“Pride,” the pelican said, “is at the bottom of all great mistakes.”
~ from The Alehouse at the End of the World
Fiction is often based on reality in one way or another, which is how and why it appeals to us so. But once in a while you come across a story so fantastical, you forget about the real world for a moment; you get lost in the imagination of it all. You read first for entertainment, but later, upon reflection, you return and read it again for insight. Because certain stories–like Stevan Allred’s new novel, The Alehouse at the End of the World (Forest Avenue Press)–strike a familiar chord, hitting on the absurdities of society, the pride of man, the risks we take for love and companionship.
Publishers Weekly calls Allred’s book one that is “sparked with risqué humor. . . . underscored with a strong thematic element of hope.” In pages full of devotion, humility, carnal desire and spiritual conquest, Allred gives readers a delightful tale of one man, his lost love, a congregation of birds who welcome the dead into the underworld, and a quest to save man and bird alike from consumption by a crow.
There are bigger monsters, sure, but I won’t reveal too much. Besides, sometimes the most dangerous are those who look the most like us.
Such a story can only be written by a writer full of wit and craft who himself is willing to take risks, who is unafraid of the strange and unexpected that often comes in giving ourselves over to story.
I’m thrilled to host Stevan to talk about his new novel and excited to offer a book giveaway! CLICK HERE to enter by Tuesday, November 20th, for a chance to win a copy of The Alehouse at the End of the World.
Now, welcome Stevan Allred!
Christi Craig (CC): The Alehouse at the End of the World reads like great mythology, with its old gods and new gods, demi-gods and mortals, and a healthy dose of promiscuity in the mix! But what makes this novel unique is that there isn’t only one hero’s journey to save the world. Each character has his or her own trajectory full of risks, mistakes, sacrifice, and love. You have woven all of this—every character’s move—so seamlessly and beautifully together. I’d love to know more about the seed of the idea for this novel. Where—with what?—does such a complex and imaginative story begin?
Stevan Allred (SA): I was between writing projects, stumbling around on the internet, looking for something to write about, when I discovered the story of James Bartley, a man who claimed to have been swallowed by a whale in 1891. So I started with that, the idea of a man swallowed by a whale, and I gave the man a quest, to find his long lost beloved. Where was she? I was looking to write something free of the tethers of ordinary reality, and I already had the whale bit in mind. I figured if readers were still with me after I had my fisherman swallowed by a whale, I could go anywhere from there, so why not to the Isle of the Dead?
The bird gods in Alehouse are all based on birds that I have some fascination with–crows, pelicans, frigate birds, cormorants. I simply elevated them to the physical, emotional, and intellectual stature of humans, and them gave each of them some extraordinary powers. The needs of the story itself dictated, in some cases, what these powers would be. The cormorant is Alehouse’s google–he has all the answers. The frigate bird was my Costco and Home Depot combined–whatever the characters needed on the Isle of the Dead, he could provide.
CC: The pages of your novel are filled with great imaginative detail and exemplifies your skill in world building. Much of the story takes place in the belly of the Kiamah beast with no curve, corner, or niche ignored in your use of landscape. How best do you visualize such a place? Do you draw a map, sketch an outline, build it from your own experience with the outside world?
SA: In the beginning it feels like I’m climbing a rope that I am braiding together as I climb it. That’s a mysterious process, and it requires an act of faith on my part, but as the details accumulate, each imagined detail makes the fictional world a little bit more real to me. Those details often have consequences, and the consequences will lead me to other details.
An example is that I decided early on that the sun rose in the west and set in the east on the Isle of the Dead, and that has consequences for how the rise and set of the sun light up features of the physical landscape. For most of the time I was writing the novel I kept this landscape in my head, but fairly late in the process I had to make a map of the Isle of the Dead, so I could be sure that I had the lighting right.
CC: You’ve said that in writing this novel you learned to step aside and let the story lead you as you wrote it. What’s your secret to letting go of the reins?
SA: I think of the story as a living entity with whom I have a relationship. That’s a bit fanciful, I know, but it works for me. Because I confer a sense of being on the story I can then listen to the story, and pay attention to what the story needs instead of imposing something on it. Sometimes I dance with the story.
All of these things–“living entity”, “listen to the story”, “dance with the story”–these are metaphors for internal processes. I don’t stand up and pretend to dance with my metaphor, but in my psyche, I make room for that playful notion. I have to get quiet for it to work, shutting out distractions. Sometimes that happens because I rise early to write, and move from sleep to desk relatively quickly before the noise of the everyday world kicks in. Other times I get to the quietness I need by walking the dog, or folding laundry, or pulling weeds. Any fairly mechanical task will do as long as it occupies the front of my mind so the back end can go wandering. You invite the solution to appear, and it does. You have to be patient. And grateful–be sure to thank the story for giving you the answer.
CC: What are you reading these days?
SA: I just finished one of the classics of science fiction, Kindred, by Octavia Butler. It’s a terrific time travel novel, and I’ve followed it up with An American Marriage, by Tayari Jones, which I’m really enjoying.
CC: What’s your favorite background noise as you write: music, the rumble of neighborhood traffic, coffeehouse chatter, or…?
SA: I write early in the morning, often before dawn. I like things to be very quiet when I’m writing. Writing in coffeehouses is impossible for me. I love sitting at my desk as the sun rises, feeling the light change around me while I’m burrowed in deep to my own imagination.
Stevan Allred lives halfway between Hav and the Isle of the Dead, which is to say he spends as much time burrowed into his imagination as he possibly can. He is the author of A Simplifed Map of the Real World: The Renata Stories, and a contributor to City of Weird: 30 Otherworldly Portland Tales. Visit his website and follow him on Twitter.
Don’t forget! Enter the giveaway by Tuesday, November 20th,
for a chance to win a copy of Stevan’s new novel.
Time was limited. People like Ralph, the men, and women who had lived during WWII, would soon be gone. I didn’t want their stories to die with them. Sites of remembrance, including concentration camps, are part of their stories, part of history not to be ignored or forgotten. Such places act as persuasive and effective teachers. Are people still willing to learn?
I’m constantly asked for resources on how people can move forward learning about Indigenous culture, and I’m often repeating the same thing: read books. . . . Indigenous peoples cannot do the work for you. You must dig in and learn yourself, and the best way to do that is lean into our cultures. Learn about us. Do your research, and then we can have a conversation that isn’t a one-sided history or cultural lesson.
Writers work successfully in so many different ways, I never assume that what works for me is best for someone else. But if a common denominator exists among us, it might be attitude: the enterprise of writing a book has to feel like walking into a cathedral. It demands humility. The body of all written words already in print is vaulted and vast. You think you have something new to add to that? If so, it can only come from a position of respect: for the form, the process, and eventually for a reader’s valuable attention.
Details play a significant role in our writing, whether we write poems, essays or novels. Details build story, deepen story, and provide more ways for readers to connect with story.
…with space, an invitation, and a gentle push from another writer facing similar challenges, we are more likely to show up at the table and set pen to paper. We are more likely to encourage the writer across from us and–together–create more art.