Ask the Author: Connor Coyne
Answered Questions (11)
Connor Coyne
There is a rather spectacular and unusual looking mansion several blocks from my house. It includes a full-glass conservatory, a massive slate roof, and thick oak doors that look like they must weigh a ton. It all reminds me of the mansion from the movie Clue with Tim Curry as a spectacularly eccentric butler. The owner passed away a little over a year ago, and after a few months during which the grass was growing a bit wild, the new owners moved in.
I don't *think* of myself as a nosy neighbor... that is to say, I never go out of my way to walk that way or poke into others' business. But what I have seen from time to time does nudge the imagination. A variety of cars of different makes and models, all the way from banged-up beaters to shiny sports cars choke the driveway, and people come and go from the house at all hours of day and night. From appearances, at least a dozen-or-so people seem to be living there, ranging in age from 20-something college ish kids up to much older people. And I have seldom seen the same person there twice.
There is very possibly an innocent or even prosaic explanation for all this, and if I were nosier I might go probing for confirmation or denial. But as a writer, it's hard not to imagine a commune or cult taking over the place and unleashing a byzantine net of plots and machinations.
I don't *think* of myself as a nosy neighbor... that is to say, I never go out of my way to walk that way or poke into others' business. But what I have seen from time to time does nudge the imagination. A variety of cars of different makes and models, all the way from banged-up beaters to shiny sports cars choke the driveway, and people come and go from the house at all hours of day and night. From appearances, at least a dozen-or-so people seem to be living there, ranging in age from 20-something college ish kids up to much older people. And I have seldom seen the same person there twice.
There is very possibly an innocent or even prosaic explanation for all this, and if I were nosier I might go probing for confirmation or denial. But as a writer, it's hard not to imagine a commune or cult taking over the place and unleashing a byzantine net of plots and machinations.
Connor Coyne
I would choose Nehwon.
Connor Coyne
From the Atlas Coney Island on Corunna Road, but that's not a topic I'm at liberty to discuss just yet.
Connor Coyne
Wikipedia sez of the word "frisson": "Frisson (French for 'shiver') is a sensation somewhat like shivering, usually caused by stimuli. It is typically expressed as an overwhelming emotional response combined with piloerection (goosebumps). Stimuli that produce a response are specific to the individual."
So basically when that happens to me, and it isn't because I'm cold or in response to any physical reason, I try to think if there's a good way to turn the cause of the shivering into a story. It's a simple as that.
So basically when that happens to me, and it isn't because I'm cold or in response to any physical reason, I try to think if there's a good way to turn the cause of the shivering into a story. It's a simple as that.
Connor Coyne
Many things.
- Urbantasm, the novel that I drafted in 1995-1997 and have been working on ever since is 1-2 years away from being more-or-less complete. That one is a magical realistic take on coming-of-age in post-industrial America.
- I'm revising my novel Beowulf to start submitting in the next couple months. That one is a post-apocalyptic reconstruction of the Old English poem.
- I continue to promote Shattering Glass, which I personally believe to be my most significant achievement to date.
- Additional small projects here and there.
- Community engagement projects via the Gothic Funk Press and other outlets.
- Urbantasm, the novel that I drafted in 1995-1997 and have been working on ever since is 1-2 years away from being more-or-less complete. That one is a magical realistic take on coming-of-age in post-industrial America.
- I'm revising my novel Beowulf to start submitting in the next couple months. That one is a post-apocalyptic reconstruction of the Old English poem.
- I continue to promote Shattering Glass, which I personally believe to be my most significant achievement to date.
- Additional small projects here and there.
- Community engagement projects via the Gothic Funk Press and other outlets.
Connor Coyne
I've gotten to speak to several classes about this question and it typically takes up quite a bit of our time on an existential level.
Aside from crat, the most important question to know is to know "why?" and "for whom?" If you are writing to contribute to a journal or magazine you admire that puts you in a very different situation from trying to build a long-term career as a writer. As for whom, your audience will have very different expectations if it comprises your friends from than if it comprises noir readers from around the world. The more precisely you can answer these questions, the better you will be able to assess how to make your writing fruitful and satisfying.
In terms of craft -- how to write what you write well -- it is just as difficult to give general advice simply because the field of the written word is so broad and deep that advice provided in one context would be entirely inappropriate elsewhere.
For example, one piece of advice beginning writers hear a lot -- "show, don't tell," -- is, in fact, useful for practice, because it orients a writer toward providing a precise account of the concrete. It is, in short, a good way to become a better master of the nuances of literary expression; to choose words and sentences and their assembly carefully. However, most of my writing is experimental, dealing with rhetorical and discursive modes outside the realm of the narration of events in a psychologically straightforward manner. Much of my writing, in fact, "tells," not "shows," and would be deficient if it expended its energy on "showing" what should be "told." The advice is good in one context and bad in another.
There is one piece of advice which ought to be apt for all writers and for all kinds of writing, and that is to immerse yourself in the medium. That is, read. The more you are able to read, the better of a writer you will be. Read fast and recklessly, read slowly and methodically, read literature far outside your realm of experience, read literature you viscerally love, and reread challenging literature over and over and over. This will make you a better writer.
Aside from crat, the most important question to know is to know "why?" and "for whom?" If you are writing to contribute to a journal or magazine you admire that puts you in a very different situation from trying to build a long-term career as a writer. As for whom, your audience will have very different expectations if it comprises your friends from than if it comprises noir readers from around the world. The more precisely you can answer these questions, the better you will be able to assess how to make your writing fruitful and satisfying.
In terms of craft -- how to write what you write well -- it is just as difficult to give general advice simply because the field of the written word is so broad and deep that advice provided in one context would be entirely inappropriate elsewhere.
For example, one piece of advice beginning writers hear a lot -- "show, don't tell," -- is, in fact, useful for practice, because it orients a writer toward providing a precise account of the concrete. It is, in short, a good way to become a better master of the nuances of literary expression; to choose words and sentences and their assembly carefully. However, most of my writing is experimental, dealing with rhetorical and discursive modes outside the realm of the narration of events in a psychologically straightforward manner. Much of my writing, in fact, "tells," not "shows," and would be deficient if it expended its energy on "showing" what should be "told." The advice is good in one context and bad in another.
There is one piece of advice which ought to be apt for all writers and for all kinds of writing, and that is to immerse yourself in the medium. That is, read. The more you are able to read, the better of a writer you will be. Read fast and recklessly, read slowly and methodically, read literature far outside your realm of experience, read literature you viscerally love, and reread challenging literature over and over and over. This will make you a better writer.
Connor Coyne
It's hard to answer objectively, because my experience is so colored by my personal experiences here. I'm tempted to default to something abstract; that this is a complex place that is typically perceived from within and without as a simple place; that this is a very unique place whose distinctiveness is often masked by a layer of grit and public apathy; that the stakes of our historical strategies and our missteps are higher in Flint than in much of the U.S.; that Flint represents a sort of "everyman's desintegration" template for American communities in decline.
These observations are all true.
But that isn't really what "inspires" me about Flint. I am inspired by my experiences here. The friendships I formed here and the ordeals they've been through. An intense collision between music and open air. A sort of romantic earnestness and furious frustration I've seen and heard and felt myself. Above all, I like it when it is cloudy and rainy here, in the springtime. The dirt smells different to me in Flint, especially after a rain. It is an intense experience for me. It makes me enjoy living here, and makes me want to write about that.
Also, I should add, Flint has always been a nurturing community to me, personally and artistically. That isn't remotely true for many people who live here, but it has paved the way for me and made it easy for me to live here and write about living here.
These observations are all true.
But that isn't really what "inspires" me about Flint. I am inspired by my experiences here. The friendships I formed here and the ordeals they've been through. An intense collision between music and open air. A sort of romantic earnestness and furious frustration I've seen and heard and felt myself. Above all, I like it when it is cloudy and rainy here, in the springtime. The dirt smells different to me in Flint, especially after a rain. It is an intense experience for me. It makes me enjoy living here, and makes me want to write about that.
Also, I should add, Flint has always been a nurturing community to me, personally and artistically. That isn't remotely true for many people who live here, but it has paved the way for me and made it easy for me to live here and write about living here.
Connor Coyne
They are, in spirit, the same city, which is to say, Flint as I have experienced it. However, I am writing literature in different styles, some of which have greater demands on a familiar and realistic appearance than others, which is why it is useful to write that city in different contexts.
I would say that Akawe and Flint have high demands of consistency, because the city, its history, geography, characters, and institutions all define specific "points" of orientation and narrative from conventional storytelling perspective. A lack of consistency would undermine the structure of the story.
In the case of the setting "Flint," there are high demands on both internal and external consistency, because not only am I serving the needs of the story, but they need to scan consistently with the names and histories of real, named people, places, and institutions. That doesn't mean that I cannot take any liberties, but that I have to be very cautious about which liberties I do take and how the audience receives and interprets them.
In the case of "Akawe," since it is an obviously fictitious city, I do not need to be externally consistent. So that setting has spawned a number of entitites -- "X Automotives," "XAWU," neighborhoods like "the Os," and institutions like the "Olan Foundation." They may have real-life analogues, but they are not bound to behave in the same way; they are beholden only to the story, although the story will require them to behave (most of the time) as such a "real world" entity might.
"Arkaic" is there to serve stories that are more conspicuously experimental, supernatural, bizarre, etc. Of course, there still needs to be a measure of consistency so that the individual story holds together, but there might well be contradictions between one story in that setting and another.
Which circles back to the simplest, most straightforward answer to your question. They are all inspired by the same place, which does exist in spacetime. But they are each adapted to serve the needs of the kinds of the story they are hosting.
An added little bit of trivia: Akawe is probably the most thoroughly developed in my writing, and is my preferred setting for the projects I care about the most. The "Akawe" approach has an analogue in William Faulkner's Yoknapatawpha County, which gave me a model for how such a place might be constructed. Jeffery Renard Allen has done the same sort of "plausible construction" in his own writing.
I would say that Akawe and Flint have high demands of consistency, because the city, its history, geography, characters, and institutions all define specific "points" of orientation and narrative from conventional storytelling perspective. A lack of consistency would undermine the structure of the story.
In the case of the setting "Flint," there are high demands on both internal and external consistency, because not only am I serving the needs of the story, but they need to scan consistently with the names and histories of real, named people, places, and institutions. That doesn't mean that I cannot take any liberties, but that I have to be very cautious about which liberties I do take and how the audience receives and interprets them.
In the case of "Akawe," since it is an obviously fictitious city, I do not need to be externally consistent. So that setting has spawned a number of entitites -- "X Automotives," "XAWU," neighborhoods like "the Os," and institutions like the "Olan Foundation." They may have real-life analogues, but they are not bound to behave in the same way; they are beholden only to the story, although the story will require them to behave (most of the time) as such a "real world" entity might.
"Arkaic" is there to serve stories that are more conspicuously experimental, supernatural, bizarre, etc. Of course, there still needs to be a measure of consistency so that the individual story holds together, but there might well be contradictions between one story in that setting and another.
Which circles back to the simplest, most straightforward answer to your question. They are all inspired by the same place, which does exist in spacetime. But they are each adapted to serve the needs of the kinds of the story they are hosting.
An added little bit of trivia: Akawe is probably the most thoroughly developed in my writing, and is my preferred setting for the projects I care about the most. The "Akawe" approach has an analogue in William Faulkner's Yoknapatawpha County, which gave me a model for how such a place might be constructed. Jeffery Renard Allen has done the same sort of "plausible construction" in his own writing.
Connor Coyne
I can't fairly answer this, because I literally haven't seen a single episode of the X Files (the Bjork song used in the movie is pretty amazing, though). That said, I think it's very unlikely that I would not go with Dale Cooper. There are many reasons.
Firstly, and most importantly, I too love a damn fine cup of coffee, and this is a resilient bond to have with another human being and an inexhaustable source of conversation. I would take him to all of the greatest coney islands, and we would compare coffee and talk about avant-garde literature, grisly crime, and cherry pie. On that subject, I think that Cooper would come to love Flint for the same reasons that he loved Twin Peaks. In fact, when my editor Reinhardt Suarez visited this past night, he thought that Flint was "just like Twin Peaks, filled with interesting characters." Finally, the guy has an impeccable dress style, and I think he could probably give me a few tips.
Firstly, and most importantly, I too love a damn fine cup of coffee, and this is a resilient bond to have with another human being and an inexhaustable source of conversation. I would take him to all of the greatest coney islands, and we would compare coffee and talk about avant-garde literature, grisly crime, and cherry pie. On that subject, I think that Cooper would come to love Flint for the same reasons that he loved Twin Peaks. In fact, when my editor Reinhardt Suarez visited this past night, he thought that Flint was "just like Twin Peaks, filled with interesting characters." Finally, the guy has an impeccable dress style, and I think he could probably give me a few tips.
Connor Coyne
The best thing about being a writer is the unlimited freedom, which includes the opportunity to choose constraints.
Let's talk a little bit about what that means, precisely.
Writers have the freedom to articulate a universe bound only by the constraints of language, as well as the opportunity to deconstruct language where they choose. So you start with language itself, in its letters, words, thoughts through syntax, and so on. From there you build into different kinds of literary and conversational expression, narrative and plot, concepts of character, setting, them, and, ultimately, genre. It's a whole superstructure that can be as defined as the classic English whodunnit or as unstructured (or accidentally structured) as the automatic writing of the surrealists.
Writers have absolute freedom to opt into or out of as much or as little of this as they like.
So I'll give a couple examples from my own experience. My writing is almost entirely Flint-centric.
When I wrote Hungry Rats, I set it in a Flint that retains many of the names and identities from reality, but still offered a very specific perspective that drew upon the traditions of the noir genre: It is a Flint populated entirely by schemers and victims, with the most predatory elements of its past amplified to devastating effect in the present. It is "Flint" in name, but this Flint served the story and essentially existed for its benefit.
Flint would not do, however, for Urbantasm, the uber-novel I've been writing for the last 19 years; Urbantasm demanded the flexibility to change geography, history, and institutional norms. So that book is set in Akawe, Michigan, a sort of heightened version of Flint.
I took Akawe to an even more extreme place in Shattering Glass, which changed the name to Arkaic, Michigan; this is a universe with a mythology that meddles with the very behavior of Physics, a sort of flamboyant, chaotic place where the bizarre is accepted as utterly ordinary. It is a great distance from the "real world," even if it is not anarchy.
Now it isn't necessarily easy to write coherently and consistently about Flint, Akawe, and Arkaic. However, it is possible, and once I have committed to that choice, I get to create these separate universes however I wish. That is a pretty special opportunity, in my opinion, and its ultimate execution feels actually spiritual and prayerful. Like you are listening for deep currents of reality and choosing to amplify them to bring forth meaning.
Let's talk a little bit about what that means, precisely.
Writers have the freedom to articulate a universe bound only by the constraints of language, as well as the opportunity to deconstruct language where they choose. So you start with language itself, in its letters, words, thoughts through syntax, and so on. From there you build into different kinds of literary and conversational expression, narrative and plot, concepts of character, setting, them, and, ultimately, genre. It's a whole superstructure that can be as defined as the classic English whodunnit or as unstructured (or accidentally structured) as the automatic writing of the surrealists.
Writers have absolute freedom to opt into or out of as much or as little of this as they like.
So I'll give a couple examples from my own experience. My writing is almost entirely Flint-centric.
When I wrote Hungry Rats, I set it in a Flint that retains many of the names and identities from reality, but still offered a very specific perspective that drew upon the traditions of the noir genre: It is a Flint populated entirely by schemers and victims, with the most predatory elements of its past amplified to devastating effect in the present. It is "Flint" in name, but this Flint served the story and essentially existed for its benefit.
Flint would not do, however, for Urbantasm, the uber-novel I've been writing for the last 19 years; Urbantasm demanded the flexibility to change geography, history, and institutional norms. So that book is set in Akawe, Michigan, a sort of heightened version of Flint.
I took Akawe to an even more extreme place in Shattering Glass, which changed the name to Arkaic, Michigan; this is a universe with a mythology that meddles with the very behavior of Physics, a sort of flamboyant, chaotic place where the bizarre is accepted as utterly ordinary. It is a great distance from the "real world," even if it is not anarchy.
Now it isn't necessarily easy to write coherently and consistently about Flint, Akawe, and Arkaic. However, it is possible, and once I have committed to that choice, I get to create these separate universes however I wish. That is a pretty special opportunity, in my opinion, and its ultimate execution feels actually spiritual and prayerful. Like you are listening for deep currents of reality and choosing to amplify them to bring forth meaning.
Connor Coyne
I don't really get writers' block. If I have good music and hot coffee and space and time to concentrate, I can churn out something.
What I do often get is a case of crappy writing. I can write pages and pages of pure trash, that I dislike and that I don't want to show to anyone. This happens most often when I go off on an idea half-cocked without thinking it through. Sometimes it happens when I mistake a gimmick or a conceit for a nuanced thematic choice. It can also happen when I don't think over an idea (ie. outline it) thoroughly enough before I get going.
Really, I think the quality of my work is very closely related to my sense of confidence in it, partly because my writing only works when I write a particular kind of unconventional prose. Unconventional prose is risky since today's readers prefer straightforward, psychologically-driven fare (or so they think); so pulling it off requires a certain amount of confidence and a spirit of adventure, or even competitiveness. So my need for "confidence" really isn't a crucnhy, nutty thing about "believing in myself." It is simply a prerequisitie to executing the kind of writing that I believe to be worthwhile.
What I do often get is a case of crappy writing. I can write pages and pages of pure trash, that I dislike and that I don't want to show to anyone. This happens most often when I go off on an idea half-cocked without thinking it through. Sometimes it happens when I mistake a gimmick or a conceit for a nuanced thematic choice. It can also happen when I don't think over an idea (ie. outline it) thoroughly enough before I get going.
Really, I think the quality of my work is very closely related to my sense of confidence in it, partly because my writing only works when I write a particular kind of unconventional prose. Unconventional prose is risky since today's readers prefer straightforward, psychologically-driven fare (or so they think); so pulling it off requires a certain amount of confidence and a spirit of adventure, or even competitiveness. So my need for "confidence" really isn't a crucnhy, nutty thing about "believing in myself." It is simply a prerequisitie to executing the kind of writing that I believe to be worthwhile.
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