Issac Bailey, Author

I was first introduced to Issac Bailey at the Chicago Tribune Printers Row Lit Fest last June, where he spoke about his book My Brother Moochie: Regaining Dignity in the Face of Crime, Poverty, and Racism in the American South. My Brother Moochie is a powerful, personal exploration of race and racism and of the impact on a family when one of its own serves a life-sentence for murder. In Moochie, Bailey addresses the issues of shame and isolation. In addition to having brothers who have spent significant time in prison, Bailey has a severe stutter, which he says has proved to have a greater impact of his life’s trajectory than his race.

My Brother Moochie is not an easy read as Bailey challenges his readers to look at issues from many different angles and to examine their own biases about race, poverty, and crime. Bailey examines shame and marginalization through a personal and historical lens; he asks questions and, with brutal honesty, shares his own struggles growing up and as an adult raising children in a less-than-perfect world.

Bailey spent his childhood roughly thirty-five miles north of Charleston, South Carolina, the fifth of eleven kids. He began his journalism career with The Sun News in Myrtle Beach, where he started as a part-time reporter and calendar clerk before taking on various positions, including feature writer, real estate reporter, business editor, blogger, and the paper’s primary columnist. His investigative reporting led to policy and legal reforms within the South Carolina Department of Social Services and was instrumental in changing how the agency handles child protective services cases.

Bailey was a 2014 Nieman Fellow at Harvard University and has been published by several dozen publications, including Time magazine, Politico magazine, Esquire online,, The Washington Post, and He is currently an editor-at-large for and will be teaching journalism courses at Davidson College in North Carolina in the fall. He is working on his third book, A Black Man in Trumpland: Why We Didn’t Riot – But Should Have, which “concerns why black people are angry in the age of Trump.”

I had the great pleasure and honor of interviewing Issac Bailey over the phone in October 2018.

Diane Gottlieb: Good morning, Issac. I loved hearing you speak in Chicago and it was a pleasure talking to you at the book signing. I have to tell you that My Brother Moochie just blew me away.

Issac Bailey: Oh, wow. Thank you very much.

DG: It really did. I’d like to start where you start in the book. You begin with a pretty intense interaction you had with your own son when he was thirteen. You were angrier than you later thought you needed to be, and you relate your feelings to the particular struggle that black parents have raising black sons. This topic’s been covered before by Ta-Nehisi Coates, for example. It’s that fear for their black bodies out into the larger world. But you also added a whole other layer to the discussion. And that’s what I appreciate so much about your book and your articles. You add these really difficult, complex layers. And in this case, it’s the layer of shame.

IB: That’s right.

DG: Yes. So, if you could just say a little bit about how you see the unique intersection of fear and shame when it comes to parenting a child or teen of color?

IB: Yes. Actually, the hardest thing about trying to parent is that you’re not just parenting your own kids. You are also trying to prove how people who look like you are worthy as human beings. It’s like that at least for me. I’ve actually become too afraid for my kids. So now, I’m trying to be really aware of that.

DG: I read your article about you not giving them “the talk” about how to respond if they’re ever approached or pulled over by the police.

IB: Yes, exactly.

DG: That balance, I think, that every black parent has to carry is enormous.

IB: Oh yes. Yes. And so, at least for me, one of the reasons I don’t give that talk is simply because I think that that burden should be placed on the person who actually has the most power in the situation. In this case, that’s not my son. It’s the cop. I want cops to be held more accountable during these situations.

DG: I have a question about police accountability. What do you think about the verdict in the Jason Van Dyke case?

IB: I actually thought, finally, something wonderful is happening because the jury didn’t just simply buy his story. The cop said that he felt scared and then because of that it was actually okay to murder someone. The jury didn’t buy it.

DG: Do you see this is as maybe a tipping point or a turning point?

IB: I am hopeful that it is. But I’m not sure. There were two other cases like this in Texas this year where we also saw guilty verdicts. Yes. So hopefully, this is a start of something new, yes.

DG: We need some new starts.

IB: Yes, exactly.

One major thing is that I try to tell uncomfortable truths while not giving any fodder to racial stereotypes. That is a really delicate dance.

DG: Back to the book. I see shame as being at the heart of the book, just as it is in many, many problems in life. And the pain that shame causes. It’s palpable.

IB: Exactly.

DG: And what really interested me was when you said that your family, and families of perpetrators of violence in general, are the “black sheep of the black sheep.” Could you talk more about what it was like to have no space for your family’s grief and trauma? And about the burden of being the black sheep of the black sheep?

IB: Yes. Essentially, it is one of the most suffocating feelings that you can have because there is no place to turn. Even your friends and your neighbors have to keep you at arm’s length because if they get too close to you, they, too, will have to carry the extra burden. One of the most devastating parts about it is that it forces you into silence. And that makes it impossible to really grapple with everything that actually happened and to get help when you really, really need it. You have this trauma that will manifest itself later on in various ways.

DG: Was this an internalized understanding that there was no place to go? Or did you try to get help and were shut down?

IB: I think that it was more of an understanding. But I know that my mom had tried to get help. One of our neighbors was a state representative, and my mom went to him and asked him to say something positive, anything positive, about Moochie to the prosecutor or write a letter to the judge, for instance. But he said no. He turned her down.

DG: He said no?

IB: Yes, exactly. That was the typical response, yes.

DG: Oh, wow. That was probably up there—almost as hard as facing the actual event.

IB: Yes, exactly. That’s for sure.

DG: Another part that really, really moved me in the book was how you described the challenge of balancing your love for Moochie and for your younger brothers with the hate for what they did. That balance of holding the history of racial inequality and violence against blacks along with the fact that your brother actually killed somebody. Could you talk a little bit about that balance, about what you call your “schizophrenic endeavor?”

IB: Yes, yes.

DG: I love that—”schizophrenic endeavor.” Because how else can you describe it?

IB: Yes, yes, that’s for sure. I love my brothers, but at the same time, there were periods where they actually felt like a danger to my family and the town of St. Stephen. We could not get them to stop, to change. It was extremely frustrating. I felt helpless. There I was, trying to love them, but also recognizing the fact that they were real dangers to people that I also loved.

And then there’s also all the reading and research I’ve done on racial history. I mean, especially when it comes to, say, maybe somebody like Thomas Jefferson, for instance. There does not seem to be any real struggle, at least for many white people, to try to honor the good things he did and also to grapple with all the awful things that he did.

DG: Right.

IB: Yes. It seems as though that kind of struggle is a bigger deal for black people. And I’m not sure why.

DG: You know, it reminds me of the first question, of carrying the shame. I loved when you said in your book that white people don’t seem to question why it’s only white kids that go in and shoot up schools and movie theaters. And, you know, I always say, “Ah, another white kid. Another white boy.” And I really can relate to the feelings that people carry. Like when there’s a mass shooting. I can just imagine Muslim Americans saying, “Please, please not. Please don’t let it be a Muslim.”

IB: Exactly. Exactly.

DG: I’m Jewish. And I remember when the Bernie Madoff thing came out. And, I remember saying, “Oh no, please. Anything having to do with money, please don’t let it be someone Jewish.” You know?

IB: Of course.

DG: And it’s this shame that you carry for the stereotypes people have of you, whoever you are.

IB: Exactly. Exactly.

DG: But white people who are not in these other groups don’t carry that shame. When a white person commits an atrocity, everybody’s suddenly an individual. They just say, “well that’s not me. It’s got nothing to do with me.”

IB: I know, exactly. I know, right? Exactly. Then it’s just, “We’re all individuals.”

DG: Right. Okay. So, while I was reading Moochie, I thought—on many occasions—this guy’s going to offend everyone! You just challenge all sides, all views, biases, all assumptions with equal zest. And I know from reading several of your articles that you’ve gotten pushback from all sides. It doesn’t seem to bother you too much, or at least it doesn’t stop you. What have been your greatest challenges when writing about race?

IB: Oh, yes. One major thing is that I try to tell uncomfortable truths while not giving any fodder to racial stereotypes. That is a really delicate dance.

DG: It is.

IB: Especially when you’re writing about crime and black men. That’s my biggest struggle. I’m always trying to find that sweet spot, that most honest place.

DG: That is really a struggle, right?

IB: Oh, yes. Massive struggle. Yes. That is my top struggle, that is for sure.

DG: And you know you’re going to hear about it later.

IB: Yes, exactly. Exactly. Yes.

DG: So, we can’t talk about race in our country without bringing up the criminal justice system.

IB: That’s right.

DG: There definitely has been movement in the right direction. But mostly for non-violent drug offenders.

IB: Exactly. Exactly.

DG: I love how you even question that. You just get in so deep and bring up ways of thinking about issues that most people haven’t considered. For example, when you said that drug trafficking is not a non-violent offense.

IB: Exactly, it’s not.

DG: Because it is a violence. And whether this guy shot somebody or not, he’s engaging in violence by trafficking drugs. There is extreme marginalization of violent offenders, and their needs must to be considered in the prison reform movement too. Can you tell me what that would look like for you?

IB: That is a great question. A first step would be a philosophical recognition that we are not the worst thing that we’ve done. In practical terms, we need to look at our history going back to the 1950s and ‘60s, for instance. Even when people did something violent, we did not automatically give them really, really long sentences. If we can get back to some of that, well, I think that would go a long way.

DG: The acknowledgement piece, though. I just don’t see that around the corner, you know? People are so afraid.

IB: Exactly.

It seems as though many people are actually trying to understand when it comes to race and ripples of trauma. Since the book has come out, I’ve had more opportunities to fully explain myself and what families like mine go through. And that’s been very helpful.

DG: People see others who have committed violence and say, “Oh no, they’re not me.” And what struck me is that through your own experiences with PTSD, you’ve debunked that statement. It could be me. It very well could be me. There, by the grace of God, go I.

So, here’s another thing you said in the book that’s really interesting,” My brother is a murderer or at least a man who committed a murder.” And, to me, that’s a really important distinction. It’s not just a matter of semantics. It’s a whole different perspective. And do you have that perspective?

IB: Like?

DG: Like, do you sometimes see him as a murderer? Or do you see him as a man who committed a murder?

IB: I’ve actually gone back and forth on that. That, too, was part of my struggle for many years. When I was in college, I actually did not mention his name once. I saw him as a murderer because I knew that’s how that he was viewed. I’m stronger now and much clearer. I definitely don’t see him that way anymore.

DG: But it was a process.

IB: Oh yes. A long process. That was a years-long process, yes. For sure. It definitely was.

DG: Has writing the book helped you to heal some of the shame?

IB: Yes. It seems as though many people are actually trying to understand when it comes to race and ripples of trauma. Since the book has come out, I’ve had more opportunities to fully explain myself and what families like mine go through. And that’s been very helpful.

DG: So, I think part of this shame thing is the invisibility. Shame makes you want to hide. For a lot of people, though, invisibility is not a choice. It’s forced on them.

IB: Exactly.

DG: Like, when Moochie was put in solitary confinement for not cutting his hair.

IB: Exactly.

DG: Do you feel that writing and putting these things out in the open has helped to alleviate the shame? Is that part of it? Becoming visible about it?

IB: Yes. And the biggest part about it is that you actually feel less of a need to hide. It’s been this massive relief.

DG: How else has the process of writing this personal—deeply personal—account changed you?

IB: One of the biggest changes is that I’m now more open with my wife. And when I catch myself trying to retreat emotionally, I am actually able to stop myself from doing that.

DG: That’s great. That’s wonderful. So, she probably wants you to write more books!

IB: Yes, exactly. Exactly.

DG: Has Moochie read it?

IB: Yes.

DG: And what was his response?

IB: Well, he’s been happy about it simply because he thinks that it has given him voice again.

DG: That’s great. So that’s been healing for your family, too.

IB: Yes, yes. It’s been a process, for sure, yes.

DG: One of the gifts that I feel I got from reading Moochie is that it introduced me to your larger body of work in journalism. I love how you challenge yourself and your readers!

Because, at least for me, hope actually comes through tensions and struggle and from people embracing that tension and struggle. I think that’s when real progress is going to come.

IB: Thank you.

DG: And you have no problem calling anybody out. You write a lot about race and about writing about race. In one article “Don’t Shy Away from Dealing Forthrightly with Race,” you mention Dina Temple-Raston and Matt Taibbi. Both are white and both have written important books that deal with race. Any thoughts or advice for people who want to venture into this territory?

IB: Oh, yes. Yes. At least my views on this are pretty basic. Just as long as it’s a worthy story told well. As long as that’s the case, then I think that nothing else really matters.

DG: I’m with you. Aren’t we here to learn from other people and from their experiences? Otherwise, we’re just stuck with our own boring selves.

IB: Exactly.

DG: You’ve stated that murder made you a journalist, right?

IB: Yes.

DG: But how has journalism informed your memoir?

IB: It gave me the skills to get as close to the truth as possible.

DG: So, we should all do some journalistic reporting, right?

IB: Yes. Yes, exactly.

DG: What did you find were some of the differences in approach—writing a memoir as opposed to writing journalism.

IB: I think the transition was easier for me because I had already been doing column writing, which is shorter journalistic memoir, essentially.

DG: That makes sense. I loved your article in which you talked about the Clinton emails and how the media handled that. Have the media learned anything?

IB: I’m not too sure. I’m not too sure. I still think they are trying too hard not to be labeled biased. And, therefore, sometimes the truth takes a back seat. I think that that’s one of our biggest issues.

DG: It certainly is. You also talk about disappointments like Harvard and Michelle Jones and Trump’s election. Are you at all hopeful?

IB: I’m not sure that I am right now. Because, at least for me, hope actually comes through tensions and struggle and from people embracing that tension and struggle. I think that’s when real progress is going to come.

DG: Yes, and nobody’s doing that now.

IB: Yes, yes.

DG: How do you think race and gender are going to play into the next presidential election? Because we hear Elizabeth Warren called Pocahontas and with Kamala Harris and Cory Booker as contenders, do you think things are going to get even uglier?

IB: The ugliness will definitely still be here in 2020. But I think it will make it very difficult for him [Trump] to win.

DG: Because people will be sick of the ugliness, you mean?

IB: Yes. Yes.

DG: Oh! From your mouth to God’s ears!

It was interesting how you weaved your stuttering into the book. And how you feel that you could’ve been where your brother is, but in some ways, your stutter protected you from that path. At the same time, you say that your stutter has had a greater impact on your life’s trajectory than your being a black male, that it held you back in your journalism career. Can you touch on this?

IB: Yes. Having a severe stutter has been like nothing else that I have ever experienced. We only make up one percent of the population. At least with race, there are some people trying to understand.

But yet, with the stutter, most people don’t actually try to understand. The stutter isolates you even more. When it comes to my career, I’ve actually missed out on many more opportunities because of my stutter than my face.

DG: I’m sitting here, six degrees of separation from Barack Obama because you interviewed him. I can’t not ask you about that.

IB: Well, he did not seem to be bothered at all by my stutter.

DG: Yes, I read that in the book. I’m not surprised. Were you nervous about that?

IB: I guess that nervous is not the right word.

DG: Okay. What would it be?

IB: I always have to plan ahead. For any interview. Because I simply don’t know how difficult my stutter will be that day.

DG: Do you get star-struck?

IB: No. I guess that’s one of the blessings or curses of stuttering. I actually have had to wear blinders of sorts. Therefore, I don’t respond to such things like most people do.

DG: How is Moochie these days?

IB: Well, he’s getting better day by day. He’s actually been out for about four years now. He is still adjusting to this new world, of course.

DG: Sure. Has he gotten help for his PTSD?

IB: Yes, he has been seeing a counselor.

DG: Good. What’s next for you?

IB: What’s next? That’s a good question. I actually love teaching. So, I’m probably going to do that again next year.

DG: Great. And would it be journalism? Is that what you teach?

IB: Yes. I teach journalism and ethics.

DG: Ethics? I can’t think of a better person.

IB: Wow. Thanks very much.

DG: So, I have nothing else right now. I just want to say what a joy this was.

IB: Oh, wow. Thank you very much.

DG: Issac, I feel like I’ve made a friend.


Diane Gottlieb writes fiction and nonfiction is currently working on a murder mystery with a social justice bent. She is an MFA candidate at Antioch University Los Angeles and is the lead editor of creative nonfiction and a member of the interview team for Lunch Ticket. Her work has appeared in Panoply and Lunch Ticket. You can also find her weekly musings at

Naima Coster, Author

Young writers are finding ways to speak out through character. Pulled from the news, fiction and fact condense into compelling personal accounts. But Naima Coster isn’t politicizing a message. Her work is far more reaching, more tender, and more carefully wrought. This Yale, Columbia, and Fordham graduate draws the straight line of success from classwork to her beliefs and book sales. Coster’s debut novel, Halsey Street, a Finalist for the 2018 Kirkus Prize for Fiction, encompasses one family’s downward spiral while its dual perspectives expose a community’s erasure and rapidly changing identity. Coster’s lead woman, Penelope Grand, and her mother Mirella, emphasize their struggles and the importance of loyalty.

Penelope serves as Coster’s voice, allowing the author’s observations about race, class, and gender to proliferate the novel. In truth, Penelope is simply attempting to manage, make art, and embark on a relationship while juggling varied cultures. Coster understands balancing differing worlds and she cultivates a liminal place out of her own experience. Originally from Brooklyn’s Fort Greene neighborhood, she received a prized education in a prestigious all-girls Manhattan high school.

The navigation isn’t easy. Neither is writing a work called forth as a seminal representor of gentrification’s impact. But Coster gracefully moves through these pressures, citing an emphasis on self-care, time with friends, and a commitment to focused storytelling.

A lovely woman with a notable glimmer in her eyes, Naima Coster shares her eloquent thoughts and hearty laughs in a quiet Antioch University Los Angeles office where she is a guest mentor for the MFA creative writing program. Coster’s stories and essays have appeared in The New York Times, The Paris Review, The Rumpus, Catapult, Arts’ Letters, Aster(ix), Kweli, and other publications. Other accolades include teaching writing in youth programs and to students in jail and at universities. Naima Coster tweets at @zafatista, writes the newsletter, Bloom How You Must, and lives with her family in Washington DC.

My experience in workshops have been very formative for me. They gave me a sense of what I needed to work on as a writer but even more importantly, in some ways, helped me understand popular sensibilities of other writers that I could then just keep in mind as I was working.


Andrea Auten: I loved reading Halsey Street. And I love how you personalized the breaking down of a neighborhood, and its changes, and its impermanence. The way it can be invaded and tenderly expressed, the same in the intimacies of a family. Could you tell me about the journey between the animate and the material in building Halsey Street?

Naima Coster: It’s a really interesting question. I think that interest in the material started for me probably with thinking about place, and the different ways that place can send us a message about who we are, or how we’re perceived, or can be something that people use to try to understand what’s going on in a neighborhood and a people. So, I thought mostly about the materiality of Brooklyn, and Bed-Stuy in particular, and how as it changed; the story of people in Brooklyn is changing. But I thought that that was also true of houses. Like how people craft their homes, and are able to care for them, or are not. It was especially relevant for Penelope, for someone who has a lot of trouble talking about her emotions or putting them into words and engages with the world mostly in physical ways. So, whether it’s the physical act of holding a paintbrush or running around the neighborhood and noticing what’s around her, it felt like a way to hold emotion, and psychological depth in the book when the characters couldn’t always.

AA: Yeah, right. I really did feel that.

NC: I’m glad that you did.

AA: I could get inside her, and I don’t think that was just because I’m an artist either. Are you an artist? Do you do any visual art?

NC: I don’t do any visual art, but I would’ve always liked to, and maybe I still will one day, although I feel daunted by it. Writing about a visual artist was a way to vicariously experience all of that. So, I did some research. I watched videos of people painting. I read art magazines. I just picked them up when I was in the bookstore, and went through them, and I had a friend who’s an artist read the book just to let me know what I’d gotten wrong.

AA: Had you gotten much wrong?

NC: Not from her reading of it, and I think part of that was because I was careful about what I elaborated on, and what I didn’t. She said that the art school experience that I described really resonated with her—which is interesting— because that was just an imaginative exercise, sort of thinking about and pulling from what I know about elite institutions, about artists, if not visual artists, but some of the ways artists can grandstand around each other. I was glad that it rang true with her.

AA: That leads me to my next question because I was taken with Penelope’s art, and it’s true that Halsey Street isn’t a book about art. It’s a book about an artist confronting these other issues and her response to the RISD crits (critical evaluations). You know, those Rhode Island School of Design students wear these shirts that say “Crit happens!”

NC: Oh! That’s Great!

AA: Yeah, right? Those crits are excruciating in the arts programs. Musical theatre boards can be like American Idol on steroids with that type of rigorous review. What do you think about artistic criticism for students studying the disciplines?

NC: My experience in workshops have been very formative for me. They gave me a sense of what I needed to work on as a writer but even more importantly, in some ways, helped me understand popular sensibilities of other writers that I could then just keep in mind as I was working. That didn’t mean I would write to that sensibility, but I could be aware of when I was doing something that might offend or unsettle or interest that sensibility. While I found them helpful, I think that something that can [get lost] in the room in the middle of a crit is how vulnerable all the people in the room are, and what they’re bringing with them into the room.

So, for someone like Penelope who’s bringing in already a sense of being alienated from her privileged peers—and there being no way that that’s meaningfully accounted for in the classroom—the crit is on her in this particular way. I think that’s true for everyone in a crit, or in a workshop. Everyone has a past, things that are going on in the present that affect how they hear feedback, and also how they give it to others. That’s not always an element that we wrestle with. We sort of just think of everyone as a writer because everyone is, and we can forget some of the more human feelings and fears that people bring with them into the room. And human prejudices, human—all of the things that are a part of us because we’re not just objective readers with good taste.

It’s difficult to figure out how to write a book that raises really provocative questions. It also makes some claims, I think, but making sure that it’s all subtle, and filtered through character in a work of fiction, but also making sure that the subtlety and the ambivalence aren’t so great that the book ends up saying nothing about gentrification, or about the theme.


AA: You were able to present gentrification without smacking the reader. I appreciate that. How did you dwell long term in a hard piece? It must have been really draining. What did you do to keep your energy up?

NC: Oh, that’s a good question. I think that’s something that always kept the book alive to me and kept the themes from feeling tired, was constantly uncovering new layers of character. So, I think I would’ve run out of steam if I just sort of fought through gentrification, and the book would’ve become too large and unwieldy because there are just too many things to say and explore, and my book couldn’t hold the pressure of telling some sort of authoritative account of gentrification in Brooklyn. But I was continually interested in what it meant for Penelope, and what it meant for her as she’s embarking on this relationship with her landlord, as she’s watching her father’s decline, as she’s meeting other artists. That kept it interesting and alive for me, following her character.

You ask how did I get inspired? Well, I didn’t work on it constantly for four years. There were ebbs and flows to my work on it, although it was more or less consistent, and I felt that the time that I was away from it made me sort of itch to get back to it and write. I ingested a fair amount of art during this time, so film and books, and that kept me really energized, and interested in things that I wanted to try on. Also, just having writing partners, and encouraging people, I found was really helpful when I didn’t always have the internal clarity about it. Meeting with other people who were spending their time in the same way, worrying about the same things was really affirming, and encouraging. Maybe not every writer needs that, but I certainly do.

In the beginning, I had an idea or a vision for the book, and then once I switched point of view, I thought that what the heart of the book was going to be was going to shift. It wasn’t just that the book would remain the same, but told through these two points of view. But what was ultimately at the center changed, which was challenging, but also really rich.


AA: Oh yes, because how did you keep from raging?

NC: Part of the fun of a novel is that the characters can have a range of responses and hold a range of emotions. There can be Ralph (Penelope’s father) in the book who’s sort of unapologetic in his lamentation of how the neighborhood has changed and his critique of gentrifiers, and then there’s Penelope who’s got this ambivalence and is in this in-between place. She gets to rage in the book which is different than the book raging. But I gave her permission to do it, and to do it without punishment. She’s not punished when she lashes out at her landlord and his friend who wants to buy in the neighborhood. Those moments, I thought, became really critical ways to suggest something about gentrification without making the book into a polemic. Even with her relationship with the Harpers, there are moments of tenderness and sweetness that I think keep the book from totally villainizing them. I would say that the book doesn’t totally condone their presence, their way of being, but kind of leaves that as an open question for the reader.

AA: There’s this moment with Mrs. Harper and I think Penelope is just using her observant power to figure some things out. Oh, this woman. How somewhat narcissistic in her needs; her problems are the largest in the room. How that was something Penelope had seen in other places, and I thought that was really… I don’t think tender is the word I want, but poignantly handled. It wasn’t this explosive point. It was just like, this is an observation. I thought that was really well handled. Not rage-y, really well handled.

NC: Thank you. It’s difficult to figure out how to write a book that raises really provocative questions. It also makes some claims, I think, but making sure that it’s all subtle, and filtered through character in a work of fiction, but also making sure that the subtlety and the ambivalence aren’t so great that the book ends up saying nothing about gentrification, or about the theme. Or that the book only says it’s complicated, rather than it’s complicated and this is true. Like, there’s a cost to displacement, so that was a delicate balance for me, and I imagine it’ll continue to be in my work.

AA: That struggle: in your LitHub article, “Who Gets to Write about Gentrification?” You say Penelope on her own might not be enough, and Mirella—the demanding character who stole more of your time-challenged expected behaviors. How did changing perspective impact your writing experience?

NC: Well, I think changing perspectives challenged my sense of what the book was about. In the beginning, I had an idea or a vision for the book, and then once I switched point of view, I thought that what the heart of the book was going to be was going to shift. It wasn’t just that the book would remain the same, but told through these two points of view. But what was ultimately at the center changed, which was challenging, but also really rich. I also thought it was good to get away from some things that were easy for me to default to. It was so easy to default to writing about someone with a similar educational trajectory to me. I didn’t drop out of art school, but someone who had a higher education. Penelope and I are not the same age, but someone who’s roughly in my age range.

So, it really helped challenge my sense of who I could write about, who was interesting to me, who I could follow, and also points of connection between the characters because there are as many points of connection between me and Penelope as there are between me and Mirella. Also, with some of the other characters, even if they’re not as fully formed, and I find that they’re pieces of me. Whether that’s questions, experiences, emotions, in all of the characters, even the ones who seem really biographically different.

AA: You had mentioned something about having found out your book was described as quiet and having some ambivalence about finding that out. I’d love to hear more about that if you could share.

NC: Yeah, so I’ll clarify that I heard it in two different ways. I heard it in a wonderful review from Kirkus Reviews that I loved, and I loved the use of it there because it didn’t seem like a condemnation, and it wasn’t cited as a flaw of the book. I thought that was just a really insightful, encouraging review. But I did hear it in other places as a critique. So, quiet. I wasn’t really sure what was meant by it, but what I think it means is that it’s about the internal world of these two women, and their thoughts and feelings and impressions. That, I thought, shouldn’t be a reason for critique at all. In large part because so much great fiction is about the internal world of characters, but perhaps characters who we have minds that are interesting, or energetic, and I think these women are actually quite loud in their convictions and beliefs. So it felt gendered…as much as it felt about some…I guess publishing world sensibility about what people read. Sort of like the minds of great men aren’t called quiet, but I might be wrong about that. But that’s my sense.

AA: There’s a lot to be learned right in the comments you’ve just made. Also, in this more tumultuous place, a white woman loved a book you were reading, and said, “Oh, I love that book. It’s about race without being about race.” I thought that was awful, truly awful. You state quite clearly that your book is about race. In this moment, I wonder about white fragility, and what’s appropriate to even ask you? So, I thought I’d be upfront about where I am with that.

I believe in educating myself, a big follower of bell hooks. I believe in doing the work, researching, reading, using books, such as yours, to increase my understanding. I do the best I can to not bring my questions or guilt or shame or grief caused by my people to people of color in my scope. I also believe in growing this sense with other white people in my scope. So, with that in mind and with regards to white fragility, how might your book work best? If we can talk about that. Or if you don’t even want to talk in that regard, I mean, I do want that question answered, but I go back to the first point of what’s appropriate to ask you?

NC: That’s an interesting question. I think that it’s great that you’ve brought up white fragility and race because I think they do shape readerly responses to literature just like they shape our lives at all kinds of levels: political level, at the level of the neighborhood; but we’re not always transparent about how that affects the assessment of a work of art, or whether a reader says something like I didn’t relate to this book. Or I was offended by this book. Or I just couldn’t get into it. Sometimes those responses can be totally shaped by race and racism, by white fragility.

So because I can’t control what is in a reader, nor would I want to, I do think that the reception of my book is beyond my control, and that readers will bring what they bring to the text, and I can only really think about how I craft the text itself. I saw some of this play out when I was reading online reviews of my book, sort of reader reviews, and then I stopped. Just because every writer I knew told me that was a bad idea, and I don’t regret stopping, but it was interesting to see how much racial politics were informing people’s view of the book in a range of ways. From deeming it important and urgent, to deeming it highly relatable, and including experiences that they had gone through in their neighborhood, people thanking me for the portraits of Brooklyn, to people deeming the book racist, or the characters unrelatable, or the use of Spanish alienating and frustrating, [or] not worth the money paid for the book. So, all those responses had nothing to do…or were not inevitable responses to my book, but were coming out of whatever the reader brought to the text. I am not going to change what I want to write in order to be palatable to any reader, or certainly not a reader who’s bringing white fragility to the text. But, you know, knowing that those responses are shaped by
so many other factors has been really helpful.

AA: Thank you, because it leaves me with: How do we all talk to one another, especially in this current political climate?

NC: Yeah, and I think that there has to be room for readers, classmates, teachers, to do some self-reflection about what they’re bringing to their assessments of texts, of other people, of art, and to think about how internalized oppression is shaping the way we interact with each other, and with creative work. Whether that’s sexism or racism or transphobia, whatever it may be, knowing that those things can’t be a part of us, and a part of our culture without affecting the way we talk about books and art and artists.

AA: Right, right, and the canon that has been given to us with our Eurocentric education. Looking at your teacher and how old your teacher is, and assuming how that person was educated and what they had to unlock. If we’re going to try not to bring how we were educated into the next generation, we have to unlock what was given to us.

NC: Yeah, and it shapes not just how we respond as readers, but also what we create as writers. I’m always struck by how beautiful a lot of the characters in fiction are, how conventionally beautiful, and thin. That’s another way that our ideas about who’s worth following shaped the work because it certainly doesn’t reflect the world we live in, that everyone is slender, and long- haired.

I think a lot just about how I have been given, and I’ve taken the time and space to really value my own mind, which I think a writer has to do, and I don’t think it’s something that women of color are always encouraged to do. I think in some ways my education gave me some sense that what I have to say and what I think matters and is valuable and might be useful to someone else. That has been no small thing.


AA: I invited one of our BA creative writing students from [the Antioch program] to hear you read. She had just attended Michelle Obama speaking in LA on the Becoming tour and was so thrilled. She’s an older student, a person of color, and an emerging writer. What would you like her, and others like her, to know?

NC: So many things. I would highlight the importance of finding a supportive community. Whether that’s a community that you can retreat to, to talk about some awful feedback you got, whether it’s in class, or from an editor, and just to have people who believe you. People who will believe you—and believe your assessment if you feel it’s something that was happening was because of who you are—and not just because of the work, just to have a community of people who will believe you, and encourage you, I think is really critical.

Also, there are a lot of people of color in the publishing world who are looking out for each other, who are amplifying each other’s work. Whether on Twitter, or through inviting people to speak, or buying their books, sharing resources. It’s very encouraging that there are sites of power that people are creating and sharing with one another. I would tell her that it’s important to keep going, and it’s a simple thing. I had a professor who said it all the time to us, and it really frustrated us—those of us who were his students—because we thought: can you just introduce us to an agent? Or tell us how to make it better? But he would always encourage us to keep going. Once I was out of the structure of school and working on a novel myself, I realized how much that had to become a mantra for myself when it really wasn’t easy to keep going. So, I would tell her to keep going, and that a supportive community will help with that, and to give herself whatever else she needs to keep going as best she can.

AA: In the college world, have you been confronted with surprising messages? How are students gaining a better understanding, coming together, listening, trying to make room for marginalized voices to speak?

NC: Yeah, I’m really cautious about constructing any sort of overarching narrative that explains America today. Something like students are taking charge and resisting more and more, or things are getting worse and worse. I always resist those overarching narratives. In part because I don’t feel qualified to construct them, but also because I am skeptical about how they often seem a-historical or just to erase complexity. What I do know is that both resistance and awareness, as well as ignorance and hatefulness, are consistent.

AA: Your education was a powerful driver for your parents, and then clearly, you continued it. How do higher academics empower women? And did your degree work push you away from anyone?

NC: Push me away from anyone? That’s a good question. I think that it’s always difficult when one has experiences that really differentiate them from their community or their family. Whether that’s having a different language and culture to claim than the generation before or educational level, it can create rifts and difficulties as well as new possibilities, but I wouldn’t say that it pushed me away from anyone. But it certainly established some differences between me and people in my community, and me and my family. But also lots of points of connection and similarity. It’s not all rifts. But in terms of how my education has empowered me, I think a lot just about how I have been given, and I’ve taken the time and space to really value my own mind, which I think a writer has to do, and I don’t think it’s something that women of color are always encouraged to do. I think in some ways my education gave me some sense that what I have to say and what I think matters and is valuable and might be useful to someone else. That has been no small thing.

AA: In the Kenyon Review, you mentioned once feeling anxiety, doubt, and a sense of failure when creating your art. Other times, you bring up hard times with the body. But when I read the powerful Paris Review piece, “Who Gets to Be Brooklyn Born?” or this beautiful piece about a wedding on the train tracks, I don’t find the lingering wisps of doubting your professional ability. Oh, that piece on your wedding! There was something about those two pieces right there, and I just was hit with your power.

NC: Oh, thank you!

AA: How are you handling your power these days?

NC: Yeah, I think I’m still learning to recognize my power, and to handle it. I have moments where I’m more in touch with it than others, and publishing a book has not changed that in terms of when I feel connected and empowered, and when I don’t. I do think that writing is a place for me where I feel most powerful and in touch with it. That’s probably why I started writing, honestly, as a child, because it felt like a way to establish my own authority, and my own version of things, and again, to value my mind. And so I think I’m still learning how to hold on to a sense of my power, and not forget about it, and then remember it, and forget about it. I think that the writing helps me to remember.

AA: And it seems like it’s growing with you. Even just reading the Cobain piece—

NC: You read so widely, thank you!

AA: I really enjoyed it too. What do you say to women who are feeling meek, beaten down, or worn out?

NC: Oof. Yeah. I guess I would say I’ve been there. And so have many of us. It’s a difficult experience, but not one in which you’re alone. Something that I think a lot about is how to honor my feelings, but also push myself beyond them in terms of action. Sometimes feeling meek, but doing the brave thing anyway is helpful. So, I try to do that a lot, to not always act out of my feeling. I’ve acknowledged the feeling, but sometimes you do the things anyway. I had a woman give me the advice where she was like, “sometimes you just put on a dress and sit at the grownup’s table.” I was talking to her about feeling sort of meek, and she’s much older than I am and further along in her career, but she said that there were times when she had to do that, as well. I think that that can be really helpful and can be a way of shifting feelings. Not always full, but introducing new feelings, too.

AA: I like it. The dress could be Doc Martens and jeans. What’s next, Naima?

NC: Yeah. I have two books in the works. One that I’m working on much more actively right now. That one is set in North Carolina, and it’s similar to Halsey Street in the sense that it’s about how place shapes people, how things that are happening in a community reverberate throughout, and it’s about two families. It’s a family drama with all of the themes that really interest me, so the interior lives of women, relationships across lines of difference, intergenerational trauma. It’s thematically really similar, but a whole different set of characters, a different place, and was formed by my time in North Carolina, which was really precious to me.

And then the other book is sort of a quest story that I started as a challenge for myself as a writer. That also has a lot of the same themes, but it’s about a young woman who has to go on a journey, and not just a figurative one, a literal journey to protect her family. It’s a different kind of book for me, but out of the same sort of questions. And the question of that book, I’ve shared this elsewhere, but I’l share it with you anyway—the question of that book is, how do you learn to be tender when life has required that you be hard? That’s the question that I’m kicking around throughout the book while this woman is on an adventure. I often start writing with a question in mind.

AA: Thank you, so much, Naima. This was really fun.

NC: Thank you for your thoughtful questions.

Andrea Auten is a writer and a visual and performing artist. A writing specialist for Antioch University Los Angeles, she is the community outreach, social media associate managing editor, and youth content coordinator for Lunch Ticket. She is currently working on a collection of short stories and lives with her husband, sons, and beloved writing partner, Dusky, the family cat. Find her at

Christoper Castellani, Author

Photo Credit: Michael Joseph

Christopher Castellani, the son of Italian-American immigrants, is best known for his critically-acclaimed trilogy of novels about an Italian-American family: A Kiss from Maddalena (Algonquin Books, 2003), The Saint of Lost Things (Algonquin, 2005), and All This Talk of Love (Algonquin, 2013). Filled with real and complex characters living in turbulent times, the Grasso family’s story reminded me of my own, even though my father’s family comes from Ireland, and my mother’s family from Mexico. Like many readers, I found familiarity in the issues and challenges that the Grasso family faced, since most immigrant parents are continually carving out a new identity in their new home, while simultaneously shouldering responsibility to traditions and values that they’ve left behind. Castellani’s novels proved to be delicious historical fiction that I found hard to put down.

I devoured each book, and when I looked up—it was time for the December 2018 MFA residency.

And yet, it was Castellani’s craft book, The Art of Perspective (Greywolf Press, 2016) that I brought to the winter residency for Chris to sign—a craft book that I read before the Grasso family trilogy. It’s the one Castellani book that remains my favorite, for its unique voice that imparted level-headed wisdom. As I continue to labor over my own novel—seven years in the making— The Art of Perspective continues to be my go-to craft book as I discover the right narrative strategy for the whole story.

Castellani’s newest novel, Leading Men, is described on his website as “an expansive yet intimate story of desire, artistic ambition, and fidelity, set in the glamorous literary and film circles of 1950s Italy.” It’s a story that takes place over a span of years, beginning when Tennessee Williams and his lover, Frank Merlo, meet a gorgeous, aspiring Swedish actress, Anja Blomgren, at a party in Portofino, thrown by a mutual friend, Truman Capote. Frank remembers the events of that summer as he lies dying in Manhattan, ten years later, waiting for one last visit from Tennessee. Anja is now legendary film icon Anja Bloom, who lives as a recluse until she is forced back into the spotlight after it is discovered that she possesses the only copy of Tennessee Williams’s unpublished, final play—written especially for her.

Castellani now lives and works in Boston, serving as Artistic Director for GrubStreet, a non-profit agency that runs a renowned creative writing program, where writers help other writers in the community. Chris and I connected via Skype at the beginning of February, just as he finished a busy day at the GrubStreet offices. There, he found a quiet room and we started talking about his upcoming book tour.

If I have too many options when I’m writing, if everything is open, in terms of narrative, I get paralyzed and my imagination shuts down.

Janet Rodriguez: Congratulations on Leading Men. I saw your book tour schedule and I counted forty stops. What are you thinking? Are you going to sleep?

Christopher Castellani: (laughs) Yeah, it’s crazy, I know. Probably not. I’m so flattered and honored that so many places want to have me. I get a lot out of the experience of presenting and talking to people and all that, which is fulfilling for me, which is nice.

JR: I know, when you read at Antioch, you were wonderful. This new book is a bit of a departure for you, isn’t it?

CC: In the sense that it doesn’t have any basis in family stories, yes, it’s a departure, but it also has the historical or alternative fiction elements to it. In a way, it is actually quite similar to what I did with my family story. If you think of my family story as a family history, what I was doing was taking pieces of that real history and transforming it into fiction. It’s not so different taking the history of people I don’t know and transforming that into fiction. In some ways, it’s not a departure, it’s just a different cast of characters.

JR: So, what’s it like, fictionalizing “history”?

CC: (laughs at my air quotes) I found it strangely freeing. People think that’s counterintuitive, but I loved having the constraints. If I have too many options when I’m writing, if everything is open, in terms of narrative, I get paralyzed and my imagination shuts down. In the case of this book, there was a missing week in the journals that Tennessee Williams was keeping. I decided to write the book inside of that missing week, so I had the constraints of time, the constraints of geography, and, of course, the constraints of a few known characters. Within those constraints I felt like I was fully playing. I could really use my imagination and go crazy but within a certain set of limits. To me, that was the ideal circumstance to write this book.

JR: I like how you say you feel free within those constraints—you’re free to play and use your imagination.

CC: Exactly. I get paralyzed when I’m relying on one-hundred percent of what comes into my mind. I think I would be a really good color-by-numbers painter, rather than a blank canvas. [laughs] I would change the numbers, of course, but I like having the lines around them.

JR: The first book of yours that I ever read was The Art of Perspective. I loved the entire series by Grey Wolf Press, but I thought your book had one of the best beginnings of any craft book I have ever read. You illustrate how important it is to get connection with the reader, pull them into the story, and then—boom! —they’re off with you. I think it has the most wonderful beginning of any book—let alone a craft book—and I really enjoyed it.

CC: Thank you. Thank you so much.

JR: Why is it so important for writers to get the right perspective?

CC: Well, like I tried to illustrate with that example [at the beginning of The Art of Perspective], it changes everything. Ultimately, every story is about the narrator, whether they realize it or not. So, it really makes a huge difference who you have controlling the narrative because, ultimately, it’s going to reflect on that character. It’s the same if you have an omniscient, or an amorphous narrator, it still has that sensibility defining the whole narrative. You’ll have main characters and minor characters, but who’s pulling the strings of characterizing them in one way or another? That’s the author or the narrator, and ultimately, the book and the story is a reflection of them. So, it really comes down to who tells the story.

This is true of anyone who tells you any story, even someone you meet in person on the street. Let’s say you meet an old friend for coffee and she’s telling you about her marriage, her children, or whatever. What she’s saying is only true based on her own perception; it’s only one side of the story. If the novel that’s written about that family is told by her, it’s going to be a very different book than if it’s told by the son, her husband, her sister, or the neighbor. It’s going to be a different story if it’s told by all of them, from multiple different points of view. Each of those options carries a different effect on the overall project of the book. The truth really doesn’t matter; it’s all kind of relative.

JR: Do you believe that a story gets written when you can’t write it any other way?

CC: I think there’s a truth to that. I don’t know if you have to actually write from every point of view [laughs], but I do think you have to consider the narrative from a bunch of different angles and consider what would happen to the narrative if you told it another way. Finally, you’ll hit upon the one that feels the most true to you.

The way into the story is not necessarily the way out. So, if you start a story from the mother’s point of view, and you think, “Well, because I started it that way—that’s what I was organically led to—then that’s the way the story has to stay.” That’s completely not true. The mother’s point of view is often just the onramp to the story, but the story might be told by a different character or using a completely different process or a different strategy once you know what you want the story to be about.

We often go into the story thinking that we know what we want it to be about, and we think we have the right way of getting there, but once we’re in the middle of it, we realize it’s actually about something else. Once we realize that, it’s probably unlikely that the same person can still tell it. So, we have to constantly be open to reorganizing or reassessing our strategy.

JR: Is there a strategy to finding the right narrator? A shortcut?

CC: I wouldn’t say there are shortcuts, but what I do recommend that people do—and I’ve done with every book—is write a lot outside the story or the novel. I write journal entries of characters that I know won’t end up in the book, but it’s just a way of getting to know them better. So, I write in their voices. I’ll write letters from one character to another, just to see what they would say to each other, even though I know it’s not going to end up in the book. I’m getting to know them on that intimate level, in a way that will not necessarily be a part of the book. When you do this, it’s so important to tell yourself, “None of what I’m writing is going to end up in this book.” Because then, you can unlock a part of yourself that isn’t trying to impress anybody; you’re just trying to get to know these people.

From the beginning, if you know you’re gay from early on, which I did, or if you know you’re different, at least, early on, which I did, you knew exactly what that meant. It forces you to watch people’s behavior because you have to figure out a way to operate and get through it.

Once you start to amass this material, you do start to see, “Oh, this is where the energy is! This is whose voice that I want to tell the story.” Or, “These are the multiple voices that I need to tell the story.” Or, “Okay, it’s actually about this time of their lives, but I’m going to tell it from thirty years later, for whatever reason.” Only when you amass a lot of material can you make a decision in an informed way, but as I said, that material doesn’t have to end up in the story.

It can be anything: notes, pictures, almost anything that would be like making a scrapbook of a character’s life, whether you’re jotting down notes from them, whatever. This is just a way of gathering material. Only when you gather a lot—it’s almost like [laughs]—have you been watching the Marie Kondo show on Netflix?

JR: Yes! Oh, my word, I’m addicted to that show!

CC: You know how she gets them to throw everything into a pile? You have to do that so you can see what you’ve got before you know what you really want to keep. And that’s really what I’m talking about. I guess it’s just like the Marie Kondo guide to writing a story.

JR: [laughs] Did you do all this with Leading Men?

CC: I did. I did a lot of this with Leading Men. I wrote a lot outside the story. I wrote many versions of various scenes from different perspectives. I had a whole other structure of the book for a while, that I only realized wasn’t working because I had so much of it and I could see I knew too much. I had an idea that added up too neatly. I had two characters who were telling the story, and they were like perfect contrasts to each other. In a way, it was too perfect. It was too obvious, and I needed something—like an X factor—to shake up the narrative. Only when I introduced a new character, who was completely fictional, was I able to really see the book for what it really was.

JR: Anja Bloom—is she completely fictional?

CC: [smiles] Yup. She’s the character I was talking about.

JR: You know, I thought so. I searched online and in library resources: Who did Tennessee Williams and Frank know before she became famous? Who is Anja Bloom? And so, now you tell me she’s made up?

CC: [laughing] Yeah. She’s inspired by someone like Liv Ullman or, in a way, Greta Garbo, but she’s completely fictional. She came from a line from a letter that Truman Capote wrote at the time.

I always identified with my mother’s story, her sense of dislocation as a very reluctant immigrant. She never really had the life she really wanted and yet felt too powerless to change it.

JR: I’ve always been a fan of Tennessee Williams. I think the way he wrote women is incredible—especially the way he was able to get inside the psyche of his female characters—and here he is, a man. Do you think he has influenced your writing?

CC: That’s an interesting question. This is not in any way to say that I am as talented a writer as he is—but I feel like I gravitated towards him because he and I have a similar sensibility when it comes to women in particular. The types of women characters that he is drawn to are the same kind of women characters I am drawn to. So, it’s not like he taught me, but it’s like we found each other, or I found him, and I recognize him. He’s a better version of what I want to be. He’s doing what I am doing, or what I want to do.

JR: The way you researched and wrote the trilogy was amazing, but even more amazing was how you wrote the women. Like you knew each one. You seem very sympathetic with a woman’s perspective… Do you want to say anything about that?

CC: I’m a total mama’s boy [laughs]. That might have had something to do with it. I always identified with my mother’s story, her sense of dislocation as a very reluctant immigrant. She never really had the life she really wanted and yet felt too powerless to change it. And that tug between being traditional and breaking free of tradition, I feel like I really identify with that, and so many women are in that position. They feel they want to be or they’re raised to be the traditional type, or they have feelings of loyalty or responsibility to that traditional model. At the same time, they have feelings, I guess like we all do, to break out and burn it all down. [laughs] I think that men are… kind of given more permission to do that kind of thing, and forgiven for that, and women aren’t. And as a gay man, I think I can really identify with that in that regard.

JR: I was just going to ask you that, and I’m really glad that you went there. Because I’m kind of old school, and among me and my friends in our generation, we used to say that you need a gay friend—a gay man friend—to really talk to. But if I say that out loud in the community I’m in now? [around my young friends/university with a focus on social justice] I’m kind of out there. So, do you want to address that?

CC: Just call me, call me! [we laugh]

Well, I’ll address it this way: I’ll say that being gay, [and] being a woman, what they share is similar. From the beginning, if you know you’re gay from early on, which I did, or if you know you’re different, at least, early on, which I did, you knew exactly what that meant. It forces you to watch people’s behavior because you have to figure out a way to operate and get through it. To navigate the world in a way that you’re undetected. So, you’re watching people’s behavior all the time. You’re saying, “If I want to be a real man or a real boy, I have to act this way.” So, you’re imitating and you’re watching, and you’re studying human behavior and the way people interact with each other. I think that’s why so many gay people are artists, because we’ve been forced to analyze human behavior. And women have to do that as well, mostly in terms of self-protection, as a way of keeping safe, keeping watch over your bodies, over your everything. We’re both in similar positions because we both have to be constantly aware. We both have to be conscious of the way we behave in that dynamic.

JR: Before we end, can you tell me a little bit about your craft? How you’ve honed it?

CC: Are you asking about my process?

JR: Yes, if you can talk about process, please do—especially, how would you direct someone who was beginning?

CC: Well, first of all, quickly, I should say that my process is not very different than most writers. I’m writing a little bit every day, treating it like a part-time job, showing up for work even when you think you don’t have anything to say or want to say, and then just accumulating pages, and then stepping back, seeing what you have, going back through it, and just repeat, repeat, repeat that process over and over again.

I do think if you’re writing a novel, you owe it to yourself to try to immerse yourself in that novel, for at least a period of days, if not weeks, if you can afford it, to really see that novel. Because you really have to see it all at once and immerse yourself in that world, once you have maybe 300 or 400 pages to just really immerse yourself in it.

JR: What are the most effective tools to get good?

CC: I know it sounds like the most boring, cliché answer, but the absolute, best way to become a better writer is to read more. As they say, read like a writer, but read in a way that opens things up.

Think about pure imitation: “This is how this writer is doing it and I’m going to do it the same way,” and then try to do it in the exact same way. Chances are, you’re going to do it your way, even if you think that you’re imitating them. You’re letting what they’ve done open up possibilities for your own work.

And, again, don’t think you have to write like every successful writer. If you write more like Raymond Carver, then try to be the best version of a Raymond-Carver-like writer you can be. You’re always going to bring your own sensibility to it. Don’t worry about ripping him off. But you can’t be Raymond Carver and Virginia Woolf and David Foster Wallace all at the same time—you’re going to be a total mish-mash! Gravitate toward what speaks to you and what moves you, and try to learn from that. Don’t try to copy whoever is hitting it big that year.

I do think we recognize our kindred spirits when we look for our writing models. They can’t be foisted on us. I’m never going to write like Raymond Carver, as much as I admire him. I’m never going to write like David Foster Wallace, but there are people who I gravitate towards, and I can make myself a better version of myself if I look to them as an example.

I guess it’s about finding your literary kindred spirits and trying to be the most like them that you can. I guess I’ve always done that, whether I’ve meant to or not.

JR: Chris, thank you for taking time out of your busy schedule to talk to me.

CC: It really was a pleasure, so thank you.


Janet Rodriguez is an author, blogger, teacher, and editor who lives in Sacramento with her husband, extended family, three dogs, and one cat. In the United States, her work has appeared in Cloud Women’s Quarterly JournalSalon, American River Review, and Calaveras Station. Rodriguez has also published essays, stories, and two biographies in South Africa.

Her writing examines themes of identity and morality in faith communities, and the mestiza experience in a culturally binary world. Currently she is a Cardinal cohort at Antioch University Los Angeles, serving on the magazine, Lunch Ticket, where a bunch of younger nerds keep her on her toes. Follow her on Twitter @brazenprincess or her personal blog at

Natashia Deón, Author

Photo Credit: Casey Curry

Natashia Deón is the acclaimed author of Grace (Counterpoint Press, 2016), a Kirkus Review Best Book of 2016, a New York Times Top Book 2016, an Entropy Magazine Best Book of 2016, and winner of the American Library Association Black Caucus 2017 First Novel Prize, among other honors. Deón is a graduate of the University of California Riverside-Palm Desert MFA program in creative writing and the creator of Dirty Laundry Lit. She is the recipient of a host of prestigious fellowships and residencies, including PEN America Emerging Voices, Bread Loaf Writer’s Conference, and Yale. In addition to being a writer, she is a practicing attorney and a law professor. Deón is the author of the forthcoming novel The Perishing, due out in 2020.

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Within moments of meeting Natashia Deόn the evening before our interview, I know what type of person she is—she’s the type of person that people want to be their guru. And understandably so. She is both confident and humble, sharing as openly about her failings as she does her success. She speaks with the ease and authority of someone who is firmly grounded, someone who has gone deep within herself and emerged feeling at peace. That’s no small feat. It’s how I imagine Oprah would be if I met her, how I imagine we all would be after decades of meditation, self-reflection, and hanging out with Deepak Chopra.

But what Natashia Deόn is grounded in is her faith in God, and she speaks of it freely, reverently, without fanaticism and mostly without any self-consciousness. After sharing her belief that the story for her novel Grace was given to her by God, she says, “That’s how I feel about it, however that comes out or however that sounds.” As a woman of faith myself, it sounds reasonable to me, but that is not always the case with industry decision makers who often are concerned with more earthly matters. Despite that moment of self-consciousness, Natashia’s identity and her process as a writer are rooted in her faith, and her adherence to it in the face of opposition is the secret to her success.

We discussed this and other topics when I interviewed Deón on December 18, 2018 at the Antioch University Los Angeles campus. (This interview has been edited for length and clarity.)

A.D. Lowman: I’ve got some prepared questions, but I’m totally open to wherever this goes. What I was thinking about as I prepared for this interview is that we read Francine Prose’s Reading Like a Writer last term, and she says something that I totally agree with, which is that we do students of writing a disservice by not exposing them to the drafts of finished works. We study all of these finished works, but we never really see the process to get there. And so we end up comparing our works in progress to these finished works, and we’re expected to get there without fully seeing the process.

I wrote my questions for you with that in mind, and knowing that we’re all very interested in the circuitous, messy, sometimes depressing process that we hope will lead to an acclaimed work at the end. A lot of the interviews I’ve read that you’ve done have been about the content of the book; I want to be able to do something a little bit different.

Natashia Deón: Great!

ADL: Your novel Grace engrossed me from the very first page and has received almost universal critical acclaim. Did you have a sense as you were writing it, or once you completed it, that you had created something so resonant?

ND: I felt like, if I’m going to be completely honest, I felt like it was a big book. I felt it because I felt that it was given to me. As a writer, I see…myself as a servant first of words, and I think my story came from God. That’s how I feel about it, however that comes out or however that sounds. So I knew that if I could carry it to this imaginary finish line, that He would be there. Because He wouldn’t give me something to fail or not show up at the end. And that’s what kept me writing it, so I knew that it was going to be big. I didn’t know that I was the writer to do it, but I knew that I was going to be obedient and I knew He was going to show up. So it wasn’t really like a confidence in me, like, “Oh, I’m so great that everybody’s going to love what I write.” It was my confidence in Him, that He would come through for me. And so in the middle of the night I’d wake up with these dreams of how to change something, or with these visions [of] “Oh, I didn’t think of that!” It was kind of like [God] was my editor. I just trusted that, so that’s what I always knew is that He would show up.

There was one point in the book where I had a vision of all these slaves standing on the battlefield and they were all frozen and they weren’t moving. It was like it was a photograph and I’m walking through them.

ADL: In an interview with the LA Times, you talked about the powerful vision you had that gave you the setting, story, and opening scene of Grace. How did you get such a firm grasp on both the geographic and historical settings for the novel?

ND: My family is from Alabama. My mom and dad were the first to leave a very small town in Alabama called East Tallassee, Alabama, since the end of American slavery. Pretty much everyone else [in my family] stayed there, or the farthest they’ve gone is Atlanta. But pretty much everyone is still there. They were the first to leave, but in the summers, I used to go there and spend time there, so I knew the setting from when I was young, even though I was born in LA. And I would read a lot, so I was researching, but it was really based on my childhood memories of the place, and it doesn’t look anything like that now. And I didn’t want to go back to it because I didn’t want anything to change in my memory. And I don’t want to correct anything. Anything that I got wrong, I didn’t want to see it differently. And I used to ATV around the woods and stuff, you know? I wanted to remember that and honor that.

There was one point in the book where I had a vision of all these slaves standing on the battlefield and they were all frozen and they weren’t moving. It was like it was a photograph and I’m walking through them. And it was after my book was already being edited and [I] was like, “I’m missing something, I’m missing something.” And I’m on this battlefield and all these slaves are just frozen there. And it just answered the question that I had which was—because people kept saying, “Well, why isn’t the Emancipation Proclamation this moment of happiness for slaves?”— and it was because obviously they weren’t free, number one, and two, they were released in the middle of the Civil War. So there was nowhere for them to go, they were standing there like, “We can’t go.” They’re literally standing on the battlefield like, “I’m not going to cross the battlefield. I need to stay where I am. It’s safer here.” And it answered that question for me. So a lot of the details that I saw in that vision [answered] questions like, “Why didn’t my family leave?” They were freed, but why did they all stay where they were slaves at one time? So details like that, God just showed up for me.

ADL: Critical acclaim of Grace hails it as “flawlessly constructed,” and I would agree. Can you talk about how you created such a strong backbone for the novel?

ND: You know, I didn’t have a backbone [at first]. My novel just went linearly, and I remember finishing it thinking…it’s not moving. I get it, but it’s not moving the way that I want it to. I always had the opening, because I had that from the beginning. I didn’t want her to go through her life, then die, and then it starts the story of her daughter. And I went to the Virginia Center for the Creative Arts to do a fellowship. For two weeks I’m there. They give you a studio to write in and an apartment, and you just sort of do the work. And I didn’t write a single word. They feed you, I went to the gym and I was like, “This was a waste of my time. Two weeks, it’s too quiet! There’s horses…” But the day that I got home to LA, and I woke up the next morning, I knew the structure of it. I knew it was going to go back and forth in time. So that’s sort of how I got the structure. And I thought about death and how people have near-death experiences, so I wanted to do it like that. Because my question is, “What scenes do we see?” Do we get to see this one right now, us sitting in this room? Like, why would we or would we not? So I was always interested in that, and I thought I could tell the story like that, and it worked.

 ADL: What was that interaction like with an editor? Is that something you did before it went to that process?

 ND: Yeah, but I talked to other editors who didn’t want that. What happens after you get your agent [is] you send it out and your agent will put you in touch with editors who are interested in buying it. So then you have this editorial call with them to see what their vision is because you want to make sure your editor sees what you see. Because Grace was 600 pages, and I had to cut it. So I’m like, “What do you want to cut? Do you want to cut the structure?” Things that you don’t think about as a writer.

Like to get into a book club, usually their page count is limited to 150. If your book is over 150 pages, the big ones like Well-Read Black Girl [look for] those books…to read on the big circuit. You know you’re not thinking about that as a writer, this is a 300-page book. It still made it to book club. I’m just saying…if that’s your eye for people to talk about it in book clubs, stuff like that is what [editors are] thinking of.

So I’m talking to my editor like, “I don’t think we’re going to go from 600 pages to 150 and still preserve this product.” He says, “We can still do it. How do you feel about the time jumps? Can we make the Emancipation Proclamation a happy day?” And I say, “No, it doesn’t make sense.” But there were other editors who were like, “We need to change it so it revolves around one day: the Emancipation Proclamation.” And I’m like, “No, that’s not how the story goes.” Or we need to leave out all the extra characters who aren’t black, and I said that’s not how the story goes. So you have to pass on big houses and it hurts. But at the end of the day, I felt like I wanted the book that God gave me and entrusted me with. Who am I going to give this baby to? So that became my decision instead of a financial one, but I think it worked out because I got the best team.

ADL: Your novel has also been praised for having the “propulsive plotting of a suspense novel,” and “sustain[ing] a murder ballad’s intensity for hundreds of pages.” How did you keep the literary and suspense aspects of your novel in balance? How did you keep one from overtaking the other? The phrase that has been used [at the ongoing MFA residency] is the “contract with the reader.” The opening tells them whether to expect literary, suspense, etc., so how did you handle that?

 ND: I had ten days to edit Grace by the time it got—because there’s such a thing as trends. Because Underground was coming out, Yaa Gyasi’s book [Homegoing] was coming out, all these books. And my editor came to me in November, and my book wasn’t supposed to come out until the fall of the next year and the distributor PGW—which is the largest producer next to Simon & Schuster which does all the small presses—they were like, “If your book doesn’t go now, it may not go. So we need you to edit it and have it ready for Winter Institute.” So this is the first week of December. [They said], “We need to have it ready to be printed, galleyed, so you can be in this thing called ‘Winter Institute’ in January.” So we have ten days, and it was over Christmas and everything.

So we had to have it printed and I remember I was like, “Okay, Dan, I can do this, but I need a week after we edit it. You have to promise me that you’re going to give it back to me, no matter what we do…” And he’s like, “Okay, we gotta send it to the copy editor.” And what you get in a galley is usually not copy edited. So as I was reading through it, there were three chapters at the beginning that slowed it down. So if I’m in this rush, am I still wanting to turn the page, or am I slowing down? And so I had to cut, and I said, “Dan, I need to see it! You promised me a week!” He said, “You got three days!” So I read my book in three days and I just chopped Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, and it just went. And then I added some stuff, changed some stuff. And then it made sense to me, and that’s how it went.

[You and I] talked about this “writer instinct” because you know that something’s missing, so as much as you love it, you want a reason for the reader to turn the next page. There’s no reason, so you have to give them a reason, so that’s what I intentionally did.

ADL: Wow, I don’t even know what to write from that. I’m just going to have to take that from the recording!

ND: Just trust your instincts! Don’t let anybody else tell you, you know already, you know already. It’s just how to do it. Your only question as a writer is, “How do I do it?” I know there’s a problem here, and I know I’m trying to fake it and do all this stuff. Maybe nobody will notice, they’ll appreciate the literary, but they don’t. That’s the reality. And I knew because I was under that gun. I [loved] this character because there was a friendship—a best friendship—I said, but I had to lose her because audiences will close the book.

ADL: You said in the LA Times interview that it took you seven years to write Grace. You also mention in your acknowledgments about it starting out as a screenplay. What did that seven years entail? Are there any lessons you learned during that time that aspiring authors could benefit from?

ND: You know it’s funny…so the screenplay is different than the novel because it’s a different art form, right? But when I got that vision in the beginning, I had never written a novel. I didn’t know how to write a novel. But I had written screenplays for like MTV, so I like knew that form. So when I had that vision and wrote that opening page, I was like, I felt like it was supposed to be a novel, but I was like, “I can’t write a novel! I’m not a novelist. I’ll write it as a screenplay!” So I wrote it as a screenplay in six months. It was done and it was sent out to film festivals where it was winning screenplay [awards]: Charleston, London, Beverly Hills, it was winning all these awards everywhere.

Always trust your writerly instinct. Never take a note that doesn’t resonate with you. There are notes that people could give you that are right, but right now you’re not at a place where you could receive that note.

It won eight awards, and then I went to an option meeting. And I’m sitting at the table with all these famous, powerful people and they’re talking about the book like, “Well, Cynthia, we’re not going to make her Jewish. We’re going to make her this other kind of character. We’ll make her like biracial. She’s not a prostitute because you can’t be Jewish and a prostitute.” I was like, “What are we doing? This is not how the story goes! This is not how it goes!” And then when it was time to sign, I said, “I can’t sign. I need to write this book so that at least it’ll be the story that I was given before you make it the story that you want it to be.”

So I enrolled in Novel Writing I at UCLA Extension Program. And then I just started learning how to write a novel. The rest didn’t come inspired like my opening, but I put in the work to learn the craft of it. And that’s how it became what it is. And it’s plotted differently, but I learned dialogue. Because you learn how all dialogue has to reveal character, reveal emotional state, move the story forward, so it helped me with that.

The first two years was this screenwriting thing because I thought it was going to be a movie. And then I was in an MFA program. So after I finished, I was a PEN Emerging Voices Fellow for a year, so that’s like three years now and two years is in the MFA program. So now we’re talking five years because you’re not really writing. At least in my MFA program, you’re reading other people’s stuff, you’re not working specifically [on your own writing]. So it really took two years in earnest but I had all that pre-time to think about sort of what I wanted to do and learn the craft. So it took about two years to write it and sell it and for it to come out. So seven years is not really [accurate].

ADL: In that process, was there any point where you felt delayed or discouraged, or did you feel—because in what I’m hearing, at least, there is a lot of purposefulness and intention behind the decisions you’re making and what you’re accepting and what you’re not accepting for your story. So I guess I’m just curious what advice can you give to writers in that process?

 ND: It’s to always trust your writerly instinct. Never take a note that doesn’t resonate with you. There are notes that people could give you that are right, but right now you’re not at a place where you could receive that note. And it could be three years from now that you’re like, “Oh! That’s why!” But if you take a note because that’s the consensus to make this change, and you do it but your heart is not in it, you won’t see it as an artist, and you’ll end up writing something that you don’t like, that you don’t love and was never supposed to be in there at that moment. It could be a future revision, so you just hold onto it, put a pin in it. Reject notes that you don’t understand or that don’t feel right to you. They could be right but they’re not right for you right then. It’s all a journey.

There’s one scene that’s not in the book that I held onto for a very long time, till the very end. People were like, “You can’t do this, people will close the book.” I was like, “Nope.” Because this was reality, this was how it happened in my life. I was using a real-life experience, and I’m putting it in there. And even the rape scene that’s in the book, I had to pare it down, but I wouldn’t. I was like, “Nope.” Because I want people to understand that rape is not only date rape. I need people to really understand this thing. And then finally I was like, in those ten days of editing, my editor was like, “Natashia, it’s too much for some people,” but I was like, “This is real! This is real life!” This was my client, somebody who was torn from one end to the other. I was like, people should see what we talk about when we talk about rape. It’s not just a word people throw around, you know? There’s violence. He was like, “I just think it’s too much. We need to pare it down.” I was like, “Alright.” So I pared it down, and he was right. But I had to understand it at that moment, but it didn’t resonate with me until right then that it didn’t have to be that harsh. And people still complain about that scene.

ADL: After sitting with your novel for that long, what was it like when it was finally published?

ND: It was great! You know, it happened so fast. You know how people say that? It literally [did]. December we’re editing and January I’m at Winter Institute and they hand me my galley while I’m sitting with booksellers at a table before we go in and I’m just crying. So this is like January 13th and remember December 27th [I was] editing this thing. And they’re like, you need to go in this hall with all these writers around this huge hall in this hotel. And people are coming and asking me to sign it, and I’m like, “What?” So I’m signing books, and there’s a huge long line of people and it just doesn’t make sense to me, but I’m just like, “Okay!” And then they sold out within the month.

So February I was in my second printing. That same month, Amazon and Blackstone went into a competition for the audio rights, and then Blackstone blocked Amazon. And I’m like, “What?!” So all my advance and everything is paid off before I even start. So I don’t have to pay any money [back]. So I make money with the first book. And then Lisa Renee Pitts—[the movie] Straight Outta Compton had just come out—she was Dr. Dre’s momma, and she’s the actress they choose to voice it. So now we’re only in February/March and then it was in the fifth printing by August and I’m traveling the twenty-two cities. So there was never a time where I got to sit and [contemplate]. And at my book release, all my friends came out and it was exciting. But I didn’t feel like it happened. I’m signing books like, “What is this thing that they’ve given me?” So that’s how fast it happened.

ADL: In addition to being a writer, you’re a practicing attorney, law professor, wife, and mother. Do you have any advice for those of us writers who also balance families and/or alternate careers about how to keep the plates spinning?

ND: First of all, you just have to give up hope that you’re going to have time to just sit down… especially if you’re a mother. You’re not going to have the time that single people have, so stop comparing yourself to single people or people who don’t have children because your life will look nothing like that. Be with [other] people who are moms, who are even spouses, because you’re responsible for taking care of other people, and [being a spouse is] like taking care of a child or someone else, and your schedule is not based on what you want to do. It’s based on working [around] everybody else who affects you. So if you’re moms, specifically, don’t compare yourself to people who are single. And it’s hard to do. You have to…look straight ahead in your own lane.

[Just] give up hope that you’ll have time. But schedule time, even if you have to do a little writing retreat. Save money, or take your tax money or whatever, [and] make your own retreat. Because you know, you miss deadlines, because the deadlines are like nine months for all the good retreats, so you forget them. Just set up to go to another city in a hotel and just write. Make your own retreat. And also write whenever you can. Whenever you have an idea, put it in the notes section of your phone. Just put it in there. I wrote most of Grace in the notes section of my phone waiting for my children to get out of school. You have to trick yourself. Even if it’s one scene, I just want to write the conversation with Cynthia and Naomi. Any way that you can move forward.

Every day you should try to move forward, even if it’s a bad sentence. Like, for instance, in the book I just sold. The last thing I wrote before I sent it to my agent was something that came to me when I was walking and it was, “I’m a fragile instrument” [and] something about being used by God. And that was it. And it ended up being the opening. I redid the opening and made that the opening line, sent it to my agent, and that’s the one that they bought. So even if it was a weak sentence, you never know. Just write it. You make your own schedule. You’re your own boss.

ADL: When people are asked to reflect on their lives, a lot of times they’ll say that good or bad, they wouldn’t change a thing. I completely disagree with that, and there are many things I would edit in my life story, given the chance! What about you? Is there anything you would change on your writer’s journey if you could?

ND: Yeah. Real talk? I would change being upset when things didn’t happen for me that I thought that I deserved, and doing it publicly. I had this moment, this very embarrassing moment where Grace, it was requested by a prominent magazine that I love. And I didn’t win, let’s be real. [She laughs] But I knew—or I felt, true or not—that my book was stronger than this other book that did win. And I [said it] was just because this person’s popular, just because they’re a male, all those other excuses that could be true or not. And I went to social media and I said something about it. It was up for maybe five minutes and then I took it down, but enough people saw it. And two years later I went to a conference, and someone says, “Can you believe someone would do that?” as she’s looking at me. And I had to tell her, “I did that.” Because I thought at the time that it was true, but you know what? It doesn’t matter.

I wrote most of Grace in the notes section of my phone waiting for my children to get out of school.

And I know that more now because I’m a judge for the LA Times Book Prize. I have 275 books to read. If those first few pages aren’t good, I’m like “Thank God, I’m moving on to the next book.” And that’s what life is like. And I know a lot of the people in my pile. And I feel horrible because a lot of these people are my friends and I’m not choosing [their] book and that hurts. So there’s a lot of things that come into play. Is this book too big? Like you have Bill Clinton’s book, and he’s doing first fiction (one of the Book Prize categories). You have so many things that go into play and you can’t worry about contests. You just have to worry about writing the best book that you can write. Because 100 years from now, somebody will open up the pages of your book and be like, “Who is this person? When did she live? Is she still here?” That’s all you have to worry about. Did you write the best book that you could write right then? And don’t worry about what other people are doing. And then learn how to applaud when other people get [recognition]. And if it’s not natural, just start practicing. Just say, “Good job!” until it becomes who you are. So that’s what I had to do, and I have a whole different attitude toward it, but I had to make that mistake to learn it, fully.

ADL: Do you have any ongoing or upcoming projects you’d be willing to share with our readers?

ND: The book that I just sold is called The Perishing, it comes out in 2020. And it’s about a black woman…in 1930s Los Angeles, [who] basically becomes aware that she may be immortal just as she finds a love in a city worth dying for. So it’s all about the 1930s, between the two World Wars here in LA, and it’s not about Hollywood. I mean, there’s parts that reflect [that], but it’s about the people who lived here and what they went through.

ADL: Are you still working on Dirty Laundry Lit and some of the other projects that launched you?

ND: Well Dirty Laundry Lit is on a long hiatus because I wanted to focus [on something else]. I have a commitment to mentoring and bringing up the next generation of writers. Like, there was nobody for me saying, “Come on, Natashia,” so there was a lot of floundering, figuring things out, getting it wrong, offending people. “Should I be mad at this, should I not?” There was no sounding board, so I’m trying now to make myself available for other people and give them a platform.

And I’m redefining friendship in my life. You know, I’m at an age where I want friends not just to commiserate with me and say, “Oh, look how terrible it is,” but people around me who can help, who can do something about it. Because they want to, because they can. Because I’m a giving person anyway, and I’ll show up for people, so now I’m asking people to show up for me. So let’s be friends, but I have people to commiserate with. I need this kind of person, now I’m hiring!

You have so many things that go into play and you can’t worry about contests. You just have to worry about writing the best book that you can write.

I also want to be able to help people who are coming up. I’m not like Toni Morrison or somebody like that, but I have something and I want to share this one little piece with somebody else. So I started The Table Reading Series, which is at Hollywood Hotel because they called me and told me they wanted to host Dirty Laundry, so I said how about I do a new reading series and I bring in up-and-coming producing groups to produce their own readings. So I have my black women writers, then I have the LGBT, the ex-prisoners, we have all these different groups to come [to The Table]. I show them how to contact their readers, how you make an invitation and all the bits and pieces of how to do it, so they can create their own, so hopefully they’ll be able to multiply that way.

ADL: So what are you reading these days?

 ND: Everything! I told you I’m doing the LA Times Book Prize! The books I’m reading for the LA Times are all books that were published in 2018. The books I chose for my [MFA mentoring] group are books that I think are really well-done but reflect something different:

  • The Road by Cormac McCarthy because of its strong setting.
  • How Are You Going to Save Yourself? by J.M. Holmes because of the difficult racial issues it raises. (“Writers are the conscience of the nation.”)

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I close our interview by asking Natashia if there’s anything I didn’t ask that she wished I had. She turns the question back on me and tells me she wants me to ask her if she thinks I can become the writer I think I can. It makes me blush a little, but I ask her. In response, she feeds back to me the qualities that she’s picked up about me in the short time since we met as evidence that I have what it takes to succeed as a writer. It’s when she starts talking about the sacrifice I’m making as a mother to pursue my writing career—a sacrifice with which she is intimately familiar—that I start to tear up.

This probably wasn’t the most auspicious way to end my first author interview…but guess who just found their new writing guru?


A.D. Lowman is a management professional, consultant, and community leader. Her leadership and career advice has been featured in Essence, Money, and Diversity Woman magazines. She is pursuing her MFA in creative writing at Antioch University Los Angeles where she serves as a blogger, interviewer, and assistant web team manager for Lunch Ticket.

Isaac Fitzgerald, Editor, Essayist

Who is Isaac Fitzgerald?

This inked essayist is the love child of Jack Kerouac and The Dropkick Murphys on paper. He is gritty and adventurous like his beatnik predecessor, but has the modern punk rock sensibility of the same band that hails from his home state of Massachusetts.

Fitzgerald easily picks up where the beatniks left off. Instead of the East Village, he resides in Brooklyn. However, despite the change in locale, his essays have the same rogue spirit of adventure. Instead of mere sentences strung together, it is as if Fitzgerald is sitting on a bar stool with a straight whiskey in his hand talking to his reader about his fantastical life at the local dive bar. He delivers an Odyssey where the Trojan horse might be upstaged by something better, more grand, but also more likely to get one arrested. In works such as “The True Story of My Teenage Fight Club,” Isaac Fitzgerald channels and captures both angst and humor. In the ever identifiable “Why I Stopped Running From New York,” he speaks a truth many who live in the five boroughs (myself included) feel.

The former editor of McSweeney’s and The Rumpus and the current host of Buzzfeed’s #AMtoDM spoke to me. He was just as candid in person as he was on paper, admitting he was the only person he knew who got more into astrology after leaving the West coast. It was a pleasure not only getting to know the man behind the words, but getting to be positively impressed by the passion and process of this writing great.

April Brucker: Thought I’d start off with a few random and personal questions. What do you typically eat for breakfast?

Isaac Fitzgerald: I know this sounds really bad but I only have a cup of coffee. I typically wait to eat until lunch.

AB: What is your astrology sign?

IF: Aquarius.

AB: You are from rural Massachusetts and you seem to write a lot about your upbringing. Why did you pick that topic?

IF: I grew up reading, writing, and escaping through books. After seeing the world, I wanted to return to the place I escaped from. That’s one of the themes of my work. I wanted to give that kid who grew up in that small rural town a voice. Writing about where I grew up is a way to examine and work through trauma.

After seeing the world, I wanted to return to the place I escaped from. That’s one of the themes of my work. I wanted to give that kid who grew up in that small rural town a voice.

AB: You write about working in bars in Boston and San Francisco. What is the craziest bar you have ever worked in?

IF: Zeitgeist in San Francisco. It’s on 1 Valencia Street. It was a gay bar. Then a motorcycle bar. Then a hipster bar. Now it’s a bike messenger bar. These are the nicest madcap people you will ever meet. That’s why I always give the address.

AB: You have worked in a bar, been a firefighter, and worked on a boat. Out of these three what is your favorite.

IF: Actually the firefighter and working on a boat because both of those jobs went together. This was during high school when I was sixteen in the late 1990s, early 2000s on Star Island, which is ten miles off the coast of New Hampshire. It was an absolutely beautiful place and instilled a work ethic in me.

AB: You got a sword from a king. How did that go down? Explain.

IF: (Laughs) This is kind of a long one and I hope you have time. When I was in high school, I got a scholarship to a boarding school called Cushing Academy. We had a lot of international students there from all over the planet—and I mean all over the planet. Up to this point in my life I had never traveled outside the United States, maybe if I was lucky I went to Canada, but I don’t think I had yet made it that far.

At the time I played on the JV 2 basketball team. They were like the double secret JV. We only got the gym for forty-five minutes of practice each day. I made a friend on the team, a guy by the name of Jigme.

One day we are chilling in the woods smoking after practice and Jigme says, “I have a secret to tell you. I am the crown prince of Bhutan.” I was like, “Dude, it’s no secret, everyone knows that.”

I should have kept in touch but I didn’t, plus after college I disabled Facebook because I thought it was just for students so I didn’t need it anymore. Several years later, I’m in my mid-twenties, traveling through Southeast Asia, and I get a chance to visit Bhutan, so of course I take it. I want to look up Jigme… except we’ve completely lost touch and I have no idea how to reach him. However, since it’s a pretty safe bet he lives in the palace, being a prince and all, I head over there—looking like a sloppy trash American in a dirty t-shirt and ripped jeans—and somehow make it past the gauntlet of suspicious palace dudes, and there’s Jigme, playing basketball! We just look at each other. I say, “Jigme, I had no idea if I’d find you.” “Dude,” he says, “Why didn’t you just message me on Facebook?” Meanwhile, it also happens to be February 8, my twenty-fifth birthday, so Jigme takes a sword from one of the guards, and gifts me the sword.

My process as a writer is very piecemeal. I just jot things down on my phone as they come into my head. When I get home, I jot them down onto a yellow legal pad. Then I go and try to form them into something on the computer.

AB: When did you discover you in fact wanted to be a writer?

IF: Now that is a very complex question. I had always been a reader and discovered books early on, but from the ages of eight to eighteen I thought people just kind of made them. I knew I wanted to be a writer for sure when I was twenty-three, living in San Francisco, and came to this place called 86 Valencia Street.

It was a place that gave writing classes to young kids. It had a pirate and superhero supply store in the front.

On the wall there were edited drafts from adult students. I thought, “Wow, this is exciting, lets teach this to eight-year-olds.”

Up to this point I thought the whole writing thing was a gift from God and you got touched on the head and had the perfect manuscript. All of a sudden, it occurred to me that this might be possible for me to do this after all.

AB: In your essay, “The True Story of My Teenage Dirtbag Fight Club,” you seem like a narrator inspired by the Dropkick Murphys and grunge music. Does music inspire and inform your work?

IF: Yes! I feel as if it’s a soundtrack for my identity! Especially the band The Hold Steady. Before I listened to their music, I had never been a hardcore fan. In college years my friends got me an iPod because I would walk around with my computer and my earphones.

The Hold Steady introduced me to this other band, The Mountain Goats. I write about my love of music in an essay called, “How I Found the Soundtrack For My Unsteady Life.”

AB: What inspired you to write Dirtbag, Massachusetts?

IF: I got the inspiration from other work. I wanted to write it for the people who couldn’t/wouldn’t get out. Dirtbag was inspired by the work of Breece D’J’ Pancakes, an American short story writer and essayist. Both of us write about growing up in very rural very poor areas. Very similar.

AB: Where can people purchase Dirtbag, Massachusetts?

IF: It will be out next year, and if not the following winter.

AB: As a writer, what is your process like?

IF: My process as a writer is very piecemeal. I just jot things down on my phone as they come into my head. When I get home, I jot them down onto a yellow legal pad. Then I go and try to form them into something on the computer.

AB: I believe you do more editing work now, so how does that compare with writing? Are there many similarities?

Find your people. Since rejection and putting your work out there is such a big part of what we do, it’s important to have a support community such as a writer’s group.

IF: I actually love editing, and I don’t get to do as much of it now that I am working the morning shift at AM-DM on Buzzfeed—a talk show exclusively on Twitter. My process is more piling up random stuff and making it work. I know what my voice is. But when I am an editor, my job is to use my process to help someone else find their voice. When I worked at The Rumpus, I worked with a lot of writers at various stages, but all very talented. Some were brand new and only finding their voice. Others like Roxane Gay and Cheryl Strayed were almost perfect, it was only a period or comma out of place. As a matter of fact, some of the essays Roxane Gay would publish with Rumpus would go on to be featured in Bad Feminist.

AB: It can seem daunting trying to get your stuff published for a lot of people. What advice do you have for aspiring writers?

IF: If it is one thing I can recommend, and I learned this at 86 Valencia, is to find your own community. That was the great thing about The Rumpus, is that it was this community of writers that were putting their work out there. Find your people. Since rejection and putting your work out there is such a big part of what we do, it’s important to have a support community such as a writer’s group. My fiancé, Alice Sola-Kim, a science fiction writer, has her own writers group that meets once or twice a month. She is a great writer. As a matter of fact, she is a much better writer than me. We have all known each other since we have been in our 20s (our writer community) and now we are in our mid-30s and we have grown together as writers.


April Brucker is an actress, comedian, ventriloquist, and writer. Her TV Credits include Last Comic Standing 5, Rachael Ray, Talk Soup, My Strange Addiction, The Today Show, The Wendy Williams Show, What Would You Do?, CBS Sunday Morning, and Videos After Dark. Internationally, April has been seen on BBC, Telemundo, MTV Europe, and Dutch National Television. A prolific writer, April has been a contributor to The Huffington Post, The Good Men Project, and xoJane. Her books, I Came, I Saw, I Sang: Memoirs of a Singing Telegram Delivery Girl and April Unwrapped: My Naked Dreams Revealed are available on Amazon. April holds a BFA in Acting from NYU’s Tisch School of the Arts. She is a MFA candidate in creative nonfiction and screenwriting at Antioch University Los Angeles. For more information go to www.AprilBrucker.TV.

Vandana Khanna, Poet

Vandana Khanna has published two full-length collections of poetry, Train to Agra and Afternoon Masala, as well as her most recent chapbook The Goddess Monologues. Among her achievements are notable features in the New England Review, The Missouri Review, 32 Poems, Raising Lilly Ledbetter: Women Poets Occupy the Workspace, Asian American Poetry: The Next Generation, and Indivisible: An Anthology of Contemporary South Asian American Poetry, as well as the Crab Orchard Review First Book Prize, The Miller Williams Arkansas Poetry Prize, the Diode Editions Chapbook Competition, the Elinor Benedict Poetry Prize, and five Pushcart Prize nominations.

She has taught English and creative writing at Indiana University, Pitzer College, Whittier College and the University of Southern California, among other colleges, and is the co-poetry editor of the Los Angeles Review. Vandana and I conducted the following interview in person in early December 2018. This interview has been edited for clarity.

Amanda Lopez: We’ll start with this: When and what experiences urged you to begin writing poetry?

Vandana Khanna: I first started writing when I was really young, like I was nine years old and I tried to write my first novel. But I came to poetry more in middle school and high school. It seemed understandable why I would be gravitating toward something I thought was really intense, which was poetry. So, I pretty much started writing poetry in middle school and high school. And then from there, I was able to go into my undergrad program and work with the most amazing teachers ever. From my undergrad on, I took a poetry workshop every semester I was able to, which was all of them. I was really lucky because my first teachers were Rita Dove, Charles Wright, and Greg Ore, who were these like luminaries in the poetry world. I feel like I learned from the best early on. I was pretty lucky in that way.

AL: Do you think that their work has remained influential to your work, or has it shifted?

VK: Absolutely. I definitely learned so much from them and I feel especially with Rita Dove and somewhat with Greg Ore. I was really so enamored with their poetry it really influenced the way I wrote and what I still do in my poetry, and try to remember what I learned from them at such an early age.

AL: How did growing up as an immigrant influence The Goddess Monologues?

VK: Well, my first two books were really heavily about the immigrant experience. Primarily because it was such a shaping factor in my own life. With The Goddess Monologues, it just hit me that I am an immigrant, I’m raising biracial children, who are Americans, but I wanted them to still be connected to my culture and what I grew up with.

One of the things I did was read this picture book to my son, who’s now way older,—laughs—but when he was little, it was really important that if we read picture books they would be about Hindu mythology. Even while reading those picture books, I’d have to edit out some of the story—and this was really before he could even read, he was like three or four—because mythology, whether it’s Hindu mythology or Greek mythology or whatever, it’s pretty violent. Gods and goddesses are at war and they get kidnapped and their heads get cut off. While I was reading them, I’d have to edit them on the go. But it did strike me that they were all really about the gods. I was like huh, these goddesses have just become devices for these men, but in actual Hinduism, the goddesses get prayed to a lot; they become the god or goddess of the household, and you pray to a particular goddess. In actual practice, the goddess is beloved and prayed to and worshipped, but I also wanted to think about how they were being worshipped because they followed certain rules of conduct. I was kind of thinking Well what happens when you really strip away at it? You have these goddesses, young girls, or young women, and maybe they didn’t choose to be a goddess, and it was just their “destiny” or whatever. I thought about how it would feel to be a young woman on the precipice of being great or Holy, and what does that even mean, in very human terms. And it plays into the immigrant thing with the themes of my childhood being a good Indian girl and following certain rules.

Ultimately as a writer, you do have to be true to yourself. There are going to be editors and people who you won’t be able to please. There will be people who will be like Why don’t you write more about your ethnicity and growing up? and We don’t see enough of that in your writing.

These poems are also somewhat a reaction to growing up in that culture, which I think a lot of people can probably relate to. It doesn’t have to do with one particular culture. It’s the culture of our household or your family and what’s expected of you as a young woman.

AL: That kind of takes us to my next question: I’m a third generation Mexican-American, and although my grandma planted strong roots in our Mexican heritage, sometimes I have trouble navigating my work as a biracial writer when I’m so far removed from my immigrant ancestors. What advice would you give to a bi-cultural writer?

VK: It’s gonna sound a little hokey, but you have to stay true to who you are and the complexities of who you are. One of the things I really remember from growing up was that is it was really hard to navigate the space I found myself in, partly because there were only a handful of people I felt like who were having the same experience as I was. But as we move forward as a world and as people who intermarry more and have more multicultural children or multiracial children, there will be more people who will experience that complexity and multiplicity.

There are lots more role models now than when I was growing up. Like I wasn’t taught much about Asian-American writers until I went to college and I took one of these writing classes. Then I was finally reading not only Asian-American poets but Indian-American poets, you know, that I never read growing up. Ultimately as a writer, you do have to be true to yourself. There are going to be editors and people who you won’t be able to please. There will be people who will be like Why don’t you write more about your ethnicity and growing up? and We don’t see enough of that in your writing. And then there will be people like, Why are you always writing about x, y, and z? I don’t think you can please everybody; you should just please yourself as a writer, no matter what you write about or how you choose to write it.

But I think we’re in a space now that as we have more and more writers of color becoming editors and positioning themselves in situations that allow them to have more power, they can assess this work based on the complexities of who they are and what they’re bringing to the table, and not like I don’t understand that word or Gosh, that looks like an Indian word or a Spanish word, and I don’t feel like looking it up. I’m hopeful of writers of color being editors or judges of contests, that they bring all that experience with them. And that’s a good thing. Not to say that the status quo hasn’t helped certain people, but in general, if you have a diverse population, it should be reflected in leadership positions. And once you have that, it allows writers to just be writers, and not to have to carry all the other labels on them, and let society stew.

AL: How would you describe your creative process or writing ritual?

VK: It has stayed consistent for a number of years. Life kinda gets in the way sometimes. For me, when I’m not teaching or editing a lot, I try to write every day if I can. And if I can’t, if there are other work obligations or life obligations, I try to write once a week. I feel like if I don’t stay in touch with that part of myself on an almost constant basis, I’m a terrible person to be with. I’m a terrible friend, a terrible teacher. I’m terrible at all those other things because being a writer is so much a part of my identity at this point that if I don’t do it, I feel like I’m a sham.

I try to write if given the chance, every day. If not, I kinda look at my week and say On Friday I have like two or three hours, I’m just gonna dedicate it to writing. For me, it takes a little while to disconnect from the world. I have to incorporate that disconnect time into my writing time as well. So I try to write every day.

I want these girls and young women to be complex, I do want them to fail. I want people to acknowledge their pain without considering them to be victims.

I primarily have to write in my house because I get distracted very easily. I can’t write in a cafe—It sounds so romantic, like how you see people and you think, Ooh, I wish I could do that with my latte, but I just get too distracted. I like my house, I like to have a computer and a printer. I used to hand print everything, so I have several journals which were my first and second books. With the third book, I was composing on the laptop, which I’ve never really done. I used to compose by hand, then go to the laptop, then print that out and do this whole thing. Now I’m just composing on the laptop, and I like it.

I think once you’ve established a process and another emerges, you kind of just have to go with it, you have to do it. Because I will do anything to trick my mind into writing. I do have to write at home, partly because of the quiet, and partly because I tend to wear really ugly, comfortable clothing and I don’t think people want to see that in the world.—laughs—So for me, it’s quiet, comfortable, and then I usually start by reading something. I read a lot of contemporary poetry, so I will go to any lit mag’s website and start reading a current issue online and see what sparks me. Or if I’m on social media and one of my writer friends posts like Oh, I just got published in this literary magazine, here’s my poem I often will save those posts of theirs and I’ll sit down and read the poems in hopes that something will inspire me. I have to write a lot and often to feel I have even a little bit of material I like.

AL: Do you sense there’s a difference between writing manually and typing?

VK: I have to say because I made a shift between the second and third book, that the first two are very narrative, and this third book is narrative but it’s slightly more lyric than those. What I tried to do with this one is replace straight narrative with mood. It kind of worked really well, because in my mind the book was, rather than individual poems, it was like this big book of mood—laughs—It was easy to put it right on the computer, because even if I just came up with one line here or there, I could go back to that one line and connect it up to another one-liner. And that’s kind of how I built some of those poems because I was more concerned with that idea of mood than telling like a straight narrative of somebody, or one of the goddesses. I was more concerned with their emotions. If I was in a mood myself while I was writing, sometimes there were angry poems, sometimes they were sad or melancholy. I would just sit and write those and when I went back, I would try to put those lines together that were sort of similar moods. The book turned into a sequence of poems rather than broken up into individual stories.

AL: Are there any misconceptions or things readers tend to miss while analyzing The Goddess Monologues?

VK: I think some things people are going to miss because they’re not gonna look up, like these goddesses. And I’m okay with that because, again, what I want to get across is the feel of it, the feel of these women and these girls. And whether or not they understand the full scope of a particular story, I don’t mind that. In fact, I encourage people to just read the book. I have a whole notes section in the back, knowing some people will want to look at the notes and some people won’t. The poems should just stand on their own. You can just pick it up and get some sense of what’s going on, and what the implications are. But I don’t know, I’d have to see what people really feel about it. A lot of my titles have “girl” in it; when people come to a page and they see a title like that I wonder what their assumptions are, what they bring with them when they see “girl.” I’m not sure how people receive that, but I am sure it’s interesting.

AL: That is interesting! What is your intention behind “girl?”

VK: So much of our world ignores girls, and ignores their power and their pain. Or the flipside is true; we say women are all powerful and they’re not allowed to falter and they’re not allowed to fail. We’ve reversed this pendulum, which can be a good thing, but there’s also then this ultimate pressure of like, what if you fail? So I have poems in the book where the goddesses do fail. They fail these tasks, these certain moments, tests. I want these girls and young women to be complex; I do want them to fail. I want people to acknowledge their pain without considering them to be victims. Women are portrayed as all-powerful or victims, nothing in between. There’s no transition between the two modes. I hope these poems show that women and girls and even goddesses are complex and they do fail and sometimes they do get hurt but that they can move beyond that hurt—or they hold onto that hurt and it fuels them.

I do feel like a lot of my work questions assumptions we make about religion, about being holy, about gods, all of it, that expectation of what a holy person or what holy women should be like.

AL: And that complexity shows up in your titles like “The Goddess Shows Up Late to the End-of-the-World Party” which is so humanizing for these women, these goddesses.

Do you see writing poetry as a spiritual practice? A political act? Can it be both?

VK: I think they’re both in the sense that from a very early age when I first started writing poetry, and my first couple of books, I really am preoccupied with this idea of God and religion and how women navigate that space. Especially because I grew up Hindu, but I also went to Catholic school, so a lot of my early work is grappling with this idea of being between two religions. And now with the goddesses, I can’t seem to get rid of that idea. But I do feel like a lot of my work questions assumptions we make about religion, about being holy, about gods, all of it, that expectation of what a holy person or what holy women should be like.

I also think it’s political in the sense of just really always being interested in writing about girls and women, and even by putting “girl” in the title, by having people focus on it is a political act in its own way. I don’t think you can separate that. I do think sometimes my poems are probably subtly political and sometimes they’re more overtly political. But I don’t think you can separate that.

AL: Concerning your process again, do you ever throw poems away? Or do you like to keep the rejects?

VK: I have written whole poems, obviously, a lot of them that I don’t ever end up doing anything with. They don’t get published or get put in a book, and they’re just sort of there. And that’s okay because I needed to write those poems to get to the poem that I really wanted to write. I don’t throw them away, but they’re probably tucked in a file somewhere on the computer. But for sure there are, in every collection or book, there are some poems that never make it into that book because it’s a process. When I’m first writing, I don’t really want to assess right away if what I’m writing is worthwhile, because it’s important to just sit and write first, before bringing in the critic. If you sit down with the critic on your shoulder already, you’re never gonna write. After some distance, I assess what I have.

AL: The Goddess Monologues take place in an ethereal setting; if you had to place where the majority of the poems take place in the physical world, what kind of landscape would your characters, the goddesses, reside in?

VK: I think they would reside where we leave them, on the edge of a forest. That’s where I see them. And I think that’s where they will always go back to.

AL: Finally, if there’s one or a couple of things you want your work to be remembered for, what would you choose it/them to be?

VK: Oh my gosh… Well, I think I do pay a lot of attention to language and imagery. When I first learned to write, that’s what my teachers imparted to me, that people might not remember the story of your poem, or remember the narrative or that stuff, but you want them to leave reading your work with one image or one moment in that poem. So that’s what I hope, that people will at least leave thinking about that one moment, whatever it is for them. It’ll hopefully be different for all different readers, but that’s what I hope.

AL: Thank you so much for talking with me!

VK: Sure! Thank you!


Amanda Lopez is a poet studying for her MFA at Antioch University Los Angeles (AULA), where she serves as the Editor-in-Chief of the student-run literary magazine Lunch Ticket. She has served as a management assistant for Write Bloody Publishing and read on the literary journal The Redlands Review as Poetry Editor during her undergraduate years at the University of Redlands. Amanda is a Los Angeles native working on a collection of poetry about navigating relationships through mental illness. When Amanda is not writing, she finds passion in alternative and rock music and being a makeup and special effects artist.

Ada Limón, Author, Poet

Ada Limón is a poet and author of Lucky Wreck, This Big Fake World (both debuted in 2006), Sharks in the Rivers (2010), and Bright Dead Things (2015), which was a finalist for the National Book Award, the Kingsley Tufts Award, and the National Book Critics Circle Award. Her latest book, The Carrying, is the winner of the 2018 National Book Critics Circle Award. She is the recipient of fellowships from the New York Foundation for the Arts, the Provincetown Fine Arts Work Center, and the Kentucky Foundation for Women. She’s been published in journals such as The New Yorker, Pleiades: Literature in Context, Harvard Review, and many others. She serves on the faculty of the Queens University of Charlotte low residency MFA program and the 24Pearl Street online program for the Provincetown Fine Arts Work Center. She also works as a freelance writer and lives in Lexington, Kentucky.

Jordan Nakamura: Congratulations on your book! You have a distinct style that you’ve been able to retain and hone over several books now. I’m wondering what your relationship is with voice and style. Do you ever try to deviate and depart from a poem that sounds like you? Is style something you stay anchored to intentionally?

Ada Limón: I do think I have a distinct style and that’s primarily due to the fact that I read all my poems out loud in order to make them so that I let my body’s internal rhythm take over and guide the poem’s form and structure. In that sense, the poems come from my body. They come from my body and they come from the way I hear the universe, as Robert Hass says, “the faint music under things.” I do try to change my style and the way I enter a poem each time, but the music of my world is loud and what I hear is unique to me and often takes over, even if I’m trying to get out of myself.

JN: This collection has been described as some of your most personal work. It’s almost like there’s a greater freedom to be more articulate to explore your own life and identity. Could you talk about how you enter into the kind of honesty that characterizes the book?

While I’m not trying to please everyone, or write for everyone, I am interested in poems living in the real world. And in order for that to happen, they have to have some sense of openness or generosity to them.

AL: This is my most personal book. It deals with my infertility and the questions of whether or not to have a child. But I think [that] my leaning in to that material of personal history, I am also interrogating my own purpose, my own purpose as a woman, as an artist. And so I think the honesty enters a place what I hope it reaches outward, beyond the self and into something more universally relevant. I write about my life because life moves through me, and I am so lucky it does. But I am also interested in what it means to pay deep attention to the world around you and love the messy world by giving it your gaze.

JN: You’ve written about the ways poetry kind of unlocks a sense of freedom in you, and I feel like this can transfer to your readers. Monica Youn talks about how readers will come up to her after readings of her book Blackacre, which partially deals with her experience with miscarriage, and say how they felt their own miscarriages were supposed to be a secret, but Youn’s work made them rethink that kind of shame-based silence. How has your work connected you to others? Is there anything that has surprised you?

AL: I am surprised by how many women talk to me about their own experience with infertility or fertility treatments or their own complex emotions about wishing not to become a mother. I was surprised that no one talked about infertility in a way that didn’t end with a child. If women talked about it, it was to say they had gone through it and then succeeded in getting pregnant. Very rarely was the other story told; the one that says, I went through that and now I am child-free. I hear from women almost daily how important it is to hear that narrative in a way that’s positive. I am also surprised by how many people needed this book. I wrote it because I needed it, but it feels huge to me to know others needed it too.

JN: You have a series of beautiful epistolary poems written to another wonderful poet, Natalie Diaz. You’ve said that it’s important to make poems that aren’t just for other poets, yet I think you’ve managed to write poems to a poet that also aren’t poems-just-for-other-poets. One thing I’m struck by is how relational your practice is, and kind of aiming for a widening of the fold of community. What is your community like?

AL: Thank you for this. I think of poetry as being something in a larger community, not just the academic world or the literary world, but poetry that takes places in community centers and bars. And that’s the poetry I fell in love with as a child, so part of me has always wanted it to go beyond the preciousness that it can so often be relegated to. My community is wide and ranging. Full of poets, of course, like the dear Natalie I write to. But it’s also full of people who don’t generally go to poetry readings, but might find one they like here or there. My husband works in the horse industry and many of our friends do as well. While I’m not trying to please everyone, or write for everyone, I am interested in poems living in the real world. And in order for that to happen, they have to have some sense of openness or generosity to them.

All our lives we think about identity and who we are in relation to others. What does it feel like to stop asking that and allow yourself to be the original animal, the inner part of you that is only a sense of breath, a connection to all living things?

JN: There are a number of poems in your work that feel like compelling ars poetica. I’m thinking of “The Last Thing” and “Mastering” among many others.

AL: On some level, many of my poems are ars poetica, because I am so aware that I have been saved by language. It’s not always on purpose, but I do see a gratitude take place in the poems at times where I am honoring the gift of this time, this work.

JN: How have you dealt with times when you didn’t have a literary community?

AL: My community is scattered all over the country, so I do what I must to stay in touch. I send poems to friends and family. I read the poems they write or send. I write emails and texts and call; I make sure that I am reaching out when I think of someone. That way, if I’m not immediately surrounded by an active community, I am making my own.

JN: In your poem “The Contract Says: We’d Like the Conversation to be Bilingual,” the speaker is dealing with the issue of when institutions try to manipulate brown people to perform signals of authentic diversity for the benefit of that institution’s image.

I had two questions about this. One is about language: what is your relationship to bilinguality (or maybe more accurately, the expectation of it) in your life and work? I personally don’t know Japanese well and frequently feel a great sense of loss and try to recover meager hints of it in my work, but I sometimes enter what feels like a fraught landscape of false authenticity, unintentional performing, specters of “self-exotification,” etc. Do you experience similar thoughts and if so, how do you navigate that?

The other question has to do with assimilation. The poem has that line, “Don’t read the one where you are just like us.” I was reminded of James Baldwin saying, “One of things the white world does not know, but I think I do know, is that black people are just like everybody else.” Perhaps paradoxically, similarity can become threatening rather than placating to whiteness, patriarchy, heteronormativity, etc. Maybe this has to do with the gaze of those things, but how do you approach resistance to that or find freedom from that?

AL: Thank you for this question. First, I speak a little Spanish and can understand a little, but not much. I was not raised in a Spanish-speaking household. However, because of my name, of how I look, there’s often an assumption that I am fluent. The thing I’ve had to do the most work around is the guilt of that. I am who I am. I was raised in Northern California and my culture is a Northern California culture. But that doesn’t mean I’m not also of Mexican heritage. What I’m interested in is, why is it that we must be one thing? Why can’t we be many things? Part of the reason I think we don’t allow that of ourselves, [that] people don’t allow it of us, is that it becomes more complicated. Complication is harder to define. Complication is more human. And this, of course, points to your second question. All our lives we think about identity and who we are in relation to others. What does it feel like to stop asking that and allow yourself to be the original animal, the inner part of you that is only a sense of breath, a connection to all living things? That to me offers a freedom, a freedom no one else can give or take away, but that I can manifest all on my own. It’s necessary. It’s the place where I most want to create.

JN: You mentioned that you consider Alberto Rios’s superb “Rabbits in Fire” to be a “perfect” poem. The concept of perfection will always be contested, but I kind of love when writers thoughtfully bestow that term on work, as you’ve done. Do you have other poems you consider perfect?

AL: Oh, the word “perfect.” What do we mean by it? It seems to be an unfair word for art. What can be perfect? A perfect circle perhaps? I suppose I mean that if I call a poem perfect, I am calling it complete: I am calling it whole and I am saying I am wrung out by it, lifted by it, that each line works toward a music that’s all it’s own. That afterward, I am a part of it and it is a part of me. I actually have many poems that move me that way. Elizabeth Bishop’s “One Art.” Denis Johnson’s “Sway,” so many poems by Lucille Clifton and Gwendolyn Brooks. I think Natalie Diaz’s poem “Desire Field” is perfect. Oh, so many loved poems.

JN: So many including myself are uniquely moved by the experience of your readings. It’s so generous, smooth, and well-thought-out: from occasionally telling the audience how many you’ll read to the ordering of the poems for a kind of journey in dynamic tone. And your actual oration of the work is clearly a practiced art. I think you’ve said before that you do a lot of work to create line breaks that help the ear receive the clarity of the poem, but you’ve also written that you try not to think about readership. In any case, what goes into your preparation of readings and of voicing your work in the air?

AL: That means a lot to me, thank you. The truth is, I am lucky that I have a degree in theater, so studying the art of oration and the performance of a monologue was key to my understanding of how to connect with an audience. The poet who writes the poem isn’t always thinking of audience or readers. Perhaps the poem is a quiet, internal lyric that is only meant to be heard by the space between things. All of that is fine and wonderful, but then when you read the poem, the other person, the performer shows up. She must do the work of bringing that poem to life for a reader. I’m not interested in performing as show, but I am interested in how I might help a listener to hear and receive the poem. How we might be connected together in that fleeting moment. The poetry reading is a very sacred thing to me. It is a chance to offer something not only to the audience, but to honor the poems themselves.

JN: I read you do live readings quite frequently. Is that still true, and how often do you do them?

AL: I give about three to four readings a month during the busy season. Sometimes more.

JN: Wow. What’s it like for you to be traveling so often? I’m curious about the mobile life of artists and how they nurture relationships across busy schedules and distances. Robin Coste Lewis points out how, for most of human history, the migratory existence has been the norm. How do you conceive of the idea of home? (I’m thinking of your poem “Against Belonging” and how the speaker tends to shake off citizenship.)

I don’t know how we can live in the world and not think about the fact that our planet is dying. It works its way into my life, into my outlook, into my poems. I think a great deal about how we will see our world change over the next forty years.

AL: I travel about half of each month, sometimes more, sometimes less. It’s a lot and it’s hard, but if my health is good, then I enjoy it. If I’m sick or if I’m in pain, it’s harder. I think now of my home as Kentucky mainly. My husband and I own a home there. I think wherever he is and wherever my dog is, that’s my home. But also Sonoma, California, is my home as well. But yes, my home is where my man is, where my dog is, for sure. A simple definition, but true.

JN: What are some non-writing related passions or hobbies of yours that sustain you?

AL: I love to read. I read lots of novels as well as poetry. I love to cook and garden and exercise and have cocktails and talk. I love good conversations. They sustain me through long periods of silence.

JN: Lots of writers get asked about writing habits, but often less frequently about their reading habits. What does your reading life look like?

AL: I read a lot of poetry books, and I listen to books on audible a great deal while I’m traveling. It helps me stay engaged and centered. But yes, I’d say I’m reading pretty much constantly.

JN: How has teaching in your low-res program been? Have you noticed any good changes in creative writing education? And how do you think it can be done better?

AL: Ha! That’s a pretty giant question with a long answer. I think I’ll just say that I adore my low-res program. I love working with students and reading their gorgeous poems.

JN: You’ve had some really great mentors when you were in creative writing school, and I’m sure you’ve been a mentor to many students now. What are your guiding principles for mentoring. and what do you remember fondly from past mentorships?

AL: I will be honest that I’m not sure if I had mentors as much as I had teachers. When I was in graduate school, there wasn’t really access to your professors like there is now. Sure, you could go to office hours, but you certainly weren’t going to have an email relationship. They were wonderful teachers, but they knew how to set boundaries, and I think there was something beautiful in that. I think I had friendships instead of mentors really. And for those friendships, I am deeply grateful.

JN: So much of this book has to do with working through the pressures and aggressions of expectation, namely social pressures placed on women. It’s moving to see how your poems insist on fuller expressions of womanhood outside of motherhood or marriage. I think, for example, of Mary Oliver’s resistance to similar expectations of her as a woman, a lesbian, an artist who had no children, who remained steadfast in her chosen life and style of writing. How did you find, or how do you continually look for your own compass that at times leads away from these expectations?

AL: Again, I think I look to my friendships for guidance. I look to how I see these fabulous women moving in the world child-free and making art, and I am reaffirmed every day in my own body and in my own choices.

JN: You reference landscape and animals often in your work. Hopefully more of us have begun to think very deeply about the land and life on earth as endangered. Masao Miyoshi wrote that he believes the humanities having a united effort for eco-justice is the only hope for their relevance in education, and this seems to be something you are a part of. You mention Robin Wall Kimmerer in The Carrying and your love for being surrounded by green. Do you have a conscious focus on some sort of ecological poetic gesture?

AL: I don’t know how we can live in the world and not think about the fact that our planet is dying. It works its way into my life, into my outlook, into my poems. I think a great deal about how we will see our world change over the next forty years. But I am also very aware that in order to practice presence I can’t become a nihilistic person. I have to believe that showing love and gratitude to this earth now is a worthy endeavor, if only as a way of saying goodbye.

JN: Father Greg Boyle often says something to the effect that “we should be in awe of what the poor carry.” You likewise spend a lot of time in awe of how people carry suffering, grief, pain, just moving through the weight of life. Do you think your writing has helped you maintain awe—which I think is a kind of gesture that is against judgment or jadedness—or was it always there? In other words, what’s your relationship with awe and retaining it throughout the years?

AL: I am in awe all the time. I cannot believe what humans can do, will do, how we have the capacity for so much pain and so much love all at once. I am in awe at our natural world and how it gives back to us, how it seems to love us despite what we’ve done. I’m flying home now to see my grandfather before he passes away, and I am in awe of the human body, the way it holds so much. I sometimes have to turn down the awe, turn the awe off so I don’t keep bursting into tears as I walk around this world.


Jordan Nakamura is a poet and MFA candidate at Antioch University. His writing has been published in The Adroit Journal, Tupelo Quarterly, Lunch Ticket, The Curator, and Zócalo Public Square. He lives in South Central Los Angeles.

Rodolfo Montalvo, Author, Illustrator

Rodolfo Montalvo is a Los Angeles-based children’s book illustrator with work published in both traditional print and digital media. His illustrated books include The Contagious Colors of Mumpley Middle School and The Amazing Wilmer Dooley (both written by Fowler Dewitt), and the picture book Dear Dragon by Josh Funk. Bye Land, Bye Sea will be his author-illustrator picture book debut. It was co-written with his wife and will be published by Roaring Brook Press in the winter of 2021. For more about him or his work, go to or find him on Instagram @rodolfomon3.

As a picture book author-illustrator, Rodolfo Montalvo crafts his work with an eye for adventure and a natural sense of diversity. He uses art as a means of self-exploration, working to connect with his Mexican heritage, while at the same time emphasizing the importance of reaching out to other artists, sometimes across oceans. Taking inspiration from art, nature, and conversation, Montalvo strikes a balance between his personal art and his life as a working writer.

I interviewed him at Antioch University Los Angeles on December 13, 2018.

Adrien Kade Sdao: What inspires you? Are there any particular people who inspired you to illustrate or write children’s books in particular?

Rodolfo Montalvo: Not really. I think it took me a long time to find picture books as the work I wanted to do. Early on, I wanted to go into animation, and that was the plan for a long time. And then in college, by then—it’s a long story—at that time, computers were starting to take over animation. I prefer to work traditionally if I can. And so, as I saw the industry shifting to 3-D, I knew I didn’t want to work with computers a whole lot, so that kind of shifted me over to like, “Oh, I guess I could probably still paint backgrounds.” And so that was the idea, painting backgrounds for animation and illustration, but it wasn’t until the end of my college undergrad that I started meeting actual illustrators or people from the industry. Children’s book people didn’t come in until after college. That’s when I started going to SCBWI [Society of Children’s Book Writers and Illustrators]. So, it took a long time to figure out in my mind what an illustrator was, even though I met some here and there. The idea of what it looked like or finding mentors in that specific field took forever.

I love to draw, and I was able to stick with it. That was probably the most amazing thing that has influenced my path, is somehow I just loved it enough to keep going with it

Growing up, or being an artist kid, was not super deep defined. I wish I had children’s book people, or “my uncle was a picture book artist.” That might have defined my decision to go into children’s books earlier. It could have been easier, not that I wanted an easy path, but had I known children’s books are the thing for me earlier on, maybe it would have been a quicker path, like I could have found my voice as a children’s book author and illustrator sooner.

And as far as inspiration, I’m a ’90s kid so there’s cartoons and robots and Ninja Turtles. All those classics. ThunderCats. I feel like I skipped over reading as a kid. I wasn’t much of a reader for sure. So, I missed out on a lot of picture books. Frog and Toad, that’s one of the only ones I remember, and John Scieszka’s [The True Story of the Three Little Pigs], that’s the other one. That was the one book where I read it, and I saw the pictures, and those were the first images where I thought to myself, “Oh, these are good drawings; I like looking at these.”

AKS: Is that Lane Smith who illustrated those?

RM: Yeah. Those were the only ones I remember looking at, but the cool thing now is that as an adult and someone working in children’s books, I get to read a bunch of the classics for the first time. After learning about children’s book illustration, after trying to write my own, everything looks different, right?

AKS: What other illustrators’ works do you like in particular?

RM: Carson Ellis. John Hendrix, who uses those letter forms as part of his composition. Comic book artists like Paul Pope; he’s amazing. Sydney Smith right now is doing amazing work; he’s cranking out book after book after book. But there’s a ton of people inside children’s books—and everywhere really. I love mid-century modern design, so like houses, chairs, whatever. It’s all like space and shapes and colors, right? Photography. I like black and white photography, a lot of things like that. But I didn’t grow up with artists in the family. So, somehow, I love to draw, and I was able to stick with it. That was probably the most amazing thing that has influenced my path, is somehow I just loved it enough to keep going with it.

AKS: It’s your passion. So, when you’re creating—you’re writing with your wife, you said—how do you get your ideas? What inspires your stories?

RM: A lot of them come out from sketchbooks. I love doing character designs. Ideally, I would start my days doing character designs. I need to get back to that, I haven’t done that in a while, but ideally that would be my perfect warm-up, like I’m just going to draw a character, monsters and whatever. I don’t even have to have a story for them yet, but I’m just gonna draw them.

AKS: So, the characters are the seed for you?

RM: Kind of. Sometimes. Or it can just be anything else. The story that we have on submission now was during a hike on this mountain by the beach. So there were these two things happening at the same time. Land and water.

AKS: What’s it called?

RM: Bye Land, Bye Sea. We were out on a hike, and as soon as I thought of it, I had to write it down. And I sat it down for a while because we were working on the [book] with the pig, but eventually we picked it up, and this year was the year that we kind of worked on it.

AKS: You have a lot of ideas but not all of them come to fruition, I’m sure.

RM: But I think if you write them down and you actually try them out, give them a shot, that’s the important thing. And the ones that are kind of working, y’know, you have to take them all the way.

AKS: Are there any adult books you’re reading right now?

RM: Right now, mostly I’m reading writing stuff, like scriptwriting stuff. I do read some novels here and there, like adventure or… In high school, even though I was not a reader, I read a lot of mystery novels. It was either art or “I’m gonna be an FBI agent!”

AKS: Both very worthy careers.

RM: Once I even got to meet an FBI agent. I had an interview by the door of their office because we weren’t allowed to go inside.

AKS: Wow, that’s a little scary.

RM: But, oh, so I’m back in school, and last semester I took a scriptwriting class on novel adaptations, and we read The Giver. And that was the first time I read it, probably because I missed out on all these books as a kid. And I’m like, “Oh, my god, this thing is amazing!” I love that book. I had never read something where it literally took me back to my childhood. It was amazing.

AKS: She’s a great author, Lois Lowry. I feel like with books that have some sort of message, the story always comes first but then you always have that underlying theme.

RM: So, there’s a ton of stuff that I didn’t catch up with.

AKS: I wanted to ask you about diversity and social justice aspects in your work. I know that at least with Dear Dragon, the main character is not white, he’s a little boy who’s a person of color. Do you think it’s important to include diversity or social justice aspects? How does that inform your work?

RM: That’s something that I’m just starting to consider more, to bring out in my work. Even though we’ve been writing for nearly ten years, trying out different picture books, social issues haven’t been ones that were our main topics or the type of story that we’re telling. Adventure is kind of my default; adventures and kids doing fun stuff like that.

AKS: We need those stories that are great adventures and great fun, just with different kinds of people.

RM: Yeah. I’m trying to figure out how to bring that into my work or my voice as an illustrator, as a writer. I still haven’t figured it out completely, but Bye Land, Bye Sea is kind of a little bit of that. I guess it indirectly speaks to some social issues.

I’m trying to discover or learn about Mexican culture through looking at Mexican folk art. I’m doing that because I feel disconnected [from] the Mexican culture because I grew up here, Mexican American, and so even though there’s this big culture in my veins, literally, there’s a disconnect.

AKS: So, it’s an ongoing process for you.

RM: Yeah, for sure. I mean I’ve never been super political or… really opinionated, obviously. I’ve always been the quiet guy in the room.

AKS: I can tell!

RM: So, I keep those things to myself mostly. It’s kind of growing out of myself, right? For example, some of the collage stuff that I’m doing now, I’m trying to make it more personal. I’m trying to discover or learn about Mexican culture through looking at Mexican folk art. I’m doing that because I feel disconnected [from] the Mexican culture because I grew up here, Mexican American, and so even though there’s this big culture in my veins, literally, there’s a disconnect. And so, I’m getting towards speaking about social issues. It feels like, for me, that’s like a big jump to make—to make big, bold statements—because I can barely say something about myself. And so, it’s a big jump for my comfort, I guess. But, y’know, I keep up with the news and things like that, what’s going on, and it’s hard to listen to. Maybe working on my sketchbook or talking with my wife, we’ll stumble upon something. It’ll be right there, and it’ll spark something, it’ll be bold and scary, maybe. I don’t know. We’ll see.

AKS: You definitely want it to come naturally.

RM: Yeah, if I were to say, “I’m going to write a political book, it’s about this,” it wouldn’t be honest.

AKS: We already talked a little bit about your creative process, but I wanted to get more into that. You said you like to work in the mornings. Do you have a certain time to write, or how do you find the time—to write or illustrate—and what’s your schedule like for that? And you’re in an MFA program too, so how does that all work?

If I’m not sketching on something, either notes or drawing, I’m not doing my job. It’s hard to keep it up. It’s discipline.

RM: Right now, it’s the MFA and writing and being on submission, hoping it works out so we can have the next project lined up. But as a freelancer, it’s tough. It’s up and down, up and down, project after project. And with school, it’s pretty busy. That’s a lot of work.

AKS: Do you have a set time every day that you just have for your own work?

RM: Well, right now, with being on submission, everything’s kind of at a halt a little bit. But if it weren’t, we’d be working on some dummies, working on revisions, and it would revolve around the school schedule. My wife, she’s the one who has the structured job, the nine-to-five, so when we work together on stories, it revolves around working on nights and weekends together. When we were in dummy mode—because we can’t get there all the time—but if we have a story we’re talking about, and we’re trying to get it to a certain point, then we’re definitely working nights and weekends. If we can, we take a whole weekend and go somewhere.

But you know, if I’m not sketching on something, either notes or drawing, I’m not doing my job. It’s hard to keep it up. It’s discipline. But right now, with MFA, almost everything is going through that. Although, the only reason we’re on submission now is because of that second semester, I dedicated some of the schoolwork to developing Bye Land, Bye Sea. So that helped us get that dummy done faster. But now this semester, my third semester, I’m kind of shifting things to a different place, so picture book stuff is gonna be definitely more on our own, and there’s other more experimental things for the MFA.

AKS: Can I ask what you’re gonna be working on?

RM: For MFA? I kind of mentioned a little bit, it’s an exploration of Mexican folklore. So ideally if Bye Land, Bye Sea happens, that’ll be work at home since it’s a picture book, and then school is this other body of work that’s different. Even though it’s actually filtering through my picture book point of view, because it is, I’m doing these drawings, these collages of woodcut—those figurines, those really colorful ones—there’s a big sense of wonder to them.

They can be very childlike. So, it’s kind of its own thing, but because I write children’s books, and it’s what I’m going to keep doing, whatever I do is kind of filtering through that point of view, which is cool. I like that.

AKS: Are there any picture book authors who are Mexican or Mexican American that you particularly admire? You had Yuyi Morales, one of her books. Anyone else?

RM: Yeah, she’s one. [John Parra] also does very Mexican themed books, like Frida Kahlo and Her Animalitos. I met him, he’s pretty cool. His stuff is amazing, and it’s all traditional. He tapes off every shape and paints it, and tapes off another piece and paints it, and it’s really tedious. And there’s another guy, Duncan Tonatiuh. He’s doing some cool stuff, too. He’s way more in touch with the Mexican culture than anything I do. So, I look at people like all three of them and say, “How can I shape myself in that direction and make it also mine?”

AKS: I love his illustrations. They’re amazing. And I know that he does some like general picture books and some that are more like folktales. Would you ever do a folktale picture book?

RM: Yeah, I guess it depends on the story, but sure. A lot of the ideas that rise up are from René.

AKS: Have you ever had writer’s block or artist’s block? How did you deal with it?

RM: Yeah, that probably happens all the time, but I guess if you want to call yourself a professional, you have to just get over it and start putting your pen to the paper. I don’t know, I guess I don’t think it ever happened like, “Aah, I can’t do anything,” and a whole week goes by. Well, no, that’s not true, that’s happened. I mean sometimes you get, especially as a freelancer, when you’re at home all the time.

AKS: Discipline, like you said.

RM: Yeah, you always have to go back to discipline. “Ok, you’re not doing your job, what’s going on?”

AKS: Right, because it is your job, even though you’re at home, this is your job.

RM: It happens, and you have to get out of it and just find something. Maybe that’s part of why I’m back in school. I’ve always been good with structure, so being back in school gives me a certain amount of structure. Aside from all the other stuff, getting feedback. I essentially doubled the amount of people who get to see my work, and we get to bounce ideas off each other, and all that stuff, right? But there’s a space that, y’know, it’s a job too. Deadlines, things like that. Which is good, I mean, I like it.

AKS: I’ve found the structure really helpful too.

RM: If you wanna keep doing the things you like, well, I guess school is a place where you can keep doing the things you like.

AKS: I did have one more question, which was: do you have any more advice for working writers? I know you said discipline, but is there anything else?

RM: Meeting with people and finding that group or groups that can help you along. School’s this place where you get to do what you like. Deadlines work. You can give each other deadlines. It’s another space where you keep going, meeting people, finding mentors, reaching out to professionals, and saying, “Hey, can I talk to you about this.” Or do interviews. You’re in school right now, so am I. I mean, I’ve actually talked to Marla Frazee, and I see her at the conferences, and she’s around our circles, so I see her often, but I wanted to do a more formal interview and talk to her and share dummies with her, and get her feedback. So, we’ve been emailing, but she’s always busy.

AKS: She’s a big name.

RM: She’s always busy, and so I think it’ll happen eventually, but I think it’s a good idea to reach out to people even if they’re big names like Marla Frazee. Just say, “Hey, I’m in school, I’m doing this project, I’m working on this. Can I talk to you for like 15 minutes?” An illustrator, Lisbeth Zwerger—do you know her? She’s Austrian or German, and she just illustrated one of J.K. Rowling’s newest books. She’s huge, she won the Hans Christien Anderson Award. Well, when I was in my undergrad, we had to interview someone, and my wife knows that I liked her work a lot, and she was like, “You should just call her!” I was like “Okay! Sure.” And she gets on the computer, and she finds a phone number for [Zwerger’s] house, maybe, or her studio, I don’t know, and I punch it in. My wife speaks a little German, and she says, “Tell her this, do you speak English?” I said it in German, and she was like, “Yes.” And it was her. It was Lisbeth Zwerger, and I got to talk to her. She couldn’t talk that very moment. I told her I was doing an interview for school. “I’m way in California, I love your work. Can I talk to you for like ten minutes?” And she’s like, “Not today, but let’s set it up some other time.” And yeah, I got to talk to her. It was amazing. It was really cool.

AKS: So, you’ve reached out and made a lot of good connections.

RM: In children’s books, almost everyone you meet is amazing or fantastic and caring and fabulous.

AKS: Yes, that’s been my experience too.

RM: So, you can reach out. I have another person who I wanted to reach out to, but then they happened to win the Caldecott. It’s like, “Oh, no!”

AKS: You’re never gonna get to talk to them.

RM: It’s going to be a year or two before I can have him for ten minutes. And it was actually for another school project. It was a professional artist skills class, and we had to do an interview. He was on my list, and he was the one I was gonna reach out to, and then the week after that was when they announced the awards. If I had sent my email before that week or something, maybe I could’ve still gotten him. And I still could’ve tried even after they announced that he won, but…

AKS: He was probably getting a lot of those emails.

RM: He didn’t need some illustrator student following him around. He just got this award. I’m sure it gets pretty nuts after that.

AKS: I can’t even imagine. Well, hopefully one day you’ll know how it feels to win the Caldecott. That’s the dream.

RM: That would be nice, but how about let’s build a career first and stay there for a bit. Let’s make Bye Land, Bye Sea happen first.


Adrien Kade Sdao writes young adult fiction and works in a children’s bookstore in Los Angeles. They are an MFA candidate at Antioch University Los Angeles, and they are the lead editor for the Young Adult genre at Lunch Ticket. Their work has appeared in Lunch Ticket and Womanpause. They live in North Hollywood with their cat, Shelly.

Bich Minh Nguyen, Author

Throughout her work and life, Bich Minh Nguyen has explored identity. In her memoir Stealing Buddha’s Dinner, she describes how as a child in Michigan, she craved Hamburger Helper and was perplexed when eating bánh chung, the special sticky rice cakes her Vietnamese family enjoyed at Tet, didn’t tantalize her taste buds. In her novels, characters grapple with living on the outskirts of Midwestern suburbia, understanding where the strip malls and split levels intersect with fraught refugee journeys that are similar to that of Nguyen’s own family.

In regular life, Bich Minh Nguyen goes by the name Beth. She is the author of three books, all with Viking Penguin. Stealing Buddha’s Dinner received the PEN/Jerard Award from the PEN American Center and was a Chicago Tribune Best Book of the Year. It has been featured as a common read selection within numerous communities, schools, and universities. Short Girls, a novel, was an American Book Award winner in fiction and a Library Journal Best Book of the Year. Her most recent novel, Pioneer Girl, is about the mysterious ties between a Vietnamese immigrant family and Laura Ingalls Wilder.

Nguyen has been a Bread Loaf Fellow, among other honors, and her work has appeared in anthologies and publications including The New York Times. She has also coedited three anthologies: 30/30: Thirty American Stories from the Last Thirty YearsContemporary Creative Nonfiction: I & Eye; and The Contemporary American Short Story.

Nguyen received an MFA in creative writing from the University of Michigan, where she won Hopwood Awards in fiction, nonfiction, and poetry. She currently directs and teaches in the MFA in Writing program at the University of San Francisco. She and her family live in the Bay Area.

She joined Lunch Ticket to discuss writing across genres, immigration and the literary world, and what counts as “home.”

Gabriella Souza: I saw on your website that you are working on a series of essays, Owner of a Lonely Heart—calling to mind the Yes song—and your most recent book was the novel Pioneer Girl. How does it feel to be an amazing unicorn that can write successfully in both genres?

Bich Minh Nguyen: Ha, I never thought of myself that way! But I sure did love unicorns when I was a kid. I honestly think that any writer can work in more than one genre. I mean, why not? And I’m not sure it’s always helpful or healthy to think about genre distinctions. Sometimes it’s the material—the subject, the content—that must determine the form and the genre.

GS: How do the two genres complement one another in your day-to-day writing? Do you have different mindsets for each or do you approach your writing the same, regardless of genre?

I think of writing memoir as just one person’s point of view, one person’s set of memories, observations, and experiences. Developing any character, whether in nonfiction or fiction, requires complication and the exploration of human complexity.

BMN: I try to let myself be guided by subject matter. One thing I love about nonfiction is the freedom to combine narration with reflection—that thinking on the page. One thing I love about fiction is the freedom of plot. Each requires a different mindset, which depends on the day, time of day, weather, mood, and what I’ve been reading.

GS: Speaking of Pioneer Girl, I thought of your 2014 novel the other day because it was recently Laura Ingalls Wilder’s birthday. The plot of Pioneer Girl centers on a young woman whose family has mysterious ties to Wilder, the author of the Little House on the Prairie books. I know those books had a special resonance with you when you were growing up. How has that changed for you and do you still have an appreciation for Wilder’s work?

BMN: I might use the word fascination rather than appreciation. I grew up reading those Little House books, as so many in my generation did, and at the time, we read them basically without context. That is very troubling, and I am interested in that kind of complication because it’s part of the necessary work of rethinking the past—what we learned, what we didn’t learn, what we were taught, what we weren’t taught. How do we deal with those silences, absences, and erasures now? What can we learn through further research and investigation? And what surprises us? Pioneer Girl started because I was surprised to discover that Rose Wilder Lane, Wilder’s daughter who co-wrote, uncredited, the Little House books, once went to Vietnam as a journalist.

GS: Your 2007 memoir, Stealing Buddha’s Dinner, tells the story of your family’s journey from Vietnam to Grand Rapids, Michigan, and your growing up amid distinctly different cultural experiences. I noticed that on your website, you have a Where Are They Now? tab, where you give details about the family members you featured in your memoir. What was it like writing about your family, particularly when chronicling disagreements with your sisters, for example, or your parents’ relationship? What has the experience been like watching readers resonate with your family members as characters?

BMN: Writing about one’s family requires an awareness of perspective. I think of writing memoir as just one person’s point of view, one person’s set of memories, observations, and experiences. Developing any character, whether in nonfiction or fiction, requires complication and the exploration of human complexity. All of this can feel risky and a little scary, but often that’s what writing just feels like. I love when readers tell me that they love my grandmother, or when they have a particular feeling or reaction to a character’s words, actions. It reminds me that we’re all looking for connection, all the time.

GS: Immigration continues to dominate the national news and is a frequent theme in recently published literature. How have you seen the literary world and the publishing industry change in terms of telling stories of immigrants and refugees? And if you have noticed a change, was that a reaction to people wanting to share their own stories or a need from the publishers to follow the natural conversation?

BMN: It’s wonderful that the idea of “immigration” has become more comprehensive and complicated in recent years; we are getting to see a wider range of immigrant narratives. I do think that tokenism is still a problem in publishing and literature. Part of that is rooted in publishing itself. [See recent examples here and here.] But I’m heartened to see more immigrant and refugee stories out there, in any genre, particularly ones that challenge “traditional” modes and viewpoints.

GS: After moving to the Midwest from Vietnam as a baby, you have since moved to California. What do you consider home? Is it possible that the idea of “home” is obsolete?

“I’ve always been uncertain about what to call home and where to call home. Perhaps for that reason, home for me is usually defined by the physical space in which I live and the sense of comfort I feel when I have to leave that space.

BMN: I’ve always been uncertain about what to call home and where to call home. Perhaps for that reason, home for me is usually defined by the physical space in which I live and the sense of comfort I feel when I have to leave that space. When I moved to the Bay Area, I realized what it meant to be just another Asian American person in the crowd—not viewed as a perpetual foreigner but just as a regular person, every day.

It was astoundingly wonderful because I’d never known that level of comfort—by which I mean such absence of self-consciousness.

GS: Your name on your book jackets is Bich Minh Nguyen, but you also go by Beth. As someone who has grappled with different names and the various identities they bring herself, I’m curious how you see name as related to identity.

BMN: I started going by Beth as a social experiment, to see if people would view me as “more American” with such a simple, straightforward name. I was also curious if that would affect how I thought of myself. I have a long essay about this in the works, that will be included in my next book. One thing I discovered, and this isn’t really a spoiler, is that, yes, I am more easily, typically seen as “American” when I go by Beth. It’s been an interesting experience that has made me reconsider ideas on identity and the role of names and naming.

GS: You teach in the MFA in Writing program at San Francisco University. How does teaching affect your writing, and vice versa? Have you ever been tempted to write about your classroom experiences?

BMN: I’ve always loved teaching because it keeps me thinking and learning about the craft of writing. I mean craft in a dynamic way, as in Matthew Salesses’s crucial “Pure Craft Is a Lie” series. Teaching writing can lead to energy and ideas for everyone in the room. I’ve only written about classroom experiences for conference papers or essays on pedagogy and craft. It’s crucial to have care and great respect for students’ individual experiences and their privacy, which every writer should have as they figure out their work and their process.

GS: I mentioned before that you’re working on Owner of a Lonely Heart, a new series of essays that you described as “about high school, music, and the Midwest.” Are you picking up where Stealing Buddha’s Dinner left off? Are you working on anything else that we should be on the lookout for?

BMN: Owner of a Lonely Heart is kind of a sequel to Stealing Buddha’s Dinner, in linked essay form. Many characters return—like my family! Some of the essays have to do with middle school, high school, or college; some are about parenthood; some are about the now. Music, refugee and post-refugee life, identity, food and culture and landscapes—these are all ongoing subjects for me. The title goes back to that awful, catchy Yes song because it has always posed a dilemma for me: is an owner of a lonely heart indeed much better off than an owner of a broken heart?

GS: One of the most entertaining aspects of your work are the popular culture references you pepper throughout your prose—from descriptions of Hamburger Helper and lists of the candy you craved as a kid to details of MTV music videos and beauty regimens, hairspray and all. What was behind your decision to include popular culture in your writing, and does it continue to play as big of a role in your life currently?

BMN: Writing and literature must include setting, and setting involves time and place, and time and place must include details, images, and moments particular to time and place. I don’t really distinguish “popular culture” from “culture.” It’s all how we live and what we take in. I’m always interested in that which affects and shapes us before we realize it, which is why I often write about childhood and adolescence. Everything we’re consuming (in all senses of that word) can define our sense of self and place—only we may not understand that for many years. What do we think of as culture? Who determines that? Whose stories and perspectives are we getting—and not getting? What we experience and observe on a day to day basis—sure, that could be mundane but it can also be the stuff of wonder and certainly the stuff of intense inquiry.


Gabriella Souza is an MFA candidate at Antioch University in Los Angeles, and she lives and work as a writer and editor in Baltimore. She began her writing career as a journalist and has won local and national awards for her work that has appeared in publications such as Brine Literary, USA Today, The Virginian-Pilot, and Baltimore magazine. She serves as the art editor for Lunch Ticket.

Ben Loory, Author

Photo Credit: Jennie Hettrick

Ben Loory is a good guy who writes great short stories. The end.

If it were only that easy.

Behind his smoothly carved stories, Loory revises and refines drafts sometimes for years before they’re finished. A few, he writes in one afternoon. His characters are compelling; nameless, often faceless, possibly mirrors of ourselves—even if ducks or birds. Loory sets them loose to chase and overcome whatever awaits until they suddenly surprise themselves, sometimes horrifically.

I met Ben earlier this year during Antioch University Los Angeles’s creative writing MFA residency. He read two stories, one inciting laughter, the other tearful contemplation. When the second story ended he looked out at us then smiled, and all was restored.

I got to thinking, what makes these small stories have such an effect on us? So, I went a little Loory-nutty reading every story I could find. He’s authored two collections published by Penguin Books: Stories for Nighttime and Some for the Day (2011) and Tales of Falling and Flying (2017). I read both. I heard him read on This American Life. They’re found on Selected Shorts too. He’s had fables and tales appear in The New Yorker and in Tin House, Electric Literature, and Fairy Tale Review. Kickstarter generated an animated version of “The Duck.” I read Loory’s stories aloud to people and occasionally to the family cat. (The cat really loved those stories, by the way.)

What emerged was a series of questions.

Loory is sharp and committed to his writing. This can be taxing, but he stays until the story tells him it’s done. With that same commitment, he patiently worked through these interview questions. I’m grateful for it, too, because he taught me in the process how one word can change the meaning of a question and how humor bolsters much of what he says. Loory’s wonderful humor permeates through his stories. So does terror, and intrigue, despair and delight.

He shared serious insight into his practices and now I’m Loory-nuttier.

I still plan to pick up his children’s picture book, The Baseball Player and Walrus (Dial Book for Young Readers, 2015) and gift to the many kids in my circle. At times, this interview looks at children. What it is to be a deeply imaginative child or to raise one. What we run to and what we’ve run from as readers and writers. I admire this author’s candid perspective.

Ben Loory lives in Los Angeles. When he’s not teaching short story writing at the UCLA Extension Writers’ Program, he’s probably writing. You can find him at If he’s not writing, he could be somewhere around his favorite bookstore, getting coffee, possibly examining light, shadowplay, and the shape of things. The corners of his mouth might lift into a smile like he’s stumbled onto hilarity or peculiarity. Either way, he’ll look as though he treasures what he’s found.

Andrea Auten: Growing up in Dover, NJ, how did your hometown setting foster your imagination?

Ben Loory: I don’t think it did, really—if there was any fostering of my imagination going on, it was being done by my parents and family. The town we lived in was a pretty conventional place; the only thing I learned from it was that I wanted to leave. On the other hand, I guess every story I write does take place in a small town—there’s always a bowling alley, a park, a movie theater, a grocery store (and a torch-bearing mob who eventually shows up).

I’d read absolutely anything that took place in space or involved some kind of ghost or demon or talking animal or magic.

But other than serving as a backdrop for my stories, I don’t think the town really influenced me. Mostly, it was the non-town things that made a big impression on me as a kid—the animals in the park across the street and in the forest; the Great Swamp nearby where my parents would take us bird watching; the movies and plays we would go see in New York City, and that weird old faux-colonial village that was situated in the hills not far away. The town itself I remember more like a negative space. But this is all just consciously; who knows the secret truth…

AA: With English professor parents turned small business owners, reading was prime entertainment at home. As a child without television—except for sneak peeks when visiting friends—books and comics occupied your mind, and you found particular fascination in fables after reading all of Aesop. What caused your hunger for myths this young? In your story subjects, how important is it to seek a lesson? What makes conquering our most terrible fears primary?

BL: I don’t believe in lessons (though I always learn from my stories as I write them). What I’m looking to create is emotional impact plus resonance. I’m looking to shake people up and then leave them thinking. But I don’t want readers to be able to condense the story to a simple lesson. Otherwise, why even tell the story? Just give ’em the lesson.

I also don’t think that conquering fears—or conquering anything, really—is primary. To me, it’s really more about learning to give up. It’s about forcing characters to accept themselves, even the parts they don’t want to accept. To allow themselves to let down the walls and become the person they are.

As for the taste for myths: As a kid, I think I was just trying to get away, to escape. And the bigger, wilder, crazier the story was, the better. I’d read absolutely anything that took place in space or involved some kind of ghost or demon or talking animal or magic. Nowadays these kinds of stories appeal to me because they use the vocabulary I know. I’m not going to write about wine-drinking lawyers in Manhattan; I don’t know anything about them. What I know are myths and fables, absurdist plays, detective and horror novels, old movies… That’s where the stuff in my brain comes from, so that’s what my stories are about.

AA: I heard it said once, our characters are waiting for us to tell their stories. Once there was a dodo… comes to mind—how that Dodo pushes its way to the front. What force drives the letters on the page? What are your thoughts on this?

BL: I don’t know. I don’t really question it. My rule is, I sit down with no ideas and make my mind a blank, and then I take the first line or image that pops into my head and write a story about that. When that first draft is done, maybe it sucks, maybe I never even look at it again, but I’m not allowed to NOT write a draft about whatever that first thing is. That’s the rule.

I think of myself as a kind of roller coaster designer, though the journey is imaginary and emotional.

So, as a result of that rule, I write a lot of weird, sometimes ill-advised stories. I mean, I write a lot of stories, period! And it’s only later that some of those stories begin to step forward and sort of reassert themselves and ask me to come back and work on them. Meanwhile, others just linger forever in some forgotten hole on my computer. I’m not sure why some haunt me and some don’t—I don’t question it. I just follow my rules and do what I do and somehow the stories get written.

AA: From hometown to Harvard, then film direction to screenplay-writing, you discovered a love of storytelling by writing quick descriptions or 2 to 3-page treatments. Your books expand these little summaries into short fables, fantasies, and tales (sometimes nightmarish). A reader can fill in images, assign place, time, even names if desired, because your stories are written to the bones. Boiling words down to their most salient combinations can be difficult crafting. Were you ever wordier? When are details worth it in writing? Your work is also stripped down and exposed. How do you experience coexisting with such open work?

BL: No, I was never wordier. I don’t intentionally strip anything down, or think about what details to put in or leave out. I just tell the stories the way I tell stories, the way that seems natural. I describe the people and things that are in motion and that seem to matter in the scene. I mostly leave the internal out, unless I absolutely can’t point to it through behavior. (And if you’re looking to write short, that right there is half the battle. Not that I’m ever looking to write short.)

Co-existing with my stories is easy: I just act like they’re not about me.

AA: I find that I love reading your stories out loud and, indulging, I set up a few parentapproved sessions and read your stories to chosen children—not that I’d catalog your books in the children’s section—these are deep thinker kids, and I wanted to evaluate their responses. Ben, each child ranging from ages 7-9 was rapt, consuming the words, and gazed until the stories ended. ‘That was great!’ each said. They seemed sustained by the mystery or maybe it was magic, but the fast-paced world they live in stilled and they listened intently. In this high-stress information age, where do you place value on storytelling? What gives your work its universality?

BL: As a reader, the value of storytelling to me is that it stills and focuses my mind. Everything goes away, all my cycling repetitive horrible thoughts, and suddenly I feel much better! (At least, unless the book is bad—then it gets even worse (and then I need another book really bad.) So basically, it’s a drug.

As a writer, it’s a little different—I’m aiming for something specific. I want to carry a reader, almost physically, through a fluid and unbreakably shaped experience. I think of myself as a kind of roller coaster designer, though the journey is imaginary and emotional. And mostly what I want is to move a reader deeply, really stir things up inside, make them think and feel and live a little more fully when they’re done.

If my work has universality, I think it’s because my characters are pure doers. They want something and they act; they fear something and they act. It’s easy to connect to them because their hearts are front and center.

AA: I call this question: Just the Facts. Earlier we talked about cutting out the details. Reading your work, there’s a perspective that brings humor and zest, with keen observation, quirk, absurd joy and despair, and then again times of complete bafflement, but there’s more going on under your stark text. How do you build these worlds that buzz and teem underneath their clean architecture?

BL: Well, again, I don’t think it’s really that I build them, so much as that I just believe they’re there, which somehow makes them real. It’s like, you can write seven paragraphs about how landspeeders work, or you can just have one character say, “Hey, can I borrow your landspeeder?” And the second will always be more convincing. What makes things feel real is when readers subconsciously fill in the blanks, when they figure out themselves how the world works without even knowing they’re doing it. They believe it because they’ve actually built the foundation.

The This American Life thing was wonderful, too—and weird, because I didn’t even know they used fiction! When they asked me if they could use my duck story, I was like… you know it’s not real, right??

Besides that, for me at least, the most important thing is to always focus on balance. When something sticks up, you look for something to hang down. When a character does something nice, you look for their mean side. Reality is a perfect sphere; things seem unreal when you see a lot of angles. So a lot of my process is going through the stories and looking for things without shadows, things that spike up and look out of place. I then fill in those shadows, provide stalactites for the stalagmites, and the world slowly comes into being in all its richness.

AA: Back in June, outside the AULA building-monolith where we hang at the squirrel table, I asked you, what you were afraid of as a child. You answered, Everything. It got me wondering about the deep and wondrous level of imagination many writers have and how in childhood this presents itself—even to parents—as obstacles. How did you cope with this level of fear? What correlation exists between imagination and fear and how might the stronger one suggest the other become?

BL: I don’t know that I was really afraid of everything, but I was certainly afraid of a lot! But at the same time, I always had a pretty high opinion of my own abilities; I always thought I could handle whatever came along—even if the world was full of ghosts and Nazis and demons and monsters, I always felt like I would be okay, like I could outsmart them. I don’t know why I thought that, but I did. So it wasn’t like I was crippled with fear, I was just, y’know, hypervigilant and terrified. Not sure if that makes sense but I feel like that’s how it was.

Somewhere along the way, sadly, I lost that sense of invulnerability. Though at the same time, I’m also not as afraid as I used to be. Guess the world just ground me down from both ends. Which I suppose is probably for the best. I do find that when I’m writing, I’m always better when I’m upset. The stories are always deeper and richer when there’s something really bad going on in my life. When everything is just peachy keen, the stories get light and fun—which, whatever, is fine (I like having both kinds)—but it is something I sometimes worry about. Not that there’s ever going to be a lack of upsetting things in anyone’s life. But I don’t want to actually want them.

AA: You wrote a story called “The Well” about a boy who jumps back into the well he’s fallen into to prove himself. What was your writing process like when you created this story? I ask because when reading it to my husband, he stopped mid task to listen. I finished the story and fumbled a bit for my bookmark before noticing he hadn’t spoken. When I looked up, I found Tom braced against the doorframe weeping. How does it affect you when you hear the impact your stories have on people?

BL: Oh, I love it! There’s nothing like making people cry—it makes me feel like I’m not alone. The way I write, I never have any intentions—I’m basically just living through a sequence of events through a character—and the end of that story really messed me up. I never saw it coming and it sorta felt like I was dying, or had always been dead and just hadn’t noticed yet. There was a bit of hyperventilation involved. It was one of those rare “one-take” stories, too, where it pretty much all comes out right in the first draft. So please tell your husband I know how he feels! And I’m glad we went through it together.

AA: For a bit of fun: Cinema trivia who wrote and directed the 90’s everyman Hero’s journey with the first line, Once upon a time there was a guy named Joe who had a very lousy job… (Don’t use Google, Ben.)

BL: Well, it’s Joe vs. the Volcano, which I love and used to own on LASERDISC, and which was written and directed by the guy who wrote Moonstruck. But I can’t remember his name. It’s three words. It’s not Bruce Joel Rubin, though—he’s the guy who did Jacob’s Ladder (which I also love and used to own on laserdisc). And it’s not Phil Alden Robinson, because he did Field of Dreams (which I did not love and never owned on laserdisc). So, I don’t remember his name! I’ve been laughing about that Brain Cloud thing for 30 years now, though.

AA: You’ve read your story “The Duck” on This American Life and now Australian animator, director Simon Cottee has mounted his short film adaptation version through a Kickstarter project. What was that like to have “The Duck” come full circle?

BL: Is that full circle? It was certainly nice, whatever it was! I really loved the short film. It especially made me laugh how all the ducks spoke with Australian accents! And the animation and the music were beautiful—I cried when they threw the rock off the cliff. I’d love to see all my stories done as cartoons.

The This American Life thing was wonderful, too—and weird, because I didn’t even know they used fiction! When they asked me if they could use my duck story, I was like… you know it’s not real, right?? Which they found kind of funny. But the reach of that show is really tremendous, and I loved being allowed to read the story myself. They’ve used a few of my other stories over the years, but it’s hard to top that first thrill.

I think full circle would be if one of the stories got made into a live action feature, maybe? Which would certainly be nice, from a money angle. And also then people would probably go and buy my books, and that, of course, would be amazing. But I don’t really care about the movies anymore. I mean, I like watching them! But I made peace a long time ago with the fact that the stories I write are short stories. They don’t want to be long; they don’t want to be features. They are what they are, and that’s okay.

AA: Thanks Ben.

BL: Thank you!


Andrea Auten is a Masters of Fine Arts graduate in creative writing from Antioch University Los Angeles. At Lunch Ticket, she is an interviewer and blogger, co-lead editor for visual art and graphics, and she works with community outreach and the social media team. She lives with her husband, two sons, and her writing helpers, the family cats.

Jeff Shotts, Editor

Photo by Michelle Allen Photography

On August 14th, I had the honor of interviewing Jeff Shotts, Executive Editor of Graywolf Press in Minneapolis, MN, by phone. A native of McPherson, Kansas, and graduate of Washington University’s MFA program, Shotts began his career as an editorial assistant before going on to edit poetry and nonfiction. After hearing his guest lecture during Antioch University Los Angeles’s summer residency, I was blown away, inspired, and I knew I wanted to talk more with him. During our interview, we discussed his journey through the literary world, the power of becoming a great literary citizen, how to prepare for rejection and acceptance, and the impact and necessity of international literature. Throughout our interview, I learned about the literary world from both the editing and publishing end, all from the kind, genuine, and authentic voice that is Jeff Shotts. He currently resides in Minneapolis, MN, with his family.

Barbara Fant: When did you fall in love with poetry and literature?

Jeff Shotts: Really early. I was always a reader and loved the sound and texture of words. More specifically, I must have been in middle school, maybe thirteen or fourteen, and my grandfather gave me a copy of Tennyson’s poetry. When I look back on that, it’s funny that in the swelter and oppression of central Kansas, that he would hand that sort of book to me. But there was something in it that I just loved and was ready to read, even that sort of Victorian high-power voice. There was something in its overblown majesty that spoke to me; I was taken with that. And like many, I was fortunate to have a wonderful English teacher in high school who introduced me to the history of poetry, how poetry works, what’s good and not good in a poem. That teacher, Carole Ferguson, was so wonderful to introduce us to contemporary voices; voices that sounded like us, and talked the way we were talking. Many of those voices were right there from Kansas, like William Stafford, and Langston Hughes, who grew up in the Topeka area, and Gwendolyn Brooks. So, there was an interesting Kansas strand that I could follow by the time I came to the Twin Cities. There’s such a rich literary and contemporary scene here, not just in poetry. It really helped open my eyes to the contemporary possibilities of literature. It was then that I met the local publishing scene too.

BF: How did you work your way into the publishing field?

 When I look back on that, it’s funny that in the swelter and oppression of central Kansas, that he would hand that sort of book to me… There was something in its overblown majesty that spoke to me. 

JS: I’ve been fortunate in a lot of ways, no question about that. I was always the guy who was working on the school newspaper and working on the school literary and art magazine in high school and college, and just always loved that. I always loved making something public and of course that’s the heart of publishing. So, it had always been in my stream or path and then in my senior year at Macalester College in St. Paul, Minnesota, I did a yearlong internship at a wonderful independent review magazine, Hungry Mind Review. They reviewed university presses, small independent nonprofit presses, as well as the larger commercial New York houses. Seeing all those catalogs coming in, everything from Random House and Simon & Schuster to the University of Minnesota, Wesleyan University Press, or Pittsburgh University Press, then of course Graywolf Press, and Coffee House Press, was a huge education for me, in terms of what publishers were doing at that time. This was obviously when people were looking more at print catalogs. You can do this much easier online now.

At that internship, I was so fortunate to do an informational interview with an editor that I really loved named Anne Czarniecki at Graywolf Press. I realized how many Graywolf books I had been reading. Like many people, I read the authors more than the publishing house. When I finally lined that up and realized, that pointed me in a direction. After graduation, I was fortunate enough to land an internship. In some ways, the rest is history. I was just in the right place at the right time. I always loved contemporary literature and poetry, and I think that’s what Graywolf was looking for at that time.

Poetry is such a significant part of our publishing landscape. I learned from being an assistant and an apprentice in 1996 with Fiona McCrae, who is still the director of Graywolf. With publishing and editing and publicity work and all the parts of publishing, you really learn by doing it. I learned by seeing the correspondence of other editors, how they operated, how they wrote rejection letters, how they edited a text, how they were sniffing out exciting new writing, and what magazines they were reading. I soaked all that in and tried to copy it as much as I could. I think it’s still very much like that, though. We say technology has changed the way we read and think about some of these things, yet I think people still respond to the line or the sentence or paragraph or whatever you’re looking at with the sense of human depth and endeavor.

BF: I’m interested in how you choose the books you choose for Graywolf.

JS: Yeah, that’s a big and ongoing question. We have evolved over forty-four years, so next year we are getting ready to celebrate Graywolf’s 45th anniversary. We’ve been on the map for awhile now. We work in a lot of different ways. There are five or six of us in the editorial department and we’re always looking; looking online, looking in print magazines, we’re meeting with magazine editors, visiting MFA programs like Antioch, and elsewhere. I’m going to Breadloaf tomorrow, going to AWP; we try to go where writers are. We try to create relationships with magazines and agents and writers. We’re inside a larger conversation, and that’s exciting.

That’s a part of acquiring work that I really love; listening to what writers are doing on the page and at readings, the way that they talk about what they’re writing about, subject matters that they’re approaching. We find our books by listening. But it’s obviously more than that. We also hope we have created a list of books that beckons to other writers, “Here’s a place for you” if you’re writing poetry or innovative novels. We want to stand as a strong example of a respectful and vibrant home for that kind of challenging writing. We want people to associate Graywolf with that and with a sense of social justice. I hope we communicate that through our books, website, catalog, one-on-one meetings with writers, talks at MFA programs, and through everything that we put out into the world that is meant to say, “Hey, this might be a home for you, keep us in mind, keep us in touch.” And I hope it challenges writers to think about things in less straightforward ways, in terms of literary artful ways of talking about the important topics of our time.

BF: What are some of similarities and differences of editing nonfiction and poetry?

JS: I love being an editor of nonfiction and I love being an editor of poetry. I love that I get to think about certain texts with the same sense of precision. What I mean by that is the nonfiction that we aspire to publish has the same challenging power of language that we associate with the poetry that we publish. And I think that in recent years, in particular, our poetry lists and our nonfiction lists are in communication with each other. I’m thinking of books like Claudia Rankine’s Citizen, which is a poetry book, but it’s also an essay book; it’s its own invented genre in a way, but it is so interestingly navigating the lyric and the sense-making that very directly confronts something like race and microaggressions and visual artwork, and all the things that are going on in Claudia’s text. So as an editor, I don’t turn off my poetry editing to edit nonfiction and I don’t turn off my nonfiction when editing poetry. In a way, that’s what Graywolf looks for with our nonfiction prize: works that come at essay writing or nonfiction writing with an innovative structure or innovative language to get at what they’re talking about. I would say this for nonfiction and I would certainly say this for poetry: the voice and style with which those genres are made are just as important as the subject. I think within these last few years, with Claudia Rankine and Eula Biss and Maggie Nelson and Leslie Jamison, there is a real audience that is hungry for that kind of challenging writing and not just a straightforward telling. It’s something that really immerses us into a kind of thoughtful experience. It’s a different way that we read and think and learn. The power of those words seeps into your bones in a different way.

 That’s a part of acquiring work that I really love; listening to what writers are doing on the page and at readings… 

BF: When I started with Lunch Ticket, I was told that working on a literary journal makes you a better reader and ultimately a better writer. How has your editing influenced your writing and vice versa?

 JS: That’s a great question and thank you for asking it. It’s a question I don’t get very much. To get to the first part of your question, I think about my own MFA program. I had a wonderful experience at my MFA, which was at Washington University in St. Louis, and I was in the poetry program and I studied with Mary Jo Bang and Carl Phillips, who are just wonderful and very different teachers for me. It was hard for me to write for the workshop and to feel like I was on deadline, so to speak, and to have that work then talked about. I was the person around the workshop table who cowered a little when my poem was up for conversation, but I was also the person who loved talking about everyone else’s poem. And I think that told me a lot. I think I came out of my MFA a better editor than a better writer. It just showed me something that I needed to know about myself and that was hugely valuable. It made me realize that publishing and editing and list-building and all those things that we were talking about, is what was at my core.

Every once in a while, I will find myself jotting a little line or there’ll be something that pops up and I feel a creative urge to just fragment something, and that’s usually about where it stays. Most of the writing I’m doing now is reports on manuscripts, catalog copy, jacket copy, editorial letters to nonfiction writers and poets and translators. So for me, that editorial language comes from the same creative pool as the creation of my own poetry or essay writing. Some people are able to compartmentalize that, but I’m just not one of those people. It all comes from the same space. And the truth is, I have a family, I have two young boys, and it’s hard for me to imagine what it takes to be a writer, to look away from them and look at my own page; I can’t make that trade. So I guess I would rather be a present editor and a present parent, not necessarily in that order, rather than a present writer. So my own writing is fairly dormant, to be honest with you right now, but there’s always a porch light on.

BF: I read up on a few of your interviews and I noticed that the theme of “service” comes up often in terms of the author being in service to the book and the book being in service to the world. How do you define service? And what advice would you give some one who believes that they’re called to be in service to the literary world?

 JS: Wow, that’s a great question and I think it’s also at the heart of what writers and teachers can be and, I hope, what editors, publishers, and publicists can be. I think everyone has to answer this question for themselves in terms of what they’re in service to. And I think it’s okay if writers say, “You know, I’m in service to my own need to write.” That may sound selfish, but I really respect that and in some cases that’s what writers need to demand of themselves. It’s a very hard thing to look at your own page, to hear your own voice, and to hone it. So that said: I’m in service to the art, in service to the individual book, to the individual writer, and of course, I’m in service to Graywolf. I hope that what I am able to contribute is in service to particular people whose voices matter and can change us and can change me. And maybe that’s the selfish part of what I do. I want my imagination filled, I want to know more than I do, and I want to be changed by the writers that I’m working with or other writers that I’m reading. I want as many readers as possible to feel the same way. And I hope that also means that readers act in the world in a different way: more respectfully, more politically, more aware or astute, more able to see others for who they are and to challenge each other in those spaces.

I think that literature and art in general is such a great space for that conversation to happen. We live in a culture that needs more of that. I feel energized by serving that purpose. I don’t know if it’s a small or a large purpose, but it is what it is. I am so fortunate to be able to work with writers who share a sensibility of wanting their work to challenge people and get under their skin, and sometimes it can rise up and make a large-scale cultural shift. And I think Citizen has changed some of the ways that we have language around race, and that feels very powerful and important to me. I have learned so much from that. I think that’s where translators, for instance, are wonderful people who offer themselves to writers in various genres. They are doing such an amazing service to writers as they offer themselves to language and stories and poems that we are not hearing in this culture and in this language. That seems like a wonderful service, too. I really see small and independent presses, like Graywolf and obviously many others, that are a great enterprise in service to culture as a whole. Our main service is not a commercial one. Obviously, we want our books to do well, we want our writers to be paid and all those things, but that is not the first thing that we’re thinking about. We’re thinking about how these books can reach particular communities that need them.

 I think I came out of my MFA a better editor than a better writer. It just showed me something that I needed to know about myself and that was hugely valuable. 

BF: I know that Graywolf is devoted to diversity; what is your dream for the press and the larger literary world in the near future? How do you envision it?

JS: That is a wonderful question! One part is that I would really like to see American culture be awash in the serious literature of other cultures and languages because we’ve fallen short compared to other countries and what they’re publishing. There is very little global literature coming in or being translated. So one huge way of answering your question is more global cross-pollination and intersectionality across borders and cultures and languages. That’s one place the American publishing scene can grow and change and become more exciting. The more voices that come in, the more influence they have on English and the more they have influence on our own culture. That’s how our language literally changes. That’s exciting to me when you see the shifts in language; you see the changes in vocabulary or thinking. That feels very important. It’s one of the reasons why we try to do so many books from international writers, whether they are writing in English or not. We need more support for those books because they tend to be more expensive books to create. Sometimes those books need something extra, especially if the writers aren’t known or if there is a certain cultural resistance to their writing. Those are challenging books to do, but that’s our mission and our nonprofit status allows us to do them. It’s a thing that writers can do, too, whether it’s a shout out on social media, a review in the New Yorker that says, “Hey, pay attention to this. Here is this exciting book and wonderful book written in Mexico or Brazil, or wherever.” I think it’s a place where individual writers are often really good literary citizens. I see that a lot in author interviews, a sort of advocacy for writers who deserve a place in the literary world and are just not getting it.

BF: At Antioch you spoke about being a literary citizen and a good literary citizen. What did you mean by that?

JS: I think this is a question that everyone gets to answer for themselves. Being a good literary citizen means certainly putting your own work out there, as a writer that needs to be central. But alongside that, finding ways to amplify the voices of other people that you want to see in the world. And there’s lots of ways to do that. Whether that is something as simple as writing a blurb for a new writer, whether it’s introducing them to a magazine editor, or book editor, or agent. Whether that’s just standing as an example for young writers or new writers who need that example. You can never have enough examples. And so many writers are wonderful teachers or activists in the community. The act of writing can point us in all kinds of ways of interacting with our communities: locally, nationally, and globally. Finding ways to hold hands with one another rather than being in competition. Making time to lead each other, take each other into account, and argue with one another. Don’t get me wrong, it doesn’t always have to be friendly all the time, we don’t always have to agree. That means being shrewdly critical, whether it’s inside of literature or inside the publishing culture, or inside the conference culture or MFA culture. Calling those things out and being willing to have difficult conversations also feels like a citizenship and a kind of service to the art.

BF: In your lecture at Antioch you also talked about preparing to be accepted. How should one prepare to be accepted?

JS: When I talk to MFA programs or young writers, there’s such a focus on getting in the door. And I get that, because it’s hard and possibilities feel scarce. It can be easy for writers to stop there and not get to what’s on the other side. What happens when an editor says yes? Or a literary agent takes you? Or a magazine? Writers can prepare to be accepted by thinking very carefully about where they’re sending their work. The more thoughtful you are about it, or your agent is on your behalf, the more chances you have of being accepted. If you target your approach, your acceptance rate is always going to be better. That goes for magazines or online publications or book publications.

Also, writers can be surprised by the way editors and publishers talk about their writing. You’ve lived with something for a long time and sometimes very intimately and privately, but the moment it gets accepted and is inside a publishing house, that work is being talked about and promoted through catalog copy, blurbs, publisher’s websites. It can quickly feel far away from that intimate space that an author held so dear for so long. Editors and publicists have to write that copy. Those four or five sentences that are a description of your book, whether a novel or short stories, essays, or poetry, those become very, very important because they sort of follow the book around. They’re the catalog copy and that becomes the jacket copy and that becomes what’s on these online platforms and they calcify and all of a sudden they define your book. And of course, at Graywolf, we write these things alongside you. It is a space of collaboration.

But I think one thing to anticipate is that when writers start to submit work, graph your own copy. I would never say do this while you’re composing or creating your work, but when you have a sense of it: what would you want on the back of your book that would encapsulate your work in a way that would be enticing to the reader, but also very assured to your original vision? It’s very hard to do. We all have to read that marketing language that falls into a set of clichés, so how do you escape that? And I think that it’s an interesting challenge for a writer to do that, and it also prepares you to have that conversation with the publishing agency. It will always make the author feel a strong presence inside that way. No one can talk about a book as well as the author, no one. Obviously, a publisher is going to work with you in various ways to hone that and get that right, but that’s one specific thing an author can do to help anticipate a yes.

BF: The literary world seems to be getting younger, especially the poetry field. What would you say to the writer who feels that they’re too late or they haven’t taken advantage of the right opportunities to pursue their writing career?

JS: Don’t give up. Don’t think that. The life of art is long, I hope. And I’m inspired just as much by those writers who come to publishing much later in their lives, and those writers come to their second and third published books with such a different voice and experience, and I’m an editor who loves that. I’m thinking of Mary Jo Bang (my teacher) who we published at Graywolf, who had done many things in her life before she became a published and more well-respected poet. I would say the same about Diane Seuss, and her last book Four-legged Girl was a finalist for the Pulitzer prize, and she came to publish much later in her life. In seeing writers like that getting strong attention, getting reviews, publicity, and spotlight, I find that very inspiring. So I think you don’t have to look very hard to find examples of those who came into their publishing lives later. That doesn’t mean that they came into their artistic lives later. They probably have been writing their whole lives or decades before they started publishing. Publishers are working hard to get these different voices, more established writers, attention. It happens, but it happens in a pathway that might not be expected. The best things that sells books is word of mouth, being out there and being a great reader and performer of your work. Being a great literary citizen in the way we’ve talked about, these are ways that all readers can participate in, and many do. Fear not.


Barbara Fant has been writing and performing for twelve years. She has represented Columbus, OH, in nine National Poetry Slam competitions and placed eigth out of ninety-six poets in the 2017 Women of the World Poetry Slam. She is featured in the Greater Columbus Arts Council’s Columbus Makes Art Campaign and Columbus Alive named her in their 2017 People to Watch. She is a TEDx speaker, an author of three poetry collections, and has been commissioned by over ten organizations. She holds a BA in literature and a Masters in theology. Currently, she is pursuing her MFA in poetry at Antioch University Los Angeles, where she also served as co-lead poetry editor on Lunch Ticket. She works at The Columbus Foundation and teaches poetry at Transit Arts. Barbara believes in the transformative power of art and considers poetry her ministry.


Khadijah Queen, Author, Poet

Photo Credit: Michael Teak

Khadijah Queen (to remix two very famous quotes by Walt Whitman and Lionel Blue) contains multitudes like everybody else, only more so.

In one sense, the scope of her work is so radically diverse in form and genre that it’s difficult imagining all of it coming from one author. Queen describes a literary life that involves reading through a bookstore alphabetically at an early age. It makes sense that an artist with that level of drive and curiosity would explore as many different forms as possible.

But in another sense, it also applies to her personhood and the many valences and roles that Queen lives out through her real life.

Her latest book, I’m So Fine: A List of Famous Men and What I Had On, contains a multitude of clothing outfit descriptions and the anecdotes the speaker experiences while in them. Each poem explores the internal engines hinted at by very external details and interactions. The book blooms into an outside-in interrogation of the male gaze and power dynamics at large, a focus and critique that has remained evergreen in our still-patriarchal society. Her poems are also full of humorous stories, recorded banter, and the animated energy of a flood of memory.

She is wise, as eager to laugh as to go deep into theory or historical issues, committed to justice and, with a dedicated but almost casual air, she redefines and challenges what is possible for herself and by extension all of us.

*     *     *

Jordan Nakamura: Hi! First of all, I know I speak for so many of us when I say we are so excited and honored to have you as a faculty at Antioch. Welcome back! And congratulations on your beautiful book.

Khadijah Queen: Thank you.

JN: I thought I’d ask you about I’m So Fine first. In addition to detailing these amazingly vivid and often nostalgic outfits, we get to hear what the speaker has read (Sula, The Salt Eaters, The Autobiography of Malcolm X), almost like “what I had on” includes “what I had on my mind.”

KQ: I love that! I hadn’t even thought of that, but I’ll take it!

JN: Done! It was your idea all along! So, it’s clear that books were on your mind, and I’m curious as to when your writing life started. When did you decide you wanted to be a poet?

KQ: That’s a good way to put it, “decide.” I started writing at a young age and reading at a young age. My dad taught me to read when I was like three, and would read me the newspaper. I don’t remember not reading. We always had books around, and somebody was always reading something regardless of whether or not they went to college.

My grandmother’s living room had one side with a tv and the rest of the walls were all books, and she didn’t finish high school. It was just a part of my life growing up.

So I was writing poetry in high school and I was writing in the [military] service. I still have some of those really bad poems…

JN: [laughs] I’m sure we all do.

KQ: Really bad! But I didn’t say “I want to be a writer” until I took a class called Modern Poetry in undergrad and read more contemporary work. Up until then everybody being taught was dead—I didn’t know anybody alive who was writing poetry. But then I read Lucille Clifton and Czesław Miłosz and I was just like, “Wow, this is amazing, I love this!” and I just started reading more.

There was a Barnes & Noble a block from my house, and I would go there and just start with “A.” I read everything in the bookstore and when I finished that, I went to the library and did the same thing.

Maybe six months to a year after I started writing, I’d start turning in work to be published and they’d just be like “I’m returning what you have sent me” and not even calling it a poem! But it didn’t make me feel discouraged, it made me want to do better. That was in my mid-20s.

JN: I’m So Fine feels like a very especially ‘90s era LA book, not only in that it’s mostly set in LA, but also how it presents a chronicle of life punctuated in celebrity sightings. Like you mention, you and everyone else maybe don’t see so many celebrities everywhere now, but—

KQ: Yes because there was no internet.

JN: Right.

KQ: Like, we couldn’t follow them on Instagram, we had to follow ‘em in the mall. Or at a restaurant or whatever. No online shopping, so the only place they went to get their high-end clothes was the Beverly Center.


There was a Barnes & Noble a block from my house, and I would go there and just start with “A.” I read everything in the bookstore and when I finished that, I went to the library and did the same thing.


JN: I was thinking about how the book is kind of this record of that time, and so I view it partially as an archive. Do you ever think about archival work, and if so, what are things you are driven to attempt to preserve in your work?

KQ: You know, I hadn’t thought about it consciously, so I’m glad you asked that question, but I definitely do that and am interested in that. I’m reading this book right now called The Work-Shy by Blunt Research Group, which goes through the archives of testimonies of and about people who were in this detention facility for youth where the goal was eugenics, and they were basically imprisoned and forcibly sterilized—and the book is these erasure-poems of those testimonies.

So I’m very much interested in finding things in history that have not been told, or [have been] ignored, or that have been suppressed and bringing those things out in the open. Think about a “great American novel,” for example, we don’t really think about a black girl in South Central LA. That’s not the first thing we think about… but it’s the first thing I think about, because that was me.

But we all can relate to these stories too. I mean, we all have issues with what we are wearing and strive to try to show off what we wear, maybe it’s actively trying to be nondescript or not care, but we all have an opinion about what clothes we have on. And, also, it’s just really fun!

JN: It is! Now, it seems like our country is (finally) starting to have a serious national conversation about accountability, abusers, silenced victims, and institutions. Your book addresses aspects of that conversation on an everyday level, to where it’s not just talking about only prestigious women, and it also speaks across generations. I was wondering at what point in the project did you notice that taking shape, as in, did you set out with it, or did you more realize the work was speaking to that conversation…?

KQ: Not until the revision, when I had a good number of them. I wrote them in a poem-of-the- day project called The Grind and people would respond that they’d want to hear more of them because they were funny. But as I kept recalling these circumstances, these feelings started to accumulate like, hey, wow, this is pretty… horrible. [laughs] But we were trained to laugh about it, we were trained to just move on, we were trained to say this is how it’s supposed to be. And it’s not until you were out of that environment, honestly, that you think how messed up it actually is. And plus, with what was brought up with the election, like we basically have a serial abuser as the leader of our country. But circling back to my family and the archive, in new work, I’m thinking about the legacy of sexual assault and the absence of choice. I’m going back to ancestors of mine who were kidnapped and brought here and forced to bear children for their enslavers and addressing how that has passed down across generations.

JN: You mentioned how these were written as a result of grind poems, which is such a hard thing—or at least it was for me when I’ve done it before. Do you believe in setting aside a kind of regular time, do you just kind of write when you feel “inspired,” etc.?

KQ: I mean, I believe in it generally.

JN: Haha!

KQ: [laughs] And I did it for six years. I wrote every day for six years. That’s how I got four books written! So I recommend it if you respond to it and it’s something you feel excited about and it’s not a weight or a burden. For me it was very powerful because I had gone through a period of not writing for six months, so even if it wasn’t a poem, if it was just a line or a sentence, I just wanted to write something. Then I had surgery in 2015, and I was on medication and my brain wouldn’t let me do anything. Except heal, and order takeout, and watch Basketball Wives, haha.

JN: All under the umbrella of healing!

KQ: Yep, I totally binged on Basketball Wives and Game of Thrones and I did not write, because every time I’d try to write, my brain was just not working. That was tough. That was like a mourning period for me because I had to change the way I thought about my writing practice.

But I did eventually get back to the feeling of working in a burst, and I had all this material that I’d collected from previous writing, and I just sat down and finished two books that following summer, so, like, a year or so later.

So now I think it’s a combination of both: I’ll get in a mode where I need to write every day or I’ll get into a mode where I’ll just do it as it comes. But I find that I write books better after a period of writing every day for a while and then having the time to myself to make the book happen.


I wrote them in a poem of the day project called The Grind and people would respond that they’d want to hear more of them because they were funny. But as I kept recalling these circumstances, these feelings started to accumulate like hey, wow, this is pretty… horrible


JN: Like in revision.

KQ: Yes.

JN: You’ve shared really valuable advice on literary citizenship. Could you talk a bit about what that means for you, how you practice it?

KQ: I would like to be the kind of writer who participates in making the field more inclusive, and more humane and more expansive creatively. Whatever that looks like in terms of teaching or my professional actions. I try to keep in mind the idea of further humanization and professionalization of the field, just as a general baseline.

JN: Sometimes the idea of citizenship can feel very public, but how do you protect your interior life?

KQ: Yes, I think I’m not necessarily into the whole loud or public part of being a citizen. I like to just watch what’s going on and work behind the scenes, like, “I see you, I see what you’re doing.” But I don’t mind if it comes to me being more vocal and public. I’m not afraid of it, but I want it to be on my own terms and, again, in terms of further professionalization and not anything to do with sensationalism, invasion of privacy, or disrespecting the confidence of people who have confided in me. Their trust is very important to me and that’s the number one thing, I think. I don’t want to be in a position to be asked to impugn my integrity.

JN: I find your work really models a sense of fearlessness and play. I feel like poetry is sometimes boxed in to certain emotions like sadness or frustration, but I wonder how much fun and playfulness get understated. Do you think about this in your work consciously, and how important are the aspects of play and fun in your writing?

KQ: You know, I was talking about this the other day at this place called The Lighthouse Writers Workshop where I teach in Denver, and we were talking about genre concerns. I was saying how it took me forever to write this memoir in the Navy because it was such tough shit, but I finally found the thing that made it fun. So now it’s coming, and I don’t have to stress out about it, I can just write it.

So fun for me is a way to access completeness. It can’t just be, like, a cesspool of sadness. It can’t! I’m not gon’ make it! I have to be able to enjoy my life, what I’m doing. I need joy and fun, especially when I’m dealing with rougher aspects of the content.

JN: What advice do you have for fostering fearlessness, not being worried, retaining the excitement and fun and play of writing?

KQ: I don’t know how fearless I am, I just have to do it anyway. Even when I’m scared. But I have a lot of practice. It just takes practice. When I was in the service, I was afraid of heights. And I’m also not the best swimmer, but we had to dive off a ten-foot diving board and swim across the whole pool in order to get the hell out of boot camp! I was terrified, but we had to do it anyway. It’s fine to be terrified, but have a lot of support, try to have a great community around you.

And sometimes your fear will tell you what you shouldn’t be doing. So if you really are afraid of something, and it will feel traumatic to share, then that might just be for you. I was at a workshop with Sharon Olds, and she said she has multiple books that she has not shared. Because it’s not for anyone else, it’s just for her. So it’s recognizing what your own boundaries are too.

JN: In Fearful Beloved, you write in one of the poems addressed to Fear: “I don’t want to keep looking at what I have already survived.”

And also in I’m So Fine, you write: “so much happened between us I could write a book about it but I’ve lost interest in pain.”

It reminds me of what some poets, in particular poets of color, are coming around to: that a lot of people want us to write about pain in order to be read or seen at all. But it can kind of turn into this re-traumatization cycle that, whether rewarded or not, is at best exhausting. It’s really refreshing to witness what feels like a radical resistance to this in the poem itself. How do you think about life-sustaining habits that support your well-being, your interests, your enthusiasms, to move beyond mere survival?

KQ: Well first of all, I know people might have issues with this but, like, go to therapy. Handle your personal shit so that you can emerge into the writing stronger with a greater sense of who you are and what you’re capable of doing. I’ve certainly did it. I still do it. It’s super helpful! It’s a health issue. It’s like getting a check-up. So that’s number one, as a life habit, if you have access. And if you don’t have access to it, maybe researching some free resources, even through your school, like from Antioch even and saying, “Look, I need some help with this issue, do you know of any free resources?”

Also, I’ll say again, having a supportive writing community, that is non-toxic and uplifting and helps you be at your most productive.

What else… Read me the question again?

JN: I mean what you said is good! Like, “art is not the same as therapy.” Amen.

KQ: It’s not! And it doesn’t mean you can’t say what’s going on with you, but in order to have a little bit of distance to sort of elevate it beyond “this horrible thing happened to me” and to make it relevant beyond your experience, I think it takes dealing with your personal shit.

JN: I’m struck and inspired by your attentiveness to everyday things often overlooked: you wrote letters to your Fear in Fearful Beloved. You wrote a play where small and strange objects take center stage. You weave an LA tapestry through a personal but also what feels like a more collective feminine consciousness through often subtle gestures in interactions and details of outfits. Do you feel any connection to the ecstatic tradition in your love, in your attentiveness? Or what voices or directions do you feel drawn to and who do think are kindred spirits also moving to where your enthusiasms travel and dwell?

KQI certainly love exuberance. Muriel Rukeyser writes about it quite a bit in her book The Life of Poetry which is the first craft book I ever read. I was still in the military and just came across it in the bookstore. And she was a single parent also, so I was really inspired by her work. And she talked about the fear of poetry and that being rooted in the fear of emotion.

And I think that’s something that as a society we are still struggling with, really deeply. Like we are afraid to talk about what we feel because we are afraid people [will] use our feelings against us. But poetry demands that we talk about those feelings, deal with them, and reflect back, you know, our life choices and our thinking around very large ideas captured in these tiny snippets.

So that’s what I love about poetry, I don’t know what else to say about that. I read a lot of Rumi when I first started. I just took a Melville class: he’s super exuberant! Even though he’s super problematic! But he was doing the best he could, I guess, in the 19th century. But he had this deep exuberance and love for writing that I appreciated very much and that I appreciate in some of the newer writers that are coming up. Like, be free. Freedom! Freedom is wonderful.

JN: Shout-out to Freedom! You mention Fred Moten in an epigraph to a poem in Fearful Beloved. Both of you have a strong interest in experimental writing. What does experimental writing mean to you? Perhaps in the sense of how you both explore liberation through the improvisational space of experiment.

KQ: Yes! I love improvisation. I grew up listening to a lot of jazz too, so it just feels natural. And also, I just like to make up stuff. I don’t like having limits on what I can do, I don’t like being told how I’m supposed to do something. Sometimes constraints are delightful; I like forms too. But my interest in experiment came from wanting to do as much as possible.

JN: A lot of people reading this interview will likely be involved in literary institutional spaces at some capacity. Clearly, the literary community has been long in desperate need for swift and serious accountability so that people can feel safe, supported, believed, and overall like they can focus on being an artist. What are some of the ways you are seeing progress in institutional accountability? What are ways you wish more people would practice to help each other along the path toward a safer, more professional, and nurturing environment in institutional (and really any) spaces?

KQ: I want to see our field be more professional. That means treating people with respect, it means listening, it means if someone says, “Hey, this behavior harms me,” correcting yourself—being willing to be corrected. Not using your power to hurt other people. Letting people go to work without interfering, like can we go to work? Let’s do that.


So fun for me is a way to access completeness. It can’t just be, like, a cesspool of sadness. It can’t! I’m not gon’ make it! I have to be able to enjoy my life, what I’m doing. I need joy and fun, especially when I’m dealing with rougher aspects of the content.


I think that’s probably the work of my life: thinking about how I can just go to work without some creep harassing me or treating me badly because of my gender, race, disability, whatever it is. Can we just make room for everybody who comes to work, to work? It’s very simple.

JN: You’ve graduated from and have taught now at multiple low-res programs. What was your draw to low-res programs as a student and now as a faculty?

KQ: Well, as a student, I was working full-time and I had a kid so I couldn’t do a full residency, it just was not going to happen. For the teaching, I only teach at two, Regis and now at Antioch. Regis just asked me, and they seemed cool, so I was like sure!

And they are, they’re amazing! And the same thing with Antioch. I just like talking about poems. If they’re going to say, “Hey, you wanna come talk about poems,” pretty much I’m going to do it if I have the time to do it.

JN: Yes, I don’t know if it was you who was saying this, but I think you mentioned there is like an advantage sometimes to the way the packets work in low-res programs because of the rigor in terms of feedback on the page—or maybe that was Carol Potter…

KQ: I think that was Carol Potter. I don’t have as much experience as Carol does. It’s definitely a challenge to manage time and give students the feedback that they deserve, so I just try to organize my schedule so I do it in a period when I have that time. And hopefully they’ll be sending their stuff in on time so it don’t mess up my flow!

JN: Haha.

KQ: I love working with students, with both manuscripts and individual poems. For a long time, I worked a regular job, so I’m kinda like a newbie at this whole jam, so I just want to help people figure out what to read that will help them do what they would like to do, and share what I know in this almost twenty years of being a writer.

JN: …So you’re not really a “newbie.”

KQ[laughs] Yes newbie to the academic side, but certainly not a newbie to poetry.

JN: It seems that you’ve had a voracious reading life. What does that look like presently, what kinds of things do you read: genres, titles, time periods, etc.?

KQ: I’m in a PhD program now, so I’m—like my brain’s going to explode, because I’m reading a lot. We had to read all of Melville’s prose…

JN: Wow.

KQ: I might have skimmed some. Such as Pierre, which was horrendous. So, yes, all of Melville. I really like the 19th Century I found out actually, because they have this interaction between race and gender and class that is very stark, but also seems to parallel like the underneath of what’s going on now. Frances Ellen Watkins Harper is a poet that I’ve been looking at. She wrote a poem called the “Bible Defense of Slavery”—

JN: Wow…

KQ: —which reminds me of how Sessions is trying to use the Bible to defend his actions.

JN: Yeah, what the hell?!

KQ: Ain’t nothing new under the sun, man! I love world literature. I love contemporary writers. I just bought Not Here by Hieu Minh Nguyen, and one of my colleagues at DU is Diana Khoi Nguyen, whose book, Ghost Of, is fucking incredible. It’s about her brother who committed suicide a few years ago and it has text with cut-outs of her brother because he cut out his picture from the family pictures before he did what he did, and so she made poems in the shape of his absence.

JN: Oh my god…

KQ: I’m saying. And I just finished reading Alexander Chee’s How to Write an Autobiographical Novel, and I mentioned The Work-Shy earlier… Oh, one of my favorite books I just read in the last year is Dionne Brand’s Map to the Door of No Return, which is sort of trying to reconcile ancestry that has been interrupted by the displacement of slavery, and tracing those roots across the world.

JN: Yes, Dionne Brand is awesome. In addition to your poetry, we got to hear some of the novels Or is it a memoir, or a novel, I don’t know what to call it…

KQ: Prose? It’s prose.

JN: The prose piece! So I’m not sure how much you want to talk about that since it’s in- process, but I found it refreshing to hear about what many identify as another very male-dominated space, from your perspective. You’ve explored so many different genres. What made you want to tell that story in prose? And what strengths do you find in the other forms you’ve worked in?

KQ: I felt it was too big for poetry. I needed to tell the whole story, but, like, the multiple stories. I have written a little bit about it in Fearful Beloved but, I don’t know. That voice wasn’t going away and I started writing it a really long time ago.

I haven’t seen any military literary work by black women, so I think we need that because there are a lot of us. I think that often, just with military people in general, there’s a feeling that people don’t want to know what really happened. Like, behind that whole “thank you for your service” thing, they don’t really want to know what that service really is. So I’m just being that person saying, “This is what that service is like, in all of its nuances.”

JN: What has been bringing you joy? What do you love that you love right now?

KQ: Oh, man, I love getting my nails done! Haha, they have this new thing called powder dip! Or whatever they call it, dip powder. And it, like, it lasts forever. And it’s all sparkly and it doesn’t break. It’s so awesome. What else? Sleep. Because I’m… deprived.

JN: Somebody once—I feel like somebody tweeted this, something like, “Actually, no-sleep is the cousin of death.” And I never forgot that.

KQ: [laughs] Yes! I love naps, naps are everything. I found that when I started the PhD, that, because I was taking in so much information, I really had to sleep in order to integrate it. I don’t really have, like, traditional ideas of fun. Like, I don’t go hiking, or I don’t go skiing or do any of that. I like to go to the movies. I see the movies that I like more than once.

JN: Oh, yes, repeat viewings are important.

KQ: Like, I just re-watched Black Panther.

JN: If you’ve only seen it once, have you really seen it…

KQ: You haven’t! You really need to wait until you memorize it. And then you see it again and repeat it back to the television. I like traveling. I like hanging out with my kid. And I like talking about poems.

JN: I’m going to borrow this last question from Rachel Zucker, who hosts Commonplace.

KQ: Yes, I love her!

JN: Is there any question that no one has asked you, that you’re like, “How come no one’s asked me this yet?”

KQ: Hmm.

JN: I know it’s kinda strange because I’m like, “Look for what you’ve never seen…” But you seem to be good at that, so…

KQ: Yes… Hmm. One second… “How has motherhood made you a better writer?” That’s what I wish. Instead of the other question which is, “How do you do it?” I’m so over that question. But my son and my writing were basically born at the same time. So I wouldn’t be a writer, I don’t think… or I wouldn’t be the same kind of writer if I wasn’t responsible for this other human life. Thinking about creativity in terms of the kind of world I want him to live in. What kind of intellectual space I would love to present to him to be available for him to occupy.

JN: That’s really good. Yes, I feel like motherhood is kind of an under-explored, or at least really misunderstood topic in literary spaces. That whole idea that somehow you can’t do both or—

KQ: Yes, people presume it’s interfering or whatever and it—I mean, I try to think about it differently. Like it was harder for me to write prose having a kid all by myself, but some writers can do it.

I just want to put it out there that children are not an interruption. Sometimes it can be an inspiration. And however motherhood shows up in your writing life, or not at all, because that is a choice that ought to be respected as well, we do ourselves a disservice when we presume that children are burdensome to our creative output. They can exist alongside one another in beautiful ways.

JN: That’s great. Thank you so much, this was fun.

KQ: It was a pleasure.


Jordan Nakamura is a poet and serves as the graphic design lead as well as co-lead editor for poetry and visual art for Lunch Ticket. He was born and raised in Hawaii and lives in Los Angeles.

David Ulin, Author, Critic, Editor

Photo Credit: UC Riverside Low Residency MFA Program

You’ve probably read David Ulin’s work in The Atlantic Monthly, The Nation, The New York Times Book Review, Bookforum, The Paris Review, Black Clock, Virginia Quarterly Review, AGNI, Zyzzyva, Columbia Journalism Review, The Believer, and NPR’s All Things Considered. Ulin has also been a contributor to docufilms, such as Lost LA and the upcoming Kurt Vonnegut: Unstuck in Time. As a former book editor and book critic for The Los Angeles Times for ten years, Ulin has a unique perspective that takes into account the current sociological and political sphere and his place within it. In 2002, Ulin won the California Book Award for the Library of America’s Writing Los Angeles: A Literary Anthology, on which he was an editor. He was a 2015 Guggenheim Fellow and most recently was awarded a 2018 Lannan Foundation Residency Fellowship in Marfa, Texas. This year, 2018, also saw the re-release of Ulin’s 2010 book The Lost Art of Reading: Why Books Matter in a Distracted Time, with a new introduction and afterword.

In addition to being a Guest Faculty member at AULA’s low-residency MFA program, Ulin is also an assistant professor of English at USC, and he also teaches in UC Riverside’s low- residency MFA in creative writing program.

I recently had the opportunity to catch up with David Ulin and chat about all things writerly.

Yvonne de la Cruz Sánchez: Okay. How are you this morning?

David Ulin: I’m fine and thanks for doing this in the morning, by the way. It’s always better for me to start at the beginning of the day, rather than the end so it doesn’t cut into the writing—or the non-writing—depending on what’s happening. [chuckles]

YDS: Let’s start with an easy question: What is your favorite genre to write?

DU: That’s a good question. I don’t think I have a favorite. At the moment, I primarily work in nonfiction. Although, I sort of dip in and out of other genres. It’s more of a progression. I started out as a poet. My first book was a chapbook of poems. Then, I sort of slid into fiction writing, what I thought I wanted to do. So, I did both for a long time, and then I became really interested in essay writing for a variety of reasons. I was working as a critic, and being a critic is actually being an essayist of a certain kind. The reviews I wanted to write and read most were ones that function as little essays in their own right. Then, I just became really fascinated with reading contemporary essayists and nonfiction. I wanted to play in that form. It felt like a natural move for me because the fiction I was writing was often autobiographical, and I’m very interested in personal narrative: how it is constructed, and what the relationship [of the narrative] is to actual life.

Because of the intuitive move of the essay, it reminds me of the intuitive and expressionistic flow of writing poetry. So, essay writing seems to pull in a lot of the elements that I find most exciting or attractive about fiction and poetry.

YDS: That’s interesting; I mostly write fiction and I began writing poetry when I was younger as well. But I am feeling my way into nonfiction more and more, so that really resonates with me.

The act of writing becomes an act of directed improvisation and I think the same is true when I’m writing an essay or book or a story or a poem.

DU: Yeah, you know I think we do ourselves a disservice as writers by thinking we have to do only one thing. I know plenty of writers who do one thing and do it really, really well, but there are also a lot of writers who move around [between genres], and I think sometimes the moving around can be really useful in terms of ideas that I can’t express in another way. Certain things just appear for one form, but the forms do talk to each other. It’s interesting to see how they resonate with each other.

YDS: So that transitions well into my next question: what’s your process of writing a book review versus writing a novel or story?

DU: It used to be quite different when I was starting because I felt like I had to say “this” about “this” book for “this” reason. As I continued to write reviews, though, I began to write them in much the same way I write everything else: to know as little as possible going in.

Obviously, I gather my material. If I’m writing a book review, then I’ve read the book. I’ve thought about the book, I’ve thought about my reaction to the book, and I might even have a sense of what things I might want to quote. While I’m reading, I’m taking notes or making comments in the margins or whatever, but I don’t necessarily know what the review is going to say or how I’m going to say it. The act of writing becomes an act of directed improvisation and I think the same is true when I’m writing an essay or book or a story or a poem.

In the act of writing, there’s something that triggers. Maybe it’s an incident or maybe it’s something I’ve observed. Maybe it’s something I’m thinking about or maybe it’s an issue—personal, political, or whatever—and then the writing becomes the exploration of that idea or that question. I don’t necessarily write to come up with an answer. I write to phrase a set of questions [rather than answers]. So when I started writing reviews this way was when my reviewing changed.

Going back to what I was saying earlier, I felt reviewing was about presenting a set of answers: you know, “Is this book good or bad?” “Should people buy it?” “How is this working or not?” I think those are a part of the reviewing process. If you’re reviewing for the newspapers, which is what I did for many years, you are writing an essay, but also, you’re providing a service. People are reading those reviews because they want to see what you have to say. They are also reading those reviews presumably because they’re trying to decide whether or not to put real money down and buy the book.

I think there’s something really interesting about the inquiry [of writing], so the long answer to the short question is that, at this point, the process is pretty much the same. There aren’t a bunch of things I’m thinking about. I sit down, and I just start writing to see where it takes me. Often, I’ll write a review and in the middle of it, I’ll think, “Oh, I had no idea this is where I was going to end up,” or, “I had no idea that’s what I was going to be talking about.” I’m very interested in seeing how the ideas emerge through the process of writing, rather than being predetermined beforehand.

YDS: So with this idea of process in mind, what was it like being a book editor versus being a book critic for The LA Times?

DU: It was complicated, to be honest, but I loved it. I didn’t love it all the time. I loved the work of it. I was there during a strange decade where the paper was constantly in a state of turmoil, constantly downsizing. Because I was a section editor for the first five years, I was responsible for trying to protect that section in some way. I had to figure out how to integrate [the section] into the paper at large and that came with a set of logistical challenges I hadn’t had before. Just on a pragmatic level, if they were downsizing a section, what did that mean? How much space could we get? How could I fight to keep that space? If I had half the space I used to have, how did we intend to use that space to try and have a wider range of coverage? And then, how could I use the web?

I became book editor in 2005, and web presence was pretty minimal. One of the things that I and the other editors were doing at that time was trying to build the website and build web presence. We played around with stuff, and we tried to mitigate the print space with increasing digital space, so those logistical questions were really unique to that experience and sometimes they were quite frustrating. At one point they did cut the section in half in terms of its print space so that was a difficult process. In the end, I think I was always a writing editor—I was a writer first and an editor second—so even when I was editing a section, I was writing a lot of pieces, and at a certain point, I just wanted to go back to writing. I didn’t want to be in charge anymore. I realized through that process that I don’t really love being in charge. So, when I had the opportunity to begin writing full-time as a critic it was great. I really enjoyed that, but then the other challenge of it was that the web continued to assert itself, and the paper belatedly tried to catch up on web strategy, the demand for volume. And, the amount of pieces you were supposed to write radically grew.

One reason [I left] was due to those kinds of demands. Though frankly, I felt that ten years was enough. I had done that job, and it was enough for me. I had learned what I wanted to learn from it. I think one of the important things to consider about those kinds of jobs—particularly for newspaper—is that they turn over. If you read my reviews for five years, you have a pretty good idea of who I am, where I’m coming from, and what my aesthetics are. So then, it should be somebody else’s turn, you know. That is how publications ossify, if somebody does that job for too long.

Though frankly, I felt that ten years was enough. I had done that job, and it was enough for me. I had learned what I wanted to learn from it.

YDS: So if someone were interested in becoming a book reviewer, how should they start?

DU: Well, at this point, I think I would start on the web. I think there are a lot of excellent web-based publications. I came up through alt-weekly media, like LA Reader, which doesn’t exist anymore, and LA Weekly, Village Voice. That kind of stuff. Some of those papers don’t exist anymore either. But at the time, what was great about them is that you could write, write at length, and they were always looking for stuff. You could really learn while you’re doing it, hone your chops. I would say for someone who wants to do it now, the same is available in terms of websites like The Millions or Lithub or Los Angeles Review of Books, sites like that.

Look around at those sites: see what you like, look at the outlets you like, think about what kind of stuff they’re publishing, think about whether you are doing that kind of work, and then pitch. There is a lot of opportunity on the web, there’s not a lot of money in that opportunity and that’s always the problem starting out; the paper/work ratio is, generally, pretty uneven.

In terms of getting work out and having the opportunity to learn in public, I think that’s really key because book reviewing is a kind of a public form of writing. I believe all writing is public, but book reviewing is public because nobody writes book reviews and then sits on them. I do it all the time when I write poems and stories, with no guarantee they’re going to get published. But nobody is sitting around writing book reviews for their own amusement. Well, maybe there are a few. [laughs]

YDS: It also seems like you’re more aware of your audience when you’re writing a book review than when writing for yourself.

DU: I guess we are aware that there is an audience. I mean I always tried to keep an awareness of the audience per say. Not right to the audience, but yeah, if you’re writing a review for a newspaper, you are aware that there is going to be an audience reading that review in a different way than if you’re working on a short story, or a novel, or an essay, or something like that. I mean the audience is less abstract in this case.

YDS: Does being more aware of that audience change your writing or voice in any way?

DU: You know, I don’t think so. Because once I’m in, when I’m sitting at the computer writing, I’m not aware of there being a difference at all because I’m not writing to please anybody, except hopefully myself. Again, I’m writing to kind of see what’s there and that’s the same no matter what form I’m working in.

YDS: I recently read Ear to the Ground, which you wrote with Paul Kolsby and is a really great read, by the way. I kept thinking about the process of collaboration. What was your collaboration like and how is that different than writing on your own?

DU: It’s very different than writing on your own. It’s not something I do very often, to be honest. It’s not something I love doing because I tend to be kind of solitary and I have my own sense of how things go, and I do think that writing is largely an individual process. But in this case, it worked really well. Although the book came out in 2016, it was originally published as a weekly serial novel in the Los Angeles Reader in ’95 and ’96. So, Paul and I were in our early thirties. We’d known each other since college, since we were like eighteen or nineteen, and we had collaborated in loose ways on other creative projects that were more performance oriented. He’s a playwright and we had done a radio serial drama together, like five or six years earlier. So we knew each other, we knew each other’s work. We weren’t best, best friends, but I think it’s better that we weren’t because there was less at stake in our personal relationship.

Because it was a series novel, we agreed to deliver a chapter a week for a year and it ended up running nine months because the story sort of arched in that block of time. So, this ties in with what we’ve been talking about because Paul and I had no idea where this was going to go. We had a general sense of what the arc of the story was; we knew that there was going to be the earthquake prediction and we knew how it was going to play out. We kind of mapped that out, but we didn’t know…well, we certainly didn’t know what was going to be happening in the news, and we wanted to weave that in. We didn’t necessarily know what was going to be happening with the characters and their relationships. A lot of that developed week by week. So the idea of writing a chapter a week on deadline was really daunting.

In that sense, collaboration was essential because what if I didn’t have an idea, but I still had to turn something in? With a collaborator, maybe he had an idea, or maybe I had one and he didn’t. And so the kind of interplay in the collaboration was really helpful because of the pressure of generating content at that pace. The other thing that was really useful is I’m not much of a plotter, but Paul is a great plotter. We didn’t realize this going in, but as we were working, it emerged that we kind of complimented each other. I was good on character and scene. He’s really good on big plot overview stuff. He’s funny; I’m less so. And so there was a balance that was important for the book. I think it was a really interesting and successful process.

The best evidence is that eighteen years later when we finally read it again and decided to try and publish it as a book, there were long stretches of the manuscript where I couldn’t tell who had written what. I remembered writing certain things myself. I remember certain things that Paul had written, but there were definitely stretches where both of us were like, “I don’t know, this could be either one of us.” That says to me the collaboration developed its own kind of voice, its own sensibility, which is all you can hope for. Even if there are two writers, there has to be a kind of unified voice to a narrative or else the reader doesn’t have anything to connect with. But, it was a fascinating process.

YDS: So, did you start off with one of you writing the first chapter and then the other would read that chapter and then write the next one back and forth?

DU: Yeah, the original idea was exactly that. One of us was going to be the writer every other week, right? And we would alternate, but then of course things happened. So Paul, at that time, was traveling a bunch, and I had a six month old son—my oldest—which is always, always a distraction. So there were things coming up where I couldn’t do it or he couldn’t do it, or I would direct three in a row or vice versa. So it became more fluid and flexible just because of life. The original plan, which we did sort of stick to for a while and kind of kept coming back to, was that we would alternate as a lead writer. If it was my job, then Paul would go through them. We would then get together and go over the revised version, and then do a final draft of it.

I think we probably ran through about half that way. Most chapters were 900 words long, but we did these three sort of pillar chapters that were much longer, that ran as cover stories. Those were about 3,500 words long each. We started with one of those. We had one in the middle and one at the end. That was a different process because we worked on them for a longer time, obviously, and they became a key way for us to make really big plot moves.

YDS: That’s a great example of process. I recently read an article you wrote for The LA Times back in 2009, “The Lost Art of Reading,” which seemed to be a precursor to the book.

DU: Yes, in fact, there would be no book without that article.

YDS: One of the main ideas, in the article and the book, is that the reason for the decline in reading for the average person is due to social media culture and our political climate and a sense of immediacy we increasingly desire. With that in mind and thinking of new types of storytelling—audiobooks, podcasts, etc.—do you think that these things influence or alter that type of mentality when it comes to reading?

DU: That’s a good question. I think everything that involves storytelling—with every storytelling medium or mechanism—affects the way we interact with and engage in storytelling. Just as a quick example, let’s look at Madame Bovary. In a lot of ways you could call it the first modern novel because it’s describing a modern sensibility, right? Middle-class bourgeois people. This is the first time you see this in fiction: people with a little bit too much time and money on their hands and the boredom that it provokes. It was very modern when it came out, with its morality moving away from traditional morality. Published in 1857, right? When the Bovary’s get chased out of town and move to another place, Flaubert introduces the second town with a five-page set piece, where he basically sets up the location before they ever get there. You can’t do that in a book in a novel anymore. I don’t think our attention spans are wired to put up like that. We want to cut to the chase. If that novel had been written a hundred years later, chances are he would have adapted cinematic strategy like jump cuts. We no longer expect a novelist to ease us through transitions, but we can move through these kinds of abrupt transitions because we have internalized the vernacular of film just by virtue of the society we’re living in. Even if you don’t go to movies or aren’t a big movie person, we understand how that transition works in a way that 100 years ago or 150 years ago it would have been beyond our ability to imagine.

It’s the same thing with the Impressionists when they first were shown in the late 1800s and they were attacked because people couldn’t process what they were seeing. Whereas now you look at an impressionist painting and it looks like a realist painting. I think as a species we evolved our ability to appreciate various forms of expression and narrative as those forms come up and teach us new ways of thinking. And I think audiobooks are a great example. I think film is a great example. And I think video games are a kind of narrative mechanism, of digital storytelling, multimedia. All of these kinds of things have changed the way we interact. I’m interested in all of that stuff.

When the Bovary’s get chased out of town and move to another place, Flaubert introduces the second town with a five-page set piece, where he basically sets up the location before they ever get there. You can’t do that in a book in a novel anymore.

What I was primarily trying to write about in The Lost Art, at least in that second edition with new material, was really about distraction and the fact that someone like me, who was an avid lifelong reader of hundreds and hundreds of pages a week, was now having trouble reading. This must mean that there was a kind of epidemic of having trouble reading. The reason the book grew out of that essay was because the essay got tons of response. Mostly people would write me to say, “Thanks, I thought I was the only one.” Then a publisher asked me if I would be interested in thinking about this as a book.

There’s a lot of political stuff in the book because there was a lot of political stuff going on at the time. In terms of the current crisis, it was just beginning with the tea party and Sarah Palin and all of that. Although, the roots go back much further, and we weren’t using phrases like “fake news,” but that level of lying was already part of the public discourse. One of the reasons it was working was because people were either too distracted or uninformed to know what the truth was. In that sense the political climate was sort of a subtext to the book. It was really a question about distraction and how we combat distraction. So it is a book about reading, but in a lot of ways reading becomes a metaphor for slowing down, for critical thinking, or for quieting our minds enough to be able to hear somebody else’s voice and engage with it. I really feel this is something that we have lost to our collective detriment. If we were able to actually sit and process information collectively as a culture and think about what it meant and then ask questions about it, we’d be a lot better off.

But the speed of everything and the soundbite quality of the Internet as an information source has created an environment where we are basically conditioned just to react. Just hit a button and read something and our immediate responses are like, “Yeah” or, “Fuck you”. And we’d never really get beyond that. And so I saw that happening in me, and I wanted to explore it.

YDS: I used to soak up books when I was young. Then I got into grad school and I was having the hardest time concentrating. So when I read the article and book it started to click. This sense of immediacy. I teach at a community college and I see it now with students and trying to get them to read.

DU: That’s absolutely right. I’ve noticed it more lately, and certainly since the election, as affecting writing. You know, on a big news day, I’m constantly interrupting my own writing to go see what’s going on, even though if I waited an hour, I’d be just as outraged, or weirded out or disgusted or horrified or whatever. But it feels like if I don’t know immediately, it’s like I will lose further control. And as I was saying earlier, writing is kind of about giving up control or losing control or seeing what happens when you let go.

Yet at the same time, the political environment and social environment is so chaotic and so disruptive of our impulses that we need to know everything that’s happening, so we can at least preserve the illusion that we have some control over what’s happening, even though we don’t. And so I find myself constantly caught between those two poles. Even when I’m writing, things that would’ve taken me a couple of hours—five years ago—now takes me all day, and things that would’ve taken me a day now takes me a week because I’m constantly pulling myself out of the writing and putting my head back into the real world.

YDS: That puts it into perspective. And speaking of reading, what are you currently reading?

DU: I am about to read a biography of the architect Philip Johnson, that a friend of mine wrote, which I’m curious about. I’m reading Terrance Hayes’s American Sonnets from my Past and Future Assassins, which I think is completely remarkable. And I’m reading a book by Patrick Modiano, the French Nobel Prize winner, called Sleep of Memory, which is the first book he’s written since he won the Nobel. He’s a writer I’m really interested in because his work is so spare and minimal and also heavily memory-influenced. And so those are really important, at least in terms of what I do.

I’m about to start reading the last book by Canadian writer Helen Weinzweig. She’s a novelist, a short story writer. She lived into her eighties and died a number of years ago, but she wrote three books, starting when she was in her late fifties. I stumbled across the first book and I fell in love with it. I’m about to start reading her last book, A View from the Roof, a collection of shorts.

The other book I’ve been spending a lot of time with this summer is The Years by a French writer named Annie Ernaux. It’s a memoir that does not use first person singular, which I find absolutely fascinating. Basically, she’s trying to write her own story through the collective story of her generation. She uses a lot of first-person plural and she uses some third-person. I’ve never seen anything quite like it before. It’s fascinating. I’m always looking for writers who are doing something that I haven’t seen or something vivid and compelling, particularly with voice because I do a lot of first-person writing and I’m curious about how to strip the “I” out of first-person writing.

YDS: You mentioned a new edition of The Lost Art of Translation is coming out soon, what else are you working on at the moment?

DU: I am working on a few things. I don’t normally talk about works in progress, but I will say the main project I’m working on, which I’m pretty well into, is a memoir that’s been kind of fascinating for all the reasons we were talking about in terms of a voice in narrative, of memory and storytelling, of the slipperiness of truth. I don’t really believe in truth. I believe in subjective truth, but I don’t really believe in our ability to comprehend objective truth. Different versions of stories—how the story can exist in different versions depending on who’s telling them—all that stuff fascinates me.

YDS: I look forward to reading that. Finally, what’s the best piece of advice you’d give a working writer?

DU: Well, I’ve given this advice before, and I’ll give it again until I’m dead and can’t give advice anymore: don’t listen to anybody who tells you you can’t do it. As writers, once [you] declare yourself as a writer, everybody has advice and at least half of that is, “You’ll never be able to do this, so figure out something else to do.” And I don’t think it’s meant to be cruel. I mean, sometimes it is, but I think it’s meant to be practical. You’re going to spend your life doing this thing where there’s no money and it’s hard. So why, right?

Well, obviously, the drive is internal. So if you’re offered that advice and you listen to that advice, then you were probably not a writer to begin with. I say, “Be stubborn.” Everybody has their own sense of what good work is. It’s a completely subjective landscape. And if you believe, then don’t let somebody else convince you not to believe. There’s always going to be the opportunity to walk away. And if that’s what you want to do, by all means, you should definitely walk away. It’s hard work. But if you really feel that you’re a writer, don’t take anybody’s negative advice. Just be stubborn and keep your head down and show up to work. And work, work everyday.

All the writers I know are people who just never got up from the chair. They sit down everyday—or most days—and do their work. Maybe the work is good that day. Or maybe the work is bad that day. It doesn’t matter. They don’t get too high from the good work. They don’t get too low from the bad work. They sit down and do it again every day. It’s work. I don’t want to make it totally pragmatic: there are a whole bunch of really interesting, “soulful” things that happen when you’re creating, when you’re being creative. But also, this work, it’s actual practical hard work. You’ve got to show up to the job every day. There will always be people telling you negative stuff, and you gotta get those voices out of your head. Do whatever it takes to do that.

YDS: That’s really great advice. Thank you so much for that, and thank you for talking with Lunch Ticket.

DU: Well, I appreciate your questions and your close reading of the work. That really means a lot, so thank you for that.


Yvonne de la Cruz Sánchez is an English and composition instructor and an MFA candidate in creative writing at Antioch University. She is also an assistant editor of fiction and guest blogger for Lunch Ticket. In addition to teaching, Yvonne likes to think she holds the following titles as well: Singer of Bedtime Stories, Maker of Dreams, Believer in the Future, Self-healer in Progress, Wearer of Heart-on-Sleeve, Organizer of Books & Toys, Imbiber of Words, and Humble Writer Whose Work is Wholly Cast from a Bronze Heart. She currently resides in the Central Valley with her husband and three daughters.

Francesca Lia Block, Author

Photo Credit: Nicolas Sage Photography

I still remember the moment I first swiped one of Francesca Lia Block’s books from my big brother’s bookshelf. Splayed out across my family’s living room floor in our downtown Los Angeles apartment, I devoured the modern fairy tales in Blood Roses with a hunger I hadn’t realized was there. Moving on to her other works, I began to see parts of my own life—the troubled-yet-loving Witch Baby from Weetzie Bat, the girl with two moms who goes searching for her long-lost father in the story “Dragons in Manhattan,” the brave girl with the fairy friend who eventually exposes her abuser in I Was a Teenage Fairy. I was a quiet, shy kid, but the fantastic worlds and characters I found in these stories gave me the inner courage I needed to start thinking about who I wanted to be. I came to realize that I wanted to be a writer, not just of entertaining stories, but of important ones—just like Francesca Lia Block. I never dared to dream that almost twenty years later, I would have the good fortune of working with Francesca as my writing mentor. Her guidance has transformed my writing and inspired me to reach further, try new things, and strive to achieve my full potential. She is a compassionate, dedicated human being, and to me, she will always be magical.

Francesca Lia Block is the author of more than twenty-five books as well as numerous stories, poems, essays, and interviews. She received the Spectrum Award, the Phoenix Award, the ALA Rainbow Award, and the 2005 Margaret A. Edwards Lifetime Achievement Award. Earlier this year, she announced to the delight of her fans that her award-winning debut novel, Weetzie Bat, will be adapted into a film starring Anya Taylor-Joy. Her most recent book, The Thorn Necklace, is part memoir and part craft book, detailing her own life experiences as well as her 12 Questions to guide the writing process. She was born and raised in Los Angeles, where she still lives and teaches.

I interviewed Francesca via instant messenger on August 13, 2018.

Adrien Kade Sdao: So, I wanted to start by saying congratulations on the Weetzie Bat movie!!! Such exciting news.

Francesca Lia Block: Thank you.

AKS: I know it’s been a long time in the making. What emotions are you feeling? What challenges still lie ahead?

FLB: A lot. We are still working out financing details, etc. I’m trying not to think about it all too much.

AKS: I can understand how it might be overwhelming.

FLB: I have waited so long so it feels like a lot is at stake. And I also feel responsible to my fans. But the cast seems really great.

I think a lot of young people read books for older people and vice versa. It seems mostly like a marketing issue. I’d have to say try to publish with your target audience in mind to avoid being trapped in a different genre. 

AKS: Yes, they certainly do. You wrote the screenplay, correct? I’m guessing maintaining creative control is very important to you.

FLB: I wrote it and then my friend, director Elgin James, did a pass. I would like some creative input but I’m learning that it’s hard to have creative control unless you are the person with the funds.

AKS: Ah, I understand. Well, I’m looking forward to hearing more about the movie and seeing it of course!

FLB: Thank you! I will keep everyone posted as soon as I know more! I really appreciate all the interest and support!

AKS: I wanted to ask you about something you mentioned in a previous interview ( You said that some of your earlier work was written for adults, but marketed to teens. How has this affected your career? How does your writing differ when you’re writing intentionally for teens?

FLB: I honestly never really write for teens. I’m thinking more about the story I want to tell. A few of my books were specifically contracted for younger audiences, so I had to keep that in mind, but I still try to tell the story I feel I need to tell.

AKS: Wow, as someone who read your books from a young age, I find that very interesting. I feel like it shows how mutable the line between teen and adult literature is. What advice would you give to writers in similar situations in terms of their target audience?

FLB: Yes, I think a lot of young people read books for older people and vice versa. It seems mostly like a marketing issue. I’d have to say try to publish with your target audience in mind to avoid being trapped in a different genre. I like to write in many genres, but it is hard for audiences to understand. Branding is important though, and can be frustrating. I always just wanted to write dark fairy tales and myths for myself and my friends. I should say, “dark, literary fairy tales and myths.” That is what I love to read.

I try to be sensitive. I do my best. I make mistakes. I think it is a challenge and it’s important to be sensitive and try your best.

AKS: So you write the sort of thing you would love to read? Are there any recent books that you fell in love with?

FLB: Not always, but in general, yes. I’ve been revisiting all the classics! I’m obsessed with what we are reading for class, for instance—Virginia Woolf, Isabel Allende, Baldwin, Angelou, Morrison, Shirley Jackson. I just read this book called The Magus by John Fowles that blew my mind. The southern Gothic women—Katherine Anne Porter and Carson McCullers. Murakami, Faulkner, Hawthorne, D.H Lawrence, Thomas Hardy, Colette, Angela Carter. I have to get caught up on a lot of contemporary literature, but right now I’m just delving into classics and modern classics. And you might say, those aren’t fairy tales, but actually, I’m writing a paper about the way the fairy tale and goddess mythology is hidden in a lot of literature in the canon.

AKS: Ah, yes! I was enthralled with your seminar last residency and how you related the gothic to Goddess mythology. Do you find that you appreciate these novels more for their stories or for the way they were crafted?

FLB: Thank you! Both! I think it depends on the book but I value plot and craft about equally, depending.

AKS: I suppose it takes a good balance of both for something to become a classic in the first place.

FLB: Yes! Even when a book seems not to be “plot-heavy,” like Woolf’s work, there is a lot of tension and conflict there as well.

AKS: I’m looking forward to reading To the Lighthouse. It’ll be my first Virginia Woolf!

FLB: I hope you like it! I would suggest just letting the words wash over you like waves.

AKS: That’s great advice! Thank you. I’d like to ask you about The Thorn Necklace. What made you decide to write a memoir/craft book instead of one of each? Also, as a deeply emotional person, was writing such a personal work of nonfiction more challenging than channeling that emotion into fiction?

FLB: It was harder than writing fiction because there was no scrim to hide behind. I wanted to write separate memoir and craft books but the craft book idea was a little short and my publisher suggested I combine them. It took me a while to figure out how to do it though. It felt organic in the end, which is what I wanted.

AKS: I’ve always loved how you showed a multitude of human experiences in your work, and you don’t shy away from showing the real consequences of the oppression of minority groups. As an ally, how do you navigate writing about groups you’re not part of? Like writing a trans character as a cis woman.

FLB: It’s tricky these days. I try to be sensitive. I do my best. I make mistakes. I think it is a challenge and it’s important to be sensitive and try your best.

AKS: You said, “these days.” Is it harder now than it was when you first started writing?

FLB: Yes, there is a lot more awareness and sensitivity, which is a good thing, but can feel daunting but, feeling daunted isn’t as much of a challenge as being oppressed so…

It was harder than writing fiction because there was no scrim to hide behind.

AKS: Ha, that’s a great way to put it! It certainly is an ongoing learning process.

FLB: Yes, I feel that is true.

AKS: My final question is: what was your favorite picture book to read to your kids when they were little?

FLB: Well I love Where the Wild Things Are but I think my absolute favorite is Mr. Rabbit and the Lovely Present by my first editor Charlotte Zolotow. Have you read it?

AKS: I haven’t, but I recognize the name. I’ll have to add that to my endless “to read” list.

FLB: Right? It never ever ends.

AKS: This whole MFA thing still seems surreal–I bet yours does, too, considering you’ve been publishing for many years already!

FLB: Yes, it is weird, but it has helped my work and my teaching. I just wrote a novel in my program and I feel very excited about it. I do think that all the intensive reading and annotating really works.

AKS: That’s great. Hopefully I’ll get to read it eventually!

FLB: Thank you. It’s been lovely to chat with you.

AKS: Yes, I totally agree! You too. Thanks so much for your time.


Adrien Kade Sdao writes young adult fiction and works in a children’s bookstore in Los Angeles. They are an MFA candidate at Antioch University, Los Angeles, and they are the lead editor for the writing for young people genre at Lunch Ticket. Their work has appeared in Lunch Ticket and Womanpause. They live in North Hollywood with their cat, Shelly.


Alistair McCartney, Author

Photo Credit: Tim Miller

Alistair McCartney is more apt to graciously smile and walk by, than stay and chat. Amiable and courteous, he’s an unassuming type who stays out of the spotlight. Author of The Disintegrations: A Novel (University of Wisconsin Press, 2017), he recently won the Publishing Triangle’s Ferro-Grumley Award for LGBTQ Fiction. The Seattle Times and ENTROPY named it one of the best works of fiction for 2017. His first novel, The End of The World Book (University of Wisconsin Press, 2008) was a finalist for the PEN USA Fiction Award in 2009 and for the Publishing Triangle’s Edmund White Debut Fiction Award in 2009, as well as landing a spot in The Seattle Times Best Ten Books of 2008. His writing has appeared in many journals and anthologies including Fence, Animal Shelter (Issue 2, Semiotexte), BloomLies/IslesGertrude, CRUSH Fanzine1913James White Review, Scott Heim’s The First Time I Heard series, and Karen Finley’s Aroused.

The Disintegrations cobbles together nightmares, legends, haunts, and tender recall into a larger story that allows for deep reflection and interpretation.

Born and raised in Perth, Western Australia, Alistair McCartney resides in Venice, California. He is on staff at Antioch University Los Angeles teaching fiction for the MFA in creative writing program, and oversees AULA’s undergraduate creative writing concentration. Included in the list of institutions where he has presented are CUNY Grad Center, PEN Center USA, AWP, Teacher’s and Writer’s Collaborative New York, and UW Madison. Usually dressed in a slim tee and slacks, his longish hair waving over one eye, Alistair brings cups of tea and total focus to his workshops.

I had the opportunity to work with Alistair during a creative writing residency at Antioch University’s MFA program. When my packet arrived stamped with his name, I wanted to bellow a loud huzzah, but whispered, yes, to my napping hubs, I’m workshopping with Alistair McCartney. At the workshop, I felt awed by Alistair’s humor and unshakable calm; the way he doesn’t trip on words. His latest novel, The Disintegrations was nearly finished, he told our group. He raked through his hair and described the task. Nine years of work, building, disassembling, paging through text, and here I was witness to the last phase of its completion. It only takes nine months to birth a baby. Holding the new novel and reading it through winter break, I could hear Alistair’s gentle Australian-accented prosody narrating in my head.

The Disintegrations cobbles together nightmares, legends, haunts, and tender recall into a larger story that allows for deep reflection and interpretation. Also named “Alistair,” the novel’s narrator is unapologetic, sometimes seedy, and never predictable. McCartney presents briefly penned inquiries, snooping for small answers to the big question: What does the exploration of death reveal about life?

I interviewed Alistair McCartney by email in February, 2018.

Andrea Auten: Your recently published novel, The Disintegrations, packs thick and richly worded text exploring death’s parlous hold on its narrator, and though the piece is small, it contains profound discoveries. In intimate partnership, I walked through death’s shadowy valley in what felt like an epic thousand-page novel and never felt cheated or unquenched. What methods helped manage the size and scope of death and in paring down the text, how did large cuts affect your writing and serve this story?

Alistair McCartney: That makes me so happy to hear that your reading experience was one of intimacy, and that the book felt epic in scope, within the limits of its 213 pages. If I learnt anything from the process of writing this novel, it was how to compress, how to be ruthless in cutting. Earlier drafts were three times as long.

What guided me through this process was an ethos that I address directly in the book, that in trying to write about death, the temptation is to go on and on, to write a novel of Moby Dick proportions, but instead I followed an instinct that the writer should be more modest in his aims.

In The Disintegrations I use the analogy of wanting to write a book like a grand cathedral of Gothic dimensions, but instead aiming to create a structure that has the strictly controlled dimensions of a grave, a book whose space is contained, but full of hidden things.

I think, or I hope that this method served the voice, brought forth a terse quality in the narrator, and served the story in terms of avoiding grandiosity or portentousness. It also helped speed things up in terms of pacing; some readers have told me they read the book in one sitting, which also makes me happy.

AA: I enjoy your form of archival writing; this collective sourcing. When all is available can it become a flood and how do you navigate and know what to keep?

AM: I love that you pick up on the archival nature of The Disintegrations. Just as with The End of the World Book, I played the role of an encyclopedist; in this new book I’m essentially an archivist, responsible for maintaining the archives of the dead, though one who is not averse to tampering with the documents, falsifying them. And it gets me wondering if all writing is archival by nature, to some degree.

The specter of Catholicism was unavoidable in this book especially given the setting at a Catholic cemetery, given the narrator’s (and my own) Catholic upbringing.

Your notion of the flood is definitely apt, it’s exactly what I was confronted with as I researched and wrote successive drafts: a deluge of documents, records, facts, information. As for how to deal with it, I think you have to drown for a while in all of it, but after the deluge, you begin to intuitively keep and take only what draws you with a kind of magnetic pull, what sparks your imagination.

AA: I have a vivid childhood memory of losing myself in the worn-out album cover of Elton John’s Captain Fantastic, an older brother’s hand-me-down classic, while listening to songs like “Someone Save My Life Tonight” and staring at the Bosch-inspired cover art. Bosch’s real painting, “The Garden of Earthly Delights” both frightens and fascinates, with Adam and Eve, all of the people on earth, and the darkening end times depiction. As you wrote The End of the World Book and The Disintegrations, how might Catholic iconography have attached to your themes?

AM: Your childhood memory sounds very similar to my own—I was obsessed with music and visual images, including Bosch’s art, especially that right panel of The Garden, his depiction of Hell. Your choice of words as to the effect of his images, both frightening and fascinating, is spot-on. Weirdly enough in an earlier draft of The Disintegrations I wrote about Bosch; I ended up cutting it, but will go back to it in another book that is part of the cycle I’m working on.

The specter of Catholicism was unavoidable in this book especially given the setting at a Catholic cemetery, given the narrator’s (and my own) Catholic upbringing. I think I should leave it up to readers and reviewers as to how it specifically impacts the book’s set of icons, but I will say that the theme of resurrection versus disintegration is obviously central to The Disintegrations. The narrator draws on religious motifs throughout, not just of the Catholic variety, but always through a non-systematic lens. As I wrote I was thinking a lot about writers and artists who draw on religious imagery in a reverent yet deeply idiosyncratic way, like Flannery O’Connor, Dostoevsky, and my fellow Australian Nick Cave.

AA: Your work, nonlinear, archival, the spaces in between, evokes visual art movements—beyond surrealism, somewhere less Dadaistic—where interpretation and interaction meet. What are your visual art interests and how do they help you paint words?

AM: Yeah, I’m definitely a writer who’s profoundly influenced by other art forms—music, dance, film, and as you mention, visual art. In a very general sense, I’m drawn to the immediate power of the image, the sensual materiality of visual art; my writing is very image based—images are more important than plot or narrative.

There were several artists whose work really informed The Disintegrations, images I kept on my desk as I wrote: Alice Neel’s portraits guided the fictional eulogies, El Greco’s painting of The View of Toledo served as sort of talisman for the setting, Marlene Dumas’ stark portraits in her Measuring your Own Grave exhibit were invaluable, as were the disintegrated photographs of Costica Ascinte (one of his photos ended up on the cover), and Banks Violette’s abstract Black Metal inspired installations. All these works shared a beauty and intensity that helped me figure out how to write around death, through death.

Because all my writing begins with fragments, I’m deeply drawn to the visual art method of collage, it teaches me so much —I’m fixated on that now as I work on my next book. Also, installation artists like Danh Vo, who works with the accumulation of disparate objects into a non-linear narrative. And I have a future book planned for my cycle that will, God willing, address my passion for visual art directly.

AA: How does performance art and its world weave into your writing and inspire you?

AM: Well, I do have a background in performance art and live art. I spent a good chunk of the 90’s in London and in LA experimenting in that zone, doing both text based work and movement focused, body centered work without text. And I used to teach a class on the history of performance art, Vibrant Bodies, to the undergrads at Antioch, focusing on extreme performance, like Chris Burden, Ron Athey, Kira O’Reilly, Franko B, Marina Abramovich, William Pope, L. Regina Galindo, and others.

When I was a practitioner, I was kind of trying to avoid being a writer, though I had to go back to it, it’s just who I am and what I do. But that trace of performance lingers in my writing; a review of The End of the World Book said that the voice and prose was like that of a performance artist, or an avant-garde stand up comic. For that book I did some directly performative readings, using a slideshow, and playing with volumes of the actual World Book during the reading.

And I think The Disintegrations is also very oral in nature, it’s a book to be read aloud, which is how I write, reading every sentence over and over again aloud until it sounds right. Essentially I approach writing in a very performative manner; for me that “I” who narrates my books, who bears my name, is a persona, a performative gesture. It’s interesting you bring up performance because I suspect I may be exploring it more actively in the third book, both in terms of the writing on the page but off the page as well.

AA: What sparked your love for French auto-fiction and how did great minds such as Bataille, Rimbaud, Genet, Guibert, and Blanchot influence your work? 

When I teach fiction, truth is not a word I reach for, but I use other words or concepts that perhaps are variants of the term. For instance, when I’m reading my student’s novels and short stories, I’m drawn to identifying the singularity of a writer, and encouraging them to pursue that uniqueness.

AM: Well, all those writers you mention are ones I love and have informed me at different stages of my life. Genet, Bataille, and Rimbaud are writers I discovered as a teenager; Guibert in my mid-twenties, Blanchot more recently. And to that list I’d add Duras, who I first read as an undergrad. Specifically in terms of those writers whose work falls under the category of auto-fiction—Duras, Guibert, Blanchot—I’d say it was an immediate resonance with the work, their “choice” to write explicitly from life, but refuse the category of fiction, and in Blanchot’s case, to question the very grounds of representation. I’m making this attraction sound very cerebral, but it was much more instinctive. All of my work begins in the autobiographical, but I just don’t feel comfortable telling it in the realm of creative non-fiction. Blanchot’s Death Sentence was a novella that had a major influence on The Disintegrations in helping me find the right voice and register to tell my fictional eulogies.

As for the other writers you mention who don’t fall so neatly into auto-fiction, with Bataille, his exploration of the erotics of transgression and the interface between sex and death is definitely there in The Disintegrations. In many ways I think of the shorter sections of my book that read like prose poems as direct descendants of Rimbaud’s The Illuminations, like negative mirror images of those poems. Even the title of Rimbaud’s book influenced my title. I’m not sure Genet’s influence is directly in the current book, but interestingly enough he’s someone I’ve been thinking about lately, and who is definitely influencing the world of the new book I’m working on.

AA: All this clanging about fake news, truth v. fact, grappling with the nature of truth is not a new social construct. Ancient Greco-Roman rights and illusions of free speech, Foucault’s “games of truth” thinking, the splashy recrimination hurled at not so nonfiction writing; truth has pliancy. As a teaching artist how do you assist writers to search for their own relationship to truth?

AM: That’s a really interesting question, because the word truth is one that’s not really in my vocabulary, at least as it applies to art. I think I’m still very much a child of post-modernity; Nietzsche’s assertion that “truth is a mobile army of metaphors” is one I’ve been very aware of lately. I’m fine with Plato labeling us as liars—he can keep his Truth.

So when I teach fiction, truth is not a word I reach for, but I use other words or concepts that perhaps are variants of the term. For instance, when I’m reading my student’s novels and short stories, I’m drawn to identifying the singularity of a writer, and encouraging them to pursue that uniqueness. I’m really excited by my students doing work that’s provocative, that’s pushing at a limit, that’s fearless. All of this is my way of encouraging the writer to follow their aesthetic vision, which is perhaps, a sort of truth, or more essential than truth. Encouraging the writer to counter that “clanging” in the social sphere you mention, with the—to take Nietzsche’s words—“sensuous vigor” of their language.

Perhaps the closest I get to applying the concept of truth to fiction is when a student is doing work with a basis in history, and their work is intent on revealing historic truth, especially through defamiliarization. That’s where I have to separate my own aesthetic or philosophical discomfort with using the term, particularly when I write, my sense that language is not a medium that has access to truth, from the importance of my student’s vision and from the strategic importance, in our age, the necessity of asserting the value of historical truth to counter the dissembling forces of fascism here and globally.

AA: What role do writers have in influencing culture and do you see that increasing or decreasing?

Helen Cixous says that children read with extreme violence, in that they erase the rest of the world when they read. I think if we can write books that intuitively tap into that obsessive focus, that childish curiosity, that textual hunger, that free zone where no limits were placed on the imagination, where narratives were unpredictable and we were more than happy to go along for the ride, maybe then we’ll keep our readers eager to turn the page, longing to finish their daily obligations and get back to the book.

AM: Wow, “culture” is such a big concept, I’m not sure what it means anymore. I think we did see in the 20th century the splintering of the notions of high culture versus low culture, the de-centering of the writer as influencing cultural trends in a grand way. Sure, some big names have a platform in their books and op-eds and speeches where they are able to reach an audience large enough to have some broader influence, but I think most of us, if we have any influence, it’s in the literary communities we find ourselves in, whether those reside in an institution or outside an institution. It’s also in that intimate relationship between individual writers and individual readers, those readers we touch and who reach out, so we can communicate with them. That sphere of influence is very significant.

AA: Our two rows of The World Book Encyclopedia shelved behind the family couch frequently called me to lie on my belly and consume information. While I read your novels The End of the World Book, drinking its humor and interiority, and The Disintegrations, marveling at the depth and uniqueness of its characters, I considered how you crafted the works to make me crave and hungrily keep reading. What makes readers want to continue reading?

AM: I love hearing how other readers shared the same passion as mine for The World Book when they were kids. The other day I was telling someone how in the last few years, and even more recently, in the last year since The Disintegrations came out, I’ve learned to read like a kid again, with the same intensity and joy. Helen Cixous says that children read with extreme violence, in that they erase the rest of the world when they read. I think if we can write books that intuitively tap into that obsessive focus, that childish curiosity, that textual hunger, that free zone where no limits were placed on the imagination, where narratives were unpredictable and we were more than happy to go along for the ride, maybe then we’ll keep our readers eager to turn the page, longing to finish their daily obligations and get back to the book.

AA: How might writers adhere to current publishing standards, while tooling the piece they’re compelled to write, honoring their own voice and truth?

AM: Well, we all want to get published, which means having to meet “a publishing standard” established by a house, an editor or agent, a system. But I think it’s really important as writers we write the books we’re meant to write, in all their singularity, ignoring all publishing conventions. So I guess it’s a question of simultaneously pushing the limits of standardization, writing what we need to write while finding those editors, publishers, especially the small independent houses, and locating those journals that welcome singularity and idiosyncrasy.

AA: Flashbacks seem to be on a downturn yet The Disintegrations utilizes recall, reverie, and rumination to successfully invoke a storyteller’s voice. How do you keep your narratives active and where do you think the industry trend is headed?

AM: Yeah, reverie is an important aspect of The Disintegrations and The End of the World Book. I’ve been plugging away at Proust again—I’m only up to book three, The Guermantes Way—and I realized how much his fetishization of recall has influenced me, albeit gathering memories in a far more fragmentary method than his. I’d say the active element of my narratives comes by way of image and motif, the accumulation of memories and images, the reverb of motifs that the reader recognizes and hopefully takes pleasure in.

As a teacher of MFA fiction writers, I am aware that the use of flashback in conventional narratives can drag the narrative down, but, as with the previous question, I do think writers should be wary of any fixed rules and write against such a convention. I’m afraid I don’t pay much attention to “industries” or “trends” so I can’t tell you where any of that is going, but my hope would be that we keep letting in more of those voices that don’t meet market expectations, those voices that don’t fit any trends.


Andrea Auten is the Amuse-Bouche editor for Lunch Ticket’s thirteenth issue. A masters candidate in creative writing at Antioch University Los Angeles and an arts teacher and performer from Dayton, OH, she lives and writes in Los Angeles. Her work can be found in The Antioch Voice. She is currently finishing her second novel.


Juan Felipe Herrera, Author

Juan Felipe Unity Poem Fiesta

Juan Felipe Herrera is the author of several poetry collections, short stories, young adult literature, and children’s books. Among many of his works are the recent Notes on the Assemblage, Half of the World in Light: New and Selected Poems, and The Upside Down Boy. He became the US poet laureate in 2015 for two years. His poems advocate for harmony and freedom in today’s ever diversifying world. His poetry particularly speaks to the working class, migrant workers, and the civil rights activists.

Among his many interests are photography, theatre, and performance poetry. He is also a performance poet and teaches performance within the community. He has created several performance ensembles.

He has taught at the Iowa Writer’s Workshop and has worked as chair of CSU Fresno’s Chicano and Latin American studies department. In the past, he has also served as Chancellor of the Academy of American Poets.

I interviewed Juan Felipe Herrera via phone on March 4, 2018.

Jennifer Mahoney: During your seminar at Antioch University in December 2017, you mentioned that a poem is “a mobile, a hanging architectural structure.” Will you tell me more about this?

Juan Felipe Herrera: The reader, all those things give the poem a new look, a motion in a way—how it moves and what it is for each reader, for each culture and place and time. If you look at it objectively, it’s a little structure. For me, I highly enjoy assembling the poem, building lines, moving words, creating spaces and pauses. It’s a structure, definitely. And I enjoy that quite a bit. The more mobile and the more fluid a poem is for me, the better, even though there is an architectural layer to it. 

 It’s connected to the notion of freedom of thought. And that’s a big thing right now, having freedom of thought. One group’s version of what is going on with another group’s version of what is going on, and if you don’t agree with the extreme right way of thinking then you are a free thinker.

JM: You’ve spoken about new coalitions, new symbols, refreshing symbols to nourish and expand the new Civil Rights movement. In what ways do you think writers, specifically, should rethink this movement?

JFH: We are going through such tremendous and intense changes. New symbol—the male symbol and the female symbol—those have been around for quite a while. It’s like art. Each new movement comes up with a whole new description of what is going on, for itself and what art is. So I think that’s something that is very high on the priority list, people interested in social change. We really do need to come up with a new sort of idea agreement—where we’re going and what we want and how we want it to be done, in what shape it’s going to be in. And how do we come together as diverse people and groups? And even if that is important at all. So we really have to kind of loosen our thoughts quite a bit and our historical narrative of thinking. Give ourselves a number of moments to imagine what is going on now and how we want to present ourselves. That’s where symbols come in. How we want to present ourselves globally and locally.

JM: In your piece, “Let Me Tell You What A Poem Brings,” the speaker mentions that a poem “is a way to attain a life without boundaries.” What ways does the poem break boundaries.

JFH: It’s kind of connected to the haiku in a way. The haiku, one of its great possibilities is that there is something literally and also something very deep in a haiku where you have to spring out of it and find something boundless. So that’s what I’m thinking about. That poem is boundlessness. Kind of like a number of days in your life where a particular day you have a very large expansive insight that you have never had before. It kind of comes out of nowhere, and it’s very big. And that’s what I’m kind of looking at…One day you actually crawl into this thing that you talked about whether it was freedom or love or unity. You really imagine it and you really feel it and you walk up to it as opposed to just saying it.

JM: You’ve spoken about Frederick Douglass at previous lectures. He is one of the many figures who inspire your work. He wanted to promote a new society. How might Frederick Douglass’s idea of freedom apply to the current situation in this country?

JFH: It’s connected to the notion of freedom of thought. And that’s a big thing right now, having freedom of thought.

One group’s version of what is going on with another group’s version of what is going on, and if you don’t agree with the extreme right way of thinking then you are a free thinker.

One of the worst things that can happen to us is be disconnected from each other. And to top it off, to be comfortable being disconnected—that’s even worse. So unity. It’s kind of intimate unity.

At large, I keep on thinking of the old school term that Milosz also used in the 40s when he speaks of Hitlerism and Stalinism. He mentioned very appropriately the term mass hypnosis. And people were being forced to learn a particular way of thinking…and if you didn’t follow, you were shot, banished, exiled. And Milosz was also interested in freedom of thought. So he mentioned the term mass hypnosis…from early psychoanalytic narratives of the early 20th century. And I think that’s what’s kind of going on all of a sudden too. Douglass was also concerned about freedom of thought because as a slave, with slavery, they were not allowed to read, not allowed to have books or mentors or teachers, not to talk about the world of writing or thinking or reading or speeches. So that was highly sanctioned. They were brutally punished because they wanted to read or follow the book. I found that to be alarming, of course, but I also found it to be alarming related to today. We’re kind of surface thinkers many a time. We just kind of read a little bit about this, a little bit about that. Or we’re just interested in the general news or we’re just interested in the movies—a cultural surface layer. We all have a good time. We go to Starbucks, we go to the movies, we come home, we talk, have a nice conversation. But it’s hard to take time out to really deepen our thinking of what on earth is going on right now. So freedom of thought, freedom of thinking is very critical.

JM: Speaking of media, because we are at a time where we need to be thoughtful, how can we practice thoughtfulness in today’s busy society with our everyday technology holding our attention?

Unity is a sweet word, but it’s quite a challenge. That’s my number one issue, how to have a new kind of unity, not this kind of unity where everybody is separate, cut off from each other. That’s not unity.

JFH: We have to stop. Corporate media has become highly, highly developed. I think about the Disney cartoons back in the 50s. They were like rudimentary compared to Disney cartoons today. The same is true to the advertisements today versus ten years ago. But corporate systems have built up a pretty deep and wide global reach and with extremely sophisticated material. They’re like short films. A commercial is a short film. It’s not just a commercial. It’s actually a dramatic film. So where does that leave you and me. Where do we have time to really think it over? So we have to be aware of that power as overtaking. It’s overtaking our way of being and our way of thinking. So we have to notice it and turn it off or find another path.

JM: You mentioned that what most brings you happiness is unity, to be one with everything and everyone. How can poetry bring readers and writers this fulfillment?

JFH: Poetry, art, meditative people, people who have discussions, teachers, classrooms. It’s going on all over the place. But it’s hard to notice once again, and we’re not in those classrooms. I remember seeing an experiment with animals, they show things here and there on tv. And this was a cat, abandoned. And all it had was a social relationship with a small piece of wood with a rug attached to it. What the cat ended up doing was rubbing itself against that carpet because it felt like it had a partner. Self-intimacy. One of the worst things that can happen to us is be disconnected from each other. And to top it off, to be comfortable being disconnected—that’s even worse. So unity. It’s kind of intimate unity. Not just kind of mechanical unity where we’re all in a theatre. I don’t know if there is unity there. We have to find out what unity is. We have to rediscover it. Groups being banned. Groups being deported. Sexual assault being ignored. Women’s experiences being ignored. High school students being massacred. And two or three days later, it’s off the agenda.

So unity is a sweet word, but it’s quite a challenge. That’s my number one issue, how to have a new kind of unity, not this kind of unity where everybody is separate, cut off from each other. That’s not unity. So that’s a good thing. And that does bring me happiness when I come together with friends and family.

JM: Do you think it is important for writers to listen to and have conversations with many people? If so, how has this idea contributed to your own writing?

JFH: We really are nourished by being in a pact of artists and people. At the heart of writing, for particularly poets, it’s going to be hard to notice your poetry if you just go at it by yourself. You select your own book that you want to read, and you write your own way, and you think it all out yourself in your bright poetry head. But poetry is a communal art…Being in a group of writers and poets and doing things together, and talking and going out, walking down the street and organizing events, going across country, and going to another nation together, and traveling around—one is more on the wilder traveling, anything goes world, meeting people. And the other side is kind of the writing world where you write. You may be on your own, mostly, but you will have heard people so you think differently than you do. You will have discovered new words that you know but you never thought of using them in that particular way. And you’ve just been inspired by having someone right next to you, and that itself gave you a whole lot of new energy or you work with a group of writers, and you say, ‘Hey, let’s do a poetry reading called the green elephants.’ And it’s completely amazing to you and you see people come. People applaud you or they give you feedback. You pass out your free poems. And that keeps you going as a writer, and it keeps you expanding as a writer, instead of just being the same way week after week. So, for a poet, poetry is a communal art, mostly.


Jennifer Mahoney is a Filipino writer in Houston. She is a graduate student at Antioch University where she studies poetry and fiction. She currently serves as an editor for Lunch Ticket. She has upcoming poetry in The Machinery.

Siel Ju, Author

I found LA based writer Siel Ju’s novel Cake Time: a novel-in-stories during a trip to LA in December 2017, and I was hooked. I easily fell into the rhythm of the book’s structure and style, and Siel’s use of language: witty and sharp. The next logical step for me, of course, was to use Google to find out more about her. I immediately learned that she is obsessed with smoothie bowls. This is by her own admission. There are tons of brightly colored pictures plastered to her social media accounts—smoothies artfully posed next to current books she is reading. Food, books, and an eye for color: all of my favorite things.

Siel has a talent for making strange combinations work. She has an innate ability to capture the drama and humor of everyday life. These types of intersections unfold in Cake Time where Siel explores the connections and disconnections found in the intimacy. Cake Time explores themes of consent, exploitation, and power dynamics between men and women. Classic themes, but Siel writes for a digital world and illustrates the way boundaries are blurred and crossed in a modern world.

Siel received a PhD in literature and creative writing from the University of Southern California. She is the author of two poetry chapbooks Praise for Might Club and Feelings are Chemicals in Transit. Her work has appeared in ZYZZYVA, The Missouri Review, The Southern Review, Confrontation, and Denver Quarterly. Her debut novel Cake Time won the Red Hen Press Fiction Award in 2015.

In March 2018, I had the opportunity to interview Siel Ju via email. The following is our conversation. It has been edited for clarity.

Kori Kessler: Your novel Cake Time won the Red Hen Press Fiction Award in 2015. What’s it like to be an emerging writer and win an award like that? What advice do you have for other women who are emerging writers?

Siel Ju: I was so surprised when I got the call from Kate Gale at Red Hen that Cake Time had won the award that I almost hung up on her! For a few days I felt like a happy disbelief—that a book of mine was finally going to come out into the world. Which is to say: Cake Time—both the individual stories in the book and the complete manuscript—went through a lot of rejections before it won the award. So my advice to other women would be to take rejection lightly and keep going.

KK: Your website is brilliant: quirky and individual. Your voice seems to be present on every webpage. Do you find branding to be essential to a writer in 2018? Do you have any advice for writers who are trying to set up their own sites and create their own brands?

SJ: Thank you! I do think having an online presence helps you find an audience if you’re a writer today. On a practical level, it makes it a lot easier for people to find you and reach out to you, for opportunities big and small. I think just the fact that you can tell from my website that I often give readings makes reading and event organizers more likely to reach out to me more often. A regular blog and newsletter helps keep me on people’s minds too.

There are feelings and emotions that are very specific to certain moments in life—the feelings you have as a teenage girl are pretty different from the ones you have as a woman in her thirties, etc.

That said, social media and blogging and personal branding can be huge time sucks. And some writers really hate spending time on it. And others—There are friends of mine with writerly ambitions who are very prolific Tweeters and Facebookers but not very prolific at all in terms of producing the creative work they say actually matters to them.

So I would say it’s a good idea to have at least a rudimentary website that lets people find and contact you, but beyond that do just what you enjoy and don’t spend more time on this stuff than you do on writing what really matters to you. There’s not much point in working on your author profile if you’re not actually writing.

KK: As a writer, how has your process changed over the years? When drafting Cake Time how much did the novel and the protagonist change?

SJ: I don’t know that my writing process changed that much while I was writing Cake Time, but it’s changed somewhat since then. With Cake Time, I was really writing short stories—stories short enough that I could kind of hold all the pieces in my head and move them around in my mind without worrying about outlines and such. Now, I’m working on a novel that’s not a novel-in-stories—and I find that I do actually need to do a lot of planning, creating a structure to follow before I start what I consider the real writing part of the novel writing.

Otherwise I end up writing a whole lot of drivel that doesn’t actually go anywhere…. This is just me though. There are plenty of novelists who write sans outline.

KK: In Cake Time, readers follow an unnamed narrator as she dives into one bad relationship after another. The anonymity of the narrator and her experiences in dating gives her an “everywoman” feeling, like she could be any one of us. What drew you to center the experience of dating?

SJ: I can’t remember which book of Andre Breton’s I’m thinking of here, but in one of them, he pictures all his ex-lovers sitting in a row, across from a row of his former selves. Or at least that’s how I remember what he wrote. In any case I think in many ways our memories of past relationships are really memories of our past selves, selves that did and said things or acted and reacted in ways that can seem bizarre and illogical and confounding to our present selves. And romantic relationships—most of which tend to have a relatively clear beginning and an end (vs. friendships or familial relationships that go on for long periods of time with lots of permutations), and are serial in nature (most people have multiple friends but usually just one romantic partner at a time)—can be an interesting way of looking at the phases of our lives, the ways we and our wants and desires and motivations have changed or haven’t.

That said I’m not sure what I just said is what I was really thinking about when I was writing Cake Time. Even now, I don’t really think of the stories as being about a series of relationships—I think rather of phases of a girl/woman’s life. There are feelings and emotions that are very specific to certain moments in life—the feelings you have as a teenage girl are pretty different from the ones you have as a woman in her thirties, etc.—and I wanted to distill some of those feelings and emotions in discrete moments for Cake Time‘s protagonist.

KK: The structure of Cake Time is a novel-in-stories. Readers follow the same narrator through a series of encounters written as short stories. What inspired this structure?

SJ: The structure kind of came out of a lack of overall planning. Basically, I was just writing random short stories, with no sense of a bigger plan beyond that I wanted to publish a book of short stories. Then I started reading short story collections and realized that I really needed to have some sort of overarching thing that held the stories together as a collection if my goal was to publish a book. So, at that point I went through the stories I had and saw that a handful of them could be revised to have the same protagonist in different points in her life. After that, I wrote more stories to fill in the gaps and give an overall arc to the collection.

KK: A general rule of thumb is to resolve a novel, but leave a short story open ended. How does this affect writing a novel in short stories?

SJ: There’s a rule?! This is news to me.

KK: How do you write characters outside of your own experience? For example, Alek, Christian, Jeff, Matt or any of the other men who the narrator dates or hooks up with in Cake Time?

SJ: Well, Cake Time is all written from a female character’s point of view, so I didn’t have to worry so much about getting into the heads of the male characters. But I have worried more about the issue of sounding authentic when writing from a male character’s point of view for other stories I’ve written. I don’t know—I think men and women do have a lot of differences—but also have a lot of similarities…. Human needs and desires are human needs and desires.

KK: LA becomes the backdrop for the novel, but more than that, it’s almost another messy, flawed character. What kind of role does LA play in your writing? Why did you set the scene of most of the stories in LA? What kind of effect does LA have on the stories as opposed to misadventures in a more rural town?

SJ: Honestly, I think I often choose LA as a setting because I don’t want to spend a lot of time doing research about other settings—I have very little time to dedicate to writing as it is, so I don’t want to spend that time googling things. And maybe more than that, I do like to experience places I write about—yet I’m also reluctant to move anywhere for a significant period of time or to write “tourist” stories, you know, those protagonist visits a new place as an American tourist or as a writer at a writing conference / retreat / college speaker type stories and has interesting thoughts about the place and some odd adventures type stories….

Despite all the social media networks today, I think it’s still tough for people to figure out what events are happening, what workshops are available, what little communities exist, especially if you’re just starting out as a writer….

I think it would be cool to write a historical novel—I loved Alexander Chee’s The Queen of the Night, for example—but when it comes down to it, I love reading those types of books a lot more than I’m truly driven to write them.

KK: You wrote A Guide to Literary Los Angeles: Find Your Writing Community in a Sprawling City. What made you realize the need for a literary guide to the city? What makes LA’s literary scene different than other literary scenes across America?

SJ: The short answer to that is that I knew a lot of writer friends and acquaintances organizing cool events and struggling to find a bigger, more diverse (as in not always the same dozen or two people) audience for them—and I sensed there were a lot of writers who wished they could be part of a literary community but didn’t know where to start. So I wanted to create something that connected those two groups. Despite all the social media networks today, I think it’s still tough for people to figure out what events are happening, what workshops are available, what little communities exist, especially if you’re just starting out as a writer….

KK: You interview fellow authors yourself. What do you gain from interviewing different authors?

SJ: It’s a cool chance to talk about a book I admire with the author herself. Plus, as I writer I feel like writing is intimately tied to living—like our ways of writing are ways of living, if that makes sense. So I guess through the interviews, I’m trying to better figure out how to write—and how to live—for myself.

KK: What are you working on now?

SJ: I’m working on a novel about a woman who leaves her orderly life in the Midwest, moves to LA, starts dancing, and learns to let life get messy—too messy. Trouble ensues.

KK: Which non-writing related aspect of your life influences your writing the most?

SJ: Right now, I guess the salsa dancing aspect, since that’s a big topic in the novel I’m writing.

KK: Is there anything you feel like I should have asked you that I didn’t?

SJ: No. And thank you!


Kori Kessler has work published in Tiferet Journal. Currently, she is traveling Europe and attends Antioch University Los Angeles. She is co-associate managing editor of Lunch Ticket. One of these days she plans on settling down in LA with her dog, Ginsberg.

Tony Lewis, Jr., Author

Tony Lewis, Jr is a husband, father, son, author and activist. He works diligently, fighting for the rights of incarcerated men and women who have left family behind. But most importantly, he is fighting for the DCPS school system to offer aid to children who have an incarcerated parent. He also uses his voice to support inmates re-entering the community. His father is serving a life sentence in prison for his involvement in the DC drug trade during the 80s. Despite being the son of a Kingpin, Mr. Lewis has decided to use his voice advocating for social justice, in addition to changing the legacy and meaning behind the name “Tony Lewis.”

Mr. Lewis’s hard work and dedication has been featured on Elite Daily, CNN, BET, in the Washington Post, and most recently on The Breakfast Club Power 105.1 radio broadcast. He has also garnered awards such as the Steve Harvey/Ford Motor Company “Best Community Leader” award and the Presidential Call to Service award. His career accomplishments include his first book, Slugg: A Boy’s Life in the Age of Mass Incarceration (2015), which he uses as a blueprint for children and young teens to use as a survival guide, aiding them through the difficult moments of losing a parent to incarceration. Mr. Lewis’s commitment to communities and social justice has been lifelong and continuing.

Tony Lewis, Jr. and I conducted our interview in person in early January 2018.

Shaneka Cook: In your book you talk a lot about your mother’s mental illness. Why do you think mental illness and depression are such taboo issues in our community when our community could benefit from honest discussion about this topic?

Tony Lewis: Yeah, that’s a great question. I was so transparent about my mother’s situation in hopes that I would in some way chip away at that stigma and it was very strategic. … It was very difficult for me to talk about it and be so transparent, but at the same time my hope is that it will help people, that it will free people to know that this is something that you could talk about, that this is not something that just the pastor can fix, right. You have to seek professional help and it’s OK to do that, and I’m even honest about me going to see a psychiatrist later on in the book. … So that comfortability came from a lifetime of dealing with my mother’s issues and being right there with her as she went through her battles.

You really have to look at the correlation between mass incarceration and the destabilization of communities, how many poor people were in Washington, how many people rented in Washington, how easy it was to displace folks and like you said, it’s capitalism and the agenda to quote on quote “redevelop Washington or improve Washington from the infrastructure standpoint and the development standpoint,” but nobody develops people.

Why is it stigma—­­I think in the black community it’s been something that’s just been swept under the rug. It’s gone undiagnosed. I think poverty and things of that nature play a part in it as well. It was something you were hushed about, or like I said, some people were told to go see [their] pastor and pray about it and not look at it as just a health issue and one that we can deal with. … This is just the shame that comes along with having a mentally ill relative or loved one. This is something we don’t understand, why a person is behaving the way that they are, acting the way that they are. I wanted Slugg to be a bridge for that, for our community, in mental health. I’ve heard that actually over the last two years that [Slugg] has been out, readers have talked about that. I’m glad that you touched on that, I didn’t want people to know my mother was like that, or my aunt or my cousin or my girlfriend was like that. So, I can only hope it can touch hearts and minds and souls to let people know that there’s no problem with having [mental health] issues. We’re all human and we go through things and we need to seek help, professional help.

SC: I believe mental illness runs in my family. I thought maybe something was wrong with me, and I too went to speak with a therapist. When I finished talking, the therapist informed me there was nothing wrong with me, and the entire time I talked about my relationship with my father. She suggested I start there, fixing the relationship I have with him. Like you said, they always say, go to church and pray, talk to the pastor. We have to really let people know there is nothing wrong with seeking help, and this behavior can be treated.

TL: That is so true and not to devalue the pastor, the priest, the rabbi, or the Imam or none of that, but at the same time if you break your leg that is not the first person you are going to go to see. So we have to look at a mental illness the same way. We just have to let people know that that it is OK and remove that shame.

SC: Ever since I read your book, Slugg: A Boy’s Life in the Age of Mass Incarceration, there have been a few questions that have stuck with me. In the book, you describe your experience growing up with a father who had been very successful in the drug trade, who you then lost at age nine to incarceration. In your book, you talk a lot about spending time with your father. If he was released today, what would you do with him, just you and him alone? 

TL: I would probably just sit down and have dinner and talk, something we haven’t been able to do in terms of having dinner together. I would ride around the city. I would enjoy just riding with him around the city so he can see how much it’s changed and watch his reaction to that. Probably go to the movies, go bowling. I know you said just he and I, but [I would like] to have him accompany me to see what I do in the community. Just stuff like that; I would really be looking forward to spending time with him. We could just be sitting on a bench somewhere, it wouldn’t really matter.

SC: Slugg touches on so many issues in the Black community. You wrote about gentrification in your childhood neighborhood located in DC on Hanover Place. My grandparents once owned a home in DC in the H Street, NE area. Today that area has evolved and changed in ways that I can no longer recognize the old neighborhood. Despite our city changing, there is still homelessness, and unfortunately the poor are being driven out into Maryland and even Virginia. I believe gentrification is just another example of capitalism at its best. How do you feel about the issues of gentrification that are specific to the Black community in DC? 

TL: I think gentrification has to be looked at in the District of Columbia in a more intensive way than anywhere, any place in America, in terms of its impact, because you’ve never had a place in America that was this black, so the displacement of black people in the last twenty years in the District of Columbia has been so intense—the volume, the speed, neighborhoods of one hundred percent African American has almost turned into being one hundred percent white and you really have to think about that. How it happens, why it happens.

You really have to look at the correlation between mass incarceration and the destabilization of communities, how many poor people were in Washington, how many people rented in Washington, how easy it was to displace folks and like you said, it’s capitalism and the agenda to quote on quote “redevelop Washington or improve Washington from the infrastructure standpoint and the development standpoint,” but nobody develops people.

So you know DC once was Chocolate City, seventy-five, eighty percent black, now you look up, it’s forty-eight percent black, and that forty-eight percent, majority of them live in Wards 7 and 8. And so Wards 1 through 6 are only about eighteen percent black, and you see neighborhoods like mine where again, were once one hundred percent African American. I don’t even know what the overall demographics are, but I do know the overall white population has risen to forty, fifty percent in a ten-year span. Some of those numbers are unheard of anywhere else. To me that’s the biggest threat to black existence.

Our black people are vanishing. It’s particularly the native Washingtonian. You know, I’m gonna drill that down just a little bit more, it’s not just about Black people, I’m talking about people born here. That population has dwindled down, that population is now forty-eight percent. I don’t even know what that population is, if you just talked about purely native Washingtonian. You look around at jobs, you look around in the social scenes; you don’t run into native Washingtonians in Washington. Take a place like New York City, 8,000,000 people, the most cosmopolitan place probably in America and one of the most cosmopolitan places on earth, right. People from all over the world in New York City but you meet New Yorkers; do you understand what I’m saying? You will run into, will meet New Yorkers, everywhere you turn, you will meet them, someone born and raised New York City, but in DC, not so much. What happened here in the eighties, in the nineties, in the early 2000s, really laid the framework for gentrification to happen in this way and I do know that gentrification is happening in many major cities across the country, but none in the way it is happening here.

SC: Your mother didn’t participate in any of your father’s illegal activities, but she benefited from it and because of this she could have easily become Kemba Smith, the young lady who was sent to prison for conspiracy to participate in her boyfriend’s drug activities. Ms. Smith was aware her boyfriend did not have gainful employment and she chose to live off the proceeds from his drug crimes. Do you speak to young girls about the repercussion of having a drug dealer boyfriend?

TL: Yeah, yeah, I speak to women and young women a lot about the power of association and dealing with guys in the life, and not just from the threat of being involved from a law enforcement standpoint. But also, when you talk about the repercussions that could come from guys trying to rob their boyfriends or kidnapping the women, holding them as ransom or all of the above. That’s what comes along the way when you have a boyfriend that participates in that lifestyle. It’s just dangerous; it is not wise. I also talk a lot about them getting involved into illegal activity as well, whether it’s scamming or busting [stealing] or any other things, like fighting and assaults.

To me it’s super important that when people do return from incarceration, that we keep them here, that we keep them here in freedom, that we keep them here with their families because the children are only going to go as far as the adults go.

I work in reentry and women are selling drugs themselves. It has evolved from that time, in my mother’s era, the woman, she dated the drug dealer, but in my era and the eras younger than me, women have become the drug dealers. I just really talk to women about not getting involved in the criminal lifestyle, staying away from it, and don’t let love pull you in because when law enforcement comes into it, they don’t care. They’re going to take you to jail and sometimes women feel like they have more to lose. They are loosely involved, if involved at all, but they will use that leverage to get you to become an informant, so they put you in a situation whether, you know, either you’re going to help us send him to jail or you’re going to jail yourself. I am clear about that, with that to young women.

SC: There were times you escaped death and incarceration. I’m not sure if you are a spiritual person. Do you believe there was a higher power watching over you because there was a purpose for your life?

TL: I absolutely believe in divine intervention, that I was protected. That’s kind of my motivation, that is why I go so hard. I just feel like I was spared for a reason. I wrote Slugg trying to not only describe it but to kind of figure it out. I get asked that question a lot: “How did you get here?” I definitely feel like the Creator spared me and protected me in order for me to be an example for those coming from communities like mines.

SC: Have you considered writing a book with your father discussing how having an incarcerated parent affects the family?

TL: This was what Slugg was. I didn’t write it with him. Slugg for me was showing what happens in my life. The book is about me, but in so many ways is about us. What happens when the father goes to prison, how it destabilizes the mom and destabilizes that child, but then the bigger framework is when that’s happening all across the community, all across the city, all across the country. It’s showing how things devolve and what the collateral damage is of that person leaving his or her family and going to prison, the consequences that happen as a result of that incarceration. To me that was the real focus of this. But you know, this kind of really shows what happened in the age of mass incarceration when adults were removed from communities and as teenagers we were forced to make decisions and how the community and everything around it felt the brunt of that. And then you had a generation of people that was just lost. So, in some instances, I have thought about possibly writing a book about parental incarceration and its impact on the education system, and a lot of my advocacy has been around trying to have schools and teachers be more supportive of children with incarcerated parents. I feel like I might do something in that lane eventually.

SC: As a community leader, in the near future, do you have any plans on running for a political office such as mayor or city council? What do you think are some of the most important ways that those holding political office should advocate for our community?

I’d tell nine-year-old Tony to be strong, to make his parents proud. His faith is going to be tested, but he must hold on to it, be patient, show resolve, do what his parents taught him. 

TL: No! [laughter] And to answer that question about running for any political office, I am asked that question literally ten times a day. I get it, but I don’t have a political aspiration at this point. I never have. But I do like to be in close counsel with politicians and try to lobby and advocate on behalf of our people; so to your point, and the second part of the question as it relates to any responsibility for things they can do, they definitely have to create a policy and legislation that could empower folks, help people become a part of the process, remove barriers, address discrimination against people, particularly those returning from incarceration. I have tried to position myself as a person to influence them around that and to give guidance. Over the last few years we actually have had success in doing so. I’m not saying they see me as a threat, but as long as I can have an impact to the point where if they know I did run, I might take their job. I feel like they’re more inclined to work with me and help me out so I won’t run against them.

SC: The overwhelming mass incarceration of Black men and women in disadvantaged and poor communities has also imprisoned the lives of Black children. What are your thoughts on how mass incarceration has impacted the Black community?

TL: It has destabilized the black community. It has changed the dynamics of the family, what families look like. It really is something that has impacted us in measurable ways, and I don’t think people really even know just how deep this goes in the collateral damage that mass incarceration has caused in a black community, particularly its impact on children. It’s marginalized black children. One in seven black children have an incarcerated parent. That’s why I speak about the need for more mentoring or more counseling, more support, particularly via our educational system because the children are in school and not being supported enough around this issue.

To me it’s super important that when people do return from incarceration, that we keep them here, that we keep them here in freedom, that we keep them here with their families because the children are only going to go as far as the adults go. We have had this approach that we can say we can circumvent their parents and help them now. I don’t believe that, not if you want to impact a lot of people’s lives. You know, there always will be a shining star, like somebody who gets by, but we’re talking about numbers. We want to see most children make it, not some of them, so you have to have a plan that’s really aimed at helping the family and not just a child. Mass incarceration’s impact goes far beyond the person that is incarcerated and it may even hurt the family member, any children, even more because the person that is incarcerated is so vital to them. I hope this country can understand that.

SC: After all that you’ve been through and knowing what you know now, if you could travel back in time what would you tell nine-year-old Tony?

TL: I’d tell nine-year-old Tony to be strong, to make his parents proud. His faith is going to be tested, but he must hold on to it, be patient, show resolve, do what his parents taught him. That’s kind of what helped me get by. I never got outside of the values that my parents instilled in me early on in life, even when I no longer had them in my life the way that I had them prior to my father’s incarceration. But I also would tell him it’s gonna be hard bro. It’s gonna be extremely hard man, but you can do it though, you can pull through. As I think back, I’m still him in so many ways. I’m still that nine-year-old, just because I never got my parents back, you know what I’m saying? Like, that longing for that kind of thing, that don’t go away. Also, that’s been my motivation, because I know there are other nine-year-olds out here right now that’s just like him, and I gotta help them see their way through. I felt like Slugg was my contribution to them. I wanted that to be a blueprint—­here you are, hopefully everything that happened to me, or some of the things that happened to me, or that I saw and experienced, does not happen to you. But in the event that they do, here’s how you should handle it, here’s how I handled it, here is a blueprint or map I created out of some difficult situations. But nothing is impossible, no matter what happens, you can push through it.


Shaneka Jones Cook is currently preparing to graduate from Antioch University Los Angeles receiving her MFA in creative writing, with plans to go back to work on her associates degree in mortuary science. She is a former elementary school teacher who writes fiction, poetry, short stories, and creative nonfiction, in addition to be a freelance writer. She’s been published in The Record (Trinity Washington University), and most recently Antioch University’s very own Lunch Ticket. She is currently working on a children’s book based on her two younger sons, and a collection of essays about mother/son relationships. She is the founder of the book and poetry club Chapter Chicks. She was an assistant editor for Amuse-Bouche, and on the fiction team, and was a guest interviewer for Lunch Ticket. She resides in Washington, DC with her daughter and three sons. When Shaneka’s not writing, she’s either watching the Syfy channel or binge-watching Hulu and Netflix.

Cecil Castellucci, Author

Cecil CastellucciCecil Castellucci’s stories remind us that we find vulnerability and courage in the face of new situations and obstacles. Castellucci is a flexible writer, capable of expressing her stories through several artistic mediums. Her characters embody the passion, joy, and confusion of those delicate young adult years. Her world-building immerses the reader into the 1930s railways, high school hallways, and alien worlds.

Cecil Castellucci has written books, graphic novels, hybrid novels, and plays. Her works include Boy Proof, The Plain Janes, The Year of the Beasts, and Tin Star. Her graphic novel, Odd Duck, was nominated for the Eisner award, the Joe Shuster Award, and the Sakura Medal. Her short stories and short comics can be found in Strange, Womanthology, Star Trek: Waypoint, and Vertigo SFX: Slam! Her latest graphic novel is Soupy Leaves Home (Dark Horse Books, 2017). She is currently writing Shade, The Changing Girl, a series of comics (Gerard Way’s Young Animal imprint at DC Comics). She serves as the children’s correspondence coordinator for The Rumpus. She is a two-time MacDowell fellow and the YA editor at the Los Angeles Review of Books.

I interviewed Cecil Castelluci via Skype on August 8, 2017.

Jennifer Mahoney: Why are you drawn towards the YA genre? What’s important to you about speaking with young people? How do you tailor your art to them?

Cecil Castellucci: The first thing that I love about children’s literature, kid lit of any kind, is that it’s the first time that the person falls in love with a book. It’s the first time that a person falls in love with stories and what stories can do. YA is a little bit separate from that, but the idea of writing for young people: it’s such a vital thing because it’s really where people begin to fall in love with stories. You can ask anyone you want, and immediately, they’ll tell you what their favorite kid’s book was. And I think that’s amazing.

Specifically, writing for teenagers, I find it so compelling because it’s really this sort of moment in humanity where a person is figuring out what kind of a person they want to be, what kind of a human being they want to be, what they think of humanity. That’s really fertile for us writers because it’s when a person or a character is at that their rawest. They don’t have the experience yet, the wisdom of life experience, but they have all of the intelligence and the feelings. Everything is the first time. First love. First betrayal. First rage. First joy. So, I think as a writer, those kinds of characters are compelling because the choices that they make—whether it’s who I go to prom with, do I save the universe—are really a matter of life and death. It’s so compelling.

I don’t think you tailor your art to them. You just write a book, and it just happens to have young protagonists as the main characters. Not to say that adult books don’t have main characters that are young protagonists. I think the only way you kind of “tailor” it—and I’m going to put that in air quotes—is that in a young adult book or in a kid’s book, the things are happening to the kids immediately. And in an adult book, if the protagonist is a young person, usually there’s an adult self-awareness or a nostalgic look-back. So, I think the way that you “tailor” it, quote unquote, is that you make it more immediately happening to the characters with no self-awareness of what the consequences of things might be, because they don’t have that experience, and they don’t have that wisdom to be able to figure it out. Whereas, if you have a young protagonist in an adult book—or a book that’s marketed and categorized as an adult book—you can comment as the author or as “the voice” on the choices that the characters are making; or you can have a sense of nostalgia about it because you’re remembering a more innocent time.

JM: In addition to being a writer, you’ve been in a band and in theatre. What are the differences and similarities between the expressive arts that you’ve been involved in, and writing? Do you use them to express different things?

CC: The thing about stories is that they can be told in so many different ways. I don’t see any difference between being in a band and singing a song or doing a play or when I used to do one woman shows. It’s just a different way of telling a story. A painter can go on a picnic and can bring charcoals or they can bring watercolors or they can bring pencils. And they can paint the picnic. It’ll look a little bit different, depending on which tool they brought with them. I feel like all of these things—music, performing arts, comics, poetry: it’s all like you’re going to a picnic, and you’re picking up a different tool. And the way you’re going to depict that picnic scene is different depending on the medium that you use. For me, stories are all the same thing. It’s just which paintbrush to pick up. Do you pick up a pastel or a watercolor? That’s how I feel about the expressive arts versus the written arts.

…what I love about comics is that they’re very distilled, and they have silence in them. You can have an image that has no words in it, that tells you a thousand-fold more than what you could write about that same feeling.

That said, I think that they both inform each other very well, because there are some things that you can do well in theatre or film or comedy or music that you can’t do in books or a poem. You can do different things, and you can sort of play the human emotional zone differently depending on which form you use. What’s nice about having done stuff in a bunch of different forms is that sometimes, when you’re writing a book, you get frustrated because you can’t get across what you want to get across, because the medium is clumsy in one way and elegant in another. By having the option to tell stories in different ways you can say, “Oh, well, I’ll get to that emotional thing that I can’t pay off in this kind of medium in another medium.” One thing I do is I take little acting workshops every once in a while, because I feel that it’s very helpful for the writer; because creating characters, dealing with dialogue—it’s the same thing that we’re doing in books. It’s just that we’re standing up and using our bodies. And I think that as writers, we get very sedentary, and we forget how physical emotions can be and how rooted in the body they are. When you’re angry, you slam or you punch. When you’re joyful, you scream. And these things, we can write them and we can imagine them in our head, and we feel them. But there’s a difference when you’re actually physically trying them out. And I think that can help inform the word when you’re sitting sedentary, just like I think writing can make an actor or performative person take pause for a moment and really think and consider.

JM: During a recent lecture at Antioch University Los Angeles, you mentioned that you started out as a fiction writer, then became a comic-book writer. What influenced you to make this transition? Were there stories you wanted to tell that could be better told through comics?

CC: I’ve always loved comic books. I’ve always thought it was an amazing storytelling device. There’s something so beautiful about it and so fun, deep and yet also carefree because they’re quickly consumed. But they have such gravitas, or they can also have fluffiness. I guess the real big moment for me was—I was living in Texas with a boyfriend, and I went to the comic-book store. I picked up this series called The Deadenders, by Ed Brubaker. It was a title that had young people that starred in it. It made me feel that this is a young adult novel. I can see it. That’s what I want to do. That’s the kind of story I want to tell in comics. I started trying to google how you break into comics, and I couldn’t figure it out. So, I just thought, “Well, this is a mystery, and I’m never going to figure it out.” Because it’s really hard to figure out how to be a writer or an artist of any kind. How do you break in? It’s like, where is the on-ramp? I just kind of put it aside and kept thinking about it. My first novel was about a girl who was obsessed with comic books. And Shelly Bond [an editor at DC Comics Vertigo], happened to have read that book and then called me and asked if I would be interested in writing comics. It was amazing. But it was something that I thought I could do and thought that I could be good at and enjoy and really wanted to figure out how to do, but just didn’t know how to start.

Incidentally, I feel like that about playwriting right now. I want to make plays. So, I was ready when the moment came. But what I love about comics is that they’re very distilled, and they have silence in them. You can have an image that has no words in it, that tells you a thousand-fold more than what you could write about that same feeling. That’s what I love about writing comics. And I think that a story can tell you what it wants to be. And now that I write more comics, I can tell when I come up with an idea. “Oh, this wants to be a comic book or this wants to be a novel.” You just follow that realm. Soupy Leaves Home, which is my newest graphic novel about hobos, is about a girl who runs away from an abusive home, and dresses up as a boy, and rides the rails as a hobo. It seems to me that when you’re coming out of an abusive relationship, Soupy’s relationship with her father, you don’t really have words to articulate what you’ve been going through. You’re just kind of numb and kind of trying to process what the heck just happened and how you can see your way through. It felt obvious that it was a comic book because it would be boring to write a novel where: “And then she was quiet. She just stood there.” It would just be a lot of words to say that she’s not saying much because she’s feeling shut down. Whereas, in a comic book, you can just have her not saying anything. The reader can see that she’s shut down.

The other thing was this idea of dreamy travel in America, sort of walking across America. And the sort of dreaminess of trains. You can express that with words, and you can do a beautiful job. But there’s something about just seeing a train on the tracks when you turn the page. It seemed obvious that that book should be a comic book.

JM: You’ve written comics, and then there is The Year of the Beasts with alternating chapters of prose and comics. How do you determine whether a story should be written entirely in prose or comics, or both?

CC: The Year of the Beasts is a puzzle book. It’s about a girl and her sister, and the prose part is the girl named Tessa and her sister and the boys that they like and the summer and the carnival and [that] sort of idyllic world. And then something happens. And the graphic novel is about a girl who is a Medusa, whose hair can turn to stone, and her friends have turned to mythological creatures, and she just want to be a girl again. She can’t understand why she can’t be a girl. The fundamental core of the story is grief. I wanted to talk about how, when we go through [hormonal changes], people who are surrounding us don’t know how to talk to us. They don’t know how to handle intense grief. They don’t know how to handle intense emotions. They run away. They turn to stone. They stop speaking. So, when we’re going through something that’s super huge, we almost feel like we become a Medusa and that people are turning to stone. I have this idea for this book which talks about grief, and when I got to the parts where I wanted to talk about sadness or about how people were reacting to this person, words seemed clumsy.

JM: You’ve written several pieces, such as Soupy Leaves Home and Shade, the Changing Girl that involve female protagonists being pushed into new worlds. Your characters are pushed out of their comfort zone as they encounter aliens and hobos. How do you think that this mimics reality, the daily life of a normal teenage girl?

CC: With Shade, I think that teenagers feel like aliens to begin with, because their bodies are changing. Thing are erupting like boobs and zits and erections, all these things. I think that an alien being put in the body of a sixteen-year-old girl mirrors a teenage experience in terms of the feeling that you’re going from childhood to adulthood, and you’ve been pushed into a body that you don’t have control over. I think that sort of fits in very well.

I think that an alien being put in the body of a sixteen-year-old girl mirrors a teenage experience in terms of the feeling that you’re going from childhood to adulthood, and you’ve been pushed into a body that you don’t have control over.

And I think it’s the same with Soupy. She has to go into a cocoon as a boy. She dresses up as a boy. She doesn’t want to be a boy, but she dresses up as a boy for safety reasons and for hiding reasons, and then emerges as a young woman. I think the other thing that it mirrors is this time where you go from childhood to adulthood, and you’re kind of cocooning. You are a caterpillar, and then you become a butterfly. And I think that’s what happens with Soupy. I think Soupy is addressing the cocooning stage, the hibernating stage before emergence. And I think that Shade is addressing the body horror, the emotional hormonal horror of being a teenager.

JM: In Year of the Beasts, the graphic chapters are in black and white. Is this due to the novel being half in prose and half in comic? How did you determine illustrations for Year of the Beasts compared to your other comics?

CC: There are a lot of different factors that go into that. A lot of it has to do with money, because every single time you hire a colorist you have to pay an extra [amount]; you have to change the paper that you use. The paper in Year of the Beasts would have had to be different than in Shade the Changing Girl and Soupy, which are glossy kinds of paper. I would never have wanted Year of the Beasts to be in color. I think that it’s so striking and so somber and so beautiful in black and white. I think it suits it perfectly. [Compare this to] Plain Janes—which is about an all-girl guerilla art group, about a girl who finds a sketchbook that says, “Art Saves” after being in a terrorist attack. Her parents move her to the suburbs, and she decides to do an all-girl guerilla art group. They do art attacks to make an attack be something beautiful. That book, I would love to have in color. If I could do it again, or if I could reprint it—which hopefully, I will one day—it will absolutely be in full color. Because I think a book about art lends itself to being in color.

JM: In your most recent comic, Soupy is the name of the main character. In the story, there is a special soup called Mulligan Stew. It’s created when all the hobos contribute their own ingredient. The main ingredient is the kindness that each member brings. Is there a connection between the stew and Soupy’s name? Was it important for you to bring humanity to these characters?

CC: One of the things about hobos is that they lived in the cracks of society. I think when you’re a person living on the outskirts or the cracks of society—any group of people who are pushed to those places: you have to help each other. Because everybody else thinks that you’re terrible. And so, you have to be there for each other. I think the Mulligan Stew is one of those things. Me, I have a sad carrot. You have a small potato. But we can put it together, and we can make something great. Hobos had such an amazing culture, and they had this really strict ethical code that they lived by. They really were all about not making it difficult for the person behind you. It was absolutely important to show that, especially because now we have a romantic idea of hobos. Nobody says, “Hobo” and [then] is like, “Oh those dirty hobos.” But back in the nineteen-thirties, people did say that. It wasn’t romantic. It was hard. They were migrant workers who were working and who moved around, who roamed. And that’s scary to people who stay, who don’t roam. So yeah, absolutely, it was important to me to have that society be very three-dimensional. I mean, of course, there were douchebags in that society too, as we know from Soupy Leaves Home. You know, it’s funny, because she does have adult sidekicks and they’re all men, except for Professor Jack, who is closer in age to her. But there were a lot of children on the road. And there were women on the road. I just chose to make it this one group of people. It seemed to me like Soupy, maybe if she had seen another woman on the road who was dressed up as a man for safety, then she could [have confessed] who she really was. And I like the idea of her keeping her secret until the end.

JM: Soupy Leaves Home largely takes place amongst a homeless population. Why did you choose to write about these characters?

CC: I don’t think they were homeless. I think they were home-free, like child-free. You know, a lot of kids ran away from home. In the Depression, the oldest kid would run away from home and become a hobo, become a migrant worker, so they wouldn’t be a burden on their family for food. I just think it was a fascinating society. That’s why I wrote about it.

JM: What was it about living amongst these characters that allowed Soupy to learn and grow?

You can be your own person. And you can move through the world in the way that you want to move through the world.

CC: The thing that she learns from Ramshackle and Professor Jack and Tom Cat is that you can be your own man or human. You can be your own person. And you can move through the world in the way that you want to move through the world. I mean, Soupy leaves home because she wants to be a modern woman. There’s not really a place yet for modern women. And there’s no real definition of what that looks like. She really wants to be a modern woman like we are in today’s society, and that doesn’t exist in her time. She goes off with a bunch of people who decide to live life on their own terms, and go by their own code of laws and their own rules. And by the time she gets to California, she figures out how to live in her own skin and how to be her own person, and how to be the kind of modern woman that she wants to be in the world, to be a pioneer in a way. She learns that by being surrounded by people who decide to live life on their own terms. You know, Ramshackle certainly does that. He sees the future that no one else can see anymore, but he sees it pretty properly. You know, he’s an inventor and a dreamer, and he can imagine the future as we have it today. He’s sort of born out of time. And Professor Jack, he’s a young man who wants to learn. There’s a reason why he’s called Professor Jack. He’s smart, and I have no doubts that he’s going to do great, great things in his life. But he doesn’t fit into the made-by-number society. I think they are all the people who just—they’re not born in the right time. They’re ahead of the curve.

JM: At the end, we’re surprised to learn that the wise Professor has not received a formal education. Even though he lives his life on the road, he earned his title because of his passion to learn. What are your thoughts on the value of informal versus formal education?

CC: I think informal education is wonderful. I mean, I think formal education is great. I love it. And I did it. I got my bachelor’s, but I’m a life learner. I think that one of the most important, amazing things about being a human being is that we can still learn all the time. And I think that Professor Jack embodies that. He’s a life learner. I have a lot of friends whom I love and adore, who were punk rockers, and they dropped out of high school and went on the road or worked on a pipeline or planted trees or taught English somewhere. They just did crazy things and wandered about. And then when they were in their early/mid-twenties, they got their GED or they used their life experience and went to college and got a bachelor’s, and they became teachers and professors, authors, whatever. I think that there is such an amazing thing to be said for experience, if you’re open to the world. And I think Professor Jack embodies that.

I do a lot of MOOCs (massive open online courses). I’ll do my dishes, and I’m taking a class at Princeton, listening to lectures. I love it. My gosh, we’ve got brains. Let’s use them.

JM: At the end, Soupy doesn’t want to leave the roaming life. Despite her itch to stay on the road, she has a bigger desire to attend college and learn. She describes college as “roaming down the road of ideas.” Would you say this is more of the kind of freedom she desires, not a physical freedom, but a mental freedom to learn anything she chooses?

CC: I think they both lead to each other. I think that her romancing down the road of ideas does make her physically free. I don’t know if she’s a hobo again. I don’t know if she ever jumps a freight train again. But I one-hundred-percent believe that Soupy becomes a traveler, that she roams the world at some point—or at least does as much as she can.

I do literacy read-aloud with elementary school kids. I volunteered at an elementary school. I feel like even if you’re here, you can be somewhere else when you’re reading. You can time travel. You can go to outer space. You can go twenty thousand leagues under the sea. You can go anywhere. You can be anything. You can be a princess. You can be a queen. You can be a king. A hobo. I feel like they are different sides to the same coin.


Jennifer Mahoney is a Filipino/African American writer in Houston. She is a graduate student at Antioch University where she studies poetry and fiction. She currently serves as an editor for Lunch Ticket.



Lisa Dickey, Author & Ghostwriter

Lisa DickeyLisa Dickey is a longtime ghostwriter and author who has collaborated on seventeen nonfiction books, eight of which became New York Times bestsellers. Her clients have included celebrities such as Herbie Hancock and Patrick Swayze, California Lieutenant Governor Gavin Newsom, and many others with diverse backgrounds, from CIA agents to business titans.

Many of Lisa’s collaborations focus on national and international political events. She collaborated with Roberta Kaplan, the attorney for plaintiff Edie Windsor in the US Supreme Court case that brought down the Defense of Marriage Act. Their book, Then Comes Marriage, was named a top-ten book of 2015 by both the Los Angeles Times and Ms. Magazine. In The World is Bigger Now, Lisa collaborated with Euna Lee, an American film editor and mother who was arrested and detained for five months in North Korea while working on a documentary film. Lisa also worked with Susan McDougal on her memoir The Woman Who Wouldn’t Talk, recounting her eighteen months of imprisonment for refusing to testify against her partners in the Whitewater real estate deal, Bill and Hillary Clinton.

Lisa is the author of the 2017 nonfiction book Bears in the Streets, the story of three trips she took across Russia in 1995, 2005, and 2015. Bears in the Streets is an eye-opening and compassionate account of the lives of ordinary Russians whom Lisa interviewed on each of her journeys. Lisa captured their unique perspectives about their homeland and how they viewed economic and political changes over time.

I met Lisa Dickey in June 2017, when she was the guest “Writers at Work” speaker at the Antioch University Los Angeles MFA program’s summer residency. We spoke by telephone on August 8, 2017, both about her own book, Bears in the Streets, and about ghostwriting. While Lisa was careful to maintain her clients’ confidentiality, the insights she provided about the world of ghostwriting are invaluable to any writer interested in this field.

Judy Gitterman: One of your ghostwriting projects is Then Comes Marriage, which is the story of United States v. Windsor and the defeat of the Defense of Marriage Act (DOMA) in the United States Supreme Court. The Court found DOMA’s definition of marriage as restricted to a union of a man and woman to be an unconstitutional violation of the due process clause of the Fifth Amendment. You cowrote this book with Roberta Kaplan, the lead litigator for the plaintiff Edie Windsor. The book begins with Kaplan’s first meeting with Edie Windsor and the story then goes back through Roberta’s life from childhood through her career as a lawyer prior to taking on the case as lead attorney. We are back in that first meeting on page 114. How do you and the subject of a book decide on the chronology of a story, and do you prepare a detailed outline prior to writing?

Lisa Dickey: I am not completely comfortable speaking about the specific book, but my preference is to have an outline, a full outline of what the book is going to be and what the chapters are going to be, before we start. That’s my preference.

JG: The legal and procedural issues involving the Windsor lawsuit are explained very clearly. I’m a lawyer, but I think the story of the lawsuit is written in a way that non-lawyers can easily understand while, importantly, the prose doesn’t sacrifice the complex legal subject matter. In other words, there is no dumbing down. How were you and Roberta able to achieve this and did it involve research on your part?

LD: Again, I can’t really speak directly to a particular book, but I will say in general, I think there is a benefit in having a person like me come into a project that gets into some kind of specific detail about a topic that the general reader might not know. I think it is helpful to have someone who serves as a layperson and can say, “I don’t think the general reader is going to understand this,” or “I think this needs to be explained more clearly.” For example, I did a book about the career of Herbie Hancock, the jazz pianist. It was the same sort of thing with him as it was with Roberta Kaplan as it was with Bob Baer (I helped him to do a book about Iran). I was able to say to them, “Look, you are experts in your field. You’re an expert in that subject, this is second nature to you, but I’m here to tell you that as a layperson, I don’t understand this, and so I think we need to explain it in a way that people who aren’t lawyers or jazz musicians or experts in international relations are going to understand.”

JG: That makes a lot of sense. That’s how you’re able to work with people over so many different areas. I’m just fascinated by it.

LD: I will say, though, that the editor for Herbie’s book said to me, “Do you know much about jazz?” I said, “No, but I think Herbie has that covered.”

JG: Roberta’s distinctive personality comes through very well in Then Comes Marriage. You’ve also ghostwritten for Euna Lee, the American journalist who was detained in North Korea for five months in 2009. Euna’s distinct voice is evident in The World is Bigger Now just as Gavin Newsom’s story about how to use technology to get people excited about and engaged in government is recounted in his own voice in Citizenville. All of these are unique voices, different from your own. Is ghostwriting something like method acting? In other words, do you need to subsume yourself in your subject’s personality and, if so, how is that done?

LD: That’s certainly the way I do it. I definitely get very immersed in the life and voice of whoever it is that I’m working with. I don’t do two books at once, because I think it would be very difficult to switch back and forth between subjects and between voices. I know there are some ghostwriters who do that, but that’s not something I’ve ever done. It is rather like acting in a way, because you just take on this voice and this person, and you kind of live it, to a certain extent.

JG: When ghostwriting, about how much time do you spend with your subject? Does it vary with each book? Do you usually do the bulk of the interviews in the beginning, or do you space them out over an extended period of time?

It is rather like acting in a way, because you just take on this voice and this person, and you kind of live it, to a certain extent.

LD: The short answer is, I take as much time as the person will give me. I always tell them, the more time they can give me, particularly in the beginning, the better the book will be. And yes, there’s definitely a lot more of that kind of thing at the beginning of each project, trying to understand how they think, and what the story is, and getting all the details of it. And then later on, when there’s the actual putting of the words onto paper, it doesn’t require quite as much face-time or phone-time or things of that nature. Definitely at the beginning, I always try to get as much time as I can with the person. It varies, of course, because all these people are very busy people and, depending on what they have going in their own lives, their work lives, their personal lives, some people are able to give me more time than other people. But I always try to get as much time as I can.

JGWhen you’re ghostwriting, do you prefer to start a manuscript with your coauthor from scratch, or do you prefer to start with the subject’s own first draft? I imagine this also may vary and depend on the person whose story you’re telling.

LD: It definitely varies. I’ve done anything from starting from absolute scratch to the person’s having a full manuscript and presenting it to me, to work—or rework—as the case may be. There was one time when someone gave me a full manuscript, and I didn’t think it was particularly useable in the form it was in, so I would sort of pick and choose things out of it, and then we structured the book in a completely different way. So it really just depends. It often comes down to what the client’s preference is. Sometimes people really want to write it themselves and have me help out with some restructuring, and some people prefer not to do any writing at all and just are happy to hand it over.

JG: What advice do you have for a writer who is just starting out and wants to get into the field of ghostwriting?

LD: I would say the thing that’s interesting about ghostwriting is, as you say, it’s not simply that you can be a good writer and that means you will be a good ghostwriter. It really does mean subsuming your own voice to a certain extent. A lot about being a successful—and good—writer, generally, is finding the voice. In ghostwriting, you’re not doing that. You’re finding someone else’s voice. You have to be willing to subsume yourself to a certain extent in the service of doing that. So, think about whether ghostwriting is the kind of thing you’d like to do. I discovered I had a knack for it and enjoyed it really by accident. I was traveling after college, backpacking through Europe. I found that whenever I was writing letters home I would end up writing, just by chance, similar to the voice of whatever book I was reading. So, if I was reading Hemingway, I was writing these short punchy sentences in my letters. If I was reading Dostoevsky, I was writing longer more complex sentences. It struck me by chance. I thought, “Isn’t that interesting?” I didn’t even realize I was doing it; I just sort of unconsciously was doing it. That was the first time that I thought this might be an interesting tool that I have, an unusual skill that maybe I could use somehow.

JG: After ghostwriting seventeen books, earlier this year you released your first book-length piece of creative nonfiction in your own voice, Bears in the Streets. The book describes the three journeys you took across the entire expanse of Russia in 1995, 2005 and 2015. In 1995, you first met with and interviewed a diverse group of Russians in both major cities and remote villages, and in the subsequent years, you reconnected with the same people, and got their views about how their lives had changed and how the country had changed. After so many years of ghostwriting, what was different about writing Bears in the Streets in your own voice?

LD: It was a challenge for sure. Having done ghostwriting for so long and so many different books, I wasn’t really used to taking the lead on what the voice was in a particular book. I would spend time with the person and start to understand the rhythms, and then I would start to understand how the voice would unfold on the page. And so, certainly with my own, it was a process. It was very difficult in the beginning, in trying to figure out What is the rhythm here? What is the voice? I knew I was going to do this third trip in 2015 and then try to write a book about it. […] In 2013 or 2014, I’d been living in Los Angeles and I decided to take a class in stage storytelling, where you get up on stage and spend five or ten minutes telling a story. I thought it would be very interesting to do that as an exercise, to take a class and learn the basics of how you present yourself, how do people perceive you, what is your persona, what is your voice. And the class was actually extremely helpful; I started doing stage storytelling and that was very helpful. So, when I sat down to write my own book, there was definitely a little time at the very beginning where I thought, “I hope I can figure this out, I hope I can do this.” A couple times I even thought, “What if I was my own client, what would I advise myself to do? Let me see if I can write as if I’m ghostwriting my own memoir.” It was a truly weird exercise. In the end, I spent a lot of time getting that first chapter right, getting the first chapter in the voice that I thought reflected who I was and how I wanted the book to unfold. In my experience, once you get the first chapter right, the rest of it unfolds pretty naturally.

JG: In Bears in the Streets, you recounted a number of uncomfortable conversations during the 2005 and 2015 trips. Most of the people you spoke with in 2005 and 2015 loved Putin and were angered by America’s actions in the Ukraine and imposition of sanctions. One woman, Masha, was particularly hostile, and you mention in your book that you felt like throwing the remains of your sandwich across the table when she told you she had heard that the American government was behind the September 11, 2001 attack on the Twin Towers, because it wanted to boost the stock market. What was it like to discuss these topics with your interviewees when you were on the receiving end of such different information? Did you feel for the most part that you could speak freely? If not, when did you decide to hold back?

LD: I did for the most part feel like I could speak freely, and that the people I was speaking with understood that I was there to hear what they had to say, and to a certain extent to tell them what I thought—although I would say that my goal in going over and having these conversations with these people was not to get into contentious discussions or disagreements or arguments or anything like that. My goal was to listen. There’s not that many American writers or journalists who go over and spend a lot of time talking to ordinary Russian people, and so my message to them was: I want to hear what you have to say, I want to know what you think, and I am going to report that, and that’s what I did. The lunch with Masha was frustrating because she was very, very far over on the spectrum, feeling like, essentially, everything the United States was doing was not good, and everything that Russia was doing was better. That was frustrating for me because I didn’t want to get into an argument with her. I didn’t want to be having such a contentious discussion, but at the same time she was saying things that I felt were untrue, I felt were unfair, and so that was a tricky one. But I’ll say this too, I come from a family that has a lot of members with very different political views from me, so just because she was Russian it wasn’t all that different from sitting down at the Thanksgiving table or spending time with my family and having a contentious discussion about politics here, too. It’s very similar.

JG: I think that’s happening at a lot of family Thanksgiving dinners these days. The country is so polarized politically.

And the people who are angriest, and most upset and vehement, often are the people who feel that, ‘No one is listening to what I have to say, nobody cares about what I think, nobody cares about the situation that I find myself in.

LD: I do think one of the most important things you can do, if you disagree very strenuously with something that someone is saying—I think it’s very important rather than to simply say “That’s not true and here’s why”—to say very clearly to the person, “I hear what you’re saying and I understand why you feel that way.” Because I think to a very large degree, and I think it’s very true right now particularly in this country, people want to feel like they’re being heard. And the people who are angriest, and most upset and vehement, often are the people who feel that, “No one is listening to what I have to say, nobody cares about what I think, nobody cares about the situation that I find myself in.” And I try to always take time to say to people, “I hear you and I want you to know that I hear what you’re saying, and I am listening. And now here’s the reason why I’m not sure that that’s true, or why I feel differently.” But I always try to preface it with: “I hear what you’re saying.”

JG: That’s important, I think, or otherwise people are going to be so defensive they won’t hear what you have to say.

LD: That turns it more into a discussion than an argument. It’s very disarming to hear someone say to you, “I absolutely hear what you’re saying. Whether I agree with it or not, I’m listening.” You know, everybody wants to feel listened to and you can always see people’s body language change when you say that.

JG: Would you consider discussing, or have you discussed by email or phone, the current topic of Russian interference in the US election with your interviewees?

LD: It’s funny, I’m actually Facebook friends with most of them, more than half of the people I’ve interviewed. I could have that conversation with them, but I’ve tried not to do that just because it is really contentious. I feel pretty certain that they’re going to have different opinions than I do about what it is that’s going on. It’s not something I have sought out, to have that conversation and to essentially get into it with them.

JG: And they haven’t brought it up with you, either?

LD: No, they haven’t brought it up with me. We’re talking a lot about Russia in the United States right now, but we pretty much always talk about Putin and the Kremlin and what’s going on at the highest levels of government, and that includes the hacking, and all of the things going on that affected our election, and all of those various elements. What I really wanted to do with this book was talk about what is the “real” Russia, and not what’s going on between the Kremlin and the White House. A line I use when I give talks is that there’s 144 million Russians not named Vladimir Putin. Those are the ones I want to talk about. And not that their political opinions don’t matter: of course they matter. But I was more interested in, “What is your life like? What do you think about day to day?” Some people wanted to talk about politics but most people didn’t. So, it was more, “How is your life? Can you afford to do the things you want to do? Do you worry about your children?” Day-to-day things. What is it that occupies people, what do they think about? That’s what I was more interested in.

JG: In the news, there’s talk about Putin and the spymasters and Russian oligarchs, but your book really got into the roots of the Russian people themselves. That’s so important. In regard to that, I was struck by how consistently the people you met with were of the opinion that Americans did not respect them or take them seriously—for example, thinking there are bears roaming the streets in Russia. Do you have any suggestions about what actions Americans, and specifically, American writers, might take to help repair relations with the Russian people, notwithstanding this current political situation?

LD: I spoke at a conference in New York a couple of months ago and a guy came up to me afterwards and said: “I’ve been invited to go to St. Petersburg to host a roundtable discussion about such-and-such topic. But given everything that’s going on politically between our countries, I guess I probably shouldn’t do it.” And I told him, it’s the opposite. Now is exactly the time we should be going over there, accepting invitations to go to conferences, go speak, be tourists, or any of these kinds of things. I think it’s not a bad idea. The more that we are able to have connections between our people and the Russian people, the better off we’re going to be. Some people might think that’s really a Pollyanna point of view. But I can say that after spending three months in 2015, going through the country and sitting down and having dinners and talking: there’s so much connection that can be made just on a human level, and I think we have to be open to that.

JG: Have any of the people you’ve interviewed read your book, and if so, what has been their reaction?

…there’s so much connection that can be made just on a human level, and I think we have to be open to that.

LD: A few people have read the book, and I sent it out to several [others], and I’m waiting to hear what they have to say about it. The ones who have read it so far seem to be pretty pleased and okay with it. There’s a few I haven’t heard back from yet. We’ll see what they have to say. A lot of them don’t speak English and it’s not been published in Russian, so that definitely makes it more difficult for them to read and understand it, so it might take a little time.

JG: Are you planning a trip back to Russia in 2025, or do you have another personal project for a book on the horizon?

LD: I absolutely want to go back in 2025. I would love to go back and see everybody again and see how they’re doing. An interesting subtext and thread was how drastically technology has changed over this whole time period of the three trips, from this very basic crude website that we did in 1995 through being able to post to Facebook and use Facetime. So I’m also interested in that thread of it. I may well do another book before I go, on a different topic. There’s a couple of things I’m kicking around. For the moment, I’ve just gotten a new client for ghostwriting so I’m back doing that a little bit.

JG: I have to say that after reading your book I’m inspired to go to Russia myself. I had no idea about these various locations you talk about. The lake with all the scientific exploration, the Jewish homeland set up by the government. I’d never heard of those places.

LD: This is the thing. I gave a talk at a university and I said, “What do you think of when you think of Russian people?” And all of the students in the class said they think the Russian people are cold, unfriendly, and unhappy. And as you can see from having read the book, nothing could be further from the truth. There were so many fun and funny moments I had with people, and so many moments of joy. Of course, there were moments of difficulty and there were moments of pain, and there was everything: the whole gamut of the human experience. But for some reason, we just think of Russian people as these weird, cold automatons, which is just not true at all. So I’m glad to hear that it piqued your interest in going there. It’s a place that has amazing history, and there’s just so much to it. Obviously, the situation between our governments is very difficult right now. But I think that’s not a reason not to go, not a reason not to engage. I think we should definitely engage as much as we can.

JG: Thank you very much, Lisa. It’s been great speaking with you. Good luck to you on your next adventure and ghostwriting project, and I’m looking forward to reading more of your work. 

LD: Thank you so much, I appreciate it.


Judy GittermanJudy Gitterman is a writer who lives in Santa Monica, California. She is an MFA candidate at Antioch University Los Angeles and a practicing attorney. She has served as co-lead fiction editor of Lunch Ticket, and as assistant editor for writing for young people/YA.




Eloise Klein Healy, Poet

‘A Totally Wild Idea’: The Writing and Realms of Eloise Klein Healy  

Eloise Klein HealyOn a sunny September day in Sherman Oaks, California, a gray Portuguese water dog greeted me at the door of prolific poet and publisher Eloise Klein Healy. If it’s all right, I have some things to show you, Healy said as she led me through a Zenned-out garden to her private work studio at the back of the property.

Her office is every writer’s dream: a shaded sanctuary with paintings on the wall, volumes of Walt Whitman and Gertrude Stein, wooden desks, a blue lounging couch, black-and-white photographs, and, most generously, the artworks and postcards of friends, which she has preserved in dainty boxes and picture frames. Safe to say the only tweeting that goes on here belongs to the birds outside her window.

At seventy-four, Healy has a twinkle in her eye when our conversation steers her memory toward a line in a poem, and she knows precisely the page, precisely the book. Isn’t that amazing? she exclaims, sliding her finger across the words. Her enthusiasm is contagious, and at this point my cheeks hurt from smiling. Among her treasures: poetry fortune cookies—handmade and gifted to her by a friend, a framed broadside printed by Beyond Baroque, and a first edition of The Velveteen Rabbit.

We had already spent nearly an hour together before I realized I hadn’t asked her any questions yet. In a way, I had sensed she would tell me just about everything I wanted to know before I stood a chance to ask. That’s what it’s like to spend time with Eloise—it feels cosmic, psychic. Her zest for life and abundant gratitude for her career permeates from her smile. I had intended to ask her what she believes makes a successful writer. I got my answer anyway: curiosity.

“I ask any question to anybody,” Healy told me. “What I learned about from being alive is, I think I just learned to go and see.”

Healy the Poet

Asked to name her poetry lineage, the keywords are “healthy” and “wild.”

“I like Robert Frost,” Healy said, noting the famous poem, “The Road Not Taken.”

That’s what it’s like to spend time with Eloise—it feels cosmic, psychic. Her zest for life and abundant gratitude for her career permeates from her smile.

“It was really about this man who was… talking about walking, and talking about trees, and talking about plants, and being in connection with others,” she said. “It’s all about him becoming a very healthy, a very happy-making person.”

“I also include over here [gesturing to a frame on the wall] Adrienne Rich, totally! I have every book, every everything that’s ever been there… Because I found her incredibly healthy,” Healy said. “In her mind, healthy. She had also decided to not be married anymore. And she continued to make herself brave. That’s at a point [in time] in which it was brave. Because instead of having a thousand things [out] there about lesbian women, there were [only] a few.”

Anyone else? I waited.  

Walt Whitman,” Healy replied. “We could always stick in Allan Ginsburg, because he was a totally a wild idea, and so was Elizabeth Bishop.”

Directed by Feeling

When it comes to craft, Healy’s process is innate, directed by senses, intuition and experience.

“I think there is really an ability to know what feeling is like, and how much of what I’m doing is managed and directed and how much of it is all about feeling,” Healy said. “I have a lot of emotional ability to look at things… Sometimes I feel the world is too filled with importance and information.”

On her iMac, Healy showed me neat folders containing poems for her next books, arranged by collection. Each poem file featured all the previous drafts archived below, so scrolling through the document she could observe the changes each poem had undergone in revision. I made a mental note to steal this technique.

As for her current reading list—it’s long. While she always reads Poets & Writers and Harpers, at the time of my visit she was most excited about The Ministry of Utmost Happiness, a novel by Arundhati Roy, and Layli Long Soldier’s Whereas.

“She’s so different in the language that she chooses,” Healy said, calling Soldier’s work one of her current favorites.

“So the teacher jumped on the desk”

We spoke about the twentieth anniversary of the Antioch University Los Angeles MFA program, which she helped to establish as the founding chair in 1997. Under Healy’s leadership, it was determined that the program would operate under the low-residency model, with mentorship and collaboration at the forefront.

“I first discovered that Antioch was interested in talking to me because they knew that I was doing very well at Cal State Northridge,” Healy said. “But I was feeling like I really wanted to try another way to do things, and not just have somebody stand over here and say, ‘Do this!’”

‘I wanted to make sure that every one of us would be able to talk back and forth, which to me was very important because some people are afraid.’

Healy envisioned an academic model that privileged participation and inclusion.

“I found that I had a lot of experience with others… I wanted to make sure that every one of us would be able to talk back and forth, which to me was very important because some people are afraid,” Healy recalled. “I really wanted to make it feel like we were going to work on something.”

Healy’s career as an educator far predates AULA, and I was elated when she confirmed the story behind one of my favorite poems from The Islands Project (2007), “So the Teacher Jumped on the Desk.”

“It was true,” Healy said. “That was really a nice piece that let itself just happen.”

The poem retells an incident from her time as a student at Immaculate Heart, where she would eventually go on to join the faculty. The poem challenges the expectations of a typical “middle class Catholic girl”:

you are NOT going to make
Jell-O molds & tat doilies, you are going
to smoke a lot of dope & waste the weekends
drinking gallons of Gallo Hearty Burgundy
shirtless on the patio and you won’t be alone

“This was a big experience,” Healy said. “I can see the face of that man with his tie flying through the air as he jumped up on the desk and waving the book Howl.”

Activist in Echo Park

Healy’s identity as a feminist is at the core of her writing and activism. She shared her experience of this year’s post-inaugural Women’s March. “Literally, the whole Los Angeles downtown was packed with people,” she said excitedly. “I just took pictures of people. They weren’t my friends, they weren’t people I knew, but there they were. Not only including grown-up people, but little children, and moms and dads pushing [strollers]… People were starting to sing.”

Her advice to people who want to join?

“Just be there. Just be there. Open up to everyone,” she said. “That was a major event of not only getting information, but of creating happiness.”

“They love what they’re doing, they want to be involved. It was great. I’m still trying to do that again,” Healy said, alluding to her recovery from aphasia, a condition that affects a person’s ability to communicate. “Even though I lost my brain and my language, I am spending a lot of time trying to rebuild it with these poems… I’m happy to be alive, you know?… I feel so lucky that really good parts of me still work.”


Jessica Abughattas is a Palestinian American poet. She is an MFA candidate at Antioch University, and associate managing editor of Lunch Ticket. Her poems appear in THRUSH Poetry Journal, Stirring Lit, Heavy Feather Review, Drunk in a Midnight Choir, Roanoke Review, Rogue Agent Journal and elsewhere.

Joe Ide, Author

Joe IdeI first met Joe Ide in February 2017. I had gone to hear Joe read from his debut novel, IQ, at Chevalier’s Books in Larchmont. IQ had been assigned for me to read during my first semester in Antioch University’s MFA program in creative writing.

I arrived at Chevalier’s excited, but with a reasonable amount of skepticism. IQ was released in October 2016 and by February had a pile of accolades. The reviews suggested that Isaiah Quintabe (long for IQ) was the next great character in the storied history of detective fiction. I wanted to see for myself. Cut from the same urban cloth depicted in IQ, I would know if Joe were perpetrating a fraud.

During Joe’s reading of the first paragraph, it became clear why IQ had become a hit. The voice was sharp, genuine, and carried the same authority Joe admires in Elmore Leonard.

I met with Joe on July 17, 2017, near his home in Santa Monica. We sat on a park bench overlooking the Pacific Ocean on a cloudless day. It was two Elmore Leonard and Walter Mosley fans talking story. Joe gave me an autographed copy of Righteous, his second novel in the Isaiah Quintabe series, that would be released on October 17, 2017. And, he offered to read my novel when it was complete. It was damn good day.

Andre Hardy: Welcome, Joe. Why don’t we just jump right into this thing. I want to be a writer. Give me your best advice.

Joe Ide: Well, let’s see. Aspiring writers assume that because they’ve finished the book, they know how to write a book. Which couldn’t be less true. It’s multiple skillsets that you not only have to learn, you have to master while you’re leaning. It’s a really difficult process and aspiring writers, most of the ones that I’ve read, don’t understand that. They don’t understand that it’s a profession and they have to take it as seriously as a med student takes med school. There is no established writer out there who hasn’t taken years to master their craft. So, somebody hands me a novel and says, “Well, you know I worked on the weekends.” [Laughter] Keep working.

AH: That brings up an interesting question. How did you develop your skillset?

JI: I was a screenwriter before I wrote the book, so I had some grounding in writing. And screenwriting taught me to be visual and brief, succinct and to capture a scene in very few words. But when I started to write long-form prose, I discovered that I was just terrible! It was embarrassing! I had to go back to the beginning. I was reading On Writing Well and Elements of Style just to try and learn to write good, clear, straight-up prose. And it took me a year. I’m writing the book all this time, but I’m also working on working on my prose itself. It took a full year before I was confident that I could write prose. And then another two years to finish the book. And in that process, I developed my own style. It took that long.

AH: How long did you have the concept of IQ (Isaiah Quintabe) in your in your head?

JI: I grew up loving Sherlock Holmes. I’d read all fifty-six stories and four novels multiple times before I was twelve years old. And he represented power to me. I mean, I was a small kid in a big neighborhood. And I wasn’t a badass. But language just seemed like a form of power. Intelligence seemed like a form of power. To know that Sherlock Holmes could control his world with just a brain seemed amazing to me.

…language just seemed like a form of power. Intelligence seemed like a form of power.

And so, he was always my alter ego. And then I grew up where I grew up; I grew up in South Central, LA. And you know the hood is the hood. And when it came time to write the book, all those elements sort of came together by themselves. I never considered writing any other character but a Sherlock Holmes character. And then I used my own background as the setting. And you know, I didn’t actually choose to write it; it was the only thing I could write. It was the most accessible—within my wheelhouse, it felt comfortable—so that’s what I wrote.

AH: Stephen King said that his characters are always infused with some part of him, particularly his fears—he doesn’t like spiders or snakes. What part of Isaiah is you that shows up on the page?

 JI: A lot of Isaiah is what I want to be, what I always wanted to be. Cool, under control, all kinds of competencies. You know to have that kind of presence where you don’t say much, but people know you’re in the room. So, it wasn’t so much about what parts of me are in him as much as he has things that I wanted to be. He does have elements that are similar to me. He is a loner; he doesn’t have any trouble being by himself, which fits me. I’m not, at this point in my life, as troubled as he is, but there are those things that are recognizable.

 AH: In the epigraph to your book, it says: “Saving you is the only thing that will bring me peace for all the wrong I have done. That is my truth[from TigerLily, by Jillian Peery]. How does that relate to Isaiah?

JI: Isaiah, as a young man, did a lot of terrible things. He’s done some terrible things. He’s hurt a lot of people. He’s hurt his community. And later on, when he becomes this sort of unlicensed private investigator, every case he takes is really penance for the things that he has done. He is always trying to make up for a debt that he can never really pay back. And so, [in] “saving you,” as it’s written in the forward, Isaiah is really him saving himself.

AH: Is his relationship with Flaco an extension of that concept? [Flaco’s character is wounded in gang crossfire. IQ, because he feels responsible, visits him in the hospital and is moved to become his benefactor.]

JI: Yes, very much so. Flaco was the kid that was hurt in the gang war that Isaiah felt partially responsible for starting. And so, a lot of his energy, a lot of his guilt, a lot of his compensation is directed towards Flaco.

AH: In the first chapter, Isaiah saves a young girl who’s been kidnapped, then disappears. The girl’s father wonders why Isaiah didn’t stick around to be a hero and to get his name in the paper. Do you consider Isaiah a hero?

JI: I do, but he doesn’t. He’s driven by his past. He’s not thinking about the heroic aspects. He feels as if he’s doing what he has to do for his community. He doesn’t want the adulation. He wants to rid himself of his burden of guilt.

AH: That leads me to the next question. Walter Mosley says, “I write about black heroes.” Why do you think it’s important that these kinds of stories get told?

JI: You know, I think it’s part of raising awareness about diversitythat people of color, black people, which are what mostly populates my book, are not a monolith. That they are a range of different kinds of people, as there are in in any ethnic group. And I wanted to write someone who was heroic but not by wielding a gun. He didn’t find his courage in violence.

He didn’t want to be a criminal. He’s not one of those [stereotypical] people, and that’s one of the reasons I wrote him the way he is. I wanted somebody thoughtful and quiet and watchful and who did things out of a sense of good, out of a sense of decency and serving his community. I think it’s important to have those kinds of characters of color. You rarely see that. Unfortunately, the character is either gun-wielding or in some way a criminal, and not especially heroic. There’s always collateral damage; I mean not just heroes of color but across the board with fictional heroes. So, I thought it was important to contribute a character who was a good, honest, decent man.

AH: Once you completed the novel and began the process of trying to get it published, because Isaiah was a different take on a black hero, how was it initially received?

JI: The first six publishers it was given to, passed. But not because of Isaiah’s ethnicity or even the setting. They passed because they didn’t know how to market it. It did not fall into a neat niche. It wasn’t entirely within the conventions. It wasn’t procedural, it wasn’t noir, it wasn’t a heist book. They simply said they didn’t know how to market it (although [they said] we think Joe is very talented). But Little Brown got it [Little, Brown and Company, New York]. They developed a marketing plan around the book instead of trying to fit the book into some pat publicity campaign. And God bless them.

AH: How did you secure your agent?

I wanted to write someone who was heroic but not by wielding a gun. He didn’t find his courage in violence.

JI: Man, it was absolute luck. It’s one of those stories that never happen to anybody. I finish the manuscript, and I have no connections in publishing. None. All my screenwriting connections are over and done and I just, I’m sending it out to readers. And I have this cousin, his name is Francis Fukuyama. He’s a world-class political scientist. He’s the guy who predicted the fall of the Soviet Union. He runs the Center for Democracy at Stanford. He’s on the board at Rand. The last time I talked to him, he was in Shanghai consulting with the government. [Laughter] You know he’s one of those guys where you just don’t believe you can share DNA. I asked him if he would read my manuscript. He is a very kind, generous man, and somehow he found time to read a crime novel written by his cousin. And lo and behold, he liked it. Then he asked if I had an agent. I said, “No, I’ve got to get one.” He said, “Well let me introduce you to my agent,” who turned out to be a woman named Esther Newberg. Esther has been the head of literary at ICM in New York for twenty-five years. She is arguably the top literary agent in New York. So, it’s like my entire writing life came down to what I call my Esther moment. [Laughter] It was about Esther sitting down, opening up my book, and starting to read. That was my journey to an agent. And I still don’t believe it.

AH: How long did it take you to write IQ?

JI: Three years.

AH: How many drafts?

JI: Somewhere around twenty. I knew that I would have a very narrow window with which to impress my Esther, whoever that turned out to be; I [didn’t] know at the time. These people are very busy; they have to read books for a living, and so they have no patience whatsoever. Most of the people I’ve talked to said that they will not read any more than twenty-five pages before they close the book. If they’re not happy, that’s it. I met a woman from Amazon. She is one of the people responsible for the ten best books of the month. She said she knows right away, within five, ten pages. You have to give that person reasons to keep reading. If you don’t smack them in the face right off with something, with your writing or your character or whatever: if you don’t slap them right away, they pass. It’s over that quickly. The prologue in IQ is six pages long, and I rewrote that forty times. It was all riding on that. I crafted each and every sentence. I selected each and every word. And every time I went back I asked myself, “Can this be better? Can this be more vivid? Can it be more colorful? Can it be more interesting? Is this the best anecdote I can think of?” Yeah, and over and over and over and over again. That was my window. I knew it. And looking back, I mean at the time, my wife thought I was a little insane. But yeah, it was the best decision I made.

AH: So, twenty drafts. Wow. How did the story change from draft one to draft twenty?

JI: Everything, from completely rewriting a chapter, to moving chapters around, to adding and subtracting characters, to taking out whole segments of dialogue and rewriting it, and cutting. I cut at least as much as the book itself. The book is three hundred pages; I cut three hundred pages. It was just a process of never being satisfied.

AH: What was your gauge, your beacon of what you thought would make them keep reading? How did you know?

JI: By comparing myself to the great writers. I don’t think aspiring writers do that at all. I would read Elmore Leonard side by side with my book. And when you begin that process of comparing yourself to other writers, the discrepancy is appalling. [Laughter] And I think before you consider giving a book to somebody important, you have to be at least credible. You have to be at least not embarrassed by what you’ve writtenthat you would be comfortable giving it to Elmore Leonard. You have to be confident enough to do that. That was always really my standard. Would I be comfortable giving my book to Elmore Leonard? You know he and Walter Mosley are my guys. And that really gives you pause. If Walter Mosley was to read your book right now, would that be okay with you?

AH: You made a craft decision to write IQ in third person. In a classic sense, these stories are often told in first person. Why the creative decision to write it in third person? What advantages do you think that gave you?

JI: Well, I took it from Elmore Leonard, one of the many things I shoplifted from the way he writes. What he says is that by taking a character’s of point of view, you not only can put the expository information out there, but in doing so, you can also reveal the character.

You’re writing from that character’s point of view, and he may have a whole different take on what’s happening emotionally with the other characters, or on the situation itself. And so, as you’re revealing the scene, you’re also revealing that character—what’s happening in his head. And from his point of view, not from the outside looking in. For me it was about texture, having different points of view looking at the same events right now.

AH: The novel switches back and forth between 2013 and 2005. Talk about that choice and why you decided to structure it that way.

JI One of my pet peeve[s] in the detective genre is that many of the characters just show up fully formed. They have all these skills, and they’re just there. And they are being incredibly smart and clever. But they never tell you—well, almost never tell you: how did the guy get that way? Where did all this stuff come from? You know, and if he’s so damn smart why is he not working for NASA? And so, I wanted to write Isaiah’s backstory. The writing problem is that if you write it chronologically, you end up with the “A story” being right in the middle of the book. And you really want to start off, especially in our genre, with that A story. So, structurally, I really didn’t have a choice except to go back and forth, so I could start that A case at the beginning of the book and then go back.

AH: As opposed to doing it in flashbacks?

JI:  Yeah. The backstory is half the book. I wanted to separate it from the present story and give it its due. It is the reason why Isaiah does what he does.

AH: I just fished reading an interview with Salman Rushdie. The interviewer asked whether artists should be politically correct. What is your take?

JI: I don’t really think in those terms. I think anybody should write whatever the hell they want to write. And then we’ll all decide whether we like the book. I mean, I don’t think that there should be any restrictions on what’s written and who writes it. If David Duke wanted to write the biography of Jesse Jackson, that’s okay with me. Because it’s okay if Jesse Jackson, you know, writes the biography of David Duke. I think I have an idea which book I’d like the most. But write what you want to write. That’s how I feel about it. I just don’t put those kinds of boundaries on things. Write whatever the hell you want. I’ll read it and decide if I like it.

AH: In our world of Rachel Dolezal and political correctness, did you ever consider that IQ might be viewed as racial appropriation? 

JI: [Pause] It never occurred to me. I was writing a story that had black characters. They just happened to be black. And I had to put myself in their shoes and ask myself what would they say and how would they say it? That was the only consideration. And from my own experience, I was pretty convinced that that’s how they would say it. They would use the word “nigger” in that situation, often multiple times. If anybody has actually been on the streets, and talked to some gangsters, you’ll hear that word more than pronouns. And so, it just wasn’t a restriction. I just wrote the character, and there were no other considerations.

AH: I’m with you on that. I thought it was ridiculous that people wanted to sanitize Mark Twain.

JI: I don’t think anybody owns history. It’s a real slippery slope. I mean, if I can’t write about somebody else’s ethnic group, does that mean that a black man can’t write about a Japanese man? Or a Jewish man? Does that mean Spike Lee can’t direct a movie about white people and suburbia because he’s black and he lives in Brooklyn? That logic falls apart really fast.

AH: What was the Edgar experience like? [Each spring, Mystery Writers of America presents the Edgar Awards, widely acknowledged to be the most prestigious awards in the genre. IQ was nominated in the category of Best First Novel.]

I think anybody should write whatever the hell they want to write. And then we’ll all decide whether we like the book.

JI: First of all, you read about the Edgar Award. You see it on the book covers of all these really fantastic writers. Then somebody calls you up and says you’ve been nominated for an Edgar? [Laughter] I was completely and totally incredulous. I wrote that book in utter isolation. And so, to go from the mindset—where I’m just hoping I don’t have to self-publish, and sell copies in the doggie park—to go from that mindset to somebody talking to me about an Edgar Award… [Laughter] It’s like cooking dinner for your family and winning the James Beard award. It does not compute. They flew me to New York. I go to this big reception. I was, the whole time, incredulous. I kept thinking, What am I doing here? Why do these people want to talk to me?

AH: So you never expected any of your success?

JI: No. I had very low expectations. My highest hope was some quirky publisher would give the new guy a break. That was the biggest thing that I thought could happen to that book. So yeah, everything has been a damn surprise.

AH: I also heard you’ve sold the TV rights as well?

JI: Yeah. The book sold to Little Brown and then it was like, I don’t know, six weeks later, that it got optioned for TV. Again, I had worked as a screenwriter. And I worked a fair bit. I worked for the majors, I did rewrites, wrote pilots and all kinds of stuff. But I never got anything made. And that was one of the reasons that I wrote the novel. I mean, I was living a pretty good life. But to work that hard, and then have twelve people read it, some studio executive development people, and then it gets put in a vault. That just got to be too humiliating.

AH: What should readers expect in the sequel, Righteous?

JI: The plan from the outset was to have the characters grow from book to book; that is, there would always be a big story, the A story. There would always be backstories to enrich the characters. At the end of IQ, for example, Isaiah lays down most of his guilt. He unburdens himself of the guilt he’s been carrying around since he was a teenager. And so, in Righteous, he realizes that because he’s been bearing that cross, he’s lived an incredibly isolated life. He has no friends. He’s dated once in a blue moon. He realizes that he’s lonely.

Righteous is a lot about him trying to reach out, trying to come out of his shell and join the rest of the world. So that’s his journey from IQ to Righteous, personally. Dotson, at the end of IQ, says that he and his girlfriend are having a baby. Now Dotson is a combination of every hustler I ever knew or knew about. In book two [Righteous], there’s Dodson trying to deal with having a baby—being a father. Those are the kinds of things that are the most interesting. There are always big cases to write about. There always new bad guys to write about. But those are some of the things the reader can expect. They can expect the same kind of action but they can also expect growth from the characters.

AH: Will we learn more about his relationship with Marcus?

JI: We will. He restarts his investigation into Marcus’s death and learns it wasn’t an accident. Marcus was killed. That’s the “B story” through Righteous, Isaiah trying to hunt down the killer of his brother. To go back all those years and find evidence and piece together what actually happened to his brother Marcus.

AH: Last question. How long did it take you to write Righteous?

JI: Eight months. What happened after IQ was—once the book got all these positive reviews, and lots of people liked it—it gave me so much more confidence. I wasn’t sitting on my own shoulder second-guessing myself every sentence. I could just feel comfortable writing. This is how I write. I’m comfortable with it, and so are the readers. I could just write unimpeded. I could get out of my own way and write. And I also found that in the process of writing IQ, and in the process of writing Righteous, that I had more command over the tools of the trade. Things occurred to me faster; I could come up with that simile quicker, and I could see the images quicker. I was not in a hurry. I could just write faster. I also have the luxury of writing full-time, all day, seven days a week. And that’s a real luxury.


Andre Hardy is an MFA candidate at Antioch University Los Angeles. He is a graduate of St. Mary’s College of California, and was the fourth pick of the Philadelphia Eagles in the 1984 NFL draft. Inspired by Chester Himes, Clarence Cooper Jr., and Walter Mosley, he writes hard-boiled, gumshoe stories with an urban twist. His essays and short stories have been published in Lunch Ticket and TribeLA Magazine. He lives in Los Angeles, where his day job is executive director of Against the Stream Buddhist Meditation Society.


Ashaki Jackson, Poet

Ashaki JacksonAshaki Jackson began her career as a social psychologist and program evaluator before focusing on the craft of poetry. Ms. Jackson was a Cave Canem fellow and a poetry activist. She also cofounded Women Who Submit, an organization that helps women with the submission of their literary work to bring about more gender balance in the publishing world. She’s been featured in CURA: A Literary Magazine of Art and Action, Pluck! The Journal of Affrilachian Arts & Culture, and Prairie Schooner, among other journals and anthologies. In her work as an artist, activist, and social psychologist, Ms. Jackson’s commitment to communities and social justice has been lifelong and continuing.

Her career accomplishments include her first chapbook, Surveillance (2016). Through a philanthropic partnership with Writ Large Press, one hundred percent of the proceeds of Surveillance benefits the activist organizations Black Youth Project 100, Say Her Name, Black Lives Matter, and Native Lives Matter. Jackson’s second chapbook, Language Lesson (2016), was published by Miel. It is described in the marketing copy for its first release: “In the absence of a full grief lexicon, Language Lesson is a short study of loss, mortuary rites, and survivors’ interpretations of these processes. The chapbook was inspired by the loss of Jackson’s paternal grandmother.”

Ashaki Jackson and I conducted our interview via email in early August 2017.

Shaneka Jones Cook: When did you first realize you wanted to be a writer?

Ashaki Jackson: As a child, I burned through reams of paper to make these half-page booklets. I would fill them with incomplete, plotless, illustrated stories, which are the best kinds of stories. My parents are both educators and had stocks of office supplies. My father reminds me that I was easy to please with gifts of pens and paper reams. That still holds true. Have you seen me around a new Parker Jotter?

I’m unsure there was a moment in which I purposefully decided that I would be a writer. Even now, I haven’t truly accepted that title because it carries a good amount of responsibility, like creating and maintaining a writing practice; publishing full collections; teaching craft—all of these grownup tasks. I’m proud of myself when I produce one meaningful, promising line a day.

I socialize with many writers. And, through my writing I’ve been able to contribute to larger conversations on loss, injustice, and keeping oneself in check in morally questionable times. So, I am a writer in these ways, I think—by association and by social contribution. Yet, reaching Writer Status has been a journey to which I feel I haven’t fully arrived.

SJC: Who is your favorite author? How did this person influence you?

AJ: I live in a writing empire, so I’m enamored with a new writer each month. But, my literary heart belongs to Salvador Plascencia (fiction), Kimiko Hahn (poetry), Gabriel Garcia Marquez (everything), and Jhumpa Lahiri (fiction). In five minutes, I’ll probably rattle off another name because I am so uncomfortable with absolutes. These writers stepped into language and gave it new shape; made words move on cyclical timelines; crossed academic fields to make a point about love. There is nothing simple about their work, and yet the feeling their work evokes in me is as basic as wonder or pain. I enjoy when work gives me an opportunity to feel. Life is often so full of mechanics that to have time for emotion is rare wealth.

… through my writing I’ve been able to contribute to larger conversations on loss, injustice, and keeping oneself in check in morally questionable times.

Has it been five minutes yet? I want to mention a couple more authors. There are days when I need Douglas Kearney’s energy to break language into a big Black lyric on a square white page—to begin anywhere with a shout and see the echo bounce off the margins. There are days when I need Rachel McKibbens’s certainty of words. I’ll always remember her lines on how her bones thickened like ax handles when she gave birth to her first child. Her words made me cognizant of how my bones arrange beneath me when I sit, how high and wide they have spread over time, and the way my knees strain a little when I walk. Words bring you into your senses. That is also what my favorite writers do for me.

SJC: What advice would you give to young Black girls?

AJ: There is so much to say! I want to assure them that they are loved deeply. I want to warn them that self-care is a necessary resistance to this society and to avoid, if at all possible, becoming commoditized. Also, despite marketing, they are ten percent magic, fifty percent good home-training, and forty percent hard work and self-actualization.

As for writing: Let it be a respite—a safe place for you to experiment without editing or being edited. There is time for editing later. For now, spend some time with your voice. Write as it comes to your mind. Practice being present on paper because too often we create beautiful, complex stories in our minds then edit the life out of them; or worse, we forget them. Those stories are soil. What will grow without it?

SJC: Do you see yourself as a political activist? And if so, growing up did you think you would be a voice for so many who don’t have the strength to speak for themselves?

AJ: To be Black, a woman, well-employed, well-paid, joyful, and alive is political. This sentiment is not singular or new, which is unfortunate. My parents are activists; they battled for fair, quality education long before I was born. So, I’m no stranger to pushing for change. It is long work, meaning that it is endless. You cannot say that you have achieved justice if your sister or brother is also struggling. Justice work is life work. Think of it as a chorus: there will always be more than one voice looking for the perfect, rich harmony. Once you hear it, you shouldn’t want to stop singing. And once we see justice, we must maintain it, nurture it, make it the standard. I’m one of many voices because that’s what this society needs to avoid ruining itself. It wasn’t so much a choice or a goal of adulthood; rather, it is a necessity.

SJC: In your chapbook, Surveillance, you write about police brutality on Black men. How do you see the role of the Black male in the continuous struggle for equality? 

AJ: Surveillance reflects on the death of men, women, and children. I’m particularly interested in how social media users have promulgated the spread of these videos and how there is little hesitation to share. Whether you’ve shared that video because you’re sleuthing or just curious to see what everyone is talking about, these videos are traumatizing and intolerable; it is terrifying to see what might happen to a Black person in a myriad of circumstances, including calling the police for help during a mental health break, calling police for help following a car accident, being at an address that, by chance, is next door to a suspect’s home, selling single cigarettes, standing with friends outside of a club, leaving a bachelor party, holding a wallet, looking dangerous. As long as these killings are permitted—as long as the law allows Blacks to be treated as targets—the justice system is flawed and no one is safe. Certainly, our national system of laws was developed to suppress Black slaves in perpetuity. If you are unlucky enough to not graduate into whiteness or pass into whiteness, then you, too, are subject to surveillance and subjective protections under the law.

SJC: What prompted or inspired you to donate 100% of the proceeds of Surveillance to the Black Youth Project 100, Say Her Name, Black Lives Matter, and Native Lives Matter organizations?

AJ: I submitted the manuscript to five presses. Within about one week, Chiwan Choi of Writ Large Press reached out with a plan—to release one poem daily in Cultural Weekly up to the chapbook’s release, [and] then to make it widely available at a flat rate of ten dollars. I shared my vision that the chapbook fund justice efforts in perpetuity; we might not make millions off the book, but we could support nonprofits that had good traction and strategic plans to pay their staff, keep the websites running, put gas in their vans, publish their research, and the like. Chiwan said yes. Surveillance has generated over $4,000 to date, and we continue making deposits to organizations. To be clear, we’ve kept nothing. I pay my bills with a job I work fifty to sixty hours per week, which is a privilege that makes this possible. Surveillance will never be a money-making endeavor.

SJC: As a Black woman, I was recently pulled over by a Black female police officer with my children in the car. Without thinking I immediately raised my hands and began reciting to the officer my every movement while trying to obtain my driver’s license out of my purse and saying, “I am not trying to become Sandra Bland.” You’ve written a lot about the impact of police brutality on the Black community. Could you say something about how you experience this on a personal level? Do you also feel fearful of being pulled over?”

AJ: That is a horrible and horrifying thing to know your life is at risk. Your automaticity is impressive. I haven’t thought of my safety plan in any great detail.

To be Black, a woman, well-employed, well-paid, joyful, and alive is political.

When I was twelve or thirteen, my family moved into an upper-middle-class neighborhood in California’s Central Valley. The house was directly across the street from one classmate, catty-corner from another classmate’s home, and within four houses in either direction of two other classmates’ homes. It was rumored that a second Black family was somewhere nearby, so I felt safe.

My father was tidying the front yard when an officer pulled up in his cruiser. He exited the car and asked my father what he was doing, as if pulling weeds while bent over at the waist wasn’t evident. My father told me this part of the story, but I can’t remember if he responded to the officer verbally or not. I do know that my father told the officer to follow him. My father walked this person through our long living room and the kitchen, then called my name. I came from the back wing of the house. When I rounded the corner, my father looked at me impatiently, and a tall, thin, white officer stood behind him with his hand on the gun in his holster. I responded, “Yes, Daddy?” In hindsight, this was a performance. My father’s answer to the officer’s question was, I live here. My daughter lives here. My wife lives here. You are on our property, in our home. You are out of place. Remembering that the officer was prepared to remove his gun while with my father—while in our home—is infuriating. I don’t recall a patrol before or after that incident. Who called that officer?

Los Angeles is a different beast. The rate of police presence in my neighborhood has declined after complaints that there was proportionally more targeting of immigrant residents in our corner of the city than, say, two blocks north in South Pasadena or two blocks east in Alhambra. That doesn’t mean that my guard is down, but I do wonder what narrative the public will create if something happens to me at the hands of law enforcement. Who will come to my aid?

SJC: Do you view writing as a kind of spiritual practice?

AJ: I recently co-led a writing workshop on where healing takes place during the writing process. With regard to Surveillance, the healing happened during my reading the work aloud to audiences. It brought me peace to know that people—strangers—would sit through the tough meat of this work and not abandon its content or its immeasurable sadness. When writing my first chapbook, Language Lesson, the healing happened as I generated the work. The manuscript was a way to honor my late paternal grandmother. I had gone silent after her death for an extended period, maybe two years. Writing was restorative; two different experiences, two opportunities in which I experienced wholeness after ache.

SJC: In Language Lesson, you brilliantly and painfully described how death affects the body after your grandmother’s passing. I, too, lost my grandmother to breast cancer, and she also had a mastectomy. I went through a period of not wanting to feel any type of emotion. Do you believe your pain was a rebirth process?

It brought me peace to know that people—strangers—would sit through the tough meat of this work and not abandon its content or its immeasurable sadness.

AJ: Thank you for sharing that experience with me. I think it’s wholly unfair that we lose our grandparents. What a crushing, unforgettable moment for me. My period of silence was all I could do not to cry uncontrollably. All sound was a trigger, so I avoided conversations and didn’t answer my phone much. I would send and respond to text messages, maybe emails. But voices, radio, television, any audio beyond the wind was a cue for tears. I might have been punishing myself for not being present to say goodbye or simply unable to handle reality. I’m still unsure. The grief was a driver of the work, however. I was able to cry when I wrote, and the pattern of my collection reflects my type of choke-crying. The grief drove the writing and its shape, which drove the healing.

SJC: You are the cofounder of Women Who Submit. Tell me how that idea came about and how it eventually became a reality?

AJ: Alyss Dixson and I met at a writers’ co-working space in Santa Monica called The Writers Junction. We wrote weeknights from the afternoons into the evenings. This was the space in which I wrote Language Lesson, actually. One evening, Alyss called me into the partner writing rooms in which she usually camped out, and explained her role in an organization called Women in Literary Arts (WILA, which later became VIDA). She showed me a summary of how often women (feminine names) appeared in a set of top-tier literary publications. She was irate because the percentages were so low. The conversation was quick; she said that the answer could be to create submission sessions for women. These would not be for generating work or workshopping. The sessions would focus solely on getting the work out, bombarding editors’ slush piles, and creating a submission practice that would elevate women’s likelihoods of earning publication, and, subsequently, a more substantial readership who could potentially purchase women’s collections. Alyss asked me to help her think through the design.

Part of the process was getting the word to a network of women writers throughout Los Angeles County. Alyss wanted to enlist someone with fairly far-reaching and positive ties with local women writers, and I proposed Xochitl-Julisa Bermejo who graduated from the AULA MFA program about three or four years after me.

The three of us piloted a submission party, four dedicated hours each month to sit with peers, discuss submission opportunities and personal goals for the day, polish cover letters, stuff envelopes and/or hit the submit button. The party has grown to include an orientation on submitting and guest speakers on topics including literary citizenship, budgeting for first book prize submissions, residencies, and other topics of interest requested by Women Who Submit members. Women and nonbinary writers come to submission parties with their best writing or even to submit residency, fellowship, and grant applications. There are over twenty chapters across the nation. Xochitl-Julisa is currently at the helm of all local operations and has been integral to expanding supports provided by Women Who Submit. Thus far, Women Who Submit has been well-received and a noted asset to resources available to women writers venturing into publishing. I now serve as a VIDA board member, and it has been helpful and promising to see a proactive response like Women Who Submit’s submission parties to the VIDA Count [an annual survey of women writers].


Shaneka Jones Cook currently owns her own home daycare center, and is a former elementary school teacher who writes fiction, poetry, short stories, and creative nonfiction in addition to being a freelance writer. She is currently working on her MFA in creative writing at Antioch University Los Angeles. She’s been published in The Record (Trinity Washington University), and most recently Antioch University’s very own Lunch Ticket. She is currently working on a children’s book based on her two younger sons, and a collection of essays about mother/son relationships. She is the founder of the book and poetry club Chapter Chicks. She was an assistant editor for Amuse-Bouche, and is currently an assistant editor on the fiction team, and works on the outreach and interview teams for Lunch Ticket. She resides in Washington, D.C. with her daughter and three sons. When Shaneka’s not writing, she’s either watching the Syfy channel or binge-watching Hulu and Netflix.

Matt de la Peña, Author

Matt de la Peña During Antioch’s June 2016 residency, my mentor suggested I pick up a copy of Matt de la Peña’s Newbery Medal-winning picture book, Last Stop on Market Street, to explore the effective use of diversity in children’s literature. When I returned home to Arizona, I not only picked up a copy of de la Peña’s book, I became an immediate fan. Matt de la Peña’s gentle writing accomplishes what only the best children’s literature can—it taps into the collective sense of wonder that continues to exist just under the surface, long after we dare to grow up.

During the course of his highly acclaimed career, de la Peña has written six young adult novels: Ball Don’t Lie (2005), Mexican WhiteBoy (2008), We Were Here (2010), I Will Save You (2010), The Living (2013), and its sequel The Hunted (2015). His picture books include A Nation’s Hope: The Story of Boxing Legend Joe Louis (illustrated by Kadir Nelson, 2011), and Last Stop on Market Street (illustrated by Christian Robinson, 2015). Matt received his MFA in creative writing from San Diego State University and his BA from the University of the Pacific, where he attended school on a full basketball scholarship. De la Peña currently lives in Brooklyn, New York with his wife and young daughter. He teaches creative writing and visits high schools and colleges throughout the country.

I had the good fortune of attending a lecture that de la Peña gave at Antioch’s December 2016 residency on exercising restraint when writing for young people. As he gave his presentation, it became quite apparent that de la Peña personifies the complex qualities of the diverse characters he writes about. He is an eloquent educator who thinks of himself as working-class. He is a quiet observer who speaks with a casual familiarity that makes you swear he lived just down the street where you grew up. He is at once a formidable ex-athlete and a gentle creative.

On an early March afternoon in 2017, I spoke with Matt de la Peña at his office at San Diego State University via Skype. We spent an hour discussing diversity, politics, craft, and daughters.

Kim Sabin: You have such an interesting personal background. Can we start with how you came to pursue your MFA and professional writing career?

Matt de la Peña: I went to undergrad at University of the Pacific on a basketball scholarship. I didn’t really see writing as any type of professional path, but I had really supportive professors in undergrad and I took a couple of creative writing classes. I ended up winning this school writing competition and it really was validating. I think my professors said, “Look… if you want to pursue writing, you could try to get an MFA.” I’d never heard of what that was, so they had to sit me down and tell me. Then I ended up leaving undergrad and working in a group home for a couple of years. My professors, without me knowing, had pulled together my work, and sent it out to a couple of MFA programs. They told me, “We did your manuscript, now you have to do the actual formal part, if you want to do this.” And so, I was like, “Sure!” So that’s how I ended up in an MFA program.

KS: You’ve labeled yourself as a “working-class writer”—both in regards to your family background and your approach to your daily writing practice. Can you share what you mean by this?

The way I look at it is—instead of working with cement, I’m working with words. But it’s the same kind of laborious, hard-worker, show-up-every-day kind of situation.

MDLP: There are some people who are just geniuses and they have incredible ideas and they wait for that moment of inspiration where it hits and they produce really quickly a really interesting quality of work. That’s a very small percentage of us, though. Most of us, if we are going to finish a piece, we have to sit down and do the hard work and clock in every day. It’s approaching writing not from inspiration, but more from the idea that it’s just like any other work. The way I look at it is—instead of working with cement, I’m working with words. But it’s the same kind of laborious, hard-worker, show-up-every-day kind of situation.

KS: I remember listening to another interview and you literally show up every day. You have an office you go to…

MDLP: I do. Right now, I’m actually sitting in an office at San Diego State because I’m teaching here a semester. But back home in Brooklyn, I have a writing studio and I have to go there every day.

KS: You didn’t self-identify as a “kidlit” author when you began your career. You studied straight fiction writing in your MFA program at San Diego State. Can you talk about how you fell into both the YA and children’s literature genre? How has your MFA background shaped your approach to children’s literature?

MDLP: That’s a good question. When I came out of my MFA program, children’s literature wasn’t as big of a thing as it is now. It wasn’t as commercially viable. These days, in the past two years in some cases, children’s literature is carrying the publisher, which has never happened before. I think we had Harry Potter, and then ultimately that led to Twilight and The Hunger Games. Those big-ticket, commercial ones opened up doors in the publishing industry and the industry started scooping up everything they could that had a young protagonist. My book got caught up in that wave—my first book. And then, if your first book does well, your publisher’s going to say, “Do that again, only different.” So, I found myself writing a second young adult novel. At that point YA was becoming a popular thing—not just the big commercial stuff, but even in a literary way. I started realizing that these were stories that were close to my heart. I love the coming-of-age stories. It ended up being a good fit.

The picture book part of the equation came later. It was my agent who talked me into it. He actually said, “There are parts of your first book that I’ve showed publishers and said, ‘Don’t you think that this language style could make for an interesting picture book?’ And a lot of them said, ‘If he has something… let’s do it!’” That led to my first picture book, which is about boxing, and then my second picture book. I feel like in both cases, I didn’t aim for children’s literature—YA or picture books—but it is, actually, a good fit.

KS: In an online interview with VOYA, you said, “I don’t believe in happy endings, but I do believe in hopeful endings.” Can you explain what you mean by that and how that applies to YA and children’s literature?

MDLP: Some people, when they think of kidlit, they think of some lesson or moral or “what’s the message?” of the book. That’s a bummer, because really good children’s literature doesn’t have a message so directly. When you’re starting to look for that happy ending, you’re also veering into the territory of the message—especially with YA. It’s very important to provide hope, but that’s just good storytelling. I don’t think it’s that different from adult fiction versus YA. In good storytelling there is an element of hope because that’s just the human existence. We look for hope. But the happy ending… It either feels too neat, and too aligned, or it feels too moral. Those are the things I try to duck. But for me, the hopeful ending, especially if it’s vaguely hopeful, it’s not fantastic… It’s really satisfying.

KS: Realistically hopeful?

MDLP: Exactly.

KS: You sit on the boards of both the Society for Children’s Book Writers and Illustrators (SCBWI) and We Need Diverse Books. Inclusion and diversity are hot topics in kidlit right now. Can you talk about why stories representing underrepresented demographics are so important in children’s literature?

MDLP: It’s very interesting. I meet so many young people who got caught up in a book or a series and they loved it at the time. Then they speak about it now and they realize, “Wow… I was really identifying with a story where I actually didn’t have a place within the story. I tried to shoehorn myself into it.” Now, we’re meeting people—young people—who are actually seeing themselves in books more. The biggest thing that I’m seeing, the way that I describe it is, it’s a whole other level when you actually identify with a main character who is an “other.” It’s really validating. You’re actually inside the book before you even read the story, and that’s important. I recently was at this school, and I’ve been asking kids, “Why is it important to see yourself in books?” This one kid, he didn’t say it eloquently, but I thought he said it the best. He said, “I love reading. I love reading stories that are fantastical. I love reading stories with wizards or fairies, but when I read a book with a character like me…” (He was a mixed kid) “…There’s just something extra for me.” There is that little something extra that needs to be spread around not just with mainstream readers but also with all readers.

KS: In 2012, your YA novel, Mexican WhiteBoy, was banned in Arizona. How did this come about? What did this experience mean to you and has it changed the way you approach your writing?

My book, Mexican WhiteBoy, was deemed “anti-white,” which is interesting because the main character is half-white. What happened is the kids were reading the Mexican WhiteBoy books and some people from the superintendent’s office came in and literally pulled the books out of the kids’ hands, put them in a box, and placed them in the basement.

MDLP: You write these books and you don’t really think about where they’re going to end up or what’s going to happen to them, and you work on the next one. Mexican WhiteBoy had been out for maybe a couple of years and little did I know there was this program in Arizona, Tucson specifically, called the “Mexican-American Studies” program—the MAS program. A group of educators said, “We have a struggling student body and it’s predominantly Mexican-American. Eighty-five percent. What if we, for extra motivation, had a curriculum that was focused on teaching books that featured characters that looked like them? History about their lives? Written by people whose last names they would identify with?” It was a really successful program.

One of the books in this curriculum was Mexican WhiteBoy. It got caught up in the political situation that was happening there. I think somebody in the program said, “Republicans hate Mexicans.” Which isn’t true, but it started this whole thing. The school board said, “Okay, there’s obviously something wrong in this program.” My book, Mexican WhiteBoy, was deemed “anti-white,” which is interesting because the main character is half-white. What happened is the kids were reading the Mexican WhiteBoy books and some people from the superintendent’s office came in and literally pulled the books out of the kids’ hands, put them in a box, and placed them in the basement. They were illegal to read in that school district. It was a huge bummer and it’s still in the courts, actually… seven years later. It was one of those weird experiences where you go, “Oh my gosh. The book when I finished it is no longer mine.” It’s used by different people for different purposes. One group was using it to inspire kids that looked like the main character or felt like the characters in the book. Then another group came along and used it as a political tool in the opposite way.

KS: It’s almost like you release it to the world and it becomes what someone needs it—or wants it—to become.

MDLP: That’s why when some writers try to take too much control over views or stuff like that, you’re not seeing it correctly. The truth is… It’s no longer yours. It’s actually an incredible honor to have your book used in these other ways. It means you made something that is a tool for others.

KS: You won the 2016 Newbery Medal for your picture book, Last Stop on Market Street. In your acceptance speech, you praised librarians and said, “In a time when some people want to build walls, you give young people the tools to tear them down.” Within the industry, librarians and teachers are referred to as “the gatekeepers.” What responsibility do these gatekeepers have within our new political climate in the United States? And do you think it is the role of children’s literature writers to plant the seeds of social justice within their young readers?

MDLP: That’s a good question. I’ve seen so many writers, myself included, who are starting to think, “What does it mean?” With what’s going on politically now and how we’re seeing a nationalistic view of the country and this ideology that’s like, “We need to keep ourselves safe and everybody else out.” A lot of people want to react directly against that. And again, this is where you start to enter into the pitfall, I should say. I read this article in the Wall Street Journal, I think it was, by [Haruki] Murakami, a novelist, and he said, “If your dog dies, and you want to write a story about your dog dying, there should be no dogs in the story.” That’s what we have to do. It’s there, but it’s super-subversive. Because if you hit it too head-on—I’d equate it to putting pop culture in your book—it time-stamps it. If you have Pepsi in your book, then, “That’s today.” You know what I mean? You have to find a way to do something universal but that is subversively providing another way of looking at the world. It’s funny because I just finished a picture book that’s coming out this fall. It’s called Love and it’s a reaction to all of this stuff. But there’s no politics in this book. It’s subversively about what’s happening, but if you read it thirty years from now, you could never actually locate where I was coming from.

KS: One of the bonuses of writing for young people has got to be school visits. I’d imagine that immediacy of interacting with young readers must be fulfilling. Can you talk about that experience?

MDLP: The bummer is you have to do them a lot. Sometimes, you find yourself doing too many of them and it’s really hard to keep up on your work—your writing—when you’re out in the schools. I’ve been trying to limit them, because if I limit them, they’re more powerful for me. My favorite thing is meeting readers who, seriously, don’t know what a Newbery is… They don’t care. And it’s just cool to get their authentic interaction about a book and a story and a character. I’ve been doing high school visits for years and years, but I’ve been doing more elementary school visits… and they are fascinating. Just the kids you meet and the things they say—they’re so authentic.

KS: Your picture book, Last Stop on Market Street, tells the story of young C.J. and his grandmother, Nana, taking a bus ride through their urban community. While C.J. laments for all of the things he wishes he had in his life, Nana gently reminds them of their good fortune. Why do you think this particular story struck such a nerve at this moment in American culture?

MDLP: Again, I have to be very honest here. If this book came out six years ago, it would’ve been a very small book, very quiet. Some people would have loved it and other people would’ve never heard of it. We were fortunate to get on Morning Edition on NPR and that introduced the book to a lot of new people. And then, of course, it wins an award and that’s ensures that it’s going to be introduced to many more readers and it’s going to be in every school.

There’s a new thing happening and it’s my personal approach to writing diversity right now, which is I’m trying to write characters that are diverse—which I always have been doing—but putting them in stories that have nothing, at least overtly, to do with diversity. This is the new diversity.

So, what about this book at this moment? There’s a new thing happening and it’s my personal approach to writing diversity right now, which is I’m trying to write characters that are diverse—which I always have been doing—but putting them in stories that have nothing, at least overtly, to do with diversity. This is the new diversity. It’s where it exists in the story, the main character is a non-traditional protagonist, but it’s not about that. It’s about something else. In this case, it’s about gratitude, but also subversively, it’s about seeing yourself as beautiful. It’s also timely, because there was this reaction that not enough books with diverse characters were getting recognition and so some committees, if you want to be honest, were like, “You know what? We’re going to do this. This is this story’s time.” You like to think that your book is just an incredible work and it’s rewarded for that. But it’s not just that. Every award selection is a political act. Again, my book was caught up in a political act and it’s something I have to acknowledge. Of course, it’s one of those things where it was good enough to be put in the place as a tool for this committee. You see what I’m saying?

KS: Christian Robinson was the illustrator for Last Stop on Market Street. My daughter is a senior in high school, but I can’t remember seeing a tattooed character in any of the children’s books we read together. This small detail felt groundbreaking to me. Was this something you and Christian discussed? Can you talk about what the collaborative process between the writer and illustrator on children’s books looks like?

MDLP: This is a very non-traditional relationship we have. Usually, the author and the illustrator are kept apart until the book comes out. The reason why they do that, of course, is to make sure the writer doesn’t take too much ownership of the story. Because in the best picture books, the illustrator actually is telling a slightly different story, in and out of the text. You know, those are the best illustrators. But, we have the same agent and we met before I was even done with the text. It was sold with Christian attached. We talked a few times. We switched a couple of things. One of the things he really wanted in the text after he read the initial draft… He said, “I would love to have an animal somewhere.” That was interesting, because it led me to think about the blind man with the dog, which kind of is one of my favorite parts of the book. So, that was one switch we did.

We also talked about this idea of just having diverse characters in a story that isn’t about diversity. I said, “Anything you can do visually to support that idea, you know, go for it.” We didn’t talk directly about the tattooed guy, but when I saw him, I was like, “Man, that’s it!” He found it. Originally, when I wrote the text, it was a Mexican kid. But I met his grandmother, who raised him, [as] I found out, and I thought, “I’ve got to use my resources here.” So I switched the characters to black and this led to, to me, one of the most important things, which is they’re sitting in the front of the bus… That’s an incredibly important moment in the book. Nobody ever talks about it, but it’s a callback to the Civil Rights movement. It’s weird how those little magical things made the book better than if we were kept apart.

KS: In an interview with YALSA you said, “I love the strange mix of innocence and sophistication in great picture books.” You’ve already discussed how you transitioned from writing YA novels to writing picture books. Do you use similar craft techniques when approaching both categories?

When I write a picture book, I look at it as a spoken-word poem.

MDLP: When I write a picture book, I look at it as a spoken-word poem. Before I ever wrote fiction, I used to write spoken-word poetry. It was so much based on rhythms and music. Before I even knew how to craft a story, I was doing that. So when I write a picture book, it’s about music—getting the story right, and then getting the music right. The biggest thing is making it all feel authentic. You have two audiences when you write a picture book. You have the adults and you have the child. You’re nodding to both, but erring on the side of the young person. It’s an interesting balancing act. Now, I’m not good at writing goofy. There’s some really great, amazing books that are silly and goofy that kids love. My daughter loves them. But I like to write picture books with weight and sadness. Those are my favorite picture books to read to my daughter and they are my favorite stuff to try to write. But I will tell you, she’s more likely at her age—she’s two-and-a-half—to reach for silly. But occasionally, she’s ready for the weighty book and we get into great discussions. I’d rather my book be pulled once a week as opposed to twice a night for that substantive conversation.

KS: What’s your favorite genre to read? What are you currently reading?

MDLP: I love gritty, sad, adult, literary fiction. I just read Underground Railroad [Colson Whitehead], which I thought was fantastic. My momentum is carrying me toward a lot of nonfiction, but a lot of social justice stuff. I just read Just Mercy [Bryan Stevenson], and Evicted [Poverty and Profit in the American City, Matthew Desmond], about the social justice system, which is even more important now. Cormac McCarthy is my favorite writer in the world and he’s super-dark and he writes these incredible, hacked sentences. I love Junot Diaz. I love the way he marries Spanish—and not always the language of Spanish—but just Spanish is in his sentences, even when they’re in English. It’s a slightly different rhythm to his sentences and he has a kind of street-sensibility. I love that. I read this book called Lab Girl recently [Hope Jahren], which is about a female scientist. By the way, I’m reading a lot of feminist stuff right now, because I have a daughter… I’d like to see the world through her eyes, you know? In terms of young people literature, I love Christopher Paul Curtis, who wrote Bud, Not Buddy. I love Markus Zusak, who wrote The Book Thief. I like realistic stuff. I struggle with fantasy. Not because I don’t appreciate it, but because the real world is so fascinating… I want to stay there.

KS: Can you share any projects that you’re currently working on?

MDLP: I have Love coming out in the fall. I did a picture book with Pixar for a movie that they have coming out called CoCo. That’s coming out in the fall. CoCo is about the Day of the Dead. It’s a Mexican kid who plays the guitar. I’m super-excited about that, because I’ve never done a tie-in and it was really cool because they gave me complete freedom to go away from the story with the main character. I got to see the movie already, so that was amazing. I also have a book called Carmela Full of Wishes, which is a picture book that will come out maybe January of next year. And then I have my YA… I have two projects. I have one called One of Those Likes Used to Love Me, which is an older YA. A nineteen-year-old character right about to go to college, super working-class kid—mixed-race. I’m also doing Superman, which is a pretty crazy project where four authors are doing superheroes—you know, DC [Comics] superheroes. Wonder Woman is coming out first, and then Batman, and Catwoman, and then I’m doing Superman. That will come out, I think, late 2018.

KS: Wow! And you’re teaching and you have a two-and-a-half year-old…

MDLP: That’s why I’m a year late on my YA.

KS: Matt de la Peña, thank you for your time.

MDLP: Thank you so much. It was a pleasure.


Kim Sabin studies writing for young people in the MFA Creative Writing program at Antioch University Los Angeles. When she isn’t driving across the desert to study craft, she lives in Scottsdale, Arizona with her husband and daughter. Kim is currently working on her first YA novel and blogs for Lunch Ticket. You can find her on Twitter @kimswrites.

Natashia Deón, Author

Natashia DeónNatashia Deón is a 2017 NAACP Image Award Nominee. The New York Times and Kirkus Review named Deón’s critically acclaimed debut novel, Grace, a Best Book of 2016. She is a practicing attorney and law professor, and creator of the popular LA-based reading series, Dirty Laundry Lit. Her works have appeared in American Short FictionBuzzfeed, LA Review of BooksThe Rumpus, and other places. Deón is the recipient of a PEN Center USA Emerging Voices Fellowship.

I first met Natashia Deón when she was the guest fiction writer at Antioch’s December 2016 MFA residency. In addition to presenting a seminar, she gave a reading from Grace. On March 14, 2017, I interviewed Deón by telephone.

Judy Gitterman:  In your daily work, you’re an attorney working on post-conviction appeals. This work likely involves representing defendants convicted of violent crimes, such as murder, rape, or child molestation. Do your experiences as an attorney inform your writing?

Natashia Deón: Absolutely, all the time. They say that as writers, as you know from your program, everything affects you, especially politics. It’s part of the stories that I tell. In Grace, the novel, there are a lot of things like justice and mercy, forgiveness and issues that I have to deal with in the courtroom, so it is part of the story that I choose to tell. How do we forgive somebody who does something like that, like molestation, or murder? Are there degrees of it? For example, what’s not forgivable?

JG: Because you write about these topics—mercy and justice—how does that affect your representation, for instance, when the defendant has confessed to the crime?

ND: Recently, I had a case that actually affected me that way. During the time when the woman who was raped recently—the big case where she was behind a dumpster, passed out drunk, and this guy raped her—he was on the swim team at Stanford. He was given [a sentence of] something like six months, something completely obnoxious. She wrote a beautiful letter, a victim’s statement of how it affected her and how she didn’t deserve that. Just as that was happening—when there was so much response and so much heartache over this case—I [was defending] the case of a man who had done a similar thing with a girl who was fifteen years old. The sentence he got was less than a real battery; it was the lowest possible conviction you could get for what he had done to her. I believed everything he [had] said. He said, “I just touched her accidentally. I shouldn’t have done it.” That’s why the sentence was so low.

But then I didn’t actually get the victim’s statement until I was there, on the courthouse steps, about to go into the courtroom, and it talked about how he had raped her. It was so real it was just like reading the story about what happened to the woman who was raped behind the dumpster. That made it hard to go into the courtroom that day to defend him and to ask the court to forgive him for what he had done. I wrote about that experience in an essay. It affected me in both ways, as a writer and in defending this person. I defended him, but I couldn’t even look at him after that day. I was totally changed.

JG: Who are some of your literary influences?

ND: I have so many. Toni Morrison, Walter Mosley, contemporary poets—I’m in love with Chiwan Choi’s book I’m reading, The Yellow House—Alice Walker. I love Dr. Seuss. I think everything I read influences me—they touch me, in a way. They influence the kind of writing that I do. The Bible. There’s so many. Roxanne Gay, I love.

JG: Did any influence the novel, Grace, more than others?

Before I thought [voice] had to be so literary, especially the story that I wanted to tell. I thought that literary meant a certain highbrow.

ND: Sapphire’s Push. Because it was the first time I read a book where I felt I had permission to use the voice that I use in Grace. Before I thought it had to be so literary, especially the story that I wanted to tell. I thought that literary meant a certain highbrow. But the voice I was hearing for Grace wasn’t that way. It had a lot of dialect—simple but intelligent. When I read Sapphire’s Push, it was the first time I knew that I could use the voice I’d heard to tell the story that I felt I was supposed to tell.

JG: You’ve mentioned that you worked on Grace for seven years and it was originally written as a screenplay. Can you talk about how you began writing Grace and how the work developed into a novel?

ND: I’d never written a novel before Grace. I’ve written stories. All my life, I’ve always told stories. My sister and I used to always sleep in the same room. She was four years younger than I, and I always told her stories. I told the same stories the same way because she would demand it, even though they were totally made-up. I’ve always written. I’d written screenplays. And then, I was walking down the hallway and I had this vision of this woman and she was running. She had blood on her dress and it was a yellow dress. I remember thinking that she was a slave and knowing that she was a slave. I knew it was Alabama, and it was in a town where I used to visit until the time I was about eighteen years old every summer.

My family is from a small town called Tallassee, Alabama, and I knew it was there. I recognized the place, and that vision became the opening of the novel. But when it first came, I’d never written a novel; I’d only written screenplays. I wrote it down but I didn’t know what to do with it for a long time. I just had the opening. It was only two pages and it’s largely unchanged. It’s still chapter one of the novel.

I started taking classes. I wrote it first as a screenplay. It took maybe three months, six months, to write the screenplay. Then, when it was being optioned, I was invited to a meeting, and I remember sitting there listening to all the talk about the screenplay: how it should develop, who should play what. I said, no that’s not how it goes, that’s not the story. I should have never been there in the first place, but I think I was there for a reason, in hindsight. I had to tell the story.

The first thing I did, I enrolled in UCLA extension. I had this idea but I didn’t know what to do with it. At first, I thought I could copy and paste it from my screenplay and put it in a Word document and it’s a novel. It was horrible, as you can imagine. I started taking classes and I started at page one. The only thing that survived totally was the opening, the vision that I had.

JG: Your mention of Tallassee leads to my next question. Grace is a work of historical fiction and it takes place in Alabama and Georgia. You said you visited that area up until you were eighteen. Did you go back while you were writing the book?

ND: No. I didn’t want to go back. I wanted to remember it the way I did in my childhood. I’ve found that going back to old places, like going back to the old place [where] I grew up in Los Angeles, it doesn’t look anything like I remember it. In our memory, we create our own version of what that reality is. The house looks much smaller. Of course, I was younger when I was there and the neighborhood looks different. I wanted to remember [Tallassee] the way that it was in my memories, the way that it was in that vision. I didn’t feel the need to go back, but I did look on Google Earth just to remember. But then I didn’t want to; I felt I was losing something by even looking. I have to go back this August for our family reunion and I don’t want to go back. All I remember is how green everything looked, just green. Those memories are going to be altered a little when I go back.

JG: Your writing meets head-on the brutality and violence that blacks, slaves, and women endured before, during, and after the Civil War. How did you approach writing these graphic and violent scenes?

Most of the violence that is in those pages are actually from real-life situations, especially the rape. … I wanted to present the crimes of rage that actually change people’s personality and their ability to see the world or trust the world.

ND: I was honest with the violence. I wanted be honest and I had to make a decision. I’m a graphic writer anyway. I couldn’t imagine that kind of violence in my own mind. But there’s some cases that I’ve had recently—2013, 2014 or 2015. There was a point in my career where I said, I can’t do this work anymore because I can’t read these stories, hear this testimony. Because I was representing victims. Most of the violence that is in those pages are actually from real-life situations, especially the rape. A lot was cut out by my editor. I think it haunted me. I wanted to present the crimes of rage that actually change people’s personality and their ability to see the world or trust the world. You could see how it happens and I wanted to show readers that there are some things that you just can’t un-see.

I had a victim I represented. The rape was so brutal and she ended up coming to a clinic that I worked at as an attorney. It literally ripped her as if she’d had a baby—one end to the other, so she had one orifice there. She was raped over several hours by multiple people. When you see that kind of devastation, you ask how does somebody get up, put on their clothes, and walk and go to work or go to school. It’s just devastating. So, it’s not violence from a time gone—this is what’s happening today. Women today. I had a second-grade teacher just a few months ago, end of 2016. A similar case involving her boyfriend. Forty-years-old. We still have these things that happen. We think that’s somewhere else, some other time, but it’s right here. I couldn’t imagine that for anyone.

There’s a line in Grace where one of the characters in the book, a child molester, tells a little girl, “You can touch you anywhere you want.” That was a line from testimony, a case that I had in 2014. So, all that stuff, the violence, is very real.

Women have to deal with it all the time. A lot of this is covered up. These victims are often mothers who are dealing with all this stuff and it’s hard to be good mothers. They’re trying to raise children, and there’s no safe place. It was especially bad for people from older generations who had to endure a lot of things through time. Now there’s more help. Where did you go back then? When there’s no help, no therapist, no one you can talk to that can say, Yeah, that happened to me too. It was such a prison.

JG: There are two stories in Grace—Naomi’s own story (told as flashbacks) and the story Naomi tells as a ghost following the life of her daughter Josie, who is born the day Naomi dies. The chapters alternate between these two threads and stay in Naomi’s point of view. Did you write one story before the other, and how did you settle on the structure of the interwoven narratives?

ND: Initially, when I wrote the story, it was in chronological order. It was the mom’s life, she dies, and then Josie continues. But it didn’t fit well. It didn’t work well for me because I wanted to show the cyclical nature of abuse and how we’ve come to where we are and that we’re still in the cycle.

When I wrote Grace, which was before the election of Trump, people were saying, “Why are we still telling these slave narratives?” And I tell them it’s because we’re still in it. There’s still people angry, who think that something wrong happened. People who think the Civil War—they think everything was wrong. They’re still angry and they still want these things, and we’re still in it and we don’t even realize that we’re in it. We haven’t told this story—exposed this thing. And now we’re seeing it so much, this hate and this anger that never went away. We haven’t healed.

We’ve grown a scab over the wound [of slavery] but it’s all infected. There’s pus underneath it. On top it looks like it’s healing and it’s fine until you take the stitches out and it oozes a little bit…

We’ve grown a scab over the wound but it’s all infected. There’s pus underneath it. On top it looks like it’s healing and it’s fine until you take the stitches out and it oozes a little bit; the pus oozes out, and it’s like, oh, it’s still not healed underneath that skin.

To me, that’s what we’re seeing right now in society. But when I wrote the story, I wanted to show the cyclical nature, that we’re still in this. We haven’t fixed a lot of problems and the problems that we have just passed down from generation to generation.

The reason I chose the flashbacks for the mom is because I’ve always generally been fascinated with people who have near-death experiences. They say, “My life flashed in front of my eyes,” and then they tell the story. And I wonder (and that’s something I put in the book): who chooses what we get to see in our lives? What impression, what moment: being at a wedding, seeing our child being born, meeting the love of our life. Whatever that is, who shows us that? What in our brain, what chemical reaction made us save that one, made us say, “Let’s bookmark this.” Do we do that or does something else? Does the universe do that?

I wanted to use that as a structure to go back in time to show how the narrator came to her moment, but also to show the cyclical nature of Josie going forward. How we’re still in this cycle until we choose to break it. Like any cycle of abuse, you have to choose to walk away. Or choose to deal with it head-on and move away from it. But when we pretend like it’s not there, we end up staying in it. We go from one abusive relationship to another one to another one with a different-looking person but it’s still the same kind of abuse in a different way.

For America, I think that was the theme that I wanted to talk about. How do we look at this thing head-on and choose to do something different? We’re doing that now with the election of Trump. So we’re looking at this thing. Problems that have never resolved and seeing that we’ve only been forming new abusive relationships instead of fixing the problem.

JG:  At a seminar during Antioch’s December 2016 MFA residency, you mentioned that at one point your editors wanted you to eliminate the spirituality part, which would have resulted in taking out half the book. Can you tell us how you dealt with that request and about your final decision to stick to your original intention?

ND:  I knew that my editor knew what he was talking about. Because I’d gone through the MFA program and had dealt with so much criticism, I had to trust that he knew what he was talking about and that it wasn’t working, but I also had to make the decision that I wanted it to work and that I was going to have to earn it. So, I needed to do better. Sometimes people can be right but only you the writer know how to fix your own work. They can only offer you suggestions. That’s one part. It’s earning it. And then the second part is knowing why you’re going to make the change. If I don’t understand or agree with the reason for changing something, I won’t change it. It doesn’t mean I won’t ever change it. It means that either I need to grow as a writer and come to that or just not do it. So, usually I don’t make changes until I can understand why and justify them in my own mind. It doesn’t matter if they’re right or not because at the end of the day, the book on the shelf is your book with your name on it, and it’s your decision. If you don’t understand a comment then don’t do anything, because eventually, down the road, as you grow as a writer, you come to that [realization] if they’re right. It’ll happen anyway.

JG: That’s what happened with Grace?

ND:  By changing other things that weren’t even related to the spirituality, in the sense that certain things had to change that informed each other. There’s a scene between two of the characters—a love scene between two of the women characters. My editor said, “No, you can’t have that”—but the reason he gave didn’t matter to me. I don’t care what people will think about it. Those things didn’t matter to me. What mattered was that I wanted to show this loving relationship and then the type of relationship that it was, but as I began to write, I didn’t need that scene. He said it didn’t work [for] reasons that I didn’t agree with, but it turned out it didn’t work for a whole different reason. It didn’t need to be there. I didn’t want it to be gratuitous. There’s so much violence, there’s sex in the book already, and I didn’t want to water down the loving relationship. He was right that it didn’t need to be there, but for different reasons.

As I changed that part of the story—they’re not going to have sex here—it was the butterfly effect. You can take out something else because you don’t need this conversation, you don’t need this. Because everything serves the story to get you to this point and then it starts changing.

The spirituality part, surprisingly, it’s working out. Everything changes each part that’s connected to it. It changes. I started to understand different things about the story and once I cut one chapter, I understood the spirituality thing better. I was telling [Naomi’s] abilities in the beginning. That was one thing that happened. Telling how she was moving. Once I took that out I realized that it didn’t matter, and there was a way I could make it part of the action. People could learn things without me telling them things, without me telling them the rules. It just changed the whole flow of the novel.

So, she still does the same thing. But I don’t have to tell the reader, here’s the rules, now remember these rules, now let’s apply them. So many stories tell you the rules. Those were the films that I was watching. For example, “This is your scepter and it does this.” Instead, she just did it through action. You see her passing through things; you see her doing things.

JG: Speaking of sex scenes, you also mentioned that your pastor asked to see the manuscript and that you were quite nervous about it, especially the sex scenes. What was his reaction, and was it what you expected?

ND: No, it wasn’t what I expected. I didn’t show it to him before it came out. I showed it to him after the book was already in imprint and going out. I didn’t want any regrets or anything to make me feel bad about it. But he read it, and he said, “I read the whole thing.”  (Nobody ever asks me about the sex scenes [laughing]. Of all the interviews I’ve done, no one says anything. This is the first time.) I said, “So you read the sex scenes?” He said, “I read the whole thing.”  I said, “Okay.” And I just left it at that. That was that.

JG: Early on in Grace, there’s a place where Naomi says that justice is getting what you deserve, mercy is not getting the bad you deserve and grace is getting a good thing even when you don’t deserve it. Naomi says she would have named her daughter Grace had she had the opportunity to name her. Can you elaborate on how this theme plays out in the story?

Social justice isn’t so much standing to defend as it is about understanding what the other side is saying, coming to some middle point. In order to stand, you have to be a bridge in society. That’s what social justice is. Standing up for yourself and being a bridge.

ND:  First of all, Naomi gets to be with her daughter even after she’s passed away. She gets to be there for her, in her life. Which is getting something more than she thought she deserved. She’d killed somebody, not the person she’d been accused of killing, but she had killed somebody. But even though she’s dead and she’s supposed to move on, she doesn’t. She gets this time, these years, to spend with her daughter when she’s alive, though she’s not able to touch her, not until the end when she gets to touch her grandchild. To me, all of that is grace—getting something more than she thought she deserved. Also, sometimes people deserve justice and that’s also what happens in the ending. To me, it was a merger of all these things: mercy, grace, and justice at the end of the book, where they all come together.

That line that you’re reading is the last thing I wrote in the whole novel. I had no idea that that’s what I was writing about until it was over. I got a fellowship to go to Belgium, and I was sitting there and I was supposed to be there for ten days writing, and my editor already had Grace. We were beginning to do the edits. I was sitting there and I was supposed to be writing and editing—and I only wrote that one line, and that was it for the whole ten days.

JG: What advice would you have for young writers today who want to write about social justice for African-Americans and women in our society?

ND: I would tell them first of all to read, to live, to travel. To travel even if it is to the town next-door. Even if you can’t afford Belgium or something like that, or you don’t get a fellowship and you can’t go to New York or Boston. Travel to the next city over and just sit in a café and listen to people. Go places where people don’t agree with you. To understand.

You don’t want to preach to the choir. You want to preach to change hearts, to change minds. Social justice isn’t so much standing to defend as it is about understanding what the other side is saying, coming to some middle point. In order to stand, you have to be a bridge in society. That’s what social justice is. Standing up for yourself and being a bridge. Right now, we live in a society so divided, one against the other. I guarantee you even people who are on my side, we call it the Christian left or just the left, the social justice side, there are people even on my side, who if they get in power their plan is to crush the other side. Now you have exactly what’s happening to us that’s going to happen to the other side. It goes back and forth. I believe in a different America, where we can live respectfully with each other. We have to listen to each other, at some point be a bridge, but still stand up against injustices. That’s social justice. Defending, standing, and also being a bridge so we can have a better America instead of becoming the bullies we hate or being bullied. It’s another option.

JG: What are you working on now?

ND:  I have a new novel right now. I’m really excited about it. It’s a historical novel, and has a supernatural element. I’m excited because I haven’t actually gotten too far into it—everything is a possibility when you start. It’s exciting to be beyond the blank page, the frightening blank page. I know how it goes and I’m so excited. You know, once you start writing it can be like, I suck, I’m horrible, this is the worst story ever written. But right now, I’m on the high and am thinking, This is great!

JG: What time period does it take place in?

ND: So far, I think the early 1900s. But I don’t want to say too much—I don’t want to jinx it!


Judy Gitterman Judy Gitterman is a writer who lives in Santa Monica, California. She is an MFA candidate at Antioch University Los Angeles and a practicing attorney. She has served as co-lead fiction editor of Lunch Ticket, and is currently its assistant editor for writing for young people/YA.

Katrina Dodson, Author & Translator

Katrina DodsonIn 2015, I bought Katrina Dodson’s translation of The Complete Stories of Clarice Lispector, even though I didn’t really know who Lispector was at the time. There was a buzz around this book. Every time I’d go in to Skylight Books (in Los Angeles), I’d see it on the bestseller shelf, and there was something about her eyes, which stared out from the book cover.

I read the collection in its entirety during a semester in my MFA program at Antioch University Los Angeles, in which I was concentrating on literary translation. It was harrowing, but I couldn’t stop. I’d read in public and then shut the book and stare at passersby, forlorn, like a ghost. I’d snap at people for no reason (embarrassing but true)—I learned I had to give myself time to adjust after reading Lispector, before entering the world of people. I wrote a critical paper about animals and identity in Lispector’s short fiction, but I couldn’t explain why she got under my skin, and still can’t, really.

Without Katrina Dodson, Clarice Lispector never could have gotten under my skin. Among other awards, Dodson won the 2016 PEN Translation Prize for her translation of The Complete Stories. Alongside the rest of the New Directions series of new Lispector translations, Dodson’s translation of these stories helped extend Lispector’s appeal beyond those who were interested in Brazilian literature, or Latin American works in translation. I met Dodson at the 2016 Conference of the American Literary Translators Association, where I heard her give talks in panels about the etiquette of sharing authors with fellow translators, and on translation as performance, where she talked about how absorbing herself in the distinctive work of an author as revered as Lispector sometimes felt like she was channeling “Clarice” (first name only, as she is known in Brazil).

In February 2017, I got the chance to talk to Dodson via Skype about Clarice Lispector, the book that kicked off her career in literary translation, and the life of a translator.

Lauren Kinney: How did you get started translating? Did you translate before you were in graduate school, and how did your academic studies shape your translation practice?

Katrina Dodson: My first experience with translating was taking Latin class as part of my PhD requirement in comparative literature [at University of California Berkeley]. You have to take a classical language. I’ve always been interested in languages, but with Latin, because it’s a dead language, most of what you do is translate the classics of Latin literature, so, speeches by Cicero, poetry by Catullus. I really enjoyed it, and I think, at that moment, I still hadn’t thought about it as opening up this line of translation. The first time I translated something closer to my literary interests was actually Clarice Lispector.

Coming through a comparative literature department, you’re always in dialogue with people who don’t speak the same languages that you do. In different seminars, when I had a professor who didn’t speak Portuguese, I would have to find a translation of the work that I was writing on. And so, it was a mix of being dissatisfied with some of the Clarice Lispector translations of stories I was reading and writing about, and then also just an attempt to understand her stories better. “The Egg and the Chicken” is one of my favorite stories, and I think it’s one of her most puzzling stories. I translated that, and I translated another short story called “Temptation,” about a red-haired girl that has this encounter with a red-haired dog. Those were just in notebooks. It wasn’t until I met a friend-of-a-friend who was a literary agent that I started thinking about translation more. He asked me to be a scout for books that were written in Portuguese by authors who would be interesting to translate into English.

Shortly after I met him, I went to Brazil that summer for research, and I went to a major literary festival in Paraty. It’s called FLIP, the Festa Literária Internacional Paraty. I went to a panel, and I heard two young authors, Emilio Fraia and Vanessa Barbara, read from their [collaborative] novel and talk about it. I just felt this shared humor and sensibility and thought, “Hey, you know, I’m doing this scouting for this person, but what if I also try to translate something myself.” I introduced myself to them, and that became the first thing that I translated for publication: the novel that they wrote together. That was in Two Lines. Do you know Two Lines?

LK: The press?

KD: Yeah, it’s the Center for the Art of Translation, and they have a yearly anthology of literature in translation. I actually sent the sample to McSweeney’s. They weren’t interested, but they sent it off to the editors of Two Lines, because we’re all in San Francisco. You start close to home with people you know. But Two Lines accepted that excerpt, and that got me started. Those two authors independently got their stories accepted into the Brazilian Granta, so when the English Granta decided to translate the Best of Young Brazilian Novelists issue (Granta 121), they asked me to translate the selections from those two authors, because they knew I had a relationship with them. That’s how it all started—it’s one thing that leads to another. Then I met Benjamin Moser while he happened to be in Rio. I was there on a Fulbright, and I had been interested in translating some Clarice Lispector, but some smaller, less-known pieces, like crônicas, for a small press. I didn’t know anything about rights at the time. We talked, and he liked me. Almost a year and a half later, he invited me to do The Complete Stories. That was after my work in Granta had come out, and we had a correspondence, so he had a sense of how I worked, and what our dynamic was together.

Short answer is: by accident.

LK: What is the difference between translating short and longer fiction?

Clarice Lispector has a very coherent voice. It’s a very strong voice. … But over the course of eighty-five stories, she’s doing different voices, different characters. Her style changes. That’s what made it a really breathless operation to do all of those stories in just two years’ time.

KD: The nice thing about translating a longer continuous work is you really have time to develop a voice and become immersed in the text. It’s a similar dynamic to working with the same author again. You already have a sense of their voice, and what your voice for them is in English. That was one of the big challenges of doing The Complete Stories: I had to start over again eighty-five times. Clarice Lispector has a very coherent voice. It’s a very strong voice. She has a strong sense of rhythm that has variations, but it’s still very recognizable as “her” over this forty-year career. But over the course of eighty-five stories, she’s doing different voices, different characters. Her style changes. That’s what made it a really breathless operation to do all of those stories in just two years’ time. But I think I got so much faster doing it, because when I translated the stories for Granta, one was eight pages and the other was slightly longer. It took me about a month to do each single story. [Laughs] There is a momentum that accumulates when you do a longer work, even when it’s separate stories.

Right now I am editing someone else’s translation of a poetry collection by a really great poet, Ana Cristina Cesar. She died in 1984, and this collection is from ’82. She committed suicide at the age of thirty or thirty-one. She’s a mix of Sylvia Plath and Gertrude Stein, and a major reference point for all the young Brazilian poets writing today. And the other thing I’m doing is a novel, this experimental modernist novel from 1928 called Macunaíma. That’s a big challenge to do, but because it’s just one novel straight through, I’m able to take things that I’ve invented and worked out for one chapter and apply it across the book, in a way that was harder to do with the Lispector stories.

LK: What do you recommend to translators, beginners or otherwise, who are looking to develop their craft?

KD: I’d say, one, be really aware of your own tastes. I say, read widely, but be aware of what kinds of voices or stories or styles or writers appeal to you, and hone that. It’s important to be aware of what you do well. For me, I know I do humor really well, and I gravitate towards things that are a bit strange, a bit experimental, a bit, maybe, perverse, but also comic. For me, Clarice Lispector’s stories are what I most wanted to do. But I also have a good ear for rhythm, so I gravitate towards authors whose words you can feel in your body. Knowing what you respond to helps you know what to pursue and what to say no to, in terms of your work. I would also read and watch a lot of interviews or writing by other translators.

I didn’t do an MFA. I don’t think you need to do an MFA in translation, but I do think it’s a way to fast track your development and get an instant community. I had that through doing the doctorate, but not in translation, so I was teaching myself by reading a lot of essays about translation.

I also read and watched a lot of interviews when I had questions like: how taboo is it to look at a previous translation of the work that you’re also translating? Do other people do this? How far should you go? I watched a great panel at Columbia University. It was a panel on retranslating the classics with Edith Grossman, Wyatt Mason, who was doing a new translation of Montaigne, and the couple that does all the Russian classics, Richard Pevear and Larissa Volokhonsky. For me, it was really instructive to hear these very established translators talk about even just their workday and their approach. In that sense, you become more aware of your own process, and what works for you and what doesn’t. It’s just nice to hear from other translators what their challenges are on a practical, everyday level.

LK: In preparing to translate The Complete Stories, did you read previous translations beforehand?

KD: I was familiar with Clarice Lispector’s work and the criticism around her. I had studied her and been reading her since my early twenties, even before I went to graduate school. I had known her for already thirteen years, so I felt very comfortable with my knowledge of the range of her work. I had also taught some of her stories, and wrote about some of the translations, especially Elizabeth Bishop’s translations, because my dissertation was on Elizabeth Bishop. She published translations of three Lispector stories.

I was aware of the translations of the stories but I was careful not to go back and look at them until I had finished a polished draft. Even then, I went to look at places where I was having trouble to see what someone else did, when I was curious about the tone. It was almost like having a ghost editor—you see someone else’s suggestions for how to solve a translation problem. Almost always when it’s a situation that calls for creativity, no two people will think of the same solution, but oftentimes I would see something else, and it would give me an idea for a third solution that I thought was better. There were times when I would see [the other translators’] mistakes on simple things, or they would help me catch my mistakes. That’s one benefit of coming after—you can check in with other translations and do these little checks that an editor would do for you.

I did read all of the other translations in the same series from New Directions that I was joining. The Complete Stories was the sixth book to be translated in this new series, and I’d already read the others. I read The Hour of the Star and then the four novels that came out at the same time, and so that helped me get a sense of what the “Clarice house style” was, but at the same time it let me see what the distinct variations were among the translators, because whether you realize it or not, your voice and your use of language is your own, even if you try to neutralize it, or write outside of what you think is your own voice. There was a translator from Australia, one from England, one from Houston, one from Pennsylvania. We have all different kinds of regional, international Englishes, and that comes through in each person’s individual translation. (The constant is Benjamin Moser as editor.) It helped clear up some questions about, say, how literal or not to follow her punctuation or the idiosyncrasies of her voice. That’s a really unique situation in that I was not translating in a total vacuum—it’s a part of a series —so that was important for me to understand where this translation fit in with the others and how readers were going to put them all together to make this tessellated portrait of Clarice Lispector.

LK: That makes sense. I’ve also heard you talk about channeling Clarice Lispector as you translated her work, both to conjure her distinctive voice and also to feel, perhaps, less intimidated by the task. I was wondering if you feel the same sense of channeling an author when you’re translating someone who’s not Clarice Lispector, or if there are other translation metaphors that resonate with you in those cases?

KD: I think that it varies from author to author. It’s very different to translate a famous dead writer or poet than to be translating a living one, of course. I’d say that when you’re translating someone, it’s such an intimate relationship, and you’re thinking about them all the time, and what went through their head as they were writing and what their voice was like, and you feel that you’re trying to tap into the current of life that is in their work. I can say that right now, working on these other authors’ work, I have Ana Cristina Cesar in my head. I have lines of her poetry in my head all the time. I think about what kind of person she was. I have Mário de Andrade, who wrote Macunaíma—I’m thinking about him also all the time, and to what degree he was being ironic in places, or when he was having fun, or when he was kind of agonizing over pieces of his masterpiece novel. So you’re always kind of haunted.

But I do think that there was something particularly strong about the idea of this intimate communion with Clarice, as she’s known in Brazil. She’s known by her first name, so you can just call her Clarice. [Laughs.] The reason that it’s so much stronger with her is that she has a very intimate voice in her writing. It sounds like she’s whispering directly into your ear like a lover or sister or mother. In a lot of her writing, she has these moments that feel like she’s just thinking with you, or revealing these deep philosophical or spiritual truths that she’s come to.

[Lispector] had religion and spirituality all around her. On top of that, in Rio, you have also a strong current of Afro-Brazilian religions—she writes about Candomblé, which is sometimes called Macumba, in some of her stories. There’s a strong current of spirituality in her work, and she was interested in the occult. She went to a fortune-teller. She was interested in astrology.

I think of her as something of a mystic. She came from a Jewish family that escaped the pogroms in what’s now Ukraine, and grew up in a Jewish household in one of the most Catholic countries in the world. She had religion and spirituality all around her. On top of that, in Rio, you have also a strong current of Afro-Brazilian religions—she writes about Candomblé, which is sometimes called Macumba, in some of her stories. There’s a strong current of spirituality in her work, and she was interested in the occult. She went to a fortune-teller. She was interested in astrology. She’s always talking about magic and witches, and she was invited to the First World Congress of Sorcery in Bogotá in 1975.

Even if you were a person who had learned through academia or a more secular upbringing to be skeptical or wary of being overly mystical or judged for thinking that you’re communing with the dead, it’s just something that she brings out in you.

This was my first book-length translation. Going from academia and writing in a scholarly context where you have to ground everything you write in all kinds of research and footnotes and facts or, some kind of grounded subjectivity—for me it was liberating and an important creative awakening to be able to approach this work, which I knew very well, from the perspective of translation. Part of this ability to think about what it means to channel someone’s voice, or to feel an intimate relationship to this writer, freed me to be able to think about having a closer relationship to Clarice Lispector in her work without shutting down that line of thinking or feeling as irresponsible as I would as a scholar.

It was such an enriching experience to think about her work on a deep level and intuit what she was doing in her writing, to understand it in order to reproduce it, rather than to write about it in an analytical way, which ends up shutting doors or giving premature answers to these questions that she opened up.

Just one caveat to that is that I think people should be writing about her both inside and outside of academia. I’m excited to see what these new translations generate in terms of thinking about her work. It’s very fraught, especially for me personally, to try to write about her in a more analytical way, but that doesn’t mean that it’s not worth trying to understand her from many different angles. I’ve been invited to a Clarice Lispector academic conference at Columbia University. They’ve invited me to give a paper, so I’m thinking of it as an opportunity to think about her both from my experience translating her but also from a scholarly perspective at the same time.

LK: You’ve avoided doing that so far, since you’ve been translating her?

KD: The way I’ve written about her, for example in my translator’s note and in various lectures I’ve given at different universities, is somewhere in between. That’s exciting for me. Anytime we’re able to fuse our different areas of knowledge and training, it’s very satisfying. I don’t think of myself as just a translator or just a scholar; I also think of myself as a writer. It’s exciting to try to figure out how to think and write about Clarice Lispector on a deep level that draws on this intimate reading experience I’ve had of her through translation, but also takes into account things that other people have written about her—things about her role in Brazilian literature or in world literature.

For example, for this conference, I’m thinking about the role of voice in Clarice Lispector. In a practical sense, I thought about what made her voice so strong and coherent as I was translating in order to reproduce it. But I’ve also given papers about translation as performance and how in some ways, it’s like you’re interpreting a script, or you’re like a musician or a singer interpreting a score. These things are coming out of my own experience, but I’ve also been reading more in translation theory, and I’m looking to read more on other theorizing of voice in literature to expand and ground my thinking.

I’m writing an essay about the translation that’s based on this translation notebook I was keeping. I kept this journal for the whole two years, just writing down random Google searches, or interesting translation challenges that were coming up, or things that were going through my brain. That document is both very personal and a more analytical look at the practices of translation, and the things that I was noticing about Lispector’s work that I had never thought about before translating her. That essay and that book will be some hybrid of personal writing mixed with theory of translation, and it would be a book for people who are interested in understanding Lispector’s work more, and thinking about it on a different level.

LK: I love that idea of keeping a translation notebook. I might steal that idea. It seems very useful.

KD: It’s very useful. What language are you translating from?

LK: Spanish. I have done one semester of that so far. Antioch’s MFA program is low residency, so I had a mentor, and sent pages to him and then he’d give me notes. I have been struggling to imagine what it will be like when I don’t have someone to send things to and have a conversation.

KD: I’m a mentor now in the Mills MFA program, also low-res, so it’s a similar thing. My student translates Francophone literature. It’s such a solitary practice and there are so many little decisions and little trails of research that you do on so many different levels. There’s so much stuff going through your head that it’s nice to let it out somewhere without thinking about organization or the logic of what you’re writing.

I call it a notebook because it sounds good, but I just had a Word document open whenever I was translating, and it was just a dump. Something would come into my head, or something funny would happen. No one was accompanying me the whole time. When I laughed with myself, or wanted to remember something for later, I would write the date and then write down whatever observations were going through my head. I do think that it is a good way to become more aware of your process and what you’re doing.

For me, it’s a nice document of my development over this two-year project, because so much changed. It took me six months to translate the first two collections. (The stories come from nine different collections.) And then with everything else, I got faster and faster and faster and faster.

But I think there’s a lot of self-doubt in the beginning, a lot of fear and anxiety. I can even track in that journal the point when I felt like I really had it, and her voice had come together, and I had internalized a lot of decisions I was making based on various algorithms of dictionaries, internet searches, and this Excel spreadsheet of key words and how I was translating them. At a certain point, something switched and I had more clarity about what directions to take. In some ways that didn’t happen till I was going through the edits. I sent Benjamin Moser one collection as I was working on it, and he sent me back edits so I could see what direction he was going in, but then I just translated the whole entire thing and didn’t see his edits until the very end. It was in going through his edits and figuring out, okay, that’s a good idea, that sounds good to me. Okay, definitely no, that’s not the voice, definitely not this… It was great to respond on a gut level to the edits and feel what was automatically better, [what] streamlined things, and what didn’t work for me. It would make me dig for a new solution.

What you were saying about how you’re in dialogue with your mentor right now—I’ve actually never done a translation without being in dialogue with someone. Maybe Macunaíma, the one I’m doing now—but I always at least have an editor. The young authors also speak English and so we would talk about the text a lot. This poetry collection I’m editing, it’s with Brenda Hillman, the poet, and we’re working on it with another Brazilian poet, so the three of us are always in dialogue, and I always have a group of colleagues on the Portuguese side and on the English side whom I send questions to and where we have things going back and forth.

LK: I’ve been reading short fiction by Joy Williams lately, and she wrote a list of eight essential attributes of the short story, and number four is “An animal within to give its blessing.”

KD: Ha! I love that. [Laughs]

LK: And every single story of Joy Williams that I’ve read has an animal, even if it’s just mentioned in passing. Number five on Williams’s list is “Interior voices which are or become wildly erratically exterior.” Both of these things remind me of Lispector, although unlike Williams, Lispector’s characters seem to act out their inner worlds erratically without explaining them, necessarily. I think those two things are related in Lispector’s writing—the animals and the erratic human characters—something about beings who don’t communicate with words. I wanted to ask you about what you see the role of animal characters in her stories are.

KD: I love this question, and I want to get the reference! I’ve been meaning to read Joy Williams for a while now. Ever since The Visiting Privilege came out, people keep telling me that I would love her and I keep hearing people rave about her. You just pushed me over the edge, so I need to get that book today. [Laughs]

LK: That’s what I just read: [The Visiting Privilege].

KD: Which story is it from?

LK: This was a list she wrote to Lincoln Michel when he interviewed her for VICE, trying to explain where her stories come from.

KD: Those two things speak to a lot of what is powerful and so absorbing in Clarice Lispector’s writing, and especially in the stories. There are animals everywhere, and one of the things I love most about her is the way that she writes about animals. She gets their movements, the tilt of a head of this animal called the coati in “The Buffalo.” It’s so perfect.

I was actually just in the Amazon and I met one of these coatis. They’re like a cross between a fox and a possum and a raccoon. They’ve got this little long nose, so adorable. And it tilts its head in this quizzical way in that story, and it kills me. All the monkeys, the chickens. Her animals are both very animal and at the same time feel very human because she imbues them with so much personality—but stops short of completely anthropomorphizing them. It’s always a joke. In the story “A Chicken,” the chicken is almost like a woman. She’s almost human, but then all of a sudden, she’ll be apathetic and blinking, with her little button eyes, just like a chicken. Then they just eat her. There’s a lot of humor and affection, and also deep philosophical truths about the condition of being and living in the world, in the way Lispector depicts animals.

There’s some way in which she’s writing in a grammar, a style, and a logic that defy what we think of as logical or rational, but because her interior voice does become exterior and it’s so coherent and seductive, it draws the reader into its world, until the logic of that interior world surrounds you.

So much of her writing is trying to get beyond language and the way it shuts down understanding and feeling and experience. It’s one of the central conundrums in her work; she writes with this deep suspicion of language and what it shuts down, even as it is the medium that she’s chosen to work in. But that’s also why she’s always tripping up your reading with strange commas or new combinations of words, or words that seem like they’re just the wrong word in the situation, but that make you stop and think—I give some examples in my translator’s note. There’s some way in which she’s writing in a grammar, a style, and a logic that defy what we think of as logical or rational, but because her interior voice does become exterior and it’s so coherent and seductive, it draws the reader into its world, until the logic of that interior world surrounds you.

A story like “The Imitation of the Rose” is incredible. You’re really inside this woman’s head. It’s about a housewife, Laura, who has recently returned from a mental institution. You don’t know exactly what the nature of her episode or crisis was, but you can tell that everyone around her is walking on eggshells, and she’s got to drink her milk every day, and she’s trying to hold on to this sense of a banal self and her role as a housewife and a normal woman. She wears brown, and she’s not supposed to be special in any way. It’s such a strange story because if you try to explain the story, you say, “This is a story about mental illness, and it’s about a woman who had a mental breakdown, and she and her husband and everyone around her are trying to keep her on the straight and narrow, keep her part of sane society.” But if you’re inside the logic of the story and her head, there’s all this stuff about her trying not to be brilliant and shining and special and original, like there’s something about her that’s too bright and too much for the boring people around her. But they also read that as a sign of there being something wrong with her. It’s an incredible story.

Clarice Lispector used to be married to a diplomat. She had this whole life before they got divorced and she went back to Brazil in which she lived in Italy, Switzerland, and D.C. She had to be this conventional diplomat’s wife, and put roses in the finger bowls, shake hands, and have this plastered smile on her face. In one of her letters to her sisters, she talks about a woman in her circle who uses this adjective “original” to describe things that make her uncomfortable, like artists or ideas, and she’s always saying about Clarice, “She’s so original.”

[Laughter] It’s this suspicious adjective to use against people who are different, and so Clarice thinks, I try not to be original but I guess I’m just too “original” for this woman and these people. That’s something I think about in a story like that, one that has an incredible way of surrounding you and making you feel as if you’re losing your own mind and your grip on reality, just by being inside the mind of this woman.

LK: You mentioned understanding. There is a lot of talk these days about how fiction increases readers’ capacities for empathy, as a defense of literature, when it seems like the appetite for literature and people’s capacity for empathy is embattled. I thought about that as I was reading your translation of her stories. You said that Lispector’s writing is meant to disrupt understanding. Do you think we’re meant to empathize with her characters, and do you empathize with her characters?

KD: I get so tired out by the need to defend literature’s usefulness in terms of these measurable, moral and productive terms. Obviously this is important for humanity, thinking about our own interior experiences and how they bump up against other people’s interior and exterior experiences, so I always feel tired out by the weak position of literature and always having to defend it in this capitalist society, or usefulness-driven society.

That said, Clarice Lispector, even despite some of her more abstract or impenetrable work, also had a very deep feeling for her fellow humans, and that comes out most clearly in the [short] stories. It comes out throughout her novels, especially The Hour of the Star and its character, Macabéa. Both started out poor in the Northeast, which was part of Clarice Lispector’s history, but this character is from a totally different social and educational class than what Lispector ended up in. I think it’s all over her work, but what draws me to the [short] stories especially is that there’s a lot of humor and affection for human frailty and hypocrisy, human struggle and pain. There’s specifically a lot about women’s everyday lives, especially in Brazil in the ’40s, ’50s, ’60s, through the ’70s—a lot about the struggles women faced with having to live up to these ideals of what a “perfect woman” should be, and being defined as a mother, a wife, and not being able to realize her own potential as an individual. The ways that women are condescended to.

There’s a short story, which is more of a crônica, called “Mineirinho,” about an escaped convict in Rio who was shot down by the police in the ’60s—killed with thirteen shots, no trial, just killed—and his body was tossed in the forest in a different part of Rio than where he got shot down in the favelas. It made headlines in its time. I find that crônica brutal and so powerful because she’s asking, what does it mean to be safe in our apartments in the bourgeois neighborhood of Copacabana and witness someone who was gunned down? You feel her anguish—I think it’s what a lot of us are feeling now, and in the last few years of attention on problems of police brutality. You want to scream; no words will contain this combination of outrage. But you also feel guilt and impotence as a witness to these things, and as someone who might be less vulnerable than these other bodies. I don’t think that Lispector had an agenda to make people empathize with these other characters—she’s sometimes been accused of being apolitical. I think that she never really had a political or moral agenda that she wanted to put forth in her writing—you’re not meant to do anything but just read her work and be open to it—but I do think that it’s very clear that she had a deeply ingrained sense of justice and a sense of outrage to injustice. It comes out in so many subtle ways in her writing. Then, at other times, it will explode in a more overt way, like in “Mineirinho” or in The Hour of the Star.

There was just something else I wanted to say about animals and erratic characters. That’s an apt juxtaposition in that part of the humor, empathy, and wisdom in her stories comes from her understanding of all the ways that we act outside of the limits of what we’ve been taught by language, or “rational thought.” There are so many ways in which [her characters] act impulsively, or in these funny, petty ways, or lose sense of what they’re doing from a human, social point of view. That’s where the human and the animal, or the animal and the human, meet up: in these moments when a character, whether human-animal or animal-animal, is acting in these ways that make total sense in the context of the story and Lispector’s narration, but which, from a perspective of someone who’s thinking about the rules of society, seem totally erratic, insane, or out of the blue. But there are so many ways in which we act and we can’t explain. [Laughs] That is a great wisdom of Clarice Lispector’s writing. She understood on an intuitive level, and she was very interested in these outbursts of passion or impulse that happen in our daily lives that are unexplainable.

I do think that’s why we keep going back to her stories and her writing with the desire to explain them. A lot of readers understand her stories on an instinctive level, but find them hard to explain if you try to break them down.

She gave a famous TV interview in the year that she died: 1977. The interviewer asks her about the difficulty of some of her books, like The Passion According to G.H., and she says it’s not about intelligence, but about an inability to enter into the writing. She says there’s a teacher at this very prestigious private high school in Rio, who says he’s read The Passion According to G.H. four times and still can’t understand it. Meanwhile there’s an eighteen-year-old girl who says that it’s her bedside reading, and one of the most important books to her; she’s been able to enter into it on an instinctive level. That’s another reason that there are so many ways to enter into Lispector that are outside of a scholarly approach, or even a rationalized, analytical approach. There are many ways to enter into her writing without having to be able to explain everything that’s going on in her stories in a sentence-by-sentence level.


Lauren Kinney is a writer and musician in Los Angeles. She is a student of fiction and literary translation in the MFA program at Antioch University Los Angeles. Her work can be found in Queen Mob’sDrunk MonkeysThe Turnip Truck(s) and elsewhere. Find her on Twitter @lauren_kinney.

Dara Hyde, Literary Agent

Dara HydeDara Hyde loves books. After a decade as an editor and rights and permissions manager at the independent publisher Grove Atlantic in New York, Hyde moved to Los Angeles to become an agent at Hill Nadell. Hyde represents a wide range of fiction and nonfiction, including young adult, genre fiction, graphic novels, narrative nonfiction, and memoir.

In February 2017, I interviewed Dara over the phone in a conversation that went by in the blink of an eye. Her knowledge and interest in her work is palpable, and her answers reflect her experience and investment in quality work. She’s motivated to make sure everyone who wants to write understands what it takes to get a literary agent, because that’s what’s best for publishing.

That’s largely what we talked about, with a little bit of politics and its impact on writing and literature mixed in. When we finished talking, I had a much better idea of what it takes to get a literary agent. I mentioned this to Dara and she said, “That’s the whole idea!”

Emma Margraf: For my first question, I thought I would start out basic and ask you to tell me about your daily life as a literary agent. I don’t think that a lot of folks really know what your life is like.

Dara Hyde: I agree: a lot of it seems shrouded in mystery. One of the things that I actually love about my day as a literary agent is that it is never the same. Even days where I think, “This is what my day is going to be,” things can come up and change. Maybe the easiest way is to say what I have to do today… because it is all over the place. Today I had a deal announcement that was reported in the Hollywood Reporter. It was a big, fun exclusive, so I was monitoring that. I have a call later with a client, to go over a contract, which we have some issues with. I’m also going to be talking to a client [about] retooling a book that we sent out and didn’t get the responses we wanted from a couple editors; we are going to pull the manuscript back, retool it, and send it out again. I’m discussing with an editor [regarding] which one of us has a better relationship with a big-time author, to ask for a blurb for a book that’s coming out. I have a book that’s on deadline to go into production, so I have a call into the editor to make sure that’s going okay. I have to prepare an update for our foreign co-agents, [to] help us sell translation rights on a book that’s getting a lot of really good reviews, so that they can help finish getting foreign deals for that book. I have clients who are headed to Los Angeles to do meetings with film studios about a show for their book, and they are really nervous—I am going to talk them through that. I have to chase a few publishers who are late on their royalty reports.

None of those things involve me reading, even though that’s one of the biggest parts of my job—that all comes later in the evening, or on the weekends. Some days I take a reading day, when I know I am going to get through a bunch of stuff. Because during the day—even though it’s so much a part of my job, [reading] gets pushed down sometimes, especially on submissions, [in favor of] all the books that I already have deals for or are in process. I get help. I have an assistant who helps me read. We get so many submissions. I definitely need help on that. From there, [I] look at the ones that come in with promise.

Agents are involved with their clients throughout the entire process. From getting the book ready to submit to publishers, to negotiating the deal, to making sure the book goes through production correctly, and then also helping them exploit all of the sub-rights that go along with a book—whether that’s film and TV, or merchandising or foreign rights—we help with every stage of it. After all that, making sure they get paid correctly and all of that.

EM: What are your primary goals and objectives? Reading, or helping the author through the process?

DH: Being an ally for the writer throughout the entire process and getting deals, that’s our main thing. I don’t get paid unless I can secure a deal for my client. A lot of our focus is “which books are the most ready to go out,” and pushing to make sure that those deals happen. Then from there, you need to make sure that the publisher is doing what they need to do, and that the writer knows what they need to do, and that everyone is comfortable. You do spend some time being an intermediary and helping communications.

Let’s say a cover comes from the publisher (and they usually give you a few examples), and they say, “These are the three covers we think are the best.” They want the writer and the agent to buy in and agree—but sometimes you have to negotiate. What if you love the cover and the author hates it? Or the publisher and the author disagree on which cover is the best? There are a lot of discussions like that. It’s making sure the entire process works well so it’s a great experience for everyone.

There’s also researching new editors I may not know, or keeping track of who has moved from one publishing house to another, or if somebody has a new publishing initiative. There is research that goes on in the background all the time. On any given day, the focus may be different depending on what the client needs that day.

EM: Do you have authors or genres that you are particularly interested in representing?

DH: I have a really diverse list. It seems eclectic—except that it’s all stuff that I love. I worked in a publishing house for years before I became an agent. I worked at Grove Atlantic, which has an amazing list, but it’s a little narrow. They don’t do graphic novels that often, or children’s books, or genre-heavy books. When I became an agent, what was exciting for me was that I could be a generalist. If I think something is really great—if I know how to sell it and I have a vision for it—I take that client on. That’s allowed me to have a really diverse list. I represent graphic novels. I represent fiction. I represent nonfiction. I have lots of experience with literary fiction, so my list is probably heaviest with literary fiction. But I’ve noticed that my tastes tend towards something [with] a genre twist. I love lots of different types of genre, whether that’s thrillers or some supernatural or fantasy elements. I’m not someone who would do just straight fantasy, because it doesn’t appeal to me quite as much. I don’t have quite the same vision for it. I do say no to strong projects when I think, “I really don’t know how to do this.” The agency represents so much but I don’t necessarily have experience, say, in cookbooks. I wouldn’t be the best advocate for that. But Bonnie [Nadell], the other agent in the office, does. She’s great with them and she knows exactly how to shape them. I’m limited to my own expertise. I do some YA and graphic novels, but the much younger children’s books are not my area of expertise, either.

Every agent is looking for something fresh, something with strong language and, also, really readable. It’s always exciting when you find something new like that, whether it comes from recommendations, or from the slush pile. Something smart and unique, that makes that writer the writer to tell that story. Whether it’s fiction or nonfiction, there has to be this vital need to tell that story.

EM: Graphic novels are among the top sellers right now. I’ve noticed a lot of market stories about them. Is there something in particular that draws you to that particular genre?

DH: I’ve liked graphic novels for a long time. My husband (in full disclosure), worked at Random House and then DC Comics for years and years. Even before that, he educated me on the comics medium, way back in college. When something really great would come along, he would pass it to me. He knows my reading taste. I started to understand the medium much more. He has his own PR firm where he does publicity for comic book creators and writers. When I became an agent, I knew some people who already worked in the graphic novel world and they were like, “I need an agent.” There had already been some relationships started. From there it just grew.

I have to navigate when somebody sends me something: one, do I love it; two, do I actually think that it fits in the marketplace right now, and do I know where it can go.

In the comic-book world, when somebody works for one of the really big publishers like DC or Marvel, a lot of that is work-for-hire. That’s working on the [publisher’s] own intellectual property, which doesn’t necessarily have an agent attached. But when somebody creates their own material, where they’re making up their own characters and stories—that’s where the agent often comes in. That’s the stuff I represent. It usually goes to independent publishers, sometimes a graphic novel imprint within a much bigger book publisher, or sometimes a publisher that just does comics and graphic novels. I have to navigate when somebody sends me something: one, do I love it; two, do I actually think that it fits in the marketplace right now, and do I know where it can go. The graphic novel marketplace is quite different; a lot of the different publishers have very different ways of doing business. It’s a different model because of the way they structure their business. One of the most exciting things for me is to see how many bookstores are carrying graphic novels and how much it’s going toward a younger audience: middle grade and high school. Schools and librarians are using it as a literacy tool. That opens up storytelling to a whole new group of people who may not have necessarily been interested in books.

EM: The graphic novel world is a different world. I, too, was introduced to it as an adult. You walk into Comic Con [the San Diego Comic Book and Science Fiction Convention], and there are thousands of people dressed in costumes. It’s so vast and multifaceted. It makes sense to me that you describe it as operating with a different foundation. Because it has its own separate world in a way that it seems like many other genres do not. Is that correct?

DH: It is. Within that medium there are many different types of storytelling. Within that medium, there is stuff that is literary, stuff that’s pulpy; there is stuff that is aimed for younger audiences, and stuff that’s aimed at older audiences; stuff that is very unique, stuff that’s black and white or in full color. For me I love good stories coupled with good art. It is such a huge spectrum. For a long time it seemed like a closed group of people who read them. You would get people who were interested in reading monthly comics from established creators with established characters, and then there were indie stories that were being told. Now it’s expanded so much that the readership is much wider. I know grandmothers who read graphic novels and I know young kids who read them. It’s another form of entertaining, writing, and getting a message across. Nonfiction graphic novels are doing really well right now, whether it’s as a way to talk about history or memoir to a younger audience, or even to an older audience. It’s a different way of digesting material.

EM: You see that with John Lewis winning the National Book Award this year.

DH: Absolutely! Which is so exciting.

Presenting something as serious and important as John Lewis’s civil rights history in a graphic novel is really something. Maus [the series by Art Spiegelman] had done it years before. It’s a powerful medium. The fact that you can marry the pictures with the words—it changes for some people the power of images.

EM: For those of us who are history fans, the combination of John Lewis and Colson Whitehead winning this year was amazing.

DH: Presenting something as serious and important as John Lewis’s civil rights history in a graphic novel is really something. Maus [the series by Art Spiegelman] had done it years before. It’s a powerful medium. The fact that you can marry the pictures with the words—it changes for some people the power of images. It’s one reason why memoir and nonfiction graphic novels are seeing more popularity than they used to.

EM: Just to get back to the process for a bit, are there specific characteristics of a piece of writing that are sure to get somebody noticed?

DH: The biggest thing for me is to do the work. It is to work so hard on writing the best thing you can write and being true to that. There are different agents who deal with only one specific kind of book or who chase trends. I don’t. Sometimes I will be aware of trends—but for me finding that original, strong voice is the most important thing. So that’s what I’m looking for: someone who has done the work. Once you’ve done the work, once you’ve written the most amazing thing you could—you’ve revised it and revised it and revised it, you’ve had beta readers, and you feel like, “This is as far as I can take it by myself. Okay, now I need an agent.” Then you stop [the writing] to do the research there.

What some people don’t realize is that there are a lot of agents, and they all are looking for different things or have different expertise. It is worth the time for someone to do the research and to do a targeted outreach on submissions. We get so many a day. When I switched from being at a publishing house to being at an agency, there was a little Publisher’s Weekly write-up that I had done—just a job-move posting, which is an industry insider thing. That went up and within the first week I got 800 submissions from people I didn’t know. Not even the people who were like, “Dara is now an agent. I’m going to send her something.” These were just cold emails. Eight hundred. We now get several hundred a week. That’s a huge volume, so you [the writer] have to figure out how to stand out. We don’t look to say “no.” We’re looking to find great stuff, but if you send it to “Dear Sirs” and this is an agency with only women agents—that tells me that you didn’t do your homework. Also, if you just say, “Dear agent,” even just that first line, why are you sending it to me? You can find out what I represent online very easily. That didn’t used to be the case. There were obscure books that you had to really search to find out who the agents were; it’s not that way anymore. We want to know why you are sending it to us and we want to know what you are looking for in an agent. Even if you are sending it to a lot of agents, you just want it to be agents that make sense. If you have written a cookbook and you send it to me, why would you do that? Unless you say, “Actually it’s a graphic novel cookbook.”

Query letters are super hard to do and it is worth working on them. It is important to try to represent your work in as succinct and as professional a way as possible. It is a professional relationship, and so we look for professional letters. We don’t want something that is too familiar if you don’t know us; we don’t want something that is combative. Some are combative right off the bat, which is really strange. It should be proofread and well-written. A poorly written query letter is usually not followed by an amazing manuscript. Some are like, “I’m going to do something to really catch their attention,” and that can work sometimes, but it has to relate to what you’ve written or it has to show your voice. If you have written a very serious literary work but your letter to me is full of weird jokes, that doesn’t quite match. If your book is supposed to be funny, a funny query letter isn’t a bad idea. It needs to convey simple information: this is who I am. Even if you haven’t written other things, what else do you do? Who are you? This is my book; it is in this particular genre, or type of book. Here’s something about one of the main characters. Here’s a little bit about the plot, enough to get you interested. Having a good log-line is helpful. If you can’t explain in a line or two what your book is about, that makes it really hard for someone else to understand what your book is about.

EM: Did you say log-line? Can you explain that?

DH: People use it in film. It’s just a quick thing, like the elevator pitch. It’s a quick way to distill your book, which is hard to do. Some people will ask other people to help them with that, because sometimes it is hard to talk about your own work. So you have a beta reader and you can talk about it with them: what do you think my book is about?

The other thing is to be a good literary citizen, to be involved somehow in the literary world. Whether that is reading a lot of contemporary books, going to readings at local bookstores, supporting other writers on social media, or contributing to journals. There are some people who can work in a vacuum, but being part of a writing community is a really helpful thing. It could be a book group or a writing group. It’s an important thing for sanity.

EM: Do you think there is a social justice component to your work?

DH: I definitely have writers and projects that I represent that have a strong social justice component, but I have other ones that don’t, that are for pure enjoyment or escape. I think there is room for all of that, and there is room for all of that within my clients. Some clients have work that has a social component and then switch to another project that doesn’t. In general right now, it feels like just continuing to write and to tell stories is social justice. [Laughs] Free speech as a general idea.

The million-dollar offers don’t happen that often, and [most times it’s] not a lot of money to live on unless you’ve been doing it a long time or you get very lucky. That also scares people away from it as a job.

To be honest, post-election and even during the election, we had talks in the office: “I’m not a human rights lawyer, I’m not a brain surgeon, I’m not on the front lines of certain things—but at the same time I feel strongly that reading, education, and the arts are incredibly important for our government, our system, and for our culture and society.” That won’t go away, and maybe it’s now even more important to just allow the imagination; to allow research. Publishing has work to do as far as diversity, but some of it is not for a lack of trying. I have a diverse client base and I’m always looking for new, different voices. Sometimes it seems like such a strange and remote place. People don’t know how books are published and they don’t know how people even get to find publishers. Doing talks like this and being open about the process should help. Unfortunately, except for very few people, [this business] doesn’t pay well. A lot of my writers have full-time jobs, most of them do, and I encourage them to keep those jobs. [Sometimes] you do really well and you find the book deals that make a lot of money, but even then it gets split up over several payments over several years. The million-dollar offers don’t happen that often, and [most times it’s] not a lot of money to live on unless you’ve been doing it a long time or you get very lucky. That also scares people away from it as a job. I was a scholarship student, I do not have anything to fall back on, and we’ve [my husband and I] had to figure out ways to be in an industry that doesn’t necessarily support you financially until you get to a certain level, whether you are a writer or you are on the other side of publishing. When the overtime rules came through from the Obama administration, there was a lot of talk about how in publishing, people work overtime constantly. It’s a 24/7 job. As an assistant, I didn’t do all my work in the office; I would read on the subway on the way home and on the way to work; I would read at night—and that was all work. I had to read these manuscripts—but of course, you don’t get paid for that. That also is a stumbling block. There are a lot of people in publishing who come from money.

Honestly, on an economic level, that can be a huge barrier for anybody. It was almost a huge barrier for me, but I figured out a way to make it work. It’s not just having new voices out there, it’s also finding a way to make it sustainable. That part’s really hard, and I don’t have a solution for that. The profits in publishing are incredibly small. For most publishers, they do get a few big books and those help subsidize smaller books that don’t make money, and they still continue to do it because they believe in publishing.

EM: Talking about writing communities… For those, say, in a small town, can they still succeed if they don’t have access to big city events? Can anyone succeed in the digital age?

DH: Part of it is access to books, whether it’s libraries or bookstores or even online. The internet does help bring people from far-off areas together and [helps books] be part of a culture. I was raised with books; we had no money but I was raised with books, and my child is raised with books. Having a culture where the only time you read a book is because you are assigned it in school: that’s not going to help. There are places that are book deserts, where it’s really hard to get access to them. But there are also little free libraries popping up all over the place, and book exchanges in places where there aren’t necessarily libraries or mobile libraries. There are a lot of writers who are vocal about that, writers who have reached a certain level of success, and [are] giving back, whether it’s donations to bookstores, doing work with libraries, or [bringing] the community together. Some people think they are only publishing in New York; that’s not true anymore.

I’m based in Los Angeles. There are others, both on the agent side and the publishing side, [who are in] Washington, Oregon, the Bay Area, San Diego, Austin, Denver, or Chicago. More of the industry is scattered than there used to be. New York is still the center. We also have writers from all over the world. I represent quite a few writers from west of the Mississippi, but also from the East Coast and from foreign countries. That’s the internet: the ability for people to email and communicate with each other, [while] not being in the exact same spot. There are also reading groups and reading series that are popping up. Salons have been around for centuries, not just for wealthy people, as a way to talk about ideas and books, and as a way to come together.

EM: Simon & Schuster got quite a backlash for publishing* Milo Yiannopoulos, including Roxane Gay backing out of her book deal. Does this affect your work? Is the current political climate is affecting your work? Our current president is not a reader…

DH: Right, and we’re coming from a president who was a huge reader and very vocal about reading. Before that, First Lady [Laura] Bush was a huge reader and a librarian. Publishing does always react to the state of the world around it, just like a lot of industries do. I tend to represent books that I believe in, and [that] are somewhat aligned with my own political beliefs, [but] beliefs that don’t match my own still have a right to be heard. The First Amendment is first for a reason. At the same time, giant publishers have so many imprints, so the imprint that Milo’s book was sold to has always been a very conservative one. It publishes books that are in line with that particular political point of view, but within Simon & Schuster, there are other imprints that do completely the opposite. I’ve sold to Simon & Schuster, and I actually have a YA novel there that has a huge social justice component coming out next year. A big writer like Roxane Gay has the wherewithal and the muscle to back out of a deal that a lot of people don’t—and I don’t necessarily think they should. If you boycott everything a particular publisher does, you are hurting the writers who actually may be writing something you agree with. I can’t speak for [Simon & Shuster], but I wouldn’t have represented that book, nor would I have sold it. But I may have represented something that is the complete opposite, which also deserves to be heard. That part’s complicated.

I was actually at a reading for a novel last week—not a political novel, but there was a political question [posed] to the author. That will happen more and more; something not political can be viewed in a political light. It’s a dialogue and that dialogue is healthy, and asking tough questions is great. If it allows for a broader conversation, and allows for journalists to get book deals that they might not have gotten in the past because they are doing great investigative journalism—then that’s also a great thing.

EM: Do you see the polarized nature of our country potentially affecting your work?

DH: Not necessarily. Fortunately, the books that I represent and a vast majority of the books that sell go to people who read. There is a big portion of the population who doesn’t read. They do all those surveys on how many books did you read this year. Some say they didn’t read any books at all—and I think those people will continue not to read. Right now, in film and TV, so many shows and movies are based on books or graphic novels; that points people back to books sometimes, which is great. I know that’s a little backwards, but it makes people interested.

I don’t feel like every submission that comes to me has to be political, or people [have] to completely change what they’ve written to reflect the times, but I do expect that we’ll see some more [political books], or even just books that have already been written [will] be politicized. March [Congressman John Lewis], The Handmaid’s Tale [Margaret Atwood], or 1984 [George Orwell], or any of the books that [are] getting more press or more attention: I think that will continue to happen.

EM: 1984 was trending for a while, wasn’t it?

DH: I think it was number one on Amazon for a while. Even people who didn’t realize their books were political may find that parts of them are, but that’s something that happens continually as the world changes and adjusts. If you’ve been working on a novel for six years and it finally comes out, there may be changes in the world that are reflected in your book, and you didn’t realize you were tapped into something that was already part of the conversation. That’s happened a couple of times with some of my writers; they started working on a book years ago that didn’t have a social justice component, but was more a “what if” or this topic needs to be discussed because no one’s talking about it. Then current events happen that make the book even timelier than they meant it to be, and that’s been interesting to see. It’s just another medium for expression; right now a lot of people are upset, worried, and concerned and that will be reflected in art.

EM: This onset of “fake” news, and the conversation about what is true and what is not, has this had an impact on the literary world?

DH: The idea of fake news being targeted during the election and afterwards: it’s not like that’s new, but [it was] the way people were sharing it, from whatever side of the political spectrum [they spoke from]. There are a lot of fake stories that are done either to appeal to their base or to get clicks.

Around middle school, students are taught to verify sources. It’s part of the curriculum. [If] you are going to write a research paper, for instance, you [ask yourself] where your sources are, and you vet your sources; or if you are going to do a contemporary news story, you go to the most original news source that has a direct link to what you are looking for. The core idea of vetting your sources in the age of the internet has gone away. People forget; they share things without verifying. They’re like, “This aligns with my personal beliefs so I’m going to share it.” Then they realize that it’s not based in anything real.

Journalists have for a long time been talking about that, and the idea that the 24-hour news cycle is hard. The more sensational [a story], the more people want to watch, talk about, or share it. But I think, in a good way, there is so much pushback against that right now. People are realizing the value of journalists, whether print or TV, who have the integrity to vet their sources, to have verifiable facts. Nonfiction has always been striving for that. A lot of nonfiction writers, whether they are writing something that is narrative nonfiction, doing interesting research into one topic, or trying to look at history because books survive more than a 24-hour news cycle, are vetting more. What’s happened with online journalism is that things cycle through so quickly, it’s hard to keep up. In the book world, it hasn’t happened nearly as much.

EM: Are you saying that, in the end, this will benefit your nonfiction clients?

Fiction helps distill reality. I heard a writer talk recently about [the question] “Why write fiction,” but fiction is truth. It’s just a different way of presenting it.

DH: I do. Right now people are looking for experts. They’re looking for people who understand the Constitution on a deep legal level; for people who have a record of writing about social justice, covering crime, politics, or the White House; or for those trying to understand our relationship with foreign countries. People are hungry for knowledge right now. Things aren’t running smoothly, so why aren’t they running smoothly? What’s going on? [On] Google and Merriam-Webster, their word of the day often is some kind of legal word, because people are trying to figure out what the emoluments clause is. [So people go to] experts, or those who, through fiction, talk about the human condition and our current [social] climate. Fiction helps distill reality. I heard a writer talk recently about [the question] “Why write fiction,” but fiction is truth. It’s just a different way of presenting it.

EM: Are there trends in the literary world that we should be aware of, outside of politics?

DH: There always are. But they also come and go pretty quickly. Some genre books, whether they are thrillers, YA, supernatural, or fantasy, tend to follow trends. People are definitely on the lookout for something that isn’t similar to what’s been out there before. I can see things that are happening, maybe books that people are interested in, but I try not to follow. I just try to follow the best work.

Bookstores have been doing much better than they have been, especially independent bookstores, but individual books are selling a bit less, because there are so many of them and they are spread out more widely. E-books are down for the first time in many years, hardcover books surpassed e-books. Some of that has to do with book pricing, but it also is like the vinyl resurgence in music. Actually owning a book, feeling and smelling it—people in publishing talk about that all the time—we love physical books. I read e-books too, but part of the reason I am in this business is that I physically love books. Seeing that trend is interesting.

I’ve also seeing a trend towards reading on apps, which is different than reading e-books. [It is] looking at serialized storytelling for people who are constantly on their phones, and [who] maybe won’t read an e-book—but they’ll read something that is on an app and in a community with stuff that they already like. What’s exciting to me is that it is a really diverse time. Publishers are doing really great work from small presses to big presses. They’re always looking for something new.

EM: Is there something that we haven’t gone over that hopeful authors should know?

DH: For some people, [publishing] seems like such a mysterious thing. [But know] that publishing is still a fairly small world, and a lot of us know each other and have known each other for a very long time. It is not a mercenary business; we are in it because we love it and we want to find great work. Even though a lot of my job is to say no, I also hear no a lot from the other side. I submit books to publishers and a lot of times editors will say no, but then if you get one yes or a few yeses, that’s all you need.

For a writer starting out looking for an agent, it’s daunting, because you are like, “I’m going to get a lot of rejections.” And you will. Knowing that rejection is part of it is important, but knowing that rejection actually continues and that you need one yes to find an agent, then you need one yes to get a publishing deal, and one yes to get a great review. It’s both daunting and encouraging, and also just knowing that agents get so many submissions. [In our case], a lot of them aren’t right for us, but I personally know when someone hits “send” to query us, that that’s a huge deal. Finishing a book and having the guts to send it out to get agented is tough and hard. A no isn’t personal at all; it’s just, “this doesn’t work for me or I don’t know what to do with it.” There are lots of reasons why those no’s can happen. Maybe it’s not the right time, or I have something that’s too similar: there are lots of different reasons. I think also knowing that the profit margins are really small. People hear about these giant deals, but the reality is that a lot of them are not huge. Most writers have other jobs, even if they seem super successful and have written like five books: they teach or do other things, because they love writing. That passion is throughout the entire industry.

EM: Is there anything I’ve missed? Or anything you would like to add?

DH: It’s incredibly important for writers to work on their craft. But it is important for them to educate themselves about the business side. I do a lot of that with my clients; there’s a lot of educating them about the ins and outs of how it works. I don’t expect my clients to understand all the minutiae—that’s my job—but having a general sense of how it works is a good idea. It’s great that MFA programs have that ability to talk to professionals and have that contact. It’s helpful to talk to people behind the scenes.

EM: I agree, it’s really helpful. And from this interview I have a pretty clear sense of how far I have to go before approaching someone like you with a query. So I think others will too.

DH: Great, I hope so.


*Editor’s Note: Since the time of this interview, Simon & Schuster canceled the book deal with Milo Yiannopoulos


Emma Margraf

Emma Margraf is a writer who lives in Olympia, Washington, works for the state government, and writes for several local publications in the South Sound. She has also been published in Manifest Station and is a candidate for an MFA at Antioch University Los Angeles.

Tara Ison, Author

Tara IsonI read Tara Ison’s first novel, A Child Out of Alcatraz, shortly after its publication in 1997. I’d spent a good chunk of my own adolescence in San Francisco living in Fort Mason while my father was stationed at Oakland Army Base, across the East Bay. At the time, Fort Mason was a smattering of standard-duplex base housing just steps away from the Marina. Whenever I needed room to breathe, I ran down the hill to the water, where the once-infamous Alcatraz prison loomed between San Francisco and Marin County. When my best friend gave me Ison’s novel, I was intrigued to read about everyday life long ago on that mysterious island during the decades that it served as a formidable prison. What I didn’t realize was that in reading it, I would find a little piece of myself—the experience of growing up female in a cloistered, patriarchal environment was not unlike my own experience growing up in a military family.

Since the late nineties, Tara Ison has asserted herself as a fierce feminist voice. In addition to A Child Out of Alcatraz, she has published two novels: The List (2011) and Rockaway (2013). Her latest short story collection, Ball (2015), challenges us to witness female characters breaking beyond convention, often placing themselves firmly within situations that move far beyond the comfortable. Likewise, her recently published essay collection, Reeling Through Life: How I Learned to Live, Love, and Die at the Movies (2015), is an exploration of female identity through a cinematic lens both profoundly personal and political: a must-read for anyone who grew up searching for her reflection on the screen. Ison refuses to bow to the edict that women must be protected or sanctified. Instead, Ison’s women are free to act, think, and breathe on the page—to be fully human, to be flawed, to take up space, to occupy life in complicated ways. In her essay collection’s concluding piece, “How to be a Writer,” Tara Ison speaks to every woman who is struggling to find her purpose as writer in the current political climate when she asserts: “the writer’s job isn’t to save the world; it’s just to keep the faith, and write.”

As a fan of hers since her debut, I was thrilled to talk with Tara Ison about writing, feminism, and the female experience, particularly at a time when many women are experiencing new heights of fear and outrage, as well as the occasional spark of hope. I spoke with Ison by phone on February 17, 2017. Our conversation was, without a doubt, one of the sparks of my winter.

Melissa Benton Barker: I spent my high school years in San Francisco while my father was stationed at Oakland Army Base. My best friend and I read A Child Out of Alcatraz together shortly after it came out. The novel, which is about a girl whose father is a guard on Alcatraz, resonated with me because it was about a girl growing up within a patriarchal, authoritarian environment, and it reminded me of my experience growing up as a military brat. I felt like I was seeing this particular piece of my own experience represented in a book for the first time. In your acknowledgements, you wrote about your research process, including interviewing a man who grew up on Alcatraz, and who became hostile when you revealed that you were writing about a female protagonist, as if a girl’s story is not worth being written. How did you react to this?

Tara Ison: That was such an incredible moment for me, in that it clarified and focused and validated what I was trying to say. It hit me on a very visceral level. It hit me in my body—the dismissal of the female experience. But I didn’t fully appreciate or understand the power of what he was saying until a bit later. I couldn’t put it within the context of the larger dismissal of women’s experiences. I don’t know that I was able to tap into [my] anger about it. I can now. One thing I do remember feeling was gratitude that he was so open in his condescension and ignorance and arrogance in dismissing the female perspective. The mere casualness about it, his blatant casualness, his lack of shame in saying what he was saying, was a gift, because it really showed me in very clear words how prevalent that attitude still [was]. That was twenty years ago. Now we talk a lot about racism, bigotry, sexism and where is it hidden, when is it the soft bigotry and when is it in your face. There’s almost something to be said for when bigotry and prejudice is so in your face, because when it’s so open you can deal with it in an entirely different way. And you can confront and begin to appreciate the more subtle nuances of bigotry.

MBB: What drew you to writing the story of girls and women in this heightened patriarchal environment?

TI: I had always been interested in Alcatraz the way everybody is interested in Alcatraz. I had taken a tour of Alcatraz and somewhere in the tour there was one sentence about women and children, families of the prison staff who lived on the island. It was just one sentence, within this tour. It was this tossed-off comment, this passing reference and it was swallowed up by all of the other information about Alcatraz, the most threatening, foreboding place in the country. The violence, the brutality of the system, and the juxtaposition between [this and family life on Alcatraz] really stuck with me. I started researching [the lives of the families living on the island]. There was not a lot of information.

As I was researching the prison itself and how it was run, I began to see a parallel between the power structure of the prison—the triangle of warden, guard, inmate—and the classic nuclear family structure of the 1930s, ’40s, and ’50s of father, mother, child. They matched up in terms of the power dynamic, in terms of societal convention, the definition of roles, the definition of behavior, and I thought there was something there. In focusing on the story of a mother and daughter within this system, ideally I was revealing a larger dynamic that I wouldn’t necessarily feel qualified to discuss. I’m not a historian, I’m not a sociologist, but I could tell the story of this one woman and this one daughter and the juxtaposition of this female-centric experience set against this incredibly masculine, patriarchal structure.

I want to create a psychological or emotional aneurysm for my characters.

Something that I also wanted to be careful about was that it wasn’t as simple as the men were the villains and the women were the oppressed victims. I cared deeply about the father in the story, and I saw him almost every bit as much as a victim of the system as the women were. His need to fulfill what he felt was his role as a strong head of the family, the provider, the male presence, the patriarch—he didn’t know anything else. For him the definition of a man, a good husband, a good father, was something that he cared deeply about and he did the best he could with the model that he was given as well.

MBB: In your recent work, you represent the female experience in a way that pushes the reader beyond comfortable notions about feminine identity. Your 2015 short story collection, Ball, fearlessly portrays unexpected women: the vengeful, the shallow, the violent, the “crazy.” Would you talk about what drew you to the unexpected in these stories?

TI: The emotions that the women in these stories are experiencing to a large degree are the emotions that we all have. They are the darker angels of our nature. The pride, the fear, the anger, the jealousy, the insecurity. And I think to some degree we all experience those. We might be in denial about some of them, or we process them in healthy, very functional ways. I am interested in characters who get stuck in emotional turmoil that they can’t talk their way out of, they can’t process their way through. Very often they are unwilling to admit to themselves how deeply immersed they are in the dysfunctional dynamic or the disturbing emotions that they’re experiencing. I want to push them even one step further. I want to create a psychological or emotional aneurysm for my characters. I want to get them to the point where the pressure of either trying to deny the ugly emotions that they’re feeling or the pressure of just trying to restrain or redirect themselves fails until it tips them over the edge into a behavior or a coping mechanism that is not allowed. It’s beyond dysfunctional. Sometimes they get beyond disturbing, but it tips them over into a kind of darkness that isn’t allowed. It might be allowed in fiction. It’s certainly not allowed in real life. That moment is what interests me more than anything. It’s pushing the character just that one step further. I consider myself a realist writer, yet in some of the stories I slightly cross the line into fantastical or absurdist. I’m interested in that very fine line between what is real and what steps just slightly beyond that.

MBB: Do you consider the protagonists in “Ball” (who has an ultimately destructive relationship with her dog) or “Wig” (who is having an affair with her dying best friend’s husband) to be unsympathetic? What informed your choice to write through the lens of the unsympathetic character?

TI: The whole question of “unsympathetic” for writers is interesting in that we’re often told as a criticism that [our] characters are unsympathetic. The issue of whether [a character] is sympathetic: I don’t think that’s the right question to be asking. As a reader, I am not interested in sympathetic characters. I’m interested in characters I can relate to. I’m interested in characters I can understand. I don’t think I was ever consciously wondering—am I taking this character too far? Is this character unsympathetic? From that perspective, all of my characters are deeply unsympathetic. I can relate to all of the characters if not their ultimate behavior. I can relate to the darkness of some of their emotions. I always tell myself as a writer, as a woman, as a human being, if I can relate to that emotion, other people can relate to that emotion as well, and if I’m tapping into a kind of emotional/psychological/spiritual darkness, I don’t think I’m an outlier in identifying those dark places of the soul. I think that those exist within all of us, again, to varying degrees. And to varying degrees we deal, we process those darker aspects of our emotional life. So to me, my characters are just very human. Seriously flawed human, but very human. Even if I push them to behaviors that some might consider inhuman.

MBB: From a craft perspective, what techniques did you draw upon to allow the reader to relate to and/or see themselves in the flaws of these characters?

TI: For me, story always comes down to the question of what the character needs. There’s a Ken Kesey quote that anybody who’s ever had a class with me has heard me say a dozen times. It really gets to the core of storytelling. “Story is about somebody who needs something, and what he’s going to go through to get it.” That always brings me back to why I tell stories in the first place.

If the writer has a clear sense of what the character needs, then the story writes itself to some degree. A need is the fuel of the story.

If I look at “Ball,” if I look at “Wig,” if I look at any of the stories in the collection, the characters are consumed by a need for something. And the action that they take to get that need met becomes increasingly dysfunctional, dark, deranged, but I think that need is what defines us, what makes us human. If the writer has a clear sense of what the character needs, then the story writes itself to some degree. A need is the fuel of the story. Because we all have needs, that is what humanizes us. When I write a story or a novel, if I lose sight of what a character needs and what the obstacle to the need is, and what she is doing in order to overcome the obstacle, if I lose sight of that, I’ve wandered out of the story. And when I’m writing a story if I’m feeling lost or bored, or confused, adrift, I will stop and I will consciously ask myself those questions: What does my character need right now? What is the obstacle? What is it that my character is doing about it? [These questions] will always bring me back to the story in a way that allows the story to move forward and increase the narrative momentum.

MBB: Many of the stories in Ball are explicit in their depiction of female sexuality, which is an area that, unfortunately, remains relatively rare in literary fiction. It’s refreshing to read stories that include sexuality without centering the male perspective and male pleasure, while remaining explicit in their physicality. Sometimes women hesitate to write graphically about sexuality. Have you always felt comfortable doing so? If not, how did you arrive at this place?

TI: I have never felt comfortable writing about sex. I can’t imagine I ever will feel comfortable writing about sex. There are moments in those stories where I remember I sat there with my hands poised above the keyboard, unable to type out certain words or certain phrases, certain descriptions, because I was so incredibly uncomfortable with what I was doing. I was uncomfortable with the mechanics of it, because I have written many sentences of somebody getting dressed, or getting into a car, but I had very little experience in forming sentences drawing on explicit sexuality. From a mechanical perspective—what is the correct word to use, how to structure the sentence, how to avoid cliché—that was very difficult for me. I felt almost like I was having to create a new language for myself. Also, emotionally and psychologically, I felt very naked. I felt very exposed. I thought: are people going to attribute this kind of sexuality to me? If so, why should I care about that? Where do I end and the characters begin? But what I always tried to come back to in writing explicitly sexual scenes was the emotional context and the psychology. For my characters, sex is a means to an end, so it really does come back to what I was saying earlier, about what is it that the characters need in that particular moment and how they are using sex to try and get a need fulfilled. I think a little bit of explicit sexuality goes a long way. [I tried] to keep the balance of the explicitness of the sexual language, the sexual positioning, the description of sexual activity, with what is really fueling the scene. For me [the fuel of the scene] is rarely lust. It tends far more often to be a more vulnerable moment for the character, where the character is grappling with something very profound and sexuality is a way to work through it.

MBB: It’s helpful to hear that even as a seasoned writer you are still pushing through discomfort in your work.

TI: Yes, I’m working on a new story right now, and I’m really struggling. I want it to have a sexual dynamic. And it’s every bit as awkward for me as it has been with any story I’ve written in the past. I feel like I’ve never written about sex in my entire life. I don’t know how to do it. The struggle continues. The discomfort continues.

MBB: That’s probably what makes the writing so interesting. It seems like you went into a lot of cultural taboos with this book. I’m wondering if you received any pushback for choosing to write frankly about sexuality or about unsympathetic female characters? If so, how have you reacted to this?

TI: Absolutely. Not with every story. For example, the story “Bakery Girl,” which is one of the more sexually explicit, I was approached by a website called that features very literary sexual writing. I knew that’s what they wanted, so I went into that story deliberately looking to explore a sexual dynamic in a relatively explicit way. I didn’t get any pushback on that one. But yes, for some of the other stories I’ve had editors who were hesitant, who questioned, do you really want to do this? The best example would be the story “Ball.” I had submitted the story to Tin House and I heard back from the editor: “Tara, I really like the story. I’m submitting it above me to the next level, and we’re curious, are you willing to change the ending?” This was my first published short story, by the way. I had a dark night of the soul. I emailed a former professor of mine from grad school who had read the story and I explained the situation and I said, “What do I do?” He wrote back and said, “Sometimes you really need to be open-minded and listen to your editor. The editor is very experienced, this is an outstanding journal, you want the story published, and sometimes it’s a good idea to do what the editor is asking you to do”—pause —“but not with this story.” And I thought, okay, I have permission to stick to my guts. I wrote the editor back this long, rambling, “I’m so sorry, I would really like to change the story because I’d hoped you’d accept it … but I cannot change the ending of the story.” And he wrote back and said, “No, no, no, I’m happy with the ending, but our senior editor is having a really hard time with it. I’ll keep trying.” It took about four months, and he wrote me back and said, “Okay, the story’s in.” I was very proud about that. Cut to many years later when the collection was being assembled, and my editor of the collection said, “The stories mostly have been published. There’s a little editing to do, but I do want to talk to you about the ending of the ‘Ball’ story.” He didn’t so much want me to change the ending, but he did want me to soften it a little bit. He wanted some revision to how I was phrasing a couple of things, and I said no. I wouldn’t change it. I changed other things. Revision can also be a very collaborative process. But you just have to listen to your gut as a writer, and that particular story was one that I’ve had to push back on, I’ve had to fight for, on more than one occasion. And it’s worked out. I’ve never regretted it. It’s probably one of my favorite stories.

MBB: In your 2015 collection of personal essays, Reeling Through Life: How I Learned to Live, Love, and Die at the Movies, you depict the tension you’ve experienced between being a “good girl” and taking on more subversive identities, such as, to quote the chapter headings: Lolita, slut, drunk, and Mrs. Robinson. How does this tension inform the choices you find yourself making as a writer?

The whole thing with being a good girl—don’t make waves, get along with people, don’t be too loud, don’t be difficult, be responsible—I think that those are some aspects of womanhood, of femininity, that I, along with so many women, have internalized as a way to move through the world.

TI: The whole thing with being a good girl—don’t make waves, get along with people, don’t be too loud, don’t be difficult, be responsible—I think that those are some aspects of womanhood, of femininity, that I, along with so many women, have internalized as a way to move through the world. It might be the reason I’m a writer, because a lot of pressure builds up when you feel you should always be a good girl and play by the rules. Writing, for me, is an escape valve. It allows me to access, explore, depict, express, and communicate things about my experience of the world where I’m not such a good girl. It’s at a safe distance. My name is on the cover, my name is on the story, but I am able to fall back on, Hey, it’s fiction, it’s just a story, it’s a character I’ve created. To some degree, every character is an aspect of myself working through something I might not have the courage or the strength to deal with in my own real life, but I force my character to deal with some of those things.

MBB: If writing is an escape valve where you can express things that are “unacceptable to express” as a woman in our culture, was writing nonfiction, publishing this book of personal essays, a different experience for you?

TI: Yeah, there’s no scrim. With fiction, I can say, Oh, I make things up, I make characters up. I think that was why I didn’t feel either capable or interested in writing a straight memoir. I was interested in looking at this actual conflict between the roles we feel compelled to play in real life and the roles that are presented to us through cinema. That took it a little bit out of myself. It gave me something else to talk about. It gave me another way to explore some of the role-playing we do in real life in a larger context. I love movies, so I was really happy to talk about movies. But by working through some of these questions of sexuality, addiction, mental health, faith, creativity, all of the themes of the book, and by working through those in relationship to my relationship to characters—Mrs. Robinson, Lolita, Lillian Hellman—I was able to talk about those cinematic role models and their struggles as a way to illustrate my own questioning of different roles. Yes, it’s closer to home than fiction because I don’t have the ability to say this isn’t really me, but I had company in doing it. If I’m trying to figure out my feelings about having a sexual relationship with a man seventeen years my junior, I wasn’t alone in that because I had Mrs. Robinson keeping me company on that journey.

MBB: In January 2016, you published an article on Salon entitled, “Too stupid to be c*nts”: The new normal of toxic male entitlement on campus,” which deals with your experience as a professor being confronted with casual linguistic misogyny from a male student. The essay speaks to the everyday use of derogatory language directed towards women and girls. How do you think this has impacted our culture? How, if at all, have your views on this changed since the essay was written?

TI: First of all, that was not my title for the essay and I’m not really happy with the title. I was unhappy with the subtitle about toxic masculinity on campus because I thought it was a click-bait title. I was unhappy with defining the essay before somebody might have a chance to read the essay. To me, an essay is an exploration, an essay is inquiry, and once you term something toxic masculinity, that’s making a statement and it shuts down some of the inquiry of the essay itself. That aside, in the essay I refer to a phrase that Toni Morrison uses: “disinterested violence.” That kind of casual disparagement. That term you used, “casual linguistic misogyny” [reminds me of] the guy we talked about earlier, the guy [I interviewed about] Alcatraz, who was so open in his condescension and disparagement of women. The misogyny has become so casual and acceptable. [In the essay], here is this kid walking across campus, speaking very loudly on his cell phone, and speaking about women in an incredibly ugly way, and what was most uncomfortable to me about that moment was that he wasn’t riled up. He wasn’t venting. He wasn’t angry, even. He was casual about it. There’s something very, very disturbing about that casualness. In the essay, I was thinking about how once that kind of attitude gets watered down to the point where it’s permeating casual speech, casual conversation, it spreads. I think it can spread very, very easily, more so than a single violent outburst of anger can. Because people will immediately put their guard up against a rant. But this wasn’t a rant. It gets into the bloodstream more easily that way, and spreads more easily that way. And I don’t see it going away any time soon in our culture. I think if anything it’s spreading. That’s what I was looking to explore in the essay. My feeling is that it hasn’t changed, certainly in the last year. If anything, I’ve become even more discouraged at the level of discourse and I think a lot of people are grappling with this right now. The level of discourse has been so degraded and has descended to a level of such ignorance and intolerance and thoughtlessness. It’s happening everywhere, and it’s very disturbing.

MBB: In your commencement speech at the Antioch University Los Angeles MFA program in December 2016, you quoted Junot Diaz on the importance of providing human beings with a reflection of themselves, in order to prevent us from becoming monsters. [The quote is from Diaz’s speech at Bergen County Community College in Paramus, New Jersey: “If you want to make a human being a monster, deny them, at the cultural level, any reflection of themselves.”] In your opinion, how do readers benefit from seeing themselves reflected in literature? What do you see as the role of the writer in this particular political climate in the United States?

TI:  There is a responsibility of the artist to reflect back upon ourselves, upon society, upon the world. When it is reflected back to us it inspires a kind of self-reflection, self-inquiry, that I think [is] a more subtle way of getting human beings to confront ourselves. It’s why, even though I write nonfiction, I still primarily think of myself as a fiction writer. You can disguise the interrogation. If you’re holding up characters grappling with things, it allows the reader, invites the reader, to reflect upon their own experiences, attitudes, beliefs, needs, struggles, behavior, in a friendlier way than direct confrontation. I think that’s the power of fiction. Conversely, the flip side to the reflection is that fiction, literature, allows us access into another human being’s inner life, their consciousness, their perspective, in a very unique way. I joke with my students that the only way to get into someone else’s head more intimately than fiction is with an MRI or a CAT scan. We are allowed access into another person’s experience through fiction in a way that we will never be allowed even to understand our best friends, or our siblings, or our parents. There’s a greater intimacy that is allowed in fiction. By the very nature of spending some time in another being’s heart and soul, it creates a sense of empathy; [it creates the] ability to appreciate our shared humanity. In addition to reflecting back on ourselves and ideally triggering a kind of self-inquiry into our own thoughts, feelings, behaviors, it allows us to begin to understand the experience of other human beings.

MBB: As we wrap up our interview, do you have any last words of wisdom for emerging feminist writers?

TI: I feel that anything I want to say diminishes how hard it is. What I want to say is: Don’t give a damn what anyone else thinks or tells you. Be fearless. Fuck ’em if they can’t take a joke. Tell your truth. Be strong. We need your voice. But that’s all easier said than done, and those sound to me like cheery slogans. There’s so much work to be done. I am terrified with every sentence I write. But we have to do it. And we have to keep telling women’s stories and being true to their experience.


Melissa Benton Barker is an MFA candidate at Antioch University Los Angeles. A Navy brat and native of nowhere, she currently lives in a small Midwestern town where she spends her time imagining stories, wandering in the woods, and raising children—sometimes simultaneously! Her work appears in Lunch TicketSmokelong Quarterly, and Literary Mama.

Fady Joudah, Poet

Fady Joudah

Photo by Cybele Knowles

Fady Joudah was born in Austin, Texas to Palestinian refugee parents. He spent time growing up in both Libya and Saudi Arabia, and returned to the United States to complete his medical education. He currently works as a professional physician in Houston, Texas. Joudah is the author of three original works: The Earth in the Attic (2008), Alight (2013), and Textu (2013). In 2007, The Earth in the Attic won the Yale Series of Younger Poets competition, the oldest annual literary award in the United States. Joudah’s work additionally includes the translations of Mahmoud Darwish in The Butterfly’s Burden (2006) and of Ghassan Zaqtan in Like a Straw Bird It Follows Me (2012), which won the International Griffin Poetry Prize in 2013.

Fady Joudah is a multi-talented force to be reckoned with. He is a poet, translator, physician, father, volunteer, and someone I consider quite humble, considering his fascinatingly intellectual mind. Joudah and I met at the hotel where he was staying in Culver City in December of 2016. We spent a little over an hour exploring thoughts on poetic influence, innovation, and the ever-looming (for me) post-MFA conundrum of maintaining balance.

Doni Shepard: What spurred your original passion for poetry?

Fady Joudah: I don’t know if anything spurred it, but perhaps it’s something one’s born with. I think one’s more likely to be exposed to poetry at a young age in school. When these things took place in my presence as a kid, I remember having a very strong attachment to the power and the sound of poetry.

DS: I can remember that as a kid, just having this vivid connection to poetry and all elements of creative writing. That’s something that speaks to you very young, I think.

FJ: Yeah, I think one’s brain is wired in a certain way to perk your ears up when you hear it.

DS: Who would you consider some of your greatest literary influences?

FJ: I grew up with Classical era poetry. I wouldn’t necessarily name one, but I would note the history of Arabic poetry, whether pre-Islamic or Abbasid. Of the contemporaries, of course, Mahmoud Darwish has been important. It’s interesting because he’s a poet who brings a whole history of language and literature and is able to channel it into his poetry. If you are able to have a deep connection with it, you are able to see a whole universe through it.

I would say that my biggest relationship to poetry would be through pre-med and medical school classes, because it’s really like learning a third language. A lot of it is in Latin and Greek so it opens up the imagination.

I found Rilke very compelling at a younger age—not that I’m old, but because it was interesting to see what his work offered in English. I thought that was interesting. It was partly a function of my relationship with English as a spoken language in the first place, because I didn’t grow up speaking it or living in it. I don’t have a fabulous story as far as the list of names that I can mention. I would say that my biggest relationship to poetry would be through pre-med and medical school classes, because it’s really like learning a third language. A lot of it is in Latin and Greek so it opens up the imagination. Much of the history of literature in the world repeats itself so much, so you can choose one major spring and dip to your heart’s fill.

DS: I really like how you spoke about the connection to pre-med. I have some background in the medical field, and it’s much like learning an additional language. When you incorporate that into poetry or any sort of writing it adds a whole new layer to things.

FJ: That’s what poetry is, another layer of language, either added or peeled off. It’s an interesting experience to think that my scientific training has been actually a poetic training.

DS: Among your many responsibilities and talents, you are a driven poet, translator, parent, and medical doctor. How do you maintain diligence in creating balance?

FJ: I no longer know the answer to that because I think that fatigue sets in. As I get a little older, fatigue manifests in different ways, where one’s more emotionally fragile or one’s graciously less certain about several things. Your kids grow up and my body grows up and I’m not at the same energy level. I’m often asked that question. I get asked a few questions that often other poets don’t get asked in a structural sense; this is one of them. Maybe it’s easier to just want to ask the question back and say, “Well, why are you asking?” because I’m not so sure that my position is any different than anyone else who leads a full life with things to do.

DS: Maybe we are all searching for those answers. Especially people coming out of the MFA program, we all want to get the sense of how we will survive out in the world and balance all of our lives. There isn’t always a perfect answer. You see people that, of course, look like they have it all together and want to get a grasp on how that is possible.

FJ: In my case, I did medicine first. I still have medicine and this break is rare for me. Interesting, though, you reflecting back by saying it’s about your own futuristic anxieties. I would say that obviously, my experience has been that the market is limited. Also, the market tells us that if you stay “in” you have a better chance of making it because you’re “in.” You can’t get a promotion in a company you don’t work for. It’s harder in my position to be “in” when you’re from the outside, so I’m a less common event.

DS: What is your take on the ways in which poetry and other forms of expressive arts are being used in medical facilities? Do you feel that poetry and other forms of creative writing have a place in the medical realm as a form of therapy?

Sometimes I think that this question about poetry and healing is a vestigial question. It’s a hang-up that poets have, because that’s how poetry supposedly should be thought of. For millennia, poetry has been thought of as a vehicle for grief.

FJ: They do. It is rarely seen though. It’s a lot more talked about and studied and written about by academics than it is something that is implemented, in my experience. Sometimes I think that this question about poetry and healing is a vestigial question. It’s a hang-up that poets have, because that’s how poetry supposedly should be thought of. For millennia, poetry has been thought of as a vehicle for grief. Then we say it’s also oral history and other things. It’s not just one thing. Today there are many ways for us to heal or to seek healing through various mediums. Everything is actually so prescribed that the notion of the question for me is problematic because it wants poetry to serve as a possible prescription in a mechanical world. Maybe ultimately poetry is only able to serve that function for just one person, maybe the one who writes it.

DS: In Textu, a beautifully composed pocket-sized gem, you demonstrate a uniquely created form of poetry. You provide readers the explanation of “the Textu” by explaining that each poem “be exactly 160 characters long, specific to text-message parameters.” Did you find this structure in any way limiting to your creative expression, or did it serve as a welcome challenge?

FJ: It was very welcome. It gave air to the compulsions I was dealing with so I was very obsessive about taking the world in, trying to get it out in 160. I also thought it was an interesting moment artistically to have art be somewhat of a historical document: knowing that the text message is on its way to being obsolete in the sense that you have so many forms of communication that require no character count. People are always like, “Yeah, that’s what I do on Twitter!” and they don’t know that, no, Twitter is 140, and already people don’t communicate anything meaningful on it. You can upload or include hyperlinks, bits, etc… I already knew that texting, which will continue to exist, is much more intimate like poetry is. It’s much more private. I wanted a documentation of the intimacy of that language in that format to see what happens. I don’t know. Maybe Textu will seem to be a book more worthwhile ten or twenty years from now. Maybe I’ll look at it twenty years from now and laugh.

DS: Poetry has found a substantial following by way of social networking, providing exposure to artists such as Christopher Poindexter, R.M. Drake, and Rupi Kaur. In previous talks about Textu, you advised that you would send many of your original messages to loved ones after creation. Do you feel that a project such as Textu allows for a level of accessibility to poetry that didn’t always exist?

FJ: I can’t make such a claim. Maybe Textu is the opposite. It’s the manifestation that it is true that poetry can exist in all forms, you just have to find it and give it form. I don’t know if Textu necessarily is a public service for poetry’s reach into the world. Who the hell reads poetry? Very few people.

DS: I feel it’s becoming—in short bits—much more mainstream. People are getting a feel for poetry who maybe would have never been exposed to it prior. I see people, even celebrities, sharing little bits of poetry across social media platforms. I hope that in these smaller formats, that if it’s compact enough—there is an idea that maybe people are going to have a bit of poetry that they would have never experienced before.

FJ: It exists in ways—in an app that sends you a poem-a-day kind of thing, but the other problem with that is again that the poems are going to be guided by such things. The poems in Textu are not always easily accessible. The methodology of trying to make poetry reach more public makes one think about what kind of a poem will an average Joe stomach. So, you end up promoting a certain idea of poetry. That still recreates the same circles that exist in the literary world. We like to think of ourselves as some unique little pocket in America or in the Western world of great liberal thinkers. We’re no different than the rest of the culture. Maybe we’re not alt-right but I think we’re quite representative of the imperial citizen in the liberal age.

DS: In 2006, you translated three collections of Palestinian poet Mahmoud Darwish with The Butterfly’s Burden. You have received and additionally been nominated for various awards for your work in translation. Has your background with translation influenced the way you approach new creative work?

Translation is a very close form of reading. If you’re able to achieve a close form of reading then you perform an act of translation. The other way is to say that translation is an act of original literary criticism.

FJ: Translation is a very close form of reading. If you’re able to achieve a close form of reading then you perform an act of translation. The other way is to say that translation is an act of original literary criticism. In that sense, you get to notice what you get to notice. If someone else does the same things that I’ve done, they might have a different relationship with their own idea of language than I have from the experience I’ve had with translation. One of the earliest things that I learned in the process of translation is that any body of work that seems to be worthwhile exists in part because that poet has created their own private dictionary. Kilito, a Moroccan critic, says that he believes, “You write one book in your life and you spend the rest of your life trying to write it better than you did the first time.” Such an endeavor means that you inevitably create your own lexicon, your own private lexicon. Then you have to be aware that you have created this. After that step, you have to know what to do with it and how to develop it, how not to continue to repeat it. It has to evolve. That’s the major thing I’ve learned from sitting with this large body of work for different poets. You see that when you go through these you’re actually going through their relationship with language. Then you realize that this is what you will have to go through as a writer.

DS: What are some of the most prominent factors that sway your writing and the creative projects that you take on?

FJ: It’s the way I see my life. My perception of my reality.

DS: Simple and powerful way to put it. I think that speaks to a lot of writers. Has your writing focus shifted at all due to the current political or cultural climate?

FJ: No. It’s about understanding where I’m at with my life, with my writing, and with my language, and focusing on that. I’m definitely someone who is conscious of the body and that connection, as we all are. My experience is different as a professional physician and the various experiences that I have had. I get to see the body from a different aspect. Having touched dying without being the one dying, [and doing] so frequently, is an interesting thing. I did not survive an illness, a trauma, in any classic, immediate sense of those words, but in a way, I have to deal daily with my own trauma being a participant. I deal with constant despair. That’s really all one encounters as a physician after a while—other people in need, vulnerability, or despair, even if it is brief. That is something that catches up with me and says, “Hello. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.” It’s something that is the world-over whether it’s through poverty, famine, war, epidemics—whatever it is.

DS: I have read various interviews where you speak about the attachment of designations as a poet. In what ways have you worked to move away from the coined terms that often follow your name (“Palestinian poet,” “physician-poet”), and do you have any advice for poets who struggle to shed their own taxonomy?

FJ: I don’t know if I have succeeded, and I don’t know if in that department I will succeed, because in the end, it’s others who chose to call you things for their own convenience, reduction, categorization, or what have you. It’s probably important to reach a point where one doesn’t care and one just focuses on one’s life’s work and that’s it. Again, it’s a problem of how much we mimic the outer culture. People say Jim Carrey tried so hard to break away from the slapstick comedy, so he tried to do tragedy and maybe he pulled it off in this movie and didn’t pull it off in others, and maybe he didn’t do it as well as Robin Williams did. I know this is also performance art, but it’s the same conversation. I don’t think there is a way one will escape these things; I just think it’s about finding a community as free of labels as possible.

In my situation, there’s a catch-22. Anything you want to say about a minority position or a marginalized position—we have a system similar to a Pez dispenser. Once you push your own little tablet out, there will be twenty other tablets that tell you, “Here we are in solidarity,” but it doesn’t work out that way, actually. It turns out in horizontal violence. It works out in intersectionality more than it does in solidarity. Each one with a grievance who wants the grievance headlined and identified. [Those in] the default modes, ironically, are the ones who form the most entrenched form of identity politics, yet project the accusation onto others because that’s what power does. There’s an entrapment to focus on what is called “identitarian issues,” because that categorization and the algorithms are already there. One should do what one needs to do and feels like doing; those who are obsessed with naming can name. It’s really a circus out there.

DS: As we close, do you mind sharing what types of creative projects you are working on now?

FJ: I have finished up a fourth collection due out in 2018, published by Milkweed Editions, titled Footnotes in the Order of Disappearance. Mostly working on a nonfiction book—trying to think about memory and life forces through human and non-human forms.


Doni Shepard Doni Shepard is a poet, mother, and lifetime learner who currently resides in Phoenix, AZ. She spends her days managing content for a popular startup, mommying an extraordinary three-year-old, and serving as Lunch Ticket’s poetry editor. Upon nightfall you can generally find her in an insomniac haze binge-watching streaming television with a fluffy orange feline named Doobie James. Her work has been featured online by Dirty Chai, Bloodletters Literary Magazine, Calamus Journal, Crab Fat Magazine, and Ursus Americanus Press, and may be found in the love anthology Spectrum 3: LoveLoveLove. She holds an undergraduate degree interdisciplinary studies with a concentration in art therapy from Arizona State University, and is currently an MFA candidate at Antioch University Los Angeles, concentrating in poetry.

Geeta Kothari, Author

Geeta KothariIn December 2017, I met with Geeta Kothari to discuss her work as a writer and as the nonfiction editor of the Kenyon Review. In February of this year, Geeta’s collection, I Brake for Moose and Other Stories, was published; she was also the editor of Did My Mama Like to Dance?: And Other Stories about Mothers and Daughters (1994). Her fiction and nonfiction have appeared in Kenyon Review, The Massachusetts ReviewFourth Genre, and Best American Essays (2000). Kothari currently directs the Writing Center at the University of Pittsburgh and teaches in its writing program.

Like me, Kothari is a native New Yorker, and I found her easy to talk with. She had just presented a seminar at December’s Antioch University Los Angeles MFA residency called “The Writer in Search of Narrator,” which helped me to understand the process by which nonfiction writers decide how to narrate their stories. At the beginning of the session, Kothari drew a large fish on the board, composed of two intersecting parabolic lines, as a way to look at the structure of a piece. (As she explained to me later, she adapted the method from a workshop with novelist Nancy Zafris.) Although I’ve heard Zafris’s students describe various ways to label each of the lines—plot versus theme, in the case of structuring fiction—in her demonstration, Kothari said the top arc represents the entire span of events in the nonfiction narrative, the “real life” or the “facts” of a piece. She then drew a middle line, which zigzagged between the top and bottom, which signifies the events that the writer chooses to pull into the narrative, to make meaning of them and to create an emotional experience for the reader, by, for example, exploring and repeating certain motifs or physical objects (such as photographs). In this way, and applying Vivian Gornick’s The Situation and the Story, Kothari explained that the top line can represent “the situation” and the bottom line becomes “the story.”

During our conversation, Kothari and I discussed the situation of writing stories, writing (and knitting) habits, family, writing characters that are not racial tropes, and representing the immigrant experience in literature. Kothari writes characters with a rich interior world; in her new book, I Brake for Moose, she creates multidimensional characters of various races who exist beyond stereotype. We began talking about how to structure our work, a conversation that I have since found quite useful in my own writing.

Meredith Arena: Speak a little bit more about the narrative model you discussed in the Antioch presentation?

I could write good sentences—and you can get away with a lot if your sentences are pretty or good, but at the end of the day, are you really telling a story?

Geeta Kothari: That model is something that Nancy Zafris taught me. I am one of those writers who takes a lot of classes. I love being a student. I was never a good student when I was actually a student, but I love these short [writing] workshops. When I took the Kenyon Review workshop with Nancy in 2006, I had been someone who, as she says, “Can’t write a bad sentence.” I could write good sentences—and you can get away with a lot if your sentences are pretty or good, but at the end of the day, are you really telling a story? She taught me how to think about story structure in an intuitive and holistic way. Once you have that fish in your brain, you don’t spend a lot of time thinking about it. Her whole focus on the objective reality of the story, either in a novel or in a short story, is important because a writer wants to go into the deep thoughts. You just do if you’re a literary writer, and chances are you are already good at the deep thoughts, but getting your reader into those deep thoughts requires a lot of work. If you’re forcing yourself to think about the situation or the context, the broader stuff, it’s going to naturally take you to the story you want to go to. That is what that fish is. It is giving yourself the confidence to stay with that situation or that context, knowing that it is eventually going to get you to the story you want to tell if you keep doing that up and down thing [She moves her hand up and down in a zigzag pattern referring to how we use the details of the plot (or situation) to move us into the story (or the emotional material, the significance) and back again].

MA: So, you are saying that you have internalized this structure, but it leaves room for intuition. I think that is how a lot of people go into writing a creative nonfiction piece, intuitively.

GK: I took [a] class in nonfiction one summer. I lived at home with my parents and I went up to Columbia and took this class with this teacher whom I had studied with in graduate school, who had not been impressed with me. I am not sure that he was impressed with me in this class, either. And I learned the traditional modes­­—how to write a profile, how to do a story about place. We read the usual people you read and that class was the only class I took and I tried to write within the parameters he’d set up for these things that we had to do, and that is how I got my first drafts. I got my first published piece from that [class]. And that piece was quite different from what I had done in class and part of it came through this questioning process­­.

I ran into [the poet] Garrett Hongo at a conference, and he said I should send him something. I said, “I can’t. I don’t have anything,” and he said, “Where are you from?” That became the organizing question for that first essay. Those structures can be helpful, but more helpful is the things that morph out of them. They are just a starting point. You have to find a way to get your words on the page and with CNF, with writing about the self, the problem is there are so many options. Do you start with birth? Do you start with fifth grade? Do you start with the guy who tried to beat you up behind the concrete cylinder in the playground? What do you start with? What do you include? Giving yourself boundaries can really force the essays to a place where you can finally work on it.

MA: And then you can go back and change it.

GK: You can go back and change everything. In “Thirst,” the essay I read [at Antioch], I said okay— seven islands—the piece itself gave me the structure. I wasn’t thinking about situation and story, I was just thinking structure. The seven islands of Bombay were joined together, so I am going to have seven sections about my dad, but then it became twelve.

MA: What was the first essay that you published?

I asked the bartender where the bathroom was and the first thing he said was, “Where are you from?” … It was interesting because my husband, whom I was dating at the time, is actually from another country. He’s Canadian, but no one ever asked him where he was from.

GK: It was called, “Where are you from?” It was musings on identity and trying to figure out where I was from. It was something I was getting asked in Pittsburgh, and for my entire life I found it really irritating. [The essay] starts with an incident where I was at a bar. I asked the bartender where the bathroom was and the first thing he said was, “Where are you from?” And I was like, “I just want to use the bathroom.” It was interesting because my husband, whom I was dating at the time, is actually from another country. He’s Canadian, but no one ever asked him where he was from. Ever. It started from that irritation, but the original draft did not start that way. That was about going to Kleinfeld’s. Do you remember Kleinfeld’s in Brooklyn, the wedding store?

MA: Yup!

GK: I was going with a friend to buy a wedding dress and she was determined to buy it there and it was just not happening. It was not working for her, so I wrote about that, and about buying the dress, and her wedding, which was troubling to me because she was marrying a white man, and I was trying to figure out what that meant for identity. She was half Japanese. She read the essay and hated it and ended our relationship. I was really trying to figure out something. It was that self-investigation. I just had no words for it. I was young and I was trying to figure out what it meant to be married to someone else and what it meant for who you were, especially if you were marrying someone who wasn’t from your culture. I wasn’t thinking of marrying my husband. In fact, I said to him pretty clearly, “I will never marry you,” so obviously, I got that wrong.

So that [question] “Where are you from?” developed into a much longer, more complex essay because Garrett asked me to revise it. I was able to address some of the things my friend had objected to when she first read it and come a little cleaner.

I hadn’t seen myself as a nonfiction writer. I had really been involved in writing fiction. And my mom said, “Why don’t you just learn to write some other things. Try your hand at a different thing. You should be trying everything,” and basically paid for me to take this class at Columbia. So that was where it began.

MA: Do you think she knew that you would be writing a book about her?

GK: She didn’t want me to write a book about her. She very clearly said, “I don’t want you writing about me when I’m dead.”

MA: Were you writing about your parents when they were alive? If so, did they read the work?

GK: I was writing about them. I didn’t realize that I was going to be on such a trajectory of writing about them, but I interviewed them. I did formal interviews with them after I had moved to Pittsburgh. I began to realize that there was a lot about them I didn’t know. So, I did interviews and they had their canned stories that they kept telling. I still have them on tape. They were very private people, but they never told me while they were alive not to write about them. [I just couldn’t write about them] after their deaths. She said, “After I’m dead… I can’t challenge what you say about me.” She had this idea of herself as someone who was going to write back to me. My dad was much more sanguine. But my mother, I remember once she said, “Okay, you can write about anything or anyone, except your father, and you can’t write about your sister,” and I was like, “That doesn’t leave very much to write about.” There are only four of us. And then, “You can’t write about me when I’m dead.” You just have to not listen to some of those voices. It wasn’t as if I set out to write about them. It was just that those were the stories that came to me and they were interesting to me. I once said to my dad, “I find the two of you endlessly fascinating.” And he laughed.

MA: I really relate to that in your work. I find my parents really fascinating as well. They are still alive, but I relate to the longing that is in your essays “Listen” [Superstition Review], “If You Are What You Eat, Then What Am I?” [Kenyon Review], and “On Leaving Home” [Virginia Quarterly Review], even though my parents have not died yet.

My mom came here when she was twenty-two years old. What is an Indian woman, a girl, really, doing in New York in 1950? How is she managing? How is she living her life? How does she feel?

GK: I felt that longing before they died. I don’t know what that’s about, but I do think they were very private people and I’m nosy. That’s just all there is to it. I want to understand things about them. I found them interesting. They were so strange.

My mom came here when she was twenty-two years old. What is an Indian woman, a girl, really, doing in New York in 1950? How is she managing? How is she living her life? How does she feel? She can’t talk to her parents on the phone. When I tell people [that] she came in 1950—Indians—they say, “She came with her husband, it wouldn’t have been that bad.” And I’m like, “No, no, no.” She was here alone for ten years before she met my father. And then her decision to marry him had nothing to do with her parents. It was completely independent.

MA: This curiosity seems like why we become writers of creative nonfiction. Going back to the situation and the story, there is the top line, all the events that actually happened. The autobiographical events.

GK: We are interested in the motives. Why?

MA: What were you feeling?

GK: Yeah, what were you feeling?

MA: I ask my mother that a lot and she can’t always answer me. And my parents are not private. It seems like they are telling me everything that happened. But I want to know something else. I want to understand myself better. I’m forty now; I want to know how my mom felt when she was forty.

GK: Right, but they can’t tell you, because there is a level of self-examination that’s unfair to ask ordinary people to get involved in. They don’t want to go there, so that’s our job to do that. My mom didn’t want to talk about how she felt getting on that plane, she would only say, “I wanted someone to ask me to stay.” It’s a cultural thing. I have been brought up to say what I want, [such as], “I don’t wanna go.” But that wasn’t part of the deal then. She left home and she didn’t want to leave. She was never able to talk much about that longing. She couldn’t articulate it fully, partly because it would have been really painful. Most people don’t want to revisit their most painful moments.

MA: Does your book about your mother have a title yet?

GK: It’s a temporary title. It’s called Everywhere and Nowhere: Mapping My Mother’s Search for Home.

MA: It was helpful to hear you talk about your book project about your mother. We often hear writers say, “I struggled with it,” but hearing you say, “I’m struggling with it and here is why” is instructive. Thank you. It seems like the stuff arising in this conversation and the issue of identity and longing around family is also coming up for your fictional characters in I Brake for Moose.

GK: Completely by chance.

MA: Many of the characters are immigrants. I love the way the immigrant experience is all over. You are normalizing the immigrant story within American literature, which is so important.

GK: I am so glad to hear you got that from it.

MA: We (and by “we” I meant white people) tend to use the “other” as a story device, rather than the main story. But when you walk around a city, you aren’t walking around only white people. It is a diverse experience.

GK: There are two ways to look at this. I couldn’t write a whole book of stories about Indian immigrants. That wasn’t the way I was raised. You know New York. You’re raised around all different kinds of people and all those lives are interesting. That was part of it. But part of it was that issue of displacement. Who feels it? People who are immigrants or exiles. But there are also people who aren’t immigrants in this book.

MA: The teenage groupies [in the story “I Brake for Moose”]. What made you decide you want to write about early college-age girls who follow a band around? 

GK: I just wanted to write about that particular moment when you are really confused and have no direction. I knew people in bands. I was interested in this idea of being on the road and being very unhappy. Then I thought, how many Indian girls go on the road in 1987 with a band, and how would they do it. My parents would have had a heart attack.

MA: There is an Indian guy in the band, so that is what makes it okay with her parents.

GK: Exactly—and I don’t think my parents would have fallen for that, but I thought, I couldn’t write about her without her parents. It didn’t seem possible to me that she could pick up and go without telling her parents. I thought: I can’t kill her parents. There are so many dead parents in all my stories. It’s just a convenience at this point. I will have to make her deal with it. That story took me forever to write, damn it.

MA: How long?

GK: I remember sitting in my apartment trying to write it. I remember writing it out by hand on a legal pad. I could not find the form. Then I read a story by Joyce Carol Oates and I was like, “Why don’t I try this?” I thought, “If she could do it, why can’t I?” I would say it took me five years. I was writing other things. I work best when I work on multiple things.

MA: You have written about working on multiple projects in “The Other Things We Do: Knitting” [Necessary Fiction].

GK: My sister and I have talked about this. We are process knitters, not product knitters, so we will get really distracted by shiny new yarn, the feel of the yarn in the needles, and if the feeling isn’t right, it is hard to finish something. You lose interest. You learned what you needed to learn from that particular project and it is almost finished or halfway done and now you are ready to move on. I do think finishing is important. I am not saying you should have a lot of unfinished writing around you, that can be very distracting, but I seem to go through phases where I am creating a lot of stuff, starting things, trying them out. Then I will undo them or come back to them and start again. There is just this very messy process for me. I remember a friend of mine who said that when he works on a novel, he works on nothing else. I tried that. For a few years, I wrote a novel; I worked on nothing else and it was really hard.

MA: It sounds isolating.

GK: It was very lonely and isolating. There were all these parts of my life I couldn’t engage in and all these things I couldn’t do. It was not a pleasurable way to work. I finished the novel, but then everything hinged on getting it published and that wasn’t pleasurable for me either. I really had to rethink my relationship to my work, and the knitting is a way to rethink it.

MA: You want it to pleasurable to write.

GK: Yes. You want it to be pleasurable and you don’t want everything to be hinging on that perfect sweater. I make a lot of things that don’t fit me. I give away a lot of my knitting. I really get a lot of pleasure from doing it. That is how I feel about writing. I really enjoy just writing. Once I lifted that ban of not writing everything else, it freed me in many ways. I really need that distance.

MA: In this program, we often discuss how to represent characters who are not who you are.

GK: The “other.”

MA: Yeah, the “other.” You do that a lot. The story, “Crossing Cabot Straight,” features a white woman who is married to an Indian man. You write white characters. In I Brake for Moose, I remember a compelling character [in “Missing Men”] who was an African immigrant. They are different from you. They have different experiences. How do you go about creating those characters?

GK: It’s tricky, right? I am never sure I am doing it right or that someone isn’t going to read it and say, “Whoa, that’s an old trope you are engaging in, and why are you doing that?” But these are stories that attach themselves to these characters, and I couldn’t tell them any other way. That story, “Missing Men,” is an outtake from my novel. There were three characters in that book: a white man—a half-French, half-English Canadian—an Indian-American woman, and this African character, whom I deliberately did not attach to a country. In fiction, what is important to me is to explore these other lives and imagine what it’s like to be these people, and even [to write] from a male point of view. It’s not like you say, “I am going to write this from a male POV.” It is, “This is the story and it needs to be told this way.” I was influenced early on­­––I didn’t think about this until I was writing this book­––by Bharati Mukherjee, The Middle Man and Other Stories, which has its flaws but takes on multiple immigrant perspectives very deliberately. I don’t feel like I did that as deliberately in this book, but [Mukherjee] really wanted to represent that immigrant experience across cultures. There is a Filipino character and there is an Indian character in one of the stories. Whether [my effort] is successful is hard for me to gauge. I am too close to my work. All I know is that these are lives that I find very compelling and interesting.

I am very much influenced by the reading I do. I read a lot of nonfiction. That story about the African character was influenced by two things: a story I heard years ago, from a friend who was Ethiopian, and my reading of The Emperor: [The Downfall of an Aristocrat], by Ryszard Kapuscinski, which was about Ethiopia. For a long time, I was reading about the breakup of Yugoslavia, and this influenced one of my other stories [“Small Bang Only”]. I wanted to write about someone without a country, no way to go home. His passport changed, it’s completely invalid, but I didn’t want to write about the particulars of those places.

MA: Which forces me as a white-American reader, who is not super well informed, to think about the interior world of the character, which creates empathy. At first, I worried that I should know which country he was from and then I realized that no, this was about his interior world. You are great at creating the interior world of characters and portraying their intimate experiences. They are immigrants, they are having experiences that maybe seem like a trope of an immigrant experience­­­­––and tropes exist for a reason––but then you delve into their interior space within that experience. Your characters are full of doubt and confused about their lives.

GK: Confusion seems to interest me. It’s not something I set out to do, but in both those stories, I didn’t want the politics to overshadow the individuals. We have these big political stories, but it’s the individuals within those stories that interest me. That is why I tried to go for this kind of mystery about where they are from. It wasn’t to make you feel like you have to Google this stuff, but to make you hone in on the character rather than the situation. Hone in on the story, not the situation.

MA: What other writers do you see doing this type of work with the immigrant experience?

GK: We Need New Names, by NoViolet Bulawayo. What I loved in that book was the back and forth between the life in Africa that she left behind and this new life here. You know there is normalizing the immigrant experience and exoticizing it­—opening this little door into immigrant life just to see what it’s like—and I don’t know where to draw the line between those two things. I like stories where the fact of the person’s immigration status is part of the story, but not the whole story; that there is something else going on. Those are the stories where you empathize with the person beyond their status. Jhumpa Lahiri does a great job in her short stories.

MA: We talk about unreliable narrators a lot in CNF. You want your narrator to have some space from the experience. What does that mean for really young writers in their twenties and thirties writing memoir?

GK: It’s tough because you have to create that distance yourself, and that would mean knowing who you are now and knowing who you were then. It’s very hard. I have a friend who has been working on her memoir. She has been working on it a long time and has an interesting story, but she is about twenty years younger than me. There are all kinds of issues, especially if you are writing about your parents and they are still alive. Finding that distance is really hard, especially when you are living through some of the experiences you are trying to write about. I don’t think it makes you necessarily unreliable, but what the reader gets is a sense that you are withholding.

MA: But it’s stuff you don’t know yet.

Unless you are willing to look at yourself straight-on, memoir is not for you.

GK: It’s stuff you don’t know or stuff you can’t look at because the self-examination is too painful. Unless you are willing to look at yourself straight-on, memoir is not for you. There are times in our lives when we can do that and times in our lives when we can’t. Sometimes, when you are younger, it is just harder. How do you create that distance that says, “This is who I am now, this is who I was then, and who I am now can look back on who I was then and treat her with kindness and empathy and understanding even as she is saying the most horrible racist things on earth”? Or whatever. [This is true] when you write about depression or trauma.

Sue Williams Silverman: her memoir was about being abused by her father and it is painful to read, but it is very artful. She creates these sections. Starting from the time she is four, she recreates these different voices and levels of knowingness, so the reader knows what is happening before the narrator knows. That is a kind of unreliability, but you’re in the hands of a much older writer and you know she is doing this on purpose. There is a real structure to it. It is a deeply painful book to read. I found it hard, but if you can step back from the material and look at the craft, it is revealing. By imagining these voices that are related to the ages she has at different points of the book and recreating herself at those different ages, she sets up these structures for herself to work in and these limitations. I would say that [as a] younger memoirist, [you] should define a structure that you can work within that would give you that distance. I would hate to say, “Oh, you’re too young to write a memoir!” Those are blanket statements that don’t give anyone useful information. Maybe you write the draft of your memoir now and ten years later, you come back and rewrite it and it is a different book, but you have all the stuff you are thinking about now.

MA: In an interview with the online journal Creative Nonfiction, you mention that you wish you had known that you didn’t necessarily need to go to graduate school to become a writer. Your nonfiction piece, “On Leaving Home,”­­ progresses through the various stages of leaving home and the mutual freedom and discomfort that come with it. In it, you describe being unhappy and isolated in graduate school. You describe an experience when the white students were not respectful to you. [They had not read the work and they were snickering in the back of the room.] This is a topic that has been discussed a lot lately. I am thinking about Junot Diaz in his New Yorker article, “MFA vs POC,” and about Claudia Rankine’s keynote at AWP in Los Angeles in 2016. Can you share any more about your graduate school experience?

GK: I felt very unseen, invisible in graduate school. I didn’t attribute it to racism at the time, because I was so lacking in confidence that it seemed to be all about me and not about the other people. I didn’t feel that I was a very good writer compared to everyone else, and that part of me deserved to be ignored. So, it is this internalized view of the self. I would do things like write these stories and I knew the characters were Indian, but I would make up weird names for them and pretend they weren’t. I was too young to be in graduate school. That is the number-one lesson I got from that, I was too young, too sensitive, too unsure of myself.

I had not been an English major as an undergraduate. I had majored in Afro-American studies and government. Majoring in Afro-American studies gave me a false sense of what the world was like. When I went to the English department, I was like, “Where are all the classes on people of color?” This was in the eighties and I don’t think I even used that term [people of color]. I thought, “Aren’t there any classes in Afro-American lit?” I couldn’t believe it. I don’t know why. I just didn’t understand why there weren’t classes in Afro-American lit in the English department. It left me feeling lost, because that was my home in literature. That was what I had spent four years studying and writing about and suddenly none of that mattered. It just didn’t. People were talking about writers that I didn’t feel anything about, which was alienating. But I don’t think I understood it in that way. I just kind of understood myself as a failure.

MA: A lot of people will relate to that experience.

GK: Really? That is so sad. I am sorry about that. That’s why I think a low-residency program would have been better for me. That one-on-one mentoring would have served me better. I felt lost in the crowd. There was no help for it; I was underprepared and it was a bad combination of things. If I had more guts and been a little more brassy, maybe if I had been fifty-four, I would have said, “Hey, this is bullshit!” But at twenty-three, I would just come home and cry all the time and my mom was like, “You’re gonna finish this degree.”

MA: In this program [AULA], we don’t spend that much time around a table critiquing one another’s work. Just one crit per residency. And these crit groups are different every residency, so you don’t have the same group in each critique, which breaks up the ability for these biases to compound on one another. The group dynamic is always changing. In full-time residential programs, I believe it is the same people all the time, so the same dominant voices might take up space.

GK: What you are looking for in graduate school are your readers for this future. This exposure to different people is like you finding your people. The people you will stay in touch with after you graduate, who you will send your first drafts to. And it may only be one or two people.

MA: You are an editor for the Kenyon Review. As students in this MFA program, many of us work as editors for Lunch Ticket. Because it is a student-run journal, we do this for free. How do you get to do this for money?

GK: I wish the money were so good that I could recommend this as a job. It is practically like doing it for free. The way I see the money part of it, is that it pays for me to take classes or do other things. I got the job totally by chance. I was at the right place at the right time. They had published my food essay many years before. When Nancy Zafris stepped down as fiction editor, I had already been at the workshop once as a student and she suggested my name. I moved on to become nonfiction editor. It was not something I set out to do. I see it as a literary citizenship. I enjoy finding new writers. A lot of submissions are very good but are not quite right for us, and I think those pieces are going to find a home. Someone else will take it.

It is important to depersonalize that process. When I first started editing, I was intimidated because so much good work was getting turned away, and [so] I didn’t send out my work for about a year. It took a while to say, “Okay, I can get my work out there again, I don’t have to perfect or [be] the best. You just have to be good enough.”

MA: Do you write notes when you decline a piece? Do you suggest revisions?

GK: I don’t suggest revisions. If we make a suggestion for a revision, it has to be with the agreement of everyone [on staff] and it has to be doable. We have less time for that because the volume is so huge.

MA: So, a rejection doesn’t mean “this piece stinks.”

GK: Right. You just don’t know what is going to hit what reader at what time, so you absolutely can’t take it personally.


Meredith Arena

Meredith Arena is from New York City and resides in Seattle, where she works as a teaching artist in the public schools and facilitates meditation for adults. She is a student in the MFA program at Antioch University Los Angeles. She is a creative nonfiction editor on Lunch Ticket. Her work has appeared in Entropy, Lunch Ticket, and SHIFT Queer Art & Literary Magazine.