Who was Rian Elliott? Actually she was Marianne Elliott but she will always be Rian to the Forest City Wordwrights. Her bio on our website captures few details of her life.

Having grown up in Winnipeg, Rian considered herself a prairie person.  She also lived in Kelowna, Vancouver, London U.K., a long spell in Toronto and finally in the Forest City, London Ontario.

Rian noted that her working life was mainly in libraries (film and newspaper), with a sprinkling of varied and temporary enterprises.

She shared that she had to have something to read at all times and mysteries were a constant.  Her impetus was to add to that specific genre, although she also continued to work on a film script from time to time.

Diane Chartrand

You were my companion at the library every Tuesday to write for two hours.

You were my writing editor and illustration critic.

You were my nightly pen pal, by e-mail, while we watched the same television shows.

You were always there to listen whenever I needed to talk or vent.

You were a lot of things, but most of all, you were my best friend.

I miss you every day, especially on Tuesday’s when it gets near time to take the bus downtown, go have lunch with you in the food court, and work in the library on the third floor.  Me polishing up the chapters of my current book, and you to prepare for your critic group.

Once it got near two o’clock, we would pack up, go across the street and take a bus to Westmount Mall for our much-needed cup of Tim Horton’s coffee, a treat and girl talk.   We always left before dark, boarded the same bus dropping you off first, then me on the other side of town.

My heart feels empty.  Many times I want to send you an e-mail and chat or meet you to just hear your hearty laugh and quick wit about something you were working on.  You will be missed by a few family members and friends, but most of all by this writing group.

Mary Ann Colihan

Rian, a fine student. Rian Elliott was a sprite of a woman; small and almost elfin, given to wearing jaunty caps and hats, and of an uncertain age. Her voice had a lovely tone and her puckish laugh was a delight. She valued her privacy yet could express herself through her writing work.  

Rian took several of my fiction classes to get a certificate in Creative Writing from Western Continuing Studies. Her fiction work held a few keys to what made her tick.

One muse, for Rian, was the coffee shop. Not Starbucks or Timmies, but an average neighbourhood joint. The type of place where you would expect to sit on vinyl stools, drink joe out of plain ceramic mugs, eat off formica tables and converse with a breezy waitress. During her years in Toronto, she started to hang out in these coffee shops. When she was between jobs they became a haven. And she would parse her own experience with the job market through the narrative. 

She kept her eyes wide open and would imagine a story out of any interesting person who came in the door. In time, she gained knowledge of other regulars and her writing reflected a more complex universe.

I used to encourage her to package these stories into a group, or expand the ones that had the most promise. But she liked variety and kept writing new stories. She never wanted to be pigeon-holed.

Rian always seemed to tread lightly. Our last gathering, for the birthday of a dear Wordwright in her 80s, still haunts me. She was unwell. Her colour was off and she was not breathing right. Rather than detract from the party at hand, she quietly slipped out. Diane took her home with minimum fanfare and maximum sensitivity. My heart trailed out the door with them. I never saw Rian again.

I can envision her now in a coffee shop, steaming mug on the table, fresh faces to observe, a funky hat set on an angle, words being written in notebooks. Heaven.

Catherine Campbell 

I first met Rian in a creative writing class – she seemed understated but keen. She read a scene from a coffee shop that has since highlighted for me the aura that surrounded her. An enigma, an observer, a reluctant participant but seemingly very “spiritual”. I often picked her up and dropped her off for our monthly Forest City Wordwrights meetings, starting three years before she died. Three years and I knew so little of her life – vaguely knew she had a sister (no name) but not a son. We talked a little about her digital archiving work in Toronto – a career that to me belied her creativity and imagination. I assumed her interest in writing and in film started in retirement and then discovered she had graduated from York University with a degree in fine arts, cinematography and film/video production.

That coffee shop became part of the mystery she was working on. Her vivid description of behaviours and her ability to capture the essence of the scene without personally intruding perhaps reflected her slight aloofness – an observer, not a participant. But we don’t know where the story was going….or going to end.

She was a welcome member of the Forest City Wordwrights group that sprang out of those fiction classes. I still hear her gravelly voice and the guttural chuckle. In our Forest City Wordwrights meetings her prompt stories were always clever, often irreverent and humorous. Her smile was infectious.

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Our group laughed at Rian’s affinity for animals – dogs were always greeted with affection and cookies or gifts at Christmas. I was deeply touched by her compassion at the loss of my dog, Ivy, at a time when we now know Rian was suffering. She didn’t burden the group – it wouldn’t have been a burden – but at least she had Diane to lean on. She died not even a month after Ivy. None of us were prepared for the loss and it seems all of us regret, too late, that we didn’t know her better. Well, except for Diane, who did know her better and who grieves at the absence of a close friend.

Alison Pearce

Rian’s quiet, reflective nature drew my attention from the very first time we met.

My connection with Rian had become an integral part of the Forest City Wordwrights experience. Not only did I share classes with Rian as did the rest of us but I shared my personal history with her as well.  Rian, as several of the pictures above capture was mesmerised by our visit to the Pearce homestead. This property was part of the heritage which I have traced in my family genealogy   Our first visit was in 2016. We all met at the Tall Tales Café in Wallacetown, journeyed on down to the Pearce homestead on the lake, where we toured the house, went to the Anglican Church where we had lunch in the meeting room, travelled to the cemetery and ended our day at the Pearce Park-a place that became very special to Rian. She chose to celebrate her birthday with her family there last year. When a second visit took place this fall Rian’s absence was tangible. She would have so enjoyed revisiting.

I very much appreciate that the past and current owners of this stunning property have welcomed me and the writers’  group so freely and where we have enjoyed the home and the grounds right down to the vista of the cliffs and the lake. Rian and I had a special bond. Ill as we now learned she was she insisted on attending to share in my party – and to wish me a happy 87^th   birthday. In retrospect, that last visit was very reflective of the Rian that we all did come to know – caring and down to earth.

Madeleine Horton

I knew Rian mostly through sitting around a table with her at the Wordwrights’ group meetings. She was certainly not the most talkative in the group, but always congenial and open to whatever plan was proposed. She had a ready smile and beneath her signature hats and carefree dress, a steely resilience and quiet dignity. I will not soon forget the day she quietly announced she was not feeling well, waved off the offer of a ride home, would not disrupt our plans and walked to take the bus home. So sad to know she was so ill.

But I will remember Rian best through the words she left. Words fuelled by an expansive imagination, an imagination that brought vividly back to life a dead man who appears in bits and pieces, sometimes only as a hand- but a hand that brings a whole story to a satisfying conclusion. Or an imagination that brings together an assortment of characters for a dinner and introduces the lovely idea of having a place set “for the stranger at the door.” In Rian’s world, someone driving a bus became someone we wanted to know more about. That much of what she wrote has been lost is very sad.

Muriel Allingham

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Marian Bron

We’ve all commented on it, that missing email address from group communications. It tugs at our hearts as we pause, that heading not quite complete. Down to eight from nine. It is the only address I knew for her. Like everything else about her, her home address was a mystery. But then Rian loved mysteries. I supposed all I had to do was ask, it’s just she seemed so private.

It’s funny though, how something that boils down to zeroes and ones, a simple email address, can be like a physical house. Scrolling through emails received, her address is there and like a home, memories are attached. It’ll have an asked for critique or a comforting remark about someone’s sick puppy. It’ll be written in her snappy winding signature patter that ends in a smile and a quick laugh.

The group is left to wonder what would have happened to Bonnie on that bus or the gang in the coffee shop in Toronto. Endings, like an email address, that are missing. And Christmas won’t be the same for the Forest City Wordwrights eight canine honorary members, who enjoyed those treats she so joyfully handed out.

We all miss her smile and sense of humour. I hope you’ve found a new coffee shop in Heaven and are enjoying a cup with Georges Simenon and Agatha Christie.

Annie Carpenter

Sometimes what we view as “routine” about someone, is actually a gift we open every time they are “routine”. You don’t realize it until you no longer have that person with you. Rian would “routinely” bear goodies and gifts when group was at my house for all those attending especially the ones with paws!  I miss this. I miss seeing Diane and Rian together they were a team within our group. I feel sad that at the now treasured Christmas Gathering at the country club – there will be an empty chair. Her witty writing kept my ear anticipating something great every time she read a piece out loud. I miss the sound of her voice. Harper & Bentley will miss the rustle of the bag of treats this Christmas. Forever in our minds…

Maria Melillo Jones

I had the privilege to know Rian from our Creative Writing course at Western Continuing Studies. 

Her appearance was a simple one.  A signature hat distinguished her from others.

My first impression of her, she is a lady with a great deal of intellect, speaking with a soft and caring voice.

On many occasions, I had the pleasure to drive her to our group writing meetings. The caring soul tried to hand me money for gas. For me it was a pleasure helping, it wasn’t a problem going out of my way.

I remember one day we went to Marian’s house in Komoka for our group writing. I made a wrong turn.  Rian, Diane, and I drove all over London.  It was the longest way home ever taken.   During the drive, all three of us laughed like silly girls.

Rian sparkled with happiness beaming through her eyes.

She loved pets, especially dogs.  Every Christmas she brought a little bag of treats for everyone’s dogs, knowing all of their names. My little Ozzy loved her.  He could feel the passion she had for animals.

Metaphorically, I saw Rian like a closed box of chocolates, with so much flavour and diversity. Her life struggle kept it closed within herself.  I wish I knew more about our friend.

Losing Rian was a shock, a devastating blow to all of us in the group of Forest City Wordwrights. We are now missing a special link.

Often, I think of her as a free bird soaring high in the heavens, leaving behind precious memories.

Rest in peace my beautiful friend, you will always be treasured. 

Rian’s 4-legged Friends