I can’t really imagine that I’ll ever write something that’s not in some shape or form based on my own memory.”īut at first I’m not quite sure that I understand what she means when she talks about a “way that makes sense.” A significant portion of Toews’ work concerns death. “ And not just recreate but improve on in some way that makes sense. When I ask about the space fiction creates for writing about loss, she responds that whether the object of loss is a person or something more esoteric-like lost youth or a lost sense of home-fiction is a means for recreation.
It’s always a combination for me of so-called fact, which I guess you could think of as my memory of things, and the freedom.” If I’m writing fiction then I can change things around chronologically or even the details I might remember I can embellish or elaborate on. The freedom of fiction is something that I love. “I do write very autobiographically and I feel memory is such a fluid watery thing. I ask if doing such a thing is even possible. I ask her whether she feels a responsibility to capture people and moments in their intricacies. So I ask Toews about the relation between the ambiguity of her genre and the obscurity of memory. She blurs the lines between fiction and non-fiction, drawing inspiration for her novels from her most intimate lived experiences.
Toews attributes the possibility for this honesty in her writing, in part, to her genre. I revere her writing for her ability to capture the little things and the big things with a striking honesty, accuracy and delicacy. My impression of her has always been just the opposite. Hearing Toews express this fear strikes me as absurd. She’s scared she won’t find the right words. She’s giving a memorial lecture and she fears she’ll babble ineloquently. And now she has nothing to wear tonight but she’s not really thinking about her clothes. We talk about how long suitcases can sit on bedroom floors, waiting to be dealt with. When she opened her suitcase to change, she found she’d accidentally brought her partner’s dirty laundry. She’s also wearing her clothes from the day before. I’m scared I won’t find the right words.Īn hour later, after I turn off my tape recorder, Toews will tell me she too is a bit of a mess. I don’t feel like someone who deserves to interview one of their favourite writers. I fell asleep in them at midnight after having a beer to ease my anxiety. I’m a bit of a mess, hair knotted and wearing clothes from the day before. Still, I’m afraid she recognizes me because I’ve given myself away as a student. There aren’t many young people flocking to fancy hotels in this city.
The lobby is nearly empty and I’m the only one around without greying hair. I’m staggered when she acknowledges me but I shouldn’t be surprised she can pick me out. She’s taking a sip from her disposable coffee cup when she spots me. Miriam Toews walks through the double doors of the Lord Nelson in Halifax.
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