SoR: What is your writing process like and how has it evolved over the years?

Angelou: When I’m writing a book, I keep a hotel room in town - whatever town I’m living in - and I’m on the first floor. I rent it by the month. I talk with housekeeping management and I explain that I don’t want anybody in my room so they never have to change sheets or change towels. I don’t use any of that. I go in around 6:30 in the morning. And I keep in the room my Bible, a Roget’s Thesaurus, a Random House dictionary, stacks of yellow pads, and pens and crossword puzzles.
     So I work with crossword puzzles when I’m trying to engage my small mind. When I was growing up, my grandmother would say to me about anything that happened that surprised her...she’d say, “That wasn’t even on my little mind.” So somehow I decided that there was a little mind and a big mind and if I could keep my little mind occupied, then I could get straight to my big mind and the big issues at hand.
     So that’s my materials I keep in my room. About once a month, the management slips a note under the door which says they need to change the sheets - they may be molding. (laughs) And I say, “Alright, one day.” But I get there at 6:30 in the morning, sometimes earlier in the summer because it’s light and I leave at about 12:30 or 1. 1 if the work is going really well. I will stay until then. But I’m usually home at about 12:30 or 1 o’clock. And I try to ignore what I’ve been doing so I go to the supermarket and shop and get home and have another shower and prepare the meal for the evening and then I will look at the work I’ve done. And then the next morning I begin again until the book is finished.

SoR: Even though you have performed with dance and been involved in theater, what is it that inspires you to write poetry as a creative medium?

Angelou: I love the sound of the human voice. I’ve never been asked that before, I don’t think. I know I’ve never given that answer before but that’s really what it is. You see poetry is music written for the human voice and I love it. I spent six years of my life as a mute, a voluntary mute. I could speak but I wouldn’t. I would go into a room and think of my whole body as an ear. And I could go into a room and absorb all of the sound osmotically through my pores, my ears, and my hair. And I’ve never found any human voice I didn’t like. I’ve found words they’ve said...but the voice itself - I love the human voice. English to me is the most fantastic language.
     And you know, I have some pictures in my mind, Mr. Brown, of the Revolutionary War - the men, the soldiers were cold and hungry and wet and shoes bedraggled and Patrick Henry and other patriots would walk up and down the lines saying, “It matters not...I don’t care what others may do, but as for me, give me liberty or give me death.” And the words could so revive the passion. And I love the fact that there are words which can, put together in the correct way, they can lessen grief and fear. They can make the walls of ignorance and racism and sexism and agism and see them melt.
     Just recently, I watched the victory speech of President Obama. I was overwhelmed that at least sixty percent of his audience was white. And they were - and probably more - they were stomping, clapping their hands, shouting, laughing and crying with as much passion as the other thirty-five percent. And I realized that the pundits - some of the pundits in our country - who are trying to keep us apart have not been successful. We are coming together. Americans are seeing themselves in each other. And some of that can be traced directly to the poetry of the speeches. I believe that. And when poetry is sincere, it’s almost irresistible.

SoR: You brought up the years you were voluntarily a mute. What was it that pulled you out of that? I mean, you later on in your life recited one of your poems for President Bill Clinton’s inauguration. So what was it that pulled you out of that period.

Angelou: The credit can be lain at the door of love and poetry. My grandmother loved me. She was raising me. She loved me so much. And she raised my hand and said, “Sister, momma don’t care if these people say you must be an idiot or moron because you can’t talk. Sister, momma don’t care. Momma know when you and the good Lord get ready. You gonna be a teacher. You gonna teach all over this world.” I used to sit there and think, “This poor, ignorant woman; she doesn’t know I never speak.” And now I do teach all over the world.
     And then there was a teacher, Mrs. Flowers, who used to read to me at nine, ten, eleven and she had a beautiful, melodious voice. She was a black lady and lived really...she was the aristocrat of the area...she was just all of that. And she would read poetry...and I just loved it. And then I loved the poetry in the spirituals. At my grandmother’s she’d not allow us to listen to the blues but then I heard the blues by accident (laugh) at somebody else’s house - I loved it. So that was a poetry though I didn’t know at the time.
     But when I was about twelve, Mrs. Flowers told me, “You don’t love poetry.” I had a little tablet on which I wrote my answers to everything and I wrote, “Yes, ma’am, I do,” and tried to hand her the tablet. She wouldn’t even look at the tablet. She said, “You don’t like poetry. You don’t like it. You’ll never love it until you speak it - until you feel it come across your tongue, over your teeth, through your lips. You’ll never love poetry.” I ran from her as she if was taking my best friend and she followed me. She followed me and hassled me for about six months every time she saw me and she made it her business to see me. She would point at me, “You’ll never love it.” And finally I went under the house - my grandmother’s house - where the chickens pecked, the dirt is salt, like powder, and I tried a poem. I had memorized most of the black poems. I had memorized 60 Shakespearean sonnets. I loved Poe so much I called him “Eet” to myself and I could just ramble it out in my brain. So I went under the house and tried and I had found that I had left my voice - my voice had left me.

SoR: While much of your poetry has a sense of where you came from, what inspires you to write, and especially poetry as the medium of choice?

Suited Up

By Nigel Ford

Late in the life of the year there were not many deckchairs on the beach, and those that were here were skeletal and ragged. Black strokes of wood and a scrap of canvas flapped against the sky.

   ‘Have you paid for your ticket?’ asked a voice behind him.

   Marek turned around; ‘Bill Tomlinson. Well I’m blown!’

   Bill Tomlinson was the Beach Manager and worked for the City Council.

  ‘Who put these chairs out here? Did you take them yourself? There should be no chairs out here at this time of year. That’s stealing, you could be in serious trouble, just because you’re wearing a smart suit and might or might not be a gentleman, does not mean you can behave as you please.’

   ‘Good morning,’ Marek said, ‘and a very good day to you too. The chairs had been left out.’

   ‘Failed to recognise you in that suit Marek. What are you doing here you layabout? Where did you get the suit? Fell off the back of a lorry I bet.’

   Bill sat himself down in a chair beside him. There was a ripping noise and his rump hit the cold wet pebbles as the canvas seat broke beneath him.

   ‘I’m never going to accumulate possessions,’ Marek said, ‘no way. What’s the point? I ask you. Where’s the meaning of it? That French bloke got it right. “Property is theft”. Sensible chap. Who needs it?

   ‘Theft is property,’ Bill said, ‘Findsies keepsies. That’s a nice suit you’re wearing.’

   ‘Anyway you look at it,’ Marek said, ‘what’s the point?’

   They fell silent and watched the muscular sea heave its dark grey shoulders beneath the china October sky.

   ‘Looks like it’s put on a suit,’ Bill said, ‘ready for the cold to come.’

   ‘Speaking of suits,’ Marek said. And he told him a story on the shiver of the stony beach in the harsh autumn air.

   It was the month before, when Bill Tomlinson himself had presented Marek with a suggestion. Marek invariably arose early and had confided in Bill that it was only the first few morning hours he found enjoyable.

    To which Bill had responded: ‘Marek, I wonder if it might not be a good idea for you to get a job. What, after all, do you do after the first few morning hours? Mooch about with your brain vacant and empty, filling it with garbage. Too much brooding; it’s unhealthy.’

   The day after Bill’s remark. Through the slit of the curtained window. The promise of light that bounced him out from under the covers. Put the kettle on and brewed up. Stretched the curtains apart, looked out on his private early world, the only one up and about. Robert, the seagull that habitually perched on his window sill, seemed to have migrated. He could go outside and march up and down the whole length of the street in the wet crisp air without seeing a soul. Be the first one to leave his footprints on the heavy dew of autumn. But he had decided to heed Bill Tomlinson’s advice. He walked over to the Job and Social Welfare Centre to see what they had to offer, that might fill the rest of his day for the days to come.

   The man behind the counter of the booth of privacy looked insincerely wise and scratched the stubble on the edge of the left-hand side of his mouth. He delivered a steady, unblinking gaze, and said it’s a cushy number clerking at the Patently & Friends Authentic Insurance plc. with the winter oncoming. Man of your qualifications. Not many of your calibre around. It’s a cinch. Mind you put on a clean shirt and tie.

   He had duly visited the offices of the Patently & Friends Authentic Insurance plc. The Office Manager who interviewed him said he’d need to wear a suit. When in response he explained his financial predicament he was given an advance on his salary without ado.

   ‘It’s alright, once behind your desk, to take the jacket off at work, and even to loosen your tie, but you must wear a suit to work. Company regs old chap, company regs. A spot old-fashioned I know. But there you are. Our parent company policy. I know they are foreigners, but what can you do? And get a haircut.

   ‘As a matter of fact, I don’t care if I never see you again,’ the Office Manager continued, presenting him with a cheque for two hundred pounds to buy a suit and a haircut, ‘it’s not my money. You can piss off and never come back if you like. Spend it all on booze and drugs why don’t you? It’s no skin off my nose.’

   ‘Cripes,’ Bill said, leaning forward in his foundered deckchair. ‘How very fortunate, you lucky dog.’

   ‘You haven’t heard the best bit yet,’ Marek said, ‘not by far.’ He fell silent.

   The silence became too long and too much for Bill; ‘go on then,’ he said, ‘tell me what happens next!’

   ‘Patience,’ Marek said, ‘just mulling it over. I like to mull over the best bits. I don’t want my life to flash past. I like to return and relive the prime moments.’ He fell silent again. Bill threw stones in the sea.

   ‘Well,’ Marek said.

   Bill stopped throwing stones in the sea and hunched forward on the edge of his chair, his hands clasped in a tight knot between his knees, all attention. There was a raucous squawk and a splat of gull shit, locally known as a “whoopsie”, hit the pebbles close to his right shoe, but he failed to notice.

   ‘Nearly got you,’ Marek said.

  ‘What happened?’ Bill demanded.

   ‘I bought myself a beautiful suit,’ Marek said. ‘Classic. Silver grey mohair, three piece, slanting pockets, no vents, not too formal, only three buttons on the cuffs, turn-ups. I looked quite the gentleman.’

   ‘Did you really! Sounds nice,’ Bill said, ‘I can imagine a suit like that would suit you down to the ground. But of course! You’re wearing it! How foolish of me!’

   ‘Made me feel funny,’ Marek said, ‘sort of highly polished, a swirl of hubris inside my head, forced my nose up in the air, improved my posture. Mind you, I had attended to my nostrils that morning.’

   ‘What happened next?’ Bill asked impatiently.

   ‘Things did not go well,’ Marek said. ‘The staff at the office refused to speak to me and just before lunch the Office Manager called me into his office.’

   ‘That’s a beautiful suit,’ the Office Manager said. “I wouldn’t mind one like that myself. For auspicious occasions, anniversaries, Christmas, New Year, important birthdays, official occasions. Unfortunately I shall have to let you go. Your suit does not fit in here, not at all. You are causing unrest and dissatisfaction amongst the staff.’

   ‘I say,’ Bill said, ‘how unfair. He couldn’t do that surely?’

   ‘I was paid three months’ salary in lieu of notice,’ Marek said. ‘Financially therefore, you could say I did quite well.’

   ‘But you are left with nothing with which to fill your day,’ Bill protested

   ‘I have my suit,’ Marek said, ‘in which I can do all sorts of things. I can for example, use the facilities in the foyers of smart hotels, expensive restaurants and airport lounges. I can sit all night in a bus shelter without a policeman moving me on, and so forth.’

   ‘It won’t last forever though will it?’ Bill said. ‘Vents might come back, turn-ups might become non rigueur.’

   ‘There are such things as scissors,’ Marek said.

   ‘Many of these chairs are in disrepair,’ Bill said, ‘need looking after. They should not be left out here in all weathers. It’s a disgrace, beautiful pieces of furniture some of them antique. I tell you what; you could have a job for the off-season if you like. Not that I can pay you much, but it’s better than nothing.’

   ‘Might be interesting,’ Marek said.

Translated by Nichola Hammoudeh 

في أواخر السنة لم تكن هناك الكثير من كراسي المركب على الشاطىء، والموجوة منها كانت بحالة مزرية. لم تكن إلا عبارة عن قطع من الخشب وقماش القنب.
-"هل دفعت ثمن التذكرة؟"
التفت مارك لرؤية صاحب الصوت. أهذا أنت يا بيل توملينسون؟ يا للمفاجأة!
كان بيل توملينسون مدير الشاطئ ويعمل لدى لجنة المدينة.
-من وضع هذه الكراسي هنا؟ هل أنت من فعل ذلك؟ لا يجدر أن تكون هناك أية كراسي في مثل هذا الوقت من السنة. إن هذه سرقة, ويمكن أن تقع في مشكلة كبيرة. لا تظن لأنك تلبس بدلة مرتبة أو لأنك ربما تكون أو قد لا تكون سيدا محترما بأنه يمكنك التصرف كما تشاء.
قال مارك "صباح الخير, ويوم سعيد لك أيضا. كانت الكراسي هنا قبل قدومي".
قال بيل "لم أعرفك في بدلتك يا مارك. ماذا تفعل هنا أيها الكسول؟ من أين لك هذه البدلة؟ أراهن بأنها وقعت من شاحنة فوجدتها في الطريق".
جلس بيل إلى جانبه. لكن الكرسي تمزق من تحت ثقله، فوجد نفسه فوق الحجارة الباردة على الشاطئ.
قال مارك "لن أملك أي شيء, ما الفائدة من ذلك؟ لقد كان ذلك الفرنسي على حق, "الملكية سرقة". إنسان حكيم. من يحتاج لذلك؟"
قال بيل "السرقة هي الملكية". من يجد شيئا يحتفظ به. من أين حصلت على هذه البدلة؟"
قال مارك "كيفما نظرت إلى الوضع, فما الفائدة من ذلك؟"
سكتا ونظرا إلى أمواج البحر الرمادية تحت السماء الخريفي.
قال بيل "يبدو كأن البحر قد لبس بدلة استعدادا للبرد القادم".
قال مارك "دعني أحدثك عن البدلات", ثم أخذ يخبره بالقصة وهما يجلسان على الشاطئ الحجري في الهواء الخريفي القارس.
قبل شهر كان بيل توملينسون نفسه قد اقترح شيئا على مارك. نهض مارك باكرا كعادته, وأمن بيل بسره بأنه كان يجد فقط ساعات الصباح الأولى ممتعة.
أجابه بيل "أتساءل إذا كان حصولك على عمل أفضل شيء بالنسبة لك. لأنه ماذا ستفعل بعد مرور أولى ساعات الصباح؟ ستضيع وقتك من دون وجود أي شيء تفكر فيه, ما عدا الهراء. إن هذا غير صحي".
في اليوم التالي, استيقظ مارك على ضوء النهار التي دخلت غرفته عبر شق في الستائر. نهض وحضر إبريقا من الشاي. فتح الستائر, ونظر إلى العالم الخاص به في الصباح الباكر. كان الوحيد المستيقظ في تلك الساعة من الصباح. بدا أن روبيرت، طائر النورس الذي اعتاد الجلوس على شرفة نافذته، قد هاجر. كان يعرف إذا خرج في مثل هذه الساعة المبكرة في الهواء الرطب البارد, ومشى عرض وطول الشارع, فإنه لن يجد أحدا. ولكنه قرر الأخذ بنصيحة بيل توملينسون. ذهبا إلى مركز العمل والمساعدة الإجتماعية لرؤية ما لديهم من عمل يمكنه أن يفعله في الأيام القادمة. إن الرجل وراء مكتب الخصوصية بدا عليه عدم الحكمة. أخذ يحك لحيته التي لم يحلقها على جانب فمه من اليسار. نظر بإمعان إلى مارك, وقال بأن هناك فرصة عمل جيدة عند شركة التأمين الحقيقي للأصدقاء هذا الشتاء. إن رجلا بمؤهلاتك لن يجد أي مشكلة بالحصول على الوظيفة, فقط البس بدلة نظيفة وربطة عنق.
ذهب مارك إلى مكاتب الشركة. قال له مدير المكتب الذي أجرى معه المقابلة بأنه سيضطر للبس بدلة. عندما شرح له مارك عن وضعه المادي, أعطي سلفة على راتبه من دون أي مشكلة تذكر.
"يمكنك خلع سترتك عند مكتبك, وحتى ترخية ربطة العنق, ولكن يجب لبس بدلة إلى العمل. إنها شروط العمل في الشركة يا عزيزي. أعرف أنها أعراف قديمة, ولكن هذه هي القواعد. إنها شروط الشركة الرئيسية. أعرف إنها مدارة من قبل الأجانب, ولكن ماذا يمكنك فعله؟ وبالمناسبة اذهب لقص شعرك".
قال له المدير "في الواقع لا يهمني إذا لم أراك مجددا في حياتي, فهذا ليس مالي. قدم له شيكا بقيمة مئتي جنيه لشراء بدلة وقصة للشعر. يمكنك أخذ المال وأن تصرفه على الكحول والمخدرات إذا أردت ولا تعد أبد, فإنه لا يهمني مطلقا".
قال بيل "حقا؟ يا لك من كلب محفوظ!"
قال مارك "انتظر لم تسمع الأفضل بعد. ثم سكت. لم يستطع بيل الانتظار  فقال: هيا إذا, اخبرني ماذا حصل بعد ذلك؟"
"اصبر", قال مارك, "إنني أفكر". أحب أن أفكر بأفضل المقاطع. لا أحب أن يمر حياتي بسرعة, أحب أن أتذكر أفضل اللحظات"، وسكت من جديد. أخذ بيل يرمي الحجارة في البحر.
قال مارك "إذا". توقف بيل عن رمي الحجارة وجلس على حافة الكرسي باهتمام, ووضع يديه المقبوضتين بين ركبتيه. سمع صوت نورس, ووقع على الحجارة قرب حذائه فضلات من الطائر, ولكنه لم ينتبه.
"كاد أن يصيبك".
"ماذا حصل؟" أمر بيل.
"اشتريت لنفسي بدلة جميلة بقصة تقليدية. كانت مصنوعة من صوف الموهاير الفضي اللون، و مكونة من ثلاث قطع, مع جيوب منحدرة. لم تكن رسمية جدا. كان يوجد ثلاثة أزرار فقط على الأكمام التي يمكن طيها إلى الأعلى. كنت كالسيد المحترم".
"أحقا؟" قال بيل. "يبدو أن ذلك كان جميلا. يمكنني أن أتخيلك في بدلة كهذه. كم أنا غبي! أنت تلبسها الآن!"
قال مارك "شعرت مختلفا وأنا ألبس تلك البدلة. جعلتني أمشي مستقيم القامة، ومفتخرا بنفسي. لحسن الحظ قمت بتنظيف أنفي ذلك الصباح".
"وبعد ذلك ماذا حصل؟"
-"لم تجر الأمور كما يجب. رفض الموظفون في المكتب مكالمتي, وقبل موعد الغذاء استدعاني مدير المكتب إلى مكتبه".
قال مدير المكتب"هذه بدلة جميلة, لا أمانع في واحدة مثلها. كنت لألبسها في المناسبات الخاصة, وعيد الميلاد, وعيد رأس السنة, والمناسبات الرسمية. لسوء الحظ لا يمكنك العمل هنا. إن بدلتك لا تناسب هذا المكتب. إن وجودك تسبب بالمشاكل وعدم الرضى بين الموظفين".
قال بيل "هذا ليس عدلا هل يمكنه فعل ذلك؟"
"قبضت راتب ثلاثة أشهر بدلا من ورقة طرد من المكتب. يمكنك القول بأنني من الناحية المادية أفضل بكثير من ذي قبل".
"ولكن ليس لديك شيء تفعله طوال اليوم".
"لدي بدلتي التي فيها يمكنني فعل أي شيء أريده. على سبيل المثال يمكنني استخدام التسهيلات في بهوات الفنادق الفاخرة, والمطاعم الغالية, وغرف الجلوس في المطارات. أستطيع الجلوس في موقف انتظار الحافلة من دون أن تطردني الشرطة".
"ولكن لن يستمر ذلك للأبد, إذ يمكن أن تتغير الموضة وتصبح بدلتك قديمة الطراز".
"يوجد دائما المقص".
"الكثير من هذه الكراسي في حالة مزرية, وتحتاج لمن يصلحها. لا يجدر أن تكون معرضة للطقس هكذا. يا للعار, إنها قطع جميلة, وبعضها قطع عتيقة. ما رأيك بالعمل هنا خارج الموسم السياحي في تصليح الكراسي؟ لا أستطيع أن أدفع لك الكثير, ولكنه أفضل من لا شيء".
"ربما أجد العمل مثيرا للاهتمام". 

Car Wash

By Nigel Ford

     Fortunately there was no queue. I left my car poised outside the au­tomatic door of the car wash and walked over to where the person in charge was housed in a Perspex windowed reception office, so scratched and dirty he was only a dirty blob of red overalls, sat in there, chatted away on his mobile, back turned towards me.

     There was an automatic machine into which, depending on the kind of wash you wanted, you put money and pressed a button after you had parked your vehicle in the correct position.

     I did not have the right change for the kind of wash I wanted because the prices had been altered since I was here last time.

     I needed information from the person in the red overalls. The win­dows were so opaque he might have held a doughnut to his ear, but one naturally assumes a person is on the phone when he holds something to his ear and swings about in a comfy swivel chair and bends sometimes forwards and sometimes stretches back, you know, like you do.

     I pushed the little bell push outside the reception office, but I couldn’t hear if I got a result. In any event, there was no change to the behavior of the person in the office. I knocked on the Perspex. No reaction. I thumped until it rattled. Still no reaction.

     I have 65:- in change and the wash I want has gone up to 72:-. Some kind of wash for my car could be available, even if not the wash I had intended. It was important to wash away the accumulation beneath the car and prevent corrosion. The most difficult, if not impossible, part of car wash to perform in the street. Your feet stick out in the road. Or up over the curb. Either is unsettling. A vehicle might run over them in one direction. A dog might bite them in the other.

     I drove the car into the wash anyway and walked over to the pay­ment automat. This housed in a cubicle with grey-blue walls also with scratched and dirty Perspex windows. It included a seat where you could sit and watch. Through the windows my car was a low shadow of dull British Racing Green. It had cream leather upholstery, but that was not visible.

     I had made sure all the windows were tightly shut and the telescopic radio aerial retracted. The wing mirrors too, were now folded longitudi­nally.

     Choosing the most comprehensive wash I could get for the change I had, which was everything except the turtle wax polish finish, I inserted my money and the automat screen instructed me to press buttons 1 to 5 inclusive except for 3. I obeyed and then settled back in the seat to await events.

     The car wash area was entirely surrounded by a circular cafeteria and a circular Perspex wall that protected people from the water spray, rather like the screen around an ice hockey rink that protects the audience from stray pucks.

     I had always thought the cafeteria to be an excellent idea; grown-ups could bring along their children when they washed their cars and watch­ing the car washing process kept the children occupied. They could watch the cars enter at one end and go through all the different stages of brushing and soaping and rinsing and drying – the roaring air of the dryers was always exciting I found – and come out the other clean and shiny bright, while the grown-ups grabbed a cup of coffee and had a chat or read the paper in peace. Indeed many of the adults themselves appeared to find a fascination in watching the car washing process.

     The automat window screen started flashing. I was instructed to press the red start button, and I complied. Nothing happened immediately. Then a sharp “click” and the cubicle, in which I was sitting shuddered, lifted and began to move.

     Most of the adults in the cafeteria had their backs to the car wash and to me. They were represented by hunched blobs of various colors. Sev­eral children were watching the car wash procedure. Their faces were white blobs through the Perspex.

     My cubicle moved forwards in a series of jerks, stopped and swung around to face the large floor to ceiling brushes. The cubicle was pro­pelled along a railed track. After a series of snaps, the brushes began to rotate. The cubicle jerked forward toward the brushes and high-pressure water jets drummed on the walls. When the cubicle pushed into the re­volving brushes the noise was deafening and the cubicle shook. A head of soapsuds built up on the windows. The light inside the cubicle dark­ened until I could barely discern the control buttons. As we emerged on the other side of the brushes, the light brightened. The cubicle stopped, jerked and returned through the revolving brushes, darkened, brightened and moved back along the track. The water jets died away and stopped and a hissing commenced. An astringent perfume, attributable to some sort of cleaning agent, permeated the cubicle. After which the cubicle moved forwards along the track, through the brushes and stopped. There was utter silence. Just when I had concluded the process was finished and was fumbling for the door latch of the cubicle, there was a tremen­dous roar and the cubicle moved swiftly back along the track, buffeted by a tremendous wind. It seemed to me as if the door bulged inwards, and I held onto my hat. The Perspex windows of the cubicle dried and cleared and now seemed clean, although visibility remained hampered by their being so badly scratched.

     The cubicle slid to a smooth halt at the point of our departure... The brushes were now out of my line of sight. Everything was silent. I heard no machines, no voices anywhere.

     The cubicle was filled with a noiselessness I found disturbing. Should I get out? A single red diode blinked on the control screen. There was a brusque rap on the cubicle door. I opened it. Two women with blue eyes, their blond hair in severe buns and clad in cobalt blue overalls, looked at me.

     ‘What are you doing?’ woman no. 1 asked. ‘You’re not allowed to be here. You realize this is a punishable offense?’

     ‘You’re not supposed to be here stopped on the track and motionless like this, even if you were allowed to be here. Or even if we were to overlook it for once,’ woman no. 2 said.

     ‘I thought the process had come to an end,’ I said. ‘The treatment complete.’

     ‘No,’ woman no. 1 said. ‘You’ve paid for Superwax and polish. Care­less.’

     ‘But not turtle wax,’ I said.

     ‘Not turtle wax,’ woman no. 1 agreed.

     ‘We’ll assume you must have pushed a button by mistake,’ woman no. 2 said. ‘With your elbow perhaps. Don’t do it again please. We’ve had too many people doing this lately. It’s not supposed to be an amuse­ment. All you’ve had is a rinse, a soap, a cleansing agent, a wash and a dry.’

     ‘Not the super protective wax and polish you paid extra for,’ woman no. 1 said. ‘If you’d been through that you’d know about it.’

     ‘Yes indeed,’ woman no. 2 said. She leant into the cab and pressed a button. There was a series of clicks. ‘That should do it.’

     ‘Enjoy yourself now,’ woman no.1 said. They slammed the cubicle door shut and were gone. The clicks stopped. There was silence and stillness.

     The cubicle suddenly jerked and started to shake so violently I had to clutch both sides of the seat and hang on tight. Outside there was a great hissing and spluttering. All the windows misted over and visibility was reduced to zero.

     ‘Customers,’ a speaker said in the ceiling. It startled me a great deal and I gazed at the speaker which had stopped speaking after that first word. Then it crackled, ‘....not be allowed...’ it said, and then produced more crackling noises before it continued, ‘...back.’

     ‘Back where?’ I asked involuntarily.

     The cubicle continued to buck and jerk forward, stopped, and then began to move in reverse buffeted by the rushing wind (high-pressure air you understand) of the dryers, the windows gradually cleared. The cubicle jerked to a halt in its reverse progress and then began to move forward again. ‘Customers...’ the speaker said then crackled and was silent.

     The speaker crackled again ‘...special offer including...’ it said, then went silent. I wondered what kind of special offer. The speaker crack­led once more, ‘...7 francs for a prawn roll and the soft drink of your choice. Or a cup of coffee and a small cake of ...’ it said and fell silent. The cubicle seemed to enter a long glide, its motion smooth for the first time and then stopped.

     The speaker crackled, ‘Thank you for...’ and then went dead.

     I got up from my seat after making sure all systems had closed down and that no lights were flashing on the control screen. I was opening the door to exit when the speaker crackled again, ‘Customers,’ the speaker said, ‘doooooon noooooooer.’ then there was a loud snapping sound and nothing more forthcoming. I stepped out onto the floor of the car wash and walked outside.

     Although the idea of a prawn roll and a drink followed by a cup of cof­fee and a small cake of…did not appeal, I felt hungry and thirsty and craved the company of other human beings in convivial surroundings.

     Inside the cafeteria people sat huddled together at tables and the chil­dren looking through the panorama Perspex windows at the goings on in the car wash, played games amongst the furniture. The children were a company to themselves, any social barriers forgotten in the conveni­ence of play, while the adults sat in little huddles, with little or no com­munication between the groups.

     I collected a beer, a ham roll and a paper mug of coffee with a plastic top to retain the heat, a packet of milk substitute and two cubes of sugar from the self-service counter. This cost me 50 francs; neither of the spe­cial offers applied to my requirements. I found a vacant seat at a round table occupied by two people. One of the persons was stirring sugar into their coffee; the other was primping themselves in a hand mirror.

     ‘Would it be all right if I sat here?’ I asked.

     The primper moved the mirror to look at me. ‘Yes of course,’ the mir­ror moved back again.

The person stirring the coffee stopped stirring and patted their pock­ets, retrieved a pipe, lit it and blew a cloud of smoke. ‘Get a good wash?’ the pipe smoker asked.

     ‘I did yes,’ I said.

     The mirror moved and the primper looked at him, the face screwed up in outrage.   

     ‘We didn’t. We had to do most of it ourselves in the end. And they didn’t give us a refund either. Some excuse about their com­puters.’

     ‘You’re not from round here,’ the pipe smoker said.

     ‘I live here,’ I said, ‘but I’m not Polovick, I’m a Vickenman.’

     ‘Ah,’ the pipe smoker said. ‘I thought that or a Sossenyack. You speak Polovian very well.’

     ‘I’ve been here quite a while,’ I said.

     ‘You’re more or less one of us,’ the primper said, ‘we don’t think of the Vickens as being foreign do we.’

     ‘I suppose not,’ the pipe smoker said. ‘Not like we do Sooings or Bronsers or even Ditchmen.’

     The primper sniggered, ‘funny lot.’

     ‘Different cultures,’ the man with the pipe said.

     ‘Make no effort,’ the primper said. ‘Some of them have been here practi­cally all their lives. Can’t speak Polovian.’

     ‘You’re more like us,’ the pipe smoker said.

     ‘Or we’re more like you,’ the primper said.

     ‘I feel at home here,’ I said. ‘As if I could make this my home country if I wanted to. One doesn’t of course.’

     ‘I suppose not,’ the pipe smoker said and got up. ‘Come on,’ he said to the primper.      

‘Time to go.’

     ‘Mustn’t be late,’ the primper said.

     They left. ‘Customers,’ said the speaker perfectly clearly without the trace of a crackle, ‘are asked kindly not to remain in the control cubicle after making their car wash selection. Repeat. Do not remain in the cu­bicle after making your wash program selection. Thank you.’

Översattning Cecilia Lindmark

Tur nog var det ingen kö. Jag lämnade min bil utanför entrén till själva biltvätten och gick fram till där personen som ansvarade för biltvätten satt i en reception bakom repat och smutsigt plexiglas, så han utgjorde endast en smutsig röd klädfläck, förmodligen overallklädd. Han satt där inne och pratade på med ryggen vänd mot mig.

Det finns en automatisk maskin som man, beroende av vilken sorts tvätt man vill ha, stoppar pengar i och trycker på en knapp efter att man ställt sitt fordon i rätt position. Jag hade inte rätt växel för den tvätt jag ville ha eftersom priserna hade ändrats sen jag senast var här.  Så jag behövde fråga personen i röd overall. Han hade rentav kunnat hålla en kanelbulle mot örat, men man antar givetvis att en person pratar i telefon när han håller någonting mot örat och svänger runt på en bekväm snurrstol och ibland lutar sig framåt och ibland sträcker sig bakåt, du vet, som man gör. Jag tryckte på den lilla ringknappen utanför receptionen, men jag kunde inte höra om det gav något resultat. Hursomhelst ändrade personen på kontoret inte sitt beteende, ingen reaktion. Så jag knackade på plexiglaset. Ingen reaktion. Jag bankade till det skallrade. Fortfarande ingen reaktion.

Jag borde kunna få någon slags tvätt till min bil, trots att det inte var den tvätt som jag hade tänkt. Underredet på bilen var viktigt för att tvätta bort smuts och förhindra rostangrepp. Det var den svåraste, om inte den mest omöjliga delen av biltvätt som man utför själv på gatan. Dina fötter sticker ut på vägen. Eller upp på trottoaren. Vilket som är jobbigt. Ett fordon kan köra över dem på ena sidan. En hund kan bita i dem på den andra. Jag har 65:50 i småpengar och tvätten jag vill ha hade gått upp till 72:00.

Jag kör in bilen i tvätten i alla fall och sedan kliver jag in i en hytt med gråblå väggar och repade och smutsiga plexiglas. Sett genom rutorna är min bil en låg skugga av tråkig skogsgrön. Den har gräddfärgad läderklädsel, men den är inte synlig.

Jag har försäkrat mig om att alla fönster är ordentligt stängda och att antennen är nedfälld, även backspeglarna har fällts in.

Jag väljer den mest omfattande tvätt jag kan få för pengarna jag har, vilket ger allt förutom slutpolering med Turtle Wax. Jag stoppar i pengarna och får instruktionen att trycka på knapp 1 till 5, men inte 3. Jag gör som jag blir tillsagd och slår mig sedan ner i stolen som ställts där för väntande. Genom rutorna i plexiglashytten kan jag se omgivningarna runt biltvättsområdet: en cirkelformad glasvägg som skyddar människorna från vattenstrålarna, bakom den finns ett kafé som omger biltvätten.

Jag har alltid tyckt att det är en lysande idé eftersom det håller barnen upptagna med att iaktta biltvättsprocessen, medan de vuxna kan ta en kopp kaffe och prata i fred. Även många av de vuxna tycker att det är fascinerande att själva titta på processen.

Nu får jag instruktionen att trycka på den röda startknappen och jag gör det. Ingenting händer med en gång. Sedan ett skarpt ”klick” och hytten som jag sitter i skakar till, lyfter och börjar röra på sig. De flesta av de vuxna i kaféet har ryggarna vända mot biltvätten och mig. De syns som hukande fläckar av varierande färger. Några barn tittar på biltvättsprocessen. Deras ansikten är vita fläckar bakom plexiglaset.

Min hytt rör sig framåt i en rad av fyra ryckningar, stannar och svänger runt så att den är vänd mot de stora borstarna som räcker från golv till tak. Hytten drivs fram längs en räls. En serie knäppningar hörs och borstarna börjar rotera. Hytten rycker framåt mot borstarna och högtrycksvattenstrålar trummar mot väggarna. När hytten trycker sig mellan de roterande borstarna är oljudet öronbedövande och hytten skakar. Tvållödder ackumuleras på rutorna. Det mörknar i hytten tills jag knappt kan se kontrollknapparna. Så, när vi kommer ut på andra sidan av borstarna, ljusnar det. Hytten stannar, rycker till och åker sig sedan tillbaka igen genom de roterande borstarna, mörknar, ljusnar och åker tillbaks längs rälsen. Vattenstrålarna avtar och slutar helt, ett väsande ljud startar. Gradvis tränger en frän doft av något slags rengöringsmedel in i hytten. Efter det rör hytten på sig fram och tillbaka längs rälsen, genom borstarna och stannar på sin ursprungliga position. Sedan hörs ett larmande ljud och hytten rör sig fram och tillbaka längs rälsen, knuffad av en våldsam vind som slår mot den från alla håll. Jag tyckte det såg ut som att dörren buktade inåt, och jag höll hårt i hatten. Plexiglaset på hytten torkade och klarnade och nu verkade det rent, fast sikten var fortsatt skymd eftersom det var så svårt repat. Hytten rörde sig sedan med en betydligt snabbare hastighet än tidigare och bromsade sedan lugnt in. Borstarna var nu utom synhåll. Allt var tyst. Jag hörde inga maskiner, inga ljud någonstans. Hytten fylldes av en tystnad som jag fann störande. Borde jag gå ut? En ensam röd lampa blinkade på kontrollpanelen. Det hördes en skarp smäll mot hyttdörren. Jag öppnade den. Två kvinnor med blå ögon, blont hår i strama knutar, klädda i koboltblå overaller, tittade på mig.

”Vad gör du?” sa kvinna nr 1.

”Det är inte meningen att du ska stå här på rälsen orörlig på det här viset” sa kvinna nr 2.

”Jag trodde att processen var färdig” sa jag ”Behandlingen slutförd.”

”Nej” sa kvinna nr 1. ”Du har betalt för supervaxning och polish. Slarvigt.”

”Men inte Turtle Wax” sa jag.

”Inte Turtle Wax” höll kvinna nr 1 med.

”Måste ha tryckt på en knapp av misstag” sa kvinna nr 2 ”med armbågen kanske. Allt du har fått är sköljning, schamponering, rengöringsmedel, tvätt och torkning.”

”Inte den superskyddande vaxningen och polishen som du betalt extra för” sa kvinna nr 1 ”Om du hade fått det hade du vetat det.”

”Ja verkligen” sa kvinna nr 2. Hon lutade sig in i hytten och tryckte på en knapp. En serie klickningar hördes. ”Det borde göra susen.”

”Ha det så trevligt nu” sa kvinna nr 1. Och så smällde de igen hyttdörren och försvann. Klickningarna upphörde. Det var tyst och stilla. Sedan ryckte hytten till och började skaka så våldsamt att jag var tvungen att hålla hårt fast vid båda sidor av stolen. Utanför hytten hördes höga väsningar och spottningar. Alla rutor immade igen och sikten var obefintlig.

”Kunder” sa en högtalare i taket. Den skrämde mig rejält och jag stirrade på högtalaren som hade tystnat efter det där första ordet. Sedan sprakade den till ”… tillåts inte…” sa den och sedan hördes fler sprakande ljud innan den fortsatte ”… tillbaka.” ”Tillbaka vart?” ramlade ur mig. Hytten fortsatte att krumbukta sig och rycka framåt, stannade, och började sedan röra sig bakåt, knuffad av den strömmande högtrycksluft från torkarna, rutorna klarnade gradvis. Hytten stannade tvärt på sin tillbakaväg och började sedan röra sig framåt igen. ”Kunder…” sa högtalaren, sedan sprakade den till och blev tyst.

Högtalaren sprakade till igen ”… specialerbjudande som inkluderar…” sa den och tystnade sedan. Jag undrade vad det var för specialerbjudande. Högtalaren sprakade till än en gång ”… bara 7 kronor för en räkmacka och valfri läsk. Eller en kopp kaffe och en liten kaka…” sa den och tystnade sedan. Hytten tycktes hamna i en lång glidning, den rörde sig mjukt för första gången och stannade sedan.

Högtalaren sprakade ”Tack för att du…” och tystnade sedan.

Jag ställde mig upp efter att försäkrat mig om att allt hade stängt ned och att inga lampor blinkade på kontrollpanelen. Jag höll just på att öppna dörren när högtalaren sprakade till igen. ”Kunder” sa högtalaren ”iiiiiin ssssssst” sedan hördes ett högt smällande ljud och ingenting mer. Jag klev ut på golvet i biltvätten och gick ut.

Tanken på någonting att äta och dricka följt av en kopp kaffe utan kaka eller… även om denna önskan inte skulle täckas av specialerbjudandet, tycktes den mycket tilltalande eftersom jag plötsligt kände mig hungrig och törstig och dessutom i behov av sällskap av andra människor i gemytliga omgivningar efter min sejour i hytten.

Inne i kaféet sitter människorna hopkurade tillsammans vid borden, barnen tittar genom de stora plexiglasen på scenariot i biltvätten, leker kurragömma, kull och så vidare bland möblerna. Barnen utgjorde ett sällskap, utan sociala barriären, eller åtminstone var de glömda till förmån för leken, medan de vuxna satt i små grupper, med lite eller ingen kommunikation mellan grupperna.

Jag tog en öl, en skinkmacka och en pappersmugg med kaffe med ett plastlock som höll inne värmen, ett paket mjölksubstitut och två sockerbitar från självserveringsdisken. Jag hade haft rätt i antagandet att inget av specialerbjudandena mötte mina behov och hittade en ledig plats vid ett runt bord där två personer satt och två av stolarna var lediga.  En av personerna rörde ner socker i kaffet, den andra fixade till sig i en sminkspegel.

”Är det okej om jag sitter här?” frågade jag.

Fixaren flyttade på spegeln för att titta på mig. ”Ja, givetvis” Spegeln flyttades tillbaka. Personen som rörde i kaffet slutade att röra och klappade på fickorna, tog fram en pipa, tände den och blåste ut ett rökmoln. ”Var tvätten bra?” sa piprökaren.

”Ja, det var den” sa jag ”Åtminstone för hytten jag satt i, jag är inte säker på min bil eftersom jag inte har hämtat ut den ännu.”

Spegeln rörde på sig och fixaren tittade på honom, ansiktet förvridet av ilska. ”Det var den inte för oss. Vi var tvungna att göra det mesta själva i slutändan. Och vi fick inga pengar tillbaka heller. Någon ursäkt om deras datorer.”

”Så du är inte härifrån trakten” sa piprökaren.

”Jag bor här” sa jag ”men jag är inte polovian, jag är vikensare.”

”Ah” sa piprökaren ”Jag trodde antingen det eller sossenyackare. Du pratar polovianska mycket bra.”

”Jag har varit här ett tag” sa jag.

”Då är du mer eller mindre en av oss” sa fixaren ”vi tycker inte att vikenarna är utlänningar, eller hur.”

”Antar inte det” sa piprökaren. ”Inte som vi tycker om sooingsarna eller bronsarna eller till och med ditcherna.”

Fixaren fnissade ”lustiga typer”

”Annorlunda kulturer” sa mannen med pipan.

”Anstränger sig inte” sa fixaren. ”Vissa av dem har praktiskt taget bott här hela livet. Kan inte prata polivianska.”

”Fanatiker” sa piprökaren. ”Ni är mer som oss.”

”Eller så är vi mer som ni” sa fixaren.

”Jag har känt mig hemma här” sa jag. ”Som om det här skulle kunna bli mitt hemland om jag ville. Men det vill man ju självklart inte.”

”Jag antar inte det” sa piprökaren och reste sig. ”Kom nu” sa han till fixaren. ”Dags att gå.”

”Vi ska gå ut och äta” sa fixaren.

”Får inte bli sena” sa piprökaren.

De gick. ”Kunder” sa högtalaren klart och tydligt utan ett spår av sprakningar. ”ombeds vänligen att inte stanna kvar i hytten efter att de har gjort sitt tvättval. Vi upprepar. Stanna inte kvar i hytten efter att Ni har gjort ert val av tvättprogram. Tack.”

Jag kände mig utlämnad där jag satt ensam vid ett annars ledigt bord. Jag hade inte ätit upp min smörgås eller druckit upp mitt kaffe. Trots det reste jag mig, ställde brickan i stället och gick.

När jag körde hem beundrade jag den långa, skinande och polerade motorhuven på min dyra bil. När jag steg in i min lägenhet gick jag rakt till köket för att göra mig en riktig kopp kaffe.

Fru Hoskins katt satt obekvämt balanserande på fönsterkarmen utanför det stängda fönstret och rörde ljudlöst på munnen på andra sidan glaset. Jag släppte in katten och pratade strunt med den medan den gjorde nöjda läten och gjorde sig hemmastadd.

Jag gillar en skvätt mjölk i mitt kaffe och när jag ändå var i farten hällde jag upp lite åt katten. Trots mrs Hoskins ogillande.

Slut

SoR: Whether it be your drawings, paintings, or sculptures, what inspires you to turn what is in your head at that particular moment into something real that others can perceive as well?

Kuksi: Not sure what it is. Could be an in-born trait that directs me to take my interests and relate them to the human experience. Or perhaps, it could just be the idea of showing people a different view of the world. Most artists think outside the norm and that is a good indication and drive for progression and change.

SoR: You have distinctly unique styles for your sculptures, paintings, and drawings. What topics or emotions lend themselves better to a particular medium for you?

Kuksi: The sculptures are my passion because I am a builder much more than a drawer or painter. It seems my emotions are better expressed through sculpture and borrowing from the ready-made world of mass-produced things lend well to it. The word 'composer' comes to mind more so than sculptor when describing myself.

SoR: Your sculptures are so intricate. How much of it is envisioned before you create it and when do you know when it is finished?

Kuksi: The major elements are planned out and arranged while all the secondary layers are improvised in the layout up to the very tiny of details. The process is about controlling a chaos to the degree that everything is well placed and in balance. The pieces are finished when there are no more boring areas; where every spot is filled up with something interesting. No single edge or border is left without some interruption to give it more of a completed feel. 

SoR: Your portraits are incredibly lifelike. Each face has its own story. What do you seek to capture in each face? Is it something you’re looking for or is it something they are projecting?

Kuksi: I am after capturing a person's soul.  When I do work with someone I photograph them and work from the photos and work towards eliminating the 'posed' stiffness, waiting for the person to relax and just be. That seems to allow the passion to appear and cross over from life to copy again on a canvas.

SoR: What qualities do you value in the colorlessness of your black and white drawings as opposed to the vibrant colors of your paintings?

Kuksi: Drawings are about the form and the texture and the mood. I would say I enjoy drawings more often due to how color can tend to be locked into certain time periods and make a work feel dated. Drawing seems to be immune to this; they usually have a more timeless feel to them and can be appreciated for years to come. But I could be wrong--I would assume style can make a drawing associated to a particular time and style. 

SoR: How were you trained to master these various mediums of art?

Kuksi: Mostly self-taught with a few of art degrees that helped along the way. Also, trips to Europe, learning old master painting techniques and just being exposed to all forms of art really helped. It just takes time, and 'creative solitude' is a must for any artist.

SoR: What advice would you give to budding artists looking to express themselves through sculpture, painting, or drawing?

Kuksi: Be true to yourself - don't copy others. Follow trends can let you astray and you'll just get swallowed up. Most importantly, master your medium and find your niche. Settle on a style, but always challenge yourself. And most of all, never give up.

SoR: How much of your art comes from the life around you that you witness versus what you imagine?

Kuksi: It is split 50/50. I have a very active imagination, yet it can be formless without the the structure of the material world and finding a way to bring abstract ideas into a reality that people can relate to is the challenge. It is seems that this is just intuitive, a natural artistic response to ideas and passions to create.

SoR: Who were your artistic idols and why?

Kuksi: Bernini is at the top of the list. In fact, I am in Rome as I type this and earlier today, I saw his master works at the Gallerie Borghese. Others include Conova, Houdoun, Gerome, Leyton, and contemporaries such as H.R. Giger, Ersnt Fuchs and Javier Marin. 

SoR: What reaction do you love most from people who view your work? 

Kuksi: I love the emotional response and the comments about the details. Listening to those comments while at a gallery opening emphasizes the an overall respectability the viewer has, and that is what art should provoke, in my opinion. Fans keep the drive alive in me and that kind of energy really helps create a feeling of  accomplishment and contentment.

SoR: What is your writing and editing process like?

Odell: If I’m editing, I can go until I drop, sometimes 18 hours a day. I enjoy editing, probably to a fault. I love finding rhythm in the choice and placement of words. It has to pass the “read aloud test.” When it sings smoothly when I read aloud, then I’m done.

If I’m creating, I’m exhausted after 2 hours. I need to be isolated. I have friends I call cabin fairies, who have retreats on lakes, in woods and on the ocean. I go there and isolate for a couple of weeks at a time. I write two hours and spend the rest of the time reading, walking, dreaming, sketching, journaling.

I often tell students I’m a lousy writer, but I’m a great rewriter.

SoR: In your novel, “The Healing,” you write the lines:
“She [Gran Gran] knew that a person needed to make sense out of calamity, no matter how old they were. If not, the soul, frustrated at abiding within a vessel of shattered mirrors, takes flight.”
Was this something you heard before and if so, where? If you made it up, how did you come up with such an authentically haunting revelation?

Odell: Great question. I’ve studied narrative psychology which practices exactly that. Therapists help with their traumatized patients to tell a story that puts the senseless or random violence and abuse into a meaningful context. This gives them a sense of power over the incident. Even though this branch of therapy is passed off as a new development, it’s not. In studying tribal practices in Sierra Leone, I discovered that the native healers believed that a traumatized tribal member was what they called “a house of dreams.” The soul had left the body, and they worked with their patients to create a meaningful story for the spirit to inhabit once more.

SoR: What inspires you to write?

Odell: The worst writing advice I ever got was to write what I know. I don’t want to write what I know, because what I know is dead and boring. Dry as dust. I write what I am drawn to know. I could not stay motivated over the years it takes to write a novel if I was just writing what I already knew. I write about Mississippi because I don’t understand her. She is the biggest paradox I know of. I love her and hate her. I call her my wondrous monster. No matter how far I move, she always tracks me down and demands, “Explain me or I’ll drive you crazy!”

And I focus on race because that is our peculiar insanity. Agree with me or not, but everything in Mississippi is about race and we still struggle with even seeing it, much less talking about it. Our heritage is to be race-crazy. Race created who I am as a white man. I write to discover all the ways how that happened.
 
What I think “Write What You Know” really means is, be able to recognize and verbalize the life themes/textures/ that make you who you are. For instance, I know what it feels like not to belong. Each of my novels, even though different, will be a continual exploration of that theme. As well as redemption and spirituality. Lost children appear repeatedly. These I know in my bones and I know them like no other person can. Being faithful to this will serve to make my writing unique.

SoR: What sort of revelations of your own history did you discover while writing “The Healing,” a historical novel of other people’s pasts?

Odell: While doing research on black midwives, and talking with my parents, I discovered that my great-grand mother was a midwife, and was responsible for the death of her stepdaughter, my father’s mother. We had all been told that my dad’s mother died of pneumonia in 1927, when my father was only an infant. But that wasn’t the truth.

In fact my dad did not learn about this until he was in his 70’s and visiting his aged father. That morning in the nursing home Papa explained that when my father was six months old, his mother, Bessie, planned to take her child and run away with him. But then she found out she was pregnant again. She had sworn she would never have another child by my abusive grandfather, whom she had come to despise, and so she went to her stepmother, my great-grandmother, who happened to be a midwife. Big Sal performed an abortion on her daughter, from which Bessie contracted blood poisoning and died. My father was left motherless.

Big Sal went on to help raise my father, whose mother she had had a hand in killing. My father loved her dearly and never learned the truth until seventy years had passed.
I began to wonder, what could it have been like for my great-grandmother to have that child reach out for her, the same woman who was responsible for his mother’s death? And I connected that with my Dad’s unwillingness to trust others.

Then it hit me. The stories about which we are not consciously aware still serve to shape our lives.The fear of betrayal by the ones you love most, whether by death or deceit, was never talked about in my family, but it affected at least three generations of men. It is the genesis of our common unwillingness to be truly vulnerable before one another, especially those we love. It explains the high premium my family places on self-sufficiency, on never relying on others for help.

The repression of story can scar the soul.

But knowing our common story can heal. My father, my brothers, and I have learned to connect with an understanding and compassion that was not available to us before. We recognize ourselves in one another.
Through writing "The Healing" and by stitching together my own family history, I have discovered the truth in the old saying “Facts can explain us, but only story will save us.”

SoR: What parallels do you see between the pre-Civil War era and the 1930s and modern day America?

Odell: There is a book called, “Slavery by Another Name,” and describes the re-enslavement of blacks after the Civil War through WWII through sharecropping, Jim Crow and other forms of economic and civic subjugation. While this country successfully absorbs each race, nationality and ethnic group that comes to our shores, African-Americans, who arrived with the first white settlers, still face discriminatory hurdles to inclusion based on skin-color. In studying black history, I learned that the African-American communities, in spite of legal and economic oppression of Jim Crow, created their own heroes, enterprises and institutions. The content and quality of their lives were not totally determined by the harshness of racism. In many places, they created supportive, caring communities that bravely nurtured their children and shielded them from the destructive, ego-crushing hatred in the white community. Many times they established their own towns complete with black mayors, doctors, midwives, merchants, schoolteachers and school board. One of the unforeseen tragedies of the end of segregation was the loss of these institutions because blacks were no longer forced to “keep to one’s own.” After sacrificing their own communities, on the promise of being allowed to participate in the larger white community, many blacks are bitterly disappointed and are searching for ways to rebuild that former sense of community.

SoR: What sort of research did you do for your novel?

Odell: There’s an old joke that goes, “I love writing. It’s the paperwork I hate.” That’s true for me. I would rather research than write, to track down the truth through the annals of history. I interviewed surviving midwives, many in their 80’s and 90’s along with their families and community members, the children they had birthed and mothers they had treated. I spent hours in college oral history departments. Scoured the records in the basements of county courthouses. Studied the WPA slave narratives. And subjected my own family to merciless inquisitions! I found and interviewed white Mississippi families who still lived on plantations that their ancestors used to drive slaves on. I stumbled upon one surprise after another.

I remember interviewing one very old, ailing partially paralyzed white man who still lived in the antebellum plantation house, long after his family had lost the land. While we visited he was being spoon-fed by a black woman who must have been as ancient as he. Between sips, he told me that his great-great-great grandfather had cleared the Delta swamps with his own hands. And the great-great-great grandmother of the black woman who sat next to him was his ancestor’s slave, and the first of many generations of plantation cooks. Some things in the South you just can’t explain.

SoR: If writer’s block ever plagues you, how do you overcome it?

Odell: I’m more verbal than visual. I hear my characters talking. That’s how they reveal themselves to me. To jump-start my writing, I put two or more characters in some situation and get them to talking. I just write down what they say, whether it makes sense or not. After several pages of dialogue, mostly gibberish, an idea forms for what needs to happen next in the story.

Sometimes I get stuck when a character just will not co-operate and whatever I do, the writing is flat, uninspired. It just won’t happen. I break the block, I may write the scene from another character’s point of view. That may not make it into the book, but it does serve to force my way through the blockage by seeing the scene from another viewpoint.

SoR: What advice would you have for budding writers?

Odell: Write for the love of writing and not for the love of people. When I get away from my own internal motivation, from my desire to simply tell the story, and go for external rewards, I am playing to the wrong audience. My writing becomes more predictable, less creative and false.

Show your work to others when you are ready, but be VERY careful whom you choose. I rely heavily on others' impressions during the writing process. But the readers I select know the difference between telling me what they would do if they were writing this novel (not helpful); and telling me what I need to hear to write the story that I’m trying to tell (very rare). They want me to achieve my vision, not help me achieve theirs. NEVER let anyone co-opt your story.

SoR: You also have the unique career of leadership coach to Fortune 500 companies as well as writer. How do these passions coincide and are there any advantages of being a writer in the leadership coaching world or vice versa?

Odell: What interested me about working with organizations was discovering the personality traits at play, how the culture (setting) shapes behavior and how group dynamics determine success or failure. I carried these same interests into my writing in creating character motivations, working with family systems and building tension.

But I couldn’t write and do consulting at the same time. To write, I need a very safe place to let my creative child out to play. In business I had to constantly be on guard and self-critical, aware of the impression I was making and calculating how to best facilitate difficult and powerful personalities without becoming a casualty. I felt I was always in survival mode. Such an environment does not offer many opportunities to be spontaneously creative. I noticed that after a major business intervention, it would take days of downtime before I could let my guard down and allow my creativity to flow, without self-monitoring.

I’m sure this will be different for everyone, but my nature demands that I do one or the other, not both.

SoR: What sort of writing pursuits do you see in your future?
 
Odell: Another novel is in the works, set in the same fictional county as the first two. I’m also enjoying teaching writing to other writers. I’ll continue writing essays, short stories and novels concentrating on race and sexual orientation and the outsider. In my case I guess it’s true what they say about writers, no matter how many books they write, they end up telling the same story over and over. I suppose that’s the overarching mystery that keeps me motivated, the question of, where does one truly belong? 

Eleanor Herman is the New York Times bestselling author of Sex with Kings and Mistress of the Vatican among others. Her newest book about King Peggy (King Peggy: An American Secretary, Her Royal Destiny, and the Inspiring Story of How She Changed an African Village) was co-written with Peggielene Bartels. She also writes for the Washington Post.

King Peggy (Nana Amuah Afenyi VI)

SoR: In what ways has becoming king influenced your day to day life and likewise, in what ways has your previous day to day life as a secretary influenced your monarchy?

Peggy: Before I became king, I didn’t have a compelling mission or purpose in life.  I kept very busy and was grateful for my blessings, but I couldn’t help but feel that something was missing, that there was something important I should be doing.  Now I am a woman on a mission – to help my people.  I think about it all day long, every day.

I also think that my years in administrative work helped me in terms of organizing a new council and a financial system with several layers of accountability, repairing the decrepit royal palace, and arranging other big projects for my town.  Thirty years of working in an American office can really help an African king!

SoR: How preserved is the Otuam culture in this modern age and what are your thoughts on modernizing your kingdom of 7,000 while still maintaining that sense of identity?

Peggy: The old Otuam culture is well preserved.  We have our traditional festivities, our dances and customs, our veneration of the stools and Otuam’s seventy-seven gods and goddesses.  We have found cell phones to be incredibly useful, as well as taxis that take people to nearby towns, and electricity, when it’s on, is a great blessing, but none of these modern inventions has taken away from ancient customs.  I believe that even when we have a beautiful new high school, and a public latrine, more bore holes, a new road, and all the modernizations I want for the town, that our age-old traditions of faith, family and friendship will remain strong.

SoR: What have been some of the most difficult challenges since becoming king, both related to your royal position and your “other life” here in America?

Peggy: It has been a great financial struggle.  I was a normal, working American trying to pay my own bills and suddenly I had an entire town of 7,000 people relying on me.  Secondly, many of my elders and royal council members had been taking the town’s income – fishing fees and land sales – for themselves rather than saving it for projects to benefit the town.  There was great resistance when I opened a bank with a town checking account and insisted everyone use checks rather than cash for all town business.  But now that they’ve seen the progress I’m bringing to town, even the most recalcitrant elders are supporting me.

SoR: Why did you agree to write this book with Eleanor Herman?

Peggy: At first I didn’t understand why she thought it was such an amazing story.  I had been king six months before I met her, and no one here in the US seemed to think my kingship was that interesting.  But Eleanor was very insistent that it needed to be written, that people around the world needed to learn about Otuam and its lady king.  I guess she just convinced me.

SoR: What are some of the character traits you must possess as a king that are applicable to every person?

Peggy: Good question!  I often think about this.  Whether you are a king or not, you need to be honest, compassionate, self-respecting, well-organized, determined, and generous.  You also need to have faith that whatever the challenges confronting you, there is a higher power to help you make it through.

SoR: What are some of the gender roles of women in Otuam and how have they been influenced by a female king?

Peggy: The first thing I put a stop to the day I was crowned king was wife-beating.  I let it be known that any man who beat his wife would be put in jail to stew for a time, then get kicked out of town and prevented from returning. Wife beating dried up to a trickle immediately.  I have also added women to my council, who argue loudly with the male elders, something unheard of before my kingship.  I want the girls in my town to learn that they can grow up to be whatever they want – doctors, lawyers, politicians, members of the royal council.  If a woman can be a king, those girls can reach for the stars.

SoR: We, here in America, see the tragedies occurring in Africa (Darfur, Somalia…) and while the majority of us wish to help, we are unsure of what we can do to truly make a difference. Despite donating to charities, corruption, genocide, and other horrors still occur. As someone who has been on both ends of the Atlantic and is making a difference in your own niche of the continent, what advice do you have for people who wish to help beyond the clichéd monetary donation?

Peggy: The monetary donation is enormously helpful if it goes into the right hands.  I advise people to investigate the charities they are thinking of donating to.  Do the charities have honest people on the ground who can make sure the money goes to help the village rather than into the hands of corrupt officials?  Are there any accusations of fraud or corruption against the charity?  Once you have decided on one that is worthwhile, please give whatever you can.  Even $50 can keep a child in most African public schools for a year.  Instead of growing up illiterate, that child can have a future, earn money, help his or her family and community.  How often do Americans waste $50?  If you and a friend go to the movies and buy popcorn, nachos and drinks, there’s $50 right there.  I think you’re right that we can’t stop genocide, starvation, corruption, and epidemics across the whole world.  But if you help one child, one family, isn’t that huge? 

SoR: Just as we see in the news about all of the hardships facing Africa, we rarely see the good news. As king, and someone in tune with the pulse of your kingdom, what are some of the true joys of Otuam and her people?

Peggy: My people are poor, but if you come to Otuam, you would see them always smiling and laughing.  I rarely see Americans on the street smiling and laughing.  They are too busy and stressed and have too many bills.  My people enjoy the beautiful warm weather, the fresh fish from the sea and the fresh fruit from the nearby fields.  Extended families are extremely close and supportive.  Sundays everyone goes to church.  There are joys there that many Americans, I’m afraid, rarely experience.

From Students at Central Area Adult Education in Rockledge, FL

Student: How does it feel to be the first female king in Otuam?

Peggy: It feels great.  Growing up in a male-dominated society like Ghana, even then I couldn’t understand why women were supposed to be subservient to men.  It’s as if I was born with an American outlook of female equality.  I want to show my people, and the world, that women can do anything as well as men, sometimes much better!

Student: Due to the responsibilities of being king, how do you feel about being King versus if you had stayed a secretary?

Peggy: Well, I should make it clear that I am still a secretary, working full time.  Being king certainly has a lot more responsibility than being a secretary.  Some 7,000 people are depending on me, sometimes for life or death issues like clean water and an ambulance.  I would probably be a lot more carefree if I was only a secretary and not a king.  But I wouldn’t have a driving purpose in life, wouldn’t feel that my life is making a difference to others.

Student: How do you balance your time and life between the U.S. and Otuam?

Peggy: Until now, I have gone to Otuam a month or so a year.  I hope, if finances permit, to go twice a year.  I am on the phone every day with my regent and my elders dealing with daily issues that arise in Otuam.

Student: What are the advantages and disadvantages of being King?

Peggy: The first disadvantage is financial.  Becoming the king of an African community isn’t like become a European monarch.  You don’t suddenly inherit a windfall of millions of dollars with beautiful palaces you can move into.  You have to get out your checkbook and use whatever savings you have to help your people.

Another disadvantage is that a king isn’t supposed to eat or drink in public, or run off to the toilet.  So sometimes when I am on the throne for a town meeting I would like to eat or drink or take a bathroom break, and I can’t!

The advantage is that your word is law, and you can take steps to reward good people, punish bad ones, and help the community.

Student: What was the effect of the slave trade in Otuam?

Peggy: The slave trade had huge effects on Ghana as it was the epicenter of the trade.  Most African-Americans have some Ghanaian heritage because of this.  There were dozens of slave castles along the coast where the British ships docked to pick up those unfortunate souls who had been captured in battle or in raids and brought there.  There are two huge slave castles in Ghana you can visit today – Cape Coast and Elmina – and I recommend that everyone who can should visit them to understand the horrors of the slave trade and what those poor people had to survive in order to make it to American shores. 

There was a tiny castle at Otuam built in the 18^th century.  Once the British outlawed slavery in the 19^th century, they dynamited it and many others to prevent people from continuing to capture and sell slaves from them illegally.  Today there are just a couple of walls and a doorway and window left standing on a hill, and the slave passage that ran from beneath the castle to the ships on the beach.  My people don’t go there at night.  It is said that the untranquil spirits of those who died there roam the ruins.

Student: Do you have any language barriers with your people since you have lived in the U.S. for 30 years?

Peggy: No, we understand each other perfectly well, though the people of Otuam have a quaint, old-fashioned dialect of Fanti.  It sounded a bit funny at first, as I came from the big city, but I am used to it now.

Student: What are the most prominent medical issues facing the people of Otuam as HIV, malaria, and other diseases are so prevalent throughout much of Africa?

Peggy: Otuam is lucky that it has a small medical clinic with 13 nurses.  Many villages don’t have anything.  The nurses dispense pre-natal vitamins, stitch up small wounds, give medicine for urinary tract infections and head colds, that kind of thing, and a midwife helps delivers babies.

Considering the lack of medical care compared to what Americans receive, the people of Otuam are amazingly healthy.  I think this is because they eat fresh fish, fruit, and vegetables without any preservatives, and do physical labor for hours and hours every day.  Many people live into their eighties and nineties with no physical ailments and no doctor’s visits.  There are, however, women who have a dangerous labor and need a C-section to survive.  There are people who hurt themselves in accidents and need to be rushed to a hospital for surgery.  There are those who suffer from a stroke or heart attack and need immediate life-saving care.  At the moment, family members borrow money from relatives to pay for a taxi to take the sick, bleeding person on an hour’s drive to the nearest hospital and some of them die in the taxi.  We are starting to raise money for a gently used ambulance to stabilize the sick person all the way to the hospital.

Eleanor Herman

SoR: The story of King Peggy is an inspiring one. At what point did you make the decision that you were going to write this book?

Herman: I knew I wanted to write her story within two minutes of talking to Peggy.  I met her at a Ghanaian Embassy reception in February 2009, asked her why she wasn’t eating or drinking anything when there was such a splendid buffet and open bar, and if I could bring her something.  She said no, she was a king and couldn’t be seen eating or drinking in public!  That’s what started the conversation, and having written three other books about the intersection of women, power, and politics, I knew I had the subject for my fourth book!

SoR: How did you work with King Peggy to collaborate on the book?

Herman: I met her for lunch frequently in the seven months before we went to Ghana, asked her about her life, Otuam, the culture, things like that, while taking copious notes.  I also read books about Ghanaian history, Ghanaian kingship, the slave trade, everything I could get my hands on that might give me some insight into such a different place.

SoR: When visiting Otuam, how did the people there perceive you? Were they even familiar with the kind of biography you were attempting to write?

Herman: They didn’t seem to be that curious about me or my project.  They were very polite, very friendly, but maybe their lack of curiosity had to do with the corresponding lack of books and other reading material in Otuam.  There’s no library.  No bookstore or news kiosk.  Some of the older people are illiterate.  So when I come over with dreams of literary greatness, it didn’t really interest them.  I would tell them I was writing a book on Otuam and they would nod politely and say that was nice.  They were happy, however, that an American was taking an interest in their lives.

SoR: Was there anything you really wanted to add in the book that didn’t make the editing cut and if so what was it and why was it not added?

Herman: I’m very pleased with how the book turned out but it’s not like I sat down and wrote it that way on my first attempt.  My initial drafts are always too long and plodding.  At this point, having written my fourth book, I know it is a step in the process, though while writing my first book I thought it meant I was a terribly boring writer.  Now I realize that it is better to have too much information and slice it down than to start off with too little and scramble to build it up.  There were many charming and wonderful little scenarios that didn’t contribute to the flow of the book and I had to cut them.  Some writer once said, “Kill your darlings.”  I had to kill many of my darlings to get a fast, easy pace.

SoR: You have written biographical work on many influential and infamous women throughout history but how does it compare to writing about a woman who is still alive?

Herman: The advantage and disadvantage is that there is such a wealth of material about a living person, and a comparative lack of information about those who died long ago.  It’s like an embarrassment of riches.  What do I use?  What do I discard?  What order do I put it in?  The less material you have, the clearer the answer is.  When you are swimming in hundreds of pages of notes, and your subject calls you daily to give you more, it can get confusing.

SoR: What sort of parallels or bridges do you see connecting the average reader in western civilization to the people of Otuam?

Herman: Speaking for myself, I think the biggest connection is, ironically, the contrast in lifestyle as that contrast stabs you in the heart.  When I first went over there for a month, bathing in a bucket, seeing the poverty, I was so ashamed of how much money I had wasted on stupid things I didn’t need.  A 62^nd pair of earrings.  A 45^th pair of shoes, while so many kids couldn’t afford school books, testing fees, or uniforms, chump change for us, and had to stay home and remain illiterate!  I feel that God really opened my eyes to how blessed I am.  And now I know that the biggest blessing is to take some of my excess and give it to those kids and their families.  Every time I spend money, I feel the connection with them.  I have it.  They don’t.  I need to give them some of it.  It’s really simple.

I hope that my readers will love the people of Otuam, admire them for their strength in the face of adversity, and help them.  You can be sure that King Peggy will personally send the money to the proper recipient.  You can even come to Otuam and check it out for yourself!

SoR: How did you decide on the perspective and direction the book was going to take?

Herman: You need to remember that events were going on as I was writing them.  When I first started the project, I didn’t know the extent of the corruption Peggy would find when we went over there.  I didn’t know that a prominent local pastor would commit his church to helping Otuam.  I didn’t know that corrupt elders would play an unimaginably horrible trick on Peggy during the royal funeral of her late uncle.  Sometimes my mouth just dropped open and I had to kick myself to keep taking notes. 

I had been writing the manuscript all along but without knowing how it would end.  Once we came back from the funeral trip in the fall of 2010, only then could I look at all my material and see the arc of the story emerge.  Only then could I decide how to edit it so that it had a good flow.  Being non-fiction, the general direction of the book was shaped by events, not by me!  I had to decide which stories contributed to the general direction, separating the wheat from the chaff.

SoR: When writing a biographical book on a person still living, what are the advantages and disadvantages? How does one approach the topic in order to write about him or her effectively?

Herman: First of all, dead people can’t argue with you about what you’ve written.  That’s a great advantage when you write about dead people!  Peggy and I argued at times.  I thought something would be great for the book, and she didn’t want it in there.  It’s her life story so I had to bow to her wishes.  Though I have to say she was always ready to listen to my point, and she sometimes agreed to leave things in.  She was also very courageous to open up about her marriage and infertility, about her issues with her father and the sadness of losing her mother, all very painful, private things that she has put out there for all the world to see.  It makes her very real, very sympathetic to readers who have had their own struggles, and they root for her to be successful, so I am proud of her for letting these stories stay in.

SoR: What do you hope the reader takes away from reading your book?

Herman: I want them to see the beauty of Africa, the joy, the hard work, the hospitality, friendship, love of family, and strong religious faith, and I want them to be grateful for everything we have in the West.  Running water.  The best medical care in the world.  Great free schools through twelfth grade.  It sounds strange, but since I’ve been back, every time I flush the toilet or stick my head under the shower and hot water comes out, I thank God.  I also hope that my readers will consider helping worthwhile charities in Africa.

And I want them to see that you never know what is going to happen to you!  There could be many unexpected blessings ahead if you have faith and do what’s right.  That’s what Peggy found out, becoming king so suddenly in mid-life, and that’s what I found out, meeting a king suddenly in my own mid-life and going on an incredible adventure with her, an adventure that continues.

SoR: From your perspective, how has King Peggy’s gender affected her monarchy?

Herman: I think women, generally speaking, are more concerned with issues relating to children, and Peggy’s main goal is to make Otuam a healthy, happy place for the children, and to give them a bright future.  I think her kingship is also heavily influenced by her US citizenship.  She has a Yankee can-do attitude of rolling up her sleeves, setting to work, cutting straight through nonsense and improving things quickly.

Contributing Interviewees:

Barbara Epler - Editor-in-Chief, New Directions Publishing

John Sherer - Publisher, Basic Books Group

George Gibson - Publishing Director, Bloomsbury USA

Martin Shepard - Co-Publisher, The Permanent Press

Roger Kimball - Publisher, Encounter Books

SoR: What are some common mistakes writers make that can put their manuscript in jeopardy of not getting published?

Epler: A good agent is a great thing to have. But to get a good agent (or a publisher) the best first step is to have your poetry or fiction published in the good literary magazines. They act as talent scouts for book editors; we all read magazines and journals, looking for new talent. And that is 100% true for poets; fiction writers can sometimes leap fully unknown into print in book form, but it’s pretty rare. (And if you try that, especially without an agent, the best thing a writer new to book publishing can do is really look at what different publishers are bringing out and in that way not send say a mystery to ND or a radical poetry collection to Hyperion.) If you have friends who write, help each other; promote each other, scheme; a lot of things happen when writers we know highly recommend a friend or student—it focuses our attention.

Sherer: I’m assuming you’re talking about books already under contract. Writers should stay in regular contact with their editor about the progress they’re making in writing and how the book is evolving. Because timing is critical in certain categories it’s important for your publisher to know when to expect your manuscript. You also don’t want to surprise your publisher with a book that is very different than what they signed up. If you stay in touch along the way, there shouldn’t be surprises.

Gibson: Write compelling opening pages. Editors are besieged with things to read. Often we have to make decisions based on a partial reading of a manuscript. So the first pages are really important. I wish I could assure writers that editors read every word that is sent to them, but that’s just not true—so forewarned is forearmed.

Martin: Firstly, I can only answer for us. The question should be "What should a writer do that would keep my wife and me reading rather than dismissing something after a few pages?"  One should start with a first page that captures our attention and characters that are three-dimensional--complex--as are most people. Don't overdue descriptions unless they play a part iin setting astmosphere. And unless one is truly lyrical, keep the writing simple rather than complex. And NEVER send a cover letter telling us why your book would be a best seller, for anyone who claims that doesn't know anything about the publishing business.

Kimball: Bad writing, sclerotic argumentation, clichéd ideas.

SoR: How important is having impeccable grammar and spelling compared to having a really great story for a manuscript?

Epler: Grammar and spelling can be fixed, but if you look like you just don’t care, too cool for school sort of slobbiness, that’s not a great first impression. But we are looking for a great story, great style, something new and exciting, something unusual. If we sense those elements, we don’t care about then some fixing up and copy-editing.

Sherer: We don’t demand “impeccable” writing in style or grammar. However, sloppiness in the presentation for a research-driven book might indicate less than precise research.

Gibson: Both are important. I’m turned off by bad grammar, bad punctuation, bad spelling—it signals to me that a writer doesn’t care enough to get it right.

Martin: You don't need impeccable grammer and spelling, but decent spelling and grammar is called for. Given the spell-check function on computers, anyone worth their salt can do a decent job on this. Of couirse a good story is essential. This isn't a case of either/or as both elements shoudl exists, but it's easier to correct spelling and grammar than it is to write a good story.

Kimball: Everything is important.  Editors notice if you write "accommodate" instead of  "accommodate," if you seem not to know the difference between restrictive and unrestrictive clauses, if you introduce a confidence with "Between you and I." But in the end, such local blemishes take a back seat to the power and originality of the work.

SoR: How much do you look at education or publishing credits when considering a manuscript for publication?

Epler: We do not look at education, but publishing history is always of interest; it conveys a lot of information.

Sherer: This is the second most important thing we look at after the content. But that’s unique to the type of non-fiction publishing I do.

Gibson: Education, practically not at all—it’s all about the words, and they don’t come with a degree. Publishing credits are useful; knowing a writer has published short stories or essays, or even reviews, is useful and helpful information.

Martin: We never look at this at all.

Kimball: I look, but they are for me a secondary concern.

SoR: While self-publishing has certainly helped the average writer get their work out there, what are the pros and cons versus seeking a publishing house?

Epler: I don’t know—that seems like such a changing game. Vanity presses used to just feed off eager writers, and charge them to create books and then the poor writer (since there is no distribution) usually ends up with boxes of his or her book in the basement. But now there is so much digital publishing—look at OR Books or some other outfits. Or that young writer with the troll series and some other series: she started out self-publishing and is now making a fortune with traditional publishing. Who ever knows.

Sherer: Agents and publishers are still the primary filter that retailers and the mainstream media insist on. But it’s terrific that self-publishing is now an option. I’ve believed for some time that both models can thrive and that readers will benefit because of that.

Gibson: Editing and distribution are probably the biggest differences between self-published and published authors. Most editors are good at what they do and will bring something positive to a manuscript. And publishers have access to bookstores across the country. Now, of course, self-published authors have the same on-line access as do publishers, so they can more readily act as their own publisher. But there are still great advantages in being published by an established house.

Martin: An existing publishing house will surely get greater coverage of a writer's book as they have access to reviews--particularly the advance reviewers at Kirkus, Publishers Weekly, Booklist, and Library Journal, as well as contacts with good online reviewers and others in the industry. Also one gets some advance payment, meaning that a publisher think's it's worth an investment in giving the author an advance and paying for all printing bills and publicity. Self-publishing means that one can't find a publisher and the "con" here is that they have to foot these costs themselves. Still, more power to the writer for having the faith in his or her work. Over the past 32 years we've actually acquired five novels that were self-published and submitted to us as finished books after the steam ran out on their own efforts.

Kimball: Being published by an established publisher provides an institutional imprimatur that a self-published product lacks.

SoR: If everyone has a platform, what can authors do to set themselves apart?

Sherer: I don’t agree with the premise. If you don’t have an academic or professional platform, you can work hard to try to develop a social media strategy that might let you connect directly with readers. But that’s easier said than done.

Gibson: Not everyone does have a platform—and one can define “platform” many different ways. To stand out, gain as much visibility as possible: blogging, writing reviews, op-eds, articles; publishing stories; build a database of 1,000 names of people you know, who’ll want to know about your book when it’s published; get to know your local booksellers, get them on your side and ready to hand-sell your book; produce a clever and original video for YouTube.

Martin: Be the best writer you can be. Let the art speak for itself and hope that it finds an audience.

Kimball: Write something memorable and compelling.

SoR: If you could give one essential piece of advice to writers out there, what would it be?

Epler: Find your voice, write and write, read and read, write some more, and take the best pieces and send them out to magazine editors and agents. Be tough, be stubborn; it is an easy game for very few people.

Sherer: Read and visit bookstores. Many of the books we’re pitched are too similar to existing books.

Gibson: Write the best possible books. I firmly believe every book worthy of being published will be published; some will take much longer than others, but quality always rises to the surface.

Martin: Write everyday to hone your skills, read good writers to see how they do it, and keep your day job. Very few writers can support themselves on the basis of their writing.

Kimball: Ignore the fashionable and emulate the writers who have meant the most to you. That's two piece of advice, but they're interconnected.

SoR: Is there a gender bias that goes with genres such as women writing about relationships and parenting and men writing about history and politics, i.e. do readers expect certain genders to be more knowledgeable about certain topics and if so, how does consumer perception like that affect the literary industry?

Epler: I hope not. But in fact I gender, race, class: they all play out in publishing as everywhere else in our culture—but perhaps tired as all that is, one could turn it to one’s advantage? I think you can break stereotypes and go a long way.

Sherer: This is a tricky question. I publish exclusively non-fiction and I’d bet more than 80% of the proposals we receive are written by men. As a result, our list skews toward male authors in a similar percentage. In identifying a target market for the book, a publisher is foolish not to determine early on whether it will have a gender split. But we try not to let these biases overwhelm our assumptions because the exceptions to these rules can be extremely successful (e.g. Franzen writing an Oprah-pick novel or Doris Kearns Goodwin writing on Lincoln).

Gibson: This is very hard to generalize about. There may be some gender bias; I’m sure, for example, that women read way more books about self-improvement than men, and men read far more history than women. But there are exceptions and I’m not sure this reading bias extends to authorship, i.e. I’m not at all sure that a woman would hold back from buying a self-improvement book about parenting because the author was a man (Dr. Spock, Berry Brazelton, two of the all-time bestselling parenting authors, are decidedly male). If I were advising a writer, I’d say ignore any preconceived bias you think may be out there and write the best possible book.

Martin: I don't see any gender bias at all. It doesn't show up in the manuscripts we receive - and we get about 6,000 submission yearly while taking on only 12-16 books a year - mostly fiction.

Kimball: Maybe, but if so they people exhibiting the bias are ignoramuses.

SoR: What future do you see for “literary fiction” as opposed to self help, genre, vampires, etc.?

Epler: Literary fiction is the only thing that survives. That is the future.  (Give or take DRACULA and FRANKENSTEIN, why would those series survive, dated 50 years, unless they were secretly much more than genre fiction all along, and the writer is just playing with genre, as say Philip K. Dick?

Gibson: Literary fiction has always been challenging to publish, and it remains so. That said, e-books are opening up new audiences for literary fiction, so I’d say its future is as bright as it’s ever been.

Martin: Our interests concern literary fiction primarily. As the major conglomerates publish more and more non-fiction, romance, pop-fiction, and cookie-cutter fiction, many more excellent submissions come to us directly through agents or the authors themselves. Nor do I accept that so called "genre" fiction is not literary. We receive and publish many artful mysteries, yet some think of thrillers and mytereies as "sub-genres.. As for the future? Obviouslyl there is an overall decline in reading fiction in general and quality fiction in particular..But it works to our advantage.

Kimball: A brilliant future. It is easy to be captivated by the razzle-dazzle of the latest fad, but quality lasts.

SoR: Contracts are commonly made more often than books are published so how often are contracts broken, for what reasons and what can an author do about that?

Epler: We rarely have the experience; for us, it would typically mean there’s been a total meltdown: the author no longer trusts his translator would be the most common problem for us. But it take a spin-out of major proportions for us to give up on a book we really admire (and we wouldn’t have bought it if we hadn’t admired it).

Sherer: I haven’t really found this to be the case. The biggest reason that a book under contract doesn’t get published is when the acquiring editor has left the company by the time the manuscript arrives. Frequently, the new editor has a different vision for the book and occasionally, it’s different enough from what the author wants that we agree to part ways.

Gibson: A tiny fraction of contracts are broken, so I would dispute your assertion that contracts are often broken. That’s just not true. The reasons a contract is occasionally broken are: 1) not delivered on time (though most publishers will willingly extend the delivery time if an author is communicates openly and asks for more time ahead of when the manuscript is due; 2) unacceptable manuscript (as you can imagine, this is a delicate situation if and when it arises; publishers state acceptability is in their sold judgment, but obviously such judgment is subjective. But the vast majority of contracts are fully honored.)

Martin: This is extemely rare - not common at all - and I've never experienced this as a publisher. When I was a writer, my agent had a verbal agreement with a well known publisher to do a book of mine, who then reneged. Still, you can't break a contract you never signed. A similar thing happened with our selling rights to a publisher in Spain for Leonard Rosen's All Cry Chaos...though payments were received, the book never came out.

Kimball: In my experience, it is always the author who has broken the contract by not delivering the work.

SoR: When considering a manuscript for publication, how much of your opinion is subjective versus objective and do you consider what will sell over what is underrepresented?

Epler: Everything is subjective in Book Land. We have very little idea here at ND about which books will sell, ever. We are constantly surprised. (In good ways and sometimes in disappointing ways too.) We may feel our curiosity piqued by some culture severely underrepresented and if I were sent the major novel of Micronesia, I wouldn’t be able to resist trying it. I tried so hard to buy CARPENTARIA by Alexis Wright and it certainly interested me that she was an Aborigine, but the reason I wanted it was that it is a great piece of work, not the fact of her heritage. The thing we want, as my boss James Laughlin used to say, is to hear the bell ring. That unmistakable fee;ing of the top of your head lifting up when you read something amazing.

Sherer: In non-fiction, you can be much more objective. But the biggest variable is the fact that we’re buying on proposal rather than on a completed manuscript. Coming up with a good idea for a book is only half the battle. The most successful books tend to be the ones that execute their premise well.

Gibson: All publishing decisions are to some extent intuitive, subjective. We try for as much objectivity as possible, looking at track record for the author, the category; overlaying our knowledge of the market; trying to anticipate competition. We always look for manuscripts we think will sell—that’s a primary consideration. We occasionally take on books we think deserve to be published, regardless of what the audience might be, but that’s rare.

Martin: Everything every human does is subjective. We like well written fiction, and my wife and co-publisher both have to really like a book to do it...and 90% of the time we are in accord. So we have two "subjective" responses. Gather enough of them one can say there is some "objectivity" in all this. The titles we are most enthused about we assume will do best, but that is not necessarily the case. It's an arbitrary world. We simply publish what excites us and hope their are other readers out there like us.

Kimball: I'm not sure what you mean by "subjective" and "objective." I try to exercise good judgment. Encounter is an educational publisher, so while we certainly consider the market we are not in the business of turning a profit. Our chief consideration is the contribution the work can make to the debates we consider central to the public conversation today.

Andre Aciman is an Egyptian Jewish writer living in New York City. He is also a distinguished professor at the City University of New York and has received the Whiting Writers' Award. This acclaimed writer was a Visiting Distinguished Writer at Wesleyan University as well.

SoR: What is your writing and editing style like?

Aciman: I approach everything I say with total and complete mistrust so that I rewrite while I’m writing. I’m constantly changing. It’s not straightforward writing because basically nothing comes naturally to me. It is the most artificial way to say something naturally.

art by Nick Lopergalo

My editors love me because whenever they say “why don’t we change this?” I always say “yes!” I resist an editor 5% of the times but there is a point when I know I’ve said what I wanted to say or discovered what I wanted to say while I was busy saying it. If I arrive at that point, then I won’t listen to an editor’s recommendations. Seldom happens, though.

SoR: What are your thoughts on the riots in Egypt over the military’s hold on power and the stability of the Middle East in general?

Aciman: Is one supposed to be surprised by any of this? I think it is absolutely amazing and fantastic that democracy is desired in those parts of the world but what I find particularly strange is that democracy is always bringing out something regressive in the Middle East. Theirs is a religious culture and it always takes an anti-Israel position which I find abominable. I have no trust over what is happening in the Middle East.

SoR: What motivates you to write?

Aciman: I’m usually after something. One of the reasons I said I discover  what I want to say while I’m busy writing it is because writing is my way of finding out what I want to say. I don’t know what I want to say before I write though I may suspect there is something I want to say; it isn’t clear what it is. Writing for me isn’t just communication, it is excavation—otherwise known as thinking.

SoR: What do you feel is the responsibility of the writer and vice versa, the responsibility of the reader?

Aciman: The reader should have fun and I mean anything from simple entertainment to the highest levels of enchantment. The reader needs to be enchanted in one way or another. As far as the writer is concerned, a writer’s commitment is to be as sophisticated as he or she can be - no easy answer, no facile notions, nothing safe. Look for that which has been eluding everyone around you and then attempt to say it

SoR: You teach Proust, edited The Proust Project, and your work is often compared to that of Proust. When much of your work seems to delve into the theme of identity, how do you feel by such a strong association with Proust?

Aciman: He teaches people how to look within. If you tell a reader highly personal things about yourself in a highly crafted manner—i.e. in a manner intended both to highlight what is most intimate to you as well as to reach someone who may never have felt those things before—then the reader will “feel” as though he or she herself had felt those things before. A writer is nothing if he cannot reach a very deep part of the reader.

SoR: How do you deal with writer’s block?

Aciman: I don’t know. There are many reasons why people may be “blocked.” Some people are always fluent therefore they can easily start writing. It just comes to them. Other people are traumatized by the white page or the blank screen. My way of piercing through the block things is to find something desirable in the work I’ve set for myself. You have to fall in love with whatever topic has been given to you. You have to become eroticized by it.

SoR: What do you feel is essential to a “good” story?

Aciman: I don’t know. I’m not interested in stories. Plots never excite me. I prefer introspection. That’s a plot with its own mishaps, its own twists, and its own denouements.

SoR: In Out of Egypt and Call Me By Your Name, I noticed exceptional use of description and imagery and yet in Eight White Nights you barely describe the character of Clara beyond “beautiful.” What are your favorite literary devices and how do you use them to maximize their effect?

Aciman: I was more interested in Clara than most characters in my novels. My favorite characters have something far more interesting than their features. They have a level of energy which I find absolutely attractive. They have the sort of energy I find arresting, threatening, and at the same time compelling. I was more interested in the kind of attitude she had than in the shape of her breast.

SoR: You mentioned in a 2009 New York Times article, “Take away our things and something in us dies.” How do you view the things taken from you and don’t you think that loss is inevitable?

Aciman: There is a world of a difference between losing something and having something stolen from you. Having something taken from you adds an injury to the actual loss and therefore you feel like you can’t overcome it. Losing those small things alters your standing vis-a-vis the world, vis-a-vis life. Our identity, even when we’d like to think of ourselves as non-materialistic, is indissolubly fused to the things we possess.  Take away someone’s home, or take away a boy’s bicycle, and you’ve altered him forever.

SoR: What discoveries have you made about yourself through your writing?

Aciman: I discovered I had, among other things, a sense of humor; that my irony wasn’t as biting as I thought it was. I love sentimentalists more than anyone else but never in a straightforward manner. I discovered that I knew how to tell a joke.

SoR: What advice do you have for budding writers out there?

Aciman: If you are young, try not to write about what is immediately around you: i.e. about youth and problems of the young. Get out of your skin and see the world or the people around you from another perspective. Try to understand all people, old people, middle-aged people, yourself in ten years. And stop reading authors who are writing in your day and start reading authors who are already established in previous times.

SoR: Why do you feel contemporary literature lacks the essentially unusual manner of representing humanity that the classics prior to 1850 have mastered?

Aciman: They were fundamentally sophisticated. Nothing about them is straightforward. Their quarrels with life are never straightforward. I find that many contemporary writers lack the depth of wisdom, which is another way of saying the depth of irony. There is something fundamentally complicated in great literature. I want to be told things I always suspected but never knew as opposed to what I can find readily predigested for me in any magazine lying in my dentist’s waiting room.