Writer Alistair MacLeod
and son Alexander
FEATURE from SPRING 2011

Dunvegan, Nova Scotia: quietly tucked along Cape Breton’s Western shoreline, it hardly seems the place to foster literary genius, but looks can be deceptive.

This quaint, rural community (population 396) sits less than 2 kilometres from the mouth of the Northumberland Strait — on clear days, area residents can see right across the waters to the Eastern edge of Prince Edward Island — and is peppered by small family farms, many of which have been around for generations.

Today, save for the summer months of July and August when tourists and travellers flock to the Inverness County beaches in search of sun, sea and sand, the region remains as unassuming as it did when it was first colonized over 200 years ago.

Upon closer inspection, however, Dunvegan might be the most fertile of grounds for creative aspirations; the great oral traditions of the area’s deep Celtic roots, the sweeping and inspiring beauty of the plush, rolling landscape and the relative isolation of rustic life have all given rise to a culture of storytelling that is perhaps unsurpassed in Canada.

It is here that one of this country’s most poignant and profound voices — Alistair MacLeod — returns to time and again to find his firm footing, his muse and his voice.

“It has always been home, it is home now, and it will always be home,” shares the multi-award winning author from his office at the University of Windsor in Ontario where he has been giving guidance to aspiring scribes since 1969.

“After six generations of us in and around Inverness County, you might say that we are well-ensconced in the community,” he chuckles, “…and in the cemetery.”

At the age of 74, MacLeod has ample reason for the good humour. His health is excellent, as it is for his children; he is still passionate about his profession and, perhaps most pertinently, he continues to be called to do what he does best.

“Someone once wrote that it was an artist’s responsibility to “bring the news” and that’s what I have always aimed to do. And, like any artist — be it a musician, painter, sculptor or whatnot — my calling was to reflect my times as best I could.

“I suppose that I still have something to say,” he adds of his ongoing creative endeavours. “I just hope, at my age, that I have learned a thing or two about how to say it.”

Judging by the tremendous response from readers both here at home and around the world (his works continue to sell swiftly in more than 70 countries, in close to 20 languages) MacLeod has more than earned his renown as a literary master-craftsman.

“They have been very good and loyal to me,” he notes humbly of his avid devotees. “I am very pleased and satisfied to see my books being published and read abroad. For me, the rewards come from the readers more than the awards. As a writer, my works are like messages in a bottle — and all that I ever hoped for is that they might wash up on shore somewhere.

“I have been quite blessed in that regard,” he continues, “though I am not quite certain that I am so deserving of all of the attention. Obviously there is something in these stories that has resonated with readers, although I would be hard pressed to put a finger upon what that is exactly.”

Critics might have an upper hand in explaining the ever-present popularity of his two short-story collections The Lost Salt Gift of Blood (1976), As Birds Bring Forth the Sun and Other Stories (1986) and his 1999 masterpiece No Great Mischief, which won the prestigious IMPAC Dublin Literary Award and is widely regarded as one of the greatest Canadian novels ever written; a smooth simplicity of style, mixed with a mastery of character development, dialogue, mood, setting and tone all make for a sure storyline that unfolds under a strong narrative arc.

It is a craft that MacLeod has been honing for decades; from his early days studying at the Nova Scotia Teacher’s College, St. Francis Xavier University in Antigonish, the University of New Brunswick and the University of Notre Dame, through to his tenures at Indiana University and, later, the University of Windsor.

Despite acknowledging that he has paid his literary dues, the novelist is quick to avert the accolades.

“Blame it on my roots,” he laughs. “We come from a great tradition of storytelling — that is the Scottish influence; you were born with a big mouth. I have been told that I write like I speak, though I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or not.

“However, in all earnestness, I cannot truly take any credit for my successes. I merely managed to make ends meet from doing what I love to do, and from what people in that part of the world do better than anyone else.”

Inspiration, he acknowledges, was also found on the home-front.

“With six children you can well-imagine how busy our little household was,” he recalls of fatherhood. “The kids were always very involved with their school and their friends and so forth. And with so many grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins in the immediate vicinity, things could get somewhat boisterous.”

A self-professed “literary turtle”, MacLeod admits that other things often took priority over his daily writing rituals in Dunvegan.

“There is a reason why No Great Mischief took 13 years to write,” he smiles slyly. “It was not something that I did each day. It was a process. I wrote when I was home during the spring and summer months, surrounded by my family, when I could steal away a few moments to myself here and there. The rest of the year, while we were in Windsor, was all about distilling those experiences.

“Someone once asked me — in reference to why it took so long for me to write that story — what I was actually doing during that period between 1986 and 1999. I told them that I was thinking.”

And he was busy being a father.

“Somehow, in spite of my influence, each of my children seems to have turned out just fine,” he grins with great mischief.

“Truth be told, I am very proud of all of them. They are all very much their own persons and they continue to inspire me with their lives.”

The feeling is undoubtedly mutual and, in one case, that inspiration became more than paternal.

“Dad has always been a great storyteller, for as long as I can remember,” shares son Alexander, one of five boys in the family. “Those oral traditions were very strong in him and in our home.”

Alexander, who teaches at Saint Mary’s University in Halifax and whose debut collection of short stories Light Lifting was nominated for the Scotiabank Giller Prize last year, says that being the offspring of a world-renowned writer never brought with it any added pressure to either himself or any of his five siblings.

“Interestingly, we didn’t grow up in an overly-literary or academic environment either in Dunvegan or Windsor,” he remembers. “We all knew what Dad did for a living, and we were each encouraged to read and be creative by both of our parents, but for the most part it was a very standard and normal household. Our lives were dominated primarily by friends, school and sports-related activities.”

Nonetheless, adds Alexander, his own penchant for putting pen to paper was never discouraged.

“I am a reader first and I have always liked good stories so I think I just wanted to try and see if I could make some of them myself. My father’s influence upon me as a writer was certainly there when I was younger, but mostly in small and more intimate ways.

“He was, as most good parents are, supportive and available with advice and gentle guidance when it was wanted or needed. But I am sure that he would have been that way with me no matter what direction I might have taken. And he is still that way with all of us today.”

Alexander, who is married and has children of his own, hopes, if anything, that he has inherited his father’s humility.

“Dad never wrote for literary acclaim,” he points out. “He was very old-fashioned in that way —and very Canadian I might add. He believed that writing was its own reward and that creative pursuits had their own value.

“I remember when my book was launched last fall and all of us came together in Toronto to celebrate. It was really great fun and the kind of experience that you can only truly enjoy with family. That meant more to me than anything. And it was very special for me to be able to take Dad to the Giller Awards Dinner also and to have him there to share in those accolades with me.”

MacLeod Sr. was pleased and proud to attend the annual literary gala.

“I have never really gone in for those types of events, but I thoroughly enjoyed the entire experience.

“And I believe that Alexander’s nomination was certainly well-deserved. Speaking as a reader and not as his father, I think that he has written a very good book. His stories are well crafted. He is an excellent stylist and he has done well to get into the minds of his characters.”

As expected, Alexander cites his father as one of his favourite authors, along with Alice Munro and Elizabeth Bishop.

Dad has his literary preferences as well.

“This is difficult; there are so many and I am afraid to leave anyone out,” he chortles. “David Adams Richards, Linden MacIntyre, Frank MacDonald, Beatrice MacNeil, Ken Harvey, Michael Crummey, Donna Morrissey just to name a few.

“Of course, I might be a little biased geographically.”

To that end, each has his own theory as to why Atlantic Canada enjoys such a wealth of good writers and works.

“It would seem that there are a number of reasons,” speaks Alistair. “As I mentioned earlier, there is the strong oral storytelling culture that has been passed along by our ancestors — and not only the Scottish. The Irish, Acadian and Aboriginal people have all been quite profound in that regard as well.

“And it might also be that because many of us stayed in that part of the world for so many years, and often in utter isolation from the rest of the country and the world, that we turned to one another — especially in the years before schools were established and when most of us could not read or write.

“And I have heard a thing or two about the inspirational qualities of the landscape. I think that, as a writer, you cannot help but to be influenced by all of that natural beauty.”

For his part, Alexander’s comments focus more on the contemporary state of creativity on the country’s East Coast.

“I don’t know why things are going so well right now, but we certainly have a tight community and I think that helps,” he shares. “In my experience, I have found that Atlantic Canadian writers can be supportive and nurturing without demanding any strict code of loyalty or placing any limitations on what should or should not be considered ‘good’.

“I teach courses on the region’s literature and I think the variety is amazing. In the last year I have read books by Michael Crummey, George Elliot Clarke, Rita Joe, Lynn Coady, Ian Colford, Amy Jones, David Adams Richards, Ryan Turner and Jessica Grant. They are all Atlantic Canadian writers but their works share almost nothing in common and the worlds they represent are totally unique. To me, that is a sign of a strong literary community: Lots of different voices saying lots of different things in lots of different ways.”

Each is also quick to reflect upon the current state of the Canadian literary scene.

“I don’t think that it has ever been stronger,” Alexander states firmly.

His father agrees.

“We forget sometimes that we are still a very young country and that our literature is even younger than that,” exclaims Alistair. “Some even say that our true literary industry is only 50 to 60 years old. Whatever the case may be, it has been quite satisfying to watch it mature and come to fruition so quickly in recent years and to see so many of our fine young writers doing well both here at home and elsewhere.”

The two even share a similar perspective on what constitutes a good book.

“Two things, really,” muses Alistair. “The first thing is that you have to have something to say and a deep passion to say it. There is no point in writing about what you don’t know or what you do not give a damn about — that cannot be satisfying to a writer in any way. The second thing is how it is said. The Earl of Chesterfield once noted that ‘style is the clothing of thought.’ In that regard, I suppose that a good book should always be well-dressed.”

Alexander echoes the sentiment.

“Style and care,” he says. “As a reader, I like to feel like I am in the capable hands of somebody who really knows what they are doing. I like that sense of being right inside of somebody’s vision, their particular way of seeing and responding to the world, and I appreciate watching the way they dole out their specific story in their specific way. Plot and theme and point of view may have certain finite limitations, but stylistic possibilities are endless and I think that is what keeps bringing us back, again and again, to something as old-fashioned as literature and even art in general. To me, the question of what the artist is doing is completed tied up with how she or he is doing it.”

Doffing their academic hats, each espouses advice to those looking to follow in their footsteps.

“My advice to young writers is stick to the basics,” says Alexander. “Work hard at it and try to trust your own material and your own unique way of seeing it. Don’t try to write like somebody else.”

“I tell this to all of my students,” pipes in Alistair. “The best works come from those who write about what they know and are passionate about — it is as simple as that.”

It is advice that the author has taken to heart all of his life.

“Whether my experiences ended up crystallizing into shorter forms like ‘The Boat’, ‘The Road to Rankin Point’ or ‘Island’, or fleshed-out into a full-length work like No Great Mischief, the writing has always been based upon my family, my home-life and my community.

“I believe that it is in the real-life, day-to-day dramas that we discover, or create, meaning and purpose. These are the places that we all find so fascinating, frustrating, rewarding and, ultimately, inspiring.”