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Tuesday, Nov 10, 2009
I have this thing where in order to feel productive I have to feel like I'm procrastinating -- so I'll take on a bunch of work, even stuff I don't really want to do, just so I have an excuse to put it down and pick up something else...
Yes! You said it way better than I could. It's been that way for me basically forever. I was thinking about writing "Heartbreaking Work" the whole time that we did Might magazine --and that, for me, was competing with my time to maybe write that story out. And then I worked for Esquire for a year and I was supposed to be writing there but all I was doing was working on the memoir, for the most part. And then while I was stalling on that, that's where McSweeney's came from. I thought, "Fuck that, I haven't published anything and I don't know where I'm going with this memoir, but I have this idea for a magazine!"
You only want to work on the stuff you're not supposed to be working on. That's how it always is. I'll always be working on five things at once, usually with those documents open at the same time because if I get stuck somewhere I'll jump over to something else. That's how my head has always worked. I don't know if it's 'cause I watched too much TV as a kid or what. It really could be that.
Since you're your own publisher, I'm curious about who edits you.
Vendela, my wife, is probably the first person that reads things. And then Eli Horowitz, our managing editor -- those are probably the two main people. I don't know if you ever do this, but I'll pick people for certain stories and I'll say, "If this one doesn't make sense to you, I'm doing something wrong."
The classic line about the short story is that it's nothing what it used to be, that it's on its last leg as being culturally or literarily relevant or whatever. Anyone writing professionally knows how hard they are to sell -- to magazines, and especially as books -- that the whole machinery, except MFA programs, discourages them from being written. It's all about the novel -- and long novels in particular. I guess maybe that's why I like a lot of the shorter pieces in "How We Are Hungry," which I want to talk about. Maybe I'll sound like an ass saying this, but they were quick and fun, which I think is kind of rare.
Thanks. You know, it's funny: I was in Minneapolis the other day and I did a morning NPR show. There was a substitute radio host who interviewed me -- I'm not sure where the regular person was. This substitute person wasn't incredibly in touch with what's going on in contemporary books, but she was nice enough, until the end. The last question -- it's like how they teach journalists to hold your tough questions until the end -- so the last question is, "Do you think that some of these stories that are very short ... well, what would you say if I said I kind of found them sort of gimmicky?" This woman felt very, I think, alienated, like the stories weren't for her and they made her feel old or unhip.
I just didn't know where to start. I keep thinking we'll wake up someday and everyone will remember that every memorable piece of art we've ever had surprises us in its form. Part of it is the assumption that you're not supposed to have fun with the short-story form. [Laughs.] It should not be fun, they say. Gertrude Stein died in 1946 or something, and yet I print a story that's seven blank pages ["There Are Some Things He Should Keep to Himself"] and people throw up their hands in exasperation.
What's the deal with that story, anyway?
There was a story there, seven pages, until a few weeks before we went to press. And it was a very personal and painful kind of story, and I thought it fit in the collection. But then I was advised that it wasn't such a good idea to put it in, and so instead I changed the title and left the pages blank. In a weird way it went from the most wrenching part of the book to what appears to be a quick gag.
I want to talk about the idea of funny: What annoys me is how on one hand it's not cool if a book's obviously trying to be funny -- or it's at least harder to get "respect" -- and at the same time every book that gets critical respect is now described in reviews as "containing prose that's both unapologetically serious and, at times, disarmingly hilarious" or whatever. I'll read those books, and I'm always struck by how unfunny they are. Good maybe, but not funny. Do critics just have no sense of humor?
Yeah -- well, it's true that if you want to know what's fall-down-laughing funny, there aren't too many pundits who are going to recognize it. Sam Lipsyte and Jonathan Ames are duly recognized for being funny, thank god. But generally, there are really only about two or three truly funny books published any given year. I think the Jon Stewart book is really funny, partly because it's totally reckless. I had no idea it'd be that reckless! That and the Onion -- they're funny because they're unbridled; you just don't know when they're going to say "motherfucker" or just jump the rails in some way. That Jon Stewart book is one of the best books of the year, but it's not going to win any awards.
