November 2025 Feature: Myriam J. A. Chancy

Myriam J. A. Chancy is the author of several scholarly books and works of fiction, including the widely acclaimed 2021 novel, What Storm, What Thunder.

photo credit: N. Affonso

Myriam J. A. Chancy is the author of the novel Village Weavers (Tin House), a Time Best Book of April 2024, and winner of the 2025 Fiction OCM Bocas Award in Caribbean Literature. Her work has received multiple awards, including an American Book Award from the Before Columbus Foundation, the Guyana Prize in Literature, a Foreword INDIES Book of the Year Award Gold Prize, and the Isis Duarte Book Prize. Her previous novel, What Storm, What Thunder, was named a "Best Book of 2021," by NPR, Kirkus, Library Journal, the Boston Globe, the Globe & Mail, shortlisted for the Caliba Golden Poppy Award & Aspen Words Literary Prize, longlisted for the Brooklyn Public Library Book Prize & the OCM Bocas Prize. Her past novels include: The Loneliness of Angels, The Scorpion’s Claw, and Spirit of Haiti. She is also the author of several academic books, including Harvesting Haiti: Reflections on Unnatural Disasters & Framing Silence: Revolutionary Novels by Haitian Women. Recent writings have appeared in Whetstone.com Journal, Electric Literature, and Lit Hub. She is a Fellow of the John Simon Guggenheim Memorial Foundation and HBA Chair of the Humanities at Scripps College in California.

Excerpted from Village Weavers: A Novel

SIMBI CALLS

Sisi, Port-au-Prince, 1941

Momo tells Sisi that her village is a place so small and insignificant that it cannot be mapped. If it were, it would not even be a dot; it would be a speck, impossible to see with the naked eye.

It is a place one finds by following waters and springs that erupt from the ground miraculously, teeming with unseen life. They are both sitting on woven stools, low to the ground, but Momo towers over Sisi. Momo is enveloped in a voluminous white housedress. She reminds Sisi of a goose in one of the books of fairy tales that her sister, Margie, reads to her from at night. The white of the dress tucks around Momo’s roundness like a second skin. The paleness of the cloth sets off the mahogany brown of her protruding arms and neck in sharp contrast. Momo’s neck has many folds in it, as many folds as decades she

has lived on this earth.

Sisi pours a scoop of purplish kidney beans from a large burlap sack into a smaller bag, then hands it to Momo to close with a piece of twine.

“Do you know what a riddle is, Sisi?” Momo asks.

“No,” Sisi answers.

“It’s a question that has an answer difficult to find.”

“Like when Mami wants to know if she will get enough orders for dresses in the spring to keep us here?”

Momo smiles. “Something like that, but harder. I think that my village is a riddle.”

“Your village is a question?”

Momo laughs. “No, but many say that my village does not exist. Yet every year there are girls who come to us from the village, to stay with us. They are coming from somewhere, no? Not a nowhere place. My village is so small they say it does not exist, but it might be the most powerful place on earth.”

Sisi frowns. Is Momo’s story a riddle too? She watches as her grandmother’s hands close the bags Sisi has filled with beans, swiftly turning the twine over and under their gaping openings and pulling it taut into a pucker of fabric, ready to be taken to market.

“We are people of the Simbi, Sisi, of the river gods. People will try to convince you either that they don’t exist or that they are evil, but they do exist, and they are not evil. Do you want to hear more?”

Sisi sits awestruck. The best part of any day is this time, when she tries to help Momo as best she can before going to bed and Momo tells her a story. Sometimes the story is a memory; at others, a tale she heard and remembers from her village; and at others, like this time, it will be a story about the mistè, the mysteries, the lwa, the gods.

“Where I come from,” Momo says, “deep, deep in the interior of Haiti, there are flat areas that give way to forests and rivers, gullies with springs, waterfalls. There is plenty for everyone but not a lot of work, which is why we leave that land and all its natural riches to come and toil in the city we find ourselves in now. If we had work, we would never leave, understand?”

Sisi nods, saying nothing, not wanting to interrupt Momo, because saying something can lead Momo to thinking about something else.

“Because of the rivers, the forests, there are also snakes. They are mostly harmless, but some are magical. The snakes are the Simbi coming onto dry land to see what we are up to up here, checking on us to guard us from foolishness, occasionally to warn us. The Simbi cried for a long time during the years that the invaders came from the land above to carve ours up, to tell us where we could and could not go. The snakes poured out of the earth and some of the riverbeds dried up until those men left, but nothing was the same after this. The Simbi warned us, but we did not listen.

“When I was a girl, not much older than you are now, I was the one who went to fetch water from the spring to bring back to the household. I did this every morning, early. I carried the water on my head like my mother taught me to, and I was told to be careful lest the Simbi come for me.”

“Come for you? I thought they were protecting you.”

Momo wags a finger in the air above them, the twine trailing down it like a wan flag. “The Simbi are capricious. They are hungry spirits that like little children, especially if, like you, they are clair, untouched by the sun. Luckily, I sunned myself every day, soaking up the rays and making my skin deep, dark brown like the earth, and the Simbi just let me go by every day, most days. Some other children were said to disappear, never to be recovered. Once, the Simbi took an old blind man, but they returned him, eventually, after restoring his sight.”

“A blind man who could see?”

“Yes. When the Simbi take you, they return you with the ability to see, sometimes to see things no one else can, that you could not see before.”

“I wish you had been taken. You could tell us about the unseen things.”

“I don’t know that we should wish for this: it is a lot of responsibility.” Momo stops her activity to think.

Sisi waits. Momo takes up the twine and gestures to Sisi to continue filling the small bags between them from the burlap. She wants to take them to market in the morning. “There was a girl in my village who disappeared by the springs once. They said that the Simbi took her but gave her back because she wa blessed by the sun. When she returned, she could read the people’s dreams. She could heal the sick with her knowledge.”

“How can you know if the Simbi come for you?” Sisi asks, filled, unexpectedly, with dread.

“You don’t have to be afraid, Sisi.”

“How do you know, Momo? How do you know they won’t come for me?”

“Well, I cannot know, but what if I told you that that little sun-touched girl that the Simbi took and returned was me? What if I told you that the Simbi released me so that I could tell you that you have nothing to fear?”

“I don’t believe you,” Sisi says doubtfully. “You don’t read dreams.”

“Don’t I?” Momo stops to think. “I don’t, do I? But have you ever asked me to interpret your dreams?”

Sisi shakes her head, no. “What do they look like, the Simbi?”

“No one knows if Simbi are male or female. Some will tell you that Simbi are men, others will tell you Simbi are women. But there are many Simbi, and who knows which Simbi anyone thinks they might know? But I want to tell you about Simbi Andezo, Simbi Two Waters, because I think that she, he—well, maybe we should say ‘they’—will be your destiny. Simbi Twin Souls.”

Sisi’s eyes widen even more.

Momo continues, “Simbi Andezo governs the waters, those of the sea before us and those of the rivers that course through the mountains behind us, forming the waterfalls and all the streams that travel through the land to nourish the rice and grain fields that feed us. Andezo watches over every creature that comes into contact with the waters, making sure that they do not drown or come to harm, unless a greater force wills it, a force greater than the Simbi. The Simbi are invisible and work in secret in the waters, but you can feel them doing their work of watching and protecting every time you step into the water—but watch out! If you come to see a Simbi, they might enchant you.”

“Enchant me? How?”

“Do you think that a Simbi might want you?” Momo teases.

“I don’t know,” Sisi replies, “but maybe I don’t want to find out!” Momo laughs a deep, guttural laugh. Sisi loves Momo’s stories about the lwa.

“Well,” Momo continues, amused, “they have long hair like you, Sisi. They sing like the people do in church, like angels. But beware the siren’s song. Simbi can save you or enchant you, but only rarely do they do both at the same time.”

“Like the Simbi did to you?”

“Like they did to me. Because the Queen of Sheba is my invisible patron saint, a woman dark like me. But the important thing I want you to remember is that Simbi Andezo gains strength from the union of two forces, two sources of water, like twins. All the waters pour from the land into the ocean, but the ocean would be nothing without the rivers that feed it. And, like the Queen, you must not give yourself to the first person to come your way. You must ask them questions, find out who they are. Like the Simbi, you must test the waters, make sure that they are pure of heart.”

“Pure of heart,” Sisi murmurs.

“Yes, like you.” Momo taps Sisi’s chest. “You, in here. If you listen to the Simbi but do not fall under their spell, they can teach you how not to fall for the wrong people, the wrong friends, the wrong mate, you understand? You see me here, by myself?”

“You’re not alone, Momo. You have Mami and me and Margie.”

“Yes, that is true. But you see that I make my way without a menaj, is that not true? And your mother sees your papa maybe once a week, but he does not live here, is that not true? We are sources of water for each other. We are like the Simbi.”

Sisi looks into Momo’s face, hoping she can read the answers to the questions Momo’s story stirs in her. But Momo’s face closes like the setting sun. The night’s darkness deepens. “Enough storytelling for today,” Momo says, all of a sudden looking tired. She pushes the finished bags together and closes the burlap against the remaining purplish beans. “I’ll finish this in the morning. Thank you for helping, Sisi. You are a good little helper. Go find your mother, and then off to bed for you.” Sisi does as she is told, then climbs into her bed, where she listens to the murmurs of the house.

As she falls to sleep, the noises swaddling her—her sister’s breathing, the shuffling of Momo in her room, her mother’s pedaling of the sewing machine into the night—become like lapping waves beneath a pier. She imagines the Simbi swimming by, having made their way down from the gullies in the valleys, the streams in the forests, the waterfalls, the springs carved out by their snakes. She imagines the Simbi calling out to all of them in the house, to warn or to enchant them with their sirens’ call.

THE INTERVIEW

This interview was conducted between Myriam J. A. Chancy and Jae Nichelle on September 5th, 2025.

I’m excited that you’ve shared an excerpt from the beginning of your most recent novel, Village Weavers.  How did you decide you wanted to start with Momo telling Sisi a story?

The novel didn't initially start with the storytelling episode between Momo, Sisi's grandmother, and Sisi, one of the main characters, but as the novel advanced and it became clear to me that the story circled around the simbi, or the river gods, and the belief that they connect waterways to the ocean and people to the life source of water, I decided that I wanted to foreground the lore around the simbi so that the reader would realize that the references to them throughout the novel were not incidental. Sisi receives the story about the simbi from her grandmother and Gertie will receive it from Sisi's older sister. Sisi and Gertie are connected to one another in a spiritual sense like two rivers that feed each other in a subterranean way. Beginning the novel in this way has a symbolic value but it also makes clear the importance of storytelling in Caribbean and Haitian culture specifically.

What drew you to the dual narrative form of this book? Especially considering that your previous book, What Storm, What Thunder, was told through ten different voices. Was the narration hard to balance between your two main characters?

I generally write polyvocal novels. My earliest novels have four narrative voices each and What Storm has the highest number of voices at ten distinct narrative perspectives so a dual narrative in Village Weavers is the lowest number of narrative voices I've utilized to date. 

Since this was the story of a relationship, I was interested in how each of the women understood their connection to the other from childhood to old age and how differently they remember pivotal moments in their lives. For one thing, what one considers pivotal, the other may consider insignificant and vice versa. They are leading very different lives, in different families, and have external influences that inform their decision-making and interpretive processes. The dual narration allows me to explore their distinct points of view and reveal to the reader how their thoughts and emotional development differs. It also allows me to show how issues of class, color and legitimacy play heavy roles in their lives. For instance, where one girl (Sisi) attempts to win a recitation contest in order to win a scholarship to continue her education, the other (Gertie) is attempting to win the same contest to gain favor with the other girl, oblivious of the other's precarious economic situation. 

Contrasting scenes reveal to the reader the ways in which memory operates differently for each person, as is the case in real life, and allows the reader to better understand how this relationship came to be, broke down, and was regained at different points in time.

I don't think it was necessarily difficult to balance the narratives, but it is challenging at times to not take sides and to stay faithful to each character's point of view and disposition.

As someone with many academic and creative works that tackle Haitian history and influential Haitian figures, I’m curious to know how you balance your scholarly research projects with your storytelling projects. Do you view these as very distinct worlds?

So, my academic works are broader in scope, covering texts literary, visual and cinematic, from the Anglophone Caribbean, some of the Latin Caribbean (the DR and Cuba), and the African Diaspora from the continent and in the Americas, as well as focusing (in two of five works) with Haitian women's literature and contemporary Haitian issues. My latest nonfiction work collected essays on the post-earthquake situation in Haiti from 2011-2014 and included a personal photo essay.

Although each project is distinct from the other, I have normally worked on one academic book while working on a creative project simultaneously. For instance, I wrote my first novel (The Scorpion's Claw) while working on Framing Silence, my book-length project on Haitian women's literature; my second novel (The Loneliness of Angels) I worked on while writing a book on Haitian, Dominican and Cuban American women's literature. While working on What Storm, What Thunder, I was also writing my Guggenheim-supported monograph, Autochthonomies. There usually isn't much overlap in the works except that working on two projects at once allows me to find relief or momentum in the other when I need to put one aside or think about it more. But, in some cases, there can be some overlap. For instance, I did a lot of research on Rwanda working on Autochthonomies, and that influenced one of the narrative voices in WS, where one of the characters finds herself in Rwanda at the time of the 2010 earthquake. 

Generally speaking, I approach each project as a writer first and then think about the audience(s) the project is directed towards and develop the work (its structure, internal logics, etc) in function of what is expected for an academic vs a creative project, but I take some liberties on either side. For instance, I have introduced fiction as well as chapter-length interviews with authors in academic projects, while on the creative side, in novels, I play with point of view or polyvocality and also with non-chronological structures. I always try to challenge myself in terms of formal aesthetics and, in turn, challenge the reader to think more flexibly and more broadly about what these rigid genres (whether academic or creative) can be made to do, or say in ways that can be provocative for their audiences and occasion new ways of thinking.

You’ve shared in previous interviews that you love food culture and cooking. What meals do you consider to be your signature dishes? 

That's a fun question. I don't really have signature dishes except for my granola recipe (lol) but I make a good crême caramel (the French version of flan), and cheese souffle. I also have developed a pretty good gluten-free pineapple upside-down rum cake recipe and make a good version of Haitian dous let. Otherwise, I cook across a lot of cuisines and love to discover new foods. For my novels, I research foods related to my characters’ locales and geographies and try to include relevant foods and recipes in the works (after having tried them out myself!).

Outside of receiving quite a few notable awards, what has been one of the most rewarding moments of your career?

Being recognized with awards, shortlistings and the rest is great and I’ve especially been gratified by being awarded the Guyana Prize (2011) and OCM Bocas Prize (2025) by Caribbean juries, but, in the end, the most rewarding moments come when you see that the work continues to circulate long after publication and also when I learn that individual readers find a resonance with some aspect of the work personally. 

It's the long tail of a work after publication that is the most rewarding in the end.

You were raised between Haiti and Canada and now work in California. If you were to take someone on a scenic trip about your life, what landmarks would you hit across these countries?

Most of the landmarks I might have shown someone in Haiti were destroyed during the 2010 earthquake. I might show them the remains of the Cathedral in Port-au-Prince or I might take them through the mountains by car from Port-au-Prince to Jacmel or from Port-au-Prince to Cap-Haitien by road to see the beauty of the land and why Haiti means “mountains beyond mountains.” The countryside is incredibly rich despite deforestation and that might surprise people who have never been there. Of course, I would take them on a seaside drive up the coast north of Port-au-Prince.

In the prairies of Canada, I would point to the expansiveness of the sky, which always seemed to me to be like the ocean upside down, and to the bright yellow of mustard fields.

Here in California, I've loved discovering Joshua Tree Park but probably what I love the most is going to the ocean. I've ended up in a place much like where I was born, with the ocean on one side and the mountains on the other. 

How can people support you right now?

Buy my books through your favorite Indie bookstore or bookshop.org. Find out more about what is going on in Haiti and support grassroots organizations there (I have a list of organizations of different sizes who are accountable to Haitians that people can follow posted on my website: www.myriamjachancy.com). Follow me on my IG @myriamjachancy and come to my events when you can!

Name another Black woman writer people should know. 

Some emerging writers that have impressed me lately include Ayanna Lloyd-Banwa, a Trinidadian UK-based writer, and short story writers Annell López, who is Dominican American, and Juliana Lamy, who is Haitian American.

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