3.29.2009

Orwell and Obama: Doublethink is double-plus ungood

I just reread Nineteen Eighty-Four -- actually, listened to the audiobook. It is far better than I had remembered from my high school days, far better written, far more incisive, and it has a far better story that rests on a far more interesting character, in poor Winston Smith, than I had remembered. It is a great book. It's so great that it has done what only the truly great books can do -- by dramatizing a fictional tale, it has impelled me to look into my own actual beliefs and behavior at this political and economic moment.

It was the concept of doublethink that struck the hardest blow -- a sudden horrible shock of recognition. Doublethink in the novel is:
The power of holding two contradictory beliefs in one's mind simultaneously, and accepting both of them.... To tell deliberate lies while genuinely believing in them, to forget any fact that has become inconvenient, and then, when it becomes necessary again, to draw it back from oblivion for just so long as it is needed, to deny the existence of objective reality and all the while to take account of the reality which one denies — all this is indispensably necessary. Even in using the word doublethink it is necessary to exercise doublethink. For by using the word one admits that one is tampering with reality; by a fresh act of doublethink one erases this knowledge; and so on indefinitely, with the lie always one leap ahead of the truth.
If I am honest I have to admit that I am guilty of doublethink, that in my mind I hold two contradictory beliefs, that I tell deliberate lies while genuinely believing in them, and that I keep the lie one step ahead of the truth. I have become irrational.

On the one hand, I supported Obama for any number of reasons from the very early days, watched his ascent to power with fascination and, frankly, awe -- as if he really was something of a superhero come to earth. In the primaries I was relentless in my Obamania, and in the general election I was wracked with an excruciating mixture of fear and hope for months and months. When he won the election, I had a kind of spiritual orgasm. Tracy and I retired to the couch for more or less 24 hours, watching YouTube clips of election highlights, playing our favorite joyful songs, and shaking radiant, gratified faces at each other in disbelief. Once inaugurated, I was happy with early announcements: phased withdrawal from Iraq, banning torture, no more using the phrase "War on Terror," funding stem cell research, bold stimulus to invest in green clean energy, health care, green transportation, etc. etc.

On the other hand, when I look at my country, when I look into my heart, I see that the US and the whole post-industrial world truly is a capitalist oligarchy, ruled by small elite groups for their own enrichment. The US political system is cleverly rigged, the economy is clearly aimed at pouring almost all of the wealth upwards, and the two-party system is there to simulate a minimal amount of "debate," staged by the handful of conglomerate media companies, that is largely limited to issues of importance to the ruling class. The two parties stifle any and all rivals and use extremely sophisticated coded media language to communicate to their followers. The system has now perfected the art of reaching just the right people with just the right language to support the elite's two chosen candidates. Congress is hardly better, with both houses bursting with millionaires -- and the rest with incomes and tangled connections of influence and power beyond the reach, and probably even the imagination, of most ordinary people.

The two concepts are entirely irreconcilable. To simultaneously understand that Obama has drawn almost his entire administration from the same elite roster as Bush -- and to dismiss my previous concerns about those people in hope that somehow they will get things right this time -- that is doublethink. To watch Obama deal with the financial crisis by plucking people from the the Wall Street titans, the self-described Masters of the Universe, and placing them in charge of "fixing" the very problem they created, and accepting that their solution is to immediately pay themselves and their friends absolutely colossal sums of money borrowed from future generations -- and even cheerleading this effort as unavoidable, as an unfortunate necessity -- that is doublethink. To know that President Obama is continuing to run the country for the benefit of the wealthy and powerful capitalist class and that the working and middle classes, when it's all said and done, are going to get shafted for every penny yet again -- and yet to literally beam at President Obama while he jokes around with Steve Kroft on 60 Minutes, to marvel at his intelligence and calm demeanor and sober, good-natured bearing -- that is indisputably doublethink.

I am guilty of doublethink. I am as susceptible to microtargeted PR efforts as the Fox News consumers I disdain have proven to be susceptible to the PR efforts that target them. To admit this to myself is extremely sobering and makes me head for the safety of defiant justification: What, I want Obama to fail? And anyway what choice did I have -- Mike Gravel? Wasn't the most important thing to be rid of Bush, who was overtly Orwellian, and then get on with improving things? Isn't it an achievement all by itself, sad as it is to say, to have elected a president who is well-spoken, mild in temperament, smart? And wouldn't it have been almost impossible for me to not support the first African American president, especially when he seems to be just about pretty much damned perfect in every way? And if Obama supporters abandon him, won't the Republicans just reassert control?

Those may be good questions, but they don't absolve me from needing to think rationally. Obama may be my favorite president in a long time, but that has about as much to do with justice and economic fairness as saying R.E.M. is my favorite band. The system is rotten to the core, and looking at the truly obscene debt and deficits, could well be finally past the point of no return. It's by any honest measure wildly, dangerously out of whack. At a time when the financial sector, after betting the country's future on idiotic gambles that should have been illegal, has brought the world economy to its knees, Obama is presiding over a scuffle among different factions of the wealthy regarding who will take home the biggest bags of our money, and he's billing the whole thing to the national credit card. Which is just what Bush used to do.

But even after all that ... I. Still. Love. Him. Just as after his ordeal, Winston Smith, at the end of Orwell's novel, has his ideological breakthrough: I ... love ... Big Brother. How is this possible? Because doublethink is possible. And I am guilty of it.

I don't claim to be an economist or social theorist, but I do claim to have a fairly clever head on my shoulders. Admitting my doublethink is a step away from feeling good, but it is a step toward sanity.

3.26.2009

The Dust Bowl Dinner Special

I'm a big fan of paper, paper books, newspapers, tissue paper birthday crowns, paper GRE's, but this has got me re-thinking. . . . . but what other options are there? Dictating the questions (and making the students bring their own paper)? The school clearly doesn't have the money to switch to computers.

3.22.2009

Writers using Twitter?

If you are or know of a writer using Twitter for either book promotion or fan communication, I'd love to hear from you for a possible article. Please email earthgoat at gmail dot com.

3.16.2009

Writer Porn


Granted, I watched only the first three minutes of this show, but in this time of delusional economic chickens coming home to roost and peck out our eyes with their silvery sharp beaks as we scream "Why can't I?", I thought the new show "Castle" seemed intriguing for the skewed reality it was trying to get out there (at least the first three minutes of it, before I got bored and went back to my usual evening of Internet porn and weeping).

The show started off with Castle, who is a very successful author, having a book launch party for his new book. Models and booze are everywhere, it's on a roof (in LA maybe), the scene was all quick-cut beautiful people who all wanted Castle (who was also handsome and beautiful), who was grinning like an idiot, his pockets lined with $100 bills and condoms and penicillin and whip-its, absolutely Godlike like in the adoration heaped upon him as he stepped into the klieg lights and said something either petulant or clever and then people threw more money and underwear at him.


Now, for all I know, Castle realized he'd never finish his magnum opus and killed himself with booze and a hot shot of heroin after the commercial break (although the show looks more like a blasphemous update of "Murder, She Wrote"--God bless you, insanely murderous Cabot Cove), but from the little I saw, I realized how much this was an image of "author" I think we all want to believe at times (even if we won't admit it). Now, clearly someone wrote this show (maybe several someones), with desks full of novels and short stories that will never see the light of day (just like us), and who maybe even have fancy writer degrees (just like us). That's when I realized this show was writer porn, and that it might be just as inflationary and destructive to the literary world as the guy who told me it was a good idea to buy General Motors stock at $20 is to the economic one.


Remember when The New Yorker was running stories with pictures of the authors, and it seemed like, while the stories were fine, the main impetus behind it all was to try to get some cute people out there, laying in silk, skin heaving, freckles Photoshopped, bulges realigned and readjusted, just like those models and rock stars? OR, I saw a website with the "Literary Lions of New York!" who were just a bunch of random schlumpy book editors and what not who probably get paid slave wages and sleep in twin-size murphy beds in an apartment with a view of Fresh Kills -- but, goddamn it, they were lions! I don't need company health insurance, Aslan, you pussy! (to paraphrase the White Witch).


All the "rock star" moments I have ever been involved with involving authors have usually been instances where the adored probably was hoping desperately to get away from the adoree (as when I made a t-shirt and told George Saunders, "I'm not crazy -- I went to the Workshop!" He had the same look in his eyes Jimmy gets when he has the night terrors). Usually, in my experience, such things occur at conventions where half the attendees have at least a working knowledge of Klingon.


So, why the myth? What do we need it for? Does it encourage writers, or knock the legs out of them when the reality sets in?

"American Idol for literature"

USA Today has a short article on WEbook, a kind of clearinghouse for book ideas and new writing. One nugget nested in that article caught my eye: the percentage of Americans who read a novel, poem, play or story in the past year jumped from 46.7% in 2002 to 50.2% in 2008. Still pretty pathetic if you ask me, yet it does represent a 3.5% increase -- or around 10 million more people reading literature.

3.11.2009

Watchmen reax?

Who liked it and who didn't?

Put me down as one who thought it was a bad movie. Not completely worthless, but there was a lot of bad dialogue and acting, it was too long, and it was gratuitously gruesome. And the characters felt flat to me, more there to deliver supposedly wry one-liners that came off corny too many times than to make me identify with and root for them.

Another thing that bothered me was the heavy and awkward use of baby-boomer classic songs. That has worked for films in the past, but the choices here were too over the top and I felt clubbed over the head with them. "All Along the Watchtower" (har har, get it, WATCHtower? forget it) and LC's "Hallelujah" became soundtracks to particularly irritating scenes.

No, I had not read it. I had started it and stopped.

3.09.2009

Congratulations to Kim Jong-il!


He did it! He was reelected by 100% of voters! That is extremely impressive. Well done, sir. Aaand ... lookin' good!

3.06.2009

"Suggestion" is just another word for nothing left to choose.


Lumpy asked me to post this question to y'all literary brainiacs:


"Can anyone suggest a novel or memoir that makes extensive use of flashbacks, flashforwards, and backstory while the actual plot only covers a short amount of time and towards the end of said time nothing much actually happens (say, 27 days starving on a raft in a swamp in the Amazon) (and not including Ullysses)?"

3.02.2009

New unfinished DFW novel

What to make of this -- hundreds of pages found on his desk, the work of years, flights made to inspect by agent and editor? Would reading a "couple hundred thousand words" next year with no promise of the payoff of an ending but with notes, outlines and something called "other material" be worth the investment? It might be very interesting -- or not. Was reading The Last Tycoon worth it?

Give yourself a clue by reading the New Yorker excerpt, which is about an IRS clerk at his desk who is so bored he has looked up the etymology of the word bore and is apparently hallucinating. It is a meditation on the empty soullessness of this daily activity -- hell, it's a foray into the very philosophy of boredom.
The whole issue was almost unbelievably meaningless and small. He thought about the word “meaning” and tried to summon up his baby’s face without looking at the photo, but all he could get was the heft of a full diaper and the plastic mobile over his crib turning in the breeze that the box fan in the doorway made. He imagined that the clock’s second hand possessed awareness and knew that it was a second hand and that its job was to go around and around inside a circle of numbers forever at the same slow, unvarying machinelike rate, going no place it hadn’t already been a million times before, and imagining the second hand was so awful it made his breath catch in his throat, and he looked quickly around to see if any of the examiners near him had heard it or were looking at him.
A little flag: Hasn't the ironic/existentialist take on office meaninglessness been done? Don't we have Kafka and The Office for that?

However, now I see that the truly hilarious excerpt in Harper's last year is also an excerpt from The Pale King, and so now my excitement is revved back up. And now I will try the D. T. Max article on the story behind impending third DFW novel -- I mean, I will after I complete some work here at my desk, and I will try not to look at the clock.

2.27.2009

Typical, but still surprising

See this short piece from Andrew Sullivan.   States where people (and laws) exhibit the harshest stances regarding gay marriage and other "values" issues are the biggest consumers of porn.  And Utah is the biggest consumer of online porn in the US.

2.25.2009

Great little piece by Maud Newton

in Granta online about her father. It's extremely short, but a tour de force. Look how much story and reflection she crams into that small space.

I Swear

sometimes the New York Times goes out of its way to stoke the anxieties of its most reliable demographics. It gets the linkies, I'm sure.

2.23.2009

Washington Post Book World, we hardly knew ye

Another supposed nail in contemporary literature's coffin gets hammered down firmly.

Maybe I'm stubbornly in denial, but the slow demise of glossy paper book-review-magazines like the Washington Post Book World is just part (a small, small part) of the much larger and admittedly painful and nostalgia-inducing technological re-configuration of media currently underway, which is itself a small part of the staggering transformation of the global economy. In ten years it might well seem incredible that newspapers were ever printed on real paper and delivered to houses using vehicles that burned fossil fuels. I don't think the current technological clusterfuck extends to the book itself, though, because the book is already a perfect technology. Technology exists to make things better, faster, easier. There's nothing to improve about the book. It's done. It's there. And it was already there before your great-great-great-great-great-great-grandfather was born.

Many are loudly fretting about the future of reading and writing. Yet it seems to me that people are reading (online news, blogs) and writing (email, blogs, Facebook, Twitter, chats) more than ever. I mean, 40-50 years ago, during this alleged Golden Age, even the men who went to college couldn't type -- they actually had secretaries to input whatever they muttered around fragrant pipe stems as they ogled the secretaries. My grandfather couldn't type. Sure, he had beautiful handwriting, and I treasure his letters -- but there aren't very many of them, and in truth, he was not a great writer. He sure didn't sit around writing constant messages to various people and departments all day long like we all do now.

I don't think books are going to go under, but they will probably become more divorced from other media -- movies, TV, music, and the Web are taking off together on a rocket ship to God knows where, and yes, tossing out important-looking ballast, but the book is standing alongside us waving with the same slightly unsettled look on its face that we have. It's just a fact that people don't want to read long stretches of text on a computer (now whether they'll keep wanting to at all -- I grant you, that's a deeper, more horrifying question). Books, which have survived every other technological advance in the past 600 years, will I believe undergo a strong, enduring revival as chic and retro cool -- a no-batteries-or-overnight-charging-or-wifi-hotspot-required holiday of comforting authenticity away from the ever-enlarging infotainment electro-glut convergence. The book is well entrenched and loved. It isn't going anywhere or likely to change one iota, because there aren't any problems with it to solve.

It's the passing of an era. I don't think I ever read the Washington Post Book World, not even once. It's sad that bookish, intelligent people will lose those jobs, but I think they will find other jobs, hopefully with outfits that aren't trapped in suddenly outdated economic models. If I want to research what books to read, I talk to people whose opinions I respect and/or go online where there are scads of book reviewers -- not to one specific printed newspaper insert -- and since December I do it on my damned phone. Doesn't even the whole idea of newspapers themselves already seem kind of quaint and 50s-ish -- never mind what kinds of insert sections they had/have? I'm sure people mourned the passing of the mimeograph, and the telegraph, and hand-set typography, and even all those beautiful handwritten works when the printing press came along. Then they got over it.

Books are not part of this. They are different. Call it a hunch (or denial).

2.20.2009

More Found Songs

So, I finally got a chance to dig around the garage sales of Rhode Island again and came up with some more interesting (if disturbing) finds.

The first is by the Right Reverend Job Smit from Reat Lord Od Hates the Ays, a vinyl record put out by Od's Oing to Et You Records, which I think is the reverend's church in Mississippi. From the liner notes, it appears that Rev. Smit built his entire ministry out of a bizarre homophobia that was so virulent that he actually stopped using the letter "g" at all, since that was the first letter in "gay" (according to a recent memoir, the Crips and the Bloods do this same kind of thing with "c" and "b"). I did a little Internet sleuthing, and apparently this refusal to use "g" led to a huge misunderstanding regarding the reverend's views, and that his music actually became something of a hit in the gay underground music scene, since people thought he was singing about worshipping Lord Odd and that men were loving Earls and Als. In fact, he was invited to play a National Coming Out Party in San Francisco in the late 1970s. When he showed up and realized what was going on, he had a heart attack, leading to his demise three days later. His church and congregation, no longer held together by the force of his personality, soon disbanded. Here's a sample:




The next thing I found was on a cassette tape, homemade copy, really beaten and smelling of dog and whiskey. All that was written on it was the title. Possibly in blood. Whoever these demon children were, they seemed to lead their father into linking Joy Division's nihilistic song "Digital" with child-rearing. I pray for this poor lost soul:



So, I'll keep looking around and see what I can dig up.

2.17.2009

Paula Morris interview

At long last! Pour a cup of tea, grab a blanket, and cuddle up to the warm glow of your screen. The incomparable, the illustrious, the mischievous, the droll, the sparkling Paula Morris -- New Zealand/Orleans novelist, ex-record company maven, English professor, intermittent radio personality who keeps the censor's finger near the red button, widely bookmarked blogger, wearer-of-track-suit-bottoms, intrepid international woman of intrigue, and now short-story-collection-haver (Forbidden Cities, Penguin NZ, which **UPDATE** has been shortlisted for the 2009 Commonwealth Writers' Prize) -- sat down at a slightly seedy rest stop bench along the information superhighwebs for a chat:

The stories take place all over the world: New Orleans, Shanghai, London, New Zealand, Hungary, New York. You've obviously been a lot of places and have in fact lived in a lot of places. How has travel shaped your writing? Do you decide locale first and then research, or do you sort of soak up the vibe and let the stories come out of the places?

I’m restless, as you know, and find myself tremendously energized by visiting or moving to new places – especially cities. I used to harbor naĂŻve ideas about moving somewhere serene and semi-pastoral to write in peace. Two years in Iowa City helped me come to my senses.

Going to Shanghai for the first time was thrilling. I loved the overwhelming, exhausting confusion of it. The first time I was there to do research for Hibiscus Coast; on the second visit, at the Shanghai Literary Festival, a woman in the audience told me I should look into the other side of things – that is, the ‘wronged wife’ side. I started thinking about it then, and took lots of pictures in the Temple of the City God, because I thought that might be a useful setting. Two years later I wrote the story.

Place is often a starting point for me in fiction, as you deduce. But aside from that first trip to Shanghai, I’m usually traveling on business or for a vacation, not with a specific research-a-story goal. There are a number of places I’ve been that I’ve never written about, apart from on my blog – like Paris, say. And considering I lived in England for eight years, very little of my work is set there. That will change very soon: the novel I’m working on now is largely set there, albeit in the nineteenth-century, and recently I’ve developed an urge to go back to Manchester – where I lived in the summer of 1989 – and revisit some ideas I had back then for a story.

You know, I’ve also set things in places I’ve never been at all. Some of the Shanghai sections in Hibiscus Coast were written before I went there, and they didn’t change. Recently I ghostwrote a novel set in a particular European town, using lots of real-life locations. I haven’t been to this place, and relied largely on my two close friends, the Internet, and the Imagination.

Another aspect of setting, time, also interests me a great deal. I need to know exactly when a story is taking place, even if that’s not really an issue for the reader. So, for example, “Like a Mexican” is set largely in 2003, because it’s about the end of things – including a certain era in the record business, as well as certain relationships. Also, El Teddy’s, one of the story’s key settings, closed early in 2004. “The Party” needed to take place exactly a year after Katrina; “Mon Desir” needed to take place in early 1976 because, for the purposes of the story, Jaws had to be a relatively new paperback. Messing around with all this explains why it took ten years to get a collection together.

My research is never diligent, I’m afraid. It’s very fragmentary and impressionistic, and I lean a lot on photographs and random scribblings.

The title Forbidden Cities comes from the last story, "Chain Bridge," in which Anna, a New Yorker, visits a friend in Budapest. She recalls cities she had visited with her former married lover and thinks of them as "forbidden," as in she doesn't ever want to go back there. How does this idea of places becoming saturated by people work in the book as a whole?

It’s all point of view, innit … in life, as in fiction. We have good and bad memories of places based on what happened to us there, who we were with, the time in our lives, the people we were. This is why I’m more ambivalent about New York than London, say, or why I’m fond of Frankfurt but have no desire to go back to Munich any time soon. Traveling around Laura Ingalls Wilder-related sites in Kansas, Missouri, South Dakota, and Minnesota with my friend Julia (ten years ago) instilled an incredible affection for the Midwest, much to the mystification of my friends in New York.

In a lot of the stories, characters are somewhere new, or somewhere far from home, and/or somewhere they shouldn’t be. Often the reason for this is another person. One of my friends back in the Manchester days told me a story about a guy he knew, also from Lancashire, who met “a bit of a girl” who was Polish. She didn’t speak much English, and he spoke no Polish at all, of course. She went home, and he decided to go after her. But he didn’t have much money, so he was off to catch the bus. (Many buses, I suspect.) He was going to catch the bus from England to Poland. A month earlier, before he met this girl, he wouldn’t have dreamed of doing any such thing.

I don’t know what happened to him – whether he got to Poland, whether things worked out for him and the bit of a girl. He’s probably around forty now. Maybe he’s still in Poland. But even if he’s back in Lancashire, or somewhere else altogether, Poland will mean something to him – love, foolishness, disappointment, adventure, promise, escape, confusion – forever.

Sometimes I also wonder if this guy is still known by his nickname, which is too strange and distinctive to mention here.

This is your fourth book of fiction but your first story collection. How was this one different in terms of writing and publishing?

The stories span more than a decade. The oldest one, “Many Mansions,” precedes my first novel. The first draft of that story was written in 1997, when I was going to classes at the West Side Y in New York. The most recent stories, like “Testing” and “The City God,” were written early last year, pretty much at the eleventh hour. My novels take a while, but not ten years – not yet, anyway. Though the process is similar, perhaps, in a certain way. With Hibiscus Coast, for example, I obsessed over the first ten thousand words for over a year, and wrote the rest at blazing speed.

Playwrights often have opportunities to revise their work, and I like the way stories, pre-collection, offer a similar freedom. Many of the stories have had different versions, different lives. The original version of “The Party” was set in the Hamptons, but I changed the setting to New Zealand for a magazine there. For the collection, I restored it to its original setting, but moved the timeframe to a year after Hurricane Katrina: the main character, Olivia, now has ties to New Orleans and Pass Christian, Mississippi. “Many Mansions” was another story re-written to give it a New Zealand setting and then restored to its original English location. “Bright” was broadcast on Iowa Public Radio as an American story and on Radio New Zealand with a South Pacific setting: that, too, I restored, though I was irritated to see I’d missed a crucial word change in the revision. Alert American readers will notice it, I suspect.

All of the stories were revised and re-written in some way for the collection. Assembling it, and seeing how the stories worked together, was both satisfying and nerve-wracking. In terms of publishing, I was surprised that Penguin was interested in bringing the book out at all. I mentioned it in passing – probably trying to buy myself some time between novels – to Geoff Walker, the editorial director at Penguin New Zealand, and he was keen.

They spent a long time working on the right cover. I knew I wanted a black-and-white photo for this, but it was hard to get one that didn’t read too ‘travel book’ (or too ‘article in Marie Claire about relationships’) The designer is based in Switzerland; I’m in New Orleans; the publisher is in Auckland, New Zealand; the cover photo is of London.

You get pretty deep inside your characters. Where do you get your ideas for characters, and what types of people fascinate you most?

Right now I’m in Chicago, trying to flee the AWP conference, so I could reel off a list of the people who DO NOT fascinate me at all, starting with men who wear corduroy shirts.

I’m nosy and an eavesdropper; I make notes, and make things up; I remember and forget. Last year I read a very annoying interview in the newspaper, and I gave a character in one of the stories that person’s name and nationality.

You are part Maori, the indigenous people of New Zealand. A lot of "ethnic" writers get pigeon-holed into writing exclusively about their particular group and its struggles. But you seem to have managed to straddle the worlds -- you write about Western cultures and locales as much as or more than you do about the Maori. Is that hard? Is it different when you write about one or the other?

After a workshop (at Iowa) of “Red Christmas,” one classmate earnestly asked: “Where do Maoris live?” He was thinking in terms of “ghetto” or “project” or “reservation,” I guess. It flustered me at the time, though later I realized the answer was “In Iowa City.” That is, Maori live everywhere. We live in poor neighborhoods and wealthy neighborhoods, and places in between (like the suburb where I grew up, in West Auckland). We live in New Zealand and in other countries all over the world. A large number of us live in Australia, to the irritation of some Australians. Often people don’t realize we’re Maori, because they have certain preconceptions. We’re too pale, perhaps, or we have an English last name. (A note on this: Maori didn’t have last names. My grandmother’s last name, Brown, was selected by her uncle, allegedly because it was the name of an admirable local family. This name was sometimes rendered as Paraone, its invented Maori equivalent.)

I grew up in Auckland. Some of my Maori relatives were farmers, north of the city; some were teachers and lawyers. Two cousins of my father’s generation work for a government department. Two cousins of my generation are doctors. Some Maori people are unemployed; some are in gangs, or in prison. Some are politicians, or accountants, or professors, or dancers. Some are very wealthy rugby players or opera singers. There is no single indigenous experience. In Hibiscus Coast, Emma – who is Maori and Chinese – grew up in relative affluence, and is able to pursue her art studies in London and Shanghai. Her cousin, Ani, comes from a poor and unstable home, and her brothers have been taken into care, though, with help from an aunt, she’s still able to attend university. Derek, her employer, owns a successful cafĂ© in downtown Auckland. Tai, the guy Ani’s in love with, vandalizes Emma’s apartment and steals a painting by Gauguin. All these characters are Maori.

When Hibiscus Coast came out, someone at my publishing company told me it was not “as Maori” as my first novel [Queen of Beauty]. Maybe because the names weren’t Maori enough, or the characters didn’t speak like the people in Once Were Warriors! In New Zealand, as elsewhere, some people assume Maori can’t be middle-class – or intelligent, or sophisticated, or complex. Or art students, perhaps.

Sticking with the pigeon-holing for a moment: You come from New Zealand, but you recently achieved American citizenship. Do you consider yourself a Kiwi writer, or an American writer, or a "global" writer? Does coming from New Zealand make it hard to find American publishers?

I’m a New Zealand writer. Though if anyone wants to give me the Pulitzer, then I’m American. (I’m as American as Zsa Zsa Gabor, at least.) And yes, US publishers are not lining up to publish books with New Zealand settings. I think they regard New Zealand as unknown and uneventful. It’s not exotic, troubled, dangerous, and/or in the Northern hemisphere. The New Zealand books people tend to know were first encountered as movies, like Alan Duff’s Once Were Warriors, and Witi Ihimaera’s The Whale Rider. Or there’s a Booker Prize connection, like Keri Hulme’s The Bone People, which won in 1985, or Lloyd Jones’ Mister Pip, which was a finalist in 2007.

Several of the stories deal with troubled relationships – flawed ones that end painfully. Yet you are married to perhaps the most noble and pleasant gentleman many of us have ever had the pleasure to encounter. How can this be?

I was talking to a book club in Alexandria, LA, about Hibiscus Coast, and they asked me a similar question. “We’ve heard your family is so nice,” they said. “Why is this family so mean?” I like making things up, and flaws are interesting. By the way, I read this question aloud to Tom Moody, and he asked me to repeat the “noble and pleasant gentleman” bit. He nodded, in a sort of indignant and vindicated way. “That’s right,” he said, as though it was about time someone pointed these things out to me.

Your prose style strikes me as coolly spare, and sharply, wonderfully to the point, with a wicked vein of humor running under it all. It creates honest scenes and people with little ornamentation and zero sentimentality. Where did your style come from? Who are some of the writers you admire?

William Trevor I love, maybe a little too much. Colin Thubron and Bruce Chatwin. Ian McEwan. Evelyn Waugh. I really like Peter Ho Davies, too. The book I could happily re-read every year is Lucky Jim by Kingsley Amis.

In the collection, I think some of my influences are pretty transparent: depending on the story, you can see that I’ve been reading Alice Munro, Ellen Gilchrist, George Saunders, Lorrie Moore, Katherine Mansfield. You probably can’t see, at all, the influence of other people I like to read, like Salman Rushdie and Junot Diaz. And there are some brilliant stories I absolutely love, but can only hope to emulate in the smallest way – I’m thinking of “Heavy Water” by Martin Amis, and Daniel Mason’s “A Registry of My Passage Upon the Earth.”

You also teach at Tulane. How do you like teaching there, in post-Katrina New Orleans? There must be stories everywhere you look, but also a lot of sorrow and lingering resentment? How has New Orleans changed in the past few years?

New Orleans is almost 300 years old, and has survived numerous floods, fires, and pestilences. It’s a shape-shifter, accustomed to re-forming and re-inventing itself – after the huge influx from Haiti in the early nineteenth century, say, or in the years around the Civil War, when modern-day Mardi Gras was devised. There’s a strong will to recover from the beating we took after Katrina – and here I must give a shout-out to the US Army Corps of Engineers, whose negligence made the great flood an inevitability.

The older parts of the city which didn’t flood (the French Quarter, the Garden District, etc.) look fine, and tourists can come to town and never realize that much of the city is still very messed up. But progress is slow: too many people in officialdom are corrupt or ineffective, not dynamic and visionary enough to oversee the social change we need.

Tulane is a great place, and very resilient. Community service is now required of all incoming students. Next year the Katrina class will graduate, and then there’ll be no undergraduates with a memory of the storm – odd. We received an amazing gift for creative writing after Katrina, and we’ve used it to bring major writers to campus: Toni Morrison, Salman Rushdie, Louise Gluck, and (this year) Joan Didion and Billy Collins. These events are all free and open to the public, and we do a lot of school outreach as well, taking books and information to public high school students and trying to lure them onto campus for readings, lectures, and symposia. I now teach a class on Literary Event Management, which draws on my background in PR and marketing, to make sure we’re promoting all our events and activities throughout the city.

I’ve only written two stories that refer to Katrina. There’s a kind of story profusion here that’s almost too much. Sometimes we need to write things, but not always to publish. Everyone seems to want a publishing deal, to make their claim to survivor status. Some of them, I think, just want to be first, sensing that the publishing moment will soon pass.

People get competitive about how much damage they sustained. (It’s hard not to get drawn into this. When someone makes some breezy “you-were-fine” comment, I can’t help playing the “we had five-and-a-half feet of water!” card. I’m sure everyone was like this after the bombing of Dresden, too.) The YA novel I’ve written (see below) is set in post-Katrina New Orleans, but the mystery driving the story is from 1853, during one of the yellow fever epidemics.

Could you tell us about The Scudder Road Circus and Literary Journal?

Tom Moody’s family live in St Louis. On one of my first trips there, I noticed a highway exit sign for "Natural Bridge" and realized where that literary journal got its name. Immediately I grew envious and conniving, wanting my own literary journal named after a highway sign in St Louis. When I saw "Scudder Road," it seemed the obvious candidate.

But there are too many literary journals, as you know, so I thought a good point of difference would be to run it as a circus as well. TM was appointed animal trainer and commissioned with finding suitable circus acts. He soon lost interest, and has totally neglected this duty. Also, he was demoted to adjunct animal trainer when I remembered he only has a BA.

As a circus and literary journal, Scudder Road is yet to find either content or audience, or indeed publish any work or mount any performances. But I’m sure this is only a temporary state of affairs. It recently celebrated its fifth anniversary, which is quite a landmark for literary journals (and circuses) in these difficult times.

Favorite memories/stories about your time at the Workshop in Iowa City? You also did another writing program, an MA at Victoria University’s the Institute of International Letters in Wellington. How were the programs different?

When I was a student in Victoria in 2001, there were only ten students in the program, and we all met as a group – poets, fiction writers, a playwright – twice a week. Now it’s much larger, with separate classes for poetry, fiction, and screenplays/plays. Still, there’s more of an intimate feeling, perhaps, than at a big program like Iowa. To me, it felt less competitive, as well, perhaps because differences in financial aid/funding are not an issue. Peer criticism was more muted, too, because of the convivial atmosphere of the program, and because of something in the national character, which leans more towards self-deprecating than assertive/outgoing. This has its pros and cons, of course.

I made good friends at Victoria and at Iowa, and I’m really, really glad that I was able to study in both places. At Victoria I wrote Queen of Beauty, my first novel; at Iowa I wrote large parts of Hibiscus Coast and Trendy But Casual, plus a number of the stories that appear in Forbidden Cities.

One of my favorite memories of the Workshop is of Frank and the Only Eight Pages incident. Many of my other memories involve being summoned into Connie’s office, after which a variation on the following would happen:

Connie: Just sit there for a minute – I have to take this call/speak to this person/run out of the office for a while/get Frank to sign something.
Me (hoping I’m not in trouble for anything): OK.
Connie (returning some time later, and looking startled to see me sitting there): So, what do you want?
Me: You said you wanted to see me.
Connie: Well, there’s no time for that now. You’ll have to come back another day.

You worked at Virgin, Polygram, and BMG, and RCA. What was it like working in the record industry?

If I were to write about my record business experiences in London and New York now, it would be an historic novel filled with perplexing archaic references. I left 11 years ago, when people still bought CDs – in record stores. Virgin was taken over by EMI; BMG merged with Sony. When I worked at Polygram (now Universal) Classics, there were three labels: DG, Decca and Philips. Philips is gone; Decca is about to close up shop in London and merge its international office with DG in Hamburg. Things aren’t looking any better in NYC.

It was an incredibly chaotic, pressured, hysterical, interesting, and absurd time in my life. I made good friends at all the places I worked; I went to the Grammys three times, and got to travel a lot. I still love records, though my enthusiasm for attending live events received a near-fatal bashing. (It will never recover, I suspect.)

What's next for Paula Morris?

Too much, as ever. Last year was a big travel year, and there’s more in the near-future – to the UK over spring break, and home to NZ in May for the Auckland Writers & Readers Festival. My nephew is back in Mexico this semester, so we’re planning to go somewhere with him over Easter.

I’ve just finished guest-editing an issue of Landfall, New Zealand’s oldest literary journal, which comes out in May. Later this year another major editing project, The Penguin Book of Contemporary New Zealand Short Stories, will be published. The reading involved in both these projects was overwhelming – months of work. And then I managed to turn writing the anthology intro into a multi-week nightmare.

In late summer, Scholastic here in the US is bringing out my YA novel, Ruined, a mystery/ghost story set in New Orleans. I hope to have finished the novel based on my short story, “Rangatira,” by then. It’s set in New Zealand and England, hence the research-related trips early this year. This is the nineteenth-century novel I’ve been working on for some time.

In the past four years, I’ve ghostwritten six novels [!!!!??? -- Ed.] and done fixing jobs on two others. I’m trying to cut back on this work so I have more time for sanity. I have a few other irons in the fire, but sometimes the fire feels as though it’s too wild and ferocious, and may overwhelm me at any moment.

We need a new WPA

Why aren't writers included in the stimulus bill? As this NPR report reminds us, during the last Depression da gub-mint used to pay writers to run around the country capturing the "stories of America." So why not now? What, we've run out of them?

Apparently 4 out of the first 10 winners of the National Book Award were connected to the WPA project, which ran from 1935-1939, when conservatives managed to kill it, claiming it was infested with Commies. Hey, at least writers are good at coming up with new ideas -- unlike some automakers I could mention.