Doubt is Still There…

Hello Family, Friends, and Fans;

I think I can say that I’m a moderately experienced author at this point… (2 unpublishable novels, 7 solo published novels, 2 co-authored published novels, 2 co-authored unpublished novels, 10 years of serial stories, a dozen or so short stories, and over 15 years of blog posts)

I’m currently 2/3rd of the way through a novel, in the last stages of a TTRPG system, writing a serial story, and writing a novel with my wonderful wife. (I’m tired just thinking about it all.)

I have a giant secret to tell you… come in close… closer… hey, stop licking your screen…

It doesn’t get easier

The mechanics get simpler, once you understand how to use quotation marks and construct sentences. I’ve heard wild tales of authors taming commas but I’m sure that’s just a tall tale.

The actual writing doesn’t get easier. You try your best to put one word in front of the other and stay coherent, and in the end you have a pile of them that have to be cleaned and organized into something resembling a story. All the while, there’s a little voice that says, “Can you really do this? No, probably not.” Even after writing 11 novels, I still hear that voice and it’s hard to ignore.

That doubt is something I’m told all authors live with (if it’s just me, please don’t tell me. Leave me to my delusions) and it’s one of the greatest obstacles.

Having finished something does give me the extra little confidence to say, “I did it before, maybe I can do it again”. It’s not enough to silence the doubt but it does help.

Whether it’s your first or your hundredth writing project, you’re not alone. I understand.

Now, go write something,

Éric

I’m scared but I have hope

Hello Friends, Family, and Fans,

I’m back at work today, Dragon goes back to school, and life restarts after an extended break.

As I write this, I just finished reading the comments section on a Facebook post from Ottawa Public Health. I see in the comments a combination of anger and fear that is extremely familiar. Those that aren’t fake are people trying to come to terms with a world that seems to be falling apart. I understand the anger, I understand the frustration, and I understand the helplessness.

Unfortunately, we are in the golden age of cults. Yes, cults. From Dictionary.com, “An instance of great veneration of a person, ideal, or thing, especially as manifested by a body of admirers”.

Cults used to need to isolate and cut people off from their support systems in order to take advantage of them. In our curated digital world, it’s easy to find oneself isolated into specific communities with extreme ideas. My tik-tok is heavily queer, neurodivergent, writerly, and ttrpg based with a smattering of food and nutrition. I doubt that’s others’ experiences.

What this means is that we’re seeing more polarization and more us-vs-them and a lot more confusion. When everyone around you says the same thing and suddenly others are saying differently, it’s jarring and a little scary.

It’s a form of Cognitive Dissonance. That gut instinct of “am I wrong?” followed by either doubling down on your beliefs or challenging them. Unfortunately, there’s a lot more doubling down, especially when you are scared.

Basically, what I’m saying is that social media is a grade school rumour mill taken to the extreme. What that means for humanity is still to be decided.

No matter how hard it is to see, there is hope. Change is slow, social change doubly so. But every generation pushes it further. For every cult leader out there, there are people working to debunk their lies. For every 10-50 hate-filled comment, there are real people sharing their truths.

Hope in and of itself is powerful, with hope we can find the good. Without it we are lost.

What we can do is hard and doesn’t always work, but we can be kind. We can help those in need. We can tell the stories that need to be told. We can defend those who need it. And most of all, we can question everything.

That’s enough rambling from me.

Be kind and stay safe,

Éric

Going Home in a Writer Sort of Way

Hello Readers,

I’ve started re-reading The Copper Tarnish. I started the novel in November 2016 and took several breaks from working on it. I’ve finished six books since then. I’ve worked on it a little here and there, but it stalled when Pegasus was born and I devoted myself to finishing The Mystery of the Dancing Lights (Elizabeth book 4, coming this fall.)

The big issue with not touching a book for nearly three years (whoa Pegasus is going to be 4 soon!) is that I forgot the story, the characters and the voices.

That meant I needed to read the unfinished book, something I’m not good at. I haven’t been reading very much lately, mostly because it’s hard on my arms, but my wonderful wife inspired me. I loaded the document in Word and used the feature where it reads it to me. I set it to fast and read along. It’s really helpful and I think it’s helping me to re-connect with the story and characters.

I’m also really liking the story and the pure snark of the characters.

The Copper Tarnish is my attempt at a monster movie style story. It’s also a little more personal, being about a bisexual in Northern Ontario. Although I never had to deal with zombie people, green goo, aliens, or rogue goverment agents.

A lot of the book is set in a fictional town that’s an amalgam of the towns where I grew up, and re-reading feels a little like going home. Everything feels smaller and doesn’t fit right.

It’s weird reading something I wrote and it feels like someone else did it. I think once I get back into it I’ll feel like it’s mine again.

I’m hoping to be done writing this by the end of summer (more realistically the end of year) so I can submit it to my publisher. I only have about 20 thousand words left to write.

Thanks for reading,

Éric

La Princesse and the Wailing Ghost  – Heroes, Legends, Fairies, and other Absurdities

The other day Dragon asked me to tell her a story that I made up. It’s the first time she’s asked in almost 2 years. I made up a quick story and she liked it. When she asked again, I took the opportunity to try and bring back La Princesse.


In a realm of magic, in a time of heroes; there lived Princesse. She lived in a large castle with her mum, the Queen, and her papa, the King.

She loved everything; adventure, myth, and magic. One day, she hoped to become a wizard. She also loved spooky stories and was reading one before bed.

The story was fun and sent shivers of excitement and fear up and down her spine. She turned off her light and closed her eyes.

A horrible wailing noise filled her room. It didn’t last long but she was so scared, she didn’t fall asleep until early the next morning.

The lack of sleep meant she was extra tired the next day, but she convinced herself that it was just the wind.

The second night the wailing happened at the exact same time and she was again too scared to go to sleep. She imagined all sorts of spirits, wraiths, and ghouls that could be hiding in the castle. She didn’t sleep at all that night.

When she fell asleep in her soup at lunch, her papa asked her what was wrong. She could tell he was trying really hard not to laugh.

“I keep hearing a sound like someone crying at night.”

He said maybe it was the wind, her imagination, or maybe she was dreaming. He offered to put a guard at her door or for her to sleep in their room, but she said no.

On the third night, she was struck by sympathy for whatever was crying and with frustration, she decided to find out what was making the noise.

She put on her housecoat and slippers before leaving her room and following the sound. It was coming from behind a large painting of her great-grandfather. She saw that there were curtains on either side of it and when she looked behind it, there was a passageway.

In large castles and some mansions, there are often hidden passages for servants and guards to move unseen and quickly. This was one of them and the sound was coming out of a large pipe that opened behind the painting and went along the wall.

The Princesse was so absorbed in following the pipe that she almost tripped on a younger girl, not much older than herself, who was sitting on some steps and crying. The other end of the pipe was over her head.

“Hello, are you okay?” she asked the crying girl.

“Yes,” she said glumly and then noticed who she was talking to and stood up. “Princesse, what are you doing here?”

“I followed this pipe from near my room. It was causing your crying to sound like a ghost.”

The girl turned bright red and looked directly at the Princesse. The girl’s eyes were purple. “I’m sorry. I’ve just been really sad. It’s been a year since I came here and you and your family have been very kind, giving me a job and a place to stay, but I miss my parents.”

“Where are your parents?” The Princesse tried to sound calming the way her papa did when he was trying to calm a horse.

“My home was in danger and they sent me here. They were supposed to follow me, but they never did.”

“I’m sorry.” it sounded hollow to her own ears, so the Princess gave the girl a hug.

“Thank you and I’m sorry I woke you up. I’m Meagan.”

“Nice to meet you, Meagan. Next time you feel sad you can come see me and I’ll sit with you while you cry. Maybe we can have tea.” The Princesse liked the idea of having a friend inside the castle.

She quickly found that Meagan wasn’t like other people their age. She went to school, but she didn’t know the same books or plays and she didn’t treat the Princesse any differently.

That was nice. She was used to people being guarded because of who she was. They weren’t afraid of her or her parents, just overly formal and distant.

The two started having tea together before bed and telling each other ghost stories, and the Princess was never again woken by the wailing ghost.


Heroes, Legends, Fairies, and other Absurdities are the expanded versions of stories I’ve told my children at night before bed. They’re short, silly, and were completely improvised in the telling.

Dear Dragon – The Princesse

Dear Dragon,

For about three years, as of this writing, I have been telling you stories at night. They’ve been improvised and a lot of fun to tell. They started out very simple, with little girls getting lost and having tea with pixies, or rabbits who couldn’t jump, they expanded to Heroes, Legends, Fairies, and other Absurdities, and about a year ago, maybe less, you started asking for the same characters.

I wanted to help you with your French and I thought that adding some words would help. So I made up the Princesse, she started out as a simple character who discovered the servant’s tunnels in her castle and made friends with a kitchen maid called Amie.

From there, the cast expanded to include the brave Chevalier and a whole lot of magical creatures. There was a dragon kept as a furnace, another castle through the lake in the basement, grumpy wizards, aliens, a knitting ogre, and many others. It was serialized and adventurous. You loved the stories, begging me for more every night.

I added a one-off superhero and you loved her so much you named her MIghty-Girl and she became part of the main cast.

After a few months you asked about bad guys and I introduced the Shadows, a group of shadow monsters that the main characters accidentally released when they opened a treasure chest with a warning.

We went back to serialized for a while and then we added the Silver Fox, the Princesse’s arch nemesis and equal in intelligence. He was an alien like Mighty-Girl, but has super magic instead. She captured him eventually, but I drew it out for over two weeks. You were really excited about it. Later there were other villains; the Swan Sorceress, The Nightmares from Beyond, and the Evil Serpent.

We added lore about the great Wizards, Dragons, and Mermaids who created magic in the golden days, there was the glass pyramid in the Arctic with a castle full of zombies, the castle on the moon, the dragon palace that flew in the clouds, the mermaid kingdom, the floating city of mermaids and people, the great caves of friendly monsters, and the ancient ruins that littered the world.

I tried to have the Princesse win through brains, friendship, and kindness. She built hospitals, learned magic, and helped people and even changed bodies with a girl from our world who you called Rachael.

A few weeks before Halloween, you asked me to read some of the Disney Halloween stories instead and I agreed. This week, I asked if you wanted to go back to me making up stories, and you said no. You’d rather I keep reading short stories from your bookcase.

I know you really like being read to, but I’m sad that this story has ended. Maybe we’ll go back to me making up stories for you at night, but I fear the Princesse, Chevalier, and Mighty-Girl’s stories are over.

I wonder if you’ll remember them, or if like so many other things, they’ll fade away. Maybe someday I’ll write some of them down, but it won’t be the same.

All things change and I’ve never been a big fan of change.

I love you little Dragon,

Papa

Emotional Investment

Hello My Imaginary Friends,

Do you like sequels? Do you like reading/watching something that is formulaic or predictable?

It’s okay, we all do. I’m of the opinion that it’s a form of intellectual snobbery to insist that people must only consume stories that challenge them emotionally. Just because something is hard to read or makes you uncomfortable doesn’t mean it’s good or good for you. (It also doesn’t mean it’s bad.)

The reason we love things like sequels and series is the emotional investment. That the energy (mental or emotional) that it takes for someone to read or watch something. It’s the reason that some of us find it easier to watch 6 episodes of a TV show than 1 new movie.

When starting something new as a reader or watcher, you need to invest energy into the characters, understanding how they interact, figuring out the setting, understanding the plot, and trying to figure out how it all goes together.

With a sequel or formula, you already know the characters and the setting which frees you to relax and enjoy the other aspects.

As a writer, you need to think about the amount of energy people will be willing to spend. Having lots of characters and complex settings mean more energy for a reader to get into the book. If the characters die a lot, especially POV, or the complex setting keeps shifting then readers might feel their energy was wasted and not want to continue.

The same goes with playing around with tropes and genres. You have to set up how your book and setting are different early enough that people won’t feel cheated.

Of course everyone’s Emotional Investment quotas are different, as is their cost. Some people are energized by multiple characters where half die in the second book. Some people don’t invest that much in characters while others don’t care about setting. Everyone’s different.

It’s important to keep it in mind but it’s impossible to tailor to everyone. (Just like everything in writing.)

So next time you find yourself exhausted and wanting to re-read a book or just watch a random episode of a police procedural, remind yourself that it’s okay.

What books do you find draining but worth it? Mine are The Malazan series by Stephen Erikson. They are so much work, but a lot of fun. I usually have give myself a big pep talk before starting.

Latter Days,

Éric

The Ghost Who was on Fire – Heroes, Legends, Fairies, and other Absurdities

I asked Dragon for a prompt. She wanted a story about a ghost that was on fire.


In a realm of magic, in a time of heroes; there was an empty house with a lonely ghost. What felt like ages to the little ghost was only a few months and eventually the house was bought and another family moved in.

The little ghost was young and didn’t appreciate the new owners, especially the little girl who moved into his room. She changed the colour of the walls and added stickers of dragons, princesses, and flowers.

“Stop changing my room,” he said to her.

Now, some people would be scarred of a ghost suddenly appearing, but not this little girl. She simply shrugged and replied, “No. It’s my room now.”

“No, it’s mine,” he said.

“Mine,” she replied.

They went on like this for a long time until the little girl became angry and stomped her foot saying, “Listen here. This isn’t your room anymore, this is mine. You’re a ghost. You’re dead.” He deflated, quite literally, and hovered on the bed crying. He cried and he cried and after that, he cried some more.  Feeling guilty, the little girl added, “I’m sorry I yelled. Maybe we can share the room?”

“No. You’re right. I’m dead.”

“Shouldn’t you move on then?” It’s common knowledge, or at least it was to the little girl who loved reading ghost stories, that ghosts move on after they’ve accepted their death, unless they have unfinished business.

“I can’t, I’m too cold.”

That must have been his unfinished business. She decided to help him and find a way to make him warm again. But how?

The first thing she tried was to wrap him in her warmest blanket; it fell right through him. She made it into a little tent and he said it didn’t make a difference.

The second attempt was based off what she used to warm up her feet. There was a small heating vent behind her father’s desk. When her feet were cold, she’d stand on the vent and let the hot air warm her up.

She brought him downstairs and he positioned himself over the vent. They waited for the hot air. She was about to go try and reach the thermostat when the air turned on. The little ghost hovered in place for a few seconds and then was pushed by the air higher and higher until he was squished on the ceiling. The sight made the little girl giggle and giggle until she was flat on the floor.

When they had both peeled themselves off their respective surfaces, the little girl had an idea.

“We need something hotter. Something really hot.” She knew she shouldn’t play with matches or lighters, but since no one could see the ghost, she didn’t need to light anything.

They waited until just before dinner and when her father lit up the barbeque, she said, “Now go in there.”

“Isn’t that dangerous?” he asked.

“Yes, but you’re a ghost remember.”

“Okay.” With that, he flew at the barbeque and bounced off of it into the snow.

“Iron,” she said and smacked her forehead. “Ghost don’t like iron.” She’d learnt from her ghost stories that salt and iron kept ghosts out of places.

“Wait until he opens it!” she ordered.

The little ghost shook himself off and waited for the barbeque to open. He flew inside and when the lid closed, he was trapped.

When the lid was opened again the ghost flew out screaming, “Ow ow ow.” Inside his translucent skin were embers from the fire. He flew around in circles and finally dove into the snowbank again. Little spots of embers melted the snow in an odd pattern.

Back inside, in her room, she watched as the ghost shivered, still hovering over her bed.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“It’s okay. You tried your best.” The little ghost’s words were punctuated by shivers.

They stayed where they were for a few long quiet moments and the little girl started to cry. The ghost’s whole situation seemed hopeless. Between sobs, she said, “Maybe you could stay here and we could be friends?”

“You want to be my friend?” The surprise in his voice made her giggle through her tears. Giggling and crying are closer than most people want to admit.

“Of course I do… Hug?”

In response he nodded and she wrapped him in a big warm hug. It wasn’t until after she was holding him in a hug that she was surprised she could feel him.

Slowly, his shivering stopped and he gave a big sigh. “Thank you. I needed a friend. I think I can move on now.”

They both said goodbye at the same time and he slowly faded away, moving on to the next great adventure.

The moral of this story is simple: A warm, consensual hug can make everything better.

Heroes, Legends, Fairies, and other Absurdities are the expanded versions of stories I’ve told my children at night before bed. They’re short, silly, and were completely improvised in the telling.

Point Zero – Word of the Day – Cloister


Prologue | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10 | Chapter 11 | Chapter 12


Every generation has a disaster that is etched into their memories. My grandparents had JFK, my parents had 9/11, and we had first contact.

It was a cool August night in my childhood hometown. It had a name at the time, something nature related that no one cares about; now it’s called Point Zero. It was a small town barely numbering in the four digits. I sat on the duck in the grade school playground, it sprung back and forwards every time I took a drink from the bottle of vodka in my hand.

The small schoolyard had a fence around it. You could say that the yard was as cloistered from the town as the town was from the rest of the world. Other than the media from the outside world, Point Zero was its own little world.

The five of us sat on various remnants of our youth and drank to forget that we’d be leaving soon. Each of us heading to a college, university, or apprenticeship. I was supposed to be leaving the next day; I’d managed an apprenticeship with my uncle as an electrician at the new diamond mine near Timmins.

Frank was going into theatre in Toronto, Mel was heading to Vancouver for animation, Jane was going to study and travel the world in Ottawa, and finally James was going to save the world on the east coast.

“Is it a relief to have found what you want to do for the rest of your life James?” asked Mel.

“Sure,” her replied tentatively.

“Must be nice to have found your porpoise.” She burst into giggles and the rest of us groaned. We’d been friends our whole lives and despite multiple hiccups we’d managed to stay together.

“What’s the first thing you’re going to do when you’re on your own?” Frank asked the group.

“I’d say get drunk, but I’m not doing that anymore.” Jane shook her fourth beer before adding, “Without you freaks to keep me safe, I’m going to be paranoid of everyone.”

“I’m going to make a huge chocolate cake, with chocolate icing, and I’ll eat it without having my mom yelling at me.” Mel’s mom was a diet freak and severely allergic to chocolate. I’d once forgotten to brush my teeth before coming over at Halloween and almost sent the woman to the hospital.

“I’m going to go swimming in the ocean,” James said wistfully.

“How about you Sam?” Frank asked me, his green eyes seemed to glow in the yellow streetlight.

I took another swig of vodka to avoid answering the question. I’d had a crush on Frank since… well since I met him in kindergarten. Tonight was my last chance, so I thought, to tell him how I felt.

“I don’t know,” I replied lamely.

“Going to stay current?” Mel’s pun fell flat as the park was flooded with bright green light and searing fire. I still have nightmares about the green fire, the smell, and the pain.

The entire thing felt like it lasted minutes, but when we awoke on the glass surface known as Point Zero it was three months later and the five of us were alone.

Read Chapter 1


If you enjoyed this word of the day story, you can find more on our stories page and catch up on this year’s serial story, Devices of Desire

In defence of reading for pleasure

Hello My Imaginary Friends,

In fiction, there is a serious case of classism. Multiple serious cases or classism actually, but I’m going to talk about one that pisses me off personally.

Just because a story isn’t dark and brooding, or doesn’t make you cry at the indignities of life, doesn’t mean that it should be held to different standards.

Fluff, Light, Dumb, Popcorn, Adventure, and Popular are all ways of describing things that are categorised as lesser in quality. As they are automatically lesser, they are then considered immune to certain criticism.

Let’s take Ready Player One by Ernest Cline. It’s a nostalgia-driven love letter to the 80’s. So much so that the plot, politics, and characters are all 80’s stereotypes. That’s not a good thing. The plot is lazy, the characters hateful, the diversity forced and self-congratulatory. I’d go as far as saying the book isn’t just bad, it encourages a level of navel gazing and retro social politics that are toxic.

When discussing this book on panel The Nights at the Round Table, panelists gave it a pass because it was a Light Fun Cottage read. I am not attacking the panelists, they are wonderful people whom I care deeply for!

As consumers we’ve been told our entire lives that there are two classes of writing, the fluff and the serious. Over the years that has changed. Early examples of light fluffy reading is anything by Jane Austin, who is now considered a classic author (Deservedly so she’s fantastic). Shakespeare was the Michael Bay of his time.

#HoldFluffAccountable

Disclaimer: I am an Adventure writer. What I write is considered low-brow fluff even by the most adamant genre writers. I also read a great deal of what people call stupid fun (Urban Fantasy, Supernatural Horror, Genre YA, etc.) so obviously my opinion is skewed.

I hate that no matter how much thought I put into my writing, it will always be considered low-class and fluff. BUT I hate so much more that books and movies that fall into the same categories are immune to criticism and analysis unless they are extremely popular or extremely depressing.

You can read for pleasure and still be immensely touched and even enriched by any form of story. Books by Laura Resnick, Tanya Huff, Seanan Maguire, or Tamora Peirce have worlds as detailed and content a deep/meaningful as anything in hard Science-Fiction or epic Fantasy.

There are themes and stories inside superhero films that are just as dark or just as thought provoking as the latest drama/tragedy.

When you dismiss a story as not worthy of criticism, you are accepting that story’s flaws and normalizing its harm. It’s the popular fluff that will cause the most damage because it’s what more people read or watch. You must hold it accountable for its flaws and its mistakes.

There shouldn’t be two classes of story and you have the power to change that by holding them all accountable and by critically analyzing everything.

 

Later Days,

Éric

 

 

 

Dear Ghostbusters Haters: GET OVER IT!

Hello My Imaginary Friends,

Let’s talk about stories. We as a species have been telling each other tales, probably as long as we’ve had language to tell them.

In school you most likely learned that there are only 3 kinds of narrative conflicts:

  • Person Vs Person;
  • Person Vs Self; or
  • Person Vs Nature.

Theoreticians, specifically Christopher Booker, have said that there are a limited amount of stories that can be told (Seven if you’re interested). A lot of those that don’t agree with Christopher Booker, agree that we have told every story that can be told. That brilliant concept you have for a novel? It’s been done. That cool hook for a D&D game? Done! That awesome 3 cord progression for a pop song? Done, Done, Done!

If it has all been done, what’s the point?

Every human being is different. Everyone sees the world through a completely different lens. What I understand isn’t what you understand.

When we write, we’re writing about our hopes, dreams, fears, and realities. This means that even if 100 people wrote a variation of Robin Hood, they would all be completely different. They would reflect the person, bias, and society they live in. (Side note: it’s quite possible that 100 is an understatement for Robin Hood.)

Combining and building stories is a form of entertainment but it’s also a way to re-enforce morals, express ideas, and explain difficult concepts.

Writing or telling a story is never a wasted exercise, it’s a form of expression.

Attachment and Emotion (AKA: My Precious!)

To Gollum, the One Ring was his purpose for life, it was everything to him. To Bilbo and Frodo, it was a security blanket; to Sauron, it was a Horcrux and means to power; but to Sam it was just a burden.

Like the Ring, people get attached to stories. They can illicit memories and emotions of a better, or perceived better, time and place. Attributing more value to a story is a form of nostalgia and often clouds peoples judgement as to the quality of the story.

What you get from a story isn’t what someone else gets. One person might find the love story between Buffy and Angel as romantic and another might find it disturbing. The reason is that we filter everything we experience through our own bias, lens, and ideals.

Precious

Don’t be Gollum

Once you accept that everyone already has their own version of stories, you have the choice to either open up your mind and learn from others, or be a Gollum and cling angrily to your version. This gets even worse with re-tellings, re-imaginings, or remakes.

The important thing to remember is that your Precious isn’t going anywhere. No one is going to burn all the other versions, no one is going to erase them, they’re still there for you to enjoy.

THERE IS NO SUCH THING AS RUINING YOUR CHILDHOOD!

I’ve heard this phrase a lot and the memories you have of your favourite Precious, cannot and should not be tarnished by a new version.

The only way something can be ruined for you is if you re-watch it and realize that it was crap all along. But that doesn’t negate your emotions or the enjoyment you had watching it for the first time.

Ghostbusters

It’s officially the most hated movie trailer on Youtube. You’ll find more anger towards it in internet comments sections than any other human endeavor. There are conspiracy theories that anyone who liked it was paid to say so by Sony.

The hate for the movie is completely unjustified. It is a re-telling of a movie that was a re-telling of other myths. (Frankly it would be easy enough to map the journey of the heroes with the traditional Hero’s Journey, or more specifically, a rip off of Beowulf.)

I realize that most of the hate for this movie is misogyny veiled as nostalgia, but that’s a whole other post.

Ghostbusters

Conclusion: Get Over It!

Stories will be told and re-told ad nauseum, either get over it or stop consuming anything new. It’s not your place to dictate what others create or consume. If you believe it is, you’re wrong.

 

Myths, Legends, and Stories will continue to be explored. It’s human nature to explore our existence through stories. What better way to explore themes of humanity than by re-telling our favourite stories?

Éric