A Conversation with Rebecca Makkai

512bpnaxg3rl-_sy344_bo1204203200_“We’re living in this terrible world with wars and broken hearts and starvation, but some of us are compelled to make art, like that’s supposed to help anything.”
The narrator in Rebecca Makkai’s short story, “Peter Torelli, Falling Apart”

Rebecca Makkai’s short story collection, Music for Wartime, was originally scheduled for publication on July 14, 2015 — the same day, her publisher learned, that Go Set a Watchman would hit the shelves. Short story collections, regardless of their literary merit, have a tough enough time attracting  readers’ attention without competing with the year’s most talked-about book. So Music for Wartime came out on June 23, and Makkai’s job as a salesperson for her book — which was 13 years in the making — began.

Makkai, the author of two acclaimed novels (The Borrower and The Hundred-Year House), is one of today’s most accomplished writers of short fiction. The Kansas City Star says: “If any short story writer can be considered a rock star of the genre, it’s Rebecca Makkai. She has had a story selected for the annual Best American Short Stories anthology in four consecutive years.” Music for Wartime includes those four stories, along with 13 others. Divergent in tone, style, and subject matter, the stories all address the same question — “what it means to be an artist in a brutal world,” as Makkai put it.

Rock stars don’t have any trouble filling arenas with screaming fans. Literary stars, on the other hand, are relieved when a bookstore has to set up extra chairs to accommodate readers who have come to hear a favorite author. Makkai’s appearance last week at Lake Forest Book Store (her hometown store) was her last bookstore event promoting Music for Wartime. On Thanksgiving, I’m sure she’ll be feeling gratitude that she can now turn her full attention to writing! She graciously took time out from a residency at Ragdale (a writers’ retreat), where she is working on her third novel, to discuss her short story collection.

10738849Here are some edited highlights of my 45-minute conversation with Rebecca Makkai.

I though we could start out by talking about short stories in general. I have to say, having been a bookseller for a long time, short stories can be a hard sell. I absolutely love them — I’ve always loved them. But the minute you tell a customer about a book of short stories, you can see the look on their face — “Oh no, not short stories!”

They always get critically recognized — it’s a matter of the commercial sales. My first experience a couple of years ago — which is proof of this — was when I was working on Small Business Saturday. Sherman Alexie started this initiative to get authors in bookstores the Saturday after Thanksgiving, to handsell books. I’ve done it here, and last year I did it at City Lit in Logan Square, and this year I’m going to Women and Children First down in the city.  I started to realize, selling here and selling in Logan Square, that I could not move a story collection to save my life.

You should have gotten a bonus if you did.

There was one guy, who came in shopping for his girlfriend who wanted to be a writer. That was the one person, who bought three story collections.

You’ll notice, they didn’t put “stories” on the cover (of Music for Wartime) — sneaky move!

I think part of the reason is there’s no hook for people the way there is with a novel. If someone wants to pitch a book to their book club, if it’s a novel, they can say “It’s the story of a woman who buys a bookstore, and this happens to her, and this happens to her”, and people get involved, and they want to hear more about it. With a story collection, you can’t pitch the plot that way.

And I have to add — tonight is the National Book Awards, and good news for the short story: two collections are on the short list: Adam Johnson’s Fortune Smiles and Karen Bender’s Refund.

And last year, the one that won was a book of short stories — Redeployment, by Phil Klay.

You always hear about how people’s attention spans are shorter today, in the Internet Age . . . you can read a story in 15 minutes, versus investing all that time in a novel.

I don’t think that’s true. Look at what people watch on TV. The age of the little 30-minute sitcom is over. People want epics. They want to binge-watch seven hour-long episodes of something. I get it, I write novels too. But I feel that people are missing out if they don’t read short stories. They’re missing out on what can be done — the avant-garde of literature.

You can take so many more risks with a short story.

Yes, think of something like Kafka’s “The Metamorphosis”. You cannot maintain that for 300 pages. No one wants to read a 300-page novel about a cockroach. But you can do it for 15 pages. You can be experimental with form, with language in a short story in a way that would be unsustainable or unbearable in a 300-page novel. So when people miss that, they’re missing, I think, what literature can do.

I’ve made my peace with it because every year I watch the Oscars, and when they start with the awards for short films, I go make popcorn.

Getting back to Kafka, you have a couple of stories that sort of remind me of his. This collection is so great because of that — the stories are all different in terms of tone, subject matter, and style. There’s magical realism, there’s humor, there are family legends — there’s so much variety here, but there’s something binding them all together. Every story is about somebody who’s creating something. Can you talk about how you assembled this group of stories and how you chose which ones to include?

Part of the reason this wasn’t my first book  and that I focused on my novels first is that I couldn’t understand how to put the stories I’d written into a collection. I feel like a story collection should be more than just a pile of stories and more than just a sum of its parts — it should be like an album, that adds up to something more.

Very early on, before I’d published my first novel, I sent out a really incomplete collection — someone had gotten me an introduction to a publisher — and they very wisely passed on the collection, because it didn’t come together at all. But the editor who wrote back took the time to say, “I could see these stories eventually coalescing around a theme. I notice the themes of both music and war are really prominent in these stories.” I was thinking about that letter years later, and the title, Music for Wartime, came to me. I liked that it sounded like an album, like an old LP of World War I songs.

The idea that those themes could coexist, and the themes I was already writing about, the stories I was already writing about artists and music, and the stories I was already writing about refugees and dissidents and interrogations and war, that they were really speaking to the same question. I think of it as a question rather than a theme, the question being, “What does it mean to try to make beauty, to make art or order in the midst of a brutal and chaotic world?”

auth-ph-13-cropped-jpeg1-300x400There are some stories interspersed that are almost like memoir snippets — I assume they’re fictionalized family history?

Overtly fictionalized nonfiction . . . It’s already  in many ways a collection about the line between fiction and reality — there’s a story about a reality TV show, for instance. So it felt right that these stories went in there — I was taking the story I’d been told, acknowledging that I don’t really know what happened, and then working with my uncertainty to create a piece of fiction. But it’s very clear that that’s what I’m doing, rather than passing them off as fiction, or passing them off as nonfiction, kind of laying bare the process a little bit.

Can you share a little about your family history? 

My father was a refugee in 1956 following the failed Hungarian revolution. There are three stories in here that are about his parents. These are the pieces that I thought fit into a collection of fiction rather than a nonfiction account. Her mother was a really well-known Hungarian novelist. She wrote something like 40 novels — which I haven’t read because they’re written in Hungarian. My grandfather — and they were only married for a few years — was a member of Parliament and was in many ways, at least for a while, on the wrong side of history and was the author of the second set of anti-Jewish laws in Hungary. Later, he did other things that sort of contradicted that, but it’s not entirely clear to me why and what the pivot point was for him. So they’re fascinating people . . . ultimately, I’m going to be writing something longer about them — a sort of nonfiction investigation.

What do you think makes a great short story? I know you teach writing — if a student were to ask you what makes a story successful, what would you say?

What literary fiction is trying to do in the contemporary age is really different from what it was trying to do, say, 200 years ago. The contemporary project is largely concerned with how much people can change over the course of a narrative — over the course of a novel, over the course of 20 pages. Our question is really one of character development — which is where literary fiction tends to differ from certain genre fiction, which is much more about the conventions of plot, or establishing an alternate world. So when short stories fail, it’s almost always because the character doesn’t change, or only changes once. You need a change to set the story in motion, but you also need a change at the climactic scene of the story, you need an ultimate change for that character, a reason that the story has been told. It can happen in three pages, it can happen in 25 pages, it can happen in 320 pages.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

An Unabashed Sales Pitch for Author Events

Tom Franklin and Beth Ann Fennelly reading from The Tilted World
Tom Franklin and Beth Ann Fennelly reading from The Tilted World

Author events are often memorable experiences; when things go right, they can be magical. (I dislike calling them “readings” or “signings”. Yes, author events almost always include reading and signing — but events that truly connect readers and authors involve much more than that.) There’s something very special about meeting an author and hearing him or her read from and discuss a beloved book.  I feel very fortunate I’ve had the chance to hear some incredible authors read from their work — Chris Bohjalian, Ann Hood, Elizabeth Berg, M.L. Stedman, Jan-Philipp Sendker, Gillian Flynn, Bob Spitz, Melanie Benjamin, Lisa Genova, Robert Kurson . . . too many to list. I’ll never forget choking up as I listened to Richard Russo describing how his mother’s example taught him to fall in love with reading.

However . . . so much can go wrong with author events. Maybe hardly anyone shows up, and it’s embarrassing and awkward for all involved. Perhaps the author reads . . . and reads . . . and reads, not noticing that the audience is shifting in their seats. Maybe the author gives a terrific presentation, reads a lovely teaser from the book, answers some interesting questions . . . and then everyone departs without buying the book. Or possibly we’ve misjudged the size of the crowd, and we run out of chairs — or worse, books.  And there are the inevitable  problems that prevent authors from arriving at the venue: flight cancellations, traffic jams, weather issues (which have included flooding and blizzards), and family emergencies. We organized an event with ornithologist David Sibley and his plane suffered a bird strike. You just can’t anticipate everything that might happen.

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Anton DiSclafani at a luncheon in her honor

Almost without exception, authors are gracious and delightful people, surprisingly skilled at public speaking and answering questions from readers. (I say “surprisingly” because I imagine many of them are introverts and need to make a huge effort to be outgoing.) I’m sure they hear the same questions over and over: “What’s your writing routine””; “Where do you get your ideas?”; “What have you been reading lately?”; “What’s your next book about?”; ad infinitum — but they nearly always respond warmly and enthusiastically.

At a booksellers’ conference, I once was seated at a lunch table with six or seven authors. They spent the entire meal one-upping each other with tales of their most humiliating events. I had a few anecdotes of my own to add — including the time the author told the audience not to buy the book from our store, because it was “cheaper on Amazon”.

Without getting involved in a discussion about Amazon (which is far beyond the scope of this blog post), let me say one thing: Amazon does not bring authors to your community. Publishers decide which authors to send on tour and then pay for them to come to a bookstore, library, or community center near you. Someone from your local bookstore coordinates the arrangements with the publisher,  finds a location, orders the books, publicizes the event — and then crosses his or her fingers that you show up,  and maybe even buy the book the author is promoting. More often than not, author events are free. I’ve attended more than I can count, and I don’t think I’ve ever left thinking that I wasted my time — even when I thought the event was close to disastrous. There’s always something to learn.

I know not everyone is lucky enough to live in an area where author events are frequently held. I am envious of New Yorkers, who seem to have dozens of events to choose from every day of the week. As publishers’ budgets get tighter, fewer and fewer authors are sent on tour. Some authors go on the road at their own expense, organizing their travel and gratefully accepting invitations from book clubs. There are very few prima donnas among authors. (We did have a request from one well-known author for a particular brand of tea, but that’s unusual.) I hope you have the chance to go to an author event soon — it’s the best entertainment bargain available!

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