Nonfiction

Lyric Essays and Explosions: A Conversation with Matthew Gavin Frank

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by Charlotte Gutzmer

We’ve all seen the classic action movie explosion sequence: beginning with the wide-angle shot where the building detonates, blossoming into a cloud of reds, oranges, and yellows, smoke pouring into the sky. At which point the hero always, always, turns away. But such a move extends beyond the Hollywood explosions.  In poet Alberto Rios’s piece “Some Extensions on the Sovereignty of Science”, he writes that “when something explodes, / Turn exactly opposite from it and see what there is to see.” Matthew Gavin Frank takes this advice to heart in his own writing, “turning away” from the subject matter in search of the more intriguing, bizarre, and extraordinary sources of inspiration—and you can, too!

Matthew Gavin Frank is the author of the nonfiction books, The Mad Feast: An Ecstatic Tour Through America’s Food, Preparing the Ghost: An Essay Concerning the Giant Squid and Its First Photographer, Pot Farm, Barolo, and Flight of the Diamond Smugglers; the poetry books, The Morrow Plots, Warranty in Zulu, and Sagittarius Agitprop, and 2 chapbooks. His heavily acclaimed work has been recognized by the New York Times, NPR, the New Yorker, The Paris Review, The Wall Street Journal, Entertainment Weekly, and more. On July 27th, join him in his CVWG craft talk: “Turning Away from the Explosion, Or, the Power of Free Association in the Lyric Essay”

I had the pleasure of chatting with Matthew Gavin Frank about his captivating books, about the new writing form of the lyric essay, and about his upcoming craft talk. Read on to learn all about creating balance in your writing and how the most fascinating stories can be found by turning away from the main subject.

Charlotte Gutzmer: In the description of your upcoming craft talk, you pose the question: “By ‘turning away’ from the subject matter with which we most urgently want to engage, are we able to capture our subject’s emotive power even more poignantly?” What are some of the advantages of approaching stories from these unexpected ways, and what can turning away from the main idea reveal?

Matthew Gavin Frank: Many of my favorite essays are struggling toward something, not presuming certainty.  In the essay, often, a presumption of certainty can seem boring. And aggressive.  And false.  Certainty often obscures a kind of truth, rather than illuminates it.  The act of “turning away from the explosion,” not only signifies that a writer is grappling—desperately and urgently—to make sense of often intense personal experience, but also signifies that the writer is interested in journeying toward that elusive sense by attempting to situate their own personal experience or obsession within a larger socio-cultural, natural, and/or historical context, in order to discover or revise or uncover meaning in personal experience.  It’s like forcing ourselves to glimpse the stars only via our peripheral vision, by which, of course, they appear the brightest to us.    

CG: Your nonfiction writing revolves around fascinating and extraordinary topics such as diamond-smuggling carrier pigeons and giant squids; where do you find the inspiration to write on these topics, and what kinds of stories are you generally drawn towards?

MGF: Hmm, I’m not entirely sure.  I think I’m pretty scattershot with regard to my obsessions, and I’m easily obsessed.  I have a decent capacity for surprise, oftentimes to a fault.  The giant squid book (Preparing the Ghost) began in the Smithsonian National Museum of Natural History when I saw the first-ever photograph of the giant squid (taken by Reverend Moses Harvey in St. John’s, Newfoundland in 1874; the image that rescued the beast from the realm of mythology and finally proved its existence; the one in which the carcass is draped over Harvey’s bathtub curtain rod in order to showcase its full size).  I desperately wanted to uncover the backstory behind the taking of the photograph, and of course, I became curious about the squid itself, and the ways in which we’ve variously engaged it over the years.  I wanted to know what the giant squid, and our reactions to it, could tell us about ourselves.  I became compelled by Harvey’s compulsions, and the sacrifices he had to make in order to chase them toward some nebulous end. And so, I lit out for Newfoundland to investigate further, to see what I could find out. 

The pigeon book (Flight of the Diamond Smugglers) began when I was visiting the Diamond Coast of South Africa, chatting deep into the night in a bar with a former diamond diver, over lots and lots of brandy.  He told me about the ways in which workers would sometimes use trained homing pigeons to smuggle diamonds out of the mines, and that if pigeons are overloaded with too much weight, they can lose their natural GPS, and begin landing at random.  This happened along coastal South Africa—diamond-bearing pigeons dropping from the sky onto the local beaches.  I couldn’t get that image out of my head.  A rain of birds, burdened with gems.  It was that image that eventually led me to investigate further. 

In answering this question, I’m starting to wonder how the act of traveling impacts my openness to potential subject matter, as if my nerve endings are more exposed and aroused when away from home. Traveling seems to intensify my penchant for self-reflection and self-pity, for loneliness, for the shoehorning of my own life into some larger socio-cultural context.  And all of these actions and desires— while traveling especially, and snapped out of my comfort zone— are likely misguided and obsessed with all the wrong beautiful things, and thereby terribly, heartbreakingly human.  And worth shuffling through on the page, via multiple drafts of course.  I don’t know.  This is a really long answer.

CG: As an acclaimed author of both nonfiction and poetry, how do you combine these distinct elements into what is known as the “lyric essay”?

 MGF: In the past, there was a real disconnect for me between the process of writing a poem, and the process of writing prose.  Not so much anymore.  As with the writing of poetry, much of the energy that fuels the writing of my essays is derived from the attempt to find the perfect ingredients necessary to bridge seemingly dissimilar bits of subject matter.  It’s wonderful: as writers, we have the power to manipulate connections between just about anything, no matter how seemingly dissimilar.  It just takes research, contemplation, imaginative alchemy, and the P.I.-style investigation to uncover that perfect “bridge” ingredient.  

CG: What are some of the greatest rewards and challenges of being a lyric essayist?

MGF: Sometimes, the essay needs to call out and re-examine our cultural narratives (and their desire to simplify the world for us) as illusory.  To call attention to the mess.  To restore a false simplicity to its innate complexity.  To agitate our readers’ expectations rather than to confirm them (as well as our own).  I suppose there’s both reward and challenge in forsaking easy, comforting answers, and instead embracing mystery.  Sometimes I have trouble separating these lines of thinking from the processes of writing and just plain general living.  

CG: How can a writer strike a balance between the “explosion” that is their subject matter and the associative subject matter that adds depth to their craft?

MGF: I’m not so sure that balance should be the goal here, but rather a carefully curated imbalance, maybe.  A symphonic, perhaps dissonant, kind of shuffling of the various bits of subject matter, which can sometimes be engaged via formal leaps (a braided essay, a segmented essay, an essay in the form of a syllabus, or in the form of an invented mathematical theorem, or in the form of series of love letters to multiple recipients across time and region and species, or in the form of a narrative map…).  

So, I’m not sure about balance.  I’m chronically imbalanced on the page, especially when drafting! I just try to keep moving forward.  I used to think that there was something wrong with this, and I kept grappling toward some semblance of balance (whatever that means), until I read this article by another writer (though I can’t recall who it is), about how such imbalance can be a good thing; how it can be electric and inspirational, and how that it’s precisely this sort of off-kilter and anxious state that oftentimes yields urgent and exciting work.  I really wish I could remember who wrote that article.  I’m sure if I was better balanced, my memory would be better as well!  And during the pandemic, I’ve learned to be gentler and more generous with myself and others, and not to fret too terribly over ephemeral and elusive and ever-malleable things like “balance.”  I’m not always successful at such ventures, but I’m trying.  

CG: While your craft talk will focus on “the power of association as an entry point into the lyric essay”, can these ideas still be incorporated into other writing forms and creative mediums?

MGF: Oh, of course.  Such ideas can be mapped over and onto just about any art form and medium, sure, but also onto any real aspect of navigating this life.  Going for a walk, watching birds, listening to the frogs, talking to the coupling dragonflies…  Being associative in this way is innate, isn’t it?  I mean: how to navigate all these stimuli?! Maybe it’s a matter of trusting in said associations and inflaming them, interrogating them, bringing them to the fore—being led around by the forces of whimsy and wonder. 

So what are you waiting for? Register today for Matthew Gavin Frank’s craft talk to learn all about how you, too, can turn away from the explosion and bring the inspiration of lyric essays into your craft.


“Giving Away How An Act…Is Done Doesn't Make It Lose Any Of The Magic”: 5 Questions with Tessa Fontaine

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Rome Alfonsas Balciunas

Some say that life is stranger than fiction.  It’s a claim that’s hard to dispute when one reads Tessa Fontaine’s debut memoir The Electric Woman, which recounts Tessa’s experiences performing in the last traveling show in America while simultaneously processing her mother’s declining health. Hailed as an “assured debut that doesn’t shy away from the task of holding the ordinary and otherworldly in its hand,” (New York Times Book Review),  “fascinating and heartfelt” (Booklist), and “ a behind-the-scenes peek at carnival life, and an ode to unconditional love" (Omnivoracious), indeed, the book has made quite a splash since its publication in 2018.  It’s gripping, poignant, and vivid in a way that fully embodies the undeniable beauty of nonfiction.

I had the honor of interviewing Tessa, who will serve as this summer’s nonfiction writer-in-residence at The Priory Writers’ Retreat. Apply now for Tessa’s workshop: “Beauty In Brevity: Finding Power In Flash Creative Nonfiction And Memoir.”

Rome Alfonsas Balciunas: Regarding the experiences in The Electric Woman, at what point did you realize you had to write about that time in your life?

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Tessa Fontaine: As a person with a brain wired for writing, every experience has the potential to end up in a piece of writing, whether directly or indirectly. It was clear to me pretty early on that the stories of all the other sideshow performers were amazing, stories I wanted to record. I took copious notes while I was on the road, hundreds and hundreds of pages, but I had no idea what form it would take. I wrote short "Notes from the Road" essays while I was out there, and published them as I went. And then, when it was over and I had all these notes, I started sifting through them, trying to find some organizational principle. The more I reread all the moments, all the stories of the sideshow world, the more convinced I was I needed to try to write it out as a book.

RB: One of my favorite things about the book is how your descriptive language is vivid to the point of being visceral, and indeed hair-raising in some places. Reading your accounts of the different carnival acts made me feel like a member of the audience, witnessing the show with every one of my senses. How did you achieve such a hyper-realist style? Did any writers influence this style?

TF: Thank you! I worked very hard on describing the acts as thoroughly as possible. Giving away how an act, like sword swallowing, is done doesn't make it lose any of the magic—I think understanding that a real person is really putting a sword down their throat makes it all the more magical. Lots of writers influenced my writing - a few people I read over and over again while working on the book were Tim O'Brien's The Things They Carried, Lidia Yuknavitch's The Chronology of Water, Jesmyn Ward's Salvage the Bones, and poems by Li-Young Lee. All those writers are able to describe a world that I feel, as a reader, I get to fully inhabit.

RB: Your memoir does an incredible job of juxtaposing the difficulties of your mother's health and eventual passing alongside your experiences in the last traveling sideshow in America. When did you see these two strands of your story fitting together? Why did you choose to join the last traveling sideshow, as opposed to any other adventure?

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TF: When I was first culling my notes, I thought I'd write a narrative nonfiction account of my time in the sideshow without my mother's story in it. Never in a million years did I expect to write a memoir. But as I was working on the draft, something kept falling flat—like, I wasn't being honest about what I was doing out there, or why. So it eventually became clear to me that I had to tell the whole story. As for why the sideshow—when I went down to Florida to interview the performers and watch the show, before I had any inkling that I'd join myself, I was amazed by these people who could stand on stage and perform away their fear, like their bodies were indestructible. And because I'd been watching my mom's body suffer so much, the sideshow performers seemed almost like they were outside suffering, or perhaps choosing how to suffer, to control their own pain. I wanted to do that myself.

...when I went down to Florida to interview the performers and watch the show, before I had any inkling that I’d join myself, I was amazed by these people who could stand on stage and perform away their fear, like their bodies were indestructible.

RB: What are you working on now?

TF: A novel!

RB: Your presentation at The Priory Retreat this summer will be about the beauty of extremely short creative nonfiction. What about flash nonfiction speaks to you in a way that longer styles of writing don’t?

TF: I think flash nonfiction offers us insight into being human through micro-experience - a moment, an object, a morsel. It allows for a super zoomed lens on something that then speaks for something else, much larger, almost the way a haiku can point to something so specific while also raising bigger philosophical questions. Also, it can be a delight for the eye. I love encountering white space on the page - literally, gaps between the text that force the reader to make some narrative connections herself. It allows for the great pleasure of juxtaposition and accumulation of imagery. I'm really looking forward to exploring this form with writers at The Priory Writers’ Retreat this summer!

For more on  Tessa’s course at The Priory, click here.



 

Craft Talk Preview: Jason Smith on Making Your Stories Stand Out

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by Emma O’Shea

I recently had the chance to speak with Jason Smith, the associate director of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters, and the editor of Wisconsin People and Ideas. We talked storytelling, publishing advice, and more. Check out his advice below, and make sure to attend his Craft Talk this Thursday, September 20th, 7 p.m. at the L.E. Phillips Memorial Public Library! Smith will explore how to craft gripping ledes and incorporate dramatic elements that captivate readers. He will also provide insight on how to translate complex subjects for, and explain abstract ideas to, general audiences.

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Emma O’Shea: In your seventeen-plus years of publishing experience, what stands out most to you when choosing writers to publish?

Jason Smith: There are a couple of elements that you look for in good writing, and part of my talk coming up this week is about storytelling. Being able to succinctly tell a good story, something that I call the barstool pitch, is important. If you can summarize what your story is in a brief paragraph; outlining your lead elements, talking about your lead characters, and the conflict or the dramatic element that’s going to carry the reader through, that has a symbolic element that reflects personality traits of the characters and subjects. Talk a little bit about the outcome of what that story might be. People will read this story and once they’re done reading it, they’re really going to have a greater understanding of the experience of this kind of person. Whatever the story is and wherever it takes you, thinking clearly about the outcome and beginning is important. If somebody’s got a really refined idea, then their pitch will have those elements in that.

EO: What would you say is a useful tip for writing a concise, yet resonating article?

JS: The question I think writers (myself included) should ask about their piece is “why this now”? This seems deceptively simple, right? You know, I can ask those questions, but when you start passing your piece through that crucible, through that filter, it really makes you clarify the story you’re telling. It seems the “why” is so obvious 一 because the editor told me to write about this. It’s not always like that. You must find the why in the heart of whatever story you’re writing. What's going to make it compelling, and then how does it fit for this particular publication? How do you make that connection for readers and bring the why right to the front so that they’re really understanding why this piece is sitting in front of their face. There are so many stories, so many different kinds of people. So many interesting ideas out there. What makes this particular one stand out above and beyond everyone else, why is this case exceptional? Here’s where the drama comes in, where you can really lock in the reader’s attention on this story opposed to the 8 million other things that fly before our eyes on a daily basis. The now factor is something that’s tethered to the moment. It can be a cultural movement, something on a local level or a response to a tragedy, but really hitting the timing of the piece is key.

EO: What would you consider the most important skill a writer can hone?

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JS: That goes back to storytelling. We tell stories in the way we’ve communicated for thousands of years. Recitation of the facts and an attention to detail is good. It’s really important to get your research right and to be really thorough, so as not to betray the trust of the reader.

EO: How would a writer most effectively avoid clichés on well-covered subjects?

JS: Don’t get stuck in those tropes and archetypes. The story of the up and coming someone doing great work; those stories are familiar and can sometimes border on cliché. The best way to deal with that is to try and find elements that complicate our understanding of these people, rather than follow along the rather rigid plotting character arcs. By complicated, I mean bringing in elements that change our understanding rather than just supply the detail and the things necessary to keep us going on a singular path.

EO: What would you say is vital for writers to know when trying to get published?

JS: This goes back to understanding where writers are pitching to and the mechanics of that magazine. Whether it’s an outdoor magazine or a literary one, really understanding the philosophical underpinnings of it. People all the time look at the contributor’s page, but they haven’t read any of the articles, so it’s helpful for them to go back and read some of our pieces and look at the types of writing and work that we’re doing here at the magazine. We’re looking to shine a light on not just scientific, artistic or literary expertise and innovation, but the ways in which these are used in the service of Wisconsin’s people and places. The second thing to consider is how does this translate some aspect of the creative process and make that process more accessible and intelligible to a general audience. There’s a human story in every story and finding ways to show how a person scientific, artistic, or cultural literary, works reflects the dignity in the work that people do on an everyday basis. So, I’m pulling back the curtain, this isn’t alchemy, or the work of a sheer genius. It’s the collaborative effort of people who are just trying to make their lives and the community that they live in a better place. The third thing is getting back to that notion of complicating our understanding. Getting off of that familiar plot or path line and showing people that it takes all kinds of people to compromise on community. In the case of our magazine, Wisconsin People and Ideas, we want articles that don’t show us this person going on this predictable path. We want to see something kind of unpredictable.

Meet Jason this Thursday at 7PM at the L.E. Phillips Memorial Public Library!