July 2, 2009
When I first met Jorge Colombo at the Whole Foods Cafe in Lower East Side Manhattan, he wore all black which contrasted his white head, sans hair, accented by a small, Poirot-esque mustache. His smile was warm and had with it a strange sense of familiarity. He was the artistic type for sure but I couldn't quite figure him out. And as I soon realized, that was half the fun.
Jorge Colombo is a Portuguese immigrant who moved to the United States in "nineteen-hundred and eighty-nine; when I say it like that, nineteen-hundred, it sounds more historical," he told me. An artist, his mediums include sketching, watercolor, photography, film, and most recently--iPhone Brush. His iPhone work has appeared on the June 1, 2009 cover of The New Yorker. But his art is born from a muse of many forms. I would compare his work to buildings--modest in size, grand in architectural vision with an inner supporting structure of poetry and a facade of visual art; a building most of us would like to hang around to absorb inspiration from or enter for a flash course in philosophy.
"I spend more time assembling the images than I do taking them," he mentioned while showing me a collage of photographs in a 4x4 block on his iPhone. Guiding my eyes around the images of a woman (close up of skirt; where bare neck meets blouse; close up of eyes... "wandering attention" he called it). He mentions, "much of it is in the same structure of a short poem." Slowly, I began to consciously see the "rhyme scheme" with stressed and unstressed syllabic pictures that flowed left to right, diagonally up and down. "I sometimes take two-hundred images and edit it down to these."
Colombo's work, whether it be watercolor, photography, or film, all appears to revolve around the capturing of people in their spontaneous moments of vulnerability; moments in between when most artists would think to capture them. But the reality is that these are poses meticulously controlled by the artist; poses that reflect his interpretation of the world. His sketches, however, (some of which he showed me from the subway ride to our interview) are in fact caught on the run.
As far as the sketches go, "I just don't bother to invite people for posing sessions so I draw what I can catch. Even as a matter of principle, I find people's right to choose how to appear to the world more important than my right to capture them."
Then he showed me on his iPhone astonishingly detailed and vibrant drawings he made: one was of a woman in scrub pants, "clearly a nurse or doctor," wearing a thick winter coat, "but look at how fancy she is with her scarf and purse;" a man in a suit who looked normal enough, "but look at his coat. It seems too short for what you would expect. And his briefcase is bulging. I suspect he is a lawyer;" a woman standing alone reading a book. "It's amazing, people still reading Dostoevski in their New Balance sneakers."
"Who I choose, it's not like the weirdos, it's the types who I feel I've seen fifty times," he said. "People really want to belong and they wear 'uniforms.' They wear their club, their tribe..."
Colombo has an absorbed fascination with the human world as opposed, say, to the natural world some artists favor. During our interview, he asked me to lean back so he could sketch a girl sitting to my left but when I moved, she departed. He pulled out his notebook and began drawing who he had seen: what kind of shirt, pants, shoe design, hair color, hair style, skin color, girth...but nothing for the face.
"Physical features are like nature's accident, so who cares. But the choices such as mini skirt or burka, those are cultural choices, and that is what matters to me."
He explained how studying people for the choices they make and then filling in the 'why' is what it is all about. Colombo stressed that all of his work, while taking place in reality, are perceived through him and is thus fictional.
While technology changes, Colombo continues to find new mediums for expression because, as he said, "I get bored." Though his sketches continue to receive critical acclaim and his iPhone art is becoming the talk of the town, his work at heart remains the same--visual art of people's subconscious social identifiers wrapped around a frame of poetry.
When our interview concluded, we paused on our way out at the exit and Colombo asked me which way I was going. I told him west, to Penn Station. Then, knowing I didn't know my way around New York City very well, in old western shoot-out fashion we both drew from our pockets; from me, a NYC subway map and from him, his infamous iPhone. You could almost sense the western gentile women in hoop skirts shielding their children's eyes from the outcome. You could almost hear the tumbleweed skip down the street. But when the dust settled, I had my finger on the uptown Spring Street subway station. With a strangely familiar smile, like one I had seen fifty times, we shook hands and he departed to the east.
Interview: Elizabeth Strout
July 29, 2009
Elizabeth Strout is a Pulitzer Prize winner for Fiction for her book Olive Kitteridge (Random House, 2008,) a PEN/Faulkner Award winner, and writer of numerous short stories and novels.
This interview was designed to give our readers a "look under the hood" into the mechanics of writing from the perspective of well-known writer, Elizabeth Strout. Enjoy.
SoR: Please describe for us how your works of fiction come to be. Do you set aside time? Do you wait for inspiration? And what is the editing process?
Strout: I am never sure how my work comes to me. It remains somewhat mysterious. It may start with a memory of light coming from beneath the crack of a door, or the sight of someone on the subway who reminds me of something...It gradually appears. I do set time aside. I don't believe in waiting for inspiration. This is a craft that needs honing, and that is done by working on a regular basis. I re-write as I go along, many times. And then there is the very ruthless eye that must finally cut every single thing that is soggy or is not needed. One has to be at once deeply inside the work, and then have the ability to be outside it and the willingness to let go of much of it in the re-writing. It is a funny process, and much of it, for me, is something I do feel--I have learned, though I am still learning, to recognize the feeling of when something is false or not.
SoR: What is your philosophy on what makes a "good" story?
Strout: What makes a "good" story is one that a person can enter entirely. The reader must believe in it, and also care. And if there is a universe that the reader wants to be in, then the story takes care of itself. Most of this I think is conveyed through the narrative voice.
SoR: Understandably, every writer has their own methods. But is there something you would suggest to a budding author that might help them fight through writer's block or assist them in their search for the ever-elusive muse?
Strout: I think writer's block for me (and I can't speak for anyone else) usually arrives when I am trying to do something false. And by that I mean when I am not writing what I deeply want to be writing. One must be wary of going to the page and thinking: Well, today I must get them out of the grocery store and down to the beach. Such thinking can cause the prose to be wooden. If one goes to the page and puts down in some form the deepest feeling they are having, finding a way to give it to their character, the prose will be alive. This is why I never writer anything from beginning to end.
SoR: What are the challenges that face a writer before and after they are published?
Strout: The biggest challenge that faces me as a writer is the challenge to do good work. To have the patience and the energy to stay with it. Before I was published this was true, and after I was published it remains true. Students often ask me: Should I keep writing? And the answer is that you will keep writing if you can't stand not to. If you can stand life without writing, you will probably stop. But for those of us who have to write, the challenge remains the same--making it something a reader can receive.
SoR: How do you deal with rejection when you submit your work?
Strout: Rejection is never easy to deal with, never, ever. And I had years of rejected stories. This was back in the day when everything was done with snail mail. So when I received a rejection in the mail, I made myself send the story that very day to another magazine. After a story was rejected by ten different magazines, I would look at it very hard and rework it.
SoR: You write novels as well as short stories; what determines the length?
Strout: Whether it is a novel or a story depends on the subject matter, since style is substance. The decision for me is never at first entirely conscious. As I start to see the story emerge, the style becomes almost immediately, quite naturally, a part of it. A story is not the facts that go into it. It is the form that the reader is given. This is why I don't like to hear people say, "I want to write a story about..." Because talking about it is, for me, senseless. It is only in the doing that the form will show itself.
SoR: Lastly, what advice would you have for those starting out in writing?
Strout: Advice for those starting out: Read and read and read. Read good sentences. And write. Keep reading and writing and you will see things. And if you can't stop, you won't, no matter how many rejections. If you are a person who can't stop writing, protect your desire to write. Don't tell people who are not supportive. Just keep doing it. Knowing what I know now, I would not have done anything differently. Amazing to write that!
Interview: Robert Pinsky
August 7, 2009
Interview: John Hemingway
August 11, 2009
John Hemingway, grandson of writer Ernest Hemingway, is an American writer and translator living in Montreal with his wife and two kids. His memoir, Strange Tribe (Lyons Press, May 2007) describes the love/hate relationship and the striking similarities between his father, Dr. Gregory Hemingway and his grandfather, Ernest. John has in addition written translations as well as short stories.
SoR: Your work seems to focus on familial issues and I can see ties between fiction and reality whether it be a schizophrenic mother in your story "Uncle Gus" published in the Saturday Evening Post or suicide, another prevalent theme in the same tale. How do you weave, consciously or subconsciously, the real with the make-believe? What from the real inspires and what is taboo?
Hemingway: Well, I don't think that there is anything that is taboo, per se. I use whatever is at hand, whatever I can remember consciously, or not, and try to mix these different elements of character and place and dialog into a whole that makes sense to me and flows as I think it should flow. Now, how exactly I "weave" is hard to describe. I think that I have a vision, one that I'm usually not aware of when I start a story and that slowly what I've written is pared down to fit that vision.
SoR: What is your writing process?
Hemingway: My grandfather used to say that a writer had to write about what he knew, and while I think that's true, I also think that he was so good that even if he didn't know a lot about a given subject he could describe it in a way that made you believe he was an expert. That's the trick, being able to convince your readership. He was a great stylist and his work has influenced generations of authors and certainly part of this success was knowing when to stop. Ernest made it a point to call it a day when he was still ahead of the game, when his writing and concentration were still good. In my experience, if you don't do that, often times you end up writing material that is going to have to be scrapped the next day anyway. Personally, I'm one of those writers who is always revising, editing as I move along with a story. I'll write something that I think is good and then go back over it again and say "no, this is junk" and then work on it until I get it right. But often as not the right combo of words doesn't come and you have something that you know you could improve, but you can't because you're tired and when that happens I usually just leave it alone. When I'm ready to see that sentence or paragraph or word as it should be then it comes to me. Every story has a life of its own and you can't force it.
SoR: As Ernest Hemingway's grandson, there is probably a lot of influence as well as expectation being a writer yourself. What is that like and how do you handle the celebrity past?
Hemingway: Honestly, I don't really know what, if anything, people expect from me as a writer who is also Ernest Hemingway's grandson. I think that most people probably are not expecting much, i.e., lightning doesn't strike twice in the same place, and so if they happen to read some of my work and see that I can in fact write then perhaps they're pleasantly surprised. At least, this is what I would hope for. I have to admit, though, that dealing with my Grandfather's image was very difficult for me when I was in my 20s and 30s. In part this was due to my age and in part to what I'd had to live through growing up with my mother and father. My father was bipolar (like Ernest) and my mother was paranoid schizophrenic. It wasn't a very stable family environment and it left me with a lot of insecurities about myself as a person and as a writer. Later on, after the birth of our son (and especially thanks to my wife for putting up with me during that period) I understood that I didn't have to measure up to Ernest or write like him. Every author has his own unique voice, I have mine and Ernest had his even though we are related we are not the same. Which of course sounds terribly obvious, but it took me a hell of a long time to come to that realization.
SoR: Ernest was once asked to write a six-word story. He wrote, "For sale: baby shoes, never worn." If you could, would you attempt your own six-word story for us?
Hemingway: "Nacido en Miami, trasferito a Milano" (Born in Miami, moved to Milan)
SoR: What made you want to travel and live in Italy, Spain, and Canada and what has this traveling taught you or how has it influenced you?
Hemingway: I'd always wanted to visit Europe and after I graduated from UCLA in 1983 I spent a year in Seattle working two jobs as a cook until I had enough money to leave. I bought a one-way ticked to Zurich and from there took a train down to Italy. I had studied Italian and Spanish at university but I was far from fluent in either when I arrived in Milan. I had this romantic idea of being an ex-pat writer, and I also wanted to put as much distance as I could between myself and all of my family problems. I think that living abroad forced me to look at myself as an American because every day I was confronted with a different way of doing things, of living and thinking and so comparisons between the two countries came naturally. There were things that I appreciated more about Italy (the food and the importance of family) and other things I missed about the States. I do think that it is important for any writer to spend some time out of his own country. It gives you a different perspective, a window into a different mind/language and for anyone whose business is writing stories that is essential.
SoR: How do you deal with rejection of your work as all writers face this oftentimes discouraging wall?
Hemingway: When I first started writing getting rejection slips it was tragic. I took it personally. I shouldn't have but I didn't know any better back then. I was naive about the business. Everyone gets rejected, it's part of being a writer and if you don't think so then you've got a lot to learn about how things work in the literary world. My memoir "Strange Tribe" was rejected by over 40 different publishers before one finally picked it up (Lyons Press), and from what I've heard getting rejected that many times is nothing exceptional. Par for the course, you could say. Better to expect rejection, I think. Most editors are going to trash your work. It's the nature of the beast. It's when they don't that you know that there is a god in heaven or something up there that's been keeping tabs on you.
SoR: In your story "Uncle Gus" you mentioned suicide as "a kind of genetic curse" in the eyes of the fictional character. Seeing as your work does focus heavily on family, and in some cases fictional parallels to your own, is there a real concern with a genetic or perhaps a seriously perceived trait handed down generation to generation?
Hemingway: There is a genetic component to being bipolar or suffering from clinical depression. These conditions are often passed down from father to son. Or they can skip a generation, as with me. I was lucky, others weren't.
SoR: What advice could you give to a budding author interested in pursuing a life in writing?
Hemingway: I'd say that there is nothing "fair" about writing. Some people are just luckier than others and there is nothing you can do about that. Just as there will always be writers who are better than you and there is nothing you can do about that either. I think that if a person wants to pursue a career in writing then he or she should expect the unexpected, and you should do it because you really like writing, because it's fun or fulfills you in some way. In short, be free, have fun, love beauty and it will all come out in your work. Really. Now, whether you as a free, beautiful and fun loving person actually get published is another question. There doesn't seem to be any rhyme or reason to it. Getting published is, as my grandfather once said, like taking your chances at the craps table. If that's true, then maybe what a budding author needs is a pair of loaded dice.
SoR: If you could have met your grandfather, is there something you would have loved to ask him and if so, what?
Hemingway: Yes, did he really carry that Italian soldier to a first-aid station after he'd been wounded in both legs by an Austrian shell in the First World War? Some people say that he did, while others say that he was knocked unconsciously by the explosion. I've always been curious to know what really happened.
SoR: Not as a family member, but as an appreciator of literature, what do you think of Ernest's work?
Hemingway: I think he was a fabulous writer and a lot more complicated than many people give him credit for being. I think that his best work accurately reflected an age (post WWI) when many of the certainties that people had taken for granted disappeared like the millions who died in the trenches. It was a period in some ways like our own. The old regime was gone but the new one had yet to rear its ugly head. People were cynical and at the same time they wanted to enjoy life to the fullest. It was a period of literary and also sexual experimentation and he was a protagonist in this age of radical change. He lived it and he wrote about it, but I think that any writer with even a quarter of the talent that Ernest had would have written well then. It was a good time to be an artist, a good time to be alive.
SoR: Is there something you wish you had known earlier in life that you now know concerning your writing and if so, what?
Hemingway: Well, I think that if I had known how difficult it would be to get where I am now I probably would have chosen a different career, so perhaps it's better that I wasn't given a glimpse of the future.
SoR: What would you have rather been?
Hemingway: Maybe I would have been an MD like my dad.
SoR: You have referred to your father and grandfather as "two sides of the same coin." Where do you see yourself, a third generation of "the coin," in the mix?
Hemingway: I've often been asked this question and the first difference that comes to mind is that I am not bipolar, as both my father and grandfather were. Not having inherited that condition I've been able to look at them from a different perspective, but it's not the same as being bipolar. I have tried to understand what it's like to go manic from time to time. I can remember what it was like living with my dad when he [was] manic but I don't think that I'll ever really know what it was like for them. As for the similarities, well, I like Corrida and the Fiesta in Pamplona. I like deep-sea fishing for Marlin and Wahoo (my father got me hooked on fishing, and hunting) and I like Montana.
SoR: Does your family's past influence the way in which you hope to influence your family's future?
Hemingway: I think so. I don't condemn in any way the behavior of my grandfather or father. I accept them as they were, but at the same time it was important for me to understand who they were so that I can be a better father to my own children.
SoR: Is there a writing project you have coming up you would like to talk about?
Hemingway: Apart from the translations that I'm working on (two books, one in Italian and the other in Portuguese) I hope to write some more short stories, and perhaps eventually have them published in a collection. And then maybe I'll try my hand at a novel.
SoR: Any themes in mind for this novel?
Hemingway: Perhaps love, death, loyalty, betrayal, hard to say, but I think that just covering those four would give me enough material.
Interview: Mark Vonnegut
September 1, 2009
Rough Draft with Sydney LeaThis interview was designed to give our readers a "look under the hood" into the mechanics of writing from the perspective of well-known writer, Elizabeth Strout. Enjoy.
SoR: Please describe for us how your works of fiction come to be. Do you set aside time? Do you wait for inspiration? And what is the editing process?
Strout: I am never sure how my work comes to me. It remains somewhat mysterious. It may start with a memory of light coming from beneath the crack of a door, or the sight of someone on the subway who reminds me of something...It gradually appears. I do set time aside. I don't believe in waiting for inspiration. This is a craft that needs honing, and that is done by working on a regular basis. I re-write as I go along, many times. And then there is the very ruthless eye that must finally cut every single thing that is soggy or is not needed. One has to be at once deeply inside the work, and then have the ability to be outside it and the willingness to let go of much of it in the re-writing. It is a funny process, and much of it, for me, is something I do feel--I have learned, though I am still learning, to recognize the feeling of when something is false or not.
SoR: What is your philosophy on what makes a "good" story?
Strout: What makes a "good" story is one that a person can enter entirely. The reader must believe in it, and also care. And if there is a universe that the reader wants to be in, then the story takes care of itself. Most of this I think is conveyed through the narrative voice.
SoR: Understandably, every writer has their own methods. But is there something you would suggest to a budding author that might help them fight through writer's block or assist them in their search for the ever-elusive muse?
Strout: I think writer's block for me (and I can't speak for anyone else) usually arrives when I am trying to do something false. And by that I mean when I am not writing what I deeply want to be writing. One must be wary of going to the page and thinking: Well, today I must get them out of the grocery store and down to the beach. Such thinking can cause the prose to be wooden. If one goes to the page and puts down in some form the deepest feeling they are having, finding a way to give it to their character, the prose will be alive. This is why I never writer anything from beginning to end.
SoR: What are the challenges that face a writer before and after they are published?
Strout: The biggest challenge that faces me as a writer is the challenge to do good work. To have the patience and the energy to stay with it. Before I was published this was true, and after I was published it remains true. Students often ask me: Should I keep writing? And the answer is that you will keep writing if you can't stand not to. If you can stand life without writing, you will probably stop. But for those of us who have to write, the challenge remains the same--making it something a reader can receive.
SoR: How do you deal with rejection when you submit your work?
Strout: Rejection is never easy to deal with, never, ever. And I had years of rejected stories. This was back in the day when everything was done with snail mail. So when I received a rejection in the mail, I made myself send the story that very day to another magazine. After a story was rejected by ten different magazines, I would look at it very hard and rework it.
SoR: You write novels as well as short stories; what determines the length?
Strout: Whether it is a novel or a story depends on the subject matter, since style is substance. The decision for me is never at first entirely conscious. As I start to see the story emerge, the style becomes almost immediately, quite naturally, a part of it. A story is not the facts that go into it. It is the form that the reader is given. This is why I don't like to hear people say, "I want to write a story about..." Because talking about it is, for me, senseless. It is only in the doing that the form will show itself.
SoR: Lastly, what advice would you have for those starting out in writing?
Strout: Advice for those starting out: Read and read and read. Read good sentences. And write. Keep reading and writing and you will see things. And if you can't stop, you won't, no matter how many rejections. If you are a person who can't stop writing, protect your desire to write. Don't tell people who are not supportive. Just keep doing it. Knowing what I know now, I would not have done anything differently. Amazing to write that!
Interview: Robert Pinsky
August 7, 2009
From 1997 to 2000 Robert Pinsky served as the United
States Poet Laureate and Consultant in Poetry to the Library of
Congress. He has published numerous prose books as well as collections
of poetry such as The Figured Wheel: New and Collected Poems 1966-1996 (1996)
which won the 1997 Lenore Marshall Poetry Prize and was a Pulitzer
Prize nominee. He has also published two translational works. And as
Poet Laureate, Pinsky founded the Favorite Poem Project.
SoR: If you can, describe your writing process for us.
Pinsky: Everyone is different. I have no conscious systems, tend to deny (against all likelihood) that I have customs or even habits. One of my habits or customs (or anti-habits, anti-customs?) is to undertake several different kinds of thing at once: then, I can play hooky from or defy most of them by cheating and doing some other, unlikely one. Like answering your question right now. While other things are more pressing, and therefore like homework or school: a pleasure to neglect. At its best, just before the exam you get going on your poem, so fuck the exam...though it's not always that good.
SoR: In your poem, "The Night Game," you mention:
Some of us believe
We would have conceived romantic
Love out of our own passions
With no precedents,
Without songs and poetry--
Or have invented poetry and music
As a comb of cells for the honey.
which begs the question, what are your influences?
Pinsky: George Gascoigne's poem "Woodmanship," Allen Ginsberg's poem "Howl," Williams Carlos Williams' "Fine Work With Pitch and Copper," Joyce's Ulysses, Kurosawa's Yojimbo and Ikuru, John Coltrane's Ballads and Giant Steps, Buster Keaton's Sherlock Junior, Gogol's Dead Souls, W.E.B. DuBois's The Souls of Black Folk, John Keats' "Ode to a Nightingale," Elizabeth Bishop's "At the Fishhouses," Ben Jonson's "Ode to Himself" (both poems by that title) and "His Excuse for Loving," Willa Cather's My Antonia and Song of the Lark, Brahms Clarinet Quintet, Fulke Greville's "All My Sense, Like Beacon's Flame" (#56 in Caelica, I think) Wallace Stevens' "Madame La Fleurie"...and many, many more.
SoR: The Favorite Poem Project is an amazing concept and it is a testament to the longevity of great poetry. But I have to ask what poem speaks particularly to you and why?
Pinsky: Today Yeats's "Adam's Curse," yesterday Mark Strand's translation of Carlos Drummond de Andrade's "Souvenir of the Ancient World." Among the videos, Seph Rodney's reading of Plath's "Nick and the Candlestick" (it's now on Youtube as well as http://www.favoritepoem.org/) seems to me as good as it gets.
SoR: Are there any particular muses you go to when you are looking for something to write or have writers' block?
Pinsky: Certain jazz music. Sixteenth and seventeenth century poetry. I've mentioned Gascoigne and Greville, also Ralegh in poems like "Nature, That Washed Her Hands in Milk." Nashe's poem of plague time. Ulysses. Isaac Babel.
SoR: You have said in the past that you try to incorporate elements of jazz and the way the music makes you feel into your poetry. How do you consciously attempt this?
Pinsky: The consonants and vowels and grammatical energies are like tunes and musical figures. Surprise in recurrence, which is to say variation. Willingness to be weird or silly or far out, so long as the sound can carry it for a bit.
SoR: How do (or did) you deal with rejection when submitting your work?
Pinsky: It was a great help to be a failure in junior high and high school. In those years, certain adults (Mr. Florkiewicz, Miss Warwick, Mr. Kolibas) told me that I was going to be a bum or derelict, with my attitude. (See my response to your first question.) So a rejection slip from, say, The Partisan Review? Big deal. That's a bit disingenuous; I also vowed never to become envenomed or envious, to stay centered...the way Ben Jonson advised me to do. "To sing high and aloof,/ safe from the wolf's back jaw and the dull ass's hoof" (I may be misquoting)--which may sound envenomed, but I think BJ was simply telling it as he saw it.
SoR: As a teacher, currently at Boston University, what would you instruct your students as being the number one piece of advice you would give if they were interested in writing?
Pinsky: Read the way a cook eats, or a filmmaker looks at movies. Read and look and listen and think as an artist. Try to learn about some unlikely things, try to know and experience things that are different from the standard kit or toolpack.
SoR: You have also done some translational work. What challenges and rewards, restraints and freedoms are there in writing in another language?
Pinsky: It's the only thing that is like writing. It is like writing, only you don't have to think of what to say next.
SoR: With the printing industry in trouble now and technology picking up the slack (print to pixels) as a writer, how do you feel about the issue? Print equals tangibility but online offers accessibility?
Pinsky: I'm so interested in the voice and ear that I don't get very excited about notation. I've never been one to speak of "on the page," those 16th-century poets taught me to think about "to the ear" or "in the voice"...and not my own voice, necessarily: the reader's voice, just as in the Favorite Poem Project videos.
SoR: When asked to write a 6-word story, Ernest Hemingway wrote, "For sale: baby shoes, never worn." Would you attempt your own 6-word story for us?
Pinsky: Hemingway, worshipped as godlike, killed himself.
SoR: Having the last word, is there anything you would like to advise or comment on regarding either your own work or poetry today? Where you see it heading and your feelings on that?
Pinsky: The artist should ignore trends, schools, fads, categories--"poetry today" is nothing. Where it is heading in general is less interesting, and less your business, than what you in particular might write next (which for me is best not spoken about.) Think about the past and the future, to hell with the present.
SoR: If you can, describe your writing process for us.
Pinsky: Everyone is different. I have no conscious systems, tend to deny (against all likelihood) that I have customs or even habits. One of my habits or customs (or anti-habits, anti-customs?) is to undertake several different kinds of thing at once: then, I can play hooky from or defy most of them by cheating and doing some other, unlikely one. Like answering your question right now. While other things are more pressing, and therefore like homework or school: a pleasure to neglect. At its best, just before the exam you get going on your poem, so fuck the exam...though it's not always that good.
SoR: In your poem, "The Night Game," you mention:
Some of us believe
We would have conceived romantic
Love out of our own passions
With no precedents,
Without songs and poetry--
Or have invented poetry and music
As a comb of cells for the honey.
which begs the question, what are your influences?
Pinsky: George Gascoigne's poem "Woodmanship," Allen Ginsberg's poem "Howl," Williams Carlos Williams' "Fine Work With Pitch and Copper," Joyce's Ulysses, Kurosawa's Yojimbo and Ikuru, John Coltrane's Ballads and Giant Steps, Buster Keaton's Sherlock Junior, Gogol's Dead Souls, W.E.B. DuBois's The Souls of Black Folk, John Keats' "Ode to a Nightingale," Elizabeth Bishop's "At the Fishhouses," Ben Jonson's "Ode to Himself" (both poems by that title) and "His Excuse for Loving," Willa Cather's My Antonia and Song of the Lark, Brahms Clarinet Quintet, Fulke Greville's "All My Sense, Like Beacon's Flame" (#56 in Caelica, I think) Wallace Stevens' "Madame La Fleurie"...and many, many more.
SoR: The Favorite Poem Project is an amazing concept and it is a testament to the longevity of great poetry. But I have to ask what poem speaks particularly to you and why?
Pinsky: Today Yeats's "Adam's Curse," yesterday Mark Strand's translation of Carlos Drummond de Andrade's "Souvenir of the Ancient World." Among the videos, Seph Rodney's reading of Plath's "Nick and the Candlestick" (it's now on Youtube as well as http://www.favoritepoem.org/) seems to me as good as it gets.
SoR: Are there any particular muses you go to when you are looking for something to write or have writers' block?
Pinsky: Certain jazz music. Sixteenth and seventeenth century poetry. I've mentioned Gascoigne and Greville, also Ralegh in poems like "Nature, That Washed Her Hands in Milk." Nashe's poem of plague time. Ulysses. Isaac Babel.
SoR: You have said in the past that you try to incorporate elements of jazz and the way the music makes you feel into your poetry. How do you consciously attempt this?
Pinsky: The consonants and vowels and grammatical energies are like tunes and musical figures. Surprise in recurrence, which is to say variation. Willingness to be weird or silly or far out, so long as the sound can carry it for a bit.
SoR: How do (or did) you deal with rejection when submitting your work?
Pinsky: It was a great help to be a failure in junior high and high school. In those years, certain adults (Mr. Florkiewicz, Miss Warwick, Mr. Kolibas) told me that I was going to be a bum or derelict, with my attitude. (See my response to your first question.) So a rejection slip from, say, The Partisan Review? Big deal. That's a bit disingenuous; I also vowed never to become envenomed or envious, to stay centered...the way Ben Jonson advised me to do. "To sing high and aloof,/ safe from the wolf's back jaw and the dull ass's hoof" (I may be misquoting)--which may sound envenomed, but I think BJ was simply telling it as he saw it.
SoR: As a teacher, currently at Boston University, what would you instruct your students as being the number one piece of advice you would give if they were interested in writing?
Pinsky: Read the way a cook eats, or a filmmaker looks at movies. Read and look and listen and think as an artist. Try to learn about some unlikely things, try to know and experience things that are different from the standard kit or toolpack.
SoR: You have also done some translational work. What challenges and rewards, restraints and freedoms are there in writing in another language?
Pinsky: It's the only thing that is like writing. It is like writing, only you don't have to think of what to say next.
SoR: With the printing industry in trouble now and technology picking up the slack (print to pixels) as a writer, how do you feel about the issue? Print equals tangibility but online offers accessibility?
Pinsky: I'm so interested in the voice and ear that I don't get very excited about notation. I've never been one to speak of "on the page," those 16th-century poets taught me to think about "to the ear" or "in the voice"...and not my own voice, necessarily: the reader's voice, just as in the Favorite Poem Project videos.
SoR: When asked to write a 6-word story, Ernest Hemingway wrote, "For sale: baby shoes, never worn." Would you attempt your own 6-word story for us?
Pinsky: Hemingway, worshipped as godlike, killed himself.
SoR: Having the last word, is there anything you would like to advise or comment on regarding either your own work or poetry today? Where you see it heading and your feelings on that?
Pinsky: The artist should ignore trends, schools, fads, categories--"poetry today" is nothing. Where it is heading in general is less interesting, and less your business, than what you in particular might write next (which for me is best not spoken about.) Think about the past and the future, to hell with the present.
Interview: John Hemingway
August 11, 2009
John Hemingway, grandson of writer Ernest Hemingway, is an American writer and translator living in Montreal with his wife and two kids. His memoir, Strange Tribe (Lyons Press, May 2007) describes the love/hate relationship and the striking similarities between his father, Dr. Gregory Hemingway and his grandfather, Ernest. John has in addition written translations as well as short stories.
SoR: Your work seems to focus on familial issues and I can see ties between fiction and reality whether it be a schizophrenic mother in your story "Uncle Gus" published in the Saturday Evening Post or suicide, another prevalent theme in the same tale. How do you weave, consciously or subconsciously, the real with the make-believe? What from the real inspires and what is taboo?
Hemingway: Well, I don't think that there is anything that is taboo, per se. I use whatever is at hand, whatever I can remember consciously, or not, and try to mix these different elements of character and place and dialog into a whole that makes sense to me and flows as I think it should flow. Now, how exactly I "weave" is hard to describe. I think that I have a vision, one that I'm usually not aware of when I start a story and that slowly what I've written is pared down to fit that vision.
SoR: What is your writing process?
Hemingway: My grandfather used to say that a writer had to write about what he knew, and while I think that's true, I also think that he was so good that even if he didn't know a lot about a given subject he could describe it in a way that made you believe he was an expert. That's the trick, being able to convince your readership. He was a great stylist and his work has influenced generations of authors and certainly part of this success was knowing when to stop. Ernest made it a point to call it a day when he was still ahead of the game, when his writing and concentration were still good. In my experience, if you don't do that, often times you end up writing material that is going to have to be scrapped the next day anyway. Personally, I'm one of those writers who is always revising, editing as I move along with a story. I'll write something that I think is good and then go back over it again and say "no, this is junk" and then work on it until I get it right. But often as not the right combo of words doesn't come and you have something that you know you could improve, but you can't because you're tired and when that happens I usually just leave it alone. When I'm ready to see that sentence or paragraph or word as it should be then it comes to me. Every story has a life of its own and you can't force it.
SoR: As Ernest Hemingway's grandson, there is probably a lot of influence as well as expectation being a writer yourself. What is that like and how do you handle the celebrity past?
Hemingway: Honestly, I don't really know what, if anything, people expect from me as a writer who is also Ernest Hemingway's grandson. I think that most people probably are not expecting much, i.e., lightning doesn't strike twice in the same place, and so if they happen to read some of my work and see that I can in fact write then perhaps they're pleasantly surprised. At least, this is what I would hope for. I have to admit, though, that dealing with my Grandfather's image was very difficult for me when I was in my 20s and 30s. In part this was due to my age and in part to what I'd had to live through growing up with my mother and father. My father was bipolar (like Ernest) and my mother was paranoid schizophrenic. It wasn't a very stable family environment and it left me with a lot of insecurities about myself as a person and as a writer. Later on, after the birth of our son (and especially thanks to my wife for putting up with me during that period) I understood that I didn't have to measure up to Ernest or write like him. Every author has his own unique voice, I have mine and Ernest had his even though we are related we are not the same. Which of course sounds terribly obvious, but it took me a hell of a long time to come to that realization.
SoR: Ernest was once asked to write a six-word story. He wrote, "For sale: baby shoes, never worn." If you could, would you attempt your own six-word story for us?
Hemingway: "Nacido en Miami, trasferito a Milano" (Born in Miami, moved to Milan)
SoR: What made you want to travel and live in Italy, Spain, and Canada and what has this traveling taught you or how has it influenced you?
Hemingway: I'd always wanted to visit Europe and after I graduated from UCLA in 1983 I spent a year in Seattle working two jobs as a cook until I had enough money to leave. I bought a one-way ticked to Zurich and from there took a train down to Italy. I had studied Italian and Spanish at university but I was far from fluent in either when I arrived in Milan. I had this romantic idea of being an ex-pat writer, and I also wanted to put as much distance as I could between myself and all of my family problems. I think that living abroad forced me to look at myself as an American because every day I was confronted with a different way of doing things, of living and thinking and so comparisons between the two countries came naturally. There were things that I appreciated more about Italy (the food and the importance of family) and other things I missed about the States. I do think that it is important for any writer to spend some time out of his own country. It gives you a different perspective, a window into a different mind/language and for anyone whose business is writing stories that is essential.
SoR: How do you deal with rejection of your work as all writers face this oftentimes discouraging wall?
Hemingway: When I first started writing getting rejection slips it was tragic. I took it personally. I shouldn't have but I didn't know any better back then. I was naive about the business. Everyone gets rejected, it's part of being a writer and if you don't think so then you've got a lot to learn about how things work in the literary world. My memoir "Strange Tribe" was rejected by over 40 different publishers before one finally picked it up (Lyons Press), and from what I've heard getting rejected that many times is nothing exceptional. Par for the course, you could say. Better to expect rejection, I think. Most editors are going to trash your work. It's the nature of the beast. It's when they don't that you know that there is a god in heaven or something up there that's been keeping tabs on you.
SoR: In your story "Uncle Gus" you mentioned suicide as "a kind of genetic curse" in the eyes of the fictional character. Seeing as your work does focus heavily on family, and in some cases fictional parallels to your own, is there a real concern with a genetic or perhaps a seriously perceived trait handed down generation to generation?
Hemingway: There is a genetic component to being bipolar or suffering from clinical depression. These conditions are often passed down from father to son. Or they can skip a generation, as with me. I was lucky, others weren't.
SoR: What advice could you give to a budding author interested in pursuing a life in writing?
Hemingway: I'd say that there is nothing "fair" about writing. Some people are just luckier than others and there is nothing you can do about that. Just as there will always be writers who are better than you and there is nothing you can do about that either. I think that if a person wants to pursue a career in writing then he or she should expect the unexpected, and you should do it because you really like writing, because it's fun or fulfills you in some way. In short, be free, have fun, love beauty and it will all come out in your work. Really. Now, whether you as a free, beautiful and fun loving person actually get published is another question. There doesn't seem to be any rhyme or reason to it. Getting published is, as my grandfather once said, like taking your chances at the craps table. If that's true, then maybe what a budding author needs is a pair of loaded dice.
SoR: If you could have met your grandfather, is there something you would have loved to ask him and if so, what?
Hemingway: Yes, did he really carry that Italian soldier to a first-aid station after he'd been wounded in both legs by an Austrian shell in the First World War? Some people say that he did, while others say that he was knocked unconsciously by the explosion. I've always been curious to know what really happened.
SoR: Not as a family member, but as an appreciator of literature, what do you think of Ernest's work?
Hemingway: I think he was a fabulous writer and a lot more complicated than many people give him credit for being. I think that his best work accurately reflected an age (post WWI) when many of the certainties that people had taken for granted disappeared like the millions who died in the trenches. It was a period in some ways like our own. The old regime was gone but the new one had yet to rear its ugly head. People were cynical and at the same time they wanted to enjoy life to the fullest. It was a period of literary and also sexual experimentation and he was a protagonist in this age of radical change. He lived it and he wrote about it, but I think that any writer with even a quarter of the talent that Ernest had would have written well then. It was a good time to be an artist, a good time to be alive.
SoR: Is there something you wish you had known earlier in life that you now know concerning your writing and if so, what?
Hemingway: Well, I think that if I had known how difficult it would be to get where I am now I probably would have chosen a different career, so perhaps it's better that I wasn't given a glimpse of the future.
SoR: What would you have rather been?
Hemingway: Maybe I would have been an MD like my dad.
SoR: You have referred to your father and grandfather as "two sides of the same coin." Where do you see yourself, a third generation of "the coin," in the mix?
Hemingway: I've often been asked this question and the first difference that comes to mind is that I am not bipolar, as both my father and grandfather were. Not having inherited that condition I've been able to look at them from a different perspective, but it's not the same as being bipolar. I have tried to understand what it's like to go manic from time to time. I can remember what it was like living with my dad when he [was] manic but I don't think that I'll ever really know what it was like for them. As for the similarities, well, I like Corrida and the Fiesta in Pamplona. I like deep-sea fishing for Marlin and Wahoo (my father got me hooked on fishing, and hunting) and I like Montana.
SoR: Does your family's past influence the way in which you hope to influence your family's future?
Hemingway: I think so. I don't condemn in any way the behavior of my grandfather or father. I accept them as they were, but at the same time it was important for me to understand who they were so that I can be a better father to my own children.
SoR: Is there a writing project you have coming up you would like to talk about?
Hemingway: Apart from the translations that I'm working on (two books, one in Italian and the other in Portuguese) I hope to write some more short stories, and perhaps eventually have them published in a collection. And then maybe I'll try my hand at a novel.
SoR: Any themes in mind for this novel?
Hemingway: Perhaps love, death, loyalty, betrayal, hard to say, but I think that just covering those four would give me enough material.
Interview: Mark Vonnegut
September 1, 2009
Mark Vonnegut, son of Kurt Vonnegut, is the writer of The Eden Express as well as a new book due out sometime next year called Just Like Someone Without Mental Illness Only More So.
SoR: Your father was the famous writer, Kurt Vonnegut, and you were named after Mark Twain. And your father would even mention that your mother "would often tell him that he was supposed to save the world," a phrase used in the first paragraph of your book, The Eden Express. Did you ever feel the pressure to be a writer and how did that influence your life?
Vonnegut: Writing and trying to write has helped me grow and survive. I'm very grateful to all the arts but never felt pressure to go into them. It's nice to have a great grandfather architect and a grandfather architect, both of whom could write and paint and make furniture and Kurt, of course, and a lot of other talented people in my family. It led me to believe that creating things might be in me. I think it's in everyone but if you don't use it, it dies.
SoR: I realize that The Eden Express was the only novel you published. I also realize that there was a powerful context within which you wrote it: the turmoil and change surrounding the Vietnam War, the hippie movement, drugs, and of course your actual, not metaphorical, journey through madness. How much of not writing again was due to the absence of that level of creative or volatile stimuli later in life? Was there a certain amount of creative soup that you were embroiled in that compelled you to write, that subsequently subsided?
Vonnegut: I've actually written three other books that didn't get published and started a few others. Just Like Someone Without Mental Illness Only More So will be published by Dell, May 2010. For better or worse the soup and the volatility go on.
SoR: When you wrote The Eden Express, it was not only an intensely personal account of your experience with mental illness, but also a strong commentary on the social context, even possibly cause, of mental illness. Now as a practicing pediatrician with a Harvard medical degree, you seem to have sprung to the other side of this polarity. Can you elaborate?
Vonnegut: There's no polarity, just observations that either ring true or not. I don't fit in all that well with other doctors. I'm a writer with a demanding day job.
SoR: Your father referred to your mental illness as going "bananas" and the Hollywood Psychiatric Hospital as "a Canadian laughing academy" and the "Canuck loony bin." This is an example of some of Kurt's sense of humor but how do you think he dealt with your condition on a personal level?
Vonnegut: Worried about me, glad the doctors didn't blame him, glad I didn't blame him, intrigued by the illness, proud that he was able to come through as a father and be a true help to his son.
SoR: I have heard you mention schizophrenia and bipolar disorder as the ailment you had. Which one was it if you know or was it a combination?
Vonnegut: The diagnostic criteria has changed. There's substantial disagreement as to whether there are one, two, or a dozen diseases at work here. Until we have unequivocal tests to separate them, we're all blowing smoke.
SoR: When asked by your father, "Doc, you were so crazy a third of a century ago. How come you're so obviously OK now?" you replied, "My case was a mild one." But not to make light of schizophrenia, or what you later concluded was possibly bipolar disorder, what else could you attribute to your own personal-health success?
Vonnegut: Lithium and having a life worth getting better for.
SoR: How has your experience in the Hollywood Psychiatric Hospital shaped your views on health now that you are in the medical profession?
Vonnegut: I hated the powerlessness of being a patient and and try to be mindful of how awful it is to be sick.
SoR: What lured you to the saxophone and painting?
Vonnegut: Who wouldn't want to make jazz and rock and roll and make water colors?
SoR: What do you do in your spare time?
Vonnegut: I get up, have a cup of coffee and bounce back and forth between writing, gardening, painting, walking the dog, and going to work and fishing and making furniture.
SoR: You almost became a Unitarian minister. What made you choose that route and what made you decide against it?
Vonnegut: I was mostly interested in the political activism part of being a minister and wouldn't have been very good at it.
SoR: What advice might you give a budding writer?
Vonnegut: If you write badly and have something to say you have to write until you get it right.
SoR: Do you have a favorite book of your father's?
Vonnegut: Mother Night and a lot of the short stories and essays.
SoR: Was there at any time, a particular piece of advice your father gave that stood out as incredibly helpful or meaningful in your life and if so, what was it and why?
Vonnegut: No one is looking at you as closely as you think they are. Loosen up.
SoR: You and your friends were looking for something in "the meadow," a path to follow in such confusing and new times, both alluring and repelling. Today, many young Americans feel somewhat similar--the War on Terror and in Iraq and Afghanistan, the economic crisis, a new president elected on the bill of change, global warming, life. What advice might you have for those looking for their path in the meadow?
Vonnegut: Go to British Columbia and start a commune.
SoR: In today's world, with the media casually covering the bombings and deaths in the War on Terror overseas, do you think that there is perhaps a condition occurring in society that is the equivalent opposite of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder--a sort of callousing of ourselves toward the suffering of others?
Vonnegut: Compassion/outrage burnout. Very few people believe that what they do and think really matters.
SoR: From the "hippie" era, what ideals do you feel were particularly hard to lose and if any became realized, what were they?
Vonnegut: We can't get over the idea that what we do and think matters and that it's possible to do better. I sure wish we had known then how bad drugs were for you.
SoR: Your father was the famous writer, Kurt Vonnegut, and you were named after Mark Twain. And your father would even mention that your mother "would often tell him that he was supposed to save the world," a phrase used in the first paragraph of your book, The Eden Express. Did you ever feel the pressure to be a writer and how did that influence your life?
Vonnegut: Writing and trying to write has helped me grow and survive. I'm very grateful to all the arts but never felt pressure to go into them. It's nice to have a great grandfather architect and a grandfather architect, both of whom could write and paint and make furniture and Kurt, of course, and a lot of other talented people in my family. It led me to believe that creating things might be in me. I think it's in everyone but if you don't use it, it dies.
SoR: I realize that The Eden Express was the only novel you published. I also realize that there was a powerful context within which you wrote it: the turmoil and change surrounding the Vietnam War, the hippie movement, drugs, and of course your actual, not metaphorical, journey through madness. How much of not writing again was due to the absence of that level of creative or volatile stimuli later in life? Was there a certain amount of creative soup that you were embroiled in that compelled you to write, that subsequently subsided?
Vonnegut: I've actually written three other books that didn't get published and started a few others. Just Like Someone Without Mental Illness Only More So will be published by Dell, May 2010. For better or worse the soup and the volatility go on.
SoR: When you wrote The Eden Express, it was not only an intensely personal account of your experience with mental illness, but also a strong commentary on the social context, even possibly cause, of mental illness. Now as a practicing pediatrician with a Harvard medical degree, you seem to have sprung to the other side of this polarity. Can you elaborate?
Vonnegut: There's no polarity, just observations that either ring true or not. I don't fit in all that well with other doctors. I'm a writer with a demanding day job.
SoR: Your father referred to your mental illness as going "bananas" and the Hollywood Psychiatric Hospital as "a Canadian laughing academy" and the "Canuck loony bin." This is an example of some of Kurt's sense of humor but how do you think he dealt with your condition on a personal level?
Vonnegut: Worried about me, glad the doctors didn't blame him, glad I didn't blame him, intrigued by the illness, proud that he was able to come through as a father and be a true help to his son.
SoR: I have heard you mention schizophrenia and bipolar disorder as the ailment you had. Which one was it if you know or was it a combination?
Vonnegut: The diagnostic criteria has changed. There's substantial disagreement as to whether there are one, two, or a dozen diseases at work here. Until we have unequivocal tests to separate them, we're all blowing smoke.
SoR: When asked by your father, "Doc, you were so crazy a third of a century ago. How come you're so obviously OK now?" you replied, "My case was a mild one." But not to make light of schizophrenia, or what you later concluded was possibly bipolar disorder, what else could you attribute to your own personal-health success?
Vonnegut: Lithium and having a life worth getting better for.
SoR: How has your experience in the Hollywood Psychiatric Hospital shaped your views on health now that you are in the medical profession?
Vonnegut: I hated the powerlessness of being a patient and and try to be mindful of how awful it is to be sick.
SoR: What lured you to the saxophone and painting?
Vonnegut: Who wouldn't want to make jazz and rock and roll and make water colors?
SoR: What do you do in your spare time?
Vonnegut: I get up, have a cup of coffee and bounce back and forth between writing, gardening, painting, walking the dog, and going to work and fishing and making furniture.
SoR: You almost became a Unitarian minister. What made you choose that route and what made you decide against it?
Vonnegut: I was mostly interested in the political activism part of being a minister and wouldn't have been very good at it.
SoR: What advice might you give a budding writer?
Vonnegut: If you write badly and have something to say you have to write until you get it right.
SoR: Do you have a favorite book of your father's?
Vonnegut: Mother Night and a lot of the short stories and essays.
SoR: Was there at any time, a particular piece of advice your father gave that stood out as incredibly helpful or meaningful in your life and if so, what was it and why?
Vonnegut: No one is looking at you as closely as you think they are. Loosen up.
SoR: You and your friends were looking for something in "the meadow," a path to follow in such confusing and new times, both alluring and repelling. Today, many young Americans feel somewhat similar--the War on Terror and in Iraq and Afghanistan, the economic crisis, a new president elected on the bill of change, global warming, life. What advice might you have for those looking for their path in the meadow?
Vonnegut: Go to British Columbia and start a commune.
SoR: In today's world, with the media casually covering the bombings and deaths in the War on Terror overseas, do you think that there is perhaps a condition occurring in society that is the equivalent opposite of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder--a sort of callousing of ourselves toward the suffering of others?
Vonnegut: Compassion/outrage burnout. Very few people believe that what they do and think really matters.
SoR: From the "hippie" era, what ideals do you feel were particularly hard to lose and if any became realized, what were they?
Vonnegut: We can't get over the idea that what we do and think matters and that it's possible to do better. I sure wish we had known then how bad drugs were for you.
September 16, 2009
Sydney Lea, Pulitzer Prize finalist in Poetry, has agreed to share one of his poems with us and its earlier draft in rare glimpse into how a poem comes to be. The first draft is titled "Rink Rat" and the final version is "The 1950s." "Rink Rat" was originally published in an intermediate form in The Southern Review. Here, you can compare the early draft with the final from 2005 to 2008 and see a side of the poet that few can; what he was thinking about at the time and how he chose the right words that finally appear before your eyes. The other poem, "The Host In My Dentures," published in IMAGE magazine, is accompanied by its rough draft; the difference is subtle yet worth the search. With luck, this will be the first installment of a popular series. Enjoy.
Rat Rink
The boys stood always between a welcoming
and a shunning of the girl. She came to practice
and every game, her elbows propped on the boards
as their comely frames flew past, wall-block and ceiling
rebounding grunts, the claps of stick and puck.
Awful, what that gang of players called her,
and before their showers, unlacing on the bench,
how they bickered over which of them would have her,
bragging on what they’d make her do -- or had.
Some one of them must have known her name back then
but none ever used it. She was only and always Rink Rat.
They didn’t seem to know where she went to school.
Who cared? Who wondered why on earth her family,
if family there was, felt willing to let her free
to be with the boys at their play, and briefly after?
A path of mud and cinders behind the arena
led out past propane tanks and garbage bins
to a flattened knoll, which was grassy -- more or less.
An improbable bower, but ambience wasn’t the issue.
In nasty weather, quick things got even quicker.
Later, while driving past some cul de sac
that resembles, however obliquely, the trysting place,
can make a boy -- now father perhaps to daughters --
wince and summon a time. And a blurry figure,
its glasses, thumb-thick, smeared and battered, riding
a birth-marked face. It’s more than anything else
the mark that lingers. It started under an ear,
as they could see when her lank hair fell in plaits.
How many different looks she tried! They joked,
Each one’s a failure, but as one of the team once put it,
The chassis’s not half bad. Which induced more laughter,
as though, if she weren’t rodent, she was machine.
What manner of frantic longing, if that’s how to name it,
could have kept the poor child coming, coming, coming?
Oh, they joked on that as well, their double-entendre
as lame as it was, no doubt, inaccurate.
The moans of the rink rat-machine were surely a feigning
the boys didn’t have the grace to reciprocate.
The birthmark found the cruelest path it could:
up from that ear to the scalp, and then straight down,
transforming the outsized, acne-fretted nose
to a lump of berry and pallid, melted chocolate.
Her chin the same. And so they played two games:
the one with nets and goalies, the other with her.
After their sweat cooled down, it was back to recalling
bodies in contest, violent moves and clamor,
back to the age-old witless bragaddoccio
of men like them.
I go on saying them,
of course, because I long to hide a shame
that after all has taken these years to name.
The 1950s
The boys went back and forth between scamming and snubbing
the girl who showed up late afternoons to watch
each practice and game, her elbows propped on the boards
as their bodies flew by. Cinder-block and I-beam
echoed with grunts and the claps of sticks on pucks.
Before they showered, unlacing skates on the bench,
they threw fingers to see who’d be the one to go find her.
They bragged about what they’d make her do, or had.
Some of them must have known her actual name,
so there’s no excuse what those young punks called her:
among themselves, the girl was always Rink-Rat.
Where was the school where Rink-Rat took her classes?
Nobody cared, or wondered how her family --
if she had a family in fact -- would set her free
to hang around with boys at play, and after.
Behind the building, a path of mud and cinders
snaked past propane tanks and garbage cans
up a squat little hill that was more or less out of sight.
Not exactly a bower, but then atmosphere wasn’t the issue
in the dead of winter, when it all had to be quick fun.
Much later, driving past some bleak-looking scene
that sketchily resembles that meeting place,
one of the boys, who now has a couple of daughters,
shivers as he thinks of a blurry figure
with bottle-thick glasses lopsided on her face --
her savagely birth-marked face. The mark is what lingers
more than anything. It started under an ear,
as they saw when she wore her limp hair up or in braids.
She tried out other styles too but none of them cared.
Her body was all that mattered. As one of them sneered,
The chassis’s not half bad. When she wasn’t a rodent,
she could be a machine. What sort of desperate longing,
if that’s what you’d call it, made the girl so easy a mark?
What on earth could make her come and come?
Oh they had fun with that word, their double-meanings
as lame as each of them no doubt was mistaken.
The rink-rat-machine would thrash and sigh and moan,
a pretense the graceless boys didn’t bother with.
Her birth-splotch took the nastiest possible path:
from that ear to the edge of her scalp and straight back down,
turning her oversized nose, with its acne and blackheads,
to a blob of berry and paste and melting chocolate,
her chin the same. The boys were playing two games,
one with nets and goalies, the other with Rink-Rat.
After their sweat cooled down, they talked about hockey:
they praised their teamwork, deception, brotherhood, speed.
In short they swapped the mindless swaggerer’s claims
that men have always shared.
I’m saying they,
you’ll understand, as I try to skate over shame
it seems to have taken me fifty years to name.
The Host In My Dentures (2006)
It struck me first much more as sound than pain:
rimshot-loud, the puck that found my mouth:
Plock! Four decades passing, it has me wearing
this partial bridge. My mother wouldn’t let me
go to the dentist; she imagined me tough as she was.
I’m not, I wasn’t. Things pass, she said. They didn’t.
Of course the fault lay partly with me at sixteen.
I didn’t wear helmet or mask, because we all thought
-- using the verb “to think” a bit too loosely --
we’d skate right over a wounding, even a dying.
I should have been hurt in a game at least, not practice!
The shot burst off Bill Chapman’s stick and caught me
where I’d knelt on the rink to block it. Kneeling this morning,
I took the cup and the bread, and this much later,
feel scraps of the Host in my dentures, which start me thinking.
Not sacrilege, this, and yet it’s dreary enough:
In mind my girlfriend Constance sits in the bleachers --
watching mere practice -- probably bored stiff.
I’ve been glancing her way and grinning since taking the ice.
Her classic features, her even smile, the frost
that powders the neck of the letter sweater I gave her.
In less than a month, I’ll have the sweater back.
She’s far too flawless to keep. I’ll keep the teeth,
but only till age catches up and that ancient disaster
blooms in my roots. The dreariness that fell
upon me today goes back perhaps to the girl,
to how she quit me. And now who’ll love a geezer,
a dark-mouthed geezer? I know what I ought to answer:
God. It sticks in the maw, though it should come easy
after communion, which is meant after all to change
our view of the world, of ourselves and our fellow humans.
So I call back that plock, and something like thought supervenes:
These are the teeth of my body, broken for Thee,
and not for Connie or Peg or Patty or Bea,
not for any other heartbreak crush of young manhood.
These orts that lodge in the wire-and-plastic contraption:
having no choice, I’ll choose a satisfaction
(I wasn’t worthy, I was, I’m not, I am)
in bearing them through a day. O saving remnants.
The Host In My Dentures (2009)
It struck me first much more as sound than pain:
rimshot-loud, the puck that found my mouth:
Plock! Four decades passing, it has me wearing
this partial bridge. My mother wouldn’t let me
go to the dentist; she imagined me tough as she was.
I’m not, I wasn’t. Things pass, she said. They didn’t.
Of course the fault lay partly with me at sixteen.
I didn’t wear helmet or mask, because we all thought
-- using the verb “to think” a bit too loosely --
we’d skate right over a wounding, even a dying.
I should have been hurt in a game at least, not practice!
The shot burst off Bill Chapman’s stick and caught me
where I’d knelt on the rink to block it. Kneeling this morning,
I took the cup and the bread, and this much later,
feel scraps of the Host in my dentures, which start me thinking.
Not sacrilege, this, and yet it’s dreary enough:
In mind my girlfriend Constance sits in the bleachers --
watching mere practice -- probably bored stiff.
I’ve been glancing her way and grinning since taking the ice.
Her classic features, her even smile, the frost
that powders the neck of the letter sweater I gave her.
In less than a month, I’ll have the sweater back.
She’s far too flawless to keep. I’ll keep the teeth,
but only till age catches up and that ancient disaster
blooms in my roots. The dreariness that fell
upon me today goes back perhaps to the girl,
to how she quit me. And now who’ll love a geezer,
a dark-mouthed geezer? I know what I ought to answer:
God. It sticks in the maw, though it should come easy
after communion, which is meant after all to change
our view of the world, of ourselves and our fellow humans.
So I call back that plock, and something like thought supervenes:
These are the teeth of my body, broken for Thee,
and not for Connie or Peg or Patty or Bea,
not for any other heartbreak love of young manhood.
These orts that lodge in the wire-and-plastic contraption:
having no choice, I’ll choose a satisfaction
(I wasn’t worthy, I was, I’m not, I am)
in bearing them through a day. O saving remnants.
Interview: Sue Monk Kidd and Ann Kidd Taylor
October 19, 2009
Sue Monk Kidd and Ann Kidd Taylor co-authored Traveling With Pomegranates. It’s a mother/daughter memoir about re-discovering themselves and each other during a series of trips to Greece and France. At the time, Ann was 22 years old and struggling with the next step in her life after her college graduation. Sue, who was about to turn 50, had to come to terms with aging and the next step in her career. It’s a wonderful journey of love, spirituality, and friendship, set against a backdrop of some of the most beautiful cities in the world.
Sue Monk Kidd is also the author of the best-selling novel The Secret Life of Bees. This is the first book for Ann Kidd Taylor.
Interview by: Augusta Matthews
SoR: Sue, what were your thoughts when Ann asked you to collaborate on the book?
Sue: Well, I was thrilled. Secretly thrilled. I say secretly because I had wanted to be able to write about my own experiences during those trips and about the transition I was going through and our relationship. Somewhere in the far reaches of my mind I wanted to do that, but it was Ann’s project and I was so, so happy she was doing it. When she asked me, I leaped so quickly to say yes that I realized how much I wanted to participate in it and write my own stories.
SoR: How did the two of you start the process?
Ann: Well after I asked my mom if she wanted to write this book with me it took actually another three years before we began writing it. My mom was about to begin The Mermaid Chair and I was pregnant with my son, so there were some things that had to be done first. When we finally got to the writing of it, the first thing we did was to gather all our materials that we had saved while we were traveling, like our journals. We also gathered our photographs and any tape recordings that my mom did on the trips. We gathered all that material and got very large sheets of paper and started mapping out different places that we went to build a very loose outline. We worked with that outline for a while to hone it down to the places that we felt really resonated with us, as far as the experiences that we were having there. We ended up having to cut an entire trip that we went on in 2001. We just realized that this book could go on forever. It’s the trip I believe my mom mentions in the afterword that we actually took with my grandmother back to France.
SoR: How did you divide the sections of the trip and decide who would write about which experience? Did it come naturally through talking together or was it more of a technical process?
Sue: I think that it was structurally a very complicated book, and we were basically trying to write three different stories. Ann referred to the big papers that we drew out and worked with for an outline. We got a big sheet of butcher paper and divided it into the three trips we determined we would write about. We left off the last trip simply because we were really focusing on the story, on our stories, the narrative. It wasn’t so much about the trips. It was about the story and the transition that took place in the trips. The places we went were backdrops for that, so that’s how we viewed it. Once we did that, we understood that the fourth trip was really not necessary, and that the story ended on the third trip. So we had these three trips and they fell naturally into three parts of the book, and we decided who would write what by the same process. It was examining the significant aspects of our stories that really need to be told, and we propelled the narrative along by doing that. There were several chapters where we wrote about the same place at the same time, and we didn’t do that every time, but it happened occasionally simply because what was happening in those places was really core for both of us. It also gave the reader a moment to glimpse into the same place and the same experience through two different eyes and two different individual stories. I guess the answer to the question is that it was simply a matter of telling the essence of each of our stories and going to those places where that happened.
SoR: What were your reactions to reading about the same experiences, but from the other person’s point of view?
Ann: It’s always eye opening when you’re together and you’re going to the same places. We would write in our homes and then after we completed our chapters we would meet, we’d swap, we’d read. Particularly in that first part of the book, we write about our experiences at Eleusis and you have these little revelations where you go, “Oh, I knew that was going on, but now I’m really getting the whole range of emotion and feeling and the complexity of that experience.” In the moment you get hints of it - this general sense. I would say it felt at times very eye opening but also I felt like I was starting to understand, really understand, even more, parts of my mom’s story and what she was feeling then.
SoR: How has co-authoring this book together affected your relationship?
Sue: I think it has deepened it in a lot of ways. There’s no doubt about it, collaborating on a book is a very difficult experience. It doubles everything. It doubles the authors, and it doubles the time it takes. People would say, “Oh it must be easy, it cuts in half what you have to do because she’s writing half the book and you’re writing half the book,” but actually it took us almost three years to write this book. It doubled what we thought it would take because we were trying to weave these stories together in a fluid way and have those threads flow, so I think it just made it a little more complex. It doubled the difficulty, but it also doubled the satisfaction. We really did find that true, and so it opened up places for us to learn about each other. Not only were we in the same room and talking a lot about very profound experiences we had together, but also I think we were also growing together. Something solidified through the writing that hadn’t even happened when we were on the trips. There must be something about experiencing it and then growing closer when you begin to try to articulate it. Not to say that there weren’t challenges, but overall I would say it was very deepening.
SoR: Ann, having really reflected on such a crossroads in your life after graduation, deciding whether or not to go to graduate school, what advice do you have for recent college graduates who struggle with the next step in their lives?
Ann: I think now, particularly in this economic climate, there’s a whole other set of pressures that graduates are facing that I didn’t have when I graduated in 1998. I think there’s this whole other element of “Wow, I’ve graduated, I’ve got my whole life ahead of me, what am I going to do?” Maybe not all the options that you would have hoped for are there, particularly in a job market right now. I actually spoke to some college graduates back in May, and my advice to them was to really listen to that voice inside of you. I first started listening to that voice inside of myself when I got that rejection letter from graduate school, and suddenly I was kind of in that boat of “I don’t know what I’m going to do with my life,” and my plan had exploded. I think that there are some similarities there for graduates now who are starting out there and they’re kind of in this boat of “I did all this and now I can’t get a job, and I don’t know what I’m going to do.” So I know what I did, and that was to really start asking myself those big questions and really start listening to what was in my heart. It’s that voice that won’t lie to you and it knows, maybe when on the surface you don’t know. Something inside of you knows and it’s like that compass that points true north. I think there’s a lot to be said for asking that question my mom and I each ask in part three of the book that the myrtle tree in the convent in Crete: what lies in the bottom of your heart? I think a lot of good can come when you’re looking for direction in your life to try to stay connected to that passion that lies at the bottom of your heart. Maybe that can be a guiding point for young people who are just starting off and having a tough time right now.
SoR: Sue, what was it like to watch Ann’s struggle to find herself, and then eventually emerge with such drive and purpose to become a writer?
Sue: Well I think it’s hard for any mother to watch one of their children struggle. That was very painful to watch. I think what I had to really figure out was where and how and when do I step into this process. She was 22 years old and really holding this close to her chest, so to speak, and she wasn’t sharing it with me. I felt a little bit like I was intruding or trying to pry the lid off of her if I stepped in. I think I probably waited too long. I don’t think I did it perfectly, but at least I was trying to ask the question of honoring or respecting her independence, but realized she needed to do this in her own time and way. I think that was hard, but I had a lot of faith that she would emerge from it in time. I know that sometimes when you are asking the large questions and really dealing with depression about where your life is going, or you’re lost and you don’t know what to do – and Ann was very much in that place – that you eventually come out of that underworld. If you’re really asking the questions and holding those tensions, you really can come to a new awareness about yourself. I had faith that she was really in the thick of that process and would come out of it. Of course, it was wonderful to watch her come to the understanding that at the bottom of her heart she was a writer. She had really resisted it, as she said, in large part because I was a writer and she had a need to find her own identity that was separate from her mother. It was very confusing, doubly confusing, because there was that process operating in her that she had to forge her own way and she couldn’t be like her mom, but really what was in the bottom of her heart was writing. She had to come to terms with that and realize that she could be compared to me or that it could be a little more complicated. I was very proud to watch her take up her, what we call, her “necessary fire,” which is a John Gardener metaphor by the way. He spoke of writing that way, as a necessary fire.
SoR: This book was a lot about the two of you re-discovering each other to form a new bond and friendship– what do you think is the most rewarding part and the most challenging part of that relationship?
Ann: Well I think that the most rewarding part of having written this book together has to be the ways that it brought us closer together. I was so focused on the writing of the book that it was a great surprise to me that writing it together and collaborating this closely would actually do for our relationship in a lot of ways what the traveling did for our relationship. So that was a great surprise. As far as the most challenging part, I almost don’t have a great answer for that. We joke a lot that we’re related and so yes, we love each other, but we actually like each other a lot too. We’re very close and I think we feel an openness and a freedom to really be ourselves and be great friends. I know we challenged each other creatively, especially when we got down to the re-writing of the book, and there were great challenges there. I’d never written a book before in my life, so the writing of it was one thing - the re-writing of it was another thing. My mom really challenged me to dig in and find and hone my voice and that was a challenge. She was a great support and great co-author and mentor for me at the same time.
SoR: Both of you have such incredible insights into your dreams. When did you start examining them for signs in your waking life, and what have they been telling you lately?
Sue: I started writing my dreams down probably in my late thirties, so I was a little older than Ann is now. I think the reason was because around that time I began to read the work of the Swiss psychiatrist C.G. Jung. There was something about the way he approached the psyche that I thought was so profound for writers. He focused in on the internal process, the imagination and the drive toward wholeness, the creative life, and what lies in the unconscious. He felt that a real portal into this inner world was through dreams, and that compelled me. I think I’m just wired that way. I think some people are wired that way and some people aren’t. It’s not for everyone, but once I began to write my dreams down, I became pretty convinced pretty quickly that there was extraordinary information in those dreams. I read a little book about dreaming for writers – Writers Dreaming I think was the title; I don’t know if it’s still around. It was about writers, some very prominent writers, their dream life and how they approached it. I think that encouraged me too because I realized that writers draw on their dreams, and probably more important than the symbolism in the dream, was that it gives us information about directions for our life. They’re very cryptic. They’re hard to understand, but if you really work with them, you sort of learn your own symbolic life and what’s going on. If you’re inclined that way, I think it can be a way to tap into your own soul. So what are they telling us lately – I still record my dreams. I don’t record them every night anymore. If I remember a dream very clearly and it has a kind of intensity for me, I will definitely write it down. Others I might just mull over for a day or two, but those that I write down are pretty significant for me. I think right now those dreams I’m writing down are probably talking to me about my next work, my next novel, and how to approach that. Not so much what it’s about; I don’t mean that. I mean about how I’m going to approach it - sort of the large questions around it. They’re often about how to make ones life more whole.
Ann: Honestly, I think after being home from the book tour, I’ve been sleeping so soundly that if I dream at all, in the morning it’s just gone. We’ve been home for just a little over a week now, and I think that when I start to feel a little more settled in my life and rested, then I will perhaps begin at least remembering my dreams and recording them.
Sue: I would say too, I don’t remember every dream I have either. I don’t know anyone who does, and so that’s why when one of them feels very vivid, it’s good to capture it because it’s gone literally within an hour
SoR: Are there any plans for future European adventures together?
Sue: Possibly, yes. We’re talking about our first trip together next spring. It will be the first trip together since the trip we took in 2001, and it will be almost nine years exactly. We’re probably going to make a literary tour of England. Ann is very into Jane Austen, so we’re researching Jane Austen sites and we’ll probably visit Shakespeare’s home, go to Oxford, and look at some of the literary tours around Tolkien and Lewis Carroll and C.S. Lewis. There’s just such wonderful, rich literary sites in England, so we thought we’d make that our next trip.
Susanna Rich's "Television Daddy"
October 29, 2009
We all remember that doctor who could talk to animals, that spooky family with cheesy surnames, that boy, Beaver, who lived down the street, and how could we forget our first looks into that divorced and dysfunctionally hilarious family other than our own, the Bradys. And for the younger crowd, how about those mutant turtles who learned karate from a rat, or that neighborhood chihuahua and cat, and we can’t forget the summer camp led by Ug Lee.
It might sound strange when you think about it, but television has done something bizarre over the decades: it has given millions of people around the world the same childhood memories. Now, this may have the positive effect of bringing us all together on some common, comfortable ground or it could have the destabilizing effect of crumbling individuality. Either way, one poet has begun to delve into this new phenomenon by relating how her childhood memories have affected her life...I mean, how our childhood memories have affected our lives.
Susanna Rich, a poet and professor at New Jersey’s Kean University, has created a poetry collection/production called Television Daddy where she, assisted by director Ernest Wiggins and crew, performs a one-woman show. Although, I must stress that this is no poetry performance. Poetry readings have evolved over the decades from simple oral poetry to dub poetry to performance and slam and sound poetry. Now, there is a new form, a nameless form in the evolution that goes beyond performance with it’s audience interaction and subtle, therapeutic nature.
But what is so new about television becoming a part of popular culture? It has been in poetry before.
“Television becomes a surrogate...for father, for God, for exploration of self, for love, for relationships,” Rich said, “It pulls your attention away from who you really are. It pulls the attention from feeling what you’re feeling. Ann Landers said that television has shown us, proved to us that people are willing to look at anything other than each other, and I would add ‘ourselves.’”
And not only is television the fulcrum of the production, nor simply the catalyst for a new wave of emotions and poetic inspiration, television is the previous link in the evolutionary chain of expression. When before there was Shakespeare reading his poetry through drama on the stage, now there is television which captures the drama but excludes the poetry. Using the same methods television producers use to gain larger, more general audiences, Rich has used to enrich her poetry reading’s effect. Rich has taken the inspiration for her poetry, and almost in a satirical manner, brought drama and poetry back but without the television. Call it poetic justice.
But television has had a profound impact on Rich’s life and perception of reality, as it has on ours. “My family is so dysfunctional that you can’t even call it dysfunctional because it isn’t functional at all. And I’m watching “Lassie” and I’m watching “Father Knows Best” and “My Three Sons” and I’m thinking, ‘I’m a horrible person because I have a terrible family,’ when the truth is most people have a dysfunctional family.”
Since it’s debut, her production has gained much attention in New Jersey and is spreading as she takes her one-woman show on the road. Much of her personality and heart-felt words can be seen and experienced in Television Daddy and oftentimes ends in roaring applause from the audience. She has even begun to attract groupies who follow her performances.
When I saw her perform Television Daddy on the Ocean County College campus in Toms River, I couldn’t help but be pulled into the performance. Perhaps I wasn’t a necessary part of the production but I certainly felt like it. Rich acted beautifully, oftentimes commanding a powerful silence over the audience with her words and expressions. And then, at the snap of a finger or unexpected turn of phrase, she’d have us laughing.
Now, there is a motive for all the hoopla and praise. There is a healing effect on the audience, almost therapeutic. People come not knowing what to expect and leave finding a piece of themselves in the process. My fiancee who watched with me, a self-proclaimed not a poetry person, found it fascinating and entertaining. And the audience aren’t the only ones finding solace in the Television Daddy experience. “The biggest moment of therapy is when I say, ‘Oh, my God, I’m going to write a poem about that,’” Rich said of the process.
But it really is the universality of her poetry, experiences, and delivery that brings a sense of comfort in the niche that at one point television filled. It makes clear the allure of the box and knots off certain loose threads that might have unravelled in our past, her past. Rich has, in essence, taken the universality effect television has had on us and molded it into expressing herself to us in a way we can all appreciate. This incredibly unique and ingenious concept within poetry has led to her rising success and a new genre within the ever-evolving track of poetry and it’s readings.
“Some people say that you have so much courage to reveal those things you’re revealing in the poems,” Rich said, “and I say, ‘wait a minute. I don’t think it’s about me. It’s about humanity. It’s about us.’”
Interview: Diane McWhorter
November 2, 2009
Diane McWhorter, journalist and social commentator, has written much about race and social justice in America from her Pulitzer Prize winning book Carry Me Home: Birmingham, Alabama, The Climactic Battle of the Civil Rights Revolution to A Dream of Freedom. She has been a contributor to The New York Times, USA Today, and Slate.
SoR: With so much being written about the Civil Rights Movement, what made you feel like what you had to write would stand out?
McWhorter: I wasn’t at all sure my book would stand out--and am still in awe of the miracle that it did! Like most first-time authors (and maybe all writers), I was in a constant death struggle with self-doubt. Over the 19 years I worked on Carry Me Home, a number of other books came out about the civil rights movement, and I often wondered why I was bothering. On the other hand, when my peer group in Birmingham would ask me, defensively, what I could possibly write about the city that hadn’t already been said (and as if they had read every word), my inner reaction would be, “Oh, yeah, watch.” (Of course there’s Jeff Foxworthy’s cautionary version of that: the redneck’s last words—“Y’all, watch this!”)
SoR: As with writing most nonfiction, there is a certain line the author must be aware of and when you are writing about something as sensitive as race in America, how do you walk that line? And do you ever simply cross it?
McWhorter: It’s a minefield, no doubt about it. Probably one of the reasons the book took me so long was that I had to do a huge amount of research in order to feel confident enough to sally forth. And even so there’s always some nuance one misses. Also, white writers feel a certain inhibition about “appropriating” the black story—so I decided to exploit my dubious asset, as a product of the Johannesburg of America, and consider myself an expert on white people. I placed the story of the civil rights movement firmly in the context of segregation--the “process” of white supremacy. It sounds obvious, since without those segregationists there would have been no need for a civil rights movement, but in most accounts the “white” story is automatic, the given. A number of black readers told me they were stunned to learn how hard the white folks had to work to keep African-Americans down. The impression had been that segregation kind of just “happened.”
But to your question, I wasn’t really aware of any line to be crossed and basically strived for intellectual honesty, trying not to shy away from harshness if that’s what the truth demanded. One thing I found was that in dealing with subject matter this disturbing, by which I mean the racist violence, the writer feels an urge to editorialize about how awful it is. But you have to ignore that impulse—whatever disapproval you telegraph is inadequate to the deed in question. (I’m thinking here of the scene in Carry Me Home that describes some Klansmen ritually castrating a black man they had abducted from the side of the road.)
SoR: Your writing combines the truth of all nonfiction with the attention to the aesthetics and symbolism of literature. For instance, in the beginning of your book, Carry Me Home, instead of opening with any number of the numerous gripping scenes from the Civil Rights Movement, you chose to focus on the symbol of the Vulcan statue in Birmingham, Alabama. How much creative license do you take in writing nonfiction and what is the process you have for weaving in literary aspects of literature such as metaphor, symbolism, and vibrant detail? (In other words, what do you consciously do to keep your nonfiction from being boring?)
McWhorter: Gosh, Dylan, stop asking me such mean, tough questions! About Vulcan, you are obviously not from Birmingham because any native would understand that there could be no other way to start a book about the Magic City. We locals are obsessed with him. And the fact that Vulcan, the god, was a crippled immortal (who also created Pandora) seemed too good a metaphor to pass up. I don’t know if you would call this creative license, but there’s a passage in the book about how Vulcan’s sculptor, Giuseppe Moretti, had made a marble head of Christ as a companion piece to his pagan statue, but that when Vulcan was moved to his ultimate perch atop Red Mountain in the 1930s, “there was no room on the hilltop for Jesus.” Now that was a reference to “no room at the inn,” and simply a cute way of saying that the sculptor’s (reputed) wishes that the two pieces remain together had not been honored. But sometime after the book came out, a local elected official took literally what was essentially a throwaway line and decided that the shunning of Jesus had marked Birmingham for all its subsequent trials. So I guess that’s an example of creative license causing a bit of trouble. But thank you for appreciating the details. I worked hard to come up with just the right tidbit—like the toupee worn by Henry Wallace’s vice-presidential running mate in 1948—to lend some visual interest to the history.
SoR: What makes you choose to write about not only the Civil Rights Movement, of which you grew up in the heart of, but also matters of social injustice?
McWhorter: Well, actually I grew up in the heart of the segregationist resistance, which may answer your question! As a result I am keenly aware of the tricks human beings play to convince themselves that their worst instincts are their best, which is usually how the unjust are able to live with themselves. And since that’s universal, not just southern, the potential subject matter is endless.
SoR: Some writers, such as Harper Lee, choose fiction as their medium which allows them, in some opinions, more flexibility. What makes you write from a nonfiction perspective?
McWhorter: If I could have written fiction I would have. And if I could have written Carry Me Home differently, God knows I would have! I think your medium chooses you rather than vice versa.
SoR: What can be the hardest part for a writer to write a nonfiction story and what advice would you have for overcoming such an obstacle? Likewise, what is most rewarding for you writing in this style?
McWhorter: The thing you have to disabuse yourself of is that there’s some story out there waiting intact to be discovered, and all you have to do is open yourself up to it and it tells itself. I felt more like a sculptor who, in order to produce some comprehensible and interesting shape, first has to also create the huge slab of matter from which it is carved. I wish I could offer some advice about how to avoid doing that—but I’m going through that process again with my current book project. I guess the difference now is that I have more faith in the outcome.
The most rewarding thing is what I think of as breaking the code. When you’re about a third of the way into the project, everything starts to connect, and you begin to see the relationship among the various moving parts. There’s an apt line from one of my favorite novels, The Moviegoer by Walker Percy (a fellow Birminghamian): “As you get deeper into the search, you unify. You understand more and more specimens by fewer and fewer formulae. There is the excitement.”
SoR: If there was one thing you could teach yourself before you wrote Carry Me Home; some piece of advice to a younger you before getting fully involved in such an ambitious project, what would it be?
McWhorter: Probably, rationally, I would have said, Don’t do it! But I’m glad I wasn’t there to tell that to my younger self. And she wouldn’t have listened anyway. Stubborn!
I remember at my college in New England there was a very blond woman from Maine named Sally who was a black studies major, and that struck me as so odd. I thought of Sally longingly a decade later as I was beginning to master the subject—why couldn’t a blond woman from Alabama have had the imagination back then to choose that major! It would have knocked years off the project.
SoR: There are many people in the world today who feel the consequences of not only race, in its many forms, but prejudices of all kinds. Each has a story to tell: the victims, the perpetrator, and the bystander; each with their own unique perspective. If one of them wished to tell their story, what advice would you have for them?
McWhorter: I would tell them to read George Orwell’s essay “Shooting an Elephant” to see how to place oneself in the story in a way that is not self-justifying or unintentionally naive—but rather is knowing and honest about one’s own role within the system.
SoR: How did you plan to write Carry Me Home before you ever set a pen to paper?
McWhorter: I had intended it for it to be more of a “return of the native” memoir, ballasted by my interviews with the principals in the civil rights story. But the personal story ended up being dwarfed by the historical narrative. (The difficulty journalists have writing about themselves is something of a cliché in the business! Q.E.D.)
SoR: Did you discover something you never expected during the writing of Carry Me Home and if so, how did that affect your writing?
McWhorter: A friend of mine says good writing is that which is “processed through the unconscious.” Which takes a lot of sifting and repetition. Often, the first time you encounter material you don’t, can’t, understand it, and then you’ll learn something a year later that orders a whole raft of baffling facts. (For example, expanding on my answer to question 4, the “progressives” sometimes assume disguises as cunning as those of the reactionaries— the Ku Klux Klan of the 1920s was the liberal-populist insurgent wing of the Democratic Party. That took me a while to fathom, but it explains why the great liberal Supreme Court Justice, Hugo Black of Alabama, was a political product of the Klan.) So if there’s one lesson that being a writer has taught me it is how to live with ambiguity.
SoR: What is the revision process like for you?
McWhorter: I hate, hate, composing, but semi-enjoy rewriting. At least it makes one feel like an artisan instead of a bricklayer. That being said, revising CMH was extremely frustrating. The original manuscript came in 3,400 pages, and I ended up having to go back to the drawing board any number of times to figure out a way to reduce it by two thirds without wringing all the life out of it. In other words, I couldn’t tell if something was going to work until I tried it—and often it didn’t. That was where I wasted a lot of time and effort, though I’m not sure there’s any way around it. Alas and ironically, the hardest part to get right in nonfiction is the thing which, if it’s working, the reader doesn’t even notice: the structure. I had many false starts before I landed on a narrative strategy that just disappeared.
SoR: Since publishing Carry Me Home have there been times when you wished you could go back and edit something? If so, what?
McWhorter: Constantly. Every time I pick it up. I’m a self-flagellating perfectionist. I notice the sentences that have pronouns referring to two different people, which I think is a no-no. Those I keep mentally fixing. I made a couple horticultural errors—crepe myrtle was blooming in the spring (I was confusing it with redbud), but that got corrected for the paperback. A more substantive regret is about not devoting more description to the actual explosion at the Sixteenth Street Baptist Church, since the whole book has been building toward that lethal bombing. Time needed to stand still a little longer in the narrative there. Physical description is something I have to force myself to do anyway, and in this case there was an urge to avert the eyes.
SoR: With racial issues still a threat to American society, as the recent, unfortunate incident between Harvard Professor Henry Louis Gates Jr. and Sgt. James Crowley of the Cambridge Police so emotionally pointed out, how do you see current and future racial issues affecting America as well as your writing?
McWhorter: I’m finding it ironic that the public discourse on race has never been shallower as (according to that discourse) we approach the racial millennium—first black president, and all. Or maybe the ever-shortening news cycle just keeps the shallowness constantly in our face, on a loop. The Gates-Crowley incident was in so many rich ways the perfect national-soul-searching opportunity, and we even saw a flash of the President as a black man rather than a post-racial icon. But instead the story quickly converted into another opportunity for Obama to show how skilled he is at defusing flammable racial episodes—which, in fact, ends up taking legitimate topics off the table. Not that I would expect him, in his position, to be provocative. But the “commentariat” is not similarly constrained, indeed actually needs to come up with fresh material, and predictably the narrative settled on whether it was politically “good for Obama”—thank God for the occasionally amusing beer leitmotif. I can feel I’m about to get wound up now, thinking about a more recent contretemps—over Jimmy Carter’s comment that the race was behind a lot of the anti-health-care rage. So rather than revisit that, let me pivot into the inspiring aspect of having race at the nagging heart of our national narrative.
I lived abroad for several months a couple of years ago, and there’s nothing like being out of the country to make one realize what an incredible experiment is this democracy of ours. I found it almost poignant how much Europeans looked to America as a moral example (and how sorrowfully disappointed, rather than angry, they were about the Bush presidency). What I’ve realized is that race is what forces America to be painfully honest with itself; it keeps driving us to fulfill our founding pledge to create a “more perfect” society. If our country had not been born with this tragic flaw of slavery, then the “process” of democracy would be much more obscure and in a sense easier to game (though race is itself used to camouflage the class inequities at the basis of so much of social misery). I say tragic flaw—as opposed to a fatal flaw—because tragedy recognizes that the qualities that lead to the subject’s epic failure are the very same as those that produce its greatness. What America has so consistently been able to do is to keep the positive and negative in some kind of dialectic, so that the country tends to pull back from the brink of downfall and then take a tentative leap forward. Race has been the charge behind these spasms of progress, from the Civil War, to the civil rights movement, and now, one might argue, with the election of Obama. Not only does our own society advance, but we provide an example for aspirations of freedom and justice around the globe.
SoR: Lastly, is there anything you would like to add for either clarity purposes or for the benefit of having a chance to speak your mind freely about your writing?
McWhorter: Well, Dylan, I’d like to thank you for engaging me in this conversation. Sometimes we long-distance writers feel lost in the quick-hit culture of cyberspace, where it is increasingly difficult to discern the formulae in all the specimens. So the very fact that you are embarking on this literary venture gives me some hope about the future of the written if not necessarily printed word, and the exciting enterprise of the search. I wish Splash of Red a long and happy life.
How The Creative Mind Works: An Experiment
November 18, 2009
Below are the results of a controlled experiment SoR conducted in an attempt to see how the creative mind works between the visual artist and the literary artist. Our visual artist, Joey Parlett, created an image for our poet, Anthony Alessandrini, to inspire a poem and our poet wrote a poem to inspire a piece of artwork. So as you can see below, we have for our readers the results of art inspired by poetry and poetry inspired by art. We hope you enjoy.
Poem That Inspired Art
Shadow and Sun
She danced from the darkness
onto the stairs. Shadow and sun
were all the same to her
but to us watching the effect
startled. Light and dark were
all the same to her. To hear
your own tongue in a strange land
is strange. I drink more here
than a stranger should.
There are too many stairs
to fall from. Now he nurses
his beer and remembers the photo
a place he’d never been and never
would be
and then her dancing
there between light and dark
coming down towards us.
At
the very bottom of the stairs rain
began to fall where I sit now
too far away for it to matter.
Art That Inspired Poem
Control Room
From my mother’s womb
I fell into this Space.
Who sent me here?
Control: it’s me. Over.
Can you still hear me?
The clock dials float
meaningless past my eyes
I can’t remember time
anymore I remember
a home a candle burning
on a table someone kissing me
hello someone waiting
for my return some warm
feeling now I feel cold
my wet fur is all frozen
I hunch towards my body
but it’s gone I can’t recall now
I see them again but they may
have been kissing me goodbye.
The Brief Wondrous Life Of Junot Diaz...So Far
November 30, 2009
Junot Díaz was born in Santo Domingo, Dominican Republic and is the author of Drown and The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao which won the John Sargent Sr. First Novel Prize, the National Book Critics Circle Award, the Anisfield-Wolf Book Award, the Dayton Literary Peace Prize and the 2008 Pulitzer Prize. His fiction has appeared in The New Yorker, African Voices, Best American Short Stories (1996, 1997, 1999, 2000), in Pushcart Prize XXII and in The O'Henry Prize Stories 2009.
He has received a Eugene McDermott Award, a fellowship from the John Simon Guggenheim Memorial Foundation, a Lila Acheson Wallace Readers Digest Award, the 2002 Pen/Malamud Award, the 2003 US-Japan Creative Artist Fellowship from the National Endowment for the Arts, a fellowship at the Radcliffe Institute for Advanced Study at Harvard University and the Rome Prize from the American Academy of Arts and Letters. He is the fiction editor at the Boston Review and the Rudge (1948) and Nancy Allen professor at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology.
SoR: What is your writing process like from the development of an idea to putting it on paper?
Diaz: That's quite a large question. It all depends on the project. Sometimes I need to write in a disciplined organized manner. Write every morning, four five hours, sort of like a job. Other projects require me to turn things over in my heads for months at a time, followed by a concentrated burst of writing over a couple of weeks. As for editing I throw away until something good remains. Which means I throw away at least 95% of what I write, often more.
SoR: You were quite the reader when you were young, I hear. What inspired you to read so much and what determined the selections?
Diaz: No idea. I have sense theories but none of them can be proved. Reading was a form of consolation for a Dominican immigrant kid, a way to approach language in the quiet of my own head without people ridiculing me. Reading was something that spoke to a deep part of me. I read and continue to read widely. Spend a lot of time in bookstores and libraries browsing and that's how my books come to me. Through old fashion rummaging.
SoR: How does it feel going from living near “one of the largest landfills in New Jersey,” as you once put it, to winning a Pulitzer Prize in Fiction?
Diaz: Hard to say. My youth, all those hardships, they're still with me. They never go away. But now they have company. It's nicer now that there are more things in my head than just the hard times.
SoR: Explain for us, if you will, the importance of keeping in touch with your roots, as you have certainly remained heavily involved in the Dominican community.
Diaz: I can't imagine life without my 'roots.' Without Santo Domingo, without New Jersey, I simply would not exist and it means everything to me to keep them close to my heart, to spend as much time in communion with these places.
SoR: How do you handle the inevitable criticism of your work?
Diaz: You try to get better. If it's good you listen. If it's just hateration you keep working.
SoR: How much of your work is really based on your real life experiences and how do you make the decisions of when to weave in fiction and where to weave in your past?
Diaz: My first book DROWN was mainly autobiographical. OSCAR WAO was entirely fiction. I don't think I'll be writing anything from my life again so I won't have to make those decisions any more. But in the past it was the story, more than anything, that guided which side of the fence it wanted to be on.
SoR: THE BRIEF WONDROUS LIFE OF OSCAR WAO deals a lot with the The Trujillo Era. However, Rafael Trujillo was assassinated in 1961 and you were born just a hair shy of 1969. What impact did this period have on you and make you want to place your novel in that span of time?
Diaz: Historical traumas know no expiration date. The Trujillato deformed the Dominican nation and continues to deform it. I grew up in that shadow and wanted to wrestle with it.
SoR: Though much of your work delves into the non-fiction of your own life, what makes you choose fiction as your genre of choice?
Diaz: Hard to say why we like chocolate over say mint strawberry. It's just the way it is. In fiction I come closer to the truth than I do in non-fiction. Fiction is about play, non-fiction about fidelity.
SoR: What, if anything did you want your readers to learn from reading THE BRIEF WONDROUS LIFE?
Diaz: It's a novel. Novels are not about messages or lessons; they’re about an experience, a human experience. I want my readers to encounter other humans in these pages and in that process encounter themselves.
SoR: Why the use of footnotes rather than incorporating into the body of the novel?
Diaz: That has to do with the novel's exploration of storytelling, authority and dictatorship. As literary device footnotes reinforce erudition and authority but in this novel they're after far more interesting game. I wish I could say more but that would take away from the reader's experience. Let's just say it wouldn't have cost me anything to put all that info in the body of the novel proper.
SoR: What were you hoping to convey by using “Spanglish” in the writing of THE BRIEF AND WONDEROUS LIFE?
Diaz: Well, the realities of these characters require English, Spanish, urban English, nerdish and a couple other idioms, without which these lives would feel to me inauthentic. We do not live on a monolingual world and neither do my characters.
SoR: When can we expect the next book?
Diaz: God knows!
Interview: Philip Connors
December 25, 2009
August 12, 2010
Nancy Pickard says that of all the awards and honors she has received in nearly 35 years of writing novels and short stories, the one that means the most is that "The Virgin of Small Plains" was named the Kansas Reads book of the year for 2009. During that year, Nancy drove by herself to 50 libraries in 50 small towns in Kansas, meeting readers and talking about books, and she says it was one of the highlights of her life. Her current "Kansas" novel is "The Scent of Rain and Lightning," which was the Barnes & Noble Main Recommended Selection this past spring and spent five weeks on the extended New York Times bestseller list. She's currently at work on her 19th novel.
SoR: What is your writing process like?
Pickard: Lately, it's like a jigsaw puzzle for which I get the pieces out of order and have to figure out where they go to make the whole picture. Today I may write what turns out to be chapter 23; tomorrow I may write what turns out to be chapter 5. I never know for sure where things go until I have a lot of it done.
SoR: What is your editing process like?
Pickard: Brutal. Last fall, working on the book I'm still working on, I tossed 200 pages (50,000 words) without a backward glance and started over.
SoR: You have won 5 Macavity Awards, 4 Agatha Awards, two Anthony Awards, a Barry Award, and a Shamus Award. You are the only writer to have ever won all five, plus you are a 5-time Edgar Award finalist. What is it about mystery that you love and where does this stem from?
Pickard: Murder mysteries seem "worth it" to me. My feeling is, let's get down deep, delve into death and evil-doing and goodness. If I had to write a book without a murder, I wouldn't know what to do with the middle of the book!
SoR: Your newest novel The Scent of Rain and Lightning has been praised as being on the border of the mystery genre and literary fiction. Do you feel like that is an accurate assessment and how so?
Pickard: I don't think I know what reviewers mean when they say that. I tend to think what they're really saying is just that they think it's well written, for which opinion I thank them. I know that I work really hard to get to the emotional core of my characters, and maybe that's "literary," but I think all good books of any sort do that, so. . .it's confusing to me. I'm just trying to write the best books I can with the experience and skills that I have, hoping those skills get honed to sharper edges with every new book.
SoR: What inspired you for a good story to write?
Pickard: At this stage of my life I tend to be inspired by things that either haunt me, or come to me in epiphanies, or just plain nag me until I write about them. Landscape inspires me, but not all landscape. I think I am attracted more and more to landscape that is somehow unexpected--like the monumental rocks in "Scent"--and also by landscape that offers me, as the writer, a great depth of geology, flora, fauna, and/or history to plumb for metaphors.
SoR: Do you see your writing as changing over time such as from Generous Death published in 1984 to The Scent of Rain and Lightning in 2010 and if so, how?
Pickard: I do. It has changed a great deal as I have grown up as a person and a writer. I haven't had the nerve to go back and read those earlier ones, so I can't tell you exactly how they differ from these new ones. Just from a technical standpoint, though, I've moved away from first person narratives, to third person, and then to multiple points of view, and I've developed a style that moves back and forth through time.
SoR: Your last two novels The Virgin of Small Plains and The Scent of Rain and Lightning took place in small, rural towns. What inspired the dive into the small town scene?
Pickard: It's so odd, in a way, that I'm a born and bred city girl and yet I've almost always set my novels in small towns. There are only four exceptions--But I Wouldn't Want to Die There, which is set in New York City, and the three Marie Lightfoot books that are set in a city inspired by Ft. Lauderdale, Fla. I think I'm a small town girl at heart, and that I love the way I can control and compress things in a small geographical area with a small population. My years of being married to a cattle rancher put me in a lot of contact with rural Kansas, so that contributes, too.
SoR: Where do you see your writing heading in the near future?
Pickard: More of the same only better? Lol. That's my dream. . .to keep writing standalone novels set in various parts of Kansas, and for each one to be better than the last one in some way or another.
SoR: How do you feel about the difference in styles between genre mystery and literary fiction and how they are perceived in mainstream literature?
Pickard: I don't worry about it. These things change over time. My understanding is that breaking fiction down into genres at all is a rather recent phenomenon, dating (maybe?) to the 1950's. In the mystery world, more and more books are getting the "literary mystery" label, so I sense a breaking down of boundaries. A good book is a good book, wherever it's shelved. I try to read widely without observing genres, because otherwise I'd miss out on some fabulous books. My favorite book of the summer is The Lonely Polygamist," which is "literary," but I also loved "The Passage," which is a vampire novel, and I recently reread the original Nancy Drew novel, "The Mystery at Shadow Ranch," and still loved it.
SoR: What is a mystery you would love to solve?
Pickard: Speaking strictly of crime and not of metaphysics--there is an imprisoned serial killer in this area who has never told where he buried the bodies. I'd like the families to have that knowledge.
SoR: Do you have any advice for any budding writers out there?
Pickard: Just start writing, and then keep doing it. Try to balance confidence with humility--enough confidence to try it, enough humility to keep learning how. And--while it's natural to dream about being published, please keep your eyes turned to the current sentence you're writing, and then to the next one, and the next one. . .that's really all you can ever do. "Bird by bird," as Annie Lamott says so wisely in her book of the same name.
October 29, 2009
We all remember that doctor who could talk to animals, that spooky family with cheesy surnames, that boy, Beaver, who lived down the street, and how could we forget our first looks into that divorced and dysfunctionally hilarious family other than our own, the Bradys. And for the younger crowd, how about those mutant turtles who learned karate from a rat, or that neighborhood chihuahua and cat, and we can’t forget the summer camp led by Ug Lee.
It might sound strange when you think about it, but television has done something bizarre over the decades: it has given millions of people around the world the same childhood memories. Now, this may have the positive effect of bringing us all together on some common, comfortable ground or it could have the destabilizing effect of crumbling individuality. Either way, one poet has begun to delve into this new phenomenon by relating how her childhood memories have affected her life...I mean, how our childhood memories have affected our lives.
Susanna Rich, a poet and professor at New Jersey’s Kean University, has created a poetry collection/production called Television Daddy where she, assisted by director Ernest Wiggins and crew, performs a one-woman show. Although, I must stress that this is no poetry performance. Poetry readings have evolved over the decades from simple oral poetry to dub poetry to performance and slam and sound poetry. Now, there is a new form, a nameless form in the evolution that goes beyond performance with it’s audience interaction and subtle, therapeutic nature.
But what is so new about television becoming a part of popular culture? It has been in poetry before.
“Television becomes a surrogate...for father, for God, for exploration of self, for love, for relationships,” Rich said, “It pulls your attention away from who you really are. It pulls the attention from feeling what you’re feeling. Ann Landers said that television has shown us, proved to us that people are willing to look at anything other than each other, and I would add ‘ourselves.’”
And not only is television the fulcrum of the production, nor simply the catalyst for a new wave of emotions and poetic inspiration, television is the previous link in the evolutionary chain of expression. When before there was Shakespeare reading his poetry through drama on the stage, now there is television which captures the drama but excludes the poetry. Using the same methods television producers use to gain larger, more general audiences, Rich has used to enrich her poetry reading’s effect. Rich has taken the inspiration for her poetry, and almost in a satirical manner, brought drama and poetry back but without the television. Call it poetic justice.
But television has had a profound impact on Rich’s life and perception of reality, as it has on ours. “My family is so dysfunctional that you can’t even call it dysfunctional because it isn’t functional at all. And I’m watching “Lassie” and I’m watching “Father Knows Best” and “My Three Sons” and I’m thinking, ‘I’m a horrible person because I have a terrible family,’ when the truth is most people have a dysfunctional family.”
Since it’s debut, her production has gained much attention in New Jersey and is spreading as she takes her one-woman show on the road. Much of her personality and heart-felt words can be seen and experienced in Television Daddy and oftentimes ends in roaring applause from the audience. She has even begun to attract groupies who follow her performances.
When I saw her perform Television Daddy on the Ocean County College campus in Toms River, I couldn’t help but be pulled into the performance. Perhaps I wasn’t a necessary part of the production but I certainly felt like it. Rich acted beautifully, oftentimes commanding a powerful silence over the audience with her words and expressions. And then, at the snap of a finger or unexpected turn of phrase, she’d have us laughing.
Now, there is a motive for all the hoopla and praise. There is a healing effect on the audience, almost therapeutic. People come not knowing what to expect and leave finding a piece of themselves in the process. My fiancee who watched with me, a self-proclaimed not a poetry person, found it fascinating and entertaining. And the audience aren’t the only ones finding solace in the Television Daddy experience. “The biggest moment of therapy is when I say, ‘Oh, my God, I’m going to write a poem about that,’” Rich said of the process.
But it really is the universality of her poetry, experiences, and delivery that brings a sense of comfort in the niche that at one point television filled. It makes clear the allure of the box and knots off certain loose threads that might have unravelled in our past, her past. Rich has, in essence, taken the universality effect television has had on us and molded it into expressing herself to us in a way we can all appreciate. This incredibly unique and ingenious concept within poetry has led to her rising success and a new genre within the ever-evolving track of poetry and it’s readings.
“Some people say that you have so much courage to reveal those things you’re revealing in the poems,” Rich said, “and I say, ‘wait a minute. I don’t think it’s about me. It’s about humanity. It’s about us.’”
Interview: Diane McWhorter
November 2, 2009
Diane McWhorter, journalist and social commentator, has written much about race and social justice in America from her Pulitzer Prize winning book Carry Me Home: Birmingham, Alabama, The Climactic Battle of the Civil Rights Revolution to A Dream of Freedom. She has been a contributor to The New York Times, USA Today, and Slate.
SoR: With so much being written about the Civil Rights Movement, what made you feel like what you had to write would stand out?
McWhorter: I wasn’t at all sure my book would stand out--and am still in awe of the miracle that it did! Like most first-time authors (and maybe all writers), I was in a constant death struggle with self-doubt. Over the 19 years I worked on Carry Me Home, a number of other books came out about the civil rights movement, and I often wondered why I was bothering. On the other hand, when my peer group in Birmingham would ask me, defensively, what I could possibly write about the city that hadn’t already been said (and as if they had read every word), my inner reaction would be, “Oh, yeah, watch.” (Of course there’s Jeff Foxworthy’s cautionary version of that: the redneck’s last words—“Y’all, watch this!”)
SoR: As with writing most nonfiction, there is a certain line the author must be aware of and when you are writing about something as sensitive as race in America, how do you walk that line? And do you ever simply cross it?
McWhorter: It’s a minefield, no doubt about it. Probably one of the reasons the book took me so long was that I had to do a huge amount of research in order to feel confident enough to sally forth. And even so there’s always some nuance one misses. Also, white writers feel a certain inhibition about “appropriating” the black story—so I decided to exploit my dubious asset, as a product of the Johannesburg of America, and consider myself an expert on white people. I placed the story of the civil rights movement firmly in the context of segregation--the “process” of white supremacy. It sounds obvious, since without those segregationists there would have been no need for a civil rights movement, but in most accounts the “white” story is automatic, the given. A number of black readers told me they were stunned to learn how hard the white folks had to work to keep African-Americans down. The impression had been that segregation kind of just “happened.”
But to your question, I wasn’t really aware of any line to be crossed and basically strived for intellectual honesty, trying not to shy away from harshness if that’s what the truth demanded. One thing I found was that in dealing with subject matter this disturbing, by which I mean the racist violence, the writer feels an urge to editorialize about how awful it is. But you have to ignore that impulse—whatever disapproval you telegraph is inadequate to the deed in question. (I’m thinking here of the scene in Carry Me Home that describes some Klansmen ritually castrating a black man they had abducted from the side of the road.)
SoR: Your writing combines the truth of all nonfiction with the attention to the aesthetics and symbolism of literature. For instance, in the beginning of your book, Carry Me Home, instead of opening with any number of the numerous gripping scenes from the Civil Rights Movement, you chose to focus on the symbol of the Vulcan statue in Birmingham, Alabama. How much creative license do you take in writing nonfiction and what is the process you have for weaving in literary aspects of literature such as metaphor, symbolism, and vibrant detail? (In other words, what do you consciously do to keep your nonfiction from being boring?)
McWhorter: Gosh, Dylan, stop asking me such mean, tough questions! About Vulcan, you are obviously not from Birmingham because any native would understand that there could be no other way to start a book about the Magic City. We locals are obsessed with him. And the fact that Vulcan, the god, was a crippled immortal (who also created Pandora) seemed too good a metaphor to pass up. I don’t know if you would call this creative license, but there’s a passage in the book about how Vulcan’s sculptor, Giuseppe Moretti, had made a marble head of Christ as a companion piece to his pagan statue, but that when Vulcan was moved to his ultimate perch atop Red Mountain in the 1930s, “there was no room on the hilltop for Jesus.” Now that was a reference to “no room at the inn,” and simply a cute way of saying that the sculptor’s (reputed) wishes that the two pieces remain together had not been honored. But sometime after the book came out, a local elected official took literally what was essentially a throwaway line and decided that the shunning of Jesus had marked Birmingham for all its subsequent trials. So I guess that’s an example of creative license causing a bit of trouble. But thank you for appreciating the details. I worked hard to come up with just the right tidbit—like the toupee worn by Henry Wallace’s vice-presidential running mate in 1948—to lend some visual interest to the history.
SoR: What makes you choose to write about not only the Civil Rights Movement, of which you grew up in the heart of, but also matters of social injustice?
McWhorter: Well, actually I grew up in the heart of the segregationist resistance, which may answer your question! As a result I am keenly aware of the tricks human beings play to convince themselves that their worst instincts are their best, which is usually how the unjust are able to live with themselves. And since that’s universal, not just southern, the potential subject matter is endless.
SoR: Some writers, such as Harper Lee, choose fiction as their medium which allows them, in some opinions, more flexibility. What makes you write from a nonfiction perspective?
McWhorter: If I could have written fiction I would have. And if I could have written Carry Me Home differently, God knows I would have! I think your medium chooses you rather than vice versa.
SoR: What can be the hardest part for a writer to write a nonfiction story and what advice would you have for overcoming such an obstacle? Likewise, what is most rewarding for you writing in this style?
McWhorter: The thing you have to disabuse yourself of is that there’s some story out there waiting intact to be discovered, and all you have to do is open yourself up to it and it tells itself. I felt more like a sculptor who, in order to produce some comprehensible and interesting shape, first has to also create the huge slab of matter from which it is carved. I wish I could offer some advice about how to avoid doing that—but I’m going through that process again with my current book project. I guess the difference now is that I have more faith in the outcome.
The most rewarding thing is what I think of as breaking the code. When you’re about a third of the way into the project, everything starts to connect, and you begin to see the relationship among the various moving parts. There’s an apt line from one of my favorite novels, The Moviegoer by Walker Percy (a fellow Birminghamian): “As you get deeper into the search, you unify. You understand more and more specimens by fewer and fewer formulae. There is the excitement.”
SoR: If there was one thing you could teach yourself before you wrote Carry Me Home; some piece of advice to a younger you before getting fully involved in such an ambitious project, what would it be?
McWhorter: Probably, rationally, I would have said, Don’t do it! But I’m glad I wasn’t there to tell that to my younger self. And she wouldn’t have listened anyway. Stubborn!
I remember at my college in New England there was a very blond woman from Maine named Sally who was a black studies major, and that struck me as so odd. I thought of Sally longingly a decade later as I was beginning to master the subject—why couldn’t a blond woman from Alabama have had the imagination back then to choose that major! It would have knocked years off the project.
SoR: There are many people in the world today who feel the consequences of not only race, in its many forms, but prejudices of all kinds. Each has a story to tell: the victims, the perpetrator, and the bystander; each with their own unique perspective. If one of them wished to tell their story, what advice would you have for them?
McWhorter: I would tell them to read George Orwell’s essay “Shooting an Elephant” to see how to place oneself in the story in a way that is not self-justifying or unintentionally naive—but rather is knowing and honest about one’s own role within the system.
SoR: How did you plan to write Carry Me Home before you ever set a pen to paper?
McWhorter: I had intended it for it to be more of a “return of the native” memoir, ballasted by my interviews with the principals in the civil rights story. But the personal story ended up being dwarfed by the historical narrative. (The difficulty journalists have writing about themselves is something of a cliché in the business! Q.E.D.)
SoR: Did you discover something you never expected during the writing of Carry Me Home and if so, how did that affect your writing?
McWhorter: A friend of mine says good writing is that which is “processed through the unconscious.” Which takes a lot of sifting and repetition. Often, the first time you encounter material you don’t, can’t, understand it, and then you’ll learn something a year later that orders a whole raft of baffling facts. (For example, expanding on my answer to question 4, the “progressives” sometimes assume disguises as cunning as those of the reactionaries— the Ku Klux Klan of the 1920s was the liberal-populist insurgent wing of the Democratic Party. That took me a while to fathom, but it explains why the great liberal Supreme Court Justice, Hugo Black of Alabama, was a political product of the Klan.) So if there’s one lesson that being a writer has taught me it is how to live with ambiguity.
SoR: What is the revision process like for you?
McWhorter: I hate, hate, composing, but semi-enjoy rewriting. At least it makes one feel like an artisan instead of a bricklayer. That being said, revising CMH was extremely frustrating. The original manuscript came in 3,400 pages, and I ended up having to go back to the drawing board any number of times to figure out a way to reduce it by two thirds without wringing all the life out of it. In other words, I couldn’t tell if something was going to work until I tried it—and often it didn’t. That was where I wasted a lot of time and effort, though I’m not sure there’s any way around it. Alas and ironically, the hardest part to get right in nonfiction is the thing which, if it’s working, the reader doesn’t even notice: the structure. I had many false starts before I landed on a narrative strategy that just disappeared.
SoR: Since publishing Carry Me Home have there been times when you wished you could go back and edit something? If so, what?
McWhorter: Constantly. Every time I pick it up. I’m a self-flagellating perfectionist. I notice the sentences that have pronouns referring to two different people, which I think is a no-no. Those I keep mentally fixing. I made a couple horticultural errors—crepe myrtle was blooming in the spring (I was confusing it with redbud), but that got corrected for the paperback. A more substantive regret is about not devoting more description to the actual explosion at the Sixteenth Street Baptist Church, since the whole book has been building toward that lethal bombing. Time needed to stand still a little longer in the narrative there. Physical description is something I have to force myself to do anyway, and in this case there was an urge to avert the eyes.
SoR: With racial issues still a threat to American society, as the recent, unfortunate incident between Harvard Professor Henry Louis Gates Jr. and Sgt. James Crowley of the Cambridge Police so emotionally pointed out, how do you see current and future racial issues affecting America as well as your writing?
McWhorter: I’m finding it ironic that the public discourse on race has never been shallower as (according to that discourse) we approach the racial millennium—first black president, and all. Or maybe the ever-shortening news cycle just keeps the shallowness constantly in our face, on a loop. The Gates-Crowley incident was in so many rich ways the perfect national-soul-searching opportunity, and we even saw a flash of the President as a black man rather than a post-racial icon. But instead the story quickly converted into another opportunity for Obama to show how skilled he is at defusing flammable racial episodes—which, in fact, ends up taking legitimate topics off the table. Not that I would expect him, in his position, to be provocative. But the “commentariat” is not similarly constrained, indeed actually needs to come up with fresh material, and predictably the narrative settled on whether it was politically “good for Obama”—thank God for the occasionally amusing beer leitmotif. I can feel I’m about to get wound up now, thinking about a more recent contretemps—over Jimmy Carter’s comment that the race was behind a lot of the anti-health-care rage. So rather than revisit that, let me pivot into the inspiring aspect of having race at the nagging heart of our national narrative.
I lived abroad for several months a couple of years ago, and there’s nothing like being out of the country to make one realize what an incredible experiment is this democracy of ours. I found it almost poignant how much Europeans looked to America as a moral example (and how sorrowfully disappointed, rather than angry, they were about the Bush presidency). What I’ve realized is that race is what forces America to be painfully honest with itself; it keeps driving us to fulfill our founding pledge to create a “more perfect” society. If our country had not been born with this tragic flaw of slavery, then the “process” of democracy would be much more obscure and in a sense easier to game (though race is itself used to camouflage the class inequities at the basis of so much of social misery). I say tragic flaw—as opposed to a fatal flaw—because tragedy recognizes that the qualities that lead to the subject’s epic failure are the very same as those that produce its greatness. What America has so consistently been able to do is to keep the positive and negative in some kind of dialectic, so that the country tends to pull back from the brink of downfall and then take a tentative leap forward. Race has been the charge behind these spasms of progress, from the Civil War, to the civil rights movement, and now, one might argue, with the election of Obama. Not only does our own society advance, but we provide an example for aspirations of freedom and justice around the globe.
SoR: Lastly, is there anything you would like to add for either clarity purposes or for the benefit of having a chance to speak your mind freely about your writing?
McWhorter: Well, Dylan, I’d like to thank you for engaging me in this conversation. Sometimes we long-distance writers feel lost in the quick-hit culture of cyberspace, where it is increasingly difficult to discern the formulae in all the specimens. So the very fact that you are embarking on this literary venture gives me some hope about the future of the written if not necessarily printed word, and the exciting enterprise of the search. I wish Splash of Red a long and happy life.
How The Creative Mind Works: An Experiment
November 18, 2009
Below are the results of a controlled experiment SoR conducted in an attempt to see how the creative mind works between the visual artist and the literary artist. Our visual artist, Joey Parlett, created an image for our poet, Anthony Alessandrini, to inspire a poem and our poet wrote a poem to inspire a piece of artwork. So as you can see below, we have for our readers the results of art inspired by poetry and poetry inspired by art. We hope you enjoy.
Poem That Inspired Art
Shadow and Sun
She danced from the darkness
onto the stairs. Shadow and sun
were all the same to her
but to us watching the effect
startled. Light and dark were
all the same to her. To hear
your own tongue in a strange land
is strange. I drink more here
than a stranger should.
There are too many stairs
to fall from. Now he nurses
his beer and remembers the photo
a place he’d never been and never
would be
and then her dancing
there between light and dark
coming down towards us.
At
the very bottom of the stairs rain
began to fall where I sit now
too far away for it to matter.
Art That Inspired PoemControl Room
From my mother’s womb
I fell into this Space.
Who sent me here?
Control: it’s me. Over.
Can you still hear me?
The clock dials float
meaningless past my eyes
I can’t remember time
anymore I remember
a home a candle burning
on a table someone kissing me
hello someone waiting
for my return some warm
feeling now I feel cold
my wet fur is all frozen
I hunch towards my body
but it’s gone I can’t recall now
I see them again but they may
have been kissing me goodbye.
The Brief Wondrous Life Of Junot Diaz...So Far
November 30, 2009
Junot Díaz was born in Santo Domingo, Dominican Republic and is the author of Drown and The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao which won the John Sargent Sr. First Novel Prize, the National Book Critics Circle Award, the Anisfield-Wolf Book Award, the Dayton Literary Peace Prize and the 2008 Pulitzer Prize. His fiction has appeared in The New Yorker, African Voices, Best American Short Stories (1996, 1997, 1999, 2000), in Pushcart Prize XXII and in The O'Henry Prize Stories 2009.
He has received a Eugene McDermott Award, a fellowship from the John Simon Guggenheim Memorial Foundation, a Lila Acheson Wallace Readers Digest Award, the 2002 Pen/Malamud Award, the 2003 US-Japan Creative Artist Fellowship from the National Endowment for the Arts, a fellowship at the Radcliffe Institute for Advanced Study at Harvard University and the Rome Prize from the American Academy of Arts and Letters. He is the fiction editor at the Boston Review and the Rudge (1948) and Nancy Allen professor at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology.
SoR: What is your writing process like from the development of an idea to putting it on paper?
Diaz: That's quite a large question. It all depends on the project. Sometimes I need to write in a disciplined organized manner. Write every morning, four five hours, sort of like a job. Other projects require me to turn things over in my heads for months at a time, followed by a concentrated burst of writing over a couple of weeks. As for editing I throw away until something good remains. Which means I throw away at least 95% of what I write, often more.
SoR: You were quite the reader when you were young, I hear. What inspired you to read so much and what determined the selections?
Diaz: No idea. I have sense theories but none of them can be proved. Reading was a form of consolation for a Dominican immigrant kid, a way to approach language in the quiet of my own head without people ridiculing me. Reading was something that spoke to a deep part of me. I read and continue to read widely. Spend a lot of time in bookstores and libraries browsing and that's how my books come to me. Through old fashion rummaging.
SoR: How does it feel going from living near “one of the largest landfills in New Jersey,” as you once put it, to winning a Pulitzer Prize in Fiction?
Diaz: Hard to say. My youth, all those hardships, they're still with me. They never go away. But now they have company. It's nicer now that there are more things in my head than just the hard times.
SoR: Explain for us, if you will, the importance of keeping in touch with your roots, as you have certainly remained heavily involved in the Dominican community.
Diaz: I can't imagine life without my 'roots.' Without Santo Domingo, without New Jersey, I simply would not exist and it means everything to me to keep them close to my heart, to spend as much time in communion with these places.
SoR: How do you handle the inevitable criticism of your work?
Diaz: You try to get better. If it's good you listen. If it's just hateration you keep working.
SoR: How much of your work is really based on your real life experiences and how do you make the decisions of when to weave in fiction and where to weave in your past?
Diaz: My first book DROWN was mainly autobiographical. OSCAR WAO was entirely fiction. I don't think I'll be writing anything from my life again so I won't have to make those decisions any more. But in the past it was the story, more than anything, that guided which side of the fence it wanted to be on.
SoR: THE BRIEF WONDROUS LIFE OF OSCAR WAO deals a lot with the The Trujillo Era. However, Rafael Trujillo was assassinated in 1961 and you were born just a hair shy of 1969. What impact did this period have on you and make you want to place your novel in that span of time?
Diaz: Historical traumas know no expiration date. The Trujillato deformed the Dominican nation and continues to deform it. I grew up in that shadow and wanted to wrestle with it.
SoR: Though much of your work delves into the non-fiction of your own life, what makes you choose fiction as your genre of choice?
Diaz: Hard to say why we like chocolate over say mint strawberry. It's just the way it is. In fiction I come closer to the truth than I do in non-fiction. Fiction is about play, non-fiction about fidelity.
SoR: What, if anything did you want your readers to learn from reading THE BRIEF WONDROUS LIFE?
Diaz: It's a novel. Novels are not about messages or lessons; they’re about an experience, a human experience. I want my readers to encounter other humans in these pages and in that process encounter themselves.
SoR: Why the use of footnotes rather than incorporating into the body of the novel?
Diaz: That has to do with the novel's exploration of storytelling, authority and dictatorship. As literary device footnotes reinforce erudition and authority but in this novel they're after far more interesting game. I wish I could say more but that would take away from the reader's experience. Let's just say it wouldn't have cost me anything to put all that info in the body of the novel proper.
SoR: What were you hoping to convey by using “Spanglish” in the writing of THE BRIEF AND WONDEROUS LIFE?
Diaz: Well, the realities of these characters require English, Spanish, urban English, nerdish and a couple other idioms, without which these lives would feel to me inauthentic. We do not live on a monolingual world and neither do my characters.
SoR: When can we expect the next book?
Diaz: God knows!
Interview: Arthur Nersesian
December 8, 2009
Arthur Nersesian is a real New York writer. His novels
are a celebration of marginal characters living in the East Village and
trying to survive. Nersesian's books include The Fuck-Up, The East
Village Tetralogy, and now just published by a small press based in New
York, Manhattan Loverboy. Nersesian has been a fixture in the writing
scene for many years. He was an editor for The Portable Lower East Side,
which was an important magazine during the 1980s and early 90s. When
The Fuck-Up came out in 1997, MTV Books picked it up and reprinted it in
a new edition for hipsters everywhere. Soon Nersesian was no longer
known only to a cabal of young bohemians on Avenue A. His work has been
championed by The Village Voice and Time Out.
SoR: You were born and raised in New York City, the city with a million faces, so what inspired the New York you see that is reflected in your stories with such loving detail?
Nersesian: After a lifetime in New York, the city can be an endless source of inspiration. But it’s important not to sentimentalize it. It’s like some massive bull that seems both powerful and energizing, but is constantly charging forward. It can just as easily knock you down and run over you.
SoR: What inspired you to write The Five Books of Moses and can you explain the concept behind them?
Nersesian: I grew up in New York in the ‘60s and ‘70s and watched as its citizens left and the city spiraled into economic decline. By the ‘80s, although the trend started to reverse itself, it was still fresh in my head. By the ‘90s, I wrote a trilogy that became the fetus for this book. Those first three books were somewhat didactic and cold. The few people I showed it to found it frustrating, so I never submitted it.
SoR: What is your writing and editing process like?
Nersesian: Though I don’t have a stopwatch-writing schedule, I do write everyday. As I move through various drafts, the work grows steadily more polished and closer to completion.
SoR: You’ve written plays, poetry, and novels. What is the attraction to writing, in all of it’s forms, that has such as hold on you?
Nersesian: In such a chaotic world, it’s the one thing that can be moderately controlled, steered might be a better word. Even back in the ‘70s and ‘80s, before I was ever published I wrote a lot. The publishing aspect came late for me, but when it did, I already had a very established writing routine.
SoR: Tell us a bit about The Portable Lower East Side and some of the high points and low points of your editorship there.
Nersesian: Kurt Hollander was the force behind the journal. It endeavored to be a cultural journal of the city in all its permutations from the mid-80s through the mid-90s. Inasmuch as it largely dealt with themes (sex, drugs, music...) or cultures (Asian, Queer, African American...) it tried to present a balanced perspective. Both our low and high point came when it was attacked on the floor by the U.S. Senate. As I recall a poem by the writer Sapphire, (who’s book, Push, was recently made into the film Precious) was singled out as being an example of why the National Endowment of the Arts should be ended. We had received a NEA grant allowing us to published the work.
SoR: Your artwork seems to be very colorful and filled with interesting perspectives. What is the inspiration there?
Nersesian: A few years back, I wrote three books about three artists, dogrun about a writer, Unlubricated about an actor/producer, and Chinese Takeout, about a painter. As a writer, it was easy to address the character’s struggle in the first book. As a playwright/producer, (four of my plays had been performed Off-Broadway) I had some insight into that world. The only art form I had ever tried before was painting. Trying to get some clue of that discipline, while writing Chinese Takeout, I tried my hand at it.
SoR: You paid homage to Allen Ginsberg in The Swing Voter of Staten Island. Are there any writers you would like to recommend to readers today that inspired you?
Nersesian: It wasn't so much homage that compelled me to put Ginsberg into Swing Voter. One of the things I liked about Allen was the fact that you'd always see him in the area. I don't think a week went by when I wouldn't see him. And he was always accessible – I liked that about him. The first writer who honestly compelled to consider writing as a profession was William Faulkner. I was about seventeen years old at the time. Frankly though I can't really read him anymore. And since reading him, I've gone through so many others the world over. It's hard to pick anyone writer and pull them out. It's like going on a journey, and by the end of it you are different person so it's hard to remember what you were thinking at the beginning of it. Additionally, everyone has their own taste, I would advise people to go into a bookstore – and I know this is going to sound rather naive – but instead of holding a list of recommended books, bring a sense of discovery and some time to kill. Don't look at the bestseller list that might be the product of a successful publicity campaign, or the colorful artwork that is done by the art department, or the superlative blurbs, which might be the result of writers who had a good time at a colony together, or the enticing jacket copy that were probably written by editorial assistants. Flip through the book itself. Read some of the pages. Consider the writer's style. Are you connecting with the language? Are there words you would never use, and perhaps pretentious, or are they ornate and fascinating? How do you feel about that? Is the story going anywhere? Does the author have a wonderful gift with words but s/he's just rambling? Ultimately, it's up to each reader to determine what they like and don't like. Instead of just reading what others are reading, find your own personal authors who speak distinctly to you. There are some great writers who I find mind-numbingly boring, and a lot of wonderful writers who unfairly vanish into the vapor. Most people put more effort into deciding what they're going to have for breakfast than what book they're going to spend the next few weeks reading.
SoR: Do you relate to any characters in your books such as Uli Sarkisian or the writer in The F**k-Up and if so, in what ways?
Nersesian: I relate to all my central characters while I am writing a book. That is to say, though the circumstance and even gender is different from book to book, I try to bring the same intelligence, humility and even frailties.
SoR: What can we expect from you in the near future?
Nersesian: In addition to my new book, Mesopotamia, I still have three books to write to finish The Five Books of Moses.
SoR: Is there any advice you would like to give a budding writer?
Nersesian: I remember the playwright Edward Albee saying the first thing he would attempt to convince his students was not to be a playwright. I wouldn't try to discourage anyone from writing, but I'd probably advise writers to find another source of income. Aside from that the best advice I ever got is the more you read, the more you write, the better you'll get.
SoR: I heard that you can often be found at a particular Starbucks in NYC. Doesn’t this seem odd for someone commonly regarded as an underground writer?
Nersesian: I almost never buy anything at the Starbucks, but that's mainly because I can't afford it. I never asked or applied for a job as an “underground” writer. In fact I'm not entirely sure what it is. Hell, I wish I was as rich and popular as J.K. Rowling. If I could write Harry Potter or any commercially successful book, I probably would. If I'm not a sell-out, it's not from lack of wanting to be.
SoR: If you could be the Swing Voter on a particular contemporary issue, which issue would you choose and which direction would you lean?
Nersesian: It's not really a controversial decision, but as an Armenian-American, it would be nice if the U.S. government finally acknowledged that the Armenian genocide had occurred. They wouldn't have to word it in demeaning language, or add any recriminations, or penalties, let alone ask for restitution. I don't blame contemporary Turkey for the crimes that a different government perpetrated nearly a hundred years earlier any more than I blame Obama for the mistreatment of American Indians, or Chancellor Merkel for Nazi atrocities. At least though, all those other actions were publicly acknowledged allowing the descendants of all the victims to move forward and not become victims by denial. To date, our country has not joined the twenty other countries who have publicly acknowledged this.
SoR: What does Arthur Nersesian like to do in his spare time when he isn’t writing?
Nersesian: I actually try to balance the physical with the mental. I used to just take epic walks around the five boroughs of New York, but they were fairly time consuming. Nowadays, I do an unwieldy yoga practice (imagine a hard shell crab), or I do an agonized jog that resembles the galloping of an arthritic horse.
SoR: Ernest Hemingway was once asked to write a six-word story and he wrote “For sale: baby shoes, never worn.” If you would like, could you write for us a six-word story for us?
Nersesian: (Assuming an ampersand is counted as a symbol instead of a word.) All work & no play, makes Arthur...
SoR: You were born and raised in New York City, the city with a million faces, so what inspired the New York you see that is reflected in your stories with such loving detail?
Nersesian: After a lifetime in New York, the city can be an endless source of inspiration. But it’s important not to sentimentalize it. It’s like some massive bull that seems both powerful and energizing, but is constantly charging forward. It can just as easily knock you down and run over you.
SoR: What inspired you to write The Five Books of Moses and can you explain the concept behind them?
Nersesian: I grew up in New York in the ‘60s and ‘70s and watched as its citizens left and the city spiraled into economic decline. By the ‘80s, although the trend started to reverse itself, it was still fresh in my head. By the ‘90s, I wrote a trilogy that became the fetus for this book. Those first three books were somewhat didactic and cold. The few people I showed it to found it frustrating, so I never submitted it.
SoR: What is your writing and editing process like?
Nersesian: Though I don’t have a stopwatch-writing schedule, I do write everyday. As I move through various drafts, the work grows steadily more polished and closer to completion.
SoR: You’ve written plays, poetry, and novels. What is the attraction to writing, in all of it’s forms, that has such as hold on you?
Nersesian: In such a chaotic world, it’s the one thing that can be moderately controlled, steered might be a better word. Even back in the ‘70s and ‘80s, before I was ever published I wrote a lot. The publishing aspect came late for me, but when it did, I already had a very established writing routine.
SoR: Tell us a bit about The Portable Lower East Side and some of the high points and low points of your editorship there.
Nersesian: Kurt Hollander was the force behind the journal. It endeavored to be a cultural journal of the city in all its permutations from the mid-80s through the mid-90s. Inasmuch as it largely dealt with themes (sex, drugs, music...) or cultures (Asian, Queer, African American...) it tried to present a balanced perspective. Both our low and high point came when it was attacked on the floor by the U.S. Senate. As I recall a poem by the writer Sapphire, (who’s book, Push, was recently made into the film Precious) was singled out as being an example of why the National Endowment of the Arts should be ended. We had received a NEA grant allowing us to published the work.
SoR: Your artwork seems to be very colorful and filled with interesting perspectives. What is the inspiration there?
Nersesian: A few years back, I wrote three books about three artists, dogrun about a writer, Unlubricated about an actor/producer, and Chinese Takeout, about a painter. As a writer, it was easy to address the character’s struggle in the first book. As a playwright/producer, (four of my plays had been performed Off-Broadway) I had some insight into that world. The only art form I had ever tried before was painting. Trying to get some clue of that discipline, while writing Chinese Takeout, I tried my hand at it.
SoR: You paid homage to Allen Ginsberg in The Swing Voter of Staten Island. Are there any writers you would like to recommend to readers today that inspired you?
Nersesian: It wasn't so much homage that compelled me to put Ginsberg into Swing Voter. One of the things I liked about Allen was the fact that you'd always see him in the area. I don't think a week went by when I wouldn't see him. And he was always accessible – I liked that about him. The first writer who honestly compelled to consider writing as a profession was William Faulkner. I was about seventeen years old at the time. Frankly though I can't really read him anymore. And since reading him, I've gone through so many others the world over. It's hard to pick anyone writer and pull them out. It's like going on a journey, and by the end of it you are different person so it's hard to remember what you were thinking at the beginning of it. Additionally, everyone has their own taste, I would advise people to go into a bookstore – and I know this is going to sound rather naive – but instead of holding a list of recommended books, bring a sense of discovery and some time to kill. Don't look at the bestseller list that might be the product of a successful publicity campaign, or the colorful artwork that is done by the art department, or the superlative blurbs, which might be the result of writers who had a good time at a colony together, or the enticing jacket copy that were probably written by editorial assistants. Flip through the book itself. Read some of the pages. Consider the writer's style. Are you connecting with the language? Are there words you would never use, and perhaps pretentious, or are they ornate and fascinating? How do you feel about that? Is the story going anywhere? Does the author have a wonderful gift with words but s/he's just rambling? Ultimately, it's up to each reader to determine what they like and don't like. Instead of just reading what others are reading, find your own personal authors who speak distinctly to you. There are some great writers who I find mind-numbingly boring, and a lot of wonderful writers who unfairly vanish into the vapor. Most people put more effort into deciding what they're going to have for breakfast than what book they're going to spend the next few weeks reading.
SoR: Do you relate to any characters in your books such as Uli Sarkisian or the writer in The F**k-Up and if so, in what ways?
Nersesian: I relate to all my central characters while I am writing a book. That is to say, though the circumstance and even gender is different from book to book, I try to bring the same intelligence, humility and even frailties.
SoR: What can we expect from you in the near future?
Nersesian: In addition to my new book, Mesopotamia, I still have three books to write to finish The Five Books of Moses.
SoR: Is there any advice you would like to give a budding writer?
Nersesian: I remember the playwright Edward Albee saying the first thing he would attempt to convince his students was not to be a playwright. I wouldn't try to discourage anyone from writing, but I'd probably advise writers to find another source of income. Aside from that the best advice I ever got is the more you read, the more you write, the better you'll get.
SoR: I heard that you can often be found at a particular Starbucks in NYC. Doesn’t this seem odd for someone commonly regarded as an underground writer?
Nersesian: I almost never buy anything at the Starbucks, but that's mainly because I can't afford it. I never asked or applied for a job as an “underground” writer. In fact I'm not entirely sure what it is. Hell, I wish I was as rich and popular as J.K. Rowling. If I could write Harry Potter or any commercially successful book, I probably would. If I'm not a sell-out, it's not from lack of wanting to be.
SoR: If you could be the Swing Voter on a particular contemporary issue, which issue would you choose and which direction would you lean?
Nersesian: It's not really a controversial decision, but as an Armenian-American, it would be nice if the U.S. government finally acknowledged that the Armenian genocide had occurred. They wouldn't have to word it in demeaning language, or add any recriminations, or penalties, let alone ask for restitution. I don't blame contemporary Turkey for the crimes that a different government perpetrated nearly a hundred years earlier any more than I blame Obama for the mistreatment of American Indians, or Chancellor Merkel for Nazi atrocities. At least though, all those other actions were publicly acknowledged allowing the descendants of all the victims to move forward and not become victims by denial. To date, our country has not joined the twenty other countries who have publicly acknowledged this.
SoR: What does Arthur Nersesian like to do in his spare time when he isn’t writing?
Nersesian: I actually try to balance the physical with the mental. I used to just take epic walks around the five boroughs of New York, but they were fairly time consuming. Nowadays, I do an unwieldy yoga practice (imagine a hard shell crab), or I do an agonized jog that resembles the galloping of an arthritic horse.
SoR: Ernest Hemingway was once asked to write a six-word story and he wrote “For sale: baby shoes, never worn.” If you would like, could you write for us a six-word story for us?
Nersesian: (Assuming an ampersand is counted as a symbol instead of a word.) All work & no play, makes Arthur...
Interview: Philip Connors
December 25, 2009
Philip Connors is the editor of the New West Reader:
Essays on an Ever-Evolving Frontier (Nation Books). For the past eight
summers he's been a fire lookout in the Aldo Leopold Wilderness of
southern New Mexico. His "Diary of a Fire Lookout" was published in the
Paris Review, and reprinted in Best American Nonrequired Reading 2009
(ed., Dave Eggers). His work has also appeared in Harper's, n+1, Salon,
the Nation, the Dublin Review, the London Review of Books, and the
anthology State by State (Ecco). His first book will be published by
Ecco in 2011.
Breaking Down the Genre Wall
SoR: What is your writing process like?
Connors: Something about the word process troubles me, perhaps because I grew up with Velveeta. For me it's less a process than a way of being in the world. But as to logistics: since 2002 I've written mostly on an Olivetti typewriter during my summers without electricity. The friend who gave it to me picked it up in Tuscaloosa, Alabama. He heard Barry Hannah owned it once. I like to think that's true. I also keep notebooks longhand which I later type up. This winter I'm renting an office above a bar in a little town in southern New Mexico, so I go to work every day and write till lunch, then return for two more hours in the afternoon, after which I walk my dog, clear my head, and plan for the next day. I mostly stay out of the bar.
SoR: What is your editing process like?
Connors: I usually work through about two to three dozen drafts of an essay. I mark it up on paper, I read it aloud. I send the work to friends. I revise some more. A year or two later it's ready for the world. Editors I trust, such as Brendan Barrington, Matt Weiland, and Keith Gessen then sometimes even publish it after first making it better.
SoR: Gary Snyder was a fire lookout and poet. What made you choose a prose perspective for your time on the mountain?
Connors: Prose chose me. I have no talent for poetry nor any inclination. It seems to me most lookouts have written prose anyway—most famously fiction by Jack Kerouac but also Norman Maclean, and essays by Edward Abbey & Doug Peacock among others. I keep a diary, which more than anything is a form of collage, a mish-mash of forms: paean, eulogy, lament, description, rumination, lists, quotes from other writers, nightmares and daydreams. It all goes into the hopper. I write what I care to every day and find the patterns later.
SoR: Can you describe your ideal writing environment for us?
Connors: Each summer I spend the better part of every day in a glass-walled tower 55 feet high, on a mountain above 10,000 feet, overlooking parts of three Western states and northern Mexico. It's a form of housesitting for the government with rustic amenities but a tremendous view. Weeks might pass without sight of smoke—the reason for the season—and when it's quiet, as it mostly is, I sometimes write. It's pretty ideal at thirteen bucks an hour.
SoR: You must have been searching for something other than smoke to have stayed at it all these years. What was it?
Connors: The ecstasies and agonies of solitude, I suppose. A close encounter with wildness. And a place and time in which to properly mourn my brother's death. He committed suicide, so I needed more than the average amount of time alone to sort through my feelings about it. I came for the quiet but I stayed for the proximity of the bears and and the guarantee of smoke. I keep watch over the most fire-prone landscape in the United States, with something like 30,000 lightning strikes a year on average. The ancient marriage of fuel and spark on wild land is a drama of which I never tire.
SoR: Do you have rituals that help you stave off your own Jack Torrance moment?
Connors: I cook. I listen to baseball games on the radio. I play frisbee golf in the meadow on my mountain. I take long walks with my dog in the evenings. Sometimes, when we're ambitious and the moon is full, we hike seven miles to a little trout stream and fish and spend the night. As long as I'm back to call in morning weather on the radio, no one knows I was gone. But most of all I watch mountains. Aldo Leopold used the phrase "think like a mountain." If I can mountain sit for a couple more years, maybe I'll finally learn to think like a mountain.
SoR: Was there a day in your "Diary of a Fire Lookout" that was meaningful but difficult to include in the published version, and if so what and why?
Connors: I wrote about a couple of visits from friends and my wife because, believe it or not, I do have friends and a wife willing to drive 40 miles and hike another six uphill to join me for a couple of days at the lookout. But I had so much material and sixty percent of it had to be cut to make it fit for a magazine, so my editor, Matt Weiland at the Paris Review, suggested we begin by cutting all mention of other people. It was a way of enhancing the feeling of romantic solitude that permeates the piece, I suppose, but those visits are moments I cherish a great deal.
SoR: Some people believe that a writer always writes for someone, either consciously or subconsciously, a sort of one-person audience. Is this true with you and if so, for whom do you write?
Connors: I write for myself because it's my way of thinking in the world. Now and then I craft some small part of the whole into something someone will pay me for, when the balance in my bank account looks particularly grim. But I don't think much about an audience.
SoR: If given all the time and resources you needed, what would you work on right now?
Connors: Just what I am working on: a book about being a fire lookout. I signed on with Ecco to publish a book in 2011, so that's the project in front of me, and there's nothing I'd rather be doing.
SoR: What can we expect from Philip Connors in the future?
Connors: A book on fire lookoutry. Beyond that, I don't even know what to expect, so I'd have a hard time telling you. Expect nothing and you'll be surprised—that's been my motto for a long time, in fire watching and in writing.
Connors: Something about the word process troubles me, perhaps because I grew up with Velveeta. For me it's less a process than a way of being in the world. But as to logistics: since 2002 I've written mostly on an Olivetti typewriter during my summers without electricity. The friend who gave it to me picked it up in Tuscaloosa, Alabama. He heard Barry Hannah owned it once. I like to think that's true. I also keep notebooks longhand which I later type up. This winter I'm renting an office above a bar in a little town in southern New Mexico, so I go to work every day and write till lunch, then return for two more hours in the afternoon, after which I walk my dog, clear my head, and plan for the next day. I mostly stay out of the bar.
SoR: What is your editing process like?
Connors: I usually work through about two to three dozen drafts of an essay. I mark it up on paper, I read it aloud. I send the work to friends. I revise some more. A year or two later it's ready for the world. Editors I trust, such as Brendan Barrington, Matt Weiland, and Keith Gessen then sometimes even publish it after first making it better.
SoR: Gary Snyder was a fire lookout and poet. What made you choose a prose perspective for your time on the mountain?
Connors: Prose chose me. I have no talent for poetry nor any inclination. It seems to me most lookouts have written prose anyway—most famously fiction by Jack Kerouac but also Norman Maclean, and essays by Edward Abbey & Doug Peacock among others. I keep a diary, which more than anything is a form of collage, a mish-mash of forms: paean, eulogy, lament, description, rumination, lists, quotes from other writers, nightmares and daydreams. It all goes into the hopper. I write what I care to every day and find the patterns later.
SoR: Can you describe your ideal writing environment for us?
Connors: Each summer I spend the better part of every day in a glass-walled tower 55 feet high, on a mountain above 10,000 feet, overlooking parts of three Western states and northern Mexico. It's a form of housesitting for the government with rustic amenities but a tremendous view. Weeks might pass without sight of smoke—the reason for the season—and when it's quiet, as it mostly is, I sometimes write. It's pretty ideal at thirteen bucks an hour.
SoR: You must have been searching for something other than smoke to have stayed at it all these years. What was it?
Connors: The ecstasies and agonies of solitude, I suppose. A close encounter with wildness. And a place and time in which to properly mourn my brother's death. He committed suicide, so I needed more than the average amount of time alone to sort through my feelings about it. I came for the quiet but I stayed for the proximity of the bears and and the guarantee of smoke. I keep watch over the most fire-prone landscape in the United States, with something like 30,000 lightning strikes a year on average. The ancient marriage of fuel and spark on wild land is a drama of which I never tire.
SoR: Do you have rituals that help you stave off your own Jack Torrance moment?
Connors: I cook. I listen to baseball games on the radio. I play frisbee golf in the meadow on my mountain. I take long walks with my dog in the evenings. Sometimes, when we're ambitious and the moon is full, we hike seven miles to a little trout stream and fish and spend the night. As long as I'm back to call in morning weather on the radio, no one knows I was gone. But most of all I watch mountains. Aldo Leopold used the phrase "think like a mountain." If I can mountain sit for a couple more years, maybe I'll finally learn to think like a mountain.
SoR: Was there a day in your "Diary of a Fire Lookout" that was meaningful but difficult to include in the published version, and if so what and why?
Connors: I wrote about a couple of visits from friends and my wife because, believe it or not, I do have friends and a wife willing to drive 40 miles and hike another six uphill to join me for a couple of days at the lookout. But I had so much material and sixty percent of it had to be cut to make it fit for a magazine, so my editor, Matt Weiland at the Paris Review, suggested we begin by cutting all mention of other people. It was a way of enhancing the feeling of romantic solitude that permeates the piece, I suppose, but those visits are moments I cherish a great deal.
SoR: Some people believe that a writer always writes for someone, either consciously or subconsciously, a sort of one-person audience. Is this true with you and if so, for whom do you write?
Connors: I write for myself because it's my way of thinking in the world. Now and then I craft some small part of the whole into something someone will pay me for, when the balance in my bank account looks particularly grim. But I don't think much about an audience.
SoR: If given all the time and resources you needed, what would you work on right now?
Connors: Just what I am working on: a book about being a fire lookout. I signed on with Ecco to publish a book in 2011, so that's the project in front of me, and there's nothing I'd rather be doing.
SoR: What can we expect from Philip Connors in the future?
Connors: A book on fire lookoutry. Beyond that, I don't even know what to expect, so I'd have a hard time telling you. Expect nothing and you'll be surprised—that's been my motto for a long time, in fire watching and in writing.
Book Review: Matthew Stokoe's "Empty Mile"
May 22, 2010
Reviewed & Written By: JT Langley
I have to say that the word “mystery” turns me off when I’m digging for a new read. Being the ignorant student of literature that I am, my mind immediately assumes the word “mystery” to entail any and everything having to do with Sherlock Holmes, Stephen King, and CSI. Every preview of Matthew Stokoe’s upcoming novel, Empty Mile, pinned the badge of mystery-noir to its cover, and, of course, made me uneasy. Now, I repent for my sin. Stokoe’s myriad of sinister puppeteers, pseudo-antagonists, and desperate human targets weave within a plot built to plunge nowhere-town America into a patch of true black-noir, leaving it anything but typical mystery.
When Johnny Richardson returns to his home in the rural mountain town of Oakridge, California, his motive is simple: confront his troubled past that sent him running eight years prior. Haunted by a tragic accident that left his younger brother, Stan, mentally challenged, Johnny finds himself searching for forgiveness in his desperation to piece together the seemingly stable life he thought was waiting for him.
However, as he reconnects with his lost love Marla, their careless lust leads town councilman Bill Prentice’s wife to suicide, thus unfolding a series of events aimed at tearing Johnny and those closest to him to pieces. With the mysterious disappearance of their father, Johnny and Stan find themselves the owners of a desolate stretch of land dubbed Empty Mile, and are left with little explanation for their father’s purchase of the forest meadow. Their search for stability is halted as they become the target of revenge, and Johnny tries his best to uncover the truth behind their suffering while clutching the life that is slowly slipping between his fingers.
Stokoe drives the story with a full-steam narrative that puts little brake to the high-speed mystery. In its highs, Empty Mile sprints at a pace that leaves your fingers twitching as you tickle the next page. Johnny and Marla share the perfect troubled love for a noir, and their struggle to maintain affection through distress consistently feeds the side-monsters working throughout the novel’s plot. Stokoe writes with a smooth clarity that allows the reader to speed along with the story’s momentum, and his detailed description of Oakridge make for a strong, active setting.
However, at times, the characters step out of their element as they seem to be momentarily blessed with flawless detective minds not seen prior. Though these moments of genius are rare, they also seemed blessed with blind stupidity in certain circumstances in order to allow the author to delay major plot turns and realizations. At times, Stokoe makes irresponsible use of convenience rather than realistic discovery to drive the plot in the direction he intends, and important factors of the rising action come to the characters too easily.
Perhaps his biggest flaw in the novel is Stan, Johnny’s mentally challenged brother. The gap between the extremities of Stan’s condition are too vast—at times, he is seen as a 22-year-old boy romping around in his superhero costumes playing dumb in Looney Tune fashion, and at others, acting perfectly normal and exhibiting portions of the intelligence he possessed before the accident. His dialogue and actions border the line of stereotype and insult, and take a great risk in offending readers tender to the subject.
Despite the negative, Empty Mile commits the reader to the story from the first chapter. Some turns are foreseen, others come from the blue. Ultimately, Stokoe forces readers to comply with the bends and turns of his devious plot, and awards them with an ending that promises not to disappoint. Sometimes it takes the last few pages for the story to knock you to the floor, and Empty Mile draws the rubber band to the snapping point before letting it recoil back into the reader’s face.
For further information on Empty Mile, visit www.akashicbooks.com.
May 22, 2010
Reviewed & Written By: JT Langley
I have to say that the word “mystery” turns me off when I’m digging for a new read. Being the ignorant student of literature that I am, my mind immediately assumes the word “mystery” to entail any and everything having to do with Sherlock Holmes, Stephen King, and CSI. Every preview of Matthew Stokoe’s upcoming novel, Empty Mile, pinned the badge of mystery-noir to its cover, and, of course, made me uneasy. Now, I repent for my sin. Stokoe’s myriad of sinister puppeteers, pseudo-antagonists, and desperate human targets weave within a plot built to plunge nowhere-town America into a patch of true black-noir, leaving it anything but typical mystery.
When Johnny Richardson returns to his home in the rural mountain town of Oakridge, California, his motive is simple: confront his troubled past that sent him running eight years prior. Haunted by a tragic accident that left his younger brother, Stan, mentally challenged, Johnny finds himself searching for forgiveness in his desperation to piece together the seemingly stable life he thought was waiting for him.
However, as he reconnects with his lost love Marla, their careless lust leads town councilman Bill Prentice’s wife to suicide, thus unfolding a series of events aimed at tearing Johnny and those closest to him to pieces. With the mysterious disappearance of their father, Johnny and Stan find themselves the owners of a desolate stretch of land dubbed Empty Mile, and are left with little explanation for their father’s purchase of the forest meadow. Their search for stability is halted as they become the target of revenge, and Johnny tries his best to uncover the truth behind their suffering while clutching the life that is slowly slipping between his fingers.
Stokoe drives the story with a full-steam narrative that puts little brake to the high-speed mystery. In its highs, Empty Mile sprints at a pace that leaves your fingers twitching as you tickle the next page. Johnny and Marla share the perfect troubled love for a noir, and their struggle to maintain affection through distress consistently feeds the side-monsters working throughout the novel’s plot. Stokoe writes with a smooth clarity that allows the reader to speed along with the story’s momentum, and his detailed description of Oakridge make for a strong, active setting.
However, at times, the characters step out of their element as they seem to be momentarily blessed with flawless detective minds not seen prior. Though these moments of genius are rare, they also seemed blessed with blind stupidity in certain circumstances in order to allow the author to delay major plot turns and realizations. At times, Stokoe makes irresponsible use of convenience rather than realistic discovery to drive the plot in the direction he intends, and important factors of the rising action come to the characters too easily.
Perhaps his biggest flaw in the novel is Stan, Johnny’s mentally challenged brother. The gap between the extremities of Stan’s condition are too vast—at times, he is seen as a 22-year-old boy romping around in his superhero costumes playing dumb in Looney Tune fashion, and at others, acting perfectly normal and exhibiting portions of the intelligence he possessed before the accident. His dialogue and actions border the line of stereotype and insult, and take a great risk in offending readers tender to the subject.
Despite the negative, Empty Mile commits the reader to the story from the first chapter. Some turns are foreseen, others come from the blue. Ultimately, Stokoe forces readers to comply with the bends and turns of his devious plot, and awards them with an ending that promises not to disappoint. Sometimes it takes the last few pages for the story to knock you to the floor, and Empty Mile draws the rubber band to the snapping point before letting it recoil back into the reader’s face.
For further information on Empty Mile, visit www.akashicbooks.com.
6 Questions for Charles Simic
June 8, 2010
Born in 1938 in Yugoslavia, Charles Simic survived the destruction of WWII and immigrated with his family to the United States in 1954. With his first poems published in 1959, Simic quickly developed a unique style of poetry that eventually led to a Pulitzer Prize in 1990 and his appointment as fifteenth US Poet Laureate in 2007. Simic is now Emeritus Professor of the University of New Hampshire where he began teaching in 1973. Paying homage to Simic's notable minimalist style, we have gathered six questions to ask where so much can be said in so few words, giving rare insight to the man behind the pen. Buy his Pulitzer Prize winning book here.
SoR: Being a child of war-torn Europe in Yugoslavia before you immigrated to the United States in 1954, are there any singular events that strike you now as an adult that made a particular impact on you then?
Simic: Four years of war with bombs falling, carnage and destruction, hostages rounded up and shot, men hanging from telephone poles along the major avenues, civil war, hunger, arrests of relatives and neighbors, deportations to camps, etc., etc. All that made a big impression on me.
SoR: You began your career as a literary minimalist, stripping verse down to its basic core while maximizing its impact on the reader. What is it about minimalism, stylistically, that appeals to you as a writer?
Simic: I always subscribed to the notion that in poetry less is more. The idea that one can say everything in a few words has always attracted me. It's very hard to accomplish something [like] that, to make a memorable poem out of four lines. But it's worth trying.
SoR: Having fled the destructiveness of war in Europe with your family when you were young, what was it like being drafted into the U.S. Army in 1961?
Simic: A big surprise. I just didn't take the possibility seriously, and then it happened. I was stunned to find myself a soldier, but I got used to it, especially after I was sent to Germany and then France where I spent over a year. We were not in any war then, so it was peace time army and tolerable.
SoR: Your poetry reflects not a general sense of truth but rather your own perspectives on life. As one lives, perspectives change. Is there anything you’ve written in the past that you look back on now and wonder how you’ve changed?
Simic: I don't know what "general sense of truth" means? Conventional wisdom? Received opinions? All poets that are any good tend to write from their own experience. In my case, I would say that my outlook on life hasn't changed that much. Philosophically, I've always been a cheerful pessimist. I still am.
SoR: You have written and translated in English, Serbian, French, Croatian, Macedonian and Slovenian. Is there a language, in its rhythm, diction and sound, you find particularly suited to a particular style or topic of poetry?
Simic: No, I don't think so. Any language one knows well seems capable of any kind of writing.
SoR: In your Pulitzer Prize winning collection of poetry, The World Doesn’t End, you wrote the following two poems:
My mother was a braid of black smoke.
She bore me swaddled over the burning cities.
The sky was a vast and windy place for a child
to play.
We met many others who were just like us.
They were trying to put on their overcoats with
arms made of smoke.
The high heavens were full of little shrunken
deaf ears instead of stars.
and
We were so poor I had to take the place of the
bait in the mousetrap. All alone in the cellar, I
could hear them pacing upstairs, tossing and turn-
ing in their beds. “These are dark and evil days,”
the mouse told me as he nibbled my ear. Years
passed. My mother wore a cat-fur collar which
she stroked until its sparks lit up the cellar.
Your father had traveled to the United States ahead of you, your brother and your mother. What influence did your mother have in your writing, who can be seen here as appearing both protective and dangerous?
Simic: Like me, my mother lived through some horrible years. We had many terrifying, life-threatening moments together, so we were both close and not close, since we had very different ideas how to live our lives. I could not bear to be with her for very long, and yet we had that past between us when she behaved heroically and I owed my survival to her.
June 8, 2010
Born in 1938 in Yugoslavia, Charles Simic survived the destruction of WWII and immigrated with his family to the United States in 1954. With his first poems published in 1959, Simic quickly developed a unique style of poetry that eventually led to a Pulitzer Prize in 1990 and his appointment as fifteenth US Poet Laureate in 2007. Simic is now Emeritus Professor of the University of New Hampshire where he began teaching in 1973. Paying homage to Simic's notable minimalist style, we have gathered six questions to ask where so much can be said in so few words, giving rare insight to the man behind the pen. Buy his Pulitzer Prize winning book here.
SoR: Being a child of war-torn Europe in Yugoslavia before you immigrated to the United States in 1954, are there any singular events that strike you now as an adult that made a particular impact on you then?
Simic: Four years of war with bombs falling, carnage and destruction, hostages rounded up and shot, men hanging from telephone poles along the major avenues, civil war, hunger, arrests of relatives and neighbors, deportations to camps, etc., etc. All that made a big impression on me.
SoR: You began your career as a literary minimalist, stripping verse down to its basic core while maximizing its impact on the reader. What is it about minimalism, stylistically, that appeals to you as a writer?
Simic: I always subscribed to the notion that in poetry less is more. The idea that one can say everything in a few words has always attracted me. It's very hard to accomplish something [like] that, to make a memorable poem out of four lines. But it's worth trying.
SoR: Having fled the destructiveness of war in Europe with your family when you were young, what was it like being drafted into the U.S. Army in 1961?
Simic: A big surprise. I just didn't take the possibility seriously, and then it happened. I was stunned to find myself a soldier, but I got used to it, especially after I was sent to Germany and then France where I spent over a year. We were not in any war then, so it was peace time army and tolerable.
SoR: Your poetry reflects not a general sense of truth but rather your own perspectives on life. As one lives, perspectives change. Is there anything you’ve written in the past that you look back on now and wonder how you’ve changed?
Simic: I don't know what "general sense of truth" means? Conventional wisdom? Received opinions? All poets that are any good tend to write from their own experience. In my case, I would say that my outlook on life hasn't changed that much. Philosophically, I've always been a cheerful pessimist. I still am.
SoR: You have written and translated in English, Serbian, French, Croatian, Macedonian and Slovenian. Is there a language, in its rhythm, diction and sound, you find particularly suited to a particular style or topic of poetry?
Simic: No, I don't think so. Any language one knows well seems capable of any kind of writing.
SoR: In your Pulitzer Prize winning collection of poetry, The World Doesn’t End, you wrote the following two poems:
My mother was a braid of black smoke.
She bore me swaddled over the burning cities.
The sky was a vast and windy place for a child
to play.
We met many others who were just like us.
They were trying to put on their overcoats with
arms made of smoke.
The high heavens were full of little shrunken
deaf ears instead of stars.
and
We were so poor I had to take the place of the
bait in the mousetrap. All alone in the cellar, I
could hear them pacing upstairs, tossing and turn-
ing in their beds. “These are dark and evil days,”
the mouse told me as he nibbled my ear. Years
passed. My mother wore a cat-fur collar which
she stroked until its sparks lit up the cellar.
Your father had traveled to the United States ahead of you, your brother and your mother. What influence did your mother have in your writing, who can be seen here as appearing both protective and dangerous?
Simic: Like me, my mother lived through some horrible years. We had many terrifying, life-threatening moments together, so we were both close and not close, since we had very different ideas how to live our lives. I could not bear to be with her for very long, and yet we had that past between us when she behaved heroically and I owed my survival to her.
Tinkering with Paul Harding
August 1, 2010
Paul Harding is an American musician and author whose first novel, Tinkers, won the 2010 Pulitzer Prize. This New England author has spent much of his life in reflection and attention to detail which has become the cornerstone of his writing style. Harding took some time from his day for this exclusive interview with Splash of Red.
SoR: What is your writing and editing process like?
Harding: I write on the level of the sentence, I guess. I wrangle each subject and predicate in order to discover the full implications of each and of each for the other. I have what I guess is an idealistic aesthetic about subjects, in that I feel as if the perfect version of every one of them is out there, somewhere, and every rough initial version and subsequent revision of a sentence is a more or less failed attempt to capture that perfection. So, I edit a lot, too.
SoR: I have to ask what it is like having your debut novel win the Pulitzer Prize?
Harding: In a sense, the Pulitzer is that to which I will spend the rest of my career as a published writer trying to be equal.
SoR: Where does your inspiration come from when you write?
Harding: Wherever it chooses. It’s not something I have much control over. I just discipline myself as a writer to be ready to catch it from whatever direction it comes, at whatever speed, in whatever form (an image, a phrase, a bit of dialog, a texture, a color, a key, etc.).
SoR: As a musician also, how does your passion for music affect your passion for writing and vice versa?
Harding: Well, I was a drummer for a long time, so I write a lot by rhythm, tempo, dynamics. I think that writing, in the first draft, anyway, is a lot like good improvisation. Thinking about how much of Coltrane and Beethoven was improvised, therefore, has deep implications for, for example, how good a first draft can and maybe should be. I think a lot in pseudo-musical terms about counterpoint and arrangement and over and undertones and things like that. But I don’t know any proper music theory.
SoR: Tinkers really delves into the minute details of the story, bringing the reader into every moment. Your grandfather taught you how to fix clocks which was essential for the authenticity of the book. Yet the main character was dealing with his father’s life. How much of your novel’s intimacy was based purely in fiction and how much was inspired from your relationships with your father and grandfather?
Harding: The basic dramatic premises of the novel are based on stories that my maternal grandfather told me about his life growing up in Maine. Like the protagonist in Tinkers, his father had epilepsy and abandoned the family when my grandfather was 12, because he found out about his wife’s plans to have him committed to an asylum. Because of some combination of tact and grief, he would not elaborate on these parts of his life. So, I wrote my way into imagined versions of those stories, which from my perspective are none the less true for not being factual. Knowing about clocks definitely helped me write authentic sounding prose about them, but I don’t think that whatever authenticity the relevant passages have is finally dependent on that experience. I have to think that I can write authentically about experiences without necessarily directly having had them myself. The implications of such a thing for the imagination would be too discouraging.
SoR: Pulitzer Prize aside, how has your family reacted to the novel itself?
Harding: They’ve reacted with great generosity and enthusiasm. I don’t think anyone feels like I’ve besmirched any sacred familial memories or anything like that.
SoR: When you were halfway through Carlos Fuentes’ novel Terra Nostra, you decided that you wanted to write. What was it in that novel - a particular line, the style, content - that pushed you over the literary edge?
Harding: It was how he unabashedly tried to fit the entire history of the world into it, and how he shaped the thing according to these cosmologically sized revolutions of time. I haven’t reread the book in many years, but I remember feeling just electrocuted by the synthesis of free will and determinism that he achieved in the narrative. It’s a huge, gothic, grand, encyclopedic, funny, tragic, necropolis of a book, literally and thematically. Man, I should go back and read it again, right now.
SoR:If you had advice for any budding writers out there, what would it be?
Harding: I have lots of advice for budding writers, since I’ve taught writing classes for many years. Off the top of my head, I think that precision is the best style. Writing is not a means; it is the thing itself. Writing fiction is not lying; it’s telling the truth imaginatively. Write the kinds of stories you like to read. Don’t write for people who won’t like the kind of story you like to write. Don’t waste time with coy notions about not wanting to take up a reader’s time; that’s exactly what your job is as a writer. The trick is to take up the reader’s time well.
SoR: How did you deal with the rejections that came in for Tinkers?
Harding: Personally with exasperation, objectively, philosophically. Rejection is a part of publication. Every writer who tries to get published has to deal with it.
SoR: What are the biggest challenges and greatest rewards to following your passion for writing?
Harding: The biggest challenge was learning how to remove the partitions between being a writer so-called and being a human person generally. Writing is just how I am in the world. Now, publishing is also how I am in the world, too. But the writing is what’s important. There’s no distinction between it and what I find true, beautiful, base or noble.
SoR: So what's next for you?
Harding: The next book is titled Enon and will be about Charlie Crosby and his daughter, Kate. Charlie is one of George Crosby's grandsons and makes a brief appearance in Tinkers (I think). Enon is the name of the village in MA where George lives and dies.
August 1, 2010
Paul Harding is an American musician and author whose first novel, Tinkers, won the 2010 Pulitzer Prize. This New England author has spent much of his life in reflection and attention to detail which has become the cornerstone of his writing style. Harding took some time from his day for this exclusive interview with Splash of Red.
SoR: What is your writing and editing process like?
Harding: I write on the level of the sentence, I guess. I wrangle each subject and predicate in order to discover the full implications of each and of each for the other. I have what I guess is an idealistic aesthetic about subjects, in that I feel as if the perfect version of every one of them is out there, somewhere, and every rough initial version and subsequent revision of a sentence is a more or less failed attempt to capture that perfection. So, I edit a lot, too.
SoR: I have to ask what it is like having your debut novel win the Pulitzer Prize?
Harding: In a sense, the Pulitzer is that to which I will spend the rest of my career as a published writer trying to be equal.
SoR: Where does your inspiration come from when you write?
Harding: Wherever it chooses. It’s not something I have much control over. I just discipline myself as a writer to be ready to catch it from whatever direction it comes, at whatever speed, in whatever form (an image, a phrase, a bit of dialog, a texture, a color, a key, etc.).
SoR: As a musician also, how does your passion for music affect your passion for writing and vice versa?
Harding: Well, I was a drummer for a long time, so I write a lot by rhythm, tempo, dynamics. I think that writing, in the first draft, anyway, is a lot like good improvisation. Thinking about how much of Coltrane and Beethoven was improvised, therefore, has deep implications for, for example, how good a first draft can and maybe should be. I think a lot in pseudo-musical terms about counterpoint and arrangement and over and undertones and things like that. But I don’t know any proper music theory.
SoR: Tinkers really delves into the minute details of the story, bringing the reader into every moment. Your grandfather taught you how to fix clocks which was essential for the authenticity of the book. Yet the main character was dealing with his father’s life. How much of your novel’s intimacy was based purely in fiction and how much was inspired from your relationships with your father and grandfather?
Harding: The basic dramatic premises of the novel are based on stories that my maternal grandfather told me about his life growing up in Maine. Like the protagonist in Tinkers, his father had epilepsy and abandoned the family when my grandfather was 12, because he found out about his wife’s plans to have him committed to an asylum. Because of some combination of tact and grief, he would not elaborate on these parts of his life. So, I wrote my way into imagined versions of those stories, which from my perspective are none the less true for not being factual. Knowing about clocks definitely helped me write authentic sounding prose about them, but I don’t think that whatever authenticity the relevant passages have is finally dependent on that experience. I have to think that I can write authentically about experiences without necessarily directly having had them myself. The implications of such a thing for the imagination would be too discouraging.
SoR: Pulitzer Prize aside, how has your family reacted to the novel itself?
Harding: They’ve reacted with great generosity and enthusiasm. I don’t think anyone feels like I’ve besmirched any sacred familial memories or anything like that.
SoR: When you were halfway through Carlos Fuentes’ novel Terra Nostra, you decided that you wanted to write. What was it in that novel - a particular line, the style, content - that pushed you over the literary edge?
Harding: It was how he unabashedly tried to fit the entire history of the world into it, and how he shaped the thing according to these cosmologically sized revolutions of time. I haven’t reread the book in many years, but I remember feeling just electrocuted by the synthesis of free will and determinism that he achieved in the narrative. It’s a huge, gothic, grand, encyclopedic, funny, tragic, necropolis of a book, literally and thematically. Man, I should go back and read it again, right now.
SoR:If you had advice for any budding writers out there, what would it be?
Harding: I have lots of advice for budding writers, since I’ve taught writing classes for many years. Off the top of my head, I think that precision is the best style. Writing is not a means; it is the thing itself. Writing fiction is not lying; it’s telling the truth imaginatively. Write the kinds of stories you like to read. Don’t write for people who won’t like the kind of story you like to write. Don’t waste time with coy notions about not wanting to take up a reader’s time; that’s exactly what your job is as a writer. The trick is to take up the reader’s time well.
SoR: How did you deal with the rejections that came in for Tinkers?
Harding: Personally with exasperation, objectively, philosophically. Rejection is a part of publication. Every writer who tries to get published has to deal with it.
SoR: What are the biggest challenges and greatest rewards to following your passion for writing?
Harding: The biggest challenge was learning how to remove the partitions between being a writer so-called and being a human person generally. Writing is just how I am in the world. Now, publishing is also how I am in the world, too. But the writing is what’s important. There’s no distinction between it and what I find true, beautiful, base or noble.
SoR: So what's next for you?
Harding: The next book is titled Enon and will be about Charlie Crosby and his daughter, Kate. Charlie is one of George Crosby's grandsons and makes a brief appearance in Tinkers (I think). Enon is the name of the village in MA where George lives and dies.
August 12, 2010
Nancy Pickard says that of all the awards and honors she has received in nearly 35 years of writing novels and short stories, the one that means the most is that "The Virgin of Small Plains" was named the Kansas Reads book of the year for 2009. During that year, Nancy drove by herself to 50 libraries in 50 small towns in Kansas, meeting readers and talking about books, and she says it was one of the highlights of her life. Her current "Kansas" novel is "The Scent of Rain and Lightning," which was the Barnes & Noble Main Recommended Selection this past spring and spent five weeks on the extended New York Times bestseller list. She's currently at work on her 19th novel.
SoR: What is your writing process like?
Pickard: Lately, it's like a jigsaw puzzle for which I get the pieces out of order and have to figure out where they go to make the whole picture. Today I may write what turns out to be chapter 23; tomorrow I may write what turns out to be chapter 5. I never know for sure where things go until I have a lot of it done.
SoR: What is your editing process like?
Pickard: Brutal. Last fall, working on the book I'm still working on, I tossed 200 pages (50,000 words) without a backward glance and started over.
SoR: You have won 5 Macavity Awards, 4 Agatha Awards, two Anthony Awards, a Barry Award, and a Shamus Award. You are the only writer to have ever won all five, plus you are a 5-time Edgar Award finalist. What is it about mystery that you love and where does this stem from?
Pickard: Murder mysteries seem "worth it" to me. My feeling is, let's get down deep, delve into death and evil-doing and goodness. If I had to write a book without a murder, I wouldn't know what to do with the middle of the book!
SoR: Your newest novel The Scent of Rain and Lightning has been praised as being on the border of the mystery genre and literary fiction. Do you feel like that is an accurate assessment and how so?
Pickard: I don't think I know what reviewers mean when they say that. I tend to think what they're really saying is just that they think it's well written, for which opinion I thank them. I know that I work really hard to get to the emotional core of my characters, and maybe that's "literary," but I think all good books of any sort do that, so. . .it's confusing to me. I'm just trying to write the best books I can with the experience and skills that I have, hoping those skills get honed to sharper edges with every new book.
SoR: What inspired you for a good story to write?
Pickard: At this stage of my life I tend to be inspired by things that either haunt me, or come to me in epiphanies, or just plain nag me until I write about them. Landscape inspires me, but not all landscape. I think I am attracted more and more to landscape that is somehow unexpected--like the monumental rocks in "Scent"--and also by landscape that offers me, as the writer, a great depth of geology, flora, fauna, and/or history to plumb for metaphors.
SoR: Do you see your writing as changing over time such as from Generous Death published in 1984 to The Scent of Rain and Lightning in 2010 and if so, how?
Pickard: I do. It has changed a great deal as I have grown up as a person and a writer. I haven't had the nerve to go back and read those earlier ones, so I can't tell you exactly how they differ from these new ones. Just from a technical standpoint, though, I've moved away from first person narratives, to third person, and then to multiple points of view, and I've developed a style that moves back and forth through time.
SoR: Your last two novels The Virgin of Small Plains and The Scent of Rain and Lightning took place in small, rural towns. What inspired the dive into the small town scene?
Pickard: It's so odd, in a way, that I'm a born and bred city girl and yet I've almost always set my novels in small towns. There are only four exceptions--But I Wouldn't Want to Die There, which is set in New York City, and the three Marie Lightfoot books that are set in a city inspired by Ft. Lauderdale, Fla. I think I'm a small town girl at heart, and that I love the way I can control and compress things in a small geographical area with a small population. My years of being married to a cattle rancher put me in a lot of contact with rural Kansas, so that contributes, too.
SoR: Where do you see your writing heading in the near future?
Pickard: More of the same only better? Lol. That's my dream. . .to keep writing standalone novels set in various parts of Kansas, and for each one to be better than the last one in some way or another.
SoR: How do you feel about the difference in styles between genre mystery and literary fiction and how they are perceived in mainstream literature?
Pickard: I don't worry about it. These things change over time. My understanding is that breaking fiction down into genres at all is a rather recent phenomenon, dating (maybe?) to the 1950's. In the mystery world, more and more books are getting the "literary mystery" label, so I sense a breaking down of boundaries. A good book is a good book, wherever it's shelved. I try to read widely without observing genres, because otherwise I'd miss out on some fabulous books. My favorite book of the summer is The Lonely Polygamist," which is "literary," but I also loved "The Passage," which is a vampire novel, and I recently reread the original Nancy Drew novel, "The Mystery at Shadow Ranch," and still loved it.
SoR: What is a mystery you would love to solve?
Pickard: Speaking strictly of crime and not of metaphysics--there is an imprisoned serial killer in this area who has never told where he buried the bodies. I'd like the families to have that knowledge.
SoR: Do you have any advice for any budding writers out there?
Pickard: Just start writing, and then keep doing it. Try to balance confidence with humility--enough confidence to try it, enough humility to keep learning how. And--while it's natural to dream about being published, please keep your eyes turned to the current sentence you're writing, and then to the next one, and the next one. . .that's really all you can ever do. "Bird by bird," as Annie Lamott says so wisely in her book of the same name.
Leading Exhibitor of the Telephone Poll Gallery
August 22, 2010
Often regarded as the revivalist of the lost art of the concert poster, Frank Kozik created posters for iconic bands throughout his career. Additionally, Kozik has directed music videos and contributed to countless designs within the commercial community. His risqué themes are instantly recognizable and his art is considered as contemporary classics.
SoR: Frank Kozik, revivalist of the lost art of the concert poster.” How does it feel when you hear this?
Kozik: Meaningless on a personal level. It has been useful in a ‘professional’ career sense, however. But I don’t really think its accurate. Right place, right time sort of thing.
SoR: What sparked your interest in creating concert posters? Did you do any different sorts of artwork prior?
Kozik: I did things like mail art and weird random street art stuff, and got fairly involved in the local music scene where I was living…most of my friends where in bands and so on, but I have no musical talent…my flyers and stuff where a way to participate in the larger scene around me. This is around 1980…
SoR: Are there any famous artists that have inspired your work, both in the beginning, and currently?
Kozik: Far too many to list. I basically stole from everything I saw. These days I tend just to try and do whatever seems funny or interesting.
SoR: I know this is a difficult question for an artist, but if you had to pick, maybe a top three, what would be your favorite posters that you have done?
Kozik: Probably 3 that no one remembers anymore. To tell the truth, I never keep anything and rarely look at the old posters. When I do, there’s not a lot of connectivity…they where all just sort of done in a frenzy…I remember the times, but not particularly any individual pieces.
SoR: You’ve created posters for iconic bands of various popular genres, such as Nirvana, The Beastie Boys, and the Red Hot Chili Peppers. Do you have any current bands that you would want to create a concert poster for?
Kozik: Not really, I quit ‘keeping up’ with new stuff a good 10 years ago. I do get a lot of requests from new bands and old ones, but never do the work. I really do not have any reason to do so. 20 years was enough. It would be unfair to a band to pay me if I was not interested in their music so I tend to turn down current music-related offers. I do some stuff, but it’s more event oriented, rather than a band.
SoR: Likewise, regarding the previous question, are there any musicians from previous generations in the 20th century that you would like to time travel back to and create posters for?
Kozik: Would have been cool to maybe do a ‘real’ Black Sabbath poster or something. Or maybe very early Pink Floyd.
SoR: Your website states that you got your start “with black and white flyers for friends’ bands posted on telephone polls” in the underground Austin music scene. In the era of the Internet, this seems to have become a lost advertising method that has been replaced by web advertising and artwork created by computer graphic artists. How do you feel about this transition of the concert poster art form and its purpose?
Kozik: Well..that’s a complex issue…there ARE lots of ‘flyers’ around on poles still, but they are really lost in the clutter. 30 years ago, it was novel. You’d look for them. The internet is a mixed blessing. A lot of really great posters get done, but in a weird way, its all just noise…too much good stuff I think.
SoR: Your posters have been attributed to the rise of underground bands in the Austin music scene due to their ability to draw people to attend their concerts. How do you feel when people refer to you as a cemented icon in the history of the internationally renowned Austin scene?
Kozik: My memories of the time are not as glorious as the mythos. At the time, it was just a fun way to do something different. I never thought it would be a career or anything. I was pretty poor back then, and usually unhappy. It was just our life I guess. Now it seems to have a golden tinge to it. But, Austin did generate a lot of energy back then.
SoR: People have noted the risqué themes and distortions of pop culture as a defining signature of your artwork. A drunken Boo Boo from Yogi Bear, Ronald Regan with the infamous Charles Manson tattoo on his forehead, Che Guevara’s skull—what inspired such ideas?
Kozik: I just like making fun of stuff. They are images I enjoy, so I put them down on paper so to speak. I like to think they are funny and interesting to look at.
SoR: Regarding the previous question, how do you feel about this label that people have attached to some of your work?
Kozik: No feelings. It’s convenient to have categories. I can tell you there’s no huge message, which is probably the message. ‘Art’ or whatever should be fun, it should look cool. I will leave ‘meanings’ to someone else. I just like making stuff.
SoR: You have a limited edition shoe series in collaboration with Draven shoes. Obviously, footwear is a vastly different “canvas” than that of the concert poster or album cover. What kind of approach did you take to working with such a medium, and how did it differ from what you were previously accustomed to?
Kozik: I just used some easy to reproduce graphics to sort of make two shoes a single, cohesive unit.
SoR: You directed the music video for Soundgarden’s “Pretty Noose,” which contains no scenes of the band playing their instruments, and rather follows a series of psychedelic vignettes that truly live up to the idea of a “music video.” What inspired this approach, and how did you incorporate the lyrics and themes of the song into the production?
Kozik: Well, the band didn’t want to do a performance, which was awesome, so I just asked them what they would be doing on a random day off and that’s what they are doing in the video more or less…The song has something to do with ‘fun’ hurting you…so there’s imagery that says "drugs, sex and so on are really bad for you”…but it was mostly me and the DP goofing on cool looking shots. The band loved the end result. MTV and the label hated it.
SoR: In contrast, your production of the music video for Mint Condition’s “What Kind Of Man Would I Be” focuses almost entirely on the band playing their music. Are there any reasons why you chose different approaches for the two music videos?
Kozik: That band and their management wanted a very focused ‘vanity video’, which was really necessary for their business. So I did a very band centric thing that still managed to incorporate some stylish shots and so on. They where very happy with that video, it was like #1 on BET forever. On that shoot I just got into the technical stuff.
SoR: You’ve done Oakley sunglasses, Man’s Ruin record label, advertisements for Nike and Entertainment Weekly, and have your own line of designer toys and vinyl figure art. What’s next for Frank Kozik?
Kozik: Looks like the old ‘fine art’ stuff is heating up again so lots of higher end pieces, and millions of new toys as well.
August 22, 2010
Often regarded as the revivalist of the lost art of the concert poster, Frank Kozik created posters for iconic bands throughout his career. Additionally, Kozik has directed music videos and contributed to countless designs within the commercial community. His risqué themes are instantly recognizable and his art is considered as contemporary classics.
SoR: Frank Kozik, revivalist of the lost art of the concert poster.” How does it feel when you hear this?
Kozik: Meaningless on a personal level. It has been useful in a ‘professional’ career sense, however. But I don’t really think its accurate. Right place, right time sort of thing.
SoR: What sparked your interest in creating concert posters? Did you do any different sorts of artwork prior?
Kozik: I did things like mail art and weird random street art stuff, and got fairly involved in the local music scene where I was living…most of my friends where in bands and so on, but I have no musical talent…my flyers and stuff where a way to participate in the larger scene around me. This is around 1980…
SoR: Are there any famous artists that have inspired your work, both in the beginning, and currently?
Kozik: Far too many to list. I basically stole from everything I saw. These days I tend just to try and do whatever seems funny or interesting.
SoR: I know this is a difficult question for an artist, but if you had to pick, maybe a top three, what would be your favorite posters that you have done?
Kozik: Probably 3 that no one remembers anymore. To tell the truth, I never keep anything and rarely look at the old posters. When I do, there’s not a lot of connectivity…they where all just sort of done in a frenzy…I remember the times, but not particularly any individual pieces.
SoR: You’ve created posters for iconic bands of various popular genres, such as Nirvana, The Beastie Boys, and the Red Hot Chili Peppers. Do you have any current bands that you would want to create a concert poster for?
Kozik: Not really, I quit ‘keeping up’ with new stuff a good 10 years ago. I do get a lot of requests from new bands and old ones, but never do the work. I really do not have any reason to do so. 20 years was enough. It would be unfair to a band to pay me if I was not interested in their music so I tend to turn down current music-related offers. I do some stuff, but it’s more event oriented, rather than a band.
SoR: Likewise, regarding the previous question, are there any musicians from previous generations in the 20th century that you would like to time travel back to and create posters for?
Kozik: Would have been cool to maybe do a ‘real’ Black Sabbath poster or something. Or maybe very early Pink Floyd.
SoR: Your website states that you got your start “with black and white flyers for friends’ bands posted on telephone polls” in the underground Austin music scene. In the era of the Internet, this seems to have become a lost advertising method that has been replaced by web advertising and artwork created by computer graphic artists. How do you feel about this transition of the concert poster art form and its purpose?
Kozik: Well..that’s a complex issue…there ARE lots of ‘flyers’ around on poles still, but they are really lost in the clutter. 30 years ago, it was novel. You’d look for them. The internet is a mixed blessing. A lot of really great posters get done, but in a weird way, its all just noise…too much good stuff I think.
SoR: Your posters have been attributed to the rise of underground bands in the Austin music scene due to their ability to draw people to attend their concerts. How do you feel when people refer to you as a cemented icon in the history of the internationally renowned Austin scene?
Kozik: My memories of the time are not as glorious as the mythos. At the time, it was just a fun way to do something different. I never thought it would be a career or anything. I was pretty poor back then, and usually unhappy. It was just our life I guess. Now it seems to have a golden tinge to it. But, Austin did generate a lot of energy back then.
SoR: People have noted the risqué themes and distortions of pop culture as a defining signature of your artwork. A drunken Boo Boo from Yogi Bear, Ronald Regan with the infamous Charles Manson tattoo on his forehead, Che Guevara’s skull—what inspired such ideas?
Kozik: I just like making fun of stuff. They are images I enjoy, so I put them down on paper so to speak. I like to think they are funny and interesting to look at.
SoR: Regarding the previous question, how do you feel about this label that people have attached to some of your work?
Kozik: No feelings. It’s convenient to have categories. I can tell you there’s no huge message, which is probably the message. ‘Art’ or whatever should be fun, it should look cool. I will leave ‘meanings’ to someone else. I just like making stuff.
SoR: You have a limited edition shoe series in collaboration with Draven shoes. Obviously, footwear is a vastly different “canvas” than that of the concert poster or album cover. What kind of approach did you take to working with such a medium, and how did it differ from what you were previously accustomed to?
Kozik: I just used some easy to reproduce graphics to sort of make two shoes a single, cohesive unit.
SoR: You directed the music video for Soundgarden’s “Pretty Noose,” which contains no scenes of the band playing their instruments, and rather follows a series of psychedelic vignettes that truly live up to the idea of a “music video.” What inspired this approach, and how did you incorporate the lyrics and themes of the song into the production?
Kozik: Well, the band didn’t want to do a performance, which was awesome, so I just asked them what they would be doing on a random day off and that’s what they are doing in the video more or less…The song has something to do with ‘fun’ hurting you…so there’s imagery that says "drugs, sex and so on are really bad for you”…but it was mostly me and the DP goofing on cool looking shots. The band loved the end result. MTV and the label hated it.
SoR: In contrast, your production of the music video for Mint Condition’s “What Kind Of Man Would I Be” focuses almost entirely on the band playing their music. Are there any reasons why you chose different approaches for the two music videos?
Kozik: That band and their management wanted a very focused ‘vanity video’, which was really necessary for their business. So I did a very band centric thing that still managed to incorporate some stylish shots and so on. They where very happy with that video, it was like #1 on BET forever. On that shoot I just got into the technical stuff.
SoR: You’ve done Oakley sunglasses, Man’s Ruin record label, advertisements for Nike and Entertainment Weekly, and have your own line of designer toys and vinyl figure art. What’s next for Frank Kozik?
Kozik: Looks like the old ‘fine art’ stuff is heating up again so lots of higher end pieces, and millions of new toys as well.
A Talk with Mark Strand
September 7, 2010
Mark Strand is a poet, essayist, translator and
educator. In 1999 he won the Pulitzer Prize for his poetry and in 1990
he was the US Poet Laureate. He has taught at numerous institutions
around the world and now teaches at Columbia University.
SoR: What is your writing process like?
Strand: I don't know what it's like. It's not like anything else. It resembles only itself. And it changes.
SoR: Likewise, what is your editing process like?
Strand: My editing process is like my editing process. I simply go over what I've written and get rid of or correct what I don't like.
SoR:How did studying painting under Josef Albers affect your writing, if indeed it did?
Strand: When I painted in art school I wasn't writing. But I do think my study with Albers had some effect on my writing. Simplicity, directness as ways of increasing the power of ambiguity instead of inhibiting it. That's something I learned from Albers.
SoR: You have certainly traveled far and wide having spent your early years in Central and South America and traveling to Italy on a Fulbright Scholarship to name a few of the places you've been. Additionally, you have done a lot of translations. Do you feel like there is a particular language you are especially fond of? Perhaps a language that lends its sounds and syllables more appropriately to a particular genre or emotion?
Strand: The only language I know well, and some may question how well, is English. I struggle with Italian. I read Spanish, but not with any regularity or with any marked pleasure. I simply read it. I'm not sure that the sounds of the language lend themselves to a particular genre or emotion. I know that the Spaniards or the Spanish poets can appear to be more emotionally direct than, say, American poets. But I don't think that has to do with the sound of their language. I think it is a cultural trademark. Americans are generally more withheld emotionally, probably owing to their deeply embedded Puritanism.
SoR: As a prolific writer and educator, what do you feel are the responsibilities of the contemporary writer and what are the responsibilities does the contemporary reader have?
Strand: The responsibility of the contemporary writer is what it has been for all writers, and that is to write well. Writing well is not simply an aesthetic issue. It is a moral one as well. This is something that seems to have been forgotten in today's era of very bad writing.
SoR: How did you deal with the rejection of your work and if you still do?
Strand: I never felt rejected even when I was being rejected. Submitting poems for me was a game. If I took rejection personally, I would have gone mad.
SoR: Do you have any advice for budding writers?
Strand: My advice to budding writers is to read the great books, to keep their eyes and ears open, and their mouths shut for as long as possible.
SoR: What is the significance of abstraction in your poetry?
Strand: All writing is abstract.
SoR: Where do you feel contemporary poetry is heading in America?
Strand: I don't know where it's going, but if I knew I wouldn't go there.
For Your Eyes Only: Interview with Allan Furst
September 15, 2010
Interviewed By: Steven Froias
Alan Furst has achieved critical and popular success with his series of espionage themed novels set just prior to and during WWII. His newest is titled “Spies of the Balkans.”
SoR: I’ve read that to achieve the level of authenticity found in your books you have studied letters, diaries and memoirs from the pre and WWII European era. Where do you look for this material?
Furst: I don't actually do very much with original material, like diaries and letters. I do use memoirs, all the time, written by people who survived the war and who had some contact with resistance movements. Finding those isn't easy, there's no method, and many have been self-published. But, when you read in a concentrated area, all the time, literally every day, you do stumble across them, and there's always the internet, what I call the 3rd Google page internet. I believe the simple answer is that if you're looking for whatever and put in the time, there are good things to be found.
SoR: Have you ever interviewed people who may have been involved in espionage activity during the time period in which your novels are set?
Furst: No, in general I never interview people, or hear their stories. The reason is that if I'm unable to use what they tell me, it's as though it isn't "good enough," and I don't want to hurt feelings. There are so many books on every aspect of this period that finding histories of secret service operations is no problem. Sometimes you wonder who the hell to believe--it's very abundant.
SoR: Does your research ever suggest a story line for a book or is it all a product of your imagination?
Furst: I almost never use my imagination; it isn't nearly as inventive as history itself, so I find most of my story lines by taking real events and tailoring the surroundings to include my own characters. For instance, in Spies of the Balkans, there really was a coup d'etat in Yugoslavia on the dates in the novel. Was there a Greek detective there at the time? Well, there might have been--it's the possibility always present that fiction, my fiction anyhow, uses.
SoR: Most reviewers cite Graham Greene as a literary precursor to your work. We at Splash of Red think Hemingway might be a more apt point of comparison. The typical Furst hero, like Hemingway’s, possess a unique moral compass. Are your main characters based on any specific people in real life or literature?
Furst: I think you're right about Hemingway - I include "For Whom the Bell Tolls" as a political adventure novel of the period--like Conrad, like Orwell, like Isaac Babel, even back to Stendhal. That's my lineage, not the spy stories of Graham Greene. His best, "The 3rd Man" was a screenplay (the succeeding novel is awful) and the next best, "Our Man in Havana" is about the 50s.
SoR: You vividly write about what every day life was like in a country under German occupation. Do you think that the average New Yorker could handle living as if it were Paris in 1940? Could you?
Furst: I could, and so could you, because the secret is they had no choice. It was in many ways akin to natural disaster, a huge catastrophe and, for Parisians, and New Yorkers, the question becomes: now that this has happened, how shall we deal with it? To understand the dynamic, you go down to the details, so, not 'what shall we do?' but 'what shall we do this morning?' That's how humans cope.
SoR: Why does this era appeal to you? Have you ever thought about writing a contemporary spy novel?
Furst: The era is powerful, it just is, it's on television and in the movies all the time. It had the natural drama of good v. evil, because once the Nazis were involved, there wasn't much question about defining good and evil. The Cold War is different, for whatever reason, WWII and the 30s was like a giant morality play, involving millions of people, with terrible stakes for winning and losing.
SoR: What are your feelings regarding genre fiction versus “literature”? Patricia Highsmith regarded any such distinction as a mere devise by which book stores arrange their inventory. Do you agree?
Furst: Well, it's a slippery slope. Good genre fiction is as worthwhile as serious fiction. For me, after some pressure from fans and reviewers I've stopped calling my work spy novels and have switched to 'novels about spies.' That shouldn't make much of a difference to the reader.
SoR: How long does it typically take you to write a novel? Do you still have to do a lot of research at this point?
Furst: Takes about 3 months of research and 9 months of production writing (pages per day). And yes, more than ever I have to do research.
SoR: What is your writing process like?
Furst: Blue-collar. Up early in the morning and hitting the time clock at 8:00 AM. I have a terrible boss - me.
SoR: What is your editing process like?
Furst: It's every day. Young fiction writers should quickly figure out that it's all in the revision. All of it. The more you revise, the better it gets.
SoR: Any advice for novice writers?
Furst: Don't try to show how smart you are, concentrate on the reader, what is known, what is felt, you're entertaining somebody, not showing off.
SoR: Which movie do you like better, “Casablanca” or “The Third Man”?
Furst: Whoa, tough question. The key is that they're both 'perfect,' but Casablanca is meant to be inspiring and The 3rd Man teaches a moral lesson, so, stay with Rick.
SoR: What is your writing process like?
Strand: I don't know what it's like. It's not like anything else. It resembles only itself. And it changes.
SoR: Likewise, what is your editing process like?
Strand: My editing process is like my editing process. I simply go over what I've written and get rid of or correct what I don't like.
SoR:How did studying painting under Josef Albers affect your writing, if indeed it did?
Strand: When I painted in art school I wasn't writing. But I do think my study with Albers had some effect on my writing. Simplicity, directness as ways of increasing the power of ambiguity instead of inhibiting it. That's something I learned from Albers.
SoR: You have certainly traveled far and wide having spent your early years in Central and South America and traveling to Italy on a Fulbright Scholarship to name a few of the places you've been. Additionally, you have done a lot of translations. Do you feel like there is a particular language you are especially fond of? Perhaps a language that lends its sounds and syllables more appropriately to a particular genre or emotion?
Strand: The only language I know well, and some may question how well, is English. I struggle with Italian. I read Spanish, but not with any regularity or with any marked pleasure. I simply read it. I'm not sure that the sounds of the language lend themselves to a particular genre or emotion. I know that the Spaniards or the Spanish poets can appear to be more emotionally direct than, say, American poets. But I don't think that has to do with the sound of their language. I think it is a cultural trademark. Americans are generally more withheld emotionally, probably owing to their deeply embedded Puritanism.
SoR: As a prolific writer and educator, what do you feel are the responsibilities of the contemporary writer and what are the responsibilities does the contemporary reader have?
Strand: The responsibility of the contemporary writer is what it has been for all writers, and that is to write well. Writing well is not simply an aesthetic issue. It is a moral one as well. This is something that seems to have been forgotten in today's era of very bad writing.
SoR: How did you deal with the rejection of your work and if you still do?
Strand: I never felt rejected even when I was being rejected. Submitting poems for me was a game. If I took rejection personally, I would have gone mad.
SoR: Do you have any advice for budding writers?
Strand: My advice to budding writers is to read the great books, to keep their eyes and ears open, and their mouths shut for as long as possible.
SoR: What is the significance of abstraction in your poetry?
Strand: All writing is abstract.
SoR: Where do you feel contemporary poetry is heading in America?
Strand: I don't know where it's going, but if I knew I wouldn't go there.
For Your Eyes Only: Interview with Allan Furst
September 15, 2010
Interviewed By: Steven Froias
Alan Furst has achieved critical and popular success with his series of espionage themed novels set just prior to and during WWII. His newest is titled “Spies of the Balkans.”
SoR: I’ve read that to achieve the level of authenticity found in your books you have studied letters, diaries and memoirs from the pre and WWII European era. Where do you look for this material?
Furst: I don't actually do very much with original material, like diaries and letters. I do use memoirs, all the time, written by people who survived the war and who had some contact with resistance movements. Finding those isn't easy, there's no method, and many have been self-published. But, when you read in a concentrated area, all the time, literally every day, you do stumble across them, and there's always the internet, what I call the 3rd Google page internet. I believe the simple answer is that if you're looking for whatever and put in the time, there are good things to be found.
SoR: Have you ever interviewed people who may have been involved in espionage activity during the time period in which your novels are set?
Furst: No, in general I never interview people, or hear their stories. The reason is that if I'm unable to use what they tell me, it's as though it isn't "good enough," and I don't want to hurt feelings. There are so many books on every aspect of this period that finding histories of secret service operations is no problem. Sometimes you wonder who the hell to believe--it's very abundant.
SoR: Does your research ever suggest a story line for a book or is it all a product of your imagination?
Furst: I almost never use my imagination; it isn't nearly as inventive as history itself, so I find most of my story lines by taking real events and tailoring the surroundings to include my own characters. For instance, in Spies of the Balkans, there really was a coup d'etat in Yugoslavia on the dates in the novel. Was there a Greek detective there at the time? Well, there might have been--it's the possibility always present that fiction, my fiction anyhow, uses.
SoR: Most reviewers cite Graham Greene as a literary precursor to your work. We at Splash of Red think Hemingway might be a more apt point of comparison. The typical Furst hero, like Hemingway’s, possess a unique moral compass. Are your main characters based on any specific people in real life or literature?
Furst: I think you're right about Hemingway - I include "For Whom the Bell Tolls" as a political adventure novel of the period--like Conrad, like Orwell, like Isaac Babel, even back to Stendhal. That's my lineage, not the spy stories of Graham Greene. His best, "The 3rd Man" was a screenplay (the succeeding novel is awful) and the next best, "Our Man in Havana" is about the 50s.
SoR: You vividly write about what every day life was like in a country under German occupation. Do you think that the average New Yorker could handle living as if it were Paris in 1940? Could you?
Furst: I could, and so could you, because the secret is they had no choice. It was in many ways akin to natural disaster, a huge catastrophe and, for Parisians, and New Yorkers, the question becomes: now that this has happened, how shall we deal with it? To understand the dynamic, you go down to the details, so, not 'what shall we do?' but 'what shall we do this morning?' That's how humans cope.
SoR: Why does this era appeal to you? Have you ever thought about writing a contemporary spy novel?
Furst: The era is powerful, it just is, it's on television and in the movies all the time. It had the natural drama of good v. evil, because once the Nazis were involved, there wasn't much question about defining good and evil. The Cold War is different, for whatever reason, WWII and the 30s was like a giant morality play, involving millions of people, with terrible stakes for winning and losing.
SoR: What are your feelings regarding genre fiction versus “literature”? Patricia Highsmith regarded any such distinction as a mere devise by which book stores arrange their inventory. Do you agree?
Furst: Well, it's a slippery slope. Good genre fiction is as worthwhile as serious fiction. For me, after some pressure from fans and reviewers I've stopped calling my work spy novels and have switched to 'novels about spies.' That shouldn't make much of a difference to the reader.
SoR: How long does it typically take you to write a novel? Do you still have to do a lot of research at this point?
Furst: Takes about 3 months of research and 9 months of production writing (pages per day). And yes, more than ever I have to do research.
SoR: What is your writing process like?
Furst: Blue-collar. Up early in the morning and hitting the time clock at 8:00 AM. I have a terrible boss - me.
SoR: What is your editing process like?
Furst: It's every day. Young fiction writers should quickly figure out that it's all in the revision. All of it. The more you revise, the better it gets.
SoR: Any advice for novice writers?
Furst: Don't try to show how smart you are, concentrate on the reader, what is known, what is felt, you're entertaining somebody, not showing off.
SoR: Which movie do you like better, “Casablanca” or “The Third Man”?
Furst: Whoa, tough question. The key is that they're both 'perfect,' but Casablanca is meant to be inspiring and The 3rd Man teaches a moral lesson, so, stay with Rick.
Interview: Oscar Hijuelos
October 26, 2010
Interview By: JT Langley
Oscar Hijuelos is an American author and the first Hispanic person to win a Pulitzer Prize for Fiction. His work has been translated to both film and theater. This award-winning novelist has taught at the university level to the next generations of writers and continues to write and publish.
SoR: What is your writing and editing process like?
Hijuelos: I scribble down ideas at all times of day, and in fact, while writing something, I tend to accumulate more material than I can ever use. So the process becomes a matter of honing things down, and trying to avoid repetitions. But it's endless.
SoR: What can we expect from you in the future regarding your work?
Hijuelos: I have just published a novel, Beautiful Maria of my Soul, and have a memoir, about the way I came up, coming out next Spring. It's called Thoughts Without Cigarettes.
SoR: What was it like having your Pulitzer Prize winning novel The Mambo Kings Play Songs of Love adapted for Broadway and cinema - was it difficult letting others take your writing into their own hands?
Hijuelos: The movie was fun, though I wish I knew back then all I know about the business aspect of it all -- and, as for the musical -- though I had worked up some scripts for it -- the book -- the production was largely out of my hands, and, consequently watered down by various folks, did not conform to my original vision. Having said this, as a show it was quite good and entertaining and should have had a much longer life.
SoR: As if winning the Pulitzer Prize wasn't enough, how was it being the first Hispanic author to win the award?
Hijuelos: Crazy baby. Sort of like being a fish in a bowl -- an illusory experience that I would never want to go through again, though it seemed exciting at the time.
SoR: How much does your Cuban-American heritage influence your writing and do you often draw inspiration from your personal experiences?
Hijuelos: It is the river from which I draw my creative life, and as the fount of my emotions, something I can't help returning to. My personal experiences do play a part in my writing, though, more atmospherically, than literal.
SoR: You made an appearance as a lead vocalist and guitarist on the track "I Want to Eat" from Don't Quit Your Day Job's record "Stranger than Fiction." Do you aspire to one day release any of your personal music and how does your musical passion affect your writing?
Hijuelos: That was one of those mind boggling mistakes that one makes from time to time. I wrote that song mainly because I was told that the recording was about supporting 1st amendment rights. As a rock tune -- which by the way Warren Zevon rather liked (while Lou Reed quipped to me that I shouldn't quit my day job) -- it was pretty good, though it never went anywhere: I wish I had just set up a jam with some of my Latin musician friends, which would have been far easier. But, all in all, it was an interesting caprice. (And how on earth did you find that?) As for music as an influence -- I write as if my pages were sheet music: listening for tones, and melody, though it's not anything that's been noticed.
SoR: What are some of your favorite authors of the new millennium to the present and likewise, what are some of the novel's that first inspired you to be an author?
Hijuelos: I loved Borges, DH Lawrence, and Conrad as a youngster. Garcia Marquez and the Latin American boom writers were also eye openers to me. These days, unfortunately, I find little fiction that appeals to me, however much the writer may be lauded. It seems far too short handed and quipping much of the time, and as I read through some books I am mainly aware of the appalling lack of editing or tender loving care when it comes to language. I do like Graham Swift and Martin Amis, and, among Latino writers, Rudy Anaya and Mayra Montero. Ian McKuen is a superb craftsman, though I find his work a little lacking in the stuff that gets me going: emotion. But he is superb. Mainly, when I am writing, I tend to look at novels from many different periods of time -- and non fiction as well.
SoR: Where do you believe contemporary literature is heading and how do you feel about that?
Hijuelos: I think I answered that above. Some of the work I've read is so riddled with repetitions, of both language and ideas, that I sometimes doubt any editor bothered to read it. Ditto for reviewers. Some of the novels are LOL bad, but, you know I'm from a different generation, and what I like, as opposed to young writers/readers coming up is a matter of conditioning. As it is, very few books blow me away, though I am hopeful that some new lights will come forward in the future.
SoR: What are your feelings on the Kindle? It seems that many authors, readers, students of literature, etc. are torn on what the Kindle does for books and the qualities they hold though it has become a profitable venue for authors. Are you supportive, indifferent or opposed?
Hijuelos: I like the tobacco burns/wine stains/bathtub curled pages of books. I like picking up my copy of Memoirs of Hadrian and remembering that I read certain chapters while sitting by the piscina of Hadrian's villa outside Rome. I will buy old books simply because they will include Christmas greetings. I have a copy of Suetonius's Twelve Caesars from 1648, and a book by Rudyard Kipling signed, "With best wishes for your holidays, Rudy Kipling." So you are asking the wrong person about Kindle, though I see that it is of a great help to editors who know longer have to lug about satchels filled with fifty pounds of manuscript. Still, I am not too happy over the fact that the internet age of downloads forces writers to put their work on computers. So it is not for me, especially since someone I once flew on a plane with, who works in that industry, told me that the Kindles of today will be outdated tomorrow -- and so they will become yet another thing that one accumulates to keep up. (Imagine a library filled not with books, but old Kindles.)
SoR: Do you have any advice for budding writers wishing to pursue their passion for literature?
Hijuelos: Yes, write and write and write: and when you can't write, read -- something good. Still, as one who (unfortunately) has worked on the holidays, I would recommend that writing as little as a paragraph a day, even if you have other things going on, will go a long way to keeping the dream of a book going.
SoR: How would recommend combatting writer’s block?
Hijuelos: That's a tough one: I would simply chill out and spend a day getting re-inspired by reading some beaucoup fiction, though if one is stuck in a narrative, best thing is to 1) not think about others' expectations -- this list would include peers, friends, editors, agents, family members and potential readers. 2) Another approach: if you are stuck because of a narrative problem, I would look at point of view -- maybe the story is emanating from a source you never suspected: a female voice as opposed to a male, for example. 3) Another approach is to flip modes: if you have been writing in 1st person flip it to third, and vice versa -- see what happens. Also, I've found most things written in present tense tend to put me to sleep. I feel that now even as I turn my head to look out the window, where a bird flies after a worm and throws up. So flip that to past tense. 4) Something as seemingly inconsequential as changing a character's name or title of piece can make a difference as well. Mainly, just keep writing.
Jane Springer on Modern Writing
December 13, 2010
April 7, 2011
October 26, 2010
Interview By: JT Langley
Oscar Hijuelos is an American author and the first Hispanic person to win a Pulitzer Prize for Fiction. His work has been translated to both film and theater. This award-winning novelist has taught at the university level to the next generations of writers and continues to write and publish.
SoR: What is your writing and editing process like?
Hijuelos: I scribble down ideas at all times of day, and in fact, while writing something, I tend to accumulate more material than I can ever use. So the process becomes a matter of honing things down, and trying to avoid repetitions. But it's endless.
SoR: What can we expect from you in the future regarding your work?
Hijuelos: I have just published a novel, Beautiful Maria of my Soul, and have a memoir, about the way I came up, coming out next Spring. It's called Thoughts Without Cigarettes.
SoR: What was it like having your Pulitzer Prize winning novel The Mambo Kings Play Songs of Love adapted for Broadway and cinema - was it difficult letting others take your writing into their own hands?
Hijuelos: The movie was fun, though I wish I knew back then all I know about the business aspect of it all -- and, as for the musical -- though I had worked up some scripts for it -- the book -- the production was largely out of my hands, and, consequently watered down by various folks, did not conform to my original vision. Having said this, as a show it was quite good and entertaining and should have had a much longer life.
SoR: As if winning the Pulitzer Prize wasn't enough, how was it being the first Hispanic author to win the award?
Hijuelos: Crazy baby. Sort of like being a fish in a bowl -- an illusory experience that I would never want to go through again, though it seemed exciting at the time.
SoR: How much does your Cuban-American heritage influence your writing and do you often draw inspiration from your personal experiences?
Hijuelos: It is the river from which I draw my creative life, and as the fount of my emotions, something I can't help returning to. My personal experiences do play a part in my writing, though, more atmospherically, than literal.
SoR: You made an appearance as a lead vocalist and guitarist on the track "I Want to Eat" from Don't Quit Your Day Job's record "Stranger than Fiction." Do you aspire to one day release any of your personal music and how does your musical passion affect your writing?
Hijuelos: That was one of those mind boggling mistakes that one makes from time to time. I wrote that song mainly because I was told that the recording was about supporting 1st amendment rights. As a rock tune -- which by the way Warren Zevon rather liked (while Lou Reed quipped to me that I shouldn't quit my day job) -- it was pretty good, though it never went anywhere: I wish I had just set up a jam with some of my Latin musician friends, which would have been far easier. But, all in all, it was an interesting caprice. (And how on earth did you find that?) As for music as an influence -- I write as if my pages were sheet music: listening for tones, and melody, though it's not anything that's been noticed.
SoR: What are some of your favorite authors of the new millennium to the present and likewise, what are some of the novel's that first inspired you to be an author?
Hijuelos: I loved Borges, DH Lawrence, and Conrad as a youngster. Garcia Marquez and the Latin American boom writers were also eye openers to me. These days, unfortunately, I find little fiction that appeals to me, however much the writer may be lauded. It seems far too short handed and quipping much of the time, and as I read through some books I am mainly aware of the appalling lack of editing or tender loving care when it comes to language. I do like Graham Swift and Martin Amis, and, among Latino writers, Rudy Anaya and Mayra Montero. Ian McKuen is a superb craftsman, though I find his work a little lacking in the stuff that gets me going: emotion. But he is superb. Mainly, when I am writing, I tend to look at novels from many different periods of time -- and non fiction as well.
SoR: Where do you believe contemporary literature is heading and how do you feel about that?
Hijuelos: I think I answered that above. Some of the work I've read is so riddled with repetitions, of both language and ideas, that I sometimes doubt any editor bothered to read it. Ditto for reviewers. Some of the novels are LOL bad, but, you know I'm from a different generation, and what I like, as opposed to young writers/readers coming up is a matter of conditioning. As it is, very few books blow me away, though I am hopeful that some new lights will come forward in the future.
SoR: What are your feelings on the Kindle? It seems that many authors, readers, students of literature, etc. are torn on what the Kindle does for books and the qualities they hold though it has become a profitable venue for authors. Are you supportive, indifferent or opposed?
Hijuelos: I like the tobacco burns/wine stains/bathtub curled pages of books. I like picking up my copy of Memoirs of Hadrian and remembering that I read certain chapters while sitting by the piscina of Hadrian's villa outside Rome. I will buy old books simply because they will include Christmas greetings. I have a copy of Suetonius's Twelve Caesars from 1648, and a book by Rudyard Kipling signed, "With best wishes for your holidays, Rudy Kipling." So you are asking the wrong person about Kindle, though I see that it is of a great help to editors who know longer have to lug about satchels filled with fifty pounds of manuscript. Still, I am not too happy over the fact that the internet age of downloads forces writers to put their work on computers. So it is not for me, especially since someone I once flew on a plane with, who works in that industry, told me that the Kindles of today will be outdated tomorrow -- and so they will become yet another thing that one accumulates to keep up. (Imagine a library filled not with books, but old Kindles.)
SoR: Do you have any advice for budding writers wishing to pursue their passion for literature?
Hijuelos: Yes, write and write and write: and when you can't write, read -- something good. Still, as one who (unfortunately) has worked on the holidays, I would recommend that writing as little as a paragraph a day, even if you have other things going on, will go a long way to keeping the dream of a book going.
SoR: How would recommend combatting writer’s block?
Hijuelos: That's a tough one: I would simply chill out and spend a day getting re-inspired by reading some beaucoup fiction, though if one is stuck in a narrative, best thing is to 1) not think about others' expectations -- this list would include peers, friends, editors, agents, family members and potential readers. 2) Another approach: if you are stuck because of a narrative problem, I would look at point of view -- maybe the story is emanating from a source you never suspected: a female voice as opposed to a male, for example. 3) Another approach is to flip modes: if you have been writing in 1st person flip it to third, and vice versa -- see what happens. Also, I've found most things written in present tense tend to put me to sleep. I feel that now even as I turn my head to look out the window, where a bird flies after a worm and throws up. So flip that to past tense. 4) Something as seemingly inconsequential as changing a character's name or title of piece can make a difference as well. Mainly, just keep writing.
Jane Springer on Modern Writing
December 13, 2010
Jane Springer received her PhD in creative writing from
Florida State and is currently a Visiting Assistant Professor of Poetry
at Hamilton College. Her first book, Dear Blackbird, won the
Agha Shahid Ali prize for poetry (University of Utah Press, 2007). Her
poems have received, among other honors, an AWP Intro Award, and The
Robert Penn Warren Prize for Poetry. In April of 2007, Brett Lott
invited her to read as The Southern Review's representative
emerging talent for "Periodically Speaking" at The New York Public
Library. Her poems may be accessed online in journals such as AGNI, Poetry Daily, and Verse Daily or in print from journals such as The Cincinnati Review, New Letters, Lyric, and The Southern Review.
SoR: How do you get your inspiration?
Springer: I’m naturally curious—so I usually begin with a question. Here’s an example: My husband found notes tucked behind the door frame of a house he tore down and rebuilt in Calvary, Georgia. The notes were between a late-teen girl and 11 year old boy—a love affair—they were cousins. I know a foster mother was shot and killed by one of her sons in that house one afternoon when he came home from school. So the question: What, if anything, did the notes have to do with the murder? That is the inspiration for my next book. The first book started more simply with an image: A blackbird flying over a levy—where was it going?
SoR: What is your writing/editing style?
Springer: In my first book I wrote a line about a family sipping “milk” on a “moonlit porch.” Good grief. In that actual house two brothers threw whole six packs at each other—holes in the walls the size of badgers. I suppose I thought beer was too cliché to write about so I “prettied the story up” and ruined it in the process. That’s to say I revise long after my poems are published because it takes me years to find all the mistakes in them.
SoR: How do you handle writer’s block or do you even get it?
Springer: I don’t get writer’s block—but I do get writer’s boredom-with-my-own-style. When that happens I study the poems I love by re-writing them in my own words to figure out how they work. Sometimes I work on formal poems such as ghazals or sestinas so that I am forced to consider new ways of breaking lines or playing with rhyme, meter, and repetition. If my own poems still bore me after that, then I put them away and read or focus on my teaching for awhile.
SoR: Your poetry is very imaginative. What does poetry in general mean to you and what does writing poetry, likewise, mean in your life?
Springer: Thank you for the compliment. Reading poetry has, for me, no practical use. I love that. To sit down and feel overly burdened with philosophical questions that have no definitive answers, or awed from being put in a landscape unfamiliar to me, or giddy over someone imagining herself as a hot dog in the freezer section is, to me, a sheer delight and an affirmation of my belief that more thought and whimsy is what the gods want for us—more than they want our toilets clean or our souls in stocks.
Writing poetry means that when Virgil writes to tell me about his sheep I can write him back and say: See how the Pastoral has changed? Now we hire goats to eat kudzu out of the mall parking lot. I love talking back to dead people about what state the world’s in, now.
SoR: Who was your inspiration whether in poetry or any other aspect of your life that led you to where you are now?
Springer: Aw. I can’t answer that for fear of leaving someone out. I’ll share this one scrap: My Dad cheated at scrabble. He made up words and definitions so convincing we’d not challenge the lies until his laughter betrayed their origins—and even then we added them to his score. He taught me that the boundaries of language are movable and that the fantastic lie often rings more true (and is more fun) than the mundane truth.
SoR: Where do you see yourself in the future?
Springer: Nothing I imagine for myself is as good as what I get—so I’ve given in to waiting to see what happens next and loving the surprise. Or hating the surprise, and turning to bird-watching or the Avett Brothers for solace.
SoR: Poetry seems to be making a resurgence in popular culture, but a slow one. Where do you see the genre fitting in amongst the popular prose of the times?
Springer: I love what folks are doing with Youtube and poetry because the auditory element brings poetry back to its origins. That said—my favorite poems are not “popular”—they are well guarded secrets that seem to fit in nowhere but in my hands.
SoR: What do you think is the role of the poet and vice versa, the role of the reader?
Springer: The role of the poet is to swear off roles and the role of the reader is to love what she loves and close the cover on whatever bores her to the marrow.
SoR: As all writers at one point (or perhaps all points) in their writing career face rejection, how did you (or do you) handle rejection of your work?
Springer: I treat rejection the same way I treat acceptance: Those fools obviously made a mistake (and in the case of the latter—I hope they don’t catch it). This was not always the case—In my sullen youth, after receiving a series of form rejections from The Paris Review, I wrote a batch of naughty letters back to the editors that began: Dear Paris, and ended: Love, Helen of Troy. Well, you see what trouble befell that empire.
SoR: What advice do you have for budding poets out there?
Springer: I would say welcome, I am glad you are here, I hope you will stay awhile—long enough that I have the pleasure of getting to know you through your work.
SoR: Objectively (I know this interview is for a literary magazine), what role do you feel literary magazines play in the literary culture? As a writer, where do they succeed and where do they fall short?
Springer: They help create the necessary diversity that makes a culture thrive. Without them we’d have more of what is “sale-able” and less of what is an anomaly. I would hate to shop at a grocery story that only offered one kind of fruit. More and more grocers tell me the orange is all I need to meet my basic vitamin C quotient. Well, yes, but I hate words like “basic” and “quotient,” what I need and desire are two different things. Literary magazines are, to me, the alternative grocers who stock more star fruit and pomegranates than oranges.
For a writer, magazines succeed when they get read and funded. When the best ones “go under” it is we—their would-be readership and contributors—who have failed to give them adequate support.
Interview with Richard RussoSoR: How do you get your inspiration?
Springer: I’m naturally curious—so I usually begin with a question. Here’s an example: My husband found notes tucked behind the door frame of a house he tore down and rebuilt in Calvary, Georgia. The notes were between a late-teen girl and 11 year old boy—a love affair—they were cousins. I know a foster mother was shot and killed by one of her sons in that house one afternoon when he came home from school. So the question: What, if anything, did the notes have to do with the murder? That is the inspiration for my next book. The first book started more simply with an image: A blackbird flying over a levy—where was it going?
SoR: What is your writing/editing style?
Springer: In my first book I wrote a line about a family sipping “milk” on a “moonlit porch.” Good grief. In that actual house two brothers threw whole six packs at each other—holes in the walls the size of badgers. I suppose I thought beer was too cliché to write about so I “prettied the story up” and ruined it in the process. That’s to say I revise long after my poems are published because it takes me years to find all the mistakes in them.
SoR: How do you handle writer’s block or do you even get it?
Springer: I don’t get writer’s block—but I do get writer’s boredom-with-my-own-style. When that happens I study the poems I love by re-writing them in my own words to figure out how they work. Sometimes I work on formal poems such as ghazals or sestinas so that I am forced to consider new ways of breaking lines or playing with rhyme, meter, and repetition. If my own poems still bore me after that, then I put them away and read or focus on my teaching for awhile.
SoR: Your poetry is very imaginative. What does poetry in general mean to you and what does writing poetry, likewise, mean in your life?
Springer: Thank you for the compliment. Reading poetry has, for me, no practical use. I love that. To sit down and feel overly burdened with philosophical questions that have no definitive answers, or awed from being put in a landscape unfamiliar to me, or giddy over someone imagining herself as a hot dog in the freezer section is, to me, a sheer delight and an affirmation of my belief that more thought and whimsy is what the gods want for us—more than they want our toilets clean or our souls in stocks.
Writing poetry means that when Virgil writes to tell me about his sheep I can write him back and say: See how the Pastoral has changed? Now we hire goats to eat kudzu out of the mall parking lot. I love talking back to dead people about what state the world’s in, now.
SoR: Who was your inspiration whether in poetry or any other aspect of your life that led you to where you are now?
Springer: Aw. I can’t answer that for fear of leaving someone out. I’ll share this one scrap: My Dad cheated at scrabble. He made up words and definitions so convincing we’d not challenge the lies until his laughter betrayed their origins—and even then we added them to his score. He taught me that the boundaries of language are movable and that the fantastic lie often rings more true (and is more fun) than the mundane truth.
SoR: Where do you see yourself in the future?
Springer: Nothing I imagine for myself is as good as what I get—so I’ve given in to waiting to see what happens next and loving the surprise. Or hating the surprise, and turning to bird-watching or the Avett Brothers for solace.
SoR: Poetry seems to be making a resurgence in popular culture, but a slow one. Where do you see the genre fitting in amongst the popular prose of the times?
Springer: I love what folks are doing with Youtube and poetry because the auditory element brings poetry back to its origins. That said—my favorite poems are not “popular”—they are well guarded secrets that seem to fit in nowhere but in my hands.
SoR: What do you think is the role of the poet and vice versa, the role of the reader?
Springer: The role of the poet is to swear off roles and the role of the reader is to love what she loves and close the cover on whatever bores her to the marrow.
SoR: As all writers at one point (or perhaps all points) in their writing career face rejection, how did you (or do you) handle rejection of your work?
Springer: I treat rejection the same way I treat acceptance: Those fools obviously made a mistake (and in the case of the latter—I hope they don’t catch it). This was not always the case—In my sullen youth, after receiving a series of form rejections from The Paris Review, I wrote a batch of naughty letters back to the editors that began: Dear Paris, and ended: Love, Helen of Troy. Well, you see what trouble befell that empire.
SoR: What advice do you have for budding poets out there?
Springer: I would say welcome, I am glad you are here, I hope you will stay awhile—long enough that I have the pleasure of getting to know you through your work.
SoR: Objectively (I know this interview is for a literary magazine), what role do you feel literary magazines play in the literary culture? As a writer, where do they succeed and where do they fall short?
Springer: They help create the necessary diversity that makes a culture thrive. Without them we’d have more of what is “sale-able” and less of what is an anomaly. I would hate to shop at a grocery story that only offered one kind of fruit. More and more grocers tell me the orange is all I need to meet my basic vitamin C quotient. Well, yes, but I hate words like “basic” and “quotient,” what I need and desire are two different things. Literary magazines are, to me, the alternative grocers who stock more star fruit and pomegranates than oranges.
For a writer, magazines succeed when they get read and funded. When the best ones “go under” it is we—their would-be readership and contributors—who have failed to give them adequate support.
April 7, 2011
Richard Russo is a Pulitzer Prize winning American author,
short story writer, screenwriter and teacher. Russo won the 2002
Pulitzer Prize for Fiction for his 2001 novel, Empire Falls. He has
written seven novels, a short story collection, co-wrote the film
Twilight (1998), wrote the screenplay for Ice Harvest (2005) and Keeping
Mum (2005) and had his novels Nobody's Fool and Empire Falls put to
screen. He currently lives in Camden, Maine where he continues to write.
SoR: What is your writing and editing process like?
Russo: My writing process has changed over the years and not necessarily for the better. As a younger writer I’d power through my first drafts, completely untroubled by how perfectly wretched the writing often was. My feeling was that anything you could fix with a pencil was minor. The important thing was to get that first draft finished. Was it bad? Well, of course it was. But my thinking was that you had to have a bad draft before you could figure out why it was bad and how to make it better. Would there be several more badly flawed drafts before I’d show it to anybody? Of course. And would there be yet more drafts after that? Sure. There are many advantages to working this way, the most important of which is that it reduces daily anxiety. If you assume going in that what you write today will stink and that it probably won’t get much better until some remote date, you’re less likely to have a nervous breakdown or to collapse under the weight of daily failure. It’s an act of both faith and self-deception, and for me it worked until fairly recently.
SoR: Why doesn’t it anymore?
Russo: I wish I knew. At this stage in my career acts of faith should be easier to pull off. After all, I’ve written several novels and I now have more reason to believe that things will eventually work out than I did when I was younger and less experienced. In that sense there’s less self-deception involved as well. But maybe that’s just the nature of faith. The more empirical evidence and experience you bring to bear, the less faith is required. And maybe there are limits to the number of times even a man like me can fool himself using the same trick. At any rate I now start to obsess about all sorts of things much earlier now than I used to. A truly ugly, grotesque sentence troubles me and the offense is not just aesthetic. The ugliness of the sentence, I fear, may manifest some basic misunderstanding, some failure of imagination (something that can’t be fixed with a pencil), and I won’t know for sure until I’ve prodded and pestered it. Similarly, I never used to worry about structure until I had a completed first draft. That was one of the things I expected that first draft to make clear to me. Now I start thinking about the shape of size and shape of the vessel almost from the start, long before, I suspect, I can reasonably be expected to intuit them. What all of this may come down to is that as I’ve gotten older I’ve become more impatient and difficult to please.
SoR: What do you find most rewarding about writing and likewise, what are the greatest challenges?
Russo: For me, writing has nothing to do with telling people what I think and everything to do with discovering what I think. Writing is how I think. Like many people, I have a lot of opinions. Give me a glass of wine, some good company and watch me go. Give me a second glass of wine and I have even more opinions on an even wider array of subjects. The problem is that these opinions tend to fall into two categories. Either the opinion is erroneous because I haven’t given it enough serious thought, or it’s a sound opinion that I’m parroting (that is, I thought the whole thing through at some point but it’s since calcified into a kind of dinner party set piece). Real thinking is much more humble, and its origin is curiosity. Real thinking (and writing) comes from not knowing but wanting to. When a sentence you’ve written stares back at you, it’s always asking the same set of questions: Is this true? Do I really believe this? Does this square with my own experience of life, or am I just buying into the prevailing wisdom? A writer’s daily work should resemble a cop’s. No two days are identical. It’s unsafe, indeed sometimes lethal, to think you’ve seen or know it all. The best days are the ones that are full of surprises that your considerable experience allows you to recognize, process and understand as new.
SoR: As a former teacher of literature at Colby College, if you could have absolutely ensured your students walked away with one thing learned, what was the most valuable thing you taught?
Russo: At Colby College I taught undergraduates, which meant that even though I was teaching writing, very few of my students, even the most talented ones, would go on to become writers, though a few did. What I wanted my students to understand was the value of a genuinely open and curious mind. Those who do have open minds—and this is a terrible thing to say—are relatively rare, even at our best institutions. I’m not talking about either intelligence or preparedness. Many college professors today especially decry that their students are unprepared for academic rigors, but I never found that to be true. What troubled me was that too many of them came in with agendas and beliefs they didn’t want challenged. Worse, they didn’t seem to understand they were opting out of fun, that the real excitement of university life is in discovering just how wrong you can be. Sometimes my students' ideologies (political, cultural, religious, whatever) were already so calcified that they were in danger of graduating pretty much the same people they were when they entered as freshmen, and I can’t imagine a greater tragedy. That’s why I was so happy teaching fiction writing, because you can’t develop fictional characters without learning empathy, which in turn undermines ideology. Better yet, beginners don’t understand just how subversive imagination is. Give them a taste and the walls come crashing down.
SoR: What was it like facing publication rejection as a writer and how did you overcome it?
Russo: Was it Kingsley Amis who said of bad reviews that they’re allowed to ruin your breakfast but not your lunch? The same applies to rejection. I won’t lie and say that I wasn’t wounded by early rejection or that there wasn’t a lot of it. But I had a good writing teacher who said that of all the things a writer needs to succeed in the long run—talent, industry, etc.—nothing was nearly as important as a thick skin. My grandmother’s term for what I’ve always possessed in spades was “cussedness.” Telling me I can’t do something (which is exactly what rejection feels like) is a virtual guarantee that I’ll take up the challenge. It also helps to have a bad memory. During their apprenticeships, writers have to be like closers in baseball. The fact that they got lit up yesterday doesn’t pertain; they’ve found a way to hit the delete button. Reduced to its simplest psychological terms, we all have a little voice in our heads that likes to whisper to us that we’re not good enough. Rejection feeds and empowers that voice. Some people seem temperamentally equipped to respond, “The hell I’m not.” Others say, “You’re right. I know. I’ve always known.” Even success doesn’t silence that voice completely, just makes it manageable. The trick is to persevere until you have some success.
SoR: What responsibility do you think the author has in writing a story and likewise, what responsibility do you think the reader has in reading a story?
Russo: A writer’s primary responsibilities are to entertain and instruct, and that’s enough responsibility for the best of them, enough to last a lifetime. The best readers bring to bear two opposing principles: generosity and critical rigor. By generosity I think I mean a willingness to grant a writer his or her fundamental assumptions. Most people agree there’s no such thing as vampires, but for the purposes of a particular work of art it may be in the reader’s own best interest to temporarily set that belief aside. A reader who says, I don’t like romance novels is denying himself Jane Austen. Another who hates detective novels is denying herself Raymond Chandler. On the other hand, once you’ve generously granted any writer an assumption or two, you're well within your rights to hold that writer up to the lofty standards established by writers like Austen and Chandler.
SoR: What is your writing and editing process like?
Russo: My writing process has changed over the years and not necessarily for the better. As a younger writer I’d power through my first drafts, completely untroubled by how perfectly wretched the writing often was. My feeling was that anything you could fix with a pencil was minor. The important thing was to get that first draft finished. Was it bad? Well, of course it was. But my thinking was that you had to have a bad draft before you could figure out why it was bad and how to make it better. Would there be several more badly flawed drafts before I’d show it to anybody? Of course. And would there be yet more drafts after that? Sure. There are many advantages to working this way, the most important of which is that it reduces daily anxiety. If you assume going in that what you write today will stink and that it probably won’t get much better until some remote date, you’re less likely to have a nervous breakdown or to collapse under the weight of daily failure. It’s an act of both faith and self-deception, and for me it worked until fairly recently.
SoR: Why doesn’t it anymore?
Russo: I wish I knew. At this stage in my career acts of faith should be easier to pull off. After all, I’ve written several novels and I now have more reason to believe that things will eventually work out than I did when I was younger and less experienced. In that sense there’s less self-deception involved as well. But maybe that’s just the nature of faith. The more empirical evidence and experience you bring to bear, the less faith is required. And maybe there are limits to the number of times even a man like me can fool himself using the same trick. At any rate I now start to obsess about all sorts of things much earlier now than I used to. A truly ugly, grotesque sentence troubles me and the offense is not just aesthetic. The ugliness of the sentence, I fear, may manifest some basic misunderstanding, some failure of imagination (something that can’t be fixed with a pencil), and I won’t know for sure until I’ve prodded and pestered it. Similarly, I never used to worry about structure until I had a completed first draft. That was one of the things I expected that first draft to make clear to me. Now I start thinking about the shape of size and shape of the vessel almost from the start, long before, I suspect, I can reasonably be expected to intuit them. What all of this may come down to is that as I’ve gotten older I’ve become more impatient and difficult to please.
SoR: What do you find most rewarding about writing and likewise, what are the greatest challenges?
Russo: For me, writing has nothing to do with telling people what I think and everything to do with discovering what I think. Writing is how I think. Like many people, I have a lot of opinions. Give me a glass of wine, some good company and watch me go. Give me a second glass of wine and I have even more opinions on an even wider array of subjects. The problem is that these opinions tend to fall into two categories. Either the opinion is erroneous because I haven’t given it enough serious thought, or it’s a sound opinion that I’m parroting (that is, I thought the whole thing through at some point but it’s since calcified into a kind of dinner party set piece). Real thinking is much more humble, and its origin is curiosity. Real thinking (and writing) comes from not knowing but wanting to. When a sentence you’ve written stares back at you, it’s always asking the same set of questions: Is this true? Do I really believe this? Does this square with my own experience of life, or am I just buying into the prevailing wisdom? A writer’s daily work should resemble a cop’s. No two days are identical. It’s unsafe, indeed sometimes lethal, to think you’ve seen or know it all. The best days are the ones that are full of surprises that your considerable experience allows you to recognize, process and understand as new.
SoR: As a former teacher of literature at Colby College, if you could have absolutely ensured your students walked away with one thing learned, what was the most valuable thing you taught?
Russo: At Colby College I taught undergraduates, which meant that even though I was teaching writing, very few of my students, even the most talented ones, would go on to become writers, though a few did. What I wanted my students to understand was the value of a genuinely open and curious mind. Those who do have open minds—and this is a terrible thing to say—are relatively rare, even at our best institutions. I’m not talking about either intelligence or preparedness. Many college professors today especially decry that their students are unprepared for academic rigors, but I never found that to be true. What troubled me was that too many of them came in with agendas and beliefs they didn’t want challenged. Worse, they didn’t seem to understand they were opting out of fun, that the real excitement of university life is in discovering just how wrong you can be. Sometimes my students' ideologies (political, cultural, religious, whatever) were already so calcified that they were in danger of graduating pretty much the same people they were when they entered as freshmen, and I can’t imagine a greater tragedy. That’s why I was so happy teaching fiction writing, because you can’t develop fictional characters without learning empathy, which in turn undermines ideology. Better yet, beginners don’t understand just how subversive imagination is. Give them a taste and the walls come crashing down.
SoR: What was it like facing publication rejection as a writer and how did you overcome it?
Russo: Was it Kingsley Amis who said of bad reviews that they’re allowed to ruin your breakfast but not your lunch? The same applies to rejection. I won’t lie and say that I wasn’t wounded by early rejection or that there wasn’t a lot of it. But I had a good writing teacher who said that of all the things a writer needs to succeed in the long run—talent, industry, etc.—nothing was nearly as important as a thick skin. My grandmother’s term for what I’ve always possessed in spades was “cussedness.” Telling me I can’t do something (which is exactly what rejection feels like) is a virtual guarantee that I’ll take up the challenge. It also helps to have a bad memory. During their apprenticeships, writers have to be like closers in baseball. The fact that they got lit up yesterday doesn’t pertain; they’ve found a way to hit the delete button. Reduced to its simplest psychological terms, we all have a little voice in our heads that likes to whisper to us that we’re not good enough. Rejection feeds and empowers that voice. Some people seem temperamentally equipped to respond, “The hell I’m not.” Others say, “You’re right. I know. I’ve always known.” Even success doesn’t silence that voice completely, just makes it manageable. The trick is to persevere until you have some success.
SoR: What responsibility do you think the author has in writing a story and likewise, what responsibility do you think the reader has in reading a story?
Russo: A writer’s primary responsibilities are to entertain and instruct, and that’s enough responsibility for the best of them, enough to last a lifetime. The best readers bring to bear two opposing principles: generosity and critical rigor. By generosity I think I mean a willingness to grant a writer his or her fundamental assumptions. Most people agree there’s no such thing as vampires, but for the purposes of a particular work of art it may be in the reader’s own best interest to temporarily set that belief aside. A reader who says, I don’t like romance novels is denying himself Jane Austen. Another who hates detective novels is denying herself Raymond Chandler. On the other hand, once you’ve generously granted any writer an assumption or two, you're well within your rights to hold that writer up to the lofty standards established by writers like Austen and Chandler.
Dual Interview: David Kirby & Barbara Hamby
April 14, 2011
This is a Splash of Red “Special Interview” for our readers. For the first time, we’ve done a dual interview with two amazing and critically acclaimed writers who just so happened to be married to one another. We wanted to see how their responses compared and contrasted and the result is what we present for you, now. Enjoy.
David Kirby is a prolific poet and professor at Florida State University. His accolades include a Guggenheim Fellowship, Pushcart Prize winner, regularly featured in The Best American Poetry series, a National Book Award nominee and recipient of a grant from The National Endowment for the Arts. His wife, Barbara Hamby, is also one of America’s beloved poets.
Barbara Hamby is an American novelist and poet currently teaching in the creative writing program at Florida State University. Some of her awards include the New York University Prize for Poetry, the Vasser Miller Prize, a fellowship from the National Endowment for the Arts and a Pushcart Prize. Her husband, David Kirby, is also a teacher at FSU and a very accomplished writer.
SoR: What are the greatest challenges and rewards in writing for you?
Kirby: The challenge and the reward are the same thing. The job is to get it right, to come up with a poem that the reader can't resist. That's not easy, which is the challenge, but you always try to write the poem in such a way that the reader says, "Wow!" And that's your reward.
Hamby: I think the greatest challenge is not to let your ideas about what you want to write interfere with the process of writing. Of course, you sit down to write with images and ideas in mind, but writing takes place in the moment, and you have to let that moment inform your poem or story rather than forcing an abstract idea. When a character does something surprising or a poem goes in a completely surprising direction—for me that is the greatest reward. It's magic.
SoR: To you, David, you choose poetry as your genre of choice and Barbara, though you’ve written fiction, you mostly write poetry as well. Why choose these genres as opposed to other creative mediums?
Kirby: Art's not an option for me; I couldn't draw a straight line between two points that are an inch apart. Now I do play the guitar, and I write tons of non-fiction. Poetry is king to me, though; as I suggest in my answer to question #1, there's nothing harder and yet nothing more rewarding. That makes sense, though, doesn't it? What have you ever done that was intensely satisfying that didn't call for an enormous amount of very hard work?
Hamby: I think poetry chose me. I’ve been writing fiction as long as I’ve been writing poetry. In fact, my first published work was a story in my elementary school newspaper when I was in the third grade. And I read as much fiction as I do poetry. In college I had both poetry and fiction published in the Intro series. Going back to the first question, I think I was able to let go more easily in writing poetry and not try to impose my ideas on my poems.
In fiction, because it is more linear and more imbedded in the world, I really had a hard time letting my characters speak. For example, the first story in my book “Lester Higata’s 20th Century,” I knew the main character would die, but for years I wanted it to be the story of Lester and his son Paul. I wanted them to go out on Paul’s boat on an excursion to the northern islands in the Hawaiian archipelago and just disappear into the void. I really love Poe’s novel “The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym,” and I wanted to do a rewrite of that for my last story. I can’t tell you how many times I tried to write that story, but Lester didn’t want to go there with me. Finally, I let go and realized it was about Lester and his father rather than Lester and his son, and I wrote a draft in a white heat over a couple of days. I’m hoping that the experience taught me something, but who knows?
SoR: Where do you see contemporary poetry heading in America as opposed to the international poetry community?
Kirby: Oh, dear! I've been asked a form of this question a lot, and whenever I've tried to answer, I've been totally wrong. Poetry's not readily predictable, but then neither is anything else: people who try to predict next year's stock market or the progress of a war are asking for trouble, and poetry is no different. I will say that probably international poetry will become more like American poetry in that it'll use a mixture of voices and draw more heavily on popular culture. Poetry isn't taught with as much thoroughness and professionalism in other countries, because most don't have the kinds of writing programs we do. But that'll change. The arts are addictive, so the history of the arts is one of expansion. And as that happens, international poetry will take on a different kind of complexity. Unless, of course, it doesn't.
Hamby: America is so lucky to have the dynamic duo of Whitman and Dickinson guiding our poetic schooner. I go to them for inspiration all the time. I don’t really know if you can talk about international poetry as opposed to American poetry. There are poets all over the world whose work I adore. One of the things I find myself thinking about is how any artist can be seduced by craft and forget about the center of any piece of art, which is an act of witness. We are telling our audience what it is to be a human being. My colleague Bob Butler talks about yearning for a place in the world and yearning for identity. I talk to my students about the central self, but I think we are talking about the same thing. When we read a great poem or a great story, we feel as if the writer or poet is speaking directly to us. There is a universal yearning for identity that transcends time and place.
When David and I were at the Aldeburgh Festival in England a few years ago, one thing that struck me is how formal English poetry still is. Some poets were trying for a looser idiom, but most were still using metrics and end rhymes, not that this is bad in itself, but I find that most of the time it gets in the way of the voice of the poet.
In this country there are so many different schools. I think Language poetry has petered out except in graduate programs. So many students are enamored with “experimentation,” but as Tom Lux has said these experiments were done at the beginning of the 20th century. They were a dead end then, and they are a dead end now, because they are intellectually divorced from the emotional. However, I think you can use Language poetry techniques, but you still have to do the hard emotional work at the center of any work of art. The same goes for New Formalism, Surrealism and all the other schools. It’s all a gloss on top of the real artistic center of a poem, as the Bible says, a voice crying out in the wilderness. If you don’t have that, then you have nothing.
SoR: Have you seen your writing evolve over time and if so, how and why? Where is it heading?
Kirby: More predictions, eh? I'm not going to let you trap me again, Dylan! But, yes, of course I've seen my poetry evolve over time. I'd rather have someone else tell me what the changes are, though; I like to know what I'm doing, but I'm not going to do myself or my readers a service if I become my own literary critic.
Hamby: I began writing as a free verse poet, but I began to move to a more formal idiom, counting syllables, using rhymes, and using the abecedarian form. But I found that these formal techniques were a conduit to my unconscious mind. It didn’t work all the time, but most of the time the formal techniques took me to totally surprising places. In my last book, “All-Night Lingo Tango,” I felt as if I had finished with the formal techniques. Now I’m writing free verse again, but there is no poetry without form. I’m using lots of repetition, anaphora, internal rhymes. I used to teach an introductory poetry writing class, and I developed a class on performance poetry. Part of that involved Slam Poetry, which I didn’t have a high opinion of at the time. But I fell in love with Slam, and now I find many Slam influences in my work. These poems are really fun to read aloud.
SoR: If you could define one thing—one characteristic, trait, ability, anything—as most important to writing a good poem or story, what would it be?
Kirby: Well, a poem's show biz, isn't it? In the sense that a book, a piece of music, a movie is. And as with those genres, what you the consumer wants is something that's familiar enough to make you feel comfortable yet new enough to recharge you in some way. This, of course, is exactly what the poet is trying to do as he creates. I mean, you have to begin with what you know, but you always want to play with it and push it and neglect it and come back to it until that "Aha!" moment when the change occurs.
Hamby: As I said earlier, it’s that expression of what it is to be a human being in time, knowing that one day your time will run out and you will not exist. The great Spanish poet Federico Garcia Lorca called it duende or the shadow of death. He said that no great work of art can exist without that acknowledgment of death. I think this is especially true of comedy.
SoR: What are your favorite lines of poetry or fiction that you've written—something that really stands out to you and why?
Kirby: You know, there are a lot of poets out there who can quote reams of poetry, their own included. I'm not one of those kinds of poets—true, I can recite a few off-color limericks, but we're not here for that today. I don't look back: in my poetry, I'm always looking ahead, always thinking of the next poem. I do get fascinated by random quotes, though, ones that shape my thinking and writing, however obscurely. Just the other day I ran across this from an English literary critic: the writer wrestles with “the conflict between the human need to make sense of the world through storytelling and our propensity to seek meaning in details (linguistic, symbolic, anecdotal) that are indifferent, even hostile, to story.” Isn't that terrific? It says so much about art of every kind, doesn't it? As both writer and reader, you want the story to advance but you also want to indulge your basic human love of weirdness.
Hamby: I love lines that get a laugh, because I really feel as if I’m connecting with my audience. My poem, “Ode to American English” has a line about Lazarus being raised from the dead, but I am parodying the new translations of the Bible, so I have Jesus say, “Dude, wake up.”
SoR: David, you’ve said that your scientific formula for writing is b + T = P. That equates to a small beginning plus a lot of time equals a big poem. But with writing, as with science, there is a lot of trial and error. So my question to both you and Barbara: What is your editing process like and what is in your consciousness as you write a poem and then edit?
Kirby: Usually I save up tons of scraps of language and then make a poem out of, say, a dozen of them. Walt Whitman did that, and if it's good enough for Whitman, then it's good enough for my unworthy self. Pretty much everything I write goes through four drafts: there's the start-to-finish draft, which I usually show to Barbara. Then there's the restructuring, which can be huge, based on her notes. Then I let the piece sit and give it a haircut. Let it sit again, give it a trim, then . . . out into the world with you, young poem! You're on your own now! Have a great time, and don't forget to write!
Hamby: I used to revise a lot more than I do now, because I think I used to force my writing more. Now I really try to wait until a poem is ready to be written. It’s as if I tinker with them before hand. However, as I write this I’m thinking about a poem that I’ve been working on for a couple of years. I can’t get the ending right. I just can’t. I come back to it over and over hoping to discover the right ending. I was stuck in a lyrical ditch for the longest time. I don’t know what to do, but I hope I will soon.
SoR: What responsibilities do you feel the writer has to the reader and vice versa?
Kirby: I answered that one above, more or less: make the reader comfortable, then push them forward with something new and surprising. I said this in an essay a few years ago: "What I’ve learned is that audiences like to use the familiar elements in a work as a base camp: you set up your tent, get a fire going and then walk out through the ice and hope you don’t (or do) run into the Abominable Snowman. I see art as the deliberate transformed by the accidental: story, image, and sentence are the deliberate aspects, and what happens after that is unpredictable. The known is always the same—same tent, same fire—but the unknown changes, because you never know what you’ll find when you climb the peak." That's still true. I'd say.
Hamby: I want connection. I still believe in truth and beauty, too. But I think the most important thing is connection, one human being connecting with another. Some of my students say they want to make their readers work hard, but I think you have to delight your reader considerably to make them work hard. I’m reading Rushdie’s “Midnight’s Children” now. It’s not an easy read. The prose is dense and very demanding, but the narrator is so delightful—funny, poignant, horrid, hilarious, exasperating—that I am willing to go anywhere he takes me. The same is true of Eliot and Rimbaud.
April 14, 2011
This is a Splash of Red “Special Interview” for our readers. For the first time, we’ve done a dual interview with two amazing and critically acclaimed writers who just so happened to be married to one another. We wanted to see how their responses compared and contrasted and the result is what we present for you, now. Enjoy.
David Kirby is a prolific poet and professor at Florida State University. His accolades include a Guggenheim Fellowship, Pushcart Prize winner, regularly featured in The Best American Poetry series, a National Book Award nominee and recipient of a grant from The National Endowment for the Arts. His wife, Barbara Hamby, is also one of America’s beloved poets.
Barbara Hamby is an American novelist and poet currently teaching in the creative writing program at Florida State University. Some of her awards include the New York University Prize for Poetry, the Vasser Miller Prize, a fellowship from the National Endowment for the Arts and a Pushcart Prize. Her husband, David Kirby, is also a teacher at FSU and a very accomplished writer.
SoR: What are the greatest challenges and rewards in writing for you?
Kirby: The challenge and the reward are the same thing. The job is to get it right, to come up with a poem that the reader can't resist. That's not easy, which is the challenge, but you always try to write the poem in such a way that the reader says, "Wow!" And that's your reward.
Hamby: I think the greatest challenge is not to let your ideas about what you want to write interfere with the process of writing. Of course, you sit down to write with images and ideas in mind, but writing takes place in the moment, and you have to let that moment inform your poem or story rather than forcing an abstract idea. When a character does something surprising or a poem goes in a completely surprising direction—for me that is the greatest reward. It's magic.
SoR: To you, David, you choose poetry as your genre of choice and Barbara, though you’ve written fiction, you mostly write poetry as well. Why choose these genres as opposed to other creative mediums?
Kirby: Art's not an option for me; I couldn't draw a straight line between two points that are an inch apart. Now I do play the guitar, and I write tons of non-fiction. Poetry is king to me, though; as I suggest in my answer to question #1, there's nothing harder and yet nothing more rewarding. That makes sense, though, doesn't it? What have you ever done that was intensely satisfying that didn't call for an enormous amount of very hard work?
Hamby: I think poetry chose me. I’ve been writing fiction as long as I’ve been writing poetry. In fact, my first published work was a story in my elementary school newspaper when I was in the third grade. And I read as much fiction as I do poetry. In college I had both poetry and fiction published in the Intro series. Going back to the first question, I think I was able to let go more easily in writing poetry and not try to impose my ideas on my poems.
In fiction, because it is more linear and more imbedded in the world, I really had a hard time letting my characters speak. For example, the first story in my book “Lester Higata’s 20th Century,” I knew the main character would die, but for years I wanted it to be the story of Lester and his son Paul. I wanted them to go out on Paul’s boat on an excursion to the northern islands in the Hawaiian archipelago and just disappear into the void. I really love Poe’s novel “The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym,” and I wanted to do a rewrite of that for my last story. I can’t tell you how many times I tried to write that story, but Lester didn’t want to go there with me. Finally, I let go and realized it was about Lester and his father rather than Lester and his son, and I wrote a draft in a white heat over a couple of days. I’m hoping that the experience taught me something, but who knows?
SoR: Where do you see contemporary poetry heading in America as opposed to the international poetry community?
Kirby: Oh, dear! I've been asked a form of this question a lot, and whenever I've tried to answer, I've been totally wrong. Poetry's not readily predictable, but then neither is anything else: people who try to predict next year's stock market or the progress of a war are asking for trouble, and poetry is no different. I will say that probably international poetry will become more like American poetry in that it'll use a mixture of voices and draw more heavily on popular culture. Poetry isn't taught with as much thoroughness and professionalism in other countries, because most don't have the kinds of writing programs we do. But that'll change. The arts are addictive, so the history of the arts is one of expansion. And as that happens, international poetry will take on a different kind of complexity. Unless, of course, it doesn't.
Hamby: America is so lucky to have the dynamic duo of Whitman and Dickinson guiding our poetic schooner. I go to them for inspiration all the time. I don’t really know if you can talk about international poetry as opposed to American poetry. There are poets all over the world whose work I adore. One of the things I find myself thinking about is how any artist can be seduced by craft and forget about the center of any piece of art, which is an act of witness. We are telling our audience what it is to be a human being. My colleague Bob Butler talks about yearning for a place in the world and yearning for identity. I talk to my students about the central self, but I think we are talking about the same thing. When we read a great poem or a great story, we feel as if the writer or poet is speaking directly to us. There is a universal yearning for identity that transcends time and place.
When David and I were at the Aldeburgh Festival in England a few years ago, one thing that struck me is how formal English poetry still is. Some poets were trying for a looser idiom, but most were still using metrics and end rhymes, not that this is bad in itself, but I find that most of the time it gets in the way of the voice of the poet.
In this country there are so many different schools. I think Language poetry has petered out except in graduate programs. So many students are enamored with “experimentation,” but as Tom Lux has said these experiments were done at the beginning of the 20th century. They were a dead end then, and they are a dead end now, because they are intellectually divorced from the emotional. However, I think you can use Language poetry techniques, but you still have to do the hard emotional work at the center of any work of art. The same goes for New Formalism, Surrealism and all the other schools. It’s all a gloss on top of the real artistic center of a poem, as the Bible says, a voice crying out in the wilderness. If you don’t have that, then you have nothing.
SoR: Have you seen your writing evolve over time and if so, how and why? Where is it heading?
Kirby: More predictions, eh? I'm not going to let you trap me again, Dylan! But, yes, of course I've seen my poetry evolve over time. I'd rather have someone else tell me what the changes are, though; I like to know what I'm doing, but I'm not going to do myself or my readers a service if I become my own literary critic.
Hamby: I began writing as a free verse poet, but I began to move to a more formal idiom, counting syllables, using rhymes, and using the abecedarian form. But I found that these formal techniques were a conduit to my unconscious mind. It didn’t work all the time, but most of the time the formal techniques took me to totally surprising places. In my last book, “All-Night Lingo Tango,” I felt as if I had finished with the formal techniques. Now I’m writing free verse again, but there is no poetry without form. I’m using lots of repetition, anaphora, internal rhymes. I used to teach an introductory poetry writing class, and I developed a class on performance poetry. Part of that involved Slam Poetry, which I didn’t have a high opinion of at the time. But I fell in love with Slam, and now I find many Slam influences in my work. These poems are really fun to read aloud.
SoR: If you could define one thing—one characteristic, trait, ability, anything—as most important to writing a good poem or story, what would it be?
Kirby: Well, a poem's show biz, isn't it? In the sense that a book, a piece of music, a movie is. And as with those genres, what you the consumer wants is something that's familiar enough to make you feel comfortable yet new enough to recharge you in some way. This, of course, is exactly what the poet is trying to do as he creates. I mean, you have to begin with what you know, but you always want to play with it and push it and neglect it and come back to it until that "Aha!" moment when the change occurs.
Hamby: As I said earlier, it’s that expression of what it is to be a human being in time, knowing that one day your time will run out and you will not exist. The great Spanish poet Federico Garcia Lorca called it duende or the shadow of death. He said that no great work of art can exist without that acknowledgment of death. I think this is especially true of comedy.
SoR: What are your favorite lines of poetry or fiction that you've written—something that really stands out to you and why?
Kirby: You know, there are a lot of poets out there who can quote reams of poetry, their own included. I'm not one of those kinds of poets—true, I can recite a few off-color limericks, but we're not here for that today. I don't look back: in my poetry, I'm always looking ahead, always thinking of the next poem. I do get fascinated by random quotes, though, ones that shape my thinking and writing, however obscurely. Just the other day I ran across this from an English literary critic: the writer wrestles with “the conflict between the human need to make sense of the world through storytelling and our propensity to seek meaning in details (linguistic, symbolic, anecdotal) that are indifferent, even hostile, to story.” Isn't that terrific? It says so much about art of every kind, doesn't it? As both writer and reader, you want the story to advance but you also want to indulge your basic human love of weirdness.
Hamby: I love lines that get a laugh, because I really feel as if I’m connecting with my audience. My poem, “Ode to American English” has a line about Lazarus being raised from the dead, but I am parodying the new translations of the Bible, so I have Jesus say, “Dude, wake up.”
SoR: David, you’ve said that your scientific formula for writing is b + T = P. That equates to a small beginning plus a lot of time equals a big poem. But with writing, as with science, there is a lot of trial and error. So my question to both you and Barbara: What is your editing process like and what is in your consciousness as you write a poem and then edit?
Kirby: Usually I save up tons of scraps of language and then make a poem out of, say, a dozen of them. Walt Whitman did that, and if it's good enough for Whitman, then it's good enough for my unworthy self. Pretty much everything I write goes through four drafts: there's the start-to-finish draft, which I usually show to Barbara. Then there's the restructuring, which can be huge, based on her notes. Then I let the piece sit and give it a haircut. Let it sit again, give it a trim, then . . . out into the world with you, young poem! You're on your own now! Have a great time, and don't forget to write!
Hamby: I used to revise a lot more than I do now, because I think I used to force my writing more. Now I really try to wait until a poem is ready to be written. It’s as if I tinker with them before hand. However, as I write this I’m thinking about a poem that I’ve been working on for a couple of years. I can’t get the ending right. I just can’t. I come back to it over and over hoping to discover the right ending. I was stuck in a lyrical ditch for the longest time. I don’t know what to do, but I hope I will soon.
SoR: What responsibilities do you feel the writer has to the reader and vice versa?
Kirby: I answered that one above, more or less: make the reader comfortable, then push them forward with something new and surprising. I said this in an essay a few years ago: "What I’ve learned is that audiences like to use the familiar elements in a work as a base camp: you set up your tent, get a fire going and then walk out through the ice and hope you don’t (or do) run into the Abominable Snowman. I see art as the deliberate transformed by the accidental: story, image, and sentence are the deliberate aspects, and what happens after that is unpredictable. The known is always the same—same tent, same fire—but the unknown changes, because you never know what you’ll find when you climb the peak." That's still true. I'd say.
Hamby: I want connection. I still believe in truth and beauty, too. But I think the most important thing is connection, one human being connecting with another. Some of my students say they want to make their readers work hard, but I think you have to delight your reader considerably to make them work hard. I’m reading Rushdie’s “Midnight’s Children” now. It’s not an easy read. The prose is dense and very demanding, but the narrator is so delightful—funny, poignant, horrid, hilarious, exasperating—that I am willing to go anywhere he takes me. The same is true of Eliot and Rimbaud.
Interview with James Brock
July 13, 2011
James Brock is an established American poet and professor at Florida Gulf Coast University. Some of his honors include a National Endowment for the Arts Creative Writing Fellowship, Alex Haley Foundation Fellowship and an American Academy of Poets Prize to name a few. He has also written numerous collections of poetry including "Pictures That Got Small" and "The Sunshine Mine Disaster."
SoR: What is your writing process like?
Brock: I don’t write every day, as I’m something of a project-oriented writer. I tend to develop poems around sequences or thematic ideas, and so they tend to cloister together. When I don’t have a particular theme or sequence in mind, I don’t write. As a consequence, much of my writing process is not writing at all, but involved in reading, observing, and listening. When enough of these impressions coalesce around some thing, then I feel that impulse to respond to it, to see it through. I’ll then draft pieces that go together; whether or not that they ultimately fit together is another matter entirely.
In my professional writing life, then, I have gone through months and years of not writing poetry, at least not writing it down, although I continually feel that I am absorbing material and ideas for poetry. And then when I am actually writing poetry, I will do so everyday until it’s drafted, which can go on for months at a time.
SoR: What is your editing process like?
Brock: Honestly, it’s inconsistent. Partly, because I do so much work with pre-writing and drafting—and depending on how you define editing, I’m probably already doing it as I write the first draft—my work comes out fairly intact. Usually, I will immediately begin the revising process upon a first draft, just because the energy and drive are still there.
After those first few drafts, a piece is more or less in some approximate finished state. A few poems will indeed be finished. But most I will set aside and return to them months later. That revision is dictated by what I have done with the other poems in the sequence or within the same thematic concern; I don’t always revise in accord to what that individual poem dictates, but to its conversation and communion with other poems.
What I have worked against over the years is the idea of the distinct, individual, and self-contained poem. Anthologies and the way poetry is conventionally taught have reified this idea of the well wrought urn. Yes, there’s a lot to be said for the poem that is a perfect little gem unto itself. It’s that idea, I believe, that promotes the notion of discipline in poetry writing, of hammering out the little bugger so that all the dents become perfectly smoothed out. My problem with that approach is the assumption that a poem is a discrete, isolated object to be worked over so that it gains acceptance into a magazine (which is a mini-anthology), or later, into the Best American Poetry annual, and ultimately into the Norton Anthology of Contemporary Poetry. Because I tend to group my poems, I have discovered that an individual flawed poem might be absolutely necessary as it communicates with another poem. The tyranny of the anthology is such that an editor sees little problem in ripping out that context and placement of the poem within an individual book of poetry or sequence.
SoR: Where do you get your inspiration from?
Brock: Whims, fancies, joys, pleasures, hurts, upsets, injustices, and beauty. Above all beauty.
SoR: How do you deal with rejection in your writing, as nearly every writer endures?
Brock: The New Yorker published a cartoon that I like to share with my students when we talk about rejection. In it, the cartoon shows a person who has hanged himself, off in a corner. On one wall is a bulletin board posted with scores of rejection notices. In the foreground are two police officers, looking over a letter in a typewriter carriage. One cop says to the other cop, “This has to be the worst suicide note I’ve ever read.”
Having had the opportunity early in my writing career to serve as the editor of Indiana Review, I quickly realized that seeking to publish your work is above all a business transaction. You are essentially submitting content competitively against hundreds of other writers, all for a limited amount of space in a journal that may or may not have 500 subscribers, an ezine that may or may not get 400 hits. So it’s a mix of hubris, believing my work is worthwhile for this transaction, and humility, knowing that the odds are 99% against my work appearing in a magazine that few people will read, that allows me to have some perspective. That’s why when my work is accepted, I am grateful, but not ecstatic, and when my work is rejected, I am disappointed, but not disillusioned.
Publishing, yes, that’s an important aim for me in my writing, but it’s also beside the point of the poetry itself.
SoR: What advice do you give to your students that you find most valuable?
Brock: Read. Read a lot. Read poetry. Read newspapers. Read biographies and histories and novels and plays. Read books on philosophy, the arts, science, natural history, quantum mechanics, political thought. And then enjoy yourself, your life, your lot, and your passions. And if you decide to jot it down, be ambitious with it, even if the ambition is to be silly and goofy, make it big. It should be about something that you’re not sure whether or not you can accomplish. That’s exactly what you should be writing about.
SoR: You've carried numerous jobs such as professor, grocery produce clerk, trailer factory roofer, bear field researcher and librarian. How have these experiences shaped your writing?
Brock: Probably the most important of those jobs for me was the time I was a produce clerk, which was my fall-back occupation when I had resigned from my first professorship gig. I truly was at my wit’s end, and I wasn’t sure I would return to academia. What I liked about the produce work was just tending to the fruits and vegetables, learning how to put them on display, and talking with customers about ways to prepare an artichoke or to peel a mango. It was cyclical, repetitive, boring, and never ending, much like paper grading, but it also renewed my sense of why poetry mattered. It was actually in that period that I wrote my first book-length sequence of poetry, about a mining disaster in northern Idaho in which 91 miners died in 1972.
Those experiences in their totality have probably most informed my own suspicion about writing within an academic setting. Each year, academic poets will typically have to write annual reports, usually detailing in their resumes individual poetry publications and explaining how they are reaching a national audience or how they are in line with expectations for promotion and the like. These annual reports are rather awful, scripted endeavors, and a shrewd academic learns how to accommodate that script without losing his or her soul. Those experiences remind me that a good deal of what I have to do as an academic poet is puffery and bureaucratic drudgery—all of that is necessary within the academic world, and all of that is immaterial to poetry.
SoR: Much of your poetry deals with life experiences. What sort of factors within life attract you?
Brock: My work, I hope, deals with life experiences imaginatively. Even in real life, I’m sometimes prone to making things up. But about the experiences themselves and my uses of them in poetry, the issues are really complicated and simple.
The simple is just taking joy in life, which is not so simple, of course. It’s hard to love humanity, perhaps harder to love yourself or your life, but it’s also easy to have those Whitman moments when there’s something just exquisite in being alive, receptive to all that which is around you, and take the deepest pleasure in one blade of grass.
The complicated is trying to make some poetic sense out of experience, to transform an event from life into some poetic articulation, where you have to give up something of the experience itself to the music and textures of language.
SoR: What is it about poetry that lends itself as the ideal medium for expressing yourself?
Brock: Poetry is not the most direct, clear, or efficient means of self-expression. Better to write that memo, send that text message, update the Facebook status to make your feelings known than writing them in a poem.
What poetry enhances as an expressive medium is concentration and artifice, whether it’s a rambling, free-verse narrative, a post-structuralist, agency-defying, disassociative experiment, or a sonnet. It’s in the concentration and artifice where poetry has its purpose for both the writer and reader of poetry, and ultimately those qualities have little to do with self-expression.
Another way I like to think about it is that while poetry can indeed be personal and confessional, it must not be limited to mere self-expression. It has to have a value beyond being meaningful and precious to me and my own little life. Precisely because poetry is concentrated, artificial language, it will have a difficulty to it, an unfamiliarity to it, because it’s not conventional speech, even when it is playing within those conventions. Yes, poetry can be too difficult, too obscure, too incomprehensible, but when a poem becomes banally accessible, when it seeks a kind of friendly chumminess with the reader, then it’s likely serving other purposes. What makes poetry so powerful to me is its gnostic capacity and its ultimate inutility and its playful be-devilry. So a powerful poem may directly arise from personal experience, may ultimately be only about that particular experience, but it’s the zing in language that’s the thing.
SoR: From where, do you think, you obtained this love for literature and writing, poetry in particular?
Brock: My mother and father, neither of whom went to college, brought books into the home and read them for their own pleasure, not just to read to us. In high school in Boise, I had a very smart teacher, Maggie Ward, who recognized my talent and helped me onto Lawrence Ferlinghetti and Richard Brautigan back in the mid-70s, just the very thing a clever and hormonal 16-year-old needed.
SoR: Where do you see your writing heading in the near future?
Brock: I actually have “retired” from poetry publishing. Other than perhaps publishing a “new and selected” volume ten to twenty years from now, and other than responding to requests from editor-friends, I am no longer submitting poems for individual publication and have no intention of publishing a new book of poetry. I still very much do readings, and I will sell my books as much as I can—I’m still the self-promoter—but I have been doing the poetry-business thing for 35 years, and it has run its course for me. I do so with no regrets over and no animosity about the po-biz and academic poetry, even though I have always been ambivalent about it. Quite simply for me, I don’t see pursuing poetry publishing as leading me to new ground artistically. I’ve been very fortunate in my career, and I genuinely admire other poets seeking to get their work published; it’s a brave and noble and generous act, a very hopeful and affirming and necessary gesture. This decision to retire is just my own peculiarity.
Of course, I am still writing, and still writing something like poetry, but the movement has been toward performance pieces that are poetry-based. I have collaborated with musicians, directors, visual artists, actors, light and sound designers, and dancers on a number of projects over the last three years. What I enjoy about it is the transience and impermanence of performance, that the words simply float away with the movement, the music, the set. It’s such an antithesis to the anthology and its pretense of permanence, the great tome of the greatest hits, augustly sanctioned by the right Ph.D.s, and bound by Norton, where it has been said that these poems are the works that will last, will matter. Maybe so. But I am also someone who likes the idea of all that noise out there, where spoken words vibrate in the air or radio waves transmit beyond the reaches of the solar system, that it’s all ghost noise, all vibrating and diminishing, yet all still there, still disappearing, beneath perception. For me, performative writing addresses that fact of disappearance directly, embraces it without vanity, just something given up to the air and to the moment, and then it is somehow carried with the actors and audience alike, however briefly.
SoR: When writing a poem, do you contemplate how it will sound being read aloud or simply written on the page?
Brock: Depends on the poem. Sometimes, I see lines quite visually, phrasing that is meant to be placed just so on the page. I have poems in which its visual elements on the page are central to its construction, and performing the poem loses that visual dynamic.
Other times, it’s about the physical qualities of the words themselves, where they reside in the body (the lungs, the throat, the nasal cavities, the mouth, the lips, the tongue, the teeth) which is simply pleasurable, where certain words just feel so good in your mouth and their combinations give pleasure. It’s about childhood, being lulled by words as a parent reads to you to sleep.
SoR: Do you ever have writer's block and if so, how do you combat it?
Brock: More like writer’s constipation for me, where the product is hard, meager, and desiccated. Exercise—writing that is not poetry—usually loosens the material, and reading is also good fiber. Because my writing habits come in fits and starts, I am not bothered by going through an inactive period. I always return to it, and fortunately, I’m not much of a perfectionist when it comes to initial drafting.
SoR: How do you see poetry today fitting in amongst the other literary genres and how do you feel about that?
Brock: The more marginalized the better. First, I don’t really buy the large readership arguments that some cultural conservative critics have claimed for poetry—here, I’m thinking of Dana Gioia’s famous arguments in Can Poetry Matter? I’m not convinced poetry has ever been that centerpiece in mainstream culture, especially in relationship to other media and genres and in relationship to general levels of literacy. That’s not to say that poetry doesn’t hold a significant place in culture; think of poems at weddings and funerals, think of poetic writing in sacred texts, but literary poetry is powerful and important in our culture because it resides on the edges, especially economically.
Unlike my novelist buddies, I have no hopes for an agent, let alone selling off movie rights. Unlike my visual artist friends, I’m not scurrying from gallery to gallery, conversing with patrons, and balancing my output so as not to devalue my portfolio. Unlike my performing artist friends, I don’t have to worry about the economies necessary to create a performing hall, hope for record deals, move to the big city to make it big. The economies of poetry are small. It’s cheap to create a poem. The means of producing a book of poetry is cheap. And the audience is small, but passionate and appreciative. In short, poetry has fewer people to answer to. In this mania for accountability in all things (education being the worst, perhaps), I love the idea of poetry being accountable to so few people, which gives poetry its agency, relevance, freedom, and power.
SoR: What responsibility do you feel the poet has to the reader and vice versa, the reader to the poet?
Brock: The responsibility of the poet is to be ambitious, to be doing whatever he or she is doing with a big heart, keen wisdom, wicked intelligence, and ornery insistence. It’s Samuel Beckett’s call to “fail better,” or what Dean Young has appropriated in his call to “fail higher.” That.
For the reader, consider yourself lucky. You have the luxury and the quiet to slow down and spend a part of your day reading, and of all things, choosing to read poetry. What a lark! But also it’s about paying attention—Whitman talks about wanting an athletic reader, and it requires a considerably athletic mind to exercise its imaginative and critical capacity. So reader, your responsibility? Courage, dear friend, courage, to take this sliver of time, to avail yourself and your imagination, and to be open, receptive, wise to what you uncover from line to line to line.
A Conversation with Gay Talese
July 31, 2011
Art by Nick Lopergalo
“I think most journalists are pretty lazy, number one. A little lazy and also they’re spoon-fed information...” Gay Talese was once quoted as saying, which is appropriate considering what makes him stand out as a journalist is his world-renowned style exemplifying the characteristics that make people human. Known, for chasing down stories, traveling across the country for months if necessary and interviewing anyone and everyone for perspective, Talese showcases the value of such methods through his stunning pieces on people from prestigious athletes, nototorious criminals, and Frank Sinatra to the man who ran headlines across Times Square’s marquee.
Talese defined literary journalism - also known as New Journalism - through brilliantly incorporating the writer and their perspective into the story as a valid and entertaining angle as well as using literary elements commonly found in fiction in his journalistic work. From scene and character development to description and plot, Talese pioneered the manner in which magazine articles are written today. He is one of the most influential writers of our time in both a literary and journalistic sense, refusing to bridge some imagined gap between journalism and non-fiction, but rather skillfully refining the art of story telling.
SoR: In your 2006 autobiographical book, A Writer’s Life, you discuss some of the stories you wanted to tell but weren’t able to. In writing, rejection is an all-to-realistic beast. How do you deal with it?
Talese: In A Writer’s Life I did indeed describe in detail how I follow-up on a story idea once it attracts my curiosity, and as one example of this I cited the case of the Chinese woman soccer player, Liu Ying. I saw her for the first time on ABC-TV’s 1999 Women’s World Cup final (USA v China’s national teams, competing in California’s Rose Bowl). After I could not get a magazine editor to assign me to the story I wanted - a story about disappointment and defeat, and how an athlete responds (i.e., Liu Ying, who missed her penalty kick and thus lost her team’s chances of winning the World Cup trophy) - I decided to pursue the story on my own, with no guarantee that after I wrote it an editor would buy it and publish it. As it turned out: no editor did buy it. I spent a small fortune on flying to China, back and forth several times, and while I got to know the Chinese player (and her teammates) I still could not find a buyer for my story. And so I used this material in my 2006 memoir A Writer’s Life. Proving what? Proving that you might fail in selling a piece, but there still might be a market for your rejected writing. You can use it as a story about not selling a story and publish it yourself in a book that is published (in my case) by Knopf. In the same book I mention the John/Lorena Bobbitt penis-chopping assignment I’d gotten after pitching the idea to Tina Brown, The New Yorker editor back in 1993. That story was not published, but nonetheless I expanded it and also published it on my own, in my own book.
More recently, in a book about my sportswriting days as a young man - Silent Season of a Hero, which Walker & Co released in 2010, I reprint a story I'd written back in 1956 for Life Magazine (which Life turned down). It was about a sports anthropologist, Dr. Ray Birdwhistell. It was (in my not so humble opinion) a fine piece, and it "held up," and so I used it in 2010 - and my book got terrific reviews. I have many examples of being turned down by editors and later getting the rejected piece published by a different editor and praised after being published. Sometimes a well-written story is sent to the wrong editor. It’s always a personal choice that determines what is (and what is not) accepted for publication.
Every writer must accept rejection as part of the process. Even the greatest of writers have been turned down at one time or another by a editor. It is a common occurrence. Ernest Hemingway was turned down by some editors, so was Tolstoy and Dickens etc. etc....Writers of all ages and backgrounds have to have one thing in common if they're going to survive: optimism and perseverance.
SoR: What is your writing and editing style like?
Talese: My writing style strives to be clear and descriptive, easy to read and yet filled with details that provide the reader with a visual sense of "being there," being with the person you've written about and participating in the action that you are describing. I am a story-teller; and while I used the techniques of fiction writers - dialogue, scene-setting, changing moods of characters, etc. - it is all the best of reporting, and therefore it must be accurate and verifiable. The editor is my first reader. But even before I turn in a story, I've gone over it so many times that it’s nearly always close to what appears finally on the printed page.
SoR: What characteristics of a story appeal to you and inspire you to write about it?
Talese: There is no one "characteristic" that appeals to me at the expense of any other. You'll note that I have dealt with a great variety of subjects in my books, essays and articles. I'm not an expert on anything. I have no singular interest in any particular topic. I've written a book about bridge-building, a leading media institution, an organized crime family, a story of immigration and assimilation, a book about sexual trends and the changing definition of obscenity, a book about writing and (within a year or two) a new book about marriage. What I'm writing about does not matter. What matters to me is bringing my chosen characters to life, and writing clearly and convincingly about these characters.
SoR: You tend to mention the "supporting characters" of a story more than most, including the typically overlooked. What's the yearning for their inclusion in your version of the story?
Talese: The "minor" characters are not minor to me. I often use people who are not well-known to illustrate a subject I'm exploring. In all my books there are many characters connected to a large subject. I had many newspaper characters in my book about The New York Times called The Kingdom and the Power, many characters in my description about hardhat workers in the book called The Bridge and even in the magazine piece: "Frank Sinatra Has a Cold," there were many "minor" characters all connected because, in one way of another, they were influenced or employed by Frank Sinatra.
SoR: For your famed article, " Frank Sinatra Has A Cold," you never had the chance to interview Sinatra. Do you think in retrospect it would have strengthened the piece or weakened it and why?
Talese: Sinatra? If I'd spoken to him, it would have not been as good a piece as it was without his direct cooperation. As I mentioned above, I wrote about him from the perspective of other people's views ("minor" characters); also from my own capacity to observe him, to see him as an individual in a "scene." Since I write "scenes" - taking my reportorial skills and transferring what I see to a "scene" that I also see - the final resembles a fictional account in a novel or short story; and yet it is not fiction, it is real, and this is what makes it special. If I'd spoken to Sinatra, I would have gotten the same replies to the same questions. What could I have asked him that had not been asked before, by dozens of interviewers in the many years he had been profiled in articles and books?
Super celebrities don't say much of importance even if they are cooperative. Modern magazine writing and daily journalism is too much influenced by the tape recorder to bring literary style into popular periodicals. The kind of "New Journalism" that was practiced in the 1960s is not so evident now because magazine writing has descended too often to a "Q" and "A" form. What a person says is not necessary what they think. The direct quote is not what I've ever sought as much as an insight into how that person "thought."
SoR: When writing for The New York Times as a sports writer, you certainly enjoyed the thrills of boxing. Ernest Hemingway had reported on bullfighting in Spain with particular zeal as one of the things he saw in it was the cruelty of war. You had just been released from the Army prior to your sports writing career at the Times. Was there a similar interest or familiarity in boxing?
Talese: In my previously mentioned sports-writing collection, Silent Season of a Hero, I mention the influence of fiction writers on my nonfiction, beginning in the sports-writing years that marked my introduction into daily journalism at The New York Times. I had read short stories by such writers as Carson McCullers, Irwin Shaw, John O'Hara, John Cheever, et al., and wanted to reach in my own work the high literary level that they had - and yet, unlike them, I was not writing fiction. I was using the tools of fiction, but keeping my work factual, all of it carefully researched and accurately reported. Perhaps Hemingway influenced my sportswriting a bit, but so did F. Scott Fitzgerald - who, like Hemingway, had been attracted at times to sports figures as subjects of fascination.
SoR: Facts are essential in telling a non-fiction story as with journalism. And yet, every story is to a degree a matter of perspective. This can be seen in the observational details in terms of what to mention, what to leave out, how to describe someone or something and so on. Where does the line blur between "the story" and "your story," biased and unbiased? And how do you navigate that line to tell an entertaining story accurately?
Talese: True, there is nothing without subjectivity. When a "reporter" reports something, he (she) is bringing their own personal perspective to what they report, how they report it and so do the editors who finally put the story in form and shape and who decide finally how long or short a story will appear in print. Still, journalism is powerful because it is true, it is real, it truly happened and this sense of reality makes it special and important.
SoR: How do you feel about journalism today and where it's headed?
Talese: Journalism today will, I think, survive the economic crisis. As long as it is accurate and written well, it will have a place in the market, I think. There will also be a place in journalism for "story telling." It is not enough to just tell the facts; the facts must be presented in a story-telling fashion, made alive and real to readers.
SoR: What advice do you have for budding writers out there?
Talese: No advice applies to all. I think nonfiction writers should be a careful with their writing, should aspire to be story-tellers with special styles - should be as literary in the best sense - as the best fiction writers.
Gay Talese was a reporter for the New York Times and has written for many national publications including Esquire, The New Yorker and Harper's Magazine. He's the bestselling author of eleven books and wrote the infamous article "Frank Sinatra Has a Cold" which was named the "Best Story Esquire Ever Published." Talese is also credited with the creation of "Literary Journalisom," also known as "The New Journalism."
Book Review: One Dog Barking
August 3, 2011
Short story collections are hard to come by given the onslaught of genre novels on the bookshelves these days. Short story collections ask for no commitment, variety of tastes and moods, a myriad of adventures and a reading experience that nearly anyone can relate to at some juncture within the pages. One Dog Barking by Nigel Ford is one of these compilations of fictitious tales that are warm to cozy up to and fun for a series of unique reads.
The book begins with a tone reminiscent of George Orwell, introducing an ominous and officious character with a passion for keeping order and the status quo of society. He is described only as “Navy Raincoat” but in another tale he reappears as “Sunglasses” and yet in another returns as “Donkey Jacket.” Other characters make a reappearance here and there such as a group of sauna-aficionados and working class barflies. Many stories seem to take place in the same area revolving around a pub called The Swan and during a close soccer game between Barcelona and Chelsea. These similarities and the resurgence of characters and places nicely tie together nearly half of the stories in the book creating a uniquely continuous journey for the reader.
Perspective is another key element of this book. The reader sees differing views surrounding the same place or event from different characters. You begin to see what on the surface appears to be a seemingly insignificant occurrence with the immediacy and intent of the characters themselves. One of Ford’s talents is taking the everyday and weaving something inspirational from it through the perspectives of these characters he creates.
Lines such as “How strange that life’s uncomfortable factors became comforting as they receded into the past,” and “To return to my origins and submerge in the chilly green roil of my roots” lace the pages of this book to lend poignant significance to its entertaining value.
Ford masters scene description to pull the reader into his world of quaint towns, woodland saunas, Swedish beaches and homey kitchens. “A bus shelter. An elegant affair in brick, with stain-glass windows and varnished wooden benches. A telephone. Winged by doors with a silhouette of a lady with a parasol on one and a gentleman in a top hat on the other. The telephone lay strangled on the floor. Appendages and orifices had been added to the lady and the gentleman. The wooden benches had been carved with the names and telephone numbers of a rampant lonely hearts club. The stained-glass was but a memory...”
Admittedly, while the first half of the book brings to mind the works of Orwell and Kafka, the second half of the book seems to lose that stability and favor more abstract stories. While the writing remains strong, the settings still vivid, the characters and their voices still ringing true, the plots lose their substance on more than one occasion. Some tales flow effortlessly from the page while others require more conscious attention that can develop jarring contrast. There is clearly a sense of multiple tastes in this cornucopia of tales. While not all will appeal directly to the same reader, nearly any reader would find many of them appealing - different readers for different short stories. The digging, however, is worth the gems found within the pages.
Overall, there is a quaintness about the book. With all of the bustling life happening to and around us every day, the characters of this book exist in a place and time where life takes on a slower pace and the little intimacies of seldom appreciated moments take on a grander role. The short stories range in tone and voice, plot and length. And yet there is still a lovable flavor to the experience. Ford said it best when in one of his stories, “A Gothic Affair,” he writes of an old man describing fine wine - an easily made metaphor for the stories woven from his imagination: “...take this Spanish. It’s not heavy, but it’s still got a lot of fire. It’s irresponsible, not through flippancy, but through sheer passion. While the French is light and fruity with entirely logical consequences you would expect. A pragmatic wine, it knows it’s limitations.”
July 13, 2011
James Brock is an established American poet and professor at Florida Gulf Coast University. Some of his honors include a National Endowment for the Arts Creative Writing Fellowship, Alex Haley Foundation Fellowship and an American Academy of Poets Prize to name a few. He has also written numerous collections of poetry including "Pictures That Got Small" and "The Sunshine Mine Disaster."
SoR: What is your writing process like?
Brock: I don’t write every day, as I’m something of a project-oriented writer. I tend to develop poems around sequences or thematic ideas, and so they tend to cloister together. When I don’t have a particular theme or sequence in mind, I don’t write. As a consequence, much of my writing process is not writing at all, but involved in reading, observing, and listening. When enough of these impressions coalesce around some thing, then I feel that impulse to respond to it, to see it through. I’ll then draft pieces that go together; whether or not that they ultimately fit together is another matter entirely.
In my professional writing life, then, I have gone through months and years of not writing poetry, at least not writing it down, although I continually feel that I am absorbing material and ideas for poetry. And then when I am actually writing poetry, I will do so everyday until it’s drafted, which can go on for months at a time.
SoR: What is your editing process like?
Brock: Honestly, it’s inconsistent. Partly, because I do so much work with pre-writing and drafting—and depending on how you define editing, I’m probably already doing it as I write the first draft—my work comes out fairly intact. Usually, I will immediately begin the revising process upon a first draft, just because the energy and drive are still there.
After those first few drafts, a piece is more or less in some approximate finished state. A few poems will indeed be finished. But most I will set aside and return to them months later. That revision is dictated by what I have done with the other poems in the sequence or within the same thematic concern; I don’t always revise in accord to what that individual poem dictates, but to its conversation and communion with other poems.
What I have worked against over the years is the idea of the distinct, individual, and self-contained poem. Anthologies and the way poetry is conventionally taught have reified this idea of the well wrought urn. Yes, there’s a lot to be said for the poem that is a perfect little gem unto itself. It’s that idea, I believe, that promotes the notion of discipline in poetry writing, of hammering out the little bugger so that all the dents become perfectly smoothed out. My problem with that approach is the assumption that a poem is a discrete, isolated object to be worked over so that it gains acceptance into a magazine (which is a mini-anthology), or later, into the Best American Poetry annual, and ultimately into the Norton Anthology of Contemporary Poetry. Because I tend to group my poems, I have discovered that an individual flawed poem might be absolutely necessary as it communicates with another poem. The tyranny of the anthology is such that an editor sees little problem in ripping out that context and placement of the poem within an individual book of poetry or sequence.
SoR: Where do you get your inspiration from?
Brock: Whims, fancies, joys, pleasures, hurts, upsets, injustices, and beauty. Above all beauty.
SoR: How do you deal with rejection in your writing, as nearly every writer endures?
Brock: The New Yorker published a cartoon that I like to share with my students when we talk about rejection. In it, the cartoon shows a person who has hanged himself, off in a corner. On one wall is a bulletin board posted with scores of rejection notices. In the foreground are two police officers, looking over a letter in a typewriter carriage. One cop says to the other cop, “This has to be the worst suicide note I’ve ever read.”
Having had the opportunity early in my writing career to serve as the editor of Indiana Review, I quickly realized that seeking to publish your work is above all a business transaction. You are essentially submitting content competitively against hundreds of other writers, all for a limited amount of space in a journal that may or may not have 500 subscribers, an ezine that may or may not get 400 hits. So it’s a mix of hubris, believing my work is worthwhile for this transaction, and humility, knowing that the odds are 99% against my work appearing in a magazine that few people will read, that allows me to have some perspective. That’s why when my work is accepted, I am grateful, but not ecstatic, and when my work is rejected, I am disappointed, but not disillusioned.
Publishing, yes, that’s an important aim for me in my writing, but it’s also beside the point of the poetry itself.
SoR: What advice do you give to your students that you find most valuable?
Brock: Read. Read a lot. Read poetry. Read newspapers. Read biographies and histories and novels and plays. Read books on philosophy, the arts, science, natural history, quantum mechanics, political thought. And then enjoy yourself, your life, your lot, and your passions. And if you decide to jot it down, be ambitious with it, even if the ambition is to be silly and goofy, make it big. It should be about something that you’re not sure whether or not you can accomplish. That’s exactly what you should be writing about.
SoR: You've carried numerous jobs such as professor, grocery produce clerk, trailer factory roofer, bear field researcher and librarian. How have these experiences shaped your writing?
Brock: Probably the most important of those jobs for me was the time I was a produce clerk, which was my fall-back occupation when I had resigned from my first professorship gig. I truly was at my wit’s end, and I wasn’t sure I would return to academia. What I liked about the produce work was just tending to the fruits and vegetables, learning how to put them on display, and talking with customers about ways to prepare an artichoke or to peel a mango. It was cyclical, repetitive, boring, and never ending, much like paper grading, but it also renewed my sense of why poetry mattered. It was actually in that period that I wrote my first book-length sequence of poetry, about a mining disaster in northern Idaho in which 91 miners died in 1972.
Those experiences in their totality have probably most informed my own suspicion about writing within an academic setting. Each year, academic poets will typically have to write annual reports, usually detailing in their resumes individual poetry publications and explaining how they are reaching a national audience or how they are in line with expectations for promotion and the like. These annual reports are rather awful, scripted endeavors, and a shrewd academic learns how to accommodate that script without losing his or her soul. Those experiences remind me that a good deal of what I have to do as an academic poet is puffery and bureaucratic drudgery—all of that is necessary within the academic world, and all of that is immaterial to poetry.
SoR: Much of your poetry deals with life experiences. What sort of factors within life attract you?
Brock: My work, I hope, deals with life experiences imaginatively. Even in real life, I’m sometimes prone to making things up. But about the experiences themselves and my uses of them in poetry, the issues are really complicated and simple.
The simple is just taking joy in life, which is not so simple, of course. It’s hard to love humanity, perhaps harder to love yourself or your life, but it’s also easy to have those Whitman moments when there’s something just exquisite in being alive, receptive to all that which is around you, and take the deepest pleasure in one blade of grass.
The complicated is trying to make some poetic sense out of experience, to transform an event from life into some poetic articulation, where you have to give up something of the experience itself to the music and textures of language.
SoR: What is it about poetry that lends itself as the ideal medium for expressing yourself?
Brock: Poetry is not the most direct, clear, or efficient means of self-expression. Better to write that memo, send that text message, update the Facebook status to make your feelings known than writing them in a poem.
What poetry enhances as an expressive medium is concentration and artifice, whether it’s a rambling, free-verse narrative, a post-structuralist, agency-defying, disassociative experiment, or a sonnet. It’s in the concentration and artifice where poetry has its purpose for both the writer and reader of poetry, and ultimately those qualities have little to do with self-expression.
Another way I like to think about it is that while poetry can indeed be personal and confessional, it must not be limited to mere self-expression. It has to have a value beyond being meaningful and precious to me and my own little life. Precisely because poetry is concentrated, artificial language, it will have a difficulty to it, an unfamiliarity to it, because it’s not conventional speech, even when it is playing within those conventions. Yes, poetry can be too difficult, too obscure, too incomprehensible, but when a poem becomes banally accessible, when it seeks a kind of friendly chumminess with the reader, then it’s likely serving other purposes. What makes poetry so powerful to me is its gnostic capacity and its ultimate inutility and its playful be-devilry. So a powerful poem may directly arise from personal experience, may ultimately be only about that particular experience, but it’s the zing in language that’s the thing.
SoR: From where, do you think, you obtained this love for literature and writing, poetry in particular?
Brock: My mother and father, neither of whom went to college, brought books into the home and read them for their own pleasure, not just to read to us. In high school in Boise, I had a very smart teacher, Maggie Ward, who recognized my talent and helped me onto Lawrence Ferlinghetti and Richard Brautigan back in the mid-70s, just the very thing a clever and hormonal 16-year-old needed.
SoR: Where do you see your writing heading in the near future?
Brock: I actually have “retired” from poetry publishing. Other than perhaps publishing a “new and selected” volume ten to twenty years from now, and other than responding to requests from editor-friends, I am no longer submitting poems for individual publication and have no intention of publishing a new book of poetry. I still very much do readings, and I will sell my books as much as I can—I’m still the self-promoter—but I have been doing the poetry-business thing for 35 years, and it has run its course for me. I do so with no regrets over and no animosity about the po-biz and academic poetry, even though I have always been ambivalent about it. Quite simply for me, I don’t see pursuing poetry publishing as leading me to new ground artistically. I’ve been very fortunate in my career, and I genuinely admire other poets seeking to get their work published; it’s a brave and noble and generous act, a very hopeful and affirming and necessary gesture. This decision to retire is just my own peculiarity.
Of course, I am still writing, and still writing something like poetry, but the movement has been toward performance pieces that are poetry-based. I have collaborated with musicians, directors, visual artists, actors, light and sound designers, and dancers on a number of projects over the last three years. What I enjoy about it is the transience and impermanence of performance, that the words simply float away with the movement, the music, the set. It’s such an antithesis to the anthology and its pretense of permanence, the great tome of the greatest hits, augustly sanctioned by the right Ph.D.s, and bound by Norton, where it has been said that these poems are the works that will last, will matter. Maybe so. But I am also someone who likes the idea of all that noise out there, where spoken words vibrate in the air or radio waves transmit beyond the reaches of the solar system, that it’s all ghost noise, all vibrating and diminishing, yet all still there, still disappearing, beneath perception. For me, performative writing addresses that fact of disappearance directly, embraces it without vanity, just something given up to the air and to the moment, and then it is somehow carried with the actors and audience alike, however briefly.
SoR: When writing a poem, do you contemplate how it will sound being read aloud or simply written on the page?
Brock: Depends on the poem. Sometimes, I see lines quite visually, phrasing that is meant to be placed just so on the page. I have poems in which its visual elements on the page are central to its construction, and performing the poem loses that visual dynamic.
Other times, it’s about the physical qualities of the words themselves, where they reside in the body (the lungs, the throat, the nasal cavities, the mouth, the lips, the tongue, the teeth) which is simply pleasurable, where certain words just feel so good in your mouth and their combinations give pleasure. It’s about childhood, being lulled by words as a parent reads to you to sleep.
SoR: Do you ever have writer's block and if so, how do you combat it?
Brock: More like writer’s constipation for me, where the product is hard, meager, and desiccated. Exercise—writing that is not poetry—usually loosens the material, and reading is also good fiber. Because my writing habits come in fits and starts, I am not bothered by going through an inactive period. I always return to it, and fortunately, I’m not much of a perfectionist when it comes to initial drafting.
SoR: How do you see poetry today fitting in amongst the other literary genres and how do you feel about that?
Brock: The more marginalized the better. First, I don’t really buy the large readership arguments that some cultural conservative critics have claimed for poetry—here, I’m thinking of Dana Gioia’s famous arguments in Can Poetry Matter? I’m not convinced poetry has ever been that centerpiece in mainstream culture, especially in relationship to other media and genres and in relationship to general levels of literacy. That’s not to say that poetry doesn’t hold a significant place in culture; think of poems at weddings and funerals, think of poetic writing in sacred texts, but literary poetry is powerful and important in our culture because it resides on the edges, especially economically.
Unlike my novelist buddies, I have no hopes for an agent, let alone selling off movie rights. Unlike my visual artist friends, I’m not scurrying from gallery to gallery, conversing with patrons, and balancing my output so as not to devalue my portfolio. Unlike my performing artist friends, I don’t have to worry about the economies necessary to create a performing hall, hope for record deals, move to the big city to make it big. The economies of poetry are small. It’s cheap to create a poem. The means of producing a book of poetry is cheap. And the audience is small, but passionate and appreciative. In short, poetry has fewer people to answer to. In this mania for accountability in all things (education being the worst, perhaps), I love the idea of poetry being accountable to so few people, which gives poetry its agency, relevance, freedom, and power.
SoR: What responsibility do you feel the poet has to the reader and vice versa, the reader to the poet?
Brock: The responsibility of the poet is to be ambitious, to be doing whatever he or she is doing with a big heart, keen wisdom, wicked intelligence, and ornery insistence. It’s Samuel Beckett’s call to “fail better,” or what Dean Young has appropriated in his call to “fail higher.” That.
For the reader, consider yourself lucky. You have the luxury and the quiet to slow down and spend a part of your day reading, and of all things, choosing to read poetry. What a lark! But also it’s about paying attention—Whitman talks about wanting an athletic reader, and it requires a considerably athletic mind to exercise its imaginative and critical capacity. So reader, your responsibility? Courage, dear friend, courage, to take this sliver of time, to avail yourself and your imagination, and to be open, receptive, wise to what you uncover from line to line to line.
A Conversation with Gay Talese
July 31, 2011
Art by Nick Lopergalo
“I think most journalists are pretty lazy, number one. A little lazy and also they’re spoon-fed information...” Gay Talese was once quoted as saying, which is appropriate considering what makes him stand out as a journalist is his world-renowned style exemplifying the characteristics that make people human. Known, for chasing down stories, traveling across the country for months if necessary and interviewing anyone and everyone for perspective, Talese showcases the value of such methods through his stunning pieces on people from prestigious athletes, nototorious criminals, and Frank Sinatra to the man who ran headlines across Times Square’s marquee.
Talese defined literary journalism - also known as New Journalism - through brilliantly incorporating the writer and their perspective into the story as a valid and entertaining angle as well as using literary elements commonly found in fiction in his journalistic work. From scene and character development to description and plot, Talese pioneered the manner in which magazine articles are written today. He is one of the most influential writers of our time in both a literary and journalistic sense, refusing to bridge some imagined gap between journalism and non-fiction, but rather skillfully refining the art of story telling.
SoR: In your 2006 autobiographical book, A Writer’s Life, you discuss some of the stories you wanted to tell but weren’t able to. In writing, rejection is an all-to-realistic beast. How do you deal with it?
Talese: In A Writer’s Life I did indeed describe in detail how I follow-up on a story idea once it attracts my curiosity, and as one example of this I cited the case of the Chinese woman soccer player, Liu Ying. I saw her for the first time on ABC-TV’s 1999 Women’s World Cup final (USA v China’s national teams, competing in California’s Rose Bowl). After I could not get a magazine editor to assign me to the story I wanted - a story about disappointment and defeat, and how an athlete responds (i.e., Liu Ying, who missed her penalty kick and thus lost her team’s chances of winning the World Cup trophy) - I decided to pursue the story on my own, with no guarantee that after I wrote it an editor would buy it and publish it. As it turned out: no editor did buy it. I spent a small fortune on flying to China, back and forth several times, and while I got to know the Chinese player (and her teammates) I still could not find a buyer for my story. And so I used this material in my 2006 memoir A Writer’s Life. Proving what? Proving that you might fail in selling a piece, but there still might be a market for your rejected writing. You can use it as a story about not selling a story and publish it yourself in a book that is published (in my case) by Knopf. In the same book I mention the John/Lorena Bobbitt penis-chopping assignment I’d gotten after pitching the idea to Tina Brown, The New Yorker editor back in 1993. That story was not published, but nonetheless I expanded it and also published it on my own, in my own book.
More recently, in a book about my sportswriting days as a young man - Silent Season of a Hero, which Walker & Co released in 2010, I reprint a story I'd written back in 1956 for Life Magazine (which Life turned down). It was about a sports anthropologist, Dr. Ray Birdwhistell. It was (in my not so humble opinion) a fine piece, and it "held up," and so I used it in 2010 - and my book got terrific reviews. I have many examples of being turned down by editors and later getting the rejected piece published by a different editor and praised after being published. Sometimes a well-written story is sent to the wrong editor. It’s always a personal choice that determines what is (and what is not) accepted for publication.
Every writer must accept rejection as part of the process. Even the greatest of writers have been turned down at one time or another by a editor. It is a common occurrence. Ernest Hemingway was turned down by some editors, so was Tolstoy and Dickens etc. etc....Writers of all ages and backgrounds have to have one thing in common if they're going to survive: optimism and perseverance.
SoR: What is your writing and editing style like?
Talese: My writing style strives to be clear and descriptive, easy to read and yet filled with details that provide the reader with a visual sense of "being there," being with the person you've written about and participating in the action that you are describing. I am a story-teller; and while I used the techniques of fiction writers - dialogue, scene-setting, changing moods of characters, etc. - it is all the best of reporting, and therefore it must be accurate and verifiable. The editor is my first reader. But even before I turn in a story, I've gone over it so many times that it’s nearly always close to what appears finally on the printed page.
SoR: What characteristics of a story appeal to you and inspire you to write about it?
Talese: There is no one "characteristic" that appeals to me at the expense of any other. You'll note that I have dealt with a great variety of subjects in my books, essays and articles. I'm not an expert on anything. I have no singular interest in any particular topic. I've written a book about bridge-building, a leading media institution, an organized crime family, a story of immigration and assimilation, a book about sexual trends and the changing definition of obscenity, a book about writing and (within a year or two) a new book about marriage. What I'm writing about does not matter. What matters to me is bringing my chosen characters to life, and writing clearly and convincingly about these characters.
SoR: You tend to mention the "supporting characters" of a story more than most, including the typically overlooked. What's the yearning for their inclusion in your version of the story?
Talese: The "minor" characters are not minor to me. I often use people who are not well-known to illustrate a subject I'm exploring. In all my books there are many characters connected to a large subject. I had many newspaper characters in my book about The New York Times called The Kingdom and the Power, many characters in my description about hardhat workers in the book called The Bridge and even in the magazine piece: "Frank Sinatra Has a Cold," there were many "minor" characters all connected because, in one way of another, they were influenced or employed by Frank Sinatra.
SoR: For your famed article, " Frank Sinatra Has A Cold," you never had the chance to interview Sinatra. Do you think in retrospect it would have strengthened the piece or weakened it and why?
Talese: Sinatra? If I'd spoken to him, it would have not been as good a piece as it was without his direct cooperation. As I mentioned above, I wrote about him from the perspective of other people's views ("minor" characters); also from my own capacity to observe him, to see him as an individual in a "scene." Since I write "scenes" - taking my reportorial skills and transferring what I see to a "scene" that I also see - the final resembles a fictional account in a novel or short story; and yet it is not fiction, it is real, and this is what makes it special. If I'd spoken to Sinatra, I would have gotten the same replies to the same questions. What could I have asked him that had not been asked before, by dozens of interviewers in the many years he had been profiled in articles and books?
Super celebrities don't say much of importance even if they are cooperative. Modern magazine writing and daily journalism is too much influenced by the tape recorder to bring literary style into popular periodicals. The kind of "New Journalism" that was practiced in the 1960s is not so evident now because magazine writing has descended too often to a "Q" and "A" form. What a person says is not necessary what they think. The direct quote is not what I've ever sought as much as an insight into how that person "thought."
SoR: When writing for The New York Times as a sports writer, you certainly enjoyed the thrills of boxing. Ernest Hemingway had reported on bullfighting in Spain with particular zeal as one of the things he saw in it was the cruelty of war. You had just been released from the Army prior to your sports writing career at the Times. Was there a similar interest or familiarity in boxing?
Talese: In my previously mentioned sports-writing collection, Silent Season of a Hero, I mention the influence of fiction writers on my nonfiction, beginning in the sports-writing years that marked my introduction into daily journalism at The New York Times. I had read short stories by such writers as Carson McCullers, Irwin Shaw, John O'Hara, John Cheever, et al., and wanted to reach in my own work the high literary level that they had - and yet, unlike them, I was not writing fiction. I was using the tools of fiction, but keeping my work factual, all of it carefully researched and accurately reported. Perhaps Hemingway influenced my sportswriting a bit, but so did F. Scott Fitzgerald - who, like Hemingway, had been attracted at times to sports figures as subjects of fascination.
SoR: Facts are essential in telling a non-fiction story as with journalism. And yet, every story is to a degree a matter of perspective. This can be seen in the observational details in terms of what to mention, what to leave out, how to describe someone or something and so on. Where does the line blur between "the story" and "your story," biased and unbiased? And how do you navigate that line to tell an entertaining story accurately?
Talese: True, there is nothing without subjectivity. When a "reporter" reports something, he (she) is bringing their own personal perspective to what they report, how they report it and so do the editors who finally put the story in form and shape and who decide finally how long or short a story will appear in print. Still, journalism is powerful because it is true, it is real, it truly happened and this sense of reality makes it special and important.
SoR: How do you feel about journalism today and where it's headed?
Talese: Journalism today will, I think, survive the economic crisis. As long as it is accurate and written well, it will have a place in the market, I think. There will also be a place in journalism for "story telling." It is not enough to just tell the facts; the facts must be presented in a story-telling fashion, made alive and real to readers.
SoR: What advice do you have for budding writers out there?
Talese: No advice applies to all. I think nonfiction writers should be a careful with their writing, should aspire to be story-tellers with special styles - should be as literary in the best sense - as the best fiction writers.
Gay Talese was a reporter for the New York Times and has written for many national publications including Esquire, The New Yorker and Harper's Magazine. He's the bestselling author of eleven books and wrote the infamous article "Frank Sinatra Has a Cold" which was named the "Best Story Esquire Ever Published." Talese is also credited with the creation of "Literary Journalisom," also known as "The New Journalism."
August 3, 2011
Short story collections are hard to come by given the onslaught of genre novels on the bookshelves these days. Short story collections ask for no commitment, variety of tastes and moods, a myriad of adventures and a reading experience that nearly anyone can relate to at some juncture within the pages. One Dog Barking by Nigel Ford is one of these compilations of fictitious tales that are warm to cozy up to and fun for a series of unique reads.
The book begins with a tone reminiscent of George Orwell, introducing an ominous and officious character with a passion for keeping order and the status quo of society. He is described only as “Navy Raincoat” but in another tale he reappears as “Sunglasses” and yet in another returns as “Donkey Jacket.” Other characters make a reappearance here and there such as a group of sauna-aficionados and working class barflies. Many stories seem to take place in the same area revolving around a pub called The Swan and during a close soccer game between Barcelona and Chelsea. These similarities and the resurgence of characters and places nicely tie together nearly half of the stories in the book creating a uniquely continuous journey for the reader.
Perspective is another key element of this book. The reader sees differing views surrounding the same place or event from different characters. You begin to see what on the surface appears to be a seemingly insignificant occurrence with the immediacy and intent of the characters themselves. One of Ford’s talents is taking the everyday and weaving something inspirational from it through the perspectives of these characters he creates.
Lines such as “How strange that life’s uncomfortable factors became comforting as they receded into the past,” and “To return to my origins and submerge in the chilly green roil of my roots” lace the pages of this book to lend poignant significance to its entertaining value.
Ford masters scene description to pull the reader into his world of quaint towns, woodland saunas, Swedish beaches and homey kitchens. “A bus shelter. An elegant affair in brick, with stain-glass windows and varnished wooden benches. A telephone. Winged by doors with a silhouette of a lady with a parasol on one and a gentleman in a top hat on the other. The telephone lay strangled on the floor. Appendages and orifices had been added to the lady and the gentleman. The wooden benches had been carved with the names and telephone numbers of a rampant lonely hearts club. The stained-glass was but a memory...”
Admittedly, while the first half of the book brings to mind the works of Orwell and Kafka, the second half of the book seems to lose that stability and favor more abstract stories. While the writing remains strong, the settings still vivid, the characters and their voices still ringing true, the plots lose their substance on more than one occasion. Some tales flow effortlessly from the page while others require more conscious attention that can develop jarring contrast. There is clearly a sense of multiple tastes in this cornucopia of tales. While not all will appeal directly to the same reader, nearly any reader would find many of them appealing - different readers for different short stories. The digging, however, is worth the gems found within the pages.
Overall, there is a quaintness about the book. With all of the bustling life happening to and around us every day, the characters of this book exist in a place and time where life takes on a slower pace and the little intimacies of seldom appreciated moments take on a grander role. The short stories range in tone and voice, plot and length. And yet there is still a lovable flavor to the experience. Ford said it best when in one of his stories, “A Gothic Affair,” he writes of an old man describing fine wine - an easily made metaphor for the stories woven from his imagination: “...take this Spanish. It’s not heavy, but it’s still got a lot of fire. It’s irresponsible, not through flippancy, but through sheer passion. While the French is light and fruity with entirely logical consequences you would expect. A pragmatic wine, it knows it’s limitations.”
The Industry Interview Series
August 6, 2011
This is one of many special interview series brought to you by Splash of Red where we interview some of the country's leading publishers and editors to get a behind-the-scenes look into the literary industry for all of our budding writers out there who follow our site. We hope that the discussions here give writers some insight into the other end of the field they work so tirelessly in with the intentions of assisting in the publishing process. Enjoy.
Contributing Interviewees:
Priscilla Painton - Executive Editor at Simon & Schuster
Helene Atwan - Director at Beacon Press
Jack Shoemaker - Vice President, Editorial Director at Counterpoint Press
Michael Braziller - Publisher at Persea Books
SoR: What are some common mistakes writers make that can put their manuscript in jeopardy of not getting published?
Painton: I can only talk about non-fiction because that’s all I do. The writer has basically written a book without thinking any of it through and therefore not even knowing what reporting is missing to make a compelling book.
Atwan: They haven’t read enough to know what makes a great book. It never ceases to amaze me how many “writers” hardly read books, how many “poets” barely read poetry. In creative writing, you need to really keep up with the literary magazines (and certainly, always, to the ones you are submitting to) as well as the literary presses, to be familiar with who is getting published, where, what the strengths of their work are and what you can learn from them. In nonfiction, you must know the competition, what other books have been published in your field, for example, what they’ve covered and what they’ve left out. Above all, you need to understand what makes the successful books (however you define that, in terms of sales, or reviews, or influence) work, what draws readers to them.
Shoemaker: 1) Avoid undue familiarity. 2) Make certain you address the letter to the right person. Nothing assures immediate rejection more than to send a submission to Farrar but to use the contact information for St.Martins. 3) Keep your letter brief and be certain it is free of grammatical and spelling errors.
Braziller: I'd like to think that its all about the manuscript, that it really doesn't matter how a writer presents him or herself. Since I'm interested in serious literature, most writers should present themselves as serious artists, not opportunists.
SoR: How important is having impeccable grammar and spelling compared to having a really great story for a manuscript?
Painton: It’s not as important but it’s psychologically very important. An editor who comes across a manuscript in which the writer can’t spell or use grammar properly is going to be very predisposed against taking that author seriously.
Atwan: It’s quite important because sloppy grammar and spelling, typos, and so forth suggest that you haven’t really put the time and care into your work to make it as good as it can be, that you don’t have the dedication that it takes to make your way in the world as a writer. Sweat the details; they say a lot about who you are and who you can become.
Shoemaker: Completely important. Your "really great story" deserves your best effort in writing good, basic English. You use the word "impeccable," which is nice. I look at submissions believing that the writer is presenting me with the best work he or she is capable of producing without professional editorial input. Submitting impeccable work is a sign that you respect yourself, your talent, and your story.
Braziller: Really "great" writing is more important than a really "great"story." My grammar and spelling are pretty bad, so I won't be too harsh on that score.
SoR: How much do you look at education or publishing credits when considering a manuscript for publication?
Painton: Not at all.
Atwan: For nonfiction in general, education is important; for some nonfiction it’s essential. For literary work it’s less important, though I think the fact of having been “accepted” at a great writing program (rather than the fact of having studied in one), is an important credential. The people running those programs know how to pick promising writers. Likewise, publishing credits also mean that another editor has read and appreciated your work and publication in a reputable journal or magazine means that your work has been singled out from a broad pool of other work. I always pay more attention to writers who have publishing credits.
Shoemaker: I often look at where someone has published in the past. For certain kinds of professional non-fiction, educational credential can be important.
Braziller: I think some credits do matter. Merit matters the most but a track record indicates a path and a commitment.
SoR: While self-publishing has certainly helped the average writer get their work out there, what are the pros and cons versus seeking a publishing house?
Painton: Well I can speak only for non-fiction. I would say that the best writers I work with, the top selling authors, who command their field in history, politics, social history, science...have one thing in common: they all profoundly believe in having an editor and working with an editor to make the book better. No one believes that their manuscripts are immaculately conceived. So the major benefit of going to a publishing house is having top-notch editing talent to make your book the best book it can be in addition to promotion and marketing.
Shoemaker: This is a very complicated question. If a writer believes he or she can succeed without professional editorial judgement and development, without marketing and publicity efforts, with their own design, composition and production, and with what little broad distribution they are likely to manage, then I say by all means publish yourself.
Braziller: There has to be some critical and editorial process.
SoR: If everyone has a platform, what can authors do to set themselves apart?
Painton: There are two kinds of proposals I see. Proposals that have been dashed off in three months or less with little reporting and no thinking. And then there are proposals that are very obviously the work of years of passionate research. Those proposals are so rare and so good that they sells themselves. You can tell that the author has invested so much on the front end and does so with such love and passion that the book is, by definition, going to be a success.
Atwan: Not everyone has a platform; most people don’t, or have a very small one. Publishing in journals, magazines, curated web sites and online magazines is one way to build a “platform,” or perhaps a fan base. Obviously, these days, social media offers opportunities to build a community of followers who might be expected to seek out your work. But it all comes down to writing well and having something of value to say.
Shoemaker: Not everyone has a platform. Not everyone writes material that deserves an audience. Most of what we see submitted is slack and indifferent. The one thing that writers might do to set themselves apart is to read more and work harder.
Braziller: Focus on their writing.
SoR: If you could give one essential piece of advice to writers out there, what would it be?
Painton: Take ten years to write your book.
Atwan: Read. Read broadly. Read thoughtfully. Learn from what you read.
Shoemaker: Read. Spend at least four times as much time reading as you do writing. You'll learn more reading good sentences than writing bad ones.
Braziller: To write with seriousness and not think about commerce and the market and stupid things like the movie industry.
SoR: Is there a gender bias that goes with genres such as women writing about relationships and parenting and men writing about history and politics, i.e. do readers expect certain genders to be more knowledgeable about certain topics and if so, how does consumer perception like that affect the literary industry?
Painton: Believe it or not I don’t think consumers are biased that way. I think that if someone tells them that someone has written a terrific book on science in politics what they register is the terrific book part; they don’t register the gender. There is certainly a discrepancy in terms of certain women dominating certain non-fiction genres and certain men dominating other non-fiction genres. But I think gender biases are breaking down across the country.
Atwan: Probably. I think that influences marketing tactics more than anything, in rather obvious ways.
Shoemaker: I think we expect people to write from within their experience, if that's what you mean. The bias would be towards the qualified and the excellent.
Braziller: I think, with poetry and literary fiction, everyone is still writing about the same old stuff, sex, death politics, etc.
SoR: When considering a manuscript for publication, how much of your opinion is subjective versus objective and do you consider what will sell over what is underrepresented?
Painton: I think the main thing you have to know about a good editor acquiring a book is they have to really not want to live without the book; have to have the book; have to love the book; have to live with this book for a long, long time. And they’re going to live with it through its peaks and lows. And so you’re basically deciding to have a very long relationship with a book so you have to come to that relationship with a lot of good will and affection.
Sometimes topics we think are underrepresented are precisely the reason why we think they’ll have commercial appeal. Sometimes the only consideration is how commercial it might be or we love the commercial aspect of it. Sometimes it has to do with thinking this topic is definitely underrepresented and we finally have the right person writing the story so we’re going to be the publisher that’s going to make sure this underrepresented subject gets the attention it deserves.
Atwan: We like to publish books we think have something important to contribute, and often that means something original, so perhaps “underrepresented” is a fitting term. We will, of course, consider what we think the book can sell, but only in so far as we want the book to have an audience, even if it’s a relatively small one, and because we can’t afford to lose money on too many of our books, though like most publishers we manage to lose money on a whole lot of them. I suppose some part of every judgment about a book is subjective, even when it appears to be entirely objective, since a book—even an academic one—is a work of creativity at least on some level.
Shoemaker: All judgement is first and finally subjective. Elements of any decision can factor in certain objective criteria.
August 6, 2011
This is one of many special interview series brought to you by Splash of Red where we interview some of the country's leading publishers and editors to get a behind-the-scenes look into the literary industry for all of our budding writers out there who follow our site. We hope that the discussions here give writers some insight into the other end of the field they work so tirelessly in with the intentions of assisting in the publishing process. Enjoy.
Contributing Interviewees:
Priscilla Painton - Executive Editor at Simon & Schuster
Helene Atwan - Director at Beacon Press
Jack Shoemaker - Vice President, Editorial Director at Counterpoint Press
Michael Braziller - Publisher at Persea Books
SoR: What are some common mistakes writers make that can put their manuscript in jeopardy of not getting published?
Painton: I can only talk about non-fiction because that’s all I do. The writer has basically written a book without thinking any of it through and therefore not even knowing what reporting is missing to make a compelling book.
Atwan: They haven’t read enough to know what makes a great book. It never ceases to amaze me how many “writers” hardly read books, how many “poets” barely read poetry. In creative writing, you need to really keep up with the literary magazines (and certainly, always, to the ones you are submitting to) as well as the literary presses, to be familiar with who is getting published, where, what the strengths of their work are and what you can learn from them. In nonfiction, you must know the competition, what other books have been published in your field, for example, what they’ve covered and what they’ve left out. Above all, you need to understand what makes the successful books (however you define that, in terms of sales, or reviews, or influence) work, what draws readers to them.
Shoemaker: 1) Avoid undue familiarity. 2) Make certain you address the letter to the right person. Nothing assures immediate rejection more than to send a submission to Farrar but to use the contact information for St.Martins. 3) Keep your letter brief and be certain it is free of grammatical and spelling errors.
Braziller: I'd like to think that its all about the manuscript, that it really doesn't matter how a writer presents him or herself. Since I'm interested in serious literature, most writers should present themselves as serious artists, not opportunists.
SoR: How important is having impeccable grammar and spelling compared to having a really great story for a manuscript?
Painton: It’s not as important but it’s psychologically very important. An editor who comes across a manuscript in which the writer can’t spell or use grammar properly is going to be very predisposed against taking that author seriously.
Atwan: It’s quite important because sloppy grammar and spelling, typos, and so forth suggest that you haven’t really put the time and care into your work to make it as good as it can be, that you don’t have the dedication that it takes to make your way in the world as a writer. Sweat the details; they say a lot about who you are and who you can become.
Shoemaker: Completely important. Your "really great story" deserves your best effort in writing good, basic English. You use the word "impeccable," which is nice. I look at submissions believing that the writer is presenting me with the best work he or she is capable of producing without professional editorial input. Submitting impeccable work is a sign that you respect yourself, your talent, and your story.
Braziller: Really "great" writing is more important than a really "great"story." My grammar and spelling are pretty bad, so I won't be too harsh on that score.
SoR: How much do you look at education or publishing credits when considering a manuscript for publication?
Painton: Not at all.
Atwan: For nonfiction in general, education is important; for some nonfiction it’s essential. For literary work it’s less important, though I think the fact of having been “accepted” at a great writing program (rather than the fact of having studied in one), is an important credential. The people running those programs know how to pick promising writers. Likewise, publishing credits also mean that another editor has read and appreciated your work and publication in a reputable journal or magazine means that your work has been singled out from a broad pool of other work. I always pay more attention to writers who have publishing credits.
Shoemaker: I often look at where someone has published in the past. For certain kinds of professional non-fiction, educational credential can be important.
Braziller: I think some credits do matter. Merit matters the most but a track record indicates a path and a commitment.
SoR: While self-publishing has certainly helped the average writer get their work out there, what are the pros and cons versus seeking a publishing house?
Painton: Well I can speak only for non-fiction. I would say that the best writers I work with, the top selling authors, who command their field in history, politics, social history, science...have one thing in common: they all profoundly believe in having an editor and working with an editor to make the book better. No one believes that their manuscripts are immaculately conceived. So the major benefit of going to a publishing house is having top-notch editing talent to make your book the best book it can be in addition to promotion and marketing.
Atwan:
Other than the author’s friends and family, it’s not clear to me that
anyone reads self-published work, or that any media pays significant
attention to those books. The role of the book publisher (like that of
the magazine or journal editor) as a curator, is vital. When the Times
Book Review starts accepting self-published books, when the Pulitzer
Prize opens up to self-published submissions, and when independent
bookstores start buying them, then maybe it will be equivalent, but I
have a hard time envisioning that day simply because there are already
so many works being published through legitimate houses. Just as we
rely on museums and galleries to select art work that is worth our time
and money, we rely on editors to present worthwhile writing.
There are, of course, exceptions. Everyone has heard about
the self-published book that “breaks through” and sells so many copies
it actually gets picked up by a publishing house, and of course the big
name writers (mostly very commercial ones) who can forgo the publisher
and sell directly to fans. And there are books that are so specialized
that the author can reach his or her target market directly, without
the need for an intermediary. But those are exceptions.Shoemaker: This is a very complicated question. If a writer believes he or she can succeed without professional editorial judgement and development, without marketing and publicity efforts, with their own design, composition and production, and with what little broad distribution they are likely to manage, then I say by all means publish yourself.
Braziller: There has to be some critical and editorial process.
SoR: If everyone has a platform, what can authors do to set themselves apart?
Painton: There are two kinds of proposals I see. Proposals that have been dashed off in three months or less with little reporting and no thinking. And then there are proposals that are very obviously the work of years of passionate research. Those proposals are so rare and so good that they sells themselves. You can tell that the author has invested so much on the front end and does so with such love and passion that the book is, by definition, going to be a success.
Atwan: Not everyone has a platform; most people don’t, or have a very small one. Publishing in journals, magazines, curated web sites and online magazines is one way to build a “platform,” or perhaps a fan base. Obviously, these days, social media offers opportunities to build a community of followers who might be expected to seek out your work. But it all comes down to writing well and having something of value to say.
Shoemaker: Not everyone has a platform. Not everyone writes material that deserves an audience. Most of what we see submitted is slack and indifferent. The one thing that writers might do to set themselves apart is to read more and work harder.
Braziller: Focus on their writing.
SoR: If you could give one essential piece of advice to writers out there, what would it be?
Painton: Take ten years to write your book.
Atwan: Read. Read broadly. Read thoughtfully. Learn from what you read.
Shoemaker: Read. Spend at least four times as much time reading as you do writing. You'll learn more reading good sentences than writing bad ones.
Braziller: To write with seriousness and not think about commerce and the market and stupid things like the movie industry.
SoR: Is there a gender bias that goes with genres such as women writing about relationships and parenting and men writing about history and politics, i.e. do readers expect certain genders to be more knowledgeable about certain topics and if so, how does consumer perception like that affect the literary industry?
Painton: Believe it or not I don’t think consumers are biased that way. I think that if someone tells them that someone has written a terrific book on science in politics what they register is the terrific book part; they don’t register the gender. There is certainly a discrepancy in terms of certain women dominating certain non-fiction genres and certain men dominating other non-fiction genres. But I think gender biases are breaking down across the country.
Atwan: Probably. I think that influences marketing tactics more than anything, in rather obvious ways.
Shoemaker: I think we expect people to write from within their experience, if that's what you mean. The bias would be towards the qualified and the excellent.
Braziller: I think, with poetry and literary fiction, everyone is still writing about the same old stuff, sex, death politics, etc.
SoR: When considering a manuscript for publication, how much of your opinion is subjective versus objective and do you consider what will sell over what is underrepresented?
Painton: I think the main thing you have to know about a good editor acquiring a book is they have to really not want to live without the book; have to have the book; have to love the book; have to live with this book for a long, long time. And they’re going to live with it through its peaks and lows. And so you’re basically deciding to have a very long relationship with a book so you have to come to that relationship with a lot of good will and affection.
Sometimes topics we think are underrepresented are precisely the reason why we think they’ll have commercial appeal. Sometimes the only consideration is how commercial it might be or we love the commercial aspect of it. Sometimes it has to do with thinking this topic is definitely underrepresented and we finally have the right person writing the story so we’re going to be the publisher that’s going to make sure this underrepresented subject gets the attention it deserves.
Atwan: We like to publish books we think have something important to contribute, and often that means something original, so perhaps “underrepresented” is a fitting term. We will, of course, consider what we think the book can sell, but only in so far as we want the book to have an audience, even if it’s a relatively small one, and because we can’t afford to lose money on too many of our books, though like most publishers we manage to lose money on a whole lot of them. I suppose some part of every judgment about a book is subjective, even when it appears to be entirely objective, since a book—even an academic one—is a work of creativity at least on some level.
Shoemaker: All judgement is first and finally subjective. Elements of any decision can factor in certain objective criteria.
There have been times when we've returned good work
because our lists were full and we needed time to publish all that we
had already under contract -- this is especially true about fiction,
and we've admitted as much to the authors and agents involved. But I
believe it is also true that we have never failed to find an immediate
place for great work.
Braziller: I look for a balance between
subjective and objective. I look to be moved by a manuscript, and find a
way of publishing it well even on a very small scale. The new
technology allows the small independent publisher to publish more
modestly and therefore ideally take more risks.
SoR: What future do you see for “literary fiction” as opposed to self help, genre, vampires, etc.?
Atwan:
Somehow literary fiction survives and even thrives, despite popular
trends, and it always has. It may have to survive in eBook format in
the coming decades, but I don’t see it going away. Some people, a small
number (but that was always the case), have an appetite for art, and
some people (an even smaller number) have the talent to produce it.
Shoemaker: If there is a future for literature, there will be a future for literary fiction.
Braziller:
I think if publishers and writers and perhaps even agents can not think
of cashing in but work on a smaller scale, thjiongs might take a turn
for the bettter.
SoR: Contracts
are commonly made more often than books are published so how often are
contracts broken, for what reasons and what can an author do about
that?
Atwan: In
my experience, contracts are most often broken because the author is
unable to deliver the book according to the terms. But there may be
more instances of broken contracts in large commercial houses which I
can’t speak to. If an author abides by the terms of the agreement,
there should be no grounds for the publisher to break it.
Shoemaker: I
have no idea where you heard this, but I find this patently false. I
can recall only rare occasions of books being placed under contract and
then not published if delivered in a timely and satisfactory manner by
the author. Only in the case of publishers going out of business would
this be even close to common.
The opposite, publishers placing books under contract and then
having authors fail to deliver is reasonably common, I suppose.
Publishers generally then have little chance whatsoever to recoup any
advance monies given to those writers who renege on their legal and
contractual promises.
Braziller: We've
had few experiences with broken contacts. Only a few broken promises
in 35 years evenly divided between author and Persea.
The Industry Interview Series, Part II
August 6, 2011
This is one of many special interview series brought to you by Splash of Red where we interview some of the country's leading publishers and editors to get a behind-the-scenes look into the literary industry for all of our budding writers out there who follow our site. We hope that the discussions here give writers some insight into the other end of the field they work so tirelessly in with the intentions of assisting in the publishing process. Enjoy.
Contributing Interviewees:
Judith Gurewich - Publisher at Other Press
Marcus Leaver - Executive Vice President, Chief Operating Officer at Sterling Publishing Company
Pat Walsh - Editor at MacAdam/Cage
Yuval Taylor - Senior Editor at Chicago Review Press; A Capella, Lawrence Hill Books
SoR: What are some common mistakes writers make that can put their manuscript in jeopardy of not getting published?
Gurewich: Not finding an agent to represent them. Writing a book for the sake of writing a book and not out of absolute inner necessity.
Leaver: I suppose there are many things that could derail your efforts, but the biggest mistake would be not putting your manuscript in the right hands to begin with. If your methods consist of sending a form letter to every publisher or agent without learning enough about who they are and what they publish, you are likely to get a form rejection letter in return. You should also be realistic and honest with yourself about your work. If you’ve never shown it to a trusted friend, colleague or a writer’s group for an objective opinion, I’d strongly encourage that you do so. I cannot tell you how many proposals we see that like to position their book as comparable to whatever the hottest book on that same topic is, and frankly it’s just not realistic. One of the most common things we ask ourselves when evaluating a manuscript is “who is the customer for this book? ” so you’d do well to ask yourself that same question.
Walsh: There are, unfortunately, many. Sloppiness comes to mind. Screw ups in a cover letter are hard to get over. And "Dear Sirs" letters don't get us anymore excited than when you get a piece of mail addressed to "Resident." I really get put off when I read a writer who uses the same verb over and over, especially the "to be" form. (Personally, my pet peeves are the over-use and misuse of the verb "gaze" and people who use "towards," "alright," and "inflammable" instead of "toward," "all right," and "flammable." Also, you are applying for the job of professional writer so learn how to conjugate lay and lie and use the correct forms of who and whom. (Except in dialog. Good dialog includes the expediency and imperfect grammar of real speech.) Still, it isn't the mistakes, it's the misconceptions. If you are writing a novel, wow the reader at the first sentence and then get better. First time novelists don't have an audience and have not earned any benefit of the doubt. The first novel is a proving ground. I can't tell you how many times someone has said something to the effect of "It starts slow but wait until you get to page 230." This is such shit. But to answer your question, the most common mistake is writers who submit their books too early. Write the thing, stick it in a drawer, and leave it there until it gathers some dust. Then re-read and re-write.
I know that I risk sounding like an unelected spokesman for a-holes taking delight in other people's' misery but there are so, so many submissions it's hard to get through them with any form of expediency, so we take shortcuts because we have to.
Taylor: The most common mistake is sloppy research. I've had several authors supply me with manuscripts replete with errors. These can range from mistakes with dates or sloppily worded sentences that give the wrong impression to false claims about subjects (particularly a claim that so-and-so was the "first" person to do such-and-such). A few such errors in a manuscript are troubling, but when they begin to amount to double digits, the manuscript usually becomes unpublishable.
SoR: How important is having impeccable grammar and spelling compared to having a really great story for a manuscript?
Leaver: We have an entire team of people devoted to making our authors seem like they have impeccable grammar and spelling, so I don’t see that as an issue. However, you must consider that sending a proposal riddled with errors sends a negative first impression, which might make anyone think twice about entering into a business relationship with you.
Walsh: Well, how important is it to avoid farting out loud on a first date? Good writers respect grammar, spelling and language in general. Great writers can rise above grammatical rules if there are compelling reasons but there rarely are. Let me put is this way, I have never met a good writer in my life who did not care about grammar, syntax, and other architectural elements of writing. But do good writers make mistakes and miss them throughout multiple re-writes? Yep. All the time. This doesn't mean they don't care. Writers submitting their work have all the time in the world to check their work before submission, so they should avail themselves of that time to make sure a document is as clean as possible. Remember, editors and agents are often looking for a reason to say no.
Taylor: How important is it that your fruit looks unblemished compared to how good it tastes? If it's covered with spots, you probably won't get around to tasting it, will you, even if the taste is what really matters.
SoR: How much do you look at education or publishing credits when considering a manuscript for publication?
Gurewich: I don't. I read the first paragraph and go on if I like what I see.
Leaver: That would have to depend upon the type of book under consideration. It would not be possible or practical to hold every author to the same standard. In non-fiction publishing, the ideal candidate is well-versed in their subject. We would presume that an author writing a knitting book would be capable of designing and completing the projects, and likewise that someone writing on history of art has had extensive education in the subject, either formally or informally. Publishers often like to use the term “platform” because it considers their education along with other important variables such as what they do for a living (other than writing), what affiliations they might have that could help to promote their work and whether they have an established web and social media presence.
Walsh: Some pedigree from a "name" MFA program might add a little more interest in reading something quickly, but it really is the work that needs to stand alone. Some editors look for publishing credentials and certainly most agents do, but mostly to help them cull their submission lists. To me, it matters little. I've taken to ignoring everything the writer sends except the book. But I do glance at cover letters and get very excited if the writer mentions works we've published as being his/her favorites. In short, if you have a publishing pedigree then use it; if not, don't. I'd rather have a great first chapter than an MFA.
Taylor: I don't look at education at all. Publishing credits are very important, on the other hand.
SoR: While self-publishing has certainly helped the average writer get their work out there, what are the pros and cons versus seeking a publishing house?
Gurewich: I don't know. I have never republished a self published work.
Leaver: When self-publish you have ultimate creative control. It is your story, your vision, and any success you have will be largely due to your own hard work. But this also means much of the risk is yours. You are responsible for costs of manufacturing the books, and would need to determine how best to warehouse your books and fulfill orders. Perhaps you don’t want to deal in printed books and would rather self-publish an eBook. Your costs are greatly reduced, you’ve likely engaged a third party to take care of your fulfillment, and design, perhaps even editing. But you haven’t actually earned any money yet, so you must rely on another source of income to fund your project. Your book isn’t selling despite your best efforts to spread the word about your book through your blog, facebook and twitter. You’ve gotten a crash course in self publishing, but haven’t yet turned a profit, so is that a successful venture?
On the other hand, if you are working with a publishing house you will generally receive advance against royalty or a flat fee based on a proposal, which you’d receive a portion of upon signing your contract leaving you the opportunity to focus on creating your work. You will work out a schedule deliver the manuscript to a staff of dedicated employees that are experts in editing, design, manufacturing, promotion, and of key importance, distribution. I have been known to say that “Content is king, but distribution is King Kong” and this is still the case even in the world of instant e-publishing and print on demand services. Distribution refers to the network of accounts and channels to market that a publisher has access to and is critical to getting your book in front of as many customers as possible. I suppose that it’s no huge surprise that I’d recommend a traditional publishing route, but we believe in our method. Most publishers are working hard now to attract and keep their authors and stay on top of the latest trends in so in a sense there’s no better time to partner with a publisher.
Walsh: Self publishing is changing. I went on record in my book by saying that self publishing is always bad, but my opinion is evolving. There are more cases wherein the author is right to self publish, such as a book for a niche that the author knows the market better than a publisher. Also, people who feel comfortable investing in their own title to overcome self publishing obstacles, like distribution and production. This is a decisions that must be made after great consideration.
SoR: If everyone has a platform, what can authors do to set themselves apart?
Gurewich: Be cooperative with their publicists. If they have written a compelling story, it is amazing how things work out.
Leaver: You must have passion for your work. If I was given the task of choosing between two authors that were otherwise equally credentialed, I’d choose the author with the greatest drive and enthusiasm for their project.
Walsh: There is too much emphasis on platform. I'm sorry writers ever learned of this concept because the term is becoming misconstrued and abused. In a perfect world, the author has his or her own platform (an existing audience) and the subject matter has not yet been addressed in book form (a clear field). That said, if we only published books that had these two things, we would only publish a couple of books a year. To set yourself apart, write a book that needs to be read. And to be read seriously by me (or any editor), read the stuff that I feel strongly about, that is to say, the books I edited and published. The acknowledgments page of a book is a wealth of information for writers seeking editors and agents.
Taylor: Does everyone really have a platform? To set yourself apart simply takes very hard work and tremendous focus and energy.
SoR: If you could give one essential piece of advice to writers out there, what would it be?
Gurewich: Be modest, find an agent, make sure you have a story to tell that matters, and write it with as few words as possible and with as many well turned phrases as you can.
Leaver: Each day you should surround yourself with people and things you love and feel excited about. Good stories come out of a full life, so give yourself plenty of opportunities to draw from and you shall be successful no matter where your writing takes you.
Walsh: Keep getting better, and the only way to do that is to read and write as much as you can. And take your time. It feels like an enemy but it really is your friend. I worked on a book that included some nice wisdom from a man named Tom Mendoza, who said, "Never buy anything from someone who is out of breath." The world belongs to the people who aren't in a hurry.
Taylor: Choose a subject about which you are passionate - so long as it's not yourself.
SoR: Is there a gender bias that goes with genres such as women writing about relationships and parenting and men writing about history and politics, i.e. do readers expect certain genders to be more knowledgeable about certain topics and if so, how does consumer perception like that affect the literary industry?
Gurewich: Intelligence and insight are not connected to gender.
Leaver: I cannot confirm whether a true bias exists in the publishing industry more so than any other industry, but I can tell you that when we’re deciding whether or not to acquire a book, we’d consider any knowledgeable and well credentialed author regardless of their gender. And if we believed in them we’d do our best to help them break out and challenge those perceptions.
Walsh: Consumer perceptions and bias are real in a marketing sense, especially for non-fiction, but I don't think anyone should let those things have an effect on their writing. I mean, "Seabiscuit" is a historical piece about horse racing written by a woman and "He's Just Not That Into You," is a relationship book written by a dude. Just wanting to be a writer isn't enough. You have to have something to say that makes people's lives better. Don't make the mistake of altering what you want to say so that you can make yourself more attractive to publishers. Put your efforts into making what you want to say better. Don't water it down in an effort to pander.
Taylor: Absolutely. Unfortunately, books that flout gender conventions such as these are bound to be met with some initial suspicion.
SoR: What future do you see for “literary fiction” as opposed to self help, genre, vampires, etc.?
Gurewich: I think good fiction is as necessary to the good life as good wine.
Leaver: There will always be trends that come and go in publishing, and new ones emerge as more and more authors and publishers try to remain fresh and identify their work in a new way. I think that literary fiction continues to thrive because these stories incorporate familiar people and places that appeal to us because we think we know who they are and have already formed opinions about them. The best of these stories will then thrusting them into fictional scenario with limitless possibilities and allows us to see an alternate view of the world as we know it. Well-written literary fiction will likely carry on, but I look forward to the emergence of new genres as it gives us new areas to publish into.
Walsh: Fiction in general is the primary beneficiary of the electronic reader so I think the future is very bright. Publishers can take more chances with less risk. This is a great thing. Also, Harry Potter and his fanged counterparts have opened up a world where reading is a cool - therefore mandated - activity for young people. This is great news. Literary fiction is a genre that people grow into, sometimes. That doesn't mean it is the only important genre. Lonesome Dove is a great, great book. Is it literary fiction? Yes and no. It depends on who you are.
There is a great temptation in the arts to play king of the hill. The minute someone achieves fame/money/success, we tear him or her down. In literary fiction and music, we do this by claiming that the wildly successful artist is a sell out. That is so fucked up. The idea is, I guess, that you cannot be successful and have integrity simultaneously. We, as an audience, are weak by our insecurity. Why can't there be room for everyone here in literature? Jane Austen was the Daniel Steele of her day and, perhaps, our grandchildren will be in similar awe of Ms. Steele in a few generations. Who's to say? Let's not let our panties get in a bunch over such things such as what is "real" literature and what is not. Let's focus on the expanding audience we have and try and produce meaningful works for people, whether they need to have a good cry or give their intellect a decades long workout.
Taylor: I have no experience with publishing "literary fiction," I'm afraid. Personally, I think there will always be a market for it.
SoR: Contracts are commonly made more often than books are published so how often are contracts broken, for what reasons and what can an author do about that?
Gurewich: Meet deadlines and if the book was bought on the basis of a proposal, don't disappoint.
Leaver: First and foremost, you must realize that you are one of many other talented authors that your publishing house has chosen to support, and as such your publisher has to organize their list of titles to give properly timed exposure to your book in the marketplace. Many variables can come into play that could cause a publisher to shift gears. Sometimes it’s a reaction to a change in customer demand, and other times an editor leaves or an imprint folds. Those decisions are outside of what you can control, so you shouldn’t worry needlessly about them. You can however control your own role as a valued author. First, make sure that you understand the basics of your contract, i.e. what are you expected to deliver and when, and what happens if you don’t. Fulfill your obligations according to what has been spelled out. Deliver the manuscript as outlined in the contract and on time, and develop a good working relationship with the company that has chosen to publish you.
Walsh: Contracts aren't broken that often. Books bought On Proposal and second novels in a two book deal may be rejected when turned in, but I don't think it's a common occurrence. It takes a lot of work to get to "yes" at a house. If there is a decision to reverse this action, no one is happy.
Taylor: There are two primary reasons a contract is broken. Failure to deliver is the most common; failure to revise the manuscript along the lines suggested by the publisher is the second. Another reason contracts sometimes get broken is if the author is unable to secure the cooperation of people whose cooperation is integral to telling the full story he or she has set out to tell. Authors should set deadlines they can meet, revise as much as necessary, and secure cooperation from interviewees before signing the contract.
SoR: When considering a manuscript for publication, how much of your opinion is subjective versus objective and do you consider what will sell over what is underrepresented?
Gurewich: This is a very good question. Personally I publish books I am in love with and this is the criteria. I am however convinced that good literature measures against objective standards even if unfortunately it is often after some time has gone by that we know what these standards are. However, when a story is really well told and we can't stop reading there is a good chance that something "objectively good " is up. When the story is also very well written than the two criteria of good fiction are met and we can speak of “objectivity."
Leaver: All publishing houses differ in the way they handle acquisitions, but we tend to take a very balanced approach to what we decide to publish. It’s nice to have books on our list in topics that have a proven track record within our own company, or even that other companies have had success with them. And there is a tipping point at which a solidly performing category becomes over-published, and a list based solely on proven topics can start to feel a bit boring. We think it’s more important to be passionate about what we acquire, and sometimes that means taking a chance on an underrepresented area. We still weigh the risks and benefits, but breaking new ground enables us to be creative and innovative, and we believe that this attitude will enable us to continue to adapt to the evolving world of book publishing.
Walsh: If it is written by a sane person, in passable English, then it leaves the realm of the objective and moves in to the subjective. Selling a book has become an increasing concern for me in deciding what to publish because I have learned, with the advent of bookscan, which monitors book sales, that just publishing a book without a plan to sell it can ruin a writers career. A book will end up with a "number" like a credit or SAT score. It is very hard to overcome the quantifiable in our industry. A low bookscan number really hurts a writers career and publishing a book I love but cannot sell to an audience doesn't do the writer any favors in the long run.
If I can add a personal note to this interview, I would impress on everyone to read "The Forrest for the Trees" by Betsy Lerner and "On Writing" by Stephen King (which I finally read this week). These are indispensable works for a writer. Oh wait, is someone out there wondering why I didn't mention The Elements of Style? I'm assuming that every reader of this interview will already be aware of it, because if you don't know that book, you should never be allowed near a keyboard.
Taylor: Opinions are never objective. And how well a subject is represented is an essential part of judging how well a book on that subject will sell.
Paul Frommer on the Na'vi, Avatar and Creating a New Language
August 14, 2011
Art by Nick Lopergalo
Paul Frommer is the creator of the entirely new language for the fictional Na'vi in the critically acclaimed film Avatar. He is also a professor at the University of Southern California and a linguistics consultant.
SoR: As a mathematics major, what fascinated you so much about the Malay language as you were teaching in it in the Peace Corps that led you to become a linguist?
Frommer: To a linguist, even a future one, every language is fascinating—and there were lots of things about Malay that intrigued me. Before I knew the term “phonological rule,” I was tickled by the sound changes that often took place in Malay words, so that if you were looking up certain verb forms like, say, memandu (guiding), menari (dancing), mengata (saying), and menyatukan (uniting) in a dictionary, you’d find them under p, t, k, and s respectively. I was both fascinated and frustrated by the fact that Malay has a whole range of words for “you,” and that finding the most appropriate form of address in any given situation was far from straightforward. And I particularly remember how learning Malay helped me realize that every language is a unique window on the world. One example stands out in my mind: in Malay, the term for watermelon translates to “Chinese cucumber.” I had never thought of the relationship before, but in fact cucumbers and melons are in the same botanical family. Malay makes that a lot clearer than does English.
Malay has two totally different writing systems, the ubiquitous one based on the Roman alphabet and another, less commonly used, based on the Arabic. I became rather famous at my school for learning to read and write Jawi, the Arabic-based Malay orthography, and ironically, some of my students even came to me for help with their religion classes, where all the reading material was in Jawi.
Mostly, though, it wasn’t Malay in particular but rather the positive experience with a foreign language in general, regardless of which one—the challenge of learning it and the delight of being able to use it to communicate with people—that made me want to pursue linguistics in graduate school. I guess my Peace Corps experience also made me think I might have some native ability in that area.
SoR: Do you feel that certain languages are more effective at expressing certain themes or experiences as opposed to others given that some languages have a smaller vocabulary or more complicated pronunciations?
Frommer: I’m not sure that pronunciation has anything to do with expressivity, but vocabulary does. All natural languages are tied to culture, although some move out of their “home” cultures and adapt themselves to new ones. And languages develop so that it’s easy and efficient for speakers to talk about things that are important in their culture, environment, and experience. When I lived in Tehran, all the Americans there quickly learned the word joob, which refers to the ubiquitous paved ditch on either side of a roadway, right off the sidewalk, in which water flows by gravity down from the slopes of the mountains. It was a lot more efficient to say “His car got stuck in the joob” than to say it got stuck in the paved water-filled ditch by the side of the road.
In keeping with this idea, I tried to incorporate aspects of Na’vi culture and experience into the language. The vocabulary has words and phrases for things important to the daily life, spirituality, and worldview of the Na’vi—for example, fpom ‘sense of well-being and harmony with the natural world,’ tireafya’o ‘spirit path,’ waytelem ‘song cord,’ fpeio ‘ceremonial challenge,’ tsaheylu ‘neural connection or bond,’ Eywa ngahu ‘Eywa be with you.’ Also, since ceremonies are important on Pandora, I developed a ceremonial or honorific form of the language, with somewhat different personal pronouns and verb infixes. The Na’vi counting system was influenced by physiology rather than culture: since the Na’vi have four fingers on each hand, their numbering system is octal rather than decimal. (As one Na’vi enthusiast put it, “Now we’ve all got to carry around calculators!”)
SoR: What was it like creating an entirely new language that didn't resemble any known spoken language for James Cameron's film Avatar?
Frommer: Na’vi is indeed a new language, but that’s not to say it hasn’t been influenced by some existing human languages. For example, some of the original vocabulary that James Cameron had come up with—about 30 words—sounded a bit Polynesian to me, akin to words in Hawaiian or Maori. So that was where I started in creating the sound system. The “ejective” sounds I added, which sound to some people like “clicky” consonants, are found in certain indigenous languages of the western hemisphere (e.g. Quechua), Africa (e.g. Amharic), and Asia (e.g. the Caucasian family).
Some of Na’vi’s grammatical structures were inspired by various earth languages. For example, there’s a verbal construction that looks a bit like something in Persian; there’s a phonological rule that brings to mind similar processes in Hebrew and Irish; some sentence-final particles in Na’vi are reminiscent of certain things in Chinese; the case system is similar to one found in the Australian language Wanggumara. But there are also things in Na’vi grammar that, to my knowledge, aren’t found anywhere else. All in all, I think it’s safe to say that the particular combination of structures and processes found in Na’vi is unique.
SoR: How does someone create a new language in such a short period of time and how do you compare that to the actual evolution of human languages over thousands of years?
Frommer: Actually, there are some fairly well-defined steps in language creation. The first thing you typically try to nail down is the sound system of the language—what linguists refer to as phonetics and phonology. For Na’vi, I considered a number of possible elements and processes—which sounds to include, which to exclude, how sounds would combine with each other and perhaps change to other sounds in various situations. Some of these things wound up in the language and some didn’t. Initially I presented Cameron with three different “sound palettes” or possibilities for the overall sonic impression of the language—he chose one, and we were off. The next step was to decide on the morphology (meaningful elements and how they combine to form words) and syntax (rules for putting words together into phrases and sentences). For those, I was on my own. Since this was an alien language spoken on another world, I wanted to include structures and processes that were relatively rare in human languages but that could be acquired by humans. So, for example, Na’vi verbs change their form to reflect differences in tense and aspect (whether an action is viewed as completed or ongoing), but to show those differences you don’t use prefixes and suffixes, which are used in many familiar languages, but their relatively rare cousins, infixes. These are meaningful elements that are inserted inside a root. For example, the root of the verb ‘eat’ is yom; ‘ate’ (that is, eating has been completed) is yolom; ‘is presently eating’ is yerom; ‘will eat’ is yayom. So the infixes in these cases are ol, er, and ay respectively. Learning to use those elements naturally and spontaneously takes some practice.
And then it was time to begin constructing the lexicon—the vocabulary of the language. For that, I let the script drive my decisions about what words to come up with first. If a line of dialog had the word ‘run,’ for example, I obviously had to find a word for that. If there was no Na’vi line that included ‘sleep,’ I knew I could hold off on that one for a while.
I’d like to tell you that by the time Avatar came out, Na’vi was a completely functional language, but that’s not the case. It was certainly adequate for the needs of the film. But there were a number of grammatical structures—and of course a huge amount of vocabulary—still to be determined. Some of that has been completed, but there’s a lot more to be done. If anything has been driven home to me through this experience, it’s how extraordinarily rich and complex any language is, and how much information is unconsciously incorporated into the minds of every native speaker. For example, as English speakers we know that “big” and “large” mean pretty much the same thing. But there’s a difference between “my big brother” and “my large brother”—we can use the words interchangeably in some contexts but not in others. That gives you an idea of the kinds of decisions you have to make about thousands of words when you’re constructing a language from scratch. It’s a daunting task.
SoR: What do you think it was about the sounds of the ejective consonants in the preliminary design phases of the language that appealed to James Cameron so much that made him choose that direction over the others?
Frommer: That’s hard to say. I never really asked Jim why he liked the ejectives, the “clicky” sounds written px, tx, and kx. A lot of people do, though. I think they add a certain “exoticism” to the language, at least for people who have only been exposed to European-origin languages. Of course what’s exotic to one person is homey and familiar to another. It all depends on your background and experience.
SoR: What were some of the joys and some of the challenges that faced you while creating an entirely new language?
Frommer: Perhaps the biggest joy early on was discovering that the language I was creating, with all its quirkiness and complexity, actually worked. I found I was able to construct simple sentences pretty spontaneously that conveyed the meaning I wanted and felt “good in the mouth.” And the actors could reproduce them convincingly.
In retrospect, I think the biggest challenge in all of this was to avoid being unduly influenced by English. For example, suppose I needed to translate the sentence, “I thank you from the bottom of my heart.” The way NOT to do that is to come up with a word for “bottom” and a word for “heart”! The English expression is an idiom that’s certainly not common to most languages. Instead, one has to find an equivalent expression that would fit Na’vi culture and thinking. On the grammatical level too, it was important to avoid simply mimicking what English or other familiar languages do with various constructions.
SoR: How did it feel seeing and hearing people speak the language you developed?
Frommer: In a word, awesome. I’ll never forget the experience of seeing Avatar complete for the first time in a theater and hearing my words in the mouths of Jake and Neytiri and Eytukan and Mo’at. I felt very proud.
Sometime later came another memorable experience: my first time meeting fans of Na’vi who had learned enough of the language to be able to use it in conversation, in some cases with more facility than I could myself. That too was awesome.
SoR: I hear that you are still developing the Na'vi language. What direction is this heading and where do you want to see it go?
Frommer: Since Avatar was released, a worldwide community of Na’vi enthusiasts has emerged. who are learning the language. The fan-created web site learnnavi.org is the main meeting place online; its forums, in 19 languages, currently have a total of over 480,000 posts. I’ve met some of these people in person at Na’vi gatherings and have spoken to more of them online: they’re a wonderful group—bright, enthusiastic, and inventive. Some of them are extremely sophisticated linguistically, with extensive experience in foreign languages; others have developed an interest in language through Na’vi.
Some of the ablest Na’vi-ites in the community are working with me to help expand the lexicon, providing excellent suggestions for new vocabulary. I’m still the “gatekeeper,” in that only I can say what’s officially part of the language and what’s not. But I’ve found the input from the “Na’vi experts” extremely valuable.
As for where Na’vi is going . . . well, I don’t know for sure, but I guess my wish would be to see it develop into a fully functional auxiliary language that not only reflects the unique environment of Pandora and the culture of the Na’vi themselves but can be used efficiently in a wide variety of situations by speakers mì Rrta—here on earth. That will take some time, but we’re on our way. Right now there are already people who use Na’vi on a regular basis for genuine communication. I often receive e-mails written entirely in the language, and there’s at least one blog that’s exclusively in Na’vi.
SoR: Have you considered what the Na'vi language would look like if written? What would you envision it to appear as in literature?
Frommer: Na’vi can certainly be written down—it has its own version of the Roman alphabet and a well-defined spelling system. However, since it wasn’t a written language on Pandora (at least until the Sky People arrived), it didn’t develop its own indigenous writing system. But that hasn’t stopped some artistically minded fans from coming up with their own Na’vi orthographies, some of which are quite beautiful.
SoR: What is a real book you would love to see translated into the Na'vi language and why?
Frommer: Hmm. I think I might start with a version of Aesop’s Fables, but with the animals and plants found on Pandora. That would not only be fun to translate but might serve as a learning tool for students of Na’vi. We could have fables like “The Direhorse and the Stingbat” or “The Boy Who Cried Thanator.” I’d love to read that book!
SoR: Creating certain rules in the language must have appealed to you such as no voiced stops (like b d g) and no vowel length or tone. For someone who could have done anything he wanted, why did you choose to create the language as you did? Were there particular reasons, for instance, in creating the rules as mentioned above?
Frommer: Well, the no-voiced-stops rule came from James Cameron’s initial few words, which as I mentioned sounded Polynesian to me. Polynesian languages typically don’t have those sounds. Other familiar sounds in English not found in Na’vi are those represented by ch, sh, and th (both kinds). In determining your sound system, it’s just as important to decide which sounds you’re excluding as it is which ones you’re including.
You’re right that Na’vi doesn’t have distinctive vowel length or tone. That is, you can’t distinguish words by the length of time you prolong a vowel (as you can in, say, Arabic or classical Latin) or by the pitch of your voice and how it goes up and down (as in, say, Chinese, Vietnamese, and Thai). I presented those possibilities to Cameron, but he didn’t care for them for Na’vi. I think it was a good call. The actors had plenty to keep them on their toes with the ejectives and unusual combinations of sounds. Making them worry about vowel length and tone on top of that would have been too much to ask for.
SoR: What do you feel is the ultimate purpose of language and why do you feel there are so many differences and yet so many similarities in the multitudes of different languages across the globe?
Frommer: You could write books to answer those questions—and many people have! I’ll just say here that language serves several purposes. An obvious one is to function as a tool that can take a thought originating in one mind and put it into another. But language is also part of your identity: the way you speak and write ties you to communities large and small and says important things about who you are, where you come from, who you identify with, and how you fit into your society. Language also reflects, codifies, and transmits culture.
Differences arise because living languages are never static. Over time, words and expressions become obsolete or change meaning, and new words and expressions enter the language. Pronunciation changes too: vowels shift or get lost or are added; consonants drop or get inserted; one sound becomes another. And grammar alters as well. Some languages have undergone rapid change; others have changed more slowly. But none stand still. If you take a look at Shakespeare or the King James Bible, two great examples of Early Modern English, you’ll quickly find examples of usages that are no longer part of contemporary English. Going further back, trying to read Chaucer in the original—a prime example of Middle English—can be daunting, but deciphering it when listening to a recording made using authentic Middle English pronunciation, without the written text, is even more difficult. And the Old English of, say, Beowulf has to be studied like a foreign language.
It’s when groups of speakers of the same language become separated from each other without intercommunication that different languages arise. Since the languages of the two groups, which started out the same, each continue to change but not necessarily in the same direction, two different ways of speaking develop and diverge. When speakers from the two groups are no longer able to understand each other, we have two new but related languages, both “daughters” of the original “parent” language, which is now extinct.
Similarities among languages sometimes often reflect this kind of “familial relationship.” When the Roman Empire broke up, its widespread language, Latin, developed into different languages in different parts of Europe—French, Spanish, Italian, Portuguese, Romanian, Catalan, Occitan, and others—which we now call the romance languages. In the same way, Arabic, Hebrew, and Aramaic are related to each other as members of the Semitic language family. Beyond familial relationships, however, many linguists believe that all human languages share certain deep structural properties that reflect that fact that language is “hard-wired” into our brains from birth.
SoR: How do you feel the language you created for the Na'vi would impact the "culture" that James Cameron created for the species? Examples would be formal and informal use of language, slang...as you know, as a culture evolves, so does the language. Another example would be how in the Na'vi language, gender is optionally marked. So how would that affect the culture in usage?
Frommer: I’ve mentioned some of the ways that Na’vi reflects the culture of its speakers. As for formal and informal use of language, including slang—what linguists call “registers”—Na’vi has those as well. For example, when I translated the Na’vi dialog for the two Avatar-related video games, I was confronted with speakers and situations that hadn’t appeared in the film, including some rough, coarse talk on the part of certain warriors. For that I modified the language in various ways, lopping off parts of words and omitting certain words entirely, to come up with something akin to Na’vi soldier slang.
You’re right that Na’vi gives you more ways to leave gender unmarked than does English. The prime example is the third person pronoun. Our words “I” and “you”—the first and second person pronouns respectively—are not marked for gender: they can refer to either males or females. But in the third person we need to choose “he,” “she,” or “it.” There’s no common pronoun that means either he or she. In Na’vi, however, the most common third-person pronoun is po, which is gender-neutral. If you want to specify gender, however, you can do so: poan is he and poe is she. I’m not sure that reflects anything about Na’vi culture, however. If you look at languages here on earth, Malay and Indonesian have a universal pronoun for he/she, as does spoken (but not written) Mandarin Chinese. Do speakers of those languages look at gender differently than English speakers because of their language? I don’t know. In any event, I find it’s nice to have the freedom of specifying or ignoring such gender differences in Na’vi!
August 6, 2011
This is one of many special interview series brought to you by Splash of Red where we interview some of the country's leading publishers and editors to get a behind-the-scenes look into the literary industry for all of our budding writers out there who follow our site. We hope that the discussions here give writers some insight into the other end of the field they work so tirelessly in with the intentions of assisting in the publishing process. Enjoy.
Contributing Interviewees:
Judith Gurewich - Publisher at Other Press
Marcus Leaver - Executive Vice President, Chief Operating Officer at Sterling Publishing Company
Pat Walsh - Editor at MacAdam/Cage
Yuval Taylor - Senior Editor at Chicago Review Press; A Capella, Lawrence Hill Books
SoR: What are some common mistakes writers make that can put their manuscript in jeopardy of not getting published?
Gurewich: Not finding an agent to represent them. Writing a book for the sake of writing a book and not out of absolute inner necessity.
Leaver: I suppose there are many things that could derail your efforts, but the biggest mistake would be not putting your manuscript in the right hands to begin with. If your methods consist of sending a form letter to every publisher or agent without learning enough about who they are and what they publish, you are likely to get a form rejection letter in return. You should also be realistic and honest with yourself about your work. If you’ve never shown it to a trusted friend, colleague or a writer’s group for an objective opinion, I’d strongly encourage that you do so. I cannot tell you how many proposals we see that like to position their book as comparable to whatever the hottest book on that same topic is, and frankly it’s just not realistic. One of the most common things we ask ourselves when evaluating a manuscript is “who is the customer for this book? ” so you’d do well to ask yourself that same question.
Walsh: There are, unfortunately, many. Sloppiness comes to mind. Screw ups in a cover letter are hard to get over. And "Dear Sirs" letters don't get us anymore excited than when you get a piece of mail addressed to "Resident." I really get put off when I read a writer who uses the same verb over and over, especially the "to be" form. (Personally, my pet peeves are the over-use and misuse of the verb "gaze" and people who use "towards," "alright," and "inflammable" instead of "toward," "all right," and "flammable." Also, you are applying for the job of professional writer so learn how to conjugate lay and lie and use the correct forms of who and whom. (Except in dialog. Good dialog includes the expediency and imperfect grammar of real speech.) Still, it isn't the mistakes, it's the misconceptions. If you are writing a novel, wow the reader at the first sentence and then get better. First time novelists don't have an audience and have not earned any benefit of the doubt. The first novel is a proving ground. I can't tell you how many times someone has said something to the effect of "It starts slow but wait until you get to page 230." This is such shit. But to answer your question, the most common mistake is writers who submit their books too early. Write the thing, stick it in a drawer, and leave it there until it gathers some dust. Then re-read and re-write.
I know that I risk sounding like an unelected spokesman for a-holes taking delight in other people's' misery but there are so, so many submissions it's hard to get through them with any form of expediency, so we take shortcuts because we have to.
Taylor: The most common mistake is sloppy research. I've had several authors supply me with manuscripts replete with errors. These can range from mistakes with dates or sloppily worded sentences that give the wrong impression to false claims about subjects (particularly a claim that so-and-so was the "first" person to do such-and-such). A few such errors in a manuscript are troubling, but when they begin to amount to double digits, the manuscript usually becomes unpublishable.
SoR: How important is having impeccable grammar and spelling compared to having a really great story for a manuscript?
Leaver: We have an entire team of people devoted to making our authors seem like they have impeccable grammar and spelling, so I don’t see that as an issue. However, you must consider that sending a proposal riddled with errors sends a negative first impression, which might make anyone think twice about entering into a business relationship with you.
Walsh: Well, how important is it to avoid farting out loud on a first date? Good writers respect grammar, spelling and language in general. Great writers can rise above grammatical rules if there are compelling reasons but there rarely are. Let me put is this way, I have never met a good writer in my life who did not care about grammar, syntax, and other architectural elements of writing. But do good writers make mistakes and miss them throughout multiple re-writes? Yep. All the time. This doesn't mean they don't care. Writers submitting their work have all the time in the world to check their work before submission, so they should avail themselves of that time to make sure a document is as clean as possible. Remember, editors and agents are often looking for a reason to say no.
Taylor: How important is it that your fruit looks unblemished compared to how good it tastes? If it's covered with spots, you probably won't get around to tasting it, will you, even if the taste is what really matters.
SoR: How much do you look at education or publishing credits when considering a manuscript for publication?
Gurewich: I don't. I read the first paragraph and go on if I like what I see.
Leaver: That would have to depend upon the type of book under consideration. It would not be possible or practical to hold every author to the same standard. In non-fiction publishing, the ideal candidate is well-versed in their subject. We would presume that an author writing a knitting book would be capable of designing and completing the projects, and likewise that someone writing on history of art has had extensive education in the subject, either formally or informally. Publishers often like to use the term “platform” because it considers their education along with other important variables such as what they do for a living (other than writing), what affiliations they might have that could help to promote their work and whether they have an established web and social media presence.
Walsh: Some pedigree from a "name" MFA program might add a little more interest in reading something quickly, but it really is the work that needs to stand alone. Some editors look for publishing credentials and certainly most agents do, but mostly to help them cull their submission lists. To me, it matters little. I've taken to ignoring everything the writer sends except the book. But I do glance at cover letters and get very excited if the writer mentions works we've published as being his/her favorites. In short, if you have a publishing pedigree then use it; if not, don't. I'd rather have a great first chapter than an MFA.
Taylor: I don't look at education at all. Publishing credits are very important, on the other hand.
SoR: While self-publishing has certainly helped the average writer get their work out there, what are the pros and cons versus seeking a publishing house?
Gurewich: I don't know. I have never republished a self published work.
Leaver: When self-publish you have ultimate creative control. It is your story, your vision, and any success you have will be largely due to your own hard work. But this also means much of the risk is yours. You are responsible for costs of manufacturing the books, and would need to determine how best to warehouse your books and fulfill orders. Perhaps you don’t want to deal in printed books and would rather self-publish an eBook. Your costs are greatly reduced, you’ve likely engaged a third party to take care of your fulfillment, and design, perhaps even editing. But you haven’t actually earned any money yet, so you must rely on another source of income to fund your project. Your book isn’t selling despite your best efforts to spread the word about your book through your blog, facebook and twitter. You’ve gotten a crash course in self publishing, but haven’t yet turned a profit, so is that a successful venture?
On the other hand, if you are working with a publishing house you will generally receive advance against royalty or a flat fee based on a proposal, which you’d receive a portion of upon signing your contract leaving you the opportunity to focus on creating your work. You will work out a schedule deliver the manuscript to a staff of dedicated employees that are experts in editing, design, manufacturing, promotion, and of key importance, distribution. I have been known to say that “Content is king, but distribution is King Kong” and this is still the case even in the world of instant e-publishing and print on demand services. Distribution refers to the network of accounts and channels to market that a publisher has access to and is critical to getting your book in front of as many customers as possible. I suppose that it’s no huge surprise that I’d recommend a traditional publishing route, but we believe in our method. Most publishers are working hard now to attract and keep their authors and stay on top of the latest trends in so in a sense there’s no better time to partner with a publisher.
Walsh: Self publishing is changing. I went on record in my book by saying that self publishing is always bad, but my opinion is evolving. There are more cases wherein the author is right to self publish, such as a book for a niche that the author knows the market better than a publisher. Also, people who feel comfortable investing in their own title to overcome self publishing obstacles, like distribution and production. This is a decisions that must be made after great consideration.
SoR: If everyone has a platform, what can authors do to set themselves apart?
Gurewich: Be cooperative with their publicists. If they have written a compelling story, it is amazing how things work out.
Leaver: You must have passion for your work. If I was given the task of choosing between two authors that were otherwise equally credentialed, I’d choose the author with the greatest drive and enthusiasm for their project.
Walsh: There is too much emphasis on platform. I'm sorry writers ever learned of this concept because the term is becoming misconstrued and abused. In a perfect world, the author has his or her own platform (an existing audience) and the subject matter has not yet been addressed in book form (a clear field). That said, if we only published books that had these two things, we would only publish a couple of books a year. To set yourself apart, write a book that needs to be read. And to be read seriously by me (or any editor), read the stuff that I feel strongly about, that is to say, the books I edited and published. The acknowledgments page of a book is a wealth of information for writers seeking editors and agents.
Taylor: Does everyone really have a platform? To set yourself apart simply takes very hard work and tremendous focus and energy.
SoR: If you could give one essential piece of advice to writers out there, what would it be?
Gurewich: Be modest, find an agent, make sure you have a story to tell that matters, and write it with as few words as possible and with as many well turned phrases as you can.
Leaver: Each day you should surround yourself with people and things you love and feel excited about. Good stories come out of a full life, so give yourself plenty of opportunities to draw from and you shall be successful no matter where your writing takes you.
Walsh: Keep getting better, and the only way to do that is to read and write as much as you can. And take your time. It feels like an enemy but it really is your friend. I worked on a book that included some nice wisdom from a man named Tom Mendoza, who said, "Never buy anything from someone who is out of breath." The world belongs to the people who aren't in a hurry.
Taylor: Choose a subject about which you are passionate - so long as it's not yourself.
SoR: Is there a gender bias that goes with genres such as women writing about relationships and parenting and men writing about history and politics, i.e. do readers expect certain genders to be more knowledgeable about certain topics and if so, how does consumer perception like that affect the literary industry?
Gurewich: Intelligence and insight are not connected to gender.
Leaver: I cannot confirm whether a true bias exists in the publishing industry more so than any other industry, but I can tell you that when we’re deciding whether or not to acquire a book, we’d consider any knowledgeable and well credentialed author regardless of their gender. And if we believed in them we’d do our best to help them break out and challenge those perceptions.
Walsh: Consumer perceptions and bias are real in a marketing sense, especially for non-fiction, but I don't think anyone should let those things have an effect on their writing. I mean, "Seabiscuit" is a historical piece about horse racing written by a woman and "He's Just Not That Into You," is a relationship book written by a dude. Just wanting to be a writer isn't enough. You have to have something to say that makes people's lives better. Don't make the mistake of altering what you want to say so that you can make yourself more attractive to publishers. Put your efforts into making what you want to say better. Don't water it down in an effort to pander.
Taylor: Absolutely. Unfortunately, books that flout gender conventions such as these are bound to be met with some initial suspicion.
SoR: What future do you see for “literary fiction” as opposed to self help, genre, vampires, etc.?
Gurewich: I think good fiction is as necessary to the good life as good wine.
Leaver: There will always be trends that come and go in publishing, and new ones emerge as more and more authors and publishers try to remain fresh and identify their work in a new way. I think that literary fiction continues to thrive because these stories incorporate familiar people and places that appeal to us because we think we know who they are and have already formed opinions about them. The best of these stories will then thrusting them into fictional scenario with limitless possibilities and allows us to see an alternate view of the world as we know it. Well-written literary fiction will likely carry on, but I look forward to the emergence of new genres as it gives us new areas to publish into.
Walsh: Fiction in general is the primary beneficiary of the electronic reader so I think the future is very bright. Publishers can take more chances with less risk. This is a great thing. Also, Harry Potter and his fanged counterparts have opened up a world where reading is a cool - therefore mandated - activity for young people. This is great news. Literary fiction is a genre that people grow into, sometimes. That doesn't mean it is the only important genre. Lonesome Dove is a great, great book. Is it literary fiction? Yes and no. It depends on who you are.
There is a great temptation in the arts to play king of the hill. The minute someone achieves fame/money/success, we tear him or her down. In literary fiction and music, we do this by claiming that the wildly successful artist is a sell out. That is so fucked up. The idea is, I guess, that you cannot be successful and have integrity simultaneously. We, as an audience, are weak by our insecurity. Why can't there be room for everyone here in literature? Jane Austen was the Daniel Steele of her day and, perhaps, our grandchildren will be in similar awe of Ms. Steele in a few generations. Who's to say? Let's not let our panties get in a bunch over such things such as what is "real" literature and what is not. Let's focus on the expanding audience we have and try and produce meaningful works for people, whether they need to have a good cry or give their intellect a decades long workout.
Taylor: I have no experience with publishing "literary fiction," I'm afraid. Personally, I think there will always be a market for it.
SoR: Contracts are commonly made more often than books are published so how often are contracts broken, for what reasons and what can an author do about that?
Gurewich: Meet deadlines and if the book was bought on the basis of a proposal, don't disappoint.
Leaver: First and foremost, you must realize that you are one of many other talented authors that your publishing house has chosen to support, and as such your publisher has to organize their list of titles to give properly timed exposure to your book in the marketplace. Many variables can come into play that could cause a publisher to shift gears. Sometimes it’s a reaction to a change in customer demand, and other times an editor leaves or an imprint folds. Those decisions are outside of what you can control, so you shouldn’t worry needlessly about them. You can however control your own role as a valued author. First, make sure that you understand the basics of your contract, i.e. what are you expected to deliver and when, and what happens if you don’t. Fulfill your obligations according to what has been spelled out. Deliver the manuscript as outlined in the contract and on time, and develop a good working relationship with the company that has chosen to publish you.
Walsh: Contracts aren't broken that often. Books bought On Proposal and second novels in a two book deal may be rejected when turned in, but I don't think it's a common occurrence. It takes a lot of work to get to "yes" at a house. If there is a decision to reverse this action, no one is happy.
Taylor: There are two primary reasons a contract is broken. Failure to deliver is the most common; failure to revise the manuscript along the lines suggested by the publisher is the second. Another reason contracts sometimes get broken is if the author is unable to secure the cooperation of people whose cooperation is integral to telling the full story he or she has set out to tell. Authors should set deadlines they can meet, revise as much as necessary, and secure cooperation from interviewees before signing the contract.
SoR: When considering a manuscript for publication, how much of your opinion is subjective versus objective and do you consider what will sell over what is underrepresented?
Gurewich: This is a very good question. Personally I publish books I am in love with and this is the criteria. I am however convinced that good literature measures against objective standards even if unfortunately it is often after some time has gone by that we know what these standards are. However, when a story is really well told and we can't stop reading there is a good chance that something "objectively good " is up. When the story is also very well written than the two criteria of good fiction are met and we can speak of “objectivity."
Leaver: All publishing houses differ in the way they handle acquisitions, but we tend to take a very balanced approach to what we decide to publish. It’s nice to have books on our list in topics that have a proven track record within our own company, or even that other companies have had success with them. And there is a tipping point at which a solidly performing category becomes over-published, and a list based solely on proven topics can start to feel a bit boring. We think it’s more important to be passionate about what we acquire, and sometimes that means taking a chance on an underrepresented area. We still weigh the risks and benefits, but breaking new ground enables us to be creative and innovative, and we believe that this attitude will enable us to continue to adapt to the evolving world of book publishing.
Walsh: If it is written by a sane person, in passable English, then it leaves the realm of the objective and moves in to the subjective. Selling a book has become an increasing concern for me in deciding what to publish because I have learned, with the advent of bookscan, which monitors book sales, that just publishing a book without a plan to sell it can ruin a writers career. A book will end up with a "number" like a credit or SAT score. It is very hard to overcome the quantifiable in our industry. A low bookscan number really hurts a writers career and publishing a book I love but cannot sell to an audience doesn't do the writer any favors in the long run.
If I can add a personal note to this interview, I would impress on everyone to read "The Forrest for the Trees" by Betsy Lerner and "On Writing" by Stephen King (which I finally read this week). These are indispensable works for a writer. Oh wait, is someone out there wondering why I didn't mention The Elements of Style? I'm assuming that every reader of this interview will already be aware of it, because if you don't know that book, you should never be allowed near a keyboard.
Taylor: Opinions are never objective. And how well a subject is represented is an essential part of judging how well a book on that subject will sell.
Paul Frommer on the Na'vi, Avatar and Creating a New Language
August 14, 2011
Art by Nick Lopergalo
Paul Frommer is the creator of the entirely new language for the fictional Na'vi in the critically acclaimed film Avatar. He is also a professor at the University of Southern California and a linguistics consultant.
SoR: As a mathematics major, what fascinated you so much about the Malay language as you were teaching in it in the Peace Corps that led you to become a linguist?
Frommer: To a linguist, even a future one, every language is fascinating—and there were lots of things about Malay that intrigued me. Before I knew the term “phonological rule,” I was tickled by the sound changes that often took place in Malay words, so that if you were looking up certain verb forms like, say, memandu (guiding), menari (dancing), mengata (saying), and menyatukan (uniting) in a dictionary, you’d find them under p, t, k, and s respectively. I was both fascinated and frustrated by the fact that Malay has a whole range of words for “you,” and that finding the most appropriate form of address in any given situation was far from straightforward. And I particularly remember how learning Malay helped me realize that every language is a unique window on the world. One example stands out in my mind: in Malay, the term for watermelon translates to “Chinese cucumber.” I had never thought of the relationship before, but in fact cucumbers and melons are in the same botanical family. Malay makes that a lot clearer than does English.
Malay has two totally different writing systems, the ubiquitous one based on the Roman alphabet and another, less commonly used, based on the Arabic. I became rather famous at my school for learning to read and write Jawi, the Arabic-based Malay orthography, and ironically, some of my students even came to me for help with their religion classes, where all the reading material was in Jawi.
Mostly, though, it wasn’t Malay in particular but rather the positive experience with a foreign language in general, regardless of which one—the challenge of learning it and the delight of being able to use it to communicate with people—that made me want to pursue linguistics in graduate school. I guess my Peace Corps experience also made me think I might have some native ability in that area.
SoR: Do you feel that certain languages are more effective at expressing certain themes or experiences as opposed to others given that some languages have a smaller vocabulary or more complicated pronunciations?
Frommer: I’m not sure that pronunciation has anything to do with expressivity, but vocabulary does. All natural languages are tied to culture, although some move out of their “home” cultures and adapt themselves to new ones. And languages develop so that it’s easy and efficient for speakers to talk about things that are important in their culture, environment, and experience. When I lived in Tehran, all the Americans there quickly learned the word joob, which refers to the ubiquitous paved ditch on either side of a roadway, right off the sidewalk, in which water flows by gravity down from the slopes of the mountains. It was a lot more efficient to say “His car got stuck in the joob” than to say it got stuck in the paved water-filled ditch by the side of the road.
In keeping with this idea, I tried to incorporate aspects of Na’vi culture and experience into the language. The vocabulary has words and phrases for things important to the daily life, spirituality, and worldview of the Na’vi—for example, fpom ‘sense of well-being and harmony with the natural world,’ tireafya’o ‘spirit path,’ waytelem ‘song cord,’ fpeio ‘ceremonial challenge,’ tsaheylu ‘neural connection or bond,’ Eywa ngahu ‘Eywa be with you.’ Also, since ceremonies are important on Pandora, I developed a ceremonial or honorific form of the language, with somewhat different personal pronouns and verb infixes. The Na’vi counting system was influenced by physiology rather than culture: since the Na’vi have four fingers on each hand, their numbering system is octal rather than decimal. (As one Na’vi enthusiast put it, “Now we’ve all got to carry around calculators!”)
SoR: What was it like creating an entirely new language that didn't resemble any known spoken language for James Cameron's film Avatar?
Frommer: Na’vi is indeed a new language, but that’s not to say it hasn’t been influenced by some existing human languages. For example, some of the original vocabulary that James Cameron had come up with—about 30 words—sounded a bit Polynesian to me, akin to words in Hawaiian or Maori. So that was where I started in creating the sound system. The “ejective” sounds I added, which sound to some people like “clicky” consonants, are found in certain indigenous languages of the western hemisphere (e.g. Quechua), Africa (e.g. Amharic), and Asia (e.g. the Caucasian family).
Some of Na’vi’s grammatical structures were inspired by various earth languages. For example, there’s a verbal construction that looks a bit like something in Persian; there’s a phonological rule that brings to mind similar processes in Hebrew and Irish; some sentence-final particles in Na’vi are reminiscent of certain things in Chinese; the case system is similar to one found in the Australian language Wanggumara. But there are also things in Na’vi grammar that, to my knowledge, aren’t found anywhere else. All in all, I think it’s safe to say that the particular combination of structures and processes found in Na’vi is unique.
SoR: How does someone create a new language in such a short period of time and how do you compare that to the actual evolution of human languages over thousands of years?
Frommer: Actually, there are some fairly well-defined steps in language creation. The first thing you typically try to nail down is the sound system of the language—what linguists refer to as phonetics and phonology. For Na’vi, I considered a number of possible elements and processes—which sounds to include, which to exclude, how sounds would combine with each other and perhaps change to other sounds in various situations. Some of these things wound up in the language and some didn’t. Initially I presented Cameron with three different “sound palettes” or possibilities for the overall sonic impression of the language—he chose one, and we were off. The next step was to decide on the morphology (meaningful elements and how they combine to form words) and syntax (rules for putting words together into phrases and sentences). For those, I was on my own. Since this was an alien language spoken on another world, I wanted to include structures and processes that were relatively rare in human languages but that could be acquired by humans. So, for example, Na’vi verbs change their form to reflect differences in tense and aspect (whether an action is viewed as completed or ongoing), but to show those differences you don’t use prefixes and suffixes, which are used in many familiar languages, but their relatively rare cousins, infixes. These are meaningful elements that are inserted inside a root. For example, the root of the verb ‘eat’ is yom; ‘ate’ (that is, eating has been completed) is yolom; ‘is presently eating’ is yerom; ‘will eat’ is yayom. So the infixes in these cases are ol, er, and ay respectively. Learning to use those elements naturally and spontaneously takes some practice.
And then it was time to begin constructing the lexicon—the vocabulary of the language. For that, I let the script drive my decisions about what words to come up with first. If a line of dialog had the word ‘run,’ for example, I obviously had to find a word for that. If there was no Na’vi line that included ‘sleep,’ I knew I could hold off on that one for a while.
I’d like to tell you that by the time Avatar came out, Na’vi was a completely functional language, but that’s not the case. It was certainly adequate for the needs of the film. But there were a number of grammatical structures—and of course a huge amount of vocabulary—still to be determined. Some of that has been completed, but there’s a lot more to be done. If anything has been driven home to me through this experience, it’s how extraordinarily rich and complex any language is, and how much information is unconsciously incorporated into the minds of every native speaker. For example, as English speakers we know that “big” and “large” mean pretty much the same thing. But there’s a difference between “my big brother” and “my large brother”—we can use the words interchangeably in some contexts but not in others. That gives you an idea of the kinds of decisions you have to make about thousands of words when you’re constructing a language from scratch. It’s a daunting task.
SoR: What do you think it was about the sounds of the ejective consonants in the preliminary design phases of the language that appealed to James Cameron so much that made him choose that direction over the others?
Frommer: That’s hard to say. I never really asked Jim why he liked the ejectives, the “clicky” sounds written px, tx, and kx. A lot of people do, though. I think they add a certain “exoticism” to the language, at least for people who have only been exposed to European-origin languages. Of course what’s exotic to one person is homey and familiar to another. It all depends on your background and experience.
SoR: What were some of the joys and some of the challenges that faced you while creating an entirely new language?
Frommer: Perhaps the biggest joy early on was discovering that the language I was creating, with all its quirkiness and complexity, actually worked. I found I was able to construct simple sentences pretty spontaneously that conveyed the meaning I wanted and felt “good in the mouth.” And the actors could reproduce them convincingly.
In retrospect, I think the biggest challenge in all of this was to avoid being unduly influenced by English. For example, suppose I needed to translate the sentence, “I thank you from the bottom of my heart.” The way NOT to do that is to come up with a word for “bottom” and a word for “heart”! The English expression is an idiom that’s certainly not common to most languages. Instead, one has to find an equivalent expression that would fit Na’vi culture and thinking. On the grammatical level too, it was important to avoid simply mimicking what English or other familiar languages do with various constructions.
SoR: How did it feel seeing and hearing people speak the language you developed?
Frommer: In a word, awesome. I’ll never forget the experience of seeing Avatar complete for the first time in a theater and hearing my words in the mouths of Jake and Neytiri and Eytukan and Mo’at. I felt very proud.
Sometime later came another memorable experience: my first time meeting fans of Na’vi who had learned enough of the language to be able to use it in conversation, in some cases with more facility than I could myself. That too was awesome.
SoR: I hear that you are still developing the Na'vi language. What direction is this heading and where do you want to see it go?
Frommer: Since Avatar was released, a worldwide community of Na’vi enthusiasts has emerged. who are learning the language. The fan-created web site learnnavi.org is the main meeting place online; its forums, in 19 languages, currently have a total of over 480,000 posts. I’ve met some of these people in person at Na’vi gatherings and have spoken to more of them online: they’re a wonderful group—bright, enthusiastic, and inventive. Some of them are extremely sophisticated linguistically, with extensive experience in foreign languages; others have developed an interest in language through Na’vi.
Some of the ablest Na’vi-ites in the community are working with me to help expand the lexicon, providing excellent suggestions for new vocabulary. I’m still the “gatekeeper,” in that only I can say what’s officially part of the language and what’s not. But I’ve found the input from the “Na’vi experts” extremely valuable.
As for where Na’vi is going . . . well, I don’t know for sure, but I guess my wish would be to see it develop into a fully functional auxiliary language that not only reflects the unique environment of Pandora and the culture of the Na’vi themselves but can be used efficiently in a wide variety of situations by speakers mì Rrta—here on earth. That will take some time, but we’re on our way. Right now there are already people who use Na’vi on a regular basis for genuine communication. I often receive e-mails written entirely in the language, and there’s at least one blog that’s exclusively in Na’vi.
SoR: Have you considered what the Na'vi language would look like if written? What would you envision it to appear as in literature?
Frommer: Na’vi can certainly be written down—it has its own version of the Roman alphabet and a well-defined spelling system. However, since it wasn’t a written language on Pandora (at least until the Sky People arrived), it didn’t develop its own indigenous writing system. But that hasn’t stopped some artistically minded fans from coming up with their own Na’vi orthographies, some of which are quite beautiful.
SoR: What is a real book you would love to see translated into the Na'vi language and why?
Frommer: Hmm. I think I might start with a version of Aesop’s Fables, but with the animals and plants found on Pandora. That would not only be fun to translate but might serve as a learning tool for students of Na’vi. We could have fables like “The Direhorse and the Stingbat” or “The Boy Who Cried Thanator.” I’d love to read that book!
SoR: Creating certain rules in the language must have appealed to you such as no voiced stops (like b d g) and no vowel length or tone. For someone who could have done anything he wanted, why did you choose to create the language as you did? Were there particular reasons, for instance, in creating the rules as mentioned above?
Frommer: Well, the no-voiced-stops rule came from James Cameron’s initial few words, which as I mentioned sounded Polynesian to me. Polynesian languages typically don’t have those sounds. Other familiar sounds in English not found in Na’vi are those represented by ch, sh, and th (both kinds). In determining your sound system, it’s just as important to decide which sounds you’re excluding as it is which ones you’re including.
You’re right that Na’vi doesn’t have distinctive vowel length or tone. That is, you can’t distinguish words by the length of time you prolong a vowel (as you can in, say, Arabic or classical Latin) or by the pitch of your voice and how it goes up and down (as in, say, Chinese, Vietnamese, and Thai). I presented those possibilities to Cameron, but he didn’t care for them for Na’vi. I think it was a good call. The actors had plenty to keep them on their toes with the ejectives and unusual combinations of sounds. Making them worry about vowel length and tone on top of that would have been too much to ask for.
SoR: What do you feel is the ultimate purpose of language and why do you feel there are so many differences and yet so many similarities in the multitudes of different languages across the globe?
Frommer: You could write books to answer those questions—and many people have! I’ll just say here that language serves several purposes. An obvious one is to function as a tool that can take a thought originating in one mind and put it into another. But language is also part of your identity: the way you speak and write ties you to communities large and small and says important things about who you are, where you come from, who you identify with, and how you fit into your society. Language also reflects, codifies, and transmits culture.
Differences arise because living languages are never static. Over time, words and expressions become obsolete or change meaning, and new words and expressions enter the language. Pronunciation changes too: vowels shift or get lost or are added; consonants drop or get inserted; one sound becomes another. And grammar alters as well. Some languages have undergone rapid change; others have changed more slowly. But none stand still. If you take a look at Shakespeare or the King James Bible, two great examples of Early Modern English, you’ll quickly find examples of usages that are no longer part of contemporary English. Going further back, trying to read Chaucer in the original—a prime example of Middle English—can be daunting, but deciphering it when listening to a recording made using authentic Middle English pronunciation, without the written text, is even more difficult. And the Old English of, say, Beowulf has to be studied like a foreign language.
It’s when groups of speakers of the same language become separated from each other without intercommunication that different languages arise. Since the languages of the two groups, which started out the same, each continue to change but not necessarily in the same direction, two different ways of speaking develop and diverge. When speakers from the two groups are no longer able to understand each other, we have two new but related languages, both “daughters” of the original “parent” language, which is now extinct.
Similarities among languages sometimes often reflect this kind of “familial relationship.” When the Roman Empire broke up, its widespread language, Latin, developed into different languages in different parts of Europe—French, Spanish, Italian, Portuguese, Romanian, Catalan, Occitan, and others—which we now call the romance languages. In the same way, Arabic, Hebrew, and Aramaic are related to each other as members of the Semitic language family. Beyond familial relationships, however, many linguists believe that all human languages share certain deep structural properties that reflect that fact that language is “hard-wired” into our brains from birth.
SoR: How do you feel the language you created for the Na'vi would impact the "culture" that James Cameron created for the species? Examples would be formal and informal use of language, slang...as you know, as a culture evolves, so does the language. Another example would be how in the Na'vi language, gender is optionally marked. So how would that affect the culture in usage?
Frommer: I’ve mentioned some of the ways that Na’vi reflects the culture of its speakers. As for formal and informal use of language, including slang—what linguists call “registers”—Na’vi has those as well. For example, when I translated the Na’vi dialog for the two Avatar-related video games, I was confronted with speakers and situations that hadn’t appeared in the film, including some rough, coarse talk on the part of certain warriors. For that I modified the language in various ways, lopping off parts of words and omitting certain words entirely, to come up with something akin to Na’vi soldier slang.
You’re right that Na’vi gives you more ways to leave gender unmarked than does English. The prime example is the third person pronoun. Our words “I” and “you”—the first and second person pronouns respectively—are not marked for gender: they can refer to either males or females. But in the third person we need to choose “he,” “she,” or “it.” There’s no common pronoun that means either he or she. In Na’vi, however, the most common third-person pronoun is po, which is gender-neutral. If you want to specify gender, however, you can do so: poan is he and poe is she. I’m not sure that reflects anything about Na’vi culture, however. If you look at languages here on earth, Malay and Indonesian have a universal pronoun for he/she, as does spoken (but not written) Mandarin Chinese. Do speakers of those languages look at gender differently than English speakers because of their language? I don’t know. In any event, I find it’s nice to have the freedom of specifying or ignoring such gender differences in Na’vi!
The Industry Interview Series, Part III
September 15, 2011
This is one of many special interview series brought to you by Splash of Red where we interview some of the country's leading publishers and editors to get a behind-the-scenes look into the literary industry for all of our budding writers out there who follow our site. We hope that the discussions here give writers some insight into the other end of the field they work so tirelessly in with the intentions of assisting in the publishing process. Enjoy.
Contributing Interviewees:
John Duff - Publisher at Perigee, HP Books, Avery
Martin Asher - Editor-in-Chief at Vintage Books
Chip Fleischer - Publisher at Steerforth Press
Cynthia Sherry - Publisher at Chicago Review Press
SoR: What are some common mistakes writers make that can put their manuscript in jeopardy of not getting published?
Duff: I could go on for days (hyperbole) on the topic of the most common, egregious, and silly (excessive use of adjectives) mistakes that writers might allow to creep into their manuscripts or proposals. However, the following appear in proposals and manuscripts often enough to raise red flags. While anyone of these might not send the proposal to the recycle bin or cause us to cancel a contracted work, they are worth noting:
Lacking a coherent structure: It is particularly important in prescriptive non-fiction that there is a logical flow of information throughout the book. Many proposals that I have seen appear to have been cobbled together from random thoughts that the author has had about the subject matter.
Failing to understand the potential readership for which the book is written: When I advise writers that I publish “popular” reference, that doesn’t mean that I am expecting to see copious footnotes and lots of $5 words. (Or, in the present economy, $25 words.) While many authors may be experts in their particular fields, the largest potential readership is not their peer group. Nor am I in the business of publishing a thesis. Most of the books that I publish need to have some practical application. (Assuming that they aren’t intended as pure entertainment.)
The reliance on jargon: Because many of my authors are experts in a subject first and writers second there is a tendency for them to rely on the jargon of their trade, which is incomprehensible to the average reader. Worse, readers might assume that this jargon means one thing when, in fact, it actually means something completely different.
And finally, my pet peeve: Using the incorrect version of “foreword.” I find it hard to get past “forward” when I see it in a table of contents even at the proposal stage. And, also, see your question #2 concerning grammar and spelling.
Asher: Trying to write what you think the market wants as opposed to something dangerously new. What sold last year was last year. We work a year ahead. The public always wants something new. Outrageousness is generally not a bad trait to have.
Fleischer: Being overly casual in their submission letter. (And yes, letters are greatly preferred. Everyone’s e-mail in-box is overly full with submissions from people who are pushing “send.” A well targeted, well written letter is the way to go. The editor can then choose if he wishes to respond via e-mail, receive the Word file for the ms as an e-mail attachment, etc. But writers should not be surprised if e-mail queries are ignored.) Another mistake is calling and wanting to talk at length about the book. It’s fine to make a brief introduction, but the writing needs to speak for itself since that is what any book that might get published would have to do.
Sherry: Not being succinct in their presentation and coming off as a crazy person is probably the fastest way to a rejection. It's one thing to be passionate about your project, but don't call a publisher multiple times checking on your manuscript's status and don't launch into too many details if you get a publisher or an editor on the phone. Just give them the elevator pitch in your query letter, e-mail, or phone call. A few well-rehearsed lines about what the book is about will go a long way. Publishers love a hook. But before you send a query letter or proposal, or contact a publisher, be sure to check out their website and/or their current catalog to see specifically what types of books they publish. Next, know the competition for your book inside and out and how your book is better. Avoid saying that there is no competition for your book because every book has to kick another book off a shelf. It's the law of the jungle.
SoR: How important is having impeccable grammar and spelling compared to having a really great story for a manuscript?
Duff: I am one of the worst offenders when it comes to correct spelling and grammar, although most of my errors arise from my poor typing skills and failure to proofread. However, the lack of attention to good grammar and proper spelling is an impediment for readers. If authors do not have at least a decent command of both grammar and spelling (and don’t bother to proof read their work) it sends a very strong, negative signal to me. To be fair, many of the authors with whom I work are experts in their fields and do not consider themselves to be “writers.” In most of these cases, the expert will engage a collaborator who will have the skills to convey the experts ideas clearly – and with impeccable grammar and spelling.
Editors do have their pet peeves. Mine is using a noun, such as impact, as a verb. I will always change it in the manuscript. I have relaxed my position on many other transgressions – life is too short to worry about split infinitives or ending a sentence with a preposition.
That said, I will always give authors leeway for self-expression in order to maintain their particular “voice” if the work will allow it.
Even in prescriptive non-fiction the “story” is important, but the telling of it can’t be obscured by a lack of clear prose that adheres, at least for the most part, to the rules of grammar and spelling.
Asher: It's not either/or. A great story trumps bad grammar and spelling. But bad grammar and spelling at the beginning might make an editor think, "this guy is just a novice" and not continue reading to get to the great story. We are all overwhelmed with the number of submissions we get and while we are looking for good books we are also looking to reject things just to get them off our desks. Bad spelling and grammar could have that effect.
Fleischer: It depends on the publisher and the story being told. In a literary novel or work of narrative nonfiction, the author needs to have command of the language. Poetic license and improper grammar can be employed so long as their use is intentional and serves a purpose. A person who is an authority and uniquely positioned to tell an important story, such as a politician or a prosecutor, does not necessarily have to be a strong writer. An editor can work with such a person so long as their material is compelling and unique and there is a market for the story.
Sherry: They are both important as far as presentation and professionalism goes, but a great story and writing style is more important than a few typos. Editors will always be able to fix the spelling and grammar.
SoR: How much do you look at education or publishing credits when considering a manuscript for publication?
Duff: In the area of prescriptive non-fiction, the author’s credentials an a expert in his/her field are very important. While many excellent works of non-fiction have been written by journalists or others who do not have PhD’s or MD’s or the equivalent, this is generally the exception. Readers (and the media) want to know that the author has the authority to speak on the subject.
Publishing credentials are quite another matter. An author’s track record is can be critical. If the author’s previous book has been successful, it makes it that much easier for the publisher to market the new book. And, of course, the opposite is true. Overcoming a bad track record is one of the most challenging things in my field of publishing.
If the author has not previously published, it is not necessarily a handicap. We will look to other factors to launch a book by a first timer. ( I will point out the obvious here: many “authors” who publish in a specific category of non-fiction often only have one book in them. Subsequent books in the same subject area tend to be variations on the theme or become overly specialized. We will often publish several books by the same author in his/her area of expertise but generally expect lower sales from book to book.)
Asher: I often check in with our educational marketing director. We have titles that sell hundreds of thousands of copies a year to the school market. It's always a consideration.
Fleischer: Education is not so important. Publishing credits however are a real attention getter because they show the author has been working at his or her craft and has the necessary drive and determination to do what it takes to get a story into print, to take editorial direction, etc. This does not mean the writer has to have published a book, but for a novel, say, it’s helpful to see some short stories have been published. Or for a work of nonfiction, it’s helpful to see the author has contributed pieces to newspapers, magazines, journals, etc.
Sherry: Publishing credits are very important and if an author has never published a book before, that's OK as long as they have some good journalistic connections. Education is less important than publishing track record and media connections. Bookstore buyers and sales reps love an author with a positive track record.
SoR: While self-publishing has certainly helped the average writer get their work out there, what are the pros and cons versus seeking a publishing house?
Duff: While I am not convinced that self-published has necessarily helped the average writer to “get their work out there” (it has, perhaps allowed them to print copies of their work or upload it as an eBook to various hosts) it is worth noting that the key things that a publishing house can provide:
* a critical eye and editorial expertise that will help the author not only improve their work editorially (with the input of the editor, copyeditor, etc) but will help the author place his/her book in the context of what is already published in the field
* thousands of person hours of expertise in every aspect of the publishing process: editorial, design, packaging, selling, distribution, etc.
* an advance, however modest, provides the author with a level of validation (and sometimes freedom) to do their work and underscores the notion that the author does not have to pay for the services that the publisher provides as a matter of course (see above “every aspect of the publishing process.”)
* a measure of credibility in the marketplace
Asher: Anyone can write something, stick it up on the web and try to make people notice. Here are a few of the things that publishers so that it is difficult to do alone: 1) editing. I am currently shaving a book from 130,000 words to 65,000 words. I have been through it six times. It's a lot better now. 2) Cover, you can judge a book by its. You would be amazed at how many people buy books because they have a great cover. We have an art department composed only of geniuses. Just look at any of our recent or backlist titles. Most recently look at THE LAST WEREWOLF by Glen Duncan, which we published a few months ago and has been a great success. Peter Mendelsund of the Knopf art department, designed a cover so great we all just wanted to scream. 3) Promotion. We assume that whatever your book is we have published something like it in the past (We have been around a long time). We have connections with key people at newspapers, magazines regular and digital media. They know the quality of the books we publish and I know we get a kind of attention and credibility that a writer on their own would have a hard time obtaining.
Fleischer: There have always been “vanity presses,” but the costs of pre-production and production used to be such that only writers with money to burn chose this route. Now the costs and other barriers to self publication have become so low that there are a thousand times as many self published books as in the past. There’s nothing wrong with going this route and occasionally a self published book will find traction. An established imprint, however, can serve as a gatekeeper in the sense that if a publisher risks its own money, staff time, reputation and other resources on a project, its involvement serves as validation of a writer’s talent or credentials. An established publisher will also ensure a book is well edited, copy edited, designed, promoted, and perhaps most importantly, widely distributed. Also, with such a crush of books being self published, and so much noise in our Internet culture, a book published by an established house has the great advantage of being elevated above the crowd to a certain extent.
Sherry: The only good reason to self-publish is if your market is very limited and you know better than anyone else how to reach that market and you can't find a decent publisher to work with. Self-publishing is a good option for people who need to be in complete control of the process and product and are not looking for any expert knowledge or experience. The other big part the publisher brings to the table is the money. Publishers pay the bills for editing, designing, typesetting, proofing, printing, marketing, publicity, advertising, and sales. So what you give up in creative control, you gain in not having to take the big financial risk of publishing. And publishers like Chicago Review Press work collaboratively with their authors on titles, cover and interior designs, and marketing plans, so with the right publisher you can have the best of both worlds. I'm speaking pretty exclusively about nonfiction publishing, because that's what I know. I don't have experience publishing fiction or poetry. I can imagine that is another area where it might make sense to self-publish your work, if you can't find a publisher or an agent who will take a chance on new fiction or poetry.
SoR: If everyone has a platform, what can authors do to set themselves apart?
Duff: Not everyone has a platform, which can be a problem especially when trying to launch non-fiction. Many people are capable of writing excellent manuscripts but publishers expect to get a publishable work as a matter of course. What we are often paying for is the “platform” that will allow us to reach the widest possible market for the book in the most expedient way. That platform can be as simple as the author being recognized as a top expert in his/her field. Authors may already have a built-in market from their lectures, workshops, training programs, etc. and can reach thousands of potential buyers with a few key strokes. Almost every author in the non-fiction field should have a website, blog, Twitter, or other social media set up that are maintained and promoted. If an author doesn’t know how to set these things up, they should find out now. (Even the savviest author who may be called upon by the media regularly still needs on going social media to support their profile.)
Asher: Just as no two people are alike, no two platforms should be a like. Write from the heart. You are you. There is not another you in the entire universe, nor anyone who is interested in precisely the same things as you. Do NOT write what you think the market wants. You will be too late and the market doesn't know what it wants.
Fleischer: It really comes down to delivering the goods. Even if a book gets a lot of attention upon its publication, it won’t have legs unless early adopters love the book, recommend it to their friends, and it takes on a life of its own. There is no magic bullet or secret formula. In the end, it’s still about the quality of the reading experience.
Sherry: Make your platform better and be more active in the community your book is written for. You would be surprised at how many established authors don't have a website or blog or twitter page. Write articles for magazines, op ed pieces for newspapers, and offer to guest blog on key sites and be sure to add your book or the book you are working on to your byline.
SoR: If you could give one essential piece of advice to writers out there, what would it be?
Duff: Don’t quit your day job.
Asher: Write, rewrite (repeat six times). When you are finished, put your ms, in a drawer for a month. Take it out, then write, re-write another dix times. When you are starting to hate the book it means you may be approaching completion.
Fleischer: Focus on the work before you, and not potential outcomes. There will be time enough for promotional efforts after the book has been completed. Writing is lonely, hard work that requires lots of time and, even for most well known writers, generates very modest net income, if any at all. You have to be in it for the love of the process and the subject matter. If not, you’re almost certain to fail. If you write for all the right reasons and still don’t manage to connect with a large audience, you have nonetheless spent your time doing something you love and producing an end product about which you are passionate and of which you are proud.
Sherry: Don't give up and ask for feedback.
SoR: Is there a gender bias that goes with genres such as women writing about relationships and parenting and men writing about history and politics, i.e. do readers expect certain genders to be more knowledgeable about certain topics and if so, how does consumer perception like that affect the literary industry?
Duff: For every instance where one could cite “gender bias” there will be another example of how that is negated. Men write prolifically about parenting, relationships, etc (what one might call the “feminine” subjects, if one wanted to be subject to outrage from certain quarters) and women contribute outstanding works in history and politics (areas of traditional male domination). Even in the category of business (a rather broad term that comprises everything from self-improvement to management to financial subject) I rather doubt that most editors would factor in the author’s sex when making a decision to publish or not. While I have taken into account an author’s sex when it comes to certain topics it is because I anticipate that readers may wish to hear the points of view of one sex or another on a particular topic.
Asher: I think publishing is pretty much in the same place that the country itself is regarding gender. Mysteries were considered "male," then along came Agatha Christie and now Patricia Cornwall and Sue Grafton. THE LAST LECTURE by Randy Pausch (check sp.) is about a man dying of cancer giving his children lessons about all he has learned from life. One could have considered that feminine. But with so many women working and men staying home raising families, I think I can honestly say, we have no gender bias.
Fleischer: No. A writer can write about any topic, regardless of gender. That said, publishers are cognizant of the fact that many more women than men read fiction.
Sherry: I may be naive but I don't see the bias so much as the numbers deferential. More men write about politics and history perhaps and more women write about parenting, but I'm just as likely to publish a parenting book written by a man as a history book written by a woman. I don't think consumers care as long as the credentials are there.
SoR: What future do you see for “literary fiction” as opposed to self help, genre, vampires, etc.?
Asher: I just published a book I mentioned called THE LAST WEREWOLF, which was a literary novel about a werewolf. It's not either/or. Just as there are different kinds of writers, there are different kinds of readers. The two exist comfortably together and sometimes the distinction beween really well done genre and literature is in the eye of the beholder. Elmore Leonard, for example, was a suspense writer who is now considered quite literary. And then there is Philip K. Dick who published strange science fiction novels all his life, often paperback originals and has now been honored with a volume of his work in the prestigious Library of America series. Herman Hesse once said "Seriousness is an accident of time." I think it takes a while before we really know and sometimes we are surprised by which books last and which don't.
Fleischer: I don’t have a strong sense of what the future holds for literary fiction. Genre fiction, or “popular” fiction, has existed for centuries. We tend to nurture a belief that past generations were more discerning readers. It’s true that the only works we know today from the 19th century are great works, but the reason for this is that these works have withstood the test of time. The overwhelming majority of what got published back then simply disappeared, as will today’s books of the moment. That said, I do have the sinking sense that our literary culture, including book criticism, is being dumbed down, and this makes me nervous. My hope is that this phenomenon will prove to be cyclical rather than terminal.
Sherry: I don't think literary fiction is going anywhere but vampires and zombies will likely fade from the mainstream and go back to the smaller niche where they came from and will always be popular.
SoR: Contracts are commonly made more often than books are published so how often are contracts broken, for what reasons and what can an author do about that?
Duff: To cancel a contract is rare for me. In fact, to state that “contracts are commonly made more often than books are published” may not be accurate. (There are probably no readily available statistics to support this statement, however.) The main reason for a contact to be terminated is for non-delivery, that is, the author fails to deliver or to deliver by the deadline. Most publishers are fairly lenient with authors and will extend the delivery date if the author has shown good faith – and the book is not too time sensitive. If the publisher reorganizes, which is not uncommon these days, and takes a respective publishing program in a new direction, then cancellation may ensue. But this is one of many circumstances beyond the author’s control.
My advice: Deliver a “publishable” manuscript on time.
Asher: Contracts are legal documents. They are rarely broken by the publisher unless the author does not deliver as scheduled, or there may be a clause that the author cannot publish a book with another publisher until he finishes the one contracted for-- in cases like that a publisher may well choose to end the contract, I would venture to guess that the number of contracts that are broken is relatively small. When a publisher signs a contract, it means he wants a book, not a lawsuit. Similarly if an author is lucky enough to find a publisher, the last thing she would want was to get in a legal hassle. It not only effects this book, but the publishing community is a small one and if word gets out that an author is "difficult" and does not deliver, they may find it harder to publish next time.
Fleischer: I have no idea what the industry wide statistics are on this. In twenty years, Steerforth has canceled only one contract and reverted the rights to the project back to the author. If the author truly believes in the project he will see it through and publish it with another publisher. That, however, is his only recourse.
Sherry: We have relatively few broken contracts. Mostly it comes down to authors who don't deliver manuscripts because of writer's block or illness and we take too long to figure out that it's never coming in. Occasionally, we have to cancel a contract because an author plagiarized material or didn't fact check carefully enough and we couldn't trust their research.
SoR: When considering a manuscript for publication, how much of your opinion is subjective versus objective and do you consider what will sell over what is underrepresented?
Duff: All opinion is subjective. The decision to publish is based on (or subject to) a number of factors: the quality of the work; the credibility (and profile) of the author; the perceived popularity (or otherwise) of the subject matter; the effect of current (and forthcoming) competition (to your point about what is underrepresented); timing; suitability for the respective publisher’s list; etc. While I hesitate to use the word unique, it does apply to each proposal that I see. And so each has to be judged based on the criteria I’ve mentioned above – and many others.
Our goal is to publish books that will sell. Our expectations for sales in the short and long term may vary from book to book, which is often reflected in the advance. But if the books don’t sell, we’ll be out of business – and we will be incapable of contributing to the social capital, which may be considered our higher purpose if one wants to speak in the loftiest terms. I have been disappointed more often that I care to think about concerning the sales of a book that I was, nevertheless, proud to publish. But when we are looking at the end-of-the-year financials, we expect to be very much on the positive side of the profitability line.
Asher: I think this is your most difficult question and I can only give you my answer. I think if you asked 10 editors you would get 10 answers and they would be all over the place. By virtue of being a human, as opposed to a computer, I cannot be objective. I am aware of the market but I try not to pay too much attention to it unless a particular subject has been done to death. Personally, I like to think of myself as playing left field with one foot over the foul ,line. I think what is underrepresented has perhaps a better chance than what is overrepresented. All of this gets overridden by a book which simply becomes an obsession. My boss is a very busy man, but when I go into his office and say "We have to publ;ish this, he generally looks up and pays attention. If he doesn't, I come back and do the same thing every half hour making as big a nuisance of myself as I can to get him to read it so he can see what I am so excited about.
Fleischer: The ultimate question when deciding whether to take on a project – do we have the necessary confidence that Steerforth, given its own strengths, weaknesses and track record, would have a reasonable shot at outsized success – is largely subjective. Authors need to understand that a book might not be a good fit for a publisher for a variety of reasons, ranging from timing to a change in a publisher’s priorities. No means no, but it does not mean that the book is unpublishable or without merit.
Sherry: It's all subjective and I am looking more at sales potential than if a subject is underrepresented.
September 15, 2011
This is one of many special interview series brought to you by Splash of Red where we interview some of the country's leading publishers and editors to get a behind-the-scenes look into the literary industry for all of our budding writers out there who follow our site. We hope that the discussions here give writers some insight into the other end of the field they work so tirelessly in with the intentions of assisting in the publishing process. Enjoy.
Contributing Interviewees:
John Duff - Publisher at Perigee, HP Books, Avery
Martin Asher - Editor-in-Chief at Vintage Books
Chip Fleischer - Publisher at Steerforth Press
Cynthia Sherry - Publisher at Chicago Review Press
SoR: What are some common mistakes writers make that can put their manuscript in jeopardy of not getting published?
Duff: I could go on for days (hyperbole) on the topic of the most common, egregious, and silly (excessive use of adjectives) mistakes that writers might allow to creep into their manuscripts or proposals. However, the following appear in proposals and manuscripts often enough to raise red flags. While anyone of these might not send the proposal to the recycle bin or cause us to cancel a contracted work, they are worth noting:
Lacking a coherent structure: It is particularly important in prescriptive non-fiction that there is a logical flow of information throughout the book. Many proposals that I have seen appear to have been cobbled together from random thoughts that the author has had about the subject matter.
Failing to understand the potential readership for which the book is written: When I advise writers that I publish “popular” reference, that doesn’t mean that I am expecting to see copious footnotes and lots of $5 words. (Or, in the present economy, $25 words.) While many authors may be experts in their particular fields, the largest potential readership is not their peer group. Nor am I in the business of publishing a thesis. Most of the books that I publish need to have some practical application. (Assuming that they aren’t intended as pure entertainment.)
The reliance on jargon: Because many of my authors are experts in a subject first and writers second there is a tendency for them to rely on the jargon of their trade, which is incomprehensible to the average reader. Worse, readers might assume that this jargon means one thing when, in fact, it actually means something completely different.
And finally, my pet peeve: Using the incorrect version of “foreword.” I find it hard to get past “forward” when I see it in a table of contents even at the proposal stage. And, also, see your question #2 concerning grammar and spelling.
Asher: Trying to write what you think the market wants as opposed to something dangerously new. What sold last year was last year. We work a year ahead. The public always wants something new. Outrageousness is generally not a bad trait to have.
Fleischer: Being overly casual in their submission letter. (And yes, letters are greatly preferred. Everyone’s e-mail in-box is overly full with submissions from people who are pushing “send.” A well targeted, well written letter is the way to go. The editor can then choose if he wishes to respond via e-mail, receive the Word file for the ms as an e-mail attachment, etc. But writers should not be surprised if e-mail queries are ignored.) Another mistake is calling and wanting to talk at length about the book. It’s fine to make a brief introduction, but the writing needs to speak for itself since that is what any book that might get published would have to do.
Sherry: Not being succinct in their presentation and coming off as a crazy person is probably the fastest way to a rejection. It's one thing to be passionate about your project, but don't call a publisher multiple times checking on your manuscript's status and don't launch into too many details if you get a publisher or an editor on the phone. Just give them the elevator pitch in your query letter, e-mail, or phone call. A few well-rehearsed lines about what the book is about will go a long way. Publishers love a hook. But before you send a query letter or proposal, or contact a publisher, be sure to check out their website and/or their current catalog to see specifically what types of books they publish. Next, know the competition for your book inside and out and how your book is better. Avoid saying that there is no competition for your book because every book has to kick another book off a shelf. It's the law of the jungle.
SoR: How important is having impeccable grammar and spelling compared to having a really great story for a manuscript?
Duff: I am one of the worst offenders when it comes to correct spelling and grammar, although most of my errors arise from my poor typing skills and failure to proofread. However, the lack of attention to good grammar and proper spelling is an impediment for readers. If authors do not have at least a decent command of both grammar and spelling (and don’t bother to proof read their work) it sends a very strong, negative signal to me. To be fair, many of the authors with whom I work are experts in their fields and do not consider themselves to be “writers.” In most of these cases, the expert will engage a collaborator who will have the skills to convey the experts ideas clearly – and with impeccable grammar and spelling.
Editors do have their pet peeves. Mine is using a noun, such as impact, as a verb. I will always change it in the manuscript. I have relaxed my position on many other transgressions – life is too short to worry about split infinitives or ending a sentence with a preposition.
That said, I will always give authors leeway for self-expression in order to maintain their particular “voice” if the work will allow it.
Even in prescriptive non-fiction the “story” is important, but the telling of it can’t be obscured by a lack of clear prose that adheres, at least for the most part, to the rules of grammar and spelling.
Asher: It's not either/or. A great story trumps bad grammar and spelling. But bad grammar and spelling at the beginning might make an editor think, "this guy is just a novice" and not continue reading to get to the great story. We are all overwhelmed with the number of submissions we get and while we are looking for good books we are also looking to reject things just to get them off our desks. Bad spelling and grammar could have that effect.
Fleischer: It depends on the publisher and the story being told. In a literary novel or work of narrative nonfiction, the author needs to have command of the language. Poetic license and improper grammar can be employed so long as their use is intentional and serves a purpose. A person who is an authority and uniquely positioned to tell an important story, such as a politician or a prosecutor, does not necessarily have to be a strong writer. An editor can work with such a person so long as their material is compelling and unique and there is a market for the story.
Sherry: They are both important as far as presentation and professionalism goes, but a great story and writing style is more important than a few typos. Editors will always be able to fix the spelling and grammar.
SoR: How much do you look at education or publishing credits when considering a manuscript for publication?
Duff: In the area of prescriptive non-fiction, the author’s credentials an a expert in his/her field are very important. While many excellent works of non-fiction have been written by journalists or others who do not have PhD’s or MD’s or the equivalent, this is generally the exception. Readers (and the media) want to know that the author has the authority to speak on the subject.
Publishing credentials are quite another matter. An author’s track record is can be critical. If the author’s previous book has been successful, it makes it that much easier for the publisher to market the new book. And, of course, the opposite is true. Overcoming a bad track record is one of the most challenging things in my field of publishing.
If the author has not previously published, it is not necessarily a handicap. We will look to other factors to launch a book by a first timer. ( I will point out the obvious here: many “authors” who publish in a specific category of non-fiction often only have one book in them. Subsequent books in the same subject area tend to be variations on the theme or become overly specialized. We will often publish several books by the same author in his/her area of expertise but generally expect lower sales from book to book.)
Asher: I often check in with our educational marketing director. We have titles that sell hundreds of thousands of copies a year to the school market. It's always a consideration.
Fleischer: Education is not so important. Publishing credits however are a real attention getter because they show the author has been working at his or her craft and has the necessary drive and determination to do what it takes to get a story into print, to take editorial direction, etc. This does not mean the writer has to have published a book, but for a novel, say, it’s helpful to see some short stories have been published. Or for a work of nonfiction, it’s helpful to see the author has contributed pieces to newspapers, magazines, journals, etc.
Sherry: Publishing credits are very important and if an author has never published a book before, that's OK as long as they have some good journalistic connections. Education is less important than publishing track record and media connections. Bookstore buyers and sales reps love an author with a positive track record.
SoR: While self-publishing has certainly helped the average writer get their work out there, what are the pros and cons versus seeking a publishing house?
Duff: While I am not convinced that self-published has necessarily helped the average writer to “get their work out there” (it has, perhaps allowed them to print copies of their work or upload it as an eBook to various hosts) it is worth noting that the key things that a publishing house can provide:
* a critical eye and editorial expertise that will help the author not only improve their work editorially (with the input of the editor, copyeditor, etc) but will help the author place his/her book in the context of what is already published in the field
* thousands of person hours of expertise in every aspect of the publishing process: editorial, design, packaging, selling, distribution, etc.
* an advance, however modest, provides the author with a level of validation (and sometimes freedom) to do their work and underscores the notion that the author does not have to pay for the services that the publisher provides as a matter of course (see above “every aspect of the publishing process.”)
* a measure of credibility in the marketplace
Asher: Anyone can write something, stick it up on the web and try to make people notice. Here are a few of the things that publishers so that it is difficult to do alone: 1) editing. I am currently shaving a book from 130,000 words to 65,000 words. I have been through it six times. It's a lot better now. 2) Cover, you can judge a book by its. You would be amazed at how many people buy books because they have a great cover. We have an art department composed only of geniuses. Just look at any of our recent or backlist titles. Most recently look at THE LAST WEREWOLF by Glen Duncan, which we published a few months ago and has been a great success. Peter Mendelsund of the Knopf art department, designed a cover so great we all just wanted to scream. 3) Promotion. We assume that whatever your book is we have published something like it in the past (We have been around a long time). We have connections with key people at newspapers, magazines regular and digital media. They know the quality of the books we publish and I know we get a kind of attention and credibility that a writer on their own would have a hard time obtaining.
Fleischer: There have always been “vanity presses,” but the costs of pre-production and production used to be such that only writers with money to burn chose this route. Now the costs and other barriers to self publication have become so low that there are a thousand times as many self published books as in the past. There’s nothing wrong with going this route and occasionally a self published book will find traction. An established imprint, however, can serve as a gatekeeper in the sense that if a publisher risks its own money, staff time, reputation and other resources on a project, its involvement serves as validation of a writer’s talent or credentials. An established publisher will also ensure a book is well edited, copy edited, designed, promoted, and perhaps most importantly, widely distributed. Also, with such a crush of books being self published, and so much noise in our Internet culture, a book published by an established house has the great advantage of being elevated above the crowd to a certain extent.
Sherry: The only good reason to self-publish is if your market is very limited and you know better than anyone else how to reach that market and you can't find a decent publisher to work with. Self-publishing is a good option for people who need to be in complete control of the process and product and are not looking for any expert knowledge or experience. The other big part the publisher brings to the table is the money. Publishers pay the bills for editing, designing, typesetting, proofing, printing, marketing, publicity, advertising, and sales. So what you give up in creative control, you gain in not having to take the big financial risk of publishing. And publishers like Chicago Review Press work collaboratively with their authors on titles, cover and interior designs, and marketing plans, so with the right publisher you can have the best of both worlds. I'm speaking pretty exclusively about nonfiction publishing, because that's what I know. I don't have experience publishing fiction or poetry. I can imagine that is another area where it might make sense to self-publish your work, if you can't find a publisher or an agent who will take a chance on new fiction or poetry.
SoR: If everyone has a platform, what can authors do to set themselves apart?
Duff: Not everyone has a platform, which can be a problem especially when trying to launch non-fiction. Many people are capable of writing excellent manuscripts but publishers expect to get a publishable work as a matter of course. What we are often paying for is the “platform” that will allow us to reach the widest possible market for the book in the most expedient way. That platform can be as simple as the author being recognized as a top expert in his/her field. Authors may already have a built-in market from their lectures, workshops, training programs, etc. and can reach thousands of potential buyers with a few key strokes. Almost every author in the non-fiction field should have a website, blog, Twitter, or other social media set up that are maintained and promoted. If an author doesn’t know how to set these things up, they should find out now. (Even the savviest author who may be called upon by the media regularly still needs on going social media to support their profile.)
Asher: Just as no two people are alike, no two platforms should be a like. Write from the heart. You are you. There is not another you in the entire universe, nor anyone who is interested in precisely the same things as you. Do NOT write what you think the market wants. You will be too late and the market doesn't know what it wants.
Fleischer: It really comes down to delivering the goods. Even if a book gets a lot of attention upon its publication, it won’t have legs unless early adopters love the book, recommend it to their friends, and it takes on a life of its own. There is no magic bullet or secret formula. In the end, it’s still about the quality of the reading experience.
Sherry: Make your platform better and be more active in the community your book is written for. You would be surprised at how many established authors don't have a website or blog or twitter page. Write articles for magazines, op ed pieces for newspapers, and offer to guest blog on key sites and be sure to add your book or the book you are working on to your byline.
SoR: If you could give one essential piece of advice to writers out there, what would it be?
Duff: Don’t quit your day job.
Asher: Write, rewrite (repeat six times). When you are finished, put your ms, in a drawer for a month. Take it out, then write, re-write another dix times. When you are starting to hate the book it means you may be approaching completion.
Fleischer: Focus on the work before you, and not potential outcomes. There will be time enough for promotional efforts after the book has been completed. Writing is lonely, hard work that requires lots of time and, even for most well known writers, generates very modest net income, if any at all. You have to be in it for the love of the process and the subject matter. If not, you’re almost certain to fail. If you write for all the right reasons and still don’t manage to connect with a large audience, you have nonetheless spent your time doing something you love and producing an end product about which you are passionate and of which you are proud.
Sherry: Don't give up and ask for feedback.
SoR: Is there a gender bias that goes with genres such as women writing about relationships and parenting and men writing about history and politics, i.e. do readers expect certain genders to be more knowledgeable about certain topics and if so, how does consumer perception like that affect the literary industry?
Duff: For every instance where one could cite “gender bias” there will be another example of how that is negated. Men write prolifically about parenting, relationships, etc (what one might call the “feminine” subjects, if one wanted to be subject to outrage from certain quarters) and women contribute outstanding works in history and politics (areas of traditional male domination). Even in the category of business (a rather broad term that comprises everything from self-improvement to management to financial subject) I rather doubt that most editors would factor in the author’s sex when making a decision to publish or not. While I have taken into account an author’s sex when it comes to certain topics it is because I anticipate that readers may wish to hear the points of view of one sex or another on a particular topic.
Asher: I think publishing is pretty much in the same place that the country itself is regarding gender. Mysteries were considered "male," then along came Agatha Christie and now Patricia Cornwall and Sue Grafton. THE LAST LECTURE by Randy Pausch (check sp.) is about a man dying of cancer giving his children lessons about all he has learned from life. One could have considered that feminine. But with so many women working and men staying home raising families, I think I can honestly say, we have no gender bias.
Fleischer: No. A writer can write about any topic, regardless of gender. That said, publishers are cognizant of the fact that many more women than men read fiction.
Sherry: I may be naive but I don't see the bias so much as the numbers deferential. More men write about politics and history perhaps and more women write about parenting, but I'm just as likely to publish a parenting book written by a man as a history book written by a woman. I don't think consumers care as long as the credentials are there.
SoR: What future do you see for “literary fiction” as opposed to self help, genre, vampires, etc.?
Asher: I just published a book I mentioned called THE LAST WEREWOLF, which was a literary novel about a werewolf. It's not either/or. Just as there are different kinds of writers, there are different kinds of readers. The two exist comfortably together and sometimes the distinction beween really well done genre and literature is in the eye of the beholder. Elmore Leonard, for example, was a suspense writer who is now considered quite literary. And then there is Philip K. Dick who published strange science fiction novels all his life, often paperback originals and has now been honored with a volume of his work in the prestigious Library of America series. Herman Hesse once said "Seriousness is an accident of time." I think it takes a while before we really know and sometimes we are surprised by which books last and which don't.
Fleischer: I don’t have a strong sense of what the future holds for literary fiction. Genre fiction, or “popular” fiction, has existed for centuries. We tend to nurture a belief that past generations were more discerning readers. It’s true that the only works we know today from the 19th century are great works, but the reason for this is that these works have withstood the test of time. The overwhelming majority of what got published back then simply disappeared, as will today’s books of the moment. That said, I do have the sinking sense that our literary culture, including book criticism, is being dumbed down, and this makes me nervous. My hope is that this phenomenon will prove to be cyclical rather than terminal.
Sherry: I don't think literary fiction is going anywhere but vampires and zombies will likely fade from the mainstream and go back to the smaller niche where they came from and will always be popular.
SoR: Contracts are commonly made more often than books are published so how often are contracts broken, for what reasons and what can an author do about that?
Duff: To cancel a contract is rare for me. In fact, to state that “contracts are commonly made more often than books are published” may not be accurate. (There are probably no readily available statistics to support this statement, however.) The main reason for a contact to be terminated is for non-delivery, that is, the author fails to deliver or to deliver by the deadline. Most publishers are fairly lenient with authors and will extend the delivery date if the author has shown good faith – and the book is not too time sensitive. If the publisher reorganizes, which is not uncommon these days, and takes a respective publishing program in a new direction, then cancellation may ensue. But this is one of many circumstances beyond the author’s control.
My advice: Deliver a “publishable” manuscript on time.
Asher: Contracts are legal documents. They are rarely broken by the publisher unless the author does not deliver as scheduled, or there may be a clause that the author cannot publish a book with another publisher until he finishes the one contracted for-- in cases like that a publisher may well choose to end the contract, I would venture to guess that the number of contracts that are broken is relatively small. When a publisher signs a contract, it means he wants a book, not a lawsuit. Similarly if an author is lucky enough to find a publisher, the last thing she would want was to get in a legal hassle. It not only effects this book, but the publishing community is a small one and if word gets out that an author is "difficult" and does not deliver, they may find it harder to publish next time.
Fleischer: I have no idea what the industry wide statistics are on this. In twenty years, Steerforth has canceled only one contract and reverted the rights to the project back to the author. If the author truly believes in the project he will see it through and publish it with another publisher. That, however, is his only recourse.
Sherry: We have relatively few broken contracts. Mostly it comes down to authors who don't deliver manuscripts because of writer's block or illness and we take too long to figure out that it's never coming in. Occasionally, we have to cancel a contract because an author plagiarized material or didn't fact check carefully enough and we couldn't trust their research.
SoR: When considering a manuscript for publication, how much of your opinion is subjective versus objective and do you consider what will sell over what is underrepresented?
Duff: All opinion is subjective. The decision to publish is based on (or subject to) a number of factors: the quality of the work; the credibility (and profile) of the author; the perceived popularity (or otherwise) of the subject matter; the effect of current (and forthcoming) competition (to your point about what is underrepresented); timing; suitability for the respective publisher’s list; etc. While I hesitate to use the word unique, it does apply to each proposal that I see. And so each has to be judged based on the criteria I’ve mentioned above – and many others.
Our goal is to publish books that will sell. Our expectations for sales in the short and long term may vary from book to book, which is often reflected in the advance. But if the books don’t sell, we’ll be out of business – and we will be incapable of contributing to the social capital, which may be considered our higher purpose if one wants to speak in the loftiest terms. I have been disappointed more often that I care to think about concerning the sales of a book that I was, nevertheless, proud to publish. But when we are looking at the end-of-the-year financials, we expect to be very much on the positive side of the profitability line.
Asher: I think this is your most difficult question and I can only give you my answer. I think if you asked 10 editors you would get 10 answers and they would be all over the place. By virtue of being a human, as opposed to a computer, I cannot be objective. I am aware of the market but I try not to pay too much attention to it unless a particular subject has been done to death. Personally, I like to think of myself as playing left field with one foot over the foul ,line. I think what is underrepresented has perhaps a better chance than what is overrepresented. All of this gets overridden by a book which simply becomes an obsession. My boss is a very busy man, but when I go into his office and say "We have to publ;ish this, he generally looks up and pays attention. If he doesn't, I come back and do the same thing every half hour making as big a nuisance of myself as I can to get him to read it so he can see what I am so excited about.
Fleischer: The ultimate question when deciding whether to take on a project – do we have the necessary confidence that Steerforth, given its own strengths, weaknesses and track record, would have a reasonable shot at outsized success – is largely subjective. Authors need to understand that a book might not be a good fit for a publisher for a variety of reasons, ranging from timing to a change in a publisher’s priorities. No means no, but it does not mean that the book is unpublishable or without merit.
Sherry: It's all subjective and I am looking more at sales potential than if a subject is underrepresented.
Interview with Andre Aciman
November 24, 2011
Andre Aciman is an Egyptian Jewish writer living in New York City. He is also a distinguished professor at the City University of New York and has received the Whiting Writers' Award. This acclaimed writer was a Visiting Distinguished Writer at Wesleyan University as well.
SoR: What is your writing and editing style like?
Aciman: I approach everything I say with total and complete mistrust so that I rewrite while I’m writing. I’m constantly changing. It’s not straightforward writing because basically nothing comes naturally to me. It is the most artificial way to say something naturally.
art by Nick Lopergalo
My editors love me because whenever they say “why don’t we change this?” I always say “yes!” I resist an editor 5% of the times but there is a point when I know I’ve said what I wanted to say or discovered what I wanted to say while I was busy saying it. If I arrive at that point, then I won’t listen to an editor’s recommendations. Seldom happens, though.
SoR: What are your thoughts on the riots in Egypt over the military’s hold on power and the stability of the Middle East in general?
Aciman: Is one supposed to be surprised by any of this? I think it is absolutely amazing and fantastic that democracy is desired in those parts of the world but what I find particularly strange is that democracy is always bringing out something regressive in the Middle East. Theirs is a religious culture and it always takes an anti-Israel position which I find abominable. I have no trust over what is happening in the Middle East.
SoR: What motivates you to write?
Aciman: I’m usually after something. One of the reasons I said I discover what I want to say while I’m busy writing it is because writing is my way of finding out what I want to say. I don’t know what I want to say before I write though I may suspect there is something I want to say; it isn’t clear what it is. Writing for me isn’t just communication, it is excavation—otherwise known as thinking.
SoR: What do you feel is the responsibility of the writer and vice versa, the responsibility of the reader?
Aciman: The reader should have fun and I mean anything from simple entertainment to the highest levels of enchantment. The reader needs to be enchanted in one way or another. As far as the writer is concerned, a writer’s commitment is to be as sophisticated as he or she can be - no easy answer, no facile notions, nothing safe. Look for that which has been eluding everyone around you and then attempt to say it
SoR: You teach Proust, edited The Proust Project, and your work is often compared to that of Proust. When much of your work seems to delve into the theme of identity, how do you feel by such a strong association with Proust?
Aciman: He teaches people how to look within. If you tell a reader highly personal things about yourself in a highly crafted manner—i.e. in a manner intended both to highlight what is most intimate to you as well as to reach someone who may never have felt those things before—then the reader will “feel” as though he or she herself had felt those things before. A writer is nothing if he cannot reach a very deep part of the reader.
SoR: How do you deal with writer’s block?
Aciman: I don’t know. There are many reasons why people may be “blocked.” Some people are always fluent therefore they can easily start writing. It just comes to them. Other people are traumatized by the white page or the blank screen. My way of piercing through the block things is to find something desirable in the work I’ve set for myself. You have to fall in love with whatever topic has been given to you. You have to become eroticized by it.
SoR: What do you feel is essential to a “good” story?
Aciman: I don’t know. I’m not interested in stories. Plots never excite me. I prefer introspection. That’s a plot with its own mishaps, its own twists, and its own denouements.
SoR: In Out of Egypt and Call Me By Your Name, I noticed exceptional use of description and imagery and yet in Eight White Nights you barely describe the character of Clara beyond “beautiful.” What are your favorite literary devices and how do you use them to maximize their effect?
Aciman: I was more interested in Clara than most characters in my novels. My favorite characters have something far more interesting than their features. They have a level of energy which I find absolutely attractive. They have the sort of energy I find arresting, threatening, and at the same time compelling. I was more interested in the kind of attitude she had than in the shape of her breast.
SoR: You mentioned in a 2009 New York Times article, “Take away our things and something in us dies.” How do you view the things taken from you and don’t you think that loss is inevitable?
Aciman: There is a world of a difference between losing something and having something stolen from you. Having something taken from you adds an injury to the actual loss and therefore you feel like you can’t overcome it. Losing those small things alters your standing vis-a-vis the world, vis-a-vis life. Our identity, even when we’d like to think of ourselves as non-materialistic, is indissolubly fused to the things we possess. Take away someone’s home, or take away a boy’s bicycle, and you’ve altered him forever.
SoR: What discoveries have you made about yourself through your writing?
Aciman: I discovered I had, among other things, a sense of humor; that my irony wasn’t as biting as I thought it was. I love sentimentalists more than anyone else but never in a straightforward manner. I discovered that I knew how to tell a joke.
SoR: What advice do you have for budding writers out there?
Aciman: If you are young, try not to write about what is immediately around you: i.e. about youth and problems of the young. Get out of your skin and see the world or the people around you from another perspective. Try to understand all people, old people, middle-aged people, yourself in ten years. And stop reading authors who are writing in your day and start reading authors who are already established in previous times.
SoR: Why do you feel contemporary literature lacks the essentially unusual manner of representing humanity that the classics prior to 1850 have mastered?
Aciman: They were fundamentally sophisticated. Nothing about them is straightforward. Their quarrels with life are never straightforward. I find that many contemporary writers lack the depth of wisdom, which is another way of saying the depth of irony. There is something fundamentally complicated in great literature. I want to be told things I always suspected but never knew as opposed to what I can find readily predigested for me in any magazine lying in my dentist’s waiting room.
The Industry Interview Series, Part IV
January 7, 2012
November 24, 2011
Andre Aciman is an Egyptian Jewish writer living in New York City. He is also a distinguished professor at the City University of New York and has received the Whiting Writers' Award. This acclaimed writer was a Visiting Distinguished Writer at Wesleyan University as well.
SoR: What is your writing and editing style like?
Aciman: I approach everything I say with total and complete mistrust so that I rewrite while I’m writing. I’m constantly changing. It’s not straightforward writing because basically nothing comes naturally to me. It is the most artificial way to say something naturally.
art by Nick Lopergalo
My editors love me because whenever they say “why don’t we change this?” I always say “yes!” I resist an editor 5% of the times but there is a point when I know I’ve said what I wanted to say or discovered what I wanted to say while I was busy saying it. If I arrive at that point, then I won’t listen to an editor’s recommendations. Seldom happens, though.
SoR: What are your thoughts on the riots in Egypt over the military’s hold on power and the stability of the Middle East in general?
Aciman: Is one supposed to be surprised by any of this? I think it is absolutely amazing and fantastic that democracy is desired in those parts of the world but what I find particularly strange is that democracy is always bringing out something regressive in the Middle East. Theirs is a religious culture and it always takes an anti-Israel position which I find abominable. I have no trust over what is happening in the Middle East.
SoR: What motivates you to write?
Aciman: I’m usually after something. One of the reasons I said I discover what I want to say while I’m busy writing it is because writing is my way of finding out what I want to say. I don’t know what I want to say before I write though I may suspect there is something I want to say; it isn’t clear what it is. Writing for me isn’t just communication, it is excavation—otherwise known as thinking.
SoR: What do you feel is the responsibility of the writer and vice versa, the responsibility of the reader?
Aciman: The reader should have fun and I mean anything from simple entertainment to the highest levels of enchantment. The reader needs to be enchanted in one way or another. As far as the writer is concerned, a writer’s commitment is to be as sophisticated as he or she can be - no easy answer, no facile notions, nothing safe. Look for that which has been eluding everyone around you and then attempt to say it
SoR: You teach Proust, edited The Proust Project, and your work is often compared to that of Proust. When much of your work seems to delve into the theme of identity, how do you feel by such a strong association with Proust?
Aciman: He teaches people how to look within. If you tell a reader highly personal things about yourself in a highly crafted manner—i.e. in a manner intended both to highlight what is most intimate to you as well as to reach someone who may never have felt those things before—then the reader will “feel” as though he or she herself had felt those things before. A writer is nothing if he cannot reach a very deep part of the reader.
SoR: How do you deal with writer’s block?
Aciman: I don’t know. There are many reasons why people may be “blocked.” Some people are always fluent therefore they can easily start writing. It just comes to them. Other people are traumatized by the white page or the blank screen. My way of piercing through the block things is to find something desirable in the work I’ve set for myself. You have to fall in love with whatever topic has been given to you. You have to become eroticized by it.
SoR: What do you feel is essential to a “good” story?
Aciman: I don’t know. I’m not interested in stories. Plots never excite me. I prefer introspection. That’s a plot with its own mishaps, its own twists, and its own denouements.
SoR: In Out of Egypt and Call Me By Your Name, I noticed exceptional use of description and imagery and yet in Eight White Nights you barely describe the character of Clara beyond “beautiful.” What are your favorite literary devices and how do you use them to maximize their effect?
Aciman: I was more interested in Clara than most characters in my novels. My favorite characters have something far more interesting than their features. They have a level of energy which I find absolutely attractive. They have the sort of energy I find arresting, threatening, and at the same time compelling. I was more interested in the kind of attitude she had than in the shape of her breast.
SoR: You mentioned in a 2009 New York Times article, “Take away our things and something in us dies.” How do you view the things taken from you and don’t you think that loss is inevitable?
Aciman: There is a world of a difference between losing something and having something stolen from you. Having something taken from you adds an injury to the actual loss and therefore you feel like you can’t overcome it. Losing those small things alters your standing vis-a-vis the world, vis-a-vis life. Our identity, even when we’d like to think of ourselves as non-materialistic, is indissolubly fused to the things we possess. Take away someone’s home, or take away a boy’s bicycle, and you’ve altered him forever.
SoR: What discoveries have you made about yourself through your writing?
Aciman: I discovered I had, among other things, a sense of humor; that my irony wasn’t as biting as I thought it was. I love sentimentalists more than anyone else but never in a straightforward manner. I discovered that I knew how to tell a joke.
SoR: What advice do you have for budding writers out there?
Aciman: If you are young, try not to write about what is immediately around you: i.e. about youth and problems of the young. Get out of your skin and see the world or the people around you from another perspective. Try to understand all people, old people, middle-aged people, yourself in ten years. And stop reading authors who are writing in your day and start reading authors who are already established in previous times.
SoR: Why do you feel contemporary literature lacks the essentially unusual manner of representing humanity that the classics prior to 1850 have mastered?
Aciman: They were fundamentally sophisticated. Nothing about them is straightforward. Their quarrels with life are never straightforward. I find that many contemporary writers lack the depth of wisdom, which is another way of saying the depth of irony. There is something fundamentally complicated in great literature. I want to be told things I always suspected but never knew as opposed to what I can find readily predigested for me in any magazine lying in my dentist’s waiting room.
The Industry Interview Series, Part IV
January 7, 2012
This is one of many special interview series brought to
you by Splash of Red where we interview some of the country's leading
publishers and editors to get a behind-the-scenes look into the
literary industry for all of our budding writers out there who follow
our site. We hope that the discussions here give writers some insight
into the other end of the field they work so tirelessly in with the
intentions of assisting in the publishing process. Enjoy.
Contributing Interviewees:
Barbara Epler - Editor-in-Chief, New Directions Publishing
John Sherer - Publisher, Basic Books Group
George Gibson - Publishing Director, Bloomsbury USA
Martin Shepard - Co-Publisher, The Permanent Press
Roger Kimball - Publisher, Encounter Books
SoR: What are some common mistakes writers make that can put their manuscript in jeopardy of not getting published?
Epler: A good agent is a great thing to have. But to get a good agent (or a publisher) the best first step is to have your poetry or fiction published in the good literary magazines. They act as talent scouts for book editors; we all read magazines and journals, looking for new talent. And that is 100% true for poets; fiction writers can sometimes leap fully unknown into print in book form, but it’s pretty rare. (And if you try that, especially without an agent, the best thing a writer new to book publishing can do is really look at what different publishers are bringing out and in that way not send say a mystery to ND or a radical poetry collection to Hyperion.) If you have friends who write, help each other; promote each other, scheme; a lot of things happen when writers we know highly recommend a friend or student—it focuses our attention.
Sherer: I’m assuming you’re talking about books already under contract. Writers should stay in regular contact with their editor about the progress they’re making in writing and how the book is evolving. Because timing is critical in certain categories it’s important for your publisher to know when to expect your manuscript. You also don’t want to surprise your publisher with a book that is very different than what they signed up. If you stay in touch along the way, there shouldn’t be surprises.
Gibson: Write compelling opening pages. Editors are besieged with things to read. Often we have to make decisions based on a partial reading of a manuscript. So the first pages are really important. I wish I could assure writers that editors read every word that is sent to them, but that’s just not true—so forewarned is forearmed.
Martin: Firstly, I can only answer for us. The question should be "What should a writer do that would keep my wife and me reading rather than dismissing something after a few pages?" One should start with a first page that captures our attention and characters that are three-dimensional--complex--as are most people. Don't overdue descriptions unless they play a part iin setting astmosphere. And unless one is truly lyrical, keep the writing simple rather than complex. And NEVER send a cover letter telling us why your book would be a best seller, for anyone who claims that doesn't know anything about the publishing business.
Kimball: Bad writing, sclerotic argumentation, clichéd ideas.
SoR: How important is having impeccable grammar and spelling compared to having a really great story for a manuscript?
Epler: Grammar and spelling can be fixed, but if you look like you just don’t care, too cool for school sort of slobbiness, that’s not a great first impression. But we are looking for a great story, great style, something new and exciting, something unusual. If we sense those elements, we don’t care about then some fixing up and copy-editing.
Sherer: We don’t demand “impeccable” writing in style or grammar. However, sloppiness in the presentation for a research-driven book might indicate less than precise research.
Gibson: Both are important. I’m turned off by bad grammar, bad punctuation, bad spelling—it signals to me that a writer doesn’t care enough to get it right.
Martin: You don't need impeccable grammer and spelling, but decent spelling and grammar is called for. Given the spell-check function on computers, anyone worth their salt can do a decent job on this. Of couirse a good story is essential. This isn't a case of either/or as both elements shoudl exists, but it's easier to correct spelling and grammar than it is to write a good story.
Kimball: Everything is important. Editors notice if you write "accommodate" instead of "accommodate," if you seem not to know the difference between restrictive and unrestrictive clauses, if you introduce a confidence with "Between you and I." But in the end, such local blemishes take a back seat to the power and originality of the work.
SoR: How much do you look at education or publishing credits when considering a manuscript for publication?
Epler: We do not look at education, but publishing history is always of interest; it conveys a lot of information.
Sherer: This is the second most important thing we look at after the content. But that’s unique to the type of non-fiction publishing I do.
Gibson: Education, practically not at all—it’s all about the words, and they don’t come with a degree. Publishing credits are useful; knowing a writer has published short stories or essays, or even reviews, is useful and helpful information.
Martin: We never look at this at all.
Kimball: I look, but they are for me a secondary concern.
SoR: While self-publishing has certainly helped the average writer get their work out there, what are the pros and cons versus seeking a publishing house?
Epler: I don’t know—that seems like such a changing game. Vanity presses used to just feed off eager writers, and charge them to create books and then the poor writer (since there is no distribution) usually ends up with boxes of his or her book in the basement. But now there is so much digital publishing—look at OR Books or some other outfits. Or that young writer with the troll series and some other series: she started out self-publishing and is now making a fortune with traditional publishing. Who ever knows.
Sherer: Agents and publishers are still the primary filter that retailers and the mainstream media insist on. But it’s terrific that self-publishing is now an option. I’ve believed for some time that both models can thrive and that readers will benefit because of that.
Gibson: Editing and distribution are probably the biggest differences between self-published and published authors. Most editors are good at what they do and will bring something positive to a manuscript. And publishers have access to bookstores across the country. Now, of course, self-published authors have the same on-line access as do publishers, so they can more readily act as their own publisher. But there are still great advantages in being published by an established house.
Martin: An existing publishing house will surely get greater coverage of a writer's book as they have access to reviews--particularly the advance reviewers at Kirkus, Publishers Weekly, Booklist, and Library Journal, as well as contacts with good online reviewers and others in the industry. Also one gets some advance payment, meaning that a publisher think's it's worth an investment in giving the author an advance and paying for all printing bills and publicity. Self-publishing means that one can't find a publisher and the "con" here is that they have to foot these costs themselves. Still, more power to the writer for having the faith in his or her work. Over the past 32 years we've actually acquired five novels that were self-published and submitted to us as finished books after the steam ran out on their own efforts.
Kimball: Being published by an established publisher provides an institutional imprimatur that a self-published product lacks.
SoR: If everyone has a platform, what can authors do to set themselves apart?
Sherer: I don’t agree with the premise. If you don’t have an academic or professional platform, you can work hard to try to develop a social media strategy that might let you connect directly with readers. But that’s easier said than done.
Gibson: Not everyone does have a platform—and one can define “platform” many different ways. To stand out, gain as much visibility as possible: blogging, writing reviews, op-eds, articles; publishing stories; build a database of 1,000 names of people you know, who’ll want to know about your book when it’s published; get to know your local booksellers, get them on your side and ready to hand-sell your book; produce a clever and original video for YouTube.
Martin: Be the best writer you can be. Let the art speak for itself and hope that it finds an audience.
Kimball: Write something memorable and compelling.
SoR: If you could give one essential piece of advice to writers out there, what would it be?
Epler: Find your voice, write and write, read and read, write some more, and take the best pieces and send them out to magazine editors and agents. Be tough, be stubborn; it is an easy game for very few people.
Sherer: Read and visit bookstores. Many of the books we’re pitched are too similar to existing books.
Gibson: Write the best possible books. I firmly believe every book worthy of being published will be published; some will take much longer than others, but quality always rises to the surface.
Martin: Write everyday to hone your skills, read good writers to see how they do it, and keep your day job. Very few writers can support themselves on the basis of their writing.
Kimball: Ignore the fashionable and emulate the writers who have meant the most to you. That's two piece of advice, but they're interconnected.
SoR: Is there a gender bias that goes with genres such as women writing about relationships and parenting and men writing about history and politics, i.e. do readers expect certain genders to be more knowledgeable about certain topics and if so, how does consumer perception like that affect the literary industry?
Epler: I hope not. But in fact I gender, race, class: they all play out in publishing as everywhere else in our culture—but perhaps tired as all that is, one could turn it to one’s advantage? I think you can break stereotypes and go a long way.
Sherer: This is a tricky question. I publish exclusively non-fiction and I’d bet more than 80% of the proposals we receive are written by men. As a result, our list skews toward male authors in a similar percentage. In identifying a target market for the book, a publisher is foolish not to determine early on whether it will have a gender split. But we try not to let these biases overwhelm our assumptions because the exceptions to these rules can be extremely successful (e.g. Franzen writing an Oprah-pick novel or Doris Kearns Goodwin writing on Lincoln).
Gibson: This is very hard to generalize about. There may be some gender bias; I’m sure, for example, that women read way more books about self-improvement than men, and men read far more history than women. But there are exceptions and I’m not sure this reading bias extends to authorship, i.e. I’m not at all sure that a woman would hold back from buying a self-improvement book about parenting because the author was a man (Dr. Spock, Berry Brazelton, two of the all-time bestselling parenting authors, are decidedly male). If I were advising a writer, I’d say ignore any preconceived bias you think may be out there and write the best possible book.
Martin: I don't see any gender bias at all. It doesn't show up in the manuscripts we receive - and we get about 6,000 submission yearly while taking on only 12-16 books a year - mostly fiction.
Kimball: Maybe, but if so they people exhibiting the bias are ignoramuses.
SoR: What future do you see for “literary fiction” as opposed to self help, genre, vampires, etc.?
Epler: Literary fiction is the only thing that survives. That is the future. (Give or take DRACULA and FRANKENSTEIN, why would those series survive, dated 50 years, unless they were secretly much more than genre fiction all along, and the writer is just playing with genre, as say Philip K. Dick?
Gibson: Literary fiction has always been challenging to publish, and it remains so. That said, e-books are opening up new audiences for literary fiction, so I’d say its future is as bright as it’s ever been.
Martin: Our interests concern literary fiction primarily. As the major conglomerates publish more and more non-fiction, romance, pop-fiction, and cookie-cutter fiction, many more excellent submissions come to us directly through agents or the authors themselves. Nor do I accept that so called "genre" fiction is not literary. We receive and publish many artful mysteries, yet some think of thrillers and mytereies as "sub-genres.. As for the future? Obviouslyl there is an overall decline in reading fiction in general and quality fiction in particular..But it works to our advantage.
Kimball: A brilliant future. It is easy to be captivated by the razzle-dazzle of the latest fad, but quality lasts.
SoR: Contracts are commonly made more often than books are published so how often are contracts broken, for what reasons and what can an author do about that?
Epler: We rarely have the experience; for us, it would typically mean there’s been a total meltdown: the author no longer trusts his translator would be the most common problem for us. But it take a spin-out of major proportions for us to give up on a book we really admire (and we wouldn’t have bought it if we hadn’t admired it).
Sherer: I haven’t really found this to be the case. The biggest reason that a book under contract doesn’t get published is when the acquiring editor has left the company by the time the manuscript arrives. Frequently, the new editor has a different vision for the book and occasionally, it’s different enough from what the author wants that we agree to part ways.
Gibson: A tiny fraction of contracts are broken, so I would dispute your assertion that contracts are often broken. That’s just not true. The reasons a contract is occasionally broken are: 1) not delivered on time (though most publishers will willingly extend the delivery time if an author is communicates openly and asks for more time ahead of when the manuscript is due; 2) unacceptable manuscript (as you can imagine, this is a delicate situation if and when it arises; publishers state acceptability is in their sold judgment, but obviously such judgment is subjective. But the vast majority of contracts are fully honored.)
Martin: This is extemely rare - not common at all - and I've never experienced this as a publisher. When I was a writer, my agent had a verbal agreement with a well known publisher to do a book of mine, who then reneged. Still, you can't break a contract you never signed. A similar thing happened with our selling rights to a publisher in Spain for Leonard Rosen's All Cry Chaos...though payments were received, the book never came out.
Kimball: In my experience, it is always the author who has broken the contract by not delivering the work.
SoR: When considering a manuscript for publication, how much of your opinion is subjective versus objective and do you consider what will sell over what is underrepresented?
Epler: Everything is subjective in Book Land. We have very little idea here at ND about which books will sell, ever. We are constantly surprised. (In good ways and sometimes in disappointing ways too.) We may feel our curiosity piqued by some culture severely underrepresented and if I were sent the major novel of Micronesia, I wouldn’t be able to resist trying it. I tried so hard to buy CARPENTARIA by Alexis Wright and it certainly interested me that she was an Aborigine, but the reason I wanted it was that it is a great piece of work, not the fact of her heritage. The thing we want, as my boss James Laughlin used to say, is to hear the bell ring. That unmistakable fee;ing of the top of your head lifting up when you read something amazing.
Sherer: In non-fiction, you can be much more objective. But the biggest variable is the fact that we’re buying on proposal rather than on a completed manuscript. Coming up with a good idea for a book is only half the battle. The most successful books tend to be the ones that execute their premise well.
Gibson: All publishing decisions are to some extent intuitive, subjective. We try for as much objectivity as possible, looking at track record for the author, the category; overlaying our knowledge of the market; trying to anticipate competition. We always look for manuscripts we think will sell—that’s a primary consideration. We occasionally take on books we think deserve to be published, regardless of what the audience might be, but that’s rare.
Martin: Everything every human does is subjective. We like well written fiction, and my wife and co-publisher both have to really like a book to do it...and 90% of the time we are in accord. So we have two "subjective" responses. Gather enough of them one can say there is some "objectivity" in all this. The titles we are most enthused about we assume will do best, but that is not necessarily the case. It's an arbitrary world. We simply publish what excites us and hope their are other readers out there like us.
Kimball: I'm not sure what you mean by "subjective" and "objective." I try to exercise good judgment. Encounter is an educational publisher, so while we certainly consider the market we are not in the business of turning a profit. Our chief consideration is the contribution the work can make to the debates we consider central to the public conversation today.
Written by: Dylan Emerick-Brown
A woman dressed smartly yet still attractively struts towards you down the street with confidence in her eyes - focused. One hand rests on her hip while the other swings fore and aft. Without blinking she passes you on her way, leaving you with only a brief memory and a fragrance trailing, ephemerally, behind. She’s turned a corner and is gone, but what is that enchanting smell hanging in the air? Something sweet? Musky? No, it smells like overcoming adversity!
Beyonce, the acclaimed singer and cultural icon known the world over has a new fragrance coming out in early 2014. So why is this of interest to someone reading a literary publication? Because Queen Bey has announced that her new perfume was inspired by Still I Rise, her favorite poem by Pulitzer Prize winner Maya Angelou.
“The spirit of Rise [her perfume] encourages women to be all that we are,” Beyonce said in a press release. The perfume follows Beyonce’s other fragrances, Heat and Pulse, and will be shipped in time for Valentine’s Day to over 30,000 retailers. But wait? What does any of this have to do with a poem written by the woman who was active in the Civil Rights Movement with Martin Luther King, Jr. and Malcolm X and recited her poem On the Pulse of Morning at President Bill Clinton’s inaugural address?
The poem - for those of you who may be unfamiliar with it - is about overcoming adversity, both personally and culturally from an African-American woman’s perspective. It begins with:
You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may tread me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I rise.
and ends with:
Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
I rise
I rise
I rise.
I can just smell it now. So I wondered, what would Maya Angelou’s reaction be to Beyonce interpreting one of her beloved poems on trumping hard times and misfortune into a fragrance for women?
“I’m pleased,” Angelou responded via phone.
“You’re pleased?” I responded.
“Of course,” she said, nonchalant.
Then surely, one would assume who better to show off the new perfume of 2014 than the woman herself? I had to ask, “did you buy it?”
“No, no...”
Ouch. So I wondered: we have an acclaimed poem that was the center of an advertising campaign for the United Negro College Fund being construed into a commercialized fragrance sold in shopping malls. I felt like I was lost in Alice’s Wonderland where Lebron James was creating a new, dope shoe brand for walking by woods on a snowy evening.
So my last question to Dr. Angelou was, “How would you want people to react to a scent inspired by your poem?”
“That it encourages people to stand...to rise no matter what happens to you.”
My mind reeled. Equality by Mandela: a strong cologne with hints of spice, musk, and anti-apartheid fervor. Resist by Gandhi: a floral fragrance with a dash of curry and a quiet protest of...is that coriander? Carry On by Churchill and Lust by Mother Teresa.
Marsha Brooks, the vice president of global marketing for Coty Beauty said of Rise, “This is sexy and sophisticated. We tested it in multiple countries with excellent results.”
Sudan? Syria? Haiti? Or was it tested only in countries with strife where people could afford to smell like triumph over hardship (whatever that smells like...sweat?)?
As a lover of literature in all its myriad forms, I initially found creating a perfumed scent inspired by a poem about overcoming adversity comical and somewhat perverse. But perhaps I’m being unfair. On the one hand, someone can look at this strange scenario as serious poetry with a deeply tragic and powerful meaning being commercialized like using Walt Whitman to advertise lawn mowers. All right, I’m getting a little esoteric now. On the other hand, perhaps this is a serendipitous avenue for bringing poetry otherwise unread by younger generations to the forefront of pop culture?
From my perspective - that of a high school English teacher - I can probably count on one hand the number of my students who could tell me the title of one of Angelou’s poems. I had a student earlier this year ask if Edgar Allen Poe was an English author and more than I care to admit reacted to the mention of Mark Twain as, “I’ve heard of that guy.” So, I suppose I shouldn’t get too jaded if America’s youth is introduced to poetry via pop-stars as opposed to our education system. But part of me wonders - like the student who said Romeo and Juliet was a great movie with Leonardo DiCaprio and had no clue who Shakespeare was - if we’re simply diluting literary relevancy.
I will leave that challenge, subjective as it is to the reader (and author) - up to you. I hope you will rise to it.
Contributing Interviewees:
Barbara Epler - Editor-in-Chief, New Directions Publishing
John Sherer - Publisher, Basic Books Group
George Gibson - Publishing Director, Bloomsbury USA
Martin Shepard - Co-Publisher, The Permanent Press
Roger Kimball - Publisher, Encounter Books
SoR: What are some common mistakes writers make that can put their manuscript in jeopardy of not getting published?
Epler: A good agent is a great thing to have. But to get a good agent (or a publisher) the best first step is to have your poetry or fiction published in the good literary magazines. They act as talent scouts for book editors; we all read magazines and journals, looking for new talent. And that is 100% true for poets; fiction writers can sometimes leap fully unknown into print in book form, but it’s pretty rare. (And if you try that, especially without an agent, the best thing a writer new to book publishing can do is really look at what different publishers are bringing out and in that way not send say a mystery to ND or a radical poetry collection to Hyperion.) If you have friends who write, help each other; promote each other, scheme; a lot of things happen when writers we know highly recommend a friend or student—it focuses our attention.
Sherer: I’m assuming you’re talking about books already under contract. Writers should stay in regular contact with their editor about the progress they’re making in writing and how the book is evolving. Because timing is critical in certain categories it’s important for your publisher to know when to expect your manuscript. You also don’t want to surprise your publisher with a book that is very different than what they signed up. If you stay in touch along the way, there shouldn’t be surprises.
Gibson: Write compelling opening pages. Editors are besieged with things to read. Often we have to make decisions based on a partial reading of a manuscript. So the first pages are really important. I wish I could assure writers that editors read every word that is sent to them, but that’s just not true—so forewarned is forearmed.
Martin: Firstly, I can only answer for us. The question should be "What should a writer do that would keep my wife and me reading rather than dismissing something after a few pages?" One should start with a first page that captures our attention and characters that are three-dimensional--complex--as are most people. Don't overdue descriptions unless they play a part iin setting astmosphere. And unless one is truly lyrical, keep the writing simple rather than complex. And NEVER send a cover letter telling us why your book would be a best seller, for anyone who claims that doesn't know anything about the publishing business.
Kimball: Bad writing, sclerotic argumentation, clichéd ideas.
SoR: How important is having impeccable grammar and spelling compared to having a really great story for a manuscript?
Epler: Grammar and spelling can be fixed, but if you look like you just don’t care, too cool for school sort of slobbiness, that’s not a great first impression. But we are looking for a great story, great style, something new and exciting, something unusual. If we sense those elements, we don’t care about then some fixing up and copy-editing.
Sherer: We don’t demand “impeccable” writing in style or grammar. However, sloppiness in the presentation for a research-driven book might indicate less than precise research.
Gibson: Both are important. I’m turned off by bad grammar, bad punctuation, bad spelling—it signals to me that a writer doesn’t care enough to get it right.
Martin: You don't need impeccable grammer and spelling, but decent spelling and grammar is called for. Given the spell-check function on computers, anyone worth their salt can do a decent job on this. Of couirse a good story is essential. This isn't a case of either/or as both elements shoudl exists, but it's easier to correct spelling and grammar than it is to write a good story.
Kimball: Everything is important. Editors notice if you write "accommodate" instead of "accommodate," if you seem not to know the difference between restrictive and unrestrictive clauses, if you introduce a confidence with "Between you and I." But in the end, such local blemishes take a back seat to the power and originality of the work.
SoR: How much do you look at education or publishing credits when considering a manuscript for publication?
Epler: We do not look at education, but publishing history is always of interest; it conveys a lot of information.
Sherer: This is the second most important thing we look at after the content. But that’s unique to the type of non-fiction publishing I do.
Gibson: Education, practically not at all—it’s all about the words, and they don’t come with a degree. Publishing credits are useful; knowing a writer has published short stories or essays, or even reviews, is useful and helpful information.
Martin: We never look at this at all.
Kimball: I look, but they are for me a secondary concern.
SoR: While self-publishing has certainly helped the average writer get their work out there, what are the pros and cons versus seeking a publishing house?
Epler: I don’t know—that seems like such a changing game. Vanity presses used to just feed off eager writers, and charge them to create books and then the poor writer (since there is no distribution) usually ends up with boxes of his or her book in the basement. But now there is so much digital publishing—look at OR Books or some other outfits. Or that young writer with the troll series and some other series: she started out self-publishing and is now making a fortune with traditional publishing. Who ever knows.
Sherer: Agents and publishers are still the primary filter that retailers and the mainstream media insist on. But it’s terrific that self-publishing is now an option. I’ve believed for some time that both models can thrive and that readers will benefit because of that.
Gibson: Editing and distribution are probably the biggest differences between self-published and published authors. Most editors are good at what they do and will bring something positive to a manuscript. And publishers have access to bookstores across the country. Now, of course, self-published authors have the same on-line access as do publishers, so they can more readily act as their own publisher. But there are still great advantages in being published by an established house.
Martin: An existing publishing house will surely get greater coverage of a writer's book as they have access to reviews--particularly the advance reviewers at Kirkus, Publishers Weekly, Booklist, and Library Journal, as well as contacts with good online reviewers and others in the industry. Also one gets some advance payment, meaning that a publisher think's it's worth an investment in giving the author an advance and paying for all printing bills and publicity. Self-publishing means that one can't find a publisher and the "con" here is that they have to foot these costs themselves. Still, more power to the writer for having the faith in his or her work. Over the past 32 years we've actually acquired five novels that were self-published and submitted to us as finished books after the steam ran out on their own efforts.
Kimball: Being published by an established publisher provides an institutional imprimatur that a self-published product lacks.
SoR: If everyone has a platform, what can authors do to set themselves apart?
Sherer: I don’t agree with the premise. If you don’t have an academic or professional platform, you can work hard to try to develop a social media strategy that might let you connect directly with readers. But that’s easier said than done.
Gibson: Not everyone does have a platform—and one can define “platform” many different ways. To stand out, gain as much visibility as possible: blogging, writing reviews, op-eds, articles; publishing stories; build a database of 1,000 names of people you know, who’ll want to know about your book when it’s published; get to know your local booksellers, get them on your side and ready to hand-sell your book; produce a clever and original video for YouTube.
Martin: Be the best writer you can be. Let the art speak for itself and hope that it finds an audience.
Kimball: Write something memorable and compelling.
SoR: If you could give one essential piece of advice to writers out there, what would it be?
Epler: Find your voice, write and write, read and read, write some more, and take the best pieces and send them out to magazine editors and agents. Be tough, be stubborn; it is an easy game for very few people.
Sherer: Read and visit bookstores. Many of the books we’re pitched are too similar to existing books.
Gibson: Write the best possible books. I firmly believe every book worthy of being published will be published; some will take much longer than others, but quality always rises to the surface.
Martin: Write everyday to hone your skills, read good writers to see how they do it, and keep your day job. Very few writers can support themselves on the basis of their writing.
Kimball: Ignore the fashionable and emulate the writers who have meant the most to you. That's two piece of advice, but they're interconnected.
SoR: Is there a gender bias that goes with genres such as women writing about relationships and parenting and men writing about history and politics, i.e. do readers expect certain genders to be more knowledgeable about certain topics and if so, how does consumer perception like that affect the literary industry?
Epler: I hope not. But in fact I gender, race, class: they all play out in publishing as everywhere else in our culture—but perhaps tired as all that is, one could turn it to one’s advantage? I think you can break stereotypes and go a long way.
Sherer: This is a tricky question. I publish exclusively non-fiction and I’d bet more than 80% of the proposals we receive are written by men. As a result, our list skews toward male authors in a similar percentage. In identifying a target market for the book, a publisher is foolish not to determine early on whether it will have a gender split. But we try not to let these biases overwhelm our assumptions because the exceptions to these rules can be extremely successful (e.g. Franzen writing an Oprah-pick novel or Doris Kearns Goodwin writing on Lincoln).
Gibson: This is very hard to generalize about. There may be some gender bias; I’m sure, for example, that women read way more books about self-improvement than men, and men read far more history than women. But there are exceptions and I’m not sure this reading bias extends to authorship, i.e. I’m not at all sure that a woman would hold back from buying a self-improvement book about parenting because the author was a man (Dr. Spock, Berry Brazelton, two of the all-time bestselling parenting authors, are decidedly male). If I were advising a writer, I’d say ignore any preconceived bias you think may be out there and write the best possible book.
Martin: I don't see any gender bias at all. It doesn't show up in the manuscripts we receive - and we get about 6,000 submission yearly while taking on only 12-16 books a year - mostly fiction.
Kimball: Maybe, but if so they people exhibiting the bias are ignoramuses.
SoR: What future do you see for “literary fiction” as opposed to self help, genre, vampires, etc.?
Epler: Literary fiction is the only thing that survives. That is the future. (Give or take DRACULA and FRANKENSTEIN, why would those series survive, dated 50 years, unless they were secretly much more than genre fiction all along, and the writer is just playing with genre, as say Philip K. Dick?
Gibson: Literary fiction has always been challenging to publish, and it remains so. That said, e-books are opening up new audiences for literary fiction, so I’d say its future is as bright as it’s ever been.
Martin: Our interests concern literary fiction primarily. As the major conglomerates publish more and more non-fiction, romance, pop-fiction, and cookie-cutter fiction, many more excellent submissions come to us directly through agents or the authors themselves. Nor do I accept that so called "genre" fiction is not literary. We receive and publish many artful mysteries, yet some think of thrillers and mytereies as "sub-genres.. As for the future? Obviouslyl there is an overall decline in reading fiction in general and quality fiction in particular..But it works to our advantage.
Kimball: A brilliant future. It is easy to be captivated by the razzle-dazzle of the latest fad, but quality lasts.
SoR: Contracts are commonly made more often than books are published so how often are contracts broken, for what reasons and what can an author do about that?
Epler: We rarely have the experience; for us, it would typically mean there’s been a total meltdown: the author no longer trusts his translator would be the most common problem for us. But it take a spin-out of major proportions for us to give up on a book we really admire (and we wouldn’t have bought it if we hadn’t admired it).
Sherer: I haven’t really found this to be the case. The biggest reason that a book under contract doesn’t get published is when the acquiring editor has left the company by the time the manuscript arrives. Frequently, the new editor has a different vision for the book and occasionally, it’s different enough from what the author wants that we agree to part ways.
Gibson: A tiny fraction of contracts are broken, so I would dispute your assertion that contracts are often broken. That’s just not true. The reasons a contract is occasionally broken are: 1) not delivered on time (though most publishers will willingly extend the delivery time if an author is communicates openly and asks for more time ahead of when the manuscript is due; 2) unacceptable manuscript (as you can imagine, this is a delicate situation if and when it arises; publishers state acceptability is in their sold judgment, but obviously such judgment is subjective. But the vast majority of contracts are fully honored.)
Martin: This is extemely rare - not common at all - and I've never experienced this as a publisher. When I was a writer, my agent had a verbal agreement with a well known publisher to do a book of mine, who then reneged. Still, you can't break a contract you never signed. A similar thing happened with our selling rights to a publisher in Spain for Leonard Rosen's All Cry Chaos...though payments were received, the book never came out.
Kimball: In my experience, it is always the author who has broken the contract by not delivering the work.
SoR: When considering a manuscript for publication, how much of your opinion is subjective versus objective and do you consider what will sell over what is underrepresented?
Epler: Everything is subjective in Book Land. We have very little idea here at ND about which books will sell, ever. We are constantly surprised. (In good ways and sometimes in disappointing ways too.) We may feel our curiosity piqued by some culture severely underrepresented and if I were sent the major novel of Micronesia, I wouldn’t be able to resist trying it. I tried so hard to buy CARPENTARIA by Alexis Wright and it certainly interested me that she was an Aborigine, but the reason I wanted it was that it is a great piece of work, not the fact of her heritage. The thing we want, as my boss James Laughlin used to say, is to hear the bell ring. That unmistakable fee;ing of the top of your head lifting up when you read something amazing.
Sherer: In non-fiction, you can be much more objective. But the biggest variable is the fact that we’re buying on proposal rather than on a completed manuscript. Coming up with a good idea for a book is only half the battle. The most successful books tend to be the ones that execute their premise well.
Gibson: All publishing decisions are to some extent intuitive, subjective. We try for as much objectivity as possible, looking at track record for the author, the category; overlaying our knowledge of the market; trying to anticipate competition. We always look for manuscripts we think will sell—that’s a primary consideration. We occasionally take on books we think deserve to be published, regardless of what the audience might be, but that’s rare.
Martin: Everything every human does is subjective. We like well written fiction, and my wife and co-publisher both have to really like a book to do it...and 90% of the time we are in accord. So we have two "subjective" responses. Gather enough of them one can say there is some "objectivity" in all this. The titles we are most enthused about we assume will do best, but that is not necessarily the case. It's an arbitrary world. We simply publish what excites us and hope their are other readers out there like us.
Kimball: I'm not sure what you mean by "subjective" and "objective." I try to exercise good judgment. Encounter is an educational publisher, so while we certainly consider the market we are not in the business of turning a profit. Our chief consideration is the contribution the work can make to the debates we consider central to the public conversation today.
Interview with King Peggy and Eleanor Herman
February 21, 2012
King Peggy (Nana Amuah Afenyi VI) was a secretary at the Ghanian embassy in Washington, D.C. living just above the poverty line until one day when she was called in the middle of the night to inform her of her ascension to the throne of the kingdom of Otuam in western Ghana. Since taking the throne, she has still kept her full-time job as a secretary in order to pay the bills (African kings, as she points out, are not the same as European kings) and fought corruption, brought clean water, healthcare, eduacation and more to her 7,000 people.
Eleanor Herman is the New York Times bestselling author of Sex with Kings and Mistress of the Vatican among others. Her newest book about King Peggy (King Peggy: An American Secretary, Her Royal Destiny, and the Inspiring Story of How She Changed an African Village) was co-written with Peggielene Bartels. She also writes for the Washington Post.
King Peggy (Nana Amuah Afenyi VI)
SoR: In what ways has becoming king influenced your day to day life and likewise, in what ways has your previous day to day life as a secretary influenced your monarchy?
Peggy: Before I became king, I didn’t have a compelling mission or purpose in life. I kept very busy and was grateful for my blessings, but I couldn’t help but feel that something was missing, that there was something important I should be doing. Now I am a woman on a mission – to help my people. I think about it all day long, every day.
I also think that my years in administrative work helped me in terms of organizing a new council and a financial system with several layers of accountability, repairing the decrepit royal palace, and arranging other big projects for my town. Thirty years of working in an American office can really help an African king!
SoR: How preserved is the Otuam culture in this modern age and what are your thoughts on modernizing your kingdom of 7,000 while still maintaining that sense of identity?
Peggy: The old Otuam culture is well preserved. We have our traditional festivities, our dances and customs, our veneration of the stools and Otuam’s seventy-seven gods and goddesses. We have found cell phones to be incredibly useful, as well as taxis that take people to nearby towns, and electricity, when it’s on, is a great blessing, but none of these modern inventions has taken away from ancient customs. I believe that even when we have a beautiful new high school, and a public latrine, more bore holes, a new road, and all the modernizations I want for the town, that our age-old traditions of faith, family and friendship will remain strong.
SoR: What have been some of the most difficult challenges since becoming king, both related to your royal position and your “other life” here in America?
Peggy: It has been a great financial struggle. I was a normal, working American trying to pay my own bills and suddenly I had an entire town of 7,000 people relying on me. Secondly, many of my elders and royal council members had been taking the town’s income – fishing fees and land sales – for themselves rather than saving it for projects to benefit the town. There was great resistance when I opened a bank with a town checking account and insisted everyone use checks rather than cash for all town business. But now that they’ve seen the progress I’m bringing to town, even the most recalcitrant elders are supporting me.
SoR: Why did you agree to write this book with Eleanor Herman?
Peggy: At first I didn’t understand why she thought it was such an amazing story. I had been king six months before I met her, and no one here in the US seemed to think my kingship was that interesting. But Eleanor was very insistent that it needed to be written, that people around the world needed to learn about Otuam and its lady king. I guess she just convinced me.
SoR: What are some of the character traits you must possess as a king that are applicable to every person?
Peggy: Good question! I often think about this. Whether you are a king or not, you need to be honest, compassionate, self-respecting, well-organized, determined, and generous. You also need to have faith that whatever the challenges confronting you, there is a higher power to help you make it through.
SoR: What are some of the gender roles of women in Otuam and how have they been influenced by a female king?
Peggy: The first thing I put a stop to the day I was crowned king was wife-beating. I let it be known that any man who beat his wife would be put in jail to stew for a time, then get kicked out of town and prevented from returning. Wife beating dried up to a trickle immediately. I have also added women to my council, who argue loudly with the male elders, something unheard of before my kingship. I want the girls in my town to learn that they can grow up to be whatever they want – doctors, lawyers, politicians, members of the royal council. If a woman can be a king, those girls can reach for the stars.
SoR: We, here in America, see the tragedies occurring in Africa (Darfur, Somalia…) and while the majority of us wish to help, we are unsure of what we can do to truly make a difference. Despite donating to charities, corruption, genocide, and other horrors still occur. As someone who has been on both ends of the Atlantic and is making a difference in your own niche of the continent, what advice do you have for people who wish to help beyond the clichéd monetary donation?
Peggy: The monetary donation is enormously helpful if it goes into the right hands. I advise people to investigate the charities they are thinking of donating to. Do the charities have honest people on the ground who can make sure the money goes to help the village rather than into the hands of corrupt officials? Are there any accusations of fraud or corruption against the charity? Once you have decided on one that is worthwhile, please give whatever you can. Even $50 can keep a child in most African public schools for a year. Instead of growing up illiterate, that child can have a future, earn money, help his or her family and community. How often do Americans waste $50? If you and a friend go to the movies and buy popcorn, nachos and drinks, there’s $50 right there. I think you’re right that we can’t stop genocide, starvation, corruption, and epidemics across the whole world. But if you help one child, one family, isn’t that huge?
SoR: Just as we see in the news about all of the hardships facing Africa, we rarely see the good news. As king, and someone in tune with the pulse of your kingdom, what are some of the true joys of Otuam and her people?
Peggy: My people are poor, but if you come to Otuam, you would see them always smiling and laughing. I rarely see Americans on the street smiling and laughing. They are too busy and stressed and have too many bills. My people enjoy the beautiful warm weather, the fresh fish from the sea and the fresh fruit from the nearby fields. Extended families are extremely close and supportive. Sundays everyone goes to church. There are joys there that many Americans, I’m afraid, rarely experience.
From Students at Central Area Adult Education in Rockledge, FL
Student: How does it feel to be the first female king in Otuam?
Peggy: It feels great. Growing up in a male-dominated society like Ghana, even then I couldn’t understand why women were supposed to be subservient to men. It’s as if I was born with an American outlook of female equality. I want to show my people, and the world, that women can do anything as well as men, sometimes much better!
Student: Due to the responsibilities of being king, how do you feel about being King versus if you had stayed a secretary?
Peggy: Well, I should make it clear that I am still a secretary, working full time. Being king certainly has a lot more responsibility than being a secretary. Some 7,000 people are depending on me, sometimes for life or death issues like clean water and an ambulance. I would probably be a lot more carefree if I was only a secretary and not a king. But I wouldn’t have a driving purpose in life, wouldn’t feel that my life is making a difference to others.
Student: How do you balance your time and life between the U.S. and Otuam?
Peggy: Until now, I have gone to Otuam a month or so a year. I hope, if finances permit, to go twice a year. I am on the phone every day with my regent and my elders dealing with daily issues that arise in Otuam.
Student: What are the advantages and disadvantages of being King?
Peggy: The first disadvantage is financial. Becoming the king of an African community isn’t like become a European monarch. You don’t suddenly inherit a windfall of millions of dollars with beautiful palaces you can move into. You have to get out your checkbook and use whatever savings you have to help your people.
Another disadvantage is that a king isn’t supposed to eat or drink in public, or run off to the toilet. So sometimes when I am on the throne for a town meeting I would like to eat or drink or take a bathroom break, and I can’t!
The advantage is that your word is law, and you can take steps to reward good people, punish bad ones, and help the community.
Student: What was the effect of the slave trade in Otuam?
Peggy: The slave trade had huge effects on Ghana as it was the epicenter of the trade. Most African-Americans have some Ghanaian heritage because of this. There were dozens of slave castles along the coast where the British ships docked to pick up those unfortunate souls who had been captured in battle or in raids and brought there. There are two huge slave castles in Ghana you can visit today – Cape Coast and Elmina – and I recommend that everyone who can should visit them to understand the horrors of the slave trade and what those poor people had to survive in order to make it to American shores.
There was a tiny castle at Otuam built in the 18th century. Once the British outlawed slavery in the 19th century, they dynamited it and many others to prevent people from continuing to capture and sell slaves from them illegally. Today there are just a couple of walls and a doorway and window left standing on a hill, and the slave passage that ran from beneath the castle to the ships on the beach. My people don’t go there at night. It is said that the untranquil spirits of those who died there roam the ruins.
Student: Do you have any language barriers with your people since you have lived in the U.S. for 30 years?
Peggy: No, we understand each other perfectly well, though the people of Otuam have a quaint, old-fashioned dialect of Fanti. It sounded a bit funny at first, as I came from the big city, but I am used to it now.
Student: What are the most prominent medical issues facing the people of Otuam as HIV, malaria, and other diseases are so prevalent throughout much of Africa?
Peggy: Otuam is lucky that it has a small medical clinic with 13 nurses. Many villages don’t have anything. The nurses dispense pre-natal vitamins, stitch up small wounds, give medicine for urinary tract infections and head colds, that kind of thing, and a midwife helps delivers babies.
Considering the lack of medical care compared to what Americans receive, the people of Otuam are amazingly healthy. I think this is because they eat fresh fish, fruit, and vegetables without any preservatives, and do physical labor for hours and hours every day. Many people live into their eighties and nineties with no physical ailments and no doctor’s visits. There are, however, women who have a dangerous labor and need a C-section to survive. There are people who hurt themselves in accidents and need to be rushed to a hospital for surgery. There are those who suffer from a stroke or heart attack and need immediate life-saving care. At the moment, family members borrow money from relatives to pay for a taxi to take the sick, bleeding person on an hour’s drive to the nearest hospital and some of them die in the taxi. We are starting to raise money for a gently used ambulance to stabilize the sick person all the way to the hospital.
Eleanor Herman
SoR: The story of King Peggy is an inspiring one. At what point did you make the decision that you were going to write this book?
Herman: I knew I wanted to write her story within two minutes of talking to Peggy. I met her at a Ghanaian Embassy reception in February 2009, asked her why she wasn’t eating or drinking anything when there was such a splendid buffet and open bar, and if I could bring her something. She said no, she was a king and couldn’t be seen eating or drinking in public! That’s what started the conversation, and having written three other books about the intersection of women, power, and politics, I knew I had the subject for my fourth book!
SoR: How did you work with King Peggy to collaborate on the book?
Herman: I met her for lunch frequently in the seven months before we went to Ghana, asked her about her life, Otuam, the culture, things like that, while taking copious notes. I also read books about Ghanaian history, Ghanaian kingship, the slave trade, everything I could get my hands on that might give me some insight into such a different place.
SoR: When visiting Otuam, how did the people there perceive you? Were they even familiar with the kind of biography you were attempting to write?
Herman: They didn’t seem to be that curious about me or my project. They were very polite, very friendly, but maybe their lack of curiosity had to do with the corresponding lack of books and other reading material in Otuam. There’s no library. No bookstore or news kiosk. Some of the older people are illiterate. So when I come over with dreams of literary greatness, it didn’t really interest them. I would tell them I was writing a book on Otuam and they would nod politely and say that was nice. They were happy, however, that an American was taking an interest in their lives.
SoR: Was there anything you really wanted to add in the book that didn’t make the editing cut and if so what was it and why was it not added?
Herman: I’m very pleased with how the book turned out but it’s not like I sat down and wrote it that way on my first attempt. My initial drafts are always too long and plodding. At this point, having written my fourth book, I know it is a step in the process, though while writing my first book I thought it meant I was a terribly boring writer. Now I realize that it is better to have too much information and slice it down than to start off with too little and scramble to build it up. There were many charming and wonderful little scenarios that didn’t contribute to the flow of the book and I had to cut them. Some writer once said, “Kill your darlings.” I had to kill many of my darlings to get a fast, easy pace.
SoR: You have written biographical work on many influential and infamous women throughout history but how does it compare to writing about a woman who is still alive?
Herman: The advantage and disadvantage is that there is such a wealth of material about a living person, and a comparative lack of information about those who died long ago. It’s like an embarrassment of riches. What do I use? What do I discard? What order do I put it in? The less material you have, the clearer the answer is. When you are swimming in hundreds of pages of notes, and your subject calls you daily to give you more, it can get confusing.
SoR: What sort of parallels or bridges do you see connecting the average reader in western civilization to the people of Otuam?
Herman: Speaking for myself, I think the biggest connection is, ironically, the contrast in lifestyle as that contrast stabs you in the heart. When I first went over there for a month, bathing in a bucket, seeing the poverty, I was so ashamed of how much money I had wasted on stupid things I didn’t need. A 62nd pair of earrings. A 45th pair of shoes, while so many kids couldn’t afford school books, testing fees, or uniforms, chump change for us, and had to stay home and remain illiterate! I feel that God really opened my eyes to how blessed I am. And now I know that the biggest blessing is to take some of my excess and give it to those kids and their families. Every time I spend money, I feel the connection with them. I have it. They don’t. I need to give them some of it. It’s really simple.
I hope that my readers will love the people of Otuam, admire them for their strength in the face of adversity, and help them. You can be sure that King Peggy will personally send the money to the proper recipient. You can even come to Otuam and check it out for yourself!
SoR: How did you decide on the perspective and direction the book was going to take?
Herman: You need to remember that events were going on as I was writing them. When I first started the project, I didn’t know the extent of the corruption Peggy would find when we went over there. I didn’t know that a prominent local pastor would commit his church to helping Otuam. I didn’t know that corrupt elders would play an unimaginably horrible trick on Peggy during the royal funeral of her late uncle. Sometimes my mouth just dropped open and I had to kick myself to keep taking notes.
I had been writing the manuscript all along but without knowing how it would end. Once we came back from the funeral trip in the fall of 2010, only then could I look at all my material and see the arc of the story emerge. Only then could I decide how to edit it so that it had a good flow. Being non-fiction, the general direction of the book was shaped by events, not by me! I had to decide which stories contributed to the general direction, separating the wheat from the chaff.
SoR: When writing a biographical book on a person still living, what are the advantages and disadvantages? How does one approach the topic in order to write about him or her effectively?
Herman: First of all, dead people can’t argue with you about what you’ve written. That’s a great advantage when you write about dead people! Peggy and I argued at times. I thought something would be great for the book, and she didn’t want it in there. It’s her life story so I had to bow to her wishes. Though I have to say she was always ready to listen to my point, and she sometimes agreed to leave things in. She was also very courageous to open up about her marriage and infertility, about her issues with her father and the sadness of losing her mother, all very painful, private things that she has put out there for all the world to see. It makes her very real, very sympathetic to readers who have had their own struggles, and they root for her to be successful, so I am proud of her for letting these stories stay in.
SoR: What do you hope the reader takes away from reading your book?
Herman: I want them to see the beauty of Africa, the joy, the hard work, the hospitality, friendship, love of family, and strong religious faith, and I want them to be grateful for everything we have in the West. Running water. The best medical care in the world. Great free schools through twelfth grade. It sounds strange, but since I’ve been back, every time I flush the toilet or stick my head under the shower and hot water comes out, I thank God. I also hope that my readers will consider helping worthwhile charities in Africa.
And I want them to see that you never know what is going to happen to you! There could be many unexpected blessings ahead if you have faith and do what’s right. That’s what Peggy found out, becoming king so suddenly in mid-life, and that’s what I found out, meeting a king suddenly in my own mid-life and going on an incredible adventure with her, an adventure that continues.
SoR: From your perspective, how has King Peggy’s gender affected her monarchy?
Herman: I think women, generally speaking, are more concerned with issues relating to children, and Peggy’s main goal is to make Otuam a healthy, happy place for the children, and to give them a bright future. I think her kingship is also heavily influenced by her US citizenship. She has a Yankee can-do attitude of rolling up her sleeves, setting to work, cutting straight through nonsense and improving things quickly.
February 21, 2012
King Peggy (Nana Amuah Afenyi VI) was a secretary at the Ghanian embassy in Washington, D.C. living just above the poverty line until one day when she was called in the middle of the night to inform her of her ascension to the throne of the kingdom of Otuam in western Ghana. Since taking the throne, she has still kept her full-time job as a secretary in order to pay the bills (African kings, as she points out, are not the same as European kings) and fought corruption, brought clean water, healthcare, eduacation and more to her 7,000 people.
Eleanor Herman is the New York Times bestselling author of Sex with Kings and Mistress of the Vatican among others. Her newest book about King Peggy (King Peggy: An American Secretary, Her Royal Destiny, and the Inspiring Story of How She Changed an African Village) was co-written with Peggielene Bartels. She also writes for the Washington Post.
King Peggy (Nana Amuah Afenyi VI)
SoR: In what ways has becoming king influenced your day to day life and likewise, in what ways has your previous day to day life as a secretary influenced your monarchy?
Peggy: Before I became king, I didn’t have a compelling mission or purpose in life. I kept very busy and was grateful for my blessings, but I couldn’t help but feel that something was missing, that there was something important I should be doing. Now I am a woman on a mission – to help my people. I think about it all day long, every day.
I also think that my years in administrative work helped me in terms of organizing a new council and a financial system with several layers of accountability, repairing the decrepit royal palace, and arranging other big projects for my town. Thirty years of working in an American office can really help an African king!
SoR: How preserved is the Otuam culture in this modern age and what are your thoughts on modernizing your kingdom of 7,000 while still maintaining that sense of identity?
Peggy: The old Otuam culture is well preserved. We have our traditional festivities, our dances and customs, our veneration of the stools and Otuam’s seventy-seven gods and goddesses. We have found cell phones to be incredibly useful, as well as taxis that take people to nearby towns, and electricity, when it’s on, is a great blessing, but none of these modern inventions has taken away from ancient customs. I believe that even when we have a beautiful new high school, and a public latrine, more bore holes, a new road, and all the modernizations I want for the town, that our age-old traditions of faith, family and friendship will remain strong.
SoR: What have been some of the most difficult challenges since becoming king, both related to your royal position and your “other life” here in America?
Peggy: It has been a great financial struggle. I was a normal, working American trying to pay my own bills and suddenly I had an entire town of 7,000 people relying on me. Secondly, many of my elders and royal council members had been taking the town’s income – fishing fees and land sales – for themselves rather than saving it for projects to benefit the town. There was great resistance when I opened a bank with a town checking account and insisted everyone use checks rather than cash for all town business. But now that they’ve seen the progress I’m bringing to town, even the most recalcitrant elders are supporting me.
SoR: Why did you agree to write this book with Eleanor Herman?
Peggy: At first I didn’t understand why she thought it was such an amazing story. I had been king six months before I met her, and no one here in the US seemed to think my kingship was that interesting. But Eleanor was very insistent that it needed to be written, that people around the world needed to learn about Otuam and its lady king. I guess she just convinced me.
SoR: What are some of the character traits you must possess as a king that are applicable to every person?
Peggy: Good question! I often think about this. Whether you are a king or not, you need to be honest, compassionate, self-respecting, well-organized, determined, and generous. You also need to have faith that whatever the challenges confronting you, there is a higher power to help you make it through.
SoR: What are some of the gender roles of women in Otuam and how have they been influenced by a female king?
Peggy: The first thing I put a stop to the day I was crowned king was wife-beating. I let it be known that any man who beat his wife would be put in jail to stew for a time, then get kicked out of town and prevented from returning. Wife beating dried up to a trickle immediately. I have also added women to my council, who argue loudly with the male elders, something unheard of before my kingship. I want the girls in my town to learn that they can grow up to be whatever they want – doctors, lawyers, politicians, members of the royal council. If a woman can be a king, those girls can reach for the stars.
SoR: We, here in America, see the tragedies occurring in Africa (Darfur, Somalia…) and while the majority of us wish to help, we are unsure of what we can do to truly make a difference. Despite donating to charities, corruption, genocide, and other horrors still occur. As someone who has been on both ends of the Atlantic and is making a difference in your own niche of the continent, what advice do you have for people who wish to help beyond the clichéd monetary donation?
Peggy: The monetary donation is enormously helpful if it goes into the right hands. I advise people to investigate the charities they are thinking of donating to. Do the charities have honest people on the ground who can make sure the money goes to help the village rather than into the hands of corrupt officials? Are there any accusations of fraud or corruption against the charity? Once you have decided on one that is worthwhile, please give whatever you can. Even $50 can keep a child in most African public schools for a year. Instead of growing up illiterate, that child can have a future, earn money, help his or her family and community. How often do Americans waste $50? If you and a friend go to the movies and buy popcorn, nachos and drinks, there’s $50 right there. I think you’re right that we can’t stop genocide, starvation, corruption, and epidemics across the whole world. But if you help one child, one family, isn’t that huge?
SoR: Just as we see in the news about all of the hardships facing Africa, we rarely see the good news. As king, and someone in tune with the pulse of your kingdom, what are some of the true joys of Otuam and her people?
Peggy: My people are poor, but if you come to Otuam, you would see them always smiling and laughing. I rarely see Americans on the street smiling and laughing. They are too busy and stressed and have too many bills. My people enjoy the beautiful warm weather, the fresh fish from the sea and the fresh fruit from the nearby fields. Extended families are extremely close and supportive. Sundays everyone goes to church. There are joys there that many Americans, I’m afraid, rarely experience.
From Students at Central Area Adult Education in Rockledge, FL
Student: How does it feel to be the first female king in Otuam?
Peggy: It feels great. Growing up in a male-dominated society like Ghana, even then I couldn’t understand why women were supposed to be subservient to men. It’s as if I was born with an American outlook of female equality. I want to show my people, and the world, that women can do anything as well as men, sometimes much better!
Student: Due to the responsibilities of being king, how do you feel about being King versus if you had stayed a secretary?
Peggy: Well, I should make it clear that I am still a secretary, working full time. Being king certainly has a lot more responsibility than being a secretary. Some 7,000 people are depending on me, sometimes for life or death issues like clean water and an ambulance. I would probably be a lot more carefree if I was only a secretary and not a king. But I wouldn’t have a driving purpose in life, wouldn’t feel that my life is making a difference to others.
Student: How do you balance your time and life between the U.S. and Otuam?
Peggy: Until now, I have gone to Otuam a month or so a year. I hope, if finances permit, to go twice a year. I am on the phone every day with my regent and my elders dealing with daily issues that arise in Otuam.
Student: What are the advantages and disadvantages of being King?
Peggy: The first disadvantage is financial. Becoming the king of an African community isn’t like become a European monarch. You don’t suddenly inherit a windfall of millions of dollars with beautiful palaces you can move into. You have to get out your checkbook and use whatever savings you have to help your people.
Another disadvantage is that a king isn’t supposed to eat or drink in public, or run off to the toilet. So sometimes when I am on the throne for a town meeting I would like to eat or drink or take a bathroom break, and I can’t!
The advantage is that your word is law, and you can take steps to reward good people, punish bad ones, and help the community.
Student: What was the effect of the slave trade in Otuam?
Peggy: The slave trade had huge effects on Ghana as it was the epicenter of the trade. Most African-Americans have some Ghanaian heritage because of this. There were dozens of slave castles along the coast where the British ships docked to pick up those unfortunate souls who had been captured in battle or in raids and brought there. There are two huge slave castles in Ghana you can visit today – Cape Coast and Elmina – and I recommend that everyone who can should visit them to understand the horrors of the slave trade and what those poor people had to survive in order to make it to American shores.
There was a tiny castle at Otuam built in the 18th century. Once the British outlawed slavery in the 19th century, they dynamited it and many others to prevent people from continuing to capture and sell slaves from them illegally. Today there are just a couple of walls and a doorway and window left standing on a hill, and the slave passage that ran from beneath the castle to the ships on the beach. My people don’t go there at night. It is said that the untranquil spirits of those who died there roam the ruins.
Student: Do you have any language barriers with your people since you have lived in the U.S. for 30 years?
Peggy: No, we understand each other perfectly well, though the people of Otuam have a quaint, old-fashioned dialect of Fanti. It sounded a bit funny at first, as I came from the big city, but I am used to it now.
Student: What are the most prominent medical issues facing the people of Otuam as HIV, malaria, and other diseases are so prevalent throughout much of Africa?
Peggy: Otuam is lucky that it has a small medical clinic with 13 nurses. Many villages don’t have anything. The nurses dispense pre-natal vitamins, stitch up small wounds, give medicine for urinary tract infections and head colds, that kind of thing, and a midwife helps delivers babies.
Considering the lack of medical care compared to what Americans receive, the people of Otuam are amazingly healthy. I think this is because they eat fresh fish, fruit, and vegetables without any preservatives, and do physical labor for hours and hours every day. Many people live into their eighties and nineties with no physical ailments and no doctor’s visits. There are, however, women who have a dangerous labor and need a C-section to survive. There are people who hurt themselves in accidents and need to be rushed to a hospital for surgery. There are those who suffer from a stroke or heart attack and need immediate life-saving care. At the moment, family members borrow money from relatives to pay for a taxi to take the sick, bleeding person on an hour’s drive to the nearest hospital and some of them die in the taxi. We are starting to raise money for a gently used ambulance to stabilize the sick person all the way to the hospital.
Eleanor Herman
SoR: The story of King Peggy is an inspiring one. At what point did you make the decision that you were going to write this book?
Herman: I knew I wanted to write her story within two minutes of talking to Peggy. I met her at a Ghanaian Embassy reception in February 2009, asked her why she wasn’t eating or drinking anything when there was such a splendid buffet and open bar, and if I could bring her something. She said no, she was a king and couldn’t be seen eating or drinking in public! That’s what started the conversation, and having written three other books about the intersection of women, power, and politics, I knew I had the subject for my fourth book!
SoR: How did you work with King Peggy to collaborate on the book?
Herman: I met her for lunch frequently in the seven months before we went to Ghana, asked her about her life, Otuam, the culture, things like that, while taking copious notes. I also read books about Ghanaian history, Ghanaian kingship, the slave trade, everything I could get my hands on that might give me some insight into such a different place.
SoR: When visiting Otuam, how did the people there perceive you? Were they even familiar with the kind of biography you were attempting to write?
Herman: They didn’t seem to be that curious about me or my project. They were very polite, very friendly, but maybe their lack of curiosity had to do with the corresponding lack of books and other reading material in Otuam. There’s no library. No bookstore or news kiosk. Some of the older people are illiterate. So when I come over with dreams of literary greatness, it didn’t really interest them. I would tell them I was writing a book on Otuam and they would nod politely and say that was nice. They were happy, however, that an American was taking an interest in their lives.
SoR: Was there anything you really wanted to add in the book that didn’t make the editing cut and if so what was it and why was it not added?
Herman: I’m very pleased with how the book turned out but it’s not like I sat down and wrote it that way on my first attempt. My initial drafts are always too long and plodding. At this point, having written my fourth book, I know it is a step in the process, though while writing my first book I thought it meant I was a terribly boring writer. Now I realize that it is better to have too much information and slice it down than to start off with too little and scramble to build it up. There were many charming and wonderful little scenarios that didn’t contribute to the flow of the book and I had to cut them. Some writer once said, “Kill your darlings.” I had to kill many of my darlings to get a fast, easy pace.
SoR: You have written biographical work on many influential and infamous women throughout history but how does it compare to writing about a woman who is still alive?
Herman: The advantage and disadvantage is that there is such a wealth of material about a living person, and a comparative lack of information about those who died long ago. It’s like an embarrassment of riches. What do I use? What do I discard? What order do I put it in? The less material you have, the clearer the answer is. When you are swimming in hundreds of pages of notes, and your subject calls you daily to give you more, it can get confusing.
SoR: What sort of parallels or bridges do you see connecting the average reader in western civilization to the people of Otuam?
Herman: Speaking for myself, I think the biggest connection is, ironically, the contrast in lifestyle as that contrast stabs you in the heart. When I first went over there for a month, bathing in a bucket, seeing the poverty, I was so ashamed of how much money I had wasted on stupid things I didn’t need. A 62nd pair of earrings. A 45th pair of shoes, while so many kids couldn’t afford school books, testing fees, or uniforms, chump change for us, and had to stay home and remain illiterate! I feel that God really opened my eyes to how blessed I am. And now I know that the biggest blessing is to take some of my excess and give it to those kids and their families. Every time I spend money, I feel the connection with them. I have it. They don’t. I need to give them some of it. It’s really simple.
I hope that my readers will love the people of Otuam, admire them for their strength in the face of adversity, and help them. You can be sure that King Peggy will personally send the money to the proper recipient. You can even come to Otuam and check it out for yourself!
SoR: How did you decide on the perspective and direction the book was going to take?
Herman: You need to remember that events were going on as I was writing them. When I first started the project, I didn’t know the extent of the corruption Peggy would find when we went over there. I didn’t know that a prominent local pastor would commit his church to helping Otuam. I didn’t know that corrupt elders would play an unimaginably horrible trick on Peggy during the royal funeral of her late uncle. Sometimes my mouth just dropped open and I had to kick myself to keep taking notes.
I had been writing the manuscript all along but without knowing how it would end. Once we came back from the funeral trip in the fall of 2010, only then could I look at all my material and see the arc of the story emerge. Only then could I decide how to edit it so that it had a good flow. Being non-fiction, the general direction of the book was shaped by events, not by me! I had to decide which stories contributed to the general direction, separating the wheat from the chaff.
SoR: When writing a biographical book on a person still living, what are the advantages and disadvantages? How does one approach the topic in order to write about him or her effectively?
Herman: First of all, dead people can’t argue with you about what you’ve written. That’s a great advantage when you write about dead people! Peggy and I argued at times. I thought something would be great for the book, and she didn’t want it in there. It’s her life story so I had to bow to her wishes. Though I have to say she was always ready to listen to my point, and she sometimes agreed to leave things in. She was also very courageous to open up about her marriage and infertility, about her issues with her father and the sadness of losing her mother, all very painful, private things that she has put out there for all the world to see. It makes her very real, very sympathetic to readers who have had their own struggles, and they root for her to be successful, so I am proud of her for letting these stories stay in.
SoR: What do you hope the reader takes away from reading your book?
Herman: I want them to see the beauty of Africa, the joy, the hard work, the hospitality, friendship, love of family, and strong religious faith, and I want them to be grateful for everything we have in the West. Running water. The best medical care in the world. Great free schools through twelfth grade. It sounds strange, but since I’ve been back, every time I flush the toilet or stick my head under the shower and hot water comes out, I thank God. I also hope that my readers will consider helping worthwhile charities in Africa.
And I want them to see that you never know what is going to happen to you! There could be many unexpected blessings ahead if you have faith and do what’s right. That’s what Peggy found out, becoming king so suddenly in mid-life, and that’s what I found out, meeting a king suddenly in my own mid-life and going on an incredible adventure with her, an adventure that continues.
SoR: From your perspective, how has King Peggy’s gender affected her monarchy?
Herman: I think women, generally speaking, are more concerned with issues relating to children, and Peggy’s main goal is to make Otuam a healthy, happy place for the children, and to give them a bright future. I think her kingship is also heavily influenced by her US citizenship. She has a Yankee can-do attitude of rolling up her sleeves, setting to work, cutting straight through nonsense and improving things quickly.
The Interview from Delphi, with Jonathan Odell
March 11, 2012
Jonathan Odell is the writer of "The View From Delphi" and most recently "The Healing." He has a passion for his home state of Mississippi and draws much of his inspiration from there. Odell has had many pieces published in various magazines and has been very involved in the Civil Rights dialogues of the 21st Century. His most recent book is about the pre-Civil War south and the people who made their lives in the unsung history of our past - the plantation slaves and African-American midwives. Odell's smooth writing style and rich characters weave a wonderful historical fiction.
SoR: What is your writing and editing process like?
Odell: If I’m editing, I can go until I drop, sometimes 18 hours a day. I enjoy editing, probably to a fault. I love finding rhythm in the choice and placement of words. It has to pass the “read aloud test.” When it sings smoothly when I read aloud, then I’m done.
If I’m creating, I’m exhausted after 2 hours. I need to be isolated. I have friends I call cabin fairies, who have retreats on lakes, in woods and on the ocean. I go there and isolate for a couple of weeks at a time. I write two hours and spend the rest of the time reading, walking, dreaming, sketching, journaling.
I often tell students I’m a lousy writer, but I’m a great rewriter.
SoR: In your novel, “The Healing,” you write the lines:
“She [Gran Gran] knew that a person needed to make sense out of calamity, no matter how old they were. If not, the soul, frustrated at abiding within a vessel of shattered mirrors, takes flight.”
Was this something you heard before and if so, where? If you made it up, how did you come up with such an authentically haunting revelation?
Odell: Great question. I’ve studied narrative psychology which practices exactly that. Therapists help with their traumatized patients to tell a story that puts the senseless or random violence and abuse into a meaningful context. This gives them a sense of power over the incident. Even though this branch of therapy is passed off as a new development, it’s not. In studying tribal practices in Sierra Leone, I discovered that the native healers believed that a traumatized tribal member was what they called “a house of dreams.” The soul had left the body, and they worked with their patients to create a meaningful story for the spirit to inhabit once more.
SoR: What inspires you to write?
Odell: The worst writing advice I ever got was to write what I know. I don’t want to write what I know, because what I know is dead and boring. Dry as dust. I write what I am drawn to know. I could not stay motivated over the years it takes to write a novel if I was just writing what I already knew. I write about Mississippi because I don’t understand her. She is the biggest paradox I know of. I love her and hate her. I call her my wondrous monster. No matter how far I move, she always tracks me down and demands, “Explain me or I’ll drive you crazy!”
And I focus on race because that is our peculiar insanity. Agree with me or not, but everything in Mississippi is about race and we still struggle with even seeing it, much less talking about it. Our heritage is to be race-crazy. Race created who I am as a white man. I write to discover all the ways how that happened.
What I think “Write What You Know” really means is, be able to recognize and verbalize the life themes/textures/ that make you who you are. For instance, I know what it feels like not to belong. Each of my novels, even though different, will be a continual exploration of that theme. As well as redemption and spirituality. Lost children appear repeatedly. These I know in my bones and I know them like no other person can. Being faithful to this will serve to make my writing unique.
SoR: What sort of revelations of your own history did you discover while writing “The Healing,” a historical novel of other people’s pasts?
Odell: While doing research on black midwives, and talking with my parents, I discovered that my great-grand mother was a midwife, and was responsible for the death of her stepdaughter, my father’s mother. We had all been told that my dad’s mother died of pneumonia in 1927, when my father was only an infant. But that wasn’t the truth.
In fact my dad did not learn about this until he was in his 70’s and visiting his aged father. That morning in the nursing home Papa explained that when my father was six months old, his mother, Bessie, planned to take her child and run away with him. But then she found out she was pregnant again. She had sworn she would never have another child by my abusive grandfather, whom she had come to despise, and so she went to her stepmother, my great-grandmother, who happened to be a midwife. Big Sal performed an abortion on her daughter, from which Bessie contracted blood poisoning and died. My father was left motherless.
Big Sal went on to help raise my father, whose mother she had had a hand in killing. My father loved her dearly and never learned the truth until seventy years had passed.
I began to wonder, what could it have been like for my great-grandmother to have that child reach out for her, the same woman who was responsible for his mother’s death? And I connected that with my Dad’s unwillingness to trust others.
Then it hit me. The stories about which we are not consciously aware still serve to shape our lives.The fear of betrayal by the ones you love most, whether by death or deceit, was never talked about in my family, but it affected at least three generations of men. It is the genesis of our common unwillingness to be truly vulnerable before one another, especially those we love. It explains the high premium my family places on self-sufficiency, on never relying on others for help.
The repression of story can scar the soul.
But knowing our common story can heal. My father, my brothers, and I have learned to connect with an understanding and compassion that was not available to us before. We recognize ourselves in one another.
Through writing "The Healing" and by stitching together my own family history, I have discovered the truth in the old saying “Facts can explain us, but only story will save us.”
SoR: What parallels do you see between the pre-Civil War era and the 1930s and modern day America?
Odell: There is a book called, “Slavery by Another Name,” and describes the re-enslavement of blacks after the Civil War through WWII through sharecropping, Jim Crow and other forms of economic and civic subjugation. While this country successfully absorbs each race, nationality and ethnic group that comes to our shores, African-Americans, who arrived with the first white settlers, still face discriminatory hurdles to inclusion based on skin-color. In studying black history, I learned that the African-American communities, in spite of legal and economic oppression of Jim Crow, created their own heroes, enterprises and institutions. The content and quality of their lives were not totally determined by the harshness of racism. In many places, they created supportive, caring communities that bravely nurtured their children and shielded them from the destructive, ego-crushing hatred in the white community. Many times they established their own towns complete with black mayors, doctors, midwives, merchants, schoolteachers and school board. One of the unforeseen tragedies of the end of segregation was the loss of these institutions because blacks were no longer forced to “keep to one’s own.” After sacrificing their own communities, on the promise of being allowed to participate in the larger white community, many blacks are bitterly disappointed and are searching for ways to rebuild that former sense of community.
SoR: What sort of research did you do for your novel?
Odell: There’s an old joke that goes, “I love writing. It’s the paperwork I hate.” That’s true for me. I would rather research than write, to track down the truth through the annals of history. I interviewed surviving midwives, many in their 80’s and 90’s along with their families and community members, the children they had birthed and mothers they had treated. I spent hours in college oral history departments. Scoured the records in the basements of county courthouses. Studied the WPA slave narratives. And subjected my own family to merciless inquisitions! I found and interviewed white Mississippi families who still lived on plantations that their ancestors used to drive slaves on. I stumbled upon one surprise after another.
I remember interviewing one very old, ailing partially paralyzed white man who still lived in the antebellum plantation house, long after his family had lost the land. While we visited he was being spoon-fed by a black woman who must have been as ancient as he. Between sips, he told me that his great-great-great grandfather had cleared the Delta swamps with his own hands. And the great-great-great grandmother of the black woman who sat next to him was his ancestor’s slave, and the first of many generations of plantation cooks. Some things in the South you just can’t explain.
SoR: If writer’s block ever plagues you, how do you overcome it?
Odell: I’m more verbal than visual. I hear my characters talking. That’s how they reveal themselves to me. To jump-start my writing, I put two or more characters in some situation and get them to talking. I just write down what they say, whether it makes sense or not. After several pages of dialogue, mostly gibberish, an idea forms for what needs to happen next in the story.
Sometimes I get stuck when a character just will not co-operate and whatever I do, the writing is flat, uninspired. It just won’t happen. I break the block, I may write the scene from another character’s point of view. That may not make it into the book, but it does serve to force my way through the blockage by seeing the scene from another viewpoint.
SoR: What advice would you have for budding writers?
Odell: Write for the love of writing and not for the love of people. When I get away from my own internal motivation, from my desire to simply tell the story, and go for external rewards, I am playing to the wrong audience. My writing becomes more predictable, less creative and false.
Show your work to others when you are ready, but be VERY careful whom you choose. I rely heavily on others' impressions during the writing process. But the readers I select know the difference between telling me what they would do if they were writing this novel (not helpful); and telling me what I need to hear to write the story that I’m trying to tell (very rare). They want me to achieve my vision, not help me achieve theirs. NEVER let anyone co-opt your story.
SoR: You also have the unique career of leadership coach to Fortune 500 companies as well as writer. How do these passions coincide and are there any advantages of being a writer in the leadership coaching world or vice versa?
Odell: What interested me about working with organizations was discovering the personality traits at play, how the culture (setting) shapes behavior and how group dynamics determine success or failure. I carried these same interests into my writing in creating character motivations, working with family systems and building tension.
But I couldn’t write and do consulting at the same time. To write, I need a very safe place to let my creative child out to play. In business I had to constantly be on guard and self-critical, aware of the impression I was making and calculating how to best facilitate difficult and powerful personalities without becoming a casualty. I felt I was always in survival mode. Such an environment does not offer many opportunities to be spontaneously creative. I noticed that after a major business intervention, it would take days of downtime before I could let my guard down and allow my creativity to flow, without self-monitoring.
I’m sure this will be different for everyone, but my nature demands that I do one or the other, not both.
SoR: What sort of writing pursuits do you see in your future?
Odell: Another novel is in the works, set in the same fictional county as the first two. I’m also enjoying teaching writing to other writers. I’ll continue writing essays, short stories and novels concentrating on race and sexual orientation and the outsider. In my case I guess it’s true what they say about writers, no matter how many books they write, they end up telling the same story over and over. I suppose that’s the overarching mystery that keeps me motivated, the question of, where does one truly belong?
March 11, 2012
Jonathan Odell is the writer of "The View From Delphi" and most recently "The Healing." He has a passion for his home state of Mississippi and draws much of his inspiration from there. Odell has had many pieces published in various magazines and has been very involved in the Civil Rights dialogues of the 21st Century. His most recent book is about the pre-Civil War south and the people who made their lives in the unsung history of our past - the plantation slaves and African-American midwives. Odell's smooth writing style and rich characters weave a wonderful historical fiction.
SoR: What is your writing and editing process like?
Odell: If I’m editing, I can go until I drop, sometimes 18 hours a day. I enjoy editing, probably to a fault. I love finding rhythm in the choice and placement of words. It has to pass the “read aloud test.” When it sings smoothly when I read aloud, then I’m done.
If I’m creating, I’m exhausted after 2 hours. I need to be isolated. I have friends I call cabin fairies, who have retreats on lakes, in woods and on the ocean. I go there and isolate for a couple of weeks at a time. I write two hours and spend the rest of the time reading, walking, dreaming, sketching, journaling.
I often tell students I’m a lousy writer, but I’m a great rewriter.
SoR: In your novel, “The Healing,” you write the lines:
“She [Gran Gran] knew that a person needed to make sense out of calamity, no matter how old they were. If not, the soul, frustrated at abiding within a vessel of shattered mirrors, takes flight.”
Was this something you heard before and if so, where? If you made it up, how did you come up with such an authentically haunting revelation?
Odell: Great question. I’ve studied narrative psychology which practices exactly that. Therapists help with their traumatized patients to tell a story that puts the senseless or random violence and abuse into a meaningful context. This gives them a sense of power over the incident. Even though this branch of therapy is passed off as a new development, it’s not. In studying tribal practices in Sierra Leone, I discovered that the native healers believed that a traumatized tribal member was what they called “a house of dreams.” The soul had left the body, and they worked with their patients to create a meaningful story for the spirit to inhabit once more.
SoR: What inspires you to write?
Odell: The worst writing advice I ever got was to write what I know. I don’t want to write what I know, because what I know is dead and boring. Dry as dust. I write what I am drawn to know. I could not stay motivated over the years it takes to write a novel if I was just writing what I already knew. I write about Mississippi because I don’t understand her. She is the biggest paradox I know of. I love her and hate her. I call her my wondrous monster. No matter how far I move, she always tracks me down and demands, “Explain me or I’ll drive you crazy!”
And I focus on race because that is our peculiar insanity. Agree with me or not, but everything in Mississippi is about race and we still struggle with even seeing it, much less talking about it. Our heritage is to be race-crazy. Race created who I am as a white man. I write to discover all the ways how that happened.
What I think “Write What You Know” really means is, be able to recognize and verbalize the life themes/textures/ that make you who you are. For instance, I know what it feels like not to belong. Each of my novels, even though different, will be a continual exploration of that theme. As well as redemption and spirituality. Lost children appear repeatedly. These I know in my bones and I know them like no other person can. Being faithful to this will serve to make my writing unique.
SoR: What sort of revelations of your own history did you discover while writing “The Healing,” a historical novel of other people’s pasts?
Odell: While doing research on black midwives, and talking with my parents, I discovered that my great-grand mother was a midwife, and was responsible for the death of her stepdaughter, my father’s mother. We had all been told that my dad’s mother died of pneumonia in 1927, when my father was only an infant. But that wasn’t the truth.
In fact my dad did not learn about this until he was in his 70’s and visiting his aged father. That morning in the nursing home Papa explained that when my father was six months old, his mother, Bessie, planned to take her child and run away with him. But then she found out she was pregnant again. She had sworn she would never have another child by my abusive grandfather, whom she had come to despise, and so she went to her stepmother, my great-grandmother, who happened to be a midwife. Big Sal performed an abortion on her daughter, from which Bessie contracted blood poisoning and died. My father was left motherless.
Big Sal went on to help raise my father, whose mother she had had a hand in killing. My father loved her dearly and never learned the truth until seventy years had passed.
I began to wonder, what could it have been like for my great-grandmother to have that child reach out for her, the same woman who was responsible for his mother’s death? And I connected that with my Dad’s unwillingness to trust others.
Then it hit me. The stories about which we are not consciously aware still serve to shape our lives.The fear of betrayal by the ones you love most, whether by death or deceit, was never talked about in my family, but it affected at least three generations of men. It is the genesis of our common unwillingness to be truly vulnerable before one another, especially those we love. It explains the high premium my family places on self-sufficiency, on never relying on others for help.
The repression of story can scar the soul.
But knowing our common story can heal. My father, my brothers, and I have learned to connect with an understanding and compassion that was not available to us before. We recognize ourselves in one another.
Through writing "The Healing" and by stitching together my own family history, I have discovered the truth in the old saying “Facts can explain us, but only story will save us.”
SoR: What parallels do you see between the pre-Civil War era and the 1930s and modern day America?
Odell: There is a book called, “Slavery by Another Name,” and describes the re-enslavement of blacks after the Civil War through WWII through sharecropping, Jim Crow and other forms of economic and civic subjugation. While this country successfully absorbs each race, nationality and ethnic group that comes to our shores, African-Americans, who arrived with the first white settlers, still face discriminatory hurdles to inclusion based on skin-color. In studying black history, I learned that the African-American communities, in spite of legal and economic oppression of Jim Crow, created their own heroes, enterprises and institutions. The content and quality of their lives were not totally determined by the harshness of racism. In many places, they created supportive, caring communities that bravely nurtured their children and shielded them from the destructive, ego-crushing hatred in the white community. Many times they established their own towns complete with black mayors, doctors, midwives, merchants, schoolteachers and school board. One of the unforeseen tragedies of the end of segregation was the loss of these institutions because blacks were no longer forced to “keep to one’s own.” After sacrificing their own communities, on the promise of being allowed to participate in the larger white community, many blacks are bitterly disappointed and are searching for ways to rebuild that former sense of community.
SoR: What sort of research did you do for your novel?
Odell: There’s an old joke that goes, “I love writing. It’s the paperwork I hate.” That’s true for me. I would rather research than write, to track down the truth through the annals of history. I interviewed surviving midwives, many in their 80’s and 90’s along with their families and community members, the children they had birthed and mothers they had treated. I spent hours in college oral history departments. Scoured the records in the basements of county courthouses. Studied the WPA slave narratives. And subjected my own family to merciless inquisitions! I found and interviewed white Mississippi families who still lived on plantations that their ancestors used to drive slaves on. I stumbled upon one surprise after another.
I remember interviewing one very old, ailing partially paralyzed white man who still lived in the antebellum plantation house, long after his family had lost the land. While we visited he was being spoon-fed by a black woman who must have been as ancient as he. Between sips, he told me that his great-great-great grandfather had cleared the Delta swamps with his own hands. And the great-great-great grandmother of the black woman who sat next to him was his ancestor’s slave, and the first of many generations of plantation cooks. Some things in the South you just can’t explain.
SoR: If writer’s block ever plagues you, how do you overcome it?
Odell: I’m more verbal than visual. I hear my characters talking. That’s how they reveal themselves to me. To jump-start my writing, I put two or more characters in some situation and get them to talking. I just write down what they say, whether it makes sense or not. After several pages of dialogue, mostly gibberish, an idea forms for what needs to happen next in the story.
Sometimes I get stuck when a character just will not co-operate and whatever I do, the writing is flat, uninspired. It just won’t happen. I break the block, I may write the scene from another character’s point of view. That may not make it into the book, but it does serve to force my way through the blockage by seeing the scene from another viewpoint.
SoR: What advice would you have for budding writers?
Odell: Write for the love of writing and not for the love of people. When I get away from my own internal motivation, from my desire to simply tell the story, and go for external rewards, I am playing to the wrong audience. My writing becomes more predictable, less creative and false.
Show your work to others when you are ready, but be VERY careful whom you choose. I rely heavily on others' impressions during the writing process. But the readers I select know the difference between telling me what they would do if they were writing this novel (not helpful); and telling me what I need to hear to write the story that I’m trying to tell (very rare). They want me to achieve my vision, not help me achieve theirs. NEVER let anyone co-opt your story.
SoR: You also have the unique career of leadership coach to Fortune 500 companies as well as writer. How do these passions coincide and are there any advantages of being a writer in the leadership coaching world or vice versa?
Odell: What interested me about working with organizations was discovering the personality traits at play, how the culture (setting) shapes behavior and how group dynamics determine success or failure. I carried these same interests into my writing in creating character motivations, working with family systems and building tension.
But I couldn’t write and do consulting at the same time. To write, I need a very safe place to let my creative child out to play. In business I had to constantly be on guard and self-critical, aware of the impression I was making and calculating how to best facilitate difficult and powerful personalities without becoming a casualty. I felt I was always in survival mode. Such an environment does not offer many opportunities to be spontaneously creative. I noticed that after a major business intervention, it would take days of downtime before I could let my guard down and allow my creativity to flow, without self-monitoring.
I’m sure this will be different for everyone, but my nature demands that I do one or the other, not both.
SoR: What sort of writing pursuits do you see in your future?
Odell: Another novel is in the works, set in the same fictional county as the first two. I’m also enjoying teaching writing to other writers. I’ll continue writing essays, short stories and novels concentrating on race and sexual orientation and the outsider. In my case I guess it’s true what they say about writers, no matter how many books they write, they end up telling the same story over and over. I suppose that’s the overarching mystery that keeps me motivated, the question of, where does one truly belong?
Guy Laramee: When Art Collides with Literature
March 23, 2012
In the course of his 30 years of
practice, interdisciplinary artist Guy Laramée has created in such
varied and numerous disciplines as theater writing and directing,
contemporary music composition, musical instrument design and building,
singing, video, scenography, sculpture, installation, painting, and
literature. He has received more than 30 arts grants and was awarded the
Canada Council’s Joseph S. Stauffer award for musical composition. His
work has been presented in United States, Belgium, France, Germany,
Switzerland, Japan, and Latin America.
SoR: What was your inspiration for your book sculptures?
Laramée: A deep existential crisis triggered by a very ambiguous relation to knowledge.
SoR: How long does it take you to complete one sculpture?
Laramée: Depends: one week to ten years. Some I will not have the time to finish in this lifetime.
SoR: What was the process for sculpting books? Did you have to stick the pages together?
Laramée: No glue whatsoever. In fact I have to remove the glue that is already there. The glue in my mind I mean.
SoR: Why books and why the scenes you chose?
Laramée:
Why wood? Why paint? Why your question? Why anything? When you enter
REALLY into that questioning, then you stop sleeping. If you're lucky
enough to avoid medication in times of big crisis, then the process of
purification takes place and the work asks to be done. It's no longer
you who do it.
SoR: How did you develop the process for sculpting books when something like this hadn't been done before?
Laramée:
I had been done before! Book art is a very old thing. The ancient
thought of poets as prophet, not as craftsmen. We have to go back!
SoR: Does the content of the book matter or influence the sculpture?
Laramée:
What is "content"? How do you define it? Is your question influenced by
the "content" of my art? Again, the role of the artist is to have us
questioning everything, but not the way we generally: asking questions
to get answers, just a BIG open question.
So now you have to give an answer to that: What IS "content"? Would you be contented (...) if you would find an answer?
SoR: What kind of books do you read for fun? What was your favorite?
Laramée:
I never read for fun. Reading is a serious thing. Life is a serious
thing, the proof being that it will end too soon for each of us.
SoR: What do you want the book sculptures to convey to the audience?
Laramée:
I don't want to convey anything. This is not a desire I have. The works
are being done because they have to be done. Meanwhile, I am purified
of the personal, the individual that is taken to be me. And the audience
responds to that by a sense of marvel, of wonder, which is but the sign
that the work operates on them in the same way it operates on me:
removing the "I" and getting back to contemplation.
SoR: What would you say to someone who thought you were just destroying books?
Laramée:
I would say: you just destroyed so many things by saying this. Your
body destroyed food, the bad emotion destroyed your mind, etc. What I do
is a sacrifice: the victims become sacred precisely because it is
killed. Now we lost the notion of sacrifice and that is why we get angry
when someone performs one. We feel guilty that we lost something so
precious, that the hedonism of modern life had us losing the feeling of
our own finitude, and we project this guilt as anger over someone else.
The mind destroys itself all the time anyway, why bother?
THE SACRIFICE
We have sacrificed everything.
We have sacrificed cultures for progress.
We have sacrificed species to house our children.
We have sacrificed the landscape in order to possess it.
We have sacrificed mystery for a formula, beauty for ideas, liberty for security.
We have sacrificed “us” for “me”.
We have left traces of ourselves everywhere,
And we walk on towards the ultimate sacrifice:
Drowning in our own image.
None of that is very important,
Because in the immolation, we will have glimpsed our destiny:
We are going to sacrifice everything,
We are going to sacrifice music in order to hear silence,
We are going to sacrifice color in order to enter the picture,
We are going to sacrifice words in order to find presence again.
We are going to sacrifice innovation in order to find the origin again.
And we will sacrifice “me” in order for us to return home.
Beyond what we will have lost,
Is what we can never possess.
We can never HAVE what we ARE.
Guy Laramée, March 2008
SoR: What is your advice to budding artists?
Laramée: WORK!!
SoR: As an artist who sculpts out of books, what are your thoughts on the age of digital books and e-readers?
Laramée: Will new technologies change anything to our existential drama?
An Art of Its Own: Interview with Kris Kuski
August 1, 2012
Kris Kuksi is
a famed artist who delves into sculptures, sketches, and paintings. His
work has received several awards and prizes and has been featured in
over 100 exhibitions in galleries and museums worldwide including the
Smithsonian’s National Portrait Gallery. Kris’ art can also be seen in a
number of international art magazines, book covers and theatrical
posters. Kris’ art is featured in both public and private collections in
the United States, Europe, and Australia that include individuals such
as Mark Parker (Nike CEO), Kay Alden (three time Emmy award winning
writer for Young and the Restless & Bold and the Beautiful), Fred Durst (musician, and film director), Chris Weitz (movie director The Golden Compass & Twilight: New Moon) Guillermo del Toro (movie director Pan’s Labyrinth & Hell Boy 2) and Robin Williams (Academy Award and Golden Globe winning actor).
SoR:
Whether it be your drawings, paintings, or sculptures, what inspires
you to turn what is in your head at that particular moment into
something real that others can perceive as well?
Kuksi:
Not sure what it is. Could be an in-born trait that directs me to take
my interests and relate them to the human experience. Or perhaps, it
could just be the idea of showing people a different view of the world.
Most artists think outside the norm and that is a good indication and
drive for progression and change.
SoR: You
have distinctly unique styles for your sculptures, paintings, and
drawings. What topics or emotions lend themselves better to a
particular medium for you?
Kuksi:
The sculptures are my passion because I am a builder much more than a
drawer or painter. It seems my emotions are better expressed through
sculpture and borrowing from the ready-made world of mass-produced
things lend well to it. The word 'composer' comes to mind more so than
sculptor when describing myself.
SoR: Your sculptures are so intricate. How much of it is envisioned before you create it and when do you know when it is finished?
Kuksi: The
major elements are planned out and arranged while all the secondary
layers are improvised in the layout up to the very tiny of details. The
process is about controlling a chaos to the degree that everything is
well placed and in balance. The pieces are finished when there are no
more boring areas; where every spot is filled up with something
interesting. No single edge or border is left without some interruption
to give it more of a completed feel.
SoR: Your
portraits are incredibly lifelike. Each face has its own story. What
do you seek to capture in each face? Is it something you’re looking for
or is it something they are projecting?
Kuksi:
I am after capturing a person's soul. When I do work with someone I
photograph them and work from the photos and work towards eliminating
the 'posed' stiffness, waiting for the person to relax and just be.
That seems to allow the passion to appear and cross over from life to
copy again on a canvas.
SoR: What
qualities do you value in the colorlessness of your black and white
drawings as opposed to the vibrant colors of your paintings?
Kuksi: Drawings
are about the form and the texture and the mood. I would say I enjoy
drawings more often due to how color can tend to be locked into certain
time periods and make a work feel dated. Drawing seems to be immune to
this; they usually have a more timeless feel to them and can be
appreciated for years to come. But I could be wrong--I would assume
style can make a drawing associated to a particular time and style.
SoR: How were you trained to master these various mediums of art?
Kuksi:
Mostly self-taught with a few of art degrees that helped along the
way. Also, trips to Europe, learning old master painting techniques and
just being exposed to all forms of art really helped. It just takes
time, and 'creative solitude' is a must for any artist.
SoR: What advice would you give to budding artists looking to express themselves through sculpture, painting, or drawing?
Kuksi:
Be true to yourself - don't copy others. Follow trends can let you
astray and you'll just get swallowed up. Most importantly, master your
medium and find your niche. Settle on a style, but always challenge
yourself. And most of all, never give up.
SoR: How much of your art comes from the life around you that you witness versus what you imagine?
Kuksi:
It is split 50/50. I have a very active imagination, yet it can be
formless without the the structure of the material world and finding a
way to bring abstract ideas into a reality that people can relate to is
the challenge. It is seems that this is just intuitive, a natural
artistic response to ideas and passions to create.
SoR: Who were your artistic idols and why?
Kuksi:
Bernini is at the top of the list. In fact, I am in Rome as I type
this and earlier today, I saw his master works at the Gallerie
Borghese. Others include Conova, Houdoun, Gerome, Leyton, and
contemporaries such as H.R. Giger, Ersnt Fuchs and Javier Marin.
SoR: What reaction do you love most from people who view your work?
Kuksi:
I love the emotional response and the comments about the details.
Listening to those comments while at a gallery opening emphasizes the
an overall respectability the viewer has, and that is what art should
provoke, in my opinion. Fans keep the drive alive in me and that kind
of energy really helps create a feeling of accomplishment and
contentment.
Car Wash: (English/Swedish)
August 23, 2012
The following is a chapter from Nigel Ford's new book, "One Dog Barking." Splash of Red recently reviewed this Swedish author's book in an earlier publishing here in our Portfolio/Interview section. Since Splash of Red is an international online literary magazine, we thought it would be fitting to share an excerpt in another language. For this installment, we have published "Car Wash" (chapter 18) in English and Swedish. Enjoy. And if you like what you read, you can pick up a copy for your e-reader here.
Car Wash
By Nigel Ford
Översattning Cecilia Lindmark
Tur nog var det ingen kö. Jag lämnade min bil utanför entrén till själva biltvätten och gick fram till där personen som ansvarade för biltvätten satt i en reception bakom repat och smutsigt plexiglas, så han utgjorde endast en smutsig röd klädfläck, förmodligen overallklädd. Han satt där inne och pratade på med ryggen vänd mot mig.
Det finns en automatisk maskin som man, beroende av vilken sorts tvätt man vill ha, stoppar pengar i och trycker på en knapp efter att man ställt sitt fordon i rätt position. Jag hade inte rätt växel för den tvätt jag ville ha eftersom priserna hade ändrats sen jag senast var här. Så jag behövde fråga personen i röd overall. Han hade rentav kunnat hålla en kanelbulle mot örat, men man antar givetvis att en person pratar i telefon när han håller någonting mot örat och svänger runt på en bekväm snurrstol och ibland lutar sig framåt och ibland sträcker sig bakåt, du vet, som man gör. Jag tryckte på den lilla ringknappen utanför receptionen, men jag kunde inte höra om det gav något resultat. Hursomhelst ändrade personen på kontoret inte sitt beteende, ingen reaktion. Så jag knackade på plexiglaset. Ingen reaktion. Jag bankade till det skallrade. Fortfarande ingen reaktion.
Jag borde kunna få någon slags tvätt till min bil, trots att det inte var den tvätt som jag hade tänkt. Underredet på bilen var viktigt för att tvätta bort smuts och förhindra rostangrepp. Det var den svåraste, om inte den mest omöjliga delen av biltvätt som man utför själv på gatan. Dina fötter sticker ut på vägen. Eller upp på trottoaren. Vilket som är jobbigt. Ett fordon kan köra över dem på ena sidan. En hund kan bita i dem på den andra. Jag har 65:50 i småpengar och tvätten jag vill ha hade gått upp till 72:00.
Jag kör in bilen i tvätten i alla fall och sedan kliver jag in i en hytt med gråblå väggar och repade och smutsiga plexiglas. Sett genom rutorna är min bil en låg skugga av tråkig skogsgrön. Den har gräddfärgad läderklädsel, men den är inte synlig.
Jag har försäkrat mig om att alla fönster är ordentligt stängda och att antennen är nedfälld, även backspeglarna har fällts in.
Jag väljer den mest omfattande tvätt jag kan få för pengarna jag har, vilket ger allt förutom slutpolering med Turtle Wax. Jag stoppar i pengarna och får instruktionen att trycka på knapp 1 till 5, men inte 3. Jag gör som jag blir tillsagd och slår mig sedan ner i stolen som ställts där för väntande. Genom rutorna i plexiglashytten kan jag se omgivningarna runt biltvättsområdet: en cirkelformad glasvägg som skyddar människorna från vattenstrålarna, bakom den finns ett kafé som omger biltvätten.
Jag har alltid tyckt att det är en lysande idé eftersom det håller barnen upptagna med att iaktta biltvättsprocessen, medan de vuxna kan ta en kopp kaffe och prata i fred. Även många av de vuxna tycker att det är fascinerande att själva titta på processen.
Nu får jag instruktionen att trycka på den röda startknappen och jag gör det. Ingenting händer med en gång. Sedan ett skarpt ”klick” och hytten som jag sitter i skakar till, lyfter och börjar röra på sig. De flesta av de vuxna i kaféet har ryggarna vända mot biltvätten och mig. De syns som hukande fläckar av varierande färger. Några barn tittar på biltvättsprocessen. Deras ansikten är vita fläckar bakom plexiglaset.
Min hytt rör sig framåt i en rad av fyra ryckningar, stannar och svänger runt så att den är vänd mot de stora borstarna som räcker från golv till tak. Hytten drivs fram längs en räls. En serie knäppningar hörs och borstarna börjar rotera. Hytten rycker framåt mot borstarna och högtrycksvattenstrålar trummar mot väggarna. När hytten trycker sig mellan de roterande borstarna är oljudet öronbedövande och hytten skakar. Tvållödder ackumuleras på rutorna. Det mörknar i hytten tills jag knappt kan se kontrollknapparna. Så, när vi kommer ut på andra sidan av borstarna, ljusnar det. Hytten stannar, rycker till och åker sig sedan tillbaka igen genom de roterande borstarna, mörknar, ljusnar och åker tillbaks längs rälsen. Vattenstrålarna avtar och slutar helt, ett väsande ljud startar. Gradvis tränger en frän doft av något slags rengöringsmedel in i hytten. Efter det rör hytten på sig fram och tillbaka längs rälsen, genom borstarna och stannar på sin ursprungliga position. Sedan hörs ett larmande ljud och hytten rör sig fram och tillbaka längs rälsen, knuffad av en våldsam vind som slår mot den från alla håll. Jag tyckte det såg ut som att dörren buktade inåt, och jag höll hårt i hatten. Plexiglaset på hytten torkade och klarnade och nu verkade det rent, fast sikten var fortsatt skymd eftersom det var så svårt repat. Hytten rörde sig sedan med en betydligt snabbare hastighet än tidigare och bromsade sedan lugnt in. Borstarna var nu utom synhåll. Allt var tyst. Jag hörde inga maskiner, inga ljud någonstans. Hytten fylldes av en tystnad som jag fann störande. Borde jag gå ut? En ensam röd lampa blinkade på kontrollpanelen. Det hördes en skarp smäll mot hyttdörren. Jag öppnade den. Två kvinnor med blå ögon, blont hår i strama knutar, klädda i koboltblå overaller, tittade på mig.
”Vad gör du?” sa kvinna nr 1.
”Det är inte meningen att du ska stå här på rälsen orörlig på det här viset” sa kvinna nr 2.
”Jag trodde att processen var färdig” sa jag ”Behandlingen slutförd.”
”Nej” sa kvinna nr 1. ”Du har betalt för supervaxning och polish. Slarvigt.”
”Men inte Turtle Wax” sa jag.
”Inte Turtle Wax” höll kvinna nr 1 med.
”Måste ha tryckt på en knapp av misstag” sa kvinna nr 2 ”med armbågen kanske. Allt du har fått är sköljning, schamponering, rengöringsmedel, tvätt och torkning.”
”Inte den superskyddande vaxningen och polishen som du betalt extra för” sa kvinna nr 1 ”Om du hade fått det hade du vetat det.”
”Ja verkligen” sa kvinna nr 2. Hon lutade sig in i hytten och tryckte på en knapp. En serie klickningar hördes. ”Det borde göra susen.”
”Ha det så trevligt nu” sa kvinna nr 1. Och så smällde de igen hyttdörren och försvann. Klickningarna upphörde. Det var tyst och stilla. Sedan ryckte hytten till och började skaka så våldsamt att jag var tvungen att hålla hårt fast vid båda sidor av stolen. Utanför hytten hördes höga väsningar och spottningar. Alla rutor immade igen och sikten var obefintlig.
”Kunder” sa en högtalare i taket. Den skrämde mig rejält och jag stirrade på högtalaren som hade tystnat efter det där första ordet. Sedan sprakade den till ”… tillåts inte…” sa den och sedan hördes fler sprakande ljud innan den fortsatte ”… tillbaka.” ”Tillbaka vart?” ramlade ur mig. Hytten fortsatte att krumbukta sig och rycka framåt, stannade, och började sedan röra sig bakåt, knuffad av den strömmande högtrycksluft från torkarna, rutorna klarnade gradvis. Hytten stannade tvärt på sin tillbakaväg och började sedan röra sig framåt igen. ”Kunder…” sa högtalaren, sedan sprakade den till och blev tyst.
Högtalaren sprakade till igen ”… specialerbjudande som inkluderar…” sa den och tystnade sedan. Jag undrade vad det var för specialerbjudande. Högtalaren sprakade till än en gång ”… bara 7 kronor för en räkmacka och valfri läsk. Eller en kopp kaffe och en liten kaka…” sa den och tystnade sedan. Hytten tycktes hamna i en lång glidning, den rörde sig mjukt för första gången och stannade sedan.
Högtalaren sprakade ”Tack för att du…” och tystnade sedan.
Jag ställde mig upp efter att försäkrat mig om att allt hade stängt ned och att inga lampor blinkade på kontrollpanelen. Jag höll just på att öppna dörren när högtalaren sprakade till igen. ”Kunder” sa högtalaren ”iiiiiin ssssssst” sedan hördes ett högt smällande ljud och ingenting mer. Jag klev ut på golvet i biltvätten och gick ut.
Tanken på någonting att äta och dricka följt av en kopp kaffe utan kaka eller… även om denna önskan inte skulle täckas av specialerbjudandet, tycktes den mycket tilltalande eftersom jag plötsligt kände mig hungrig och törstig och dessutom i behov av sällskap av andra människor i gemytliga omgivningar efter min sejour i hytten.
Inne i kaféet sitter människorna hopkurade tillsammans vid borden, barnen tittar genom de stora plexiglasen på scenariot i biltvätten, leker kurragömma, kull och så vidare bland möblerna. Barnen utgjorde ett sällskap, utan sociala barriären, eller åtminstone var de glömda till förmån för leken, medan de vuxna satt i små grupper, med lite eller ingen kommunikation mellan grupperna.
Jag tog en öl, en skinkmacka och en pappersmugg med kaffe med ett plastlock som höll inne värmen, ett paket mjölksubstitut och två sockerbitar från självserveringsdisken. Jag hade haft rätt i antagandet att inget av specialerbjudandena mötte mina behov och hittade en ledig plats vid ett runt bord där två personer satt och två av stolarna var lediga. En av personerna rörde ner socker i kaffet, den andra fixade till sig i en sminkspegel.
”Är det okej om jag sitter här?” frågade jag.
Fixaren flyttade på spegeln för att titta på mig. ”Ja, givetvis” Spegeln flyttades tillbaka. Personen som rörde i kaffet slutade att röra och klappade på fickorna, tog fram en pipa, tände den och blåste ut ett rökmoln. ”Var tvätten bra?” sa piprökaren.
”Ja, det var den” sa jag ”Åtminstone för hytten jag satt i, jag är inte säker på min bil eftersom jag inte har hämtat ut den ännu.”
Spegeln rörde på sig och fixaren tittade på honom, ansiktet förvridet av ilska. ”Det var den inte för oss. Vi var tvungna att göra det mesta själva i slutändan. Och vi fick inga pengar tillbaka heller. Någon ursäkt om deras datorer.”
”Så du är inte härifrån trakten” sa piprökaren.
”Jag bor här” sa jag ”men jag är inte polovian, jag är vikensare.”
”Ah” sa piprökaren ”Jag trodde antingen det eller sossenyackare. Du pratar polovianska mycket bra.”
”Jag har varit här ett tag” sa jag.
”Då är du mer eller mindre en av oss” sa fixaren ”vi tycker inte att vikenarna är utlänningar, eller hur.”
”Antar inte det” sa piprökaren. ”Inte som vi tycker om sooingsarna eller bronsarna eller till och med ditcherna.”
Fixaren fnissade ”lustiga typer”
”Annorlunda kulturer” sa mannen med pipan.
”Anstränger sig inte” sa fixaren. ”Vissa av dem har praktiskt taget bott här hela livet. Kan inte prata polivianska.”
”Fanatiker” sa piprökaren. ”Ni är mer som oss.”
”Eller så är vi mer som ni” sa fixaren.
”Jag har känt mig hemma här” sa jag. ”Som om det här skulle kunna bli mitt hemland om jag ville. Men det vill man ju självklart inte.”
”Jag antar inte det” sa piprökaren och reste sig. ”Kom nu” sa han till fixaren. ”Dags att gå.”
”Vi ska gå ut och äta” sa fixaren.
”Får inte bli sena” sa piprökaren.
De gick. ”Kunder” sa högtalaren klart och tydligt utan ett spår av sprakningar. ”ombeds vänligen att inte stanna kvar i hytten efter att de har gjort sitt tvättval. Vi upprepar. Stanna inte kvar i hytten efter att Ni har gjort ert val av tvättprogram. Tack.”
Jag kände mig utlämnad där jag satt ensam vid ett annars ledigt bord. Jag hade inte ätit upp min smörgås eller druckit upp mitt kaffe. Trots det reste jag mig, ställde brickan i stället och gick.
När jag körde hem beundrade jag den långa, skinande och polerade motorhuven på min dyra bil. När jag steg in i min lägenhet gick jag rakt till köket för att göra mig en riktig kopp kaffe.
Fru Hoskins katt satt obekvämt balanserande på fönsterkarmen utanför det stängda fönstret och rörde ljudlöst på munnen på andra sidan glaset. Jag släppte in katten och pratade strunt med den medan den gjorde nöjda läten och gjorde sig hemmastadd.
Jag gillar en skvätt mjölk i mitt kaffe och när jag ändå var i farten hällde jag upp lite åt katten. Trots mrs Hoskins ogillande.
Slut
August 23, 2012
The following is a chapter from Nigel Ford's new book, "One Dog Barking." Splash of Red recently reviewed this Swedish author's book in an earlier publishing here in our Portfolio/Interview section. Since Splash of Red is an international online literary magazine, we thought it would be fitting to share an excerpt in another language. For this installment, we have published "Car Wash" (chapter 18) in English and Swedish. Enjoy. And if you like what you read, you can pick up a copy for your e-reader here.
Car Wash
By Nigel Ford
Fortunately there was no
queue. I left my car poised outside the automatic door of the car wash
and walked over to where the person in charge was housed in a Perspex
windowed reception office, so scratched and dirty he was only a dirty
blob of red overalls, sat in there, chatted away on his mobile, back
turned towards me.
There was an automatic
machine into which, depending on the kind of wash you wanted, you put
money and pressed a button after you had parked your vehicle in the
correct position.
I did not have the right
change for the kind of wash I wanted because the prices had been
altered since I was here last time.
I needed information
from the person in the red overalls. The windows were so opaque he
might have held a doughnut to his ear, but one naturally assumes a
person is on the phone when he holds something to his ear and swings
about in a comfy swivel chair and bends sometimes forwards and sometimes
stretches back, you know, like you do.
I pushed the little bell
push outside the reception office, but I couldn’t hear if I got a
result. In any event, there was no change to the behavior of the person
in the office. I knocked on the Perspex. No reaction. I thumped until it
rattled. Still no reaction.
I have 65:- in change
and the wash I want has gone up to 72:-. Some kind of wash for my car
could be available, even if not the wash I had intended. It was
important to wash away the accumulation beneath the car and prevent
corrosion. The most difficult, if not impossible, part of car wash to
perform in the street. Your feet stick out in the road. Or up over the
curb. Either is unsettling. A vehicle might run over them in one
direction. A dog might bite them in the other.
I drove the car into the
wash anyway and walked over to the payment automat. This housed in a
cubicle with grey-blue walls also with scratched and dirty Perspex
windows. It included a seat where you could sit and watch. Through the
windows my car was a low shadow of dull British Racing Green. It had
cream leather upholstery, but that was not visible.
I had made sure all the
windows were tightly shut and the telescopic radio aerial retracted. The
wing mirrors too, were now folded longitudinally.
Choosing the most
comprehensive wash I could get for the change I had, which was
everything except the turtle wax polish finish, I inserted my money and
the automat screen instructed me to press buttons 1 to 5 inclusive
except for 3. I obeyed and then settled back in the seat to await
events.
The car wash area was
entirely surrounded by a circular cafeteria and a circular Perspex wall
that protected people from the water spray, rather like the screen
around an ice hockey rink that protects the audience from stray pucks.
I had always thought the
cafeteria to be an excellent idea; grown-ups could bring along their
children when they washed their cars and watching the car washing
process kept the children occupied. They could watch the cars enter at
one end and go through all the different stages of brushing and soaping
and rinsing and drying – the roaring air of the dryers was always
exciting I found – and come out the other clean and shiny bright, while
the grown-ups grabbed a cup of coffee and had a chat or read the paper
in peace. Indeed many of the adults themselves appeared to find a
fascination in watching the car washing process.
The automat window
screen started flashing. I was instructed to press the red start button,
and I complied. Nothing happened immediately. Then a sharp “click” and
the cubicle, in which I was sitting shuddered, lifted and began to move.
Most of the adults in
the cafeteria had their backs to the car wash and to me. They were
represented by hunched blobs of various colors. Several children were
watching the car wash procedure. Their faces were white blobs through
the Perspex.
My cubicle moved
forwards in a series of jerks, stopped and swung around to face the
large floor to ceiling brushes. The cubicle was propelled along a
railed track. After a series of snaps, the brushes began to rotate.
The cubicle jerked forward toward the brushes and high-pressure water
jets drummed on the walls. When the cubicle pushed into the revolving
brushes the noise was deafening and the cubicle shook. A head of
soapsuds built up on the windows. The light inside the cubicle darkened
until I could barely discern the control buttons. As we emerged on the
other side of the brushes, the light brightened. The cubicle stopped,
jerked and returned through the revolving brushes, darkened, brightened
and moved back along the track. The water jets died away and stopped and
a hissing commenced. An astringent perfume, attributable to some sort
of cleaning agent, permeated the cubicle. After which the cubicle moved
forwards along the track, through the brushes and stopped. There was
utter silence. Just when I had concluded the process was finished and
was fumbling for the door latch of the cubicle, there was a tremendous
roar and the cubicle moved swiftly back along the track, buffeted by a
tremendous wind. It seemed to me as if the door bulged inwards, and I
held onto my hat. The Perspex windows of the cubicle dried and cleared
and now seemed clean, although visibility remained hampered by their
being so badly scratched.
The cubicle slid to a
smooth halt at the point of our departure... The brushes were now out of
my line of sight. Everything was silent. I heard no machines, no voices
anywhere.
The cubicle was filled
with a noiselessness I found disturbing. Should I get out? A single red
diode blinked on the control screen. There was a brusque rap on the
cubicle door. I opened it. Two women with blue eyes, their blond hair in
severe buns and clad in cobalt blue overalls, looked at me.
‘What are you doing?’ woman no. 1 asked. ‘You’re not allowed to be here. You realize this is a punishable offense?’
‘You’re not supposed to
be here stopped on the track and motionless like this, even if you were
allowed to be here. Or even if we were to overlook it for once,’ woman
no. 2 said.
‘I thought the process had come to an end,’ I said. ‘The treatment complete.’
‘No,’ woman no. 1 said. ‘You’ve paid for Superwax and polish. Careless.’
‘But not turtle wax,’ I said.
‘Not turtle wax,’ woman no. 1 agreed.
‘We’ll assume you must
have pushed a button by mistake,’ woman no. 2 said. ‘With your elbow
perhaps. Don’t do it again please. We’ve had too many people doing this
lately. It’s not supposed to be an amusement. All you’ve had is a
rinse, a soap, a cleansing agent, a wash and a dry.’
‘Not the super
protective wax and polish you paid extra for,’ woman no. 1 said. ‘If
you’d been through that you’d know about it.’
‘Yes indeed,’ woman no. 2
said. She leant into the cab and pressed a button. There was a series
of clicks. ‘That should do it.’
‘Enjoy yourself now,’
woman no.1 said. They slammed the cubicle door shut and were gone. The
clicks stopped. There was silence and stillness.
The cubicle suddenly
jerked and started to shake so violently I had to clutch both sides of
the seat and hang on tight. Outside there was a great hissing and
spluttering. All the windows misted over and visibility was reduced to
zero.
‘Customers,’ a speaker
said in the ceiling. It startled me a great deal and I gazed at the
speaker which had stopped speaking after that first word. Then it
crackled, ‘....not be allowed...’ it said, and then produced more
crackling noises before it continued, ‘...back.’
‘Back where?’ I asked involuntarily.
The cubicle continued to
buck and jerk forward, stopped, and then began to move in reverse
buffeted by the rushing wind (high-pressure air you understand) of the
dryers, the windows gradually cleared. The cubicle jerked to a halt in
its reverse progress and then began to move forward again.
‘Customers...’ the speaker said then crackled and was silent.
The speaker crackled
again ‘...special offer including...’ it said, then went silent. I
wondered what kind of special offer. The speaker crackled once more,
‘...7 francs for a prawn roll and the soft drink of your choice. Or a
cup of coffee and a small cake of ...’ it said and fell silent. The
cubicle seemed to enter a long glide, its motion smooth for the first
time and then stopped.
The speaker crackled, ‘Thank you for...’ and then went dead.
I got up from my seat
after making sure all systems had closed down and that no lights were
flashing on the control screen. I was opening the door to exit when the
speaker crackled again, ‘Customers,’ the speaker said, ‘doooooon
noooooooer.’ then there was a loud snapping sound and nothing more
forthcoming. I stepped out onto the floor of the car wash and walked
outside.
Although the idea of a
prawn roll and a drink followed by a cup of coffee and a small cake
of…did not appeal, I felt hungry and thirsty and craved the company of
other human beings in convivial surroundings.
Inside the cafeteria
people sat huddled together at tables and the children looking through
the panorama Perspex windows at the goings on in the car wash, played
games amongst the furniture. The children were a company to themselves,
any social barriers forgotten in the convenience of play, while the
adults sat in little huddles, with little or no communication between
the groups.
I collected a beer, a
ham roll and a paper mug of coffee with a plastic top to retain the
heat, a packet of milk substitute and two cubes of sugar from the
self-service counter. This cost me 50 francs; neither of the special
offers applied to my requirements. I found a vacant seat at a round
table occupied by two people. One of the persons was stirring sugar into
their coffee; the other was primping themselves in a hand mirror.
‘Would it be all right if I sat here?’ I asked.
The primper moved the mirror to look at me. ‘Yes of course,’ the mirror moved back again.
The person stirring the
coffee stopped stirring and patted their pockets, retrieved a pipe, lit
it and blew a cloud of smoke. ‘Get a good wash?’ the pipe smoker asked.
‘I did yes,’ I said.
The mirror moved and the primper looked at him, the face screwed up in outrage.
‘We didn’t. We had to do
most of it ourselves in the end. And they didn’t give us a refund
either. Some excuse about their computers.’
‘You’re not from round here,’ the pipe smoker said.
‘I live here,’ I said, ‘but I’m not Polovick, I’m a Vickenman.’
‘Ah,’ the pipe smoker said. ‘I thought that or a Sossenyack. You speak Polovian very well.’
‘I’ve been here quite a while,’ I said.
‘You’re more or less one of us,’ the primper said, ‘we don’t think of the Vickens as being foreign do we.’
‘I suppose not,’ the pipe smoker said. ‘Not like we do Sooings or Bronsers or even Ditchmen.’
The primper sniggered, ‘funny lot.’
‘Different cultures,’ the man with the pipe said.
‘Make no effort,’ the primper said. ‘Some of them have been here practically all their lives. Can’t speak Polovian.’
‘You’re more like us,’ the pipe smoker said.
‘Or we’re more like you,’ the primper said.
‘I feel at home here,’ I said. ‘As if I could make this my home country if I wanted to. One doesn’t of course.’
‘I suppose not,’ the pipe smoker said and got up. ‘Come on,’ he said to the primper.
‘Time to go.’
‘Mustn’t be late,’ the primper said.
They left. ‘Customers,’ said the
speaker perfectly clearly without the trace of a crackle, ‘are asked
kindly not to remain in the control cubicle after making their car wash
selection. Repeat. Do not remain in the cubicle after making your wash
program selection. Thank you.’Översattning Cecilia Lindmark
Tur nog var det ingen kö. Jag lämnade min bil utanför entrén till själva biltvätten och gick fram till där personen som ansvarade för biltvätten satt i en reception bakom repat och smutsigt plexiglas, så han utgjorde endast en smutsig röd klädfläck, förmodligen overallklädd. Han satt där inne och pratade på med ryggen vänd mot mig.
Det finns en automatisk maskin som man, beroende av vilken sorts tvätt man vill ha, stoppar pengar i och trycker på en knapp efter att man ställt sitt fordon i rätt position. Jag hade inte rätt växel för den tvätt jag ville ha eftersom priserna hade ändrats sen jag senast var här. Så jag behövde fråga personen i röd overall. Han hade rentav kunnat hålla en kanelbulle mot örat, men man antar givetvis att en person pratar i telefon när han håller någonting mot örat och svänger runt på en bekväm snurrstol och ibland lutar sig framåt och ibland sträcker sig bakåt, du vet, som man gör. Jag tryckte på den lilla ringknappen utanför receptionen, men jag kunde inte höra om det gav något resultat. Hursomhelst ändrade personen på kontoret inte sitt beteende, ingen reaktion. Så jag knackade på plexiglaset. Ingen reaktion. Jag bankade till det skallrade. Fortfarande ingen reaktion.
Jag borde kunna få någon slags tvätt till min bil, trots att det inte var den tvätt som jag hade tänkt. Underredet på bilen var viktigt för att tvätta bort smuts och förhindra rostangrepp. Det var den svåraste, om inte den mest omöjliga delen av biltvätt som man utför själv på gatan. Dina fötter sticker ut på vägen. Eller upp på trottoaren. Vilket som är jobbigt. Ett fordon kan köra över dem på ena sidan. En hund kan bita i dem på den andra. Jag har 65:50 i småpengar och tvätten jag vill ha hade gått upp till 72:00.
Jag kör in bilen i tvätten i alla fall och sedan kliver jag in i en hytt med gråblå väggar och repade och smutsiga plexiglas. Sett genom rutorna är min bil en låg skugga av tråkig skogsgrön. Den har gräddfärgad läderklädsel, men den är inte synlig.
Jag har försäkrat mig om att alla fönster är ordentligt stängda och att antennen är nedfälld, även backspeglarna har fällts in.
Jag väljer den mest omfattande tvätt jag kan få för pengarna jag har, vilket ger allt förutom slutpolering med Turtle Wax. Jag stoppar i pengarna och får instruktionen att trycka på knapp 1 till 5, men inte 3. Jag gör som jag blir tillsagd och slår mig sedan ner i stolen som ställts där för väntande. Genom rutorna i plexiglashytten kan jag se omgivningarna runt biltvättsområdet: en cirkelformad glasvägg som skyddar människorna från vattenstrålarna, bakom den finns ett kafé som omger biltvätten.
Jag har alltid tyckt att det är en lysande idé eftersom det håller barnen upptagna med att iaktta biltvättsprocessen, medan de vuxna kan ta en kopp kaffe och prata i fred. Även många av de vuxna tycker att det är fascinerande att själva titta på processen.
Nu får jag instruktionen att trycka på den röda startknappen och jag gör det. Ingenting händer med en gång. Sedan ett skarpt ”klick” och hytten som jag sitter i skakar till, lyfter och börjar röra på sig. De flesta av de vuxna i kaféet har ryggarna vända mot biltvätten och mig. De syns som hukande fläckar av varierande färger. Några barn tittar på biltvättsprocessen. Deras ansikten är vita fläckar bakom plexiglaset.
Min hytt rör sig framåt i en rad av fyra ryckningar, stannar och svänger runt så att den är vänd mot de stora borstarna som räcker från golv till tak. Hytten drivs fram längs en räls. En serie knäppningar hörs och borstarna börjar rotera. Hytten rycker framåt mot borstarna och högtrycksvattenstrålar trummar mot väggarna. När hytten trycker sig mellan de roterande borstarna är oljudet öronbedövande och hytten skakar. Tvållödder ackumuleras på rutorna. Det mörknar i hytten tills jag knappt kan se kontrollknapparna. Så, när vi kommer ut på andra sidan av borstarna, ljusnar det. Hytten stannar, rycker till och åker sig sedan tillbaka igen genom de roterande borstarna, mörknar, ljusnar och åker tillbaks längs rälsen. Vattenstrålarna avtar och slutar helt, ett väsande ljud startar. Gradvis tränger en frän doft av något slags rengöringsmedel in i hytten. Efter det rör hytten på sig fram och tillbaka längs rälsen, genom borstarna och stannar på sin ursprungliga position. Sedan hörs ett larmande ljud och hytten rör sig fram och tillbaka längs rälsen, knuffad av en våldsam vind som slår mot den från alla håll. Jag tyckte det såg ut som att dörren buktade inåt, och jag höll hårt i hatten. Plexiglaset på hytten torkade och klarnade och nu verkade det rent, fast sikten var fortsatt skymd eftersom det var så svårt repat. Hytten rörde sig sedan med en betydligt snabbare hastighet än tidigare och bromsade sedan lugnt in. Borstarna var nu utom synhåll. Allt var tyst. Jag hörde inga maskiner, inga ljud någonstans. Hytten fylldes av en tystnad som jag fann störande. Borde jag gå ut? En ensam röd lampa blinkade på kontrollpanelen. Det hördes en skarp smäll mot hyttdörren. Jag öppnade den. Två kvinnor med blå ögon, blont hår i strama knutar, klädda i koboltblå overaller, tittade på mig.
”Vad gör du?” sa kvinna nr 1.
”Det är inte meningen att du ska stå här på rälsen orörlig på det här viset” sa kvinna nr 2.
”Jag trodde att processen var färdig” sa jag ”Behandlingen slutförd.”
”Nej” sa kvinna nr 1. ”Du har betalt för supervaxning och polish. Slarvigt.”
”Men inte Turtle Wax” sa jag.
”Inte Turtle Wax” höll kvinna nr 1 med.
”Måste ha tryckt på en knapp av misstag” sa kvinna nr 2 ”med armbågen kanske. Allt du har fått är sköljning, schamponering, rengöringsmedel, tvätt och torkning.”
”Inte den superskyddande vaxningen och polishen som du betalt extra för” sa kvinna nr 1 ”Om du hade fått det hade du vetat det.”
”Ja verkligen” sa kvinna nr 2. Hon lutade sig in i hytten och tryckte på en knapp. En serie klickningar hördes. ”Det borde göra susen.”
”Ha det så trevligt nu” sa kvinna nr 1. Och så smällde de igen hyttdörren och försvann. Klickningarna upphörde. Det var tyst och stilla. Sedan ryckte hytten till och började skaka så våldsamt att jag var tvungen att hålla hårt fast vid båda sidor av stolen. Utanför hytten hördes höga väsningar och spottningar. Alla rutor immade igen och sikten var obefintlig.
”Kunder” sa en högtalare i taket. Den skrämde mig rejält och jag stirrade på högtalaren som hade tystnat efter det där första ordet. Sedan sprakade den till ”… tillåts inte…” sa den och sedan hördes fler sprakande ljud innan den fortsatte ”… tillbaka.” ”Tillbaka vart?” ramlade ur mig. Hytten fortsatte att krumbukta sig och rycka framåt, stannade, och började sedan röra sig bakåt, knuffad av den strömmande högtrycksluft från torkarna, rutorna klarnade gradvis. Hytten stannade tvärt på sin tillbakaväg och började sedan röra sig framåt igen. ”Kunder…” sa högtalaren, sedan sprakade den till och blev tyst.
Högtalaren sprakade till igen ”… specialerbjudande som inkluderar…” sa den och tystnade sedan. Jag undrade vad det var för specialerbjudande. Högtalaren sprakade till än en gång ”… bara 7 kronor för en räkmacka och valfri läsk. Eller en kopp kaffe och en liten kaka…” sa den och tystnade sedan. Hytten tycktes hamna i en lång glidning, den rörde sig mjukt för första gången och stannade sedan.
Högtalaren sprakade ”Tack för att du…” och tystnade sedan.
Jag ställde mig upp efter att försäkrat mig om att allt hade stängt ned och att inga lampor blinkade på kontrollpanelen. Jag höll just på att öppna dörren när högtalaren sprakade till igen. ”Kunder” sa högtalaren ”iiiiiin ssssssst” sedan hördes ett högt smällande ljud och ingenting mer. Jag klev ut på golvet i biltvätten och gick ut.
Tanken på någonting att äta och dricka följt av en kopp kaffe utan kaka eller… även om denna önskan inte skulle täckas av specialerbjudandet, tycktes den mycket tilltalande eftersom jag plötsligt kände mig hungrig och törstig och dessutom i behov av sällskap av andra människor i gemytliga omgivningar efter min sejour i hytten.
Inne i kaféet sitter människorna hopkurade tillsammans vid borden, barnen tittar genom de stora plexiglasen på scenariot i biltvätten, leker kurragömma, kull och så vidare bland möblerna. Barnen utgjorde ett sällskap, utan sociala barriären, eller åtminstone var de glömda till förmån för leken, medan de vuxna satt i små grupper, med lite eller ingen kommunikation mellan grupperna.
Jag tog en öl, en skinkmacka och en pappersmugg med kaffe med ett plastlock som höll inne värmen, ett paket mjölksubstitut och två sockerbitar från självserveringsdisken. Jag hade haft rätt i antagandet att inget av specialerbjudandena mötte mina behov och hittade en ledig plats vid ett runt bord där två personer satt och två av stolarna var lediga. En av personerna rörde ner socker i kaffet, den andra fixade till sig i en sminkspegel.
”Är det okej om jag sitter här?” frågade jag.
Fixaren flyttade på spegeln för att titta på mig. ”Ja, givetvis” Spegeln flyttades tillbaka. Personen som rörde i kaffet slutade att röra och klappade på fickorna, tog fram en pipa, tände den och blåste ut ett rökmoln. ”Var tvätten bra?” sa piprökaren.
”Ja, det var den” sa jag ”Åtminstone för hytten jag satt i, jag är inte säker på min bil eftersom jag inte har hämtat ut den ännu.”
Spegeln rörde på sig och fixaren tittade på honom, ansiktet förvridet av ilska. ”Det var den inte för oss. Vi var tvungna att göra det mesta själva i slutändan. Och vi fick inga pengar tillbaka heller. Någon ursäkt om deras datorer.”
”Så du är inte härifrån trakten” sa piprökaren.
”Jag bor här” sa jag ”men jag är inte polovian, jag är vikensare.”
”Ah” sa piprökaren ”Jag trodde antingen det eller sossenyackare. Du pratar polovianska mycket bra.”
”Jag har varit här ett tag” sa jag.
”Då är du mer eller mindre en av oss” sa fixaren ”vi tycker inte att vikenarna är utlänningar, eller hur.”
”Antar inte det” sa piprökaren. ”Inte som vi tycker om sooingsarna eller bronsarna eller till och med ditcherna.”
Fixaren fnissade ”lustiga typer”
”Annorlunda kulturer” sa mannen med pipan.
”Anstränger sig inte” sa fixaren. ”Vissa av dem har praktiskt taget bott här hela livet. Kan inte prata polivianska.”
”Fanatiker” sa piprökaren. ”Ni är mer som oss.”
”Eller så är vi mer som ni” sa fixaren.
”Jag har känt mig hemma här” sa jag. ”Som om det här skulle kunna bli mitt hemland om jag ville. Men det vill man ju självklart inte.”
”Jag antar inte det” sa piprökaren och reste sig. ”Kom nu” sa han till fixaren. ”Dags att gå.”
”Vi ska gå ut och äta” sa fixaren.
”Får inte bli sena” sa piprökaren.
De gick. ”Kunder” sa högtalaren klart och tydligt utan ett spår av sprakningar. ”ombeds vänligen att inte stanna kvar i hytten efter att de har gjort sitt tvättval. Vi upprepar. Stanna inte kvar i hytten efter att Ni har gjort ert val av tvättprogram. Tack.”
Jag kände mig utlämnad där jag satt ensam vid ett annars ledigt bord. Jag hade inte ätit upp min smörgås eller druckit upp mitt kaffe. Trots det reste jag mig, ställde brickan i stället och gick.
När jag körde hem beundrade jag den långa, skinande och polerade motorhuven på min dyra bil. När jag steg in i min lägenhet gick jag rakt till köket för att göra mig en riktig kopp kaffe.
Fru Hoskins katt satt obekvämt balanserande på fönsterkarmen utanför det stängda fönstret och rörde ljudlöst på munnen på andra sidan glaset. Jag släppte in katten och pratade strunt med den medan den gjorde nöjda läten och gjorde sig hemmastadd.
Jag gillar en skvätt mjölk i mitt kaffe och när jag ändå var i farten hällde jag upp lite åt katten. Trots mrs Hoskins ogillande.
Slut
August 23, 2012
The following is a chapter from Nigel Ford's new book,
"One Dog Barking." Splash of Red recently reviewed this Swedish author's
book in an earlier publishing here in our Portfolio/Interview section.
Since Splash of Red is an international online literary magazine, we
thought it would be fitting to share an excerpt in another language. For
this installment, we have published "Suited Up" (chapter 15) in English
and Arabic. Enjoy. And if you like what you read, you can pick up a
copy for your e-reader here.
Suited Up
By Nigel Ford
Late in the life of the year there were not many deckchairs on the beach, and those that were here were skeletal and ragged. Black strokes of wood and a scrap of canvas flapped against the sky.
‘Have you paid for your ticket?’ asked a voice behind him.
Marek turned around; ‘Bill Tomlinson. Well I’m blown!’
Bill Tomlinson was the Beach Manager and worked for the City Council.
‘Who put these chairs out here? Did you take them yourself? There should be no chairs out here at this time of year. That’s stealing, you could be in serious trouble, just because you’re wearing a smart suit and might or might not be a gentleman, does not mean you can behave as you please.’
‘Good morning,’ Marek said, ‘and a very good day to you too. The chairs had been left out.’
‘Failed to recognise you in that suit Marek. What are you doing here you layabout? Where did you get the suit? Fell off the back of a lorry I bet.’
Bill sat himself down in a chair beside him. There was a ripping noise and his rump hit the cold wet pebbles as the canvas seat broke beneath him.
‘I’m never going to accumulate possessions,’ Marek said, ‘no way. What’s the point? I ask you. Where’s the meaning of it? That French bloke got it right. “Property is theft”. Sensible chap. Who needs it?
‘Theft is property,’ Bill said, ‘Findsies keepsies. That’s a nice suit you’re wearing.’
‘Anyway you look at it,’ Marek said, ‘what’s the point?’
They fell silent and watched the muscular sea heave its dark grey shoulders beneath the china October sky.
‘Looks like it’s put on a suit,’ Bill said, ‘ready for the cold to come.’
‘Speaking of suits,’ Marek said. And he told him a story on the shiver of the stony beach in the harsh autumn air.
It was the month before, when Bill Tomlinson himself had presented Marek with a suggestion. Marek invariably arose early and had confided in Bill that it was only the first few morning hours he found enjoyable.
To which Bill had responded: ‘Marek, I wonder if it might not be a good idea for you to get a job. What, after all, do you do after the first few morning hours? Mooch about with your brain vacant and empty, filling it with garbage. Too much brooding; it’s unhealthy.’
The day after Bill’s remark. Through the slit of the curtained window. The promise of light that bounced him out from under the covers. Put the kettle on and brewed up. Stretched the curtains apart, looked out on his private early world, the only one up and about. Robert, the seagull that habitually perched on his window sill, seemed to have migrated. He could go outside and march up and down the whole length of the street in the wet crisp air without seeing a soul. Be the first one to leave his footprints on the heavy dew of autumn. But he had decided to heed Bill Tomlinson’s advice. He walked over to the Job and Social Welfare Centre to see what they had to offer, that might fill the rest of his day for the days to come.
The man behind the counter of the booth of privacy looked insincerely wise and scratched the stubble on the edge of the left-hand side of his mouth. He delivered a steady, unblinking gaze, and said it’s a cushy number clerking at the Patently & Friends Authentic Insurance plc. with the winter oncoming. Man of your qualifications. Not many of your calibre around. It’s a cinch. Mind you put on a clean shirt and tie.
He had duly visited the offices of the Patently & Friends Authentic Insurance plc. The Office Manager who interviewed him said he’d need to wear a suit. When in response he explained his financial predicament he was given an advance on his salary without ado.
‘It’s alright, once behind your desk, to take the jacket off at work, and even to loosen your tie, but you must wear a suit to work. Company regs old chap, company regs. A spot old-fashioned I know. But there you are. Our parent company policy. I know they are foreigners, but what can you do? And get a haircut.
‘As a matter of fact, I don’t care if I never see you again,’ the Office Manager continued, presenting him with a cheque for two hundred pounds to buy a suit and a haircut, ‘it’s not my money. You can piss off and never come back if you like. Spend it all on booze and drugs why don’t you? It’s no skin off my nose.’
‘Cripes,’ Bill said, leaning forward in his foundered deckchair. ‘How very fortunate, you lucky dog.’
‘You haven’t heard the best bit yet,’ Marek said, ‘not by far.’ He fell silent.
The silence became too long and too much for Bill; ‘go on then,’ he said, ‘tell me what happens next!’
‘Patience,’ Marek said, ‘just mulling it over. I like to mull over the best bits. I don’t want my life to flash past. I like to return and relive the prime moments.’ He fell silent again. Bill threw stones in the sea.
‘Well,’ Marek said.
Bill stopped throwing stones in the sea and hunched forward on the edge of his chair, his hands clasped in a tight knot between his knees, all attention. There was a raucous squawk and a splat of gull shit, locally known as a “whoopsie”, hit the pebbles close to his right shoe, but he failed to notice.
‘Nearly got you,’ Marek said.
‘What happened?’ Bill demanded.
‘I bought myself a beautiful suit,’ Marek said. ‘Classic. Silver grey mohair, three piece, slanting pockets, no vents, not too formal, only three buttons on the cuffs, turn-ups. I looked quite the gentleman.’
‘Did you really! Sounds nice,’ Bill said, ‘I can imagine a suit like that would suit you down to the ground. But of course! You’re wearing it! How foolish of me!’
‘Made me feel funny,’ Marek said, ‘sort of highly polished, a swirl of hubris inside my head, forced my nose up in the air, improved my posture. Mind you, I had attended to my nostrils that morning.’
‘What happened next?’ Bill asked impatiently.
‘Things did not go well,’ Marek said. ‘The staff at the office refused to speak to me and just before lunch the Office Manager called me into his office.’
‘That’s a beautiful suit,’ the Office Manager said. “I wouldn’t mind one like that myself. For auspicious occasions, anniversaries, Christmas, New Year, important birthdays, official occasions. Unfortunately I shall have to let you go. Your suit does not fit in here, not at all. You are causing unrest and dissatisfaction amongst the staff.’
‘I say,’ Bill said, ‘how unfair. He couldn’t do that surely?’
‘I was paid three months’ salary in lieu of notice,’ Marek said. ‘Financially therefore, you could say I did quite well.’
‘But you are left with nothing with which to fill your day,’ Bill protested
‘I have my suit,’ Marek said, ‘in which I can do all sorts of things. I can for example, use the facilities in the foyers of smart hotels, expensive restaurants and airport lounges. I can sit all night in a bus shelter without a policeman moving me on, and so forth.’
‘It won’t last forever though will it?’ Bill said. ‘Vents might come back, turn-ups might become non rigueur.’
‘There are such things as scissors,’ Marek said.
‘Many of these chairs are in disrepair,’ Bill said, ‘need looking after. They should not be left out here in all weathers. It’s a disgrace, beautiful pieces of furniture some of them antique. I tell you what; you could have a job for the off-season if you like. Not that I can pay you much, but it’s better than nothing.’
‘Might be interesting,’ Marek said.
Translated by Nichola Hammoudeh
في أواخر السنة لم تكن هناك الكثير من كراسي المركب على الشاطىء، والموجوة منها كانت بحالة مزرية. لم تكن إلا عبارة عن قطع من الخشب وقماش القنب.
-"هل دفعت ثمن التذكرة؟"
التفت مارك لرؤية صاحب الصوت. أهذا أنت يا بيل توملينسون؟ يا للمفاجأة!
كان بيل توملينسون مدير الشاطئ ويعمل لدى لجنة المدينة.
-من وضع هذه الكراسي هنا؟ هل أنت من فعل ذلك؟ لا يجدر أن تكون هناك أية كراسي في مثل هذا الوقت من السنة. إن هذه سرقة, ويمكن أن تقع في مشكلة كبيرة. لا تظن لأنك تلبس بدلة مرتبة أو لأنك ربما تكون أو قد لا تكون سيدا محترما بأنه يمكنك التصرف كما تشاء.
قال مارك "صباح الخير, ويوم سعيد لك أيضا. كانت الكراسي هنا قبل قدومي".
قال بيل "لم أعرفك في بدلتك يا مارك. ماذا تفعل هنا أيها الكسول؟ من أين لك هذه البدلة؟ أراهن بأنها وقعت من شاحنة فوجدتها في الطريق".
جلس بيل إلى جانبه. لكن الكرسي تمزق من تحت ثقله، فوجد نفسه فوق الحجارة الباردة على الشاطئ.
قال مارك "لن أملك أي شيء, ما الفائدة من ذلك؟ لقد كان ذلك الفرنسي على حق, "الملكية سرقة". إنسان حكيم. من يحتاج لذلك؟"
قال بيل "السرقة هي الملكية". من يجد شيئا يحتفظ به. من أين حصلت على هذه البدلة؟"
قال مارك "كيفما نظرت إلى الوضع, فما الفائدة من ذلك؟"
سكتا ونظرا إلى أمواج البحر الرمادية تحت السماء الخريفي.
قال بيل "يبدو كأن البحر قد لبس بدلة استعدادا للبرد القادم".
قال مارك "دعني أحدثك عن البدلات", ثم أخذ يخبره بالقصة وهما يجلسان على الشاطئ الحجري في الهواء الخريفي القارس.
قبل شهر كان بيل توملينسون نفسه قد اقترح شيئا على مارك. نهض مارك باكرا كعادته, وأمن بيل بسره بأنه كان يجد فقط ساعات الصباح الأولى ممتعة.
أجابه بيل "أتساءل إذا كان حصولك على عمل أفضل شيء بالنسبة لك. لأنه ماذا ستفعل بعد مرور أولى ساعات الصباح؟ ستضيع وقتك من دون وجود أي شيء تفكر فيه, ما عدا الهراء. إن هذا غير صحي".
في اليوم التالي, استيقظ مارك على ضوء النهار التي دخلت غرفته عبر شق في الستائر. نهض وحضر إبريقا من الشاي. فتح الستائر, ونظر إلى العالم الخاص به في الصباح الباكر. كان الوحيد المستيقظ في تلك الساعة من الصباح. بدا أن روبيرت، طائر النورس الذي اعتاد الجلوس على شرفة نافذته، قد هاجر. كان يعرف إذا خرج في مثل هذه الساعة المبكرة في الهواء الرطب البارد, ومشى عرض وطول الشارع, فإنه لن يجد أحدا. ولكنه قرر الأخذ بنصيحة بيل توملينسون. ذهبا إلى مركز العمل والمساعدة الإجتماعية لرؤية ما لديهم من عمل يمكنه أن يفعله في الأيام القادمة. إن الرجل وراء مكتب الخصوصية بدا عليه عدم الحكمة. أخذ يحك لحيته التي لم يحلقها على جانب فمه من اليسار. نظر بإمعان إلى مارك, وقال بأن هناك فرصة عمل جيدة عند شركة التأمين الحقيقي للأصدقاء هذا الشتاء. إن رجلا بمؤهلاتك لن يجد أي مشكلة بالحصول على الوظيفة, فقط البس بدلة نظيفة وربطة عنق.
ذهب مارك إلى مكاتب الشركة. قال له مدير المكتب الذي أجرى معه المقابلة بأنه سيضطر للبس بدلة. عندما شرح له مارك عن وضعه المادي, أعطي سلفة على راتبه من دون أي مشكلة تذكر.
"يمكنك خلع سترتك عند مكتبك, وحتى ترخية ربطة العنق, ولكن يجب لبس بدلة إلى العمل. إنها شروط العمل في الشركة يا عزيزي. أعرف أنها أعراف قديمة, ولكن هذه هي القواعد. إنها شروط الشركة الرئيسية. أعرف إنها مدارة من قبل الأجانب, ولكن ماذا يمكنك فعله؟ وبالمناسبة اذهب لقص شعرك".
قال له المدير "في الواقع لا يهمني إذا لم أراك مجددا في حياتي, فهذا ليس مالي. قدم له شيكا بقيمة مئتي جنيه لشراء بدلة وقصة للشعر. يمكنك أخذ المال وأن تصرفه على الكحول والمخدرات إذا أردت ولا تعد أبد, فإنه لا يهمني مطلقا".
قال بيل "حقا؟ يا لك من كلب محفوظ!"
قال مارك "انتظر لم تسمع الأفضل بعد. ثم سكت. لم يستطع بيل الانتظار فقال: هيا إذا, اخبرني ماذا حصل بعد ذلك؟"
"اصبر", قال مارك, "إنني أفكر". أحب أن أفكر بأفضل المقاطع. لا أحب أن يمر حياتي بسرعة, أحب أن أتذكر أفضل اللحظات"، وسكت من جديد. أخذ بيل يرمي الحجارة في البحر.
قال مارك "إذا". توقف بيل عن رمي الحجارة وجلس على حافة الكرسي باهتمام, ووضع يديه المقبوضتين بين ركبتيه. سمع صوت نورس, ووقع على الحجارة قرب حذائه فضلات من الطائر, ولكنه لم ينتبه.
"كاد أن يصيبك".
"ماذا حصل؟" أمر بيل.
"اشتريت لنفسي بدلة جميلة بقصة تقليدية. كانت مصنوعة من صوف الموهاير الفضي اللون، و مكونة من ثلاث قطع, مع جيوب منحدرة. لم تكن رسمية جدا. كان يوجد ثلاثة أزرار فقط على الأكمام التي يمكن طيها إلى الأعلى. كنت كالسيد المحترم".
"أحقا؟" قال بيل. "يبدو أن ذلك كان جميلا. يمكنني أن أتخيلك في بدلة كهذه. كم أنا غبي! أنت تلبسها الآن!"
قال مارك "شعرت مختلفا وأنا ألبس تلك البدلة. جعلتني أمشي مستقيم القامة، ومفتخرا بنفسي. لحسن الحظ قمت بتنظيف أنفي ذلك الصباح".
"وبعد ذلك ماذا حصل؟"
-"لم تجر الأمور كما يجب. رفض الموظفون في المكتب مكالمتي, وقبل موعد الغذاء استدعاني مدير المكتب إلى مكتبه".
قال مدير المكتب"هذه بدلة جميلة, لا أمانع في واحدة مثلها. كنت لألبسها في المناسبات الخاصة, وعيد الميلاد, وعيد رأس السنة, والمناسبات الرسمية. لسوء الحظ لا يمكنك العمل هنا. إن بدلتك لا تناسب هذا المكتب. إن وجودك تسبب بالمشاكل وعدم الرضى بين الموظفين".
قال بيل "هذا ليس عدلا هل يمكنه فعل ذلك؟"
"قبضت راتب ثلاثة أشهر بدلا من ورقة طرد من المكتب. يمكنك القول بأنني من الناحية المادية أفضل بكثير من ذي قبل".
"ولكن ليس لديك شيء تفعله طوال اليوم".
"لدي بدلتي التي فيها يمكنني فعل أي شيء أريده. على سبيل المثال يمكنني استخدام التسهيلات في بهوات الفنادق الفاخرة, والمطاعم الغالية, وغرف الجلوس في المطارات. أستطيع الجلوس في موقف انتظار الحافلة من دون أن تطردني الشرطة".
"ولكن لن يستمر ذلك للأبد, إذ يمكن أن تتغير الموضة وتصبح بدلتك قديمة الطراز".
"يوجد دائما المقص".
"الكثير من هذه الكراسي في حالة مزرية, وتحتاج لمن يصلحها. لا يجدر أن تكون معرضة للطقس هكذا. يا للعار, إنها قطع جميلة, وبعضها قطع عتيقة. ما رأيك بالعمل هنا خارج الموسم السياحي في تصليح الكراسي؟ لا أستطيع أن أدفع لك الكثير, ولكنه أفضل من لا شيء".
"ربما أجد العمل مثيرا للاهتمام".
Suited Up
By Nigel Ford
Late in the life of the year there were not many deckchairs on the beach, and those that were here were skeletal and ragged. Black strokes of wood and a scrap of canvas flapped against the sky.
‘Have you paid for your ticket?’ asked a voice behind him.
Marek turned around; ‘Bill Tomlinson. Well I’m blown!’
Bill Tomlinson was the Beach Manager and worked for the City Council.
‘Who put these chairs out here? Did you take them yourself? There should be no chairs out here at this time of year. That’s stealing, you could be in serious trouble, just because you’re wearing a smart suit and might or might not be a gentleman, does not mean you can behave as you please.’
‘Good morning,’ Marek said, ‘and a very good day to you too. The chairs had been left out.’
‘Failed to recognise you in that suit Marek. What are you doing here you layabout? Where did you get the suit? Fell off the back of a lorry I bet.’
Bill sat himself down in a chair beside him. There was a ripping noise and his rump hit the cold wet pebbles as the canvas seat broke beneath him.
‘I’m never going to accumulate possessions,’ Marek said, ‘no way. What’s the point? I ask you. Where’s the meaning of it? That French bloke got it right. “Property is theft”. Sensible chap. Who needs it?
‘Theft is property,’ Bill said, ‘Findsies keepsies. That’s a nice suit you’re wearing.’
‘Anyway you look at it,’ Marek said, ‘what’s the point?’
They fell silent and watched the muscular sea heave its dark grey shoulders beneath the china October sky.
‘Looks like it’s put on a suit,’ Bill said, ‘ready for the cold to come.’
‘Speaking of suits,’ Marek said. And he told him a story on the shiver of the stony beach in the harsh autumn air.
It was the month before, when Bill Tomlinson himself had presented Marek with a suggestion. Marek invariably arose early and had confided in Bill that it was only the first few morning hours he found enjoyable.
To which Bill had responded: ‘Marek, I wonder if it might not be a good idea for you to get a job. What, after all, do you do after the first few morning hours? Mooch about with your brain vacant and empty, filling it with garbage. Too much brooding; it’s unhealthy.’
The day after Bill’s remark. Through the slit of the curtained window. The promise of light that bounced him out from under the covers. Put the kettle on and brewed up. Stretched the curtains apart, looked out on his private early world, the only one up and about. Robert, the seagull that habitually perched on his window sill, seemed to have migrated. He could go outside and march up and down the whole length of the street in the wet crisp air without seeing a soul. Be the first one to leave his footprints on the heavy dew of autumn. But he had decided to heed Bill Tomlinson’s advice. He walked over to the Job and Social Welfare Centre to see what they had to offer, that might fill the rest of his day for the days to come.
The man behind the counter of the booth of privacy looked insincerely wise and scratched the stubble on the edge of the left-hand side of his mouth. He delivered a steady, unblinking gaze, and said it’s a cushy number clerking at the Patently & Friends Authentic Insurance plc. with the winter oncoming. Man of your qualifications. Not many of your calibre around. It’s a cinch. Mind you put on a clean shirt and tie.
He had duly visited the offices of the Patently & Friends Authentic Insurance plc. The Office Manager who interviewed him said he’d need to wear a suit. When in response he explained his financial predicament he was given an advance on his salary without ado.
‘It’s alright, once behind your desk, to take the jacket off at work, and even to loosen your tie, but you must wear a suit to work. Company regs old chap, company regs. A spot old-fashioned I know. But there you are. Our parent company policy. I know they are foreigners, but what can you do? And get a haircut.
‘As a matter of fact, I don’t care if I never see you again,’ the Office Manager continued, presenting him with a cheque for two hundred pounds to buy a suit and a haircut, ‘it’s not my money. You can piss off and never come back if you like. Spend it all on booze and drugs why don’t you? It’s no skin off my nose.’
‘Cripes,’ Bill said, leaning forward in his foundered deckchair. ‘How very fortunate, you lucky dog.’
‘You haven’t heard the best bit yet,’ Marek said, ‘not by far.’ He fell silent.
The silence became too long and too much for Bill; ‘go on then,’ he said, ‘tell me what happens next!’
‘Patience,’ Marek said, ‘just mulling it over. I like to mull over the best bits. I don’t want my life to flash past. I like to return and relive the prime moments.’ He fell silent again. Bill threw stones in the sea.
‘Well,’ Marek said.
Bill stopped throwing stones in the sea and hunched forward on the edge of his chair, his hands clasped in a tight knot between his knees, all attention. There was a raucous squawk and a splat of gull shit, locally known as a “whoopsie”, hit the pebbles close to his right shoe, but he failed to notice.
‘Nearly got you,’ Marek said.
‘What happened?’ Bill demanded.
‘I bought myself a beautiful suit,’ Marek said. ‘Classic. Silver grey mohair, three piece, slanting pockets, no vents, not too formal, only three buttons on the cuffs, turn-ups. I looked quite the gentleman.’
‘Did you really! Sounds nice,’ Bill said, ‘I can imagine a suit like that would suit you down to the ground. But of course! You’re wearing it! How foolish of me!’
‘Made me feel funny,’ Marek said, ‘sort of highly polished, a swirl of hubris inside my head, forced my nose up in the air, improved my posture. Mind you, I had attended to my nostrils that morning.’
‘What happened next?’ Bill asked impatiently.
‘Things did not go well,’ Marek said. ‘The staff at the office refused to speak to me and just before lunch the Office Manager called me into his office.’
‘That’s a beautiful suit,’ the Office Manager said. “I wouldn’t mind one like that myself. For auspicious occasions, anniversaries, Christmas, New Year, important birthdays, official occasions. Unfortunately I shall have to let you go. Your suit does not fit in here, not at all. You are causing unrest and dissatisfaction amongst the staff.’
‘I say,’ Bill said, ‘how unfair. He couldn’t do that surely?’
‘I was paid three months’ salary in lieu of notice,’ Marek said. ‘Financially therefore, you could say I did quite well.’
‘But you are left with nothing with which to fill your day,’ Bill protested
‘I have my suit,’ Marek said, ‘in which I can do all sorts of things. I can for example, use the facilities in the foyers of smart hotels, expensive restaurants and airport lounges. I can sit all night in a bus shelter without a policeman moving me on, and so forth.’
‘It won’t last forever though will it?’ Bill said. ‘Vents might come back, turn-ups might become non rigueur.’
‘There are such things as scissors,’ Marek said.
‘Many of these chairs are in disrepair,’ Bill said, ‘need looking after. They should not be left out here in all weathers. It’s a disgrace, beautiful pieces of furniture some of them antique. I tell you what; you could have a job for the off-season if you like. Not that I can pay you much, but it’s better than nothing.’
‘Might be interesting,’ Marek said.
Translated by Nichola Hammoudeh
في أواخر السنة لم تكن هناك الكثير من كراسي المركب على الشاطىء، والموجوة منها كانت بحالة مزرية. لم تكن إلا عبارة عن قطع من الخشب وقماش القنب.
-"هل دفعت ثمن التذكرة؟"
التفت مارك لرؤية صاحب الصوت. أهذا أنت يا بيل توملينسون؟ يا للمفاجأة!
كان بيل توملينسون مدير الشاطئ ويعمل لدى لجنة المدينة.
-من وضع هذه الكراسي هنا؟ هل أنت من فعل ذلك؟ لا يجدر أن تكون هناك أية كراسي في مثل هذا الوقت من السنة. إن هذه سرقة, ويمكن أن تقع في مشكلة كبيرة. لا تظن لأنك تلبس بدلة مرتبة أو لأنك ربما تكون أو قد لا تكون سيدا محترما بأنه يمكنك التصرف كما تشاء.
قال مارك "صباح الخير, ويوم سعيد لك أيضا. كانت الكراسي هنا قبل قدومي".
قال بيل "لم أعرفك في بدلتك يا مارك. ماذا تفعل هنا أيها الكسول؟ من أين لك هذه البدلة؟ أراهن بأنها وقعت من شاحنة فوجدتها في الطريق".
جلس بيل إلى جانبه. لكن الكرسي تمزق من تحت ثقله، فوجد نفسه فوق الحجارة الباردة على الشاطئ.
قال مارك "لن أملك أي شيء, ما الفائدة من ذلك؟ لقد كان ذلك الفرنسي على حق, "الملكية سرقة". إنسان حكيم. من يحتاج لذلك؟"
قال بيل "السرقة هي الملكية". من يجد شيئا يحتفظ به. من أين حصلت على هذه البدلة؟"
قال مارك "كيفما نظرت إلى الوضع, فما الفائدة من ذلك؟"
سكتا ونظرا إلى أمواج البحر الرمادية تحت السماء الخريفي.
قال بيل "يبدو كأن البحر قد لبس بدلة استعدادا للبرد القادم".
قال مارك "دعني أحدثك عن البدلات", ثم أخذ يخبره بالقصة وهما يجلسان على الشاطئ الحجري في الهواء الخريفي القارس.
قبل شهر كان بيل توملينسون نفسه قد اقترح شيئا على مارك. نهض مارك باكرا كعادته, وأمن بيل بسره بأنه كان يجد فقط ساعات الصباح الأولى ممتعة.
أجابه بيل "أتساءل إذا كان حصولك على عمل أفضل شيء بالنسبة لك. لأنه ماذا ستفعل بعد مرور أولى ساعات الصباح؟ ستضيع وقتك من دون وجود أي شيء تفكر فيه, ما عدا الهراء. إن هذا غير صحي".
في اليوم التالي, استيقظ مارك على ضوء النهار التي دخلت غرفته عبر شق في الستائر. نهض وحضر إبريقا من الشاي. فتح الستائر, ونظر إلى العالم الخاص به في الصباح الباكر. كان الوحيد المستيقظ في تلك الساعة من الصباح. بدا أن روبيرت، طائر النورس الذي اعتاد الجلوس على شرفة نافذته، قد هاجر. كان يعرف إذا خرج في مثل هذه الساعة المبكرة في الهواء الرطب البارد, ومشى عرض وطول الشارع, فإنه لن يجد أحدا. ولكنه قرر الأخذ بنصيحة بيل توملينسون. ذهبا إلى مركز العمل والمساعدة الإجتماعية لرؤية ما لديهم من عمل يمكنه أن يفعله في الأيام القادمة. إن الرجل وراء مكتب الخصوصية بدا عليه عدم الحكمة. أخذ يحك لحيته التي لم يحلقها على جانب فمه من اليسار. نظر بإمعان إلى مارك, وقال بأن هناك فرصة عمل جيدة عند شركة التأمين الحقيقي للأصدقاء هذا الشتاء. إن رجلا بمؤهلاتك لن يجد أي مشكلة بالحصول على الوظيفة, فقط البس بدلة نظيفة وربطة عنق.
ذهب مارك إلى مكاتب الشركة. قال له مدير المكتب الذي أجرى معه المقابلة بأنه سيضطر للبس بدلة. عندما شرح له مارك عن وضعه المادي, أعطي سلفة على راتبه من دون أي مشكلة تذكر.
"يمكنك خلع سترتك عند مكتبك, وحتى ترخية ربطة العنق, ولكن يجب لبس بدلة إلى العمل. إنها شروط العمل في الشركة يا عزيزي. أعرف أنها أعراف قديمة, ولكن هذه هي القواعد. إنها شروط الشركة الرئيسية. أعرف إنها مدارة من قبل الأجانب, ولكن ماذا يمكنك فعله؟ وبالمناسبة اذهب لقص شعرك".
قال له المدير "في الواقع لا يهمني إذا لم أراك مجددا في حياتي, فهذا ليس مالي. قدم له شيكا بقيمة مئتي جنيه لشراء بدلة وقصة للشعر. يمكنك أخذ المال وأن تصرفه على الكحول والمخدرات إذا أردت ولا تعد أبد, فإنه لا يهمني مطلقا".
قال بيل "حقا؟ يا لك من كلب محفوظ!"
قال مارك "انتظر لم تسمع الأفضل بعد. ثم سكت. لم يستطع بيل الانتظار فقال: هيا إذا, اخبرني ماذا حصل بعد ذلك؟"
"اصبر", قال مارك, "إنني أفكر". أحب أن أفكر بأفضل المقاطع. لا أحب أن يمر حياتي بسرعة, أحب أن أتذكر أفضل اللحظات"، وسكت من جديد. أخذ بيل يرمي الحجارة في البحر.
قال مارك "إذا". توقف بيل عن رمي الحجارة وجلس على حافة الكرسي باهتمام, ووضع يديه المقبوضتين بين ركبتيه. سمع صوت نورس, ووقع على الحجارة قرب حذائه فضلات من الطائر, ولكنه لم ينتبه.
"كاد أن يصيبك".
"ماذا حصل؟" أمر بيل.
"اشتريت لنفسي بدلة جميلة بقصة تقليدية. كانت مصنوعة من صوف الموهاير الفضي اللون، و مكونة من ثلاث قطع, مع جيوب منحدرة. لم تكن رسمية جدا. كان يوجد ثلاثة أزرار فقط على الأكمام التي يمكن طيها إلى الأعلى. كنت كالسيد المحترم".
"أحقا؟" قال بيل. "يبدو أن ذلك كان جميلا. يمكنني أن أتخيلك في بدلة كهذه. كم أنا غبي! أنت تلبسها الآن!"
قال مارك "شعرت مختلفا وأنا ألبس تلك البدلة. جعلتني أمشي مستقيم القامة، ومفتخرا بنفسي. لحسن الحظ قمت بتنظيف أنفي ذلك الصباح".
"وبعد ذلك ماذا حصل؟"
-"لم تجر الأمور كما يجب. رفض الموظفون في المكتب مكالمتي, وقبل موعد الغذاء استدعاني مدير المكتب إلى مكتبه".
قال مدير المكتب"هذه بدلة جميلة, لا أمانع في واحدة مثلها. كنت لألبسها في المناسبات الخاصة, وعيد الميلاد, وعيد رأس السنة, والمناسبات الرسمية. لسوء الحظ لا يمكنك العمل هنا. إن بدلتك لا تناسب هذا المكتب. إن وجودك تسبب بالمشاكل وعدم الرضى بين الموظفين".
قال بيل "هذا ليس عدلا هل يمكنه فعل ذلك؟"
"قبضت راتب ثلاثة أشهر بدلا من ورقة طرد من المكتب. يمكنك القول بأنني من الناحية المادية أفضل بكثير من ذي قبل".
"ولكن ليس لديك شيء تفعله طوال اليوم".
"لدي بدلتي التي فيها يمكنني فعل أي شيء أريده. على سبيل المثال يمكنني استخدام التسهيلات في بهوات الفنادق الفاخرة, والمطاعم الغالية, وغرف الجلوس في المطارات. أستطيع الجلوس في موقف انتظار الحافلة من دون أن تطردني الشرطة".
"ولكن لن يستمر ذلك للأبد, إذ يمكن أن تتغير الموضة وتصبح بدلتك قديمة الطراز".
"يوجد دائما المقص".
"الكثير من هذه الكراسي في حالة مزرية, وتحتاج لمن يصلحها. لا يجدر أن تكون معرضة للطقس هكذا. يا للعار, إنها قطع جميلة, وبعضها قطع عتيقة. ما رأيك بالعمل هنا خارج الموسم السياحي في تصليح الكراسي؟ لا أستطيع أن أدفع لك الكثير, ولكنه أفضل من لا شيء".
"ربما أجد العمل مثيرا للاهتمام".
Interview with Carolyn Wright
October 20, 2012
Carolyn Wright is an influential American poet who
teaches at Brown University and has been the recipient of such accolades
as a Guggenheim Fellowship, MacArthur Fellowship, and has been the Poet
Laureate of Rhode Island. She has published 14 books since 1977 and as
one follows her career, they can read from her pages the evolution of
her poetry in content and style.
SoR: While much of your poetry has a sense of where you came from, what inspires you to write, and especially poetry as the medium of choice?
SoR: While much of your poetry has a sense of where you came from, what inspires you to write, and especially poetry as the medium of choice?
Wright: Poetry was an accidental
choice. Maybe it's more accurate to say that after a riddled path,
poetry chose me, as in, "it" let me stay.
SoR: What is your editing process like for a poem?
Wright: Painful. But there's pleasure in the pain. It's not a "method" and no one else could or would want to
duplicate it. I would imagine everyone's editing processes are their own, and for some editing is
too outside the process to engage. I am co-teaching a course on Creeley this term. Editing is
not his creed.
SoR: In the beginning of your career,
you wrote more narrative style poetry and then shifted a bit to the
experimental. Most poets gradually grow their style over the years. Was
this shift conscious or not and what do you think caused it?
Wright: I think moving around the
country stimulated stylistic changes. I picked up things as I moved. I
left some things behind as I moved. Other elements of my earlier
writing found their way back into the writing at an angle.
SoR: With Twitter requiring people to
communicate in 140 characters or less, Facebook offering short
statements about oneself as their status, and so forth, one would think
that poetry would begin a sort of resurgence. As a poet and teacher at
Brown University, what are your thoughts on the state of poetry today?
Wright: Poetry is always changing, otherwise,
there would be no poetry except what is already in the historical
record. Poetry is mutable and expansive. There is much fine writing no
one else can claim because
the borders of the genre are held to with such conventional thought as to what constitutes this or that.
When a designation is purely a market decision, poetry usually gains ground.
SoR: As a Guggenheim Fellowship
recipient, former Poet Laureate of Rhode Island, and MacArthur
Fellowship recipient to name a few of your accolades, what would you
consider to be the high and low points of your writing career and
likewise, the high and low points of simply writing poetry?
Wright: Getting a life was the most
important. Getting a job was next. A good life and a good job, those
made a ginormous difference in my own psychic ability to stick with it.
The awards are wonderful of course, but they are not a reason to write
or a reason to stop writing. I was out of my twenties by the time my
first full-length book came out, before I was the recipient of any
accolades. I've stopped worrying about the isolation of poetry from the
larger cultural conversation. I've even come to the conclusion that
there isn't a larger cultural conversation, and that most
artist mediums, especially those with considerable capital attached,
are brutal affairs. "Only emotion endures...only the quality of the
affection matters."
There are plenty of disappointments and plenty of exceptionally sweet moments. I don't think I want to single them out.
SoR: Many poets today submit their work
to literary publications and publishers. Rejection is a reality all
writers face at some point or another. What advice would have to a poet
experiencing that obstacle in their writing career?
Wright: That rejection is a reality all writers face. Write if you must. Don't write if you mustn't.
SoR: What inspired you to teach writing at Brown University and what are the challenges and rewards of such a role?
Wright: It is not that I was
inspired to teach, I was permitted to teach. I learned to teach by
flailing around at it. Sometimes I still flail around. When that happens
I've learned the next class meeting can be better. It's on me.
SoR: When I read your poem “Lake Echo, Dear,” the first stanza -
“Is the woman in the pool of light
really reading or just staring
at what is written...”
- made me think about the reader-writer relationship. What do you feel is the responsibility of the poet to the reader and vice versa, the reader to the poet?
“Is the woman in the pool of light
really reading or just staring
at what is written...”
- made me think about the reader-writer relationship. What do you feel is the responsibility of the poet to the reader and vice versa, the reader to the poet?
Wright: It is a private engagement.
SoR: You are the daughter of a judge and
a court reporter. I thought about how factual and concrete those
professions are and drew a connection with the clear and distinct
imagery you use in your poetry. This could just be my interpretation
but I have to ask: what effect did growing up with a judge and court
reporter as parents have on their poet child?
Wright: Word love. A high value placed on personal integrity.
SoR: What is the best piece of advice you could give to a budding poet?
Wright: Read. Read the ones who you want at
your back. Read the ones with whom you want to go forward in your life.
Create opportunities for an ongoing exchange. Never stop learning
something that challenges who you already know.
A Conversation with Maya Angelou
November 13, 2012
Maya Angelou is one of the most famous and renowned voices of our
time. She is a celebrated poet, memoirist, novelist, educator,
dramatist, producer, actress, and civil rights activist. She worked with
Malcolm X and Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. during the Civil Rights
Movement. With the guidance of her friend, the novelist James Baldwin,
she wrote I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings, a book of poetry that
contains over 30
bestselling titles. Her script for the film Georgia, Georgia, was the first by an African American woman to be filmed and was nominated for a Pulitzer Prize. She has served on two presidential committees, was awarded the Presidential Medal of Arts in 2000, the Lincoln Medal in 2008, three Grammy Awards, and read a poem she composed for President Bill Clinton at his inauguration in 1993. Angelou has received over 30 honorary degrees and is Reynolds Professor of American Studies at Wake Forest University.
SoR: What is your writing process like and how has it evolved over the years?
Angelou: When I’m writing a book, I keep a hotel room in town - whatever town I’m living in - and I’m on the first floor. I rent it by the month. I talk with housekeeping management and I explain that I don’t want anybody in my room so they never have to change sheets or change towels. I don’t use any of that. I go in around 6:30 in the morning. And I keep in the room my Bible, a Roget’s Thesaurus, a Random House dictionary, stacks of yellow pads, and pens and crossword puzzles.
So I work with crossword puzzles when I’m trying to engage my small mind. When I was growing up, my grandmother would say to me about anything that happened that surprised her...she’d say, “That wasn’t even on my little mind.” So somehow I decided that there was a little mind and a big mind and if I could keep my little mind occupied, then I could get straight to my big mind and the big issues at hand.
So that’s my materials I keep in my room. About once a month, the management slips a note under the door which says they need to change the sheets - they may be molding. (laughs) And I say, “Alright, one day.” But I get there at 6:30 in the morning, sometimes earlier in the summer because it’s light and I leave at about 12:30 or 1. 1 if the work is going really well. I will stay until then. But I’m usually home at about 12:30 or 1 o’clock. And I try to ignore what I’ve been doing so I go to the supermarket and shop and get home and have another shower and prepare the meal for the evening and then I will look at the work I’ve done. And then the next morning I begin again until the book is finished.
SoR: Even though you have performed with dance and been involved in theater, what is it that inspires you to write poetry as a creative medium?
Angelou: I love the sound of the human voice. I’ve never been asked that before, I don’t think. I know I’ve never given that answer before but that’s really what it is. You see poetry is music written for the human voice and I love it. I spent six years of my life as a mute, a voluntary mute. I could speak but I wouldn’t. I would go into a room and think of my whole body as an ear. And I could go into a room and absorb all of the sound osmotically through my pores, my ears, and my hair. And I’ve never found any human voice I didn’t like. I’ve found words they’ve said...but the voice itself - I love the human voice. English to me is the most fantastic language.
And you know, I have some pictures in my mind, Mr. Brown, of the Revolutionary War - the men, the soldiers were cold and hungry and wet and shoes bedraggled and Patrick Henry and other patriots would walk up and down the lines saying, “It matters not...I don’t care what others may do, but as for me, give me liberty or give me death.” And the words could so revive the passion. And I love the fact that there are words which can, put together in the correct way, they can lessen grief and fear. They can make the walls of ignorance and racism and sexism and agism and see them melt.
Just recently, I watched the victory speech of President Obama. I was overwhelmed that at least sixty percent of his audience was white. And they were - and probably more - they were stomping, clapping their hands, shouting, laughing and crying with as much passion as the other thirty-five percent. And I realized that the pundits - some of the pundits in our country - who are trying to keep us apart have not been successful. We are coming together. Americans are seeing themselves in each other. And some of that can be traced directly to the poetry of the speeches. I believe that. And when poetry is sincere, it’s almost irresistible.
SoR: You brought up the years you were voluntarily a mute. What was it that pulled you out of that? I mean, you later on in your life recited one of your poems for President Bill Clinton’s inauguration. So what was it that pulled you out of that period.
Angelou: The credit can be lain at the door of love and poetry. My grandmother loved me. She was raising me. She loved me so much. And she raised my hand and said, “Sister, momma don’t care if these people say you must be an idiot or moron because you can’t talk. Sister, momma don’t care. Momma know when you and the good Lord get ready. You gonna be a teacher. You gonna teach all over this world.” I used to sit there and think, “This poor, ignorant woman; she doesn’t know I never speak.” And now I do teach all over the world.
And then there was a teacher, Mrs. Flowers, who used to read to me at nine, ten, eleven and she had a beautiful, melodious voice. She was a black lady and lived really...she was the aristocrat of the area...she was just all of that. And she would read poetry...and I just loved it. And then I loved the poetry in the spirituals. At my grandmother’s she’d not allow us to listen to the blues but then I heard the blues by accident (laugh) at somebody else’s house - I loved it. So that was a poetry though I didn’t know at the time.
But when I was about twelve, Mrs. Flowers told me, “You don’t love poetry.” I had a little tablet on which I wrote my answers to everything and I wrote, “Yes, ma’am, I do,” and tried to hand her the tablet. She wouldn’t even look at the tablet. She said, “You don’t like poetry. You don’t like it. You’ll never love it until you speak it - until you feel it come across your tongue, over your teeth, through your lips. You’ll never love poetry.” I ran from her as she if was taking my best friend and she followed me. She followed me and hassled me for about six months every time she saw me and she made it her business to see me. She would point at me, “You’ll never love it.” And finally I went under the house - my grandmother’s house - where the chickens pecked, the dirt is salt, like powder, and I tried a poem. I had memorized most of the black poems. I had memorized 60 Shakespearean sonnets. I loved Poe so much I called him “Eet” to myself and I could just ramble it out in my brain. So I went under the house and tried and I had found that I had left my voice - my voice had left me.
bestselling titles. Her script for the film Georgia, Georgia, was the first by an African American woman to be filmed and was nominated for a Pulitzer Prize. She has served on two presidential committees, was awarded the Presidential Medal of Arts in 2000, the Lincoln Medal in 2008, three Grammy Awards, and read a poem she composed for President Bill Clinton at his inauguration in 1993. Angelou has received over 30 honorary degrees and is Reynolds Professor of American Studies at Wake Forest University.
SoR: What is your writing process like and how has it evolved over the years?
Angelou: When I’m writing a book, I keep a hotel room in town - whatever town I’m living in - and I’m on the first floor. I rent it by the month. I talk with housekeeping management and I explain that I don’t want anybody in my room so they never have to change sheets or change towels. I don’t use any of that. I go in around 6:30 in the morning. And I keep in the room my Bible, a Roget’s Thesaurus, a Random House dictionary, stacks of yellow pads, and pens and crossword puzzles.
So I work with crossword puzzles when I’m trying to engage my small mind. When I was growing up, my grandmother would say to me about anything that happened that surprised her...she’d say, “That wasn’t even on my little mind.” So somehow I decided that there was a little mind and a big mind and if I could keep my little mind occupied, then I could get straight to my big mind and the big issues at hand.
So that’s my materials I keep in my room. About once a month, the management slips a note under the door which says they need to change the sheets - they may be molding. (laughs) And I say, “Alright, one day.” But I get there at 6:30 in the morning, sometimes earlier in the summer because it’s light and I leave at about 12:30 or 1. 1 if the work is going really well. I will stay until then. But I’m usually home at about 12:30 or 1 o’clock. And I try to ignore what I’ve been doing so I go to the supermarket and shop and get home and have another shower and prepare the meal for the evening and then I will look at the work I’ve done. And then the next morning I begin again until the book is finished.
SoR: Even though you have performed with dance and been involved in theater, what is it that inspires you to write poetry as a creative medium?
Angelou: I love the sound of the human voice. I’ve never been asked that before, I don’t think. I know I’ve never given that answer before but that’s really what it is. You see poetry is music written for the human voice and I love it. I spent six years of my life as a mute, a voluntary mute. I could speak but I wouldn’t. I would go into a room and think of my whole body as an ear. And I could go into a room and absorb all of the sound osmotically through my pores, my ears, and my hair. And I’ve never found any human voice I didn’t like. I’ve found words they’ve said...but the voice itself - I love the human voice. English to me is the most fantastic language.
And you know, I have some pictures in my mind, Mr. Brown, of the Revolutionary War - the men, the soldiers were cold and hungry and wet and shoes bedraggled and Patrick Henry and other patriots would walk up and down the lines saying, “It matters not...I don’t care what others may do, but as for me, give me liberty or give me death.” And the words could so revive the passion. And I love the fact that there are words which can, put together in the correct way, they can lessen grief and fear. They can make the walls of ignorance and racism and sexism and agism and see them melt.
Just recently, I watched the victory speech of President Obama. I was overwhelmed that at least sixty percent of his audience was white. And they were - and probably more - they were stomping, clapping their hands, shouting, laughing and crying with as much passion as the other thirty-five percent. And I realized that the pundits - some of the pundits in our country - who are trying to keep us apart have not been successful. We are coming together. Americans are seeing themselves in each other. And some of that can be traced directly to the poetry of the speeches. I believe that. And when poetry is sincere, it’s almost irresistible.
SoR: You brought up the years you were voluntarily a mute. What was it that pulled you out of that? I mean, you later on in your life recited one of your poems for President Bill Clinton’s inauguration. So what was it that pulled you out of that period.
Angelou: The credit can be lain at the door of love and poetry. My grandmother loved me. She was raising me. She loved me so much. And she raised my hand and said, “Sister, momma don’t care if these people say you must be an idiot or moron because you can’t talk. Sister, momma don’t care. Momma know when you and the good Lord get ready. You gonna be a teacher. You gonna teach all over this world.” I used to sit there and think, “This poor, ignorant woman; she doesn’t know I never speak.” And now I do teach all over the world.
And then there was a teacher, Mrs. Flowers, who used to read to me at nine, ten, eleven and she had a beautiful, melodious voice. She was a black lady and lived really...she was the aristocrat of the area...she was just all of that. And she would read poetry...and I just loved it. And then I loved the poetry in the spirituals. At my grandmother’s she’d not allow us to listen to the blues but then I heard the blues by accident (laugh) at somebody else’s house - I loved it. So that was a poetry though I didn’t know at the time.
But when I was about twelve, Mrs. Flowers told me, “You don’t love poetry.” I had a little tablet on which I wrote my answers to everything and I wrote, “Yes, ma’am, I do,” and tried to hand her the tablet. She wouldn’t even look at the tablet. She said, “You don’t like poetry. You don’t like it. You’ll never love it until you speak it - until you feel it come across your tongue, over your teeth, through your lips. You’ll never love poetry.” I ran from her as she if was taking my best friend and she followed me. She followed me and hassled me for about six months every time she saw me and she made it her business to see me. She would point at me, “You’ll never love it.” And finally I went under the house - my grandmother’s house - where the chickens pecked, the dirt is salt, like powder, and I tried a poem. I had memorized most of the black poems. I had memorized 60 Shakespearean sonnets. I loved Poe so much I called him “Eet” to myself and I could just ramble it out in my brain. So I went under the house and tried and I had found that I had left my voice - my voice had left me.
Making Scents of Poetry
December 28, 2013
Written by: Dylan Emerick-Brown
A woman dressed smartly yet still attractively struts towards you down the street with confidence in her eyes - focused. One hand rests on her hip while the other swings fore and aft. Without blinking she passes you on her way, leaving you with only a brief memory and a fragrance trailing, ephemerally, behind. She’s turned a corner and is gone, but what is that enchanting smell hanging in the air? Something sweet? Musky? No, it smells like overcoming adversity!
Beyonce, the acclaimed singer and cultural icon known the world over has a new fragrance coming out in early 2014. So why is this of interest to someone reading a literary publication? Because Queen Bey has announced that her new perfume was inspired by Still I Rise, her favorite poem by Pulitzer Prize winner Maya Angelou.
“The spirit of Rise [her perfume] encourages women to be all that we are,” Beyonce said in a press release. The perfume follows Beyonce’s other fragrances, Heat and Pulse, and will be shipped in time for Valentine’s Day to over 30,000 retailers. But wait? What does any of this have to do with a poem written by the woman who was active in the Civil Rights Movement with Martin Luther King, Jr. and Malcolm X and recited her poem On the Pulse of Morning at President Bill Clinton’s inaugural address?
The poem - for those of you who may be unfamiliar with it - is about overcoming adversity, both personally and culturally from an African-American woman’s perspective. It begins with:
You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may tread me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I rise.
and ends with:
Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
I rise
I rise
I rise.
I can just smell it now. So I wondered, what would Maya Angelou’s reaction be to Beyonce interpreting one of her beloved poems on trumping hard times and misfortune into a fragrance for women?
“I’m pleased,” Angelou responded via phone.
“You’re pleased?” I responded.
“Of course,” she said, nonchalant.
Then surely, one would assume who better to show off the new perfume of 2014 than the woman herself? I had to ask, “did you buy it?”
“No, no...”
Ouch. So I wondered: we have an acclaimed poem that was the center of an advertising campaign for the United Negro College Fund being construed into a commercialized fragrance sold in shopping malls. I felt like I was lost in Alice’s Wonderland where Lebron James was creating a new, dope shoe brand for walking by woods on a snowy evening.
So my last question to Dr. Angelou was, “How would you want people to react to a scent inspired by your poem?”
“That it encourages people to stand...to rise no matter what happens to you.”
My mind reeled. Equality by Mandela: a strong cologne with hints of spice, musk, and anti-apartheid fervor. Resist by Gandhi: a floral fragrance with a dash of curry and a quiet protest of...is that coriander? Carry On by Churchill and Lust by Mother Teresa.
Marsha Brooks, the vice president of global marketing for Coty Beauty said of Rise, “This is sexy and sophisticated. We tested it in multiple countries with excellent results.”
Sudan? Syria? Haiti? Or was it tested only in countries with strife where people could afford to smell like triumph over hardship (whatever that smells like...sweat?)?
As a lover of literature in all its myriad forms, I initially found creating a perfumed scent inspired by a poem about overcoming adversity comical and somewhat perverse. But perhaps I’m being unfair. On the one hand, someone can look at this strange scenario as serious poetry with a deeply tragic and powerful meaning being commercialized like using Walt Whitman to advertise lawn mowers. All right, I’m getting a little esoteric now. On the other hand, perhaps this is a serendipitous avenue for bringing poetry otherwise unread by younger generations to the forefront of pop culture?
From my perspective - that of a high school English teacher - I can probably count on one hand the number of my students who could tell me the title of one of Angelou’s poems. I had a student earlier this year ask if Edgar Allen Poe was an English author and more than I care to admit reacted to the mention of Mark Twain as, “I’ve heard of that guy.” So, I suppose I shouldn’t get too jaded if America’s youth is introduced to poetry via pop-stars as opposed to our education system. But part of me wonders - like the student who said Romeo and Juliet was a great movie with Leonardo DiCaprio and had no clue who Shakespeare was - if we’re simply diluting literary relevancy.
I will leave that challenge, subjective as it is to the reader (and author) - up to you. I hope you will rise to it.
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