SmokeLong Quarterly

I know it’s been a while since you wrote “Conversations with my Landlord: Jorie”, but one of the things that I think works really well in that story are the different levels of conversations. There’s the titular conversations with Jorie, there’s the conversations with Suzette, but even the narration feels like the main character having a long conversation with herself about the pros and cons of her situation. What advice would you give writers who struggle with writing dialogue? What writers do you admire for their ability to write dialogue?

I’m gratified that you admire the dialogue in the story. In rereading the piece, I realize that this is not an uncommon choice for me— relying heavily on dialogue in a first person story as a way of breaking up its inherent “me-me-me” quality. I do like the idea of a story as a conversation—the story itself contributing just a bit to a larger literary conversation and the story as a conversation among the different voices of the story. I think it’s good practice to be playful with dialogue—to remember that there are choices other than the back and forth of two or more characters talking. In “Conversations,” for example, I frequently delete one half of the dialogue in order to emphasize what one character is saying and to suggest a quality of speechlessness in the other. Richard Bausch creates wonderful dialogue. A story I often teach is his “Aren’t You Happy for Me?” which is a third person story written primarily in dialogue. Amy Hempel is another writer whose dialogue I especially admire. She expertly moves between summary and actual speech and interiority.

Until recently, you were the prose editor for Sou’wester. What are some recent trends (style, subject matter) that you saw while reading submissions?

I don’t know that I’ve noticed trends, exactly. What I have noticed is how very many competent stories are submitted—stories that are pleasing enough to read but which seem to evaporate completely once I’ve finished reading them. There is nothing in them that lingers or haunts or makes me want to return to the beginning. I don’t want to make any pronouncements here, but this suggests that some writers are submitting stories that they don’t really love and that don’t represent the very best they are capable of at that moment. That is, a writer completes a story that seems “good enough” to submit, perhaps concluding that with there being so many journals and so many so-so stories already out in the world a competent story has a good chance of being accepted. But why send out that “good enough” story to any market? Why not wait until we can say “this is my best”?  I know that writers throughout their careers may feel pressure to submit as well as to publish, and I empathize with that. I’ve noted that generally, however, the most skilled writers often submit less. I am much more willing to let stories sit—forever if need be.

One thing I noticed while re-reading some of your stories is that you’re very willing to write in many different styles (from the very traditional of third person-past tense to modular to utilizing lists). Do you have a default POV that you initially write in? How do you think story structure can create or at least influence a reader’s understanding of character?

Because it apparently takes me a long time to write a novel, I do enjoy working in a variety of points of view and structures, etc., in my short fiction so that I don’t feel stuck for years in a writerly rut. I default to third person (see above regarding first person). In theory, that’s not a rut because there are so many possible variations. I’m less comfortable with my habitual use of an intimate third person POV, so I’ve been challenging myself to attempt differing degrees of omniscience and varying levels of emotional and temporal distance.

Your question about story structure and character is fascinating and you’ve inspired me to give this more thought. Stories that adopt the classic story structure (in which the protagonist has a goal and is met with obstacles to achieving the goal) reveal character as we observe the protagonist’s attempts. Is she steadfast or wavering or self-sabotaging or ruthless? And of course how the protagonist deals with his eventual “success” or “failure” also illuminates character. “What You Pawn I May Redeem” by Sherman Alexie is one of my all-time favorite stories because of the way it (and the protagonist Jackson Jackson) brilliantly subverts the classic story structure. Maybe this is too obvious? I’ve been thinking that story structure has a lot to do with the writer’s world view. As a younger writer I was obsessed with my own personal struggles—familial, relationship, psychological, etc. and my stories reflected this, in part through my utilization of the classic story structure which did a good job, I thought, of depicting how life worked (individual struggle). Now I’m looking for structures that can help convey a sense of inter-connectiveness and which allow consideration of the goals of groups and a different shape for a meaningful life. Does every story have to feature a struggle? The metaphor of story as war seems very limiting…

I feel like lately what I’ve been seeing a lot of in SmokeLong‘s submission queue are stories where the first page has been clearly deeply thought about. The prose is well-written, the character and/or situation is really engaging. But by the end, things either have lost their tension or a sudden twist happens that seems to separate the halves of the story. For writers who are submitting during your week, can you provide a short list of stories that have endings you find very satisfying?

My answer here is constrained by my very poor memory! I have come up with a few that I often use with students. (There are so many ways to end a story, and that makes this a difficult task as well.) I am humbled by the endings (and everything else) of Alice Munro’s stories, which often subtly shift, casting a different light on the story, though not twisting suddenly and unsatisfyingly, as you note in your question. “Runaway” is a quintessential example of this—an ending that moves both forward and back. “Pilgrims” by Julie Orringer and “Rock Springs” by Richard Ford are two others that slip sideways in terms of POV in surprising ways. I am blown away by writers who can have the narrators reach an epiphany or “sum up” while avoiding slamming the door on the story. “A Walk in Winter” by Robert Boswell and “Oven Birds” by Dorene O’Brien are two examples. Another kind of ending I like—but which has a high degree of difficulty—is the one that leaves us suspended in the crisis moment, such as “The Ceiling” by Kevin Brockmeier and “A Fear of Invisible Tribes” by Eric Puchner.