StarkLight Press CEO Featured in Newspaper

Friday’s edition of the Alaska Highway News features a long-running segment known as People of the Peace. It is a community-oriented section in which notable business and community members are interviewed in depth. This week’s edition features StarkLight Press Publisher Tony Stark.

This engaging article, written by Jonny Wakefield, gives the reader an in depth look at Stark and the underpinnings of his burgeoning creative empire in Canada’s Great White North.



Creativity, as Defined by StarkLight Press

People have been asking me quite a bit lately about creativity.

Where do you get yours? What causes it?

People have also been asking me: Is this story, artwork, poem, product, “good enough?”

In response, I ask them if it is creative.

See sentence one. After several evolutions of this discussion a definition of creativity, at least as far as its use as an adjudicator on StarkLight Press Desks is concerned, should be provided.


Creativity is a force that has forged our modern world from the flagellae of the amoebas in the oceans, millenia before this day. It is the engine that powers our thought, our transport, our social interaction. It is the flame of our salvation and the vista of our future.

planet creation

Creativity stems from a love of life.

Creativity is not to be confused with plagiarism or derivative construction. Changing a letter or a vowel in a word of Tolkien’s work and calling it your own is not creativity. Picking characters ripped from mass media and clothing them in the trappings of one’s own daily life is not creativity. It is the grasping hand of the drowning man reaching for a piece of solid ground. It is the guttering flame of the soul not quite ready to go gently into that dubiously good night of reality television, organized sport and facebook status updates, but it is not creativity.

Creativity ingests fully the wonder of creation and produces unique creation in response. It is the human mind’s only true perpetual motion machine. It spawns original and wonderful manifestations in response to the wonder that surrounds it; each new creation connected by the thinnest of membranes of similitude, each bound together by the feeling stirred in the breast of any living being who partakes.

In this way, creativity is identical to love.


If you love your characters, their world and their existences, then it will show in your writing. If you are writing them because of an incomplete connection based on either your own needs and desires or the imposition of the raging maelstrom of media imposed on your brain, then that will show, too.

If you are writing something you could love, or love in a way, but that has been obscured by either your psychology, your drives, your desires, your inputs (please note the resounding possessive pronoun), then you owe it to your creation to silence the ever-present Importance of YourSelf and let the story bloom forth.

You might be surprised how much of You comes forth in such an act of pure creation- if it is actually You that you have set out to display by creating in the first place.

If this is not the case, and you are in fact terrified of letting others view You, then you must quit obscuring YourSelf behind an ink cloud of media influences, pretentious and protected plot and other obfuscations. You must decide why, in fact, you are attempting to create in the first place, if you do not wish to share of yourself with the rest of creation. You must decide, and you must either abandon the fear or abandon the attempt.

And let’s face it, nobody’s going to be impressed if you abandon the attempt.

-Tony Stark,

Publisher and CEO,

StarkLight Press.

Happy Saint Patrick’s Day from StarkLight Press!

To celebrate this most Irish of days, StarkLight Press has gathered a list of eight of Ireland’s gifted writers and our favorite works from their pens. In no particular order, our favorite authors are:

Frank McCourt, author of Angela’s Ashes- 


“I don’t know what it means and I don’t care because it’s Shakespeare and it’s like having jewels in my mouth when I say the words.”

Bram Stoker, author of Dracula and The Lady of the Shroud- 


“In the sunlight the whole mountains glisten with running streams and falling water. I feel a strange kind of elation, but from no visible cause.”

William Butler Yeats, author of A Vision, The Second Coming, September 1913-

thestand“And what rough beast, its hour come round at last, slouches toward Bethlehem to be born?”

Sean O’ Casey, author of Juno and the Paycock and Rose and Crown-


“Ireland only half free’ll never be at peace while she has a son left to pull a trigger.”

C.S. Lewis, author of the Narnia Series and The Screwtape Letters-


“It is funny how mortals always picture us as putting things into their minds: in reality our best work is done by keeping things out.”

George William Russell, author of The Vale, The Living Torch and Winter-


” A DIAMOND glow of winter o’er the world”

Patrick McCabe, author of The Butcher Boy and Breakfast on Pluto, source of one of the Virgin Mary’s most human reactions to the slowness of humanity.


Brian Friel, author of Dancing at Lughnasa-


“You work hard at your job, you try to keep the home together but suddenly you realize that cracks are formin’ everywhere. It’s all about to collapse”


-Tony Stark,

Publisher and CEO, StarkLight Press.

Epitaph for a Small Town


A sight like this is a fairly common occurrence on modern city streets these days, so common that I am sure more than a few of us find little to move us in its pixels. Regrettable accidents and violence have become so much the norm that, if one were to attempt to catalogue all the incidents recorded in a single large cityspace, it would be less an exercise in fraught film noir intensity and more one of beauraucratic detachment.

Nevertheless, I would like to recount the experience of one of many of these incidents in a small town to which I have no small attachment- not just for the fact that it was one of many human tragedies that occurred today, but for the manner of its recounting to me.

Yesterday morning, an elderly lady was struck by a car on the corner of a busy Dawson Creek street. The lady succumbed to her injuries and died. I was just down the street at the time, knowing nothing of the police tape, ambulances or other trappings of tragedy being unrolled blocks away. A brief, half-heard wail from a siren was all the real-time sensory input I received.

Continuing on with my work online, I noticed from a Facebook acquaintance a cryptic comment about “hoping whoever hit  that old lady gets what he deserves.”

The comment was so cryptic, the sirens so common, I failed to connect the two in my mind. I followed the thread and asked the wheres and whens of the situation, learning it was at a laundromat where everyone in town comes to get their coveralls and work clothes cleaned. A common fixture of northern life, drawn into a drama for a day as the methodical wheels of investigation cordoned off its borders.


The fact I had put off my own work laundry until later that day was not lost on me.

People on the thread chatted about speeders on 8th Street. All of the usual cries for checks, balances, solar-powered speed monitors and other shawls of human comfort abounded. I continued my work, for what else is there to do when only supposition and righteous anger abound.

Their anger is not unfounded- this is a small, farming and foresting town whose population swells to almost ten times its size every winter to accommodate the multitudes of petrochemical workers in brand new, state of the art trucks designed to persevere over the most intensely unforgiving terrain. This little main street can hardly bear the strain of these vehicles, the sand and gravel, liquid calcium and effluent semis that traverse it many times a day.


I had occasion to be on the overtaxed 8th Street later that day. I was rather surprised to see the flashing LED lights of the RCMP still extant outside the laundromat. Pulling over, I stopped to take these pictures of the dregs of tragedy, the flapping wasp-striped police tape and the deserted parking lot in front of the place that is usually constantly filled with traffic.

The wind had been gusting along with the full moon since the night before, slapping and rushing the buildings and whipping up giant puddles of water where once there had only been snow. My mother told me that winds like that meant that misfortune was in the air- the Wild Hunt would come out at more times than just the top and bottom of the year to race over the landscape and initiate tremors of tragedy.

As I watched the tape billow in the wind, I knew as I always do that she was right. It is true that the seeds of sorrow spread by such winds find fertile ground in a world where people have lost not only their caution and value for life, but have lost the knowledge of the subtle signs of nature to tell them when the ice of reality upon which they tread is thin.

It has long been understood by first responders that, regardless of statistics, the time of the full moon is a ‘hinky’ one. It has been long understood by the natives of every boreal country that the northern lights are connected to spirits and the dead. It has long been understood by humans that the highways and biways are areas of transition and change, a shifting landscape not unlike either the wind that rushes over the melting snow or the auroras themselves.

Yet in the increasing urban rush to attain, suffer and forget the pain of that attainment we have forgotten that we still live in the world and that we can and should try to preserve the life that surrounds us. We can and should try to remember the feel of a wind in our hair and know when it is happy and joyous or troublesome. We can and should remember the physics that taught us how to make our fast machines and recall that one can only arrive at a destination so fast over land- the speeding that costs so greatly can only result in a gain of a few moments for the speeder.

Natural laws of both subtle and empirical nature are forgotten in the overamped, underslept, desperate search for Attainment. In such an avid search, we lose life, we lose connection, we will lose our freedom and will ultimately lose anything that connects us to the world around us. Small towns with landmarks that matter will become faceless urban landscapes, interchangeable and thus dispensable, all the more ready to play the backdrop for whatever tragic loss chaos has to unfold.

So it was that a small town became the backdrop for one of another set of statistics yesterday.

You can read the article pleading for information from the Alaska Highway News here:

-Tony Stark.

Less than Two Months!!

Not writing!! Get on it, folks!

Yes, it’s true- you have less than 60 days to complete your short story, flash fiction or nano-story for our short story contest!

It closes April 30,2015, at midnight PDT. Send your submissions to along with a brief bio and contact info.

-Tony Stark.