Showing posts with label The Porcupines' Quill. Show all posts
Showing posts with label The Porcupines' Quill. Show all posts

Tuesday, January 20, 2026

12 or 20 (second series) questions with Barbara Sibbald

Barbara Sibbald [photo credit: Curtis Perry] is an award-winning journalist and author of five works of fiction. Almost English (Bayeux Arts, 2025) is a historical novel based on her Eurasian great-grandparents in India. Her short-fiction collection, The Museum of Possibilities (The Porcupine’s Quill), won a gold Foreword Indies Award and silver eLit. Her novel, Regarding Wanda (Bunkhouse Press), was short-listed for the Ottawa Book Award, and The Book of Love: Guidance in Affairs of the Heart (General Store Publishing House) was favourably reviewed. Kitchen Chronicles (Ottawa Magazine 2013/14) is an online novel told in 52 installments (now posted at www.barbarasibbald.com).When she’s not writing, she’s gardening. Barbara lives in a hidden in-fill house in downtown Ottawa with her husband, the visual artist Stuart Kinmond. 

1 - How did your first book change your life? How does your most recent work compare to your previous? How does it feel different?

As I held my first book of fiction I felt I had arrived. Pay-off after all those years of toiling in obscurity (aside from a few stories published in literary journals). That novel, Regarding Wanda, was a bildungsroman, heavily based on my experiences growing up in a military family, my overbearing father, my work as a small-town journalist and an eye impairment I developed in my early 30s. Aside from that it’s all made up! My most recent work, Almost English, is the result of years of research into the British Raj and my great-grandparents. Stephen Turner was a quarter Indian, but to the late 19th century Raj he was wholly native: underpaid, underemployed and mocked. Nevertheless, Stephen and his wife Lily Turner never wavered in their struggle to belong to the British establishment in Northern India from 1885 to 1912. This is the story of their quest, their frequent disappointments and their enduring love. It’s also my story. I break the fourth wall as the novel unfolds to recount my parallel search for community. This genre-bending work, which includes family photographs, paintings and sketches, brings a fresh perspective to this era. This structure, a melange of historic fiction and autobiography felt necessary, and I think the story is much richer as a result. It was also risky; publishers were wary

There has been a progression in my work from essentially auto-fiction, to heavily researched historic fiction interspersed with short non-fiction essays that riff on the fictional text. It’s more experimental.

2 - How did you come to fiction first, as opposed to, say, poetry or non-fiction?

Actually, I came to journalism first. I wanted to write short stories (poetry being somewhat mysterious to me) but knew I had to make a living, so I studied journalism at Carleton University and made my living for decades as a journalist, but only ever 4 days a week. Day 5 was always for fiction writing.

3 - How long does it take to start any particular writing project? Does your writing initially come quickly, or is it a slow process? Do first drafts appear looking close to their final shape, or does your work come out of copious notes?

Starting, getting that initial idea, comes quickly. The first draft often does as well. But then I edit endlessly, producing one version after another, second-guessing, fine tuning. I also rely on feedback from my writing group and other literary friends. The process works, but it is time consuming.

4 - Where does a work of prose usually begin for you? Are you an author of short pieces that end up combining into a larger project, or are you working on a "book" from the very beginning?

Regarding Wanda began as a series of short stories. I had envisioned it as a story cycle, a structure that I enjoy reading (think Sunshine Sketches of a Little Town), wherein the whole is greater than the sum of its parts. But then I showed it to Audrey Thomas, my mentor at the Banff School of Writing back in the day and she said it was a novel. And so it was.  It didn’t require much to weave the stories together. Since then, my novels have always started as a larger work. I still write short fiction, but it’s destined to stay as such; I feel no compunction to expand on those works.

5 - Are public readings part of or counter to your creative process? Are you the sort of writer who enjoys doing readings?

 It took me a while to get used to public readings; I was just so nervous. I’m not now, and I enjoy reading my stories aloud to an audience. Reading aloud is definitely part of the writing process as well; a story has to sound right!

6 - Do you have any theoretical concerns behind your writing? What kinds of questions are you trying to answer with your work? What do you even think the current questions are?

My work revolves around notions of belonging, whether to a community, a “significant” other, a family or a group of friends. I grew up as an itinerant air force brat moving every 3 or 4 years. This left me without roots, or a place. In different ways, each of my books deals with this central issue.

7 – What do you see the current role of the writer being in larger culture? Do they even have one? What do you think the role of the writer should be?

Writers allow readers to take deep emotional dives (as opposed to the superficial dog paddling on the web) into relevant topics. The best writers bring fresh perspectives, well-researched information with emotional resonance, and perhaps a glimpse of the past and future. Given climate change, I think the role of the writer should be provocateur and soothsayer.

8 – Do you find the process of working with an outside editor difficult or essential (or both)?

Editors are essential. Full stop. I always save up so I can hire one, and I believe this has helped me get published. It also helps me make the work as good as it can be. Best to get the heavy lifting out of the way before approaching publishing houses (some of which go very light on the editing).

9 - What is the best piece of advice you've heard (not necessarily given to you directly)?

Virginia Woolf said: “So long as you write what you wish to write, that is all that matters; and whether it matters for ages or only for hours, nobody can say.”

This is the key to inspiration; you have to care about what you write.

10 – How easy has it been for you to move between genres (short stories to journalism to the novel)? What do you see as the appeal?

Journalism, at its heart, is story telling. I enjoy writing profiles and these in particular allow scope for telling people’s stories. Moving from that to short stories was really not a stretch at all. And then, I wove those stories into my first novel. So, the whole trajectory had a rather natural progression.

11 – What kind of writing routine do you tend to keep, or do you even have one? How does a typical day (for you) begin?

When I was enmeshed in researching and writing Almost English, I was hard at it from early a.m. until mid afternoon or later. But since completing that, I’ve concentrated on publishing it and been less rigorous about my creative writing. I usually manage two or three mornings a week on fiction. BUT I do read and write poetry first thing every morning. And I have grand plans for the new year; hoping to write fiction five mornings a week (no email or scrolling till noon seems a good starting point).

12 - When your writing gets stalled, where do you turn or return for (for lack of a better word) inspiration?

I turn to books I know I love (Woolf or Ondaatje for example) or new authors who have been recommended. I also dip into old how-to favs like Anne Lamont’s bird by bird.

And sometimes, I go to the art gallery and spend times with pictorial pals.

13 – What fragrance reminds you of home?

Pledge wood cleaner. My mom was a compulsive cleaner. I am not.

14 - David W. McFadden once said that books come from books, but are there any other forms that influence your work, whether nature, music, science or visual art?

Gardening is profoundly influential. For me, the zen like space gardening creates in my life allows my mind to trip off in new directions. It helps to get my hands dirty too!

I also find walking, especially in a forest, is very conducive to imaginative trolling. My therapist recommends spending an hour, three days a week, in nature. I aim for that.

15 - What other writers or writings are important for your work, or simply your life outside of your work?

There’s a long list, but here are a few: Sigrid Nunez, Hilary Mantel, Ian McEwan, Julian Barnes, Alice Munro (I know, but her writing is stellar), etc. etc.

16 - What would you like to do that you haven't yet done?

Publish a chap book of poetry. I came to poetry during COVID and found I loved it. I now write a poem nearly every day. Most matter (to me) for mere minutes, but some have potential.

17 - If you could pick any other occupation to attempt, what would it be? Or, alternately, what do you think you would have ended up doing had you not been a writer?

Landscape architecture holds great appeal. I love working with plants and I love to design. I suppose I would end up writing about it too!

18 - What made you write, as opposed to doing something else?

I knew when I was 12 that I wanted to be a writer. I wrote poems, a play and wee stories back then. I just loved this act of creation: imaginative and so enjoyable. I never even considered doing anything else!

19 - What was the last great book you read? What was the last great film?

The vulnerables, Sigrid Nunez: understated but so astute and the writing zings. I adore her work.  

The room next door Dir. Pedro Almodovar. Starring Tilda Swinton and Julianne Moore. An adaptation of Sigrid Nunez’s novel What are you going through. Deep and dark, about end of life, about the degradation of the earth and depression. A thought jarring film.

20 - What are you currently working on?

Marketing my new historic novel, Almost English, seems to take up most of my time, but I will soon get to more creative work. I want to delve into my poetry drafts to find some pearls (I hope) and craft them into something fuller. I also have a half-dozen short stories finished for a new collection. Maybe. And I’m considering writing a novel that somehow melds gardening with historic fiction. TBD.

12 or 20 (second series) questions;

Monday, December 01, 2025

12 or 20 (second series) questions with Guy Elston

Guy Elston is a UK-born, Toronto-based poet. His debut collection is The Character Actor Convention (The Porcupine's Quill, 2025). His poems have appeared in The Literary Review of Canada, The Malahat Review, The Ex-Puritan, Grain, Geist and elsewhere. He is a member of the Meet the Presses collective.

1 - How did your first book or chapbook change your life? How does your most recent work compare to your previous? How does it feel different?

Publishing my chapbook Automatic Sleep Mode gave the confidence and direction to focus more on what I’m better at, moving away from more directly ‘confessional’ stuff to the kind of persona, character and dialogue work that makes up a lot of The Character Actor Convention. 

They encourage you to ‘find your voice’ as a poet. Finding that ‘my voice’ could be many voices – or that I could push my voice into many different personas – was very exciting for me.

2 - How did you come to poetry first, as opposed to, say, fiction or non-fiction?

As a kid I wanted to write fiction, not poetry. I wrote some bad short stories. A turning point was picking up Raymond Carver’s collected poems and realising I preferred his poetry to his short stories. Then the bug bit me.

I like the idea of poetry as literary popcorn, literary snacks, literary hors d’oeuvres. You can eat something mind-bending and delicious. Then another, but sadder. Then another, but funnier... and you never really get full. Just tired.

3 - How long does it take to start any particular writing project? Does your writing initially come quickly, or is it a slow process? Do first drafts appear looking close to their final shape, or does your work come out of copious notes?

Poems tend to either come together fairly quickly, or not at all. (Apart from the ones that take years. Or never get finished. Or started.)

4 - Where does a poem usually begin for you? Are you an author of short pieces that end up combining into a larger project, or are you working on a "book" from the very beginning?

Poems start in my notes app, graduate to the notebook, and then to the laptop. I like the move between the different mediums to test, break and refine. 

For The Character Actor Convention, it’s very much a book of individual poems. I’d like to work on something with more of a full-length concept in future.

5 - Are public readings part of or counter to your creative process? Are you the sort of writer who enjoys doing readings?

My poetry tends towards the page, and I’d usually rather read a poet’s work myself than hear them do it. But I’m getting into the performance side of poetry more, which I think is necessary given the theatricality of a lot of my poems. I like doing readings, particularly when they’re full of hundreds of adoring fans.

6 - Do you have any theoretical concerns behind your writing? What kinds of questions are you trying to answer with your work? What do you even think the current questions are?

My girlfriend teases me by describing my poetry as - ‘What if a chair was sad?’ - and really, can you think of any greater theoretical concern than that?

I don’t see my poetry as truth-telling, proclamation, or a call to action. I see it more as storytelling, and I like being comfortable with ambivalence and uncertainty.


7 – What do you see the current role of the writer being in larger culture? Do they even have one? What do you think the role of the writer should be?

The only role of a writer is to exist. While writing, I suppose.

8 - Do you find the process of working with an outside editor difficult or essential (or both)?

Essential, and something I’ve really enjoyed. Shane Neilson helped me to push my poems into new forms and places. Thanks, Shane!

9 - What is the best piece of advice you've heard (not necessarily given to you directly)?

I thought that Kathryn Maris wrote something like ‘If you want a life in poetry, you can have one’. But now I can’t find this quote anywhere. Perhaps I dreamt it?

10 - What kind of writing routine do you tend to keep, or do you even have one? How does a typical day (for you) begin?

Not much of a routine – writing poems happens in and around everything else. The notebook stage of writing a poem, which is the biggest chunk of the creative part, typically happens in parks, at the lake, or late at night.

11 - When your writing gets stalled, where do you turn or return for (for lack of a better word) inspiration?

Books, news articles, random magazines, Wikipedia. Non-fiction is usually what gives me a jumping off point – if I read enough interesting stuff, something will get me going.

12 - What fragrance reminds you of home?

Horses.

13 - David W. McFadden once said that books come from books, but are there any other forms that influence your work, whether nature, music, science or visual art?

Any other type of artform – definitely.

Science – very much so, I love getting ideas from science articles and headlines. Part of the fun comes from my inability to think scientifically.


Nature – not at all. I can’t write about nature. I think it's already speaking for itself.


14 - What other writers or writings are important for your work, or simply your life outside of your work?

My most influential poets would be people like Simic, Tate, Strand, Szymborska, Milosz, Selima Hill, Michael Bazzett, Matthew Sweeney. Robert Browning. People with an inclination towards storytelling and/or a pinch of surrealism.

15 - What would you like to do that you haven't yet done?

Write some kind of Pale Fire-like metatextual piece with fictional footnotes from unreliable historians and such.  I know I have to try.

16 - If you could pick any other occupation to attempt, what would it be? Or, alternately, what do you think you would have ended up doing had you not been a writer?

When I was a child, adults would tell me that I should become a lawyer when I grew up. At least that didn’t happen.

17 - What made you write, as opposed to doing something else?

I can’t remember wanting to do anything else. I loved reading from when I was very young. I remember being about 8, and saying something like ‘when I’m reading a book, I feel like I’m in another world’, and my sister rolling her eyes.

18 - What was the last great book you read? What was the last great film?

Book – The Hearing Trumpet by Leonora Carrington. A wild and empowering ride.

Film – I finally saw Metropolis the other day. Kick ass!

19 - What are you currently working on?

More, more of the same! But better...

12 or 20 (second series) questions;

Sunday, August 10, 2025

SPEECH DRIES HERE ON THE TONGUE: Poetry on Environmental Collapse and Mental Health, eds. Hollay Ghadery, Rasiqra Revulva and Amanda Shankland

 

The poets in this book explore the complex relationship between environmental collapse and mental health, inviting readers to consider the unprecedented personal impacts of the crisis. The looming thread of environmental collapse has brought with it a sense of impending annihilation and intensified a mental health crisis that was made crueller by a global pandemic that revealed our fragile nature. As writers, we use our words to navigate this turmoil, alleviate our own suffering, and inspire others. Through speaking and writing, we reclaim power, not only over our own narratives but in how we shape our collective futures. As we continue to grapple with the overwhelming realities of ecological destruction, these poems invite us to listen, to feel, and to respond. In this moment of profound loss, we are reminded that the voice can be a force for change, a means of healing. Though the weight of environmental collapse may sometimes silence us, we are called to speak. Even as speech may dry on the tongue, it gives us a thirst for change. (“Editor’s Preface”)

I’m intrigued by this new collection, SPEECH DRIES HERE ON THE TONGUE: Poetry on Environmental Collapse and Mental Health, edited by Hollay Ghadery, Rasiqra Revulva and Amanda Shankland (Guelph ON: The Porcupine’s Quill, 2025), a poetry title that provides a complexity of literary response to “the relationship between environmental collapse and mental health,” and the precarity through which we currently live. “whereupon I join Lear and his Fool / on the blasted heath,” writes London, Ontario-based writer and speaker Jennifer Wenn, in the poem “Fire and Flood,” “and while the erstwhile king howls / at the gale and deluge I cower, / uselessly, / looking for a sign, [.]” There are multiple pieces echoing Wenn’s particular sentiment, seeking a sign or marker of hope through the gloom, with other pieces that rage their appropriate rage through the storm, or even a spiraling into a dark swirl of hopelessness. As Toronto-based poet,editor and translator Khashayar “Kess” Mohammadi begins the poem “Movement XVI”: “that dark resignation to loss. how long to run after joy and just / find construction cones scattered. I take out the trash and who / knows maybe I’m resistant to pesticide. some relief comes in / the form of needles. I’m defeated by numbers. It simply won’t / happen.”” Sometimes the only way to respond to a crisis is to write through it, providing a clarity of thought and potential action, and this collection, put together as the result of a public call, provides an assemblage of first-person lyric narratives by some two dozen Canadian poets that shake to the roots of mental health and climate concern, providing both observational comfort and clarity to their sharpness. The collection includes contributions by Brandon Wint, Jennifer Wenn, Conal Smiley, Concetta Principe, Dominik Parisien, Khashayar “Kess” Mohammmadi, Kathryn Mockler, Tara McGowan-Ross, D.A. Lockhart, Grace Lau, Fiona Tinwei Lam, Aaron Kreuter, gregor Y kennedy, Maryam Gowralli, Elee Kraljii Gardiner, Sydney Hegele, Karen Houle, Nina Jane Drystek, AJ Dolman, Conyer Clayton and Gary Barwin. There’s a precarity to these lyrics, these lines, one that writes directly into crisis,

These are poems that want and crave hope, but can’t always get there, perpetually searching through the fog for a clarity. How might we get there? “My best friend tells / me all life on earth shares a single common / ancestor, with a name.” writes urban Mi’kmaq writer and multi-disciplinary artist Tara McGowan-Ross as part of the poem “if I had a son I would call him Ben,” “My therapist explains that / my obligations change as something gets closer.”

Friday, January 10, 2025

Matthew Gwathmey, Family Band

 

FAMILY BAND

What was there to do but to play music?
Me on guitar and my sister on fiddle.
Father came out after tuning to blow
The porch top off with his harmonica.
Then a second cousin, on seeing shingles
falling sure on embouchure, would bring
his five-string banjo, mumbling about picket
fences, Double Dutch and potluck suppers.

Singers, we always had lots of singers.
Back in the house, next door, up in the hollow.
Singers we couldn’t hear. Singers we didn’t want to.
Our songs turned out grief lessons:
“The Little Lost Child,” “O Molly My Dear,”
“How Can We Stand Such Sorrow,” “Bury Me
Under The Willow Weeping.”

Nothing in return but quick toe taps
and off-beat claps, next tune chosen
by the fastest caller. That is,
until a few of our aunts came,
right hands flicking with rulers,
and made us all sing gospel hymns,
about life after life after.

The third full-length collection by Fredericton poet Matthew Gwathmey, following Our Latest in Folktales (London ON: Brick Books, 2019) [see my review of such here] and Tumbling for Amateurs (Toronto ON: Coach House Books, 2023) [see my review of such here], is Family Band (Guelph ON: The Porcupines’ Quill, 2024). There’s long been a playfully-askance approach Gwathmey has taken blending formal elements of lyric and narrative, and this collection is no different, offering sharp lines across a folksy, familial and detailed backdrop. “2022 is the year of the lilac,” he writes, to open the poem “LILACS,” according to the almanac. // So tonight let’s walk the trail behind our house. // To the bushes growing in very great plenty and already divided. // Find an offshoot. Plant it in our side yard where it scent can flourish / in the full sun. // Water and wait. We’ll alternate scions with random grafts, // until its flowers appear at eye level, appearing just before summer / comes into season, // blooms lasting only a couple weeks.” Through short, sharp lyrics, Gwathmey swirls together a mixtape’s-worth of earworms and experience, documenting road trips, birdwatching, visual art, nature walks and playing music, a broadband of all that circles the domestic of family life, rippling quietly outwards. “Savannah sparrows gather ten times / their weight in detail to orchestrate / the ratio of land to water,” he writes, as part of the lyric “BIRD CARTOGRAPHERS,” “call a light tsu. Caroline / chickadees, cleaner edge of cheek patch, / mark dots of cities and dashes / of contours using a broad palette.” I particularly enjoyed the triptych prose-poem sequence “PHOTOGRAPHS OF BUILDINGS / BY DIANE ARBUS,” the first of which begins: “Chimneys can’t push out but so much steam, even the outline’s unfocused in blurry vapour. A quiet loosening of rigid matter. And how far they jut into the postsecular project of this guy, the sky. Just imagine such alternatives.”

Sunday, April 10, 2022

Susan Glickman, Artful Flight: Essays and Reviews 1985-2019

            So here is one leitmotif in this volume: me trying to figure out how things work, whether the relationship of sounds in a stanza of poetry, or of poems in a book, or of several books in a poet’s oeuvre. I have always been obsessed with craft. And because I recognize the terrific effort involved in making any form of art, I always try to write respectfully, and only about books that engage me or teach me something interesting. I have no interest in negative criticism; I just don’t feel it is worth my time.
           
Of course, not everyone agrees with this perspective. When I was in graduate school and Deconstruction was all the rage, I was informed solemnly by another student, one of those avid and ambitious ones whose business it is to know all the right people and how to make use of them, that my ‘problem’ was that I was a poet. His verdict was pronounced with an equal measure of pity and contempt, much as a restaurant critic might address his lunch. But having been on the receiving end of a knife and fork many times gives me a bit of an advantage when it comes to discussing other people’s poetry. I try never to distort what someone else has written for the sake of a clever remark, or to ignore exceptions in order to prove a generalization, or to troll for examples out of context to support an a priori argument, or to be stylish and the expense of common sense. (“Introduction”)

There is an enormous amount to appreciate and admire in Toronto writer Susan Glickman’s latest work, Artful Flight: Essays and Reviews 1985-2019 (Erin ON: The Porcupine’s Quill, Inc., 2022), a selection of essays and reviews composed across more than three decades of writing, reading and thinking. Set in four sections—“On Craft,” “Reviews,” “Critical Essays and Lectures” and “The Self in the World”—Glickman offers her detailed and thoroughly researched thoughts on works by an array of writers and writing contemporary and otherwise including Robyn Sarah, Diana Hartog, Patrick Lane, Gary Geddes, Don Coles, Phyllis Webb, Erín Moure, Paul Celan and Primo Levi, Michael Ondaatje and Anne Szumigalski. While a number of these pieces are years old, they manage to retain a freshness that belies their age, such as her review essay on John Newlove’s final, single-author full-length collection—well before the publication of his selected poems through The Porcupines’ Quill, a final chapbook through above/ground press and a posthumous selected poems through Chaudiere Books—The Night the Dog Smiled (Toronto ON: ECW Press, 1986). Her gaze is ambitious, exploratory and revealing, offering a thoroughness to the way in which she articulates her thoughts on craft and form, focusing on poetry but open to well beyond the borders of the poetic form. “Then there’s the question of those rare and beautiful situations that resonate with meaning.” she writes, as part of the essay “Indirection: Truth to Life in Fiction.” “What meaning? That’s the problem, you don’t know.” There is such a density of thinking and ease in her writing that one could get lost in such a collection, and happily so; my only frustration with this collection is the thought that perhaps she isn’t writing as many review essays now as she once had, aware of the state of contemporary reviewing and how few options, especially paid ones, that exist. Writing on William Carlos Williams’ infamous poem, “The Red Wheelbarrow,” she offers: “It is to him more than to any other single writer that we owe the vindication of free verse as a legitimate prosody, and the redefinition of counterpoint to include the play of line rhythm—whether metrical or not—against ordinary syntactical pausing. And yet, the way Williams uses the line break, while capturing the cadences of American speech, is nonetheless resolutely textual: most of its power comes from how it is put down on the page.” A few lines later, she continues:

            What Williams has written here is clearly, even defiantly, a poem, in that it’s neither speech no prose but a kind of language which insists on being read carefully, being attended to, in the way that poetry does. The longer you look at it the denser it seems, the more exquisite the internal clockwork, the more surprising the degree of organization in so small and unprepossessing a piece. The visual pattern is immediately apparent; four couplets, unpunctuated and with no capital letters, each consisting of a three-word phrase followed by a single word.