Deconstructing the Interview: The Myth of the Literary Persona

 

If a novelist has a secret, it is not that he has a special something but that he has a special nothing…..a writer has to be an ex-suicide, a cipher, a naught, a zero. Being a naught is the very condition of making anything….writing well is simply a matter of giving up, of surrendering, of letting go. It’s a question of being so pitiful God takes pity on you, looks down and says, He’s done for. Let him have a couple of good sentences. —Walker Percy

 

The other day, when writing my novel was like driving through a fog I pulled a literary journal from my bookcase and re- read an interview that I’d given a month after my last book was published. As the rain drummed on the skylights of my studio, I noted–with detached fascination, even envy–that the interviewer had described me as ‘bold’. I also admired the elusive, shimmering creature, who said she always worked on more than one story at once, and simply ‘went on to the next thing’ if an idea wasn’t moving.

When I finished the interview and closed the journal, this creature, The Writer, disappeared inside its pages. Once more I was confronted with a wastebasket that contained the botched beginning of one story, a completely muddled revision of another, and a terrible ending of a third. This interview—like most interviews with writers–fed the myth that the writer is a fixed and solid entity, someone who can describe a map, if not the territory, of a working day. I’d talked about the creative process in the interview, even acknowledging how difficult it was; however, I couldn’t recreate the experience, either for myself or the interviewer, of what it’s really like to have a working day in which one accomplishes absolutely nothing. Nor could I explain those odd, serendipitous moments that occur just before a story begins to work, the inchoate sense of knowing that one path, rather than another, is the path to take. As I’d sat in a cafe with burnished lights and little plates of tapas and people discussing movies, writing became an object, something to be sketched, fictionalized, talked about. The interviewer leaned forward, the soft lights of the cafe added to the illusion of being inside a painting, and I became a found character–The Writer.

In truth, I’d never met The Writer, nor will I ever meet her. She’s an imaginary creature, created as a kind of ambassador for the real writer who has no idea how she manages to write stories or novels and is always surprised that she can do it again. Other writers I know also say they can’t recognize themselves in interviews, even if (as one writer does) they prepare with written notes. “It’s not that I’ve said anything that isn’t true,” a novelist once told me. “It’s simply that it never really captures the experience. Also, when I sit down to write again, nothing I said in that interview ever describes what I actually do.”

Having made this disclaimer, I can now tell you that I love to read interviews with other writers. Collectively, they comprise a vast, cerebral People Magazine, and often have the aura of delicious, slightly illicit intimacy. In The Paris Review, one page of the writer’s first draft is always reproduced, with many scribblings and corrections. I can look over P.D. James’ shoulder, see that she substituted ‘strap’ for ‘rope’ and think I hear a tree fall in the forest –the perverse philosopher’s tree that falls without making a sound. James’ manuscript is typed and her corrections are easy to read, but in the same issue there’s a handwritten, nearly hieroglyphic page by Patrick O’Brian, a page which surely only he can decipher. Indeed, his writing looks like the Rosetta Stone, and I can imagine an enormous installation of Patrick O’Brian’s first drafts, one that might require over twenty rooms, allowing viewers to glimpse the origin of his stories. I know, of course, that these manuscripts are not the real origin. The real origin is concealed–in the fragment of a dream, or an image of a child in summer twilight, or a vision of a Mediterranean village–as well as in hours and hours of daydreaming, writing and revising, not to mention everything the writer has lived and experienced up to that point. The perennial questions posed to writers about whether they write longhand or use a computer, who has influenced them, where they get their ideas, and what routines inform their working day, can’t possibly expose these origins. We’re content to settle for what whatever is in superfluous orbit around the writer, accidents of fate, history and personality.

Thus we discover that Joan Didion sleeps in the same room with her novel, that Tom Robbins spends half-an hour a day looking at the sky, and that P.D. James got the setting for Devices and Desires when she was looking at a nuclear power plant near the North Sea. These tell us nothing about the actual process. They are stand-ins, understudies, markers. The literary interview is a bit like a failed detective story, seeking the answer to the question how does the writer do it? when everybody knows that no one can explain how the writer did it–not even the writer. As John Steinbeck said: “We work in our own darkness a great deal with very little knowledge of what we are doing.” Remembering this darkness, we concoct stories about how stories finally came to be written. These meta-stories always are told after the real stories are finished. Ultimately it doesn’t matter that the literary interview is a masquerade ball, in which the writer and the interviewer meet in a ritual promenade, never taking off their mask.  In a sense, this doesn’t matter because the real meeting happens when the reader reads, and this meeting is so clandestine not even the writer can witness it  In the privacy of their rooms, readers immerse themselves in the writer’s language to recreate the writer’s story as a personal living theater. This immersion–intense, solitary, yet deeply interactive—can result in a sense of connection to the writer  more intimate and profound than connections with many people the reader knows.

Thus readers, seeking to sustain this anonymous connection, write letters to writers, have fictitous conversations with writers, and sometimes imagine dinner parties where guests are their favorite writers. There’s always a paradox to this connection: The more the writer is willing to let go of a persona and allow every fiber of their being to disappear into a story, the more the reader feels that, in addition to having met particular characters, they have met a very particular person. Even third-person narrators, in the grand tradition of 19th century omniscience, manage this slight-of-hand feat, imbuing every novel with a distinct quality of presence. You speak of liking Jane Austen and not liking Anthony Trollope. You would never mistake Charles Dickens for Emily Brontë. Because we are curious, because we are uncomfortable with the invisible–and because our culture revels in the cult of personality–we will always write literary interviews, and we will always greatly enjoy them. Readers will read to discover secrets that don’t exist, settling for odd bits of information that are ultimately tangential to the actual process of writing. Writers will be guaranteed a temporary reprieve from their lonely, uncharted days. These interviews serve us well if we take them for what they are–talismans of a mysterious, alchemical triad, the reader, the writer, and the story.

The Luxury of Sleep

 

I think I was born awake.  And even though I drown under the panoply of Proust’s detailed memories, I empathize with his insomnia. I also admire Balzac, who wrote from five in the evening until seven in the morning and was seen in daylight once, on his way to court to settle a lawsuit.

Once, a boyfriend who had just come back from Tuscon, woke up and began to feed his pet python.  The silver bracelets on his arm jangled like rattlesnakes.  His eyes looked at an undefined point in the distance.  When I began to talk to him, he startled, then said:

Oh my god. You’re a twenty-four-hour-a-day person.

I suppose I am.  Except when I forget my keys or put a bill,   My only refuge is the day dream. Since I’ve been a kid I’ve escaped by staring out the window at nothing in particular, always knowing I would have to come back to a place where  faces and conversations burned inside me because I couldn’t ignore them.

So it was with a strange and abberrant pleasure that I slept for five days solid with the flu. My friends were cats .  My environment was a tangle of sheets and a feather quilt, more intricately tangled as days went on–from valleys to dunes, from canyons to mountains.

This was a sleep without dreams and a sleep without thoughts.  In essence it was a writer’s vacation, as though the angel of dreams colluded with the angel of inspiration and they decided to put a screen between me and every image and memory available. Sleep was everywhere. And everywhere was sleep.

As suddenly as it began the flu went away and I forgot, all over again, what it was like to sleep.  The angel of oblivion disappeared.  And my long-trusted friend, the angel of daydreaming, took over. Ideas began to surface: Strange, tufted fragments that might be part of a book or might be fragments. Characters  eager to audition. Titles that might have resonance.

And, not for the first time, I began to wish there were a country where things people did during the day happened at night.  Home Depot would be haunted by non-sleepers.  The aisles would be quiet. The tools would be lit. And everyone–shoppers and salespeople– would walk down the aisles in socks.   Costco would have a cathedral-like calm. The towels and toilet paper would be lit by votives.

I might like this country more than the country of sleep.  I imagine encounters with people I’d never talk to in the demanding etiquette of daylight.  I see shops with illuminated windows, restaurants with people making business deals over candles.  And bookstores,too, some with books already written, others with books about to be. The stores are behind thick doors and have halls that lead to endless aisles filled with bookshelves.

After getting a garden hose at Home Depot and boxes of detergent at Costco, I would immerse myself in these stores.  Then night would become a place of refuge without tossing and turning and wondering if I should work or watch something on Netflx.  I might meet Proust, restless after a few hours in his cork-lined room, or Colette, who worked until three in the blue light of a paper lantern–or maybe Balzac, out for a walk.   Oh! To sleep!  one of us would say.  Those lucky people who are sleeping now. Would we mean it?  I don’t think so.  We would be glad to live in the company of  insomniacs.  And if we found a dark store that offered the vacation of no sleep, we would look in the window for a moment and hurry on.

Against the Anxiety of Influence: Notes on Flash Fiction

Before writing this piece, I’ve offered a prayer that flash fiction isn’t in the process of becoming fossilized by literary criticism and what Harold Bloom talks about in The Anxiety of Influence. This is because flash fiction has enjoyed marginalized obscurity, and critics have left it alone. Flash fiction has been the backwater and refuge of many writers: For me, it’s an explorer who bivouacs vacant buildings, a harbor welcoming unknown countries, an insomniac who talks to shadows. Flash fiction is free—very free—and exalts in its protean nature.

Flash fiction isn’t new, but has become increasingly visible because the online world has given birth to journals that publish it almost exclusively. This visibility makes both readers and writers ask new questions about flash. Among them: Do more men than women publish flash, or is it the other way around?[1] What is flash fiction? And isn’t it easier to write than a novel?

There are so many forms of flash fiction that no definition is complete:   Its one stricture is brevity: Flash is 1000 words or less—and often as short as 100 words.   The brevity makes flash an urgent letter that must reach a reader quickly. There’s no time for complicated transitions, flashbacks or connective tissue. Writers of flash fiction must cut to the chase.

Although flash is its own form, it overlaps with poetry and fiction. Like poetry, flash is characterized by a distinctive voice, more reliance on subtext than plot and elliptical leaps of language. Like fiction, flash usually deals with at least one character and involves that character’s transformation (or lack of it). The transformation can be slight, but is always surprising.

Flash has also taken some of its inspiration from a short, language-driven form called the prose poem. Aside from its brevity, the prose poem deserves mention because flash has continued the prose poem’s tradition of startling, elliptical leaps in language and surprising twists of imagery. (Bows here to Russell Edson and W. S. Merwin, both prose poem masters and partly responsible for the blossoming of the short form.) Flash, however, has taken the short form to explosive possibilities and the distinction between the prose poem and flash fiction has become blurred. Flash is sometimes call “micro-fiction” or “nano-fiction” and even “smoke-long fiction” (i.e. long enough to finish a cigarette.) But the term “flash fiction” has become an umbrella that encompasses most short work.

I came to flash fiction after a hiatus in writing during which I reconfigured my brain by studying logic and philosophy of science. Because I was so cerebral, I imagined flash would be easier than longer forms and spent two years writing short pieces with clever images. These were fun to write and people found them amusing. But I never felt I’d reached the indisputable stopping point that defines a good story or a poem—a stopping point that takes me by surprise and turns the sentences into a story that’s larger than the sum of its parts. When I finally wrote my first piece of flash I knew, on a visceral level, that I’d found a stopping point that was indisputable.

The first piece I wrote was the kind of flash fiction I’d never read—a five-sentence story about Gogol who was a notorious gambler.   It had never occurred to me that flash could be about historical figures. And I mention this only because each writer’s version of flash fiction turns out to be as unique as a thumbprint. Unlike the novel and short story, flash doesn’t have narrative templates. Its only template is its restriction on size. The story itself must be reinvented.

Once I had an intuitive understanding of flash, it was easier to write more of it. But many times I return to a piece again and again to get it right. Flash looks easy because there are so few sentences. But individual sentences—no matter how beautiful or clever–don’t necessarily coalesce into a story, far more elusive than individual lines. Each writer of flash discovers his or her story differently.

I speak about flash fiction, then, as a writer who’s had to discover—and rediscover—its subtle nature. I also speak as a novelist and short story writer and am sure that flash is its own form, not a mutant novel or a short story without growth hormones. Novels begin like sad amphibians with missing phalanges and often depend on a tsunami that crashes into characters’ lives. Flash fiction depends on finding, obscure footholds, unexpected openings, and eventually surrenders to a seizure of language. Ironically, it’s often easier to find the tsunami than the footholds.

Although flash fiction can take time to write, after it’s finished it has the sense of a story told in a single breath. And whenever I write a story in a single breath, I feel intense surprise that something so small has its own mysterious wholeness and is wonderfully separate from me. Flash is brief, complete, and teems with protean forms.   I hope it remains renegade and continues to evolve and astound.

In conclusion, I find writing about flash, as opposed writing it, feels a bit like temping the gods of literary criticism. And as I write, I keep putting myself into a piece of flash fiction about someone writing about flash fiction, which begins: “When she told her miniature horse she was writing about flash, he stamped a hoof and spoke to her sternly…..”

 

Thaisa Frank’s most recent books are Enchantment, a collection of short fiction and Heidegger’s Glasses, a novel that has been translated into ten languages. Her flash fiction has been anthologized and her earliest flash fiction was cited in Pamelyn Casto’s piece, Flashes on the Meridian.

For more about the prose poem and gender issues, see flash notes below.

Flash notes:

1] There aren’t any statistics about whether men or women write/publish more/less flash fiction. The fact that the question comes up is proof that flash has become part of the contemporary conversation.   Whatever the answer, I hope that Men’s Flash Fiction and Women’s Flash Fiction will never become marketing niches.

Some notes about the prose poem and its relation to flash fiction.

Prose poems often involve a pure transformation of an image. An example of pure transformation of image can be found in Ana Hatherly’s prose poem, Tsianas #82:

Once upon a time there was a country where there weren’t any clouds. To make rain, it was necessary to wash the horizon with feathers.

Translated from the Portuguese by Jean R. Longland

The elliptical writing of the prose poem has been consider a vehicle for dissent –a kind of politically radical newspaper. One of the most famous of such writers is Danhil Kharms, who was shot during the Stalinist era. Although he called his pieces prose poems, he managed to write a Russian novel in a few sentences. Today, many people would characterize this as flash fiction.   The piece is called

Incidents:

Once Orlov ate too many ground peas and died.Krylov found out about it and died too. Spirindov up and died all by himself. Spririndov’s wife fell off the cupboard and also died. Spirindov’s children drowned in the pond. Grandma Spirindov took to drink and hit the road. Mikhailov stopped combing his hair and caught a skin disease. Kruglove drew a picture of a lady with a whip in her hand and lost his mind. Perekhrestove was sent four hundred rubles and put on such airs that they fired him at his office.

 

Good people, but they don’t know how to take themselves in hand.

 

Translated from the Russian by George Gibian

 

The first prose poem is attributed to Baudelaire and but I’ve found it in much earlier works, like The Pillow Book by Sei Shonogan, written in the 2nd century.

 

 

 

Reading to Dogs

reading to dogs The hardest part was getting their owners to leave the bookstore.   They didn’t trust their dogs to behave. As they leaned over to say good-bye a few capsized books with their heads or disarranged bowls of kibble. The dogs licked their owners  and waited. In the previous hour they’d been allowed to sniff all the books and their excitement made them tired. The only dog that lifted his leg was a mournful Irish wolfhound, now placed nearest the door.

The reader, a woman in her mid-thirties, was in back of the store, impatient for owners to leave. It had always been her passion to read to dogs–dogs of all shapes and sizes, dogs assembled together. A few people to whom she’d expressed this passion had misunderstood and suggested readings about dogs at special events in pet stores. But she didn’t want to read to owners. She wanted to read to dogs. And this wouldn’t just be about dogs anymore than a reading to a group of women would be just about women.

The story she planned to read, though, did involve one dog—and it happened to be a wolfhound. Thankfully, when the real Irish wolfhound raised his legs, someone with foresight placed a bowl between him and the book and this relieved her because a camera-man from a TV station had gotten a clear shot of the dog’s legs over the book and if the dog had peed it would have have eclipsed her quiet reading.

She’d chosen a story called Boudica the Enchanted Princess--something short so she could read slowly and pay attention to the dogs. She wanted to see if they listened. And she wanted to be sure it was the story they were interested in as a story, having nothing to do with dogs. Please don’t use the word dog in your introduction, she said to the bookstore owner. Some of the dogs know that word and it could make them over-excited.  He looked startled but agreed, although she knew the introduction didn’t really matter because he wouldn’t mention the red shoes pinching her feet, or the Citizens for Humanity jeans pinching her ass or her passionate desire to read to dogs.

After the  introduction, in which the word dog wasn’t used, she stepped to the podium and made eye contact with each dog. They looked at her with eyes that were moist, a little wolfish, and wagged their tails. They waited.

And so she began to read about Boudica, a beautiful princess, who had been made into a furry calico cat by an evil stepmother. Boudica grew small, had whiskers, and  a sad enchanted face, marked by an M between her eyes. After becoming a cat, she was exiled from her kingdom and adopted by a couple who fought. One day, after an argument, the man flopped on the bed and saw Boudica in her gorgeous fur. Their eyes locked, he kissed her and  Boudica turned back into a person. The dogs were attentive and quiet. When Boudica was exiled they put their noses between their paws. When she became a person, they wagged their tails.

Now it gets a little complicated, she said to the dogs apologetically. The man left his wife and asked  Boudica to marry him, but she wasn’t sure she wanted to. She joined a gym with co-ed exercise rooms, fell in love with men and women, and eventually decided to go back to the man, who was angry and made Boudica sit on the steps until he proposed again.

The dogs wagged their tails and a few howled.  She waited until they were finished and went on: In homage to her life as a cat Boudica wore an enormous cat suit to her wedding. But when she walked down the aisle, the cat costume crumpled and a small calico cat jumped out. The flower girls cried and ran to their mothers and all at once, without warning, the groom turned into an Irish wolfhound.  For a moment it was a horror show while they barked and hissed and ran around the church, until the minister had the presence of mind to roar, and this brought them to their senses and they became people again.

At the altar, the minister said to them: ”What are your original faces–to yourselves and to each other? This is a question you will ask again and again for the rest of your lives.”

They kissed and had a reception with an enormous buttercream cake.

When Boudica and the man turned into animals the dogs put their noses between their paws and whimpered.  When the buttercream cake appeared they wagged their tails. But they still looked expectant, because, for dogs, the prospect of excitement is infinite. So she looked at them quietly and said: That’s the end.

The dogs understood! They raised their noses and howled. Their heads went far back and their snouts touched the books behind them and book after book tumbled to the floor. The bookstore owner let her shake their paws and each dog licked her hands so by the time the TV-man appeared her fingers were sticky . He put a microphone under her chin and asked what it was like to read to dogs. She told him about their wagging tails, their whimpering, their howling and the way they watched her—all signs they followed the story.

Why do you think they followed the story? the interviewer wanted to know.   She said it was because the dogs knew she was reading to them, not at them.

He thought about this for a moment, then asked how her own dogs had enjoyed the reading. She said she didn’t have any dogs.

Then you must have had a dog when you were little, said the man. A dog that listened to your first stories, a dog you trusted.

No, she said. We lived in an apartment and the landlord wouldn’t let us have pets.

The man stared at his notes. They were all questions about her dogs–their names, what they ate, whether they slept on her bed, if they did tricks. After a moment, he gave her a strange look and interviewed the bookstore owner.

Later, with her cats, she watched the news so she could see the interview. There she was, microphone under her chin– but only for a moment. It was amazing, said the interviewer. The dogs sat still and listened. He didn’t mention their howling or wagging tails or waiting to be told the end. Nor did he say she didn’t have dogs. Instead he said she hadn’t talked about her dogs out of respect for their privacy.

And now the bookstore owner appeared and said reading to dogs was a high-concept event, one that would catch on everywhere.

A boon, he said, a boon for all of us.

She’d agreed to the interview because it was the only way the bookstore owner would let her read to dogs and now  the event was a travesty. She poured a huge glass of scotch and went to turn off the television. Yet, as the camera panned around the store, she saw all the dogs–a vast carpet of differently colored furs. She saw their ears, their noses, their wagging tails and their sense of outrageous, exuberant radiance. It spilled into the room, filling the air with boundless joy.  She raised her glass to them.

Linda Gray Sexton, author of Bespotted, talks about her writing process

 

Linda Gray Sexton is an acclaimed memoirist, novelist and essayist.   Her most recent memoir is Bespotted: My Family’s Love Affair with Thirty-Eight Dalmations.   (Counterpoint Press 2014).   In 2011, she published the memoir Half in Love: Surviving the Legacy of Suicide (Counterpoint Press) and in 1994, published Searching for Mercy Street: My Journey Back to My Mother, Anne Sexton. She has also written several novels, including Private Acts, Mirror Images and Points of Light. She is  the author of numerous essays.  More at lindagraysexton.com ,

 

1. What am I working on/writing? Or what book have I just finished writing?

I have just published a memoir called, Bespotted: My Family’s Love Affair With Thirty-Eight Dalmatians this first week in September 2014. It is an account of the way these many dogs influenced my life, and my family’s life, since I was a child up right through to the present. It shows the joy, companionship and happiness dogs have brought into my life, as well as the story of the one Dalmatian who saved me from depression and suicide. I also show, breed and train these dogs and it deals with that world as well.

Right now I am working on a novel tentatively titled Sunday’s Magician. It is moving along slowly because I now have to take care of the publicity and publishing tasks that go along with having a book come out.

2. How does my work/writing differ from others of its genre?

I like to think my work deals with hard truths, with the exception of Bespotted, which is a lighter and more joyful book. Previously, I have published Searching for Mercy Street: My Journey Back to My Mother, Anne Sexton, which is about my relationship with my mother and how I learned to forgive her for her suicide, which occurred when I was twenty-one. Another, Half in Love: Surviving the Legacy of Suicide, which covers the legacy of self-destruction that was left to me and examines my own bipolar disorder and three suicide attempts, followed the first memoir. Some people think of Half in Love as a sequel to Searching for Mercy Street. The final chapters in the book tell the story of my return to health, happiness and love—all that enables me to move on to write the later, lighter memoir, Bespotted.

 

3. Why do I write what I do?

I write candidly, in any genre, about the truths I find in life. I nearly always write about family relationships and the secrets we keep from one another—and even ourselves. I find it helps me to examine myself if I “tell it true,” as my mother said. Knowing that this is acceptable is liberating and enables me to scrutinize the psychology of others and myself.

 

4. How does my writing process work?

I work each weekday from nine o’clock to noon, when I break for lunch and do the errands of the day. At lunch I read at the same time I am eating, books that are generally lighter and more commercial, focusing on storyline and character. I resume in my office around two o’clock, reworking previous material rather than creating new, or, if I find myself with “writer’s block,” I read—generally “literature” that will help me hear the rhythms of my own work. Writing is a solitary act and I find I need a lot of self-discipline to be productive. Sometimes I write my first drafts on my laptop computer, and sometimes by hand on a yellow-lined pad of paper with a number two Ticonderoga pencil. These tools comfort me with their familiarity. If I have used paper, I then transcribe onto the computer, editing as I go. I love revising and editing and I hate creating first drafts. My first drafts tend to be awkward attempts and I refine, refine, refine over time. Generally each book goes through twenty or so drafts before I show it to a friend who is a writer, or my writer’s group. I then take their comments and revise before showing it to my agent, who critiques it once again and I make one further revision. She then takes it to my editor. My editor requires further honing and expansion in different spots before it is published at last.

 

Laura Pritchett Counterpoint Press Author

Laura Pritchett is the author of Stars Go Blue. She also authored Hell’s Bottom, Colorado, which received the Milkweed National Fiction Prize and a PEN USA Award for Fiction. For Sky Bridge, she received the WILLA Fiction Award. She has had over 100 short stories and essays published in various magazines The Sun, Orion, O Magazine, High Country News, Salon, Desert Journal and others. Pritchett lives in northern Colorado and teaches around the country. More at www.laurpritchett.com.

 

From the publisher:

Laura Pritchett is an award-winning author who has quickly become one of the West’s defining literary voices. We first met hardscrabble ranchers Renny and Ben Cross in Laura’s debut collection. In Stars Go Blue, they are estranged, elderly spouses living on opposite ends of their sprawling ranch, faced with the particular decline of a fading farm decline of a fading farm and Ben’s struggle with Alzheimer’s disease. Then they discover a new horrible truth: Ray, the abusive husband of their daughter who shot her dead in the family kitchen, is being released from prison early. This news opens old wounds in Ben, his wife, his surviving daughter, and four grandchildren. Branded with a need for justice, they must each confront this man, their own consciences, and their futures. Stars Go Blue is a triumphant novel of the American family, buffered by the workings of a ranch and the music offered by the landscape and animal life upon it. With an unflinching look into the world of Alzheimer’s, both from the point of view of the afflicted and the caregiver, the novel offers a story of remarkable bravery and enduring devotion, proving that the end of life does not mean the end of love.

 

 

 

Readers will remember Renny and Ben Cross from Pritchett’s stellar first collection of linked stories, Hell’s Bottom, Colorado (2001). Life in the meantime has not been kind to the salt-of-the-earth, hard-working couple. Their daughter, Rachel, was murdered before their very eyes a few years back by her meth-head husband, Ray. Now Ben has rapidly progressing dementia, and Renny is left to tend to the ranch and her husband single-handedly. When the Crosses learn that Ray has been released from prison innearby Greeley, Ben leaves in the midst of a snowstorm to confront the man who ruined his family, armed with enough weapons to ensure his misery will end. When Renny discovers Ben is gone, she takes off inwhat is now a full-blown blizzard, uncertain that she will find Ben in time. There is more than just the bleak and unforgiving setting of the Rocky Mountain foothills to recommend Pritchett to fans of Kent Haruf’s similarly placed novels. Strength of character and simplicity of language comparably complement a rich underpinning of savagery and sadness as Pritchett sensitively navigates the end of a life and sublimely realizes its enduring legacy.

 

— Carol Haggas

 
“Stars Go Blue manages to be both warm-hearted and violent at once — a complex deeply-imagined family tale which finds unexpected gifts at its conclusion. Laura Pritchett is a writer who knows country life on the Rocky Mountain front range thoroughly and she conveys this physical world expertly, beautifully out of her long experience. Within this specific place her clear depiction of character and suspenseful delivery of story compel us to the last exact word.” —Kent Haruf, author of Plainsong and Eventide

 

 

A few things I talk about when I talk about writing: Or another fishing story

Thanks to Harrison Solow for inviting me to write about my work. Harrison Solow is an impressive scholar of Welch, a poet, a brilliant essayist, and author of a wonderful epistolary book of creative nonfiction (although it is also fiction!), Felicity and Barbara Pym.   Between 2006 and 2011 she was honored with eight writing awards.  She has been a Pushcart-nominee in both poetry and cross-genre and won a Pushcart Prize in non-fiction.

I’ll begin by discussing what I’m working on now–always a little dangerous because it’s important not to say too much. And talking about writing is like a fishing story. So much happens quickly and underneath the surface.  I don’t know if it’s possible to write non-fiction about writing fiction but I’m always willing to give it a try:

I’ve always written flash fiction and short stories, and I’m writing new ones. Flash fiction is great fun because it happens all at once, creates an instant shape and doesn’t interfere with a writing day. My latest short story, Anesthesia will be in the next issue of Gargoyle.  I’ll also be reading a story called Plan C at Litquake this October. And a new novel is dominating my life.  I’ve set it in an undisclosed country, and, as in Heidegger’s Glasses, (Counterpoint Press 2010 and 2011) it concerns a group of people as well as one character in a dilemma. When I work on a novel a key question for me is: What is narrative?   I know this might sound self-consciously post-postmodern, but I can’t stop asking the question.   I think about the stories we tell each other in conversations and I’m still looking for a form of narrative that feels as natural as taking a breath when we start to talk.   I’m not looking for what’s real or natural.  That’s impossible.  I’m looking for artifice that is natural–a fit for my voice and the way I see things.

How does my work/writing differ from others of its genre?

Continue reading

Story of a character–after she makes her appearance

Harriet Scott Chessman, who wrote  The Beauty of Ordinary Things, has invited me to do a blog post about characters. Harriet is an amazing person, intellect and writer.  There’s never a false note in her prose  Her earlier novels include Someone Not Really Her Mother, Lydia Cassatt Reading the Morning Paper and Ohio Angels. Her  own thoughts about character are at

#Characterhttp://redroom.com/member/harriet-scott-chessman/blog/blog-hop.

When I agreed to do this blog hop I felt slightly duplicitous, because I rarely think about “character.” In fact, all the questions I’m going to answer except for the first question are either things I knew only after I finished writing the novel or more than half-way through. I first meet characters as strangers.  And this is in my last blog post called Character: An Explosion Between Strangers.  

So  here are my answers–with full disclosure that I discovered most of them after I finished writing and they weren’t part of conscious character development.

1. What is the character’s name?  Is she fictional or historic?

My character’s name is Elie Schacten.  She’s purely fictional, although after I wrote the book, I realized she looks a lot like my grandmother Grace who died when my father was six. I’ve only seen pictures of her–and all the pictures were in profile. Later, though, I realized that my sense of her spirit permeated the book.  And long before I began to write the book, I heard a woman who looked like her, starting to tell me the story.

2. When is the story set? And where?

The story begins in Germany after the battle of Stalingrad, when Germany began to crumble.   It’s set in an abandoned mine converted into a compound that houses people who speak and write different languages and answer letters to the dead The mine is called The Compound of Scribes. and has been converted to look like a city street, with cobblestones, a sun that rises and sets, and constellations in the sky when Hitler was born.  The Scribes are all people who would otherwise have been deported to camps.

3.  What is should we know about the character?

Elie Schacten is a Polish Catholic who is the head of the Compound and envoy for the Scribes. She collects mail at the outpost and is responsible for all the supplies. Elie also works for the Resistance and ingratiated herself with the Reich in order to have more knowledge and more power.  She’s dauntless in her need to rescue. One thing that kept striking me about Elie was her need for secrecy and privacy.   It was a privacy I felt I had to respect.  In fact,  I only discovered the reason for it near the end of the novel.

3.  What is her main conflict?  What messes up her life?

 I have trouble answering these sort of questions  because no character has a main conflict anymore than a person does.  It’s fairer to say that Elie has an event in her past that’s too painful to talk about and leads to dauntless acts of rescue.  If she’s conflicted at all,  it’s a conflict between protecting people who are already safe and sometimes endangering those very lives to rescue people who aren’t safe. Similarly, I wouldn’t say her life is “messed up.”  I would say that complications occur because Elie has the kind of hubris that many of us have when we’re going out on a limb for someone we love, or doing something that we feel is for the common good. Namely, we adopt a kind of magical thinking, assuming that because our intentions are good all the consequences will be good.

5. What is the personal goal of the character?  Elie’s ostensible role is to rescue.

  If I told you her ultimate goal, it would be a spoiler.  Read the book  to find out.

6. What is the title of this novel, and can we read more about it? Elie is in Heidegger’s Glasses.

You can order it from any bookstore or directly from Counterpoint Press.

7. When can we expect the book to be published?  And how can we read it? It was published in 2010 and 2011.  You can order it directly from Counterpoint Press or buy it or find it at a local bookstore.

Tagging five writers:

Next week, you’ll be hearing from five distinctive and talented writers.  They are (in alphabetical order):  Stacy Bierlein, Frances Lefkowitz, Paulette Livers, David Rocklin and Geoff Schutt.

STACY BIERLEIN is the author of the story collection A Vacation on the Island of Ex-Boyfriends (March 2012). She is the editor of the award-winning anthology A Stranger Among Us: Stories of Cross Cultural Collision and Connection (May 2008), and the coeditor of Men Undressed: Women Writers and the Male Sexual Experience (October 2011). She is a founding editor of the independent press Other Voices Books and co-creator of the Morgan Street International Novel Series. http://redroom.com/member/stacy-bierlein/blog

FRANCES LEFKOWITZ   is the author of To Have Not,  a SheKnows.com Best Memoir of 2010, as well as personal essays in The Sun, Superstition Review, Good Housekeeping (!) and others. Her fiction appears in Tin House, Glimmer Train, Fiction, Frederick Barthelme’s New World Writing and other journals, and she’s received two special mentions for the Pushcart Prize and one for Best American Essays. The former Senior Editor of Body + Soul magazine, Frances is now Book Reviewer for Good Housekeeping and a freelance writer for Health, Martha Stewart’s Whole Living, National Geographic’s Green Guide, and more. She also teaches workshops, coaches writers, and blogs about writing, publishing, and footwear at PaperInMyShoe.com. At home in Petaluma, CA, Frances is writing a new memoir, A Wave of Her Own, about learning to surf at age 36. www.franceslefkowitz.net/

PAULETTE LIVERS is a southerner living in Chicago. Her novel Cementville (Counterpoint, 2014), set in 1969, deals with the effects of social change on a rural community during the Vietnam War. Learn more about Paulette and her work at www.PauletteLivers.com and find her on Facebook athttps://www.facebook.com/PauletteLivers.Writer?ref_type=bookmark.

DAVID ROCKLIN is the author of The Luminist and the founder and host of Roar Shack, a Los Angeles-based reading series. He is at work on a new novel, The Night Language. He is represented by Fletcher & Co.www.davidrocklin.com/

GEOFF SCHUTT’S Eleanor can be found as a character-in-progress at “This Side of Paradise” (http://geoffschutt.blogspot.com). He has been awarded several grants for fiction-as-performance art, featuring interactive storytelling, and his work has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize. He currently lives in the Boston area.http://geoffschutt.blogspot.com

 

 

Character: An Explosion between Strangers

 

For a long time I didn’t understand what people meant by “character”. In fact, the word still seems like an elusive function in an equally elusive calculus of fiction.    It’s a function with grave responsibilities: The main character, or characters,  must steer the story to shore or have a notable wreck. They must have conflicting motives–or (in simple language) things they want and don’t want. At the same time the writer is steering them, adjusting them, so the navigator isn’t really in charge.  Except for those times when writers say, “The character surprised me.”

This statement never seemed remarkable except  for the fact that the writer  seems surprised at the surprise when in fact all people—in and out of fiction—are unpredictable.

The innovative and radical psychoanalyst, Wilfred Bion, has said that when two people meet, a kind of explosion occurs.  I think everyone can relate to this because the explosion doesn’t have to cause fireworks:  It can be a small shudder, a tremor.  It’s the explosion of meeting a stranger and knowing that you are a stranger to the person you are meeting.  It’s also an interpersonal explosion because each person knows they are stranger to the other.

This happens for me with people in fictional worlds as well as with people in what we call “the real world.” And for me, this is the beginning of what we call “character” and feels much more like meeting a person

By explosion I mean something physical and kinesthetic—the kind you feel when a stranger walks into a room.  It’s the explosion of encounter, of sheer physical embodiment. And when this happens—invited or not—someone slips from being an imaginary person to what I’ve learned to call a “character” in my story.

Eventually, I make a contract with this person (or people):  They’re charged with steering the story and I’m charged with seeing that they do.  It’s a crooked contract because we each can hoodwink the other.  I’ll find out things about them that they don’t know and they’ll discover things things about me that I don’t know. They may change the course of the navigation and I may surprise them by adjusting the stars. We’re unacknowledged doubles, dancing in a funhouse mirror.

Even though this explosion happens in fictional space, it still feels like a literal explosion And when it happens in this space I want to follow them  because they’re literally, physically, separate from me.

In other words: It’s the explosion of otherness that makes me curious.  They’re only interesting at this stage because an explosion has happened between us.

This literal, physical curiousity, gets me to walk on their streets, enter their rooms, discover their hideouts.  I learn the physical map of their lives. I may not know what they look like. But I feel them moving through space.  In other words, they’re embodied for me.

Now and then I don’t allow the explosion to occur, just the way I might ignore someone at a party.   This happens most often with incidental people, or what we call “minor characters.”   I’m not snubbing them.  I’m just failing to take them into account, the way it happens when someone is introduced and I don’t quite pause, don’t give myself over, don’t allow a meeting.

Whenever I don’t allow this meeting—however minor—I get into trouble. The person wanders around the story without apparent purpose and I have to go back and allow the explosion.  It’s like: Yes! I’m going to meet you. And I’m going to let you meet me.

Having made the initial disclaimer about character, I am, after all, writing about a character for a blog hop. The person who invited me is the highly original and poetic novelist Harriet Scott Chessman who approaches character with amazing deftness  in The Beauty of Ordinary Things. Harriet  Chessman cares deeply about people in and out of fiction and her compassion, perceptiveness and respect for otherness illuminates her book, as it illuminates her earlier novels (Someone Not Really Her Mother, Lydia Cassatt Reading the Morning Paper and Ohio Angels)

Her thoughts about character are at:

#Characterhttp://redroom.com/member/harriet-scott-chessman/blog/blog-hop.

 

Someone Came Knocking

SOME ONE 

Some one came knocking

At my wee, small door;

Some one came knocking,

I’m sure – sure – sure;

I listened, I opened,

I looked to left and right,

But naught there was a-stirring

In the still dark night;

Only the busy beetle

Tap-tapping in the wall,

Only from the forest

The screech-owl’s call,

Only the cricket whistling

While the dewdrops fall,

So I know not who came knocking,

At all, at all, at all.

 (Walter de La Mare)

Ever since I’ve been a therapist, I think about people who are alone during holidays. When family surrounded me, I would think of clients who had no one to be with and nowhere to go.  This Thanksgiving I mentioned this to a few friends who felt I was spoiling the joy about being around people they loved.

Besides, you can always rent a Kurosawa movie, someone said.

Or curl up with a good book.

And why spend Thanksgiving with people you don’t want to be with, anyway?

That’s not what I meant, I wanted to say. I’m thinking about people who don’t have options.

On the evening before Thanksgiving I heard a faint knock on the door.  We live in a courtyard that’s so far back from the street kids miss us on Halloween.   The porch light wasn’t on.

Who is it? I called

No answer.

Who is it? I called again.

Again no answer

I opened the door to darkness.

Please, miss, said a wavery voice.   Please help me.

The voice could signal danger: A giant impersonating someone harmless.  An armed robber who worked in tandem with a nearly-inaudible voice.  Take the risk, part of me said.  Don’t,said another.  Close the door.  

If I hadn’t talked to my friends earlier, I would have closed the door. Instead, I turned on the porch light and saw an old man with a childlike face.   He had no teeth and was so thin his pants fell around him in folds.

How did you find this place?

I don’t know.  I just came here.  I thought you could help me.

He began to cry.

For a moment, I switched to a former therapist-mode.

You seem really lonely. You need people to talk to.

I know, I know. Highland Hospital. They kept me there like a jail.  They wouldn’t let me out.

Maybe you could talk to someone at a clinic, I said.

 

But it wasn’t advice he wanted.  It wasn’t even money.  Even so, I rooted around in my wallet and gave him what I had.  He cried again.

Just one thing, then, I said.

I know, he said.  Be careful.

Yes, I said.  Please be careful.

He walked down the steps holding on to the railing. His body was as wavery as his voice.

I told Keith when he came home.  I told him about my earlier conversations, about the feeling that I had to respond to whomever was at the door.

He was guided to you, he said. He was guided to test you.

You’re a software architect, I said. You never think like that.

I do now.

I never told anyone else about the man.   I was afraid they’d tell me I should never have opened the door.  He was casing your place.  He’ll be back.   Watch out.

The man never came back.  Now and then I think I hear a small knocking.  I open the door and no one is there.   The man was real.  And what he wanted was real.  Someone to cry with.  A handshake from a stranger.