“Galaxies” is simultaneously playful, gravely serious, and, overall, magical. What does magic mean to you?
Most of my stories fall into the realist bucket, but “Galaxies” went strange from the start. As in the story, one day a galaxy appeared on my ceiling. It was just a reflection of something on my desk, but I let the idea spool out in fiction, where the galaxy and black hole became a quick route into a playful territory with uncertain rules — which is where the fun lies.
What would you feed your black hole?
Pretty much the same items the narrator passes into the black hole — broken electronics, batteries, outdated paperwork. A black hole would have been handy when my kids were small — all those dirty diapers whisked away into another dimension.
In “Galaxies” everything seems to happen everywhere and all at once, yet the story is tightly structured. What is your approach to structuring chaos or de-structuring order?
I find structuring chaos a losing proposition. It’s like spring cleaning — a nice concept in theory, but by summer disorder has returned. De-structuring order, though, seems a more promising idea and more closely aligned with what writing “Galaxies” felt like—breaking expectations, exploring what happens if you take something apart. In the end, that’s what built the structure of this story.
Were you tempted to extend “Galaxies” further, into the 1800s you mentioned?
No. I was ready for the narrator to receive a little grace at the end, and to not push the reader through one too many jumps in time and circumstance. I didn’t want to overplay the conceit.
In “Galaxies” you write about human connections across space and time. To whom do you feel connected?
Family. Friends. Also, as in the story, to this sense of my past self and the future one I keep waking up into — and all the variations of moods and energy and beliefs we pass through in a lifetime.
Many of your stories deal with physical or temporal motion. What does movement mean to you?
In fiction, it’s momentum, discovery, opportunity — and also a bit of a craft cheat. A story without some kind of movement, whether physical or emotional, tends to be inert and unfunny, at least with what I write. In life, though, I could do with less temporal motion, especially when the weekends roll in.
Where and when do you usually write?
I write most days of the week, whenever I have time, and in whichever room of the house happens to be the quietest. “Galaxies” was written over five weeks and seventeen drafts, about the usual for me for a story of this length.
What do you enjoy about writing short stories?
In an interview, Paul Auster said that what makes writing and the arts different from other occupations is that you have to give 100% when you’re writing. I don’t entirely agree that this level of effort is confined to the arts (I’m confident a brain surgeon is giving 100%), but I’ve always liked that sentiment, and it’s something I definitely feel when writing. Writing short stories is about giving that 100%, coupled with the knowledge that you’re on a relatively short journey — not just because the story is short but because the time you have to work on it is as well. You have to both focus and enjoy it while you have it in front of you.
What are some of your favorite short stories?
Some recent-to-me favorites are Patrick Ryan’s “The Dream Life of Astronauts” (The 2017 collection of stories with the same name was one of my favorite reads last year), the 1999 collection Emperor of the Air by Ethan Canin, and just about any short story by Claire Keegan, but especially “Foster” (2010).
What is your gift of grace?
I suppose it’s stubbornness — to still be making the time to write when there are dozens of other tasks into which I could, and maybe should, be giving my energy, attention, and time.
