The (CanL)It Crowd with Rayanne Haines

When I asked author and fellow League of Canadian Poets board member Rayanne Haines to join me for an instalment of The (CanL)It Crowd, I knew her response would be thoughtful. I also knew I’d probably be a little surprised—in that wonderful, ticklish way good writers can suss out sensitive spots and lean into them. I was not, however, anticipating being moved quite so much by Rayanne’s nuanced call for resistance.

Rayanne writes of authenticity in the attention economy of social media. She writes of finding your people and attempting to strike a balance. Importantly, (to me at least), Rayanne also writes to living with some questions—of not knowing how to proceed, but proceeding anyway. And that resistance I mentioned: without contempt but with conviction, Rayanne champions being yourself when it seems so many people are trying to be like everyone else.

I’m delighted to welcome Rayanne to this series to speak about the koan of CanLit through the lens of literary citizenship and community.

The resplendent Rayanne Haines. 

The (CanL)It Crowd with Rayanne Haines: Obtaining Attention as a Literary Citizen

Attention economy isn’t a new theory. It’s been around since the 1970’s when psychologist and economist Herbert A. Simon wrote about the concept, noting, the link between information overload and attention scarcity, and wrote that “a wealth of information creates a poverty of attention.” In the 90’s Michael Goldhaber expanded upon this economy of attention, stating “Obtaining attention is obtaining a kind of enduring wealth.” In the small literary circles, I belong too we often talk about the human cost of social media culture and its need for constant attention. How it shifts the way we view ourselves and the overwhelming expectation of self-promotion. We talk about how to promote in a way that is good and right, with authenticity, but also, how to land on those best of lists to draw attention to your art in an unbelievably fast-moving world. And then, for folks like me, who don’t reside in larger urban centres like Toronto, Vancouver, or Montreal, how to gain attention outside our home provinces? 

I am solidly in the midst of trying to promote my new poetic memoir, What Kind of Daughter? and I confess to feelings of confusion about seeking attention as enduring wealth, not only for myself and my book, but also for my publisher. I want people to read my work and to think the book is beautiful and generous. The potential of bad reviews is terrifying. Equally is that of the work quietly disappearing, maybe, especially, because of the content. I’m writing about myself, my life, my mother, about grief and identity, about holding both in a body. In many ways the book is a reclaiming of self. I want to celebrate this, and I want the work to last, to be about more than an unboxing Instagram reel (which I’ve done and will likely do again). I want my work to create meaningful conversation, but in this online obsessed world, meaningful conversation feels harder to develop. And then, I think, do I really want to talk to people about this grief book, online?

I wonder, with all this consideration of attention economy, where I fit. Reaching your readers takes a concerted effort. Though finding readers and community in a social media and hashtag culture feels entirely overwhelming, for many writers’ social media has provided an important avenue for developing community. Lately, I’ve begun to think about how much of social media culture is more about creating a new wave of expansive and inclusive literary citizenship than it is about attention seeking. 

I’ve always said that I want to meet my writers where they are at. I said this when I wrote Urban Fantasy and CanLit scorned me for it. I say it now while I write poetry, and it’s called confessional (a problematic term levelled against women writers). As part of my literary citizenship mandate, I’ll continue to push back against the parts of CanLit that continue to be power stroking and condescending – sometimes that means looking at myself a little harder in the mirror. 

As I put this new work into the world, I hope it is genuinely seen, that I find my own way through the writing and promotion journey and that - however they discover it - the book finds welcome with readers, where they are.

More about Rayanne Haines:

RAYANNE HAINES is an award-winning hybrid author and pushcart nominated poet, producer and podcaster. She is the author of Tell The Birds Your Body Is Not A Gun (Frontenac House), winner of the 2022 Stephan G. Stephansson, Alberta Literary Award for Poetry and shortlisted for both the BPAA Robert Kroetsch Award, and the ReLit Award. She's also the author of the The Stories in My Skin (2013), Stained with the Colours of Sunday Morning (Inanna, 2017), and, What Kind of Daughter? (Frontenac House) a poetic memoir exploring grief, identity, and gendered trauma. Rayanne served as the 2022 Writer in Residence for the Edmonton Region Federation of Libraries, is the host of the Crow Reads Podcast, President of the League of Canadian Poets, and an Assistant Professor at MacEwan University. She has been published in various anthologies and journals including the Globe and Mail, Minola Review, Fiddlehead, Grain, FreeFall, Prairie Fire and others.

What Kind of Daughter? by Rayanne Haines, published by Frontenac House Press.

About What Kind of Daughter?:

What Kind of Daughter? is a poetic memoir by Rayanne Haines that considers identity and gender expectations while exploring the public perception of the space between the spaces we inhabit during periods of grieving, whether that grieving is based in loss of self or the loss of another. In this hybrid collection of poetry and essay, Haines reflects on her life growing up in rural Alberta, and considers the loss of her mother to cancer while asking questions such as how do we steer through holding patterns of almost grief, how do we navigate the terrain of discovery, how do we journey through the burden of care? In What Kind of Daughter?Haines reflects on the choices women are asked to make and challenges readers to reflect on the way we value, devalue, or simply exist within the spaces of gender and grief.