Letter from the Editor-in-Chief: Playing the Long Game

by Gillian Smith-Clark, ​for The 44 North, Editor in Chief

A chess set overexposed in pink, purple, and blue hues

What if the most radical act today is not to react, but to pause?

Chess is not just a game. It is an ancient philosophy of attention—a way I first learned to analyze the world from my father, who taught me to play as a young child. We’d sit together on the living room floor with a board and a beautifully carved chess set between us, as he guided me through the moves and the stories of each piece. Over the years, he used the game as a metaphor for life: patience, strategy, and the understanding that not every threat needs an immediate response. I stepped away from the game for many years but returned in 2016, when it proved to be an excellent anxiety reducer during the particular politics of that year. When the world feels like it’s moving too fast, I still turn to the board. It reminds me that wisdom often lies in the pause rather than the rush.

It asks for patience, wisdom, and the ability to think beyond the immediate move. The game rewards restraint, foresight, and the understanding that not every threat needs an immediate response; that the dramatic move is not always the wise one.

Lately, I have been reflecting on the discipline required to “play the long game” in both my own life and the world around us at this moment. We live in a time that rewards reaction: outrage is immediate, drama permeates the air in real time, and power is often performed through impulsiveness rather than judgment. But force without thoughtful strategy is not mastery; it is instability, chaos, and the erosion of our own judgment.

That feels especially true now. As war escalates between the United States, Israel, and Iran, and as political life in the U.S. continues to be shaped by bluster, performance, and short-term domination, it is hard not to notice the absence of genuine discipline on the global board. There is an added irony in watching Trump threaten to strike Iran “extremely hard” and send it “back to the Stone Ages” while appearing, once again, to misread the strategy of the very regime he claims to be overpowering. The lesson is clear: intelligence and power are not the same thing, and finesse—in politics as in life—is rarer than it should be.

At The 44 North, we are interested in something quieter yet more demanding: thoughtful attention, moral seriousness, and the long view. This issue reflects that commitment in different ways – from questions of gender and power to stories about surveillance, selfhood, and control. Again and again, the pieces in this issue ask what it means to remain clear-sighted in systems that would rather make us reactive, doubtful, or numb.

You’ll find that spirit in our review of Inter Alia, Suzie Miller’s play about the slow, cumulative violences that can unsettle even the most accomplished women in male-dominated spaces. You’ll find it in our latest Artist Spotlight featuring Capsule Community, and in this issue’s Writer’s Room selection, “On the OSAP Cuts: Could We Have Stratified the Cold?” You’ll find it, too, in the second- and third-place winners of our essay contest, which examine surveillance, optimization culture, and the erosion of inherent worth with urgency and intelligence.

This issue also includes Andrea Gibson’s powerful poem: “In the chemo room, I wear mittens made of ice so I don’t lose my fingernails. But I took a risk today to write this down.” Its title feels like its own kind of opening move: vulnerable, precise, and brave.

On the political side, we are pleased to feature work from Sylphia Basak and Cole Martin, whose pieces explore public anxieties around artificial intelligence and the geopolitical stakes of the Strait of Hormuz. More broadly, this issue also marks an exciting next step for The 44 North: the addition of a new team of political writers, including Basak and Martin, who will be contributing analysis and commentary between issues. At a time when public discourse is often flattened by speed, certainty, and outrage, we are proud to be making more space for political writing that is thoughtful, independent, and unafraid of complexity.

We are also happy to share that our newsletter has officially moved to Substack and is reborn as Points North: a place for field notes on culture, politics, and the world around us, alongside updates on our latest issue, podcast episodes, events, contests, and more. We hope you’ll join us there – not just to read, but to reflect, to question, and to play your own long game.

If chess teaches us anything worth carrying into daily life, it is this: patience is not weakness. Restraint is not retreat. To pause, to think carefully, to resist manipulation by headlines and noise—these are not acts of passivity, but of discipline. They are how we protect our judgment. And with it, our humanity.

Thank you, as always, for reading.

Warmly,

Gillian Smith-Clark

Editor in Chief, The 44 North Media

Novel Idea: How Fiction Helps Us See Ourselves & Others

By Hailey Hechtman for The 44 North

Contributing Writer

The words of a Spanish novel spilling onto a desk

“It’s in fiction that we find pieces of ourselves yet to be discovered, that we recognize our own humanity in the eyes of figures expressed in words and alive through our imagination.” ​​​​

I’m curled up on the couch, a book in my hand, blanket over my outstretched legs, a cup of tea on my side table, and music playing off the T.V. with some digitally rendered image of a bookstore in New York City.

I feel present for one of the few moments in my day.

Every other second, my mind is occupied with the rustling, restless thoughts that come with being a person in 2026; the distractions of the world and my day taking hold of the little attention I can muster up these days. Yet, for those hours enthralled in a story—with a central or series of characters that I don’t need to rescue, a setting that feels distant yet familiar, a plot I can follow and fumble through with the urge to know yet not the need to fix—I’m captivated.

Sometimes it’s a thick literary fiction spanning decades of family saga or interweaving relationships; others, it’s a historical reimagining, inviting me into the point of view of someone long lost or never having lived at all, in a time that I can only picture through the page. In other cases, it’s a translated work, cultivating insight into a cultural perspective that feels emotionally close yet contextually distant. In rare cases, on an evening of deep freeze in January, it’s a fantasy—complete with mystical creators, lands imposing and impossible.

Genre aside, it’s the act of escape into these spaces between pages that gives me the freedom to see myself or others from new vantage points. While the plot points may be planets or periods away from my day-to-day existence, novels allow me to question aspects of myself and others in a way that even my journal never fully captures.

They allow space for my imagination to posit questions about revenge, love, identity, deceit, decadence, and desire. They act as a frame for my own answers to emerge alongside the characters’ actions, opening an internal dialogue that rarely runs free when I stop to assess my responses in real-time. They permit me to try on personalities that, while seemingly opposing from my lived experience, somehow fit in my subconscious. They illicit emotional resonance, allowing the feelings to blossom even if I’ve never encountered a dragon, a witch, or a spy.

This can be extrapolated further to my understanding of those in my life and those around the world. Through the characters in a novel, I can identify with and recognize the lived experiences of my partner, my colleagues, the rider across from me on public transit, and the person whose image shows up across my phone screen while scrolling on social media. We often hear real-world retellings of those navigating strife, those engulfed in violence, those subjected to mistreatment.

Yet, so often when this is but a flash across our screens, we sit for a moment in rage and move forward, or feel utterly helpless yet continue to scroll to the next image, the next video. There is something about literature—maybe it’s the world building and imprinting that happens when something is on the page, maybe it’s the emotional investment that comes from our storybook days, curled up in our pjs at 8 p.m. on a school night, maybe it’s simple that these characters and stories are both not at all and yet fully real to us somewhere in our mind.

Translating that experience—those deep reflective moments stepping mentally into the shoes of another—can activate us, alongside the same sensibility in the way we look around us. The stories and settings we choose can help to contribute not only to our understanding of the broader world but to our capacity for compassion. As we dive into the inner worlds captured in a novel set across the globe, in real-world and fictional settings, we can begin to expand our hearts for those living those moments each and every day.

Empathy takes many forms within the world of a book: Pain for the protagonist’s agonizing decision, fear for the unknown as they travel off on an adventure, elation as they find themselves with their soulmate as the final chapter closes.

We can see ourselves in them and yet see them in us. Different from a film or a show, the act of absorbing a story from the crisp paper sheets of a book on your bedside table allows for greater insertion and participation; the chance to fully immerse yourself without the added layer of visual representation. The settings become an illustration of your own design, the language a tool for curating the tone and flow of conversations that move the plot forward.

It’s in fiction that we find pieces of ourselves yet to be discovered, that we recognize our own humanity in the eyes of figures expressed in words and alive through our imagination.

How many times have I dug into a first paragraph knowing that the journey will be grueling and yet I read on? How often have I wept as a character faces hardship only to lie in bed pondering the hurts I have faced myself? How enthusiastically I’ve cheered when the person I’ve followed from moment one finally sees their dream come to fruition or their plan transform into reality? In those instances, have I not stopped to assess where I am on my own road to happiness, freedom, or fulfillment?

Have I not nostalgically galivanted through childhood memories, scattered vividly, to explain the backstory? Or found myself cycling through the losses, regrets, or missed opportunities that have passed me by as those on the page make the wrong choice, let go of the wrong person, shut the wrong door?

On my literary expedition, I can place myself in many lives, yet it’s in the sentences and plot twists that shine a light on my own humanity—and that of those around me—that I find myself most transfixed; transformed.

When the lessons show themselves, the morals crafted by our architects of the human experience, I find myself enveloped in questions about what it means to be human, to be a woman, to be alive, and to be alone. The author empowers me to step into curiosity through the safety of others, like a blanket over my own shame, survival, and sensitivity. They gift me space for an internal conversation that otherwise would require a whole lot of personal commitment to self-awareness and introspection.

What if we approached every book we opened as a window into our innermost secrets—if we saw them as a chance to discover what doesn’t easily float to the forefront of our consciousness, a sort of cover that makes the digging a little easier?

What if we allowed ourselves to dream about our motivations and misgivings through the eyes of that misunderstood mermaid, the cast-aside medieval servant, that mischievous villain or that heartbroken heroine? Would we give ourselves more grace? Would we dole out forgiveness to those around us, recognizing that perhaps, as our beloved characters etched on pages, they, too, have stories hidden that take a plot reveal to understand, complete with motivations and backgrounds that have not yet been revealed?

What if we thoughtfully approach each life interaction, each new acquaintance, each uncertain scenario with the openness with which we approach a novel? Not assuming that we know the ending—that we have all the answers from the start—but instead sitting tight, navigating each oncoming segment with an understanding that with each new point and page we will gain greater insight.

We may see that some moments in life will be novellas. Others will be series. Our neighbourhoods close and far may be mysteries first unsolved, yet with time invested, patience, and the one-page-at-a-time approach, we can learn to uncover the pieces that are not just sitting on the surface. That even our own thoughts—the ones that gnaw at us as anxiety or flutter with anticipation—may not always be what they seem.

They may be the sign of a new chapter emerging, or be the clarifying instance that allows us to move on to the next book in the saga.

How can we take life a little more like a book to be read, and in turn, use each new book as a chance to better understand life? What a novel idea.

Why Libraries Are Vital Third Spaces, Featuring Dear TPL: The Passport Project

by Stephanie Ta for The 44 North

Co-Founder, The Toronto Public Library Passport Project

A black-and-white sketch of a public library

"The Toronto Public Library has supported people through moments that are deeply personal and often invisible. It has been there during unemployment, long study sessions, childhood afternoons, and later-in-life learning curves. These forms of support do not always get acknowledged."

On a beautiful summer day in July of 2024, I signed into our regular all-hands work meeting. Thirty minutes later, I signed off having learned that the full operations of the nonprofit we worked for would be closing its doors. We were all unemployed.

There was no dramatic buildup or warning, and it was strange how ordinary the information felt in the moment, even though everything was about to change. That kind of ordinariness sticks with you—it's a reminder that instability can creep up on you, even on beautiful summer days. 

It’s now 2026, and I still haven’t found long-term, permanent employment. Instead, I’ve juggled a long string of contracts. If I'm lucky, I have short roles and project-based work, meaning temporary positions with deliverable dates taking priority over purpose. This lifestyle has become familiar to zillennials in the questionable battlefield we call the workforce. With unpredictable employment crammed into long days and even longer nights, stability is an abstract concept; planning more than a few months ahead feels optimistic at best and foolhardy at worst.

It didn’t take long for me to realize how familiar my story is. Friends, colleagues, youth across the GTA, and hundreds of online strangers are all navigating similar realities. People are constantly moving between contracts, applications, side projects, and long stretches of waiting just to start. We’re all figuring out how to live without guarantees. Stability becomes less about things staying the same and more about knowing some places will still let you in. Life under capitalism means that we longingly emphasize our ability to own, control, and gain access. We yearn to have access—the type of access that means you don’t need to earn your right to exist in a space. You don’t have to be productive, successful, or certain. You can show up as you are, even when everything else feels in flux. 

This is the access we all dream about, which becomes grounding when nothing else feels secure or safe.

A model of the Riverdale branch of the Toronto Public Library, created from the pages of a book

During this very unplanned and unwanted gap period, I found myself spending a lot of time on the internet. I consume endless information that rarely makes me feel better. Feelings of comparison and competition close in even though I’m spending less time with real human beings. I needed a place to break out of these four walls and constant reminders of not having a place to actually be. I needed somewhere that did not expect productivity or optimism; somewhere that would let me exist without pressure. A place that doesn't cost anything. I’m one of the lucky ones because a place like that does exist. For me, one of those places is the TPL or its government name: The Toronto Public Library.

Some days, I went to the TPL to locate Knitting for Dummies. Other days, I went when I needed quiet space with outlets and backsupport. Most days, I just need to leave the house. The library has always given me somewhere to land. 

The library has always been important to me. Even as a kid, it felt special. It’s a place where you can wander without a goal and still feel like you’re going on an adventure. Walking through the aisles feels a bit like walking through a candy store. Every shelf offers a new possibility. You stumble into topics you never planned to learn about. If you speak more than one language, the world inside the library feels even bigger.

A library card unlocks more than books. It gives you access to museums, art galleries, and city attractions. It lets you learn how to sew or borrow equipment you might not be able to afford on your own. It makes curiosity feel affordable and within reach. It invites and welcomes you back into community. 

Youth Engagement Scarborough participants gathered on stage

Libraries are often described as quiet spaces, and they are. But they’re also places where people figure things out. For many, the library is one of the first public spaces they navigate independently. It’s where they print their first resume. It’s where they wait for friends after school. It’s where they sit without being told to buy something or move along. These moments are small, but they matter.

In my work with youth, I have seen how rare that kind of space is and how it’s continuing to dwindle. Many environments expect performance, progress, and answers. Libraries don’t. They allow people to exist while they are still becoming.

I know I’m not the only person who feels this way about libraries. So when my neighbour, Marisa, came to me with an idea, it immediately felt like something worth paying attention to.

Marisa told me about the unofficial Toronto Public Library passport—a passion project that encouraged people to collect stamps from each library branch they visited. As someone who moved to Toronto from the United States, Marisa discovered the library system as an adult. In many ways, she had explored more branches than people who grew up here. Her love for public access and community spaces made her wonder what the passport could become if it felt more intentional and reflective.

She asked if I wanted to help reimagine it, and of course, I said yes.

Stephanie on the steps of the Toronto Public Library’s Rivderdale branch in the winter

My background in nonprofit and social impact work meant I knew how to support a project like this. I knew how to coordinate people and move ideas forward. But it was my flexibility that made it possible. Contract work teaches you how to build things without waiting for perfect conditions. You learn how to make something real with what you have.

From the beginning, we were clear about one thing: This could not be a project about youth without youth being deeply involved. Too often, young people are asked to engage in ways that feel shallow. They are consulted after decisions are already made. They are invited to participate without being trusted to shape the work itself.

We wanted something different.

Youth volunteers were invited to visit their favourite branches not as researchers with scripts, but as community members. They talked to staff. They observed how people used the space. They noticed small details that are easy to overlook. They asked questions because they were curious, not because they were told to collect specific information.

What emerged were stories that felt real. They were not polished or uniform; they reflected how people actually experience the library.

One of the most meaningful parts of the project was the creation of branch-specific stamps. Designing a stamp sounds simple, but it requires people to think deeply about the place. What makes this branch feel like itself? What does it offer its neighbourhood? What stands out when you spend time there?

Turning those reflections into visual designs became a way of saying and emphasizing that their perspective mattered—not as a symbolic gesture, but in a real and tangible way.

This is what youth engagement can look like when it’s rooted in trust. Youth were not asked to represent an entire generation. They were not expected to perform expertise. They were invited to contribute as themselves.

Dear TPL: The Passport Project became our love letter to the Toronto Public Library. At a time when so much feels uncertain, it felt important to pay attention to the spaces that quietly support us. We wanted to capture what the library means to people and create room for reflection and memory.

Books stacked on top of a Toronto Public Library tote bag

Through Dear TPL, you’ll find a growing collection of stories, photos, and lived experiences from branches across the city. Youth and community volunteers documented moments that do not always appear in official histories. They focused on how spaces feel and why that feeling matters.

Creating something during a period of uncertainty can feel grounding. When the future feels distant or unclear, working on a project offers a way to stay present. Dear TPL was never meant to solve systemic problems. It was an act of care. A way of saying that these spaces mattered enough to be noticed.

The project is still growing, new stories are still being added, and youth are still encountering their local branches in meaningful ways. That ongoing nature feels right as libraries change alongside the communities they serve.

The Toronto Public Library has supported people through moments that are deeply personal and often invisible. It has been there during unemployment, long study sessions, childhood afternoons, and later-in-life learning curves. These forms of support do not always get acknowledged.

If Dear TPL does anything, I hope it encourages people to notice the spaces that support them and to share their own stories. For young people, especially, being trusted to help shape public memory is not just engagement; it is belonging. And sometimes, belonging is what keeps us going.

If you’d like to learn more or get involved—in Toronto or through the libraries in your city!—reach out to Stephanie here.