The best and fastest way for this to grow is for you to share the posts within your networks. A forward goes a long way, and the more subscribers we get, the more I’ll be able to write. The writing may change in the next few months to be a bit more entertaining (we hope) so tell your friends!

There’s a small category of song that makes me text my musically-inclined friend to ask: “They knew in the studio as they wrote how good this was, right?” The most obvious example is Aerosmith’s Sweet Emotion. Some pieces of art are so undeniably good that even if it’s not your thing, you can recognize their brilliance. It’s what separates the wheat from the chaff; even someone untrained in the technique of an art form or skill can just tell it is of the superlative variety. It’s why Blink-182 is the best pop-punk band ever. You just don’t understand just how damn good a drummer Travis Barker is, but it elevates the overall quality so much, it speaks for itself.

I thought about this while reading Cameron Crowe’s autobiography, The Uncool. Crowe is most famous (probably) for writing and producing Fast Times at Ridgemont High and Almost Famous. But before that, he was writing cover stories for Rolling Stone in his teens, embedding himself with bands like Led Zeppelin and The Allman Brothers at the absolute height of their powers. The passage that sparked my opening thought was about seeing Bruce Springsteen when he was just getting going. It’s easy to forget that the guy who wrote Born to Run was seen more as a new Bob Dylan, a folk singer who wrote deep, meaningful songs to make social commentary. And, his music has never appealed to me. But you have to respect the magic nonetheless. Springsteen was shy, but there was no denying that he had that something and could inspire:

Suddenly everybody was celebrating this small but seismic moment. Springsteen’s shyness receded…The small alley grew even more celebratory. Springsteen had made a mark in a tough town for newcomers. It’s on a night like this that music might spin your life around, give you new passion, point you in an unexpected direction. It was becoming more than a hobby for me, day by day.

On display throughout The Uncool is a passion for music that knows no bounds, and this passion fuels a prose style that is truthful and driving, keeping the narrative going while forcing you to pause exactly when you need to, to fully consider an emotion.

At the same time, he makes it seem like the biggest of feats—a Rolling Stone cover story on the Allman Brothers at 16 after the band had blackballed the magazine was an accident, just a coincidence, and he happened to be the right person at the right time, and nothing else. The persistence and dedication he had to have had are just words, half a sentence; nothing special happened here. Sure, it was the seventies when credentials didn’t matter. But c’mon, the guy clearly has talent, charisma, and ability.

While billed as a memoir, the book is mostly about Crowe’s youth. Lost youth (to him), although if you’re reading it, you’d say he made the absolute most of his youth. At 15, he became a journalist and partied with rock royalty, but felt he had never experienced what it was like to just be a kid in high school. He wrote Fast Times at Ridgemont High to partially reclaim those experiences. At 20, he was embedding himself as a high school student, reliving a life he had never had.

It’s a great book, and a wonderful story about a unique man in a unique period of our cultural history. Sometimes, you pick a book intentionally to match a moment in your life (Hawaii by James A. Michener when you’re going on a trip to, say, Hawaii). Other times, a book accidentally finds the moment right when you need it.

My wife bought me The Uncool for Christmas, so I started reading it shortly after I’d finished my holiday stack. At the same time, I was just back on the farm visiting my family, and my dad had found my old CDs, including the ones that used to live with me in my truck throughout high school and my early 20s. Driving the last new car to have a CD player, I started reliving that period of my life. Music has a way of putting you squarely in a time and place, and I was being shot back to high school in my mind every time I put in a newly discovered old CD.

I wasn’t the most conventional small town Alberta music aficionado. There’s a lot of punk and emo in there. I listened to older country, was even in a band playing older country at that time, but my emotional connection to music was far more raw, far more emotional, than ‘90s honky tonk. It was Green Day and My Chemical Romance. I’d picked up a guitar not because my dad played for years, but because of the lead break in Whole Lotta Love.

Stereotypes exist for a reason. Small town Alberta has many, especially when we’re talking high school kids. Bush/field parties, chopping laps, bonfires. I don’t think much has changed on that front. But thinking back, music was likely the most diverse element. Kids I partied with listened to Eminem, Tool, Metallica, and, of course, Nickelback. Not a lot of country, to be honest, despite the lifted trucks and cowboy boots.

That, I think, was a product of its time, though, just like Crowe’s ability to do what he did was doable only in a particular time and a particular place. In the late aughts, the monoculture was just starting to break down, and microculture dominance hadn’t taken hold. In politics and culture, the urban/rural divide has clearly increased. I wouldn’t be surprised if the same happened to music.

I hope I’m wrong, though. There’s a lot of discussion about Alberta being a distinct place within confederation. And it’s unquestionably different. But within that Alberta stereotype, there’s a lot of diversity. Urban/rural, blue collar/white collar, north/south. Within each of these, too, there are big discrepancies; some will have more in common with their Ontario counterparts than their peers in Edmonton. It’s important to remember that, at the end of the day, behind every stereotype and perception that “they’re all the same,” there’s a farm kid listening to thrash.

Alberta Review relies on subscriptions to operate (we hate ads, and they’re kind of pointless). Please consider subscribing to support the publication.

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The best and fastest way for this to grow is for you to share the posts within your networks. A forward goes a long way, and the more subscribers we get, the more I’ll be able to write. The writing may change in the next few months to be a bit more entertaining (we hope) so tell your friends!

Everyone’s algorithm is different, or at least I assume it is. Either way, mine shows me a lot of hard takes on AI. I see lots of academic studies showing that it doesn’t actually make workers more productive, burns people out, makes it harder to learn new skills, or makes people dumber. Although it does seem weird that we needed a study to show that outsourcing thinking to a machine would cause skills to atrophy. Something something, common sense not being that common, or something.

My algorithm, though, also shows me a lot of the other side—these things are good! They’re inevitable! If you don’t embrace the suck, you’ll be left behind. It costs a lot of water and money to raise an intelligent human, too!

That all being said, AI in the workplace is one thing. That is, likely, inevitable, although there’s a lot left to be decided, from what jobs it will actually make easier, which ones it will eliminate, and which ones it will just make worse. But as video and image generators become “better,” the more pronouncements there are that artists have no place in society. Or, at least, not without AI help.

This, though, is proving to be an unpopular concept, as more and more people turn against mass AI implementation. A recent NBC poll found that 57 per cent of Americans believe the risks of AI outweigh the benefits. When it comes to art, a poll published in an article in Scientific American was even more stark:

Closer to home and much more recent, Calgary Public Library took significant criticism for announcing an AI artist-in-residence program. Things like this are especially gaulling to artists because there is no actual creativity in what AI produces. It merely steals from artists and reproduces their work. It’s like being hired at a job to train the guy who will replace you.

I don’t think it is a profound or revelatory thing to say, but maybe it will be. AI art aside, we’re suffering a crisis of the soul in the Western world right now. From polarized politics to economic malaise and social isolation, we’re in a bit of a slump. I read two books over the last month that articulated clearly that the solution is more humanity and, specifically, more artistry.

The Compassionate Imagination argues for a renewed Canadian cultural contract, where the arts are recentered in policy making, because, without the arts, we lose our connections to each other and to our humanity. The book presents few new ideas—artistic creations force us to think about other people and perspectives, creating empathy—but does present some bold ideas when it comes to arts advocacy. Wyman says that it is wrong to try and argue for more support for culture from government and the public because of economic benefits (although they are quite large) because this minimizes the importance arts and culture have for the souls not just of individuals but our nation. Human fulfilment, he argues, should trump market economics. In the age of AI, this seems more true than ever before.

Wyman’s focus on art’s role in creating empathy and creative thought is the core of his argument that centreing art in our policy-making and society would lead to a better democracy (although he does not make this argument explicitly, and so the subtitle of the book, “how the arts are central to a functioning democracy,” is a bit odd and a glaring omission). Since it was written in 2023, it’s become even more clear. Our souls are hurting, and our political discourse would be so much better if people read a book or watched a movie without interruption or went to a play instead of being on social media. We need something to fulfill us, and art plays that role.

The second book, The Work of Art, is a series of profiles of artists’ great works and how they came to develop them; it is a clear argument that process matters as much as product when it comes to art. In the author’s words, it is “the celebration of the art that happens when instinct meets rigor.” Toiling, thinking, developing, researching. The profiles makes it clear that these things cannot be disconnected from the final end product. It is, without ever saying, a clear refutation of AI produced art. The act of creation is embodied in the final product. The arduous nature developing the kernel of an idea into a great work is what makes the work great. To think that nothing is lost when you prompt an AI is to laugh in the face of artistic creation, and common sense. While that’s the message I got, the book itself is just a massively inspiring, but also frustrating (why can’t I do that!) piece of biography.

If these books made me realize one thing, its this: we talk a lot about AI doing art these days, and, anyone who thinks that is good or even acceptable, simply doesn’t care about art. Because art is process, connection, craft. Humans created pretty things before we built houses, before we farmed, before we built civilization. Making art, creating culture, is at the very core of being human. If you take the human out of it, you take the humanity out of everything.

Alberta once obsessed over supporting the arts. Part of this was because we had a chip on our shoulder, always assuming (probably correctly) that we were looked down upon by the more “cultured” east. One of the best books to read on this is Alberta’s Camelot about the Lougheed government’s obsession with building Alberta’s creative capacity and cultural institutions. Budget 2026 increased funding for the Alberta Foundation for the Arts, which, when everywhere else other than education and health care was cut, was a pretty nice surprise.

More, of course, could be done. Wyman argues for much more financial support for artists, including a type of universal basic income to empower creation. That’s honestly not a bad idea (although the mechanics of it, like who is an artist and who can qualify, would likely be discountingly hard), but at the very least, there should be more emphasis on appreciating art in schools so that greater demand is created, making the economics more lucrative. At least, that’s one possible step.

More than anything, though, there needs to be a societal decision to emphasize that human-created art is good. Full stop. Whether it’s a piece of literary fiction or a popular movie, art enhances our lives because of the human element, not despite it. Teach that in schools, please.

Alberta Review relies on subscriptions to operate (we hate ads, and they’re kind of pointless). Please consider subscribing to support the publication.

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Alberta Review is in no way associated with previous iterations of the publication Alberta Review.

The best and fastest way for this to grow is for you to share the posts within your networks. A forward goes a long way, and the more subscribers we get, the more I’ll be able to write. The writing may change in the next few months to be a bit more entertaining (we hope) so tell your friends!

If you’re a writer, you start wanting to write by reading. For me, at least, this wasn’t reading “great” books or “great” writers. No, I started reading the Wishbone series (also why I got a Jack Russell Terrier as a kid) and Star Wars. Honesty, I think that’s ideal–there’s no way I love reading and writing as much as I do now if the right books, and right kinds of books, hadn’t grabbed me at the exact right moment. The good stuff is the fun stuff, and no amount of snobbery makes the fun stuff bad writing.

However, if you’re serious about literature, you have to get to the great stuff eventually, and for the last few years I’ve been making a much more concerted effort to do so. Late last year, I finally got to Joan Didion.

It is ironic that it took me this long to get here. Thirty-five whole years, although I suppose you can’t count the first few where I couldn’t read (fewer than you’d think, though). It’s ironic because I’ve read so much about her as I sought out work to help me hone my own writing style and craft. Of course, her writing is usually the backdrop to what is written about her. Instead, it is her effortless coolness, how she represented a certain kind of California, now lost. In the words of one reviewer from 1979:

“Joan Didion—or rather the reputation of Joan Didion—is a puzzle. Her writing is praised by critics of almost every political hue, by newspapers as different as the Wall Street Journal and the New York Times, by persons who can agree on scarcely anything else. Her name has become a kind of restful incantation, the invocation of which permits antagonists who are locked in continuous dispute to pause, smile, and say that, of course, she is a splendid writer.”

Less flatteringly, Joseph Epstein, one of my favourite essayists whose opinion I care a great deal about, spoke to the myth as a negative:

“Literary reputation is based on talent, performance, and overall achievement, or so one would have thought. Alas, to think so is often to be mistaken, for much else, sometimes a great deal else, comes into play, elevating some reputations, sinking others.”

I don’t know if the myth is or was true. There will come a time I’ll pick up a biography, no doubt. But what I do know now, after reading Slouching Towards Bethlehem, is that her prose is flawless, evocative, and inspiring.

Even Epstein called the eponymous essay “Slouching Towards Bethlehem” Didion “at her best.” Regardless of one of my favourite writer’s thoughts, this collection will stay on my desk forever, a true motivator to, and the perfect example of how, to write non-fiction. But while reading it—and I’m always trying to relate what I’m reading to what’s happening today or, for the purposes of Alberta Review, the province—I couldn’t help but think of one passage about the hippies she details in the essay living in Haight-Ashbury:

“They are less in rebellion against the society than ignorant of it, able only to feed back certain of its most publicized self doubts, Vietnam, Saran-Wrap, diet pills, the Bomb… They feed back exactly what is given them. Because they do not believe in words—words are for “typeheads,” Chester Anderson tells them, and a thought which needs words is just one more of those ego trips—their only proficient vocabulary is in the society’s platitudes.”

This disinclination for independent and introspective thought, the tendency to make any argument or discussion on politics or society about some overarching, generalized concept that is ill-defined or misunderstood by those speaking, is the essence of our modern, hyper-online populism, of both left and right.

I have a lot of fears about the future, from AI to demographic collapse, but one of them is likely a driver of all the others: a decline in reading. According to the Canadian Leisure & Reading Study 2024, 45 per cent of Canadians read between one and five books in 2024. This is a lot better than our neighbours to the south, where 40 per cent of Americans didn’t read a single book in 2025, but the worrying trends are among youth in Canada, where readers 18 to 29 are reading less than in previous years. This comports with reports out of universities where students are simply unable to read an entire book (death to TikTok, Instagram reels, and whatever Facebook and YouTube are doing to kill attention spans).

An inability to wrestle deeply with words makes democratic discourse impossible, and reading Didion while our political discourse descends into platitudes, debates over one-word answers, and fact-less support for the ideas that make us feel warm and fuzzy makes one think deeply about it. If “the overarching theme of her work was decline—of our politics, the environment, truth, intellectualism.” In “Slouching Towards Bethlehem,” she writes that:

“As it happens, I am still committed to the idea that the ability to think for oneself depends upon one’s mastery of the language, and I am not optimistic about children who will settle for saying, to indicate that their mother and father do not live together, that they come from “a broken home.” They are sixteen, fifteen, fourteen years old, younger all the time, an army of children waiting to be given the words.”

As our country faces the debate over our economy (free trade versus a new national policy focused on state capacity and sovereignty) and how to respond to the new world order (itself a misunderstood phrase drenched in the political and partisan) and our province talks about health care, education, and, of course, the benefits of confederation itself, concerns over platitudes taking over our politics is very, well, concerning.

What is always heartwarming about reading great writers and their great works is realizing that nothing is unprecedented. We’ve had these debates, we’ve acted this childishly before, and we’ve come out the other side. That, of course, doesn’t make the journey less anxiety-inducing or less frustrating. But it supplies at least a little cold comfort.

Alberta Review relies on subscriptions to operate (we hate ads, and they’re kind of pointless). Please consider subscribing to support the publication.

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Alberta Review is in no way associated with previous iterations of the publication Alberta Review.

The best and fastest way for this to grow is for you to share the posts within your networks. A forward goes a long way, and the more subscribers we get, the more I’ll be able to write. The writing may change in the next few months to be a bit more entertaining (we hope) so tell your friends!

It’s become somewhat in vogue to share reading lists and reading goals at the beginning or end of the year (at least from what I see all over the socials). I’ve always had the unwritten reading goal of three books per month, something I could increase if I didn’t read so much news, long-form journalism, and academic articles. I got really bogged down this year when a mail issue resulted in a few months’ worth of New York Review of Books backing up and really bogging down my ability to bang through books. At the end of the day, I was three short of the goal at 33. I’ve lumped my list into categories and provided links where I did do a review.

Short Stories

Creatures of the Kingdom - James A. Michener

The Redemption of Time - Baoshu Baoshu

Honolulu Noir - Various

The Short Story: A Very Short Introduction - Andrew Kahn (Not a short story, but a book about short stories)

The Wonderful Wizard of Oz - Frank L. Baum (Also not a short story technically, but I counted it as such due to brevity and style)

Exhalation - Ted Chiang

I didn’t review any of these, but I did write about short stories as Alberta’s prime literary form:

Sci-Fi and Fantasy

Absolution - Jeff Vandermeer

Halo: Empty Throne - Jeremy Patenaude

Heir to the Empire - Timothy Zahn

Dark Force Rising - Timothy Zahn

The Last Command - Timothy Zahn

X-Wing: Isard’s Revenge - Michael A. Stackpole

Jedi Search - Kevin J. Anderson

Dark Apprentice - Kevin J. Anderson

Champions of the Force - Kevin J. Anderson

Wicked - Gregory Maguire

Son of a Witch - Gregory Maguire

The Mountain in the Sea - Ray Nayler

These would be really hard to do my traditional turn of “how does this relate to Alberta,” but I did write about reading these kinds of books:

Theology-ish

Noah’s Flood - William Ryan and Walter Pitman (reviewed here)

Paradise Lost - John Milton

Legion - William Peter Blatty

Egyptian Mythology: A Traveller’s Guide from Aswan to Alexandria - Garry J. Shaw (reviewed here)

Reading Genesis - Marilynne Robinson

Sports

On the Clock: Behind the Scenes with the Edmonton Oilers at the NHL Draft - Allan Mitchell

The Game - Ken Dryden (reviewed here)

Crossing to Safety - Wallace Stegner (reviewed here)

Slouching Towards Bethlehem - Joan Didion (the title essay is way too relevant to our current times - look for a review soon)

Literary

Riding with Rilke: Reflections on Motorcycles and Books - Ted Bishop (I definitely should’ve reviewed this one - a UofA English prof writing about a continental motorcycle trip speaks to my soul)

Travels with Myself and Another - Martha Gellhorn (reviewed here)

Random

Origins: How the Earth Shaped Human History - Lewis Dartnell (reviewed here)

The Eye Test: A Case for Human Creativity in the Age of Analytics - Chris Jones (referenced a lot in my review of The Game)

Canada’s Main Street: The Epic Story of the Trans-Canada Highway - Craig Baird

Proto: How One Ancient Language Went Global - Laura Spinney

Alberta Review relies on subscriptions to operate (we hate ads, and they’re kind of pointless). Please consider subscribing to support the publication.

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Alberta Review is in no way associated with previous iterations of the publication Alberta Review.

The best and fastest way for this to grow is for you to share the posts within your networks. A forward goes a long way, and the more subscribers we get, the more I’ll be able to write. The writing may change in the next few months to be a bit more entertaining (we hope) so tell your friends!

I haven’t been able to write for a while, and for that I apologize (and I am fully aware and lament the reality that the reality is I write in spirts, determined by how busy I am at my day job). The more recent problem, though, is that I haven’t really read anything sufficiently related or relatable to Alberta. It’s been a lot of bad fiction, some seriously good short fiction, and a lot of short story collections.

I’ve become a bit obsessed with short stories lately, both because they fit quite well into my life right now and because they are an art form I’ve largely ignored before now. I’ve read a lot of sci-fi—the “key mode of short story in the twentieth century”—and also some crime fiction. I also read the original Wizard of Oz, which is short, although not generally considered a short story, and is the only true North American fairy tale. The Wizard of Oz is also a quintessentially prairie story.

And that’s when I found my angle; Alberta is a landscape and culture tailor-made for the short story.

Our literary history centres around the short story writer. We don’t have a great novel, nor do we have a great novelist, in the traditional sense. Many nations have a novelist. Dostoyevsky, Cervantes, Twain, or Marquez. These writers define a people, a landscape, or at the very least a particular aspect of those people at a particular point in time. Alberta’s most read writers were short story specialists; both R. Ross Arnett and W.O. Mitchell excelled at the short story (Jake and the Kid is essentially a collection of short stories, rather than a single narrative) and W.P. Kinsella is one of Alberta’s most celebrated writers (although best known for his novel, Shoeless Joe). Additionally, our best-selling novelists are often sci-fi writers, reflecting a settler-society obsession with expansion into the unknown. And, as I said, sci-fi’s roots are in the short story.

It is not novel to tie a literary form to a national identity. Joyce Carol Oates called the short story the “blessed Irish genre,” with class dynamics in Ireland being more relevant to the style. In his first volume of the Literary History of Alberta George Melnyk argued that:

“…writers from the forgotten underpinning of our cultural consciousness. As a determining factor in Alberta’s identity, they too are acknowledged more by thier absence than by their presence. Writers and their books were an integral part of defining the geophysical and social space that is now Alberta, but many of them have since been relegated to obscure and specialized interests.”

Meanwhile, the English produced fewer short story writers and more novelists; the rich had more time to be introspective, perfect for the novel, and big stories were told by a big empire. On it’s surface, Alberta should be a province of novels. It is a “place of meeting, of colliding contrasts, of differences articulated.”1

The short story is a story of a single incident, and Alberta is a province built more on single incidents—Leduc No. 1, the NEP—and political dynasties, not intricate, long-running tales woven between generations. Not that those don’t exist, just that the stories we tend to tell ourselves are more single-faceted. We’re also more individualist, by stereotype, and to this day emphasize work over play, leaving less time for long-form reading. Our publications of note in the formation of a provincial identity were agricultural magazines, where the short story dominated.

Unfortunately, the short story as a literary form is in decline, one that mirrors, mostly, the decline of print magazine readership. The short story’s rise coincided with the 19^th-century proliferation of magazines, and maybe that’s one reason it can be tied to the province, with our rise mirroring the short story’s. It does seem perfect for the energy of a growing province: “Readers and publishers alike were avid for lively incident that could be compressed into the short space of one or more columns on a page.” It was a popular—and populist—form of storytelling. It was looked down upon by more “literary” and elite readers in more established places of learning and refined kinds of commerce. Alice Munro, the Ontarian short story writer (and only author to be awarded a Nobel Prize in Literature for short stories alone), said they were hard work, harder than novels. The form is a concise, impressive effort to accomplish a significant task in a short period of time.

That element of being more populist is tied to the reality of Alberta as an identity. Our early literary identity was the same as our general one: “As a hinterland province, Alberta has had a hinterland literary identity,” Melnyk writes. Alberta’s literary history begins, he says, with an oral tradition that originated with the Indigenous people, but can also be extrapolated to a settler society that came from many different cultures, speaking many different languages. Oral traditions, especially stories, are generally more akin to a short story than a novel, typically featuring a singular, straightforward narrative with few side plots or intricacies.

Added up, do these not describe Albertans’ sense of self? Looked down upon by an eastern elite, more populist than our contemporaries, prepared to work hard for a single reward? The short story in no way dominates Alberta’s literary scene today, not from a popular perspective at least. They exist, but few Albertans will read them. That is true for short stories almost everywhere, though that is slowly changing as the novel loses adherents (and the public loses thier attention spans).

In the modern literary world, regional literary types are becoming increasingly rare. As the world globalizes, so does writing. Some stories are set in a particular place, and the good ones will properly convey the culture of that place, but a geographically centred literary tradition, in which every story reflects a geography, is dying a quick death.

That all being said, a literary form can still speak more to a place, regardless of who writes it, where they’re from, and what it’s about. And, for Alberta, it is a land of short stories where the land—and people–are tailor-made for the format.

Alberta Review relies on subscriptions to operate (we hate ads, and they’re kind of pointless). Please consider subscribing to support the publication.

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Alberta Review is in no way associated with previous iterations of the publication Alberta Review.

The best and fastest way for this to grow is for you to share the posts within your networks. A forward goes a long way, and the more subscribers we get, the more I’ll be able to write. The writing may change in the next few months to be a bit more entertaining (we hope) so tell your friends!

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The best and fastest way for this to grow is for you to share the posts within your networks. A forward goes a long way, and the more subscribers we get, the more I’ll be able to write. The writing may change in the next few months to be a bit more entertaining (we hope) so tell your friends!

Read more

The best and fastest way for this to grow is for you to share the posts within your networks. A forward goes a long way, and the more subscribers we get, the more I’ll be able to write. The writing may change in the next few months to be a bit more entertaining (we hope) so tell your friends!

Read more

The best and fastest way for this to grow is for you to share the posts within your networks. A forward goes a long way, and the more subscribers we get, the more I’ll be able to write. The writing may change in the next few months to be a bit more entertaining (we hope) so tell your friends!

Read more

The best and fastest way for this to grow is for you to share the posts within your networks. A forward goes a long way, and the more subscribers we get, the more I’ll be able to write. The writing may change in the next few months to be a bit more entertaining (we hope) so tell your friends!

Read more

The best and fastest way for us to grow is for you to share the posts within your networks. A forward goes a long way, and the more subscribers we get, the more we’ll be able to write. The writing may change in the next few months to be a bit more entertaining (we hope) so tell your friends!

Read more

The best and fastest way for us to grow is for you to share the posts within your networks. A forward goes a long way, and the more subscribers we get, the more we’ll be able to write. The writing may change in the next few months to be a bit more entertaining (we hope) so tell your friends!

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The best and fastest way for us to grow is for you to share the posts within your networks. A forward goes a long way, and the more subscribers we get, the more we’ll be able to write. The writing may change in the next few months to be a bit more entertaining (we hope) so tell your friends!

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The best and fastest way for us to grow is for you to share the posts within your networks. A forward goes a long way, and the more subscribers we get, the more we’ll be able to write. The writing may change in the next few months to be a bit more entertaining (we hope) so tell your friends!

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The best and fastest way for us to grow is for you to share the posts within your networks. A forward goes a long way, and the more subscribers we get, the more we’ll be able to write. The writing may change in the next few months to be a bit more entertaining (we hope) so tell your friends!

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The best and fastest way for us to grow is for you to share the posts within your networks. A forward goes a long way, and the more subscribers we get, the more we’ll be able to write. The writing may change in the next few months to be a bit more entertaining (we hope) so tell your friends!

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The best and fastest way for us to grow is for you to share the posts within your networks. A forward goes a long way, and the more subscribers we get, the more we’ll be able to write. The writing may change in the next few months to be a bit more entertaining (we hope) so tell your friends!

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I greatly appreciate your continued support. Alberta Review has some aggressive growth goals this year, but we can’t do it without your support. We live in exciting times, and my goal is to inject some semblance of perspective.

If you want to help with this, please forward this email or share it on social media. Also, liking this post helps our visibilit…

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I greatly appreciate your continued support. Alberta Review has some aggressive growth goals this year, but we can’t do it without your support. We live in exciting times, and my goal is to inject some semblance of perspective.

If you want to help with this, please forward this email or share it on social media. Also, liking this post helps our visibilit…

Read more