Off the Record

Off the Record

Edited by John Metcalf

Caroline Adderson / Kristyn Dunnion / Cynthia Flood

Shaena Lambert / Elise Levine / Kathy Page

biblioasis

Windsor, Ontario

Contents

Foreword

Caroline Adderson

Tinkering

The Procedure

Kristyn Dunnion

Figments and Fiction

Last Call at the Dogwater Inn

Cynthia Flood

How I Became A Writer

Calm

Shaena Lambert

Monkey Business

The Wolf Expert

Elise Levine

The Provisions

Armada

Kathy Page

Do We Bite?

Low Tide

Acknowledgements

Note on the Editor

Copyright

Foreword

John Metcalf, Editor

The listing of authors is alphabetical. The contributions were elicited in every case by continuing questions. To leave in the questions once they’d been answered seemed to me rather like leaving up unsightly scaffolding when the building was finished so I removed them all enabling the responses to flow as seemingly unprompted narrative.

My starting point with all six was to dig into what had lured them into this writing life. I wanted them to recall the books that had thrilled them, the vistas that painting and music had opened up for them, the time when language had first exploded upon them. I wanted them to reveal how, hoping against hope, they slowly became citizens in that other country, how, slowly, they learned its arcane laws and customs, and then learned enough to break them.

I’ll let Elise Levine speak for all in this lovely excerpt in which she’s recalling her fifteen-year-old self.

Fifteen!

I don’t date during my high school years. Instead I have my other best friend.

Her father is the literature and film officer for the Ontario Arts Council, separated from her mother when my friend is maybe in third grade. By high school this friend and I are skipping classes to hang out downtown at the Royal Ontario Museum, the Art Gallery of Ontario. We peruse books at the grungy, dimly lit former Central Toronto Public Library on College Street—where late one winter afternoon I pull a copy of Samuel Beckett’s prose trilogy off the shelf and read the first few pages of Molloy, skip to the opening of Malone Dies and the first page or so of The Unnamable. The top of my head catches fire and blows off.

I’ve already been reading George Orwell, Aldous Huxley, browsing the Penguin Classics at the Coles bookstore in my neighbourhood. I adore Mervyn Peake’s Gormenghast gothic fantasy novels. At fourteen I’d read Tom Wolfe’s performative, strutting The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test, discovered it at another friend’s house, something her older sister had to read for a class and hated and donated to me when I pawed the cover and admiringly scanned a few pages.

But oh, Beckett: I sign the book out and in its highly pressured, precise language, its elliptical, disintegrative approach to narrative, its treatment of character psychologically in extremis and ultra-compressed interiority, I truly uncover a path. Techniques, methods. I read his plays and attend productions of them by tiny Toronto theatre companies who offer student tickets for a song. In his works I find a means with which to capture the psychic and emotional states of betweenness, constraint, defiance, the craft involved in giving shape to the tension between the abjection of self-exile and the unyielding human voice. I grasp how what is not said on the page can speak volumes: how silence itself can render an eloquent and moving subtext, and wrenchingly convey the unspeakable. I locate the effects of a dark humour, with its underlying austere pathos and compassion. I discover a deeply immersive technique that functions as a possibility space.

Each time I crack the spine of his prose trilogy, especially, I feel I’m holding self-knowledge, an eerie sense of the future, in my hands. This is it. What I want to do.

Caroline Adderson

PHOTO: Jessica Wittman

Caroline Adderson is the author of five novels (A History of Forgetting, Sitting Practice, The Sky Is Falling, Ellen in Pieces, A Russian Sister), two collections of short stories (Bad Imaginings, Pleased to Meet You) as well as many books for young readers. She is also the editor and co-contributor of a non-fiction book of essays and photographs, Vancouver Vanishes: Narratives of Demolition and Revival and guest editor of Best Canadian Stories 2019. Her work has received numerous award nominations including the Sunday Times EFG Private Bank Short Story Award, the International IMPAC Dublin Literary Award, two Commonwealth Writers’ Prizes, the Governor General’s Literary Award, the Rogers’ Trust Fiction Prize, and the Scotiabank Giller Prize longlist. In 2017, she was a YWCA Women of Distinction Award for Arts, Culture and Design nominee. Her awards include three BC Book Prizes, three CBC Literary Awards, the Marian Engel Award for mid-career achievement, and a National Magazine Award Gold Medal for Fiction. She teaches in the Writing and Publishing Program at SFU and is the Program Director of the Writing Studio at the Banff Centre for Arts and Creativity.

Tinkering

My parents. My father was born in Birtle, Manitoba, in 1928. Apparently, his father was a home child—essentially an indentured child labourer brought to Canada to escape poverty in England. (I’ve only made a cursory effort to confirm this.) Whether he was or not, he died when my father was an infant, leaving my grandmother destitute. She later remarried and had several more children.

When I first learned that my father had had a stepfather (associating step with fairy tale nastiness), I asked if he’d been mistreated. He admitted that he had been. Maybe this was partly to blame for the bouts of severe depression he suffered all his life. During my childhood he was mainly in the background, brush-cut, hard-working, and fastidious, remote and slightly odd, but not unkind. He was very much of his generation, quiet about both his troubles and his achievements, which were significant on both counts. He could fix anything, and at the age of fourteen rigged up a wind generator to power the family’s rural home. His various other adolescent jobs were general store clerk, stooker (I love this job! I love this word!), and butcher’s delivery boy. He enrolled in a correspondence course in electrical installations, became an electrician’s helper at sixteen and later went on to earn a degree in electrical engineering from the University of Manitoba, then a master’s of engineering from McGill University, in Montreal, which was where he met my mother. He worked for Dow Chemical for most of his professional life, first in Sarnia (where, coincidentally, my future father-in-law was also employed), then Fort Saskatchewan, Alberta. I know these early details about my father because he wrote out his life story a few years before he died in 2013. My mother predeceased him by four years. After her death, he had a breakdown and while hospitalized was diagnosed as being on the autism spectrum, which explained a lot.

My mother was a much more forceful presence in my childhood, my whole life actually. I managed to dig up some notes I took in my twenties when I got her to sketch out her family tree. She was born in 1930 in Sioux Lookout, into a family that came from Co. Monaghan, Ireland and settled first in the Eastern Townships of Quebec. She left home at seventeen with a grade 12 education and some business courses under her belt, possibly because she hated her father. (She confided this to me once, also that she married my father because he was the opposite of hers.) She first worked for Hudson’s Bay in Winnipeg for their unfortunately-named magazine, The Beaver, and later moved to Montreal, where she worked as a stenographer for the CNR.

I think those Montreal years were her best, when she was living her single independent life in a glamorous city. I have photographs of her standing on the steps of the apartment she shared with girlfriends in Westmount, looking stylish in a long coat, and another of a group of elegantly dressed women out for dinner at Au Lutin Qui Bouffe, where a piglet would be carried from table to table for diners to feed from a baby bottle. My mother met my father at a party in Montreal and thus, I fear, ended her happiness. They left Montreal for Edmonton, then Sarnia, then to a new housing development in Sherwood Park, Alberta—all a far cry from Montreal. She became a suburban housewife. Her first baby was stillborn. Then my sister was born. I came three years later.

When I think of what I know of her life, I see it as part Mavis Gallant, part Alice Munro (two writers she loved). First she was Gallant’s stylish Berthe Carette, a career woman who puts on her earrings first thing upon waking, then takes out her curlers and passes them to her sister in the opposite bed. But after marriage she became one of Munro’s stymied protagonists, intelligent and witty, held back by societal expectations of women in the fifties, and the fact that she could never have afforded a university education.

I certainly inherited my artistic streak from my mother, who dabbled in several artistic pastimes, among them painting, drawing, and that 1970s craze—découpage. She was an avid smoker and avid reader. But she was also frustrated and often angry, and no wonder, living with an emotionally remote man in a cultural backwater. There was also mental illness on her side of the family, which eventually led to our estrangement from all our relatives, a situation I knew nothing about until I was an adult.

In short, Tolstoy was right. But I was for a long time sheltered from, or oblivious to, the unhappiness. Sherwood Park, which could not technically be considered a town because it had no main street, was not so terrible to a child. For one thing, it was much more rural at that time. Farmland separated it from the refineries on the outskirts of Edmonton. Additionally, our housing development was surrounded by a golf course, which may as well have been a vast playground. Behind our fence were woods where we practically lived. They opened onto a fairway, which was thrilling to cross. Always the chance that we’d get brained by a golf ball! We could cross-country ski in the winter and there was a large pond in the middle, which was our outdoor skating rink. The golf course also offered an entrepreneurial opportunity; we would collect lost balls in the woods and sell them to golfers out of egg cartons. For quite a few years new houses were still being built in our development so we spent many wonderful hours monkeying around on construction sites where no child would be allowed to set foot today. But this was the seventies and we just walked out of the house in the morning and came home to eat and nobody cared.

As for what I was intended to be, I have no idea beyond the fact that my father insisted my sister and I go to university, though this was not expressed until closer to the time. He also stressed that he didn’t want us to be dependent on men, which was a surprisingly advanced idea for that period. He especially wanted us to do well at school; my sister, who is now a paediatric specialist in infectious diseases, complied. I couldn’t have cared less.

While I enjoyed learning, I remember that the social aspect of school was the main draw for me in those early years. Generally, television made a bigger impact on me than reading, though I have memories of being read to by my mother and loving the physical closeness of it. We had the complete twelve-volume set of the 1950s edition of My Book House, with illustrations I pored over. I also loved The Golden Treasury of Poetry; again, the illustrations were as much a draw as the poems. Winnie-the-Pooh, The Wind in the Willows, The Kingdom of Carbonel, Anne of Green Gables (all the Anne books, actually), The Black Stallion, Black Beauty, Beverly Cleary, Harriet the Spy; in other words, the sort of books every girl in the 1970s read. I was completely ordinary.

Being hard-working and disciplined are, I think, character traits I got from my father. Or maybe I saw my mother’s frustration at being purposeless. My sister was always thus, but it only kicked in for me when I was diagnosed with thyroid cancer at fifteen. I used to think it was the cancer that changed me, but later I saw the same thing in my son, an uninspired student until grade eleven, when he began parking himself nightly at the dining room table to study.

Discipline is quite a different thing from ambition. I’ve always put my personal relationships before my career, including my publishing relationships. In fact, the one time I decided to put career first (when, on the advice of a newly acquired agent, I broke with my first publisher, the Porcupine’s Quill) I was traumatized . . . literally for life. Patrick Crean rescued me and I’ve followed him from one publishing house to another ever since without shopping my books to other publishers. Spending all those years at Key Porter and Thomas Allen out of loyalty probably sealed my fate as a B-list writer. The other unambitious choice I consistently made was to write things I was interested in without regard to whether or not readers would be.

The tussle with cancer definitely shocked me out of my former self. I went from being peer-oriented, highly social, and somewhat rebellious, to studious and serious. I started reading adult books while I was recovering from surgery, mainly the classics that were on our shelves, supplemented by biographies from the Sherwood Park library. I remember loving Dostoyevsky, Hemingway, Thoreau, J D Salinger. I once brought Sons and Lovers to school and left it on my desk to impress my English teacher, who tapped it and said I should be sure to read it again when I could understand it. She was right, of course; I was merely trying to be a serious, artistic person.

I also took ballet and piano (I was terrible at both), painting and pottery. Some of these classes were at the U of A; we had to go into Edmonton for anything cultural. My mother often took me to the Citadel Theatre because I loved drama; I won Best High School Actor in a provincial competition. I was crafty, too, sewing my own clothes, knitting, spinning wool, even concocting my own natural dyes. I made Ukrainian Easter Eggs and mukluks. It seems that I experimented with every possible artistic pursuit except writing. Possibly this was because almost everyone I read was dead and male. Munro and Gallant came later.

Of course I wanted out of Sherwood Park after high school. I was accepted into the department of fine arts at the University of Alberta, but at the same time was chosen to participate in Katimavik, a nine-month volunteer program that sent groups of French and English youth to three different communities in Canada, one of them Francophone. I opted for life experience over art school. That decision led to my complete transformation from a suburban artiste wanna-be to a feminist, peace activist vegetarian. My mother was furious.

During Katimavik I lived in Kaslo, BC, working in construction; New Ross, NS, building log cabins on a Mi’kmaq reserve; and Rouyn-Noranda, working at a co-op radio station where I had to twist my Anglophone tongue around Abitibi-Témiscamingue whenever I identified the station. In each of these places we had a billeting period in the community as well, so in addition to those miscellaneous jobs I wasn’t particularly adept at, I also spent time on a sheep farm, in a Quaker off-grid intentional community, and with the family of a prominent peace activist and feminist. After Katimavik, I went down to New York City and took part in the million-strong march in Central Park supporting the UN Second Special Session on Disarmament. The rest of that summer I spent in Philadelphia living in a community associated with the Quakers. I had hoped from there to become a commune-hopping vagabond, but my father sent me a letter threatening to disown me if I didn’t come back and go to university. (So I was not as rebellious and free-spirited as I imagined.) I did refuse to go back to Alberta though, and instead applied to UBC because some Katimavik friends were going to Vancouver and offered me a room in their house.

In some ways I wasted my university years. I had a full scholarship thanks to Dow Chemical. Yet I chose Education, which was laughably easy. I did take a couple of elective courses that were formative: Biblical and Mythological Roots in English Literature, where I read Paradise Lost and Ovid, and Introduction to Slavonic Studies. Both were taught by charismatic professors; the latter, Dr Peter Petro, is the model for the professor in my novel The Sky Is Falling. His course infected me with a lifelong passion for Russian literature. I also have to tip my hat to my required English 100 course, during which I discovered that Canadian writers actually existed. Not counting Anne of Green Gables and The Secret World of Og, the first Canadian books I read were Obasan and The Wars. Though I haven’t read them since (intentionally) and can’t say if they would satisfy my current aesthetic tastes, I vividly remember the experience of reading them, Obasan in particular. I was on a ferry coming home from a cycling trip on the Gulf Islands when I sobbingly turned the last page. Months later, I attend a reading by Joy Kogawa. I was sitting in an aisle seat and she passed close enough for me to touch her sleeve. I was awed. Yet it still didn’t occur to me to try writing myself.

Now comes the embarrassing confession: why I actually did start writing. In my third year of university a new roommate, Roger, an American doing his PhD in something scientific, moved into our shared house. In hindsight, he was an interesting guy, or maybe it’s just that he was the first person I met in possession of a New Yorker subscription. Regrettably, he disliked my cat, Minou Pushkin LeFou, who, I grant you, had some unappealing traits (a friend once told me he was the only cat she’d ever met who looked greasy). Roger mainly took umbrage at the fleas and would squash them and leave them on my pillow—ah, the joys of communal living!

One day I came home to Roger waving around a letter he’d received from The New Yorker. He’d pitched them (ha ha) a story about a woman’s softball team. The letter basically said, go ahead and write the story, giving no promises at all. They still do send genteel replies; I’ve received a few of them. Anyway, Roger strutted about like this was an acceptance letter and (probably intentionally) stepped on my cat while he was at it. And I thought, Roger is a writer?

I was a prolific letter-writer at the time and had always been complimented on their entertainment value. If Roger the Cat Hater could be a writer, so could I. The next day I phoned the creative writing department at UBC, found out what I needed to apply, dashed off some appalling poems and anecdotes, and was shortly accepted into, not the introductory class I’d applied for, but a 300-level class. Take that, Roger, wherever you are!

So a combination of egotism and revenge had brought me into the creative writing department, a dusty hallway of seminar rooms and offices, and a lounge full of vinyl furniture draped with affected student poets (unchanged when I taught there twenty years later). I found I liked it. The workshops and the lively, dusty atmosphere of the department were so invigorating compared to the insipid playground of my education classes. At the end of my first course, I switched my minor to creative writing, which brought me together with the first person who seriously encouraged me as a writer, Andreas Schroeder. I was still a hairy-legged peace activist at the time and Andreas was the perfect model, a motorcycle-riding Mennonite who had served time for drug smuggling, utterly passionate about Canadian writing, generous and eloquent. And he wore sleeve garters! I remember going to see him in his office and asking what I should read. He rattled off a list of names. At that time I had started keeping a reading log, a running list of every book I read (I’ve kept this up and have since transcribed it on my website, for anyone who may be interested).

My Canadian reading starts in 1985:

28. Marie-Claire Blaise, Nights in the Underground

29. Alice Munro, Something I’ve Been Meaning to Tell You

30. Alice Munro, Who Do You Think You Are?

31. Alice Munro, Dance of the Happy Shades.

Out of the Canadians, Atwood came up next, then Andreas Schroeder himself, followed by Audrey Thomas, Sandra Birdsell, Marian Engel, and Mavis Gallant. I was in good hands.

In addition to introducing me to Canadian writing, Andreas personally encouraged me in numerous ways. He had judged a fiction contest in which I was a winner (before I met him). At the end of the year, the last day of class in fact, he told me I should apply for a Canada Council grant. What’s the Canada Council? I asked. He led me to the office, drew the yellowed file card out of the little plastic box the department secretary kept on her desk, on which the address of the Canada Council was manually typed, and copied it down for me. I applied. He wrote me a glowing letter of reference. While my later efforts at securing Canada Council funds were often futile (the more I improved as an artist, the less likely I was to get a grant, or so it seemed), I got this one. I was therefore spared the ordeal of teaching public school in New Orleans, where I went next. I probably would not have survived that.

The previous summer I had studied French in Quebec and started a relationship with a man from New Orleans. We carried on long distance until I graduated. Then I moved down south to be with him. As is often the case with these summer affairs, once we were under the same roof—it was a great roof, in a shotgun house on the ironically named Melpomene Avenue—our incompatibility became painfully clear. For one, we didn’t share a sense of humour. There is no greater hell for a funny person to have her jokes continuously met with blankness or even sneers. In the long run, he wasn’t important, but the experience of the city was.

I had my grant that allowed me to write all day long. I also tried to make literary connections. There was a literary magazine run by a fabulous woman (first name Lee, last forgotten, along with the name of the magazine) who lived in the French Quarter and had her office in a carriage house in the back. (It may have been the old slave quarters, I’m appalled to realize only now.) Anyway, she was large and dramatically draped and would read the submissions in an antique barber’s chair (a detail I bequeathed to Ellen, in Ellen in Pieces). I would come round a couple of times a month and assist her. I also noted the local writers who submitted and contacted them about exchanging stories because I badly missed the community I had developed at UBC. I would walk or ride my bike around the city during the day. At night, you couldn’t even leave the house because of the crime. It was hideously hot. The cockroaches were enormous and everywhere, even in posh banks and stores. I used to knock on the drawers and cupboards before I opened them, so I wouldn’t be met with a six-legged surprise. Yet the architecture, the ambience, the food, and yes, the writing were indeed wonderful. I read Faulkner, Flannery O’Connor, Eudora Welty, Grace King, Ellen Gilchrist, Katherine Anne Porter, Shirley Ann Grau.

Our apartment was one of four in a pair of connected houses, meaning our balcony abutted our white neighbour’s. She showed me the gun she kept on her bedside table. When a Black professional couple moved in across the street, she was apoplectic. My boyfriend’s sister’s fiancé would bring up the Civil War at every family gathering and jaw on about Yankee carpetbaggers (imagine being related to that!). Even if the relationship hadn’t fizzled, the violence and racism would have caused me to leave the city eventually.

I returned to Sherwood Park and lived for a couple of months with my parents, which was utterly humiliating. I had nothing in common with my former high school friends; my father glowered whenever he saw me, his fallen daughter. Even worse, I imagined that I had actually finished the collection of stories I had been working on in New Orleans. I sent it off to many, many publishers, all of whom rejected it by return post. I had no job, nothing to do but to keep poking at those terrible stories. I still had absolutely no idea how to write. I remember reading over a passage and thinking, That’s too weird. I backspaced away everything original, leaving only the banal and the clichéd.

I was finally saved when, somehow, I found out about the Banff Centre and a writing program called the May Writing Studios. It was seven weeks long and I had just enough money left over from the grant to pay for it. I applied and was accepted. I remember meekly entering the room where the welcome reception was held. Don Coles, the poetry editor, came over and, on connecting me with my application, heaped me with praise then shepherded me around the room introducing me to everyone. I was literally stunned. The stories I’d submitted were, of course, awful, but maybe not comparatively awful.

The Banff Centre was where I met my next champion, Adele Wiseman, director of the Writing Studio at the time. She took an almost maternal interest in me. I went around in a vintage suede jacket, the collar of which I turned up in a desperate attempt to seem arty. Every time I encountered Adele, she would turn down the collar and give it loving pat. The following year, 1987, she selected me to take part in the short-lived Canada-Ireland Artist Exchange Program, another life-changer. All this generous attention, yet at the time she was dying from a brain tumour and had to be driven to the hospital in the middle of the night for intravenous painkillers.

I went back to the Writing Studio in 1991, after Adele had died and the wonderful Rachel Wyatt had taken over. Our cohort that year included Anne Carson, Michael Redhill, Steven Heighton, Karen Connolly, and many others who went on to become published and even well-known authors (famous in the case of Carson). Some became lifelong friends. This was when I really found my groove with the writing. It was quite magical. For example, I remember being on the volleyball court when, mid-game, it suddenly came to me how I could rewrite a story I’d been suffering over. I just walked off the court, ignoring the protestations of my teammates, and back to my room, where I started condensing what had been forty pages into ten. That was The Chmarnyk.

In the end it took about eight years to write Bad Imaginings instead of the nine months I had proposed in that long-ago grant. Along the way most of the stories were published in literary magazines, as well as in Saturday Night and the Oberon Press anthology Coming Attractions ’92. How they came together as a collection was through Steven Heighton, whom I’d met at the Writing Studio in 1991. He had published his wonderful book Flight Paths of the Emperor in 1992 with the Porcupine’s Quill when John Metcalf was the editor there. I think Steve actually sent some of my stories to Metcalf; I don’t recall submitting them formally myself. John Metcalf phoned me up and offered to publish the book. I said, Sure!

I remember being slightly disappointed by the editorial process because Steve had promised that John would write excoriating commentary all over the manuscript. Steve revelled in these baroque insults. But John was very kind to me and mostly said, Anything more? Only once did