Nancy Reisman, “Tea”
I’m interested in the way that longing can shape one's perceptions of reality and in the delicate balance between hope and self-delusion. One reason I’m drawn to Lillian's character is that I think of her as a realist, a highly pragmatic woman, yet her relationship with Abe moves her into wishful, unsteady territory. It's an emotionally fraught mix, but I think this combination of pragmatism and wild hope is what has enabled her to survive and to sustain an unconventional life in a tradition-bound community.
Nancy Reisman is the author of a novel,
Elizabeth Stuckey-French, “Mudlavia”
I began “Mudlavia” years ago. It started with a conversation I had with Harold Watts, a family friend and colleague of my father's in the Purdue University English Department. Harolds mother took him to the Mudlavia Hotel and Resort in 1916, when he was ten years old, hoping to heal his aching knee with mud baths. Harold generously told me all about his visit there, giving me many intriguing details, including a description of the character I call Harry Jones, the cushion man, whom Harold and his mother thought was a gangster.
I wrote an early draft of this story in which I didn’t stray much from the facts Harold told me, but it wasn’t very dramatic and I had to put it aside. From the start, however, I tapped into a voice that I found mesmerizing, and it was the voice that drew me back into the story when I picked it up again over a decade later. When I reread it a plot suggested itself right away, but it took me a number of rewrites until I allowed the inevitable to happen at the end. After finishing this story I didn’t want to leave Mudlavia, so I am in the midst of writing a novel set there.
The real Mudlavia Hotel burned down in 1920. I often wish I could go there. If I could, I know I’d be a much better person.
Elizabeth Stuckey-French is the author of a novel,
Liza Ward, “Snowbound”
I wrote this story during a bout of loneliness at the end of one very hot summer in Missoula, Montana. The hills had turned brown. Fish struggled in the shallow water of the Clark Fork River, and dark plumes of smoke crowded the horizon. It felt like the end of something. There seemed to be no one anywhere to verify my existence, and I slipped into a strange internal world, dragging this character, Susan, along with me. After a while it was hard to tell who was leading whom. I fantasized about winter, a frozen place white as the moon where new truths emerged, where everything was subjective. I remembered how our garden in Brooklyn looked to me as a girl, buried in snow, our pint-sized terrier hopping through the magic blue light as a confused rabbit might, and the way it felt like the city was yawning. Anything could happen on a snowy day, and I had the feeling that anything could happen in this story. I had no idea where it was going, only that my character was writing her own version of history, assuaging her fear of abandonment with a fictional world where people found each other. She knew she didn’t want to spend her life alone the way her father was going to now that her mother had left. I guess her dream, her invented story, gave her hope.
Liza Ward was born in 1975, and grew up in New York City. Her first novel is
Recommended Stories
Ann Darby, “Pity My Simplicity,”
Andrea Dezso, “The Numbers,”
Tamas Dobozy, “The Inert Landscapes of Gyorgy Ferenc,”
E. L. Doctorow, “Walter John Harmon,”
Stephanie Koven, “The Events Leading up to the Accident,”
Barbara Klein Moss, “Little Edens,”
Alice Munro, “Runaway,”
Paul Murray, “Anubis,”
Julie Orringer, “The Smoothest Way Is Full of Stones,”
Michael Redhill, “Long Division,”
Annette Sanford, “One Summer,”
Shauna Seliy, “Blackdamp,”
Katherine Shonk, “The Wooden Village of Kizhi,”
Scott Snyder, “About Face,”
Jay Teitel, “Luck,”
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