Showing posts with label Metonymy Press. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Metonymy Press. Show all posts

Wednesday, March 23, 2022

12 or 20 (second series) questions with Helen Chau Bradley

Helen Chau Bradley [photo credit: Surah Field-Green] is the author of Automatic Object Lessons (House House Press, 2020) and Personal Attention Roleplay (Metonymy Press, 2021). Their essays, stories, and reviews have appeared in carte blanche, Cosmonauts Avenue, Entropy Magazine, Maisonneuve Magazine, the Montreal Review of Books and elsewhere. They host the Strange Futures book club, which focuses on BIPOC speculative fiction, via Librairie Drawn & Quarterly.

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

Personal Attention Roleplay is my first book. Too early to say how its publication will affect my life, but the writing of it has been a revelation, in terms of finally taking my own writing seriously.

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

I did publish a poetry chapbook before this book of fiction, but fiction comes first for me, it’s the medium I feel most comfortable in, possibly because I read more fiction than anything else. I continue to be compelled by narrative structures (or un-structures) and by characters’ inner workings, I am always experimenting with how to pull those elements together into something like a whole.

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?

It takes me forever to start a new writing project, whether it’s a story or a series of poems, or dare I say, a novel. I have to mull the thing over in my head for weeks, or months, or possibly years, before I can commit even the first word to paper (or screen). First drafts are more like fifth or tenth drafts, because I’ve thought about the piece’s shape for so long, so they do tend to predict the piece’s final shape fairly reliably. I’d like to write a story or a poem that changes shape completely, though. Seems like a worthwhile exercise.

4 - Where does a poem or 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?

Up until this point, I’ve never had the confidence to approach “writing a book” from the get-go. It’s been a slow accumulation of shorter pieces into some sort of final product that I never would have imagined from the beginning of writing. Now that I’ve published a chapbook and a book, however, I worry that I’ll start approaching projects as “books” and that that will somehow hinder my ability to write anything risky or interesting. The idea of “writing a book” makes me overly aware of an audience.

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

I love reading in public. In a previous life, I was the lead singer in a band, and I haven’t lost that desire to perform. I also love hearing other writers read. Words spoken aloud ring differently than they do on the page.

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?

A concern I have is how to write characters whose material realities and backgrounds are deeply considered, without resorting to a tepid form of identity politics that I see being promoted a lot in reading and writing circles these days. As a writer of “hyphenated experience,” I do tend to write characters who have similar identity markers to me, but I never want my stories to be driven by identity alone, or to imply that because a person is, say, Asian and queer and nonbinary, that they would experience or view the world in the same way as any other Asian, queer, nonbinary person, or that they need to represent a specific identity “correctly.” I am deeply uninterested in didactic fiction-writing, or fiction-writing that is meant to “build acceptance” for certain groups of people. Otherwise, I am concerned with how to write queerness, and I don’t mean how to write queer characters, but more so how writing itself may be queer, in its structure. Gail Scott, for instance, is a helpful writer to me, as she has been thinking through and working with this question for years.

7 – What do you see the current role of the writer being in larger culture? Does s/he even have one? What do you think the role of the writer should be?

As mentioned, I dislike didactic writing, writing that tells us what to do politically. I think that fiction writers, if we have any useful role at all, should be asking difficult questions, though. Puncturing the veneer of the status quo! Not in an edgy, shock-value kind of way, but in a way that illuminates power structures, emotional complexities, historical contexts, cultural dissonances. I think that asking questions is more important and more desirable in fiction, than answering them. I also think that humour is important in fiction-writing, that making people laugh or grimace, sometimes in self-recognition, might be an essential writing role: being a funhouse mirror?

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

Essential! Once I feel I have a final draft of a piece, that I’ve gone as far with it as I can alone, I welcome collaboration with a thoughtful, incisive editor.

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

Being on the internet too much means wading through a constant maelstrom of conflicting advice about everything, so it’s hard to say. I’ve definitely heard people recommend reading dialogue out loud, so as to illuminate any excess or clichés, and I think that’s pretty solid advice.

10 - How easy has it been for you to move between genres (poetry to prose to reviews to songwriting)? What do you see as the appeal?

I enjoy moving between genres. If one form is feeling tired to me, it is energizing to turn to another form. I’ve been trying to work on a novel lately, and when it’s felt like drudgery to write prose, I’ve turned to a perfume-review-based poetry project that I devised as a distraction. Even reading in other genres helps—reading a lot of poetry has helped me shape my prose, to cut out what is superfluous, to make phrases sharper.

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?

I am terrible at having a writing routine. My first book was written mainly when I was supposed to be doing something else (my day job). I am trying to figure out how to be a writer first, and a worker second, if that makes any sense, and a lot of the struggle has to do with discipline. I’m used to writing being a thing that I do to procrastinate on my actual responsibilities. If there is nothing I need to be doing except writing, how do I stop myself from turning away from that? When it’s the only thing left to be done, how to do it?

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

Other writers and artists. I read a lot, and I watch a lot of movies and listen to a lot of music. I never want to be creating in a void. Other artists are the only people, usually unbeknownst to them, who can unstick me.

13 - What fragrance reminds you of home?

I’ve gotten into perfume during the pandemic, as a way to subtly differentiate one day from another. I spilled a sample of Zoologist’s Tyrannosaurus Rex, which is this gargantuan scent filled with bright flowers, smoke, leather, and incense, all over my kitchen table a while ago, and now my apartment smells like the late Cretaceous, which is fitting since we are now in the middle of another massive extinction event.

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?

Music always makes its way into my writing. So does whatever I’m watching. So do the things I overhear on the bus. So do the things my friends say. Everything eventually makes its way in—look out!

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

So many. Renee Gladman, Gail Scott, Julio Cortázar, Yoko Tawada, Kiese Laymon, Hoa Nguyen, Jamaica Kincaid, Clarice Lispector, Silvina Ocampo, Qiu Miaojin are some favourite voices. I certainly wouldn’t claim to be able to write anything near any of them, but I keep them around, to help and challenge me. I also like to read gay smut (e.g. Straight To Hell), which is direct and filthy and keeps me honest.

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

Go to Hong Kong. 

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?

I actually love being a bookseller. I did it for five years and would have happily kept doing it forever, had it been financially viable.

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

I tried doing a lot of other things first, partly because I was too scared to write, even though I’d wanted to since I was a kid. So I guess it’s a deep compulsion, because finally, at 33 or so, I couldn’t stop myself anymore.

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

Minor Detail, by the Palestinian writer Adania Shibli (translated by Elisabeth Jaquette) is a book that marked me recently. Isabel Sandoval’s film Lingua Franca stuck with me, and made me search out all her other work.

20 - What are you currently working on?

I am slowly and painstakingly learning Cantonese, my mom’s first language. It is a humbling experience. I’m also working on a novel and a series of poems.

12 or 20 (second series) questions;

Sunday, May 30, 2021

Kama La Mackerel, ZOM-FAM

 

every space in this house
                       
our house
           
            my house

                                                                       
the house i left behind
                                                                       
the house i ran away from
 

every space in this house
speaks of my father

the surfaces smell of his cemented hat soaked in sweat
the roof heats up like the burnt skin of his cheeks
the tiled floors slip like his glasses off his nose

the walls have the callused texture of his dried hands like sandpaper

every door frames his pout
           
his lower lip pushed forward
every window reflects the assiduity of his gaze

           
the empty depth in the black of his eyes

for twenty years i watched my father build this house

creating his life’s work
in the language of men

                                    who were forced
                                   
to cut their tongues

                                                                        hang them in the wind
                                                                       
like cautionary tales

                                                                                                on sugarcane stalks (“twenty years of brick”)

From Montreal-based multi-disciplinary artist, education, community-arts facilitator, performer and literary translator Kama La Mackerel comes their long-awaited debut, ZOM-FAM (Montreal QC: Metonymy Press, 2020), a book of unfolding questions, innovations and performances. Comprised of eight extended poem-performances that explore the past and the possibility of positive ways forward, ZOM-FAM is a flourish of lyric monologues examining family, family history; it is a book of gender and social structures and expectations, writing out a history of birth, rebirth, affirmation and resistance. “in 1986,” they write, as part of the extended “twenty years of brick,” “my parents absolve themselves from plantation heritage / signing themselves into a lifetime of repayment / their consent redeeming ancestral bonds // they buy a piece of land on which leans / a room / an outdoors toilet / an outdoors kitchen / formerly the residence of bann domestik / servants, on the edge of white people property [.]” The poems here are expansively performative and very physical, stretching out the possibilities of narrative flourish through the lyric, writing on race and gender, and notions of identity around colonization and the body. There is such an energy to this collection, and a performance that comes clearly through and across the page. As part of a 2020 interview posted online at Room magazine, conducted by Amber Dawn, Mackerel responds:

I wrote about Mauritius from a very specific context, which is the context in which I grew up, through the lens of family history. I think there are many ways of being Mauritian and there are multiple ways of writing Mauritius. Mine is just one narrative of the island.

In writing the family history, I was definitely interested in exploring the relationship between the personal and the political. I wanted to write about the multiple ways in which the colonial regime slipped into the intimacies of the family home. Ultimately, my family and I experienced colonial violence as an experience and not as a historical, theoretical or intellectual concept.

I was also keenly aware that I was writing this book from the vantage point of being an immigrant in Canada, one who had gone to university and who was writing a book about Mauritius in English, in an imperial language! So I wanted to create a pastiche of image-making that was grounded in everydayness: with everyday objects and everyday rituals of the island. I wanted to bring the smaller details of the quotidian to life.

In doing so, the use of Kreol and other hybrid, Mauritian linguistic “quirks” became increasingly relevant. Within the language itself, and the ways in which language is deployed in ZOM-FAM, I wanted to honour the ancestral and colonial languages that were part of my upbringing, the mixture of Kreol, English, French, Bhohpuri, Tamil, Hindi etc. I think of those two lines, for example:

kolez sin zozef
established by the Frères des Écoles Chrétiennes (p 54)

Within the span of two lines there are three languages being activated— exploring language in such a distinctive and hybrid way allowed me to create a poetic space that captures the cosmopolitanism of Mauritius as an island.

Friday, January 17, 2020

12 or 20 (second series) questions with Hazel Jane Plante

Hazel Jane Plante is a queer trans librarian, cat photographer, and writer. In a previous life, she co-founded a micropress, co-edited a little literary journal, co-hosted a podcast, and released lo-fi albums under the name sparse. Little Blue Encyclopedia (for Vivian) is her debut novel. She currently lives in Vancouver on the unceded ancestral territories of the xʷməθkʷəy̓əm (Musqueam), Sḵwx̱wú7mesh (Squamish), and sə̓lílwətaʔɬ (Tsleil-Waututh) Nations.

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

Most of my work before Little Blue Encyclopedia (for Vivian) was experimental poetry that I put into the world through tiny publications (chapbooks, ephemera, etc.) via the gift economy of micropublishing.

This is my first book and it feels too early to say how it will change my life. It’s only been a few weeks since it was released and it’s still slowly rippling its way into the world. That being said, I’ve been amazed at how well it seems to be landing for readers because I thought I’d written a really weird little book that would only resonate with trans and queer readers. But other readers seem to love it too, which I’d never expected or anticipated.

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


I came quite late to fiction, actually. I had been writing poetry for several years when I started working on this novel. At some point, I started realizing that I had a larger story to tell and grappled with how to tell it (a cycle of songs? a long poem? a collection of linked stories?), and, finally, recognized after testing the waters that I might need to wade into the pool of longer fiction to try telling the strange, sad, and funny story that I wanted to tell.

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?

Different projects take root and bloom differently. This novel took about nine years to write and went through a variety of structural and tonal changes. Nine years feels slow. The first draft had similarities in shape to the final book, but it lacked the nuance and cohesiveness of the final draft.

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?

I never know what final form something is going to take when I start out. There’s a pretty long process of discovery, of figuring out what matters to me, what’s worth spending time on. For fiction, there’s a lot of work figuring out who the characters are, which involves (for me) a lot of digging and building and openness. I’ll be writing and hear a character say something that surprises me and will just go with it, following their lead. It’s hard to describe, but I do try to be open to whatever comes across my transom.

I have a vague idea for another novel now, but I’m aware that it will take years to come to fruition, if it ever does. When things bubble up that feel related to that book, I’ll quickly jot them in a document and get on with my life. I’m also doing the same thing for a non-fiction work. I don’t really have time to devote to either of them right now, but I do want to capture stray twigs that might help me to later fashion a nest that becomes a book.

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

I have been having so much fun reading in public from my novel. It’s been so fucking great to share a book I’ve been working on for so long and to make a room full of people feel things together. I’ve been enjoying stringing together small extracts from my novel for each different event. I’ve been referring to them as “bespoke” readings because they are tailored for that city or event. So, for example, the launches for Victoria and Montreal will be very different. Maybe one city gets a slick black raincoat and another gets a rhinestone-encrusted Nudie suit.

I don’t think public readings are a part of my creative process, but the conversations that stem from them might inform later works, if that makes sense.

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?

Is it theoretical to write for trans readers? Is it theoretical to tether my narratives to constraints? Is it okay to answer an avalanche of questions with more questions? I have so many questions.

7 – What do you see the current role of the writer being in larger culture? Does s/he even have one? What do you think the role of the writer should be?

Hmm. I don’t think most writers are in the midst of the “larger culture,” particularly the marginalized writers I tilt towards. I wish those writers were in the zeitgeist media mix; I wish they were valued and quoted and invited into wider conversations.

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


It depends on the project. For my novel, I really wanted outside editors to help me to make the book better than I could make it on my own, to help me find the right level of humour and sadness, of density and airiness. There were only three publishers who I was keen to work with, and Metonymy Press was at the top of my list because of their ongoing commitment to trans writers and readers. Ashley and Oliver at Metonymy were essential to making it the book that it became, which is very much the book I hoped it would be when I started working on it years ago.

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

“Accept being unimportant.” I first read this brief sentence over twenty years ago in a translation (by Gia-Fu Feng and Jane English) of the Tao Te Ching, and I return to it constantly, especially when everything seems to be adrift. I find my own relative unimportance profoundly comforting.

10 - How easy has it been for you to move between genres (fiction to songwriting)? What do you see as the appeal?

So far, that hasn’t really happened. My creative projects have been consecutive rather than concurrent. Writing and recording songs is immediate and involves very little editing. Writing fiction is slow. So slow. I didn’t even share a draft of my novel with anyone until I had one that I thought was okay, which took about six or seven years. But the architecture of fiction is super capacious, and there can be a beauty in its bagginess, in the way it allows you room to unfold moments and characters and tiny details. You can take super fucking weird turns in a novel in ways that songs, poetry, and short fiction don’t really permit.   

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?

My life currently feels far too chaotic to allow for a writing routine. I try to carve out small pockets of time here and there, but even that feels difficult. (For example, I’m currently writing my answers to these questions while riding through East Vancouver on a crowded bus.)

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

I’d like to say that I go for a walk, but that never happens. Instead, I typically make myself a cup of coffee or listen to music. For any given project, I try to have specific songs that get me into the mindset of that particular work, songs that centre me and cut through the clutter. That being said, there were many times when I lost hours of “writing time” by getting sucked into a funnel of songs that were ostensibly connected to specific characters in my novel.

13 - What fragrance reminds you of home?

Currently, it might be coffee and French toast.

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?

My novel is steeped in so many other forms, including television (it’s written in the form of an encyclopedia about a fictional TV series called Little Blue), music (especially Britpop), visual art, films, zines, etc. 

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

Wow. What a question. Like most writers, there are so many writers who are deeply important to me. Without works by other trans writers, my book would not exist. I’m so inspired by trans writers like Casey Plett, Vivek Shraya, Kai Cheng Thom, Trish Salah, Tom Cho, Gwen Benaway, Torrey Peters, Imogen Binnie, etc., etc., etc. There are also so many writers whose work I’ve loved since forever (William Blake, Phyllis Webb, Fernando Pessoa, Roy Kiyooka, etc.) and writers who I’ve discovered more recently and adore (Ocean Vuong, Maggie Nelson, Hanif Abdurraqib, Zoey Leigh Peterson, etc.).

16 - What would you like to do that you haven't yet done?
There’s a scene in my book about a band of trans women called Femme Task Force. I tried for a couple years to put together a band of trans women and finally put that project on hold and just pretended that band existed and wrote it into my book. Now maybe I wanna put together a group of all trans women to cover songs by the Silver Jews (fuck, David Berman, you were a special and brilliant writer) under the name Silver Jukebox.

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?

I’ve been a librarian for just over a decade. If I had the ability (and the requisite hustle-ability), I’d wanna be a visual artist or a musician or a filmmaker.

If I hadn’t been a writer, I’d likely have pestered people in my periphery with an endless supply of weird ideas and non sequiturs, like the ones that pepper my novel.

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

Books kinda saved my life at various points. And I’ve been trying to write since I was ten years old.

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

On the book front, Paul Takes the Form of a Mortal Girl by Andrea Lawlor was smart, queer, sexy, funny, and pretty great, and Midsommar is a film I’ve found myself thinking about a lot since seeing it in the theatre. It’s dark and disturbing and weirdly hilarious.

20 - What are you currently working on?

I’m currently trying to work on a few different collaborations with people who I like and whose work I admire. After working on this novel for several years on my own, I’m interested in the kind of energy that comes from collaborating.

12 or 20 (second series) questions;

Monday, November 27, 2017

12 or 20 (small press) questions with Ashley Fortier and Oliver Fugler on Metonymy Press



Metonymy Press is based in Tio’tia:ke (Montreal), unceded Kanien’kehá:ka (Mohawk) territory. We publish literary fiction and nonfiction by emerging writers.  We try to reduce barriers to publishing for authors whose perspectives are underrepresented in order to produce quality materials relevant to queer, feminist, and social justice communities. We really want to keep gay book lovers satisfied.

Metonymy Press is the project of Ashley Fortier and Oliver Fugler. They met on their first day of high school and have been writing together and editing for each other ever since. They are neighbours, too.

1 – When did Metonymy Press first start? How have your original goals as a publisher shifted since you started, if at all? And what have you learned through the process?
Metonymy Press started as an idea between friends Ashley Fortier and Oliver Fugler years ago. We launched the idea in August 2014, and then we got some start-up funding and put out our first book in 2015.

Our primary goal remains to publish good queer writing by underrepresented and emerging writers. One of our original goals was to publish anthologies, which we haven’t yet done, but we’re in conversation with a potential editor of a collection as we speak.

We both pursued a certificate in publishing through Ryerson University, and although we’ve been able to operate as a two-person press because of that, a lot of what we’ve since learned is about how we don’t fit industry standards (in terms of production schedules, distribution channels, promotional costs etc.), because we’re so small and queer.

2 – What first brought you to publishing?
We have both been actively writing since early high school, where we met in a creative writing program. Our involvement in organizing Montreal’s longstanding annual Queer Between the Covers book fair gave us some ideas about queer publishing and about a potential readership. Finally, our formal training through Ryerson gave us some of the hard skills to go with the creative experience we both have, so it was a natural progression for two people who like organizing and directing things.

3 – What do you consider the role and responsibilities, if any, of small publishing?
Our focus is loosely queer content and perspectives underrepresented in the mainstream. But in general we believe the responsibility of small presses lies in undermining the status quo and offering a platform, however small, to emerging and otherwise not-household-name writers who add to conversations that are happening already but not officially.

4 – What do you see your press doing that no one else is?
We’re for the most part publishing work by trans and racialized authors that’s not autobiographical but also doesn’t cater to the mainstream. We have ended up publishing this work because it’s what we’re interested in, because it’s good writing and because it’s largely otherwise unavailable.

5 – What do you see as the most effective way to get new chapbooks out into the world?
A lot of our book distribution until this year has been individual orders online, which works quite well. Wholesale relationships have been based on personal relationships, cold calls, and the occasional spontaneous request or reluctant university bookstore order.

6 – How involved an editor are you? Do you dig deep into line edits, or do you prefer more of a light touch?
We are quite involved, but it depends on the text. For Trish Salah’s Lyric Sexology Vol. 1, a poetry collection that had been previously published, we didn’t need to edit much because it had been edited by the previous—poetry-specific—press, Roof Books. Beyond poetry, which we have otherwise avoided due to our anxiety about editing it, we are pretty deeply involved in substantive, line, and copyediting.

7 – How do your books get distributed? What are your usual print runs?
Until this year, we have done all of our own distribution, via individual online sales, in-person sales at book fairs and direct wholesale relationships. This year we signed on with Small Press Distribution, so US customers may now order through them, which is great, because it is very expensive to mail books over the border.

Our print runs range from 250-800, and all of our books have moved beyond their first print run. We work with a very nice Montreal-based printer, Le Caïus du livre, that has a short turnaround and good rates for small runs.

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?
We have always hired cover designers, different ones for each book, and the process so far has been collaborative between the designers, authors, and ourselves. We do the majority of extent design and editorial ourselves, but we have hired outside editors where necessary, for example, for the Pinyin text in Small Beauty.

It’s been really great to work with people outside of Metonymy for the most part, as they can draw on themes in the work we haven’t focused on, and offer feedback and skills that support the text and also are instructive for us as editors and publishers. But ultimately we can’t afford to hire out for most steps, and also we both like a lot of control and we do things on a tight timeline, so doing a lot of the work ourselves suits us so far.

9– How has being an editor/publisher changed the way you think about your own writing?
[Oliver]: I know you can’t be your own only editor, but I do find that I am able to edit my own writing as I go in a way that I wasn’t able to before. In general I’ve gained an appreciation for the editorial and production processes, and what a piece of writing can become with care and time.

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?
[Oliver]: I think that self-published work and work published by your own press can be so great! It’s pretty clear to us that a lot of what doesn’t get formally published is good writing with a real readership that publishers assume won’t sell. This belief is one reality that drives zine culture and a lot of small presses.

But as I said above, I also value the feedback found in more formal editorial and production processes, so I like the idea of those steps being a necessary part of publishing your own writing as well.

11– How do you see Metonymy Press evolving?
We’re a primarily print publisher, but are always considering ways to make our books accessible in multiple formats. We hope to launch ebooks for our first three titles later this fall and we’re exploring the option of audiobooks.

If we expand beyond being a two-person operation, we might develop a co-operative model of some kind, but that’s a longer-term possibility. In the meantime, we’d like to continue engaging in specific collaborations, like we did with our externally juried Gay Book Lovers Unite initiative last 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?
It’s been extremely rewarding to see the communities we’re a part of provide such positive feedback and ongoing support for our work. It’s energizing. The award wins and nominations for our two novels, Small Beauty and Fierce Femmes and Notorious Liars, were exciting too.

Often critics put a significant focus on the queer and/or trans identities of our authors and their characters, while overlooking other intersecting realities as well as the particularities of their writing craft. This is a frustrating reality in CanLit when it comes to marginalized writers and how their work gets taken up.

13– Who were your early publishing models when starting out?
We’ve been inspired by the work of Arsenal Pulp Press, Fernwood Books, and Topside Press, to name a few.

14– How does Metonymy Press work to engage with your immediate literary community, and community at large? What journals or presses do you see Metonymy Press in dialogue with? How important do you see those dialogues, those conversations?
We’re a member of the Association of English Language Publishers of Quebec (AELAQ) and Oliver sits on the organization’s board as an associate member. We participate in their events alongside other Anglo presses in Quebec, through professional development, book fairs, etc. We contributed feedback for a piece Linda Leith wrote about the organization’s role and significance for Quill and Quire a couple months ago.

In terms of the broader conversations happening in CanLit over the past couple years, from the controversy over the “Appropriation Prize” to accusations of sexual assault made against high-profile players in the industry, our mandate makes it pretty clear where we stand. We value writers and writing that actively undo the conditions that lead to such controversies.

Our longstanding role in queer literary contexts in Montreal stems from our involvement in Queer Between the Covers. We were both members of the organizing collective for years and got a good sense of what readers, writers and micro presses in this realm were producing and what they were missing, especially produced in English in Quebec. Queer and feminist publications such as GUTS, Plenitude, Autostraddle, Bitch and even Teen Vogue have featured our authors and books in the past couple years. We think these conversations are as important as those with industry publications, since our readership is just (if not more) likely to read them. We tend to prioritize dialogues with queer communities rather than literary-specific ones.

15– Do you hold regular or occasional readings or launches? How important do you see public readings and other events?
We love hosting launches and have done so for all our titles so far, both locally and in Ontario, Nova Scotia and BC. Our ability to send authors on tour is limited by their time and our budget, but for closeby events, we often attend and we really enjoy doing so.

We hope to host other reading events in Montreal in the future, ideally in collaboration with other local artists. We see live reading events as important to community building. We also value the particularities of hearing authors read aloud from their own work and collaborate with other writers and engage with audience members in real time.

We also often meet potential new and emerging authors at public events and it’s a great way for readership to learn about our broader catalogue and the mandate behind the work we do.

16– How do you utilize the internet, if at all, to further your goals?
Social media, blog posts, e-newsletters and online interviews and reviews are crucial to reaching wider audiences. Our readership tends to lean young(er), so the internet plays a major role. We also do a lot of direct sales via our website. We have received rights requests from as far as Delhi and Melbourne, and this is thanks in large part to our online presence and how quickly things spread that way.

17– Do you take submissions? If so, what aren’t you looking for?
We have an open submission policy, outlined on our website. What we’re not looking for is work that replicates—whether in form or content—queer and trans narratives already out there. We get a disproportionate number of submissions set in New York City in the 1980s. There’s nothing inherently wrong with that, but as a Montreal-based small press looking to do something new, it’s not really our jam.

We are primarily interested in fiction and creative nonfiction, though we put out our first poetry collection this summer, so we’re not closed to that either. We have yet to publish graphic novels or children’s lit, even though we both really love the genres.

18– Tell me about three of your most recent titles, and why they’re special.
We’ve only put out four books so far, total. Instead, maybe we’ll take this opportunity to talk up our next title, nîtisânak, by Lindsay Nixon.

The manuscript works with the idea of kinship that derives from the author’s Plains Ojibway, Métis and Cree kinship teachings, and also how queer kin were some of their first experiences of this reciprocal relationality and care. The book is a creative nonfiction collection chosen by our Gay Book Lovers Unite jury. Opening up our acquisitions process like this was a first for Metonymy and we’re very pleased with the result. nîtisânak is scheduled for publication in early spring 2018.

An initial statement from the jury puts it thus: “Nixon’s work blends contemporary Indigenous experience within Queer and 2 Spirit spaces to strike at the heart of colonization and Canadian identity. Along the way, they explore masculinity, patriarchal oppression, racism in Canada, poverty, and the lingering weight of colonial history within Queer spaces. Their intersectional writing merges worldviews and deftly reveals the rotting underbelly of Canadian Queer identity as a space fraught with the legacy of a colonial past. It is vital and urgent work, expanding what it means to be both an Indigenous and a Queer writer in Canada today.”