Report from the Open Mic

Every month, I haul ass to my favourite open mic.

The Writers’ Guild of Alberta’s monthly pub nights always start the same for me: a short Uber ride to pick up my best friend. We’re basically neighbours, but winter in Alberta is no joke, so I’d rather get a ride than trudge through the snow.

On the way, we gossip about our lives; discuss our current writing projects and plans; and chat about what we’re planning on reading that night. We get dropped off a few steps from the front door of the pub, in an attempt to avoid the -30°C weather as much as possible.

Once inside, we bee-line it to the centre table. It’s long and tall, bar height to be exact. It’s our usual spot, lovingly nicknamed the Jesus table for its resemblance to the large table depicted in paintings of the Last Supper.

After shedding our coats, then straightening our hair and clothes, we begin our rounds and helloes before ordering a drink from our favourite waitress. By this point, she feels like an old friend. In truth though, she’s more than that; she’s an anchor amidst this ocean of literary weirdos.

I always order the same thing: a big ass glass of whatever white wine the pub has already cracked open. I keep my order simple, in part because I can remember what it’s like to be one of the lone servers on a busy event night, and in part because I don’t actually care. I just like a big ass glass of wine with my prose and poetry.

It’s quieter tonight than usual, but with all the snow and the cold, it’s no surprise. Second winter in Alberta fucks us all up. But even with the smaller turnout, it’s still a solid crowd. There are so many familiar faces, it feels like a family reunion.

The night starts with a reading from the Confederacy of Treaty Six First Nations, it’s an open letter refuting the Alberta Government’s cozying up to separatists. I appreciate these statements more than a generic land acknowledgement, especially given the political situation in UCP-controlled Alberta. These words from our First Nations leaders carry real weight and remind us that we, too, are treaty people.

Tonight, one of my friends is the featured reader, and I’m so proud. I love seeing my friends and acquaintances grow and succeed. It’s like sitting in a sunny spot in the park; I get to bask in the warmth and glow.

Reciting poems on themes of love, loss, and politics, the set she reads is powerful. I know it. The crowd knows it. You can feel it in the air. Everyone leans a little closer, letting those opening lines and closing phrases weigh heavily on us. Snaps echo across the room as line after line is nailed into our hearts. By the time she finishes her reading and leaves the stage, the crowd has erupted into enormous applause.

She’s beaming. I’m beaming. No matter what happens next, tonight has already been a great night.

We break for a few minutes. Enough time to mingle, or run off to the bathroom, or order another drink, or sign up for the open mic, but not enough time to do all of the above.

So I pick just two: drink and mingle.

Wandering away from the Jesus table, I chit-chat with my fellow writers about future essays, where to submit our work for publication, writing conferences, knitting in public, and so much more. Before long, we are being welcomed back to our seats so that the open mic portion of the night can begin.

It’s February, so decorative hearts hang in front of the stage for Valentine’s Day, and I’m sure there are hearts reflected in my eyes. I love these nights—this community.

While new and old friends approach the mic, we cheer and cajole, encouraging everyone who feels brave enough to get up in front of the crowd and read their work aloud. We heckle our friends and snap when a line hits its intended mark.

It’s an incredible time.

I feel so alive.

WGA pub night February 2026

There are too many open mic participants to comment on each of them. So, instead, here’s a brief list of what I heard:

• list poems that rhyme

• stories of ducks getting out of rehab

• noir fiction

• flash fiction

• poetry from first-timers

• shoutouts to editors

• announcements about other poetry events

• readings from recently published novels

• children’s poetry with half-drunk audience participation

• memoirs

• poetry about fathers

• poetry about public libraries

• and so much more

By the end of the night, I’m buzzing on two glasses of wine. Which is perfect, because now I’m socially lubricated enough to talk more than I usually do.

I wander from table to table, complimenting folks on their readings and encouraging them to keep writing and keep coming back. These compliments often meander into full-blown conversations, bringing all of us a little closer. I hand out my email and Instagram over and over, offering to give advice or a second set of eyes. I love editing other people’s work because I think it makes me a better writer, but also because I’m terrible at editing my own work.

But before I know it, the pub is shutting down around us. The music is turned off. The lights turned down even lower. The crowd has dispersed into stragglers, and now it’s time to go home.

I call another Uber.

On the ride home, my best friend and I debrief our experiences of the night. I don’t know the song playing over the radio, but between the upbeat melody, the wine, and the wonderful evening, my mind is swimming with poetry.

For once, I don’t feel like an outsider. And I think that’s my biggest takeaway from these pub nights. They’re a reminder that even though writing is such a solitary act, you don’t have to do it alone. There are other freaks and weirdos out there writing your next favourite poem or novel.

The next pub night is already in my calendar; it’s a recurring date I wouldn’t miss, even without the reminder. I look forward to this night every month.

And even though the horrible cold and snow of February makes me want to hibernate until spring, I still haul my ass out to the pub.

This is the cost of community. And I’m more than happy to pay it.

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