Nominated for a Hugo Award for best new writer for her Daevabad Trilogy, S. A. Chakraborty continues the sweeping adventure begun in The City of Brass, with her latest book The Kingdom of Copper. With djinn who summon flames at the snap of a finger and three young heroes who have a role to play out, as well as a life to live, her books are captivating readers of all ages. Ahead of her appearance at our festival on May 4th to talk about Imagined Worlds with Kate Heartfield , Manahil Bandukwala interview S.A. Chakraborty to get a view into the writing process, inspiration and future of the Daevabad Trilogy.
MB: Hi Shannon! Congratulations on the success of The Kingdom of Copper. Could you talk about your experience writing the book? What was it like writing into the world and politics of Daevabad that you establish in The City of Brass?
SAC: It was both a lot of fun and very difficult. I had a hard time switching from having all the time in the world to write a book I never thought anyone else would read, to working on a strict deadline for a book I knew some very opinionated fans would definitely read! In regards to the actual story, however, I really enjoyed letting it expand and breathe. There is often a lot of worldbuilding to set down in the first book of fantasy series and it was nice to have already established that and to set the characters on new adventures.
MB: The djinn world is so vivid in your writing, which I find interesting because while it’s an integral part of Islamic mythology, it’s also often very mysterious. What was your research and writing process like when creating the six djinn tribes?
SAC: Ironically enough, my research predates the book as I’ve long been interested in the medieval Islamicate world and had planned to pursue further studies in graduate school. When that didn’t work out (thank you, Great Recession!), I didn’t want to leave everything behind and so I started creating this magical version of the history that I loved, trying to fill in the blanks when it comes to djinn.
Djinn show up in both religious texts and folktales quite often, but they’re often the mysterious, unnamed interloper or villain. We speak of how they have their own world and customs, that the Prophet Suleiman punished them, but I wanted to go beyond that and center their world, making humans the weird outsiders. So, I took Suleiman’s punishment as a jumping off point and then reimagined how they would have rebuilt their world, quietly imitating the humans around them.
MB: Writers often talk about characters taking on a life of their own, and as a writer you don’t have control over what they do. Do you find this is the case when writing characters like Nahri, Ali, and Dara?
SAC: Absolutely. I’m typically a rather meticulous planner—I’ve got multiple to-do lists and schedule events months out—but when it comes to writing, I am the absolute opposite. I tend to draft with a very loose framework in my mind and really let my characters respond to the story as seems fitting at the moment. I find my best scenes tend to come about organically—though this can be frustrating when I attempt to outline!
MB: In The Kingdom of Copper, Nahri is working as a doctor. You mention that you worked in healthcare and this informed why you chose this profession for Nahri. Could you talk more about that?
SAC: Certainly! There were a lot of fantasy tropes I wanted to dive into and reinterpret in these books—the orphan with a secret, noble background, the jaded con artist, the brooding handsome warrior with a tragic past who must be the hero, right?—but one I really wanted to play with was the idea of magical healer. Listen, healthcare is a rough field. You’re seeing people at their worst and most vulnerable and people—both doctors and patients—are messy, complicated creatures who react to this in different ways. I wanted to show Nahri truly growing into this role, including all the struggles and setbacks that would include. And I wanted to show that this would take practice—years of it—rather than some innate talent on her part.
MB: In an interview on Pen America, you talk about building characters who need to confront their roles as oppressors. Why is this necessary?
SAC: Because a truly just world requires accountability. The problems and inequalities that plague society aren’t the sole responsibility of a handful of tyrants and monsters—they persist because it’s often easier for a large part of population to avert their eyes and just try to get by—or quite frankly, for them to not see anything wrong until it’s pointed out by the people being hurt the most—a burden they shouldn’t have to shoulder. And this is normal! I wanted to write characters who don’t start out knowing everything and show that it’s not only okay to be humbled and confront the worst parts of your past—it’s how you grow and effect true change.
MB: I love that you have a section on your website dedicated to sharing fan art from the Daevabad trilogy! How do you feel seeing fans of your work visualizing your world?
SAC: It’s one of the best parts! There are honestly not enough words to describe what a surreal and spectacular experience it is to see other people add their artistic talents to these characters who’ve lived in my head for so long. I love it.
MB: On that note, what is interacting with your fandom like for you? How does having a fandom make you feel?
SAC: It feels amazing! I mean, there’s definitely pressure because I’m a people pleaser and I’m trying to stick to what feels right for the story. But I’m a huge nerd and have been a sci-fi/fantasy fan for so long that to see people raving about my book and dissecting out different theories like I do for other properties is just so cool.
MB: Without giving away too many spoilers, what can you tell us about what’s coming next for Nahri, Ali, and Dara?
SAC: It’s very difficult not to spoil things! But I’ll say Dara is learning the victory he’s always dreamed of comes at a brutal, bloody price—and one he might never shake. Nahri and Ali of course find themselves in a very different place, with options I don’t think they ever dreamed of having. We’ll also be seeing another part of the djinn world!
Want to know more about djinn, Nahri, Ali and Dara? Come out and hear S.A. Chakraborty on Saturday May 4th.
In The Reality Bubble Ziya Tong looks into the structures that govern our lives, from science to society, and on May 4th she will join us in Ottawa to talk about her book with host John Geddes. Ahead of her conversation on our stage, Nina Jane Drystek asked her a quick five questions to get some more insight why she wrote her book.
NJD: In the Reality Bubble you look at the ways in which we see the world and explore the things happening around us that we don't see - from the structure of matter to waste management systems. What was it that got you thinking about the reality bubble we live in?
ZT: I’m fascinated by the unseen systems that govern our lives, much in the way scientists are. If you think about it, it’s incredible because so many things that make our daily lives run smoothly — from the electrons in our cell phones to satellites in space — are things we don’t really see, and for many of us don’t really understand. As I started looking deeper, I began to realize that we are blind to many of the ways in which we survive as a species in the 21st century - and this, in effect, is the ‘reality bubble’ that the book aims to pierce through.
NJD: It's amazing how much ground is covered in this book. You bring in anecdotes, research and facts from many different fields of study–physics, biology, ecology social sciences and more. The ideas flow really well from one to another and it makes each topic very approachable. How did you go about bringing your research and ideas together to tell the story of the reality bubble?
ZT: That’s very kind of you. It was a lot of thinking. Years of thinking. The book itself took just over a year to write, but creating a way to synthesize the different fields into a storyline took a lot longer. It actually took me 3 times longer to write the proposal than to write the book itself.
NJD: What is the most surprising thing you learned in writing this book?
ZT: That half of the nitrogen in our DNA comes from a factory.
NJD: You've been advocating for people to take action on climate change and environmental issues. How do you see your book fitting into this conversation?
ZT: Well, I wouldn’t call this an environmental book --in fact I think the word ‘environment’ is used only once or twice — and that’s because Chapter 2 suggests that the notion that there is any sort of environment at all, is an illusion. That said, this book does tackle how 7.7 billion human beings currently eke out a living on the planet - and makes it crystal clear that the system we have created to do so is about to implode.
NJD: What do you hope readers take away from your book?
ZT: If I’m lucky, and I’ve done my job properly - an epiphany.
Before Samra Zafar was married as a young woman she had dreams of pursuing her education. She had a different definition of a full life than those among her friends and family, and for years she struggled against cultural expectations to achieve these goals. In the end it meant leaving her husband and losing some of those closest to her. But she also made huge gains.
Ahead of our conversation with Samra Zafar on May 5th , Manahil Bandukwala interviewed her about why writing about her experience has been an important step in her life.
MB: Hi Samra, the theme of your event, “The River of Life,” is on finding strength, struggling for empowerment, and making defining choices. In A Good Wife, you talk about finding the strength to leave the past behind. Where do you find your strength?
SZ: I believe our strength lies within us. Strength does not mean the absence of weakness. Strength means getting up and moving forward despite the weak moments. I have always faced (and continue to face) times when I feel weak, broken and afraid. And I choose to get up one more time, and take one more step.
The other very important factor is the support system around us. Human connection creates resilience–and I always seek out and cultivate relationships, friendships and connections that I can lean on or get advice from when times get tough.
MB: You also talk about difficult choices, such as the choice to leave your husband. Can you talk about the choices you’ve made that have shaped who you are today?
SZ: I’m a strong believer in taking charge of one’s own life. Our lives are shaped by the choices we make, every single day - the choice to believe instead of give up, the choice to hope instead of despair, the choice to forgive instead of avenge, the choice to love instead of hate. I always thought if I don’t respect my dreams, no one else will. Despite a lot of opposition, I never gave up on my dreams and I kept making the choice to hope and strive. And today, I make the choice to forgive–because by occupying space in my heart with hate, anger and resentment, I leave less space for love, joy and happiness.
MB: Lots of women have reached out to you after encountering your writing or hearing you speak to talk about their own situations. What effect do you find sharing your story has?
SZ: I started sharing my story because I knew it was the story of millions of women and girls around the world who continue to suffer in silence because of fear, lack of support and other barriers. By raising my voice, I am helping others reclaim their voices. Thousands of women write to me with their stories of struggle and triumph, and how I have inspired them to save their own lives. It’s a privilege and an honour to be able to touch lives this way.
MB: In an article in The Toronto Star, you mention that your older daughter encouraged you to share your story. You started writing and publishing more, including sharing the story in Toronto Life that eventually went on to become A Good Wife. Why do you write? What pushes you to write?
SZ: Every morning, I wake up to dozens of messages on my social media from people across the world who have been impacted and inspired by my work. For example, just 2 months ago, a woman wrote to me how after hearing me speak, she went to the police to report her abuser and put the shame where it belongs. That is what keeps me going, and I will never stop.
MB: You’ve spoken at TEDx Mississauga and Amnesty International, among other places. How does your writing fits in with your public speaking? How did this influence the writing process of A Good Wife?
SZ: My writing and speaking complement each other very well. They are two avenues of amplifying my messages. The success of A Good Wife has opened up new speaking platforms where I can drill deeper into the nuances and structural roots of abuse, and how we can challenge them as a society. And stories from the lives I touch through my speaking make their way into my writing. It all goes together hand-in-hand.
MB: In addition to being a writer and speaker, you work in banking. How does this fit with your writing and advocacy work?
SZ: I now work at BMO as Director, Business Finance. I am very proud to work in an organization that advocates and takes action for gender equity and social justice. In my role, I empower women entrepreneurs across Canada in their success journey, while creating impact in our communities. The bank fully supports my speaking, writing and advocacy work as it fits in beautifully with the company values.
MB: What’s next for you?
SZ: Next is getting A Good Wife in the hands of women across the world!
MB: Do you have anything else you want to add?
SZ: With success comes responsibility. I want to encourage everyone to pay it forward, in their own ways, and reach out to offer connection. Even the smallest action, a few kind words, on our part can have a life changing impact on others.
Téa Mutonji’s Shut Up You’re Pretty is her debut short story collection and the first in Vivek Shraya’s VS imprint with Arsenal Pulp Press. “Téa’s manuscript stood out to me for its unexpectedness,” writes Shraya. “These were coming-of-age stories, yes, butevery ending was a punch in the gut—not unlike the experience of racialized girlhood.”
Both writers will be at the 2019 Spring edition of our festival, but before we sit down to talk with them in person, Ottawa poet Manahil Bandukwala interviewed Téa Mutonji to get a glimpse into the origins of the collection and to get a feel for Mutonji’s writing style.
MB: Hi Téa, congratulations on your debut collection! Your event at the Ottawa Writers Festival involves mentorship. Can you talk about your experience working with Vivek Shraya and how it shaped your book, as well as your literary journey?
TM: Thank you so much! It still hasn’t hit me yet, and I’m not too sure why! I don’t think I would have survived navigating CanLit any other way. I can’t imagine any other scenario involving me publishing without first having had the support and mentorship from Vivek. I can say with confidence that I’m an entirely different artist having now worked so closely with Vivek. A lot of what she was able to offer me was more on the personal side. Vivek has a lot of courage, strength, and trust in her work, and that’s something I’ve never really been exposed to. There is a bit of a self-deprecating culture among young Canadian writers, or perhaps the groups I’ve specifically explored. Vivek didn’t have that. Vivek redefined the relationship an artist may have with her work. And because she never shut down a single idea I had, and only encouraged me to explore it to its most raw and unexpandable form, I learned to love my own work. I think that’s the most important thing I’m taking away from this experience. I’m going to love reading these texts out loud. I’m going to love it all. I definitely didn’t have this sentiment at any point in my writing career.
MB: In an article on UofT’s website , you talk about how the inspiration for your collection was a long-form poem you wrote called “Pretty Woman.” How did the poem become the collection we have today? What was the process of translating poetry to short story like?
TM: The poem “Pretty Woman” is about a little girl realizing that because of the way she looks, she’s going to experience a particular narrative. In the end, her mother almost suggests that it’s true for every woman who looks like her (black, pretty, queerish, soft). Though I didn’t take much from this poem in terms of structure or narrative, I took this conflict between the inner self and the external self. I built this character, Loli, entirely based on this poem. The original manuscript was called Notes from a Pretty Woman, and it was a collection of short poems/maybe flash fiction prose, maybe observations on how having a fixed identity will cause certain narratives. Instead of an abstract, supposed narrative, I wrote actual, tangible, and concrete examples of what this all meant for Loli. The poem was actually my first publication, in 2014.
MB: The first line of “Women Talking” reads “The morning of my abortion, I ate a full meal.” Shut Up You’re Pretty is full of starting lines like these that just pull you in. How do you know when you have that good first line?
TM: This is from years of training under Andrew Westoll. He, as a professor, would urge us to start every story with a scene. A lot of us went for dialogue right at the top of the page. I usually went for a bald statement. I went for: “Last night I was raped and now today I’m awake.” (That’s an actual first line from a story I wrote during a class assignment.) A few other things I took away from Andrew: show don’t tell, excite don’t confuse, start at the middle. We worked on this short, final, direct writing together. I expressed really early on in my academic writing career that I didn’t like the thesis form of creative writing. I like to start at the end, perhaps. I like to start where the heartbeat has caught up.
MB: Lots of the stories in your book show snippets of the narrator’s life. Some are especially short, like “Tilapia Fish,” which is two pages long, yet I think that was my favourite story in the book. What makes a short story complete?
TM: I’m not necessarily sure what makes a short story complete. To me, it’s usually the end of a scene because I do have that ongoing format of writing stories as though they’re a scene in a very long indie film. I end every story the same way I end every poem: when I’ve said all that needed to be said. Sometimes, that means the story doesn’t end at all, but it just lingers between myself, the page, and the reader. And sometimes, I think that’s the most beautiful way to say goodbye. I think “Tilapia Fish” does that.
MB: What makes a good short story?
TM: Truth. To me, truth makes a good short story. With so much restriction, it would be such a disservice to everyone involved in the reading process (the character, the reader, myself) to have a story that lacks depth. That lacks the real juices of the human condition. Even a story entirely about robots, or flowers, or buildings has human condition. Human instincts. Human desires to feel and to unfeel.
MB: In an interview in Read Local BC, you talk about the subtleties in your story that a Congolese protagonist would notice that other people would not. Something that appears as representation is really just instinct – could you talk more about that?
TM: The question about scent was an intentional decision. I notice scent. I notice sound. I notice wrinkles, first. I had a friend in high school who once walked into my house, greeted my mother, and said, “Your house smells like Africa.” It wasn’t an insult; he definitely didn’t mean it like that. Mother and I took a big inhale and concluded that it was true. Palm oil boiling in the kitchen, fried plantain cooling in the dining room. We’re so used to so much conflicting sounds (baby crying, drama outside, cars, people walking) because of such thin walls, that we hear everything first. I don’t necessarily think I meant to say all Congolese people notice this, but I mean for sure that I personally do, and I think that’s contingent on the spaces I’ve occupied as a Congolese girl. Giving that to Loli was actually an accident. Something I’m just personally used to playing with. I love that she has that. It’s so true to her culture, in some ways.
MB: What’s next for you in terms of literary projects? What are you currently working on?
TM: Film! Well, I want to tell the tales of Loli and Jolie in a more accessible medium. I say accessible because my mother won’t read the book. English is just not her preferred way. And even if there was a French translation, she still wouldn’t read it because literature isn’t her preferred way. But she’d watch a film. Over and over again. And I love that. I want to give her that. There’s also a little (long) novel in my heart, and it’s taking up most of my time. It has a lot of love and hope in it. But in true personal fashion, I do push my characters boundaries again.
MB: Do you have anything else you want to add?
TM: Vivek is the absolute best mentor. Everyone needs to submit to her imprint or music grant. She will be there for you every step of the way and beyond. Even if there wasn’t a publication deal attached to this, I would say that very loudly. Nothing compares to developing the skills and patience you need to continuously work at your craft. Vivek gave me that. And also, now I think I can do anything. I think I can do film and write a play and travel the world. I guess I’m saying I’m not afraid of dreaming anymore.
Natalie Morrill holds an MFA in creative writing from the University of British Columbia. Her fiction and poetry have been published in Canadian journals and included in The Journey Prize anthology. She lives in Ottawa, Canada. Her first novel, The Ghost Keeper, launched this year with HarperCollins. It’s a story about the terrible choices we make to survive and the powerful connections to communities and friends that define us. This sweeping novel set in Vienna during the 1930s and ’40s centres on a poignant love story and a friendship that ends in betrayal. Natalie will be joining the festival this year to talk about The Ghost Keeper and historical fiction with novelists Alix Hawley and Wayne Grady.
Congratulations on The Ghost Keeper’s two awards so far – the HarperCollinsPublishers/UBC Prize for Best New Fiction, and the Canadian Jewish Literary Award for Fiction. What was the writing and revision process like for this book?
It was long and fairly intensive. I started it as my thesis for my MFA program, and then I was lucky enough to have an editor at HarperCollins look at it about a year after. In the meantime I had finished another draft. They looked at it and they were interested but it still needed some key changes before they would feel good about accepting it. That was awesome because to hear from an editor that she couldn’t accept it unless I was working on certain things was a wake-up call that I needed. So I worked on it again for another six to eight months and then I got my agent and my editor.
The revision process at HarperCollins was also fairly intensive, which was amazing. It's sort of terrifying and intense in some ways, and it's a very emotional roller coaster. I felt like the book was very protected in that they weren't going to let it out until it was the way it was supposed to be. It was emotional when I thought it was done and then an editor would come back and say, oh but couldn't we make this even better. They pushed back the publication date a couple times, but ultimately I'm so pleased, I feel so fortunate that they were willing to do that. It was a really lovely experience.
You lived in Vienna, where most of The Ghost Keeper is set, when you were young. What about Vienna led you to choose it as a setting?
It was really specifically the Währing Cemetery, the cemetery that's very prominent in the book. It was very near to our house when I was growing up. It is as described, even in the opening scenes of the book. There's a brick wall around it with barbed wire and glass on top. The only times I ever saw inside it as a kid were when one of my parents would hold me up to see over the wall, and all the headstones were knocked over and overgrown with ivy and things. My parents also worked hard to explain why there was this very neglected Jewish cemetery in our neighborhood, and nobody to look after it, and it was locked up and there's graffiti all over it. It was around the same time that I was first starting to understand what the Holocaust was so I think I got them conflated in my head: like dead people buried in there, and the genocide that happened. Which is not accurate, it's a nineteenth century cemetery and there's not a direct literal connection in that way, but as I grew up I realized there's certainly a connection in the sense that it is neglected because the community isn't there anymore and the reason it looks like a prison with the barbed wire and stuff is because people do break in and do antisemitic graffiti and things. So there was something resonant there for me in terms of the image of it reflecting that history indirectly. And then out of that, I began thinking about the kind of characters who might be connected to that situation. Most of the story arose out of that.
This book follows the life of the main character, a Jewish man named Josef, before, during, and after the Holocaust. Recording and records of different kinds are a recurring motif throughout his life. Why is the process of recording so important in this story?
I guess like the reason Josef is telling the story is to get it out of himself and let it exist apart from himself in a written record. As he says, it’s to be able to “set it down” almost like to set down like a burden. So I was thinking about what it would mean to be able to put this down in writing as opposed to just carrying it as a memory, and how that might be connected to his sense of what grave markers stand for, and all kinds of written testimonies like that. Partly because of what he would be trying to commemorate, with people for whom there wasn't really any kind of material record of their passing.
I worked for a while as a writer-in-residence for an organization in Sudbury called the Northern Initiative for Social Action. It's based around peer support for members who have lived experience of mental illness. I was working on the book before that, but it definitely deepened my thinking about what it means to be able to record something that was difficult and traumatic, as opposed to just carrying it in yourself.
Josef is definitely a very spiritual character and I think that the act of turning the memory into written testimony is connected with his faith, connected with his understanding of how faith is passed on, and what it would mean to testify or to study written accounts of faith. I think it has a spiritual element for him in terms of processing the significance of various moments, as well as being able to allow himself to be seen, because he's kind of a character who naturally would prefer to disappear in some ways. So the act of setting it down and making everything very plain is like an act of like self-offering.
The Ghost Keeper is your debut book. Has publishing a book changed your writing process?
Oh my goodness, it might be too early days to know. I think having finished the revision process has probably refined my writing process in the sense that as I'm starting another book now I see problems arising ahead of time. Like, maybe I should do some more planning with this or that because those are the questions that are going to come up later, or I ask myself in the first draft the questions that I was asking in third or fourth drafts.
I try not to think too much about what my editor or my agent are expecting for the next book. I don't want to go off the rails, but as much as I need to be in love with the book and put myself into it for that many years, I am not just writing for myself but for other readers. So I do want it to be something that my editor and my agent are excited about. But I have to trust myself at this point that if I'm excited about the project then probably there's something in it.
You’ve written poetry as well as fiction, and the language in The Ghost Keeper is beautiful and sometimes very poetic. Do you think your poetry and prose writing influence each other?
In poetry, the opportunity to pay such careful attention to what language is doing and how each word is impacting the poem, I think it encourages a habit of mind, or of thoughtfulness, perhaps, that maybe prose writing doesn't always encourage in the same way.
The writers that I admire most do have that thoughtfulness about language, whether they're writing poetry or prose, and they're thinking about how language works and how the punctuation and grammar and diction influence the way the text works and the meaning of it. So if I'm allowed to think about those things and play with them, then of course why wouldn't I? It's super interesting and lovely and enriching. I think that's a characteristic of my interest in literature so it's probably always going to be there. It was wonderful to have a story where the voice gave me the opportunity to bring that out a bit more.
You have a background in biology as well as literature. Do you think your biology background has affected your approach to research?
It gave me a lot of my experience doing research. I think it was very helpful in terms of realizing how resourceful one could be in terms of making use of libraries and getting good at Google and things. You learn how to make as much as possible of the resources you have access to, whether that's in an academic setting, or that's in a public library, or contacting local experts. There are certain skills in terms of research, like getting the research and compiling it and checking facts and things. And then just understanding the way that sources quote each other is definitely helpful.
You’re taking part in Living History, a panel of historical fiction writers at the Ottawa International Writers Festival. Do you have any advice for people interested in writing historical fiction?
One piece of advice would be just to go for it, because I was really intimidated by it when I first started. I felt like I wasn't qualified somehow because I didn’t have a history degree or something, but I think if you're passionate about the project then you'll be willing to do the work that it takes to do justice to the project.
Something that I was told early on was that it's very easy to get caught up in the research so much that you don't really write. And it is possible to just go down rabbit hole after rabbit hole and just keep finding out about what kind of cloth people used for clothes at different points. It's not that that stuff isn't wonderful for the text, but it's definitely possible just to never get any writing done. The story is probably what the reader is there for, more than those historical details which they could probably get from a textbook. The research can come into it at different drafts.
At a fairly late draft, I realized that particular historical details would have been impossible. In the moment that I recognized that, it was terrifying. But very quickly it became a creativity prompt, like it was a little puzzle. As in, if I want to be faithful to this truth there has to be another way for me to work out this plot point. Then I ended up being a bit more creative about how that could work, which ends up making the book a bit better.
Knowledgeable and honest readers are such a gift if you can get them. Whether it's historians, whether it's people who have experience of a particular context or moment, that's completely invaluable. I wouldn't have written this book if I didn't have somebody who had edited a lot of Holocaust memoirs and could tell me along the way if she thought that I was doing it justice.
This interview has been edited for length and clarity.
Jordan Tannahill is an award-winning playwright, director, and author. In 2016 he was described by the Toronto Star as being “widely celebrated as one of Canada’s most accomplished young playwrights, filmmakers, and all-round multidisciplinary artists.” His plays have been translated into multiple languages and honoured with prizes including the Governor General’s Literary Award for Drama and several Dora Mavor Moore Awards. Jordan’s films and multimedia performances have been presented at festivals and galleries such around the world and from 2012 to 2016, Jordan and William Ellis ran the influential underground art space Videofag out of their home in Toronto’s Kensington Market. While he established his writing and performance career in Toronto, Jordan is originally from Ottawa and this month he will be retuning to his hometown to talk about his novel Liminal alongside Dionne Brand on October 26.
The basic premise of Liminal is: a young man, standing in the doorway of his mother's bedroom, experiences a cascading revelation about corporeality and consciousness within the single instant he sees his mother's body lying in bed. In that instant he cannot tell whether she is alive or dead. The idea of containing an entire narrative universe within that split second of ontological confusion struck me as an inherently literary proposal rather than a theatrical one. It felt profoundly interior. Rather than working with bodies in space, in real time, I wanted to use philosophy, language, and style to probe my protagonist's psyche. I am borrowing inspiration here from the late, modernist Brazilian author Clarice Lispector whose novel The Passion According to G.H. takes place almost entirely within the instant the protagonist closes a door on a cockroach and watches as the bug slowly succumbs to death. It is an extraordinary, ecstatic text and all the more so for its extreme temporal constraints. I was also heavily inspired by other literature I was reading at the time -- the work of autofiction writers like Sheila Heti, Chris Kraus, and Emmanuel Carrere, who craft books that hover somewhere undefinably between novels, essays, and memoirs.
Simply put: a work of fiction that draws heavily on the author's life. A synthesis of memoir and novel.
The act of writing a novel feels profoundly hermetic. Like Jacob wrestling with the angel, it feels like a daily battle with the self. And while I also write my plays in isolation, they are reborn in the rehearsal hall, where the text comes to life in the mouths and movements of others. Playmaking is an inherently social and collaborative venture, full of long conversations about human nature, politics, aesthetics, etc. When writing a novel, most of those conversations happen inside of you.
Oh it's shaped it immensely! Much of Liminal is set in Ottawa, and a great deal of my work is set in suburban landscapes inspired by my east end childhood and adolescence.
I think my favourite creative pursuits have been the ones where the divisions between my life and art fall away. I would say this was certainly true of Videofag (the performance space) and Liminal.
I would collaborate with Adam and Eve on a biodegradable, plant-based lingerie line.
Haha I love that you're asking me this! This was the question I posed to another writer for CBC Book's Magic 8 Q & A. Well... I was just writing a scene last night for my new play The Listeners in which an English teacher describes the ways a former student of hers turns her on... and I have to say I really got into it.
Sexiest: when, despite the burning pyres, Sandro Botticelli and Leonardo da Vinci make love in Botticelli in the FireLeast sexy: a real frat boy (not an actor) barfing all over the stage
Fun question. I suppose the music referenced in the book itself! Which includes Steve Reich, Frank Ocean, and Christeene.
Not writing! You risk becoming something other than a writer.