Matthew G. Rees kicks off Dark Lane Anthology Volume 12 with his story 'The Boat'. He has published a number of short story collections, most recently The Snow Leopard of Moscow and Other Stories.
A: I’ll come to your question in just a moment if I may. First (sounding suspiciously like a politician playing for time and dodging the issue) I’d like to express my thanks to all at Dark Lane for inviting me here, for taking an interest in my fiction, and, finally, for the important contribution you’ve made and continue to make in terms of providing a platform for writers, particularly new writers, who wander the wild woods of ‘the literary strange’.
Now, and at the risk of sounding as if I’m still prevaricating,
may I answer your question with a question? Which is this: is the writing that
we bring to websites and presses such as
I was a newspaper reporter for ten years. The writing I did then was ‘work’ (in my view at least). There were some long shifts (and weeks) at times; night duties; Sunday shifts; call-outs; deadlines… Nature of the beast, perhaps.
Short story fiction is, I submit, a very different beast. For me (and, I imagine, most of us), writing a story isn’t a 9 till 5, Monday to Friday occupation. For one thing, a story, or at least the seed of it, will ‘come’ when it wants to. The likes of Vladimir Nabokov, Stephen King, Mavis Gallant and others have touched on this: how the starting point can be a mental image and, perhaps with it, a physical shiver – a small epiphany, of a sort. To simply open my laptop and expect something to happen is – for me – a road to nowhere. I have to have something already ‘alive’ in my mind (half-captured, if you will) to take to the screen (wherever that screen might be).
More often than not, my opening lines / scenes will have been written longhand – and rather roughly – in a small notebook or on scraps of paper or a serviette or such space as might have been available in the margins of a newspaper. ‘Openings’ sometimes come when I’m on a walk or perhaps swimming lengths in a public pool. I ‘riff’ those initial words and sentences, mentally. The rhythm of movement helps, I think. But, as much as anything, it’s a process of mental immersion. Someone once told me of their fondness for walking (long-distance) towards a kind of mental calmness and clarity. I know what the speaker meant.
I’m not sure I’ve ever been able to shoehorn the writing of a story into a fixed routine. Ideas can arrive at inconvenient hours: perhaps at the end of an evening (requiring the making of some notes). On the other hand, I’ve heard it said that the human brain is at its best mid to late morning. In some respects, I envy writers who – rain or shine – crank out 2,000 words a day… particularly if those words are good. Graham Greene, I think I’ve read, settled (possibly later in his career) for 400 words – which seems a lot more do-able! At times, I’m happy to settle for three or four lines in a notebook, jotted down wherever I may be. With luck, they’ll have the ‘voltage’ – as I think John Mullan has called it – to attract and fire the rest of the story.
Tell us about one of your favourite short stories and why you like it (not one of your own).
It isn’t easy making a pick. But I’m going to go for a
lesser-known writer, partly to spread the word and partly because I think his
best writing is very good indeed. Glyn Jones (1905-1995), an author from
Q: Tell us about one of your favourite short stories (done
by you).
A: Should I admit to a favourite? How will the other stories react?
If it’s okay, I’d like to answer your question this way…
A story where I think I took on something technically
challenging – in terms of the writing – was ‘Bluecoat’ in my collection Keyhole.
The story is set in rural, upland
Where do your ideas come from? Do you go looking for ideas – for example by
brainstorming, or do you wait for inspiration?
Anyone who’s studied the short story or is a fan of it as a literary form will be aware of the ‘outsider’ nature of some of the best short stories: their preoccupation with people and places that, for whatever reason, stand beyond the mainstream. I suppose that, in some ways, my life has been one in which I’ve encountered such people and been to such places. I’ve listened to them, I think. Flannery O’Connor spoke about the importance of the unconscious in the writing process, and I agree with her. There’s a theory called ‘unbidden perception’: the process whereby we assimilate marginal things from the world around us while unaware that we’re doing so. I suspect that these snatches, of this and that, tend, in time, to need their voice. I suspect that images (particularly things glimpsed momentarily) haunt us, perhaps a little cloudily, in the same way that dreams sometimes do. Childhood is important: the impressions on the senses that we remember from those times. I suspect that all of these things spur us. I have my doubts that a writer can go looking for a story. The tendency, I think, is to encounter the seed unexpectedly while engaged in something mundane: walking a lane or a pavement; riding a bus or a train and seeing something through the window: a figure disappearing down an alley or closing a door… maybe a tree that has been struck by lightning and which now stands grey and ruined in a field. This may sound slightly contradictory, but I also think that a landscape that is empty (a sandbank, for example) can at times be more helpful than one that is full. Keep an eye on the tides though.
A: I
think, to some extent, I’m still ‘searching’ – in the way of perhaps all
writers. I seem to have done a fair number of things in my life: journalism,
teaching, cab driving, shop work, various other ‘stuff’. I’ve travelled a bit
(there’s more on that at my website: www.matthewgrees.com).
I was in
Q: What
is the most difficult part of your creative process?
A: I’m
not sure this is the answer you’re looking for, but the gruelling part is the repeated
proofreading. It’s a grind but it has to be done (out of respect for your
editors, publishers and readers). I think it can count as part of the creative process
because it can prove productive. Sometimes you notice a pattern or a
certain symbolism or code in what you’ve written that you weren’t wholly aware
of – or indeed aware of at all – when writing the piece (maybe an example of the
unconscious having been in play). You can then go back and explore that. The
best thing about this stage is that it can be done on, say, a bench in a
churchyard or a park, or on a pier (if you have one), or at the library, or on
the train (if conditions in the carriage are conducive).
Q: If
you could go back in time, what would you say to your younger self about
becoming a writer?
A: I
need to think about this.
Here
goes:
I
suspect that the matter of becoming / being a writer isn’t something that can
be coached or even foreseen. Yes, when I was young, I had a reasonable sense that
I might enter journalism (having been a contributor of bits and pieces to my
local newspaper since my teens). There’s a natural progression from writing
journalism to becoming engaged in other forms of writing. But writing, largely,
is, I think, an unpredictable, evolutionary thing. So, I would say this to the
younger me: live your life and see what happens. If you feel, along the way,
that there are things that you want to write because you find it somehow necessary
or rewarding, then do so. And if, over time, other people find what you’ve
written to be interesting in some way, then so much the better. You might
receive some money, now and again. But don’t bank on it. And anyway, if you’re somehow
able to survive, it’s probably better that money isn’t your motive.
I’d also
try to make the point that on the way to becoming, or indeed while being, a
writer, there will be value in almost everything you do. Whatever your job, you
will always glean something about humanity. This will be the case
whether you’re sitting on a checkout, teaching a class, brewing coffee as a barista,
fitting widgets on a factory line, picking fruit on a farm, pulling pints in a
pub (or teeth in a surgery), waiting on tables, sweeping halls, cutting hair, toenails,
lawns… whatever. (The young me will – I think I can safely say – by now be thinking
or even yelling: ‘I’ve got the picture! Get on with it!!’).
For the plain and simple truth is this: writing, even of the wildest, weirdest and most fantastic kind, is about life, after all.
Interview Ⓒ Matthew G. Rees, 2022
