Diaspora Dialogues

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Author of the Month: Andrew Pyper

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Tell us about yourself.
I was born in Stratford, Ontario, forty-four years ago, to parents who were recent immigrants to Canada from Northern Ireland. From as soon as I learned handwriting, I’ve been writing stories. It was never seen as a potential career, it was just something I did because I liked it, and because it afforded me a special privacy, a safe place from the bruises and shames of everyday life. Somewhere along the line, I wrote a novel which was published in a lot of places and I’ve been writing novels full-time since then. These days I live in Toronto with my family, and silently pray for things to stay as they are as much as possible.

When did you realize you had a passion for writing?

Even though I have three brothers and a sister, because I was youngest of the bunch by a number of years, I was a de facto only child growing up. They say isolation and/or illness are great motivators for writers, and I don’t know if that’s true, but having few playmates in my first years certainly forced me to entertain myself. For me, that entertainment was always storytelling. Fake radio shows, monster movies, DIY hardcovers. I was a one-kid content provider. As for the “why,” I’d say it was the simple pleasure of the thing. It’s still the reason I do it.

What pieces of writing/authors have had the greatest impact on you?

The Turn of the Screw by Henry James. The Shining by Stephen King. The Progress of Love by Alice Munro. Heart of Darkness by Joseph Conrad. The Information by Martin Amis. But these are only off-the-top-of-my-head today. Ask me tomorrow and you’d get a different (though no less true) answer.

How and when do you find time to write?

I’m lucky enough to be able to write fiction full-time, so I just go up to my home office, Monday to Friday, and wrestle with sentences.

What has been some of the biggest challenges you’ve faced as a writer?

Oh, the usual. Rejection, rejection, no job security, rejection, dumb reviewers, rejection, severe income drops, rejection and, often, rejection. It’s not a great job for those who are sensitive to or over-analyze every—wait for it—rejection.

How have you changed as a writer over the years?

I’m more of a planner, an idea-tester, a concept teaser. Sentences remain a primary concern, but I feel like I’ve largely found my way when it comes to the lines and how to build them (this took a long time though!) As I go along, the book’s architecture, its concept, its “way in,” takes up more of my head space than it used to.

Golden

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Tanks crawling through my city,
right there, close, behind the window.
I’m on the floor, face down, buried in
the carpet my brother took his first steps on.
It’s not only scary at twelve, it’s made clear.
Don’t look up. Don’t listen to sounds outside.
Recite memorized poem about Vladimir Ulyanov.
All the statues of Lenin, gold-plated, will have no heads,
or worse, in the morning.
Dragged by ropes off the pedestal, my history,
gold fillings in teeth.

Collection

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When I was little I had an amusing
game of cataloguing ways to die. 
Some were boring, run-of-the-mill suicides,
like hanging, drowning, etc. Some stemmed 
from ancient torture practices, like being 
sat naked on a bamboo shoot and 
dead within a day because of the plant’s
incredible growth rate. Ripped apart 
by horses, one’s arms and legs tied to
four of them respectively. Or an icicle 
dripping on the top of one’s head
until they go mad, and then piercing 
them through as it thaws and detaches.
One of the scariest ways for me was
from an article I read, not about torture 
or suicide, but an accident. A needle 
was once lost in a patient’s bloodstream.
It eventually pierced his heart. I would
imagine this for hours. It would always 
be a sewing needle my mom used to
mend my socks. It would have a very
small eye. A slender silver float coursing
through blue rivers intricate as dreams, 
until it stops at the heart.

Foreign

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I’ll hold my tongue.
Against yours, against all odds,
look: open mouth and it pours.

Your tongue—
stiff, unfamiliar with my language—
how it moves around shapes.

Little details wander into your life,
spread themselves out on the table,
buzzing. And this being inside of me,
it roars, it cannot be appeased.

Tongue turning slowly, ancient machinery,
awkwardly forcing muscles into submission.
Gears grinding the rust of habit away,
shifts that give.

All I can feel is this.

Emerging Author of the Month: Anya Douglas

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Tell us about yourself.

I am a writer, musician and teacher, currently living in Toronto. I immigrated here in 1996 from Riga, Latvia.

Tell us about the piece you’ve decided to share.

I’m sharing three pieces (poems) from my collection Absences. This is my first full-length collection, and it deals with the ‘homelessness’ of a person trying to fuse together their dual backgrounds, as well as memory, language, writing process, family, and politics/experiences of where I am from.

When and why did you realize you had a passion for writing?

Honestly I can’t remember a time I wasn’t writing. I believe my first piece of writing was a ‘novel’ (up to 13 chapters) when I was 6-years-old about adventures of me and my best friend on a deserted island. I started writing poetry at age 11. After coming to Canada, I wrote poetry in both Russian and English. Also dabbled in playwriting, and translation. My collection is in English, and includes some of my translations of poetry from Russian to English. Writing has stayed with me throughout my life, and even if I have periods when I don’t write a line, I always come back to it.

What pieces of writing/authors have had the greatest impact on you?

In terms of poetry, I was influenced by Akhmatova and Tsvetaeva in my childhood. In adolescence it was Russian futurism, Khlebnikov and Mayakovsky, among others. English-language poetry, I am inspired by Anne Carson, Gwendolyn MacEwen, Eliot, Cohen, Pound, and many more, as well as some contemporary young poets, my friend Jacob Scheier in particular. Novelists, lyricists and artists are an influence and inspiration for writing poetry as well.

What kind of writer do you aspire to be?

It might sound not overly sophisticated, but I want my writing to make people feel. As a young adult, I was attracted to form and sound experimentation, but writers who stayed with me most were the ones who were able to make me feel, to affect with their subtlety, novelty, and even minimalism, their always powerful skill with words. I want to strive to be that kind of writer, and incorporate story-telling, as well as image-telling, subtlety and succinctness into my writing to evoke something in the reader, something that perhaps can’t be pinpointed right away.

How and when do you find time to write?

I know it’s about the discipline, but sometimes it is hard to find the time to write consistently. I write best when I have something to say, or am inspired by writing, people, or experience. I hope to hone the discipline, and be continuously inspired, and be vulnerable, in order to write well.

Letter

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Dear Alex,

If I could, I would go back, just to relive those moments. Those one hundred days of bliss, where nothing mattered but the time we spent together. The plains of the countryside had never looked so beautiful; I would never see them the same way again. The flowers seem dimmer and the grass not as green. When I returned in remembrance, the sun was sheltered by clouds, dark clouds, a storm brewing. Even the rain felt different without you. It wasn’t warm or refreshing like it was the last time I was here with you, but chilling and saddening.

I’ll forever remember the sun rays shining upon your hair, the swirl of emotion visible in your eyes, how well your hand fit in mine, your infectious smile, just how perfect you are. From your snappy comments and witty jokes, to your words of wisdom and unconditional kindness; everything about you is special. I wouldn’t change a thing. You must know just what you’ve done to me, my heart. Those days felt so right, so perfect, never in my life had something felt so right. I’ve been waiting all my life for you to come along. You’re the only one I want.

Everyday I think of you. It hasn’t been the same without you by my side. Every word I read, every song I hear reminds me of you. We did so much together in such a short amount of time, yet I feel so alone without you. When I come home after going out with friends, I don’t see your smile waiting for me. The nights seem colder without you in my arms, and the mornings even gloomier. Your picture and the memories we share are both joyful remembrances and torturous longings. I miss you more than life itself.

I don’t want to keep it all in my head. All the jumbled up feelings. Longing, sorrow, love, fear, desire . . . I’m being spun around. There were things I could’ve done, but things came from our pasts. They haunt you and bite me, causing so much pain for both of us that everything seemed to crumble. I want nothing more than to build it back up with you at my side. We can look to the future together, defeat these demons from your past, lock them up and swallow the key. We can’t let the past come between our future. I Love You, and nothing can deflate those feelings.

There was nothing I wanted more than to say it, and I thought the time was right. It was fear I saw, fear and sorrow in those usually glittering eyes. And I couldn’t fix it. I tried but old wounds had been reopened, wounds kept hidden from me the entire time we were together. By the time I knew what to say, what to do to help, it was too late.

You were gone, back to your life. I wanted to follow you, but everyone told me not to. My job holds me back as well, but maybe, one day, it’ll take me to you. I will come back for you. I know not when but I do know I will see you again, even if I have to wait until we meet on the golden streets of Heaven. It’s doubtful I’ll be able to wait that long, but be assured that in time we will be reunited.

Love is not a new feeling, I’ve been in love before, but this overwhelming sadness I feel now that you’ve gone is brand new. My heart burns with longing, yearning to be with you again. These emotions feel so foreign and it’s confusing me. These thoughts of you distract me in everything I do and these new emotions are clouding my judgement. I can’t do anything without you. I need you to be mine and mine alone. I can only hope you are waiting for me to come for you. The hope I hold that you are is what keeps me going from day to day. Lately, I’ve been going crazy, your presence occupying my every thought. I never wanted you to go; I never wanted any form of ‘goodbye.’ I hadn’t thought such a connection was possible but you proved me wrong. I was happy to be so wrong. Those days were the best of my life, and only when we’re reunited can those days be outdone. I can’t picture the rest of my life without you being a part of it, a main part.

That water which keeps us apart will be traversed. Those demons that shroud your heart in darkness will flee once they see the light of my love. Our life together has only begun, those summer days just the beginning. We will overcome everything and everyone who stands in our way. I will help and protect you from those who wish to harm us, but I know you will also be there to help and protect me. There is nothing we cannot do together. I give my heart to you to hold.

Even if my friends don’t approve, or if my family doesn’t like us, we will still be together. If your family hates me, or your friends try to break us apart, we will still be together. All that matters is that we love each other. So, do You Love Me? Our age doesn’t matter, not the years between nor how long we’ve lived or even been together. The road will be a bumpy one; I know that people will disapprove and that rumors will spread. I say they are jealous! Those who can’t stand to see us together merely envy us. They don’t understand just how great we have it, they don’t know how much we share, and they can only dream of having what we have. A love that is so pure and true is not an everyday occurrence, and so many wait a lifetime for this kind of love. To have found you is a blessing and to have kept you is a miracle. Have I kept you? Does your heart still hold true? Do You Love Me?

Time is slowly trickling by, yet I still have not come for you. I deeply apologize. I wish I could leave everything behind and come for you, but I know not to. There are people relying on me and I know you would not want me to drop my life for you. You’re too good to be true. I will come for you. We will be together again. My life is incomplete without you, and I hope you feel the same. This new-found love I have for you has not dwindled in the least since we parted. No other has caught my eye even once because my heart knows you are the only one. Nothing anyone can say or do will change my heart and mind. We can get through anything and everything that is thrown our way. I need you, and only you; my One True Love.

I never wanted to say goodbye, yet now you are half a world away. You needn’t worry about unfaithfulness, for my heart will forever be loyal to you. I see your face in the crowds, hear your laugh echoing through the streets, and my heart aches. Was there nothing I could do? We had the best time, we had it all, and I yearn for you to be mine once again. My heart has never been in so much torment. Wings flutter in my chest when I remember the sheer happiness I had felt when I was with you. You were mine for the summer, but I wish you to be mine for so much longer. I never want to let you go. You were my summer love and I will always remember those days. There is nothing more to say, except: I Love You.

Yours always,
Taylor

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