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[ interview ]
Amy Knox Brown—and her great, brand-spanking new debut!
by David Rodriguez
Jill McCorkle has called Amy Knox Brown's debut collection of short stories, Three Versions of the Truth, "cause for celebration." And we at The Southeast Review agree—whole-heartedly. Eavesdrop on her conversation with Dave Rodgriguez about Miller and Paine cinnamon rolls served in the store's tearoom, Charlie Starkweather's killing spree, the delight of Major Taters, and, of course, the writing life.
Q: There seems to be an emphasis on the past in your stories. Like in so much good literature, the past is haunting. Death and violence, especially, affect the character's present mindset in the stories (very movingly in your story, "The Slave Trade"). How do you view the past in the context of your stories or your life? Do you think of it as a major element in your work?
A: The past is very present in my life, if that makes sense. I'm a fourth-generation Nebraskan and third generation Lincolnite; this connection translates into a constant awareness of how things used to be and how certain incidents and places maintain their influence on the here and now. For instance, there was a very popular department store in Lincoln called Miller and Paine. My maternal grandmother worked there; my mother worked there; I worked there. Practically everyone in town shopped there at one time or another. The store is gone now—sold to Dillard's in the late 1980's—but people still wax nostalgic about the Miller and Paine cinnamon rolls served in the store's tearoom; they talk about the gigantic women's bathroom on the downtown store's second floor (there was even a little room with cots in it, so ladies who'd been exhausted by shopping could lie down for awhile to recover); they remember the store's layout and the names of managers and particular irritating customers.
Episodes of violence remain in people's minds, too—Charlie Starkweather's killing spree in the late 1950's, for instance. The gas station where Starkweather killed his first victim is still there on Cornhusker Highway, and surely I'm not the only person in town who thinks of Charlie and Caril Fugate whenever I drive past it. Because I'm so familiar with Lincoln's history, the past permeates the present in my stories.
Q: General Custer pops up a lot (along with several other historical figures). What interests you about him?
A: My interest in Custer arose while I was doing research for a failed novel. The research involved the history of the Plains Indians, so naturally Custer was a part of that. Books written a hundred years ago present him as a great man and a hero for battling the Indians; now, of course, the view of Custer is much darker. The idea for "Custer's Last One-Night Stand" came from a conversation I had with my husband. I mentioned how the term "one-night stand" seemed so military, and John said, "Like Custer's last one-night stand." Instantly the story came to mind; of course Custer's last fling would occur the night before the Battle of the Little Bighorn, wouldn't it? And I used the story to explain certain facts, such as why Custer (who was known for his long hair) had short hair when he was found dead after the battle. I love taking an historical incident and mixing in some speculation (or lies).
Q: Several times while reading the book, I came across something so vivid and odd that I wondered if it was part of your real childhood experiences. One that comes to mind is Fanny the dog in "Transubstantiation," who swallows cyanide capsules and lives. Are there any particular episodes of your life that (maybe surprisingly) ended up in your stories? Is that an inevitable part of writing fiction?
A: The Fanny story is, indeed, true (though I'm not sure I believe that a dog could actually be restored to health by cyanide, and I don't know how seriously I take "miracles"). Much of my fiction is inspired by things that have happened to me. A lot of "Strange and Dangerous Things" is autobiographical; my father did tie my sister and me to trees when we went fishing, and I caught a fish that I remember having to eat. I didn't think there was anything particularly weird about the tying-up until I mentioned it to other people and they were shocked. That response told me that the situation was worth making into a story.
Often I use other people's stories that strike me as unusual. "The Slave Trade" is based partly on an incident related by a guy I knew in Iowa, who was in the position of Emily in the story, being publicly torn between parents.
Q: You have raised Nebraska to a vivid and mythological level for me as a reader, helping me to understand its people the way that, say, Tom Franklin has with Alabama. What has been Nebraska's lasting effect on you? What draws you to it as a landscape?
A: I love that you say I've "raised Nebraska to a vivid and mythological level." Wow. I'm very sensitive to the ways writers represent and misrepresent Nebraskans. Sometimes people from other places write about Nebraska in ways I find sort of patronizing. They mistake our reticence for slow-headedness and provincialism. In my stories, I try to present Nebraska accurately without overcompensating by romanticizing it.
As I mentioned, I'm a fourth-generation Nebraskan—my paternal great-grandfather attempted to homestead out in western Nebraska, but he failed to stake his claim and ended up moving to Omaha, where he opened a bar. (Actually, I think it was a restaurant, but a bar sounds more interesting to me). I think that people have a natural affinity for particular landscapes, and it may not be the landscape in which you grew up, though in my case it is. I love the flatness of Nebraska, the modest number of trees, the way you can look a long ways into the distance. From the air, you see how everything is laid out in neat grids. Here in North Carolina, I feel sort of claustrophobic. The state is a lot more populated (NC is the 29th largest state, and the 11th most populous; Nebraska, on the other hand, is the 15th largest state and the 38th most populous—so, in short, North Carolina is more crowded). There are lots of trees here, and mountains, too. I don't like to sound like I'm passing judgment—from a purely aesthetic perspective, North Carolina is probably more attractive, landscape-wise: the trees are breathtaking in the fall when the leaves change color, and the mountains are majestic. Plus you can go to the eastern part of the state and wade in the ocean, if water appeals to you. I'm just more comfortable in flat, land-locked Nebraska, where winter blizzards might knock out your power for a couple of days and give you the opportunity to test your mettle and live like the pioneers did a hundred and fifty years ago. The subtlety of the landscape in Nebraska forces you to look at things more closely, I think. At least that's the effect it's had on me.
Q: What made you use the story title "Three Versions of the Truth" as the title of the collection?
A: The good advice of Jill McCorkle—who wrote an early blurb for the book—was instrumental in the choice of title. Originally I was calling the collection Why We Are the Way We Are. She said that title sounded like several others she'd heard recently and suggested changing it Three Versions or Strange and Dangerous Things. I'd found that certain readers had trouble remembering the exact title "Why We Are the Way We Are" (they'd say, "Why We Are Who We Are" or "What We Do and Who We Are" or something like that), so I decided to go with Three Versions of the Truth. Thematically, I think it makes sense for the collection as a whole, since a concern with truth/untruth/fact arises in many of the stories: Who's the father of the baby in "Dr. Faustus in Lincoln"? Who killed Custer in "Comanche's Story"? How much of the Fanny story in "Transubstantiation" is "true"?
Q: What is your writing process like? Do you listen to music while you write? Do you wear funny hats? Do you write by hand? Do you whistle while you work?
A: Normally, I do a lot of thinking before I start to write, planning out the story in my mind before I get anything down on paper. I almost always have the ending—the last scene, or the final image—in mind before I start. (Lots of writers, like Flannery O'Connor and John Gardner, consider this to be a bad idea, because you eliminate the opportunity for surprise or spontaneity in the story, but that's how I've always worked). I make a rough outline of the story, just a few sentences that summarize the important scenes. I write the first scene, then the end, then go and fill in the middle. (It sounds like kind of a sandwich approach, doesn't it? Bread first, then the filling).
We have three dogs, who like to get up early (around six a.m.) After attending to their needs, I try to write for about an hour, before getting distracted by chores and obligations. Sometimes I write longhand; more often lately I write the first draft on the computer. My study is full of dog beds, so the dogs keep me company while I write. I swill coffee; I don't listen to music (though I used to when I was younger).
At some point in the process, I re-type the entire story. I've found that it's too easy to be complacent if you just cut and paste during the revision process. For instance, with the cut-and-paste approach, it's easy to leave in a sentence that's mediocre; but if you're re-typing, you're much more inclined to write a stronger sentence rather than simply repeat the crummy one. I actually re-typed an entire novel three times, and each time it was vastly improved (though not improved enough: that was the failed novel that gave me all the Custer stuff).
My husband, John McNally, is a writer, and I always seek out his advice when I have a finished draft.
To change things up, the following can be answered in a word, a phrase, a sentence:
1) Name a writer who is currently making you jealous.
I try not to be jealous of other writers. Not because jealousy is one of the Seven Deadly Sins :), but because jealousy consumes the emotional energy I need to write. That said, there are many writers I admire, particularly Alice Munro. I suppose you could say I'm jealous of how willing she is to take risks in her stories, but she makes me want to try harder with my own writing, so I think of our relationship as being fairly productive—inspiring, even.
I also admire Dan Chaon, a writer originally from Nebraska. His story collection Among the Missing is masterful; he writes with great understanding about Nebraska, particularly the western part of the state.
I love Ron Hansen's story "Wickedness"—I wish I could write a story that fabulous.
2) What kind of child were you?
Bookish—I always liked to read and be read to. I also took ballet lessons when I was little, and I loved animals. Overall, kind of a geek.
3) What is your relationship with rejection like?
Well, I've experienced a lot of rejection—it's something most writers just have to get used to. My first experience with rejection—or criticism, rather—took place in high school, and though it was a painful experience at the time, I believe it was ultimately very helpful. What happened was this: I'd written a long poem in an English class that the student teacher really liked. She showed it to her professor at the university, who didn't find it as amazing as she had. She gave me the copy he'd read; he'd made some notes in the margin and written at the end, "There's some good stuff here, but it would take us HOURS to talk about all the problems." Up to that point in my life, all I'd gotten was praise, so the professor's remarks REALLY stung. I was crushed (I remember being unable to breathe for a moment—how melodramatic is that?), but the fact was, I didn't actually die from the criticism. That experience made me more able and willing to accept comments about my writing.
When submitting work to literary magazines, I try to keep in mind that editors can reject something on a really subjective basis (one editor didn't like a poem because she objected to a particular word I'd used); other times, the story might be too long, or the magazine has just published something on a similar topic, or—because the market for literary fiction is shrinking even as we speak—there's a lot of competition out there.
4) What book did you suffer the most for you as you read it, and why?
That's a tough question. I don't think I have an answer for you.
5) What was the greatest surprise for you in your most recent writing?
I'm currently working on a novel, part of which is set in Winston-Salem where I now live, and part of which takes place in Red Cloud, Nebraska. The first draft of the novel was written entirely from the point of view of a woman who has left her husband. The husband, Buddy, is a Southern man who's a killer and a Christian hypocrite. John suggested that I needed a second point of view in the novel, and that I should write some chapters from the husband's perspective. At first I was very resistant. I didn't think it was something I could do convincingly, if at all: a Southern man? A killer? A Christian? (I'm Unitarian and have a very limited experience with the Bible. In Unitarian Sunday school, we read Black Elk Speaks). I wallowed in doubt for awhile, then told myself to buck up and give it a try. And, surprisingly enough, I think I'm doing okay with Buddy. The more I write from his point of view, the more sympathetic and complex he's becoming to me.
6) What writerly habit would you most like to break?
It might be hard to narrow this down to one habit! I procrastinate too much; I make excuses not to write. That's my worst writerly habit, and the one I'd most like to break. Another thing I do that I'd like to stop is being complacent (thinking something's good enough, rather than working really hard to make it as good as possible).
And lastly (for the sake of having a random question): What did you have for lunch today?
I'm answering this question on Friday, Dec. 16 2007, while I'm back in Lincoln for my pre-Christmas visit. My father and I met Aunt Jennie (his oldest sister) and cousins Corliss and Dave for lunch at Major's, which is a truck stop out on 14th and Saltillo Road. (Saltillo came up in "Why We Are the Way We Are." It used to be way out on beyond the edge of town, but things are becoming built up in that direction). For lunch I had a grilled cheese and tomato sandwich on whole wheat bread, with a side of Major Taters, a culinary delight that Cousin Dave introduced me to. They're sort of like hash browns with onions and green pepper and some kind of spicy seasoning. Delicious!
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Copyright © 2008 The Southeast Review
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