If you’ve been around the Peterborough literary community, then you’ve no doubt heard of Justin Million. Author of several poetry collections and the mastermind behind literary events in the city for nearly a decade, Justin has brought together authors from around the country to this city, fostering a community in Peterborough that feeds off of collaboration, experimentation, and accessibility.

Co-founder of Peterborough’s small press bird, buried press, and the long-time running Show and Tell Poetry Series (STPS), Justin has cemented himself in the foundation of Peterborough’s literary community—running events such as the experimental, improvisational event known as KEYBOARDS!, and the live readings of the STPS Showcase. 

I first met Justin at the end of May in what would later be revealed as one of the last STPS Showcase events at Take Cover Books. The series has seen authors such as Mark Goldstein, Rob Winger, Elisha Rubacha, and former Arthur editor, Nicky Taylor, perform readings all over the city through the years, in addition to a 2018 collaboration with Trent University professor Janette Platana’s third-year creative non-fiction class. 

It would be a falsity to say then, that Justin’s mark on Peterborough’s literary community has not been felt, making the June 2nd announcement that the series showcase would be ending in July after nine years shocking to long-time fans of the series.

Following the announcement, I sat down with Justin to talk about the history behind the series, the decision to bring it to an end, and his reflection upon the unique experience of being an artist in Peterborough. 

Abbigale: You recently announced the end of the series, can you tell me a little about that?

Justin: I'm just gonna be brutally honest, it got to the point where I just wasn't enjoying organizing anymore. I think it takes a special kind of person to really enjoy organizing things. I think I was that person for a time, but there were times when I was looking through my—what's it called on your Instagram, your grid?

Abbigale: Your feed, yeah.

Justin: Yeah, and I saw a post that it was National Poetry Month, from like, two or three months pre-pandemic and we were doing like six events in a month, and it's just like, who is that guy? Who was that? Who is that version of me? Like, I can't access that person anymore. I'm just not that person. 

So yeah, not really enjoying the organizing part. Not that it was ever very fun, but just a couple—I won't name names, of course—of bad experiences. Like nothing too bad, but just annoying experiences added to it.

A lot of people too told me when I was floating by a few people about ending the series that well, why do you have to end it? Like, why not just kind of keep it going until you change or something else changes? But there comes a time when things have to be over, and I don't like dragging things out.

So nine years, of course, like it would have been nice to get to the nice round numbers. 10 years and 100 events, rather than nine years and 90 events, but I don't feel weird about it at all, I don't know. It's also like not that big of a deal—it was a series that brought in a lot of good people, I think.

Abbigale: You sort of pre-empted my next question, but I was going to ask how you feel now after announcing the closure and hearing feedback from people?

Justin: That kind of sucks, admittedly, because if you announce something like that, or you tell people that a thing is ending, you get a lot of nice messages and then you think, well, maybe I should just continue but yeah, I don't really know, I don't really feel any one way about it. 

I always find it nerve-wracking being at the event too, anything could happen during the readings. I did tell people to shut the fuck up a couple times because somebody is up there, like baring it all, and someone's just yapping—you can go back to your bullshit in a half an hour when we're done, meanwhile try to soak up some culture.

Abbigale: I mean, let's talk about culture. When I was at the last poetry showcase at Take Cover Books, the authors shared to me that they come from Toronto and bigger cities and they said it felt like Peterborough really had a tight supportive arts community. I was wondering, what your take on that is, have you had that same experience? What's it been like, working in Peterborough?

Justin: Yeah, I all agree with the tight bit. And for the most part, most folks are fantastic. I would argue that with any community. Like, we don't kick people out because they're annoying or whatever. Everybody has a place, which is how it should be. But it does make, you know, with any group, you have to navigate personalities and that means difficulty and awkwardness. And, you know, you get to see a lot of other people's work so you have to come up with ways to talk to people about the work if you don't like it, or work with people whose work you don't necessarily love. That's always hard, but I think that's all still for the best, but it can be difficult.

It's funny, I hear that from people out of town that Peterborough punches like, way above its weight, because there was a reporter for The Globe and Mail named Mark Medley, and there was a quote from his article that was getting thrown around Peterborough all the time that claimed Peterborough punches well above its weight. That quote has gone sort of viral, yeah. I think some people feel a lot of weirdness, I think shame, being from Peterborough and I think that quote—it's true—but I think that it really gave people something to rally around, being an artist in Peterborough.

Abbigale: So how did the Poetry Show and Tell Series and showcase come about nine years ago?

Justin: I came back from Ottawa about 10 years ago now, and when I landed back here, I wanted to get the lay of the land in terms of what poetry was like here, and I knew that there was a big slam community but that was never my thing. So I wanted to find, you know, what the city had for page poets.

I just went to a reading and didn't know anybody. And there were maybe eight or nine people before it started and we're all just chatting, introducing ourselves, and I introduced myself and I said, “Well, actually, like I'm looking to organize a series in the city, but I want to do something different.” And Melinda Ritcher—who I’d met said—“Well, you can do whatever you want.” 

I had to find readers or writers and so I just did the first one myself. And then Melinda actually said there's this there's this girl and gave me one of her zines. I went to the Only Cafe when you could still smoke, and I'm like, “Okay, let's read this book.” And it was good—and that was my partner, Elisha. So then I messaged her, and then I had a second reader. 

I didn't want to just do a regular reading series, which is what it became, unfortunately, because it's just too hard to run. But the initial idea was to have five interactive stations. So like a writing desk where I wanted, ideally, writers to bring their desk down to the shop, but I think only one person did, of course, because it's a big ask. I wanted them to recreate their writing environment in the space that people can see, you know, the set up by a window, what's on your desk, toys, and whatever, and just kind of lay them all out so that people can see the writing process. 

And a visual element that inspires the writer. That one I don't necessarily recall, it was like if you have a painting that you look at a lot, you have a plant that you stare at while you're writing, what do you do eat or drink? Like, do you write in the mornings and drinking coffee while you're writing? Or do you drink, you know, booze? Are you one of those writers? And then a short interview with the writer after the event had ended.

I was a big proponent of seeing the process of writing, because I remember being a young poet and seeing other people read—like really established readers—and it was kind of defeating a lot of the time like, “Oh, I'll never be as good as this person, I’ll never be able to do what she's doing.” But you realize after a time that when you start doing readings yourself and whatnot, like, “Oh, people are just reading their best work. These are people that have been writing for decades and they're reading their best, most polished work.” 

Every poet, you know, fucks something up. Every great poet wrote the biggest piece of shit. It was all about the initial idea of demystifying the writing process as a means of making it more accessible. Poetry has this awful stigma that it's always brainy or that every piece consists of a mystery that needs to be unlocked and the only way to unlock it is to really slave over it.

Abbigale: Like a tortured poet sort of type?

Justin: Yeah, and all full of secrets and such. So what's on the surface is meaningless, it's all about what's underneath. The goal should never be to obfuscate, the goal should be accessibility. And, like, you want there to be depth, but no secrets—that's fucking weird. 

And at some point, every young person must feel compelled to write something, like, about bleeding from their pen, we all start somewhere.

Abbigale: You would really enjoy student creative writing seminars.

Justin: Oh yeah, I had my fair share, for sure. Did you take any [Professor Rob] Winger courses?

Abbigale: I did! His intro to creative writing course was the first class I ever took in university, and I was actually an editor in his publishing course for Chickenscratch. 

Justin: That’s awesome. I remember his book really flipping a switch for me, I had such a man crush on him. I had him for third year fiction when he was still doing his PhD. When I was in that class, he was nominated for the Governor General’s award so I actually went to the gala by myself. He was so surprised to see me, he was like “What the fuck are you doing here?” It was great.

Abbigale: Yeah, Rob is a funny guy. He’s a great professor. So anyways, tell me a little bit about KEYBOARDS!, is that still continuing?  

Justin: Yeah, there’s actually one this Friday at Bijoux Bar which I love. I remember when I was going to The Garnet—which was kind of my home base bar—I was already doing readings there, and Sean Conway was working the bar, and he asked me why I didn’t do something here, and told me I could use the space to do something weird.

I thought about what something weird would look like, and even though I’ve never seen a B.A. Johnston show—which is crazy—I wanted the show to kind of be like that, but with poetry.

So for the first one, I brought my typewriter, my laptop, and a piano keyboard—which I don’t play—and I didn’t know what I was going to do, just improvisational stuff which the show would later become, but the first show was not well attended. 

It’s the best thing I’ve done in my life. It’s the best art project I’ve ever undertaken.

Abbigale: So now that the poetry showcase series is closing, is your plan now to focus on KEYBOARDS!? 

Justin: Yeah, though admittedly I don’t put much effort into it because it defies effort in a way, and I wanted to make it easy for my introverted poetry people to just be as accepted in the space as anyone else.

I'd like to grow out the series to the point where it's unwieldly. Where one guy starts with a poem, and you have Jeff behind me who's working off me, Esther is off in the space you know, looking for photos but only taking one. And then maybe there's somebody who starts writing a song instantly based on what we're doing. I think that would be amazing.

Abbigale: And the final Poetry Show and Tell Showcase is happening in July, right? Can you tell me a little bit about that?

Justin: So that’s July 5th at The Theatre on King. I didn’t know when I organized it that it would be the last one. It’s Spencer Gordon’s Peterborough book launch, and even though it’s the last showcase, I still want it to mainly be about his book. 

You know, we won’t do anything special, we won’t roll out a cake or anything. It’s just going to be like any other event. Especially at literary events, I think of myself as a referee, and if you don’t notice a referee, then he’s doing a good job. 

I’m looking forward to having it behind me rather than dragging it out. I like the idea of being able to put it away and to be able to point at it and say “Okay, I’m glad I did that.”

This article has been edited for clarity and length.

Editor's Note: This article was updated on June 20th to correct the spelling of names, clarify the operations of KEYBOARDS!, expand upon the interactive stations of the showcase, and remove "Showcase" from the title.