The night I met Mia, I was drinking with Louis at the bar. We were joking with the bartender, who was serving me discounted beer along with the occasional penetrating stare. I was waiting to see if he would try to kiss me, and whether this time I’d let it happen. Louis was fanning himself with a menu. He wiped away the pearl of sweat forming on his upper lip and signalled to the bartender that we’d take two more beers. The night was unfolding in its usual way. The guys and I talked loudly and clinked our glasses together in a toast, happy to have left another week behind. I reached up to free my face from my hair, which was soaked to the roots. The alcohol quickly went to my head.

The onslaught of hot summer days had made me feverish. We were bogged down in an unnaturally infernal May. The humidity in the air would blur your vision and veil the horizon in haze. I didn’t remember the springs of my childhood being so harsh. They were already talking about humidex records on the news, and I would wake up each morning to sheets slick with sweat. It was a summer that would become legendary, syncopated by the buzz of fans and the familiar moan of fire truck sirens.

Louis and I were in the habit of frequenting this bar on Fridays. We called it our bar, like we said our park, a way of legitimizing our loitering, of appropriating some territory to forget all that we didn’t dare conquer. We would sit at the counter, on the same stools, under the glow of the hanging lamps. The swivelling seats allowed us to see who was coming and going. Old regulars mixed with young people in search of cheap booze in this tavern tucked in an alleyway. When we went outside to stretch our legs, the bartender took the opportunity for a break and joined us. We would pass through a dark corridor with several rooms reserved for employees. Through a half-open door, we could catch a glimpse of the owner reprimanding an employee or a couple kissing before we emerged into the alley. The bartender would wink at me, no doubt hoping that Louis wouldn’t follow us. He never talked about his girlfriend, and he shot me these perfect smiles that caught the light of the street lamps. The guys would light their cigarettes while leaning against the wall.

I took a long swig of my beer while spinning around on my stool and found myself facing Mia, who appeared out of the darkness. I had never seen her before. She looked straight into my eyes and smiled before passing, dispensing her perfume behind her as though handing flowers out to beggars. The scent would rival that of the overly ripe buds that had bloomed so vigorously on fluorescent lawns that week, of the white lilacs and rose clover covering the grass in front of low-rent apartment buildings. She sat down at her table without bothering to cross her legs. The bottle I had wedged between my thighs cooled my crotch and dampened my skirt. Louis and the bartender’s voices were unsuccessfully trying to reach me; meanwhile, I managed to contain myself, as though I hadn’t just weathered a storm.

A fresh beer slid down the counter behind my back. I became vaguely conscious of an exchange of money between the two guys, and then peals of laughter broke me out of my stupor. When I turned around, the bartender was pouring more liquor into the almost-full glass of a girl who was already too drunk. Everyone was clapping.

I watched Mia on the sly and tried to find something to say to her. Maybe I could compliment her pretty shirt. After a few beers, it didn’t seem impossible. I examined the three people she was with. I didn’t recognize them. New people would sometimes show up at the bar—it did happen—but they never came back. The guy and the brunette looked like a couple. The other girl was leaning nonchalantly back in her chair, her legs stretched out in front of her. She wasn’t talking much and yawned occasionally. Mia was sitting up straight and smiled when our eyes met. The lighting was creating an auburn halo around her hair. She drank often, taking small sips and refilling her glass. I smiled back at her. Her movements were causing butterflies in my stomach. Louis understood what was happening to me, at least in part, and he didn’t like it.

“I’m going to the bathroom,” I told him. He sighed and shook his head.

“This time, you’ve seriously outdone yourself,” he replied, but I ignored him.

I stopped at Mia’s table, putting my hand on the back of her chair and leaning toward her to murmur something—my name. My fluid gestures and the ease with which I made witty remarks disgusted and fascinated me at once. She’d known I would come over. Our bodies both tensed when I sat down near her. Conversations were floating all around us, but I was incapable of focusing on any of them. They didn’t interest me. Everyone else was only distracting me from Mia. I wanted to talk to her until the night disappeared.

Translation by Lesley Trites. To be published April 2019 by Esplanade Fiction Originally published as ´ˇ±čłóĂ©±ôľ±±đ in 2017 by Cheval d’aoĂ»t.

Chad W. Post: I want to ask you about all theĚýdifferent things you do—write, translate,Ěýedit—but it’s probably best to start with something really simple:ĚýCould you introduce yourself and say a bit about Esplanade Fiction?

Dimitri Nasrallah: Well, I suppose the best way to begin with a question that broad is to say that I’m a writer first and foremost, that was my reason for moving to Montreal in the first place, seventeen years ago. Without digging too much deeper than that, in 2011 I published my second novel, , with Esplanade Fiction, and that’s where my longstanding relationship with Véhicule Press and publishers Simon Dardick and Nancy Marrelli began. Then two years later, I received a called from Simon, inviting me to become the fiction editor of Esplanade.

Esplanade had been in existence for a decade by that point, under the helm of its originating editor, Andrew Steinmetz, publishing one to two books per year. The imprint had had some successes along the way, most notably debuts by , , and . The final book that Andrew had worked on was Guillaume Morissette’s debut novel, , which ended up becoming one of the imprint’s biggest sellers. Given that book’s success, a first decade in the pocket, and a new editor at the helm, it seemed like a good moment to change things up.

Following a series of discussions about the direction of the imprint, some important changes were implemented. The number of books per year jumped to four, so that the catalogue could have more consistent visibility. Also, I felt we were missing an opportunity, as a Montreal-based publisher, to take advantage of our cultural proximity to the French publishing scene and translate an exciting new generation of writers. At that point, all that work was being left to publishers outside Quebec–House of Anansi, Biblioasis, Talonbooks, Coach House, Book*hug. Now of course there’s QC Fiction and Linda Leith who both have translation programs. But at the time, the terrain was barren and I thought we could bring a different vantage point to it, and that it would carry greater meaning in the province’s cultural circles for an Anglo publisher to cross the divide and begin promoting the works of Francophone writers. So we dedicated half the catalogue to translations.

It was also quite important for me–and for Simon and Nancy–to feature a more diverse offering of writers. The problem with Quebec’s historic divide along language lines is that for generations every other cultural dynamic, especially those of minorities, gets pushed to the bottom of the conversation in favour of perpetuating the notion of “two solitudes”.

I also have a special place in my heart for short books. So when you mix all those ideas together, you get something of the reasoning behind what Esplanade has represented for the last five years.

CWP: I read on theĚý“About Us” page that you took over as the editor of Esplanade at the end of 2013, inheriting a line that wasĚýalready a decade old. At the same time, you had two books out (BlackbodyingĚýandĚýNiko), and had just beenĚýlonglisted for the IMPAC Dublin Literary Award. What made you want to take over as editor? How did this impact your writing career? Were there any immediate challenges that surprised you?

DN: I’ve always taken a very piece-meal approach to life in Montreal. I moved here because, back in the early 2000s, it was still a very cheap place to live, and I could largely avoid have to work a full-time job. And so from my mid-20s on, I’ve grown into this lifestyle of working on projects to support my writing. Many of those projects ended up being in either the literary and music communities, so by the time Simon asked me to become editor at Esplanade, I already had a track record in Montreal as someone who was involved in a lot of projects, was connected to a lot of different scenes, and who had done a lot of writing about books along the way.

For me, the invitation felt like an opportunity to make a different kind of impact. Anyone who knows me will tell you that I have strong opinions, especially when it comes to most things cultural. To be able to communicate a perspective from an institutional platform such as VĂ©hicule Press, well it just seemed like a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.

I’d say it’s had a positive impact on my writing career. One could argue that I’d have more time for writing if I wasn’t an editor, or if I didn’t start translating, but then the same can be said of having a family or any of the other million things I end up doing. I guess I’m always more satisfied at the end of the day if I’m in the thick of it. In any case, editing pollinates my own writing and gives me the opportunity to working on the complex questions that novels pose at a depth and concentration that few other writers have access to. Most writers will be made to feel isolated by their writing at some point in their lives–the space one craves can also cut them off from the world, and no amount of tweeting will remedy that.

Editing an imprint comes with many challenges, of course. I don’t think I was ready for the amount of work and delicate communication that goes into cultivating and editing the novels of other writers. But it does grant insights into one’s own process, and when you see the results of the work filter out into the world, it’s all worth it.

CWP: How would you describe the type of books that Esplanade publishes?

DN: I like to think that Esplanade titles are off in left field, doing their own thing. I appreciate writers who combine a sense of imaginative risk and aesthetic discipline. Simon and I share an affinity for the storied publication runs of houses like New Directions or Grove, publishers who for a time seemed to be working outside literary tradition but adding to it at the same time. I’m not terribly concerned by whatever trendy cultural conversation is going on at any given time, but that’s not to say that I’m not aware of how culture arises and its historical patterns. I do find it worthwhile to aim to put books out there that offer a new conversation, even though it may take some time for readers to figure what that conversation is and how the book fits.

CWPL One of the first Esplanade authors I came across was Éric Plamondon, whose “1984 Trilogy” you’re translating. Is this your first major translation project? What drewĚýyou toĚýPlamondon’s trilogy? How has the experience been for you?

DN: Plamondon is my first major translation project, and a trilogy no less! But I spent about a decade beforehand translating cultural documents from French to English, as I built up my literary skills. It was a bit of a leap into the deep end, but then again so is every other worthwhile project I’ve taken on. For me, Plamondon’s writing is so diametrically opposed to my own that I feel I’m allowed to use muscles that my own writing would never even imagine having. It speaks to a formalist mentality that isn’t present in my work. But if I’m to be honest, I can see how the 1984 Trilogy’s approach began to find its way into my last novel, (2018). That cross-pollination of aesthetics is, for me, the best part of literature and culture.

I have a great deal of respect for translations; they were a formidable part of my literary education. I’ve always been intrinsically drawn to novelists who have taken the time to translate another author, to make that writer part of their own work. A translation is a unique offering within a novelist’s catalogue.

CWP: For any readers unfamiliar withĚýyour list, which 3-4 titles would you recommend starting with?

DN: I’ll stick to the translations given the tenor of this interview . . .

Mikella Nicol’s (translated by Lesley Trites) [Ed Note: See excerpt.]

Genevieve Pettersen’s (translated by Neil Smith)

Juliana Leveillé-Trudel’s (translated by Anita Anand) [Ed. Note: YES.]

David Bouchet’s (translated by Claire Holden Rothman)

And of course

CWP: Is there anything in particular that you think sets Quebec literatureĚýapart from other world literatures? And on a related note, isĚýthere anything in particular you’re looking for when you acquire a book for Esplanade?Ěý

DN: Quebec literature takes imaginative and aesthetic risks, pulling in strands from both the English and French literatures of the world. Though historically it was quite the opposite and much of what was heralded here was quite culturally insular and inward-looking, that has change over the course of the past generation. My preference is for those new voices who are well-informed with what the rest of the world is up to, and who aren’t afraid to pull in aspects of those approaches into the traditional concept of a Quebecois novel. Those tend to be the features I look for when acquiring books for Esplanade.

CWP: What’s next for the press? Do you have a vision of where Esplanade will be in five years?Ěý

DN: Five years is a long time to predict. ĚýOne thing I’ve learned while editing is that you shouldn’t try to work more than 18 months in advance. Cultural tides can shift pretty quickly and it’s important to leave yourself open to working with the moment. Also, titles tend to do better when there’s an element of freshness about them. Mikella Nicol’s Aphelia is one such book I’m looking forward to seeing out in the world this spring. I’m also quite proud to be working on new fiction by poet and sound composer Kaie Kellough, due out in the fall.

Most projects that I want take years of investment. For example, I’m very excited about publishing a new translation of L’AvalĂ©e des avalĂ©s, RĂ©jean Ducharme’s classic debut, in 2020.Ěý I chased the rights to that for well over a year. The book was published in 1966, and the only English translation that ever came out was in the UK, by Barbara Bray in 1968.Ěý It was early on in her translation career, and she ended up focusing in another direction afterward. The book did not sell well and disappeared. It hasn’t been available in English for over 50 years, and has never been available in Canada. Madeleine Stratford is translating it as I type.

Spoiler: No one ever beats me.

But I’m tempted to throw it this year! As I’ve been discovering all month, there are a number of interesting presses bringing Quebec literature into English, but given the quality of these books, the wealth of untranslated and out-of-print titles, and the fact that it might be worth immersing oneself in Canadian culture given the possibility that in 2020, we’re, once again, all going to be wanting to move north of the border—given all of this, it seems like a good time to add to the list of countries we’ve published from.

Which brings me to . I only really became aware of VĂ©hicule (and their fiction imprint, ) thanks to P. T. They have sent a few books our way in the past (most notably, the Éric Plamondon book), but not all of their translations are distributed in the U.S., and given how many books pass over my desk . . . it’s hard to stay on top of everything.

(Also, that’s kind of a lie. All those books that come in? They’re stacked around my office. And the main Open Letter office. In boxes in the packing room. On my “to review” shelves. There are crannies of our space that I’m not even aware exist because they’re packed with books. We have more books in our office than 90% of Americans read it their lifetime. AND I LOVE IT. BRING THEM ALL ON.)

On Wednesday, we’ll be running an interview with , author, translator of Éric Plamondon, and editor of Esplanade. But as a bit of a prelude, I thought I’d give a bit of background on yet another Canadian press y’all might be interested in.

The “” page on their site gives a rundown of the press’s physical history—and an overview of key employees—but this bit from their latest catalog is a pretty powerful summary of what they’re up to:

We’ve been ruminating on the number 45 for good reason lately—it’s our 45th anniversary. But a more significant number is 494, the number of books we’ve published since 1973. Great poetry, challenging fiction, and essential non-fiction from writers across Canada, with a focus on the literature of Quebec.

It’s always nice to encounter an indie press older than you are . . .

Outside of an assumption that the Canadian government has screwed First Nations communities over the course of history—although maybe not as bad as the American government?—I know next to nothing about this aspect of Canadian life. Which is the main reason I picked upĚýĚýby Juliana LĂ©veillĂ©-Trudel, translated from the French by Anita Anand, to read for this post. It’s new, it’s written by a woman, and it’s about a very different part of Quebec than what I’ve been reading and writing about so far.

This book is shockingly powerful. Even if you can more or less guess the situation of the area that Léveillé-Trudel writes about—poor, alcoholic, somewhat self-destructive, ignored by the government, taken advantage of by the private mining industry, yet beautiful and filled with humans who deserve more and deserve to have their voices heard—reading it is viscerally intense.

The first narrative, “Eva,” is about the sudden disappearance of the narrator’s friend. For years, the narrator has, likeĚýLĂ©veillĂ©-Trudel herself, been going to the northern part of Quebec (Salluit in the case ofĚýNirliit) over the summer months to work with the people there.

We are the new white missionaries. We preach healthy living. Don’t smoke, don’t drink, don’t take drugs, don’t eat fast food, eat more fruit and veggies, get eight hours of sleep every night, go to bed early, exercise, don’t skip school or work, don’t litter, slow down when you’re driving your quads, wear a life vest when you’re in your boats, keep your firearms out of the reach of children, practice safe sex, don’t swear, say please and thank you when you ask for something, vaccinate your children and sterilize your dogs. You must find us incredibly irritating.

This particular summer, the narrator gets off the plane and Eva isn’t there. Why? Well, we find out one page later from Eva’s former co-worker that, “He threw your body in the water, your fragile little body into the dark, rocky waters of the Hudson Strait.” The rest of this section of the novel is simultaneously an exploration of the community of Salluit and an investigation to identify who the “he” was who tossed Eva’s body into the water and why.

Detailing the boom-and-bust cycle of life in Salluit (which reminds me a bit ofĚýGesell Dome), the way the money from the mines is immediately spent on TVs and four-wheelers, and $200 10oz bottles of vodka (shit isĚýexpensiveĚýup north) leaving wives and children and everyone malnourished, ill-prepared for the future; detailing the way in which violence permeatesĚýeverythingĚýand how life is lost so casually, either at the hands of a jealous man or at one’s own hands (there was a rash of teen suicides in the area for a while), or thanks to that dangerous combination of drunkenness and treacherous weather conditions; detailing how hopeless everything seems as pricey new condos are built for non-natives to inhabit, worksites populated by southerners working up there for the money and the beautiful women. It’s bleak, it’s emotional, and it ends with Eva’s death feeling like a statistic in the most gut-punch way possible.

That section, which is more-or-less a first-person account of a white woman recognizing her place in this particular community that she’s absolutely in love with—for its timelessness, its self-sufficiency, its children who are raised by the community, its resilience—and its historic struggles, transforms in part two (“Elijah”) into a much more fictionalized narrative about a heartbreaking love-triangle.

Elijah is Eva’s son. He’s married to Maata, whose daughter Cecilia is maybe Elijah’s. She works in the cafeteria for the construction workers, where she meets and falls in love with Felix, a heart-broken divorced man from Quebec City who would really rather be able to win back his ex-wife. Given this set-up, you already know things are not going to go well. But as a reader, having just read an 80-page description of daily life in this part of the world . . . It’s like the first half of the book provides the landscape necessary for allowing this personal tragedy to have the largest impact.

It would be weird to read only the second half of this book. The emotions at play are totally universal, and in a different setting, with a few tweaks, this could be a Lifetime movie. But after being immersed in this particular community—not to mention the way in which this love story is told in parallel with a hot shot rapper’s failed attempt to find a new life in Montreal—the book embraces a sort of localness that puts it in conversation with other stories of this type, rather than being subsumed by pre-existing narrative tropes.

She knew. She knew that every spring you hear your mother’s voice scream louder than the roar of the ice. She knew that this year you would get into your canoe again with painful impatience. She knew that you would disappear for a few days to look for ghosts until you came back to your senses. She knew and yet she turned her back on you, during the spring thaw; she was nibbling on another man’s neck. And you, you saw thousands of women floating between the blocks of ice, like every year when the banks of the fjord crumble, but for the first time, Maata wasn’t there with you.

If I had had the time, I would’ve also read both Éric Plamondon books in preparation for this post. These are the first two volumes of theĚý1984 TrilogyĚýand man, I’m a sucker for trilogies. (There is a month of these posts that I’ve been planning for a while now, but can’t enact until a third volume of a trilogy I’m not ready to name yet comes out. For whatever silly reason, trilogies appeal to twelve-year-old Chad, who read all the comic books and checked out any book from the library that held the promise of several more connected volumes. That ongoingness . . . the soap opera of it all is so addictive to me.) Furthermore, and I’m not lying in the least, I’ve hadĚýĚýon my shelf at home for months and months now, initially because I was going to give it to Brian Wood (Two Month ReviewĚýco-host, author ofĚýĚýforthcoming from BOA Editions), but then hedging that because I think I might want to read it first . . . It’s about Johnny Weissmuller (1904-1984), who is mostly known for playing Tarzan, but led a pretty wild life.

The main reason I wanted to give it to Brian? Well, he’s writing an absurdist novel about Las Vegas (I won’t say more right now), and when this came in, I randomly opened the book to Chapter 40: Jungle Hut, Inc.

At the beginning of 1969, an idea that had been kicking around for a while in Johnny’s head takes shape. He gives it a name: Jungle Hut, Inc. He hopes to branch it out into four ventures: Jungle Hut restaurants, Johnny Weissmuller fruits and vegetable markets, Johnny Weissmuller’s Safari Hut gift shops, and the Johnny Weissmuller Ungawa Club Lounges. But apart from a few health-product shops in Los Angeles, St. Louis and Chicago, the multinational effort crashes before taking off.

In 1973, Johnny Weissmuller hits rock bottom. [. . .]

After the galas and official openings of municipal pools, Johnny takes a job as a host at Caesars Palace. At the time, it’s the biggest hotel in Las Vegas, but he’s only there to do minor walk-on appearances. He’s there to get people chattering: “Did you see that? That was Tarzan who said hello and gave us our menus. Imagine that, at Caesars Palace they can afford to pay the one, the true, the only Tarzan!”

People don’t know that Weissmuller is ruined. They don’t know that he played Jungle Jim all those years just to pay rent. He has nothing to look forward to ahead of him. He’s at Caesars not to amuse himself, but to survive.

Anyway, there’s a bit more about this in tomorrow’s interview, so stay tuned. And hopefully we’ll write more about this before the third Plamondon volume comes out.

If you thought that VĂ©hicule Press bit was the only P. T. Smith action you were going to get in this post then you’re probably not a regular reader . . .

Last week, P. T.Ěýwrote about Anne Herbert’sĚýKamouraska.ĚýHere’s his summary:

KamouraskaĚýis based on a true story. In the early nineteenth century, Elisabeth d’Aulnières married Antoine Tassy, well-off, land-owning man, “squire” of Kamouraska. He’s awful to her. She falls in love with an American doctor and murders Tassy. Later, she remarries. Years later, many, many children later, that husband is dying, and it’s time for Elisabeth to turn towards her memories, confess her past to herself. The movements from past to the present and back can happen quickly, though as the novel goes on, the story of her life with Tassy becomes more and more linear, more consistently told. At first she is afraid to go there, to think of the horrors she lived through, and the horror she inflicted, not only murdering Tassy.

Cool, cool. Sounds like a good book! Even with this hokey-ass cover, I’m planning on reading it at some point. Honestly.

Especially since our library has the mass-market version. If only it were a trilogy! Then it would be appealing to all my nostalgias. (I’m kind of over nostalgia again.ĚýTwin Peaks: The ReturnĚýis the best art ever about nostalgia—and the best TV show ever—and really reworked my own desires about wanting to go back to a different time . . . It raised some really interesting questions about the relationship between artist, monumental artwork, and fan expectations. Which is something I expected, in part, fromĚýGo Ahead in the Rain, a really fine book aboutĚýA Tribe Called Quest, but one that was maybe too wedded to historical fact, too loose in structure, and too lacking in a compelling through-line. It’s a good book, but one that left me less interested in the words and much more interested in playing the Tribe catalog on infinite repeat. Which is maybe the point?)

But forgetĚý°­˛ąłľ´ÇłÜ°ů˛ą˛ő°ě˛ąâ€”which, by the way, sounds way too Russian to play in 2019 America—let’s talk aboutĚýChildren of the Black Sabbath, which Patrick tweeted about over the weekend:

One of the greatest horror novels you’ve never read, HĂ©bert’s dualistic perception of existence is seen in Children of the Black Sabbath, set in Quebec in 1944, with flashbacks to the preceding decade. Satanic rituals in an isolated mountainous area and religious ceremonies performed in the Convent of the Precious Blood are juxtaposed by means of narrative shifts. Witchcraft, demonic possession, exorcism, and satanic initiation find their corollaries in prayers, dedication to God, Mass, and initiation into cloistered life. Children of the Black Sabbath is unsettling in its depiction of sordid sexual initiation in the world of sorcerers and deceit within the walls of the convent. As do many of HĂ©bert’s other works, this novel probes the traditional conception of reality, suggesting the existence of another world that is dark and powerful.

The hell?! This sounds absolutely wild. And, assuming HĂ©rbert swerves more lit than pulp, this could be amazing . . . I’m interlibrary loaning it as I type . . .

Which reminds me—and here we go, off-the-rails once again, right on schedule at 2,365 words—to mention that Google Home sucks. I got a free little mini Google speaker thing from Spotify (no idea why) a few months ago, and so far, I’ve figured out three things:

1. When I say “Hey Google,” it responds about as often as my kids. But when my wife says, “Hey Google,” it’s totally on point and ready to do whatever she asks. Most mornings I can be found in a bath towel screaming “GOOGLE. GOO-GLLLLEEEE. PLAY PAVEMENT.” [silence] “GOOOGLE. HEY. HEY. GOD DAMN IT. GOOOOOOOOOGLLLLLLLEEEEEE.”
2. It’s good for playing music from Spotify—if you control it as a speaker from your phone.
3. It sort of gives you the weather. If you’re my wife and ask it for “current weather in Rochester” then you get useful info. If you say, “hey! Hey Google! The weather!” it’ll tell you about global warming and Scottsdale, AZ.

Patrick really wanted me to write about Book*Hug this month, but I just couldn’t get around to it properly. How can I keep up with MLB Trade Rumors, our books, my class, working out, drinking, going to concerts (last week it was El Ten Eleven, who is one of my favorites, and I got Car Seat Headrest tickets for June and can die happy in July), and watching college and NBA basketball, and . . . oh, yeah, having a nearly-one-year-old who is funny as can be and happy in a way that I hope he’ll never forget, AND reading all the books I want to read? I already barely sleep . . .

Anyway, this is long AF, but here’s BookThug/Book*Hug’s mission:

Book*hug (formerly BookThug)Ěýis a radically optimistic Canadian independent literary press working at the forefront of contemporary book culture. Our mandate is to publish innovative and contemporary books of literary fiction, literary nonfiction, poetry, literature in translation, and drama.

Celebrating adventures in literary publishing since 2004, Book*hug’s mission is to publish emerging and established literary writers whose work meaningfully contributes to and reflects contemporary Canadian culture and society. We seek to acquire books that are bold, innovative and take risks; work that feels necessary and urgent. We believe in writing that challenges and pushes at the boundaries of cultural expectations.

Book*hug Press has made an impressive mark on the Canadian literary landscape in a relatively short span of time. This was helped by a promise we made early on to remain open to change and be adaptable to the changing needs of the culture to which the press contributes. As such, our books are known for making significant contributions to contemporary Canadian literary culture.

We are deeply committed to building a more inclusive CanLit by publishing culturally diverse voices whose work has been historically underrepresented in the publishing landscape. We strongly support feminist writing. When acquiring manuscripts we carefully consider questions such as: whose voices are missing and who are the storytellers that we need most right now? We aim to ensure ensure that our catalogue is reflective of an inclusive and multicultural Canada. We especially welcome work by Indigenous writers, writers of colour, writers from the LGBTQ2S+ community, deaf and disabled writers, as well as women and women-identifying authors.

We support our literary writers through attentive editing and by facilitating dialogue about the spaces and traditions they work within. We help grow their readership through strategic publicity and marketing campaigns. We publish our books in various formats (print, electronic, audio) and distribute them through as many channels as possible. We also produce elegant and attractive editions with careful attention paid to the aesthetics of design.

Since we already reviewedĚýMama’s BoyĚýa while back—a book those shitty-ass Three Percenters will not appreciate, and yes, I am calling out your lame-ass militia because every one of you who clicks on this ensures that my Three Percent Googles higher than your website:

Chad: HEY GOOGLE

Google: Good evening, Chad, you do not have to yell. How can I assist you?

Chad: WHO IS THE MOST POPULAR THREE PERCENT

Google: I am not sure I understand.

Chad: HEY GOOGLE GOOGLE THREE PERCENT.

Google: Three divided by . . .

Chad: HEY GOOGLE GO EFF YOURSELF.

Google: I don’t appreciate your sentiment, but I respect your viewpoint.

Chad: God dammit. Ok. OK. HEY GOOGLE, WHAT IS THE TOP RESULT FOR “THREE PERCENT”?

Google: Let me Google that for you . . .

Chad: . . .

Google: . . . there seems to be a problem. Try again in a few moments.

Chad: DAMN DAMN GOD DAMN.

Google: Oh dear.

Chad:ĚýHEY GOOGLE . . . HEY. HEY GOOGLE. WHAT’S UP? GOOGLE. HEY GOOGLE. WHAT . . . IS THE . . . TOP . . . TOP . . . RESULT FOR . . .”THREE PERCENT”?

Google: Let me search . . . Three Percent at the University of Rochester.

Chad: SUUUUCCCCKKKKK ITTTTT!!!!

Google: Oh dear!

You have no idea how hard my mornings are. Anyway, since we reviewedĚýMama’s Boy, I figured I would read this book from Book*Hug. But I didn’t. But I think , deserves attention!

Tess and Jude live in small-town Quebec and spend their time travelling all across North America—using Google maps—which provides them the luxury of adventure while remaining in the comfort of their own home. But Tess and Jude are dreamers, and their online adventures eventually give rise to a desire to actually travel somewhere. They settle on Bird in Hand, Pennsylvania, and begin scheming to raise the cash they’ll need for the trip.

After a series of hilarious ideas that never pan out, they turn to a local experimental author (who has a major crush on Tess) and convince him to apply for an arts council grant on their behalf. But when they actually receive the grant money, can they pull it all together for a real adventure?

Funny, smart and wonderfully human,ĚýDocument 1Ěýis a tragicomic tale of two dreamers and their quest for adventure, as well as a satirical take on the world of arts and letters.

Hey, Book*Hug? Next time around, I want to interview you first. And, you know what? Every book you send us this year, we will review. Like, a real review. HOLD ME TO THIS.

*

But for the handful who are still here, I’ve been thinking a lot about how I order my work life. As you know, my computer was lost/stolen/unintentionally taken in ABQ at Winter Institute, and I’ve been rebuilding my life. Rebuilding the entire subscribers database. Recalculating our monthly sales reports. Redoing our NEA grant (which, ugh, I’m already getting so much heat for since our grant last year was aĚýreductionĚýwhereas a few years ago, we were equal with Coffee House) from scratch. Calculating overdue royalty statements. I’m totally zen about most everything else that was lost—all my essays, all the letters to subscribers, all my strategic plans . . .

And the thing is—to complain for a second, just one, give me this, please—I was backing up my filesĚýdaily. But. And a big old FUCK YOU APPLE but—my last Time Machine backup didn’t complete properly. Was I notified of this? Nope. Would I ever have known about it if I hadn’t have had to rely onĚýthatĚýparticular back up? Nah.

But Apple, because they are “geniuses,” created a system by which your computer is backed up daily, BUT, if the final backup is never finished? All files are inaccessible. Game over. You lose everything.

Yes, I know it’s dumb.

Yep, many people are trying to hack (by request) into the 300 GB file on our server that is “inaccessible.”

If you want to try and solve the puzzle—email me. Until then . . . DIE APPLE.

*

But, right, yes, I’ve been thinking about ordering my work-life priorities. It’s like work triage. I get 200+ emails a day, which aren’t even necessarily related to my main job . . . So I . . . well, “HEY GOOGLE! HOW SHOULD I PRIORITIZE MY EMAILS?”

1. Emails about receiving money from wealthy donors, or leads on wealthy donors. Or donors of any kind.
2. Emails about sales of books. Book clubs, bookstore selections, booksellers who love our books, individuals who want to order things.
3. Invitations to trips abroad. Probably would be higher, but I haven’t replaced my passport yet, so this option is subconsciously stressful. If someone tries to leave the U.S. with my passport, they will be arrested. That’s baller. NCIS THAT MOFO.
4. Invitations to speak on panels. Because, let’s be honest, I like that attention. Who doesn’t? Invite me to interview someone on a stage, or, really, just give me a microphone, and I’ll answer you.
5. Formal communications from the University of Rochester. My greatest fear is losing my job. Any “Subject: Security for Chad W. Post” email is being OPENED.
6. Literary gossip. Because, c’mon. Who doesn’t want to hear some random shit about the latest L—- S—-.
7. Submissions. There are so many . . . And they’re all so good . . . HEY GOOGLE! GOOGLE. HEY HEY. TELL ME WHICH BOOKS TO PUBLISH. “I’m sorry but we live in a digital age run by algorithms . . .”