The South Carolina Review

Latin American Translation Series: An Interview with Author Dany Salvatierra and Translator Susan Ayres

SCR is excited to present this interview with Peruvian author Dany Salvatierra and translator Susan Ayres as part of our Latin American Translation Series. In addition to being the author of a story collection and three novels (most recently La mujer sovietica), Dany serves as the curator of our Latin American series, helping us to locate outstanding Peruvian and other Latin American authors whose work has not been widely translated into English (his own story “Pick Up the Phone Right Now” is featured in SCR 53:2). Susan has served as translator in our past three issues, bringing us not only Dany’s work but that of Mexican poet Elsa Cross, and, in our fall 2021 issue, Peruvian author Romina Paredes and her story “Kintsugi.” Dany and Susan linked up in October for this Zoom interview, which covers Dany’s work, his childhood memories of Peru’s political turmoil, the SCR translation series, transgressive literature, and much more.

Captions available on video under “CC”

Susan: Dany! Hi, it’s so good to be talking to you. I so admire your work and your wild imagination.

Dany: Oh, Hi Susan thank you, thank you, for me, it’s a great honor and privilege to hear someone from the U.S. literary [field], a member, a translator, and also someone related to the academic world to say those things about my work. This is the first time that has happened to me so I’m really happy.

Susan: Well, it’s just an honor to be talking about you, and just to follow up on Keith’s introduction, the project with South Carolina Review, of bringing over the Peruvian writers, is so exciting. Can you just talk about what you feel like is some of the importance of that?

Dany: Well, the collaboration started when Keith and I met in Lima when he was presenting his book of short stories that was translated and published for the first time, I think in South America. I personally know the editors because they were friends of mine back when we were, you know, just kids starting in the publishing world and in the independent publishing world–I might say. They went on to found their own publishing house and I was working at another publishing house. But, you know, the literary world is so small in Lima that everyone knows everybody. So when Lee, sorry, when Keith’s publishers in Lima read his book they instantly thought about me because they said, “Oh you guys kind of have this way of telling short stories that is kind of nightmarish and has sometimes weird atmospheres–you don’t know if it’s a dream or not.” I think, for some reason, they thought we would click professionally. I read it, and it blew my mind away. I was like, wow, you know, how have I never read his work before. And, that was so cool. Then he arrived in Lima and I presented his book and we conducted a presentation in English, it was the first time I did so. Luckily, in all of our auditorium, everyone that came to the presentation spoke English and we were able to conduct it in English and then we held the Question & Answer [session] and everything. That’s when Keith told me that he worked at Clemson University and was in charge of the literary magazine. I think he was pretty much impressed with everything was that was going on in Lima back then, it was 2019 if I’m not mistaken. Everything was Pre-Covid.

Susan: Haha.

Dany: So, he was interested in [Peruvian stories], I think he read a couple of short stories from Peruvian writers also and he became entangled. I think we talked about it and I finally said well, you know, maybe we can find a way to put us writers in the magazine, because we have such limited ways of, you know, putting our work out there. Because sometimes it’s difficult, especially when you’re not published or under a major publisher’s wing

Susan: Exactly.

Dany: So small publishing, I think, has harder ways to get the writer’s works that are out there. So that’s how our collaboration started, and after that, it’s been so much fun for me to also be able to develop my eye for seeing what’s good or what could be published and actually well-received in the U.S speaking world. Because sometimes certain short stories are very local and they have, you know, unless you are from Peru it’s hard for others–for foreign readers, I guess, to identify or to trace what the writer is actually trying to tell.

Susan: Yes, yes.

Dany: Especially, since you mentioned the translations, in the latest one that is written by Romina Paredes, I thought that would show U.S. readers how hard it was for us–for my generation–of all, you know, the ones who like me were born in the ’80s to have such an unreal childhood. Especially when you were a child and you were growing up in Lima you [didn’t] actually realize what was going on, and, I think, my parents and everybody else’s parents tried to take our minds away from what was happening. So when you grow old and you start looking back and you’re like “Oh wow” I didn’t know it was so hard for everyone.

Susan: Yeah, and I think that’s one of the things that you’re exactly right [about] because I think so many Americans aren’t aware of that history. Like, in the ’80s when there were the Communists who were terrorizing Peru, right, and the Shining Path, and I think that’s one of the important things for you to tell us. I don’t even know, did kids go to school? Did parents try to normalize things?

Dany: Everything was new back then because we were also coming–or—entering into a really bad economical crisis and coupling with that the country was already unstable because we had a very long history of dictatorships through military dictators, and it wasn’t a good picture. Then finally they called elections and we were able to elect our first, you know, non-military or non-dictator president. I think that’s when things started to get really bad. I was born in 1980, so I think around 1985 was the time when the guerrillas started to be more visible through violence and crime, and nobody knew what to do honestly. I think my parents didn’t have a clue how to raise me, so they always told me to stay away from the street, and that’s hard for a child.

Susan: Oh yeah. That’s where children live, right?

Dany: Exactly. So, I think that also being an only child, I developed some sort of introverted personality when I was growing up. Because, as an only child, everybody tried to protect me and they always told me that the worst thing was to step outside because you never knew if there would be a bomb or if there would be a shooting. I also was brought up in a very dangerous neighborhood, I mean I think our block was kind of okay, but in general, there would be muggings outside.

Susan: Wow.

Dany: I remember my father parking his car outside of the house and on the curb and someone would remove the radio during the night, or remove like a wheel or something, so it was very hard. Then he finally found somewhere else to park the car so he could avoid the muggings, but it was pretty hard for everyone.

Susan: And as a child, I’m sure you just normalized it like that’s life growing up. Where are you living right now?

Dany: I’m living in Boston right now. Because of Covid, I was locked down in my country for almost a year and a half and I wasn’t able to leave, I think borders were closed, and then international flights weren’t open. I have family in both Florida and New York so I’ve always since I was based in Lima, I’m always traveling. Since they lifted the traveling [ban], you know, prohibition, or whatever they call it, I was able to travel here and I was like well I haven’t traveled in a long time so I just better enjoy myself here and put myself to work for an extended time in the U.S. So far it’s been working out really great for me.

Susan: Oh, I’m glad to hear that. How do you find living here different from living in Lima?

Dany: Well, it’s different, yes of course it’s different, but I think I like it better here because I feel like I’m more in touch with the culture. You know, especially in Boston, which is so close to Cambridge, Boston has several little spaces where you can totally feel like you’re in a completely different part of the city. Like when you go to Cambridge you forget that you’re in Boston, you know metropolitan Boston and Cambridge are so different. When you go to Summerville and you go, you know, somewhere else in South Boston it’s like it’s such a small city. I’ve found myself embracing everything and especially going to small bookstores and then getting in touch with the booksellers. For me, it’s been quite a special way to put myself [out there] and to communicate my work through them or say I’m from Peru and we do these things in Peru and you should read these authors. And I don’t know if they will pay attention to me but they’re always very interested in whatever is happening in the country. So, yes, I feel like an ambassador.

Susan: Exactly. Oh, that’s so great that you have that opportunity. I know that my family and I lived in Providence for five years and we used to love going up to Boston, it’s beautiful up there. So let’s shift to your writing practice. I know that in university you studied film and then you shifted to writing, but when you are writing do you see your novels and stories as films?

Dany: Yes, I started writing through film, or I started becoming interested in literature through film and through scripts. I wanted to be a screenwriter/director but sadly that didn’t work for me…yet. Before graduation, I developed a short film in order to be able to graduate and that didn’t really turn out well and I became disenchanted. I also felt that I was very inexperienced both as a person and as a professional because I graduated at 21.

Susan: Oh that’s young, yeah.

Dany: I finished high school at 16 and I enrolled in my first year of college at 16, so that’s really young. I only knew that I really loved films. I loved reading and I loved watching films but I think I was privileged enough to have parents that were really forcing me to pursue my own dreams, so that’s why I chose film. I was a very inexperienced child to choose film as a major because I feel like looking back I would have chosen a different path. Because you don’t need to go to film school to become a film director, you don’t need to study literature to be a writer. I think that’s something you can develop independently of your own career. And some people do that, some people go to business school and then they work for 10 years in business and then they form their own business and then they’re able to bring the money for their own personal projects.

Susan: Exactly, yeah.

Dany: That’s the thing they should tell us in school! But I think they’re all interested in like…

Susan: In getting the degree so they can do a “check.”

Dany: Exactly. And that made an impression for me in the U.S. because through friends I’ve learned that some employers don’t care about your major or don’t care about where you got your master’s degree or anything. They just care about the experience you have and how many contacts you have and how you know well developed you are in your field.

Susan: It’s such a moving target, and I’m just so amazed that you did film school, and then not that much later you published your collection of short stories. In 2010, right, Group Therapy? That was a best seller!

Dany: Yes, it was a bestseller but in terms of numbers, I think it was a small success because it sold out and it still hasn’t been published again. It got published in Chile and that actually gave me the privilege of having a small portion of Chilean readers that are always interested in my new works.

Susan: Oh that’s great!

Dany: Yes, I also got invited to the Chilean book fair three times. I was considering moving to Chile, to Santiago specifically, because I was able to talk to the readers and go to several literary events. I felt like, for me, it was going better for me in Santiago than it was in Lima.

Susan: Sometimes it’s like you’re more respected not in your own country. It makes me think of James Joyce or somebody. So, after the short stories you published three novels, although maybe you kept on writing some stories, but what was it like to go from writing short stories to writing novels?

Dany: Well, short stories are harder to write than novels.

Susan: It’s counterintuitive isn’t it?

Dany: Yeah by definition, because a novel is more like a game since you don’t really care about how short or how long a novel should be, it’s more fluid, I guess. You discover a novel through the writing and you let your character speak. That’s always happened to me, I always start with an idea, and then at some point the characters take over and I just let them speak and let them develop their own path within the story. I think you’re able to do that in a novel more successfully than in a short story.

Susan: Yeah, I think novels are more forgiving and then the short stories have to be so compressed and perfect.

Dany: Exactly.

Susan: What’s the longest time that you spent working on a novel or a short story?

Dany: Wow, actually my last novel–or my last published novel La mujer sovietica–that took me almost five years to get it to print because I was leaving my previous publisher, who was an independent one. Through the success I had in Chile and with foreign readers, I was targeted by a major publisher who had grown an interest in my work. They finally, you know, let me know if I wanted to publish with them, and, for me, it was one of the biggest things for my career, for a major publisher to become interested in my work. In Latin America, it’s quite different than in the U.S. because, in the Spanish-speaking world, you sell it by language. Like, if a major publisher publishes it [a novel] in Peru, they have the right to publish it in other Spanish-speaking territories, like in the rest of Latin America including Spain.

Susan: Wow, that’s broad.

Dany: I know! So that’s why ever since I started writing my purpose was to get my work to major audiences. Sadly, a small publisher doesn’t allow you to do that, or maybe in a very limited way.

Susan: Well, congratulations that’s such a great success story.

Dany: Yeah, but then, of course, my inner saboteur–or whatever you want to call it—made me get nervous when they asked me what are you writing right now. I was in the early stages of developing my new novel so I was instantly scared that since I would be having my work read by more people maybe they wouldn’t like the topics that I tend to develop. I was feeling like you maybe this is meant for a small niche of readers instead of a broad mainstream audience, maybe this is too esoteric or alternative, you know. I was in a very uncertain territory back then mentally so that’s why it took me so many years to write it. Every time I finished writing a manuscript, I started thinking well would broader audiences like this? I felt like I was publishing in a very safe space because I had a very limited and small audience.

Susan: But then you just felt that pressure all of a sudden.

Dany: Yes, the pressure of the publishers not liking my new work or maybe them feeling that my work was probably too artistic-ish.

Susan: So just that sense of getting past that and to do the breakthrough into a bigger publisher would terrifying for a writer, I would think. But it seems also like that one on the Cold War and then the previous one Electrico Ardor on the unrest in Peru, did you have to do some historical research as well to ground yourself in that period?

Dany: Of course, I always do my research before writing because I want to make my facts on secure ground. Because I think you’re not able to achieve suspension of disbelief in a reader when you can’t actually make them believe what you’re trying to tell them. It has to have a certain foundation in reality. We worry about that, especially when writing about such delicate subjects as Peru’s most obscure years since especially terrorism and the Maoists and the guerillas that almost ruined the country in the 80s. They are still writing about it and there are novels still being written about it to this very day. And I wanted to make my contribution to this view because I wanted to write about that specific time of my country, but from my own point of view and aesthetic, which is less political and to another level. Every time I put out a book people always say that I write about pop culture, and one of the first commentaries about Electrico Ardor was that it retold the Shining Path story through pop culture.

Susan: Which I think that’s a criticism that’s made against transgressive authors in the United States too, right? And I think you consider yourself in that category?

Dany: Yes, yes.

Susan: And that’s kind of the lens that you’re viewing the history through. Do you want to talk about who has influenced you, the various writers?

Dany: Yes. Back then when I graduated from film school and after my bad experience of not being able to put myself in the film industry yet, I started reading a lot in order not to have an early adult crisis. I discovered the work of Chuck Palahniuk, he wrote Fight Club which is his most famous book, but before Fight Club he wrote a novel that lots of publishers passed back in its day. Then after Fight Club it finally got published because Fight Club got really successful, and that novel was, I guess, the ultimate transgressive novel because it dealt with lots of things. For me always being in touch with pop culture and also the gay aspect of growing up seeing drag queens on TV and being in touch with gay characters, this was the first time that I read something so subversive. And maybe “serious writers” don’t call it real literature but for an inexperienced 25-year-old guy back then, reading Fight Club and Invisible Monsters for the first time totally changed my mind about literature.

Susan: Right, like it was acceptable to write about the taboo topics and these outsider characters who are so outside of social norms. And I see in your work too, I mean we’ll talk about it, I want to focus more on your stories that have been translated since this is in English and has English readers. But also you have the influence of magical realism and that comes out and it just makes your stories so rich and adds this layer of humor. I mean, they’re dark but they’re hysterical.

Dany: Yes, I think the best writing advice I got from Garcia Márquez–or from being obsessed with 100 Years of Solitude–was how to tell a story. Because it’s always about the tone of the narration that makes a good book, it’s how you address your readers and how you retell the facts of the story. I really loved the first paragraph of that novel, I remember reading it back when I was in high school, but I’ve always gone back to it. I always loved how he told the story of family of, I can’t remember how many generations…forever right? But at the same time, it’s kind of like an analogy of humanity itself, of humankind. I was so obsessed with that book ever since before going to film school. I didn’t know that I would become a writer back then but I knew that I loved books that were written like that like Garcia Márquez would write. He would always write like the way you would tell a story to your kids, because it starts like, “Once upon a time, in a little town, with the river…”

Susan: Yeah, that sense of how the beginning, you’re right, is so important. I was just thinking about in Group Therapy there’s “Conversation by the Pond” and “Pick Up the Phone Right Now” and both of those have been translated. In “Conversation by the Pond,” I was just rereading it recently, the translation, and it starts in that way that just pulls you in like that. It starts, “On the afternoon they were supposed to go to the zoo, Rosario realized she had forgotten to get her mother out of the freezer.” I mean, it’s such a great start! It’s just like, “What?” And so, in that story, the daughter ends up setting the house on fire trying to kill her mother and then her mother survives and she has to live with this body that’s like a piece of meat–that’s smoldering–and she’s described as, it’s like so grotesque but then it’s funny, it’s, “she has an emaciated face a nub where her right ear had been non-existent lips, and a charred nose.” How did you come up with the characters of the mother and Rosario?

Dany: I think the mother-daughter relationship has always been present in every single work that I’ve produced because my mother and my grandmother had a really weird relationship when I was growing up. They were never close.

Susan: Did you live with them both?

Dany: I lived with both of them. So, from what I get in their personal family story, was that they were really close because my grandmother had my mother when she was really young, and then she went off to work in some other city, and then they were stranded for several years. I don’t think they really learned how to build their relationship with both of them, and when I was born, me being a baby kind of brought them together to raise me, and they figured their ways of building a relationship through me. I guess that affected me because I think it’s very important for a writer to have a good eye and a good ear especially and I’ve always analyzed every single thing. I always do, until this very day. So me being a small child with good memory also I remember every fight everywhere they said to each other. Especially in Latin America, you know? I know it’s cliché to present Latin American relationships with people throwing stuff at each other. You know, but they would have fights. They would reconcile five minutes later and then they would fight again. Growing up my mother, she was born in the late ‘40s, so it was a totally different world back then. My grandmother was from another generation. When my mother was growing up, she would take out… how do you say it? A ruler?

Susan: For paper towels?

Dany: No, a ruler?

Susan: Oh yeah, yardstick.

Dany: Yeah, to measure how long her skirt would be for school. It couldn’t be a centimeter too short.

Susan: Oh my gosh. Old-fashioned moirés. You can see that in the stories, right? Because of all this like repression of courtship. It’s like, “Oh yeah, no. Don’t get too close to that man.”

Dany: I forgot to say that I was raised Catholic. Roman Catholics, especially not in America, they’re still living in another era.

Susan: Your aunt was a nun, right?

Dany: Yes, she was my aunt. She also raised me because my mother also had a day job. She was…she felt guilty that she couldn’t be with me. They brought her [Dany’s aunt] down to raise me. She was on her way to convent for the first time. She wanted to be a novice, but before doing that she raised me through my first years. She would teach me how to how to pray the rosary and how to read the bible. I think for me I was more fascinated by rights and traditions more than religion itself or how religion affected them. I was like fascinated by the way that it affected them, but not me. I wasn’t really feeling it. I saw the passion they put through every word of the bible and to rule everybody else’s-

Susan: -Thinking and behavior? It’s like Rosario in “Conversation by the Pond”. She’s rebelling against that even though she tries to kill her mom, but then she gets pulled back. She becomes her babysitter. Then at the end, it seems like she, you know, pushes her mom’s wheelchair into the crocodile pond when they go to the zoo. At the ending it’s ambiguous. I can’t tell if she kills her or not.

Dany: I made it ambiguous on purpose. Because in reality it’s Rosario who jumps to the pond to get rid of the mother and to actually give her own revenge by removing herself from her life and leaving her just alone.

Susan: I think that lack of resolution makes the story. You don’t know, like, is it continuing?

Dany: Right. The hardest part of writing short stories. In a novel, you could extend that idea and add more elements to it. But in a short story, you can also leave it, like you mentioned, with an open ending. With the sensation of what’s going to happen later.

Susan: Right, that never-ending kind of feel. I just–I think that story is fabulous. It has the elements of the grotesque and it’s just wonderful. In contrast, I think that the short story “Pick Up the Phone Right Now” has a similar character and a similar feel in that there’s sexual repression with Miss Noria. But it has a more campy feel. I’m sure you intended that to have more sexual energy. It’s funny and campy. How did you develop that idea?

Dany: I think it’s hard for me to tell you about all my influences. In reality, I just sit down and don’t realize what’s going through my mind. Looking back it brings memories from a time when my grandmother would take me as a little child to the mercado or wherever they sold fabric. She actually made her own gowns because she said [Dany imitates grandmother], “Oh people these days, you know they all dress like harlots. With new generations, there’s no fear of God.”

Susan: [laughs]

Dany: So, you always go to the fabric store. I remember being a little small child looking at the back side of the store and seeing all these nude mannequins standing up. Me as a small child of course my eyes would go to the male mannequins. I would see a big bump on their groin. I would be like, “Oh but this is not supposed to happen.” I thought that they would look more real. The first time I touched a man, the man was a mannequin actually.

Susan: [laughs]

Dany: It’s a plastic man. The way my small hand felt through the mannequin was one of my you know childhood’s most fun memories or most hilarious also. Especially when she finished her shopping and came back to pick me up. She was like, “What are you doing to the mannequin?” I’m like, “I was just trying to see what material it was made of.  I thought it was skin but it isn’t.” She said, “Well of course it isn’t.” She would also tell me that it’s a sin to explore certain parts of your personality. When you grow up you would feel more things, but you should know that’s all a sin. You’re gonna die, and you’re gonna go to hell.

Susan: Oh right that Catholic upbringing. That’s a great story. Thanks for sharing that childhood experience.

Dany: I should have written that down as the way it happened, but I think I was just thinking about that when I was you know writing the short story. I also remember that before going to kindergarten my nun aunt had a friend that would also go to the convent. She was a former teacher and used to teach in an elementary school. Since she was leaving everything else. She was leaving her life to give it to God. She spent several months in the summer taking care of small children. I would go to her place and she would pray. She would try to teach us things. She would teach us how to read or stuff like that. She lived alone and I saw her. I was totally fascinated by her small little apartment, and I think she was probably the basis for this character, my aunt’s friend.

Susan: Wow, you know when I was translating it, I was so curious about that because I was like is this like some school marm you had, or was it your aunt? One of the phrases that I just love is where you write the dust of colored chalk had penetrated her undergarments. I mean that’s so intimate, and it’s so graphic. To me, this story is sci-fi/prescient because now there’s artificial intelligence for sex dolls. It’s like it’s almost a story about that. It’s really a hysterical story.

Dany: Back then you didn’t know how technology was going to develop into this stuff, so I unintentionally wrote it as sci-fi. I was obsessed with this memory of childhood that the mannequin I saw and touched would have life itself on its own.

Susan: I mean gosh, that’s your imagination. Using experience…

Dany: When the British show Black Mirror came out, one of their first episodes really tells a story about a sex robot or a robot that’s been developed for people that lose a family member so they would replicate that person’s persona through a robot. That was taking it on another level, but I guess I unintentionally you know wrote about this stuff before it happened.

Susan: The other thing is you write with a lot of humor but also empathy for these characters like Miss Noria and Rosario and also the Soviet woman, these older characters. You’re writing about their sexual desire and longing. I think it makes your readers empathize with the characters.

Dany: That’s always happened to me because I think they all have to have a basis of being real–being real people. In order to write about them, you have to understand them and get into their heads and figure out why are they making these decisions. Why are they conducting themselves through these kinds of lives they have? If they have some paraphilia going on what has happened to develop these kinds of things? I always try to put myself in their shoes. I think that’s why sometimes when these people are villains or antagonists, I unintentionally surround them with such humanity that people actually relate to them.

Susan: It’s almost like writing about our shadow side. In a sense, we all have that dark side.

Dany: Since you mentioned Electrico Ardor I think readers love that novel because the main character is a child abuser that escaped justice. It’s written in first voice, so when readers were going through the novel and reading, they would be like, I can’t understand why I’m laughing along with him. I am enjoying the things he’s enjoying. At the end when he’s going to get caught, I was like rooting for him, ‘No, no, no, no, escape!’ Go for it! Then they start feeling… how do you say it?

Susan: Disassociation? Disconnected?

Dany: They start feeling dizzy because they’re like oh, I’m rooting for a child abuser. What’s happening? This is wrong. I shouldn’t be rooting for this guy because he’s a monster. Because he really is a monster. That’s the thing about literature. You have to develop these characters as people that you know and breathe through.

Susan: Like the tension in Lolita. It’s like so hard to accomplish that. One of the other things that I wanted to talk about is a lot of these stories also have this emphasis on the body as a point of gaining experience and knowledge. A lot of times it’s very grotesque. Like the mother in “Conversation by the Pond”. She’s so disgusting that the daughter has to hide her with a big long wig and people faint when they see her and the same in “The Makeup Wars” which has the sisters who have to be put away so that they don’t scare people. Tell us, “The Makeup Wars” wasn’t part of Group Therapy right?

Dany: No, it wasn’t part of that book– I wrote it independently as an exercise. It was actually very interesting how it was developed, because Peru being a very small publishing world, literature isn’t really considered as a market as it is in the U.S. I mean it is considered, but it’s not that wide and diverse; it’s very small, so I feel like there are very few people reading, and there was one new literary review that was founded around I think it was 2012 or 13. So they were asking writers to write short stories, and I wrote that because that’s how I write. I can’t write about normalcy, or normal character, regular coming-of-age short stories I think. My mind works in different ways. So I wrote that story and it was shorter, it was half of what it was, but I submitted, and then the editor who was also an acquaintance of mine he said, “Well, I this is a little bit too weird, I don’t think we would be… maybe you can find some other options.” Anyway, I was always in touch with an Argentinian writer whose name is Pola Oloixarac who’s now like one of the biggest—one of Latin America’s biggest writers, and I think if I’m not mistaken—well, she’s already part of Oprah’s book club, or her book was revealed by Oprah, and I think she also was running for the national book award or something, or the translation of her novel, because she writes in Spanish. But anyway, she’s such a big name right now and she founded the Buenos Aires Review with another friend I think and she asked me if I had a new story I would like to publish in her imprint. So I didn’t tell her that this particular short story was rejected, but I told her I had something new and I actually extended it and rewrote some things around, and I submitted it to her, and they loved it.

Susan: Oh, well that’s such a great story of how things just fall in place, and you know, you just don’t know what’s going to happen! But wow, that’s fabulous. It was published in translation around 2015, and I don’t want to give away too much, but it begins with the character Blanca, right, and she’s in a store dressing room trying on some clothes for her 14th birthday; and like many of your short stories, you pull the reader in with this mystery of who’s this “she”? that Blanca is being pestered by? And it says “the voice Blanca carried on her back” and so you don’t understand what’s going on. For me, of the three (this probably says more about me than you) but of the three stories in translation, for some reason, this seems the most transgressive. Do you feel that way or…?

Dany: Yes, yes, exactly. Because I have several readers who have told me that it gets really physical or sexual when the main character is taking a shower, and the voice starts telling her what to do or what not to do, or she gets interrupted– I can’t remember, I wrote it. So…

Susan: Yeah, no you’re right, it’s in the dressing room, but she’s also thinking about the shower scene and then in the dressing room it’s also a little, it’s more sexual as well, and I found myself not being able to get the picture out of my head, because I’m thinking of logistics, and I’m like, do the sisters–how many legs are there? And I’m being like, how old? And I think that it really is more transgressive and really grasps your imagination so, so much.

Dany: I think it’s the most transgressive because the characters are younger.

Susan: Yeah. They’re not middle-aged women or young women.

Dany: Yeah. Teenagers are all about discovering their own sexuality. It’s always been like that, and sadly for the Roman Catholics this is a sin, and you can’t do it, but I think it’s better for us when something’s forbidden because it takes another color, or it takes… “Oh, you shouldn’t do this because it’s dirty, and you’re going to go to hell and it’s a sin…”  “Oh well, let’s do it! It sounds so cool!” So that’s why having these two teenage characters, the first thing that popped in my mind is: how do you discover your own naked body when you have a sister or someone else attached to your own body how would they feel?

Susan: Yeah, it’s such a great question. And it kind of brings up something I wanted to ask you that’s kind of being asked right now, but like you know the identity culture wars: there’s this argument that people shouldn’t be writing about identities that aren’t their own. So like a disabled character by an abled writer–how do you respond to that kind of criticism as a writer?

Dany: I try to ignore it, actually. Since we talked about the generation gap, I think that’s what’s happening right now, but I think it’s counter-producing for creative people like us because I think at some point the cancel culture it’s going to implode because I don’t picture myself—I don’t think you should put limits to creation or to creative processes. And it’s funny because right now you can’t write about several topics. This brings to my mind the experience of one American writer, I think she wrote a novel called American Dirt, about the experiences of Mexicans trying to jump the border in order to become illegal-

Susan: And that got a lot of pushback!

Dany: Because people were saying that the writer, she’s a white writer, shouldn’t write about Latinos or the Latino community, and turns out that the writer said that she was part Latina or she was half Latina or her grandmother was Latina or something like that, but she wasn’t really Latina. And I thought that was false. I thought that was crazy. I mean why–so they’re telling me I shouldn’t write about this kind of stuff because I’m not personally part of this community or I’m not… a person? That, for me, it’s incomprehensible at some point, I don’t…

Susan: You wonder where will it lead, and it’s repressive, right?

Dany: It is, it is in a way.

Susan: Yeah, well, let me ask you this: I read in an interview of yours that you said something like (it was an early one) you considered yourself a reader first, and a writer second.

Dany: Yeah.

Susan: Has that view changed?

Dany: No, I’m still a reader. I’m an avid reader–I read all the time, and even my friends ask me how do you do it, what do you do? Or how is your schedule, how can you read so many books? Well, I wake up and I read, and then before going to sleep, I read. So it can happen. And I read fast also. And I’m also the type of reader that if my attention isn’t caught on the first pages, I just abandon it, and say what’s next? I don’t have much attention and it’s something that you mentioned before: that from the first paragraph, you draw the reader’s attention. That for me is essential, I can’t write anything that doesn’t have that first click to the right.

Susan: Or stay with it, yeah.

Dany: Yeah, in order to respond to your question, that’s how I built my own craftsmanship: through reading compulsively everything, and I can’t remember who said it, I can’t remember if it was Garcia Márquez or someone else who said that you should read everything, even bad novels. I think it was Stephen King– I can’t remember. You should read everything, you shouldn’t have filters when it comes to reading, because you can learn something even from reading bad novels, or bad books, or bad short stories. It will give you baggage,

Susan: It will give you that judgment of what went wrong, to tell you don’t do this or something. Yeah. What are you reading right now?

Dany: Ooo! I’m reading the new Jonathan Franzen novel, it’s called Crossroads. I was drawn to it by the first paragraph, I love how he writes. I think he and Garcia Márquez have that thing in common that they can write about families; they can write about family sagas that last for generations, and they develop each family member individually.

Susan: Yes, so memorably!

Dany: It’s like each of the characters are inside their own novels, and then when you look at the novel from far away, it’s not like the story arc goes somewhere, it’s just the things that happen to these people and how well-developed they are and especially since I think it was Freedom or Purity, I can’t remember which one of his novels, but it’s the same thing: it had to end at some point because it could go on and on and on, and you would still be with them. And I guess at some point it had to end, but in order to answer your previous question: I think I’m still a reader, right, because I found that I wanted to write the books I would love to read because it happened to me very frequently that I would pick up a book and then grow bored and say “oh, what’s next?” So I figured that the themes and characters I was interested in–there weren’t that many of them in Latin America, especially not American literature, so I was like why shouldn’t I write about this stuff? And especially while reading Chuck Palahniuk I think, Invisible Monsters was the first transgressive novel that had me saying, “I want to write a book like this.”

Susan: It gave you permission and a model right? Yeah, he’s such an excellent writer and so are you, really. It’s such an honor to be able to talk to you, and I think we’re almost out of time, but I wanted to be sure that I asked: if there’s anything I haven’t asked you that you’d like to talk about?

Dany: Well, I think there was some controversy with Peruvian writers being disinvited to the Guadalajara book fair, and I think book fairs and these kinds of events tend to invite always the same people.

Susan: Uh-huh.

Dany: I think you mentioned that it also happens in this English-speaking world.

Susan: Yes.

Dany: I think book fair organizers are the ones that choose who’s going and who’s not.

Susan: It’s almost like it’s a club, right?

Dany: Yeah, it’s like every single book fair you see, you see the same four or five people and it’s always the same and especially in Latin America, and you grow up to think that there aren’t any other writers

Susan: or any young ones, right?

Dany: Exactly, exactly. Yeah, I’m only thirty years old and you know, I would love to see more young writers around, especially in Peru, or wherever. I think there are more writers now, or their works are being put out for translation, and I’m privileged enough to be able to be the bridge between the younger writers, especially when it comes to translation, and I would love to keep doing that. Because I would have wanted that kind of help when I was first starting.

Susan: The mentoring; you’re stepping into this mentoring role, and also it’s like I picture you kind of as a curator of this project.

Dany: Yeah, especially when there’s so many new books, interesting new books, and interesting writers right now that are not writing about the Shining Path, which is very important, because I think we are ready to write about more topics: we’re ready for transgressive fiction, we’re ready for melodrama, we’re ready for things that are not related to the political obscure years of Peru. Of course, it’s important of course it’s valid to always keep in mind about our own wounds from the country; it’s always important to have those things present, but why not write about new topics? Because I feel that it happens more in the U.S. That’s why I’m drawn to read more English literature or U.S. literature that is produced in the U.S. because there’s so many topics and Latin America [literature] is always about politics, or violence, or corruption.

Susan: And I think part of your point is that was like 30 years ago right?

Dany: Yes, and I think we’re ready for new stuff.

Susan: I think it’s wonderful that you’re excited about that, and that you’re supporting that, and you’re supporting those writers. So, I think we should go, but it’s been such a pleasure to talk to you; thank you so much. I’ve been looking forward to this.

Dany: Yes, yes exactly.

Susan: And I’m looking forward to your next publication as well.

Dany: Oh thank you. Yeah well, I mean it’s already there. Right now in the publishing world, we’re going through many post-Covid things.

Susan: They’re slowly coming back.

Dany: Yes. My book has been ready but it’s still waiting for its release date because they’re taking it slow, very slow in my country when it comes to new publications. Because the market’s still recuperating.

Susan: Right.

Dany: I don’t know how it is in the U.S., but in Peru especially with the new government, I don’t want to criticize or anything, I don’t want to become political in these last few minutes, but I think we’re on the verge of another political crisis—sorry, economic crisis—maybe it has started already, but things aren’t picturing well, and I think that’s going to affect the publishing market especially.

Susan: Oh, I’m sorry.

Dany: It’s probably a very hard time for writers. Because probably my book is going to suffer from this uncertainty, and I feel like I’m not the only one there, but that’s why I’ve decided to write in English, and it’s something that has been going back since my second novel, because I applied for a workshop in Provincetown, actually. I didn’t make it, but I wrote a couple of chapters in English. And I was reading them recently, and I was like, well, it’s not that bad. Maybe I should just start developing.

Susan: Go back or start over—oh, that’s an exciting idea.

Dany: Yeah and I think it hasn’t happened- I think Diaz, maybe, is also a writer also writes in both languages, but I also want to explore that aspect, being able to write a novel in English or even if it’s short stories or even a memoir or a collection of memories, it’s going to be my first time and I’m excited, and I’m profiting my time here to make that new book. God knows what’s going to happen to the one I wrote, and the new one

Susan: I hope it comes through soon for your sake.

Dany: Yes, so that’s what I’m doing right now, writing in English and it’s going quite well, actually. So I’m really excited.

Susan: Oh, that’s wonderful, that’s really great. Well, Dany, I guess we should sign off, but again it’s been fun talking, and thank you for all your help in helping me translate and for sharing your work with the world.

Dany:  Oh, thank you for having me! Thank you for the interview, and I’m looking forward to still collaborating new translations and putting Peruvian writers out there for the rest of the U.S. readers.

Susan: Oh, wonderful. Okay, see you! Bye!

Dany: See you, bye!

Spring 2021 Issue 53.2 In the Works!

SCR 53:2 will be here in a few short weeks! This issue features poetry by Diamond Forde, Stella Wong, and Sheila Black, with fiction by Marlin Barton, Tracy Lien, and Peruvian author Dany Salvatierra in a new translation. Secure your copy of 53.2 by subscribing to our journal. For more information on sample copies, institution rates, and individual sales, please visit the “Store” tab.

The South Carolina Review Volume 53.1, Fall 2020

A orange, yellow, purple, and white sunset over a black cityscape.
Cover of SCR issue 53.1

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

SCR Issue 53.1 includes fiction by Kevin Wilson and Evan Lavender-Smith, poetry by Lisa Summe and Elsa Cross, and an interview with Toni Jensen, author of Carry: A Memoir of Survival on Stolen Land.

 

CONTENTS

POETRY

1 DWAINE RIEVES  Factory
2 OJO TAIYE  Last Rite
14 ALINA STEFANESCU  Artifice
24 LAURA MINOR  Author’s Prayer; In Fractals of Matter on Earth Where Heaven is a Metaphor for Heaven
36 TODD BOSS  Never Done
38 JOHNSON CHEU  What Would I Do Able-Bodied?
65 ELSA CROSS  Footnote; Coda
Translated by SUSAN AYRES
77 LISA SUMME  Regret in X Parts; When I spend the night, first time; At My Grandma’s Funeral I Think Only of My Grandfather
91 TODD DAVIS  What We Died For
92 BRITTON SHURLEY  To Francisco Starks, who Stole my Car from my Driveway, Late One Saturday Night
94 FOX HENRY FRAZIER  Silver-Eyed Lilínabalén’s Enduring Curse Is Thought to Be the Reason that the Caxxinoqi Have Preserved Their Ancient Prohibition Against All Practices of Divination
100 BRADFORD TICE  Our Affairs
117 RONALD DZERIGIAN  After National Public Radio Names Seventeen Dead
118 ALAMGIR HASHMI  Garbage News
127 STEPHEN FELLNER  Second Attempt at a Cantrip for my Mother’s Dementia
128 MICHAEL MALAN  Beside the Waiting River
137 DAVID TROUPES  Then Almost an Unbroken Forest

FICTION

3 ALYSSA NORTHROP  Thanksgiving
16 KEVIN WILSON  The Blue Tiger
26 KOSISO UGWUEZE  Frontier
39 EVAN LAVENDER-SMITH  Letters from Her Piano Teacher
68 AMY KIGER-WILLIAMS  Tybee Island
84 STEPHEN HUNDLEY  Abstinence for Arkansas
97 RAYMOND DEEJ  Matters of Geese
102 KATHERINE ANN DAVIS  Where There Were Cracks
120 ANNA LOWE WEBER  Fault
129 CHRISTINA YANG  Crossing the Bridge

NONFICTION

140 MIRIAM MCEWEN  Carrying Witness: A Conversation with Toni Jensen

BOOK REVIEWS

145 WALT HUNTER  That Was What Life Was Like: David Blair’s Barbarian Seasons
148 TARA JO LENERTZ  Memories Woven in Space and Time: Julia Koet’s The Rib Joint
152 JENNA RICHARD  The Weight of Silence: Lisa Summe’s Say It Hurts
155 JOHN RICHARD SAYLOR  A Very Effable Sadness: John McNally’s The Fear of Everything

CONTRIBUTORS

157

Carrying Witness: A Conversation with Toni Jensen

 

Two photos, the photo on the left is an image of author Toni Jensen. The photo on the right is the cover of her book Carry.
Toni Jenson and book cover.

 “Toni Jensen is a writer of power dynamics, physical trauma and generational pain. She is a writer of human error and environmental impact. She is a writer of uncommon beauty in unexpected places. Jensen’s deeply personal essays also serve as dispatches from the frontlines of an America often willfully ignorant of its own crises. Her new memoir Carry is about gun violence, land and Indigenous people’s lives. The book’s prose is both stately and riotous as Jensen moves through childhood memories of hunting trips with her father into the adult dread of a violent American culture, one which continues to assault native bodies. An associate professor in Creative Writing and Indigenous Studies at the University of Arkansas, she also teaches in the low-residency  MFA program at the Institute of American Indian Arts. On the last day of July 2020—amid the anxieties of a pandemic and the national outcry against police brutality—I was privileged to talk with Toni (over Zoom) about the language of violence, what it means to be American, and the bright, wholesome things that have sustained her writing process.” – Miriam McEwen

 

Miriam McEwen: I just wanted to start at the beginning, if we could, at the literal beginning with the title of Carry. Could you talk about how the prominence of that word signals to the reader its various meanings throughout the book? How did that materialize for you? I know sometimes titles can be suggestions that come later. Was that word really singular in your development of the book?

Toni Jensen: The book started with a couple of essays. The ones that were written before I necessarily thought of it as a book were “Women in the Fracklands” and “Carry,” a much different version of “Give and Go” and “The Invented Histories of Domestic Birds.” So the first handful of chapters—except for chapter two—mostly were essays that I wrote as individual essays. It seemed clear after writing those that I was headed toward a book. I think it was one of those rare instances where the title was my idea, and no one questioned it. Just the idea(s) of campus carry, concealed carry, carrying guns, carrying history, carrying witness, the different things we carry around in our bodies—those were some of the ways I saw Carry working.

MM: I think it works so beautifully and so powerfully. You say, “the different things we carry around in our bodies.” And in the book, you write about the distinction between the words survival and survivance. How did you arrive at a deeper meaning through—I’m not sure what to call it—this particular conjugation?

TJ: Survivance is a term coined by Ojibwe writer Gerald Vizenor. He and Diane Glancy were the editors of From the Hilltop, my first book. So I really love both of them, and I really love their work. But that word of Gerald’s is one so many of us have picked up. I think [survivance] is different from survival because survival implies that it’s in the past. It implies that you’ve gone through this process and you’re done, and survivance implies the process, the continuation. It’s ongoing. And I think survivance better describes the circumstance so many people are in right now.

MM: Right. This word is one that probably a broader population than ever can understand, given the rise of coronavirus. And did COVID-19 change the trajectory of the book, or did you kind of touch down in the same place of coming home, wanting to find home, meanings of home and family and land?

TJ: I wouldn’t say the pandemic changed the book because the book was mostly written when coronavirus happened. Just having a chapter called “Contagion” in the book made it feel necessary to integrate that, and also the fact that there’s more violence now. We’ve had more gun violence since coronavirus began. In the same way that back in March there wasn’t toilet paper on the shelves, there were also lines and lines at gun stores. And so, to address that trend was important because I think a lot of people in urban areas on the coasts are maybe unaware of what happens in the middle of the country. In Arkansas, where I live in Fayetteville, we’re just south of Bentonville . Everyone shops at Walmart. There are at least seven or eight Walmarts in Fayetteville (maybe more). All those franchises in a city with fewer than 80,000 people. This is Walmart country, so it’s common for people to also buy guns there.

MM: My geographical context here in Mountain Rest, South Carolina is only slightly similar. But I have witnessed how Walmart can often double as a gathering place of sorts, and I so appreciate the awareness your work has for rural consumer culture. All right! I’d like to talk to you now about birds, and please forgive the terrible transition. But the recurrence of bird images throughout the memoir reflects your principle themes really well. I kept thinking about the way a bird collects materials to carry back to its nest. The essays use the vocabulary of bird groupings so viscerally; these definitions almost train the reader to examine the ways in which a woman’s body is objectified. Was that use of language intentional from the very beginning? At what point in your writing process did you realize that you wanted to include that more scientific consideration of birds?

TJ: The first essay I think that would have started with is “Women in the Fracklands,” and it began pretty organically. I’m interested in the definitions of things: how we name birds, how we name animals, how we name each other. There’s a lot in the book about categories of violence, too: domestic violence, domestic shootings versus workplace shootings versus school shootings—how some [phrases] are considered escalation as far as terminology and also as far as criminal sentencing, and some are considered demotion. I guess how we name anything affects our perception of it, so I was interested in birds for a similar reason. But, also, the book is heavier content, and I’m keenly aware that heavier content needs balance. You have to have something concrete and beautiful, or something funny or both, as balance. So the birds are woven in as part of that consideration.

MM: You really challenge the reader to define for themselves what constitutes violence by using phrases such as “everyday violence” and “extraordinary violence.”  It’s that verbal act of demotion and escalation you just mentioned. I was also very taken with this refrain of “our America,” which appears throughout the essays. What do those words, presented as a whole, signify to you? And what do you hope the repetition of “our America” will instigate in the reader’s emotional consciousness?

TJ: “Our America” is really purposeful because mostly the only people I hear saying “in our America” are from an entirely different political viewpoint than my own. So we can find common ground in that, if we reappropriate it, if we take it back. It is all of our America. We all live here. And I think for Native people in particular—we like to be defined by our tribes, by our places, by our communities, by our nation’s first. Not everyone, but in many cases that’s true. But, also, we do live in this greater construct called America. We vote in national elections. We vote in local elections. We vote in city elections, if we live off-reservation. I think it’s important that we are considered in the framework of what it means to be American. Also, we were here first. It wasn’t called the United States then, but we were here. I think that’s very important. As far as “everyday violence,” I do think there will be people who find some of the things I consider everyday to be extraordinary. I know that, but I think that gets us questioning differences in worlds, right? And I think questioning is good.

MM: Yes, you report on the violent discrepancy between definitions of “normal.” And in the same way you talk in the book about groupings of birds, you also have kind of a master list of words that speak to hidden violence, or else words that convey troubling multiplicities. I’m wondering how it became apparent to you that so many common words (shooter, verge, off-season, in season) were in need of serious investigation.

TJ: Several of those words are related to sport. I knew that I wanted to have sports be in there because even the NRA was once a sporting organization. A sporting organization for outdoorsmen. That was true through the seventies, and I think that we forget that. It’s easy to forget that. Especially for a lot of readers of the book who will be younger than I am—they don’t have living memories of the seventies or eighties.

MM: Right. I know I always think of the NRA as this monster we have to combat, but having it put into a context of innocuous (for people, at least) sports living was just very educational for me. And I hope for others.

TJ: I hope so, yeah. I think that it makes the NRA seem like it can be changed. If, in my lifetime, it can go from a sportsman organization to what it is now—basically a political gun lobbying group more than anything else—it can change again. It can be taken back; it can be shifted back to what it once was. I’m not suggesting dismantling the NRA because I don’t think that can be accomplished in our lifetime, and because I don’t think [dismantling] would serve all of its members. There are a good many members who joined because their fathers or grandfathers were members before them. Or their grandmothers, in some cases. There’s still that population.

MM: Clearly so much travel and research and investigation went into the creation of this book, so I wanted to ask what you were reading, watching, and listening to during its development. What were some of the things that were most helpful?

TJ: In 2016 through 2018, there was a lot of back and forth travel. There’s a band called the Water Liars; the name comes from a Barry Hannah short story. I listened to their album Wyoming all the way across the country and back. I love that album. There were a few books of poetry I read and reread: Joy Harjo’s A Map to the Next World, Jamaal May’s The Big Book of Exit Strategies, Ada Limón’s Sharks in the Rivers, Louise Erdrich’s Baptism of Desire, Sherwin Bitsui’s Dissolve, Joan Kane’s Milk Black Carbon. Proxies by Brian Blanchfield is a book of nonfiction written by a poet, and it really opened up the lyrical possibilities of nonfiction for me.

MM: With all the places and histories this memoir represents as parts of yourself, do you feel at all that this book is its own sort of destination? What was the awareness or understanding you arrived at upon its completion, and what intellectual and/or emotional space do you hope your readers will find themselves in upon reaching the end?

TJ: I do feel like I’m certainly not in a unique position, having lived in all of these places. Many people have lived in a lot of places across the country, but I’ve lived in a lot of places that are considered particularly violent. And I liked living in most of them, at least to a degree. I had these experiences with violence, or people I love did, so I described those. But I hope that readers come away with a sense of the scope and history of a place, of each place. I think showing the beauty of the landscape and the tribal history of each place is important. It’s how I see the world.

We’re On Submittable!

We’ve made the switch! For consideration to be included in the latest issue of SCR, find us on Submittable. Simply search “South Carolina Review” in the search bar of the “Discover” tab. Current submissions for the Spring 2021 issue 53.1 are open until September 15, 2020.

We will no longer be accepting submissions through email, but we are excited to see you over at Submittable. SCR submissions are free and are accepted on a rolling basis. To create an account, visit submittable.com

No previously published work, work accepted elsewhere, or multiple submissions accepted. Please note that we cannot acknowledge receipt of manuscripts and that we cannot return manuscripts under any conditions. Contributors will receive two copies of the issue in which accepted work appears.

SCR publishes fiction and poetry primarily, but will also consider creative nonfiction, scholarly essays, and book reviews. The editors of SCR thank you for your interest in submitting a manuscript for their consideration.

Congratulations to Poetry and Fiction Prize Winners!

Photo accompanying "The Long Distance Runner" by Joshua Jones in SCR 52.2.
Photo accompanying “The Long Distance Runner” by Joshua Jones in SCR 52.2.

The SCR would like to sincerely thank all of the authors who contributed to Volume 52.2. Congratulations to the winners of our Ronald Moran Prize in Poetry and Fiction, Isabel Duarte-Gray for “A Portion for Foxes,” (poetry) and Joshua Jones for “The Long-Distance Runner” (fiction). Check out both winning pieces in the 52.2 table of contents under “Recent Issues.

Each recipient, chosen from authors included in each year’s fall and spring issue who have no more than one published book, receives a $250 prize.

The South Carolina Review Volume 52.2, Spring 2020

Painting of an orange and white boat docked at the edge of a blue lake with green mountains in the distance. The SCR logo is placed at the top left corner in white.

SCR Issue 52.2 includes fiction by James Ulmer and Joshua Jones, along with poetry by Julianna Baggott and Susanne Paola Antonetta.

 

CONTENTS

POETRY

2 SUSANNE PAOLA ANTONETTA  Clue
5 SASHA FLETCHER  i told you so
15 TRAVIS LAU  Still Life; Recovered: Vegetable Knife
33 JUDITH CODY  Ultrasound of a Poem
34 ISABEL DUARTE-GRAY  A Portion for Foxes
44 JAN C. GROSSMAN  The Decision
46 JULIANNA BAGGOTT  The Facebook is Empty and Sad
58 JAY DESHPANDE  Narrative Comes Easy; Love in Swan
64 J. ALAN NELSON  Time to Fuck Over Romeo
82 LIZ BOWEN  Amnesia; Aphasia
92 MATTHEW LIPPMAN  What Mingus Knew
105 CAROLINE MAUN  Where I Grew Up
117 CHARLOTTE PENCE  Becoming That Adult
118 MICHAEL ROGNER  Vinyl
120 LELAND SEESE  Dress Shoes
135 AVIVA KASOWSKI  Closure

FICTION

6 JAMES ULMER  The Far Hill
18 JOSHUA JONES  The Long-Distance Runner
36 BRENDAN GILLEN  What Goes Up
48 JENNY ROBERTSON  Ground Truth
60 SARAH BLACKMAN  The Donora Smog
66 DUSTIN M. HOFFMAN  The First Woman
84 MATTHEW FIANDER  Gizzards and Hearts (Mostly Gizzards)
94 MICHAEL GILLS  Swimmer
106 WILL RADKE  Black and Blue
122 CATHERINE BELL  Outward Bound

NONFICTION

75 MATTHEW VOLLMER  Three Essays

BOOK REVIEWS

136 DORSEY CRAFT  “Butterfly on a Chain”: Maurice Manning’s Railsplitter
141 PRESTON TAYLOR STONE  Toward a Queer/Blind Poetics: Kathi Wolfe’s Love and Kumquats
144 DUSTIN PEARSON  Tommy Pico’s Feed Serves Somthing-for-Everybody Appeal
147 Gary Kerley “All’s Fair in Love and Memoir”: Remembering Pat Conroy

CONTRIBUTORS

153

An Interview with Author Sadie Hoagland

SCR Assistant Editor Wesley Kapp interviews Sadie Hoagland on her story collection entitled American Grief in Four Stages. Hoagland’s story, “Extra Patriotic,” is featured in SCR Volume 51.2.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Interview with Author Sadie Hoagland 

WK: American Grief in Four Stages is described as a short story collection that explores the inability of language to capture traumatic experiences. I find this idea compelling, and I thought that each story in this collection revealed this truth in different ways. Can you tell us more about this concept and what inspired you to create this specific body of work?

SH: Our tendency as humans is to try to find a narrative that explains our lives, and yet some events defy the logic of a narrative. There is no story that can explain suicide, for example, and the language we use to comfort the bereaved is itself clichéd (e.g. “Sorry for your loss”). I was interested, and even frustrated by this failure in my own life, and so some of the stories in the collection engage this failure of language directly, such as the title story and “Warning Signs.” Both of the narrators of these stories are using extreme language posturing to try to bring the reader into their own state of shock: “If I knew why my little brother shot himself through the head then, man, I’d be rich.” They are also using language as armor; knowing that words can’t express their loss, perhaps they can at least use language to hide their pain. In other stories, the ineptitude of language is explored much more subtly. For example, in “The Crossword,” an old woman is using crossword clues as memory cues, and each word reveals a complex root system into her past, proliferations of meanings of the word known only to her. Pie is a three-letter crossword answer, but also a memory of the woman as a young girl, with her cousin, a tension in the air. Language, then, always conceals more than it reveals in this way; it connects us by what we say, while always reminding us of that which remains hidden within us, what we don’t say. I’m intrigued by this idea (which is probably why I am a writer). 

WK: I love the title “Cavalier Presentations of Heartbreaking News”, and I thought it described that story so well. It seems that everyone has their own way of giving and receiving bad news, and I found it interesting to see that play out in this particular story. Can you tell us a little bit about why you wrote this story? I’m also really interested in the concept of electric birds.

SH: Ha! I feel like you read right through this story straight to me. I do think people present bad news often very casually, and I never not feel it. Perhaps this a great weakness, or a strength that led me to fiction writing, but I do feel the empathy center in my brain is a tad large, and impractically so. I am often in the position of the narrator to a lesser degree, where someone tells me something that I process viscerally. Interestingly enough, when I was in my twenties, older women, strangers, would often tell me stories of almost brutal sadness and even more interestingly, several of these stories involved birds. This perhaps, on an unconscious level, is why I wrote this story. The electric birds were a starting point, that first line, “It was my birthday when I found out all the birds were electric…” came into my head and was too compelling a thread not to follow. But having the birds in the story also created a sense of tension between the possible and impossible that led me further into the plot. If it was possible that birds were electric, then maybe our narrator can find her way through the impossibility of a cancer diagnosis.   

WK: “Extra Patriotic” was published recently in South Carolina Review, and it has found a home in this collection. The story follows two characters dealing with PTSD. Similar to other stories in the collection, “Extra Patriotic” leaves the reader with an idea of what happens next but no sure answer. The characters press on, but we aren’t sure that happiness is in store for them. Each character responds to their situation differently. Why did you feel it was important to show these two different responses? Why can’t they make it work, in your mind?

SH: Our culture encourages people to be resilient, to “get over” whatever happens to them, and this is almost the only option. We don’t like to think about the people that can’t rise up out of their struggles, that’s not part of the American story. Yet we’ve learned through vets with PTSD, sometimes we’ve painfully and tragically learned, that this is not the case, we can’t always “get over it.”  And while some kinds of trauma are legible, or even have cultural currency, others seem to make people untouchable. Truly isolated. I wanted to think about two characters with two different kinds of trauma from life events that read very differently: one is a “hero,” a war vet, and one a “survivor” of her parents tragic and violent death. Both have different kinds of support systems. One is ready to move forward before the other can move forward, and this creates a distance between them. Perhaps it is surmountable, but not in the moment the story ends. I wanted the reader to remember, to feel, both the possibility of recovery through one character, but also the immensity of the task of recovering from trauma through the other character. 

WK: Your career has taken you from California to Utah to your current home in Louisiana. [Hoagland teaches in the PhD writing program at the University of Louisiana-Lafayette.] How have you seen your writing develop differently in each of these places?

SH: It takes me a long time to process space and place, and for a place that has affected me to make it into my writing. My novel, Strange Children, which comes out in Spring 2021 is about a polygamist community in Utah, where I grew up but didn’t write about until I had moved away. I haven’t lived in California for ten years, but I just finished a second novel that takes place in central California. So it seems that for me it’s almost easier to write about a place after I’ve left it. Perhaps there’s a certain clarity I get when I am no longer going about day-to-day life in a place, a distance that allows me to see the nuances of a “where.” Though I will say that even as I live here, Louisiana is starting to seep into my writing, mostly in the form of nonfiction as this place has a wild and strange heart that is almost too uncanny for fiction. 

WK: What are you working on now? 

SH: I am currently revising my second novel, with a working title of Upside Down in the Sky, about a woman grappling with a sexual assault in her workplace and the disappearance of her troubled mother the same week in California. As she searches and uncovers her mother’s story, she meets her estranged grandmother, starts tracking down a father she never knew, and also discovers that her mother has suffered things she could never have imagined. I am also working on a collection of nonfiction mini-essays about the female body as both a question and answer in various rhetorical spaces, like the medical community, and academia. Stay tuned! 

Spring 2020 Issue 52.2 In The Works!

Painting of an orange and white boat docked at the edge of a blue lake with green mountains in the distance. The SCR logo is placed at the top left corner in white.

With fiction and poetry by Julianna Baggott, Jay Deshpande, Suzanne Paola, and James Ulmer, SCR Issue 52.2 will be released in a few short weeks! Secure your copy of 52.2 by subscribing to our journal. For more information on sample copies, institution rates, and individual sales, please visit the “Store” tab.

The South Carolina Review Volume 52.1, Fall 2019

Cover of issue 52.1. Art work includes a blue abstract design with the South Carolina Review logo in the top right corner.
Cover of issue 52.1. Art work includes a blue abstract design with the South Carolina Review logo in the top right corner.

SCR Issue 52.1 includes fiction by Dean Bakopoulos and Emily Collins, along with poetry by Maurice Manning, and Canese Jarboe.

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CONTENTS

POETRY

2   O-JEREMIAH AGBAAKIN  nocturne with the invisible shepherd // or the book of noah
4   SARA WALLACE  Prayer Slid Under the Study Door
10 HOLLY DAY  These Uncharted Wilds; Along the Bay
18 CINDY KING  It’s Either That, or You’re Pregnant Again
20 DAVID BLAIR  At Fenway Park
22 ANTHONY BORRUSO  Suicide Summer
23 LISA RHOADES  The Most Beautiful Migraine in the World
41 LEVI ANDALOU  Three Untitled Poems from the Manuscript “State of the Wards”
59 MAURICE MANNING  White Oak Shadow Half a Mile Away; Frogeyes
62 CANESE JARBOE  Self-Portrait as Disco Ball Missing Tiles; Morning Morning
71 JOHN NIEVES  Counterpoint: Twenty Years
72 RICK MULKEY  Toolbox
74 CAROLINE PARKMAN BARR  For Some Time After
75 HILARY BROWN  Vigil
90 NATHAN SPOON  Sonnet; Buzz Off; The River
100 BRAD JOHNSON  Elegiac Advice Unwanted
101 CECIL MORRIS  At the Diagnosis
102 DIANE R. WIENER  Paradise was consumed
120 RONALD MORAN  Not Only on Sundays

FICTION

6   EMILY ALICE KATZ  Sugar Talk
12 EMILY COLLINS  Marcyland
24 MARY GRIMM  Zane’s Trace
44 DEAN BAKOPOULOS  The Dog
64 JOSÉ SOTOLONGO  The Light in the Woods
76 MONIC DUCTAN  Gullah Babies
94 MATTHEW TURBEVILLE  Run Away with Me
103 EVANGELINE WRIGHT  The House of Forgetting

BOOK REVIEWS

113 EMILY ROSE COLE  Disabled, Queer Pride and Kinship in Laura Hershey: On the Life and Work of an American Master
117 SUSAN TEKULVE  The Dark Heart of Florida: Jon Sealy’s The Edge of America
121 Announcement of Ronald Moran Prize in Fiction and Poetry

CONTRIBUTORS

122