share this dubious moniker as well). But now, after a visit back home this summer, I realize Sudbury is actually the heart of Ontario. For me, anyway. The city’s greening efforts—they’re now growing trees in the mines—have, over the decades, transformed Sudbury into quite a leafy, picturesque city in many places. Art is springing up all over town, too, thanks to Up Here, an emerging art and music festival. And, of course, Sudbury is home to friends and family—including my father, my wonderful step-family, and my indefatigable grandmother, still going strong at 100. However, the giant smokestack, now owned by a Brazilian company called Vale, still remains. The weather-beaten roads are potholed and plastered together with asphalt and tar. There are defunct breweries, shambling shacks, and, yes, graffiti-covered boxcars. At its core, Sudbury remains Sudbury—a hardscrabble frontier town built in a crater that was created when the cosmos decided to give the earth a walloping clout on the chin. Sudbury is gritty, tough, and has gold at its core—both the chemical element and the people. And that’s a beautiful thing. As a child, my imagination sprouted in the somewhat desolate and barren Sudbury of the 1970s and ’80s—just like the seedlings that now grow in Vale’s mine greenhouses, 4,800 feet below the earth. It has taken me several decades to really start mining my creativity and publishing essays and poems, but if I keep going, perhaps I’ll hit gold one day. Or perhaps not. But if my hometown has taught me anything, it’s the power of resilience and perseverance. In any case, I’m enjoying digging deep into my past and present for material. Sometimes, I stumble over subject matter that, at first glance, seems quite bleak—chronic illness, death, mortality, and madness, for starters. Fortunately, Sudbury has trained my eye to see the beauty shimmering beneath the soot. Who wants to spend their days sitting at a desk, poking around such bleak emotional terrain, you might well ask? I do. The landscape is incredible. Christine Schrum Christine Schrum lives on Vancouver Island. She has written for The Atlantic, The Washington Post, The Writer, McSweeney’s Internet Tendency, The Rumpus, Sulphur, and other publications. Her Twitter handle is @Schrumza

Atwood’s Challenge

Can I capture your attention in a single line? A poor graduate student as I was in 2014, I had the good fortune to be given tickets to a fundraiser in the city where I was studying, Windsor, Ontario. This was no mere fundraiser; it featured Windsor-born author Wayne Grady and hosted by Margaret Atwood (name drop). In my foam green dress and concealing a pen and copy of Cat’s Eye in my purse, I waited at the student’s table for Atwood. She circled around the room, exchanging greetings. I sat glued to my chair for the chance to speak with her and have her autograph the book. Margaret was magnificent with her white dusted, wild and curly hair. When she arrived at my table, she offered few but precise words of advice to me and the other aspiring writers. While I stared at her so-Atwood hair, she stated, “Make the first line good”. At that time, I was completing the first year of my Master’s degree in Creative Writing at the University of Windsor. I was researching and outlining my thesis which was to be a fiction novella set in my hometown of Sault Ste. Marie, Ontario. After graduate school in 2015, I took that summer to revise my thesis manuscript and later submit it to Latitude 46 Publishing (but I’m getting ahead of the story). I took Atwood’s advice as a challenge. When writing my thesis, I had to make the opening line of my novella, good. I couldn’t disappoint Atwood, could I? So I wrote and in the spring of 2015, I defended my thesis. Afterwards in refining the manuscript for submission to Latitude 46, I knew I didn’t meet Atwood’s challenge. My thesis’ opening line went like so: “The day began with thunder, then, heavy rain punctuated by lightning strikes so near the house, they rattled the windows”. The line had strong images, of rain and thunder. For that reason, I didn’t omit the line but it wasn’t opening-line quality (the line does appear in Rule of Seconds, published by Latitude 46, but as the book’s second line). It was powerful, but lacking. What though? I couldn’t explain it better than the line lacked something, a “punch”. What was a writer to do for guidance and inspiration? I looked to some Canadian heavyweights: My father came across the field carrying the body of the boy who had been drowned. (p. 121, Alice Munro, “Miles City, Montana”, Alice Munro’s Best: Selected Stories, McClelland & Stewart, Toronto, 2006) They’re all dead now. (p. 1, Ann-Marie MacDonald, Fall on Your Knees, Vintage Canada, Toronto, 1997) The river flowed both ways. (p. 3, Margaret Laurence, The Diviners, McClelland & Stewart, Toronto, 2007) People, years later, blamed everything on the bees; (p. 1, Robert Kroetsch, What the Crow Said, The University of Alberta Press, Edmonton, 1998) And of course, Time is not a line but a dimension, like the dimensions of space. (p. 1, Margaret Atwood, Cat’s Eye, McClelland & Stewart, Toronto, 1988) I asked myself, “What can I learn from these lines? What do they have in common? As a reader, why did they draw me in, make me proceed to the next line and onwards?” I examined each line from the perspective of a writer and reader. A writer is always writing for someone, some reader, even if it’s only for him or herself. I determined that those first lines were all to the point, shaved down, any fluff removed. Each created a single image or idea: a man carrying a limp body across a flat grassy field; of death, black-and-white photographs coming to mind; water flowing up and down stream; buzzing of thousands of bees; of time, endless black space. Reaching some answers, I then asked another question, “What image or idea did I want my reader to imagine from the book’s first line?” I didn’t know what the line would say, but I knew how I wanted it to be: sharp, concise, no fluff. One clear image. In the last round of edits before publication, I finally decided on the book’s opening line. When a reader first opens the book to read it or decide whether to buy it, they see this line: “It begins, always, with the eyes”. The eyes, defined image, recognizable, easily imagined. Those opening words, reflecting the reader’s own eyes on the inked page. As writers, do we accept Atwood’s challenge, to “Make the first line good”? By the way, later that night at the fundraiser, Atwood did autograph my copy of Cat’s Eye. Ever since, it has been proudly displayed on my bookcase, top shelf, with the spine uncracked. – Shawna Diane Partridge

So Ya Wanna Be A Writer, Huh? : Part 2

Many writers outline their stories and keep notes on characters, and that’s certainly the recommended method especially if you’re looking to complete long-form fiction such as novels.

Me, I never use ‘em. That’s probably a bad thing, but let me explain.

If you’re reading this right now, the chances are it’s because you’re interested in writing, or at the very least you’re a fan of good stories. For me, a good story is one where I can’t work out the ending. I don’t care if it’s a book or a film or a television show, I’m always trying to work out how it all ends up. If I can figure out the end, I call it out and quickly lose interest. My wife hates that, especially when I’m right.

What can I say, I can’t help myself.

That’s also how I feel about story outlines. If I know how my story will end, chances are other avid readers will be able to figure it out too. The knowledge that other folks read my work and enjoy it is a huge honour for me. The last thing I wanna do is insult their intelligence by giving them a predictable outcome. Sometimes it’s different, though. Sometimes I’ll get an idea for a story ending, and then I have to work out how to get there. Simply put, I don’t like having all the answers. What I do is start writing with a general idea, and hope for my mental autopilot to kick in.

Writers know what I’m talking about when I say autopilot. It’s a point you reach when creating fiction where you forget the conscious act of writing. The words are coming and the events in your story are unfolding, but it’s almost like you’re not in control anymore. It’s like the tale is revealing itself to you, like you’re a conduit.

It might sound like bullshit, and it doesn’t always happen when I sit down to write, but that’s what I aim for and it’s the best way I can describe it.

For those of you who are considering writing, my advice is to just do it. What are you waiting for? Hopefully you’ll discover your own autopilot or zone or whatever you want to call it, because that’s when you’ll be doing your best work.

Trust me.

– Robert Dominelli