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Author of the Month: Cherie Dimaline

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Tell us about yourself.

My name is Cherie Dimaline and this year I’ll be 38. Yipes! That’s crazy; I have no idea how that happened. First and foremost, in everything that I do, I have to properly introduce myself. I am Metis/Anishnaabe on my mother’s side. My family’s Metis roots travelled from the original Red River settlement where my ancestors fought alongside Louis Riel, and my Anishnaabe family roots stretched from communities along the journey from Manitoba to where we are now, near Christian Island First Nation on Lake Huron. My grandmother spoke her language and raised us to evolve, grow and succeed within the strength of our indigenous worldview. I am who I am because of the people who came before me.

In 2007, my book of short stories Red Rooms was published by Theytus Books, an amazing Aboriginal publishing house out of BC. After that, everything changed; I travelled the world, people wanted to hear me read my words out loud at podiums and on panels and I could call myself an honest-to-god author. Then again, nothing changed. I still had to work a day job and sometimes I paid my rent with an American Express card. But that’s writing, I guess, it really cannot be for anything other than the love of it. Anyways, now I am the editor of several magazines: Muskrat and FNH (First Nations House), and this year I’ll also be taking over the reins at a national in-print Aboriginal magazine. I recently contributed to a gothic anthology that Joyce Carol Oates tweeted about (yes, I am such a nerd that I am including a tweet in my bio). I’ve also penned a children’s book for on-reserve elementary schools, contributed to two new McGraw Hill-Ryerson textbooks for high school English students and have had the honour of being invited to present my work as part of an exhibit at the Museum of Civilization in Hull this coming summer. My first full length novel The Girl Who Grew a Galaxy will be released this spring and I’ll get to travel the world all over again. This novel was written half here in Canada and half in New Orleans, a city I have grown to love. It’s a city where anything can happen. For example, New Orleans is where I met my best friend, even though her reserve is really close to my home community on the Georgian Bay and we’d both lived in Toronto for more than a decade in the same urban Aboriginal community. I also have another book of short stories in the barrel and will start sending that out into the world looking for a publisher this year.

I have three kids between the ages of 20 and 6 and I collect teacups, books and tattoos.

When did you realize you had a passion for writing?

It was definitely the first time I saw words embedded in paper in my hand-me-down collection of Dr. Seuss books. I was rabid to learn them, to figure them out, to employ them. That sounds far-fetched, but honestly, I knew I wanted to create and play with stories before I could read. I guess the real passion started messing with my life shortly thereafter when I’d gotten in trouble in class for writing stories when I was supposed to be learning math. My mom would have to kick me out of the house to play “like a normal kid” when I was young. One day, I wrote an entire story on the bottoms of my shoes with a pen I had stuck in my hair on one of those ‘get out of the house’ excursions. I had to ride my bike home on the sides of my feet so it wouldn’t smudge. Writing is something that has never been far from my thoughts and feelings. I greedily steal moments and fragments from my life and others so that I can write about it later. I have been known to stop in the middle of an important event to write about it. (Confession: I wrote on my wedding day and while in labour with all 3 of my kids.)

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

There have been so many writers that have impacted me over the years. I have a series of tattoos I like to call my ‘nerd sleeve’ that pays homage to several of them. It is comprised of Anaïs Nin, Charles Bukowski, and Hunter S. Thompson. And while I may not have the same style as any of them, each of these writers demonstrated on a daily basis a commitment to the art of literature that was theological. That is what inspires me; handing over your entire soul to the craft of words and communication. There are other people, non-writers, who give me the same kind of inspiration; people who live to serve their art. A recent example would be from Jiro Dreams of Sushi, a documentary about an 85-year-old sushi master who has worked every day at making sushi for over 6 decades. Every day. As the title suggests, he even dreams of sushi, and never once, has he ever hated or grown bored of his job. That’s dedication. With one phrase: “In order to make delicious food, one must eat delicious food. Otherwise, how will you get the palate to know good from bad?” He has inspired me to be better by being more studious and diverse so that I can improve my writing.

That being said, if there were only two pieces of writing I could suggest in terms of the way they slide between my ribs like a blade and crack open my chest to get to my heart the quickest, they’d have to be “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” by T.S. Eliot and “heat” by Charles Bukowski. Interestingly enough, they are both poems, and I am no poet. But great writing is great writing.

How and when do you find time to write?

Sleep is optional. LOL! Seriously though, you MUST make time. I’m trying to think of an apt metaphor here, and I suppose the only way I could equate it would be—a child who grows the strongest, the most well-rounded and prepared to face the world is the one you give time, love and guidance. It’s the same with the projects and jobs of your life. The ones you have invested with your time and energy will always be the ones that take centre stage. If you really want to be a writer, the kind of writer that truly makes a go of it, you MUST give your writing centre stage. It’s not going to be easy; I have 4 jobs and 3 kids and all of them are quite lovely and successful in their own ways, but I have to make time for writing, even if it means scribbling out notes on the back of a menu or skipping a night out at the end of a long week so that I can hash out a character’s back story. It’s damn hard work, and it’s worth every second.

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

Doubt. It is a writer’s worst enemy. Collect your rejection letters and then start a bonfire. Learn what you can from mentors, experts and bestsellers, and then do better. Take criticism into consideration but never let it dampen your own fire, and be prepared to fight for it.

How have you changed as a writer over the years?

I cringe when I think of the highly romanticized drivel I used to write, like Jean Paul Sartre says in Nausea: “scribbling like a little girl with a nice new notebook.” But, we all have to go through it I suppose. I am a better writer now because I have come to appreciate that my vision is great, my style is unique and important, BUT there are rules to the craft of writing. And even if you choose to break those rules, you better know them first and that it is a conscious decision and not just an oversight. I read more widely and I study every day. If there is a sentence I like, I write it out in my own handwriting and pull it apart. If there is someone writing in a style similar to mine, I read them and find where we intersect and where we part and make sure that what we do similarly—I am doing it better. Most importantly, I trust my writing self, that’s the biggest change. Don’t get me wrong, I love a good editor—I just had the absolute pleasure of working with New York Times bestseller Eden Robinson on Girl Who Grew a Galaxy. I take direction, but also trust the direction I take and I always give merit to the original thought. In the past, I would crumble and cave under advice and criticism and it never worked out.

Yours to Keep

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The yellow line of the subway made stops at the beach, the cathedral, and the most expensive shopping street so the trains were always packed with tourists. I hoped I understood Manolo’s instructions. Espera. He’d said the word a number of times but it was a verb that meant both to wait and to hope. In any case, I was doing both of those things: waiting for him inside the Jaume metro entrance, and hoping he was going to appear. It had been at least twenty minutes, but I didn’t think he’d abandon me—he’d given me a pair of his shoes to wear. I looked down at my feet, winter-pale and too-small against the rubber frame of his dirty white flip-flops. The shoes seemed like an obvious prop to me, a glaring indicator that something wasn’t right. To steady my nerves, I pretended to be waiting for a friend, pretended so hard that I could almost picture her, another ex-pat whom I’d greet with a hug before we smacked up the stairs in our unseasonal sandals, talking loudly in English.

Beside me on the wall, there was a map of Barcelona, sprawling and complex. At the top, the streets were organized into a grid, but in the centre there was no pattern, just a broken china plate that someone had tried to glue together. Superimposed over the city, the lines of the subway looked like a small child had drawn them with crayons of many colours.

I turned from the map just in time to see Manolo coming down the corridor from the tunnel. He touched the leather cuff on his left wrist. I glanced at the man on his left and did a quick assessment: he was wearing a novelty t-shirt and cargo pants, he didn’t look very fit. I watched him from the corner of my eye as he pushed through the turnstile. I guessed he would take the escalator instead of the stairs. Just before he passed, I turned and stepped onto the escalator ahead of him, a shiver racing up my spine like an extra sense being activated.

Three steps from the top, I slipped off one of the flip-flops as though it had gotten stuck, then hopped around for a moment trying to get it back on. Behind me there was a minor traffic jam as the man backed up as far as he could on the escalator to avoid running into me. Manolo was behind him.

“Sorry,” I said in English, turning to the man and smiling. I saw him glance down the front of my shirt as I bent to adjust my shoe. Then I walked off down the street, the finest details of the city leaping out at me for a moment until my heart-rate returned to normal. I turned to look back, but no one was following me. The whole thing had been so easy—it was almost disappointing.

Manolo met me back in the courtyard a quarter of an hour later. He pulled the wallet from the waistband of his jeans and handed it to me. It had the weight of a human heart, and it’d been the simplest thing in the world to steal. I tore open the Velcro flap. Inside was the man’s face, an old picture on a gym membership. His life would be different now. He’d be less trusting, safer maybe. Maybe we’d done him a favour.

Manolo frowned; I was taking too long. I dipped my fingers into the billfold and slid up the edges of the money. The colour was orange, 50 euros. I spread the bills with my fingers: one, two, three. Each of them was crisp and new, straight out of the bank machine.

Manolo’s jaw relaxed. “Tienes suerte,” he said.

That was funny. I didn’t feel lucky at all.

Emerging Author of the Month: Becky Blake

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Tell us about yourself.

I’m a fiction writer who has worked as a journalist, a script consultant, an advice columnist, and a playwright. My short stories and articles are often inspired by my travels around the world. I’m a recent graduate with an MFA in Creative Writing from the University of Guelph. I currently live in Toronto where I’m working on my first novel.

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

The piece is a short excerpt from my novel-in-progress, Yours to Keep. Barcelona is my favourite city in the world (so far!) and this novel was born out of the many impressions I came away with after living there. The book is about a Canadian woman who suffers a loss shortly after moving to Spain and ends up living on the streets, where she apprentices with a pickpocket. This excerpt shows her assisting in her first theft.

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

According to my mom, my first word was ‘book,’ and I think a passion for reading and a passion for writing are often connected. The first story I wrote that garnered attention was called “Seaweed Soufflé.” It was about an underwater dinner party; I wrote it in Grade 1 and I’ve been writing pretty much ever since then. Growing up, my favourite place to hang out was always the library. I know a couple of writers who don’t read very much, but most of us read like our lives depended on it.

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

Wow. This is going to be quite a long list! When I was a young teen I remember being given Judy Blume books as a reward when I did well in school or had something scary to tackle. Her books were always provocative and important to me. As an older teen, I was reading Leonard Cohen, Barbara Gowdy, Michael Ondaatje, Heinrich Böll, J. D. Salinger, Allen Ginsberg, and Sylvia Plath. Then I became an actress for a few years and I read a lot of plays: Shakespeare and Chekhov were my favourites. When I began to focus more seriously on the craft of writing, I fell in love with many of the usual suspects: Virginia Woolf, Faulkner, Hemingway, and Raymond Carver. Then, I spent a year reading only female writers and my most significant discoveries from that exercise were the works of Angela Carter, Marguerite Duras, and Jean Rhys. My favourite contemporary writers over the last two years have been Francisco Goldman, Sarah Hall, Junot Díaz, and Daniel Alarcón.

What kind of writer do you aspire to be?

The kind who learns how to write better and faster so I can share as many stories as possible.

How and when do you find time to write?

I write in the morning. I used to meditate in the morning and then start writing, but after a while I realized that writing is a form of meditation in itself, so now I just get right to it. At my day job, I’ve been working only afternoons for several years now and it’s a sacrifice that feels right to me: to have a little less money and more time to write.

The Keeper

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Mom and Dad each take one of my hands and squeeze so tightly it is as if they’re holding on to the one thing they have left. My hands feel cold inside theirs, cupped palms that should fit neatly but don’t.

Izzy is lying motionless on the stretcher, a ventilator breathing for her, machines making her heart beat even though her brain is dead. She’s still in her soccer jersey, white with a burgundy number 3 on the left chest and back, grass stains on the stomach. Mom squeezes my hand even tighter, and I instinctively look at Izzy’s hands with the burgundy nail polish and gold letters of U-N-D-E-F-E-A-T-E-D painted on each nail.

Father O’Brien stands over Izzy. The doctors told him he’ll have to be quick. He presses the pads of his oil soaked fingers onto her forehead and says, “Through this holy anointing, may the Lord in his love and mercy help you with the Grace of the Holy Spirit.”

10 years ago: Father O’Brien spoke about Cain and Abel in his homily. His voice boomed throughout the sanctuary: “And then Cain asked, ‘Am I my brother’s keeper? ’” I elbowed Izzy and whispered, “Hey, that’s like me and you. I’m your keeper.” Izzy lowered her head, and her warm breath brushed against the side of my face as she whispered, “He’s not talking about soccer, dummy.”

Izzy was born to be a striker; Dad says she was dribbling a soccer ball from the time she could walk, and I knew a decade ago that if I wanted her to play with me, I’d have to be a goalkeeper. I was taking shots on goal before they made goalie gloves tiny enough to fit my hands.

3 years ago: Izzy made the varsity soccer team, beginning the first of three undefeated seasons at St. Thomas High School.

6 weeks ago: I made varsity. Izzy was more excited than I was.

5 weeks ago: Izzy started applying to universities, hoping for a soccer scholarship.

The organ transplant team is poised to rush in like strikers ready to crash the 18-yard-box. Father O’Brien anoints Izzy’s palms, saying: “May the Lord who frees you from sin save you and raise you up.” His voice is deep but softer than it is during mass. I know Izzy’s already gone; she left it all out on the field, literally, and I know that’s how she would have wanted to go, but I hope his voice soothes her, because it isn’t soothing me.

65 minutes ago: Izzy won the coin toss. When given the choice between choosing a goal or having ball first, she chose the goal, so that I wouldn’t have to shield my eyes from the sun the entire first half.

43 minutes ago: Kate dribbled up the left wing and crossed the ball in the air to Izzy. Izzy lunged for it—a perfect diving header into the corner of the net out of the opposing goalkeeper’s reach. She didn’t get up.

42 minutes ago: It happened so fast. A wave spread over the pitch as all the players took a knee. The ref shouted for someone to call 9-1-1 and a dozen spectators hurriedly grasped for their phones. Coach and my parents stormed onto the field, and as they did, screams escaped my throat. The screams sounded far away, like they weren’t coming from me at all. I ran down the field towards her, but Izzy didn’t move. Mom grabbed at the crucifix necklace dangling from her neck and began to pray. Dad fell to his knees and began CPR. All I could do was scream, but it was no use. She was already gone.

Father O’Brien nods to the doctor and steps away from Izzy’s body. My parents step in front of me the way players make a wall for a direct kick, shielding me from the sight of Izzy being rushed to the nearest operating room to have her organs harvested so that someone else may live.

Now: My role as Izzy’s keeper changes. Now I must keep her memory alive.

The Pitch

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Come one, come all, gather round, take a seat,
And let me show you the latest technological treat.
Is your world awfully dull, grey-washed and boring?
Do you find yourself sitting in class, at work, snoring?
Are you counting the days and filling your time 
Waiting for death in an orderly line?
Fear not my friend, my darling, my dear,
Pirelli’s new glasses are finally here!
A volunteer? A Jane? A Jack, Jill or John?
Ah, there you go, just pop these specs on!
See there’s a filter inside that makes it all rosy,
Pastel and pink, softened and cozy.
Isn’t that better? Isn’t that grand?
But wait there’s more; let me give you a hand!
With the push of this button your view will all change,
And your world can be wonderfully twisted and strange.
This button right here can switch it around,
Make everything vintage, aged and tea-browned.
One more switch and you’ll see colour all gone,
Like an old classic movie, your show must go on!
The photos you look at, the TV you see,
Has all been altered for you and me.
And if all that is faked, airbrushed and pretty,
Why should life have to be realistically gritty? 
So why don’t you buy a pair or a dozen?
One for yourself, your mother, your cousin!
I’ve got plenty here for all who can pay.
A drop in the hat, now wouldn’t you say?
Come one, come all, gather round, spend a dollar,
And let Pirelli create splendour from squalor!

Ruminating

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In ere of a dream, I am not but ruminating. Yet, is not life that deceives me; instead it is the merit of love. For the stars are not in my eyes, and cordiality is lost in my voice. To this, I so ever conjure, if I merit perfection. For in her delicacy, she paints her face on the sun, And in her mind, mermaids sail in the sky. But I, just a lowly man should be ignorant of this love. That a beauty of this sort should surrender to devotion. Yet, as I lay, encompassed without justification. This same angel takes my hand to heaven.

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