In The Field: Conversations With Our Contributors—A. E. Wynter
In The Field: Conversations With Our Contributors—A. E. Wynter
Your two poems, “Retching,” which deals with generational trauma and generational choices that live within descendants, and “Now & Later,” which examines how people are taught to open themselves at a young age to experiences they don’t want, are beautiful, tightly-woven pieces. What was the impetus for their creation?
I think at the root of these two poems is an “I” that has both experienced and witnessed the ways that life can rob us of our innocence and choices. In “Now & Later,” we see a father impart unwanted teachings on a daughter, and I wanted to explore that assault on the self. Meanwhile,“Retching” widens the lens beyond our immediate, exploring the fear of what fractured histories our bodies may be housing. Can our genetic and ancestral coding dictate the future self and its options? But even more than fear, even more than life’s cruelty, these poems became a way to push back.
There’s a beat to “Retching” that pulses with the internal rhymes and repetition. What was your process for crafting the rhythm of this piece?
In “Retching,” I wanted the movement of the lines to mimic a sort of heaving—a burden being unloaded with very few pauses. So, I used very little punctuation, which I hope translated effectively to a quicker pace and rhythm.
As for the internal rhyme and repetition, that seemed to come naturally in this piece and it felt present from the very first draft. In fact, I’d describe “Retching” as one of those poems that just came right out of me (which feels appropriate), and when I first shared this poem with my writing group, they said they could feel the ancestors talking through me. So, as much as I worry about what fraught and fractured histories my body might be housing, I also know it’s housing immense power. “Retching” felt born in this power, and I leave credit with my ancestors, who I feel had something to say to me the day this was written.
“Now & Later” emphasized the importance of a lesson it took me ages to learn: having the choice to say no. This piece really struck home. When writing, do you think about the impact your pieces will have on the audience, or is your creation more internal until the world sees them?
First, really glad to hear the poem struck home. Learning you have the option and every right to say no is so so important. And teaching others to hear and respect no is essential. For me, the act of writing is very internal. I am analyzing, distilling, questioning my experiences and this world through a very personal lens, one shaped by my identity as a Black woman and all of its intersections. I want that process to go uninterrupted. When, and if, the audience enters my creative space, it is during the editing stage. At that point, I have gone through my process of discovery, and I have learned for myself what a poem or story is about. Then, I lean even further into my formal choices—stanzas, line breaks, rhyme, rhythm—and how those choices might impact a reader.
When I initially wrote “Now & Later,” the final lines were: “each day the sharp animal in me spearing through / all I cannot digest.” But during the editing stage, I realized I didn’t want to leave the reader there, or myself. I wanted us to take something back. And in this case, the reclaiming was really an expelling: “we spit out toxins, bare red stained teeth / with wet acid muzzles.” I wanted that final image to be one of strength and prowess.
While these are separate pieces, they both end on a note of rejecting things you don’t want to include in your life. Was there a kinship between these pieces as you were crafting them, or is this a theme you find recurs throughout your work?
There was actually a lot of time and space between the creation of “Retching” and “Now & Later.” So, while there is certainly a clear kinship, this likely points to my writerly obsessions, and the ways that my interests and fears naturally weave into my work—across poems and stories, even in my drawings and visual art.
Nature versus nurture is one of the themes I often find myself returning to—what elements of a person (spiritually, emotionally, physically) have been passed down through genetics and generations? What elements of a person are circumstantial, environmental? I think both “Retching” and “Now & Later” end with images of spitting, of a forceful expelling, because I want to believe in choice more than anything. I want to believe in our ability to reclaim our bodies, despite all it may have unwillingly experienced or inherited.
You’ve also published Poem With an Absent Father with West Trade Review, and To the Protesters on Vandalia with New Millenium Writings, among many other poems. What themes do you find you return to in your writing? What role, if any, do you see your poetry, and poetry in general, playing in relation to being in conversation with the community?
I’ve already spoken about some of my writerly obsessions above, but as you can imagine, the list is long and ever growing. I’m also interested in, and often return to themes of family and womanhood; of spirituality and inheritance; of religion and ghosts; of truth and rumors; of being Black and American; of my Caribbean heritage; of mental health and caretaking; of land, absence, and memory.
Poetry is a medium of endless possibilities—it can be a record keeper; a justice seeker, a creator of worlds; a whittler of memory. But at its core, what I want my poetry to do, what I believe all poetry does, is create a container for the human spirit. And when that container is gifted to another person, I imagine they must, in that moment, feel seen, a little less lonely. I especially write for my Black community—to hold them, as they hold me, in love, in pride, in power.
What books or stories shaped the writing you do today? Who are some of your favorite authors?
Oh, dear god. I’m just going to write a very incomplete list of storytellers that impacted me at different stages of my life—from childhood to now. They are in no particular order: Lucille Clifton, August Wilson, Vievee Francis, Stan Lee, Hayao Miyazaki, Toni Morrison, Ross Gay, Mohsin Hamid, Helen Oyeymi, Edwidge Danticat, Jericho Brown, Yona Harvey. I’ll stop here, because I must stop somewhere.
You are a cross-genre writer, and were recently working on a novel-in-progress, Far Cry From a Woman, through the Loft Mentor series. How is that project going? What other projects are you working on now?
The Loft Mentor Series is such an amazing program. Shout out to its admin and organizers, and of course to the 2021 mentors and cohort. Everyone was so amazing! Far Cry From a Woman is in revision, and I’m feeling really excited about the direction the book has taken. I’m also working on a poetry collection and a graphic memoir, which is a very slow burn, mostly because my drawing skills are limited—but I love the challenge, and I love having a creative space to return to when my creative expression needs to move beyond words.
A. E. Winter is a Black writer from New York. She currently lives in Minneapolis, where she has received grants from the Minnesota State Arts Board, was a fiction fellow in the 2021-2022 Loft Mentor Series, and most recently, participated in a regional Cave Canem workshop. Winter won first place in the 53rd New Millennium Writing Award for Poetry, and her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in West Trade Review.
In The Field: Conversations With Our Contributors—Danielle Lazarin
In The Field: Conversations With Our Contributors—Danielle Lazarin
Your flash fiction piece, “The Math,” is a beautifully-crafted work that compiles so much emotion in just two pages. What prompted the creation of this piece? What made you juxtapose the narrator’s agony of slowly losing a partner with mourning the house she will never have?
The house listing is real. I found it by stepping through the internet rabbit hole of StreetEasy, where I was looking at different versions of my apartment for the purposes of a renovation. This actual house is not far from where I live now, in the place I grew up. I grew a strange attachment to it that wasn’t quite longing but a sense of inexplicable familiarity. I’d visit the listing with some regularity as a sort of comfort spot on the internet (and though it’s no longer for sale, I still do, every now and again). This sense that the narrator has of the house belonging to her when it obviously never will came out of that attachment. It’s not uncommon for me to turn up the dial on a feeling I have, giving it more deeply to a fictional someone else who can run with it, as a way into story.
This was during the pandemic, when so many people were relocating not only physically but questioning the meaning and desires of their lives, asking where they should be. I myself did not long to be elsewhere, but I could imagine a character who would need to project herself into a very different life, for whom doing so would be a certain escape hatch. The story began as lines—the same opening, more or less—and the next part, about the grief, slipped its way in as it often does to my work, making the fantasy she’s inhabiting even more necessary and more painful. That this absurd wanting could be located around a viable if adjacent anger about fate and resources (money, yes, but time, most of all) gave the story the human current I needed to write it through.
The specifics you include in “The Math,” particularly in reference to the paintings, and their age in comparison to the age of her husband, are those extra details that make this piece even more heart-wrenching. What was your process for revising this piece to retain certain details and release others?
Though the paintings had always been there, that age comparison came in during revisions. In the earlier versions, I’d kept most of the details of the husband’s decline out of the story. My agent, Barbara Jones, encouraged me to not glide over the depth and specificity of what the narrator was feeling or experiencing, which opened up the story quite a bit. It’s flash, so I only added about 50 words, but in those additions I made an effort to show her inhabiting both the place of her fantasy about her future and its reality simultaneously. Since the story already had so many numbers in it, counting on the other side—in the small rooms with the dying man, living a life that will impoverish her emotionally—seemed a logical bridge to make in revision. It was a challenge to convey such a large house and moment in a person’s life in so few words, but those numbers helped a lot with scale.
In your work, you return to themes of relationships and couples, and the friction that occurs between them, as in Floor Plans, published by LitHub. What draws you to these themes? What other themes do you find that you return to throughout your work?
The larger arc of my work has always, and continues to, open and close the door on what is seen and what is unseen. I’ve always been drawn to the space where the private self meets the public projection of that self, and how our relationships of any sort ask us to—constantly, forever, till death and even beyond!—negotiate that space. Lately, I’ve been thinking and writing a lot about secrecy, about grief for what still lives, and about what it means to protect someone.
What authors shaped your writing? What are some stories or novels you love to return to?
My college writing professor was the great Dan Chaon, whose work I love and whose teaching wisdom I’m grateful rooted within me at the right time. Of the many things he taught me about how to approach writing, the nugget that I dig for the most is his reminder that all writers know their work—its literal and emotional landscape—better than anyone else, that it’s our job to make it as clear to the reader as it is inside of the place that makes us want to write stories about it. It was in Dan’s class that I first read Ann Beattie’s “The Burning House,” which is one of my favorite stories that I rarely teach because it’s too precious to me, but which I re-read frequently. Short story writers I teach a lot and who I admire greatly include Laura van den Berg, Jamel Brinkley, Samantha Hunt, and Nick White. On the novel front, the past few years I’ve found myself returning to Maggie O’Farrell’s Hamnet, Kayla Rae Whittaker’s The Animators, and everything by Deborah Levy, who is an absolute genius on the sentence and story level.
What projects are you working on now?
I’m currently at work on a novel, in a second round of revisions that I hope will bring me to its finalish shape, and have enough short stories on the backburners that I’ll assemble into a collection. Like my last collection, this one also will have its share of shorter stories much like The Math, which I hope makes it into this future project.
Danielle Lazarin is the author of the short story collection Back Talk. Her fiction and essays can be found in The Southern Review, Colorado Review, Literary Hub, Glimmer Train, The Cut, Electric Literature’s Recommended Reading, and elsewhere. Her work has been honored by the New York Foundation for the Arts, the Glimmer Train Family Matters Award, the Millay Colony for the Arts, The Freya Project, and the Stella Kupferberg Memorial Short Story Prize. She lives and teaches in her native New York, where she is at work on a novel and a story collection. She has a newsletter, Talk Soon, that discusses the writing process.
In The Field: Conversations With Our Contributors—Katie Yee
In The Field: Conversations With Our Contributors—Katie Yee
Image by swords4two
Your piece, “Pennies Only,” blends the steady life of a relationship with a fantastical gumball machine. Where did the inspiration for this piece come from?
Truthfully, the finding of the gumball machine is actually completely based in real life. It was 2020, at pretty much the start of the pandemic. (Read: a totally great and safe time to bring someone’s discarded trash into your home.) My boyfriend and I had gone out to walk the dog, and when we came back, there it was: sitting in front of the building, just like that. It felt like it had been left for us somehow, so we brought it back to his apartment (and cleaned it a lot). We’ve moved twice since then, and of course it’s come with us each time. I’m staring at it now.
I guess what I mean to say is, like a lot of writers, I draw bits from my daily life and then I take a step back from reality and ask, “What’s the most fucked up thing that could happen in this scenario?” And then we go from there.
The voice for “Pennies Only” is wonderfully distinct. Your slight breaking of the fourth wall throughout the piece draws readers in and seems to include us in the gumball secret. I’m thinking of your use of “our couple” or “Look, there they are…”. Was this the original voice of your piece? Who do you imagine your narrator being?
I like the way you phrased that: the “slight breaking of the fourth wall.” You’re totally right. It’s not a break. It’s just a little crack in the fourth wall. It was indeed the original voice of the piece; I think the tone of it mirrors something like narrating the make-believe lives of your neighbors. (In a sense, the narrator could be someone peering in.)
This crack in the fourth wall is something Kelly Link does really well: she invites you in, creates this sense of intimacy with the reader. Implicates you. Catches you looking.
It has an almost fairy tale quality when she does it: the sense of a story being told. Who narrates the fairy tales? That’s who I’m imagining.
Your work has so many delightfully fun layers and fluidly includes symbolism. Are those parts that you’ve intentionally laid out as you’re writing? Or are those pieces parts that surprise you in revision, which you then tease out in editing?
Honestly, I live to be surprised with each sentence! I’m not an outliner. (I so admire people who are that organized, though!) If you’re asking specifically about the odd items that come out of the gumball machine, I can tell you that at some point in the middle of drafting, I made a long list of jarring things that could conceivably come out of it. These are the ones that just felt right when I wrote them down. Something just clicked.
In the very first draft of this story, the ending was different. (Spoiler alert!) The gumball machine doesn’t break in that first draft. Instead, smoke pours out of it and floods the rooms of their apartment, and we’re left with the image of them unable to see through the smoke but reaching towards each other. That kind of symbolism felt forced, so it had to go!
Another one of your pieces, The Carols, published in Washington Square Review, also revolves around domestic partnerships and the windows into other people’s lives that living in close quarters brings. What keeps you returning to these themes? What are some other themes you return to throughout your work?
I love to walk my dog around to the fancier blocks and peer into brownstones and form a parasocial relationship with the people who live there (if I like their books or their decor). This is an endless well to draw from! Imaginary friends are fascinating. They teach you so much about yourself. Like, maybe you didn’t know you needed a mushroom-shaped lamp until you saw it illuminating someone else’s life! Similarly, putting your characters up against other characters can reveal so much about them. Other people add surprise.
When you move in with someone—even someone you know really well—you are surprised every day by the ways in which they are not you. For instance, I am surprised constantly by the inventive places in which my partner thinks to leave his dirty socks that are, in fact, not the hamper. Surprise!
And yet—despite the socks—I would say we are generally very happy. And it’s hard to capture mostly happy couples in interesting ways. I keep returning to this theme of domestic partnership because I don’t think I’ve cracked it yet. And because I can’t imagine ever not writing about love. You’ll never get to the bottom of it! You can dig and dig and you’ll find a different weird buried treasure every time. Love, like other people, will always add surprise.
What authors helped shape the writing you do today? What are some stories or writing you return to?
Oh, I love this question! I will take any opportunity to tell people to read Aimee Bender. The Girl in the Flammable Skirt is one of the most perfect short story collections that exists. She is a master at giving physicality to feeling. (In the title story, for example, a character wears grief as a stone backpack.) Other loves include Kelly Link, Karen Russell, and Ruth Ozeki—they’re each so singularly weird and gutting and wonderful. They’re my patron saints.
What else are you currently working on?
More short stories! And a little novel, too—it started as a short story but kept rolling away from me.
Photo by Roque Nonini
Katie Yee is a writer from Brooklyn. Her work has appeared in No Tokens, The Believer, the Washington Square Review, the Los Angeles Review of Books, Triangle House, and Literary Hub. She has received fellowships from The Center for Fiction, the Asian American Writers’ Workshop, and Kundiman. By day, she works at the Brooklyn Museum. By night, she chips away at a collection of short stories and a novel.
In The Field: Conversations With Our Contributors—Anthony Ceballos
In The Field: Conversations With Our Contributors—Anthony Ceballos
Q: One of the lines of your poem, “Glassful of Prayer,” is used as the title of Volume 26—“wreckage of once was.” Where did your own title come from? What was the impetus for you to take readers on this poem’s journey?
A: One February day, I was faced with a blank page, alone with my writerly anxiety, and all I could think was, there’s nothing there. For some reason it brought to mind a glass. What does the glass hold? Alcohol? A prayer? And what happens if we feel both have failed us in some way?
Much of what I write revolves around reconciling the devastation of addiction and alcoholism I witnessed as a child in the adults around me. In this poem’s case I was thinking of my father whose life was cut short due to his own addictions. I never had a chance to meet him. That’s a very strange fact I have trouble wrapping my head around, that I will never meet my father.
I believe he would have snapped his fingers to change his situation if he could have, as I believe anyone dealing with addiction might, but life is never that easy, and his was the worst kind of outcome. The speaker of the poem is at the beginning of a lifelong journey to avoid his father’s fate and the finalization of that age-old adage “like father, like son.”
The particular line, “wreckage of once was,” is for me everything one stands to lose or has lost to addiction, all the stupid, irresponsible things we do in the midst of our addictions. The hope is that we find a way to build something new from that wreckage.
Q: I enjoyed hearing you read your work at Water~Stone’s reading this November; I always like understanding how an author hears their own work. What is your process when practicing for a reading?
A: For me, it is a tremendous part of a poem’s creation. From the moment I write the first words, I am speaking them aloud. As a draft progresses, I will often record myself reciting it as both a rehearsal of sorts and as an editing tool. After a draft is complete, I will speak it multiple times until its voice is found. The words on the page and the auditory expression are both equally important and necessary in my writing.
Q: This story of a father’s death and alcoholism is echoed in earlier poems; “A Poem About My Hair” published in Sleet Magazine and “Shot Glass Narrative” published by Midway Journal. What new experiences do you find occur as a writer as you return to this theme? Do you think you’ll return to this theme again?
A: As I’ve gotten older, I have understood more the complexities of my father’s life situation, as well as the complexities of addiction. I suppose I’ve always been somewhat keyed into those things, being raised with alcoholism so close at hand, but certain perspectives have come only with time’s passing and further life experience. I find also as I get older my need to write with full compassion and empathy only grows stronger. Where once I might have felt merely angry, frustrated, or hurt by my father’s absence, I now feel a more intricate array of emotions, still for his absence, but also for him. I imagine he will be with me in my writing for some time to come. Oddly, I feel closer to him now than at any other point in my life.
Q: Your previous work has also dealt with colonization and resistance; you had a poem as part of Pangea World Theater’s Poetry in the Windows Placekeeping Project. What role do you see poetry playing in relation to educating and interacting with the community at large?
A: I firmly believe the creative has the potential to spark new thoughts and ideas in any viewer. With Pangea’s Placekeeping Project and what I wrote about South Minneapolis’s beloved East and West Lake Street, I like the thought of someone who might have read it recalling their own cherished memories of the great thoroughfare. There’s a profound connection in that, and an even deeper appreciation for Lake Street through that connection.
There is something about the visceral quality of poetry, the melodic, the rhythm and cadence, the rawness of an image, that hits in a way so unique to its form. If you add the experience of hearing it read aloud, just a voice and the words and the exchange that happens with an audience…in that I find possibility truly infinite. You will hear not only my story, you will hear the stories of my family, of the wicked, ongoing aftereffects of colonization and displacement on Indigenous people, how it affected my mother and her family and how I’ve carried that into my adulthood, you will hear of the cruelty of the stigmatization of addiction in this country, how it silenced my father and began to eat away at me. Most importantly: You will hear.
Q: What writers inspire you? What novels or poetry books do you read or re-read?
A: I am inspired by so many authors. I am grateful everyday to work at Birchbark Books and Native Arts in Minneapolis, Minnesota, owned by the Turtle Mountain Ojibwe writer Louise Erdrich. Over my years there, I have come across so many wonderful books and writers that I cherish to this day.
Of course anything by Louise, and anything by her wonderful sister Heid E. Erdrich, who was just named Minneapolis’s first Poet Laureate!! Tommy Orange, Kaveh Akbar, Danez Smith, Joy Harjo, Layli Long Soldier, Michael Kleber Diggs, Billy-Ray Bellcourt, Patti Smith, Lynette Reini-Grandell, Joan Didion, Sun Yung Shin, Mona Susan Power, Kao Kalia Yang…I mean we could be here for months…at least a year if we start talking about books!
Q: What are you working on now?
A: In the now-now: Answers for these wonderful questions!
In the bigger now: Assembling a manuscript, which is quite the task. It is always shifting its shape, catching me off guard with unexpected inspiration or the slow burn realization of parts no longer working. It has had at least five different titles and any number of pages. It had a photographic element at one point. It still might have a photographic element. It’s been every font and every font size. It’s been double spaced, single spaced, one and one half spaced…
I am also enjoying writing every day for the sake of writing every day, be it poetry or prose. I am doing everything I can to nurture the creative spirit in whatever form it takes, whether writing, photography, drawing, long walks, reading, etc. If I am not nurturing the creative self, then I am not whole.
Anthony Ceballos is a poet/bookseller/enthusiastic reader/ all right cook. He lives in Minneapolis and can be found penning staff recommendations at Birchbark Books & Native Arts. In 2016 he was selected to be a Loft Literary Center Mentor Series mentee. In 2022 he was part of the inaugural Indigenous Nations Poets retreat in Washington DC. He is a first-generation descendant of the Mille Lacs Band of Ojibwe.
In The Field: Conversations With Our Contributors—Ryan Habermeyer
In The Field: Conversations With Our Contributors—Ryan Habermeyer
Your nonfiction piece, Only Matter, juxtaposes the death of a girl you knew with Lenin’s preservation. What was the impetus to blend these ideas together on the page?
It was a weird writing experience. For a very long time I tried and failed to write about my friend’s death. It’s such a core memory but I couldn’t ever figure out how to write about it, much less do it justice. There were so many different approaches, so many memories to consider, so many ideas to juggle. I meandered for years with drafts and fragments, sometimes envisioning it as a big essay and other times as a flash piece, but nothing felt right. Lots of false starts, lots of abandoned middles. As I’ve gotten older as a writer, I’ve discovered not to force a piece into what I think it ought to be but let it mature organically. I’ve learned to experiment more, to splice the bits and pieces of thought with something else. That’s the pleasure of the lyric essay. I love collage; I love white space and taking big leaps. I love wild juxtapositions of images, narrative, meditation. The trick is making the juxtaposition do interesting work that doesn’t feel contrived or arbitrary.
So, Lenin grew into this essay gradually and unexpectedly. I went down a rabbit hole on the internet and learned about Lenin’s preservation, then I read Ilya Zbarsky’s Lenin’s Embalmers, and while I was researching all that I had a random conversation about my friend’s death and there was something of an “ah ha!” moment and the two things blurred together in my mind. It was surprising and uncomfortable when I started Frankensteining this thing together. Who am I to write about Lenin? I’m not Russian. I’m no revolutionary. I’m nobody. I didn’t think it would work, honestly. In a way it’s absurd to think of my life and experiences as somehow parallel to, or perhaps a shadow of, someone as historically significant as Lenin. But I think it was Donald Barthelme who said something like those who never attempt the absurd never achieve the impossible. I think about that often when I’m writing. Especially in a piece like this where I had to learn to let it exist more conceptually than narratively, like a weird thought experiment.
I love the line, “…all lives are fables or one kind or another.” Can you expand upon that?
I love fairy tales and fables. Thanks to my mother, I had a steady diet of them in my childhood. Not the cheap Disney ones either. The dirty, gritty Grimm ones. The weird Russian ones with Baba Yaga and Koschei the Deathless. I can’t imagine living life without fairy tales as an intermediary—they’re fundamental to my consciousness, to the way I see and interact with the world. In my academic life I teach classes on them regularly, and usually when I’m stuck with writing projects my default is to turn to fairy tales for help, whether that means using a specific tale intertextually somehow, or more conceptually as an intellectual aid. I suppose you could say creating fairy tale allusions in my work is somewhat lazy because I do it so frequently, but I’m always astonished by the plasticity of folklore to shape narrative and reveal insight. Fairy tales are good to think with. They’re so dynamic. Sometimes I’ll write an outrageous line like this one and not believe it but keep it anyway because it sounds right to my ear, but I do think memory—which is something my essay interrogates—is a kind of fairy tale. There’s a lot of neuroscientific research that says memory is a ruse; that we regularly confabulate remembered reality into something that it wasn’t. Our minds spin the tales of our lives, but as storytellers we’re fudging the truth even as we’re trying to get closer to it. In English, we use the phrase “Once upon a time” to open a fairy tale, but in other traditions and cultures they begin with “Once there was and was not,” and that rings true to me of how memory works and how life is.
There’s a theme of impermanence throughout the piece. I also feel like it extends to some of your other work, both fiction and nonfiction, like LA PETIT MORT and these short stories. What draws you to that theme of blending extinction and the natural world, along with speculative elements?
It’s a concept that has certainly preoccupied me for the last few years. I think like a lot of people, I find it difficult not to be thinking about impermanence and extinction these days. Not to get all doom and gloom, but it’s omnipresent in the culture, right? The static in the background getting louder and louder. Look around. Hard to ignore the sick world we’ve created. I grew up in California and spent a lot of my childhood visiting Arizona, Nevada, Utah. I have so many memories of long drives through the Mojave, the Great Basin, the Canyonlands. Eerie and beautiful landscapes. The emptiness, the seeming nothingness, the surrealness of it all. Nobody wants to be confronted with their own impermanence, but when you live in and around the desert you get a regular dose of that reality. My wife says I’m a catastrophist (and as usual she’s right), and I suppose that curiosity towards extinction and the speculative comes to some extent from living in that environment. I’m interested in the fringe. Those places that feel like they’re on the edge of the map and about to disappear. That’s where things happen. Weird things. Real things. Where our understanding of the natural gets turned on its head. With writing, I feel like you’ve got to bend reality to understand it better. So when you’re living in a time of warped reality you’ve got to warp it even more. That’s what I’m exploring in my new collection of short stories, Salt Folk, which comes out in a few months. Speculative fictions of Utah past, present, and future. Not fatalistic meditations on extinction, necessarily, but exploring what happens to faith when the world you know falls apart.
As a teacher, what do you feel is one of the most important writing lessons you give your students?
Slow down. Both with the story itself and the writing process. Not long ago I had a student show me his marketing and merchandising plan for the eleven-part fantasy series he was writing, with descriptions of all the movie adaptations and video games and figurines that would be part of this vast multi-media empire he was creating. Problem was he hadn’t written the actual story. It only existed in his mind like a summarized Wikipedia entry. I think students would benefit from a slower writing process and not being in such a hurry to publish. Learn craft. Experiment. Figure out your voice. Figure out the kinds of stories you want to tell. There’s nothing wrong with delaying becoming a so-called official “writer.” Maybe this is just narcissism talking because I’m a slow writer. There are things I wrote six months, a year, five years ago that I’m just now figuring out. I mean, my friend died almost thirty years ago and I just now figured out how to write about it after a long and grueling process. Maybe I’m just not a very good writer who takes too long to figure out what the story wants, but there’s something to be said about waiting for the story or essay to come together on its own terms. I don’t put much stock in inspiration. I think the creative process is slow and grueling, a game of attrition. So much of what we do as writers is about being patient and just observing, waiting, tinkering, experimenting here and there, letting the memories and images and words simmer, biding our time until we can find the shape of whatever thing we’re creating. The world is already moving too fast. Don’t duplicate that on the page or with the process. Slow down. Give yourself time.
What authors shaped the writing you do today? What are some of your favorite texts?
The only writing I’m interested in these days is experimental narrative. I have little patience for conventional stories focused on plot and narrative arcs, and I cringe a little when I read a review that says something like, “I couldn’t put it down!” I’m not sure I want story anymore and all the formulaic trappings that go into that; I want an aesthetic experience. I want writing that has a vested interest in shape and style beyond the content. Because for the most part, the stories are all the same. Or at least I’ve seen some version of the story in question a thousand times before (the curse for all of us bibliophiles who read voraciously). So how a writer tells a story is much more interesting to me than what is being told. Style is substance. I want voice. I want a book that gives me pause, that makes me step away from it for a day or two. I want a book that’s difficult to digest. Isn’t that what art is supposed to do?
Some of the books I’ve read and re-read recently: Olga Tokarczuk, Flights; Benjamin Labatut, When We Cease to Understand the World; Italo Calvino, Invisible Cities; Lily Hoang, Bestiary; Thomas Bernhard, The Voice Imitator; Paul la Farge, The Facts of Winter; Fernando Pessoa, The Book of Disquiet; Carmen Maria Machado, In the Dream House; László Krasznahorkai, The Melancholy of Resistance; Mircea Cărtărescu, Solenoid; Michael Ondaatje, The Collected Works of Billy the Kid; Milorad Pavić, Dictionary of the Khazars; W.G. Sebald, The Rings of Saturn; Maria Stepanova, In Memory of Memory; and Maud Casey, City of Incurable Women.
What projects are you working on now?
I just finished the final edits on my second collection of short stories, Salt Folk, which comes out in a few months. I also recently completed my first novel (talk about slow: it took me more than a decade to write), which is a revisionist Pinocchio story with echoes of Don Quixote about a boy with a cosmonaut helmet surgically grafted onto his head who watches too many campy 1950s sci-fi movies and, believing he is an alien, builds a catapult in the Utah desert hoping to launch himself into outer space. Stylistically, it’s written as a series of obituaries and integrated into the text are dozens of vintage photographs from the early 20th century I collected from antique shops and flea markets—so I’m excited to get that book out into the world. I’m also slowly cobbling together a collection of essays about the American West, Things the Desert Told Me, exploring faith, fatherhood, and folklore.
Ryan Habermeyer is the author of the short-story collections Salt Folk (Cornerstone, 2024) and The Science of Lost Futures (BOA, 2018). His stories and essays have appeared in Conjunctions, Alaska Quarterly Review, Massachusetts Review, Flyway, Cincinnati Review, Blackbird, Cimarron Review, Seneca Review, and others. He is associate professor of creative writing at Salisbury University. Find him at ryanhabermeyer.com.