Welcome to issue 300 — those double zeros are so satisfying to write. And they represent an enormous collective effort. I think back to all the people who have furthered the life of The Fiddlehead over the years, and I’m grateful to everyone who has pitched in time, money, words, ideas, skills, care. I’m especially grateful to the host of volunteers who have sustained the journal. In particular I thank Sabine Campbell, who volunteered for many years as our reviews editor after retiring as managing editor and who has contributed greatly to The Fiddlehead in both these roles.
As we move on through our 300s, one of our long-term goals is to become able to pay more people and to pay them more. I’m a fan of Lewis Hyde’s idea that art might be best understood as part of a gift economy — that art comes to the artist as a gift from the world and is rightly shared as a gift in turn. For me, that’s the ideal. But as long as artists exist in a capitalist society, it seems important to pay both the artists and those who keep the arts infrastructure alive. That’s hard to do when you’re a literary journal; it’s a second-order ideal, in fact, one that we continue to strive toward. Which is why I’m so appreciative of the fact that volunteers keep showing up in a gift-economy spirit to keep this particular node in the web of artslife vibrant and active.
Though I’m writing the introduction to our summer issue, it’s currently May — fiddlehead season here in Wolastoqiyik Territory. Just last night, I made a plateful of fiddleheads fried in oil and butter with lemon and chili pepper. These furled ostrich ferns are one of the first spring foods Wolastoqiyik have traditionally relied on; preparing and eating fiddleheads is for me a reminder of the people whose land sustains the work of this journal. As I rinsed them, I felt how tightly coiled they are, felt their springiness, their vitality. And I hope that at issue 300, we retain that vitality, that ready-to-burst springiness. As one ages, there’s sometimes fresh urgency to cultivate curiosity, receptiveness to new ideas, new writing; as the journal ages, it becomes more and more meaningful to me that it’s named after a young plant. It isn’t a paradox; it’s a reminder of the need for that curiosity, that receptiveness. Our name tells us to keep growing. I look forward to whatever our next growth spurt brings.
Sue Sinclair, Editor
