I wanted to re-post this interview I did back in 2016, originally
conduced by the delightful and brilliant Toronto poet and editor Sachiko Murakami for her “Writing is Hard” project. The series was rare in that it
openly worked to discuss difficulties that emerged for different writers as
they worked their way through a life of literary production in Canada, and
touched on numerous social, political and financial concerns so often
overlooked, and under-discussed. Along with my interview, the site featured
conversations with Nikki Reimer, Laura Broadbent, Anita Anand, Sarah Yi-Mei Tsiang, Vivek Shraya and Daniel Zomparelli. Unfortunately, for reasons unknown
(to me, at least), the site has fallen off the internet, meaning the compiled
interviews are no longer available. I enjoyed the series very much (it was such
a great series!), and, quite selfishly, I suppose, I quite liked my interview
as part of it, able to discuss certain things that I hadn’t before, or even
since. [Although I should mention I havebeen interviewed many times over the years; see?]
I’m hoping some version of her site returns at some point,
but in the meantime, I re-post 2016 my interview here (along with the
corresponding selfie from my home office):
What’s the hardest
thing about being a writer?
There are so many elements worth discussing: not
necessarily as “difficulties,” but as things one must adapt to, with or against
in order to be able to get to the work. As working artists, we are
trouble-shooters, after all, even if for problems we first create: it is important
to focus on solutions, as opposed to difficulties.
There is ego, certainly: that tricky balance of having
enough to manage years’ worth of self-motivation before anything might actually
be accomplished (the years of silence and apathy before a book might actually
emerge in print) against getting a swelled head, which can often lead to
interpersonal difficulties with other writers (and non-writers), and even
bitterness down the road, when one doesn’t achieve the attentions or accolades
one expects. I met a handful of older writers while in my twenties, seemingly
on the far end of presuming they were working to achieve some kind of ‘status,’
that warned me away from wanting to walk down that same path. I’ve also worked
very hard to avoid a variety of alpha-male ‘pissing matches,’ something that,
thankfully, has occurred far less as I age. It gets very old very quickly, and
wastes so much time and effort. The other side of the equation of “ego” is in
having just enough to self-motivate (no-one cares if I stop, for example), a
muscle I spent much of my twenties furiously developing. Having the farming
background helped, knowing that my father didn’t wait for inspiration to milk
the cows: he simply woke every morning and went to work. I forced myself into
the daily routine, knowing it would be the only way I would accomplish anything
at all. Who was it that said we fight laziness and lies in our search for the
truth?
Neil Gaiman has discussed multiple times the benefits of a
writing life, which I heartily agree with: we get to write whatever we want,
however we want, and whenever we feel like it. It might seem overly simplistic,
but it is basically true. The benefits (or drawbacks) of my Glengarry County
“Protestant work ethic,” akin to what I’ve heard of Alice Munro as well, mean I
work all the damned time. There was an article I once read that quoted Alice
Munro’s daughter on Munro’s Ontario rural work-ethic: the response to something
not working out was to do more work. My enthusiasms have to sustain me, because
no-one else’s will (nor should they). jwcurry has repeated his main goal these
days: “to remain interested.”
I’ve also been very conscious of not wishing to complain or
vent about any of my frustrations that come with a choice to write full-time
(publicly, I mean, whether on social media or anywhere else, as opposed to very
close friends and/or spouse), whether working in so much solitude, frustrations
around lack of money (or grants, or book sales) or the realization that books and
writing emerge with very little attention (if at all). While I understand the
purpose to such complaints, it always seems a bit precious (and one, I’ve
realized since, very much steeped in elements of privilege, including my “white
male-ness”: I have the option to
write full-time). I remember John Metcalf writing moons ago in an essay his
lack of patience for writer complaints about funding rejections: no-one is making you do this.
Sorry for the delay. I
had a few projects I needed to get finished up and my conversations got
stalled!
First of all, these
conversations are founded on the idea that it's okay to complain and vent about
frustrations that come with the choice to write. (Not necessarily full-time, as
I and most of the people I'm talking to are not writing full-time). I do
appreciate you acknowledging your privilege and I respect you for hesitating to
chime in here, but this project needs breadth of experience, so I thought I
would throw in one or two white, straight men for the diversity angle ;)
I want to hear more
about your work ethic. I’ve had conversations with people about you in which we
marvel about your energy, how much you are always doing. What kind of toll does
that take on you? I certainly don’t have the energy to do as much as you do. I
can barely work at a very low-stress day job for 7.25 hours two days a week
without wanting to come home and put myself immediately to bed. When I get into
a project I do get the energy to throw all of myself into it, but I eventually
crash. But you seem to have been vibrating at a higher work-capacity than most
humans for years. Do you ever just collapse into a puddle of rob and sleep for
six days?
Puddle of sleep? Oh my, no. There isn’t time! “I’ll sleep
when I’m dead,” and all that. Most evenings I feel as though I should be doing “something,”
whether posting a few more “12 or 20 questions” interviews, or folding and
stapling (once I’ve managed to get the toddler fed, bathed and asleep), but
simply can’t, for the sake of energy. About a third of any given sequence of
evenings, these days at least, I’m unable to move. So I don’t.
I think in my twenties and thirties it took much more of a
toll than it does now. I really do think I have the benefit of a farm
upbringing (which also included thirteen years of piano lessons) that drove
home (unconsciously, of course) the work-ethic. The eleven-year battle of wills
between my mother and I over my thirteen years of piano lessons most likely
strengthened the idea (she would not let me quit, so I refused to practice).
Early into my writing attempts, also, I read a quote by Margaret Atwood that said
if you expect full-time out of writing, you must put full-time into it. I
thought that made perfect sense. I mean, I never wanted side-employment (nor
did I wish to teach, which is part of why I never bothered with
post-secondary). Why give my best energy to what I care about less? Why work a
dumb-job for eight hours, and then give only my “remaining” energy to that
thing I claim to love best of all? It simply made no sense, so I refused it. And
yet, there were the complaints I’d receive from certain other writers in the
community that I couldn’t (or
shouldn’t) “write all the time,” and that I required an outside employment,
otherwise my writing would suffer. Those arguments were thrown at me for years
by a small few; some who continue to argue such. It only angers me. Bring it up
once (maybe); make your argument (and make a real argument, not just a
complaint), and move on. I’m tired of hearing it. I write.
I’ve never held an office job: I worked in a restaurant as
a bus-boy until I was twenty-one or twenty-two (training teenagers to do the
same, who were then gifted my shifts). From twenty-one to twenty-four, I ran a
home day-care with my daughter Kate and two other kids, so I could afford to
stay home, and look after her while my then-partner worked (this would be my
last tangible experience with “employment”). I was ten hours a day, five days a
week with three toddlers, and writing three nights a week in a coffeeshop from
7pm to midnight. I pushed and pushed and pushed. There was no social life, but
for the occasional public reading I’d attend and/or organized (sort of where I
am now, I suppose).
Post-daycare, there were the years I had just enough to
purchase a coffee, so I did, sitting my daily five hours in the Dunkin’ Donuts
on Bank Street scribbling out poems and reviews (I sat there six days a week,
five hours a day from May 1994 to June 2000). I ate little, and wrote lots. There
was walking into the Ottawa Public Library to borrow a roll of masking tape to
put my black high-tops back together, because the bottoms of my shoes were
coming off. There was the year I made (according to my taxes) only $2,500 in total,
which resulted in eviction, and subsequently living in a friend’s basement near
the airport for a month or two. In hindsight, it sounds quite mad: the
belligerent will-power, despite lacks of publishing, grants and other tangible
attentions. I would spend the last of my money photocopying chapbooks, thus
forcing myself to sell two copies a day for the sake of food, and maybe a pint
at the pub, where I was attempting to work on fiction every evening, from 5pm
until I simply couldn’t afford to continue sitting there. There was the
occasional chapbook I could exchange for a pint with one of the owners of The
Dominion Tavern, down in the Byward Market. For nearly twenty years, it was
only through the semi-annual ottawa small press book fair that I would allow
myself a small moment of stress-free humanity: post-fair, we would retire to
the pub for food and drink, and I would order like a person without even
thinking about money. Somehow, six months of furious work amid poverty for the
sake of a single, stress-free meal I’d paid for myself felt an incredible
luxury, and an incredible relief.
There were opportunities, certainly, I wasn’t able to
present to my first child; although whenever money did appear I always provided
them a bunch off the top. Our weekend and summer plans, also, were sacrosanct.
We saw a new movie in theatres on opening weekend every week for about thirteen
years (until my year in Alberta; by the time I’d returned, she was working
part-time).
I doubt very much that I have marketable skills, having
painted myself into a particular corner. I suppose, in certain ways, this
pushes me, also.
There were the dark stretches, where I could barely afford
to feed myself, and certainly couldn’t afford to socialize, forcing a
particular kind of isolation upon myself for the choice of writing. I couldn’t
simply go out for drinks with a friend, go to the movies, or go out to dinner.
Those simply weren’t options.
Part of what did fuel during these stretches were my other
activities: I co-ran The TREE Reading Series, for example, from June 1994
through to the end of 1998; I co-founded the ottawa small press book fair in
1994, which I’ve run twice a year since. I started what became The Factory
Reading Series back in 1992. I started producing wee chapbooks as above/ground
press during the summer of 1993. I wrote book reviews for The Ottawa X-Press from mid-1994 until the end of 1998, a weekly
column that slowly became every two, three and then four weeks (that’s when I finally
quit). Part of what kept me going at the paper was hearing from writers such as
Martha Baillie that I was the only person to review her first novel (I found
out later that I was the only one who reviewed her first novel positively; her publisher wasn’t forwarding
the other reviews). I was the first and often only reviewer for dozens of books;
how could I quit, even though they were so blatantly attempting to get rid of
me? (I only achieved the column because no one else would do it for what little
they were paying.) It made me very aware of the importance in what I was
attempting to do, and how desperately hard it was to put books out into the
world, all before I even managed to produce my own first collection (which I
don’t think was reviewed at all). Honestly: if we don’t discuss what has
already been published, why bother producing more?
I’m not entirely sure how I arrived. In my later teens, I
met Henry Beissel and Gary Geddes, two poets and Concordia University profs who
were local to where I grew up, both of whom allowed me some kind of external
verification that writing was something worth pursuing. By my early to
mid-twenties, in Ottawa, I was in contact with poets such as Michael Dennis,
Joe Blades, Judith Fitzgerald, John Newlove, George Bowering and Ken Norris, all
of whom were supportive in a variety of ways. This was worth doing. I mean, Milton Acorn sold his tools and
picked up poetry and managed to make a go of it, so why couldn’t I?
In the later 1990s, I founded The Peter F. Yacht Club as a support group; I saw a number of
people around me that felt a bit isolated in what they were doing, so thought
the best way to counteract that was to get a bunch of us together, even if for
nothing else than conversation. I mean, it’s a strange thing to write poems or
little stories and send them to magazines, attempt writing grants and
chapbook/book publication, and all of that, if you’re on the outside of it.
Partners might not understand, friends might not understand, etcetera, so I got
a small group of us together—Stephen Brockwell, jwcurry, Laurie Fuhr, Anita
Dolman, Clare Latremouille, etcetera—for the sake of an informal social/writing
group. To feel less isolated in these weird things that we do. When you feel on
the outside, you simply start your own group, right? I would like to think it
helped more than a couple of us.
There’s a certain pragmatism I think I’ve developed over
the years (uncertain whether it was already there, and I expanded, or if I made
a conscious or unconscious choice around such early on): I don’t see the
purpose to dwelling upon what I’ve set aside or ‘lost’ for the sake of certain
choices I’ve made around writing. That can only lead to dark places. I’d rather
focus on what I’ve achieved: I mean, I’ve been able to do ridiculous things
thanks to my writing life, whether watching one of the Royal Weddings in a
hotel room in Kelowna, British Columbia with Bill Richardson (delightful, and
rather surreal), visiting Molly’s Reach in Sechelt, able to train multiple
times across the prairies, touring with Anne Stone and kath macLean, or the
multiple reading tours I’ve done with Stephen Brockwell around Ireland, Canada
and the United States; or watch the sun rise from a rooftop in Vancouver with
Tom Snyders, Clare Latremouille and Gerry Gilbert after a full night of drinks
and conversation. I’ve had remarkable, ridiculous fortune and adventures thanks
to writing, and very deliberately use those experiences to help me ride through
the more fallow periods. And really: you can’t choose left and then decide to
focus on being angry for not choosing right.
I’ve also been incredibly fortunate to have a number of
generous people around me, who have helped in real, tangible ways when I
required such. It took a long time to be able to accept such assistance at all,
and learn to deflect the natural impulse toward shame and embarrassment: I
should be able to look after myself. Michael Dennis told me years ago that it
was a choice I had to make: I either had to find my own money, or be okay with
others offering money when I required. I couldn’t simply do neither and expect
to keep going. I do a lot of work for others, so if someone wishes to assist me
as well, I should let them. So there. I spent a lot of my twenties feeling
ashamed for these bits of assistance. I
don’t want your free money: I want to sell books.
I’ve had, and still do have, real stretches of what’s the fucking point? My most recent
poetry collection didn’t receive a single review, and only six people showed up
when I launched the prior (the publisher, who lives locally, didn’t even attend).
I’ve probably had a combined sixty-plus book rejections over the past six
years, and, despite having some dozen poetry, fiction and non-fiction
book-length manuscripts out in the world (some for more than a few years), I
haven’t a damned thing forthcoming. There are some publishers I used to deal
with regularly that I can barely get to return an email. I sometimes worry
that, as much as I’ve accomplished as an editor/curator, some of that has
actually obscured much of my own literary output. I occasionally wonder: maybe
I’m not a very good writer, but was taken on for some of the hustling I’ve been
able to do. As much as it has fed me enormously as far as enthusiasm, energy
and influence, I suspect I’m much more appreciated for some of the
editorial/curatorial work than my own writing. And yet, I know that some of it
is as good as anything else out there (I also know that my best work is still
ahead of me). I think I’ve been fortunate, in certain ways, to have a good
sense of the “long game.” My time will come. If literature has taught me
nothing else, it has taught me to be patient. It’s an element of why I work so
hard to support and encourage as many as I do; it honestly takes so little to
assist most people in their writing, and the results can be breathtaking.
Honestly, I think fear prompts a percentage of what drives
me, whether I want to admit it or not (fortunately, enthusiasm is still the
strongest motivator). I started a new magazine after Rose was born, for example,
the quarterly Touch the Donkey; it
took a few months to realize that I was terrified of being forgotten once I was
less in a position to be able to leave the house for a few years. What am I so
afraid of? There is already apathy; there can’t be “more” apathy. It is literature, after all.
Fear: I’m the eldest of two, both of whom grew up with a
mother who had extended illness. From 1967 onwards (the year they were
married), she was gravely ill for forty-three years (she died in 2010). She
lived through twenty-two years of kidney dialysis, and had a five percent
chance of surviving either of the first two attempts at kidney transplants
(circa 1981 and 1983; she nearly bled out during one; the experience pulled her
back from attempting a third until 2000, which actually worked; she wanted to
see her children grow up, she said). She had multiple hernias, including a few
double and at least one triple. During her final decade, she had pneumonia
quarterly: we didn’t take it seriously until she was in hospital for more than
four or five weeks. There were the years of absolute anger and lashing out,
most of which occurred throughout the 1980s and into the 90s. And by the time
she finally went, the dementia was encroaching, which was its own series of
issues that required constant attention and sorting.
I was born in 1970, and my sister, 1976 (we’re both
adopted), and from 1974 onwards, she was more in hospital than home, with the
worst of it being through the length and breadth of the 1980s; and when she was
home, she required quiet, and a particular level of care. I was a caregiver
from very early on, running household, laundry and interference, walking on
eggshells around her many mood swings. Imagine: when I was around ten or so,
she went into hospital on New Year’s Day, and we got her back in October. Those
were very long stretches. My sister would be shuffled off to neighbour,
grandmother, what have you, and my silent father would be out in the yard,
doing farmwork. I learned rather early on to manage certain things on my own,
and accept a particular kind of isolation (none of her health issues or updates
were ever discussed in our household). In hindsight, I think the experience
also prompted a kind of terror, that I had to do certain things now and not
wait, not knowing how much time I might have, or be allowed, that directly
relates to my writing life. I do as much work as possible, not knowing. How
much time might I have? Stories of government workers who plan to wait until
retirement to start enjoying a particular kind of experience fill me with
horror, knowing full well that some simply don’t live long enough. Why not
enjoy some of that now?
And: having given up a particular kind of stability for the
sake of my writing, if I’m not regularly producing, then what was the point?
