Illuminating Fiction

Illuminating Fiction

Illuminating Fiction

A Collection of Author Interviews

with Today’s Best Writers of Fiction

Edited by

Sherry Ellis

 Red Hen Press | Los Angeles, CA

Illuminating Fiction

Copyright © 2009 by Sherry Ellis

All rights reserved

No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the prior written permission of both the publisher and the copyright owner.

Cover art:

Edward Hopper 1882-1967

Soir Bleu, 1914

Oil on canvas, Overall: 36 x 72in. (91.4 x 182.9cm)

Whitney Museum of American Art, New York;

Josephine N. Hopper Bequest 70.1208

© Heirs of Josephine N. Hopper, licensed by the Whitney Museum of American Art.

Photography by Jerry L. Thompson

Layout by Sydney Nichols

ISBN: 978-1-59709-068-1

Library of Congress Catalog Number: 2009924820

The Annenberg Foundation, the National Endowment for the Arts, the California Arts Council, and the James Irvine Foundation partially support Red Hen Press.

Published by Red Hen Press

www.redhen.org

First Edition

Acknowledgements

With heartfelt gratitude to my agent Jenoyne Adams, whose dedication and determination helped me bring this book to fruition, and to my editor Kate Gale, whose attention to detail assisted me in making this the best book it could. With thanks to my niece Laurie Lamson, who conceived of gathering these interviews into a collection; to my sister Phyllis Shinder, who in the very beginning helped me develop the form for these interviews; to Sarah Anne Johnson, whose workshop I took on conducting author interviews; and to my loving and supportive friends Sharon O’Halloran and Maeve Moses, who encouraged my efforts and were always there to help me along the way.

Some of the interviews collected in this book were previously published in the following publications: Agni online: Creature of Habit, Interview with Jill McCorkle (2003), Blindfolds, Hypnotism and Chairs, Interview with Lise Haines (2003); the Bloomsbury Review: Coming to Elvis, Interview with Chris Abani (Vol. 25, Issue 1, Jan/Feb 2005); Glimmer Train: What I Will Follow, Interview with Mary Yukari Waters (Issue 57, Winter 2006), Novels as Omnivores, Interview with Matthew Sharpe (Issue 58, Feb 2006); the Iowa Review: Memories That Reach Back into Consciousness, Interview with Lan Samantha Chang (Vol. 36, No. 2, 2006); the Kenyon Review (online edition): A Little in Common, Interview with Margot Livesey (Nov 2005); New Millennium Writings: A Palette of Words, Interview with Julia Glass (2005/2006); Post Road: Mistress of Ceremonies, Interview with Elizabeth Searle (Issue 8, Spring/Summer 2004); Provincetown Arts: A Chat with Paul Lisicky, Interview with Paul Lisicky (2003/2004), Growing the Story, Interview with Fred Leebron (2004/2005); and the Writer’s Chronicle: Imagined Worlds, Interview with Edward P. Jones (Vol. 37, No. XX, December 2004), An Inventory of Ron Carlson, Interview with Ron Carlson (Vol. 38, No. 6, May/Summer 2006), Revealing Your Characters, Interview with Steve Almond (Vol. 39, No. 6, May/Summer 2007).

This book is dedicated to the memory

of my beloved mother Jeannette Sokoloff

Introduction

As a child, my weekly pilgrimages to the local library were among my favorite parts of the week. I loved reading books of fiction and when I was only four years old I tried to get my first library card. As I grew older I continued to be an avid reader.

The next step in my fiction pursuit began when I was in my mid-forties. I wanted to write a fictional account of a family that I worked with in my role as a social worker. Never having studied writing before, I began to take summer workshops led by well-known writers. At that time I never imagined I would conduct interviews with several of the authors who led these workshops.

My fascination with the study of fiction writing expanded. The idea to conduct author interviews was spawned one day when I decided to take an author interview workshop. I had already spent the last twenty-five years conducting interviews in my role as social worker, with substance abusers and families in need. I thought that perhaps my already existing skills as an interviewer would transfer, in part, to the role of author interviewer. While there are key differences between the two types of interviews, the ability to ask pertinent questions and give focused attention to detail is similar.

At first I requested interviews with authors with whom I had studied: Jill McCorkle, Ron Carlson, and Paul Lisicky. As I developed confidence in my interviewing abilities my circle widened. I had the wonderful fortune to secure interviews with other such highly renowned authors as Edward P. Jones, Julia Glass, Arthur Golden, Amy Bloom, Yiyun Li, Chris Abani, Steve Almond, and Lan Samantha Chang, as well as several other writers.

It has been a unique and marvelous experience to peek into the minds of these writers. As you read these interviews I hope you will enjoy learning about their work habits, how they conceived of their novels and stories, how they refined and enhanced them, how they developed their styles, what they consider to be their strengths and weaknesses, and who their mentors are. As a student of fiction I learned that every writer is different and that there is no one path to becoming an author. What is essential is to have drive and tenacity, a commitment to developing your authentic voice, a good story, and self-empowerment.

All of the authors I interviewed were generous with their responses and their time. I thank them all for gracing the pages of Illuminating Fiction.

A Note About the Order

The interviews in Illuminating Fiction are organized with the goal of emulating the vigor and flow of a gripping novel or short story. Interviews with well-known authors are interspersed with interviews with writers who are newer to the literary scene, to form a complete whole. Rather than handpick authors from an alphabetical listing, it is hoped that the reader will be interested in all of the interviews in Illuminating Fiction and read the book from beginning to end.

Foreword to Early Draft

from The Known World, by Edward P. Jones

It is with great delight and appreciation that I introduce the following excerpt from an early draft of the Pulitzer Prize–winning novel The Known World, by Edward P. Jones. This early section is included in Illuminating Fiction with the objective of showing not only the importance of the art and craft of fiction writing, but the importance of revision and the sculpting of a piece of work. One of the many things I’ve learned through conducting author interviews is that what an author chooses to keep in his work, the editorial path that he or she chooses, is as essential, if not more so, than the author’s initial vision.

Jones initially planned on having a very long piece in The Known World about the character Stamford and Stamford’s life after slavery. In this section Stamford would live in Richmond with his wife Delphie and they would run an orphanage for black children. A poor German couple would perish in a fire and leave their infant daughter behind. No white family would take the baby in and Stamford and Delphie would care for her. They would ultimately travel to Germany to bring the child to relatives too poor to travel to America. Jones intended to concentrate on Stamford’s emerging sense that he was put on the earth to care for children. One can only imagine how The Known World would have been altered if Jones had chosen to include this passage and develop Stamford’s life in this manner.

I thank Mr. Jones for his generosity for contributing this early draft of The Known World to Illuminating Fiction.

Stamford

A Short Story by Edward P. Jones

The day and the sun all about him told that was true. Now, it mattered not how long he had wandered in the wilderness, how long they had kept him in chains, how long he had helped them and kept himself in his own chains; none of that mattered now. He saw Ellwood turn onto the street where he had business, the same street he would come back on to get to the Richmond Home for Colored Orphans. No, it did not matter, Stamford told himself. It mattered only that those kind of chains were gone and that he had crawled out into the clearing and was able to stand up on his hind legs and look around and appreciate the difference between then and now, even on the awful days when the now came dressed as the then. He was standing now on the very corner where more than a hundred years later they would put that first street sign—STAMFORD AND DELPHIE CROW BLUEBERRY STREET.

HERE IS WHERE HE BEGINS TO SING TO THE BABY.

The white child, having found the safety of sleep, released Stamford’s little finger. He would miss the little darling and he would worry that the place they had waiting for her in Germany would not make her happy and healthy. If the money could be found, he might have to send Delphie back with her to see what kind of place that Germany was. He might have to go himself. It was a pity that the child herself was not old enough to write back a letter that he would have to get someone to read, a letter saying, I have found home, Papa Stamford, and I am settled in at last. So somebody else would have to investigate how Germany treated her children.

Delphie turned and sighed in her sleep. Stamford stood, waited to make certain she was fast asleep and then placed the child in her crib. He knew how much she loved that crib and some way would have to be found for them to take it with her to Germany. He checked on Billie in his own crib and was satisfied that all was right.

In the hall, he looked up beyond the second floor, up to the ceiling on the third floor, and saw that nothing was out of place. In all the house there was only the sound that angels made when people let them sleep in peace.

He knocked on Delphie’s door and she opened it before there was a need for a second knock.

I been puttin my mind to studyin on why you and me don’t get together, Stamford said.

Delphie said, What?

Stamford grinned. The road to young stuff takes you through the forest of wide grins, the man had advised him. He grinned some more. You and me. Us together. Me and you puttin up together and bein as one human bein, is what I’m sayin.

Delphie stepped out of the cabin. She was not smiling because she was not very happy. I would not want that, Stamford. I would not want that at all.

Sure you do. You sure do. I’m tellin you I got what ails you, honey. Got that and more to spare. Just gimme one chance to show you what I gots, honey. Just one chance.

Delphie looked up and down the lane. The rain was gentle, not hard, and she could see that just by how the sparse patches of grass did not lean and complain when the rain hit them. Her eyes came back to Stamford and she realized that she pitied him more than she had ever pitied any human being. More than even a dead child laying dead and motherless in the road.

Stamford reached up and touched her breast. Now the titty, the man had advised, is the real talker on a woman, see. You have to tell it what you want even when that damn woman is saying you don’t really want that young stuff. Talk to the titty first and the door will open just like that.

Delphie took his hand from her breast, firmly, and let it drop down to his side. The rain stopped and, still grinning, he looked around to see what the commotion was all about. When he returned, she was waiting. I would not ever be with you, she said. She stepped closer to him and for just that moment he was hopeful, forgetting her words and taking in the smell of her. Delphie put her hands to his shoulders, grasped them. You too heavy a man for me to carry, Stamford. I done carried men and I know how they can break your back. I ain’t got but that one back and I don’t want to give it to somebody like you. She stepped back, turned and went into her home. She was used to nursing people, trying to heal them, and so it was it was a long moment before she shut the door.

Stamford stepped out into the lane, into mud. The man, the adviser, was silent in his head. He walked absently toward Caldonia’s house as the mud tugged on his shoes and pulled him down. When the rain started up again, he understood that he was actually walking away from his own cabin and he turned around and through the heavy rain tried to make out just which cabin was his own. He went down the lane. The mud pulled at him. He walked on and gradually became aware of his surroundings. He passed Celeste and Elias’s cabin. He stopped. It’s rainin, he thought. It’s pourin down rain out here.

He went on. He had no more heart for the world, and if God had asked him if he was ready right then, Stamford would have said, Take me on home. Or spit down to hell, I don’t care anymore. Just take me away from this. ??? cabin door opened and ??? came out carrying a bucket. At the lane she slipped and fell into the mud. Stamford saw her and reached down and picked up her and the bucket. What you doin out here in all this mess, child? If he knew once what her name was, he had long ago forgotten it.

Goin to get some blueberries, ??? said. In one part of the world, way off to their right, lightning came and went quickly before the man or the girl knew what had happened.

What? Stamford said. The thunder came and both people knew it was not just rain but a storm as well.

Some blueberries. Gonna pick me and my brother some blueberries.

You ain’t got no business bein out in all this mess. Ain’t you heard that thunder and lightnin.

??? said, Whatn’t no thunder and lightnin when I came out. Just rain. All there was some rain. The bucket now had some rain it and she turned it upside down. She looked a bit disgusted with herself that she had added to all the water on the ground. Her face seemed to say, I really didn’t mean to do that.

Gimme that thing, Stamford said. You get back on into that house. He took the bucket and saw for the first time that her little brother was standing in the door. She saw what he saw in the door and said, ???, didn’t I tell you to keep that door closed.

The boy shut the door.

Stamford said, Where you mama, child?

Up to the big house, helpin to clean up.

Well, where your daddy be?

Out to the barn, helpin with that sick horse. She looked back to make sure her brother had closed the door. She said, But we done had dinner, so that ain’t it. Me and ??? just felt like some blueberries.

Stamford sighed. He wanted death more than anything but he could take a little detour now. He said, Just go on back in the house and I’ll go get some blueberries.

Anough for ???, too, ??? said.

Yes, Stamford said and emptied out what little bit of rain there was in the bucket. I’ll get some for both yall. You and him both. He knew he would have made Delphie a good man, would have made her happy until some real good young stuff came along and he had to tell her bye bye. He realized now that he had come to the end of his life. He just wished he was the kind of man who could throw himself down a dry well. Go on home, child, he said to ???. Please, go on home. ??? went to the door, opened it, went inside and shut the door.

He stepped toward where he knew the blueberries were, again the only person walking in the lane. He had heard of a poison plant one man had taken to get to the other side, but because he had never thought he would want to die, he had not taken note of what the plant was or where it could be found. The thunder and lightning were closer but he wasn’t very aware of them. He was aware that it was raining and that, along with getting blueberries, was just about all his mind could hold onto right then. A woman on one plantation had sharpened a stone and cut both her wrists. Bled out into the ground. He had heard that she was a real pretty woman so that must have been a waste of good stuff. Maybe she was a cripple like Celeste. Pretty was good. Cripple, not so good. The man, the adviser, was still silent, and Stamford went beyond the lane out into a wide place not far from the useless forest where Moses went to be with himself.

He stepped and tried to make out where someone had said the sweetest berries could be had. He blinked and raised a hand to shield his eyes from the rain. The thunder and lightning were now even closer, about two miles or so beyond where he believed the sweetest things could be picked. Best hurry, he thought. Best get outta this weather. He wanted to die but he wasn’t particular about catching a cold to do it.

The patch he found was priceless and he was done in less than a half hour. He hefted the bucket. Yes, that would satisfy a boy and a girl bellies until supper. He walked away from the patch, the useless forest on his right, the patch on his left, the lane and the cabins ahead. He was on a nice piece of ground that some women said had the prettiest baby’s breaths and morning glories. He had picked some when he was courting Gloria. Beautiful flowers in a man’s sweaty hands. But they got the job done. Yessiree bob. Maybe he could kill her before he died. That would learn her. Send her ass to hell so she could sit on one of the devil’s wobbly two-legged stools for the rest of eternity just so she could ponder what she done to him. Kill her and then sit on a rise himself and watch her suffer for the rest of eternity. The rain continued and the storm was nearer than he realized.

He didn’t pay very much attention to the first crack of thunder, but the second one turned his head around. He was in time to see the tree in the forest shake. Moments later, he could see the first crow flying as if upside down, heading toward the ground. The second crow flying upside down told him it wasn’t flying but death that had hold of them. It took less time for him to blink before the second crow joined the first on the ground. Then he saw that the lightning was sitting on a tree limb, and Stamford knew that the crows hadn’t been a satisfying enough a meal. He set the bucket of blueberries on the ground. Maybe someone would find it and take it to the children. He went toward the lightning in the tree, and while the lightning couldn’t see him very well, it started down the side of the tree. It was purplish in the tree but before it reached the ground, it was quite blue, quite sleek, as tall as two tall men.

Before he had gone six feet, Stamford turned and looked at the bucket of blueberries. If someone was to find it and know who it was for, the bucket, he thought, should be closer to the quarters. He went back and moved the bucket three feet closer to the children back in their cabin. The rain never let up.

When he turned back, the lightning was at full power on the ground, quivering, one long blue blade of death. But the longer it stood waiting for the man, the more its eyesight improved. Stamford began to run toward it. Someone else would have to do the job on Gloria. He could wait for her on that rise in hell.

When the man and death were only about twelve feet apart, the lightning saw him and it began to dissolve into the ground. When it was one long streak on the ground, it moved away from Stamford. The man hollered at it. When he was only a few feet from the dead crows, the lightning stabbed another tree and split it in two. The man arrived at the forest in time to see the pieces separate and fall away from each other. The tree parts were silent as they made their way down. His heart sank, and then it sank some more.

He stood at the crows. If I could bottle that young stuff, I would be a rich man. Why hell, just one sniff of the bottle stopper would make me a prince. Stamford knelt down. The birds had fallen in very chaotic fashion, but somehow they had ended up on the ground as well laid out as a body in a coffin. Their glistening wings had been smoothed out, their eyes closed tenderly, and they lay side by side, just as they must have stood side by side before death snuck up on them.

Every single damn day was one unfair thing after another. Stamford licked the fingers of his right hand and rubbed the crow laid out on the left and then licked his fingers again. He closed his eyes and waited. When nothing happened, he did the same with the crow on the right. Neither bird seemed interested in sharing its little piece of death. He stood up and looked down at them. All right, he said to them. I won’t grudge you that. He felt a heaviness hitting his head and thought it was just more rain. When it kept on, it touched the top of his head and pulled down what he began to realize was the yolks of eggs. To tell him that he was right, a piece of egg shell fell into his open hand. He knelt back down and placed the shell into the fold of the wing of the crow on the right and rubbed the yolk on the bird on the left. The ground opened up and took the birds in.

This was how Stamford Crow Blueberry began. In 1909 the colored people in Richmond unofficially renamed a very long street for him. Those colored people who insisted on calling the street what the white people had officially named it were considered ignorant and were put to shame. Letters to colored people with the official name of the street on them were returned and people had to find another way to send letters and whatnot to colored people living along the street. In 1987 the city of Richmond renamed the street for Mr. and Mrs. Blueberry and put up signs all along the way to prove that it was official. It was more than a hundred years before that, in 1878, that Mr. Blueberry reluctantly told a man from Howard University all about the crows and the egg shell and how he made his name, how the Richmond Home for Colored Orphans had its beginnings.

Moving toward the bucket of blueberries, Stamford held his hands out and bit by bit the rain washed away the last of the yolks. He came to the bucket and knelt and felt that maybe the bucket didn’t have enough. But the children had been waiting a long time and he didn’t want to disappoint them. He shook the bucket, thinking that might make it look fuller. It helped, but not by much. A young child might be fooled but not an older one. His shoulders dropped with disappointment. He saw one blueberry rolling down a little hill in the bucket and he caught it. He held the berry between his fingers, began to squeeze it. It bled a little juice. The blueberry was now useless and he regretted having squeezed it. Not to let it go to waste, he put it in his mouth. It was passable; God had given him a head full of good teeth, but not a one of them was sweet. The rain kept on and he began to worry that soon the bucket would have more rain than blueberries. He chewed and swallowed the berry, and then he raised his eyes to see the cabin coming his way through the air. It was not moving in any threatening and so Stamford was not afraid. But he did stand up.

All the cabins along the lane looked the same except to whomever lived in them. Stamford only knew it wasn’t his cabin. The cabin settled down to the ground and rested a few feet before him. The door opened and ??? stood there, her hands behind her back, quite pleased with herself in that way little girls can look when they have a secret and are dying to tell it. She opened her mouth, her teeth, her tongue blue, a girl happy with her blueberries. Her brother appeared beside her and he opened his blue to show his happiness as well. The boy shut the door and the cabin and went back the way it had come. The closed door might have acted like a kind of eye because the cabin turned around so the door so see the way back.

After he had given the bucket to the children, Stamford stood in the lane in the mud and the rain and counted the doors to the cabins where children lived. He left out the