- Courtesy the author
- Michael Czyzniewjewski and some friends
There’s something comforting about a book that concentrates exclusively on doomed relationships. It makes our own romantic failures seem so much less egregious. You’ve dated some callous men, but none so callous he’d pawn off your internal organs and still dare to stroke your hair with a gold band wrapped around his finger. Or maybe you’ve been caught cheating, but never while your wife was in space, spying on your drunken misdeeds through the lens of a high-powered telescope. And you’ve slept with plenty of emotionally unavailable men—but not one of them was your son’s imaginary friend.
Michael Czyzniejewski: I’d say I start with predicaments or situations, unusual things that happen to relatively normal people, just so I can make them deal with them. Eventually, the people turn out to be not so normal, because of how they handle things, what comes out in backstory, interior monologue, etc. Nobody’s really normal, and I’m counting on that. One story in the book that started like that is “Marrow,” about the guy who sees the woman in the grocery store parking lot, you know, enjoying herself. How does this protagonist react to this situation? Where does it lead? Why is it happening? (It’s a story, by the way, inspired somewhat by real events, as there’s a Walmart Neighborhood Market by my house, and I’ve seen people camped out in their cars, doing just about everything.) That’s what gets me going, gets me writing, gets me figuring out what’s next. I never know what happens at the end of stories when I start, which is counterintuitive to some writers. But I like the expedition.
There were a lot of approaches to those characters, as there were a wide variety of subjects. The Rod Blagojevich piece, for instance, is me just going off the voice I heard in interviews and speeches, his love of his favorite word. The Mr. T story is just me doing the guy who plays Mr. T doing Mr. T. Those were the easier stories to write, really writing themselves. The stories dating back further in history made me work harder, create a voice. I have no idea what John Wentworth or the Everleigh sisters sounded like. Those were harder—plus, they usually involved research—but I found those more satisfying. I mean, me doing a Mr. T impersonation for 75 words is one thing, but it’s pretty easy, what every stand-up comic and fourth grader since 1983 has done at one point or another. Me discovering and fictionalizing a narrative about the allegedly mysterious death of Marshall Field? That’s something I’m more proud of when I look back at those.
For how long did you work on this collection?
Teaching is amazing! I’m really lucky to be doing what I’m doing. Professor jobs are going extinct, so many colleges preferring adjuncts or online jockeys or Internet robots or what have you. But doing what I do is amazing, to have written three small-press short-story collections, the majority of them made up of two-page stories, and someone thinks this shows enough competence to pay me a salary plus benefits. In a just world, I’m tarred and feathered and run out of town. The best part, though, is the students, working with them, getting to know them, seeing them grow into their voices, to have the confidence to follow through. I can’t imagine not having that satisfaction at this point, just like I can’t imagine giving up the Wrigley gig. Both are a part of me, part of my process, as much as my writing is. I admire the heck out of people like Junot Díaz and Lorrie Moore and Tim O’Brien, people who probably don’t have to teach anymore but still do. Even if I had a best seller or prizewinner or got some major film deal, I think I’d teach. What would I do all day if I didn’t? Write? I think I’m supposed to say that, that I’d write ten hours a day and ready my Infinite Jest or my Gravity’s Rainbow. I don’t think I’m ready for that—let’s get to seven pages before we get to 700.
