Judy Chicurel and the Atmospheric Aura

In the 67th in a series of posts on 2014 books entered for The Story Prize, Judy Chicurel, author of If I Knew You Were Going to Be This Beautiful, I Never Would Have Let You Go (Putnam), discusses real life inspiration for her stories.

If you weren't a writer, what would you be doing?

I would have been a social worker with a private therapy practice. Years ago I had been accepted into an MSW program and was set to pursue it, but then I was offered a job at a Long Island newspaper and I chose that instead. Second choice: full-time lit professor at the college level, though those jobs are now exceedingly difficult to come by even with a Ph.D, which I don’t have, and publications. When I was freelancing, I used to read Tarot cards on the side to supplement my income, which was really fun and interesting. Sometimes even now, I’m a little envious when I pass one of those storefront psychic places in the city, with the requisite crystal ball on a small round table inside and the “palm reading special” sign in the window. I joke about that as a retirement gig and my husband never knows if I’m really kidding. I’d also love to be a vintner and live on a winery, in Napa or on the North Fork of Long Island.

Describe an unusual writing habit of yours.

I write everything longhand first, and I’ll often write the ending to a story or novel before anything else. I know how things will end before I know what else is going to happen, so I’ll write the last sentence, which frequently comes to me very clearly, and then develop the story around it.

Do you ever borrow characters or situations from real life, and has anyone ever confronted you about it, been angry or pleased?

It’s probably the most frequently asked question about the book; “How much of this is based on real life?” I’d say it’s more emotional reality than anything else, and the atmospheric aura of the book resonates from the physical setting of the beach towns I lived in during the seventies and early eighties. They all had commonalities, chief among them a willingness to tolerate local eccentricities without harsh judgment. Those circumstances allowed you to meet some really interesting people and I tried to bring that across in writing this book, because I had such affection for those times and those places. I think you always tend to borrow from real life people and situations but the characters and circumstances in my stories are inventions of people who seemed to fit in those settings. For instance, years ago, I attended a party in the more upscale part of town and the hostess took us on a tour of the house; there was a room at the very top, a kind of enlarged widow’s walk, and she told us that during the 1920s or 30s a doctor had owned the house and performed abortions in this room. I was always struck by that story, and used it in this collection, about two girls going in search of an abortion and the doctor’s office is in a beautiful house by the beach, while they’re expecting a back-alley entrance on the seamy side of town. I’ve never had that particular experience, but that house was definitely the inspiration for the story.

What's the worst idea for a story you've ever had?

This is such a great question, but I honestly can’t think of one! Not because my story ideas are always so amazing, but I usually pursue the ideas that I have because I like them or love the character I’m developing. I’ve had story ideas that I think are fascinating but might be considered too controversial by editors or even the reading public. I have one short story, “The Whistle,” about the woman that Emmet Till allegedly whistled at, which resulted in his hanging death, that’s written almost like a monologue. I think editors, even actresses I knew when I was trying to arrange a reading, might be a little afraid of it.

What's the best story idea you've had that you've never been able to write to your  satisfaction?

I’m worked on two of them on and off over the past several years, both with young immigrant boys at the nucleus. But the work is too new at this point to predict the outcome. What’s prevented me from really polishing them to a finish are time constraints, so perhaps you can ask me again in a year or so.

What one story that someone else has written do you wish you had written?

It’s a story called, “Wonderland,” and I’ve spent some time trying to find the author’s name without success; I read it back in the late eighties, I believe, in one of the Best American Short Story anthologies, though I can’t remember the specific year. It was a story about two young boys whose mother goes off with a boyfriend for a month or so and leaves a note for the oldest telling him that they’re old enough to look after themselves for a few weeks. Which they aren’t. It was a great read and a moving story. The writer was skillful in painting a somewhat sympathetic portrait of the mother, and though she didn’t appear much in the story, you really felt her presence on the pages. The nuances of the older boy’s feelings about his mother—anger, fear, reluctant love—were very well drawn, particularly because he’s trying to be so tough and keep it together for his younger brother. I’ve actually spent time on and off over the years thinking of one scene where the brothers are walking home from the grocery store; I’ve envisioned different ways the story could have gone, the introduction of new characters, usually when I’m on one of my nocturnal walks around the neighborhood. Wish I could remember the writer’s name.

Where do you do most of your work?

I like to edit at home in our office/guest room and often write first drafts while out of the house. It sounds strange, but I can concentrate better sitting in a café or a library, and I’ve been quite prolific while riding the subway. People always balk at that, but for many years, the only real time I had to write was while traveling to and from work or to the city—we live in a more remote part of Brooklyn, the only advantage to this being that I can get a lot of writing done while traveling. I’ve written at our home in upstate New York as well; it’s a great writing retreat.

What do you do when you're stuck or have "writer's block"?

Walk. I’m an avid walker; it helps me relax and sometimes things will just come to me, phrases I was searching for, story ideas, plot innovations. I especially love walking on beaches and am fortunate enough to live close to several. Once I hit the bricks—or the sand, in this case—I just feel freer, less constrained. I also like to work on two projects simultaneously; the obvious reason is that if you get stuck in one place you can move to the other. But I’ve also found that each project can serve as motivation for the other, and the advantage is that after being away from one project for a few days I start missing the characters and can’t wait to get back to them again.

What advice do you have for aspiring writers?

This is a response I actually wrote for another Q&A that I’ve edited a bit, but I do think it’s valid enough to give again: Find situations where you can get your work noticed by people who are willing to help you and where you can build a supportive community, whether it’s an MFA program or other type of writing environment. And I’m going back to advice given to me by a friend’s father years ago at an elementary school track meet: I was running a 50-yard dash and I came in second, and he told me afterwards, “You know, you would have come in first but you were too busy looking around to see who was ahead of you.” Don’t look around at where everyone else is or where you think you should be and neglect the writing in the process. Because everything begins with the writing.

What else (beyond books and writing) informs or inspires your work?

A sense of place often provides the impetus for my writing. I’ve always said I’m very character-driven, but lately, looking over my work, it’s more the physical spaces and settings that have formed the inspiration. I’ve also been inspired by the young people I’ve worked with; I recently left my job as a Development Director for a youth empowerment organization and I was feeling somewhat jaded about the current political and economic landscape; part of my job was reviewing current events for my research file and by the time I’d finish cruising the Web I’d be ready to pack it in. But the young women we served really helped pull me out of this psychic stagnation, just by observing their accomplishments. They just do it, you know? Without money, without the kind of backing middle and upper class kids receive; they pursue their choices, get to college, go after the career...they make you feel better just knowing they’re out there tackling life. I also belong to an organization, the New York Writers Coalition; we facilitate writing workshops in underserved communities and that’s been a source of inspiration as well. I’ve done workshops with cancer patients, cognitively disabled young adults, teens and tweens in Coney Island…populations I might never have spent this kind of time with if not for these workshops. And the writing is amazing. 

D.W. Wilson's Headspace Thing

In the 66th in a series of posts on 2014 books entered for The Story Prize, D.W. Wilson, author of Once You Break a Knuckle (Bloomsbury), explores alternative careers.

If you weren't a writer, what would you be doing?
I suppose in the best possible world where I wasn't writing, I would be a masked vigilante, not unlike Batman. It's in my blood: My old man's a (retired) Mountie and my grandfather was a town cop (so they say) and my sister works in the courts, and I had every intention of being a lawyer until about my third year in the University of Victoria's writing program, when after class one day my professor asked me if I'd applied to grad school yet.
  – No, I said.
  – You should, she said.
  – Okay, I said, and did.

Vigilante: Patroling the hood

Or I'd be doing Judo professionally, though I'm not sure that pays any better, and I never had the discipline to maintain the Grecian-God physique required to stay competitive. More realistically, I could probably pull wire for cash or make bank in, like, Fort McMurray doing my part to wreck the globe, or other miscellaneous construction (I lay a mean parquet floor) or I could teach, though the inescapable truth is that I've now spent my formative skill-learning years doing one thing. (This)

Describe an unusual writing habit of yours.
Well. I sing. Not in public and not with any success (I am flatter than some well-leveled hardwood) but late at night with my headphones on (noise-cancelling; I can hear nothing) I will belt out the lyrics to whatever bad eighties rock song happens to be blaring in my ears. It's one part an energy thing, since I work so late at night and will take any boost I can get, but it's also a headspace thing. I need music to write effectively. Something to do with syllable counting, maybe, the arrangement of Latinate versus Germanic words. I dunno, it's mysterious to me, too. Something to do with maintaining a certain rhythm in my prose.

What's the worst idea for a story you've every had?
I suppose this depends on how you want to use the term “worst idea.” For instance: A few years ago I wrote an essay that is one part fascinating exegesis about voice in fiction and one part a verbatim recount of the first (not last) time my (now) wife declined to go on a date with me. I used her real name and for some reason a magazine published it. I think I had some grand plan that in the distant future when we were both middle aged and bored, I'd dust it off and show her and we'd have a good laugh and maybe rekindle our sex life, remembering how young and stupid we once were. Instead, she showed up by coincidence at the launch of the magazine that published it, so I took the only option available to me and necked five glasses of wine and spent the evening reciting the most embarrassing lines to her. You know, grab the dilemma by the horns and all that jazz. And now we're married! So perhaps there's a lesson there.

What advice do you have for aspiring writers?
Write constantly. Read deeply. Do your best not to despair but in moments of darkness know that every successful writer has shared that same darkness. As in all things, persistence beats resistance.

Heather A. Slomski Prepares Herself

In the 65th in a series of posts on 2014 books entered for The Story Prize, Heather A. Slomski, author of The Lovers Set Down Their Spoons (University of Iowa Press), discusses a story she wishes she'd written and offers her advice.

What one story that someone else has written do you wish you had written?
The story I wish I’d written is “Father’s Last Escape” by Bruno Schulz. For those unfamiliar with the story, it’s a very short story—barely five pages long—about a small family grieving for the loss of Father, who, prior to the story’s start, has been dying and returning to his family in different forms. The last time he returns, which the story chronicles, he does so as a crab or a large scorpion (the story doesn’t clarify further).

"Father's Last Escape": Returning as a scorpion

While the story is laced with dark humor (Uncle Charles comes to stay, for example, and as a result of his depression, he gets a strange pleasure out of trying to viciously step on Father), it is incredibly tender and sad. Schulz bestows upon Father-the-crab/scorpion such a convincing blend of crustacean/human attributes, and the combination of knowing that there is a kind and gentle man embodied in this crab/scorpion, of witnessing this “man’s” crablike behaviors (zigzagging across the floor at lightning speed; his desperate and futile attempts to right his position when turned on his back), and observing Joseph and Mother’s mixed feelings of Father in his latest form, is immensely moving. I still laugh out loud in a few key places while reading this story, though my laughter is not lighthearted or joyous, but the spent laughter of the bereaved.

Do you ever borrow characters or situations from real life, and has anyone ever confronted you about it, been angry or pleased?
I do occasionally borrow characters or situations from real life, though less often than more, and so far I’ve gotten away with it. My work is fiction, not nonfiction, so anything “real” in my work has undergone a heavy process of fictionalization—not because I’m intent on hiding the truth, but because I’m not interested in writing nonfiction. I write to use my imagination, not to record things that have happened. If something “real” inspires my imagination, it does just that—inspires my imagination.

Ten pieces of writing and writing-life advice for aspiring writers:
1. À la Lorrie Moore: “First, try to be something, anything, else.”
2. If you come to the realization that you must write, prepare yourself for a life of continuous hard work and only sporadic payoffs.
3. Figure out how you can have people in your life but still spend a lot of time alone.
4. Learn to live frugally, even if/when you don’t have to; doing so will help you keep a clear mind.
5. Something I learned at a young age from my father: Never leave the house without something to read. You never know when you’re going to be stuck somewhere for ten minutes or three days.
6. Discover new writers (or writers who are new to you) on your own; don’t merely read the writers people tell you to read or the books everyone else is reading.
7. Write only to please yourself; do not write what you think others want to read.
8. If you get stuck on a piece of writing, walk away from it. Maybe for a short time, maybe for a long time, maybe forever. And start something else in the meantime.
9. Have a couple of hobbies—productive activities you can pursue when you need a break from writing and reading—but be careful of having too many. Writing and reading require a great deal of time.
10. Let other writers influence you, but don’t attempt to sound like them. Figure out who you are as a writer, and write to sound like yourself.

Donald Antrim's Very Once-Upon-a-Time Brand of Realism

By Nick Fuller Googins
New York, NY, Dec. 11, 2014

Dressed to the nines: Author Donald Antrim at NYU

Here's how Donald Antrim warms up a room:

“Alright, I’m just gonna read a story. So bear with me.”

The room was in the NYU Creative Writing Program’s West Village townhouse, decked out smartly for the holidays: wreath on the window, poinsettias on the mantel, heater humming in the background. Donald Antrim was decked out pretty smartly himself, wearing a sharp tweed coat, a chocolate brown vest, and a rich red tie, as though he’d perhaps moved on from his 2013 MacArthur “genius” award and retrained his sights on making the Best Dressed list. The story he’d selected to read was “The Emerald Light in the Air,” the final—and delightfully weirdest—story of his 2014 collection of the same title—narrated in his warm, hint-of-the-south accent.

“Emerald Light” begins modestly enough. Billy, a depressed, mildly-suicidal divorcé—who, like all of Antrim’s troubled male protagonists, has a past of substance-abuse issues and mental-health problems—is faced with a problem: His car has slid off the road and a storm is approaching. Rather than attempt to navigate the steep incline back to the road, Billy decides to drive his car up a nearby creek, deeper and deeper into the Appalachian woods, in search of an outlet. This is where “Emerald Light” takes an almost fairy-tale bend into the fantastic, making it, in some sense, the most Donald-Antrim-like story of his collection.

This discussion of the fantastic versus the real garnered a great deal of attention in the post-reading Q&A, moderated by Darin Strauss, author and NYU Writing Program instructor. To those familiar with Antrim’s previous work, especially his novels, the Cheever-esque realism of his short fiction might seem strange. Hearing Antrim speak on the subject, it appears as though this brand of short story realism felt strange to him too, or, at the very least, difficult to produce.

“I had written stories when I was much younger, in the eighties,” he said, “and they were dead kinda things.” Only after switching over to novels, working in the fantastic, and then returning to stories was he able to bring life to his short fiction. “I saw the thing moving away from a more conceit-driven conceptual universe to a more concretely emotional universe,” he explained, “one that the author doesn’t have to always manage and always find the distinctive logic in. Writing that is maybe less reflexively funny, in other words less driven by a narrator’s or character’s attitudes, or a writer’s attitudes, and a little more naked, and a little more direct. Just the world.”

This isn’t to say that the sharp realist fiction that drives much of Emerald Light suddenly poured forth from Antrim. Far from it. “The whole thing is so slow really,” he said, sounding deflated, as if someone had just told him to immediately hail a cab, go home, and begin work on another collection. “Each of those stories takes a long time, a couple years.” The seven stories in Emerald Light took him seventeen years from start to finish. (In response to Darin Strauss’s question if he wrote the stories concurrently: “I’ve never really done a lot concurrently. Multitasking! Can anyone really do it?”)

But the story “Emerald Light” is striking, in part, because it’s not overtly fantastical. Billy, after driving up the creek for some time, ends up grounded, stuck in the middle of the woods, at which point he is met by a boy with a tattered umbrella who asks if he is the doctor. Billy, high and definitely not a doctor, answers yes, and follows the boy to a dilapidated shack in the mountainside woods where he is faced with “treating” the boy’s dying mother. These events are neither shockingly unbelievable nor entirely fantastical in themselves, yet the story has an undeniable fantastical bent so subtle that it makes it difficult to remember where exactly Antrim departed from the more-or-less strict realism of the story’s beginning. Speaking on this juncture, Antrim called it “a bit of a leap of faith, this idea that the language, as it were, of that trip up into the woods. I mean, it’s full of associations for us, it’s very once-upon-a-time. I think the idea was to see if you can, without manipulating conceit, just get close to that place where the realism and this other thing—possibly fantastic, possibly hallucinatory—come together and are adjacent. And if that’s possible, then it may be possible to then start to actually produce what amounts to magical events.”

It’s after comments like these that you see why the MacArthur folks anointed the man. It’s not just that Donald Antrim’s fiction is skillful; it’s that he’s clearly thought about what he’s writing. Thought about it a lot. Listening to him you get the feeling that his mind is functioning at a different speed than the rest of ours are, not necessarily faster (okay, yes, probably faster) but on a completely separate plane.

Oh, by the way, he wasn’t finished with that previous comment, he was only coming up for air.

Donald Antrim took a breath, then continued: “So through that trip up into the woods, there was nothing to do but just sort of describe it as a romantic journey and a kind of a dream, and then hope that the other side would exist. If the suspension of disbelief is into this realist thing, can it then obtain in relation to something that actually isn’t real? So that was kind of an experiment for me. Does that make sense?”

“Perfect sense!” one MFA student in the audience answered, either lying, or much more of a genius than I.

The last question of the night went to another MFA student. He wanted to talk not about the fantastical or the real but about Mary, an ancillary, off-screen character who gets about a dozen lines in total. From these dozen lines, we learn that she and Billy slept together back in high school, have since reconnected, and have plans to meet for dinner. The question, posed as only an MFA student can pose a question (as an MFA student, I’m allowed to say that), went like this: “I have to say I was particularly drawn to the character of Mary, and I was almost taken aback by the very brief mention of her having had an abortion. I wonder if you can talk about your decision to have that be part of her story, the way it was included, especially in that very scientific and contemporary terminology.”

To which Donald Antrim responded with his most direct, easily understood answer of the evening: “It was just a sense of the place that I remember. That old Appalachian world, it was right there. It wasn’t meant as any statement on Mary. I was just remembering from when I was kid, growing up on a farm at the foot of the mountains. Everybody got going early.”

Aurelie Sheehan Sneaks up on Plot

In the 64th in a series of posts on 2014 books entered for The Story Prize, Aurelie Sheehan, author of Demigods on Speedway (University of Arizona Press), details her tangles with plot.

Plot. What a nightmare! At least that’s the way it’s felt for much of my writing life. Early attempts at “putting plot into my stories” were like stuffing a turkey into a teacup or inserting pencils and rulers into cake.

I never had anything against plot in other people’s writing. I’ve always loved stories strong in plot. A good plot keeps me turning the pages. The prose has to be clean, the characters alive—but these elements alone won’t keep me reading into the wee hours. What needs to kick in is the what-happens-next reflex.

Alas, the what-happens-next reflex wasn’t occurring at my own writing desk. There, it wasn’t a reflex at all, more like the sound of electrical wires fritzing out. I comforted myself with proclamations. Writers into plot were like mechanics ginning up outlines stuffed with spy-craft and long-lost, wealthy relatives. But I did worry: Was I the stereotype on the other side of the spectrum, a pajama-clad watcher, forever not engaged with life?

Here are ways I’ve found to sneak up on the idea of plot and make it my own:

1. I read Jane Austen and began to think plot could be fun, rather than a curse.
2. I realized how profound cause and effect can be—that events and observations did not just hang out in a nether-cloud of time, but were irrevocably shaped by the when of the story. 
3. I read Joan Silber on time in fiction (The Art of Time in Fiction). Time in fiction is different than plot in fiction, but they are related. And time felt organic to me in a way plot did not. 
4. I decided, to heck with plot anyway. To some extent I decided this.
5. I found ways around it. For instance, I wrote a book where place replaced time—where the characters live near each other and their stories form not a plot but a constellation (in this case, the portrait of a city). 
6. I felt the tawdriness of shaping stories, the artifice that had felt artificial, melt away to reveal a kind of beauty.
7. I realized my limitations as a plot person and became a person who plots in her own way. In other words, I redefined plot so I could write one, too. It was a way of finding plot in my own stories.

These things helped, and I feel better about plot now, mellower. If the story of me and Plot were to be written, it would be a very gentle narrative, where the girl begins hating Plot, she has a fight or two with Plot and she breaks Plot’s elbow, and Plot breaks her chin, and then eventually they just stop fighting and go into a kind of Tai Chi tea party that lasts until the end of time.

Ready, Plot? Come on, now. Ready?

David Gordon Talks to Himself

In the 63rd in a series of posts on 2014 books entered for The Story Prize, David Gordon, author of White Tiger on Snow Mountain (Little A/New Harvest), discusses a seemingly bad idea that ended up working out well.

If you weren't a writer, what would you be doing?

That is a terrifying question, the sort that makes me wake up in a cold sweat. In fact, I have never, even as a small child wanted to be anything else, except an astronaut or a spy/criminal—so perhaps I’d be on of those, most likely a secret undercover agent aboard the space station. Still, I’m afraid I’d be what I was for the long years before I found publishers for my work: Someone who worked at a random, low-paying job all day and wrote at night.

Describe an unusual writing habit of yours.

I probably have lots of odd habits, but the one I was reminded of recently was being repeatedly busted walking around and talking to myself. I’ve walked into streetlamps and been caught by an acquaintance standing on the corner and laughing for no reason. I suggested I was on the phone but she said, “No you had your hands in your pockets and you were just laughing.” When I lived on the ground floor in Soho, on a block full of shops, the workers told me they all wondered, “Who is that guy who paces up and down mumbling to himself all day?” 

Do you ever borrow characters or situations from real life, and has anyone ever confronted you about it, been angry or pleased? 

This is the question I’m “skipping,” only because I already published an essay about this topic and don’t want to repeat myself. The short answer is, no and yes: I was not, in my mind, describing real life, but real live people were both angry and pleased about it anyway.

What's the worst idea for a story you've every had?

The worst idea I ever had actually resulted in “White Tiger on Snow Mountain,” the title story of my collection. Luckily it was also one of the best title ideas I ever had, so that helped. But when I first thought—“I know, I’ll write about a guy who thinks he’s impotent and goes for acupuncture while also chatting anonymously with depraved and desperate women online,” I immediately decided: “Do not write that. Worst idea ever.” Then I thought, “Well, I will just make a few notes.” Then, “Just a first draft. No one ever needs to see it.” That first draft was like 70 pages, which I shaved down to about 45. Then: “Just show your best writer friend and if she says you’re disgusting just destroy it.” As it happens, she thought it was my best story. 

What's the best story idea you've had that you've never been able to write to your satisfaction

Unsolved mystery: What's this cat thinking about?

Undercover agent aboard a space station is sounding pretty good at the moment, actually.

But the story I’ve thought of writing but never have is from the point of view of a cat. But not like a cartoonish, anthropomorphic cat or a children’s storybook cat or a fantasy cat—a real cat. Probably it comes from too much time sitting around, trying to write and looking at cats and wondering what they’re thinking. I look at dogs a lot too, but it is much easier to guess what they’re thinking. 

What one story that someone else has written do you wish you had written?

The answer to this is like a math puzzle: Either there are hundreds or none. Part of the oddness of being a writer is knowing that I can never be even a fraction as good as any of the greats who came before me yet still wake up each day in the belief that attacking that story about the cat who is really a secret agent aboard the space shuttle is the most important and urgent task in the world.

Where do you do most of your work?

At my desk in my warm home in my underwear surrounded by my books and looking at the view. I am a lucky man.

What do you do when you're stuck or have "writer's block"?

Get up from that desk and walk around or lie down and stretch on the floor. In fact, (knock on wood), I have never had “writer’s block” in the strict sense of having no idea what to write about. I have had a project going, a story or poem or script or novel I was working on, every day since early childhood and always took it very seriously as a job. But if I am never “blocked” I am constantly “stuck.” That also seems to be an almost daily occurrence, and all I’ve learned over the years is to just keep showing up, as one does for one’s job, and eventually working it out. And that staring into space, reading, pacing, complaining, doodling and despairing are actually part of the process, count as “work” and seem to lead to the next day or week or month when it all unsticks and starts moving again.

What advice do you have for aspiring writers?

The clever move here would be to say “Quit writing and go to law school or join the Peace Corps or something,” knowing full well that real, natural-born writers are immune to advice and will ignore me anyway. But instead I will say all I really can: Read incessantly, learn grammar at least and, (unless you have financial support from family or something) learn some marketable skill. That was my big mistake. I couldn’t even bartend. I knew nothing but how to read and write, so I was doomed.

What else (beyond books and writing) informs or inspires your work?

Assuming you mean culturally, I will say that music and film are absolutely as important to my life and nearly as influential to my work as books and there have been times in my life when I studied them just as obsessively, haunting record shops and jazz clubs or hanging around re-run cinemas and renting two videos a night. I am also fascinated with the visual arts, particularly painting, and find myself reading biographies and watching documentaries about painters more than writers these days. I think there is something about their process that I imagine is rather close to my own, though I was always jealous of my art and music friends for being able to make so much noise and mess.

But taking the question more broadly, anything might help, you can’t tell, so you have to be alert: Taking a walk, shopping, watching kids play, or dogs, or birds. Hearing your neighbors fight. Watching bits of bad TV when you can’t sleep. Nightmares. I love listening to people talk and have always hung out with non-writers who are great tale-tellers: old people, travelers, drinkers, cranks, criminals, liars. Even awful things that seem like a waste of time end up being topics you write about: getting stuck in an airport, working a dead-end job. Even grief teaches us if we are willing to learn. Like Henry James said, “Try to be one of those on whom nothing is lost.” Not even loss, if you can help it.

Eliza Robertson Rocks

In the 62nd in a series of posts on 2014 books entered for The Story Prize, Eliza Robertson, author of Wallflowers (Bloomsbury), considers alternative careers.

If you weren’t a writer, what would you be doing?

I have three answers for this question, or rather, I will interpret this question in three different ways. 

Interpretation #1: If I died tomorrow and could be reincarnated as another human being, what would I be? Answer: a dancer. I have danced recreationally for twelve years, but it’s not the same. I missed the back-bending, foot-breaking golden years, and I am not sure I have a natural talent for it anyway. I was born pigeon-toed, which is the opposite of what you want. 

Interpretation #2: If at 20 I did not join the University of Victoria’s creative writing program, what would I be? Answer: A lawyer. I studied political science for the first three years of my undergraduate with the hopes of writing the LSAT and going to law school. 

Interpretation #3: If right now I did not write what would I be doing? This might be the nearest to the original question. Answer: I would work in a fun open-plan office with bowls of candy and bean bag chairs and walls you could write ideas on. I don’t know what the company would be, but it would involve an OK salary, witty coworkers and benefits, I hope. (Really — I would like this anyway, even as a full-time-ish writer.) OR I would work in film production. I don’t know what I would do in film production, but I feel at home on set, and I think I would like to speak into a headset or walkie talkie.

Describe an unusual writing habit of yours.

It has come to my attention that I rock from side to side. The first time I noticed, I was working at the beautiful Bibliothèque d’Etude et du Patrimoine in Toulouse, where I lived at the time. I suppose we are hyperaware of our behaviour in public spaces, because only then did I realize that I was shifting back and forth on the chair. I stopped. I didn’t want the French to think I was a psycho. The next day I caught myself rocking at home and did not stop. I figure it helps maintain a prose rhythm.

Do you ever borrow characters or situations from real life, and has anyone ever confronted you about it, been angry or pleased?

Normally I do not borrow characters from real life, except once I wrote about a hostile housemate. The story itself is not autobiographical, but certainly I recycled some of her mannerisms. She has not confronted me about it. It wouldn’t be the worst thing. I portrayed her sympathetically in the end, I think.

What's the best story idea you've had that you've never been able to write to your satisfaction?

When I was in a second year workshop at UVic, I submitted a story about a sword swallower, which was written in the form of a how-to guide. (The title was “How to Swallow a Sword,” I think.) It was basically a dramatized eHow set at a circus with a snake charmer and lobster boy who made puns about sea life. Oh, and the narrator was incestuous and “sword swallowing” became a metaphor for seducing his niece. I tried to take on too much, I think.