Publishing My First (Diverse) Book—39 things I’m pretty sure definitely happened

One of the first stories I ever submitted to a creative writing class was about sailing. I don’t remember it all that well (it wasn’t memorable)—something about a kid and his dad who sail around and go ashore to pick apples from a gnarly old tree and catch them in a raincoat. I dropped in a lot of nautical terms in an attempt to anchor the narrative (see?) and make it feel real, but what did I know about sailing? Sure, I’d been on the water once or twice, hauled a jib, swabbed a deck—I knew more than nothing but less than something, and I ultimately sunk the story trying to prove it. My classmates were sweet and ruthless; they did what I should have done and scuttled the thing. Though I came away having learned something: I had no interest in a repeat.When it comes to joining the discussion of Diversity in CanLit and sharing my own Diverse publication story, I find myself jumping in from a similar starting point—between knowing nothing and something. I’m still in the research phase, gathering facts and moments, and trying to decide which ones are relevant before I try to build some kind of arc. This is a challenge; I don’t have a Diversity radar that can identify my Diverse experiences to be parsed out from the rest. The best I can do is guess.Being half-Chinese, I’d have to suppose that at least half my journey was affected, or that my whole journey was half-affected, but the exact mechanisms through which I was pushed or pulled (or not) through my publishing journey are mysterious at best. Though I don’t know for sure what happened—when it comes to meaning and overall significance—I can say with confidence that something happened, that several somethings happened, in fact, and that some of them might even have been important.Here’s a list of 39 things that (maybe for sure) happened on the way to publishing my first (Diverse) book:

1. My parents wondered how a mixed-race kid would do in small town in Alberta. They had their doubts, but had me there anyway.
2. In grade four I wrote an adventure story about me and my best friends. There was an evil witch, a magic ring, a giant lizard named Ralph with a prehensile tongue, and pea soup with the blasting power of dynamite.
3. I included my middle name in my application to creative writing school.
4. I got accepted. I was excited.
5. I wondered if the program had a colour-quota. I felt less excited. Later I found out that it didn’t.
6. I wrote a Chinese gangster rap song for a writing workshop, and got nudged into performing it for the class.
7. I am not a rapper.
8. I was allowed to call the book Chinkstar while in grad school. If this can fly anywhere, I thought, it’ll fly here.
9. An elderly couple in a café asked me if I was a student. I told them I was a writer. That felt like a lie.
10. The same couple asked about the title of my book. I lied (no question).
11. My colleagues at my day job asked me about the title of my book. I lied again. (My day job is in publishing.)
12. I chatted with a stranger who asked me the title. I told him the truth. He laughed and said, “Good for you.”
13. Was it “Good for you,” or “Good for you”?
14. I had to explain the title to my little cousin. Had it been called [N-word]star,  I wondered, would I have had to explain?
15. While writing the book, I listened to the Crouching Tiger soundtrack about ten thousand times.
16. For research, I asked my mom questions about our family history. When she was short of an answer, she’d make one up without telling me.
17. My nominating her cultural lore-keeper was unfair, I realized. I became resolved to take on my fair share of the bullshitting.
18. I got some grants, which helped me write the book. I was extremely grateful.
19. I wondered if the grants had colour-quotas. It was money, though. I couldn’t afford to care.
20. I wondered if I was selling out.
21. I felt guilty for being a sellout.
22. I guessed there were grantless white writers out there more talented than me.
23. I was not allowed to call the book Chinkstar when I was trying to sell it. It became Chi-star. Nearly all acquiring editors agreed that it sounded interesting, but “we could never publish a title like that.” The title was okay for me, it seemed, but not for “we.”
24. I wondered who “we” was.
25. I realized “we” was different than me.
26. I got professional photos taken, and wondered if wearing glasses made me look more Asian.
27. I wondered if I should keep the glasses or lose them.
28. The editor I worked with left the final decision on the title up to me.
29. My editor is either brave or crazy or smart. I suspect she’s all of these things.
30. I was asked to sit on the jury for a grant.
31. I wondered if jury selection had a colour-quota. If it did, I thought maybe I was okay with it.
32. I ate soup-filled dumplings and spicy noodles at a restaurant during a book interview for a national news outlet. I wondered what other authors got to do during their interviews.
33. People told me they couldn’t say the title of the book in public or read the book on the subway. I wasn’t sure I could blame them.
34. People took more issue with the book’s rap references than its colour references.
35. I sent a copy to MC Jin, America’s first Asian American solo rapper. I wasn’t sure if he’d be flattered or offended.
36. I realized that on some level I’m as much a writer of colour as I am not. I wondered if my dad’s blood felt left out.
37. My boss threw me an at-work book-launch party. “Chinkstar” was plastered all over the room, posters and books. There was even a Chinkstar cake. (My day job is in publishing.)
38. If I get to write another book, I wonder if it’ll be about race stuff.
39. If I get to write another book, I wonder if I’ll have a choice.

* * *Jon Chan Simpson grew up in Red Deer, Alberta, and lives in Toronto. He is a graduate of the University of Toronto’s MA Creative Writing program, and his work has been featured in Ricepaper magazine. He is the author of Chinkstar (Coach House Books).