An Interview with _____________________________

I’m cleaning up some old folders and files on my computer this month. Here is an interview I did for a magazine that, for whatever reason (probably editor dipshittery), lost track of the piece and never published it.

How long did it take you to write all the stories in your collection?

The oldest story dates back to 1998. The most recent story was first drafted in 2007. But most of the stories were in recognizable form by 2002, so Naked Summer has taken nine years to make it into book form.

Did you have a collection in mind when you were writing them?

Not at first. But eventually I tried to find a tuning fork, a story that might resonate with the others and point readers toward some kind of unifying theme. That theme changed over time, as did the story I’d considered the tuning fork, which was just one reason the collection took so long to finish. 

How did you choose which stories to include and in what order?

I pulled a piece from the collection after it evolved into a novella, what is now the anchor of another collection of stories. I ditched another story after an agent said she didn’t like it. But mostly these are the stories I had to work with — I’m not blessed with dozens and dozens of short stories just waiting to find a home — so I ordered them in a rather simplistic fashion: I began with the shortest, ended with the longest, and tried to separate stories that might have too many elements in common (similar protagonists, points of view, subject matter, length, and so on). Over the years, I’d tried other strategies for ordering the stories, but this grouping just felt right.

What does the word “story” mean to you?

In two words? Trouble and glimpse. Eudora Welty said that “only trouble is interesting” in fiction, and that idea burrowed deep into my psyche. Of course, trouble has many definitions. And this says nothing of the trouble a writer might have in finding publication for an otherwise good book of stories. William Trevor has called short stories “the art of the glimpse,” which I’ve always loved, the way an intense moment, or brief series of moments, with a character can illuminate that character’s life, and thus the human condition, for readers. There is great power in small things. Attempting to write a good story is like harnessing the atom.

Do you have a “reader” in mind when you write stories?

I didn’t have a reader in mind when writing these stories. [Edit to add: Why “reader,” anyway?] But now that the book is out in the world, I’ve met actual readers. This summer I was in Louisville for a week, scoring high school writing exams for a corporation that administers them to great profit. They bring in high school teachers and college professors to score the students’ work, so I found myself at a table with other English teachers not long after the publication of Naked Summer. Many of my co-workers bought the book, and they began talking to me about it during breaks, or before the work days officially began. At first I was uncomfortable with the idea of essentially being held captive by readers who could nit-pick any inconsistency or imperfection in the book. Why does Character X do this or that? But nothing like that happened. 

Instead, one teacher asked if any of the stories might appeal to his students — he wanted to teach my work — and another asked if Tim O’Brien was an influence. She thought one particular story had “an O’Brien feel” to it. I thought she was just making nice, or comparing my book to another work of contemporary fiction she knew. But after I looked at my story again, I saw that it uses a paragraph-long list near the end, which is probably something I picked up from many readings of “The Things They Carried,” though it wasn’t a conscious decision on my part. Or, if it was, I’ve long since forgotten about that decision. Later that week, the same reader wanted to talk about Jhumpa Lahiri and Alice Munro, two writers I greatly admire. So I guess now I hope for readers like them, ones who appreciate a good sentence and are open to good stories, and who, at times, might be better attuned to the work than I am as its author.

Is there anything you’d like to ask someone who has read your collection, anything at all?

I’ve found that I don’t have to ask questions — readers are all too happy to share their impressions, thoughts, or objections on their own. I just try to keep my mouth shut and the worrying to a minimum. 

How does it feel knowing that people are buying your books?

Many writers would have given up on this manuscript a long time ago, so to see it out in the world, in the hands of strangers, is a good feeling. And, because I was so focused on this collection for so many years, it’s also liberating. I can move on. I began many other manuscripts during the nine years I spent making this book, so I have lots of options now, but this one, at least, can be put to rest. What’s done is done.

What are you working on now?

Two novels. A linked collection of stories. Several graphic novel projects. I like to use all of the burners, the oven, and even the warming drawer.