Carol Wobig Archives - Christi Craig

“‘Ginny,’ I whispered into the darkness. ‘Ginny.’ I was no longer Mother Adalbert, Addie, superior of a community of two thousand women. Drunks and hordes of mosquitos were my community now. One landed on my arm. I let it pierce my flesh, drink my blood–my contribution to the world for the day.” ~ from “On My Knees” in The Collected Stories

If you’ve been a subscriber to this blog for a while, you know I love to introduce you to new books, spotlight up-and-coming authors, tempt you with good stories. Today’s Author Q&A is no different, except in format.

Carol Wobig is local author who published her full collection of short stories with a local publisher, Lisa Rivero at Hidden Timber Books, and she worked with a local editor: me. The three of us, then, constitute a Wisconsin triad of literary strength, bringing these wonderful stories into the literary light 🙂 Because of that, I’ve invited both Lisa and Carol to talk about Carol’s new book of short fiction entitled, The Collected Stories.

About the Book

Carol Wobig writes with unfailing sensitivity and empathy and in language that rings clear and true. In these seventeen stories and monologues, Wobig introduces us to grieving widows and questioning nuns, daughters intent on saving their mothers and mothers unsure how to save their children, each of whom faces the question we all must ultimately ask: how to save ourselves. Her characters and their experiences will live in the minds and hearts of readers long after the last page is turned.

Sensitivity, empathy, language clear and true. All those things make for easy editing. But it’s the stories themselves that make this project memorable. Running through the pages of the collection is a thread of humility and grace, soothing as much as it is satisfying, with characters whose dialogue and inner thoughts pull at you in familiar ways and whose subtle humor eases any heartache.

Read the Q&A, enjoy an excerpt from the collection below, and–as always–there’s a giveaway (courtesy of Hidden Timber Books). Enter the giveaway HERE (deadline: Tuesday, December 26th).

On Story

Christi Craig (CC): Lisa, what drew you to Carol’s stories?

Lisa Rivero (LR): I first heard Carol read from her stories at a Red Oak Roundtable, and I fell in love immediately with her memorable characters, her authentic voice, her clear-eyed and compassionate perspective on the world. She makes what she does look easy because there is nothing fancy or extra, no misplaced or awkward words to stumble on, but that clarity is the result of many, many drafts and close attention to detail. Her stories are mesmerizing.

CC: Carol, when you wrote these stories, were you inspired first by character, setting, or theme?

Carol Wobig (CW): This was a question that led to some thinking on my part, and in the end I realized that I often start from a person or object I’ve seen in passing. The piano in the snow I saw years ago in my neighborhood on my way to work. At the time thought I would use it in a story one day. And Marge arose from a woman I saw on a Sunday morning in the coffee shop where I write. She was dressed for church, I guessed, in a hat and sensible heels, and was in an intense conversation with a young man I imagined to be her son. Later on, they came together for the story.

My settings are always small-town and rural Wisconsin, the place I love. I grew up here, moved to San Diego for twenty years, but moved back when I was forty-five; I missed the trees and seasons so much.

When I started writing, I read what I think might have been hundreds of how-to books. The advice in one I’ve always followed is start your story with the day your character’s life changes. My themes grow out of that.

On Characters

CC: Lisa, this collection is full of memorable characters. Two of my faves: Sister Beatrix in “What Choice Do We Have” and Marge in “The Piano” and “Shoulder to Shoulder.” I’m curious, which character(s) would you love to read more about?

LR: All of them! I mean it. But if I had to choose, I agree with you on Marge (of course!) and Sister Beatrix (did she stay in the convent?) . And Alice (does she find reciprocated love?). And Kenny (please tell me he turns out alright). And Gwen…

CC: As a writer, Carol, which of the character(s) would you love to explore further?

CW: When I was re-reading the stories, I felt like I wanted to continue on with all of my people, see what happens next. They become like friends for me, eventually.

On Upcoming Works

CC: Lisa, what is next on the publishing front?

LR: I’m going to take a break from new projects for a year or two and am looking forward to getting the word out about Carol’s book and a new poetry chapbook by Yvonne Stephens: The Salt Before It Shakes.

CC: What about you, Carol? What are you writing these days?

CW: Right now, I’m working on Marge. And in the future, maybe something about my caretaking experiences, and about a rare disease I have, acromegaly, that there isn’t much written about.

Excerpt from “Shoulder to Shoulder” (Marge)

Looking at herself was a trial. She’d always been large, big-boned her mother had said, and now her skin, rippled and crinkled, hung from those bones. And the teeth. Always the teeth. There never had been the money for braces. Now there was life insurance money, but she should keep that for house repairs, if she didn’t do herself in. No, she wasn’t going to do herself in. Irene needed her, and Freddie was coming to visit. He’d called last night. She turned away from the mirror, switched to her patent-leather purse and dusted off her black flats. Better to be overdressed than under.

She’d thought about asking Melody to take her to the airport to pick up Freddie, but while her daughter was over her snit about not getting the piano, she and her brother didn’t always get along. And Freddie didn’t sound—she couldn’t put her finger on it — just didn’t sound like Freddie. Had he lost his job? Was he homeless?

At the airport — how’d she found it and parked without an accident she wasn’t sure — Marge stood like an island amidst the rush of travelers laden with backpacks and rolling suitcases, all wearing jeans. She read the screen telling her where her son would arrive, but did not realize she couldn’t go through security without a ticket. So she waited where the agent told her to and kept pressing the folds of the skirt close to her thighs to minimize her width. Why had she worn this dress? She felt like a float in a parade.

People hurried towards her up the ramp alone and in bunches, and after a long gap Freddie appeared. Ah, yes. Her son, looking older, tanned, thin, too thin. She waved to him, was surprised by the tears that threatened. He strode toward her and hugged her, a maneuver so unexpected that she stood there, engulfed in his arms like a statue. They weren’t a hugging family.

A younger man stood to Freddie’s left, smiling.

“This is my friend, Jeff,” her son said.

“Nice to meet you,” she said, and shook his extended hand. Did he need a ride, too? She wasn’t running a taxi service.

“Jeff wants to see the Midwest,” Freddie said. “I hope it’s okay that I brought him along.”

“Oh, sure. We have lots of room.” How like her Freddie. To take in a stray, to not tell her. Was the roast in the crock pot enough for dinner?

He had driven home, much to her relief. She sat in the back seat, to give Jeff a better view. As she mentally inventoried the refrigerator for ingredients for side dishes to add to dinner, she worried about Freddie. His ears looked huge, stood out from the tight skin on his neck and jaw.

“Sure smells good,” he said, as they walked up the back steps into the kitchen.

“I’m going upstairs to change,” Marge said. “We’ll eat in a minute.” In the bedroom, she unzipped the dress, hung it up, pinned a note to it that said “Burial Dress.”

About the Author

Inspired by the stories of Alice Munro, Carol Wobig started writing when she retired from making sauce in a pizza factory. Her award-winning work has appeared in Rosebud and other literary journals, and her monologues have been performed in community theater.

Learn more at carolwobig.com.

Don’t Forget! Enter the giveaway for a chance
to win a copy of The Collected Stories.

I met Carol Wobig through RedBird-RedOak Writing. In person, she’s an amazing, calm, and kind soul. Her writing reflects the same with stories that are quietly funny yet full of great images and emotion. At a recent book launch, she read from her collection, POACHED IS NOT AN OPTION, and I asked–almost immediately–if I could share an excerpt here. After she agreed, my only challenge was choosing which story to highlight; they are all excellent.

Tying Up to the Pier

Rachel lives in town. She takes me shopping on Wednesdays, which I do appreciate. She’s the youngest of my kids, and the bossiest. She has a list of things I should do: sell the cottage, move into town, fix my bunions, cut my hair. I look like the old lady that I am, my grey hair in a scrawny knot, my fat covered with polyester pants and flowered tops from Wal-Mart.

She supervises me all day long when we shop.

“Mom, do you see that curb? Mom, do you need to use the rest room? Mom, don’t order that. It’s full of fat.”

I’m only seventy-eight, not a hundred and eight.

So, it’s Wednesday and I have to put away these groceries, but first I need to get these loafers off. I only wear them when I go out to keep Rachel happy, and I do look with love on my old tennies when I walk in the door. Wally cut holes in them to relieve the pressure on my bunions.

It is odd to come home to an empty house. Wally’s coffee cup still sits on the counter with a spoon standing in it, a “Gone Fishing” note under its edge, the paper yellow and curled. It was his dream, this cottage. We moved out here for good when he retired. I love it, too, but yesterday I noticed that the front porch is leaning forward a bit. Maybe it needs to be propped up. What would that cost? And I can’t really keep up with the outside work. The trees are starting to drop their leaves. Next will be the snow. What will I do about that?

Another problem. All summer, I’ve slept on a lawn chair out on the porch. Some nights I start out in the bedroom, but before long I’m out on the porch. It isn’t death, that Wally died in the bed. I knew it was coming, and in the end found myself wanting it to come for his sake and mine. I’ve washed everything, aired it out for weeks, but still can’t breathe when I lie down in there.

And my worst problem is the pictures. Not only did Rachel take dozens at every Christmas and birthday, but she fixed them in frames, brought them over and hung them on the walls and arranged them on every flat surface in the cottage. Even in the bathroom. Now I have to walk through the place like an old horse with blinders. They’re attacking me. I could just take them down, but she’d have a fit.

Lots of the pictures are of Wally and his best buddy Willy. I know, Wally and Willy, the teasing never stopped. Willy’s tying up at the pier right now. He just threw a stringer of fish out of the boat, is hoisting himself up onto the pier.

I meet him at the fish table by the back door. “Nice catch.”

“Got a couple of perch.” He holds them up by the gills.

I sit on an overturned bucket, rest my back against the warm shingles. Scales fly up his arms and into the white hair fuzzing up over his undershirt.

“Just one’ll do,” I say, when he hands me four fillets.

“Sometimes I forget he’s gone.”

“Not me,” I say. “I’ve got all of these damn pictures looking back at me day and night.”

“Just take them down. I can do it for you.” He wraps his fillets in newspapers and hoses down the table.

“It’s not that simple.” I sweep the fishy water out onto the grass.

“Rachel?”

“I’m afraid of her.” I laugh, but it’s the truth. “I’m afraid she’ll think I’ve gone off the deep end and haul me off to the home.”

“I’ll stand up for you,” Willy says and buttons up the plaid shirt he’s taken off before he cleaned the fish so Shirley didn’t get mad at him. He has his fears, too.

“Thanks,” I say. ”We’ll see what happens.” I stand at the top of the stairs and watch him walk back down to the lake, the bundle of fish under his arm. He looks up and waves before he pulls away from the pier.

That night, the temperature drops. I wrap myself up in two of the kids’ old sleeping bags, and add one of Wally’s knit hats and a pair of gloves to my ensemble. Cold as it is, one lost mosquito buzzes around my neck until I give up and let the damn thing bite me. I can’t sleep anyway. The cottage. The leaves. The snow. The pictures. The cold. If I move the wrong way, the cold sneaks in and I have to readjust everything.

In the morning, warm in my cocoon, I listen to the radio I keep out here. A cold front is on the way. Now what? I don’t really want to wake up under a blanket of frost. Wally died on May 12^th, almost six months ago. I do know what Oprah’s advice would be: I should kick myself in the butt and move on. The other day she said that if you want something, you should imagine it first.

So, I get dressed and take my coffee down to the lake, sit on our old boat that’s pulled up on the shore, close my eyes, and try to get my imagination in gear. The sun warms my face, the lake laps the shore, and next thing I know I fall asleep and dump the coffee in my lap.

“Hey, Anita,” Willy putters up to the pier, cuts the engine “I need to talk to you.”

I walk out on the pier. My wet pants slap against my thighs.

“I forgot to tell you yesterday,” he says after we have a good laugh about my pants, “I told Wally I’d take care of the yard for you, and the snow.”

“Oh, yeah?” I fold my arms and look over toward the island so he doesn’t see my eyes fill up. “That’ll be great. I was worried.” Wally, my sweet Wally, taking care of me from the other side.

“And I’ll see if I can find somebody to brace up the porch before it snows,” Willy adds. He pulls the cord on the motor and backs away from the pier. “I’ll get back to you.”

“Thanks,” I say and watch him guide his boat out to the middle of the lake and drop a line.

All that’s left is the pictures. What would Wally want me do? He’d want me to be comfortable in the cottage he loved. Protect me from Rachel, I say to him and walk back up the hill.

I carry all the pictures out to the kitchen table, open up frame after frame, and drop the photographs into plastic grocery bags. The frames I stack in a box for Rachel and wait for her daily death call. At 11:01 the phone rings.

“I’m out shopping.” she says. “Do you need anything?”

“I do,” I say. “A bucket of white paint.”

“What are you going to paint?”

“I want to do some touch-up work.”

“Not in the living room. You’re not going to take down all those …”

“Oh, I’m losing you,” I say and hang up. My people on “The Guiding Light” do that all the time, but it’s a first for me. Feels good, until after lunch, when I hear the crunch of tires on the gravel in the driveway.

. . . .

Carol Wobig spent a few years in a convent and many more years working in a pizza factory, before she retired and started writing. Her monologues were performed in community theater, and her stories attracted fans in Gray Sparrow Journal, Clapboard House Journal, and on Milwaukee Public Radio’s Flash Fiction Friday. Contact Carol at carolwobig415@msn.com. You can purchase a copy of POACHED IS NOT AN OPTION, on Amazon, on Nook, and at Milwaukee’s East Side independent bookstore, Boswell Books.

Tag: Carol Wobig

Author Q&A: Carol Wobig, The Collected Stories