Your short story, “The End of the Mayan Calendar,” which was the Blue Mesa Review 2009 Fiction Contest winner, is a blend of history and myths, as well as a tale of the struggles of modern society. Can you tell us a little about how you conceived of a story with such a wide, and ultimately successful, scope?
I broke my own rule when writing this story. Usually, upon sitting before the blank screen, I remind myself that my job is simple: tell a story. Period. Don’t worry about the grand social or political or cultural implications—just tell the stupid thing, as if you were saying it all out loud to a stranger on a park bench. However, with “The End of the Mayan Calendar,” I had the themes before I had the story. I knew I wanted to address the news outlets’ sudden obsession over violence on the El Paso/Juarez border; I knew I wanted to personify the media’s entrance into a chaotic realm that, quite frankly, has always been there and will always be there, long after Dateline NBC. Also, I wanted to explore my own experiences crossing the border and finally, I wanted to address this ancient fear that we humans are, once again, on the cusp of the end of civilization. And suddenly, I recalled a moment from my past that would eventually become the first full paragraph. It was the perfect opening: immediate and violent and hyperbolic and yet so completely stupid. The themes, I knew, were already at work.
Where do you find inspiration for your writing?
Going back to my original philosophy, I think of events in my life—people, places, and moments—that beg for exploration, a kind of re-telling. Usually this will allow me one concrete image, or, if I’m lucky, a first line. For my current collection of short stories, my hometown of El Paso, Texas is my inspiration: the good, the bad, the ugly. I was going to say that I’m sure anyone can fill a book with stories from their hometowns, but forget that: El Paso is the strangest place on this planet. There I said it. And I wouldn’t want to call any other place home.
Do you predominantly write short fiction? Do you work in other genres and/or formats?
Currently, I only write short fiction. I’ve been committed to completing my collection of short stories for close to two years and I’m happy to say there’s light at the end of the tunnel. But more importantly, with each new story, I learn something about the short form, which makes for a very dynamic process. I credit the fiction workshops in which I’ve participated the last few years—both as an undergraduate at USC and at the Iowa Writers’ Workshop—as the reasons I view writing as a very vibrant, alive, and slithery process, one that warrants great human interaction and cultural noise—as opposed to the popular image of the “lonely writer working all alone because he’s so sad, sad, sad.” Back to the question: I do plan on writing novels eventually. But first things, first.
When did you first know that you wanted to be a writer?
I was in high school and I had a very wonderful Creative Writing teacher named Mrs. Gladden and one day I turned in an essay that castigated Jesus Christ for being a no-good commie (I think I was being sarcastic) and Mrs. Gladden asked me to read it aloud in class. Maybe she was just being nice but the point is, I attended a Catholic school and I made a lot of people mad that day—except for her, Gladden was laughing her butt off. That was the first time I felt like I had done something really, really right.
What authors have inspired you?
Sherman Alexie, Dagoberto Gilb, Oscare Casares, T.C. Boyle, Lorrie Moore, Raymond Carver, Ethan Canin, Kevin Brockmeier, Aimee Bender, and Rick Zollo. Oh, and Alvin Shwartz because I think I only read the series, Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark, from ages 10 to 17. Let me just say that authors that can make me laugh out loud as well as remind me that the world is a big, fat place full of big, fat mysteries are pretty much going to punch me in the gut each time. Sherman Alexie is somewhat of a God to me, though I’d be afraid to hear his response to that.
What book or author is your guilty pleasure?
Probably anything by Erich Von Daniken. At heart, I believe I’m just a big sci-fi nerd waiting for to be abducted.
Are you a full-time writer or do you have a “day job?”
I am very fortunate to teach at several colleges around the Chicago area, mostly Literature and Writing-oriented courses.
Do you find it’s hard to balance the teaching with writing?
My job allows me plenty of time to sit down and write, so I am lucky in that sense. However, that’s not to say I can’t still find ten-million ways to procrastinate. I make sure to write each day, same time, same place, come rain or shine. I think Flannery O’Connor had some rule about that. Or maybe it was Vonnegut. Or maybe everyone’s said the same thing about sitting your butt in a chair and not moving for however many hours.
What percentage of your time would you say writing makes up (actual writing time, as well as daydreaming about your work, mulling, etc.)?
When I actually, physically sit down to write, I usually draw from the twelve-plus hours I’ve spent daydreaming the previous day. In Chicago, I spend a lot of time in traffic, which allows me plenty of time to just think things through. In bed, before I fall asleep, I like to think of one sentence that’s going to go on paper first thing, the very next morning, so at least then I know I will be writing something come that scary moment where it’s just me and the blank screen. I remember this is what happened with “The End of the Mayan Calendar.” I thought of a line and while I didn’t know where I would take it, I knew it was going to be the opening line and the next morning, I wrote it down and then I think I let it sit for a few weeks before something else came to me but after that, the whole story took maybe a week to write. It was a thrilling experience.
How many drafts would you say that you typically go through on a short story?
I revise as I go: word by word, sentence by sentence. So rarely do I finish a story and go back and make major structural changes because, by then, the changes have been made. This means I work slower. I may spend an entire week on the same paragraph, writing and re-writing, reading it aloud, again and again, tweaking a word, a comma, the use of a semi-colon, until it sounds, and looks, and feels right. Only then can I go on. So to answer your question: around ten-thousand.
Do you have a first reader or readers? Do you find that constructive feedback helps your revision process?
I’m used to finishing a story and then having a table of nine or ten incredible writers take it apart piece by piece. I’m a product of the workshop process. And you’d think this would make me tougher, but I’m still as scared as ever when I know someone is reading my story for the first time because I take constructive criticism so seriously. I can’t even be in the same room as someone reading a draft because I’ll read too much into their body language. Now that I am out of the workshop environment, my fiancée is my first reader. She’s a great reader. I think that I write with one goal and that is to probably entertain her.
How did your time as a student in the Iowa Writer’s Workshop affect you as a writer?
Iowa was a dream. For two years, I lived and breathed the written word. I developed relationships with an incredible faculty that I knew would tear apart my story as quickly as they’d leap to praise it. What can I say? Not just the Workshop, but all of Iowa City loves its writers, and it’s nice to have your ambition validated and challenged like that, all at the same time. At Iowa I also maintained several mentors that instilled in me a strong, if not militaristic work ethic. I mean, you have so much time on your hands at the Iowa Writers’ Workshop, that just you have to write; otherwise, what’s the point?
Did you find that the program lived up to all of its hype?
Absolutely. A famous writer/alum once came to speak at the Iowa Writers’ Workshop and I remember someone asked him a similar question and he said: “Enjoy your time here. Never again in your life will everyone around you—everyone—care this much about you and your writing.” At the time, I thought it was a pretty witty and “writerly” thing to say and I might have laughed, but now I think I get to spend the rest of my career realizing how right he was. The program is unlike any other in that the faculty and staff only expect one thing from you, and that is to produce. They will do anything in their power for you to achieve that goal. People have their opinions about the Workshop but here’s the one inarguable fact: for two years, your one and only job is to read and to write. And when you’re not reading or writing, you’re talking about reading and writing. This will earn you that coveted degree. So. For better or worse, the author was probably right: never again in your life.
What was the best rejection letter you ever received?
They all start to look the same after a while! Really, I think the tenant in my old apartment in Iowa City is probably still receiving rejection letters addressed to me. He or she must be thinking, “Wow this guy really sucks!” But I think the best rejection letter I have ever, and will ever, receive is the first one I got, about four years ago, from a particular literary journal. Nothing crazy. Your basic rejection letter. But I remember being really proud of it, just like how little boys will strut around, showing off their first bloody noses, kind of like, “What this? Nah, this ain’t so bad.”
What’s your opinion of Kindle and other emerging electronic literature mediums?
I’m an old man wrapped up in a twenty-seven year old body, so I tend to be a bit grumpy about these types of technologies. Listen, I love books. I love the look of them, the feel of them, the smell of them, and I believe books are some of the few things that actually look better when disorganized and messy and smelly and coffee-stained. How revealing, right? But I also taught 8th grade English in Las Vegas for two years and I remember feeling my heart warm whenever I’d happen to see one of my students reading—I don’t know—the back of a CD. Anything that gets people reading of their own free will is good in my, uh, book.
What do you hope that your readers will get out of your writing?
In Sherman Alexie’s recent novel, The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian, one of his characters says: “The world, even the smallest parts of it, is filled with things you don’t know.” I want my writing to be about these smallest parts. That’s what I’m interested in.
Where do you see yourself in ten years?
Reading books aloud to my wife and kids and acting out all the parts and making them laugh and groan and roll their eyes all at the same time because I remember my own parents doing that to my brothers and I growing up and I always thought that was the way to be.
