The Current - Miriam Toews on why she writes, and how it helps her survive

Episode Date: September 3, 2025

People who read the fiction of Miriam Toews might think they know a fair bit about her life story. She's written about sister relationships, suicide, and her conservative Mennonite upbringing. Now her highly anticipated new memoir does away with the mirror of fiction — shining a light on why she writes, and the power of family.

We're in the midst of the dog days of summer. And it's called that because during this period, Sirius, the dog star, rises with the sun in the morning. Not because it feels like several dogs are breathing their humid breath on you all the time. Can you tell he's a cat person? Hello, I'm Neil Kerkstel. And I'm Chris Houghton. We're the co-hosts of As It Happens.

But throughout the summer, some of our wonderful colleagues will be hosting in our place. We will still be bringing you conversations with people at the center of the day's major news stories here in Canada and throughout the world. You can listen to As It Happens wherever you get your podcasts. This is a CBC podcast. Hello, I'm Matt Galloway, and this is the current podcast. If you have ever read a novel by the award-winning Canadian author, Miriam Taves, you probably feel like you know a little bit about her.

Books tell the stories about growing up in a conservative Mennonite community, which she did. One novel describes the relationship between two sisters and how one struggles to keep the other alive. parallels what happened with Miriam and her sister Marjorie. Another novel features a multi-generational family headed by a formidable funny matriarch who just happens to share the same name as Miriam's own mother. Miriam Taves's highly anticipated new memoir does away with the mirror of fiction and tells her

story head on. It's called a truce that is not a piece. Miriam Taves is with me in studio to talk all about it. Hello. Hello. Nice to see you. Nice to see you. As I said, I think a lot of people probably think they need.

know a little bit about you or a lot about you? Why did, why did you want to write this book now? I think it was, I guess, well, the, you know, the things that I was thinking about and feeling when I started writing the book or when I, or just right before I started writing the book were, I was, I was struggling. I was struggling with the, you know, this question of why am I writing. I was thinking, you know, why am I writing? I don't know. I don't know if I was going through some weird crisis, something that, you know, is that, is that a normal thing at my age? I'm not sure. You know, it was, and, and just doubt and just sort of struck with the kind of futility of it all. And maybe I was, you know, maybe I was a little bit depressed. But I guess I was in a type of

funk, in a way, thinking about writing. And so, and that's what I wanted to write about. And I wanted to, I wanted to attempt to answer that question. Why do I write? The question that I had and ask it myself. The question that I am asked so often. And I think that nonfiction seem to be the best container for that, you know, for that. You know, just using my life in an attempt, I guess, to answer that question. What do you make of, I mean, is it a memoir? Is that what you call it? Because it's not, it's not like this is the story of my life. It begins and it's, you're not doing that. No, no, yeah, no, not at all. It's not an audible. biography. It's not a sort of, you know, A to B to, it's, you know, I guess my publishers are calling it a

memoir and I guess it has to have a label. What do you call it? I mean, I don't know. I call it, you know, the thing, the latest thing. I'm not sure. I'm not sure. I mean, it's a high, I guess you could say it's a hybrid memoir. I guess I think of it also very much so as a, as an argument with myself, maybe as a type of confrontation. What are you arguing about? Maybe it's an argument about writing. Should I write? Why do I write? Do I need to write? Maybe I shouldn't write. But also just arguing about, you know, a sense of, and this sounds so heavy and I'm not in this place anymore, this headspace, but, you know, just the idea of life. I mean, what is, you know, what are we doing here? Why? You know, all of these, all of these questions. So maybe it was an

argument, you know, of between, you know, my demons and better angels. Who knows? Who knows? Maybe I think of everything as an argument with myself, everything that I've written. Can you tell me about the title? This comes from this poet, Christopher Wyman. Yeah. I mean, I want to ask you about him.

He's amazing. Yeah, no, he is. I love. Christian Wyman. Christian Wyman, yeah. And the quotation is, we might remember the dead. without being haunted by them, to give our lives a coherence that is not closure and to learn to live with our memories, our families, and ourselves emit a truce that is not a peace.

Right. What does that mean? Yeah. Yeah. And, you know, for me, when I read that, I thought, yeah, that's it. That's exactly it. And a truth that is not peace. That's how it feels.

I think that's where I was trying to get, I mean, I wrote the thing and then gave it that title, because I had read this writing by Christian Wyman and others. I mean, he's just brilliant. Everybody should read his stuff about faith and belief and art and, you know, and non-belief and... And despair. And despair and pain and suffering. Sickness. Yeah.

So it just seemed to me that that's what it was, you know, reaching, that that's what the book sort of represented to me. You know, at the end of it when I was finished, when I was thinking, okay, what am I going to call this thing? that it was that I had reached a truce, you know, perhaps with myself, if it was an argument with myself or a confrontation with myself. And that was not peace. It was, you know, there's no, there's no sense of peace of mind or closure or anything like that. I don't even believe in those things anymore, you know, but it certainly was a type of truth.

What is interesting to you about him? I mean, he pops up a couple of times in this book. Yeah. And as I said, he's got this fascinating story. where he should be dead, he was diagnosed with this terrible form of cancer and thought he was going to die, didn't die, came from a very religious community, left that community, went back to faith at some point in time, and wrote this book that is sort of, I mean, he's written a lot of things, but one of the books that he wrote is about this fight against despair in some ways.

What is interesting to you about what he has pulled off? Well, he goes to that, to that subject fearlessly, and I'm inspired by that. I feel as though this despair is the thing maybe at the heart of, you know, just of what I write, of probably what everybody writes, you know, the despair, or what's another word for it, that sort of existential fear or dread or whatever it is, just simply by virtue of being human. And he also, he has a faith in, you know, he is a Christian, but he's filled with doubt. and yet, you know, this faith that he has also sustains him. And I feel, I feel closeness to him, to his work, because I feel, I understand that faith

and I understand the doubt. And I'm at a point in my life where, or maybe I always have been, but just still struggling with that, maybe because of my background, because of my, you know, the religious community that I come from, you know, so I can just relate to the stuff. to the stuff that he writes about. You talked about this question of, like, why you write. And, I mean, the book starts with this. This request from this festival in Mexico City where the organizer says,

you have to figure out, give us a paragraph or something as to why you write. Right. What do you think this person was looking for? So, yeah. Because it turns into a bit of a nightmare in some ways. Yeah, it's a kind of a, you know, threat throughout. And that Mexico City thing, that's a pastiche of all the, of all the festivals and and literary events, et cetera, then, you know, interviews and conversations that I've had

where that question is asked of me and of so many other writers. You call it a bit of a douchebag question. Yeah, I guess I use that word douchebag often. That was, yes. It's so funny. I was just in the, yeah, because, you know, it has a really specific meaning for me in terms of how I apply it. I was in the UK recently and touring this book, and they didn't, they don't use the word

douchebag in the UK, apparently. So, you know, I spent a lot of time while I was there describing what it, you know, what it means or what I think it means, which is, you know, very specific kind of. It's not, you know, asshole. It's not, you know, all the other things. Like it's a, it has a very specific meaning. And, you know, for a person who's pretentious, authoritarian, entitled, you know, and I guess just the notion of even putting myself into a position of answering certain questions or thinking about certain. certain things, you know, made me feel like, like a douchebag. There's something so pretentious to, to me, or self-indulgent, or just impostery about writing. It's something that I'm so embarrassed about, so mortified by. And yet, you know, I can't stop doing it. I need to do it. You know, other people's books. I mean, reading. That's my whole world, you know, books and reading. And yet I have this, and maybe it's from my background. Maybe it's, you know, growing up where I did, when I did, as a Mennonite girl on the prairies without any sort of understanding that

being a writer was something that, you know, anybody could be. I still ask myself the questions that was asked of me from maybe conservative religious men. Who do you think you are? You can't do this. This is just lies. You know, this is just self-indulgent. self-centered, self-absorbed nonsense. You still ask yourself those questions? Yeah, you know, and it's just that thing that, like, it doesn't matter how old I get. And I'm really old now, Matt. You're not really old to continue.

You know, you just can't get away from that. When did you know that you could do this? I mean, because you almost, you could have been something else. You could have been here on the radio delivering the traffic. Is it too late? Yeah, that's right. I did have a very, very, very, very short radio gig, yeah, as a traffic girl. Roll. Lisa Cook?

Lisa Cook. The traffic rule. Yeah. So I read about this in the book. I had finished journalism school and got this gig. And in Manitoba, a tiny little radio station. And they said, okay, yeah, we're going to hire you to do the weather. What is your name?

And I said, my name. And they said, no, no, no, no, no. That's a crazy name. You're going to be Lisa Cook. Lisa Cook. Yeah. When did you figure out that perhaps that was not what you wanted to do? and that despite all those voices that were coming at you, you could write,

that this could be something that you could do. If I think back to my childhood, my father encouraged me to write things down. When I was bored, it would be, you know, he would say, hey, why don't you write a little bit? He was a teacher, you know, write a paragraph of whatever it is that you want to write. And so, and I would do it sometimes. Sometimes I wouldn't. And it felt good. I remember it feeling good.

I remember just the process, just putting words onto a page, you know, seeing that. a sort of, you know, synthesis of whatever it was that was going on in my head. And that, you know, that was exciting to see that, to see that. I had made something. But it wasn't until I, I was in my late 20s, really, and I was actually, I was working on a radio documentary about mothers on welfare. And it occurred to me then in that process that, hey, you know what, I might be able to maybe write a novel.

I mean, even saying that, I remember actually somebody on, when I did write the novel and it came out and a guy on the radio was reviewing it, I suppose, and said, yeah, but is it really a novel? You know, and I remember thinking the same thing. Yeah, maybe it's not. I mean, it's just basically a sort of fictionalized version of my own life. Maybe that's not what a novel is. Maybe I didn't just write a novel. And I remember my sister, you know, being. so angry and indignant on my behalf, you know. It's like, yeah, it's a novel. Hi, everybody. I'm J.B. Poisson and I host Frontburner. It's Canada's most listened to Daily News Podcast. Just the other day, we were in a story meeting talking about how we can barely keep up with what's going on in Canada and the world right now. And, like, it's our job to do that.

So if you are looking for a one-stop shop for the most important and interesting news stories of the day, we've got you. Stop doom scrolling. follow front burner instead. You had a deal with your sister. You talk about this in the book. When this question comes up of why do you write and they want you to submit some sort of thing, one of the things you submit is these letters that you'd sent to Marjorie when you were traveling through Europe. Tell me a little bit of why did you send that?

And what was the deal that you had with her? So, yeah, those letters, I was 18. So it was the first time that I was leaving home, really, on what I was going to travel and did. with a boyfriend of mine at the time, we were cycling. And my sister, who was six years older than me, had basically left university, was very sick, depressed, and had moved back home with my parents. And she asked me if I would write her letters. She begged me, you know, please, please, you have to, you know, write letters about your trip. And I took it very seriously.

I thought, yeah, okay, you know, and the deal was, and I said, you know, jokingly, but not jokingly at the time, okay, okay, I'll write you letters, you know, and you just, you know, stay alive. And, and of course, you know, okay, deal, deal, which is obviously in retrospect, you know, a ridiculous pack to make. But that's when I first started writing, you know, and understanding that it occurred to me as I was writing and I enjoyed it. it, oh, you know, here, here, it's fun. I mean, it feels good. I know this sounds so crazy in terms of describing what writing means, but, you know, it was, it was just that way of taking everything and, and getting rid of it in a way. And I was also trying to entertain her, you know, so I was conscious of the things of writing, you know, the setting, where were we, who were we talking to, you know, trying to get in all those details. trying to really paint a picture for her.

You say in this book that she taught you how to stay alive. Absolutely. And with that, you know, maybe not a conscious thing, but it was certainly a gift. She gave that to me by asking me to write and then, you know, discovering that, ah, this was a thing that, you know, made me feel alive. She died by suicide, and people who have read your fiction will know that. Um, your father also died by suicide. How much of this book is about trying to, not understand that, but do you know what I mean? Try to wrap your head around. Oh, so, so much. I mean, I think that it's,

um, yeah, suicide, their suicides. I mean, I mean, it's the thing that I'm, you know, forever now for the rest of my life attempting to, to understand. And, and, and not only to understand, but to get to a place, uh, where I can respect. Really, really, really feel that, absolute respect for their choice, which is different than understanding. It's different than compassion. It's different. What does that mean to respect? To say, you know, I respect your choice. I can get to a place where I can say, this was the decision that you made. You were in so much pain. You needed to find a way of ending this pain. And this was what you decided would end the pain and I can respect that. It's not something that we would have wanted to have happened,

of course. And when you think of the, you know, the violence of it, the violence of the act, the, the aloneness of it, I mean, just the profound sadness of it, you know, when somebody kills themselves, they're alone, obviously. But to get past that, you know, because if you sort of, you know, go too far into that, to thinking about it, to thinking, you know, to walking through to the end with them, I mean, it could really make you a little bit crazy. So I think it's just really, really important to, yeah, just to feel it, you know, to get to that, that truth that is peace, in a sense, you know, of respecting, of respecting the choice. That's a hard place to get to.

It is a hard place to get to, but it's, you know, it's vital. Is that easier in part because, I mean, you write in this book, and I haven't heard this before about your own thoughts of suicide, that you went to the edge of the river, through your phone Yeah, yeah. Into the river. Yeah. But you're here. Yeah.

So you didn't follow through on that. What was going on? Mm-hmm. It was a really dark, dark, dark time in my life. Everything seemed to be falling apart. Every part of my life. And, you know, now looking back at it, you know, maybe things weren't falling apart. But at the time, it felt.

it felt that way. And, and, um, I was, I was, I was grieving all sorts of different types of losses and, uh, my marriage was ending. My sister, uh, you know, was so sick. Everything just seemed dark. And I think people who, you know, there will be people who understand what, what, what, what that is. And, and, and, and it seemed to me, um, you know, that, um, you know, that, maybe everybody would be better off if I wasn't around. And of course, you know, maybe that is true. But, you know, I decided to stay. And then, of course, you know, realizing afterwards, talking, therapy, getting healthy again, getting away from that darkness that, you know, in fact, what I was thinking was, wasn't real.

And, you know, if you take that, and maybe I was attempting to get to, you know, closer to, you know, my father who at that time, you know, was gone and a close cousin who had also taken her life. And maybe it all just got to be a little bit too much. But what I do know is that, and again, this goes back to the, you know, the idea of respecting the choice of, you know, my sister, my father to end their lives. I had a glimpse of, you know, of that, just that pain, that psychic pain, that darkness. I don't know how I was to describe it. How are you now? How am I now? Yeah.

I'm good. Thank you. No, no, no. I just wondering. Yeah. No, I feel, I feel fine. Yeah. Part of that is also, I mean, maybe it speaks to, can you just describe the living conditions that

you have right now? Oh, yeah. You keep your family so close to you. And we talk about this intergenerational living kind of thing, but just, I mean, you live here in Toronto, describe the setup that you have in this home. I do keep my family close to move. When my sister died in 2010, my mother was in, was in Winnipeg. I was in Toronto at the time with my daughter.

My daughter and I had moved to Toronto. And my mom and I were on the phone and almost simultaneously, you know, we said, okay, now we need to, you know, circle the wagons and be together. We just needed to live together. We just needed to be together. So my daughter, my mother and I were living together, and then, you know, along the way of the years, various people, you know, we're added to that, my grandchildren, my partner. So, yeah, so now there are four generations of us living in this, you know, two houses, the bigger house or the main house, and then the little laneway house.

And for me, it's, you know, it's the best thing, it's the best thing in the world. It's, I wish that, I wish, you know, that my son in Winnipeg could also come and live there and, and his partner and children, my granddaughters. I mean, it doesn't, and this is what you write about in the book. I mean, it's not always easy. It sounds like kind of messy sometimes and chaotic, but like gloriously messy. Do you know what I mean? Yeah, and I love that. I mean, you know, I had kids when I was young.

I had those, those were, you know, really in some way, just the best years of my life. I love the chaos. I love the noise. I love the friends of theirs coming and going. I love the drama of it all. And I'm not worried too much about the mess. And yeah, but it is chaotic. Absolutely. How do you feel about writing now? You said this earlier, that part of this is about thinking about, should you keep writing? What does it mean to write? What have you? There's a scene in the book in which you're a couple of scenes. You're walking on the frozen river in Winnipeg. And you're trying to figure out why you do what you do. And you talk about how you just want to be retired from everything, that you've written enough things and that you believe in some ways maybe you were like a bad mother because you were off kind of thinking about things rather than being focused on what was in front of you, that you were a million miles away in your own head.

How do you feel about writing now? Well, very much the same. You know, I do feel that kind of just that constant. And I think writers will get this, you know, where you're always like just every, every experience, every interaction, every conversation, there's this part of the brain that's always kind of, you know, taking it and putting it at it, you know, that it might be fuel, it might be material, right? And how to sort of switch it around, how to craft something from it, how to impose some kind of narrative on it. And I wish, and I know that, you know, friends of mine

are writers, you know, that we weren't that way. When I think of somebody like my mother, for instance, who just seems to just, you know, go into life fully 100% really in the moment, you know, this thing. She's like a fire. Like she just seems like she is just kind of like this roaring fire. Yeah, absolutely. You know, the fire that we all gather around, that's for sure, for her warmth. But yeah, and she doesn't have that need, you know, it doesn't occur to her to write something down. And I think that's so beautiful.

And I wish I also was, you know, that it wasn't occurring to me. Do you really think about stopping? Oh, every day, every day. Oh, yeah, absolutely. I mean, it's just to turn oneself inside out, you know, I can't do this again. I'm too old to do this. I can't, even though I know, okay, I know I'm not that old, but old-ish. And, you know, I just don't have the mental.

I just don't have a focus anymore. I can't turn myself inside out anymore. But then, you know, having said all of that and going through all the, you know, histrionics of that, I am just inevitably. Yeah, well, there I am writing something again. and then it seems to be, you know, possible to avoid. Is that the answer to that question? I mean, you say in the book, the writing is the reason.

Yeah. That you can't not do it. Right. As hard as it is and as much as it creates carnage and chaos. I mean, what's the alternative? You tell me. Could you not? Could you imagine stop?

I do imagine it all the time. Or could you stop? Yeah, well, probably not. It probably wouldn't be a good idea. And maybe just to write, you know, at least to just just the, physical action, just the, you know, the process of writing words, of making words, of using language, of choosing certain words and making a sentence, and then a paragraph. I mean, just that act itself is something that, you know, maybe like for somebody else, it would be the same

as picking up a guitar or, I'm not sure, wind surfing or something. I don't know, but for me, you know, it is just the best feeling. I hope you keep doing it. In the meantime, this is wonderful. And it's the story of your life, but not perhaps the way that people expected to be told. Thank you for coming in. Thanks a lot for having me. Nareem Taves' memoir. It's called a truce that is not a peace. You've been listening to the current podcast.

My name is Matt Galloway. Thanks for listening. I'll talk to you soon. For more CBC podcasts, go to cbc.ca slash podcasts.