When I was hired at the Longhouse Bookshop in downtown Toronto, in September of 1983, I thought this was my chance to be discovered. I was a clerk-cashier around the corner at the Morningstar boutique, but I spent most of my lunch hours reading and daydreaming at the all-Canadian bookstore.
The owners, Beth and Susan, had accepted some copies of my volume of poetry on consignment. The two women had opened the store on Yonge Street near Wellesley, a few years earlier, to promote Canadian literature, and it had become an institution by the time they offered me a part-time job.
I was surprised they hired me: as I dressed very bohemian, like the girl on the cover of the current bestseller by Margaret Atwood, Bluebeard's Egg. And I too, stared into a crystal ball, however metaphorical, wondering what my future would be. I was thirty-one years old and writing whenever I had free time. I also wanted to meet as many authors as I could, to learn whatever I could from them.
Only a few months earlier, I had lined up in one aisle, clutching a copy of True Stories, a new collection of poems by Atwood, then nicknamed the Queen of Canlit. She had sat at a small desk by the glass door, wearing a beautiful lace blouse that could have been purchased at Morningstar, and signed away with a polite half-smile.
The first few days at work, I had goosebumps each time I was sent down the steep wooden staircase into the cellar which was used as an office/stockroom. I knew this was where Atwood had diligently done research for her 1972 non-fiction bestseller, Survival. In the tributes page, she had even thanked Beth for her assistance. The cellar, I also found out, was where the prize-winning author had had romantic trysts with a married man.
I loved the store, which was cozily small. A bay window allowed light halfway in.
Pine wood shelves lined the walls from floor to ceiling, and low bookcases divided the floor space into narrow aisles where it was impossible to dawdle, as people had to turn sideways to pass each other. No one complained though as Longhouse was fulfilling a need.
Beth and Susan were easy to work for. They shared anecdotes when it was quiet. I remember how I had laughed when Beth told me how one of them had worn a coat, pretending to be a shopper in the fledgling store to attract their first customers.
The work I had to do was easy. I liked to answer questions in the store, or on the phone, to use the small cash register in the alcove. What I didn't like as much was to have to wash the floors with a mop at closing time. In the winter, it was worse, as I had to wash the floors several times a day, to remove the slush that people brought in from the street. I felt like a Cinderella wanting her Prince (in this case a reknowned publisher) to sweep my unpublished novel onto the best-seller list.
There were several perks. I could borrow any book to read which saved me money. Even better, famous Canadian authors would push through the glass door every day.
There was the afternoon Timothy Findley, dressed in a fine suit and tie, came to visit and I was introduced to him: his firm handshake was strong and his intense gaze, friendly. He was well-known for his novels, The Last of the Crazy People and The Wars.
Then there was the day Gwendolyn MacEwen dropped in, a frown on her pale round face. I admired her from a few feet away, as she lost herself among the fiction titles, then left without a word to anyone. I kept up with her books including her latest, The T.E. Lawrence Poems. I even reviewed her fiction, Noman.
When I told Susan and Beth that I published book criticism in magazines, they immediately instructed me to use a pseudonym, as they didn't want any trouble with disgruntled literati.
Jan, the other clerk-cashier who was like family, as she had been there since the early days, seemed to have made many friendships with writers. W.P. Kinsella, known at that time for his Indian stories like Dance Me Outside and the more recent baseball fantasy novel, Shoeless Joe, would drop by whenever he was in town.
Michael Ondaatje, who then taught at a local college, would call and ask to speak to Jan. I knew it was the up-and-coming author of such well-regarded fiction as Billy the Kid,
and a memoir, Running in the family, on the telephone as Jan would tell me so.
Hoping to receive some advice about how to publish my work, I finally got up the courage to ask Susan if she would read my manuscript of poems. She graciously accepted to do so, though I later found out she didn't even like to read poetry.
After more than six months of working at Longhouse, I was beginning to realize that my dream of being discovered might never happen.
I wanted to go back home to Montreal. Living in Toronto, I was losing my French and missing my family. In April, I gave notice to Susan and Beth. They were kind enough to present me with the newly published Oxford Companion to Canadian Literature. The editor, William Toye, who also frequented the store, had written in the introduction that it was "the first volume in the famous Oxford Companion series to be devoted solely to Canadian Literature."
A couple of years later, I visited Toronto and the Longhouse Bookshop. It had moved next door from its original location, into a larger space. Susan and Beth later sold the store, which its new owners had moved to a more upscale area. Then Longhouse was closed though it won't be forgotten, having helped Canadian literature to be "discovered."
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