Our conversation with Mette Ivie Harrison, the author of The Bishop’s Wife, and Tim Wirkus, the author of City of Brick and Shadow, continues. See Part 1, which focuses on the Mormon elements of their mysteries. The section includes their discussion about the impact of their time in academia on their writing, the roles of literature and literary criticism, the Mormon writing community, and their responses to my favorite passages from their books.
Q: Both of you have been in doctoral programs, Tim in creative writing, Mette in German literature. Could you comment on why you chose to get higher degrees, and what impact you think your time in academia had on your writing.
Mette: I had wanted to be a writer since I was in Kindergarten, but had repeatedly been given feedback that this wasn’t a reasonable career choice. My father has a PhD and taught for many years at the university level (in Computer Science). Subtly and less subtly, he encouraged me to go to graduate school (though I’m not sure that he cared for German as a choice of field of study). I felt that teaching would be a good back-up career for a writer and I love German literature in particular and the language, as well. Looking back on my PhD program, I would say that I am surprised to see how much Theodor Adorno’s thinking has affected mine, and how much I still admire the Dadaists, who were never my main field of study, but nonetheless have ended up changing the way I think about literature vs. pop culture forever.
On the negative side, years of academic writing made for a taste in longer sentences, convoluted language, and a lot of desire to “prove” by referring to other critics. I spent some time comparing my high school writing and my attempts to return to creative writing post-grad school and I can see the lack of impulse to get to the point, which is deadly to children’s writing in particular. It took a couple of years before I got back to a more direct style. If I still had it, I could quote from the novel I tried to write after grad school, entitled “The Shepherdess’ Daughter.” I went to a professional writing group after grad school, people who had published, and read, like 20 pages of it at a sitting. I’m not sure how people managed not to burst out laughing at the pretentiousness of my writing. It was just so self-conscious, every word as heavy as an anvil.
Tim: Certainly a mix of reasons. Like Mette mentioned, there’s the very practical question of how you make a living as a writer. For most writers, the answer is that you don’t, at least not with the writing alone, so it becomes a question of what kind of career can support both you and your writing. Teaching has always struck me as a good choice in that regard. So that’s part of it. I was also very drawn to the idea that a PhD in creative writing would plug me into a community of talented peers and mentors who are good at thinking and talking about what makes for good fiction. And I haven’t been disappointed–that’s definitely been my favorite part of the program I’m in. When I read a story or a novel written by one of my classmates, and it just knocks my socks off, there’s something really empowering there. For one thing, it’s exciting to be there on the ground floor when good art happens, and for another, it does create this sense of possibility that really inspires me to keep at it with my own writing.
Q: Mette wrote that she has a strong antipathy towards “literary criticism, and the idea of ‘Great Literature” in general.’ Mette, could you say more about this, and Tim, how do you feel about these things? Is literary criticism nothing beyond tenure-track box ticking?
Mette: I don’t mean at all to say that literary criticism is box ticking. I liked studying literary criticism. I was good at it. It was just that I was putting off doing the much harder work of writing my own thoughts and stories down by criticizing the work of others (and I mean this in the positive form of criticism). Focusing on the cultural aspects of literature wasn’t a waste of time. It made me aware of how all writers are shaped by their environment and in that sense, freed me from worrying about avoiding that anymore. I was going to write who I was no matter how I tried to disguise it with “literariness.”
Probably the most useful of the criticisms I studied was feminist political criticism and the history of women writers in America (I took several courses in the English department at Princeton with Elaine Showalter). Seeing how women’s books were received at the time they were published and then seeing how they were treated by academia as ancillary, unimportant compared to the great works of men was very instructive. I also saw firsthand how women were treated by a supposedly liberal bastion (not one tenured female faculty member and every single one of the associate profs left during my time there). I read a lot of “trashy” romance fiction while in graduate school and was pretty defensive about it if I was asked to talk about my interest, but looking back, I think the whole idea of what is trashy, what is feminine and what is masculine, never left me. I feel that The Bishop’s Wife is consciously women’s fiction and may even be “trashy.” It is meant to be enjoyable, beach style reading, though it has a bit of a literary and political bent. The language in particular is meant to be transparent, not poetic.
Tim: I think Mette covered most of what I was going to bring up in terms of the values of literary criticism. Like her, I’ve been compelled by scholarship that puts literature in the context of culture and politics, thinking about why and how we read what we do. That kind of criticism has helped me to think more carefully about how the things I write participate in larger cultural narratives and conversations, and what my political and ethical obligations might be as a writer.
Q: Also, a broader question, what good is fiction anyway? Why does society, and you in particular, bother with it?
Mette: I believe strongly that art matters and that I as a writer can change the world by changing people’s perceptions of the world. I don’t consciously put political content into my work, but of course it is there anyway. I have friends who are much more politically involved that I am, and who work actively to change legislation in Utah to make the world better. I hope that my work in art is a counterpoint to their work.
I also believe that art is a deeply spiritual matter, that I was called to be a writer and that no matter how much I tried to resist that call, it was waiting for me, demanding to be taken up. I struggle with some social deficits, but art is my way of connecting deeply with other people outside of my own family. I think that human connectedness is one of the purposes of life and I connect in this particular way.
Tim: Here’s one element of that question that I’ve been wondering about: How do fictional narratives help us think through questions in ways that other methodologies can’t? I’ve been thinking a lot lately about philosophical thought experiments as a genre of fictional narrative. (Decartes’ demon who constructs a convincing but false illusion of the external world, or the ship of Theseus, being replaced bit by bit but still retaining its identity [or not].) Part of the purpose of thought experiments is to create an imagined situation that controls for variables and really focuses in on the heart of a question, but it’s also more than that. Putting big, unwieldy questions into narrative form somehow makes them easier and more efficient to think through. Thought experiments are memorable and they’re fun and they’re also doing a lot of heavy lifting. So what does that mean for fiction generally?
Some narratives look more like thought experiments than others. The movie Groundhog Day comes to mind–there’s that high-concept, what if? premise, and by the end of the movie, the audience has thought a lot about the implications of living the same day over and over and over again. It’s fun, though–that’s the striking thing. The audience has just waded through some pretty heavy, complicated, existential questions, but it doesn’t feel like work. (Unless you hate the movie. Which some people do.) Also, the thinking isn’t happening through the dialogue, at least not primarily. It’s not a movie where the characters spend a ton of time pontificating on the implications of what’s happening. So the thinking is happening in the narrative structure itself.
Like I said, Groundhog Day looks a lot like a thought experiment, but even narratives that are less high-concept are doing a similar thing. They’re asking us to imagine a premise that’s not true (although with a lot of fiction, it’s a premise that could be true) and carefully follow the implications of that premise as it plays out. There’s something almost machine-like in great narratives in the way they help us do complex thinking very efficiently while at the same time entertaining us and making us feel things. Back to Groundhog Day again–it’s a thinky movie, but also a funny, sad, and warm movie. It’s doing so much, and doing it so smoothly. Bill Murray!
Mette: I like the idea that human brains may be wired to deal with difficult problems in a narrative way. I actually wrote a couple of books in a different Mormon mystery series–one that had an alternate history of the United States with vampires in Salt Lake City and with a more traditional male detective in a paranormal mystery setting. It didn’t sell, but I think I was working through some of the same problems in a different narrative setting. My editor Juliet saw the first novel in that series and suggested trying a female detective to tell the same story, and it was a couple of years before I was able to write the current narrative. I think I often find myself reworking a narrative completely to try to tell the problem of the story more effectively.
Q: Tim recently attended the AML Mini-Conference, and Mette the LDStorymakers conference. Two related, but very different beasts. Do these conferences and the awards associated with them have any appeal to you? Do you feel the existence of a Mormon writing community from them? If so, is that meaningful to you at all? Do you participate in a writing group or any other such group critique or encouragement?
Mette: I spent a long time resisting the idea that I was a “Mormon” writer. I aimed at a national audience with my first YA novels, and I tried occasionally to write about my world, but I look back at those early attempts and see how constrained they were. I wanted to be accepted as a “real” writer, not consigned to some tiny group of regional “scribblers.” I’m only recently coming back to my roots in writing The Bishop’s Wife with an open and consciously Mormon perspective on the world. I chafe a little at the idea of Mormon writers having only Mormons as their audience, but I’m a work in progress in this. I spent five long, very depressed years as an unhappy atheist within the Mormon church and whenever I tried to investigate the more intellectual thought going on around me, it didn’t make any sense to me. Arguing about women and the priesthood when I didn’t believe in any supernatural power at all, as an example, was just weird. But since I’ve made a more conscious effort to believe, the community of Mormon thinkers and creators has begun to appeal to me again enormously.
Tim: Like I mentioned earlier, one appeal of a graduate degree in creative writing for me has always been the built-in community of writers there. There’s something gratifying and productive about reading early-stage work of friends and colleagues, and having them read your own work in turn. As far as Mormon-specific writing communities, I feel like I’m pretty new to that scene. I enjoyed the parts of the AML mini-conference I attended, and a look forward to getting to know the Mormon writing community better.
Q: My favorite scenes in your book were: Tim, the parrot on p. 133-134. Mette, the tool shed on p. 87-88. Please tell me how you came to create those scenes. [The excerpts are provided first.]
City of Brick and Shadow, p. 133-134
(Elders Toronto and Schwartz, American missionaries serving in a Brazilian slum, are canvassing people who live on the street of a recent convert, Marco Auerelio, who has disappeared. They are pretending to be doing normal door contacts, but they are really trying to find information about Marco. Elder Schwartz, the junior companion, speaks Portuguese terribly, and most Brazilians can’t understand him.)
The next house had once been painted a cheery shade of yellow, but years of neglect had left it flaking and stained. A man with a parrot perched on his shoulder came to the door when the missionaries clapped. It was Elder Schwartz’s turn to do the talking, so he introduced himself and asked the man’s name.
“What did you say, kid?” said the man with the parrot.
“What’s your name?” said Elder Schwartz.
“Leandro,” said the man, after a brief pause.
The parrot on his shoulder squawked, ruffling its feathers. Elder Schwartz told him that it was a handsome bird. Leandro nodded.
“Is it just you and the parrot who live here?” said Elder Schwartz.
“What?” said Leandro.
“Do you live alone?” said Elder Schwartz, gesturing gat the house.
Leandro squinted at him and pointed back into the house at a woman inside on her hands and knees, scrubbing at something on the floor.
“My wife,” he said.
“That’s great,” said Elder Schwartz. “It’s good to live as a family.”
“Hello,” said the parrot. “Hello.”
“How long have you and your wife been married?” said Elder Schwartz.
“What?” said Leandro.
“How long have you been married?”
Leandro shook his head.
“That’s great,” said Elder Schwartz.
Leandro grunted. The parrot screamed in a sharp, feminine voice and both missionaries jumped back.
“Sorry,” said Elder Schwartz. “Your parrot surprised me.”
What do you want?” said Leandro.
“As I was saying,” said Elder Schwartz. “It’s great that you live here with your wife, as a family.”
“Help me,” screamed the parrot, in a voice uncannily similar to a woman’s. “Help me.”
“And we actually have an important message to share about families, and how they can be together forever.”
“Stop it,” continued the parrot. “That hurts. That hurts, Leandro. Stop. Please. Stop, stop, stop, it hurts. Leandro. Stop. Please. You’re hurting me. I’m sorry. Please. Stop. Please, please. I’m sorry.”
The parrot ruffled its feathers.
“Hello,” it said. “Hello.”
Elder Schwartz looked from the bird to Leandro. He started talking again.
“And so we would like to share this important message with you and your wife.”
“I didn’t understand a word you just said,” said Leandro.
“Okay,” said Elder Schwartz.
Leandro turned to walk back inside.
“One last question, sir, if it’s all right,” said Elder Toronto, jumping in. “Do you know Marco Aurelio, who lives across the street?”
Leandro looked at the house Elder Toronto was pointing to.
“No,” he said. “That guy doesn’t talk to anybody.”
“He’s a friend of ours from church and we’re just wondering if you’ve seen him in the past couple of weeks.”
“I mind my own business,” said Leandro, and shut the door.
The elders walked back to the curb. Elder Schwartz glanced back to the closed door of Leandro’s house.
“Should we talk to someone about—“ he began, pointing back at the house, but Elder Toronto was already striding quickly across the street. Eder Schwartz jogged to catch up.
Tim: I’m glad you liked it. It’s actually been long enough since I wrote that scene that I can’t really remember the particulars. What I do know is that I’m sitting on a lot of great parrot trivia that I’m always looking for a chance to use. I wrote a story seven or eight years ago where a bird plays a prominent role, and I did a lot of research on parrots while I was working on the story. I found some real gems, too. Apparently parrots grow attached to their owners, and when they (the owners) die or leave, the parrots grieve the loss for years and can become very depressed. Parrots live for a long time, up to ninety years, I think, and so it’s actually pretty likely that they’ll outlive their owners. Point being, there are probably a lot of grieving parrots out there, and like I said, they can grieve for years. Another sad parrot story–there’s a biologist (I think–I don’t remember her name, but I promise this is a true story) who had an African gray parrot who could not only mimic human speech, but use it to communicate. One time the biologist had to go out of town for a while, so she took the bird to one of those pet hotel places. When she dropped the bird off, he was obviously really distressed, and as she left, he called after her, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Don’t go. I’m sorry.” That kills me. Anyway, I didn’t use any of that information in the story I initially did the research for, and now that I think about it, the scene you mention in the book doesn’t use any of that research either. But now I’ve used it in this interview, so that’s something.
The Bishop’s Wife, p. 87-88
(The title character, Linda Wallheim, is assisting and comforting her neighbor, Anna, whose elderly husband is nearing his death. She volunteers to clean up the shed where he keeps his gardening tools.)
Of course there wasn’t any reason the shed needed to be taken care of right now. It was the woman who disliked even the thought of the disorganized shed I was concerned about. If I could decrease her stress even the tiniest bit by helping with the shed, I’d have accomplished something.
I cleaned up in the kitchen, then trooped outside to the shed. Like the kitchen it was ancient; it wasn’t the prefabricated kind that was delivered and set up on concrete blocks. This was made of aluminum and had been set up by Tobias, back in the day. The door was difficult to open, and when I stepped inside, I could see why. The floor was littered with tools and other equipment. I bent down and began to pick up flowerpots and half-empty bags of fertilizer. I stacked together things I thought should be thrown away, including several tools that looked rusted and ruined after sitting too long without being cleaned. It was a shame.
For a moment I stood, arms wrapped around my coat-clad shoulders, and thought of the shed as Tobias himself, a man who had not even shared his life story with his wife of thirty years. How many things had he left inside himself to canker, because he thought he would get to them later? How many inner wounds were still oozing blood and pus? Was he ashamed of the truth of who he was? Did he close the door on his own past secrets to keep them hidden from other people? And what would happen when God opened the door at his death?
I swallowed what felt like a large piece of ice.
What did my own shed look like? I suppose we are all like Tobias, putting off things that we should take care of but which we are too tired or too ashamed to deal with. And someday, the end will come for all of us, and other people will root around in our things, finding out what we wish no one would ever know It made me want to go home and clean my house, and then the garage.
But what was lurking inside of my heart? You hope that people remember the best parts of you at the end, and forgive the smaller darknesses. You hope, but how can you ever be sure?
Mette: OK, I have to be honest here. Whenever people ask me questions like this, I am stymied. I don’t poke around in my creative process in this way. I don’t find it useful and I am actually a bit superstitious about ruining the magic in it. So I don’t know how I wrote that scene or any other scene in my book. I didn’t craft it consciously and I don’t aspire to do so. My agent calls what I do “channeling.” I feel like I put on the skin of my narrator and simply walk around and see the world as someone else for a while. It’s one of the reasons that my novels are almost always written in first person with a single narrator with a very strong voice. So, I’d say Linda simply walked into the tool shed that she saw and she did what she did. Sorry!
Thank you Mette and Tim for participating! I look forward to your next books.
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This has been a terrific in-depth conversation the likes of which we rarely see.