Elizabeth Crane’s story “Turf” appears in the September 2009 issue of The Collagist. She is the author of three collections of short stories, When the Messenger is Hot, All this Heavenly Glory, and You Must Be This Happy to Enter. Her work has also been featured in numerous publications, anthologies and on NPR’s Selected Shorts. She is a recipient of the Chicago Public Library 21st Century Award, and her work has been adapted for the stage by Chicago’s Steppenwolf Theater company, and has also been adapted for film. She currently teaches at UCR Palm Desert’s Low Residency MFA program.

1. Can you talk about the inspiration for “Turf”? What was on your mind while you were writing this story?

I’m not sure there’s ever much of anything on my mind when the writing is going well, kind of the opposite, but the inspiration was a real-life incident that I thought had story potential.

2. You’ve made a choice in this story to render all of the proper names of people and places here strange by replacing their first sounds with the letter “H,” resulting in a story set in Hicago, where the “two main characters… are the dog walker Hulie and the dog owner Helizabeth.” We’ve debated the reasons for this choice, and the best I’ve come up with is that it’s a way of both acknowledging the real life roots of this story—characters seemingly based on yourself and your husband Ben both appear in the story—for instance. Is that the main reason for the Hs, or is there something else I’ve missed?

I think you basically have it right, I of course intended for my own name and parts of my bio to be recognized, and I felt like I’d kind of seen enough writers flat out use their own names in fiction that I wanted to put my own spin on it.  Mostly I was having fun; when I wrote it I thought this device was hilarious, not just the idea of cloaking it in this really obvious way, but even just the goofy sound of the words with Hs instead of whatever they’d be. Very often, just the sound of words put together in a certain way can be a pleasure for me.  Afterward, as is often the case, I wondered if anyone would think it was funny or if they’d just be annoyed.  Which seems to be a risk I’m always interested in, walking that line, and I’m sure I don’t always succeed, but it sure is fun when I’m writing.  Also, I think, the actual drama seemed so heavy to me when I wrote it that I thought maybe the humor of the Hs would balance it out a little.

3. Despite the obvious similarities in character and setting to your real life, I wouldn’t presume that the story itself is necessarily close to any factual occurrence. Is it actually based on a real life experience? If so, how far did fictionalizing it take you away from the facts?

The dialogue is as close as I could remember, although in the story it does say that this took place over nearly an hour, which it did, so other stuff was clearly said in real life that’s left out. It should go without saying that I had to completely invent the personal life of the woman I based the dog walker character on, because all I knew of her was just the barest external facts.  Also, my dog is not purple. He’s blue.  And I don’t watch Grey’s Anatomy.

4. Structurally, I’m intrigued by your choice to suspend the narrative of the story in favor of an extreme amount of character building and background. The sentence “Okay, so now we’ll finally move on to the story part of the story” appears approximately 1900 words in, over halfway through the piece. Most of the time, this kind of frontloading would result in a failure to launch, and technically, I think this story could still succeed if all of it were cut away (not that I’d want it to be!). I merely point this out because this is one of those clear examples of where a workshop or writing group might demand cuts, but where not following rules results in a richer, more satisfying experience. What about this particular narrative demanded this kind of unusual structure?

Here’s one part of the answer – I rarely think about the structure of a story before I write it.  It’s very instinctual; at some point I go, “Oh, look, this story seems to be in the form of an outline,” let’s see what else I can do with that, and then, it either works or it doesn’t (believe me I have lots of shelved stories that didn’t, for one reason or another).  The other part, the reason I was motivated to write the story, was to try to get to know her character, to look beyond what I was judging in real life, to try see her more fully, to try to imagine how a person gets to be this way, maybe, maybe even to see her side of the story.  (And you know, chuckle, without actually getting to know her.)  Originally, I was also hoping to make it more balanced, to make her more sympathetic, and for Helizabeth to not necessarily be the one you like more, and I’m not sure I succeeded in that.  But I did write it honestly, so there’s that.  Also you pretty much nailed it with the not-following-rules.  When I started writing stories I hardly understood the rules anyway.  Ha.

5. You’ve written three collections of short stories, When the Messenger is Hot, All This Heavenly Glory, and You Must Be This Happy to Enter, all published within the last five years or so. Despite each book closely following the last, I’m sure you’re able to see the ways in which your work has grown and changed since your first collection. How do you see the progression of your story writing since the stories in When the Messenger is Hot were written?

You always hope there will be growth as a writer, right?  Unsurprisingly, quite a few of the ones in the first collection were written some number of years before the book actually came out, and there were a few in the second collection as well that I had kept out of the first collection because I knew at some point that I was going to put together a collection about that one character.  Which is to say that they were somewhat more spread out in the actual writing of them.  Nevertheless, they were by and large written chronologically, and although I don’t think I’ve ever sat down and said, okay, what can I do differently this time, my interests in terms of subject matter are always changing, and that may dictate some change in the writing.  Also, after I used up all my childhood and horrible dating stories I had no choice but to get an imagination.  Ha.

6. What other writing projects are you currently working on?

Mostly stories, as usual.  I should have another collection ready before too long.

7. What great books have you read recently? Also, are there any upcoming releases you’re excited about?

I’ve probably said this already, but Steven Millhauser’s Dangerous Laughter knocked my socks off, as did Mary Otis’ Yes, Yes Cherries. I have no idea what’s coming out soon.   Do you have suggestions?

Angi Becker Stevens’ story “Even If You Were Here” appears in the September 2009 of The Collagist. You can listen here to Stevens reading her story as part of our podcast:

Episode 06: “Even If You Were Here” by Angi Becker Stevens (Enhanced Version)

Episode 06: “Even If You Were Here” by Angi Becker Stevens (MP3 Version)

You may also subscribe to the podcast through iTunes by clicking here, or you may add it manually in iTunes or other software by using the direct feed address: http://thecollagist.com/wordpress/?feed=podcast

Jason Bredle’s poem “The Proselytizer” appears in the September 2009 issue of The Collagist. is the author of two books and three chapbooks of poetry: A Twelve Step Guide (New Michigan Press, 2004); Standing in Line for the Beast (New Issues, 2007); Pain Fantasy (Red Morning Press, 2007); American Sex Machine (Scantily Clad Press, 2009); and Class Project (Publishing Genius, 2009).

Here, he speaks to The Collagist about the inspiration for his poem, as well as his upcoming Publishing Genius chapbook Class Project, absurdity in poetry, and his recent work with prose poems.

1. Can you talk about the inspiration for “The Proselytizer”? What was on your mind while you were writing this poem?

Science and religion and how we use those entities to try to find meaning in life, as well as their relationship with each other. Einstein, for instance, was always trying to prove what he called the cosmological constant – something he tried to work into his theorems that would justify his own religious beliefs, more or less something that proved there was a divine order to the universe. He was never able to prove it. Darwin was similarly conflicted, which is one of the reasons he waited so long to publish his theories. I’d also just watched The Book of Mormon Movie. It’s a pretty bad movie – there are Mormon-produced films I like more – but there’s a scene where Nephi doesn’t know what to do so he goes off on his own to pray, and God – represented by a male voice – tells him exactly what he should do. If only it could be that easy. I thought it would be neat to call something “The Proselytizer” and make it attempt to convert an imaginary audience to science. I should also mention that the line about circumcision is based on a Jim Gaffigan joke about Moses.

2. Seeing that your chapbook Class Project was coming out from Publishing Genius, I wrote Adam Robinson and got him to give me a sneak peak of the book. I loved the poems I read, but was also struck by the differences between those poems and “The Proselytizer.” The obvious difference is that your Collagist contribution is a prose poem and those are in lines, but I was also struck by the difference in the way humor was employed. In the Class Project poems, the humor seemed to be used to comment on the absurdity of life, while “The Proselytizer” seems to be building a more metaphysical statement out of that absurdity. Does that seem like an accurate depiction of this piece? If so, is it a thematic direction you see your work moving in as a whole?

I’d say that’s fairly accurate, though my ideas of absurdity have evolved over the years to the point where I don’t really know what, if anything, is actually absurd. Everything is just there and it’s up to the observer to decide if a particular thing is absurd or not. Like, I don’t think I have the authority to judge anything as absurd – it just exists. In Hopscotch, Julio Cortázar says something like, it’s not the things themselves that are absurd, it’s that the things are there and we think they’re absurd. It may even be the epigraph to the chapbook – I can’t remember. I think “The Proselytizer” is different from the poems in Class Project. For now this type of poem is the direction I’ve taken.

3. Was Class Project conceived of as a project, or was it built from individual poems that seemed to go together only after they were written separately? Is “The Proselytizer” part of a larger group of work yet?

It was built from individual poems that seemed to go together later. Those poems are part of a larger manuscript I’ve been trying to publish called Smiles of the Unstoppable – poems I’d written from 2005 to 2008 that were born out of what was going on in my life at the time. It’s basically my favorite poems from that larger manuscript. I like the various ways you can interpret the title – it could just be a project for school, it could be a project on social class, or it could be a project on style or lack of style.

4. I haven’t seen your earlier books, but so far “The Proselytizer” is the only prose poem of yours I’ve found. Is this a one-time thing, or something you’ve been exploring on a wider scale? Considering some of the similarities I see between your work and James Tate, I’d be interested if you were making a move toward the prose poem, if only because I feel like his own work has become more and more prose-like, especially in the last two books. What’s the advantage of prose poetry for a writer like yourself? What does it let you do that lineated poetry doesn’t?

I’ve found that in order to keep myself interested and excited, I have to try different things. Towards the end of writing the poems in Smiles of the Unstoppable, I found myself getting pretty tired of writing long sentences, so I started writing shorter sentences that attempted to strip away any sense of irony that may be present in my earlier work. I’ve always wanted to write prose poems (and in fact tried a few years ago but later scrapped those), so I decided to try prose poems with shorter sentences this time. I’ve written about 30 at this point and I’m pleased with the results. Weirdly, I think they’re less narrative than the poems I’d been writing, though I’m trying to employ narrative elements across poems so that there’s a little bit of a confusing adventure happening throughout most of the poems.

4. You’ve put out two books and three chapbooks of poetry in the last five years. That’s a pretty incredible pace of publication, and suggests that you keep a pretty rigorous schedule. Is there anything in particular about your schedule or routine that you think has enabled you to keep up this level of production?

It suggests a high level of production, but I finished Standing in Line for the Beast in 2000 and Pain Fantasy in 2004 – it just took a long time to get those published. Basically what keeps me going is just my love of writing. It’s one of my favorite things to do. I don’t keep any type of routine other than writing whenever I can, though.

5. What other writing projects are you currently working on?

My chapbook of prose poems, The Book of Evil, is coming out from Dream Horse Press in 2010.

6. What great books have you read recently? Also, are there any upcoming releases you’re excited about?

I just read The Mosquito Coast by Paul Theroux, which is great. I read J.M .Coatzee’s Waiting for the Barbarians about a year ago and it’s one of the best books I’ve ever read, as is Disgrace. I’m not really on the cutting edge of literature in terms of knowing what’s coming out or reading things right when they’re released. Of the poetry books I’ve read over the past year, I loved James Shea’s Star in the Eye, Raymond McDaniel’s Saltwater Empire, and Mark Halliday’s Keep This Forever. I’m most excited for my friends’ books to be released in the next couple of years – Jason Koo’s Man on Extremely Small Island on C&R Press and Marc McKee’s Fuse on Black Lawrence.

An excerpt from Laird Hunt’s Ray of the Star (Coffeehouse Press) appears in the first issue of The Collagist, published August 15, 2009. He the author of a book of short stories, mock parables and histories, The Paris Stories (2000), from Smokeproof Press, and three novels, The Impossibly (2001), Indiana, Indiana (2003), and The Exquisite (2006), all from Coffee House Press.

Here, he speaks to The Collagist about the inspiration for Ray of the Star, as well as the construction of “memory palaces,” the possibilities of constraint-based writing, and how to fight the “endless, miasmic affair” of novel writing.

1. Can you talk about the inspiration for Ray of the Star? What was on your mind while you were writing this novel?

In her recent novella, TOAF, Renee Gladman tracks her thoughts, albeit imperfectly, perhaps unfaithfully, over the weeks and months she spent in writing a previous work. I’d love to be able to do something like that: really try to sort out, a couple of years later, what was on my mind and what my mind was like, when I was writing Ray, and find some way to spin fictional gold from it, but that will have to wait for another occasion. So, in short: the Catalan city of Barcelona generally and the woozy-making buildings of Catalan architect Antoni Gaudi particularly; living statues; chapter-length sentences à la Durrenmatt’s The Assignment; and the gut-wrenching fears that can sneak up on you when you are a new parent, esp. one with a tendency to dream up bad dreams.

2. At the past AWP conference, you gave a paper as part of a panel on “Truth and Consequences in Non-Fiction,” that, frankly, was one of the best things I’ve heard or read all year. In that same paper, you also said that the characters you write “tend to be engaged, often obsessively, with in the construction of memory palaces. These palaces are not palaces at all. They are crumbly things. They contain great quantities of bric a brac… My protagonists tend to be very bad at system but very good at accumulation… they are tasked with dealing with aftermath: the rubble fields of time and memory.” What is it about these “memory palaces” that makes them so well suited to depicting the contemporary mind?

I can’t remember just this moment what war-ravaged African country was in question, but when I worked at the UN I read a report about that country’s formerly excellent now almost completely useless network of roadways. The roads had been bombed to bits, swallowed by jungle, obstructed by semi-permanent road blocks or let go to ruin. Another report that affected me greatly was on the presence, in what seemed innumerable former war zones, of innumerable land mines, which regularly killed or maimed humans, often children, and animals. These two reports (out of so many that dealt with human made disaster and consequence), in conjunction with a third about global lack of access to the so-called world wide web, impacted greatly on the way I thought about how minds go about their mysterious bricolage of consciousness.  We can privilege the gaps, the no-go zones, the areas where death and its metonyms lurk, but there is also the gleaming, smoking, steaming rubble, as well as the bright bands of connection, which are quite undeniable…  I think we deal with both, are obliged to deal with both, when we try to take stock of the contemporary mind.

3. In that same paper, you talked about how constraint-based writers “reify their belief… that devilish complexity in writing is the most appropriate way to attend to the devilish complexity of life. Life is a tricky, highly fraught affair. Sadness abounds.” Now, after having read Ray of the Star, I can’t help but go back to that paper, and to use it to read into your novel’s structure: as far as I can tell, the entire novel is written in sections which, while often spanning several pages, are each a single sentence long. What comes first for you: Is it the structure that suggests the character, or the character who suggests the structure?

Hard to say. The narrator and the novel’s main character (Harry) developed as the novel did. Some of the secondary characters and the city the action takes place in were sort of there as image units from the start, but nothing was terribly concrete, all of it was a haze. What is it that gets anything started?  Perec laid out all his constraints and word sets and other wizardry before writing Life: A User’s Manual, but I wouldn’t go so far as to say that he started with them. I just don’t know. I’m fairly certain I wanted to write a novel dealing with the aftermath of the worst loss before I came up with/came across the mechanism of the long sentences, but I can’t quite remember now. The Impossibly started with a child’s stapler. The Exquisite with the desire to explore the identity of the character at the center of Rembrandt’s The Anatomy Lesson. Indiana, Indiana dealt with, at least initially, nothing much more than loneliness in the face of a long winter’s night. I’m trying to look for trends here but don’t quite see them. Each book waged a long war on some set of problems that only slowly revealed themselves as I wrote. I suspect they all bear the traces of this fight.

4. What’s the hardest part of writing a novel in this way? What are the advantages?

Ha!  I’ve just admitted to not being sure there was any particular way of it – so it would be something for me to now speak to its pros and cons. Here’s the thing: writing novels for me, even ones written relatively quickly, is an endless, miasmic affair. The only way I’ve been able to keep myself feeling somewhat fresh in the face of so many hundreds of hours of work spread out across the years is to work on more than one project at a time, or rather to move from one project to the next until they slowly move toward something I can call done. Generally these projects have quite different characteristics. While I was working on Ray I started a long historical novel set in New York and Colorado in the 20s and 30s and a short historical novel set largely in antebellum Kentucky. Indiana, Indiana, The Impossibly and The Exquisite were all “in play” for longer than I care to remember. Perhaps then they are all one book. One giant chimera of a chimera. I shudder to think of it this way.

5. What other writing projects are you currently working on?

So, yes, the Colorado and the Kentucky books. They are both fairly close to feeling presentable. I have been flipping back and forth between them a fair amount this summer as I waited for Ray to come out. I’m not sure just before and just after a book comes out is the best time for me to be trying to deal seriously with the problems of other projects, but I seem to be under the sway of what Blanchot calls the “tyrannical prehension” – I can’t stop my fingers from moving toward the keyboard. Maybe someone ought to take said keyboard away from me.

6. What great books have you read recently? Are there any upcoming releases you’re excited about?

I very much enjoyed Forrest Gander’s As A Friend; am getting great pleasure out of reading Donald Breckenridge’s You Are Here; am looking forward to reading Joanna Ruocco’s The Mothering Coven; loved John Ehle’s The Landbreakers; quite enjoyed (but not so much as, say, Wyatt Mason who raved about it in the New York Times) Roberto Bolaño’s The Skating Rink; found fabulous Percival Everett’s I Am Not Sydney Poitier; really dug The Men by Lisa Robertson; and am looking forward to teaching Joanna Howard’s On the Winding Stair and Brian Evenson’s Fugue State this term.

Christopher Kennedy’s poem “Are You Looking for the Self-Help Section?” appears in the second issue of The Collagist, published September 15, 2009. You can listen here to Kennedy reading his poem as part of our podcast:

Episode 05: “Are You Looking for the Self-Help Section?” by Christopher Kennedy (Enhanced Version)

Episode 05: “Are You Looking for the Self-Help Section?” by Christopher Kennedy (MP3 Version)

You may also subscribe to the podcast through iTunes by clicking here, or you may add it manually in iTunes or other software by using the direct feed address: http://thecollagist.com/wordpress/?feed=podcast