Interview with Ann-Marie MacDonald

A few weeks ago, Quist Issue 1 contributor Jessica Bakar met with celebrated Canadian author, actor, and playwright Ann-Marie MacDonald for tea in a busy café near Concordia University. Over the grind of the espresso machine and the hum of nearby conversations, they shared a wide-ranging discussion about Ann-Marie’s creative life that touched on topics like genre crossing, empathy, revision, queerness in writing, and how to stay engaged as an artist in challenging times. What follows is a condensed version of their conversation.

Jessica Bakar:

As an incredibly accomplished author in both fiction and drama, how does having a multi-genre practice influence your craft?

Ann-Marie MacDonald:

That’s a good question. They really do cross-pollinate. It helps keep me interested and challenged because each genre requires different kinds of collaboration. When it comes to playwriting, I know that I’ll be collaborating with my director and the actors. I get a lot of information just knowing they’re going to be reading the text—I start to hear it through other ears. That kind of outside perspective is extremely important. It’s all about witnessing through others, which is an aspect of empathy, right? I think that I’ve probably developed that capacity pretty finely at this point in my life.

“I never think in terms of a literary experience. I think in terms of an immersive experience for the reader.”

—Ann-Marie MacDonald

I was an actor first, and acting was actually my first entry into that kind of creative empathy, an active, creative empathy that turned into art. I brought that point of view to my work as a playwright and as a co-creator of shows. I wrote Goodnight Desdemona (Good Morning Juliet) knowing I wasn’t going to be in it, and that was also liberating because it freed me to take care of the entire arc of the narrative and all the separate arcs of the characters. But because I’d also been an actor, I wanted each and every one of those character arcs to be satisfying.

So when I came to write fiction, I brought both the actor’s point of view, which is embodied and very specific, as well as the dramatist side, which says, “This is going to be three-dimensional.” I want to place the reader here. Which is to say, I never think in terms of a literary experience. I think in terms of an immersive experience for the reader. If there’s a cup of tea on the table, it’s not there just because there happens to be a cup of tea. There’s going to be something about the feel of heat on the fingers at some point in the narrative. When a sip is taken, what does it taste like? What is the way in which the character puts it down? That is all telling a story. I try never to tell the reader what to feel or think. I allow them to have the experience. A cup of tea is never just a cup of tea. Everything goes to a narrative and to the feeling.

JB:

I really resonate with a cup of tea never just being a cup of tea. I think you are one of the most atmospheric writers that I have read, and that sense of embodiment really comes through.

AM:

Well, thank you. This is all to say that as an actor and then as a playwright and as a novelist, I am always trying to live the thing. So in that way, I need to humble myself before the story and the truth of the characters. Because I might have had a really cool idea, but it doesn’t belong in the book if it doesn’t fit with its emotional truth and logic. The trick is to channel the authenticity of people’s hearts and minds. And again, that takes industrial grade empathy, which isn’t just like a big, nice wash of cozy feelings. We can empathize with terrible people. I will honour characters who are doing terrible things, but to do that, I’ve got to get inside them and allow them to get inside me.
And always, I want to say something important. I wish I didn’t a lot of the time! But I’m also a comedian, so I love to entertain while I’m conveying these deep truths. 

“I need to humble myself before the story and the truth of the characters.”

—Ann-Marie MacDonald

JB:

I want to ask you about revision. What’s the hardest part of the revision process for you and how do you tackle it?

AM:

Well, almost all writing is revision. I work intuitively and organically, which means I don’t know where I start. I just start. And part of the intuitive exploration is to go out in all directions at once, like liquid. Inevitably, I’ll go into some interesting, rich places, and they will not all go together. They will be contradictory. Sometimes plot points will not add up. So how do I get the healthy tissue out of the tissue I’m going to discard without killing the patient? It can be hard to let things go, and it can be very, very hard to pull the good stuff from the mess and say, “Okay, how am I going to nudge that over and remix that clay so that it’s one thing again?”

In the past I’ve had to make recipe cards, to lay it all out in front of me to get it straight. I’m not a math whiz. I strive for sequence, but it doesn’t come naturally, so I have to work extra hard at it. Maybe that gives me compassion for the reader as well. I’m going to construct something and guide the reader through the labyrinth because I’ve been lost in it a few times myself.

“Sometimes, it’s not what you discover as a reader; it’s through whom you discover it.”

—Ann-Marie MacDonald

JB:

What is that period like for you of letting a work sit before returning to it with fresh eyes?

AM:

Well, that’s at least two or three months in between readings. And sometimes I’ll work and work and work, and I’ll go, “Okay, I have to get to the end of this material that’s still alive and giving.” And then I go, “Well, I’ve gone as far as I can.” There’s a little wall here, and there’s a wall there, and are these walls actually, you know, tunnels that are all going to connect up? I don’t know, but I’ll just have to leave that for the moment and go over here.

Imagine you’re making a huge painting. If you’re not sure how to continue that river, you’re gonna go way over to the opposite corner and paint a house. You know there’s a house, and you know it’s kind of over there. And right now, you want to see how these things will connect up. So it’s always just that. It’s a very slow process. Then, the edges start to touch, and you go, “Eureka! These things belong together.”

That’s the hardest part—those great chunks of narrative. In what order do I want the reader to experience this story—what’s the right sequence? More importantly, through whose eyes do we wish to discover what information and what secrets? Sometimes, it’s not what you discover as a reader; it’s through whom you discover it.

“People will go where you invite them to go if you respect them and you really include them on the journey.”

—Ann-Marie MacDonald

JB:

In your latest novel, Fayne, the protagonist’s journey in navigating identity was key to the novel’s emotional depth. I’m curious to know what it means for you to embrace queerness in your work.

AM:

I think I’ve always embraced queerness in my work because it has always been true. It also means I was very serious about coming out, being out, and refusing to compromise. Refusing as well to countenance the idea that a big broad audience wouldn’t relate to my work if it included queer characters and their truths. People will go where you invite them to go if you respect them and you really include them on the journey.

JB:

I think that goes back to the trust in the audience and their trust in you as well.

AM:

And it’s respect. The commitment to myself, the commitment to including as many people as possible in the experience, still holds for me. That’s one thing for which I really thank my Lebanese mother because there was such a tradition of hospitality and a tradition of many, many different types of food on the table. So there’s that sense of giving as many people as possible an entry into this experience and to make them feel welcome. And if at a certain point you go, “No, that’s too queer for me,” then I’m sorry for you because life must be a bit dull where you’re at. But honest to God, most people are able to recognize universal truths in one another.

JB:

It’s such a privilege to read and grow up with so many queer writers.

AM:

Yeah, there’s a lot, right? Suddenly there are actual queer elders who are out in the open, publishing and working. There’s a whole new younger generation who’s reaching out to me as a queer elder and a queer artist. And I go, “Thank you for acknowledging my queerness.”

“If I were your age, I would think that this is an amazing time to be alive—because there is shit happening, and I’m not going to put up with it.”

—Ann-Marie MacDonald

JB:

What is the most important lesson you’ve learned over the course of your career that you wish you had known earlier?

AM:

I probably didn’t have to waste as much time being such a nice girl listening to—mostly—men explain things to me.

JB:

Besides being less nice, what advice would you give your younger self?

AM:

Be gentle with yourself.

JB:

What does that mean to you?

AM:

That means being aware that my life has value beyond what I achieve. I have a lot of compassion for younger people because I think many are very hard on themselves. 

And it’s not like the world is getting easier. But if I were your age, I would think that this is an amazing time to be alive—because there is shit happening, and I’m not going to put up with it. I’m going right into it, and I’m gonna get my hands on it, and I’m going to change it. That gives me hope.

Also, I think it’s really important to know who your allies are. Let’s not fight our allies. I always remember Sinéad O’Connor saying, “Fight the real enemy.” Don’t turn around and pick on somebody who is actually your ally just because they said something that bugged you. Have the guts to look outside. Are you strong and courageous? Take on the bad guys, because in our current moment it’s very clear who they are.