Alexandra Leggat

I interviewed writer Salvatore Difalco about his new book of micro fiction The Mountie at Niagara Falls, String theory, poker.
The link to the mags site is here - http://www.blackbilepress.com/black_bile_press/Editorial_Feature25.html

And the interview is also below.

Front and Centre #25
EDITORIAL/FEATURE

Two writers talking – Salvatore Difalco & Alexandra Leggat

>> Fom The Mountie at Niagara Falls by Salvatore Difalco

IF THE PHONE RINGS

I’m not home. I have a toothache and a headache and my stomach is off. I look like a corpse. I’m sure my boss is thinking of canning my ass. He never knew I could be such a whiner, such a wimp, such a wuss – as if whining about pain is a crime against humanity. But in some cultures it is, in a way. Nevertheless I cancelled my flight to Chicago, where I was scheduled to interview an important man I have never heard of and I’m afraid I’ve made a bad name for myself. Downstairs my wife is crying because her editor rejected her latest column and her sorrow threatens to boil over into anger. I can feel it in my tooth. I don’t know about flying with a toothache. My sister once flew to Florida with one and spent a week in hiding after a Clearwater dentist botched the root canal. Root canal in Florida, root canal in Chicago, a wounded wife in Toronto. These things call for serious narcotics. No one needs to be in pain.

>>

When I ask, my husband Salvatore Difalco swears I am not the wounded wife in Toronto, crying because her editor rejected her latest column. Though I don’t believe him, I wouldn’t want him to question the inspiration behind my characters. I wonder if Tess Gallagher raised an eyebrow at the female characters in her late husband Raymond Carver’s intricate and heart-wrenching stories. I recently read in a review of Joyce Carol Oates’ new memoir A Widow’s Story that she always kept her writing separate from her marriage. That her late husband Raymond Smith didn’t read her fiction and she preferred it that way. Oates writes, “I did not think of myself as a writer primarily, or even as a writer, but as a wife.” They kept their life domestic and unaffected by the literary realm. Hard to fathom. For Salvatore and I talking about our work, books, attempting to make sense of it all, is a big part of our union – writing is our life. Maybe after forty-seven years of marriage and over seventy-five books under my belt, I might feel differently. But for now there is too much to talk about: Salvatore’s new book The Mountie at Niagara Falls, the writing life, string theory …

Alexandra Leggat: We’d known each other for a long time before I discovered and was amazed that you had a thing for miniatures. Do you remember what drew you to writing in this compact form that reflects your love for little things?

Salvatore Difalco: I guess it comes from my love of miniatures in general, you know figurines, dollhouses, Dinky toys. Miniature paintings and sculptures do it for me. I like small, very small things. But I’ve always liked the short literary form as practised by Kafka, Beckett, Hemingway, Walser and so forth. You can do a lot in a short space, and you’re free to create hybrids of poetry, prose, and more discursive takes. It’s freeing, in a way. So after my longer fiction was out there and no one was really digging it, I turned to the small form exclusively, for a time, one that editors seemed to like more than my longer efforts. They were willing to give the short things space since they don’t demand much space. Hence I now have become a committed miniaturist. Or at least I had become one. Now I think I’ll turn back to longer forms.

AL: As a committed miniaturist, did you visualize the little gems in The Mountie at Niagara Falls, see them, feel them, hear them? How does one create the ship in the bottle as it were?

SD: Many of these shorts came almost unconsciously. I mean, I sit around scratching; exploring this or that conceit, this or that voice, and sometimes something catches fire. Then I get it down as it comes, make a few tweaks, and move on. These pieces either work on the first go or they don’t. In other words I discard the ones that fizzle out.

AL: I recall seeing a carpet of them strewn across the floor at one point; how would you describe the process of compiling them all for the book?

SD: I had written a couple hundred of these pieces over the last few years, many of which appeared in journals. I thought about compiling them into a little book and I solicited my artist friend, Francesco Galle, to ink a few drawings for the mass and he did. I found a publisher but doubts about the publication date and little or no feedback from the editors left it all hanging until the last minute. The actual book was thrown together in a forty-eight hour period just before it went to the printer. There wasn’t much editing or design, when all is said and done.

AL: But the juxtaposition of the artwork and the miniature story lends itself so perfectly to a book. I found the image allows the reader to reflect before moving on to the next story. Is this what you were hoping for?

SD: As far as the illustrations go, I had envisaged a cool, compact book that would be palatable and easily digested. Most of the pieces are so short that a little breathing time between batches seemed the way to go. Unfortunately, the editing process never really got off the ground and thus it fell short of my vision for it.

AL: How did you find that experience, working with an artist and his interpretation of your work?

SD: It was a mixed bag. I love Francesco but conflating two artistic visions is never easy. In the end Francesco proved to be flexible and accommodating and I’m pleased with the individual drawings, though I have no idea how anyone else feels about them.

AL: They are titillating, magical. You have a great appreciation for art, which I think comes through in your work, especially this last book. What artists inspire your writing, your mindset? I know who you like, but you always surprise me with who’s in your mind at the time of working and why?

SD: Well, that may have been true, of course, at one point. I mean, being inspired by “artists”. But I find myself backing off a little from that. Aesthetics can choke you out in the end. I don’t see many contemporary artists, in whatever medium, that give me a thrill, and you can only keep going back to the old stuff so often. So I have to admit that these days I am not inspired by artists. I am inspired by string theorists who spin out preposterous, unverifiable hypotheses about time and space, and poker champions who have the best jobs in the world, and those shiny men and women who have made a great deal of money. They inspire me. Ask them what they think about art.

AL: Ha, ha. And from what you tell me there are some great fictions in string theory. Would you say writing is comparable to quantum chaos, or the writing life is?

SD: I think the term is quantum uncertainty. Quantum uncertainty makes the whole precipice fragile and illusory. Have you ever heard of Calabi-Yau manifolds?

AL: Calabi-what?

SD: Never mind. It’ll just depress you.

AL: After reading your new book I felt that although The Mountie at Niagara Falls is a short story collection, a collection of miniatures, that there were three main characters whose lives and thoughts we were privy to, so in its way this works like an abstract novel to me. Did you get a sense of that all?

SD: That may be correct, but it wasn’t conscious. I guess looking at it now I see the trinity. I used to think I was merely schizophrenic, or at the very least divided. Now I have to consider all the pratfalls and complexities of being “three-personed” like the Christian God.

AL: Really? Do you? Or is it more like string theory?

SD: Did you know, string theorists propose that there are eleven or so space dimensions, not the three we normally think of. Now, what does this mean? It means that either the universe is infinitely more complex and mysterious than we have ever imagined, or that these guys have fabulous imaginations.

AL: And how does this relate to writing?

SD: You’ve seen how I’ve been tied up in knots since the publication of my last book.

AL: Yes, the post-partum publication rough spot, quantum uncertainty. You’re an avid poker player, are there parallels to poker and writing?

SD: Well, with poker, talent and knowledge aren’t always enough to win. You can play your very best game, that is, wait for premium holdings, read the table well, and bet accordingly, but that won’t prevent an occasional donkey from hitting a flop or a river with his or her junk and soiling you. So, yes, there are parallels.

AL: Can I begin my next book with that quote?

SD: No.

AL: In each of my books I always seem to gravitate to a favourite story or two. Of the unique stories in The Mountie at Niagara Falls, do you have favourites?

SD: My own favourite? That’s a bit self-indulgent, to name it – but maybe the actual title story is my favourite. Lots of people with strange bents are drawn to Niagara Falls. And as you and I know, people really do kill themselves there.

AL: We’ve both been described as edgy writers. Your first short story collection Black Rabbit and Other Stories was seen as extremely dark and edgy. And though not the same sensibility, The Mountie at Niagara Falls is not devoid of darkness and edge. Niagara Falls itself is the edge, as you mentioned we discovered first hand. How do you feel about that categorization?

SD: Frankly, I don’t know what edgy means any more. I don’t know if writers in Canada are really capable or permitted to write edgy fiction. But then again, that word is problematic, isn’t it? If it means you’re writing from the margins … either by choice or circumstance, well, okay. If it means you’re willing to explore certain darker regions of the human psyche and the human condition, I guess it’s as efficient an adjective as any. Also, pushing aesthetic boundaries; that can be edgy, to a degree. Writers who push too hard aesthetically run the risk of alienating a reader, even one with an open mind. I don’t know. If being edgy means being pushed out of the country’s literary discourse, being dismissed as coarse (i.e., uneducated or unschooled in the art) and unserious, and being denied grants and publishing opportunities and, well, respect and a viable readership, I wish that term edgy never made it into my orbit. It’s tiring enough and frustrating enough being viewed as an edgy human being. What does that mean in the end? That one might snap at any moment? That one might freak out? Go apeshit at the drop of a hat? Well, anyone is capable of losing it, of creeping too close to the abyss. Given the right pressure, the right poking, the ample amount of disrespect, anyone can be edgy.

AL: I see. We’ve talked about the phenomenon of how writers who try to be edgy are not – it doesn’t work. Care to share your thoughts on that?

SD: A lot of so called edgy writing, writing that perhaps emulates the efforts of Bukowski or Kathy Acker, or Burroughs, Carver, and the like, just isn’t convincing. I just don’t see it. I don’t see the cheaper, newer rip-offs possessing the authority and true darkness of their forbearers. Certain styles and conceits and tropes get worn out. That pared down, “gritty” style that became ubiquitous during the nineties is beyond annoying now; that clipped, minimal blandness leading to fecal alleyways and yawning toilet bowls and baring the bones of dysfunction and misery, I can’t bear it anymore. It’s been done to death. There’s no room for it any more.

AL: Agreed. What writers do you feel best illustrate what I would rather call treacherous or dangerous writing and why?

SD: Well, I guess I’d mention the usual suspects like Dostoevsky, Kafka and Babel, and of course Beckett in his way. Why? I guess they were all uniquely perceptive and at the same time subversive, unafraid to kick against the pricks and plunge into uncomfortable, subterranean subjects. As far as more recent writers go, Carver wrote some fabulously creepy and teeth-gnashing stories, and Bolano was really pushing the storytelling envelope in his last works. But maybe Stephen King is the king of this gritty, grimy domain, and one day snobs like us will accept that.

AL: Maybe you will. The Shining is not unreadable. And what about Jim Thompson and Andrew Vacchs, that calibre of true grit?

SD: Thompson wrote a lot of shit. But he wrote two or three books that are masterpieces. He created a couple of psychos thus far unsurpassed in fiction. Vacchs is good, true, but probably limited. And of course Denis Johnson comes to mind. Jesus’ Son is still thrilling to read.

AL: Are you conscious of evoking reactions in readers with your work, physical, emotional, psychological?

SD: Since I have no idea whatsoever who my readers are, and if indeed I have any legitimate readers, I find that difficult to answer. I don’t think I’m taken seriously enough as a writer to even consider “audience.” Since a reader, as such, is unknown to me, I never consider the reader when I’m writing, except that I always strive to make my writing exceedingly readable.

AL: Which medium do you think is the best vehicle for exploring the depths of more risk taking writing?

SD: Whatever medium you’re permitted to express yourself in. If you can’t get your so-called experiments published then perhaps you should rethink things. Writing in a vacuum is death. Pushing boundaries is meaningless unless you do have an audience that recognizes your bravery and ingenuity. F&C

Salvatore Difalco is the author of The Mountie at Niagara Falls (Anvil Press 2010) and Black Rabbit and Other Stories (Anvil Press). His essays, articles and reviews have appeared on Toro magazine, The Globe and Mail and other publications across Canada and the United States.

Alexandra Leggat’s latest collection of short stories is Animal (Anvil Press 2010), which was nominated for the 2010 Trillium Book Awards. She writes freelance and also instructs creative writing classes at the University of Toronto School of Continuing Studies.

I like Brett Favre. I do. He is great to watch, has been one of the greatest quarterbacks to watch over the years. Even throughout his on again off again flirtation with retiring, I have stuck by him because I can't help but like the guy. I am a diehard Indianapolis Colts fan, Peyton Manning is my guru and yet I have written about Brett Favre more than Manning and the Colts. Of Course, Manning doesn't threaten to quit every year.

This time around, I think I want Favre to leave. It bothers me that he doesn't like to attend training camp, that he doesn't feel he has to, which helps explain his inconsistencies. Sometimes he's brilliant and others completely useless - unlike Manning who is, I think, consistently brilliant, even on his off days. It's true Favre has a knack for joining teams in need and bringing out the best in them - a great leader. We saw this with the Jets and with the Vikings. He gives teams hope. He gives teams hope and he gives team's fans hope and that's why I think it's even worse that he threatens to leave each time he joins a new team. He dashes everyone's hopes.

I never liked the Minnesota Vikings. They were one of the teams I liked to dislike. However, last season they were likable, watchable, had a sense of discipline, channeled their thuggery into useful, effective energy which I attribute to Favre. Now the rumor is he won't be returning.

At this point, crying wolf is an understatement. Will I miss him? Or will I miss the on again off again Favre's not returning threat I've come to look forward to at the beginning of each new NFL season? That is the question.

Alexandra Leggat

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