Awful Interview: Sean Lovelace

6 Jan

Sean Lovelace runs and likes nachos and was one of my old professors at Ball State, and that was pretty cool. I liked him well enough, and his writing is pretty good. It’s pretty much everywhere if you Google it, but here are some highlights: “Briefly Concerning Flash Fiction”, “To Be Happy”, and I guess “Notes from Matrimony #9”. He also wrote a chapbook, How Some People Like Their Eggs, which is pretty rad. I sell it on the table. Anyway, Sean’s going to be reading here in Indy for Vouched Presents on January 15th, so I thought I’d interview him or something. He blogs here.

So your stories seem to come from everywhere–like, How Some People Like Their Eggs opens with a story that starts with something about a meteorite and becomes something else, and then later there’s a story about a tree that grows coffee pots, which is just weird. Where do you get the ideas for your stories?

A faculty member I knew visited my office and asked me to come and observe her, because a man was coming to see her, and she was a little afraid of him. And as I went through the Japanese garden (This was at GVSU, a campus known for its exquisite landscaping) past a giant pink flowering tree, I glanced over and there my colleague was sitting with an open book on her lap, and there was this great big fat ugly man sitting beside her. She closed the book, a prearranged signal that she was fine, I could leave. The man’s head looked like a giant pink egg. He was bald and sweating. He touched her left arm and she laughed. I went back to my office and shuddered and banged my fists on my desk, upsetting a cup of cold coffee. I suddenly realized I was in love with this woman. And that life was a relentless and wretched farce. I sat in the dark for a full hour. From that evening forward I decided to write about eggs.

Which is funny you should say that, since really, only 1 of the stories in Eggs is actually about eggs. Do you mean eggs metaphorically then? That all your stories exist as the shell of something ready to be born?

I mean what I say. My enemies believe I want to remain in the world of word play at any price—that I make use of metaphor in order to survive. They would be astounded indeed if they knew that my greatest happiness is to be alone on my back deck, trying to guess the direction of the wind from the odors it carries.

I don’t even know what that means. But, so okay. That brings up an interesting question–where do you write? What’s your desk look like? Because now I imagine you writing on your back deck, but that seems wrong since you live in Indiana, and there’re cold winters here.

I’m yellow. I should stop paying my taxes. I know that the government in Washington is full of blar people with blar, very blar plans. They have what I often lack—intent. They will murder people here and even in jungles or very sweet desert vistas or even on certain city balconies to gain more power. Those who have dominated our country most of my adult life are interested in maintaining an empire, blarring other people, Containing (big C) them if need be, and finally killing those who protest so that wealthy and self-glow Americans can go on self-glowing their advantages over others. I’m not doing a thing about it. So there is no way I can in good faith answer your question. We can’t care where I write. I write in the cold chambers of my heart, a coward’s heart. A blar. Some blar. A blar I am. It saddens me. Also I like to write in the mornings. My desk is coffee. Stupendous.

You seem to work in tangents. So, you write in the mornings? What’s your process? What drives you to create?

Not directly at all. Well, yes and no. As “they” keep saying in the gray hallways, language is the human medium. It doesn’t exist—except perhaps as vast mathematical or chemical formulas—in that realm of, oh, universal galaxy swirls, compounds making love and then growing apart, I mean simple science, whom we then personify, or strangle if you like, through the imagination. I mean to again say coffee. Or take strike. Bowling strike, gold strike, strike three, striking beauty, strike a match, striking bass, refuse to eat for days, it all means the same. Honestly, I think everything in this world is connected so the central posit is false, to me. Down those stairs to the right is my Man Room with the treadmill. I like to run there until I vomit, and then right alongside is a low, brass table. I’ll write a thing or two. I’ll go back onto the treadmill. To the left of the Man Room, are the living and dining rooms, and then a long corridor where I have set up a disc golf basket. You can putt indoors! Naked if you wish. I have some long guns and extremely potent drugs hid in the attic, but still, it’s one house. See my point?

No. Well. Yes. I mean. I want to. You seem like an interesting dude. Well connected. Well regarded. You write for HTMLGiant, right? So like, you know people. I’ve a novel I just finished in first draft. Do you think you could help me get it published?

Connected? Let me tell you something. I have several mistresses and with all of them I have to enter the house through a dog door, a dirty, swinging, hair-sticking, rubber door. On my knees. Every single one of these pitiful women looks as if they came out of the depths of Russia, with their kerchiefs and wide skirts and round faces, with their pale, flabby breasts and foul breaths of paskha and kulich. But I don’t get to stay for dinner. I mean The Man doesn’t even know my address. I am about as connected as a dandelion seed.

It’s interesting you mention HTML Giant. I’ve been off The Internets for 8 days. Why do I do it? When one thinks of the background of the billions who have lived and died, who are living and dying, and presumably will live and die, it’s OK to take silliness seriously. Blake Butler once said to me over 16 beers, “Oh, I wish I were a miser; being a miser must be so occupying.” An energy genius, that sleepless man. Gene Morgan once bought me a beer in Denver when I was very thirsty and so I find him to be like a brightly lighted room of flashing green strobes, full of the most delightful objects, or perhaps I should say, filled with ceramic tables on which are set up the most engrossing plates of corn chips/various toppings/hot sauces. The others I only know as spectrums of light. I’d rather read the site, these days. Mostly I get my kicks from illuminating my own stupidity.

A novel? Is someone in trouble? As for any assistance I could provide, let me include a short poem:

. . . The Internets dumbfounded us.
Words were absurd as orange crows.
Like Glamazon seeds
Ideas blew away from buxxing bees . . .
And my hands laughed applauding
And your bindings grinned and danced . . .

etc.

As always I am humbled, and hope that my meaning is clear.

Well, maybe I’ll just find an agent…
I think that’s all I have for you, Sean. I mean, I have other questions, but I can’t read my handwriting anymore for some reason. Is there anything lastly you’d like to say? Anything about the upcoming Vouched Presents reading?

Yes. This: beer me, Seymour. Hey, do you have any copies of Eggs? Maybe I should bring some…That fellow who wrote the phone book? That’s who I would like to see or hear or fuck. I don’t think that he (or she?) has a reader in America who digs him (or her?) more than I do. Phone books, now a bitch to locate. I studied a year in bed—never got out of bed for an entire year, had all the phonebooks around the bed. I’d get up to teach my classes, of course, but I taught from eight to ten in the morning on Mondays and Fridays. Other days I waded streams. Then I’d return to the apartment and get back into bed and not get up until it was time to teach my classes again. Phonebooks. I will be there at the reading!! And afterwards. Arrive, dear people! Let me see you! Whatever happens to me in my career I hope happens before I die.

Advertisements

2 Responses to “Awful Interview: Sean Lovelace”

Trackbacks/Pingbacks

  1. PANK Blog - January 13, 2011

    […]  In other interview news, Valerie O’Riordan interviews Jo Cannon and Christopher Newgent interviews Sean […]

  2. The Big-Ass Suck-Ass Slaw-Cheek Dutch Oven Lid Over the Sky we Call Winter | Sean Blog: Nachos Miles Hack Disc Clank - January 14, 2011

    […] Vouched interviews me. I say: Connected? Let me tell you something. I have several mistresses and with all of them I have to enter the house through a dog door, a dirty, swinging, hair-sticking, rubber door. On my knees. Every single one of these pitiful women looks as if they came out of the depths of Russia, with their kerchiefs and wide skirts and round faces, with their pale, flabby breasts and foul breaths of paskha and kulich. But I don’t get to stay for dinner. I mean The Man doesn’t even know my address. I am about as connected as a dandelion seed. […]

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: