#26: Hello, Tigers — How Is Your Roar?
THE LATEST THING FROM HAD IS …
A chapbook! Which you can read about here! And order here! And read remixes of here!
THE LATEST THING FROM WORDS&SPORTS IS …
CLIMATE CLIMATE CLIMATE CLIMATE CLIMATE CLIMATE CLIMATE —
Yellowstone to Yukon Conservation Initiative.
“Denmark to make domestic flights fossil fuel free by 2030.”
“Shell’s Massive Carbon Capture Plant Is Emitting More Than It’s Capturing.”
Can someone please talk to Russia about their methane emissions?
TOM WAITS AND THE KRONOS QUARTET —
CONCERNING MY SHARE OF THE BODY —
Note: this transcript has been edited.
EVAN FLEISCHER: You know — one thing I want to do with these questions — I’m almost tempted to try and avoid the book altogether because I really want the book to speak for itself. Like, if I tried to speak in ‘interviewer speak’ about the book, I’d be doing a disservice to the book. And so I think there are other questions I can put to you at something of a slant, one of which being — one thing people have asked me as an editor at Hobart is what I’m looking for when it comes to stories I publish on Hobart. And one thing I keep saying is that I’m looking for stories that treat emotions and relationships seriously — not with seriousness, but with, like, attention and respect. And it’s hard to define that, but I see that again and again through all the stories in your book, and so one question I can put to you is, why do you treat the emotional lives of your characters with respect?
DEVON CAPIZZI: That’s a really beautiful question that my brain has to catch up to at 1:30 on a Wednesday afternoon. But it’s hard for me to talk about the book without me talking about my personal experiences while I was writing it because those two things were very conflated in this particular project.
I started writing it at Emerson, which I joined in 2017, and — about a month into the program — my Dad was killed in a car accident, which was … just awful. As terrible as it sounds. I think that really played a part in allowing me to allow my work to matter in a new way. So I guess that speaks to your question a little bit. I guess feel like when I was in the headspace of starting the collection and writing a lot of stories and kind of committing to my writing in a ‘serious way,’ I think I was in a headspace where everything I wrote had to live somewhere that wasn’t just my brain. I was really overwhelmed. It was that classic before and after experience — like, it totally shattered what my life was and then my life was just something different and new. I always say it was either the best or the worst time to get a grad degree because I was totally a mess but — at the same time — I had all this space to explore that messiness. And I felt that if I wasn’t allowing that to go on the page — allowing the emotion live somewhere — then why was I doing this? It changed the weight of things in my life.
The urn is small as an egg and fits nicely in the hand. Heavy, weighted. Avery picks it up and shakes it a little. Bits and pieces rattle inside. It’s like a shaker from an early music class, but there’s something harder too. “You think it’s his bones?” Avery’s brother Teddy asks, his skin ghost-white and papery as he clutches his own small egg of ashes. Avery shrugs because she doesn’t want to say, “I do.” Doesn’t want the sound of her own voice corrupting the sound of bone in its eternal casing. So small, Avery thinks, turning the urn in her hand and wondering how much of him they fit inside. — "My Share Of The Body,” Devon Capizzi.
DC: I think I was at a point in my life when I started my program where — I’d always been interested in writing. I’d always played around with stories but they were never quite stories — they were just snippets of things that came from a true emotional place, but I don’t think I ever really gave myself permission to take the intensity of my emotion seriously beyond just an offhand diary entry or I’d taken maybe one fiction workshop and … I did okay but it was just not really … I always saw writing as something that I loved but maybe something I wasn’t allowed to take seriously because it felt a bit like a pipe dream. When I decided to commit to it a bit more, I was still in that space of not really understanding what I wanted to say and I think when my Dad died so suddenly — and I was pretty young; it was three days after my 23rd birthday — it felt like something snapped. Like, okay — ‘These emotions are so big I can’t ignore them.’ You have to take these [emotions] seriously because they’re not just something you can push away. And that opened up a whole mindset of more macro patterns in my life — not to get, like — this isn’t a therapy session, but —
EF: Please!
DC: Like — I am one to convince myself than maybe I’m more okay than I am. And this was the first thing in my adult life where I was at a point of recognizing that. And I wasn’t a kid. I wasn’t a teenager anymore. And it was something that altered every part of my life — my home family, my current life here, my school work. It totally redirected this project I was working on. And when I exorcised that out of me in this book; when I allowed myself to actually say something and own that — I’m now working on a novel of what coming out looks like and what queerness looks like. And, you know — I came out in a really unspoken space. And it was beautiful — it was a rugby team. Very cliche. But I was surrounded by queer people. But we were never really talking about what that meant for our lives outside of that space. Now, years removed from that, it catches up to you — this isn’t just a fun thing I do — I go and drink with a bunch of lesbians and play rugby — this has ramifications on my life, who I am, identity, and all that stuff. And it’s not a bad thing — I think it’s great — but I do think that it’s something to be reckoned with a little bit.
He had not seen Jackson since that first day, but still he found the boy’s face intriguing. There was something wrapped up in it, indecipherable like a knot of rope. He drew the sharp-cutting green in his eyes, and the buzz cut, his sandy-colored hair. He drew the bust of him, working down through his collar bones and shoulders. Mason was stuck on his lips. Like the Mona Lisa, he thought. Mason couldn’t quite figure Jackson’s expression. — “A Young And Lonely Summer,” Devon Capizzi, My Share Of The Body
DC: So the collection is seven stories, three of which are “Dead Dad stories,” is what I call them. Four of them aren’t that. But they touch on coming of age or growing up or having those moments where it forces you to shift your perspective a little bit and recontextualize your relation to other people.
Originally, I was writing from an overly obsessive place of … I needed some place for my thoughts to go. I filtered them through fiction. And, over time — [early on in the process], where they helped me — I realized that they all sounded the same. They were all from this pseudo-character who was me but not me and they were all talking about the same thing — losing a Dad — and, eventually, I pushed myself and my own grieving to get outside of my own head and body. And the stories allowed me to change perspective — literally. One of them is told from a close-third perspective on the character that’s the Not Me. One is a first-person. And the last story is from the mother’s perspective. Which opened it up so it wasn’t just a singular, insular experience.
The deeper I got into my grieving process, I was … getting really sick of myself. I was starting to recognize there’s something of a time stamp on how selfish you can be when you lose somebody. And that’s okay. I think that’s necessary. I think eventually you need to stop obsessing over you and making other people prioritize where you’re at. I think — personally — I was going through that — and so I could lean on the other perspectives to explore other angles of that in these stories. And the other stories came from the fact that — (laughing) I was so sick of myself and my own voice thinking about loss in that specific way.
The other stories — when I look back on them — I was talking to a friend of mine the other day and realized that they were the beginning of a conversation about queerness and gender and growing up. I’m always interested in those things. That has been pulled into my current work of the novel. They’re almost the root of that present obsession.
We’re in Roscoe’s beat-up station wagon with the broken AC and Willie Nelson is playing on the radio. Miles back, Roscoe turned the volume up and it’s so loud I feel as though Willie’s face will soon manifest itself in front of me, all gray goatee, some patterned red bandanna, and skin that looks like sagging leather in a good way. For once, I keep my mouth shut; I don’t want to make a fuss. Instead, I look out the window and the trees whip by, their branches smudged by movement. My mother told me once that this was her favorite part of traveling. “Everything is smudgy and soft,” she said. — “Baptism,” Devon Capizzi, My Share of The Body.
DC: I like this idea of ‘opening little doors’ or ‘cracking something open.’ I think I’m always intrigued by — I’m careful about not overtelling the story. As a reader, I always appreciate that, where the work is almost a provocation of my own thoughts when I’m reading it. And I think those small moments … I’m not a maximalist as either a writer or a reader. I’m really taken with these little brushstrokes as a way to fill in the world — see what the characters are seeing and picking up on — or building a kind of restraint in the narrative. It’s a place to go that isn’t the story, where you’re shifting gears, riding along in one lane, hop into another one, and then hop back. It’s like you’re passing a baton. I think that really helps create a momentum in the story that hopefully feels natural and keeps it moving — like rhythmically, too.
EF: Momentum is a really nice way to put it, too. Like, you know, you can break down an Alice Munro story 1,000 different ways, but there are things in a book like Who Do You Think You Are? where one character will be alive and then dead and then alive again and then we switch to a new narrator and then we go forward ten years and then we go back and momentum is one of the byproducts of doing something like that.
DC: My wife — she reads for story. She’s there for plot. She wants to know what happens and wants to have a beginning, middle, and end. And I think that’s what I think of when I think of momentum, but I’m not that kind of writer. I mean — that sounded very … (Makes a face.)
(Mutual laughter. )
I mean — I’m not plotty. I’m not great at writing to plot. I think I’m much more intrigued by and overwhelmed by ‘how does this sound on the page?’ And if it’s sounding okay, then we’re good to go. You know — if it’s creating that idea of ‘this things passes to this thing.’ Even if we have that phonetically, I’m totally unconcerned with what’s happening — which is a problem. I have to rework that a lot when I revise. But I don’t know if that means my brain is more musical as opposed to situational — I don’t know.
EF: Part of the problem when we as writers are having a conversation like this is that — it’s almost as if we’re speaking in a second language because our first language is the story. And not everyone has a generative impulse to say, ‘Oh, this collection of sounds is here —’
DC: Right.
EF: ‘— and — therefore — it must do this.’
DC: Yeah.
EF: What’s unnecessary in fiction?
DC: In any piece of fiction or my own?
EF: ‘Judge yourself.’ No — in any piece of fiction.
DC: I’m a really impatient reader and I have a hard time with backstory, which I know is technically necessary for us to get to know the characters, but … I don’t know. Not to get too ‘discoursey,’ but I think Sally Rooney writes in-scene actions very well and creates momentum that way. And by creating momentum, it’s almost as if she’s able to supersede plot, where nothing will happen but it’s the most tense thing you’ll read all day. Or, well … (Pauses.)
If you feel like you don’t have to write it, then I don’t think it’s necessary.
ENDURE FOR THE SAKE OF BEAUTY —
Evan Fleischer: For the sake of the transcript — how long have you been doing pole and when did you start to think through the intersection between pole and your work as a writer?
Divya Maniar: I’ve been pole dancing for about four years. I only started writing about two years ago — creatively; I’d always done critical writing but never creative writing — and I think that it was when I started writing that I felt a connection between pole and writing, not for any other reason at first other than that pole dancing cleared my brain so that I could write — and there was a meaningful effect I could get from using my body for that, and then coming home, and then having the clarity of mind to get things on paper.
I think that people might have the same experience with exercising generally, but I found that pole dancing just had this weird effect and made me more able to express myself creatively. And, from there, it sent me down this path of considering what the intersection of the two might mean and how the practice of moving or dancing could intersect with a different kind of creative practice.
You know, with writing, you write something, and then you look at it again. And it morphs. And you edit it. And you change small things. And that’s a little I feel when I film something while pole dancing. Because you watch the thing over and over again. And then you go back, you fix something, and you kind of redo it, but, every time, you have to ‘edit,’ to speak, because you can’t just go into the video and point your toe — you have the do the whole thing all over again. And I found that to be really helpful when thinking about my own [creative] work, seeing it not so much as ‘tweaking’ always, but seeing editing as a more holistic process of rebuilding. And I wouldn’t have gotten there without pole dancing.
EF: So when you say ‘clarity,’ what do you mean? And are there any particular movements of others who have stood out to you since you’ve started doing both writing and pole?
DM: The clarity I get from pole dancing and the way it transmits into my writing, it obviously teaches a lot of things from a craft perspective, as any art would be interchangeable with another in terms of ‘We’re all trying to make something beautiful, meaningful — trying to synthesize things.’ But it’s also taught me on a more philosophical level that in order to really explore something, you have to exhaust it — exhaust the body and become completely clear in that way. You are tired and foggy in the head, but you’ve emoted so much by dancing. You’ve expended so much of yourself. And finding some sort of meaning in that fatigue is what I draw from into writing because it is that same sense of clarity but also tiredness. It’s not just the clarity of ‘I’ve cleared my head because I went for a jog’ — I’ve really put so much of myself into something that I’ve become completely exhausted, and, in the space where I’m so tired, I’d see things I wouldn’t see otherwise.
EF: Regarding clarity, exhaustion, and thoroughness — is there an example of an already published work out there that we could point people to as an example?
DM: I think my Joyland piece is a good example because I was writing something quite personal — my Granddad passed away of dementia. I changed a lot of the details — it’s about a mother and daughter relationship — because I also wanted to think about my relationship with my mother and I remember writing that in the dead of night in this two hour haze. And I felt so tired as I was writing it because it was late, but I also couldn’t stop writing it. And — at a certain point — I was also … crying?
EF: Oh no.
DM: Yeah! ‘cause it’s really sad. And I think that was kind of the head space that I get to sometimes when I pole dance — or dance in general, because I also do ballet and contemporary — but when you are really moved by the force of your own emotion and creative impulse, sometimes it pushes you to a strange point.
I wouldn’t call it a ‘breaking point.’ And I don’t think it was an unhealthy point. I think it was just very cathartic. And it felt very full in the moment.
EF: I think I know what you mean. I mean, personally speaking, I know that things I write I definitely feel and know how to feel, but I don’t always know how to describe or define. Which isn’t to say that that’s the whole point of doing something like this either. It ignores intentionality and a whole bunch of other stuff. But, regarding the movement of others …
DM: Just going back to the last thing — there is something to be said — especially in dance — it’s an art form of endurance — so much of dancing is to endure for the sake of beauty — really pushing your body to do something it can’t do. I experience a similar thing with the limitations of language or the possibility of feeling, where, when you write sometimes, you want to get to the edge of what you can feel or write about or what language can do. That — to me — is a really similar feeling to — for instance — nailing a super hard move on the pole. And there’s something really rewarding about it after — not just in the sense of ‘Oh, I did that move and it looks really pretty,’ but more in the sense of ‘I was able to push myself to the edge of my possibility, the edge of my capacity.’ And that’s another place where I see the two arts intersects. And which is quite related to the idea of exhaustion.
EF: I suppose the inverse is fun to think about here as well, ‘cause the inverse of this would be the cliché of movement. And, don’t ask me why, but, for some reason, the first thing that came to mind when I thought of that phrase was Mick Jagger’s dance moves, because he’s done them often enough that you have that you can do a vague impression. You can spin your hands, and — [Does a poor imitation over Zoom.] And you think of how common a refrain it is when you hear someone who maybe does the same physical thing every day and then express surprise when they throw out their lower back because they ignored their lower back … There’s not necessarily a question here, but it’s something that came to mind.
DM: I mean — movement in general — when you’re a dancer and have been for a long time, like I have (I’ve danced for maybe … 18 years now?) — different kinds of dance at different points in my life — I have a very acute sense of self-consciousness about how I’m placing different parts of my body. I feel very aware of my hands at all time. Even in ballet, you have to keep your hands in a specific gesture. It’s strange to balance that intentionality with the idea of movement in general of which so much is spontaneous and unplanned. That’s something I’ve been thinking about a lot recently — well, not recently, but in general. I feel myself in many moments thinking so hard about how I’m gesticulating or whether or not the way I’m sitting is graceful enough. At all moments, I’m critiquing myself, as though there was a mirror in front of me, because I have an awareness of where my body parts are. And it’s so strange, especially when I talk to friends who have gestures they don’t even realize they make, and I bring it up to them, and they say, ‘Oh, I just do that. I have no idea.’ That’s so unthinkable to me. When it comes to writing, when I write movement and gesture, sometimes I catch myself doing it as if it were intentional for everyone. This person did this with their head, did this with their arm … To me, I always make some meaning out of it. Even when I’m writing it offhand, I’m like, ‘This is what that means to me.’
EF: I’ve never caught that in your writing, which — shame on me.
DM: (Laughs.) I’ve been trying to make space for spontaneity, especially now that I’ve pulled my hamstring. Sometimes you forget that the body is not something that’s not under your control. And that’s something I have a very difficult time with because I’ve spent so long controlling my body to do specific things that look a certain way. And when my body misbehaves, I’m like, ‘How could you do this? Like, why?’ Like, in writing, it’s so interesting to think not only about the way a body moves but the intentionality with which it moves and writing about both instead of just one thing or the other. Which is something I want to work on.
EF: That’s a great point and has me interrogating how comfortable I am with the language of physical comedy. Just speaking for myself, I don’t have that degree of self-interrogation of physicality in terms of sitting up straight, making sure I’m not slouching, etc., unless I’m interacting with someone who’s very conscious and conscientious about that, but I know that I am very happy to reflexively use the language of physical comedy. And I don’t necessarily know why. You can make the easy argument that there’s a degree to which bodies can be hilarious — and that’s true — but I know a lot of my comedy comes from a space of generative joy and excitement and I don’t quite know I’m subconsciously saying when I use the language of physical comedy. And I find that an interesting mystery to leave open for now.
DM: It is an interesting mystery! I think that body language or the language of the body or the language of dance or the language of theater. There are so many languages that are ultimately derived from very simple things of how the body moves or interacts with other bodies or interacts with space. I find it interesting how there are so many categories — you can use your body to be funny; you can use your body to perform beauty. Dance is canonically towards beauty — unless you’re watching some post-modern, Brechtian thing. And if you think about ballet and pointe shoes — it’s so painful. It’s so grotesque, actually, if you look at people’s feet after they wear pointe shoes from personal experience. Very disgusting. there’s almost this disconnect between how the body is feeling and the body is conveying things. Even in physical comedy, you can feel not very confident but then the way you’re portraying something is so hilarious, you can look confident and be funny. It’s such a mystery. What we’re saying is completely duplicitous with our body.
EF: Yes.
DM: Most of the time it is duplicitous. Most of the time we’re using our bodies to lie.
EF: Do you think any of this has anything to do with the fact that so much of our bodies are unconscious and that our language is such a conscious choice?
DM: Yeah — I mean — if you see language something that imposes meaning upon a world that doesn’t have intrinsic meaning —
EF: Oh no. Don’t tell me that.
DM: I said maybe. I said maybe. That perhaps might not have an intrinsic level of meaning that would make us very comfortable to go about our lives going, ‘Oh, this all means something.’ I guess you could see dance or any other form of manipulating your corporeality to say something as a means of actually forcing something into that’s quite inexplicable.
[The conversation shifts to James Joyce’s Ulysses and the idea of coming to terms with the disgustingness of the world, whether through dance or something else. The camera moves away.]
A GENERIC COLLECTION OF COOL AND/OR FASCINATING AND/OR NICE THINGS —
“Immersive Virtual Reality Applications in Schizophrenia Spectrum Therapy: A Systematic Review.”
Red Sox Fan Survey Results. (I’m a homer.)
The Marvel Cinematic Universe currently constitutes a quarter — 1 in 4 — of tickets sold at the box office. Which is maybe what Ben Affleck is elliptically referring to in this interview he did with the LA Times?
This interview with Nikki Giovanni. This profile of Steph Curry.
IF YOU’RE READING THIS NEWSLETTER LATE AT NIGHT AND WANT TO LISTEN TO A SONG THAT SEEMS TO ALIGN WITH THE TIME OF DAY OUTSIDE —
TALK TO ME ABOUT POTENTIAL JOBS OR CALLS FOR SUBMISSIONS —
“Are you an artist interested in working on your art for a dedicated amount of time? The Stevie Wilson DIY Youth Arts Residency is for individual youth artists, ages 16-25, who have been formerly incarcerated or criminalized. You are invited to design a DIY (do it yourself) creative residency to support your creative vision and can request funds between $1,000 to $5,000 to buy your time back in order to create art on a dedicated schedule.” (via.)
“Visiting Assistant Professor of Creative Writing, Fiction.”
“Texas Standard Managing Editor: The Texas Standard (TS) is looking for a Managing Editor to lead the digital efforts of Texas' premier state daily show.”
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