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Susan Hope Lanier


The Game We Play

 

By Bethany Bendtsen, Managing Editor (Hair Trigger 2.0)

Six blocks later, they turn right onto Kinzie and crane their heads like tourists up at the Trump Tower construction. Sophie holds her right hand up to the sky and covers the building with the butt of her cigarette. She closes one eye, and the building plays peek-a-boo.

“Isn’t it beautiful?”

“Yeah, if you like concrete and steel,” Sophie says, dropping her cigarette and stepping on it.

“You don’t think it’s beautiful?”

Sophie thinks the tower looks like a giant metallic lighter, or a lipstick case, or a shard of glass. She thinks people want to think it is beautiful. That people want it to be art, but really it is just a building surrounded by other buildings in a city that doesn’t need any more fucking buildings. It is the spinal tap of Chicago. She doesn’t say any of this to Jamey.

Sophie Salmon says, “It’s just a building.”

“That’s sad,” Jamey says, and lights another cigarette with a chapped red hand.

They turn left onto State and cross the river. The tower guts the horizon behind them now, waiting to be crowned with a lighting rod.

The excerpt above comes from “Sophie Salmon,” one of ten stories in Susan Hope Lanier’s debut short story collection The Game We Play. If I had to pick one story from Lanier’s collection that stands out just a little more than the rest, that cuts to the core of what all the pieces seem to be about, it’s this one, sandwiched in the middle of the collection’s one hundred and twenty breezy pages. In it, the main character, an employee at the Michigan Avenue Border’s, makes one final attempt to spark a relationship with her coworker Jamey on his last day of work. Sophie is plagued by an unknown, serious illness for which she refuses to seek medical treatment and her obvious fragility permeates throughout her after-work interaction with Jamey; after a few hours at the bar, back at his apartment, for example, he simply holds her in his arms, gently, as if she was made of tissue paper.

 As in the except, much of the power of “Sophie Salmon” comes from the implications of all that goes unsaid, all that remains unresolved. The dialogue and character interactions in the piece are driven forward by whisper-subtle nonverbal cues, a quality it shares with the collection as a whole. Lanier’s prose is conversational, straight-forward, and refreshingly lacking in pretense. In a few of the other stories, namely “Over Shell Drive” and “Nighthawk,” the same subtlety and simplicity of language prove to be their downfall, as the stories build but never quite . . . crescendo. Here, though, Lanier’s writing prowess is on full display as is the collection’s underlying conflict, the struggle to connect with another human being, to bridge the shortcomings of communication and the reality of innate human separateness.

 This central theme unifies a collection that has little else in common; the stories have neither a shared set of characters, setting, or point of view, and they span a myriad of relationships and contexts: a baseball player at-bat to win the championship, a wife in a grocery store roleplaying to save her marriage, friends on a bender, to name only three. Some, like “At Bat” and “Felicia Sassafras is Fiction” are playfully, delightfully experimental, while others like “Cat and Bird”—my personal favorite, in which a college freshman attempts to make sense of a newfound friendship that is as intense and fraught as the 2000 presidential election against which it is set—adhere to a more linear and traditional mode of storytelling.

 However, all revolve around a character’s attempt to connect with someone else on a deeper level, to understand exactly what another person wants and thinks, and the stories echo with the sharp pain of coming up short, of realizing that the connection between people is so often tenuous, insufficient, imperfect. While the collection itself is imperfect in some ways—as Newcity suggested, and I agree, the stories themselves could have been ordered differently to better showcase the strongest pieces—the overall result is a piece of work which demonstrates Lanier’s ability to do so much, which, in terms of pages, is so little. After reading this collection, I will definitely be watching to see what Lanier, a Columbia College Chicago graduate, has to offer next.

Similar Works:

 Literature: Dear Life by Alice Munro

 Film: Scenes from the Suburbs directed by Spike Jonze

 Music: “Youthemism” by Coral Bones

When Bethany’s not writing “fiction” about falling in love with everyone she meets, she spends her time eating cheese fries, obsessing about her outfit, and being generally shady. Her favorite color is glitter. 

January 30, 2017

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Sam Weller


Sam talks about his writing journey, how to balance your life and writing, and tips for a future writer

 

I first discovered Sam Weller last semester in my Introduction to Literary Interpretation class here at Columbia College Chicago. I had heard great things about him from a previous professor at my community college, and the class was no disappointment. I was enthralled by his knowledge and experience in literature and his profession, including his past as Ray Bradbury’s personal biographer.

Through his spoken stories to his classes, you can tell just how much he has to teach the upcoming generations, and how much it means to him. His love for literature and teaching is one that is genuine. His work showcases his ability and talent as he delves into real-life topics, all the while adding his hint of science-fiction.

A journalist, fiction writer, and two-time Bram Stoker award-winner, Sam Weller is well known for his biographies of Ray Bradbury. His book The Bradbury Chronicles: The Life of Ray Bradbury was a bestseller and winner of 2005 Society of Midland Authors Award for Best Biography. It was followed by Listen to the Echoes: The Ray Bradbury Interviews in 2010 and in 2012, Weller co-edited Shadow Show: All-New Stories in Celebration of Ray Bradbury alongside Mort Castle. Sam was a Correspondent for Publishers Weeklymagazine and his own essays have appeared in the Paris Review, Slate magazine, and more. He is a current blogger for the Huffington Post. More recently, Sam’s fiction has been featured in various outlets such as Printer’s Row JournalRosebud, and the Chicago Reader among others. Upcoming, we have a lot to look forward to. Sam Weller is currently working on his debut novel and in 2020 he will be releasing a collection of short stories titled Dark Black.

 *  *  * 

 

I’d like to start by noting your previous work. You’re well known for your work as Ray Bradbury’s authorized biographer. What are a few of the key things you learned while working with him?

Ray taught me so much. First of all, he was creatively fearless. He was a tremendous creative risk taker. He wrote short stories, novels, essays, poems, screenplays, teleplays, radio dramas… He did whatever he wanted. This is what I try to emulate in my own writing career. I have done a travel book; a biography; a book of interviews; comic books; a graphic novel and, next up, I have a collection of short stories coming out in April. I don’t want to be confined by boundaries as a creator, and Ray taught me this.

Another important lesson is that he taught me to trust my creative intuition. As readers and writers, we are constantly training our subconscious in the art of storytelling. Ray often said, “Your intuition is smarter than you are, so get out of its way.” So, with this in mind, if a story keeps tapping me on the shoulder and saying “write me,” I listen! I don’t question where the story wants to lead me, I try to follow. When a story is really working, it almost starts to write itself, the writer is just the medium to channel the ghost.

 

Besides Bradbury, what stories and/or authors had a strong influence on you and your writing?

So, so many. I love writers who have an electric energy to their narrative movement. Tom Wolfe’s The Right Stuff is absolutely voltaic. That book was a towering influence on me. Same with Lester Bangs, the greatest rock-music critic ever. James Wolcott, the essayist, critic, and fiction writer has a similar lightning to his wordsmithery. I like to take this energy over to my fiction. Other important influences include Truman Capote, James Baldwin, John Steinbeck for sure, Louise Erdrich, Joan Didion and contemporary writers such as Joe Hill and Charles Yu.

 

You’ve had short stories published and have written for various magazines in the past – as a journalist and author, where did that journey begin for you? 

As long as I’ve been writing nonfiction, I have been writing fiction. The commonalities between the two genres are far more pronounced than the differences, really. A story is a story. It needs to be told well, using all the senses, with memorable scenes, a sense of play, experimentation, use of narrative forms, dialogue, narrative movement and more. These things cross easily between nonfiction and fiction. And a story must be told in your voice. Like a great guitar player, you really should be able to recognize a writer’s signature very quickly. So, I have been writing fiction for years. My MFA is in fiction. My stories have been published in a number of anthologies, as well as in literary journals. After writing THE BRADBURY CHRONICLES: THE LIFE OF RAY BRADBURY (William Morrow, 2005) I was ready to get away from heavy research and interviews and footnotes and indexes and facts for a while, to just take a break, so I started publishing more and more short stories. This journey has been one of pure joy.

 

How did your journey lead you to where you are currently?

Well, I’ve been writing and publishing short stories for the last decade or so and it’s led to my first short story collection coming out in 2020. I’m very excited about it, but I’m now ready to get back to a huge nonfiction project that will take me deep into the research mines again! I was at the New York Public Library a few weeks ago in the rare manuscript room and my heartbeat sped up. It felt like Indiana Jones and Hogwarts rolled into one.


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In Spring 2020, you have a collection of short stories being published. It’s a little different than what you’ve published previously. What was the inspiration for these stories? Without giving too much away, is there any more you can tell us about them? 

One of my favorite books by Ray Bradbury is 1955’s, The October Country. It is very dark, very melancholy, deeply poetic and — psychologically — quite creepy. It is one of his finest short story collections. I wish he had written more stories in this tradition. The October Country got me interested in “weird” fiction, and then I went deep into the light-deprived rabbit hole of Gothic literature and haven’t returned. I noticed that most of the short stories I was writing were cut from this sort of dark, velveteen cloth. My subconscious was writing a collection of dark stories long before I saw the thematic connections. My book, Dark Black comes out in June of 2020. It includes twenty short stories. I played with narrative forms in some, one is written as a found transcript of a conversation; another is written as a sort of fictionalized, rock-music magazine feature story. I love playing with contemporary forms in the constructs of fiction. The title story of the book is one of my favorites. It is about an oceanographer who is at the end of his career and sets out to prove the existence of the mythic Kraken, something he is convinced he saw early on in his career. This story is sort of Moby-Dick meets Jaws meets my love of Kaiju monsters. The story is sad. It is very cold and autumnal and, strangely, reflects that I was listening to a lot of John Denver when I wrote it. It caused me to reflect on John Denver’s death in a plane crash, and how he died flying, which was something he loved very much.

Death is the pervasive connection between all of the stories in Dark Black. Death, grief, loss, loneliness, isolation and madness—the hallmarks of Gothic literature. I lost my Mom when I was in my early twenties. I lost Ray Bradbury, who was really like a second father to me, in 2012. I lost my childhood best friend in a car accident and one of the stories in the book (“Conjuring Danny Squires”) is a fictionalization of this tragic experience. I think the only way I could begin to grapple with all of this loss was to allow life to come from it—life in the form of story and art. Creativity is the flower, the miracle, that grows from the drought striken landscape. It’s very gratifying that Charles Yu called the book “haunted and haunting,” as this was my intent with this new book.

The final thing I will say about Dark Black is that it was very important to me to have every story include an illustration. I wanted the illustrations to be as haunting and desolate as the stories themselves. My publisher got this aesthetic immediately. They said, “Go for it!” They didn’t worry about cost. They just said, “Do it.” The art is all done by artist and printmaker Dan Grzeca, who is best known for his work rock bands like the Black Keys, Sharon van Etten and U2. In many ways, his art is the visual twin to my stories.

 

I’d love to know what your creative process looks like. When you sit down to write, do you have any rituals? What does your environment look like? 

Music has always been absolutely imperative to my writing process. I have always listened to music when writing. Every project I have ever worked on always had an unexpected soundtrack that I listened to as I created—sort of a musical mood that painted a color and vibe. I listened to a lot of punk while writing Dark Black, as well as lot of Johnny Cash and old Irish folk songs. Most of the music was about broken hearts, broken people and redemption.

I would love to be precious about my process, but I really can’t afford to be. I would love to be able to rent a cabin somewhere in the woods to go away and just write. I could get so much done! This is a dream of mine, one day. Or to buy a small farmhouse somewhere. But I have three kids and really can’t do that. At least, not until they are a bit older. My years as a staff writer for alternative, weekly newspapers fostered in me an ability to write anywhere. Journalism is great training this way. Newsrooms are loud and people are constantly talking to you and you just have to stay focused. Edward R. Murrow wrote on battlefields, so I figure I can write in a loud house. I write sometimes on my phone using the memo app. I can write pretty much anywhere. It’s not ideal, but it’s how I get things done.

One thing I do like is to have several hours to get in a groove. I don’t like to only have 15 minutes here or there. I hate writing like a lurching car with a sputtering engine. I want to get on the highway and go for a long road trip. I am also very much a morning writer. I love the energy of the morning, with the promise of the day out before me.

  

You’re a father, a teacher, and a writer. How do you find the time to write?

Balance is the hardest part of my creative life. I have no answers. I fight for my creative time. That’s all I can say. If I don’t write, I get depressed and feel caged. So that’s good motivation to constantly look for an opportunity to be creative. I’m also a much better teacher when I am engaged with my creative practice. I’m also a better father because I am a happier person. Somehow, someway, I make the time.

 

Going off my last question, do you have any tips for those struggling to find a balance between their writing and life?

You have to want this career. You have to fight for it. You have no choice. If you are a writer, you must write. And cut it with the procrastination. Don’t do it tomorrow. Do it today. No one is going to facilitate your dream but you.

 

To end the interview, what would you say to those writers who are struggling to not only find their voice but also their footing in the literary world?

Don’t despair. We all feel these things. We all question our voice, or tire of the sound of our own voice because we are with it 24/7, on every page, in every sentence.

Write about the things that fascinate you. Be curious. Be an active listener. Be an active reader. Write with passion. Write the story you would want to read. Writing like this will never let you down. Ray Bradbury taught me, “Do what you love and love what you do.” So write what you love! If you do this, the story will take care of the rest.

   

Interview by Alison Brackett

Dark BlackHat & Beard Press
254 pages
https://hatandbeard.com/products/dark-black

The Ray Bradbury Chronicles
Published by HarperCollins Publisher on April 5, 2005
ISBN: 006054581X
383 Pages

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Michael Gifford


On writing, his process, and more importantly, how nothing matters because the planet is going to incinerate itself one day

 

Mike Gifford is a comedic essay writer, performer, and director in Chicago, IL. Mike was the co-writer and director of the 2017 revival of “Steamworks: The Musical,” and is an original ensemble member of “The Shithole” variety show, where you can still see him perform original essays. Mike is proud to say he has made virtually no money off of his artistic pursuits and has no interest in fame or posterity. He still works very hard to make people laugh, grossed out, or disgusted while reading his essays on stage.

Kala Wahl: What attracted you to writing solo material/monologues for the stage?

Mike Gifford: Monologues were a complete accident.

I was asked by a guy to write this essay for a variety show. I’d never performed solo before in my life. I’d done this podcast with another guy, and he wasn’t a bad guy, but we just didn’t see eye-to-eye creatively. This guy running the variety show asked me to do a monologue about my experience in politics. So, that’s when I wrote this very first essay—first one I’d ever written—and performed in front of people at a show. It was about President James Buchanan and his homosexual relationship with William Rufus King, the senator from Alabama. They’d lived together for twenty years in a fairly open homosexual relationship. So, I wrote an essay about that. It went over really well; people laughed. It was wonderful.

I was asked to come back and do it again—that meant I had to write a new one. And then I wrote a new one after that. It was an avalanche. I kept writing; I would write a new five-minute monologue for virtually almost every show I did, which was crazy. I didn’t know any better. But there’s not a lot that’s changed in my process from the beginning. I may be totally wrong with that. I’m not doing anything right, but it’s fun.

 

KW: What’s the crossover between monologues and essays?

MG: You could get into semantics. I believe an essay, specifically, is determining a length of something. I think that’s if you’re being very technical, but I might be wrong there. The difference really could be—for example, a character monologue would be taking on a different persona. Let’s say for this piece I’m going to be playing Orson Wells eating taffy. [Does voice of Orson Wells eating taffy]. So, I have a very specific voice. That’s a character piece. As just a monologue as me, or reading an essay, that’s simply that. But there always is a sense, for me, that’s it’s never quite me. It’s not really me; it’s me performing. So, performing me is a little bit different than just me bitching.

 

KW: I noticed a big theme in your writing is queer identity and your experience as a gay male in day-to-day life. What do you want your audience to take away from this kind of material?

MG: These days, everyone has an agenda. I don’t care. I don’t want them to learn anything. I want them to laugh, and then through that, I think it makes everything a little more acceptable.

I’m disgusting. I find all these gross topics interesting, and I talk about it very bluntly. And the funny thing about me is—even though I’m a big prude—while most people don’t want to talk about anything, I’d much rather push the boundary and gross people out. And I’ve really grossed people out before. I once performed a five-minute piece about anal sex. I had one thing in there, it was: “Butt oven of burning delight.” It really grossed people out. And it was really funny, people laughed. But it was gross.

There are rare occasions where I’ve written something specifically to connect with people. I don’t think performing does anything to change anyone’s mind about anything. I don’t necessarily think I’ll change anyone’s mind. I’d rather be as funny and vulgar as possible—that’s my entire objective. I couldn’t care less.

There was a moment where I did care and I wanted to get a little bit of success, and I was getting some, but it made me very unhappy—at least in my case. I’m just sort of rolling with the punches and enjoying doing the little things I get to do. Which is very fortunate. Most people have very miserable lives. So, I’m doing all right.

 

KW: Your writing is incredibly blunt; it’s super honest and to the point. What are your thoughts surrounding the stylistic choice of writing in your own voice? 

MG: I just never censored myself. Because that’s the way I talk. I’m very matter-of-fact.

People get very offended by certain types of things. I am sort of like George Carlin on the topic of shell shock. Now they call it PTSD or something else. It’s like, no: it’s shell shock. It’s a blast and it’s hurting the brain. They even have studies talking about the brain damage that comes from all these bombs and gunshots and stuff that really fucks up a soldier’s brain. It’s shell shock; it always was shell shock. That’s exactly what it is. Two syllables, done. But we’ve evolved over time and we’ve dehumanized it as much as possible. So, now it’s a very politically correct word that sounds very easy, but it doesn’t describe what it is at all. Which is shell shock. It’s fucking up your brain.

So, I guess for me, I’m just too blunt. I’ve never been a good liar. It’s gotten me into all sorts of trouble, but it’s also made me very funny. People like liars; it’s much more comfortable. But I’m not very good at it.

 

KW: You sit down to write solo material—what does your process look like? How do you transfer your ideas to the stage?

MG: So, like right now I’m writing a piece. I’m performing a piece before the election. I never write about my experience in politics or anything like that, because it seems to be preachy. And I don’t want to be preachy. So, what I do is try to find an angle that isn’t preachy. I’ve been thinking about pulling something from the Federalist Papers. Or I could say, “This is a lost piece from the Federalist Papers that was written by Alexander Hamilton or James Monroe.” What if I wrote one of the lost Federalist Papers and I performed that? That might be an angle. I thought of that just now. I might do that; that’s a very good idea.

So, anyways, I get with that. Then I do a little research. I may go home and start to read about the Federalist Papers and find some interesting in’s to write about. They could be satirical as to the election that’s going to be happening. And that’s it. And then I’m just funny. The only way you know if something is funny or not is by performing it in front of people. A big part of it is selling it; I’m good at that. But there are all sorts of factors. There can be death by exposition. So, in the course of being funny, the set-up can destroy something organically funny. I’ll write something, often times, with long description in the sentences, and it’ll come across rather preachy. I cut those. And I go right to the funny thing and skip the bullshit. Now that’s antithetical to being descriptive if you’re writing an essay or prose or an article, but for performing, you want to get right to it. You don’t want to get boring. Whereas if someone’s reading and has to interpret it, you want more detail to explain what you’re trying to say. I don’t need all that detail because they know exactly what I’m saying because I’m saying it right in front of them. That’s the balance as far as process goes.

And honestly, whenever it comes to performing the essays I write, it’s messy. A lot of it is counterintuitive to when you’re preparing for an article or a journal or something to be read. It’s a very different mindset. And you have to keep that in mind. Otherwise whenever you’re performing it, it can be very boring.

 

KW: Why keep writing and performing?

MG: This is wonderful. I finally have a very good answer for this, because I wouldn’t have had in the past. I would have had a bullshit answer that I would have felt very sincere about, but I would have been wrong.

I only do things I find fun. I couldn’t care less about what anyone thinks. Or making money in that way. I just don’t care, because I’ll be dead. It’ll be over. I’ll be dead and done and in the dirt. So, everything that I did doesn’t matter. And one day, whenever the planet burns up, no one will remember what anyone did. To me, that is very reassuring. Because I don’t have to worry about it. It just takes the weight off.

I used to have all this pressure, and knowing that it doesn’t matter gives great meaning to me, actually. Most people look at it entirely wrong. Knowing that it’s all over means that all I have to worry about is making sure that I’m doing the best I can today. As long as I do the best I can today and have fun, I don’t have to worry about anything else. I could drop dead of a heart attack right now and then that’s it. So, I better enjoy every moment now. Who cares? That’s why I keep writing and performing. Because it’s fun. There’s a lot more value to me when I write and perform that way, because I’m not worried like I used to be.

 

Interview by Kala Wahl

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CM Burroughs


On poetry and the many themes that inform her writing

 

I first met CM in the spring semester of 2018 when I took her class, “Fetish, Sustainability, and The Self.” She began our first day together by reading the opening poem from her book, The Vital System. I knew then it would be a good semester, and that I had to read this collection of poems. Throughout my semester with CM Burroughs, I learned what poetry is. I created some of the work I am most proud of because of her skills and guidance as a professor. I found myself often wondering what more of her work was like. What would it look like if I took a close look at it? 

After that semester, I bought The Vital System and devoured the collection within a matter of days. Each poem had a unique flavored, something I had never tasted before. CM Burroughs creates small worlds within her poems that I could not help but ask questions about. I was delighted when she agreed to speak with me about The Vital System, her process, and her inspirations. 


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CM Burroughs’s debut collection of poetry is The Vital System (Tupelo Press, 2012). She is an assistant professor of poetry at Columbia College Chicago, and she serves as senior editor for TupeloQuarterly and coeditor for Court Green. Burroughs has been awarded fellowships and grants from Yaddo, the MacDowell Colony, Virginia Center for the Creative Arts, Cave Canem Foundation, Callaloo Writers Workshop, and the University of Pittsburgh. She has received commissions from the Studio Museum of Harlem and the Warhol Museum to create poetry in response to art installations. A Pushcart Prize nominee and a finalist for the 2009 Gift of Freedom Award, her poetry has appeared in journals including CallaloojubilatPloughsharesVOLTBat City Review, and Volta

When does a poem begin for you? Do you find yourself taking up a routine when it comes to beginning a poem, or is the process different for every poem?

A poem begins with provocation and desire. I tend to fantasize about and mull over poems before I write them as a means of figuring out what they are about. And some poems come out of free-writing and pure chance upon an intersection of language and idea. I generally walk around with subjects in mind, and I work to find the right language to craft the subject into poems. 

In The Vital System,the titles of each poem are found at the top of the page with a border line separating the title from the poem. This made me wonder, what does the title for a poem mean to you? Do your poems always have a title or is this a structure you like to play around with?

The title is the first moment I am able to take my reader by the hand. I look at every part of the poem as a cooperative space between the word and the imagination of the reader. And I have to admit that I prefer to work for the right title—the first thing a reader sees cannot be lazily-made. 

In The Vital System, the structure of each poem is unique. How do you find the structure for your poems? Do you write each piece with an intended physical structure or do you piece it together once you have gotten all the words on the page? 

A poem’s structure should be aesthetically provocative in some way. That is, if the piece is held away from the eye and the language rendered abstract then I prefer there be some desire toward the poem. The content of the poem also informs the structure—if the poem is tense then the structure might be short-lined and narrow. That said, I shift structure throughout my writing and revision process in order to satisfy how the content is changing until the poem is complete. 

As I read this collection, there is continuously a strong sense of the human body in the work. How did the body find its way into these poems? What is it about the human that draws you in and keeps you coming back to write about it?

I was born 3 months premature, which is addressed by the first poem in The Vital System, “Dear Incubator.” The body that I was born into—the initial 1lb 12oz vulnerable thin-shelled gather of organs—that body, and now this healthy athletic body that I use today, informs everything I write. I think from the body; it belongs in my poems because I exist. 

There is also a subtle sensuality within some of your poems, these were some of pieces that resonated with me personally. How did the female body influence this collection? Was it something you found in the poems as you wrote? Or was it a subject you intended to showcase even before beginning the idea of the collection? 

Because I exist, I attempt to explore all expressions of the body, and this includes sensuality, romance, play, etc. Sexuality is one of the uses of the body that I’ve alway been interested in writing—curious about all the ways one may explore herself and another.  

When you began writing the poems of The Vital System, did you know each poem would be a part of something bigger? What was the process of putting a book together like for you? Were there any poems that did not make it into the book? 

The book is a revised version of my Master’s thesis. The intention was to create a full-length collection all along. I have an old photograph, I’ll dig it up for you, in which I am standing before a wall of poems. I used to live in Pittsburgh, PA in a Heinz carriage house with vast apartments throughout. I used one of the walls in my apartment to post all the poems of my book. That’s where I edited and rearranged them. That wall held my first book. 


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What are you currently working on in terms of writing? Do the themes of The Vital System continue to influence you? 

The themes do continue to influence me. My new book Master Suffering (Tupelo Press, 2020) explores the female body through the long illness and death of my younger sister, the impotence of spirituality to appease grief, and the role of pleasure in providing haven from despair. I believe writers chase certain subjects throughout the life of their art, and my obsessions continue to demand poems of me. 

Interview by: Jessica Powers 

 

Tupelo Press
ISBN: 978-1-936797-15-8
63 pages

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David Trinidad


On process, survival, and mysterious poet dreams

 

I was lucky enough to walk into my beginner level poetry workshop and see David Trinidad sitting, like a captain at the helm, at the front of the class.

I was a sophomore fiction major. I’d written poetry, but nothing serious, and was skeptical about being taught poetry, a subject I didn’t think lent itself to teaching. Fifteen weeks later, I emerged from that class as a poet, and I believe every bit of that is thanks to David.

A year after completing the course, I asked him about his poetry process, inspirations, and the extraordinary life he’s lived. This is what he told me.

 

David Trinidad is an award-winning poet from California. He has published numerous books, including his latest collection of poems, Swinging on a Star (Turtle Point Press, 2017). Known for his masterful exploration of pop culture in his poetry, Trinidad’s poems speak to very specific American experiences.  His other books include Notes on a Past Life (BlazeVOX [books], 2016), Peyton Place: A Haiku Soap Opera (Turtle Point, 2013), Dear Prudence: New and Selected Poems (Turtle Point, 2011), The Late Show (Turtle Point, 2007), and Plasticville (Turtle Point, 2000). He is also the editor of A Fast Life: The Collected Poems of Tim Dlugos (Nightboat Books, 2011) and Punk Rock Is Cool for the End of the World: Poems and Notebooks of Ed Smith (Turtle Point, 2019). Trinidad lives in Chicago, where he is a Professor of Creative Writing/Poetry at Columbia College Chicago.

 

When you set about writing a new book of poetry, what is your process like? Do you compile poems you’ve already written which contain a common thread? Or do you write according to a preset theme in mind?

My first few books were compilations of poems that did not necessarily have a common thread. I just tried to make a bunch of poems, that I’d written over a period of years, fit together and make sense, produce a book that was a good read. I’m sure those poems “spoke to each other,” either formally and/or thematically. But they were written as individual poems, not as a book. At some point my books began to be generated around a central idea: elegiac poems about my mother (The Late Show), a book of haikus based on the soap opera Peyton Place, a book of memoir poems about the years I lived in New York (Notes on a Past Life). I’m currently working on a book of prose poems. At first that was the only guiding principle, that they be in prose. Now I see that there is a unifying theme: retrieval of remnant-like memories.

 

How often do you pen a new poem? How long does it take you to revise them until they’re as close to perfect as they can be?

I tend to write one or two a month. Every month I meet with my friend Tony Trigilio. We eat Thai food and show each other new poems. That always gets me to write something new, as I’d hate to show up empty-handed. A failure! The revision process varies from poem to poem. Sometimes it’s fairly close to “perfect” on first draft, sometimes I tinker (or obsess) with certain lines or images, sometimes a poem will need to be written over a period of days, months, even years. Different poems have different requirements (or demands).

 

How has your long career as a Creative Writing professor influenced your writing, if at all?

I came late to academia. I’d already had a career as a poet out in the “real world.” It’s wonderful to have a job that values what you do as an artist. Where what you do—write and publish poems, give readings, etc.—counts for something. I have time to write, time (and resources) to pursue scholarly interests. I’ve researched and written essays about Sylvia Plath, edited the collected poems of Tim Dlugos and Ed Smith. Edited magazines. In general, being a teacher has enabled me to lead a more literary life than I might otherwise have had. I feel I’ve managed to thrive as an artist in academia. And I’m grateful.


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Your latest collection, Swinging on a Star, contains a string of poems about other poets, such as Anne Sexton, Sylvia Plath, and Lee Ann Brown. Why write about these poets specifically?

Those are all dreams I had about those poets. I often dream about poets. The dreams are usually mysterious. I suppose I wanted to try to capture that mystery in the poems.

 

A few of the poems in Swinging on a Star memorialize poets who have tragically died young. Is this a concept you find yourself returning to? 

Yes, very much so. I became acquainted with death at an early age. My friend Rachel Sherwood died in a car accident at twenty-five; I nearly died in that accident as well. Then so many were lost to AIDS. Some of them dear friends. When I wrote my poem “AIDS Series” in 2010, it felt like finally I’d paid my debt to those men. A debt I owed them because I survived. I’ve felt that way about Rachel my whole life. There’s this way in which life itself, after such loss, feels “posthumous.” (I’m quoting Ted Hughes there.) I’m leading up to writing an entire book about Rachel. It’s taken me a long, long time to be able to face her, to pay that debt in full.

 

I’d like to know a little more about the inspiration behind the poems “The Old Poet” and “The Young Poet.” Were they written together? 

They weren’t, actually. “The Young Poet” was written a few years before “The Old Poet.” Both were written in response to attitudes I’ve noticed in the poetry world. I wish I could say they’re Blakean songs of innocence and experience. But the young poet doesn’t seem particularly innocent, and the old poet hasn’t learned from their experience!

 

I was recently browsing the collections on the Poetry Foundation’s website, and came across one of your poems (“A Regret”) listed under a “Love Poems” collection. Among the other poets in this collection were Frank O’Hara and Audre Lorde. How does it feel to be included in a collection with these big names? Do you ever feel like comparisons such as these get to your head?

I’m still astonished when I’m grouped with those kinds of poets. It’s more humbling than head-swelling. A true honor to sit next to some of my heroes.

 

Interview by Jerakah Greene

 

Turtle Point Press
ISBN: 1933527978
96 pages

Categories
Issues

R.S. Deeren


On his budding writing career and rural America

 

R.S. Deeren is a fiction writer and poet hailing from the thumb of Michigan. He is an MFA recipient from Columbia College Chicago, where he was also a teaching assistant for the “Big Chicago” freshman program. Many of his short stories are published in online literary magazines, but mostly notably, his short story “Enough to Lose” was published in Tales of Two Americas, a collection edited by John Freeman. Deeren’s work often explores the implications of living in rural locations and the social dynamics that come from living in these places, all the while weaving in intricate details about place, time, and character.

 

What were the biggest influences in your life when you were younger that caused you to want to write?

My mom read to me and my sister when we were young. Later, waiting for her to get off work, my sister and I read at the Caro Area District Library after school. I was surrounded by books; I’m typing this while my forearms rest on a copy of Mohsin Hamid’s Exit West and Rebecca Morgan Frank’s Sometimes We’re All Living in a Foreign Country. I also have a habit of giving myself arbitrary finish lines to cross and, growing up with the Accelerated Reading program in grade school, I was focused on always earning a Gold Medal. I wrote some stories when I was a kid. Dragons and whatnot. They were for a Young Authors program in grade school. I remember winning a bright green t-shirt for a story I wrote but I don’t remember what it was about. I also was a scared kid who grew up in the woods, so I had this imagination that I think was primed for stories.

 

You grew up in the Thumb of Michigan and your stories often take place there. What qualities of living in that area inspires you to write about what it is like to live there?

I don’t know where to start on this one . . . I’m interested in how Thumbodies view where they are from. I love the geography of it: a peninsula on a peninsula; north of Canada; almost an hour east and north of any interstates (but nobody drives the speed limit). It’s physically isolated, or, as isolated as a place can be in the Information Age. It’s a patchwork of rivers, swamps, state land, farmland, small towns, and beach front properties. It’s a geographical dead-end and a social crossroads, which is to say that it’s dynamic. I use my characters to dissect the impact of place. Most times in subjective, sometimes in destructive, ways. I want this dissection to illuminate something.

 

You were a Luminarts Cultural Foundation Creative Writing Fellow in 2015. What was that like?

It was an amazing thing to have happened. Jason Kalajainen, Leslie Haviland, and Mitch Kohl are extremely wonderful people (and so are all the others I met and who continue to support young Chicago artists). It came at a time when I was worried that I wasn’t cut out to be a writer. I was a country kid in a new place, in an arts degree, worried about student loans (still worried). Ever the petty writer, I remember that the piece I submitted to the Foundation had been wrecked in workshop. To the point where the comments became personal. So to have this third party come out and say, “we support you,” was uplifting. They still offer support today through grant proposals though I’ve yet to take them up on that offer.

 

How has being a Luminarts Fellow and a Union League Club of Chicago Writer-in-Residence changed your writing career?

I’m not sure. I put the money into a retirement account, so I guess future me will have a better idea in regards to that. We like to say we write for ourselves and I definitely believe that. I also believe we all have something to say and most of us have something worth saying. Somewhere along the way we get the urge to have those words read by others. So, when we are read, I think it might be a feedback loop. Either way, I’m writing and Luminarts and the Union League Club of Chicago gave me a space to do that and some eyes to read what I wrote. Who could ask for more?

 

I know a while back you were working toward completing a short story collection. Are you still working on this piece?

My collection manuscript is Enough to Lose. I’ve tinkered with the order of the stories and removed some ghastly draft stories from it. I’m happy with how it is now, and some agents have enjoyed it enough to read the whole thing. Not enough to take me on, though. Win some; lose some.

Currently I’m working on a collection of poetry about chopping wood and the artifice of toxic masculinity. I’ve also got a novel well underway about an ex-con and what happens when a person is forced to live on others’ terms. My protagonist is currently trapped in Windsor, Ontario and he’s going to miss a meeting with his Parole Officer.

 

Can you tell us a little of what Enough to Lose is about?

Enough to Lose is a collection of short stories about rural life in Trump’merica, and how folks thought they could live with their backs against the water and the rest of the country at arm’s length. In America post 2016, folks are quick to monolith individuals. Some of the characters here break from this, most fall victim to it. All of them are changed by it. OK, stump over.

 

You grew up in a rural town in Michigan and moved to Chicago for grad school. How did that shift in scenery and pace influence your writing?

I love impossible questions! Gosh, let me think. My life is pretty slow no matter where I live. Scenery is another matter. This is going to be a longer answer and it has two parts:

I think the best fiction is written from two worlds, so the culture shock of moving to Chicago gave me perspective. It let me see Smalltown, America better because I could break “country life” into parts and compare them against themselves. Like, I grew up out in the woods on a river. Other folks my age grew up in town. I didn’t think much of it at the time because to me, we all went to the same school and that was how we identified: Caro kids. But space and place is nuanced, and even a ten-mile difference in location breeds different people (ten miles is a ten minute trip where I’m from whereas it can be an hour plus in Chicago). Earlier, I answered a question about being from the Thumb and I started by answering with the word “they” rather than “we.” As if I wasn’t a part of the rural community anymore. But I never felt, well, rural, until I moved to the city. I think moving to Chicago and then Milwaukee has heightened this feeling of writing from two worlds for me, which leads to my second part of the answer. Isolation. Not the mopey, lock yourself in your room kind (though I am answering these questions from my single bedroom apartment). I was a goofus kind of kid and probably a little too annoying for my own good, but I did have a lot of time on my hands to watch folks do their thing, to listen to how they spoke, to narrate their lives in my head. Large cities let a person be anonymous and that’s great for me; I can watch more people and let this influence my writing. Public transit is a masterclass in humanity and character-building.

 

Currently you are working on getting your PhD at University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee. How has that been?

It is another great opportunity to live in two worlds. It has its challenges and its rewards. I get paid to write, teach, and teach writing. For that, I’m eternally grateful. I volunteer at Woodland Pattern Book Center in the Riverwest neighborhood of Milwaukee and that has been a great community to be a part of. It’s this wonderful destination for poets from around the world.

  

What advice do you have for young writers trying to get published?

This is a great question and I’ve probably got a dozen answers, but I’ll try to whittle that down. I am currently the Fiction Editor at cream city review at UWM so some of this might be shaded by the slush pile.

1- Read widely. White writers: read outside your demographic. Male writers: READ WOMEN

2- Find lit mags that publish what you love to read, what inevitably inspires you to write. Get to know these markets and the wonderful people (usually volunteers) who make them work.

3- Submit. Revise the Rejection. Repeat. Reward. You have something worth saying and eventually someone will want to listen.

 

Interview by Danielle Uppleger

Categories
Issues

Emory Wolfe


On publishing and creation

 

Emory Wolfe is the author of three novels: The AnimalsHow to Live Forever; and The Place that Cannot Be. These novels are chilling in their honest depiction of the human condition and harrowing in how far they push the proverbial envelope to get readers to think. Emory was kind enough to share some of his thoughts on publishing, creation, and what it means to be a writer in the 21st century with us.

 

Could you share with our readers what success looks like to you? How did you come about this definition?

Success as a writer, for me, is simply finishing the novel. And by finishing the novel, I mean leaving it wherever it is and being content with not coming back to it. Published or not published. Self-published or traditionally published. Ten drafts or a hundred drafts. Only the writer decides when it’s done. You’re always going to want to come back to it. A novel stays with you. Eventually, at some point, you just have to make it as perfect as you can and be done with it before you start butchering it. Which is a very real thing. Eventually you have to let it go. And for me, when I let it go, that’s success.

You have chosen to self-publish all three of your novels. Why did you choose self-publishing over traditional publishing? What advice could you share in regard to self-publishing?

I chose to self-publish because there are a lot of horrible things in my novels that I don’t think any traditional publishing house would be okay with putting that out there. I am attempting to write about the worst events in human history after all. I am attempting to show the darkest side of humanity, so it’s not something I ever think will be a commercial success, nor do I think it should. Can you imagine 2 Girls 1 Cup playing in theaters? I always tell people to read my stuff at their own risk. Not to say I write shock for shock’s sake, not at all, but there’s no denying there is some dark stuff in my novels, and I don’t think a publishing house would be interested in something so . . . horribly real, I guess you’d say.

As far as advice on self-publishing goes, I guess it really depends on your goals. If you really want to get your work out there, then you’re going to have to do all your own work. I would just make sure you do your research. Figure out the pros and cons for traditional vs. self-publishing, and go after what you want. And be prepared to work, either way. Fall in love with the work.


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Let’s dive into your most recent work, TPTCB. While hauntingly beautiful, it is a very jarring and graphic read. The main character commits suicide early on by self-immolation after all. What led you to explore the grisly side of humanity in this work? How did you prepare for this?

To prepare for this I did a lot of research on horrible things. When I wrote my first novel, The Animals, I began writing it because I was so disturbed at seeing some of these horrific shock videos out there, and writing about it helped me navigate that confusion. I was still a Christian when I wrote that. But when I started TPTCB, it was several years later, and I had lost my faith at that point, and I knew I was going to visit that dark side of humanity again, but I wanted to approach it from a different angle. I wanted as many events in TPTCB to be based on real stories, and that’s the scariest part. I throw in a bit of fun here and there, of course, but almost all of the horrible events in TPTCB are completely real things that happened. And that’s what’s so scary, at least for me. While writing it, very often, I had to write in small segments and take long breaks. I would get really anxious and paranoid sometimes at researching something that had happened before, and just knowing that there are people out there that would do these horrible, atrocious things. I got really nauseous writing a lot of this stuff, too, especially for certain scenes, like a lot of the torture scenes, or when I describe what scaphism is. When I wrote the scene that finally reveals what happened to Emily, I actually threw up. That scene took me a few weeks to write, because it was based on a real person. I had to write it in very short segments. Researching all these things and real-world incidents was painful. Painful and sad.

What led me to originally explore all of this in the first place was a question I asked myself a lot after I became an atheist, which was, “what if you’re wrong?” I think atheists that never believed in the first place have it easy, but atheists that de-converted have it much harder. Losing your faith is not easy, de-converting from a religion is absolutely painful, probably more painful than anything else, because in a way you lose everything that you had always believed in. If you lose someone you know and love, that’s tragic, no doubt about that, but when you lose your faith, you lose this belief that you’re going to see that person again that you lost in the afterlife, which I think really takes a toll on you. But yeah, losing your faith can make you paranoid, because you’re taught you can go to hell for eternity. So, for a long time, after I had lost my faith, I kept looking over my shoulder, wondering what if I was wrong.

Eventually I concluded that any god worth his merit, any all-loving, all-powerful, and all-knowing god would surely allow his creation to judge the creator, after all, if that wasn’t allowed, what kind of god would that be? If I hand you my book and you tell me it’s crap, then, well, maybe it’s crap, maybe it’s not, but you have the right to at least present your case on why you think it’s crap and tell me how I could have made it better. I’m not going to send you to an eternity of hell for it. Or if I do, I’ll at least hear you out first.

But if I was going to “sue god” I would need evidence, and what better evidence is there than exploring the worst events in humanity?

Much of the narrative of TPTCB focuses on the subversion of Judeo-Christian themes, but the tone you use can’t be described as outright hostile. Does this approach describe your attitude towards religion in general and Christianity specifically? Or would you consider yourself a religious person?

I think a more important question than the question “are you a religious person?” or “do you believe in God?” is the question I mentioned before, “what if you’re wrong?” That’s the question that drove me to write TPTCB. Regardless of whether you’re an atheist, agnostic, or Christian, what if you’re wrong? Yeah you might be right, and Jesus is real and I’m going to hell for not believing in Him, but . . . what if you’re wrong? And yeah, I’m an atheist and I don’t believe in god and I think there isn’t anything after death but . . . what if I’m wrong? I’m much more interested in that question. And in the answer.

So no, I’m not religious and I don’t believe in god, however, if I’m wrong, which is the more important question, I would still refuse to worship god, just like Gregory did. If I’m wrong, I would sue god, just like Gregory did. In fact, you and everyone else can count on it. In some crazy chance that I’m wrong, and you and I and everyone else end up in front of the pearly gates with Saint Peter, I’ll defend all the non-believers and take god to court. But I’m probably not wrong, and there probably isn’t anything after death, so enjoy your life.

Now, I’m not out there trying to de-convert anyone, as crazy as that sounds. I don’t think the world is ready for everyone to be an atheist, in fact the opposite, I think a lot of people need the idea of god, and probably will for hundreds of years. I don’t want to appear hostile towards Christianity in my novel and outside it, or any other religion, but it’s a tricky line, because I don’t want to appear hostile towards believers, but I do want to poke them with that question I think is so important. I want them to really ask themselves what they would really, truly do if they discovered their beliefs were wrong. Would their morals change? What are their morals really based on? Because if they are based on that they don’t want to go to hell and the bible says these are the right morals to have, well, I don’t think those are good reasons. Going back to this important question on what if I’m wrong, what finally helped me sleep at night, what finally helped me stop looking over my shoulder, was knowing that if I was wrong, I wouldn’t change any of my morals. What I perceive to be right is not based on any outside circumstance. So again no, I’m not religious nor do I believe in God, but I know I could be wrong, and I’m okay with that if that’s the case. Whereas my argument is, I have the upper hand against believers, because I know first-hand that if a believer loses their faith or discovers they are “wrong,” all of their morals suddenly come into question.

The voice you employ in TPTCB is so clinical, so detached, that while readers will clearly feel a great amount of sympathy for Gregory and the other characters, there is a sharp divide between audience and narrative. Was this separation intentional? What, if anything, did you want your audience to feel or think because of or in spite of this distance?

If you dance around the flames long enough, eventually you’ll get burned. I don’t want to burn anyone. But they should know there is a fire.

Backing up to your second novel, How to Live Forever, I felt that you very accurately explained in the narrative how characters often have a way of wrestling control away from the author. Is the rebellious nature of characters something you wanted to delve into with this work? Or were you trying to say something else?

Honestly, I love Kurt Vonnegut and the way he used author insertion, so I stole that from him. I tried it in my first novel The Animalsand have been doing it ever since. But to answer your question, no, I wasn’t trying to delve into explaining this tug-of-war between characters and the author, for me, my characters make their own decisions completely. It sounds a bit crazy, and I’m okay with that, but really I have no control over what my characters do or say most of the time. All I really do is start something, I put a character in a situation, and then they themselves get out of it, or try to. The way characters interact with me in my novels is a product of this method I have, this decision to let my characters have their own decisions. The protagonist of How to Live Forever was just as surprised to find himself a character in my novel as I was surprised at finding myself the author of the book he was in. I know that sounds a bit nuts. But I don’t know. That’s just the way it is. I get a little lost sometimes.

There is an image that you use in both HTLF and TPTCB, that of the impossible orange suitcase. This suitcase works so perfectly in both works as an image and really speaks to your ability to not only craft breathtaking fictional worlds—complete with their own laws of physics—but also to subvert audience expectations by juxtaposing the outlandish and fantastical with the wholly real. Where did this suitcase come from? And is it likely to show up in your next book?

When we met the first time, and you mentioned this to me, I honestly hadn’t realized I had used the same prop in both novels. So to be totally honest, I’m not really sure where it came from. Some of the themes in my novels are the same or run together from one novel to the next, and I guess, like here, you don’t notice it until a reader like yourself points it out.

I can tell you however about the color I chose for the suitcase. Van Gogh once said “orange is the color of insanity” and there’s something about that quote that really resonates with me. In The Animals, the color orange was definitely a theme I tried to incorporate it into the story, and I think the color orange bled over into my other novels, and at some point that turned into the impossible orange suitcase.

Yes, the impossible orange suitcase is making an appearance in my next novel, you can count on it.

As an author, you seem to want to always go deeper, to use your fiction as a vehicle to force your audience to think critically and philosophically about a wide range of topics. When you first sit down to write, are these topics already in your head? Do you actively want to explore philosophy through fiction, or is it a happy accident?

I would say both, an accident and on purpose. I start off with a question, there’s always a question, a big “what if?” And then I try to answer it by writing about it. So initially yes, I try to explore philosophy through writing, initially it’s on purpose. But as I’m writing and trying to answer this question I had, these characters eventually make their own choices, so I have no control over it, and then eventually they force me to pursue the answers for other questions that they bring up, which would be the accidents. So yes, I do try to actively bring philosophy into my novels, but just at the start. I’m not sure sometimes if I attempt to write about philosophy or attempt to philosophize through writing. They are the same thing to me.

Finally, you quite literally wear some of your influences on your sleeves. You have several tattoos, including one of Friedrich Nietzsche’s face on the back of one of your hands and the words “Read More” across your knuckles. What other literary tattoos do you sport? Do you feel like writers are going the way of the rock star, getting inked to tell their personal stories? Or is it just becoming more and more socially acceptable to be inked and writers are just following a general trend?

Some others I have are “and so it goes” on the side of my hand, from Vonnegut of course, and the first sentence to Ayn Rand’s The Fountainhead, “Howard Roark laughed” on the side of my arm. I definitely do not feel like writers are going the way of the rock star. If anything, they are being shoved aside by professional YouTubers and Twitch streamers and Instagram models. Not that that’s a bad thing, it’s just the way things are. Writers are solitary by nature, I think, so it’s okay.

I think everyone gets ink for different reasons. I do think tattoos are becoming more and more socially acceptable, but I can’t speak for anyone else why they get them. The reason I personally have these tattoos are for motivation. When I get down on myself, it helps to have something that inspires me right there on my hand. The only tattoos I regret are my Christian tattoos though. If you’re going to get tattoos, word of advice: don’t get religious ones. You may think it’s something that’s never going to change, I didn’t, but you never really know. A lot of people see all of my Christian tattoos (I was a real Jesus freak a long time ago) and say, “Oh wow, you must be pretty religious. . . .” I always answer, “how much time do you have?”

 

Interviewed by Jay C. Mims

Categories
Issues

Amanda Goldblatt


On her debut novel, Hard Mouth

 

2018 NEA Creative Writing Fellow Amanda Goldblatt discusses her debut novel, craft development, and more.

I first met Amanda in the fall of 2016, as an undergraduate student in her Intro to Creative Writing course. The following semester, I enrolled in her Elements of Style course. Both courses have been critical to where I currently stand as a writer and a reader—especially when it comes to content and form. Fast-forward two years later, it is with great pleasure that I now have the chance to discuss style and craft and how it relates to Amanda’s own work, as opposed to my own. 

Amanda Goldblatt’s work can lately be found at NOONFence, and Diagram. She is a 2018 National Endowment for the Arts Creative Writing Fellow, and teaches creative writing at Northeastern Illinois University. Her debut novel Hard Mouth is forthcoming from Counterpoint in 2019. More information is available at amandagoldblatt.com. 

 

So, how does it feel to have completed your debut novel, Hard Mouth, completed?

Just a week ago (as of writing this) I turned in my edits. I started the novel in 2011. It feels like floating in outer space—a long-term project is (for me at least) an anchor or an office, a consistency, a habit. I have a new long project—one I’ve been working on for the last couple of years—but I’m currently I am somewhere liminal, a little in shock. It’s not unpleasant. 

 

Without giving too much away, can you tell us about some of the themes or narratives that Hard Mouth explores or follows?

 I can give you the pitch: Hard Mouth is an adventure novel of grief. It’s about a young woman who can’t stand to watch her sick father die, and so she rents an isolated mountain cabin and leaves her life. She has only her imaginary friend, a jerk who believes he was an early twentieth-century character actor, to keep her company; and no survival skills of note. She wants detachment—not death, but something adjacent. A dislocated stasis. On the mountain things go awry, and away from that. 

 

Does your writing style in Hard Mouth veer from the style that can be found in your previously published works, or are they somewhat similar?

I always begin with language. My projects often center on the subjective experience of a first-person narrator. A first-person narrator uses language not only to tell a story but to express identity, the way all of us do. I don’t think this is a revelation, but it is something to which I’m doggedly loyal. It’s my primary writerly pleasure. 

 

The novel’s narrator, Denny, has her own voice, which is informed by her experiences. That comes out in her usage and diction, especially—she’s spent her childhood watching old movies with her father and so she can sometimes sound like Katharine Hepburn or a noir detective. My [excellent] editor, Jenny Alton at Counterpoint, was often highlighting phrases, asking, “Is this a thing people say?” And I’d say, “Yes, but mostly in movies between 1930 and 1945.” Denny has linguistic idiosyncracies, as we all do. 

 

When writing a new draft, whether it be for a novel or short-story, is there any particular process or ritual that you find yourself following?

I am not a ritual-based creature. I do my work when I can, where I can: in the Notes app on my phone while walking or taking the bus or during a show or walking through a museum. On my laptop at the kitchen table or at my desk or on the couch or sitting on the floor in the middle of a forgotten meal. I used to be specific about it all, about my process: longhand, type up, print out, mark up, commit edits to file, etc. But I found the ritual got in the way of the desire. It made excuses and delays. Now I just write.

 

Is there any particular work(s) of literature that you find yourself going back to often, whether it’s for pleasure or inspiration? 

I think a lot about Charles Portis’s True Grit, which is a first-person Western narrated by a vengeance-seeking young girl. When I pass it in the library, as I did yesterday, I wave. That is my favorite kind of relationship to have with a book or other piece of art. To know that I once felt potently about it, that it once felled me, and to be able to remember the feeling upon seeing it again. I think that is why most writers keep such large book collections: They are biographies or photo albums of previous ardor. 

 

Lastly, do you have any particular words of advice that you would like to share with other writers that will be reading this?

Try not to worry about writer’s block. Last year I saw Sarah Manguso speak on a panel, and she mentioned that the U.S. is the only place where people talk about writer’s block. It’s a capitalist obsession about productivity, which has very little to do with art and how it’s made. Everywhere else, writers write when they can, and don’t make it into a pathology when they can’t. Of course, I was telling this to a friend at a party last night, and she—rightly—pointed out that in some places, writers are financially supported, or at minimum have universal health insurance. Why worry about writer’s block, in that case?

 

But it is likely, as a writer in the States, you will have to do something else besides write in order to house and feed yourself and take care of your body and possibly take care of others, be they elder or minor. In this case, you will probably have to worry less about writer’s block, and more about time to write. Take the time consistently, even if it is in those interstitial times, on the bus or in a waiting room, to write or at least to read. It does not have to be the same hour every day. If the language doesn’t come for a while, don’t let it drag on you. It will come back. Also: if the thing you do to house and feed yourself, etc., helps others to do the same, or to make art, or to help others, all the better. 

 

Interview by Carlos Joshue Reyes

Categories
Issues

Christine Maul Rice


On her book, Swarm Theory

 

I first discovered Christine Rice last year in my novel in stories class here at Columbia College Chicago. We were assigned to read her novel, Swarm Theory, and I was hooked by the first page. I remember reading past what we were assigned to read each week because it was so hard to put the book down!

The characters that Christine writes about are so genuine and real. I found myself having empathy for each and every one of them, even the ones I didn’t particularly like. The way she switches between character’s view points with each of the short stories that make up this novel is so effective and really brought every single character to life. I was so glad to get to interview her and wrack her brain a little bit.


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I’d like to begin this interview by talking about your writing process. Do you have a specific ritual when you sit down to write? Is there a certain place or time of day in which you tend to do all of your writing?

I approach my writing as a job that just so happens to be creative. Writing forces me to conjure worlds and situations and characters—it’s hard mental work. But I grew up working as a cashier in my uncle’s grocery store (from the time I was sixteen until I graduated from college), and I remind myself that there are physically demanding jobs and then there are mentally-demanding jobs. I used to come home from eight hours of cashiering feeling exhausted and beat down. Eight hours of writing is also exhausting, but it’s also exhilarating and challenging and I realize how privileged I am to even be able to write. 

As far as digging into my mental process, sometimes I know the situation and character well (when it is loosely based on my own experience as most of my fiction is). Sometimes I’m developing everything as I write (and I have to put in a lot of research). When I write a chapter or short story, I don’t use an outline. I prefer to let the events unfold organically on the page. I often feel like a chapter or short story won’t reveal itself fully until I think about it or approach it in a different way (revise, revise, revise). For my novels, I have a general idea of what I need to accomplish in each chapter. In other words, in this chapter, I need to establish A, B, and C. Does that make sense?

Since I wear a lot of hats—writer, editor, teacher, nonprofit & magazine founder—I approach writing in the same way I approach my other roles: I need to focus fully and completely. I can’t listen to music. I have to put my VIEW mode on FULL SCREEN. I usually get our youngest daughter off to school and then I make a cup of tea and get to work. I try my damndest to write in the mornings, but some days it doesn’t work out because there are other pressing matters to attend to or I’m teaching. If that’s the case, I try to get an hour or so of writing in in the afternoon.

I’m best and freshest in the morning. I was recently at Vermont Studio Center for a residency and I would get up at 5:30 am and write until about lunch. Six hours of generating new material is about my limit. After that, I work on editing and revising, or move on to preparing my class outlines or working on the website or literary magazine.

 

What do you do when you fall into a writer’s block?

Since I approach writing and editing as a job and since I was a freelance writer and worked as a corporate writer, I’ve never had the luxury of not writing. In other words, my survival depends and has always depended upon writing (or editing and teaching) in one form or another. If you have a non-writing job, you wouldn’t go in to work and say, “You know what? I’m not feeling this job today.” You’d be fired, right? So I don’t give myself that option. When I worked as a freelance writer, I couldn’t tell my editor that I would miss a deadline because I had writer’s block. When I worked in a corporate environment, I couldn’t tell my boss that the copy due to our client wasn’t finished because I had writer’s block. 

I constantly remind myself how privileged I am to be able to read and write and edit and make books and teach for a living. That’s not to say that I don’t have long stretches when I’m not able to write (because of other pressing work). In other words, I do not have a life that allows me to work on my fiction every single day, all day. I have a family. My ninety-six-year-old mother lives with us. I have a dog that needs to be walked. I copyedit and offer writing coaching services. I run a nonprofit and teach and have to fundraise to keep that nonprofit running. As hard as I try to write every morning, it just doesn’t always work out. I might have to write a grant for the nonprofit. Or teach. Or respond to my writing coaching clients. Not writing is incredibly frustrating to me but it’s part of the deal. Also, when I’m emotionally beat down, I don’t have the concentration or energy to write. So I guess I’m saying that my goal is to write every day but I have accepted that I will not be able to write what I want to write every day. I might have to write a grant or write a report. In the end, though, I’m still writing.

I’m happiest when I have a full morning ahead of me to write. On those days, when the words aren’t flowing, however, I write through it. I write a scene or a part of a scene, no matter how crummy I think it is, and then I go back at it the next day or the following week or in a month to revise and finish it. 

 

Who are some of your favorite writers? Which writers have been an inspiration to you and your writing?

Oh, wow. So many writers! It seems like an unfair question but I’ll start with Flannery O’Connor, Robert Penn Warren, Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Tennessee Williams, Zora Neale Hurston, James Baldwin, Maya Angelou, Virginia Woolf, Edith Wharton, Gogol, Dostoevsky, Babel, Katherine Ann Porter, and Katherine Mansfield. There are so many contemporary writers I admire including Jesmyn Ward, Patricia Ann McNair, Christine Sneed, Paulette Livers, Desiree Cooper, Toni Morrison, Lorrie Moore, Louise Erdrich, Lynne Sloan, Barrie Jean Borich, Claire Vaye Watkins,  Tara Betts, Shawn Shiflett, Bonnie Jo Campbell, Eric May, René Steinke, Chaya Bhuvaneswar, Karen Halvorsen Schreck, Cyn Vargas, Megan Stielstra, Zoe Zolbrod, Gina Frangello, Rebecca Makkai, Eileen Pollack, Tim O’Brien, Toni Nealie, John McNally, Peter Ferry, and Eugene Cross. My full list would probably take up an entire journal!

 

I know that you are the editor for the literary magazine, Hypertext. Do you feel like working as an editor and reading submissions that come in from all types of people all around the world has helped you grow as a writer?

Absolutely. Actually, I taught at Columbia College Chicago for over twenty years and served as the Hair Triggerfaculty editor for twelve years. That’s when I really honed my writing and editing skills (and, of course, I continue to hone those skills). I love being able to look at a story and identify what’s working—or point out where it might be going off the rails. The act of reading is the way I grow as a writer. I think to myself, “I really like what XYZ writer did with [voice, tone, movement, structure, etc]. I might try that.” Or after I read something, I might look at the structure of that book or chapter or short story more carefully and try parodying that movement. 

 

What tips do you have for writers who are trying to get their work published?

First off, read the publication to which you submit and be familiar with that magazine’s aesthetic. And please, please, please read the submission guidelines. You would be surprised how many people have no idea of what we publish. Or how many people contact me to ask how to submit. Or wholly disregard our submission guidelines. Of course, like most journals, our submission guidelines can easily be found under the SUBMIT tab (haha). I get so many Facebook messenger requests about submitting that I finally stopped answering them. It just seems so lazy to me that someone wouldn’t put the time in to look at our magazine before submitting. 

Also, proofread your work. Read it out loud. Figure out where it is dragging or where there is unnecessary information. Approach it professionally. Be honest about your bio. If it will be your first publication, say so. Most editors don’t read the bios first. They read the story first and then, if they like the work, they’ll look at the bio. 

Shake off rejection. It’s part of being in the creative field. I wish someone had told me this when I was in high school! Failure is part of the process. Do not get mad at the editor. Do not tweet about the publication. Just move on. Take a look at this interview with writer John McNallyand read his book, The Promise of Failure. In it, he talks about the importance of failure, how to embrace failure, how to make it work for you. 

And remember that what editors accept or don’t accept is so subjective. Some journals have slush pile readers who are still in college. Some have older readers. Different writing appeals to different people. It’s just so subjective. And confusing. But being a writer requires a certain amount of desire and devotion and stick-to-it-ness. Know that if you submit something to one journal and it’s rejected, try another journal. You might get a more sympathetic read.

 

I’d like to bring up your novel, Swarm Theory, next. This novel is written in the novel-in-stories format. What made you decide to write this novel in this format rather than the traditional novel format?

I didn’t know that Swarm Theory was going to be a novel-in-stories until I got about halfway into the writing. I simply couldn’t get away from the characters! They kept popping up in new situations and informing new material. Finally, I realized that all of the characters were linked but, as you know from reading it, I didn’t write Swarm Theory in chronological order. It’s not structured as a traditional novel and it wasn’t written as a traditional novel. When I realized that it was shaping into a novel-in-stories, things started to take shape with the overall narrative. I’ve found that, even with a traditional novel structure, I don’t really know what the overall narrative arc will look like until I’m about one hundred to one hundred and fifty pages into it. 

 

Swarm Theoryproved to be like putting a puzzle together. I knew that this and this and this probably happened to Character A to make her act the way she did, but I wanted to listen to the voices of different characters telling their sides of the story. For me, as for many writers, there are so many ways to look at a situation. I wanted to get that sense of nuance on the page. When I had finished the novel, I went in and shifted a lot of the chapters around to fit in the specific sections and to firm up the overall narrative arc. I then went in and wrote scenes/chapters to fill in gaps. 

 

The stories that make up the novel, Swarm Theory, are told from many different points of view and are not told in chronological order. What was your process for organizing and arranging these stories into the order they ultimately ended up in?

This is a story I’ve told a few times but I’ll tell it again….

When I finished Swarm Theory, I started sending it around to agents. In the meantime, I ‘accidentally’ met the founder of University of Hell Press at AWP, Washington. I was looking over the books in their booth and said, kinda to myself, “Your authors are way cooler than me.” And the person setting up the booth, who happened to be the publisher, Greg Gerding, laughed and asked me what my book was about and I told him and he told me to send it to him. I did, thinking I wouldn’t hear from him.

In the interim, an agent responded to say that she ‘loved’ the writing but didn’t feel like she could sell Swarm Theoryif it wasn’t in chronological order. So she asked me to rearrange the chapters in chronological order…which I thought was weird and counterintuitive, but I did it because she is/was a good agent and I wanted my book to be published. 

After a few months, Greg contacted me to say that his editor loved my book and that they wanted to publish it. I was floored and ecstatic but when his editor asked me if I’d worked on the book in the meantime, I said, “yes” and I sent her the chronologically-ordered book. She read it and emailed: “WHAT DID YOU DO TO YOUR BOOK! MAKE IT THE WAY IT WAS!”

I, of course, had kept the original and sent it to her.

All this to say that this writing game is so subjective. What works for one reader/editor might not work for another.

I wrote all of the chapters and then set them down on the floor, from one end of our house to the other. Our house is on a city lot and our upstairs hallway extends through the entire length of the house. So I put them down and walked around, and moved the cat who seemed to love to lay on certain chapters, and kept moving things around. And then it seemed like it needed more structure. So then I started thinking about theories…and then I started thinking about the scientific method (observe, formulate, examine, result) and that spoke naturally to what was happening in the overall narrative. So I rearranged the stories to fit into those sections.

 

I know that you are in the process of writing a new novel. Will this also be written in the novel-in-stories format?

This new novel is a traditionally-structured novel told in a close third-person. I wrote one other novel before Swarm Theory(one that was never published) and so this is my second traditional novel. 

 

What else can you tell readers about your upcoming novel? When can we expect it to be released?

I’m superstitious so I won’t go into details, but it is very closely based on my life. It’s a dark comedy about the breaking up of a family (and coming together again), a parent with dementia, a parent who left and came back after two decades, caring for aging parents, and the difficulty of living in the modern world. How’s that for summary?!

Thank you for your thoughtful questions and for taking an interest in my work.

 

Interview by Alexis Bowe

 

Bio: Christine Rice’s novel, Swarm Theory, was awarded the Chicago Writers Association Book of the Year Award (Honorable Mention, Traditional Fiction), an Independent Publisher Book Award or ‘IPPY’ (Silver for Best First Book), and a National Indie Excellence Award – Winner (Regional Fiction – Midwest). Swarm Theory also made PANK’s Best Books of 2016, was included in Powell’s Books Midyear Roundup, the Best Books of 2016 So Far, and was called “a gripping work of Midwest Gothic” by Michigan Public Radio’s Desiree Cooper. Most recently, Christine’s short stories have been published or are forthcoming in MAKE Literary Magazine, BELT’s Rust Belt Anthology, The Literary Review, American University of Beirut’s Rusted RadishesF MagazineRoanoke Review, and Bird’s Thumb, among others. Her essays, interviews, and long-form journalism have appeared in The RumpusMcSweeney’s Internet TendencyThe Big Smoke, The Millions, the Chicago Tribune, Detroit’s Metro Times, among other publications, and her radio essays have been produced by WBEZ Chicago. Christine taught in Columbia College Chicago’s Fiction Writing Department for over 20 years, is currently the managing editor of Hypertext Magazine, and director of the social justice storytelling nonprofit organization Hypertext Magazine & Studio (HMS).

Photo by Joe Mazza/Brave Lux

Categories
Issues

Jay Bonansinga


On writing novels, for TV, and film

 

Within media, whether it’s books, TV, film, or even video games, diversity has been slowly but surely changing for the better. How do the creators of these different mediums feel? How have they contributed to diversity within their work? Horror writer, Jay Bonansinga, and I discussed this one day over the phone.

 

Jay is probably one of the nicest horror writers you’ll come across; a very friendly guy who also happens to know how to give you a mini-heart attack. As a New York Times bestselling author with twenty-five novels under his belt, eight of those include the infamous The Walking Dead novels, he is one to admire. With as many books as he has, there are so many different characters to get to know and so many stories to be told.

From his first novel, The Black Mariah, featuring Lucas Hyde, an African-American man and Sophie Cohen, a Jewish woman, to his YA novel, Lucid, with Lori Blaine, a Goth teenage girl, to the infamous Lilly Caul in The Walking Dead books, Bonansinga has written some diverse stories within the horror genre.

 

Whether it’s The Walking Dead novels, or Lucid, or any of your other novels, how do you feel they have contributed toward diversity in literature?

Well, it’s always been a part of my big theme, really. I’m not really sure if I can define what the themes of my books truly are, because I don’t think that’s even a role for an artist to talk about, or what themes they’re exploring. I won’t try to do that but I will say that when I was in school, I had some really good teachers.

 

They were not only progressive and all in favor of inclusivity and using all cultures and exploring all cultures and ways of life in literature but, they were also really cool about letting their students write about whatever they wanted to. Because you hear this phrase, “Write what you know” a lot, and I get it. I understand where it comes from, but if we who write fantasy took that to heart and took it literally, we would not be able write about outer planets, other worlds, other dimensions, ghosts, vampires, or zombies—I had some reallygood teachers.

 

The first book I wrote was The Black Mariah and on the surface it was a horror, fantasy, supernatural thriller but beneath the surface the two main characters were black and Jewish and their grudging relationship – an African-American man and a Jewish woman – and they really loved each other but they denied it and fought it and I realized that this was what was driving the horror story. I realized it was connected – the African-American man and the Jewish woman. From that point on I tried to use race, and sexuality, and sexual preference – all that stuff in my books, which is probably another reason why I resonated for [Robert] Kirman in The Walking Dead. Because, what I did in a broad general sense for The Walking Deadwas basically flesh out this woman, Lilly Caul.

 

You know, just take this character of Lilly Caul from the comic book who was an unknown quantity. Nobody really knew where she came from, nobody knew anything about her. She shows up in the comic book and she’s only in the comic book for about. . .maybe a dozen panels and that’s it. And she kills The Governor; she comes in and changes the whole mythology of The Walking Dead and then she vanishes. And so, as a male writer I get what most people would say, “Oh, I don’t really have the capability of doing that, of creating this really three-dimensional, richly crafted female character” because in school they told me to “write what I know,” you know? And I’m a man, I’m not a woman, you know?  How the hell would I know? And you have to have the courage to do that.

 I was in college when I sold my first short story to a professional market and actually got paid. When I got the acceptance letter, the editor who was a woman, Peggy Nadramia, one of the great horror editors, said, “Yeah, I’m really happy to tell you I’m gonna buy this story for my magazine, Grue, and just in case, your initials…” (Because at that time I just went by my initials; I was just J. R. Bonansinga). “In case your initials mask a female gender, we’re having a future issue called, ‘Women in Horror’, and we’d love you to submit that.”

 

And I’m like, “Okay, I think I can do this. This is good.” Because my first published story was about a mother and a grandmother and how their relationship was with their childand you know, I was writing about women. I was using my imagination and women from my own life.

I’m not even sure if I’m answering your question [laughs].

 

No, no, you definitely are.

But it’s huge. I mean it’s huge for most of the great horror writers. The great horror writers are really into this kind of utopian view of the universe in many cases, you know? There are George Romero movies like Night of the Living DeadDay of DeadDawn of the Dead. They usually end up with a group of people of all races and creeds and colors and sexuality. And I think that influenced Kirkman to create The Walking Dead which, also, that’s the strength of The Walking Dead is that, The Walking Dead is about stripping away all the prejudices and norms of civilization until all you have is just the primal survival.

 

So, there are really no more color boundaries, you know, there really are no racial issues anymore. It’s all about survival and that appeals to a lot of people. I think we have so many fans and it’s impossible to say what the average fan is of The Walking Dead. They’re all over the map. They’re every color, every race. They’re grandmothers, they’re little kids, they’re entire families. It has that feel to it and I think horror is one of those genres that’s just super, super, primordial. Just seminal, that’s essentially human behavior and extreme, you know? I think it appeals to a wide range of people so you see a wide range of heroes and characters in horror.

I mean, there’s a lot of women horror writers that have shaped the whole genre. I’ve always thought that. I’ve been helped along the way by women just as much as men. Tina Jens is a woman that mentored me and helped me. Then there are others like Nancy Collins, who’s a great, goth, cool, hipster, horror writer and I was always a huge fan of hers and I got to meet her and get to know her a little bit.  I’m sorry that’s a really long answer to your question [laughs].

 

No, that’s great. That actually leads into my next question which is, who are some authors you admire that you feel have helped with diversity in literature?

Harlan Ellison is another guy that really influenced me and helped me and when I got to know him, I learned so much from him. Peter Straub, is another guy that I’ve read and admired and when I got to know him he helped me out. God, there’s so many. I mean, you have to be a big reader if you’re going to be a professional writer, I always thought.

 

While diversity is becoming more and more apparent in literature and in other forms of media, creators have to keep pushing forward in that movement. Writers, of course, need to write more diverse plots and characters, but what do you suggest readers do to bring more awareness to diverse characters in speculative or horror fiction? Or what have they done to support these stories?

This is a fascinating question. I think readers already bring diversity through their own experiences. They overlay a template of their own culture that often enhances the reading process. Because the bottom line for all readers is that they complete the imagery and feelings in their own psyches.

 

For readers to get the opportunity to support, publishers have to first accept said stories. How can we get publishers interested in these stories without them complaining that it’s “not relatable”? I’ve heard this to be the case on why stories aren’t published sometimes.

I’ve always believed that the more specific a story is – or “diverse” – the more universal it is. And I think the best publishers know this, and act on this, and are attracted to diverse stories. I think it was Duke Ellington who said, “There’s only two kinds of music…good music and bad music.” I think the same applies to stories.

Interview by Courtney Gilmore 

 

Jay Bonansinga’s latest Walking Dead novel, Return to Woodbury, is out now. See the dynamic Lilly Caul in action and look out for future novels from Jay Bonansinga. Meanwhile, think of ways you as a reader can support more diverse works and if you’re a creator, help bring those diverse stories into fruition, so the change keeps growing and growing just as Bonansinga has done with his works.