Showcasing these during the #ReadIndies event, hosted by Kaggsy and Lizzy, is ideal: the compilations themselves embody the value of indie presses, but they also draw from the best work published by other small, independent publishers—journals and magazines. In the back of each of these volumes is a list of the publications consulted (some print, some digital).

The ghost anthologies behind the anthology, as the current assistant series editor (Anita Lahey, in her role since 2014) describes it: “Behind every anthology is an infinite number of ghost anthologies of all the stories that could have been included, like the figure that multiplies in the crease of a hinged and angled set of mirrors.”

Usually I get stuck on the matter of how much reading would be required to create books like these. How to collect and absorb so much material across an entire calendar year and, then, rank them somehow. But after reading the Open Book interview with the editors, I was even more impressed. They’re also ghost wranglers.

Lahey (who’s also the Series Editor for the annual poetry volume) offers this initial thought about the idea of “best” in terms of poetry:

“Every guest editor approaches the question of “best” in their own way, but threads that have run through the selections over the years relate to a poem’s ability to continue to offer something to its readers on subsequent readings; how well a poem has fulfilled its own particular promise and/or its author’s intent; and the element of surprise.”

Lisa Moore selected for Best Canadian Stories 2024, Bardia Sinaee for Best Canadian Poetry 2024, and Marcello Di Cintio for Best Canadian Essays 2024: they all have their own ideas and responses to their responsibilities and roles, challenges and triumphs. The article is obviously of keen interest to readers of these three specific anthologies, but I also enjoyed it from the perspective of a reader who’s not behind-the-scenes and doesn’t fully comprehend the scope of projects like these.

Reading anthologies like these while they’re current is something I’ve always wanted to do; often I find them, years later, in a Little Free Library or a college booksale and I have good intentions but, because there are always newer books on hand, they’ve never gotten to the top of my stack.

This year, I began by reading the poems in order, but the contributors’ biographies are exceptionally useful with information about the specific poem included. Once I started to read the biographies, I leafed through them instead of the poems, then flipped backward to find the poems associated with the poet’s commentary. I’m not a very confident poetry reader: having the poet’s thoughts in advance was like an invitation to peer more closely. (I’ve no idea how much I’ve yet to read, maybe half.)

I planned to read the short stories in order, but since I realised they were arranged alphabetically, I’ve been choosing by title and I’ve read more than half. But when it came to the essays, I’ve been reading methodically. When it comes to theme and style, there’s quite a diversity here with all three collections. So, of course there are some pieces that speak more directly to me than others, and some that leave me unmoved.

The overall aspect of these anthologies that I enjoy is the element that originally gave me pause. I wondered whether the pieces would be too different, too diverse…that reading would feel a little disjointed. I never know what the next piece will be and now that’s the draw. (Which is why, even if I’m not personally moved by an essay, it feels fresh: I’m content to read on. I’ve read about half.)

Now for three favourites, which is three favourites for today’s mood; if asked the same question tomorrow, I might choose differently.

Poetry: “On the Ducks Who Are People and the Ducks Who Are Ducks” by Matthew King.
“A lot of my poems have to do with how seeing the ways in which we are like and unlike non-human animals allows us to understand ourselves better; this poem has to do with the most fundamental of those ways.” The poem was born on National Drunk Writing Night, the first Saturday in November, which is also in the middle of duck-hunting season.

Essay: “The Fight of My Life” by Hamed Esmaeilion.
“Women also had to wear manteaux-long, loose coats that covered everything-and stick to modest colours like black or grey. But Parisa often wore little splashes of red or a cream manteau over jeans. Her glasses were framed in white. It wasn’t enough to cause trouble, just enough to signal her feminist beliefs. These choices, by the woman who would later become my wife, were quiet acts of rebellion.”

Story: “Love Cream Heat” by Corinna Chong.
“Mom. Poor people don’t want Dad’s dead animal heads.”
“Well I don’t know. I can’t exactly throw them away. They remind me too much of him.” She turned the antelope’s face toward herself and studied it at arm’s length. “It’s the eyes, I think. So pensive.”

There are so many fine works in these three volumes. And I’m spinning out this reading ritual of regularly returning to these collections-often on weekend mornings-hoping they’ll last until the snowdrops poke through the snow. (But I love the winter, so the snowdrops can wait.)