Q&A with Stevan Allred, A Simplified Map of the Real World

You cannot grieve for a puzzle, nor celebrate the death of a cipher. You have to make some sense out of the man first.
~ from “The Painted Man” in A Simplified Map of the Real World

Allred Simplified Map coverMaps guide us, direct us, show us the way through convoluted terrain. Stevan Allred’s collection of short stories, A Simplified Map of the Real World, does much of the same with characters who live in the imagined town of Renata, Oregon.

Anchored in the landscape of Renata, Allred’s characters seem straightforward in their “small-town” style. But as each story unfolds, more is revealed: in the nightstand of a pompous neighbor, in the complexity of Uncle Lenny, through conversations between fathers and sons and the resurgence of old high school relations.

A Simplified Map of the Real World was recently chose as one of Multnomah County Library’s Wordstock 2013 fiction picks. I’m honored to host Stevan for a Q&A on his book and thrilled to include book giveaway (courtesy of Forest Avenue Press). Drop your name in the comments at the end of the interview for a chance at your own copy of A Simplified Map of the Real World. Random.org will chose the winner on Tuesday, October 8th.

Now, welcome Stevan Allred!

CC: I know Renata, Oregon is a fictional town, but does it mirror any real place in which you’ve lived or travelled?

DSC01389SA: Renata is very much a place of my imagination.  Its geography overlays the geography of my home town, Estacada, Oregon, and would be recognizable to anyone who knows the place, but if you try to drive the real world Estacada by following the roads in A Simplified Map of the Real World, you’re likely to wind up, as one of my characters does, “in the ditch.”

Both my parents are from small towns in central Utah.  I used to spend part of my summers in a town called Emery, population 308.  There have been other small towns in my life too, and Renata feels like all of those places to me.  What strikes me as similar about all the small towns I’ve known is how they try to hold the outside world at bay.  Portland, Oregon, is only thirty miles away from Estacada, and yet there are plenty of Estacadans who haven’t been to the city in years.  For many, the small town where they live is, as Arnie Gossard says in the opening story, “a place small enough that I can keep track of everything that matters and big enough to hold everything I need.”

CC: This quote in “The Painted Man” is one of my favorites:

I felt, for a moment, as if I were inside a kaleidoscope, and all the complicated bits of my life…were shifting, aligning themselves into a new pattern.

I love this thread that runs throughout the story, of uncovering and piecing together the inner workings of character, a thread that pulls the book together as a whole. When it comes to writing such stories, do you find they unfold organically? Or, do you plan the reveal before you begin the first draft?

SA: It’s very much the former.  Someone, and I’ve long since forgotten whom, told me a long time ago that I would never surprise a reader if I didn’t first surprise myself.  I start with so little–a few bits of language, some vague notion of who might be saying those words, and often a random element from the real world.  It’s a process of discovery rather than one of planning.  When I started “His Ticky Little Mind,” the name Volpe was on the side of a pickup truck that passed by me just as I saw that one of my neighbors had cut down a tree in their front yard, leaving a twelve foot high stump still standing.  The story grew out of those two things, and some phrases that were knocking around inside my head.

CC: I continue to hear great things about the Oregon writing community, and your book is a collaboration of Oregon talents–from Forest Avenue Press’ own Laura Stanfill to Gigi Little, the cover artist. Aside from this particular partnership, what do you appreciate most about your local writing circles?

SA: We are a state of readers and writers.  The Portland library system has the highest rate of use per capita of any system in the country, and my local Estacada library hums with activity seven days a week.  The writing scene here is bigger than I can keep track of by quite a bit, and it’s lively and full of talent.  People are supportive of each other, and generous, and I’m constantly discovering new books and new writers who make me think ‘Wow, what a great story.’  There are lots and lots of reading series in bars and coffee shops and libraries.  There are many small to micro-sized presses, the zine scene here is world class, and Portland is a center for graphic novelists.  All that abundance is inspiring.

CC: What are you reading these days?

SA: I’ve recently finished Telegraph Avenue, by Michael Chabon, a writer whom I admire greatly.  Also two short story collections, both of which I recommend highly:  Natalie Serber’s Shout Her Lovely Name, and Lucia Perillo’s Happiness Is a Chemical in the Brain. I’m just starting Tracy Kidder’s Strength in What Remains.

CC: What advice would you offer for writers on the road to publication?

SA: Write what you love to read.  You’re going to spend a lot of time alone with your writing-you might as well make it something you really enjoy.

Also this, from Ellen Gilchrist:  F*** doubt.  The dishes can wait.  Serve the whole.

~

Stevan Allred lives and writes in a house in the woods halfway between Fisher’s Mill and Viola, in rural Clackamas County, outside of Portland, Oregon. He is the editor of Dixon Ticonderoga, a zine that explores the intimate relationship between divorce and pencils. He teaches writing at The Pinewood Table and has been widely published in literary magazines. Stevan is also available to attend book clubs in the Portland metro area or by phone or Skype. Contact Forest Avenue Press for more information.

Purchase your own copy of A Simplified Map of the Real World  from Powell’s or on Amazon, or drop your name in the comments for a chance to win a copy!

 

Signed, Sealed, and Delivered: A Writing Prompt

We tell our stories in a myriad of ways–in print, over coffee, in our journals. But, there’s one venue for storytelling that is often overlooked, especially in this digital age where time and limited space might constrain our creativity: the letter.

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The old-fashioned letter provided a space for communion between friends. Upon receiving a letter, one would repair to a place of solitude to read it. to allow the essence of the distant friend to fill up the space. A letter cordoned off a sanctioned area of mind, too, and allowed the lucky recipient to spend a bit of deep time conjuring up the feel of being with a friend.
~ Lia Purpura, “On Miniatures” in The Rose Metal Press Field Guide to Writing Flash Nonfiction

Lucky recipient.
The feel of being with a friend.

Sounds like good reading, right?

Letters of Note is a website that recognizes the literary value in letters, posting “fascinating correspondence” from celebrities, politicians, everyday people. And more often than not, those letters tell a story. I love this recent post, “My Dear Son,” in which a father shares a bit of his own history as well as his experience in watching his son walk a similar path:

I think I had never realized before that I was getting old.

Of course I have known that my hair is causing your mother much solicitude. and that l am hopelessly wedded to my pince-nez while reading my daily paper, and at the opera; but in some incomprehensible way I had forgotten to associate these trifles with the encroachments of time. It was the sudden realization that you were about to become a Freshman in the college from which, as it seems to me, l but yesterday graduated, that “froze the genial current of my soul,” and spared you my paternal lecture.

Why, l can shut my eyes and still hear the Ivy Song, as we sang it that beautiful June morning; and yet but a few nights more and you will be locked in the deadly Rush on the same field where I triumphantly received two blackened eyes, and, l trust, gave many more!

Read the rest of the letter HERE (there’s so much more to absorb).

The Prompt

Think about the last time you received a letter. Consider what story you might tell on your own stationary. Or, even on that lined yellow paper. It doesn’t matter, the point is, tell your story. But, here’s the catch: write it in letter form. Then put it in an envelope and seal it.

Maybe you take it to your next critique group, open it, and read it there (after all, this is an essay as much as a letter). Maybe you put a stamp on it and send it right out. Whatever you decide, know that how you write the story adds to way in which it is received:

[T]he unsealing, the unfolding and smoothing out [of a letter], the squinting…the pausing, musing, smiling, the refolding and tucking back in–all of [this adds] to the physicality of reading. ~Lia Purpura

Who doesn’t love a letter?

* Photo credit: krosseel on Morguefile.com

Writers at the Table: Meet Ted Johnson

For well over a year, I’ve been leading a creative writing class at a senior living center near my home, listening to a great group of folks tell their stories. I’ve grown fond of these writers. They are creative and kind and willing. And today, I’m honored to feature one of those writers here.

IMG_0726Ted Johnson was the first person to show up on my inaugural day of leading the class. He couldn’t have known how nervous I felt, nor how grateful I was to see him there–with pen and paper and a smile. Ted has an easy way about him, always has a kind word for others, and brings to the table some great stories. I met him for coffee this week so that I could take his picture, and I reminded him of the importance in this work, in the stories he sets to paper. We forget, sometimes, the power of memory, of the connections we make when we share those memories with others. Enjoy reading this essay by Ted Johnson. 

My Mother

By Ted Johnson

At 87 years old my mother still lived alone in her apartment in Minneapolis and apparently loved it. My sister was living in Billings and I in Milwaukee, and we worried about her—a lot. She had given up her car a couple years before with little fanfare, and I could only hope that I would be that mature when my time came.

I drove to Minneapolis to see her and to assure myself that all was well. We had been trying to get her to move to Milwaukee for years, but she was adamant, unyielding. “It wouldn’t feel right,” she said. “Anytime I’d turn on TV to get the news, I’d see a face I’d never seen before. I’m used to all these local people and I’d miss them. Bill Adams has been the weatherman on WCCO for twenty years. It wouldn’t seem right to go to bed at night without listening to Bill.”

“Are you watching a lot of TV these days?” I asked.

“No,” she said, her tone indicating that she sensed some criticism in my question. “I don’t watch a lot of TV. We play bridge. We play sheepshead and work jigsaw puzzles. We have coffee parties at each others apartments. I’m not watching TV all the time.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to criticize, and I don’t feel there is anything wrong with watching a lot of TV. In fact,” I told her, “Your  generation hit it just right. Just about the time your kids were ready to leave the nest, television came in to its own to help you fill your spare time.”

She took a deep breath. She didn’t like that. I’d seen this measured and controlled exasperation many times before.

“You know”, she said, “I wouldn’t worry so much about my generation not having a full and rewarding life. I honestly think we have seen more changes than any other generation that has lived on this planet.”

She went on to remind me that she was born in a small mining town in northern Minnesota where they used candles and kerosene lamps for light. That even after Edison invented the electric light bulb, they didn’t see it for three or four years. “For transportation,” she said, “we had the dependable horse and buggy. Cars were not available to us until about 1903, when I was 10 years old.” Henry Ford’s Model T was the first car she remembered.

“We went through World War I and not long after that we suffered through the greatest Depression the world had ever seen. Shortly after that we went through the biggest War the world had ever seen. 50 million people world-wide were killed in some manner,” she said. Every family in the United States had some relative of theirs in the service in World War II, she told me. “After the War, our generation came back and built this country into the strongest and richest country in the world.”

She took another breath.

“And to cap it all off we sent a man to the moon.”

“That,” she said, “should keep you from worrying about whether my life is exciting enough.”

And, that’s the way my mother set me straight.