Buffy Cram now teaches part time at the Vancouver Island School of Art and lives part of the year in Berlin, a city of great creative stimulation. A graduate of writing programs at both the University of Victoria and the University of BC, Cram is now working on her second book of fiction. Her first short story collection, Radio Belly, was published in 2012 by Douglas and McIntyre and was one of the publications caught in the company’s later bankruptcy. Cram talked recently with Lynne Van Luven about her new novel and her hopes for the future of publishing.
Buffy, it’s probably still painful to talk about, but how did your publisher’s bankruptcy–and its subsequent re-organization earlier this year–affect your energy for the writing life?
I won’t lie; the bankruptcy news did put me into a bit of an end-of-the-world, books-are-dead funk. I wasn’t worried about my career or myself as much as I was worried about the future of books in Canada. We’ve lost so many of our independent publishing houses in recent years and every time that happens it means fewer Canadian writers making it to print and less diversity for readers.
The odd thing is, I meet people every day who are passionate about Canadian books. I meet high school students who are hungry for contemporary short fiction they can relate to. So it seems there is a disconnect here. Perhaps there aren’t enough ways for readers and writers to connect. Perhaps readers don’t realize how important it is to spend their money on Canadian books. Perhaps writers don’t realize how important it is to become evangelists of books and reading in general, as opposed to just promoting their own books. This winter I tried really, really hard to convince myself I was all done with writing. I taught myself how to make music videos because it seems this is something society values far more than books. But then I would read a really amazing sentence or discover a new writer and it would all come rushing back. Reading and writing will always be the two most important acts for me, even if they aren’t as cool as music videos.
Your short stories in Radio Belly seem to be animated by skepticism about the material world, as well as about the present. Could you talk a little about what sort of fictional worlds most interest you, what sort of characters?
I’m most interested in portraying those moments in life where “magic” and “reality” blend. Often that means writing about people who are pushed to the outer edges of their sanity. Change is a crucial part of all short fiction. But I’m most interested in characters who have been living in denial and avoiding change for just a little too long. This may be where the skepticism about the material world comes in. In my experience, the best way to support denial is to focus on my outer or material existence (i.e. the best cure for heartache is a new haircut.) I think we are living this way on a societal level. Here in North America, most of us spend a lot more time shopping or updating our Facebook pages than we do saving the planet. I guess maybe I wanted my writing to speak to this in some way. The final stage of denial, right before change, is full of emotional urgency and, to my mind, that’s interesting territory for fiction.
Like so many writers in British Columbia, you are now a teacher of writing yourself. Did that require a great transition, or did it feel like a natural shift in your own working life?
I’ve been an ESL teacher and a private tutor for years, so in many ways I was prepared for the transition into teaching writing. I knew how to break the subject down into small, digestible parts and how to be instructive and entertaining at the same time. What I didn’t expect is that my role as a creative writing teacher would primarily be about giving people permission to write and coaching them through the fear of the blank page. This seems to be far more important to my students than learning about the technicalities of writing. Over and over I find my role as a teacher is just to be the one saying, “keep going” and “bad writing is a necessary part of good writing.”
What’s the best piece of information any writing instructor could give her students in these uncertain times?
The best advice any writing instructor can give students these days is to learn how to make music videos. Secondly, they should remind their students to have fun while they write. I tell my students to put on music and sit in their favourite chair and light a candle and make a cup of tea. I challenge them to make themselves laugh or cry and to tell the story they’ve always wanted to tell. I say these are strategies to help ease the fear of writing. What I don’t say is that these rituals are so important because, in the end, writing itself is the reward. Publishing is unlikely and, in my experience, largely unrewarding. There won’t be money or fame. There might not even be readers. So, it all comes down to finding ways to enjoy the actual writing. That’s one of the reasons I started up a drop-in writing class at VISA, where writers of any level can just show up and explore their imaginations together. I don’t believe writing needs to be a lonely and torturous act. When writers get together, it can be social and inspiring and, believe it or not, fun.
Tell us what Berlin is like for a young and engaged writer these days, what keeps you going back for part of the year?
I have a restless spirit. I’ve always been happiest when I’m on the move and I’ve recently learned that splitting my time between two places is a more sustainable way to satisfy that part of myself than starting all over in a new place every year. I love Berlin because it is a city full of stories. You can walk through the streets and see bullet holes in the walls of old buildings. Or you might come across parts of the wall still standing. Or you might meet a little old lady selling communist relics at a flea market. It’s almost impossible not to be inspired by all that history. But I love Berlin for the way it barrels forward too. I live in East Berlin, a part of the city that is still reinventing itself. Every day there are changes. Someone decides to build an art gallery in an old junk yard. Or someone sets up a photography school in a ruined building. Or someone starts a café that only serves one dish and has no chairs. I can’t help but admire this kind of thing. It’s reckless reinvention or forward motion without preparedness. It’s a living reminder to celebrate imperfection.
