Carla was born and raised in Vanderhoof, the geographical centre of British Columbia and one of the earliest Mennonite settlements in the province. Though she left Vanderhoof after high school and has lived on Vancouver Island for a quarter of a century, she still returns in her writing to her childhood hometown, her family, those long Sunday sermons, and the rumble of her father’s logging truck coming down the drive. She has published five books of poetry, the most recent of which is Gloryland. Carla is currently polishing a creative nonfiction collection about small-town childhood and spiritual imagination.
Occasionally, Carla’s writing shows up on other pages:
“Funk meets the eyes of God in this collection. Each poem gives praise to the worlds around, before, and behind us. Moreover, Funk continually reminds us that it is the smallness of where we begin that moves us to write and create.”
– Gillian Sze, in Rhubarb, Issue 40
Occasionally, I stand at a microphone in front of an audience and read what words I’ve written. Sometimes, the room is full of people who know how to make poetry reading sounds, the low hmmm and mmmm that seem to mean, Hey, metaphor! or, That seems deep. Or maybe just, You lost me with that image of a monkey loose in heaven.
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I’ve always loved listening to writers talk about creative process. Part of that fascination comes from my
nosey nature a natural curiosity about the world. The other part comes from a desire to learn what stokes creativity and how to stoke it more.
I feel his sweating shadow at my back, the archetype of every dawdler, and emblem of each time I’ve shot a glance, rolled my eyes, shaken my head and clucked my tongue over the one who can’t catch up.
The biggest berries grow along the fence line of the farm down the road, their juice fuelled by the cows that graze the fields. Each manure pie and spell of rain mingle down to roots that drink it up, make every pinkish flower burst into a tiny clutch of seeds that sweeten with the bees and hum of sun.
My father wanted to name me Edna, after some hot chick he knew in his fast car days. I picture him at the wheel of his Ford Fairlane and her riding shotgun, shrieking around each hairpin curve, a gauzy scarf tied over her hairsprayed beehive to guard against the wind.