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Author InterviewsTucker MalarkeyDave Weich, Powells.com
Ingrid Holtz, an American academic, has traveled from her Midwestern university to Pelat, a remote island off the coast of Africa, to find her missing professor and… what else? Something more. In fact, everyone on the island seems to be searching for something: Finn, an expatriate American raised since boyhood by Swahilis halfway around the world from his roots; Stanley Wicks, who's fled England to establish the comforts of his abandoned European home in this tropical paradise; and Templeton, Ingrid's enigmatic professor, missing for months, out charting the origins of Islam on the east Africa coast. A senior editor at Tin House, Malarkey is no stranger to literary circles. Before studying at the Iowa Writers Workshop, she worked at The Washington Post. Still, a first book is a first book, and the year between her contract and her published novel was an education. Before she gets herself too deep into her follow-up (which takes place in Italy), she talked about the process of writing and publishing her first.
Dave: As a first-time novelist, was the publishing experience what you thought it would be? Tucker Malarkey: It was much more involved than I'd expected. I was naïve to think I'd sell a book and then just start on the next one. I've been wrapped up with the business of this book, whether it be editing or being on the road, for a year. It's intense. You really sell the book again and again. To an agent, to an editor, then to the rest of the editorial staff and the sales staff and the marketing staff, then the foreign sales and the audio. It's unbelievable; it never ends. The media is in there somewhere, and finally at the end of it all, you sell it to the public, but by then … it's been tiring. And it's been strange to be commodified. I think Random House saw that I wasn't a toad, and they thought, Okay, we'll trot her out. Writing is isolated and solitary, and while I like people a lot, I'm somewhat antisocial. Dave: What about the editing process? Malarkey: Well, my book changed. It really did. Originally, there was a lot more anthropological content, a lot more feverish, hallucinogenic meditation, and those are risky things for the publisher of a first novel. Of course, some of them got taken out. It's still the book I wrote, and people who read the original manuscript feel that way – the tone is there and all that – but there's some stuff, some of the more beautiful writing, I miss. It's gone. Dave: How did you come to write about this remote island off the coast of Africa? Malarkey: About nine years ago, I spent a couple years in Africa, which is where and when I decided to write fiction. Right out of college, I'd gone to The Washington Post and gotten onto a fast journalistic track. I knew it wasn't right for me. I did magazine work and felt like something wasn't quite fitting. Meanwhile, I read about this island that didn't have cars or phones, and I got this crazy notion that it would be the place where I would figure things out. So I went alone, without a plan – it was the most idiotic thing, and everyone told me so, but it still felt right. I went for a couple months and wound up staying two years. I learned more there than I would have learned in a decade here. It's an intense place. You're faced with yourself, and you don't have the distractions of a consumer culture. I applied to graduate school from Africa. Some of my original manuscript is in this book. Dave: So when you enrolled in the Iowa Writers Workshop, you'd already started An Obvious Enchantment? Malarkey: Right. I went, and the head of the workshop, Frank Conroy, gets together with all the students and chats with them about their manuscripts. He said, "You know, this African thing, it's nice, but I would move on. It's been done." I was devastated. I obviously didn't have much experience, but I thought, Wow, the African thing's been done. So I did move on, and I wrote a different kind of novel, your requisite autobiographical novel. I went back to this one because it haunted me. I wanted to explore the themes. Working on a novel is a commitment, it's like dating someone for three years. You have to like them and be interested in them. You have to want to go deep. Dave: How did Iowa change you as a writer? Malarkey: I was one of the people that belonged there simply because I started writing serious fiction at a relatively late age. I had a lot to learn. Not that I learned it all at Iowa. I learned maybe two things there. Dave: What were they? Malarkey: One was from my teacher Deborah Eisenberg, who is wonderful. She said, "When you read a story or a book and you're thinking to yourself, God, I'm so stupid and this writer is so smart. I could never have thought of that, then you've probably read something very good. But when you read something you love and you whip through and you think, I probably could have done that, then you've read something great." I think it's true: I like the kind of book that doesn't have a price tag on it. You know work went into it, but you don't feel it. The writer isn't saying, "This is how hard it was for me and these are all the words I know. This is how superior I am." Russian novels are very much like that; the narrator and the ego are absent. You're just aware of the story. That's the kind of writing I prefer. The second thing I learned was that on one end of the spectrum of literature you have Danielle Steel and on the other, say, Thomas Pynchon or William Faulkner. The Danielle Steel type of writer jumps on your belly and rams things down your throat. You don't have a chance to interpret; they're doing it all for you. On the other end, with the more difficult writers, you struggle, you might need help. You get lost. But in the middle of those extremes, there's an interactive area between reader and writer; the reader shakes the hand of the writer and works a little. It's an alchemical thing, a contract. That's the kind of writing I want to do. But Iowa as a place is really funny. Really, it's just protected time. They ask you to do very little. The trick is getting in. Once you're there… you don't really have to go to seminar; you don't really have to do anything. It's so odd. But it's the biggest gift, really, the time. Dave: A lot of people say you can't teach writing, but I've never felt that was entirely true. You can't make a great writer, but you can teach discipline, at least through example, and that's the biggest part of writing, I think. If you don't have the talent, you'll probably figure out sooner or later that writing's not for you, but you'll never know if you don't make a serious commitment to it. Malarkey: Definitely. And I would add that writing goes fine until something breaks. Then you have to know how to fix it. That's the other thing I should have added to what I learned at Iowa. At that point, it's useful to know how to talk about fiction. Is the problem in the narrative? Is it in the tense? It's a walk in the park until something doesn't work. The discipline and those kinds of things are very tangible, and you can teach them. Dave: That part of the education would seem to apply directly to your job as an editor at Tin House. Do you like being on that end of the business? Malarkey: I love editing. It's like a puzzle. Some writers deliver polished pieces; others, you don't know what they were thinking. It's as if they sat down for two hours, put it in an envelope, and sent it to you – and these are writers who have big names, so we can't just throw the manuscripts away. It's interesting being on both ends. As an editor, I tend to be very protective of the writer. I've worked on some things that we haven't ended up accepting, and it's devastating for the writer. You develop a relationship, then you have to drop the piece. Dave: Did that help you through the process of dealing with the editors at Random House who worked on your book? Malarkey: My editor for this novel… I've come to love her, but I never knew that an editor could just say "No." We'd be talking about a paragraph or a sentence or a structural issue, and I would bring something up that I'd thought about for days, and she'd say after a nanosecond, "That's just not under discussion." I'd be stunned. I thought, You can do that? And of course, you can't; the writer does have the ultimate say. I did get more courageous. You have to talk things through and compromise, but there were so many times that I felt as if I were in a court of law and she was the better lawyer. She's fantastic, though. She really cared about the book, and she put so much time into it. We talked on weekends. A lot of editors have become business people – they're trying to make Christmas deadlines or Mother's Day – and they're interested in packaging and moving product, not improving the manuscript, which isn't cost efficient. So I was really lucky. Dave: What do you think of the book now that it's done? Malarkey: What I'm finding is that it appeals to a lot of different kinds of people. People have been drawn to very different aspects of the book, which makes me happy. I wanted to write a book that wasn't gender-specific or age-specific or even culture-specific. I like that part of it, but I haven't read it through again, to be honest. Dave: I can see how people would react to different things. Much of what I've been reading about it focuses on the fact that it's set on a remote island in the Indian Ocean, but it's not entirely removed from our culture because the main character is an American academic. Then again, it's not an intellectual story exactly, either, because Ingrid is a slightly different kind of character in that sense. Also there's Finn, who's a bit unique too, a puzzle to Ingrid and to the reader. Malarkey: I think it is hard to define. The narrative follows three different stories that weave together. There are a lot of searches going on, a lot of them about faith, different kinds of faith: faith in other, faith in a higher being, faith in culture, faith in academia. I think both Ingrid and Finn have reached a point in their lives where their old tricks aren't working anymore. They have to grow, which is always hard news, right? You're avoiding some kind of evolution or development. Ingrid goes to this place partly to escape that and to look for something else. Ultimately, what she has to deal with is inside her. And what Finn has to resolve is different. He has a completely different cultural paradigm. He's got deep issues of faith and of how he fits into this culture, this island where he was raised which isn't technically his own. They're both torn and alienated, but for different reasons. Then it's also about Stanley Wicks and the encroachment of Western civilization, which is happening everywhere. Traditional peoples are going up in smoke, and we don't even know what we're destroying. The Swahili aren't going to be around much longer. There was the sadness of that, the fragility of these cultures, that I wanted to write about. You introduce alcohol to a Muslim island and it doesn't take long for the culture to fall apart. Dave: When I saw that you'd started writing in Africa, I was reminded of Paul Theroux, who was here about six months ago. He also started writing in Africa. It's where he was first published, and so much of his writing deals with those same issues, the encroachment of capitalism and American culture, how it's changing even the most remote places. Malarkey: It's very sad. Once you open your heart to it, your heart breaks. America is such a young, bumbling country. Well-meaning, but I think very clumsy. Dave: In the Portland Mercury, a reviewer compared Ingrid to a grown-up Nancy Drew. Malarkey: I just saw that yesterday. At first, I was horrified, but by the end of the article I really liked the writer [Monica Drake]. I thought she was smart. I thought what she meant was that Ingrid is a new kind of role model, a new kind of intellectual role model, a woman out there searching, putting things together, active mentally. That's what I thought. What did you think? Dave: I thought she was panning you. No, I thought it was interesting, and it goes back to what you were saying about different people taking very different things from the story. The reviewer meant it in a very complimentary way, as I read it. I hadn't thought of Nancy Drew, but afterwards, I thought, Yes, that's a whole part of the story. Ingrid is searching, looking for answers, searching for clues. She's a strong woman at the front of the story, who, in a lot of ways, really isn't so strong. Malarkey: Her intellectual facilities are well-developed and they defend her very well, but in Africa, that's not enough. It works in an academic environment or an urban environment, but attitude does not work in the Third World. Her defenses are ineffective. Okay, you have words and you have intellect; I'll give you silence. Then what are you going to do? This is what undoes her, and yet she's drawn to it. It's a huge challenge. Dave: What are you reading these days when you're reading for pleasure? Malarkey: Harry Potter. I'm on the fourth book. Dave: Excellent. Have you read them all in a row? Malarkey: I have. I have a wonderful neighbor who's fourteen, and she's been talking to me about them for a long time. I decided, what the hell, as soon as I started going on the road I was going to read them. And it's perfect. It's wonderful storytelling. I'm also reading Stendhal and things that are a little more difficult, but at the moment I'm more drawn to the Harry Potter. It's so much fun. Dave: I just finished Philip Pullman's trilogy, and I loved it. I got so lost in it that when I had to go back and start reading adult fiction again I was so disappointed. Malarkey: It's hard! Dave: People were laughing at me, but I was really into it. I think it's important, as a reader but especially as a bookseller, to recognize that readers can't be pigeonholed. I think it's important to keep trying new types of stories, different kinds of books. One of the things I enjoy most about this job is the outrageous variety of stuff that comes across my desk. It keeps reading fun. Malarkey: It's interesting because the other market force now outside of Harry Potter is Oprah. And I've resisted Oprah just like I'd resisted Harry Potter, yet they've both gotten outrageous numbers of people reading. A lot of readers who may have been locked into the romance genre, for instance, have crept out and really found a home with her books. Dave: And she does a good job. We make fun of her here, too, just because of how much power she has, but the truth is that she generally picks pretty good books. They tend to be a certain kind of book, but so what? If the audience is looking for it, cheers to Oprah for pointing them to a decent read. That said, I should admit that somewhere in the marketing material for your book, someone had called it a love story. I tried not to let that affect my reading, but then by the time I got to the end I really thought, Wait, this wasn't really a love story at all! Malarkey: It's not. Actually, I just did an interview with Ed Goldberg at KBOO, and he thanked me for not writing a romance novel. When he started reading, he thought that's what it was going to be and he was relieved to find out he was wrong. There's a romance in there, but it's not a romance novel. First of all, there's no sex, though I don't know if we want to tell the audience that. Dave: Maybe there's a little. Malarkey: Maybe there is. But right, it's not a romance novel. Dave: How many books have no relationships in them whatsoever? It's pretty much the central theme of literature. Malarkey: Well, Random House made some critical decisions. Women buy eighty percent of the fiction out there, so they decided to appeal to smart women, basically. That makes things much easier for them, marketing-wise. It affected the cover design and what they put on the jacket, the magazines I've been in and the rest. It's limiting, but they have to take some kind of approach – or all those people will lose their jobs! Dave: So what will you do next? Will you write another novel now? Malarkey: Absolutely. I'm so eager to work on it. Whenever I get a chance to work on it it feels like drinking from the well, it's so nourishing. It takes place in Italy, and I'm going there on a fellowship in November for about eight weeks to work on it. I've already done all the research, which I've done at your store. I did practically all of my research for this one at your store, too. Seriously, it's better than the library. Dave: What's going on at Tin House? I loved the conversation between Kurt Vonnegut and Lee Stringer in the second issue. It's quite different from other literary journals. Malarkey: And that was intentional. The mission was to make a literary magazine that was more appealing, easier to read, more entertaining. We did a lot of asking around before we actually sat down to make the magazine, and we found out that nobody reads literary magazines except the people who want to get published in them. People will choose novels over quarterlies almost every time. We wanted to make a literary quarterly that was more fun. One of my favorite sections is "Lost and Found," writers writing about books that are hard to find or out of print. I think it's brilliant because there are so many books that have been lost. "The Readable Feast," too, literature with food recipes. Features like that make it more accessible and/or relevant. Tin House still has some rough edges, but the fact that we're a bi-coastal staff will keep the magazine interesting. There's a real dynamic there. If you have a regional office, that comes out in the product, I think. You're limited. Of course, the New York editorial office wants to do things that are cool in New York, and we'll read them and say, "This isn't really cool at all." They'll tell us, "You have no idea. It's really cutting edge," and we'll say, "Yeah, but it's bad!" We have really interesting, constructive dialogues. They're very democratic. We talk once a week on the speakerphone. I don't think I know of another magazine that's attempting to do quite what we are. We have so many different kinds of people, ages and socio-economic backgrounds, that it tends to generate a more interesting selection of material. Dave: The format is great. On a very basic level, it's simply more readable. Most literary journals are so unappealing visually. You look at them and immediately feel like the reading is going to be like work. Malarkey: They're generally just text and text and more text. There's nothing breaking it up. We're such a visual culture now that it would be stupid not to think about things like white space and margins and the amount of ink on the word. We really thought about all of that. The trick is to get somebody to keep reading. I think it's been working; people seem to really like it. And at least they can do the crossword if nothing else. Dave: That's a good example of how it really is more fun. People do want to have fun sometimes when they're reading or thinking about books. It shouldn't have to be a dry, somber experience. Malarkey: Life is hard enough! The first time I spoke to Tucker Malarkey, which was about a year before this interview, I'd called to ask her a question about Tin House. Someone else was in the room with her, and Tucker was laughing on the phone. Having known me for all of fifteen seconds, she proceeded to let me in on a very funny joke. A couple months after that memorable conversation, I met her husband, who proved to be every bit as kind. I hadn't
actually met Tucker face-to-face until she visited Powell's City of Books
on September 19, 2000 to read from An Obvious Enchantment. After this
interview, we headed across the street from the Internet Annex to find a scene
that I can only describe as a joyous homecoming – Tucker has lived here
since 1996 – and if I missed a member of Portland's literary scene among
the audience in the Pearl Room that night, well, odds are they were lurking
somewhere in the huge, talkative crowd. Tucker's reading was a celebration
of sorts for local writers and fans of good books. She's the kind of person
you can't help rooting for.
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Don't Miss
Tucker Malarkey's debut novel,
