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George Peram's List: Interview
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Sep 04, 10
"always get this piece of advice: write what you know"
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And I feel like fundamentally, we are writing what we know: we're writing about heartbreak, or being lost, or falling in love. But that doesnt mean you should limit yourself to being a 40-year-old, white Caucasian woman in America.
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I feel like you are allowed in fiction to embrace imagination and try to enter other worlds. And I feel like you should push yourself to try to persuade your reader that you have the authority to engage with people who, you know, lived in the past, who live in the future, other genders, other places, other cultures. And it's just a matter of research and time and imagination.
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Ruthless with Scissors
Running with Scissors, Augusten Burroughs's
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Oct 15, 10
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Jhumpa Lahiri on her Debut Novel An Interview with the author
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D. H. Lawrence once said that a novel was the most subtle form we had to demonstrate the interconnectedness of things. Well, that's true, but a novel needn't be subtle. A Widow for One Year (or any other novel by John Irving) isn't subtle.
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There are many autobiographical elements in the novel. Like Eddie, I went to Exeter, and my father taught there. He was one of the school's most popular teachers, however; unlike Minty O'Hare, my father never bored anyone.
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seeking refuge out of doors from our sweltering flats, where there was nothing but a cold shower and ice water to mitigate the hellish heat. This was before the advent of home air conditioning, when a small black electric fan, set on a table to stir up a breeze indoors, offered little relief once the temperature reached the high nineties,
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What people did know was that the disease was highly contagious and might be passed to the healthy by mere physical proximity to those already infected.
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Nov 06, 10
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Margaret Atwood
An Interview
with Jo Scott-Coe
Margaret Atwood arrived at UCLA’s Royce Hall during a blitz of international travel for her novel The Year of the Flood. She stepped up firmly onto a box behind a lectern on the massive stage, and her voice filled the hall as she read. Atwood wore tidy but travel-easy black trousers and a blousy black jacket with asymmetric blocks of fuchsia and orange down the center and on the sleeves. During musical numbers that punctuated her narration, she delicately clapped and bobbed her head or bounced her feet. Afterward, not one of her signature silver curls out of place, she spent nearly two hours at a draped table in the lobby, signing books, nodding to fans, and leaning in for the occasional photo. Atwood smiles with her eyes, rarely showing her teeth.
Margaret Atwood is a complex writer who, not unlike Mary Webster, her legendary ancestor accused of witchcraft, finds herself easily misread. Hasty critics who react to Atwood’s interrogations of gender, politics, religion, and science—pegging her as “antiprogress” or “antimale”—overlook the compassion with which she draws character failings and human suffering, not to mention the wry, winking layers of humor found in even her most biting social critiques. Atwood tests the boundaries between whimsy and social commentary, parody and seriousness, the beautiful and the grim. While the timing of her subject matter is often called prescient, it would be more accurate to say that the author is simply attuned to the world around her.
Atwood spent much of her childhood in a little house without electricity or running water in a remote part of Quebec’s northern woods. Her entomologist father, a professor at the University of Toronto, would pack up the family to visit the woods and study the insects during their active period in spring, summer, and fall. This annual retreat trained her attentiveness, she emphasized to me during our interview, so that she
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