‘Some people seem willing to do anything to be happy, even if it means becoming colossally dull,’ Gloria continued. ‘But everyone knows it’s fleeting. There’s always a shelf life of happiness.’
~ from “Shelf Life of Happiness”
Being happy should be easy. We have plenty of resources around us that make it so: podcasts set on discovering it and books built around cultivating it, just to name a few. Yet Happiness is fleeting. While other authors are writing about reclaiming it, maintaining it, and preserving it, Virginia Pye has written short stories that define it in simple terms and give us a view into our own humanity, how we tend to overlook it, exploit it, or misinterpret it.
In her new book, Shelf Life of Happiness (just out from Press 53), Pye fills the pages with unexpected sensations of affection, of freedom in truth, of realizations about what it means to be happy–or in love–but sometimes a little too late. Jim Shephard calls these “deft and moving stories.” Kelly Luce says these are “stories crafted with a sharp eye for the absurd intricacies of modern life…remembered later with such clarity and feeling that they seem like one’s own memories.” I call them tiny revelations packed in 169 pages. (Sure it could be 170, but would that really make you happier?)
I’m honored to host Virginia Pye to talk more about her book and her writing. There’s also a giveaway, courtesy of the author.
CLICK HERE to enter by Tuesday, October 30th for a chance to win a copy of Shelf Life of Happiness. And welcome Virginia Pye!
Christi Craig (CC): While Shelf Life of Happiness isn’t your first book, this is your first collection of stories after two successful novels (River of Dust and Dreams of the Red Phoenix). Considering how you’ve taken a path opposite of many authors, who begin with a collection and journey to longer works, what has been the most rewarding or compelling aspect of writing and publishing this new book?
Virginia Pye (VP): I’ve written stories from the start, way back to high school or earlier. Like a lot of beginning writers, I tried to channel Hemingway and Faulkner, Calvino and Carver. But the nine stories in Shelf Life of Happiness were written over ten years more recently. I wrote them from an impulse to explore a particular moment or thought. Some irony of life, or question, strikes me and I need to flesh it out. Writing my novels is much more involved and immersive, but the stories can be every bit as exacting. I rewrite them over months and years as I send them out to literary magazines. When a story is returned, I often revise it before sending it out again.
I loved pulling together this collection, because it showed me that I’ve been chewing on some of the same themes for years—the illusive nature of happiness, the bittersweet nature of love, the struggle to ever know another person fully. And also, how a dedication to art—which to me means writing as well as visual art—can help guide a life and make sense of it. Some of the stories in Shelf Life of Happiness are about writing itself—the redemptive human effort to find order and beauty.
CC: One of my favorite quotes from your book is in the story, “White Dog:”
[Dunster] struggled to understand why he’d pulled the trigger. Rob Singh had wanted to preserve his impeccable vista, but didn’t he know that perfection smelled like death? With that one shot, Dunster had upped the ante and shown Rob that he was wrong not to make his peace with the smudge on the horizon, the mistake on the canvas.
So much of your collection is about accepting life’s imperfections and coming to peace, and you tell your stories from the perspectives of a variety of characters: an elderly artist, a young skateboarder, a mother on the verge of breakdown. Where do your ideas for characters–their strengths and their flaws–come from?
VP: Like many writers, I transpose my life and everything I’ve ever read into fiction, though how exactly, or why, isn’t clear to me. It helps to be a bit older and to have had years to work things out. These days I keep remembering things my father told me near the end of his life that turn out to be wise in a pragmatic way. I didn’t realize at the time that what he was offering was valuable, but I see it now. My characters seem to come out of an accumulation of understanding.
But, to be more specific, the stories in Shelf Life of Happiness are about people I could know, and maybe the reader could know, as well. I cull details especially from those I love. The skateboarder in my story, An Awesome Gap, is definitely not my son, but my son does happen to be a skateboarder. I’ve seen his dedication to his “art,” though he’d never use such a glorified term for skating day in and day out in all kinds of weather. Also, I think we all know how even a good kid has to struggle to break free from his or her parents’ expectations. The teenage character in that story deals with that issue, too.
I’ve known artists like Dunster from White Dog, but that particular character is more than an amalgam of all the male artists I’ve ever sat next to at art museum dinner parties (my husband is a long-time curator and art museum director). Combine those experiences with everything I’ve ever read about artists, plus what I’ve learned myself about sustaining an artistic life, and you have Dunster. Though I suppose that doesn’t fully explain where my characters come from, either.
CC: In your essay, “A Zealot and a Poet” (on the Rumpus), you write–so beautifully–about discovering your grandfather’s journals that detail his experiences as a Congregational missionary in China during the early 1900s, and the surprise in finding he was much more than a missionary. He was a writer. In fact, he became the inspiration for the protagonist in your first book, River of Dust. How does his writing, his presence in your writing, continue to influence your work?
VP: Thanks so much for reading that essay. I’m proud of that one and appreciate you tracking it down. I don’t think my grandfather influences me much any longer, though his actual words and their cadence did help me create the voice for my debut novel, River of Dust.
But, since I mentioned my father earlier and now you offer this question about my grandfather, I wonder if you might be onto something: perhaps there is some way that I’m writing to keep up with them. They both believed their voices deserved to be heard. That sense of confidence may have come from white, male privilege, or a misplaced entitlement. But they, and my mother, were great readers and books crowded just about every surface in our home. My father wrote his many books and articles in long hand on yellow pads in the midst of our family activity, sometimes with the Celtics or Red Sox on the TV. Writing was something “we” did. I’m grateful to him and my mother, and even my grandfather, for that.
Though, to share more, it took some determination on my part to claim writing for myself. I remember distinctly that my father didn’t think I was a good writer when I was teenager—he thought of me as scattered in my thinking, which I was, and considered me more of a “people person” than a writer. As a girl and a youngest child, I’d been trained to be helpful and accommodating, not assertive with ideas and words. To convince my parents to help pay for grad school, I told them I needed an MFA to teach writing. They could see me as a teacher, but not as a writer. I remember reassuring them I wasn’t trying to win the Pulitzer Prize. That seemed to set them at ease. I think they didn’t want me to deal with the disappointment that writers inevitably face. But also, they didn’t think I could do it because I was a girl.
CC: What are you reading these days?
VP: I read several books at once, all novels or short stories. Some are for research for my next novel, which is set in 1890s Boston. Katherine Howe’s historical novel from several years ago, The House of Velvet and Glass, is entertaining and smart. But right now I also have Laura van den Berg’s The Third Hotel and Susan Henderson’s The Flicker of Old Dreams on my bedside table. As always, there’s too much to read!
CC: What is your favorite season in which to write?
VP: When my children were young and we went on vacation to Maine in the summer, I’d get up early in the mornings to write. It was so peaceful and rewarding because I knew the rest of the day would be packed with family outings. I loved the quiet as the birds started to stir and the sun rose over the ocean, followed all too quickly by the cacophony of young voices and little feet pounding on floorboards.
But these days, as an empty nester, I have lots of time and tend to buckle down in the colder months, when there are fewer distractions. Boston turns out to be a great book town, not just because of the wonderful bookstores, or because of GrubStreet, the writing organization, but because the weather is so lousy so much of the year. You simply have to stay indoors and write!
I feel lucky to join the throngs of writers, both past and present, who have made this city their home. As we head into winter, when mornings start out cold and dusk comes early, I look forward to hunkering down at my desk.
Virginia Pye is the author of two award-winning novels, Dreams of the Red Phoenix and River of Dust, and the forthcoming short story collection, Shelf Life of Happiness. Her stories, essays, and interviews have appeared in The North American Review, The Baltimore Review, Literary Hub, The New York Times, The Rumpus, Huffington Post and elsewhere. She lived in Richmond, Virginia for many years and now lives in Cambridge, Massachusetts. Find her online at www.virginiapye.com.
Don’t forget: enter the giveaway by Tuesday, October 30th,
for a chance to win a copy of Shelf Life of Happiness.
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.
