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Posts Tagged ‘alix ohlin’

I’ve been a fan of Alix Ohlin’s work since 2009, when I read a story she’d written called “Only Child” that appeared in Ploughshares. I’ve since read a good deal of what she’s published, including her first short story collection, Babylon and Other Stories, her first novel, The Missing Person, and I’ve now read her latest novel, Inside. She also has a new short story collection called, Signs and Wonders. I’ve read a few stories in the new  collection, but have yet to buy it. I’ve enjoyed all her work, and I think she has a particular talent for writing short stories. What I like about her writing is the prose – it’s both lucid and florid – and her plot structures. She tends to use fairly traditional plots (not a lot of experimental writing) but she does like to jump around in time, often abruptly. I dig it.

I just finished her new novel, Inside, and it is very good. The story is centered on four characters: Grace, Anne (aka Annie), Mitch, and Tug. It follows them over a 12-year period, from 1994 – 2006. A theme that runs throughout a lot of Ohlin’s story telling is people trying to connect, often romantically, but not always. Of course, since Ohlin writes literary fiction her characters don’t typically achieve the connection they want. (I can hear my mother – “Why are all the stories you read so sad? What’s wrong with happy endings?”).   Inside definitely covers that “connection” territory, but it is primarily focused on what Ohlin says is, “What it means to be a good Samaritan. What drives us to try and help another person. And what the emotional complications of that are.” Each of the four characters try to help someone (or more than one person), and in each case the helper is hurt by the effort. Again, my mother: “Why to sad?”

One of my favorite chapters is focused on Anne, a sexy actress, who moves from Manhattan to Hollywood to join the cast of a TV sitcom. It’s a riot! I had a feeling that Ohlin really enjoyed writing it, and I suspect that was her easiest chapter to crank out. But that’s just a guess.

In another chapter, Tug recounts his efforts as a relief worker in Rwanda. Before reading Inside I had just finished Haruki Murakami’s novel The Wind-Up Bird Chronicles, and the Tug/Rwanda chapter reminded me of the scene in “Wind-Up” where an older man recounts his role in WWII and tells a story about a man being skinned alive. But I suspect I’m the only person in the world who would make that connection!

So, I was planning to write my blog entry on Inside last week. I did a Google news search of “Alix Ohlin” and discovered an extremely negative review of the book that ran in The New York Times. There was another article in The Wall Street Journal that said that review had fomented something of a firestorm on Twitter. Despite the fact that I work in Silicon Valley and I’ve written more than a few speeches for tech execs on the wonders of social media, I had never used Twitter before (don’t tell anyone). So, I got an account, read a few tweets and links to blogs/aritcles that all  discussed whether the tone of the review was appropriate or not. Interesting stuff. I’ll leave it to others to come to their own conclusions on the review’s tone and approach. But, most of those articles and blogs that expressed offense to the review would include a line or two that went something like this: “I haven’t read Inside, and I’m not familiar with Ohlin’s work, so I can’t really comment on whether it was accurate or not…” Well, to me that was the problem with the review: its conclusion was wrong. Inside is a good book. Alix Ohlin is a very good writer. She clearly gives a lot of thought to the prose she uses, and carefully thinks out her plots. We’re all welcome to our opinions, and that’s mine.

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About a year ago I was in my local library leafing through the most recent issue of Ploughshares when I stumbled upon a story by Alix Ohlin. It was called “The Only Child,” and something about it really resonated with me. As a result of reading that story, I checked out of the library her collection of short stories called Babylon and Other Stories (I’ve read about half the stories) and bought her novel, The Missing Person. Both books are wonderful. I’ve become a big fan of her work, in part, because of her beautiful prose. It is literary, but readable, whimsical and precise. I just dig it.

I recently tracked her down and here are her responses to five questions.

Q. I really enjoy the stories you’ve written where the plot jumps forward in time. In some cases it is minor jump, but in “The Only Child” the jumps are frequent and sometimes abrupt. What attracts you to that type of story telling? Was Alice Munro an influence here? Does that throw some readers?

A. Jumps in time in fiction have fascinated me for a long while. I think it’s probably because a lot of short fiction tends to zoom in on particular moments, and then if you jump away from that, it gives the story a rush of adrenaline, a feeling of breaking free from a cage. Alice Munro is certainly an influence here, particularly “The Beggar Maid,” as is Katherine Anne Porter’s story “The Grave.” But “The Only Child” is particularly influenced by one of my favorite books, The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie by Muriel Spark, which is full of flash forwards—it has this really confident narration that doesn’t mind spiraling forward in time to inform you of the fates of each and every character. I wanted to experiment with something like that. One of the challenges of stories is showing how some particular moment fits into the overall course of a person’s life—and the jump in time gives you the latitude to come right out and say how it fits. I’m not sure how readers react to it, but I find it energizing.

Q. I read in another interview that you are working on a novel that includes jumps in time. Do you care to share more information on the book?

A. The novel I’ve been working on follows multiple characters—therapists, an aid worker, an actress—whose lives intersect at various moments in time over the course of ten years. So there are three different “time zones” in the book and it’s not told in chronological order. One of the themes of the book is helping, or rescuing—why some people are drawn to try to help others, what happens when they succeed or fail—and the multiple time zones allow me to show these characters at different places in their lives. Sometimes they’re the ones who are helping, and sometimes they themselves need help.

Q. I like to read short stories. But I’m also am trying to write them. I’m curious: the people you’ve run into who’ve read your short story collection, are they typically MFA students, or people trying to write themselves? Or do you see a non-writer audience for short stories?

A. It’s hard to say. Certainly many of the people who’ve contacted me after reading the collection are themselves writers. But sometimes I think that the “non-writer audience” for stories would be bigger if more people knew about the form, if story collections received more attention. I consider myself a reader first, and there are so many great story writers out there at the moment, from Munro and Lahiri to Yiyun Li and George Saunders…I could go on endlessly. I wish more people would read them.

Q. I’ve read that you’re a fan of crime fiction. Do you think it is possible for a writer today to succeed in two genres, or is there too much pressure by publishers and marketers to categorize a writer into a specific area?

A. I do like some crime fiction, going back to Raymond Chandler, and am currently into a lot of Scandinavian crime writers such as Henning Mankell and Hakan Nesser. I don’t really have any personal experience with the marketing side of the question. There are certainly writers like Joyce Carol Oates who have written genre books (in her case mysteries) under a pseudonym. And then there are writers like Elmore Leonard and Dennis Lehane whose work is enormously well-respected and admired even by people who don’t ordinarily read much in that genre. The books that I tend to admire most are literary novels that make interesting use of genre tropes—the way that Jonathan Lethem uses the detective novel in Motherless Brooklyn, or the way that Ishiguro uses science fiction in Never Let Me Go. Those conventions become a touchstone for the reader even as the novels take us into surprising, unfamiliar places. I love that.

Q. You teach as well as write. How has teaching helped you as a writer?

A. Enormously. It gives my life structure and community, both of which I would probably be lost without. I consider myself very lucky to spend most of my time talking about the subject I love with other people. And the thing about teaching writing is that no matter how many years you do it, each time is different—because the students are always new, always thinking and writing something that is fresh and surprising to me. It’s a great job.

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