Tag Archive - Author Interviews

Blinded by the Light: Spotlight on Colin McKay Miller’s “The Ocean Thief”

May 16, 2011 in Blogger Columnist with 1 Comment

Jeff Chapman

Jeff Chapman comments on Colin McKay Miller’s “The Ocean Thief” and asks him a few questions about the story.

What would happen if the ocean’s vanished? What would we do with all that sand? What would become of fishermen? Look no further than Colin McKay Miller’s “The Ocean Thief” (The Midnight Diner, Volume 3). In Miller’s tale, a man somehow puts all the oceans into a book. No one knows who he is or how he did it, because no one was watching when he did it. Miller’s story reads like an allegory with a tone somewhere between a fairy tale and an essay salted with bits of understated humor.

Naval forces disbanded. Fishermen went back to being men. The desert of the ocean was a popular vacation spot until people realized they didn’t need any more deserts (p. 71).

As expected, people learn to muddle through with much less water, but the Ocean Thief–the name he assumes via popular usage–remains a mystery. Some think he’s God. Some think he’s stupid. No one can tell where he is from. He speaks many languages but all with a foreign accent. He travels a great deal but no one can explain how he gets around. He refuses to answer any questions, preferring to sit on park benches and “read” the book of seemingly blank pages containing the oceans. The evidence seems to point to God, but the story’s ending suggests otherwise.

Miller’s story is baffling after the first read. The story asks many questions but does not provide ready answers. Is the man with the book really a thief? Who owns the oceans? Will the oceans disappear if we don’t take care of them? Can mankind persevere through any catastrophe? More details float to the surface with each reading, but like the Ocean Thief, the answers remain elusive.

Colin kindly answered a few questions about  “The Ocean Thief.”

JC: The tone of this piece reminds me of Herman Hesse’s fairy tale “The City.” Did you have any literary models in mind when writing “The Ocean Thief”?

CMM: While many books have influenced my writing—Amy Hempel’s Reasons to Live, A.L. Kennedy’s Night Geometry and the Garscadden Trains, and The Bible (seriously, people have been trying to recreate the power of those stories forever)—influences that I’ve been trying to bury deeper so that they’re not so overt, one of the things I like about “The Ocean Thief” is that it doesn’t read like what I usually write, and thus feels fairly uninfluenced. Never read Hermann Hesse though; I’ll have to look him up.

JC: What inspired the idea of capturing the ocean in a book?

CMM: Here’s an uninspiring answer for you: For some odd reason, I just plucked the title out of nothing—“The Man Who Put the Ocean in a Book”—and wrote the story off what that would actually look like if it happened in the world tomorrow. Then those cruel, cruel editors at The Midnight Diner wanted something shorter, punchier, and since they were kind enough to publish me, “The Ocean Thief” seemed like a fair concession.

I actually discussed this very story in an interview a couple of years back: http://craigwallwork.blogspot.com/2009/07/interview-with-colin-mckay-miller.html

JC: You record the Ocean Thief’s interaction with two other characters, a German strongman and a small American girl. What is the symbolism behind those two characters and incidents?

CMM: About halfway through the piece, I realized that it would come across as allegory, so I figured I better actually put some meaning in there. It’s one thing if people read into things, but if you intentionally place no meaning into what looks like it should have meaning, well, that just seems like cheating to me.

The young, American girl covers a couple of angles: You could argue an American sense of entitlement, but more than that, as a young girl who is invited to dip her arm in the ocean book—not being forceful, not really earning it—it’s more about the heart of the man who put the ocean in the book. As for the German strongman who likes to pull great things with his teeth, I just love that character. His full story, “Queasy,” appears in Sideshow Fables #1. In “The Ocean Thief,” he serves as the antithesis to the young, American girl. With his brute strength, it appears as though he could take the book, but it’s the young, powerless girl who is invited in instead.

JC: The lingering mystery is the Ocean Thief’s identity. He has some superhuman abilities but dies a strange death. How do you hope readers will interpret him?

CMM: Oh no’s, spoiler alert! Why don’t you just tell everyone about Vader’s family while you’re at it?

Power is an intriguing element. We see how other people waste or misappropriate it, but somehow assume we’d be different if we had that same power. Gangbangers love “Scarface,” but a lot of their admiration seems to miss the fact that Tony Montana dies when the power he’s wielded for so long is seized by other men wanting to be on top. Likewise, many people think that if they won the lottery, they wouldn’t go broke or that their problems would all disappear, yet I constantly come across interviews with broken down, strife-riddled lottery winners who assumed they’d be different, too. So if you’re powerful enough to put the ocean in a book, you should be able to control every angle, yet we’ve seen throughout history that people can’t handle the power they take.

In Judges 9, Abimelech was a dude who killed all his brothers so that he could be king, yet it was only a few years before people followed his example to do whatever they wanted, too. “Scarface” ends with Tony Montana’s sister cursing him and shooting him in the leg; Judges 9 ends with Abimelech forcefully trying to hold onto his power, only to have a woman smash his skull with a grain-grinding stone dropped from a tower (not even a weapon from someone equipped to fight). And “The Ocean Thief”? Well, it ended how I wanted it to end. I think the man who put the ocean in a book is a more favorable character than Tony Montana or Abimelech, but he (obviously or maybe not so obviously) couldn’t wield the power he took.

***

Jeff Chapman writes fairy tales, fantasy, and ghost stories and hearing the expression “just a fairy tale” rankles him. His works have appeared in various anthologies and magazines. He lives with his wife and children in a house with more books than bookshelf space. To learn more, stop by his blog at http://jeffchapmanwriter.blogspot.com/.

Blinded by the Light: Spotlight on Brian J. Hatcher’s “The Clockworks of Hell”

March 17, 2011 in Blogger Columnist with 0 Comments

Jeff Chapman

Jeff Chapman comments on Brian J. Hatcher’s “The Clockworks of Hell” and asks Brian a few questions about the story.

In “The Clockworks of Hell” (The Midnight Diner, Volume 3), the gift of a well-meaning parishioner proves a pastor’s undoing. Gary Waid is the new pastor at a small Baptist church. He is also a workaholic, prone to obsessiveness and perfectionism. As Waid’s father complains, “Now you’re a Christian and want to be a martyr. When will you realize your best is good enough?” (p. 33). While visiting Sister McCaughy, an ailing parishioner about to undergo a very dangerous surgery, Waid receives a gift from McCaughy, a gold pocket watch. McCaughy explains that her father made the watch in response to a sermon about “the number of lost souls who die every day” (p. 35).

“Papa called it his ‘Brimstone Timepiece’. Every tick represents a soul dying and going to Hell. Papa kept it with him until he died” (p. 36).

Waid initially refuses the gift but at McCaughy’s persistence agrees to keep the watch until she recovers from surgery.

The ticking awakens Waid at night and he has trouble sleeping. Afraid of losing it, he carries it with him and feels the vibrations in his pocket. The ticking is a constant reminder to Pastor Waid of the vast number of souls falling into Hell. Sleep becomes more and more difficult for him. He begins to feel responsible for each loss. Each tick adds to his burden of guilt for not doing enough to save those souls from eternal damnation. Like the protagonist from Edgar Allan Poe’s “The Tell-Tale Heart,” Waid becomes ever more fixated on the relentless ticking. He loses all sense of perspective. He gets into a fight at a hospital when a son refuses to let Waid talk to his dying mother. He neglects his duties at the church, choosing instead to begin a street ministry.

I hate to give away the ending, but it’s essential to understand the story. Waid has a nervous breakdown in front of his congregation and is hospitalized. McCaughey recovers from her surgery and comes to the church one day to thank Pastor Waid for his prayers. Brother Roger, who has taken over Waid’s duties, tells her that Waid will be in hospital for some time and that he will likely give up the ministry. Roger returns the Brimstone Timepiece to McCaughey who insists that Waid should keep it for the comfort that it will provide. Roger is confused at her choice of the word “comfort” and cringes when she starts the watch ticking. McCaughey explains:

“Every tick says, God is still on His throne and evil is punished. What a comfort that is to know, don’t you agree? I listen, and with every tick I say, amen” (p. 46).

What is the proper response to the damnation of fellow sinners? Love or smug callousness? And if the answer is love, what is an individual like Waid to do, for certainly his mortal psyche is not big enough to absorb the world’s sorrow.

I asked Brian a few questions about “The Clockworks of Hell.”

JC: I hear echoes of Edgar Allan Poe’s “A Tell-Tale Heart” in your story. Did Poe’s story inspire or influence “The Clockworks of Hell”?

BH: I think it would be nearly impossible, given his contributions to the creation of the weird tale, to completely escape Poe’s influence. And I’m not sure that I would want to. “The Tell-Tale Heart” might not have influenced me on a conscious level, but it undoubtedly influenced me on a subconscious one. The Hell Watch in my story is a metaphor for the heart of Pastor Waid’s problems, dredged up from the dark corners of his mind where he tried to hide them. Both he and the narrator in “A Tell-Tale Heart” are trying to paint a version of reality they’re more comfortable with, but reality comes crashing down on them. The parallels are certainly there.

JC: The son of the dying woman in the hospital is Mr. Beausoleil, French for beautiful sun. Did you intend the pun on sun and son?

BH: Anyone who knows me will tell you, “With Brian, all puns are intended.” I like putting little items like that in my stories for the reader to discover. Mr. Beausoleil’s name also subtly associates him with the Son of God. Whether he is a parallel for Jesus or a metaphor for the Antichrist, or perhaps both, that’s up to the reader to decide.

JC: The characters who express an opinion on religion tend to be Christians or confirmed atheists. Why no agnostics?

BH: I would say, in a sense, it is the reader who takes on the role of the agnostic. I tried to explore the extremes on both sides of the equation. It was not my intention to promote either Christianity or atheism. I wanted to demonstrate both the good and the bad in both views. I was very mindful of the representations of Christianity in “The Clockworks of Hell”. It would have been so easy to paint Christianity as the villain in this story, and I didn’t want to go that route. Both sides of the argument have their heroes and their villains. That’s part of what I wanted to explore in this story.

JC: The story hinges on the different interpretation that Sister McCaughey and Preacher Waid attach to the clock’s ticking. Please comment on their interpretations and the ramifications?

BH: The watch that brought terror and madness to Pastor Waid brought comfort and peace to Sister McCaughey. They believed the same truth, but both interpreted that truth in different ways. As much as we like to believe that truth, morality, and faith are black and white issues, they rarely fall that way. It is difficult, if not impossible, to see God or nature or the universe in a purely objective way. We all must approach our faith, or the lack thereof, through the filter of our own experience.

JC: What questions do you hope readers will take from “The Clockworks of Hell”?

BH: I think it’s enough if they are asking questions . There will always be questions, or at least there should be. As we grow and change through the course of our lives, our truths and beliefs must grow and change with us. What I believed at 20 has little value for me now at 40. I’m a different person. My needs are different. What’s important to me is different. It’s the same with everyone. A faith which cannot grow with us, we will invariably outgrow.

***

Jeff Chapman writes fairy tales, fantasy, and ghost stories and hearing the expression “just a fairy tale” rankles him. His works have appeared in Golden Visions Magazine, The Midnight Diner, Mindflights, and Residential Aliens. He lives with his wife and children in a house with more books than bookshelf space. To learn more, stop by his blog at http://jeffchapmanwriter.blogspot.com/.

Blinded by the Light: Spotlight on Eric Ortlund’s “A Thousand Flowers”

March 10, 2011 in Blogger Columnist with 1 Comment

Jeff Chapman

Jeff Chapman comments on Eric Ortland’s “A Thousand Flowers” and asks Eric a few questions about the story.

I’m not a fan of stories about zombies, those creatures that go around mindlessly eating any flesh that comes within their reach, so I plunged into Eric Ortlund’s “A Thousand Flowers” (The Midnight Diner, Volume 3) expecting to be grossed out. My stomach never turned. “A Thousand Flowers” is a different breed of zombie story. There is a bit of gore: a zombie chews off part of a man’s arm and the protagonist blows off part of a zombie’s head with a rifle, but Ortlund dishes the gore tastefully and, in the case of the zombie head, beautifully. Ortlund’s story is not about violence and running for your life but forgiveness, redemption, and the nature of our society.

“A Thousand Flowers” begins with the protagonist/narrator and his traveling companion speeding along a road in the prairies of south central Canada or the north central United States. The zombies have already taken over and the towns the pair come to are all deserted. Other than the search for supplies, the pair have no destination. The protagonist finds his companion annoying and pathetic. He assumes the man would not survive without his guidance and he has no other friends available so he tolerates him. The companion tells a story about seeing a field of sunflowers with all their heads tracking the sun. The narrator associates the sunflowers with the zombies whose faces are round and edged with tentacles like starfish. Their mouths are also round, lined with bony teeth and four tongues. Ortlund repeatedly employs sea imagery in his landlocked setting. The narrator associates the zombies with starfish, describes fluid spurting “from the coral of the cartilage making up [a zombie’s] face” (p. 10), and talks of “yellow fields swarming around the barn like sharks surrounding the last survivor from a ship” (p. 12). The zombies and sea imagery seem out of place on the prairies, or is Ortlund suggesting that the narrator is out of place, a remnant from a civilization whose time has passed. The narrator notes that the zombies follow paths that he cannot see and that they have destroyed all the road signs.

The protagonist’s annoyance with his “friend” reaches a head after a brief standoff with a zombie. The narrator strikes his companion in the face with the butt of a rifle. The next day, the zombie’s take the companion or does he join them.

“Yes,” he said, his face still broken. “Yes, you go now. Iss is right.” Then he pulled his arm away, the stump already writhing with things uglier than maggots.

I turned and ran (p. 12).

The protagonist wanders aimlessly then decides to follow one of the starfish zombies. When he arrives at their meeting place, he finds something wholly unexpected, ritual and transformation.

I asked Eric a few questions about “A Thousand Flowers.”

JC: What was the inspiration for this story?

EO: Randomly enough, I was moving through my day, half-thinking about zombies (not sure what that says about my psyche).  I found myself wondering what it might be like if zombies started to regain consciousness without losing their zombie “nature.”  After all, zombies can be pretty scary, but they’re also one-dimensional: they stagger and moan and eat and that’s it.  But what would it be like if a ravenous animated corpse started talking?  Then it occurred to me that that would be an awfully interesting parable about what St. Paul calls the law of sin and death.

JC: Why zombies? On what issues does writing about zombies give you insight?

EO: I find zombies uncanny and oddly revelatory because they are simultaneously unlike and like us.  What could be more different from me than a walking, hungry corpse?  On the other hand, any good zombie movie won’t waste much time collapsing the difference between the zombies and the remaining humans, who will act in increasingly selfish, ravenous, and thoughtless ways.  And noticing this dis/similarity raises, in turn, huge questions: what does it mean to be alive?  So my heart’s beating and the thing shuffling toward me is clinically dead: how much of a difference is that?  What does it mean to eat and consume in a non-zombie-ish way–in a way that is meaningful and (for lack of a better term) sacramental, instead of mindless and unsatisfying and endless?  What does community look like, outside of preying on each other?

The attraction (for me) to this kind of world is that it makes death palpable and ubiquitous, forcing the question of what it means to live (in some meaningful sense) in a world like that.  And I can’t help suspecting that, for all its dissimilarities, the world we live in is actually pretty similar.

JC: What sort of reaction do you hope readers will have to the story? Do you want it to make them uncomfortable?

EO: I’m not interested in gore or producing nausea in an audience. There’s plenty of other ways to be nauseated, if that’s what you want. I was aiming at a certain sort of atmosphere–I was hoping the hopeless and lostness of the normal world falling apart would come through.  And I was hoping the feeling of death would come through.  I tried to keep the details to a minimum, but I did want to create the feeling of death, its depth and totality, surrounding you–and not just for its own sake, but because, when we confront death, I think we’re very close to the secret of life.  As a Christian, I claim to be following someone whose most significant action was dying!  I remember C. S. Lewis saying that one of the things he loved in George MacDonald’s writing was the theme of Good Death–a death which liberates and transforms.  But it’s death, all the same, unmitigated in its horror and coldness and finality.  I wanted to evoke that as strongly as I could, and hint that death is the only way to (true) life.

JC: Please talk about the connection you make between sunflowers and starfish.

EO: Well, the experience described in the beginning about seeing an entire field of sunflowers, all looking at the sun, and being a little freaked out by it, actually happened to me, when my wife and I were driving through North Dakota.  The image always stayed with me, and wound up being useful in the story.  The starfish image is used only to be descriptive–just trying to make the monsters vivid without being too gross.  The connection between the two is mostly for convenience in description.

JC: What is the nature of the protagonist’s redemption at the story’s conclusion?

EO: That’s a good question.  The main character’s redemption–and that of his companion, as well, now that I think about it–is a re-adjustment to the world around him.  He gradually has every option cut off; the new, dead world is constricting him ever more tightly.  But through an unusual experience, he stops running and confronts what he sees, even though he still essentially has no options and will probably soon be dead.  But I think God often (always?) calls us to something literally impossible.  Again, the more the world of the story differs from the “normal” world, the more the two resemble each other–in my mind, at least.

***

Jeff Chapman writes fairy tales, fantasy, and ghost stories and hearing the expression “just a fairy tale” rankles him. His works have appeared in Golden Visions Magazine, The Midnight Diner, Mindflights, and Residential Aliens. He lives with his wife and children in a house with more books than bookshelf space. To learn more, stop by his blog at http://jeffchapmanwriter.blogspot.com/.