A Q&A with LA Wire
This collection of stories has a well of insight and depth into the deep-seated trauma of many of the men living in the United States today. How close is this topic to you?
I feel like I have a personal distance—and curiosity—because I’m so different than many of the characters depicted in this collection. Over time it’s become increasingly clear to me that the zero-sum equation where everything’s a competition, compromise is weakness, and men establish dominance through violence has always been destabilizing, for individuals and society. But I’ve been around this kind of toxicity all my life: I’ve worked in the service industry, I spent years in the tech business sector, I’ve been inside academia, and I recall my own male role models—the coaches, professors, bosses, peers, friends, and friends’ fathers—and the connective thread of these men’s lives, especially the ones I’ve tried not to emulate, is that surviving, much less thriving, in a late capitalist system, obliges them to kill something within themselves. So many men have historically been sold a bill of goods, a myth still being repurposed in the media and a million cynical self-help books, that if they work hard, stay strong, and above all keep winning, they will accrue not only wealth, but happiness.
The characters are all so different, but the thread that binds them is trauma and what some may call toxic masculinity and others may call normal male behavior. What inspired you to write this?
It seems to me male toxicity is a topic we discuss at great length but not with sufficient detail or depth. Simply noting that men seem very angry (for any number of reasons), and that “hurt people hurt people” does not address the root cause, which is that our received notions of manhood and masculinity are inculcated—from the beginning and by design—to ensure willing participation in a system that excludes most of us. We see the way these dysfunctions are handed down like inheritance, and how every cliché, from fighting to drinking to intolerance of dissent and distrust of others, is a carefully constructed trap, preventing solidarity, empathy, and love (for others, for oneself). Men are trained, and encouraged, to keep their feelings, emotions, vulnerabilities in check, and at some point all this repression implodes (and men hurt themselves) or explodes (and men hurt other people). To understand why so many American males feel unheard and left behind, we need to hear their stories, listen to them, and create better narratives to stimulate meaningful discourse.
What do you hope this book will inspire men (and women) to do?
I think the greatest power art offers us is how it can initiate dialogue and foster connection. We transcend time and language through story, which helps us see how much has changed and how much stays the same. By hearing stories, we better understand other people; by telling our own stories we better understand ourselves. If my book encourages anyone (men, women, their children, parents, etc.) to talk, or listen, or encourage anyone else to talk or listen, it proves we’re capable of change, on personal and global levels. I am often discouraged when I see a world where being disagreeable is the default setting, and people shut down to feel safe. Stories can inspire us to feel less alone, and perhaps provide incentive to open up, be vulnerable, cultivate compassion, and understand that very powerful forces want nothing more than to keep us fighting over crumbs while a relative handful divide the spoils.
Which of these short stories is your favorite and why?
It’s interesting; having written for so many years, I’ve arrived at a place where, once a story is completed, instead of pride or accomplishment the primary feeling is one of gratitude on behalf of the story itself. I’m not sure many of us can explain where these ideas come from, or why we are chosen to flesh them out using language, but I’m grateful when the impetus for a new piece obliges me to stick with it until it’s complete. I drafted the story “Red State Sewer Side” after an unsettling dream, and from a single image I chased certain thoughts and feelings until a narrative revealed itself. I’m pleased that, on some level, I was able to distill some heavy sociopolitical observations into a relatively succinct and straightforward (if not deceptively simple) scenario. This story exemplifies my desire, throughout the collection, to explore political issues without being “political” and to imagine the individuals inside these stories breathing and suffering in ways often overlooked or stereotyped by our media. I believe this story interrogates disconnection and violence with curiosity and without judgment, and I’d humbly suggest if we did more of that (in our media, in our politics, in our fiction) we’d be better equipped to address our 21st Century malaise.
Which of the characters do you relate to the most and why?
There are, inevitably, elements of truth in all these stories. Some are drawn from lived experience, or else situations I’ve heard about, but none of this work is thinly veiled autobiography. The only story taken directly from my own life is “Waiting,” which I initially sketched out on a scrap of paper in the lobby of a hospital. In 2002 my mother was in the final stages of her five-year battle with cancer, and my family was, at that point, uncomfortably familiar with the routine of anxiety, hope, anger, fear, despair, hope, sadness, numbness, and hope. Waiting for a loved one to return from surgery is always excruciating, because one finds oneself at once wanting things to happen quickly while praying they can be suspended indefinitely; that a verdict won’t be rendered so long as you sit, alone, while your life—including memories, regrets, fears, and hopes—plays out on an endless loop. I was—and remain—grateful my family came together in support of my mother, and each other; this was the only thing that lessened our collective load, making the ordeal slightly more bearable. I could hardly fathom anyone (either a patient or caregiver) enduring such a harrowing experience alone; I imagined what that might be like, and this story, written in a single purposeful burst, is the result.
Tell us about your background in your work uplifting other authors and storytellers.
Thank you for this question! I currently direct the Center for Story at Shenandoah University, which will serve as a dedicated space to study and share stories. We are launching a blog and podcast to accompany our web presence, I’ve initiated a visiting speaker series, and we’ll eventually be incorporating an MA program. In addition, I founded the non-profit 1455 in 2017 to celebrate creativity and showcase storytellers. Our mission is year-round free programming, which includes an author interview series, our e-zine Movable Type, annual festivals, and workshops to connect writers and readers, and help artists find new audiences. As any creative knows, the work occasionally involves solitude and lots of rejection, so I feel it’s critical that those of us in the artistic space do whatever we can to promote and support each other. No one understands better than creatives how much work and passion is required, so if we can’t lift one another up, who will?
This Kind of Man, released in May, is available wherever you buy books, and—if you like the work I’m doing and want to support the cause—in addition to becoming a paid subscriber to this Substack (!), you could buy myriad copies for all your friends (stocking stuffer? fight the power! strike a blow for independent art!!), particularly those whose political sensibilities you’d like to shake up!
