by Kaimana Wolff

Spiders both fascinate and repel humans—not that spiders care. They go about their deliberate business, a merciless life of endless hunting, by inviting dinner to wander into the very heart of an arachnoid home—the web, constructed of silver steel-strength threads emerging endlessly from, who’d a thunk it? A spider’s head.

Writing novels is a spiderish habit: one sits patiently at the center of one’s life until lightning strikes, illuminating harshly for a second or two the witless characters about to stumble into the web, and then it’s all weaving and tilting the silvered disc made more of air than steel until they fall into the center where I wait, to give the luckiest ones their epiphany.

In ancient European myth, Arachne was a lovely maiden weaver who was a bit full of herself. She challenged Minerva, the big cheese in weaving and creative endeavors, and Minerva called her on it. Some versions of the stories say that Arachne saw her error for herself—I prefer that version to the old-fashioned she-got-her-come-uppance routine where Minerva turns Arachne into a spider for arrogance.

Some say Arachne represents the story we tell ourselves and others. She’s also a symbol of human endeavour, seeking to become more than what we are, even if it means going beyond the gods themselves. Arachne, the spider goddess, sits at the center of her web, weaving the world she controls, creating a world she controls — like a novelist.

Like a judge, too. Since this issue is devoted to the Word, Visit www.immanence.ca to read a poem about the creativity judges spin— spider medicine, if you like. Does she weave truth, or illusion?