essays in the face of uncertainties

Avery Trufelman @trufelman posts to Twitter: “In the 1300’s Italians believed that people with the plague died within 37 days. So people and shipments coming to Venice had to wait outside the city gates for 40 days before they could enter.  The Italian word for 40 is quaranta. Hence ‘quarantined.’” When I offer this new discovery to Christine, she says she already knew that. I didn’t. Has it been forty days? March 13 was their last day of school and preschool prior to March break, from which we quickly learned there would be a two-week break from school to follow, and we’d a visitor stop by on March 14, which brings April 23 as our fortieth consecutive day of self-quarantine.

Writing from, and of, as Dani Couture, also via Twitter, coins it: “the small hours of self-isolation.”

Forty days, and forty nights. April 23, 2020. Forty days since we had any interaction with anyone outside our immediate circle. What have we learned through the process so far? Just how far have we come, and how much further have we to go.

I’m rereading Brian Michael Bendis’ Age of Ultron graphic novel. Perhaps this isn’t the time for such apocalyptic stories, although where else do I turn, now that new comics are no longer appearing weekly? Depicting when the world ends. Depicting as the world gets devastated. Perhaps I should move in a different direction, alternately through other stretches of his incredible run on The Avengers.

If one wishes to regain and retain ground, one could do no better than through poet Don McKay, a poet who maintains a foot in Glengarry County, even from his home base of Newfoundland. Listen to this excerpt from his Deactivated West 100 (2005):

How can you be lost? When the incredulity fades, when the anger damps down, when the fear diminishes from clamour to drone, the question may be open to receive other inflections, other echoes. The question may finally be a question. You think of Hamlet telling Horatio that there are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in his philosophy, how entire readings of the play can depend on which word receives the emphasis. Sitting on your stump in the middle of a clearcut-to-come, you reflect on the paradox embedded in the common expression ‘to get lost’: you can’t get lost any more than you can fall asleep. Lostness gets you; sleep gathers you inward to itself. But being lost – can a person dwell in such a space, somewhere outside the ubiquity of plans, the falling boundaries and logging roads projected into the future? Deep in your backpack, Tomas Tranströmer murmurs of that nearly-discovered country between wakefulness and sleep, of Schubert’s music catching an entire life in a few ordinary chords, of a clearing which can only be found by someone who is lost.

Again, we speak of silence, and the boundaries of sleep. I think back to those first few days, those first few hours, after September 11, 2001. There were such unnerving silences broadcast across my Somerset Street West-facing front window. Such silences throughout Chinatown, and further east, into Centretown proper. We were glued to our televisions, afraid for what might come next. Office workers sent home, the Rideau Centre shut down, everyone on Parliament Hill sent home. Wondering if Parliament Hill might be a target. Wondering if I lived close enough to be affected, if something did happen. We could walk around, and interact, but everyone shocked into muteness. We broadcast our silence, increasing it. Making it larger, until we were finally forced, eventually, to speak. For our own safety. For our own sanity. How we had to return, led out of silence and back into speech.

The twinge in my stomach a few days later, when I saw that first airplane soar overhead.

12 or 20 (small press) questions with Grant Munroe on Woodbridge Farm Books

Woodbridge Farm Books is a small press based in Kingsville, Ontario.

Grant Munroe is the co-publisher and editor of Woodbridge Farm Books. His fiction, essays, interviews, humor, and reviews have appeared in several U.S. and Canadian outlets, including The Walrus, One Story, Globe and Mail, Los Angeles Review of Books, Toronto Star, Literary Hub, National Post, Literary Review of Canada, McSweeney's Internet Tendency, and more. He's a graduate of New York University's MFA Program in Fiction. Born in Miami, Florida, he holds dual United States and Canadian citizenship.

1 – When did Woodbridge Farm Books first start? How have your original goals as a publisher shifted since you started, if at all?

The press started as the publishing arm of the Woodbridge Farm Residency, which I founded in 2016. The residency’s set on my family’s ancestral property in Kingsville, Ontario, on the north shore of Lake Erie, near Windsor and Detroit. We’ve been fortunate to host several award-winning authors, including André Alexis and Diane Schoemperlen, among others. My friend and co-publisher, Chris Andrechek, though it would be exciting to publish chapbook essays by our guests, both to celebrate and memorialize their visits. So we started a series called Writers at Rest: Authors on Their Pastimes and Hobbies.

Given the interest the chapbooks are garnering, our goals are expanding. We’re currently working on the start of a new series, which we hope to publish soon.

2 – What first brought you to publishing?

Chris and I met at Biblioasis, where we worked together for several years. Until recently, Chris was Biblioasis’s Production Manager. From 2014 to early 2017, I ran their Marketing and Publicity department. In that sense, we were already in publishing when the press began.

3 – What do you consider the role and responsibilities, if any, of small publishing?

Some small presses approach publishing with heaviness. They yoke themselves to the burden of advancing literature within a culture that ignores its importance, hang their heads, and groan under the weight. That’s good for some, but not me. I don’t share that mentality, that gloom – it’s not in my nature. Apart from the responsibility we have to do the best for our authors, I feel no pressure to meet any role. For us, publishing is serious play. Each new project is a puzzle and wonder. We surround ourselves with friends, collaborate, and beauty results. The process is a joy, as it should be.

4 – What do you see your press doing that no one else is?

Not many chapbook presses exclusively publish prose. In the future, when we expand from chapbooks, our focus will remain on developing works that reflect the good humor I mentioned earlier. Nothing weighty, no books that readers should consume out of a sense of responsibility or “betterment.” There’s too much of that already.

Quality also sets us apart. Chris sources the finest paper to make our chapbooks. He designs and typesets each to perfection. We fold, hand-bind, and number every copy. The two of us are exacting – no sloppiness allowed, no corners cut! This is part of the fun.

5 – What do you see as the most effective way to get new chapbooks out into the world?

Events are key. We throw parties. For those who can’t make these, we offer the chapbooks through our website.

6 – How involved an editor are you? Do you dig deep into line edits, or do you prefer more of a light touch?

It depends on the draft. Because we’ve been lucky enough to publish works by established writers, my touch is typically light.

7 – How do your chapbooks get distributed? What are your usual print runs?

Through parties, as mentioned above, and online through our website. As of now, our runs are small: 100 copies. Just recently, we printed the second edition of Diane Schoemperlen’s essay on collage. That meant designing, printing, and hand-binding another 100 copies.

8 – How many other people are involved with editing or production? Do you work with other editors, and if so, how effective do you find it? What are the benefits, drawbacks?

I edit the essays myself.

9– How has being an editor/publisher changed the way you think about your own writing?

I approach it with the same perspective I’ve always had.

10– How do you approach the idea of publishing your own writing? Some, such as Gary Geddes when he still ran Cormorant, refused such, yet various Coach House Press’ editors had titles during their tenures as editors for the press, including Victor Coleman and bpNichol. What do you think of the arguments for or against, or do you see the whole question as irrelevant?

I favor the white-shoe Manhattan model: out of respect and professional esteem, editors of one house publish colleagues from another. The gentility of this tradition is charming. In practice, though, I can see how a press might be tempted to publish one of its own – especially when the pool of publishers is limited, as it can be in places like Canada. If Chris or I were ever tempted to write a local interest book, for example, I wouldn’t hesitate to put it out through our house. Control over the process is crucial, not only to ensure the highest quality of the book itself, but to guarantee that the work is well marketed and distributed.

11– How do you see Woodbridge Farm evolving?

Like I mentioned above, we’re developing a new series of chapbooks. In the future, I see us publishing books. This might not happen for several years. Or it could happen next year. 

12– What, as a publisher, are you most proud of accomplishing? What do you think people have overlooked about your publications? What is your biggest frustration?

We’re proud of everything we publish. The press is still too small for anyone to have “overlooked” an aspect of the work we do. As for frustrations: there aren’t many. Laboring under tight deadlines is something we aim to avoid. It hasn’t always been possible, but we make every effort to manage the process in a way that eliminates stress. Much of publishing involves planning. The better the plan, the better the process, the better the publication.

13– Who were your early publishing models when starting out?

Given our origins at Biblioasis, that press was certainly an influence. But concerning chapbooks, specifically, I’m enamored by the format’s early history. There’s a wonderful old book from 1882 titled Chapbooks of the Eighteenth Century. It’s a collection of pieces from that period, many of which are illustrated with rude woodcuts. Some are poems, but the majority were written in prose: folk tales, morality tales, spurious histories, and comic fictions (or “comic relations”). They’re typically light and humorous. Both then and today, by their ephemeral nature, chapbooks offer freedom. They aren’t encumbered by the implicit authority of books. With few exceptions, people with access to the simplest technology could (and can) publish anything. We assume that “fake news” is a recent phenomenon, but any scholar of publishing knows this isn’t the case: in past eras, pasquinades, pamphlets, and nouvelles à la main spread false information about conspiracies, scandals, and political intrigue. The incredibility of these texts is what makes them a pleasure. So are the accompanying images, which is why our chapbooks feature interior black and white photography.

14– How does Woodbridge Farm work to engage with your immediate literary community, and community at large? What journals or presses do you see Woodbridge Farm in dialogue with? How important do you see those dialogues, those conversations?

Our parties and readings always include local authors from the Windsor-Detroit region. I’m not sure we engage in “dialogue” with other journals or presses, but we have friends everywhere, from big corporate houses to the smallest micropresses. Just recently, we had lunch with Karen Schindler of Baseline Press in London, Ontario. She’s been publishing beautiful chapbooks since 2011. I’m astounded by their quality. She binds each by hand at her dining room table.

15– Do you hold regular or occasional readings or launches? How important do you see public readings and other events?

Our events take place in the summer. They coincide with visits from the authors we host at the residency here in Kingsville.

16– How do you utilize the internet, if at all, to further your goals?

Like I mentioned earlier, we sell our chapbooks on the Woodbridge Farm website. We spread word of recent publications on social media, via Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram. At present, the press doesn’t have dedicated accounts on any of these sites. It will eventually. In the meantime, you can keep up to date by following me on Instagram at @grantmunroe, or on Twitter at @grantcmunroe. I post on the former more frequently.

  

17– Do you take submissions? If so, what aren’t you looking for?

Our essays are solicited. We don’t take submissions. The exception is commercial work. Last spring, for example, we published an exhibition catalog for Arts Council Windsor and Region.

18– Tell me about three of your most recent titles, and why they’re special.

To date, we’ve published chapbooks by three authors: Diane Schoemperlen, Dani Couture, and Alix Hawley. Each wrote essays about their hobbies, and how those hobbies influenced their award-winning fiction and poetry. For decades, Diane has been assembling fantastic collages. Much of her material comes from old Victorian textbooks. Dani wrote about long-distance running – or not running, in fact, which, after an injury, became a hobby unto itself. Finally, Alix wrote about photography. Her Instagram account (@alixhawl3y) offers a trove of everyday scenes. In her essay, Alix describes how they purposefully reflect a mood of patient observation.

It’s common to assume that the authors we love are entirely focused on writing. But like most creative people, they’re engaged in a variety of interests. Nabokov chased butterflies. Slyvia Plath kept bees. We all know about Jonathan Franzen’s birdwatching. That’s a hobby he shares with Margaret Atwood. In No Time to Spare, the last book written by Ursula le Guin (embroidery), she tackles the subject of free time, and the way people fill it. “The opposite of spare time is, I guess, occupied time,” she writes. “In my case I still don’t know what spare time is because all my time is occupied. It always has been and it is now. It’s occupied by living.”

With this series we’ve undertaken, my hope is to collect as many essays by as many authors on the subject le Guin identified: the occupation of fruitful living. Who else is doing this? No one that I know. The result is wonderful. It deserves to be shared.

12 or 20 (small press) questions;

Two from Pedlar: good meat, poems by Dani Couture & The Book of Skeletons, poems by Rachel Vigier

Toronto's Pedlar Press, much like Regina's Hagios, is one of those interesting frustrating presses that produces very interesting and attractive (and even award-winning) work, but doesn’t have a website, making it difficult to engage with either of them from a distance (why is that, Beth Follet and Paul Wilson?). In two new poetry collections from Beth Follet's Pedlar Press, the frustrations increase, with graceful and magnificent new poetry collections from Rachel Vigier and Dani Couture. Dani Couture, currently a Toronto resident and managing editor for The Danforth Review, co-editor of Northern Poetry Review, and a writer for Word: Canada's magazine for readers and writers, is the author of a first poetry collection newly out from Pedlar, the collection good meat (2006).

blood memory

here in our bodies, through old blood & careful
touch our mothers breathe dizzy tales into us,
we are girls with slender china necks, long spider legs
& chipped nail polish. my grandmother's spine re-
appears in my back, & my cousin's fingers twist
tendrils of my father's hair, my mother's stomach
is an incubator of regional tics, kissed and passed,
grafted into limbs, lips, and fingers to write.

Writing smooth and straightforward lyric, I like the ebb and flow of Couture's lines, working and wending their way through territories both familiar and unfamiliar, whether family, memory, childhood or the details of the day-to-day. There is an ease to her poems that soothes, even when writing her own pro-/anti- Meat Is Murder poems working with and against the grain.

mystery meat

23: that is now many meals we have consumed this month
without being able to identify the meat. every night, we sit
across from one another, taiwan beer in our right hands,
forks clutched brazenly in the left. who'll go first? last night
you won, and spent 13 hours hunched over the toilet.
this morning, i had mild nerve poisoning from softball-sized
pear-apples. i couldn’t yell, tongue numb with pesticides.
nothing raw: the only rule. you were winning with that bag
of shredded squid mixed with salt peanuts. had me beat.
but i came back, stole first place with a plate of fried brown
meat and chicken claws–spent 2 smug weeks in the hospital,
digesting the reward, sweating on a podium of bedsheets.

Originally from Manitoba and currently in New York City, Rachel Vigier's The Book of Skeletons (2006) is her second poetry collection, after On Every Stone (Toronto ON: Pedlar Press), and a book of non-fiction, Gestures of Genuis: Women, Dance, and the Body (Toronto ON: The Mercury Press). In Vigier's poems, history stacks upon history and isn’t a matter of past but the present tense, including, as the press release tells us, "the September 11, 2001 terrorist attack in New York City, which she witnessed first-hand."

AUBADE

I snapped the stranger's mask into place
then we climbed, single file
with the others, from the shelter to the street.
Inside, someone had been praising her Lord
shaking with disbelief.
It was impossible to stay in the building.
Outside, the air kept coming down
flecks of light
falling with the air
to the street drained of colour.
I was walking without thinking why or where,
had suddenly become with the others a great herd
circling away from burnt grassland
puffs of ash and dust rising from our feet.
We were travelling in the same direction
listening with the body but I wouldn’t let myself think
how we had been that morning, a man and a woman
reaching out of sleep, bodies turning into each other
how I had pressed my ear flat against your cheek
the roughness of it, eager for your breath
already strong, as we found our way
waking to a good morning.

It's interesting how she deals with the attacks, including in this piece, where she writes:

I am well aware of how fortunate I am. Within hours
of the attack I was being treated at one of the best hos-
pitals in the world; I had a home with running water
to go to; within days my children were in school again
as usual. Yet the fact of the attack remains and I keep
asking myself the same question. What does poetry have
to do with this?

Some days it feels like too much to ask; other days it
feels like not enough. Lately it doesn’t feel like the right
question at all. But what is the right question? What
question is there to reconcile the act of making poetry
with the death, confusion and fear that came with the
attack? And with the sudden and sharp clarity, too, that
permeated everything?

In the days after the attack, New York was encouraged
to go about its business. And we did. So I began to write
again because this is my "business," because it's what
I've always done to think through what I don’t know
or understand. I still want a poem for all of us who got
on the subway after the attack and went to work next
to sixteen acres of remains that burned for months.
"How's the air today?" we'd ask each other before going
out for lunch.

It's only been over the past year or so that I've seen books appearing with deeper poems on 9/11 [see my note on Matthew Zapruder here], as opposed to most of the quick ones that appeared almost immediately after; there is a depth to these new pieces that move away from sorrow into a deeper sorrow. Not that this is a collection shaped by such a single event, but shaped by many such single events throughout history; framed by them, in fact, and through the experiences of the narrator, negotiating herself both through that world and through the worlds and experiences that came before, outside of her immediate reach. This is not just a book of skeletons but a book of ghosts, writing dying just as much as living gets.

DYING FOR BEGINNERS

Surprised by the mind—with the body—in pain

its tightness knotted in the flesh

like the ligature of a hangman's knot

cutting through the windpipe. The end

is sudden and complete and it doesn’t matter

where the breath goes. What matters

is absence—sudden—felt

the sound of our family breathing in the same bed

the weight of our children resting on my chest

the big rustling of the pin oak on our street.