Foment features an eclectic cast of over twenty-five volunteer reviewers writing long-form reviews of the books featured at the Spring Edition of the Writers Festival – Canada’s largest independent literary festival. It also features an exclusive interview with the author Vincent Lam by the festival’s artistic director, Sean Wilson. Foment is edited by Daniel Bezalel Richardsen, a festival member and volunteer, who wanted to create a new outlet to feature thoughtful literary criticism of the books featured at the festival.
Martin Levin, Books Editor at The Globe & Mail, writing in his Foreword to the journal, calls it a "rich and rewarding mix," a publication which "continue[s] to care deeply about books and spread the literary gospel…unafraid too to make demands on the reader."
Mark Medley, Books Editor at National Post, praised the publication in his afterword, "[l]iterary festivals across Canada should take a cue from what’s happening here in Ottawa; I would love to see magazines such as this affiliated with every single one. If a healthy — and spirited — critical culture is to exist in this country, it will be partly because of publications such as this."
‘You’re not ready to write that,’ a doctoral supervisor at Jewish Theological Seminary told the young assistant rabbi Harold Kushner about his research proposal in the mid-1960s. The suggested topic, prompted by his early experience consoling grieving congregants, was the biblical portrayal of God’s role in the midst of human tragedy.
While the project was formally shelved, the unavoidable question was soon acutely felt when Kushner and his wife learned that their young son suffered from the rare disease progeria. From age three, the boy aged rapidly until a shockingly early death not long after his bar mitzvah. In facing such a harrowing ordeal, Kushner read all he could, from information on the affliction itself to coping with a child’s death. The endeavour led him irresistibly to the book of Job.
In contrast to frequently insipid synopses—such as that Job is an example of ‘patience under suffering’—Kushner found the book’s candour deeply affecting in the midst of his own grief and anger. In particular, he came to recognize Job’s early riposte to his would-be comforters as one of the most liberating verses of scripture, paraphrasing the line as, ‘if God is as great and as devoted to truth as we like to think He is, then I believe He will prefer my honesty to your flattery.’ Drawing out the implications of these words, which too seldom inform approaches to God, religious or otherwise, Kushner states that, ‘you cannot love someone wholeheartedly (“with all your heart”) unless you feel free to be angry at that person when circumstances warrant.’ Nearly fifty years after having been deemed unready, Kushner’s publication ventures such honest love, borne of suffering.
The Book of Job: When Bad Things Happened to a Good Person is the latest title in the Schocken / Nextbook Jewish Encounters series, edited by Jonathan Rosen. Kushner’s volume is a significant representative of the series in not only treating a major literary work, but doing so through a characteristically Jewish approach to texts as a primary locus through which we encounter others and, ultimately, God. Readers of Foment will appreciate how such an interpretive community can model gathering around shared writings while simultaneously fostering, qua community, vigorous independence of mind. Rather than posturing as a lone guru, Kushner’s interaction with Job via interpreters from Maimonides to Martin Buber enriches both his congruent readings and his dissent.
As many of us have become inured to the appalling senselessness of tragedy through hasty, repetitive media coverage, addressing the question of suffering requires sustained attention to more enduring sources. The first welcome aspect of Kushner’s invigoratingly rabbinic book, then, is his skilled habit of wrestling with texts. While some of his other writings have been classed as self-help, here Kushner braves close commentary on an ancient, sophisticated, passionate, convoluted scriptural text.
Though drawing on his academic studies in the Tanakh and a lifetime of rabbinic meditation, Kushner seeks to give the reader her own direct encounter with Job, often filling the page with extended citations. In laying bare the text, he does not shy from naming text critical problems, such as when he exposes suspected scribal emendations that soften the force of Job’s accusation against God. Moreover, when he comes upon a portion of seemingly incoherent, fragmented Hebrew, rather than quickly citing faulty transmission he considers it a possible portrayal of how trauma can impede speech, or how dialogue can break down at an argument’s impasse.
While Kushner’s persistence with the book is admirable, there are times I wish he would press further. He has obvious impatience with the Fable that frames the book in chapters 1-2 & 42, particularly given that its diffident piety is the primary basis for ‘modern retellings’ such as the recent film A Serious Man . While his compensatory emphasis is rightly on the Poem that spans the central 40 chapters, he oversteps in claiming that, ‘the author of the poem totally leaves the Fable behind,’ later dismissing its conclusion as ‘simpleminded.’ While critical scholarship does indeed recognize that a neat folk tale has been combined with an unruly poem, scholars have also suggested that the poetic co-optation of the former is hardly uninspired. Indeed, the use of unprecedented lists of superlatives to describe Job’s righteousness, or the incredible depictions of religious observance such as pre-emptive sacrifice for his children, suggest the presence of subversion, even parody, within the Fable itself. Recognizing an artistic coherence between the adaptation of the Fable and the Poem that does not merely repeat the former’s hagiography but undermines it through ironic excess would actually strengthen Kushner’s case.
Eventually, Kushner’s wrestling with the book of Job and its interpreters not only exposes the text, but also the reader. At one point, Kushner recalls a humanities midterm exam in college, which consisted of an uncomfortably probing pair of questions: ‘ Of all the books we have read this semester, which one did you enjoy least?  To what limitation in yourself do you attribute this inability to appreciate an acknowledged classic?’ Taking his cue from such reverse scrutiny, Kushner makes a compelling case for reading that recognizes those books ‘meant not just to divert us or enhance our earning capacity but to change us as we read them.’
Such anticipated transformation draws on the ancient story of Jacob wrestling the stranger, in which he was wounded, renamed, and blessed. Kushner’s allusion to this story directs us to the encounter at the centre of the Job narrative, and so of any close commentary: the call to wrestle with God. That Kushner is willing to speak in such frankly theological terms is particularly significant given the surge in extremist violence in the divine name and the oppositional stridency of so-called new atheism, neither of which dare the more courageous and vulnerable protest of love rendered in the Job poem.
Readers who have tired of trite theodicies will appreciate Kushner’s high standards for any answer to the problem of good people suffering in a world under God’s control. This includes the ability for it to address a Holocaust survivor with due deference. ‘Finally, and personally,’ Kushner presses, ‘I deem unacceptable any explanation of God’s role in our suffering that leaves people thinking less well of God than they did before.’ That this book revises the conclusions of his 1981 bestseller on the same theme because some readers had just this response is a testament to Kushner’s integrity.
As unready as we are to probe the depths of another’s suffering, much less the divine, Rabbi Kushner invites a practice of fellow reading that reminds us we are not alone in the questions. Along with taking courage from such solidarity, the book of Job’s character as scripture might lead us to further reflect on how God is closer to our all-too-human words of protest than we think.
A title like “Sweet Jesus” evokes a variety of responses, some of them strong. Perhaps a dismissive snort from the sceptic who assumes it to be a soft-headed work of religious devotion. Perhaps a sigh of frustration from the Christian who assumes that any novel so titled must inevitably deride faith as mouth-foaming fanaticism. Perhaps neither even picks it up, wishing to avoid engagement with the perceived target audience. For this book, such reactions are part of the point.
The novel tells the story of three siblings from an evangelical Christian family with a host of cracks and pitfalls. Connie is a well-heeled mother of three, and committed Christian whose worldly security suddenly disappears. Hannah is a free spirit by turns sceptical, and open; frustrated in her desire for a family of her own. Adopted and much younger Zeus (short for Jésus) is a recently bereaved hospital clown whose relationship with his adoptive family has been complicated by his being gay. Connie and Hannah decide to visit a mega-church in Kansas where their mother Rose had a profound religious experience years before. Zeus accepts their offer of a ride part way south as he seeks his birth parents. All three struggle with profound loss and deep longing; all three hit the road looking for something.
A primary theme of the book is spiritual and religious faith, and the interaction between those who have it and those who do not. Each sibling has different struggles with it, and these are explored against the backdrop of a trip through middle America to a church representing a spiritual, social, and political voice with which each traveller has an uncertain relationship. Pountney handles this topic very well, taking faith and religious experience seriously while communicating the ambiguities of seeking God where there is both “ugliness and an appetite for the divine.” This deft treatment is nowhere more evident than at the point where Connie and Hannah both seek prophetic ministry while Zeus, having concluded that “[t]his is bullshit,” and left the building, meets a young evangelical uncertain about his sexuality. For Connie, there is a sense of coherence and insight, of God speaking. Hannah is moved but has little clarity or sense of connection, less authenticity. Zeus is tempted to confront a Christian culture that seems bent on making being gay so hard. Is each simply seeing and hearing what he or she wants or needs or expects to hear? Is God in one experience, or another, or all, or none? Why do some receive confirming experiences of faith or spirituality or the divine and not others? Pountney asks such questions without insisting on a particular answer, rather inviting her reader to wrestle with them.
Her achievement is greatly enhanced by addressing faith within the context of family. The countless laughs and irritations and pleasures and woundings come through in spades, such as when Rose has suggested that Connie and Hannah visit the church in Kansas and we read that
…Connie didn’t enjoy hurting her mother. It made her feel awful, but she couldn’t banish her own cruelty and impatience. Why are you always trying to fix everyone? she said. Why can’t you just support me without shoving your opinions in my face?
I’m not trying to fix anyone, Con, that’s not what I’m saying. Rose looked so injured. This is just something I thought would be really good for you. Something I wanted us to share.
Connie pulled her hair back away from her face.
You don’t have to go – Rose took another quick suck on the little snorkel of her inhaler – it was just a suggestion.
Clumsy, unintentional scraping across old wounds, and inflicting new ones, even in a heartfelt effort to help and succour; for many, such experiences are indivisible from family. Add disagreements over spiritual beliefs and the associated risk of hard words or even a break in relationship and you have a potent brew indeed. Pountney handles the combination with tremendous skill, allowing her characters to be themselves rather than anyone's bullhorn. This is helped by description and imagery that is vivid without being overwritten, for example her account of a worship service where “[t]he music gradually faded and the congregation, exhausted, subsided into their seats, like a wave sinking into the sand.” Pountney’s journey through this country rings true.
That said, the book isn't a home run. The depiction of Connie's faith feels thin; here is an orthodox Christian who virtually never reads her Bible or prays outside liturgical formulas (and I speak as someone who loves liturgy). Taking the perspective of Harlan, Norm, and Rose didn't seem to advance the story much, with the possible exception of Rose. Perhaps most significantly, it is difficult to identify ways in which the characters changed, grew, or developed. This might be thought unfair; part of Pountney’s apparent purpose is to show conversation about faith and family that is neither proselytization nor condemnation (in any direction), and “development” in this space easily becomes polemic on the author's part. Still, there is an unsatisfying notion in the book that “we are all becoming more of who we are,” as if who we are is independent of our responses and reactions, as if interacting with those who differ from us can or even ought to be completely free of polemic. As if the arcing that occurs between different and often conflicting narratives were that tidy.
The novel is more about Zeus than the others. His journey sparks those of his sisters, and continues after theirs end. As he approaches his childhood home, he indeed moves into more of what he has known, more “newness and change, and loss.” Is this all that is given him? Will he find home, family, faith? As the book concludes, such questions are as palpable as Zeus’ longing to see them answered, not intellectually, but in tears and an offered embrace. That questioning and longing are ours too; we all have holy names that others have shortened for us. Pountney beckons her reader into reflection and conversation about that. She is to be thanked for the artful invitation.
We hear time and time again that the best writers write about what they know. All the better for us readers when the author happens to have lived a very interesting life, as M.G. Vassanji has. He spins a tale that draws us out of the routine of everyday life and plunges us into something beyond that of our own limited imaginations. In his latest book, The Magic of Saida , Vassanji does just that; telling a story about love, loss, the power of the past. Throughout, he masterfully weaves a hint of magic - a magic that seems plausible even to the most sceptical of his Western readers.
Saida relays the story of a half-Indian, half-African man, Kamal Punja, who leaves his comfortable life as a medical doctor in Edmonton to desperately seek out his childhood friend and one true love, whom he left behind in Tanzania decades before. In the process, he is faced with the reality of the country that he had also left behind. Immersed in the particularity of that physical space, he is confronted, and then haunted, by figures and events from his past. He also faces the stark realities of contemporary Tanzania and is forced into considering questions of world economics, culture, faith, magic, love, and virtue that his complacent life in Canada had allowed him to avoid.
Through a series of vignettes, Vassanji presents various moments in the history of Kamal and his ancestors, slowly revealing the factors that prompted his return to his hometown of Kilwa and his search for Saida. Growing up, he was the half-caste son of an African mother in an African village, but was always called “the Indian” by those around him. His days there were filled with a sensually depicted Africa – vivid in all of its sights and smells and tastes. On the brink of puberty, he was sent away to live with some of his father’s family, where he learned, painfully and slowly, to leave behind his Africanness and adopt everything that was Indian. Eventually, he worked his way to medical school, and while studying, Tanzania was shaken by a military coup that prompted his move to Canada. The long-term effects of this constant displacement are evident in Kamal’s impetus to search for some grounding in his history and traditions, a search that eventually draws him back to Kilwa.
Many readers will likely find themselves surprised at the abundance of moments during which they find themselves identifying closely with Kamal’s sense of rootlessness and disillusionment with the utter conventionality of his life in Edmonton. As he goes deeper in his search for that which is familiar, for somewhere where he is needed and appreciated, and for Saida and the love that he is certain that she retains for him, disappointment follows disappointment, fueling his ultimate search for Saida herself with an ever-increasing sense of desperation. At one point during his time in his hometown of Kilwa, he pauses to explain his situation to someone:
I am of here and these are my people, and yet I have a life and a family elsewhere. In Canada I’ve thought of myself as African – though not African Canadian or African American – attractive illusions for a while. It becomes difficult to say precisely what one is anymore. Isn’t that a common condition nowadays?
During his search for the mysterious Saida, Kamal finds himself thrust into contemporary Africa, full of its own contradictions and needs. This is no thinly-veiled polemic; Vassanji does not presume to suggest any “answers” or even to specify exactly what part of the reality that he describes might be called “problems.” But this book is as much about the history of a place and of a people as it is of a fictional individual. He discusses in detail the effect that the occupation of Tanzania by Germany, then later by the British, and finally by its own military, had on his own life and those around him. Directed towards a Western society that is increasingly postmodern in its thinking, Saida is both refreshing and encouraging in its acknowledgement of the essential links between history, tradition, and the present. Of Kamal’s search for his past, Vassanji writes:
The discovery of the truth did not follow a chronology, coming at the end of painstaking research; it did not come as an explosion of light, lux and veritas…His revelation is what he arrived at gradually, a story of Kilwa. It begins in the distant past and ends with the death of a poet.
And finally, there is the curious centrality of magic in this story. With each vignette, Vassanji chips away a little more at our modern, Western worship of facts and reason that insists that any hint of the supernatural be rejected as backwards and ignorant. Kamal clings desperately to this materialist maxim, but as he immerses himself more fully in his past, he is forced to surrender his long and proudly-held atheistic skepticism for something else. His life in Canada is rational – rational but empty. He travels through the places and the memories of his childhood and is reminded of a time when there was a constant interaction between the spiritual world and the physical one. As the story progresses, the links that existed in his past between literature, history, magic and God begin to emerge once again. He seeks his own roots, which are closely intertwined with those of Saida’s grandfather, the great national poet, who wrote under the inspiration of a djinn and composed his magnum opus, The Composition of the Coming of the Modern Age, in the form of an epic poem. This blending of the material and spiritual worlds, and of fact and fiction, prefigures Kamal’s own search for the missing facts from his own life history that increasingly demands that he address the emotional and spiritual voids in his life.
Vassanji’s The Magic of Saida is a page-turner, from first to last. While greater themes of colonialism, displacement and belonging are all essential to the story, it cannot be called a story of colonialism. Rather, it is a story of Kamal Punja, and his search for his childhood sweetheart, Saida. The story is told in Vassanji’s brilliant style, and was a thoroughly enjoyable, thought-provoking book that I couldn’t put down, nor easily stop thinking about. Kamal opens his story by stating that, “The past haunted from the ruins and graves”. What follows, the story of Kamal’s past, left me feeling haunted by a sense of loss and the undeniable frailty of human life.
I took my seat for Cosmo Lava Bridge—the second-to-last event of this autumn’s Writers Festival—and was treated to a bizarre and diverse bit of fiction. From Spencer Gordon’s glimpse into Leonard Cohen’s emails about sandwiches, to Anton Piatigorsky’s imagined lives of teenage dictators, to Barry Webster’s honey-sweating pubescent narrator, this was a night to remember.
Spencer Gordon opened the evening with selected readings from Cosmo , each of which was in the form of an email. The stories Gordon shared with tonight’s audience were written by Canada’s ever-beloved Leonard Cohen about Subway, consumerism, and facing one’s mortality. As strange as these subjects were, I found myself wishing that someone would send me similar emails; messages filled with passionate details of sandwiches, or public transportation. The world needs a greater appreciation of life’s minutia.
As it turns out, sandwiches now feel a lot holier to me, and are fully fit for the halls of Knox Presbyterian.
Anton Piatigorsky, whose work The Iron Bridge brings us alongside six historical dictators in their teenage years, shared a brief glimpse into the life of Rafael Trujillo from the Dominican Republic. As made clear in his reading, Piatigorsky does an excellent job of making some of the world’s worst into highly believable human beings. Trujillo, for example, is obsessive-compulsive, and sees his brother’s desecration of orderly bottle caps as a bad omen. Piatigorsky, unlike Gordon, obviously read from historical fiction: this was conveyed even within the calm, methodical tone of his spoken voice.
Both Gordon and Piatigorsky’s stories—though unique—were what I would consider reasonable, contemporary fiction. Barry Webster, however, does not write reasonable fiction. Webster’s readings from The Lava in My Bones were—to say the very least—fascinating, but likely largely inaccessible to a wider audience. That being said, Webster wrote and read with great effectiveness: it is quite possible that, as a result of Webster’s narrators, I will have nightmares about sweating honey, or about being followed around by a set of eyes.
In short, I’m glad my puberty experience did not involve bees.
During the Q&A portion of Cosmo Lava Bridge, it became apparent that one of these authors was not like the other. To be clear: Gordon, Piatigorsky and Webster are all excellent Canadian authors who most certainly deserve our patronage. Piatigorsky, however, approached his particular selection of reading (and thus his writing process) in much different manner than the other two. This is reasonable, considering the subject matter, and provided an interesting contrast to the sometimes-extreme surrealism of Gordon and Webster.
Webster received a question regarding the somewhat obvious influence of fairy tale on his work, and reminded the audience that writing through a non-realistic medium can make not oft’ discussed obsessions or subconscious ideas more real than so-called “realism” would. Later, Gordon sarcastically referred to realism as “that crusty horrible word,” a statement revelatory of his writing inclinations. All told, the Q&A portion of the evening served as a vibrant if somewhat predictable discussion of the details of the writing process.
It is events such as Cosmo Lava Bridge that make me wish the Ottawa Writers Festival could be a monthly occurrence.
It’s a time of change in the world, with dictators toppling and new opportunities rising, but any revolution that doesn’t create equality for women will be incomplete. The time has come to realize the full potential of half the world’s population.
— Christiane Amanpour, from the foreword to The Unfinished Revolution
This quote rang true throughout Minky Worden’s discussion on the global fight for women and girl’s rights. She opened by reading an excerpt she had writtten to introduce the book. The first sentence was hopeful as it summarized the gains of the women’s rights movement, such as recognizing the value of women’s work. However, what followed depicted a different story. She spoke of how much we still need to overcome, as girls are still being married at very young ages, trafficked into forced labour and sold as sex slaves.
There was talk about how women are at the front of the revolution, speaking out for their rights while living in areas where such behaviour could find you imprisoned, tortured, or killed. How one young girl took a stand against a rights violation, only to meet with a short surge of support, then to taper off and nearly be forgotten in the media. While listening to Minky passionately talk about these violations and how women across the world are taking a stand for their rights, it made me feel proud of being a woman and encouraged me to do take on a similar fight in Canada.
After a brief discussion of the book, one audience member asked whether the access to technology has been helping the movement. The answer was a little bitter-sweet. The short answer is, yes, it has been very helpful because people are able to send messages so quickly and affordably in order to inform the world about the current situations and violations that are ongoing. Support can be raised, people can organized, and in the minute updates can be given. But there is another side that not many think about. Minky gave the example of China and how the government can use technology to become like a ‘Big Brother’ by monitoring their citizens in order to squash any possibility of an uprising.
As I looked around the room, I couldn’t help but notice how many women were present, giving me a strong sense of being in solidarity while fighting for woman’s rights. However, I had wished that there were more men in attendance as this important message needs to be heard by them if sustainable change is to occur.
After listening to this discussion I brought back with me two key points, the fight for women’s rights is still raging, and making myself aware of the violations against women is the the start of joining the fight for global women’s rights.
Two authors, one clad in red boots, the other in a red sweater, lit up the stage with their rich tales of fiction, engaging the audience, and bringing us who escaped the strong winds and swirling leaves outdoors, into their worlds. The weather, no doubt the reverberations of the super-storm Sandy, also kept the third author Ayad Akhtar along with the earlier slotted Rabbi Harold Kushner.
The evening began with a reading by Shani Boianjiu , a young Israeli-author, new to the scene of professional art literature. Her novel titled The People of Forever Are Not Afraid , depicts the stories of three young Israeli women and their experiences while fulfilling the mandatory two-year national army service required of all Israelis. The reading focused upon Avishag, a sarcastic, defiant, yet insecure character. Boianjiu wowed the audience with the manner in which she brought Avishag to life.
Following Boianjiu’s reading, author Sarah Dearing took the podium, and read excerpts from her novel, The Art of Sufficient Conclusions . Beginning with a dramatic scene, Dearing took the audience into the life of her protagonist, Abigail, sharing with us her quirky obsessions as well as her wit, fears and insecurities. Dearing embraced the audience with her reading, demonstrating her storytelling capacity.
Following the readings, event host Sandra Abma of the CBC, began a discussion with Boianjiu and Dearing, delving into the meaning of identity and the role it maintains in their novels.
To begin, Abma asked the authors, what they were trying to accomplish in the writing of their respective novels.
In response, Boianjiu expressed her desire to paint a picture of life as an 18-year-old female. She stated that her goal was not to write about the army itself; rather, she sought to bring meaning and art to the army experience. To do this gives a voice to people who often do not get one - including border guards, and Sudanese refugees. Importantly, Boianjiu also speaks of her intention to bring to life the difficulties of balancing female teenage life with the responsibilities of being a soldier.
Dearing suggested that her novel began as a journey about discovery. Discovery of truth- about her father and his origins, and manner in which she could decrypt the story she discovered in a meaningful way. Dearing also spoke to her desire to highlight the important role a father maintains in his children’s lives - even in death.
Writing fiction from fact, is common to both Boianjiu and Dearing’s novels . When asked about the process of creating fiction from fact, both authors admitted that they struggled. Boianjiu and Dearing expressed that they had struggled to work through what they wanted to include from real life, what they wanted to embellish, and what they wanted to leave out in favour of a tale born from their imagination. Dearing suggested that fictionalizing herself was challenging (her protagonist is loosely based off of her journey to understand her father’s past), and Boianjiu commented that it was difficult to determine which of her personal stories best suited the personalities she established for her characters.
As the evening came to an end, Abma asked the two authors about the role of humour in their novels. In response, both agreed that humour was an important element of their works. “After all”, she said, she had to make her character “more [screwed] up than she herself.”
Boianjiu’s novel is currently being translated from English to her mother tongue, Hebrew. She anticipates the reaction of Israeli readers. Boainjiu's decision to write in English was more a pragmatic decision than a calculated one; she took creative writing classes while at Harvard, and thus had to write in English. Writing in a second language compelled her to be more thoughtful with her words, and Boianjiu felt that it also resulted in unique style and voice.
The discussion concluded with thoughtful questions, and a hearty applause from the audience - expressing their thanks for an entertaining evening, and respect for these two dynamic authors.
Creative writing can be deeply enjoyable and satisfying…when it works. When it doesn’t, it can lead to hair loss and hard liquor. As my own attempts at writing short stories typically fall into the latter category, an event like ‘Long Story Short’ that brings together three accomplished writers of short fiction to share and discuss their work both soothes my scalp and makes me excited about what I might learn.
The evening unfolded in two parts. First, each author in turn read a selection from one of their short stories. Miranda Hill shared part of an allegorical tale about a baby girl acknowledged by everyone as perfect, quite unlike her older brother. Nadine McInnis recounted a budding relationship between a volunteer and a patient in a hospice for the dying. Steven Heighton painted a relationship at a crossroads subjected to the stress of armed robbery. Each read very well, pacing and pausing in such a way that the listener was quickly drawn into three interesting tales that were by turns mysterious, threatening, funny, and mildly bizarre.
The second part of the evening saw the authors take the stage together to respond to a range of questions from both the event’s host and the audience concerning the literary form of the short story, its relationship to the Canadian context, and the creative process. One question of particular interest was what limitations, if any, might exist on taking on voices of the other (i.e., those who differ from the author in terms of gender, race, sexual orientation, etc.) and whether authors shied away from taking on certain voices out of fear of criticism. Steven Heighton responded that the key issue was whether or not the author could do it well, and that to attempt to take on alternative perspectives was key to further developing as a writer. Miranda Hill agreed, adding that authors might not take certain voices for many reasons, including that they simply do not feel drawn to it. Nadine McInnis offered that there were no hard and fast rules, but that thorough research and dramatically entering into the other voice was needed for it to work.
The authors’ discussion of the creative process was also fascinating and very enjoyable. They shared thoughts on their approach to writing, incorporating autobiographical elements, the pleasures and challenges of the short story form, and how they addressed such things as pacing, rhythm, and editing.
All of their particular responses and reflections were interesting in themselves, but much of my considerable enjoyment of this event was on a different level. It was simply a pleasure to watch all three artists engaging one another, their host, and the audience in a free-flowing, articulate, thoughtful, and mutually-respectful discourse on their craft. They responded frankly and directly to good questions, and were even willing in small ways to be publically vulnerable. A gift from them to us, and a welcome one at that.
On Sunday, in the run-up to Halloween a large crowd filled the main sanctuary of Knox Presbyterian Church, a gloomy (weather-wise) evening that fit the theme: Crime Night. Indeed, the event’s host, CBC’s Sandra Abma, made reference to the impending “Frankenstorm” that is scheduled to batter the region, making for evenings well suited for curling up with a spine-tingling mystery. Three internationally renowned authors shared the stage and spoke to a rapt audience: Mark Billingham, Maureen Jennings and Peter Robinson.
Billingham, best known for his Detective Inspector Tom Thorne books, jokingly explained that he felt it necessary to tap into cultural zeitgeists and give the world “more of it” before energetically launching into a reading of his “latest” Thorne novel, 50 Shades of Thorne. Donning a yellow carnival mask, he read from this spoof, naturally filled with “chiseled jaws,” “cold grey eyes,” and a submissive protagonist who found that “her blood was on fire as were her lady bits.” The whole bit was met with great laughs from the audience and the laughs continued as he then discussed how according to a UK woman’s magazine survey “reading crime fiction is better than sex,” a finding that he questioned before promising that his novels would, in the very least, definitely last longer. He also shared amusing anecdotes about receiving feedback from readers.
Rather than read from his real latest Thorne novel, The Demands , Billingham chose to share an excerpt from a standalone thriller Rush of Blood , the premise of which centres on a vacation that sours. The chilling selection focused on the inner ruminations of an abductor who muses on the idea of “triggers,” something oft debated by psychologists trying to piece together motivation for a crime, in this case something as benign as a smile, “wet-lipped, wide, and a little crooked.”
The next author, Jennings, was slightly more staid in her delivery, though drily referred back to the idea of “triggers,” commenting that someone knocking at her hotel door at 3:45 AM that morning could have been a justifiable trigger for “total homicide.” Jennings is well known for her Detective Murdoch books, which have inspired the television series Murdoch Mysteries , as well as the Christine Morris series. Her new novel, however, Beware This Boy , centres on saboteurs in a munitions factory in Birmingham, England, during the Second World War. Before sharing a selection from her new work, she first gave insight into the novel’s title, sharing with the audience a quote from A Christmas Carol, in which the “boy” in question represents ignorance.
She noted that “one of the delights of crime fiction – any fiction – is that it lets you slip in your issues,” in this instance allowing her to wrestle with the idea of closed-mindedness. The selection that she chose to read focused on female munitions workers being delayed by an uncharacteristically locked change room, and in the dialogue Jennings was able to distinguish with her tone the different characters, giving the audience insight into these women’s personalities and a feel for the easy banter among the workers, before ending with a cliff hanger.
The last author to read was Robinson, whose new bestseller Watching the Dark continues his well-received Inspector Banks series. In this latest installment Banks finds himself working with Inspector Joanna Passero from Professional Standards. Robinson noted that the introduction of this new character gave him insight into aspects of Banks’ character that he hadn’t known before, like an inclination for practical jokes. Indeed, the selection that Robinson read, most of which takes place in a mortuary in the basement of a Victorian infirmary, has the classic give-and-take of a veteran running a newbie through their paces. In this case, though, Joanna, a cool Nordic blonde that “Albert Hitchcock would’ve loved,” doesn’t quail from anything Banks throws at her, later revealing that while it may have been her first post-mortem, she grew up watching her mother perform open-heart surgery. The scene was peppered with subtle humour and Robinson was able to amplify this in his delivery, especially when revealing the cause of death “barring any strange reports from toxicology, he died of a crossbow to the heart.”
During the Q&A session, the authors chatted with each other while also answering questions from Abma and the audience, ranging from the role of research, writing for recurring versus original characters, and the writing process itself. Robinson admitted that while he tries to keep distance some of the research he conducts can cause some sleepless nights, notably when he once was reading nurses’ journals from the Second World War. Jennings similarly noted that it is hard not to be affected by the research, an aspect of writing she does enjoy, but suggested that writing in and of itself is “a great way to get revenge” and help purge one of the emotions that can bubble up during the research process. Billingham commented that since he wanted to avoid complaints from readers (such as those that he shared with the audience earlier in the evening), he conducts quite a bit of research but commented that there’s “a difference between truth and fact,” a remark that resonated with Jennings. While Billingham and Robinson both discussed the usefulness of the internet, with the latter admitting the downside of it being a complete time suck, Jennings revealed that she still conducts much of her research using books – books that seem to “copulate in the night” and take over her office.
As all three authors have written series following a recurring character, they fielded questions about the difference about writing for an established character compared to that of writing for new characters in standalone novels. Robinson, whose character Banks is also aging throughout the series, commented to laughs that as a writer he can change the rate of aging, so that when Banks hits 59, if the inspector still has a case a month, he will be able to get 12 more novels out of the character before thoughts of retirement. Generally though he tries to ensure that Banks follows a sort of natural progression, and as the character ages, Robinson noted that the “closer I get to death, the more I think about it, the more Banks thinks about it,” and quipping that “now he’s becoming like one of these Swedish detectives.”
Billingham noted that there are two approaches a writer can take; one can either start out with a large dossier of character traits or grow along with them, as he is more inclined to do (and which, he admitted, can occasionally get one into trouble in terms of trying to remember things, like “how old is he again?”). When writing standalone texts, he said that while it is “scary” he thought it necessary, sharing that writers he admire also try new things and that there is a general fear of growing stale.
Jennings discussed the interesting perspective of having developed characters in novel form and seeing television “writers and actors claim ownership” over the same characters. She explained that while a strange feeling, it’s a largely positive position to be in, sharing how she felt creatively inspired by the performance of the actors on Murdoch Mysteries.
As many such events are filled with would-be authors, there were questions about each writer’s creative process. Each turned out to be quite different than the other, with Billingham commenting that while he goes in knowing the opening and the end, he “generally has no idea what happens in the middle.” He quashed the airy idea of one’s character “taking over” the writing, exclaiming “who was doing the typing?”
Similarly Jennings admitted the middle is a “marsh land,” but indicated that she makes use of outlining to save time. Robinson dubbed himself “probably even less of an outliner than either Mark or Maureen,” saying that what he really needs is an opening scene, without which he gets stuck. That being said, regardless of outlines or not, all discussed the reality of the writing life, with Billingham commenting that “it’s a great job but it is a job.” Indeed, he noted that the “book is being written in your head all the time,” while Robinson glibly remarked that “even when I’m lying in bed at night I’m working.”
Reading excerpts from his latest book, Jonathan Goldstein had the crowd roaring with laughter as he described the excitement at the birth of his nephew paired with projected animations of the tale.
His mother, having had her children when she was quite young had been “waiting to be a grandmother since her 20’s.” Going on to describe his anxiety about his nephew’s bris (Jewish circumcision rite performed on the 8th day of a male infant's life), and how arriving at the synagogue early he wondered why the mohel got into his profession. Disclosing to the audience that his motivation was simply so he could ask if “it was for the tips.” By this point in his story, Goldstein has the crowd roaring with laughter, continuing on about how on his nephews first Mother’s Day the family gathered and in turn competed to describe who loved the child the most. Goldstein’s father says that he loves the little boy so much it hurts, it feels like a stabbing pain. But no one can top Goldstein’s sister, the baby’s mother, when she describes her love for the child like drowning and “accompanies this statement with choking and gasping noises.”
Goldstein went on to tell a story about taking his father out for his birthday: “any time he gets away from my mother is like nursing him back to health.” He says his father points to everything he sees excitedly “like a kid in a Menudo video going to the mall for the first time.” His father find the little details of their afternoon together thrilling such as drinking coke out of the can “like street hustlers” and eating white rice. When Goldstein’s mother finds out that her husband had a little too much fun she becomes suspicious and accusing of Goldstein, as though he were showing his father what the world without his wife would be like.
His sentiments toward his mother include a little bit of fear and a great deal of embarrassment mixed with love. She enjoys the challenge of returning items she no longer wants. Goldstein quips that she once tried to return tahini to a nearby grocery store because the seal didn’t pop as satisfactorily as it should. She chose this store not because it was where the tahini was purchased, but because of it’s proximity to their home. The store in fact, didn’t even sell tahini, or really know what tahini was.
As a younger person, Goldstein was extremely embarrassed by the actions of his family but he says that the moment he knew he was an adult was when he realized that the world saw his family differently than he did. Paraphrasing David Sedaris “if I had known what an enterprise my family would have become, I would only have wished they were more insane.”
During the Q&A portion, the subject of his radio show is heavily discussed and he comes to the conclusion that radio and his family are intrinsically linked: his first ever radio show was his parents listening to their extensive record collection and commenting on it. When he brought this piece into his boss and she remarked at how hilarious his parents were was the moment he realized that other people saw his family as funny, rather than just his parents being the ordinary and embarrassing people that he thought they were. These days his family’s stories and discussions appear frequently on his CBC Radio program: Wiretap . Surprisingly enough, he’s never been approached to make an audiobook of one of his books, but says he’d be interested in doing an audiobook version of 50 Shades of Grey.
Goldstein ended the discussion by talking about his anxiety over saving jokes, he’s deeply concerned that on his deathbed he will be too weak to come up with anything good so he often tries to save his jokes for that moment. In a roar of applause and laughter Goldstein exited the stage to sign copies of his book, I’ll Seize the Day Tomorrow , for his ardent fans. You can find his equally hilarious Twitter posts here.
“Everyone can find a champion in John Ralston Saul” says Charlotte Gray as she introduces the novelist and essayist (he prefers them to be listed in that order). His extensive work in both the fiction and non-fiction realms raise the question with his newest novel, Dark Diversions , is this fiction or non-fiction?
Saul addresses this issue by saying that novels and essays are not so different. Essays deal with facts but novels tend to work toward an ultimate truth, some great universal idea about us as humans. Saul goes on to talk about how it was fun to return to fiction to write a “mean novel without moral redemption.” When it comes down to it, his novel is about “boring dictators and stupid plutocrats.”
“Dictators are incredibly boring, there’s nothing there. Sure they can be dangerous, but that doesn’t make them interesting.”
But what is truly important to Saul about Dark Diversions is the structure: he wants his narrator and characters to be in charge. He feels that an author should never let the reader peep into the world of the novel; but rather the reader should fall into the lives of the characters where catastrophes are already in progress. He despises when the author gets in the way of the story and tries to point things out to the reader, so he lets his characters drive his narrative.
Saul comes across as incredibly intelligent and wise and when answering questions he truly flourishes. When asked if he is an optimist or a pessimist he responds by saying that he is an “optimistic pessimist,” he knows there are things that could be done, but is not confident they will get done. Charlotte Gray responds by joking that “the glass is simply half.”
When it comes to the topic of economics, it is inevitable that the economic problems in the U.S. Are brought up and Saul raises a very interesting point he had formerly discussed with a colleague of his: the U.S. Government would have been much better off putting their money into paying off the mortgages of Americans rather than putting money into the banks. Having mortgages paid off would have given Americans much more disposable income with which to stimulate the economy out of a recession. When the topic of governments arises he remarks that a terrible mistake to make is thinking that the government does not have power. People often believe that working for an Non-Governmental Organization (NGO), such as PEN International (of which Saul is currently the International Director) gives them more influence and thus more power. Saul powerfully counters this idea by saying that “influence is not power, power is power.”
Certain people can do truly good things as politicians; even back bench politicians who can be there to annoy the ministers, as Saul quips. He tells the audience that he doesn’t want to influence his readers, but he truly wants to put ideas into the national conversation. When Charlotte Gray ends the discussion by telling Saul we never know what he’ll do next, Saul responds merely by saying “good.” But after having written a 1000 page essay on the meaning of life, what could really surprise from John Ralston Saul?