1 - How did your first book change your life? How does your most recent work compare to your previous? How does it feel different?
Bonavere Howl was the first time I centred family grief in a story and, though I didn’t realize it at the time, I think that this needed to be done. Complex grief dominates every page of the book, whether it’s the narrator’s own tangled feelings, or the dynamics of a family all suffering from a different strain of the same trauma. The book also explores the sort of joyful, strange, fiercely private world siblings can build. Only in writing the story of the Fayette family did I realize how deeply my own childhood still affected me, in positive and negative ways.
My most recent work is a short story that I’m still plugging away at, and it takes place in 1980s Nevada, mostly the Las Vegas Strip and the Mojave Desert. It explores the fragmenting of self that often follows abuse or assault, but in a fairly abstract way that allows me to play with notions of time loops and wormholes. The contrast between this story and the one I wrote immediately before it is pretty stark (the latter deconstructs a complicated friendship between two women in Depression-era North Tarrytown, as well as the nature and role of folklore), but just as with Bonavere Howl, there are shared themes of trauma, identity, the stories we tell ourselves, and the fear of losing one’s mind.
2 - How did you come to fiction first, as opposed to, say, poetry or non-fiction?
Fiction is what’s natural to me. I remember being little and getting my first journal. The one time I tried to use it as a diary and write about my day, I got distracted imagining ways to describe what I saw through sound imagery. I prefer being immersed in the abstract, while also exploring ideas through the vehicle of another person, and following them through their unique space and time.
3 - How long does it take to start any particular writing project? Does your writing initially come quickly, or is it a slow process? Do first drafts appear looking close to their final shape, or does your work come out of copious notes?
Initial story ideas are a little inexplicable and instantaneous for me. They sort of jump out and hit me in the head. An image, a sense of atmosphere, a sharp feeling. After that spark, tons of ideas flow out, followed by an often blurry process of figuring out what to make of it all. I also do a lot of layering, so even after the notes have been shaped into a proper story, there’s a long process of stepping away, working on something else, then returning and adding another layer. Stepping away, adding a layer, over and over. It feels like adding subtle layers of paint, and seeing how each one enriches and gradually shifts the story.
Some aspects of a story remain the same from first to final draft, but there are always drastic changes. In my story “The Lyrebird’s Bell”, for example, the narrator Betsy was entirely crystallized from the start. A hundred things were altered around her—the setting moved from Connecticut to Victoria, Australia, and the folklore weaving throughout changed from Norse to Russian—but Betsy was entirely Betsy from day one.
4 - Where does a work of prose usually begin for you? Are you an author of short pieces that end up combining into a larger project, or are you working on a "book" from the very beginning?
My earlier short stories felt standalone, but I’ve been working on a collection for the past few years; though each story is quite different, and I haven’t been writing them with any intention to connect them, I feel that they speak to each other.
5 - Are public readings part of or counter to your creative process? Are you the sort of writer who enjoys doing readings?
I don’t really factor public readings into my process, but neither are they counter to it. I appreciate, enormously, any reading that I’m invited to participate in, but I’m also extremely shy and anxious. School speeches made me physically ill. That said, I always walk away from readings feeling closer to my community. It’s such a warm feeling that I’ve come to value more and more.
6 - Do you have any theoretical concerns behind your writing? What kinds of questions are you trying to answer with your work? What do you even think the current questions are?
Theoretical concerns certainly find their way into my underlying themes. I tend to play with questions of identity and where the pure “I/we” exists when stripped of the external, as well as the interplay between self and environment, self and others. We’re asking so many deeply valid questions about identity right now, many of which have been asked for a long time and are only now receiving widespread consideration. My fiction comes from a very personal place, though, and I follow my instincts; concerns or commentary are rarely mapped out early on.
7 – What do you see the current role of the writer being in larger culture? Does s/he even have one? What do you think the role of the writer should be?
I believe there are countless roles, and they’re fluid and ever-changing. I value the cultural critic, the satirical agitator, the poet healer, the experimental surrealist deconstructing genre, and so on.
8 – Do you find the process of working with an outside editor difficult or essential (or both)?
Definitely both! Considering the opinions of informed, capable editors and readers is important. We have to be able to shove our egos aside and soften to the perspective of others. We also don’t know all of our own biases. It’s an invaluable quality to be able to fully acknowledge that learning is an ongoing process. We can have full confidence in our vision and still understand that we might miss something that someone else could see.
9 – What is the best piece of advice you’ve heard (not necessarily given to you directly)?
“A book must be the axe for the frozen sea within us.” It’s from Kafka, and it’s always spoken to me.
10 - How easy has it been for you to move between genres (short stories to the novel)? What do you see as the appeal?
Short story structure has always come naturally to me, but the structure and pacing of a novel initially required some tinkering. I needed to figure out how to make my own way of storytelling fit within the mechanics of a novel. For me, the appeal of writing a novel lies in not feeling done with the characters’ journey. I simply haven’t finished telling their story.
11 - What kind of writing routine do you tend to keep, or do you even have one? How does a typical day (for you) begin?
My day starts a little oddly. I’ve been an extreme night owl for about 15 years and usually go to bed just after sunrise. I’m completely out of sync with the world. I wake up in the early afternoon and edit manuscripts, or teach writing and reading to students. Then, I spend the night—which is, thankfully, much quieter and more solitary than the day—writing and reading until I fall asleep.
12 – When your writing gets stalled, where do you turn or return for (for lack of a better word) inspiration?
If a particular story gets stalled, I put it aside for a couple of weeks or months and work on another piece. It’s typically a matter of needing some breathing room. If I sense that I do really need to keep scraping away at it, though, I’ll read and read and read and read. “The Lyrebird’s Bell” didn’t have enough wind in its sails until I read the first page of Picnic at Hanging Rock. That my story could only possibly be set in the Australian bush seemed immediately and almost painfully obvious.
13 – What fragrance reminds you of home?
For years, my rather large family lived a bit crammed in a small townhouse, and every winter, my mother bought clementines. The scent of clementines makes me think of Christmas with my family all together, tripping over each other, which for me is home.
14 - David W. McFadden once said that books come from books, but are there any other forms that influence your work, whether nature, music, science or visual art?
Nature and history are both profound influences. Setting is inextricable from just about every aspect of my stories. I become obsessive about the era and place in which the story is set, and everything from its natural environment and folktales to its wars and architecture becomes essential.
15 - What other writers or writings are important for your work, or simply your life outside of your work?
Simply as a reader, I’d say the Brontë sisters are important in my life. They wrote strange, darkly imaginative, honest things, and I know it’s silly, but they feel like friends across time. I’m also a big reader of anything covering current affairs. I believe that it’s important to be informed, and to evolve in our understanding of what “informed” means. As a chronic insomniac, I’d say that fairy tales hold a special place in my life, as well. I’ve always found them soothing. I have a first edition Magic of Oz and sometimes I read it and admire the old inking errors before bed.
16 - What would you like to do that you haven't yet done?
I want to explore a rainforest. Any rainforest, all of the rainforests. I’ve been held back by a dark suspicion that a tiger or jaguar is going to maul me.
17 - If you could pick any other occupation to attempt, what would it be? Or, alternately, what do you think you would have ended up doing had you not been a writer?
There was a time when I thought I might be both a writer and a lawyer. I become obsessively consumed by my projects, though. I’m always forehead-deep in a story, and it takes running out of food to make me stop and leave my apartment. I’d be the same as a lawyer. An overworking legal drama cliché. Pursuing both would never have worked.
18 - What made you write, as opposed to doing something else?
I’m one of those irritating people who knew they wanted to be a writer in kindergarten. Writing is how my brain shapes and processes the world.
19 - What was the last great book you read? What was the last great film?
The last great book I read was Call Me by Your Name. Once I finished it, I sat thinking about how much human connection I allow into my life. It really shook me, and I crave books like that, the jolt they provide. The last great film I watched was Little Women. I read the novel as a little girl and connected with Jo, but it troubled me—as it troubled Alcott, whose hand was forced in this direction—how great an emphasis was placed on Jo finding romance. The film blew past it in such a self-aware, validating, and funny way, and it finally let Jo’s commitment to autonomy and her dream of storytelling be the height of her emotional journey. It was a clear-eyed adaptation and just brought me a lot of joy.
20 - What are you currently working on?
At the moment, I’m working on two projects. One is a short fiction collection exploring the themes and avenues I find most integral to my work, through my particular version of magical realism. The other is a novel based on “The Lyrebird’s Bell”, which follows the friendship between two isolated girls in the post-war Australian bush. The novel picks up where the short story finished, and shows the aftermath of an act of violence, the history that led to it, and the complicated family dynamics in which the girls are trapped.
No comments:
Post a Comment