Elizabeth Hay’s novel Garbo Laughs, was the winner of the Ottawa Book Award, a finalist for the Governor General’s Literary Award, a Globe & Mail Notable Book of the Year, and a Macleans’ Top Ten Books of the Year. Her other words include the award-winning novel A Student of Weather, and the short story collection Small Change. Her most recent book is the Giller short-listed Late Nights On Air.

Interview by Nathaniel G. Moore

(October 2007)

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I tried to recreate as accurately as possible the small radio station where I started out in 1974. I changed the layout slightly, but, in the main, it’s the same place. I like to have a bit of real ground under my feet when I launch a fictional story and that station in Yellowknife was one of the most vivid worlds I’ve known. It was cozy, crowded, tense, and terrifying, the small and complicated kernel of a small and complicated town. 

When I worked in radio, it was a young person’s profession. There were a few older men on the sidelines who seemed over the hill to me, a bit pathetic. Harry Boyd is one of that type. He’s the sort of old hand you can learn a great deal from. First, he’s not a snob. Second, he’s known enough success and failure in his life to be careless of his tongue and of his heart. I enjoyed his company very much. Harder to write was Eddy, a scary and confusing loner. And Dido, with her less than transparent personality. 

George Whalley was a Canadian academic and a poet. His field was Coleridge, but he also wrote a tremendous biography called The Legend of John Hornby. He got as close to the mysterious figure of Hornby as it’s possible to get, and his tools were assiduous research and a sympathetic and far-reaching imagination. His book is so disciplined and generous that it makes most work look lazy in comparison. I read The Legend of John Hornby when I lived in Yellowknife, then canoed through the part of the Barrens where Hornby starved to death, and the book remains a touchstone for me. The quality of Whalley’s approach – his thoughtful persistence – actually reminds me of my editor, Ellen Seligman. I owe a great deal to both of them. 

I spent four winters and five summers in Yellowknife and one of those summers was the most glorious I’ve ever known. That was the golden summer of 1975. It’s rare to have a string of still, warm, luminous days like that. Usually it’s cooler, windier. At that time I was writing poetry and taking stabs at prose in the form of journal entries. I’ve been back to Yellowknife once, in 1988. I didn’t return for the purposes of this book. Yellowknife has changed so much since the 1970s that I thought a visit might throw me off my fictional track. Instead, I relied on memory and research and imagination, and on the memories and knowledge of others who were there. 

I thought about radio as a personal and intimate medium that’s been important to me since childhood. Setting a novel in a radio station gave me the chance to write about the romance of disembodied voices, the importance of listening, the terror of being on air and the burden of embarrassment, the power of unseen connections, and the sounds made by all manner of things. 

I boast that by the time I was 23, I’d traveled across Canada from Newfoundland to the Queen Charlottes and up to Yellowknife. In those days certain remote landscapes captured my imagination, the wilder the better, and I had a huge urge to see them. Living in Yellowknife then ignited my interest in what I thought of as its opposite, New Orleans. Later on I went farther south to Mexico and Latin America, completing my north-south travels. I was writing about the physical details of place and the emotional burden of homesickness and the difficulty of loving well. I’m not much of a traveler anymore. I’m older and rather anchored to my desk. 

Today’s media are making us stupider. Generally they’re chatter-filled and audience-obsessed and less and less concerned with stimulating and deepening our thoughts. I like your notion that radio is human-made weather. The title Late Nights on Air is meant to convey the various meanings of air – as atmosphere, as elation, as exposure. Radio at its best is still a wonderful thing. Like a good book, it can make you feel more alive, more connected to the world.

Nathaniel G. Moore is Danforth Review’s features editor.