CHICKEN DINNER | What’s that thing they say? One door closes and another … something or other? Whelp. I think this is the something or other, because two doors closed (in a sense, which is to say that I did not win the Montreal Poetry Prize, nor the WIBA for Landmarks and Beacons, my poetry collection) but … you know what? I suppose I saw a window.

And you know what else? I squeaked right through.

Officially, and drum roll here: I have been officially selected as the inaugural Anne Mitton Memorial Writer in Residence at the Charlotte Street Arts Centre for 2026-2027. What does that mean? Well, click the link to learn all about it, but the short answer is: They’re giving me $8k to finish developing a project of my own (The Potato Diaries: Live) IYKYK, and to teach a couple of courses. My focus for the courses (at least according to the proposal I made up) is going to be on live, true storytelling (basically transforming poetry and memoir for the screen and stage).

I have interoception issues (again, IYKYK) so it is often hard for me to identify how I feel about anything. Feelings are hard, right? But I KNOW this is a huge thing. The money alone is life-changing for me as a perpetually under-employed art rat, especially of late, but the honour is an honour regardless, you know? It’s huge huge huge. So huge, I would hardly know how to feel about it, were I able to feel things at all. It’s just that big.

Thank you to the Charlotte Street Arts Centre, to Matt Carter who has let me dip a toe back into the world of live performance with an incredible level of non-threatening, low-key welcoming kindness, which soothed me, as a patented nervous wreck in all things and at all times.

When I didn’t win the big-money Montreal Poetry Prize (which was $20k, for those who forgot), I wasn’t surprised. I wasn’t even disappointed. Not really. The odds seemed … terrible, you know? Some 4500 global entries and I’d already had two poems in the top 60. My Dad, a math guy, would insert here that I’m a ding dong who does not understand math or statistics, and that is indeed true. Nonetheless, lightning rarely strikes twice, right? Isn’t that was everyone says?

It’s actually quite funny that I’ve swallowed and internalized that sentiment because I know it to be false. Lightning does indeed strike twice. Happens all the time. And worse, being struck by lightning INCREASES your odds of being struck again.

Knowing this fact has done nothing to fix my thinking, however. As the kids say, and in my mind at least, the math wasn’t mathing. I don’t believe in delusions of grandeur and there is little that annoys me more than an overabundance of ego. I am not an arrogant person and I do not enjoy arrogance in others. So what can I say? I didn’t think I was going to win. The double-finalist thing was big enough. One must be careful never to anger the gods by asking for too much. I didn’t even want to apply for the Anne Mitton thing as a result.

At the same time, I understand that I take all of this too far. I know how irritating I can be to others. Too diffident. Too unconfident. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t know about this because I understand it. I know because people tell me! (Rude.)

When I do my usual (to me, reasonable) thing of hedging my bets, being humble, expressing realistic expectations, there are some who are inevitably immediately annoyed and always quick to tell me so. They instruct me to “think positive”. They say “don’t sell yourself short!” They chastize me, telling me I must be “nicer”. To myself. And they’re mad about it. Irritated, openly. (As if I am not me. Not in charge. Not aware of what I am doing.)

Who’s the real villain here?

It’s well-meaning and I get it, but it’s also very frustrating because it’s not that I don’t believe in myself. It’s that … it doesn’t make sense to be arrogant! I mean, have you seen what it’s like out there?

Raise your hand if you ever watched America’s Next Top Model. (Don’t worry, I am going somewhere with this.) I did watch ANTM (in my early 20s when the show was new, before we knew the damage it was doing). I was a fan of that train-wreck. It is what it is! I don’t blame myself, you understand. We were all blithely unaware of how toxic culture was at the time. (Jessica Simpson was “disgusting” and “fat” as a size four. Kate Winslet was “pudgy”. Donald Trump was nothing more than an amusing buffoon, a failed businessman, comically arrogant and unimportant. Heavens. In retrospect, it was all very dark indeed.

But anyway. On ANTM, in those early days, contestants were always punished for being reasonable, for having brains, and especially, for expressing any level of what I am going to call educated-guessery in regards to their odds. I remember someone saying something like, “I don’t know if I will win, of course, but I’m going to try!” and then they were chastised and booted! Literally, bumped off the show, because according to Tyra Banks and everyone else, evidently, they didn’t believe in themselves, so how was anyone else supposed to? Like. WTF? I’ve never understood it.

Reality television contestants and the general public learned as one to pantomime narcissist delusion, to say “I AM America’s Next Top Model!” Nothing was more disgusting and shameful than the alternative, which was to be hopeful, but normal. A normal person! Heaven forfend. Maybe it’s just the ASD, but I found it very difficult to comprehend. Still do.

So I didn’t initially want to apply for the Anne Mitton thing at all. After all, I was already a finalist for TWO major things. I only did because I was encouraged and told not to be such weirdo. So I decided to try. I also went for it in part because I learned that Anne Mitton was born on June 17, 1940. June 17th is a lucky date in my head. I often release books on that date. So I was hooked by serendipitous imagination. 17 is also just a good number. A meaningful number. I myself was born on a 17th. And 1940 is nice and round. (Yes, I know I’m nuts. Sorry.)\

But … Add the digits. Add again. You get 5. Also good. Do more numerology. 0+6+1+7+1+9+4+0=28 and 2+8=10 and 1+0=1.

It reduces to one. That has to be auspicious. So say the goblins in my brain at any rate.

The Anne Mitton Memorial Writer in Residence Program honours the life and legacy of Fredericton educator, author, playwright, mentor, and storyteller Anne Mitton (1940–2026). Throughout her distinguished career, Anne inspired generations of learners and writers through her work as a teacher, literacy specialist, writing instructor, and published author. This residency reflects her lifelong commitment to nurturing creativity, encouraging emerging voices, and building community through the written word.

I’m so excited to begin. More soon.