When I begin to read a short story, it is usually with certain reluctance. It can be exhausting to insert myself into the lives and emotions of characters who, given the prevailing tone of contemporary short fiction, will likely leave me feeling a bit gloomy about Modern Existence.
I almost never feel this way about Deborah Eisenberg's work. Although the scenarios can appear mundane--a teenager with a crush, a suburban dinner party, a move to the big city--these stories don't merely echo our modern milieus. They are sarcastic, self-aware, and often wickedly funny. Her characters aren't particularly nice, or accomplished, or smart, but they are breathtakingly real, down to their exquisite inability to express themselves. "How hard it was to figure out how to say anything to anyone," one woman laments in Eisenberg's debut collection, Transactions in a Foreign Currency.
"Unlike the book-every-other-year writers whose minds we seem to know in each elaborate fold and crease, and to whom we can almost feel we have a subscription, there are those like Deborah Eisenberg ... who publish only rarely and whose books we wait for," Mona Simpson wrote, reviewing Twilight of the Superheroes in the June 2006 Atlantic. Altogether, Eisenberg is the author of four collections of stories--Transactions (1986); Under the 82nd Airborne (1992); All Around Atlantis (1997); and Twilight of the Superheroes (2006)--all of which have recently been gathered into a single, hefty, volume out this spring from Picador, The Collected Stories of Deborah Eisenberg.
Perhaps the most compelling aspect of Eisenberg's stories is the ease with which she captures the fearful excitement of being human, and our reluctance to acknowledge how little our circumstances have to do with our own decisions. In the title story of Twilight of the Superheroes, a narrator says of 9/11, "One kept waiting for that shattering day to unhappen, so that the real--the intended--future, the one that had been implied by the past, could unfold. Hour after hour, month after month, waiting for that day not to have happened. But it had happened. And now it was always going to have to have happened."
All of this isn't to imply that Eisenberg's stories are fatalistic or cruel. Rather, she has the enviable ability to underscore the apprehensions, as well as the triumphs, of what Michiko Kakutani has called the "fresh, mixed-up, happy-sad texture of real life." To commemorate the release of her new collection (reviewed in the May Atlantic), we spoke with the author about her first editor, the illusion of control, and the particular difficulty of writing about women.
Are you doing a book tour?
No. I'm grateful for that!
The reason I ask is I remember reading a review of your second collection, Under the 82nd Airborne, on The Millions, and the writer spoke about how he first really felt a response to your stories after he heard you read one of them aloud.
That's very interesting and very encouraging, because I often feel that the stories are so hard to take in by ear that it's better for somebody to just sit with them on the page. But that makes me feel better about reading.
I had a college professor who used to read George Saunders stories out loud in this very funny, deadpan way, and I can't read them anymore without hearing them in his voice. I think it's interesting, especially with stories that have more dialogue, how a voice can add or change the reader's experience.
It's much easier to read the stories that have a lot of dialogue; of course, they flow much more easily into speech.
People often talk about how precise your language is, I feel that your characters' thoughts are often inarticulate, and poorly expressed or guarded, even when their intent is perfectly plain to the reader. The fact that you can express how much people struggle to express themselves is very--I don't know if comforting is the right word?
That's so nice. As you can see, I'm struggling to express myself right now. But it is a struggle, and often people don't know. They're aware of having something to express, but they're really not aware of exactly what it is. Meanwhile, their mouths are open, they're trying to get certain things to be understood, and they're trying to hide other things, hide them both from their interlocutor, and from themselves. And so it all creates a kind of thrilling dynamic. What people say is never inert.
Do you write every day?
No. I'm happiest when I do. But it's actually a rare occurrence when I'm able to.
Do you have a routine when you're in the midst of a piece?
There are several stages. When I'm at some early stage of the process, it's kind of torment. I find I often just fall into a stone-like sleep, right in the middle of the day, just sort of clonk. I can't work for extended periods when I'm beginning something. But if I'm at the end of something, I can work on for hours and hours and hours.
And how do you know when you're finished?
It's a terrifying moment when the last draft comes towards completion. Is this going to work or is it going to fall apart? And really, there is a moment where it just snaps shut. Although this is usually a two-phase situation. I think: "There, I'm done. I've got it. It's over, it's finished." But usually, when I'm absolutely finished, and then I read it over, I think, "Well, why did I write that?" And then I write it again.