In “My Apology,” your story in this week’s issue, a man who has in some manner offended his co-workers is called on by his bosses to construct an apology sufficiently remorseful that he won’t have to be fired. The story narrates the crafting of the apology but is also itself the apology. Sort of tricky. How did you come about devising this particular form? Were you thinking of past examples?
I don’t think I had any specific literary examples in mind, though I guess I’ve always been drawn to the conceit that you are reading a document created by the narrator in some manner of “real time.” I’ve done similar things in a few of my novels. Fiction in the form of diaries or confessions has always intrigued me. “Notes from Underground,” for example, or “The Family of Pascual Duarte” were powerful experiences in this vein.
We’re initially quite sympathetic to the narrator—he seems slightly hapless, a little put-upon. As more information about his actions is revealed, however, things change. Where do you want to leave the reader, in terms of sympathy with the narrator?
I’m not looking to steer the reader toward a predetermined point on the sympathy scale. Readers obviously decide for themselves how they feel about a fictional character, who is, after all, the personification of a complex arrangement of intersecting attitudes, histories, and perspectives. I hope the reader sees the narrator as one might view an average adult human being, by which I mean sees him as flawed, damaged, self-righteous, self-pitying, full of blind spots, made of dying cells, shaped by trauma and outdated ideas, driven to extremes by insecurity and fear and the massive garbage spill of social media, and yet still, perhaps, capable of love and kindness. His deeds (the ones we know about, anyway) are bad, and, if not monumental moral crimes, at the very least demonstrate his unfitness for his present position. But I guess I’d ask the reader to consider whether the only answers should be punitive, or if the narrator will ever deserve some help as well.
I know that, in addition to being a fiction writer, you’ve taught in the Columbia M.F.A. program, and even served as an administrator there. Workplaces have served as the setting for some of your fiction. What is so compelling about the workplace as a fictional setting, and why does it lend itself so easily to dystopias?
While I’m lucky enough to have a job I really enjoy, I do see the workplace in more general terms as precisely that location where people would often rather not be, not because they are lazy or don’t like any kind of work, but because of the specific ways people are treated in capitalistic and institutional hierarchies. So, there’s some ready-made dramatic conflict or pressure going in. I’ve always been interested in what this pressure does to individual personalities, but also to our ability to exist in solidarity with each other. In the worst work situations, we find ourselves getting isolated and crushed. Divide and conquer is still a winning strategy for those who don’t want to share. That’s the more thematic answer. From a more technical standpoint, it’s just kind of fun to start with the contained world of an office or work site, where you don’t have to explain why a bunch of disparate people are gathered in one spot. You can dive right into the madness. And, since so many readers know what it’s like to have a job, you can make more daring swerves and leaps with the details and emotional patterns and modes of speech.
Do you have an especially good banana-bread recipe?
I don’t think there are any bad ones, really, as long as you like bananas. I’ve been tossing some chia seeds in lately. I try to avoid putting in chocolate chips and stuff like that. So often we tell ourselves we are making banana bread, but it’s just a story. The truth is we are making banana cake.
