Aimee Bender
to an unexpected and interesting place. Is it wrong to see this idea at work in some of your stories? What do you think stories "need" to do?
AB: There's a scene in Glen David Gold's new book, Sunnyside, where he has Charlie Chaplin discussing 'character' with Mary Pickford, and Chaplin confesses to her that the character in his latest film doesn't change. He seems worried about it, and even a little thrilled about it. And she realizes he's right- the character in his film stays the same! Is that allowed? And it feels like a good diving board into a conversation about that same topic in fiction. So- as far as what a story needs to do- I guess I feel like some sort of movement has to happen, but it doesn't have to be inside the character. It can be outside the character, or just inside the reader in some inexplicable way. So I'd agree with what that author said about the interesting place. I do think there's a difference between an anecdote and a story, and an anecdote is more of a fun telling with a kind of punchline, and a story has to create some kind of shift, tap into something deeper. But I don't like story rules, in general, and the idea that the character must change doesn't ring true to me. We've all known plenty of people (including ourselves!) who haven't changed and there are many stories to be told about that. AM: What struck me as I recently reread your first collection was how unafraid you seem as a writer, even in your first work. Whether your characters change or not, they lay themselves bare, for the reader and often for the other characters. I'm thinking of "Call My Name," or "Fell This Girl." There's boldness in your choices with form and craft, too - the structure of "Fugue," the unexpectedness of "Quiet Please" - and so I'm wondering: where do you draw confidence from? What voices (inner or not) have told you to be bold in writing? AB: Thanks, that's really good to hear. It's hard to answer. When I was writing the Flammable Skirt stories, I'd finally felt freed to write what I wanted to write. For years I'd felt a kind of constricted desire to write what I thought I should write, and I'd often go to panels/conferences/lectures and feel deflated. There was so much prescriptive advice, and so much realism and so many dour thoughts on the short story's future. But something did tip, and I started to feel fed up with the little box I'd been putting myself inside, and I wanted to play with all those things you mention- form, voice, reality, whatever. I strongly feel that fiction is much more flexible than we often think it is and we treat it with too mucl1 careful kid glove reverent care. In fact, one of the greatest things about writing fiction at all is how amazingly flexible it is. How we can jump in time a hundred years in one sentence, or make people fly or tell secrets or act out. I guess what I'm saying is there is plenty of fear and inhibition in me and the fight is to overcome it and the better work seems to happen when I get so sick of my own restrictions that I just go for something. I do have lots of encouragement- from family, teachers, mentors, friends. A friend of mine used to go with me to readings in San Francisco and if I felt bad afterward, if something had seemed too 'clubby' or defeatist, she'd blow it off and 46
FUGUE#37