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Posts Tagged ‘author Q&As’

A Conversation Between 
Jill Alexander Essbaum and Gina Frangello

Monday, August 3rd, 2015

Hausfrau_Essbaum Jill Alexander Essbaum is the author of Hausfrau, the striking debut novel of marriage, fidelity, sex, and morality, featuring a fascinating heroine who struggles to live a life with meaning.

Gina Frangello is the author of four works of fiction, including Every Kind of Wanting and A Life in Men. She co–founded and served as the executive editor for many years at Other Voices Books, and has also been the fiction editor at The Nervous Breakdown and the Sunday editor of The Rumpus.

Gina Frangello: I’ve known you for many years, and I published the first excerpt of Hausfrau on The Nervous Breakdown when you were first working on it and unsure you’d even finish it. You’ve been successful as a poet—-you’ve had two NEA fellowships—-so let’s back up to what made you want to write a novel to begin with. Is it something you’ve always had a secret hankering to do? Have you experimented with fiction in the past but abandoned it, and this time stuck to it? What was the watershed moment that made you start writing in a different form?

Jill Alexander Essbaum: Oh, as a kid I had those fantasies of being a famous novelist. And I wrote stories. And they were awful and they were wonderful in the way that a baby–beginning writer’s stories are both awful and wonderful at once. And I went to college and studied writing (French too—-because I also thought I might like to move to Paris at some point and take up with a yet–to–be–determined lover who would probably be named Michel and would almost assuredly be a sculptor because of course he would be). I took some poetry workshops and it turned out that I enjoyed writing poems—-and I was good at the “game” of poetry. I’m using “game” as a shorthand for things like maximizing the economy of language in a piece, working with rhyme and meter—-working against rhyme and meter, puns and wordplay, the whole shebang. And so that’s what I wrote for a long time. I here–and–thered essays for journals for a while, but it took returning from a few years living abroad before I thought seriously about writing in a different form. Chiefly because when I returned from Switzerland, the things I wanted to write, the descriptions and the memories and the sites and the sightings, felt terribly untethered when I put them in verse without any context. So I redirected. Stanzas became paragraphs. Eventually, the “I” of my poems became the Anna of Hausfrau. Who is not me. But of course, who in some ways is. As we all write from a spot that we recognize even if it’s only distantly.

GF: The novel is being called a kind of contemporary Madame Bovary or Anna Karenina, and one thing critics talk about is that the options available to women are generally speaking so radically different now, yet somehow your protagonist, Anna Benz, although living in a contemporary world, inhabits a similar passivity and isolation—-to the frustration of her therapist, and perhaps the reader, at times. Yet it’s important to state that the limited scope of Anna Benz’s world is not at all “unbelievable” or even unusual. Anna is an expat in a country where she has no strong ties and isn’t fluent in the language, and to some extent that “explains” her circumscribed world . . . but I have known so many women with small children who lead similar lives of emotional and social claustrophobia, even in their countries of origin. I’ve heard women talk openly about not being “fulfilled” but putting their lives “on hold” for their children, with the implicit assumption that this is both normative and noble. Many women still relocate for their husbands’ careers, and, despite advanced degrees or prior work experience, leave the workforce to become stay–at–home moms in new cities where they have little in the way of a support network. And obviously many of these women are entirely happy with these choices, and make new friends and have vibrant lives with their kids and their communities . . . but others of course are deeply isolated, frustrated, depressed, and guilty for their “failures” to be either happy homemakers or liberated career women. Can you speak about how conscious you were in writing Hausfrau of purposely deconstructing and illuminating ways in which the situation of the contemporary “housewife” has and hasn’t changed?

JAE: It never occurred to me that I was making a statement about anyone’s situation other than Anna’s (and, to a degree, my own). On the surface, that’s an extremely naïve thing to have thought, so boo on me. On the other hand, if I’d come to the page with a wider agenda, there would be the issue of writing a story that becomes ordinary and vapid simply because of its inclusivity. Do you know what I mean? One of the things that I think gets readers going about Anna is how improbable she seems. I say “seems” because the truth is, a life such as hers isn’t improbable at all. Many women live it, or a version of it. But the bigger picture is her experience of isolation, you’re right to point to that. And I think ultimately that’s the thing that people respond to. We are made separate by the things we do or do not do. Responsibilities of all types curb us. Desire betrays us. No wound is ever truly petty. And there are so many ways to be locked apart from the rest of the world. In our mothers’ era, clinical depression was not usually named as such. The thing about Anna is, she doesn’t put her life on hold for her family. She’s actually not living her life at all. She’s going through her life’s motions. She’s taking no responsibility for it. I suppose in that way I am making a statement. She knows she’s in peril. She’s consciously avoiding acting to save herself. She knows better. And sometimes, some of us, in some things, we do know better. When we know better, I think it’s imperative that we do better. Otherwise we’re perpetuating myths that have for centuries done us no good. Men and women alike. No one is exempt from being called into consciousness.

GF: Anna uses sex as a diversion and a salve and a means of acting out. You write: “Anna loved and didn’t love sex. Anna needed and didn’t need it. Her relationship with sex was a convoluted partnership that rose from both her passivity and an unassailable desire to be distracted. And wanted. She wanted to be wanted.” Psychoanalysis—-on which you draw heavily in the novel—-infamously long held theories that female desire centered (depending on the theory) on either the desire for a child (which convolutedly itself stemmed from so–called penis envy) or the desire to be desired. Do you think that women, even in an era where people broadcast every matter of their wild sex lives in tell–all memoirs, blogs, and social media streams, are still deeply and intrinsically taught that sexual desire is largely about the desire for other things: love, attention, motherhood, approval? How comfortable is the contemporary woman with the desire for sex for sex’s sake—-and with desiring others, rather than “reacting to” others’ desire for her?

JAE: I think that sex for sex’s sake is not possible. Or, if you will, it’s not practically possible. In theory, sure. Bodies rubbing against each other? Great. Let’s go! But. It’s never just that, is it? We aren’t engines, we aren’t machines. There’s limbic intent behind every kiss, every caress. Simply because it’s a person who’s doing the kissing or the caressing. It’s a daredevil act, to let someone fuck you—-to fuck someone—-with whom you don’t have at least some emotional connection. You’re teetering on a tight line. Because you’re naked and unguarded and vulnerable and at the peak of orgasm you may well believe you are invincible. And sex is violent even when it’s gentle. The truth is in the vocabulary. Thrust? Penetrate? Those are words of war. What that means to me is that even when there don’t seem to be stakes—-there are stakes. For example, even the most grown–upiest of grown–ups still have feelings and sometimes feelings get the better of us. And then get in the way.

GF: You’re a Christian, which comes out more overtly in some of your poetry than in Hausfrau, although some interrogations of faith do come up in the novel. However, one thing that struck me strongly in reading Hausfrau—-without giving away too many spoilers—-is the way Anna is . . . well, ultimately tortured in the narrative. One way of reading the novel would be that she pays the ultimate price for her indiscretions—-her sins—-and that the novel serves as a cautionary tale about the retribution a woman can face for lapses in fidelity and maternal virtue. Were you hesitant to lead Anna into such ruin for possessing the same shortcomings male characters are often portrayed as possessing with glib aplomb? Do you worry that some readers will see Anna as “getting what she deserved” and the book will be read as a tale of moral reinforcement for the status quo?

JAE: In one of the last scenes in the novel, Anna asks a priest if he believes in predestination. He then gives her an analogy to do with setting up dominos and knocking them over, the punch line of which is “God gives us the dominos, it’s up to us to set them in line.”

I understand why people think it’s a morality tale. But I think the issue is with the word “morality.” It’s very loaded. What it is, I think, is a tale of what happens when you live your life unconsciously. If you sleepwalk through your days, you will bump into things. If you drive a car blindfolded, you will wreck it. It’s easy to say the novel’s serving as retribution. I did struggle with that in my writing. But the blunt fact is—-there are things we cause to happen, there are things we can prevent from happening. And there are things that can’t be prevented at all no matter what we do. No bony finger from the sky points down and damns her to hell. She calls her own self into final account. It’s a sad moment of ultimate consciousness.

The dominos were dealt. She set them up. She knocked them down. In this case.

GF: You write, in one of the most harrowing passages in the novel, about the “three kinds of tears” and “three kinds of grief.” Can you talk a bit about this, and also about your interest in grief, and whether these extremely poignant and wise observations were archetypal or personal for you?

JAE: Incredibly personal. After my father died I suffered from what is known as (and explored in Hausfrau) “complicated grief” for close to two years. I literally cannot remember what happened during that time—-except I must have eaten a lot because when it was done I was really fat. It’s grief on a carousel—-you ride a horse that goes absolutely nowhere. I can’t even say how it ended except that one day it was gone. I believe it was an act of mercy from a sometimes indifferent universe.

As far as tears—-oy vey. My tears and I have come to a mutual understanding and it’s this: I am to let them fall. I’m forty–three years old. I think I’m pretty much the person I’m going to be. I cry. If I shove the tears down, all they do is rally forces and come back stronger and harder. In fact, one of the first things I tell my classes is not to freak out if I start crying in the middle of workshop—-it just means they’re moving me.

GF: You lived in Switzerland for a time. The novel makes much of national characteristics of the Swiss, and in the end, the fact that Anna is not a Swiss citizen, whereas her husband is, seems to play a crucial role in how she imagines what the outcome of her life will be. In what ways are the roles of women different in Swiss culture than in the United States? Americans often imagine that Europeans are infinitely more liberated and sophisticated and worldly than themselves, but aspects of Swiss culture as you develop it seem highly traditional and almost provincial. Now you live in Texas! Keeping in mind that this is of course just one writer’s subjective opinion and that we don’t wish to start a Swiss–Texan war, where is it easier to be a woman? Or at least, where is it easier to be yourself?

JAE: You know what? It is easier to be a woman now, today, here in Texas at forty–three years old and remarried, than it was then. It’s so hard for me to say anything that isn’t colored by my own rough going at the time I lived there. I was very much like Anna in that I was extremely isolated and had absolutely nothing to do with my time (except write). My husband was in school and, while not Swiss, did have his own set of friends and circumstances and reasons for belonging. And yet I’d longed to live an expat life since girlhood. I made the best of it. I was miserable, mind you, but I wouldn’t trade that misery for the world. It’s crucial to my development as a writer, as a soul.

GF: Anna thinks, “. . . if love is not infinite or eternal? Then I want nothing of it.” What are your own opinions on this quote? What is the nature of love—-finite or infinite—-and should we want anything of it? How have your views on love changed over your lifetime?

JAE: Sappy time. I’m not sure I understood what it felt like to be loved before I met my husband, Alvin. This is not to say I hadn’t been loved before. I’m not speaking to that. Our relationship has instructed me that—-to at least one person—-I’m lovable. And likable. That’s a big one with me. It’s far easier to love someone than to like them. It’s a treasure to have both at the same time. How did I get here? Happy accident. Grace of God.

GF: Anna is very skeptical about making a female friend in Switzerland, but eventually becomes close to Mary. I was fascinated by the ambivalent nuances of their relationship. Our mutual colleague Emily Rapp has written (in an essay for The Rumpus, actually): “Here’s the truth: friendships between women are often the deepest and most profound love stories, but they are often discussed as if they are ancillary, ‘bonus’ relationships to the truly important ones. Women’s friendships outlast jobs, parents, husbands, boyfriends, lovers, and sometimes children.” And you, of course, as a professor, a mentor, and a woman who has been twice divorced and spent a fair amount of time living independently without relying on any man, have led a highly different life than your character Anna’s. I’m interested in your own feelings about female friendships and their role in your life and writing.

JAE: I’m still quite close with a couple of women whom I’ve known since first grade. We still have sleepovers sometimes. I have another friend who has (on more than one occasion, I am not as embarrassed to admit as I ought to be) rushed to my house in the middle of one of my panic attacks just to peel me off the ceiling. Emily Rapp herself has sent me a text or two at a crucial moment of chaos. The poet Jessica Piazza is my first and best reader, and I’ve never laughed so hard in my life as I do with her. We go to these conferences and we have each other’s back (and feet—-we share matched tattoos). My husband is important to me. It’s the central relationship in my life. As it should be. But the first thing I did when I met him was pass him under the eyes of all my girlfriends. As much as I liked him, I told them that if they gave him a thumbs down, I would listen because they knew me and loved me. There’s a whole huge sisterhood that undergirds my life. You’re in it. All the women we teach with are in it. The wives and girlfriends of the men we teach with are in it. Our students are in it. The women we read, the women who read us, your children, my nieces, Emily’s baby girl—-all of us. I got your back, gal. You know it.

GF: Hausfrau beats with the heart of a poet. So many lines slice like lines of poetry. “She had confused herself with the actress who portrayed her.” “Make no mistake: everything has a variant. Like versions of truth, like versions of love, there are versions of sleep.” You also have a deep passion for wordplay, which evokes Lorrie Moore in the fiction universe, but is, for those who know your poetry, absolutely one of your trademarks. What’s next for you in your literary life? Do you have any burning desire to write another novel? Are you back to poetry actively, even as Hausfrau is burning down the house? Will you be polyamorous now between the two?

JAE: I’m finishing a collection of poems right now. I think the old gal might have another novel or two in her—-I confess, I do like writing fiction. Don’t tell poetry. She’ll know I’ve been cheating on her!

This interview originally appeared on TheRumpus.net.

Q&A with Dan Barden, author of THE NEXT RIGHT THING

Friday, March 2nd, 2012

Dan-Barden-©-Liz-Pinnick

Jennifer Egan, author of the 2011 Pulitzer Prize winning novel, A Visit From the Goon Squad, interviews Dan Barden about his new book The Next Right Thing.


The Next Right Thing seems both to honor the conventions of the mystery genre, and to bend them in thrilling and amusing ways. Are you a mystery buff? Talk about your relationship to the genre, and if – and how – it moved you to write this novel. Do you see it as a mystery novel?

Yes, I’m mystery buff. Thrillers, noir, hard-boiled crime novels — the whole bag. Hard-boiled, particularly. It’s the kind of book that always goes to the top of the pile. When I was out in the wilderness between novels, I thought really hard about what I wanted to write, and I kept pushing away the idea of a crime novel. I didn’t feel worthy of the genre — it gave me too much pleasure, it was too important to me. But then I went to school on many crime novels that I loved. I typed up the books that I wanted for models — yes, that’s right, I typed up at least five novels, got them into my blood and bones. I was trying to write the best story possible, and I borrowed as many elements from the genre as I could. I’m wary to claim this as a thriller because I don’t want to show up at the door of that club and have someone like Lee Child or James Ellroy or Laura Lippman kick me out.

The central relationship of the novel – one that I’ve never seen explored in fiction before – is that of a recovering alcoholic to his sponsor; indeed, the mysterious death of that sponsor is what sets the story in motion. Talk about the quality of a recovering addict’s relationship to his sponsor, and what made you think of investigating the richness of that relationship here.

I have a lot of friends in recovery. I’m sure they might all answer this question differently, but I’ll tell you what I’ve seen: an alcoholic comes into the process of recovery and he is probably at the lowest point of his life. And into this weird, desperate vacuum comes a sponsor who not only introduces him to his new life, but also to a new community. The situations that I’ve seen are just so wildly beautiful. People are accepted into the community just because they’re standing there. Not because they are lovable or kind or smart or any of those things that they thought were important. My protagonist, Randy Chalmers, says it well in the book. He says, “You just have to be a still-breathing alcoholic.” When I was getting sober, I had a guy like that, too. He told me that I was in much worse shape than I thought I was, but that I was also better than I thought I was. I can’t imagine my life without knowing him.

Likewise, your use of West Coast recovery culture is sublime and unexpected. Was there research involved?

Barden_The Next Right Thing

The research was my life. I’ve had many friends in recovery for many years, and I lived in California until my late twenties. The recovery scene out there is amazing. It’s a big culture. And they really walk to the beat of a different drummer. They have a lot of fun, too. Big wild conventions. A.A. meetings with thousands of people at them.. I’m so glad you think it worked.

I was struck repeatedly by the humor in your novel. How did you achieve it? Whom do you look to for funny writing you can learn from?

In writing this book, one of my great discoveries was that I could write in the voice of someone funnier than I am. I’m not as funny as my friends, for example. I have one friend in mind. I call him once a week just hoping he’ll have time to tell me stories about his life. He’s been sober a long time, too. So, at one point, I just decided to write in his voice. And that worked really well. As far as other models go, Steve Hely’s How I Became A Famous Novelist was a book that totally cracked me up. That was another novel I typed up, just a chapter or two. There’s a certain kind of brilliantly self-involved mind that always gets me. What else? Mambo Kings Play Songs of Love by Oscar Hijuelos. God, that was funny book. Jonathan Tropper is a master of droll narration. I studied him, too.

Randy Chalmers, your detective figure, is a sensational mix of incongruous qualities. Talk about his genesis; how did he take shape in your mind? Do you plan to write about him again?

First of all, he’s grief-stricken. He’s lost his best friend, the man who made his life possible. I know about this kind of grief. The man who got my ass sober died of a heroin overdose himself. For me, it was like getting hit in the face with a shovel. I got very angry about my friend’s death, but there wasn’t much I could do about it. I wanted someone who could cause trouble in a way that I couldn’t — so I made him an ex-cop with an anger management problem. But Randy also has a big heart. He loves his friends to a fault. He is incredibly loyal. He also has the grace, sometimes, to see what a problem he is to himself and others. He struggles mightily against himself. He is a beast and an angel. He’s also an artist — a home designer, to be precise — and that’s something he discovered in his recovery. He’s a guy who pulled a lot of precious gifts from the wreckage of his life. I am writing about him again for sure. I hope to be finished with a second book very soon.


When I read mysteries, I often find that there comes a point when the exigencies of plot crowd out the more literary aspects of the story. That never happened in your book. In writing it, did you experience tension between genre requirements and literary goals?

I’m so glad that you feel that way! Yes, that was the big challenge. I’m sure that’s always the challenge in a book like this that gets its energy from both genre and literary impulses. I worked very to make a book that functioned as a mystery/thriller/crime novel. I felt like I had a pretty good handle on the literary part of the story. The trick was to deliver the questions — and answers — that would satisfy an audience looking for a more action-packed experience. That was the prize that I’ve always dreamed of: a compelling story wrapped around characters who seem alive in the real world.

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