Kelly Robson

The Banff Centre is a major Canadian institution for the continuing education and professional development of working artists. It’s been around since 1933, and has a huge, futuristic campus just above the town of Banff, in Banff National Park.

It’s gorgeous, of course. I’ve known about it my whole life because I grew up near the parks. For me, the Banff Centre is freighted with huge significance. It plays a big part in Canadian arts circles, but perhaps is less well known than it should be, elsewhere. And since they’ve only recently started offering Science Fiction, Fantasy, and Horror programs, they’re only beginning to make a mark in our SFFH world.

Let’s change that. Here’s what I want you to know about doing a writing residency at Banff.

The tl;dr

Go. Apply. It’s amazing. You’ll love it.

The best reason to do this is to meet amazing people. Yes, you focus on your writing and can (if you want) literally do nothing else for two weeks and that’s transformative. But the people are the real reason to go.

What’s a residency?

For two weeks, you’re part of a ~20-person cohort who all work on their own writing, along with three faculty who are accomplished professional writers. The faculty offer mentoring sessions and lectures, and everyone is given the chance to do a public reading.

You’re provided with a private office in Vinci Hall, along with a private hotel room in one of the two accommodations buildings (the Professional Development Centre or Lloyd Hall). Meals are included, and the food is good.

You are completely free to go wherever and do whatever you like. You can write on top of a mountain. You can co-write in the common areas. There’s a lovely library, a gym and pool, and hiking trails in every direction. You don’t even have to write if you don’t want to. You’re free to do as you please.

Residencies are very competitive. Lots of people apply. You should apply.

Literary Arts Programs are listed here. The next program specific to the SFFH world is the Futurisms residency with Joshua Whitehead, Sheree Renee Thomas, and Nalo Hopkinson, which will run in February 2027. Application deadline is August 19, 2026.

Do they offer any other writer programs?

They also offer solo retreats in the Leighton Artist Studios. Also very competitive and prestigious. Right now, though, they’re not taking applications from writers (that particular opportunity opened and closed late last year, but will open again).

I’m not Canadian, can I go?

Yes! Several of our cohort were American. One was from Thailand (wonderful writer and delightful human Champ Wongsatayanont).

What support is available?

Financial: Many participants are offered scholarships which covers tuition and half of the meal expenses. Canadians can apply to the Canada Council to cover the rest of the expenses, including travel.

Practical: The Literary Arts Program staff are there to help with anything you need, and they’re simply lovely. I needed a different office chair for ergonomic reasons, and they got me one within minutes.

Emotional: The very first thing Derek Beaulieu, Director of Literary Arts, told us is, “You belong here.” He sees participants sinking into imposter syndrome all the time, and wants to make sure that’s put to bed right away. The environment couldn’t be friendlier or more supportive.

Okay, but what did it FEEL like?

I fell in love with my cohort. They were the most lovely, delightful, emotionally intelligent people every single one, an overwhelming proportion of queer people, and all absolutely fantastic writers. I adore them.

Some of us were worried because the first day was mostly taken up with orientation, and we wanted to get writing, but it was fine and in any case, all activities were optional.

For the first few days, smoke from distant wildfires obscured the spectacular mountain views. Some of us found the altitude challenging, with fatigue, headaches and mild nausea. Drinking lots of water helped.

I tended to wake up very early (5AM) and get writing. It was other-worldly walking in the dark from the Professional Development Centre (aka one of the two hotel-like buildings) to Vinci Hall (our offices). Time went by fast because I was so focused on my work, and when I got stuck, I could just go find another writer to talk to. Within minutes my problem was solved.

My office looked out on a little landscape of trees and bushes, and I had a resident chipmunk mooching around out there, along with a pileated woodpecker. Though it was rutting season and one can’t usually get away from elk in Banff, we saw not one elk the entire time. Plenty of deer though.

I went to a modern dance performance at the big beautiful theatre uphill from Vinci Hall. Coming out of the performance, a lovely deer was posing outside the front door. The juxtaposition of art, music, a lush performance space, and wildlife was surreal.

The two weeks were productive. I got two-thirds of the way through a first-pass revision of my novel, and was pleased. But my favorite memories are hanging out with my cohort. Lying under the trees in front of Vinci Hall, playing with fallen leaves and chatting with Sasha and Michelle. Walking into town with Champ and investigating the farmer’s market. Goofing around on the public art with Rebecca. Getting essential insight on my chapter 2 from Chinelo.

I actually regret spending so much time working. I should have socialized more, because I can work anytime but I’ll never have those people all together again.

Practical things

Getting there: You fly into Calgary and catch a shuttle at the airport into Banff (takes about 2 hours).

Accommodations: Living quarters are just like a regular nice hotel room. Offices are in a separate building (Vinci Hall). There’s a gym and pool. Apparently the gym has a climbing wall. Spaces to write are everywhere. Everything seems to be wheelchair accessible.

Food: Buffet meals are offered in one location, and bistro-type restaurant/cafe meals in another. All dietary needs catered to.

Coffee/tea: The literary arts offices has a shared kitchenette so writer fuel is in the building. I live on tea so was quite concerned about this.

In September 2025, I’m going to be at the Banff Centre for Arts and Creativity for the two week Science Fiction residency with faculty Ai Jiang, Premee Mohamed, and Amal El-Mohtar.

I’m excited about this for a bunch of reasons. First, getting to hang out with Premee, Amal, and Ai for two weeks would be reason enough to go. (Not to  mention a bunch of other writers. I don’t know who else is going, is it you?). Writers, hanging out and writing. Yes, please.

The Banff Centre also has a lot of cachet and I’ve wanted to go since forever. I’ve applied for residencies before and haven’t gotten in.  I’ve been there; stayed two days for a paid gig in 2019 which felt like a massive achievement, but to get accepted into one of the Centre’s official programs is a whole another thing. Banff is a place where professional artists learn and grow, and I’ve always wanted to be among them.

But maybe I’m most excited because I grew up in the Canadian Rockies, not in Banff but further north, near Jasper. To locals, the Banff Centre is a place to be proud of, an organization with international standing, an institution with a long history (more than 90 years!). But it also feels to locals like a world apart — we take it on faith that amazing thing happen there, but these aren’t things for us.

What I mean is, my life as a local kid was horrifyingly culture-free, filled with skidoo accidents, serial killings, mishaps in the mountains, alcoholism, trauma, six-month long winters, one TV channel, and a desperate search for books and stories. A narrative-free zone. Culturally impoverished. A creative desert, where the one good teacher at our high school made community theatre happen for a few years before fleeing to a town that didn’t hate him.

It’s where my fear and morbidness comes from. But I always knew there was a place apart. Nearby. Not open to me, but there, in the same mountains. Banff Centre.

Banff Centre was where creative artists of all kinds birthed beauty, intelligence, and meaning into the world. I didn’t think I would ever be among them, that seemed impossible. But now, very satisfyingly, I am.

Sometimes I write stories about the place and the time I grew up in (here’s one), a very specific place that nobody else writes about. Those stories feel like I’ve sent them into interstellar space, like the Voyager missions, into the deep dark beyond the heliosphere. They gently beep: I am here. This is what it was like, in that cold lonely place. Where are you? Do you understand? Were you someplace like that, too?  

What will I be working on in Banff? Nothing like that. A novel. I’m many tens-of-thousands of words in and am hoping to have a well completed first draft to revise in Banff. It’ll feel great, because I love revision. For me, drafting can be a painful drag — it often feels like mistake upon mistake. Revision is like having a jet pack strapped to my back — everything is onward and upward, to the good.

September, please arrive faster.

My new horror story LANDLINE is out now. A high school teacher is about to board a plane for school trip when her six year-old son phones from home to say the power is out and his dad has disappeared.

A true thrill of writing is getting covers like this:

Art by the amazing Elijah Boor.

I guarantee this will scare the shit out of you, if it hasn’t already :D

If you’re an ebook reader, you can buy the story for your Kindle.

Rarely can anyone point to a turning point in their life, but here’s mine. Ten years ago today, April 1, 2013, I was laid off my job. I was devastated, but it doesn’t sting anymore because I can mark that moment as the beginning of becoming…

Becoming myself.

The next day, I took a stalled story and started rewriting it from scratch, in a new way, with a style and confidence that had eluded me for years. The story was Waters of Versailles, and it felt right. It felt like me. I’d found the thing I’d been long searching for in my writing, that I could bring to new stories, over and over again. We call it voice, and though it’s a bit of a cliché, it’s a good metaphor for finding your own unique way of expressing yourself on the page.

Gain though pain. Oh god, can we just not?

Though I’ve told this story about my artistic breakthrough many times, I kind of hate it. It shouldn’t take a massive, life-upheaving event to make an artistic breakthrough. Often it doesn’t. Lots of people find their voices through simple consistent hard work, punctuated by nothing particularly terrible or dramatic.

So why am I going on and on about this?

This past decade has been big, and I want to commemorate it here.

In the past ten years, I published two books (Gods, Monsters, and the Lucky Peach and High Times in the Low Parliament), and a short fiction collection (Alias Space and Other Stories) in hardcover, no less.

I published 18 short stories, many of which were reprinted in Year’s Best anthologies, and translated internationally — including a gorgeous hardcover, illustrated version of Waters of Versailles in Spanish. I wrote several nonfiction pieces about writing and writers, mostly for Clarkesworld.

I consulted as a creative futurist for national and international organizations. Often, this took the form of listening to people’s ideas about the future and creating stories out of them, but I also made presentations about various technological advances and what they may mean for the future.

I attended conventions and literary events in Spain and China (twice!), and many conventions in Canada and the US. I was a been a guest of honor twice, at WindyCon and Canvention. I won a Nebula Award and three Aurora Awards, and have been a finalist for most of the major awards in our genres.

I won a Nebula Award?

Hard to believe, but here it is. It’s a beauty. As an SF fan since birth, this is lifelong dream come true.

 

What’s next, then?

High Times in the Low Parliament is the finalist for a Nebula, and I’m looking forward to going to the Nebula Conference this May — for the first time live and in-person since 2019.

I finished a High Times sequel called Down and Out at the Mighty Assembly, but not sure yet when or where it will appear. I’m working on a big sweeping Science Fiction novel, and am discovering, NOT to my surprise, that novels are difficult and all-consuming.

I want to write more stories — I have several in the works, and am looking forward to turning my attention to them, if I can only get the novel done and out of the way. It’d be great to have another year like 2015 and 2018, with four stories out in one year. That’s my idea of perfection.

Let’s see how it goes for the next decade, then?

Yes, in 2033, we’ll see how all of it has gone.

After I wrote this little post about being surprised that High Times in the Low Parliament is a Nebula finalist, I realized I didn’t say why I was surprised by it getting a Nebula nod. I was surprised because it’s a comedy, and comedies are a risk and a hard sell. Drama is universal. What’s dramatic to me is probably dramatic to lots of people. But what’s funny to me isn’t necessarily funny to you, or anyone.

Nothing fails harder than a failed comedy (except a failed musical — that fails worst of all). So why write comedies at all? Why take the risk? Because we need them. And because comedy can tell us truths tragedy can’t.

Truths like: Humans may be ridiculous, but we are not unsalvagable.

Truths like: The things we spend so much time and effort on may not matter at all, while the truly important things are overlooked.

Truths like: We can come together when we lower our boundaries, and it’s worth it.

Truths like: There is value in laughing with friends, in gormless goodwill.

Truths like: Life may be precarious, but we can still find moments to vibe with each other

Truths like: Despite overwhelming evidence, you can be happy and safe. Life can get better. But to do this, we need other people to be happy, safe, and better with.

This is not a pollyanna point of view. I have not lived a cushy life and aside from waves hands, the past couple years have been especially hard. The death of my mom from dementia, and my dear friend from ALS. The exposure of two other treasured elders as horrific moral failures. Yeah, that was fun. In the middle of all that, things were so dark I had to make my own light.

And that’s why we need comedies more than ever. All good comedies address how difficult it is to be alive, to age, to change. Comedies show us we can move away the places of caution and safety that are killing us, and the risk is worthwhile. Comedies prove that even when we’re buried in the tragedy of being alive, someday we will laugh again.

In conclusion, I would love to see more comedies in SFF. I think we need them. Here’s a great one: GLITTERATI by Oliver K. Langmead. I guess you’d call it social satire but no, it’s a freaking comedy — Zoolander in the future, if you will. I loved it. Maybe you will too.