Sonja A. Skarstedt
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The Véhicule Fiction Series:
“We wanted to create a series and help new writers get into the mainstream,” replied Simon Dardick when I asked him about his decision to inaugurate the Véhicule Fiction Series. Dardick, who has piloted Montreal-based Véhicule Press from its eclectic start in 1973 to its current esteemed incarnation, was wary about launching a fiction series without first finding a professional editor. “It had to be someone who enjoyed working with me—and vice-versa,” Dardick reminisced, adding: “I wooed Linda (Leith) for a couple of years…and she finally said yes.” * * * “I believe in the non-interventionist approach,” states Dardick. “I feel that a good editor keeps their antennae up, they must be the readers’ representative, must be able to see ambiguities, confusions, unclear writing and so forth.” Citing Signal Editions, Véhicule’s poetry imprint and his total trust in editor Michael Harris, as a comparative: “Sometimes I’ll disagree, but I feel that it evens out.” All editorial decision-making will be left in Leith’s capable hands. * * * How are you enjoying your new role as Véhicule’s fiction editor? I wouldn’t call it adventure or fun, but there are certainly some rewarding moments. In the process of getting a book ready for publication, I think there’s something very exciting about that. Do you have an editorial process: any specific criteria? No, I really couldn’t say that at all. I’m really on the lookout for good work of various kinds. Unfortunately I’m only in a position to accept very few manuscripts. There are many that come my way that have much to recommend them but that I’m not in a position to accept. I don’t start off with a rule that I’m looking for a specific sort of book—it’s really guided more by my looking for something that’s new, interesting, worthwhile. It’s ultimately a question of my taste, what I like and what I would like to help see in print. I must say that I have a few things in mind. Not that these determine what gets chosen but they are things that I feel are important. One is, I would very much like to be in a position to publish brand new writers. People who have emerged very recently. This is certainly the case with one of the books that is being published by Véhicule under the fiction series this fall, which is by Katholyn Jansen who is a Montreal writer. Her book is called Birds of a Feather and hitherto she has only as far as I know had one short story ever appear in print, in Canadian Fiction Magazine. This is a woman I’d never met until after I had accepted her book. I was struck by a very strong, very—I think, in Canadian Literature—unusual voice, someone I thought it would be exciting to publish. So I’ve been on the lookout for new people because I think it’s a great shame in Canadian literature, it seems to be very difficult for new people to get a book published. You feel then that through Véhicule you will be in more of a position to assist someone who may not otherwise have remained in obscurity? I believe that. I can’t speak for that and it may be that that would not have been the case because I think it (Jansen’s) is an extraordinary book and I feel I may have had a role to play in helping it develop and in getting it out. I’m happy about that. The other thing I’m interested in, in a very general sense, is translation and another book that will in due course appear; a book which is translated by Luise von Flotow, of a fascinating book by Anne Dandurand. It’s a sort of double book. You start from one end and it’s one book—or, you can start at the back and it’s another book. So she plays with dualities. Anne Dandurand herself is a twin, her twin sister is Clare Dé and they’ve in fact published books together. In this instance Anne Dandurand has written two books in one and it’s very unlike, again, much of the work that appears in English by Québécois writers. (Note: Véhicule will publish the Dandurand book next spring) Thus you’re seeking a good balance in all respects? I think so. I would like to be in a position to introduce new writers and at the same time have a list that is exciting and innovative. Simon Dardick has entrusted the series to you and you alone? Yes, I’m the sole editor. Simon has given me a free hand and has specifically told me he’s not going to try second-guessing me or cutting into whatever I hope to do. I have a very fine relationship with Simon and I don’t anticipate any problems at all. Clearly I discuss with Simon how many books we can manage to publish, so that’s a major constraint which comes simply from the size of the house. I certainly discuss the merits of individual books with him once I’ve decided that I want to accept it. But I don’t talk to him about the books I’m refusing, and I don’t ask his opinion. He leaves that up to me. It has worked very well. Telling Differences, a collection of stories published by Véhicule in 1988, represents your first editorial production. It seems like a long time ago because I’ve gotten a lot of editing under my belt since then—but that was the first, you’re absolutely right. It started with Geoff Hancock inviting me to guest-edit an issue of Canadian Fiction Magazine. He knew that I was working on English writers of Quebec and he suggested that I put together a special issue of their work. I solicited from as many writers as I could get a hold of. I didn’t have much time in which to do it, yet I ended up with 85 submissions—in a very short time, actually. It was between September and November, and I received some remarkable work. I was very happy with that collection. I think it worked out nicely and it just happened to include many of the people who have subsequently come to be seen as being some of the most interesting writers around at the moment, writing in English in Montreal. At that time, Kenneth Radu wasn’t known at all, also Yesim Ternar, Trevor Ferguson, Robyn Sarah—who is increasingly writing short fiction rather than poetry. There were thirteen stories in all and I think the experience itself was an enlightening one. And Telling Differences received some enthusiastic reviews—including the sort of review you dream of in the in The Montreal Gazette, on April 1st. I was convinced it was an April Fool’s joke—it wasn’t! But it was a lovely present, a welcome surprise. I’m very pleased with that book and I think the book itself was timely, it seemed to ring a bell. I remember you mentioning it in Zymergy, I think Rubicon may have mentioned it—anyway, word got around. What factors led to your passionate interest in English Quebec writing? Well the roots of it all are the fact that I was looking into the situation of the English writer in Quebec for an article I was writing and for a study of a more academic nature. It was a project that more or less burst out of it in bounds, because it was impossible to keep it at a distance. It was so obvious that it was very immediate and in my view, rather important. Given the extraordinary situation of the changes that have been going on here, they seem to me the nub of the sort of cultural situation of the non-francophones within Quebec and I found it was a very unusual time and a very odd time, because the world has changed since then, since about 1985. When I started working, the people who read books hadn’t heard of any English writers in Quebec. They knew some of the poets but didn’t know any of the fiction writers, couldn’t name them, had no idea what they’d written. The writers were feeling extremely neglected, as if they were being very much ignored. Why? The time when I was doing my work coincided with that fascinating period when things changed: writers saw themselves as the victims of a situation over which they had no control. This was causing them a lot of grief, professionally and personally. Nowadays I think there is a sense of what’s going on. There isn’t the same sense of defeat and there’s even a sense of excitement: Zymergy is a part of that, Matrix is a part of that. I think Canadian Fiction Magazine and Telling Differences and QSPELL are also a part of that . . . and they all happened more or less within that two or three year period. And then of course you have on top of that individual writers who have done very fine work—without which none of the others would go that far—but the writers themselves, the writers were there all along. They needed a sense of community, I think. A sense of connectedness? I think so. And some of the institutions, some local places to publish—the feeling that there’s somebody out there waiting to hear what they have to say. The other thing that happened—and I’d put this actually right at the start of it—is Dan Daniels and the Yellow Door (Coffee House in Montreal), because that was where the writers first realized that they were not alone. No longer as isolated? Exactly. They got together at the Yellow Door and started to realize, “Hey, everyone’s in the same boat.” I think this is where it started and I think Dan Daniels deserves a great deal of credit for it. From that point on, things took off: QSPELL and the magazines and some of the other things emerged in some of the great books, you know, Gail Scott’s Heroine, Ann Diamond’s novel (Mona’s Dance) and her play, Echo. You see, it’s part of a much bigger thing because it isn’t only the writers. The theatre has also gone through the same kind of development during about the same time. I remember when I was first looking into this and talking to Marianne Ackerman who was saying, “There are so many good people, everything’s just waiting to happen.” I think there was a moment around 1987 or so—when things changed. My job at the time was to keep an eye on what was going on and it was fascinating to watch. An archaeologist of the living, for a change? Yes, that’s what I say. It couldn’t remain simply an academic matter although I’m certainly publishing and have published academic papers on it, but it became—you really wanted to participate as it were, and have something to do with it and help it along. It is continuing to evolve and change, but I think the beginning was special, a very unusual time, and I think that having crossed that bridge, having gotten over that hurdle . . . The hurdle being writers’ ‘downtrodden’ perspectives? There’s always a sort of downtrodden feeling but—not in the same general way and not for the same reasons. Now thought, it really is genuinely because individually they may have this success or that problem or setback or whatever, as opposed to a feeling of being generally ignored. For once! Exactly. After a long period, ever since Quadrant stopped in ’81 or ‘82—during the early 1980s when there was this awful slump—there was not a single publisher publishing fiction in English in Quebec—except very rarely and oddly. Véhicule put out a book of stories, for instance: Peter O’Brien and Hugh Hood’s Fatal Recurrences; a book of stories by Jerry Wexler and you know, odd books. . . and although Simon was aware of the situation, he didn’t feel he was ready and didn’t have an editor. So he wasn’t publishing fiction—and then in 1987 we had Nu Age, Cormorant and Endre Farkas—I think it was ‘87—put out Kenneth Radu’s first book which of course was short-listed for the Governor General’s Award. DC Books—under Steve Luxton—put out four books including a novel, The Restoration, again I think in ’87. And so we had all of this happening together with the other things we’ve mentioned, and there was a big injection of hope into the literary scene here. There have been some changes since then, but it hasn’t all sort of disappeared and in fact now, with Simon having his fiction series—I think this is very good because Simon is a publisher with a very fine track record. And I think now we’re kind of reaping the benefits of much of what’s happened. But you won’t have another period like that with so many things happening. Will the Véhicule Fiction Series serve mainly as a spotlight for Anglo-Quebec writing, then? Frankly, I must say that of the thirty-five manuscripts I’ve been sent, at least 75% of them have been by writers in Quebec. Simply at the moment I imagine, because that’s where the word spread to first. And it certainly happens to be the case that all three of the writers, the first set of writers I’m publishing well—Kate Jansen lives in Montreal, but she is not a native. Kenneth Radu is the same: he lives here, but he’s not from here originally. And then Anne Dandurand obviously lives here but Luise Von Folotow lives in Ontario. That is not policy. That is how it worked out. I do not limit myself geographically—at all, so in spite of what it may look like, no. I don’t have a special or unique interest in publishing Anglo-Quebec artists. I’m certainly interested in them, but—for example, I just asked to see a manuscript by a writer who lives in Toronto whose work I came across and admired. So I know there’s a solid manuscript there. And I’m certainly being sent manuscripts by people elsewhere and will give them every consideration . . . Non-Canadian writers? I know there are some difficulties in publishing non-Canadian writers, just in terms of funding. I am certainly interested in that, it’s something I’ll have to discuss with Simon—but it is a possibility. As far as Canadian writers from outside—certainly. I hope I will publish writers from elsewhere. This is what Véhicule has done in the past: it has always maintained a strong core of Quebec writers, but has never limited itself. I’m talking about Simon—and about Michael (Harris). I admire that. I think a publisher has a certain role to play for the local literary scene—but I think the publisher would be doing the local writers a grave disservice if they were to publish local writers simply out of a sense of duty. Regardless of how good their work is compared with that of others, if the writing by others is better, I think that is what should be published. The most important thing is that the books published by Véhicule be good books. Does the impending Goods-and-Services tax (on books) give you the shudders? I must say that as the editor of Matrix I do indeed shudder. As Fiction Editor for Véhicule I am somewhat relieved to say that this is not my job! I will let Simon worry himself over that, as I’m afraid he’ll probably have good reason to because I personally think it’s a disaster and I hope they come to their senses as far as the cultural industries are concerned. Do you feel that being a woman editor has its problems? I think that a woman editor has a harder time. I think it has something to do with the fact that as women we are socialized to be nice and to please. Being an editor is not a job that is designed to ingratiate you with anyone. In fact, it is a job that makes you enemies. In that sense editing is a tough job—and then emotionally, it’s difficult for a writer to get a rejection and I am very aware of this. And I think that the more aware I am of that, the harder it is on me to be the person saying no. So it may be harder to be a woman editor because I think you may have more empathy for the writers involved. In practical terms, I don’t know. Someone once said to me that as an editor he has—and this is a man, so I think all editors go through an abundance of this—that he has his ‘literary friends and then he has his friends, and that he tries not to confuse the two. I think there are a few hard lessons to be learned on the way to becoming an editor in terms of personal and professional relationships. I think being an editor is hard, period. The emotional toll may be higher for a woman. But—it’s one of those very nebulous areas. How can you really judge what it’s like being a man in the same position? What kind of fiction are you looking for? I find that difficult to answer for a couple of reasons. I admire different kinds of work. I’m not set, let’s say, on traditional kinds of stories; I’m not set on very experimental kinds of fiction. I can see the virtues in various kinds of work. It really depends on the work itself, whether or not it is true to what it is trying to do. I suppose I like to see a certain amount of energy in the writing. I like to see subtlety in the use of language. In some cases I think a strong narrative is important. In other cases though, lyrical prose works well for me. I would judge the piece on its own, by its own standards as it were. I should add: I’m not looking specifically for genre fiction—science fiction, detective stories, romance, fantasies. It is possible that a book classified as one of those genres would cross my desk and look remarkably interesting to me. I am an admirer of science fiction—I mean, I don’t say this to in any way disparage the genres I’m talking about. But the goal of the Véhicule Fiction Series is not to publish oral fiction, it’s—what I suppose you’d call ‘serious’ fiction, whatever that may be. I was speaking with Michael Harris last summer, and he described his approach to his (Signal Editions) series as ‘hands-on’ editing. Would this definition apply to your editorial approach? It depends. I certainly make my suggestions. It’ll certainly depend on the works. Some books need very little and some books need more, but I feel that it’s my role to point out something I feel could be improved or changed. It’s very hard for me to judge. I know there are some publishers who as a matter of course take a book as it is. I would probably have something to say about every book! How do you manage to keep a grip on all these careers, to ‘do it all’? I must say that last fall (1989) when I went back to teaching after being on leave for a while, I did find it heavy going. So there are times when I’ve felt the pressure, and these are times when I’ve stepped down from a few things, because I simply found I couldn’t do it ‘all’. For example, I was Vice President of QSPELL and I stepped down from the executive because I didn’t have time to do that properly and . . . I was doing much of the organizational work. Another thing I did: for years now I’ve been a member of the board of consultants for a journal called Science Fiction Studies. I would be given the manuscripts to read and comment on and I would be asked to review books, academic science fiction books. I’ve just resigned from that because again, I don’t feel that I can do as well. You must have an enormous store of personal enthusiasm! I must say that I also felt for a while this enormous need that something be done here. The feeling, ‘oh, I’ll just jump in’. At this point I now know that things are going well and that first I’ve got to look out for myself and my family—I want some time to myself, of course, but—still, I have a tendency to take on too much. I’ve been through a period of intense activity which has been exciting in many ways. I’m looking forward to having a bit more time to do some of my own writing. Do you view yourself as more of a creative than administrative being? I guess I would prefer to be thought of as a creative person. I think that producing Matrix is a creative activity. Maybe not everyone would agree but I certainly find it to be that. Editing itself, editing a manuscript is not—to me—a tremendously creative process. Editing one particular story, well—it’s not mechanical; it’s more than that. But it’s not creative. Creative work in a story is the writer or novelist. But a magazine is a whole vision. You’re creating something that doesn’t exist if you don’t do it. Do you foresee any literary tends for the Nineties? I tend not to look at fiction in terms of such trends. I tend to look at fiction in terms of the enormous difficulty and challenge of saying something that is true. I think there are many different ways of saying that and we give them different labels. The labels interest me very little—but the true story interests me a great deal.
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