On Stiltsville: A Novel — An Interview with Susanna Daniel

“This is what it means to be part of a family. There are no maps and the territory is continually changing. We are explorers,
traveling in groups.”
~ From Stiltsville

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Seconds after I read the first page of Susanna Daniel’s debut novel, Stiltsville, I closed the book quick. I was in the middle of the after-school hustle (homework, dinner, baths and bed), and after taking in the opening paragraphs, I thought, This is gonna be good. I didn’t want to start the story until I could do so with the least amount of interruptions.

I should back up. The cover of Stiltsville is what hooked me first, with its beautiful image of a house on stilts — a dream-like vision of something mystical and maybe unreachable. Daniel’s story inside follows suit. Stiltsville is a tale of relationships and marriage, and the house on stilts serves as the backdrop, as a reminder that much in life is magical, and sometimes fleeting. Daniel writes about this sense of place with authority and vivid detail, so that I felt not like a reader looking in, but as if I were actually present.

I loved so much in this book, from the beginning when Frances and Dennis first meet, through to the end when I became witness to endearing moments between husband and wife. There are passages in the book, like the quote at the top of this post, that gave me pause and insisted I read them again. I am honored to interview Susanna Daniel here today, where she talks about her novel and writing.

(For a chance to win a copy of her book, leave a comment at the end of this post. I’ll draw a winner on Tuesday, March 15th.)

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CC: Your biography on the back flap of your novel mentions that you spent much of your childhood at your family’s own stilt house in the Biscayne Bay, and the setting in your novel plays a strong role in the story — both literally and  metaphorically. How much of your experience with the real Stiltsville  informed your novel?

Susanna Daniel

SD: I think often with first novels, the most vividly autobiographical element of a novel is the setting — and this is true of STILTSVILLE. As a child, my family visited our stilt house monthly, for the weekend, and I had many of the same experiences there that the family of a novel does: jumping off the porch at high tide, slinging water balloons at  sailboats, walking the flats in old shoes and avoiding all the dangers that lurk there, sleeping on the porch, watching storms from inside, and so on.

CC: In an essay you wrote for Slate.com, you talk about the time it took to get Stiltsville from its “conception” to its place on the shelves, “a staggering 10 years.” Now that you are working on your second novel, has your writing process changed? Are there any new techniques or rituals that you practice?

SD: The actual act of sitting down and staring at the computer screen hasn’t changed much, the gritty work of laying down the story — but with the first novel I earned the luxury of time, at least for a little while. So instead of squeezing my writing sessions into the mornings before work and late nights, I work regular hours, four days a week  (my son is home with me the fifth day), and on the weekends, I usually manage to let one good session in when my husband takes our son skiing or sledding or  errand running.

I don’t think writing one novel taught me much about writing another, but it did give me some confidence that I’m able to do it, at least. I am better organized this time around, and I have a stronger grip on where the story is headed at any given time. With STILTSVILLE, I had written several chapters late in the novel  before I’d written the second or third. There’s nothing wrong with that, but it meant that I was doing a lot of gutting of the manuscript that, if I’d written from start to finish, I might have avoided.

CC: Writers work in isolation, but we thrive in communities, local or online. Where have you found the greatest community of writers who support and encourage your work?

SD: For a lot of writers, there’s a fine line between too many cooks in the kitchen and too few. I have one close friend from graduate school who has published extensively, who is invaluable to me as a reader. I also participate in a small writing group here in my adopted hometown of Madison, Wisconsin, which is home to many excellent published novelists — these women act not only as my readers, but as a support group as we navigate the pressures, disappointments, and jubilation of publishing.

CC: What are you reading these days?

SD: I’m reading Karl Marlantes’ excellent MATTERHORN, a classic South Floridian historical potboiler called A LAND REMEMBERED (this is research), and Leah Stewart’s wonderfully compelling HUSBAND & WIFE. I’ve been writing a lot, which means my reading is slower than usual.

CC: Do you have any advice for writers on the rise?

SD: My advice, always, is not to worry at all about publishing, and to concentrate completely on the story you want to tell and the voice in which you want to tell it. Find a workshop or graduate program or trusted reader — whatever one suits you — and get as much feedback as possible from other writers. Be ruthless with yourself.

*****

To learn more about Susanna Daniel and  Stiltsville, visit her website or her Facebook page.

To enter the drawing to win a copy of her debut novel, DON’T FORGET to leave a comment here. The winner will be announced on Tuesday, March 15th.

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How a Middle School Track Meet Informed My Writing

In the seventh grade, I signed up for athletics. I lasted for one season (skinny, asthmatic kids are better suited for things like Drama), but I stayed long enough to experience a powerful moment.

After one look, and a few practices into the school year, the coaches figured out that I was C-team material. I was too short to spike a volleyball and couldn’t complete an overhand serve if my popularity depended on it (which it did). I was easily run over in basketball and was given an alternate uniform that screamed “sub.” During games, I took my seat at the bench. But during each practice, I did the drills and ran the laps. When track season rolled around, Coach Lewis looked at me and said “long distance runner.” He signed me up for the 400 meter race.

We didn’t practice with Coach Lewis often during track season, which made him all the more intimidating when he did show up on the field. He barked orders, shouted praise, laughed once in a while. On a particularly chilly Saturday morning at a track meet, he said the one sentence that has stuck with me ever since.

“Quit your coughin’, Craig!”

Cold weather aggravates asthma, and during the middle of the 400 meter event, I started wheezing, sputtering, slowing down. I jogged in the outside lane. Coach Lewis didn’t like that. He walked up to the chain link fence that surrounded the track, stuck his head out like a snapping turtle, and hollered.

“Quit your coughin’, Craig!”

I was shocked. Had he forgotten I had asthma? Where was the sympathy? Too scared to stop and ask him, I picked up the pace. I took the deepest breaths I could manage and the longest strides my chicken legs would take. I merged into the inside lane, rounded the last turn, and passed that tall girl with the mean eyes. I focused on the white lines that marked my lane and tuned into the sound of my shoes hitting the asphalt of the track. I pushed myself, into fourth place, earning a ribbon and a big boost of confidence.

“Quit your coughin’, Craig!”

Coach Lewis’ words flashed through my mind last week as I experienced the same shortness of breath and sluggish feeling. This time, it wasn’t my asthma slowing me down, though, it was fear. I had reached a familiar point in my novel draft, the place in the story where ideas  scatter and plot weakens, the moment where I stare at the blank screen and worry if what I write next will kill the energy in the work.

Barbara O’Neal calls that place “The Slough of Despond.” In her post on Writer Unboxed, O’Neal says:

This is the [place] on the old maps, the murky, muddy spot where quicksand sucks at the feet and demons overtake the heart.

I’ve been here before, with this same story. In the past, I’ve faltered and quit – full stop – and gone back to the beginning to rework chapter one. But, this time is different. I’ve got Coach Lewis breathing down my neck. And, I have a few other incentives to keep me moving forward.

1. The Radio. I recently read my story, “Red Velvet Sunday,” on WUWM’s Lake Effect program (click here to listen). Nothing makes you feel more like a writer than answering questions about the craft and having the honor of reading your work to a new audience. The experience was like a shot of adrenaline, and it was a reminder that good things do happen, usually at just the right time — like during a writing lull when you wonder if you’ve got it in you to succeed.

2. Jody Hedlund. In her post, “How to Beat the Fear of Being a One Book Wonder,” she talks about old self-doubts that resurfaced while writing her second novel. Her thoughts on how to move through those fears apply to writers at any phase.

3. Ira Glass. In his video on storytelling (part 1) (the link found via a post from Jane Friedman on Writer Unboxed), he talks about “the anecdote” as a sequence of actions that move a story forward one moment at a time. That’s how I can get through this next section so that, as Barbara O’Neal says, I’ll “eventually…have a finished draft. To rewrite. So goes the game.”

How about you? What memorable moments keep you from coughing and sputtering your way to “I quit?”

Coach Lewis

Me, bottom right corner, finisher.

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The Art of Dialogue: Writing about Wisconsin

I joined E. Victoria Flynn today for a Write In, in support of what’s happening in Wisconsin. I’m writing from home; she’s writing from the Rotunda.

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Dialogue. noun. An exchange of ideas or opinions on a particular issue…with a view to reaching an amicable agreement or settlement.

I’ve never done well in debates. When I was younger, I swung from quiet (fuming) protests to shouts, muted only by a veil of tears. I am still learning the art of dialogue, of knowing when to listen and when to speak.

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I work in an old building with amazing acoustics. Sounds reverberate off plaster walls, high ceilings, the marble floor. I can recognize the click of a colleague’s heels before she rounds the bend in the hallway, and my words echo even when I whisper to a friend on my cell phone. The silence is easily broken, and noises are deciphered and dismissed with indifference.

But last week, one collection of sounds shook me from my office chair: drums, horns, and voices chanting in unison. They were one floor up, but their rhythm and energy preceded them. I shut down my email, grabbed my purse, and ran to the door in time to catch a glimpse of them. A band of five carried a banner and instruments, and they stormed the hallways.

They tried to rouse the masses.

So, I followed.

In their wake, I felt the heat of their fire.

Then, I – the writer, the quiet observer who stands on the fringe most days because conflict frightens me – couldn’t ignore what was happening.

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He works in an old building with amazing acoustics. Tens of thousands of faces, voices and hearts huddle together, sending their message and their energy across the state, throughout the nation.

Protesters in the Rotunda via abcnews.go.com

This is not about cuts in benefits. This is not about “balancing the budget.” This is about a swift move to pull the rug out from under the middle class, and most Americans do not support such a move.

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Still, he is not listening.

image from www.truthdig.com

But they are.

Democratic Senators walk out, image via www.daylife.com

And, I am.

And, no matter which side you’re on, you can’t ignore what’s happening.

Wisconsin Budget Repair Bill Protest from Matt Wisniewski on Vimeo.

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