Andrea MacPherson

I witnessed an earlier verison of myself last week.  At least seven years younger, sitting in a small room in Buchanan building at UBC with a group of women poets and George McWhirter navigating us through poetic territory (sidhe instead of siren, the luminous title blue salt, the reminder that an image always speaks the loudest).  Pen poised, notebook filled.  Busy, hot years; prolific.  A new intimacy with words – especially grief, which kept inexplicably appearing on the white page.

This was me when Natural Disasters was written.  And how did I come across this alternate?  How did I manage to wade, again, into the murky past?  A book launch.  Or, more specifically, the launch of Natural Disasters, some seven years after it was completed.

 The collection was first scheduled to appear in Fall 2003, only months after the publication of my first novel, When She Was Electric.  What happened?  The strange world of publishing.  There were delays with the original publisher, promises that it would appear in the next season, then the next, and the next.  After some time – and mounting frustration – it was revealed that the publisher would no longer be producing poetry books.  Then, that it might go to the publishing house that took over the list.  Then more uncertainty. 

Natural Disasters found a new home with Palimpsest Press in 2006.  It appeared like a magic window to the past this summer, in some fated manner, just months after my second novel, Beyond the Blue, was released.  And there I was, as clear as a rubbed photo, smiling into the lens.  It reminded me of who I had been, who I had come to be, and who I might turn into in another seven years.  When I read a few of the poems at the launch, I realized I could see myself more clearly than I had before.  A strange and wonderful gift, this snapshot, this moment in the past.

I recently had the pleasure of speaking with Linda Richards of January Magazine.  Her questions were thoughtful, and often thought-provoking: Are you one of those who loves to write? Or one of those who loves to have written?

It reminded me of the careful business of interviewing – a skill not always acknowledged, but appreciated whole-heartedly when done right.  And Linda certainly does it right.

Read the interview here.

I came downstairs to my office this morning – old door repainted and used as desk, two north facing windows that let a cool breeze come through for most of the day, large white chair where I sit crosslegged, jasmine plant perched on top of a stack of books, dripping and scenting the room – full of a poem I had started late last night, and turned on my computer.

After typing out the few lines that still were with me, I dutifully checked my email accounts. The first one I read? A note from a reader, discussing Beyond the Blue. Now, I’ve had many letters and notes from readers before, but this one resonated with me in a new way. The writer had a connection to Dundee, similar to mine: his great-grandfather had been a mill owner at the same time that the novel takes place.

This prompted me to think about locations and relocation. How did his family wind up here, in BC? Was the story similar to my grandmother’s? How do all these threads combine and come apart to make these stories, these histories, all these memories passed down and filtered?

My grandmother, to whom the novel is dedicated, came to Canada as a war bride. She left industrial Dundee and found herself in rural Merritt – wooden walkways, still. Outhouses. Fields, and fields, and more fields. It’s often given me pause to consider how this location – and this relocation – affected her and, in turn, all the members of my family. How would our lives be different if they had stayed in Dundee? Strange, how that one decision – a step onto a boat, a plane, a train – can shape everything around it.

I replied to the reader, asking about his great-grandfather and his experiences in Dundee. I’m left to wonder how similar the stories will be, how immersed in location we all are.