Carla was born and raised in Vanderhoof, the geographical centre of British Columbia and one of the earliest Mennonite settlements in the province. Though she left Vanderhoof after high school and has lived on Vancouver Island for a quarter of a century, she still returns in her writing to her childhood hometown, her family, those long Sunday sermons, and the rumble of her father’s logging truck coming down the drive. She has published five books of poetry, the most recent of which is Gloryland. Carla is currently polishing a creative nonfiction collection about small-town childhood and spiritual imagination.

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Et Cetera

Occasionally, Carla's writing shows up on other pages:


"Funk meets the eyes of God in this collection. Each poem gives praise to the worlds around, before, and behind us. Moreover, Funk continually reminds us that it is the smallness of where we begin that moves us to write and create."

- Gillian Sze, in Rhubarb, Issue 40


Carla Offers Speaking Events Year-Round

Occasionally, I stand at a microphone in front of an audience and read what words I’ve written. Sometimes, the room is full of people who know how to make poetry reading sounds, the low hmmm and mmmm that seem to mean, Hey, metaphor! or, That seems deep. Or maybe just, You lost me with that image of a monkey loose in heaven.

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Coming This Fall!

Let there be writing, gals. Classes coming soon. Stay tuned for details!‚Äč


I’ve always loved listening to writers talk about creative process. Part of that fascination comes from my nosey nature a natural curiosity about the world. The other part comes from a desire to learn what stokes creativity and how to stoke it more.


My father wanted to name me Edna, after some hot chick he knew in his fast car days. I picture him at the wheel of his Ford Fairlane and her riding shotgun, shrieking around each hairpin curve, a gauzy scarf tied over her hairsprayed beehive to guard against the wind.

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Morning Walk: Study in Contrasts

The blackberry bushes keep on invading, busting out green and growing thorns along the trail. Flowering inside a tangled thicket, a solo apple tree flush with pink and white blossoms, insisting it will, it can, it shall.

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In Search of the Greengage Plum

Some meditate cross-legged in a yurt. Some breathe the deep Om and yoga their way to transcendence. Some listen at the window for Rumi to drop a high and dervish thought into their cracked-open consciousness. At least, this is what I imagine some do to prepare the way for words that sizzle and glow. I do none of these things.

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