Tag: Writing

Past Writers Interviews, Writer Interview, Writers Chat, Writers Read

Writers Chat 45: Linda Lappin on “The Soul of Place” (Travelers’ Tales: Palo Alto, 2015)

Following on from our recent Writers Chat, much of which focused on place, Linda and I decided that we’d like to revisit our 2015 Writers Chat about The Soul of Place A Creative Writing Workbook: Ideas and Exercises for Conjuring the Genius Loci.

Cover image of The Soul of Place

Linda, I was delighted to hear of a writing workbook dedicated to place. I feel it is something that the writing world needs – and place, which is so central to narrative, is often omitted from generic writing books. The ‘blurb’ describes the book as an “engaging creative writing workbook” in which you present “a series of insightful exercises to help writers of all genres—literary travel writing, memoir, poetry, fiction, creative nonfiction—discover imagery and inspiration in the places they love.”

Having had the pleasure to read your latest publication I found it a fascinating and easy read – before I even tried out some of the exercises with my writing groups. It left me with a number of wonderful ideas of how I might update writing prompts and exercises I regularly use with groups as well as introducing me to new techniques, and, more than anything, new perspectives on writing about place. This is what stays with me, now that I have put into practice some of your suggestions – how The Soul of Place sets out intriguing and original perspectives on writing into place, about place and from place. (I’ll be writing about this again, later!)  

SG: So, a few thoughts, questions, and considerations for you, Linda. Firstly, am I correct in my understanding that your premise for this book stems from your own journey in writing and in place and the knowledge gained that to go deep into our creative selves we must reach into the soul – the soul of place?

LL: Yes, this book retraces various itineraries I have explored through many places as a writer, a reader, and teacher.  It grew from two seeds, so to speak, the first is my own strong response to archetypal places which stir my imagination – islands, gardens, old houses, ruins, all of which appear in my fiction, essays, and in my life. The second was  a travel writing course I designed on “place-based writing” for students visiting Italy, where I live,  for the first time. My idea was to send them to interesting places, a medieval village, an Etruscan site, a baroque sculpture garden, ancient houses and churches, street markets, cafes, neighborhood festivals, train stations, a pilgrim’s road in the woods, to discover their own reaction to these environments while developing greater physical and intellectual awareness of the places themselves and engaging with the stories happening around them. I think creativity begins with awareness – taking time to notice who we are and where we are and with finding a new relationship to the space we live in and its contents.

SG: I agree with you about awareness, Linda. This is something that Julia Cameron and other artists talk about. Now you define the genius loci as “a form of intelligence operating within the environment in synergy with human beings.” Can you tell us a little more about how it affects our creativity, our writing, especially in relation to where we are writing (the physical place – e.g. an office, a school, a prison, a writers’ retreat etc)

LL: Architects and city planners, and before them geomancers and shamans have always known that architectural space and landscapes can be manipulated to produce certain feelings or induce certain behavior in human beings—to diverse ends.  Places, like people or planets, have emanations which may be the combined product of various forces –cosmic, terrestrial, conscious, unconscious, individual, collective, natural, artificial, historical, cultural. For me your question touches on two related but different issues.  The first and most obvious is, how can we obtain beneficial influence from our environment. I think it is possible to create  – or find — environments where our creativity and general well-being are enhanced, and discovering where those places are  can be a passionate, lifelong adventure for anyone, not just a writer or artist.   That doesn’t mean that your writing place has to be one with a stupendous view, but rather one where you are able to commune with yourself and summon your memory and imagination – and this can be anywhere, from an office to a prison cell to a picnic table at the park. It is a subjective thing, however. You have to find a place that feels right for you.  Very often we don’t really know how the places WHERE  we live affect us. Another issue this question raises concerns the type of influence which might come from the Soul of Place.  In some cases, it might not be a happy, or beneficial one, but a withering and painful one.  Some places may transmit to us violence and fear. Still in such places writers may find stories they feel compelled to tell, and an incredible energy may be available to help them at their task. Lastly, to reply to your mention of writing retreats: whenever we have the opportunity to write in a different setting and place, it helps refresh our senses, find new perspectives. I think that’s very useful.

SG: Sorry for such a loaded question, Linda, but I’m glad you mentioned perspectives – as your book is full of interesting insights about this. I was particularly taken with the section on Deep Maps – and blown away by the story you tell of Heat-Moon literally walking on the US Geographical Survey Maps covering Chase County, and then walking across the County section by section, and the fact that it took 8 years of research and 6 years of writing to complete PrairyEarth. It really epitomises what you are proposing in your book – that we pay (literal) attention to the ground we walk on, and with all our senses. Could you comment on that?

LL: What Least Heat-Moon discovered about his environment – its multilayered structure with deep roots resonating within  his own psyche, is something we can all find in the places where we are living now and where we have lived or only transited in the past if we take the time to investigate them with our senses, feelings, and curiosity.

SG: Curiosity is something that I sometimes think we are letting slip away – with so much information at our (literal) fingertips. Where is the meaning? And the discovery?

LL: I think you are right, we  are so bombarded by information, images, news, ideas, it is impossible to take it all in. That’s one reason, I think, that being centered in a physical place, even if only for a brief time, is so important.

SG: I like the way the workbook is structured – you discuss concepts, invite the reader to a selection of further reading, and illustrate the practice of these concepts or ideas using examples from literature and your own novels, and then present us with some exercises. Are there any readings or exercises you wish you could have included in the book?

LL: At one point this book was a third longer than it is now, with specific poetry exercises, journaling, fiction exercises that made it unwieldy, and so in my final version I scrapped some of them. I did have a section on recreating environments in historical fiction, something which really interests me, in fact all my novels are set in the 1920s and one, Katherine’s Wish, focuses on the historical character of Katherine Mansfield.  I decided not to include this material in the book, but to leave it for a later time. Another thing I didn’t include was a special exercise on masks, related to Carnival time, in Italy, and I hope to do something with that, too sooner or later!

SG: Oh that would be interesting – please keep me posted on new ventures; you might even have a second book on place and objects?

Well, I suppose it depends on the response to this book, but my own research has continued since I completed The Soul of Place. I’d like to something more with writing rooms and writers’s rooms for example, and my publisher had a great idea for a short video or two based on the ideas in the book.

SG: I am interested in arrivals and departures and how these movements connect to and disconnect from place and, because of this, form our emotional attachments (or detachments) to places and landscapes. You bring this notion a step further when you invite the reader to study every day places such as parks, gardens, markets but also to deeply explore sacred places and spaces, and labyrinths.

LL: Living in a place like Italy, you are literally immersed in layers of history – also religious history,  in places where Christian churches incorporated pagan sites where Neolithic people worshiped in even earlier times or in places where Renaissance artists rediscovering the humanism of the antique world  fused pagan and Christian symbols – The secret languages of myth, symbol, and the sacred are stamped on so many places here – gardens, towers, palaces, churches, grottoes, roads, you are constantly transiting from the bustle of contemporary life to these other zones which appeal to another part of our nature which is less concerned with the quotidian and hungry for feelings and sensations that make us feel part of a greater world. Most cultures do have special places, religious or natural sanctuaries, “set aside” to restore us from the frazzle of daily activities.  It can be very rewarding for writers to explore these different settings and their effect on our creativity.  

SG: It is clear that place – and placing cities, landscapes, exterior and interior to the forefront of your writing – is important to you. I know you discuss talismans in the book so can you tell us if there are any mementos that you carry with you? I, for example, have some Mexican milagros that go everywhere with me when I’m writing. I feel they connect me to place, and now that I have a name for it, thanks to your book, they connect me to the genius loci.

LL: Nowadays I tend to travel lighter than I once did.  As far as talismans go, I keep a ticket from the Paris metro in my wallet –hoping it will somehow anticipate my next visit to a place I love. The old house where my husband and I go on week ends sometimes is a talisman in itself. Full of curious objects accumulated in various ways, it definitely has a personality of its own.  Rather than taking things with me when I travel, there are certain things I love to bring back, like dried herbs, honey, or seeds. I  always bring back sea salt from Greece, Sardinia or France. People think I am crazy to bring back a kilo of salt from a Greek or French supermarket –but I just love the idea of adding a little touch of the Aegean or the Atlantic when I cook.

SG: Oh goodness, this has put a smile on my face – when I go to the west coast of France (which is pretty much every year), I always bring back large bags of sea salt. There’s nothing like it! The other day I made a wonderful salty caramel using it. Moving on from this, can you describe the place where you wrote this workbook?

LL: Different places: A sunny room in Rome with a balcony over a very noisy street, with jasmine and plumbago vines and a nest built by a pair of blackbirds that then never occupied it.  A darker room in an old house in a village outside Rome, with  a red brick floor and thick chestnut beams, with a view of the canyon, and a woodstove with a glass door through which I can watch the flames.  A courtyard in that same village, with lush Virginia creeper clinging to old stone walls and flowering hydrangeas concealing a fountain.

SG: I can just picture them – all so inspirational, magical and, of course, so full of vibrant colour. Tell me, where will you spend the summer months – and what will you be working on?

LL: I will be visiting relatives in the US and then hopefully,  will return for a short visit to Greece, where I am hoping to organize a five day Soul of Place Writing Workshop with a writing center on the island Andros next summer. I am trying to finish a memoir about a house sit in Tuscany, called Postcards from a Tuscan Interior, and also have a couple of novels on the fire, as well. Thanks so much for your interest in my book. Your questions have been quite challenging.

SG: Thank you for engaging so fully with the questions, Linda, and I wish you every success with your book which I will continue to use as part of my teaching and which I recommend – highly!

Photograph of Linda Lappin (Courtesy of the author)

Connect with Linda and Purchase The Soul of Place–A Creative Writing Workbook: Ideas and Exercises for Counjuring the Genius Loci (Travelers’ Tales: Palo Alto, 2015)

Writer Interview, Writers Chat, Writers Read, Writing Life

Writers Chat 43: Catherine McNamara on “Love Stories for Hectic People” (Oxfordshire: Reflex Press, 2021)

Catherine, Welcome back to my WRITERS CHAT series. Today we’re discussing Love Stories for Hectic People, a slim volume of thirty-three charged flash fictions which recently won the Saboteur Award for Best Short Story Collection (congratulations!)

Cover image of Love Stories for Hectic People

SG: Firstly, let’s discuss the title and cover. It seems that these stories are not just for hectic people, they are about hectic people though much of what is explored in this collection is reflected by the cover image of a woman in a yellow dress pausing in her reading with the sense that she is full of feeling.

CMN: To be honest this title came about for another collection that outgrew its intention and vibe. I knew with the very first story – ‘As Simple as Water’ written first and barely edited – that I would be addressing the many shapes of love, so that would involve an array of people immersed in different lives. So Love Stories for Hectic People very quickly glued itself to the story series, which was written over the course of six months, until I reached the final piece – ‘Love Is an Infinite Victory’ – when I knew it was complete.

The cover image came afterwards, once the book had been accepted by Reflex Press. Before the pandemic I was in Venice for an opening, where I met an old friend who is a painter in Florence. I told him about the book of short fiction I’d had accepted, and he said why don’t you have a look at some of my works? This image spoke to me from the start and I can’t say how happy I am with it.

SG: What a lovely story about obtaining the image – so full of artistic synchronicity!

I love your use of brackets to bring the reader into the other side of the narrative. In “As Simple As Water” we meet Vasilis K and Marj B in Athens train station after the moment when Marj has fainted. As a woman – a stranger – helps Marj, Vasilis stands apart, watching:

Vasilis who has been making love to Marj most of the night (except when she wept in a corner of the bed and he waited) wonders about the pelvic cavern of all women which is filled with jostling organs and squelching tubes and lengthy orifices like vivid botanical sections drawn into slithering life.

So much is captured here – the stretch of time, of physicality, of distance and the point in which Vasilis removes himself from Marj. Can you talk about how you capture the depths of character and narrative in these short tales?

CMN: It’s going to sound very crazy but when I am in the zone and writing cleanly, it’s almost as though I am hearing a voice dictating the scene in my head, and I have to get it down quickly, and then halt before it turns to jibberish. Half of the time I am trying to slow and clarify what comes to mind, and make sure I am being faithful to the tract of the story, with some sort of carrot dangling ahead. Maybe it is madness. But I prefer to think of it as magical composition. Almost musical. Of course the downside is that sometimes it is irrelevant and nonsensical, or doesn’t piece together, but for me, this sort of freestyle writing sometimes brings me to the brink of lucid swimming ideas directly from the subconscious, which can be surprising and powerful. I do think writing is very much a practice, so one needs to find out what works best to produce some sort of truth or an honest portrait of some aspect of humanity. The brilliance of flash fiction is that you have zero time to get to the point, so you have to know the core of your story from the outset – and deliver! It’s a great, risky form.

All of the above said, I know that with this story I wanted to include the reader in the events leading up to Marj’s dramatic fainting at the train station, through the lens of Vasilis’s recollection. I don’t think the use of bracketed, almost-overview inserts works for every piece of work but in this case it seemed to fit with the raconteur style of voice. I think it helps us feel Vasilis’s discomfort and detachment within the fluid rush of action as it occurs, showing how the lover with whom he had been intimate is now a collapsed woman on a metro station floor and, later, a patient in a hospital, away from whom he walks back into his own life.

I think that to capture any sort of depth or truth you have be the character and be wholly faithful to how this person might act and react – even if this means changing the course of the story or using a certain voice or language style. Flash is brilliant for the shifting and intensity that it both allows and demands.

SG: You mention risky and flash together and I think with this collection you do take risks and even as you say, in the way you experience the dictation of the story and you get it down without letting the rational critic emerge.

As with much of your writing, it is through the senses that we get to know the characters. “Genitalia” captures the lived experience of periods, the messiness of our organs and the desire – by some – to tidy it all up, and in doing so, make women neater.

I loved the recollection of the unnamed woman painting “a line of hieroglyphics …on the yellow wall” of a hotel and that by now “the piece of mortar she painted would be lying in a pile of rubble along the river. Where it gleams at night” and how, at the end of this story, by becoming pregnant, all is calm again.

Can you talk a about how many of the stories here explore the power of the female body?

CMN: I really wanted to celebrate female blood in this story – a celebration of our moon-guided, timeless cycles and our power to reproduce. For me, the guy is almost irrelevant, in that he is so poorly informed about the wonders of the female body, and he has been grafted onto this young woman’s wondrous existence. I wanted to show that he would learn from and be enriched by her. Men are sometimes a little repulsed by the force and power of our bodies, and how we have this intrinsic connection to the tides, and even the gods if you like. I wanted to take up that thread and show this woman as a wild modern goddess.

SG: Yes! Many of the stories use sensory memories – or the creation of these memories, in “Citrus”, for example – to connect the child-self with the adult-self in the way that power permeates experience. Here the narrator – suffering abuse – notes that “Everything is fury, everything is rivalry.”

In “Slaughter of the Innocents”, power and police abuse of it simmers dangerously, represented by the “insignias on their shirts”, “a stitched leather holster nursing a gun” which make the narrator realise that she hates her father more than she loves her own life.

Can you talk about this theme of power and control?

CMN: I have experienced something of the violence of men and how this can filter down as a refracted code through a family. It’s something I know I will write about more. Probably anyone who has ever lived through violence is always one step away from this terror. So I think it is something I listen for when I am fishing for ideas, or when people tell stories.

The other thing I find is that we see so much violence on-screen that we are anaesthetised, so I think that my job as a writer is to strip back domestic violence to its daily tension and core dynamic, more than an orchestrated, visual drama. I wanted to get inside of violence with words and make the reader respond in a visceral way, perhaps striking familiar cords, but certainly in a more subtle way than televised or cinematic violence.

SG: That story deftly captures the refracted code of familial violence.

Languages and travel – and the liminal spaces between understanding and comprehension – add to the sense of surreal (and humour) in these stories. Often bodies and minds experience love separately.

In “Tokyo Frieze” Tanja and Kurt “always spoke freely; he with his accent and she with hers. Perhaps because of the zigzag through languages they were emboldened when addressing each other’s eyes.” Later Tanja recalls when she was younger and “had felt porous, hyper-human, tied to a common energy or saturation. But now she knew she was confined within the body around her and went no further. Her history was a stream of dioramas like this.”

I thought your use of language and travel as a way to delve into aging and the body was interesting. What are your thoughts on this?

CMN: It’s so true and curious the way that bodies and minds experience love separately. I love this zone!

‘Tokyo Frieze’ is one of my favourite stories in the collection and was originally published in Rowan Pelling’s The Amorist magazine. My interest in language and the languages of love stems from the fact that I left Sydney at 21 and though I speak English a lot of the time, I have lived in countries where other languages are spoken, and have learnt French and Italian, and am now studying Greek. So the characters in my life have mostly been European or West African, and I am fascinated by accents and attitudes and words. Travel too, as well as living in a foreign context and feeling at home within it, also figure in my experience so these aspects have become reference points for my stories.

In this way, utilising language and travel to address aging and the body, has been a natural modus operandi, in that my reservoir of story material comes directly from these areas. As I grow older as a female, a mother, a lover, a writer, a traveller, it’s not so much about recounting experience, as using the emotions generated by certain experiences in order to give authenticity to the stories that come about.

SG: I love how you express that, Catherine.

Using emotions generated by certain experiences in order to give authenticity to the stories that come about.

In essence, writing from what you know into what you don’t know.

Let’s end with five fun questions.

  • Coffee or Tea? Coffee – espresso!
  • Sandals or runners? Sandals
  • Sparkling water or non-carbonated? Non-carbonated
  • What are you reading now? Gina Frangella – Burn Down the House
  • What are you writing now? Novel rewrite and some budding flash stories

CMN: Thank you for having me again Shauna!

SG: Thank you, Catherine, for the joy reading your collection brought me and for your generous answers in our Writers Chat. I wish you much continued success with the collection.

Photograph of Catherine MacNamara

Thanks to Catherine McNamara and Reflex Press for providing me with a copy of Love Stories for Hectic People.

Writer Interview, Writers Chat, Writing Life

Writers Chat 42: Paul Perry on “The Garden” (New Island: Dublin, 2021)

Paul, You’re very welcome to my Writers Chat series. We’re going to chat about The Garden  (New Island: Dublin, 2021), your new novel which, in the words of Mia Gallagher is “vividly compelling.” I’d agree with Mia – and the critical praise that The Garden is receiving – it is a novel that compels you to keep reading and at the same time makes you pause and contemplate the land around us and how we treat it.  

Cover image of The Garden

SG: Can you tell us a little about the origins of the setting and the place of The Garden? In interviews you’ve referred to your own experience of working in Florida some years ago but I wonder if recent climate change and world events had any influence on the narrative at all?

PP: I lived in the states in the 1990s, and in Florida for 3 of those years. I was captivated by the place; its tropical beauty, the palm trees, the flowers, the rich and diverse landscape.  And the diversity of the people too – from Cuba, South and Central America, and all over the US and the world. And of course, the never-ending sunshine. I was really stimulated by the place – it felt almost hyper-real to me; and the vibrancy and the literature too from the Caribbean impressed me. You know it’s such a contrast to the dark and the rain-sodden streets I grew up on in Dublin. Florida to me felt like life on the edge, in many different, wonderful, and dangerous ways. It’s an exciting place. I guess that all came together in the novel, The Garden; and as you say the environmental crises that the everglades in particular face was in mind; that this place, a sanctuary for birds, reptiles, and endangered species was under threat seemed to be a suitable arena for the human drama that enfolds in the novel.

SG: To this reader it really felt like the perfect arena for the drama in The Garden. The novel moves at a pace but through the Irish narrator Swallow, also provides introspection. What struck me most about the novel is the atmosphere – at once foreboding and idyllic – that you create and how we’re brought into this. For example, when we’re with Swallow as he drinks his bitter coffee in the morning, we really feel we’re there with him:

Waking the senses. First the sounds of birds and men shuffling. The smell of earth, and the greenness starting to take back, or the swamp beneath us trying to reclaim what belonged to it – without human interference, all elemental.  

It seems you have taken the advice of your creative writing mentor Lester Goran and gone for (at least) one beautiful phrase per page. Can you speak a little about your use of language and description?

PP: I’m a writer – in prose – who does not like long winded description or exposition. I don’t like novels that seem too long, and are full of filler, or writers who spell out what is at stake or say, this is the plot. I aim for a purposeful narrative with pace, and menace that allows for the left-field, and the meaningful digressionary moment or scene; so many novels I read have the most artificial dialogue like the two characters talking with one another are actually listening to each other. That’s not my experience. I like also the short novel. And I like writing to get to the point without any puff. That being said – I also aspire to balances, cadenced sentence where the rhythm of the language is honoured, and there is a control of tone.  These things are very important to me as a writer and a reader. In terms of description, I like Mark Doty’s definition of description as being encoded desire. My background in poetry means that I rely on motif, image, and metaphor in my prose, or that I go to them at least – in subliminal, subtextual fashion, so that you are creating grooves, and patterns in the reader’s mind, so that one phrase – however inconsequentially sounding can detonate something impactful in the reader’s mind.

SG: I love how you put that, creating grooves and patterns. Mark Doty has some really interesting things to say about description. I love his book The Art of Description.

The Garden could be described as a fable, and the journey the characters are on echoes the journey of ‘the ghost’ the orchid at the centre of this tale; they are precious, illegal, homeless and all struggle with identity – many of them, including Swallow, try to find themselves in the power the Garden seems to offer, escaping from memories. As he says swinging in the hammock, “I was seeking answers but all I had was starlight.”  Others, such as the visually blind (but all seeing) Harper, and his marking of the map (“circling with the pencil, spiralling inwards”) know the real perils. Can you talk about the fable and, at times, the moral element to the narrative?

PP: It’s not something I planned or set out to do; the fable like quality of the novel emerged as I was writing; and in terms of a moral element, yes one could read the novel as a warning and such, but if you look at the characters’ lives and the messy relationships between them, I think it’s fair to say that the moral code of the novel is complex. If someone wants to read a moral into the novel, I say, be my guest; but there’s probably different and contradictory ways to read the novel; and the moral code of its characters is complicated. Certainly, I think when you write a novel, you want it to be more than just a yarn. For a novel to last or linger in the memory, or for it provoke questions in the reader’s mind, I think there does have to a kind of sub-soil of searching about all sorts of moral questions. So writing it, I thought about Camus – and his stranger – justice divine and civil, and I thought again about Gatsby and what he devoted his life to, and the small scenes where a whole moral world was revealed. 

SG: I’m nodding at this – the connections with Camus and Fitzgerald – how “small” scenes reveal a whole moral and complex world.

The men who live in the barracks in the Garden co-exist with brotherly love infused with marine/army rules. This comes from both Swallow’s influence as an ex-marine as Blanchard’s right-hand man and from the men’s invisible place in the official world. It can be seen in the friendship – and rivalry – between Swallow and Romeo who appears with a “muted swagger” and “looked as if he didn’t know how to shake the shadow of a malaise”. Yet it’s also evident in those outside of the Garden, looking for financial gain from those inside (drug money, the ghost orchid). Their names – such as Black Fox, Catfish – tie them  to ancestry, land and deeds.

Did the theme of male friendship and rivalry emerge as story developed or was this a theme that you began with?

PP: Well, the whole writing of the novel was a exploration in the dark – that’s what my subconscious came up with after I had written in a kind of fever dream; so yes, male friendship and rivalry is important to me, but I did not set out to write about those themes; I followed the story, thoughts and feelings of Swallow; it’s his story after all, but male friendship and rivalry does, as it happens, interest me; in a way, how could it not; shifting allegiances, friendship, brotherly love all of these things as a boy, and a man I have grappled with, embraced, and otherwise, but again that’s not to say the novel is a didactic playground to explore in a scientific way; human impulses, male or otherwise, are full of the irrational, the impulsive, and the passionate. And the novels is such an elastic form it allows you to unpack these things, but that’s got nothing to do with the writing of a story; the story is what matters, not its themes when one comes to write. As ee cummings wrote, ‘since feeling is first, who pays any attention to the syntax of things.’ You see, I even contradict myself. 

SG: How fascinating to learn that the whole writing of the novel was an exploration in the dark!

Moving on to another theme that interested me as I read and, like masculinity, appeared like a shiny thread. Swallow is aware of his privilege as a white male and often muses about this – including questioning Meribel about how she stays with a racist like Blanchard. She tells him that he (Blanchard) thinks her “white”. Swallow’s privilege is also seen through Lola’s plight as a precarious worker/lover/female. Towards the end of The Garden Swallow realises “The desperate lengths people will go to for beauty”.

These parallel threads seemed very current and I wondered, given that in many ways The Garden is timeless, if race and gender formed part of the wider commentary on the structures of society and power, or if they emerged through the characterisation? 

PP: Again, I wasn’t writing a novel to make a wider commentary on anything. There are better ways to do that, I think. Critics, and reviewers can put these kind of labels on the book, and so be it, but I’d like to get a way from the kind of reading of the novel, this novel, as a commentary, or vehicle for anything other than what it in itself – a story. If a writer sets out with a message it will damage the writing and the book. So, I think it would almost be disingenuous of me to say yes, this novel is a commentary on whatever. It is, of course, or could be seen as such, but I also think the novel is so various in contemporary letters and allows a writer so much freedom – that I welcome different readings of the novel, but I am hesitant to even suggest what themes readers should look for; race and gender are centrally central to how the story unfolds, but I also think of course they are – when Swallow looks around him this is what he sees. And it’s a brutally unequal, unfair world he lives in.

SG: Isn’t it wonderful how such depth of themes emerge when you are faithful to the characters and the story?

Nature as a character is the main driver of story and back story. I am thinking here of Swallow’s back story about his brother and of Lola’s brother who drowned. It feels that the more the characters try to get back what was taken from them (identity, agency, power), the more they fight for and with each other (for the illusion of profit and gain), and the more natural disasters such as dreadful hurricanes happen. As nature is disrupted, people become more vicious. Nature, like God, is “wrathful”.

Three events spring to mind as examples of the beauty of connection turning into the ugliness of pain – the beach scene with Romeo, one of the visits to the swap where a gator makes itself known and one of the final scenes involving Swallow and another man’s ears.

“Each season,” Swallow comments, “I wondered what it was we were doing…Sometimes I wondered whose dream I was in.” Later he says “Part of me thought I was going out of my mind, as if we were existing on some foreign orb, living out the game-time of another species, playing our roles badly, with violent and careless glee.”

It seems as if the knowledge of how land and people are all connected is almost within reach of Swallow’s consciousness but then it slips away. In the swamp he says, “Something in my physical being knew this was a trespass of sorts.”

What are your thoughts on this?  

PP: I think Swallow is struggling with the reality which has manifested itself about him; he’s wondering like a lot of people how he got to where he’s at. He’s displaced, confused, and paralysed to a certain extent. I like your reading of the novel above, and I agree with it; I’ve dramatised those tensions. [Thank you!] I think the novel is interested in that notion of trespass – literal and otherwise; what transgression has been committed, and what of it. Does it keep the reader wanting to know what happens next. Much of my efforts in writing are in the compositional domain however; it’s like make the thing first, and then see what it means, if it means anything. It goes back to the writer writing without full knowledge; the writing is on a journey too, if they knew what message and themes they wanted to explore exactly, the game would be up. Better to work in ignorance, or partial ignorance; I feel now that the book is published that my guess is a good as yours. There’s a notion in lit crit of Intentional fallacy, a term used to describe the problem inherent in trying to judge a work of art by assuming the intent or purpose of the artist who created it. I kind of agree with this.

SG: Oh we could get into a whole Writers Chat about intentionality and purpose – and we could also talk about the death of the author (Barthes) and what the reader brings/re-writes.

I totally agree with what you say about the writer writing – make the thing first, then see what you’ve made. In a way, the writers job is not to make the meaning, it’s to allow the meaning to emerge.

On a personal note, I have to say I really connected with Swallow as both a character and narrator. Besides wanting to have a whole discussion on his name and back story, I’d love to see what happens next to the Garden. Will there be a follow on book or do you think you’ll return to the character of Swallow in another form or genre?

PP: I’m working on a new novel – but I’m loathe to get into it; I’m a little superstitious about talking or writing about something I’m writing; rather work in silence, in order not to break the spell.

SG: I totally understand that – I’m sure what emerges will emerge – and be as intriguing and magical as The Garden.

We’ll end this Writers Chat, Paul, with some short questions:

  • Mountains or beach? Beach
  • Swamp or bog? Swamp
  • Coffee or tea? Both
  • What flowers are in your garden now (if you have one!)? I’m working on some bamboo
  • Oh! Bamboo! I can hear it in the wind! Lastly, what are you reading now? Damon Galgut’s The Promise

SG: Thank you for your deep engagement with our Writers Chat, Paul and I wish you continued success with The Garden.

Photograph of Paul Perry (Courtesy of the author)

Paul Perry is an award-winning poet and novelist. He has published several collections of poetry, most recently Blindsight (above / ground press, 2020). He also co-authored four international bestselling novels as Karen Perry, including The Innocent Sleep with Penguin Random House. He directs the Creative Writing Programme at University College Dublin. The Garden is his debut novel as Paul Perry.

Thanks to New Island and Peter O’Connell Media for providing an advance copy of The Garden.