Six Questions interview #27 : Frances Boyle

Frances Boyle is the author of two poetry books, most recently This White Nest (Quattro Books, 2019). She has also written Tower, a novella (Fish Gotta Swim Editions, 2018) and Seeking Shade, a short story collection (The Porcupine’s Quill, forthcoming 2020). One of her poems will appear in Best Canadian Poetry 2020. Other recent and forthcoming publications include work in Blackbird, Cypress, Prairie Fire, Mineral Lit, Vallum, Parentheses Journal and The /tƐmz/ Review. Originally from the prairies, Frances is now long-settled in Ottawa. She is part of the editorial team at Arc Poetry Magazine, and writes reviews for Canthius: feminism & literary arts. Visit www.francesboyle.com  for more.

Q: How long have you been in Ottawa, and what first brought you here?

I moved to Ottawa in 1995, and it was love that brought me here. My partner, Tim, after completing his PhD at UBC and spending several years doing sessional teaching and unsuccessfully interviewing for university positions, had decided to give up on academia and go back to the community anti-racism work he’d being doing beforehand. Just as we were organizing our lives and those of our daughters, then 4 and 7, around this new possibility, one of his job interviews finally yielded a result: he was offered a tenure-track position at University of Ottawa. Since I was increasingly frustrated and burnt out with the golden handcuffs of being a partner in a big conservative Vancouver law firm, we jumped at the opportunity for change. Friends in Vancouver said that we’d miss it so much that we’d return within two years. But we never really looked back; it was the best possible move for our family, in very many ways.

Q: How did you first get involved in writing, and subsequently, the writing community here?

I have been writing – or at least creating stories – for as long as I can remember, and putting them down on paper ever since I learned how. I was a deeply shy, somewhat bullied kid, and whenever I could get away with it would hide out during school recesses writing stories, usually modelled on the superhero comics and books about magic (Edward Eager and E. Nesbit notably) that were my mainstay. As a teenager, I wrote ethereal and adolescent-angst poems, and published a few of these in the University of Regina student newspaper under the pseudonym “Fania”. I always wanted to be a writer and thought journalism might be the way to go. But a truncated semester at Ryerson proved me wrong on that, and I returned to Regina, eventually finishing a very watered-down BA in English, largely via night-classes, then worked in corporate communications for a few years. When an ill-advised young marriage ended, I wanted to get out of town, and do something completely different, so decided to try law school at McGill. Nearly my last act before leaving Regina was to attend a fiction course at the Saskatchewan Summer School of the Arts (aka Fort San), the precursor to Sage Hill. My instructor was Jack Hodgins, with Robert Kroetsch filling in for the last couple of days. I thought that those very inspiring two weeks would keep my writing fires stoked.

Law school, then life in the big-firm pressure cooker, and starting a family weren’t conducive to much writing, though I did fit in a couple of short workshops in Vancouver. So, it was only on the move to Ottawa that I actually managed to focus any significant time and energy on writing. My oldest friend had given me a copy of Julia Cameron’s The Artist’s Way as a parting gift, and I dove in, starting a morning pages habit that lasted a very long time.

But the key thing that happened was that I was lucky enough not to go right back into to the workforce – my younger child was just starting (half-day) kindergarten and, unlike in Vancouver, there was no seamless daycare for the other half day. So we made the decision that I would take that year off before looking for work. My daughter and I joined a playgroup where I discovered that one of the other parents was a Real Writer – Rita Donovan who, at that point, had already published several award-winning novels. I mustered the nerve to ask if she knew of any writers’ groups that might be looking for new members. As it happened, she did, which launched me into my first forays in the Ottawa writing community.

The women in that first writers’ group – Cheryl Sutherland, Joanna Dean, Dilys Leman and later Linda Archibald– were smart and supportive, insightful readers and fine writers. They also introduced me to the late Janet Lunn, who was a mentor to us all, for which I am eternally grateful. The impetus from the group saw me through my first success (an honourable mention in the Nepean Public Library short story contest, for a story that ended up being my first-publication, and eventually the basis for the first chapter of my 2018 novella, Tower). The group was fluid: new people joined and departed, Dilys moved to Toronto, and Joanna switched focus to academic rather than creative writing. Other groups grew from various fiction classes, met for a while before petering out or reconfiguring, but each gave me new friendships and a greater grasp of craft.

When my welter of emotions after a family tragedy came out in something that appeared to be a poem, I had the temerity to send it out to the first Diana Brebner Prize contest. Of course it didn’t win, but somehow was chosen to be included in a special Ottawa edition of Arc Poetry Magazine. I decided that was a signal that I should return to poetry, which I hadn’t touched since my early 20s, and actually learn something about it.  Classes with Miller Adams (then known as Sylvia Adams) and Barbara Myers, who sadly passed away very recently, provided both a solid grounding in craft and introductions to other aspiring writers (as, much later, did your classes, Rob). One of the connections I forged through a workshop was with Lise Rochefort, which led the two of us to start a critique group we called Ruby Tuesday. Lise and I, along with co-founder Laurie Koensgen, have been meeting weekly since 2006. The women who joined the group over that time include some of my dearest friends.

When one of my poems eventually did win the Diana Brebner Prize, it was extremely validating, as were several other contest prizes and early publications. I was honoured when Anita Lahey and Lesley Buxton invited me to join the Arc board (probably for my lawyer-type skills rather than my poetic ones), and the more than 10 years I’ve served on the board have been a tremendous schooling in poetry and community. Several of the people who I worked alongside on the magazine have become firm friends, I made connections with writers across the country, and I learned so very much about what makes for good poetry.

Q: How did being in such a community of writers shift your thinking about writing, if at all?

I hadn’t been in an ongoing writing group before I lived here, and I am totally persuaded that they are pure gold. Although I’ve attended a variety of groups over the years, the constancy of the Ruby Tuesday collective has been unparalleled. We were all published modestly, if at all, when we first came together. Now each of us has put in the work and has an impressive publication history. The group sometimes known as the Other Tongues also continues to morph and revitalize as writers leave and new members join. I used to think of writing as a largely solitary pursuit but I now know that I need the companionship, support and structure of like-minded souls for my work to grow.

The commitment of writers here is phenomenal– you, rob, are an inspiration though I could never even aspire to the level of activity and output you manage. But there are a great many others who give so much and devote their time and best energies to reading series, to our festivals, to putting out publications, to teaching at all levels, to establishing and maintaining connections, to serving on arts juries, to lobbying (ultimately successfully) for the return of poets laureate for the city, etc., etc. Long-established writers are generous in advice and support to emerging ones (whether we are young or less so). Being in Ottawa has truly made me believe that one’s writing cannot help but be enriched by contributing to a larger community, to the extent that one’s life circumstances, health and energy levels will allow.

Q: What do you see happening here that you don’t see anywhere else? What does Ottawa provide, or allow?

I haven’t been part of it, or indeed really closely observed, writing communities in the other cities I’ve lived in, so this is mainly speculation. But I believe that the community here is supportive in many ways, and quite cohesive across genres and generations. I think the city’s size is an advantage, being somewhat cosmopolitan, diverse and international, while remaining on a manageable scale that allows for collaboration and cross-pollination between writerly disciplines and with the other arts.

I’ve been attending the Ottawa International Writers’ Festival since the earliest days, so I am very partial to it. It is not entirely unique – I had the pleasure last year of going to the FOLD in Brampton (and this year online) and Wild Writers in Kitchener-Waterloo, both of which were great. But I’ve heard from out-of-town writers that the care the OIWF folks take of their participants is unparalleled. Festival season always feels like a party. I’m not sure if our festival is unique in this, but I love that it never really ends, with events dotted throughout the year. I am excited that I’ve been invited to read at the Fall 2020 edition with my new short story collection, Seeking Shade (though what that festival may look like and if it will even go ahead may still be uncertain. )

And, speaking of festivals, Versefest is also cause to celebrate. It is (I believe) the only poetry festival that features poets performing in both English and French, along with other languages by the many international poets who are invited. My French isn’t good enough (despite being “government bilingual”) to fully appreciate francophone poets’ work, but I love being immersed in the cadences and rhythms of their readings. And the festival brings together such a range of voices, with participation by all the wonderful reading series that happen in Ottawa.

I suspect the vitality of the reading series in town in unique. Even though many series are gone (and much-lamented), including Sawdust, the AB Series, Railroad, Dusty Owl, Voices of Venus and others before my time, it is heartening that David O’Meara continues to host his Plan 99 at the Manx into its third decade, and that Stephen Brockwell, Jennifer Pederson and Avonlea Fotheringham have risen to the challenge of keeping the venerable Tree Reading Series going. It is equally heartening to see the rise of new series: In Our Tongues (established by Shery Alexander Heinis and Mailyne Briggs to showcase BIPOC writers), Riverbed (launched in May mid-pandemic), and Rhonda Douglas’s This is Short fiction series (which I hope will have a new season in the After Times).

I think that the rapidity in which newcomers to Ottawa are welcomed and absorbed into the community may be unique. Sawdust’s ‘poem-off’ contest for emerging poets shined a spotlight on, among others, Conyer Clayton, Allie Duff and Sarah MacDonell when each of them was new to town, and they all are now integral to the fabric of our community. Ellen Chang-Richardson hit the ground running, with her Little Birds editing sessions and now as co-founder (with Nina-Jane Drystek) of Riverbed. Student writers at University of Ottawa and Carleton rarely seem to stay in the ivory tower, but contribute to the larger community (looking at you, Dessa Bayrock), often sticking around after graduating (e.g., Chris Johnson, among many others).

I also love the proliferation of chapbook presses that flourish here, almost literally too many to mention. While it doesn’t entirely make up for the demise of the trade presses we used to have, it does suggest a more nimble, roll-up-our-sleeves approach to publishing and community.

Q: Have any of your projects responded directly to your engagements here? How have the city and its community, if at all, changed the way you approached your work?

I’m proud that my first trade book, Light-carved Passages was published by one of the now-departed local presses, BuschekBooks, run by John Buschek who I met at that playgroup my first year in Ottawa (Rita Donovan, his partner, edited my manuscript for the press). My three chapbooks are all from local presses: the wonderful Coven Editions, your amazingly long-running above/ground press, and Tree Press, which publishes the winners of the Tree chapbook contests.

The city as landscape and soundtrack has influenced my poetry, though less so my fiction. I walk a lot in my neighbourhood of Lindenlea (and nearby) and the rhythms of those walks, along with the sights and sounds of the parks, rivers and the urban lake I walk by, are very much present in my poems.

I think I’ve mostly answered the question about how the city/community has changed the way I approach my work – my lifestyle here being far more conducive to creating (my most recent lawyer job in Ottawa, though intense at times, never approached the craziness of 70+ hour weeks at the Vancouver law firm), firmly supportive writing friends, venues where I felt welcomed and was honoured to read, and the apprenticeship that working at Arc has been.

Q: What are you working on now?

I’ve got a draft of a third collection of poetry that began to take shape when I worked with Sandra Ridley last summer at Sage Hill. I’m also beginning to write new short stories to replenish the fiction well-spring, and trying to see if I can shape a chapbook from some scratchings about my childhood neighbourhood that originated in one of Hoa Nguyen’s recent poetry workshops.

I’m working on setting up some readings, both for my new short story collection, Seeking Shade, as well as my 2019 poetry book This White Nest. Apart from a couple that went online, my scheduled spring readings in BC were cancelled or postponed (as were those in Ottawa and Toronto), so I am looking forward to additional or rescheduled readings come the fall.