A Web of Words:
Forging Writer-Researcher Alliances in the Canadian Writing Research Collaboratory
Susan Brown, University of Guelph / University of Alberta
Aritha van Herk, University of Calgary

This essay emerges from a series of conversations and interjections between Susan
Brown and Aritha van Herk, critic-writers engaged with the question of what collaborative
interaction might contribute to the problematic but fascinating coalition of the creative and the
interrogative, the speculative and the investigative. This composition eschews the univocal,
linear argument of the academic essay for an actively collaborative voice—a movement between
unified thinking and individual reflection—that we hope demonstrates the synergies and tensions
involved in this kind of venture. This piece illustrates such contingent process, even as we aim to
argue that there are specific affordances to collaboration in an online environment that may help
to counter the continued marginalization of women’s writing in Canada and in the digital public
sphere. The Canadian Writing Research Collaboratory examples how such a virtual venue can
enable an ecumenical synergy and coadjuvancy, even while respecting the individual’s creative
capital. A rapprochement of creative and critical activities in online media extends a long
tradition in Canadian culture and writing more generally, but announces more possibilities for
dynamic and flexible collaboration than heretofore, assuring wider exposure and impact, even as
it identifies particular challenges to this project of putting the potential of new technologies at the
service of women’s writing.
Rather than separate our dialogue into discrete and identified segments, we have merged
this colloquy so that our voices overlap and combine, with the result that our alliance or web is

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more palimpsest than seesaw. What follows then, is a variety of mutatis mutandis where the form
of this essay seeks to demonstrate both percolation and content. The we/I subject position
articulating careful separation is both acknowledged and transcended, serving then as bridge
more than divide. Where a first-person voice erupts into our prose, we signal its identity in order
to help situate the reader, but we do not mark an end to our separate voices, which quickly meld,
both erased and emerging, into the contrapuntal utterance that we hope enacts the kinds of
collaboration on which this piece reflects.
We engage this mobile collaboration in the emerging context of a “collaboratory.” An
infrastructure-in-progress, the Canadian Writing Research Collaboratory, or CWRC (pronounced
“quirk”), is being designed as online space, as workspace, “to enable unprecedented avenues for
studying the words that most move people in and about Canada” (CWRC). Studying how words
circulate and stimulate requires a dynamic environment, in which words not only develop in new
ways and into new conjunctions but in which neoteric words also emerge. Such a milieu enables
discussion, debate, annotation, and elaboration within a space that fosters the sharing of materials,
the interpellation of complication, and the combination of our efforts.
If things digital are always already new and shiny, writing has always already been
collaborative. If “[c]ivilization is an open-source project” (Katz n.p.), then language is its
interface, the contact zone between people and ideas, practices, and objects, our shared
mediating factor. This was what Bakhtin meant by “dialogism.” Polyphony and heteroglossia,
those “centrifugal, stratifying forces” (Bakhtin, Dialogic 272), underlie our shared conviction
that our language is always already the speech of others, caught up in a historically and socially
charged web of statements, responses, or quotations, all presupposing the language that came

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before and that which will follow in the continuing series of utterances that is discourse. “The
words of a language belong to nobody,” he says, reminding us that:
Our speech, that is, all our utterances (including our creative works), is filled with others’
words, varying degrees of otherness or varying degrees of “our-own-ness” […]. These
words of others carry with them their own expression, their own evaluative tone, which
we assimilate, rework, and re-accentuate. (Bakhtin, Speech 89)
Words thus weave in and out of texts, histories, and contexts in the process of coming again to
utterance. Writers may be declaredly more conscious of this “borrowing” than literary scholars,
but both participate in the continuing reconnaissance and utilization of language as a provisional
site.
Scholarship in its current form is deeply imbricated with print culture, particularly in the
humanities. The long-form argument has annealed in a range of ways related to the
institutionalization of the monograph and scholarly journal article. Although scholarship
necessary involves dialogue and disagreement, print freezes that dialogue into static form and
materially isolates texts from each other, embedding intellectual exchange in the form of
quotations and citations, and occasionally in co-authorship. Collaboration is the exception rather
than the rule, in part because the conventions of credit in the humanities are still very largely
based on single authorship; for instance, the number of co-authored articles in American Literary
History from 2004-2008 was less than 2%. Print as medium may be partially responsible. Those
experimenting with and embracing the potential of digital tools as a vehicle for research and
scholarship are, notwithstanding institutional biases, much more likely to collaborate: coauthorship rates in the leading digital humanities journal, Literary and Linguistic Computing,
approach 50% (Spiro). The contrast suggests the potential that digital tools and digital research
environments offer; the digital may enable scholarship to break away from the modes of solitary
composition and production that have dominated scholarly production for centuries. The
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potential of digital media for broader distribution and openness (through the World Wide Web),
particularly when scholarly resources are open access, also presents the possibility of bridging
the gulf that has opened between the reading public and academic thought, notwithstanding the
fact that literary scholars in particular engage with materials of considerable relevance to
mainstream culture. The extent to which both categories of scholar cite, quote, and literally
incorporate the words of others into their works demonstrates the extent to which coming to
utterance means, among other things, to grapple viscerally with the internally persuasive force of
another’s word, even “to experience it physically as an object” (Bakhtin, Dialogic 348). Digital
humanities scholars, however, engage with each others’ words immediately, publicly, and more
variously as a result of the ease with which the digital is transmitted and transmuted. Digital
media allow for greater degrees of flux in the output of scholarly work, so that scholars can make
work available at earlier stages, allowing for peer commentary and even open peer review as
forms of collaborative dialogue and thinking that can precede and even continue to co-exist with
the “final” published form of a work. Even genres of scholarly engagement are expanding. The
online periodical Vectors, which foregrounds the use of digital media, or projects using the
Scalar platform, which helps scholars to incorporate multi-media resources, are examples. The
unwieldy and amorphous term “database” covers a multitude of emergent scholarly forms that
partake of but cannot be bounded by older print-based categories such as encyclopedia, edition,
journal, collection, or monograph; “blog” likewise encompasses diverse types of scholarly output.
Not coincidentally, databases and blogs are frequently collaborative.

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[Aritha]
Bahktin lurks behind our Leningradian inclinations to bounce words between one another,
like the red ball of childhood, a time when we were willing to try new tastes on our tongues,
make of discovery an occupation. Clark and Holquist argue that it was in Vilnius, Lithuania, that
Bahktin encountered a dazzle of “languages, classes, and ethnic groups” (Clark and Holquist 22),
and thus came to celebrate heteroglossia: “the mingling of different language groups, cultures,
and classes […] guaranteeing a perpetual linguistic and intellectual revolution which guards
against the hegemony of any ‘single language of truth’ or ‘official language’ in any given society,
against ossification and stagnation in thought” (Clark and Holquist 22). In Vilnius, Lithuania, I
once found myself trying to explain diasporic debris, the bricolage of multiculturalism as a
distinctively Canadian form of collaboration that has imbued Canadian writing. My explanation
may or may not have been successful, but in that place I collaborated with Bakhtin’s eyes, his
historical immersion in turbulence and contamination, the way that language and idea dissolve
into another. This collusion tingles, in my writer’s vertebrae, with a recursive frisson, that
delicious incentive of seeing an image within an image within an image, each one identical and
iterative and yet holding infinite possibility in its reference to the intersection of many other
collaborations and their echoes. Such recursivity goes deeper than any mirroring effect to engage
with a vanishing point, an infinite enfolding of one idea inside another (Fig. 1).

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Figure 1: Recursivity (source: Wikimedia Commons).
Although the tang of the word “collaboratory” does give every writer pause, it invites her
graffiti side to do damage to its provenance. Collaborateur carries a terrible hiss. Words bend to
playfulness, can incite delicious misemployment. (As lemon peel may be an ingredient in a
certain kind of martini and beneficial as a digestive, but is also a striptease performed under hot
yellow light.) Unable to resist the playful temptations of language, a writer might invent
portmanteau words for collaboration. Kohlrabi-elation sounds positive, even if most cooks have
no clue of how to use the German turnip to its best effect. Or clobber a Tory, which might be
tempting at this particular moment in Canadian politics. Or Co/lavatory, those unisex bathrooms
in Europe that require a definite collaboration with held breath and blind eye. Writers work,
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continually, are conduits for connection: the connection between language and meaning, symbol
and image, word and emotion, text and reader. Writers enact the connective tissue between bald
event as it plays itself out, and the record or recreation of that event—or thought or moment of
metaphor. Always already we make allusion, a form of thought-collaboration, as recursive as
writing itself.
That weaving conversation, its reciprocities and tensions, are even more intimate in
Canada. Collaboration between writers and researchers is part of the fabric of our cultural life
(York, “Crowding”). Barbara Godard early identified that direction in her work on the literary
journal Tessera, ultimately gathering together examples in the volume entitled Collaboration in
the Feminine: Writings on Women and Culture from Tessera (1994). Not only do we have the
strong tradition of women who elegantly straddle the apparent divide between creator and critic,
we have universities sustaining the teaching of creative writing, and researchers embedded in the
literary scene, in magazines, contests, and festivals. 1
The symbiosis between critic and writer manifests in book sales, critical responses to
those texts, and both academic and writing careers in this country. Scholars need the books on
which they in turn publish, and a book’s fortune beyond the initial period of publication is
powerfully affected by whether it is adopted for courses and incorporated in critical discussion
1

We do not aim here to provide a survey of the relationship between criticism and writing with respect to women in
Canada, but are inspired by the notable tradition of writers, beyond those mentioned in the body of this text, whose
work spans that divide. Perhaps due in part to the embedding of writing within academic institutions through the
Canada Council Writers in Residence program and the frequent combination of creative writing and literature
programs, there is significant cross-fertilization between the critical and the creative both within the oeuvres of some
writers in addition to those mentioned here, Margaret Atwood, Marlene Norbese-Philip, and Sina Queyras, to name
only a few. Critics including Marguerite Anderson and Marie Carrière have established the rich creative-critical
exchanges that have shaped the development of an écriture au féminin or subversive feminist texuality within
anglophone and francophone writing by women in Canada in the later twentieth century. Nor is such
interdiscursivity and intertextuality unique either to women or to the Canadian context, although there are
specificities to do with both gender and the nation-state. Fred Wah’s Faking It sees writing poetry as synonymous
with thinking critically. Nicholas Royle’s theory of literature as Veering explores and enacts in a central chapter the
tensions and correspondences between “Critical and Creative Writing” (66-7). See also Christl Verduyn’s work on
Canadian poetics. This rich vein of interchange between critical and creative practices has also spawned creativecritical engagements with other writers, such as Stephen Collis’ Phyllis Webb and the Common Good.

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—an ongoing web of words. When we think about collaboration then, in the context of Canadian
digital culture and in the context of the Canadian Writing Research Collaboratory, or CWRC, the
site suggests an arena of continuity rather than rupture, built upon exchange and mutuality rather
than isolated production.
There persists an understandable perspective that nothing is more anathematic to a writer
than “sharing,” and that contaminating originality performs a disservice to idea. But while
“originality” cherishes its own commodification, it works from, with, and around the ongoing
praxis of language and play: thought, theft and transition. Collaboration then is a version of
suspended competition, a mergence and emergence that fuels experiment and hybridity,
refreshment and innovation. Such intersective suspension is not for the neophobic. Solitary
workers that writers must be (no room on our keyboards for four hands, no matter how
wonderful Schubert’s Fantasia in F minor), we appropriate and ponder and quote, effectively
sharing space with the entire oeuvre of what we have read, whether we remember the details of
our absorption or not.

[Aritha]
As a writer, I generally avoid “group work” with its “sharing” component: one person is
certain to do nothing at all, four people shuffle their feet, and one determined goal-oriented
achiever does the lion’s share of the work. But collaboration can enable the better part of
digression, which I might example here. Why does the lion, always, get assigned the biggest
part? Blame Aesop, I suppose, but I find myself on the lion’s side, and not because “partnership
with the mighty is never trustworthy” (Phaedrus, Fabula I.5) as that Roman fabulist, Phaedrus
(born a Thracian slave, but the first writer to Latinize Aesop), informed us. I sympathize with the

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lion because he is required to serve as an object lesson, and has been appropriated by Disney and
Apple, by C.S. Lewis and Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer, put to work as their servant. Circuitously,
these references provide a hands-on or hands-off example of how a writer works, and how in the
process of writing a riff on the connotations of collaboratory, I have consulted couture sites,
wandered into my kitchen and tried to figure out how to execute a perfect lemon peel from a
recalcitrant lemon lurking in the bottom drawer of my fridge, digressed to Aesop and Francis
Barlow’s illustrations of lions, fallen in love with the story of the fabulist born as a slave who
exercised such influence over the fables that we still re-tell, all while trying to figure out why the
metaphorical lion is always male, when the female, the hunter lioness, implies a more interesting
allusion. This same digression deepens the collaboratory that leads me to discover that lions are
the only members of the cat family to display obvious sexual dimorphism—that is, males and
females look different, the mane apparently sexually irresistible to females. And sexual
dimorphism gestures toward Judith Butler’s theories of performativity and the body, an active
concurrence that doubles back to the lion as a metaphor for laziness, since they spend most of
their time resting, and are supposedly inactive for about twenty hours per day. Only at night do
they enjoy hunting, socializing, grooming, and defecating. Which can only provoke the question
of why lions have become such popular markers for movies and computer programs, and for
Christian apologist writers. From there, an irresistible excursis might follow C.S. Lewis, his Irish
skepticism of England, his peculiar relationship to Jane King Moore, his re-conversion by the
argumentative J.J.R. Tolkien, and his career as a teacher and thinker, until the weirdly kinetic
event of Lewis’s death, on the same day as John F. Kennedy was assassinated and Aldous
Huxley too died, November 22, 1963. Fortuity might then interpose wardrobes (of much greater
import to collaborative material culture than C.S. Lewis), in particular my mother’s tall oak

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wardrobe, which she called a garderobe, or a kleerkast, and which had crossed the ocean before I
was born, filled with the high-quality linens that she suspected, rightly, she would not be able to
find in Canada. A lengthy excursion into wardrobes, their peculiar arrangement and how the
advent of walk-in closets has made them virtually obsolete becomes irresistible, but ultimately
leads back to the kitchen, where my collaborative I proceeds to chop kohlrabi for a particularly
satisfying dish, the recipe for which I learned from a young Croatian scholar who last year came
to Calgary to study Canadian literature. While writers might be suspicious of collaboration’s
collusion, it is in practice and in fact the world entire for those who work in literature, whether as
writers or critics or both. There can be no escape from process and praxis: using, being inspired
by and riffing from other people’s words and ideas is the basis for all literature—and literary
scholarship. It is breath and life.
Women’s writing is particularly collaborative. Take, for example, the evidence of the
Orlando Project, a precursor to CWRC, a collaboratively produced, born digital, history of
women’s writing that leverages digital methods, the markup or tagging of its own text, as a kind
of indexing of its contents. Taking collaboration in the narrower sense, the textbase of Orlando:
Women’s Writing in the British Isles from the Beginnings to the Present marks 1446 instances of
collaborative authorship (Fig. 2).

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Figure 2. Examples of search results for collaborative authorship in Orlando: Women’s Writing
in the British Isles from the Beginnings to the Present.

Formal co-authorship, however, is only a particularly overt form of literary engagement with the
words of another. If we add to these results a search for discussions marked for engagement with
“intertextuality,” the total rises to 6228 ways that Orlando identifies the relationships between
women’s writing and the words of others. It was of course Kristeva who introduced the word
“intertextualité” in her own translation/mutation of the work of Bakhtin towards a revolution in
understandings of poetic language:
any text is constructed as a mosaic of quotations; any text is the absorption and
transformation of another. The notion of intertextuality replaces that of intersubjectivity,
and poetic language is read as at least double. (Kristeva, “Word, Dialogue, Novel” 37)
toute texte se construit comme mosaïque de citations, tout texte est absorption et
transformation d’un autre texte. A la place de la notion d’intersubjectivité, s’installe celle
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d’intertextualité, et le langage poétique se lit, au moins, comme double. (Kristeva, “Le
mot” 146)
This transpositional web of words can extend much further of course, if one chooses to
commence an expedition through the tracking of influence, responses, fictionalization, and so on,
or via the thousands upon thousands of hyperlinks between people, places, organizations and
titles hyperlinked to each other within Orlando’s web of words. As Miranda Hickman says,
“What Orlando allows you to do, in a spirit nicely faithful to the agility implied by Woolf’s
Orlando, is to choose your own adventure” (183). Bakhtin, Barthes, and Kristeva envisioned that
adventure and its articulation: “Any text is a new tissue of past citations. Bits of code, formulae,
rhythmic models, fragments of social languages, etc. pass into the text and are redistributed
within it, for there is always language before and around the text” (Barthes, 39).
Enabling adventures is a major raison d’être for CWRC, an online space that will allow
for the creation of similar resources on Canadian women writers, for whom no such resource
exists. Yet this vision is not that of a single, centralized research project. Instead, it mobilizes
multiple projects tracing divergent but linked threads, so as to allow new paths to emerge,
enabling unforeseen patterns out of a diversity of approaches. A multiplicity of efforts can, by
using a common technology similar to Orlando’s markup and hyperlinking, create a
collaborative account of women’s writing in Canada that will help to counter the reversal of
feminist gains in the field of Canadian writing. Canadian Women in the Literary Arts (CWILA)
was founded because it is abundantly clear (documented by an annual count of the rates at which
men and women were being published and reviewed) that women’s writing receives far less
attention than men’s. The numbers declare a clearly measurable gender bias in Canadian
literature. On the web, as Amy Earhart observes, early DIY sites on women writers and other
disadvantaged groups have given way to a reassertion of the canon in high-profile scholarly
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projects (Earhart 313). As the research publicized by CWILA shows, marginalization continues
in the broader cultural sphere, which is more and more the digital public sphere. CWRC thus
aims to promote women’s writing within this apparently brave new digital context, while also
reinserting some of the energy and diversity of those early DIY days by making it easier for
scholars to participate in the often daunting and increasingly complex world of digital
scholarship.
An online collaboratory offers a precise moment of opportunity to employ the tools of
digital culture to actualize in new ways the thought-weaving of both writer and scholar, whatever
angle or approach they may choose. One of many challenges is how to build such an
environment to benefit both writers and scholars, to foster collaboration, and to enable a feminist
aesthetic and a space for women to speak within a digital world still very much the domain of
lions rather than lionesses. The prevalence of sexism on the web is gaining, finally, more
attention. 2
Such inflections colour responses to collaboration as well. As Lorraine York’s Rethinking
Women’s Collaborative Writing: Power, Difference, Property claims, the eagerness to isolate
and identify influence is a pervasively masculine, bourgeois, and economy-focused desire, one
less interested in fussing with community and domesticity than it is in the production of works of
genius. York identifies, through the words of Margaret Atwood, the extent to which “the writer
in Western countries is often regarded ‘as a kind of spider, spinning out his entire work from
within. This view depends on a solipsism, the idea that we are all self-enclosed monads, with an

2

Note the recent UN Women poster campaign mounted to critique the overtly sexist responses elicited by Google
Autocomplete to, for example, “women should […]”. Suggestions are generated automatically, based apparently on
different factors, including the popularity of particular search terms in the internet, but also inflected by recent
common responses to phrases. If search engine suggestions reflect what users are looking for, then the web is not
merely a collation of sexism, but rabidly offensive in its trajectory.
See http://www.unwomen.org/en/news/stories/2013/10/women-should-ads.

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inside and an outside, and that nothing from the outside ever gets in’” (Atwood, Second Words
342). This constellation of author projections—the individuated, unified and unifying, solitary
spider-artist—is a potentially energizing one for women collaborators to react against, for it
chimes in so readily with constructions of masculinity as non-rooted, gloriously and aloofly
individuated” (York 28-29). Daphne Marlatt and Betsy Warland’s Two Women in a Birth does
suggest, by the playful crowding of two women into a birthing process, how creativity can react
to and against the supreme authority of the genius writer alone in his garret. This is not to say, as
York so cogently argues, that power dynamics or differences are suspended, but that the space of
collaboration enables disagreement and divergence as well as concurrence and cooperation.
It is this combustible and adventurous space that CWRC engages with, expanding the
dimensions of connection at a time when the digital has opened a huge and wonderfully
generative capacity. The arena does not privilege women’s voices or discoveries for the very
simple reason that women have had little access to such privilege and so are both cautious and
circumspect about engaging with the digital (which has also been for women impenetrable, and
to some extent, proscriptive). If we note that the gains women made in the heyday of feminist
thinking and publication have been quietly sliding toward the more subdued and confined arena
of social justice, 3 then every initiative that might counter that erosion becomes an opportunity to
empower women’s voices. In such reinvigorated places can women’s negotiation of history,
interest in continuity, and reaching out for acknowledgement, find a place to work. There is the
operative imperative: to work. The verb here is interactive, effortful, interested in progress and
enablement, willing to confront complication and impediment.
A sense of the potential of the digital for new collaborations has been key to CWRC from
the start. The online space is in its infancy, and we hope that new modes of collaboration will
3

See Camille Paglia, “Feminism Past and Present: Ideology, Action, and Reform.”

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emerge as people begin to work within and explore the potential of what it has to offer. A few
collaborations mooted to date give some sense of the possibilities. Our most active initiative thus
far involves the Playwrights’ Guild of Canada. Ann Wilson and Dorothy Hadfield are working
with the Guild’s Women’s Caucus to create online profiles through a survey of its female
members that will form the basis both of Guild-sponsored profiles that can be easily maintained
and updated, and of a profile that can be expanded and extended by CWRC scholars through
further research and critical writing on the playwrights’ work. From such a symbiotic partnership
between playwrights and scholars, detailed and accurate information about living writers will be
made freely available, indexed and interlinked with related material within and beyond CWRC,
and profitably susceptible to collaborative updates and enhancements by the scholarly and
artistic community. Digitization of information is spreading rapidly; the key for CWRC is that
collaboration will be enabled rather than merely situated.

[Susan]
Disseminating unprecedented bodies of information about Canadian authors is just the
start, though promising in its active collaboration between writers and scholars. The flexibility of
the digital medium remarks its potential to enable and facilitate many more direct interactions
between creative writers and critics. Cynthia Northcutt Malone, noting that digital media “make
possible the blending, fusing, even violent yoking of forms and genres” imagines a new kind of
“mashup”:
Thanks to the digital storage of texts, contemporary writers could easily graft the words
of a critic or reviewer into a literary work. The digital era simplifies the creation of
hybrid forms: just as mixing musical tracks once required great labor and technical skill,
so splicing criticism into a literary work once required tedious resetting of the text. Now,
however, a writer could invite critics to enter one version of his or her literary text and
exile the critics from another, shaping multiple versions of the "same" work. Writers and
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critics could work collaboratively, creating hybrid forms that emphasize the dialogue
between writer and reader. (Malone)
In contemplating working digitally on and with Canadian women’s writing, and in new ways, not
simply publishing digitally about it, we arrive at the touchy area of intellectual property. CWRC
at best would help to address the lamentable difficulties facing scholars wishing to engage in
digital analysis of contemporary Canadian writing. Having lunch one day with a former research
assistant on the Orlando Project who was finishing her doctorate in contemporary Canadian
literature, I asked how her digital experience had informed her doctoral work. Not at all, she
replied: all of the texts she was discussing were in copyright. She had no access to digital
versions. It is no accident that digital literary scholarship, that is, the use of digital tools to
explore their capacity to allow us to engage with text in new ways—whether through text
analysis methods that are indebted to computational linguistics, via an “algorithmic criticism”
that maintains a sense of continuity with traditional hermeneutic methods, or by means of what is
now being debated as “distant reading” (Schriebman et al; Siemens et al; Ramsay; Moretti)—
has flourished most in fields where text digitization is not entangled with copyright concerns.
There is no doubt that the big win for scholars within CWRC will be if we can somehow
manage to make not just eighteenth-, nineteenth-, and early twentieth-century Canadian writing
available to use with tools for text analysis and visualization (Fig. 3), but also work by the living
writers who are shaping our cultural present. This is undoubtedly the terrain of transgression and
betrayal, or at least anxiety about them, given the upheaval in intellectual property practices that
is accompanying the digital turn, and the copyright wars that are not yet resolved. Yet there is
potential to build on the already collaborative relationship between writers and the academy. The
use of a text for digital research by no means necessitates the open availability of that text on the
web, and digital scholarship done properly will actually promote awareness and discussion of

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Canadian writing in ways that could be beneficial to the embattled Canadian publishing industry
and to small presses in particular. Certainly, we need spaces in which to experiment with and
model collaborative relations between the research, writing and publishing communities in order
to demonstrate the gains that would result from solving or at least illuminating this problem. At
the very least, opening connectivity if not property can engage with the differentials of rights and
the legal principle of “fair dealing” in tandem with accessibility and its positivities, not least
because writers as well as scholars are dependent upon the work of other writers, and
increasingly also on engaging with that work in digital forms.

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Figure 3. Visualization of networks of connections amongst writers linked to Margaret Atwood,
Margaret Laurence, Susanna Moodie, and Ethel Wilson, based on the digital markup in Orlando.

Writers quote and revise, intervent and steal, network and reference. To claim that we do
not is a false disingenuousness, a now old-fashioned manifestation of a Bloomian “anxiety of
influence.” Here, in that area of constructive contamination, is where CWRC can enable what are
already evocative cross-dressings, the connection between writer and critic who need to talk to
one another more and about one another less, the promotion of the work of women writers who
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still have to struggle to be heard. The 2012 founding of CWILA (Canadian Women in the
Literary Arts), following the model of VIDA: Women in Literary Arts, the American grass-roots
structure which was founded in 2009 to “address the need for female writers of literature to
engage in conversations regarding the critical reception of women’s creative writing in our
current culture” (VIDA), argues for the urgency of intersected communication and collaboration.
CWILA came out of an articulated need for “a discursive space to address the politics of
representation, the critical reception of women’s writing in the literary press and the ways in
which we can foster stronger critical communities of women of all ages including genderqueer
writers, indigenous writers, as well as other women and/or genderqueer writers of colour”
(CWILA). These initiatives engage with more than the statistics of the count referred to earlier.
They enable mentoring and articulation, so that women’s work on and with women is made both
easier and more readily available and accessible.
The potential of digital forms and digital transmission is starting to emerge in Canadian
women’s writing. Witness how Lemon Hound has moved from individual voice to lauded and
awarded print collection to collective voice (Queyras). 4 In 2012, Margaret Atwood and Naomi
Alderman co-wrote a serialized zombie novel, The Happy Zombie Sunrise Home, which was
posted chapter by chapter on the story-sharing website Wattpad (Atwood and Alderman). The
two writers’ product and process enact the fizz of idea and situation that characterizes
collaboration, the challenge of sequence, set-up and even retaliation. Atwood declared the
collaboration “a lot of fun,” saying, “We shared interests in technology, the history of religion,
4

The Lemon Hound blog site was founded and run by Sina Queyras in 2005, at http://lemonhound.blogspot.ca/,
becoming the premier online location for the circulation, review and discussion of poetry and poetics in Canada,
expanding the dialogue significantly beyond the academic or high-brow and countering the dwindling of attention to
poetry in print venues. Her poetry volume of the same name in 2006 won the Pat Lowther Award and a Lambda
Literary Award. In 2010, Queyras morphed Lemon Hound into a group blog, and then in 2011 into “a dynamic bimonthly Literary Journal” (“About”) at http://lemonhound.com that deals with fiction and narrative as well as poetry.
The site deals with writing by women and men and is explicit in its feminism.

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and little-known monsters” (Abrams). But most interesting for writers and readers alike is the
visible friction of creative back and forth, the intricate weaving and unweaving of different
energies and postulations. This kind of movement among forms, between voices, and across
textual modalities builds on the culture of collaboration in Canadian literature by women but it is
also specifically enabled by the internet and the ability of databases to be updated more cheaply
and easily than print. Consider Project Rebuild, a writing project inextricable from software
development, which solicits the reader to become a collaborative author of the piece, moving
creative writing into the space of reading (Murakami and Barkarson). To cite these
demonstrations of collaborative potential is also to site them in non-academic digital spaces and
recognize the extent to which academic venues, seeking as they do to valorize and isolate the
scholar as authority figure, are by and large inimical to this kind of collaborative endeavor.
For the energy, ferment, creativity, and cross-fertilization evident in these early examples
to emerge within academic contexts, and in particular for scholarly-creative collaborations to
thrive, we need venues for research in which technologies are accessible, user-friendly, and
flexible. This kind of venue can also serve to break the documented paucity of women
contributing to web-based information. “Surveys suggest that less than 15 percent of
[Wikipedia’s] thousands of contributors are women” (Cohen), resulting in what is certainly a
skewed articulation of public knowledge. A space less intimidating to women, and more
amenable to experimentation, that also tries to leverage the core strengths of scholarly
environments such as citation, quality control, and peer review, would perform a powerful
service. For the intersection of the critical and creative to bear fruit, such venues will need to
include creative texts, not just for citation, but for analysis and other forms of digital engagement.

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How might an online collaborative research space incorporate recent Canadian writing,
and lots of Canadian women’s writing, in ways that benefit both writers and scholars? CWRC is
an experiment in creating such a space. As the examples of digital collaborations already
mentioned show, it is part of a larger cultural movement, but one that is trying to mobilize
scholarly work in ways that will be productive to the profession and help to negotiate the major
shifts effected by the digital turn. The scholarly community needs to connect with the kind of
energy bubbling in the creative community and the creative community needs to harness the
authority of the scholarly community. We need an environment in which to forge new kinds of
scholarship, realizing the potential for much more extensive collaboration afforded by digital
tools. One possible route is evident in the projected collaboration between English professor
Susan Rudy and Erín Moure, building and expanding on Rudy’s experience of creating the Fred
Wah Archive. For writers such as Moure—another who straddles the apparent critical and
creative divide, and who revels in very direct engagement with the words of others and in digital
experimentation—a living archive would harness the ability of the web to capture response and
process, that ongoing dialogism of writing. CWRC will have the technical infrastructure to
support linking out into other literatures and across languages, thus providing a rich and
revealing context for the work of someone like Moure. The collaboration between writer and
scholar in the creation and curation of such an archive would harness scholarly labour and
resources to the preservation and open dissemination of portions of a writer’s oeuvre that would
benefit from a digital form and from being embedded in a social and critical space. Such
partnerships between writers and scholars might assist in producing hugely valuable collections
that in turn stimulate reputations, textbook sales, and demands for readings or further
publications. Quite focused collections could provide a new kind of lens on Canadian writing.

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Fostering and enabling audience must surely be one of the ways that CWRC can help aspiring
writers. Enhancing awareness of what is available, giving people a place to search for and
sample new Canadian writing, and providing a larger context in which to place that writing can
facilitate recognition and attention. There are yet more possibilities, including a writers’
showcase that allows emergent authors to post a selection of their work, selective exposure of
work to enable readers to choose whether to buy it or set it for a course, or a virtual writer-inresidence position that promotes dialogue within a context that foregrounds the flux into which
the digital turn has flung both creative writing and scholarly research.

[Aritha]
Context remains the passport; there can be no text without context. And context is greater
than merely the parts that contribute to meaning, but a site of connection, from contexere, to join
together. To transcend definition by performing an example again, I search for clues, read
toward the dance of translation as a collaborative art, the relationship that Nicole Brossard
addresses so cogently: “‘We translate all the time,’ says Nicole Brossard. ‘Even when two people
are speaking the same language, each person is always wondering what the other person meant’”
(qtd. in McGillis). Here is the goal of collaboration: to wonder what another person means and to
embark upon a quest to discover shades and elements of that meaning.
I read Nicole Brossard most often looking out from my window across the foothills to the
Rockies. I am always, when I open Brossard, reminded of her 50th birthday and how I had just
moved into the house where I live, but because she was 50 and she was Nicole Brossard, I gave
her permission to smoke, which no other writer or critic has ever been allowed to do, and no
other writer or critic or text has been permitted to do in this house. I read Nicole Brossard with

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the determined distractedness of a writer refusing to be a critic, but yearning to unpack every
inch of her cigarette smoke in the most and least of scholarly exegesis.
And so, I re-read again Hier, or Yesterday, at the Hotel Clarendon, the translation by
Susanne de Lotbinière-Harwood an “installation” that recites the lives of women as a rich text
unfurling referentiality. The novel is comprised as a conversation between two women, a
discourse rich and allusive, filled with time and travel, characters and historical figures lingering
on the pages like fine scent. As always, I loiter over the Appendix. It performs as a space where
the book replaces a replacement in the translation of a translation of a conversation between
Descartes and Helen and the Cardinal, and in the process prescribes—no, that is not the right
word—unfurls a net of intertext, a list of books that the narrator has, over the years, purchased.
That list is offered playfully:
On the way back I stop at Librairie Pantoute where I leaf through novels that make me
want to write. I always buy at least one book so I can have the pleasure of a new novel in
front of my stimuli-starved eyes. That’s how, here and there, over the years, I purchased
Our Lady of the Flowers by (Carla signals with her hand that we need to guess the
authors’ names) -------, To the Lighthouse by------, Paradiso by […]. (Brossard 203)
and so on, and so on, an inventory of more than sixty titles. The list is a tease, a challenge and a
disquisition. The well-informed reader will know the authors of the novels listed, will have read
them as well, and will gauge their influence with all the rich and erotic intent of the novel. “You
see,” says the narrator, “I need books in order to come and go in the complex beauty of the world”
(Brossard 204). As do we all, need books, and lists of books, with authors and without authors,
reading the truly collaborative art of decoding symbols to connect and to exchange ideas. As if to
tenderize the reader’s complicity and bewilderment and collaboration, Brossard concludes
Yesterday, at the Hotel Clarendon, with the coup de grâce of the Appendix, the same list of
books again, with authors attached this time. This pivot of novels at the end of Brossard’s novel

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about the intersection of four women who recite the world in the Hôtel Clarendon—the oldest
continuously operating hotel in Quebec City, once a house owned by printers (vraiment!) and
transformed to a hotel in 1870, its Art Deco embellished and completed in 1927—speaks to the
unending potential of words webbed into alliance with both creation and explication. Nothing is
ever accidental, bricolage and architecture and translation, notes and travels and time traversed,
streets and windows and music all relevant, the recitative gestures of the novel underscoring its
ecstatic agony in moving toward that final Appendix, an inventory of novels for how to read and
read between, and across, ending so gently, with Georges Perec, Life: A User’s Manual
(Brossard 237).
All of which is to say that the ultimate transgression would be to separate words from
their pleasure, to paint a line between and to insist that there is no tenderness shared by writer
and researcher, critic and reader, language and meaning, reference and interest, text and intertext.
All readers yearn for a space to talk back to and intersect with Yesterday, at the Hotel Clarendon,
for it is in that space that new discoveries allow themselves to be invented. The outcome of such
a space might be more engagement with the creative community and the reading public, but the
rhizomatic and effervescent structure of this essay is meant to suggest precisely the extent to
which ideas and words and things are in flux, and to identify as well the challenge of translating
the possibilities into any medium, whether print or digital. The end of Brossard’s novel pulls the
endeavor together, concluding, “It’s just a little sentence for healing” (Brossard 229).
And there we can begin with collaboration and the collaboratory, as a site of healing and
as a site where women’s writing in Canada and Québec today makes alliances, enables
generative transgressions, and tests betrayals.

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