One of the Best Science Fiction Books I Have Ever Read: Hugh Howey's WOOL

Now you’re probably wondering, what’s outside, right? And also, who the hell is Hugh Howey? This is good; this is normal, these are good questions. Let’s begin by answering the last question first. Howey is many things: an ex-yacht captain, a master story-teller and probably, the Internet’s best kept secret. But WOOL isn’t Howey’s first book, and book might not be the right word, since WOOL is actually Howey’s second series. He’s self-published (for the most part) and this, quite possibly, is what makes WOOL so brilliant. With no publisher, no advertising whatsoever, no budget and no famous-author blurbs, Howey managed to single-handedly create his most successful (and one of Amazon’s best-selling Kindle sci-fi) series to date.

Briefly, WOOL is one of the best science fiction books I have ever read. And it’s actually addicting! The formula? Howey never (ever) offers straight-up explanations to anything, even to the most important questions like: what is outside, how did the world blow up, did the world blow up and why are these people all living underground in a silo? Howey takes his time — almost like he is flaunting his ability to tell a damn good story — and lets the book do all the work, through meticulous character development and engaging dialogue.

But to answer the first question: WOOL is an unorthodox tale about survival and post-apocalyptic wellness in a dystopian world where reality and the very notion of survival have devolved into a state of underground existence. In principle, it’s definitely a science fiction text but don’t fret — Howey abstains from using age-old science fiction clichés or boring us with already-been-done end-of-the-world scenarios. And don’t expect this to be a tale about aliens from distant planets with shrink rays from the future; there’s nothing about time-travel here. The world of WOOL is anchored in a reality that seems much too real and plausible.

The exposition is rather speedy: something bad happened and the outside is no longer safe. All survivors now live underground. And again, forget clichés, these people don’t live in giant vaults or covered bunkers; they live in one giant silo but there’s more to it. . . . On the first level of the silo (the top), there are these giant wallscreens connected to cameras that are mounted to the exterior wall of the silo and these cameras allow the inhabitants to see the outside, which really isn’t that much. On the wallscreens, it’s the same loop: a brown desert and hills with a gray sky. Pretty straightforward, see, but note that these wallscreens are central to the entire WOOL universe. The world went to shit a long time ago and these people have been living in a silo for quite some time — several decades it seems — so after a while, a (somewhat unique) justice system, contingent of the wallscreens and outside cameras, was created. If you ask to go outside, you are considered a traitor and are treated like a criminal and criminals are punished by being sent outside, for “cleaning.”

In one of the early chapters — and these chapters go by fast, the longest being something like six or seven pages — Howey goes into great detail about the outside, basically affirming that what the inhabitants see on the wallscreens is indeed real. The outside is nothing but desert. Obviously, an environment like this is terrible for cameras, as bits of sand, dust and grime quickly collect onto the surface lenses. This is why someone is required to clean, routinely. And if there is no one to send outside, the sheriff chooses one of the inhabitants for cleaning. Pretty sick, right? Oh, and also, no one has ever refused to clean.

If anything, WOOL is like a (very) good soap-opera that reads like a mystery novel (at times) with obvious elements of science fiction and the occasional (spectacularly-written) action sequence. Each chapter (generally) leaves the reader in a daze, with a mini-cliffhanger, the sort you would come to expect from a serialized novel like WOOL, and this, actually, is what makes WOOL so addicting and ultimately, so satisfying. Oh, and did I mention? WOOL features one of the most-accomplished and satisfying villains in recent years. The kind who does the obligatory explanation-of-dastardly-plans speech but then actually goes through with the plan!

Go read the Amazon reviews; WOOL has the sort of characters and chapter endings that will leave you lying awake at night, wondering: my goodness, what could possibly be next? How is this character ever going to overcome this great torment? It’s a drama, a thriller, a mystery, a science fiction text. It’s WOOL, and I promise: it will infect your life.

An Interview with Dina Gachman

Dina Gachman is the founder of Bureaucracy for Breakfast, a blog that pokes fun at the crazy shit rich people do (because we all need a hearty laugh now and then, especially when the economy is put-put-puttering along like a broken train). Ms.Gachman took a bad experience (getting fired from her job) and transformed it into a writing career that now includes a web comic and a book agent. We’re all kinda jealous.

* * *

Angie Spoto: Why did you create Bureaucracy for Breakfast? How do you think your blog eases some of the pain for those most acutely experiencing the recession?

Dina Gachman: I got laid off from my job as a development exec in film in 2010 and out of frustration one day the words Bureaucracy for Breakfast popped into my head so I wrote them down. Then I pitched the idea of writing a few posts about unemployment to the editor of the site Lost in a Supermarket and he said go for it. We were just going to do five but now we’re at twenty-six. I guess I created it because I needed an outlet for what I was going through being newly unemployed and reassessing my next steps in life, and then the audience started growing so . . . I kept writing.

It started off as a comedic look at unemployment but then turned into a comedic look at the economic divide in general, which most people can relate to. Laughter always helps during tough times and I’m a big believer in combating frustration and fear with humor. My hope is that if someone is feeling down because they can’t afford a mansion or a yacht like Jay Z, or a garden pizza oven like Gwyneth Paltrow, they can read the blog and laugh about how ridiculous those things really are, and feel a little better about their situation. We’re all in it together I guess.

AS: What did you ideally want to result from Bureaucracy for Breakfast when you started . . . and how has that ideal since changed?

DG: I really just wanted to write – I didn’t really have time to write for two years while I had my development job so I wanted to take advantage of the time and get back to what I really loved. I thought it would be five posts and then I could build up a portfolio and figure out the next project or job, and then it just grew, and cheesy as it sounds I really found my voice as a writer through Bureaucracy for Breakfast.  It’s changed because of the readers I think, plus I spend a lot of time building the audience through social media. It’s tedious but it’s necessary. I’ve gotten emails from all over, from so many different types of people from places as different as Iceland and Nevada. Then it started getting covered by Marketplace in NPR, AOL News, it got a mention by Chelsea Handler’s Borderline Amazing Comedy site, which all led to where it is now. I signed with a book agent recently and the proposal based on the blog is on submission to publishers now, which is never what I expected to happen when it started. It’s exciting but also extremely nerve racking!

AS: Some might say you’re living the dream life of a blogger. Would you agree? Any tips for those aspiring to become successful bloggers?

DG: I wouldn’t say I’m rolling in money and blogging as I sip Krystal, but doing what you love and having people respond and relate is a writer’s dream in a sense. My blog is a little different too because I don’t post several times a day, but more like several times a month. The posts aren’t quick hits with an image and some hash tags, they’re longer and take a while to generate so if you can post more often that I do – do it. I would say find your topic/tone and stick to it, rather than randomly throwing out posts about things that aren’t related and seem haphazard. You should spend a lot of time trying to connect with other writers, doing freelance posts for other sites who will link back to your blog – basically build your audience and get yourself out there.

AS: How do you promote yourself?

DG: I spend half the day writing and half (at least) promoting via Twitter, Tumblr, Facebook, etc. I was anti-Twitter before the blog and then I gave in, thankfully. It’s such a great way to get your writing out there especially if you can’t afford a PR machine to promote your work. I do a lot of freelance writing, and I go to a ton of events. I stick Bureaucracy for Breakfast postcards all over town – it’s a huge part of the job.

AS: Your comic, Fling Girl, is a dating guide for single women in L.A., am I right? How did you come up with this idea?

DG: It’s the story of a newly single girl learning how to navigate the dating world again after a long-term relationship, it takes place in LA which is notorious for its crazy dating scene, but anyone who has dealt with relationships / breakups can relate. I did NaNoWriMo in 2010 on a dare and wrote the novel (or novella) version of Fling Girlthat November . . . and then it just sat there. I’d worked with the artist Amy Saaed a few times and one day we were talking about it and the idea of turning it into an online comic book was born. Neither of us knew it would pretty much take over our lives at that point, but it has. We love doing it.

AS: Do you have any past experience writing comics?

DG: Not really. I went to film school and creating comics is a lot like making films in a sense. We’re producing something each month, creating storyboards, telling a story visually. I wrote a comic book about Elizabeth Taylor for Bluewater Productions which comes out this fall, and when I got hired for that job (about six months ago) I had no clue how to write a comic, what the structure was – I barely knew what a panel was. Then you learn. It’s a good exercise in saying a lot with very little. Those restrictions force you to get creative with your storytelling.

AS: Can you explain the comic creating process for Fling Girl? How did Fling Girl go from an idea in your head to a real-life web comic?

DG: It’s based on the NaNoWriMo book but very loosely, so each month I’ll write the script and suggest images, then sent it to Amy. She’ll take some time with it and add her ideas, and then she’ll map it out as far as the architecture of the issue, how many panels on each page etc. Then –my favorite part – we meet and hash it out, add / change / collaborate until we’re both happy with the issue. It’s a fun process. Then she holes up and creates the panels which is a huge amount of work. In the meantime we’re doing a lot of other things as far as site giveaways, content, reaching out to potential sponsors and partners and then – when we’re both exhausted – the issue goes live and we take a breath. Until the next one. . . .

AS: Convince us, in one sentence, why your comic is awesome.

DG: It’s entertaining, fun, fresh and relatable – it’s Wonder Woman but our main character’s superpower is being able to conquer things like cheating ex-boyfriends or lame guys in Ed Hardy.

AS: We hear time and again writers who call the Internet the devil and social media its spawn. We experienced the rise of Amazon and the “death” of small presses. We actually debate about the death of the book as we know it. As someone who’s seen success due largely to the Internet, what’s your opinion about all this?

DG: I’ll always be a fan of holding a book in my hands, keeping it on your bookshelf- I’m the nerd who likes the smell of old books. What’s unfortunate to me is that a lot of publishers, agents, and managers care more about how many Twitter followers you have than about what you’re actually writing, and a lot of “journalism” now consists of making lists (I’m guilty, I’ve written my share of lists for people but you have to get your writing out there).  So, yes I agree the Internet has cheapened writing in a way. On the flip side though things like Twitter can get your writing out to people all over the world – it’s really democratic and if you work it right it can be creative as well. I’ve gotten a lot of ideas from things I’ve randomly Tweeted, and a lot of phrases in my writing come from something I’ve spouted out into the ether in 140 characters. It can actually be a great writing tool, almost like a free write (as long as you’re not Tweeting about what you ate or how bad traffic is).

AS: What are you working on next? Not to sound too much like a job interview, but where do you see yourself (and your writing/blogging career) in the next five years?

DG: Besides Fling Girl and Bureaucracy for Breakfast, I just finished the first draft of a comedy pilot so I’m about to dive into rewrites for that. In the next five years I would love to be making a living as a writer, and working in comics, film / TV and working on a novel. One at a time though! I would love to see Fling Girl as an animated series as well, fingers crossed.

AS: Is there anything else you wanted to add?

DG: I guess just my favorite quote about writing, from Paddy Chayefsky: “Stop thinking of writing as art. Think of it as work.” And write every day.

Like Sirens Singing, Waiting To Wreck You On The Rocks Of Their Sisters: A Review of Kat Dixon's Don't Go Fish

Sometimes you read something and you enjoy it. Sometimes you read something and fall in love and know, know, that it’s only the beginning. That’s the experience I had when reading Kat Dixon’s chapbook, Don’t Go Fish. I had read her e-book, Kississippi, and was hooked, but if that was just a taste, Don’t Go Fish was a few good bites.

It’s not easy to describe Dixon’s poetry. I’ve read my share of poetry, over a range of schools and styles, and while her work shows influences, schools of verse, etc., she writes in a way uniquely her own. And it seems so effortless, you can only imagine this woman was born with her voice intact. Her poetry isn’t confessional, per se, but each line feels personal, intimate. As if she’s whispering to you in a language she made up and gave you the only decoder ring for.

And she has such a way of drawing you in. Her first lines are like sirens singing, waiting to wreck you on the rocks of their sisters. Take these first lines for example:

“This is how we sleep in black and white.” (from “scales”)

“It is most surreal when everyone is naked under their gowns” (from “wake them up! I am lovely”)

“I will carry you by your ribcage” (from “after rain on my cartography”)

To be honest it is rare, increasingly so, that I read something that makes me ache with the desire to write. And that is what Don’t Go Fish (and Kat Dixon’s poetry on the whole) does for me. I can think of no better endorsement. I’ve been saying it for over a year, but if you haven’t read Dixon’s poetry yet, you need to do yourself a favor. Before you know it she’ll take the poetry world by storm. The few good bites provided by Don’t Go Fish will be duly rewarded as you continue to read Dixon’s poetry.

How to Breathe Underwater reminds us that the crises, tragedies, and dramas, no matter how dark and confusing, can be survived

Serendipity ­— as it happens randomly, appears as if it were planted for you before you arrived. A waiter carries a tray of ice water, bumps against a woman. The water tumbles. A relationship is born. A lawyer browses the book store stacks for George Bush’s memoir, and next to it, a misplaced volume of poetry calls out to him, “Pick me, instead.” It changes his life. Increasingly, it is our machines planning the “aha” moments for us. Case in point, Amazon.com’s recommendation system: “you might also like . . . THIS” is how I discovered Julie Orringer. Amazon’s robot overlords saw fit to point me in the direction of her 2003 short story collection, How to Breathe Underwater. I was looking to find a book of contemporary literature that might connect better with my undergraduates, a book without Pink Monkeys or Spark Notes, one that would make my students think about their own connection to memory, imagination, and literature. Then Orringer’s How to Breathe Underwater appeared on screen, as if waiting for its cue.

Orringer, whose first novel The Invisible Bridge was published last year, makes you believe that the project of realistic fiction can still make a difference, if only left in the right hands. How to Breathe Underwater takes the all too often shopworn theme of “coming of age” and invests it with new life and deep relevance. Having taught it for three consecutive semesters, I can attest to the book’s arresting impact on students. They really connect with it. It is the kind of fiction that speaks especially well to young people who don’t have well tuned ears for challenging fiction; they don’t need special hermeneutic qualifications to read this stuff. They “get it” viscerally and see aspects of themselves in Orringer’s finely drawn characters:  kids coping with diseased parents, guilt, shame, jealousy, addiction, immaturity, religious questing, and personal tragedy. “The Isabel Fish,” one of the best in the set, explores guilt, revenge, and reconciliation among siblings in the aftermath of a fatal car accident.  “The Smoothest Way is Full of Stones” plucks a teenage girl from her comfort zone and drops her into an orthodox religious community, where her religious questions run parallel with forbidden sexual initiation. In Orringer’s short story universe, a change in setting is often the engine for a transformative experience.

There is a consistency of quality throughout the set. Orringer keeps her narrative pacing tight; stories move with inexorable momentum. She is reluctant to stretch plots beyond their realistic snapping point, and knows how to leave a story open ended, allowing it to breathe. This makes them quite friendly to classroom or book-group discussion. The stories virtually teach themselves. Her characters evoke our compassion, and in the case of the antagonists, our understanding. Even the ones we disapprove of and can’t forgive are acting for discoverable reasons.

Sometimes such well-honed storytelling is too much of a good thing, like hearing a soprano hit all the right notes, yet something essential is missing. Not the case here. I think Orringer is able to transcend the trap of mere expert craftwork by holding doggedly to her artistic ethic, in this case, a mode of traditional literary realism. Her eye never loses focus, and the imaginative truth springs into view. In each of the “realistic” lives being depicted, easy answers, short cuts or deus ex machina solutions to growing up are not to be found. Children and teenagers must plow through to the other side, somehow. The “somehow” is the stuff of the stories; they offer situations as occasions for growth and maturing. There are no smooth ways across. How to Breathe Underwater reminds us that the crises, tragedies, and dramas, no matter how dark and confusing, can be survived.

For the Depressives, Try Calling it Acedia: A Review of Kathleen Norris's Acedia & me

Why not? Nothing else seems to work. But then again, what writer would give up her depressive muse?

Good literature – not just cathartic scribbling – It has been produced by some of the most lonely people of the last one and a quarter century. I don’t have to supply my own references, for Norris offers a multitude from our common heritage: John Berryman, Plath, Lowell, Kenyon. What writer doesn’t have a downer streak?

Norris calls this depressive trend – from which sometimes genius comes – Acedia & me, taking after a long history rooted out of religious reference. Her book is rife with reference. It is strung through with her own personal history of apathy tied to her husband’s profound depression and eventual death to cancer.

What turns this story on its axis, however, is the poetic condition of despair that Norris entertains. Not that she cultivates ill thoughts for the sake of inspiration. She expressly councils against such narcotics. But Norris advocates for a firm embrace of a condition that most would write off as depression.

On the contrary, this book devotes itself to the finer points of sloth, apathy, and despair, taking a lolling journey through the historical psyche of religious and literary culture. Early on, she clarifies her aim: to go exploring, to circumnavigate the topic by way of her narrative and meditations. Accordingly, please don’t expect a sharpened thesis to drive you through this work.

This is more like hacking at a maple with a pocket knife – the sap will come if one’s persistent. If the delay frustrates, it may equally increase how dear one holds the task at hand. Not all insight comes at first pass. Norris has taken many passes at acedia and, in a nutshell, this is what she has learned:

Acedia & me is not the same thing as depression. Depression involves deep grief, self spite, and anger, often for good reason. “Acedia,” says Norris, “is more marked by absence of emotion.” It is a withering of intent that leaves a deficit of meaning, an inability to participate in what she calls divine life, which a writer might substitute for inspiration.

This is a nuanced point, and if it seems like Norris is splitting hairs, she does at times. What helps is that she delivers her claims with a dose of humility, acknowledging the Sisyphean task at hand. She goes admittedly, “where only a fool would dare to tread.”

Norris’s character is certainly half the intrigue of the game. A successful writer, who moved with her poet husband to North Dakota, she confesses she’s plagued by the beauty and the bareness of the Northern Plains. She enrolls in a monastery as a lay participant almost on a whim it seems. She knows Kierkegaard, Aquinas, and Aldous Huxley all in equal parts.

The time spent reading is worth that mash up alone.

An Interview with Min Jin Lee

Steve Williams: Free Food for Millionaires is one of the catchiest titles I’ve ever heard. Can you talk a little bit about how you decided on this as a title for your novel?

Min Jin Lee: Years before I started the book, a friend who worked on Wall Street told me a story about how at his bank, after a deal ends, there is usually a free buffet lunch for the deal team as well as others on the trading floor. Usually, the food was thematic to the deal — e.g., Indian food after raising capital for an Indian power plant.

My friend described that at these free lunches, there was one very wealthy managing director who would routinely rush to the head of the line to fill his plate before the more junior, and obviously, lesser paid employees. I thought this was hilarious that a really rich guy, i.e., a millionaire, would lunge for free food and push out the others. It seemed so tacky and ridiculous to me. I grew up in a fairly blue collar neighborhood, and I just remember that it was not cool to be so grubby even when you didn’t have much, and this anecdote made me think more about how poor(er) people and middle class people are often made to feel ashamed of their desires while very wealthy people often feel entitled to get what they want when they want it. I wanted to call the book Free Food for Millionaires because I wanted to write about socially thwarted desires as well as this contrasting idea that grace (unmerited favor) is available to all people.

SW: Free Food for Millionaires takes the form of the 19th century social novel. What appeals to you about this narrative style, and what did you feel made it suitable for your novel?

MJL: The 19th century social novel is my favorite genre so although it was enormously challenging for me, it made sense to try to write one. (“Heck, why not?” she thought.) When I was growing up, I found comfort in the very long European works. I think when the story is good, readers don’t want the books to end; however, today’s reader, assaulted by the immense volume of books to choose from and short on time, is suspicious of the long work, especially when the work’s quality or appeal can’t be verified. That said, I guess, I was faithful that someone else besides my family members may want to read a long book about people I found interesting. I am fascinated by communities, small and large, and individuals in them. I am curious about how we individuals work within communities and without them so it felt very natural to me to pursue this old-school style of writing which allowed for questions, observations and experiments. As a writer, I remain more interested in all the characters rather than one character. I confess that I don’t believe in “a man is an island” or that one man’s fate can be determined in a vacuum so I seek a well populated fiction. As much as I admire the first person voice (see Jane Eyre), I think my work would not have made sense unless it was done in a third person omniscient point of view.

SW: I would imagine one of the greatest challenges of writing about a community is trying to imagine and realize such a diverse cast of characters. Was there a certain character (or characters) that was particularly challenging to bring to life?

MJL: You are generous to say that envisioning and realizing a community is challenging. In fact, for me, it was freaking daunting. I’ve heard some of my favorite artists talk about the image they have in their heads about what their work is supposed to look like. In my image, my story had a lot of strong people and lot of conflicting desire. This picture was helpful for me to overcome the hurdle of the big cast challenges, because I knew I had a book length work. Having a large cast also gave me enormous encouragement and comfort when certain characters would not cooperate. There were characters who lit up the page or tickled me with humor, no different than when I see certain people in my life. This was exciting and lifesaving, because writing requires an unnatural solitude, and I was enduring the absence of society (when writing) through replicating my own society (my characters). As in life, there are people I don’t look forward to seeing, and in my work, there were characters I felt frightened by, or knew there would be danger or injury when they showed up. I had to ask myself why I was afraid or why I dreaded them. When I wanted to write their stories, I had to grant these characters some aspect of myself to relate to them differently. I gave a character my height, or an illness I had once had, my hair color, or an odd interest I used to have in baking muffins. When I did this, it helped me to see my characters differently. The person with whom I had significant problems was Charles, my choir director; so I gave him my sense of failure, my sense of feeling lost in a world that didn’t need my work, my feeling left out in a glittering and imagined New York art world where all the Greats know each other. I was going through a profound and protracted period of sadness during my years of writing my first book, and Charles, a very troubled character who is also gifted, embodied some of that emotion. As I write my current manuscript, I think I may always feel this shadow of melancholy; it feels permanent to me and not necessarily unfortunate. The people in my pages, good and bad, help me with this.

SW: I love the idea that certain characters frightened even you; it’s a testament to how alive the society you create feels. But I want to talk a little bit more about how you give some characters some of your own qualities and quirks. So when you give a character a certain trait of yours, it’s a way for you to begin making them identifiable for yourself? It’s a step towards understanding them?

MJL: Yes, I think when I gave the characters certain biographical traits, it made them identifiable and more understandable to me. If a person tells me that he is from the Bronx, for example, I tend to feel a sense of kinship with him (perhaps irrationally), because I spent four wonderful years in the Bronx attending the Bronx High School of Science. It’s possible that this Bronx native may in fact dislike nerds like me who went to Bronx Science but lived in Queens, but because I associate the Bronx with a place of growth and intellectual safety (really), I identify with him and transfer my positive feelings to him in some measure. I suppose this is why when we attend social events, we ask strangers, “Where are you from?” — it’s a wish to connect through a superficial question, because we want to transfer a personal association (good or bad) to a new person. I suppose it is also a method to infer alleged knowledge from one’s hometown.

SW: You bring up hometowns and kinship. Is the desire to create that bond with your characters a reason you chose to set your novel in New York City?

MJL: I wrote three other (failed) novel manuscripts before this Free Food for Millionaires, and FFfM was the first one set in the boroughs of Queens and Manhattan. I was inspired by A House For Mr. Biswas by V.S. Naipaul, the English writer of Indian descent who was born and raised in Trinidad. Naipaul set his novel Mr. Biswas in “Arwacas” based on the town of Chaguanas (an hour south of the capital Port-of-Spain, Trinidad) where he grew up, and reading that work in particular gave me courage to write about Elmhurst, Queens where I grew up. Naipaul is a controversial figure, and I do not agree with much of his political sentiments, however, I am always amazed by the depth and honesty of his struggle as a writer. I wanted very much to write about this world that meant so much to me, and I think by the time I approached this manuscript, I was much less worried about judgment.

SW: How important do you think NYC is to your work? Or, to put it another way, do you think of yourself as a New York writer?

MJL: I feel most myself in New York City. I grew up in Queens, went to high school in the Bronx, and my parents had a wholesale business in Manhattan’s Koreatown on 30th Street and Broadway. I live in Manhattan now. I feel comfortable around the many different kinds of people in New York, and when I am in a monolithic culture, or a place that elevates homogeneity over heterogeneity, I feel stifled and upset. I think of myself as a New York writer even when I am not in New York, and by that I mean, I think the values and themes of New York — uniqueness, ambition, outsiders/insiders, failure, grandiosity and humiliation — are deeply ingrained in my point of view.

SW: Can you describe some of your habits and practices as a writer?

MJL: Before I write, I read the Bible and I pray. I read a long time ago that Willa Cather did this, and I tried it.

This ritual started out as a kind of curious exercise, and now, I can’t imagine not doing it anymore. It feels very private and quiet to me, and I think I need this before I write.

SW: You come from a law background, attending Georgetown Law and practicing as a lawyer for several years. In what ways do you feel that experience has benefited your writing? Conversely, do you feel there have been certain advantages to never going for an MFA? 

MJL: I think I have a great deal of discipline about work and effort. Many of my friends have MFAs, and they are wonderful writers. I have always wanted an MFA but didn’t have the time or the willingness to change my family life to pursue this. I love classes and studying so I think I would have enjoyed getting an MFA. That said, I don’t think I have any disadvantages from it. I can’t be sure, of course. I don’t know many fiction writers so perhaps this is what happened because I have a very layperson life. I live in a very ordinary way, and I prefer this.

SW: It’s clear that you’ve been influenced by George Eliot and other 19th century authors, but are there contemporary writers who influence your writing or are important to you as a reader? 

MJL: I adore Junot Dîaz‘s work. His work gave me a kind of permission to be honest about the world I loved. Junot Dîaz is a genius.

When I was in college, I read a lot of Toni Morrison, James Baldwin and Audre Lorde; all three influenced me a great deal when I was starting to put words together.

SW: I’ve heard you and Junot Dîaz talk about writing with a specific audience in mind. From what I understand, the idea there isn’t to exclude anyone, but to give your work a purpose and a goal. To paraphrase something Dîaz said, ‘A comment directed towards someone specific is more interesting to overhear than a comment directed towards nobody.’ When your work reaches that target audience, what would you like him or her to get out of reading your work? 

MJL: I think I would like him or her to feel seen, because I feel like I want to really see everyone. I have felt unseen, and this is a kind of specific condition I have lived with. I think many people feel unseen or in contrast exposed, but few people feel seen for who they are. I think it takes time to see people, to really consider who they are. I hope to do this for my reader through my work.

I Always Thought I Was the Only One

The first time I read some of my writing out loud in front of people I almost peed my pants. You see, the story was embarrassing and it was about me. I write creative nonfiction, which means there’s no hiding behind a safe filter of a fictional narrator.

The story I read that first time was about when I heard the news that my ex-boyfriend of four years was engaged, and how completely crazy tailspin nutty emotional it made me. There’s another story about when the mean girls in seventh-grade P.E. pantsed me in front of the entire class. Then there’s my favorite: my experience posing for nude photographs. The first time I read that one out loud, my dad was there.

But as scared as I was to read my first-person, nonfiction story, the reward of sharing it was like nothing I could have anticipated. People I didn’t know came up to me and said things like, “Thank you for sharing your story,” and, “I’ve felt the same way and always thought I was the only one.”

People wanted to know how I got the courage to share something so personal. And, really, I’ve just never known any other way to write. I think it’s a shame that much of the human experience gets hidden behind constructed façades based on our perceptions of what the world expects of us.

The more I write and the more I share my stories, the more I realize that people long for authentic connection — no matter how miniscule a connection they make — even with a stranger. They want to know they’re not alone in their pain, lust, embarrassment, hate, mistakes, flaws, anger, addiction and longing. They want to know that someone else has had a similar experience, and survived to tell about it.

So I started a storytelling project in the form of a digital micro-magazine. It’s called Under the Gum Tree, a literary magazine exclusively publishing creative nonfiction and visual art. It strives for authentic connection through vulnerability, by harnessing the power of sharing stories without shame.

And there is power. After publishing the premiere issue in August 2011, I received an email from a subscriber thanking me for manifesting my own creativity and saying that reading the magazine provided her with an “infectious inspiration.”

The premiere issue features an excerpt from the hybrid memoir The Arsenic Lobster by Peter Grandbois, a meditation on porches and losing one’s mother by Kate Washington, and stunning photography by Bryan and Stephanie Mazzarello.

We’re about to publish the third issue, and we are publishing stories from writers like Steve Almond, whose piece questions whether the convenience of technology diminishes the music-listening experience, and Colleen Kinder, whose extensive essay explores life as a chronic blusher:

“Willpower accomplished nothing. In fact, willpower like mine just stoked the fire. So I tired avoidance. I steered clear of any situation that might give my skin occasion to flare. I wore shorts under my plaid uniform skirt. I locked my journal in a small box under my bed and hid the key inside an unassuming stuffed animal beaver whose tail region I had split open with scissors. I did not raise my hand.”

–from “One Bright Case of Idiopathic CraniofacialErythema”

Perhaps the thing I am most proud of in creating Under the Gum Tree is that alongside these accomplished artists, I also published a story by my childhood best friend about her first pregnancy: one that was a surprise to her and her then-ex-boyfriend (now husband) and an abomination to her devout Christian parents.

I have the chance to help others tell stories that need to be told, because we all have a story that can help at least one other person in the world. That’s the goal of telling stories without shame.