Wednesday, December 13, 2017

John Shea Gets Started

In the 42nd in a series of posts on 2017 books entered for The Story Prize, John Shea, author of Tales from Webster's (Livingston Press), discusses sources of inspiration that include a Robin Hood movie, the Hardy Boys, and riding the subway.


I grew up among books. My parents were readers, and the love of books certainly carried over to me and my younger sisters. In some ways, though, I owe my start in creative writing to the nuns of Marymount International School—and Errol Flynn. It was in third grade, I believe, while my family was living in Rome, that the school decided that one of the monthly assemblies would be given over to an airing of the classic The Adventures of Robin Hood. My earliest memory of writing outside of schoolwork was developing a short (very short) story involving Robin and his archenemy, personified by Basil Rathbone. At least as important was a drawing, my attempt to recreate their classic duel on a castle stairway. My materials: pencil and paper, cut into very small pages. That booklet no longer exists, but I’m confident I adhered to the film’s plot and had Robin win. It was only many years later, when I had heard about Mr. Flynn’s worldly adventures with many women, that I realized the irony of those chaste Catholic nuns showing us youngsters one of his movies.
Adventures of Robin Hood: Flynn, Rathbone face off

My next inspiration for writing was much humbler: The Hardy Boys detective series. I still have one or two of my booklets in that genre—indeed, I used the names Frank and Joe Hardy as well! Perhaps a little angel warned me because I then wrote a couple of stories about young brothers with different names. The next step, as a budding author, was to write little mysteries or adventure stories using the names of the boys in my class in Notre Dame International School. I figured that might be a way to attract an audience. And it was. We gradually developed a small circle of grade-school writers. On the other hand, you had to be careful: If I had one of my classmates humiliated or even knocked off, chances were that “John Shea” would come into some equivalent trouble in my friend’s story. I think it was in part a way to bolster ourselves in a foreign country, keeping our own language alive and well. At the same time, we could experience the vicarious thrills of adventures, mysteries, and science fiction.

Fortunately, although I continued to read and enjoy stories and novels that had little resemblance to my own life, I eventually began to write more contemporary, realistic pieces. While I was in graduate school at the University of Pennsylvania, for example, I got a terrible haircut in the student union, thanks to an Italian-American barber who may have been somewhat deranged. Among other things, he tried to persuade me that women in art always looked more beautiful when they were being killed. Once I had escaped from his scissors, I was able to turn the experience into a short story. My first story published by a national journal had its origins in an encounter with an attractive neighbor. At one point, bumping into her outside our apartments, I learned that she had recently returned from a vacation in Italy and had enjoyed meeting a handsome Italian man. The problem: He was writing her letters, in Italian, and she couldn’t read them. That brief meeting started me thinking: Why not shape a story in which a young man, unattached, volunteers to translate love letters written to his attractive neighbor. And what might happen once a pattern started? It was only when I was deep into the writing that I realized the story had a Cyrano de Bergerac angle.

I’ve found that even the prosaic, everyday world can sometimes provide a start for fiction. Having spent many years using the Philadelphia subways, I one day came up with a twist: What if a commuter gets stuck in one of those full-length turnstiles and the efforts of police and firemen to release him are not working? And if his secretary comes by with papers for him to read in the meantime?

My friends have noticed that I often have a little notebook and pen handy—when I was at work and when I’m at home or visiting. I’ve found it very useful to jot down ideas or even phrases and words: I never know when some random thought or some particular happening in the world will help inspire me to write. And when I’m at a loss for ideas, I find it useful to turn to these notebooks and hope something there will start me going.

Monday, December 11, 2017

Peter LaSalle: The Short Story vs. the Novel

In the 41st in a series of posts on 2017 books entered for The Story Prize, Peter LaSalle, author of Sleeping Mask (Bellevue Literary Press), talks about aiming to create a tour de force.



It's all but a given that the short story genre has always been overshadowed—often loomingly so—by the novel. However, the great, wonderfully metaphysical writer Jorge Luis Borges was once asked why he wrote only stories and never a novel. A gracious man, Borges smiled, I suspect. He provided an answer along the lines of, "Why write a novel when you can do just as much in a short story?" I seem to remember reading that at one point he went so far as saying that too many novels, with their inevitable slow spots and frequent padding—in his opinion, anyway—tended to bore him.

Well, I have written novels, but I do think I know what the Argentine maestro meant, granting I'm certainly no Borges. It entails a mission I've kept in mind ever since my early pre-computer days, when I loaded a blank sheet of paper into a rattling old light-green Hermes manual typewriter to begin a new story and acknowledged there was a ton of responsibility before me—a short story with its sheer intensity, validly akin to poetry in that aspect, would demand a good deal on my part.

Maestro Borges
Or to put it another way, even more recently when writing about child soldiers in Africa raiding a girls' boarding school or a gifted young Virginia Woolf scholar in Boston who survives cancer and struggles to show a brave face amid the dreamlike state of it all—those being a couple of the concerns in this new collection Sleeping Mask: Fictions—I knew the stakes were high, that I would need to get a lot done within a small number of pages according to Borges's credo and at least aspire to make the next several thousand words maybe nothing less than a little tour de force. Because for me that's what a truly successful short story essentially is and what makes the genre by nature so remarkable, capable of challenging the novel.

Other than emphasizing the word "force" in the phrase, I'm not sure if one can give a very precise definition of tour de force as applied here. It's probably best described by the result. Which is to say, the reader's response, a quiet rush for him or her after finishing a good short story, strong, and the feeling of having been transported somewhere new and important via the whirlwind of the words. In the half hour or so of being with the characters while reading, something large has definitely been added to one's experience of the world and done so with almost immediate impact.

Sometimes this seems to lie in an intense, resonating significance of theme, generated by a solid subject to begin with. In these latest stories I tried to avoid simply the rather self-centered malaise of everyday life that occupies much popular recent American writing and instead perhaps have a go at matters like the randomness of the many big dangers surrounding us in our troubled contemporary scene, socially, politically, and such—for instance, the current narcotraficante wars on the Texas-Mexico border and how a young couple might encounter by total chance that kind of nightmarish violence, as happens in one story, "Lunch Across the Bridge."

And the more I write the more I believe that the tour de force factor for a story is sometimes found in innovation and experimentation regarding language or structure, a quest for which the genre with its kinship to poetry is particularly well suited. This does call for risk and not relying on the safe, ready-made (also quite old-fashioned, in fact) trappings of straightforward narration, long the staple of traditional realism. It usually involves pursuit of writing that just might be new on the page, a story, let's say, that in looping repetitions and words echoing words gets at the way that mirrors themselves—whether over a dresser at home or gilt-framed in a visited art museum, everywhere—can become pretty haunting because they reassert a sense of human incorporeality, a ghostliness somehow deep inside us, as I wanted to make happen in another story in the collection, "A Short Manual of Mirrors."

I honestly don't know if I've been successful, and only the aforementioned reader response will attest to that for any writer. Nevertheless, I sure hope that with Sleeping Mask: Fictions—overall and maybe more than in my four previous collections—I have worked my outright best to live up to Borges's thinking and taken advantage of the genre's uniquely engaging possibilities that do attract so many of us to keep writing short stories, repeatedly longing to create a genuine little tour de force ourselves, no doubt, despite the non-stop noise we can't help but hear about the haughty dominance of the novel.

Saturday, December 9, 2017

David Rutschman on Moving Between Distance and Intimacy

In the 40th in a series of posts on 2017 books entered for The Story Prize, David Rutschman, author of Into Terrible LIght (Forklifte Books), discusses how the haiku form has influenced his work.



Name something by another author you wish you had written.
This is Basho, translated by Robert Hass:
Even in Kyoto—
hearing the cuckoo’s cry—
I long for Kyoto.
For many years, I tried to force myself to write traditional length realistic short stories. That was fine. More than fine, actually; it was great—I learned a lot. But those weren’t the stories I really wanted to create, and gradually, over time, I began to give myself permission to write stranger stuff—pieces that engaged forms of knowing other than psychological realism. I allowed myself to go back to the works I most loved as a reader—parables and koans, fables, haiku. Small, oddly shaped things.

It’s strange in a way for a fiction writer to confess to loving haiku. There’s no fleshed-out characters there. Definitely no plot. But there is motion, at least in the haiku I most return to, a sort of swooping in or swooping out through levels of intimacy.
Basho: haiku, cuckoo

Like in that Basho one above. Can you feel the way it moves in this translation? Even in Kyoto. That line is scene-setting, grounding us in a place, a city. But already— with that word “Even”—there’s a little seed, a little hint, of a personal sensibility, right? The sense of an experiencing consciousness? Not just: In Kyoto. But: Even in Kyoto. We can feel the human being there, although we’re still pretty far away.

But then we get closer, into sense experience: hearing the cuckoo’s cry. From the city to the ear; from outside the body to the body’s experience itself.

And then, wonderfully, shockingly: I long for Kyoto. From the city to the ear to the longing heart. From far away to closer to so-close-I-can’t-bear-it.

Does this poem richen if we know that the hototogisu, the Japanese cuckoo, is also called the “bird of time?” Here’s the (different) motion of a different translation of this same poem:

Bird of time—
in Kyoto, pining
for Kyoto. 
(tr. Lucien Stryk)

See how this swoop feels different? Without the word “hearing,” we lose the emphasis on the speaker’s sense experience. Instead, in this version, the “bird of time” is part of the city—objective, outside—and we come inside—into the subjective experience—with that word “pining.” With the explicit naming of the element of time, too, the feeling of the poem changes for me—is the speaker longing for the Kyoto of the past, the Kyoto that is gone? For the self that is gone?

How can this much wisdom—about the relationship between present and past, between longing and having—fit into a piece this small?

In my own stories—whether traditional length or very short, whether realistic or fabulist—I pay a lot of attention to intimacy and distance, to those moments in a work where we swoop in closer or pull way back. As a reader, I first began to notice these swoops in haiku, but once I tuned in to them, I started to see them everywhere: in short stories and novels, in all sorts of poems. Even in song lyrics.

The band The Mountain Goats has a pretty famous song, “The Best Ever Death Metal Band in Denton.” Do you know that one? As the song begins, we’re situated at a nice safe distance:

The best ever death metal band out of Denton
Was a couple of guys who’d been friends since grade school
Once was named Cyrus, the other was Jeff
And they practiced twice a week in Jeff’s bedroom

The song continues, hovering up in the air above the two characters, telling their story—the kids stencil pentagrams on their instruments and Cyrus gets sent away to “the school/ where they told him he’d never be famous.” Then:

If you punish a person for dreaming his dream
Don’t expect him to thank or forgive you
The best ever death metal band out of Denton
Will in time both outpace and outlive you.

I think that so many songwriters might have ended there, or somewhere near there, out at that level of emotional distance. It would still be a pretty good song. But—unforgettably, perfectly—this one doesn’t stop. It goes on:

Hail Satan!
Hail Satan!
Tonight!
Hail, Satan!
Hail, Hail!

Can you feel that move all the way in? That swoop? From outside of the situation to inside it? From far away to the heart’s very center?

Basho would like that, I think.

Thursday, December 7, 2017

Karen Shepard: How to Make Intermittent and Erratic Progress as a Writer, in Twenty-Eight Easy Steps

In the 39th in a series of posts on 2017 books entered for The Story Prize, Karen Shepard, author of Kiss Me Someone (Tin House Books), breaks down the brilliant moves that have brought her fame and fortune.



1. Write a first novel about Asian/American/European women, which is what you are, except with characters who experience things you’ve never experienced. Watch the publisher’s art department produce a cover it considers vaguely Asian, with lots of deep purples and soft focus. Read reviews that claim you don’t look Asian enough in your author photo. Wonder: Enough for what?

2. After the paperback edition features a new cover with a black and white photo of an Asian baby, have someone at a reading ask if the baby is you.

3. Ponder identity politics. Realize that when you were a student in college, you could’ve been a member of one Asian student group, whereas now at that same college you could be a member of four. Find yourself unsure as to how to feel about this. Recall a time a Chinese American colleague told you that your experience as an Asian American was different because you could pass as white. Remember that she added, “So you identify as Asian American. Fine.” Remember how she went on to say that you didn’t “read as Asian American” because you read as “too powerful,” and how she added to that the speculation that it was because of your association with your “very powerful” husband. Find yourself dismally sure as to how to feel about that: this colossal failure of imagination concerning what defines Asian American, or women, or power.

4. Write a second novel with no Asians, and instead bad boys and the women who love them. White boys and white women. Set it in the South. You are not from the South, though you lived there at various times in your life. Recall the Southern woman you heard complain: “You know, she’s from New York.”

5. Ponder your own identity as a Chinese Jew. What it means. Should such a writer write quietly lush prose about repressed men and long-suffering women who make delicious food? Flamboyantly lush prose about guilt and suffering? And which of those would be Chinese? Which Jewish? Stop and think: Maybe you should be a personal shopper. You would do that well. Is that a Chinese trait or a Jewish one: shopping? Which group has more style? Think: Don’t go there. You will offend everyone.

6. Grow tired of trying not to offend.

7. Write a third novel set on the Upper West Side of New York City in the '70s, a time and a place you remember as filled with possibility, if you can drain that term of some of its optimism and replace it with a healthy dose of anxiety. Remember that feeling that anything could happen. You might see anyone of any race doing anything with or to anyone of another race. Write your way into remembering more. Write your way into discovering what you never knew. Anything could happen: not a bad place to start when it comes to fiction.

8. When that novel is published, answer questions about that time and place, since you’re now, apparently, an expert, having lived there.

9. Remind yourself that as a fiction writer, your authority is, or should be, based in imagination, and not just experience. Lament how often the world acts as if the opposite is true.

10. Remind yourself that despite your ongoing claims to the contrary—to loved ones, to friends, to everyone—you do not know everything.

11. Attend a lecture by an art historian at your local Historical Society. Bring your toddler daughter so you can’t fully concentrate on what’s being said about this group of Chinese workers, brought into your small New England town in 1870 as factory strikebreakers. They ended up staying for ten years. Get excited enough to take quick and incomprehensible notes in the back of your checkbook register. Think: this is something you want to know. Don’t yet ask yourself why.

12. Spend two years researching. Stand amazed at how little you know about anything, especially 19th-century labor strikes, 19th-century shoemaking, 19th-century immigration policies. Read more. Discover further chasms in your knowledge of American history, interracial relationships, farming, the Bible.

13. Announce to your husband that this is a great idea for a novel, but you are not the person to write it, not because you are not Chinese enough, but because you’re not writer enough.

14. Read more. Discover slivers of why emotionally you might’ve been interested in this story in the first place. Discover where your weird psychological and emotional make-up intersects with the weird psychological and emotional make-up of this historical situation. Again, not because you are a Chinese Jew, but because you are a human being inhabiting this earth.

The Beckett: failing (L), failing better (R).
15. Spend another several years writing. At the same time, try, with your usual inadequacies, to be a teacher, a mother, and a wife. Turns out it’s hard.

16. Write more. Rewrite. Show what you have to your first reader, your husband. Rewrite again. As Beckett would say, Fail again, fail better.

17. Have your agent try to sell the finished product, your fourth novel, in fall of 2008. The first three had sales figures that sounded more like shoe sizes. Did you mention that it was fall of 2008?

18. Have the editor of your third novel tell you there will be an offer and then have her publisher forbid that offer. His stated reasoning: It is too unlike your previous novel. His reasoning: Your sales figures sound more like shoe sizes.

19. Be rejected by many other publishers. This has less to do with being too Chinese or not Chinese enough or too Jewish or not Jewish enough, and more to do with being a writer. Being a writer will always be like this. But writers don’t write only to publish; they also write to understand the world and their place in it. That might translate to understanding what it means to be a Chinese Jew in this world. But it might not.

20. Think about writing another book, a book so wildly successful that all publishers will then want everything you have ever written.

21. Ponder what that book would look like. It might reassure us all about what we already feel and what we already know and what we already believe. It would keep the good characters and the bad characters clear, separated by impermeable borders: this person is worth my sympathy; that person is not. As for people who think differently from me: what’s to know?

22. Discover these thoughts to be irrelevant since you have found yourself unable to write. Worse, you have found yourself unable to read. Occasionally crawl around on the floor as if you have been gut-punched. Repeat for a year or more.

23. Return to reading. Stay at it. Read books that are not warm baths but more like plunging into a cold, cold lake.

24. Return to writing. Write stories, in the hopes they will be easier. They are not. Which you already knew since you have been trying to write them for thirty years.

25. Publish your first collection of stories ever. Fill it with experience and imagination. Discover again that one is not worth much without the other. Be quietly pleased when one reader asks if you’ve ever lived in an apartment paid for by your married lover who died in 9/11. Be even more pleased when another reader asks if you have a half-brother and did you ever give him a blowjob.

26. Return to pondering your life, as a Chinese Jew, a mother, a wife, and a teacher. A dog owner three times over. A control freak. Bossy. Someone who cries at advertisements. An occasional embarrassment to your children. Growing older. Filled with hope. Filled with despair. Supremely rational. The picture of lunacy. A writer.

27. Keep writing. About anything. About it all.

28. Remind yourself that as a human being, your authority is, or should be, based in imagination, not experience: who we already are and who we can imagine ourselves to be. Ask yourself again: Who do you want to be? And how will you put it into words?

Tuesday, December 5, 2017

KL Pereira on Lost and Missing Mothers

In the 38th in a series of posts on 2017 books entered for The Story Prize, KL Pereira, author of A Dream Between Two Rivers (Cutlass Press), relates a history of absence.


Missing mothers haunt my work. It’s partially because of my obsession with fairy tales, to be sure. Mothers are often an absence, a shadow, a lurking thing that can neither be written out of the text, nor forgotten. In fairy tales, the mother has often died, a reality of times when coming through childbirth was far from sure, and stepmothers were a fact of life. Then, as now, mothers seem to be stolen away, and our narratives are full of looking.

There are so many mother-shaped holes in my life, my story. I’m always, it seems, trying to find them. But, try as I might, mothers always seem to elude me. They turn out as absences or shades, violent shadows. I can’t quite seem to fill their shapes. There’s something that rises up and blocks me.

And this is what I really want to write about, but can’t: We have a terrible tradition of losing mothers in my family. My mother lost her mother when she was 17. My grandmother had had ten children by the time she was 36 and by 39 her body had given up. I never knew her, none of her grandchildren did. Some of her children do not remember her. She became an absence that everyone felt and a fairy tale that everyone was too sad to tell.

My grandmother lost her mother when she was four years old. But her mother did not die. She was taken. Her children were taken. My grandmother and her siblings were seized by the state and their mother (my great-grandmother) was committed. Yes, that kind of committed. The one census record I’ve discovered cites schizophrenia as her illness. It’s a box on the side of a card that is ticked off by a neat “x.” There’s no explanation. She was an immigrant, spoke little to no English, it was the Depression and she’d left her young children at home while searching for her husband, her husband who, it was said, was running around on her, and what rights did she have, what rights do women and immigrants have now over their own bodies and lives?

I’m usually not a fan of the happy ending, where everything works out, even in fairy tales, but when it comes to this story, I want that ending. I yearn for it. Perhaps precisely because I know that it can never happen. I can’t save my great-grandmother, break her out of the asylum, rescue her children from the orphanage, reunite them. Because that is not how it ended for either of them.

Every time I find a new census record, it breaks me. There’s no other way to say this. Because of the way state and federal census records are released, I have to wait years between updates and each time it shows that my grandmother was still in the orphanage and then with foster homes that never adopted her. That my great-grandmother was still in the asylum and then, after being deinstitutionalized sometime in the 1970s, died in a nursing home, long after my grandmother’s death, and long after my birth. So many details are still missing, but I know that neither of these women got the ending I wish for them. And if I know the truth and it’s heartbreaking and there is no redemption for anyone, how do I write this story, how did I write so that it’s not like losing them, again and again and again?

Sunday, December 3, 2017

Bill Roorbach's Freaky Fridays

In the 37th in a series of posts on 2017 books entered for The Story Prize, Bill Roorbach, author of The Girl of the Lake (Algonquin Books), describes his writing habits, his reading habits, and how he gets back on track.



What influenced you to become a writer?
When I was five—an earliest memory—my mom took me to Shopper’s World, one of the first malls. It was still new then, late fifties, and we were going to see Santa. The wonderful thing was that it was just me and Mom, very rare, and about to get rarer: Eventually she’d have five kids. I sat on Santa’s lap and he asked me what I wanted and I said I wanted a desk. He seemed fine with that—very jolly in fact. On the way home Mom asked me why I wanted a desk. I said, “Because I want to be a writer.” She read to us, my mom, maybe that’s where my conception of a writer came from, the idea that it was something I wanted to do.

Describe your writing habits.
It used to be so clear. Get up, eat breakfast, write till lunch. Then a walk and a nap and write again, till dinner. After dinner, correspondence with editors, agents, and so forth. If teaching, writing in the mornings, class in the afternoon, grading in the evening. But then we had a kid. Now it’s ten minutes typing before the shower comes available, forty-five minutes on laptop in parking lot while the girl is at ballet, a couple hours after midnight (assuming no one’s throwing up), nineteen minutes while dinner’s in the oven.

Where do you do your best work?
Skunk family: Sub-tenants
I have a studio in a little outbuilding here at our place in Maine, but a family of skunks lives under it. Mostly they are good neighbors, but they do fight with the woodchucks who also want to move in, so there are stretches when it’s too smelly to work out there. These days I’m on the porch with the rest of the family, each doing our projects. Trouble is, the visual artists can chat and listen to music, so I’m often chased back out with the skunks. 

Name something by another author that you wish you’d written. 
Game of Thrones. But just for the money.

Where does a story begin for you? 
Usually with something interrupting life as usual. A character is grocery shopping before a snowstorm. He sees a homeless woman struggling with her bags. He decides to help her.

How do you know when a story is finished?
I always seem to finish writing stories on Fridays. So much of my life was set up like that, from grade school forward: There’s a work week, and there’s a weekend. I don’t do it on purpose—some inner clock times everything out for me. To write a given story might take a few days, might take a year—doesn’t matter, I finish on a Friday. So that’s how I know I’m done. It’s Friday, and I can’t think of anything more to do: Stick a fork in it.

Describe a physical, mental, or spiritual practice that helps put you in a suitable state of mind to write.
Walking, usually in the woods or on the beach or otherwise in nature, though cities work well, too. Also gardening. So much so that I count both walking and gardening as writing.

How do you get yourself back on track when your writing isn’t going well?
Reading, walking, gardening, heavy drinking.

Describe an idea that you want to write or return to that you haven’t quite figured out yet.
I used to play keyboards in bands, though I’ve lost my chops over the intervening decades. I would like to learn or relearn one song really, really well and get say, the Rolling Stones to let me play it with them at one show, somewhere big, with jumbotrons and screaming fans. And then write about the experience. 

Describe your reading habits.
I used to read relentlessly, always five or ten books going at once, a pile by the bed open to various depths, one main project always forefront, ready to be opened in all the interstices of a busy life. I’ve had periods of reading a book a day—until recently a book a week was just average. Now I’m lucky if I can read a book or two a month. The problem is getting older. The problem, frankly, is staying awake. Also not enough hours in the day. Success has brought a lot of duties. And a lot of those duties involve reading. When night falls, I’m more about watching a movie these days. Which I count as reading, if it’s a good enough movie.

Thursday, November 30, 2017

Douglas Trevor on Toni Morrison and Subjective Histories


In the 36th in a series of posts on 2017 books entered for The Story Prize, Douglas Trevor, author of The Book of Wonders (SixOneSeven Books), discusses how Toni Morrison influenced his writing when he took an undergraduate writing class with her.


When I was a junior at Princeton in the spring of 1991, I had the opportunity to take a small craft class on fiction writing with Toni Morrison. There were six of us in the class—all students in the creative writing program. We met once a week in Professor Morrison's spacious office in a building known to us simply by its street address: 185 Nassau. In addition, Professor Morrison scheduled individual appointments with us. This was two years before she was awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature.

In one of my private meetings with Professor Morrison, I remember her asking if I had first drafted the story we were discussing by hand or if I had typed it directly into my computer. At the time, I was using a Macintosh SE that had dual floppy drives. I recall writing my stories on this computer, saving them on a floppy disk, and then printing them out in the computer lab in Fine Library. I told her all this, adding that my own handwriting was so bad, sometimes I had difficulty deciphering my lecture notes.

She responded by shaking her head and laughing very softly. She said I had to be able to read my own handwriting if I wanted to be a serious writer; otherwise, I would never learn how to control and create the music of my sentences. She told me to rewrite the story by hand and then revise it and rewrite it again. Typing, she observed, is not the same as writing.

Perhaps none of Morrison's novels are more overtly attentive to the question of rhythm and variation than Jazz, which would come out in 1992—a year after my class with Professor Morrison ended. In Jazz, the distinct narrative perspective on each character is akin to a different solo. Taken together, these solos form a larger, composite piece, all knitted together—orchestrated, as it were—by the narrator.

I find the theory of character development embodied by Jazz to be an incredibly generative model for thinking about fiction writing, not just because it emphasizes how characters need to sound different from one another, and how this acoustic distance is part of what establishes character in the first place, but also because Morrison thinks about the historical dimensions that inform how and why characters express themselves in unique ways. By historical dimensions, I don't mean that older characters will use different forms of speech and diction than their younger counterparts, although of course that's true, but that each character should have a different relationship to history. This history can be personal or political or—as is really always the case in Morrison—both.

The title story of my recent collection, The Book of Wonders, is just one example of how Toni Morrison's lessons about character development, and her emphasis on subjective histories, continue to shape my writing more than twenty years later. In this story, a middle-aged woman named Simone is convinced that her mother, Annabel, has long scribbled secrets about her past in a leather ledger book she keeps under lock and key. For Simone, to access this book is to access a secret history that will help her explain the distance that has always existed between her and her mother. Annabel, on the other hand, regards the past in very different terms. Never really satisfied in marriage, she has instead dwelt upon the memories she has of those female friendships she cultivated while a student at Radcliffe in the sixties. Annabel has chosen to live in these memories—to clutter her home with pictures of these women, and to judge her daughter in relation to these figures.

While Simone assumes that excavating her mother's real past will prove something incontrovertible about it, and therefore explain their own relationship in some fundamental way, what she discovers instead is not so much what her mother thought about the past but how she thought about her own life. This discovery has a much different impact on Simone than she would have ever imagined.

"The Book of Wonders," both the story and the collection, is about this kind of impact—about what happens when one character is made to understand how another character sees the past. By virtue of her sustained meditation on how history works in the minds of different people, I group Toni Morrison with other writers whose work has meant the word to me—other writers for whom the flickering and repressing of the past constitutes one of their central concerns: Proust, Woolf, Marquez, Sebald, Bolaño, and—more recently—Egan. That I had the opportunity to engage directly with Professor Morrison's mind, to watch her pen mark my pages, is something—to this day—I still cannot quite believe.