Dear Canadian Reader,
First, an apology. It grieves me to see my country’s political activities wreaking havoc on our closest neighbors and around the world. I’m sorry for the broken relationships, unfulfilled promises, and disrespectful threats. I understand why a note from a fledgling American novelist might not appeal, despite the author holding dual citizenship. But I write stories about hope, and hope will be the theme of this note too.
I grew up enthralled by my dad’s stories about his childhood summers spent on Saturna Island in British Columbia’s Gulf Islands. Dad’s grandparents, a physician and a nurse, established one of the first pharmacies in Victoria to include natural remedies from Indigenous Peoples, then retreated from city life and settled on Saturna. When WWII ended, my dad’s uncle Chuck, a RCAF pilot, brought his young wife Anne, a London socialite, to Saturna, where they built and lived in a cabin without electricity or running water.
When my dad was one year old, his father was killed in a Victoria shipyard accident. My grandmother, a nurse like her mother, continued living and working in the city. Every summer, she sent her three small children to be with her family on Saturna.
Dad recalls picking ripe apples from the homestead’s orchard. Endless huckleberry pies, jams, and pancakes. A collection of seashells and glass on the kitchen windowsill. One small dinghy, two brothers, a boatload of salmon. Orcas meandering close enough to mist the boys with their breath. A legendary Chesapeake Bay Retriever named Ace accomplishing larger-than-life feats, like saving my dad from drowning, pulling an islander to safety during a wildfire, delivering messages and supplies (even fresh meat from the butcher, still neatly wrapped).
When my grandmother eventually remarried, her husband promptly relocated his new family to the United States. Decades passed before my dad revisited his childhood oasis. In 2004, Dad arranged for several of our family members to visit Saturna Island together. Our ancestral property had become part of the Gulf Islands National Park Preserve. On its website, Parks Canada describes Narvaez Bay as “one of the most beautiful and undisturbed bays in the southern Gulf Islands”.
Even as I anticipated the visit, I braced myself for disappointment. Surely the Saturna Island of today, untouched as it might be, couldn’t possibly live up to the grand descriptions of a grown man remembering idyllic childhood summers?
Once there, I relished the warm sun on my face. The breeze whispering through pine trees above. Crystal blue water surging below. Harbor seals bobbing among floating bull kelp. Dry yellow grass bending in the wind. Feral goats scampering across rocky trails. Crows and ravens calling from the forest. Blooming wild roses perfuming the air.
As a family, we explored the remains of the ancestral cabins. Ate lingering apples from the old orchard. Delighted in finding sea glass and shells. Considered the marvelous resilience of a single arbutus tree clinging to solid rock out over the ocean, its roots gnarled and weathered.
Hearing the call of a bald eagle, I looked up. Held my breath as one, two, three bald eagles flew so close I heard the wind whistling lightly through their flapping wings. An unexpected revelation—it seemed a spiritual message combining my faith, the eagles, and my ancestors all at once—filtered into me.
This is where I belong.
I’d never understood when other people said one geographical location or another had a hold on them. Now, I was certain that, of all the extraordinary places in our big wide world, I was inextricably tied to this bit of soil, the majestic cliff overlooking Narvaez Bay.
A few days later, I began writing the first of many stories set on fictional islands like Saturna. Deep, evergreen forests and high, rocky cliffs. Thundering surf on the west side, sheltered bays on the east side. Wild, roaring windstorms and clear, starry nights. Birds (lots of birds!). And whales—including an endangered pod of orcas—singing into an underwater microphone.
British Columbia’s beloved Emily Carr grabbed my attention. I studied Carr’s artwork, read her fictional stories, and pored over her journals, awed by how real-life experiences can influence artistic efforts. I reread childhood favorites by Lucy Maud Montgomery, discovered the author’s journals, then visited her historic green-gabled home on Prince Edward Island. Later, Alice Munro’s short stories and Louise Penny’s mysteries gave me more glimpses of Canadian writers.
For years, Dad had gently reminded me that although born in the U.S., I was also born Canadian and could claim citizenship at any time. Feeling it a momentous decision, I put it off—until the U.S.’s 2012 presidential election season, when it dawned on me I might someday very much want to rely on another home country. And not just any country, but Canada, who I’d grown to love, respect, and be inspired by.
I submitted the necessary paperwork. Received documentation that I was indeed officially Canadian. No need to earn passing marks on a test about Canada’s history, political structure, and geography. I’m still embarrassing inept in my knowledge of Canada and her ways, though I anticipate a lifetime of happily learning more.
Readers often ask if Wren Island, the setting for many of my stories, is a real place. You won’t find Wren Island on any world map, but it does exist. We find it whenever we imagine what could be. Whenever we reach for courage, anticipate joy, trust in love, hope for something better.
Wren Island stories are about sharing life with people we love (and people we find difficult to love!). They’re about offering second chances to others and accepting second chances for ourselves. They’re about reaching for love—reaching for the very best, true, steadfast kind of love—and trusting that we’ll be better for having done so.
And, always, they’re about hope. Canadians and Americans alike can bring the Wren Island vibe with us wherever we go. I’m glad you’ve discovered Wren Island, because the first inklings of these uplifting stories fluttered to life on Canadian soil, in a Canadian forest, surrounded by a Canadian sea.
Here with you,
Laura
P.S. Want to bring Wren Island novels to a Canadian library or indie bookstore? Find handy links here.
(This note was first published in May 2026. Wren Islanders get newsy notes like this directly in their inboxes! Become a Wren Islander.)
[Photo courtesy of Unsplash.]