Interview

Fertile Roots, Arid Soil: Aboriginal Writing’s Struggle to Thrive

by Lorie Boucher

"Write what you know" is a familiar piece of writing advice. But for some Canadian writers, the translation of knowledge and experience into marketable, literary works poses distinct challenges. For Aboriginal writers in Canada, the publishing process is often unfamiliar and inaccessible. The business objectives of the Canadian publishing industry — short-term profitability and the commercial viability of specific genres — are at odds with the long-term vision of the Aboriginal writing community and its desire to nurture and promote all types of Aboriginal writing. It is these barriers and conflicting objectives that the small but determined Aboriginal publishing community in Canada hopes to overcome.

Kateri Akiwenzie-Damm Photography: Aaron Wiszniak

Founded by Anishnaabe writer Kateri Akiwenzie-Damm in 1993, Kegedonce Press works to preserve and promote the diversity of Aboriginal voices in Canada and indigenous writers internationally. Kegedonce maintains links with other Canadian Aboriginal publishers and aims to build and maintain a strong network of indigenous publishers internationally to collaborate on various publishing and distribution projects. Kegedonce’s recent publications include Angel Wing Splash Pattern, a collection of short fiction by award-winning Dogrib writer Richard Van Camp, and skins: contemporary Indigenous writing, a collection of contemporary fiction. Without Reservation: Indigenous Erotica in 2002 is due for release in Canada and Aotearoa in 2002.

Contributing Editor Lorie Boucher speaks with Kateri Akiwenzie-Damm.

WB: [Kegedonce] Press has been around since 1993. What was your motivation behind launching it at that time?

KAD: Pure ignorance [laughs]. I was living in Ottawa at the time. I was part of a native writers’ group and I got a grant through the City of Ottawa to write a book. I was motivated partly because I was working as a conference coordinator for an international Indigenous arts conference and I thought, "This is a great opportunity, there are going to be people here from all over the world. I’ll try and get the book out in time." And because I belonged to this writers’ group and, I guess, just being Anishnaabe, I was thinking, "How can other people benefit from the fact that I’m getting this small grant?" I think it was $3,000.00 or something like that. I thought that instead of just [publishing] it without an imprint I would put it out under an imprint name, put the money in the bank, and when I had enough money I would put something out by someone else. I was [also] doing communications work, so I understood the production process. What I didn’t understand was the business of publishing and the distribution process. [I was motivated by] a passion for books and for promoting Indigenous writing.

WB: Is that what’s sustained you over the years, your interest in promoting Indigenous writing?

KAD: Yes. You have to do it for the love of it. It’s cost me money over the years. My real motivation is books; I’m really into the aesthetics of books. I really don’t believe that [adage] "Don’t judge a book by its cover." I think reading is a sensual experience. I like to think about how the paper feels. It’s a bigger experience than just words on a page. I wanted to honour the work by [publishing] the most beautiful books that I possibly could, which is not a very commercial undertaking. It’s the love of it that sustains me and that’s what sustains the Press.

KAD: Yes. Theytus Books has been around since the early 80s. It’s the oldest native-owned and operated publisher in Canada and probably in North America, actually. There were other publishers around then, too. We had a publishers’ meeting in 1995 in Vancouver but most of the publishers were attached to cultural centres. They were publishing native language material for their own language programs; they weren’t really in the market at all. Right now there are basically four of us: Theytus [Books], Pemmican [Publishing], which publishes Métis writing, and [the] Gabriel Dumont [Institute], which focuses on trade book publishing as well as cultural centre [publications].

WB: What percentage of the works that are published under your imprint is Canadian?

KAD: I’ve never really thought about it — we don’t have that many titles, even. [skins: contemporary Indigenous writing], an anthology of contemporary fiction including writers from Canada, US, Australia, Aotearoa and New Zealand, included only about 25 percent Canadian content. I really have an international Indigenous perspective to all of the work that I do and I plan to maintain that in my work.

WB: Why did you decide to promote poetry specifically?

KAD: Partly because I’m a poet and I know how difficult it is. Also because I’m in and around publishing and I know that there are so many publishers that are backing away from poetry because they believe there’s no market for it. Some publishers that were publishing poetry five years ago are no longer accepting poetry submissions. I’m not sure what the rationale is behind that, because I don’t really agree with it. From what I’ve seen in Canada, many [Aboriginal writers] started and continue to start by writing poetry. So if that isn’t nurtured, if they don’t have an outlet for that kind of work, then I really worry about the next generation of native writers. I’m also really concerned because I don’t see very many Inuit writers, and I look for them. And I don’t see very many young native women writers. There are native women writing, but I haven't seen many who are able to stay in it for a while, so I think they need to have their work supported and to be nurtured. Where are writers going to go? I just don’t believe that people don’t read poetry at all and that there isn’t a market. I know lots of people who read poetry.

WB: Spoken word is also on the rise, and their work doesn’t only exist in that medium. It’s often supplemented by hard-copy chapbooks, and in some cases, the spoken word performance exists to market the hard-copy collection.

KAD: Right, I don’t believe that people don’t enjoy poetry anymore. What’s rap, what’s hip hop? It’s all on a continuum. Poetry is the language of revolution in a lot of cases. I just can’t accept that all of a sudden, in a couple of decades, human nature has changed so much that we’re not interested anymore. It becomes self-fulfilling too — if you don’t pay any attention to it, you don’t nurture it, you don’t market it, and you don’t promote it, when you do publish a poetry book, of course it’s not going to sell.

It’s even becoming so that short fiction is not very marketable either. All publishers want these days are novels. I think that’s absolutely insane. That’s a really good way to kill creativity, kill the cultural industry — that’s not a way to sustain it. It’s not a very long-term way of thinking. That’s just a general difference, I think, between Indigenous and non-Indigenous people: those kinds of decisions are smart short-term business decisions but they’re bad long-term decisions. I don’t want to be in publishing to do the same kinds of things. That’s why I’m for poetry, that’s why I’m into the international sides of things — for us, it’s smart. Not just in terms of Indigenous publishing, but for the industry.

KAD: That’s a huge debate all over Indigenous circles. For the purposes of the publishing company, "Aboriginal" to me definitely does not include work about Aboriginal topics written by non-Aboriginal people. I’m not interested in that; [non-Aboriginal writers] can go to mainstream publishers for that. As far as [a text] written by an Aboriginal person where the content is, say, science fiction, I haven’t thought too much about that because I think it really depends a lot on what we’re looking for. I don’t know very many Aboriginal or Indigenous writers who write things that are totally disconnected from that perspective anyway. Basically, every writer writes about what they know — it’s really tough to divorce yourself from your cultural perspective. I’ve heard of writers who write under pen names and write romance [novels], and I know there are a few Indigenous people who have done that, but it’s never really become an issue. Erotica wasn’t really something that most people would associate with Indigenous writing but I think from the work that was submitted to the anthology [Without Reservation: Indigenous Erotica in 2002] that that perspective is still there, it's still a part of that writing.

WB: "Writing what you know" raises the issue of appropriation. Is it objectionable for a non-Aboriginal writer to write as an Aboriginal person in fiction? If it is, the reverse would be true as well, that native people should not be writing from any perspective other than their own, from what they know.

KAD: I really think that writers need to write about what they know. When you try to write from some other perspective, you do so at your own peril. Could I write from a white Canadian perspective? Probably, yeah. Why? Because I have both ancestries. I think it’s easier for [Aboriginal writers] to write [from a non-Aboriginal perspective] because we’ve been forced into those school systems, we’ve been forced into mainstream society. We’re fluent in the language. Many of us are forced to be bicultural. So it’s not really being untrue because it’s already part of who we are and part of our knowledge base. I live on the [Cape Croker] Reserve but I definitely understand [non-native culture]. I went to York University and Ottawa University. But I wouldn’t presume to write a character who was Pakistani, for example. I’ve been to Aotearoa many times; I have friends there, I have stayed there for months at a time. But I would feel huge trepidation to even include a Maori character, and if I did I would probably be getting my friends to read it and [see whether] it sounds true, because that’s what it’s about: truth. It’s not just about being true to yourself as a writer. Readers consciously or subconsciously pick up on it when somebody is not truthful.

WB: Do you think that having publishing houses that are specifically geared towards promoting Aboriginal or Indigenous writing somehow limits the parameters of what those writers can put out there? Could someone say, for example, "this is not ‘Aboriginal’ enough for us"? Also, do you feel that Aboriginal works are necessarily political works? The act of writing is considered an assertion of power; do you believe that writing something down is necessarily a political act?

KAD: I think [Aboriginal writers] get that more from mainstream publishers than from us. I’m a writer as well, so I understand what it’s like out there. As far as whether it’s a political act, I do think that when Aboriginal people or Indigenous people write that yeah, it necessarily is. It’s like in our community, fishing, which we’ve always done, is a political act because we’ve had to fight for our fishing rights. [Are] really basic things — getting up in the morning and just living in my community — [considered] a political act? Well, in a way, it is. We’re in a highly politicized environment all the time. We’re "under the authority" of the Indian Act. From the time you’re born, whether you’re status or non-status, you’re politicized. So I think [writing] really is a political act. It doesn’t matter if the work is overtly political. That’s what I think about this erotica anthology too [Without Reservation: Indigenous erotica in 2002]. Is it political? Hell, yeah. But is the writing itself political? No.

WB: Given its origin, then, Aboriginal writing is necessarily political writing. The term "Aboriginal" is often used as if it applies to a unified group, but that’s inaccurate.

KAD: Yes, it’s like asking why all European nations aren’t cohesive, why they don’t they agree on everything. Nobody thinks, "What’s with those Europeans? They can’t agree on anything. What’s wrong with them?" But here there’s an expectation that we should all get along and have the same perspective on things. Sure, there are political advantages to [unity], but it’s not realistic. There’s a huge diversity of Aboriginal peoples in Canada. We don’t all come from the same culture; the languages are different. We don’t all pow-wow dance. Even if Aboriginal people dance traditionally, they don't all dance like people see in pow-wows. Aboriginal peoples in the west are different from those in the east. There’s such ignorance, such racism in assuming cohesiveness.

KAD: I don’t think it’s for me to impose it on them, but pretty much all of the writers that I know — and I know a lot of writers in Canada, the US, and Aotearoa, and not quite as many, but quite a few in Australia as well — write because they feel a responsibility and they’re trying to make their contribution. It’s a very different perspective from the [non-Indigenous] writers that I meet. [With Indigenous writers] there’s always that sense of giving back, that sense of contributing, of mentoring. It’s really not about individual acclaim or monetary gain. I don’t really know anybody who writes for those reasons. A lot of the writers that I know don’t even really think about that.

WB: As you know, native languages are on the decline in Canada, with some languages currently sustained by only a few hundred speakers. Do you feel that the Aboriginal publishing industry has a role in preserving Aboriginal languages?

KAD: I’m not sure that it’s really our responsibility. I think we are all concerned about it, and in our own ways we are each trying to do something about it. It’s almost impossible to consider publishing in a native language — things are not standardized, and the market is already small. If we’re just talking about native people in Canada, and then you start [restricting it further to] Anishnaabe people, what kind of market are you talking about? I think [a text published in a native language] would have to be something very specialized, like what the cultural centres are publishing to support their work. It’s not really what we do.

WB: Do you currently receive funding from any government programs?

KAD: We receive funding from the Canada Council for the Arts. There’s also funding available through Heritage Canada, but it’s for industry. We’re like a micro industry.

WB: Given your size, how would an Aboriginal writer find out about your Press? Do you get submissions, or do they most often hear about you through a network or a writing group? What is the process like?

KAD: I’m in touch with a lot of writers and I’m on the [National Caucus of the WordCraft Circle of Native Writers and Storytellers] board, so I circulate information amongst my circles. I’m very well connected within the Indigenous writing community, so people know about us. The Indigenous arts community in general is pretty small, so people know. That’s also why we went online, so that more people can find out about us. We sometimes put out calls for submissions, but a lot of the time it’s word of mouth.

WB: How are your books sold — are they distributed to stores?

KAD: That’s an evolving thing. Because we’re a small publisher, we’ve had a lot of trouble getting distribution. But that’s changing; we’re with Hushion [Hushion House Publishing] now.

WB: Who would you say is your main audience — Indigenous or non-Indigenous peoples?

KAD: I think that most writers I know always hope that other Indigenous people are reading our works, that [they are being read by] our own communities. But I’ve been around long enough to know that the reality is that they’re not really the main book-buying public for us. When we do readings, we always try to get a big native group to come out, but it’s pretty mixed. I think as far as people actually buying the books, it’s probably more non-native people and university courses.

WB: Do universities approach you, or do you try and market to them?

KAD: Both. As we get better known and publish more books, more people are starting to come to us. Because I’m a writer, I also know a lot of profs who would be interested in this kind of work. I usually e-mail them if we have any new books out or [to tell] them about the web site.

KAD: Both. There are starting to be more Indigenous lit courses in Canada. In some cases, it would get onto a Canadian studies class, a poetry class, or a Canadian women’s writing or poetry class. The canon is the canon for a reason [laughs]. There are still a lot of universities that are not very adventurous, and they attract a certain kind of prof who runs the course in a certain kind of way. At this point, I try to play on strength; that’s why I’m so interested in working collaboratively internationally, because it’s easier to find like-minded people and profs who are likely to be interested in Indigenous lit from other places. I would say that my support network is stronger in the Indigenous community internationally than it is in Canada outside the Indigenous community, although we’re starting to grow as we get better known and we become eligible for membership in the Canadian Association for Publishers and that kind of thing.

WB: With respect to the future of Aboriginal publishing, do you think that Aboriginal writers will continue to seek out smaller presses, such as Kegedonce, or will they eventually seek out publication by larger houses with wider distribution networks?

KAD: I don’t have any delusions about that, and I never have since I started. I think that if somebody can get a contract with a mainstream publisher then I’m all behind that — go for it. I think if we’re a launch pad for writers to get to that point, then we’ve done our job. If we can establish ourselves as a small publisher that does really high-quality work, then I think some people will want to stay with us for certain projects anyway. I think that we work in a different way from a lot of publishers; we have a different kind of relationship with our writers. There is that cultural [link], too. I think it’s just probably easier talking to us than talking to even some of the small, non-native publishers. Richard Van Camp, for example, [author of Angel Wing Splash Pattern, published by Kegedonce Press] was already a fairly established writer when he came to us. He really wanted to publish with us because he supports what we’re doing. It’s been going really well; it’s been good for him and it’s been good for us. He still has projects he wants to do with us. But when he finishes his next novel I don’t expect him to bring it to us at all. He’ll go to the best publisher that he can and I support him on that.

WB: Where do you see Aboriginal publishing in Canada in the next five to ten years and what do you think will be your major challenges?

KAD: The major challenge is surviving for the next five years. Not just [Kegedonce Press], but all of us [Aboriginal publishers in Canada]. We’ve all got different mandates, different histories, different structures, but we’re all in peril, constantly. It’s a very difficult climate right now for any publisher. A lot depends on getting some understanding from [organizations such as] Heritage Canada because we don’t fit the mold. When you talk about the publishing industry, we’re like a hundred steps behind the rest of the publishers because there is no infrastructure for us. We’re starting at a very basic level and sometimes, when you start looking at numbers, it seems like we’re not very productive. But there’s so much developmental work that we’re doing at the same time as we’re trying to publish our books. We are meeting with people at Heritage Canada and others to try and help them understand what it is that we’re doing. I’m hoping that in the next five years we will have done a lot of that developmental work. If the four of us can survive five years, if we can work together to ensure that all four of us survive and that others coming up can get the support they need, then I would be happy with that. But it’s hard to project. We need support, we need people to understand. [Kegedonce] is here for the long term and we need to get some help to do it.

WB: That plight rings true for non-Aboriginal publishing houses in Canada as well in the current climate.

KAD: Yes, but for us, [the effect] is a hundred times greater, because we don’t have the infrastructure. A lot of our writers don’t understand the publishing industry. If we didn’t work with them, we wouldn’t have books to publish. Other publishers get so many manuscripts coming in, they can just say "Oh these people don’t know how to submit a manuscript, so we’re just going to ignore those ones, there’s the slush pile over there." We can’t do that — we’d never have enough manuscripts. We’d be discounting a lot of people who are excellent writers but just don’t understand how to work with a publisher.

The scary thing is that at the same time, if all four of us [Aboriginal publishers] are in danger, it’s easily foreseeable that all four of us could close down next month, or in two months from now, or in six months from now. There would be not one Aboriginal publisher in Canada. There’s something just basically wrong with that. And it’s not as if a lot of these writers have the opportunity to go somewhere else.

We’re developing a lot of different things. We’re developing the writers, we’re developing the audience, and we’re developing the industry. It’s a real awareness kind of thing — we’re moving on a lot of different concepts at the same time.

KAD: Realistically, I would [publish writers] occasionally, when I had the opportunity. I would have to let the person who works with me go, obviously, and I don’t know whether I could keep the web site. I would probably put something out once every few years. Then we’d run into the same problems we had a few years ago with distribution. It would be a totally different kind of publishing; it would be a specialty type of thing. Our revenues are increasing, but we’re definitely not selling as much as we’re getting in funding.

I’d just like enough power for [Kegedonce] to survive. I do think it’s important that there are a lot of different voices out there because we’re not all the same. There are very few people who make those decisions about who gets published.

WB: And now you make those decisions, too.

KAD: And that’s why I think working to promote Aboriginal publishing in general is something I take time to do.

WB: How do you see your competitors — other Aboriginal publishers — evolving alongside you?

KAD: I don’t even think of them as competitors because we’re doing such different things. That would actually be really interesting — to get to a point where we actually have competitors. I think it would be great to get other people to do the same kind of thing that we are. That would be fabulous. It would mean that a lot has changed.

Kateri Akiwenzie-Damm is an Anishnaabe writer and publisher of mixed ancestry from the Chippewas of Nawash First Nation. In 1993 Kateri founded Kegedonce Press [http://www.kegedonce.com no longer functions] and since then has served as managing editor. She lives and works at Neyaashiinigmiing, Cape Croker Reserve on the Saugeen Peninsula in southwestern Ontario.

Kateri’s writing has been published in various anthologies, journals, and magazines in Canada, the US, Aotearoa/New Zealand, Australia, and Germany and in the collection my heart is a stray bullet. Currently, she is completing work on a CD of spoken word poetry and music, a collection of poetry, a collection of short stories, and various multidisciplinary and publishing projects.

Lorie Boucher is a Contributing Editor for Writer’s Block.