election anxiety countdown

71 Days: Teeth

Over the weekend I finished reading Valeria Luiselli’s The Story of My Teeth. By the end, the story of the book’s creation was as exciting to me as the narrative itself.

Luiselli was invited to write a piece for the catalog of an exhibition at Galería Jumex, an important contemporary art collection in Mexico City tied to the wealth of the Jumex juice company, whose factory is next door. The book’s story takes place in the juice factory and its surrounding neighborhoods. It was written in serial fashion: Luiselli wrote an installment, sent it to be to be read to a group of the factory workers, and their response informed her next installment (more on Luiselli in Day 91).

I’ve long been interested in participatory, community-driven, socially-engaged art like this practice Luiselli employed, but have not always found it easy to adapt these ideas to literary practice. Most examples that I have followed or been involved with are performance or visual art. Literary practice is more often a solo endeavor, if only because writing is sharpest when it comes from a single voice rather than a committee.

My own fiction about the future of D.C. has drawn from conversations on city busses, on walks, and in cafes and bars. Sometimes participants in these conversations knew we were generating ideas for stories together, but more often I was observing and taking notes on mundane conversations and happenings and imagining how something might change or remain absurdly the same in fiction.

Writing is participatory in less orchestrated ways, though. These paragraphs are in dialogue with Luiselli and with other socially-engaged artists and writers. And my stories about the streets around my apartment are in dialogue with Edward P. Jones stories in Lost in the City, and Dinaw Mengestu’s fictional The Beautiful Things That Heaven Bears, and Ruben Castaneda’s nonfiction/memoir S Street Rising. Each contains a version of my neighborhood wearing the costumery of another decade, another writer’s voice.

And stepping forward in time, 730DC’s has recently been publishing speculative fiction about D.C. too. Theirs is set in 2120 and (so far) has no major conflicts with Future Cartographic’s timeline of 2215 (though perhaps the impact of climate change is less severe in their telling). I like to imagine that all these stories past and present are part of a single timeline. And for readers who know any of these works they can’t help but inform each other.

Luiselli’s book is in dialogue not only with Jumex workers and the present day residents of the Ecatepec neighborhood around the factory, but also with the dozens of writers referenced in her text, and with her translator Christina Macsweeney, who became a collaborator and added a final section to the book in the form of a timeline aligning fictional happenings in the story with its literary and historical ties of the same years. Scanning it had me adding dozens of entries to my reading list and thinking I should build out such a timeline for the D.C. stories I’ve been collecting. And that timeline would in turn be in dialogue with Macsweeney’s timeline. And the cycle goes on…

How can I bring more voices in to the monologue of this series you are reading? Books and film have been the primary avenue: artists/writers living and dead. I’ve also written about my imagined readers — writing in dialogue with friends and with the mythical undecided swing state voter who might stumble upon the site. But perhaps I should just ask you for your thoughts directly, dear reader. My contact info is in the website footer.

election anxiety countdown

91 Days: Fiction

I’ve spent much of the past few years working on fiction: a novel and short stories. Would I be better off spending these hundred days staying in that mode? Would a serialized novel of life in a dystopian 18th year of Trump’s regime be more effective than whatever this series turns out to be? In a recent profile of novelist and contrarian Lionel Shriver I stumbled upon last night by Ariel Levy in The New Yorker, Shriver compared writing fiction to her opinion essays: 

“Fiction is much more subtle,” she replied. “It’s more evasive, it’s more circuitous, it should be a little harder to discern what the message is—not that it shouldn’t have a message, but that message is usually complex and sometimes contradictory.” Asked which was more likely to change people’s minds, she answered immediately, “Fiction.”

I agree. For one, works of fiction — especially if we include screenplays — have a much wider audience, and are more likely to reach people who disagree with you. I read Shriver’s dystopian novel The Mandibles in 2016, knowing nothing about her politics (I was on the futurism kick that led to Future Cartographic). The book describes the economic collapse of the U.S. because of debt and devaluation of the dollar. I recall feeling uncomfortable with some implications of the scenario and questioning some characters’ takes on their newfound difficulties. But the challenge was provocative, not unpleasant. Levy’s profile made me curious to go back to Shriver’s fiction, but her overview of Shriver’s takes on politics and culture (pro-Brexit, she is a Democrat who is outraged that race and gender issues get so much attention) were less interesting. Perhaps relying on a second-hand account is unfair. I do at enjoy an original and creative contrarian. What’s the point of reading a writer who restates things one already believes, or a writer who parrots predictable opposition? Reading ought to be a search for additions, complications, or poetry that expands the known. Bookmark Shriver for later. 

Before media fragmented in to the ten thousand niche channels we have today, fiction on network T.V. played a huge role in building understanding across difference: Black life in a housing project (Good Times); life with a hippie child or a racist father (All in the Family); life as a single woman in an old school, male-dominated workplace (The Mary Tyler Moore Show); life with gay friends; life as an LGBTQ person in love (Ellen, Will and Grace, Buffy the Vampire Slayer). Some of these shows might not have aged well, but putting their contemporary viewers in a position of empathy for people who didn’t represent the dominant point of view was groundbreaking. They also gave many people their first evidence that their lives were being seen, that other people like themselves existed and their lives mattered. But does media on such a scale — with millions of viewers and advertising dollars at stake — lead culture change or follow only when a critical mass, an untapped audience, is already there to be tipped over the edge? 

T.V. comedies may be the most accessible form of fiction, but I haven’t watched one in years, so I’m unlikely to start writing one now. Coming up with eight jokes per page as a response to a Trump’s campaign to cement his authoritarianism in place seems like a mismatch of tactics. He satirizes himself and seems not to care.

Upton Sinclair famously attempted to use fiction to rally Americans to the cause of labor rights. The Jungle, which portrays brutal conditions in the Chicago meatpacking industry, instead resulted in a drop in sales of meat followed by significant regulations to create food safety standards. “I aimed at the public’s heart, and by accident I hit it in the stomach,” he famously said. I know Sinclair mainly through Chris Bachelder’s satirical 2006 novel U.S.! in which Sinclair is assassinated and resurrected repeatedly as the leader of generation after generation of struggling progressive movements. Fictionalized Sinclair looming larger than fact.

Most of the fiction I read is neither comedy nor satire. Many are close to the lived experience of the author. Often with protagonists who share their name and lifestyle with the author. Valeria Luiselli’s Lost Children Archive, for example, which in-part addresses the issue of immigrant children and families separated at the border — material she covered in a previous nonfiction work. But this heart-rending issue is just one element of a story that centers on a scholarly couple’s relationship falling apart as they travel from New York to the southwest to pursue separate research projects. The books they travel, the fragments of their research become minor characters in their journey. 

Luiselli’s is the more likely path I’ll take to November 3. Some nonfiction. Some fiction. A journey in time rather than across geography. As I write these day by day, serendipitous passages from the rotating pile of readings next to me will continue to tag along and redirect us as well.