Kristen Arnett had a big 2019. Her debut novel, Mostly Dead Things, became a New York Times bestseller and was named a best book of the year by The New York Times, NPR, The New Yorker, TIME, and Washington Post—to name a few. In October, she signed a two-book deal with Riverhead for her forthcoming short story collection, With Foxes, and a second novel, Samson.
We’re thrilled to have Kristen as the judge for this year’s Jacob Zilber Prize for Short Fiction (which closes this Friday, January 31!) We’re doubly thrilled that she took some time to chat about her writing process and what she’s looking for in a winning entry. When Kate Black spoke to her on the phone, Kristen was fresh off a red eye from Seattle after touring book festivals in Austin and Portland.
What does a writing schedule look like when you’re this busy? Are you a morning writer?
I really try to be. I write better in the morning because I think the internet has rotted my brain less. I’ll answer some emails first because they’re a blight upon me—they multiply like breeding rabbits. But I make myself stop at some point.
For this novel, the schedule is much more intense because I have much less time. So anytime that I’m home for more than a day at a time, I’m sitting and scheduling myself, putting it in my Google calendar, like, here’s where I sit down and here’s how many words I can write. I’m trying to get myself to write two-thousand words a day.
Do you know what you’re writing towards with this novel? Or are you still figuring it out each time you sit down?
I’m not an outliner kind of person. I like to be surprised when I’m writing. I know the shape of it. With Mostly Dead Things, I knew what the shape was going to be, like a zigzag. This book has a different shape. It’s more like an arc with three smaller arcs on top of it. I know who the characters are and and I know thematically what I’m trying to deal with: queer household dynamics, toxic masculinity and idea of performing motherhood—and what that looks like if you feel ill-equipped for it. This is all very much a Florida book as well.
It sounds like good stuff to start with! We’re so excited to have you judge our short fiction contest. Do you have any takes on literary contests?
I’ve definitely entered some. I can’t speak holistically, but most of us don’t have a lot of money. Sometimes, for contests, it’s cost-prohibitive to enter. When I was entering contests, I would look at the publication and judge and see if it’s something my work even fits inside. I’d ask myself if the judge is somebody who’s going to be interested in my aesthetic and the kind of stuff that I’m writing.
When you were getting started, was there an award or publication that made you realize, like, “oh, I can write, this is a thing I can do?”
I’m still trying to feel that way. I’m really hard on myself. To be a creative body is to have to look at yourself very critically. There’s been many times where something happens, and I feel very lucky and it almost implies that I didn’t do the work to make it happen myself.
There were several things, though, that made me feel, not like “oh, I am a writer” or “what I’m doing is good,” but maybe that “oh, people are connecting with what I’m doing.” The way people connected with Mostly Dead Things was very satisfying to me, or there’s certain short stories where people connected with the themes. There’s something about writing about queerness or women’s relationships. When people connect with that in short fiction it feels very meaningful.
A lot of the time, we’re all writing in a little silo and I feel like oh my god I’m just making trash over here, and just hope someone will maybe want to look at it. It’s hard stating at a little computer screen just wondering if it’s anything. Jami Attenberg talks very beautifully about her own writing process. Even though she’s a very established author, she still has these feelings of insecurity or this feeling of “am I producing something that’s anything?” To me, that’s so helpful to see. I guess that feeling is never going away.
It’s kind of validating and terrifying to know that everyone goes through it.
We’re all sharing this experience that’s a little crazy-making. I know I’m a writer because it’s all I want to do. It’s all I think about, even when I hate it. I know I’m supposed to be doing it. It’s nice to see that this is a universal thing, this fear of “is what we’re producing actually art or what are we doing?”
I feel like writing about queerness adds an extra layer of pressure. Like, is there any idea you’re writing towards or against in that sense?
For myself, I can’t just be the voice of a group. Queer people’s experiences are so myriad and so broad, as anyone else’s experiences would be. So when I’m thinking of generating queer work I’m thinking I want to write the thing I want to read. I’m very interested in the dynamics in households, specifically between queer women. I’m interested in the nuances of the daily lived experience. That’s what I’m writing towards.
I’m not interested in coming-out narratives. I think there’s plenty and plenty good ones. Questions I’ve been asking myself about coming-out narratives are the duty of it, specifically when the coming-out narrative is a single moment in time and a traumatic moment. Because it’s trauma writing most of the time, I’m also thinking about who is the coming-out narrative being written for. I don’t think it’s for queer people most of the time. I would rather read a thing where people are living a daily experience and are also happen to be queer.
When you judge the PRISM fiction contest, what are you looking for in a winning short story?
I’m looking for something that’s really going to ground me in place. I want to feel like I know where I am, grounded in the world, almost like it’s closing in around me. I’m always very interested in seeing the dynamics between characters in a story. They don’t necessarily have to be good dynamics, but I’m interested to see how conflict finds voice and dialogue. I’m always very interested when writers take risks and see how they make language and story their own. Sometimes that’s in terms of form, like how the shape of a story fits into this thing they’re creating.
I also want to hear the writer’s voice. It’s always impressive when you read something and can hear that person. Like, you read Joy Williams and you know it’s Joy Williams.
Speaking of Joy Williams, I saw you studied with her once at the Tin House Summer Workshop? I would have died.
First of all, I love Tin House Summer Workshops. You get so much from it. That workshop was so excellent because it was a group of fine readers and so much of it was her wanting us to have open discussions with each other. For much of the time, she was guiding and had very poignant things about writing to say, but she wanted us to do the workshop. She didn’t want it to just be her voicing an opinion and us listening because she’s Joy Williams. She’s just a phenomenal, hugely amazing writer. I’ve never read anything by her that didn’t make me want to fall on the floor.
Have you ever read those eight rules she has for short stories?
I do think that I would listen to anything Joy Williams says—how she works and how her beautiful, amazing mind works is probably different than other people. There’s definitely truth in all those rules for sure. There’s a reason why she’s fantastic as she is. And part of that is, like, she’s a genius.
I think everybody’s processes and the ways they create work is very different. That’s why writing is so good, because everybody’s rules are different.