Quill and Quire

Lee Maracle

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Lee Maracle’s tale

(Photo: Katrina Cervoni)

(Photo: Katrina Cervoni)

Simpson: What was it like coming out of this novel? I know that when I finish writing, it’s often hard to re-enter life because I’ve been living with these characters and scenarios in my head.

Maracle: You don’t have to let go of them right away. One thing I do, sort of neurotically, is hold on to the story until I’m done, by which I mean there’s been a transformation.

When I was writing this novel, I realized what the good life is: it’s the spirit world. You’re always going home; we have to reconcile ourselves before they’ll take us. And that’s the message of the book. We’re struggling to be human through it all, but because we’re physical, the body itself becomes the conservative institution that trips us up.

Simpson: We’re from very, very different cultures, but it’s so clear to me that Celia’s Song is grounded in the oral tradition – in the old, old, old stories. I read it as an Anishinaabe person, and I see our stories in it, but also I know enough about your culture to know that I’m missing a lot, too. I wonder if you were thinking about the non-
indigenous people who would read it? Do you think about audience when you’re writing?

Maracle: I do, in the longhouse. You tell these stories and everybody’s there – the very old and the very young. Those that are old have worked with these stories forever, and they’re listening for something new. The little ones have never heard it before.

The language in the book is very deliberately layered because I know Salish people are obviously going to get a lot more from it than anybody else. But if it’s told in such a way that you understand the arc of the story and its fundamentals, I believe people can get a lot out of it, no matter who they are.

Marc Côté was great. He said, “I don’t pretend to know your culture,” but then he started talking about what he was taking from the book, which was a lot. Marc saying that means everything to me.

Simpson: I get the feeling from the novel that you had consent from the elders, that there were forces in the community that wanted this story to be told, in this way, at this time.

Maracle: I didn’t actually ask them. That’s not how you get permission. You go and tell them what you’re doing. If they just look at you, then you know it’s not time.

Simpson: I think that’s really instructive for young indigenous writers. I have a lot of students who want to work with traditional stories within the oral tradition, but they’re not sure about protocol or ethics, and they don’t want to get into this situation where it’s not okay with the elders. I always caution them to go very slowly, to develop those relationships.

Maracle: We wouldn’t call it protocol. Protocol to me is what you have with other nations. With your children it’s their birthright. These stories are their birthright. In my community, the elders actually don’t have the authority over how you work with the stories. That’s why I’ve never asked them. I can still plow on if they don’t say anything. But I wouldn’t. I wouldn’t step outside my family.

If writers are going to work with stories, and they haven’t got relationships with their family, or their elders, then they’re stepping outside their family. Getting back in will be very, very difficult.

Simpson: I think that you, as a writer, have figured out that you have to protect the parts of you that create and that are open to stories, that connect the stories and catch the spirit. You don’t play by the rules of the publishing industry. That’s not what it’s about for you.

Maracle: No, it’s not. With an old story, we have to tell it like it’s happening now so people will continue to grow and learn from it. I was brought up to listen to the old stories and tell them back differently. In becoming a writer, I had to be conscious of the stories and how we work with them, not just with my family elders but elders from the whole Salish people.

We work with stories personally. We work with them any way we want. Stölo means river. I am the river and I can forge the river. I create the pain and I alleviate the pain.

But if you’re not writing from a place of utter peace, you can’t create a really good story that’s truthful and honest. The wisdom won’t come.