The Americans Are Coming (34 page)

Born in Keenan Siding, New Brunswick, on the banks of the Miramichi River, Herb Curtis grew up immersed in a culture where tall tales grow taller than trees. He went to school until grade eight, but read ravenously, especially enjoying Dickens and Twain, whose protagonists were boys.

Curtis came from a family of five children, all of whom dabbled in the arts. His home was alive with music. Among the family’s musical instruments were a piano, an organ, a violin, an accordion, harmonicas, and even a guitar, which Herb learned to play as a child.

His father, a farmer, lumberman, and outfitter, also ran a store, where people gathered and exchanged gossip. Herb had a front-row seat for observing how gossip and lies build upon each other until they become entities in and of themselves – sometimes taking on the proportion of legend. Undoubtedly, the ability to spin a good yarn was a form of social currency. Embellishment was part of that tradition, for there is always room to improve the telling of a tale. His fictional Brennen Siding is infused with the linguistic cadences of the back woods of the Miramichi region; the oral tradition feels very, very close at hand when one reads Curtis’s prose. We are with him in the store, silently drinking ginger ale and peeling an orange.

In Keenan Siding, like Brennen Siding, the river was a shared domain: a gathering place, escape, source of food and entertainment, and life force. Curtis’s deep association with the Miramichi and her tributaries has infiltrated his sense of place so fully that it spills over into the fictional world of Brennen Siding. The people who populate his realm are at home on their
river and with one another in
The Americans Are Coming
, the first book in his Brennen Siding trilogy.

At eighteen, Curtis moved to Fredericton, where he became a bartender and later an actor and standup comic. He has performed more than three hundred times in eastern Canada. He began writing
The Americans Are Coming
, his first novel, in his late thirties. During his most productive years as a writer, Iris Young, his late wife, was his primary reader and source of encouragement.

Curtis is an avid fly fisherman and fishing guide. He has been recognized by the Atlantic Salmon Federation, the New Brunswick Salmon Council, and the Miramichi Salmon Association for his outstanding contribution to raising public awareness of Atlantic salmon conservation. He maintains a foothold in the Miramichi, returning often to fish and ruminate on the banks of his muse, the River.

When you were growing up, what shaped you most as a writer?

When I was young, I went to a one-room school (Keenan School) until grade six. There were maybe fifteen children in total. Think about it: six grades in the same small classroom. It was actually a very good place to learn, and I was happy there, getting A-plusses in just about everything, especially English and literature.

Then, in grade seven, smack in the middle of the difficult puberty years, I was sent to the big school in Blackville. I found myself one of one hundred and eighty kids in grade seven alone. I was scared in that big school; I felt like an alien. The teachers were strict. I felt bullied and picked on and lost my confidence and self-esteem. I went from being an A-plus student in grade six to failing, and I had to repeat grade seven. The moment I began to adjust – finally learning, understanding, and socializing – I became severely ill with a ruptured appendix and nearly died. That set me back another year. So there I was in a class with kids half my size.

Thanks to my aunt Lillian and my brother Winston – both of whom had pretty good collections of books – I found myself reading a lot: Charles Dickens, Mark Twain, H.G. Wells, Isaac Asimov, George Orwell, Canadian and American stuff; anything I could get my hands on. At sixteen, I read a book I liked and learned from the blurb on the back cover that the author was only nineteen years old. I said to myself, “Maybe I can do that. Maybe I can become an author.” So I started
writing a novel – a terrible novel, as it turned out, but it was good practice.

On reflection, reading got me started as a writer. Until I heard of guys like David Adams Richards and Ray Fraser, as far as I knew I was the only writer on the Miramichi at that time.

How has music informed your writing?

Music means a lot to me. I learned to strum and finger pick a guitar at an early age, and when I was sixteen, I formed a folk group of fifteen or sixteen teenagers and we’d rehearse and do shows in halls up and down the river.

I also got into acting. I never became good at it, but I believe it’s one of the best means of getting an education for a young person. I also sang a lot. I was once told that to be a good writer, one must also be able to sing. I don’t know who told me that, but I believe it’s true.

How did the world in
The Americans Are Coming
evolve?

Every time I sat to write
The Americans Are Coming
, my mind went to Brennen Siding. I pictured that little settlement on the banks of the Dungarvon. I became the characters as soon as they appeared, whenever they appeared.

I write alone. Even if a cat enters the room, it snaps me out of my dreams and schemes.

What is the process of writing like for you?

When I write, I enter my office sometime between three and four every morning – and right away I become the narrative voice of whatever book I’m working on. The voice is not necessarily my own, but the voice of my creation – a voice that fits the time and space of the book. The narrative voice,
in a sense, is an omnipresent character, a god looking down from above, watching every move, every development; listening to every word spoken, hearing even the thoughts of the characters involved.

I endeavour never to allow the narrative voice to opine, influence, or condescend. If there’s tragedy, I give an account of it, but it is my nature to seek out the humorous side of things. Pathos, poignancy, pity, and sympathy are not to be avoided, but they are not a tad more significant than fun and frivolity, the so-called lighter side of life. I will not refrain from walking a character down a path to peril, even death, but I’m a believer in polarity – everything has an opposite. Where there is tragedy, there is also comedy. I write the story in my chosen narrative voice and leave the tears and laughter to the reader.

I think it’s important to read and reread what I write. When I do this, I’m usually searching for the rhythm or the lack of rhythm in a piece. If the rhythm is off, I endeavour to fix it. My late wife, Iris Young, was a talented actress and broadcaster and a great reader. Every few days or so, she used to read my work aloud to me. I would just sit, listen, and take notes. If she stumbled or hesitated unnecessarily, I knew there was something wrong with my work. The next morning, before continuing any further, I’d fix those wrongs. Every writer should have an Iris Young in his life.

The relationship between the people of Brennen Siding and their environment is shifting in
The Americans Are Coming.
How has the Miramichi changed since the forties and fifties, the period in which this book is set?

Chainsaws were introduced in the 1950s. They were clunky, heavy, and temperamental, but they were better than anything that had been used before.

Elvis also came along in the 1950s, and could be heard on radios around the world. The whole world has changed since then. It changes everywhere, every day. The Miramichi is no
different. When I was a child, I played with children from all over North America in the summers. Every one of them changed me a bit, and I’d like to think that I changed them, too.

There is constant tension and interplay between the outside world and the world of Brennen Siding. Lindon Tucker sells some of his land and leaves for Fredericton. Shadrack adopts the lens of the Blackville boys and begins to perceive Dryfly as a social liability. Palidin and George “elope” to Toronto. The Americans arrive with their good-time voices, money, and expensive booze. Is self-awareness fatal for this isolated community?

I’d hate to think that awareness of any kind is fatal.

Does dialect shape the characters in your work? Is how they speak who they are?

Until everyone started trying to mimic the way Californians talk, there were different dialects every mile or two along the road – not just on the Miramichi, but everywhere. The people in Blackville spoke differently than the people in Doaktown; the people in Fredericton spoke differently than those from Saint John; the people of New Brunswick spoke differently than Ontarians, and on and on and on . . .

I don’t think people should ever lose their identity, especially their voice. Today people search for individuality by dying their hair purple, tattooing their skin or discovering new fashions, yet they keep their dialect in the closet.

Do you have a list of favourite books?

I have about three hundred books on my shelves, and I’ve read every one of them at least once. I’ve had favourite authors, but that changes from year to year.

As a child, I read the classics, including Mark Twain’s work. His
Adventures of Huckleberry Finn
was front and centre for me. I was a boy living on a river, and Twain was amusing
and insightful. I remember making myself a corncob pipe and actually smoking the darn thing while sailing down the Miramichi on my very own raft. Because I was a boy, and Pip, David Copperfield, and Oliver Twist were boys, I also liked the works of Charles Dickens – especially
Great Expectations
. Wordy as it is, I think I read it several times.

When I moved to Fredericton at the age of eighteen, a friend introduced me to Alden Nowlan. Shortly afterward, I called Alden and asked if I could visit him. “Yes,” he said, “any time.” So I went to his place on Windsor Street. I was shy and backward, and I suppose I bored him to death. But he had a profound effect on me, and I read everything he wrote. I am not into modern poetry – John Dryden is my favourite poet – but I can read Alden Nowlan’s poetry for hours and then read it again.

Once I met Alden at the Press Club, and we stared at each other without talking – and then we started to growl at each other like dogs. I can’t imagine why we did that. We must have thought it was funny.

Later in life, I was introduced to the work of Tom Robbins, and I’ve read everything he has written so far.
Still Life with Woodpecker
is my favourite. Tom Robbins puts more imagination into a single page than most authors can put into an entire book – and it’s there on every page.

I don’t like pathos and sentimental drivel in writing; it’s flimflam – the ruse of the unimaginative. To me, the great authors of this country are those who make me laugh: Timothy Finley, Farley Mowat, Alden Nowlan, Stephen Leacock, and the playwright Norm Foster.

For you, what is the nature of author/reader interplay?

Wherever you read – in your favourite chair, on a bus, on a boulder by your favourite body of water, in a library, even in your bed – the author is there beside you, his (or her) spirit entertaining you to the best of his ability. You’re there with book in hand, and the author is whispering to you, telling
you an embellished story, walking you through an imaginary world. You are the reader. You’ve paid the price of the book to be with the author. You’re giving him the time it takes to see the story through.

In a sense, you’re having an affair with the author – the most intimate relationship possible. You do not want to waste your time and money on a fumbling, unimaginative bore. What you want and expect is for the author to perform well: to touch, tickle, caress, arouse, and excite you. If the author can teach and inspire you along the way, all the better – you’ve spent your time and money well. The author must never forget that hisnumber one responsibility is to the reader.