"Make Justice of My Body": An Interview with Jonterri Gadson

Jonterri Gadson is Debra's daughter. A Cave Canem fellow, she is a recent graduate of University of Virginia's MFA program in poetry and the current Herbert W. Martin Post-Graduate Creative Writing Fellow at the University of Dayton. Her poetry has previously been published by The Rumpus, Tidal Basin Review, Muzzle, and other journals. Her chapbook, Pepper Girl, is forthcoming from YesYes Books in Fall 2012.

Her poem "A Body's Winter" appears in Issue Thirty-Eight of The Collagist.

Here, Jonterri Gadson speaks to interviewer Elizabeth Deanna Morris about the body, desire, and freedom.

1. How did you go about writing “A Body’s Winter”?

I was reading Ed Roberson’s Voices Cast Out to Talk Us In at the time with an online poetry book club of Twitter poets. Roberson’s poems put me in a cosmic mindset. Plus, I was experiencing winter in Des Moines, IA, which was a combination of various levels of cold/isolation. So I started there--with the weather--and took myself where I wanted to be through the poem.

2. The body is such a central figure in both of the poems in this month’s issue. Specifically, the body seems to be a place of entrapment (I’m thinking of the lines, “I ache to be atmospheric” from “A Body’s Winter” and the more obvious “Made of my body / a prison” from “An Appeal.”) Could you talk about how you see the body as image in your poems?

It’s funny because I didn’t used to write about the body at all and then suddenly I couldn’t get away from it. When I’m speaking of the body, most times, what I really mean is desire. I think of a body as an entity that desires, desires to be desired, and is desired.  

3. I keep coming back to the line “Make     justice / of my body.” It seems such a calloused line compared to the last line, “show it you want to come home.” Could you talk about your movement between these lines of this poem?

When I think about the first line of “An Appeal,” I think of using the body as a method to achieve freedom; finding freedom in the realization and expression of the body as a being that desires. I was also speaking in literal terms about the appeals process in the US criminal justice system and that an appeal can be a way of gaining freedom, going home.

4. What have you found gut-wrenching to read recently?

According to my Twitter account, on September 15 at 1:39 AM I felt that “it should be absolutely illegal” for Vievee Francis to have written “Taking It.” Hours later at 10:45 AM, I was still “shattered.” It’s the way the poem doesn’t flinch, doesn’t really turn away from the terror even when it acknowledges that it is turning away. Is it possible to be more authentic than that?

5. What are other writings that you’ve been working on? 

My chapbook, Pepper Girl, just came out with YesYes Books. As far as new writing, every other week I workshop 4-5 pages of poems via video chat with a fellow poet I met at the Callaloo Writer’s Workshop last summer. I’ve also been writing personal essays. And I’m writing book reviews for some poetry collections I am really excited about.

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"This Time I Keep My Eyes Open": An Interview-in-Excerpts with Courtney Elizabeth Mauk

Courtney Elizabeth Mauk received her MFA from Columbia University and has published in The Literary Review, PANK, Wigleaf, and Necessary Fiction, among others. She is an assistant editor at Barrelhouse and teaches at Juilliard and The Sackett Street Writers' Workshop. She lives in Manhattan with her husband.

An excerpt from her novel Spark appears in Issue Thirty-Eight of The Collagist.

Here, Courtney Elizabeth Mauk answers questions "in the form of excerpts" -- with further excerpts from her novel.  Enjoy!

1. What is writing like?

The flame appears instantly, as if it has always been there, a living creature awoken from its hiding place by my hand. Instinct pushes me to drop the match, but I hold on until the end, only a matter of seconds, when the fire meets my flesh. The burn sears through me. I close my eyes, wanting the heat to fill me, to go on forever…But the burning stops. Only the sting remains.

I strike another. This time I keep my eyes open.

2. What isn’t writing like?

Next, to a scratchy recording of “Somewhere Over the Rainbow,” three dancers perform a slow burlesque. They are identical, almost robotic: hair short and slicked back, lips painted in motionless hearts, perfect hourglass figures bound in red corsets. They kick their slender, fishnet-clad legs high over their heads, ruby slippers flashing. The men on the floor whistle and shout for recognition, but the dancers do not derivate from the choreography.

3. When you do it, why?

The night sharpens, the head of a pin on which he balances, alone. The volatility stops his heart, and then his pulse races ahead, welcoming the sweet deliciousness, the addictive bravado of desire inextricable from danger.

4. When you don’t, why?

Lying awake at night, listening to Jack breathing beside me, I have clenched my hand in the sheets. I have tightened my body, squeezed shut my eyes, strained every muscle for an answer to my questions, a point of understanding. And I have found nothing. My reactions are lacking, my wants incomplete, my soul inadequate. In those moments, I have hated my weakness.

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"A Space in Need of Renovated View": An Interview with j/j hastain

j/j hastain is the author of several cross-genre books including the trans-genre book libertine monk (Scrambler Press), anti-memoir a vigorous (Black Coffee Press/ Eight Ball Press) and the xyr trilogy (a metaphysical romance). j/j’s writing has most recently appeared in Caketrain, Trickhouse, Housefire, Bombay Gin and Aufgabe. j/j has been a guest lecturer at Naropa University and University of Colorado.

j/j's piece "Subsection from XYR" appears in Issue Thirty-Six of The Collagist.

Here, j/j speaks to interviewer Joseph Scapellato about the violence of pronouns, writing-as-activism, and narratives that perform smear.

1. Where did “Subsection from XYR” begin for you, and how did it get to here?

I have been working a lot lately with what it might be to create an inclusive declension. A pronoun or site of reference that is literally a place where queers (and queer allies) can sort of rest in indelible accuracy for a while. Feel ourselves being held.

This work has felt necessary to me, because to identify with an accurate pronoun is to begin to be able to flow, to rant. For folks for whom binary-derived pronouns do not fit or resonate, it is sometimes difficult to just tell our realities, speak of our bodies, our desires—so, engaging embodied understanding of the intensities of the violences that inaccurate pronoun uses can induce, is really an activism for me. “Xyr” came in as a form of resistance—as creative relief of the violences of particular assumptions in regard to binary-based pronouns. The subsection published at The Collagist is part of a full length, work which is part of a trilogy (The Xyr Trilogy: a Metaphysical Romance).

2. I love that you’ve described this engagement as activism.  To what extent do you think that the act of writing is—or could be, or should be—activism?

I think that the extent that someone treats it as activism combined with the reverberative effects of the writing are what indicate it as activism or not. I do not think that all writing (or all art) has to be activist, and I also think that there are different levels/layers in regard to activisms in writing. Some writing indicates itself as activist by way of its content (see Bell Hooks, Alfred Whitehead, even some of Leslie Feinberg’s), and I also think that there are activist writings for which content is not the dominant concern (kari edwards, David Wolach, etc.). I guess to me, it all depends on the position of one’s heart and hands.

3. One of the many things I enjoy about this piece is the artful interplay between concrete physical actions—

show xem that it is erotic for you to be wrapping xem. to be keeping xem. "try not to breathe, it will be  ok." then when half way through: "ok, breathe from just your nostrils." then all at once: "try to breathe  with your whole body, now. right now." hold xem as the metal wire cuts in.

—and assertive lyrical abstractions—

to occupy and be occupied by torrent, as a way to birth a phenom-colossi; an our in what was ever  previously an isolated my.

To me, this resonates with this piece’s pronoun-transformations: pronouns, after all, are assertive abstractions that attempt to evoke “concrete” physical genders.  Can you talk a little more about how you conceive of the relationship between the concrete and the abstract in this work?  (And/or your use of pronouns in this piece?)

Well, I think I may have done some of this above, but I certainly have more to say about it! You are right about the tension (but like hinge, not like disagreement) that is created by “concrete physical actions” and “assertive lyrical abstractions.” For me, these work together to generate both distinct, but also blurred view (which is important when creating space to can hold more than something singular).

You mention pronouns as “assertive abstractions [attempting to] evoke concrete physical genders.” I think that generally (especially in the context of binary pronoun attributions from sites exterior to the bodies which are being referred) this is the case (and is part of what is in need of renovation), but in order to push/inhabit the place that I am proposing by way of Xyr, whether or not the genders being referred to are “physical,” need to be flexible. Of course as a base of any current conversation regarding gender, is the need to differentiate gender from sex (just thought I would throw that in here to be sure we are on the same page).

I guess I am saying that I would feel ok sharing an accurate reference with a seraph—that in fact I would prefer sharing an accuracy with a not-even-fully-materialized being over having a pronoun schlepped onto my shoulders simply because of a historical norm or a lack of having had renovating view applied to a space (as my body is, as many queer bodies are) in need of renovated view.  

I sort of just went off there, but what else could be expected when invited to speak about pronouns! Thank you!

As far as abstraction vs concrete in Xyr, I would say that there is a necessary continuum of shifting, of sway—that a sort of inner rhythm between many components (including concrete act and abstraction—but also including image, sound, narrative that performs smear, etc.) allows Xyr as a whole, to be a conglomerate with many interacting features. I want whole brain, whole body stimulations! I like to think of The Xyr Trilogy as a moat made of many pieces of stained glass, held together by honey. It is fragile, but if you are careful in it (and try to engage it by moving with it as sway (as opposed to by rigidly)) AND if a primary interest of yours is to experience unforeseen illuminations, then you certainly can cross and find!

4. I’d love it if you elaborated on the idea of a “narrative that performs smear”—what exactly do you mean by “smear”?  (What’s being smeared?  How does one go about creating this effect?  And what are some examples of other narratives that perform smear?)

Sure! When I say narrative that performs smear, I am talking about narrative with its intents not solely focused on linearly upholding a certain sequence of events by way of structural and modal limit. So, diffuse, but at the same time not unable to indicate specificities specifically (in Wikipedia, Diffuse Interreflection is discussed as a process whereby light reflected from an entity, touches other objects in surrounding zones, illuminating them as well). Performance of smear is the narrative mode that I created in order to move through the pages of Xyr so that there is in fact simultaneously the articulation of a story (figures experiencing certain physical and non-physical events) and the possibility for the form to stay open enough that psychic/intuitive data be able to remain in it. Intents, points, meanings, possibilities are all being smeared slowly, musically. Maybe we could think of this as the embodied act of infinitely wandering a sonorous mandala, seeking all forms of stimuli (divergent to form/intent or not)—as sensations leaking through somnambulist or only partially visible presences.

I would say that in their own way Anna Joy Springer, Melissa Buzzeo, N. Brossard, JA Tyler, Robert Gluck and some of Bhanu Kapil’s paragraphs also perform smear (though they would probably call their engagement/s with narrative something different).

5. In your bio, you mention that you’re currently curating an Anthology of Queer Nudes.  Will you tell us about this project, and how it does/doesn’t intersect with “Subsection from XYR”? 

The Anthology of Queer Nudes is a project that has been in the works for a while now (and still has a while to go). The premise of the book (when KFS Press and I were initially discussing it) was to make a space for the queer body and the queer page to be examined by those of us whom identify as queer (so we could be speaking for ourselves). The project has really branched out into various manifestations though, a bigger scope than I had initially imagined. Of course, the expanding of scope is always a gift, so I am excited! The Anthology of Queer Nudes definitely shares residual traces with Xyr (I mean, as a queer I feel emancipated by The Xyr Trilogy so I would imagine other Queer identifying (and Queer allied) folks might feel honored/ held by it). However, as is stated in the Extro in Xyr, the book does not claim any universal queer experience, so maybe the best idea would be to ask folks how it made them feel once the full length is published?  

If you are someone who identifies in the above stated way and wishes to get in contact with me about appearing in the book please feel free to send me an email!

6. What other writing projects are you working on right now?

Perhaps this is a good time to flesh out what the other two books in the Xyr trilogy are like. Xyr is a system of smeary sketches of figure becoming lover in gender-specifying space (or, at least that is one way to describe it) in response to three of HOUSEFIRE Press’ prompts as well as by many bibliomancies performed on the pages of very old journals.

The second book (called Xems) is a radical POV change from the inter-echoing between the lovers in Xyr (Xyr and eventually the revealing of a second Xyr) to a third figure introduced into the double-Xyr space (which is a space eventually revealed as Xems (a double possessive)). Xems takes place in Xems home/body setting (where the third figure is staying, renting the house) after the fact of a single-Xyr death. In Xems, a new feminism of frenzy is being considered by way of the third figure looking at and feeling Xems by way of Xems opera of grief (which begins with that third figure slipping fingers into the back portion (the hand-written pages) of the published opera of grief, after digging it up from the garden in back of Xems house).

The third book (called Letters to the Divergents: A Cryptozoologic for Xems) is comprised of a nearly a hundred letters to various species that are referred to (by that third figure in the Xems book) as “Divergents” because they are not believed in (mythological forms, as with Nessie or Sasquatch, etc.), under-related-to because they are not well known (as with the Olm (blind amphibian)) or simply because they are despised by the status quo (the Tongue Eating Louse). In the final book of The Xyr Trilogy the third figure (introduced in Xems) courts The Divergents by way of threading them to the enigmatic Xems throughout intercessory-interventionist letters. 

7.  What knock-out writing have you been reading recently? Are there any upcoming releases you're excited about? 

Oh yes! I have been reading DMT: The Spirit Molecule (just for the sake of really getting into the pineal gland and its wild emissions!) and Mystics, Masters, Saints and Sages. Jeanne Hyvrard, Helene Cixous and Marguerite Duras always knock me out. I am looking forward to reading Kate Zambreno’s Green Girl (though not exactly an upcoming release it is new to me). I also think Dzanc’s The Freak Chronicles looks really exciting!

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"The Process is Part of the Purpose": An Interview with Alan Stewart Carl

Alan Stewart Carl lives and writes in San Antonio, Texas. His work has appeared in Mid-American Review, Hayden’s Ferry, PANK and elsewhere. Currently, he’s trying to find new and better ways to balance writing with fatherhood. Sometimes he writes about this at AlanStewartCarl.com. 

His story "After We Were Nothing" appears in Issue Thirty-Five of The Collagist.

Here, Alan Stewart Carl talks to interviewer Joseph Scapellato about "pouring," dialogue, and plot. 

1. Where did “After We Were Nothing” begin for you, and how did it get to here?

This is one of those stories that was filled by a lot of spigots. For several years I’d been toying around with a different story that took place at the coast and involved various references to mythology. For whatever reason, I could never get that story to work quite right. Then, one day, the first line of “After We Were Nothing” came to me out of whatever pool of words our first lines emerge. I wasn’t sure where it would go but I started pouring things into it. The Lucretius parts inserted themselves because I’d recently read The Swerve for a book club. The boat parts came from that earlier coastal story. The child aspect came from my vast collection of parental fears. Oddly—or at least oddly for me—the first draft yielded the exact structure I ended up using in the published piece. My revisions were more about getting the language and tone right. And that took quite a while.

2. When a draft begins to become a receptacle for “pouring things into,” does the act of writing become in any way cathartic or therapeutic? (And does it ever feel like it’s working the other way around—as if the story’s pouring things into you?)

Sometimes it feels as if all of my writing is just me working through the complications of life. I don’t know if it’s ever therapeutic in any curative way, but it’s definitely enlivening. I often feel fuller for having written. In fact, I’d say the more I pour into a story, the richer and more alive I feel after its completion. That’s not to say there aren’t days when I find my writing to be so god-awful that I want to bury myself under blankets and play Angry Birds instead. And yet, then again, that’s not to say only my “good” writing enlivens me. I can feel absolutely great after having written something I later realize is complete trash. Writing is such a strange experience. At least for me. The process is part of the purpose. I do this as much for the act of doing it as I do for the eventual act of publication. 

3. I love the decision to render dialogue without quotation marks and identifying tags (I said, he said, she said, etc.).  It leads to charged transitions—such as when we go from this exposition:


We were the parents unburdened.  Drunk and slurping on oysters.  We were freedom.  Life.


 —to this wryly apt line:


But I think we were confused.


For me, the result is that the dialogue sections, though visually “separate,” resonate powerfully with the rest of the work.  Can you talk a little about your decision to render dialogue this way?  (What do you think dialogue can/should do?)

Thanks for the kind words. I’m glad all of that worked so well for you.

To answer the question: whenever it won’t horribly confuse the reader, I like to work without quotation marks. Part of that is simply aesthetic (I prefer the cleaner look). But the other part is that I like the way a lack of quotation marks keeps things a bit destabilized. I tend to deal a lot with characters who exist if not in an outright warped reality then at least in a reality heavily tinted by their emotional/mental state. For me, going without quotation marks lets me more easily push against a reader’s perception of what is and isn’t real. In terms of dialogue, I like to keep it uncertain as to whether the characters are actually saying those words or whether those words are someone’s interpretation of what’s being said. That’s probably why, in this story, I also made the choice not to use identifying tags. I think something as simple as “he said” or “I said” or “she said” would’ve created too much of an anchor. I don’t like over-anchoring stories. I prefer to unmoor the world and give it a kick. Not that I plan to regularly abandon identifying tags. It’s not going to become my m.o. or anything.

4. What writing projects are you working on right now?

My biggest focus right now—to the detriment of so, so many other things—is finishing the first draft of a novel. It’s my second attempt at a novel. The first one I completed two years ago; but after some time I decided I’d written it too quickly and it wasn’t really the kind of novel I wanted to write. This one feels a lot more like me. And I hope to hell to have the first draft done before the leaves fall.

5. I’ve heard other writers talk about their first novels as “learning novels.”  In addition to not writing it so quickly and making sure that it “feels a lot more like me,” what else have you learned from writing the first novel that you’ve been applying to the second?

The first answer that comes to mind is: plot. I’ve learned that a novel’s plot is a monstrous thing that will slam you against the coliseum walls the moment you lose focus and dip your spear. In that “learning novel” I let the need for plot dictate my movements to such an extent that, by the conclusion, I found that I’d more or less written a sci-fi adventure when I’d intended to write a skewed-world meditation on love. The narrative act of skewing the world set in motion various elements of classic plot. But, since meditations are light on plot, the whole love thing never materialized in the way I’d envisioned. Don’t get me wrong. I enjoy plot both in what I read and what I write. I simply didn’t anticipate how much plot would brutalize the meditative aspects. For this new novel, I don’t have any less of a skewed-world conceit but, from the very first drafts of the very first pages, I’ve been rather militant about restraining plot’s innate desire to rampage through the text. I’m keeping the character’s basic plot concerns simple (i.e. they want to get from point A to point B) while allowing their emotional/spiritual/psychological/etc. needs to create the real momentum. Basically, I’m trying to do a better job of balancing the gunfire with the lingering gazes at the sea. That’s probably novel writing 101 stuff. But it’s one of the biggest lessons I learned. All that remains now is to see is if I’ve applied the lessons well enough to make this new novel something better.

6.  What outstanding writing have you been reading recently? Are there any upcoming releases you're excited about?

The essays on the Rumpus have been so good this year. I tend to read those during lunch and I’m often moved not just by the topics but by the writing itself. As for the world of fiction, I picked up Don DeLillo’s White Noiserecently (picked it up off my shelf where it had sat in my less-than-orderly queue for several years). A long while back I read “Pafko at the Wall” and found it phenomenal but, for reasons that are lost to me now, I didn’t pick up anything else by DeLillo until White Noise. Not reading more of DeLillo sooner was a mistake. The writing in White Noise is exceptional. The sentences are so rich you can taste them and DeLillo isn’t afraid to be both silly and intellectual (qualities I enjoy in fiction as well as in life). The story itself hardly matters, although the plot is fine enough. It is the writing and the thoughts behind the story that carried me along. From my understanding, most consider other novels of his to be superior to White Noise, so I’m eager to dive deeper into his work.

Of course, there are other things I’m looking forward to reading. I’ll be picking up Junot Diaz’s new collection. And I’m very much anticipating Amber Sparks’s May We Shed These Human Bodies. And although it was published earlier this summer, I’m looking forward to Caitlin Horrocks This is Not Your City.

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"It Is Where You Do the Work": An Interview with Matthew Salesses

Matthew Salesses was born in Korea and adopted at age two. He is the author of The Last Repatriate and Our Island of Epidemics. His new book, I'm Not Saying, I'm Just Saying, is forthcoming from Civil Coping Mechanisms in Feb 2012. You can find recent stories in Witness, Guernica, Quarterly West, Puerto del Sol, Hyphen Magazine, and others. Matthew edits fiction and writes a column for the Good Men Project.

Five pieces from his book I'm Not Saying, I'm Just Saying appear in Issue Thirty-Five of The Collagist.

Here, Matthew Salesses speaks with interviewer Joseph Scapellato about the arts of composition, revision, and distance.

1. Where did these five pieces begin for you, and how did they get to here?

I think one of these, “Good Thing She Had Money,” was a part of my original manuscript of about twenty less-than-one-page stories. The book these are from, I’m Not Saying, I’m Just Saying, is 115 pieces that make a novel about a man whose illegitimate son shows up, surprise, when his mom is dying. The man has commitment issues, shall we say. I started with one story, the first story in the book, and maybe a year later, when I was looking for a new project to keep my mind off the frustrations of novel-revision, I thought of that story and how I had never felt done with that character and situation and voice. Especially voice.

I ended up writing twenty more or so, then sent those out to a few places. The Lifted Brow asked if I had 20 they might sprinkle throughout an issue. I said, I could. I wrote twenty more. As a way of generating the stories, I was using objects around my house and trying to incorporate them. Objects are something I think are very important to fiction, but that I often overlook until later drafts. In “Good Thing She Had Money,” the object was just a bed. I was trying to turn sentences around, trying to make each sentence close to a journey of its own.

With about 40 pieces, I had a chapbook manuscript. I sent it one place and was told it was too short. For a while, I left it there, waiting for submission periods to open. Then Civil Coping Mechanisms wrote asking if I had a book. I said, I could. They wanted 120 pages, so I had to write a lot more. Anyway, there was still a lot of room for the story to grow. And I was still addicted to that voice, to what I was trying to do with those stories. And I also liked the idea of a novel of these tiny pieces. My thanks to Michael Seidlinger—without him, this would never have been a book.

The other four stories were written in this later period, filling in gaps while trying to maintain gaps.

2. I love the decision to not designate these pieces as “shorts” or “short shorts” or “flashes”—here, they appear as “five from I’m Not Saying, I’m Just Saying.”  For me, this hints at how they “belong together,” at how they tell a larger story.  Can you talk a little about your decision to leave these pieces designation-less?  

I’m actually very unsure about what to call the pieces, which is why I try not to designate them. They’ve all been published as fiction, but I’m not even sure they’re more fiction then poetry, or at least what poetry I can make. It is important to me how they fit together. But it is also important to me that they can stand apart.

Though I think I like them more as a whole and that I was thinking a lot as I wrote about how attrition works in fiction, how little by little, something can lodge in your heart.

3. These pieces are rich in mystery.  Compelling distances expand and collapse between the characters: the boy seems to be as far away from his mother as he is from the narrator and the woman; the narrator refers to the woman not as “wife” or “fiancé” or “girlfriend,” but more mysteriously as “the wifely woman.”  What role do you think distance plays in evoking mystery?  (In evoking relationships?)

Distance, I suppose, is what I’m calling “gaps” above. I think it’s important not to tell a reader everything. Most writers would agree with that, I’d bet. I’m more likely to take that idea too far than not far enough. I like for readers to draw their own connections.

There was this study I heard about once, where people were shown a drawing that wasn’t fully completed, though they could fill in what was missing in their head. What was missing was obvious. This stressed people out, not having it finished. It made them really want to fill in the gaps. I guess I think this is a good thing: that unsettledness, that desire to complete the image. It means your mind is working. I like leaving the gaps a little wider, so that the drawing isn’t so obvious, so that people still want to fill in the missing pieces but can do so with their own images as much as with what is there.

4. To what degree are these pieces representative of I’m Not Saying, I’m Just Saying?  I’d love to hear about how they do/don’t “fit” with the work as a whole.

These pieces are just one small thread in the story. In the way that they talk about accepting the boy (or not) into the “family,” they are representative. A lot of the book is about this transition, and the effects of this transition on the narrator. There are a few threads that aren’t represented here (or at least as fully): like race, infidelity, “goodness,” commitment, owning who you are.

5. You recently finished up a wonderful stint as Writer-in-Residence at Necessary Fiction.  In your second post, you write: “Here’s the selfish reason I wanted to do a Revision Month.  I wanted other people’s knowledge.”  After soliciting so many thoughts on revision—and sharing your own—how have you “revised” your personal understanding of revision?

I haven’t revised it so much as edited it. I’ve learned things. But I still believe what I believed before about revision, that it is where you do the work. That people need to know more about it then they are given in workshops, yet that it can be taught.

6. What writing projects are you working on right now?  (The novel that you mentioned during your residency?)

I am working on a novel, yes, currently titled, The Artist’s Model, though it has had several other titles. It’s about an American who goes to Prague and gets in an affair with the wife of a famous artist. It’s set in 2002, when a major flood swept through Prague and destroyed a section of the city, Karli'n, in which the American and the wife are trapped.

I’m also working on a book about adoption, with an adoptive father, a conversation of sorts, that I hope will be of use to people confused about how adoption defines them. I’m confused.

The revision posts may also become a book, perhaps. We’ll see if anyone wants that.

Then there’s a story collection. I’m stretched pretty thin.

7.  What knock-out writing have you been reading recently? Are there any upcoming releases you're excited about? 

I am glad you asked this. I’ll recommend some books by Korean American writers, since people don’t read enough Korean American writers. I can’t recommend more highly Forgotten Country, by Catherine Chung. I also very much enjoyed Don Lee’s new book, The Collective. Jay Caspian Kang is coming out with a novel soon, The Dead Do Not Improve. I’ll actually be writing about Asian American authors for a new magazine, ALIST, that looks to be something important and special in a difficult landscape for minorities

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