Today on their website, the art-rich and beautifully designed short fiction zine Middle Planet, made by Julia Gootzeit and (LCRW 33 contributor!) Eric Gregory, features my story “Asleep in the Traces”, about a sleepwalking giant that steps on a girl’s hometown, then sucks her up onto its back to live with the refugees, which Julia has generously interpreted with the deliriously surreal artwork above. Please support and patronize them, should you feel inclined! There will be new pieces coming live on the website from the second issue once a week through June, and ebook and print versions eventually. And they have a Patreon.
I’ve gotten in the habit of coming up with something rambly to say about a story of mine when it comes out. I’ve tried to make it something not so much about the story as tangential to it, because I hope the stories speak for themselves. I think it’s a good habit, or I’d break it. But this one I’m having a little trouble with.
“Asleep in the Traces” is a story about how you can never go home again. It’s a story about finding out what you took for granted. I wrote it from my tower of isolation, the year after I moved from my home city of Boston to north suburban blight Detroit. As such, it’s of a piece with “Virtual Goods”, which was in Ideomancer a few years ago, and “Cloud Mountains”, which is forthcoming in Strangelet sometime soonish. They’re all three rather desolate stories, concerned with loss and alienation, though ultimately, I hope, redemptive. And I love all three of them, don’t get me wrong. Particularly this one. Because figuring out how to move on from loss is a pretty essential human skill, and Marie has it harder than most, and I think she manages beautifully. But the place I wrote those stories from–it’s a hard place to want to go back to. I mean, I wrote them to try to get out. Into my head, since I couldn’t actually get away the way the people in these stories do. Look back in this blog and you’ll find posts that pretty clearly illustrate my mindset in that period, should the stories themselves prove too obscure.
When I first found out I’d be moving away, a few well-meaning friends reminded me of a stereotype familiar to writers, that of the artist expat. Maybe, they were saying in not so many words, you’ll find out you need to get away from a place before you really understand it. At the time, I hated this advice. It was insufficient comfort, offered at no cost to themselves from people who didn’t have to leave.
They were right. The longer I’m away, the truer it becomes, the more deeply I understand the place I come from, and through it, myself. But being away from home doesn’t just help me understand it. The phenomenon being observed is altered by the act of observing it. The more clearly I understand it, the further removed it becomes from the place I remember. I can’t go back.
On the other hand, I am suddenly able to understand and empathize with a whole category of narratives in ways I haven’t before. The immigrant experience, for example. Also certain traditional laments.
Is it a fair tradeoff? I don’t guess anyone has much of a choice but to make it worth their while, whether in fiction or otherwise. Like Marie, I’ll keep trying.