An interview with Sarah Selecky, author of the collection This Cake is for the Party
Courtesy of Thomas Allen and SonsSarah Selecky, whose short story “Paul Farenbacher’s Yard Sale” appeared in the March 2010 issue of The Walrus, has recently published her first book of stories, This Cake is for the Party, with Thomas Allen and Sons. Sarah’s stories are beautiful and unusual — she writes about very real people and very real things in a way that captures the delicacy and strangeness of contemporary life. She is also a noted teacher of creative writing, a practice that informs and inspires her own work. I asked Sarah about the intersection of her teaching and her stories, putting her first book together, and the story behind her Walrus story, which is one of my favourite pieces we’ve published this year.
In addition to writing, you teach the craft to students. What is the relationship between your own work and the work that you help others with?
I work with beginning writers and well-practiced writers — online, in person, and over the telephone. Different writers have different needs, so I work with them in different ways, depending on where they are and what they want to focus on. And now Skype and wikis and Twitter are allowing me to teach abroad — I have students all across Canada, in Europe, in the US, and in South America. It’s amazing! I couldn’t do that ten years ago.
So much of the work is about learning how to stay in that receptive, precarious, dream-like state of mind while you’re writing. You need to know how to cultivate that state of mind so you can recognize what an idea feels like, know when something is important to write down, and how to not think about it too much when you write it. It takes a lot of faith to create something out of nothing in this way.
For some reason, it’s scary for writers to go there. Let me say it another way: at worst, it’s frightening to go there. At best, it’s avoidable. It’s so easy to resist doing it. The resistance is strong. I include myself in this — I am a terrible procrastinator. So a lot of what I teach is about understanding what the creative state of mind feels like, and how to train yourself to go there regularly. This makes the work of writing much more sustainable, much more pleasurable. And I teach this simply because I know it’s something I need to do myself. I developed a series of courses that would be my ideal writing classes.
No matter where you are as a writer, it’s good to know the benefit of sitting down regularly to follow your pen across the page. It’s an important practice for all writers. As a teacher, I feel like the captain of a big flying airship. But we’re all in the airship together. We all need to do the work together to keep the thing from falling.
Some writers teach through institutional channels — whether coursework or as writers-in-residence — but you’ve done this largely on your own. How did you decide to teach? How have your methods developed?
Thomas Allen and SonsTen years ago my friend Jewel, who was going to teacher’s college at Queen’s University, needed to do a teaching practicum for her degree. She asked if she could visit me in Victoria — we could spend some time together, she said, and teach a writing class together, in my apartment. I said, “In my apartment? You can do that?” and she answered brightly that we’d just put posters up and get some students.
So we did it. And people signed up. It was a small class, and a short course, but the people loved the lessons and the homework. When our project ended and Jewel went back to Ontario, I decided I should keep on doing it. I was already writing every day, reading every day, studying point of view and character and scene, doggedly trying to get my stories published. I figured that talking to other people about what I was already obsessing about could be a healthy place to put all of that energy. Plus, I needed a job.
In the first couple of years, my classes kept developing because my students kept coming back to me for more courses. I had to move from my lesson plan for beginners to more and more sophisticated workshops. I had to read widely, out of my comfort zone, and try things out I hadn’t tried before in my own writing, so I could find answers to their questions. This is how I learned to be a teacher. It’s also how I learned how to be a writer.
In the back of my mind I kept thinking that I would somehow use all this teaching experience in a CV, and eventually get a “real” job teaching at a school somewhere. Then the years passed, and one day I realized that I already worked at a school. It was my own school. Brand new students and seasoned writers all had this comfortable place to learn and practice around my living room table. And the best part: I don’t have to grade anybody’s work. It’s just about making every writer write. That’s what my school is about.
With short story collections, I’m always interested in sequencing. How did you decide what order to put your stories in, and what were you trying to achieve with the pacing you settled on?
I love this question! So much attention goes into the order of short story collections. I always knew that the first story (“Throwing Cotton”) would be first. “Throwing Cotton” had a lot of exposure already — it had won a contest, and it was in the Journey Prize Anthology, and people had called or emailed to tell me that they loved it. This had never happened to me before: it was the first story I’d published that had — well — fans. Which is strange, because I don’t think it’s better than the other stories. But out of respect, I wanted it first. I thought it was ready to be in the driver’s seat.
I also knew that “One Thousand Wax Buddhas” should be the final story. It’s so long and involved. That last scene is a tough one to follow appropriately. It sort of says it all for me, for this book. I actually think that the feeling of that final scene has something to do with every story in the book. Not literally — I mean, just the feeling of it.
So because I knew the first story and the last story, I worked with the others until I felt they fit. It was a little like finding all the flat-edged pieces of a puzzle and putting them together first, so you have a frame. Then I went by instinct. There were obvious things to consider, like point of view. I wanted to separate my male narrators, give them each some “territory” in the book. I also wanted to give a front seat to mystery (“Prognosis”), and to create a spike of emotion in the middle (“Where You Coming From, Sweetheart?” is the most emotionally charged story for me). And I tried to sprinkle hope throughout: I wanted to balance humour with sadness.
But how much does order really matter? Is it noticeably important to anyone but me? Have you ever heard anyone say, “Wow, I loved this collection: the sequencing is extraordinary!” This is the geeky part of the conversation, where it turns into an abstraction, a philosophy. There may be no answer — if a tree falls in the forest, right? Besides, some people might read the last story first and I’d never know.
How do stories develop for you? How, for instance, did the story we ran in the magazine, “Paul Farenbacher’s Yard Sale,” come to be, and how did it evolve?
Stories start small: usually with an image that’s attached to a strong or intense emotion. This is what I call an “idea.” It’s not really an idea for a whole story. I rarely get those, sadly. It’s a slow process of working from one image, to the next, to the next. Sometimes I think, “Oh! I know how the story will go!” And then I write it down. Generally, these story ideas are unambitious, flat, clichéd or otherwise scrappable. The best way I know how to write stories is to not know much about them at all, and to have enough faith in the images, scenes, and characters to keep writing even though I know nothing.
I say “know nothing,” but that’s not really true: I need to know each image intimately. When I am submerged this way in the scene, without trying to push meaning into it prematurely, a story will almost always develop.
“Paul Farenbacher’s Yard Sale” started with an image of a sad young man marking up all the prices on his things at a yard sale because he really didn’t want to sell any of it. In my “idea” he felt very sad, but couldn’t show it for some reason. I didn’t know why he was reluctant to sell these things, but it felt heartbreaking. So I started at that scene. I wrote Trevor first. Then I had another character — the woman who was caring about this sad man — so I wrote a bit about Meredith. In that writing, I discovered that she knew Trevor’s father. So then I wrote about Paul Farenbacher. I still knew nothing about the story. I just kept writing scenes and images, exploring relationships. I heard someone somewhere talk about armchairs with coolers in the sides, and I wanted to put that in there. Sometimes a story can become a receptacle for whatever sticks in my mind as writeable.
Then, in the final stages, I look at all the images I’ve written and I try to find a common thread, or a use for them. It feels both ridiculous and exhilarating to do this, like looking for shapes in clouds. They’re just clouds: they’re cloud-shaped. But when you see a cloud that’s shaped like PEI or your father’s Tilley hat, or a rifle or an egg cup, you actually see it. It is in this seeing that it becomes true. I try to make my stories true in that way, developing plot after I’ve observed everything I can from the environment within it.
What’s next for you?
I’m teaching a new online course that I’m excited about — wikis make online teaching amazing! Then I’m going to take a teaching break for a little bit. I’m going to get to work on something new. I’m writing about friendship and worship; I have some images brewing. I’m going back to cloud watching for a little while.
Grania: This federal govenment is dismantling the democratic fabric of Canada day by day and I shudder to think of what will be destroyed before we can get rid of them!
jess: This article is credible when Chante performed Burton Cummings “I’m Scared”
best seo forums: Thanks for sharing such an brilliant post. I make sure to visit this post regularly. keep sharing more and more..
Seenloitering: The “gender analysis” in this article is upside down. Marie Calloway is a threat to the status quo because she threatens the myth that women are morally superior, above...
Legong: I know I am replying to this pathetic, racist statement a little late and the whole ignorant rant probably doesn’t even deserve a reply. Wanhenglo, if we were all to generalise about...
Legong: I know I am replying to this pathetic, racist statement a little late and the whole ignorant rant probably doesn’t even deserve a reply. Wanhenglo, if we were all to generalise about...
Sky Goodden: This is startling, refreshing, overdue, and damn good. Thank you, Shary.
Mark: It’s not just in Canada, it seems all over artists don’t get the local recogtnition they should. I was in Malaga where Picasso was born and it is much different, but then he is...
Guest: I didn’t want babies or a period any more. I KNEW without a doubt I did not want children so I had been asking for a hysterectomy since I was 19. I finally got it at 39. My...
Djzklj: Pretty interesting article, despite that I don’t wanna make a voyage there