Monday, July 26, 2021

Genevieve Zimantas on Diana Athill

On Not Meeting Diana Athill


Why don't you find a way to get in contact and see if she'll meet with you? My partner asks, after I explain that Diana Athill, aged 99, whose memoir I have just put down on his bed, lives less than an hour’s train journey away and served as Jean Rhys's editor for the publication of Wide Sargasso Sea. It is 2017. I am living in the United Kingdom, writing a graduate thesis on Rhys’s early novels, and using Athill as cheat reading—relevant, but really more for pleasure than study.

The prospect of contacting Athill is thrilling, but I quickly push the idea aside. She feels too known and yet unknowable. She is someone I admire immensely, and yet would be too embarrassed to meet. Not that I would have had a way to contact her, or that she would have met with me.


Throughout much of her life, Athill was exactly the kind of person you would expect to become a literary celebrity. She was of old British stock, solidly middle class. She studied at Oxford in the 1930s and then became, through her work with writers like Rhys, V. S. Naipaul, Molly Keane, Mordecai Richler and more, one of the twentieth century’s most significant literary editors. She was brilliant and stubborn, knowing just when to step in, and when to leave her writers alone, to help them bring their most important works to publication. She published her own works of fiction and nonfiction starting in the 1960s and, though, she did not really experience acclaim until quite late in life, was unwavering in dispelling gestures of pity. “I can't think many centenarians are still living by their pen,” she exclaimed often in later life. I can’t either.

Charming, un-precious, resolutely cheerful, and determined, in sentences as streamlined and ornate as the consciousness they transcribe, Athill’s memoirs detail episodes of heartbreak and triumph, how she had two abortions, when the procedures were still illegal, and later a near-fatal miscarriage. She writes of her long and, at the time controversial, inter-racial relationship with the playwright, Barry Reckord, and how they opened their relationship—or rather he did, with her consent and later encouragement—to a vibrant and intelligent younger woman when Athill gradually, but not too sadly, felt her sexual appetites fade with age.

“Loyalty is not a favourite virtue of mine,” she asserts in one passage, taking her own life as her subject, as Rhys did, and proving herself much more interested in deconstructing social expectations than in conforming to them. Honesty she valued, but not ownership or obligation. “And whereas I was ashamed of my limitations within the office,” she clarifies in Stet, “I was not ashamed of valuing my private life more highly than my work.” She put herself first, not in a selfish, but in a self-respecting, self-affirming way. “That, to my mind, is what everyone ought to do.”


Later that spring and summer, as I completed my work at the university and my Visa permission neared its end, my life pitched into a sudden, if predictable, tumult of despair. I had begun to suspect that academia might not get me where I most want to be and my still-new romantic relationship had begun to feel both impossible and urgently important. I imagined Athill nodding. This is a common enough story. Writing and even reading for pleasure became unbearable, but I kept turning Athill’s pages like life vests that were keeping me afloat. “There was one sleepless night of real sorrow,” she writes of a particular period of change, “but only one night.” My period of sadness lasted considerably longer, but then, just as it had for Athill, “another voice began to sound in my head.” Importantly, not Athill’s but a version of my own.

Athill offers no platitudes. She teaches no lessons, excepting, perhaps, to “avoid romanticism and abhor possessiveness.” Her writing didn’t save me, but it provided important perspective and a model for courage when I needed it most. After all, Athill is always fully herself, in her use of language as in the interactions she recounts on the page. No matter what losses she suffers. No matter what does or does not come to pass. And I realised that I would be too: fully myself, not in a philosophical, but in a real and practical sense. Whether the relationship ended or didn’t. Whether I figured out how to write and teach and pursue the life I wanted right away, or not for another fifty years.


I never did meet Athill, of course. Just under a year after leaving the UK, I moved back again, Visa situation (temporarily) resolved and feeling high with recklessness, choosing sex and love and an invigorating sense of self-determination over the safety of academic progression, or even a concrete plan. Athill died in 2019, aged 101.

Shortly after her passing, I made my way to an iconic Cambridge bookstore and picked up a copy of Athill’s final book, having borrowed it from libraries on two continents again and again. The alley onto which the bookstore faces was bright with new green leaves. The gentleman behind the counter accepted my selection with usual reserve, but then caught sight of Athill’s cover and positively beamed. “Have you read her before?” he asked. “She writes the most exquisite sentences.”

He handed me back my change and Athill’s memoir, permission, in my life, to keep reading and writing. More than that, permission never to compromise of the self in between.




Genevieve Zimantas is a writer and educator from Montreal. She holds degrees from McGill University, Dalhousie University, and the University of Cambridge, has volunteered as a correspondent for the OWP, served as an associate editor for the Dalhousie Review, and was the QWF’s 2018 poetry mentee. Her poems and essays have appeared in journals across North America including Event Magazine, Prairie Fire, Contemporary Verse 2, Rhino Poetry, Arc Poetry Magazine, and elsewhere. She lives in the United Kingdom.

Monday, May 18, 2020

Kasia van Schaik on Alice Munro

My Lonely Summer with Alice Munro

One summer, while visiting my hometown, a small mountain-locked settlement in Western Canada, I read an Alice Munro story every day for a month straight. After days spent serving customers and wiping down counters in a local cafe, it felt like a necessity; the only assemblance of an intellectual routine. I read her stories by the lake, on the margin of sand between the shoreline and the industrial train track; I read them on my back, legs crossed, book blocking out the sun like a small square flag. Sometimes a train would rumble past and alert me to my environment, which seemed less real than Munro’s black spruce or her fast-flowing, dark and narrow streams, which coursed through many of her stories, linking them the way rivers connect distant parts of the continent.
It was a lonely summer, my summer with Alice Munro. I was frustrated by the fact that my old friends now had boyfriends and permanent jobs and no longer made time for me, a precocious humanities student back from her studies out east, eager to show off the new words she’d learned. No one cared. I was – and the irony was not lost on me – essentially, an Alice Munro character. Juliet visiting her parents in Runaway—subtly punished for her “odd” life choices. (“Odd choices were simply easier for men,” remarks Juliet, “most of whom would find women glad to marry them.”) Or Del in the Lives of Girls and Women, whose restless ambition, but simultaneous desire for conventionality, disturbs the social equilibrium of her rural community. I read Munro’s stories to find myself in them but also to distance myself from the unhappy women I encountered in them. I would do better. (Secretly, I knew I would not.)
Years later, I would learn that Munro herself had lived in this very town, surrounded by furs and glacial lakes and annual forest fires. Shortly after her separation from her husband in 1973, Munro moved to Nelson, British Columbia, to teach at Notre Dame University for the summer. In September of that year, with her two daughters, Jenny and Andrea, she moved back across the country, relocating from Victoria to London, Ontario. Notre Dame University doesn’t exist anymore, and the town has changed significantly since the 70’s, yet this could well be the landscape that flashes past the train window in many of Munro’s travel stories—or escape stories—in which a young woman, usually precocious and eager to ascend above the her working class roots, buys a train ticket and heads west or east, anywhere “elsewhere.” This ideal of “elsewhere” occupied most of my imagination’s real estate as I disinfected the walk-in fridge or scraped the sesame seeds from the café’s industrial-sized toaster, or when my boss yelled at me in front of customers for putting sprouts on a hotdog bun: the kind of people who order hotdogs don’t eat sprouts!
Perhaps I hoped I’d meet a medical student, like Nancy does in “Powers,” or a history professor-in-training, as Rose does in “The Beggar Maid” – someone with horn-rimmed glasses, good connections, and inherited wealth, who would whisk me away to a strained but advantageous married life, somewhere in the Vancouver suburbs. That might be proof that I was normal. At least, I thought, it would temporarily solve the problem of loneliness. 
But I did not meet anyone of this description, not that year, or the next. Alice was all I had. 
What my education in stories yielded that summer was a profound, multilayered, often contradictory, often circuitous articulation of what I would come to know as the double standards and asymmetrical power relations that shape women’s lives. I was learning to put words to the growing frustration that since the age of fifteen had been inherent to my experience of the world. I was beginning to understand that the pain of being female—of having a predetermined narrative thrust on my life—was not personal but rather systemically produced. The difficult feelings that I shared with Munro’s female narrators were not simply a consequence of unsettled chemistry but rather a response to structural injustice. 
Being able to articulate this constraint brought its own kind of joy. Even when the café I worked for went bankrupt – perhaps due my unorthodox hotdog garnishes – and I had to forgo my last month’s pay, I held onto the thread of that joy, as it bore the evidence of a more expansive world, one where conventionality was questioned and oddness appreciated. 
Now, at least once a summer, I’ll find a pool of shade, and submit to the author who, from the hard-fought-for privacy of her laundry room, changed the scope and, indeed, the genre of the short story. This ritual reading is no longer an act of self-improvement as it was when I first met Alice; it not even an act of self-recognition. It is simply a visit with an old friend – one who is enormously wise, unsparingly honest, and, therefore, forever trusted, forever treasured.

Kasia van Schaik is a writer, editor, and critic living in Montreal. She’s the author of the poetry chapbook Sea Burial Laws According to Country (Desert Pets Press 2018), and her writing has appeared in Canadian and international publications such as Electric Literature, the Los Angeles Review of BooksThe RumpusCBC BooksThis MagazineJacket2, Prism International, and The Best Canadian Poetry Anthology. Find her at @kasiajuno

Monday, March 2, 2020

Kim Fahner on Carol Shields

The first time I read Carol Shields, I was in grad school at Carleton University in Ottawa. This would’ve been 1994-95, when I was just in my early to mid-twenties. I was interested in poetry and fiction, but I hadn’t been exposed to many contemporary Canadian women poets and writers until then. That’s a sad statement and reflection of the lack of diversity that existed in the curriculum of Ontario high schools back in the late 1980s, and even at the undergraduate level of study in university English departments in the early 1990s. So, imagine going to live in Ottawa to do a Master’s degree in English Literature at Carleton and then all of the sudden feeling as if there was a wealth of amazing women writers to get to know. Carol Shields was one of the voices that spoke to me as an emerging writer and fledgling feminist.

The Stone Diaries was the first thing I ever read by Shields, and I loved it, but then I stumbled upon Swann and The Republic of Love. That she could write so brilliantly and intuitively about a farmer’s wife, a poet, and a folklorist who was fascinated by mermaids drew me in. Each novel, and then each short story I encountered, let me slip into a world where Shields could find the beauty in what most people would call the ‘ordinary’ rhythms of a person’s life. Lives aren’t Hollywood movies. Lives are full of pain and wonder, full of love and passion, full of loss and beauty. What Carol Shields did so often, though, was write women who were fully realized, complex, and not female characters who would be easily boxed in or up. While popular culture—and especially some forms of popular literature and film—would so often rather present images of one dimensional women, Shields knew that women’s lives were rich and notable because of their complex nature. Who will, for example, ever be able to forget the image of Norah in Unless, standing on a street corner, holding a sign that just says “Kindness”? How much does that single sign say about how the world works these days, and how much kindness is missing? Shields, in almost all of her work, seemed to be searching out goodness and kindness in humans, and this drew me to her stories, too.

A year and a bit ago, I was living in Kingsville, in southwestern Ontario, working on a novel. I spent a great deal of time learning how to print letterpress poetry broadsides with Jodi Green in her Levigator Press studio on Wyandotte Street, in the Walkerville area of Windsor. One warm late autumn afternoon in 2018, I found myself listening to Jodi read “Mrs. Turner Cutting The Grass” alongside another new friend who was also doing some printing that day. I had somehow, ridiculously, never read that Carol Shields story before, so listening to Jodi read it out loud, and with enthusiasm, felt magical.

We three—all women in our forties—had cups of steaming hot tea on the table in front of us, and our legs were hooked around the rungs of our vintage chairs. I hung on Jodi’s reading of the story. That afternoon—of being with like-minded souls, and of being read to—is a fond memory I’ll always carry with me. We don’t read out loud enough to one another—as friends, and in community—and hearing a Carol Shields story read out loud changed the way I admired her writing. You can hear how brilliantly she crafted her work. Details are captured so perfectly, and so many of her sentences sing. She took her time with her work, and it shows.

The last paragraph of that short story is quite profound, and seems to embody all of what Carol Shields did with her work. She roots her worlds in the ordinary minutiae of a ‘regular’ life. As Mrs. Turner cuts her grass, unafraid to bare the cellulite of her thighs to the world at large on the street, she “cannot imagine that anyone would wish her harm. All she’s done is live her life. The green grass flies up in the air, a buoyant cloud swirling about her head. Oh what a sight is Mrs. Turner cutting the grass and how, like an ornament, she shines.” This is the beauty of Carol Shields’s work. Nothing is pedestrian or ordinary, really. All of it shines, glowing from the inside out.

The recent creation of a literary award for women writers named in memory of Carol Shields is an important step in keeping her present, in holding space for her to continue to have a strong and clear voice in Canadian literature for some time to come. How quickly some of our greatest female writers seem to disappear after they’ve died, unless we purposefully choose to remind ourselves of their contribution to the body of important work that Canadian women writers have fashioned in the last sixty or seventy years or so. They fought against a largely white, patriarchal scene in Can Lit decades ago, and they blazed a trail for all Canadian women writers who would follow. Today’s literary circles seem so ‘of the moment’—so much about instant gratification, about awards, and about Twitter wars—that I worry about which women’s voices will disappear in the terribly noisy hubbub and negative clamour of social media. Shields knew, really, that the story was to be found in the quiet, in the watching and the recording, in the steeping of ideas, and in the crafting of the work. There was value, she knew, in the process of creating the writing.

I always thought it was interesting that Shields would write a biography of Jane Austen. Here, too, was another female writer who observed the ways in which women’s lives were unique. I gobbled that biography up when it was released, because I love Austen as much as I love Shields. Austen didn’t have her own ‘happy endings’ in real life, so she often wrote them into her novels, but Shields once said, in a 2002 interview with Irene D’Souza in Herizons, that she believed in ‘happy middles.’ D’Souza wrote of how Carol Shields was fascinated by “the extraordinary in the ordinary.” This so reminds me of Bronwen Wallace’s work in both poetry and prose. In her wonderful collection of poems, The Stubborn Particulars of Grace, Wallace also documented the ebb and flow of women’s lives. And then, when I think of it, the writing that Shields did also reminds me of Virginia Woolf and Mary Pratt. So many women have documented women’s lives in art, and we need to remind ourselves that they were our artistic foremothers.

Shields left us with a body of work that speaks to the internal lives of women who may seem to be ordinary on the outside, but who are anything but that on the inside. As women, we are all extraordinary in the way we live our lives, and it takes a writer with the keen skill that Shields had to capture that essence in prose. That she did so as effectively and beautifully, as meticulously and carefully, is one of the reasons I will always read her work and learn from it. I will especially go to her books and stories when I feel that mine are weak or failing, or when I just need to be reminded that my ‘ordinary life’ will always have elements of the extraordinary if I am willing to still myself and just be very curious about what could happen. One never really knows what is around the next bend in the road, and perhaps that is why we continue to write, with curiosity and wonder as our companions on the journey.

Kim Fahner lives and writes in Sudbury, Ontario, where she was poet laureate from 2016-18. Her latest book of poems is These Wings (Pedlar Press, 2019). Kim is a member of the Writers’ Union of Canada and the League of Canadian Poets, as well as a supporting member of the Playwrights Guild of Canada. She blogs fairly regularly at and can be reached through her author website at

Monday, November 11, 2019

Claudia F. Saleeby Savage on Alice Notley

I met Alice Notley by accident. I’d applied to the Atlantic Center for the Arts artist residency but got the year wrong. When I looked again, and saw I’d be working with Alice Notley, I froze. Alice. Notley. Her work’s ambition and execution terrified me. She didn’t write poems; she wrote epics. I’d only read The Descent of Alette and remembered it as a breathless journey into hell. Its phrases divided by quotation marks to simulate the staccato rhythm of being on a train. The main character, Alette, had to confront The Tyrant to heal the world. The Tyrant says terrifying things like: “Soulfulness…cannot hold power.” But, Alice did. Her most referenced quote about making poetry is: “The first rule of poetry is honesty; the second rule is fuck you.” She was the kind of uncompromising artist I wanted to be.

When I met her, I had been cooking for people going through chemotherapy for a few years. More than my poetry, even, I think Alice picked me because she wanted to know about my experience cooking for the dying. I wrote poems, in those days, about trying to give my clients gastronomic delight at the end of their lives. I made them favorite childhood dishes or desserts. I was 33. My mother had been sick for years, but I still didn’t know much about death. As I stood in line for dinner one of the first nights at the residency, Alice asked me, “Do you really think dying people can enjoy pleasure?” I hoped so but had no real idea.

On Alice’s shoulder is the tattoo of an owl— “my guide through the underworld.” Her brother had served in the Vietnam war and killed himself. Her stepdaughter died in a car accident. Both of her husbands, first, Ted Berrigan of liver disease, then, Douglas Oliver, of cancer, had died. Ted, leaving her widowed with two young sons. Douglas, leaving her alone in France. In 2013, six years after meeting Alice, my daughter was born, and I watched both my mother and brother die within a month of each other. Alice’s work suddenly reflected the shape of my life.

“In the States” she wrote:

At night the states
And the world not that tired
          of everyone
Maybe. Honey, I think that to
          say is in
light. Or whoever. We will
replace you. We will never re-
          place You…

that shirt has been in your arms
          And I have
that shirt is how I feel…”

I was right there with her. Sleep deprivation from nursing my daughter at all hours and helplessness from loss blanketed my mind. My body belonged to my daughter. My mind was a swirl of grieving fragments. I wrote a line about my brother’s body wasting away from ALS. Another about my mother forgetting who I was in her final weeks. A third about how the light touched my infant’s cheek in the morning. There was no cohesion. I could complete nothing. I e-mailed Alice. She wasn’t going to give me some hackneyed advice. That wasn’t her style. She told me that she’d never had a period of her life when she didn’t write. Through everything, writing had kept her alive. 

One line. Two lines. I was still a poet, though I didn’t recognize myself. Grief and exhaustion were changing me, but my art was there, always. Alice gave me permission to be a maelstrom one minute, gooey puddle the next. In her poem “Love,” she writes:

Later there was the phrase “life support system” it would make you want to vomit…

Everyone and their excellent body parts their good looks their life support systems

how stupid can you get. they think they’re their brains     

The cancer is there… There is a reference to

                     the figure of love, my love, and the color brown, which in my symbolism

                    of color relates to reds spectrum and the soul, and in his to kindness

                    I have the right to include this.

this is where love becomes the target of this poem its pure eye…

                    Ive been left with nothing and thats where it is…

In 2015, Alice won the Ruth Lilly award. There is a picture of her they published—gray hair down to her waist. Full wisdom witch. Pick up any of her books and open it. You’ll see the universe.

I’ll never forget watching her read work at the Orlando library during the residency. Her voice was nervous and fast. Bush was at the end of his second term. The war in Iraq dragged on and on. She read from Alma, or The Dead Women, the poem “Beloved Earth Restrain Them”:

i bind Bush and Cheney and Rumsfeld, and their tongues and words and deeds; if they are planning war for today let it be in vain. Beloved Earth restrain them, and make them powerless and useless… i can’t remember what happened…because he died that year…at every description of physical invasion of another person, whether surgical or criminal or military, he cried out in protest and empathy—because he too has been invaded. wants no one else to suffer so.

Her husband’s dying body was the world. People openly sobbed in the stacks. In her essay, “Voice,” Alice says: “…a poetic voice should have…fearlessness or courage, the voice must be clear about itself in some way, believe itself, and be consistently unafraid.” That day all who witnessed her reading felt emboldened. Me, most of all. She threw out shimmering waves of possibility and made me braver. She’d laugh that I wrote that. She would come down from the pedestal I just built and ask me about my own life, my daughter, my writing. I’d want to tell her she changed my art, my life. To bow. Thank her. She’d scoff and ask me to pass the damn wine.

Claudia F. Saleeby Savage is an Arab American poet, essayist and teacher and part of the performance duo Thick In The Throat Honey. Her essays, interviews, and collaborative work appear in print and onstage often explore the theme of diaspora. Her latest collection is Bruising Continents (Spuyten Duyvil) with recent work in BOMB, Denver Quarterly, Columbia, Nimrod, Water-Stone Review, and Anomaly (the interview series “Witness the Hour: Arab American Poets Across the Diaspora"). Reductions, about motherhood and ephemerality, with visual artist Jacklyn Brickman, will be shown in 2020. She is a Black Earth Institute fellow and is working on a book about Syria, jazz improvisation, and freedom.

Monday, November 4, 2019

Lucas Crawford on Michael V. Smith

Faggot Sissy Gifts from A to V

What does the “V” in Michael V. Smith stand for? Whether his verve or his versatility, his top to bottom inside-out manipulation of language and the vas deferens, the vast difference between his body of work and that of mainstream queer writing is vital – verifiably. Michael V. Smith is a vertebrate and he has backbone. His work may cause vertigo, may vex us, may veer from vice to vice, may veto our ideas about virility or vex our binary of naughty and nice. This, to queer readers, may feel like… Vindication.

I live in a province (New Brunswick) where a municipal government raised the straight pride flag in 2018. This flag is an icon not only of white supremacy, anti-queer backlash, and enforced religiosity, but also of just how bad homophobes are at visual arts and textile design. New Brunswick needs political queer aesthetics, and not just because such practitioners are well-trained in turning the ugliness of the world into beautiful (sometimes imaginary) places in which we can survive and thrive. But if a new queer to town in Fredericton might appraise many of the signs of coercive heteronormativity she meets with a critical but hopeful queer eye (for the New Brunswick guy?), she might find that her critical gaze is returned to her tenfold. He might be having dinner with his mother at Mexi-Cali Rosa’s (RIP) and have to tell a group of men to pipe down with their loud transphobia. She might have received hate mail when she spoke out against white supremacist posters on campuses of the University of Brunswick or Saint Thomas University, or seen a Trump-inspired “Make NB Give ‘Er Again” ball cap at the club. Or, as in my case, moving to Fredericton during an acute illness, their introduction to the province as a trans person might be getting kicked off the plane to Fredericton, then kicked out of the ER at the hospital days later, and then evicted within a week for having a cat (in a building full of cats).

But why not focus on the positive? Because for many of us, it is tiring and soul-killing to accept the following social truth: being likable as a queer person often means accepting responsibility for the comfort of straight people. This can mean not only presenting a depoliticized queerness that affirms straight culture and straight choices, but also exhibiting gratefulness to indifferent or ignorant people, as if social change hasn’t been granted glacially, begrudgingly, and violently.

The discomfort of Michael V. Smith’s work pries open a different world. Living there means questioning one’s beliefs about propriety: his drag queen name is Miss Cookie LaWhore. It means investigating one’s commitment to politesse. It means questioning the idea that hatred is necessarily to be avoided: as Smith asks in Bad Ideas, “Has hatred not liberated more people than those who have done the enslaving? / Dear hatred, sweet hatred, do you not move our enemies to know us better?” It means questioning the detachment of (gender)queerness from anything to do with corporeal style, gender, sex, and beliefs: as Smith writes in his memoir, My Body Is Yours, “I’d been busy working on reclaiming sissy and fag and feminine and girly and queer and femmey even.” Take all of what you think you know about the goodness of “rejecting stereotypes” (often just a way of reinforcing norms) and hear Michael V. Smith say that he is a proud faggot sissy. How I yearn for such outward, visible, and discomfiting (gender)queerness amid the proliferation of digestible and respectable modes of gay life, amid the privatization and re-location of gender inside the mind or heart.

Listening to his work means knowing that no body (indeed, nobody) is disconnected from queerness. You may not see it. But then, “Someone who’d dismiss my hello in a pub would see me an hour later in the park and silently do me.” In Xtra West (RIP), Smith shared sex-capades with the public that would probably make you “Blush,” the title of his column. Whether it was, in his words, “furtively pulling on dick under a washroom stall, and swapping blowjobs with a boy in a cramped peep-show booth,” Smith carries on a long queer legacy of requiring and demanding that sex not be confined to the bedrooms of the nation or even to the woods, but that it, rather, enter the realm of the unrepentant page. The political stakes of this legacy are not always intuitive. You don’t learn them on committees, from television shows that champion makeovers as the ultimate queer gift to the straight world, from osmosis (that is, not from one’s “gay friend” or from watching Oscar-nominated anti-queer crap that happens to contain a gay or bi person), or from the kind of hesitant and implicit tolerance we have learned to accept as good enough.

There are lots of ways to learn and advance these political stakes, but each entails undertaking the most ruthless visceral inventory of yourself. This inventory is what Michael V. Smith creates across his oeuvre. May we be worthy of such a gift. May we consume it as the sacred and painful token of a queerer future that it is. May we study the (gender)queer pasts that brought us here and prolong their grounding in material departures from the norm. May we all be eaten up with the bodily excavation typical of Smith’s texts. May we be bold enough to take the risks he does. There’s a reason Loop Magazine named Smith one of Vancouver’s Most Dangerous People.

Consider the tales of My Body is Yours – fucking hundreds of anonymous men, blood staining one’s cheeks, proceeding when a particularly delectable man comes along and you don’t have a condom. There are many kinds of danger, though. One we all have the chance at is to risk our selfhoods and certainties – by admitting to ourselves oneself that there may be something about Smith’s body of work that we do not have the visceral capacity to understand (yet). As Smith ends a chapter of My Body of Yours, it’s neither candour nor courage that can lead any of us down a path of bodily-self-interrogation and but is, rather, “conviction.” Of what, then, have we already convinced ourselves about ourselves? Could you convince yourself otherwise?

So often when receiving a gift, we politely say thank you, and either return it, try to “regift” it, or bury it in the back of our closets. I urge us to give ourselves permission to receive Michael V. Smith’s gifts differently. Permission to be confused, to struggle. To live with that struggle and feed it, to refuse to shape it into a consumable narrative for ourselves and others. If we do that more often, maybe then we can, in New Brunswick and elsewhere, let our freak flags fly. Victoriously.

Lucas Crawford is associate professor of English at the University of New Brunswick and author of three poetry books: Sideshow Concessions (Invisible 2015), The High Line Scavenger Hunt (U of Calgary 2018), and Belated Bris of the Brainsick (Nightwood 2019).

Monday, September 23, 2019

Geoffrey Nilson on Lynn Crosbie

The first time I heard the name Lynn Crosbie, it was the subject of derision.

It was 1997 and Crosbie had just published Paul’s Case, her true-crime theoretical fiction about two of Canada’s most notorious serial killers, Paul Bernardo and Karla Homolka. Much like in the present, journalists and television pundits across the country swarmed with endless editorials calling for swift punishment, not the least of which included banning the book, litigation for defamation, and the incarceration of the author. Rosie DiManno of the Toronto Star even threatened to assault Crosbie given the opportunity.

This was the kind of conservative whinging reserved for that era’s crown prince of shock rock, Marilyn Manson (Antichrist Superstar had been released the year prior). I was sixteen then and not so secretly coveted anything that could define me as counter-culture and piss off my parents. So I searched for Paul’s Case, to no avail. But the hook was in. Any writer that could cause that much shit was definitely a writer I wanted to be reading.

Not often in those days could news of a Toronto small press title reach the far coastal suburbs of my birth, but then again, Lynn Crosbie is no ordinary writer. Since 1997, her work has had a way of finding me. Like when I scored a copy of Queen Rat in a bookstore while on vacation in Nelson, BC. Like in 2012, while driving a squealing delivery van for a warehouse job I hated, when Crosbie appeared on CBC Radio talking with Shelagh Rogers about her roman à clef Life Is About Losing Everything.

Looking back, though I didn’t know it at the time, I can credit that interview with changing my direction. Within the year I had gone back to school and rebooted my desire to be a writer of the kind of literature I had always gravitated towards, that which delves into the inexorable reality that “the world isn’t a happy, beautiful place.”[1]

It’s tough to compact the full influence of Crosbie’s writing on my own. More than the example of writing dark content or the ubiquity of pop culture allusion, the constant attention to poetic language and rhythm in everything she writes is a compositional way I aspire to. Just take this example from her latest novel Chicken:

“Her face is a Turner of purple storms cut with black ships, with a sluice of red dawn; Ruskin scurrying to write it, in the distance.”

You could pen a dissertation on this one sentence. Vowel sounds bounce off each other, image and colour collide in metrical units; an ocean of ships and of time stretches to the horizon, the moment travelling back through Victorian art critics and Romantic painters all in the second of observation. Because Crosbie is a poet even when she is not writing poetry. I recently described her style to a friend by saying: some stories go from A to B to C right on until the end, but Crosbie goes from A to H to some form of punctuation to B to X and, given the circumstances the characters find themselves, might not ever make it to the end of the alphabet.

But I don’t believe making it to the end is the point. Neither life nor the poem can be contained by the covers of a book. Through abuse, death, fame, murder, suicide, drug addiction, and unspeakable acts of violence, her characters and the speakers of her poems have faith that what makes their realities worth everything is the fact that they loved, and that love was what got them through the worst of what the world had on offer. As Crosbie wrote in The Corpses of the Future:

“My father taught me to love people I do not know; to feel—

That punch in the solar plexus you take when
the strongest person you know says, Wait for me and his words are loaded

With over seventy years of bravery, and what it costs.”

Geoffrey Nilson is a writer, editor, visual artist, and the founder of poetry micropress, pagefiftyone. The author of four poetry chapbooks, his work has appeared widely in magazines and periodicals such as Coast Mountain Culture, PRISM international, Event, Poetry is Dead, subTerrain, The Capilano Review, CV2, The Rusty Toque, Lemon Hound, Qwerty, and the Glasgow Review of Books. 

[1] “Life Is About Losing Everything” author Lynn Crosbie (Interview), The Next Chapter (Season 2012, Episode 300067478), CBC Radio,

Monday, August 19, 2019

Rachel Small on Shirley Jackson

A massive part of my identity growing up was being the angry girl, stomping around in black boots. I used to carry banned books under my arm in high school like they were the holy grail, because I liked the sense of morbid anger that came with my actions.

For the longest time, I was known as the girl to be scared of, and that was a positive element in my life, despite it turning me into something of a recluse. I was sent to the guidance counsellor several times for the stories I wrote for class assignments. Horrifying little creations, of houses drenched in the blood of a woman, and witches who demanded blood for revenge. 

People liked my work, but it terrified them. I liked creating that reaction. It always felt like a challenge, forcing space to exist for my work. There was something powerful in creating such an emotional response that it blinded readers with bright white fear.

Like most people, I discovered Shirley Jackson when I was sixteen, reading The Lottery for a class assignment. I devoured the piece not just once, but over and over again. I read it on the bus to and from school, during the brief breaks between classes. I memorized entire sections of the short story, obsessed by the clever storytelling. Jackson was able to terrify readers so effectively that they sent both her and the magazine mountains of hate mail in response to her concept of sacrifice. She was a revolution wrapped up in domestic packaging, making housewives fear her name alone.

I loved her. Jackson was the queen of the angry girls. She knew what it was like to have a heart so broken, that the only way to preserve it was to dip it in formaldehyde and lock it away. How to burn bridges and write a short story while standing in the aftermath, beneath a horizon of grand mansions built by her hand.

I grew up in a small town and her books never popped up in the local used bookstore. Instead, I came home with books by Hemmingway and Fitzgerald, King and Lockhart. Every man who ever tried to write the great American novel, or to redefine the genre of horror. It was exhausting, trying to find a different voice against a sea of yellowed books, with their broken spines and dog-eared pages. It wasn’t until I started university that I found her dark little books in a store by the market, tucked amongst the J authors. Suddenly, there was a space for her in this world again.

Working my way backwards, I traveled from We Have Always Lived in the Castle to The Road Through the Wall. Together, her entire body of work stands as a mosaic of life. Of her agoraphobia, difficult marriage. Her relationships each had a unique impact on her writing, and she unveils her pain through a series of elaborate plots. I reread The Lottery over and over again, and felt the same thrill from the very first time I read it in high school. This was a woman who understood what it was like, being exhausted by the concept of love. 

There is a power in fear, and Jackson knew that. She was the kind of woman who could be disappointed by Salem for becoming a tourist trap, while leaving an obscene number of short stories that bent traditional domestic roles into a collection of dark twists. Jackson designed a legacy for herself, even when saddled with the responsibilities that came with being a housewife rearing a small herd of children. Her writing was endless, of tense suburban landscapes and devilish desires, and in the end, managed to reserve a space in the American Gothic genre for her own voice.

People are still terrified of my work. I still feel a thrill thinking about this reactionary backlash, but I also feel respect for those emotions. I gave up angry black boots and took on different challenges, and managed to grow up some. Jackson never changed the world, but she changed mine. I’m a different woman that I was six years ago, and I’ll be different again six years from now.

Jackson taught me many things. To find kinship where I can. How to throw elaborate parties. To demand space for my voice. Respect other women. That there is joy to be found in yellow paper, and I have to find that joy for myself. 

Rachel Small writes in Ottawa. A post-undergrad student from Carleton University’s History program, she is currently a writer and editor for AtticVoices. Her writing has appeared in The Hellebore, Bywords, War Crimes Against the Uterus, and The Shore. You can find her on twitter @rahel_taller.