Interview: JT Torres, Author of Taking Flight
In the second of my interviews with authors from this year’s Fairlight Moderns list of literary novellas, I speak to JT Torres. JT is an American author and academic, originally from Florida, who now teaches English at Quinnipiac University in Connecticut. His novella, Taking Flight, will be published by Fairlight Books on 8th July.
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Loree: You’ve got a very impressive CV, with a surprisingly
long list of academic publications for one who is still so young! It’s clear
you’ve been extremely busy over the past few years. Completing a PhD nearly
killed me, but you seem to be thriving in the academic world. As well as your
novella Taking Flight, you have four peer reviewed papers coming out
this summer. My first question, then, has to be: how do you do it? How do you
balance such a full academic life with your creative life? Do your academic
research and your teaching responsibilities impinge upon your ability to write
fiction, or do they help in some way?
Loree: I was excited to see another American among
the four authors published in this year’s Fairlight Moderns list. And I was
even more excited to learn that you did your PhD in Educational Psychology at
Washington State University, which is about 30 miles from where I grew up. I
would guess the Palouse and that part of the country is very different from
Florida, where you lived as a child. It’s a far dryer climate for a start, and there’s
no worry about hurricanes. Landscape and the idea of ‘belonging to’ or being a
part of a particular place feature a lot in my writing, and even though I’ve
lived in the UK longer than I lived in Idaho, for me that place where I most feel
I belong will always be the Pacific Northwest. It’s part of my DNA. Where do
you call ‘home’? And by that, I don’t necessarily mean where you live.
JT: While I will never be able to be
called an ‘Alaskan author,’ I became an author in Alaska. I’m too much of a
wanderer to ever have a particular place-based label; and yet, my writing is
all about place, home, and how those two words can be both synonyms and
antonyms. In Colorado, after briefly meeting Jon Krakauer, I read Into theWild for the first time and followed the book like prophecy:
Make a
radical change in your lifestyle and begin to boldly do things which you may
previously never have thought of doing, or been too hesitant to attempt. So
many people live within unhappy circumstances and yet will not take the
initiative to change their situation because they are conditioned to a life of
security, conformity, and conservation, all of which may appear to give one
peace of mind, but in reality nothing is more damaging to the adventurous
spirit within a man [sic] than a secure future. The very basic core of a man's
[sic] living spirit is his passion for adventure. The joy of life comes from
our encounters with new experiences, and hence there is no greater joy than
to have an endlessly changing horizon, for each day to have a new and different
sun [emphasis mine].
Loree: That’s brilliant. That last line is exactly what I experience when I’m
cycle touring—waking up each day in a different world—and always eager to see
what’s around the next corner. I never feel more alive than when I'm travelling like that.
JT: Perhaps I treated the prophecy too literally. In 2013, I moved to Anchorage, where I taught at University of Alaska Anchorage and began work on Taking Flight. I could finally tell my grandmother’s story in Alaska. Place felt like home, something I did not expect. I remember calling my mother and telling her, ‘I’m done moving around. Alaska is it. I’m never leaving.’ But for a wanderer coming from a family of immigrants, home is an always changing place.
Early
portions of Taking Flight were published in Cirque and read at
the Kachemak Bay Writer’s Conference. When Jill Flanders Crosby, Professor of
Dance at UAA read one of my stories, she invited me to join her team and travel
with her to—of all places—Cuba. I wrote about our first trip in a series of
blog posts with 49 Writers, beginning what would later become the book, Situated Narratives and Sacred Dance. It became more apparent how stories grow from
roots in the soil we call home.
Parts of
the book tell stories about Eleggua, an Arará deity who reveals particular
paths in life, often in unexpected ways. Jill laughed at how Eleggua revealed
this path for me. ‘Had you not been looking for home at the opposite end of the
continent,’ she said, ‘You would have never made it to Cuba.’
Despite my
sense that place had finally become home, Eleggua was not done
revealing new paths. Pursuing a PhD at Washington State University meant
leaving Alaska, and it has since been a struggle to return.
Recently, I
think of home more along the lines of Gloria Anzaldúa:
Bridges span liminal (threshold) spaces between worlds, spaces I call nepantla, a Nahuatl word meaning tierra entre medio. Transformations occur in this in-between space, an unstable, unpredictable, precarious, always-in-transition space lacking clear boundaries. Nepantla es tierra desconocida, and living in this liminal zone means being in a constant state of displacement—an uncomfortable, even alarming feeling. Most of us dwell in nepantla so much of the time it’s become a sort of ‘home.’ Though this state links us to other ideas, people, and worlds, we feel threatened by these new connections and the change they engender.
The places
we think of as home—Alaska, Cuba, Florida—can be brutal in their insistence
otherwise. Place is unforgiving. Place is the soil from which all stories grow.
Place will welcome you like kin. Place will say goodbye to you and mean it,
even if you aren’t ready to hear it. Place can be home, and it can also be the
exact opposite. For now, as a wandering writer, the stories of myself occur in
the spaces between homes.
Loree:
Storytelling is an innate part of being human. It’s what we do. In every
society in the world, it’s an essential part of the culture, from individual
family units where stories are told about parents and grandparents, and where
children begin to see the connections between themselves and their family’s
past, to the textbooks used to pass on our national ‘story’. The act of
connecting the dots and creating narratives permeates everything we do and
confirms to us—and others—who we are or who we want to be. I think you and I
share an interest in the creation of identities. Could you say a little bit
about your interest and how it filters into your writing?
JT: Oh man I love this question. It’s like my
dissertation defence! One of my favourite quotes from a scholar from whom I
drew for my dissertation comes from Robert Yagelski, who said that writing ‘develops
an awareness of myself at that moment.’ Language is not just an expression of
who we are, it is an authentic performance of our selves. If I recite the ‘Our
Father,’ I am being a Christian. If I use academic jargon, I am being
an academic. Every utterance we make, down to the words we choose, come from
our cognitive landscape—our beliefs, values, biases, and histories.
Loree: I find all this really exciting. It takes me back to writing my thesis, as well. I didn't go too deeply into the performative aspect of identity, but I did touch on it a time or two. We take on different identities according to where we are and what we are doing.
I believe your parents/grandparents were born
in Cuba. That must have been a big presence in your life while you were growing
up. When you first went there, was it what you expected? And how have the
‘idea’ and the reality of Cuba appeared in your writing?
JT: In many
ways, Cuba was what I expected from my grandmother’s stories. She spoke of
spirits and community, and those are the things I found.
There were also family members who did not want me traveling
to Cuba. Some members of my family are so anti-Castro that returning to Cuba is
betrayal. They told me dystopic stories about how Cubans suffer in the streets
because of the so-called evils of communism, but Cuba, of course, is far more
complicated. Yes, it is hard for Cubans to consistently get food from markets,
but much of that has to do with the U.S.’s embargoes and Cuba’s historic
economic dependence on Russia. Many rural communities in Cuba are almost food
sovereign because they maintain their own chickens, lambs, and gardens.
Loree: I would love to go to Cuba, and see it before it changes. One day, I expect, it will have a McDonalds on every street corner, and be like everywhere else in the world. I'd like to see it before that happens.
Am I right in saying that Taking Flight grew
out of a short story? Can you tell me a little bit about the novella’s
development?
JT: Taking Flight
grew out of my MFA thesis. It was initially a sprawling multi-generational saga
about Cuban immigration, but there wasn’t really a ‘story’ to it. It felt more
documentarian with weird magical realist elements. Once I realised the real ‘story’
was this perplexing relationship between grandmother and grandson, I removed
everything else and homed in on that relationship. As a novella, Taking
Flight was originally going to be published by VP&D House, a small
press out of Anchorage. During the copyediting process, my editor, strangely,
moved to Cuba suddenly. She decided she would live in Cuba and cancelled all
projects. At least I had a much cleaner, copyedited manuscript for Fairlight
Moderns ready to go!
Loree: Fairlight Books specifically publish ‘literary fiction,’ but a lot of people seem to have trouble defining that term. How would you define it?
JT: Great
question! I’m not a fan of any kind of high/low culture division in art. Often,
‘literary’ is thought of as a genre synonymous with ‘drama,’ which excludes
sci-fi, comedy, fantasy, young adult, and graphic (all genres that I adore). In
my mind, ‘literary’ is a designation of quality, signifying the use of complex
characters, emotionally challenging stories, and socially critical themes. For
instance, Pixar (who we might think produces movies for children and is
therefore not literary) meets each of these criteria.
Loree: You and I have both done MFAs/MAs in Creative
Writing. In the UK, there’s a recurring debate about the value of Creative
Writing degrees (and arts degrees, in general) and many universities are
cutting back on these programmes in favour of the STEM subjects and degrees
that lead to a ‘proper job’. How important do you see your MFA in your
development as a writer, and what could you say, more generally, to defend the
existence of these degrees?
Loree: I loved studying for my MA (much more so than
for my PhD). I had some excellent tutors who were very encouraging, and who
allowed me to experiment with my writing. They introduced me to writers and to
ideas that I probably never would have encountered on my own. Plus, it engaged
me with a group of highly talented people who continue to be a great source of
inspiration and support. As a writer, what were some of the key things your MFA
gave you?
JT: My MFA explicitly trained us in the teaching of
writing as well as the theoretical foundations of writing. There were very
critical expectations that really formed the bedrock of my curiosity. Thus,
students graduate my programme (which was at Georgia College & State
University, home of Flannery O’Connor) ready-trained to teach, research, or
write.
Loree: I’ve recently started a heated debate in an
online writing community about the merits of traditional publishing. It’s
always been my goal to publish with a traditional publisher such as Fairlight
Books because I know they have expertise in developing a book and in marketing
it once it’s been published. Has this been important for you as well?
JT: Absolutely!
It’s the ultimate validation! A professional read my story and wants to invest
in it? Yes, please!
Loree: Who are your literary heroes—the writers who have inspired you, or taught you something about the craft of writing?
JT: GloriaAnzaldúa, Daniel Quinn, and June Jordan. The three of them taught me the
responsibility of storytelling. It isn’t enough to just craft an expert story.
The story must mean something. If a story does not critique injustice or
imagine a more just world, the best we could have is well-written propaganda.
When I read Anzaldúa, Quinn, or Jordan, I’m not only elated by the beautiful use
of language, I’m also inspired to change the world.
Loree: Many
writers say they ‘have to write,’ and this remains true even when there is only
a slim chance for ‘literary acclaim’ or financial reward. Why do you write, JT?
What are the things you wish to achieve (or indeed do achieve) by
writing?
JT: Many
writers self-glorify when they say they ‘have to write.’ Sometimes, it is also
a curse. I often fantasise about what life would be like had I majored in
engineering or business, making $70k upon graduation. But I had to write, and
that need (which was not always the same as desire) took me down a path of
poverty. That said, it’s totally worth it.
Loree: Do you think
there are any essential qualities that a person needs to be a writer?
JT: I’m a
pretty anti-essentialist person, so not really. However, if I had to pick one,
I’d say determination. Writing is such a lifelong process. Not only is one
trying to master the craft of language, but one is also trying to understand
the universe on a deep enough level to make sense out of it into a story, poem,
or song. Experience also plays a big role. So maybe an ‘essential’ quality
would be a determined and experimental person.
Loree: Do you
have any advice of your own that you’d like to pass on to aspiring writers?
JT: Try
everything at least once and never give up.
Loree: And
finally, a question I’m asking everyone: do you ride a bike?
JT: Yes! I
love bike riding. I also happen to need a bike, which have been quite hard to
come by since the pandemic. If anyone wants to send a bike to Connecticut, I’d
be grateful!
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