1 - How did your first book change your life? How does your most recent work compare to your previous? How does it feel different?
My book was only recently published, so life hasn’t changed much—and who knows if it will? I’m working on it though ... Once the book was accepted for publication, I did, however, find I was able to get my foot into doors that would’ve otherwise been much harder to crack open. I’m not one of those writers who built their career brick by brick, publishing articles, or essays, in smaller newspapers and presses over the years. I also steered clear of academia, and even avoided literary scenes, so I didn’t have any contacts to help me get published. Being able to tell more established writers than yourself that you’ve placed your book with a publisher, gives a degree of legitimization that most other unknowns don’t have; It was how I was able to get so many people to read my book, and write blurbs for its back cover. Of course, it also had something to do with interesting aspects of the book itself. The gatekeeping of the publishing industry is off-putting to those who aren’t on the inside, but the reality is that all industries are structures that end up producing similar issues. Even great writers often need to play the game to get on the inside.
2 - How did you come to non-fiction first, as opposed to, say, fiction or poetry?
Writing starts with reading for me, and it was modernist novels and philosophy that really engaged me from the very start of my career as a serious reader (Yes, reading was essentially my career—though unpaid and unsung—for nearly 6 years.) I spent time toying with the idea of writing something Kafkaesque transposed on contemporary city-apartment life, a blend of fiction and nonfiction. But it was really with criticism that I found the sweet spot matching my own sensibilities. I became passionate about Walter Benjamin, and Susan Sontag, and I ended up anchoring myself at their crossroads (pre-war and post-war; Europe and America; modernism and post-modernism; creative and critical intellectualism). I love good prose and a degree of creativity in nonfiction. My favourite thing is to recover overlooked and forgotten tidbits that offer historical insights into the present, which is very much part of Walter Benjamin’s influence and legacy. I’m also inspired by the personal playfulness of the “new-journalism” writings of Mailer, Didion, and Tom Wolfe, on one hand, and the more dense politically-historical analysis of figures like Arendt, on the other.
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?
As you may be able to tell already, relatively simple questions often require me to take a step backward before I can go forward. To answer this question, I’m suspicious about the value of writing today. I don’t believe in extolling all writers as necessary, all writing as worthwhile, and all expression as inherently good. In the tradition of Critical Theory and cultural criticism, the negative has value in life. Hegel had put it simply: all perception involves negation. Thinking is always dialectical. And isn’t it also true, generally speaking, that there’s an inverse relationship between the quality and quantity of all types of output, including writing? I think there’s already far too much of it today—it can be argued that there was already far too much if it 150 years ago—and that the bulk of it isn’t very good. How much of the “content” is just plain bad? How much of it is unoriginal rubbish masquerading as something brilliant, and new? Whole industries exist with an interest in telling us how wonderful new writing is, but even most of those at the top of the “literary” and “intellectual” worlds are shadows, I think, of the older generations of writers who inspired them. Naturally, I get lots of pushback when I say these things because it offends the personal sense of value of writers, and readers, alike—and because I don’t let myself weasel out of my own judgements, the question for me becomes, how can I, as someone who wants to write (and wants to say things that have already been said countless times before, really), do so without being entirely hypocritical? Why do I even want to write? Is there a new, creative angle I can use to approach cultural history, to say something that really demands consideration? The long path to what would eventually become Village Dreams was philosophical and slow-going because it began with these overriding concerns about the act of writing itself. I grappled with them for a long time before I was even able to put pen to paper. Ultimately, I did arrive at a solution—or a workaround, let’s call it. Once I had the idea, things went fairly smoothly. I did about fifteen drafts in the end, but that’s because I was crafting my own unique form that required the balancing various creative and intellectual considerations. My next book may follow an entirely different process, however. I might even be inspired to write something that isn’t so serious, and doesn’t need to justify itself.
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 sensibility is attuned to longer forms because I like clustering thoughts of various writer-thinkers together and spinning off onto interesting tangents. Essays appeal to me though, but getting them published typically requires contacts that I haven’t put in the time to cultivate. I would love to write essays knowing they’d be published in a quality newspaper, or magazine, as soon as I was ready to release them to the world— but that’s a rare position to be in as a writer. I also have some difficulty knowing where a subject should begin and end since everything’s connected in my mind. There’s always another link, I think, that can advance the discourse.
5 - Are public readings part of or counter to your creative process? Are you the sort of writer who enjoys doing readings?
I had my first reading last month in Toronto. The event was put together by my publisher, and it included the six or so other writers they’d published this season. I’ve always hated public speaking, but I was excited to get a firsthand reaction to the section I planned on reading. And I really ended up getting the most enthusiastic reaction. The audience really felt what I wanted them to feel. It was quite powerful, to be honest. Having said that, I wouldn’t organize my own readings. The performative aspect of these events feels unnatural to me. It may just be that I don’t consider myself important enough for people to come see, and that I myself have no interest in going to see other writers reading from their own books. The idea of having discussions, or debates, is a bit more interesting to me than a reading.
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?
As I mentioned, I’m concerned about the value of all writing. It’s more than the absurd quantity and declining quality of output; I’m haunted by the idea that everything has been said already, and that we bury older writing that’s valuable under the endless landslide of new … crap. Applying old thoughts to supposedly new situations doesn’t cut it for me. A lot of people don’t understand this because they think so much today is new. When a person cultivates a more historical view that gives a broader, sort of overhead, vantage point from which to survey the entire field of action, things look quite different. Those who are caught up in the action on the ground can’t perceive the situation with the same understanding. This may sound pretentious, but it’s really a basic metaphor. I find it funny that, in my experience, many people who agree with the general claim that understanding the past is important for understanding the present—and most people agree with this, I think—will disagree about the worth of historical insights when applied in particular instances, and when it goes beyond the level—and conclusions—they’re comfortable with. Kierkegaard spoke of the proscribed level of knowledge that mass society refused to let any individuals surpass without penalty. The proliferation of mass media clearly had a lot to do with this, as religion did before it. It’s the difference between people who are consumed by presentness, by the news media, entertainment, and technology, versus those who’ve stepped outside of the spectacle to see how forces interacted to get us to this point, and to understand the cyclical nature of life amid all the supposed “newness.” Technology may deliver new products, but understanding the place of technology itself within the whole, reveals as much.
7 – What do you see the current role of the writer being in larger culture? Do they even have one? What do you think the role of the writer should be?
It’s not easy for people to resist flowing along within the accelerated rhythm of the world we live in. Everyone needs to make a living, to sell themselves, or some product, and this requires adapting to life as it is (and I think much of historically leftist critique of capitalism is right when it comes to points like this one). I’m an ardent believer that writers and artists are the ones who have the vision, courage, strength—and often the resources—to stand alone, and maintain a certain distance from the events of the day, with all of its little excitements. A big part of it is about being able to slow down, I think, and learning to think independently, which involves reading broadly, and across ideological lines. Writers—and here we can draw a distinction between those whose aim is to write bestsellers catering to mass tastes, and those who want to craft something that’s essentially different, something fuller, whole, suffused with the real complexities of life, rather than simplistic narratives. The latter kind of writer, who deserves the name “artist,” should have just a few toes in the present; they should see what’s happening in the world, while also embracing a degree of remove that allows them to perceive life more “objectively”—and let’s leave aside the question of objectivity here. In the past, this distance was referred to in a number of other ways. Proust often refers to the “disinterested” perspective in relation to the arts. The word shouldn’t be misinterpreted, though: “disinterested” means cultivating an impartial point of view, rather than coming at art with pre-existing biases that are based on self-interest. It’s not about limiting one’s sense of the world—rather the opposite, in a way. It’s about being more open, receptive, and understanding. I realize that this opinion—like most of my opinions—isn’t the popular one today. Progressives usually demand a more socially-engaged art, and they assert that anything that doesn’t call for full-throttle self-expression, and unbridled emotional reaction, is dispassionate, anti-social, and conservative. But the hyper-passionate approach puts the narrative, and conclusion, ahead of itself, and is therefore biased, and self-interested in its desire for affirmation. Being “disinterested” is more subtle. This is a version of the old debate about art for art’s sake, versus an engaged art, which returned in the ‘60s (especially in France), with the call for art to be in the streets. I’m sure many people who are reading my answer here won’t be convinced, so, characteristically, I’ll end by offering a long quote that I think is worth considering. This, from Italo Calvino, an essay called Why Read the Classics (1981): “‘Why read the classics rather than concentrate on books that enable us to understand our times more deeply?’ or ‘Where shall we find the time and peace of mind to read the classics, overwhelmed as we are by the avalanche of current events?’ We can of course, imagine some blessed soul who devotes his reading time exclusively to Lucretius, Lucian, Montaigne … Ruskin, Proust, and Valéry … To keep up such a diet without any contamination, this blessed soul would have to abstain from reading the newspapers, and never be tempted by the latest novel, or sociological investigation. But we have to see how far such rigor would be either justifying or profitable. The latest news may well be banal or mortifying, but it nonetheless remains a point at which to stand and look both backward and forward. To be able to read the classics you have to know “from where” you are reading them; otherwise both the book and the reader will be lost in a timeless cloud. This, then, is the reason why the greatest ‘yield’ from reading the classics will be obtained by someone who knows how to alternate them with the proper dose of current affairs. And this does not imply a state of unperturbable inner calm. It can also be the fruit of nervous impatience, of a huffing-and-puffing discontent of mind. Maybe the ideal thing would be to hearken to current events as we do to the din outside the window that informs us about traffic jams and sudden changes of weather, while we listen to the voice of the classics sounding clear and articulate inside the room. But it is already a lot for most people if the presence of the classics is perceived as a distant rumble far outside a room that is swamped by the trivia of the moment, as by a television on full blast.”
8 - Do you find the process of working with an outside editor difficult or essential (or both)?
I wanted a lot more input from my editor when it came to Village Dreams. The book is unconventional in many respects, it bounces with stream-of-consciousness ideas, and digressions. When it came to the editing process, I expected lively discussions about what to include and what to cut, about the book’s real purpose, and meaning. But my editor approved everything so easily, which left me without the bouncing board I really wanted at that point. I realized that I’d have to go back and self-edit the manuscript. To do so effectively also meant understanding it so fully that I could grab it by the horns. Most readers probably think this is something most writers automatically do, but I think it’s rarely the case. Writers and artists often create without knowing all of the keys to their own work. In the 19th century, the task of decoding the innerworkings of a work of art became the territory of the critic, more than the creators themselves. Understanding the ins and outs of one’s own writing, tightening it properly, typically requires a few more drafts than one has the mental energy for (It makes me think there may be something to the stereotype of the pretentious painter who refuses to explain their own work.) It’s a daunting prospect to think about digging back into your own writing when your head is already so saturated with the content, and you believed you were nearly done with it. It’s even difficult to step away from it when you know it’s there waiting for you, and that you’re going to have to figure out how to give it a final shape, and polish it off, as best as you can possibly do. In my experience, these extra pushes are worth the dissonance they cause. Again, it’s usually one step back, two forward, for me. Putting in those extra few months of work led to a final version of Village Dreams that really exceeded my own vision for it. A good editor ca be invaluable, though. I have a writer friend who always came away from meetings with her editor feeling that the editor’s advice was wrong, and that she was being pushed too far. But after a few days sitting with the advice, my friend always came to see her editor’s point. This is just one example, of course. There isn’t a single model for these relationships, which are sometimes complex, and touchy. Listening to one another and having mutual respect is crucial, but it’s also true that the visions of a writer and editor can diverge too much, in which case it’s best for them to part ways.
9 - What is the best piece of advice you've heard (not necessarily given to you directly)?
I’ve never received a good piece of advice. I also think that advice, like wisdom, can point people in one direction just as easily as the opposite. For example, advice could be, “You have to take the leap—no risk, no reward! Quit your job and start writing if that’s what’s really in your heart!” Alternatively, it can be, “Caution—slow and steady wins the race! Everything comes in its own time.” Advice should always be contingent on the particular set of circumstances and character of the individual who asks for it. One of my pet peeves is when people couch their own ideas and experiences in universal terms—especially when they do so with pseudo-intellectual, or pseudo-spiritual, pretenses. Roland Barthes has a hilarious essay in his book Mythologies about how the masses who make up bourgeois-liberal society try to cast everyone and everything in their own mold to the extent that they imagine extraterrestrials (which became a popular subject in the ‘50s) as having bourgeois-humanist mindsets just like themselves.
10 - What kind of writing routine do you tend to keep, or do you even have one? How does a typical day (for you) begin?
I like to do a couple of 3-4-hour sessions each day because my brain gives out after that length of time. I’ll wake up and walk to my favourite café to read, or write. Then I’ll usually have a workout because I need a break, and switching from the mental to the physical is healthy for both dimensions, I think. It’s difficult to let go when you’re deep in the creative process, but you have to try. In the afternoon or evening, I’ll do a few more hours of reading, or writing, at home. I might also watch a film, often something slightly philosophical, or something that offers some interesting historical context related to whatever I’m writing, or researching. I love incorporating film into my writing.
11 - When your writing gets stalled, where do you turn or return for (for lack of a better word) inspiration?
I always go back to books, especially since my writing is mainly about cultural history. Sometimes intense readers need breaks from reading, though. Even Sontag, who was addicted to reading, needed to clear her mind of books at times. Sometimes our brains need a reset, and it’s always a good idea to try looking somewhere new for inspiration. I’ve gotten back into watching sports as an outlet—hockey and tennis, in particular—though I can get into the playoffs of most sports.
12 - What fragrance reminds you of home?
My first thought is whether “home” here is really just a stand in for childhood? or do you mean where I live now? I prefer the former because it triggers my Proustian sensibilities, yet I don’t really have an answer other than some vague thoughts about warm grass in the summer, and a faint sense of perfumes worn by my mom when I was a kid. I wouldn’t be able to describe the scent though because I can hardly even evoke it in my mind. I’d have to smell it. Admittedly, this answer is somewhat of a poetic cliché, but it’s what comes to my mind. I once had a friend who told me that the sound of a vacuum always made him tired because his mother would vacuum the house when he was put down for his naps as a child. I thought that was interesting.
13 - 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?
I agree. Books do come from books, which is part of the reason I find most things so regressive today. Books from books from books that are third-rate knockoffs of the original work. But there’s also film, for me. It was reading Sontag’s essays on New Wave cinema of the ‘60s and ‘70s (Godard, Bergman, Fassbinder, Varda, etc.) that popularized the idea that film could be part of intellectual discourse. Of course, the New Wave contained this idea in-itself because it was heavily imbued with cultural-political and artistic commentary (re. Cahiers du Cinéma), and experiments with the medium itself. The New Wave often tried to overcome the medium, which is something I’m both interested, and critical of.
14 - What other writers or writings are important for your work, or simply your life outside of your work?
Sontag’s collection of essays in On Photography are a focal point for me. I think the critiques she gave in the early ‘70s have only grown in relevance since images proliferate and dominate contemporary life more and more. Her own work picked up threads from Walter Benjamin, who’s also a major influence on my writing. These two critics are quite mainstream within intellectual milieus, but I think I’ve dug deeper and understand them and their thought more than most professional academics who like to talk about them. I’m most concerned about how their thought is being distorted to fit evolving narratives. More than anything, I want to reassert the critical elements of their thought that’s being purposefully ignored. This is also happening with other writers and thinkers who influence me: Camus, Arendt, Adorno, to name a few. The work of everyone I’ve mentioned affects my perspective on nearly everything. I don’t compartmentalize my writing from the rest of my life because I’m always concerned with the same thing: revealing contradictions.
15 - What would you like to do that you haven't yet done?
I’ve prioritized travel over a settled life of comfort for over a decade now. I’ve spent a lot of time in London, and whenever I’m there, I get excited about the idea of setting up shop in Chelsea for a year or so to write a novel.
16 - 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?
I did my undergraduate degree in accounting—a field that couldn’t be more opposed to my natural inclination. I was a very perplexed, disoriented kid. I wasn’t really encouraged to explore my creative side, and the “do-whatever-makes-you-happy” ethos wasn’t something I grew up with. The professions were the most sensible option given my lack of direction. In my early teens, I developed an interest in old film (Hitchcock in particular), which was part of an escape from real life, and my sexual confusion, I think. I remember wanting to study film, to become a director, or maybe a screenwriter. But now that I’ve become a writer, I find myself drawn to less intellectual work. I like the idea of making things with my hands, like a carpenter, a furniture designer, or perhaps something to do with plants, like a gardener, or landscape designer. I think it’s common for writers—existential ones in particular—to reach a point where they begin to fetishize more manual labour. Wittgenstein comes to mind.
17 - What made you write, as opposed to doing something else?
I’ve always enjoyed writing, but I didn’t pursue it until my mid-twenties. I have a very active imagination, but it’s tied to reality. I don’t have the capacity for purely inventive storytelling. I needed to have more real-life learning experiences to give content and form to my passions. I don’t believe people are really destined to do one thing or another, to be honest. It’s like when people talk about meeting their soulmate; I don’t buy the idea that one person is meant for us. It’s yet another narrative that makes people feel comfortable, and gives their lives meaning. In reality, I think everything we end up doing is a combination of nature and nurture, chance and choice. I could’ve easily ended up as an accountant, or hotel manager—things I was at one time on track to become. But I’m glad I became a writer because I do think it suits my nature more—which isn’t quite the same thing as saying “I was meant to be a writer.”
18 - What was the last great book you read? What was the last great film?
I’m rereading Proust, which is more than a “great” book. Swann’s Way, the first section, is a masterpiece—and I wouldn’t use such a word lightly. Otherwise, I’d say The Man Without Qualities by Robert Musil. It’s 1300 pages of the smoothest, cleverest, and yet unaffected writing I’ve ever read. I was shocked by it. As for film, I recently rewatched the German film, The Lives Of Others, which I think is one of the best films of this century so far. I also saw the Norwegian film Sex, part of the “Sex Dreams Love” trilogy by Dag Johan Haugerud. It’s complex, funny, psychologically revealing. Like many Scandinavian films—Joachim Trier’s Oslo trilogy, for instance—there’s a Bergmanesque quality in the characters’ existentialism and their chattiness. A lot of interesting thoughts are revealed in conversations that try to resolve strange situations. Being selective about the contemporary books and films I engage with is also a control mechanism, or an ecology, as Sontag put it. It’s a way of giving myself an artificial sense of having some control over the overwhelming tide of output.
19 - What are you currently working on?
Now that Village Dreams has been published, I’ve had
to make the transition to the “publicity” phase. It wasn’t easy for me to make
the switch, but now that I’ve done it, I’m excited about chances to discuss and
debate the ideas I put into the book. After all, that’s what I really wanted
from the start. My drive was more about ideas, than about storytelling, or writing
as a craft. I’ll likely spend the next six months or so doing my best to keep
that ball rolling. I’m not good at juggling multiple projects, so I can’t
really think too much about what comes next. (Buy my book! Thanks.)
12 or 20 (second series) questions;
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