Last fall, before common sense or modesty could prevail, I agreed to act as a regional judge for the Commonwealth Writer’s Prize. This committed me to a conscientious sifting through of nearly one hundred novels and short story collections. For the next five months, my backpack morphed into a mobile library and I embarked on my commute with high seriousness. On the bus from Richmond Hill, I squinted at Margaret Atwood. As the subway rumbled towards Bloor, I pored over Anne Michaels. On the streetcars of Spadina, I wrestled with Pauline Melville. A Christmas getaway to Barbados offered no respite. While She Who Must Be Obeyed watched over the children on Accra Beach, I leafed my way through one book after the next, grumbling occasionally when I felt they were wasting my time.
I’d thought Canadian fiction would be more conventional, more predictable.
Brendan de Caires was born and grew up in Guyana. He was educated in England and has lived in Port of Spain, Bridgetown, Mexico City and New York. He now lives in Toronto.
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