By Jessica Westhead
Jessica Westhead is the author of the novels Pulpy & Midge (Coach House Books) and Worry (HarperCollins Canada), and the short-story collections And Also Sharks and Things Not to Do (Cormorant Books), and Avalanche (Invisible Publishing). She also works as an editor and a creative-writing teacher.
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I remember a party. Midway through my four amazing years at Trent University, my first-ever book launch, a celebration thrown by the creators and editors of The Peterborough Review, George Kirkpatrick and Julie Rouse, in their big, rambling, beautifully lived-in house in downtown Peterborough, with their kids running around and snacks and drinks to share and this was a party for an issue of their literary journal that a short story of mine had been published in!!! I was there with Sarah Selecky, both of us brand new writers with wide eyes, gulping lots of wine, unable to stop grinning at each other and marvelling at this joyful, giddy gathering of writers and readers, this shiny, pretty book that contained fiction we had written… It felt like the beginning of something glittery and sparkly and magical.
I realize now that this was the start of my understanding about how to be part of a literary collective, which has only grown as I’ve been inspired by other nurturing acts of literary citizenship over the years: to be as generous as possible; to create opportunities for other writers where we can, centring BIPOC and other folks from systemically marginalized, equity-deserving groups; to wholeheartedly celebrate the achievements of others; and to find strength, support, and encouragement in the company of other people — with a wealth of knowledge, insight, and perspective to share from their different backgrounds, identities, and lived experiences — who believe deeply in the soul-saving importance of creativity. Other acts of writerly solidarity that we can participate in include subscribing to literary magazines; attending other writers’ book launches and buying their books from independent bookstores (or borrow their books from libraries! Thanks to the efforts of the Writers’ Union of Canada, published authors can receive a yearly payment from the Canada Council for the Arts Public Lending Right program, which provides financial compensation to authors for the use of their work in libraries); buying books from independent publishers; attending and supporting local reading series and literary festivals; interviewing other writers; reviewing or otherwise publicly raving about other writers’ work; and if we loved a fellow author’s book, sending them a personal note to let them know.
I did my guest talk for The Brockton Writers Series this month about the brilliance I’ve gleaned from the extraordinary editors and sensitivity readers I’ve had the good fortune of working with. And I was going to write this blog post about the various literary communities I’ve had the good fortune of finding and being part of*, and the many individual writerly folk I’ve had the good fortune of connecting with, and if I’m extra lucky, befriending. But then I did that thing where I start worrying excessively that I might accidentally leave someone out, (I was telling my wonderful writerly friend Teri Vlassopoulos about this thing I do during our most recent excellent conversation about writing and everything else, and she made me feel better about it, but I know I will probably never stop doing that thing).… And I don’t want to leave anybody out because my heart and life are so full of so many wondrous humans, whom I’ve had the great pleasure of meeting (and continuing to meet!) over the past 20-plus years of the twisty-turny, long-and-winding path of my literary journey. And I have learned — and am learning — so much from all of you, and I’m so incredibly grateful.
How to apply for grants. How to be a teacher. How to offer feedback on other writers’ work in ways that build up instead of tearing down. How to perform a reading that engages an audience. How to throw a fun book launch. How to value and delight in my own unique writing voice. How to respect my own energy and work at my own pace. How to move through self-doubt and find self-compassion.
I’ve been reflecting a lot lately on one of the biggest lies of the systems of white supremacy that I’ve been conditioned into, and have only recently begun to challenge and disrupt where I can: aside from the biggest lie, that we as white people are somehow better and more deserving than everyone else, there is the lie that seeks to further divide and disempower us by telling us that we, alone, are the most powerful person in the room. We don’t need anybody else because we are special, we are destined for great things. And the flip side of that is, if we fail, that’s our fault too. And so we are conditioned to think that if others are “failing,” that’s because of some personal failing in them — not because of systems that are rigged for only a very small portion of the population to succeed in the ways we are trained to think of as “success” — more money than anybody else, more fame than anybody else, more and more material possessions to hold onto tightly. And so we are conditioned to think that we shouldn’t have this deep need for community and human connection; we shouldn’t need help with anything, because we should be able to do everything, and do it all perfectly, all on our own. But of course, all of that is wrong.
None of the good things that I’m so thankful to have in my life (including my beloved, little family), would be possible without the other people — cherished friends and relatives and neighbours and colleagues and acquaintances and folks I’ve never even met in person but we’re still warmly linked by electronic fibers — who have thought of me, cared for me, opened doors for me, reached out to me, shared with me, helped me. And so many of those people have been writerly people. I’m so happy to know all of you.
These acts of kindness and thoughtfulness that we show each other matter, in the literary world and beyond. They are so important now, more than ever. They knit us together and remind us, magically, that we are all sparkly individuals who are also part of a glittering whole.
Love,
Jessica
*P.S. – To the volunteer dream team behind The Brockton Writers Series, thank you for being one of these communities, and for the vital work that you do.