Requiem

knew intimately. But even in the separate world of children, stories were important. I was the middle child of five and I invented stories, wrote radio broadcasts with my sister, created theatre, read whatever books I could find— books were scarce during my childhood. Of course, I was also absorbing language, nuance, mood. I was absorbing voices, especially those of women of a particular place and time.

When did you begin writing?

I began to write poetry as a student when I was about eighteen. I didn’t pursue this further until my mid- to late twenties, when I returned to Canada after several years abroad. I switched careers and went back to school again. As part of my degree work at the University of Alberta, I enrolled in a writing course with W.O. Mitchell. Another possible world began to open up before me, and I slid into it sideways. I made the commitment. But it was also a difficult time for me; I had two young babies, I was completing my degrees and I was trying to believe that I could be a writer.

You start all your novels writing longhand in a notebook. What do you believe this brings to the creative process?

Writing longhand is the method I’m used to, and it’s not as dated as some may think. People do still hold pens in their hands—in my case, it’s a pen with real ink! I can switch over to the computer at any stage, but I still like to feel my way into the voice and direction of a story while sitting at a table, a spiral notebook before me. There’s something really lovely about the flowing of the mind right down through the ink. I try to find my way into the telling with my pen. I try to find my way into the voices. Who is going to tell each of the stories in the novel? When does each character take over his or her own voice?

Writing longhand is easy, too, when I’m travelling. There’s always a notebook in my shoulder bag. When I’m home, if I do switch to the computer, I sometimes stall. That’s when I move into another room entirely and go back to longhand.

You’ve said that you never use an outline, that you create your characters in an “organic” way. Can you explain your approach?

I start with an image, a theme, an idea. The first scene I create could end up in the last chapter of a book. I don’t want a plan and don’t make a plan. I don’t want a plot. None of my books has a plot. That is not to say that there isn’t action in my work. I just don’t want anything forced. I do, however, want my work to surprise me. I want the mystery of it. I want the doors open wide while I’m creating. I want edges and boundaries to fall away.

Having said that, theme is important from the beginning. Requiem began with themes of loss and anger—how would my main character handle these? When I’m starting out, I don’t yet know how the particulars of each person’s story will unfold. So much happens at the subconscious level, a level of creation that I deeply trust. Thematic structure changes and unfolds with the writing. Requiem ends with a theme of redemption that encompasses love and art and hope. As I progress through a novel, the basic ideas broaden out in all directions.

Natalie Samson, writing in Quill & Quire, said, “ Requiem is an exploration of the places history is stored: letters, art, music, literature and the human body itself.” Did you set out to write about this, or did these ideas evolve?

I find it interesting that the reviewer chose to discuss one of the important sub-themes in Requiem. I was purposeful in creating Lena as historian. I wanted her approach to history to offset Bin’s. Bin tries to push away and forget. Lena wants to recount and store family history, and pass it on to future generations. The rest was unplanned on my part. At least at the beginning—one always gets hold of intertwining themes before the finish line! Music, for instance, is stored in the body in many ways, especially for composers and performers. The scene in which Lena and Bin return to their home and discuss how he first heard music (as a series of rhythms and taps against wood) brought me to tears in the writing, and still has that effect on me. Music on skin. A scene not at all planned. This is what I mean by the subconscious working for a writer. All of these threads tie in to the main theme. The throwing of the archival papers into the river, the Beethoven letters, the memory of the first recordings heard by the child.

In writing Requiem, how much did you struggle with separating family history from fiction?

It was difficult at times, because of a full awareness of my husband having lived his entire childhood in an internment camp. I wanted my character Bin Okuma to be unique—entirely different from family members and friends. I was not writing biography. I had done the research; I’d talked to and interviewed Japanese Canadians; I knew the historic events leading up to and subsequent to the attack on Pearl Harbor in 1941. I had witnessed, for more than forty years, how these events left their mark on personalities and on families. But my story depended entirely on my imagination. Fortunately, I’ve always loved invention.

Did your husband read early drafts?

I did not discuss the book with my husband over the four-year period of its creation. He knew the subject matter and the time period, but that was about all. My husband never reads my work until it’s between covers. In fact, I don’t show a word of an ongoing novel to anyone during its creation—a period that could last four to six years. The first two people to read my work are my agent and my publisher—and only when I feel I have a satisfactory draft ready to be seen. This could be my fiftieth or my hundredth draft. It all depends …

You completed an incredible amount of research for Requiem, and some of what you uncovered must have been heartbreaking. What kept you writing?

I never stopped believing that it was important for me to write this book. One of the reasons I created Requiem was to let people know what really went on. The main reason might have been my hope that what happened to my husband will never happen to our children or grandchildren because of the shape of their eyes and the colour of their skin.

Music is woven beautifully into the fabric of Requiem. Why did you decide that music would be an important part of Bin’s life?

To intertwine the events of the novel with music was an early decision and a natural unfolding. I kept thinking of a musician, a pianist imprisoned. How would he practise in a remote camp in the mountains? I decided he would make his own keyboard from the forest around him. I kept thinking: who would know about chaos, forgiveness, redemption—themes important to the novel? I discussed the underlying themes extensively with my son, who is a musician. It seemed that Beethoven was the composer who best understood. I listened to Beethoven’s music throughout the years it took me to write the book. I came to understand much more about Beethoven’s genius through his letters and various biographies—not to mention the brilliant recordings I now own.

I also chose Benny Goodman. Bin listens to Beethoven; Lena listens to Benny. Both choices reflect some of the music I love. I listen to classical, jazz, choral works—a wide selection, really, depending on the time of day or night, mood, whether I’m at my desk or not.

What differences are there between travelling as a writer/researcher, which you did in researching this novel, and travelling solely for pleasure?

Well, once a writer, always a writer. Every moment of my life, I’m a writer. So there isn’t too much difference, really. I have a notebook with me, always, and I did take notes while crossing Canada—but I would have done that anyway. I have crossed Canada about half a dozen times by car, and three or four times by train, so I know the terrain and I know the feeling of excitement that goes with travelling the expanse of this vast and beautiful country. During my most recent journey by car in 2009, I was perhaps more focused on how I would use certain western images for detail, especially images of the Fraser River.

Critics note that rivers are a recurring motif in your writing, and that’s also the case in